Eleanor Bristow could not recall feeling more tired in her life.

Not after staying up for two days to study for her NEWTs, or after a sleepless night in Thomas's flat right before a major game, and not even after that one week long event where her nightmares were all about getting bitten by a snake that left her waking up in terror swearing she could still feel it. She had quite nearly fallen asleep at breakfast, face down in her beans on toast. Navigating her way to the potions classroom, there was nothing to prepare her for what lay ahead.

"Good morning, Miss Bristow!"

Slughorn's chipper voice made her head hurt, each word a tiny sliver of ice jabbing its way into her frontal lobe. He flitted about the classroom, lighting a handful of burners beneath the freshly washed cauldrons Eleanor had stored sometime that morning before everyone else was up. She eyed his academic cap and robes disdainfully. They were the same set as the ones he had worn when she was a student.

"Morning," she grumbled in return.

The potions classroom was hardly recognizable. It was flooded with sunlight from the narrow windows near the ceiling – something Eleanor could not recall even existing – and reflected off the golden trim. For the first time in a long time, she noticed the words scrawled out on each sweeping arch. The desk that sat at the front of the room was covered in photos, a cup filled with expensive quills, and a number of knick-knacks from all over the world. She couldn't recall ever seeing more than ungraded parchment and Severus's beat-up quills messily thrown into a hodgepodge on that desk before. The room looked tidier than ever, and it was completely disorienting.

"I must say, you've done very well with everything," he nodded approvingly as he put the finishing touches on each table. "Very well, indeed!"

"Thank you, sir."

"Yes, although this one is a bit light in colour… You're aiming for a cornflower blue. And this could use perhaps less thyme… But, we're not aiming for perfection here! These are perfectly adequate to use for references."

That stung, but Eleanor was too sleepy to acknowledge it. She yawned and slid into a chair in the back of the room as Slughorn detailed his expectations and wrote on the chalkboard for the first class. His droning went on until the first pair of students wandered in, after which he was all smiles and jovial welcomes. His genuine desire to teach was still evident, and softened Eleanor's bitter thinking of him.

In between nodding off, Ella helped watch for accidents in the advanced groups and tended to burns and cuts in the lower classes. She was mortified when Slughorn had pulled her to the front of the classroom for the first years and rattled on about her quidditch career – "She was quite good, you know! Rather odd to have someone relatively talented in sports try their hand at something academic, especially so late in life!" – and Eleanor beat a hasty retreat to the darkest corner of the now very bright room.


Snape steeled himself before opening the door revealing the queue of sixth years chatting loudly amongst themselves. Their inane blabbering buzzed harshly in his ears, with his name appearing within the tangled mess. They were no doubt gossiping about the silly curse on the position, how he got it, and whatever nonsense Potter and his gnomes were using to whip up the crowd into a frenzy.

"Inside," he said simply, grateful for the apparent silence that engulfed the crowd as they shuffled into the room.

He stepped to the front of the room, ensuring that each time his heel hit the floor it resounded in that quiet room. He wasn't in the mood today. He would enjoy his new post. Noticing many students fishing through their bags after gaping at the new artwork on the walls, creating an excessive amount of noise, he grimaced.

"I have not instructed you to take out your books. I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention.

"You have had five teachers in this subject, I believe. Naturally these teachers will all have their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion, I am surprised so many of you managed to scrape an OWL in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the NEWT work, which will be much more advanced."

Snape took a deep breath and started walking around the room, clearing his mind of the clutter and Potter's scathing looks. "The Dark Arts are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before.

"You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutable, indestructible."

Snape hardly spared a glance at the fuming Gryffindor, instead moving closer to some of the artwork on the walls. "Your defenses must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for example, the Cruciatus curse" – he held up his hand, gesturing to the image of the witch shrieking in agony – "feel the Dementor's Kiss" – his hand moved towards a blank-eyed wizard slumped against a wall – "or provoke the aggression of the Inferius" – his hand resting at last in the direction of a bloodied mass.

Parvati Patil, high pitched and all worry, perked up in her seat, "Has an Inferius been seen, then? Is it definite? Is he using them?"

"The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past, which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again," Severus replied coolly, "Now... you are, I believe novices in the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?"

Regrettably, the only hand to punch into the air was Granger's. His eyes sought out someone, anyone else, but he found this effort to be futile. Sighing, he mumbled, "Very well. Miss Granger?"

The satisfaction in her face was nauseating as she replied, "Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform, which gives you a split-second advantage."

"An answer copied nearly word for word from The Standard Book of Spell, Grade Six," Snape sighed, "but correct in essentials."

Severus leaned against his desk and continued, "Those who progress to using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some… lack."

His eyes met Potter's for a moment, recalling their inane occlumency lessons with disdain. It was clear to him that Potter was completely incapable of restraint, proper concentration or control. The boy was challenging him, even now, in his fiery gaze like the child he was. Snape looked away, wanting no part in it. He was looking forward to the rest of class.

"You will now divide into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence.

"Carry on."

It wasn't long before Snape was thoroughly disappointed in this group of dunderheaded sixth years. Nearly all of them were attempting to cheat by whispering incantations after a few minutes of holding their breath and going red-faced. Pathetic. After nearly ten minutes, Granger finally managed to get it right, repelling Longbottom's jelly legs jinx – spoken aloud – without hissing a shield charm for the world to hear. It had taken her far longer than Snape had expected of the young witch, the group was clearly farther behind than he realized. And this was the level the group of students who fought in the Department of Mysteries at the beginning of summer. No wonder Black was doomed. As he made his way through the struggling crowd, he lingered upon seeing Ron Weasley turning a vivid shade of violet as he attempt to keep himself quiet and "focused" while jinxing Potter.

Snape could only wait so long before he stepped forward, raising his wand, "Pathetic, Weasley. Here, let me show you-…"

Snape's hex was deflected violently as Potter, the toad that he was, shouted "Protego!" at the top of his lungs. The charm was strong enough to hit Snape with recoil, sending him sharply into a desk. Livid, Snape rose to his feet, ignoring his sore hip and knee and the stares of the class. He wouldn't let Potter embarrass him.

"Do you remember me telling you we are practicing nonverbal spells, Potter?" he spat.

"Yes."

"Yes, sir," Snape corrected him, practically vibrating with anger. You will not make a fool of me in front of everyone, you snotty little...

"There's no need to call me 'sir', Professor."

It took everything in Severus not to lash out at the brat, yet his voice was only barely restrained as he snapped, "Detention, Saturday night, my office! I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter… not even 'the Chosen One'."

"What about Miss Br-…"

Granger had the sense in that moment to fiercely yank Potter's arm until he was silent. Severus narrowed his eyes at Potter, daring him to try something.

"Did I tell you all to stop?" he snapped to the rest of the class, who jumped back into their work, barely concealing their whispering – incantations and gossip alike.


The worst of it came during the sixth year NEWT students' class. Slughorn was immediately irritated by the lack of Harry Potter's presence, and he lamented quite heavily until he was forced to begin as the students became increasingly uncomfortable.

At last, the stragglers had filed in: Potter, Weasley (which came as a surprise to Eleanor), and Granger darting for a table with Ernie Macmillan, one of only two Hufflepuffs. Potter was greeted by a very enthusiastic – and somewhat relieved – Slughorn, along with Blaise Zabini, who struggled to slide into his seat with the other Slytherins.

His introduction was clipped shorter than the others he had given that day, which was, perhaps, due to the old man growing tired or forgetting his long-winded speech and unconsciously decided to grace this class with a small shred of mercy.

"Now, if you could all gather around here – yes, just here," Slughorn waved his arm, gesturing the reluctant group from their stools to cluster around the collection of cauldrons on a soft simmer that Eleanor had set up during class change. She was slumped in a chair barely hanging onto the professor's words, the coloured vapors hanging in the air making her sleepier than she already was. Potter and his friends were eyeing the iron cauldron containing the Amortentia potion with extreme interest.

"Now then, now then," Slughorn half-shouted over the noise of the scooting stools and murmur of idle chatter. "Scales out, everyone, and potion kits. Don't forget your copies of Advanced Potion Making…"

Potter's hand shot up, "Sir? I haven't got a book or scale or anything – nor's Ron – we didn't realize we'd be able to do the NEWT you see…"

If Snape were there, he would grace this comment with a lazy eye roll and a voice dripping with sarcasm over how the Chosen One can't even bother to buy his own supplies… Eleanor rolled her eyes instead.

"Ah yes, Professor McGonagall did mention… not to worry, Harry, m'boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today – Miss Bristow, if you would – and I'm sure we can lend you some scales and we've got a small stock of old books here – Miss Bristow, if you please – yes, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts…"

Eleanor rose, glaring indignantly as she helped Potter and Weasley fetch a set of scales, a proper cauldron, and the ingredients for the lesson. She pointed them to the cupboard of old schoolbooks and watched them both rush at the new copy perched on top. For a tense moment, it looked like Potter would win out, but in the end Ron Weasley stood victorious, leaving Potter with one of the dingy old copies Eleanor had to repair over the past week.

"Now, I've prepared a few potions this morning for you all to have a look at, just out of interest, you know."

Eleanor bristled, her eyes wide as dinner plates and her temper making her cheeks heat violently. He prepared them? HE PREPARED THEM? The cauldrons from the first years were piled high in the sink behind her and started to crackle and shift.

"These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your NEWTs, and you ought to have heard of 'em, even if you haven't made 'em yet.

"Anyone tell me what this one is?" Slughorn gestured to the cauldron nearest the Slytherins, who seemed the least interested in it.

Granger's hand shot up, the solo response in the crowd – small wonder, Ella thought. The young witch could hex circles around her peers.

"It's Veritaserum, a colourless, odorless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth," said Granger, as always reciting the textbook definition.

Slughorn puffed out his chest, looking very pleased, "Very good! Very good, my dear. Now, this one here. Pretty well known. Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately… Who can-?"

Granger's hand beat the Ravenclaws, who hovered closest to the pewter cauldron looking hungrily at it, their hands already halfway up.

"It's polyjuice potion, sir. A potion that changes the drinker into the form of another, terrible tricky to make…"

Slughorn beamed, "Excellent! Now, this one here… yes, my dear?"

Hermione had yet again stolen the spotlight from the Ravenclaws, "Amortentia! The most powerful love potion in the world."

"Yes! Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?"

"And the steam rising in characteristic spirals," Granger pointed to the coloured vapors rising lazily from the iron cauldron. "It's supposed to smell differently to each person, according to what attracts them. For example, I smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and…"

The girl blushed and retreated as a group of girls were slowly making their way towards the cauldron with something gleaming in their eyes.

"May I ask your name, my dear?"

"Hermione Granger, sir."

Slughorn stroked his chin, "Granger… Granger… Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"

Eleanor rolled her eyes and propped up her head with her sore wrist.

"No, sir. I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see…"

Nott and Malfoy exchanged a whisper and sniggered quietly, which went unnoticed by Slughorn. Eleanor glared at the backs of their heads before jumping in her seat at Slughorn's loud exclamation.

"Oho! 'One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!' I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you speak, Harry?"

Harry shrank back a little, growing pink in the cheeks, "Yes, sir."

"Well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger!"

The Ravenclaws grumbled in dismay – Eleanor felt that sting - while Malfoy looked like he was about to be sick, the smug grin wiped clean off his face. It was rather satisfying to watch, really. A dynamic that never would have occurred in Severus's classroom.

"Now Amortentia doesn't create actual love," Slughorn explained, "that would be impossible, as one cannot manufacture or imitate love. But it does cause powerful infatuation or obsession. For that reason, it is probably the most dangerous potion in this room."

He placed the lid on the cauldron loudly, snapping the group of girls out of their trace. They backed away hastily as the boys sniggered across the room, catching Slughorn's eye at last.

"Oh yes… When you've seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love… You can attest to that, can you not, Miss Bristow?"

Mortified, Eleanor froze. All eyes were fixed on her, and the glee returned to Malfoy's face. She could feel colour rising in her cheeks.

"And now," announced Slughorn, "it's time for us to start work."

Eleanor hadn't realized she had been holding her breath the entire time. She barely noticed Ernie Macmillan walk up to the tiniest cauldron, where great drops of the potion were jumping about like goldfish – it had turned out perfectly.

"Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one."

"Oho, yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it," he smiled to Granger, who was practically vibrating in place, "that you know what it does, Miss Granger?"

"It's liquid luck!" she chirped. "It makes you lucky!"

Merlin, I should have swiped a bit for myself… Eleanor slumped miserably while the rest of the class stood straighter.

"Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion. Desperately tricky to make, disastrous should you get it wrong."

You're telling me…

"However, if brewed correctly, as this has been" a small compliment Eleanor happily and silently accepted "you will find that all your endeavors succeed. At least until the effect wear off."

"Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?" one of the Ravenclaws, Boot, asked.

"If taken in excess," Slughorn explained, "it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence. Too much of a good thing, you know. Highly toxic in large quantities… But take sparingly, very occasionally…"

"Have you ever taken it sir?" the other Ravenclaw boy, Corner, asked.

"Twice in my life! Once at twenty-four, and once at fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast, two perfect days."

Eleanor never had the chance to try Felix Felicis, as it was a banned substance for quidditch players. She had half a mind to take a spoonful after class if only it would get her to bed more quickly.

"This is what I offer each of you today. One tiny vial of liquid luck for the student who in the hour that remains manages to brew an acceptable Draught of Living Death. The recipe for which is on page ten of your books. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion. However, the person who does best will win little Felix here. Off you go!"

A hush fell over the class as they busied themselves with placing cauldrons on burners and setting weights on their scales. Malfoy was rifling through his book feverishly, as though his life depended on the perfect day Slughorn had offered. It was rather amusing to watch him sweat off that arrogant look from earlier, she thought. He frantically chopped valerian roots like a niffler after a set of rubies. Luckily, she was of less use to this level of class from the get go, as they had far more experience than the first years that nearly set the room alight earlier.

The bluish steam that filled the room made Ella's nose itch, the telltale sign that the class was about halfway through their brewing. It was then, while Malfoy was brown-nosing Slughorn by mentioning his grandfather, that the sopophorous beans the class was trying to cut began to fly through the air.

Idiots, Ella thought as she ducked, just crush them with your blade.

They were going everywhere. After having been smacked twice in the face with the disgusting things, Ella began flicking them back the direction they came with her wand. She didn't bat an eye when the one Terry Boot had sent sailing her way ricocheted into his nose and another lodged itself in Granger's growing hair. Here and there, potions began to change for the worse. There was one from the Ravenclaws that turned into a putrid goo, and Zabini's was smoking far more than necessary. Michael Corner knocked his clean off its stand, sending a noxious liquid splashing to the floor. Grateful for her dragonhide boots, Eleanor helped siphon the mess back into the cauldron, but cautioned that it likely would be contaminated beyond repair. Poor Granger's potion was stubbornly purple, instead of the petal pink that Potter's had turned by some bizarre miracle. She eyed the boy mistrustfully.

"And time's up! Stop stirring, please!"

Slughorn fluttered around the room, gazing down into each cauldron and offering encouragement with a rueful smile on his lips. He had clearly expected more out of this level. That was, of course, until he had reached Potter's cauldron where, with a look of incredulous delight, he exclaimed, "The clear winner!"

"Excellent! Excellent, Harry! Good lord… it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at potions, Lily was!"

A small vial, carefully bottled with Felix Felicis, was produced in Slughorn's great hand.

"Here you are, then! One bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised. Use it well!"

Eleanor sulked in the back of the room until the stiff applause and the shuffle of students making their exodus to the next class in the schedule died away. She cornered Slughorn before he, too, could slither past.

"Professor."

Eleanor could see the momentary panic, the hesitation in that moment when he stopped and rigidly turned to face her, the beaming smile from Potter's triumph still plastered to his lips.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Was Lily Potter that good at potions?" She tried her best to mask the disdain in her voice, but her exhaustion was leaking into every word.

"Ah, Evans! She was a delight. Simply brilliant student! Do you remember her? Oh, of course, you were much too young…" He fiddled with a stack of parchment he had clutched in his sweaty hands. "Yes, she could work wonders in this classroom. Always trying to help others…"

"Did she win the Felix Felicis? I know only one student managed to impress you enough for it, and it was before my sixth year."

A muscle twitched in Slughorn's cheek, "No. As formidable as her skills were, Evans didn't win that prize.

Now, if you'll excuse me, my dear. Busy rest of the day, I'm afraid. You understand. Would you mind tidying up the last bit? I've got a little dinner party to plan."

Eleanor watched her former teacher shuffle away as quickly as his stiff legs would allow, leaving behind a staggering mess and an array of potions to store. Sighing, she got to work despite feeling her tired limbs shake in protest. Bed was a daydream now, sleep was a myth. The rhythmic clinking and swishing of equipment rushing past her, commanded by her wand back to their homes in the cupboards and shelves, was almost hypnotic and lent to her thoughts wandering down strange paths, rewinding recent events into a strange reel.

Lily Potter. Lily Evans. Potions genius. Martyr. Love interest. The caressing of Slughorn's praise made the image in Ella's mind's eye that much clearer, sharper, more dangerous. Severus was tangled up in the ghost of that woman, the one everyone praised. Looking to her own feet, she tried to measure up herself unsuccessfully. She was a professional quidditch player who had competed on the world stage. She had plummeted onto the pitch in the middle of her last game and humiliated herself into retirement. She ran from fans, hid her face from reporters, and rejected a fellow quidditch player, a star, from becoming her husband in front of a crowd. She was good at school, excelled at it even, but all of her former teachers could remember of her was detentions, distractions, and disobedience. She was bullied, but that didn't matter. It never seemed to unless the victims wore lions on their chests, or came from the gleaming families branching far from her family tree's diseased limbs that populated Severus's beloved House. She wasn't that bad to look at, but everyone hated her eyes. Even Thomas…

Ella didn't notice the tears dripping onto the stones beneath her. She was lower than the stones. She struck a colleague who opened his home to her, rejected his help and advice, and tormented him with her presence for years because she couldn't let her curiosity go. He wouldn't even look at her. And she couldn't let it go.

Wiping her face on her spare apron, Eleanor smacked her cheeks determinedly. That was enough. She was exhausted, and surely that was contributing to her mood. There was no time to mope about anymore. She'd give Severus some time, and space, and see how it went. For all she knew, he could be dealing with equally dismal thoughts after the summer he had. He hadn't completely rejected her feelings, although she hadn't quite disclosed their depth yet. It was better than nothing.


Severus gingerly rubbed his bruised hip, hissing indignantly to himself. Dumbledore was never going to allow him to punish that boy. Special lessons, special treatment. Codswallop. It was all "chosen one" this, and "boy hero" that. Tripe.

The look on Potter's face at dinner had been just awful. All smiles and gloating and glee. His friends murmured his praises and Potter just drank it in like life-giving water. Slughorn had become the fertilizer to Potter's weeds, allowing them to poke through all the bits and cracks they could and reach for the sun unhindered.

Rubbish. Hogwash. Bullshit.

Snape endured all of this on top of Dumbledore's increasing instability, those hound-like aurors pacing about and making a mess of his usual comings and goings, and Bristow's relentless pestering. He knew she was watching him as often as she possibly could. Those yellow orbs fixated on him as though he were prey. He had no time for it.

The Dark Lord had him shuttling banned ingredients, dangerous poisons, and, most valuable of all, intel on the turbulence of the Order and Hogwarts – or so it would seem. That crowd would eat up talk of discord like ravenous wolves. They were growing more brazen in the meantime, with the werewolves supposedly congregating in the north while propaganda was being trickled into the papers and ears of anyone who would listen. Anything Severus would share with Albus would stop at the wrinkle in his brow before he would repeat, "We have a plan. Yes, we have a plan…" The more times he heard the old wizard say it, the less Snape would believe a plan even existed anymore. He had his own ideas at any rate, just in case.

There were sharp footsteps, wooden heels hitting the floor in a distinct clack, clack different from Snape's silvery step occupying the empty corridor. He slowed, peering about for the student who dared interrupt his thoughts with their after-hours tryst. The tapestries and paintings were quiet, nestling down for a sleep with heavy lidded eyes and the suits of armor ahead were motionless as ever.

And there she was, the devil herself. Her red hair lit up like a flame by wandlight and the nearby torch. She was walking with purpose, her heels hitting the floor in a hurried tattoo with a broomstick swishing at her side. She was dressed like she was about to practice her quidditch game, in a sleek jumper and tight fitting pants that tucked into quidditch boots, all black. Curiously, she paused at the statue of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor – Severus was not very fond of that beastly thing – and he jumped behind a suit of armor to hide himself from her studying glance. She was checking if she was alone, he knew that wary look, and after an endless moment it seemed that she was satisfied. But those yellow eyes, glistening in the dark, found him as tucked away as he was.

"Severus?"

He didn't move. Perhaps she would think herself mistaken, that it was just a phantasm or shadow she saw of him. Perhaps, he thought, he should use legilimency to send her on her way without bothering him, but he knew that would be futile. Where was Peeves when it counted?

"What are you doing here?"

His eyes lifted from the boots standing just before his to the yellow, accusing eyes. He remained silent.

"Can you not hear me, or are you simply not talking to me?" There was an edge to her voice and deep shadows under her eyes.

"I am not required to communicate with you, nor do I need to disclose my comings and goings. Surely the castle is large enough to provide you the space you need."

She frowned, "Then be on your way. I won't keep you."

Neither one moved. Gunhilda looked on, unperturbed.

"Well?" she asked impatiently.

"You're in my way."

Stiffly, she shuffled to the side, giving him a wide berth before gesturing to the space beside her. "Is that better?"

He gave her one last look, trying to channel the frustration he felt for Potter into a sneer sufficient to counter her attitude, before striding past her and occupying as much of the hall as possible. Giving her the illusion she was alone, Severus watched from a safe distance as she turned her head left, right, and back to the one-eyed witch statue. She murmured something into its ear and after a moment the hump on her back popped open, where Ella promptly hopped into and disappeared. Curious.


Eleanor awoke with her stolen copy of The Art of Legilimency pressed against her face, blocking out the mid afternoon light that streamed boldly into her room. She had managed a nap. More sleep in one sitting than she had gotten in a week. From the time classes had started Slughorn had her up at the crack of dawn, all scouring charms and inventory keeping and chatter, and with the final bells calling everyone to dinner Eleanor would be planning on how to sneak out of the castle or running a list of new things to try in the cauldrons permanently lined up in the workroom. Her nights were short, full of ghosts and demons clawing out of the recesses of her memory that clung to her after waking, humming in her ears like a cloud of bees while she fought through the fog to tolerate Slughorn's passive insults and Tindall's increased interest at dinner and class change. She was always tired, and it was becoming such a common feeling Ella wasn't sure she could recognize what "rested" felt like now.

A slew of books cascaded off her bed as she shifted about, peeling the volume from her face and disdainfully eying her window. It snapped shut in an instant, obeying her wandless command without cheek. On came her overalls and dragonhide boots that were getting a bit worn on the heels. Up went her hair, magic braiding it into some semblance of propriety. Down she went to the greenhouse, wrapped in her thoughts that buzzed and hummed and drowned out any voices of passersby. It was there, deep in the dark green tangle of plants, that the noise would quiet if only for a short time while she watered, snipped, sniffed, fed, and cataloged. Lovely new shears had arrived from Kyoto, blue handled and super sharp, and Ella had them in the front pocket of her green-stained apron. With each step they would bump against her leg, a comforting metronome to accompany the crunching under her boots as she passed into Greenhouse Seven. Many of the poisonous plants rested in here, all crackling and rustling hostilely as she passed them by. Every shade of green, deep and dark and lovely, sheltered her from the sunlight.

Elbow deep in dirt, Eleanor had worked until the light had shifted well into late afternoon before hearing someone else in the greenhouse. Thinking it was Pomona, she went to inquire whether or not she wanted the rotten flobberworms that were surely waiting in the newest crate they received the day before with the good ones for composting. Instead of the stout, grey haired witch, Malfoy was leaning over a row of foxglove and cuckoo pint with his bare, outstretched hand reaching for a stalk of wolfsbane.

"And what has you interested in that Aconitum lycoctonum, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, trying to distract him as calmly as possible.

Spooked, his eyes shot over to her and he backed away at once.

"Are you familiar with that plant? If you were, you'd know better than to handle it bare-handed. Unless you're interested in multiple organ failure, that is."

"I-I was doing research. For class."

What a liar, she rolled her eyes. "I don't recall you being enrolled in N.E.W.T.-level Herbology? Am I mistaken?"

"It's not for that," he snapped. "It's for… defense class."

"I see. Well, perhaps check the herbology section in the library instead. There's a book that heavily features Wolfsbane by Amiline Wulrich with a green and purple spine. Madam Pince can help you find it."

She stood firm, staring him down. Something was amiss here, but the last thing she needed was for the Malfoy family to hear their son had accidentally poisoned himself in her presence. He glared at her defiantly before backing away and slipping out of the greenhouse. The plants hissed in joy for his leaving, as though they mistrusted him as well. Or perhaps she was hallucinating.

Then came a rustling as a tiny paper airplane came sailing into the greenhouse through one of the open windows. It fluttered to a stop above her head, flapping impatiently before she snatched it out of the air.

Please move flobberworm crate to spare room. Do not sort – Snape wants it for a detention.

H.E.F.S.

Eleanor made a face, "What a ghastly detention idea."

But she was undoubtedly pleased that she would not be the one to sort out the rotting, slimy little buggers and try to keep the stink from upending her stomach for several hours. She pitied the poor student who had angered Severus enough to bring that horror show into play. Probably Potter, she reasoned as she left the warm greenhouses and made for the castle as the bells chimed another hour. Without the Weasley twins, the odds of a standout detention were focused almost entirely on the unfortunate sixth year.

"The ten of wands… yes… Oh, but the nine of swords…"

The smell of cooking sherry and the jangling of dozens of bangles assaulted Eleanor's frayed senses as she passed a troubled Trelawney who was fretting over a deck of cards. Ella knew better than to indulge in a conversation with her when she was that enthralled in what she was doing, and several drinks into the evening it would seem. But lately, the frizzy haired woman had been loudly discussing worries with McGonagall every chance she got. The elder witch listened gracefully, but it seemed the line in her brow deepened every time she spoke to Sybil.

Ella stopped in her tracks when she saw Tindall cross the corridor in her direction. Immediately dashing for the nearest way to clear the area as quietly as possible, Ella managed to crash straight into a patrolling auror with a mop of auburn hair.

"Hey! Watch where you're going!"

Tonks brushed herself off, adjusted a toggle on her jacket, and stared Ella down like she was an escaped Azkaban inmate. Her eyes were sharper than her words.

"Sorry," Ella mumbled. "Didn't mean to."

The severity of Tonks's gaze didn't falter a bit. Instead, she chewed her lip as if searching for what to say before turning on her heel. She didn't get far before she whipped back around, wand twirling in her fingers, and barked out, "Are you going to Hogsmeade anytime soon?"

Ella blinked, thoughts slow to reach her mouth, "Sure. I'm a chaperone. Sort of. Slughorn didn't want to-…"

"You'll meet me there. I have a question for you," her eyes darted around, "that is better left somewhere more discreet."

"Is it…you know… business?"

"Not exactly." Tonks, still looking disapprovingly at Ella's bedraggled appearance, seemed to soften then if only a little. Then she turned again on her worn heel and marched off, all business and none of her usual bubbliness.


There was a soft knock at his office door, unlike most of the impetuous raps that graced it daily from students begging for better grades.

"Enter." Snape didn't bother looking up. The stack of fourth year essays was long overdue, kept at bay with his recent outings and private discussions with Dumbledore. His quill swished through an entire paragraph, blotting it out and erasing the stupidity of tangent the student had galloped into. They had completely missed his point: dark magic needed emotion, feeling, meaning. A caster needed to actively wish to harm someone – it wasn't the words that were central but the thoughts behind them. As he scratched out his barbed comment in the margin, the visitor approached his desk with even, clicking footfalls.

"I thought you would be interested to know about the… excursions of one of your students."

He froze, fingers nearly snapping the quill in two. He didn't want to look up, but her presence was hot on the back of his neck so he let his eyes swivel up as he mustered the most poisonous look he could muster on three cups of coffee and half a pasty.

"I have many students. All of which lead boring, unremarkable and irritating lives that I do not care to indulge in."

"It's Malfoy."

That got his attention. The quill went back to its well and his fingers laced themselves up like a corset trained to keep his mouth, mind, and emotions as locked tight and hidden as possible. A long quiet passed before he pursed his lips and spoke.

"Tell me… Has he found a way to set off Potter into a rampage? This isn't news. Potter is a ball of pubescent hormones fit to burst."

"I ran into Malfoy, alone, in the greenhouse this week. It never occurred to me that he was a herbologist."

Her eyes were trained on his face, watching for any twitch, any sign of deception. He knew this without using his skill to tap into her thoughts, though he wondered if some connection still remained. It wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility. It certainly made feeling Potter's teenage rage more clear than necessary.

"Is it a crime to look at plants? Has he bothered you with his mere presence?"

"It was Greenhouse Seven."

A lump formed in his throat. Damn. The poisonous plants. The little bastard was trying to poison the old coot. Something so clumsy and obvious would have him ousted for certain – or killed. Snape unconsciously rubbed his wrist at the thought.

"So he's taken an interest in the more… intriguing plants. Perhaps Pomona would be a better person to discuss this with. She would be more adept at providing Malfoy with engaging material and encouragement-…"

"Severus, please," she snapped, uncharacteristically bold. "We both know that nothing innocent can come from a sixth year with a grudge wandering into a room full of deadly plants and reaching for bloody aconite with his bare beastly hands."

"And what do you suggest I do? I am not his herbology teacher nor his potions teacher. This class doesn't deal with nasty plants."

"Cut the crap. You're head of his house. Deal with him. He needs to know that what he's thinking of doing is wrong and he's lucky I was there to prevent him from dying an extremely uncomfortable and embarrassingly stupid death."

"I commend you for your bravery."

Eleanor gave him a nasty look. "I'm serious."

"So am I," Snape replied coolly. "Take it up with Pomona, I have more important things to do than talk to him about plants."

"Then I'll give him detention and send a note home."

"You'll be signing your death warrant. The Malfoys are not forgiving people when it comes to their son. His mother, as you've seen," he added venomously, "is a vengeful woman who gets what she wants. She doesn't like assistants telling her something is wrong with her son. One letter home and your head will spin, and Malfoy's aunt will learn your name very fast."

The color drained from her face at the mention of Lestrange. He had her now.

"No one wants an unexpected visit from Narcissa Malfoy," Snape said curling his lip into a mocking smile, "especially here."

"Fine. If you're at peace with the idea of Malfoy perishing the next time he decides to grab at shit, so be it."

"If we're done here, kindly return to your weeds."


There was a dripping sound. Eleanor woke from a brief sleep to dark windows, a dim fire, and the incessant dripping of the glass of water her hand seemingly knocked over on the nightstand. She didn't move, instead fixed her gaze on the same crack in the stone above her bed unblinkingly. How many days had it been since she had slept properly? She didn't know. Some nights she was with Lupin, getting back in the small hours usually in time to see the tendrils of sunrise starting to clear the sky. Some nights she was working. The workroom was covered in notes, jars, caldrons, jar of ingredients, half a dozen sets of scales and more. It was always abuzz with something of hers. When she wasn't doing that, Slughorn had her cleaning up after him and picking up tasks he seemingly had no time for which felt an awful lot like him relinquishing the potions post to her save for the title, paycheck, and ability to lecture to all levels. Engaging with the students was the only thing that interested him anymore.

Some nights were like this one, broken into sharp little pieces from memories keeping her awake and nightmares waking her up. She could lie in bed and worry about the most absurd thing, like what she had said to Thomas six years ago on a date. Blinking away the bleariness in her eyes, she sat up and noticed a pair of eyes watching her woefully from the door.

"Good evening, Pinnet."

"Good morning, Miss Ella."

Eleanor gratefully took the cup of lavender-spiked tea he offered and gestured for him to sit on the cushion she kept for him. He resolutely refused chairs.

"What has you up so early today?' she asked after a sip.

"It is a chilly day, so the elves are stoking fires, Miss. Poppy is telling what is for breakfast. Margie is telling what chores are needed. Calla tells Pinnet that the headmaster is away from the castle tonight, so she is cleaning the headmaster's office."

"He's away?" Eleanor remarked. "Where?"

"Pinnet does not know. Calla says he leaves through his window sometimes, sometimes he looks in a bowl with Harry Potter."

"Is Sev- Professor Snape doing the same?"

"What?" the elf cocked his head to the side. "Leaving through windows?"

"Yes. Well, is he leaving the castle? At night?"

"Yes, Miss. The professor does leave the castle sometimes, always late. But he doesn't look at bowls, Miss."

Eleanor finished her tea in a hurried gulp and the house elf snatched it from the nightstand and replaced it on the tea tray he had brought, neatly arranging the mess to return to the kitchen.

"I think I'll try to sleep some more. Thank you for the tea, Pinnet. It helps," she offered him a smile that made his ears wiggle.

"You are welcome, Miss Ella," he replied, beaming. "Sweet dreams, Miss Ella."

"You have a good day," she said as she tucked herself back into the safety of her down comforter and watched him leave, carefully snuffing out the lights as he went before disappearing with a soft pop. She wouldn't sleep, she knew, but she needed to be alone to think.

As she pondered the comings and goings of her colleagues, the sun rose and sent its light across her room. She dressed, wrestled down some toast, and started her daily work in the dungeons like a machine. Her mind was elsewhere, adrift in probabilities and possibilities until the last student had disappeared into their dormitory and night was once again ruling over the castle. It was then, as she stumbled around in the general direction of her workroom that her neck flared hot – Lupin called. She was beginning to resent that Protean charmed necklace.

The night air did little to rouse her into wakefulness, instead she coasted the last leg of her journey to meet Lupin as carelessly as ever. Touching down, she was immediately snatched to the side by a familiar hand.

"Who's it this time?"

"MLE officer and a Witch Watcher," Lupin's voice was rough; he was still coming down from the bad part of the cycle Eleanor guessed. The full moon had been a week ago or so. He would be out of commission near Halloween, too.

"Is it far?"

"Not very. We're quite a ways from their territory as it is. Should be a quick night."

"Good," she sighed, trying unsuccessfully to itch her cheek behind the mask. "Why are they leaving, I wonder? Sounds like they would be pretty secure where they are. MLE is getting all sorts of privileges."

"Where are you hearing that?"

"Quibbler and the Fay. Besides, my mum was MLE. I remember her going on about this sort of thing the last time around. People could get away with anything."

Lupin snorted, "I didn't picture you a Quibbler reader. Or a Fay reader – how are you getting those?"

"I've got friends in the US. Ilvermorny churns out Quadpot players that go pro-Quidditch at the drop of a hat. Poor souls are bored for years and sick of exploding balls."

"Friends? You've told me you're a loner these days."

Ella could hear the smile in his voice, warmer than most conversation she'd had in days. "Well, friend is a loose term. More like infrequent pen-pals that sometimes send junk in the post for the hell of it. They get a kick out of Bertie Bott's and Quidditch Monthly."

"Won over by a bag of vomit flavored beans? Can't say that I see the appeal," he snorted.

"Not everyone gets their kicks by traipsing about in the dark dressed like circus animals, Remus."

Their snickering was cut short by the telltale swoosh and pop of their arrivals. True to MLE standards, they were outfitted for work and moved like a pair of agents on the hunt.

"You the guys?" the taller one called, scratching his red beard impatiently.

"We're the guys," Lupin answered and readied his broom – a Firebolt Eleanor had to fight with him to accept. He wasn't pacified when she told him it was an old practice model of hers until she mentioned the six others she had. Ella did not have the patience to watch him putter about on that Tinderblast any longer. It was tragic to witness that poor thing attempt to keep altitude. It belonged in a museum.

"Remus," Ella said in a hushed whisper, "why do these guys need us, exactly? They're probably leagues ahead of me in defensive wandwork."

"Extra eyes. They're muggle born if I had to guess, and feeling the heat from colleagues. Arthur says it's starting to boil over in the office."

"Shall we, then?" Lupin mounted his broom as Ella did the same.

"No sir, we won't be needing those," said the other man with dark brown hair and a scar on his cheek. "This is a turn-and-go trip to our intercontinental portkey only."

"We just need you to cover our backs," said the redhead.

Eleanor felt as though she had been doused in cold water. Apparating. All night. No brooms. "Oh Merlin's hairy left-…"

Lupin elbowed her sharply and stowed his broom in an extended pocket, which she reluctantly followed.

"You tell Dumbledore it's starting to get ugly downtown. We've had a rash o' wizards getting slashed and the like by muggles and people are starting to panic. Think it's some witch hunt. It's coincidence, really, or them's being framed. Either way, it's ugly," the one Ella had labeled "Red" grumbled out.

"Oi, Puppy Dog! You comin'?"

She frowned and labeled the dark haired one "Tosser".

They apparated twice before taking a small breather. They were awful compared to Severus – not able to take distance, make a smooth landing, or even make the journey pleasant. It was all rough hands, jerking about like they were riding a wagon through a boulder field, and elbows in her sides. Eleanor bent over a thistle bush while her insides swirled with nausea as the others argued over the portkey.

There was a quiet rustle in the thicket of trees ahead of her. They were on the outskirts of a village, the lights of windows still lit filtered in through the leaves and cast shadows as the branches swayed in the light breeze. There was, however, a patch of darkness, irregular and foreign, that caught her eye seeming to grow and shrink. Muggles, possibly, or a deer. Whatever it was, they had no time to deal with it. She turned to alert them when a burst of light shot through the trees and blasted a patch of grass apart between her and the others. The smell of singed grass burned her nostrils.

Three men bolted from the trees, wands drawn and casting as they closed in. Red and Tosser had already started volleying curses back, Lupin falling into a more defensive position trying to get them to keep moving. Ella ran for it, wand clenched tight in her fist. Her eyes were struggling to stay used to the dark as they were dazzled by the bright flashes of light coming off the rebounded jinxes and before she knew it, they group had reformed itself around her.

"Do something!" Lupin screamed at her.

Numbly, Ella raised her wand and stammered out a few jinxes in the direction of the left assailant, who had been pelting Lupin and Red with curses. They fell apart on the man's shield charms and he lobbed a stunning spell at her that she barely had time to deflect. Magic crackled and snapped in the air, sending up bits of grass and dirt and stones until the whole area began to smell like a brushfire. Suddenly Lupin was on the ground, disarmed. It happened in slow motion, one of the men making his way over and a jet of green light blasted its way into the ground mere breaths away from Remus's head. Before she knew it, Eleanor was bolting for him. Something in her broke loose – pure panic, perhaps – hot and volatile and sparkling, and as she raised her wand she screamed, "Reducto!"

All of her exhaustion, frustration, and fear went into that curse, manifesting itself into a concussive blast that hit the man square in the chest and sent him spiraling into the trees like a ragdoll. Ella rushed to Lupin just as Red let out an ear-splitting scream, disemboweled by a bright purple curse.

"Confringo!" Lupin yelled, sending a blast between Tosser and the other two wizards in an effort to allow him to escape. It was clear the man was in shock and staggered towards Ella and Remus in a blind panic. Lupin let fly a barrage of magic to give him time, but it wasn't enough. Green light blasted into his back and he fell like a bag of rocks. Everything began to warp into swirling bright colors until Lupin and Ella popped into existence in a quiet churchyard with no one else around.

"R-Remus, you left them."

"They're dead, Eleanor."

"But you left-…"

"They're DEAD," he shook her by the shoulders, red in the face. "You froze! We needed you and you froze! Why?"

"I… I didn't mean… You were…"

"You can't do that! You can't forget what we're even doing out here! Merlin's beard…" He paced about, kicking the dirt and making his attempts to calm down while she sat there staring at a headstone next to a wilting rosebush.

"Come on, I'll take you back. We can't stay out tonight." He offered his hand to her after she refused a wedge of chocolate.

"What are we doing here?"

"What?"

"Why are we out here? Remus, I'm not a master of dark magic. I'm not an auror, I'm not MLE. Remus, I'm a Quidditch player! I'm a bloody Potions apprentice! What the hell am I doing here? I don't know what I'm doing! My mum knew what she was doing! But I'm not her! And she died doing this! I'm… I can't-…"

Lupin, visibly stunned, gently took her hand. "Let's get you back. It's not your fault."

She didn't remember the trip back, or what Lupin said to her before and after apparating. She didn't remember walking up the grounds to the castle, going inside, and ascending three flights of stairs, making it past Peeves flooding an entire floor without so much as batting an eye. Nothing fazed her until she ran into Savage turning a corner, wand lighting the corridor in a sickly blue light. Suddenly all she could see was Red's entrails draining out of him and that terrifying green light that took his accomplice and the screaming in her ears drowned out Savage's voice. A bell jar was clamped over her head and all the sounds were drowning now, even Red's scream. She saw Savage rush towards her, then the ceiling and then nothing but black.


A/N: Thanks, Tha Gingaah, for your kind review! I was literally working on this when I read it - I got too wrapped up in trying to write ahead to post soon enough. Sorry for making you all wait!