A/N: Snape's going to express some frustration with Dumbledore in the next few chapters, but no Dumbledore bashing is intended. Their relationship will grow later on.

Thanks for reading!


Snape glanced around him until he was sure no one was watching, then ducked into Knockturn Alley. It was much less crowded here, the light dimmer in the narrower street, and he preferred it that way. No one could really see his face.

He glanced over at the tavern as he passed it, an old haunt of his from his Death Eater days, remembering the women there. His longing was intense, physical, an ache that got so bad some nights that he had trouble sleeping, but the thought of undressing himself, showing himself, was horrifying. He passed it by and went inside an apothecary.

He breathed it in, the scent of the oiled wood and the earthy and bitter smells of the ingredients lined up on the shelves, the smell of power and possibility.

He took his time as he walked around the shop, hands behind his back, looking into all the jars. This apothecary specialized in especially rare and dangerous ingredients, the kinds the shopkeepers in Diagon Alley didn't keep in their stores. He picked out some Boomslang skin and a package of Occamy eggshells and made his way to the counter.

The clerk set them on a scale. "That'll be four hundred galleons," he said without looking up.

Snape just stared at him. "You can't be serious."

The clerk's head jerked up and he stared right back. "This here is pure silver," he said, tapping the eggshell package. "You know how much that's going for these days?"

Snape leaned forwards and gave the clerk a meaningful look. "And how much are Class-C Non-Tradeable substances going for these days? I seem to have noticed quite a few of them in your shop."

The clerk tapped his fingers on the counter. "I'll knock off twenty-five galleons."

"A hundred."

"Fifty."

Snape's eyes flicked towards the shelves. "I noticed your rather large stock of Venomous Tentacula seeds," he said. "Did you buy them off Mundungus Fletcher in the men's toilets at the Hog's Head?"

The clerk turned red and glanced down at the counter, and Snape had a feeling his guess hadn't been far off the mark. He decided to press hid advantage and glanced towards the window. "I wonder if there any Ministry officials about today. I hear they've been conducting quite a few raids lately."

"And say they did shut me down," the clerk hissed. "Where would you buy your Boomslang skin then, eh?"

Snape wouldn't be able to, in that case, but he kept his face composed. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Fine then," said the clerk. "That'll be three hundred galleons."

"Pleasure doing business with you," said Snape, smiling a little at the clerk's red face. The man tried to get one over on him every time, and never did.

He'd just left the shop when something brushed against his legs, and he looked down into the eyes of a ragged-looking cat, a Kneazle most likely, bones showing through its filthy matted fur. The creature gave a pitiful mew and started pawing at the pockets of his robes, where he had a box of takeaway fish and chips from a shop in Diagon Alley. He wrenched himself away and started to make his way across the cobbled street, but the little nuisance wouldn't let up.

He tried staring it down, a tactic that usually worked on children, but it only looked back at him, eyes wide. It probably hadn't eaten in weeks. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he reached into his pocket and broke off a piece of fish.

"Don't get any ideas," he told it as it ate. Sweet Merlin, he was talking to a bloody cat. Hogwarts must have been addling his brains.

He left the cat with its fish and made his way over to Borgin and Burkes, to examine the Dark artefacts that fascinated him still. It was dim and quiet; he was the only customer there. He loved the feel of the shop; it was as though the power of the magical objects extended into the surrounding air; it was something he could feel.

Mr. Borgin was standing behind a counter, watching him. "Nice to see you again, sir," he said. Snape gave him a small nod, suddenly uncomfortable. He imagined the way McGonagall's nostrils would flare if she knew he was here.

He walked around the shop slowly, examining a strange-looking doll with wide, staring eyes and a silver tapestry needle and a pendulum clock that was stopped at twelve. He stopped to look at a small dagger.

"That one's a particularly valuable acquisition," Borgin told him, stepping out from behind the counter to stand next to him. "Simply swipe it in the air and it'll cut whatever's in front of it. Causes permanent damage, so I've been told. Nearly impossible to trace."

Snape recognized it. Bellatrix's dagger.

"Where did you get this?"

"Ministry did a raid on the Lestranges after they were arrested. I've got connections."

Snape considered it a moment. He wondered what sort of enchantments had been put on it, if it was a Severing Charm or something more like his own. It was dangerous, this. But that was out of his hands.

His eyes were drawn to a leather-bound book with the title embossed in gold letters. Maledictum: A Discourse on Dark Magick.

"That's another recent acquisition," said Borgin. "I've never seen anything like it. Must be hundreds of years old. Covers curses I've never even heard of."

Snape picked it up and flipped through the pages, at the incantations and the illustrations, not the clumsy woodcut kinds he sometimes saw in old books but real works of art. He looked at it so long he could see Borgin shifting on his feet beside him and knew he expected a sale, but he needn't worry. The book was fascinating. He brought it up to the counter.

"Excellent choice, sir," he said. "That'll be fifty galleons."

Snape thought it a reasonable price, and slapped the money on the counter. Once Borgin had given him his change he tucked the book into his pocket, his head full of the things he had seen.

He'd just stepped out of the shop when that insufferable cat brushed against his legs again. It must have been waiting for him the whole time. He raised an eyebrow at it as though it had personally insulted him and strode away, but the thing kept following him and rubbing his head against his legs.

Glancing around again, he picked it up. It appeared to be male. He began to purr so loudly Snape could feel the vibration in his chest and it settled down in his arms as though he planned to stay there a good long while. Impertinent little beast.

"I suppose I'll have to go buy food for you, you stupid thing," he said to him. He was headed to the Magical Menagerie anyway, to get owl treats for his hawk owl Apollo. He tapped his wand to the cat and Disillusioned it in case any students were hanging around, and let it ride on his shoulder.

Once he'd bought some food and dishes for it, he returned to his house and sat on the sofa in the living room with the book he'd bought, the Kneazle curled up beside him. He supposed he'd have to come up with a name for him.

He returned to Hogwarts a few days later, carrying his suitcase and the Kneazle and his hawk owl, every muscle tight and strained. Dumbledore wanted him spying on students, Lucius wanted him studying the Dark Arts. He remembered a night in his first year at Hogwarts, when Lucius had sat him down to play wizard chess. He'd held up one of the eight pawns. Expendable, he'd called them. But highly useful.

Rather like Snape.

"Professor Snape, so good to see you." Dumbledore was standing in the Entrance Hall, beaming at him as he walked in. He held out a hand.

"Likewise," said Snape as he shook Dumbledore's hand, but there was an edge to his voice and he wondered if Dumbledore heard it and knew how empty his words were. His expression was difficult to read as he looked down at Snape, and all Snape could think about was the book hidden in his suitcase, the book he was sneaking into the castle right under the old man's crooked nose, a leather-bound fuck you.

Once he'd let go of his hand he walked away, before anyone could come and make small talk with him, and went straight to his room and sat down on his bed, pulling off his boots and tucking his photographs of Lily back into the drawer of his nightstand.

He leaned back on his bed and pulled his book out. He resented Lucius too, for his meddling, but he understood him, at least, understood the draw the Dark Arts had for his students. He'd learned them himself as a child, from his mother's books. At first he'd found the hexes and jinxes funny. He'd liked the idea of making someone vomit up slugs or sprout horns. He imagined using some of them on his father, even though he knew he'd never get away with it.

There was beauty in them, in the way they eternal and yet ever-changing, like light in a deep pool of water. Their power was not the power of physical prowess; it was a power of the intellect, an ability to manipulate the forces of magic.

When he'd finished reading he got into bed and pulled the covers over himself, the Kneazle curled up at the foot of his bed, and he thought about Lily. She was the only one who never wanted anything from him, never asked any more of him than to just be, skinny legs and dirty hair and bruised back. He was enough for her, just as he was.

Sometimes she would bring him something to eat when they met at the riverbank, biscuits her mother made or Mars Bars, because she knew he didn't get much at home. They'd sit and eat together and then sprawl in the grass and look up at the sky. She liked to talk about magic.

"What do you think we'll be, when we learn magic?" she asked one day.

"I don't know," said Snape "I suppose we could be all sorts of things." He put his hands behind his head and watched a cloud drift by. "I want to be part of something really big. I want to do things that have never been done before."

"Well, maybe you will. You're the most intelligent person I know."

He never forgot the way he'd felt when she'd said that. Like he could do anything. He pictured it as he fell asleep.

He woke up sweating. He'd had the nightmare again, the one where Lily was lying by the river, with the slashed face of the man. He sat up and rested his face in his hands but he couldn't steady his breathing.


"It's them again," said Graihagh, looking over at a group of three boys who were making their way down the stands. "In here." She pulled at the sleeve of Milo's robes and they ducked underneath the Quidditch stands. The wood blocked out some of the sound and it was dark except for small flecks of light coming through the slits.

Milo was as small as ever, and the other boys hadn't let up on him any. Graihagh had already had to take him to the hospital wing a few times. That Slytherin had just won the match wasn't likely to improve their mood, she thought. Milo sat down against a wooden post, knees drawn up to his chest, and Graihagh sat down beside him.

"They're fucking tossers," she said. Milo didn't say anything for awhile, just sat and stared straight ahead of him. His face was strained tight and Graihagh wondered if he was trying not to cry.

"I hate them," he said after awhile. "I wish I could fight back."

Graihagh knew how he felt. She knew what it was like to be ganged up on, outnumbered, even if she'd started it a lot of the time.

"I know," she said. She stared ahead of her too, looking at a narrow strip of sunlight coming through the wood. "But once we start learning more spells, you'll have a better chance, won't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you don't have to be really strong or anything to do really powerful magic. Look at Flitwick. I hear he was a duelling champion back in the day."

"Really? I didn't know that." Milo was still staring ahead of him, but his voice wasn't so flat now.

"Someday you'll be able to hex the shit out of them," said Graihagh, hoping he was starting to cheer up. He smiled a little.

"Yeah. Cheers," he said. They were quiet awhile. "Do you ever think about what you want to do when you leave here? Think you'll be a Potioneer or something?"

She'd often pictured herself opening up her own shop, inventing a brand-new potion, a new cure maybe, and becoming famous. "Yeah, that might be alright," she said, watching a ladybird crawl along the grass. She looked back up at him. "What about you? What do you want to be?"

He stared straight ahead a moment, head resting on his arms, not saying anything. "I don't know...maybe this is going to sound strange, but...I'd kind of like to make things. Like magical instruments and enchanted figurines and such." He sounded so hesistant, like he was embarassed to admit it. "Maybe that sounds stupid," he added.

"I don't think it sounds stupid. I think you'd be great at it. Those ones you made look like something out of a shop."

Milo gave her a little half-smile, then rested his head on his arms and looked at the grass. Graihagh liked that they could be quiet together like that.

"I was wondering something," said Milo after awhile. "Could you-I mean, only if you want to, but do you think you could make me some of that Girding Solution we learned about in Potions last week?"

Graihagh knew exactly what he was getting at. A dose or two of that and he'd outrun his bullies easily. She liked the thought of it, that she could make something to help him.

"No problem," she said. "That's kind of the thing I was talking about though. I mean, there's a potion for just about anything you can think of. You just have to know how to make them."

"I see what you mean," said Milo, his forehead creasing the way it did when he was thinking.

There were no more footsteps above them and the grounds seemed quiet. Graihagh went outside and looked around. "They're gone."

Milo got up and they made their way back to the castle. A wind had picked up and she wrapped her scarf around her neck without really thinking about it, or about where she was going, her head too full to concentrate on anything. Her feet seemed to move on their own.

She went straight to her dormitory, and once she'd tossed her cloak and scarf on the bed she lugged her cauldron and brass scales into the common room, setting them up on the table in their corner and starting a small fire underneath on a metal plate. Forgetting everything around her, she'd weighed and measured and stirred, bending her head over the fumes to breathe them in even though they were strong and sharp, like cat pee or the ammonia her granny cleaned with. Milo sat beside her and watched.

"What are you brewing?" a voice behind her asked, and she was jerked out of her reverie. Another third-year, Thorfinn Rowle, was standing over her.

"Girding Potion," she told him matter-of-factly, looking back at her cauldron.

"Isn't that the one that gives you extra endurance? Can you make some for me?"

She looked up at him, surprised. He was already as big as a professional rugby player, she didn't really see what he'd need it for. "Yeah, I suppose," she said, trying to sound casual, but her insides were bursting with excitement. She was getting noticed. Thorfinn was loud and good-looking and everyone liked him. She'd watched him go over to his friends, and after a little while he came back.

"Do you think you can make some for the whole team?" he said.

She glanced over at the sofas and chairs by the fire where the rest of the Quidditch team was sitting, watching them. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, that'd be no problem."