Snape had forgotten that the Corlett woman still had the coin he'd given her. He supposed he'd been too preoccupied to ask for it back, and he regretted it now. This was a trap, it had to be. There was only a sliver of a chance she was really in danger.

But that sliver had gotten him out of bed, that and the Death Eaters stationed in Hogsmeade he could use as backup, if necessary. He kept his wand held out in front of him as he made his way into the village, listening for the faintest whisper of an incantation.

She was lying on the cobblestone street in front of the Hog's Head, pale and sweating, and he might've been back in that fifth-floor corridor, watching her slip away. He forgot about ambushes and Order members and ran to her.

Her left shoulder was soaked in blood. He worked her torn sleeve open and tapped his wand to the missing flesh.

"Regenero."

"Can you hear me?" he said as he pulled a bottle of dittany out of his robes.

"Yeah," she murmured.

"You've splinched yourself. I've healed the wound, now I'm going apply dittany to prevent scarring."

He poured a few drops of dittany into the freshly healed wound and her scars vanished in a puff of smoke. He capped the bottle and shoved it into his pocket, fuming. She had some nerve, Disapparating in the middle of the night and getting herself injured.

"Where the hell were you?"

"Order business," she mumbled. "Can't tell you."

"You do realise that if I hadn't shown up you would've bled to death?"

"Well, you did show up, so it's alright."

"You're critical thinking skills are extraordinary," spat Snape, but there was no time for a dressing-down. She was lying in a pool of light from the windows of the Hog's Head, and he wouldn't be surprised if there were a few Death Eaters inside. They had to get out of there, and quickly.

Her skin was so clammy and cold he knew she couldn't walk, couldn't even sit up most likely. He conjured a stretcher and lifted her onto it, careful not to raise her head too quickly.

"Where am I taking you?" he said. He knew perfectly well where she was staying, but she didn't need to know that.

"The back entrance of the Hog's Head," said Miss Corlett. "You'll need this." She reached into her pocket and handed him an iron-grey key, her hand so limp she could barely hold onto it.

"You'd better be alone," he warned her. Her injury had been real enough, but it still could've been a trap.

"I am."

Snape unlocked the door and maneuvered the stretcher up the stairs to the door at the end of the hallway.

"You have to tap a rhythym against the wall with your wand," said Miss Corlett. Snape drew his wand and she demonstrated the rhythm by tapping her hands against the stretcher. Snape copied the rhythm with his wand and a door appeared.

The room was small and cramped, with a low sloping ceiling and dozens of boxes and barrels shoved up against the walls. A makeshift work table stood at one end of the room, under a shelf laden with coloured bottles and jars of ingredients, most of them nearly empty. An lamp in the corner cast a dull orange glow over everything and he smelled dust and dried herbs and the oily funk of unwashed bedding, not unpleasant.

He set the stretcher down and helped her onto a thin mattress she was using as a bed. The sheets were bunched up and there was a plate of food lying beside them and books and clothes scattered everywhere. Cleanliness obviously wasn't one of her top priorities.

"Do you have any Blood-Replenishing Potion?" he asked, scanning her work table for the blood-red mixture.

"No. I used my last bottle."

"On what?"

"Can't tell you."

So. She didn't trust him enough to tell him what she was up to, but she trusted him enough to let him into her room, where there was no one to save her if he decided to finish her off. She wasn't making any damn sense.

He knelt down beside her mattress. "A bit risky asking me for help, don't you think? How do you know I'm not going to harm you? That I'm not going to tell Rowle exactly where you are?"

"Because you would've done it already."

"How do you know I haven't changed my mind?"

Miss Corlett studied his face. "Because I just know."

Snape looked back at her and caught a flash of himself bent over her as she lay in the corridor, of the two of them working together on a potion. He didn't know what he felt. The sharp reply at the edge of his mind caught in his throat and died away.

Miss Corlett pulled the blanket over herself and curled up on her side, breathing hard from the effort. She would need a few days' rest, but he supposed Aberforth would look after her. He stood up and walked to the door.

Her voice was so quiet he barely heard her.

"Professor?"

He turned around.

"Will you stay with me? Just until I go to sleep?"

She must have been out of her mind, or maybe just disoriented from the blood loss. There was no way she should've felt safe with him beside her. No one did.

He ran a finger along the silver serpent fastening on his cloak, wishing he could just ignore her and walk away. But he couldn't. He turned around and conjured a wooden chair.

"Thank you," she whispered, closing her eyes. She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin and curled up into a ball, shivering. Snape noticed that the room was rather draughty, probably because there wasn't any fireplace.

He sat and watched as her breathing slowed and her shivering stopped. Sometimes she'd turn over or whimper or mumble something he couldn't understand.

He scanned the covers of the books beside her bed. Healing Poison: A New Approach to Venom, Tectosilicates and Their Uses in Potion-Making. He was tempted to thumb through them.

He couldn't read the title of the third book, the letters were too ornate, but the cover showed a picture of a half-naked vampire biting into the neck of the shirtless man she'd pinned beneath her. Snape's face flushed and he was too aware of Miss Corlett's breathing, her scent, those long legs underneath the blanket. Not that she was in any way attractive, but still. The space had become too small, too personal. Time to get out.

Miss Corlett started her sleep, shivering and pushing her arms under her chest. Without really thinking Snape pulled out his wand and conjured a thick woolen blanket, draping it over the thin one she'd curled up in and tucking it under her shoulders. He didn't know what made him do it. Maybe all the stress of the last few weeks was addling his brain. Or maybe it was that she looked so bloody cold. He pictured the way she'd smirk when she woke up and saw it, like he was some stupid storybook cliché, The Death Eater Who Had a Heart. He couldn't stand it. What was he thinking?

He knelt down beside her and tapped his wand to her head. He could make her forget he'd stayed with her, make her think Aberforth had given her the blanket.

Seconds passed, and he couldn't bring himself to do it, and he didn't know why.

Miss Corlett's eyes opened. "Professor? What are you doing?"

Of course she would have to wake up at the worst possible moment. "I wasn't-I was just..."

Miss Corlett looked down at the blanket. "Did you conjure this?"

"I-well..."

She was gloating. Damn it all to hell. That smug, that insufferable-

"Thank you so much," she whispered. "I've been freezing my arse off in here."

"If you hadn't failed your Transfiguration exam you could've conjured yourself ten blankets by now."

She rolled her eyes and Snape left the room with out another look at her, cursing himself all the way back to the castle.

When Snape opened his eyes the sky outside his bedroom window was dark and he supposed he'd woken up in the middle of the night again. He could've taken a sleeping draught and caught a few more hours but instead he Summoned a book off the shelves, relishing the quiet. No one came to his office this early, not even the house-elves.

The bed he slept in was his own, shrunk with a charm and brought up from the dungeons, with a a simple wooden headboard and a thick grey duvet that matched his nightshirt. Dumbledore's bed had been a work of art, phoenixes and dragons carved into the mahagony headboard, gauzy curtains hanging from the posts, silk sheets. Snape couldn't bring himself to look at it. He'd Vanished it, beautiful as it was.

Dumbledore had left most of his personal things to Elphias and Minerva, but Snape kept some of his books and silver instruments in his room. The place was nearly empty, no furniture except his bed and a squashy armchair and his old nightstand, where he kept his letters and photographs of Lily. The stone walls and the bare floor gave it the feel of a prison cell, which in a way it was.

He sat on his bed and read awhile, but all too soon the sun rose from behind the mountains and it was time to carry on with his headmastering. There was a fat stack of requisition forms with an ominous all-day look about them waiting on his desk. He skipped breakfast and poured himself an enormous coffee as he looked them over.

The staff was having him on. There was no way Minerva needed a hundred ferrets, Slughorn did not need bioluminescent algae harvested off the shores of Puerto Rico for school-level potions, and if Trelawney wanted to balance her chakras she could do it herself and not with 200 galleons worth of healing crystals. He thrust a rejection stamp onto a pad of red ink and slammed it onto every piece of parchment, one after another. When he was finally finished he summoned a house-elf to deliver them to the staff.

If they thought they could get rid of him via tedious paperwork they were probably right. He'd been at it one day and already he felt like drowning himself in the lake.

"Long day, Headmaster?" said Phineas' voice from somewhere above him.

"The worst."

"Well, I must say, your work ethic is extraordinary. You are the most noble, the most industrious, the most clever-"

"That will do, Phineas," said Snape, even though he was chuffed. He craved whatever scraps of praise he could get, but he didn't deserve it.

"My most sincere apologies, Headmaster. Anyway, I thought you might want to know that Potter and Weasley and that Granger Mudblood-"

Snape slammed his fist down on the desk. "Do not use that word!"

Phineas gave him a quizzical look. "Anyway, they've left the house of my ancestors and they're on the run, don't ask me where, I have no idea. The girl had the audacity to stuff me into her bag and blindfold me of all things-"

Dumbledore cut him off. "That reminds me. Severus, did you make a replica of the sword?"

Snape reached under his desk and held out the fake sword of Gryffindor he'd spent an entire day making.

"Good, good," said Dumbledore. "Now, there's hidden chamber behind my portrait where you can keep real sword. As soon as we get word on Potter's location, you will need to give it to him."

Snape nodded and did as he'd asked. The fake sword would never hold up under close scrutiny, but it was good enough for now.

"What exactly is Potter attempting to accomplish?" said Snape as he locked the chamber and pushed Dumbledore's portrait back in its place.

"That is between us, Severus."

Snape made a frustrated noise and wheeled around so he wouldn't have to look at him. Even now, after everything he'd done for him, after taking his life and losing the respect of the only people he remotely cared about, he was still not going to tell him.

Oh, but he'd tell Potter. He'd coddle Potter and he'd praise Potter and he'd protect Potter the way he'd never bothered to do with him, because he was never good enough for that kind of attention.

But what was it all for? So the boy could die at the right time. In the end, Potter didn't mean any more to Dumbledore than Snape had. They were pawns, the two of them. Part of someone else's plan.

Only the old man's four-dimensional chess level of scheming could give him this sense of kinship with the boy. He shrugged it off. The last thing he needed was to feel anything. He had a job to do and he was going to do it and that was all.

He still had an hour or two of free time before dinner, so he sat down at his desk with Dumbledore's old copy of Joy in the Morning and read for awhile, Paracelcus in his lap. He rather liked that Jeeves fellow.

He'd been reading maybe thirty minutes when one of the elves appeared with a crack.

"The Carrows is threatening one of the students sir!"

For fuck's sake. They were barely two weeks into the new term. He hadn't authorised this.

"Where are they?"

"In the Muggle Studies classroom, sir."

Snape swept out of the room and down the steps to the first floor. He could hear Alecto's voice all the way down the corridor, a sharp static crackle.

He was in tight spot with the Carrows. The Dark Lord had appointed them his deputy headmistress and headmaster, but Snape hadn't bothered to tell either of them what that meant, or the kind of privileges that came with it. He'd been holding on to the hope that they'd be content with their teaching posts and their increased status among the Death Eaters, but it was clear that they craved more power, and he didn't know what to do about it.

He paused outside the door, wracking his brains for some kind of solution, but his mind was blank. Alecto shouted and a deeper voice answered and Snape pushed the door open and went inside.

His eyes searched the room, at the posters of Muggles lining the walls, grotesque and beastly-looking except for the painting of a beautiful witch being burned at the stake. At the models of warplanes and hydrogen bombs on her desk that brought back memories of wrecked buildings in Cokeworth they'd never bothered to rebuild. Snape didn't know what he felt as he looked at them. Maybe the Death Eaters were right, he didn't know, didn't care. This was about Lily and the other innocent people they'd killed.

Alecto was standing beside her desk, her wand pointed to Longbottom's chest. Longbottom was breathing fast but his brows were furrowed, mouth set in a hard line, as though he was determined not to give her the satisfaction of showing fear.

"What is going on here?" said Snape, keeping his voice cool and unconcerned, bored almost, though he was frustrated with both of them.

"This disrespectful brat has been making trouble since the start of term, Headmaster," said Alecto. "He sasses me, he interrupts during lessons, he tells lies about those filthy Muggles-"

"You're the one telling lies," said Longbottom, his voice shaking slightly.

"You see what I mean, Headmaster? We've got ourselves a little hothead. I think the Cruciatus Curse might cool him off a bit. Break his spirit, do you know what I mean?"

"That won't be necessary, Alecto," said Snape in a bored voice. "Longbottom can barely stand a cauldron the right way up. He's no threat to anyone but himself. A week's worth of detentions should be sufficient."

Alecto wasn't pleased, he could tell. But she lowered her wand. "Alright then. Detention, Longbottom. Seven o'clock tonight. You'll be cleaning my classroom."

Longbottom jerked his arm away and Alecto scowled at his backside as he strode out of the room.

"Don't you think you were a bit soft on him, Headmaster?"

Professor Snape stood on the toes of his boots to put as many inches as possible between himself and his shorter colleague. "An astute observation, Professor Carrow. Tell me, how long have you been teaching?"

Alecto looked flustered. "Well, this is only my first year but-"

"Well. Despite your lack of experience I don't doubt you're a font of teaching wisdom, Alecto. However, as Headmaster I believe it is my job to determine how we discipline the students."

Alecto's skin flushed red and her eyes flashed. "Of course, Headmaster," she said, her voice too resentful for his liking.

He swept out of the room without another word to her and walked back to his office, the clack of his boots expressing all the angry words floating around in his mind. The nerve of that upstart, criticising his discliplinary methods.

He pulled a bag of Maltesers out of his desk and slammed the drawer shut, shoving them into his mouth and chewing indignantly.

"In one of your moods again?" said one of the portraits. "Going to throw something at the wall today?"

"Shut up, Armando," said Snape through a mouthful of malted chocolate. He wiped his face and turned to Phineas. "Any word on Potter's location?"

"Not a thing," said Phineas. "And their mood swings have become dreadful. Merlin save me."

"Are things not going well?"

"Apparently not, judging by all the fighting and complaining. But then no one tells me anything."

Snape sank down in his desk chair. What the hell could Dumbledore had been thinking, leaving everything in the hands of a seventeen-year-old boy?

"Harry will be fine, Severus," said Dumbledore from behind him, but Snape couldn't help notice the lack of expression in his voice, as though he'd just said the words out of habit. Snape wondered if he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

Snape was tempted to skip dinner again, but he instead he made his way to the Great Hall, as nervous and tense as a teenager looking for a table to sit at.

The first time Snape had sat down to dinner Hogwarts, that first Welcoming Feast, he'd only put a few pieces of food on his plate and snuck the rest under his robes to eat later, sure that they wouldn't be allowed too much. Lucius had tapped his arm and asked what he was doing and Snape didn't know how to explain, he'd just set the food back on the table, blushing, horrified that he'd made such a stupid blunder his first day. He thought Lucius would take the piss, but he just smiled and patted his back and explained that he could take as much food as he liked, the plates even refilled themselves. Snape ate until he was sick.

Even after he'd joined the teaching staff and he was drained by the end of the day, he sometimes liked going to the Great Hall for dinner. The food was good, he didn't have to cook it, and he could eat as much as he liked. Minerva or Flitwick or Sprout would sometimes engage him in conversation, but he didn't mind so much, they had interesting things to say, and they'd tease each other mercilessly over Quidditch or house points. Sometimes he and Minerva would even talk Muggle politics. One mention of the Tories or Thatcher and she'd be off on a red-faced rant that would make even the most hardened Cokeworth mill worker proud and he'd feel less alone, less other. She had a Muggle father too, and they weren't all that well off, from what she'd told him.

Snape sat down in the headmaster's chair and filled his plate with spaghetti bolognese. Minerva made no sign that that he was even there.

"Could you pass the salt, please?" she said.

The salt shaker was right in front of him, but Minerva was talking over him, looking at Flitwick.

"Certainly," said Flitwick, bending over to reach the shaker and handing it to Minerva.

Snape wasn't even good enough for her anger. He just wasn't there. He picked at his food and left after only ten minutes or so. He could feel the Carrows watching him all the way out the Great Hall. He was the headmaster of the most prestigious wizarding school in Europe and he felt like a teenager no one liked.

His desk was mercifully free of paperwork, so he sat down with a book until he forgot about everything else, then turned on the wireless and lit some candles as the sound of violins drifted across the room. He pulled the coded message and the vial out of his desk drawer, tracing his lips with a long finger.

After days of tedious paperwork his mind relished the challenge. The code was complex enough to engage him but not so complex as to frustrate him, and he lost himself in the work, the world shrunk down to these symbols on the paper and the music in his ears and the candlelight flickering across his desk. He worked for hours, until the final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place and his eyelids were heavy.

The words on the parchment jolted him awake, the horror of it too much for him to process. He didn't understand. Someone knew something, they hadn't just come across the vial by accident. And yet no one had said a word about it.

And what was more, he doubted he'd have time to come up with a solution, on top of everything else he had to do. He needed an antidote, he needed one fast, and there was only one person left to help him.

He stood up and stared out the window. The Dark Lord was abroad and it had been weeks since he'd been summoned to the manor. He could put in a few extra hours of work during mealtime and breaks, then use the evenings to come up with an antidote. The Corlett woman was a skilled potioneer, she'd been the only one of his students to make an antidote in the one-hour time limit, but he had more experience than her, and who better to do it than him? What if he was just looking for an excuse to see her again, to contact her? Was he really this weak?

He went to bed without answering his question, and had a troubled sleep, filled with faces and voices, and the loudest of all was Professor Burbage, calling his name as she spun farther and farther away.

Rowle was standing over Cate with a dagger in his fist, his eyes manic, senseless. Graihagh reached out to stop him but she couldn't get there in time, her arms and legs were heavy as lead. Rowle raised the dagger and Cate collapsed on the ground with her face covered in blood.

Graihagh woke up but everything was black, so black she wasn't sure she'd opened her eyes at all and she must've been dying, she must've lost too much blood, her eyes weren't working and she was going to pass out.

Someone was screaming and a light came on and rough hands grabbed her by the shoulders and tipped something down her throat.

The room came into focus like she'd adjusted the antenna on a staticky television. Aberforth's face was a few inches from her own and she could smell beer and tobacco on his breath, a comforting scent, almost homey. He'd lit the lamp in the corner and Graihagh supposed it must've gone out while she was sleeping.

"What the hell just happened?" he said, putting the cap back on a bottle of calming draught.

"Nightmare," said Grahaigh, the potion blunting her embarrassment to a faint twinge. "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Don't worry about it. Remus wanted me to check up on you anyway, make sure you got back."

She remembered something about a werewolf camp and Milo but it felt like weeks ago.

"What happened to you?" said Aberforth, looking her over. "You're as pale as a vampire's arse."

"Splinched. I lost a bit of blood."

"That's an understatement, by the looks of it. I've got a broth that'll help you get some of your strength back. I'll send some up later."

"That'd be perfect, thanks."

He tapped the thick grey blanket on Graihagh's bed. "Where'd you get this?"

She stared at it a few seconds, not understanding, and when the memory came back to her she ran a hand along a fold in the wool and raised the other to her face to hide her smile. Snape had conjured her a blanket. The miserable git didn't want her to be cold.

"Something funny?"

"No, it's just...a friend of mine dropped in and gave it to me." She traced the blanket with a finger and looked back at Aberforth. "Could I ask a favour of you?"

"What's that?"

"If I make some basic potions, would you be able to sell them for me down at the bar?Headache Potion and that sort of thing?"

"I s'pose I could."

"Cheers Ab."

Aberforth stood up and put the potion back on the shelf, and when he'd gone Graihagh lay back down in the bed and pulled the blankets around herself. The one Snape had given her was so warm. She was going to find it hard to get out bed in the morning, or whenever it was she woke up.

There was no question of getting up now though, she was tired and weak and her head ached.

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift to pleasant things, but the nightmare was always lurking in the background, threatening to break through the fragile protection offered by the potion, as though it was already wearing off. The dream was an old one that she'd started having it after the attack at Hogwarts, but she hadn't had it in years. She hoped she'd never have it again. But she wasn't surprised it had come back. She deserved it.

She slept a long time, until there was a knock at the door and Aberforth appeared with a steaming bowl of bone broth. Graihagh sipped it slowly, savouring the warmth. When she'd finished eating she stood up, slowly so as not to get too dizzy, and hobbled over to her workspace.

She needed something interesting to motivate her, something she could get lost in, so she decided to experiment with her own potion first.

She'd known about healing herbs since she was a little girl, digging in her granny's garden and listening to her talk on and on about feverfew and ginger and chamomile, strong earth-smelling plants that they'd pick and dry and store in her kitchen. Sometimes when Graihagh had a headache or cramps her granny would take some meadowsweet-lus vilish ny lleeannagh, she called it-and make a strong hot tea for her to take the pain away. Graihagh had long wondered if it could be tweaked with magic, and after years of experimenting she finally hit on something she thought would work, a combination of meadowsweet, cannabidiol, and another organic compound that would, she hoped, work directly on the muscle without depressing the central nervous system and causing nasty side-effects.

She loved the work but a guilty voice nagged at her the whole time, urging her to make something that would earn her some money. She couldn't exactly send a sample of her new potion off to the Ministry to be patented, not when the place was full of Death Eaters.

She was so tired by the time she'd finished she crawled into bed and slept again, and when she woke up and had more broth she got to work on some Headache Solution and Invigoration draught. She'd been in the business long enough to know which potions would sell.

She drifted into a routine, sleeping and working and eating something to get her strength back and sleeping again. Aberforth came up one day and gave her the profits off her first batch of potions, nearly thirty galleons.

She had a decision to make. She could order the ingredients for Wolfsbane, which would leave her flat-out broke and unable to make more potions to sell. Or she could order ingredients for her other potions, and leave Remus without his next month's dose. In the end she decided on the Wolfsbane, cursing Snape for leaving her in this mess.

But she couldn't stay angry with him, not when he'd saved her life and conjured her a blanket so she wouldn't get cold. A small thing, but it made such a difference, being able to keep warm in that draughty room. She didn't understand anything about him, couldn't stand to think about the horrible things he must've been doing with the Death Eaters, but she knew he wouldn't hurt her, and that was something.

She was afraid to go to sleep. Every night she saw Cate's slashed face or heard Milo screaming in the garden shed. He never would've have gone off hunting Rowle if it hadn't been for her.

One night-maybe the third or fourth night since she'd started working on her potions again, she'd lost track-she came to in the little room she used for washing, and she couldn't remember how she got there. All she could remember was waking in panic. She stood up on shaky legs and walked over to her nighstand for the calming draught. But the bottle was empty, and nothing else she could take.

She sat on her mattress and rubbed her face with her hands. She couldn't do this anymore, she needed something, something strong, something to make her forget.

She'd done her share of clubbing and she knew the best places, clubs where you could buy shit as easily as ordering takeaway. Her Manx pound notes were useless there, but could give Aberforth a few galleons, pay him to change some money over for her, Apparate to one of her old haunts.

She sat on her mattress and Summoned up some drinks from the bar and thought about it. She drank until her eyes drooped and crawled into her bed to sleep some more.

Graihagh was woken by a knock on the door, four light raps that could only mean Remus. Her mouth was dry and her head ached like there was a pendulum swinging against her skull and she had no idea how long she'd been sleeping, but her first thought was that something horrible had happened to Milo. She shot out of bed and yanked the door open.

"Is Milo alright?"

"He's fine," said Remus. "The Greyback loyalists retreated not long after you left."

Graihagh let out a shaky breath and stood back to let Remus in. He looked, as usual, like he'd gotten lost in the woods and walked fifty miles without stopping, with his windswept hair and patched robes and his tired, red eyes.

"Are you feeling well?" he said, and Graihagh wondered if he was seeing a bit of himself in her pale skin and messy hair and wrinkled robes.

"I'm fine." She walked over to her shelf and handed Remus a bottle. "I have your Wolfsbane. I could only make you a month's worth. I'm a bit short on funds."

She gave him an apologetic look, hoping she wasn't being too obvious, and at the same time hoping he'd take the hint and give her some money.

"Thank you," said Remus. "And no worries, I don't really need it. I was just wondering if you had any more potions for the Order?"

Graihagh couldn't believe him. She'd just spent nearly every last galleon on Wolfsbane ingredients and here he was, telling her he didn't even need it. She sucked in her breath and couldn't keep the frustration out of her voice. "Well, no. I only had enough ingredients for the Wolfsbane."

"Oh," said Remus. He glanced away, tapping his fingers against the bottle and shifting on his feet. Graihagh had no idea what to say.

He set the bottle down and stepped towards her work table. "That's a nice setup you've got there."

"Thanks."

He picked up a vial of rattlesnake venom without really seeing it, turning it in his fingers. "I was never much of a potioneer myself. It was my friend who had all the talent. She used to whisper instructions to me in class."

Graihagh had no idea what this had to do with anything, but she sensed Remus wasn't well, and she was keen to keep the conversation going. "Did she become a potioneer?"

Remus set the vial down. "No. She never got the chance."

"That's too bad." Graihagh rocked foward on the balls of her feet and though she didn't ask him what was going on, her face must have.

Remus picked up the bottle of Wolfsbane and played it in his hands. "I thought things would be different when the Wolfsbane was invented. That I'd feel different. Normal. I tried. It seems like all I did was try."

Graihagh glanced down and traced the top of a barrel with her hand, insides tense with a mixture of guilt and sympathy. "How old were you? When it happened?"

"Almost five." Remus studied the bottle of Wolfsbane. "We moved around a lot when I was young. My father said it was because of his job, but I knew that wasn't the real reason."

Graihagh had no idea it had happened so young, never thought about what it must've been like for him growing up. She had the strangest urge to touch him, put a hand to his arm.

"But you're not a danger to anyone," said Graihagh. "You're a good person, anyone with any sense could see that."

"I'm not."

"Of course you are-"

"Will you stop saying that?"

"What, that you're a good person?"

"Yes. I'm deformed-dangerous-"

"But you're not-"

"I told you to stop!"

Graihagh let out a frustrated sigh. "I don't get it. First you're angry with me for thinking your dangerous, now you're angry with me because I'm telling you you're not-"

"You know what, you're right. I shouldn't even be here." Remus turned on his heels and reached for the door.

Graihagh didn't know why she wanted him to stay. Maybe she was just lonely. Maybe she saw a bit of herself in him.

"Don't go. Please."

Remus paused with his hand on the door and Graihagh gestured towards the chair Snape had conjured. "Please. Why don't you stay for a bit? I could make us some tea or something."

Remus lowered his eyes and let go of the doorknob. "Go on then."

He sat down in the wooden chair and Graihagh flicked her wand towards the tea kettle and got it boiling. When she'd poured them each a cup she sat down on the upturned crate near her work table, close enough to be friendly and far enough away that he didn't misread her intentions.

"So how are things at the camp?" she said. This seemed like a safe question.

Remus blew on his tea to cool it. "Well, we've had to move, after that last attack. But things are quiet now. You're friends are fine," he added, anticipating Graihagh's next question.

"So does Milo...I mean, does he seem happy?"

"I don't know that I'd call him happy, but he seems to be doing better these days."

Graihagh took a long sip of her tea, weighing her next words, arranging them in the most tactful way she could.

"So...what does Milo do when..."

Remus tensed and Graihagh wondered if she'd asked the wrong thing. "Not everyone transforms," he said. "Some take Wolfsbane, when they can get it, which is not often these days."

"But some do?"

"Yes, some do. The best we've been able to do is get Milo to a secure location beforehand."

Graihagh had a horrible vision of Milo trapped and hidden and surrounded by people who wanted to tear his throat out. She took another long drink and lowered her eyes as though she could keep Remus from seeing into her mind.

Remus waved a hand in the air, as though to prove a point. "You see though? You see the problem? Everyone was right about us-"

"No, they're not."

Remus slammed his cup down on her nightstand. "For fuck's sake. You practically said so yourself, just now."

"I didn't mean-"

"Yes you did!" Remus stood up and ran a hand through his hair. "And you know what, it's fine, you're right. Everyone was right."

Graihagh sensed his rising tension and she kept her voice calm, even. "No, they're not-"

"You don't even know the half of it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I've dragged other people down with me, exposed them to me-"

Graihagh wondered if he was talking about his wife. "Other people?"

Remus' face was red, the veins sticking out of his thin neck, and his voice shook. "My wife is pregnant."

Graihagh heard the words but didn't understand them. They swirled around in her mind, along with the memory Remus' flat voice when he told her his wife wasn't at the camp, and something clicked into place. "So she's not...?"

"No."

Graihagh wondered what this meant for them. "So where is she now?"

"She's with her mother."

"You mean you've left her?"

"Of course I've left her, do you really think I'd stay, make her an outcast..."

Something about his words made her think of her own mother. Was this what had been going through her mind when she left? Did she think she was protecting them from her, from the horrible things she'd done?

Remus glanced at her from under his hair, furtive, almost guilty. "I suppose you're going to tell me I'm a horrible person for leaving her."

"No, I wasn't."

They were quiet a long time, each wrapped up in their own thoughts.

"My own mother left," said Graihagh. "When I was little. I never knew her."

Remus gave her a shrewd look, was it suspicious? "What are you saying?"

"I don't know. Just that I wish I had known her."

Remus didn't voice his question out loud, but she knew he was thinkging it.

"She did something she regretted," said Graihagh. "Before I was born. And she couldn't really get over it."

"You might've been better off without her then."

"I really don't know if I was or not, to be honest. But you're not her."

Remus didn't say anything to this, and she didn't know what he was thinking, or if he was thinking anything at all. He rubbed the back of his head and sat back down on the chair, the wood creaking under his weight like a tired groan.

Something about the way the flickering lamplight deepened the shadows on Remus' face reminded her so vividly of Snape. They were so much alike, the two of them. The three of them, really. Maybe that's why Snape was trying so hard to push her away. He was trying to protect her from himself, from whatever it was he'd done.

Maybe he'd done something monstrous, she didn't know, but monstrous or not there was no way she was going to make it without his help. She needed to make potions, not just for the Order, but for herself. She'd never survive otherwise, alone in that room. She had to do something, say something, to show him she trusted him.

Remus finished his tea and put his hands to his legs. "Well, I suppose I should get going."

"Sure. I'm glad you stayed."

He gave her a tired half-smile and Graihagh followed him to the door.

"Take care of yourself," she said.

Remus looked back at her, his eyes slightly lowered, and she wondered if he was thinking of his wife. If he would ever go back to her. "I will."

Graihagh closed the door after him and sat down on her mattress, staring into the space ahead of her, her makeshift nightstand and the empty bottle of calming draught and the bollan cross.

The idea came to her so quickly, with so much certainty, she never stopped to question it. She ran out the door and took the stairs at a run, hoping Remus hadn't left yet.

He'd just stepped into the back alley when Graihagh caught up with him.

"I was wondering if I could ask a quick favour of you," she said. "How are you with advanced Charms?"

"Not bad," said Remus. There was a hint of a wry smile in his lips, and she wondered if he was remembering the Fidelius Charm.

"Perfect," said Graihagh. She led him upstairs and explained what she wanted.

A/N: Thanks for reading! And thank you to mooseriot89 for the review, I appreciate it so much!