Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I obviously don't do this for profit, just for fun. I also distance myself from all statements JKR made about transgender people and identities in the recent past. I fully support everyone who has been hurt by her statements and am deeply disappointed that such an influential author who wrote such marvelous books (that also deal with acceptance and support of oppressed minorities) would use her voice to continue this suppression rather than fight for justice and equality.

I do not own the title image. It shows Amanda Seyfried as Valerie from the film Red Riding Hood.

These Violent Delights

~o~

Ice and Fire

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

Robert Frost

~o~

Chapter 1: The Poisoner

1997

London

~o~

26-year-old Cora Thorne was working another dull shift at The Headless Muggle. She had never hated anything so much in her life, but it was for the Order and her position here had proved a little useful after all. Kingsley Shacklebolt had assigned her this duty and it had paid off. She had gathered much useful information here, because obviously, The Headless Muggle was a popular choice among Death Eaters and those that sympathised with them. The pub was on Knockturn Alley, though not one of the rundown dumps that were to be found left and right. It was cleaner here and the drinks were of finer quality than elsewhere. That attracted a certain kind of clientele and kept the likes of Fletcher out.

She had learned to content herself with spying, rather than follow her foolish desire to fight them openly. After Snape had shown his true colours last June, she was the only member of the Order that was skilled enough at legilimency to gather information this way. Thankfully, her aunt had forced her to learn occlumency after her mother's death in the First War, when they had moved at least twice a year, never staying anywhere long enough to lay down roots, until finally, Cora had turned 11 and could go to Hogwarts. Of course, then, He Who Must Not Be Named had just been spectacularly defeated by the Potter boy. Or so they had thought back then. Now, there was no trace of Harry Potter. It was as if he had vanished from the face of the earth which probably meant he was still alive, though.

"Come over, lovey, we're dying of thirst," a male voice called and, forcing a nondescript smile onto her lips, Cora turned around, only to freeze on the spot. Five men had entered and she recognised all of them. These were highly decorated Death Eaters and they hadn't even bothered to hide their faces. According to her research, they had all been with You-Know-Who during the first war. Mulciber, porty and irritable, Jugson, Davies, Adler, all cast in the same mould, and Rowle, physically imposing although she had heard very little complimenting about his magical skills.

Quickly, she composed herself and smiled at them more heartily now. Was this her chance? She willed her heart to slow down, suppressed the question that had pushed to the forefront of her mind back quickly, leaving only mundane thoughts for the not-so-skilled Legilimens.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

Mulciber leered at her and she tempered her disgust.

The doorbell rang once more and another man entered that severely tested her self-control. Tall, with sallow skin and black hair that needed a wash, Severus Snape, her nightmare from school days, the person she hated most of all, had just entered the etablissement, probably for the first time, judging by his scanning look around. His soulless black eyes drifted over her. Cora steeled her mind, careful not to allow him the slightest glimpse at her thoughts. Snape was second only to his master in the art of legilimency and he had once before caught her off guard. What was worse, he probably recognised her. Perhaps he still knew she had been in Gryffindor, all those years ago, when he had been her Potions teacher, bullying her whenever he got the chance. Most probably, he recognised her from the Order. She had never interacted with him then but she had been there for some meetings. Severus Snape, however, showed no sign of recognition. He only looked at her irritably, as if he was wondering why she hadn't gotten him a drink yet.

"Sir," she gave Snape a smile that held neither sharpness nor disdain. This was a first. She couldn't do anything about the cold rage that coiled in her stomach and almost made her gag. This man had murdered Dumbledore. It was then that she made a decision.

All of a sudden, she felt him prodding her mind, she felt him push harder and harder but was on guard, her mind near empty, the rage subdued. She showed him precisely what she wanted to see him, images of her otherwise mundane everyday life, focusing on the coldness inside her, the emptiness to draw up these images. Before rage could blow her cover, she cast down her eyes, as if in deference. And then, he relinquished his efforts and joined his companions, though not without one last lingering look.

It had taken him a second too long to recognise her. The heart-shaped face, full lips and huge eyes that gave her a look of innocence that, as he knew only too well, was completely misleading. Severus had been taken aback by her appearance. He hadn't wasted a thought on the girl since she had left school but he remembered her with mud blonde hair, grey-eyed, and dressed in ostentatiously fashionable robes from her early days in the Order. He hadn't expected her to work here, of all places, and looking like this: Her hair a much brighter blonde, cascading down her back in tousled curls, her eyes water blue, her lips painted in a jarring red, her old-fashioned dress laced so tightly that her bosom was spilling out. A look most of the regular customers, pureblooded wizards with a taste for tradition and submission, were probably very pleased with. Severus found it only vulgar. She was a spy, of course, that much was obvious to him. And, he had to admit reluctantly, she was probably quite useful to the Order here. She was a relatively accomplished Occlumens and therefore, quite probably, at least somewhat skilled at legilimency. Death Eaters came inside, asking for a drink or more and as she replied or gazed back with a promise in her eyes, she would see what they'd been up to. She couldn't go far without them noticing, of course, but he didn't doubt she'd gotten out quite something already.

He had tried to see what she had witnessed, but her mind was, rather surprisingly, closed to even him. She didn't matter anyway, a pawn in this game, a pawn no one would mourn but the barkeeper who was evidently in love with the woman she didn't even know, judging by the looks she threw her. Severus knew unrequited love when he saw it. He tried to remember the girl's name but it had been a long time and, to his credit, she had never been exceptional in any way, apart from her blatant disrespectfulness, perhaps.

"What can I get you then?" she smiled again, a bright, promising smile. It didn't suit her, Severus thought, and was naturally wasted on him. If she was scared he might recognise her, she didn't let on. Though, as far as he knew her and her sort, she probably considered her threadbare disguise inscrutable. Gryffindor hubris at its finest.

"Firewhiskey for the lot of us," Mulciber ordered, his eyes on the neckline of her dress. He was the sort of fly she no doubt attempted to catch.

"And then a little more later, lovey," Jugson slammed her behind. She didn't even flinch.

"Whatever you desire, sirs," she smiled. Was it the Imperius Curse? But as she walked back to the bar, she turned around and looked at them, and only for the tiniest moment, he felt a rage so hot and fierce that it hurt. Then it was gone and there was only indifference. Despite himself, Snape was intrigued. The girl had been an insufferable wiseacre at school, impertinent and insubordinate, that much he still knew. She had made him livid with her questions and objections. One of his very first students, and she had ruined teaching for him. This was not the sort of career he had anticipated for her. But perhaps, neither had she.

"Your whiskeys," she said as she set down the tray on their table not long after, the sway of her hips a silent promise, and put each glass down with care. Too much care. And then, somehow, he knew. She had been a passable potion maker, he remembered, though insistent to disregard the instructions.

"None for me," Severus said. Thankfully, he didn't drink that stuff anyway. At least not if he could help it. But he should warn his companions. He should tell them not to drink. The Dark Lord would question why only he had survived the attack. But he found himself doing nothing as the Death Eaters around him drank her poison. Jugson showed symptoms first, eyes glazed over, a faint cough. The Strangler. A potent poison. By then, of course, the girl was gone. After Jugson followed Adler and Davies, then Mulciber in quick succession. They had taken only the slightest sip. Severus slapped the glass from Rowle's hand, who was just about to drink, idiot that he was, when Jugson had a violent fit of coughing. Blood ran down his chin. He had only seconds, Severus knew.

"The whiskey's poisoned, you fool," Severus said, careful to let a hint of panic slip into his voice, and jumped from his chair. He focused on Mulciber, who was starting to cough, now, too. The others were dispensable for the Dark Lord. He always carried antidotes on his person, though usually only for himself. Jugson, Adler, and Davies stood no chance, he thought, as he forced the white liquid down Mulciber's throat, but their master wouldn't mourn them.

"Go after the girl," Severus told Rowle, who only stared at him in shock. Then, he pressed the mark on his left arm.

Mulciber was no longer bleeding. Good.

Outside the door, he heard the faint plop of an apparition.

"What's up?" Macnair asked as he broke down the door, sending it flying against the back wall with a flick of his wand.

"Poison," Severus said. "They are done for," he motioned towards the three Death Eaters that had died by now, their faces drawn, blood still running down their chins, collecting on the oaken table. The Strangler was misnamed. Its victims drowned in their own blood.

The bar wench came back in, a barrel in her arms. The girl had left her behind, Severus noticed with a hint of disappointment. So much for the noble Gryffindors.

Macnair shot a curse in her direction. He liked to play with his prey before he killed it.

The wench was lifted into the air, her screams very audible.

Rowle was watching Macnair's games with perverse pleasure.

Mulciber was still coughing, though much less violently now.

Then, suddenly, the woman fell to the floor with a loud thump.

"Leave her be," a voice said, "It is me you are looking for."

Then she stepped in front of the woman on the floor.

She was no longer wearing the absurd, tightly laced dress that had been part of her disguise. The long black robes she wore now were more fitting for the occasion. Especially because she wouldn't survive this encounter. It might have been the noble thing to come back, but it was sure as night the foolish thing to do, too. No wonder the Order's numbers dwindled.

Macnair's curse hit her shield, as did Rowle's. Severus didn't especially want to attack her but he had to. Her foolishness would cost her her life but that was not his fault. He had kept quiet about her allegiance already. There was nothing he could do for her now.

His curse, however, was blocked, too. Whatever she had done in the years since she had left Hogwarts, it had prepared her well for war.

Macnair tried to attack her physically but gone she was with a swirl, only to be back a second later behind them, taking Rowle in the back with a Full-Body-Bind. If she hadn't learnt to use the unforgivable curses yet, this wouldn't end well for her.

"You can't dance now," Macnair growled and Severus felt the familiar weight of an anti-apparition jinx.

Mulciber, who had joined them now, finally got through her shield. "Crucio!" She, like her friend earlier, was now in mid air, her back arched, her fingers bent unnaturally, though she still held on to her wand. It had been folly to let her keep it. She was silent under torture, Severus noticed. It wasn't too wise to keep quiet, of course, Mulciber wanted to hear her pain. If he didn't, he would try –

An invisible leash took him in the face and he felt Mulciber next to him stagger, and suddenly, she was back on her feet.

"You killed my mother," she said to Mulciber, her voice barely audible, as a wave of hot light swam over them and took Macnair out. Not for long, Severus knew.

"And now, we'll kill you. But we'll take our time," Rowle grinned and sent a curse her way.

"You couldn't even kill me if I broke my wand, you fool," she gave back, and a second later, Rowle hung upside down from the ceiling while she was fighting off Severus's and Mulciber's curses.

She had always talked back, Snape remembered, and then her name came back to him, too. Cordelia Thorne. Sharp-tongued little beast.

Perhaps she did not deserve to die, but it seemed inevitable now.

Snape had no choice. He couldn't give up his cover. "Crucio."

And again, her body twisted in the air, blood ran from her nose, dropped onto the floor. But she remained silent. Even her mind, Severus found, was silent. Was it then that he decided to save her? Or had he known all along that he would let her live? He longed to do something good. Ever since that moment on the Astronomy Tower, when his life had changed forever, he had felt an inexplicable urge to be better than the lot that were his companions now. No doubt, the old man had foreseen that, too. But this was not the time for angry thoughts of Dumbledore. The girl was dying.

He let her fall to the floor.

"You can finish her," he told Macnair indifferently and turned around, but as he had finited his own Cruciatus Curse, he had also lifted the anti-apparition jinx. Had she grasped that?

It seemed she had for in that moment, he heard Macnair scream and as he turned around, she was gone.

"Bitch got around my spell," Macnair growled. "We'll get her eventually."

"She was a student of mine," Snape said. "Cordelia Thorne." If Thorne was half as clever as she thought, she would stay hidden.

There was a spark of recognition in Mulciber's eyes. "Her mother was that author. Fronsac. Married some dirty Muggle by the name o' Thorne. She refused to join the Dark Lord, so Jugson, Davies and Adler took her out."

That did surprise Severus. The three of them together had barely made up one whole wizard on good days.

"Alone?" he asked, remembering quite well that Thorne had spoken to Mulciber. Did he take him for a deaf fool?

"Some others, too. Why do you care?" There it was again, the wary tone that everyone around him used perpetually. Snape was used to distrust but he hated it when these gits that were barely able to hold their wand properly questioned him.

"If we have a mad girl on a revenge mission, the Dark Lord should know, don't you think?" he asked silkily and Mulciber' eyes narrowed.

"The Lestranges and the Crouch boy," he said reluctantly. "And me." They all gave in eventually. He had their master's ear, after all.

"Very well," Snape walked towards the door. "You clean up this mess. I will inform the Dark Lord of this unfortunate incident."

~o~

Cora was still bleeding. She couldn't go home to her aunt like this. Medea would ask how she had retained these injuries and she would be furious if she found out Cora had risked her life recklessly.

Back, when she had been sorted, the Hat had taken nearly five minutes whether she belonged into Gryffindor or Slytherin. Sometimes, she wondered whether it had been wrong. She had pondered that question as she had dropped the poison into the drinks, her hand trembling with rage when it spiked the last glass. Snape's. He deserved to die for what he had done to Dumbledore. Unfortunately, of course, he hadn't. It would have been too easy.

She shouldn't have done that. She was no use to the Order now, although of course with Snape knowing, she wouldn't have been safe anymore anyway. Yes, that was a good excuse for why she had had to act just then. It was perhaps wisest not to let Shaklebolt know that she had acted out of anger rather than shrewd calculation. She would leave out the ensuing fight. No reason to anger him any further, really. She shouldn't have returned after putting the poison in the drinks but she hadn't found Tina in the cellar or the backyard so what choice had she had? She shouldn't have been so reckless. But she had had to give Tina a chance to escape. She hoped the woman had seized the chance, too, for there was little else Cora could do for her. Poison was a coward's weapon, it was well known. Yet, she had come back to fight them, hadn't she? The Hat had been right to place her in Gryffindor. At least, that was what she tried to prove again and again. Shaklebolt would be displeased when he found out what she'd done. She would have to send him a patronus from home as soon as possible. .

She still couldn't explain why the anti-apparition jinx had suddenly been lifted. Had it been an accident? It was unbelievable but still more credible than the alternative: That Severus Snape had given her a chance to escape.

Her body was still shaking from his torture, her mind was numb, her head hurting from him legilimency attempts. He had attacked her, he had been friendly with the Death Eaters. But Snape had certainly never done anything by accident. So, no matter how absolutely impossible it seemed, it had to be the truth: He had helped her. He had saved her life. And that was a deeply unsatisfying thought. For Cora was resolved to hate him until her last breath. Having to be grateful did interfere with this resolution.

Why he had done so was a different question altogether and one she couldn't answer.

She wiped the blood from her lip. She was feeling better already. It was time to go home before Medea went to the pub to look for her.

Cora apparated onto the uppermost doorstep and opened the front door. She felt the knob twist under her touch, recognising her as one of only two people that could be allowed in. They were leading a lonely life. She had hoped to tiptoe past her aunt's rooms but her hopes were thwarted as soon as she entered.

"Where have you been?"

Medea had her sister's colouring, though not her beauty. Her dark hair, a trait they shared with their distant cousins, the Blacks, hung around her ace in untidy curls and her green eyes were too pale, too greyish. Sophia had been the beauty of the family with emerald eyes and glossy black hair that flowed down her back like silk. Of course, Cora looked nothing like her mother. She had inherited her muggle father's lacklustre ash blonde hair and her grandfather's dull grey eyes. But there was no use in complaining about wasted potential. Cora had done everything to emulate her mother in other ways, to make her proud.

"Working," she replied.

"Blue-eyed and honey blonde?" Her aunt's tone was sharp. Damn it. She had forgotten about the disguise.

"You know I'm working for the Order." Perhaps not for long anymore. But she would continue on her own. She had murdered three men today. She should be shaking with remorse. Perhaps she was still in shock. Or perhaps, she was simply relieved that three of her mother's killers had gotten what they deserved, after all.

"And you know I don't like it. Your mother died because she got involved with their sort. I really thought you would learn from that," Medea's lips were pinched, her hands at her hips. She looked like a bad witch from one of those muggle tales Papa had read to her.

"Mama died because she didn't want to join Volde – "

"Don't say his name," Medea hissed like a snake. She, like Sophia, like most Fronsacs before them, was a Ravenclaw. It had been a grave disappointment for her when Cora had been sorted into Gryffindor, a house Medea had always perceived as a home for rash, empty-headed braggarts. Cora had distinguished herself academically, though, so that had softened the blow. And Medea had planned out a brilliant career for her niece who was like a daughter to her. Then, Cora had decided to train as an auror, running after dark wizards and lowly criminals, wasting her potential. With her skill for potion making, Medea just knew Cora would have been able to develop a much more potent cure for dragon pox, the disease that had killed John Thorne, the Muggle Sophia had fallen in love with thirty years ago. Perhaps she would have written textbooks for Hogwarts, perhaps she would have become one of the very few who could make a living from potion making and development. Medea still hoped that after the excitement of this wild goose-chase had worn off, Cora would see that such a career was much more fitting for a Fronsac. Until then, Medea would have to endure living in fear for her niece's life.

"Dea," Cora took her hand, "You know I need to do something. You know I can't sit here and study potions knowing that Mama's killers are still out there."

The girl had too much of her father in her. He, too, had been daring, and it had not served him well, had it? There was no proof, of course, and Medea would rather swallow her tongue than tell Cora about her suspicions, but John had come back from Diagon Alley with Sophie, infected with Dragon Pox, a disease that proved fatal for most Muggles, especially back in the day when the staff of St. Mungo's, under the influence of Him Who Must Not Be Named, would have delivered John to the Death Eaters rather than try and cure him. A brave fool he had been. And Cora seemed determined to follow in his footsteps.

"What use is that to me when you're dead, Cordelia?" Medea asked softly. Cora knew that she still hoped to sway her, to convince her to flee the country with her. "Let's go, like last time. We can come back when all this is over. You can still be an auror then."

She knew of course what Cora would say. The same thing she'd told her the last fifty times.

"Dea, you know I won't flee. And you know I think you should. I'm not a girl anymore. I can watch out for myself." Well, she had almost died today, but Medea didn't have to know that. "And now, excuse me, I have to send a patronus."

She fled up the stairs and locked the door behind her. Now she had to inform Shaklebolt about her failure. "Jugson, Davies, and Adler dead. Rowle injured. Snape, Mulciber, Macnair involved. My cover's blown. Awaiting new instructions." The pearly white magpie flew through the open window. Cora closed it. She doubted Shaklebolt's lynx would appear anytime soon. Three of her mother's killers were dead. Crouch had been given the dementor's kiss. Only the Lestranges and Mulciber remained. And she wouldn't run into them in a pub.

~o~

1998

The Battle of Hogwarts

~o~

Severus had looked into Potter's eyes, her eyes, and then, the world had been blindingly white for a blissful moment. He had felt so warm, so comfortable, so whole. And then, someone had pulled him back into the realm of pain.

A face lingered above his, not Potter's, a woman's. Mud blonde hair, grey eyes, a scowl. Thorne.

"Don't you dare die now," she growled, and then he slipped back into unconsciousness, a wonderfully silent darkness.