A/N: This is a sequel to my Snape & OC friendship fic Vulnera Sanentur, but I've tried to include enough information that it's not necessary to have read it. If anything is confusing or you have any questions feel free to ask :) I've got it outlined and I think it'll be around 28-30 chapters.

Rated M for suicidal thoughts, descriptions of torture/violence, implied/referenced domestic violence/substance use, and sexual content in later chapters (everything will happen between consenting adults). It's going to be a bit dark but it won't end that way, promise :)

Snape had a lot of duties as head of Slytherin House-too many, they didn't pay him enough-but one of his most bizarre tasks was waking them up in the morning. To be sure, he didn't have to do it all that often, just when one of them consistently failed to show up to class, but it never got any less awkward.

He read over the note from Minerva two or three times just to be sure he wasn't imagining the whole thing before crumpling it up in a ball on his desk. Of course it would have to be a girl. One Astoria Greengrass, a fourth-year, who'd been skiving off Transfiguration for two weeks. He tossed the parchment ball into the fireplace and made his way to the Slytherin dormitories.

There were a few people in the common room lounging about on the sofas or bent over parchment, trying to finish last-minute essays he supposed. They looked up as he passed and went back to whatever it was they were doing without a second glance. His presence in the common room wasn't unheard of; he liked to drop in from time to time, not to sit and dole out life advice and tell them they could change the world or any such nonsense, but to check on their welfare, see how they were dealing with the strain of the war. To remind them that even though the rest of the school had written them off and their parents had their futures mapped out, they still had choices.

The dormitories were dark and quiet and Snape wondered if he wouldn't have to do anything after all, when he heard rustling and low whispers coming from the fourth-year girls' room.

Snape knocked on the door. "This is Professor Snape. You have ten seconds to make yourselves presentable."

An outbreak of shrieking, followed by the frantic rustling of fabric. Snape waited until it was quiet before he yanked door open. Miss Greengrass and five of her friends were sitting on their beds with their mouths slightly open like characters in a cartoon.

Miss Greengrass stared at him. "What are you doing here, Professor?"

"I'm here to wish you a good morning and see if you need anything," said Snape.

"Really?"

"No. Now get up, and if I see that you've slept throught Transfiguration again it's detention. It's your best subject, you have no business throwing it away."

Miss Greengrass looked genuinely ashamed. "Yes sir."

Snape knew her family. No doubt she and her sister were expected to make respectable Pureblood marriages and carry on the family line, or else don their cloaks and masks and become martyrs to the cause, no need for O. either way, but he'd seen too many people lost that way. He gave her one last glare to show he meant business and turned to leave and he'd just reached the door when a small voice spoke up.

"Erm, Professor?"

"What is it?"

"Well, the girls' toilets are out of, erm...feminine things." Two of her friends stifled laughs behind their hands.

This wasn't purgatory. It was the ninth circle of hell.

"Very well," Snape said stiffly. "I'll have one of the house-elves refill them. Now, is there anything else?" he asked, making it plain by his expression that there had better not be.

"No sir."

Snape took care of this most unpleasant business with one of the house-elves and went to his office and ate a bag of Every-Flavour beans before heading to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

He'd been teaching for sixteen years now, but his pre-class ritual never changed. He'd walk the room three or four times, going over his lines like an actor in the wings, then lean down on his desk, tapping out a rhythm against the wood to soothe his nerves. By the time his students walked into the room he'd be standing straight, brows furrowed, ready to stare them down and snuff out every challenge to his authority, because he would not be the fool. Not in front of them.

The sixth years filed in a few minutes to the hour, and there was the usual shuffling and rustling and dull thunk of books against the wooden desks. Snape's eyes darted around the room like a searchlight in a prison yard.

"Mr. Finnigan, put that away. Ms. Fawcett and Mr. Stebbins, hands above your desk. Now."

The boy was always one of the last to come in, flanked by Weasley and Granger the way he always was, limbs swaggering, face smug, black hair sticking out the back of his head. Snape wondered if he ran his hands through it the way his father had. Probably.

The thought was always surfacing in his mind.

The boy is going to die.

Snape shoved it back down. He had to focus.

"Disillusionment Charms," he said as soon as he'd closed the door. "Now who can tell me the advantage-Miss Granger?" He didn't know why he even bothered with the disdain in his voice; in nearly six years it had done absolutely nothing to dissuade her. She was one of the brightest he'd ever taught, but he didn't see any need to tell her that, when she never lost an opportunity to show off.

"A Disillusionment Charm causes the recipient to blend in with their surroundings, effectively making them invisible," said Miss Granger in a stilted voice, like she was reciting something she'd memorized, because that was exactly what she was doing.

"And the disadvantages?"

"It's difficult to do well. Done poorly, you can still be seen. Also, it takes time to cast."

"Correct. A Disillusionment Charm is not much help when one is in immediate danger of being attacked, but it can be useful when you need to launch a surprise attack, or escape without being seen." Snape paced, around the room, staring them down, demanding their fullest attention, because they had no idea what they were facing, because most of them were too slow-witted to be any use in a duel, and this spell could be the thing that saved their lives. "Now, the incantation is simple enough. Repeat after me. Occulo."

"Occulo."

"Again. Emphasis on the second syllable. oc-CUL-o."

"Oc-CUL-o."

"Now, the wand movements are rather complex-"

The wooden door creaked and Draco walked into the room, hair lank like he'd been sweating, eyes down, face lined. He pulled his book out but didn't look at him, just stared at the wall. He was too bloody young to look like a sick old man. Snape studied him a moment, then turned back to the class.

"As I was saying, the wand movements are complex, so I want your fullest attention."

He demonstrated the movements and told them to stand up and Disillusion themselves while he wove between them making corrections, frustration mounting as not a single one of them except the Granger girl managed to fade into their surroundings. They were sitting ducks, every single one of them, but especially the Muggle-borns.

He walked over to Longbotttom, who was concentrating so hard his face was lined and had managed to make his arms fade just slightly. He was clearly capable enough, when he worked at it. Whatever Snape said would likely just break his concentration, so he walked over to Weasley, who was holding his arm up in front of Potter's face.

"...think it's a bit paler, look."

"It's as solid as your head, Weasley," said Snape from behind him. The boy started slightly and locked eyes with Potter, who scowled.

The boy's anger was more potent than any praise, any starry-eyed reverence; it set off a thrill that was almost like pleasure. He wanted him angry, wanted him scowling and sneering and yelling in his face. Let him be the who lost control, the one who made a fool of himself, while Snape stood over him the way he could never stand over his father.

"Well Potter," said Snape softly, "perhaps you could ask one of the Hogwarts ghosts for help with this spell. After all, unlike you they are transparent."

Potter stood up straighter opened his mouth, but Weasley put a hand to his arm and he closed it again. Snape's lips curled into a smile before he remembered.

He didn't even know.

When Snape had dismissed the class he watched Potter shove his books into his bag and walk away chatting with Weasley and Granger like ordinary teenagers with their whole lives ahead of them and he didn't even know.

Snape watched him so long he barely got to Draco in time.

"I'm glad to see you out the hospital wing," he said. "How are you feeling?"

Draco didn't meet his eyes, just glanced up at his forehead. Another little trick of Bellatrix's most likely, though Snape did it sometimes too, when he couldn't bear the thought of someone looking at his face.

"Fine."

"You look ill-"

"I said I'm fine. Will you please leave me alone? Sir," he added when Snape raised an eyebrow.

"As your Head of House I am responsible-"

"I told you, I don't need your help."

Draco pushed past him before he could say anything else.

Snape slammed his foot against his desk in frustration and when turned around the Parkinson girl was standing there watching him. Snape's face reddened but he started shuffling parchment as though he hadn't just been kicking furniture like an angry toddler.

"Yes?" said Snape. He noticed the way she was toying with the strap of her bookbag and knew she wasn't asking about the lesson.

"I'm sorry about-about what just happened with Draco. I wanted to thank you for what you did for him."

Snape relaxed some. He wouldn't say he was fond of the girl-he wouldn't say that about any of his students-but he liked her well enough. "Not at all."

He stood up straighter and shoved some parchment into his briefcase, but the girl made no motion to leave. Snape gave her a questioning look.

"I was just wondering if you've spoken to him much recently?"

He thought he knew where this was going. "No."

"So...he hasn't told you anything?"

"No." He looked her straight in the eye. "Has he told you anything?"

The girl made a face. "He never tells me anything anymore."

"I see. And I suppose you've noticed he's not been himself lately?"

"Yes sir." She tapped her fingers against her bag. "Sir-do you suppose it's got something to do with-" she glanced around, even though there was no one there. "With him?"

Well. The girl had to go and cut right to the chase. He shut the clasps of his briefcase, playing for time. The girl's parents weren't Death Eaters, as far as he knew, but that didn't mean the things he said wouldn't get back to the Dark Lord.

"It's possible," he said, and he wondered if the girl knew he'd been Marked. Probably. "Though if it does I don't know much more about it than you do." A half-truth, anyway. "Are you close?"

The girl's face flushed. "Sort of."

"Keep an eye on him then. You can always come to me if you have any concerns."

A dangerous invitation, but he supposed he'd just have to risk having to listen to banal teenage ramblings in exchange for information on Draco.

"Sir-are you-I mean..."

She didn't know. Draco hadn't told her, nor Crabbe or Goyle or Nott.

Something in his expression must have frightened her, because she closed her mouth. "Never mind."

"Is that all?"

"Yes sir."

She turned and left the room, and Snape was only too relieved to see the back of her.

Most evenings Snape holed himself away in his office but sometimes he'd go to the staffroom and pour himself a cup of tea and sit in front of the fire. Sprout might drop by with a new breed of plant to show him, or he might play bridge with Filch or talk with Flitwick or Burbage or Sinistra or someone.

He hadn't been there in weeks. Months, really. They couldn't know, they had no way of knowing, but he wondered sometimes if they caught something on his face, some guilt already written there. But maybe it wouldn't happen. Maybe they wouldn't know.

The vial was tucked away in his office, wrapped in a cloth and buried under a stack of parchment. A poison of his own making that took effect within minutes and simply stopped the heart-quick, painless, almost as peaceful as falling asleep. He could tell them the old man died naturally, tell them he'd take the credit with the Death Eaters, to maintain his cover. Maybe they'd even believe it.

When Snape had eaten his dinner he stood in the middle of the Entrance Hall, between the dungeon door and the marble staircase, as though his feet were stuck to the stones and he couldn't take another step.

The clack of shoes on the stone could only be Minerva. Her human steps were the same as her cat steps, brisk, businesslike, no-nonsense.

"There you are Severus, I didn't get a chance to speak with you at dinner. Are you headed to the staff room?"

"Well-I suppose."

Minerva gave him a sideways glance as he fell in step beside her. "I was thinking of redecorating my office, you know. I found a rather nice hutch at an antique fair in Argyll last summer. The Quidditch cup will look perfect on it."

Snape smiled in spite of himself. "I think it might a better use of your time to think about what outfit to wear with your Ravenclaw badge."

"Not bloody likely, even if my Seeker is in detention."

Minerva's eyes were warm in spite of her salty tone and Snape felt a rush of affection he couldn't stifle. No matter how much Potter might squawk about Snape's unfair treatment, Minerva always backed him up, and it wasn't lost on him.

"Well, if you're so confident, why don't we make it double or quits?" said Snape. "If Gryffindor win, I owe you forty galleons. And when Ravenclaw inevitably win, I owe you nothing."

"You're on." She smiled. "Imagine, Slytherin not even in the running. Perhaps next year."

She didn't know. She had no idea. Snape was sick to his stomach.

"Are you alright Severus? You look like you've seen a Grim. Not that you believe in any of that bollocks, of course."

"It was nothing. I was just thinking about something."

They'd reached the staff room and Minerva pulled a bottle out of her robes and twisted the cap off. "Here," she said, pouring some into a teacup and filling the rest with hot tea. "You look like you could use this."

Snape muttered his thanks and took a long drink, sinking down deeper in his chair as the warmth spread though his body, but he fought it off, clenched his muscles tight, because he didn't deserve this, this comfort, this normalcy. But then again perhaps he should savour it, hold on to it. He sank back down again.

"Remember the end-of-term parties we used to have here?" said Minerva. "And that one year Flitwick set off all those fireworks?"

There was some comfort in dwelling on the past. He wished he could just close his eyes and live there. "My fondest memory is that Christmas you got drunk and called Lockhart a wee shite to his face."

Minerva snorted into her drink. "I'd almost forgotten about that." She stared into the space ahead of her as though reliving it, mouth turned up in a half-smile, but her eyes were serious. "Everything's different now."

And it would only get worse, and she didn't even know.

"Severus?"

Snape sat up straighter. Minerva was looking at him rather too closely.

"You're mind is a million miles away today. Anything troubling you?"

The situation was so absurd, so hopeless, Snape almost laughed. He opened his mouth, closed it, took a long drink.

"No."

"I think we both know that's rubbish, Severus. You don't need to hide anything from me."

She was looking straight at him, spectacles were halfway down her eyes, leaning forwards slightly in her chair, the way Lily used to when he was about to tell her a secret, and he could tell her, swear her to secrecy, and Dumbledore would never know, no one would have to know. She was no fool, she must've seen his hand, must've known something. But he knew she'd go to him, want to stop it, to say goodbye to her friend.

Snape took another long drink. The Scotch would loosen his lips and he could blame that. It just slipped Headmaster.

And what would the old man say? That it was too dangerous, too big a risk. That their plans were a house of cards and one breath, one slip of the fingers could fuck the whole thing up.

They'd all hate him eventually anyway, for one reason or another. He couldn't really understand why they didn't already. It wasn't as though he went out of his way to be friendly. Maybe they just pitied him or something.

"It's been a long week. I haven't been sleeping well."

Minerva nodded in sympathy. "Of course. Draco's attack must have shaken you."

That was true enough. He hadn't seen anyone cut open and bleeding like that in years. Not since the Corlett girl.

"It was nearly fatal."

Minerva glanced down and tapped her fingers against her cup. "He didn't know what spell did."

Snape slammed his drink down on the side table and didn't say anything. He knew the boy didn't have a clue, but still. That his old book should end up in his hands, that he should use it to look brilliant at potions...not like his father finding it, but close enough.

"I'm just glad you were there for him, Severus," said Minerva over his thoughts. "And for Miss Bell. And for goodness knows how many other students over the years. I don't suppose I ever thanked you for that. But I'm doing it now."

She looked straight at him in that way she did, earnest and almost fierce.

Snape wished she hadn't said it. He murmured something indistinct and slid a finger around the rim of his glass.

He stood up and set the mug in the tray where the dirty dishes were stacked and made his way to the door. "Goodnight Minerva," he said, with a brief nod in her direction.

"Goodnight Severus. I do hope you have a restful evening."

Snape nodded, but he knew he wouldn't. He never did.

Severus spooned a pile of sugar into his coffee and swirled it around, scanning Great Hall for any troublemakers.

"Ready for the match, Severus?"

Snape might have found this a thinly-veiled insult, coming from most people, but Sprout's face was warm, open.

"I'm afraid I won't be going," said Snape. "I have to supervise Potter's detention."

"Ah, that's right, I'd almost forgotten." Sprout pulled her chair in and picked up her fork. "You'll have a time of it without your Seeker, Minerva."

"Oh, I'm not too worried," said Minerva with a rather smug glance at Snape. "Miss Weasley is no novice, you know."

"True enough," said Sprout. "Should be a good match."

Snape just stabbed at his back bacon.

He finished his breakfast quickly and Snape made his way to Filch's office, a small, dimly lit room just off the Entrance Hall. Filch was hunched over his desk, piling up wooden boxes, neck muscles taut with the effort. He set the last one down with a huff and wiped his forehead, Mrs. Norris rubbing at his arm.

"Morning Professor," he said.

"Good morning Filch." Snape walked over to a shelf full of little wooden animals and picked one up. "An Iberian Lynx?"

"Yes sir. Just finished that one."

Snape turned it around in his fingers. Whittled without magic, obviously, but no less skillfully done. "Very detailed."

"Thank you, Professor."

Snape set the lynx down. "Is that all of them?"

"Yes sir. 1970-1979."

Forty-four boxes of files for just ten years. But Snape knew perfectly well why.

"I'll take these to my office." He waved his wand and made the boxes small enough to fit in his hand.

"I like your thinking. Show the little beast who's in charge and get summat useful done all in one go."

"Indeed."

Snape took the boxes back to his office, returning them to their usual size, and flipped through some of the files. Potter and Black and Lupin and Pettigrew, over and over and over. But the worst of it wasn't in any of those boxes.

There was a knock at the door and Snape shoved the card back into the box and let Potter inside.

"Ah, Potter."

Potter's mouth was tight, eyes fierce, every muscle in his face straining under the effort of holding back his anger, but his face fell when he saw the boxes arranged on the table.

"Mr. Filch has been looking for someone to clear out these old files," said Snape. He repeated the instructions Filch had given him, watching him closely for a reaction.

"Right, Professor."

Snape heard the disdain in his voice, the contempt, and he liked it, welcomed it, wanted him angry, wanted to know he could. That he had that power over him.

"I thought you could start with boxes one thousand and twelve to one thousand and fifty-six. You will find some familiar names in there, which should add interest to the task. Here, you see..."

He read out the offense, something stupid and petty that might chip away at whatever mythos he'd constructed about his father and Black. He couldn't make his father regret things they'd done. But maybe the boy would.

Snape pulled out an old mystery, listening to the scratching of Potter's quill as he read. Sometimes he'd stop for a moment, and when Snape glanced at him he was staring down at the cards with his eyes widened, mouth thin and tight.

He was troubled, that much he knew. Maybe even ashamed. Ashamed in a way his father never had been. Maybe he wasn't like him...

Snape threw down his quill and rubbed his head and the boy glanced up at him and he was not about to let him see this, this strange sudden weakness. He narrowed his eyes at him and the boy bent back down over his cards.

His head was swimming with so many thoughts he couldn't concentrate, and after what felt like days, he set his quill down.

"I think that will do. Mark the place you have reached. You will continue at ten o'clock next Saturday."

"Yes sir."

Potter's eyes were green slits the way Lily's used to get and Snape looked away so he wouldn't see them.

Potter marked his place and hurried away before Snape could say another word to him, and Snape stared after him, not understanding why he wanted to.

The castle was quiet, but he could see bits of red and gold confetti strewn about the Entrance Hall, and he knew Gryffindor had won the cup. He'd have to face Minerva and the others eventually, but he wanted to spend the afternoon holed up in his office away from everyone.

He flicked his wand and got a fire going and picked up the Daily Prophet he hadn't finished at breakfast. He'd just finished a worse than useless article on personal defence when he saw the story, buried at the bottom of page 5-B. Thorfinn Rowle was out of Azkaban.

The girl didn't live in Britain, but that wouldn't stop him going after her. He'd tried it before.

He crumpled the paper and threw it into the fireplace. Everyone he'd tried to protect was marked for death, and none of them knew.

There was something weird about Graihagh's bed, the mattress was bare and she didn't have a pillow, just a t-shirt stuck under her head. She wondered if she'd climbed into Milo's bed the way she did sometimes after a nightmare, but Milo would've had an extra pillow for her, he wouldn't have just handed her a wadded up t-shirt. She opened her eyes a crack and that's when she remembered something about a party and some man, Gavin she thought his name was, she couldn't really remember. She'd gone upstairs with him and they'd fooled around a bit but Graihagh had stopped him from going any further and he'd shoved her aside as he stood up and called her a bitch. Or at least she thought he had, she'd been throwing up at the time.

She looked down at her bare arms, too aware of her lank hair, her stale breath, the silver-white scar down her side. So open, so...vulnerable. Not a good look, but Gavin or whatever his name was probably hadn't noticed.

She rummaged around the pile of clothes on the floor until she found her top, and when she'd put it on she reached for the t-shirt she'd slept on and turned it over. The Stone Roses, 95' tour. So Gavin wasn't a complete loser, that was something.

The stairs creaked too loudly even when she walked softly, like they were announcing her quick escape to the whole bloody house, but no one was awake except for a few people in the kitchen who were crying and carrying on about something, a bad comedown probably.

She walked past them and into the lounge, stepping around the cups and wrappers and bits of rubbish that were strewn everywhere, smiling a bit when she saw a man passed out on the settee with a cock and balls drawn on his face in black ink, and when she'd reached the front door she buttoned up her coat and stepped outside.

She wasn't really sorry to leave the place behind, but she knew she'd run into Gavin again at the Shoprite or the pub or another party somewhere. The Isle of Man wasn't a big place, and the boundaries between the wizarding world and the Muggle world were looser, more fluid than they were in the UK. The Muggles knew bugganes and little people were real, even if they couldn't see them, and the Manx Ministry officials weren't about to swoop down on someone just for running their mouth off a bit and doing a few spells. Graihagh only wished she'd known it years ago, so she could've told her grandmother what she really was. She never did know.

The cloudy-white sky was way too bright and Graihagh squinted and shaded her eyes and tried to ignore her pounding head. Milo liked to leave the curtains drawn so their flat would be nice and dark at least.

She'd almost reached her street when she saw a flash of black disappear around a corner and she froze, every muscle rigid. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and looked around the street, but it was quiet, empty. Probably nothing. She started walking again, faster, until she was almost running.

The flat was quiet and Graihagh practically tiptoed past Milo's room, careful not to wake him. He was a light sleeper and it startled him sometimes when she stumbled through the door in the morning. He was as close as a brother-he was her brother, that's what she told everyone, she didn't care about things like blood-and he wasn't afraid to give her hell. They didn't like the kind of parties she sometimes went to, Milo and her dad, but it wasn't like she was turning into her mother. She was careful, most of the time.

She took an aspirin and slept a few more hours, getting up with just enough time to shower and shove down a few pieces of toast before work. She only worked noon to five on Saturdays, but she wouldn't have minded going longer. She didn't have time to think about anything else when she was bent over a cauldron making potions.

Graihagh took a deep breath every time she walked into the shop, even though she was so used to the smell she could barely detect it. Earthy, sharp, bitter, sweet, all mingling together, waiting to be turned into something powerful.

She went to the workroom in the back to hang up her coat and nodded to the shop owner, who was leaning so far back in his chair the front legs were tipped up, slicing roots and letting the shavings fall to the wood floor.

"Alright Owain?"

"'Lo," he grunted.

Graihagh liked Owain. He had a habit of eating potions ingredients and picking his teeth after and he told long rambling stories that went absolutely nowhere, but he was a skilled potioneer, and he gave her the space to create. Potion-making was as much an art as a science, he'd told her. She couldn't be expected to make her potions the same way he did.

There was no one out front, so she stayed in the workroom and looked over some order forms. St. Maugholds, the wizarding hospital, had requested some antidotes and a Blood-Replenishing solution. There was an order for Wolfsbane, and another for Veritaserum. And she and Milo needed more calming draught, not the kind usually sold in shops or given out in hospitals, but one Professor Snape had invented himself and taught her to make years ago, one that soothed her anxiety without numbing her head. She could always take something stronger, when she wanted her head numb.

Just about every potion she made she'd learned from Snape, during all the detentions she spent with him in his office, every Friday night for three and half years. They mostly worked in silence, but sometimes they'd talk about plants or techniques or famous potioneers, things they couldn't talk about so much with other people. She'd told him a bit about her family and their life in Mann, and he told her about some of the near-disasters in his potion's classroom.

Graihagh saved the Wolfsbane for last, since it was so complex, and sliced up some pomegranates for the Blood-Replenishing Solution. She'd just strained the juice when the bell on the front door chimed.

"I'll get that," she said. She washed her hands at the stone basin and went to the front counter. A shy-looking child no older than eight or nine was standing by one of the shelves, looking up.

Graihagh walked over to them and smiled. "Can I help you?"

The child mumbled something she couldn't hear.

"Sorry?"

"Do you have any Levitation Draught?" The child's voice was a breath above a whisper.

Graihagh pulled a bottle off a high shelf and when the child set it on the counter she rang it up for them. "Excellent choice, you'll have a lot of fun with this. That'll be two galleons.

They plopped their galleons on the counter and Graihagh smiled and leaned forward conspiratorially. "Three drops should do it. Any more than that and you'll be stuck to the ceiling."

The child's mouth curled into a little smile and they clutched the bottle in both hands as though afraid of dropping it.

Graihagh watched them go and walked back to the storeroom, where Owain was finishing up the Blood-Replenishing Solution. She took three deep breaths when the sharp metallic smell hit her nose, the way she'd been taught, and counted the jars on the shelves.

Without really knowing why she pictured Snape bent over his cauldron, frowning in concentration, and on a whim she reached into a drawer where she kept a few photographs and bags of sweets and pulled out a letter.

Dear Miss Corlett

I received your letter informing me that you have become a Master Potioneer and I suppose I ought to congratulate you. An impressive achievement for someone who only managed two N.E. .

Being a Slytherin you should have good business sense. And I suppose you're not a terrible potioneer, either.

I wish you success in your endeavors and thank you for your kind words.

Regards,

Professor S. Snape

She didn't know why she kept the letter there, maybe she'd started doing it for luck or something. She couldn't help smiling a bit whenever she read it, even if he was a terse git. She'd run into him a few times in Knockturn Alley, but he'd been preoccupied and hadn't said much to her. She wondered how he was keeping, if he'd lightened up any since she'd last seen him. Probably not.

"If you're looking for something to do, you could get started on the Wolfsbane," said Owain over his cauldron. "I'll take care of the customers."

"Right." Graihagh pulled jars of ingredients off the shelves and set them on the table.

"Is this for someone local, d'you know?"

Owain looked up from his cauldron. "Why?"

Because everyone said werewolves were a menace, that was why, but she wasn't about to say that out loud. "Just curious."

"Doesn't matter," said Owain. "The potion makes them safe. Get to work."

"Right." Graihagh pushed the thought of werewolves aside and weighed and crushed and measured and stirred, losing all sense of time, seeing nothing but the mortar and pestle and cauldron. She didn't know Owain had gone to the front until he called for her.

"Someone here to see you."

She didn't have a clue who it could be. She kept to herself, mostly. "Tell them I'll just be a minute. I need to finish this up."

She gave the potion three stirs and took it off the heat. It would need a few days to mature.

She washed her stirring stick and wiped down her work table and when she walked out to the front a small woman was standing on her tiptoes and studying the label on a vial of Hair-Raising Potion.

"Cate?"

Cate lowered herself but she was still balanced on the front of her feet like a runner waiting for the starting gun. "That is the stupidest thing I've ever seen, who'd want to make their hair stand on end?"

"You're not wrong, but what are you doing here?"

"I'll tell you about it in a bit, d'you want to go for drinks?"

"I'd love to. I just need to finish up here."

She dashed back into the workroom and put the jars of ingredients back on the shelves and helped Owain count out the money in the till. The moment they were finished she put on her coat and walked with Cate to a wizarding pub a few blocks away.

"I almost forgot how windy it is here," said Cate, pulling her hair back with an elastic. "You had the right idea, cutting your hair short."

"Long hair is a pain in the arse," said Graihagh, smiling a bit, because she knew Cate remembered the utter rat's nest her hair used to be. She'd known her for years, ever since their first ride to Hogwarts, a friendship that had survived their quirks and their different houses and their misunderstandings and all the fucked up things Graihagh had done. She tried to tell herself it was just Cate's Hufflepuff loyalty that had kept their friendship going after everything that had happened, but she knew it wasn't. Cate was too hard on herself, too quick to forgive, or she would've cut her off years ago like nearly everyone else had.

"So what are you doing here?" she said when they'd sat down. "You didn't mention you were coming."

"I thought I'd surprise you. There's this bloke over in Peel who knows all kinds of folk songs. I wanted to learn some to teach my students."

"You're teaching them Manx folk songs? I love it."

"Thought you would."

A server came by with their appetizers and beer and Graihagh watched appreciatively as Cate downed a good quarter of hers in one go. She set her glass down and wiped the froth from her mouth with the back of her hand. "We had a great time, singing and telling stories. He was dead strange, mind. Told me he got shipwrecked once and rode home on a Kraken and that his ex-wife was a succubus."

Graihagh snorted into her beer. "Merlin, I've missed you."

"So have I."

They locked eyes but Graihagh could only meet them a second before glancing away. She hadn't seen Cate much since she married the year before, and she missed her far more than she let on. But it was better for her, that she was getting on with her life.

Graihagh ate her battered mushrooms and listened as Cate chatted away about her afternoon.

"So how's everything been?" said Graihagh when she could get a word in. "How's everything with Adrian?"

"Well, he's been getting on my case about joining the Order, but I don't know..."

"He's with the Order?"

"Yeah, just joined up. But I've always been rubbish at duelling, he knows that. I can't see how I'd be any use to them. But...things are getting sort of bad."

Cate didn't quite meet her eye and Graihagh could tell by the way she tapped her fingers against her glass that she knew more than she was letting on.

"What do you mean?"

"Well...I didn't want to tell you this, but you should know. They let Thorfinn Rowle out of Azkaban."

They couldn't have; she had to have heard wrong. "But he had a fifteen-year sentence."

"I know, but you know how things are. His family has a lot of influence, and anyway, it was a Muggle he went after, wasn't it? That doesn't count for as much as far as they're concerned."

"Are you sure you heard right?"

"Positive. I read it in the Daily Prophet this morning."

"Fuck." Graihagh rubbed her forehead with one hand as it sank in. He was out there somewhere. Maybe even in the pub. Graihagh looked over the room, studying every face, hand on her wand.

Cate put a hand to her arm. "It's ok, he can't leave the country."

Graihagh knew him to well to be reassured by this. And anyway, he still lived in the same country as Cate. She stood up and paced in front of their table. "Be careful. Please. He's going to go after you, I know he will."

"It'll be ok, don't worry. Adrian's put all kinds of protections round our house. And my students usually come to me, so I don't even have to go out much."

Graihagh couldn't look at her. It was her own fucking fault Thorfinn was after them in the first place.

Cate stood beside her. "Are you alright? D'you need a calming draught?"

Graihagh barely heard her. "No, it's okay. I'm fine."

They sat back down and finished their food, and the moment they were done Cate reached for her coat and threw it over her shoulders. "Listen, I have to get going, I told Adrian I wouldn't be out late and my Portkey leaves in ten minutes, but I'll send you an owl when I get home, okay?"

"Please do. I'll walk with you to the Portkey."

Graihagh put on her coat and reached into the pocket for her wand, tucking it up her sleeve. She glanced around the streets like a wary cat, but she didn't see anything out of place.

They walked through a wooded area near the River Glass until they came across a Pepsi can that was too accidental to be anything but deliberate. Cate nearly squeezed the air out of her giving her a hug.

"Be careful," she said. "It'll be alright."

"Yeah. You too."

When Cate had vanished she walked back to her flat, hand sweaty around her wand, but it wasn't until she'd reached her street that she saw a flash of black out of the corner of her eye. She could've imagined it, it could've been nothing, just a trick of the eye, but she remembered the black figure she'd seen earlier and she knew someone was there.

She didn't have a bloody clue how to do a Disillusionment Charm, and it was her own damn fault for bombing her Defense Against the Arts O.W.L. She silently cursed herself and looked over the street, wracking her brain for some idea. She couldn't just walk up to her flat, not with someone watching her.

She walked all over the neighbourhood, ducking into a chippy even though she'd just eaten and didn't feel much like doing it again, glancing out the window every few minutes. She waited until the street was empty before running back to the flat.

She closed the door behind her and locked it, jiggling the knob a few times to make sure she'd done it right. She could hear Milo talking to his friend Fynn, who came over sometimes. He was telling Fynn about his latest commission, a board game with enchanted pieces, his voice relaxed, happy even. She wouldn't say that Milo was a different person around Fynn, just calmer, more like himself.

She sank down next to them on the settee with every intention of keeping her mouth shut, but she must've done a poor job of it because they stopped talking.

"Something wrong?" said Milo.

Graihagh didn't want to tell him, but she supposed she had to. "Thorfinn's out of Azkaban. Cate told me."

"Are you sure?"

"It was in the Prophet."

Milo glanced around the flat as though he might be hiding behind a piece of furniture. "Did you see anyone on the way here?

"I-maybe. I might've seen someone. I don't really know."

Milo rested his head in his hands. "This cannot be fucking happening."

Graihagh sat closer to him and stroked his back. She hated to see him like that. "I'm sorry."

Fynn looked from one to the other, nonplussed. "You mean Thorfinn Rowle?"

Graihagh glanced at Milo, who still had his head in his hands. Fynn had already left Hogwarts when the botched attack happened, and she knew Milo hadn't told them about it.

"Something happened while we were at school," she said, hoping Fynn didn't ask too many questions. "We got him expelled and he never really got over it. He tried to attack us once when we were in London. And then the little shit nearly killed Muggle and got sent to Azkaban."

"So you think he's going to come after you again?"

"Maybe. I don't know. With this war going on it would be so easy..."

Fynn put a hand to Milo's shoulder. "Well, you know how it is with people like him. He'll be back in Azkaban before long."

Graihagh doubted it. "He might not if he joins the Death Eaters."

Fynn shot her an I can't believe you look and nodded towards Milo, who looked stricken. Graihagh shut up.

Fynn leaned in so close to Milo their heads were touching."You could stay with me, if you want." Milo didn't say anything to this and Fynn sat up and looked at Graihagh. "I mean, you both could. I used to do security for the Ministry, I know all kinds of spells. I can put some defensive charms round my flat, Disillusion you every morning. Walk you to work and back."

Graihagh was sort of relieved at the idea, but she didn't like to be in anyone's debt, and neither, she knew, did Milo. "Yeah. We'll think about it."

Fynn squeezed Milo's shoulder and stood up. "I'll put an anti-Intruder jinx on your flat on my way out, yeah? That should help. And I could walk you to work tomorrow if you want."

"Yeah, thanks," said Milo, voice muffled by his hands.

"Try not to worry too much. It'll be alright."

Graihagh followed Fynn to the door and locked it behind them, checking the lock three times before she was satisfied. She walked over the windows and shut the curtains tight, knowing she wasn't going to sleep much that night.