Hazel's days fell into a pattern: classes, the library with Hermione, Quidditch practice, and feuding with Malfoy. Everything would have been quite pleasant if not for the blond boy—upon learning she was the youngest Quidditch player at Hogwarts in a century, he had redoubled his efforts to browbeat any admirers she might have into avoiding her. Even though none of the first years were brave enough to go against Malfoy's edicts to befriend her, things were getting better for her. She found that the Quidditch team was not so afraid of Malfoy, and were rather keen on protecting their newest, youngest, and smallest player. Adrian Pucey was particularly fierce in this regard; he once hexed Crabbe when he had backed Hazel into a corner.

The feud with Malfoy had gotten particularly bad after she had received her broomstick, a Cleansweep Five. She still had no idea who had sent it to her. Unfortunately, Malfoy had seen her receive the broom. After insulting it for being an old model, he had run to Snape, telling him that she had broken the rules by having a broomstick as a first year. To her delight, Snape had only sneered at him and said that exceptions could be made for the youngest player the Slytherin Quidditch Team had ever seen. Malfoy had promptly challenged her to a duel, but Hazel declined. She had nothing to prove to the haughty pureblood, and it was most likely just a plot to get her into trouble and kicked off the team.

With her days filled, the month of September quickly passed. October was no different; it was Halloween before she knew it.

Hazel had just left Transfiguration to meet Hermione when she came upon Ron and his two friends, Seamus and Dean.

"Hello, Ron," Hazel said. The tall boy looked away from her, his blue eyes darting to the ground. Though he had avoided her since she was sorted into Slytherin, she still hoped Ron would become her friend again. She was still the same girl he had known on the train—the only difference was she now wore a green tie instead of a ragged dress.

"Shut up, dark witch," Seamus said. Hazel frowned. The boy often hurled the insult at her; he loved to corner her and rant at her about how evil she was. It was no secret the Gryffindors despised her, but she had hoped they would eventually tire of calling her names and bullying her. Even Dudley couldn't be bothered to bully her unless he was bored. The Gryffindors were different—they seemed to bully her not out of boredom, but because they thought she deserved it.

"I was just saying hello," she said. "Nothing evil about that."

"No," Seamus said. "But there is something evil about you, you slimy Slytherin."

"Come on, mate," Ron said. "Let's just go back to Gryffindor Tower and play some Exploding Snap."

"Are you taking up for the sneaking snake?"

"No," Ron said. "I just don't think this is a good idea."

"Well then," Seamus said. "If you're too much of a coward, why don't you just go back to your prefect brother?"

Ron's ears turned red. He said nothing further and stayed completely still. Hazel had a feeling that he felt sorry for her, and left to his own devices, would be her friend, or at least be amicable.

"He's not a coward," Hazel said. "I think you're the coward, Finnegan. All bullies are cowards, somehow."

Now it was Seamus's turn to flush. He drew his wand and pointed it at her, jabbing it with every word. "You take that back, dark witch."

It struck Hazel for the first time that she was quite alone and outnumbered. While she didn't think Ron would hurt her, she couldn't say the same of Seamus and didn't know Dean well enough to guess. She drew her wand and reviewed the few hexes she knew, thankful that Hermione had insisted they self-study Defense Against the Dark Arts since Quirrell was such a joke.

"Oh, so you're going to hex me now, dark witch?"

"No," Hazel said. "Not unless you try to hex me."

"Ron's right," Dean whispered. "There could be other Slytherins around, not to mention Snape."

"So you're a coward too, Thomas? Scared of a couple slimy snakes?"

"You'd have to be a nutter not to be afraid of Snape," Dean muttered.

"And you think it's brave to corner a lone girl three on one?" Hazel said. "Hex me and get it over with, then. I have places to be."

And then Seamus flourished his wand, not even enunciating a spell. With a loud bang, a jet of red light shot from his wand. Hazel, who didn't think he would actually try to hex her, let alone succeed in doing so, didn't even have time to duck as the hex struck her square in the chest.

She was unconscious before she hit the ground.

*HP*

He hated Halloween.

He pushed his food around his plate but didn't eat. He simply had no appetite. Tonight was the night his only friend had died, and it had been his fault. Ten long years had passed, but his grief had not disappeared, nor had his guilt. Dumbledore had told him the pain would ease with time, but for Severus, it hurt as acutely as if it had happened yesterday. He loved her still, and would love her always, even though she had never loved him.

Self-flagellation kept the wounds fresh. He simply could not let go, not when he had played a role in her death. He didn't want to let go—she was the only good thing in his life, the thing that kept him going. She was the reason he did not give up. Dumbledore had tried to give him a chance for absolution through his oath to protect her daughter, but Severus knew he could never be forgiven for his sins. The only one who could free him from his burdens was Lily. But he had left her daughter an orphan, and she would never forgive him for that. If there was a life after death, he would not be forgiven by Lily or any divine being. If there was a heaven, he was destined for hell, and it was of his own making.

Sometimes he suspected he was already living in it.

Nothing good ever came of his actions. Halloween was just yet another reminder of all that had gone wrong in his life, a reminder of how everything he touched turned to ash. Despite his best efforts, he eventually destroyed everything that he loved. If he touched anything good and pure, it was defiled.

He cast his eyes around for the girl. He still didn't know what to make of her. Those hateful eyes in Lily's face knocked him off balance. He could scarcely bear to look her in the eye and calling a girl with Lily's sweet face 'Miss Potter' made him want to tear his own lungs out. The girl was not completely like Lily, but neither was she Potter reborn, as he had imagined her. She had a flair for magic, much like her mother, but also a penchant for disobeying the rules, if the incident with the broom was any indication. Perhaps it would have been wiser to stamp the rule-breaking out of her early on, so she was not tempted to become like her miscreant father. But instead he had rewarded her talent with a place on the Slytherin Quidditch Team, thinking that it was better for her to hone her natural talents than neglect them (not to mention the thrill he would get when they thoroughly trounced Gryffindor). And in a moment of weakness, he had sent her the best broomstick he could afford to give her.

As he looked around, he did not find the red-headed girl. She wasn't in the Great Hall, which struck him as odd—the feast was a mandatory event. Perhaps she was simply late; students were still wandering in. He thought she might be in the library with Granger, as she was wont to do. It would be typical of the two girls to be cloistered in the library while everyone else was celebrating. If not, perhaps she was getting ready in her dormitory; many of the students dressed up in fine robes and dresses due to the special significance of Halloween in the wizarding world.

While it marked the beginning of Samhain, few were still immersed enough in the old ways to celebrate it. But ever since the Dark Lord had fallen, it had been treated as a holiday by those who had opposed him. It was a joyous occasion, the night the Girl Who Lived ended his reign of terror. The Death Eaters and their families, of course, felt quite the opposite—it was the day their dreams of domination were dashed. Halloween made it simple to tell who came from what background—those whose families opposed the Dark Lord treated the feast as a party, laughing loudly with friends and mingling with other Houses, and those whose families supported the Dark Lord kept to themselves, scowling at the festivities.

It occurred to him that many of his Slytherins would think he was scowling for the same reasons they were. They thought him loyal to the Dark Lord. They would never know that it was not for him he scowled, but for Lily Evans.

He did not like that there were students who knew of his past as a Death Eater, but he could not do anything about it. They had learned it from their fathers and mothers, who had been his comrades. He knew that Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott all knew—how could they not, with the fathers they had? And Greengrass quite possibly knew about his past as well, as her father had been one of the Aurors who placed him in Azkaban. And that was just among the first years. He knew that Flint, Bole, Pucey and several others at least suspected.

"The way you're acting, Severus, you'd think someone just died," McGonagall said.

He flinched as if she had struck him. Someone had died, albeit a long time ago. Lily and Potter had been two of her favorite students—surely some part of her still mourned.

"What's wrong with you?" she said.

"Nothing except for having to suffer your odious company."

McGonagall gaped at him for a moment, opening her mouth before shutting it. "If that's how you want to be," she said, before turning to speak to Dumbledore, who was seated on the other side of her.

He stabbed a piece of steak. He wished she would have argued with him, anything to take his mind off what had happened ten years ago.

He watched as the last of the students filed in, expecting to see the girl come in with Granger. The know-it-all's head was bowed—she looked distinctly cowed, an odd expression for the usually irascible girl. But the girl wasn't with her, which was most unusual. After they had partnered in Potions that first day, the two girls had become inseparable.

A few moments later, a trio of Gryffindor boys entered, Finnegan at their head. Weasley was white and fearful, and Thomas kept shooting less than discreet glances at the head table.

They were up to something, he had no doubt. But what that something was, he would have to wait to find out. He knew that Finnegan was the worst bully in his year and that the girl was a frequent target of his and could only hope her mysterious absence was not related to the boy's elation.

And then, in the dimly lit hall, Quirrell burst through the doors, terror clearly written on his face. "Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know."

The coward fainted, falling to the floor.

Pandemonium replaced the gentle roar of conversation. Dumbledore raised his wand and sent sparks into the air with a bang that made Severus shudder. It took several attempts, but eventually he managed to bring the hall to silence. He instructed the prefects to lead their Houses to their dormitories, and then started towards the dungeons with long strides.

"It seems Halloween is to be rather more exciting than we thought," Dumbledore said.

Severus's heart sank as his previous thoughts came back to him—the Potter girl never came into the hall. She could be in the dungeons, with the troll, this very instant. The horrible sinking rested in his stomach. He couldn't fail Lily. He couldn't let anything happen to the little girl he had sworn to protect.

"Headmaster," he said. "Miss Potter never came into the Great Hall for the feast."

Dumbledore looked at him with his damnably twinkling eyes, but it was McGonagall who spoke. "Really, Severus—you probably just missed her."

"I make it a point to be aware of my surroundings, Minerva—the girl was not there."

"Then perhaps you should go look for her," she said tartly.

"Perhaps I will," he said.

"Now, Severus," Dumbledore said. "We could use your help dealing with the troll—I am sure Miss Potter is fine, wherever she is at. It is a rather significant day for her, after all. Most probably she is merely brooding in her rooms, as is her right."

That did nothing to soothe Severus's feeling that there was something horribly wrong.

But he headed to the dungeons with the rest of the teachers nonetheless. Minerva was now protesting that they ought to have escorted their Houses to their common rooms before seeking out the troll, in case the troll moved into the path of one the groups of students. Severus agreed—he didn't know what Dumbledore was thinking, leaving the students' safety to mere prefects—but it was too late now. Their best hope lay in finding the troll before it could hurt anyone. And all he could do was hope the troll did not find the mysteriously missing girl.

Then a realization came over him: no one had awakened Quirrell after he fainted. The worthless man had been beneath his notice for years; he was just the soft-spoken, stuttering Muggle Studies teacher. But since the man had come back from Albania, something about him had changed. Severus's faded Dark Mark prickled every time he neared the man. He had told Dumbledore about this odd phenomenon, but the damned old man had only twinkled at him and asked him to keep an eye on Quirrell.

He had a sinking sensation that this was all a clever ruse, one he had not believed Quirrell capable of. Quirrell must have let it in as a distraction. It was a near impossibility for a troll to enter the school without help. And there was only one reason to distract the entire staff and lock away the student body: the stone. If Quirrell was somehow connected to the Dark Lord, as he suspected, that could only spell disaster.

In a swirl of robes, he set off for the third-floor corridor at once, not bothering to explain to anyone else. As far as he was concerned, Dumbledore could have dealt with the troll alone; they didn't need him, Dumbledore's comment about needing his help be damned. What they did need was someone to protect the stone, and that didn't require telling them about what he was doing. They would just call him paranoid. Dumbledore alone among the staff trusted his intuition. The others still thought of him as the little boy who spent too much time in the hospital wing after being cursed by the Marauders.

He entered the forbidden corridor, wand drawn. He did not know what protections were on the stone, aside from his own. All he knew was who had designed the protections. There was Hagrid, who no doubt had used some ferocious creature with an absurd name; Sprout, who would have used a violent plant he had no patience for dealing with; Flitwick, who could have charmed just about anything; McGonagall, who had the skill and imagination to design any number of nasty traps; and Dumbledore's own protections, which were certainly clever and thoughtful. He didn't fancy facing any of them, though he was confident he could overcome them.

He pushed the door open, to find Quirrell cowering in a corner, just out of reach of a chained, three-headed dog. A cerberus. He had no great knowledge of magical creatures and knew little about the creature beyond its name and resistance to curses. He had never been interested in creatures, beyond their uses in Potions.

One of the heads turned his way—before he could cast a curse, the creature latched on to his leg. He howled in pain as the dog shook its head; if it didn't let ago, it was going to tear his leg off. It wrenched his knee. Pain shot up his leg into his hip. He cast as many cursing as he could think of, as fast as he could, hoping they would at least distract the head currently attached to his leg. The other two heads lost interest in Quirrell, deciding that he was the more appealing target, since he was within reach.

His heart pounded—he was going to die here, all because he hadn't trusted the protections on the stone. His curses had no effect on the dog, where they would have disabled any human five times over. He had survived spying on one of the most fearsome wizards who had ever lived and was going to be bested by a glorified mutt. As much as he hated his life, he did not want to die, not like this. He was no Gryffindor with illusions of a heroic death, but he wanted it to mean something. He didn't want to be eaten by a cerberus, allowing a mediocre wizard in the service of the Dark Lord access to the most powerful alchemical substance ever created.

And then his luck turned.

Quirrell, taking advantage of the dog's distraction, made his way to the trapdoor under its feet. The dog, remembering its purpose, let go of his leg and turned to Quirrell, who let out a scream of terror before fleeing out the door.

The danger to the stone was past. As quickly as he could, he limped his way out the door, pain shooting through his leg with every step. The dog growled behind him. He risked a glance over his shoulder to find the heads were licking up a pool of his blood.

He had never liked dogs, not since one of neighborhood children had set a burly mutt on him in his youth. He still had the scars on his right arm where it had bitten him. With pain flaring in his leg and blood pooling at his feet, he had no doubt that he would bear yet another scar as a memory of this night.

He started to shake as the adrenaline left his system. That was the closest to death he had come since the war. He gripped at his leg, which was throbbing now. He could hardly stand. Now that the stone was safe, he should make his way back to the dungeons to let Dumbledore know what had happened. But as he limped out of the corridor towards the main staircase, he knew he would never make it.

As soon as he exited the forbidden corridor, he heard a cry of "Professor!" He nearly groaned. Just what he wanted—a student to find him injured and vulnerable, outside the forbidden corridor.

Worse, it was the Granger girl, with Greengrass close on her heels.

"Professor, I asked Daphne if she had seen Hazel—she never showed up for the feast. And—"

"I am aware, Miss Granger. Both of you, head to McGonagall's office and stay there. It is not safe for you to be running around the school."

"But Professor, Hazel was supposed to meet me in the library. I've thought about it now. She'd never stand me up, she isn't like that. And I heard Seamus talking about 'putting a slimy snake in her place.' I think—I think they did something to Hazel."

He paled. Finnegan had looked rather pleased with himself, though the Weasley boy had looked uneasy at his side. It was entirely possible they had done something to the girl. Memories of his own school days came back to him. He too had been despised and outnumbered, friendless except for a lone Gryffindor girl.

"What was her last class?"

"Transfiguration was our last class, sir," Daphne said. "I—I saw Finnegan and his gang follow her."

"And pray tell why you did not ensure your housemate was safe after three hostile boys followed her?"

"Draco, sir. He…bullies anyone he thinks is too friendly with Hazel. Threatens them with Vincent and Gregory."

Severus barely restrained the curse about to slip out of his mouth. Of course Draco was a bully. He was a spoiled brat and always had been; even as the boy's godfather, he held no fondness for him. In his early years, he had tried to be a steadying influence on him, but he had only grown further apart from the boy. After Lucius had told Draco he was a half-blood with less than auspicious beginnings, he had lost any influence he might have had over the boy. He was only thankful that the boy had not shared what he knew of his past with the rest of the school.

"That is a matter to be dealt with at a later date, Miss Greengrass. I am appalled that no one has brought this to my attention before now." No, he was appalled that he had known Draco's disposition and did nothing to monitor the boy. He was appalled he had failed the girl he had sworn to protect, already, within just a few months of knowing her. Gathering himself, he said, "Now go to McGonagall's office. You will be safe there until one of us come to release you to your respective common rooms."

Granger shook her head. In a small voice, she said, "I want to go with you to find Hazel."

"And sir, if there is a troll around, is it really safe for us to go anywhere alone?" Greengrass added.

He let out an irritated huff. Much as he hated to admit it, the Greengrass girl had a valid point—he would be remiss in his duties to them if he allowed them to wander off unescorted in his haste to find the girl. He had no time to argue, nor time to war with his instincts.

"Come," he said.

Granger and Greengrass exchanged gleeful looks.

"Say nothing, and do as I say," he said, watching as the girls nodded solemnly.

As they walked towards the Transfiguration classroom, he muttered under his breath, "Merlin save me from adolescent girls." They had, after all, been the bane of his existence since childhood.

After a moment of his limping stiffly, Granger said, "What happened to your leg, sir?"

"Did I not tell you to be quiet? If you would cease your incessant question-asking, then you might realize not everything concerns you."

The girl bowed her head.

When they reached the Transfiguration classroom, he turned to take the quickest path to the library. If the girl was supposed to meet Granger there, it was likely she took this route. He disliked spending time chasing after a first year, but he was keenly aware of his vow to Dumbledore to protect.

He also knew only too well what it was like to bullied and near-friendless.

Thankfully, there was no sign of the troll. That was his first turn of luck that evening. But he kept his wand drawn and lighted all the same.

And then he saw her.

Her red hair was splayed about her head, her body contorted in an unnatural shape. He broke into a run, his injured leg forgotten even as it stung with every step. As he drew closer, he saw a pool of blood under her. His chest constricted—she couldn't be dead, she couldn't be, he couldn't have failed in his task, not like this, not because of a gang of first year boys. He couldn't have failed Lily again.

He kneeled down beside her, taking her pulse with a trembling hand, ignoring the gasps of Granger and Greengrass as they caught up to him. Her pulse was weak, but there—she was alive.

He knew enough of healing not to move her until he had ascertained the damage. He cast a diagnostic spell on her—her only injury was a wound on her chest. Tearing open her shirt to get a better look, he could scarcely believe a first year was capable of inflicting such a ghastly wound. Usually they confined themselves to Trip Jinxes, Jelly-Fingers Curses, and the like. He didn't know of a curse that a first year could have encountered that would do damage like this, a deep gash surrounded by a burn. It was possible that this was the result of a burst of uncontrolled magic. If that was the case, healing it would be a difficult task best left to Madam Pomfrey.

He slid his arms underneath the girl, lifted her to his chest, and started walking down the corridor towards the hospital wing, Greengrass and Granger trailing silently behind.