"Are you sure you don't wish to go to the hospital wing, my boy?" Dumbledore said.

"And just how would we explain my exposure to the Cruciatus Curse?" he said. "Poppy may not ask too many questions, but she would know something is amiss. This must stay between the two of us," Severus said.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "It is concerning that Tom has managed to go about his business undetected thus far—I'll admit I had no inkling that he was at Hogwarts. It is most disconcerting."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose—he had a thundering headache, and Dumbledore wasn't helping matters. The crazy old man was merely acting as if a child had been caught somewhere he or she shouldn't be. The one time he would have appreciated Dumbledore's quasi-omniscience, the old man failed to deliver. Dumbledore had a knack for knowing things you didn't want him to know, but apparently that talent was less than effective where the Dark Lord was concerned.

"He wants me to get close to the Potter girl so that I can deliver her to him."

The twinkle left Dumbledore's eyes briefly, then returned in full force. "And what do you think about that?"

"I must do as my masters bid."

"I was under the impression that you found Hazel rather tolerable compared to most of your students."

He made a noncommittal sound in his throat.

He looked out the window, the sky dark and the stars twinkling in the clear night. He could admit the girl had been tolerable, despite her foray into mischief-making in the most inconvenient place. She seemed genuinely contrite in her detentions and had accepted her punishment without protest. James Potter would have made excuses for being out of bounds and whined and whined about having detention.

But that didn't change the fact the girl had risked her own life and the lives of her friends for mere curiosity. She had no good reason for being where she was, other than the temptation Dumbledore had placed before her and the rest of the school by announcing the corridor dangerous. But wasn't he intimately acquainted with risking his life for curiosity? Had he not gone down a secret passage into the Shrieking Shack all those years ago, in search of proof of his theory Remus Lupin was a werewolf? Could he really fault her for the crime of curiosity?

"Severus," Dumbledore said, looking over his glasses, fixing him with a piercing look.

"The girl is not as insufferable as some," he said. "But she should not have gone into that corridor."

"We must forgive people their misdeeds, especially children," Dumbledore said. "She was merely curious, and surely curiosity is not a sin. Curiosity makes for delightful, engaging children."

"I have often told Minerva that curiosity killed the cat," Severus said. "The girl could have died."

"But she did not. She was rather cool-headed in a crisis, wasn't she? Surely you find that admirable."

"I find nothing about eleven-year-old children admirable, other than their capacity to annoy."

"If you say so, Severus."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"You can do what Tom asks. In fact, I would encourage you to befriend the girl as well, though not for Tom's nefarious reasons. I would say the girl could rather benefit from the companionship of a trustworthy adult."

He scowled. "And I suppose I am the most convenient target?"

Dumbledore smiled and said, "You are her head of house, as Minerva so often despairs."

If only the girl had been a Gryffindor—then he could hate her in peace. The house of lions would have made her into a brash thing, the bold hero they all expected her to be. As it was, she still had her moments brazenness. He could only imagine how bold she would be without the moderating influence of Slytherin House—certainly it would be to the point of being unpalatable. Without the exposure to her he received from being her head of house, he would certainly have thought her arrogant and fatheaded like her father, despite Lily's looks.

He knew she wasn't like that, though. She simply had Lily's insatiable curiosity with James Potter's disregard for rules. She was like Lily too, standing up to bullies—she had shown that in her first weeks at Hogwarts, taking on Malfoy when he was making fun of the pathetic Longbottom boy. She had risked punishment to help a boy not there to witness her kindness, a boy who probably had not spared her a thought after she had donned a green tie. Lily would have done that too. And if he was being honest with himself, Lily probably would have cajoled him into investigating that corridor too—she was never one to resist even obvious temptation. He had wanted to attribute her insufferable, rule-breaking street to her bastard of a father, but the truth was Lily was no saint where following rules was concerned.

So perhaps the girl was doomed regardless of who she took after.

"Minerva can have her," he said. "It had been years since I took so many points from my own house."

"Yes, that was rather excessive. I believe that Miss Potter has been ostracized within Slytherin as a result."

Guilt churned in his stomach. He didn't mean to make the girl an outcast—he knew the suffering that brought all too well. While she was James Potter's spawn, she was Lily's daughter too. Perhaps he had overreacted, not that he would ever admit that to the meddling old coot.

"The Quidditch boys have been looking after her," he said, trying to dismiss Dumbledore's words and his own misgivings. "Mister Malfoy has often complained to me about Mister Pucey hexing him. Mister Pucey never denies it but claims he only does it because Malfoy is tormenting the girl."

Dumbledore hummed, turning his eyes towards the window. It was times like this Dumbledore showed his age, lines of concentration and age etched into his face. The man was a master plotter, having been at the center of two wars, with a third one brewing. Dumbledore was a happy man, but he had lived a hard life, one that Severus did not envy, even though it had brought Dumbledore the love and admiration of the masses. To be relied on by so many, so publicly had to weigh on him, and Severus could never have managed such a burden—Severus much preferred the quiet life, though he had never been allowed to live one. With the return of the Dark Lord looming over him, he knew he would have to return to his duties as Dumbledore's spy, and he too would have the fate of the wizarding world on his shoulders.

"Do keep an eye on Tom," said Dumbledore at last. "Tell him whatever he asks—the protections on the stone are not so strong he could not manage without you and telling him what you know will gain his trust."

"And if he asks me to deliver the girl to him?"

"We shall cross that bridge when we come to it, my boy."

*HP*

Hazel made her way to the library, pale-faced and paranoid. What if Snape had spotted her? What if he knew she had spied on him? Worse, what if Quirrell knew, with that thing in the back of his head? Lord Voldemort, it had called itself.

The man who had killed her parents had returned.

She knew she ought to tell someone, an adult, but she didn't dare. What if they didn't believe her and told Snape or Quirrell about her wild tale? Then she was dead. No adult had ever believed her before, not when she tried to tell them about how the Dursleys treated her. There was no reason to think the adults here would be any different. Telling adults her secrets only ever brought her pain.

She had been on the brink of apologizing to Snape. She regretted that impulse now—the man had bowed before that thing, the thing that had killed her parents, without hesitation. Hazel did not want his forgiveness—she craved his hate. Evil and good were supposed to hate each other; anything else just brought unnecessary complications. She hated Snape now, for his willingness to serve Voldemort, and she wanted him to hate her.

She found Daphne and Hermione sitting in their usual corner, whispering over the top of large books so as to avoid Madam Pince's sharp eyes and even keener ears. Hazel sat down across from them, picking up a book of her own—The Historie of the Minde Artes. She opened it to a random page, playing along with their act until Daphne slammed her book down on the table.

"Enough of this," said Daphne, her tone just above a whisper. "Let that old biddy throw us out for not reading or working on homework—I'm tired of the library. We need to find some place better to meet, where we don't have to whisper and pretend to read. Honestly, would anyone actually think I care about whatever stupid thing this book is about?"

Hermione shushed her but sat down her own book and looked at Hazel intently. "What's wrong, Hazel?" she asked. "You look awfully upset."

"Snape," she said.

"See!" said Daphne. "I told you that he was a nasty piece of work." "That's the understatement of the year," Hazel said. "I think he's working for Voldemort. No, I know he's working for Voldemort."

Hermione squeaked at the sound of the name and Daphne raised a brow, but neither girl said anything more about it. Hazel wasn't trying to be brave—she just found it silly to go about calling someone You-Know-Who. And if it was about respect for Voldemort, she certainly wasn't going to avoid his name—she had no respect for the madman who had killed her parents or those who served him.

"Well," Daphne said. "That's what my father told me too. Said he was a Death Eater who only got out on Dumbledore's say-so. That's why he wanted me to avoid Snape—he thinks he's not as reformed as Dumbledore would have the rest of us believe."

"A Death Eater?" said Hazel. "Like in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts?"

"That's the only place I've read about them too," said Hermione. "They're rather contemporary—they've only been around since the sixties or so. I gather most people are too afraid to write about them while some are still around, so not much is known about them other than them serving You-Know-Who."

"If they're Voldemort's servants, then that's definitely what Snape is. Hermione, I saw Voldemort."

"You saw You-Know-Who?" Daphne said incredulously. "At Hogwarts?"

"Yeah," Hazel said. She grimaced. If Daphne had doubts over just that, what she was about to say certainly wouldn't help matters. "He's living in the back of Quirrell's head."

Daphne looked at her blankly for a moment. Hermione shifted in her chair. "Are you sure?" Daphne asked.

"Dead sure. I saw it."

"Oh, Hazel! Surely you made a mistake, there's simply no way Professor Dumbledore—"

"As much as I hate to agree with Hermione, I agree with Hermione," Daphne said, wry smile touching her lips. "Dumbledore is many things, but he wouldn't let You-Know-Who in the school for anything. And, well, missing that one of your professors is possessed by the darkest wizard in recent memory would make him seriously incompetent."

"I know what I saw," Hazel insisted. "Quirrell took off his turban. There was a face in the back of his head, and it called itself Lord Voldemort! Snape called that thing his lord!"

"I've never read about anything like that," Hermione said. "Two people physically inhabiting one body? How would that even work?"

"I don't know, but I need you guys to believe me! I didn't take a Bludger to the head or have a nightmare or a hallucination—what I saw was real! Snape and Quirrell are helping Voldemort. He wants the stone so he can build himself a new body."

Daphne and Hermione shared a look. Daphne started to speak hesitantly. "I'm not saying I believe you—that Quirrell is possessed by You-Know-Who—but what could we do about it? Come on, Hazel, we're just a bunch of useless firsties. If you really saw that, you need to tell Dumbledore."

"My best friends don't believe me," said Hazel. "Dumbledore will laugh me right out of his office if I go to him with this. He'll probably tell Quirrell and Snape, and they'll have a good laugh about it, and then I'll be dead! Nothing good comes of telling adults anything, ever!"

"Hazel," Hermione said. "I really think you ought to tell Dumbledore. He would want to know your concerns about You-Know-Who. He'll be able to tell you really believe what you're saying, he'll take you seriously—"

"I'm not telling Dumbledore," said Hazel. "Like Daphne said, we're just a bunch of idiot firsties—"

"As much as I'm inclined to agree, Potter, keep your voice down," a silky voice said behind her, causing her to jump. "This is the library, not a Quidditch pitch. I'll have a point from Slytherin."

The blood drained from Hazel's face. Daphne and Hermione were shared a frightened look. It was Snape. She could only pray he had not been there long, that he had not heard what she had told Daphne and Hermione—

"Anyways, Miss Potter," he said. "I have come to collect you for your detention—surely you did not think a victory on the Quidditch pitch would allow you to skip it? That's another week's detentions with me, for making me come and find you. Come along now, Potter," he said.

Hazel looked up at him defiantly. Get close to her indeed—that's what his master had told him to do. She refused to make his job easy—with any luck, Voldemort would think he had failed and off him for her, and that would be one less problem for her to deal with. She had thought herself above wishing death on anyone, but she would make exceptions for the spineless servants of Voldemort. It was men like Snape who had allowed him to come to power, men like Snape who had wreaked havoc on the wizarding world a decade ago, men like Snape who stood by while her parents were killed.

"And if I don't?" she said.

Snape blinked. "Don't be foolish, Potter."

"I'm not going," she said.

"Twenty points from Slytherin for insolence. Now come."

"You can't make me," she said. She had often heard Dudley use that line, to great effect.

"Believe me, you foolish child, there are ways of making you move from that chair. Now, get up," he said. His voice had taken on a dangerous tone, a tone that made Hazel uneasy. Just because Voldemort had told him to gain her trust rather than hurt her didn't mean he wouldn't.

Hazel hesitated for a moment, thinking about getting up. Really, she was only making things worse for herself. One look at Hermione told her the other girl thought as much; she had her head in her hands. But before Hazel could stand, the chair came sliding out from under her, leaving her to fall to the ground with flailing arms. A strong hand seized her by the top of her robes and started pulling her towards the exit of the library. She was keenly aware of all the people watching them.

"Let me go!"

Snape said nothing and did not ease his grip on her robes. If anything, he walked faster.

"Severus!" Madam Pince said. "Is that really necessary? You're disturbing the whole library."

"Yes," he snarled. "Miss Potter thought making a scene was necessary. She refused to come with me."

He didn't pause to hear Madam Pince's response, instead opting to continue storming towards the dungeons. He kept his grip on her robes all the way to the dungeons, not caring how many passersby gaped at them. Hazel's face was red from embarrassment by the time they reached his office, but she was also angry—how dare he? He was the one working for Voldemort, he was the one who was evil, how could he expect her to come willingly!

"I don't know where that attitude came from, Miss Potter, but I suggest you lose it unless you wish to be in detention for the rest of your days at Hogwarts."

Hazel scowled at him. "What am I going to be doing tonight?"

"Sir," he said.

"There's no need to call me sir, professor," she said. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. She would never have dared get smart with any other professor, but it was different with Snape. He was serving Voldemort, the man who had killed her parents. He was a Death Eater, evil, a greasy-haired git—he was looking straight into her eyes!

Hazel immediately averted her gaze. Whenever she looked into Snape's eyes, she felt a prickling sensation in her head. He always seemed to know what she was thinking—she had the horrible feeling that Snape could read her mind.

She felt a cold hand on her chin, pulling her face up. She was gazing straight into Snape's sallow face. His black eyes were boring into hers, and the prickling sensation returned. Then she couldn't look away, couldn't move—she was tumbling through her memories.

A flash of green light. High, cold laughter. Hagrid telling her about Voldemort. Daphne insisting Snape couldn't be trusted. Hermione's assurances that it had been Snape who had cursed her and her own doubts. Her mixed feelings about him until today, and now her burning hate for the man in front of her. And then she was in the forest again, listening to his screams split the silence.

*HP*

He pulled out of her mind, sweat pooling on his brow. The girl knew, she had seen everything. Greengrass's words echoed through his mind—she had told the girl he couldn't be trusted. The girl had resisted that notion for a time, but now he had completely, irrevocably broken her trust. She knew he was a Death Eater, knew he had served Voldemort, knew he was not the mere strict teacher he pretended to be. She knew, and there was only one thing to do. He slid his wand out of his sleeve, into his damp palm. Dumbledore wouldn't approve. Even Severus himself could not approve. But he could castigate himself later. For now, he would have to do what needed to be done.

"What did you see?" he whispered. But he knew, knew what she had seen.

"I-I—nothing," she said, pale-faced.

He drew his wand and pointed it at her forehead. The girl flinched and turned, turned and ran to the door. With a flick of his wand, he locked the door. She rattled the doorknob. She was breathing heavily now. She turned back towards him, terror clearly written on her face.

He grabbed her by the shoulder and forced her to turn around, flinching as she flailed her arms and legs. She caught him in the groin, causing him to double over. Pain radiated all through his body and knocked the wind out of him, but he managed to grab her by the shoulders again. He leaned heavily on her, panting, trying to hold her in place.

She kept trying to hit him, striking any bit of him she could reach. But it was no good. He had his wand drawn, and she had not thought to draw hers, not that she knew any spells that could harm him. He removed one of his hands from her and pointed his wand at her again. "Immobulus," he said. Instantly, the struggling stopped.

He looked into those wide, terrified hazel eyes and felt guilt wash over him. This was Lily's daughter and he couldn't help but admire the fight she had in her. Lily would have done the same thing. She would not have hesitated to stand up to him, to have expressed her opposition any way she could, even if that took the form of disrespect. She would have hit, kicked, bit to protect herself. She would have done just as her daughter had done.

He placed the tip of his wand to her still forehead. The girl's eyes moved, crossing to look at the tip of his wand. That was the only movement the spell allowed her. He concentrated all his power into the spell and focused on what he wanted to do. He needed to be extremely precise, and obliviating children with their scattered, imaginative thoughts was notoriously difficult. When he thought his preparation was sufficient, he cast the spell.

"Obliviate," he said.

The girl's eyes took on a dreamy quality as her eyes moved to stare at the ceiling. Guilt washed over him—Lily would have never forgiven him for this. Obliviating someone was a terrible violation of their personal autonomy. Much as he hated some of his memories, they were what made him himself. He would never willingly give them up, even the many painful ones. He was taking something from the girl, and he was violating her mind yet again.

He could only hope Greengrass and Granger were as skeptical as they had seemed. They didn't believe that someone as timid as Quirrell could play host to the Dark Lord, certainly. And if the girl let the matter drop, then perhaps they would as well. If they reminded the girl of what she had said, the girl would deny it now. It wasn't completely forgotten, but she now remembered it as a hazy dream, a premonition. If the girl had any sense, she wouldn't put her faith in such things, and neither would her two friends. He hadn't dared completely remove it—her friends would find that suspicious.

He didn't have time to ponder it, however. He needed to release the girl from the charm before she came back to herself. It wouldn't do to have to obliviate her again, particularly if it was because he had taken his time thinking and moping over how wrong he was to do this.

He released the spell and kneeled beside her, shaking her shoulder lightly. "Miss Potter," he said.

The girl blinked. "What happened?"

"You passed out," he said. "Perhaps you have not been eating enough."

"What? I eat plenty," she said. "But not today I guess…I was nervous about the game. Didn't eat breakfast, or lunch."

If he didn't feel so terrible about what he had done, he would have sneered. People were always so suggestible, after an obliviate.

He let her take her time sitting up, but when she did, her eyes widened. "God! I can't believe I sassed you like that! I'm sorry, professor, I don't know what came over me!"

"Perhaps lack of nutrition addled your brain beyond the usual, Potter," he said. "I will forgive you this once. I assure you, you are not the first student to take an attitude with me, nor will you be the last."

The girl blinked again. Evidently the girl had trouble believing he could forgive her for that—but how could he not, when he knew why she had acted as she did? Showing disrespect towards someone you thought was trying to deliver you to the Dark Lord was brave. He wondered why the hat hadn't put the girl in Gryffindor. She certainly had her mother's fiery nature.

"Still," she said. "I shouldn't have done that."

"We are in agreement," he said wryly. "Now let us go to the hospital wing so you are Madam Pomfrey's responsibility rather than mine."

*HP*

"What do you mean, it was just a dream?" Daphne said. "You seemed dead sure it was real. You said, I quote, 'I didn't have a nightmare.'"

Hazel played with the white sheet draped over her. Madam Pomfrey had insisted she stay in the hospital wing for the night, all while stuffing her full of the heartiest foods she could find. She had received a terrible lecture about taking better care of herself, about how she would have her taken of the Quidditch team if she didn't eat right, how these things could turn into eating disorders. Hazel knew better than to tell her she had never eaten right. Withholding meals was a favorite punishment of the Dursleys. She had never passed out before. She didn't know why it would happen now.

"I think I was just shook up from the dream—I, I thought it was real. It did seem real. But it was just a dream."

Daphne considered this for a moment, running a hand through her long, blonde hair. She glanced at Hermione, and then said, "Maybe you're a seer. That would explain it. It hasn't happened yet, but it could happen, or maybe not. Seers never know which of their visions are going to come true. It would explain a lot."

Hermione snorted. "Dreams as premonitions? That sounds like nonsense."

"I bet magic sounded fake until it was explained to you," Daphne said heatedly. "My mother is a seer."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Divination is a very sketchy area of magic. I asked Professor McGonagall about it too, when I didn't understand something I read about prophecies. She told me not to pay it any mind, that it was a bunch nonsense."

"It's not sketchy," Daphne said. "It's misunderstood. It's no more unlikely than magic itself existing. I'm just saying, it would explain why Hazel thought it was real when it wasn't. We still need to keep an eye on Snape and Quirrell—her premonition could mean he's up to something."

"People don't have other people sticking out of the back of their head!" Hermione said.

"It could've been symbolic! You know, for Quirrell being Voldemort's puppet."

"Or it could be a load of hogwash!"

Hazel heard Daphne mutter something like "close-minded bookworm"—Hermione opened her mouth to respond, so Hazel raised a hand and told them to shut up, that they were making her barmy. Hermione had the decency to look contrite, but Daphne looked like she still wanted to argue.

"What do we do now, then? Say she did have, a premonition," she said, saying the last word as if it were something dirty. "Do we warn people about it?"

Daphne frowned. "I don't think so. Divination is a form of time magic, though most people don't think of it as such. Terrible things happen to people who meddle with time. People have gone mad trying to stop a future they don't know was going to come to pass in the first place. All Divination shows is possibilities, not eventualities."

"Perhaps I should read more about Divination before writing it off," Hermione said. "I had never heard it was time magic. Most of the books on it in the library were filled with pretentious drivel about how it was the most noble art of parsing the possible from the definite."

"You're right," Daphne said. "Most of the books are pretentious drivel. But pretentious drivel is what sells."

"I suppose so," Hermione said sheepishly. "But Professor McGonagall said…"

"Professor McGonagall knows a lot about Transfiguration, but isn't an expert on Divination, Hermione. She's very rational—you can't expect her to approach a subject that most think spurns rationality with a fair outlook."

"What does it mean if I am a seer? Will I dream more things like this?"

"Possibly," Daphne said. "Mother says some seers don't have much of the talent and only see rarely. It's impossible to tell. You could have premonitions every night, or not at all. If you want to, you can write my mother for advice. She knows all about Snape from my father and won't dismiss your story out of hand."

"I don't know," Hazel said. "I'm sure your mum's nice, but I don't like the idea of telling anyone else. The more people who know something, the harder it is to keep it secret."

"My mother's no blabbermouth," Daphne said.

"I'm sure she isn't. But for now, until we know more, I'd like to keep this just between us."

"I still say we should go to Professor Dumbledore," Hermione said.

"I promise, if Snape and Quirrell try anything, I'll tell Dumbledore."

"If it's not too late," Daphne muttered.