Thursday 31 October, 1991:

"Just who the fuck," growled Skelton, covering her plate of food with her hands, "thought it would be a good idea to have two thousand live bats flying around the Great Hall? I mean, what if they start shitting on us? Or the food?"

"I doubt they're real," said Lena, looking around the Hall with mild interest as bats flew everywhere. The Headmaster's idea, she was sure, of livening up the Halloween Feast. "More likely they're magical creations that will only exist for a limited time – say, four hours." She smirked at Skelton. "So I don't think you have to worry about bucket loads of shit raining down on us. Dumbledore's not that eccentric."

"Still," grumbled Skelton, wincing as a group of bats zoomed past directly in front of her, "it's a stupid idea."

Lena said nothing, electing instead to have a mouthful of salad. It was exactly as she liked it – all the right ingredients from the type of lettuce she enjoyed most to her favourite salad dressing. Courtesy of the house-elves.

Absentmindedly, she looked across to the Gryffindor table. Ever since the incident in the Grand Staircase, from time to time she had felt someone staring at her from over there. She had expected Longbottom's gaze, but although she had caught him looking her way a couple of times, more often than not it was actually the Potter boy whose eyes were on her.

She had barely noticed him that time in the Grand Staircase, but clearly he had noticed her. And, she assumed from his distinctly suspicious gaze, he'd asked some of the older students about her, and she couldn't imagine they'd had anything nice to say. In any case, most of the time she now sat facing the Gryffindor table, as she disliked the feeling of being watched from behind.

Of course, thoughts of being watched instantly brought Quirrell to mind. Since that lesson in which she'd jinxed him, Quirrell's fascination with Lena appeared to only have intensified. For the past month they had mainly been doing practical work in Defence Against the Dark Arts, pairing up and casting jinxes and counter-jinxes on each other. Quirrell closely watched her and Skelton's efforts, but Lena was reluctant to show off again in front of him, keeping one of Aunt Valeriya's pearls of wisdom in mind:

Don't ever reveal the true extent of your abilities, unless there is no other choice. Especially to someone you don't trust – which really should be everyone. It's fine to give an initial display of power, especially if someone is already watching you, but only enough to make them think twice about crossing you. You want to keep them guessing – people fear the unknown.

It was something Lena had kept in mind since coming to Hogwarts, particularly when dealing with teachers. For instance, she had only revealed that she could do non-verbal magic about halfway through Fourth Year, rather than the end of Second Year, when she had first become reasonably proficient. Defence Against the Dark Arts was an annoyingly difficult subject to know where to draw the line – after all, her childhood had brought her into contact with the Dark Arts more often and closely than most teachers qualified in the subject ever would be.

Her mind now on Quirrell, Lena scanned the teachers' table, and observed that the DADA professor was not among his colleagues. Lena frowned. All the other teachers, with the exception of the Divination professor, Trelawney, were there. So where was he?

She got her answer about ten minutes later, when Quirrell came sprinting into the Hall, his turban askew and terror on his face. Conversations died down as the students watched him make his way to the teachers' table. He reached Dumbledore's chair, slumped against the table and gasped, "Troll – in the dungeons – thought you ought to know."

He then sank to the floor in a dead faint.

There was uproar. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of Dumbledore's wand to bring silence.

"Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your houses back to their dormitories immediately!"

"Are you kidding me?!" hissed Skelton. "Our dormitories are in the fucking dungeons!"

Clearly, Skelton wasn't the only Slytherin to think of this, as Lena heard other similar exclamations echoed around their table. As the other houses began to exit the Hall, Lena saw Snape quickly speak to the Seventh Year Slytherin Prefects, before joining the other teachers, who she suspected were heading to the dungeons.

The male Seventh Year Prefect, Richmond, raised his voice above the mutters of the confused house. "Professor Snape has asked us to remain in the Great Hall until the troll has been dealt with."

The Slytherin students began to settle back into their seats again, evidently relieved. Lena, however, frowned and twirled her hair around her fingers. Skelton recognised the expression.

"What's up?" she asked Lena quietly.

"I'm wondering why Quirrell was in the dungeons during the Halloween Feast," replied Lena, her voice just as soft. "And also–" she indicated to the teachers' table with her head, "–where he sneaked off to."

Skelton looked at where Quirrell had been lying unconscious on the floor. He was gone. "When–"

"While Snape was talking to the Prefects and the teachers were leaving," answered Lena, before Skelton could finish asking her question. "He cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and went out the back entrance of the Hall." She gestured towards a door in the corner of the Hall nearest to the teachers' table.

"What?" said Skelton, alarmed. "Why?"

But Lena had realised something. "Oh, that's clever," she murmured to herself. She glanced at Skelton. "The troll. It was a diversion."

Skelton looked dumbfounded. "A diversion for what?"

But Lena was standing up. "Tell you later," she told Skelton distractedly, and hurriedly walked to the Hall's main doors.

"Oi, Lestrange!" called out Richmond. "Where are you going?"

Lena didn't bother responding. She knew the Prefects wouldn't really try to stop her. Ignoring Richmond's further questions, she exited the Great Hall, and made her way to a staircase. She needed to get to the third-floor.

How, wondered Severus Snape as he urgently climbed the stairs leading to the Charms corridor on the third-floor, could Dumbledore have guessed that there was something up with Quirrell, right from the beginning of the school year?

Snape had been watching Quirrell for the past two months, but hadn't been able to sense anything wrong with him – 'Well, apart from being a complete nervous wreck,' thought Snape wryly. He had begun to suspect that Dumbledore was being overly paranoid about the Philosopher's Stone. After all, hadn't the Headmaster asked Quirrell to help protect the Stone anyway? (Of course, realised Snape, his mistrust would have been a little too obvious to everyone if Dumbledore hadn't included Quirrell in the Stone's protection.) But then Quirrell had come running into the Great Hall that evening, shouting about a troll in the dungeons, and Snape had immediately sensed something was off about the DADA teacher's story. He had left the Great Hall with the other teachers, so as not to alert Quirrell to his suspicions, but at the first opportunity had snuck away to check the third-floor corridor.

He reached the Charms corridor and hurried towards the door. He was relieved to find it was still locked. However, he quickly realised that Quirrell might had already gone through and locked it behind him. He would actually need to go into the third-floor corridor to check it was undisturbed.

"Alohomora," he muttered, pointing his wand at the door, and he heard the lock click.

But as he grabbed the doorknob, he faltered. Hagrid's monster was behind the door, and he doubted the creature would recognise that he wasn't a potential thief.

Snape steeled himself. He didn't have time for this hesitation, Quirrell could already be down the trapdoor. Holding his wand out in front of him, he opened the door.

The three-headed dog was only four or five feet away, and as soon as it saw the door open, it lunged.

"Protego!" said Snape hastily, throwing up a shield in front of him. The creature slammed into the invisible barrier and was flung back.

Taking advantage of the brief respite from the monster, Snape quickly moved forward. The creature's current position was blocking his view of the trapdoor, so he ventured further into the corridor. When he saw the trapdoor was still closed, he let out a small sigh of relief. It didn't look like Quirrell had gone through.

Snape began to move back, his wand pointed at the three-headed dog, which was getting back to its feet and growling at him. Keeping one eye on the head nearest to him, he searched for the doorway in his peripheral vision.

What happened next was a blur to Snape. One of the heads of the creature that he wasn't focused on came out of nowhere, and he reacted instinctively, shouting "Stupefy!" But this didn't have any effect on the beast, except to make it even more aggressive. Suddenly, Snape felt a sharp, agonizing pain in his left leg, around the knee. Just as he realised that the pain was originating from the fact the creature had one of its jaws clamped around his leg, there was a loud thwack as something connected with the nose of the head. The pressure around Snape's leg disappeared – although the pain remained – and he felt himself being hurriedly dragged out of the corridor. All three heads lunged towards him again, but the door was slammed shut in the nick of time. Whoever had dragged him out set Snape down on the floor. He breathed in and out deeply, and clutched his injured leg. The mere fact that it hadn't been bitten off began to calm him down. Then he heard the voice of his saviour, and the feeling of calmness immediately evaporated.

"Are you a lunatic, or just a moron?"

Snape's eyes snapped towards the person standing next to him, staring down at him with what he found to be an infuriatingly judgemental expression.

"Lestrange," he snarled, "what the hell are you doing here?"

"Me? Oh, I was just out for a stroll around the castle," said Lestrange sarcastically. "But I got a bit distracted when I saw that my Head of House had decided his new ambition in life was to become a chew toy." She held something out to him. "By the way, you dropped your wand."

Snape snatched his wand out of her hand, and glowered at her. "Don't test my patience," he hissed. "You're supposed to be in the Great Hall with the rest of your housemates."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Then it's probably a good thing I have a habit of turning up where I'm not supposed to be," she said drily. "Or you might have had one less leg. Or just have been dog food." She shook her head at him in a patronising fashion. "Did you seriously try to Stun a three-headed dog? Honestly, what were you thinking?"

"It was a reasonable course of action," snapped Snape, before mentally berating himself for acting as though he had to explain himself to Lestrange.

Lestrange crouched down beside Snape. She look unimpressed with his response. "Of course it wasn't reasonable. Any sort of offensive magic doesn't work on that sort of creature," she told him. She cocked her head, as if surprised. "Haven't you ever met a three-headed dog before?"

"Of course I haven't!" Snape paused as the implication of what Lestrange had just said sunk in. "Have you?"

"I had an eventful childhood," she replied flatly. "Now, before you ask me any more questions – did Quirrell get past?"

Snape stared at the girl in shock. How could she possibly know? "What are you talking about?" he said in a low voice, trying to hide his panic.

Lestrange hesitated, as if trying to decide what to tell him. "I saw him cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, then sneak out of the Great Hall," she said finally.

But Snape wasn't satisfied with her answer. "But how did–"

"Look, it doesn't matter," said Lestrange impatiently. "The important thing is that Dumbledore's alerted if somebody got through the trapdoor."

Snape met her gaze for a moment. It was somehow defiant and emotionless at the same time.

"The trapdoor was undisturbed," he said shortly.

Lestrange nodded, and some of the tension in her body seemed to disappear. "Right. Then the next most important thing is to heal that leg." She indicated towards the bloody wound. Snape had almost forgotten about it in his shock at seeing Lestrange.

"I can deal with it," he said.

Lestrange looked doubtful. "I think you should probably see Madam Pom–"

"It's fine," snapped Snape. He pointed his wand at the injury. "Vulnera Sanentur," he muttered. But the healing spell made very little difference. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lestrange had an 'I-told-you-so' expression on her face, and he felt a strong urge to hex her. Instead, he pushed himself up into a standing position. "Go back to the Great Hall, and don't breathe a word of this to anyone. Then I want to see you in my office at seven o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. Do you understand?"

For a second, Lestrange looked like she wanted to argue, but then her expression went blank. "Yes, Professor," she said smoothly. She turned around and briskly walked down the Charms corridor.

Snape's lip curled in distaste as he stared after her. The last thing he needed was Lestrange to involve herself in the matter of the Philosopher's Stone. And what was her motive for doing so? He grimaced. 'Whatever it is,' he thought darkly, 'it can't be good.'

Lena knocked on the door to Snape's office at precisely seven o'clock the next morning.

"Enter," she heard the Potions Master call out. She opened the door and stepped through.

The last time Lena had been in Snape's office was four years ago, when he had questioned her over Leonora Travers. The Sixth Year girl had been suffering from an... affliction, Lena was told, and suspicion had been cast over her. But despite Snape's best efforts, there had been no substantial evidence to connect Lena with the incident, and she had left his office free of any blame. He had been wary of her ever since.

The office was dimly lit, but it was obviously well-organised. The books and stacks of paper on his desk were neatly arranged, and the shelves that contained potions ingredients were clearly labelled. An empty cauldron sat in the corner of the office, a bare table next to it. Evidently, Lena thought with mild amusement, the lack of effort Snape put into his own appearance was balanced by the meticulous order in which he kept his possessions.

Snape was sitting at his desk, writing on a piece of parchment. Lena shut the door behind her, and walked over so she was standing across from him. There was a chair, and Lena waited to see if Snape would ask her to take a seat in it.

He didn't.

"So," he said, finally putting his quill away and looking up at Lena. She looked back at him, as though politely interested.

There was a long pause.

Finally, Snape spoke again. "The events of last night." He waited, apparently expecting Lena to say something.

She didn't.

Snape exhaled through his nose. "You saw Professor Quirrell cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself?" he prompted.

Lena nodded. "Yes, sir."

He looked at her expectantly again, but she added nothing else. He narrowed his eyes at her, his irritation obviously growing. "And then what? You followed him to the third-floor corridor?"

Inwardly, Lena smirked. But to Snape, she simply raised an eyebrow. "Followed, sir? How could I if he had cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself? I wouldn't be able to see him."

Snape glared at her. "Then how do you know he left the Great Hall?"

This time, Lena couldn't hold back a derisive snort. "You mean apart from the fact it would have been extremely pointless to Disillusion yourself, and then stay in the room where you were supposed to be? Well, Professor, I watched the door open and close without anyone visibly going through, and it was a bit of a giveaway."

The Potions Master's fingers twitched, as if they were itching to throttle her. "Then tell me, Lestrange," he hissed, "how did you end up on the third-floor?"

Lena met his hostile gaze unflinchingly. "Because once I concluded that the troll was a diversion, I assumed that the distraction was to provide Quirrell an opportunity to enter the third-floor corridor and go through the trapdoor."

"And how," said Snape, his voice barely more than a whisper, "did you know there was a trapdoor there?"

"Because I went into the third-floor corridor the first morning back of the school year."

There was a momentary silence.

"So, you entered the forbidden corridor within less than twenty-four hours of the Headmaster expressly telling you not to," drawled Snape. "Was there some sort of rule-breaking record you were going for, Lestrange?"

Lena smiled at him pleasantly. "Technically, sir, Professor Dumbledore said it was only out-of-bounds if you didn't 'wish to die a very painful death'. So unless you can actually prove that's not how I want to die, I didn't break any rules."

Snape stood up suddenly, and leaned forward on his desk. As he stared at Lena, the dislike was plain on his face. "Oh, you're very clever, Lestrange," he whispered venomously. "Enlighten me then – how did you avoid a very painful death?"

Lena dropped the pleasant smile, and instead met Snape's gaze coldly. "I dealt with the creature in the appropriate manner," she said quietly. "But you evidently don't know what that is – and Quirrell mustn't know either, or he would have been down that trapdoor. So it's a good thing dealing with three-headed dogs isn't common knowledge, isn't it? By the way, Professor, how's the leg?"

Snape slammed his fist down on the desk. He snarled at her, "I don't care how smart you think you are, Lestrange, I am your teacher, and I will not tolerate your insolence!" He breathed heavily, staring at her with loathing. "I told Dumbledore that he never should have let you come to Hogwarts, I knew the moment I saw you that you would bring nothing but trouble–"

"Which moment you saw me?" interrupted Lena, her voice still soft. "On my first day at Hogwarts, or when you used to come around for the Death Eater meetings at my house?"

Snape froze. His knuckles clutched the desk, turning white.

"Remember those?" continued Lena, whispering. "I do. You, my parents, Rabastan, Lucius, Antonin, Avery, Mulciber – you and him were school friends, weren't you? Macnair, Rookwood – oh, the list goes on." She gave Snape a twisted smile. "So, is that when you first knew I would bring nothing but trouble?" When he seemed unable to formulate a reply, she pressed on. "But what I really want to know, Severus, is what does Dumbledore have on you?"

At this, Snape appeared to regain his wits. "What are you talking about?" he hissed. But although the venom in his voice was still present, there was a look of apprehension in his eyes.

Lena tilted her head, the twisted smile still on her face. "Dumbledore wouldn't hire a former Death Eater as a teacher if didn't trust them – or knew he could be sure of their co-operation. So what does he know about you, Snape? What's big enough that he would ignore the fact that you willingly signed up to be a member of a blood-purist gang that killed Muggles for fun? How does he have such a hold over you? Tell me that, because I've been trying to figure it out for the last four years, and it has to be something really good."

"Why don't you tell me," said Snape quietly, "what you and the Dark Lord were doing all those hours alone up in your room?"

It was Lena's turn to freeze. However, she recovered quicker than Snape had. "That's really none of your concern," she said, a warning in her tone.

But Snape, sensing he had struck a nerve, didn't let it go. "Of all his devoted and loyal followers, why pay special attention to you? Was it, perhaps," he sneered, "that he sensed a kindred spirit in you?"

Lena's heart was pounding. Memories began to flash through her mind, and she forcefully shoved them back down. "Shut up," she whispered, clenching her fists.

Snape, however, was relishing her discomfort. "Or maybe you were just a pet." His eyes glittered with malice. "Were you his little monster, Lestrange?"

Lena dug her nails so hard into the palms of her hands that she could feel them breaking through the skin. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. "Don't talk–" she started to say, before stopping. She exhaled, before beginning again. "I'm not going to try to explain it to you, Snape," she said quietly. "It's beyond your understanding."

This, more than anything, appeared to infuriate Snape, and his face contorted in rage. When he spoke again, his voice trembled in fury. "Is that so? Well, I think that's for me to decide."

A split second before it happened, Lena knew what Snape was about to do and prepared herself to be tested more than she had been in years.

In a swift movement, Snape withdrew his wand from his robes. "Legilimens," he roared, pointing it at her.

It was like a sledgehammer had hit Lena's Occlumency barrier. The impact caused a mental ringing in her ears, and she was almost thrown off balance by the force of Snape's attack. But she stood her ground. Blue-grey eyes met black, and Lena shoved back against the intrusion.

His first attempt unsuccessful, Snape gritted his teeth, and a moment later Lena felt another onslaught. She focused hard on the protective wall encasing her mind, strengthening it.

Their minds struggled against each other for another few seconds, until Lena drew back for a second. The momentary respite surprised Snape enough that he was not prepared when Lena slammed back against his mind.

The mental shove was hard enough that Snape was physically thrown back. He crashed into his chair, which also fell back, and he hit the ground hard.

Lena, meanwhile, stumbled back a few steps but just managed to keep her footing. She whipped her wand out from her robe pocket and pointed it at Snape, who was getting back to his feet. His own wand had flown across the room when he'd been thrown back, and he warily eyed hers. However, when he took a look at her face, it was clear that her expression was more worrying to him.

Over the years, Lena had become extremely good at hiding her feelings. Usually, all she allowed was a hint of emotion to grace her face – enough not to be suspicious, but not enough to give too much away. But now, the fury in her eyes and her snarled lips was unmistakeable. In fact, if Lena had been able to see her own expression at that moment, she might have thought she was deranged.

"Did you really think," she began, her voice a chilling hiss, "that you could break into my mind, when I knew how to keep out Lord Voldemort before I was even six years old?"

Snape said nothing. He barely even flinched at the mention of the Dark Lord's name. He just watched her as though she was a snake who might strike at any moment.

"If you ever," continued Lena, "ever, try that again, I will destroy you." She paused, and when she spoke again, her tone was less angry, but still serious. "You don't want me as an enemy, Snape, so I suggest you stop treating me as one." She lowered her wand, and strode to the door.

But just she put her hand on the handle, Snape finally spoke. "It really is uncanny," he said softly, "how much you are starting to resemble your mother."

For a moment, there was only silence.

Lena felt like she was in slow motion. As she clutched the door handle, she felt the rage that had just begun to evaporate come flooding back into her, with even more intensity than before. Anger, pain, and hatred whirled around inside her. And then it burst out.

Glass shattered. The cauldron soared across the room and crashed into a wall with such force that it broke into pieces on impact. Snape threw himself to the ground to avoid all the objects in the room that had taken flight and were smashing into each other and the walls. The shelves of ingredients crashed to floor. Fragments of wood, paper, stone and glass circled around the room like a tornado of debris. Then it all dropped to the ground, and there was silence again.

Lena hadn't looked around once while it was happening, and now she only looked back over her shoulder for a split second at the smashed up office, and the cowering Potions Master in the centre of it. Then she snapped her head back to the front. She flung open the door and left without another word.

Friday 25 January, 1980:

"You didn't cry."

Lena looked at the man who her parents called the Dark Lord, but didn't say anything. He was sitting on the side of her bed, watching her intently as she leaned against the headboard.

He spoke again. "She hurt you, but you didn't cry."

This time, Lena replied. "I don't cry," she said quietly.

He tilted his head. "Why not?"

Lena shrugged. "I just don't." She paused, before adding, "I used to, I think. But now I don't."

The Dark Lord continued to watch her. He seemed intrigued. It made Lena suspicious. He had never shown any interest in her before that evening, or none that she could remember, at any rate.

"But you got angry."

"Yes." Lena twirled a lock of hair around her finger, and stared down at her lap. "I hate her," she muttered.

"Yes," murmured the Dark Lord, and Lena felt his curious gaze still upon her. "I thought you did. The look on your face..." He stopped.

Lena looked back up at him. He appeared to be scrutinizing her, as if trying to make a decision.

"That was an impressive display of accidental magic, down there in the kitchen," he finally said. "Only, I suppose it wasn't really accidental, was it?"

"I didn't know what was going to happen."

"But you wanted to hurt her back, didn't you?"

Lena frowned. "I guess. But..." She hesitated, playing with her hair again. "It was more that I just... got angry."

"And there was so much anger inside of you that you had to let some of it out," he said quietly.

Surprised, Lena sat up straight. "How'd you know that?"

The Dark Lord just gave her a small smile. "Merely a guess. How old are you, Lena?"

"Four," she replied. "Why?"

He seemed to have made up his mind about something. "I believe it would be a waste of time to wait until you are eleven to start your magical training, particularly when it's apparent that you have so much potential." He leaned forward, closer to the confused Lena. "I would like to teach you."

Her eyes lit up, but her voice was cautious. "To use magic?" The Dark Lord nodded. "When?"

"Starting next week," he answered. "I think perhaps a two hour lesson once a week would be a good starting point. I'm sure your parents would have no objections." From the tone of his voice, Lena thought the Dark Lord was pretty sure that her parents wouldn't dare object to anything he wanted.

"And you'd be my teacher?" she asked. When he nodded again, Lena couldn't help the small smile that came to her face. "Okay."

He smiled back and stood up. "I will go inform your parents of the arrangement now. And I will see you next week, on Friday afternoon, for your first lesson."

The Dark Lord had just reached her bedroom door when Lena called out, "Wait!"

He turned around. "Yes?"

Lena took a deep breath. "Could you teach me to hurt her back? Like, properly hurt her?"

For a second, the Dark Lord stared at her. Then an amused smile crossed his face. "I could teach you to kill her, if you like."

Lena's eyes widened. "Really?"

He laughed. "Really. Oh, believe me, Lena – I understand what it's like to want to rid yourself of a parent." He sounded almost sympathetic, and Lena felt something strange inside her.

'Is this how liking someone feels?' she wondered silently. 'Do I like him?'

"But there is a lot to learn before we reach that particular lesson," the Dark Lord continued. "And besides, I'm afraid your mother is rather useful to me at the moment. But perhaps in time, she will no longer... be necessary."

"And you wouldn't stop me then?" asked Lena quietly.

His expression suddenly became more serious. "Let the first thing I teach you be this: if someone treats you badly, don't let them get away with it. Punish them." He paused. "Your mother treats you badly, Lena. And if I teach you well enough, one day you will be able to punish her accordingly. When that time comes, I won't stand in your way." He stared at her for a few more seconds, before saying abruptly, "I will see you next week."

Lena watched as he closed the door behind him. A smile played on her lips. The Dark Lord was going to be her teacher.

'One day', she told herself, 'I'm going to be as powerful as him. And nobody – not Mother, not anyone – will ever hurt me again.'