After ignoring the arcane symbols decorating the edge of the thing and stifling a giggle at some of its ludicrous predictions, she stuffed it in her desk drawer for amusement on a rainy day. Snape gave her an old Victorian volume on potions written by Holmes, which she received gratefully. She saw him smirk at Trelawny's horoscope, and she smiled in return in acknowledgment of a shared joke.
There was a certain calm routine to the first few months. By day she was trying to get her students into shape in Defense Against the Dark Arts. The first year Gryffindors and Slytherins were giving her a headache: young Lowe and Lightoller had taken a dislike to each other and had been n a few scuffles in her class. Thankfully, even magic-born Lightoller hadn't learned enough curses to have a wizard's duel, so the damage was confined to that caused by fists. Snape had threatened the hell out of Lightoller the last time, and McGonagall had taken Lowe to task (even though Lightoller had begun it by lunging at Lowe when the boy made a sarcastic reply to Lightoller's deriding Lowe's Muggle birth). There hadn't been an incident for a few weeks now, and it was the week before Halloween.
The seventh years were getting into shape decently, and the sixth years were not far behind. In all, she was pleased with their progress, and Dumbledore had let it be known that he was pleased with her.
And by night she and Snape still kept up the desperate rescue operations. She still grieved the few they had missed, but even Snape admitted things were going better now that they could save two families in one night. Even still, sometimes she dreamed of the families they arrived to find stricken dead, sick with horror and guilt. Draco was hard at work on sabotaging Wormtail and Lucius Malfoy, as those two were linchpins of the entire Death Eater organization. She saw him looking exhausted some days, and knew Snape was providing him with Wakefulness and Energizing Potions on a regular basis. How much longer can things go on like this before something breaks, for any of us?
She didn't know. The war had intensified, and Voldemort's blood lust wasn't satisfied with Muggles and Aurors. He was calling for assaults on larger prey, though he was vague about whom he meant. He could mean Dumbledore perhaps, or Arthur Weasley. Weasley was very open and defiant in his proclamations against Voldemort. It stirred the wizarding world into a frenzy of organization and resistance, whereas things had been fractured terribly under Fudge. But they all knew that in acting in such a fury against Voldemort, Weasley had effectively painted a large bull's-eye on himself. She had warned Ron to be careful when he had come to Hogwarts early in October to meet with Draco on strategy.
It was Saturday now, and she was grateful for the respite from classes. She felt like Alastor Moody at times, ready to bark about "Constant vigilance!" and the sort. She was out walking the grounds, enjoying the fresh fall breeze and the crunch and rustle of the fallen leaves underfoot, remembering days as a child playing in heaps of them.
Maybe Tosca would like to go flying, she thought. The only excursion she had made out from Hogwarts had been to Hogsmeade two weeks before, and although the staff had agreed to continue the visits, they were briefer and more harried affairs than before. She had taken the opportunity to buy herself a new set of robes at Gladrags, and Snape had stocked up on Potions ingredients. Then the two of them had hastily ushered the students, laden with Zonko's gags and Honeydukes' sweets, back to the castle, eyes searching the horizon all the while warily. It was good to just have a freedom flight now and again.
She began scanning the sky for the big white gyrfalcon, since she'd probably be out hunting today. Either that or chasing after a silver tiercel she had apparently found last month, and was a little smitten with. She recognized the flight of a gyrfalcon towards the Forbidden Forest, but the color that came to her sight was not white, but black.
Snape's out to spy? she thought. Oh damn, and he must have been looking for me. Didn't find me and decided to get going. Funny that there would be a meeting in the afternoon, but they've done it before…I can still catch him, perhaps. He's not running off without me--not safe. In the time it took to transform and fly after him, he was already nearly at the clearing in the middle of the forest. She was a bit too slow: he Apparated just as she dove to land beside him.
With a mental shrug, she fixated her Apparating with the command, Nearby Severus Snape. When she came to her senses, though, it wasn't the usual sight of Malfoy Manor looming above her on the hill.
Instead, she saw him up ahead lighting gracefully on a churchyard fence for a moment, peering around, and then gliding lazily to the foot of two graves. Who is it? she wondered, not daring to approach. Obviously he wasn't here to spy, but she dared not move and make noise that would attract attention. It was a simple mistake that she found herself here, but she got the feeling he might get cross if he found her.
He sat there for a minute, a huddled, small black form. He was saying something, but from her hiding place in the trees, she could make out no words. Then a patch of grass slowly Transfigured to wildflowers, obviously by his doing, which he stepped over to and carefully picked up in his beak, putting the bright, fresh blossoms on the graves. He stood there for another minute in quiet reverence, and then Apparated away.
Obviously he could not come here in his human form, but who was so important that he would risk coming here in any form whatsoever? She knew so little of him that curiosity overwhelmed her, and she flew down to the graves.
The inscription was somewhat hard to read, as ivy had largely overtaken the small churchyard. The roar of the sea was in her ears--from the trees she had seen it not too far away. The smell of brine and cry of gulls wasn't too hard to discern. Navigus, she murmured, wondering where on Earth she was.
The Mapping Charm produced a ghostly, translucent map in front of her eyes, and she saw that she was on the north coast of Wales, in a place called Deganwy. It was a peaceful, beautiful place, truly.
She stepped forward awkwardly on her falcon feet and studied the double stone, etching the inscription into her mind as surely as it was carved into the grey marble. Beneath "In Loving Memory of" were the names. "Stepan Mikhaelovich Morozov. Born January 13, 1940. Died October 27, 1981." Only forty-one years old. She moved to the other half with some discomfort. "Anastasya Sergeievna Morozova. Born April 14, 1941. Died October 27, 1981." Obviously somebody from the Morozov's native Russia had seen to the stone, since Anastasya's last name inscribed as "Morozova" in the Russian fashion, rather than the "Morozov" a Briton would have put.
They died the week before Voldemort was defeated by Lily Potter, she realized, a shudder going down her spine. Were they two of the Dark Lord's last victims--two he failed to save? She realized it was October 27th that day--the twentieth anniversary of their deaths.
With many more questions than she had come with, she Transfigured a small rock to two small bouquets of lily-of-the-valley, which she seemed to remember stood for remembrance. Whoever the Morozovs had been, Snape remembered them, and obviously mourned their loss. Or did it stand for happiness? Well, it was the sentiment that counted.
She Apparated back to the clearing in the Forbidden Forest, the image of the two quiet graves in her mind. She could not ask him who they were without revealing her clumsy blunder in following him, and she didn't want him to know that she had seen him there grieving. It was too personal, too private. If he had wished to share it with her, he would have.
As she flew back to Hogwarts, though, she finally encountered Tosca. Hallo, Tosca said, lazily dipping her wings and banking to drop into flight beside her. Where have you been?
She sighed, wondering if Tosca would know anything. After all, the gyrfalcon joked that Snape had ranted to her for years, smugly concluding, Because he thought I could never repeat a word of it.
Fly for awhile, she requested.
Saw some good hare if you're interested. The part of Hermione that was human really had no interest in eating raw hare, but she acquiesced to hunting with Tosca. After all, the falcon had to eat.
Do you know anything about a family called Morozov? she finally asked as they glided over the moor.
Should say so. I'm familiar to one of them, after all… Tosca answered, eyeing the ground sharply. Was that one?
No, just grass blowing. What do you mean? You were owned by one?
Am, dear. Present tense. Sev's one.
What? She cut in front of Tosca and looked back over her shoulder. You know about all this?
Who the hell do you think he talked to when everybody else avoids him like the plague? A teddy bear? Tosca said scornfully. All right, I'll tell you if you promise to bring me something from the kitchens to make up for the hare I'll be missing.
Deal. Just don't tell him you told me. She explained how the question had come up as they landed on the branches of a tree and settled in comfortably. So of course I wondered who they were, even if I found them by accident.
Some of it's his to tell, if he so chooses, Tosca answered, preening her wind-blown feathers for a moment. But our sarcastic Potions Master was born in Russia. Aleksandr Stepanovich Morovoz, by name. Not as bad as the days of Stalin his parents grew up in, but to make it short, the Soviet government didn't like magic, among other things, and stole away anyone showing signs of it for testing or God knew what else. Salem, Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and the rest started a sort of trafficking to get Muggle-born magic children out of Russia, since they and their parents had no clue what was going on and would have been sitting ducks for the KGB.
And Snape…um…Morozov…well, you know, was one of them. She stated the obvious. They came to England to get away…
He changed his name when he came to Hogwarts to start anew, with Dumbledore's approval. Kept his middle name as Alexander, interestingly enough. Seen that on papers he's signed. Can understand why he picked up a British wizard-sounding name, though. Not good to be Russian in the West in those days--middle of the Cold War. Not quite as bad as with the Yanks, but I'm sure the Muggle children were none too fond of him. He made up an entire past, especially since he was in Slytherin--created a life as a supposed magic-born to survive. The Serpent's Den isn't hospitable to those who don't fit in now, and it was apparently worse then.
You're telling me. William Monk, the only Muggle-born in Slytherin right then, had passed a hell of a time to begin at Hogwarts.
So yes, got through Hogwarts. That's about all I know, except that he's an only child and that his parents died the week before Voldemort fell. Don't know if they were killed by means magical or Muggle…he never speaks of it. Tosca glanced her way and went on. I only know this because he got completely pissed on vodka, of all things, six years ago on the anniversary and was bemoaning how he couldn't even go visit their graves, since he was trapped in Hogwarts without exception at that time. First year he was stuck, of course. Just started rambling to me about all this.
I see. It put a whole new facet on things, that was for certain, and raised yet more questions. Still, she resolved not to ask any of them. If he wanted to tell her, that was fine. If not, it was no use her prying. That was a lesson she had learned since his tutelage her seventh year.
In near-silence they flew back towards Hogwarts. At dinner she felt like she could barely look at him, as though he'd see it in her eyes. He had tried so desperately to fit in at Hogwarts, by changing his name, his past, working hard, but it had come to nothing. He glanced up at her and their eyes met. She willed herself to keep steady, and smiled a little back at him when the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Carefully she buried the new knowledge deep in her mind. She might not have intended to discover it, but she didn't intend to use it against him in any way. If he ever told her about his past, well, she could just act as though she knew nothing whatsoever about it.
She nodded decisively at that, and was composed enough to talk with him as they walked the corridors after dinner. He asked her opinion on a potion that he was working on, his license to do restricted research having been reinstated by Arthur Weasley, and she answered him, relief sweeping through her. Like old times, except that instead of teacher and pupil, they were now on footing as equals, and he always treated her as such without a misstep or awkwardness. "Hmm. Well, you might try the cherry bark," she answered, as they walked towards the dungeons.
Young Bert Lightoller grinned as he saw them together and wondered if perhaps he might annoy Harold Lowe by telling him that a teacher from his house liked a Slytherin. Then again, the idea of Professor Snape being so senseless as to like a bloody Gryffindor wasn't something he wanted to trumpet in the common room. He scurried off when William Monk ushered him towards the common room, sternly informing him that he had best study Transfiguration harder. No accounting for taste, he thought.