Author's note: Thanks go to Butterfly, Fortuna, In Silent Lucidity, Miriam (you pushy little Gryffindor, you) and vpatel. Geez, I love these thank-you notes in the beginning :D

Chapter 20: What Others Do Abhor…

O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantise of skill
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:
If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.

—William Shakespeare: Sonnet No. 150

The following morning Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, his three best friends huddled around him, engaged in a hushed conversation, their respective breakfasts completely forgotten, as Harry told them what he had learnt the previous night.

"Oh my god," Hermione said. "Is this true?"

"I wish it weren't," Harry replied.

"And you heard and saw everything?" Ginny asked, her eyes wide. "That must have been… awful…"

Harry nodded. He had told them about his dream as he had told Dumbledore and Ron. Having already seen it once and explained it twice, it didn't bother him so much anymore to talk about it, yet it upset him greatly to think about it. Was this a contradiction in terms, being able to talk about it effortlessly, yet not being capable of bearing to think about it? Harry did not know.

He was glad when Ginny drew his head down on her shoulder and kissed his forehead. It felt so good to have her near. Once again, for the thousandth time during the last two years he scolded himself for not noticing earlier how simply put wonderful Ginny was, not only beautiful and intelligent, but caring, too. It was just that sometimes she was awfully quiet and lost in thoughts.

"What now?" Ginny asked softly.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked back, lifting his head.

"Well, is she staying at Hogwarts with Dumbledore knowing who and what she is?"

"He knew who she is all along and it didn't seem to bother him that much."

"Yes, but he does hate Dementors," Ron whispered, apparently still appalled at the mere thought that he had ever been in the same room with her.

"She can't have so much of one in her," Hermione said, her infamous 'I'm going to tell you what the facts are' expression firmly attached to her face and voice. "Remember what happened to your Patronus, Harry? It didn't charge at her at all. And you don't faint when near her either. That proves that she's quite enough human—as if that would make a difference. No matter what, she never gave anyone a reason to… well… you know what I want to say."

Harry didn't answer. He was thinking again, the images from his dream flashing through his mind in quick succession. He shook his head, screwing his eyes shut until he saw only different shades of red dancing before his eyes.

"Harry? You alright?" someone asked.

"Hmm?" Harry opened his eyes again. "Oh, yes, I'm okay."

"What do you think about her?"

"I'm not sure. But she's Vol—sorry, Ron—You-Know-Who's enemy. She's on our side," Harry said, trying to sound as convinced as he was.

"Now more than ever before, I might think," Hermione added. "And she's one of the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers we ever had."

"That's right. She's okay," Ginny said. "Poor Professor Ravon…" she added in a whisper.

"Okay then, as soon as she's back teaching her lessons we're going to treat her no more different than before. Agreed?"

"Agreed," the other three answered, although Ron looked a bit doubtful that that was possible at all.

But then Ginny spoke up. "What about the other students? I mean, can we—"

"I don't think we need to tell anyone about this. The Slytherins will do this for us as soon as they receive news from their Death Eater parents," Harry spat the last few words.

"But they will explain it wrong. I'm sure."

"That can't be helped. I promised Dumbledore not to talk to anyone but you three about it—at least until it's out in the open anyway. Until then… We can only hope the others can tell a half-truth from the truth, for Professor Ravon's sake."

"When the half-truth comes from a Slytherin—" Ron broke off and looked up. "Mail's here."

The flapping of wings invaded the air and dozens of owls came sweeping down on the tables to their respective addressees.

The four friends exchanged glances and then looked towards the Slytherin table, in particular at Draco Malfoy who had just taken a letter from his eagle owl's leg.

"There goes," Harry whispered. "I bet it's a letter from his father telling him in detail—but certainly in a carefully revised version—what happened last night."

"How long do you think it's going to take until the Daily Prophet reports on this?" Hermione muttered.

"Not long enough."

~*~*~

Harry, Ron and Hermione were sitting in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, waiting for Professor Snape who substituted Professor Ravon's lessons while she stayed in the infirmary recovering from Voldemort's 'attentions.'

"Oh no, more lessons with Snape. I don't think I'll survive this," Ron moaned.

"He wasn't even sneering that badly when I came across him in the corridor earlier today," Hermione said. "If you asked me, I'd say he's very worried and very—"

"Shh, here he comes. No use losing points in two subjects, is there?"

They hastily pulled out their quills and parchments and set up their books.

Snape looked tired, dark circles were under his black hollow eyes, his skin even more sallow than usual (and that when he had been almost good-looking recently), as he walked into the room, slamming the door behind him. His shoulders were somehow hunched, his steps heavy, his voice strangely strained as he started the lesson.

"Well, this lesson is going to be about snake-like Dark creatures as Sa—Professor Ravon's fairly extensive notes point out. So this is what I'm going to do," Snape said, sounding—despite the fact that he finally got to teach DADA—rather subdued, which was pretty strange, as everybody knew quite well that Snape and Ravon had always been bickering when they talked to each other if they did speak at all.

"The Basilisk. First bred by Herpo the Foul, a Greek Dark wizard and Parselmouth—," Snape paused for a second. He had apparently noticed that Malfoy was glaring at him, but paid no more attention to him apart from briefly narrowing his eyes. "Herpo—after much experimentation—discovered that a chicken egg hatched beneath a toad would produce a gigantic serpent possessing extraordinarily dangerous powers," he continued, pacing. "It is a brilliant green serpent that may reach up to fifty feet in length. The male can easily be told from the female since it has a scarlet plume upon its head although this might not be of much use when you face one. You'll suffer instant death if you look into its yellow eyes and if you don't look at it, its highly poisonous fangs will do what its look couldn't accomplish. Their creation is, of course, illegal. It has been since medieval times, but that never kept a Dark wizard from doing it. However, there have been no recorded sightings in Britain for at least four hundred years—although there has been an as of yet officially unrecorded one which at least a few of you surely remember very well…"

Snape went on and on, but seemed rather absent-minded. Harry assumed that his mind was most likely with Professor Ravon up in the hospital wing. After all, Snape had not just watched the events as though he were watching a movie like Harry had; Snape had actually been there; he had been given the dagger with which to kill Professor Ravon. He had taken her back to Hogwarts, which meant that he'd most likely carried the bleeding bundle of a barely alive young woman into the infirmary. He had seen much more of the state she had been in since he had been so much closer to her than Harry had been. And Harry wouldn't have wanted to see more if his life depended on it.

Snape seemed in fact so occupied with other thoughts that he didn't even pick on the Gryffindors properly when the students exchanged a few words and small pieces of parchment. He didn't even seem to notice when Ron leant over to Harry—and he should have jumped at the chance to take away at least twenty points from them, shouldn't he?—and asked softly, "Something must be wrong with my eyes and ears. This is not the Snape we know. What's happened with him?"

"Must have discovered the joys of having a conscience," Harry hissed back, refilled his quill and returned his attention to the lesson again.

"…in Burkina Faso. It is a three-headed serpent reaching commonly a length of about six feet. Its skin is of a livid orange colour with black stripes. Thus, it is very easy to spot for Muggles, unfortunately. Despite its intimidating appearance for which it was once a favourite pet of Dark wizards, the Runespoor is not a particularly vicious beast in itself. From Parselmouths recording their conversations with the serpent we learn that each head serves a different purpose. The left one is the planner; it makes the decisions of where to go and what to do. The middle head is the one always lost in dreams and glorious visions, for example. The right head is the critic. It tends to infuriate the left and middle head with a continual irritable hissing. That's why the two heads often tend to join forces and try to bite the critic off, which they manage to do very often despite the latter one's highly poisonous fangs…"

The Potions master hadn't even so much as thrown a fleeting look at Harry when he had been talking about Parselmouths, which Harry found very strange indeed. Snape usually never missed a chance to point famous Harry Potter out and say something nasty.

Ron was right. This was not the Snape they had known for all those years, not even the Snape of during the last two years, the Snape who had turned spy for Dumbledore once more. This wasn't slimy, greasy-haired Snape; this was worried and concerned Snape. Harry had never seen him that way—well, perhaps apart from his first year, of course, when Snape had tried to keep Quirrell from reaching the Philosopher's Stone; but Harry had to admit that he hadn't paid very much attention back then and for a good reason too. He'd been convinced that Snape had wanted to kill him.

Harry snapped back to present when he heard Snape say, "…a twenty-four inches long essay about this lesson. Due next Monday. Class dismissed."

There were still fifteen minutes to go… Snape usually never ended a lesson early if he could help it. Definitely worried. Very worried. Extremely worried… About Professor Ravon. How strange was that? Harry would have granted him concern when it came to a fellow teacher, of course, but this was very much more than just concern. There was no word that matched Snape's state. His body language was almost screaming out at the world that he was out of his mind with worry when he sat down heavily in the chair that was usually occupied by Professor Ravon and massaged his temples for a moment, the expression on his face hidden by the curtain of his hair.

The students quietly filed out of the room for fear he'd change his mind or give them detention for breathing too loud.

"Twenty-four inches! Professor Ravon made us only write half as much!" Ron exclaimed when they had exited the classroom and made sure they were not within Snape's overhearing range anymore.

"What are you complaining about, Ron?" Hermione smirked. "You simply write twice as large as usual and there you have it."

"I haven't been writing that large recently. At least not in DADA."

"Only because Professor Ravon threw you a few of those 'You know I'm pointedly looking at you' looks, isn't that so?"

"That's not the point," said Ron, a bit irritably, as he and Hermione had conversations like that a lot.

"And what is the point?"

"It's a waste of parchment when I have to write twenty-four inches in large letters instead of twelve in reasonably small letters."

"You're just using that as an excuse," Hermione replied. "But it's one of your better ones."

"You don't know how much it means to me to hear that from you," Ron said. "Earth to Harry Potter. You were supposed to help me out here, mate."

"No way. I'm keeping out of your relationship-trouble." He raised his hands in surrender.

"We don't have any trouble, do we, Hermione?"

"Well…" she said slowly and pointedly. "No. If we had trouble we wouldn't be speaking to each other, now would we?"

"Guess so."

"Now that we settled this, may I point out that the two of you are—how can I say it without sounding too bossy?—slightly behind in your schedules?"

Ron groaned loudly, which was a good thing since it muffled Harry's softer groan very effectively. Thus, only Ron received a glare from Hermione.

"What would we do without you?" asked Ron sarcastically.

"Most certainly we'd not be sitting in the library and pore over books as thick as Crabbe's and Goyle's heads," replied Harry.

"Very helpful you are, Harry," said Hermione.

"That's my job, isn't it? Being helpful." Harry grinned, but then grew serious again. "But then again, as much as I hate to admit this, we should indeed go to the library."

"Not you too."

"What's got to be…"

"Has got to be, I know," Ron sighed. "I'm just glad when all of this is over. I think I'm growing allergic to old parchment and ink…"

"Weasley, that's too bad for you, growing allergic to old things, isn't it?" Malfoy had apparently listened in on their conversation—deliberately or just in passing. Either way, the slimy git couldn't keep his mouth shut, could he? "So you'll get a hell of a shock when school's over, won't you, as there's hardly anything in your house that's not old and doesn't look it too."

"Don't listen to him, Ron," Hermione hissed when Ron took a step towards Malfoy, and Harry grabbed hold of his arm, whispering a quick, "Snape will hear," which he did out of habit, since in Harry's opinion Snape was hardly in his usual vindictive and malevolent mood today.

"Remarkable how you can stand being near us, being allergic to moral decency—but then again that might just be a genetic problem. The Malfoy genes," Ron snarled, sounding very different from the way he usually spoke. He was clearly fuming with anger. No one but Malfoy could drive him so far—not even Hermione, and that was quite something. "Like father like son."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Malfoy asked, narrowing his eyes at the three of them.

"You know that very well, Death Eater," Ron spat the last two words.

Malfoy clenched his teeth together, the muscles in his jaw working furiously. Hadn't he been prepared for anyone to know about this? It was a miracle that Ron, Harry, Hermione and Ginny had made it this long without throwing the facts into this constantly smirking face of Malfoy's—well, almost constantly, since the smirk had frozen and looked like a grimace now. His eyes were like cold fire. If looks could kill, Ron would have been a sticky puddle on the floor already.

"Be careful what you say, Mudblood-lover. It's a pity that any pureblood family should stoop as low as shagging a Mudblood, even though it's you."

Harry tightened his grip on Ron's arm and chanced a glance at Hermione, who had her hands balled into fists—she had already slapped Malfoy once, why shouldn't she repeat it one day—with her fist?—and looked back at him and shrugged helplessly.

"Come on, Ron, let's go," Harry said quietly, and Ron nodded determinedly and turned his back towards the Slytherin boy.

"Right, let's go. I shouldn't even have spoken to this Death Eater scum," he said, and Hermione laced her fingers with Ron's. "I'm sorry you had to hear that, 'Mione."

"I can't believe it has come this far," Hermione murmured when they made their way down the marble staircase into the Entrance Hall and through the doorway that led outside. "This isn't just about being a despicable racist and all that. This is open enmity."

"Perhaps this is exactly what being a Death Eater is about: Enmity against those who are not like them, who don't act like they do—."

"—who, contrary to them, have a sense of decency and loyalty," Hermione finished.

"And a brain. That stupid git. When they were handing out brains he must have waited in the wrong line, the 'Here's all you need for being a spoilt brat—and a stupid git' line. But of course he read only the first part of it."

"I'm afraid he's not stupid enough, Ron. In fact, I think he's dangerous. He's certainly not the only Death Eater among the Slytherins, but he's definitely the most dangerous one. Contrary to Crabbe and Goyle, for instance, he does have the brains for causing real trouble—despite of the fact that we like to call him stupid and all that."

"How can Dumbledore let him stay when he knows that Mal—?"

"Because," Harry interrupted Hermione, "because bearing the Dark Mark isn't a crime in itself. As long as he hasn't committed a crime that they can prove to him…" He trailed off, knowing that there was no need to finish that sentence.

"Dumbledore can't expel him," Ron finished it anyway and added, "Unfortunately."

~*~*~

Severus sank into Sariss's chair. He had ended the lesson very early; he was fully aware of it. Very intentionally, he had made the lesson quick. It seemed that Sariss's presence in this room was tangible. Her classroom it was, after all. Her office was just next-door. This was her desk. He was sitting in her chair…

The students left the room quietly. He was glad that none of them asked him a question about the lesson when they left. He felt he would have ripped the respective person's head off—especially if they had asked something along the lines, 'Where is Professor Ravon? Is she alright? When will she be back?' he would have exploded. But there was little hope that anyone would ask anybody a question like this. Supposedly, they were glad that Sariss couldn't teach for now—or at least they would be as soon as they learnt all about her… Severus had a vivid image in his mind of the letters that would reach Dumbledore because of this and an even more vivid image of the Daily Prophet's front page. Rita Skeeter would surely find exactly the right or wrong words—depending on whose side you were on—to turn the tragedy into an even greater scandal than it already was. There had been enough such articles over the last few years; Dumbledore this and Dumbledore that, this mistake of his and that, employing werewolves and giants and now Voldemort's offspring. And as if that weren't enough already, a Dementor—at least that was what everyone would think of Sariss—the very being he detested so very much.

But the headmaster had shown no disgust, only great concern, when Severus had seen him earlier that day. He should now be up in the hospital wing, waiting for Sariss to wake up, waiting to see what state she was in. Severus wished he could be there, too, when she woke up. He'd draw her into his arms, rest his cheek against hers, press his lips on her forehead, tell her he was so sorry… For everything. For every single little piece he had added to the puzzle that was her life and had almost resulted in her death…

Her presence lingered all around here. If he closed his eyes now he could almost see her teaching the students as he had done today, but also with much more enthusiasm than he had been able to display today. He should have been gleefully leaping at the change to teach her lessons. But instead he had only mourned the fact that he had to substitute for her.

For years, he had longed to be exactly where he was now. In the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, sitting behind the desk that stood in front of him. For years it had been on top of his Christmas list, so to speak, to do what he had just done—teaching DADA.

This time, however, he hadn't enjoyed a single second of it. No, it was no more the position he wanted. It was the DADA mistress herself he yearned for already, although it had only been a couple of hours…

Every word he had spoken inside this room should have been hers to utter; every single word, echoing back from the walls, every scratch of a quill on parchment, reminded him of the fact that the very person who should be here, teaching in his stead, was lying in the hospital wing, probably still unconscious, recovering from severe injuries. Muggle medicine would have taken weeks or even months to make her body whole again. Magic made all of this so much easier…

But what about her state of mind? A mind simply did not go through such torture unscathed. How strong was she, how stable?

Severus sighed heavily. Had the Dark Lord not only broken her body but also her mind? If so, she'd end up in St. Mungo's, alongside the Longbottom couple. That's what being tortured by Voldemort could do to you. If he wanted you to break, you would, unless you were very, very strong—which no one had ever been. Severus wasn't quite sure if the Dark Lord had ever pushed anyone so far beyond pain and agony as he had done with Sariss. He didn't know because no one had ever survived a similar encounter before. Driven so far beyond pain, so far that there were not enough words in the English language—or any other—to describe their intensity. His own flesh and blood. Well, in the case of Sariss and her father that wasn't much more than an empty phrase, since Voldemort hardly had a single sinew in common with Tom Marvolo Riddle anymore.

Severus was still amazed and glad beyond anything he could name that Sariss had survived this torture. The way she had bled all over him, the blood livid against the few patches of her skin that had still been white as marble, barely recognizable, her blood warm on his hands as her skin or rather the surface of her body—Severus flinched at the thought—was cold as ice, barely alive. It hurt to think about it, but he couldn't banish the sight of her from his mind. One had to see it to believe that something remotely like this was possible at all. Life in a body that would have been damaged beyond repair only a few decades or so ago.

He kept repeating to himself that as long as she was alive there was still hope. When her body had survived this, her mind simply must have, too. Severus would sell his soul to the devil himself—if he existed at all. About the existence of his soul, however, Severus didn't have the slightest doubt anymore. For a long time, he had thought that something like it didn't exist. But it did. If it didn't exist, why did it hurt so much? So there was his proof.

Sariss. Please. I pray to everyone who would listen. Live, Sariss, recover in mind as well as in body.

Otherwise, you won't even be able to ask her to forgive you.

Perhaps it is poetic justice that she, who could breathe life into me with a single kiss, with her mere touch, should leave me behind—driven only by the thirst for revenge—taking a part of myself with her…

All your life you had nothing.

And when I had almost thought that it had taken a turn for the better no matter what's going on outside Hogwarts…

You end up with nothing again.

Where's the happy ending?

There's still hope that she'll recover.

But is there still hope for 'us'?

I cannot answer you those things.

Neither can I. I, too, can only hope—or despair…

Severus sighed again and went down to the dungeons once more. The Potions classroom was waiting for him again, filled with twenty students who were careless and happy and young and innocent—things Severus hadn't felt like for twenty years, things Severus had just begun to feel again when—.

Sariss. Sariss. His heart seemed to beat her name like a drum, pounding in his temples, adding to the headache he already suffered from.

And on entering the classroom once more today, it still hadn't changed. Every ingredient that was sitting on the shelves, especially the ones of a Dreamless Sleep Potion, reminded him of her, every spoon and ladle and phial she had ever touched brought her image to his mind. Looking up at him with sparkling eyes, smoothing his hair back, the tips of her fingers slithering over the skin on his face and neck, her lips on his, caressing him gently or passionately, the feel of her breasts against his chest…

Severus banished those thoughts from his mind. Perhaps it was better to quickly grow accustomed to the fact that he'd most likely never be touching her again the way he had until—.

Was it better to expect the worst; to steel himself for what could be? What was the worst that could happen?

Was it that Sariss wouldn't recognize him anymore, just like the Longbottoms didn't recognize their own son?

Was it that Sariss would be all right on the outside, but full of fear of her own shadow, afraid of everyone who only wanted to help? Those things happened…

Or was the worst that could happen that Sariss would be perfectly fine—but ignoring Severus, having seemingly forgotten every single touch, every kiss they'd shared, torturing him by her sheer presence, by looking at him so coldly that he'd have to fear for his newly discovered heart to freeze into a clump of ice? She was perfectly capable of doing that. If anyone was capable of piercing through Severus's usually well-armed defences, it was she…

Severus felt so very old all of a sudden.

The Potions master mechanically wrote the ingredients for a Polyjuice Potion onto the blackboard, a very advanced potion they had started on a few weeks ago already because of the lacewing flies, but even the seventh year Hufflepuffs should by now know enough about Potions to brew it without much assistance—after all, it had been their holiday homework to learn a bit about it. Perhaps he'd have them brew it for their N.E.W.Ts… or was an Asclepius Healing Potion a better option?

Yes, this is good. Think along those lines. They force her out of your mind. Concentrate on what you're doing.

I wonder if she's awake…

You're in your Potions lesson. You should explain what to do with the boomslang skin and the fluxweed and the knotgrass—

The fluxweed. Sariss and I—.

—and the leeches and the bicorn horn…

And Severus did so, wishing for this day to end and for the following day to end and for the day after that to end and so on and so on—until he'd be able to see her. She might even call for him, either to have him explain or to throw a single glance at him and then turn away… Both options would very likely lead to the same outcome.

Where's the happy ending?

There's never a happy ending because nothing ends…

~*~*~

Dumbledore sat in the infirmary. Sariss should wake up any moment now. He dreaded her reaction when it came back to her what had happened, what she'd learnt. He pondered applying a few cushioning charms to the windows and some other slightly easily breakable objects, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. They wouldn't be of any use if she lost it. The old man had to admit that what Harry Potter and then Severus, too, had told him had shocked him quite a bit—even though he had hidden his initial reaction quite well and assured Harry that everything was fine. Was it really? Was he, Dumbledore, a hypocrite to ask a hardly grown-up boy to accept the facts, when he himself had a much harder time doing so than the boy apparently had?

Even Severus had seemed more shocked at the state Sariss had been in—which Dumbledore had been spared, although he had a vivid mental image. Dreadful and cruel was the image. It had to be when it made Severus react that way… And Severus's attitude towards Sariss had seemingly not changed…

The headmaster stood up and started pacing back and forth; towards the window and then back again.

But I'm afraid no Dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am headmaster…

Everyone knew what he thought of Dementors. He didn't like them at all. One could almost say he detested them. He had been furious when Cornelius Fudge had decreed that the Dementors should be stationed at Hogwarts and had done everything to make sure they didn't enter Hogwarts grounds. Yet they had done so—on more than one occasion. Even the Dementor's Kiss had been performed in the very office that was now Sariss Ravon's…

But was he supposed to hate the little girl who had looked up at him with big round eyes full of fear and questions when he had asked to be allowed to take her away and to Hogwarts to teach her how to rein in the powers that had been forced into her? The woman who fought unknowingly against her very heritage, Voldemort's legacy that ran in her very veins? The woman to whom the Dark Lord's 'gifts' had always been a burden and not the blessing her father had—in his twisted sense of logic—intended it to be?

No, Dumbledore thought. The peacefully sleeping figure lying on the bed in front of him, her face almost as white as the sheets that were drawn around her, this being was no Dementor—at least not in her heart and soul. Voldemort had not created a ruthless killer as he had intended; he had created a much more sensitive and vulnerable being than she would ever have been without his interference. It had indeed been an 'Angel' potion. Her own suffering and the suffering of others had made her who she was now…

Had there not been some sort of inexplicable inner strength she wouldn't have survived at all. She had always found consolation in the most trivial of things. A bottle of Butterbeer, the excitement of a game of Exploding Snap, Wizard's Chess, watching a game of Quidditch. Now he knew why that was so. Those things created warmth, happiness, excitement. The very emotions the Dementor craved. But she'd never sucked them into herself to devour them as the Dementor would have done, draining its surroundings of those emotions—instead she had revelled in them, letting herself be enveloped in them. He had no idea if she did those things on pure instinct or if she'd deliberately sought out places and occasions that had this consoling effect on her. However, he suspected the latter option. She was not stupid; she must have realized what made her feel better… how else could she have coped?

This also explained her violent mood swings. One moment she had been completely normal, happy even, a typical teenager. The next, her face had fallen and she had had to force back the tears. And heavens forbid that she got angry… He had seen this on several occasions; he had thought it were just the memories…

They had tried to determine the nature of the potion that had done this to her. They had asked her so many times what it looked like, what it tasted like, what its consistence was like. Over and over again (until she'd shouted she couldn't bear it any longer). Yet they had never found out what exactly it was made of. Voldemort must have developed it himself, they had thought, and according to what Severus had reported, he had indeed.

No, Dumbledore wouldn't throw her out. He wouldn't even treat her any different—well, at least not because of what she was. She would have to be treated with care. She'd need all the support she could get. If there was a chance that she'd get over all of this, she'd need him as well as Severus…

Oh dear, Severus, the stars seem to plot against you, don't they… What am I going to do now? What am I going to do with you? With her? With the two of you?

Every single part of the puzzle she was had fallen into place when Severus had told him everything the Dark Lord had said…

Dumbledore started. He'd heard a noise.

"Sariss!" Dumbledore exclaimed hoarsely, rushing to her side. "How do you feel, dear child?"

Sariss blinked, gazing up at him with a very confused expression on her face, pale and sleepy, looking remarkably like the child he had met such a long time ago.

~*~*~

"Where am I? What happened?" she croaked, startled at the sound of her own voice. It sounded so frail, even a bit raspy, as though she had overstrained it…

Dumbledore looked at her, saying nothing. Then she remembered; the images flashed through her mind. The words. The sadness. The anger. The pain. She sat up, startled by her memories, and hugged her knees, shivering and wincing as she realized her whole body felt quite sore and numb at the same time. Awful sensations as she remembered their origins. "Oh no! No, no, no, no…" It felt as if that was the only sound she was capable of uttering as she buried her face in her hands. Strangely no tears would come. Apparently, she was beyond tears. It was painful, not being able to cry when this was the only thing that would bring you relief. Sariss had experience in these matters.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. "Listen, child, Severus explained everything. It is going to be al—."

"Don't touch me," she rasped and pulled away from his touch. She couldn't bear it—couldn't bear being touched, being looked at—most of all she couldn't bear looking back into a face that watched her so intently with an expression of pity and compassion. In a way, this was even worse than a look of the utmost terror and disgust—and she felt disgusting, abnormal, bizarre, unreal. That would have made her angry at least. The look he gave made her feel helpless in addition to what she already felt like. She only wanted to be left alone… not see anything, not hear anything, not having to say anything, not sense anything…

I am a monster…

But she had to talk to him. There were some things she had to ask him, things she had to know…

"Who am I?"

I am not myself anymore… not the me I remember having been a not so very long time ago…

"You know it already. You are the Dark Lord's daughter."

How can he stay so calm? How can he look me in the face and state it so calmly?

"How long have you known this?" she asked then. "And don't try to fool me by saying you just learnt it!" she hissed, feeling so empty that she couldn't even bring her voice to sound angry or hurt or anything at all. It sounded hollow, even to herself.

"I must admit that—," Dumbledore hesitated, fidgeting slightly, "—I've known it all along. Since the moment I laid eyes on you—no, even before that. It was when the enchanted quill wrote your name on the parchment so you'd be sent an invitation letter once the time came for you to attend Hogwarts… And the name it wrote down was Sariss Electra Riddle…"

"So my life has been a lie…"

"No. No, not at all. You are who you are."

I am… And I am not. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know anything anymore…

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me that's why he came for me, that he didn't want to kill me after all, that I was not in mortal danger, that there was no need to be afraid that he'd kill me, that—." She hesitated at first. Then, after she had taken a deep breath she continued calmly, so calmly that she surprised herself with it, "—that he's my father?"

"Nothing would have changed for the better by telling you this."

"You don't know that." Dumbledore wanted to interrupt her, but she continued. "Who changed my name? Did you do this?" she asked harshly.

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, I only changed it on the papers. The enchanted quill and parchment set in particular. But it was your mother, Electra Ravon herself, who gave your name to you. It was her name after all. You must understand that the enchanted quill is… a bit old-fashioned. It tends to use the father's name even when the parents aren't married. We've been trying to change it for ages. The stupid thing doesn't want to listen," Dumbledore apparently tried to be funny—without success. She didn't feel like laughing, not even smiling, not even… anything at all.

~*~*~

A lame attempt at making her feel better. Dumbledore had been funnier in the past and he knew it. There was no change in Sariss's expression. A serious, almost blank expression; her eyes empty as though they weren't looking at the outside world at all…

Perhaps it was better to tell her everything now, now that she knew the worst part of it already…

"She knew what would happen when Tom Riddle openly declared himself Lord Voldemort, when he not merely gathered more and more followers but started to terrorize the wizarding world. So she went into hiding. You hadn't even been born yet when she planned this; but Voldemort knew about you and devised his plan. He must have put quite an effort into developing the spell and the potion, which we will from now on call the Angel Potion, although we are a bit at a loss concerning its ingredients—Severus suspects it is something one could call the 'essence of a Dementor'… Yet we do not know what it is made of, how it worked, in which ways it changed you…"

She seemed to be thinking hard as he explained this to her; a line had appeared between her eyes, her mouth pressed into a thin line…

"Where was I?" Dumbledore asked, more to himself than to anyone else.

"Hiding," Sariss provided softly.

"Ah, yes!" he exclaimed. He hadn't expected a reaction from her. "Your mother went into hiding. The Fidelius Charm was performed as soon as you were born. That's when I became aware of you, when your name appeared on the parchment. The charm wouldn't have protected you had it been performed only on your mother. You had to be born for it to work. You had to be included in the Charm."

She nodded at that. Of course. She knew about that part of the story, the Fidelius Charm. Voldemort had told Sariss and Electra Ravon to what lengths he had to go to find the Secret Keeper and…

"It took the Dark Lord the better part of ten years to develop the spell and potion and to find the Secret Keeper. You were very well protected. And the Keeper was hiding very well himself. Voldemort went after everyone your mother had ever met in her life and finally he found him, Gabriel Prewett, a man who had known your mother from school. A Gryffindor. He volunteered for the part. No one would suspect him, he thought. And he was right about that. It took Voldemort almost ten years to narrow it down to him and find him. The Dark Lord had to tear your location out of him, literally. After he was done, there was nothing left of Gabriel that could have kept him alive."

Dumbledore saw Sariss swallow; obviously, he had painted an all too lively picture…

"Voldemort must have found it quite appropriate to give you all of this on your birthday. I think he really intended it to be a present for you… Be that as it may, as soon as I got word about what happened and the devastation you kept causing, I did everything in my power to get to you before Voldemort would start another attempt, and the two of us made it to Arabella and then Hogwarts—barely, I can tell you, it was a close shave—but ever since, you safely stayed at Hogwarts. I made sure you could stay here during the summer holidays so none of Voldemort's former servants could get his hands on you. They would have tried to bring him back using you and you weren't in the shape to fight them off on your own, then—."

"Even now, I wasn't up to it," she murmured.

"None of us was prepared for this. And in Hogsmeade! A place full of witches and wizards who wouldn't have hesitated to step into the line of fire for the protection of a fellow witch. The Death Eaters only got lucky…"

"And Snape?" she asked, her voice giving nothing away. It should have.

Snape? "Severus worked as a spy for me. I asked him to return to the Dark Lord, which he managed to do—at great costs…"

"Who?" Sariss had obviously caught on on his euphemism.

"Karkaroff. It would have been only a matter of time until they caught him anyway. If Severus hadn't… done it… someone else would have. But, Sariss, listen up, Severus was devastated when he returned to my office. I've never seen him like that before; not even when he knocked on my door almost twenty years ago and asked for refuge because he couldn't bear the fate he'd chosen for himself any longer. After that, he had worked as a spy until the fall of the Dark Lord. When Voldemort rose again, I asked him to join him once more," Dumbledore explained. Then he sighed deeply and continued in a low and weary voice, "It basically comes down to the fact that I told him to, at Voldemort's command, commit any crime if only it would secure him a place as close to the Dark Lord as possible. Thus, he would take his former position and inform me and everyone else who fought against him about Voldemort's plans. Doing this took its toll on him, I can tell you. He's changed a great deal since then. Even more than he did when the Potters died. The whole wizarding world was celebrating back then; yet he did not even smile…"

Dumbledore sighed. It seemed to him that he did this a lot lately.

"I am not sure how to reveal this to you. Severus might want to tell you this himself…" The headmaster thought for a moment. "I think he should. However, I can tell you as much as this: He blames himself for a great part of your suffering—and I do not only refer to yesterday…"

She didn't reply, didn't look up, didn't move at all…

Thus, Dumbledore got up. "If you'd rather be alone now…"

That seemed to have caught her attention since Sariss looked up at him, a very thoughtful expression on her face now. She was already processing the clues he'd given her. Perhaps it would make it easier for Severus or for her to come to terms with the situation and each other.

~*~*~

He blames himself for what happened? Not yesterday? Before yesterday? How long a time before yesterday? A great part of my suffering… A very long time ago then… He had been a Death Eater at the time my mother and I had lived in hiding… He must have been barely out of school then… her brain raced.

Dumbledore got up. "If you'd rather be alone now…" he said, thus interrupting her train of thought.

He couldn't go now. She wanted to be left alone, yes—but there were still things she had to know; things that were of greater importance than the one she had just been reflecting upon…

"Why could he touch me?" Sariss whispered, not trusting her voice enough to speak any louder. She knew she was changing the subject quite abruptly, but since the Headmaster had offered to go, she thought that it didn't really matter. After all what difference did it make to the events that Snape worked as a spy for Dumbledore? She couldn't see any connection to the state she was in because of what happened more than seventeen years ago… Yet.

So she continued, trying to specify her question. "He couldn't touch Harry Potter because his mother died protecting him. My mother died trying to protect me—" She clenched her hands into fists. Control, control. Keep calm… "Why then, why could he touch me?"

Dumbledore took a deep breath.

"Because he's your father, I wager. Because in addition to your genetic constitution he put a part of himself into you," he said. "And I don't mean it in the way that I once told Mr Potter that part of Voldemort presumably was in him. There's much more of him in you because he gave a great part of himself, his powers, his very essence, deliberately to you, using the spell you told us about, the Delego Facultatem spell. With Mr Potter, it was just an accident—or at least we think so. We don't know what really happened. However, I have a few suspicions… But back to the point," he interrupted himself, catching her gaze and holding it as one would hold a hand.

She couldn't look away.

"Listen closely now. He is in you. He is part of you. Don't deny this part; it is part of who you are. You can't get rid of it. You must learn to accept yourself as you are." He still looked into her eyes, intently. "You're no different from who and what you were before you and… some other people… learnt all this. But the Dark Side touched you yesterday—once again. I understand that all this was not only slightly disturbing. This is what you must come to terms with: Learn to accept yourself again. You haven't changed at all. You are who—and what—you are." He stood and patted her hand; she drew it away. "And there are people who need you, no matter what."

"If you know what happened," she spoke up, "then, do you know if what he said is true? Am I really a… Can I really do those… things?" She couldn't yet call them by their rightful names, it was awful, as long as she didn't name them, they were not true, not existent, perhaps…

"A Dementor, you ask?" She winced but nodded slowly. "Well, I must admit, I've been pondering this quite a bit during the last few hours…" Dumbledore answered thoughtfully, sitting down again. "All I can tell you is that everything about you that we couldn't explain has been explained by this revelation." Sariss swallowed hard, yet listening intently. She had to know everything. Perhaps there was a way…

"We don't know if you can really perform, you know—," Dumbledore hesitated, "—it. We'll have to take Voldemort's word on this…"

She nodded again. "And Avada Kedavra?"

"On this, we also have to believe him. We wouldn't want to put you to the test, now would we? But I think he told the truth. Your mother died for you. That's quite a protection already… And unless what he said wasn't true, he would have used it on you—or made Severus cast it…"

"He should have killed me. Sometimes death can be a blessing."

"But it wouldn't solve anything. If the Dark Lord wants you dead, you must live, if only to oppose him. Anything—anyone—he wants dead must live as long as possible. He does not kill without a reason although this may seem so sometimes. You are of much greater importance than anyone could ever have dared to think…" Dumbledore answered. Another one of his thoughtful expressions crossed his face. "He doesn't kill for no reason. He never did," he whispered softly as though to himself. "As to why he really wanted to get rid of you—."

"Well, I am alive, am I not?" she interrupted.

"I was speaking of living, not just surviving."

"But it's all that matters. Being alive when he wants me dead. Otherwise, there's no point in living when you can't feel alive, when life as you knew it has been taken from you only to be replaced with—this…" she indicated herself with an all-encompassing gesture, taking in her whole body. "I survived it, so I shall live for a little while longer then."

"Your body survived this, yes. You're alive, yes. But you never really lived, did you? Except for a few moments in your whole life since the night he came for you," Dumbledore whispered sadly. Sariss felt his sadness echoing inside herself. It made her feel even more miserable. She did not need those emotions around her—least of all when she knew they were directed towards her. They added to her own misery and only made her feel worse…

"You're hiding this very well," he continued. "You'd make a good actress. Not many people would notice the almost constant sadness that hides behind your smile… You really wish you were dead, don't you? You wished it even before this happened, didn't you?"

She nodded, her hair falling into her face, since she didn't lift her head again. "Most of the time, subconsciously perhaps," she admitted almost inaudibly.

Dumbledore put a hand on her shoulder. She gave up trying to push it away; obviously, it was useless. "I wish I could be of greater help to you, I really do."

"It's not your fault," she said, her voice sounding hollow to her, resting her head on her knees as she'd drawn them up.

"And it's not your fault either." Dumbledore got up again. "Perhaps you should talk to Severus? He's been very worried… And he risked his life for you, after all. He won't be able to return to the Dark Lord now that, by saving you, he's shown quite clearly that his loyalties do not lie with the Dark Side. Alas, it has been growing harder and harder every day for him to act as the Death Eater he once was. It can't have been easy to watch all of this, you know? We must thank the powers that are, that the Dark Lord trusted Severus enough to hand the dagger to him. If he had killed you himself or entrusted Lucius Malfoy or anyone else with this—you'd probably be dead."

Yes, Snape wouldn't have acted if the opportunity to do so hadn't been perfect. He wasn't the man to do something heroic but foolish. He was no Gryffindor, Sariss thought. And, strangely, she was angry with that. She had no idea why that was so, unless she had really felt something that could be called love for him…

The thought that he would have stood and watched had the situation been any different, made her angry beyond reason…

And there was the fact that he held himself responsible for 'a great part of her suffering'—had he had his Death Eater hands in something that had led to…

She would learn about it. He would tell her, she was sure about this—and if he didn't, she'd ask him directly—or maybe not so directly after all…—as soon as she could look into a mirror again without recoiling from her own reflection… as soon as she could face anyone without feeling as though she was being stared at like a trapped animal in a Muggle zoo… Maybe it was best to simply try and act as though nothing had happened? She could simply ignore it, push it back into a dark corner of her mind. She had always fared best that way…

If only I could stop thinking.

She laid down, drawing the blankets up to her chin, snuggling into the soft, fluffy pillow, as her mind started racing again, pondering every little part of the puzzle, fitting it into place—as much as she wanted to forget, she couldn't stop her mind from thinking…

As she turned away from Dumbledore, she noticed he was still looking at her, steadily, unnervingly. "I'm tired," she said frostily. Please, make him leave. I can't yell at him to leave me alone now. I don't have the strength to throw him out… Gods, I feel so empty, so dead… I wish I were.

"Poppy said you could leave the hospital wing in a couple of days, as soon as you feel up to it." She heard Dumbledore sigh again. "If you need to see someone or talk to someone, just tell Poppy, alright? You don't have to face anyone you don't want to face—yet. One day, however, you'll have no choice…" he trailed off, his tone of voice sombre.

Sariss heard retreating footsteps, then the sound of the door snapping shut. She closed her eyes, hoping she'd be able to sleep, hoping she'd never wake up again…

Next chapter:

Rita Skeeter has her say. A letter from Mrs Weasley, which arouses a few suspicions. Letters with appalling contents. And Severus experiences something dreadful…