Chapter 15: The Tiger and His Stripes

The first sudden flash of pain snapped Meli awake a split second before the accompanying scream assaulted her ears. Instinctively, she whipped around and shoved one corner of a pillow into her mouth. She didn't want to wake Monty; he'd probably panic and go looking for Dumbledore or—

"Severus!"

The first scream she had ever heard through Voldemort's curse had burned itself indelibly into her mind, and now she heard it again. The Dark Lord was torturing Severus Snape.

"My lord, I'm loyal!" he screamed, over and over again, and still the torture continued. Moreover, it intensified as a second Cruciatus washed over her.

Tears stung her eyes as she coiled into a ball and bit down hard on the pillow, her only focus on riding it out. She had known two different ways that Snape had returned to Voldemort as a spy, but now she had further confirmation if she had either wanted or needed it; she had not.

The pain abruptly cut off, taking Snape's screams with it. She waited a moment, then slowly, every move sending ripples of agony through her, pulled free of her pillow and rolled over, hoping futilely that the worst had passed.

It hadn't, of course. Not two minutes later, agony recaptured her, and a moment after that, there came a roiling scream like nothing she had ever heard from a human being. This victim managed no words but instead gave himself fully to the pain. Already raw from Snape's torture, Meli's nerve endings burned and screamed all the more under this attack. The pain eventually faded once more, but she dared not believe even now that it was over.

Her eyes had squeezed shut so tightly that it was a full minute before she could force them open again. When she did, she was surprised to discover that Dumbledore sat quietly beside her bed, watching from a chair he had doubtless brought in from the front room. Her throat was raw; she could not speak, even to ask him how he came to be there.

Dumbledore smiled sadly and answered her unspoken question. "Monty let me in."

She nodded slightly but could give no other reply. Her mind had already moved on to other matters.

Placed in the context of the attempted abduction earlier in the day, Voldemort's rage made perfect sense. If Snape had infiltrated the Death Eaters, he would, logically, have been charged with the task of lowering Hogwarts' defenses before the kidnapping; those defenses, she well knew, had been fully functional when Death Eaters arrived. It would be easy to conclude that Snape was, at best, unintentionally responsible for that failure and, at worst, a traitor. Torture would be only a prelude to his actual punishment.

But who else would be so punished, and why had Snape's torture ended so soon? Voldemort had lost a number of trusted and valued associates in the failed raid; he would not have stayed Snape's punishment unless, inexplicably, something more important had come up. Torturing the second person must have taken precedence . . . but why?

It was only logical to conclude that Voldemort had somehow been convinced that a second person was more to blame, but by whom and how? Certainly not by Snape—she had heard his every word, and in any case, he wasn't in a condition to do much convincing.

Who could possibly have been more to blame for the raid's failure than Snape? Who else could have been responsible for ensuring that the defenses were down—it was, after all, a foregone conclusion that Voldemort would know why the raid had failed. It would have to be someone at Hogwarts, not necessarily a spy, but possibly so . . . and someone with enough personal loyalty to Snape to take the heat for him.

"Zarekael," she choked, remembering only afterward that she was not alone—

Fresh pain ripped through her as his roiling shrieks started again. She rolled back onto her side and howled in agony, but for once her own pain was nothing to that of the direct victim. Judging by his screams, Zarekael had been physically tortured in some drastic way, and the Cruciatus on top of it was almost too much for him to bear. Echoes of something like a strap striking flesh accompanied his cries, and she wondered if it might be a whip.

The Cruciatus let up suddenly, then renewed again, then again stopped. This pattern continued tormentingly for an untold period of time. Zarekael's screams faded eventually; no voice could withstand what he'd gone through. She suspected that there were times when Zarekael passed out from the pain, but Voldemort would, naturally, enervate him. It had to end soon, though, if he was to remain alive and useful to the Dark Lord . . .

By the time the torture finally ended, Meli's mouth was spotted with blood from her throat. She made no out-of-the-way effort to reopen her eyes this time, allowing them to relax at their leisure.

Zarekael's maneuver in taking the blame had probably saved Snape's life . . . but if he truly was loyal to Voldemort, the time would come when he would have to kill Snape because of Meli's friendship with him. She hoped grimly that Zarekael would live long enough for her to demand answers from him.

By the time her eyes opened of their own volition, Dumbledore and his chair were gone, and Monty was beside her, holding out a bottle she kept always ready on her potions worktable.

"Drink this," he ordered.

Meli managed a weak smile, then mouthed the words, "Help me up."

He did so, supporting her head and neck until she could swallow a generous sip, then he lowered her back to the bed. "Dumbledore had to go," he explained. "Something important must have happened."

It was a clear invitation for details, but Meli had no intention of parting with them. Her destroyed voice was suddenly a very convenient excuse.

The potion began its work as quickly as she could have hoped for, and while it did not stop the pain completely, it eased it somewhat. She would still be twitching uncontrollably come morning, and any major movement would be minor torture in itself, but if she rested now, her voice should be recovered enough to speak for a short time in a few hours.

She sighed and closed her eyes, eventually drifting into the realm of light sleep.

Monty regarded Meli silently for a moment, then shrank away from the bed and slithered away. Something had been said while he was gone getting Meli's pain potion, something of great importance that he, as her protector, should know, but neither she nor Dumbledore was willing to pass it on to him. It vexed him greatly, but he was severely limited in what he could do about it.

There were distinct disadvantages to being a python.

It was with gritted teeth and an endless stream of self-deprecating self-talk that Meli forced herself out of bed and out of her rooms. Every major movement sent searing lances of pain through her, but she compelled her body to obey the necessary commands that carried her past Monty's cage, through the door, and down the dimly lit corridors to Snape's door. It was a full minute before she could control her twitching hand sufficiently to knock, but knock she finally did.

Snape answered the door almost immediately; she knew he had probably been waiting for her knock. He surveyed her pitiful form silently, and she knew that he took in every detail, from the arms that still trembled to the fact that she was still in her pajamas—and that those pajamas were rumpled as if she had been in a life-and-death wrestling match only moments before.

"Good morning, Meli," he said sardonically. He would, of course, be acting as normally as possible, but to her searching eye, he looked haggard and worn.

She smiled weakly. "Well, it's morning, anyway," she rasped. "Severus, I hate to ask it of you again, but could you cover my classes today? I had a . . . rough night."

He arched an eyebrow. Congratulations on another of your classic understatements, Miss Ebony, his eyes said, but aloud he reminded her, "I agreed to teach in your stead any time you're unable to."

"I know." She shook her head. "I just honestly didn't think it would happen so often."

Snape bowed slightly. "I truth, I'm getting the better end of the deal," he remarked. He lost his subtly light air and reverted from colleague to friend. "Go rest, Meli. When you say you've had a rough night, it's a dramatic understatement."

"I'm sure I'm not the only one of whom that's true," she murmured as she turned away, trying to keep her movements as natural as possible.

"Meli."

She stopped and looked back, fire screaming through her neck and back as she did.

Snape's gaze was very intent. "Do you . . . remember . . . every voice you hear?" he asked.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise that he would actually ask what he must certainly have wondered. "If I've heard the voice before, I'll recognize it when I hear it again," she replied in a low voice.

Neither one dared to display the pity each felt for the other, but a silent understanding passed between them. Meli shuffled painfully back down the corridor, keeping from Snape any visual confirmation of what she knew he knew anyway, and Snape went about his usual morning business, keeping from Meli any clue of what he knew she was fully aware of.

31 OCTOBER 1981, THIRD YEAR

The Halloween feast went a little later than usual, and it was followed by an impromptu party in the Gryffindor common room. By the time she finally reached her bed, Meli's only thought was of sleep.

She had scarcely pulled the curtains shut, though, when a terrible premonition fell on her. She whipped out her wand and whispered a silencing charm—one of the few useful things learned from her grandfather—that cut off her little island of a bed from the rest of the dormitory. No sooner had she stowed her wand than the familiar agony gripped her and a death scream washed over her. It was a man; more than that she could not tell.

There was silence in the wake of that death, broken only by the moans that escaped through Meli's teeth. It had been a quick death—probably Avada Kedavra—so the torture passed onto her had been brief, but she dreaded that it was not over. And that meant that, in addition to herself, others were suffering, as well. One man had died already; others might well follow.

She was tragically right. A few minutes later, there was another death scream, this one a woman's. Meli howled in pain, tears flowing in outrage at the senselessness and injustice of these deaths. This was also a quick death . . . though there was an odd lingering touch of the woman's voice, as if she had not completely faded into death as others did. Something of her remained . . .

There was almost no pause between the woman's death and what happened next. The torment of a third deadly curse coursed through Meli's body, but instead of a scream, the first sound she heard was a puff of breath, followed by a baby's cry . . . and then the woman's voice again.

What in the world . . . ?

There was a pause now in sound and pain—

And then Voldemort was screaming, screaming as if he should be dying, but it was too drawn out to be a proper death cry. Meli writhed and thrashed at his torment now, screamed in concert with him, and even as the pain mounted beyond any torture she had ever before experienced, she retained enough reason to wonder how on earth this could have happened.

Voldemort's voice faded away, but something of it, too, remained. Meli's torture ended, and she lay flat, her muscles twitching uncontrollably. She was too exhausted to move and in far too much pain to sleep, but eventually, as she concentrated on breathing, just breathing, she, too, faded from the world for a few precious hours.

She awoke to fresh spasms of pain as someone shook her out of sleep.

"Meli, Meli, you've got to get up! Meli, wake up!"

Meli stared blearily at Estella Pippin. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Six-thirty. It's early, I know, but Collum's in the stairwell shouting for you, and he won't go away until he's talked with you." Estella's countenance and manner were agitated. "Come on, Meli, get up."

"Six-thirty on a Sunday morning?" Meli rasped. "Can't it wait?"

"No, it can't," Estella said firmly.

Meli stared at her. "Collum's not the only one up making a row," she realized. "Is he."

Estella shook her head. "The whole school's in an uproar," she replied. "I don't know how you slept through it."

Meli began to suspect what it was that she'd heard. She had thought she would have to notify Dumbledore and tell him what had happened, but it looked now as if he—and everyone else—already knew, and knew more than she did.

She rolled carefully out of bed, clenching her teeth to keep herself from giving any sign of the pain it cost her. She walked slowly, but she managed not to limp or shuffle.

Collum was waiting for her in the stairwell, an early edition of the Daily Prophet in hand. "Have you heard, Meli?" he all but shouted. "Have you heard about You-Know-Who?"

Meli crossed her arms. "It's six-thirty in the morning, Collum," she said coldly.

"But You-Know-Who is gone!"

"How?" She theorized by now, of course, that somehow Voldemort's last curse had rebounded, but details of how it had happened eluded her.

The story tumbled out of Collum, events emerging in no particular order, as it seemed, but Meli caught enough of it to match details with what she did know. The man who died first was James Potter, former Hogwarts Head Boy and Seeker for Gryffindor's quidditch team. The woman killed was his wife Lily, another Gryffindor and a former Head Girl. The third curse had been intended for their infant son Harry, but for some reason, as Meli had already figured out, it had deflected off of Harry Potter and struck Voldemort instead.

She was irritated, perhaps irrationally, that everyone was already celebrating. To all appearances, after all, Voldemort was dead, defeated, gone. She, however, had good reason to believe otherwise, and Collum's clear expectation that she be ecstatic only further nettled her. She waited until he had finally wound down, then nodded once. "Thank you for telling me. Wake me when they've found Voldemort's corpse." With that, she turned and walked back into her room.

Crim found Collum at breakfast, where he grumbled a great deal about Meli's unaccountable attitude problem. As he should have expected, his sister was not at all sympathetic.

"Well, stupid, think about it: If You-Know-Who let off three zaps last night, it stands to reason that she got hit by all of them, doesn't it." She glanced around quickly. "Now tell me your password."

He stared at her. "What?"

"Well, someone's got to go talk to her," Crim told him. "You've mucked up your chance, so now it's my turn, but I need to get into Gryffindor to talk to someone there, now don't I?"

Collum gave her a sullen look, but answered, "It's 'lightening bolt'."

"Imaginative," she commented with a smirk. "I'll talk with you after." She ducked away and slipped out of the Great Hall unseen.

Crim never divulged to anyone how she located Meli as quickly as she did, but she found her friend asleep in bed. Instead of waking her, she sat down on the edge of the bed, inside the curtains, to wait. It was doubtful that, with people rejoicing down in the Great Hall, anyone would come up to Gryffindor Tower, but it wouldn't do for a lone Slytherin to be caught there. With the mood people were in right now, the Gryffindors might think she was maliciously pranking them as revenge for Voldemort's demise.

It just didn't pay to be a clever sneak sometimes; most Gryffindors were predisposed to dislike such people.

After a few minutes, Meli rolled over, moaned in pain, and woke up.

"Good morning, Sunshine," Crim said brightly.

Meli managed a rueful smile. "What time is it?"

"Just ten. Not yet a decent hour to be up after the night you've probably had."

The Gryffindor nodded groggily, then suddenly sat straight up. "Crimson Fell, what do you think you're doing here!"

"Well, I sneaked in, didn't I." She grinned. "Collum's all in a dudgeon about you not being thrilled at the news. You didn't take him by the arm and tango down the corridor with him, so he thinks you're mad at him."

"I could barely move when he shouted me out of bed," Meli grumbled. "What did he expect? I was seizing until past two in the morning."

"Well, you see, my dear Meli, the problem with true-blue Gryffindors is that they're blockheads," Crim said. "Present company excepted, of course. The only thing that kept Collum out of Hufflepuff, in my opinion, is the fact that he's the quintessential blockhead."

Meli laughed in spite of herself, but stopped as the motion awoke new pain. "I think he was just excited," she said. "I don't know; maybe I'd've been carried away, too."

"He'd have been hexed several times over had he been in Slytherin," Crim commented darkly. "My Housemates are rather less enthusiastic, as you may imagine."

"Er, yes."

Crim looked her directly in the eye. "You don't have to answer this," she began slowly, "but what happened last night?"

Meli bit her lip. "The Daily Prophet got it about right," she replied. "I felt all three curses, but something went wrong with the third one. Voldemort screamed and screamed—I thought it would never end. It was too long for a death scream, though—it went on for too long."

"So maybe he was tortured to death, then," Crim suggested, but without much hope.

"Maybe," Meli agreed, her tone identical. "I've got to tell Dumbledore, though. He'll want to know what I heard."

Crim nodded. "Pomfrey will want to see you, too."

"Well, the poor dear can just go on wanting it, then," Meli muttered. "Unless Dumbledore specifically sends me to the hospital wing, I'm going to avoid it like the plague. She always overreacts."

"And you always fake your way out far earlier than is properly healthy," Crim countered sardonically. "But it's your life, I suppose, so I'll let you live it."

"Thank you."

Dumbledore, as expected, was very interested in what Meli had to report. She had avoided giving out details to Crim, but from Dumbledore she kept nothing back. He seemed particularly interested to hear that Lily Potter's voice had been heard after her death and before the third curse had gone awry. Meli knew better than to ask about it, but she filed the fact away for future reflection.

She finished her report, then paused a moment. Dumbledore seemed almost expectant, so she ventured to ask, "He's not really dead, is he?" She swallowed. "He—he can come back again."

Dumbledore smiled gently. "It will not be for some time," he assured her. "But yes, there are ways in which he can come back, and I have little doubt that he will."

"He's nearly as persistent as you are, sir," Meli said. "If he finds a way, he'll use it. And he's looking for ways even now, I'm sure." She knew that Dumbledore would never lie; she had hoped, with that knowledge but without much conviction, that he would say that Voldemort was truly gone for good. But hearing from him the truth, however terrible, breathed life into her as a comforting lie could not. "I'm afraid that the last shred of Tom Riddle is dead, though," she added carefully. "When Voldemort returns, he won't be as charming as he was. He won't be human anymore."

Dumbledore looked thoughtfully at her. "That is a possibility," he allowed.

And when he comes back, I'm going to fight him, she vowed silently as she descended the stairs from the headmaster's office. Even if I can't be the one to kill him, I'll do everything I can to see that he ends up dead—for good.

Coming out of the hidden stairway to Dumbledore's office, she ran into one of the last people she expected to find out and about on such a day.

"Hello, Professor Snape," she said quietly, stepping aside to let him past.

"Good morning, Miss Stafford," he replied, then paused and added, "I hope you're well this morning?"

She nodded to cover her shock. He had always treated her coldly before, the sole exception being a time at which his temper had flared and lashed out at her. She, having seen his face alongside her grandfather's and those of several other Death Eaters, had never questioned his reasons for treating her so; for him to be at all courteous, on today of all days, was the greatest of surprises. "I'm well, sir," she replied. "And . . . how are you?"

"I am . . . in a hurry to see the headmaster," he answered, then stepped past her and up the stairway.

Meli watched him go, wheels already turning in her head. I believe, Professor Snape, that you and I need to have a little talk.

She had to wait a day and a half for the chance to have that little talk, but that chance, when it came, was all owing to Collum Fell and his thoughtless temper.

It was a very frustrating day in Potions, especially for the Gryffindors. The Slytherins were in thoroughly foul moods, and Gryffindors made perfect targets for the venting of hostility. Tension mounted all period, until Meli wondered who it was that would crack first.

Collum cracked first, as it happened, and he was rather messy about it. Anthony Flint had hexed his cauldron so that it spat out anything Collum put into it, and Collum had, consequently, spent over half the period trying to figure out the countercurse. Flint, bored with Collum's lack of progress, levitated a pewter paperweight into the cauldron.

Predictably, the cauldron spat it back out, in a direct line drive for Collum's head. He ducked out of the way just in time, but the sudden motion unbalanced his stool, dumping him to the floor. Flint, as well as a number of other Slytherins, found this highly amusing; Collum, most unfortunately, did not.

"Bloody hell!" he hollered, climbing up again and lunging at Flint. "You slimy git!"

Meli restrained him, but he wouldn't meet her eye, so there was no way to warn him silently.

"Fell!" Snape snapped, crossing the room in three strides. "Return to your place immediately. I'm deducting five points for your language; don't make things worse for yourself or your House."

Only five points, and a plea not to make him take more?! Meli thought in near-shock. That was positively considerate of him!

Collum thought otherwise, however. "And what about docking Slytherin for Flint's little stunt?" he retorted. "Or are you just going to let that pass because he's in your House?"

"Collum!" Meli hissed.

Snape subdued Collum with the most blood-chilling glare Meli had ever seen from anyone in her life. "Gryffindors will please note a further ten-point deduction," he said through his teeth, "for Mr. Fell's cheek."

Meli shoved Collum back into his seat, then quickly raised her hand. There would never be a better time. It was the perfect opportunity for a smart-aleck to make a crack to break the tension, and that would more than cover for her actual purpose.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw that Snape's glare and her subsequent shove had set Collum to contemplating his cauldron with a profound interest that had nothing to do with finding a countercurse.

The Potions master's eyes now turned on Meli. "Yes, Miss Stafford?"

She took a deep breath, then said quietly, but steadily, "I'm sorry, sir, but you only took ten points from Gryffindor. For cheek of that magnitude, you usually take fifty."

Collum jabbed his elbow hard at her ribs, but she ignored him, instead looking innocently at Snape. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sharpie and Crim trying very hard not to laugh.

Snape's eyes took on a deadly blaze, and a long silence ensued. When he finally did speak, his tone was brittle. "What did you just say, Miss Stafford?" he demanded.

She kept her features impassive, informative. "It's just that you only deducted ten, sir. I was afraid that the residents of Slytherin House present might feel slighted by the lightness of such a punishment, and, indeed, sir—"

"Have you forgotten, Miss Stafford, that you are yourself a Gryffindor?" Snape asked, the first touch of incredulity beginning to seep into his voice.

She affected surprise. "Why, no, Professor. I'm well aware of my House."

"Are you likewise aware of the particularly stiff rivalry between your House and Slytherin?"

"With all due respect, sir, I hardly see how I couldn't be."

By now Snape's expression lay somewhere in the no-man's land between subtle amusement and outright astonishment. "Do you mind if I ask, then, why it is that you draw my attention to such an error instead of taking your forty points and running with them?"

She saw Crim grin openly in anticipation of her next words, and she did not disappoint. "No, sir," she replied. "I don't mind if you ask."

The Gryffindors were torn between horror and humor; the Slytherins, with the notable exceptions of Crim and Sharpie, were utterly thunderstruck.

Snape, for his part, was at a loss for words for possibly the first time in his career at Hogwarts. When at last he found his voice, he cleared his throat, nodded curtly, then said, "Very well, Miss Stafford. We'll continue this discussion after class."

Now it was Sharpie's raised hand that drew the Potions master's gaze. Snape sighed, just audibly. "Yes, Pierce?"

"Speaking for Slytherin House, sir . . . exactly how many points has Gryffindor lost?"

Snape clenched and unclenched his teeth several times before answering. "So far, fifteen, Mr. Pierce." His eyes flicked darkly to the still-unconcerned Meli. "Though that may well change after I've had a little chat with Miss Stafford."

The bell rang, and everyone gathered up their implements except for Meli, who sat serenely at the table she shared with Collum and two other Gryffindors. Collum pretended to have dropped something near her and leaned in close enough to whisper, "We'll be skulking nearby to clean up your remains after," before he stood and left the room. Meli smiled cheerily and began slowly stowing her own implements in her satchel. Only after the last student had left did she look up again to find Snape glowering his way from the front of the room to her worktable.

"May I ask what, exactly, you hoped to accomplish with that display of impertinence?" he asked, his clipped tones even brisker than usual.

She met his eyes easily, without the slightest trace of intimidation. "I hoped to accomplish two things, Professor, at least one of which I have accomplished."

"And those are?"

"First, sir," she said calmly, "I was hoping for the opportunity to speak with you. Since I know you don't completely trust me, I seriously doubted you would want to have a talk with me unless it involved disciplinary action. So, admittedly, I rather hoped for this precise outcome.

"And secondly"—she grinned—"I truly thought you had made an honest mistake, and I was hoping to save you the trouble resultant from discovering that error later on."

Snape stared at her. "You wanted to be detained for disciplinary action," he breathed. "Why?"

The question brought to mind an idea, but it had nothing to do with the action of the moment, so Meli filed it away for later prank-plotting. In answer to Snape's query, she lowered her unflappable façade by the smallest bit. "I know you know who I am, sir," she told him, the barest quaver slipping into her voice. "I don't blame you for not trusting me." She smiled faintly. "Just as I daresay you mightn't blame me for not trusting you at first."

She paused, but Snape, once more at a loss for words, made no answer.

"You know of the bane I carry, sir—I know you must because of what you . . . were." Her walls were crumbling now, without her permission, but somehow she forced her emotions to stay somewhat at bay. "I carry that bane still; I have never once even thought of surrendering to have it removed. But you also know about the curse—I know that, too." She bit her lip. "I see that knowledge in your eye every time you look at me.

"I won't be free of that second burden until he is dead, though I am much indebted to Harry Potter for giving me some reprieve." She forced herself to meet Snape's astonished eyes. "When his own curse hit him, I felt it, sir. I knew that scream for what it was."

She swallowed, hard. "I—I want to assure you that Voldemort has no hold on me, not even for my grandfather's sake. My grandfather raised me; until two and a half years ago, he was the only protector I ever knew. I loved him, yes . . . but he gave himself fully to Voldemort and the pursuit of power. I knew him for my enemy even as a young child—you need have no fear on that account."

Her expression had once more hardened during this last speech, and though she no longer appeared exactly calm, she was most certainly resolved. "I will fight Voldemort to my last dying breath, Professor Snape, as I know from what I observe, you will also do. Headmaster Dumbledore was right to give you a second chance; I only hope you'll trust likewise that he was right in giving me a second chance."

Snape's countenance was remarkable to behold. His already sallow face had completely drained of all remaining color, leaving his eyes to glow starkly against that sickly pallor. Whether he regarded her more with anger or shock she could not guess; she had been brazen enough to arouse the former and honest enough to elicit the latter. These both soon made way for a third emotion which was almost foreign to the Potions master's face, and which Meli would have resented had it come from anyone else: pity. She felt her own eyes widen.

"Twenty points to Gryffindor for your painful honesty, Miss Stafford," Snape said at last. "Though I cannot fathom how you screwed up the courage to speak to me in such a way."

She smiled now, a touch of her trademark mischief resurfacing. "Well, sir, I am a Gryffindor, after all," she replied. "And if Gryffindors aren't brazen to the point of out-and-out stupidity, I am quite at a loss to say who is."

One corner of Snape's mouth quirked in what might have been the beginnings of a faint smile. "I suggest you go to lunch, Miss Stafford," he replied. "Before I get carried away and make it thirty."

She stood, grinning. "Certainly, sir. Have a lovely afternoon—unless, of course, dismal would suit you more."

"You're still alive!" Collum observed in surprised relief as she exited the Potions room.

She looked mildly at him, then turned to Crim and Sharpie, who had obviously spent more time betting about how many points Gryffindor had lost than worrying about her health. "Nice to see you, too. Who's hungry?"

"Not before you give us the final tally," Sharpie said firmly.

She raised her eyebrows. "Not only did Gryffindor receive back its fifteen, we earned five more."

"Now I know you're lying," Collum laughed, then caught the look in her eye and abruptly sobered. "Bloody—You're not lying!"

"You'd better watch that mouth of yours, or we'll lose them all over again," Meli warned dryly.

Crim grinned. "You're going to have to teach me to negotiate. I could use some help with that old bird McGonagall—"

"Later," Meli interrupted. "There's a more pressing matter to take care of."

"Really." Crim crossed her arms and looked appraisingly at her. "I'm listening."

Meli narrowed her eyes to reptilian slits. "Flint took on one of the Skulkers with impunity," she said, her tone deadly. "That means war."

"You wouldn't have brought it up if you didn't already have a plan," Sharpie murmured, his eyes flitting from side to side to make sure no one was close enough to overhear.

Now Meli grinned wickedly. "A brilliant plan," she agreed. "And the beauty of it is that Professor Snape himself gave me the idea for it."

"I like it already," Crim said, also grinning. "Let's hear it."

PRESENT: LATE NOVEMBER

Meli did not stir from her rooms again until she could do so without a visible show of pain or impaired movement. Once that goal was reached, however, she was out of bed and dressed almost immediately, and her next action was to make her way as rapidly as possible to the hospital wing. As wretched as Voldemort's torture must have left him, there was no other place for Zarekael to have ended up.

She tracked down Poppy Pomfrey, and there she encountered a serious check. As obstinate as Meli could be when pushed to it, Poppy was ten times more so on a regular basis.

"Absolutely no visitors!" the mediwitch insisted stubbornly. "Zarekael is very ill and needs undisturbed rest!"

"Poppy, ordinarily I wouldn't argue with you," Meli replied, trying desperately to be reasonable. "But in this case, I have to speak with Zarekael as soon as possible!"

Poppy set her jaw. "I'm sorry, Meli," she said, quite unapologetically. "He's asleep, and he needs to stay that way for awhile. Come by in a few days; perhaps by then he'll be fit for visitors."

Meli left reluctantly, and though impatience created incurable frustration, she could understand why Poppy was so adamant. Zarekael must have been nearly dead by the time Snape had been able to bring him in. Still, even a slow-acting healing charm shouldn't require more than two or three days to take effect.

As it turned out, however, Meli's hopes were unfounded. Perhaps they would have held true for Snape, but Zarekael was, as she sometimes forgot, not human, and that fact had apparently resulted in the necessity for a much longer healing cycle. Meli forced herself to badger Poppy only once a day, but her impatience grew worse as the days passed and Zarekael was still sequestered in a private room under Poppy's care. One week passed, and as the end of the second drew near, Meli's composure was beginning to slip. Her temper short, she actually threatened at one point to remove Malfoy's hand at the wrist as penalty for having raised it under false pretenses (she knew for a fact that he had never seen a Muggle representation of Dracula).

At last, however, Poppy made the welcome declaration that Zarekael was well enough for visitors. Added to that, unfortunately, was the news that he had already been released from the hospital wing and allowed to return to his own rooms.

"How long ago?" Meli demanded.

Poppy frowned in slight disapproval, but consulted the clock. "About half an hour," she replied.

Meli ran all the way to the dungeons, slowing down only as she came to the final set of stairs. Down these she stealthily crept, not wishing to alert any Slytherins who might happen to be hovering outside of their common room. She would have a hard enough time talking to Zarekael without the unwanted addition of someone listening in.

She slipped around the corner at the foot of the stairs, half-expecting to see Zarekael standing there as he had the first time she'd met him. He was not, of course, and she moved quietly on, the faint sound of raised voices in the Potions room wafting toward her, though she could make out no words. A loud slam sounded as she neared the last turning before the Potions room, and she came around it just in time to see Zarekael storming down the corridor toward his rooms. She started after him, but the sound of the door again opening—more quietly this time—sent her ducking back around the corner.

She pulled up the hood on her duster, then eased one eye around the corner. Professor McGonagall had stepped into the corridor and now moved swiftly to catch up with Zarekael, who, angry as he seemed, still moved quite deliberately and stiffly. McGonagall laid a hand on his back and seemed to say something to him, but Meli could not hear her voice. The two of them reached the hallway leading to his rooms, then turned and passed out of sight.

Meli swiftly buttoned up her duster, covering her blue blouse—the only non-black garment she wore. Now ready for shadow-skulking, she slipped around the corner again and crossed the corridor diagonally, putting her out of the lines of sight for anyone outside of Slytherin's common room or coming out of the Potions room. She stood just up the corridor from the doorway of that latter room, listening for any sign of approach. When she was satisfied that she was more or less alone, she sidestepped a few feet up the corridor, then dashed silently across and up it to duck into an alcove on the far side, opposite the entrance to Snape's rooms. From where she stood, she had a clear view of the doors to both Zarekael's and Snape's quarters and to the Potions room; the alcove was shadowy and just deep enough that she felt sufficiently concealed. In all possible ways, it was a virtually ideal hiding place, given her lack of choice in the matter.

While she waited a seeming eternity for McGonagall to leave, she amused herself by mentally reciting "The Highwayman", but the other professor took so long that she also made it through "Paul Revere's Ride" and started into "Tam O'Shanter". About the time Tam saw the devil playing bagpipes on the church altar, Meli heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the Potions classroom. She hugged the alcove wall and eased one eye past the corner to watch for whoever it was that was coming. A group of disgruntled-looking wizards with the unmistakable air of Aurors left the Potions room and turned left to leave the dungeons. A moment later, Dumbledore came into sight, walking steadily up the corridor toward her. He looked disinterestedly to his left, his gaze passing over Meli but never settling on her, then turned to his right, arriving shortly at Zarekael's quarters, where he, too, entered.

Meli gritted her teeth. If one more person went in, she'd know for certain that Zarekael was throwing a party and had neglected to invite her. As things stood now, however, her sure knowledge was limited to the fact that she might very well be skulking in the alcove all night waiting to talk with Zarekael alone. Slowly, forcing patience, she resumed her silent recitation.

Tam's poor horse had finally lost her tail fleeing from witches when McGonagall and Dumbledore emerged, interrupting the beginning of Meli's mental recitation of "Thanatopsis". She paused immediately, once more hugging the wall and watching with one eye as they passed her. Dumbledore again made several cursory glances about him, but as none came to rest on her, she continued to breathe easily, if quietly. He and McGonagall turned back down the Potions corridor, passing eventually out of her visual scope. She counted off another two minutes, but no one else came into sight, and the only footsteps she heard were those of the retreating teachers.

Meli crept silently forth from the alcove, leaping softly across the Potions corridor, then hugging the wall all the way down to Zarekael's door. When she stood directly opposite her goal, she paused briefly to take a deep breath; the easy and fun part of her task was past, giving way to a much more difficult one. She somewhat composed herself, lowered her hood, stepped across, and knocked loudly.

There was a short pause, then Zarekael's voice, sounding more impatient than normal, answered, "If you're a student, find Snape. If you're not . . . I'm not in the mood for visitors."

He was most certainly in a foul mood if he neglected to attach a respectful title to Snape's name, Meli thought darkly, already knocking again. "Zarekael," she called, "I have to talk with you. Now."

It took him over a minute to reach the door, but at last it opened and he glared down at her from above an untidy, untucked linen shirt. "Say what you have to say, then leave," he growled.

Meli forced her eyes and voice to harden. He could well be her enemy, after all. "I don't think you want this said out in the corridor," she replied coldly.

Zarekael looked at her wearily and warily for a long moment, then grudgingly stepped aside and motioned for her to enter. She did so, more acutely aware than ever of the strange creeping sensation his presence sent crawling over her spine. Tinúviel Everett, Severus Snape, and Zarekael . . . What did it mean?

He had turned his back to the entryway wall as she entered and now turned it to the door, which he closed with his right hand, his intent eyes never leaving her.

He's not turning his back to me, she realized, a silent alarm going off in the back of her mind. Instinctively, she reciprocated, backing out of the entryway and into the main room, her own eyes riveted to him.

There was an armchair to her right. She took one further step back diagonally to put it between him and herself, catching sight as she did of his wand, which lay on a low table beside the chair. Inwardly, she frowned; even in quarters, few wizards or witches ever kept their wands out of reach.

Zarekael was clearly as aware of her movements as she was of his. He cautiously stepped to his right, then moved around her. She followed him around until they had nearly switched places. Turned as she now was, Meli still stood between him and his wand, and there was another armchair, facing the first, now between the two of them. It would offer cover to either of them, but it also provided an obstacle that would neutralize Zarekael's greater reach if Meli should need to get away from him.

In her peripheral vision, she now caught sight of another potential factor. The fireplace was almost directly to her left, and beside it stood a stand with a wicked-looking spear. Above the mantle were crossed for display a long sword and a single-bladed ax. They appeared decorative . . . but knowing Zarekael as she did, Meli was under no illusions as to their usefulness. By luck, she had placed herself in such a way that he would have to get past her to reach any of his weapons, practical or magical.

It was not at all comforting to take comfort in such a fact when facing a friend.

He motioned to the first armchair she had seen. "Would you care to sit?" he offered.

She crossed her arms. "No. Thank you."

He seemed to wilt slightly at her response, but still he looked at her expectantly.

Best to be a Gryffindor about it. She took a deep breath. "Are you a Death Eater?" she asked. "And if so, are you a spy?"

Zarekael's eyes widened slightly in surprise. Whatever he'd expected her to say, this was plainly not it. He was silent a moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was solemn. "Ebony . . . what would you have me say?" he countered. "Either way, I've destroyed your trust in me. If I say I'm not a Death Eater, you will not believe me. If I say I am, you have every reason not to trust me."

Meli stiffened at his use of her formal name. It was a ploy she herself might have used: complete detachment to eliminate any possibility of emotional appeal—or the appearance of it.

She well took his point, however; he was stuck in the worst kind of catch-twenty-two, and it was at least partly her doing. She consciously uncrossed her arms and dropped them to her sides. Though her wand tip now rested in her right palm, her posture was less threatening, which might help to diffuse the situation somewhat.

She looked him squarely in the eye. "Whether or not you trust me, Zarekael," she said evenly, "at least believe me when I say that, whatever you say, I will believe you."

His gaze measured her for a moment, then, wordlessly, he rolled up his right sleeve. Meli frowned—who should know better than she that the Dark Mark was burned into the left arm?

Cold shock washed over her, though, for there on his right arm was a grinning skull with a reptilian figure wrapped around it. Before she could react, Zarekael was already rolling up his left sleeve to reveal the same mark on that arm, as well.

Meli met his eyes, then took a step forward to examine the markings more closely. The reptile was a dragon, not a snake, and it hugged the skull rather than coming forth from its mouth. She looked up again and arched an eyebrow. "That's still not an answer," she told him quietly. "It is, but it isn't."

As if in reply, Zarekael grasped his left arm over the Mark and gave her a pointed, pained look.

Meli set her mouth, determined to have a direct answer from him for the sake of her safety, as well as Snape's. "Do you answer to Voldemort?" she demanded.

"Yes," he replied.

She stared at him, surprised at so ready an admission . . . but it belatedly occurred to her that Zarekael, like Snape and even like herself, could be notorious for word games and literalism when it suited him. All right, she thought, same question, different phrasing.

"Do you serve the Dark Lord?" she asked deliberately.

Zarekael's answer was every bit as deliberate. "I have never truly served . . . Voldemort," he replied, his eyes never leaving hers.

She closed her eyes as relief flooded over her, and she drew what she judged to be her first clean breath in over a fortnight.

Meli opened her eyes again to see that Zarekael still grasped his arm, but his knuckles had gone white and he was sweating profusely. She instinctively reached out to help him, then checked the movement, knowing that his aversion to pity probably rivaled her own.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a low voice.

He stood almost immediately in front of a potions worktable; to this he now turned, bracing himself on it as he grunted out an agonized "Yes."

Now that his back was finally to her, Meli saw at last what he had been trying to conceal, and her stomach turned. His white shirt was completely soaked through with congealing blood.

With no memory of how it came to be there, Meli discovered that her hand was clapped firmly over her mouth. She forced herself to lower it, forced her eyes to narrow back to a normal size, and watched as Zarekael turned slowly to lean against the worktable with his left side. He fumbled with the handful of buttons actually fastened on his shirt, then dropped his arms slowly and painfully to his sides.

Meli stepped around the armchair to face him. "Do you need help?" she asked again, carefully keeping pity from her expression.

He gave her a patient look that nevertheless bordered on a glower. She bit her lip. "Right," she muttered. "Stupid question."

She gingerly took hold of his right sleeve and started to ease it off, but the task required some lifting of his arm, which drew pained winces from both of them. Once his arm was free, she crossed behind him and began the grisly work of peeling the shirt free from his bloodied back. As gently as she did it, the pain it caused still sent wild spasms across his shoulders and back. What it revealed was worse still: a mass of soft, raw shred covered with sticky, gelled red fluid that had gone nearly black in some places.

"Who did this to you?" she whispered in horror, knowing it for another stupid question even as she asked it.

"I seem to have . . . annoyed . . . Voldemort," he replied dryly.

"Just a bit," she said, managing a similar tone as she stepped around to his left arm and pulled the remaining sleeve free. A pile of black cloth, reeking of blood, already lay on the worktable beside her, so she tossed the ruined shirt on top of it, unsure of what else to do.

Something else on the worktable caught her eye, though: a black leather harness with three sheaths, only two of which still contained knives. Something about the handles looked somehow familiar, but she could not place them. They were peculiarly ornate . . . She wondered suddenly where he had lost or placed the third knife. It chilled her slightly to notice, however, that he'd had two weapons within easy reach during their entire conversation. Swallowing hard, she moved back around to face Zarekael once more, only to find that the evening's surprises had not yet ended.

A pattern of old scars covered Zarekael's chest and torso— several rectangular burns over each pectoral, a deep slash across his abdomen, and what looked like tears and rips down his torso—telling a tale of torture and violence by far predating his initiation to the Death Eaters. Another scar was present, as well: a carved design that Meli recognized from the armor Zarekael and Snape had worn at Halloween. He would never have received such treatment from Snape; these must all have been from his life before Hogwarts.

He had been brutally tortured before the age of eleven.

She did not bother to hide her widened eyes this time, nor did she again refuse the seat that Zarekael offered. Once she was sitting, he pivoted to sit saddle-style in the straight-backed chair at his worktable.

"That's why you recognized my name that day we met," Meli at last observed, her voice quiet. "They would have told you about me."

Zarekael was silent, obviously feeling that she needed no verbal confirmation, but a sardonic quirk touched his mouth, speaking volumes.

"Right," she murmured. "And now, having voiced that epiphany, I can move on with my life."

"Have you eaten?" Zarekael asked abruptly.

Meli was a bit taken aback, but she made a rapid recovery. Smiling wryly, she answered, "Er, no. I was rather too busy skulking."

Zarekael's eyes narrowed in amusement. "Dobby brought my dinner earlier." He slowly raised an arm to indicate the bedroom doorway.

She regarded him coolly, unsure of what should come next, but she resolved to follow his cues and respond fittingly.

She cleared the few items on the table beside her, moving them to one side, with the exception of Zarekael's wand, which she handed to him. Then she raised her own wand toward the bedroom. "Accio dinner tray." A few seconds later, the tray came floating through the doorway to rest on the table.

Meli intentionally avoided looking at Zarekael, leaving him to do as he pleased and to cue her accordingly. She busied herself slicing and buttering bread and pouring tea into the one cup Dobby had provided. She looked up only when Zarekael's shadow crossed the tray, and when she did, she saw that he was holding a clean potions beaker and a narrow vial. These he set on the tray and proceeded to transfigure into a teacup and a fork, respectively. He offered her another amused look, then sat carefully in the armchair facing hers, leaning forward to avoid touching his back to the rough upholstery.

She finished pouring the tea, then handed him a cup. He accepted it with a nod of thanks.

"Do you mind," Meli asked hesitantly, "if I ask what all that row was with the Aurors?"

Zarekael looked mildly at her. "Not at all," he replied, then fell silent.

Meli smiled coolly. "Caught in my own trap," she sighed. "All right, then. What was the row about?"

A shrewd veil passed over Zarekael's eyes. "My father has . . . found it expedient to disappear for awhile," he told her.

"Ah." She smirked. "No further questions, milord."

It belatedly occurred to her at this juncture just what it all must look like to someone unacquainted with the circumstances. She, an unattached female, having a very surreal dinner with a shirtless, unattached male colleague . . . She closed her eyes, suddenly very grateful that there was absolutely no chance of either Lavendar Brown or Parvati Patil walking in on them. The last thing either she or Zarekael needed at the moment was to have to deal with awkward explanations and rampant scandalous rumors.

On the bright side, she reflected randomly, at least it wouldn't end up splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet. Ever since the mysterious, if unlamented, retirement of Rita Skeeter, the magical community had been refreshingly lacking in scandal.