Part II: And Some Wad Eat That Want It
Chapter 21: The Pieces Fall Together
PRESENT: THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 25
A familiar thick sleep pulled Meli far below the surface of the conscious world and into the realm of pain and memory. She seemed surrounded by pieces, fragments from countless different puzzles that somehow appeared to fit together into one picture. She snatched at images, hardly knowing why she chose some and rejected others, and slowly the myriad of faces and scenes melted away to one room, in which she stood to the side, observing herself as a separate person.
"How did it happen?" the other Meli asked.
"I think it's fairly obvious," Andrea Underhill replied, appearing out of nowhere with a rattlesnake coiled around her arm. "There was a Dark Mark over the building, and one carved into her arm. Who else would have done it?"
"But to be so brutal . . ."
Andrea snorted. "Well he is strong enough, you know," she countered. "And he is a Death Eater. What else do you really know about him?"
The observing Meli frowned, but the one she observed shook her head emphatically. "I'll never believe it of him," she asserted. "Not without solid evidence."
Andrea raised her eyebrows, smiled derisively—an expression Meli had never seen from her in life—and stepped back, making way for a body covered with a sheet. At first, the observing Meli expected to see Crim's blood-covered form when the sheet was pulled back, but instead both Melis were confronted by the corpse of John Golden, his chest cracked open, his skin peeled back, most of his organs lying separate from his body, and a knife still protruding from his heart.
The knife . . .
The Melis merged once more, and she found Andrea's eyes burning through her.
"Sstrange," the rattlesnake mused, sliding from Andrea's arm to coil next to the body and examine the knife. "Very like, wouldn't you ssay?"
Meli stared at the knife, at the odd, ornate handle, and the scene dissolved and changed. Suddenly she stood in Zarekael's quarters, a bloody shirt in hand. She turned to the potions worktable and saw, beside the bloody clothes piled there, a black knife harness with one sheath empty. The snake wrapped herself around one of the remaining knives. "Exsactly like," she hissed.
And when Meli turned from that sight, Elizabeth and little Meli Golden stood there, each with a tray of biscuits.
"Will you take one, auntie?" little Meli offered brightly. "They're very sweet!"
Meli Ebony lunged forward, flying out of the cloudy trap of sleep to land squarely on her feet beside her bed. She made it to the toilet just in time to empty her stomach until blood and bile flowed.
She did not go back to bed that night. The pieces fit together, yet she disassembled and reassembled the puzzle over and over, countless times, searching with growing desperation for any misfit, any loophole that could exonerate Zarekael; there was none. Rather, the pieces fit more and more tightly as others brought themselves to mind: Zarekael's reaction to her name at their first meeting, the fact that he must necessarily have been a recent Death Eater initiate when they first met, even his reaction to certain events and Snape's timing at changing subjects. Each time she put it together, the puzzle's pieces fit with greater and greater precision, and she wished fervently that she had never seen any of Zarekael's knives.
The only possible way out would be if Zarekael had lent out the knife . . . but only someone as strong as he could have broken open John's ribcage by hand. And Meli had known that a killing of that sort would have been an initiation, and that the utter brutality of it would have pleased Voldemort exceedingly. The Ministry had been horrified at this newest ruthless development in Voldemort's imagination; Meli now knew for certain what she had always suspected: it was the addition of a new, existing imagination, not a development of the original, that had produced such a scene.
She waited until five o'clock, never leaving her bedroom, then slowly dressed and brushed out her hair. She stared at her image in the bathroom mirror without truly seeing anything but the haunted blue of her eyes. Beside the mirror was affixed the parchment flat with "The Selkirk Grace" inscribed in red ink, the poetic accusation that had possibly inspired Zarekael's Christmas present to her—he would have seen it while trying on Muggle clothes. She read it again now, and the words penetrated once more to the deepest core of her heart, burning and twisting and lancing. Even Voldemort could not have planned this, for even he could never have foreseen that she would befriend a Death Eater.
Some have friends they cannot trust, and some would trust that lack friends.
She closed her eyes to the words and left, slipping past Monty's sleeping form in the reading chair and quietly leaving her rooms. She flitted through the corridors, little more than a shadowy wraith, pausing only outside the Potions classroom. She took a deep breath, but she was resolved in her course and entered without hesitation.
As she had hoped, Snape was at work in his office, ignoring insomnia with the ready distraction of ungraded papers. He looked up mildly at her entrance, then looked more keenly at her as he became aware of her appearance and demeanor.
Meli had done her best to look as normal as possible, but there was no remedy for bloodshot eyes or anguished countenance.
Snape stood quickly, offering her a seat, which she declined. He gazed at her a moment longer, then said, "What's happened, Meli?"
She tried to steady her voice, but it refused, quavering and rasping like a paper castle assaulted by wind. "There is a—a conversation I must have with Zarekael," she replied haltingly. "Because of the nature of it . . . I believe it would be advisable to speak on neutral ground and . . . with a referee present."
His black eyes searched hers, but she could not withstand their intensity and looked away. Another moment passed before he answered, "I see."
"Sir—" She broke off, then started over. "Severus. Would you . . . would you be the referee?" She had to look at him now, to gauge his reaction.
Snape looked measuringly at her, calculations passing behind his eyes at a snitch's speed. At last, although the calculations continued, he nodded gravely. "I will," he replied. "And I'll offer my quarters as neutral territory, if you wish."
She made a motion more like a bow from the neck than an actual nod. "Thank you, sir."
"I will also speak to Zarekael," he continued carefully. "It might, perhaps, be easier for the invitation to come from the . . . referee."
She could not restrain the smile of relief that crossed her face, but she could, and did, truncate it. She despised emotionalism, and she knew she would experience far too much of it before day's end; there was no sense in getting started early. "Thank you, Severus."
He was extremely curious, she knew, and more than a little worried, but he would not press the issue; it was not yet a crisis point in his calculations.
"Will eight o'clock tonight suffice?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes. Thank you." She forced another smile, then turned to leave. She felt his eyes on her, but she could offer them no more explanation. She could not yet bring herself to speak what she knew—and she would speak of that only to Zarekael first.
Whatever he had done, he deserved at least that much courtesy.
She skipped breakfast altogether and lunched in Hogsmeade. Dinner, however, was unavoidable and, consequently, unbearable. She stared at her plate throughout the meal, nerves sapping her appetite. Since Crimson's death, she had come to regard Snape and Zarekael her closest living friends. To confront—to accuse—one in front of the other was to risk losing at least one, possibly both, and it was a prospect she did not relish. It would be very difficult to be Snape's friend and at odds with Zarekael; the two were practically, and necessarily, inseparable.
And some would trust but lack friends.
She occasionally forced down bites of food, but what she ate she could not say, nor was she even sure that she used the appropriate utensils to do so. She had the vague impression that Zarekael and Snape behaved even more normally than normal, as if in an attempt to compensate for her behavior.
As soon as the desserts cleared, taking with them their stomach-turning sugary reek, Meli excused herself and walked, as in a haze, to her rooms, approaching in a roundabout way in order to avoid Slytherin and the Potions corridor and people in general.
Monty slithered up to her as soon as she entered. "What'ss wrong?" he hissed. "You've been gone all day."
"Oh." She stepped past him and crossed to the anteroom to stare blankly at the bookshelf there. "I've had a lot on my mind today."
Monty came to a halt between her and the bookshelf, then drew himself up to look her in the eye. "Something's happened," he said flatly. "You can confide in me, you know."
"Not with this," she replied. "It would take too much explanation, and I'm not even sure I could explain most of it. You know how my mind works—or doesn't, as the case may be."
Monty eyed her narrowly, then sank back to the floor. "Zsarekael'ss a Death Eater, issn't he."
Meli looked sharply at him. "What?! Where did that come from?"
"I knew it," Monty said, almost smugly, but with a trace of sadness. "I wass right."
Anger and pain vied for control of Meli, but Monty's morose countenance won her over. "You're not right," she countered, trying to convince herself as much as him. "He's an honorable man and a . . . a true friend." She broke off, hearing her voice beginning to go raspy.
Deep understanding stirred in the python's eyes. "Ssso wass Sharpie," he said simply.
Meli turned her back on him. "I don't have time for this," she growled, then locked herself in her bedroom for the remaining ten minutes before she had to leave.
Had Monty currently been a human student at Hogwarts, she reflected darkly, he would have been a Gryffindor of the worst kind—on a par, probably, with the likes of Ron Weasley in terms of mouthiness and brazenness and sheer pigheaded stupidity.
He would also probably have been on a par with Dumbledore for perceptiveness.
Meli slipped out of her quarters without saying good-bye, but she was glad to see that Monty had retreated to the reading chair, from which he would not see her come in later. She had no desire to be greeted by him when she returned from her conversation with Zarekael, and he would most definitely not want to be anywhere near her at that juncture, either.
She arrived at Snape's quarters soon after Zarekael did; both he and Snape were still in the entryway when she knocked. Although neither one showed it openly, she could tell that both were tensed and nervous, unsure what to think or how to react. Snape mechanically led the others into his main room, where three chairs were placed around a small table. One chair had its back directly to the fire; when Snape motioned for her to sit, Meli stepped to her left and chose this one. Zarekael took the chair to her right, which was situated with its back to the door; Snape wordlessly seated himself in the remaining chair.
And now came the most difficult task Meli had ever yet assigned herself. Standing up to Voldemort as a child had been nothing to this, and to make matters worse, only she could begin this conversation, for neither of the others present could know what it was about.
She cleared her throat and looked down at her hands, which were folded tightly in her lap. Her body had gone rigid; she could not relax.
"Zarekael," she began slowly, glad in spite of herself that her tone was more or less even, "when I was in your rooms last month for a . . . certain memorable conversation . . . I noticed a harness on your worktable." She forced herself to look up. Though she could not meet his eye, she must see his physical reaction. So far he only looked puzzled. "The knives in it looked . . . somehow familiar, but I couldn't think where I'd seen them before. Last night, though, the memory came."
She swallowed hard before continuing. "Last June, I was called in to identify a family killed by Death Eaters—the Golden family." Zarekael suddenly stiffened, and Meli's heart sank. She glanced to Snape and saw that he had gone deathly pale, but she forced herself to go on. "John Golden's body was found . . . with a knife through the heart. Its handle and the handles of those in your harness were virtually identical." She broke off, choking back a small sob, then pressed ahead, though with difficulty. "I need to know, Zarekael . . . was that your knife?"
He stood abruptly and turned his back to her, leaning heavily on the back of his chair with his left hand. His frame shook just visibly as he attempted to control his own reaction.
Again, Meli looked to Snape. He held one side of his face with his left hand, looking very ill indeed; she could find no help there. He knew. He had known. Moreover, he, as Zarekael's sponsor, had most likely been present for it.
Her throat tightened as facts and fledgling control gave way to violent emotion. Before she could rationally consider her words, before she could stop them, they poured forth in a heart-rending plea: "Please tell me it wasn't you."
Zarekael turned again, anguish screaming in his eyes and tearing at his normally inexpressive face. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "I cannot. I did it—I killed them."
Emotion took fully over now as reason flew to the wind. Tears streamed from her eyes as those words enclosed her, echoing in her mind, taunting her in their constant repetition. Through the thick fog of words and words and words, she whispered one demand: "Why?"
The little reason left to her understood the calculation of the matter. Zarekael had infiltrated the Death Eaters, and Voldemort had assigned a test of loyalty—
Forget about reason. Her question was not to Zarekael the Death Eater but to Zarekael the man—to Ruthvencairn her friend.
He understood the meaning of her question; she read it clearly in his eyes. He shook his head mournfully. "I . . . have no answer," he replied.
"How—" A sob escaped, but she choked down the one on its heels, shaking her head and again seeking tonal control in a whisper. "So brutal . . . so ruthless."
Zarekael winced, and again shook his head. "I have no answer to that, either."
He turned to lean back against the chair, his right hand covering his face.
Meli buried her own face in her hands, whimpering and hiccuping as she fought back sobs. Dimly, she heard Zarekael excuse himself, and when the door closed behind him, she at last stopped fighting. Wracking sobs shook her body, doubling her over in the chair. No word escaped her, only incoherent wails, though she could not even tell for whose pain she wept. The anguish in Zarekael's eyes cut her nearly as deeply as the sight of the Goldens had done. Voldemort, the beast, the embodiment of all that was wrong and evil, had destroyed more than even he had intended.
Voldemort, ultimately Voldemort, was to blame for everything that had happened this night, yet she and Zarekael were caught inescapably in the middle, and they were the two who must deal with the brutal facts of the matter.
No, ultimately Grandfather. It wasn't enough for him to punish me; he had to bring in others. He had to bring in Voldemort and the Death Eaters.
Her tears were nearly spent when she felt a warm touch. She looked up to find that Snape now stood beside her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. His eyes, too, held anguish, but with it was mixed the same compassion that had shone in his eyes after her parents' deaths fourteen years before.
"I'm sorry, Severus," she said quietly. "I should go."
She stood, wiping her cheeks on the sleeves of her duster and drawing a deep, shuddering breath to quell the last of her sobs. She was surprised when Snape stepped around the table and offered her his arm.
"I'll see you home," he said simply.
She gratefully took his arm and walked slowly with him through the dungeons to her own rooms. There she turned and offered him a broken smile. "Thank you, Severus."
He bowed solemnly. "Good night, Meli."
Once the door closed behind her, she allowed her shoulders to slump in the utter defeat she felt but refused to show even to Snape. She stepped out of the entryway and past the reading chair, under which Monty was now curled and, to all appearances, asleep. In the anteroom, she once more stared at the bookshelf, then removed two items and opened her bedroom door. She checked once more to be sure that Monty was in plain sight and had not slipped in behind her, then entered her bedroom and closed, locked, and warded the door.
The door closed behind Meli, and Snape began walking again, at a much faster pace. He took another route out of the dungeons, one that would bring him out near the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Meli had been seen to, Zarekael would not want his—or anyone else's—company, and Dumbledore had to be told immediately what had transpired.
He did not slow his pace until he reached the statue guarding the entrance to the headmaster's office, and then it was only long enough to speak the password ("Werther's Originals"). He all but flew up the staircase to knock at the door, and he was only mildly surprised when Dumbledore answered in mid-knock.
"Come in, Severus," Dumbledore said calmly, though Snape reflected that his sweaty and alarmed appearance would not usually engender calmness in anyone.
He entered but did not sit, identifying suddenly with the distraught Meli who had stood in his own office not sixteen hours before. "Something has happened which I believe should be brought to your attention," Snape said without preamble.
Dumbledore's eyes held no twinkle, but his countenance was as open as ever. "Very well," he replied, watching Snape attentively. "Go on."
Snape forced himself to stick to facts. Facts were ever and always the most direct route to the point of a matter. Facts required no emotion—treated properly, facts precluded emotion. "By means of bizarre and unfortunate coincidence, Meli has pieced together Zarekael's role in the deaths of the Golden family," he stated, not bothering to add that she must also by now suspect that he, too, had been involved and that, once she calmed down enough to consider that, there would be dire consequences. "Both she and Zarekael are understandably upset, and there may perhaps be some antipathy between them from now on." He paused, then forced himself to add what he did not want to admit, even to himself: "I doubt they will remain friends after this." And I doubt she and I will remain friends, either, he added silently.
Dumbledore nodded slowly, mulling over the information. "How is Meli?" he asked after a moment.
"I've just seen her to her rooms," Snape replied. "She's somewhat calmer, no longer crying, but still very upset. I half-expect not to see her for a day or two."
"No," Dumbledore agreed. "She has a great deal of thinking to do, and she will not show herself until she is finished." He caught Snape's eye, and a touch of his twinkle returned. "And how are you, Severus?"
Snape blinked. "How am I?" he repeated.
"These events must certainly have taken a toll on you," Dumbledore said wryly. "How are you doing?"
Snape considered. He had not had, nor made, the time to think about it up until now. "Er, tired," he answered at last. "Rather . . . drained, actually."
Dumbledore smiled kindly. "I believe Meli and Zarekael will find some resolution and equilibrium," he said. "In the meantime, try to get some rest, Severus. You will do neither of them any good by wearing yourself down."
Before Snape had quite any idea how it happened, he found himself already on the stairs, heading back to the dungeons. When he fully noticed this, he stopped, suddenly dumbfounded. "How does he do that?" he asked no one in particular, shaking his head in awe.
Meli did not emerge from her rooms for three days. Had anyone bothered to ask Monty (no one did, or even thought to), he would irritably have specified that she did not come out of her bedroom for that length of time. After the first twelve hours, he tired of tapping at the door and asking how she was doing, and he resigned himself instead to coiling up in her reading chair to wait.
Meli herself spent the time pondering the two things she had carried in with her: a small, flat box, and a new book. She ate only twice a day, when anonymous house elves delivered her meals and reminded her to eat. She turned over in her hands the book from Zarekael, running her fingers over its cover and turning its crisp new pages.
"To a Mouse" drew her eye almost immediately, its absurdity overcome this once by the applicability of a stanza to her predicament:
But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be in vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang oft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Neither she nor Zarekael could ever have foreseen the events of this day, and neither could help but grieve at the result. Like mice turned up by a plow, they were caught and wounded and helpless to have prevented it.
Unlike that mouse, however, Meli had a choice that would not be dictated simply by instincts. The mouse would run away and hide, build a new nest elsewhere, and avoid the plow with greater vigilance. This Meli could do, and few would blame her—least of all Zarekael Ruthvencairn Sel Dar Jerrikhan. She knew beyond any doubt that he fully expected their friendship to be forever at an end.
But she had been endowed with capacities entirely foreign to field mice, and among these was the capacity to forgive. She had exercised that capacity as a child, when her grandfather had disowned her and when Voldemort had cursed her. This occasion was no different, except that, unlike either her grandfather or Voldemort, Zarekael was her friend. In her mind, he had not betrayed her; he had not even known her when he killed the Goldens, and he had been implicitly forced into the act. What remained to be forgiven, then, were his keeping from her the facts of it, and the brutality with which he had carried out the deed.
His friendship was precious to her, as precious as the lives of each of her few friends, and she was resolved not to lose it easily. Voldemort had already destroyed many things so precious to her, both directly and indirectly; she would afford him no further ground.
Much closer to home, however, was the anguish and self-loathing in Zarekael's eyes. He hated himself for what he'd done, hated himself for keeping it from her, hated himself for everything pertaining to it, and he would be punishing himself to his dying day for the Goldens and for every other horrific act Voldemort required of him. If he lost her as a friend now, he would blame and hate himself for that, as well. She could do nothing to prevent the rest of it, but the choice to remain his friend or not was dependent on her.
In times like these, when desperate deeds were required of them all, even solitary creatures like Snape and Zarekael needed friends, and she had no intention of abandoning either of them. They needed her, just as she needed them.
Ruthvencairn needed her, just as she needed him.
Her tears had left before midnight struck that first night, and her thinking was completed by the second midnight after. She remained sequestered another day to compose herself and to prepare for a confrontation almost as nerve-wracking as the last; she would not emerge until she could look either Zarekael or Snape squarely in the eye without accusation.
Meli awoke at four in the morning on the fourth day and made her final preparatory choice.
She picked up the small, white box and opened it for the first time since Christmas Day, fingering again the silver ring and its black stone. A reminder, Snape had called it, a reminder that there were friends Voldemort could not take from her, friends who were willing to risk their lives for her and who would not be scared off or intimidated easily.
She could do no less for them.
Slowly, Meli slid the ring onto her right ring finger and started a new chapter of her life.
She tried Zarekael's rooms first, but he didn't answer the door. He was in neither the Potions room nor Snape's office. Thinking he might be wandering the halls upstairs, she climbed the steps to the ground floor, unsure of where to start looking but determined to find him if it was the last thing she did.
She rounded a corner and found herself suddenly face-to-face with Dumbledore. The headmaster smiled, and his eyes twinkled madly.
"If you're looking for Zarekael," he said mildly, "I believe you'll find him gathering potions ingredients in the Forbidden Forest."
Meli blinked, and Dumbledore was already past her, walking sedately down the corridor. She waited a moment, her brain temporarily frozen, then shook her head and said to the air, "How does he do that?" The air having no suitable reply, she made her way to the castle's main entrance.
She stepped out into the fresh cold, ignoring the fact that her duster was not quite up to defending her against the wind. After three days in the warmth of her rooms, the shock of winter was a sudden and welcome relief. She started across the grounds, carefully navigating in the dark before dawn.
She was perhaps fifty feet from the edge of the Forest when Zarekael emerged, lantern and empty bag in hand. He saw her almost immediately, then stiffened and turned to re-enter the Forest.
"Zarekael!" she called out, breaking into a run. He stopped but did not turn to face her. She came within ten feet of him, close enough to speak without being overheard, though no one else would be out at this hour. "Ruthvencairn!"
He stiffened further, but he refused to turn or make any reply, even to that name. She closed the remaining distance between them and deliberately laid a hand flat on his back, just beneath his right shoulder blade. "Ruthvencairn," she said again.
Zarekael was silent a moment, then finally spoke, his tone flat and resigned. "What do you want with me?"
There was a specific meaning to that question, Meli knew, and her mind turned immediately to the task of translation. He believed she considered him a villain and a betrayer—what would she want with a betrayer?
No; that was the incorrect question. What had someone else wanted with him the last time he had been considered a betrayer?
A vision of his shredded back passed before her mind's eye, and she had her answer: He expected retribution and punishment. He expected revenge.
"I am not Voldemort," she said firmly.
He whirled, the lantern light showing his face overrun by a mixture of astonishment and horror. "No," he breathed. "No, you most certainly are not."
She caught his eye and held it. "I'm not here to collect in blood."
"Why not?" he asked. His face had gone completely slack, his eyes dead, resigned. "It's your right—I fully expect it. I don't blame you."
"I'm not here to punish you," she stated. "Especially since you appear to be doing a more-than-adequate job of punishing yourself. I don't blame you."
He smiled bitterly—the first true smile she had ever seen from him, and of such a dark intensity that she hoped never to see its like again. He thought she was mocking him.
Meli shook her head, then sought to clarify. "The man who stands here before me is not the man who killed the Goldens," she declared.
She had thought he could not unsettle her further, but he proved her terribly wrong. His lips parted, and a bitter laugh escaped, chilling her to the very soul as only a Dementor had done before.
"I'm happy that you think so, Ebony," he replied. "But I know they are one and the same."
Meli set her jaw, determined not to concede the point and forfeit this friendship. "No, Ruthvencairn," she countered. "I see that you hate what you did, that the memory of it brings you no pleasure, and that if there had been any way out, you'd have taken it. As far as I'm concerned, we remain friends—unless you determine otherwise."
She had left herself open, she knew, for him to present her with every single reason he could come up with to push her away. While she had prepared herself for what words might come, there had been no way either to anticipate or to prepare for what Zarekael actually did.
He drew himself up to his full height and stepped in close to her, staring down at her from cold eyes that had become suddenly menacing and detached. Without asking, without being told, she knew that she saw him as Elizabeth had last seen him, and it was by brute strength alone that she kept herself from taking a step backward. She would not be intimidated.
"The Goldens weren't the first, you know," he said quietly, a threat implicit in his tone. "Nor will they be the last."
Meli met his eyes with her most defiant, unwavering gaze. "I'm sure it was justified when you killed before," she replied, knowing herself for a blue-blooded Gryffindor even as she did. Such optimism was not natural—or shouldn't be.
Zarekael seemed disturbingly relaxed in his current mode. He tilted his head to one side, looking at her much as a critic might examine a curious piece of artwork. There was no emotion evident, merely a detached interest in a thing before him. Having so gauged her, he at last answered, "I turned in my own father for execution." He paused to examine her again, then further added, "I had the rest of my family killed."
Meli swallowed. That was a lot of guilty work to do before the age of eleven, but she knew he would not have made up what he said. Zarekael was many things—a spy, a killer, perhaps more—but a liar was not one of them. Beneath that terror-inspiring manner he now wore, however, there was a heart; she had seen it bared in anguish only a few days before.
"Do you regret it?" she asked.
A flicker of life zipped through his eyes, almost too fast to see, then disappeared once more. "Yes," he replied simply.
"Would you do it again?"
A trace of the former smile returned, touching Zarekael's face with something that bordered on mania. "Oh, yes," he answered, and her heart sank.
She had only one card left to play, and even it was probably stacked against her. A calculated outburst might somehow reach him, but it could just as easily glance off; in his present mood, she could not say what he might or mightn't do.
Carefully, praying that it would work, she lowered the emotional barriers she had partially constructed over the past three days and gave full vent to what lay behind them. A madness took over her own eyes and seeped into her voice, reducing it to a strangled rasp.
"I am not losing you as a friend!" she all but screamed at him. "Voldemort's taken too much already; I am not letting him win!"
He remained unmoved and even crossed his arms. "Tell me, Ebony," he said coolly. "Are you truly interested in me as a friend, or am I a means to spite Voldemort?"
It was a moment before she could rein in her temper again, but a sudden epiphany greatly helped the process. He's using every argument I would in his place, she realized, actually smiling faintly. He's trying to do exactly what I've spent seventeen years of my own life doing.
Whether or not Zarekael was impressed or surprised by her rapid recovery, she could not tell, nor did she care. She crossed her own arms and once more held his eye. "Everything you're saying is calculated to push me away," she said, her voice suddenly deadly calm. "You're trying to protect me from yourself. I was your friend before any of this came to a head, Ruthvencairn. I was interested in you for who you are from the very first, and I still am. Don't let this die; Voldemort has destroyed too much already."
"I'm not exactly innocent of that destruction," Zarekael countered, but she saw in his eyes that he had begun to return to himself.
He had finally edged himself onto a battlefield where she held the high ground. "There's a difference," she told him. "You have a conscience."
He regarded her quietly, measuringly, for a full minute. "Are you absolutely sure you want this?" he asked softly. "You know what I am. You know what I do. You know what I've done. I am not a . . . pleasant . . . man."
She looked steadily at him. "I wouldn't have come out here if I wasn't absolutely sure," she replied.
"Very well." He bowed, and when she could again see his face, his customary solemn expression had returned. "Then there is only one thing left to be said." He tilted his head inquiringly. "Breakfast?"
She blinked in surprise, then recovered and grinned. "All right."
Zarekael offered his arm, which she took, and they started back across the grounds, past Hagrid's cottage and toward the gates. Hours had passed since Meli had gotten up, and the rosy finger of dawn was even now touching the distant horizon. She and Zarekael walked in silence for several minutes, then he suddenly stopped, a slight furrow in his brow.
"Meli, how did you know where to find me?"
She smirked. "Dumbledore told me."
Zarekael shook his head wonderingly. "How does he do that?"
"I have no idea."
Meli and Zarekael entered the Great Hall arm-in-arm, and only then did it occur to them that such was not normal behavior for either of them. The expressions on the faces of both teachers and students were a study in comedy and melodrama.
Harry, Hermione, and Ron stared in open-mouthed shock, while Ginny giggled furiously and Fred and George seemed determined to focus on anything but the entering twosome. Dumbledore's eyes were lost in twinkles, while McGonagall's had narrowed first in surprise and now in mild disapproval of what she obviously considered a poor joke. Trelawney—
Meli barely restrained a wicked grin. Trelawney had ventured down, risking a cloud over her Inner Eye, to join the company, and she was now doing a disturbingly good job of looking surreally pleased with herself.
Meli glanced up at Zarekael and caught his eye, and a silent, mischievous understanding passed between them. He escorted her to the empty chair beside Snape, pulled it out for her, and, when she was seated, pushed it in for her. He then sat next to her and quite composedly set to the task of eating his breakfast, his eyes narrowed in amusement. Meli herself was smiling broadly as she poured a glass of pumpkin juice.
Snape, for his part, had been as surprised as the rest, but he now watched the entire display with a knowing smirk, clearly amused and just as clearly (to Meli's eyes, at any rate) relieved that she and Zarekael remained friends.
We'll hate ourselves for this tomorrow, she thought, taking a long drink of pumpkin juice. But in the meantime, I find it highly amusing.
Meli could only revel in the others' shock for a brief time, however; there was still the matter of Severus Snape. She'd spent three days in thought, and though most of that thinking had been about Zarekael, Snape's actions had not escaped her consideration; indeed, they could not. The fact remained that he had known about, and probably at least witnessed, the Goldens' murders. She understood perfectly why he had never spoken a word about it to her, just as she comprehended the calculation behind Zarekael's brutality, but if the air between Snape and herself was ever to be cleared, something must be said about it as soon as possible, before the topic was forever closed. And the air must be cleared; Snape was more important to her than Zarekael probably ever would be.
Meli had long ago learned the skill of calculating the length of time it was taking someone to eat and pacing her own eating accordingly in order to finish shortly before the person in question did. It now proved a valuable skill, for it allowed her to finish eating and to excuse herself before Snape did, thereby preventing anyone from suspecting that she was following him. To all appearances, in fact, he followed her out of the Great Hall fully five minutes after she'd left. That she just happened to be waiting for him was entirely beside the point, and in any case, no one inside the Great Hall witnessed it anyway.
Judging by Snape's countenance, he would have been surprised not to find her there. He halted directly in front of her, his features impassive.
Meli took a deep breath, then began. "Severus, we need to talk. When . . . would be a good time?"
He arched an eyebrow, but his face betrayed no signal of amusement. "We're on holiday, Meli," he reminded her mildly. "Any time will do. We can talk now, if you wish."
Neutral ground was still preferable to either one's territory; that ruled out Snape's and her offices and both sets of quarters, as well as the Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts classrooms. To talk in the corridor was absolutely out of the question, though, so they instead found a nearby empty classroom. Even that was not proof against any eavesdroppers who might happen by, so by unspoken agreement, both teachers put in place several silencing charms, effectively closing out the rest of the world. That done, they turned to face each other, Meli knowing that the first move lay with her and Snape waiting for her to make it.
She cleared her throat. "You can have no reasonable doubt what this is about," she said quietly.
Snape nodded, and she noticed that he was paler than usual.
"I've had three days to think," she continued, "and I have settled a number of things in my mind." She looked him directly in the eye. "I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Zarekael: I don't blame you—either of you."
Several things flashed through Snape's eyes then, most notably disbelief and a hint of amusement, probably at the thought of what Zarekael's response must have been.
"I don't blame you," she repeated, "but I have to know—were you a participant or an observer?"
Snape swallowed. "That depends largely on your definitions of those terms," he replied. "Even someone who stands by and watches, doing nothing, can be said to participate in a crime."
Good point, Meli thought wearily. Who would ever have thought I'd have to make a distinction worthy of a barrister in a conversation with a friend? Aloud, she said, "Did you actively participate in what was done to the Goldens, or did you stand by and observe either the events or their aftermath?"
"It was my son's initiation, Meli," he answered.
Knowing her background as he did, he knew that it was all the answer she needed. It was Zarekael's initiation; thus, Zarekael had been required to make all three kills and apply most, if not all, of the window dressing. However, Zarekael was Snape's son, and Snape, as his father and sponsor, would have been required to observe and supervise the proceedings.
As the supervisor, Snape must have spoken at least once, and though his face would have been masked, his voice was quite distinctive—and Elizabeth had met him before.
If I don't ask now, I'll never be able to . . . but should I ask?
Calculation was somehow bypassed, though, and before reaching a conclusion, she heard herself ask the question: "Did she—Elizabeth—recognize you?"
His eyes flew down and away from hers to fix on the floor to his right. "Yes," he all but whispered. "She did."
Remorse caught in her throat, and she had to resist the inexplicable impulse to touch his arm in a pseudo-comforting manner. "Severus, I'm sorry."
Up came his eyes, locking onto hers with a touch of confusion, the remnant trace of anger at himself, and a heavy dose of reproof directed at her. He had gone in an instant from a confronted friend to a disapproving mentor. "Why should you be?" he demanded. "It is a perfectly just question. You're not the first to ask it, and I daresay you won't be the last."
She shook her head. "I'm sorry for dredging it up," she clarified.
"You have a right to know," he countered.
That statement opened, however temporarily, the opportunity for her to ask for further particulars, but she did not take advantage of it. Curious she might be, but she already knew more about the incident than she wanted to. The only other plausible option, then, was to change the subject.
"I've had both the chance and the motivation to think seriously on another matter," she said, after a short pause. She held up her right hand to show him the silver and black it now wore. "I've come to a decision."
Snape's mouth curved into a small smile. "I'm glad to see it," he replied.
There was nothing very fitting to say to that, nor did another topic readily present itself to her mind, so an awkward pause ensued. Finally, Meli cleared her throat uncertainly. "So . . . now what?"
Snape's smile broadened just a bit, but he had, as (nearly) always, a ready answer. "Is the invitation still open to go vandalize Father Christmas' sleigh?"
Meli stared at him a moment, then slowly smiled. "Christmas was five days ago, Severus," she reminded him. "We'd have to apparate to the North Pole to do it."
"But we'd have a marvelous head start for next year," he pointed out.
"And what about the hopper car of coal you'll doubtless receive as a reward?"
Snape arched his eyebrow. "There are any number of useful ways to dispose of that," he assured her.
Meli shook her head, laughing out loud. "I shudder to think."