AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just in case you, like me, are subject to name-related confusion (just ask my mum—I give a different name every time I introduce myself), let me give you this heads-up: In the flashbacks that follow, the younger Severus Snape is always referred to as Severus, and the elder is always referred to as Snape. Thus, when Severus and Snape are standing side by side, the one called Severus is always the younger self of the one called Snape.

Oh, and on another note, this part of the story (and a couple of others, too) is not for the fainthearted Sirius Black or James Potter fans. As stated above, I am a Snape diehard. I cried at the end of Book Three, and not on account of Sirius being on the run or Harry having to go back to the Dursleys. I also laughed hysterically at the end of Book Five, then had a long, delighted phone conversation with Snarky about how glad we were that a certain cur was dead. Snape, not Black or Potter, is the sympathetic character here. You have been warned. (That means no hate mail over it, guys; save it for the things I don't warn you about.)
AE

Chapter 13: The Box

PRESENT

Curious though he was, Snape did not immediately investigate either the Penseive or the box. As much as he wanted to see what Tinúviel had placed in them, a part of him shied away from them—first because he felt that he would be invading her privacy and secondly because he feared what he might find. That she had been a spy set him somewhat at ease, but it also disturbed him; Tinúviel had hated Dumbledore far more than Snape had ever done. Only desperation could have made her his informant.

On arriving back in his rooms, Snape placed all of Tinúviel's artifacts on his worktable, then sat down with his back to them and brooded.

SEPTEMBER 1969

The first day of school his first year at Hogwarts had been, as with most things in Severus' life, a bitter mixture of pleasure and pain. His tormentors from the train had become best friends overnight, and the two of them now delighted in annoying him in the corridors whenever they saw him. His only relief was in the classroom, where he shared no classes with the Gryffindors until afternoon. He gave his teachers no trouble, and as long as they gave him none, they would find him an eager and willing student. Severus craved nothing so much as knowledge, and here at last he could obtain it—cruel Gryffindors notwithstanding.

There was only one thing other than information that drew his attention in class after class: a small, wiry girl with long, stringy blonde hair and calculating gray eyes. She, like he, was silent unless called upon by a teacher, and she, like he, knew the answer to every question put to her. When not in class, she was always reading, even as she walked the corridors. Whether it was the constant reading or the rapt attention she paid the teachers that drew Severus' notice first, he never afterward could recall, but he was curious about what other knowledge lay behind those cool eyes.

He had his chance for a closer observation in Double Potions, a situation that provided some consolation when he saw that the Gryffindors were grouped with the Slytherins. Black and Potter each shoved him in turn on their way to the Gryffindor worktables, and when Severus picked himself up, he found that one of the two stools at the worktable he'd been approaching was now occupied.

He cleared his throat uncertainly. "Er…do you mind if I sit here?" he asked.

A cool gray gaze accompanied the reply: "If you don't, no one else will, so you might as well if you want to."

"Thanks." He deposited his satchel, then took his seat, though he wasn't sure if he did so with or without the girl's blessing.

"Severus Snape, is it?" she asked coolly, her query interested but somehow still detached.

He looked at her cautiously. "Yes," he answered.

At last she smiled and extended her hand. "Tinúviel Everett," she introduced herself. "I'm pleased to meet you."

Severus offered her something like a cross between a half-smile and a nonplused expression as he shook the proffered hand. "Thanks," he said again. "Er, pleased to meet you, too."

Her countenance closed in a mask as easily as it opened in a smile, and she looked thoughtfully at him. "Do you prefer being called Snape or Severus?" she asked.

Severus stared at her wonderingly. "Are you sure you're a Slytherin?" he countered.

Everett grinned. "You think I'm mercurial enough to be a Gryffindor?" she suggested. "Or naïvely friendly enough to be a Hufflepuff?"

"Something of the sort," he allowed.

"Well, then, I'll let you in on a bit of a secret," Everett said confidingly. "You can't believe anything you see of me, so it's best not to try. I've more layers than an onion and more complexity than a neural regeneration brew." She nodded sagely and gave him a very knowing look. "Me mum says I'm complicated."

Severus shook his head, mystified. "All right," he acquiesced, not knowing what further he could say to that. He cast about for some solid footing, and the best he could find lay in front of him. "So…do you like Potions?"

The grin returned. "Love it," Everett answered. "My mum holds an advanced mastery, so she's shown me a few things. Kids' stuff, really," she added, making a face, "but enough to whet my appetite. Do you?"

He shrugged nonchalantly (at least, he hoped it was a nonchalant shrug). "I don't know," he replied. "I haven't done much with potions." It was a lie, of course, but really, what was he supposed to tell a Slytherin he'd only just met?

Everett gave him a look from the corner of her eye that told him she knew or suspected the full extent of his "lack" of experience with potions. "You strike me as the observant type," she said softly. "Even if you don't like Potions, you'll be good at it."

Further conversation was made impossible by the entrance of Professor Amalgam, a thin male whose physique resembled a cross between a rat, a ferret, and a toad, and who was recognizable as human only because he was a biped possessing opposable thumbs. Everett sized up Amalgam with a sharp eye.

"It's going to be a loooong seven years," she muttered, then, inexplicably, grinned.

"Attention!" Amalgam shrieked in a voice like fingernails on a blackboard. He glared at Everett, who looked impassively back at him. "I will not allow trivial conversation in this class! Your name, miss?"

"Vi Everett," she replied. "Many apologies, sir; I meant no disrespect."

"That will be for me to determine," Amalgam snapped, then whipped his head around to glare now at Potter and Black. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for snickering out of turn!"

Severus permitted himself a smirk as Everett caught his eye and smirked back. It would indeed be a long seven years…but at least those years promised to be entertaining.

ooo

The next time they talked, it was Everett who asked for permission to sit across from Severus at dinner. He glanced up to find her looking, of all things, shy and uncertain.

"Sure," he replied.

"Thanks." She sat down, then fell silent.

Ordinarily, Severus would have let her remain silent and uncomfortable, but she seemed to want so badly to converse that he took pity on her. "So…what do you think of Professor Amalgam?" he asked lamely.

Everett smiled briefly. "He's good for a laugh, I suppose," she answered. "And he knows the curriculum, anyway." She cleared her throat. "So what do you think of Potions?"

Severus shrugged. "I don't know quite yet," he replied evasively. "But so far I like it."

"Well," Everett said, "Amalgam's very good at what he does most of the time. If you have a question he can't answer, I'd be happy to write my mum and ask her—if you want."

Severus furrowed his brow. "Amalgam doesn't know Potions well enough to answer questions?"

Everett raised her eyebrows. "He's a perfectly qualified teacher," she replied, sounding a bit like Professor McGonagall. "But he doesn't have a mastery. If you ask him what happens when you add asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, he can tell you. Ask him why it'll happen, and he'll have to owl his university professor for the answer."

"Is this a common problem?" Severus asked sardonically.

Everett looked at him sheepishly. "Probably not," she admitted. "But if you're particularly inquisitive about potions and Amalgam's particularly unhelpful—which I think he'd be—my mum is a university professor."

"Does your mum know how outgoing you are?"

"Actually…" Everett blushed. "I'm really very shy. All I know to talk about is potions."

That would make you shockingly simple, Severus thought, recalling her earlier statement that she was complicated.

Before he could say anything further, a girl in a Slytherin robe stepped up to Everett, a book in hand. "Here's your book back, Vi," she said without preamble. "I gave up after the first paragraph."

Everett looked pained as she accepted the volume. "The first paragraph's one of the best parts!" she protested.

"I know," the other replied. "You told me. That's why I cut my losses and gave it up. Thanks anyway." She strode briskly away.

Everett rolled her eyes. "Stupid third year," she muttered. "What does she know!" She shoved the book to the side, but not before Severus saw the title: A Tale of Two Cities.

"You read Dickens?" he inquired.

Everett's eyes lit up. "I love Dickens!" she breathed. "Do you?"

Severus nodded slowly. "My father says I've no business reading something so thoughtful," he told her. "But I do anyway."

"I can't remember the last time my father said something so reasonable," Everett remarked ironically. "He's more likely to scream that the world is being taken over by oysters."

Severus thought it best not to inquire about that. "Have you read Great Expectations?" he asked instead.

Everett shuddered. "Hated it," she answered. "I burned it, green cover and all. You?"

"The same," he replied. "Except for the book-burning bit. I'm rather more fond of A Tale of Two Cities."

"Me, too." She looked thoughtful. "Tragic, isn't it, that such a good book should be followed by such a terrible one? Do you like Hard Times?"

Severus shrugged again. "Parts of it," he said. "It's not as remarkable as some of the others I've read, though."

They paused and stared at each other, then Everett slowly smiled. "I suppose this makes us friends, then," she stated after a minute.

"I suppose so," Severus replied, narrowing his eyes in the closest thing to a smile his upbringing would permit. "Call me Severus."

"Tinúviel." Everett extended her hand for the second time that day, and Severus again shook it.

"Not Vi?" he asked.

Now she narrowed her own eyes and parted with a cool little smile. "My teachers and classmates call me Everett," she answered. "The Slytherins call me Vi. My friends are allowed to call me Tinúviel. You can call me Vi if you'd prefer, but I think nicknames are a bit more impersonal than full names—don't you?"

"I'd never really thought about it," he admitted. But I had always thought the opposite to be true, he added silently.

"Oh." She shrugged. "I spend too much time thinking, I guess."

"Well, well, well."

Severus inadvertently froze at the sound of a gloating voice behind him. Tinúviel, by contrast, looked evaluatively over his shoulder, her face a sudden mask.

"Two peas in a pod, wouldn't you say, Sirius?" the voice continued.

"Most definitely, James," a second gloating voice answered. "I hear the wedding bells already, don't you?"

Severus felt the blood rush to his face, but Tinúviel showed no sign of embarrassment whatsoever; what she did show were signs of worn patience.

"Do I detect jealousy, Black?" she asked smoothly. "Can't handle someone getting a head start on you?"

Behind Severus, Black shifted his weight, presumably turning to face this new target. "So you admit it, then?" he gloated.

"I admit that, whatever the facts are, you seem to think Snape has got a girlfriend, and it makes you feel like a loser," Tinúviel shot back. "And I'll allow that you're right about one thing, anyway."

"Snivellus having a girlfriend?" Potter sniffed.

"No," Tinúviel sneered. "You being a pair of losers. Now why don't you get the hell out of here before I dissect you with a table knife?"

Both of the Gryffindors let out snorts of laughter, which were truncated suddenly by a yelp of pain from Potter. Severus turned fully to face them, his wand still at the ready.

"That was a warning hex," he told them. "Next time it's the knife for both of you, and the only question is if Everett or I'll reach it first."

Tinúviel leaned across the table toward the twosome. "Now sod off, you bloody gits," she growled.

The two Gryffindors did as ordered, and only when they were gone did Severus turn around and Tinúviel set down her knife.

"Sorry about that," she said airily. "I've a bit of a short fuse and an affinity for sharp, pointy objects." She looked ruefully at the knife. "And not so sharp ones that can still do damage if I'm annoyed enough."

Severus stared at her. "I've only ever heard my father talk like that," he breathed. "Never someone my own age!"

Tinúviel smiled thinly. "Profanity, when wielded properly and with a cool head, availeth much," she told him. "Especially when you're eleven years old and dealing with idiots. Please pass the pumpkin juice."

And from that time on, they had been inseparable friends.

PRESENT

Each had become the other's best and only friend at Hogwarts, and neither had ever indicated to the other that they wished for anything more. Snape had no clear recollection of when, exactly, it had come to his attention that Tinúviel was, in fact, a girl (and a pretty one, at that), but he had always known that nothing could ever come of it. Even before Voldemort had entered the picture, any romance in which Snape involved himself would have placed his significant other in danger; his family had plans for him—plans that did not include or account for a mortal lover. Had he ever once declared his feelings, death would have been the least of Tinúviel's worries.

At last his brooding drew him to the point of decisiveness, and he stood and walked resolutely to the worktable.

The photograph he set aside. If there was anything important about it, he would find out in time, but in the meantime, it belonged out of sight. His grief was private, and the last thing he either needed or wanted was a relic that would cause Zarekael to ask questions should the apprentice drop by unexpectedly. It was bad enough that Meli had already seen it.

The box, predictably, was warded, but he was surprised at how thoroughly warded it truly was. Snape was half-willing to wager a Galleon that Tinúviel had outdone Gringotts' wardmaster—and all of that for a wooden case just larger than a recipe box. Whatever she had kept in it, she hadn't wanted it found. Either she hadn't expected Snape to be the one breaking in, though, or she hadn't cared if he succeeded, for there was nothing protecting the box that he didn't know how to deactivate quickly and efficiently, and Tinúviel had been well aware of what he did and didn't know about wards and counter-wards. It heartened him slightly, if irrationally, that she hadn't gone out of her way to dig up an exotic spell he wouldn't know; that made it seem, superficially at least, that he wasn't truly breaking and entering.

The final ward gave way, allowing him to open the box at last, and at first blush, he was quite at a loss to explain what had justified such heavy protection. There was a small book, and beneath that he found only ordinary things that a teenage girl might keep on her bureau or vanity: a blue silk ribbon, a tiny pin shaped like a puppy, a shooter marble, a couple of jacks—perhaps two dozen items with no readily apparent purpose or value.

Puzzled, Snape opened the book, hoping it might shed some light on the importance of this collection, and enlighten him it did, though not in a comforting or reassuring way.

The book was no larger than his hand, but its size belied its importance. Each tear-stained page contained a name, a physical description, and a date—and the name at the top of the first page was Hyacinth Evans.

"My God," Snape whispered, the tiny book slipping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. "It's a log…"

He couldn't finish the thought aloud. Tinúviel had placed in this box everything that he carried in a dark, hateful corner of his own mind: the name of every victim whose suffering or death Voldemort had required and something memorable about each one that had burned itself irrevocably into the murderer. Each of the Evans sisters, he recalled, had had some animal pin; he remembered overhearing Lily telling Potter about it once. Hers was a kitten with nauseatingly large eyes, her sister Petunia's was a swan…and Hyacinth's was a silver puppy with a gold collar.

Snape's stomach tightened, and he drew his wand. A light tap and a specific spell allayed his fear, though; Tinúviel wasn't one to rob the dead, particularly someone she had killed. This wasn't Hyacinth's pin but rather a simulacrum, created from memory specifically for placement in this box. Tinúviel had sought to remind herself of what she'd done, but not at the cost of adding to her guilt.

He carefully replaced the items, then closed and re-warded the box. He still didn't know if Tinúviel had expected him to find it, but she had very likely known that he would understand. How could he not, even if he remained fully loyal to Voldemort? He had seen what her initiation had done to her, and he'd have had to know that it would never become easier for her. For all her cynicism and hell-raising, Tinúviel Everett had possessed a gentle spirit, hidden though it might be.

With the box closed and set aside, Snape now faced a far more formidable task. It was, he reasoned, nothing more than a collection of someone else's memories, but even as the thought was still forming, he heard its hollow ring. No Penseive, no memories, made for a harmless journey, and these still less so; memory was powerful and the memory of a close friend would be unpredictably potent. Snape knew very little of what he would find when he entered the Penseive, but knowing Tinúviel as he did, he was quite sure that it would be an emotional quest and thus should not be lightly embarked upon. He could ill afford an emotional storm, especially not now, in the middle of a war in which lives depended upon his clarity of thought and control of his own feelings.

He very nearly convinced himself with that argument, came within a breath of putting the Penseive away until that mythical Someday when he would be ready. He even went so far as to pick it up, but before he could turn away from the worktable with it, something—he never could decide if it was strength or weakness—got the better of him and he set it down again. For better or for worse, he had to know what she had been so desperate to keep from Voldemort.

It won't do anything but upset you, a tiny voice at the back of his mind taunted. There are no answers here. There aren't even questions. Anything she'd want you to know, she'd have told you already. All you're doing is rehashing every single missed opportunity, and you can do that easily enough without her Penseive to help you. You're only torturing yourself.

Snape gritted his teeth. Perhaps so, he conceded. But if so, I'm doing nothing new, so I won't be any worse off for it.

He glanced at the clock. Assuming that he wasn't summoned by Voldemort (which was, admittedly, not at all a safe assumption these days), he had two days before anyone expected him to be anywhere. It was time for dinner, and his absence might be noticed, but he and Zarekael were both notorious for losing themselves in their work and forgetting to eat, much less to attend formal meals. A few extra wards at the door would keep him from being disturbed, and then he would have Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday to wade through the Penseive.

It would require at least that much time, too, he saw. The bowl was filled and its contents were compact; Tinúviel had placed in it more memories than most people Dumbledore's age could spare, and she had died at twenty-three. Much of it would doubtless be taken up by reports to Dumbledore, but there would be a number of other things, as well—things not directly related to her spying that she would nevertheless want kept away from Voldemort.

Snape turned, wand in hand, and added three more wards to his door, then turned back to the Penseive, took a deep breath, and slowly placed his hand in the pool of memory. Hundreds of silvery tendrils swam around, their motion growing more rapid, and then the sensation faded altogether, as did his familiar surroundings. He appeared fully in Tinúviel's memories, without any immediate time reference, sense of direction, or understanding of his location, knowing only that he had committed himself and must see it through once and for all.