Chapter 14: Ghosts
He appeared, of all places, in the Potions classroom sometime during his last couple of years at Hogwarts. Tinúviel's hair was shoulder-length, he saw, and she had cut it to that length part-way into their sixth year. She sat by herself at their worktable, and Snape was at first unable to account for his younger self's absence; he had never missed a Potions class during his time as a student, and it was clear that the start of the period was approaching. Tinúviel looked nervous and a bit worried, but he had no way of knowing why.
She was not by herself for long, however, for Sirius Black appeared on-scene within seconds of Snape orienting himself, and the Potions master's jaw tightened. He recognized this now, and it was not something he particularly wanted to relive.
It was the day after the Marauders' "prank" had nearly ended in his death.
"Hello, Everett," Black said, far too brightly, as he slid into Severus' seat beside her and managed to pin her wand hand. He was practically sitting in her lap, but she was well-aware of the consequences of using physical force; he would have to anger her past the point of fear in order for her to lash out.
"Get the hell away from me, Black," she growled through her teeth, "or so help me God—"
"Oh, don't bother threatening to report on me," he interrupted lazily. "I discovered as recently as last night that I can do whatever I please." He leaned in even closer, mere inches, to all appearances, from a kiss. "I can even get away with murder."
"Drop dead," she hissed, pushing him away as best she could; with one arm pinned and the table so close by, she had little room for creating effective leverage.
Black, unfortunately, was not put off. "So what's the price for a date with you?" he persisted, parting with a lecherous smile.
Tinúviel glared at him. "I, unlike the other females with whom you apparently keep company, am not a whore out for hire," she snapped. "Contrary to what you obviously think, I'm a lady, and an honorable one at that."
Black snorted. "So you keep company with Snivellus Snape?" he said disdainfully. "What's he got that I haven't, I wonder?"
Outside either Tinúviel or Black's field of vision, but well within Snape's view, Severus entered the scene, his countenance cold marble but his eyes burning with hatred as he looked on the scene playing out at his worktable.
"For starters, he's got more sense than arrogance," Tinúviel retorted. "For another, he behaves as a gentleman, rather than God's gift to women. And to cap the whole, he's not you!" She again shoved him, managing to buy herself a bit of space, though it didn't dislodge him completely.
Beast that he was, Black actually leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. This time, however, Tinúviel didn't have to react. No sooner had Black pressed his case than Severus drew his wand and cast a hex that sent the hated Marauder flying off of the stool to sprawl on the floor beside the worktable. Tinúviel whirled to see Severus, who was glowering over Black as he scrambled to his feet.
"Why don't you go back to your seat?" Severus suggested darkly. "And if you ever bother Miss Everett again, you and I will have more than words, no matter what the consequences."
Snape smirked spitefully as the humiliated Black looked venomously at Severus. The animagus was prevented from reply by the entrance of Professor Brewer, so he temporarily stepped back from the battle line and returned to the Gryffindor side of the room, seating himself next to James Potter. Potter listened to whatever it was that Black said, then turned to glare at Severus.
Why would she have placed this memory in the Penseive, though? Snape wondered. This particular incident predated either his or Tinúviel's initiation into the Death Eaters, and it certainly gave no indication that she was in any way disloyal to Voldemort. There had to be some other reason…
Maybe she just didn't want to remember, he thought, watching his younger self sit down.
Tinúviel smiled gratefully. "Thanks," she said.
"You're welcome," Severus replied gruffly. "Are you all right?"
"Madder than hell," she rejoined calmly, "but otherwise fine." She looked sideways at his flushed, out-of-breath figure. "You?"
Severus ground his teeth, and Snape felt again the helpless anger, betrayal, and hatred as both he and his younger self stared at the Marauders. "I hate them," Severus said quietly. "And someday, I'll be able to do something about it without—" He broke off and snapped his mouth tightly shut.
Tinúviel looked evaluatively at him. "What's happened, Severus?" she asked quietly.
He shook his head, and Snape knew, even if Tinúviel hadn't done, that there were tears close at hand. "If I tell anyone, Dumbledore will expel me."
She stared at him in cold, horrified shock. "He'll what?" she whispered, a dangerous tone surfacing in her voice.
"He chose Black over me," Severus replied stiffly. "Not all that surprising, really, but unpleasant nonetheless."
Tinúviel flushed angrily, but she held her silence and set her teeth as Brewer started droning about the difference between two closely-related potions. She waited just until the mediocre teacher became absorbed in his lecture, then muttered, just loudly enough for Severus and Snape to hear, "If Black represents the side of right, I don't want to have a thing to do with it."
Severus nodded, but Snape winced. It had been that comment that had started him thinking—not about joining Voldemort himself, for he had been considering that for a long time, but about taking Tinúviel with him when he joined.
ooo
The scene faded, and for a moment Snape stood by himself in a storm of gray tendrils of cloud that whipped around him in every imaginable direction as the Penseive carried him across (up? down?) to the next nearest memory. It occurred to him suddenly that the memories hadn't necessarily gone into the Penseive in chronological order, and after fifteen years of swirling around undisturbed, they were most certainly in no particular order now. He had no further time for thought, though, for the storm at last settled and a new scene opened up.
ooo
He came to rest in Dumbledore's office. Tinúviel stood in front of the headmaster's desk, but she wasn't wearing student robes; it must be post-graduation. To Snape's eye, she seemed extremely agitated, perhaps nearing the point of panic, but he doubted very much that Dumbledore saw the same.
"Please," the headmaster said, "have a seat."
"You know I won't," Tinúviel snapped, more out of impatience than antipathy, Snape thought. "And don't bother offering me candy, either, because we both know I won't take it."
Dumbledore, who had picked up a candy dish to make the offer, shrugged and set it down again. Before it rested fully on the desk, however, Tinúviel was already talking again.
"Phamelia Marvolo's been officially introduced, and she told the Dark Lord to go to Hell. We've got to—"
Dumbledore held up a restraining hand. "Rest assured, Vi," he said calmly, "something will be done."
Snape went cold with shock. Tinúviel had tried to save Meli, or had at least brought the matter to Dumbledore's attention. Why, then, had the headmaster turned the job over to him?
"But what!" Tinúviel demanded. "What am I supposed to do? How can I—"
"Nothing," Dumbledore told her simply.
Tinúviel's eyes widened in rage. "Nothing! Nothing!"
Again he held up his hand. "You don't need to do anything," he explained.
This is after I'd already met with him, Snape realized. She didn't have to do anything because he knew already that I would.
"Severus will take care of it," the headmaster finished, confirming Snape's thought.
"Sev—" Tinúviel broke off as the full implication of that statement hit her. "Severus is handling it?" Snape winced at the sudden, unrestrained hope that flared in her eyes. "He's come around, then?"
Dumbledore lowered his hand. "I don't know for certain," he answered truthfully. "I'm meeting him in two days. What I can tell you is that his loyalty is no longer what it once was."
Snape stared at him. Dumbledore hadn't done more than read his letter, and he already thought him to be coming around? How could he possibly have known that Severus wanted to talk with him about Phamelia Marvolo, much less that the young Death Eater wanted help in rescuing her?
Tinúviel, meanwhile, considered his words, having no idea that the headmaster had spoken presumptuously. She caught his eye and cleared her throat. "I'm glad Phamelia's in good hands," she said at last. "But look, whatever happens…if he turns spy, or even just disloyal, please don't tell me. He'll be safer that way.
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "I understand," he replied. "But while ignorance is perhaps the safest course, don't give up on your hope."
ooo
Again the scene faded to gray, and Snape glared at the cloudy memories. Dumbledore had assumed, just on the basis of a panicked letter, that Severus would help Meli and that, therefore, Tinúviel wouldn't have to. As desperate as he'd been to save the child, Severus had had to force himself to keep his appointment with Dumbledore and to see through to the end the mission to which he'd committed himself. But he had very nearly not gone, and if things had played out according to that script, Meli might very well have been in her grandfather's custody until the night Harry Potter defeated him.
Dumbledore, who had called him and Zarekael untrustworthy for their Machiavellian choices over the summer, had been just as Machiavellian when dealing with his spies. He had been prepared to risk the health, safety, and well-being of an innocent child, all for the sake of subverting Severus Snape.
He had wondered at the depth of Tinúviel's hatred toward Dumbledore, so much deeper than even his own, but now he began to plumb that depth and to see what had lurked beneath the surface of what she had left unsaid.
But I trust Dumbledore, a part of him protested. Tinúviel had her reasons, but they needn't be mine.
Dumbledore knew about the Penseive and he never said a word to me, another part of him retorted. And he wagered Meli for the sake of gaining another spy.
Before the argument could go further, another scene materialized.
ooo
Tinúviel stood in almost exactly the same place in front of Dumbledore's desk, but she now wore her Slytherin robes. The headmaster stood opposite her with the desk between them, looking down at a logbook. A Dicto-quill was poised and ready; this was a spy's report.
Tinúviel's countenance was stony, and when Dumbledore asked her to report, she did so in as even a voice as she could manage. To Snape, who knew her better than Dumbledore had ever done, she looked as though she barely succeeded in seeming calm; to Dumbledore, he saw, she appeared even more emotionless than she had probably intended as she spelled out in horrific detail her initiation kill. Snape knew the story well, for he had been present for her report to Voldemort after she returned from the Evans' home.
As a point of pride, Tinúviel refused to cry in front of the headmaster, whom she considered more enemy than ally, but what Dumbledore saw, in all likelihood was a cold killer who really and truly didn't care that she had just committed her first murder. Snape watched almost pensively, having a good idea of what was about to happen and not at all sure he wanted to see it. If Dumbledore made even one verbal misstep, Tinúviel would snap—but the headmaster didn't know that.
"And how are you, Vi?" he asked after he had closed her logbook. He was looking, Snape knew, for some flicker—even the briefest of glimpses—of humanity; in Tinúviel's place, Snape would, at that time, have thought that he was trying to see vulnerability.
Tinúviel thought so, too. "I'm fine," she answered, quite convincingly. "A little tired—I'm not accustomed to being up this late."
Snape winced. That had been, under the circumstances, exactly the wrong thing to say. Dumbledore's neutral countenance turned grave as he considered his young spy. "I was afraid you might be upset," he suggested quietly.
Wrong answer.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you," Tinúviel said coldly. "You'd like to see me sobbing my heart out, reduced to a guilt-ridden lake of tears because I took a human life." Her voice warmed as she glared at the headmaster. "Well, think on this: If I ever do cry, you will never see it, old man, because I'd rather die than humiliate myself like that!"
What could possibly have compelled her to spy for him? Snape wondered in anguish. Why did she put herself through this?
Tinúviel turned to go, but Dumbledore cleared his throat. "That was not at all my intention," he told her calmly. "But please understand: You gave a very convincing appearance that you didn't care, and—forgive me—that is not the most reassuring impression."
Her back, which was turned to Dumbledore and Snape, stiffened painfully. "What does it matter what impression I make?" she asked bitterly. "Severus and I—we're nothing more than Slytherins, one step from bilgewater and as trustworthy as vipers. No one—no one—expected us to do anything other than what we're doing now, and I hardly think it matters if either of us feels the slightest trace of remorse when we kill; all that matters is what people think of us and how they treat us because of it."
Snape blinked in surprise as he heard his own words repeated by another. Are they true? he thought, suddenly torn. When Zarekael had argued otherwise, his own assertion had seemed so clear and absolute, but now he wondered. Perception was reality…but an individual's perception could make a difference even in the face of the public's perception. Snape, for one, would never see Tinúviel Everett merely as a Death Eater or a murderer, just as he would never see Zarekael as that. Did his minority view make any difference at all?
Tinúviel turned to face Dumbledore, everything that lived in her soul now bared in her eyes: hatred, guilt, bitterness. "You expected us to turn," she said through her teeth. "You never saw past the green and silver on our robes." She narrowed her eyes. "Just as you never saw past the Marauders' red and gold. You favor them over us, you look the other way when they torment us, you punish us when they pick a fight—you made us what we are, and may you be called to account for it!"
Silence hung in the air for a breath, then Dumbledore shook his head, sadness showing in his eyes. "You must care for Severus very much, then, if you're willing to ally yourself with me."
Tinúviel screwed up her face to ward off tears and glared hatefully at him. "Go to Hell, you son of a bitch!" she said in a strangled voice. With what composure was left to her, she turned smoothly away and left his office, slamming the door behind her. Snape was pulled along with her as the memory continued to play out, and in seemingly no time at all he stood beside her as she crouched in one corner of a tiny, dust-blanketed classroom down an unused corridor halfway to the dungeons. She was quiet for a long moment after warding the door and covering the room with a silencing charm, but Snape saw cracks forming in the dam, and just as he moved to sit in front of her, the dam came crashing down and the broken-hearted sobs she had concealed so carefully from Dumbledore burst forth in violent, uncontrolled spasms. She tried to huddle several times, but each time it nearly suffocated her, so at last she leaned her head back against the wall and cried until there were no tears left to her.
It was an awful thing, sitting and watching her cry alone when he was right there with her. The most either had ever offered the other had been a comforting hand on the arm, but Severus hadn't been there to give that, and Snape couldn't give it now. He could make about as much of a difference here as Scrooge had done when visiting Christmases past; he wasn't even sure that he could touch this shade's arm—his hand might well pass straight through.
When the more violent sobs had passed, Tinúviel was able to talk, and talk she did, even though at the time she had been addressing only the air. "I'm sorry, Severus," she sniffled. "I've made a deal with the devil…and the worst of it is, I don't even know who the worse devil is." She buried her face in her hands and had a long, unintelligible conversation with herself. By the time she fell silent, her sobs had stopped altogether, and she lifted her head to reveal dry, bloodshot eyes peering out of a tear-streaked face.
Snape looked her shade in the eye…and then he had a nasty shock. The invisible wall between him and the memory seemed to partially disappear, for Tinúviel met his eye, then gave a violent start. "Who's there?" she whispered. "Who are you?" She reached out a hand and brushed it through Snape where he sat.
After staring very hard at him for a moment, she leaned her head back against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut. "Now I'm hallucinating," she groaned. "That's all I need."
Two decades parted them, but it seemed suddenly that there somehow existed a bridge. Tinúviel stumbled to her feet and left the room, and Snape stayed rooted to the spot as the scene faded around him. She hadn't been hallucinating unless he had, too.
Her hand, when it passed through him, had been almost substantial.
ooo
There followed several routine reports to Dumbledore, which made little impression on Snape except that, on occasion, he gained a better understanding of why certain operations had gone awry. Tinúviel had employed similar methods to those he and Zarekael used, but because the stakes had been rather lower at the time, she enjoyed far more success with much less risk.
When he at last stood in a place other than the headmaster's office, Snape had to reorient himself again; he had forgotten, quite literally, that there was a world outside of that portion of the castle.
This time he was outside, within a few yards of a tree near the lake. That particular tree, he remembered suddenly, had been his and Tinúviel's preferred place for studying when the weather cooperated with their inclinations. It was far enough away from the castle that they didn't feel closed in, but it was near enough that, should the Marauders decide to be particularly malicious, they could make it to safety more often than not.
He had avoided that tree after her death, to the point that he had forgotten altogether that it existed.
Severus and Tinúviel sat beneath it now, drilling one another on defensive jinxes. Finals must be nearing, then. Snape found himself looking around for the Marauders, and only their conspicuous absence gave him some indication of what might be about to play out. He had arrived at a date about six weeks after Sirius Black's attempt on his life.
Black and Potter, Snape recalled, had left them alone for a time, the latter voluntarily, the former seemingly at his friend's behest; Potter, at least, had realized that they had escaped punishment only by the skin of their teeth. Unless he was much mistaken, however, that brief respite was about to end.
Sure enough, it wasn't long before Black swaggered over with the air of someone having something to prove.
"Hullo, Snivellus," he said nastily as soon as he was within earshot. "I don't suppose you could spare your girlfriend for a few minutes—just long enough to talk to a real man."
"Bugger off, Black," Tinúviel said from behind her book, which she had lifted in front of her face as soon as she'd seen him coming. "Or I'll deprive you of the ability to claim any manhood at all."
"Ought to have taught her better manners, Snivellus," Black snapped, but Snape saw now what he had missed then: The Marauder's cheeks had flushed at Tinúviel's comment.
Severus, meanwhile, eyed him malevolently. "I, unlike you, realize that she has the freedom to behave however she chooses," he replied coldly. "I also address her directly when I have something to say. You ought to have learned better manners, especially with your family's, ahem, elevated status."
"Bugger off, Black," Tinúviel repeated, now drawing her wand and aiming it in an unfavorable direction, her eyes never leaving the book. "I won't warn you again.
A nervous expression indicated that Black didn't entirely doubt her threat. When he looked to Severus—almost as if he expected him to intervene—the young Slytherin merely raised his eyebrows and smirked.
"The entirety of a boy's bravery lies in a southerly direction," Tinúviel commented blithely, neither looking up from her book nor wavering in her aim. "Now that it's been neutralized, Black…" She trailed off, as if losing interest in him.
Snape smirked as Black stood staring at her in transfixed horror. Severus pointedly cleared his throat. "Feel free to sod off any time, Black," he suggested coolly.
The Marauder, evidently at a temporary loss for words, stared at the two of them for a few seconds later, then at last discovered the novelty of movement and fled the scene. Only when he was gone did Tinúviel look up from her book.
"Charming little prat, isn't he?" she remarked in a bored tone. Shooting a sidewise glance at Severus, she added, "You, of course, being a man rather than a boy, find your bravery elsewhere, I'm sure."
"It comforts me to know that," he rejoined sardonically.
"I would never place you in the same category as him," she assured him, and Snape perceived now a strange, anxious earnestness in her tone that he had not heard before. "He's nothing more than a flesh-covered ego; you, on the other hand, have a clear concept of reality and your place within it." She hastily shoved her nose back in her book, and from his vantage point, Snape saw that she was blushing furiously.
Severus, however, was distracted by other matters and so missed the scene entirely. He was quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat again. The sudden noise drew Tinúviel's eyes to him once more, and she found him looking both serious and purposeful.
Snape closed his eyes. He had regretted this conversation and hated himself for it, almost from the day it took place. Plunging headfirst into Dark folly was one thing, but dragging someone else in behind him—someone so important to him, moreover—was something other.
And you didn't learn the first time, an inner voice taunted him. You did it to Tinúviel, and you did it again to Zarekael. Right and true friend you are!
Zarekael was different, he replied firmly, but he gritted his teeth. Yes, it had been Zarekael's idea, and, in fact, the boy had resorted to outright blackmail to convince Snape to allow him to volunteer, but he still hated himself for dragging his son in with him. He had long ago resigned himself to drowning in the mire, but he had wanted something better for Zarekael; his son had endured far too much already.
Severus spoke, and Snape was recalled to the scene.
"When you said that if Black represented the side of right, you wanted nothing to do with it," he began slowly, "how serious were you?"
Severus, unlike Snape, was not looking at Tinúviel. Now, years later, he saw what he had missed. Tinúviel looked suddenly ill, and it was a full minute before she could bring her countenance fully under control and answer calmly.
"You know I rarely speak rashly, Severus," she replied cautiously. She was, Snape understood, leaving her words open to interpretation. After all, Severus might be fishing to see if she was a Death Eater…but he might also be leading up to recruitment, or he might be asking a theoretical question in a poorly-chosen context. In any case, it wouldn't do to choose her own words poorly and leave a damaging impression on any side.
Severus hesitated briefly, but he soon pressed on. "You're not…the only one who feels that way," he told her. "And if you wanted to do something about it, there are people who would…willingly help you."
Tinúviel shivered—a motion that went unnoticed by Severus but which Voldemort would not have missed. She took a deep breath and held it, her eyes flitting about before coming to rest on Snape, then, after a hard stare, on the ground in front of her. When she let out her breath, she did so slowly, then looked up to meet Severus' eye. Only a few seconds had passed, and he showed no sign of having seen her hesitate.
"Tell me more," she said quietly, her mask settled into place.
Severus relaxed a little, then opened his mouth to do as she asked…and the world melted away again.
ooo
Snape sensed immediately upon coming to rest again that not very much time had passed at all. Tinúviel stood—or rather, hovered—before Dumbledore's desk, trembling like a bottled explosion just looking for a reason to burst free. She wore student robes, and both they and her hair were in disarray, as if she had run all the way up the stairs to the headmaster's office.
Dumbledore, a sharp contrast to Tinúviel, looked quite happy to see her, but he was also clearly aware that she was eyeing him balefully.
"Would you care for a lemon drop?" he asked, holding up a candy dish.
"Keep your bloody sweets to yourself," Tinúviel snapped. "And no, I won't have a seat. The only reason I'm here is you're the only one I could go to, and my conscience won't let me go to no one at all."
Dumbledore was, perhaps, a bit startled at her sharpness, but he also understood that chiding her would only further incense her, so for the moment, he held his peace. "What can I do for you, then, Miss Everett?" he asked politely.
Tinúviel let silence reign for a long moment, but when Dumbledore showed no sign of discomfiture, she set her jaw and stated her case. "The first thing I have to say, sir," she began, practically grinding out the last word, "is that I'm here because I have nowhere else to go. The Ministry is thoroughly useless, so caught up in its own importance that it cares little for things that really matter." She paused, giving the headmaster a very hard look. "I'll tell you for free that I neither like you nor trust you, but the enemy of my enemy is my ally, whether I prefer it that way or not."
Dumbledore weathered this entire speech with an air of supreme calm, probably recognizing that allowing her to rile him would accomplish nothing good. He appeared to consider her words for a moment, then slowly nodded. "I appreciate your honesty, Miss Everett," he replied at last. "I'm sorry you feel as you do, but I suppose I can see why you would feel that way. I can only hope to earn your trust in the future."
Tinúviel took a deep breath. "I have…an opportunity to infiltrate the Death Eaters," she told him. Then, her lip curled contemptuously and she added, "Though I suppose you, like everyone else, thought I was one already."
Dumbledore's calm mask melted into an expression of sadness, and a tiny flicker of remorse, visible only to Snape, flashed briefly through Tinúviel's eyes. "There you guess incorrectly," the headmaster replied. "I have never thought anything of the sort about you…nor," he added pointedly, "about Severus Snape."
Tinúviel narrowed her eyes angrily, and any remorse she might have felt died a quick death. "Well, there you guess wrongly," she snapped. "I don't know particulars, but I do know this: you and the Marauders together have managed to push him over a line he might never otherwise have crossed. How the bloody hell else do you think I'd be able to get within spitting distance of the Death Eaters?"
Snape felt a peculiar hybrid of satisfaction and regret when he saw Dumbledore go green at that revelation. Tinúviel probably noticed, as well, but she never missed a beat in her tirade. "You pushed him to it," she went on mercilessly, "and I mean to try and pull him out. Am I a fool to even ask for your help?"
The headmaster sat in miserable silence for several minutes, and Tinúviel let him stew. At last, he looked up and met her eye. "I don't' know how much help I can offer in redeeming Severus," he said quietly, "but if you wish to infiltrate the Death Eaters as a spy, you can be sure of my best help in that endeavor."
Tinúviel crossed her arms defiantly. "Just so you understand I'm not doing it for you," she growled. "I'm in for exactly two reasons: to get rid of You-Know-Who, and to do my damnedest to get Severus out."
"I fully understand," Dumbledore replied.
Snape's stomach roiled violently. There it was, then. Zarekael had gone in to save his life; Tinúviel had done it to save his soul.
The scene faded, but he didn't notice it pass. He withdrew into the darkest corner of himself, the place in which his deepest self-hatreds dwelt and were horribly treasured, a source of condemnation with which he by turns bludgeoned and poisoned himself.
He had ruined them, both of them. The two people who meant the most to him in his life were his best friend and his son, and he had pulled both of them into the darkness with him.
The Penseive selected another memory, then, and he was recalled to the new scene.
ooo
He was outside again, and Snape caught his breath. He knew this day quite well; it was unseasonably warm, freeing the students to roam the grounds and even sit outside to do their homework without fear of the autumn chill. Beneath his favorite tree sat his younger self and, at a dangerous distance, Tinúviel. They were seventh years, and they were studying in silence and mutual isolation. Tinúviel scowled fiercely at her Charms text, her eyes never deviating from the page; Severus paid admirable attention to his Arithmancy book, but that attention occasionally faltered. His eyes flicked to Tinúviel's still, hostile form at odd intervals, betraying (to the trained observer only) a concern for her present state.
Snape took a deep breath. Yes, he knew this memory well, and even had Tinúviel been loyal, she'd have had every reason to leave it in a Penseive and outside of Voldemort's knowledge. Still, knowing every aspect of this particular event, he couldn't hold back a small smile of anticipation as Sirius Black swaggered over to the tree. Snape could tell from where he stood that Tinúviel was looking for a fight; what a pity that Black could not tell the same thing at any distance.
The Marauder arrived at his destination, narrowly missing Severus' foot with a sharp kick and coming to a halt directly between Tinúviel and the sunlight. She looked quite calm, really—far too calm to be actually so—as she looked up from her suddenly beshadowed page. Severus, gauging her mood, laid down his Arithmancy book to watch; with the same purpose in mind, Snape took a few more steps toward the tree.
"Move out of my way," Tinúviel ordered coolly. "And while you're moving, kindly leave altogether."
Black smiled smugly. "I'm not bothering you, am I, Everett?"
She set down her text and stood up to look him full in the face. She stood four inches shorter than him, but she more than made up for it in the fierceness of her glare. "I said," she growled through her teeth, "sod off."
Rather than interposing at this juncture, Severus smirked and moved a few inches to his right—away from the hostilities and in a far better position for an unimpeded view of what everyone but Black knew was coming. Snape, also smirking, stepped to his left to stand directly behind himself and benefit from the same view.
Either Black didn't notice Severus' movements or he didn't think them to be of much consequence. He merely sniffed and looked disdainfully down his nose at Tinúviel. "And what'll you do if I don't?" he asked haughtily. "I don't think you could do more than give me a light bruise." Now he turned a contemptuous eye in the direction of Severus. "Or are you going to set your pathetic boyfriend on me? I doubt he'd do much better than you, the pansy."
That, at last, gave Tinúviel the excuse she'd been hoping for. Her left fist caught him in mid-sneer and guaranteed him a black, swollen eye; her right bloodied and probably broke his nose. Then she kneed him and sent him toppling to the ground, where she swooped down on him like a harpy and continued the beating. When Black made the mistake of rolling to protect his abdomen, she rewarded him with a forceful elbow to the kidneys.
Severus suddenly straightened, then leapt to his feet. Snape knew that the boy looked suddenly horrified and paralyzed, though he could not see his younger self's face. Sure enough, there came Professor Flitwick, running faster than Jesse Owens, his robes disheveled by haste and his face positively purple with fury. Without a second look at Severus, he descended on the blood bath and hauled Tinúviel out by her arm. He pulled her back from the scene with surprising strength, not at all slowed down when the girl started screaming: "Stay the hell away from me, Black! Stay away from both of us!"
Severus paused only long enough to throw a contemptuous look at Black before following the enraged Flitwick; Snape was close on his heels.
"That's enough!" Flitwick snapped, actually shaking Tinúviel as he turned her loose next to the castle's outer wall. "What's gotten into you? Explain yourself!"
Tinúviel swallowed, then looked down. "I…have no explanation, sir," she mumbled.
None you could actually give him, anyway, Snape added silently.
Severus, however, spoke aloud. "She was provoked, Professor."
Flitwick turned on him. "Provoked in what way?" he demanded, his voice raising in pitch beyond the point of a mere squeak.
Tinúviel, too, whipped her head around in surprise; she probably hadn't realized that he had followed them. Severus' focus, however, was entirely on Flitwick.
Snape narrowed his eyes in amusement, admiring even now his quick thinking and judicious duplicity.
"Black has never left her alone while she's been a student here, sir," Severus replied, very sincerely. "She's been very patient with him—"
"Obviously," Flitwick interposed acidly. "So why is today different?"
Severus looked suddenly hesitant to continue, almost as though he thought he was betraying a confidence. Snape looked on approvingly. Brilliant.
At last Severus spoke, haltingly. "You know, sir, that Vi's mother died last month?"
Flitwick nodded and looked confused; Tinúviel looked knowing but was confused.
"Black…" Severus shot an apologetic look to Tinúviel, then continued reluctantly. "He said some things that are…well, disrespectful of the dead, sir. Vi can weather insults to herself, but not to her mother—not now, anyway. You understand?" Now he cleared his throat and looked sheepish. "She reacted before I could, and by the time I was able to do anything, you were already there. I'm sorry, sir."
Snape smirked appreciatively.
Flitwick swallowed it, though—hook, line, and sinker—and why shouldn't he? That story fit perfectly into his limited understanding of the students involved, and Severus looked so penitent, and Tinúviel so uncharacteristically riled, that Flitwick had no reason to disbelieve it in the least. He seemed to think very hard for a long moment, then nodded once. He was still stern, but his face had returned to its normal color.
"Very well," he said at last. "Fifty points each from Gryffindor and Slytherin for the fight. Miss Everett, you will serve detention tonight, and I will have words with Mr. Black."
Tinúviel nodded slowly and carefully unknotted her fists. "Yes, sir."
With a final, hard look at each one, Flitwick departed. Severus watched him go, then looked sidewise at Tinúviel, his expression still serious. "I don't suppose your rescuer could ask a favor of you?" he inquired dryly.
Snape winced. If he'd had it to do over again, he would have rephrased that request entirely. Coming as it did from a male Death Eater to a female Death Eater…well, even at the time he had not faulted Tinúviel for her response.
She stiffened and eyed Severus warily. "What sort of favor?" she asked cautiously.
Severus also stiffened and his eyes flashed, but he restrained all further reaction. "I just want to know what the hell happened back there," he clarified. "You've always had a short fuse, but…" He shook his head. "Damn."
Tinúviel paused a moment, then, putting a finger to her lips, drew her wand and surrounded herself and Severus (and Snape) with a silencing bubble. She seemed not to notice that Severus was suddenly trepidant as she once more pocketed her wand and leaned one shoulder against the wall. Her eyes rested on the lower part of Severus' face, not meeting his gaze.
Here it comes, Snape thought. The first clue I never picked up.
"I…had my initiation last night," she said quietly.
Severus kept his expression carefully neutral as he attempted to make a reasonable connection between Tinúviel being initiated and Tinúviel hating the universe. For her to be upset was somewhat understandable, but there was no reason for her to be this upset.
Unless, of course, she's a spy, Snape added silently.
She continued slowly. "I don't…much care for killing," she confessed. "There's power to be had other than life and death—murder's not what I signed on for."
Very true, Snape reflected, admiring her delicate verbal tap-dance. Nothing that she'd said was a lie, but the way she strung the sentences together led the observer to an incorrect, if necessary, conclusion
Severus was silent a moment, still attempting to synthesize what he was hearing with what he'd just seen. When he did speak, his voice was detached and objective. "Do you regret your decision?"
Something flashed in Tinúviel's eyes that Snape had not understood at the time but which he was beginning to recognize (if not fully comprehend) now: She would have gone to the depths of Hell for him, and no regret of the consequences would make her regret the path.
It was strange to consider. While it was true that Snape would probably have made a similar sacrifice for Tinúviel had their situations been switched, he had never once really considered that anyone might be willing to do the same thing for him. Zarekael's joining Voldemort to ensure Snape's survival had been the first time, and he still didn't understand that. But Tinúviel, who'd had the choice to stay disentangled from the whole mess, had followed him in anyway—not to save his life but in the futile hope of saving him somehow from himself.
She now looked Severus squarely in the eye and set her jaw with a peculiarly Gryffindorish stubbornness. "Absolutely not," she replied firmly. "If I had it to do over again, I would choose exactly the same path." Her mouth curved in a fleeting mask of artistic dislike. "It's just that…bloodshed is not to my taste—" She broke off suddenly, and something of her heart trickled through to her countenance. "Oh, Severus," she choked, tears welling up, "she reminded me somehow of my mother!"
Snape had seen pictures of Tinúviel's first victim, and beyond a thin face and green eyes, he could not see much in common between Cordelia Everett and Hyacinth Evans. Still, a month after her mother's death, Tinúviel had probably found some further parallel that could only be seen through the eyes of the bereaved.
He wondered suddenly when Lily Evans had been told of her sister's death and if she had ever known that Tinúviel Everett was the killer. He recalled now that, while Tinúviel had made no effort to avoid Sirius Black that day, she had gone to extraordinary lengths to steer clear of Lily.
Now, leaning against the wall, Tinúviel hugged herself tightly and cried. Severus was taken aback, and no surprise; everyone had seen her angry, but no one, not even he, her best friend, had seen her shed tears over anything.
She rocked herself slowly back and forth now, as though simultaneously playing the comforting mother and the frightened child. She never once looked to Severus for reassurance, for counselor was not one of his better-known roles. Even now, more than twenty years later, Snape was at a loss for how to deal with weeping females.
He had known back then, though, that he couldn't just stand by and leave her to feel so utterly alone. Hugging was not in his nature, nor would it have been either wise or appropriate in that time and place, but some reassuring gesture had to be made. After a moment of hesitation, Severus raised his hand and laid it on Tinúviel's shoulder.
She looked up in surprise, but Severus' objective had been at least somewhat achieved; she looked less alone and seemed comforted because of it.
"It's not bad to be squeamish," he said quietly, not at all guessing that some of what he was about to say would be repeated back to him within a year. "We all have different niches—the Dark Lord knows that. I joined for the knowledge, just as you did, and I didn't enjoy my initiation, either—to say the least." He curved his lips sadly in the tiniest of smiles. "You've proven yourself, Tinúviel. He won't ask it of you again unless he has to, because he knows it's not to your taste and it's not one of your gifts. We're far more valuable to him as brewers and researchers."
And if the Dark Lord had kept me locked away in a room with only my books and cauldron, the older and wiser Snape thought, he would never have driven me to Dumbledore. It required only a few raids and Phamelia Marvolo to shake my loyalty.
His younger self's countenance now turned remorseful. "I'm sorry about your mother—for bringing her into this. I couldn't think of anything else."
Tinúviel sniffled loudly, but she narrowed her eyes in an approximation of a smile. "Mum was a Slytherin," she replied. "She would have approved." She burst into fresh tears, and though Severus looked distressed, this time he let her cry. He could offer no true empathy here; his own mother was still alive, and even had she been dead, he would not have missed her nearly as much as Tinúviel missed hers. He stood close by, though, just in case she needed him…and the scene slowly melted away.
ooo
It seemed that Snape's thoughts had in some way affected the Penseive's direction, for now it dropped him in a completely different setting. He swallowed, knowing that he had probably paled considerably, when he recognized the room in which he stood. This was the flat he had lived in while studying for his Mastery in London…and Tinúviel had only come there a handful of times. Only one of those occasions would have made it into the Penseive; every other time she had come over in company, and nothing of consequence had happened.
A year had passed since the scene under the tree, and his younger self sat motionlessly on the couch, staring at the far wall with unseeing eyes. He seemed not to have moved for days (and indeed, Snape knew that he had not), and every aspect of his appearance indicated apathy and neglect. He had carelessly tossed aside his frock coat and shoes, and his face had a peaked look suggesting that he had not eaten in some time. Three days' growth dotted his ordinarily clean-shaven cheeks, and his normally greasy hair had now a permanent wet look. There sat on the table in front of him a full fifth of whiskey and a rocks glass, both untouched. It was as though the shade on the couch had sought to drown his troubles in drink, then died before he could begin.
He had left the door ajar on coming in, Snape well remembered, and that had allowed Tinúviel to come in without knocking; it had probably also scared her terribly, knowing how paranoid he was about security, locks, and wards. She stood just inside the door now, directly to Snape's right and in clear view of the couch, though not in Severus' line of blind sight. She glanced to her left, seemingly catching Snape's eye (though such was illogical and impossible), then looked back to Severus, her brow furrowed in worry. She firmly closed the door behind her, then crossed to stand in front of the couch; Snape followed.
"Severus?" she called.
Her friend might have stirred slightly, but if so, it was hardly noticeable, and his eyes showed no flicker of response, recognition, or life.
Tinúviel hesitated, then lightly rested a hand on his arm. "Severus?" she repeated, a bit more loudly.
Severus blinked, then slowly refocused his eyes. When he saw who stood there touching his arm, his face went red and he actually shrank away. Tinúviel winced, but she withdrew a few steps and sat in a chair that somewhat faced the couch.
"When I didn't hear from you, I got worried," she told him. "I just came over to make sure you're all right."
Eighteen year-old Severus Snape was very much not all right. He had now raised his feet to the couch, bringing his knees about level with his nose, and he had wrapped his arms around them and seemed to be trying to hide his head between his arms and behind his knees.
Snape felt his own face burning; even now, twenty years later, he felt anew the shame. He never had told Tinúviel what it was that he'd done, but he suspected that she'd had little difficulty in formulating a correct theory. She had been absolutely the last person on earth he'd wanted to talk to or see or even think about, but, true to Murphy's Law, she had been the first to hunt him down after—
Tinúviel regarded Severus silently for a few minutes, then calmly leaned forward and poured the equivalent of a shot into the rocks glass. She capped the bottle, picked up the glass, and downed it in a draught. This done, she set the glass back on the table and cleared her throat authoritatively; Severus didn't budge.
"You know, it's a lot easier to get drunk if you drink," she pointed out blithely. "Shall I play barkeep, or have you decided to stay sober after all?"
Severus slowly raised his head, but he did not look her way. "I'd prefer to stay sober," he replied hollowly.
"Pity," Tinúviel returned. "It really is very good whiskey."
Severus shrugged apathetically and would have returned to his ineffective hiding, but Tinúviel spoke again. "I was afraid you were dead."
He whipped his head around in surprise, his eyes widened in horror. "No," he breathed. "No, I'm alive—though not for lack of wishing otherwise."
"Were you hurt, then?" she asked anxiously. "I know it was a dangerous raid, but—"
"No," he interrupted. "I returned in perfect health."
More's the pity, Snape thought sadly. Had I been seriously wounded, I'd have been in no condition to— He cut the thought off and closed his eyes tightly, as though to erase that one event from his past.
Tinúviel paused a beat, doubtless synthesizing his words and her own observations into a probable theory about what had happened, and probably also considering what to say or do next. "All right," she said at last. "I'm glad to know you're physically all right, anyway." She regarded him silently for a moment, then switched tactics. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, but Dad's not been lucid the past few days. I finally managed to slip him a sleeping draught so I could go out—Aldarion's keeping an eye on him now."
Severus nodded, but he obviously understood little, if anything, of what she said.
Tinúviel furrowed her brow, her concern advancing to border on tears. "Severus, for God's sake, talk to me! What happened?"
He shuddered and buried his head once more. To the older Snape, he looked like a small, frightened child who had wakened from a nightmare only to find that the real world was far more horrifying. Severus had not shut her out, though, for after a moment, his voice emerged from behind his arms.
"I did something, Tinúviel…something after the raid that…" He trailed off and started rocking himself.
Tinúviel had never seen him in such a state, nor even anything remotely approaching it. She watched him, dumbstruck, but all the time Snape could see calculations flickering through her eyes. There were only a handful of possible actions Severus could have taken after a raid, and even fewer that could have so affected him. One was torturing a prisoner in a more horrifying way than by simply employing the Cruciatus—a privilege reserved for Voldemort; one was killing a prisoner using a nastier curse than Avada Kedavra—something generally reserved for Voldemort except on special occasions.
The third was raping a prisoner, something any run-of-the-mill Death Eater could do and was unofficially expected to do.
Severus had never seen Tinúviel reach her conclusion; his eyes had been shut and his face hidden. Now, however, Snape saw what he had long suspected: she knew.
She turned her head away for a moment until she could gain control of her countenance. After several deep breaths, she no longer looked sick, and it occurred to Snape suddenly that at no point had she appeared repelled by him; rather, she seemed deeply grieved.
Once she was able to mask her reaction, she turned back to face Severus, who, aside from continuing to rock himself, had not moved. Tinúviel spoke then, employing a low voice that she had used rarely enough, but which was quite common to these Penseive memories.
"Does the Dark Lord know your feelings in the matter?" she asked.
"He knows it was…not to my taste," Severus' muffled voice replied.
Snape felt ill; keeping the specifics from Tinúviel was understandable, but to employ such a pathetic understatement…His stomach roiled, as it had then, and he felt a resurgence of the loathing and self-hatred. The past could not be unmade, and now it returned as never before to haunt him.
Inexplicably, Tinúviel turned to face Snape. Her gray eyes bored through him, as though she had actually seen him there twenty years before. Rather than addressing him, though, she frowned quizzically, then turned her eyes back on Severus, her expression solidifying once more in determination.
"Severus," she said quietly, "do you remember the day after I murdered Hyacinth Evans?"
He looked up thoroughly bewildered. "How could I forget?" he countered. "Black pissed blood for a week afterward."
Tinúviel smiled sadly. "I suppose that part would be memorable," she conceded, "but I actually meant after that—when you were trying to calm me down."
He nodded, still looking confused. "I remember that, too."
"Remember what you told me?" She leaned forward in her seat for emphasis. "You said that the Dark Lord knows why we joined with him, and he knows that such things aren't our strengths. Whatever it was, Severus, I doubt he'd ask you to do it again, knowing even a bit of how it's affected you. He'd rather give the task to someone who'll enjoy it, and he knows that's not you."
"It doesn't matter if I never do it again, Tinúviel," Severus enunciated, his tone at last betraying some hint of emotion. "I still did it once." He turned to rest his chin on his knees. "There are some lengths no one should go to; this crossed that line."
Tinúviel was careful, but Snape still saw the spark of hope that leapt up in her eyes before she fully damped it down.
She's the only one who saw this for what it was, he thought. Even I didn't know that this was the beginning of the end of my loyalty. It would be two and a half years before he would take any action against Voldemort, but the thinking leading up to it had started right here.
"Are there really lines?" Tinúviel asked carefully.
At the time he had thought she was trying to reassure him; he saw now that she had instead been slowly and subtly planting seeds to subvert him.
"There are lines, Tinúviel," Severus replied. "Some see them and others don't, but I suspect that they exist."
"You only suspect?"
Severus turned burning eyes on her. "With only three days of uninterrupted thought," he answered sarcastically, "it's the best I can do at the moment. Give me another week, and I'll give you certainty."
"I'm not trying to demean you," Tinúviel told him gently. "And I'm not challenging your conclusions. I'm just trying to clarify in my own mind what it is that you're saying. The Dark Lord has said that there is no such thing as good and evil—but any teaching that doesn't stand up to questioning and scrutiny must logically be false. There's no harm in questioning. Have you ever questioned the existence of lines?"
Severus nodded. "I have. And until three days ago, I was sure that they didn't exist, or rather, that they shouldn't. Now, though…I'm not nearly so sure."
And that is probably the reason this memory ended up in Tinúviel's Penseive, Snape thought. Had the Dark Lord seen it, we might both have been tortured to death.
"At least you're thinking," Tinúviel pointed out. "And when you reach a final conclusion, you'll be stronger for it."
Severus nodded hollowly. "I suppose so."
Tinúviel watched him for a long, silent minute, then narrowed her eyes in an approximation of a smile. "Care to drink to it?" she suggested. "It really is fine whiskey."
He looked sidewise at her, then slowly unfolded amid a chorus of popping joints. "We could," he replied. "I'll find another glass."
"Don't bother," she countered, before he could even move to stand. "You take the glass and I'll take the bottle."
"Are you sure that's wise?" Severus inquired.
Tinúviel arched an eloquent eyebrow. "Given that the alternative is handing the bottle over to a man who until a few minutes ago was contemplating getting drunk?"
He sighed. "All right, pour me a glass, then." He gave her a sharp look. "And I do mean a full glass."
She smirked. "The best you can hope for is a double until you get some food in your stomach," she retorted. "So you drink your double, and I'll go grab a loaf of bread for you." She poured out his whiskey, then took the bottle with her into the kitchen.
ooo
The scene ended rather abruptly, and Snape had another moment in the cloud of undefined memories, followed by what seemed like hours of spy reports, to collect his thoughts. What he had seen so far forced him to reevaluate every single thing he had understood at the time, and he had no idea what to make of it all. That Tinúviel had been a spy from the very beginning had been beaten through his skull so thoroughly and so often that only a willfully ignorant person could deny it. That accounted for most of what she had deposited here: her reactions to Death Eater activities, her reports to Dumbledore, even the process of her infiltrating the Death Eaters.
Other memories were easily accounted for, as well. It made perfect sense that she would wish to keep from Voldemort any indication of Snape's doubts and potential disloyalty, to say nothing of the clear evidence present that he had defied the Dark Lord at least once.
There were other memories that appeared to have no place here, however. What could possibly be so dangerous, for example, about scenes depicting his and Tinúviel's rivalry with the Marauders? Her memory of first meeting Severus had been tucked in amid a number of the activities reports, but he was at a loss as to why. These could be of no possible interest to the Dark Lord, except, perhaps, as indicators of how deep the enmity between the two of them and Dumbledore truly was. It was to her benefit and his, therefore, to retain those memories for Voldemort to see if he so chose…and yet she hadn't.
There's something I'm missing, he thought over and over again, but though he examined the evidence, he could find no trace of it.
It will come out, he told himself firmly, completely missing a screaming match between Tinúviel and Dumbledore over some stupidity or other. Slytherin though she was, Tinúviel was far too straightforward not to have stated it somewhere.
Tinúviel finished the report to which he had spent ten minutes being oblivious, and the headmaster's office disappeared once more.
ooo
Again his thoughts seemed to have directed the Penseive, but this time was not as precise as the last had been. He seemed to have returned to the beginning of seventh year, and for the first in a long series of scenes, Dumbledore was nowhere around.
Tinúviel sat in a quiet alcove in the Charms corridor—her favorite place to retreat to when she wanted to be entirely alone. Even Severus never disturbed her there; he knew the penalty.
Lily Evans entered the scene, however, and Snape knew, beyond any doubt, that that sacred solitude was about to be invaded, doubtless with extremely nasty consequences. Tinúviel did not look to be in the mood for trifles, and this particular brainless Gryffindor seemed capable of nothing else.
"Hello, Tinúviel," Lily said cheerily, slipping into the alcove beside her. Snape winced; this was not going to be pretty.
"There are two people alive who are allowed to call me that," Tinúviel replied coldly, not looking up from a thoroughly battered copy of A Tale of Two Cities. "You are neither of them, nor did I invite you here, so kindly go away."
She's going out of her way to be nice, Snape noted, darkly amused.
Lily, quite naturally, did not go away. "Vi, then," she amended. "I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes."
"I see a 'Do Not Disturb' sign is in order," Tinúviel remarked, turning a page.
"You see," Lily went on, ignoring the comment, "I've just found out that your mother died."
Even Snape, a shade within the scene, sensed a significant drop in temperature, but Tinúviel managed to keep a handle on her temper; he was impressed. "Oh."
"And I thought," Lily continued, "maybe you'd want to talk to someone." Her false cheer dissipated. "And you see, I do understand, because I've just lost my sister, too."
Tinúviel flushed, and Snape pitied her. There weren't many more ways in which Lily could worsen the situation—for herself or for Tinúviel.
"Meaning," said Tinúviel through her teeth, "that it's you who wants to talk to someone. I suggest you go find a more sympathetic party—try Black; he's quite the comforter."
And here Lily really did make a fatal mistake. "But Black doesn't need drawing out of a shell," she persisted. "You do!"
In one fluid motion Tinúviel clapped her book closed and landed a stinging slap on the other girl's cheek. "How dare you!" she hissed venomously. "If I have anything to talk out, I'll talk it out with a friend, not with you, you sanctimonious little bitch! And as for discussing our commonalities, the talk ends here because we have none—none, you hear me? My mother was worth a million of your stupid Muggle sister, and if it had kept Mum alive, I'd have killed off your whole bloody family myself! Now stay the hell away from me, or so help me God I'll try to bring my mum back by taking out the rest of your miserable family!" She flew to her feet and stomped off.
Behind her in the alcove, Lily burst into tears. On the one hand, Snape couldn't really fault her…but on the other hand, what had she expected? She was dating the worst of the Marauders, who had all but declared war on Tinúviel; she could not reasonably have been ignorant of the antipathy there, and yet she had just behaved as if she was.
Snape shook his head as the scene faded briefly to black. There was only one way to draw Tinúviel out of her shell, and that was to keep her distracted from the fact that you were drawing her out. Lily had made her bed and must lie in it.
He was rather impressed with Tinúviel, though. She had been dying to confess her deed and so in some way gain a measure of absolution, and she had just done it—without Lily having a clue that she was doing it, but all the same, it was done. He doubted Tinúviel had felt better afterward, but she'd at least given herself a shot at it, which was pretty much par for the course with her.
Rather than returning to the gray of whirling tendrils, the Penseive strung two together and pulled Snape almost immediately into another scene, which was, disappointingly enough, back in Dumbledore's office.
Tinúviel stood defiantly before the headmaster, who stood in front of his desk rather than behind it. Between the absence of a logbook and the fact that she was in her school uniform, it was clear that this confrontation was, refreshingly, entirely separate from a spy's activity report.
"You rang, Headmaster?" Tinúviel said, with a hostile sarcasm that even Snape could only manage on his very worst days.
It seemed to him that Dumbledore winced, but it was very subtle, and Tinúviel missed it completely. "I've heard a disturbing report, Miss Everett, that you have been verbally abusing one of your classmates."
Tinúviel's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Oh, really."
Dumbledore nodded. "Lily Evans—"
"Needs to fight her own bloody battles," Tinúviel snapped. "I learned to—I had to. She can learn the same lesson." She sneered openly at the headmaster. "Unless, of course, you're content to fight for her as you never fought for Severus or me."
The headmaster paused a beat and looked intently at the girl before him. "What I have done—or not done—in the past cannot be helped now, Vi," he told her sternly. "And whatever you may choose to believe, the fact remains that I fully intend to fight for you and Severus as I am able. Unfortunately, you hurt your own case when you attack another student."
"And I don't suppose Lily Evans told you the context for my so-called abuse," Tinúviel said coldly, crossing her arms.
"No, she didn't," Dumbledore conceded. "Please, tell me about it."
"Then instead of calling me in for a talking-to," Tinúviel went on as if he hadn't spoken, "you might have done better to ask for my side of the story." She raised her eyebrows. "Because even you have to admit that there's no need for this to turn nasty—provided you make up your mind based on all of the facts, instead of simply taking Evans' word for it."
And there, before Tinúviel's eyes and Snape's, Albus Dumbledore squirmed. The headmaster, who had long been upheld by so many as the supreme example of wisdom and moral superiority, looked as if he felt convicted by the words of a spiteful and impolite Slytherin. Tinúviel kept her features carefully impassive, but Snape knew that she must have been as shocked as he was.
After a very long, awkward silence, Dumbledore cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and nodded once. "Very well," he said, reopening his eyes. "Perhaps we ought to start over."
"Splendid idea," Tinúviel replied sardonically. "You asked to see me?"
The headmaster again cleared his throat. "Yes," he answered. He paused, obviously pondering his next words carefully. "Another student has presented a concern to me, and I was hoping to hear your perspective."
"I see."
"I believe you and Lily Evans had a…confrontation…yesterday?" Dumbledore continued, still speaking cautiously.
"Rather," Tinúviel replied. "I suppose she cried her eyes out over it?"
Dumbledore looked a touch troubled by this blasé response. "She did cry, yes," he allowed.
"I see."
There followed a long silence while Dumbledore waited for Tinúviel to go further, but she seemed quite satisfied that she had gone far enough. He cleared his throat yet again and raised inquisitive eyebrows. "Have you anything further to say in this matter, Miss Everett?"
"Rather," she said again, then stopped.
Snape furrowed his brow, at a loss to see what she hoped to accomplish. Mere moments before, she had appeared ready, willing, and able to tell her tale to the world, but now she seemed content to play what really did look like a childish game.
Dumbledore sighed. "Miss Everett, I realize that my initial response has made you defensive, and I do apologize for it, but if you're so certain that your side of the story ought to be heard, it behooves you to tell it."
Tinúviel looked stonily back at him. "Forgive me, Headmaster," she said coolly. "It simply had occurred to me that there may very well be no point in telling you what happened. Even when my situation has been known in the past, the punishment has always fallen on me, or on no one at all." She narrowed her eyes. "Even if neither party deserves disciplinary action, I've generally received it. Why should this time be any different?"
Dumbledore looked her squarely in the eye. "Please allow that even a man as old as I can change," he replied evenly. "I freely admit that I have had a blind spot where certain individuals are concerned, and I admit that I underestimated the damage done by that blindness. However, now that I've been made aware of that particular shortcoming, I would very much like the chance to rectify it."
There was another silence while they stood, eyes locked, battling will against will without words. Snape, for his part, found his mind drifting back to the disastrous situation with the Llewellyns, and he wondered how, exactly, Dumbledore would deal with that newly-revealed shortcoming. Blindness and shortcomings were permissible in any human, of course…but when a particular person was unaware of the extent of his influence, they could be devastating. First Tinúviel, then Zarekael. More than one cycle was repeating itself.
Tinúviel at last broke the silence by taking a deep breath and finally answering the initial question. "Evans had a notion that I'd be interested in group therapy," she stated. "I was sitting out of sight specifically because I wanted to be alone, and she tracked me down and wouldn't leave." Her eyes, still locked with Dumbledore's, were smoldering. "She trapped me, and no matter what I said or did, she wouldn't fucking leave!"
Now she slitted her eyes and glared over Dumbledore's shoulder. "She said we should talk because my mother died and I wanted pulling out from my shell, and then she had the gall to say she understood what I'm going through because her sister just died!" By now she was barely holding back angry tears, and her words came out in between convulsions of her throat that resulted from a forceful suppression of sobs. She turned her gaze back on Dumbledore, no longer caring if he saw her so close to crying. "How much am I supposed to take with a smile?" she demanded. "Even though she doesn't know about Hyacinth, how dare she bring up my mother! Who is Lily Evans to me, apart from a thorn in my flesh? Even Severus hasn't broached the subject with me, and he at least has the right!"
Dumbledore said nothing, so she went on. "I am so bloody tired of staying calm when the Marauders provoke me. For every time I've given Black and Potter what they deserve, I've held back on three other occasions—and the same for that bloody Mary Sue Evans! They push, they prod, they provoke, and I hold my tongue, but no more, Headmaster." She set her jaw and actually brandished a fist. "When Black told me last term that he could get away with murder, I made my choice; neither he nor any of the others will ever again have that chance. If they push me, I've no problem about nobbling them—I've no intention of ending up in a body bag, least of all on account of Black. And if they so much as breathe in the direction of Severus, I will kill them."
At her mention of Black's comment on murder, Dumbledore turned a sickly shade of pale, much to Snape's grim satisfaction. Apparently, the headmaster hadn't expected the Marauders in general, or Black in particular, to receive that message in the aftermath of the so-called prank gone awry.
"I hadn't realized that things were so bad," Dumbledore murmured, more to himself than to Tinúviel.
"Would you have believed it if you had?" she countered mercilessly. "Black has always been a golden boy who could do no wrong. Would you have believed him capable of wrongdoing had you seen it—if Severus or I had told you?"
It's possible that he might have done, Snape reflected. While Dumbledore isn't as all-knowing as some think him, he's also not as stupid as you apparently believe.
"I would like to think so," the headmaster told her quietly. "But frankly, I'm not entirely sure."
Snape thought he saw faint signs of Tinúviel softening somewhat, but he couldn't be certain. "Well, now you do know," she stated grimly. After a brief pause, she added, "Is there anything further required of me just now?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "No, thank you, Vi. I'll talk again with Miss Evans, and hopefully there will be a quick resolution to this latest incident."
Tinúviel curtsied gracefully, if a bit sarcastically, and showed herself out, and Snape could tell from her countenance that she thought a lasting peace and eternal harmony in Northern Ireland a more likely prospect. There could no longer be a quick resolution with the Marauders; the antipathy lay far too deep and had existed for far too long.
ooo
When the scene faded this time, Snape saw a peculiar sight above him, just beyond a thinning veil of memory tendrils. It seemed that he saw a stone ceiling, and glimpses of the tops of a chair and a bookshelf told him that it was the ceiling in his own rooms. He had never before stayed in a Penseive long enough to wade through all of the memories, but he wondered now if he had just done so.
Before he could come to a firm conclusion on his own, however, the clouds gave way once more, and he found himself in a room he had never seen before.
He had never been here, but he knew that it must be Tinúviel's bedroom; everything in it seemed to speak of her, though it most eloquently addressed a side of her that he had rarely seen.
Tinúviel stood alone in front of her dresser, on top of which were her Penseive and the picture of herself and Severus. This latter item she picked up and, crossing the room, placed on a bookshelf facing her, exactly level with the older Snape's head. Her hair was jaw-length, not shoulder-length any longer, but otherwise, she was exactly as she had been in all of the other memories. As always, she was oblivious to Snape's presence, but whether by some knack of his, or one of hers, he seemed always to be where she was looking. He had not stirred since entering the memory, but he stood not six inches away from his photographed likeness. Tinúviel returned to the dresser, then turned fully to face, not the picture, but Snape himself. He had the sudden eerie impression that she had known he would someday enter the Penseive and stand exactly there.
She confirmed this almost immediately. Using the picture's position for reference, she drifted her eyes until she had directly met Snape's. It was uncanny, given that she'd had no living person there at the time.
"Hello, Severus," she said quietly. "If you're seeing this, it means that a number of things have happened.
"First, it means that I'm dead." A hint of a sad smile touched her lips. "The Gryffindor in me hopes that it was a glorious death; the Slytherin that there was at least some point to it. However I died, the point is that I'm dead and you're not, and for that I'm thankful."
Snape's throat tightened. Given a choice, he would have preferred exactly the opposite, but as Tinúvielwould have been quick to point out, it had not been up to him.
"Secondly," she continued without pausing, "it means that, either before my death or sometime after it, you've turned your loyalties away from the Dark Lord and made Dumbledore aware of it." She smiled, almost in relief, but the expression quickly darkened. "Or you're still loyal, and Dumbledore has told you about my Penseive anyway." Her tone and countenance turned contemptuous. "In that case, I'm sure he has his reasons."
Undoubtedly he would, Snape thought. Just as he undoubtedly had his reasons for not telling me about it until now.
"And finally," Tinúviel said, "it means that there's no danger of the Dark Lord learning about what you see here, either because you've become a great occlumence or because you also keep a Penseive."
Or because he trusts me so thoroughly that he no longer sees any need for legilimency, Snape added silently. But I doubt that knowledge would bring you much comfort, even if I could communicate it to you.
Tinúviel had paused to gaze fixedly at the place in which he now stood, as though she sought to penetrate to his very core. It was almost impossible to remember that this was the shade of a young woman who had, nearly two decades before, addressed these very words to a blank wall beside a shelf.
At last she spoke, in a low voice. "It's easy to find courage when you're not actually here, Severus," she told him. "I don't have to see your reaction or talk with you afterward…or in this case, see you afterward to know what you think of what I've said. Courage is easy, but words…really are not."
She took a deep breath, held it briefly, then slowly let it out between her teeth. "I'm not afraid to say it," she confessed, "but I am afraid of how it will hit you. A part of me wants you to remember me as you knew me—however that might be. The rest of me believes that you have a right to know, if you don't already."
Some part of Snape returned to his earlier pondering and caught half a hold on a suspicion, but it was a ridiculous thought, not at all the sort of thing Tinúviel would actually say.
"I…love you, Severus," she said simply, and the bottom fell out of Snape's stomach as the complete and utter unreality of the situation hit him. He stood silent, eyes locked with the shade, and hardly dared to breathe as he waited for whatever she would say next.
She had paused again, perhaps to gather her thoughts, perhaps to allow him to gather his, but now she shook her head slightly. "Maybe I should have told you sooner, but up to this point, it's been too dangerous. Even though the Dark Lord thinks us both loyal, it would be too easy for him or one of the other Death Eaters—or the Ministry, for that matter—to exploit emotional attachment." She offered a sheepish half-smile. "And I have a feeling you have enough on your mind right now without having to deal with the knowledge that your best friend is sweet on you."
She was right. Even setting aside the fact that it would immensely complicate matters with his family, if Snape's reading of the time-frame was correct, this was either immediately before or directly after a major raid he had been responsible to plan. She had cut her hair around that time—
His brow furrowed. If it was right after that raid…
He swallowed, recognizing not only her haircut but also the blouse she was wearing. It was entirely possible that he was seeing nearly the last words Tinúviel Everett had ever spoken.
"Don't mourn for me as though I'm gone forever," she told him quietly. "I don't believe I am. There's a place on the other side where we'll meet again—I'm sure of it. All I ask of you in the meantime is that you fight. Whether you do it openly or by stealth, oppose…Voldemort…and do everything you can to bring him down. Don't do it for me, and certainly don't do it for Dumbledore; do it because it's right. Do it for all of the promising people he's destroyed or subverted—for those he would try to destroy or subvert later on. Do it for those he's pulled in with promises that trap and enslave them." She hesitated, but her Gryffindor secondary came to the fore, and she finished with words he had known she was leading up to: "In short, Severus, do it for yourself and the others like you."
She looked as though she might continue, but there was a sudden pounding at her bedroom door. Tinúviel whirled, masking well the panic that Snape saw anyway and recognized with a sinking heart; her father was manic.
"Tinúviel Rían!" barked a hoarse voice that Snape knew well. "I want a word with you!"
"Just a minute!" she called, snatching the picture from the shelf and laying it haphazardly on her dresser. She drew her wand, and, a split-second before she spoke, Snape saw the Death Eater's mask between the picture and the Penseive.
"No!" he shouted. "Don't go!" The veil between the illusion and himself seemed to have disappeared, and his only thought in the moment was to keep her from leaving the room and going to the meaningless, grisly death that awaited her there.
As if in response, Tinúviel turned her eyes back to meet his. "Good-bye, Severus," she said softly, then touched her wand to the side of her head as he fell to his knees.
"No!"
The room went black.