AUTHOR'S NOTE: So for anyone out there who was beginning to wonder if Ancalimë Erendis, who calls herself after the two biggest femenazis in Middle Earth, has any romance in her soul at all, you now know the answer. But just in case anyone was also wondering if I felt it got out of hand, I ran the previous chapter past my roommate Bet (who catches the worst stuff) and my mad collaborator Snarky (who catches everything else). Bet set most of my fears to rest, and when Snarky gave it her stamp of approval, I knew it was a winner. So no, I did not go to the doctor out of fear that too much sap was seeping through my veins and endangering my cardiovascular health.

And for anyone who's hoping for more sap in upcoming chapters…hm. One character not yet important to this tale will deal briefly with that problem during the latter half of Harry's seventh year.

Which, by my estimate, is something like forty or sixty chapters down the road. All I can say is, patience is a virtue.
AE

PS Manymanymanymanymany thanks to the truly awesome Bet, who helped me to reconstruct one of the most annoying and awkward sentences I have ever spewed forth on the typed page. This chapter is much less irritating to me on account of her assistance; couldn't have done it without ya, chica!
AE

Chapter 15: Betrayal

PRESENT: EARLY OCTOBER

As much as Snape wanted the world to stop, to come to a halt as his heart seemed to have done, to pause respectfully or, better yet, to end altogether, time marched mercilessly forward. He left the Penseive late on Sunday afternoon, having flown through the weekend without food, drink, or rest of any kind, and though he felt vaguely the desperate need for sleep, he was incapable of succumbing to it.

He wandered through his quarters, little more than a hollow shell to whom emotion was simultaneously foreign and all-consuming. As long as he kept moving, what was trapped inside of him was held powerfully at bay, but if he paused at all, even for a split-second, it all welled up, rushing from the center of him outward and upward and threatening to flood out of his eyes in tears and his mouth in sobs and wails. While he paced, he could think, but stop however briefly, and he could do nothing but feel.

He walked at last to a corner cabinet, in which he kept a number of decanters and drinking vessels of various shapes and sizes.

Morning comes too soon, he thought darkly, and, of course, the weekly torture of dealing with class after class of skulls full of mush. If I intend to be miserable tomorrow, I may as well go the entire way and have a hangover as well.

Liquor had never served him well as a numbing agent, for the simple reason that he placed far too high a value on clear-mindedness and self-composure. At the moment, however, he was content to be muddle-headed if it would free him, if only for a few hours, from this maddening restlessness, and as for the consequences in the morning…he could not, in the moment, scrounge up the conviction to care.

ooo

It was difficult for Snape to determine afterward who passed the subsequent week in more acute misery—himself or his students. Harry Potter, Ron and Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Parvati Patil, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, and Lavendar Brown all landed nasty detentions, and Gryffindor lost nearly every point earned since the start of term. The other Houses were scarcely better off, however, and Hufflepuff, in fact, came out worse than Gryffindor. Even Slytherin was not left alone, and while Snape refused on principle to take points from his own House, he was assured by the end of Wednesday of having sparkling clean cauldrons through the beginning of Christmas holiday, thanks entirely to the compelled efforts of Slytherins. By Friday, the library had been dusted from top to bottom, front to back, and the hospital wing shone more brightly than Solomon's Temple was said to have done; the dungeons were well on their way to being entirely free of any traces of mildew and mold, and the Potions room looked like an antiseptic replica one might find in a museum, rather than a room in which actual work was done. In short, Snape's foul mood precipitated an unprecedented level of elbow-grease on the part of the student body, and none of it was in the least bit voluntary.

The weekend came, however, much to everyone's relief (except for about a dozen students who had "earned" Saturday detentions), but the freedom from dealing with students on a basis other than disciplinary proceedings was small consolation to Snape. He performed every necessary task required of him, as well as every unnecessary task that came to hand, and when he wasn't working or lying on his bed in a stupor, he was pacing through his rooms, returning now and then to his marvelous decanters.

He never looked at the box or the Penseive, though he would occasionally pull out the picture to stare numbly at it for some minutes before hiding it away again. He had shoved the whole lot into the deepest corner of his private potions-ingredient stores, which were kept in a cabinet in his quarters and to which only he and Zarekael had access.

Except when supervising unpleasant detentions, Snape was always in his rooms now, and that was where Zarekael found him Sunday evening. He had opened the drinks cabinet again and brought out a crystal brandy decanter, and from this he had already filled—twice—a crystal snifter when a familiar rap came at the door.

He crossed and opened it to admit Zarekael, but, absorbed as he was in his own thoughts, he missed the crucial clue that his son was unusually agitated. After a brief word of greeting, Snape returned to the end table on which he had placed the decanter and picked up another snifter, then looked to Zarekael, intending to offer a drink. It was only then that the state of his guest drew his attention, but he was given no time to wonder at it.

"Father, forgive me," Zarekael said without preamble. "I have betrayed you."

A cold pall fell over Snape with an inexorable, yet almost gentle, flow that forced his arm downward to set the glass on the table. Betrayal could mean only one thing: somehow, unintentionally, Zarekael had made known to Voldemort that his father was a spy.

I really ought to care, he thought, and at that idea something flared to life amid his apathy. His not feeling a precise will to live did not excuse whatever it was that Zarekael had done, and while he wasn't angry, per se, he wanted very much to know what had transpired and what he could expect to come of it.

"What have you done, Zarekael?" he asked quietly.

The apprentice looked rather as if he wanted to hang his head, but his honor required him to look Snape in his eye when he made his confession.

"I was going through your private stores, looking for phoenix tears," he explained in a low voice, "and my hand brushed against it. I fell into a Penseive."

The cold pall from before had been nothing to the freezing chill that swept through and around Snape now. It wasn't a betrayal of his activities that Zarekael had alluded to; it was a betrayal of his trust.

The apprentice hadn't paused for Snape to comment. "I ought to have left at once," he continued, "…but to my shame, I did not."

The Potions master reached out with his hand, searching for something solid to grip, and caught a firm hold of the decanter. "You did what?" he asked, his voice raising slightly in pitch to become dangerous.

It had taken Snape days to go through the entire Penseive; there was no way Zarekael could have done the same in less time, but logical facts were a pitiful dam before a swell of illogical emotion. Zarekael, he was certain, had seen it—seen it all—and now knew everything that Snape had wanted to keep hidden away. He had known, of course that Tinúviel had been Snape's friend—everyone knew that—but now he knew the rest of it, knew what she had meant to Snape and, far worse, what he had meant to her.

As quickly as the chill had descended, a fire raged up, billowing from his very core to blaze forth from his eyes, the only window to his soul that even he could not close. The same rush of flame erupted outward in motion, and his next clear understanding of the scene was the ear-splitting crash of crystal on stone as the decanter hit the wall just beyond Zarekael's head and exploded in a shower of shards and liquid that drenched the wall, the floor, and the apprentice.

Zarekael, having made his admission of guilt, had already lowered his eyes and now cowered as much as he could reasonably do without either slouching or kneeling. This only further enraged Snape, who turned fully to face him and advanced a few steps in his direction.

"Look at me, Zarekael," Snape ordered, but Zarekael made no response. His eyes still blazing, the father stalked across until he stood within arm's reach of him. "Look at me!" he ordered again, taking the boy by the lapels and shaking him slightly to emphasize the command.

After a second's hesitation, his son looked up with somber blue eyes, but he held his silence; the father, having accomplished his purpose, now released him with a shove.

"Did you enjoy it?" Snape demanded, and he was anything but mollified when Zarekael's gaze turned bewildered. "Did you enjoy hearing a dead woman profess her love for me?" he all but screamed. "Did you!"

His son's eyes widened in surprise and horror. "I didn't know…!" Zarekael breathed…and Snape, seeing the genuine surprise and shock in his reaction, had a further reason to hate himself.

Whatever the boy had seen, it hadn't been that, and now Snape had let it slip. It cleared up any and all confusion on Zarekael's part as to the reason for the venom behind his father's reaction, but it also exposed Snape's deepest and most cherished wound. He was laid bare now, and he reacted in the manner of the wounded animal he had become.

"Get out!" he snarled, and when Zarekael didn't respond instantly, he gave his son a shove to help him on his way. "Get out!" he shouted again, spinning away to take up a more threatening position. This time Zarekael moved toward the door, but not before Snape, once more in motion, reached the table and began throwing anything that came readily to hand. Zarekael needed no further urging to flee the scene, and he did so with a superhuman speed that most wizards attributed only to vampires.

Once the door was closed between Snape and the rest of the world, the screams of his soul broke forth from his mouth, creating chaotic, unearthly music to the accompanying beat of shattering glass and falling objects as he destroyed his own rooms. When he had exhausted himself throwing and shoving things, he performed one last, tired turn and fell limply into a chair, his head in his hands.

Only then, when the entirety of his energy was drained and he had none left to divert to the suppression of his grief, did he at last let out the brokenhearted sobs he had carried inside of him for the past week.

Eventually there were no tears left to him, and, completely depleted, he sank at last into the deep, dreamless sleep that only young children and utterly spent adults understand.

ooo

Between settling Aldarion Everett into his new identity and seeing to other things, Meli had been gone for over a week. She was therefore blissfully unaware, apart from a logical understanding that Snape would probably be a touch out of humor, that anything might be amiss, until her return to Hogwarts gifted her with a firsthand education on the facts of the matter.

Her first hint that something was wrong came from the students she encountered on her way to Dumbledore's office. They were more than usually skittish, particularly when Snape was about; even the Slytherins were jumpy, which alarmed Meli even more than the rest of it might ordinarily have done.

Snape provided a number of clues all by himself, even though she saw him only from a distance. It did not require either a close look or a trained eye to see that he was in a towering rage; the truth was plainly evident at a hundred feet, from which she saw clearly his blazing eyes, rigid posture, and the way that he stalked rather than walked through the corridors.

He must have seen something truly awful in the box or the Penseive, Meli thought, gulping as she ducked away amidst a group of scurrying Hufflepuffs. And I don't want to know what it is.

She made her report to Dumbledore, which took just long enough that she forgot all about Snape's mood, but when she left the headmaster's office, she had a nasty reminder, coupled with the unwelcome realization that whatever had so angered the Potions master, even his apprentice was not immune to the effects. She ran into Zarekael on her way to the castle's main doors, and the mere sight of him was enough to stop her in her tracks.

Again, neither proximity nor knowledge of the person was necessary to determine his mood, but unlike his father, who was dynamic in his rage, Zarekael was more than normally passive; indeed, he was every inch the epitome of a whipped puppy. He nodded meekly in greeting, but, unsurprisingly, he didn't recognize her.

"Zarekael, is it?" she said quietly as he passed, and she succeeded in causing him to pause as he realized who she probably was. "I'm Charlotte Lucas."

He managed a faint ghost of his customary near-smile. "I understand you're soon to be married to a Mr. Collins," he replied after a moment. "My congratulations."

Meli's smile was more genuine. "Thank you," she rejoined dryly. "I wonder if I might ask a question of you?"

To judge by the way in which he surreptitiously glanced about to see if anyone else was within earshot, he very likely had a good idea of what she intended to ask. "Not at all," he assured her.

Meli also unobtrusively made certain that the coast was clear, then raised her eyebrows. "I've noticed that Severus is…hm…rather out of temper, shall we say."

"Hm. Yes."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

Zarekael made a careful study of his toes before answering. "There's nothing to be done," he told her at last. "Not by you, at least. I…stumbled over something I wasn't meant to see."

Meli felt her eyes go wide. "The Penseive," she breathed, then silently berated herself. Good job, Ebony. If he didn't know about it before, he certainly does now, you idiot.

Before she could open her mouth again to speak, though, Zarekael nodded. "The Penseive," he confirmed.

"Oh, no."

He looked up, surprise flitting through his eyes. "You knew about it?" he inquired.

"I knew it existed," she replied. "I stumbled across it myself, though not into it." She shook her head. "I'm sorry."

Zarekael shrugged apathetically. "When he's thought it out, he'll inform me of my punishment," he stated matter-of-factly. "Until then, I'll stay out of his way."

Meli furrowed her brow. "Not everyone is retributive, Zarekael," she chided, but the words came out a bit hollower than she had hoped. Snape was not incapable of mercy, but given that this concerned Tinúviel Everett—and given that he was in a foul enough mood that his merest glance was enough to reduce a fortress to dust—he would probably not be demonstrating that fact anytime soon. She offered the apprentice a rueful half-smile. "Well," she added, "we can hope, anyway."

He looked a bit mystified at that. "I deserve whatever he gives me," he countered. "I've betrayed his trust."

They parted ways soon afterward, and Meli crossed the grounds with a heavy heart. Zarekael had recovered from Dumbledore's anger over the assassinations just in time to take another hit from the headmaster over the Llewellyns. Now, just as he was getting back to his feet after that debacle, he was kicked down again on account of the Penseive. Honor was the thing most highly valued by the apprentice, and honor was the one thing on which he suddenly could not regain his grip.

And whatever it was that Snape doled out as punishment, she knew Zarekael would accept it without question; she remembered far too clearly the dead acquiescence in his eyes when she had sought him out after he confessed to murdering the Goldens. He had been ready to take any retribution from her, possibly even to the point of death, and she could only assume that this was a similar case. His cultural understanding evidently hinged on regaining honor through punishment, and being punished by paying a demanded recompense.

It was, on the one hand, reassuring that Snape had not demanded recompense immediately; that suggested that he was waiting until he calmed down and that, therefore, the punishment would be less severe than it might otherwise have been. The downside to that, however, was that he showed no sign of calming down anytime soon, and in the meantime he had plenty of time to contemplate the punishment he would eventually assign.

Meli felt a surge of pity for Zarekael. He might have betrayed his father's trust, but she had a feeling that he would receive worse than was fair in the way of consequences.

ooo

Three days passed before Snape came up with a definite, settled plan of action—three long, hellish days of licking his wounds and pondering what payment he would exact from Zarekael for his breach of trust. Even at the end of that time he was unsure, but in the course of his dark thinking, he had come back, again and again, to the question of what his son had seen in the Penseive.

It had not required much time at all for his logical faculties, once reactivated, to inform him that, at most, the boy had only seen three or four memories; had he spent much more time in the Penseive, Snape would probably have stumbled over him. What he had seen and why he hadn't left immediately—those pieces of information must necessarily be considered before Snape could devise an appropriate punishment.

And there would have to be a punishment, as much for the father's closure as for the son's. Simple forgiveness, even if it had not been foreign to Snape, was incomprehensible to Zarekael; he was still puzzling over Meli's refusal to take retribution a year before, and he would probably always wonder if she in some way still harbored that grudge against him.

Knowing as he did Meli's peculiar obsession with the concept of grace, Snape knew the facts of the matter…but, by the same token, he also knew that Zarekael would never accept such a pass from him. A mere friend, even a close friend like Meli, could get away with it, but in Zarekael's cultural understanding, his adoptive father was obliged to be harsher and less given to forgiveness. While he might only doubt that Meli was as close a friend as she had been, if Snape attempted to let him pass without punishment, he would interpret it instead as a postponement and would be forever on his guard, waiting for his father to dredge it up again years later and demand an accounting then.

So, even if it was in Snape's nature simply to let it go (which it certainly was not), he would be duty-bound to come up with some form of penalty that Zarekael would consider appropriate.

Somewhere in his ponderings during the afternoon of the third day, however, a tiny idea managed to niggle its way to the forefront of his mind, and then, rather than politely saying its piece and then shutting up, it proceeded to gain strength, becoming louder as the afternoon wore on and finally, most disturbingly, taking on Meli's voice.

And suppose he only saw something harmless, it suggested. What if the worst he saw was you and Tinúviel talking about Dickens? Perhaps he stayed for a few minutes but left before anything else came into it. Yes, he invaded your privacy, and there should be fitting consequences…but couldn't it be possible that three days of acute misery have been consequence enough for that offense?

Snape battled the loudmouthed thought through the early evening and all of dinner, retreating at last to his rooms where he could safely glower at nothing and everything except that infuriating disembodied voice.

He had struggled for three days to come up with what it was that he wanted to do, and here, with the third day waning, he was as conflicted as he had been at the beginning. A part of him wanted to lash out again, to communicate through shouting and destruction and violent demonstration, every tortured scream and torment of his soul. His pain, buried for decades, longed to be loosed so that someone would see and comprehend and feel what it was that he felt.

Even he hadn't known what he felt. When Tinúviel had first died, he had been a spy, and permitting himself the luxury of dwelling on it emotionally might have cost him dearly. There had been clues, of course—even his deliberate and conscious effort couldn't prevent something from slipping out, generally at the worst time and in the worst possible way.

Snape squeezed his eyes shut, bitterly remembering.

Just over a week after Tinúviel's death, there had been a Dark Revel, and one of the Muggles killed in the midst of the revelry had nearly bled out. The similarities between his death and Tinúviel's had been too much for Snape to deal with, and, in a horrifyingly tragic twist of fate, he had accidentally resurrected the man, betraying himself for a fledgling necromancer and giving him one more reason to berate himself for being too emotional.

For he was an innately emotional person, contrary to what the pathetic students of Hogwarts might think. He'd had fifteen years to reinforce the walls around those emotions, until only his anger, which no earthly power could hope to harness or contain, was evident, but behind those walls, he was one of the most feeling people he knew.

Only Tinúviel had been more so.

That thought alone evoked more emotions than he could name in the moment, and he had the bittersweet victory, however minor, of knowing that he knew himself at least that well.

The question returned, though: What was to be done about Zarekael?

He was tired—far too tired to plot, or even to consider plotting. It was time to act, if he could only find the presence of mind to do it.

Snape consulted his watch and found that it was after the student curfew. He had no doubt that Zarekael would be in his quarters, and while he had very nearly subsided into apathy again, his Slytherin nature served him well and presented him with a simple enough way to penalize the boy, if indeed he had seen nothing of importance.

If it turned out to be otherwise…Well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Snape winced as he stepped from his quarters and into the corridor. A sure sign that I've been drinking too much, he thought darkly. I despise that cliché…and now I'm planning to live by it.

ooo

Zarekael's door was thoroughly warded using spells and charms of his own people's fashioning and which even a professional Curse-Breaker like Bill Weasley wouldn't have a prayer of cutting through. There was, in fact, only one way to gain entrance to Zarekael's rooms without his invitation: the door had to be keyed to admit the person seeking entrance. To Snape's knowledge, only three people aside from the apprentice himself could open the door—Dumbledore, McGonagall (although that had been a concession for emergency purposes), and Snape himself. None of them had ever presumed upon this privilege, honoring Zarekael's privacy and security…but on this particular occasion, Snape saw fit to flout that tradition.

On entering his son's rooms, he found himself ideally situated to discomfit Zarekael greatly. The apprentice was nowhere in sight, but the fact that his main room was still lighted suggested that he had not yet gone to bed. A book lay on the coffee table, and Snape thought it highly possible that Zarekael had been reading and then stepped away to retrieve some item or for some other purpose. He would be returning shortly, the Potions master surmised, and he would find something there that he had not left—namely, his father.

Snape seated himself in one of the two wing-backed chairs beside the fireplace. From where he sat, he had an unimpeded view of the doorway to Zarekael's bedroom, which guaranteed that neither of them would miss the other when the boy returned.

It was a longish wait, but not interminable, and he estimated that perhaps ten minutes had passed from the time of his entry to the time Zarekael emerged from his bedroom. It was clear that the apprentice had just taken a shower—his shoulder-length hair was wet and newly-combed, and he was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only a pair of black flannel pajama pants.

As planned, Zarekael saw him almost immediately and came to an abrupt halt, swallowing convulsively and bowing his head, preparatory (Snape assumed) to weathering another tirade from his angry father. He looked every inch as miserable as he had doubtless felt over the past three days, and more than that, he had to deal with the humiliation of being caught unawares and extremely vulnerable. That in itself was, oddly enough, a profound satisfaction to Snape.

After a few minutes of awful silence, during which Zarekael stewed and Snape let him, the father at last spoke to his son.

"Zarekael," he said, very softly, "come here." The boy flinched slightly but sharply checked the reaction, then, his eyes never leaving the floor, moved to stand across the coffee table from Snape. The Potions master, by contrast, had not moved except to breathe, but he shifted his left arm now and flicked his fingers toward the chair opposite him. "Sit," he ordered.

Zarekael complied, but his posture was wooden and rigid. Silence ensued again while Snape looked him over, as if trying to divine simply from the apprentice's appearance what it was that he had seen, but it was, of course, impossible; his inspection complete, he again spoke. "Tell me exactly what you witnessed, Zarekael."

By the time the apprentice raised his eyes, he had hidden away his thoughts, but subtle movements in the meantime told Snape that he was surprised at the request, and given how their last conversation had ended, he really couldn't blame the boy. Zarekael met his eye now, however, and he never looked away as he described his brief journey into the Penseive.

And it had been brief, as quickly became clear. He had witnessed the entirety of one memory and a harmless portion of another before coming to his senses and leaving. He had stumbled across it innocently, tumbling into the Potions classroom at a very different point in time to witness the confrontation the day after Black had nearly murdered Severus. That had transitioned directly into Tinúviel's violent tantrum, and while Zarekael managed to keep a penitent countenance through most of his narration, here his eyes flashed with a strange malicious joy as he described the thorough nobbling Black had received for pushing Tinúviel too far.

He sobered when he came to Flitwick's entrance on the scene, and Snape braced himself for what must surely come next—but Zarekael instead shook his head slightly. "That is all I saw, Dravek-üriov," he finished, still looking his father directly in the eye, even as he invoked Snape's title of authority.

"Why didn't you leave immediately?" Snape asked tonelessly. He was surprised at how flat the words sounded, given that they comprised one of the most insistent questions that had been boring away at him lately.

Zarekael paused long enough to choose his words but not long enough to be perceived as hesitant. "My curiosity got the better of me," he admitted quietly, to Snape's further surprise; he forgot sometimes how young his son was and that he was, by nature, incredibly curious. "Seeing you as a young man," Zarekael continued. "Seeing some of what made you into the man I know—" He broke off as words failed him, then shook his head in frustration. "I have no excuse, sir, save curiosity; I was fascinated." His repentant tone was marred somewhat by the self-satisfied expression his face now took on. "Though, in all honesty," he added, "I must admit that I will cherish witnessing Black's thrashing." Again he sobered. "There is nothing for me to say, except that I'm ashamed that I did not leave earlier—and your anger toward me is justified."

Snape made no immediate reply, so Zarekael bowed his head to await judgment, a thin sheet of perspiration appearing on his shoulders and chest.

His father, meanwhile, returned to his earlier pondering and attempted to synthesize into it the information he had just obtained. He knew, without a doubt, that Zarekael would never lie to him about what he had seen; no matter what the consequences, honor demanded complete and unreserved honesty—which was why he had confessed to Snape in the first place what he knew could never be discovered.

Zarekael's motives had been innocent, and so, for the most part, had been his actions. As Snape himself had thought idly at the beginning of their interview, the humiliation of their meeting tonight was probably sufficient payment for the offense, and anything further, while expected, was unnecessary.

Snape stood without a word and turned toward the door as Zarekael stood, as well. He walked as far as the short corridor leading to the door, then paused. "Adrikbradwr," he said, turning back to face his son.

He found Zarekael staring at him, his face slack and pale and his eyes haunted by an utterly lost expression as he waited for the pronouncement of his doom. Something in my tone must have upset him, Snape reasoned, so he began again, keeping his voice quiet and firm. "Zarekael, there will be no punishment," he stated, and Zarekael's expression became one of disbelief; unless he explained himself now, the boy would be waiting for him to make a later demand for penance. He regarded Zarekael thoughtfully. "There was no malice in your actions," he continued, "and you confessed them to me. I'm satisfied that this was nothing more than an unhealthy curiosity." He allowed his eyes to harden and his tone to frost a bit, then added, "Though I trust that nothing of this nature will ever happen again."

Zarekael shook his head, his eyes shining as he fought tears—of relief? Snape wondered. Or fear that I'll change my mind?

"No, sir," the boy replied, his voice sounding oddly strangled with restrained emotion. "It will not."

Of relief, Snape answered silently; he recognized that tone of voice all too well. He nodded once in acknowledgment, then turned again to the door and went on his way.

ooo

FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE:

And just in case the amateur philologists are still around…
Adrikbradwr- AH-drihk-brah-DOOHR
Dravek-üriov- drah-VEHK-OOH-ree-ohv

Also, Krew- Not-nice things involving Snape, Voldemort, and necromancy…Hm. Yes.

Omaha Werewolf- Excellent deduction as to whose footprint is most pronounced in Chapter 14. This was one sequence that was meant to be a brief side note in the main story—a chapter or two at most—and then it just took off one day and blossomed into the extremely huge side story it is now. I didn't have either the time or the need to work out the scenes with Snarky because they literally exploded in my face and all over my notebook (It was rather messy). Your review made me curious, so I ran a count; it came back at 13,259 words, or 47 pages in html format. (Just FYI)
As for Lupin…
Snarky and I have talked several times about why Snape might hate Lupin so much, when Book 5 showed that James and Sirius were the primary offenders and Pettigrew was at least along for the ride. We've concluded that Lupin's offense was not that he knocked Snape down or kicked him while he was down, but rather that he stood by and did nothing while others were tormenting Snape. That being the case, it wasn't necessarily essential to have Lupin directly involved, and in any case, most of the incidents spelled out in the narrative had the fight being started by someone walking up to one of our two heroes. Since Lupin probably did little, if any, initiating of the conflict, he wouldn't have been in any of these scenes, except possibly as a figure standing off to the side. Since Snape's primary focus while in the Pensieve was on Tinúviel and himself, Lupin may very well have been there and simply wasn't noticed.
Not very flattering to the estimable and very cool werewolf…but true nonetheless.
Lily, on the other hand, is portrayed here almost entirely from Tinúviel's perspective, and Tinúviel, who hated the Marauders and anything/one in any way involved with the Marauders, was predisposed to have a dim view of her. Snape's view wasn't much better, for similar reasons. The Pensieve also doesn't contain very much about Lily, so she's likely to come across skewed because there's only one episode to establish her character. My thought on Lily was that she was trying to be helpful and misinterpreted certain warning signs. Snape saw the signs for what they were because he actually knew Tinúviel, but Lily, who didn't know her much at all, hadn't a clue that she was on thin ice and so was completely surprised when she fell through and found herself drenched. In the context of our two heroes' prejudices, she comes across as vapid, but I think she really was just misguided.

Wow, that was a much longer A/N than I meant to put in. I hope it answers your questions/concerns, though, and I thank you for your reviews!

AE