September 19, 1976 – Hogwarts

Cassiopeia padded across the cold, stone floor, her tail held low to the ground, and her ears poised to catch any sound.

The oppressive atmosphere of the Slytherin common room was getting to her – Severus had been drawn into a discussion regarding the Malfoys and the Dark Lord, and she'd snuck away, unwilling to listen to him spouting blood-purist talking points, even knowing he meant nothing of what he said.

Emotions were easier when she was a fox – easier to distance herself from, when she didn't wish to Occlude.

She exhaled. She'd been practicing the art for months now, but she'd never be a natural like Severus was. Most sessions left her with a pounding headache, and, rarely, a nosebleed, when Severus was imitating the Dark Lord – forcing himself into her mind without care, tearing through her shields with brute force.

Not that her Master was faring much better. Though they'd held off the first days of school, both too busy with their respective duties, they resumed biweekly lessons soon enough, usually held in the confines of Minerva's office. Her mentor was improving, quickly, but not quickly enough.

Severus joined her, sometimes, but the Duelling Club had also resumed operations, leaving him busy more times than not.

She didn't much like him when he returned from those meetings – the thrill of semi-dark magic still coursing through his veins. His patience lessened, anger rushing through him at the slightest provocation.

The effects didn't last long, an hour at most, but it left an unpleasant impression upon her, even though he slowly grew better in containing himself, in mastering that emotion and forcing it back.

Still, she knew they were helping him prepare – that they were necessary. She had entertained the notion of a third 'faction' in the war – no matter how small and secret – but such hopes would never become a reality if they were weak and powerless. Not that a group of children, and maybe a couple of adults, could ever stand up against the two most powerful wizards of the century.

Her ears pricked, and she ducked behind an armour stand. Her nose picked up a sweet, sort of dusty, but familiar scent, and she emerged from her hiding spot, seeing Minerva just across the hall. She bounded up to the silver tabby, laying down at her feet. Curfew would not be for an hour at most, so she felt safe showing herself to her Master.

The cat touched its nose to hers and she smiled, though she knew the expression looked somewhat threatening in her Animagus form – as though she were baring her teeth. Still, her Master knew her well, and nudged her with her head, leading the way to her office.

Cassiopeia followed, obediently, enjoying the quiet and peaceful excursion.

"My apprentice," Minerva said, once they had turned back and the door was shut behind them. "Tea? I wanted to speak with you – though to be honest I didn't expect to do so today."

She smirked slightly. "Please."

Her curiosity grew when Minerva turned to do so, remaining silent. Usually, they would engage in a discussion as they waited – something trivial, perhaps what her Master had read in the paper, or a new discovery in transfiguration. Today, though, the woman poured her tea with a grim expression on her face.

When she had finished with her cup, she stood suddenly – regarding her for a few seconds, before opening a cabinet.

"Forgive me, but I have a need for something a little stronger," she explained, retrieving a bottle of amber alcohol. She poured a generous amount into her tea, and drank several deep sips before speaking again.

"Have you heard of what happened today?" she asked, regarding Cassiopeia seriously.

Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, as far as she knew. She shook her head.

"Lord Avery was arrested in a midnight raid two nights ago. He was found guilty of the murder of Miss Meadowes' family a few hours ago, and sent to Azkaban."

"...I didn't expect the Aurors to act," she said after a moment, once she had mastered her expression. The Dark Lord supposedly held great influence over the Ministry; she doubted he'd allowed one of his greatest followers to be indicted on purpose. "Auberon…"

They had never been friends, really – the boy shunning Severus and her for their lower standing in the social hierarchy. But the issues this would cause… particularly if, like Augustus had said, he was hesitant to join the Dark Lord fully.

"Your classmate will be informed tomorrow, I believe. I'm… more concerned, however, with Miss Meadowes."

"Of course," she said quickly, unable to conceal the hurt in her tone, but Minerva shook her head.

"I meant to imply nothing by that, lass. It is simply that I am seeing her grief… – I do not like to use the word but – exploited by Albus. He is asking the girl to join the Order."

She raised her brows. "That is the name of the group, then?"

"Yes, the Order of the Phoenix," Minerva sighed, covering her face with her hand. "I'm surprised he is doing it in front of my sight – I think he does not realise how opposed I am to involving children – " she looked at her pointedly – " in the… war… effort. He seems to want me to join him."

"You think we're at that point, then? War?" she asked reluctantly, her finger intertwining over her dark, taffeta robes.

She had thought of the current fighting as such in her head, but it felt off – wrong – to hear it from the mouth of an adult, of a trusted authority figure. It made it – real, somehow, in a way that was entirely unwelcome.

"What else can we call it, lass? The attacks, the disappearances… sooner or later it will be a war like any other. The factions are forming…" she trailed off, taking a fortifying drink.

Cassiopeia steeled herself, deciding this was a chance she was willing to take. "Master? I've been running several calculations, to see how the future may play out."

She withdrew a folded piece of parchment from her pocket, allowing the matrix she had penned to emerge into the air above it with a touch of her wand.

"I was never the best at Arithmancy – could you explain?" Minerva said after a moment, examining the glowing structure.

"Of course," she said, standing. "Each nexus here at the bottom represents a variable I've inputted. They can be people, events, anything, really. The lines that connect them are equations, calculating the probability of certain interactions. At the top, in a perfect equation, an answer should emerge, which would be the most likely event to occur. As you can see – "

She indicated the top of the matrix, which was a glowing swirl of runes. It was less entangled than the bottom, but still very much unclear.

" – the overall calculation does not have enough information to give me an answer that's helpful. I don't expect a singular answer – that's pretty much impossible given what I'm working to accomplish, but if I could have more information, I'd certainly be able to make a clearer picture of it all."

She turned to Minerva, knowing her expression was pleading.

"And what exactly are you trying to work out?"

"Whether it's favourable, in the long term, for you to join the Order or not," she explained. "It seems presumptuous, and of course you're free to decide for yourself, Master, but I find that Arithmancy more often than not helps one to make better decisions."

Minerva rubbed her temple. "What would you need from me?"

"Some basic information: how long you've know the Headmaster for, how willing you would be to keep a secret from him – "

Minerva raised her brow at that, but Cassiopeia countered her skepticism with a knowing expression. "You admitted to me, once, that the Headmaster was not as virtuous as he seemed."

"I did, lass. How about – let us sit down. Ask me the questions you want, and I'll see if I can answer."

That was more charitability than she'd bargained for. Cassiopeia accepted her terms.

An hour later, she tidied her things. She'd gleaned some interesting tidbits of information, perhaps owing to Minerva's alcohol-induced openness. The two professors had been closer friends than she'd thought, certainly, and she had never known that Dumbledore had a brother who lived in Hogsmeade, or that her Master had been due to marry a Ministry colleague before she'd fled to Hogwarts to teach.

"This will take some time to recalculate, and I'll need to speak with Professor Vector regarding some of the more complex lines – of course without revealing any of this. For now, I think it'd be best for you to keep at the sidelines: neither reject the invitation fully, not accept it, just try to find out more. It could be useful…"

"You're planning something, Cassiopeia," her mentor muttered.

"So what if I am?"

"Be careful."

"I always am."

"Don't get… stuck in the wrong crowd."

"I know how to take care of myself."

"You shouldn't need to," she sighed. "It's almost curfew – do you need a pass?"

"Just in case, thank you."

She emerged from the office, shivering slightly as the night air hit her. She glanced outside, enjoying the view of the clear, starry sky – undisturbed by the goings-on on Earth. If she were a centaur, she knew she wouldn't be so optimistic – the herd's warning was clear in her mind. Yet it seemed so unfortunate that such a beautiful sight would be made a symbol of fear and uncertainty for them.

She knew well that there would be no good-will for the herd under the Dark Lord's command.

"What's a snake doing out here past curfew?"

She whipped out her wand, spinning behind her. There was no-one, as far as she could see. Not even a shimmer to indicate a Disillusionment spell.

"I'd ask the same of you, Black," she said mildly. His voice was familiar enough. "Homenum Revelio."

The blue light lit up much closer that she'd thought, a mere metre to her right. But – she could see nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And then Black emerged, as if from that nothing, his countenance slowly revealed as he slipped a cloak from his body. "Interesting little artefact, isn't it?" he smirked. "Incarcerous."

She dodged the spell but just barely, sending back one of the few nonverbals she knew. 'Impedimenta.'

Black stumbled for a mere moment – too short for her to press her advantage.

"It was dreadfully boring this summer without anybody to hex, you know," he monologued. "But Dumbledore – " he flashed a smile, cutting himself off. "Can't tell you that, snake. You might get jealous. Petrificus Totalus."

She raised a shield effortlessly. One on one, she had the clear advantage over any of the group of four. "What do you want, Black?"

"My, my. Duelling in the hallways, are we?" Professor Sayre stepped between them suddenly, surprising them both. "And after curfew."

"I have a note from Professor McGonagall," she explained, not above taking advantage of her pass. "I was on my way down to my dormitory when Black accosted me."

"And you, Mr. Black?" she asked with a raised brow.

"I was heading from the library to the tower when I heard a noise, which I went to investigate," he shrugged.

"Which explains you attempting to hex Miss Nazyalensky?"

"I thought she was an intruder at first. Then she hexed me back."

Sayre raised an elegant brow, her blue eyes glittering mischievously. "Mr. Black – I have been within earshot the entire time of your encounter. Are you suggesting Miss Nazyalensky knows how to cast nonverbally, a topic which was introduced just this week, and which most adult wizards find themselves incapable of doing?"

Cassiopeia smirked. It was wonderful to have a teacher automatically on her side – most of the other staff were immediately favourable to the other Houses, Slughorn was too lazy to get involved most of the time, and Minerva always tried to be fair, which, while a good thing, did not yield itself to the smug satisfaction she felt watching Black struggling between his choices.

"No, professor," he said finally, sulking. It seemed he valued his reputation less than his belief that Slytherins should never be spoken of positively.

"Then I think the situation is quite clear. Ten points from Gryffindor, and I'd suggest you hurry back to your dormitory."

Black glared at her as he turned away, but didn't dare do more in the presence of a teacher. When he was gone, Sayre gave her a conspiratorial smile.

"Ten points to Slytherin, Miss Nazyalensky. Excellent nonverbal casting."

She inclined her head in acknowledgment. "Thank you, professor. May I go to bed now?"

"Certainly, Cassiopeia," she said. As she was walking away, however, she added: "You've certainly improved in my class. A certain… someone… will be very happy to hear of it, I'm sure."

Damn, she cursed, making her way downstairs. She'd wanted to keep her abilities – limited though they were – to herself, and especially away from the Dark Lord. She resolved, though, to simply seem to show no improvement. It was true that most wizards never exceeded beyond the very simple spells: lumos, accio, and the like, if they were able to perform such magic at all. There was no necessity for her to be seen mastering more complex nonverbal magic, once she actually could.

If she could, she chided her thoughts. It wouldn't do to get ahead of herself. She'd only just started learning, after all.

September 25, 1976 – Hogwarts

The Draught of Despair, in its modified version, was almost complete. He'd rushed down to Slughorn's private lab to tend to it earlier this morning – at its most volatile stage now, it needed almost constant supervision.

Cassiopeia stumbled in an hour later, yawning as she took her usual seat across from the cauldron. She blinked her eyes sleepily. "Sorry, Severus, I'm – exhausted. I don't think I'll be much help for the next hour or two."

"That's fine," he replied dismissively. "At the moment I just need to watch it and make sure it remains simmering at the ideal temperature. Once it turns grey, then I'll need to actually get involved."

He wasn't sure how long that would take: the recipe from the Dark Lord had been quite vague in some places, as though it were only a brief outline. He didn't expect much more though, from someone without the natural inclination for brewing. Experimentation was difficult and often catastrophic in its results, as he'd learnt.

"Perfect, then. Want some breakfast? I doubt we'll be out of here in time."

He waved her off. "You can go and get yours, I'll just stay."

"And not eat at all?" she asked, then smirked. "Not on my watch."

He rolled his eyes but allowed her to summon an elf, who seemed happy enough to take their order. They waited in silence for a bit before the elf returned, baring two trays laden with food.

"Thank you, Milly," Cassiopeia told the creature, and he eyes the inordinately large offering with disdain.

She dared him not to say a word before Milly disappeared.

"Why must you indulge their overbearing tendencies?"

"It makes them happy – you'll survive if you eat a little more than you're used to."

She pushed one of the trays over to him – the largest plate lined with crêpes, and the side dishes filled with toppings. "Feeling French today, are we?"

"Better than the English breakfast they serve in the Great Hall," she replied, drizzling hers with some sort of syrup. "There's never anything... new. Or exciting."

"I noticed," he replied, amused.

As he began to eat, he noticed her glancing at him, almost surreptitiously, and realised he hadn't undone the ponytail he liked to put his hair in for brewing. Embarrassed, he let his hair down around his face, feeling less uneasy now that he could once more hide himself behind it. It wasn't horrible while brewing, when he was focused on something else, but it was so… exposing… otherwise.

She gave him a smile. "You look older with your hair pulled back. It makes you seem… distinguished."

Damn. Now he wanted to put the stupid band back in place.

"Are you sure you don't think so just because Lucius does it?" he asked.

"Maybe," she shrugged lightly. "It still looks nice."

You're going to be the death of me, woman. He was thankful now for the hair that concealed his flush. He hated how easily she could decompose him, with the slightest word.

The potion bubbled dangerously, and he flew from his seat – previous concerns forgotten as he grabbed the stirring stick, agitating the now-grey brew counterclockwise.

He realised a problem about two minutes later, as he bent over the cauldron to check his consistency and was prevented from doing so as the black strands of his hair swung in front of his eyes.

He straightened, glancing at Cassiopeia. She'd said she wouldn't be much help – had that been an implication that she didn't want to aid him? He hesitated, but – if he failed now, he'd be wasting weeks worth of work.

"Cassiopeia?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you mind – I didn't have the time to tie up my hair, and I can't stop stirring now. Could you – ?"

"Of course," she agreed immediately, picking up the leather band. She stepped behind him, and for a long moment he felt her hesitate, before she touched her hand to the side of his head.

He shivered at the sensation, and she began to brush the locks back carefully, taking great care to leave not a single strand behind, her movements reverent.

Would she think him some kind of creep, for enjoying her careful, delicate but firm touch? The thought was fleeting as she tied the band in place, resting her fingertips against the base of his skull. They stayed there for a long, quiet moment, before she finally pulled away, just barely trailing her fingers down the top of his spine.

"Thank you," he said quietly, wondering if his words would break the moment that had been made between them.

"Of course."

Her hand settled briefly at his back, a reassuring gesture yet more intimate than it had any right to be.

"Any time."