Graihagh pressed Milo against her chest so hard her arm was numb, she was so afraid he would slip away from her. They fell onto a cobblestone street lit only by the sliver of a crescent moon overhead.

A wooden sign creaked above them and when Graihagh looked up she saw they were right in front of the Hog's Head Inn. She heaved Milo all the way to the front door before she remembered that the Thorfinn who wasn't Thorfinn had told her to go to the back.

"Shit," she breathed. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her shoulder. She wasn't sure she could carry him that far, but she didn't really have a choice. She stood still a moment to catch her breath and dragged him to the back door.

There was a wooden crate along the wall but she knew if she sat down she wouldn't be able to get back up, so still holding onto Milo with both arms she lifted her fist to the door and knocked seven times, slowly.

Nothing. Minutes passed, and finally a light flickered in the upstairs window and faint footsteps sounded from somewhere inside. The door creaked open and a long-bearded man stood there, his eyes so red and tired she was sure he hadn't slept.

"In. Quickly."

There was no question of whether or not to trust him. Graihagh's arms were so tired they were shaking. She summoned up every last bit of her strength to drag Milo into the dim room, lit only by a candlestick the long-bearded man was holding.

"What the hell happened to you?" he said. He reminded her vaguely of Owain, and someone else, though she couldn't really think of who just then. She was losing her grip on Milo.

"Take him. Please. I'm going to drop him."

The man set the candle on a barrel and grabbed Milo by the wrist and legs, draping him over his shoulders in a fireman's lift in one swift movement. Graihagh might've been impressed by it, if she weren't so exhausted.

"Follow me," the man said.

Graihagh took the candle and he led her upstairs, to the end of a short hallway where was nothing but stretch of chipped plaster. He took his hand from Milo's arm and reached into his pocket for his wand, tapping out a complicated rhythm against the wall, until there was a flash of light that startled Graihagh so badly she cried out.

The man didn't notice, or pretended not to. When the light faded a wooden door appeared and Graihagh went inside, Aberforth stooping to keep his head from hitting the lintel. They were in an old storage room, by the looks of it, filled with crates and barrels threaded together with gossamer cobwebs as though they hadn't been touched in centuries.

"I don't suppose you know how to conjure a bed?" said Aberforth.

"Haven't got a clue," breathed Graihagh, sinking down on the floor. She couldn't conjure so much as a toothpick.

The man lowered Milo into Graihagh's arms and left the room, coming back with two thin mattresses and a pile of blankets. "This'll have to do for now," he said, dropping them on the floor. "I'd let you stay in one of the rooms, but I take it you're in some kind of trouble?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so. This is a hidden room. No one knows about it but the Order. Whoever's after you would have a job of it finding you here. I'm Aberforth, by the way."

"Graihagh. And this is Milo."

Graihagh laid Milo down on a mattress and Aberforth knelt down and looked him over.

"What happened?"

Graihagh sank down on her mattress with her head in her hands. She could barely think. "Tortured. He passed out, I can't seem to wake him."

Aberforth put his head close to Milo, listened to his breathing, lifted up his t-shirt and examined his chest. "Looks alright, physically. It's his mind we need to worry about."

Graihagh sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"

"I mean torture can do things to the mind. Make a person go mad. You ever hear of the Longbottoms?"

The names sounded familiar, but she couldn't think who they were just then. "No."

"They were Aurors, the two of them. Brilliant. And they've spent the last sixteen years in the closed ward of St. Mungo's not even able to remember their own damned names. Bellatrix Lestrange's work, that was."

"You mean they never...?"

"No."

Graihagh's heart pounded. He couldn't. That couldn't have happened. She knelt down and grabbed Milo's face as though she make him better through force of will.

Aberforth put a hand to her arm. "Let him rest, there's no use waking him."

"Shouldn't we take him to St. Mungo's? Maybe a Healer could do something..."

"Better not risk it. Security at St. Mungo's is shit these days, there's already been a few deaths."

So there was nothing they could do but wait. Graihagh drew her hand away and put a blanket over him, tucking it under his shoulders and studying his face. The idea that he'd wake up and see her and not know her, not know anything, never create anything again...she couldn't stand it, couldn't think about it. Her breath came in choking gasps.

"You'd better get some rest too, by the looks of it."

Graihagh crawled to her mattress and pulled a blanket overself like a child who'd just been told to go to bed. She was so tired.

"If you need anything, just pull this-" he gestured to a string hanging from the ceiling, the kind sometimes attached to lighbulbs. "Don't go into the rest of the inn or down to the bar, I get all sorts here, some of 'em might be people you don't want to run into."

"Right," said Graihagh. "Thank you." She tried to think of something else to say. She needed to sleep, but she didn't want him to go. She felt safer with him there.

Aberforth walked through the door he'd made and the room got dark.

Graihagh sat up. "Wait!"

"What is it?"

"Can you keep that candle here?"

"Alright," he grunted. He set the candle down on a barrel. "Whatever you do don't knock it down and start a fire, I can't do magical repairs worth shit and my insurance won't cover it."

He closed the door behind him and the room was quiet.

Graihagh laid back down on her mattress and pulled the covers around her self, shaking so hard her stomach hurt. She had to sleep, she couldn't stand to think. She thrust her hands in every pocket of her jeans but there was nothing there except a couple of Manx pound notes and the bollan cross.

She curled up in a ball and clutched at her head and recited the ingredients for Headache Solution, Draught of Peace, Veritaserum.

She saw Thorfinn's face and the blue-white tip of his wand, heard Milo screaming. Saw Bellatrix Lestrange with her wand held out in front of her. Bellatrix, her mother's friend...and then she was her mother, and she was Bellatrix, and she was pointing her wand at Milo and he was screaming. It was all her fault, everything that had happened to him was her fault.

She pulled at her hair and rolled around on the mattress but she couldn't make it go away. She breathed in but her chest was tight and she was lightheaded and dizzy, she wasn't getting enough air, she was suffocating.

What was it the Healer had said ages ago? Control the breathing, close your eyes, it'll pass.

She took a deep breath and held it in, closed her eyes and laid against Milo's warm back, listened to his steady breathing. She curled up beside him and after awhile she fell asleep.


Graihagh sat up on her mattress with only one thought in her head. What if Thorfinn knew who her dad and stepmum were?

She had to warn them, to tell them she was safe and not to worry. Maybe she could persuade them to move to Canada or someplace, only she doubted they'd want to leave the island and their jobs. They'd need some sort of magical protection.

Her muscles were so stiff and sore her eyes watered and she couldn't remember why, or where she was. The candle had burned down to a stub and all she could see were the flickery orange outlines of the barrels and crates and boxes that were stacked up everywhere. Her eyes searched the room until she found the string dangling from the ceiling. She got up and hobbled across the room, swearing under her breath, and pulled.

She braced herself against a barrel, willing the man to go faster-Abner or whatever his name was. After a slow geological age the door banged open.

"What is it?" said a gruff voice.

"I need a Portkey."

"A Portkey? Now? What the hell for?"

"I think my dad and stepmum might be in danger. They live on the Isle of Man, it's too far to Apparate and I can't fly there quickly enough."

"You can't get a Portkey that quickly either, the way things are at the Ministry these days. Unless you've got the right name they'll piss about for days before they approve anything."

"What about an emergency Portkey?"

"You'd have to show up in person."

"So?"

"So use your head, girl. Ministry's teeming with informants."

"Fuck," she hissed. She glanced over at Abner-or-whatever-his-name-was. "Sorry."

He raised a shaggy white eyebrow at her. "Do I look like I give a fuck about propriety? Now, when you've untwisted your knickers I've got a better idea. I know some people who might be able to help you."

"Can you get in touch with them? Now?"

Abner-or-whatever-his-name-was spat out a wad of some reddish substance that looked like chewing tobacco and Vanished it with a flick of his wand. "I'll give it a try. Don't know if anyone'll show up though. They might be busy with other things. There's a war going on, in case you haven't noticed. People dying.

His last words came out tight, strained, as though he were trying not to show any emotion, and Graihagh was startled.

"What are you looking at?" he barked.

Graihagh glanced away and the old man raised his wand and muttered something under his breath. A silver goat shot out the end, some misty plasma-like substance that hovered somewhere between gas and solid. He said a few words to it and it flew out the door.

Graihagh gave him a questioning look, but he just stood there and picked at his beard, head cocked slightly to one side like a dog listening to the wind.

Graihagh lowered herself onto a wooden box and sat down. She didn't have a clue what to say.

"Ah. That's him," he said after a long silence.

There were footsteps on the stairs and a thin, serious-looking man stepped into the room. He had dark circles under his eyes and his faded robes were wrinkled all over as though he'd slept in them.

He strode forwards and put a hand to the older man's arm. "I'm so sorry. How are you holding up?"

Something horrible must've happened, but Graihagh had no idea what it could've been.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" said the man. "Do you need anything?"

The older man waved away his concern. "Like I said, I'm fine. It's these two that need help." He nodded towards Graihagh and Milo, still asleep on his mattress.

The younger man looked from one to the other. "What happened?

"It was...Rowle," said Graihagh. She could barely say his name. "He captured us and tortured us."

"How'd you get away?"

"I don't know. Someone Imperiused him and told us to come here."

The man's forehead wrinkled in confusion, but Graihagh didn't understand it any better than he did.

"I think my friend might've suffered some damage. He passed out and I couldn't wake him."

The man knelt down next to Milo and examined his face, his chest, his arms. "There isn't much physical damage," he said. "But it's possible his mind might've been affected."

Hearing it from someone else made it so much worse. "Is there anything we can give him?" said Graihagh. "Any potions or anything?"

The man shook his head. "I don't know."

Graihagh didn't even bother to hide how upset she was. She slumped down and rubbed her forehead.

"Isn't there something you wanted to ask?" said the older man, sounding thoroughly annoyed by the whole business.

Graihagh had completely forgotten. "Oh. Right." She sat up straighter. "I'm afraid Rowle might go after my family. Someone needs to warn them, maybe put some protections round their house or something."

"I can do that," said the younger man. "Just tell me where they live."

"Shouldn't I come with you?"

He ran a hand through his hair and studied her a moment.

"Better not. There's a good chance he could show up looking for you. And someone should stay with your friend."

He didn't come out and say it, but Graihagh had the feeling she'd just be in the way. Her own fault, for getting so wrapped up in her potions and spells and Thorfinn's plans she'd failed nearly all her O.W.L.s.

"Right," she said, trying to clear her head, come up with a plan. "Yeah. You wouldn't happen to have any parchment on you, would you?"

"No, but I can Summon some, if it's alright with you." He was looking at the older man, who nodded, and he reached down for his wand and looked back up again as though he'd just remembered something.

"I don't think I've introduced myself. I'm Remus Lupin, I'm in the Order of the Phoenix, along with Aberforth here."

So that was his name, Aberforth. She'd have to make an effort to remember, she was useless with names.

"Graihagh Corlett. And my friend is Milo Selwyn."

Remus' eyes widened slightly in curiosity, likely wondering what what a Pureblood was doing on the run from Death Eaters, but to her relief he didn't ask, just held out his hand. Graihagh stood up and shook it, struck by warmth of his skin underneath the calluses and scars.

He drew his hand away and with a flick of his wand a few sheets of parchment flew into the room. He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a quill.

"Thank you," said Graihagh. She set the parchment on top of a barrel and picked up the quill, trying to keep her hand steady, writing the first things that came to mind, explaining the situation as best she could. Begging them to leave, even though she knew they wouldn't. When she was finished she pulled out two fresh sheets, these ones to Owain and Fynn.

She handed the letters to Remus. "Could you see to it that everyone gets these?"

Remus slipped them into the pocket of his robes. "Of course."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

Remus nodded to her and gestured towards Milo. "Better keep an eye on him. He might be a bit disoriented when he wakes up."

"I will."

Remus put a hand to Aberforth's on the shoulder and their eyes met, an acknowledgement of some shared grief she didn't know about. He left the room, Aberforth following along behind.

The mattress rustled and Milo cried out as though he'd seen something terrifying. Graihagh dropped down beside him and put a hand to his head. "Milo? Can you hear me? Are you alright?"

Milo's eyes were open and staring but he had the look of a sleepwalker who wasn't all there. His cries died down but he was shaking so hard she could see it.

"It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay, you're safe now. It's just us."

Milo gripped Graihagh's arm and she pressed her hand to his. "It's alright. You're safe now." She said it over and over again, praying he heard her and the repetition would make him believe it. When Milo's grip slackened she lowered him back down on the mattress and tucked the blankets back down around him. She curled up beside him, trying to sleep, watching the last bit of light flicker and sputter on the wood floor. There was a layer of dust an inch thick and she supposed she'd have her work cut out for her if she wanted to make the place liveable. But then maybe she wouldn't have to, maybe when Milo recovered they could go back to Mann, go into hiding with her family.

She didn't know if she fell asleep or not. She was staring at the floor and after awhile footsteps sounded on the stairs outside and the door opened. Two sets of boots stepped into the room.

Graihagh sat up. Remus was there, with Fynn.

"Fynn-what?"

Fynn strode across the room to Milo and knelt by his side, their long hair falling onto his eyes. They tucked it behind their ear and stroked Milo's face with their thumb, looking pained.

"How is he?" they said.

"He woke for a bit, but he was really out of it."

"He'll probably wake again before long," said Remus. "Then we might know the extent of the damage."

Graihagh stood up, and Remus spoke before she'd even asked.

"Everything's taken care of," he said. "Your parents knew something had happened to you, actually. It seems there was some sort of commotion at your flat last night. An anti-intruder jinx went off."

Graihagh glanced over at Fynn, who was still bent over Milo. If she'd just stayed home none of this would've happened.

"They said to tell you to stay safe and not to worry," Remus went on. "I've put the Fidelius Charm around their house, it's the most secure spell there is. It won't protect them when they go out, obviously, so we can only hope he won't attack them out in the open. And it's always possible he doesn't know who they are."

"Yeah," said Graihagh absently. She doubted it.

"Are you a potioneer, by any chance?" said Remus.

Graihagh was surprised that he'd asked. "I-yeah. I am."

"I thought you must be, when I delivered that letter to the apothecary. Your employer mentioned that you're rather skilled."

Graihagh wasn't sure she'd heard him right. She'd been studying and working with Owain for ten years and he was as stingy with his praise as Professor Snape.

"You wouldn't perhaps be willing to make a few potions for the Order?" Remus went on. "We could use a potioneer since..." He let his voice trail away as though he were too tired to finish his thought.

The room was too small and the walls too close. Graihagh's head was spinning. Twenty-four hours ago she'd been eating breakfast in her flat and getting ready for work and now she was in hiding from Death Eaters and being asked point-blank to help the Order of the Phoenix. She held her breath in a few seconds to keep from getting dizzy. The last few weeks had been one fucking thing after another it seemed, why couldn't everyone just leave her alone?

She sat back down on her mattress and wrung her hands. "I don't-I don't know..."

"It's alright if you're not able," said Remus, and she hated the hesitancy in his voice, the gently rising inflection, as though he were talking to someone fragile and delicate.

She could say no, could wait for Milo to get better and take him back home to Mann, but she supposed she was just as safe here as she would be there, and anyway, she had things to make up for. She'd fucked up royally, again.

She sat up straighter and rubbed her forehead. "Yeah. I suppose I could," she said, pushing away the thought that Milo might not recover and she'd be too upset to do anything. She didn't want to think about it.

Remus nodded. "Excellent. You wouldn't by any chance know how to make Wolfsbane, would you?"

Graihagh tensed and looked him over, the greying hair and the faded robes and the scars and gashes across his face. Maybe he was just curious, trying to get a feel for what she was capable of, or asking for someone he knew, but she doubted it. "Yeah. I'm licensed to make it."

Remus glanced down and rubbed his head in such an intensely self-concious way that Graihagh felt it too. "Would I be able to trouble you for some? That is, if you're able. I would pay you, of course."

She knew he couldn't hurt her, the moon wasn't anywhere near full and anyway it was morning, or she thought it was anyway. But her eyes darted to the door. "Yeah. Maybe. I If I can get the ingredients and everything." She doubted this, the ingredients were rare and expensive. Which was just as well. She didn't care to be in the same room with him.

"I appreciate it," said Remus. He reached into the pocket of his robes. "Right then. We need to make you Secret-Keeper."

"Sorry?"

"It's part of the magic of the Fidelius Charm. The only people who will be able to access your parents' house are you, and those whom you chose to tell. Even I won't be able to find it again."

"Right," said Graihagh as though she'd known all along how the charm worked. All she knew was that it was extraordinary difficult to perform. She studied his wolfish profile, the thin face and the ruffled hair. "Are you sure you know how to do all this?"

Remus' expression darkened. "Lycanthropy has no effect on intellectual or magical ability, as far as I know."

This went against everything she'd ever heard, but still. Remus had helped her, or tried to anyway, and she'd gone and insulted him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I really appreciate everything you've done."

Remus' expression relaxed into something like tired resignation. "It's alright. And it was no trouble." He pulled his wand out of the pocket of his robes. "Now, stand up and face me."

Graihagh did as he asked, and Remus pointed his wand muttered some complex incantation under his breath. A jet of white light wrapped around her like a long ribbon.

"Now, I want you to concentrate on the exact address of your parents' house, and repeat after me. Ego tenere secretum."

Graihagh closed her eyes. "Ego tenere secretum."

She sensed a warmth in her chest, a slight pressure in the surrounding air, as though the ribbons of light had bound her. He'd actually done it. He'd done an extraordinary bit of magic and kept her family safe, and she thought of the way he'd looked when he asked her for the potion, furtive, ashamed. She wondered if he always felt that way, if everyone reacted to him the way she had, or worse.

"That should do it," said Remus. He put his wand away. "I should be going. Someone with the Order will in touch within the next few days."

"Thanks again," said Graihagh, hoping he knew how much she meant it. Maybe she'd make that potion for him after all. She'd think about it anyway.

Remus nodded, and Fynn strode over and put their arms around him. "Take care," they said, clapping him on the back.

Graihagh was about to ask if they knew each other when the door banged open and Aberforth swept into the room like a squall.

"Minerva's doing my head in, keeps asking me what kind of flower arrangements we should get for the funeral, like I give a shit. I told her to talk to you. She's downstairs."

Graihagh knew this wasn't really the best time, but her curiosity got the better of her. "Did something happen?"

Remus' expression was pained, as though he dreaded having to tell her. "It was Professor Dumbledore. He died last night."

Graihagh couldn't have heard him right. "Dumbledore? No."

"He was murdered," said Aberforth, body tight and strained as his voice, all tense muscles and exposed veins.

"Oh my God," breathed Graihagh. She stared back at him, at a complete loss for anything to say.

Remus patted Aberforth's shoulder. "Why don't we go down and see Minerva?"

Aberforth grunted something in reply and the two of them left the room, closing the door behind them.

"I just can't believe he's gone," said Fynn. "I didn't believe it at first, you know? I just..." their voice trailed off and they studied Graihagh. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," said Graihagh, without really thinking, shocked and dazed from everything that had happened, everything that had been said. She sank down on her mattress, staring at the wall in front of her.

Fynn sat down beside Milo and out of the corner of her eye Graihagh saw them smooth back his hair. She was glad the two of them were there together, but seeing them made her strangely lonely, and she didn't know why.


The first thing Snape did when he got back to Spinner's End was conjure a set of drapes so heavy they blocked out the sun. His room stayed dark even on the brightest summer days, leaving his bedroom pitch-black except for a sliver of light under the door. That first night he took a potion so he wouldn't dream, but it made the time pass too quickly. He wanted to stay inside his head, even if it meant seeing things he couldn't stand to see, because sometimes he got lucky. Sometimes he was on the riverbank with Lily catching frogs and she was so real he could touch her.

He hadn't left his room in three days. Maybe it was four, he wasn't really keeping track anymore. That wankstain Wormtail wasn't around to spy on him any longer, thank Merlin. Clouds and silver linings and all that.

He'd had so much sleep that his body was restless with unused energy. Time for a sleeping draught.

His raggedy grey cat Paracelcus was asleep at the foot of his bed and Snape gave him a scratch behind the ears and went to the kitchen to put some food in his dish. He'd gone back to his room and was rummaging through the bottles in his bottom drawer when there was a knock at his front door.

"...the hell?" he muttered. There was no one left in Spinner's End.

He was so ripe he could smell himself and his hair itched from his sweat. He fumbled around for a bottle of cologne for a full minute before he realized he didn't have any. Narcissa had given him some a few years ago for a Christmas gift but he'd only used it a few times and then dumped the rest out because he liked the bottle. He stored potions in it now.

The knocking grew more insistent. He settled for a fresh set of robes and pulled his hair back in a ponytail, hoping whoever it was didn't get too close. He couldn't see any reason why they would.

He pulled back the heavy curtains on the sitting room window and though her face was covered by a hood he'd know the slim, straight-backed profile anywhere.

He slid the chain through the lock and opened the door. "In, quickly."

Narcissa hurried inside and pulled back her hood. She looked him up and down, taking in his disheveled appearance. The Dark Lord's right-hand man, in all his sweaty, dirty-haired glory.

"I-are you well?"

"I seem to have come down with a summer cold."

Narcissa raised an eyebrow just slightly, and of course she did, because why wouldn't he just make himself some Pepperup and be done with it? But to his relief she didn't say anymore about it.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I had another favour to ask."

For the love of Merlin. The last time she asked for a favour they'd ended up making an unbreakable vow. He sighed, internally.

"Have a seat."

They sat in the same places they'd sat the summer before, Snape in a chair, Narcissa on the threadbare sofa.

"Can I offer you a drink?" he said almost without thinking. Everything he'd learned about the strict protocol of the Pureblood world he'd learned from her and Lucius, and in a way he'd always liked it. So long as he stayed on script there wasn't much chance of making a blunder.

"Please," said Narcissa.

Snape Summoned a bottle of wine and two glasses from the cellar, and when he'd poured them some he raised his glass. Narcissa's face contorted into something like a scowl. He should've known she wouldn't care to toast the fucker.

But she must've thought he would. Her eyes became wide, almost fearful, as though she'd just made a dangerous blunder. He wished she weren't so frightened of him.

She raised her glass so quickly a bit of wine spilled out. "To the Dark Lord," she said, and took a long drink. Snape just watched her.

"Well, what is it you need from me?"

Narcissa set her glass down. "I was wondering if you'd spoken to the Dark Lord about Lucius yet?"

Snape shifted in his seat. "Not yet."

"Could you? Please?"

Snape took a long drink. He'd been planning to for awhile, but he dreaded kneeling down before him and begging, even for his friend. "I suppose."

Narcissa let out a long breath. "Thank you, Severus. I don't know how much longer I can take this."

She sounded weary, desperate almost. Snape didn't have the energy to feel sorry for anyone just then. He changed the subject. "How is Draco?"

"About the same. If Lucius were to be released I think it would help him a great deal."

Or Draco would be forced to watch as his father was humiliated in a thousand small ways, but Snape didn't say anything.

Narcissa smoothed a fold in her robes and played with her glass. Her face was strained, unsmiling, and Snape thought he knew why. He'd taken over Lucius' position, he hadn't stopped the Dark Lord tormenting Draco. She knew there wasn't much he could've done; she didn't want to resent it. But she did.

The silence was much longer, louder, than it should have been. Snape finished his wine just to have something to do.

"Well," said Narcissa, setting her glass down. "I suppose I should go."

Snape walked her to the door and when they'd reached it Narcissa stopped and pressed her hand over his, a perfunctory gesture this time. Her skin was soft and cold and strange against his own and she let go quickly.

"I appreciate this, Severus."

"Not at all."

She let go and turned the doorknob.

Something about the way she held herself, that determined composure, made him think of that night with Draco, how distraught he'd been.

"Narcissa."

She looked back at him expectantly.

On instinct Snape glanced around the room and lowered his voice. "I just wanted you to know, that if the Draco were to defect-"

Narcissa made a face. "Don't be ridiculous-"

"Listen to me. If Draco were to defect, tell me immediately. I will see to it that he is safe."

"He wouldn't possibly-"

"I want your word, Narcissa."

Narcissa stared at him a few seconds. "Well...I suppose, but the whole idea is absurd, Severus. He knows what's at stake. And with Dumbledore gone there's no chance of us losing, is there?"

Snape said nothing and Narcissa's composed face wrinkled in surprise, confusion.

"Is there?"

He wouldn't lie to her, not about this anyway. "I don't know."

Narcissa let out a nervous laugh. "You musn't be feeling well." She stood up straighter and the lines on her face smoothed as she regained her composure. "Take care of yourself, Severus. And do wash up, you smell almost as bad as Amycus Carrow."

She threw her hood over her head and hurried out the door.

Snape went back to his room and slept another few hours.


The manor was quiet, asleep. All the others had either gone home or were sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms, including the Dark Lord, who'd practically taken over the east wing for his own personal use. Snape stepped lightly, cringing with every creak of the wooden staircase.

The door to their bedroom was slightly ajar, so Snape pulled it open a few more inches to announce his arrival.

Narcissa got up from Lucius' side and opened the door the rest of the way, her green silk dressing gown billowing behind her.

Lucius was in the bed, head propped up on a stack of pillows. His face was badly bruised and he had a freshly healed cut down the side of his cheek. His welcome back into the fold.

"You look like hell," said Snape.

Lucius' lips twitched in a weak attempt at a smirk. "You really know how to greet a man, Severus. It's only been what, a year?"

"Were you gone? I didn't even notice," said Snape. He knelt down beside him.

"I've given him some dittany for his cut," said Narcissa. "But I can't seem to get rid of the bruises."

Snape examined Lucius' face. "I thought perhaps that might be the case." He dug around in his pockets for the bottle of an especially potent bruise-removal paste he'd brought with him. He was familiar enough now with the Dark Lord's methods.

He twisted the cap off and tapped the bottle onto a soft cloth until there was a good sized glob of white paste on it. He brought the cloth to Lucius' face, spreading the paste across his bruises as gently as he could manage, working it into his skin. Lucius gasped as he rubbed the paste into the side of his jaw and his eyes shifted to Snape, furtive, embarrassed.

Snape pretended not to have noticed. There was something satisfying in the reversal, in the way Lucius needed him.

"There," he said, vanishing the cloth with a flick of his wand. "They should be completely healed by morning."

Lucius sank back into his pillows. "I don't suppose the Dark Lord will be too happy about this."

"Tell him to fuck off," said Snape. He caught Lucius' eye and Lucius let out a strangled croak of a laugh.

"Merlin, Severus, I needed that." He sank down deeper into his pillows and his eyes clouded over with some dark thing Snape couldn't see.

"Now a potion for Dreamless Sleep, I think," said Narcissa. She uncapped a vial of potion and tipped it down Lucius' throat, smoothing back his hair with her other hand. When Lucius' eyes closed she kissed his forehead and pulled the duvet up to his shoulders.

They didn't seem like much, those small gestures, but they made Snape uneasy, as though the room had become too small for the three of them. He stood up. "I should be going."

"Thank you, Severus," said Narcissa.

She stood up to open the door for him, and Snape went back to his bed in Spinner's End. In that space between awake and asleep he imagined a hand touched his face and smoothed back his hair.

The Dark Lord nodded to Snape as he entered the room. "Severus, here." He gestured to an empty seat on his right side. Right where Lucius used to sit.

Snape kept his face serious, without any hint of pride or self-satisfaction, not that he felt any, not for what he'd done. He might've been a child at school, told to face the wall. He didn't look at Lucius or Narcissa or Draco.

"I see we are at full strength again," said the Dark Lord, scanning the table. He looked straight at Lucius, the sides of his mouth curling up into a sneer. "In a manner of speaking."

Lucius clenched his jaw and looked down at the table. Draco's face was tight and strained and Narcissa wore no expression at all. Snape had to fight to keep his mind empty, to keep the anger from showing on his face.

"Well, Yaxley? How is the situation at the Ministry?"

Yaxley sat up straighter, eyes wide, placating. "I have informants in the Department of Transportation, my Lord. The Floo Network is being closely monitored. He shouldn't be able to escape that way, or by Portkey."

The Dark Lord said nothing. A full minute of silence passed and Yaxley's face glistened with sweat.

"I'm very close to moving in on Thicknesse, I think," said Yaxley, voice so ingratiating Snape wanted to smack him upside the head.

"I should hope so, Yaxley," said the Dark Lord. "But Scrimgeour would be far preferable. Until he's been dealt with there is little we can do." He turned to Snape.

"And what about you, Severus? You must know something of the boy? The protection around him ends when he comes of age, does it not? "

"Indeed, my Lord. The Order intends to move him well before then."

"And you know the precise date and time?"

Snape did; it had been one of the last things he'd ever discussed with the Order. He didn't need to make much of an effort to hide anything. He'd already buried his memories of them deep inside his mind.

"No, my Lord. But I still have a source within the Order." This was a complete lie; as far as he knew they all wanted him dead. But he'd sort it out later.

The Dark Lord met his eyes a moment. "Very well."

Snape heard his unspoken demand for more information, for anything that might get him closer to the boy. He may have become his right-hand man, but his reward was more work, not less.

The Dark Lord looked over the rest of them. "Is there anything further to report?" No one said anything. Snape could practically hear them all willing it to be over.

"I expect there will be better reports next time, yes?"

Murmurs of "Yes, my Lord" broke out around the table.

"Very good. You are dismissed."

There was shuffling and the scraping of chairs against the stone floor as everyone rose to leave. Draco was the first out the door, Lucius not far behind.

The day had been hot and Snape supposed he didn't need his traveling cloak but he draped it over himself anyway. He liked the weight of it, liked all those layers.

Lucius was already outside, tossing seeds for his peacocks. "Retiring to Spinner's End for the evening, Severus?"

Snape wished he were. All he wanted to do was sleep. "Yes, I've had a rather long day."

Lucius emptied the bag of seeds and tucked it into his pocket. "Beautiful, aren't they?" he said, nodding to the peacocks, the evening light shining on their long bodies, making the blues and greens and purples shimmer like water. Snape made a murmur of agreement. He liked them well enough.

Lucius stared at them a long time. "I'd forgotten what they looked like."

Snape didn't know what to say. He couldn't imagine the kinds of things Lucius had seen, alone in his cell.

Lucius gestured to them. "They were a symbol of royalty, did you know that? The Mughal emperors of India had a throne with peacock tails made of precious stones. And do you know what happened to it?"

Snape didn't have a clue what Lucius was on about. "No."

"It was stolen from them." Lucius' face was tight and strained. "They destroyed it." He let out a frustrated noise and kicked at the dirt path, sending up clouds of dust that made the peacocks scatter.

Snape just stared at him. He'd never seen him lose control like this. His time in Azkaban must've been hell. And his words-was he saying what he thought he was saying, that Snape had taken something from him?

Lucius gave him a sidelong glance and brushed the dust off himself, adjusted his robes. Swept away everything he'd just done, or tried to.

"Things will be different this time," he said, more to himself, Snape thought. "This time we'll win. And it'll be glorious."

Or he would wind up dead, or back in his own private hell in Azkaban. Snape couldn't stand to think about it. He adjusted his cloak.

"I should be going. Goodnight, Lucius."

Lucius nodded to him and Snape couldn't detect any anger in his face. "Goodnight, Severus."

Snape strode away and left through the front gates to Apparate.

The Hogwarts grounds were empty. The sun had already set over the mountains and long shadows stretched over the grass. Snape pushed open the gates and walked up the path to the castle.

There was fresh thatch on Hagrid's roof and smoke rising from the chimney. Snape supposed he'd fixed it up and moved back in, and he could only hope he stayed in for the night, because he'd tear him to pieces if he caught sight of him on the Hogwarts grounds, and Snape would probably just let him get on with it.

He caught a flash of brilliant white of the corner of his eye that could only be the old man's tomb. He jerked his head away as though it had hurt his eyes and climbed the front steps to the castle.

He could've gone to his funeral. He could Disillusion himself well enough that no one would have seen, and he could've stood some distance away and watched. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He hadn't visited his tomb or anything. Only the threat to to the boy's life could get him up those steps and into Dumbledore's office.

The place was so dark and so silent Snape knew he was the only living soul inside. He didn't know if he was relieved or depressed by the thought. His footsteps echoed unbearably loud.

Snape could've sworn the stone Gargoyle was watching him as he passed through the entrance to the stairs. He thought it might come alive, tear him to pieces, but it stayed still as always, as though it were just another ordinary day and nothing had happened.

He stood outside the door and ran an anxious hand through his hair. What if the old man was angry? What if he'd said it but not really meant it, and he'd misunderstood like the fool he was? What if he wasn't even there? He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The instruments huffed and whirred as though Dumbledore had never left. But Fawkes' perch was empty.

The portraits along the wall went quiet and stared silently at Snape as he passed them. There would be no praise, no applause for this cold and thankless task. He kept his eyes straight ahead, at the portrait directly behind the Headmaster's desk.

Dumbledore was dressed in robes of deepest blue embroidered with stars and moons, his hat sitting crookedly on his head. Snape could barely look at him.

Dumbledore nodded to Snape and his eyes were bright. "Thank you, Severus."

There was no trace of anger in his voice. He seemed to mean it. Snape wanted to sink down to his knees and beg him for forgiveness and he wanted to snatch the portrait from the wall and break it over his knee. He gripped the back of a chair and mumbled something indistinct.

"I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you," said Dumbledore.

Well. No shit. What did he expect? Snape gripped the chair harder.

"So," said Dumbledore, his sudden businesslike tone indicating that he knew perfectly well what Snape was thinking and had chosen to overlook it, "I suppose Lord Voldemort is making plans to move in on Harry when he comes of age?"

Snape flinched. "Yes. He knows the protection around him ends at that time. I've told him the Order are planning to move him before then, but I didn't give the exact date."

"You will have to give Voldemort the correct date of Harry's departure from his aunt and uncle's. Not to do so will raise suspicion, when Voldemort believes you so well-informed. However, you must plant the idea of decoys-that, I think, ought to ensure Harry's safety. Try Confunding Mundungus Fletcher."

Identical Potters. Of all the crackpot ideas.

"And Severus, if you are forced to take part in the chase, be sure to act your part convincingly. I am counting upon you to remain in Lord Voldemort's good books as long as possible, or Hogwarts will be left to the mercy of the Carrows."

"Yes, Headmaster...Dumbledore."

Dumbledore gave him a piercing look. "Remarkable, isn't it? In just a few weeks' time this office will become yours."

Snape didn't even want to think about it.

"Remember, my dear Severus, I will be behind you the whole time."

Dumbledore's mouth twitched and Snape raised an eyebrow. Of all the times to crack a joke.

"But on a more serious note Severus, I will always be here if you have need of me. And help will always be given at Hogwarts-"

"To those who ask for it, yes I know," said Snape.

"It's true, you know."

"If you'll excuse me Headmaster-Dumbledore-I should go and find Mundungus."

"Goodnight, Severus."

"Goodnight Dumbledore."

Snape left the office, closing the door gently behind him, Dumbledore's words in his head. He'd heard what he'd said, but he'd also heard what he hadn't said. That aside from an enchanted portrait hanging on the wall, an imitation of the life he'd taken, he was completely alone.

He'd almost reached the front doors when an enormous barn owl dropped a letter on his head.

"What the hell..."

He picked it up off his cloak where it had lodged itself and slit the envelope.

Dear Professor,

I don't know how well you remember me, but I was one of your students, the one who you taught your improved calming draught to."

Of course he remembered her. He'd saved her life her sixth year, spent hours with her in his office, taught her everything he knew. She was so intuitive and asked such interesting questions that there were times he actually enjoyed himself, even if she was a pain in his arse. And none too skilled at writing, by the looks of her clumsily constructed sentence.

I can't say much here, I need some help, and I was wondering if you'd be willing? If so, could you meet me by the boar's gate tomorrow evening at six?

Snape folded the letter and stuffed it into his pocket. He wasn't surprised she'd sent it. He'd been expecting it, really.

And he'd do it, even if it was risky, even if it was obvious she didn't know what he'd done. He supposed it was only a matter of time before she found out, and hated him as much as everyone else did.


A/N: Thanks so much for reading, and thank you for the guest review, I really appreciate it! As for whether or not it was Snape in the last chapter, you will see :)