I n c i d e n t

(A show of power or anger by the captor: something the victim wants to avoid at all costs)

Gradually, slowly, we became more civil to each other. I will not go into all of the little nuances, for they could fill a thousand books –the day he said good morning to me, the day I cleaned up his spilt ink, the night he brought me some desert with my dinner. Little tiny things, like a smile here and there. We grew used to each other. We weren't friends, exactly, but we could tolerate each other. And for Mr. Snape, that was a big thing.

It seemed that he had no idea what to call me, these days, I reflected with some amusement. He couldn't very well call me "Muggle" or "Girl" because we were civil to each other, and I think he genuinely liked the pleasantness of our few interactions. But my name seemed too informal, and I knew that he wouldn't suffer the indignity to ask me my last name.

And so he learned to bear me.

He would disappear sometimes, off to a Death Eater meeting, or an Order meeting. It was very strange – he still came back from the Order meetings battered and snarling at the world, but not from the Death Eater meetings. I would be terribly confused, but I would leave him alone at those times. I knew he would want no interactions. The most I would do, if he was particularly battered, would be to wet a towel and hand it to him, and then disappear before he could comment. I think this arrangement suited him.

And then of course there was that horrible toad Umbrige.

As I lived in his wardrobe, I was mostly sheltered from the school affairs. I knew what would happen anyway, and I knew that I didn't want to be a part of it.

But one day in early October, Mr. Snape entered his rooms in a whirlwind and exclaimed loudly, "No, Miss Umbrige, I do not believe we need to discuss it!"

I took the hint. I reached over and swiftly closed the wardrobe, leaving it just open enough for me to peek through the crack in the door.

"Oh, I think we do, professor," came the sickly sweet voice. I got my first look at her.

My jaw dropped. She looked exactly like my math teacher last year. Except, of course, my math teacher was very nice and didn't have that horrible grate-on-your-nerves voice. And I highly doubt that my math teacher would do anything crueler to a student than call them a funny name for making a stupid mistake. But the resemblance was striking. I briefly wondered if my teacher had an evil twin sister.

I watched.

"I need it, professor," she cooed. My skin prickled. She sounded like – I don't know, a snake charming a mouse, or something. It was scary. I reminded myself that she'd be attacked by centaurs, and it made me feel better.

"It will take me a month to make," Mr. Snape said unwillingly, "and, as you know, the ministry keeps a tight watch on—"

Veritaserum, my mind supplied as she interrupted.

"The ministry is taken care of," she murmured darkly. "I need it. Be as quick as you can." She flounced off, and as soon as the door closed I leaped out of the wardrobe.

"It's f-for Harry Potter," I blurted, "she's going to ask him about where the Order is, and w-where Black and Dumbledore are!"

Mr. Snape stared at me. "Dumbledore?" he asked. "He's still here."

"Not for l-long," I said darkly, "she'll r-run him out of the s-school." I probably shouldn't be telling him this, I thought frantically. Too late now.

"How? What will happen?" he asked urgently.

"Harry Potter w-will happen," I mumbled, realizing that I shouldn't tell him about the DA.

"Potter will run him out of the school?" Mr. Snape demanded, "you're not talking sense, girl!"

I ground my teeth in frustration. "If I t-tell you, you'll ch-change it," I said in frustration, "and that'll change the b-books and who n-knows how that'll affect this w-world?"

"A book can't affect a world," Mr. Snape spat. "Tell me now! If Dumbledore leaves, that woman will be in control!" he said 'woman' like it was a curse. His eyes, I noted with alarm, also had a dangerous, calculating look about them. I wanted that look to go away. I didn't like that dark side of him that occasionally surfaced, that darkness which made me doubt him.

"I n-know that!" I cried, stuttering in my earnestness. "I r-read it, remember? But if I change it h-here, it'll be different in the b-books – what if that m-messes up the author? And if the author is c-confused, and not r-remembering writing this, then that m-might af-f-fect the rest of the series. It could r-result in the changing of the b-books, and that could change this w-world, in anything—even in—in—" I was searching, now, I needed something to convince him, and finally I blurted, "in your d-death!"

He paused, and stared at me. "You are right," he said, sounding surprised even as he said it. The dark look went away. I very nearly sighed in relief.

"She d-doesn't use it till much l-later, though," I said desperately, "my timeline's all m-mixed up – I d-don't remember it very well. It's been a few m-months since I've read it."

"When will she use it?" he demanded.

"Much, m-much later…" I murmured. I shut my eyes, trying to remember, to give myself a frame of reference… "On Valentine's day," I murmured to myself, "There's that whole awkward d-date-thing, and then the meeting with Skeeter…"

Mr. Snape scowled at me. "I don't need to hear about Potter's love-life!" he spat.

I ignored him. "After V-Valentine's Day," I said firmly, eyes still shut, "that's the closest a-approxim-m-mation I can give you. It's been a w-while since I read the book. "

He scowled at me as I opened my eyes. "Then why would she be asking for it now?" he growled.

"No idea," I sighed. "Maybe she just w-wants it."

He scowled, walked over and collapsed onto his chair. He snapped his fingers; a bottle of something that looked like liquor whizzed over to his hand. Wandless, wordless magic? My mind asked, isn't that only in fanfiction?

He looked stressed out. I sat on the arm of his chair. He glared, and, intimidated, I moved away. "Are y-you alright?" I asked.

"Fine," he spat and took a gulp of the liquor. I shuddered. I didn't want to know what he'd be like, drunk.

I needn't have feared it.

He didn't get really drunk; he wasn't babbling or slurring or anything, but it seemed like just enough to relax him. He demanded to know how many more times that woman would make his life hell. I'd asked him if he counted dinner in the Great Hall or just inspections, as I'd figured out that he must've had one of the latter. He'd smiled faintly into his glass and said "Both."

"Too many to c-count, then," I answered with a wry smile. "She's worse to Potter though. She seems to l-like you, though, for a while, I think."

He took a satisfaction in that, it seemed.

"Oh? And how does she make Potter's life hell, then?" he asked, smirking, and, wrinkling my nose, I launched into an explanation about that quill scene – you know the one, when the quill writes "I must not tell lies" on the back of his hand and in his blood. Mr. Snape seemed to recognize the device because he growled something about that being dark magic and how could the bitch get away with dark magic in Hogwarts castle? I'd shrugged and told him that I didn't know – but she did get attacked by centaurs in the end of the year, which was very amusing. He'd given a little snort at that and smirked. "Fitting," he'd said, "Very fitting."

We lapsed into a comfortable silence after that.

He sighed. "The books are from Potter's point of view, correct?" he asked, after a while. I nodded. He gave a slight sneer. "Why is it then that you do not hate me? Unless Potter has some strange fascination with me, which, if that is the case, I do not want to know."

I laughed softly. "No, he h-hates you alright," I smiled at him, "But he's an unreliable narrator, from m-my point of view. If you'll forgive me for saying s-so, you're frankly a more interesting character. Cloaked in shadow, and all that. C-cruel, but not evil, I don't think. A g-gray area. I can see your point of v-view of things a lot, despite what the narrator tells me." I winced and shut my mouth. Well, this was embarrassing. Best to stop there. He wouldn't want me knowing about the Occulmency scenes, which hadn't happened yet, but still.

He snorted into his drink. "Should I be flattered?" he asked dryly.

I grinned at him. "If you want. You've got a l-lot of f-fans, you know."

Mr. Snape blinked at me, as if surprised. "I have fans?" He demanded in disgust. I grinned at him, and raised my hand a little, jokingly.

"One's sitting right in f-front of you, Mr. Snape."

He looked at me in horror. "You're lucky I'm not one of the b-bolder ones," I said shyly to him, still smiling. "Or you'd've b-been… what's the word? Oh, yeah. G-glomped."

He looked absolutely horrified

I smiled at him. "Don't worry, they d-don't exist in this, uh, universe. They're in m-mine."

"Thank Merlin," he said dryly. He took another sip and eyed me warily. "You're bearable, though, thank the gods."

Bearable. I beamed at him. That's a high complement coming from him. He scowled at me.

"Not when you get like that, though!" he spat. He paused thoughtfully, and then, suddenly, looking a little dangerous, as he set down his glass.

"Fans." He said, slowly, and my brain clicked just before he said it. I knew I didn't want him to bring it up.

"Just 'cause I'm a f-fan, doesn't mean I h-have a crush on you!" I squawked, eyes wide.

"Too hideous for that, eh?" he spat, glaring.

"No," I said firmly, angry on his behalf, now. He actually wasn't that bad looking, to be honest. Yeah, his hair was greasy and his nose was big and his teeth were yellowish and crooked. I won't deny that. But he was clean, despite the grease; he didn't smell or anything, so he did bathe. And he had an overbite and some teeth overlapping each other, but it wasn't really that bad. His nose was big, but…well, there's no real excuse I can think of. But he wasn't inhumanly hideous. He wasn't handsome, not by a long shot, but he was…striking, I suppose, a face you'll remember.

"You're not h-hideous," I told him firmly, "I tend to r-reserve crushes for real people. And now that I've met you, you're t-too old for me."

This was a complete and utter lie. I'd had the biggest crush on him when he was a book character, but now that I'd met him, his sugar-coated-ness had gone and he was too real for me crush on. Which was strange, but then, so am I.

He seemed to accept that, and nodded slightly, sitting back into his chair. "Good," He'd said.

I leaned forward slightly, and changed the subject, to get rid of the slightly awkward silence that was descending. "Tell me more about this CRT you b-built," I said.

"Persistent little Muggle, aren't you?" he sneered.

I took it in stride. Usually I would be offended and hurt, but I suppose I was used to him by then. "It's N-Nerd," I said cheerfully, "The title is Nerd."

To my shock, he laughed at this. It was the first time I'd head him laugh. It was a short sound, and sharp and surprised; rather like Sirius' bark, I'd imagine, although he wouldn't be glad to hear it. It was a nice sound, though, and I smiled at the unexpectedness of it. I was glad to have made him laugh.

"Very well then," Mr. Snape said, still quirking a half-smile, "what is it you wish to know?"

"Have you ever t-tried it again?" I asked, "Ever tried to f-figure out why magic and electricity can't exist in one p-place? Or ever tried to build something with it? Aren't CRT's in c-computers, or something?"

He raised his eyebrows at me. "So many questions," he said dryly. "I wouldn't know what is in a computer – I was enveloped into the Wizarding world before they were invented."

I stared at him, startled. He wasn't… pure blooded? I'd always thought…

"Not every wizard in Slytherin is pure blooded!" he spat at me, reading the look on my face correctly. He was turning slightly red. Was he embarrassed, or angry, or both?

I shook my head. "No! Oh, no," I assured him, "you really think I'll j-judge you on that? Me, a Muggle? I'm not really one to t-talk, am I? I guess Harry Potter's always as-s-sumed… and, as the book's from his p-point of view… I m-mean, I know he's an un-unreliable n-narrator, but…" I was spluttering now, my sentences fragmenting and fraying under his hostile glare.

I looked at him timidly and asked, "Are y-you half-blooded, or…?"

"Half blooded, if you must know," he growled, "my father" he said it like a curse, "was a Muggle, and my mother was the last of the Princes."

And here I noticed something. He shouldn't be giving this information so readily, if it was something he was ashamed of, and clearly he was. Why was he telling me, then? And how would I respond to it? I myself am half-Italian but that wasn't really the same.

I came up with a response, and said quietly, "Well, I'm all Muggle, so y-you've one upped me."

To my utter shock, he said, surprisingly gently, "You're not all Muggle. In this world, you're a prophetess, who knows what will happen, and is therefore very valuable."

I was shocked. He was being nice? After all that snapping and snarling? I smiled at him, thankful for the slight ego-boost.

He was extremely unpredictable. It was nearly impossible to guess what he was going to do. I liked that. I liked him. Not like that, but when he was being nice, I really liked him. I decided then that I wanted to be more than bearable – I wanted to be his friend.

His clock chimed from somewhere. He had to go to dinner. Mr. Snape nodded at me, and I smiled back and he left. I went to sit in my wardrobe.

He didn't come back that night.

I heard him enter around five that morning, looking quite exhausted. I peeked out of the wardrobe.

"Are you alright?" I whispered, "You d-didn't come back—"

"Shut up and go back to sleep," he spat and slammed his bedroom door closed.

"But I'm h-hungry," I whispered miserably to myself. I shut my eyes, but try as I might, I couldn't go back to sleep.

He returned from breakfast with an unusually large platter for me, which I suppose was his way of apologizing for the lack-of-dinner. I was ravenous, and ate the apple turnover and croissant and fruit very quickly. I even ate the sausages, and I hate sausages. By the time I was done, he'd headed for his first period class.

I read one of his books on mythology afterwards. It was Native American mythology, I think.

When Mr. Snape came in the middle of the day with my lunch, as usual, he was snappish, as usual. So I didn't think anything of it. He didn't bring me dinner again.

Again I was up all night, hungry and uncomfortable. Again he came back around five, but this time he was limping.

And my brain went click.

There was a scene after Snape's evaluation – where Harry's scar starts hurting, and Voldemort is furious.

But, I thought, why is he limping? Did he visit the Order, afterward?

I opened my mouth to speak, peering out of my wardrobe, but then shut it quickly and without a sound. Mr. Snape was hissing something to a boy – a boy whom I recognized, despite the fact that the actor looked nothing like him. Draco Malfoy. I sunk back into my wardrobe, eyes wide. I didn't really fear Draco Malfoy – I thought of him, and still think of him as, not evil, exactly, but as a cruel bully. Like, how in Half Blood Prince he couldn't kill Dumbledore, because he's not cold blooded. He couldn't do it…

But my friend Severus could.

I'll get to that later.

"Watch where you step, idiot boy," Mr. Snape was hissing, "you think this is a game, but it's not—"

"I know what I'm doing!" Draco whisper-shouted back, "And don't call me an idiot!"

"Your father is worried, don't get involved just yet—"

"You sound like you're going to recruit me to the other side." Draco hissed accusingly. Mr. Snape went very still.

"The Dark Lord," he said very softly, "happens to trust me."

Warning bells went off in my head and I shrank farther into my wardrobe. That's what he told Moody-but-not in Book Four! I thought, only about Dumbledore and not Voldemort.

Shit, my terrified brain said, shitshitshit…

Stop it, I told myself. You're being ridiculous. This is Snape. You trust him.

And I did. But that didn't make me any less scared.

"Go to bed," Mr. Snape sighed. "I need to get ready for class."

Draco Malfoy sneered and slipped off, back into the depth of the dungeon.

I pushed the door open slightly in concern for Mr. Snape. He strode over and wrenched the wardrobe door open, and I stared at him, startled, blinking stupidly in the light of his wand. He grasped me by the neck of my shirt.

"Did you foresee this?" he demanded harshly.

"Foresee what?" I yelped, afraid now, "What's happened? There's… he's angry," I babbled, "I n-know he's angry – s-something about the pr-prophesy – is it a-about the prophesy? B-but I told him th-the p-prophesy—"

"Silence!" he snapped. "You are useless," he growled and dropped me. I sniffed slightly and thought with dismay of how easily I was upset. I thought we were getting along so well, though…

"Of c-course I'm useless," I whispered, "I only know ev-everything Harry Potter knows, and people k-keep not telling him things, s-so…" I quickly dashed away the tears. I hated being so sensitive, I thought tearfully.

Mr. Snape sneered at me. He waved his wand and breakfast appeared in front of me, and the wardrobe door slammed shut.

So much for civil conversations, I thought, and tried to keep myself from wailing. I glanced sadly at the Native American mythology book and quietly ate my breakfast, feeling very lonely. I went back to sleep after that, killing time.

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