a/n: no, I did not abandon this fic. I simply had to put it down for a bit. Work at what little life/free time I have. As such, I haven't been afforded much opportunity to beta, so pardon any errors. You won't get the title for this part, but it may make more sense in the next one.


Part IV: Oyster

Via her height-challenged messenger, Minerva had asked that he come by her office at exactly three fifteen in the afternoon. So Severus, having little else to do, decided to reorganize his personal lab and potions library which, for some infuriating reason, Slughorn had been allowed access to these last three semester whilst Severus had been the DADA Professor and then briefly headmaster. The work was relaxing, though it did seem to some degree, rather pointless; more and more often, he couldn't see himself remaining at Hogwarts much longer, much less spend one more iota of his time teaching. Reorganizing something that would, most likely, be at the disposal of some other nitwit next fall felt futile.

But, as pointed out, it was relaxing, and it was a passable way to while the hours. Considering how thoroughly the overweight, bug-eyed little troll of a man had managed to bollox everything up, by two-thirty that afternoon Severus found himself only half-way done repairing the damage (and that was just in his lab; he hadn't even touched his personal library yet). Nevertheless, he halted his progress, took a quick shower, and, at two o-five was heading out of the dungeons, and towards the headmaster's office.

By the time he had given the gargoyle the password (""), trudged up the winding staircase to the head's office, and entered the large circular room, the great clock that hung above and behind the headmaster's desk read precisely a few seconds to the appointed time.

Severus took a moment to look around the room; it hadn't change much since Dumbledore's passing. In his own brief stint as Headmaster, Severus had been loathe to move around any of the old man's things unless completely necessary, and didn't see the point in moving any of his own effects in. for one, it had felt sacrilegious; two, when he took the position, he didn't really expect to survive the next two years.

And Minerva, though her position was (more or less) permanent, had not changed much either. All the old fool's bits and bobs were still whirring and buzzing about; a deep purple over-robe hung from the coat-stand; Fawkes was perched behind the desk as always, gleaning his scarlet feathers and giving Severus a level glance or two; there was even an ancient bowl of lemon drops sitting on a dust-covered coffee table.

Sensing his presence, Minerva, who had been hunched over her desk, looked up at him, expression tired. "Severus," she greeted, bringing a hand up to remove her glasses.

Severus spared a glance to the clock again: right on time, to the second. "Do you mean to intimidate me with the use of quarter-hours?" (1)

She gave him a weary half-smile. "I wouldn't dream of trying to intimidate you," she responded. Then she sighed. "Sorting through all of this is taking so much time. I just had a meeting with the board of governors, and I had to have this proposal checked over and sent out by tonight— and then I wasn't sure how long this would last—"

"I understand. Was there something specific that you wanted to see me about?"

Shuffling a stack of papers and setting them aside, Minerva nodded. "Yes, actually." She gave a nod to the chair opposite her. "Do sit."

With minute reluctance, he complied, settling into the chair, trying not to remember the last time someone had asked him to take a seat here.

Steepling her fingers (in a very Albus-like manner, Severus noted), Minerva peered at him. "You are aware that, despite having all charges against you dropped thanks to Potter—"

Severus bit his lip to keep from scoffing.

"—the Ministry still requires that you make a formal statement regarding your part as a spy, and all that was asked of you both by the Dark Lord and Albus during the war."

Inwardly, he groaned. "Yes, I am aware."

"well, I've been thinking . . . Kingsley and the Aurors have quite enough on their hands as it is. I highly doubt that you want to spend several hours' time at the Ministry giving your account as well as answering any other questions they might have. Personally, I would like to hear what you have to say, and I doubt you would want to tell your entire bit twice. Lastly, there are still quite a few reporter bugs inside the ministry, and I can only imagine what would happen if they got wind of you. So, I've come up with a solution."

Curiosity piqued, Severus watched as Minerva bent over to reach under the desk and retrieve a small, wooden box. It was covered in inscriptions from what he recognized as the Theban alphabet.

"I had thought of asking you to extract your memories for a pensieve, but I decided that might be too invasive. I found this among Ablus's effects. It's a vocal recorder."

As if to demonstrate, she reached into a side drawer of the desk and took out a perfectly-shaped slab of hematite, also with inscriptions. This she placed into a small slit at the top of the box. Picking up her want, she tapped the box twice and muttered something under her breath. The inscriptions flared bright blue before dulling to a mute glow, the entire box seemed to hum quietly.

"You will speak, and your words will be recorded into the stone. You'll have to go in person to the Ministry to hand it over—they will probably also ask you to sign a few release forms—but this will save you some trouble. That is, if you are comfortable with this arrangement . . . Severus?"

Without thinking, he had tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting relief wash through him. at the sound of his name, he snapped his eyes open. "Yes. I—this is acceptable."

She gave him a small smile and sat back. "Right then. Whenever you are ready."

There were a few beats of silence as Severus took the time to draw in several controlled breaths. Unconsciously, he rubbed his forearm where the mark lay, no longer a black tattoo but an angry burn-scar, coiled in his skin, never to fade completely. He cast his mind back, back through the years, back to where this mess first began, with a childhood friend and a the gravest mistake of his life, with the cruelest master he would ever have, with the wisest, kindest friend he ever had the privilege of serving.

He opened his mouth.


It seemed to him that the entire story had taken years to tell, but, according to the analog clock, it had only been an hour and a half.

It had been easier to recount everything than he ever thought it would be. He let himself talk, simply stating facts and events as they had happened; he had kept his voice level and sure, pausing every now and then to collect his thoughts. Minerva had been mercifully silent throughout most of it, though Severus was fairly sure that neither the archivist nor the Auror that would be going through the file would miss Minerva's sniffling as Severus talked about Ablus' final months.

She was more or less dry-eyed now, and putting a few preservation spells on the slab of hematite before wrapping it in brown packing paper. Tying it off with some twin, she stamped it with the Headmaster's official seal, and passed it to him across the table.

"There you are. Just report to the Auror department Friday at four, sign your papers, and you will be done with it."

He reached across the desk and accepted the small parcel, turning it over in his long, elegant hands. "Thank you," he nodded

She cleared her throat, still trying to get a hand over her emotions. "Well, that about sums that up, I think. I do have a question for you though."

Severus nodded, indicating her to continue.

Minerva gave him a tiny, wry smile, eyes still red. "I realize you have only been conscious for a few days. However, I feel the need to ask you . . . what are your plans?"

He looked at her. "Plans?" he repeated.

She nodded, expression growing more business-like. "Yes. Plans for your future."

"Ah." A pause.

She steepled her fingers again, peering at him speculatively. "Let me make it clear first that you are not obligated to anything. If you wish to remain at Hogwarts on staff, that is your call. But . . . well, frankly, I never got the impression that you liked teaching—"

"Not in the slightest—"

"Which brings me to another point. If you are not intent on teaching, how soon do you wish to leave—again," she added quickly, sincerely, "there is no obligation to do anything right away. I simply need to know—Pomona's cousin has volunteered to take over Potions classes since Slughorn has disappeared."

Severus nodded. He vaguely remembered Leander Sprout being more than competent at the subject.

Minerva watched him consider her words. "If you need more time, you are free to stay," she told him with great assurance. "Actually, the school could still use your skill at the present: Leander is talented, but he doesn't have the time to attend to his classes, care for his family, and restock Poppy's medical supplies—"

"I would find it most agreeable to be given more time here in exchange for whatever services I can offer the school," he responded, a bit too quickly he thought, but alas. He was relieved not to have to make any decisions right away. Truth be told, he hadn't thought about his future.

He was still getting over the shock of surviving.

Minerva smiled kindly at him, and he grimaced inwardly. He could spot a more sentimental, and iron-fisted Dumbledore in the making, and he was glad he wouldn't be around to see such an incarnation at its prime.

"Well," she said, "if that is all, you are free to—"

Suddenly remembering his earlier decision, Severus opened his mouth, quickly interjecting, "Just one moment, Minerva. I have something to ask you, if you have the time."

Twisting around to glance at the clock behind her, Minerva nodded, her expression somewhat surprised. "Oh. . . well, of course. Go ahead.

Knowing that this was going to sound strange as all hell (especially coming from him), but determined to go through with it anyway, he pushed the words out of his mouth. "I found a student wandering about the halls last night. Perhaps you know her: Ms. Luna Lovegood."

The surprised look on her face didn't give an inch, making Severus feel slightly uncomfortable. "Well, yes—she was the one who found you."

"Yes, I know." And he actually didn't know if he quite forgave her for that. "I found her meandering down the halls late last night and she did not seem . . . quite well," he finished lamely. He wasn't sure how to tell Minerva that the girl in question had suddenly gone batshit on him for a few seconds whilst they were standing in the freezing cold of a small-scale graveyard.

Minerva took his words into consideration, but responded wearily. "Ms. Lovegood is a strange one, Severus," as if that was all there was to it.

But that wasn't all. Lovegood may have been a nut, but there was something else at work here, and he would eat her spare raddish earring if that was normal for her.

"I am aware," he replied levelly, "but this was different. That," he added, "and she lead me to believe that traipsing around the castle at all hours of the night was a regular occurrence for her."

Minerva stared at him for a moment, and Severus was sorely reminded of the many times he had been summoned to her office as a student (usually to be asked about hexing Potter or Black, no less). Finally, she blinked, and brought a hand to her temple to massage the spot.

"I suppose. . ." she said slowly, "I suppose you are aware that I have been submitting the whole of the school to a mental evaluation by some volunteers from St. Mungo's—students and staff?"

The words were flying out of his mouth before he could help it. "If you dare—"

She held up her other hand, half order to stop, half in defense. "I had thought about it, but no, you have not and will not be evaluated. My point is that when Ms. Lovegood was evaluated, her results were . . . troubling."

Severus was silent. He waited.

"When given a verbal question, they concluded she was, for all points and purposes, quite mad. I believe the common Muggle-Wizard term is 'schizophrenic'. But she had several people vouch for her, claiming that she was simply odd."

He felt the small beginnings of a smirk pull at his lips, thinking about Lovegood answering the questions of St. Mungo's personnel. He dashed it away.

"However, a magical scan revealed a more troubling diagnosis. According to the young man who ran the tests, Ms. Lovegood suffers from what he called PTSD: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

Severus felt his face go blank.

"What happened to her?"

Minerva closed her eyes and took another deep breath. "You are aware that she spent some time in Malfoy Manor?"

Severus nodded, an ugly mixture of dread and guilt seeping into his stomach. "Yes. I brought her there and conducted an interrogation."

Minerva nodded. "Yes, she told us about the questioning. She said you were more lenient than Mr. Malfoy. She also said you looked very tired. . . ."

Severus nodded, remembering the scene. He hadn't screamed at Lovegood—Lucius did plenty of that on his own—merely used that low, threatening voice he often employed in the classroom. And, through everything, she had sat there, silent, tightly bound to her chair, watching them solemnly. Even when Lucius struck her, she never spoke a word.

"Well, apparently she was there for a several weeks before Potter, Granger, and Weasley were brought there. During her stay, she told me. . . ." Minerva's lips pursed, and her words died.

Severus felt his hands curl by his sides. "Told you what?"

"She told me—quite matter of factly—that Lucius had . . . entertained some company and . . . they used her as sport."

Something very heavy and leaden dropped in his stomach. Suddenly, he felt as though he could scarcely breathe.

". . . sport?"


What Minerva had to say about Luna Lovegood wasn't pretty. Not by a longshot.

Severus himself had only been at Malfoy Manor for four days: the first, before the raid on the Rook house; the second, the day of the raid; and the third and fourth, the days Luna Lovegood was interrogated.

Unable to stay longer and unable to do anything more for her, he had left Lovegood in Lucius' "care" and returned to Hogwarts. He remembered feeling rather uneasy about leaving that girl there—she was so unresponsive, so apathetic, it had enraged Lucius to no end during the actual interrogation. Despite Lucius' cruelty towards the girl during her questioning, Severus knew Lucius well enough to assume that he would not torment her further. Lucius Malfoy was cruel to a fault, but not sadistic like other Deatheaters. If previous experiences were to be trusted, Lucius would do little more than ignore her; he might starve her a bit, but other than that, he would inflict no real harm upon her.

It shamed him to admit as much now, but at that time, Severus had not the presence of mind to think she would be in any serious danger. He had left the manor with this reassuring thought leavening his mind. It had not occurred to him that Lucius might put his prisoner at the disposal of another.

Or, as was the case others.

Luicus Malfoy had, by that point, lost most if not all of his family's dignity and credibility as faithful servants to the Dark Lord; thus, he, his kin, and his assets were at the disposal of more esteemed members of Lord Voldemort's motley crue. As such, Malfoy Manor tended to be a port for Deatheaters; now that one could simply waltz in unannounced and expect Lucius to fully accommodate them, many took up the opportunity to do just that.

It was in this way that Lucius found himself settled with a party of Deatheaters hiding out after a rather vicious raid. And, when several of them began making advances upon Narcissa (and even Draco), Lucius did the only thing that it was still in his power to do:

Provide alternative entertainment.

He had kept his eyes deliberately open as Minerva recounted the events as described by Luna—and later corroborated by Draco Malfoy who voluntarily stood in several trials as a witness. He kept his gaze focused on the clock behind her, knowing that, if he closed his eyes, he would not be able to stop the images from flying at him. . . .

". . . tortured, for several hours . . . raped repeatedly . . ."

And, after revealing all this, the batty girl had refused to speak another word about it. The volunteers from Mungo's attempted time and again to get her to open up about it, but after the stale account she gave them she said no more. Apparently, she had taken to fleeing the medi-wizards' presence whenever she spotted them.

Once Minerva had finished, Severus could do little more than stare—and not at her, either. His eyes were still firmly glued to the clock. He'd watched the minute hand creep by three roman numerals without looking away.

Minerva watched him, searching his wan face for some sign of thought or emotion. After a moment, she made a quiet addendum:

"None of her peers know, but Draco. Actually, he is the only one she has been talking to, of late. She seems rather fond of him. . . ."

Severus said nothing. His ears were ringing faintly.

"I've queried her other friends . . . and despite being elusive, she seems to be behaving normally—normally for her, anyway. Ms. Lovegood has always been a bit . . ."

"Touched."

He was surprised to hear himself finish her sentence. So was she; she blinked at him in astonishment, wariness soon surfacing on her wizened face.

Severus saw her open her mouth out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps she thought she should say more, but he, personally, had heard enough.

With more force than necessary, he rose from his chair, pushing it back with a screech. He looked down at Minerva, who was still staring at him with her mouth partially open. He gave her a swift nod.

"Thank you, Minerva, for your time." He bent slightly, snatching the brown-wrapping encase slab from her desk. "I shan't impose further: good day."

And, without another word, he whirled around, black robes flaring, and stalked out of her office.


He lay wide awake that night, listening to all the subtle noises of the castle. The wind whipping through the stone turrets and towers had always been so comforting to him before, and he often found himself lulled to sleep by the sound. Now, it only agitated him.

There was no doubt in his mind that Luna Lovegood was out again tonight, frolicking about in her ridiculously thin green jumper and bright yellow high-tops. She would be there again in her miniature graveyard, making her enchanted moonstones inscribed with the names of the deceased. She would sit there in the cold, not caring, humming to herself, smiling that damnable dreamy smile. Too numb to feel the pain of the cold or think about anything but her task. And tomorrow, the circles under her eyes would be even darker.

He should go to her.

But he did not get up from his bed. Nor the next night.

He simply lie there, thinking, and wishing that he had the strength to face her.


Remembering that Minerva had told him that the Ministry would be expecting him on Friday at four, Severus decided that he would spend the day in London before heading over. Since it seemed that he would be spending his time between his own research and brewing for Poppy, a trip to Diagon Alley was in order. Normally –and more so now—he abhorred the idea of going out in public. However, the Alley would be fairly unpopulated this time of year, and it was definitely cold enough to wear his most obscuring cloak. And anyone who did see him would most likely have the good sense not to say anything (to his face) and continue on their way.

And, by good fortune, he actually did manage his shopping trip without major incident. A few people recognized him, but merely nodded in his direction and kept walking; thus, it was a fairly un-heckled Severus Snape that walked into the Ministry of Magic, purchases tucked in his pocket with an Undetectable Extension charm. He even made it to the Auror Department without a fuss.

But it couldn't all be peaches and keenies.

In retrospect, he blamed it on Kingsley. The man had insisted upon giving him his Order of Merlin, First Class, in person, and had taken several minutes to reach Severus where he waited in the Auror Department. Truthfully, Severus was waiting for the archivist to analyze the memory slab and prepare a release form for it—but Severus suspected the little chit was taking extra time doing so, having been the one to tell Severus that the Minister would be coming down to give him his accolade. Perhaps she had seen the Potions Master's impatience, or perhaps she wanted to fawn over the Minister (Kingsley was, after all, elegantly handsome and the most eligible Minister of Magic in about two centuries). Either way, after Kingsley had finished "catching up" with Severus and bestowing his Order of Merlin, it was nearly five o'clock. He'd been at the Ministry and hour, which was definitely long enough for someone to catch wind of his presence.

As he made his way down to the main lobby, he readied himself. The most he would likely face was a group of five or six brave (or suicidal) reporters and maybe a mob of murmurs.

He realized only too late that he grossly underestimated his new celebrity.

Needless to say, the Severus Snape that exited the Ministry that day was decidedly much worse for wear.


It was around five-thirty when a sharp pop was heard on the edge of the Hogwarts grounds as Severus apparated before the main gates.

He stood there for a moment, fuming in the blazing cold, seething so intensely that one wouldn't have been surprised to see smoke coming from him. His ears were still ringing from all the shouting, and despite the surrounding dim of sunset, he squinted his hurting eyes.

Thirty minutes. It had taken a bloody half hour from his exiting the lift to make his way across the main floor of the ministry until he could reach a grate to the outside. Thirty minutes of wading through hundreds of reporters and camera-men, people shouting questions at him left and right, cornering him, trying to get him to respond. He snarled at them and their questions, practically growled at one man who had tried to grab Severus by the sleeve of his robe (at the look Severus gave him and the sound he emitted, the reporter quickly let go, face pale as a sheet). Thirty minutes of insane queries, some of them despicably romantic, some of them dragging what was left of his dignity through the gutter. And during all of this, no help—absolutely none whatsoever—from on-looking Ministry officials.

He couldn't remember if he'd cursed at any of the reporters. But he was certainly cursing now.

As the gates opened to admit him, he drew in a sharp, irritated breath, muttering darkly to himself as he stormed across the darkening grounds. Storm clouds loomed overhead, and somewhere in the distance, thunder answered his own rumbling voice.

"Of all the asinine—utterly ridiculous pomp and circumstance—I could strangle that little cretin—hero? pah, hero!"

He was walking so quickly he nearly stumbled, but his pace wouldn't allow for any snags, and he kept walking, anger sloughing off him in waves as he approached the castle, following the path that would take him by the lake. He brought a hand to his left fore-arm, where his robe—his good winter robe, no less—had been torn by the talons of some cougar of a woman with impossibly blonde hair and lavender lacquered nails.

"—little chit," he growled, "if I had half a mind to cast Unforgivables, she would be licking her own excrement off the lobby floor—"

"Respectfully, I'm not sure they would let you keep your Order of Merlin if you put a reporter under the Imperius, sir."

Severus' feet screeched to a halt of their own accord. He whipped around, eyes scouring the lake and the grounds surrounding him, looking for the source of the voice. That starry, surreal, all-too-familiar voice—

"It's very lucky that Voldemort's snake didn't manage to mangle your throat completely," and as Severus turned to locate the voice, he found himself facing a tree to his left. He stared. A tree. A tree was talking to him. wonderful.

"Yes, rather lucky. You do have such a lovely voice," the tree said. Only, no, it wasn't the tree, because as Severus drew closer, walking up under its expansive dark emerald canopy, he looked up to find none other than Luna Lovegood sitting among its lower branches.

Smiling, she peered down at him. She was wearing her school clothes today, traditional grey jumper, blue and black tie, tactfully tucked pleated grey skirt—and, in stark contrast to all of this, those obnoxious yellow shoes. Her wand was tucked precariously behind her left ear, hair loose and wild as usual.

At the sight of her, his stomach did a strange series of acrobatic tricks, making him feel vaguely ill. He tried to keep his mind in the moment but, inevitably and of a will of its own, it wandered back to what Minerva had revealed to him in the Headmaster's office. It was strange to see her smiling so at him, knowing what he did. Strange because smiling seemed the most natural expression for her, because it was hard to imagine her any other way, difficult to see what she might have looked like in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor as they—

"You've got the most peculiar expression on your face, sir. You look a bit mad," she tilted her head, looking down at him. Her yellow-sneakered shoes swung back and forth where they hung.

He swallowed with difficulty. "Perhaps 'bewildered' might be a better descriptive," he replied drily. "I am not accustomed to finding students nesting in trees."

"I'm not nesting, but it sounds like a fine idea. I'd love some owlets."

"If you had owlets, you might not sleep at all."

"But I don't."

"I know," the words came out heavily, and he succumbed to the urge to close his eyes and bring a hand briefly to pass over his forehead. He could just feel the wrinkles blooming. . . .

"Something the matter with your head, sir?"

You are, he almost said. Instead, he offered a mildly sneering, "Don't be silly, girl," and reopened his eyes wearily.

Luna Lovegood continued to peer down at him, her head cocked sideways. As he glanced back up at her, he saw a lively, ribbon-like gold earring dangling from her ear. Though metallic-looking, it waved easily in the slight breeze, almost blending into her hair. Pausingly, her small nostrils flared slightly as she inhaled.

"You've been to the Ministry," she told him matter of factly.

If it weren't that his jaw was still so tight from irritation, he might have gone a wee bit slack-jawed. "How did you—"

"I can smell it. Their floo—it smells funny," she offered. "Not bad, though—like oranges. What for?"

He could only imagine the confounded look on his face right now. " 'What for' what?" My, my, did that ever sound intelligent.

"What were you at the Ministry for?"

"To give a statement," he said dimissively.

"oh. But then why are you in such a tizzy?"

"I am not in a tizzy," he ground out, "I am irritated."

"At who?"

"The press."

Her mouth formed a pretty 'O' of understanding. "I see. Harry's been having a rowdy time with them as well. You just missed him, actually."

"How unfortunate."

She continued as if he hadn't uttered a word. "He was just wandering around the grounds. He stopped by to have a chat. He asked about you again."

"I care so much."

"I told him so. He didn't seem like he was going to give up though. He really wants to talk to you."

"And say what, precisely?" Severus growled up the tree. Merlin, he must look like an idiot, fighting with a plant.

Luna shrugged. "I did ask him. He just gave me this funny look, as if he hadn't actually thought about it. I don't think he really knows." She paused, taking her gaze away from him and looking through the branches, towards the lake. "What time is it, Professor?"

He let out a slow breath, trying to diffuse some of his agitation. "Nearly six, I would think."

A look of surprised flashed across her face, something he hadn't seen before; she was usually so tuned out and zen-like that next to nothing seemed to faze her. The slight astonishment that flitted cross her pretty features seemed quite out of place.

As he watched, her mouth pursed slightly, and she tapped a slim finger on a tree branch contemplatively. Then, she nodded. "Time flies," she said softly.

He raised an eyebrow. He was starting to get that apprehensive, hair-raising feeling that she seemed so adept at instilling in him; he found himself shifting uncomfortably.

"Does it?" he asked, keeping his voice level as possible. "How long have you been here?"

"Oh . . . since two. It just didn't seem like that long," she sighed slightly.

He tried and failed to hide his incredulity. "You've been here for four hours?"

She nodded slowly. "mm. Yes. I suppose."

"Why?"

"I was only going to hide up here for a bit," she said airily. "Just until those boys left."

He couldn't explain the feeling that seared through him, cold and jagged. It was like fear, but it tasted different. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Boys?

"What boys?" and, bugger all, even he could hear that sting of sharp—dare he say it—concern in his voice. He peered up into the tree, trying to put on a stern visage. "Lovegood, come down from there."

She looked at him warily. "If it's all the same, sir, I think I'll stay."

"It isn't all the same—do you expect to spend the night up there?"

She gave a shrug so nonchalant he found it simply infuriating. "Maybe," she said seriously.

A gust of wind slapped sharply into his side, and he gave in involuntary shiver. The sun was setting in the distance, and it was getting colder by the minute. The sky above looked positively ominous, and he could have sworn he felt a droplet or two of icy rain. He would be damned if he just let her sit out here.

"Come down," he commanded, "or I will bring you down myself."

"Going to climb up here with me, professor?"

He ignored the sly mirth in her question. "I just might—and I am not your professor."

"No. No you aren't." Taking her eyes away from him, she turned her head about like an owl, looking in every direction.

"I suppose it's alright now," she said, eternally glazed, bright blue eyes gleaning the darkening grounds. "I don't see them anywhere."

Before he could offer her any assistance, there was a scratching of bark, and a snapping of twigs, and she all but tumbled out of the tree, landing in a cat-like crouch on the ground. She stood up, shaking the snow from her bare hands. He surveyed her, taking in her skirt and her thin grey jumper, noting the goosebumps on her pale, slender legs.

"Do you take particular care not to dress for the weather?" he asked dryly. "Where is your cloak?"

She shrugged, re-tucking her wand more securely behind her ear. "They took it when I was running from them. The boys, that is."

Ah. And there goes the anger. It bubbled in his stomach, and he narrowed his eyes. "Who were they?"

"Just boys. Erm . . . well, one of them was Goyle. I didn't recognize the other two."

"And why were they chasing you?" he arched a brow.

Lovegood, didn't look at him, instead directly her gaze towards the ground almost shyly. As he watched, a small, curious smile wrought itself upon her pink lips. She spoke her answer softly, directing it at the ground:—

"Sport."

Unconsciously, his hands balled into fists. He felt as though he might throw up.

And then she shivered, shaking with her whole body, and the feeling dissappated immediately, to be replaced by a strange sensation he had yet to name.

Without thinking, he unfastened his cloak from his shoulders and stepped towards her. She looked up in mild surprise, her bright blue eyes widening as he brought the cloak around her small shoulders. She stood very still as he fixed the clasp in the front, making sure it stayed in place. He could feel her breath, warm and soft on his hands.

Finishing, he lowered his hands, and she looked up at him, expression all but unreadable, a faint flush in her cheeks. "Thank you," she said, so quietly he almost did not hear.

He nodded solemnly, black eyes taking her in. "You are welcome," he returned. "Are you ready to return to the castle?"

Smiling, she nodded.


They trudged along in silence, the only sound being their feet grating against both the stone of the pathway and the slushy snow. There was a faint slithering sound of his cloak trailing along the ground behind Luna—it was so large on her, she had a train of about a foot— and he could swear that, every so often, he heard something on her person jingle.

Somehow, without him noticing, she had snaked her hand to catch onto his arm, and walked close to his side, holding onto him as though she thought she might fall or get lost. When he noticed, he said nothing, nor did he shake her off; it felt oddly comforting.

The path they were taking came up beside the lake and, as they approached, Severus felt a slight tug on his arm as Luna's steps slowed. Looking to his companion, he saw that her attention had been captured by the large, black mass of water, fey gaze scouring the surface with wonder.

"Do you swim much, professor?" she asked, out of the blue.

He nearly snorted, but turned it into a scoff instead. "It's the middle of winter, Ms. Lovegood."

"But do you know how to swim?"

"I can swim," he bit out, mind casting back to the several instances in which, despite his presumed inability to navigate water, he had been forced into a cold, dark, swimming lesson whose consolation prize was getting back to Hogwarts alive.

Luna shrugged, unperturbed by his slightly caustic tone. "I meant nothing by it, sir. You just seemed like the type of boy who never learned to swim. That's all." And then (whilst he tried to wrap his mind around a girl less than half his age calling him a "boy") she did come to a complete stop; she turned her body towards the lake, and gave a small sigh. "I wish I had learned. It seems like such fun."

He disliked the way her hand slipped from his arm, but he said nothing of it. He merely folded his arms, and observed her as she moved closer to the water's edge, full of cautious curiosity.

"I would not know about fun," he replied as she crouched down, pulling her wand out from her ear. As he watched, she tapped the water and a small, crystalline flower appeared on the surface, floating on the surface. Using the tip of her wand, she pushed it out further into the water.

Drawing his attention from her, Severus looked to the west. The sun was nearly gone, and it was considerably colder; even he, in his customary bundles of black robes, was beginning to feel the chill. The faint smell of oncoming rain wafted across the grounds, and he could even now feel the prickling of a light drizzle. Judging by the baleful-looking clouds, it wasn't likely to remain a drizzle for long. He turned, opening his mouth to draw her away from the water and back onto the path towards the school—

Splash.

He didn't see what happened. He wasn't fast enough.

But, when he turned back to face her, Luna Lovegood was gone.

With sudden frenetic energy, he twisted and turned his body, looking in every which direction for his would-be companion, but she was nowhere to be seen. His cloak lay in a puddle of fabric on the ground where she had been crouching, and the black water directly in front of the spot was rippling sinisterly.

It took all but two seconds for arctic-cold dread to seep through him. Panic seized his flesh, and his heart started beating in his ears.

Like a dumb animal, he looked around again, part of himself trying not to believe what the other half knew indisputably. When again he saw no sign of her, he looked back to the quavering black water.

Merlin's balls.

It had to have been the stupidest thing he'd ever done. But he didn't give pause to consider it. He just did it.

He threw himself in after her.

Another great splash succeeded his leap, spraying black water in every direction as the water swallowed him in one great gulp. After he'd disappeared, the lake's surface quavered violently at the intrusion. However, as seconds ticked by without further disruption, the water began to calm save for the rain which was now steadily falling upon the grounds.

A minute passed. All was quiet.

Then, without warning, there was a sudden rush upward of water as a giant coiled tentacle rose and broke the surface yet again; as it uncurled towards the water's edge, it dropped a large, black, sopping something in the shallows.

As soon as the beast dropped him on solid ground (well, solid enough, he thought, feeling his hands and boots slide around in the muck), he pushed himself up to a stand. His head broke the water, and he gasped for air, lungs feeling ragged. He stood still for a moment, gasping and hacking up water.

"Fuck," he rasped, using the hand not braced at his protesting chest to push his sopping hair from his face. "Bloody hell, Lovegood—"

His eyes widened.

Lovegood.

He looked frantically around himself, scouring the waist-high, icy, murky water. He stuck his hands in, fingers splayed and scissoring through the water—

His left hand tangled in something soft floating in the water. Twisting around sharply to look, he could make out a few silky strands of blonde hair. . . .

He plunged his arms down further, and he brought himself back down into the water, face seizing at the chill while his black eyes squinted determinedly, his fingers still wrapped around those blonde locks, leading him to—

There!

He didn't know what limbs he had a hold of. But he yanked them up regardless.

And out of the water again popped Severus Snape—this time with Luna Lovegood in his arms.

He was shivering, his body protesting violently, but he couldn't spare a thought for his own discomfort as he half-dragged, half-carried the small girl to shore. The mud at the lake's bottom seemed to try and suck in his feet, and he staggered several times, nearly losing his grip on her. The girl's arms were thin and slippery under his large, shaking hands, but he held tightly, and he was going to leave bruises, he just knew it—

Finally, the water thinned out, and he was stepping unsteadily onto solid ground.

A few steps away from the water and exhausting kicked; his knees buckled and he fell to them, kneeling in the cold mud. The girl lay supine in front of him, pretty face ghostly pale, too still, much too still, not even bre—

It was indescribable, the feeling that rushed through him as her body spasmed to life, small throat contracting as she choked and spit up water. Automatically, he reached for her, but she rolled to her side, away from him, pressing her mouth into the mud, coughing violently.

His hand found her shoulder, and he squeezed gently, trying not to think about why she jerked at his initial touch. She gave a strangled sound and brought her knees up, curling into fetal position. She was no longer spitting up water but her coughs were becoming more labored and harsh. She was—

She was choking on something.

He shifted his body towards her, preparing to pull out his wand, when she gave a particularly brutal hack, a small white something rolling out of her mouth.

Before he could see what it was, her small hand lashed out and snatched it, fingers curling into a fist that was brought close to her chest. And then, sensing the danger had been expelled, her body went slack of its own accord, and she lay there, curled docile and limp, not moving save to give the occasional shiver.

Disbelieve, fatigue, and adrenaline still riddling his entire body, Severus looked down at her in hazy, baffled awe. . . .

At the sound of turbulent water, he shifted his attention immediately from her, whipping his head up so sharply he felt his neck pop. His entire body had tensed, ready to run—but the tension soon faded as he realized the sloshing was only the giant squid, sliding its lonely tentacle back underwater.

The rain was coming down at a steady pace now, gelid and heavy and dismal. There was probably only a difference of a degree or two in temperature that kept it from snowing. Funny, being cold and miserable wasn't nearly as poetic when it was a physical symptom.

Even still, it wasn't the helpless, violent shiver of his own body that made him decided that this had gone on quite long enough.

Giving a heavy sigh that was only internal, Severus knelt down by the small girl on the ground; putting one arm beneath the bend of her knees and the other across the small of her back, he lifted her from the mud. He maneuvered her limp form easily: despite her water-logged clothing she was light, much lighter than he expected. The voice of suspicion rose in his mind, but he beat it back down; there would be time for questions later.

Provided they both didn't contract fatal pneumonia standing out in this din.

Clutching the thin girl close to his chest, he braced himself mentally, and began trudging determinedly through the slush and towards the castle, whose lit windows winked at him through the curtains of rain.

It was only as he crossed the stone courtyard towards the main doors that he realized Luna Lovegood was inexplicably barefoot.


Again, sorry it took so long. I'm beginning work on the next chapter pronto

1. This is a quote from "The Prime of Ms. Jean Brodie"; it's always tickled me.