By Fire, From Ash

by genegonewilder

Young adult Severus is finding it difficult to adjust to life post-war, in part due to the fact that the rumors about his Death Eater status seem to have spread far and wide, but also because his own self-loathing outweighs anything anyone could throw at him. With his new teaching position at Hogwarts, he hopes to just move on, but a woman stands as a blazing reminder of his past.

2. Little Light Lies

"Don't you sleep in the day just to dream it away for good
But I know you're afraid cause the best that you gave was not enough
It's a long, a long way down on your own
It's a long, a long way out"

B.R.M.C. - Long Way Down

_— *** —_

---

Chapter 2 - Little Light Lies

Small mechanical cranking preceded the sudden sound of a loud gong that reverberated through the modest accommodations of the dungeon bedchamber.

Summoned from his shallow dreaming, Severus listened to the methodical sound as it repeated again and again, sounding unfamiliar but distinctive all the same. He was distantly aware that it was the dull chime of the grandfather clock in his room, and it would stop soon once it had finished its dutiful counting of the hour. Soon. Any time now.

He shot up in bed as he counted at least up to ten before it stopped. Looking around with bleary eyes, he attempted to locate where the sound had been coming from, thrown by how different everything was when one of his ears wasn't pressed into a feathery pillow. He found the handsome looking grandfather clock, carved in black wood with a face of bronze and ivory, and stared at it.

Twelve.

His head swiveled to look at his bedside table, which was empty of the much smaller metal clock he had sat there the night before. He leaned over the edge of his bed and located it lying helplessly on its side, some feet away. So much for Alarm Charms That Do You No Harm. He evidently needed them to do some harm in order to rouse him. That's what he gets for taking advice from a pamphlet at a run-down tavern.

His current accommodations far exceeded the previous months' haunts he had been finding home in, and he lingered for a moment still half-wrapped in comfortable blankets that spoke no history of moths or other pests.

Eventually, with effort, he pushed himself out of bed and onto stiff legs.

He felt conflicting feelings of mentally well-rested but sore in body, which made sense given he had slept for nearly twelve hours. It made even more sense given he had been doing so for a full month now, in near consistently inconsistent sleep patterns. Today was meant to be his last day to finally get his schedule back on track before he would be required to wake up for classes, otherwise his students would be introduced to him as a name on a chalkboard and nothing more; just a specter of a teacher.

He rubbed his face once over in front of the vanity set, not looking at his reflection in the decorative mirror. It would be fitting, given he felt like a ghost. It was the waking up that was always the hardest, apart from the falling asleep, which was equally bad. And the being awake bit. At least he now had plenty of distractions to keep him occupied.

The days after the fall had been a mad scramble, but at least things had been happening. The small gap in time leading up to his trial had been rough, but after that sharp peak of panic, a long three weeks had lapsed by with nothing to do but stay put and keep his head down, consumed in his own kind of prison.

After quickly pulling on his shabby clothes and covering them up with his less-shabby cloak (recently acquired), he took the stone steps down the little stairway back to his office, where everything from the night before was still laid out.

He had stayed awake for as long as he could, organizing everything he could get his hands on. Slughorn had left him with a large amount of work to do if he was going to make things more accustomed to his tastes, and it would all be last minute. This was partly because he had thought it impolite to start dismantling everything the old Potion's Master had done while he was still hovering around yesterday, and partly because he couldn't even get an invitation into the castle before yesterday. Their meetings had always taken place in the safe-haven middle ground of Hogsmeade, and all his smooth talking had done nothing against what he could only assume were Dumbledore's orders to keep him out. Things didn't change in the six months following Severus's private request for Dumbledore's help, either.

Most of the office was looking better already, with the frou-frou luxurious draperies and hangings all gone, no more armchair so soft he sank into it to the point of not being able to sit up straight to write, and the desk itself had been the final transfiguration; into a more informal function-over-stateliness creation.

Currently the desk was displaying an assortment of potions, which he now surveyed. They were all the leftovers that he hadn't found a home for: one bulky cauldron that was still smoking in exactly the same way he had always seen it smoke even as a student, and upon inspection he had found it contained only an unidentifiable sticky black tar substance; nine different potions that he was sure he could recreate much more accurately, and he was set to do just that as his morning — or noon — went on; one small phial of what could have been Felix Felicis if not for the lack of identifying splashes at the surface, so he could only assume it was actual liquid gold; and one potion of particular interest, as he had found it forgotten in a trapped safe and he was sure it was illegal by ministry standards, though perhaps not Hogwarts standards. There was also a small hap-hazard pile of ingredients that had gone bad or were substandard in his opinion.

His stare hazed in and out of focus as he blinked heavily down at the array, willing his brain to wake up quicker than it seemed to want to, so that he could get to work. But even as his mental checklist containing everything he needed to do before the start-of-term feast attempted to push itself to the surface, his mind was wandering away back to his dreams. He rubbed his chest absently, frowning as he tried to suppress the memory of phoenix song, a month stale but still somehow clinging to his insides. As much work as he still had to do, his body itched to go upstairs to fulfill a different nagging desire. The idea had come to him late last night, but he hadn't dared to leave his hall after his episode with the phoenix woman.

It would have to wait. He couldn't keep staring at the inadequately colored Draught of Living Death, knowing he could make one better than Slughorn had ever been able to instruct him.

—

An hour later, with the office looking much more up to snuff with everything he would need for his first week of classes, he now set to work on the classroom itself.

More frivolous draperies were taken down, the curtains replaced with much thicker ones to block more light, and the various moving portraits of famous witch and wizard potions experts were nonplussed to find they were being dislodged one by one for actual useful artwork depicting what happens when one does not practice proper potion-making safety.

As he unceremoniously levitated one such portrait to a storage closet, the little wizard framed in silver protested loudly, claiming that he had been hanging in this room for decades. "And how old are you, young man? Most certainly just a greenhorn, why, Professor Slughorn would never—"

"Mr. Slughorn is no longer teaching at this school," he said, and shut the closet door with a sharp flick of his wand, not pleased at having his age brought into question given he had been graduated for four years already. Perhaps he needed to sprout a three-foot-long beard from his smooth chin before people would stop commenting on how young he was for a professor.

The muffled indignant yell that came from the closet seemed to be using the name of Dumbledore to elicit a threat, but he turned his back, busying himself with the teacher's desk now.

He sighed through his nose as his eyes trailed over the familiar intricately carved woodwork, burnished and coated to a beautiful deep mahogany. He had confidently brought his own potions up to this desk more times than he could remember. He couldn't recollect any of the other teacher's desks as clearly in his mind as this one, though perhaps this had more to do with the nature of the class having to do with turning over physical items. Or perhaps it was just the memories of one of the few places he had been praised without the note of terse hesitation in the voice of his professor.

He hadn't expected teaching to be a raucous never-ending social party, but it was beginning to irk him that it seemed not a single soul existed — not teacher, not portrait, probably not even a suit of enchanted armor — that would be glad to welcome him to the school. The phoenix woman didn't count, as he had mentally neatly tucked their entire interaction down into a folder of unimportant thoughts that hadn't happened, save for a few details, and Dumbledore... Well, he would believe Dumbledore actually wanted him there when the man could smile at him behind closed doors with a single ounce of what he showed in front of other people. The headmaster seemed to care more about convincing others of his innocence, rather than making Severus himself feel like anything less than a guilty felon who had only escaped prison by the grace of Dumbledore himself.

Of all the people at Hogwarts, so far Slughorn seemed to be the only one who could look passed recent accusations and focus on the quality of work, albeit a bit too whimsically.

Horace Slughorn had been all too easy to work over once Dumbledore had brushed Severus aside in his first interview and left him with no other avenues for getting close to the school other than a simple trite line to 'further his studies'. Lucky that he had gotten that throw-away advice though, as his 18-year-old-self had hung in a very terrifying limbo during the moments after stepping out of that interview, thinking he would have to return to his master with a failed plan. It was running into his old potion's professor and quickly thinking up a new mode of operation on the spot, one that not even Dumbledore could argue with since it was his own advice, that had saved him. Slughorn had been jubilant to hear that one of his own students sought to take his place, especially given that he had been looking to retire soon anyway, and particularly one that he knew to have been in the top of his classes. He was Severus's access point for all information regarding the school and whereabouts of Dumbledore after that. And the boastful man had passed on that information willingly, between words of encouragement with his boyishly wide smile, and his hand on his shoulder; the picture of a perfect teacher and then mentor.

He ultimately decided to leave the desk as it was. Perhaps one of his students would spill something on the varnish and he would have a practical reason to replace it later. For now, it could stay.

With one slow turn, he surveyed his work on the room. It would do for now, and it at least made him feel more like he belonged here, more than anything else had so far anyway. However, his satisfaction with his preparedness did not ease the underlying anxious feeling humming below his surface.

As he stood at the front of the classroom, staring out over the desks, he imagined more vividly than he had been capable of without the correct atmosphere what the rest of the week would be like. If the reaction of his fellow faculty was any indication, things could get rather troublesome. Students would have been the least of his worries, if not for the fact that children came with parents — parents, who often overheard things at work, gossiped just like their kids, and packed those thoughts into their heads the same as an extra pair of socks in their trunks. He could just imagine a Howler landing in Dumbledore's office, hollering about how he had hired an alleged Death Eater, or perhaps even stating that their child had been in attendance, in a younger year, during the same time as the newest Potion's instructor, and remembered him as being most unpleasant. Or remembered worse. There were things that only those who had been enrolled at the same time as him would know, though he prayed upperclassmen gossiping had never made it to the ears of the fresher faces, or he would be dealing with current N.E.W.T. level students that knew things he just might have to threaten to fail them for if revealed.

Or curse their little mouths shut before they could utter the words to the whole class. Whichever worked quicker.

Though, on second thought, perhaps he shouldn't entertain any more thoughts of curses, given that he was already starting off the school year with a track record before it had even officially begun. If the staff currently held him in contempt without even knowing (he hoped) any details of what he was accused of other than association, what would they have to say after they learned he had attempted to curse the seemingly beloved phoenix?

This line of thinking did nothing to help his queasy stomach, and as he chewed his lower lip, he cast a glance to the clock hung on the wall. He still had a few hours before the train would be arriving and he would need to situate himself at the staff table for the first time. Plenty of time for what he wanted to do, but also plenty of time to have a run-in with an unpleasant conversation partner. The freedom of the halls he had felt last night seemed a distant delusion, as he now saw leaving his personal space in the dungeons as on par with taking a stroll through the Forbidden Forest; which he had done as a student before, and much more nerve-wracking things since then, but at the moment he wished he could just have time to himself to skulk around undetected.

Well, on that note, he could always rely on one of his old tried and true skulking techniques.

On soles silenced by a simple bit of magic, he noiselessly climbed the stairs up to the grand library, peering around nervously, though he kept trying to correct this tick. He had every right to be here; he was a teacher; Dumbledore himself had vouched for him in front of all the staff... This reel repeated unhelpfully in his brain, doing nothing to straighten his back and make him not look like he was sneaking around. His destination didn't help matters, either.

He strode through archways sectioning off different subjects into smaller rooms; genealogy, ancient runes, beginners' guides, and advanced charms. At the end of the straight-away, he came to the west chamber, opening up into a vast two-story room with a center dedicated to group study tables and a decorative floor pattern. The shelves around the edges were high, with tall ladders scattered around promising a mostly-safe climb to get those hard to reach books, and a small spiral staircase tucked on one end leading up to the balcony that hung over the rim of the whole room. He had only a moment's peace to take in the comforting sight, before his eyes came to a halt, fixated on the railing up above and to his left.

His shoulders slackened with weary defeat; mouth slightly open in incredulous astonishment as he stared up at the phoenix perched there. She was gazing like a hawk back down at him. He stood like prey too scared to move, only he felt on the contrary like his anxiety had lifted. The prey had spotted its attacker and accepted its fate. Nothing could be done about this predicament now except to embrace a swift and painless death. And, perhaps, it just so happened to be a second legendary rare bird. Perhaps this one didn't transform, and would just sit there, quietly. Perhaps Madam Pince, though the front office had been dark when he passed it, would come rushing out in a heroic show of force to screech away the extremely flammable magical creature from her precious books.

No sound echoed through the chamber other than his own deep sigh, not even a ruffle of feathers.

There was no sense turning back now. He might as well have an audience for his deeply personal moment alone. Certainly, it would give him more time to practice keeping his emotions in check.

Tightening his jaw, he strode across the room directly to the padlocked gates of the restricted section, pulling out his teacher's key-ring as he did so.

Just as he was jamming the first unknown key into the lock, he heard the recognizable snap some distance behind him and his movements froze.

"Looking for a little light reading material?"

He ignored this, jiggling the key until he was certain it actually did not fit the lock, and it wasn't just his desperate irate movements that were inadequately turning it. Pulling out the dud, he shuffled through his office key, classroom storage key, a small cabinet key, and came to another that currently held no purpose, shoving it into the lock as well.

"Because I think there are other places where you might find more interesting books."

He almost scoffed at this, as if he hadn't rifled through every single available reading material in the school in his seven years. Even the place he was currently attempting to access was one that held no secrets to him. He just wanted to see something... See it written in print, so he could satisfy his mind...

The second key obviously did not work either, and he yanked it out from where his jamming had stuck it among the metal. He was out of logical keys, but he could always stray to the illogical. Looking from his known keys to the padlock, it was obvious none of them matched up, though.

"Having trouble?" Her voice seemed to echo in a mockingly cheerful way through the room. Apparently, she did indeed keep 'jarfuls of helpfulness' on supply, because her tone held no sign that anything from last night had left a lasting impression, not least of which that he had used his wand on her.

"Not at all, thanks," he replied curtly. His hand went to his pocket and even in his haste, he attempted to make the motion obvious and not like he was about to round on her. Pulling out his wand, he was only able to test one unlocking spell before he was interrupted.

"Oh, you were right the first time, it does require a key," she piped up helpfully.

He tapped his teeth together, feeling the muscles in his jaw flex uncomfortably. Half-turning to look over his shoulder, he took in the figure standing a ways back from him, her arms tucked neatly behind her back and long hair shining in the daylight. She lifted her chin in greeting, smiling serenely against the strained atmosphere of the situation. He turned back to the locked gates and tried two more unlocking spells just to spite her.

Neither of them worked, and he was faced with the decision to either stand staring at an unsolvable problem, or turn and face an insufferable person. The idea of wasting his time any further didn't seem appealing. He pocketed his wand and keys and turned swiftly on his heel, sending his cloak swishing around his shoes.

"It appears," he drawled sardonically, "that I do not have the key."

She raised her brows. "Oh, no? I thought for sure you were about to pull out a hidden pocketful of key-rings to try."

"I only have this one," he said, and his pocket jingled merrily as he angrily shook it. "Teachers are meant to get keys to restricted areas of the school, though, are they not?"

"They are," she agreed.

"And I am a teacher, am I not?"

She nodded, "Indeed. Congratulations, again, by the way."

He ignored her. "And yet... I do not have the key."

"Hm..." She mused on this conundrum.

"Do you have your set of keys?" He loathed to ask, but if she was going to make a show of aid, she could at least fork over the goods. Unfortunately, when she patted the pockets of her brown robes down, the only items she pulled out were a small planner, a quill, and a whole apple.

"Must be in my school robes."

"Wonderful. What a great help you are," he sneered.

Completely unfazed, she perked up as if she had just had a wonderful idea. "Well, maybe you could try all of yours again. Third time's the charm."

He bit the tip of his tongue, sighing through his nose as she carried on smiling with that overly friendly grin. She was not helpful at all actually, she was just an impish nuisance.

His eyes drifted to the large clock on the wall behind her and he indicated it with a nod of his head. "I don't have all day to stand here wasting that much time."

She turned and looked as well, but her assessment differed from his. "Oh, there's plenty of time before the feast for you to find it!"

His eyes focused back on her with attentiveness. "Find it?"

She nodded, again. The corners of her lips seemed to tip upward even more.

He blinked listlessly at her. Weighing out the cost-benefit in his mind, he finally nodded once to himself in acceptance. "You know where the key is." It was a statement of fact, perhaps one that should have been very obvious to him sooner.

"Of course," she said, tipping her head in a little bow.

"Where is it." Again, he didn't have the energy to feign politeness after standing like a first-year fool for five minutes trying to unlock something so simple.

"In Madam Pince's office," came her immediate reply.

At least her overeager jabber mouth was good for spitting out information when asked the right question, he thought. He started walking back the way he had come at once, breezing right passed her without a second thought.

But even as his long legs carried him towards the entrance to the chamber, smaller footsteps came rushing up behind him, and she had darted into his path before he could make it more than halfway across the room. His footing drew up short, and he had to catch himself before he crashed right into her, backing up in annoyance.

"Excuse you," he said, affronted.

"You're excused," she replied. "But where is it you're rushing off to?"

"To get," he replied with purposeful slowness, "the key."

"So that you can get into the restricted section?"

"Yes." Obviously. You idiot.

"But you can't."

His eyes nearly rolled to the ceiling, which happened to hold a beautiful intricate skylight casting lovely peaceful rays of afternoon sunshine onto his morose face. His gaze leveled out somewhere across the room above the infuriating woman's head, not even wanting to look at her.

"And why can't I?" He had had more than enough of this little game, and her in general. "I am a teacher at this school, I can browse any bookshelf I want, at any time, for any reason."

She considered this for a moment, eyes squinting in concentration. "Well, that would be true... except for in this case, with that particular set of books."

His hands automatically curled into fists, but he flexed the motion out, attempting to retain some sense of calm. This conundrum had occurred to him of course, which was why he had tried to draw as little attention to his excursion as possible. Dumbledore had already sternly forbade him from getting the specific teaching position he wanted for much the same reason that he assumed he was now being shooed away from books full of the Dark Arts. Truthfully, what he wanted to do held no ill intent, and if Dumbledore or any other staff had a problem with him in particular reading upper level dark magic, well, he had read worse, with far worse intentions. He didn't need to invent some carefully crafted lie to get him out of a guilty verdict, just the very simple truth would do.

For them, anyway. But for her...

"I just wanted to reread something I had picked up as a student," he said with a carefully leveled voice.

"Hm... That's all well and good, but you still can't."

His fists broke his control and balled up at his sides. "And why not?" he shot back.

She looked up at him in wide-eyed innocence. "Well, because you haven't got the key."

His hard stare bore down on her. The corner of her lips twitched and his eye mimicked the tiny spasm. He was almost sure that cursing her a second time would be worth being sacked.

She broke the silence first, apparently finding this whole affair too funny to hold her laughter in any longer. "Sorry, sorry. Just a joke," she pushed her fingers through her long hair and he almost imagined that the light glittering off the movement was the magical indication of a demonic entity spawned in to torment the living.

"But really," she continued, turning her gaze back onto him, "you should find something better to do with your time than this."

Despite his quietly simmering blood and his mind already whirring to figure out how exactly he would be sneaking into Madam Pince's office later, something in her tone brought his eyes back to meet hers. It was an innocuous enough comment, and the amusement from her ribbing still lingered at the corners of her lips, but it was her eyes that gave him pause.

Up close, and in the light that fell from the overhead windows casting bold shadows across her face, he could make out her true eye color for the first time: a deep gold that glowed in a way that otherwise would have been quite beautiful, but in her current stare seemed to glint a dangerous warning in contrast with her cheerful demeanor. He stared back, captivated, as a cold skepticism settled in and evaporated all his previous thoughts.

The overly friendly phoenix seemed to give way to a new image, and he felt as if he were standing before an entirely different magical beast, one that championed gold as well: the sphinx. She was poised directly in his path, staring at him with an unspoken incomprehensible riddle. One that, never the less, was unraveling piece by piece in his mind. It felt as if the final ingredient to a potion was being dropped into his stomach, bringing into his mind into clarity.

This woman, despite her antics and her blinking of eyelashes, was not friendly at all. She was following him around with purpose beyond her over-bearing nature, eating up his time as she talked him around in circles while the clock ran out. Dumbledore's pet bird, whom he trusted and kept at his side always, and now just happened to be teaching at the same time as him, and showing up in places when he was alone... Dumbledore, who's smile had never been for his sake...

So that's how it was then. He had been hired just to be put in a safe place where his actions could be guarded; where a birds-eye-view could be kept over him at all times, while Dumbledore himself could hide his disapproving face in the shadows.

He suddenly drew in a deep breath and let it out as a steady sigh. He nodded once to the redhead. "Alright. I'll get right on that." And side-stepped her a second time, carrying on his path towards the archway.

That was fine. That was praise-worthy, even. How clever of Dumbledore to use his own ambitions against him, trapping him into a commitment he could not so easily back out of. It was calming, in a way, to know the truth. For the truth, that this woman had zero interest in him beyond her duties as a kind of keeper, and that Dumbledore's trust in him was below the level of a student, who could at least request permission to visit the restricted section — well, that truth only elicited a sense of tranquility over him.

If there was one thing that he was good at, it was the subtle game of deceit.

He should have been holding himself in proper balance from the start of course; his own mistake for assuming that Dumbledore wouldn't have vouched for him if he didn't trust him fully. Undoubtedly, the curse he had aimed at the woman last night had docked him another harsh point to his already low starting position. No matter. He would just have to play a bit safer. This came as a welcome reminder that he couldn't be dropping his defenses so easily. Though it did pose a much harder task of sneaking into places he wasn't allowed to be in if he was going to be stalked around every corner by a magical creature.

"Ah—"

He paused in mid-stride as he heard the familiar tapping of footsteps and a raised call behind him.

"Please wait — sorry," the footsteps stopped and he turned just as the woman caught up to him, apparently having ran down the long hall, though awkwardly, with one hand behind her back. "Very sorry. I didn't mean to chase you out of the library like that," she said, and he almost smirked because of course his guard wouldn't want him to wander too far unattended.

She took a deep breath, and to her credit as an actress, looked genuinely apologetic before she continued.

"It's just that Madam Pince's office is also locked, and I didn't think it would be a good idea to double down on breaking into locked places, but, well," she revealed her hidden hand and his mouth actually popped open in surprise, throwing the clarity he had just held into the fire like torn up paper. "If you want to go on and read your book, I think you'll find that it's quite open now."

He stared at the padlock held out in her hand for inspection, sporting unmistakable signs that the inner mechanisms had been melted and were seeping out of the keyhole.

"I would have got it sooner, but my wand work isn't so good, and I might have had to resort to, well..."

His eyes pulled away from the padlock to her other hand, where she wiggled her fingers. She looked too repentant to say it out loud, but as his dumbstruck brain caught up to what she had been babbling, he finished for her. "Phoenix fire."

"Yes, I may have — Well — I'm sure that it can fixed properly, although it is a magically crafted lock, and school is starting soon, and..." She trailed off and he made no effort to fill the silence this time, still dumbfounded. "Well! Please enjoy your book, in any case! I have to go, err, take this to Albus..."

He continued to stare at the place she had been standing as her footsteps died away behind him. After a while, he finally turned around, blinking in bewilderment.

What... in the name of Merlin...

He tried for all of five seconds to piece together what kind of trick this was, or if he was losing it and perhaps just paranoid beyond belief, or if there was a bright red and gold bird watching him from around a corner... before shaking his head and retracing his steps back to the west wing, feeling as if he was going through a revolving door that was rattling his brain around.

If she was only acting, he thought to himself as he made his way back towards the wrought-iron gates, which, sure enough, were swung open wide, then she deserved some sort of award. He wondered if the name-sake of a secret organization could receive any higher honor, or if perhaps there was an award for being the most disarmingly half-witted creature to roam the earth.

He paused before stepping over the threshold, half expecting a burst of feathers to pop out accompanied by an auror and a written warrant for his arrest, but nothing more exciting happened than the well-worn carpet giving way to his shoe. He was alone and exactly where he wanted to be at last.

Of course, he wasn't disarmed enough — and in fact felt even more paranoid than before because he had even less of a clue what was going on — to not hazard at least one life-form revealing spell. His eyes scrutinized the little yellow ball of light as it checked the surroundings before returning to him with no cause for alarm. He pocketed his wand and set about at once, figuring he had better at least make use of this time.

It took him a few tries peeking down different aisles before he found the right one, but eventually the familiar spine caught his eye, though it was in slightly better condition than the one he was more used to. His finger rested tensely on its corner, hesitating there a breath before he pulled it off and opened it with precision.

The copy he had been using for the past two years was not his, but the bookmark he had placed within its pages had been, though he supposed something so abandoned would by now be out of bounds of his ownership. Bookmark or no, he remembered what the width of the pages on either side of the part he now made should be, and he only had to flick through a few of them, heart beating despite himself, before he found the right chapter.

Kiaran James was not a prolific writer of any degree. In fact, the wizard seemed rather uneducated in all but one particular subject: the hunting of magical beasts and classification of the usefulness of their many varied collectibles. It was other witches and wizards who told him these uses mostly, and they had their own books on what to do with them, but Kiaran himself had gotten a rather bad reputation in particular for this book, which held no standards for sacred beast nor beloved pet. He had worked his way through a quarter of the world, poaching and dismantling anything he could get his hands on that might fetch him a pretty penny if he could find the right wizard with the right lack of scruples, before his arrest for the slaying of several protected species, which subsequently ended his career.

Severus dragged his finger across the crude print, skipping over paragraphs about feathers, tears, and talons, searching for the words he already knew in his head.

"Blood - expert level, do not attempt. Phoenix feather, yes, very simple. Find them shed or set a trap with treats of fruit. Tears, easy. Blood – no. I find a phoenix in the mountains, I capture it, take its blood, and it sings to me a terrible song. Cuts my soul out with its voice and inspects it like I'm the animal. Does not like what it sees. Very bad curse. Could not move for the pain. Witch in town tells me a story. I write what she says to me here: "The phoenix on that mountain used to sing to this village in times of war to double their bravery. But if you have evil in your soul, if you dare to harm such a creature, then may Merlin have mercy on you. The song you hear will not be one of warmth and strength, but a curse for your most wicked actions." I never cried for a beast I slay before. Phoenix make my whole chest ache. Still aches when writing this. Can feel my soul burning me from inside out... Heavy bag of gold I get for selling feathers made me feel better."

He quietly shut the book and placed it back on the shelf in one quick movement, turning away.

He had already known the words; known what he would read. It didn't stop the trembling from carrying up his spine out to his whole body.

The silent sound-dampening alcove suddenly seemed claustrophobic and he wandered back through the iron gates, closing them rather uselessly as their lock was still missing. Any moment now the phoenix woman could return with it, though. He tried to keep his face expressionless, but it felt like it was pulling too taut in places and achieving only a lifeless effect. He absently drifted across the room towards a section of shelves labeled Magical Creatures, though his only interest seemed to be in the blur of different colors as his eyes moved unseeing over them. Any pages here held only tales of the beautiful bird that burst into flame to live another day, sang with soul-lifting force, and healed with its tears. A beacon of hope in legends and a resistance to darkness. As far as he knew, the only detailed first-hand documentation of someone foolish enough to cross such a creature with an unworthy heart was in that book across the room.

He supposed he might have missed the part in the introduction of Freya Fawkes where Dumbledore had shared the information that all phoenixes were shapeshifters, but he hoped he hadn't, for it gave a sick new meaning to the information contained in that book. He couldn't quite focus too hard on atrocities committed over a century ago, however, as he was thinking more along the lines of why he had missed her full introduction in the first place.

This time he replayed his memory of the phoenix song from that night a month ago purposefully, straining with the effort to find some note of warmth or comfort, but all he felt was a coldness pass over his heart.

Perhaps it was for the better that he was trapped in this school on constant surveillance. Why had he thought for one moment that he could simply pick up his life, start a real job, and do something as inconceivable as move on? Why should Dumbledore trust him? His offer, that was more of an order because the other option was Azkaban, to come here had not been open arms of solace, but a more useful prison sentence than rotting in a cell. And it was no more than he deserved to be cornered here and hated by everyone, if, after all, he was irrevocably...

You are mad if you ever thought any differently, a little voice in his mind prodded. Look at all you've done...

Wings beat somewhere overhead, and he was startled out of his thoughts, looking up wildly. The phoenix was out of sight however, and in turn, so was he, with a bookcase between them. He carefully peered around the corner, following the sound of wings passing directly to the restricted section. The bird swooped low and popped into a woman with a crack of flame, who landed and then held her hand out just in time to catch a padlock as it fell from the air.

He stared at her back in fear that she would suddenly start absently singing and discover him among the shelves when he inevitably broke down loudly at the first musical note, but all she did was hook the padlock back into its place and pull out her wand.

As he watched, she flicked her wrist and said aloud, "Extivatio!" The lock burst into flames. "Shit—" Another flick of her wand and the fire wordlessly went out.

He blinked at this display with hollow detached bemusement, finding he no longer had any energy to be surprised at this point. If anything, this was a welcome distraction from his thoughts, which he was finding were too much for him to handle all at once. Spy for Dumbledore, really good actress, overly friendly; he didn't much care at the moment. If anything, pretending for a little bit sounded quite good right now, so long as he steered the conversation clear of any hymns or folk songs. At the moment, it was between her, or throwing himself into the lake.

Feeling rather bold, if not altogether completely desperate, he silently stepped out from his hiding place and crept up towards the middle of the room. The only sound was the jangle of chains and muttered curses increasing in their colorfulness.

He cleared his throat and spoke. "Actually, it takes a key."

The chains rattled against the metal bars as the woman jumped so hard that she looked to have smacked her forehead into the gate, whipping around in surprise. Her wide eyes looked him up and down apprehensively, as if even identified, he might still be a threat, but eventually her shoulders relaxed.

"Se— er," she started and stopped almost immediately, the corners of her mouth switching from up to down as she searched for the allowed words.

"It's fine," he cut in. It didn't matter what she called him if their entire correspondence was false anyway. Whatever worked for appeasement. He even threw her an extra bone, adding as a pointed punctuation in a soothing voice, "Freya."

It was her turn to stare, showing no signs of even attempting to hide it, in visible confusion. The woman simply gaped at him suspiciously, hands behind her back as she held onto the padlock and chains.

"Err," she tried again, "alright? Severus, then?"

He shrugged his lack of concern, though inwardly he felt awkward at so easily handing over his name.

"Riiight... Okay."

She seemed reluctant to turn her back on him fully, even to finish her task, but he was the one eager to ease the tension now. He calmly walked towards the waist-high bookshelves holding up the iron fencing and leaned against them, where he would still be in her peripheral. Her eyes stayed on him the whole time, unconvinced. He found it a bit late for her to be acting apprehensive around him now, but whatever was raising her alarm was beyond him.

"Did you finish your reading? Because," she pointed to the padlock, "once I get this thing back on here, I'm not pulling that stunt again. Albus called me a delinquent."

He nodded, keeping his eyes on the lock and trying to imagine what tone the headmaster would have said such a comment in. "Yes, I got what I wanted."

She quirked a brow. "That fast?"

"Like I said before, I had already read it."

"Hm."

Whatever her thoughts were, she made no further comment on his reading habits, turning instead to raise her wand once again. She did not flick her wrist with such confidence this time, however, and after a moment of watching her merely stand in position, he saw her eyes peek towards him.

He jumped at the opportunity. "Take your time. Third time's the charm, anyway."

A shrewd look of contempt crossed her features for the first time and he couldn't hold back his self-satisfied smirk at getting to turn this scenario around on her.

"I can do it just fine, thank you very much," she said with a haughty raise of her nose.

"You can certainly curse like a Quidditch hooligan just fine at least," he retorted, and grinned fiendishly as she snapped to look at him, her face flushing red.

"I— You didn't hear that," she said, peering over her shoulder as if trying to make sure no one else was lurking in the shelves. Finding no one, she cast one more wary look his way, to which he raised his brows and looked towards the still waiting lock. She rolled her eyes, refocused herself, and repeated her statuesque display, wand held out inert.

A part of him was dying inside knowing that this was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and not him. He wondered who would break first, her, the lock, or him because he couldn't stand watching someone be so abysmal at magic that all it took was an audience of one to render them immobile.

"You... are surely joking, right?" he asked.

She huffed and shot him another look. Seemingly, she was giving up, as she pocketed her wand. But instead of turning away from the lock, she held up her empty hand in a gesture, and snapped.

At the sound of her fingers, with an accompanying small spark like flint being hit, the lock clicked into place at once. She turned to face him fully, displaying her work with both palms up. "As you can see, I can in fact do it just fine, thank you."

He leaned forward with interest, as if he could replay what indeed he had seen. "Wandless magic. You're more skilled without, than with?"

"That's correct."

"So... that would mean," he turned his keen eyes back to her and watched her face tighten, "you're not a witch after all."

She tucked her hair neatly behind her ear as if unfazed. "Nor am I a beast, except to wizards ignorant to the truth of the matter. Or, just very ignorant ones." She raised her brows pointedly at him but he didn't blink.

"I believe the ministry standard on shapeshifting creatures still separates their more beastly forms into the correct category," he said coolly.

"You would know exactly what the ministry sorts everyone into, wouldn't you?"

He felt his mouth twist sourly, ever so slightly. "The history of classifications is very complex. It's good to know, as not all rules are followed in a precise manner."

"Yes, I'm sure that's why you know. Very astute," she commented, nodding sarcastically. "Most human-like magical creatures have the intelligence to be classified as 'being', even shapeshifters in their beast forms, and yet, the ministry has exceptions."

"Exceptions based on how deadly they are to actual humans," he interjected.

Perhaps it had been a poor choice of words when speaking to such a creature that the ministry had put into the classification of 'highly dangerous'. The look she gave him seemed to dare him to keep talking so she could snap her fingers and lock his jaw as tightly as the padlock, and he wouldn't exactly put it passed someone to want some kind of revenge after he had fired a curse off at them before.

He pursed his lips together and she flashed him a tight smile.

Any contempt she might have held though seemed only to be surface level as her face easily relaxed back into her placid self. "My, you're very fun to talk to," she remarked with barely veiled sarcasm as her eyes cast away from him. "Don't let me stop you any longer if you wanted to get back to reading — though your options are limited now."

He couldn't help the little flip of his stomach at the indication that he was perhaps failing at making conversation. He could nod his head and provide quotes of information from books near endlessly, but he relied heavily on someone to be more interested in hearing the sound of their own voice rather than take the lead. It didn't much help that she was, underneath all the things he could recite full essays about, a woman about his age, which he could recite nothing about.

Considering her suggestion, he surveyed the shelves around them, full of books he had already read, read multiple times, or deemed wholly uninteresting if not altogether useless. Even the restricted section was a much-watered down version of things he had read while out of school. And he did not want to be thinking about what was in there currently.

But here before him, raising her neat brows in a questioning look, was a creature that had been hiding her identity, and that of her species presumably, from the greater population for an untold amount of time. A fresh book with an un-cracked spine; and though she seemed to guard her secrets carefully, she undoubtedly had many. The most concerning of which he would never dare ask directly, but perhaps if he played his cards right, he could get the answer without having to reveal anything from his end. It was an unwritten challenge that he was curious to pursue.

"How old are you?" He tried to make his voice sound off-handed, but her face still looked surprised at the sudden question, or perhaps that he had chosen to talk to her at all. She seemed to appreciate the change in topic, though.

"Nearing a hundred, and yourself?" Her question went unanswered as she had to quickly address his disbelieving expression. "Phoenix years."

He blinked at her. "Phoenix years," he repeated.

She nodded sincerely.

He was about to argue, his eyes scrutinizing her perfectly youthful face, when he thought better of it. It was best practice to choose one's battles carefully.

"Twenty-one," he said casually as he moved on to more pressing matters, "and in a hundred years your wand magic is still that bad?" He hadn't meant for the comment to be quite so scathing, but the damage to her jolliness had been done.

"Albus has only been teaching me this past year, alright?"

No, this was certainly not alright, as it was unbelievable. "You've..." He blinked, licked his lips, and tried again. "Forgive me, did you just say that you, a professor, have only been practicing—"

"Look, I'm not that hopeless!" Her voice seemed earnestly defensive. Apparently eager to prove her point, she took out her wand again and shot him one last challenging look before she seemed to vanish under an invisible curtain with a silent flick.

He peered into the spot she had been, semi-certain what spell this was. With one cautiously outstretched finger, he reached the solid invisible force in the air that he had correctly guessed, and drew a small circle on it. Like popping a soap bubble, it disappeared, revealing the wand that had recant the spell, and the caster looking smug.

"An excessively strong shield charm," he remarked without praise. "You would do well in Charms then, but it says nothing about your abilities to accurately describe or teach the Dark Arts."

She met his leveled gaze with a questioning look, appearing to size him up. "You really think Albus would hire a teacher who wasn't fully capable?"

He shrugged. "Who knows?" If he was willing to hire an ex-Death Eater, all bets were off.

If he didn't know any better, the woman seemed to be unsure of the answer herself. A small crease formed in her brow as she stared thoughtfully at a patch of sunlight on the floor.

He was reminded of his lesser performing more affluent classmates that had, during 5th year, discovered for the first time that their family's connections would not be there during the O.W.L.'s to help them pass. The attempt he made to keep his lip from visibly curling was half-hearted. Life certainly was determined to carry on the asinine mechanisms of school-aged idiocy.

"Must be nice," he said not without a touch of bitterness in his voice, "to have fallen into the good graces of the headmaster."

She snapped out of her reverie and frowned at him. "Excuse me? I've been with Albus well before he was headmaster." She didn't seem phased by his highly skeptical look and continued on with a small sigh. "He believes I was the right person to tap for the job, so, I suppose I'll do fine."

He tried with no small effort to ignore that he had just heard that Dumbledore specifically chose someone that had trouble with wand magic over him to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.

So then, she was at least following orders from Dumbledore in some way. It felt like a pathetically tiny puzzle piece considering all that he did not know, especially given that he didn't quite trust her word. However, if she was telling the truth about her age and her history with Dumbledore, that meant she was indeed the same bird that had truly always been by his side, and held untold secrets about his past as well. Not that he was still in the position to be as thirsty for any information he could get on the old wizard now that he had no one to return that message to, but the rest was an interesting story to consider all its own.

It could be assumed that the phoenix had been with the master — or whatever he was to her — during two separate wizarding wars, at the heart of each. And as he knew from his experience with the most recent one, the phoenix was indeed a particularly good defense against the dark arts, given all the times it, or she, had saved people on her side of things. At the least, her coming from such a background and excelling at protective magic would make for an intriguing base to learn the correct wand magic in all of its varied intricacies — he still held heavy misgivings about her actual aptitude to do any of this, much less teach it. As well as the legality of her practicing wand magic, and owning a wand in the first place; though he supposed he didn't have much room to talk when his own wand would have been snapped had the ministry gotten a chance to look at its history.

"What kind of wand are you using?" He had merely been wondering aloud, still caught up in his thoughts, but the look she gave him brought his eyes up. She looked like he might have asked for a vial of her blood. "I just want to see it," he added defensively.

"Sorry," she mumbled apologetically, pulling out the wand in question. "It just took a long time to... Well, I've been through five already — they kept exploding, you see — and this is the only one that's worked." He walked closer to get a better look, but it was pulled equally far again as she stepped back the same distance.

He looked down at her shuffled feet, then back up. She stared back at him with apprehension.

"Well, can I see it, or not?"

"I—Yeah, yes, sure, of course." She screwed up her face in determination and took an unhelpful half step towards him, looking more like she was being mugged and trying to hand off her wallet.

He was beginning to feel as if he had sprouted horns, or perhaps his soul was so repugnant it deflected more pure beings. He whisked this thought out of his mind, though it did stir an idea. Looking passed her held out hand, he took in her wary eyes. Out of reach from the direct light, they could pass as a particularly striking hazel, the whole effect reminding him of another magical beast. It hardly seemed logical given that she had run up to him without hesitation so many times, but then again, if he twisted the definition of 'logic' just a bit...

Slowly, while holding her gaze, he emptied all the thoughts in his head to a calm poise and took deliberate steps forward.

"May I?" Now he was actually within range to get a good look at her wand, but he kept his eyes on hers, waiting for a heartbeat to see if this was the correct move.

She looked even more startled than before, and her face turned pink. Well, that certainly was not how hippogriffs reacted, but in any case, she didn't attack him or back up this time. Instead she ducked her head down and he could finally go back to his query.

"And what wood is that?" It looked to be light and ashen; overall, a very plain-looking match for its owner.

She kept her eyes down, and whatever she was thinking was not reflected in her benign tone. "Cypress. And I went through Spruce, English Oak, Blackthorn... and two others that I couldn't even get to work before Ollivander finally thought to try this."

"Couldn't master the Blackthorn? That's not surprising." She finally looked back up at him with a rather unamused face, but he only smiled mischievously and pulled out his own wand. "It requires true talent."

Her annoyance was cleared away as her mouth popped open to marvel at the handsome black wand. "Oh! I'm so jealous, I really wanted that one."

His own expression was in turn reversed. "Really?" He couldn't imagine why a phoenix would be drawn a wand wood reputed to be powerful at the Dark Arts.

"Yes! I like the gin." He blinked at her in exasperation. "What? It's good."

"The fruit making good gin hardly seems relevant to the function of the wand."

Her brows raised at this and she sounded amused. "You don't think so? The knowledge that it was a good wand-making wood didn't sprout from nowhere. Surely appreciation for the tree came from the fruit first, and wood second. Having a history with people probably helped to make such a strong magical connection in the first place."

His mouth twisted at this figurative explanation, thinking it highly unlikely he could better bond with his wand if he was an alcoholic. It did sound like the kind of nonsense a wandmaker would say, though. "I suppose... If you want to unravel everything carefully researched and documented on wandlore and make it into crass poetry instead."

"Well," she said with a twirl of her own wand, "you can't rely on everything you read in books to tell the whole story, anyway."

His black eyes flicked up to search her face at this comment, wondering if she was alluding to something she shouldn't have seen, but she only shrugged.

He would rather rely on the harsh but unchangeable inked word than have to sift through that which was unknown.

"Speaking of not judging things at face value," he said evenly, changing the subject, "I'm curious what that wand has inside it."

The neat little wand was flipped back and forth, giving its owner the appearance of a cat twitching its tail. "Are you?"

"Perhaps it's a stupid question."

"Perhaps it is."

Not taking her eyes off his, she put the wand between both palms and gave it a slow turn. A low-burning flame leapt from one end, snaked down the length in waves, and died as it reached the other, leaving the wood behind perfectly unscathed.

He nodded; his thoughts confirmed. "Is that impervious nature from the wood, or the phoenix feather?"

She looked down at her wand. "Probably both? I don't know, I haven't a clue about wandlore."

"And yet you make claims about it," he remarked.

"I make claims about things that I know are true to life, such as the natural forces of magic," she said with a shrug. "I don't care to know much about wandlore than I have to, anyway. Ollivander is a nice enough wizard, but..."

"But he pulls too hard when he harvests tail feathers?" He offered with a sardonic grin.

She gave him a withering look. "As if I would let someone other than Albus lay a hand on me." This only made her sound even more like a prized and pampered pet bird that had gained the power of speech, but he kept this thought to himself.

"So, you haven't donated any feathers to any wand shops then?"

Her stare seemed to drop several degrees colder before the corners of her mouth were forcefully propped up in a mock grin. He waited for several seconds, grinning pleasantly back, but she didn't reply.

He took the measure of her expression and, deciding she wasn't quite pressed to the limit, chanced another probing question that had been on his mind.

"Perhaps other phoenixes have been donating instead?"

Again, her only answer was the same smile, but then he hadn't expected her to pull out a carefully kept record of every living phoenix and hand it over. It was just a test to see how much she was guarding, and besides, he had an ace up his sleeve for this line of inquiry.

His fingers drummed over his wand and he carefully lifted it aloft as if pondering idly. "Sorry," he said, keeping his voice as light and casual as he could, "it's just that I was curious because—"

All his carefully learned protection spells were rendered useless as his wand was snatched out of his hand so fast that he almost cursed out loud his own stupidity at not thinking the woman would of course do just that.

"Excuse you—" He tried to grab it back but she was stepping backwards from him rapidly, even as her eyes were fixated on the black wand held in her grasp. "You can't just take it! I—"

But before he could resort to physically grappling for it back, she had done something that made his breath catch. The same trick of flame, from one end snaking to the other, was done to his own wand now, and he could only grimace in horror at the sight of his prized possession in such a state. The second the fire died he shot his hand out and reclaimed what was his.

"Has nobody trained you," he said with unrestrained anger, "not to touch other people's things?"

Her expression was smooth and cool despite his words. "I could say the same to you."

His lungs filled with air perhaps to carry on his reprimanding, but he couldn't find anything to say to this as the meaning turned over in his head. He looked down at his wand, which was thankfully unharmed, but unfamiliarly warm in his hand. His eyes rose back at once.

The gaze she leveled on him was enigmatic. She seemed to be taking the measure of his very heart and soul and he didn't much like it, though he was considering her with equal curiosity. Finally, she let out a very long sigh through her nose and allowed a tiny crease of annoyance to show between her brows.

"I'll have that Ollivander man's bloody business license," she muttered darkly.

He raised his brow, tilting his head at her in genuine surprise. "Really?"

"Really what? His business license? Oh no, you're right, I think it would be simpler to just burn down the shop."

He ignored this in his fixation. "I have your feather?" He had always been prideful of the rare elements of his wand, knowing few others with either, especially phoenix feathers. It was a shock that the source was standing right in front of him, looking distinctly peeved.

Her expression fully soured to a pinch that came off more comical than angry. "Tried to curse me with my own feather. I should take that wand back and give you tail feathers, and see how you like people plucking them out."

The corner of his mouth twitched, too bemused with this new knowledge to take her threat to heart. He held his wand aloft, looking at it in a new light before glancing back at her. He thoroughly enjoyed the look of utter annoyance that she displayed.

That was interesting. Not exactly what he had been hoping to learn about phoenixes, Dumbledore, or Freya Fawkes's role in his situation; but interesting, none the less.

If anything, hearing her speak without a smile plastered to her face just inclined him to believe that there was more depth to her, and specifically that it had been previously concealed. He wasn't quite sure yet which of these sides leaned more towards genuine, but he wasn't sure that it mattered, even if it was both. He was certain about her allegiance to Dumbledore, and if she was following his orders, the only kind of authenticity she would have towards himself would stop and end at anything the headmaster deemed reminiscent of his old Death Eater self. Which meant he still had that one strike point, but perhaps he could do something about that.

His focus aimed back towards her. She was absently combing her fingers through her hair in long slow strokes, winding it over her shoulder to her chest almost protectively. Her expression appeared softened, troubled by some far-away thought as she stared towards the middle of the room.

He adjusted his posture and lightly cleared his throat, hoping that playing into this atmosphere would be an advantage and not a detriment. "So," he began, keeping his voice low and trying very hard to keep any haughtiness out of it, "I cursed you with your own feather."

"Attempted to anyway," she said automatically, as if her daydreaming had been much less engrossing than he first thought. Her eyes glanced towards him without lifting her head, and her own smug smile appeared.

He let her have this small victory and continued. "Yes. Attempted... And did that spell not land because it was your own feather in my wand?"

The hazel eyes shifted out of his view again. "Hm..."

So, there was something there to conceal.

"Or," she piped up with forced cheer over his thoughts, "perhaps you're just rather bad at curses."

He answered her with a half-second raise of the corners of his mouth before returning to a stony stare. She couldn't dodge him forever, and if he didn't rise to her interjections, but ignored them, he could still push on.

"The feather might make sense," he mused aloud, trying to gauge her reaction from the corner of his eye, "but, then again, I had a different theory before learning about my wand core that might be more fitting."

"Well, you're quite clever, I'm sure you already know the answer."

He chewed his lip in mild annoyance, because obviously he didn't if he had to ask, and she was back to being particularly cagey.

"Many magical beasts," he stopped as the movement from her sharply turned head caught his eye, "erm — beings," he corrected, annoyed at his mistake, which was probably his own fault for constantly mentally comparing her to one particular category of creature, "are resistant to magic, in varying degrees."

She paused before bobbing her head a single time in agreement with this fact, but she had gone back to facing out towards the room instead of at him, unsmiling.

"So, it stands to reason that you would also be impervious... to a degree."

He thought for a moment she wasn't even going to respond to this, but then her eyes snapped up to his with a suddenness that made his posture stiffen. Startling him further out of his attempted casualness, she fully stepped up to him until he could clearly see the gold of her eyes again, glowing another warning in the afternoon light, and signaling that he had crossed some line.

She delivered a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes, Severus. The only magic that will work is that with the darkest of intent. So, next time, if you plan to attack me—"

"I don't," he said quickly, trying to keep his spine straight and not lean away. She was noticeably shorter than him, and he would not back up just because of a baseless accusation and her alarming gaze.

"No?" She didn't seem to be blinking.

"Of course not," he said evenly, matching her steadiness.

"What was that spell you tried to use on me, anyway?"

Well, that truth could at least be hidden easily with a lesser spell. "Silencing Charm. I just wanted you to shut up for a minute." In defiance of her interrogation, and to hide his nerves, he allowed a sneer to creep onto his features.

He watched one eyebrow raise skeptically, but her own smile seemed to be softening to a more playful one, as if she believed him.

"Rude," she said at last, cocking her head to one side, "but not very deadly."

"Right. Satisfied, then?" He waited for her to step back first, but she remained stubbornly in place, still peering at him with interest.

"Hm..."

He almost flinched as she raised a hand up to him then. Unable to fathom where its destination lay, his eyes followed, unnerved, but he apparently had ample time to figure this mystery out as she slowed her movement down to a crawl, raising up to the height of his chest and stopping inches away from actually touching him.

"What—"

But his question died on his lips as her hand closed to only a single finger, pointed directly at his heart, and he remembered her propensity for wandless magic and everything Kiaran James had written. As her finger swirled a small circle, just as his had done on her shield charm earlier, his heart seemed to flip over at command, though he was almost certain she hadn't done anything more than he had with the motion; it was just his body reacting in panic to the threat posed before it.

Maddeningly, she pulled her hand back, having done all of nothing but confuse and distract him as always. And, this time at least, deeply rattle him.

"Excellent," she nodded, and took two steps back. "Well, I'm glad you finally got to the point of what you wanted to ask for so long."

His head snapped up, still bewildered. "What?"

She tossed him an agitating look of understanding some secret he held, and he collected himself to stand up straighter. There was no way she could have actually seen his intentions.

"I was just trying to be polite and have a conversation," he said with conviction, if not open irritation at having his reasons doubted.

"And I appreciate it," she said, sounding just as genuine. "But if you wanted to know if you were in trouble for trying to curse me, you could have just jumped to that first."

He was trying to piece together how exactly she had jumped to this conclusion, but even as his brows knit in confusion, she spoke again.

"You aren't, by the way. I didn't even tell Albus."

His eyes narrowed further. He tried to keep the simmering distrust clear of his expression, but it was fine to show a little doubt.

"Honest," she implored, fully quashing her smile and casting wide eyes of purest innocent gold at him, as if he would simply forget the dangerous look that had been there a moment ago.

He decided to simply ignore this, looking away moodily. He was irritated enough at her thorough shut-down of his questioning and baiting him into some stupid trick. He didn't feel like giving attention to blatant lies meant to lull him into a false sense of security, which only served to remind him that he was talking to someone who was more than likely performing a full evaluation of his nature for report. It didn't help that she seemed to have uncanny perception, even if it was just a bit off the mark. At least, he desperately hoped it was just perception.

In any case, he had undoubtedly expended his chances at getting any information out of her, and that was enough to be cross about. However, he had gleaned some new bits of knowledge today, at least enough to think over.

His mind wandered back to the passage in the book by the crazed poacher, wondering if his wording was accurate or simply a quirk of his obvious stupidity. If a phoenix could see his soul... then what? What would it see? Had her little motion with her finger been some kind of magic to reveal the presence of any lies, or was it just a trick to mess with him? Surely this was the case, because if she had the capability to do something so powerful so easily, it would defy the natural laws of magic. That wouldn't make any sense...

"Oi."

He looked up, rudely pulled out of his thoughts to a curious expression different from her harsh critical gaze. She was grinning as if at his expense but as he self-consciously checked himself over, he couldn't understand, and this only seemed to further amuse her.

"Can I help you?"

She pursed her lips and let out a laugh through her nose. "Oh no, I'm not going down that road again," she said with dark amusement, crossing her arms behind her back and shifting her feet so that her hair tumbled over her shoulder with the tilt of her posture. "I just wanted to say, I..." Her voice trailed off and her eyes followed, losing a bit of her smile. "Well, I—I'll see you at the feast, yes?"

He waited a moment, searching her expression in confusion. "Obviously."

He checked the clock on the wall, but apart from being surprised at how long he had spent here, he noted he still had plenty of time until he needed to be getting fussed about when to arrive at the staff table – preferably as late as possible so he would be less likely to get dragged into conversation as they waited for the students to file in. He looked back to her, taking in the way her feet were shuffling to angle herself towards the door, and realized he was being very politely ditched by his entertaining distraction. He also had the sudden awareness of how quiet the library was, and that he hadn't said anything after getting lost in his thoughts. Actually, he recalled, he had brushed her off, and she seemed to be just piping up to say goodbye.

He straightened up, clearing his throat. "Actually, I should—"

"Get going?"

"Yes."

"Yes, me too," she agreed, nodding in relief even as she was backing away. "I have to change into my proper robes – the ones with the keys."

"Right," he remarked dryly, having almost forgotten. "And I should go request one since mine seems to have gotten lost."

"Ha." Her smile faltered comically under his stare, and she grimaced an apology. "Sorry. Err, well, be seeing you."

He let her run along ahead so he could walk out in idle solitude, realizing even his guard had just abandoned him.

—

Tiny mechanical parts ticked down the seconds as Severus sat, fingers netted over his mouth, staring.

He had placed the small metal, slightly dented, alarm clock on his office desk, and was now transfixed with its hands as they made their way around the hour with unnerving speed.

He could just go now, as he had already passed by the Great Hall and seen that it was newly dressed and set for the feast, but the staff table was empty. That was fifteen minutes ago, and now, surely, enough time would have passed for him to miss anyone in the halls, but still get to his seat without seeming late.

None of the antique wood legs of his desk chair creaked as he remained perfectly seated, hands still folded.

It wasn't that he was suddenly finding himself nauseous, certainly not, it was another matter entirely that was keeping him cooped up in his office rather than getting up and going where he needed to; chiefly, that he had only gone over his list of duties ninety-nine times, and a round hundred was what was needed, surely.

Prefects; first-years; Quidditch captains; don't curse any of the students if they bring up your dead friends or rivals, because your tenuous pact with Albus Dumbledore will snap like a twig and you'll be sacked and sent to Azkaban where your soul will be tormented, but you perhaps don't even have one, so what's the bother; but also if a student starts mouthing off, you get to deduct points, which is fun; fifth-years need their O.W.L.'s vetted; Hogsmeade permission forms; and—

He was beginning to wonder how he had gotten any sleep last night given how loud the small clock was capable of being as it ticked on and on. He finally moved, with a jerking motion, slapping the little clock facedown and getting up out of his chair. He was out the door, locking it, and down the hall before he could let his mind disturb him any longer.

The Great Hall was already livelier than earlier, with all the floating candles fully lit, the castle ghosts hovering around here and there, and, he saw in the minuscule glance he allowed himself, the staff table mostly full, but not entirely. He kept his eyes directly in front of where he was walking as he cut straight to the nearest end and around the back, walking for the first time to take his seat as a professor. Head of Hufflepuff, Sprout; Head of Ravenclaw, Flitwick; the headmaster's empty highbacked golden chair; Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor, McGonagall—

He stopped behind the chair that would have been – should have been – for the fourth Head of House, himself. Instead, he looked down in disgust at the back of a particularly striking head of fiery red hair. He didn't even bother arguing with this, as she probably had some special 'Dumbledore's Pet' ranking that allowed her to sit nearer the headmaster than one of his own Heads of House. The chair on her right was empty, and that was close enough.

"And in particular, what you need to be doing—Oh, I say, how rude!"

As he pulled out his claimed chair and sat, the wizard on his right made a show of looking overly appalled, adjusting a stuffy-looking ascot.

"The lady and I were having a conversation here, you know!"

The lady in question was sitting with her elbow on the table, leaning on her hand like a student listening to a particularly dull lecture, but still trying to pass the class. Her hazel eyes slid over to Severus, and in greeting, popped her eyebrows up once without a word. Apparently, it would have been a waste to attempt to speak.

"As I was saying here, dear, as I was saying, I—oh wait, where was I?"

Freya seemed reluctant to prompt him, opening and closing her mouth, but what she finally settled on was, "Actually, I do think it's rude to talk across someone at the table, so perhaps—"

"Oh, nonsense," the wizard went on, "this man interrupted us first, so we have every right to carry on. There, see, he's leaned back. Now then!"

Severus was vaguely recollecting that he was the newer Astronomy teacher from his later years, and he hadn't had a class with him. He was also busy vaguely recollecting that in a few moments he would be introduced to the entire school and they might know him either as 'Death Eater' or 'weird kid from 7th year', and couldn't care less what was going on to either side of him. This was one of those moments where keeping his hair long and at the sides of his face came in handy for shutting out distractions, though he could still make out the blur of faces in his peripherals, sat back as he was to stay out of the conversation.

"Oh, I've remembered! Right, what you need to be doing is charting beyond your sun sign, dear. There are other planets we are born under that hold deeper meaning than what's on the surface. What did you say your sign was again? Right, right, you didn't. But surely a fire sign, of course. Regal Leo, no doubt, or perhaps an aloof Sagittarius—"

"Cancer."

"Merlin's beard!" The sheer volume at which he made this outburst had Severus reaching for the golden goblet sat beside his empty plate to fill it with wine, as the realization set in that he was sat between not one, but two obnoxious people, though one of them seemed to be greatly winning that race currently. As he poured his serving and then leaned back, the other man dodged and weaved to speak passed him. "Surely not, I would think!"

"Err," Freya stammered, "I do believe so, actually."

The astronomy professor seemed to think he could not only talk directly over Severus, but gesture into the window of space he had to stare out over the table. He glared at the intrusion, but the man was busy beckoning at Freya as if she held the secrets to the universe. He held his goblet to his mouth and resumed his detached staring.

"Madame, could you possibly be mistaken?"

"About... about my birth?"

He nodded frantically.

"Err, well, I don't remember much about being... born, true enough. But I haven't heard any tales of madmen with astrolabes skulking about making sure I was cooked long enough to get a cursed star chart, so, I think that's correct."

The tiny snort of derision he had made was echoed into his wine goblet, and her eyes spotted him out for it. For the briefest moment he saw the corner of her mouth twitch up and realized he was on the outside looking in to what she would normally be doing to him. It still wasn't all that amusing, and he broke the eye contact, going back to staring out over the empty tables.

"Cursed star chart," the astronomer said in an emphatic hush. "My dear woman, do you think that's what you are? Cursed with a water sign, although you are a beast of fire... What could be worse?"

He caught the indignant way her mouth popped open at the word 'beast', but she smothered it with a smile. "Perhaps there are a few things in life that could be worse," she said with effort.

"Hmm, yes, a scant few... But what could this curse possibly mean? I'm no diviner, myself, we should have to ask the Divination teacher. Wait here, I'll look for her—"

"It means she is weak to water."

Both heads on his left and right turned to look at him in surprise. His eyes glanced back and forth between them, almost regretting speaking up, but knowing he was saving himself from a fate worse than a bad star chart if Divination got roped into this.

The loudmouth man was about to speak up but Severus cut him off. "Perhaps Freya would like to give the explanation herself?" She looked more shocked than if he had told her that her moon sign was in opposition to her teaching position.

"Err... Yes." But instead of speaking, she slid her fingers neatly behind her ear, and when she held them out again, a tiny red feather was between them. As if performing a party trick, she pressed it into the condensation on the wine bottle at the center of the table, where it soaked up the moisture and desaturated to a sad dull brown, shriveling. "As you can see," she said, holding out her hand.

His black eyes stared at the stuck feather, feeling an odd sort of kinship with the bedraggled thing as the wine settled in his empty churning stomach.

"I say! Now that," proclaimed the astronomy professor, "is a curse! Whatever do you do in rainy weather?"

She scoffed lightly. "You wouldn't catch me outside with a cloud in the sky."

"And what would you do, say, if someone spilled a glass of water on you?"

"I'd roast him and serve him up during the feast myself."

"Ah..." Her words combined with her wide smile seemed to give the man pause for once before he plowed on again in his simpering way. "Well, I'm sure you are quite capable of doing so, madame, as beautiful and—I mean as strong and— powerful as you are of course!"

Severus raised his goblet to his lips again, taking a prolonged sip as the astronomer went on.

"But truly, the planets are not to be trifled with—if you are ever feeling the need to have your place in the world examined, please do stop by the astronomy tower and visit sometime. Preferably at night, while the stars are out in full force."

Curiosity to watch a disaster take place won out over his attempts to ignore everything around him, and he glanced to his left, trying with effort to keep his brow from raising to his hairline. The current look in the phoenix's eyes made the warnings she had flashed at him earlier look like playful flirtations, shining more sharply than all the golden knives in the hall, and he wondered if he was about to witness her last words become a fiery reality. He would much prefer roast turkey to astronomer, but it would be entertaining none the less. But apart from her smile starting to look like it was strained to the point of pulling a muscle, her only reaction was to glance back at him with a half-second of pleading in her eyes.

The corners of his lips turned up and he went back to staring out over the empty hall, thoroughly enjoying letting the silence hang.

"Ah, well," the other wizard finally spoke up again, clearing his throat, apparently unruffled, "tonight would be a bad night, but by next week the moon should be full, so perhaps your radiance would—"

"Where is the Divination teacher?" He caved before Freya did, finding his limit at being trapped between a conversation ended with it turning into a humiliating pick-up attempt full of enough disgusting smarm to grease a turkey.

The astronomer was again shocked to see that the specter at the feast he was speaking through was in fact a real human, but his simple mind seemed to latch on willingly enough to this distraction. He cast one cursory look around to the end of the long staff table where an empty chair sat still tucked in before turning back with a sigh. "Oh, she rarely leaves her quarters for meals unfortunately; she's quite an odd duck."

"How sad," Severus said with no interest. "Perhaps you should go fetch her and bring her down then? Such a shame to miss the start-of-term feast."

"Oh, yes, I would love to meet her," Freya cut in enthusiastically picking up this dropped line, "just like you were saying, right, Mr. Powers?"

"Ah..." Mr. Powers looked between the two of them, with his eyes lingering on the woman. "Right, true, it would be nice, but the students will be arriving—oh, but I suppose I have plenty of time before they're all seated. I'll just be a minute, dear!" And he hurried out of his chair as two identical sighs of relief followed at the table.

He thought he had finally managed to secure peace and quiet, but of course now that the exhaustingly obnoxious person had left, he still had the lesser of two evils to contend with. Freya was still leaning on her elbow, peeling the stray feather from its final resting place on the wine bottle, when she spoke absently.

"Do you reckon he knows?"

"Knows what?" He was feeling the creep of jitters settle back in as the talking around the table grew more excited, and he thought he heard the noise of carriages from outside the windows.

She leaned in a fraction closer to him and he looked up to see her hand covering the side of her mouth to whisper to him. "Do you reckon he knows there's a difference between Astronomy and Astrology?"

He stared at her, watching the way her brows quirked up in seemingly genuine concern for a potentially brain-addled professor.

And then he laughed. It was only a quick snort and then his hand pressed over his smile to hide it, but nonetheless, it was a laugh. He couldn't quite figure out if he was just so nervous that he was reacting abnormally, or if it was the wine, or if it truly was hilarious to imagine the ditzy man walking into an interview with the entirely wrong impression and being hired for a job way over his head, or if it was that he was potentially just using astrology as a front to chat up women half his age, but whatever it was, the picture was highly amusing.

He smoothed his grin back into a stony line with his fingers as he caught Freya looking at him like he had perhaps gone addle-brained as well.

"Well," he said, lightly clearing his throat, "it wouldn't be Dumbledore's most out-there hire."

"Oh, very true. Why, I heard," Freya dropped her voice to a mock conspiratorial tone, apparently riding off this glimpse of his amusement, "he's hired a Death Eater this year. Can you imagine?"

He played along with a sardonic grin, but still peeked out of the corner of his eye passed Freya to check if McGonagall was paying any attention before he replied. "I heard that he hired a peacock that could talk," he leaned forward to finally sit up straight and claim his spot at the table without someone trying to talk over him. "Trained it up himself. And when the ministry saw it, they had to come up with a new classification of beast: 'highly obnoxious.'"

Staring smugly ahead, hands folded neatly in front of him, he could just make out the sour smile on her face. As he cast his eyes across the hall to the main entrance expectantly, the eccentric headmaster himself strode in and made his way to the table, distracting the woman before she could reply to him. His stomach gave a little flip as the first students could be heard breaking ground in the Entrance Hall, announced by the creak of the heavy oak doors and many quick footsteps on polished stone — and suddenly everything seemed to be coming into place very fast.

But even as Freya broke her own rules of dinner table politeness to shout her greetings to the headmaster over McGonagall's pointed hat, and the deputy headmistress got up from her seat with a huff to make her way towards a stool with a similar but vastly grubbier looking hat, and more and more students took their seats, he found the feeling in his stomach was a much more bearable flutter of excitement. It was hard to remain cooped up in his own agitated mind when everything around him was alight with wonder; a living buzz of enthusiasm.

His composure held steady through the sorting, welcoming what would be his own House's newest students with applause, and continued through the feast. The only exciting thing that happened while everyone was tucking in was when McGonagall tried to politely offer Freya the tray of roast turkey, making the phoenix woman let out a noise of dismay as the headmistress profusely apologized; and Professor Powers, having returned with seemingly more knowledge about Cancers gleaned from the Divination teacher and attempting to continue his conversation with the cursed woman, was dismayed to find that the Potions teacher, having properly introduced himself, had an odd habit of leaning backwards and forwards in his chair in just such a way that the astronomer gave up trying to talk passed him in a huff half-way through the second course.

As the final desserts were magically whisked away and the talking died down to a satisfied murmur, Dumbledore rose to give his speech. It was much the same as he had said to the staff the previous day, and Severus missed half of what he said in his anticipation for the more pertinent introductory parts. Freya was given her moment of applause, and — to his great surprise and relief, his own name elicited the proper reaction, even from the staff. Though he could have sworn it seemed like less noise than the amount of people sitting at the table, he was too focused on looking at another table, who were the happiest to join in greeting their new Slytherin Head of House. He was sure the students themselves were just too clueless to know any better, but all the same, it wasn't the awful silence that he had been expecting, so he would take what he could get with appreciation. He had a single solitary moment to feel pride at his new responsibility and bask in normalcy.

There was a tug on the left sleeve of his robes as he got up to leave for his duties in the Slytherin common room, and he turned back.

"Good luck!"

He stared down at her smiling face, every bit as deceptively cheery and overly friendly, and found he couldn't fully hold down the corners of lips. But he also couldn't stop himself from wanting to try for one more jab before leaving.

"I won't be needing your luck, thank you. I'll do just fine on my own."

---

_— *** —_

"She said you're killing the light
You'll never see it again
We come to suffer I said
I won't be fooled by the light
I won't be fooled by the lie"

B.R.M.C. - Killing the Light