Chapter 5: Even Demons May Weep


12:04 p.m.

25 July

Muggle London

Mordicus Gaunt had never particularly cared for Greek food. Perhaps it came from the time that pretty little witch had poisoned him; he'd been careless, mind clouded by arrogance following his success at stealing a rare tome, that he hadn't realized until he was already choking on his own blood. He'd taken great pride in slaughtering her and her entire extended family, for good measure. It wouldn't do for someone to declare a blood feud, after all.

However, needs must, and Mordicus could set aside his distaste for a time. Perhaps he would burn the hole-in-the-wall restaurant to the ground when he was done here.

"More coffee, sir?" The waitress smiled down at him, and he pushed back his distaste at the thought of drinking more of that tar they called coffee.

"No, thank you," he said, smiling in that politely charming way he'd mastered at fifteen.

As anticipated, the girl flushed. "Alright, sir. Let me know if you need anything." She swept away a little too quickly, almost running into another table – not a particularly difficult feat, given how they were wedged together as closely as the owners could manage without making it impossible to sit.

Mordicus stretched out his legs, crossing them under the tiny table, and glanced at his watch. Honestly, if Thomas was to insist on a meeting at such short notice, he should at least attempt to be on time .

He began to rap his fingers on the table, gaze drifting to the only other patrons, an elderly couple, likely too frail to survive for long under the strain of the Cruciatus… but there were other, more interesting ways to torture people…

The waitress bustled out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of food with a sharp, spicy scent. Now, her, on the other hand… Mordicus could likely make her last quite a while, and then there were the cooks in the back and the manager floating around somewhere… a Muggle repelling ward, a silencing charm, and they'd be left alone…

Before any further planning could be made, however, the door opened again and a man ducked in out of the rain. Raindrops glimmered in dark brown hair, water dripping from the black coat draped over his lithe body. Then, he raised his head, and it was much like looking at a distorted funhouse mirror; his own face, but wrong, his hair a few shades lighter than Mordicus's own black-brown, more red-gold mixed in, and his cheekbones softer, nose narrower, lips wider, all mild, little changes that meant nobody would look at him and immediately think Tom Riddle , though the similarity was there, stronger in Thomas Gaunt than Mordicus - the other man had not been nearly as inclined for a severe change as Mordicus. The other man grimaced as their eyes met, both sets a bloody scarlet, and it was an expression so slight that Mordicus undoubtedly wouldn't have recognized had he not been so familiar with the face that was almost his own, knew from intimate hours before the mirror the way his mouth tightened, the flash of displeasure across the eyes. A ghost of himself, an echo broken, twisted, wrong .

Still, Mordicus forced an almost pleasant smile on his face as the other man weaved around the clutter of tables; he saw the spark of amusement in his other's face, the man likely recollecting practicing such an expression. Sometimes it was a bloody pain to be allied with yourself .

"Mordicus," Professor Thomas Gaunt said mildly, settling in the chair across from him, "how goes work at the Ministry?"

They were to play a game, then. Both knew full well that Mordicus would not break and be blunt in his inquiry, he would allow the conversation to delicate flow to the topic that had led to their meeting, nor would Thomas simply state his reasons for the summoning; to act otherwise would be antithesis to either man's - or the single man's, depending on how one considered the pair - nature. However, that didn't stop the other man's eyes glimmered a bright, bloody scarlet, aware of Mordicus's impatience and enjoying making him wait. As a great many people could agree, Tom Marvolo Riddle was an utter prat - regardless of the many faces or names he shifted between as easily as one would change their cloak.

"Well," he replied just as mildly. "I've begun work on a new proposal, that Muggleborn one."

Thomas's eyes sharpened. "Oh? I had thought the Wizengamot would oppose such a thing."

"They do." Mordicus allowed himself a grimace. "I have been forced to tone it down twice already; removing Muggleborns from their homes is apparently a grievous sin , regardless of whether said home is unsafe for the child."

His expression matched Mordicus's own; both deliberately did not consider their own wretched childhood, memories long buried behind heavy walls of Occlumency. "If only we could Crucio the lot of them."

"If only." Mordicus let out a whimsical sigh, then took a sip of his wretched coffee; he had woken far too early today. "I would begin with that wretch Doge."

He nodded in agreement. "I have been much inclined to remove him from the Board of Governors. Perhaps such a thing should be arranged?"

"Perhaps," Mordicus agreed with a dark smile. "How are matters at the school? Do the other professors continue to meddle in house matters?

"Has the sun begun to rise in the west?" Thomas retorted smoothly, easy as drawing air, but Mordicus knew the man who wasn't quite him, knew himself , and he saw the way his eyes burned too brightly, bloody hellfire, and he heard the darkly sinister note to his voice, a tone his followers would come to fear, to learn to cower at, and oh, sometimes Mordicus missed the simple pleasures of being able to torture a person for displeasing him.

He still could, of course, but now he had to be subtle about it. Too many bodies and suspicion came, from Dumbledore, from the Ministry. It wouldn't do to spend so many years soothing the population only for one murdered Muggle or tormented wizard to send it all toppling like a house of cards.

But oh, Mordicus could wish.

"I will admit," Thomas continued, "it grows quite wearisome. I should count myself lucky I have Severus and Minerva to entertain me so."

Mordicus could well imagine; Minerva McGonagall had been a terrible nuisance during their school, and as for Severus… A formidable man, most certainly, but his loyalties were unfortunately divided; it would only be so long before something broke. Mordicus was quite interested to see whether he would pledge himself fully to the Dark's cause, or abscond to clutch at Dumbledore's skirts.

"However, it does seem that there has been an interesting new development on the third floor."

"How so?" Mordicus was careful to keep his voice even, smooth; this, this, was why his other self had come to him today.

"The most esteemed headmaster has seen fit to conceal the Philosopher's Stone there."

Mordicus's heart stopped . "What?"

His smile was sharp, sharp, sharp, could cut clean and smooth across glass, and it would send shivers down the spine of another man. "Three days ago, in France, a wizard known as Leopold Wolper attempted to steal the Stone. A well known cursebreaker and thief, the French were not particularly surprised at such an act, nor that the Flamels saw fit to execute him for his trespass." Mordicus's skin crawled desperately, itching to shout for him to get on with it. "However, before his death, it seems that the Flamels interrogated him and learned that he was an agent of Lord Voldemort."

Well. It seemed that the thing pretending at a human being had finally seen fit to abscond from the forests of Albania; if only said creature had continued to stay there and rot.

"This is, naturally, of great concern to the headmaster, especially given his troubles managing merely two of us." Thomas's mouth twisted at that; yes, only two of seven, both could imagine how problematic it would be if all were reunited. "He has thus concluded that his best course is to promptly and subtly rid himself of the remnants of Voldemort, and has concocted a plan to lure him to Hogwarts in search of the Stone. The precise details of this plot, I am unaware of, however there have also been several renovations to a particular abandoned corridor."

Mordicus nodded, but he could hardly make himself care for the wretch or for Albus Dumbledore's ridiculous plans. The Philosopher's Stone… with that, perhaps, a solution would be found. Everlasting longevity and youth, indescribable wealth; it would solve some of the more looming problems. "He won't hide the Stone there. It's too obvious a scheme, and the Flamels are too clever for such a danger."

"Undoubtedly," the other agreed. "I will attempt to locate it, but I am dubious as to how successful I may be."

Because Dumbledore did not and would never trust him; he could not connect Thomas Gaunt to Tom Riddle and never would know how his most hateful student had seemingly cloned himself, it was too dark, but he was too clever to be unaware of who, precisely, had secured a position at his school. "I may be able to interfere."

"It would be unwise," Thomas replied, and that monster under his skin crawled, wished to rip and tear at the other man, even if he would only harm himself in such an endeavor. Sometimes, Mordicus wished that he had not chosen to raise his other self. "We do not want Dumbledore to begin to suspect that we are colluding."

No, Mordicus didn't. Their seeming rivalry had kept Dumbledore's eyes away from many a scheme, including his current Muggleborn bill… and, considering that, now may be a perfect time to push it through, while the headmaster was tangled up in plots at Hogwarts. In fact, the Stone may prove a wonderful distraction for a time…

"We will need to plan this carefully," Mordicus said.

Thomas nodded, eyes sharp and burning, and oh, yes, at moments like these, Mordicus was quite certain that he had made the right choice with the locket years past. One Dark Lord may struggle to control Great Britain, but two?

The world would fall at their feet.


12:47 p.m.

Grimmauld Place

Euphie was bored. Dreadfully, completely, bored . It had only been a day since she arrived at Grimmauld Place, and already, it was dull. Oh, certainly, there were school books to study, and Mrs. Black and Sirius and Severus to entertain them, if any of them could be found in the dark, dreadful house, but Euphie didn't want to read - she'd already gone through to the E s in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them - and she didn't want to question Severus about Hogwarts, or hear about her parents from Sirius, or listen to Mrs. Black to flit between various unrelated but intriguing topics. She wanted to do something.

She wanted to go outside.

Euphie rolled over in her bed, glancing at her sister. Hattie had curled up in one of the chairs that Mrs. Black had replaced - a dainty, delicate thing that certainly didn't look as if it could hold even her sister's skinny form - to read from the Potter Grimoire. Which, Euphie was certain would be fascinating, but she didn't want that, either. Her skin crawled, unsettled around her, like her very soul was desperate to escape her - wrong, wrong, wrong - body.

"I'm going to go find Sirius," Euphie declared, hopping to her feet, and already expecting vehement, vicious protests. Hattie could sense the same oddness in the house as Euphie - scraping at her skin, clawing at her throat - and, worse, she seemed to dislike it whenever Euphie was alone with Sirius or Severus or even Mrs. Black; it would be perfectly in character for her to insist that it was far, far too dangerous for her to do even something as mild as walk down the hallway.

But all Hattie murmured was, "Don't let the curtains eat you", and certainly, that had been a surprise, all they'd intended was to poke around the house a bit, and instead they'd been attacked by a swarm of tiny creatures - "doxies", Sirius had called them - in the curtains. A cause that had led Hattie to seal Euphie away in their bedroom for the rest of the day, worried something else disastrous would happen to her. Hattie must be truly distracted by the book to not argue at all .

Euphie, though, leapt on the opportunity; she quickly escaped the room that was beginning to feel too small, too cramped, too dark , though of course the rational part of her reminded her that it was twice the size of her last room. It didn't feel that way, though. The entire house, in fact, despite being much larger than the cottage, felt cramped and unpleasant.

Of course, now that she had left her room, that left her with the question of where to find Sirius, and if she even wanted to do that at all. Yesterday, he'd been very distracted and had quickly shooed them back upstairs after the curtain incident, and Euphie hadn't seen Severus at all since that first night, when he'd appeared like some dark, sinister ghost to tell them he was rooming beside them.

For a moment, Euphie eyed the door, closed with that distinct air of keep out or suffer some unspeakable agony, such as dismemberment or disembowelment, before moving past it. Chances were, the man wasn't even home; Sirius had mentioned he had some business at Hogwarts, though what would a professor be doing at school during the summer?

Maybe Hogwarts has summer school?

She tried to imagine Severus tutoring students who'd failed his class, and only got the image of him sneering down at children hunched over cauldrons. Euphie shuddered; she'd be putting a lot of effort into his class in particular this coming year.

Somehow, Euphie found herself wandering the hallways in search of something entertaining, be it another attack of the house's strange denizens or a secret door or even simply stumbling upon wherever the other three human residents had disappeared to. Or perhaps the decidedly non-human residents, like the pixies hiding in the chandeliers or the ghoul in that cabinet on the third floor - and most certainly not the creature who was supposed to be hiding at the bottom of her trunk, but had vanished that first night.

Hattie would probably be the one to dismember her, not Severus, if she found out about Livius.

12 Grimmauld Place, Euphie soon decided, was rather like a haunted house: grim, dark, and eerie, with shadows that stretched and lingered, a dark chill that sank into her bones and lingered no matter how close to the fire she sat or how many blankets she piled upon her bed. The ghosts were there, too, whispering from portraits of Black ancestors long dead as she trailed along the hallways, eyes watching, always watching.

And all haunted houses had secrets, didn't they?

It was impossible to deny that the house didn't have any, not with its long hallways that twisted off into some inescapable abyss, not with the odd angles that some room met at as if something had been wedged between them, not with the books so old their spines were falling off and the pages brittle as ash, and especially not with its haunting darkness. Somewhere, a body was buried up in the walls, or a monster lurked under a bed, or a secret door was hidden behind a bookcase.

This was how Euphie found herself exploring the many varied corridors, rooms, and staircases of the grim old house. Currently, her explorations had taken her beyond the ground floor, which really only held grand, fancy rooms with elaborate chandeliers, carpets plush and expensive, and a glittering wealth that was slowly being buried under years of dust. The basement had been boring, simply a kitchen with a scowling creature called a house-elf who was wrinkled and faded like a photo folded and unfolded and carried around in one's pocket for many years, and Euphie had quickly escaped up to the first floor, which was really much more interesting.

The drawing room proved to be the only clean room in the entire house, but also relentlessly dull; several portraits had been propped on the mantelpiece, various members of the Black family peering back out of the frames. A few of them held a thin boy in silver and green, another was obviously a young Walburga Black, a wedding photo of an unfamiliar couple, a severe looking man with a cane, and, of course, Sirius himself, though oddly, he was only in three of the photos. Two were clearly family portraits, though at different stages, and he scowled, hands shoved in his pockets, striving to be as far from the other relatives as possible, but in the third… there, he held an easy smile as he leaned carelessly on another boy-

Her breath caught, and, hand trembling, she picked up the photo. The other boy… it was her father, a good few years younger than in his wedding photos, no more than thirteen or fourteen. As she watched, Sirius leaned over to whisper something in his ear, and her father let out a sudden laugh, then shoved Sirius, and then the two were in a wrestling match-

"James always was a charming boy," a voice said behind her. "Unlike my Sirius, James was the epitome of a respectable son to House Potter."

Euphie opened her mouth, then closed it… something hissed at her to ask about her father, to poke and pry, but at the same time… it hurt , like her heart had shattered in her chest, like a thousand knives in her chest, slicing through her innards… Euphie didn't want to think about James Potter, but at the same time, she was desperate for every scrap of knowledge. Mustering the few scraps of courage she possessed, she managed to force out, "You knew my father?"

"Of course," Mrs. Black replied, gliding over to the hearth, surveying the pictures there. "We attended numerous family functions over the years, and he did come to visit on rare occasions."

"Family functions, ma'am?" Euphie asked.

"You should use full sentences, my dear, to do otherwise is uncouth," she chided gently.

Euphie flinched at the rebuke; at the same time, something rose inside her, demanding to know why Mrs. Black thought she had the right to chide her behavior. "Why would my father have attended Black family functions?"

The woman gently plucked the photo from Euphie's hands, examining it for a moment with a cold, cold look. "The Potters and Blacks are related, if nebulously."

"I didn't know that." Euphie didn't know much at all about the Potter family, in fact, besides that they were all dead and all wizards.

"I expect you wouldn't, given that you were raised amongst Muggles ." Mrs. Black wrinkled her nose disdainfully. What did she have against Muggles? "Your namesake, Euphemia, is actually my niece by marriage."

"Really?" What, then that made her and Sirius… "Sirius is my cousin?"

She nodded. "Yes. Orion and I had children far later than Lucretia, it was a delightful surprise to find myself pregnant with Sirius. He was a miracle." She let out a bittersweet laugh then. "Undoubtedly, if I'd known he'd grow up to be such a hellion, I would've done some things differently, such as allowing him to befriend James Potter."

That surprised Euphie. "You would? But, I heard they were best friends, close as-"

"Brothers?" Mrs. Black finished bitterly. "Yes, they were, and yes, it was wondrous for Sirius to have such a loyal friend; certainly most of us Blacks have never had such a thing. However, James proved a rather viciously Gryffindor influence on my son. Always together, always up to some mischief and another, and if they were caught, well, James was a smooth liar under stress. A more charming boy, I have never met."

Somehow, she managed to twist something that sounded so wonderful into something dark , and an unpleasant feeling curled through Euphie's stomach. "I'm sorry?" she offered weakly, she wasn't certain what for, but certainly something .

Mrs. Black's eyes flashed, her mouth twisted, a positively murderous look crossing her face for a split second… then, so fast Euphie very nearly thought she'd imagined it, the woman's face smoothed out and she offered Euphie another one of those soft - fake, fake, fake - smiles. "You have no need to be, my dear. You hadn't even been born yet."

Part of Euphie whispered for her to retreat, run, run, run, make some weak excuse and hide in her room, but another part of her… She'd never had such a blatant source of knowledge before, had she? And so, carefully, delicately, she said, "You mentioned your niece? Euphemia? I don't know much about her, I didn't even know I was named after anybody in particular."

That coldness in the woman's eyes bled away, something soft settling on her face. "Little Mia, yes. She was a delightful thing."

"She was kind?"

Mrs. Black snorted; somehow, she managed to make even the undignified noise seem elegant. "No, although Mia would most certainly wish others thought so. She was… vicious, cold, the perfect Black daughter." A chill settled into Euphie's skin as the woman continued to speak, as Euphie was reminded of another cold, cold girl only two floors above them. "She and Bellatrix would come up with the most terrible schemes. I still remember the news of what the girls did to poor Professor Dowedy…"

"Did she get in trouble for it?" Euphie asked, though what she was really curious about was what Euphemia Sr. had done to this Dowedy fellow - certainly it couldn't have been that terrible - but somehow, she didn't think Mrs. Black would answer her.

"Oh, dear girl," Mrs. Black tsked, "she was a Black . We do not get caught."

Euphie had to admit that was a sensible mentality.

"Euphemia," said a silky voice that was decidedly not Mrs. Black, and she jumped, jerking towards the door where Severus Snape now stood, staring at her with those eyes that were always cold, cold, cold. Her heart pounded in her ears. She hadn't noticed his creeping presence, hadn't heard soft footsteps or creaking floorboards. That… that wasn't good. This house was old and groaning, she should've heard him. That she hadn't… Her stomach twisted. "I believe your sister is beginning to wonder about your whereabouts."

"S-sorry, sir," she managed to force out in a semi-calm tone. "I was just exploring."

"Indeed?" he asked lightly, but there was an odd expression on his face, a strain, jaw too tight. It seemed almost… pained . "Then, I suppose you forgot my warning about the house?"

"You needn't inspire such paranoia in the girl," Mrs. Black said with a careless wave of her hand. "This house would never harm someone of Black blood."

For some reason, he flinched at the words, and his hand twitched as if he wanted to grab something - his wand, perhaps? A sick feeling settling in Euphie's stomach as - for the first time since he'd entered the room, Euphie realized - he looked at the woman with a look that could only be described as cold hatred . "I will certainly tell that to the doxies in the curtains and whatever abominable creature is lurking in that cupboard on the second floor should they make another attempt."

When had it even tried to attack her? Regardless, Euphie resolved to never open any curious looking doors on the second floor.

"I'm sure the ghoul simply wanted a look at the girls," Mrs. Black dismissed, "or perhaps it was after another intruder." Her sharp, sharp eyes were fixed on Severus, and that odd glimmer was in his eyes again, there and gone.

"Perhaps," he acknowledged in a tone that implied how doubtful he found such an idea. Then, he addressed her, "Come along, Euphemia, I'll return you to your sister."

"Yes, sir," she murmured, casting a regretful look at Mrs. Black as she hurried over to the man. He laid a hand on her shoulder, turning to leave-

"Oh, Severus," Mrs. Black called, and Severus stiffened, looking back at the woman. A sharp, sharp smile had settled on her face, the kind that Euphie imagined might be on a serial killer's face as she sliced a person open, exposing guts and blood and bone to cold, cold air. "I might suggest you have that looked at." Her gaze rested, delicately, on his left arm. "You never know what kind of dangers such a… diseased thing may bring."

"Sometimes, a poison is the best cure, Walburga," he said, cold expression never wavering, and shepherded Euphie from the room. Not, however, before she cast one last look at Mrs. Black, who's grip on the picture had tightened, fingers whitening, and somehow, Euphie was certain that none of their words had been half as civil as they'd sounded.

Euphie hesitated, waiting until they were ascending the stairs, out of Mrs. Black's hearing - that little voice, Hattie's voice, murmuring that perhaps it was best if the cold woman didn't hear. "What was that about?"

"Nothing that need concern you."

"Why not?" she asked, and the icy look her gave her froze any other questions in her throat. Sometimes, Hattie had told her, it was best not to push, and she realized that perhaps now was one of those moments. Uh-oh. Too late.

"Because," that voice threatened death and bloodshed in a way that made Euphie pitifully aware of how little magic she knew, "it is a private matter , one best not discussed with children."

Child . Euphie hated that word, synonymous with weak, helpless, stupid… A child couldn't possibly stand up to an adult, however terrible, a child was too foolish to understand all the complicated matters that Sirius had handwaved when Hattie had prodded, a child was nothing but a burden who had to obey or suffer. But Euphie refused to be any of those things, and perhaps that's why she glowered up at him, saying, "I'm not stupid. You could've just said you didn't want to talk about it."

He blinked at her, seeming taken aback for a split-second before that cold expression settled once more on his face. "No, you aren't."

"Good," she said shortly, crossing her arms. "So, what did Mrs. Black mean, about the house not attacking a Black?"

He hesitated a moment, fingers tightening around his wand - and was he really so worried about the house that he'd felt the need to grab his wand? It certainly did feel dark, but so did Hattie, sometimes - before answering, "12 Grimmauld Place has been the Black's family home for centuries now, and as such is infused with their family magic, much like that grimoire of yours is with Potter magic. I expect the Black matriarch meant that, should some danger lurk unseen, the house would find a way to lure it or you away."

"Oh." Family magic was beginning to sound like a very, very important thing; Euphie would need to ensure that she and Hattie read up on it. "But… if the house'll protect me, what about you, sir? You're not a Black, right?"

He snorted. "I should hope not."

That did not comfort Euphie, not at all, not when everyone kept hinting about how "dangerous" Grimmauld Place was, not with that creeping darkness that reminded her of the shadowed look Hattie got in her eyes sometimes, and… what if he got hurt?

"I will be fine, Euphemia," Severus said in a gentler tone as if he'd read her very mind, and she frowned up at him; nobody should know what she was thinking except Hattie. His grip on her shoulder tightened. "The house will not succeed in harming me."

Which made it sound as if 12 Grimmauld Place had already tried.

"Here you are." Severus opened the door to her room, and she reluctantly stepped inside; Hattie remained in the same position as earlier, not even acknowledging them, though Euphie was sure she'd noticed their reappearance. "I will be leaving the house for a few hours; remain in your room until I or Black retrieve you."

Euphie nodded reluctantly.

"Where are you going?" Hattie asked, flipping the page of her book.

"I have a meeting with a few other professors. There have been certain developments we need to discuss." The words held no hint of direct falsehood, but Euphie could tell that they had been chosen carefully to reveal nothing and everything; it was brilliant and utterly like something Hattie would do when she wanted to mislead Euphie or Grandma Rose. "The mutt will also be away."

Hattie nodded, and why did Euphie think that she was glad about this? "We'll be careful, sir."

Severus glanced at Euphie, waiting for her acknowledgement, before he swept out of the room. It was only after she'd plucked up her copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them , disgruntled about once again being confined to her miserable room, that she realized Severus had lied to Mrs. Black.

Hattie had hardly noticed she was gone at all.


5:05 p.m.

Hogwarts

It was incredibly unfortunate that procrastinating an issue did not, in fact, make the aforementioned issue disappear. If only that were the case, then Severus would never have found himself speaking about the matter of the Philosopher's Stone, Albus Dumbledore's fallacy, and the mad scheme for a particular corridor on the third floor. However, as it was, the issue was still very real and very present, and therefore, Severus regrettably found himself sitting in Minerva's office, watching as the deputy headmistress herself smashed several water goblets she used for her second year Transfiguration lessons, then promptly mending them, only to throw them once more at the wall with a very satisfying crash.

Regrettably, it did not seem that this method of anger management was working for Minerva. No, rather, his colleague seemed to grow more and more infuriated as the process went on, jabbing her wand viciously at the goblets, locks of hair escaping her normally tight bun, and a fierce scowl seemingly taking up semi-permanent residence upon her face. Severus pretended not to notice the muttered oaths about foolhardy old men puffed up on their own arrogance and that perhaps a few months as a statue would teach him otherwise, or at least give her an escape from his lunacy for a school year or three.

Severus, himself, had found that engaging in a vicious war with the ancestral home of the Blacks had done much more for cooling his temper - only this morning, he'd incinerated a wardrobe containing a ghoul of some kind - and he found the idea of slowly burning down the wretched house from the inside to be a particular pleasant one. If only he could leave Sirius to burn to ashes with it…

"This is utter lunacy , Severus," Minerva said, the woman whirling around on him, gaze hard, and - unlike all her prior snarls - clearly expecting an answer from him.

He raised an eyebrow. "Have you concluded your temper tantrum then, Minerva?"

The sound that escaped her was the sharp, unhappy hiss of an angered feline, and were she in her other body, he was quite certain she'd have clawed at his eyes. "The danger to the students is utterly unreasonable. We have to convince Albus of that-"

"I doubt Albus will be swayed," he interrupted, and she gave him a fierce glower. He sighed, suddenly feeling as if he had joined Atlas atop his mountain, some sizable portion of the world's weight resting upon his shoulders - though more, likely, was carried upon Albus's and even the twins, though they needn't know this yet - body aching and tired with the effort of it all. "I have placed these same arguments before him, Minerva. It did not make a difference. His mind is set."

"So what?" she asked, waving a hand helplessly. "We do nothing? We allow the endangerment of the students? We watch as he lures Voldemort to a school?" Her voice rose higher and higher as she spoke, and he was quite certain she was well on her way to smashing more porcelain and glass.

"We will not be doing 'nothing.'" The very idea was antithesis to his character; always, always , there was something to be done, if at times not quite as much as he would like. Sometimes, one had to allow the potion to bubble and hope it wouldn't burn over. "We will do as always: watch over the students and sway them from doing anything too dunderheaded, and clean up the mess when they do succumb to their idiocy." And hope. That awful, cursed thing that dwelt at the bottom of Pandora's box.

The look she gave him was not a pleased one. "That's not enough , Severus. I have abided by Albus's other schemes, but this! It's too much! The Board will have to be informed, the other teachers, Merlin, even the Ministry!"

"And Mordicus Gaunt with it?" he countered.

She waved a hand. "He'll hardly be in the position to do anything about it."

The woman had to be daft to believe that - Gaunt had long since manipulated his way into Fudge's trusted circle, likely an easy enough matter with both Lucius Malfoy and Bartemius Crouch Sr. as his patrons - and the look he gave her was appropriately withering. "If the Ministry learns of this matter, then they will insist that it's a French problem and take it up with the ICW, who will be displeased not to have been informed of the theft of such an important relic. Albus will be questioned thoroughly, Hogwarts and the Order will come under scrutiny once more, and in all that chaos, the Stone will disappear properly, most likely stolen by Gaunt himself."

It would be courting disaster to allow such a thing to pass; after all, the only thing worse than a dark lord was a dark lord with immortality. Undoubtedly, if any of the three retrieved the Stone, Albus would expect Severus to endanger himself to steal it back or destroy it, and almost certainly he would be courting death with such blatant treason. Severus much preferred not to die in utter agony, regrettable as it would be to Albus and his grand cause.

Minerva sank slowly into the armchair opposite him, his words finally reaching some small portion of her mind that had not succumbed to her temper. "But why does he have to bring it here ?"

"Because it is the safest place he can think of," he admitted, the words holding only the barest glimmers of truth. Minerva, much like Sirius, much like many in the Order, knew very little about the true hand that the Fates had dealt them all.

"Someone will die."

"Yes, it would not be surprising," Severus replied, and he couldn't stop himself from wondering which of his colleagues - or students - would fail to see out the close of the year. That mountain's weight grew even heavier, and he sagged deeper into his chair, muscles aching. "Albus likely believes the risk to be a necessary sacrifice. One or two lives to ensure the Dark Lord never rises again? It's an easy exchange in his mind."

"It isn't to mine," she murmured.

He gave her a sharp look. "Truly? Are you so certain of that?"

Her expression became pinched. "I will not defend my prior actions, however, that does not change the fact that I refuse to make such bleak exchanges again."

If only Albus - if only Severus - could afford to think in such moral absolutes, yet the choice to be a "good person" had long been robbed from both men. No, Severus was the dark, dour potion's master who knew far too many dark curses to comfort the pure-hearted, and if a few deaths were necessary… It was a choice he would make easily and gladly.

Even if the death were his own.

"Perhaps we should discuss a plan to prevent such eventualities."

Minerva sighed, sagging into her chair. "I suppose it was too much to hope for one year without some of Albus's madness. I swear, he's worse than a Potter."

Severus snorted. "Hardly." He'd take Albus's eccentric lunacy over the sheer chaos of James Potter any day.

"Oh?" Minerva noted, summoning the tea cup she'd discarded upon Severus's revelation - his own cup had remained untouched, he was too certain that his hands would shake should he attempt to lift it, giving away the truth of today's labors. "Have those twins of yours already begun causing some chaos?"

He glowered at her, but she didn't notice, having made the mistake of taking a sip of her tea and was now glowering at the liquid that had long gone cold. "They've behaved perfectly respectably."

"Are you so sure of that?"

Yes, he was; neither girl seemed at all prone to the senior Potter's brashness - by now, he was quite certain that the man would've challenged one of the many monsters at Grimmauld Place or else "accidentally" wandered into one of their dens through his own carelessness - nor did they seem to have any interest in pranks . Instead, the two girls had spent their time locked away in their rooms, reading books or listening to one of the mutt's many tales of their father's school days. Those tales had all been edited, of course, to leave out their own horrific actions towards Severus. It wouldn't do, after all, for them to realize what a sadistic bastard Sirius was, and for now Severus had allowed the man to keep up the illusion. If only to enjoy the look on his face when he eventually shattered it.

Regardless, it would make excellent blackmail for the foreseeable future.

"Remember," Minerva said, seeming to take the extended silence to be an indication of his doubts, "I have taught two Potters, and I went to school with another. Euphemia alone…"

"Euphemia was a Black ," he reminded her.

She jolted at that. "Yes, she was, though her schoolgirl antics rivaled even Fleamont's penchant for misfortune. I swear, that boy was cursed. Naming him Fleamont, and all those accidents… he once turned a desk into a tiger, did I ever tell you? If not for Dorcas, it likely would've taken his head off." She shook her head fondly, smiling at her previously hateful tea. "I expect that's why James was such a menace, the Black Madness and the Potter Luck, even demons would've wept at such a match…"

"As fond as you may be of reminiscing upon the Potters of old," Severus intruded before she could continue down that path - to musings about the twins - "I have little interest in contemplating my schoolyard bully."

"Now, Severus, you can't really-"

"He tormented me." The words tore free, a harsh snarl, and the urge to rip into flesh, for her blood, that bright, brilliant stain across her throat as- He shoved the thoughts away and just barely caught himself from lunging forwards, his fingers digging into the armrest so harshly he knew it would leave a mark behind, and it was so, so hard not to move, to not finish what he'd nearly begun. "For years, he made every day a new misery, and I am quite thankful he is dead," he said, lest the silence linger too long.

"Do you believe that your goddaughters feel the same?" Minerva asked harshly.

"Likely not," he agreed in a voice as cold as hers had been hot, "however, I must say, I believe them to be far better off never knowing the man."

"Severus!" she gasped, appalled.

He rose to his feet, pretending not to notice the look of stern disapproval - the one that recalled his strict Transfiguration professor, not his colleague these past eleven years - and said, "I must be going, Minerva. I have quite a few potions to prepare before the school year recommence, and it seems that Albus is intent on adding to my workload."

She spluttered at the scornful words - spoken in the same disdainful voice he used on many a student - however, before she could muster a proper response, he swept from the office with that dramatic billowing of robes that she so often complained about. He would, after all, most regret it if he ripped out his favorite professor's throat.

The deputy headmistress's office, while traditionally located in upper echelons of the West Towers, had somehow found itself relocated to a hall adjacent to the Transfiguration Corridor five years ago – the fact that the windows continued to overlook the Quidditch pitch a curious peculiarity that most had chosen not to remark upon - and thus, Severus found himself only a few short corridors and a single flight of stairs from his own office. He had never been entirely certain if this proximity was fortuitous or not; on those unfortunate days when his students or, worse, Gaunt , had engaged in some bit of unpleasantness, he could swiftly reach Minerva - Minerva, because Albus was most often away from the castle, especially in these past few years - or in those rare moments when he wished to complain about some lunatic in his potions class, preferably with a bottle of Ogden's Finest. However, this also allowed Minerva to reach him with ease, and the sight of the woman storming into his office, scowling about Gaunt's latest remarks, muttering about foolish students messing about with self-Transfiguration, or any of the dozen other complaints common amongst teachers and, more importantly, Order members, had become an alarmingly frequent occurrence.

It was remarkable the difference that seven long flights of stairs made at Hogwarts.

Of course, unlike other days when he would stride from Minerva's office with the urge to rip and tear, to watch blood bubble up, furious and aching after some careless comments about the now deceased Potter or his friendship with Lily or his never-ending days serving that madman, he was not able to simply settle into brewing mind-numbingly dull potions. No, this summer seemed to be determined to ruin any and all semblance of peace or routine, because somebody was in his office.

Red, red eyes met his own, a smile like the Cheshire Cat's, all malice and flash of white teeth; the man who may or may not be the Dark Lord granted new flesh lounged carelessly behind Severus's desk, in his very own chair, an orb in his hand, memories swirling through it like wisps of smoke and mist. The wards that should have kept any intruder away lay in a tangle all around the edges of the room, threads of intricate, woven magic snipped.

"Hello, Severus," Gaunt said, smile mocking, "I was wondering when, exactly, you had planned to inform me of Dumbledore's curious plan for the Philosopher's Stone?"


1:34 a.m.

12 Grimmauld Place

Avoiding Euphie was far, far harder than Hattie would've expected, and as such, she'd had precious little opportunity to search through the things she'd taken from the Potter Vault. Once upon a time, it would've been a simple matter to divert her sister's attention - the girl did it often enough on her own, hating the stuffy confines of the Cottage and hurrying off as soon as their grandmother was occupied elsewhere, creeping along the rocky creekside and humming some half-forgotten lullaby, slipping to the old tree to talk to the sole serpent clever enough to hide from the old woman, climbing across the uneven rooftop of the little brick cottage. Here, however, the persistent hum of dark hung over the entire house, leaking out from every crooked crevice and forgotten corner, and it had unsettled Euphie enough that she had largely hidden away in their bedroom since their arrival at Grimmauld Place.

It was true enough, Hattie soon discovered, that the house was dangerous; on her second day at 12 Grimmauld Place, there had been that terrible incident with the doxies, and the days following had only provided further proof - a scraping and clattering that came from the fourth floor deep in the night as if some creature was fumbling about for an escape, a cupboard that had drifted open and Hattie had seen something move before Snape had appeared, an entire cabinet filled with "charming little devices", as Mrs. Black had put it, in the drawing room, such as a music box enchanted to drive men to madness.

And then there was the house-elf.

A gnarled, nasty little creature, like an oak tree grown all crooked and knobby, clawing around the other sickly plants for any spare bit of sunlight, Kreacher trailed after Mrs. Black with the same sort of devotion Hattie might expect from a starving animal. He bowed, he scraped, he muttered "yes, mistress" and "it's an honor to serve, mistress", and watched Hattie and Euphie with bright yellow eyes, lurking in dark gloomy corners, once hiding in their wardrobe until Euphie had opened it and screamed so shrilly that Sirius had burst into the room as if expecting to find someone murdering them, another time finding them in the drawing room, looking at the same little photos that Mrs. Black had shown Euphie, and muttering something under his breath and staring until they'd finally escaped the room. Mrs. Black had dismissed him as a "harmless little creature", but Sirius Black gave the house-elf the same sort of looks that he often exchanged with Snape.

It was enough to have Hattie wondering what madness had possessed both Black and Snape, for no one sane of mind could possibly think it reasonable to raise a child in 12 Grimmauld Place. Surely, anywhere else would be better - a shack built deep in woods infested by beasts, a house haunted by a serial killer's ghost, a hovel on the verge of collapsing into the sea. At least then, Hattie wouldn't have her sister hovering over her as if she expected a dead body to appear at any moment, and Hattie would finally have some peace, even that terrible sort of silence that she'd endured in the cellar.

Unfortunately, her sister clung to her as persistently as a barnacle did to a ship, and this strange behavior was only aided by the fact that the days since their arrival at Grimmauld had been spent all but locked in their bedroom. An apparent endeavor by both Black and Snape to protect them from all the dark, deadly trinkets littered across the house, the creatures strange and wicked that haunted all the dark corners, and perhaps even each other, if Snape's pointed remark about "unfortunate elements in the household" was any guess.

In fact, she was rather certain that Black had been tempted to lock their door and hide the key in some unscrupulously secretive place until their eventual departure on September the first, if only to ensure that he needn't concern himself with their well-being – a responsibility that, when reminded of, always made him look vaguely ill. However, the man seemed to be quite aware that if he attempted such a thing, Snape would enact one of the agonizingly vicious murders that he seemed so fond of pondering whenever he looked upon the Animagus.

If only because he finally had the proper excuse to do so.

On the third day, Euphie had, briefly, vanished, off to explore in her boredom, and Hattie had seized on the opportunity to survey the objects she'd secreted away. The book in Latin was set aside, as were the notes for a much similar reason – written in part in Old English or Latin, as well as a fair few strange symbols that seemed vaguely familiar – however there were also those vials of odd dark liquid that did look perhaps a bit different when held up to the light, one had thick lumps within it, another glimmered with veins of silver, and the jewelry box that didn't hold much jewelry at all, only a few gold and ruby brooches, a signet ring too large for a woman's fingers, a collection of delicate pendants of pearl or jewel. One, curiously, had a symbol carved into the stone, and Hattie squinted, trying to see–

Floorboards creaked, faint voices from further down the hallway. Hattie slammed the trunk closed and scrambled back into her chair, plucking up the Potter Grimoire from where she had left it. It was as the door swung open that she realized that she still held the pendant, and she quickly stuffed it into her pocket. Then, Snape and Euphie had entered, and she pretended not to notice.

Unfortunately, between Euphie's mimicry of barnacles, Kreacher's odd proclivity for spying, and the random appearances of other household members, Hattie had received no further chance to look at anything. In any case, Hattie had, instead of searching through her new trinkets, buried herself in the Potter family grimoire, a quirky tome that told over a thousand years of Potter - or Peverell, as they had once been known - history and spell mastery. Pages could be spent discussing deaths, births and marriages, only to be interrupted by a complex runic array for some sort of ritual work, then to shift into a journal entry from a Peverell heir whose family had been slaughter days prior, then onto a catalogue of gory attempts to create a spell to heal internal bleeding. Worse, there was no indexing system in the slightest, only slight notations at the bottom of each page, and the pages seemed to move of their own accord; one day, she had closed the book on an entry discussing potion's research, and opened it to find an account of some battle during the War of the Roses.

It was, perhaps, this frustration that led to the return of one of Hattie's more horrific nightmares. Green light, bright and vivid… a horrible, choked sob…. "stand aside, girl"... laughter, so, so cold… a rip, a scream, something tearing deep inside… And Hattie jerked awake in a cold sweat, gasping for air, choking on sobs, this awful press against her lungs. An ache, as if something had been ripped out out of her chest, a wound hollow and gaping and bleeding, and she couldn't even breathe , not against the pain, air too thick, too heavy-

And then, suddenly, the dark stirred around her, something cold pressed against her chest, and she sucked in a smooth, deep breath of air. Then, another, and a third, and it was so terribly easy, a mockery of before, a reminder that the dreadful dream was not real in the slightest. That of course she could breath, why ever had she been convinced otherwise?

Hattie pretended not to feel the tears on her cheeks; she instead stared up, up, into the darkness that hung over the room, deep black pools lingering atop the wardrobe and underneath the beds and in the corners that the silvery moonlight faltered before, shrank back from or else be consumed. That soft hiss of a thousand, thousand whispers tugged at her, so faint that it seemed almost an illusion, words that she was never meant to hear. The dark was awake, tonight, and it watched her with a thousand unseen eyes, prepared for her dark dreams.

It was the shadows who had woken her, she knew, familiar as they were with the comings and goings of dreams, both bloody horrors and the more fluffy, eccentric dreamings of clouds and sheep and strangeness; tonight had hardly been the first time she'd stirred to find the dark staring back at her. Sometimes, it seemed, they understood her moods and musings more thoroughly than she ever could, and certainly nightmares were nothing exceptionally new to Hattie.

As long as she could recall, she had been plagued with dreams both dreadful and wondrous, fragmented things of screams and blood, frozen tableaus of corpses, and, of course, that bright, vividly green light, again and again; sometimes, she could swear that she recognized the voices, the faces, names on the tip of her tongue, half-forgotten… but, as soon as she tried to draw any real clarity from them, the familiarity slipped away. Like catching whispers.

The very whispers that were, even now, carrying through the shadows around her, growing louder and louder; a hiss, a stir in the darkness, something nudged her, and Hattie barely kept herself from starting.

"What?" she hissed.

The only answer she received was another sharp nudge, pushing her towards the edge of the bed, a clear command to get up, but she hesitated a moment, not entirely certain if she wanted to go creeping about the house in the dead of night… only for the shadows to give her a sharp shove. She tumbled out of the bed, hitting the ground with the decisive sort of thud that reverberated through her body; a soft whimper came from her sister, and Hattie froze.

But Euphie didn't stir, didn't rise from bed; the other girl continued to slumber onwards, and gradually Hattie relaxed. She didn't particularly wish to lie to her sister about the reason she was awake.

The shadows, impatient, gave her another pointed poke, and… "Alright, alright," she mumbled, kicking away the bedding that had tangled around her legs, "I'm moving ." The responding purr was far too self-satisfied for her liking; she muttered several curses under her breath as she crept across the room, the shadows twining around her ankles like Devil's Snare.

She, reluctantly, allowed the shadow to beckon her out into the long, twisted hallway that, by day, seemed to stretch onwards endlessly into the gloom; by night, it was cloaked in a heavy darkness so thick that she couldn't see anything before her… or, almost so, save for that thin trickle of light leaking through a door that had thus far remained firmly shut and locked - Hattie had tried it, that first morning, and received a sharp jolt of electricity for her troubles. Now, however, it was open, just a crack, and voices spilled out into the hallway like water through a cracked glass.

Hesitantly, Hattie drifted closer, footsteps careful and quiet, useless though it would be - Snape's ears were sharp enough to hear even the faintest of creaky floorboards, and only yesterday he had caught her lurking in an alcove near the library, even silent and still as she had been. Tonight, however, with the shadows draped across her like a heavy, wispy cloak, she was certain that he'd notice nothing.

"... cease your useless prattling, Black," came tumbling out into the hallway in that cold, smooth voice of Snape's, only, it didn't quite sound as it usually did, an odd hitch to his breath, a sharply aching note to his words. Almost… pained .

" Useless?" Black repeated in a high, panicked sort of voice as Hattie reached the door and peeked into the room. Only a sliver was visible, black robes and moldy carpet, a shape in those old-fashioned red coats that pureblood fashion adored hovering before the door, hands moving in short, jerky motions. "Forgive me for being a little concerned when you come home covered in blood , Severus!"

"Ah, yes, that," Snape said, leaning back in his chair, and Hattie could just barely glimpse his face, desperately pale, thin lines slicing right by his eye, a trickle of blood sliding down his cheek like a tear. "You needn't worry overly much, Black. I haven't left any corpses behind for your precious Auror Corps to find."

Black sucked in a breath. "I'm not… that isn't… Dammit, Severus! " His hand jerked, fingers twitching in agitation, a motion started and just as quickly aborted. "I'm not worried about bodies , unless it's whether your own will shortly be decorating my house!"

"Wishing to play the part of nursemaid?" Snape replied dryly. "Perhaps hoping to swoop in and rescue the poor maligned Death Eater so that you can forget how dreadful your own life is?"

Black paused. "Well," his voice was soft, a whisper of a breath, in the quiet of the house, "we both have that in common, then, don't we?"

The silence hung between them, thick and heavy. It echoed strangely in her ears, the faint rasp of breaths, the shuffle and scrape of all those slight movements that people could never avoid, the softest of hisses and whimpers as the house stirred and settled again around them, and the darkness felt all the more heavy for it. An almost hum in her ears, the weight of a strange pulsing heartbeat that reverberated through all the gloomy corridors and grim rooms, the faintest taste of decay on the tip of her tongue, that odd ever-watching presence tickled at her mind like the house itself was a living thing, an eternal witness to all the foul characters that wandered its halls.

But… that way lies madness.

"So," Black's voice was a harsh rasp in the former quiet, a jagged slice across the throat, "are you going to let me help you, or do you plan to bleed out across Great Aunt Elladora's favorite chair?"

A pause, a rasp of breath, then, "There's Blood-Replenishing Potion in the secretary."

Black snorted. "Only you would keep potions in your bedroom." Then, Black strode away from the door, fumbling with something out of sight, a clatter of cabinet doors; Hattie couldn't bring herself to care at all about what Black was doing because she had suddenly found herself with an unimpeded view of Snape.

He had tossed away his outer robes, the frock coat, all those dramatically flaring lairs of clothing that had apparently been disguising precisely how skinny the man was - without them, he looked rather skeletal, as if someone had animated a particularly emaciated corpse and taken to puppeteering it around. That, however, was not the most concerning part. No, that would be the blood soaking through his white shirt, plastering it to his skin where it had not been torn into thin scraps, it would be how his hand trembled horribly as he waved his wand about in slow, steady motions, knitting up flesh sliced clean open, hiding bloody insides and for a horrible moment Hattie thought that she'd glimpsed his intestines. It was suddenly, startlingly clear why Black had been so worried.

Hattie would be, too, if someone came to her with their insides tumbling out of their body.

"The black vial, too," Snape told Black, giving another sharp flick of his wand, and all the blood vanished from him. "It's unlabeled."

"A Stasis Charm, Snape?" Black stepped back into view, holding several more vials and bottles of potions than Snape had asked for, and inspected a slim black vial that shimmered strangely in the light. "Why would you…" He trailed off, then, and went almost as pale as Snape as he looked closer at the vial. "Oh."

Snape snatched the vial from him. "Yes, Black, oh ." He downed the strange potion without so much as a glance at the vaguely sickened expression on Black's face. "If that will be all…"

"No, actually." There came the faint tinkle of glass as Black set down the other potion bottles. "You still haven't told me who did this to you."

Snape watched him, eyes half-closed, a strange smirk on his face. "I have no need of a hero to defend my honor. Needless to say, the matter has been dealt with, and it is doubtful it will occur again."

"Then… is there a body, Severus?"

"There are a great many bodies floating around the isles at my hand, Black." Snape gave a careless wave of his hand, the motion remarkably similar to Mrs. Black's; he was deflecting, Hattie was suddenly certain, distracting Sirius Black with an obvious reminder of his mother, with words meant to imply that Snape had committed a murder tonight. "What's one or two more in the grand scheme of things?"

That did not answer Black's question, but the wizard didn't seem to realize it, letting out a sharp breath of air. "Snape, you can't just go around killing people . The aurors will catch on eventually if all your enemies start dropping dead."

"I hardly doubt I am fortunate enough for all of my enemies to die tragically," Snape replied blandly, "but perhaps the greater ones? I could only hope to be so lucky."

"Should I worry, then, that Malfoy or Rowle will have been found dead in their homes by morning?" Black all but snarled out.

"I think that perhaps you should leave me to my own business," Snape said. "After all, don't you have your own murder to plan? Or has Pettigrew suffered his own tragic accident already?"

Black jerked back as if struck with a Bludgeoning Hex, sucking in a sharp breath, and for a moment he only gaped at Snape. "I'm not… that isn't –"

The look Snape gave him could only be described as mocking . "Oh, are you still deluding yourself into believing that you'll 'capture Pettigrew alive' like the noble hero that Potter always believed you to be?" He leaned forwards, voice lowering so that Hattie only barely caught his next words. "I think we both know how untrue that is, don't we, Black ?"

For a terrible, terrible moment, neither of them moved. Then, finally, Black jerked, stumbling backwards in this awkward movement, lacking all of his usual grace, and snarled, "If I'm a monster, Snape, what precisely does that make you?"

"I never said that I wasn't one." Snape's eyes glimmered like black jewels in the shadowy room. Death Eater. Murderer. Spy. And, as Hattie was only now beginning to realize, a truly spectacular liar. "I've merely found a more practical outlet for my more murderous tendencies than you."

A strange sound came from Black's throat, almost like a snarl, an angry dog's growl, and the look on his face, twisted in some strange way, eyes almost glowing a pale silver, teeth white and harsh and sharp … if Black truly were an animal, Hattie would be worried that he planned to sink his teeth into Snape, rip him apart. "Fuck you, Snivellus."

Snape merely raised an eyebrow. "Feeling a little guilty, Black? Fifteen years is a rather long while, I suppose, but it's better-"

"Confringo!"

A blast of orange slammed into the wall beyond Snape, missing his head by a hair's breadth. There came a great bang , a crunch; the painting of some wintery forest had exploded, and now glass tumbled down onto the dresser with a soft tinkle, shards glittering in the candlelight. And Snape…

Snape hadn't moved, not in the slightest; jewel-bright eyes surveyed the wand still pointed at his head with the sort of bored indifference one might grant a spider, leg broken, struggling to move. "You missed."

The words seemed to echo across the room, you missed , sharp and mocking, and Black sucked in a sharp breath, harsh in the stillness. You missed . And, Merlin , what if he hadn't? But Hattie knew: Snape would be dead. Killed, the harsh crack of his skull, blood splattered across the room… Suddenly, she felt sick.

"Next time…" Black rasped out, voice trembling. "Next time, Snivellus, I won't."

Then, Black rounded on his heel, and… Next time I won't … Had Black really just implied that he wanted to murder Snape? We're both monsters here, Snape's earlier words had seemed to imply, and from Black's behavior, suddenly, Hattie didn't think she could disagree.

So distracted was she that she didn't realize, not until Black thrust open the door with a harsh crash , that he'd been striding right towards her. A tiny gasp escaped her as she met Black's eyes, but he didn't so much as blink at her appearance, gliding straight past her and down the stairs almost as if… Almost as if he didn't see her .

Trembling, she glanced over at Snape; the man seemed as oblivious to her presence, surveying the still-open door with a pensive frown. Then, with a flick of his wrist, wand suddenly in hand - and, really, if he could move that fast, why hadn't he blocked Black's spell - the door clicked shut. The lock scraped a moment later.

Hattie stared at the door for several long moments, their words tumbling through her head. Feeling guilty, Black… killing people… tragic accident… Pettigrew… covered in blood. Her stomach twisted - "I've merely found a more practical outlet for my more murderous tendencies than you" - and suddenly, she understood precisely why the shadows had wanted to show her this.

Who , she would wonder, deep into the night, staring at her ceiling, having abandoned any attempts at sleep, did Sirius Black murder?