Snape slipped away from the party after one drink. He found no need to stand around not talking to anyone when St. Ange was captured in conversation by Sprout and Flitwick on the ethics of mistletoe charms. As the evening progressed, or regressed as it were, professors began to saunter down to their quarters.

As St. Ange descended the stairs from the tower, she felt a presence behind her.

"Professor Snape," she said quietly as her pace did not falter, "still on your patrols, I gather?"

Snape adjusted his stride to match hers and was more than ready to rewrite recent history, "a quick glass of mulled wine as I cleared the Astronomy Tower served merely as a short break."

"I see." She sensed he'd been waiting for her.

"And you're off to your quarters, I'd gather," he stared ahead as she kept the pace brisk, if wobbly. "Can't have anyone skulking about the corridors this late."

"I didn't know teachers were assigned patrols—"

"Only the capable ones."

"I also can't help but sense you're suspicious of me, as if you think I'm not going to get to my rooms. Or perhaps it's just an overall air of incompetence I exude?"

"You seem imply that I'm spending every waking moment thinking about you," he quickly countered, "it is my duty to ensure you're seen to your door."

"And this concierge service you extend to all of your coworkers?"

"Just the ones who seem to require it."

They started to climb the stairs to Ravenclaw tower.

"They put you up here?" Snape couldn't help but ask.

"Yes—I'm residing in the Ravenclaw staff wing, but McGonagall quickly threw me a Gryffindor scarf so I could sit with her at matches. It doesn't matter. I'm a Wampus myself, but I know the whole house thing is utter bullshit. Is it true some graduates put houses on their CVs? What nonsense."

Still a little tipsy, he observed. Snape paused, saying nothing. The Wampus, signifying the body of the witch… The warrior, he mused. Or perhaps she was right; perhaps it was bullshit.

"Well, this is me," she gestured toward the oaken door at the end of the hall, "my aerie, as it were. The escort was unnecessary, but I suppose I can thank you for it."

St Ange took an unsteady step forward and, under the power of four full glasses of mulled wine, her ankle rolled. She caught herself before face-planting, but Snape reacted to her stumble and held out his hand to catch her. His fingertips had barely grazed the front of her robes before he withdrew his hand entirely. The moment, only lasting a fraction of a second, forced his heart into overdrive. Thank Merlin he'd avoided the humiliation of actually making contact.

Bracing herself against the door frame and wincing at her ankle, St. Ange let her gaze linger on him. Snape was a puzzle to her, but with the dementors lurking and her patronus feeble at best, she felt safe with him.

A flicker of some impassive emotion passed through his eyes before he could restrain it. He then found his voice: "Friday then—don't be late."

"See you Friday. Good night, Professor Snape," she murmured as she slipped behind the door.

He was silent, lingered nearby for a moment as he felt the ward go up on the other side of the door. He then finally allowed himself a full breath before striding off into the corridor's darkness.

That Friday was Halloween. It came with storm clouds and more murmurs of Sirius Black, and as St Ange arrived at Snape's office at 3:55, he immediately noted her flustered appearance as he opened the door for her.

"I must speak to you about Draco Malfoy," she declared as she sat in the chair across from his desk and began pulling out her notebooks, irritated as only a teacher could be at the end of a Friday.

Snape inwardly groaned, running a hand across his eyes, "what about him? I'm sure he's a veritable cherub in your class. Don't tell me he's…challenging you?"

"That's exactly what he's doing!" St. Ange huffed, "at every turn—"

"Unsurprising."

"What do you mean?"

He didn't want to say, well look at you—he can't take you seriously. "I can't imagine what he learns at home aligns with any of the themes of your class."

"He's combative, disruptive—he silences other students to get them to stop voicing their opinions."

"Draco has been coddled and allowed to lie fallow in equal measures throughout his life so far," Snape rolled his eyes, "he's the heir to the Malfoy fortune, and he's never been challenged, and he's experienced little adversity, if at all. I'll speak to him—and don't mention this to anyone."

"Why? I feel McGonagall should know as deputy headmistress—"

"Leave it to me. As head of his house."

Snape found the idea of explaining his outward affinity mixed with inward resentment for Draco exhausting just then. It was better to leave it where it lay.

"Thank you." St Ange regarded him.

"And in the meantime—learn classroom management skills."

She bristled, "well, I don't seem to have much difficulty in my other sections—"

Snape lifted an eyebrow at her, "it's already the end of October. That means the time has passed for you to have established any dominance. Chances are, Draco is now in charge of that particular class. Third years with Gryffindors, correct?"

"Yes—"

Snape sneered at the thought, "I think they have potions right before your class."

"They do," St Ange sat back, comfortably, her urgency on this other matter seeming to make herself at home, "and beyond Draco—Professor Snape, I must say Neville Longbottom has entered my class from yours in absolute tears more than once—"

Snape's eyes flashed with unmitigated irritability, "Longbottom is growing to be a complete loss. He needs to get his head on straight and grow up before he blows up my lab with his gross incompetence."

"But he's just a kid—"

"He's 13 years old, for Merlin's sake! He needs to understand the consequences of his lack of ability. Sink or swim. Have you come here early today to critique my teaching? You—a professor who has, what, nearly eight weeks of practical experience?"

"I was a teaching assistant in graduate school," St. Ange returned, "I have three years—"

"Doesn't count," he waved his hand, "until you get three years of teaching these hopeless cases like Longbottom, you don't get to have a say in how I teach."

"He was in tears because he was nearly finished with a potion when you cut him off—"

Snape cut her off, "he needs to learn time management skills. How else is he going to do that?"

"By you guiding him!"

"Ridiculous. Do you think he'll get a hand to hold in the real world? I show these students the harsh realities of what they'll need to face!"

"You don't think he's already had to face harsh realities, knowing what happened to his parents?!" St Ange shot up from her chair, quill and ink flying, and slammed her hands on his desk. The color in her cheeks made him freeze for a moment.

As quickly as it had happened, she composed herself and cast a trembling cleansing charm for the ink. She lifted her papers and quill and laid them back on the desk, speaking in a soft voice and avoiding his gaze, "I don't know what came over me," she did know, "I'm sorry."

"Perhaps we should continue syllabus planning when you're feeling…less emotional?" Snape couldn't help but throw the jab, like a reflex. She reddened, and he shifted in his seat.

"No—I can handle it," she exhaled, and caught his gaze for a quiet moment, unable to decide if opening up to him would soften him or give him ammunition. St Ange felt like experimenting (or maybe it was straight up courting humiliation, she couldn't tell).

She took a deep breath and centered herself before speaking in a low voice.

"My father was tortured by Death Eaters."

Snape remained silent, truly taken aback.

"He survived," she closed her eyes, steeling herself, "…was saved by our coven's rescue party but when he returned…he…"

Snape could fill in the blanks. The effects of the cruciatus were long lasting and devastating. "How old were you?"

"Fourteen when he came home. Fifteen when he died."

Snape quickly did the math in his head; he couldn't remember anyone by the name of St Ange under the Death Eaters' wands; there had been Americans, but his memories were either bottled or occluded and these days…but mention of a rescue party…it was hard to recall what had been real and what had merely been nightmares. But then, was she lying? Was this a trick? A ploy…?

St Ange searched his face, seeing the wheels turn, "I'm sure you have questions."

Snape gave a half shrug. He did. He had many.

"Your last name—then—"

She gave a sad smile, "I use my mother's maiden name. When I moved over here for the ministry job. I use it exclusively, so I don't bring the attention of any former Death Eaters."

Your mother's maiden name. He nodded.

"Ultimately, I'm not sure if it worked. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, they say, right?"

Snape stared at her, silent. It seemed every other thing she said was a sphinxian riddle. Was she toying with him…? Or did she truly not know…

"But my patrilineal line is Fontenot."

And then everything clicked. "Your father was René Fontenot."

She nodded, eyes wide. Her father's reputation was known amongst potions masters.

Snape recalled the night now. Mulciber and Yaxley were given the mission to kidnap an American apothecary famous for a proprietary love potion. They brought him back to Britain and attempted to torture the family recipe out of him. But the New Orleans coven came in, flanked by the Order, and laid waste to the East Wing of Malfoy Manor in the process. Snape never had time to truly grapple with having a hand in torturing a fellow potions master, let alone a respected one in the field. Part of that night was blacked out from his mind's eye, but it came charging back, uncontrolled and vivid.

"I imagine they wanted the potion—" Snape's eyes hazed with flashes of that nightmarish scene. The blood. The screams. The way Fontenot's mouth gaped open in writhing pain, blood trickling from his eyes—Snape's own words were stirring up the sights, the sounds, the smells from that wretched night. He was back there again, his heart started to thrum against his ribcage. He threw his shields up quickly before the images evolved. Twelve years out of regular practice had its downsides…

"The Sha," St Ange said, "yes. Voldemort wanted to get his hands on the recipe to corrupt it for mind control."

Snape knew the whole story; he'd been at the forefront of that potions research.

He found his voice whispering, as if disembodied, "can you brew it?"

"Of course," she said, "every generation knows. Though our numbers are dwindling these days. So if I am called to brew, I must return to New Orleans. It's rare, however. Special cases only."

He sat forward, his eyes fixed on her. The ritual. The Death Eaters had tried to figure it out, Snape had researched and had plans to journey to New Orleans until everything fell apart, but this was the missing piece.

"And no, I can't say how," she let out a small chuckle, a streak of sadness running through it. "Family secret."

Snape immediately was hit with shame. Shame for the urge to uncover this mystery that had lain dormant, unsolved. He was better than that, for wanting to know. Or, at least he'd hoped he was. The Sha potion wasn't the Dark Arts—far from it, but there had been a whole plan to twist it, to use it for atrocities. Still, he was engulfed in these unresolved feelings he couldn't quite define. And René Fontenot's face had made regular occurrences in his nightmares, right alongside all the others.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, cursing at himself that his voice was unsteady.

St Ange jolted at his sudden quiet demeanor; this seismic shift had come out of absolutely nowhere, "Professor Snape, what for?"

He didn't have words.

"The anger never goes away," she admitted, more to herself, "but…I can't change it. I can only do my best to carry on my legacy."

He only nodded.

"…And exact revenge on all remaining former Death Eaters."

"W—what?"

"I—bad joke—I'm kidding," St Ange winced, "bad joke. It's not like I have a list. I don't even know their names. I use humor to—never mind…anyway, I think that's why I was drawn to the open position at the ministry: Knowing that there's nearly no regulation of love potions in a country that harbors former Death Eaters? It's astounding to me. I can work to do good—or that's how I felt at the start…but maybe I can do more good here at Hogwarts."

Snape quickly trained his face to stone, "ah—precisely."

Silence hung between them for maybe a few more moments than cordially comfortable. The trauma lay around them, pulsating, stained, still in the room, always ready to be resurrected by a random thing.

"Well—that was a tangent," St. Ange sighed, gazing down at her notes. Snape clocked how easily she seemed to switch back to perceived composure and saw that her hands still trembled. She cleared her throat with some trouble: "So—needless to say, I relate to Longbottom."

Snape gazed at her, searching her face. He pledged to himself to never mention Longbottom to her again. Avoid whatever look that was there in her eyes altogether. It would be simpler.

Cleaner.

"The 1944 veritaserum case study, then," Snape shifted, "I think it would be a good opportunity to assign them some lines of analysis to end the unit."

"I agree," St. Ange emitted a stronger exhale than she intended, her nerves still on edge, "and with the lab session, the lecture, and the class discussion groups, I'd say that gives us a good structure for the overall course going forward."

It had taken three sessions, a rehashing of traumatic history, and about four and a half arguments, but they were making progress with the syllabus.

Snape could only agree with her, but somehow it irked him. His teeth wanted to chatter, his knee wanted to bounce, but he stilled himself at all costs. What he'd done to her father- "Indeed."

She nodded, checking her notes, "Amortentia, then."

A banging on the door jolted St Ange. Before she could discern what was happening, she felt Snape's hand grip her wrist, and she was up, out of the chair, as he yanked her behind him. In a thunderously low voice, he demanded to know the source of the noise.

"Severus! It's Filius!" Came the reply.

Snape, wand drawn, opened the door. "What news? Black?"

Flitwick nodded, eyes like saucers, "word from the headmaster—we're going into lockdown. Everyone needs to move to the Great Hall for head counts. Dumbledore is assigning—"

"Yes, Yes, Filius, I've got it. I'll be up in just a moment," Snape waved him on, and the Charms professor took a glance at St Ange, who was all but enveloped by Snape's cloak, and dashed down the hall to round up his own house.

It was then that Snape realized he still had his hand like a vise around St. Ange's wrist. He relinquished his grip suddenly, "I must escort the students—"

"Of course—I can assist," she said immediately, but pulled her hand to her chest, rubbing the spot where his fingertips had pressed into her skin.

"Fine—don't get in the way." He held the door open for her as they left his office.

She blinked, "I'll have you know I can cast basic defensive shields, at least. I'm not a hopeless academic."

"Remains to be seen," he muttered, dashing down the hall and to the Slytherin common room.

"I require everyone's attention at once!" Snape's voice was not loud, but it broke into the room like a gong. All students focused on him without delay. "There is an active threat to the school. Your very lives are in peril. Follow my orders exactly, keep silent, and we'll make it safely to the Great Hall. There's no time to grab belongings. Fall in."

Within moments, he'd had all Slytherin students congregate obediently, and they were moving out in an orderly group. Snape assigned St. Ange to walk in the back to ensure everyone stayed together.

As they made their way upstairs, Snape glanced back and caught sight of St. Ange heading up the rear with Honoria Greengrass, a petrified waif of a first-year. He watched as the professor clasped her hand around the trembling girl's shoulders, guiding her gently up the dungeon stairs. He quickly turned, scanning the halls ahead—but listened as she quietly encouraged the students to find a buddy and watch after them—and to keep quiet.

As the Slytherin house filed into the Great Hall, Snape stepped in front of St. Ange, eager to unleash once they were alone, "I explicitly told everyone to stay silent as we walked through the halls for their safety. I do not appreciate you giving further instructions that present my students with an explicit example of the very defiance of my orders."

"I was only trying to help—Greengrass was terrified—the way you barked at them to get in line was too—"

"Irrelevant, they're not your house—"

"But they're my students." She protested with an incredulous smile.

Snape gazed at her, pausing a moment. No, no, no—

He exhaled; there was no fucking time for this.

They were met with hushed chaos in the Great Hall, with the houses convening and doing head count charms. Prefects darting around, Filch pacing, impotent, and McGonagall conversing quietly with Dumbledore.

"Severus—" Dumbledore called, jolting him from his thoughts—and off he went. St Ange turned her focus to the students and jumped in to help distribute supplies. It was five hours until lights out, but dinner would be sandwiches and butterbeer, cross-legged on sleeping bags.

Once sleeping arrangements were established (much to the chagrin of weary professors), St Ange joined Vector and Sinistra in casting some reinforcing shield charms on the Great Hall while Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape secured the doors. Others were keeping students calm and organizing food distribution charms. All professors then convened in a circle to decide shifts and sleeping arrangements. The students, to their credit, were quiet, obedient, eyes everywhere and whispers nonstop. Soon, the denizens of Hogwarts were as settled as they could be for the night.

As the vaulted ceiling gave way to the Milky Way, midnight arrived, and St Ange found refuge in a camping bed set aside for faculty in the far corner of the room, by the Ravenclaws. Her mind couldn't stop racing, the tasks had been keeping her busy, but now when it was time to rest, she felt electrified. She didn't sleep well but managed two hours or so before awaking and accepting a cup of hot tea from Sprout. Herbal. To calm everyone, she suspected. St. Ange held the cup silently to Pomona, in a small gesture of cheers.

St Ange saw Snape standing guard by the doors, pretending he hadn't just been staring at her. She grabbed a second cup of tea, and went over, "when is your sleeping shift?" she asked.

"I've elected to forego rest tonight," he replied, "I don't require it."

She furrowed her brow in disbelief, "that's absurd. How can you recharge?"

"I don't require it."

"Yes, you do."

"…no. I don't."

"Come on," St Ange nodded toward her designated camp bed.

"I am integral to the—"

"You'll be integral to nothing if you're sleep walking. Come on."

"What, is this a mothering session?" He muttered quietly but followed her. Snape didn't want to escalate to another argument—not in front of students. He would never be able to live the spectacle down. But he'd also be damned if he actually slept in front of them—or anyone, for that matter. He made a major concession by sitting on the camp bed and holding the cup of tea like a prop for several minutes.

But why was he doing this? To prove something? To demonstrate to St. Ange that he was agreeable? Capable of following directions? He couldn't decide. His mind started to churn as he gazed at her while she took her post across the room, gazing out over the sleeping student population. He was good in acute emergencies; it was the time immediately afterward where he had trouble coming down. He glanced at the pillow beside him, still indented from her head lying there.

Snape loathed Sirius Black beyond measure. Black had been, to him, the catalyst that had shattered Snape's life irrevocably. And as he trained his eyeline to St Ange across the room, the voice in his head, perennially critical and anguished, echoed, "well, you can at least keep her safe from him."

But Snape quickly silenced his head and found him sipping the tea. Far too much chamomile for his discerning palate—but that was Sprout for you.

The next morning, before dawn, the faculty rose, silently groaning, to prepare for the day. Once it was obvious that Black had not laid waste, it was deemed safe that everyone could return to their dormitories and after a quick breakfast, the students were ushered out. St Ange, now the de facto Slytherin house mother, wordlessly volunteered to guide the students back to their common room with Snape. She got a quick, unexpected hug from Honoria before the girl flitted off to her dorm.

Snape called to St Ange as she was headed back up the stairs.

"A word, if you will, professor."

"Of course," she replied, waiting on the second step. What type of feedback would she receive now? Her tiredness made her coil at the ready.

Snape came to her, "the… the tea—the…I…"

She pursed her lips to keep from smiling but couldn't stop her eyebrows from arching in smug surprise. "Don't mention it."

"Sleep eludes me," he blurted in a low voice.

St Ange paused, surveying him as the satisfaction disappeared from her face. More data. "And I'm sure to allow your eyes to close in front of that many people turns your stomach."

Snape was shocked. The feeling that she had cast some sort of enchantment on him flickered in his mind again. The vibe was eerie. Suspicious.

St. Ange turned back and started her way up the stairs, calling over her shoulder, "thank fucking Merlin it's Saturday. I'm going to crash into my bed. That cot made my lower back burn."

He said nothing still. But then she paused, as if she could feel his eyes on her (her lower back, to be specific) and turned back to him, descending a few steps. She cleared her throat to gain his attention. "And—one request."

"Yes?"

"Let's pledge to stick to just discussing the course planning during our sessions. No other topics. I think we work better that way."

"Agreed." Snape answered with unbridled immediacy.

And they held to it, so much so that the planning sessions over the next several weeks were silent, measured, and entirely fruitful. They didn't exchange pleasantries. They didn't trade gossip points. And they didn't talk about their lives. They kept their heads down and worked.

St. Ange was grateful for this aspect of Snape. He knew how to get things done, and she found that by week six of their arrangement, she was looking forward to the quiet hour between four and five on Fridays. And Snape breathed more deeply, eager to tell himself that there was nothing left to worry about.