TN_ Chapter 28.

End of Summer 1994.

(18)

Anne stared at Rose's room around her, struggling to come to terms with yet another vivid nightmare. She was still too frightened to get up, so she hid under the bedsheet and listened to that strange rhythmical tapping. It took her a minute to realise she'd heard an old typewriter, which meant that Rachel was finally all right.

When she mustered the courage to brave the world, pulling the curtains off a lazy August afternoon, she silently cursed Snape's name again. Because ever since he'd suffered her unforeseen hysteria with surprising grace, her dreams filled with horrible scenarios about his revenge, beginning with him criticising the base she brewed for Bert, through straight out cursing her with a strange spell that felt like flames, to this last piece of her mind's twisted entertainment: Making her pull cards from a tarot deck until the whole Major Arcana was levitating around her in a room that looked like outer space, waiting for her to match all to astrological symbols and the elements while a goblin-sized Trelawney repeated the question: Who did you have in mind for the reading?

Anne lifted her wand to cast Tempus, then put it down again to dig out the alarm clock from under her pillow instead. Shite. Two hours earlier, she was supposed to rise and take Rachel for their usual walk… now she was happy if she wasn't late. St. Mungo's weeks rotated her to the night shifts again, messing up every sense of time in the world but her own little bubble.

She only recalled the date in the Wizarding Hospital, trying to find out why the staff was so sparse: It was the 25th. All living souls were either at the Quidditch World Cup or gathered in the Leaky Cauldron to listen to the commentaries through the Wizarding Wireless. She could also hear Ludo Bagman's subdued voice from under the Entrance Witch's desk in the Hall.

Effie Brown walked up to the Alchemy Room with mixed feelings. On the one hand, she was glad she had managed to force out a promise from Caleb that he wouldn't go near the game, but on the other hand, she hoped Snape was right about dismissing Duvessa's warnings. Which would mean she was to shovel Thestral dung within a week. There was no way he would let her impertinence go, and rightfully so. She couldn't fathom what had come over her in Nottingham, even if she hadn't said anything that didn't bother her.

There was this strange thing about Snape: she either did not talk to him at all, or she opened her mouth, and all her problems and fears just fell out uncontrollably. It probably had to do something about her particular way of growing up. Whenever she'd had a problem too serious to solve alone, the man had just been there. Now, she knew more about him than she was ready for, and this openness had to cease!

Effie stepped into the Brewing Room, dismissing all thoughts that didn't belong to this part of her life. She took the tray Bert readied for the Thickey Ward and climbed up to the fourth floor. Wiz-nurse Debra Bauble was glued to the wizarding wireless and hardly spared the time to sign the parchment she pushed under her hand.

Alchemy Room again, and touring the Poisons Ward. Apprentice Lovehex, at least, was his usual sober self, busy with the paperwork after a hectic morning.

From the Alchemy Room to the Bugs Ward. She wondered how her hips looked so curvy on Duvessa if she had this daily training. Life was unjust. Mediwizard Spleen leaned above the Wireless with his Apprentice and Wiz-nurse Prix. The picture was almost serendipitous.

Walking down to the A-Room again, she heard a sudden cry from an upper level. Effie hurried back to the Thickey Ward, where Wiz-nurse Bauble gave up her spot by the radio to calm down an old wizard, who stood with hands and legs spread to the four compass points and chanted on the corridor about imminent deaths by fire and rage.

"Get the stretcher!" – wiz-nurse Bauble cried to Effie and lifted her wand.

"And there will be fire and soldiers of the night… And what had been will be… The forgotten be remembered… And the damned will rise!"

Effie manoeuvred the stretcher behind the Prophet, and Wiz-nurse Bauble sent the wizard spread-armed onto it with a well-aimed Somnus.

"Sweet holy Merlin in his cave!" – Bauble sighed. "Good job, Brown! He hasn't been at it since the Holyhead Harpies played against the Tutshill Tornados in that hailstorm!"

"Is he really a seer?" – Effie looked at the wizard. Now that he had calmed, she recognised him as the peaceful inmate who couldn't be trusted to look after himself.

"Depends on your approach," – Bauble told her. "Apparently, he does see things, but whether those are nightmares or the future is always doubtful." With that, she navigated the prophet back to his room, and it was easy to sense she hardly waited to return to the wireless.

Effie started for the A-Room again, this time getting the tray for the Venoms Ward. From here, the Artefact Accidents were only a few steps on the same level. Anne decided to sit around and cut some Goosegrass for Bert as a rest.

"News?"

Effie regaled the Prophet's newest prediction up in the Thickey and let Bert chew on the gossip.

"If you hear something about the Irish, I wouldn't mind being told about that too," – he told her when she was about to leave.

"Why don't you tap on the wireless like the others?"

"Nah, it destroys my focus. There's not much chance against the Bulgarians anyway… with Krum and all…" – Bert shrugged and dutifully pulled out a cooled base to proceed.

Mediwizard Dagworth was elbow-deep in a middle-aged witch's spleen, where—by some untold miracle—a petrified toad was lodged. Imogene had no time to direct her when Effie approached with the potion tray, so she was stuck with Apprentice Blatant.

They had yet to finish going through the ward when word came around about the Irish winning the Final. The next hour or so was spent by all conscious inmates and the staff discussing Krum's manoeuvre in detail, which saved face for the Bulgarians. Anne—Effie—slipped into the A-Room.

"The Irish won," – she dutifully reported.

"Really?" – Apprentice Wiggins perked up, then soon was lost again between the two enormous copper cauldrons that divided his attention.

Effie looked up the schedule and set the ingredients for the Eye-Cleaning Drops and the Wiggenweld Potion on two separate trays.

"We're out of pre-made base," – Bert mentioned. "D'you wanna try your hand?" His half-grin and cheeky tone first made Anne believe he was pulling her leg. But Effie was different. She noticed Bert wasn't looking up from his brewing, and she knew Sheambaum enough to suspect it was a test.

"For pro-actives or the counteractive potions?"

Bert finally straightened and looked at her. "Can you do both?"

Effie got down to the preparations by the smaller counter with a grin. She had no idea how long it took and only had a shallow hunch about the discussion around her when Mediwizard Sheambaum popped in sometime in the process. Still, when the Apprentice began his inspection with tongue in his cheek, she was proud enough to face whatever teasing she had to endure.

Unfortunately, the door tore open instead, and Frank appeared, demanding her presence at the Emergency Ward. Before they ran down the stairs, Bert's door was already attacked by two other wiz-nurses, and Anne sensed their horror just like Frank's weariness. The terror and agony hit her from the Ground Floor, too. She grabbed Frank's uniform sleeve before he could disappear in the chaos.

"What the hell happened?!"

Witches and wizards filled the Artefact Accidents Ward, even waiting on stretchers in the corridor. Some moaned in pain, and most were in silent shock.

"The World Cup was attacked. No one knows the details, but there was fire," he told her. "Imogine is in the fourteenth. She coordinates. Go to her!"

Anne was told her first concern should be a family of four tramped through by the mob in their sleep. The father bitterly regretted his cheap choice in a tent, so she tricked him into consuming some Calming Draughts before she tended to the older kid – a boy just above ten – and his broken leg. The Skele-Gro would hurt him, so she cast Somnus, then aided the mother, who couldn't stand the sight of her son going limp in her arms as he dozed off.

"I promise, he's only sleeping," – Anne answered the unspoken fears and cast the Diagnostic Charm over the witch. "You should have told me your stomach hurt!"

"See to my daughter!"

Anne clearly sensed that the little girl—about eight, with golden locks—had no greater problem than the fright, but she obediently leaned over her to soothe the mother. She applied Bruise Salve to her shoulder and sent her to sleep.

"Your spleen seems to have been torn, Madame. I cast a Stasis Charm on it so the Mediwizard can see you when he gets here. Please don't worry! You're through the worst."

"You don't understand!" – Her calming words fell off the witch without effect. "He's back! I saw them! My husband is Muggle-born!"

Anne stopped to stare at her. "What are you talking about? Who is back?"

"He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named! I saw his followers!"

It felt like her heart paused, but then it ran amok to compensate for the moment.

The Dark Lord was back?

Health and self-defence made Effie shake her head, and she changed direction. This witch obviously needed a Calming Draught, maybe Ubbly's Oblivious Unction from the Thikey Ward… she forewent the Stasis Charm and cried out for Apprentice Blatant instead.

She promised the witch, "Soon you'll be fit for a Calming Solution," and explained to Blatant about the torn spleen and the need for other medication. However, most of the wounded shared that strange witch's delusions!

Death Eaters! He had returned!

Anne closed off all the nonsense and focused on the burnt wounds. She couldn't miss a spot with the salve and had to clear all remnants of clothing from the damaged skin. Such injuries also hurt like hell, and after the twentieth, the Empath's senses threatened to go overdrive.

"Don't mind me, miss! It doesn't hurt anymore. Go, see to the wounded!" – an older wizard in a peculiarly floral nightshirt nursed his damaged beard and only felt saddened in the magic around him.

Anne took a look at his blackened legs and left side and touched about him with stretched-out senses. The sadness was palpable, and she also felt the cool touch of shock, but strangely, it was hard to point out the wizard's form in magic. As if the border between man and magic blurred… a peculiar sensation… like the wizard's magic was dissolving into the greater…

Anne looked up, and his eyes were already closed. "Sir, you must not fall asleep now! I need you alert to help me!"

The wizard sighed, and his face became calm and carefree. When Anne touched into magic, she couldn't sense his anymore. There was neither worry nor sadness, only a quiet gush of air… then nothing.

"Sir, look at me! Sir! Ennervate!"

She felt a touch on her shoulder. It was Mediwizard Dagworth. "Go to the eighth," he nodded toward the next door. There was nothing else he said, but he looked so solemn that Anne finally understood.

"No!"

Marcus swallowed hard and looked around the room as if he didn't know what to say next. "Go to the eighth," – he eventually repeated.

Someone had the good sense to call in the teams of other rotations, currently not on duty, but most were either stuck at the World Cup, wounded themselves, or chose to stay and help out on the field. Effie struggled to imagine how Bert kept up with the potion demands, but she saw two wiz-nurses and a Mediwizard Port-keying away with potion kits, and they were also supplied. And the patients kept coming, carried by a relative or sent via Port-key, and later through the Floo.

The two happy jocks in the eighth were quickly sorted. Twisted ankles and cuts were no challenge; the bruised Germans out in the corridor got a Salve, and the burnt-armed witch in the second room was more worried about her lost relatives than her damaged limb… And so Effie made her way through the army of patients like everybody else. Unthinking and practical.

But the Entrance Hall slowly turned into a temporary ward. Assistant nurses marched through it with lifted wands, conjuring stretchers. She was in the second row, lifting the most heavily wounded and beginning their treatment. She marvelled at the bravery of these witches and wizards, who rarely complained about the lack of privacy, lying or scrunching out in the corridors, nursing their wounds, and trying to get through their shock and fear.

Distributing Calming Draughts was a kindness, and that was the first potion they had to cut back to half-doses in the morning so the A-Room could keep up with the challenge. Effie heard that the two other members of Sheambaum's team were directed to help out there, but she still believed Bert deserved a medal. Mediwitch Brunswick was crunching next to her in the Hall and tended to a girl with a sprayed ankle and a heavily bruised face. She looked as weary as every other member of her staff.

By noon, the influx of patients slowly ceased, and Brunswick sent the night and morning shifts home, ordering the afternoon team to take over sooner than scheduled. Nobody complained.

Anne found Frank Strawman in the dresser, sitting spread-legged, with his head bowing between his knees.

"Frank, are you all right?"

The wizard looked up, and she saw the mist around his eyes. "I will be," he sniffed. Gus is worse for wear," he added with a shrug as if that helped to bring the world back to its place. "He's on his way home like you should be!"

"Yeah… Do you think it's true?" – the question finally erupted from her. "About the Dark Lord and –"

"You call him that name?" – Frank seemed surprised, but then he waved it off like a fly. "Horseshite. Some of his followers sent up the Mark. Merlin put them in an early grave! That was all about it."

Lucius Malfoy will not let this rest. And he will do it in a way to make his point – Duvessa's words began to ring in Anne's ears, and she could feel the bile rising with her anger.

"Creeps," – she whispered the name she called them with her brothers, and Frank's ire subdued into a tired grin.

"That's what they are," – he nodded heavily. Then he urged her again to go home.

Changing out of her uniform, Anne remembered Bert and climbed up to the A-Room. Lovehex was busy explaining to a wiz-nurse what ingredients should be replaced, supplies ordered, and to use antiseptic charms after cleaning up. Bert Wiggins slept on the workbench with saliva dripping from his open mouth.

"Bert," – Anne tried, but not even a moan responded. "Apprentice Wiggins!" – she cried out with rigour, which finally did the trick. Lovehex chuckled as his colleague tried to gather himself without falling off the bench.

"Yes! …what? Oh… Effie, is that you?"

"Yup, time for breakfast," – she smiled at him.

The wizard needed a moment to see the allure, but soon, they were leaving for Fortescue's because Anne was convinced Brunswick would forget that medal.

"You exaggerate," – Bert said, stepping out on the narrow street behind St. Mungo's.

"No way. If Brewing were at the Olympics, you would be my first choice on the National Team!"

Bert chuckled. "That would be rad! All girls like sportsmen!"

"Surely your athleticism won us that extra batch of Burn Paste!"

"Let me correct myself! Most girls like sportsmen, but Effie Brown likes a good Burn Paste!" – Bert chuckled again, grateful for the fun.

"Any day of my life," Anne laughed, not looking at his prick-bar limbs and hunched back. Then, she had the peculiar feeling that a gush of impatience and disapproval hit her. Turning towards it, she saw a swirl of something black and heard the familiar popping sound of a De-Apparation. "You saw that?"

Bert only shrugged and turned on his heel, too. Anne followed him, but the mood turned sour despite the extra slices of ice cream cakes with waffles and sugar dragonflies fluttering their wings on the top. She finally could share her horror and pain over losing patients, over the endless struggle and fear of what the next room, the next stretcher, will hold…

"You make it sound so I'm glad for being stuck in the Brewery," – Bert noticed. "No, don't worry, it's better for me indeed. But you stood your place, Effie. There's nothing more to that," – he stopped her when she tried to retreat. "It's none of your fault how someone gets in. But your work made some leave in one piece, and that's all we are here for."

His approach made much more sense than Anne beating herself up for the loss. She still suffered through that day, unable to sleep, however tired she was. After parting with Bert, she turned back time so she could meet Rachel at a reasonable hour, and she finally told her some about her work in St. Mungo's.

Her honesty paid off, especially when Gavin and Kelly appeared in the afternoon, with Gavin waving a Daily Prophet. The Dark Mark seized most of the front page. Anne suspected the report didn't even need to be read after that.

But she was wrong. The Prophet reported that nobody died, and Anne couldn't stop thinking of that strange old wizard in that floral-patterned robe. Rachel silently took the paper while Kelly tried to convince Anne to have some fun and forget it all.

"That's horrible, but the best defence against terror is not to let it bring you down," – she said firmly. "You should be around people and show those bastards they couldn't move you!"

Something protested inside Anne, telling her, but they could! She felt a man parting this realm, which wasn't something she could explain or even tell about, especially not when his end wasn't news enough for the press. Kelly's words still made sense. She only wished that wizard was remembered. Or at least grieved for.

"Are you going back tonight?" – Rachel suddenly asked, putting down the paper. When Anne nodded, she sent the others away. "Better have some sleep then. If you want to take her out, return in the morning!"

As soon as Gavin took his girlfriend away, Anne closed her arms around her great-aunt. She was grateful for the reprieve, even if she sensed Rachel had much to say.

"This Prophet of yours… is it reporting about such attacks again?"

"No, there wasn't anything similar," – Anne shook her head. "I don't think there will be for a while."

"You know why this happened," – Rachel noticed.

"Somebody told me."

Rachel only nodded, and she sank into silence for a while. "You know… I don't believe I would put up with your other relatives again. If this place is not safe for you-"

"Oh, but it is!" Anne tried her damndest to convince her because there was no chance she would leave Rachel alone—not for twenty Quidditch Finals or a hundred more injured! "It is!" she waved her arms around Rachel's shoulders again, and she rocked her.

"Alright. Sleep then. Go," – she commanded, and despite Anne's fears about continuous nightmares, she fell asleep as soon as she taught her wand to buzz in a few hours.

That night's shift at St. Mungo's began like the previous. Effie Brown popped in to greet Bert, who was busy with two cauldrons, and she took up the tray to deliver the prepared potions to the Thickey Ward. Then her knees sagged halfway up the stairs, and she had to lean on the wall for support so she would not blotch the whole tray with shaky hands.

Frank came from nowhere.

"You all right there, gal?"

She tried to squeeze out a smile. "Sure."

"Look at the green bird! She can't even cast a levitating charm!" Frank sniggered, then marched up the stairs, leaving her behind.

"Get stuffed, Frank!" Effie propped up the tray on a lifted knee and fished out her wand. "Wingardium Leviosa," – she rather thought than mumbled, and the tray lifted obediently, giving her a moment to gather her wits before she followed the older wizard. By the time she approached Wiz-nurse Bauble, she felt a layer of steel grown between her ribs and heart, and the parchment she produced for signing didn't shake in her hand.

She still refused to join Kelly and her father the next day to see Manchester United beat Tottenham Hotspur. Instead, she visited Caleb and calmed down immensely when he greeted her by saying: "You can't complain. I sat on my hands."

"I guess I should be grateful for that. Oh, I haven't told you," – she finally remembered. "I ran into Snape at the match and –"

"Say this again slower?"

"Very funny. He threatened me with two or three years' worth of shovelling Thestral dung if I screamed at him in vain about the Finals would be a disaster."

"Merlin's curvy staff, girl, you screamed at him?!"

Anne tried to mask her cringe with a shrug. "Yeah, it wasn't going down well…."

"I bet!" Caleb bit his lips to avoid sniggering as if the wizard could turn up in a cold corridor after hours. "But why?"

"Because he's driving me mad! Can you focus, or shall I come back later?"

"You misunderstand, A-bee. Why would he leave you whole and able to tell the tale?"

"Ask him!" – Anne got fed up. "What I was trying to tell you is that your info was obviously wrong because if he had been a spy, this whole mess wouldn't have happened!"

Caleb stared at her. "And what the heck was he supposed to do about it?"

"Well, some spy thing, you know… some covered voodoo spies do… whatever the hell they are doing."

"You mean with a sports car, a hottie, and a wristwatch?"

That made her feel dumb enough to giggle in her embarrassment. "Why not? I would definitely watch that! But seriously–"

"Seriously, this is nuts," Caleb finished for her. "Aunt could have been wrong. Well, it turned out she wasn't. One point to Slytherin. She's still batty. I wouldn't fault anyone for seeing that. Talking about the old bag, those shady blokes I sometimes see around here concern me more."

"Caleb, I hate to break this on you, but you're living in Knockturn."

"You don't say!"

Eventually, they managed to laugh off most of their misgivings, and the Muggle beer Caleb kept also helped. The owl that flew to her window some hours later, demanding her visit her father before she returned to Hogwarts, could only partially ruin her mood.

She knew Caleb would hate the idea and suspected that if she told him about the message, he would do anything to stop her. Yet she was painfully aware of how distant her life got from what it was supposed to be, and for a father to order around his hardly sixteen-year-old daughter wasn't a horrible thing to ask. She wasn't sixteen, and he wasn't a good father. Was that really enough to ignore him?

The usual family gathering at the Smiths on Friday marked the world flipping back to what Anne considered normal. George's invitation to finish the summer by watching Manchester United at Wimbledon gave a short delay to make her hardest decision. Perhaps the energy at the match would help her face her father.

This time, George bought their passes well in advance so there wasn't a hustle at the entrance. Then, she soon sensed the familiar void again. Her head spun towards it, and she saw Snape's eyes searching the crowd.

"That friend of yours was around on Wednesday, too," George mentioned, following her gaze.

"Did he say anything?"

George shook his head. "Is he looking for you?"

Anne knew the exact moment Snape recognised her in the crowd because he blinked and swallowed as if he were uncertain or anxious. Then he cut his way through the mass of people and looked at her firmly. When she stepped closer to greet him, Anne heard a strange buzz that partially covered the noises around them.

"You will control yourself today, Rosier," – Snape intoned instead of a greeting. "I will not stand for false accusations even if your warning proved fair."

His tone sounded accusatory, and she couldn't stand it. "I took no pleasure in being right…sir."

His eyes narrowed above a slight dubious smirk. "If you say so."

Even with his emotions hidden, she could surmise his disapproval, which reminded her… "Were you at St. Mungo's Tuesday morning?"

She saw that blink again, and he failed to look at her when he replied: "Your tasteless exploits are no concerns of mine. You had to be warned to avoid your father, which is now done. Don't let me get you ditching again, or bear the consequences!"

He was already turning away, and Anne just couldn't let him! The man had the nerve! "Why didn't you stop them?!" she cried out, forgetting herself.

Snape looked at her as if he held her at wand point. In retrospect, Anne supposed he had. "If you wish to spread your tales, go to the Daily Prophet! I have not suffered your presence these years to give you over!"

"What do you mean?"

He stepped closer, and she saw the edge of his mouth nervously flinch before he spoke: "It's time for someone to knock some sense into you, girl. It's not a game you're playing! You are the only source I couldn't name. Think about what you are! Would you have me risk it? If I wasn't aware of the price, searching through a burnt campsite would have taught the –"

"You've been there?" – she gaped at Snape.

"I had no bloody choice, thanks to you." His lips whitened in anger, but his voice stayed subdued. He never looked more frightening. "And now you will do as I'm telling you, girl, because I have had enough. You will avoid your father at all costs and return to Hogwarts so I can finally put you in your place. No more Knockturn or Wizengamot, no more Pomfrey or Filch fighting your battles! You are to answer to me, girl, do you understand me?"

She didn't. She also had no clue why the simple thought of warning others worked him up. And what battles of hers had Poppy or Argus fought? Of course, she made plans that didn't involve him! He wanted no friendship, and thank Nimue for that if he was one of the creeps without a compassionate bone in his system to stop people dying! How dared he fault her?

But it all had to be swallowed and buried because the match began, and she was way too shocked to be coherent. As soon as she nodded, the buzzing stopped in magic, and Snape was out of sight with but a few steps. George Smith waved at her with blessed cluelessness, and she needed the first fifteen minutes to be calm enough to notice her surroundings. Thankfully, the match didn't take up much quicker.

After some wonderful moves that finally clued her back to reality, Cantona scored just minutes before half-time, and George found an old pal somewhere nearby to discuss his hopes with before the kick-off. The second half finally gave Anne back the joy of being present, breathing with the crowd and celebrating in the end. Manchester United trashed Wimbledon three against nothing, and George and his old friends took her to a bar for some friendly pints and lamenting chances. Anne listened half-heartedly and lamented her chances instead.

She turned back time and packed up her belongings at Rachel's and at Caleb's, thoroughly missing her trunk. Then she wandered into Ulfhild's office and again asked for a day off. Thinking all afternoon about her father and the enigma that Snape was didn't give her a healthy colour, so even Mediwitch Brunswick was easily convinced about her need to rest.

"After such a week, I expected your whole team to beg off for a few days," she told her with rare compassion. "Don't come in before Wednesday, Brown. We'll manage if there are no more attacks."

She gratefully thanked her, her mind already on the Hogwarts Infirmary and whatever Poppy would ask about the ordeal. That night's meditations had to take her back to a different life, where she was preparing for OWLs and playing by rules. If only she knew how to keep her job, also at St. Mungo's!

On the first of September, Anne took her backpack and Apparated straight to Platform Nine and three-quarters, telling Rachel with optimism that she would return on Wednesday. Then, with the same move, she turned invisible in her fright, noticing her father watching the milling crowd on the platform, standing close to the train. She edged away in the crowd until the last coach's door wasn't occupied; then she leapt and hid in the toilet.

The Hogwarts Express sighed and huffed as the engine got into gear, and she stared into the broken mirror, trying to see that confident young witch she'd last seen at her Gran's funeral. She was her usual self: long brown hair—not auburn, not chestnut, just plain brown… a hint of make-up to cover the rings under her eyes, the tee with that enormous daisy Kelly had given her… and half a palm of her stomach showing between her jeans and the hem. Blast Muggle fashion!

She fished out her last-year's Hogwarts robe and dressed before braving the corridor. She cut through groups of excited schoolkids until she finally found Sophie in one of the compartments with her classmates. Being the sole girl in the sixth year, Sophie had the privilege of making the boys make room for her girlfriend. Lucian Bole watched Anne sit after Per Derrick helped her place her backpack on the rack, and then his sparkling green eyes returned to Adrian Pucey.

"No matter how you twist it, it spoils the fun," he said, continuing whatever they'd discussed. "Sixth year is the last stand on the sunny side, and I would hate to be denied it!"

"Hey, Rosier, did you hear something over the summer?" – Pucey asked her.

"About what?"

"There's gossip about something cooking at Hogwarts," – Sophie told her with an innocent smile. "My uncle heard of a Tournament but didn't share the details."

Anne finally caught on. "Well, I can only tell you it will involve huge bushes because that's what Sprout made me water and manure through the summer."

"Bushes?" The boys stared at her, unsure if she was kidding.

"Yeah, like a hedge – a huge one. There's nothing more they told me," Anne shrugged.

While Lucian and Adrian mumbled about bloody hedges and her overall unhelpfulness, Per Derrick eyed her with suspicions.

"I don't get it. Why would a know-it-all like you go for a Herbology training?"

Anne thought only for a second and decided to avoid mentioning Medimagic.

"It goes well with Potions."

"The day Snapey gets a trainee, I will kiss the Giant Squid," Sophie laughed, trying in vain to avert the boys' attention. "The witch had to take up something!"

"Are you really that good at it?" – Lucian Bole insisted.

"I can do your NEWT homework if that's what you worry about."

"Oh, I'm not suicidal. You'd better offer that to Pucey!" – Lucien laughed.

"Really, who heard about the ol' Snapper in the summer?" – Adrian took up the word. "Tell me he's been to Mallorca and returned all changed and happy!"

"Oh, that's where he went, but he loathed returning and will snap off your yummy green NEWT-head, you dork!" Per snickered. "What the hell did you take his class for if you're such a chicken?"

"To dose your mum with a love potion, you arse! What do you think my old man's ranting about?"

The coming short hassle left Sophie unfazed, so Anne thought it better to keep calm and go with the flow. The sixth-years had their own rules set, and she was only a visitor. When the World Cup was their next item of discussion, she decided to hide behind a book and listen, but none of the boys had a clue about the details, and they seemed more preoccupied with the match than whatever came after. Only Per mentioned he was weary of the Dark Mark showing up again. Lucien thought it was some twisted joke and shouldn't get blown up, but Per worried about the fourth-years:

"It was strange enough to hear all those names when they got sorted, and now –"

"Shut up, you dolt, you don't want to go there!" – Adrian warned him.

Anne looked up from her book with surprise. The boys covertly watched her and avoided discussing the old names in the House. She touched into magic and recognised this as one of the dubious perks of being born a Rosier. Her relatives had been proven guilty, unlike Malfoy's, Crabbe's, or Goyle's in the fourth year.

"Well, I didn't cast the light show if that's what you're trying to ask," she told Adrien, losing patience. The boy apologised. It was strange. But she only recognised the moment's significance later, at the Welcome Feast after a minor heart attack, seeing the Thestrals for the first time and taking a long, slippery route on muddy roads up to the castle.

In the endless downpour, the Great Hall almost looked foreign. The enchanted ceiling was grey and dark, with the thunderstorms and lightning striking through the magical clouds. It was the right background for her mood, and the Welcome Feast didn't soothe her. Anne searched Snape's face when the Headmaster was about to make the announcements, but there was nothing to betray his feelings. He looked so different in the summer….

She found herself comparing her Head of House with the slightly unpleasant bloke at the match, the devoted fan, buzzing with opinions, wishes, and energy – her House's Head only looked stoic and dismissive now. The man outside looked young and full of vitality, wearing a red shirt and a ponytail that did nothing to hide his emblematic Roman nose. He was infuriating but engaging, unlike this pale, scrutinising, and unapproachable wizard who hardly seemed a fraction of what she suspected him to be.

When the backdoor tore open with a loud bang and the charmed lightning shed light on the damaged figure of what once must have been a man, she wasn't the only one who screamed. Her focus jumped back on Snape, secretly comforted by his muscles tensing up and his hand slipping under the table. Whatever quarrel she had with him in her heart, she wanted Snape to have a firm grab on his wand if something happened.

But then, the Headmaster amiably greeted the newcomer and announced the year's DADA Professor, Alastor Moody.

Idiots at the Gryffindor table cheered like true dolts, and Anne's senses flooded with the anxiety that rumbled down the Slytherin table. Alastor Moody was a madman. Even she'd heard the tales of the most ruthless carrier-out of the Ministry's "justice." The wizard had neither compassion nor inhibitions. On the slightest suss of darkness, he was at his victim's throat, and it was practically impossible to kill him. Not that her Uncle Mordred had never tried… and he also disappeared shortly after, most suspected because he died from the injuries the Auror's wand had inflicted.

The Headmaster finally announced the Triwizard Tournament, and her House's Head, this time, returned her horrified glance. Although Snape hardly moved, Anne had the feeling as if he shook his head slightly, and at the edge of her consciousness she recognised a suggestion: don't make a fuss, girl. Not now. She swallowed and let her eyes fall.

Her year discussed whether the old Auror's presence was connected to the events at the World Cup or the just-announced tournament. Later in the Common Room, she also noticed how the reminders of the past had changed the dynamics in the House. The Malfoy boy – a mere fourth year – sat in one of the armchairs by the fire, the Carrow girls held their heads high, ordering Urquhart around like a puppy, and her housemates gave her space wherever she chose to walk in the Common Room. Being a Rosier – the thought gave no joy, but she couldn't protest.

She stared when Hestia – as one of the new Prefects – lined up the firsties. Then Snape billowed in through the portrait entrance and greeted his NEWTs by name before his attention turned towards the new Snakes.

"Welcome to Slytherin," – he began as always.

This year's speech foretold extraordinary circumstances that still would not provide them with a reason to forget what they owed to Slytherin. Order. Rules. A stiff lip. He deemed the House's inside rule more important than ever. Slytherin did not fight its own. He even promised a quick ascension to life outside Hogwarts for anyone who failed to cope with this simple demand.

"The world may change around you or even visit. Nothing alters the fact that this place is a school. Through all the upcoming lunacy, I expect you to behave accordingly. And now your names," – he returned to the firsties.

While the trembling little rascals shared their names and answered his questions, the upper years looked at each other and mutely tried to make sense of Snape's words. Was he talking about the Auror, or did he forewarn them about the Tournament the Headmaster had mentioned? She heard someone whisper Moody's name.

"The Prefects will introduce you to the House's tutoring system. Crabbe, Goyle, Warrington, and Miss Ainsley report to my first open appointment to discuss your remedial courses. My schedule will hang until Thursday on my office door. Norton!"

The seventh-year boy, who'd spent his Hogwarts years at Snape's infamous remedial, jerked his head like a trained dog.

"Off the hook this year, Mr. Norton. Could be worse," – Snape finished with a hint of a smile. "And now retire to the dormitories! All."

With that usual last command, he turned and left the Common Room with his robe's edge familiarly swiping and swirling around his ankles, making Anne smirk and feel at home at last. The world was changing, but those billowing robes marked something reliable.

"What's on your mind?" – Sophie stepped closer, and she couldn't lie.

"Just how strange he is… I sometimes try to loathe him, but it never works."

"He does own a heart," – Sophie said wisely. "But by Merlin, I wish I could read his mind! Like when Moody appeared. Have you seen that?"

"He wasn't happy about it, but who was?"

"If I write about this to my uncle, I might not be left here to finish with your lot," – Sophie said with a sigh.

"Worse than that square toes?" – Anne smirked, and Sophie understood she meant what Mr Burke had told them about that Crouch.

"About the same scale, I imagine. Oh, Mr Burke said you're welcome anytime!" She added when they stepped into their dorm.

Flora and Hestia were already inside, busy changing Lockhart's old poster to the almost life-sized portrait of the Irish Quidditch team.

"Did you see them fly in the Final?" Sophie asked, with her usual moderate friendliness with all her dorm mates. Anne was only glad she did the talking for her.

"Oh, it was huge! That arena and all the leprechaun magic!" – Hestia grinned at the memory.

"Connolly, Lynch, Moran, Mullet, Ryan, Troy," Flora listed. "Troy and Lynch also signed it for us! Look!" She showed the enormous poster with the players' signatures.

Following Sophie's lead, Anne took a deep breath and congratulated them on the good catch. She tried to keep a friendly face, listening through their ramblings about the Finals, the players, and the summer, and closed the curtains around her bed as soon as it was considered polite.

The cold touch on her ankle was almost familiar. At least this time she matched the feeling to the Bloody Baron's presence even in her sleep. "Mmmm… what now?"

Of course, the ghost didn't reply. He never did, even though Anne suspected he could talk if he wanted to. Obviously, he had no inclination to speak to her. Anne sat up in bed, and the Baron gestured toward the school robe she haphazardly threw at the end of the covers. Anne dressed with a sigh and spread her arms in an impatient but silent question.

She followed the Baron through the Common Room to the narrow corridor that separated Snape's quarters from the abandoned classroom, then to the hidden passage that connected the dungeons to the various floors of the castle. She wasn't sure about it, but maybe she saw four exits before the ghost finally disappeared through the wall.

Anne followed him onto a dark corridor and, first, was too disoriented in the darkness even to be sure about which floor she ended up on. The Baron's ectoplasm glinted, and Anne hurried past what seemed closed offices, abandoned classrooms, the spiral staircase for the Turris Magnus, which she always wished to see but was yet to have a lesson there, the Moving Staircase's landing, and she fleetingly saw Nimue's tapestry, too, by when a side door finally opened ahead of her, and in the dim light she recognised Argus Filch.

"Argus!" – her sigh was soft but enough in the night to convey her utter relief. Her friend stepped inside the room he'd opened and only told her with a smirk after the door closed behind them:

"You didn't miss me, lass, but we have business."

Anne profoundly protested, but Filch's amusement was only plain to sense in the air. He was teasing her, which was exactly what she'd been missing the most. Then she looked around, and her mouth fell open. The room was full of mirrors in all shapes, forms, and ages. Some were almost blinded by the years, and others reflected the light until Filch's lonely candle brightened the whole room.

"Where are we, Argus?"

"This is called the Hall of Mirrors. And the Baron was sent after you so you can learn about this place."

Anne grinned at her friend happily. "Did you send the Baron to fetch me?"

"He follows what his House's Head demands from him. Such as you should. By the way, what have you told the lad? I haven't seen him this sombre for a while."

That was enough to erase her grin, too. "Why would I be at fault for his mood swings? Perhaps he also noticed the Dark Mark lately. I heard some did. Unlike others who avoid even thinking about it, he may have had a problem with that. Or more like not. Whichever."

"A quip about what you know nothing of is rarely funny, lass. Mark my words before you'll have to eat yours."

"But Argus!"

"You don't begin to know a thing about your Professor," her friend reminded her. And he might have been right. Anne was just too worked up to take the warning as she probably should.

"And whose fault is that?!"

When Filch didn't reply, only held her gaze with unwavering sternness, Anne finally took the trouble to think about her words. And his. And the whole damned mess she identified with Snape lately.

"I'm sorry, I-" She couldn't lie to Argus. "I know I should say I am sorry, and I know I don't hate him, even if- Anyway… I have no idea what he was about. He just… His things are inexplicable, and he's infuriating, and … I am sorry about I don't really want to talk about him."

She pleaded with Filch with wide, helpless eyes to understand and let her be, and by some miracle, the old caretaker eventually shook his head with a huff.

"You chose the hard way," he told her. "We are here on his order because you are supposed to hold your job in London and will need a way to travel. Your Professor was worried you had missed out already. That's why he sent the Baron to find you."

The attention felt nice but only increased her confusion. "Did he? Well, I am excused until Wednesday. We had a tough week, so Madame Brunswick released me without a question."

"It must have been tough," Filch mused over it for a while, then nodded to a thought only he knew. "We didn't know about that, lass, but it's all the same. There are various ways to leave the castle unnoticed. One of those you already know is through my kitchen with a short bolt to the forest. However, your Professor doesn't deem that safe enough."

"Another ways are through the kitchen's loading entrance or Poppy's quarters, right?"

"Well, if you wish for witnesses for your comings and goings, which have perks if you want that, those are certainly options. However, if you wish to escape notice, which might be wiser in a castle full of strangers this year, here is the old way. Portal magic. Now look at these mirrors!"

Argus patiently explained and showed all the carvings on the mirrors' frames and their meanings about the destinations. Most of them belonged to long-lost counterparts at long-ago collapsed places, marked every time next to the "address." Argus also mentioned cabinets and other means that they were not about to employ this time. There was still one mirror that probably worked between the Magical Menagerie at the North side of Diagon Alley and another, presumably landing the portal traveller in the basement of St. Mungo's.

"However, we couldn't test these without calling attention, so the last option remains," – Filch showed a full-length mirror outside in the corridor, across the door for the Hall of Mirrors. "Some miscreants find this passage entertaining from time to time. The counterpart of this portal is down under the castle in a tunnel that leads to the far side of Hogsmeade and continues in a path through the moors. To stop the rascals from leaving the castle, your professor collapsed the tunnel a few years ago but left a chance to travel in the utmost need. Here," – he handed Anne a parchment.

Portifix, Vianota – Anne read the words in the familiar spiky hand.

"The first opens the portal, and the second will help you through the rambles down in the tunnel. If you tell them you walk through them, they will let you." He stopped for a moment and contemplated Anne through narrowed eyes. "Are you certain you don't owe him, at least with a measure of doubt?"

She couldn't stand Filch's glance. The problem was precisely her doubts. "I think I just can't understand him."

"You confuse him too," – Filch sighed. "But you should work this out, lass, before it's too late, I'm telling you that. And it's not his job to make this work, but yours. Making friends with gossips or fascinating Poppy won't help with that."

Anne's finger secretly ran along the sharp edge of the piece of parchment, and she promised Argus she would try.

All the way through secret passages and dark corridors back to her dorm, she was thinking about the worry and sadness she sensed in her friend. Argus was miserable to see her so stubbornly blind when it came to Snape. She knew he loved him almost like a son. She could sense his affection for him, his worries, and his devotion, which were not so different to what the old man felt for her. She hated to put Argus in such a place, but all the love of an old friend couldn't explain the dichotomy that was Severus Snape.

The morning came way too quickly, of course, and as if Snape just wanted to play with her mixed emotions, this time he went without teasing her with her schedule and only assigned her the timetable along with the other fifth-years, not singling her out in any way, which must have been a good thing. It should have been a good thing!

Anne disappeared into her tower to make her schedule for three different weeks, with morning, afternoon, and night shifts at St. Mungo's. Besides the classes, on Monday afternoons, Wednesdays after lunch, and on Thursdays, she was scheduled for the Infirmary unless otherwise occupied – which she thought she should have understood as a considerate addition on Snape's part. It seemed she would age a year about every four months if she kept up with that, as well as the additional rest times. She also suspected she wouldn't resist visiting Rachel if she were in town every day.

Next to the Monday mark for the Infirmary, she even read Brewing Room – suggesting Snape had scheduled her time without asking. After his last promise to knock sense into her, such ready acceptance was about the last thing she expected. Moreover, she found Madame Pince's extra class added to her lessons! She'd lived under the impression Snape didn't want her to approach the Librarian at all! What was he playing at?

Anne worked herself into such a state that she prioritised Arithmancy and even her Infirmary duties to her first scheduled Potions and Charms classes of the year. She sat through Professor Vector's repetitions and warnings about the OWLs, then sorted the crates that already supplied the Infirmary.

There was a strange smell in the Brewing Room, and she had an impression about something grave… like a hard decision or a … Anne shook her head and closed off all disturbing nonsense from her mind. She cared not about a room's silly vibe. She came here to brew.

She found some Blood Replenishers and Calming Draughts already in the potions cabinet, so she skipped to the next order on the list she saw and quickly made a hundred phials of Pepper-up Potions, then a hundred more using the shortcut Bert found. She developed this into an enhanced brew over the slow hours in the A-Room. Let Snape see it!

Finally, there was nothing more to it than to settle in the dungeon for Potions class. Snape swept into the room, and before he even opened his mouth, the parchments with the debut tests sorted themselves on the desks.

"Your OWL year has begun. There's no time for your usual dithering. I will accept only clear and well-phrased answers presented in a tidy manner." He casually changed the test sheet before Anne to a different pack of parchments. "Mr. Hopkins, this is the last minute for you to change that feathered stick for a usable quill. Miss Bell, if I as much as imagine that I hear your voice, your test returns with a T. That also goes to you, Miss Carrow," – he added, and Hestia ducked her head. "Begin!"

No one dared murmur their discontentment over his shortness, although it seemed over the top even for him. Anne barred the various resonations of her classmates' emotions and turned her pack of parchment.

Sum up the three primary ways essential oils may alter common ingredients' characteristics in phase 2 brewing! She frowned at the paper.

List the forty most common ingredients of healing potions and describe the best methods for checking their quality! Wait, what?

Prove with Arithmancy why Whaler's theorem doesn't impact non-perennial herbs in high-temperature brewing!

She ran through all the questions with a horrible premonition and found none under the NEWT level; some even exceeded it. But it was the last question that shone some light on Snape's thought process and possible intentions:

Summarise in exactly one hundred words what makes it a bad idea to force any encounter with a hag!

Anne leaned back in her chair and stared at her Professor. He readily stepped closer, and his smile seemed genuine – genuinely mocking.

"Problem, Rosier?"

"Yes, sir. I fail to see the relevance of question #47," – she boldly turned the parchments towards him. She couldn't care less about the bewildered whispering behind her back. Their longest debut test bore twenty-six questions, and she didn't expect it to be any different this time for her classmates.

A look from Professor Snape silenced the class. He leaned above her and studiously read through the last question as if searching for a mistake.

"The question is clear enough," – he eventually decided. "Are you perhaps unable to give the right answer?"

"No, sir. I only debate the question's relevance."

Snape's eyes flashed with a warning, and his wand's end pointed at the parchment. 2 points minus – Anne read at the bottom.

"Sir!"

The wand didn't waver.

3 pts minus – she read under the last red line with a – now silent – gasp.

"Any more observations you wish to add?" He asked her in a maddeningly even tone.

"No, sir," – Anne shook her head.

"Get on with it, then. You don't have all day!"

She closed her eyes and recalled some of Pince's breathing techniques from her second year to calm herself. Blast Snape! She knew he would come after her. She was the one who got into his face and miraculously lived to tell the tale, but now they weren't out on the stadium's stance surrounded by Muggles. They were back at Hogwarts, and he must have learned last year that he couldn't move her with the silent treatment. She almost felt nostalgic for his wordless fuming.

Essential oils in brewing. She got that! She'd learned that from him at the end of last year in the Infirmary's Brewing Room. Anne huffed out a breath and picked up her quill.

Almost two hours later, when she finally was ready with the whole disgraceful mess – and counted three times that she didn't miss a hundred words with one added or omitted, because Snape would gleefully fail her in both cases the same – Anne gathered the parchments and took them to the Professor's desk. For the first time in her life, she was the last in the room. She doubted she had scraped an "O", but her answers mainly were good enough to receive Exceeding Expectations. That would have counted as a clear win.

Professor Flitwick might have tried frightening the class with the upcoming OWLs, but Anne's mind was only on her Potions test. Even during the lunch break, although she was hungry enough and her tower was yet to be ready with snacks and cleanliness for her needs, she turned to the Library to make sure about some of her answers.

The afternoon's Astronomy was her private Hell since she began Hogwarts, even if Trelawney's class the previous year provided additional practice. The following History of Magic interested her as long as Binns named the reading list, and then she was among the first to fall asleep.

After the afternoon turn, the double Care for Magical Creatures was supposed to be her prize, yet Hagrid came forward with some unseemly insect halfway between a scorpion and a leech. The worst was that after she asked about the creatures' use, Hagrid became visibly offended and refused to talk to her.

Poppy gladly listened to her tales in the evening and only rolled her eyes when Anne mentioned she didn't know what Snape wanted with the unexpected acceptance of her Infirmary brewing.

"Let him be, duck!" Poppy suggested. "Merlin knows, I had time enough to find him out, but he still astonished me just last Tuesday morning."

"What happened?"

"What? Nothing, duck, nothing. Except that exceptional wizard almost blew up the castle! In the dead of night, in August – when, by the way, he is never even in the vicinity."

"What? But how?"

"How would I know? I just returned from the weekend and travelled all Monday, and when I finally might sleep in my own bed, a blast came. It was so powerful that only magic kept the stone walls together. When I ran out, Severus was busy explaining to the Headmaster how sorry he was about Hippocrates' portrait getting staved in with a hole a cannonball could fly through, and Argus is commissioned to repair the portrait. But he wouldn't even have a chance, duck, you will see! Poor Hippocrates had nowhere to run from the portrait, sleeping the sleep of the just at five in the morning! Haven't you seen the Brewery yet? Come, you really should…."

Anne followed her without conviction. She didn't remember whether she had seen the portrait in the morning, but she would have noticed anything extraordinary—like scorch marks or a hole in the wall…. Poppy walked to the far wall and reached up for the tapestry. Its blues and browns were similar to Hippocrates' background, yet this was but a gingham compared to that. It had no occupant, no background, or any recognisable shapes.

When Poppy removed the piece of tapestry, the wall it covered seemed blackened and spotted with brown splotches. The paint cracked around a circle, and Anne could smell something strangely familiar. It was similar to saltpetre but different enough to leave her wondering….

"And Professor Snape? Wasn't he injured?" – The question was dumb. She had seen him just days later, and the man was unharmed. Somehow, Poppy's dismissive assurance about his health still felt nice to hear.

"But what was he brewing?"

"Blood Replenishers."

"Bloo – but…."

"That's what he told me," – Poppy insisted, and Anne dared not to argue.