A/N: Rated M for a reason! (Detailed description of torture ahead. It's short, but I thought it better to warn you. And foul language is a given, you probably know me at this point. Sorry.)

Oh, and a friendly warning that my idea of romance is admittedly off.

Aaaand… sorry in advance for the evil cliffie. I couldn't find a better place to cut it. Things will work out. Part II is coming soon :)

And as always, Harry Potter and his world belongs to Rowling, I'm happy with the permission to play.

Tell me if you enjoyed :)

TN_Chapter 41.

26th December 1994. Part I.

(19,5)

There were gloomy mornings, dragged down by stubborn hangovers, fog, and bleak apathy, and then there was the morning after the Yule Ball. The lack of sleep on this particular morning stemmed from terror and disbelief. The emotional hangover of the short mess with the Carrows added to the horrible prospect Filch had drawn, and the total proved incurable even with the best potions, the strongest tea, or the most ardent devotion to avoid thinking by focusing on a single job.

Anne rose before seven to escape tossing and turning in her Hogwarts bed and headed straight to the St Mungo's, seeking distraction in vain. The usual hustle and bustle on the back corridors first eased her mood, but as soon as she reported for duty at the Poisons Ward, Wiz-nurse Prix sent her down to help Apprentices Wiggins and Tinkel, and in the silence of the basement, there was nothing to divert her attention but the inventory in hand and the faraway noises of two dawdling apprentices along the ceiling-high lanes and lanes of shelves. The lights were dim and flickered, and the rows were long.

To call the experience depressing would have been a euphemism. Under the mammoth bulk of the hospital, the various emotional upheavals went unexplained in the eternal dusk, and the last remains of any sense of time were absorbed into monotony. And among the mumbled names of potion ingredients, she absently began to murmur to herself; Argus's words were ringing in her ears. He is about to return.

When Anne began to feel like the tall shelves were about to collapse on her, she marked her place among the rows by putting her inventory folder on the ladder she leant against the last shelf she examined and ran up to the backdoor to catch a glimpse of the winter sky. It was as grey and cloudy as it came but still better than the mouldy ceiling. She dove into her pocket till she found that half package of cigarettes and lit one with a shaky wand.

"Thought you had a day off, gal. Where'd you been hiding?" - someone noted from a few steps away, and she almost dropped both wand and fag.

"Gods, Gus, I haven't noticed you!"

"It's your fault, love, I've always been a tall lad," – Gus Sparkle teased her, stepping closer to examine her face more keenly. "You look like crap. Should have grabbed a bite."

"Yeah, I – I didn't notice the time…" Anne cast a quick Tempus and had the first surge of a better-conceived emotion: It took her five hours to break down. If that shouldn't fill her with a twisted sense of achievement, she didn't know what would. "It seems I have problems in Hell only from the sixth hour," – she told Gus, smirking. "Sheambaum assigned me to help his apprentices assess the stocks in the basement."

Gus whistled. "That's half a day in hell, indeed! Those slackers were up around the Tearoom an hour ago."

Anne considered if they overlooked her by accident or design, but she was too worn out to really care.

"And Sheambaum? Don't you happen to know if he was still around?"

"Wanna' ditch the big man?" Gus chuckled. "The guy looking for ya might help with that."

Anne thought she had misheard him, but Gus grinned at her and added some words about regrets. "I wish I could help him, but I thought you had a day off. But if you wanna beat the air and find him, I'll be the last to tell on you, promise."

Anne smiled at him, working through her confusion. Was Caleb looking for her? Or maybe Gavin? She couldn't fathom why they wouldn't send an owl instead if they wanted to see her, and after Argus' words last night, her stomach churned into a twist.

"It must have been one of my brothers," she told Gus, wondering why that made him laugh so hard. "What did he look like?"

"Well, not too brotherly. You should work on that!" – he snickered. "About this tall," – he showed two fingers to his temples, "and a tad awkward. Dressed in Muggles, too, but wouldn't deceive a soul if you asked me. I'd rather not run into him at night around Knockturn, although he was everything but buffed. Ring any bells?"

Anne compared the image to her brothers, and it didn't fit at all. Caleb could act threateningly if he were worked up, but his shoulders were broad, and his face was still jovially rounded… She shook her head.

Gus shrugged. "Not to worry about it. He was gone as soon as I told him I hadn't seen you."

"Thanks, anyway," – Anne plastered a weak smile. "I'll just go grab a sausage roll and be back before Tinker or Sheambaum know it," – she decided and left her smirking colleague by the backdoor.

She Apparated from within St Mungo's wards, just to be on the safe side, and popped in on Caleb, but he didn't mention looking for her. Anne thought about asking him about her visitor but decided against it. Worrying her brother without real reason would have felt selfish when his mood finally eased a little. For the same reason, she didn't mention Karkaroff's Mark. Bad news had wings anyway, and Christmas meant something for Caleb. Instead, she visited the Smiths and happily took a portion from the last day's feast to Rachel. No one mentioned anything about looking for her, and she finally calmed down, watching her aunt reheating the lamb.

After her horrible night and all Gus' rubbish, tiredness overwhelmed her before the lunch was ready, and she stumbled to the living room sofa to rest her eyes for a few minutes.

She woke up three hours later under a thick plaid that smelled of chamomile. Rachel was ears deep in an anthology someone sent her for Christmas, and the cold remains of the lamb were enough to enhance her mood even further. After a good sleep and a few bites of home-cooked food, her worries about Gus' words seemed laughable. Even her last day's sombre news sounded less devastating because on second thought – or for the twenty thousandth thought, but who counts? – she knew very well already that the creeps were gathering. She also knew that after Warrington had told her about Karkaroff's Mark, she would have been preoccupied anxiously searching for answers within a day or two. Argus spared her the effort, which was good.

But there was more she had no idea about than what she actually learned last night. She accepted that there was danger, but yet no one seemed to feel it. How could she be sure that Argus was right? She didn't even know whether all Marks showed again, or was it only Karkaroff's for some reason? He never said if it had to do with the Triwizard Championship or Durmstrang's Head being more evil than she sensed. Was he Occluding? Or did he awake his Mark on purpose?

She wished it was only Karkaroff raising alarm for nought because if all Marks showed something eerie, perhaps the Macmillans sent her father to Lucius Malfoy… Anne tried to examine the possibility with an open mind, but she found she never thought Montgomery Rosier was clever enough for such duplicity… just like he probably thought she was a moron… Oh, Nimue, did she know her father at all? Did she know anything at all?

Anne turned back time by five hours, so – once again – it wasn't even noon. She could walk back to St Mungo's at a leisurely pace, enjoying the exercise and taking her time to muse over the unimaginable. Trying to be a realist and not giving in to panic, Anne told herself that with Rachel's already telling her she wasn't about to go into hiding if hell unleashed again, and with Caleb's former readiness to flee, even if the worst happened and – ridiculous – the Dark Lord somehow returned from his death, only Gavin's and the Smiths' situation was about to change. She knew she would never leave Rachel, just like Gavin would do anything to ensure the Muggles' safety.

She shook her head in a vague attempt to empty it from ominous thoughts. St. Mungo's was around the corner, and she'd better not dive into the basement with bad things on her mind….

Then she stopped short, noticing a peculiar change. It felt like a piece were torn from the delicate and ever-present fabric of emotions… a familiar void… She had to search for the reason, but instead of the well-known figure clad in a black robe, she only saw a man leaning against the alley wall opposite the St Mungo's backdoor, his hands deep in his pocket and his shoulders high to cover his ears from the chilly wind. His leather jacket and black jeans looked feeble in the winter, and his hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She would have walked by if she hadn't looked, but his lively eyes found her as soon as her steps faltered.

He shouldered away from the wall, and when Anne gathered enough wits to walk up to him, his dark grey eyes showed a hint of amusement.

"Hello, Professor!"

He looked down and kicked the curb of the sidewalk.

"Wiz-nurse Brown?" – he asked, looking uncertain. When she didn't answer promptly, he levelled his glance to search her eyes.

Anne tried to guess what he aimed for, but all she could think of involved Hogwarts, and he definitely didn't address her like anything he would have said there. She glanced over at the magically disguised building of St. Mungo's and nodded.

"Yet only an assistant wiz-nurse," – she clarified, trying to win time to understand him. "How can I help you?"

To her astonishment, he chuckled at that, averting his face in a way his hair would have covered it. Anne noticed he flinched when he realised his ponytail wouldn't allow that. A small pink spot appeared about his cheekbone… or perhaps it had been there all along, painted by the wind.

He toed the curbstone again. "Yes, well… does your concept of friendship only involve the rare occasions when you're inclined to talk?"

In how he jerked his head up to ask, Anne felt the bite in his words. "Erm… no?" She felt uncomfortable, but the spark of venom had already vanished. "Is this about Argus?"

He seemed surprised. "Why would it be about him?"

"Well, he said he was to talk to you about – things…" Anne lost confidence. She wasn't sure whether she was allowed to mention Hogwarts at all.

"I can imagine," – he rolled his eyes, radiating discomfort and looking everywhere but at her. "Sod it!" He kicked into the curb stone one last time and looked ready to leave. "If you don't want to see us beating Chelsea, there's nothing I can do for you! Go back to Walt!"

There was no time to stare at him, and he also did a swell job if he wanted to rile her. "Wait!" – Anne called after him and stepped closer. "We are playing against Chelsea today!"

"Right now," – he corrected impatiently. "The reason I bought two passes, Assistant. But you're more than welcome to ignore seeing me if that is what you prefer." Then he stopped to look her over as if a new thought entered his mind: "Weren't you supposed to work a morning shift today?"

"I was," Anne glanced at his hand as he pointed towards St. Mungo's wards. "Gus couldn't know. Sheambaum assigned me to help his apprentices take stock of the supplies in the basement." She waited for him to affirm her suspicions. He must have been the strange man looking for her. Now, recalling how Gus thought him intimidating seemed only funny. "I'm almost through, I only needed a break. Your assessment about the ledges proved painfully accurate," – she added with a bitter smile. "It's hellish down there."

"But you wouldn't exchange it for Stamford Bridge?" – he challenged, careful amusement returning into his narrowed eyes.

Stunned but intrigued, Anne recognised his tone as the same she enjoyed in their late-night talks. She glanced towards St. Mungo's and decided she could explain herself later.

"You know, I think I would."

That reordered his features into a satisfied little smirk, and he gestured towards the alley. When they stepped out of sight of any possible witness, he offered his arm, and as soon as her tentative hand touched it, she felt the squeezing pressure of a Side-along Apparition.

She thought they would appear somewhere out on the street and expected the hassle through the crowd to the entrance. But he took her right inside the unfamiliar Stadium in Fulham, which was packed already and roared with enthusiasm about ten minutes after kick-off. Disoriented, she looked around in the niche before the loos, and he grabbed her elbow when she was too slow to follow when he broke into a run.

"This way!"

They raced behind the stands and reached a staircase, the roaring crowd's emotions already pummelling her unprepared senses. She wouldn't have been able to recall any more details. The next thing she knew for sure was screaming in delight at her assigned place, which they somehow had reached without mishap just in time to see Hughes score the first goal.

There was nothing to keep her consciousness from floating with the waves of various cheering and raging, only chants and cussing marked the time. The experience wasn't similar at all to seeing a match with George Smith. This time, she sat – stood – among the hardcore fans, the worshippers and diehard enthusiasts, and Snape was so preoccupied with the field she didn't even know if he noticed her almost extracorporeal experience. Chelsea fought back like the lion he perceived himself to be. The time was only marked by the yellow cards passed out, and the game turned almost dirty by the second half.

Cantona scored from a penalty, and hell unleashed on the stands around Anne. Within six minutes, the crowd roared up again when Chelsea successfully attacked Manchester United's gate, and when Newton levelled out the scores, Anne's senses went into hopeless overdrive with all the soaring emotions around her. The will to make the team fight back was overwhelming. It shook the air around her, and McClaire finally sent the ball through Chelsea's goal line, securing the win with a third goal against the home team's two.

She had no idea what picture she presented in the triumphant crowd. She could only guess later by the look in Snape's eyes. He seemed blown away when the match ended, and she finally noticed how he looked at her. His eyes glinted with never-seen joy, but his glance carried some tender worry and fondness she'd never seen him allow himself to show.

"Are you all right?" – he leaned over her ear, putting a tentative hand carefully on her arm.

"The crowd…" – she breathed. "Wonderful… I feel it all…"

It didn't seem to matter to him if she wasn't coherent. He looked at her, astonished.

"You really liked it," – he said as if it hadn't been apparent before. "You really like them!"

"They are amazing," – Anne grinned at him. "It's always amazing!"

She couldn't sense him but recognised a different kind of appreciation in his eyes. But she must have looked a mess like Kelly used to tell her, as if she was drugged, pale and sweaty with pupils like saucers if she believed her. She only knew Snape chuckled when he looked into her eyes.

"Bloody little Empath," – she thought he mumbled, but it was hard to be sure in the chanting crowd.

George and his buddies always made sure they left the stands before the diehard fans started to lose their minds. She believed such an approach didn't even cross Snape's mind. He chanted with the crowd, obviously knowing some people by first name, and their celebratory marching out of the Stadium was something else…

Anne didn't remember how she put one leg before the other, but Snape's hand always grabbed her elbow before she slipped away blindly in the throng or stumbled. She recalled his voice, though, as surreal as it was, strong and clear in the chanting choir would have made her lose balance even if she somehow managed to gather her wits. She didn't even try to.

Their crowd sang the classic "My Old Man said to be a City fan…." and its concluding remarks about the sexual abuse of a damaged bucket she'd always found funny. Hearing the same in Snape's strong baritone was a different experience altogether, such as everything else by his side. Cheering for Manchester United with George Smith or Severus Snape was at two different levels. George's hopeful fanboying of the team was almost calm compared to this wild and unadulterated zealotry that dissolved into something like a common emotion. This shared infatuation mounted until it could only be compared to devoted, passionate love. Like the liberating waves of energy and passion she had already sensed in the stands, this celebration, too, washed her out of her senses like lovemaking, and she realised with sudden brazenness how thoroughly she had missed that since September.

Meanwhile, the crowd flooded the street, declaring themselves Fergie's Army before she heard the classic "Don't Go Out Tonight/ Unless You're Red and White". There were no thoughts to mark her epiphany, but she recognised how eerily it reminisced a different kind of march… and her dazzled glance slipped onto Snape's left arm unrequested. He smirked at her as if he could sense her attention and leaned close enough for her to hear his softer words: "We didn't lose, gal!" She tripped when she lifted her face to look into his eyes, and he caught her elbow again while the smirk gave place to an almost boyish grin. By when Anne understood the words, the man closest to them shouted, "We're the best-behaved supporters in the land", and she grinned back without a thought.

In retrospect, Anne admitted to herself how easily she could have seen them as the "right shower of bastards", one of the verses promised. But then and there, she was floating with the events, only giving half a mind to the – otherwise pretty average-looking – middle-aged man who stirred the thoughts towards Cantona, leading the crowd in the chant for him even as they moved into a nearby pub. When Anne heard the hundred throats shouting about "Eric the king the king the king", followed by a wistful call for Old Trafford, "where they belonged", she understood through the haze and the pint she couldn't recall how ended up in her hand, that this wasn't fanaticism but religion. Chants were psalms, and Snape was a true worshipper, this time among people who weren't about harming anyone outside of the green field. Definitely not that afternoon, anyway.

Within perhaps half an hour, all the celebration, the heightened emotions, the beer, the smoke, and the crowd became too much. Anne felt faint as her senses overloaded, and she had no other wish but to retreat into the tiny house in her mind and close all doors and windows for a moment of silence. She didn't fight for consciousness, so she never noticed when she teetered, only those grey eyes that sought her out with an intensity that could follow her into the depths of her mind.

"Are you flying?" – she heard Snape's voice, and something shook her shoulders.

"Too much," she thought or mumbled. Whichever, it proved enough. A strong arm gathered her under a shoulder that carried the mixed smell of old leather, cheap beer, winter smoke, and faint traces of soap. Then she felt she was walking, and the wind touched her face before another uncomfortable, short sense of Apparation.

She heard Snape's voice again: "Try to stay on your feet, girl! It's not far." It was grounding.

She blessed his Occlumency, and her senses calmed. The buzz around them was the usual vibe of the less frequented streets of a big town. Anne opened her eyes on an unfamiliar square corner of a probably shifty neighbourhood. The early dusk began to settle above the peeping street lights, illuminating the rubbish piles under the remains of what must have been a bin once. Her gaze hung upon a man stumbling through the square, but Snape turned her towards the only light window on the row. It belonged to a snug chippy in the bottom of a brown brick house.

He opened the door, greeted the woman behind the counter, and made Anne sit by a table before he sauntered forward to order for two. It all looked so smooth and natural it was almost eerie. When he turned back to her, balancing the two plates, she noticed he anxiously chewed the inner side of his mouth. She couldn't help but chuckle at the surreality of it all, and it seemed it eased his mood, although neither uttered a word.

The fish spoke for itself, and it was eloquent enough. The batter was light and crackly, but the plaice was moist and flaky. She wouldn't have thought it possible for plaice, but there she was, enjoying its every flavour with the hot chips, sticky with salt and pepper and that funny pea piss Snape insisted on having on it all…. albeit she loved the peas… Anne shrugged and dived into this nest of wholesomeness again, not halting when she sensed his smug amusement, only looking up.

"Better?" – he grounded out between two bites.

His emblematic eyebrow rose, and Anne supposed she must have turned red from her hairline down to her ankles because whatever he saw on her face made him snort a laugh.

"Really, Assistant Brown, this is hardly the first time that it falls upon me to feed and water you," – he said as if her being ill at ease somehow took away from his own.

Anne noticed how his left foot beat a rhythm in the air under the table. He wasn't less anxious than she was. Shooting him a calculated smile, she kept silent, enjoying his frustration until the air around them practically cracked with his impatient energy. Deciding she managed to get back at him for the teasing, she wiped her hands and took a sip from her paper cup tea.

"Actually, I've never been better," – she kept her hands on the table so she wouldn't fidget. "I loved seeing how we won! Thank you!"

"Have you truly seen it? Clearly, you've been high as a kite. Are you trying to tell me it was all about the game?"

She couldn't stifle a troubled little chuckle. "Can we call it a bird's perspective, then? Being an Empath in a crowd… especially in a highly motivated and enthusiastic crowd, has its… challenges."

He weighed her words, frowning and absently caressing a finger over his mouth. She watched as that strange, contemplative glance returned to his eyes. She suspected it wasn't his intention, but the show was still nerve-wracking.

"Sir –"

He flinched. "Would you allow us to leave the honorifics… erm… temporarily?" When he noticed Anne's expectable surprise, he grimaced as if in pain. "The reason is less selfish than it might seem, Ro- blast! Brown, I – shite!"

Anne's jaw almost dropped, but he looked so dismal and regretful she wished to put him at ease. "I wouldn't mind that. I just don't know how to address you."

"It can't be that hard to figure, girl. I only own one name."

Back to the teasing again – Anne decided to take the proverbial gloves, and she turned fully against him.

"That is blatantly untrue."

His eyebrow perked, and he finally looked up. "Is it?"

"I heard Madame Brunswick calling you Professor Snape, Walter Sheambaum Master Snape, McGonagall and Sprout Severus, Argus and Madame Pince Rus, and the Ladies at a Picnic on the sixth-floor side corridor by some reason sometimes refer to you as Sev. Those are five ways to address you," – she showed it on her fingers, challenging him as much as she dared, "which exceeds my two sets of names by three."

His smirk widened into something dangerously close to a mocking smile. "Two sets," – he repeated.

"Yeah," – Anne affirmed, a little breathier than she thought she would, but he leaned on the table to confront her, and suddenly, he was closer than she expected.

"So apart of your father mentioning you as an Annabella, Filch as that precious lass, Poppy as the apple of her eye –"

"She's never said that!" Anne protested, but he shook his head.

"I haven't been called a duck in these last two years, especially since she determined I was the devil who set out to ruin you."

Anne felt forced to partially agree. It was not a name, but significant enough, knowing Poppy… "Even if that counts, that's still only four," – she counted.

"Add to that the letters your brothers manage to remember, the name you insist on going by and no one has given you, and the fact your closest friend I know seems to call you Annie."

Anne accepted defeat with grace. He didn't even count Effie, only Anne. That didn't mean she was about to let him off easily. She looked him straight in the eye and sighed. "And which of them will you choose?"

Seeing him blink and swallow before he averted his eyes was all the reward she needed.

"I don't believe the choice is up to me, I –"

"I prefer Anne," – she took pity on him. "Se- Severus?"

His head jerked up, and his stare seemed to stop time for a while. "It's only befitting for you to prefer what those who don't know you couldn't name you, Anne."

She wished she knew why her name sounded so fateful on his lips! Maybe it was time to cut this short – whatever it was – before she became too caught up in the madness. The problem was she had no idea how to proceed or put the three steps back between them. She lost the will to do so when he suddenly pulled back from the table, sat up straight and nervously put a small black box he found in his pocket before her.

"You are not into Christmas," – he recalled her words, "but it's my turn to share."

Anne stared at the box, questioning if this was real or if the promised insanity finally caught up with her.

"Won't you open it?" – he asked her.

Blast him, she could sense him now. He was uncomfortable and impatient, and apparently, those were emotions he deemed worthy to share. It made her wonder what he was omitting. Reluctantly, she lifted the lid.

A filigree silver chain sat in the box. In its delicate hoops tiny cuts of amethyst, morsels of labradorite, clear quartz, selenite, and malachite were set tastefully, selected gems for a healer. Amethyst and labradorite offered protection, crystal quartz amplified energy, selenite cleaned and recharged magic, and malachite strengthened a shield.

The vision drew her in. It wasn't just any bracelet designed for a healer. It was a focused attempt to keep someone safe and strong while curing the effects of either dark magic or ordinary disease. She faintly sensed Severus' magic about the stones, which probably enhanced the protecting qualities to a level she was almost tempted to test on another hungry hag. The stones were so overloaded with magical energy that the bracelet felt alive.

"This is so beautiful I wish I could accept it!" – she breathed, watching the slender silver thread twisting and twirling around the gems.

The soft noise dragged her attention back to the table as he grumbled. "You very well can. Even should."

Anne looked up, surprised he didn't get the obvious. "But this is jewellery."

"Such as the shoddy old rag you keep using now." There was no kindness in his voice. "You'd accepted pins and clasps from Argus before. I fail to see the difference, girl. And since you told me you employed your bracelet as a link to your notebook, it is more an everyday tool and not some bloody trinket."

Anne only hesitated a moment more.

"Thank goodness!" – she grinned and finally dared to lift the bracelet from the box. "I would have had nightmares of regrets if I had to give it back," – she giggled, trying to fix the silver chain above her wrist. "There's no clasp!" – she turned to him with an unspoken question and saw that somehow, she astonished him again. "S-Severus?"

He reached forward, picked the chain's ends together, and the bracelet obediently closed around Anne's arm.

"Only wish for it, and it unclasps," – he said a little breathlessly. She could see he was flustered, and so was she. With a sudden thought, she tore off her old bracelet.

"I guess you wouldn't accept a shoddy old rag in return, and I haven't got anything to give you."

His hand stayed on her wrist.

"You have given enough," – he told her in all seriousness. He wetted his lips and deliberately took her other wrist, too, to turn her on her seat to face him.

"Annie, I've never been one who made friends with ease. Even yielding to your insistence may have been a mistake… it probably is," – he had the nerve to say, looking straight into her eyes. "But I can't find in myself to regret or reverse it. I want you to know this. Rather selfishly, I want to be sure that you understand you got what you asked for, be it worth as little as it is. And I hope you make do with the fact now when our encounters must cease. It wasn't something I planned. But this is the right thing to do."

She knew this was probably supposed to be a cathartic moment in the theatrics of his life. She even recognised that such private thoughts never sprang this fluently from the lips of the man she knew as Snape. He was eloquent in class and about his opinions, not about private thoughts, and he always hid his feelings. Perhaps she should have paid more appreciation for the effort and apparent rehearsals. She couldn't.

She tore her wrists free and let her anger loose. "Should I thank you for the token of your experiment, then? Did you wish to try friendship for a day? Take a girl to the match, have a warm meal, and gift her, so there will be memories for the cold days? Are you a tourist, sir? If you believe this was what I hoped for, you are pathetically wrong!"

He flinched multiple times, and his face was a study of annoyance and hurt, but he didn't try to defend himself or make her stop. When she paused for air, he only said, "You don't understand, girl. You cannot know."

She'd never before heard him sound this patronising!

"Oh, so I can't, now can I? My understanding is unequal to all sense of friendship that is terminal, indeed. Terminal, like first names, I guess," – she repeated, aiming to hurt. "I might love your bracelet that won't make up for the loss of talks on Gavin's balcony. Because that's just the name of that place – it is for me! It won't make up for discussing the match or seeing another one together! That was cool! But it also won't share a fag with me at midnight, and I can't rely on it when I need to vent about a bloody equation only you would appreciate in its complexity!"

She had no idea where his wand suddenly turned up from, but as it lifted under the table, she promptly sensed the now familiar bubble encircling them, lightly buzzing and pulsing, ensuring their privacy in such a public place. She didn't know what came over her to raise her voice, even if only above the former hush, but Snape wasn't less affected. He tore up his coat's arm with a hasty wand move and shoved his naked left arm under her nose to make her inspect it.

Anne's blood froze, looking at the black tattoo. Snape's Dark Mark wasn't smaller, lighter, or any less repulsive than her dead uncle's, and all those memories threatened to resurface before she noticed the harsh red rashes at the edges. It shifted her focus, and the sight wasn't that unbearable. The rash stood angrily against Snape's milk-pale skin, showing an infection she had no idea how a magical tattoo could produce.

When she gasped, he tried to pull his fisted hand back, and Anne sensed his dark satisfaction.

"I told you, you didn't understand, girl. I am a Death Eater. There are things you cannot know and wouldn't comprehend, and it is –"

Anne disregarded this next attempt at theatrics. She'd seen it enough at the Magical Accidents Ward. Some people always had great stories about their injuries, but such tales wouldn't heal them. She caught his wrist and gently forced it back on the table, effectively shutting him up. She could comfortably cast a Diagnostic Charm and focus on the appearing runes instead.

"Is Karkaroff's Mark also inflamed?" – she asked in a practical tone.

"Why would you –" he began, but Anne stared him down with her best I'm-in-charge-as-your-appointed-wiz-nurse-look, and it proved partially successful, luring a spark of amusement into his eyes. "Poppy is still better at this," – he noted.

"Give me time," – Anne tried to ignore how his smirk and snorted chuckle made her like him again. She refocused on the problematic arm, wondering what made sepsis seem safer than banter. "How did you treat it?"

Severus shrugged. "It's not worse than for the first time when he marked me. Each of us reacted differently. It looks worse than it is."

"It's inflamed," – Anne cut the nonsense. "If you don't treat it, it will get worse."

She wondered what would help with an infection that only existed as a magical side effect. Her charm picked up nothing about bacteria, yet the look of the wound and its imprint in magic was wild. Following a random idea, she poured some water into her paper cup with an Aquamenti and froze it. After she cut off the paper, she had a centimetre-wide, rounded piece of ice, which might cool the rash around the Mark.

"What do you think you're doing?"

She wasn't sure, only followed her instincts, so she thought it was better not to react.

When the ice touched his skin, he winced but didn't pull back. Anne carefully cooled the affected skin. His body heat melted the ice, and the cool droplets trickled down his arm until her other hand caressed them away before they spoiled the floor. She didn't dare touch the Mark, not even with the ice, but she melted it enough to blow it over the black skull. Gently moving her lips close to his skin enough to drive the air over the melted droplets, showing them along the twisted path of the curling snake. Her hair loosened in the knot on her nape, and some impudent locks brushed lightly against the sensitive skin of the inside of his arm.

Anne saw the goosebumps form under her touch and heard Severus' breath coming short. She peeked up. He half-averted his face and closed his eyes. His muscles twitched in his torment.

"Does it hurt?"

He swallowed with difficulty. "No." His voice was but a whisper.

Anne theorised she only saw on his face how profound the relief must have been after suffering the symptoms. She carefully led the ice around the reddened edges and lowered her lips just above his skin again, ready to blow on the droplet when he heard him rasp out: "Enough!"

His eyes shut open wildly, and the piece of melted ice dropped from her hand when he grabbed it. She hardly had a moment to ask "what" or "where". He pulled her upright, and they left the chip shop. As soon as she felt the winter's chill, he squeezed her hand to his chest and turned on his heels.

They landed in what looked like the pathetic backside of a slum, with empty bottles and rubbish thrown around in the arcaded alleyway that smelled of urine and dirt. Snape – or Severus, she hardly knew at this point – didn't release her hand, only let it fall between them as he dragged her opposite of whatever smelled like some body of water, turned a corner under the arch, and led her into a low roofed old pub that stuck out of the surrounding brown brick blockhouses like a sore thumb.

Upon seeing him, the meagre populace within stopped mid-motion, and the barman smirked.

"Oi, Rus! Seen the game?"

"We 'ave it, Petes," – he replied absently, then turned to Anne. "Annie, this is St Peter. The man to show the gates when needed," – he introduced them with an explanation. Then he glanced back at the barman. "Go gently on her. She doesn't speak the language."

St Peter softly snorted. It must have sounded like low rumbling only because he was built high and wide like a storage cabinet. But he wasn't the only one amused. Anne scanned the room, but instead of gloating or hostility, she picked up mainly surprise. These people liked their Rus a great deal but were palpably perplexed to see him… or to see her, suggested an odd small voice as a second thought.

Meanwhile, Severus asked for a shot and two pints of dark. The first arrived on the counter while he waited for the second two, and he was reaching for it when Anne couldn't stand his shortness any longer.

"Why are we here?"

She supposed that if she asked, "Why did you drag me here?" she had less chance to receive an answer, but even choosing the right words, Severus only looked at her and downed his shot. Anne watched him exhaling with disgust as if he hated the taste of whatever he chose. Then he leaned closer. Close enough for her to smell the whiskey on his breath, and his lips indignantly curled around the words:

"Because I'm not a bloody tourist."

Anne faltered until the bar caught her back before she could make the mistake of stepping away. She looked into his angry eyes and would have sworn there was something else, not just his temper. She couldn't name it. She had seen the shadow of it before, and somehow, it made her feel important. Someone important who hurt him.

"Okay,"- she whispered.

His gaze didn't let go of hers, and eventually, he nodded. "Alright then."

"Alright," – Anne repeated, watching his gaze soften under hers.

"Two pints, Rus," – St Peter called from above, and Severus finally turned away to gather the beer from the tall counter.

He herded her to an empty table with improved politeness, greeting various individuals along the way. Anne couldn't go further than weak smiles, but it seemed even those raised eyebrows. When they settled, his hand slipped under his leather coat, and she noticed a small flick of his wrist before the known privacy charm returned.

She watched in awe as a small wave of his bare hand repaired the coat on his arm. He looked troubled and in a bad mood. She understood that her words had hurt him, but she did not understand why he had to wait until she saw his Mark to take counter steps. Perhaps if she made him talk…

"They like you in here," – she tried.

He glanced around. "A small wonder, considering most of them know me since I was in nappies."

She almost laughed up, but his mood was still foreboding. "Is this your local?"

"You can say that," – he shrugged. "My old man used to come here."

Anne recalled how he once said he considered their fathers similarly horrible, but she didn't remember if he told her about the details.

"He came to a Muggle pub?"

"He was a Muggle."

Anne's glance slipped onto his left forearm, and he snorted a bitter laugh. "Yes, Ro– tsk! Anne," – he corrected himself. "I never had a reason to like his ilk."

Anne looked around and wondered if he liked these folks who'd just welcomed him with unmistakable warmth. He claims he never liked them, yet he comes to them. He fought for them. He almost died for them, she mused.

"Whatever you are thinking, it's echoing through," – he warned her. "Believe me when I tell you, I had no intention of dying for anyone back in the day. I joined Him to seek my own ends, and I will be at His side when He returns."

Her mouth ran dry. He sounded like a true creep, a Death Eater to the core with conviction and devotion… it didn't match anything she read about him in her uncle's letters, and he never behaved as the cold bastards she recalled.

"You're just trying to scare me," – she tried to see through him, missing the reassurance of her additional senses. His look hardened like it could cut glass.

"You should be scared. You should be terrified to stay around."

She suddenly was.

The magic between them felt dark and threatening. Even taking a breath felt like drinking poison. His eyes looked lightless but still grey as if they weren't occluded, yet she sensed no emotions but peril and thunder. Her heart began to race, and her bones felt cold. The only thoughts remained about the horrors of the past: the Dark Mark floating on the sky while nobody cared about her, Uncle Evan smiling above that trice-cursed pup, and Mr Mulciber writhing on the tiled floor….

She was ready to flee when she realised how unlikely it was that he stopped Occluding at this very moment. Should she honestly believe these were the emotions he hid at other times?

Bullshit.

Anne focused on those grey eyes and felt a determination similar to the one that had led her to return to the hag. Then show it! – she commanded, like at the Bugs Ward in the summer. You show who you are!

Pictures and half-formed emotions flooded her head as she stepped through the pool of Snape's eyes. A wizard tortured, hanging mid-air, his torso a grotesque doll of a wicked child, the cut-off legs and the torn clothes couldn't divert attention from the muddied, bloodied face in agony – a witch clutching children to her skirt, trying in vain to hide them in the folds, screaming her life out – a collapsing house knocking half a dozen people over with the debris, while a thick yellowish green jet of magic shot towards the foggy sky from within, blasting rocks and bricks in all direction around – and agony – endless screams and agony…

The kaleidoscope stopped revolving only when her tormented mind screamed in his THIS IS NOT YOU! I WANT TO SEE YOU!

No.

SHOW ME! – she demanded.

NO!

The next second, she found herself by their table in the dodgy Muggle pub, and Snape stared at her with the same threat in his eyes. He was panting just like her breath came short, but she still could sense him—his will, determination, and warning.

Anne understood his hatred for all that'd been shown and wished he would flee before he had to see it all repeated.

"I cannot avoid it," – he said, probably hearing the thought.

"This is not you," – she repeated, but words fell flat compared to the minds' connection.

"Would I lie to you?" – he challenged. When she denied him a reply, he admitted: "This is He. I cannot stop it. I cannot avoid it. But you should."

She broke eye contact to get some privacy. She almost laughed bitterly. It was so ridiculous. The same man who had been adamant to keep her at Hogwarts! The same who got her a Time-Turner, extracurricular reading to keep her wits about her, lab time, and mounts of trust and encouragement, a pebble to flee to Poppy, and now a bracelet, which was so understated in its beauty she knew she would admire it for hours once she got back home.

That bracelet was a tool to help her grow as a healer. She remembered his rage when she was about to set foot into St. Mungo's, but when he understood her reasons… she thought about his change of heart at the end of the last school year. It wasn't about her reasons. He understood her, in her core. When she'd touched his head, he'd almost purred with relief, yet he couldn't move on the fact she'd offered him the wands. He cherished her trust to the point he tried to return it. She finally understood Argus' words about that night.

The vibes at the other side of the table slowly turned into worry from threats, but she wasn't ready to look up from her folded hands.

Any fool would have seen that he was right. What kind of idiot would choose to stay in a world that was heading to its doom? Caleb already had a handy way to flee if needed, and they hadn't even counted on the devil's return. She knew her brothers had a backup plan for the Smiths, too. She doubted they had discussed it with George, Aida, or Kelly, but she knew them enough to be sure they had ideas on their minds.

But could Snape honestly know what was to come? Could he foretell it?

And what about those morons who had someone they couldn't leave behind? Rachel told her she wouldn't flee in no uncertain terms. And Madame Pince? And Argus? Her friends and colleagues at St. Mungo's? Frank? Gus? Wendy with her bad knees or Suzie Wane with her cowardice and the little squibs at home? You can't evacuate a whole country to flee just one madman!

"Anne," – she heard his voice. It sounded raspy, as if unused, careful, tentative even... Her senses picked up mounting wariness and self-reproach. She didn't feel ready to face him. "I cannot hear your thoughts, girl," -he tried to get her attention. "Blast, this is the first time I wish that rubbish worked more, not less!"

The most reserved man she'd ever known wishing for a mental connection was so unexpectedly funny that Anne suddenly found herself smiling.

"Look at me, girl!"

It was a soft request, undemanding, surrounded by emotions like regrets and fondness. He didn't hide them. Anne braved his eyes.

With his torn look and the background the pub offered, she could see why George thought he looked rough around the edges. He waited patiently, but she could sense his concern swelled by the second. He also seemed uncharacteristically helpless. She almost pitied him. She decided to clear things up before they both hurt even more.

"Have you been to the Malfoy Christmas feast?" – she asked, returning to practicality.

He blinked in his surprise but nodded. "Yes."

"Was my father there?"

"He was invited but didn't stay for long."

"Did he see that the Marks are returning?"

He finally caught up with her, she could see it in his eyes. "Not to my understanding. It struck deeply, different for everyone. Some want to flee, others are hopeful. No one is sure about anything, so it's not a matter for open discussion."

Anne leaned back on her chair and finally drank her beer. A small mercy. If her father didn't know it, it couldn't become a tiff with the Macmillans.

"What is on your mind, girl?"

He reminded her of Caleb. The storm was over, and he hoped she would clean up the debris. It would have been a good moment to mention her uncle's letters or the Knights of Walpurgis. She wondered whether he even knew about their existence. Sadly, she wasn't sure if she was free to talk. He was a spy….

"I have more questions," – she told him instead. Upon his inviting nod, she took a deep breath and went for what she knew he would dislike: "They are gathering forces for months. How long have you known it? When did the Mark begin to show again?"

His emotions vanished from the air, but he looked apologetic for the first time since he showed her his Mark.

"It hasn't been this clear since the war is over. There were signs, but… Annie, I didn't know it. You must believe me! Had I known…" he closed his eyes and shook his head. "If I told you I wouldn't have talked to you if I even suspected before mid-November that this time it was different, would you blow a gasket again?"

Anne didn't need to think about it. "Most likely." She wished his sad little smirk didn't endear him to her because she had to ask: "Would you have insisted on my return to Hogwarts if you'd known it?"

"Yes. But I wouldn't have talked to you."

"And my father's letters?"

He looked reluctant to answer.

"Severus, I need to know," – she pushed him, and his name worked the miracle.

"Your father wouldn't have been an issue." The coldness in his eyes told more than his words.

Anne slowly nodded. There must have been something he was keen about, and she couldn't figure out what it was. This had to cease before she left here.

"Why is it so bloody important for a snake to do her OWLs?" – she repeated her question from the summer, this time uncannily calmly. "You must tell me why you want to keep me around."

He kept his head down and stubbornly watched the table. "Hogwarts is the safest place," – he repeated the popular lie, but Anne was through with the hogwash.

"Is it because of the Dementors, the murderers, the dragons, or the werewolves?"

He grunted. It didn't need an empath to see his dissatisfaction.

"You want to keep an eye on me," – Anne kept pushing him. "I want to know why. Why Hogwarts?"

He finally lost his temper. "Because I'm there, you daft woman! And you were supposed to be sitting there like a poster child of an old clan with nothing to link you to me or any other creep. That way, no soul would have suspected that you are way more than anything even remotely resembling that!"

Her mouth fell agape, but he held her gaze, looking defiant and angry. She couldn't believe him. Did he already think the same last summer? A minute ticked by before he looked around then sauntered to the counter to ask for a next round. Anne's bewilderment broke on the awkward thought that perhaps she should have offered to buy that.

He offered a different perspective on reality, and it hit her like the Knight Bus even though she did not understand it in depth. When Severus returned, she was ready to hit a new tone.

"I don't understand. You say I was special, but that had never been the case. For nine whole years, my father believed me a squib and–"

"Your father is a twat," – he grunted out, leisurely drinking a few long gulps from his beer. He tapped along his pockets and asked whether she still had her cigarettes.

She put the half-package on the table and leaned back on her chair, folding her arms before her chest.

"Perhaps lighting a wand among Muggles is not the right thing to do," she warned him with petty malice. She had never been closer to hearing his truth, and instead of talking, he suddenly tarried! She was glad when he came up empty-handed again when searching his pockets, and his displeased look showed that her grudge had been noted.

Severus looked around and Finite-ed the privacy charm before he called over to a wiry dark-haired bloke about in his thirties: "Oi, Tim, ya cock, pass me the matches!"

He never sounded less Snape-ish, but the bloke he called Tim promptly had a lighter fly their way with a grin and a fleetingly spat, "Bloody cadger". Then he noticed Anne and practically froze. "Oi ya, flower!"

She would have sworn she heard Severus growl when she said hello with a smile.

Tim was grinning. "Ee 'r, Rus… ya noticed that fit bird by ya table?"

She saw Severus roll his eyes. "Do one, mate, will ya?"

"I'm telling to Pam, she's gonna make you spill the tea."

"She's mad if she still keeps ya 'round," – Severus deemed, seemingly unperturbed by the prospect of spilling the tea with a Pam.

"Keep telling 'er meself, but what can ya do?" – Tim snickered and turned back to the table and the drinks he shared with two older blokes.

Severus lit up a cigarette and leaned heavily on the table. He looked at Anne, and her eyebrows raised with a question, making him avert his eyes and take some deliberate gulps from his beer. When he put down his glass, adjusting the beermat twice, she began to wonder whatever else in the blazes he could find to distract himself from her question.

"You're a born Legilimens," – he finally told her. "A natural."

"I think we had that covered in my second year." Anne fought against rapidly losing her patience.

His gaze darkened. "Your impudence wouldn't have made it any more tasteful to watch Albus wet himself with joy if I reported what I found as soon as you set foot in the castle."

"What do you mean?"

"What did you think the rule about keeping to yourself and guarding your secrets was intended about? Albus fucking Dumbledore is a master Legilimens. He was not a natural by birth but had a century to hone his skills, adamant about winning a war at any cost, especially if a Snake could pay that. Ask Argus! He will be happy to enlighten you, and I suggest you believe him, unlike I did back in the day."

"I would love to know what happened, but isn't it anachronistic to talk about the war?" Anne struggled to keep up and wished he made more sense to her. "It's been thirteen years since it's over, and people behave as if it was still raging. I never understood–"

"The war is on pause," – he cut her gloomily. "It's never been over, not truly. He will return. Albus always knew this, and others must have sensed something along the same lines. The trenches are still there. I'm sure you have noticed."

If she looked at it through his eyes, she could understand a lot of peculiarities. Rachel used to tell her something similar since her first year. While she nodded, he emptied half his glass and lit up again.

"If that gave him another natural, Albus would turn cartwheels. But I failed to report when I suspected what you were and didn't go to him when you collapsed a year later. Everyone and their cousins were at my throat for treating you horribly, but I had to rule out every chance for a connection. Especially on a personal level."

"You didn't treat me horribly," – Anne protested, and she couldn't help but smile. What did he do, really? Fed her when she couldn't eat in the Great Hall, gave her guidance, challenged her…

"I clearly fucked up," – he drew a long drag of his cigarette and emitted the smoke with a sigh. "I've been apt enough to notice when I couldn't scrape your hands off my cauldrons. It doesn't absolve me from my mistake, but I thought I would have more time. I knew He was to return one day. Foolishly, I hoped… especially since this summer I hoped…"

When he stopped to look at her, she saw the apology in his eyes, and that torn look again she couldn't bear without wishing, trying to help him. She reached through the table and put a hand on his.

"Severus," – she began, but he squeezed her fingers and pulled away.

"It's so bloody poetic!" – he said with a bitter laugh. "When He returns, and make no ifs about this, He will expect a thorough report from me. That's about the only way I might have a chance to serve Him again, and I will eagerly account for everything."

Her heart stopped beating. It must have, and the sudden chill that ran down her spine would be the end she was about to collapse into. Because if he meant to say that he was about to appraise the Dark Lord about a certain Annabella E. Rosier and her forays into Mind Magic, she should be ready to take her goddamned uncle's silver-lined black cloak and relieve her father from masquerading as a head of a pureblood clan.

"Good. You're finally terrified," – he noticed, stubbed out the butt, and took the empty glasses to the counter.