Postal

POSTAL

(A Severus Snape fanfiction in "postcard" installments)

By A.L. de Sauveterre

ONE

It all happened so unexpectedly. One moment she was just staggering in to the dreary flourescent light of the entrance hall, shaking her umbrella out on the landing. Stopping briefly to lean in to the little post cubicle, she caught hold of the card. It bore the face of the man she had seen only in her dreams, or so she thought.

As a tugging sensation threaded through her waist, the entrance hall and the stairs to her apartment dissolved into a blur. Blackness. Then a cold thump as she landed on what felt like stone. Blinking rapidly, she regained her focus, but sensed with a stomach-tightening certainty that she was no longer in Boston.

Two half-burnt, weary-looking candles flickered atop a carved oak desk in the centre of the room, piled high with books and heavy scrolls of parchment. Rows of shelves on the far walls housed jars filled with strange-coloured pickled objects, arranged with clinical precision.

"What are you doing here?" growled a low feral voice in her ear. She jumped back, speechless. It was the very question she had been asking herself.

In the darkness she could barely discern the gaunt, pale face with its hawk-like profile, the dark, piercing eyes and a shoulder-length mass of tangled raven hair. He was quite tall, she thought irrelevantly.

A firm, commanding grip took hold of her right arm, pinning her against the mantelpiece. Then that velvet voice again, snarling in her ear. God help her. She felt herself go weak and tense all at once.

"Who are you?" he asked, keeping his grip on her, though slightly gentler. "Give me one good reason not to turn you over to the Dark Lord. Just one," he purred.

At once, she knew the only answer she was prepared to give—that she wanted to give. Pulling him towards her with her free hand, she smiled. And it was he who covered her mouth with his.

("Oh!" squeaked a faint voice in the corridor. "I think Snape’s… busy.")

 

TWO

"Snape’s doing what?" Harry’s green eyes widened at his friend Hermione, who was nodding her confirmation. The passage outside the Potions Master’s dungeon rooms was, as usual, cold and draughty as they approached, but that had all been forgotten when Hermione peered through the crack in the door and told them what she’d just seen.

"With… with who?" mouthed Harry.

Hermione shook her head and shrugged, resisting the urge to press her eye against the keyhole.

"And… she didn’t seem to… mind?" whispered Ron incredulously. "Oh, Merlin, I don’t think I want to see this." But as he spoke, he was already gently pushing Hermione out of the way, bending over to peer into the room.

"Ron!" hissed Hermione, pulling him back by his sleeve. Even in the dim torchlight of the passage, her face was pink.

"What?!"

"Ssshh!"

The three stood stock still. They could no longer hear voices from the inside of the room, but after a pause there came a curious series of sounds. A bump, followed by the scraping of oak against stone, which Hermione assumed could only have been the desk. Soft laughter. And then, curiously, loud tumbling and clattering, as if the scrolls and books had all been swept to the floor. Followed by a barely audible gasp.

The heat rising into Hermione’s face was unbearable. She grasped both boys firmly by the arms (they were still staring at each other with puzzled expressions on their faces), steering them down the corridor and out of the dungeons. Only when they reached the warm glow of the entrance hall did they dare to speak. Not that they could think of anything coherent to say.

"Well," said Ron dumbly. "Well. Who’d have thought…Snape…"

Indeed, thought Hermione, flushing furiously once more.

Harry cleared his throat, glancing warily at the two of them. "Well, I guess we’ll have to return this thing back to him later then. When he’s less… preoccupied."

"Harry," said Hermione suddenly. "Do you think this has anything to do with the ring?"

Harry reached into his pocket and produced the ring they had found beside Snape’s desk in the Potions classroom. It was pretty worn, as if it had traveled through a lot of space, if not time. It was silver or white gold with a darkish rectangular blue stone in the centre ("mmm…probably lapis lazuli," mused Hermione). There were few distinguishing features, save for on one side, barely visible, were the chipped remains of an inscription, "…lass of ‘93’".

"What do you think it means?" asked Hermione. Harry and Ron merely shrugged.

"We could always go back in a few and see if he’s free?" suggested Ron weakly.

Harry glanced over his shoulder down the dungeon stairs. Draco Malfoy was distractedly walking up from the direction of Snape’s office. He hadn’t seen them, but Harry noted that the boy had a rather… bemused expression on his face and kept glancing back towards the Potions rooms.

"Um… maybe… not just yet," said Harry.

 

THREE

"Seamus," whispered Dean, "how long an absence is customary to give a teacher before we all pack up and leave?"

Seamus shrugged, looking back nervously at the door of the Potions lab. The class, which had assumed its usual tense silence, was waiting for Professor Snape to throw the door open with a bang and rattle its hinges. Double Potions with the Slytherins often began this way, although after four years it still managed to jolt them out of their seats. But today they had been looking cautiously over their shoulders for nearly 10 minutes.

Snape was never late. Even the Slytherins looked slightly perturbed. All except Malfoy, Harry noted, whose pale thin lips curved into a knowing little smile.

Hermione looked nervous, arranging and rearranging the powdered Basilisk Opiate and extract of Feramoan Root by the cauldron. "Do you think… something’s happened to him?" she whispered.

"I solemnly hope so," sighed Ron, stretching his arms lazily—until Hermione poked him in the ribs with her wand. "Ow!"

"Be serious!" But she was smiling, despite herself. Then, "Listen… I’ve been doing a spot of research on the origins of that ring." She lowered her voice and Harry leaned forward. "And you’re not going to believe—"

"—the number of points Gryffindor is about to lose for your disruption of my class… Miss Granger." That voice, silk and velvet with the merest hint of a threat. Her blood ran cold. Then, strangely, came to a boil. Snape could move as silently as a snake when he chose. And strike just as swiftly.

Harry and Ron sat up straight. Slowly turning, Hermione found her nose inches away from the row of black buttons rising up his chest, as a long-boned hand drummed lightly on her table edge. He bent slightly, those black eyes meeting hers for an instant. She swallowed with difficulty, trying to keep her face passive. "I think I’ll make it… twelve this time," he said almost languorously. (Despite her distress, she couldn’t help thinking how odd it was that House points had never before been allocated or detracted in other than increments of five.)

Snape’s square shoulders turned away. As the other students bent over their parchment, Harry arched an eyebrow at Hermione. But she was too distracted to notice. There was a strange quality about Snape’s voice. It lacked its usual… acidity. And she couldn’t take her eyes away from his hands as they demonstrated the proper handling of Basilisk Opiate and Feramoan Root. Those hands. On that woman. Clean and elegant, but strong and powerful, capable of—

"’Mione!" Ron was tapping her from the next table with a slice of Shrivelfig. "Hey, wake up. And don’t lean in too close to your cauldron, your face is getting all red."

Before long, Snape told them to go, but not before assigning them an essay on the potential ramifications of the misapplication of Viagroserum concentrate. (How the Wizards’ Educational Council could allow them even as fifth years to handle such a potent solution was beyond Harry, who, glancing at his flushing friend, suspected that she might have accidentally inhaled a little too much.) Harry nudged Ron. Now would be as good a time as any to return the ring.

Snape had already hurriedly turned to go when Harry decided to seize the moment. "Um, excuse me, Professor Sn—"

"NOT NOW, POTTER!" He stopped, uncharacteristically, in an effort to check himself, continuing in a strained voice. "You may leave messages for me in the Faculty Lounge, if you wish," he said, before hastily disappearing through another door. The door to his office and private rooms.

As they turned to go, Hermione careened into Draco Malfoy who had been regarding the Potions Master’s exit with some curiosity. He feinted a fall, delighting in knocking Granger’s books to the floor, before swinging out the door, chuckling to himself in anticipation.

* * * * *

"Alright, Hermione, what did you find?" asked Harry, perching eagerly on the opposite bench. The library was, as usual, nearly deserted after dinner. (Snape had been notably absent.) Ron, swallowing the last of his rosewater fudge brownie, leaned forward.

Hermione glanced at Madam Pince’s station. The elderly librarian was just disappearing into the Restricted Section followed by her stacks of reshelving. "Something about that ring’s been bothering me. I thought I might have seen it before, but couldn’t place where. Until I found this."

Hermione extracted a weathered volume from her satchel and slid it across the table toward the boys. She opened it to about three quarters of the way through and pointed at a picture. "Here, look." In the photograph, a younger-looking Dumbledore stood at a podium in the Great Hall. With his hand he was indicating at his side two smiling students facing the rest of the student body. Everyone appeared to be applauding except for one student at the Slytherin table with a familiar-looking pointed face set in a scowl. Of the two students beside Dumbledore, the girl, a fourth or fifth year by the looks of it, had dark shoulder-length hair, parted in the centre, warm brown eyes and a huge grin. The tall, gangly boy beside her, a seventh year, had short cropped black hair which showed off his hawk-like features. A triumphant smile tugged at the corners of his crooked mouth as he turned to look at his classmate with obvious pride. Both were holding up a heavy-looking golden cauldron, inscribed "Hogwarts Alchemy and Potions Award".

Harry inspected the boy’s face in disbelief. "Is that…?"

"’Severus Snape (Slytherin) and Esmerelda Plofufnik (Ravenclaw) accept the Hogwarts award for outstanding achievement in Alchemy and Potions from Headmaster Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., etc),’" Hermione read upside down.

"So Snape got an award. Big deal," said Ron.

"Wait, there’s more," she said, tossing another volume onto the table. Back-issues of the Daily Prophet from… Harry couldn’t read the date as the gilded lettering on the spine had faded over the years with handling. Hermione found a page somewhere in the front and turned it upright for them. "Look here."

She pointed at an article just below a smiling photograph of the same witch in the Hogwarts annual. The picture must have been cropped from a larger one, as she was squeezing the hand of an unpictured individual as he hugged her shoulder.

Harry read, "‘MISSING MINISTRY MEDIWITCH. Chipping Sodbury mourns the disappearance of the town’s local mediwitch, Ms. Esmerelda Plofufnik, whose home on Puddle Dock was mysteriously ransacked and then burnt yesterday evening. Having received a call from concerned neighbour Alphonso Wilkes, Ministry officials arrived at the scene, but found no trace of Ms. Plofufnik or any evidence that she had been at home at the time of the incident. Sources say that shortly after the fire began, a dark cloud in the shape of a skull hung low over the premises. An inquiry into the cause of the fire is being conducted by Ministry officials. Any information regarding the whereabouts of Ms. Plofufnik or any other information regarding the fire may be owled anonymously to Mister A. Moody, Ministry of Magic, Department: Wouldn’t You Like to Know.’"

He looked up at Hermione. "So? What’s this got to do with Snape?"

"Look closely at the photograph," she said exasperatedly.

"Well…" ventured Ron. "She’s really pretty."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Her hand, look at her hand."

Indeed, on her hand was a little unobtrusive ring with a rectangular stone. It was tilting in such a way that they couldn’t make out the portion out of view but Harry was willing to bet that the inscription matched the one on the ring in his pocket. But he had to be sure.

"Ron, did you bring the map?"

Ron nodded and pulled the Marauders’ Map from his fraying satchel. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," he droned, tapping the parchment with his wand. Immediately, lines sprang from the point he had touched until the entire of Hogwarts was clearly outlined. They saw three dots labelled "H. Potter", "H. Granger" and "R. Weasley" in the Library. The "Madam Pince" dot was still hovering in the Restricted Section. "If she’s still here, the map will tell us who she is," said Harry.

He scanned down to the dungeons. "Okay, I’ve found Snape’s quarters."

"Well, go on. Give over, is she still there?" asked Ron, squinting. The tiny dots were quite small, after all.

"Uh. Yeah," said Harry uncertainly. "I’d say she’s still there."

"Well?" prompted Hermione. "What’s her dot labelled?"

"I can’t read it," he said flatly.

"You’re the Gryffindor Seeker. Your eyesight’s better than any of ours," said Hermione impatiently. "What do you mean, you can’t read it?"

"Well, it’s tough to tell," he explained, colouring slightly, "because the dots are sort of…er…" (he coughed) "overlapping."

Hermione frowned. Then her eyebrows flew up, along with the fresh wave of colour in her face brought on by dawning comprehension.

"Oh!"

 

 

FOUR

The passages to the owlery in the northernmost tower were steep and treacherous enough during the day. But by the light of their wands in the dead of night under Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, it was damn near impossible to see. Harry, Ron and Hermione took the slippery stone steps carefully, one at a time. Despite her precautions, Hermione fell back as a trick step beneath her gave way. She landed squarely into Ron who caught her in his arms and set her straight.

"Are you okay?" he asked through her hair. It smelled like vanilla and blackberries.

"Yeah," she replied a little breathlessly.

"Good," he said, sounding suddenly breathless in the dark. Then his voice assumed its familiar jocular tone. "Hermione…"

"What?" she asked, taking her next step gingerly.

"If I told you you had a lovely body, would you hold it against me?" Ron chuckled at his own terrible pun, barely dodging the arm outstretched to shove at his shoulder. It seemed easier to use that line in the dark.

"Ron!" Although no one could see it, she could just imagine her face turning red. Hermione told herself it was the due to the late hour that her mind was loose with non sequiturs,… but she was furious to find herself suddenly thinking of… Professor Snape.

Ahead of them, Harry had stopped moving. By the smell, they knew they had reached the final passage to the owlery.

"Shh!" cautioned Harry. "I think there’s someone already in there."

As if to confirm this, they heard soft footsteps and the hooting of owls being disturbed. A moment later, Draco Malfoy appeared at the far end of the corridor coming towards them. On Harry’s cue, the other two followed his example, scuttling back into the wall, allowing Malfoy to pass them with a sweep of his robes. Even in the dim light, the smirk on his face told them he was up to something.

They held their breath, watching his slick blond hair recede into the distance and finally disappear before entering the circular chamber. The owlery resembled a stone belfry with hundreds of perches supporting owls of all colours and varieties. A snowy owl of brilliant white at the far end hooted at them in greeting, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other.

"Hello, Hedwig," said Harry. The owl pinched his wrist affectionately before taking the scraps of food he had brought from the kitchens. As she ate, he tied Sirius’s note around her leg. If Sirius had been at Hogwarts with this Esmerelda, he’d be able to tell them something about her. Or, maybe even identify Snape’s guest.

* * * * *

It had been elegant and simple, everything that would have been expected of a Snape from Herstmonceaux. The gardens of the little town between the hills of Sussex Weald and the eastern end of the South Downs glittered in the last of the afternoon’s rays as the carriage rolled ceremoniously through the narrow lanes and into the countryside.

She had sat next to him shyly at first, blinking in awe at the crowds of well-wishers who had traveled so far to see the master wed at last. He arranged the coverlet on her lap, regarding her with a mixture of pride and disbelief, that a creature so lovely and so kind-hearted and loving could want him. Him. After all he had done. Knowing what he was, what he had been. Instinctively he glanced at the inside of his left arm, realising with a shock that the mark had gone. She followed his gaze, sharing in his discovery. And the tears of joy in her eyes matched his own. That moment confirmed to him that he was doubly blessed. Impulsively, he caught her hand and brought it to his lips. She caught her breath and his own breathing quickened as he met her gaze through half-lowered lashes.

There came at that moment the sound of gunfire, ricocheting around the glen in an even staccato. The carriage halted abruptly. A bony, grey hand wrenched open the door opposite, and he watched helplessly as three black-hooded figures descended upon them and pulled his love from his grasp. The last he heard of her voice was his name in a desperate cry, "Severus!" And the drum of the shots advanced and grew louder still, echoing painfully in his ears…

Severus Snape opened his eyes. The bluish white moonlight through the narrow windows set high on the righthand wall threw the crevices of the dark limestone ceiling into relief. The knocking that had woken him reluctantly persisted, this time clearly from the door to the main dungeon passage. Still groggy, he angrily threw on his black robe, and moved quickly to stand when a movement from the bed behind arrested him to the spot. Slowly turning, he caught sight of creamy white skin and long dark hair sprawled delicately across the pillows. A soft murmur escaped the sleeping woman and he felt an irrepressible tug at the corners of his mouth.

Quietly drawing the curtains around the bed, he crossed the room, unbolted and flung open the door to find… no one. Nothing but a small scroll on the floor, addressed to him in a familiar hand. Closing the door once again, he broke the seal, reading by the moonlight.

"My dear Severus,

Please excuse the late hour of this request, but I have been informed of a matter of great urgency and would be grateful for your presence in my office.

Albus Dumbledore"

Behind him, she moaned softly in her sleep, and his heart sank. And he knew, without looking, that the Dark Mark was still there.

 

FIVE

"Liquorice Whips," he sighed at the gargoyle. The stone figure sprang aside and before long, he found himself staring at the carved oak doors of Dumbledore’s office and private quarters. Severus raised his hand. Then paused with some trepidation. Then lowered his hand and half-turned, drawing his robes around himself. Perhaps he could just return to explain about her in the morning—

"Come in, Professor Snape." The Headmaster’s voice stopped his train of thought. Without so much as a creak, the doors had slid open, a rosy strip of firelight cutting across the shadowy landing. Fawkes, the Headmaster’s phoenix, nodded sleepily on his perch by the threshold. Severus found Dumbledore waiting for him in one of the leather claw-footed club chairs in front of the hearth. The Headmaster’s long white beard fell across the strangest sleeping robes Severus had ever seen, sky-blue and peppered with dancing truffles and macaroons, with a pointed bobbled sleeping cap to match.

Dumbledore stifled a yawn. "You must excuse me, Severus. I am afraid that insomnia is still unknown to me, even at my age." He gestured for the Potions Master to sit down. "Hot toddy, Severus?"

Snape’s eyebrows flew up in alarm. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Here, I took the liberty of making one for you as well," he said, indicating two steaming mugs on the tiny tea table. "Warm milk, honey and a touch of Laphraoig—just the thing before going to bed. It also happens to be a well-known, if old-fashioned, Muggle anaesthetic for a sore throat."

"Oh," said Snape, visibly disconcerted. "No… thank you, sir."

Dumbledore peered at him through his half-moon glasses and sighed. "Then I think you had better get on with telling me what you have to say."

Severus had never kept anything from the Headmaster who he knew possessed an uncanny omniscience about all goings-on at Hogwarts. At heart, and in principle, he felt he couldn’t. Dumbledore was his closest ally. If he couldn’t confide in Dumbledore, to whom could he turn?

He proceeded reluctantly. "It’s about… Esmerelda."

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. "Esmerelda Plofufnik."

"Yes, sir," continued Severus, although he knew it hadn’t been a question. "She’s… here, sir. With me."

Dumbledore reflected silently. He tilted the warm mug into his beard for a moment. "I understand… Well, your absence has not gone unnoticed at meals, Severus. Although, I trust that the house-elves have provided adequate nourishment for you and Ms. Plofufnik?"

"Oh… yes, sir. Quite," he replied in surprise. "Thank you."

Dumbledore’s face suddenly assumed a grave expression. To Severus, it looked almost like a reprimand. "But you of all people, Severus, you must understand that your bringing her back—her mere presence here—endangers her life… and yours as well. If she were to be spotted by someone—"

"I—I know, sir," he explained. "But I didn’t bring her back." He shook his head, staring at his hands clasped anxiously on his lap. "I’m… not even quite sure… how she got here." Snape recounted events since her mysterious and unexpected appearance in his chambers the day before. It was a selectively truncated version. The Headmaster may have been able to divine the details, but Severus couldn’t bring himself to recount every… event. He found himself uncharacteristically flushing now at the very memory of some of them.

"Nevertheless, I hope," continued Dumbledore, apparently oblivious to his colleague’s emotional tempests, "that you have some plan to get her back, or in any event, away from here as soon as possible. Before it is too late."

Severus shrugged despondently. "I was rather expecting that you had summoned me here to suggest such a plan."

"In fact, I don’t really—" Dumbledore’s eyes flickered up suddenly. "Did you say I summoned you? I had sensed you on your way, but I assure you, Severus, I did not summon you this evening."

"But… I received—" Severus started, as the oak doors flew open with a bang.

There was the Potter boy, pushing up his glasses, and his red-headed shadow Weasley at the threshold, both in their pajamas and, it seemed, out of breath from running. Snape caught sight of a familiar-looking piece of dilapidated parchment in Potter’s hand.

"I’m—I’m sorry to interrupt, Professor Dumbledore," Potter began breathlessly. "But this is important. Professor Snape, there’s someone in your rooms."

The Potions Master’s expression went from surprised to livid. That meddling little son-of-a—

"Not Esmerelda Plofufnik," continued Harry urgently. "I mean, not just her, sir." He squinted at something on the parchment. "Callum Rosier, Alphonso Wilkes and Lucius Malfoy."

The Potions Master’s blood ran cold. Without a single word, he sprang to his feet, tearing past the two boys through the doors, nearly unseating Fawkes.

He ran and ran and ran. Snape’s lungs felt on fire. His quarters seemed to get farther and farther away, the corridors stretching endlessly before him like in some wild nightmare, until at last he stumbled down the stairs and into the familiar darkness of the dungeons.

 

SIX

"Is she still… alive, My Lord?"

The bald man, cringing mouse-like in a corner, blinked fearfully between her and the empty vial clutched in his silver hand. In the half-light, beneath her swollen lids, she could barely make out the outline of his figure, hunched and cowering, it seemed, from someone… or something to his left. In the dark, the echo of his voice resounded throughout the room. In her half-conscious state she was vaguely aware that they were in some kind of disused airplane hangar.

"How unobservant, you are, Wormtail," came a shrill high-pitched voice, almost too high to be human. If she strained to the right, a grey, skeletal body with blood-red slits for eyes could be seen waving a gnarled finger at the man from its perch atop a crude ironworked throne. Its thin legs dangled several inches from the concrete floor, a gruesome parody of a marionette. "If you stopped simpering for five seconds you’d see the rise and fall of the breast. You see it, don’t you, Lucius?"

"I do, indeed."

The last voice, startlingly close, hit her like a slap across the face. The smooth fingers of a cold hand pinched her chin, forcing her eyes up to meet the cold, pale stare of a man with fine blond hair and pointed features. Strange about his eyes, pale and unfeeling, as if undead. The hand traveled roughly down to her collarbone. Suddenly alert, she winced at the cruel pressure over her bruises and gasped in confusion as she realised she was covered with them. Her arms ached from being suspended by the shackles on her wrists and she didn’t need to see through her own robes to imagine her bloodied ankles chaffed from being chained apart. Once again she felt the nausea from the drug resurge with greater force. The hand moved up to her throat as the one called Lucius studied her face imperiously.

Without dropping his gaze, he addressed the figure behind him. "She doesn’t seem to remember anything. All that nonsense about some place called Beacon Hill. That rubbish about being a medical writer. Lies! A clever disguise for a mediwitch, I’ll grant the Ministry that. But…perhaps we have the wrong witch? Perhaps, she’s not a witch at all? She would have unshackled herself by now," he mused.

"Unless… her memory has been modified," countered the serpentine creature. "Those charms are not impervious, as we shall soon see," he hissed. "There can be no doubt that this one is the Keeper. She is the one."

The pinch of a dagger dug in uncomfortably, under her jawline. "Well, well. Ms. Plofufnik. Our little prodigal lamb. It’s no wonder Severus wanted to keep you for himself. He was never one for sharing." She shivered. His sneering face was inches away from her now. He licked his lips, arching a sharp-edged brow. "But perhaps, if My Lord is generous…"

A high-pitched joyless laugh assaulted her ears. "Ah, Lucius. All in good time, all in good time. In the meantime, we will resume the questioning before we lose the full advantage of the Veritaserum. We still have uses for the girl, if your suspicions about Severus are correct."

Severus. Through the painful pulsing in her head, her thoughts wandered unchecked to the warmth of black eyes, the crooked smile of a man not accustomed to mirth, the throaty whisper of her name in her hair. No, not her name. Well. Maybe. It was terribly confusing. And there was that leering tattoo. She had seen that before, but where? She wanted desperately to hold her head, but that wasn’t possible.

Lucius drew back. She sensed him recoil from fear of the red-eyed figure. She felt it herself.

Its malevolent red stare drew closer until it was all she could see. Another wave of nausea coursed through her.

"Again. Who. Are. You."

Her mind swam with images and emotions. Her mind. Addled. The contents of that vial. She struggled to form coherent thoughts, to respond. "Audrey," she croaked.

Lucius clucked and shook his head, mockingly pitying. He nodded at someone behind her. "Fair’s fair. Wilkes, do the honours."

"Crucio," muttered a gruff voice lazily. Suddenly, her body jacknifed with the pain, rattling the chains.

Just as abruptly, it stopped.

"Say it," Lucius commanded, tapping the dagger threateningly against his palm.

Feeling the vise-like grip on her lungs, she choked resignedly, "Es-Esmerelda."

"Who are you working for?" Lucius spoke quietly, deliberately as he examined his neatly trimmed fingernails.

"Ho-Horizon M-Medical..." she stammered, gasping in terror. Who the hell were these lunatics? Why wouldn’t they believe her? "I told you, I’m… a medical writer, I write... articles for researchers and scien—"

"Crucio."

The room went black and red as her limbs convulsed in searing agony.

"Enough! And no more of your lies, girl. It’s no use fighting the serum." Again those fingers dug mercilessly into her cheeks. "Now. Tell us. Where is the stone? And… who is Caro?"

 

SEVEN

"Harry, mind your eggs," warned Hermione, nudging him with her elbow and looking up through the Great Hall at the swarm of post owls.

Harry followed her gaze upwards. He readily recognised a familiar white speck soaring determinedly above the Staff table. Hedwig coasted towards them, dodging an extravagant wing movement by a South American Rumbah owl. She hooted indignantly at it, before landing with a self-righteous flutter onto Harry’s shoulder.

Harry absently put a piece of toast in her beak and untied the letter from her leg. By this time, Ron had paused with his juice glass in mid-air and Hermione had stopped eating. Leaning forward, they listened as Harry read in a low voice.

"Harry,

Can’t explain in a note, but if you’re right about her identity, we could all be in danger. Meet me tonight outside the last greenhouse at 8:30 on the Forest side. Take the Cloak. Be careful.

(here there was a muddy pawprint)"

All three looked at each other. Then at Snape’s place at the staff table. Dumbledore himself was staring at it thoughtfully. It was empty.

"I never thought I’d say this," said Harry, "but I’m worried about Snape." Hermione nodded.

Ron grimaced out of habit.

Harry turned to him. "I am. Didn’t you see the look on his face when we told him…?"

Despite himself, Ron’s face softened with pity. "Terrified. And the way he ran..." Only to be too late, he thought. He and Harry had seen the four dots on the map vanish into the fireplace in Snape’s chambers, seconds before the Potions Master arrived. After they had gone back to their dormitory, the map still showed Snape, motionless, just inside the threshold. This morning before breakfast, they had checked again and Snape’s dot had moved, but only enough to have closed the door behind him.

"Why would they take her?" mused Hermione, pushing pensively at her waffles. "And if she never left Snape’s apartments, who could have told them she was here?"

Harry’s eyes darted to the Slytherin table. Just quick enough to see Draco Malfoy’s pale grey eyes swivel away.

* * * * *

The sun had set, leaving a cape of amber and violet cloud over the greenhouses at the bottom of the castle slope by the Forbidden Forest. Crouched under the Invisibility Cloak, Harry, Ron and Hermione sucked in their breaths as Professor Sprout trundled past on her way to dinner, muttering something about passive aggressive Merobabic behaviour.

As they rounded the last and most dilapidated of the greenhouses on tiptoe, a large shaggy black dog appeared, stopping and wagging its tail. Despite the cloak, it sniffed them out and moved forward a few paces. Harry threw off the cloak and smiled, scratching the dog behind the ears. It raised a dusty paw, which Harry took and immediately the animal grew taller and less hairy, revealing a tall, rangy man with short dark hair, bright blue eyes and angular features, lightly shadowed with stubble.

"Hi, Harry," said Sirius, clapping a hand on his godson’s shoulder, before shaking Ron’s and Hermione’s hands. They sat down on the greenhouse steps underneath a mouldy porch light. "Thanks for meeting me." (Sirius wrinkled his nose.) "Ugh! What is that smell?"

"Dragon droppings," they answered at once.

"Fertilizer," supplied Ron.

"Oh." Sirius blinked. "So, tell me, where is she?"

"Well—" began Harry, but was interrupted by an impatient Hermione.

"Sirius, do you know who she is?"

Sirius’s face looked as grave as it had been in the first few months after his escape from Azkaban. "If this woman with Snape is Esmerelda Plofufnik, then, yes." He paused, seeing the three expectant faces before him. "She was in Ravenclaw, two years below us. She… was a very good friend of Snape’s in those days. Really a whiz at Potions."

"What was she like?" asked Hermione in earnest. Ron and Harry looked at her quizzically, but both, in truth, were keen to know the same.

"Like? Well, she was…" Sirius sighed, grinning, "… devilishly attractive. In a really understated, unconscious sort of way. And she had these swimming robes that—" (His hands were gesturing in mid-curve when his head shot up, as if realising they were there. He coughed.) "But she was… er, extremely shy. Incredibly academic. Most comfortable in the company of books." (Ron frowned curiously at Hermione, who was smiling strangely to herself.) "She probably never would have guessed, but we all fancied her, I reckon. Snape certainly did."

"So she and Snape were…?" prompted Hermione.

"Lab partners."

"Oh." Hermione exchanged frowns with Harry and Ron. That wasn’t exactly the answer they had expected.

"So… why is her presence here a danger to us?" asked Harry.

"Because of what she knows," he replied. "The last I heard, after graduation, she went into service as a mediwitch for the Ministry and was supposed to marry some baron in Sussex. She was very secretive about that, I remember. At least, that’s the official story."

"And the unofficial?" said Ron, leaning forward with Harry and Hermione.

"For a time, she was an undercover agent in the Muggle community where she conducted her research. Something to do with time and space."

"Her research on Potions?" frowned Hermione. "A potion to alter time and space?"

Sirius shook his head. "Something about a new catalyst. But don’t ask me for the details. I didn’t know her all that well and I never pretended to understand what it was she was doing."

"Do you think Snape would know?" ventured Ron.

"If he’s able to tell us," muttered Harry.

Sirius turned his eyes questioningly to each of them. "Well, why not just ask her?"

Harry swallowed. "Because last night she was kidnapped by Lucius Malfoy."

"Oh, no," said Sirius, suddenly rubbing his temples as if they hurt. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. They heard the scratch of stubble as he dragged his hands despairingly down his cheeks until he was looking at them through his fingers in horrified disbelief.

"Yeah, we know," commiserated Ron. "It’s bad."

"No," said Sirius, shaking his head. "You don’t understand. It’s worse."

"What do you mean ‘worse’?"

Sirius looked at the three of them. "I think she’s Dumbledore’s Secret Keeper."

 

EIGHT

Sitting in the dark on the cold stone floor, he had nearly lost feeling in his legs. His side was cramping and the door jamb cut into this shoulder. But he didn’t care. Severus had lost track of how long he had been sitting just inside the door, only vaguely aware that he must have missed about seven of his Potions classes already. What he had been hoping for was a loss of feeling altogether, anything to stop the hurricane of emotions swirling through him.

Once, a house-elf wearing an absurd cow-patterned oven mitt had timidly entered with a tray of food, but he had nearly blasted it out the door with the force of his fury. It squealed loudly, widening its eyes as it dropped the tray and clattered back to the kitchens as fast as its webbed feet could carry it. Severus couldn’t bring himself to eat. The nausea swept over him repeatedly with each gruesome image of her in the hands of Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy.

His head sank pathetically until his chin rested on his chest. Severus closed his eyes. He heard a small sob and realised it had been his own. It was all his fault. She had come back to him. By some gift of the gods or by some devil’s trick, after all these years she had been returned to him. She hadn’t even seemed to know him at first, and yet she trusted him. With her life. With herself. And he had put her at risk by allowing her to remain with him even for those few hours. He had been selfish in his joy, and now she would be the one to pay. He dreaded the thought, but fully expected the Dark Lord, in his sense of sadistic irony, would call him in to… extract payment, demonstrate his loyalty to Him and to the Circle. The burning on his arm intensified and he knew instinctively by the darkening skull that he would soon be summoned into their presence. And he had no plan, no strategy, no hope.

He froze. A reluctant rapping disrupted his thoughts. Then an exchange of worried voices whispering on the other side of his door.

"He’s not answering." Potter.

"Well, try again, he might not have heard you."

A wave of irritation coaxed his aching body into standing. Not even a moment’s peace…

A second rapping, followed by a low, impatient whine—almost canine—and another voice, in earnest reply. Severus recognised Hermione Granger. "I know. But he's been like this ever since... they took her. He hasn't been to any of his classes and hasn't taken any meals."

"He’s not responding."

There followed the sound of parchment being hastily unfurled. "Well, he’s in there," confirmed a voice. (Weasley, thought Severus grimly.) "Just… not moving."

Granger gasped. "Oh, Ron, you don’t think that he… that he’s…?"

Severus swung open the door. "Dead? Miss Granger?" A flicker of his old self smiled with weak satisfaction at the sharp intake of breath from the little group of stunned faces assembled at his door, Potter, Weasley, Granger and…something moved behind Weasley’s legs…a dog. He rested his eyes on the girl. "Unfortunately, I have not had the good fortune. Now, please, leave me alone."

Snape's pale face looked longer and more gaunt as he peered at them through the rough red rims of his black eyes. Hermione noticed his shoulders hunched more heavily than usual and his voice sounded weak, hollow, defeated. It was a sound they had never heard. In all respects, the man before them appeared to be no more than a vague, inky watercolour of himself.

* * * * *

Snape pushed the door forward, but Harry stopped it with his hand, bracing himself for an argument. But none came. The Potions Master turned abruptly, moving away from them with heavy steps until he dropped into a creaky wooden chair by the empty hearth.

Hermione felt the impenetrable grip of sadness seize her heart and she bit her lip. She prodded the others forward.

All of them were in the room now, Sirius entering last and shutting the door behind with his leg before assuming his human form. Harry, Ron and Hermione stood awkwardly for some moments, their eyes traveling over the parchment-strewn table, the empty hearth and …the door to the next room, hanging ajar to reveal torn bedcurtains and a mess of sheets on the floor. The signs of a struggle. They looked at one another uncertainly, then at the empty, distant expression on Snape's face. They had seen many sides of the Potions Master: threatening, haughty, angry, irritated, vaguely triumphant and even occasionally bemused, but never anything like this.

Harry moved forward tentatively. At the best of times, his relationship with Snape consisted of low-key hostility. He didn't know how to handle these feelings of sympathy for this man who had gone out of his way time and again to taunt and insult him.

"Erm... Professor Snape," he began timidly, "We've come to see if we could help." Snape made no change of posture or expression. Harry glanced at Ron who shrugged. Harry figured, all told, no news is good news, and continued. "We think Lucius Malfoy might be after either Esmerelda Plofufnik's research, or... other knowledge that she might have."

Snape’s face barely moved, but his voice, choked and faint, reached their ears. "There is nothing you can do. We have no hope of finding her and once the Dark Lord has extracted what he wants, she’ll… die." Snape pressed his fingers to his eyes, looking pained.

Harry, Ron and Hermione glanced at one another in alarm.

The only person who looked mildly annoyed with Snape was Sirius, who had begun to pace impatiently around the back of the room, deep in his own thoughts. Seeing a shadow cross his godfather's face, Harry sensed his mood, as a sailor might perceive the coming of a storm.