Subplot

8 - Snape

Within the depth of the thick, black liquid slept a star of ruby light. Snape held the finger-sized crystal phial against a candle, admiring the beauty of the potion within. It had taken him weeks to make, and now that he held it in his hand he enjoyed its feel. Of course it was a forbidden substance, even more so than many of the potions he kept hidden in his dungeon. Not only using this potion but merely owning it was enough to earn a man several years in Azkaban. But of course, it wasn't any old forbidden love potion, it was the forbidden love potion. Its name seemed to caress his lips when he uttered it.

Devotacarna.

Poured into red wine, it left no trace, but if he managed to sneak it into Valerie's goblet at tonight's feast, she would be down in his dungeon before midnight, begging him to make love to her.

Of course, he would not do it, but still he had to grant himself the pleasure of thinking about this possibility now and then. He was aware that it was an obsession, a power trip that had gotten hold of him after he had seen her laughing with Black. Snape tried not to think about it, because then hatred would rise in him again and all pleasant thoughts would evaporate. The joy of brewing the potion in a tiny golden cauldron had made the last weeks bearable. But since the moment he had completed it by adding a drop of his own blood to the boiling liquid, the realisation that he could never use it gnawed at his mind.

The effect of the potion would not last forever, and there was no telling how long it would last exactly, but he was not prepared to keep Varlerta drugged for the rest of her life at any rate. He imagined her waking up one morning by his side, looking at him in shock, appalled of what she had done, of the man with whom she had shared her bed. The idea of her face distorted in disgust haunted him. And of course, she would suspect foul play then, would know he had the means to ensnare her senses, and would probably not rest until they took him away. No, he knew he had to keep this phial sealed. But whenever she taunted him or got the better of him, which seemed to happen all the time, it felt good to hold the essence of power in his hand for a minute.

He pressed the cool glass of the phial against his eyelids, first against one, then against the other. When she had first come to teach at Hogwarts, things hadn't looked that bad between them, but since then he had found himself always saying or doing exactly the wrong thing. He wished he could return with her to the clearing that had been the hideout of their youth, could sit on the old tree trunk with her, listen to her playing a civilized instrument, not her hideous Muggle guitar, and find the time to get to know her again. Yet there seemed to be no such place as a clearing in his daily life at Hogwarts. He did not understand her, and she did not understand him. If the feeling of longing that kept on burning inside of him only got that clear, if it only listened to reason and disappeared, everything would be fine.

So today was her birthday. All Hallows' Eve. Somehow, her life seemed to be an assembly of practical jokes, only he was never sure if the joke wasn't maybe on him. They'd only once celebrated their birthdays together, amused by the fact that the two dates lay only three days apart. Sitting by the fireplace in the Slytherin Common Room they had been drinking pumpkin juice, the few feet of air between them no obstacle to the feeling of a shared celebration. Since then, he'd drunk to her health silently every single Halloween of the last twenty-one years, had spent a moment's thought on her no matter whether he was spending the holiday in the Great Hall at Hogwarts or in the Death Eaters' headquarter, whether he was hunting trolls, scouring the castle for his eternal enemy Black or welcoming foreign guests to the school on that day. Wasn't it ironic that this year she was here with him and he could not even think of a present for her?

With a scowl he looked at the thing she had given him for his birthday that night she had taken him out to the Three Broomsticks, a flimsy, colourful paperback volume on the history, fashion and problems of mood hair. She said she had ordered it directly from New York City for him. It was to help him find a means to remove his unwanted condition, she had told him, but for now, all the book did was remind him of it. Of course, she might be winding him up as well. They might all be making a fool of him; probably the whole school shared her amusement. Several people had assured him that his hair changed its colour, but whenever he looked at himself in the mirror all he saw was the same ugly green framing the same scowl under the same hooked nose.

Then there was the matter of the duel, of curses he had never thought he'd utter again. Snape felt he was becoming tangled up in something of which he did not want to be part. He found his own behaviour sickening: She had ordered him around, and he had followed orders, just like he had in a distant past. Maybe not quite so distant, though. When he had told her he had some important business to do on the next day, it had been the truth. That Sunday had been the date set for one more try of a task he found not only useless, but that he feared almost beyond anything else. Since then, since the minute he entered Azkaban and met its most infamous prisoner he felt slightly ill, as if suffering from a slow poisoning. Not even handling the powerful essence he had brewed could make him feel strong again. To make things worse, the Dark Mark on his arm had been burning like fire all day, as it did rather frequently now. The pain was a lesser problem, but it always filled him with dread. Snape exhaled, observed the faint spot of steam that was forming on the small phial and tried to decide rationally which of his many afflictions was the worst. Women, he decided. He knew very well why he had shunned them like the plague for most of his life.

It was time to go to the banquet, though he would have preferred to hide in his dungeon. Tonight of all nights he did not really want to see anybody, not even the teacher celebrating her thirty-fifth birthday. He found facing her difficult these last three days, not only because of the duel which had not been altogether a playful struggle among friends, not only because he was feeling the pressure of his burden, but also because he was not sure what to think of her methods now. He dreaded to think that they might turn out to be completely useless, or worse, that they might turn out to be just the opposite and he would have to admit it. Whatever they were good for, she sure had made them work for her that night.

With a sigh, feeling weary beyond words, he rose from his chair and made his way up to the Great Hall. Usually Halloween was a holiday he rather enjoyed - he liked it better than Christmas, at any rate - but this year the silvery spiders' webs, the bright orange jack-o'-lanterns, the live bats and the dancing skeletons seemed to have lost their charm. After all they were just childish decorations put up to please the immature and the simple-minded. Even when he saw the Bloody Baron manage to violently kick Nearly Headless Nick and Peeves out of the man-high giant pumpkin that glowed in the middle of the room, he could not feel even remotely pleased. Life was a burden. There was nothing to celebrate.

Valerie did not think so, apparently. She was wearing witches' robes with a print pattern, namely violently orange pumpkins scattered on a black background. He could see it from afar. It had to be the least tasteful piece of clothing he had ever encountered in his whole life. Scowling he approached the staff table, hoping to be invisible. Of course, his hopes were burnt to ashes within a moment.

"Look who's here," shouted Professor Sprout, who had the vile habit of getting slightly tipsy on holidays. "Our fertility god, the Green Man is honouring us with his presence." Keeping his face averted he could still hear the witches enjoying themselves at his expense - Sprout's hysterical giggle, Hooch's thigh-slapping joviality, Trelawney's airy breathing spasms only remotely resembling laughter, Pomfrey's sympathetic gurgling, even McGonagall's sophisticated haw-haw. Why did there have to be women on this earth, or children, for that matter? Couldn't men just grow on trees?

Valerie, who had been leaning over the empty chair to her left to talk to Hagrid, sat up to greet him now. He wished himself far away, but could not very well take any other chair than the one she had kept vacant for him with or without intending to, so he sat.

"Happy birthday, Valerie," he said, knowing it sounded more like a wish of condolence.

"Don't sit here and get her depressed, you oaf," Sprout chided him loudly, tactful as ever. "It's her birthday. It's party-time! Look at what we got her!" She tugged at Valerie's pumpkin-splattered sleeve. "Move off to the morgue if you can't come up with a better face tonight."

"No, please stay, Verus," Valerie said, though fighting with laughter herself. Through her black hair shone the bright orange of garish pumpkin earrings. He could not think of anything to say, and that was maybe lucky.

The feast was the usual affair, gluttony and careless chatter. Snape did not care much for food himself. On a day like this, it all tasted like saw-dust. When he watched Valerie laugh, eat heartily and drink a goblet of wine, he could not help thinking of the phial he had left behind in his dungeons, one that held a much stronger intoxication than anything they could serve at this feast. Then suddenly she dropped the goblet, splattering blood red wine over the white tablecloth. For the fraction of a second, he thought she had tasted his potion, but reminded himself he had not tempered with her goblet. Valerie stared at him, her face bloodless. The second he saw Dumbledore rise, he felt it, too.

Icy Fingers.

It was an immensely powerful curse that crawled through the veins of witch or wizard, leaving them cold and weak, draining them of their magical powers. Icy Fingers was the curse of Lord Voldemort. In the years of darkness, he had used it to fight even the mighty.

Someone in the claws of this curse did not fight back anymore. Much more wasn't known about it. Did the curse give Lord Voldemort access to the strength of those he attacked with it, or did it just paralyse them? They did not know, but they knew one thing: Icy Fingers was the means to invade Hogwarts. It had been tried before, in the year before Voldemort's downfall. Now Voldemort was trying again.

As if looking through a veil, Snape could see Dumbledore raise his wand and say something to a determined-looking Professor McGonagall. A storm of noise rose up in the Great Hall, and the sky above darkened. He heard Valerie shout orders over the wind and saw she had climbed onto the staff table, neatly placing one of her black boots right into a plate of freezing Yorkshire pudding, her silly robe and her black hair blown back by the blast. All the students of Hogwarts, now shivering and hugging themselves, seemed to look up at her, then obeyed her and assembled in a large, tight knot in front of the staff table. Professor Sinistra was handing up Valerie's electric guitar after taking it out of its nylon bag. Snape put her small, battery-powered portable amplifier next to her and helped her plug in the guitar cable. His fingers felt numb with cold. He saw Ginny and Neville running up to her, the red-haired girl holding her weird savage's drum in one hand and pulling the clumsy Gryffindor boy behind her with the other. They got up on the table with Valerie, who was playing soft, eerie chords on her guitar now. Ginny's steady drum rhythm joined in with her, giving Snape back a tiny bit of energy. Neville was fumbling with his flute, but finally managed to put it together properly. He blew a few notes on it which made Snape's hair stand on end.

Dumbledore shouted at the teachers to round up the hundred and fifty or more students assembling next to the ice-covered staff table. Professor Trelawney stood in front of them in a protective gesture as if crucified, while Quibster was making soothing noises to the Potter boy clutching his scar. Madam Pomfrey was comforting a few sobbing first-years, while Hagrid, shivering so violently that the whole knot of students seemed to sway back and forth with it, was hugging at least six of the younger boys and girls. Tiny Professor Flitwick had mounted the table with Madam Hooch's aid and was now singing a soprano incantation that blended in with Varlerta's landscape of sound, the heartbeat of Ginny's drum and the ghostly tune Neville was weaving into it. Their music spell was audible even over the howl of the storm. They are doing it, Snape thought when he saw a silvery shimmer form around the assembled students. They are up there fighting this curse. He realised he did not feel quite so cold anymore. The air was icy, but there seemed to be something like a second skin between his body and the frozen atmosphere in the Great Hall.

But when he saw that Valerie was deathly pale, that her arpeggios were getting slower, that tiny icicles were hanging from her fingers, he knew she could not last. Not like this, upholding a spell of this magnitude, at any rate. She needed all the help she could get. If there was only time to get her a potion for strength! Remembering a few things she had told him when sitting with him in a dimly lit corner of the Three Broomsticks, he wondered why she did not make the students support her with all their magical strength. It was all about moving magical strength between objects and between people, she had said though he had not believed her. She could do it, she'd said. Lord Voldemort could do it. She believed every witch and wizard of this school could learn it, that some of her students already knew a bit about it. Why didn't she use them now when she needed them?

When he looked up into her face, pale, trance-like, a thin layer of ice on her lips, he realised that she could not talk now, could not give the shivering lot of students any orders, because interrupting her playing would be fatal. So he jumped up on the table as well and shouted:

"Everybody listen! Close your insides to the cold and to the fingers tugging at your strength. Deny them entry. If you know how, send all your strength to Professor Varlerta who will fight off this curse and save you all. Those of you who know any music magic, sing along with Professor Flitwick's incantation to support her."

He saw some surprised students' eyes rest on him for a second, so he gave them his most commanding stare. Here and there in the room a few clear voices arose and joined in with Flitwick's common defence incantation. When he saw Professor McGonagall blow on Dumbledore's hands to revive the old headmaster, he knew that now that the students were protected against the worst, they were ready to do a true counter spell that went beyond mere defence. They could not see the people who were working this curse from some distance off, but there were ways to hurt them. Snape jumped off the table again and gripped Dumbledore's shoulder. The mighty wizard, visibly shaken and suddenly looking as ancient as he was, acknowledged Snape's presence by lowering an eyelid covered with ice crystals. Icy Fingers had always drained the headmaster of his powers in a way that was truly mystifying, and was weakening him more than everybody else now. There was very little time to lose. "Hex-Reflex!" whispered Professor McGonagall. Snape nodded. Along with her and Dumbledore, he raised his wand, rubbing Dumbledore's shoulder with one hand to give the old wizard a minimum of warmth. Professor McGonagall pointed westwards, indicating where the curse came from. Pointing their wands accordingly, all three Hogwarts teachers shouted "Reflexio!" simultaneously; then the group of them crashed down onto the floor in a jumble of frozen limbs. Dumbledore's scream was ringing in Snape's ears. Weak as the headmaster might be, he had probably never produced a feeble spell in his life.

As much as he would have liked to rest a second where he had fallen, he knew it was out of the question, so he sat back up. The storm had ceased. High above him on the ceiling, stars were twinkling. A multitude of students' voices invaded his ears. Professor McGonagall was sitting next to Dumbledore, rubbing his arms, but the old wizard seemed to have regained his usual air of power.

"Leave it, Minerva, Poppy will fix me up in no time at all. Let's get a bit of order into this battlefield until we know there won't be another attack."

Snape jumped to his feet so quickly that he nearly slipped on the ice-covered floor. It was risky, but he needed to get into his storage dungeon. He practically leaped down the stairs, grabbed an old linen sack and started to empty some of the cupboards and shelves. Strengthening Potions, Warming Potions, even a few bottles of Frostbite Remedy were needed, and they needed him up there with the work of his hands before another attack came. After putting a hasty unbreakable charm on the many glass bottles jumbled together in the sack, hoping it would suffice, he took the stairs in a run again.

The Great Hall was a mess. Tables had fallen over, and many different kinds of food had spilled onto the floor, not to mention gallons of sticky, melting pumpkin juice. Half-torn party decorations still hung from the ceiling and the walls as if to mock them. Snape surveyed the situation. Nobody seemed to be dead or seriously injured, but many students were apparently complaining of frostbite or were otherwise hurt by the cold. Madame Pomfrey was taking care of some while Professor McGonagall was trying to find out whom of the other students was worst off. Snape saw Professor Sprout fuss over a pale, but conscious Valerie. He went over to Madame Pomfrey and handed her a number of bottles. The plump matron gave him a look of gratitude.

"You have a better heart that they give you credit for," she told him. He replied with a derisive grunt, then supplied Professor McGonagall with some potions and put one of his strongest Solution for Healing and Warming in the hand of Professor Dumbledore. The old headmaster gave him a bitter smile, opened the small glass flask and drained it at once. Snape knew and understood Dumbledore's problem: What good was it to be the greatest wizard of all time, if the Icy Fingers curse so utterly defeated you? Holding another little bottle of the strong potion in his palm, which he was aching to deliver, he nevertheless took a moment to sit next to the weakened headmaster.

"Do you expect another attack soon?" he asked him. Dumbledore shook his head. He had almost completely regained his usual air of natural authority.

"I had the feeling we scored a good hit against the Death Eaters out there, but we cannot be absolutely sure. I asked Professor Flitwick to contact the Aurors. In the meantime, please install order because we will have to stay here for another while until we know what is going on."

Snape nodded and banged against a small bronze globe next to the staff table to summon the house-elves. Usually eager to serve, they were now likely to be cowering under the tables and chairs down in the kitchen, scared of the curse. But leaving the room like it was meant an unnecessary risk in the present situation, because people might slip on the food and hurt themselves, especially if blinded by another attack. As soon as he heard the house-elves stir in their secret passages, he turned to the person he worried about most.

Valerie sat on one chair, her feet propped up on another, her whole body wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. She was holding a mug of steaming tea with both hands that someone must have conjured out of nothing. When she saw him, a smile lit her pale and frostbitten face. He pulled up a chair beside her and sat. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Cold, but otherwise okay," she answered in a softer tone than usual, her voice slightly hoarse. Ice crystals were thawing on the dark lashes that framed her grey eyes.

"Take this, it should help," he said and gave her the potion he had saved for her. She looked at the bottle and read its neatly written label.

"It's not necessary. I'll be alright," she replied and tried to hand it back to him, but he would not take it.

"There might still be another attack tonight. If you do not want to take the potion now, at least keep it on you."

She nodded and pocketed the bottle without another word. He noticed her hands were stiff because the skin on her fingers was cracked in so many places. Suddenly it was not so difficult anymore to tell her:

"You did a remarkably good job just now. I think we all have to thank you."

She looked at him, the fine lines around her eyes creasing almost imperceptibly. "I wouldn't have made it alone. I had loads of help. Without you I certainly wouldn't have gotten very far, so it's me who should thank you."

"Don't mention it. You should have Poppy take care of these fingers, just in case you need them again tonight."

He should have thought of bringing something for cracked skin from his dungeon as well, because Madam Pomfrey was very busy with the students right now. Ought he go again and get something for Valerie now? The thought of leaving her alone up here while there was still the threat of another attack made him uneasy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a brigade of house-elves approach, mops and brooms in their ugly little hands. Of course, she wasn't alone. There were presently close to a hundred and eighty magical beings here with her, all of them at her service if she needed them. With a sidelong glance at Madam Pomfrey, who, in spite of now employing the help of Professor Sprout and Madam Hooch, seemed to be getting nowhere with all her wimpy students' ailments and maladies, he told Valerie he'd be back in a minute. Ginny and Neville, sitting only a few feet off, eyed him with what looked like mistrust when he got up and left.

In his dungeon, he quickly fetched a slim bottle of the extra-strong solution he kept in his own workspace for emergencies. When he came up into the Entrance Hall, he noticed a loud knock at the large outer door of the castle. From a gloomy corner, sour-faced Filch emerged holding a dully shining lantern and went to open the door. "Wait!" Snape called him back. There might very well be a party of Death Eaters asking to enter. It was not like them to knock politely, but the door was protected by a complicated spell which few would have managed to break. The inhabitants of Hogwarts might have to hold the door in a fight anyway, but there was no reason why he should make the entrance easy for an enemy.

Filch turned his shrewd, sour face towards Snape with a questioning look, but then bowed in obedience. The caretaker always seemed eager to do what he told him, maybe because he was afraid of the Potions Master's power. Snape had always rather liked the weird, ugly squib, maybe because he was even a worse anti-social than him, maybe because of his hopeless attempts to do a little magic after all, but the real reason might just as well have been that Filch's reliable obedience comforted him.

"Get back to your quarters, Filch, and leave that door alone," he told him. "There might be your death waiting outside." Filch hunched his shoulders and shuffled down a dark staircase.

"In the name of the Ministry, open to Gerold Hawks and his team of Aurors! Open now!" somebody hollered from outside.

That's what I'd say, too, if I was a Death Eater standing outside, Snape thought. The normal course of affairs in such a situation would be to go to Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall and face peril together with them, but he knew they had to stay in the Great Hall to protect the students. Also Dumbledore was not well. If he asked his advice regarding the door, would the old headmaster insist on coming out although this might not be prudent right now?

"Open, Dumbledore, let us in!" the voice shouted outside the door. There was a thundering knock. Snape remembered the spy-hole in the door, but when he saw a group of twelve wizards in Aurors' robes, their faces covered by Aurors' protective masks, he did not feel much safer. The tall wizard in front might very well be Gerold Hawks, but then again, he might not. If it was really him, he would be angry if Snape did not let him in at once, of course. Snape could ask him the password they had agreed on at the last meeting of Dumbledore's secret order, but what if Dumbledore was right and there was really a leak somewhere? This was an awful situation, almost as bad as a group of giggling witches. But at least he could try to communicate.

"Hawks, we're in a bit of a fix here," Snape hollered through the door. "We've been attacked, and I'm under strict orders not to let anybody in without proof of identity."

The tall wizard removed his Auror's mask. He did look like Hawks. The card he produced from his breast pocket also looked very much like an Auror's card of identification. Of course, that did not have to mean a thing either. "Come on, let us in now," he insisted, impatience in his voice. Impatience to storm the castle?

"Severus, what is it?"

Snape turned. What a relief! He did not have to make this decision on his own after all. Behind him stood Professor McGonagall.

"There's a group of wizards at the door who say they are Aurors. The leader looks like Hawks. Can you do a proper identification?"

Professor McGonagall took off her square glasses and squinted through the glass hole. After a few seconds she nodded and opened the door with a tap of her wand. Snape did not question her decision. She usually knew what she was doing. Anyone who mistook Minerva McGonagall for a strict, old-fashioned but mainly harmless teacher might be in for a surprise. Just because she looked like somebody's spinster great-aunt did not mean she wasn't as tough as old boot leather. Even though she was now greeting Hawks with a friendly handshake, Snape noticed that she was still holding her wand in her left. The group of Aurors streamed into the Entrance Hall now. Snape quickly closed the door again after the last had passed it. Hawks, a well-built, blonde wizard in his forties, approached him with a scowl, but offered him a hand to shake nevertheless.

"Thought we were the enemy, didn't you?" he asked. "In your mind everybody must be filled to the brim with Polyjuice Potion and evil intentions."

"I had my orders," Snape replied curtly, hoping Professor McGonagall would refrain from contradicting him. "Please come in and excuse the mess. We just had a little trouble with Icy Fingers, more than a little, actually." He enjoyed watching the Aurors' faces pale.

"Who did that?" asked one. "Where are they now?" another asked. "How many are dead?" was a question that filled Snape with a trace of pride. Hawks was taking large strides towards the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall on his heels.

The house-elves had already removed a large part of the mess and the damaged decorations. Students were sitting in orderly rows in the middle of the room, guarded by the four Prefects, while the Head Boy and the Head Girl walked around to distribute words of comfort to a few sniveling first-years. A few students were sitting on the side because they were still receiving treatment from Madam Pomfrey. Someone had neatly arranged the equipment of the 'music team' on an empty table, ready if it was needed again, while another table held what was left of Snape's potion supplies. The teachers sat around another table, resting or talking to each other. Snape squared his shoulders when he realised that even in a moment of crisis, Hogwarts could prove that it was in good shape. He was glad that Hawks and his group had come. Even if the teachers of Hogwarts preferred to hunt the Death Eaters who might or might not still be out there themselves, the students' immediate safety always came first. As it was, most of them were needed in here. But that did not mean that he would have liked to see Hawks gloat at Hogwarts' ruin. When it came to safety matters, Aurors could be so patronizing!

Dumbledore appeared to be back in working order as well. He walked over to them, hands outstretched to greet their protectors. The potion must be working well, Snape thought. He should really get some rest now, because if he doesn't, it is likely he will pay tomorrow. But maybe the headmaster felt like him and saw the Aurors as necessary intruders.

"Gerold, it's good to see you. Your team has responded with greatest speed, I see," Dumbledore said.

The Auror was a few inches taller than the headmaster; his erect posture seemed to emphasize this. Looking down on him just a tiny bit, he said with a calm, melodious voice:

"Tell me what happened."

"We were all sitting here at our Halloween feast, a little less than an hour ago, when someone attacked us with an Icy Fingers curse from the outside. It was a very strong one, stronger than I have ever experienced. Luckily, we found ways to fight it so nobody was badly hurt. Professor Varlerta protected everyone with a Shielding Spell, and Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape and I Countered with a Hex-Reflex. I do believe we managed to hurt the attackers, but of course, you never know. I suggest that a few of us join your group and scour the grounds to see if there's anyone left."

Gerold Hawks looked impressed. "How did you manage to work these spells when affected by Icy Fingers? Didn't it paralyse you?"

"Professor Varlerta has got a new method which proved to be rather effective tonight and helped us all stay active," Dumbledore replied. "You will find her over there at the table with the other teachers. At the moment she is suffering from a bit of exhaustion, but will answer all your questions once we have made sure the grounds of Hogwarts are safe."

Hawks was stretching his neck now to get a glimpse of Valerie, who had stretched out over several chairs and looked as if she was asleep. The other Aurors, none of them known personally to Snape, murmured among themselves.

"I am glad to see that the teachers of Hogwarts are so exceptionally qualified," Hawks said in a slightly condescending tone. "Who of your staff will serve us as reinforcement?"

Dumbledore looked at Snape and at Professor McGonagall who were standing next to them. "Minerva, I would like you to stand guard here with me. I believe this sounds like a job for you, Severus, that is, if you are willing to accept Gerold's authority for tonight. Madam Hooch, Hagrid and Professor Quibster should accompany you, I think."

"Very well," Snape replied through clenched teeth, angry at the headmaster's putdown even though he knew it was not wholly without justification. "I will be a good boy and do what I'm told." He turned to notify the other three teachers. They got up immediately when he called their names, anticipating the task that was asked of them, and followed Snape into the Entrance Hall where the group of Aurors was waiting for them. Professor McGonagall handed Madam Hooch her broomstick and supplied Snape and Quibster with two of the better school brooms. Hagrid would not be flying. He was too heavy for normal broomsticks and too unwilling to have one made especially for him, so he would wait for them in the Entrance Hall in case they needed to enter the Forbidden Forest, as he knew it best. "We'll show'em, ruddy Death Eaters," the half-giant murmured angrily.

The group mounted their broomsticks and kicked off into the air. Snape tried to keep his back straight on the shaky piece of firewood he was riding. He had never enjoyed sitting on a broomstick particularly much, though over the years he had acquired a reasonable amount of skill. As a student he had been a Chaser for the Slytherin Quidditch team for a year. He had played because it was expected of him, because his parents had given him a good broomstick for Christmas and because after Valerie had disappeared and the Duelling club had been laid off for a while, there wasn't much else to do. But as far as he was concerned, sitting on a broomstick was neither a dignified way of travelling - he preferred to Apparate - nor a comfortable way of looking for murderous Death Eaters hiding in the pitch black grounds.

Some of the hunting party seemed to see things differently, though. Madam Hooch had to be pardoned, because it was obviously impossible for her to sit on a broom without doing some sharp turns and daring loops now and then, but he had certainly expected the Aurors to display a more professional attitude. They used their wands as torches to search every square foot of the grounds thoroughly, but many times when one of them flew an elegant loop to make sure no niche or corner was left out, Snape noticed that a simple movement of the wand arm would have done the same job. This is not an Aurors' summer camp, Snape wanted to tell them. Voldemort is on the rise again, Hogwarts has been attacked, we probably had a narrow escape, the grounds may be crawling with Death Eaters planning to get another Icy Fingers ready, and here are the best-paid magic warriors of the country, flying pretty loops while on duty. But remembering his promise to Dumbledore, he did not voice his thoughts aloud.

When they were soaring over a small hill west of the castle, Hawks suddenly called out and pointed. The Aurors and the teachers descended on their broomsticks like a flock of sombre birds. Snape could see that the grass and the shrubs on the hill were frozen. Splayed on the ground lay the body of a man in a Death Eater's robe and hood, covered with a sheet of ice. After making sure there were no more living Death Eaters around, Hawks put down his broom and knelt next to the body. When he removed the hood, Snape knew the dead man at once by his black moustache and his bushy, dark eyebrows, even though his face was distorted with the painful death he had suffered. It was his former school friend and fellow Death Eater, who had later become an official for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, Walden Macnair.

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The Aurors conjured up an official Ministry coffin and bore the body into the castle, supporting it between two broomsticks. Hagrid and Dumbledore were expecting them in the Great Hall. They soon agreed to carry the coffin into Dumbledore's office for now so the students would not have to see it. Snape thought this was pointless, as were most attempts to spare people's feelings because they usually found out nevertheless. However, he did not argue. In the office, the Aurors wrote some preliminary reports. Snape had to write one, too, as he was a witness and the first to identify the body. Hawks gave Dumbledore a lot of good advice about the security of the castle. Snape had the impression they knew far less about it than Dumbledore or even he, but reminded himself he was expected to keep quiet about this. When the Aurors finally left, it was past Midnight. Snape let out a long sigh of relief when he saw the front portal of Hogwarts close behind the last heel of a heavy Auror's boot. Then he went into the Great Hall, not because he really expected to still find Valerie where he had left her, just because.

The Great Hall looked utterly deserted. High above on the ceiling some stars and a half-moon shone on tables put back in order, but in the far corner where he had seen Valerie sleeping on a few chairs, the neat rows were disturbed. He went there and found she lay there still, sleeping in the quiet and semi-darkness of the empty Hall. Someone had covered her with the fuzzy blanket again. Her face was very calm and looked as if it was recovering from a sand paper treatment. He pulled up a chair for himself and watched her for a few minutes. Then he put a hand on her shoulder and softly said her name. Valerie stirred, murmured something and opened her eyes.

"Maybe you should sleep in your bed," he suggested. She stretched and looked around.

"Goodness, I must have fallen asleep. Where is everybody? What about the Death Eaters?" She rubbed her eyes, then did some rather extensive stretching. Snape noticed that a seam on the sleeve of her ridiculous pumpkin robe had split.

"It's alright, they are gone," he told her. "We got one of them with the Hex-Reflex, Walden Macnair. He's dead."

"He was at school with us," she said, still sounding a little drowsy. Snape looked around for her equipment. Somebody had packed her guitar and cable into its nylon bag; the small amplifier stood right next to it.

"We've had a group of Aurors here," he explained. "Want me to walk you home?"

When she made agreeing noises, he picked up the guitar bag and amplifier and refused her demand that she should carry at least one of them. When they came out into the Entrance Hall, he stopped next to the potion bottle. "Stuff for your hands," he said. Varlerta picked it up and took it with her. In silence they left the castle and crossed the dark grounds once more. The crescent moon shone silvery on the black ripples of the lake, and the birch trees at its shore did their usual nightly impression of bleached bones. Somewhere in the distance, an owl screeched.

"We've got to do something about that curse," Valerie said, now audibly recovering. "I suppose that's my job. We can't teach that Hex-Reflex thing to anyone below the sixth year, I believe. Actually I'd love to have your help in teaching that, because I haven't got as much experience with it."

"Sure, any time." He never missed a chance to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts.

"With that and my Dermasecunda, we are not completely defenceless, but it's not what I'd call safe either. Do you know if there's any Spellsearcher working on a real counter-curse for it? Someone who could teach us all how to defend ourselves properly?"

"Not really. After Voldemort fell, nobody ever used Icy Fingers anymore, so the Spellsearchers lost interest."

They had arrived at her door. She unlocked it, then turned around to him.

"But there's got to be some expert, someone who worked on a proper counter-curse in the seventies when there was so much trouble with Icy Fingers and the Death Eaters. I want to find these persons. They are needed here."

There was no point in not telling her, because, determined as she was, she was bound to find out anyway sooner or later. So he told her.

"The wizards who did the most promising research on a counter-curse for Icy Fingers back in the time before Voldemort's downfall were Lily and James Potter and Sirius Black."