On the Division of Chaos

November, 197*

"What are you doing, Evans?"

She smirked. She did not look at the questioner, but at her cauldron. A crease of concentration formed between her brows, crowning bright green eyes alive with invention.

"Adding peppermint," she answered, flatly.

"Peppermint?"

His lip curled. He regarded her cooly, before returning to his own work.

"Fresh out of 'everything nice' at the apothecary, were they?" he drawled on, his voice a honeyed hiss.

"Hmmmm. The clock's ticking." she said, and the faintest flush came to her cheeks. She tossed a sprig of peppermint his way. "If you want to tie me, Severus, here's your chance."

He flicked it back.

"No. Thankyou kindly, Mary Poppins. But you've already lost."

She darted out her tongue, looked a smug, pretty little imp, more snakelike than she ever would care to know. A booming, genial voice familiar to both of them declared their time to be up.

She extended a delicate hand as fifty points were awarded to Gryffindor. He took it, rather roughly, and dropped it after two cursory shakes. His smile was forced.

Until he looked away.

Not until he was alone, that night, did he formally conceded defeat, in his way.

It took the form, as always, of a few scrawled words, in the margins of a book the significance of which she did not know. He was the only one who had ever written in it, but she was the only other person who had ever, however infrequently, contributed.

He was damned if he would ever give her the satisfaction of knowing that.

..................

December, 197*

The Seer wrinkled her nose in disgust. Though she had dared to hope otherwise, even the upper rooms of the Hog's Head smelled faintly of goat. She kicked the door closed behind her, and reached under the sash of her violet robes, drawing forth a small pouch of fine black velvet. She pulled out a deck of colorful cards, and began to pace her cramped quarters.

She drew the top card from her deck and considered it with a sharply raised eyebrow. "Patience is called for," she muttered, throwing the card to the floor with a hollow laugh. She drew again, and was not surprised to find herself faced with the angelic representation of Temperance. "Ah, yes," she said dryly. "The coming together of two distinct beings?" The angel was sent flying to land on a rough, oaken desk, and the next card was quickly drawn.

The ridiculous figure of a juggler stared back at her, two pentacles balanced in his gloved hands. "I know I'm a bit overtasked at the moment," she told him. "I'll manage." He landed on the bed.

She shuffled nervously, and sat down on a creaking chair. When she drew the Wheel of Fortune from the center of her deck, she did not toss it aside, but sat staring at it, her hand trembling involuntarily. She set the other cards atop a dusty cabinet, reached to her throat, and absentmindedly unwrapped the lavender scarf from around her neck. It slithered to the floor, a coil of cashmere. She kept her large, brown eyes fixed on the card, and minutes passed without her moving.

She heard a knock at the door, and leapt out of her seat, nearly running to open it. A short, slight man stood in the hallway, his arms outstretched. She bent down to embrace him, and tears of relief came unbidden to her eyes.

"Virginie!" the man scolded lightly, pushing the tall woman into the room, and backing the door closed behind them. "Did you doubt that I would come?"

"Of course I didn't!" she protested, "But you were late, and I worried so..."

"You did not forsee my tardiness?"

"I did!" she cried, unentangling herself from his embrace. She straightened up to her full, imposing height, and looked down at him sternly. "I did forsee it, my darling. I was concerned about what might be keeping you. That's all."

"Of course." He smiled, and guided the woman to her chair. A plain, silver cigarette case appeared in his manicured hand, and opened itself. He pulled out two green cylinders and placed them to his lips. The ends of each began to burn, and he handed her one, keeping the other for himself. The case snapped shut, and vanished.

Fragrant smoke curled around them. For a long moment, neither spoke.

The Seer took a deep drag, and clenched her left hand tightly, crumpling the Wheel of Fortune into a tight ball. The man reached out and grabbed her lightly by the wrist. Her hand went limp, and the ruined card fell. He took a step forward, and placed her hand against his chest. She let it linger there a moment, then snatched it back to her lap.

"What is the matter, Love?" he whispered.

She reached for her remaining cards, and drew one without looking at it. She held it out to him, face up.

"The Page of Swords." He squinted at the image. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," she admitted, her voice breaking. She dropped the card as though it burned her. "I don't know," she repeated. The cigarette vanished from her hand with a final puff of green smoke.

He sighed, disposed of his own, and drew closer to her.

"But I don't think it's 'what' it means that we need concern ourselves with," she said, "but 'who.' "

He laughed. "An enemy of mine? Oh, that narrows it down!"

He swept her into his arms, and she could not keep herself from laughing with him.

..................

The emaciated boy lay still on his sickbed, eyes shut to the world. He was not asleep, but did dream after a fashion, idly entertaining random thoughts. He had often endulged in such reveries, but never had he felt himself so detached from the workings of his own mind. It was almost as if he were looking down through a sheet of ice, whilst all his remembered facts squirmed, or fought, or simply floated on, like fish, in the deepwater below. It was curious. He did not think that he liked it. But he was beyond irritated when voices intruded.

"I swear he's lost ten pounds. And I'm not counting the hair in that."

"Forced to agree with you, Mate. Wouldn't have thought it was physically possible. But, at least you reacted quickly. I'd hate to see what he'd look like bald."

The boy in the bed snarled something unintelligible, and his black eyes snapped open. In the instant before he shut them against the assault of the light, he recognized the speakers. A fair boy and a nearly white-skinned girl. The ones responsible for his current state.

"It's alive!" the girl squealed, and her companion laughed heartily. The patient squinted at them and said nothing.

It was Winter outside, and his visitors were bundled in silver and green. The hospital wing was heated, and the fact that they had not removed their wrappings told him they would not be long at his side. He was glad of that, even though he considered them friends, when they had time for him, or anyone but each other.

They weren't sorry, he knew. Rosier and Wilkes were never sorry, for anything. Oh, their concern for him was not insincere. They were glad to see him recover, and not because they feared reprisal for their involvement in his injuries. They were simply incapable of ever making any real connection between their actions, and the consequences. So he listened numbly to their hollow apologies, gave them each a cursory nod of acceptance, and was glad to get it all out of the way.

"We hope you're out of here soon, Severus," Wilkes said, suddenly sincere. "It can't be healthy for you, sleeping above ground like this." She winked.

He gave her a wry smile. "Don't worry. I'll be back to my new tricks before you know it. Long before you know it, I hope. I'm not planning to involve either of you ever again if I can help it." He reached his right hand absentmindely to his temple, as if to brush back long hair from his face, and his eyes widened in confusion. He continued to feel his short-cropped, oily head, and his bewildered expression changed quickly to one of accusation.

"Wilkes did what she could with your hair," Rosier offered.

"I'd have figured," said Wilkes dreamily, gazing out the window, "it would have burned more slowly, like a candle."

Severus lay his hand palm up against his forehead, and his lips formed a thin line. He glared at each friend in turn, then sighed.

"Did either of you ever get the impression it was something I was particularly concerned about?" he muttered, waving off any further discussion with a grandiose, dismissive sweep of his right arm.

His visitors looked to each other, as though trying to decide which of them would change the subject. Rosier gave Wilkes a slight nod, and she took up the task. Quite eagerly.

"Anyway," she began brightly, "there's so much we have to tell you! You see, we've heard from Bellatrix, and..."

Severus groaned loudly.

Rosier chuckled. "Come on now, Snape," he began, "we know you weren't sorry to see the back of her last year, but...

"Of course I wasn't," Severus interrupted. An odd smile played on his lips. "Have you SEEN the back of Bellatrix?"

"Dear God, he IS stoned!" Rosier exclaimed, while Wilkes giggled uncontrollably. Her tearing eyes were sparkling in a way that Severus had never seen them sparkle outside the presence of an open flame, and a hint of color had come to her alabaster face. He was glad of it. There was so much damned white around him.

He closed his eyes without meaning to. So much white, he thought, and the place smelled of camphor, and other things caustic and cleansing, and it was all so damnably sterile....

Wilkes laid her hand on his shoulder, and shook him gently until he opened an eye. He reached across his chest and placed his own hand over hers, lifting it off him. He let it drop, and she took back control, stuffing it into the pocket of her coat.

"Won't get anywhere with him like this, Mate," said Rosier, shaking his head. "Get well soon, Snape. We'll talk when you're back on your feet." He took Wilkes by the elbow. "Let's go get Gryffindor, shall we?"

Wilkes nodded frantically. She waved goodbye to Severus as Rosier led her away.

"Go easy on them, will you?" Severus called after them. They froze in their tracks.

"I don't want that kind of company," he explained.

The pair exchanged sly grins. "No promises!" Wilkes called back, and they were out the door.

Severus closed his eyes. No promises, he thought. That could have been her motto. He shook his head lightly, and attempted to resume his reverie. He was nearly successful, but the light click of approaching footsteps prevented him from entirely shutting out his surroundings. As they passed the foot of his bed, he caught an extremely unusual, not at all unpleasant scent.

Cinnamon, he thought, as the walker moved on. Cinnamon and... Myrrh? Of course. He smiled faintly in recognition. Two parts of one to one part of the other. A half-part galangal root. Ground. Macerated in half the total weight of the finest virgin olive oil. Deceptively simple. Irritated the skin if improperly made...

"The Oil of Abramelin." He said, not realizing he was speaking out loud. He was surprised to get a response.

"Yes. It took me a month to make. I'm glad someone recognized it."

"It's not usually considered a perfume." His tone carried with it more than a hint of judgement.

"But it keeps the fiends of the air at bay. Speaking of which, what did The Two Beaters of the Apocalypse want?"

"The who?"

"That's what we call them in Gryffindor."

"Oh, yes," he said in a faraway voice, "that was one of Black's little witticisms, wasn't it? 'Pale Whore and Pale Rider?'" He cracked his eyes open, and regarded his new visitor as if looking through her to the wall.

Her cheeks flushed. "Well... Yes, I've heard that variation on it."

"They aren't, you know, as far as I know." He was no longer looking at the girl, but at his own hand, which he was clenching and unclenching a few inches from his blank face.

"They aren't what?"

"Lovers." He trailed out the 's'. "An 'item.' Never done anything of the sort with each other. Not as far as I know. I even have... Some evidence to the contrary." He smirked, still enthralled by his starved hand.

"You can spare me the sordid secrets of Slytherin, Severus."

He looked past his long fingers to the speaker, as if he had just then realized she was there. His sallow face was a textbook picture of irritation.

"Why are you here, Evans?" he asked through gritted teeth, doing his best to convey dread of all possible answers.

The girl walked to his bedside. For an instant she was caught in a ray of cold sunlight, throwing her lovely features into such wild, stark relief that he was still shaking the image from his head when she stopped several steps past the offending window.

She pulled a small twig out of her dark red hair, and flicked it dismissively to the floor. It skittered to rest beneath his bed. "Well," she began, "technically, this is detention. I'll be at Madam Pomfrey's beck and call for the next hour."

"Detention?" he murmured, rather lamely. He gave his head one final shake, blinked, and found himself facing an attractive girl; but not, anymore, a supernatural vision of attractiveness. His annoyance reasserted itself.

"I'm not elaborating," she said firmly. "And you'll notice I haven't asked what got you in that bed for the week."

"Fair enough."

Her lip twitched. "I've been left unattended, so I thought I'd pay you a visit. After all, you're drugged up to the gills, with no hope of escape."

"The goodness of your heart leaves me speechless, Evans," he muttered, shutting his eyes, and grimacing.

"Evidently not. But," she sighed, "you'll be happy to know I have an ulterior motive. I'd like to ask a favor of you."

He half-opened one eye, and waited for her to continue. She bit her lip, and looked nervously from side-to-side, twirling a lock of hair between her fingers.

"We're quite alone!" he snapped. "Blurt it out!"

"Do you know anything about blood magic?" she squeaked.

He started at that, and pulled himself up to a sitting position. His eyes were uncharacteristically wide. "Lily?" he whispered, in what could be mistaken for a tone of concern - For her sanity, if nothing else.

"It's definitely me, Severus. So, is that a 'yes' or a 'no?'" she chirped, her composure regained.

His black eyes narrowed back to normal, and he settled back onto the bed, draping an arm lazily over his forehead. "I'm not entirely unfamiliar with the subject, but I'm certainly not an expert. Even if I were, why would you, of all people, be asking me about it?"

She instantly assumed the unmistakable, absolutely intolerable, 'who, me?' look, which was a birthright of every true Gryffindor. "Simple curiousity. The interests of scholarship. Isn't that enough?"

He muttered something under his breath, and fixed her with a cold, skeptical stare. Lily blinked, but pressed on, only a little on the defensive. "It's strictly academic, Severus. I'm not planning a full-bored excursion into the Dark Arts."

His eyes rolled. "I shouldn't like to see you try."

She opened her mouth to retort, but he stopped her cold with an upraised hand. "It's outside your entire aesthetic, Evans. It would be like watching a bluebird peck the eyes out of a corpse."

Lily giggled disarmingly. Her bright green eyes glittered with the fires of 'I-dare-you-so' - another hallmark of her House. "Oh! Come on, Severus, how can you resist? 'The Corruption of Miss Lily Evans.' It sounds so like a three-part paperback novel."

"There are..." He pulled the covers up to just under his slitted eyes, which muffled his voice somewhat, "any number of things I could say to that."

"Leave them to my imagination. Anyway, not all blood magic is Dark..."

He shoved the covers back down to his neck. "Exactly. And even Dark blood magic isn't a forbidden subject at Hogwarts," he hissed, clearly exasperated. "You don't need me..."

She interrupted him with a sharp squeal. "But you've got right to the heart of my problem, Severus! I can't do extensive research into the Dark Arts without raising eyebrows. They'd probably check my temperature." She leaned in closer to him, with her arms crossed over her chest, looking somehow the picture of both guile and innocence. There was a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes, which he had never noted there before. One that was almost properly Slytherin. "On the other hand, " she continued, not breaking eye contact, "if you're showing an interest in the topic, they'll check the calendar to see that it is, in fact, a day ending in 'y.' Hence, I do need you."

"I see your point." He rolled over, turning his back to her. He could not help but breathe deeply. The warm, esoteric scent she wore was too welcome an antidote to his antiseptic surroundings.

"Will you help me?" she asked. She sounded terribly sincere, almost pleading.

"Yes," Severus answered curtly, "but not right away. Obviously." He was silent a long moment, listening with increasing irritation to the impatient tapping of her fingers on his bedpost.

"Library," he finally growled, flopping onto his back. "Next Saturday. As soon as the crowd leaves for Hogsmeade."

Lily nodded, and smiled warmly, clasping her hands to her chest.

"You won't regret it," she said, and turned, and left him.

It was only just before sleep overtook him, when his already sedated mind was far too clouded to consider the matter fully, that Severus Snape realized he had never thought to ask her what was in it for him.