Ashes and Possibility

Ashes and Possibility

Do you remember that hour of din before the attack--
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads--those ashen-gray
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?

Have you forgotten yet?...
Look up, and swear by the slain of the war that you'll never forget!

-- "Aftermath", Siegfried Sassoon, March 1919.

~

She wasn't certain, when she first woke, of what had happened. She knew her name, of course, and she knew, generally, that she was lying on wet grass in a field still shrouded in some sort of smoky haze. She remembered a lot of shouting, and rage-filled golden eyes, and a handsome black boy sprawled at her feet. She remembered a Grim--no, an Animagus, though he'd scared loads of them at first, even some of the Death Eaters. And of course the pudgy silverhanded man, and the Nameless One with his red eyes and the same cold voice that still haunted her serpentine nightmares, eight years after she first encountered it as a child. She remembered the sudden relief that flooded her when she saw a silver-haired boy and a black-clad man fighting back-to-back against the Unnamed Evil.

But what had happened? Those were all flashes of images in her mind, snippets of sound like songs from a wireless switching frequencies. She squinted up at the scarlet sky, trying to push past the throbbing in her head and the frightening no-feeling in her hands. Some of the haze drifted down to kiss her face, and she found it was ashes; was the Forest still burning?

She closed her eyes, dredging names up out of her stunned mind, and connecting them with images. Dean...Dean was dead. A quavering sigh, a searing in her eyes as if they wanted to cry, but could not. Remus Lupin, glaring at Silverhand (at Peter? yes) with hatred--old, for Lily and James, and new, for Dean. Padfoot, Sirius Black, after Peter's hand had felled Remus, tearing Peter's throat out with razor teeth. Her own terror as Voldemort (a stab of pain and fright--she hadn't meant to connect that name) recognized her and began to laugh. He had offered her another pet, hadn't he, seeing as Harry had killed her basilisk. Her horror, as he drew nearer, ignoring for the moment Harry, who seemed angry at her encroachment on his nemesis. Even if she had saved his life by distracting--Him.

Then the Dark Lord's robe caught fire somehow (Hermione, she remembered, had always had a knack for flames) and for perhaps the first time today (or had it been yesterday, or last week by now?) Voldemort had looked surprised. An unpleasant sort of surprised, which transferred to her when he lunged at her. She had put up her hands to ward him off--

And at the memory, her hands began to hurt again, throbbing with pain both remembered and new. She whimpered. Gryffindors were courageous, but she was sick with fear and pain, and it was either whimper or vomit.

Harry was dead. He must be. Even if he loved Morag McDougal--or was it Cho Chang? (and she felt a stab of satisfaction that she couldn't remember which)--more than he loved her, he would have come looking for her. He wouldn't have left her like this. He had been bleeding badly from the forehead when she saw him last. He'd been limping, too. He must be dead.

And her family--but her mind skittered away from that thought. Was the Forest really still burning? But it was a very large forest, after all, and would probably burn for weeks before burning itself out. She hoped for Ron's sake--tall, laughing Ron, no longer envious Ron--that Aragog's children had been burned to a crisp. Ugh, but then that would mean those were spider-ashes raining down on her.

And it was this last, absurd thought, of course, that was too much, and she hiccupped and began to mourn. Not wailing, because that would take far too much energy, nor yet leaking real tears, because her eyes hurt too badly for that. Her entire body began to shake and she breathed in jagged gasps, keening softly in her throat.

Her grief probably saved her life. As she hiccupped herself out of the initial stage of shock, someone heard and came to lean over her. He was silhouetted sharply against the red sunset, but she would have known his voice without seeing the hooked nose. Indeed, she thought after today (or yesterday or last week) that she would always recognize his shoulders, because they were narrow and set when he and the silver-haired boy had Apparated to the middle of the battlefield.

"Miss Weasley? Thank God!" His mordant voice had never sounded of either hesitance or fervour before now. It was the most beautiful sound in the world.

"Professor Snape," she said simply, and when he lifted her up she buried her face in his chest and wailed like a little child.

*

He had hardly recognized her. The poor child was so badly burned he felt his own fingers curl in commiseration. Her hair, which had been a glorious riot of sunset-coloured curls--and she would never know how she had often reminded him of Lily, when she sat by Harry and leaned her head against his shoulder--had burned half away. Her eyebrows were completely gone. Her nose, cheeks, and forehead were blistered, and her lips were cracked and leaking blood. She stared up at him with glazed brown eyes--brown, not green, thank God!--and lifted her hands to him, as a child would--to others, of course, never to him--to be held. And though he had believed he had no paternal instinct, his body betrayed him by moving forward to gather the poor child into his arms.

Such a noise she had already been making, that odd, broken keening that had caught his attention to her in the first place, half-hidden as she was behind heaped bodies. Heaped bodies, and eons-old stone dolmans which had at long last toppled and crumbled with the heat of the battle. What a mess for the new Ministry--convince the Muggles that last night's "earthquake" had brought down the monoliths, starting a chain reaction within the circle. He wondered if the draw of Salisbury Plain would decrease, and how the Muggles would like the strange new landforms that would have suddenly appeared. At least the wreckage of the Hogsmeade environ, though devastating, would not affect Muggle-Wizard relations.

The moment the Weasley girl was in his arms, she did what no woman had voluntarily done to him since his school days: she pressed her face to his chest and mourned.

Severus frowned. He had been one of the few survivors at this location, once Potter and the others had pursued Voldemort, who had fled after Hermione's little fire spell (and there Severus had found an answer to a question that had troubled him since the Terrifying Trio's first year). He had been sifting through the carnage carefully, looking for other survivors as well as compiling a list of families who must be notified. He had sent Draco with the Trio, assuring him he would be quite capable of cleaning up here. Draco had met his eyes, judging, perhaps, how much of the Potions Master's sanity was intact. Then he had given that sharp laugh of bitter amusement, and gone.

Snape had paced the bloody field, feeling his anger mounting at each new death he discovered. Long experience told him the anger was just a cover for grief; but experience also told him that anger could last a very long time. So it was with muttered oaths and burning rage that Snape closed the unseeing eyes of Lavender Brown, straightened the jumbled heap of Justin Finch-Fletchley, administered a tiny sip of Peaceful Repose to Ernie MacMillan--who closed his eyes with relief against the sight of his own entrails piled on his stomach. It was with a vow of revenge on any Death Eater who had escaped that he pulled Padma Patil's cloak over her unnaturally peaceful face (she had been the clever twin, Parvati the brainless gossip) and untangled, with fingers unused to gentleness, the ever-present camera strap from Colin Creavey's throat. It had been with a certain quiet despair that he forced George Weasley to loosen his grip on his twin's body and drink a resanguination potion, and had blocked from him the sight of Charlie Weasley, crushed under the body of one of his beloved dragons.

It had been too much to hope, he supposed, that all nine of the Weasleys would survive the war. Still he had hoped, for Molly's sake as well as for Arthur's. Unusually optimistic, for him, but he'd always been partial to red hair. Besides, he and Bill had been at school together, that last year.

Severus discovered he was automatically smoothing Ginny Weasley's wrecked hair, that he was supporting her weight effortlessly, for all that she was a tall girl. She was only the second living person he'd discovered, in hours of searching. He felt a desire to murmur something vague and comforting, but he had never become familiar with the notion of comfort, so he kept silent. After a time, the violence of her grief abated; her body ceased heaving with sobs, the sound of her tears faded into the irregular gasps for breath that followed tears. She began to shiver, and huddled into his protective embrace.

"Miss Weasley," he said gently, and his voice croaked. She tensed in his arms (remembering who it was held her?). He wondered what to say. "You are...injured."

She nodded slightly against his chest. She took a breath, almost as if she would speak, then breathed slowly out.

"Come. Madam Pomfrey is--"

"No!" The girl found her voice again, and she sounded panicked. "No, please! Don't take me back there! Please!" She pulled away to stare at him, her eyes wide. He restrained himself from wincing as he again took in her damaged face. "Please, sir--you're Potions Master--you can help me, can't you? Oh, sir, won't you?"

He hesitated. It seemed irregular, but he remembered Charlie, thought of Fred and George. Perhaps it would be better if she didn't return there now. The sun was setting. Whatever he did, he must decide soon.

How many dead? And some of them because of him, because of his ruse to lull Voldemort into a false sense of security. But Ginny Weasley had been given to him--damaged, but living. And that, too, he had the power to affect. He nodded shortly.

"I will take you to Semele. It is--my home," he added, in response to the question in her eyes. She nodded and he took from his pocket the watch-fob that bore his Portkey. With a jerk and a momentary whirling blackness, they were there.

His first order of business was to put her to bed. His lone House Elf scurried to prepare the one guest room (well, the only one not shrouded entirely by dust sheets) and then went to fetch a bottle of brandy.

Severus made Ginny comfortable onto a clean--if threadbare--settee, then poured her a glass of brandy (was she old enough for that?) and one for himself.

"Careful, girl," he said gently. "It's a very fine brandy. Strong."

She bridled, showing for the first time that fiery spirit she had learnt from her brother. "I have had brandy before. We're not so poor as all that." At his pointed look she added, "I'm twenty years old, Professor. It's legal."

Ah. As old as that? (Severus, you're getting old. You never used to lose track of the years.) He nodded in lieu of an apology, then stood.

"Please excuse me, Miss Weasley. I must fetch some potions for those burns." Alarm flared in her eyes, then faded, and she nodded, her mouth resolute. "I will return soon," he promised, and swept out of the room.

*

She had mastered her fear before he even left the room, hoped he hadn't seen it. To be left alone again, even in such a place as a guest bedroom--even after the enthusiastic ministrations of Wicket the House Elf, and the odd kindness of Professor Snape--made her heart race with fear

Harry had left her. Hermione and even Ron had left her. Draco had left her, Dean had left her. Remus and probably Sirius had left her (don't think of Dumbledore, her mind chanted, don't think of McGonagall). Now Professor Snape. She shivered under the duvet, feeling vaguely anxious about the mud and blood she was leaving about.

As if on cue, Wicket reappeared, nearly buried in white cloth. "Master Severus is sending these to Missy Weezy," it (she?) squeaked. "Master Severus is wanting Missy Weezy to wear them. They is being clothes from Master Severus' sister."

"Professor Snape has a sister?" Ginny asked before she thought.

The House Elf's face grew sorrowful. "He was having one. But Missy Sancia was being a sad girl. But she was being a generous witch, too. She would share clothes with Master Severus' Missy Weezy."

Oh dear. Ginny managed, with Wicket's help, to shrug out of her robes. Before she could reach for the clean clothes, however, the House Elf clapped her hands. A washbasin and sponge appeared, and Wicket quickly bathed Ginny's uninjured bits. Only then did she let the nightgown (a patched silk, like the sheets on the bed) float down on to Ginny's aching body.

Ginny's eyes were closing on their own, and she felt her body trying to shut down. She leaned back into the pillows, but her hands and shoulders hurt badly enough to keep her shifting, and every time sleep began to steal over her, she heard a high cold voice shrieking, and her entire body jumped, jolting her back to agonized wakefulness.

When Professor Snape returned, he made her drink a potion that chilled her straight through, but which somehow stopped her shivering. Then he dabbed a thick clear ointment onto her forehead, nose, and cheeks. His fingers were strong and sure yet somehow gentle, too. She could feel calluses on his fingers. The soft light strokes on her face soothed her in addition to cooling her burns, and she allowed her eyes to flutter closed.

He warned her before he deftly unbuttoned the top button of her nightgown and slid the cover off. He did not falter as he smoothed the ointment on the front and top of her shoulders. Carefully he lifted her into a sitting position to coat her back. By the time he eased her back against the pillows again, her face was comfortably numb, though it had begun to itch.

"Your hands, Miss Weasley." He murmured over them as he took painstaking care with them, working in a layer of ointment, then going back over them with another layer. When he had done, he wiped his fingers precisely on a towel, then worked light cotton gloves onto her hands. "It will hold the healing moisture in, and it will prevent you from scratching."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, surprised and grateful at his gentleness. "Thank you, sir."

He nodded curtly and held a bottle to her lips. "Dreamless Sleep," he explained.

She sipped, and this time when oblivion came, she slid under without a ripple.

Thunder woke her, much later, and she sat up with a whimper. It was so dark! Where was she? Had the twins just blown something up? Or had that only been Ron and Hermione, sneaking in late? Then a brilliant flash lit the room, and the walls shook with the roar, and Ginny ducked under the covers with a stifled cry. No, she remembered the noise and the explosions, and the shrill whine of incoming curses!

But then someone was there, and a half-remembered voice said, "Ginny. It's a storm, only a storm. Fear not. Go to sleep."

Glass pressed cool against her lips, and a splash: she swallowed reflexively. "Sleep," the smooth voice urged, and Ginny obeyed.

*

Hot sunne, coole fire, temperd with sweet aire,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white haire
Shine sun, burne fire, breath, aire, and ease mee,
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me
Shadow (my sweet nurse) keep me from burning
Make not my glad cause, cause of mourning.

-- from The Love of King David and Fair Bethsabe, George Peele (1556-1596)

He had wondered if she would be able to sleep. Ginny Weasley had grown up to be a powerful witch, and the Dreamless Sleep potion did not work as well on people with a great deal of magical energy (and her instincts would fight it, he knew). For her sake he had forgone the potion for himself, and settled into a chair in the parlour, where she would easily find him if she woke. When the storm reached them, he had begun straining for her voice.

After giving her a second dose of the potion, he had smoothed more of the burn ointment on her face. Gentleness was easy with her; she had a lovely face, and in her repose she closely resembled her mother. He wondered if both Molly and Arthur had made it through the battle. He ought to contact them, let them know their daughter was all right, but something in him was reluctant to tell anyone she was here. He would, of course. Tomorrow.

As the storm abated, he dozed, and woke at dawn when Wicket came in to build up the fire. He went to have a shower and change into clean robes. She would be fine on her own until then. The Daily Prophet arrived as he returned to the parlour from the bathroom, but he hadn't even time to open it before her door opened and she stumbled out, blinking.

Her ragged hair was tangled. Her face was shiny and very white. The skin looked like it might scar. Her freckles were mostly gone. He frowned, and she flinched.

"Miss Weasley. How do you feel?" He swore inwardly, both at the potion's partial ineffectiveness, and at his clumsiness with her.

"I--I'm alive," she said. She looked not entirely convinced.

"Do your hands hurt? Or your face?"

"N...no, not really. The skin on my face feels tight."

"Yes. Burn regrowth often does. Would you like a bath? I believe Wicket is drawing one for you."

"Oh, thank you, sir. Very much."

He nodded awkwardly and led her to the bathroom. He had asked Wicket to share Sancia's clothes with Ginny. His sister had talked less than the redhead, but they shared the same spirited nature. He felt a pang of loneliness sharper than anything in the past twenty years.

Ginny tilted her head, and he realized he was staring at her. Before he could apologize, she smiled at him. "Sir, I was very glad to see you yesterday. You look well."

He could think of no reply. She closed the door and soon he heard her humming a soft, slow song. Slowly he went back to the parlour, but he sat for a long time before he opened the paper.

*

Why had she told him that? she wondered as she eased herself into the bath. He would think she meant it as cheek. The water surprised her by being tepid, but after she thought about it, she decided burn regrowth might be sensitive to hot water. Her face itched horribly and she splashed water on it, wondering if he would have to put more ointment on it.

She had liked his hands. They were so deft, so sure of their business, and so very gentle. Gentleness from him should surprise her still, but she found it did not. It was the fact that he'd had a sister that did it. Even Ron, even Fred, could be surprisingly gentle with her, even more than they could be with Molly. Ginny had asked her about it once, and her mother had smiled. "Having a little sister is a wondrous thing," she had said.

Sancia, was that the name Wicket had said? She wondered what it meant. It sounded Latin--which made sense, after all, Severus was a Latin name. Ginny wondered if she would have the courage to ask Professor Snape about his sister. She thought she would, rather. Aside from Dumbledore himself, Snape had been the nicest, in his way, about the whole Chamber of Secrets incident, and Ginny had always excelled at Potions. And the odd way Snape had looked at her just now made her extremely curious.

*

When he finally got round to the Daily Prophet, he was surprised to see himself in the headlines. "Former Death Eater key in saving Order!" blared the story just above the fold. And there in black and white, he and Draco stood back to back, hurling curses at Voldemort's forces. It was an ink sketch, and he wondered who had seen that, who had drawn it.

The top headline, of course, was "Potter Saves World Again!" He felt the usual rush of bitterness, but he pushed it tiredly away. The war was over. He had taken second place, yes, but at least he'd been mentioned. Unless, of course, by "former Death Eater" they had meant Draco. But that was ridiculous. Draco had never received the Mark. His mother, oddly, had forbidden it.

He shook out the paper, and his eyes fell on the bottom story: "Minister's family is hardest hit." And there it was, in letters as black as death itself. Molly Weasley was dead. Molly, Charlie, Fred. George wounded and in St. Mungo's. Ginny and Ron missing. Ron missing? He shook his head. Poor Miss Granger. Her honeymoon had turned into a nightmare.

But he had Ginny, and he knew it was time to tell Arthur. He went to the fireplace.

To his chagrin, it was Percy who stood in the kitchen of the Burrow. The twins had given Snape headaches with their practical jokes, but it had been Percy who had ended up causing him the most trouble. Percy, armed with the late Barty Crouch's fanatical conviction that Severus had never reformed. Percy had begun howling, once Voldemort rose again, that the Death Eater at Hogwarts should be rooted out, because God forbid that his baby sister and brothers be in danger.

Never mind that Percy bloody well knew the strength of the watchguards the Ministry had placed over Severus. Never mind that Dumbledore had vouched for him. To Severus' surprise, it had been Ginny and Ron who had somehow managed to quiet him. But Percy and Severus had never been more than barely civil to one another after that. (Ha! As if you're more than barely civil to anyone, Severus, he thought.)

"What is it, Snape?" Percy snapped. During the unpleasantness, Percy had dropped the 'professor' and never regained it. Odd how Ron didn't use the title, yet still said the word with less loathing.

"Is your father at home?"

"Not presently," Percy said stiffly. "He's quite a lot to do, what with burying my mum and brothers, and looking for Ron and Ginny. As do I. I'd like to keep this channel clear in case there's an emergency."

"Well, I've found Ginny," Severus said, his voice cold. "So I thought it might be important, rather."

"You've got my sister? Give her back, you rat! It won't bring You-Know-Who back! He's dead! Harry killed him!"

Good heavens, Percy was ranting. Severus felt himself smile evilly. "Still can't bring yourself to say Voldemort's name, Weasley? For shame. I've never known the Sorting Hat to make a mistake before." Though, of course, it had taken a great deal of courage for Percy to speak up about Hogwarts--not that Severus would ever admit that.

Before Percy's incoherent shout had resolved into words, the kitchen door opened and Bill appeared. Severus breathed a sigh of relief. Bill smiled in greeting.

"Severus! I'm glad to see you lived through it. We hadn't heard."

Severus nodded. "And you."

"Bill, this--this--snake has Ginny!" Percy howled.

Bill's reaction was truly startling. He stared at Severus for a long moment, then slumped to the floor and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders moved as he drew in and released one deep breath, then another. After a moment Severus recognized it as relief.

"Thank God," Bill said finally. His voice shook, as did his hand when he withdrew it from his eyes. "Thank God. Severus, how is she?"

"She was inured. Did you see Miss Granger set Voldemort on fire?" Bill nodded. "He was approaching your sister at the time."

"No, Harry. He was after Harry," Bill said.

Severus shook his head. "He saw Miss Weasley and...recognized her. I believe their extended...er, involvement her second year left his mark on her."

Bill covered his face again momentarily, but looked up again almost immediately. "Very well. So she was burned?"

Severus nodded. "Her face, hands, shoulders, and back. It was fortunate that Harry and Draco managed to push his followers off and press Voldemort enough that he fled. She managed to escape life-threatening injury."

"Will she heal all right, then?"

"The potions didn't work as well as I had hoped, but I believe a more potent concoction will work."

"Why didn't you take her to Madam Pomfrey?" Percy put in accusingly.

"Poppy had quite enough on her hands, didn't she?" Severus snapped. "This was something I was well-equipped to treat."

"You could have let us know," Bill remarked. Unlike his brother, however, he didn't sound accusing, only weary (and weren't they all weary?).

Severus hesitated. "I'm sorry, Bill. I wasn't thinking properly. There'd been no reports, though it was obviously over for us. I wasn't certain if anyone had survived."

"Us?" Bill asked, tilting his head to one side.

Severus hesitated again. He hated the thought of exposing his weakness before the Perpetual Prefect, but perhaps it was owed (so much was owed, to so many, and at least this one was still alive). "My magical reserves are drained. I could barely light my wand after the battle."

Bill frowned. "And your potions?" he asked.

"I assure you I have a supply of those," Severus said dryly. "And I will be able to brew most potions. They require magical ingredients more than magical ability. Another reason why Longbottom's failure was so abysmally shameful."

"What a thing to say, after all he gave to this war," Bill said reproachfully.

"Was he killed?" Severus was surprised by his disappointment at the thought.

"No. But he lost both his parents, not to mention the grandmother who raised him."

"You know his parents--"

Bill interrupted. "I know." There was a long pause.

"I heard about your mother. I'm sorry."

Bill nodded. "George told us--well, thank you, for Fred. I know you did all you could. And thank you for George, too."

"Is there any word of the others?"

Hermione carried Mum in. Poor thing, she was determined not to lose her. But it was too late. Ron--well, Ron and Draco are both still missing, and that Zabini bloke. Those three were last seen together." Bill sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

"I shall bring Miss Weasley to the Burrow. I should like to try another potion before that, and give her breakfast. You may expect us before tea." Saying the words made him feel lonely, but he was, after all, used to loneliness.

Bill gave him a considering look. "Do you think she's ready? I mean, there's a lot here waiting for her to deal with it. No...why don't you keep her there for some time yet. It'll help Dad just to know she's safe."

Keep her. Severus blinked. Had Bill really told him to keep her? Of course Percy was muttering angrily at his brother, but Severus was too preoccupied with the strange sense of relief that had come with those words--at least, he believed it was relief (he had learned long ago that despair and fear were not painful; it was hope that truly hurt) and he felt strangely ambivalent about that.

He heard the bathroom door open behind him, and turned, hoping Ginny's view of the fireplace was blocked by his body. He heard a gasp behind him, and Bill's voice saying faintly, "Is that my baby sister?"

She is vastly improved from how I found her, Severus thought, and extinguished the flame with a gesture behind his back.

"Miss Weasley, are you feeling better?"

She was like her mother, he saw, as a faint line of pink burned its way across her cheekbones. No indelicate reddening ears for her; she would blush becomingly. Potter is still a fool.

"I'm better," she said shyly, as he was reeling from the venom of his own thoughts. "Though I am hungry."

"I thought you might be. Wicket is awaiting you in the breakfast room." The hastily-dusted-and-polished breakfast room. Semele had been largely abandoned for a great number of years.

He guided her gently, without touching her, to her repast. He was unsure whether he should allow her more time to herself, but she solved his dilemma by asking him, "Were you speaking with someone just now?" Presenting a new dilemma entirely, of course.

"Your brothers. Bill agreed with me that you should remain here for further healing. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to go to Madam Pomfrey..."

"No," she said quickly. "I like it here. It's...quiet. Meditative."

"At least you didn't say dreary," he said dryly.

She laughed, startling him, and the sound warmed him. "When you are one of nine, even dreariness has its appeal," she said. "But no. This is a lovely house. What did you call it? Sancia?"

To hear his sister's name from Ginny's lips--a relative stranger's lips--was a jolt. He suspected she had erred on purpose, and the suspicion was confirmed when he met her wide brown eyes. "Semele is the house," he said, his tone drier than before. "Sancia was my sister."

"I'm sorry--" she began, but he shook his head.

"Don't be." To his surprise, he wanted to tell her, wanted her to know this woman whose clothes fit her so nearly perfectly. He opened his mouth and began to speak.

~

Oh, the comfort--
the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person--
having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words,
but pouring them all right out,
just as they are,
chaff and grain together;
certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them,
keep what is worth keeping,
and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.

-- from "A Life for a Life", Dinah Maria Mulock Craik (1826-1887)

Sancia was two years my junior, and far more talented magically than I. She was intelligent, ambitious...reckless, in point of fact. She was our father's darling, and he her idol. She was a Slytherin, of course, and was Prefect and Head Girl in her time. No, child, don't glance at me so. I was neither of those things. Nor was it expected of me. I was expected to be something of a wastrel, good perhaps at Wizard's Chess and dancing, Quidditch and the Dark Arts, and little more.

Why? One shudders to think. Most likely because I had shown a propensity for these things at a precocious age. It was not, however, fated to last. I might be more precocious, but James Potter always had more skill. By the time Sancia started Hogwarts, I had already begun my descent from glory; after she arrived my decline hastened. Why not allow it, I ask you? I had little ambition: I preferred skulking in dark corners to basking in the spotlight. I came only to prepare the way for Sancia.

Everything she touched turned to gold--everything, of course, except me. Oh, don't be dense, Miss Weasley, she knew nothing of the Philosopher's Stone. You are a poet; you should know a metaphor when you meet one. I was content to tarnish quietly in the corner and be allowed to go my own way, which was rather darker than my sister preferred.

You did know I was a Death Eater? Good. I should have had to revise my assessment of your mental capacities, had you managed to get this far without ever realizing that. Because I am hateful, child. Please don't think I'm at all tame or good. I am a bitter, hateful old former Death Eater who only came to Dumbledore's aid when it suited my own purposes.

What's that? Mm. Perhaps not old, then. I feel old. Stop interrupting.

I disappointed Sancia. That was easy enough to see. I believe she wanted to look up to me, if I had given her any excuse at all to do so. True to character, I did not. Instead, when I left school, carrying both a debt to James Potter and a lifelong hatred of Sirius Black, I turned to a path I knew had been neither expected nor predicted. I turned to the one place I felt could appease my hatred and address my desires. I became, of course, a Death Eater.

Why? That was a child's question, Miss Weasley, and an idle one. I will not bore you with the reasons why. Suffice it to say they were the reasons of an angry and foolish young man, and I have repudiated them.

When my sister's turn came, she chose her occupation with more courage, but no more wisdom: she became an Auror. The Ministry in those days--well, I needn't describe it for you--you've lived through a time just as bad; let us hope your father's redress will continue. In those days, becoming an Auror was as intelligent as attempting to sneak into the Slytherin dungeon wearing red and gold. Yes, Miss Weasley, a simile. I am as versed as you, I daresay, in the poetic traditions.

My sister was captured in an ambush. You look at me with judgment in your brown eyes--I have learned to recognize judgment, Miss Weasley, pray don't contradict me. Before I continue perhaps I should warn you that I have done worse, much worse, than allowing my sister's capture. Perhaps you would rather not hear; you are, after all, at your breakfast.

Ah, you are correct, of course. Perhaps some coffee as we retire to the verandah, then? This does become quite a long tales, does it not? Are you not wearied of my life already? God knows I am.

Very well. My sister was captured by Corwin Zabini and the LeStranges. I see you recognize at least one of those names. Ah, of course. It was the LeStranges who captured Frederick. You know, then, from his stories, of what they are capable. I wished to save Sancia, but of course it would be impossible. So I did the next best thing: I offered Zabini a wizard's debt to kill her cleanly.

You blanch, Miss Weasley. Did I not promise you a blackhearted story? Ah, blackhearted--and now I realize I have forgotten what may be the most important secret you ever keep from Mr Potter. Perhaps I should say, the only--it has never been a secret that you are besotted with him. What a charming glare you have. But the secret--come, you must swear. Why? Again the child's question. I thought you were a woman, Miss Weasley. But I will answer this child's question.

Why, you ask? Because I swore to Dumbledore that I would not tell Harry. And while the nature of my relationship to Lupin is such that I could break such a vow to tell of his lycanthropy, I owe James Potter a debt, and because James is dead, I owe his son. This vow must be kept, even by me.

Great heavens, woman, that is beyond vow enough. Of course I accept such an oath. Very well. Sancia and Sirius Black had been in love at Hogwarts. Perhaps it was a childish love that would have ended naturally. Perhaps not. Either way it matters little. Sancia confessed it to me; enraged, I forbade it. I cannot say why she obeyed me. Perhaps it was merely the first thing I had ever done which might be construed as the actions of a heroic older brother protecting his sister. Whatever the reason, he loved her and at my word, she left him.

It was after she left him that Sirius Black tried to get his pet werewolf to kill me. I believe he thought that with me out of the way, Sancia would consent to be with him. Oh, quit nattering, Miss Weasley, I am well aware that my version of the story is biased. Has Black ever enlightened you as to why he attempted my murder? What a surprise. As I have become older--yes, Miss Weasley, older; I will be forty this year; that is quite old, is it not? As I have become older, I have occasionally entertained the notion that he meant to intimidate me into removing my objections. I will tell you now, Miss Weasley, that no one--not even Voldemort himself--has ever intimidated me into doing something unwillingly.

Whatever his end, Black succeeded only in sealing his fate. His actions turned Sancia against him forever. That is the seat of the hatred between us.

What's that? Had I to do it all over again--of course I would do the same. What do you know of the pain and suffering it caused? Do me the courtesy of hearing my entire story before asking stupid questions.

Of course. Wicket, refill Miss Weasley's coffee cup for her. I did warn you, Miss Weasley, it is a lengthy tale.

Very well. Sancia was at Zabini's mercy (for as we both have reason to know, the LeStranges have none), and even with the offer of my wizard's debt, he glutted himself on power. He--violated her--and then walked away without having even the decency to end her suffering. Don't flinch, Miss Weasley, it becomes tiresome. You insisted upon the full tale, and the full tale you shall have. That was the moment at which I ceased to be a Death Eater. It was not out of any awareness of the vileness of my very existence. It was not out of any remorse at my inhuman actions. It was, purely, outrage that Zabini had flouted my wishes. I was furious that he had shown the gall to dishonour my property.

Remorse...remorse came later, after I gathered the shattered remains of my sister and pieced her back together with potions and spells and a thing new to me--concern. Remorse came as I watched her grow big with child, as I witnessed her physical torment, her mental anguish, and, yes, her love for her child. She vowed to live long enough to see the child born, and made me vow to see it--him, her--well cared for. Not to do it myself, you understand. I believe she came to love me at last, as I did her (I believe), but she would never have trusted me with her child. Her dying glory would not be allowed to become my redemption.

Ah. I see you have guessed. Yes, Blaise is my nephew, Sancia's final gasp of life, her final gift to the Wizarding world--a young man who bears the face of the man who murdered his mother.

Zabini was killed during the course of the war, and never knew of his son. Blaise was given to a childless family of good standing, and they raised him properly. I was allowed to be a distant uncle, but never one who earned any affection. Yes, Miss Weasley, I was the one who killed my sister's torturer; you must learn to hide your thoughts better. I did it without my wand, without a potion. I wanted to feel his throat under my fingers. Of course, I was working for Dumbledore by that time, and, through him, for the Ministry. It was perfectly legal, though perhaps--even in the moral morass of those times--more than a trifle unethical. It was, however, eminently satisfying.

~

Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze,
Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder'd seas.
Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night,
And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams.
Tenderly stooping earthward from their height,
They wander in the dusk with chanting streams,
And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung,
To hail the burning heavens they left unsung.

-- "The Dragon and the Undying", Siegfried Sassoon

"But it didn't bring your sister back." She spoke quietly, afraid of that cutting tongue, yet somehow drawn to provoke it. His comments, hateful though they were, were so like him that they had removed some of the horror of the story.

Snape looked out, at the green hills and forested slopes beyond the garden. "No," he said at last, his voice somehow less sibilant, almost a croak. "And it was not until then that I realized I had hoped it would." He sighed and shrugged. "Or perhaps banish her. She has seemed to have a half-life here in my head these long years."

"She became the voice of your conscience."

She had struck the nerve, she saw at once. Snape stiffened, then got to his feet in a smooth motion. "Perhaps if you had used such analytical thinking on your schoolwork as you have on my personal life, you could have scraped another NEWT or two," he hissed, and there was no mistaking that it was true malice that flashed in his eyes--for the first time--with this comment.

Her instinct was to flinch, but she had survived the war. There was no use in fearing Severus Snape now that she had helped defeat Voldemort. She met his gaze calmly. "I took enough NEWTs to do what I wanted," she said. "I have had few goals beyond this."

"Your sole life's ambition was to help Potter against Voldemort? Have you no pride, Miss Weasley?"

"I don't know. Have you?" Her heart was thumping in her chest. She wasn't afraid of him, perhaps was more afraid for him, as she might have been afraid for herself, had she had the time to think of it.

She had done what she set out to do. She had no further aim than Harry. And Harry, it seemed, had no further aim than a woman who was not Ginny (Morag? Cho? Cho, she thought). What was to become of Ginny, faithful Ginny, discarded Ginny?

But no, she had no time for this. She was here, she was alive. It was enough for now.

He stopped pacing and glared at her, but she could tell that, although he was still quite angry, he was also considering. She thought she had said quite enough, though, and bit the sides of her mouth.

"I think perhaps it is time for us to brew another potion for your burns. Come along, Miss Weasley." He turned and strode into the house.

She stood up and scrambled to catch up with him. Once she did, she had no trouble keeping pace; he was tall, but so was she. Though she had admired Hermione's birdlike petiteness, Ginny had always enjoyed being tall. It helped keep her on a more even footing with her rough-and-tumble brothers. Perhaps that was one of the things Harry didn't like about her. Cho and Morag (she was almost certain it was Cho) were both tiny girls, though Cho was athletic and Morag scrappy. Perhaps Harry didn't like a girl to tower over him.

Professor Snape didn't seem to mind the fact that she could look him in the eyes without tilting her head. He explained the potion as he led her to a workroom on the north side of the huge house. The room was paved in stone, with a long counter taking up the entire north wall. At one end was a sink, over which was placed a window. At the east wall stood two cauldrons, one of which was full of water.

Ginny had left Hogwarts two years earlier and gone immediately into the Order. She had spent the time since then doing odd chores: mind the children, take down dictated letters, monitor owl use, watch the supplies. It felt good to be in front of a cauldron again, stirring and chopping, and feeling the steam curling her hair damply. She had missed the value of real work.

"They only kept me busy to be kind, because I loved Harry." She startled herself by speaking it aloud. Snape did not reply at once.

"Did it make you happy?" he asked finally, his voice like snakeskin rasping on stone.

She wiped her hand across her forehead. "I thought it did. At first. I got bored."

"Yet you stay for Potter." His voice held no emotion or judgment.

"And after," she agreed. "You must know he's finished with me."

A long studied silence, then a short nod.

"Good. I should have had to revise my assessment of your mental capacities otherwise." She remembered after she spoke that it was Snape she was teasing. But his lips quirked in a way that suggested he was actually trying not to smile.

"Why would you stay, if Potter bored you, and had been fool enough to dismiss you?"

I didn't say Harry bored me! she thought, and then wondered if it were true. Why? A child's question, Professor Snape. She said none of these things. She drained off the slug juice and measured three drops into the potion. "I promised."

"Ah."

"Is that not enough?" she said quietly, not expecting an answer.

"I should never like to have someone with me for the sake of a mere promise." His voice was thin, and she sensed his disapproval--aimed, she thought, at Harry rather than at her.

"Very well. This must be kept at a simmer for half an hour. Would you prefer to wait on the verandah?"

"No, thank you. This is nice." She drifted over to examine the rows of colourful bottles, labelled in a precise script. When she reached the end of the row, she saw her own reflection for the first time, in the silver tray that was hanging by the window.

*

Her gasp caught his attention and he turned from his desk. He had been very careful to not watch her as she moved about his workshop. She was staring in disbelief at the vervain tray; one had had crept up to touch the newly-chin-length curls on the left side of her face.

"Oh," she breathed, and he saw tears well up in her eyes. He wondered whether he should speak or pretend not to notice. Was there some comfort he ought to know how to offer? Before he had to decide, she turned to him, her eyes shining oddly. She was biting her lip. "Professor Snape? Could you do a shearing charm?"

Panic reared its ugly head in him, and he stared at her blankly. Did she not realize why he allowed his hair to grow as long as it was? The only time he had come near a shearing charm, it had been such an unmitigated disaster that he had sworn never to do so again. As it was it had taken Black nearly all term to allow him to forget that haircut.

But her eyes were pleading, and the obvious hope in them began fading as his silence continued. He found he did not know how to refuse. "You may regret asking me," he said instead.

She smiled at him and said, "Thank you. Have we time before the potion is ready?"

He was grateful for his steady hand--a medisurgeon's hands, Sancia had said derisively (while telling him what a fool he was for becoming a Death Eater)--as he guided the charm around her head. Spiralling copper curls fell to the floor about her feet, and he winced at the size of the pile. Surely she would hate him when this was over, would mourn the loss of her crowning glory more than the loss of the smattering of freckles that had marked her as a Weasley. Surely Molly would have howled at the way he was butchering her daughter's hair.

But when he had taken off the length and was trying to wield the charm with more finesse to even things up, he found himself liking the sauciness of the cut; it spoke to Ginny's personality more than the long locks had--probably another relic of her time with Potter, because Potter was the sort of man who appreciated a woman for what she appeared to be, rather than what her spirit was. Severus moved to stand in front of her, and he studied her face with a critic's eye, examining the arch where her eyebrows should be, the sweep of her cheekbones, the spirit in the set of her jaw. He tilted his head and saw her brown eyes flash defiantly, saw her bite her lip. He reached out to touch her hair, to push a curl back from her temple. Then he relented.

"I am finished."

He stood, his mouth dry, as she turned and tried to examine it in the vervain tray. Remembering, he went to his desk and pulled out a mirror wrapped in soft velvet; it was a scrying mirror, with which Sancia had been skilled, but which Severus had shunned, particularly since her death. He offered it to Ginny, allowed her to unwrap it while it was still in his hands, and lift it carefully to peer at herself. She studied it for a long while--long enough that Severus, caught up in watching her, was startled by the sound of sputtering from the fireplace.

Blast! Had it been half an hour? Surely not! But he moved swiftly to remove the cauldron from the heat. When he checked, the hourglass was dribbling the last few grains of sand into the bottom. He poured the potion into smaller containers to cool, then turned to look at her again.

She was staring, rapt, into the mirror, her lips parted slightly and a flush high on her cheekbones. He noticed her breath had quickened, and eyes glistened. Was she Seeing something? Had she the same skill as Sancia? Surely life could not be so cruel (but he knew it was, because it always had been). He moved, and it caught her eye. She lowered the mirror and turned slowly to look at him. When their eyes met, he was surprised to see the flush deepen and spread across her face. She moistened her lips and cut her eyes away from his.

"Thank you, Professor," she said in a strangled voice. "I think...it's beautiful."

~

You are young, and I am older;
  You are hopeful, I am not -
Enjoy life, ere it grow colder -
  Pluck the roses ere they rot.

Teach your beau to heed the lay -
  That sunshine soon is lost in shade -
That now's as good as any day -
  To take thee, Rosa, ere she fade.

-- "You Are Young", by Abraham Lincoln

The vision had taken her by surprise. For a moment she had been staring back at herself, as she was, with a white, shining face, sans freckles, and a startling new haircut. Then it was as if she suffered from doubled vision, and though she could still see her present self, she could tell she was looking through her to a future self. That future self was wearing a dress of a gauzy blue material, standing on a beach, face turned up to the sun.

As she watched, her future self smiled, then laughed at something Ginny hadn't heard. She lowered her face and looked off the mirror's surface to Ginny's right. A moment later she stretched out her hand, and someone took it. A man, tall, with narrow, set shoulders. With longish black hair, and a hooked nose. Like her, he was wearing Muggle clothes--charcoal pants and a white button shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Unlike her, he wore shoes, and her future self laughed as she caught his hand, then held him there while the surf rolled in to soak them. To Ginny's surprise, rather than glaring at her, he threw back his head and laughed.

And then a motion in Ginny's peripheral vision distracted her, and the vision was gone. She turned to look at him, the now him, and was not surprised that she could now see the potential in his face for tenderness, and even humour. She felt her face heat unbearably, and she looked away from him, her eyes searching for anything to remark upon, anything to take his attention away from her. But of course there was nothing, and she could not remain silent unless she wanted to be rude, and she could sense that he had given her a gift of some sort--probably another relic of Sancia. So she thanked him, and was surprised by his offer, and thanked him again.

*

"Yes," he said automatically. Then, at her look of helpless disbelief, he came back to himself. He reached for the mirror again and wrapped it carefully in its velvet. "It's a scrying mirror," he said, his voice quiet. "You may use it again, if you wish." He held it loosely, waiting to see if she would reach for it again.

"Thank you." She looked at it for a moment, held between them like an offering (like the offering that it was), and then she reached out and accepted it. She looked up at him, this time meeting his eyes. "Thank you."

He nodded. "The potion," he said finally. "It thickens into a salve rather quickly. It should be ready by now."

She came and sat on the desk and watched him as he checked the containers. He was aware of her curious eyes, watching him avidly as he studied the new salve, smelled it, decided it was ready. She smiled as he dabbed it on her forehead, laughed as its unnatural coldness touched the tip of her nose. He found himself holding his breath as his fingertips stroked her cheekbones, lightly, tenderly, shocking himself with the attraction he could no longer deny (at least to himself) that he felt for this child (not a child, she would insist, yet hardly a woman). The intimacy born between them, as he cut her hair, had not faded--had become charged, rather. He ran his fingers over her skin and wanted instead to be kissing that skin (though of course he had no right).

She turned her face up to give him better access to her throat, and he found his fingers trembling suddenly, no longer sure of their job. He bit his lip, wishing for the taste of blood to bring him to his senses. It did not. He pulled away, willing his fingers to steady.

"Professor," she said softly, and he knew it was not just his imagination that she sounded breathless.

"Yes, Miss Weasley?" Did he sound as embarrassed as he felt?

"I...erm, thank you."

He smiled, and was glad she had her eyes closed so she couldn't see. "You said that already." He took her hands and began stroking the salve onto the burn scars there.

"Oh. Yes."

He could tell already that it was working. This was a much stronger potion than the one he'd used the night before; powerful as it was, however, it tended to lose its potency if stored. Her skin would be as creamy and smooth as before, but he doubted the freckles would ever return (in that sense, as in so many, she would always be more beautiful than the other Weasleys). He was glad she hadn't been scarred permanently. For such a woman, with such a fiery spirit, it would be a shame if her face and form didn't match. It was as if he had made her into a phoenix, as if she were the embodiment of the order which had saved the Wizarding world.

"Would you keep your promise to Potter, now that the war is over?"

"My promise?"

"To stay with him."

She opened her eyes, startled. "No."

He nodded, speechless.

*

"My middle name is Horatia. Do you know what that means?" She smiled when he kept silent. She had wondered if he would admit to ignorance. "It means, One who keeps the hours." She laughed slightly. "I have done that."

"And will you keep them again?"

She had no answer for that, but it appeared he did not expect one. He finished with her hands and went to the sink, where he damped a cloth and came back to her. Gently he began swabbing the salve from her face, and she realized there was no longer any pain, any tightness, any itching. She realized she had never doubted his skill with the potion. She had believed he could heal her.

And she met his eyes, and saw the potential for love.

~

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face...

-- "When You Are Old", William Butler Yeats