Marks And Scars

Rain fell: steady, grey, dutiful rain. A tall, lean man, cloaked and hooded, his black robes splashed and muddy at the hem, strode purposefully along the shore of a large lake. He had noted the time before leaving the village, and knew that he would miss lunch, but in any case his temples were pounding and his insides queasy after his interview, and food would only nauseate him further. Odd how success recognised by the heart and brain -- for this stage of his campaign was succeeding beyond his wildest dreams -- was not translated as such by the stomach.

Eyes focused on the castle looming ahead, his refuge and his prison, he was betrayed by chilly, insensitive feet, and tripped over the protruding root of a small shrub, falling to his knees. He swore loudly. Pushing himself to his feet again, he wiped his now-muddy hands on the fabric of his cloak, and grimaced. He stepped forward, then paused momentarily to look over the lake, its surface dull, leaden, pockmarked by heavy drops of rain. On its shores, new grass and plants alive with spring growth glowed iridescent green in a way only possible when contrasted by such lustreless sobriety.

A memory, long-hidden in a disused corner, tickled his consciousness, and half-rose through the dust of oblivion as though breaking the surface of water; he forced it down again, a fanciful relic of his forgotten youth, but one wisp of reminiscence lingered like a hint of smoke from an extinguished fire, and he did not catch himself before the ghost of a wish floated away with it into the cold wet air. It was not expressed in the traditional form of supplication, but was articulated none the less: Show me one man more wretched than I. The waters stirred, slightly.

Shrugging off the unworthy, self-pitying words, and turning deliberately from the lake, he continued his journey up the hillside. In the distance, now, he could hear the roars and cheers of the crowd at the Quidditch pitch. Slytherin versus Gryffindor: he really should have been there, but he had pleaded urgent business, and was just as glad; it was a nasty unpleasant day to perform the chore of cheering on his House team. He wanted nothing more than to creep into his own little cell and rest. Duty called first, in the form of a report to be written, homework to be marked, lessons to be planned, and rest would be long-delayed and probably elusive; but solitude was, at least, guaranteed, and a cup of tea would help with the remainder.

He entered the massive front portal, walked across the hall and down the stairs, and passed quickly along the corridor, his face shielded by an unsociable scowl against all accidental encounters. Reaching his own door, he unlocked it with a wave of his wand, and breathed a sigh of relief as he shut it behind him. He removed the muddy cloak and hung it up, lit the fire, and began to gather ingredients for his tea: elderflowers, coca leaves, dried salamander blood, ginseng... and dust and crumbled leavings of peppermint, not enough for even one pot's worth. His stomach rebelled. To his office, then, no matter how unwelcome even that small re-exposure to the world seemed.

The corridor appeared deserted when he put his head outside, and he slipped out, carefully relocking the door behind him. He strode to the Potions classroom, robes billowing. At the doorway he was brought up short by the sight of words glowing in mid-air in front of him, acid-green and pulsating: Snape stinks. The author of this rather unoriginal missive was probably soaking in the rain at the Quidditch pitch, waving a sodden flag in Gryffindor scarlet, or wallowing around on a broom. He really could not bring himself to care... but there was no sense in letting the thing hang around.

Drawing his wand, he cast a lazy Unreadable Charm in the general direction of the message. The letters broke into segments and spread into an unalphabetic jumble, which hovered momentarily, then unexpectedly reformed itself into new words: Snape is an ugly, useless git. Unimpressed, he raised his wand once more, and spoke the one word, "Deletrius." At this, the letters wasted no time in popping completely out of existence.

At his office door another dispatch awaited him, this time torn from a piece of parchment and stuck on with Magical Mucilage. A familiar italic hand informed him, "Dear Professor Snape: I know who did this. See me after the Quidditch match. Yours sincerely, Draco Malfoy."

I am overjoyed to be granted an audience, Mr Malfoy, Snape thought dryly. Feeling an unbearable weariness possess him, he retrieved the peppermint from the stores cupboard, selecting a bottle of Wit-Sharpening Potion as an afterthought. He returned to his bedchamber, unlocking and relocking the door, collected the remainder of his herbs, and went to the fire to brew the tea.

A rustling behind him caught his ear, and he whirled around, senses on the alert, and held his breath. There was a man in his room. An odd little man, very short and quite fat, dark-haired and pale-skinned, sweating. He was facing away from Snape, gazing about the room rather vaguely and taking in its walls and furnishings.

"Aw, shit!" said the stranger. "Kareen, I told you I wasn't ready for the Orb yet!"

His accent was American, and he wore a strange assortment of garments: sandals on his bare feet; trousers of some loose, silky fabric; a shirt, rather frilly, in a similar cloth; and a sleeveless tunic, incongruously military in style; all in shades ranging from black to a green so dark as to be almost black. Snape could not but approve the colour scheme even while deploring the selection of clothing.

Clearing his throat loudly, Snape waited, wand ready. The little man spun round suddenly, going into a menacing crouch. He stared at Snape. "You," he said hoarsely, "are not a hallucination."

"Obviously not," returned Snape icily. "And who are you, and how the bloody hell did you get in here?" He couldn't have Apparated, Snape knew, and the door had certainly been locked. Then it hit him. The stranger was in a fighting stance, ready to attack and he had no wand. He was a Muggle.

Voldemort would hardly use Muggles to do his bidding, Snape thought. Unless... Or it could be the Ministry. At any rate... He lowered his wand, slowly, telegraphing every movement, and put it away in his robes -- within easy reach. Small as he was, the Muggle looked dangerous: something in his eyes.

The man straightened up, and looked at Snape a moment longer before replying. "I don't know how the bloody hell I got in here," he growled. "Or where I am, for that matter. You tell me." His voice was different now, deeper, his accent sliding away from the American into... no, not quite British. More like Karkaroff's: the Eastern European gutturals overlaid with the clipped refinements of England. His searching eyes found the window, and, sketching a Do you mind? gesture in Snape's direction, he moved toward it and looked outside at the streaming rain.

"Well, I'm sure as hell not on Beta anymore," he said, snorting, and craned his neck to see further. He was evidently impressed by what he could glimpse of the castle. "Quite a place you got here," he said, turning back to Snape and raising his eyebrows. "What'd you do to end up in the dungeon?"

A comedian. Annoyed by the little man's nonchalance, Snape threw caution to the winds and marched over to the window. He loomed over the stranger in his best threatening manner, perfected by seasons of intimidating first-year students. "Enough," he hissed. "Tell me who you are and what you are doing here."

Before he quite realised what was happening, Snape found the front of his robes grasped by a small, surprisingly powerful hand, and he was pulled down so that he was nose to nose with the shorter man. "I'm not particularly good at this sort of thing," said the man coldly and quietly, "but I think we are ignoring the social niceties here." He let Snape go with a small push, and gave an abbreviated laugh, which did not reach his grey eyes. "How about if you were to introduce yourself," he went on, "before attempting to bully me. Because I don't take to that very well from strangers."

Bile rose in Snape's throat, and he breathed heavily for a moment; he had not been this angry in months, and it was a curiously... liberating feeling. He stepped back, and without softening the expression on his face or the tone in his voice one whit, he nodded briefly, and said, "Severus Snape."

The little man clicked his sandalled heels together and bowed. "Lord Mark Vorkosigan, at your service," he said crisply. "Well..." he reconsidered, "perhaps not that. I believe that is the correct formula, however." He paused, glancing out the window once more. "Not Beta," he repeated, shaking his head. "I don't suppose," he said, turning back to Snape, "I could ask where it is I find myself?"

Snape could not think why it would do any harm to tell him. "Hogwarts Castle," he said, erring slightly on the side of caution. Vorkosigan gave him a wave which he interpreted as Be more expansive, and he corrected, "Scotland."

"Scotland," Vorkosigan mused, obviously running through some kind of mental concordance file, and then his face lit as he came up with the correct answer. "Ah! Earth! Good old Earth! Scene of such happy memories... I wonder how -- some new kind of wormhole, perhaps..."

He appeared to consider various possibilities for a moment, while Snape froze, attempting to keep his consternation out of his face. Earth! So this man was from... well, not-Earth.

"Where are you from?" he blurted out, and Vorkosigan looked up at him with a peculiar smile.

"Well, that's a curious question," he said. "Jacksonian by birth, Barrayaran by, er, adoption. I was on Beta Colony when this," he nodded his head at the room in general, " happened. By the way," he went on, looking at Snape intently, "if this is your fault, you owe me an apology. I was in the middle of a most... promising situation."

"I did not," began Snape, and then he remembered something. "Kareen?" he quoted.

"Mmmm," said Vorkosigan absently, smiling, and then his smile vanished and his eyes narrowed. "You notice things, don't you?"

Snape was not about to respond to that, nor to ask what it was Vorkosigan had been about to do with Kareen, so he fell back on the only social nicety he could think of at the moment that might keep this intriguing stranger talking. "Would you care for a cup of tea?" he asked, chiding himself for sounding so conventional, and gestured formally in the direction of the fire.

"Yes, certainly. Now?" replied Vorkosigan. They moved, with a number of wary glances at each other, toward the fire, and Vorkosigan planted his fat little body in Snape's armchair. Snape began to gather the herbs -- luckily in Unbreakable jars -- that had fallen when Vorkosigan surprised him earlier; then, stopping to consider the accent, the little heel-clicking bow, and the general attitude of authority, returned the herbs to his personal store cupboard, and took out the Lapsang Souchong and the good teapot.

He had begun to brew the tea when Vorkosigan cleared his throat. "I haven't been exactly well brought up," he said, in a smaller voice than he had yet used, "but I have been learning... I apologise for" -- Snape turned to see him gesture in the direction of the window -- "before. My, er, bad side coming out." He continued in a quieter voice, as if to himself, "The Black Gang rearing their ugly heads again."

Snape's heart leapt into his throat, and before he knew what he was doing, his wand was in his hand, and with a loud bang thin ropes were curling out of the end of it and around Vorkosigan's body in the armchair. He bent swiftly, shaking with tension, and seized the man's left arm, baring the skin to the elbow; then placed his own bared arm across it as though the two of them were sharing a blood oath. He stared down. The Dark Mark on his own arm remained pale and unreadable, and there was no corresponding mark on Vorkosigan's arm. He had been wrong.

Looking into Vorkosigan's eyes, he swore to himself. The man's face was drained of colour, and he looked both angry and terrified. Snape's eyes ventured down to their crossed arms again, and he noted that Vorkosigan's skin was marked by a network of faint scars, and some not so faint.

Standing, he took up his wand again, and removed the bindings. Vorkosigan remained still. "What the hell was that all about?" he said in a tight, dangerous voice.

Snape turned away. Cursing himself for an impetuous idiot, his head seized by renewed pain, he considered carefully before he spoke. "I apologise," he said with difficulty. "I mistook some of your words. They bear another meaning for me entirely."

Going straight to the point, as appeared to be his habit, Vorkosigan said, "The Black Gang, eh? I wonder who yours is, to panic you like that." Snape stirred, and Vorkosigan added, in a more conversational tone, "Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to ask. I'm a good deal more curious about how you did that trick with the ropes, actually."

For some reason, Snape felt rather embarrassed. "It's a spell," he said briefly. "I'm a wizard."

"Really?" carolled Vorkosigan. "You interest me strangely." He hummed cheerfully to himself, and then added, "By the way -- you were making tea?"

Thoroughly disconcerted now, Snape busied himself among the tea things. Soon, he was pouring dark, steaming, fragrant liquid into fine bone china, and seating himself in the other chair by the fireside. He sipped gratefully.

"I don't suppose you have anything about to eat?" enquired Vorkosigan. Snape managed one disdainful look at Vorkosigan's waistline, which was ignored, and then, with a sense of reluctant showmanship, snapped his fingers in the air and produced a floating tray loaded with pastries.

Vorkosigan looked extremely appreciative. "Well," he said pleasantly, "it certainly is some good being a wizard. And," he added, biting into an éclair, "this is quite delicious. Who makes...?"

"House-elves," said Snape succinctly.

"It would be," commented Vorkosigan, and took another enormous bite.

Vorkosigan evidently thought he had landed in a madhouse -- albeit one with excellent food -- and was enjoying himself thoroughly. Snape decided to batter him down.

"This is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he said harshly, "for students aged eleven to eighteen. I am Potions master here. We study the arts of Transfiguration, Divination, Arithmancy, and Care of Magical Creatures, among others. We breakfast each morning in a hall whose ceiling is enchanted to resemble the sky, and at one moment hundreds of owls fly in to bring us our morning post. The castle itself is protected by spells disguising it as a dangerous ruin to those without magical perception. Our Headmistress," his voice faltered slightly on the word, "can turn herself into a cat at will. We travel using broomsticks" -- Vorkosigan smirked at this -- "or by walking into burning fires, or simply by choosing to be elsewhere. We can produce more than food by waving a wand." He swept his around in a circle, and all the candles and lanterns in the room lit instantly. "We can bottle fame, brew glory, stopper death take a man's will away from him."

Leaning forward, he pinioned Vorkosigan with his eyes, unblinking. "You find yourself, little man, my lord Vorkosigan, among people who can kill you with two words, if they so desire -- I myself have killed men with this," holding up his wand, "and I would do so again with pleasure if necessary."

Vorkosigan looked back at him, his attention fixed. "Thank you," he breathed. "Information. I love information." He took another bite of pastry. "And I do," he mumbled, mouth full, "respect you, you know. As I would any man so obviously good at his job." He looked keenly at Snape.

"I don't have much to offer in return," he went on. "Where I come from, we kill people with beams of light and projectiles going hundreds of miles an hour, but it's all a pretty specialised technology and I don't really understand it. And, naturally, I didn't bring any weapons with me." He spread his arms out to the sides, one hand holding a biscuit and the other his cup of tea. "I was on Beta, after all. Travelling we do in spaceships -- er, wormholes, zipping around from one end of the galaxy to another, you don't really want to hear about it. We don't, by the way, normally do time travel, but could I enquire as to the date...?"

Snape, startled, answered automatically. "The twenty-second of March. Nineteen-ninety-seven."

"You're not joking, are you?" replied Vorkosigan. "I didn't think so. Hmm... I would have thought... well, you can't go by appearances. My home planet -- not where I grew up, you understand, but it's home now -- got caught behind a bad wormhole and was isolated for hundreds of years; technology slipped back to, well," he glanced around at the candles and the cauldron over the fire, "about this level, I'd say. But things are a lot better now. We have this weird feudal system... but, hey, it's useful to know who you're working for." He caught Snape's eye and smiled knowingly. "And Emperor Gregor, he's a good guy: a little stiff and taciturn at times, but quite fun when you get him to relax. Where was I? Oh yes, technology. Well, medicine is rather impressive -- did you know we can bring people back to life? Happened to my brother just last year -- uterine replicators, cloning, sex changes, et cetera. That's about it, I suppose. You're not drinking your tea."

Snape took a hurried sip; it was cold. He began to reach for the teapot, hesitated, then levitated it instead, tipping it just above his cup to pour more steaming liquid.

Vorkosigan laughed. "Never miss a chance, do you?" he asked.

Snape began to wish he had taken some of the Wit-Sharpening Potion. "No," he said coldly. "Should I?"

"Not if you want to really impress people," said Vorkosigan, selecting a large cream puff from the tray.

"Such as you?" snarled Snape. Suddenly exasperated, he rose and began pacing back and forth in front of the fire. "I don't have time for this," he snapped. "I have important matters to attend to. There's a war on, and the Enemy is getting closer..." He stopped abruptly, knowing that he had revealed too much; flooded with hot, uncontrollable, impatient anger, he swung a fist at the tray of pastries and knocked it to the floor -- Vorkosigan looked with regret at the Bath buns and fairy cakes spread out on the hearth -- seized the little man by the shoulders, and shook him.

"You -- don't -- belong -- here!" Snape yelled in Vorkosigan's face, and then, absurdly, "GET OUT!"

Vorkosigan's eyes flashed, but his voice remained irritatingly patient. "We've been through this before," he said. "I would if I could, you know. As, I'm beginning to suspect, would you." He quirked an eyebrow at Snape. "You think I'm a spy, don't you? I have done a bit of that sort of thing -- not as much as certain other members of my family -- but I assure you I do not know this Enemy of yours" -- Snape could hear the echo of his own capitalisation in Vorkosigan's enunciation -- "nor, in fact, do I know any of your friends, if you have any." He took a deep breath, and jerked his chin up. "I swear it by my word as Vorkosigan. Which is a pretty big deal where I come from."

There was a long pause. Snape stood back, controlled his voice with difficulty, and, dropping each syllable like an icicle on a frozen lake, said, "My word is of importance to me as well."

He would have continued, but he was caught by Vorkosigan's eyes, radiating -- Damn the man! -- sympathy and deep understanding. "Ah," Vorkosigan said. "I see. Well," and here he took a last bite of his cream puff, then pushed himself to his feet, "perhaps we should shake on it then." He held out his hand and, reluctantly, Snape took it and shook it briefly, making a deliberate effort not to wipe his own hand on his robes afterwards.

"Good." And now it was Vorkosigan's turn to pace, quick short-legged strides revealing an unexpected power, while Snape sat and watched him. "We need to think," he said, twirling on his heel. "We can't just keep batting words back and forth at each other like some kind of a -- of a..."

"Quidditch match," supplied Snape.

"If you say so," said Vorkosigan, looking as though he would like to enquire further, but maintaining his focus and continuing to pace. "There must be some reason why I am here; let's think it out logically. I don't think it can be anything on my end; I've never heard of planetary surface wormholes, let alone ones inside buildings -- although it could be handy at times -- and if I had been kidnapped and brought here, I think you would have noticed a shuttle landing outside, not to mention that it would have been difficult to get me into your room, which I assume you keep locked...?" Snape nodded. "Besides, it's the why that gets to me. Admittedly, there are certain individuals on Jackson's Whole who would appreciate my demise, and a few Barrayarans as well, but there are easier ways to accomplish it than dragging me all the way to Earth through a number of centuries and shoving me into the bedroom of a twitchy wizard who just may kill me with his wand. Agreed?" Snape nodded again, amused despite himself.

"I suppose," Vorkosigan went on, "this could all be a hallucination. I mean, on the part of one or the other of us. But I feel real to myself, and I don't think I could imagine anyone quite like you, and I suspect you feel the same way; so I'm not going to entertain that idea any longer. So I think it has to be something on your end, and that means..."

"Magic," said Snape.

"Thank you," Vorkosigan said. "I didn't want to be the one to have to say it." He paused, looking at Snape curiously for a moment, then continued hesitantly, "I couldn't have suddenly become magic, could I? You said something about choosing to be elsewhere -- not that I would have chosen to leave where I was at that particular moment -- I don't think -- but...?"

"Apparition," explained Snape. "You have to train for it, and get a licence, and even then it doesn't work here at Hogwarts."

"Huh. Sounds like Beta Colony; everything fun regulated. Well," he said, looking down at the squashed remains of the pastries he had been trampling, "not everything. I'm sorry, I do seem to have made a mess here. Do you think you could...?"

Feeling more than a bit like a house-elf, Snape swept his wand above the hearth, and the pastries disappeared with a loud pop. "Very tidy," commented Vorkosigan. "Is the noise just for show, or does it have something to do with conservation of matter and energy? And how do you know which parts to... I mean, some of it is still here" -- he pointed to his overlarge stomach -- "and here" -- to his sandals, looking appealingly at Snape, who tightened his lips -- "oh well. If you have rules about one thing, you must have rules about all of it. At least I hope so."

He resumed his pacing. "So, not me. Doing the magic, I mean. And not you -- obviously." Snape snorted. "Therefore... someone else. Any candidates?" he asked. "Besides that Enemy of yours, I mean."

A small niggle at the back of Snape's brain made an attempt to claw its way to the front, before being overwhelmed by the rush of a new, compelling thought. He mouthed the word Dumbledore, staring absently at Vorkosigan's feet on the tidied hearth, then raised his head to find his companion looking at him enquiringly.

"I don't think," said Snape slowly, "that who is really the operative question here. I think we should concentrate on why."

"Agreed," said Vorkosigan. "And if we know why, we'll know who. Say -- I don't suppose I could have been sent here to help with this war of yours, could I? Fulfilling my Vor destiny and all." He looked rather pleased with himself, but Snape felt it necessary to disillusion him.

"The Enemy against whom we are fighting -- Lord Voldemort -- is a powerful wizard with a legion of ruthless helpers, none of whom have any qualms about killing those who oppose them, especially Muggles -- excuse me, non-magical people -- such as yourself. Possibly, some of those weapons which you mentioned might be useful, but as you said, you have brought none of them with you, and we know no way of fetching them. And besides," he ended abruptly, "it is our battle."

Vorkosigan nodded. "So," he said, "not a soldier. I'm afraid I emptied my wallet at the Orb, not that you would need Betan dollars anyway -- though I do have rather a lot of them in the bank -- and I certainly have brought no other useful possessions along. Except -- wait a moment," and he felt the various pockets of his tunic. "Oh," he said happily, drawing out a flimsy piece of some type of plastic, "picture of Kareen." He sat down in the armchair and handed it over. Snape reminded himself that Muggle photographs did not move, but if any had, this would have been one. Kareen was a pretty, buxom young woman, with short blonde hair and a smile that could have lit up the Great Hall of Hogwarts. He wondered what she saw in Vorkosigan. Handing the picture back, he saw that Vorkosigan had now drawn another object from his pocket, a small bottle full of a poisonous-looking green liquid, reminiscent of the colour of Slytherin's Quidditch robes.

"This might help us think for a bit," Vorkosigan said, "at least until it drops us cold. My brother told me about it. Try some." He held out the bottle, and Snape hesitated. "Mr Snape -- or, Professor, is it? I'm disappointed in you," said Vorkosigan mockingly. "After all, I drank your tea. Ah well. Me first." He raised the bottle to his lips and took a swig, then wiped the mouth of the bottle and handed it to Snape.

Snape took a tentative sip, swallowed, and nearly choked. The drink was cloyingly sweet, with a faint herbal aftertaste he couldn't identify. A second later, though, he began to see what Vorkosigan had meant. The liquid burned like cool fire through his throat, his stomach, his veins, and he could feel alertness rising like steam through his body and into his brain. "Wit-Sharpening Potion," he said, with a short laugh. Tastes a bit better than armadillo bile, too. He took another swallow, then handed back the bottle.

Vorkosigan went on with his monologue. "The only useful thing I seem to have with me is," tapping the side of his head, "this. But most of the knowledge I've acquired is pretty much useless here. I am quite good at information gathering and analysis, but I suspect you have a number of wizards who are good at that as well, including, perhaps, yourself...?" Snape, startled, looked up. "I thought so," Vorkosigan continued. "Well. Looking at the question from the other side, in case it is this Lord Voldemort who's sent me -- you are sure it's Vol and not Vor, by the way? I don't think I am here to assassinate you, because I'm familiar with that type of programming. I could, of course, be here to talk you to death" -- Snape's lip quirked up involuntarily at that -- "but, considering your own substantial powers of resistance, I think it unlikely."

"I think it more likely," said Snape quietly, "that if you are his tool, you were sent to assist me. Or as a test of some sort." Which I have failed.

He hated the way he could watch Vorkosigan putting two and two together and coming up with a number that would have impressed even the Arithmancy professor.

"I did wonder about that," Vorkosigan said after a moment's intent silence, then, rather unexpectedly, "No man can serve two masters." He shrugged. "Something my mother says."

"No," said Snape urgently, feeling an irrational need to justify himself. "I serve only one. I would never betray him. I owe him my life. More than my life."

"Him?" enquired Vorkosigan. "Not the, er, the cat-lady then?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore," said Snape. "He was... killed." The pain came afresh then, unassuaged by the passage of time, and he closed his eyes for a brief second. When he opened them, Vorkosigan was looking at him sympathetically, holding out the bottle of green liquid; Snape waved it away. The last thing he wanted at the moment was something that would sharpen his senses.

"So you're a spy then," said Vorkosigan casually. "Ironic, that." He seemed to be considering saying something further. "Pardon me for asking," he went on finally, "but what about...?" and he held out his left arm, pulling the sleeve up.

Snape felt as though he had been hit by the conversational equivalent of a Bludger. How dare the man be so perceptive? He hesitated only momentarily, however, before pulling up his own sleeve and showing Vorkosigan his bared arm.

"You cannot see it now," he said harshly, "but it is there. It will always be there. The Dark Mark -- Voldemort's brand. A means of identification, and a symbol of loyalty. My oath to him... which I have broken. Replaced," he said, smiling bitterly, "by a truer vow; but nevertheless, I am forsworn to my first master. Much as I pretend otherwise."

To his surprise, Vorkosigan laughed. "The dark Mark," he said. "Ha. Very amusing. Someone," waving a hand vaguely in the air, "has a sense of humour."

Snape leaned back, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He rubbed his temples, then held out a blind hand toward Vorkosigan. "May I try another sip of that vile drink?" he asked.

"Certainly," replied Vorkosigan, putting the bottle into his hand. Snape drank, feeling the warmth spread down to his feet, and again the rush of increased perception. He remembered suddenly his earlier sight of Vorkosigan's arm, with its fine tracery of scar tissue on the pasty white skin. Mimicking the other man's gesture, he held out his forearm once more, running a finger down its length.

"You bear your own marks," he said questioningly.

"Ah. That." Vorkosigan glanced down at his own arm. "I betrayed my master as well, you see. I wouldn't call myself forsworn, since I had no choice in his being my master; he made me. Literally. Well," he corrected, "it was contracted out." He smiled at Snape. "I'm not going to attempt to explain that. Anyway, I wasn't even made to be me; I was supposed to be someone else. Hence the scars: some of them, at least. They're not my scars, really; they're his. But I felt them." He ran his forefinger down his arm, tracing absently. "I don't want to get into the political background now, but I was created to take my brother's place, kill my father, take over a planetary government... it was all quite ridiculous; but it was my life until I was an adult. It was my job. That," he continued, with a bleak half-smile, "and being tortured."

He turned to look Snape directly in the eyes. "I'm quite good at killing people," he said. "I killed my master. More people, later on. I even managed to kill my brother, but," with a hint of hysteria in his voice now, "he got better. Resurrection runs in the family."

"Resurrection," echoed Snape wearily. "Dumbledore... pulled me out of the pit. But I feel less like a man brought back to life, and more like one who is being forced to live beyond his time." He wondered idly if he might have put a Jobberknoll feather into the pot of tea without being aware of it; then held his breath, feeling light-headed, and plunged into the unfamiliar sea of confession. "I do my job. I have almost nothing else. Not even hope. But I know what I must do, so I... swallow the pain... and just move through the days. Just... go on."

Vorkosigan stared at him. "That's what my brother says, you know." He laughed, a little wildly. "I'm afraid he has more of a sense of duty than I do. No matter which persona he's taken on at the moment. But since I've had to undertake this self-reinvention thing more thoroughly than he has having been nothing but someone's invention to begin with my time has been rather occupied with just finding out who I am. Quite a few people, as it turns out." He looked at Snape questioningly. "I've forgotten what it's like to have a job. Even an unpleasant one."

"There are days," Snape said in a roughened voice, "when I would rather scrub floors like a house-elf than do the job given me. I might scrub floors quite well -- even without the use of magic -- but my time would be better spent inventing new cleaning potions. We are each of us given talents which it is a waste of the gift not to use. Mine, unfortunately, include dissimulation. And cruelty. But it would be a waste, a waste of Dumbledore's death, a waste of my own putrid existence, not to use them."

He took another swallow of the green liquor, more for the gesture than anything else, wishing that it were an anaesthetic rather than a stimulant; then he pushed the bottle in Vorkosigan's direction.

"Thank you," said Vorkosigan. Snape, eyes closed, could hear him gulp his own draught. Reminded of this morning's session at the Three Broomsticks, he spoke again, lent courage by the green blaze coursing through his blood.

"I spent most of the early part of my day in the company of a drunken fool, a so-called friend of my school days here, now a member of Voldemort's Inner Circle. He insisted on maintaining his level of intoxication, and attempted to ply me with drinks as well -- mostly those silly ones with the fruit on little sticks -- which my dour reputation at least allowed me to refuse. We did conduct some business, in between sodden reminiscences, and I was made privy to a great deal of Death Eater gossip, most of which I am certain Voldemort would rather I did not know. I wonder at his use of such an unreliable servant" -- Would you be a more reliable one? his ironic inner voice commented -- "but I do know that the drunkenness is a response to thralldom, not the cause of it. The man was far more... self-willed, when I knew him."

Vorkosigan interrupted. "People have some interesting and varied responses to torture, you know. Your friend happens to have chosen one of the more conventional ones."

Waving this aside, Snape continued. "His choice is irrelevant now, as he has brought about his own downfall with his weakness. I managed to add a draught of forgetfulness potion to his last drink, so that his report to Voldemort will be unforgiveably incomplete. I do not think he will remain a member of the Inner Circle much longer." He could still see that disgusting concoction, layers of differently coloured and bewitched alcoholic substances, a speciality of the house: one layer of shimmering silver, one layer of nauseous green, one layer of opalescent pink... and one layer of soul-deadening deceit.

"The venue of this little reunion was selected carefully, of course. We could very well have corresponded by owl, or met at midnight in a dark forest, or exchanged information by some other means, in secret. Instead, I arranged to see him at a pub less than a mile from this school, pleading pressures of work and lack of free time. A place where I could be seen and suspected nothing can be proven, you understand by at least one person who would report on my choice of companion."

He swallowed, remembering Hagrid's blank, unbelieving eyes as the half-giant turned from chatting with Rosmerta at the bar, and saw. His mouth tasted bitter.

Leaning forward, he rested his chin on his steepled fingers, and spoke again, slowly and deliberately, staring at the guttering fire. "We ride on rumours as well as broomsticks, you see. I am as insubstantial as a ghost: indistinct in outline, impossible to apprehend, incapable of rest. I am a success. I am excellent at my job." He put his hands over his face.

"My mother has a saying," Vorkosigan said into the silence. "A test is a gift. Great tests are a great gift." He paused. "Congratulations."

A small, agonised wail sounded somewhere at the back of Snape's head. "Your mother," he said, opening his eyes again, "must be a very perceptive woman."

"Oh, she is," breathed Vorkosigan, "she is. I wish I'd known her when I was young."

He giggled softly, and Snape looked at him in alarm. Vorkosigan was slumped in the armchair, and for the first time he looked sloppy to Snape; until now he had appeared so controlled, so (infuriatingly) in charge of the situation, that his odd attire and the imperfections of his body had seemed not to matter. Now he looked rather like a crumply black and dark-green fungus growing out of the chair, or a stomach with head and legs stuck on.

"You know what I love about my mother?" Vorkosigan asked, his voice higher pitched, more edgy. "She trusts me. I don't know why. Well, come to think of it, she trusts nearly everybody, until they prove she shouldn't; somehow she always knows ahead of time when that's going to happen. It usually doesn't. She's not at all stupid." He struggled into a more upright position. "I am stupid, about people, that is, so I don't know who to trust. I don't think I trust you but I do accept you, if that helps any. I don't know why it should. I doubt mine is the opinion that matters to you."

Snape could think of no response. Vorkosigan continued, "For a man who compares himself to a ghost, you have pretty sharp edges. Like a knife. Or like something carved by a knife. More and more focused and concentrated, the worse things get. I don't do that, you know. I get diffuse; I spread." He laughed darkly. "Literally. And then I split."

He turned and looked Snape in the eyes, a frank, dangerous gaze. "You don't want to see that, I assure you. I don't particularly want to introduce you to my troop of little friends. For one thing, I've already done Betan analysis, and I don't think I can take wizard analysis, or whatever you might do to me. Exorcise me, or give me a potion or something." He shuddered. "Please, no potions. And don't tell me about them. But," his eyes shifted sideways as a new thought struck him, "you could give me a sandwich. If it wouldn't bother the house-elves."

"By all means let us overwork the house-elves," said Snape, feeling stunned and dizzy. "What kind of sandwich?"

Vorkosigan appeared to consult some inner menu. "Ham, I think. With English mustard. I haven't had one of those since the last time I was on Earth. A big one, please."

Gulping the last of his sandwich, Vorkosigan said, "You know, it's not such a bad thing to have a focus in life. A clear goal. Something to overcome that goes around dressed in black and hurling curses. Especially if you don't have much of a natural sense of direction. Nothing worse than a sharp knife in the hand of an indiscriminate surgeon, eh?" Swallowing pumpkin juice, he went on, "Although my brother seems to manage on instinct. You remind me of him, in an odd way: the drive, the paranoia, the... sleight of hand. The surgical technique. But he's working on getting control of the knife and he's never wanted anyone holding his hand while he does it."

Snape's lip quirked. "Whereas I must appear to be held by two hands at once? I'm afraid that, ultimately, it is up to the knife to determine where it strikes. And what scars it leaves. I am not allowed the slave's luxury of sound sleep. But I envy your brother's instincts."

"Oh, so do I," said Vorkosigan wistfully. "Not that things always work out for him, you understand. But he always seems to get somewhere... interesting, even if by accident. He does a lot better blundering in the dark than I do; we don't either of us ever seem to find a clear path in the light of day. I'm not sure they exist."

"They do," replied Snape, "but they tend to lead on to destruction."

"That's a cheery thought," commented Vorkosigan. "You're very good at setting a conversation on a downward slope, aren't you? Perhaps you need another drink," and he proffered the bottle. Snape took it gravely, and swallowed, then handed it back. Vorkosigan waved it away. "You keep it. Just... you'd probably better not drink any more, and don't take any sleeping potions tonight."

Snape smiled wryly to acknowledge the deduction, then rose and carried the bottle to his store cupboard. His headache had vanished, and he tingled with alertness to his fingertips. Without turning around, he said, "Tell me: do you resent your brother?"

"It's quite a natural thing to do, isn't it?" answered Vorkosigan, rather obliquely. Snape turned and frowned at him. "Certainly I do," Vorkosigan continued. "He's responsible -- with impunity, of course -- for most of the bad things that have happened to me, for my very existence, in fact. I owe him my life... but on the other hand, he owes me my life." He smiled oddly. "I take it this question has some personal bearing? You're not hiding a high-achieving, scene-stealing brother somewhere, are you?"

"No," said Snape. Not a brother. "Only curious." He went to the fire, which had nearly gone out, added some logs from the neat pile to one side of the hearth, and muttered, "Incendio." Flames shot out from around the wood, and the life-giving warmth began to penetrate the room.

"I even envy him his failures," mused Vorkosigan. "He does them so spectacularly. He crashes and burns -- like fireworks; it's very Barrayaran. I just kind of... leak, quietly. Nobody likes to watch. Well, sometimes the more discreditable failures draw a bit of a crowd. Mostly from inside me, though."

"Any failure of mine is liable to get me killed very efficiently," Snape commented. "Death might, come to think of it, be more satisfactory than embarrassment -- except that my motivations are likely to be obscure to most people, so I wouldn't manage to achieve anything, even dead. Frequent and obvious, but nonfatal, failure at least has the benefit of making the successes stand out."

"There is that," said Vorkosigan, brightening. "It's nice to be respected for something. Perhaps offering a negative example is a role in life after all." He laughed. "At least we both hope so, eh?"

Snape turned to the fire again. "No," he said quietly. "I don't. And neither, I think, do you." He spun around suddenly. "Speaking of blundering in the dark, we've wandered quite a long way off the point. How are we to get you home? That is, assuming you want to go...?"

A grin bloomed on Vorkosigan's face. "Kareen..." he sighed. "She has, after all, seen me fail before this, and -- who knows. Yes, I want to go. And, frankly, I'd prefer not to come back, if you can arrange that. I've enjoyed your, er, hospitality -- and do thank the house-elves for me -- but you were quite right, I don't belong here."

Snape moved toward the window and looked out at the darkening sky. "It is nearly dinner-time; I can either order more food sent to my room, or borrow a student's robes for you -- they should be the correct size -- and pass you off as a guest... perhaps from Durmstrang; that would be amusing... so that you may dine with us in the Great Hall. Tomorrow we can journey to... let me see... York, London, Sussex, to consult some acquaintances who are more knowledgeable than I in these matters. One of them may be able to suggest some plan of action. If not, we must assume that whoever has sent you will eventually retrieve you as well, and..."

His voice died away, as he realised that he was speaking to an empty room.

An unexpected surge of disappointment washed through him, as he stared at the armchair in which Vorkosigan had been so solidly ensconced seconds before. He tried to tell himself that he was missing the promise of further intrigue, the welcomed respite from Hogwarts, the possibilities of the anticipated travel. But he knew there was more to it than that.

He Banished the remaining dishes to the kitchens, except for his own teapot and cups, which he washed and returned to the cupboard. Then he tended the fire; when it was blazing to his satisfaction, he turned down the lights in the room, seated himself in his reclaimed armchair, and regarded the flames thoughtfully.

I don't think I trust you -- but I do accept you, if that helps any, his companion's words echoed in his mind.

I'm afraid that my feelings about myself are just the opposite, Mark Vorkosigan, he thought, but at least that is a beginning. He pushed the left sleeve of his robes up and looked at the invisible stigma on his arm; it looked back: patient, persistent, inexorable.

Which arm will I bare to the world's gaze -- that which bears the badge of submission, or -- he held out his right arm and clenched his hand in a fist -- that which bears the knife? He smiled ruefully, and lowered his arms. Neither, while I sit here in the dark. The world is waiting.

The dinner bell sounded, echoing his thoughts, and he heard the noisy chaos of footsteps and voices in the corridor: the Slytherins returning from the Quidditch match. He rose, still rather reluctant to abandon his solitude, and went to the door, hesitating with the unlocking charm on his lips.

Just... go on.

He spoke the words, pushed the door ajar, and walked into the corridor.

A cacophony greeted him: hoots and whistles, black-robed students waving green flags, green rosettes blinking on and off, the smell of damp cloth. His eyes searched the crowd for one figure, who was not difficult to find, for his fellows carried him aloft in triumph: a pale, sharp-faced boy with rain-slicked blond hair. Snape caught his eye and beckoned. The boy signalled to his porters, and they let him slide to the ground; he strode over to Snape, his eyes flashing, his mouth fixed in a supercilious smile. Snape waited until he came within earshot, and then he spoke, pitching his voice low, purring, insinuating.

"Mr Malfoy. Congratulations. And I believe you have... something to tell me?"

 THE END

 Author's Notes: I had very fine beta-readers for this story, and thanks are due to each of them, as well as to all the others who encouraged me. Thank you: Rebecca/R.J. Anderson, who is more like an Alpha Reader, and to whose portrayal of Snape in the Darkness and Light trilogy I owe a great deal; Melanie, for an unbiased opinion; Cally, for a highly biased and amusing one; Carol, for asking the really hard questions; and the-other-Mark-V, for being a sterling representative of his native land.

For those who are curious about the Presence who is the moving force behind this encounter, I can only suggest that you read my story "Denizen of the Deep" whether or not the subsequent enlightenment leads you to question my sanity.

And for those of you who haven't read Bujold well, what in the world is stopping you?

--E.H.S.