Without Enchantment

Here between the hither and the farther shore
While time is withdrawn, consider the future
And the past with an equal mind.

The Countess swept into the room, not waiting for any invitation from Snape. Still poised and elegant in her brown-and-silver gown, she carried a large vase of white roses, which she placed on a side table. "Don't worry in the least, Professor," she reassured him. "I had much the same reaction, you know; but the place does tend to grow on you." She glanced up and down the room, and said expectantly, "I was hoping to find my husband here."

Snape rediscovered his voice, lurking somewhere deep in his tightened throat. "He... left me some time ago, madam. He did say he was intending to call you."

"And so he did," the Countess answered, "just as I was getting ready to leave the hospital." A wintry smile passed over her face. "He's probably fallen asleep. These last weeks have been a bit wearing for him." She sighed, then rubbed her hands together briskly. "Well, let him rest. While we're waiting for Mark, you and I can have a nice... chat." She seated herself in an armchair with a satisfied look.

Snape suspected the Countess seldom lent herself to anything that could be described as a "chat." He was reminded suddenly of Madam Pomfrey's bedside manner, her claims of "this won't hurt a bit" belied by the patient's grunts as the latest crop of Knarl prickles was whisked out of overeager palms. He determined to keep his hands, and his thoughts, resolutely to himself.

Cued by the mental picture of the Hogwarts hospital wing, he set out on what he thought the proper avenue of conversation. "How is..." he began, then realised he had no idea how to refer to Illyan. The Countess understood his intention, however.

"Simon? Doing splendidly. The doctors are amazed. Oh, I actually met the guest of honour from the Barrayaran College of Physicians Dinner after all, by the way; turns out Simon was the patient he was called away to see. They would have cured him in the end, of course, but your antidote worked like a miracle." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Old Earth remedy, I suppose. Smelled like it, too. Simon says thank you, and that suspension in a good brandy would be an improvement."

"I will make a note of it," replied Snape. Alcohol would kill the effect, actually, but it was hardly likely he'd have to use that potion again, here.

"Mark decided to stay for a bit," the Countess continued, "to talk to Simon. I think they have a great deal to discuss. Pym brought me home, but I'm sure Mark can cadge a ride from someone or other; people were popping in and out like jack-in-the-boxes there: Alys, Ivan, General Allegre, Lieutenant Cecil. I suppose the word hasn't made its way to Miles yet." She waved a hand in the direction of the bouquet of roses. "Those were from Gregor, via Alys. Simon asked me to take them; I think when the doctors finish being perplexed, they may actually let him go home, and he feels no need for flowers."

She smiled at Snape, who stood looking down at the scuff on his shoe where he'd kicked the fireplace. "We do keep confusing you, don't we? I forget somehow that you're a newcomer, and don't know half the people I've mentioned. I'm sure Aral did the same thing to you. Or what didthe two of you find to discuss?"

Gems. Glass-blowers. Sheep. "He talked about himself a good deal, actually."

"Mmm," replied the Countess meditatively. "It's seldom that Aral talks only about himself. Although it may seem that way."

I did gather that much, thought Snape, glancing at the tea table and the Count's sea-green wine-glass; aloud he said blandly, "Really?" thus passing the conversational lead back to the Countess.

She seemed disinclined to take it, however; she simply sat gazing at him, with the air, he realised shortly, of a mother Kneazle whose kitten has just caught its first Gnome: a proud and possessive look, if somewhat detached. I'm too old to have my face washed for me, thank you. After another moment's inspection, she turned her eyes away, toward a plate of fruit on the table. "Tell me about how you met Mark; I'd love to hear," she said, reaching for a grape and popping it into her mouth.

He suddenly appeared in my bedroom, and we were at each other's throats until I somehow found myself confessing most of my deepest secrets to him. A quite typical encounter with a member of the Vorkosigan clan, I think. "It was really nothing... out of the ordinary."

The Countess shot a dubious glance at him. "We're talking about Mark here, Professor. Several of his first meetings with people have included extensive bruising and a need for hospitalisation, though admittedly he's been much better of late. I'm trying to imagine a scenario in which the chips on both your shoulders wouldn't start trying to take bites out of each other within minutes. Although yours most likely doesn't have its own name."

The woman sounded as though she were discussing wizards' familiars, which was disconcerting. Snape was also quite nettled by the implication that he had been less than perfectly accommodating and polite. He considered a protest, realised that it was pointless, and was wondering what one could say to such an accusation when the Countess continued. "I'm certain Mark wasn't taking any chemistry courses at the University. Did you meet him through Kareen, perhaps? Or, wait -- do you know my mother?" She looked completely thrilled at the idea; Snape shuddered inwardly.

"No, madam," he said. "I haven't had the pleasure." Something in the Countess's question struck him as odd, and he examined it more closely. "Does your mother live on Beta, then?" he asked. The accent. Of course.

"Why, yes," said the Countess, sounding surprised. "I'm Betan myself; didn't Mark tell you? How strange. I would have thought 'a good deal about you' would include that salient fact."

"Perhaps I spent too much time talking about myself," Snape said with an involuntary quirk of his lip. Wait, he hadn't meant to say that. Damn.

The Countess smiled. "Well, not to be equally self-centred, but I'm curious what he did tell you about me. Mark's views on his nearest and dearest are often illuminating."

"He told me you trusted him," Snape responded after a moment, "which seemed to please him greatly; and that you trusted nearly everyone until it was proved you shouldn't; and that the disappointment of that proof was usually anticipated and seldom allowed to happen."

"Interesting," said the Countess. "And did he tell you about my soft spot for refugees, as well? Or was your turning up practically on our doorstep a coincidence?"

"No, madam," Snape answered, stung. "He told me nothing of the kind." Although it follows logically.

"Ah. I do know how it feels, though, you know. A stranger amid the alien... groats. Will you be staying long?"

It should have been a casual social enquiry, but Snape was aware of layers of subjacent meaning in the question, not that he could guess at any but a few. The Countess was beginning to give him the impression of a carefully-disguised Nundu trap, a deceptive surface which when trod upon led one into an inescapable hole, except that this one went on like a mine shaft: convenient for geological exploration or extraction of useful substances, but impossible to remove oneself from without wings or a levitation charm. Or a ladder blasted into the bare rock. None of which he was capable of, at the moment; and he felt himself sliding deeper by the second.

A desperate sense of claustrophobia shocked an honest answer out of him: "I. Don't. Know." He said it between his teeth, as though his mouth were also a trap, holding back some kind of fearsome creature, and the Countess looked at him intently.

"Oh, I should imagine you'll be free to go shortly," she said, "probably in the morning. We just need to convince General Allegre that you pose no threat" -- which didn't seem too difficult a task for the Countess, quite capable of wandless Befuddlement Charms -- "and make sure that you wouldn't be stopped at the shuttleport, that is, if you're headed off-planet...?"

"Mmm," murmured Snape noncommittally.

The Countess continued. "If it's a money problem, I'm sure Mark can lend you the necessary funds; he does seem to have some cash coming in now. He couldn't lend you clothes, obviously, but you seem to be about Pym's size, if a little underfed; so if that's a problem, we can help there as well. And we can certainly offer transportation." Moments ago, she had seemed to regard him as a stray animal to be taken in, domesticated, and given a box by the fire; now she was pushing him out the door once again. Not for the first time that day, Snape was experiencing a sense of vertigo.

"I have no definite plans," he managed.

"Aral thinks you're a spy," the Countess commented, in an apparent non sequitur. "Not for anyone here, I mean; he did believe you as far as that goes. All I can say is, if you are, you're an amazingly misplaced one."

Snape let out his breath in what felt almost like a laugh. "Lost, stolen, or strayed? Contact owner" -- he had nearly said "Send owl" -- "if found? No one is searching for me, madam, I assure you."

It had not fully penetrated before (probably because of his trepidation about Barrayaran Imperial Security) that this truly was a safe harbour for him. Harry Potter was long dead, but so must Voldemort be by this time; and if by some fantastic chance he had triumphed over death and decay, or still had agents living, they would never reach this far, nor would they know or care to punish Severus Snape now, if his treachery had ever been discovered. But if he were to be left here forever, like an abandoned animal adopted into a new home, could he continue to be Severus Snape in anything but name? The remnants of magic left to him without a wand, without a community of magical beings, would they wither away, be absorbed into the solid and unmagical Barrayar of swords and horses, spacecraft and comconsoles? Would he retain the skills only to be forced to hide them, as he had hidden the chopped bits of Mark's bug in the brewing potion? Would he learn to suspend miracles in a solution of good brandy, or would he end up drinking the brandy himself? And was it possible to construct a wand from maple wood and horsehair, if it were one to be used in the service of his new... owners?

Not entirely misplaced, he thought, leaning his elbow on the mantel and dropping his forehead into his hand, but astoundingly helpless and confused. "However," he said slowly, still looking away from the Countess, "I do find myself somewhat without direction at the moment."

The Countess laughed. "I could tell that," she replied. "You have the air of a man who's had a prop kicked out from under him, like you've lost a leg and are trying to figure out whether life is worth living without it. It is, you know. Nearly always."

He should have known that fishing for an invitation from the Countess was a dangerous move, but he hadn't expected to be speared quite so perfectly. "And what have you lost, that you know this... this truth about me, milady?" he returned, a blow at random.

"Not nearly as much as I could have," she answered quietly. He turned then, and held her eyes. "And I have gained a great deal," she continued, "a husband, a home, children -- different ones than I expected, but very satisfying -- a constantly shifting set of challenges. What have you gained, Professor?"

Not "what have you lost?" Which would be a much longer list. He concentrated on the question for quite a while, as though it really mattered what he told her. "The trust of a few people," he said finally. "High expectations. A goal to achieve." He paused, then laughed scornfully at himself. "I believe I've lost all that again, however, by leaving home."

"It's the wrong time of year for Winterfair gifts," the Countess answered in her usual oblique fashion, "but those do tend to be the kind of presents Barrayar offers one. I can't help thinking you'd find them easy ones to unwrap. If you could bring yourself to ask for them."

Is it Barrayar offering these gifts, or is it you, milady? He realised suddenly that he had, without thinking, changed his mode of address toward the Countess, unconsciously adopting that very Barrayaran title of deference. My lady of ambiguous munificence. "You'd take in a spy?" he said bitterly. "A professional... prevaricator?"

"A chemistry professor? A concocter of miracles?" she replied, a light teasing note colouring her voice. "You know, I think it must be a male prerogative to be so concerned about what a person does for a living. Or even what he's done with his life, otherwise. My years, and perhaps my gender, have given me the ability to spot potential, even when it comes in a dubious package; I don't trust lightly, you know, despite what Mark may think." Her eyes narrowed. "I'm quite aware that you're hiding an extraordinary amount of mystery, either out of habit or because you think we wouldn't believe you, but I don't think you find it easy to lie. There are a number of men I've had the opportunity to know and observe over the years -- Simon Illyan is one -- of whom you remind me, and one thing they have in common is pride in their ability to obscure the truth without an outright stain on their honour. The other thing, perhaps oddly, is unswerving loyalty, once they find someone to be loyal to."

Snape looked away, biting his lip. "No," came the Countess's clear voice, relentlessly, "true loyalty has to be earned, you see. It can't be bought, or seduced. You may sell your services; you may even give your heart for a time; but you don't really offer up your self, until the right person comes along." She laughed easily. "I know that makes me sound like a god-awful romantic, but it's true."

"Are oaths made without intention or faith less binding, then?" argued Snape. "Very convenient for the oath-breaker, if one can simply declare that a mistake was made in swearing loyalty to begin with, and go one's own way without penalty."

"I didn't say there was no penalty involved," the Countess responded. "Quite the contrary. But oaths made to dishonourable people, for dishonourable reasons, should not be binding, in my opinion. I've never grown used to the Barrayaran moral sense in this matter, though. I'm sure Aral would agree with you. He, of course, has spent his whole life bound by his name's word to emperors, of whom only Gregor has been truly deserving of his servitude."

Snape remembered the defiant lift of Mark's chin on the two occasions he had heard him swear by his word as Vorkosigan. Born and brought up away from Barrayar, Mark must retain the ability to see this sort of oath from the outside, much as the Countess did, and yet he seemed to take it seriously enough. "If I were to swear an oath here on Barrayar," he said slowly, "would I swear by my name?" Certainly a devalued oath, in that case.

"No," sighed the Countess, "that's a Vor habit. A male Vor habit, in fact." She smiled ironically. "If you think you're going to stay, even for a short time, I believe you'll need a crash course in Barrayaran society and culture. 'Crash' meaning full impact, in this case, rather than speedy. Hmm... I wonder if Miles would be the ideal person for that job? Better than me or Mark, certainly." She seemed to hesitate, now, the first time he had observed that in her, before she asked, "Will you stay?"

He met her eyes again, for scant seconds, before he bowed his head. It was a gesture that in a more demonstrative man would have been expressed by throwing himself at the Countess's feet, and probably kissing them in a quite ridiculous fashion: a gesture of respect and immense gratitude, but not -- yet -- one of submission. He did know, somehow, that this was a moment of final choice, and that if he said "yes" now, he would never be whisked away to Bristol or Hogwarts or wherever he was otherwise destined to return; he would remain here in this world, with the loss of all he had left behind, good and evil, and all the influences of his old life waning. A sudden thought struck him, and, oblivious of what the Countess might think, he hastily unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt sleeve, and pulled it up. The Dark Mark had gone dormant once again, colourless and invisible to all but the knowing eye, but it was still there. Would it disappear for good, if he made the choice to remain? Could he be as though reborn, starting life over at forty-one? I am still what my life has made me, he thought, slowly rebuttoning the cuff, forever a wizard, forever a Death Eater, forever oath-sworn to Dumbledore.But, like the Count, I could be more. Here, I could be more without trying. At home, it will be... more difficult.

"No, milady," he said, head still bowed, "I don't think I will."

"I'm sorry," said the Countess quietly. And now he did go down on his knees beside her chair, and looked up at her, hoping that the reasons for his decision showed in his face, accustomed as it was to hiding secrets. It was this vision of the supplicatory and reverent knight kneeling by his lady that stopped the Count in his tracks as he entered the room, wearing the same old clothes he had donned earlier, even more rumpled now, and yawning. They made a whimsical trio of masqueraders, Snape thought, as he rose hurriedly to his feet, brushing off the knees of his trousers: the Betan Countess, regal in her Barrayaran fancy dress; the Count in mufti, pretending not to be a soldier; and Snape himself, disguised as the thing he had once most despised.

"Cordelia," reprimanded the Count, "have you been exercising your powers of persuasion again? Our guest looks quite bewildered."

"He's not staying, Aral," the Countess told him, almost plaintively.

"Of course not," replied the Count, as if the culmination of Snape's hard-fought battle had been obvious from the start. "The man has a mission to complete. Perhaps he'll come back some day, or visit us on Sergyar. Right, Professor?"

How... comforting, thought Snape, not certain whether he meant for himself or for the Countess, and said nothing. The Count went on, looking at him curiously, "I hope my wife hasn't turned your head completely inside out. They train them in that from the cradle on Beta, you know. Terrifying place."

"I'll avoid it, then," answered Snape, not thinking, then swore to himself as the Countess turned slowly in his direction, an appreciative smile starting to play about her mouth.

"Now I could have sworn..." she started, then closed her lips firmly. After a moment, she added, "I think I'm going to have a long talk with Mark, quite soon."

Poor Mark. But I expect he's used to it. In fact, now that he considered it, Mark's conversational technique bore a strong likeness to his mother's, absent the doting feline air and with a devil-may-care edginess added in. It was certainly clear where Mark's powers of deduction came from.

The Count chuckled. "So you didn't manage to unearth all his secrets, eh, Cordelia?" he said, taking a chair. "That was quite a picture I walked in on, though. I thought for a second it was Sergeant Bothari all over again." Looking rather startled, the Countess glanced quickly at her husband, then back at Snape, examining him afresh. "Didn't you notice the resemblance, then? Even beyond the nose, I mean. Some of that same ability to reflect your expectations back at you. And your expectations, my dear Captain, are always very high." He smiled indulgently at her. "But I'm sure Professor Snape has far more intelligence and independence than the Sergeant ever did, poor man, and he does seem to know his own mind. As much as any of us do."

Snape, feeling rather resentful of this comparison to an unknown unfortunate, retreated once again to his place by the fireplace. If he was to be discussed and dissected, he would rather it be behind his back than to his face; he turned away from the Count and Countess, leaned casually on the mantel, and examined the carving once again. The detail was really quite impressive: individual leaves were clear on the maple trees, as well as the veins on the larger leaves; and the artist had evidently been intimately familiar with the anatomy of the horse. Art critic, there's another job for you. He wished he had some Floo powder handy.

The Count cleared his throat. "I do apologise, Professor. I couldn't quite resist scoring a point there, as Cordelia is usually the winner in that sort of game, but it was unfair of me to use you as a playing piece. The Sergeant was a man of extraordinary loyalty and bravery, and we grew to appreciate him even for his more... unusual characteristics." Snape nodded in acknowledgement, and there was a minute of silence before the Count spoke again. "Do you have any idea what your next move is? You're welcome to stay here until you're ready to depart, of course."

"I told him we'd set things right with General Allegre," put in the Countess.

"I don't think that will be difficult," said the Count. "Although we still have no clue how all this happened with Simon. Did he say anything about it?"

"Not while I was there," the Countess replied. "He was still pretty vague. I don't think he remembers much of the time before he arrived at the hospital; he said something about 'stopped for a drink' but not with whom. Mark may have a better idea, when he arrives."

The Count frowned. "I still can't imagine why Simon would have swallowed something suspicious like that; he can't have had it tested first or he'd never have done it. Do you recall what you said to him and the Lieutenant under questioning, Professor, about the poisons?"

Snape turned again, reluctantly; but before he could focus his thoughts on the query, the Countess broke in. "Please sit down, Professor. In a chair. If this is my last opportunity to treat you as a guest, I can't have you standing all the time. Please."

I hear and obey, O Countess, thought Snape, an incongruous memory of the old days in Dumbledore's office crossing his mind as he moved to the small sofa and took a seat. He had never felt so welcome anywhere else; he nearly expected Fawkes to fly to his shoulder and cry healing tears onto his aching neck, and the fat little teapot to waddle over and pour him a cup. He missed that teapot. The lump in his throat was distracting him from the task at hand, however; he swallowed, took a deep breath, and concentrated.

"Cecil asked me about the phials," he said finally, "but that was before I was under fast-penta, and I... didn't tell him anything." The Count grinned. "After they gave me the drug..." He thought for a moment longer. "They never asked me. Cecil tried to find out where I was from" -- and he must have been utterly confused by the answers -- "and then he asked whether I was a spy or an assassin" -- and about the Dark Mark, but let's not get into that -- "and then Illyan asked me a lot of questions about Mark, but that was all." How... odd.

"And no one asked the doctor to test what was in the bottles?" enquired the Count.

"No," said Snape.

"Did you see Simon take the bottles away with him?" the Countess asked.

"He was still there when I left," said Snape, trying to recall exactly what had happened. Mark swearing to keep him out of Cecil's hair, Cecil's reluctant dismissal, his release: he had stood up, a little dizzy and nauseated, with his neck and shoulders throbbing and his wrist still sore where Cecil had grabbed it. Illyan had just been... sitting there. Cecil was the only one who had moved. He had handed Snape his wallet and the Muggle coins, and...

"Cecil put the bottles into his pocket," he said.

"His pocket?" echoed the Count. "Not exactly policy, but... well, perhaps he gave them to Simon later on."

Snape shook his head, but did not speak. He was remembering Cecil's confident voice as he examined the phials: "Curious. And damning." The loss of that confidence when Illyan had entered the room, the looks of resentment directed at Illyan, the desperate attempt to retake control of the interrogation after the name of Vorkosigan was mentioned, the sigh of... relief?... when Mark had agreed to take responsibility for Snape: what it all added up to he wasn't certain, but it was something disturbing. Still, resentment of interference by a former superior was hardly a motive... at least not for anyone who didn't have the morals of a Death Eater.

He couldn't think, sitting here on this formal piece of furniture, being stared at like a hippogriff who'd landed in the middle of someone's dinner party. The best thing would be to go back down to that laboratory, and mix up a batch of Wit-Sharpening Potion (no armadillos on Barrayar, though, he suspected); the second-best thing was... He slipped out of his seat, willing himself invisible, or at least inconspicuous, but knowing that he was, for now, the best show in the room; feeling two pairs of grey eyes on him, he began to pace up and down, keeping away from the fireplace this time.

There was a sound at the door, and Pym entered the library; he glanced Snape's way for an instant, and then, the imperturbable servant, moved toward the tea table to clear the plates, the cheese, the wine-glasses and decanter. Out of the corner of his eye, Snape could see him neatly pile everything together on a tray and, balancing the load on his arm, make his way toward the door. There must have been a wrinkle in the carpet, because the impossible happened: Pym tripped, staggering and tipping the tray; the wine-glass with the beautiful snake took a little hop and toppled toward the floor.

Without thinking of anything but secrets in flame and two hundred years of history smashed into fragments of red crystal, Snape made the instinctive move to save the glass, reaching for his still-missing wand, the first syllable of "Vasardium leviosa!" on his lips: a fruitless gesture, especially since the glass righted itself through some deft movement on Pym's part, but one designed to draw the attention of everyone in the room. Embarrassed, he turned away. Seeking a distraction, his eye was caught by the vase of roses the Countess had brought: the same roses, perhaps, that had scented the Emperor's garden just this afternoon. It seemed like days ago. He bent down to smell the blooms; yes, they were the same. Carefully separating one of the flowers, on its short stem, from a main branch, he pulled it loose; and after sucking a drop of blood from a wounded finger, stripped the thorns from the stem, thinking to present it to the Countess, perhaps as an unspoken apology for being so completely worthless. He looked up, and Pym was watching him. Mystifyingly but unmistakably, the Armsman made a motion with his free hand toward his trouser pocket, as though he were tucking something into it. Snape stared at him blankly; then looked at the rose in his hand, and, shrugging, slipped it into his pocket, not knowing why.

At that moment, there was a chiming noise from the front hall. Pym put the tray down on a table, and moved through the antechamber and into the hall, going to the front doors; he opened them and exclaimed, "My Lord Mark! You --" and then his voice died away, to be replaced a second later by a shout of alarm. Both the Count and the Countess sprang to their feet at the unprecedented cry from Pym, and they rushed through the antechamber, followed shortly by Snape. What he saw, when he reached the edge of the hall, confirmed his worst fears.

Lieutenant Cecil was standing on the black-and-white tile just inside the front doors, his ice-blue eyes flashing; one arm was tight around Mark's neck, and the other hand pressed a weapon with a bell-shaped muzzle to Mark's head. His lip twitched when he saw the Count and Countess.

"Don't come any closer," he said, "or I'll fry the mutant's brains."