Without Enchantment

Chapter Five

And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all.

Mark sighed loudly, although in a way that involved the minimum of movement. "I'm not a mutant, Cecil, you idiot. I'm a clone. Can't you get that straight?" He looked in his parents' direction. "I don't think he's serious, though I wouldn't... take any chances, if I were you. He seems to want to frame me for something, so he can't really want me dead. But he's very twitchy at the moment."

Cecil laughed. "I don't really care whether you end up dead or not. It serves my purposes, either way." He sounded irritatingly confident.

"Let my son go now, Cecil," the Count growled, taking two steps forward. "What in hell do you think you're doing?"

"Setting things right, my lord Count. That's all." Cecil tightened his hold on Mark's neck and moved back across the hall, keeping an eye on Pym, who seemed to be calculating angles of fire in his head. "I want Snape," he said. "Give him to me, and you can have the clone back. I'll even make sure he's not charged with treason or murder; only Snape will die for that."

"What treason?" exclaimed the Count. "What murder? Simon is fully recovered. Are you framing the man for a crime that hasn't been committed yet?"

"Simon Illyan was a... test case, of sorts," answered Cecil, "although he may still need to be eliminated, if he is less mentally damaged than I thought. But tomorrow's breakfast at the Residence -- the food for which I understand Lord Mark was instrumental in arranging -- will unfortunately result in the death of the Komarran Empress-to-be, or rather not-to-be, as well as an unpleasant but curable gastric illness for Emperor Gregor. Caused, naturally, by those nasty poisons Snape carried into the South Garden this afternoon. Of course I will swear I gave him back his property after the interrogation concluded and he was released into Lord Mark's custody. And he will appear to have had the means and opportunity to administer the poisons; how exactly I arrange that will depend on how things go here tonight."

I've seldom felt so... sought after, Snape thought dryly, half-hidden in the antechamber. So this was how it was going to end. He let his mind wander, contemplating death, fate, and the surprising bond he had formed to the Count and Countess in one day, listening with only half his attention to their gallant challenges and Cecil's smug replies, interspersed with sarcastic, brave rejoinders from Mark. Cecil, he gathered, was only one of several operatives in this conspiracy, and had used his status with ImpSec to create a plausible assassination plot with Mark the supposed mastermind. Snape's unexpected appearance had provided Cecil with an even better scapegoat, one who came equipped with his own unique and traceable weapons, and who was tied in a suspicious fashion to Mark, who did, Snape admitted, project a rather subversive aura. Even if Mark were not charged with any crime, his relationship to Snape might very well serve to keep his mouth and those of his parents firmly closed about Cecil's covert activities, assuming they survived the night. Cecil was planning the immobilisation of the entire family until his scheme was carried out, and seemed to be willing to go further, since he already anticipated the arrest of a murderer.

It is not a good thing for any Vorkosigan to be involved, however peripherally, in what could be seen as a plot against the Imperium. The Count's words of the afternoon still held little meaning for Snape, but he had no doubt of their importance to their speaker. Appearances could, indeed, be very deceiving. Cecil, petty and short-sighted as any Death Eater Snape had known, was now swearing up and down to be a loyal subject of his Emperor, and to have only his best interests in mind in planning the death of his fiancée, whom Cecil referred to as "the dangerous Komarran influence." The Barrayaran Empire was inconsequential to Snape except as the focus of Aral Vorkosigan's undying loyalty, and he could not tell whether this conspiracy had the potential to bring down the Vorkosigan family, or whether Cecil was himself heading toward self-destruction; but he was furious at the thought of the Imperial couple's sun-drenched idyll smashed to ruins, especially by someone so convinced of his own beneficence.

"The woman has beguiled the Emperor," Cecil was declaiming now, "and she is a threat to the purity of the Imperial line. She must be removed."

"Oh, wonderful," said Mark, his voice a little too high-pitched. "An anti-Komarran plot this time; how refreshing. Cecil, you're insane."

"Mark," warned his father, and Mark subsided. "Lieutenant," the Count told Cecil, "I hate to see your career end like this. I knew your uncle well, from his days at the Academy, and your parents; I know they would never have wanted to see you give up on such promise, and turn to this ludicrous plotting. I can only think that you have come under some very persuasive influences, who have turned you in the wrong direction; you are, you know, working directly against the Emperor's will in this matter."

It was useless. If Cecil's hands had not been otherwise occupied, his fingers would have been in his ears. "Enough talking," he almost shrieked. "Give me Snape now, or Lord Mark dies, and then the rest of you! Now!"

The Countess reached for her husband's hand, then half-turned and looked back at Snape. Her face was bleak but determined, and told Snape all he needed to know: no matter how much she wished to save him, she could not let her son's life be destroyed in exchange for his. But he was thankful, at least, that she appeared to be desperately unhappy about the choice. He met her eyes, and nodded, and she turned away again, apparently satisfied. He thought that perhaps if he went to Cecil peacefully, once they had left the house he could attempt an escape; if he were killed, at least Cecil would no longer have his scapegoat. But he seemed to have a ready-made substitute in Mark. It was unlikely that sacrificing himself would gain the Vorkosigans anything, in the long term. Alternatively, he could try to overpower Cecil here in the hall, or at least distract him enough to allow Pym an opportunity to attack; again, he would probably be killed, but there was a slightly greater chance for victory -- and also a far greater chance that the Count and Countess would die as well.

You're thinking like a Muggle. Think like a wizard instead. He wasn't sure where the whisper came from, but in the blankness of a moment completely devoid of inspiration it filled his brain with a conviction of truth: there was a way out of this. If his wand had been within reach, the solution would have been child's play; any one of a number of curses would have disabled Cecil long enough for Pym to act, and at this point he was not above using Imperius or (tempting thought) Cruciatus on this scum, although he drew the line at AvadaKedavra. Revealing his magic to the Count and Countess suddenly mattered far less than it had; he suspected that, given a few days more here, the Countess would have talked it out of him anyway. But all this was irrelevant, as he had no wand; and potions were absurdly useless in this case. And that was the limit of his skills, unless... perhaps. I have nothing to lose, after all.

Without a wand carried on the person to focus magical energies, Apparition was decidedly not recommended; if it worked at all, it frequently led to splinching even in the skilful, or potentially to death, not that it didn't come to the same thing if no help arrived promptly. But it had been done. And if one could find a substitute for the wand, something else to serve as a focus... Snape reached into his pocket, pulled out the white rose and held the stem clutched in his hand. He melted further back into the antechamber, so that his departure should go unobserved -- Cecil was distracted enough by his own oratory not to notice the movement -- and caught sight of himself in an ornate mirror that hung on one wall of the room. A pale, drawn face looked out, beckoning him into looking-glass land. You look terrified, he thought to his reflection. Not to mention ridiculous.The soul's true face. Firmly, he turned away from the image.

Now, what destination to try for? The room immediately across the hall might be best, but he was afraid that Pym would react to seeing him materialise there -- the man was standing there ashen-faced, seeming uncharacteristically ill at ease -- and reveal his presence to Cecil before he was ready to act. He could not remember the next chamber well enough for effective visualisation; but the grand dining hall was still clear in his memory, and might, when reached, provide a source of appropriate weaponry.

The Count was clearing his throat in preparation for what looked like a last-ditch attempt at negotiation. He had to go now. If he splinched himself, at least that might provide a distraction Pym could take advantage of... if the poor man didn't throw up first. Snape concentrated, pictured the dining room in his mind, with its glittering chandeliers, polished rich wood and fine carpets, held the rose tightly in his hand...

It was a glorious moment. In the seconds it took Cecil to fall to the floor, his arms dropping away from Mark, Snape had time to realise just why it was that Muggles went at each other with swords and fists and heavy blunt objects: it was so damned satisfying. He had used the Unforgivable Curses on people, when a Death Eater, as well as many others of varying degrees of viciousness, before and since; but hurting people with the intervention of a wand lacked this kind of gratifying immediacy. He didn't care whether he'd killed Cecil or not; he was revelling in the sheer physical power of the blow, and even in the pain starting up in his arms and hands as a result of it. Every repressed emotion of the day -- anger, fear, frustration, self-disgust, even the dull ache of insufficiency and impotence -- had found its way into that one violent act. As the cloak of civilisation began to fall about him again, a very thin covering indeed, he recognised, too, that in striking at Cecil he had found a way to attack the most hated part of himself, what still remained of the proud and angry young man who had made such devastating, life-changing decisions years ago, and who had only been saved from them by an act of tremendous generosity. It was no virtue to feel so euphoric over a descent into savagery; yet the blow, reflective as it was of his worst characteristics, had also gone some way towards redeeming him.

He looked up from Cecil's still form on the floor, and saw four people staring at him: Pym, with relief and a little envy; the Count, with a bewildered, manic grin; the Countess, with an open pride that provoked an involuntary smile from him in return; and Mark, just rising from where he'd thrown himself clear of Cecil's fall, with his customary smirk incompletely masking his gratitude. Mark advanced toward him and held out his hand; Snape shook it.

"Well," said Mark, letting go, "I must say it's a good thing I'm so much shorter than Cecil. That was... unsubtle, to say the least. But ingenious." He lowered his voice. "You're going to have to explain how you did that, later. I'm very curious."

The Countess came sailing over then, and Snape was dreadfully afraid she was planning to embrace him; but she read his signals in ample time to halt and offer her hand instead. Snape took it, and raised it to his lips. "Milady," he said. Her eyes were shining.

The Count had followed his wife. "I believe that now I can say 'thank you' without reservation," he told Snape, "even if not without mystification," and he became the third to offer Snape a hand to shake; Snape suspected that Pym would have made a fourth if the dignity of his position had not prevented it.

He knew he had to say something before they started asking awkward questions. Turning to the Countess again, he put an apologetic tone into his voice, and said, "I'm sorry about the chair." It was actually in remarkably good condition, considering how hard he'd hit Cecil, but there were more than a few splinters of polished wood on the floor, and no one would be sitting in it for some time.

"That's quite all right," replied the Countess, sounding a little dazed. "I'm sure we can make do with ninety-five of them." She opened her mouth to speak again, and Snape was certain that her first words would be something along the lines of "How did you do that?" But at that second there was the sound of what, from everyone's reaction, must be weapons fire, from outside the front of the house, and then a pounding at the door. Pym, after a brief hesitation, went to identify the newcomers.

He quickly admitted General Allegre, with a squad of ImpSec guards, only two of whom were necessary to carry Cecil away. Snape was actually quite relieved to find that the misguided lieutenant had survived to face his trial. It seemed that after Cecil had offered Mark a lift home, and they had left the hospital together, Simon Illyan had thought to look over his notes on the afternoon's interrogation, and this had stimulated his faulty memory enough to recall how he had gone out for a drink with Cecil before he started feeling ill. Two and two were put together, and Allegre had rushed to Vorkosigan House, but he would almost certainly not have been able to save Mark without Snape's intervention. The ImpSec men had handily disposed of Cecil's associate waiting in the car, who, just as twitchy as his superior, had fired at their approach.

After shaking yet another hand, Snape retreated to the library. He needed desperately to be alone with his thoughts, but was not allowed very much time for contemplation. After explaining what little they knew of Cecil's plot, the Vorkosigans allowed the General to go his way and begin the work of locating the co-conspirators and their tools in the Imperial Residence, and the three of them trooped into the library, leaving Pym to clean up the remains of the chair and the spatters of Cecil's blood that stained the tile. Mark and his father let the Countess precede them into the room, and she alighted on the sofa, still smiling delightedly but evidently far more in control of her emotions now.

"I think you quite enjoyed that," she said to Snape, sounding as if she approved. In retrospect, he didn't feel nearly as happy about the act itself, although the end result had been admirable, but he could not help letting a little of his earlier satisfaction creep into his face as he returned her gaze. "Triumph does pleasant things to your looks, Professor; I hope somebody else gets to see that in you, some day soon. And I think you have little need for worry; I've known monsters in comparison with which you are as harmless as... well, pick your own small, furry creature. Or be a monster, if that helps you get on with the job at hand."

"You are far too kind, milady," he returned dryly, and she laughed.

"Oh, no, I'm not," she said. "Monsters have their place, to counter other monsters; and sometimes an act of brutality is exactly what is necessary. I've been there; I know."

The Count slid into his place next to her, and put a hand possessively on her knee. "Shopping, anyone?" he said, perplexingly, and the Countess grinned at him. Snape rediscovered the same feeling he'd had earlier in the day, a desire to uncover more about this family and their exploits. He'd sat dully through History of Magic classes droned by both the living and the ghostly Professor Binns, rousing himself only for the sporadic mentions of Salazar Slytherin (whose rantings now bored him nearly as much as Voldemort's) and various heroes of the Dark; but he felt that a History of the Vorkosigans class might be quite worthwhile. Alas, his education seemed unlikely to prosper in that direction.

Mark cleared his throat. "Well, I don't know about all of you," he said, "but I could use something to eat."

"An excellent plan," said his father, "and perhaps a drink as well." He rose and went to the doorway. "Oh, Pym?"

* * * * *

Snape surprised himself by finding he'd developed quite an appetite, although it would have taken someone far more abstemious to have resisted the "few things" Ma Kosti had "left out just in case," as Pym put it. The Countess looked approvingly at every mouthful he took. He said very little, but felt strangely comfortable in the company of the Vorkosigans, accepted and accepting. No one asked any questions about his magical transit through several wings of the house, although Mark appeared to be suppressing his curiosity with some difficulty.

They sat at an inlaid wooden table in a small, informal dining area, the windows overlooking a spotlighted garden full of flowers, some with petals closed against the darkness and some maintaining a brave vigil of openness. The house had a seemingly never-ending store of these pockets of beauty: Snape was still trying to grow used to the atmosphere of casual opulence. Accustomed as he was to calling an equally splendid and even more improbable residence home, he did of course share it with hundreds of others, and felt it more of a refuge than a privilege. And despite the years of being served his meals and having most of his material whims catered to, there were still days when he half-lived in the memory of his hardscrabble childhood, in which nothing had come easily except the acquisition of knowledge. About that he had been greedy and ruthless, caring little for the nature of what he learned. You could get more crusts with a curse than a charm, anyway, and more than that if you did it well. Beauty had been an irrelevant luxury: something he had not discovered and learned to hunger for until many years later, although it had been present all about him at Hogwarts; it was easy enough to produce with the wave of a wand, and thus seemed simultaneously cheap and achingly expensive, out of his reach. Here, it was under one's fingers every day, real and palpable, made by the labour and love and suffering of hundreds of non-magical people over hundreds of years. Perhaps, though, it was the ability to visualise beauty that mattered more than the means used to produce it. The end result of waving a wand and that of spending hours hunched over a poorly-lit bench could be the same, if the imagination of the creator was the same.

Just as, he thought darkly, the end result of hitting someone over the head with a chair is the same as that of casting him into a magical trance. Not as elegant, perhaps, but just as effective. And more in your line, I think, than artistry.

The Count leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile and patted his stomach. "Where Miles comes by his talent for picking personnel" -- he winked at his wife -- "I have no idea, but I for one am thankful for it. More pear tart, Professor?" Snape declined, not without a twinge of regret. Ma Kosti was a creator of beauty as well, if in one of the more transient fields of art. The Count poured himself a glass of wine, and one for Snape, took a sip, and said, "What I don't understand is how Cecil could have brought himself to this pass. He comes from such a very old family --"

Mark, Snape, and the Countess all broke in simultaneously: "Ha. Doesn't mean --" "That hardly guarantees --" "I wouldn't count on --" They stopped, looked at one another, and laughed; the Countess voiced their joined thoughts. "Family tradition is frequently a low motivating factor in making decisions, love, despite what you've been brought up to think."

"If I were in a disputing mood," the Count said, "I could probably present arguments against you. But I agree that the choice to scheme was his alone. As" -- he raised his glass to Snape -- "it was the Professor's choice to circumvent that scheme. Literally, I gather. It was well done; again, thank you." Mark and the Countess also raised their glasses, and all three Vorkosigans drank to him. Snape felt that he should say something in response, but he could think of nothing. He felt vastly undeserving of such an honour. The driving force behind his dispatch of Cecil had been nothing but a desire to save his own skin. Well, and Mark's. And the future Empress's. And...

Picking up his glass, he silently saluted the family in return, then rose and excused himself, tight-lipped but polite. Mark followed him to the door. "You didn't think you'd escape that tribute, did you?" he said in a quiet voice as they passed into the next room. "Fat chance, if I say so myself. And you're not escaping my questions, either."

"I didn't think I'd live to escape anything, or I might have thought twice," admitted Snape. "As far as your questions go -- I Apparated. We can magically transport--"

"I remember that part," Mark interrupted. "I thought you'd need a wand, though. How did you...?"

Snape thought for a moment. "Trust, I suppose," he said finally. "Or pure panic, perhaps." Or a deeper well-spring of magic than you thought you possessed.

"Ah," said Mark, looking as though things were clearer to him. "Well, I know that one." He stopped and turned to Snape. "On my own behalf... thank you. It was more than my life you saved, you know; I could see the-Count-my-father getting ready to charge that nerve disruptor, along with Pym. Probably my mother, too, for that matter, although I think she was supposed to make the emergency code comconsole call, and alert the guards. And it would have been my Vor duty," he half-sneered, rather unconvincingly, "to fall on my enemy's sword, so to speak." Snape must have shown his disbelief, because Mark continued. "Not for you, you understand. At least not primarily. For Laisa. The Vor culture assumes self-sacrifice for the good of the Imperium, although I think yours was a much more practical move." He bowed, and the gesture had far less irony in it than was typical of him. "At your service, Professor."

Snape nodded his head in reply. "At yours and your family's," he replied, unable to suppress the play-acting tone completely. I believe that is the correct formula. "My lord," he added, and then after a second's pause, "Mark."

Mark laughed. "You're doing very well at fitting in, you know. Sure you don't want to stay for a bit?"

"Quite sure," Snape answered him, trying to keep any reconsideration out of his voice.

He turned to leave, and Mark called, "Where are you going?"

"For now? To the library, I suppose." It seemed as good a retreat as any.

"You're going to walk?" said Mark, mock-stunned, and laughed again. "I wouldn't."

Snape looked back at him with an acknowledging quirk of the lip, and then strode deliberately from the room. He found his way to the entrance hall once more, and then, hearing approaching footsteps, ducked into the library antechamber. Pym crossed the hall, heading for the front doors, and opened them, greeting a new arrival in a pleased voice. "Lord Vorkosigan, I'm glad to see you home. Did you have a pleasant evening? We've had quite a busy one here."

A new voice, but one strikingly like Mark's in its timbre, answered Pym. "Sorry I'm so late. I took Ekaterin home first, of course. What's been going on?"

"I'll let your parents explain, m'lord."

"Oh, are they back? Good."

"Yes, m'lord, and Lord Mark. They're all having a late supper. This way." Pym passed into Snape's view, heading toward the back of the hall, followed by a short man, apparently identical to Mark except in being thinner and in a subtle difference to his carriage; he possessed more of his father's military style. The brother: good, he would keep them occupied for a time.

He moved through the antechamber, and into the library, which was now dark. Automatically, he muttered, "Lumos," and then, when nothing happened, went on sarcastically, "Licht. Lux. Light, how about that," and was briefly astounded when the lights came on, before he realised that this was modern, computerised magic.

He picked up the ancient herbal once more, from its place on the tea table, and retreated to an alcove next to a set of glass doors looking out onto the dark garden. Seated in a large wing chair there, with his glass of wine handy on a table next to him, he felt comfortably invisible and secluded. Turning again to the illustrated roses, he examined the browned flower in the fold of the page, pulling the fresher one out of his pocket to compare. They were quite similar in structure, although it was now impossible to tell what colour the older one had been. This will do, however, as a memento, he thought, tucking the white rose away again in his pocket and turning the page.

More recipes, pictures of cooking pots that greatly resembled his own cauldrons, mortars and pestles and chopping knives and scales: all very home-like, it was. The ingredients pictured were rather prosaic in comparison to what he was used to, however, and it was dull to look at lists and instructions he couldn't read. He flipped through the pages as quickly as respect for their fragility allowed. Rosemary, lavender, ugly Barrayaran plants, asphodel, horseradish, dangerous-looking razor-sharp grass, mandrake root, hops... wait. He turned back one page and stared.

The picture of a mandrake plant showed a rosette of wrinkled leaves being yanked out of the ground, revealing a section of root. It was the forked and often oddly human-looking root that Muggles could see and had used for their own attempts at magic for centuries, not the wailing baby that Snape himself had repotted and watched mature over time; the latter form only presented itself to witches and wizards and other magical beings. It was most decidedly not painted here in this book. But he had thought for a second, as he turned the page... he tried it again, and the baby reappeared, just for a fleeting instant. Trying to fix it in his eye was like grasping at air, and he could not be certain his glimpses were not entirely wishful thinking. He repeated the motion, once, and then again.

A throat-clearing across the room by the doorway made him jump, and then he heard Pym's voice inquire mildly, "Are you in here, sir?" Snape murmured something in reply, and Pym went on, "We've prepared a room for you, sir, which I can show you to, if you're ready to retire to bed."

"What? Oh, thank you... not quite yet..." answered Snape vaguely, continuing to turn the page, backwards and forwards, yearning for the vision of the hideous Mandrake infant as though it were something holy, the grail at the end of a long quest. He forgot Pym's presence entirely, and was quite startled when the man's deep voice sounded next to his right ear.

"Careless of them, wasn't it?" said Pym, sounding as though he were discussing a clumsy scullery maid. "But I don't think they envisioned anyone quite in your situation would see it. Perhaps this will help. Aperio!"

Light flashed on the page, the baby's image grew clear and permanent, and Snape froze, disbelieving. Then Pym's voice muttered an unmistakable translation spell in his ear, and the Cyrillic characters melted, reforming themselves into Roman letters and English phrases. He could see that the recipe was for a familiar Restorative Draught, but he was no longer in the least concerned with the book. Turning to Pym, he looked deeply into amused brown eyes, before dropping his gaze to the man's hand. Pym made an apologetic gesture with the wand he held there, and then tucked it away inside his uniform tunic.

"I'm sorry, sir; I didn't mean to startle you. I'm afraid I couldn't resist the element of surprise, however." Snape continued to stare at him, both dismayed and wildly excited, trying to collect the surmises flying about his brain and form them into something coherent. Pym, who had been able to catch and steady a glass that was already destined for destruction; Pym, who had wordlessly convinced him to pocket the rose with which he had saved Mark's life; Pym, who knew where the comfrey grew; Pym, the Vorkosigans' "magician." Pym, the wizard. It seemed wholly unlikely; and yet, why should he think that his race had died out in the era of space travel, after surviving for millennia on Earth? Why should there not be a entire subculture of magic on Barrayar, as there was in his time and place?

"Are there... many of you here?" he finally choked out. Pym shook his head.

"Very few," he said, rather sadly, "several families I know here in Vorbarr Sultana, some in pockets of various Districts. I suspect that there are more concentrated colonies in the isolated areas; we hear of an entire magical town in the South Continent, but none of us has ever been there to find out for certain. We've lost the skill to Apparate," he said, before Snape could enquire, "which is why I was so surprised -- and of course pleased -- when you accomplished it earlier this evening. And without a wand, too."

"How did you know... oh, of course," said Snape, remembering his attempt to save the glass. He wondered how Pym had felt in that moment, realising. "How do you learn? Are there schools?"

"Nothing of that sort, no. We learn from our parents, or one parent, usually, as most of us marry Muggles. We all have other professions -- I chose the military, and then service as an Armsman -- but we try to take the time to pass down what little we still know. We had our own Time of Isolation, you understand, and Barrayar is still very segregated from other cultures, but we hope for new blood, new skills. A determination to survive is among the things we pass down to our children." He reached down and took the book from Snape's unresisting hands. "We also try to locate what magical artefacts exist, many of them in Muggle households such as this, and preserve them. This," he patted the herbal, "was made by one of my ancestors, and given to the Vorkosigans for safe-keeping, carefully disguised from non-magical eyes. It was one of three, but the others were destroyed in the Cetagandan invasion."

Snape sensed a tremendous loneliness behind Pym's words. He thought of Diagon Alley, and the Leaky Cauldron, and the village of Hogsmeade, and Hogwarts itself: all the places where wizards could gather and feel free to be themselves. Pym must have only snatches of that freedom, stolen evenings, moments alone in the house when he could safely... levitate the dinner dishes. If he had thought his own double life to be one of isolation, it was nothing compared to this. "I could teach you..." he found himself saying.

"I wish you could, sir," answered Pym, "but I can't ask you to stay. I know you have to go back to Earth, back to your own time." Snape tensed as he realised what the words meant. "How did I know?" Pym went on. "You see, I knew you were a wizard before I saw you reach for a wand that wasn't there, before you made the potion. I knew as soon as I heard your name. We may have lost much, but we don't forget our history, and we still have reason to remember the name Severus Snape. And some of us," he said, looking at Snape intently, "have more reason than others."

Snape looked back at him, blankly. "Reasons of descent, sir," said Pym in a level tone. "Your youngest granddaughter married a Pym, and I can trace a direct patrilineal line from her son." He sounded proud, much to Snape's amazement. A very old family. If Pym expected his new-found forebear to fall on his neck, babbling about his great-great-great-et-cetera grandson, he was going to be disappointed; but if this was indeed true, there was something quite... heartening about it. It does at least mean I will survive long enough to... hmm.

He thought back over the evening, and something else occurred to him. "So that was why you looked so sick when you thought Cecil was going to have me killed."

Pym smiled ruefully. "I did rather see myself going up in smoke, sir. And all my history. A moment of weakness, but it's not a thought I've ever had before. Not at all the same thing as facing just one's own death."

"No, I can see that," replied Snape, feeling dizzy. "But... if you didn't know I would succeed in attacking Cecil, why am I even here? Especially since Cecil wouldn't have tried that stunt if I hadn't appeared in the Emperor's garden to begin with."

Pym appeared confused. "I assumed you had your own reasons for being here, sir. I certainly had nothing to do with it -- I wouldn't know how."

"Ah," said Snape. "I'm no better off than I was before, then. I still have no idea how to get back to Earth." And I clearly have a reason to be there.

An odd smile flickered over Pym's face. "Click your heels together three times," he said, with an air of quotation, "and say to yourself, 'There's no place like home.'" Snape stared at him. "Sorry," said Pym, stiffening slightly, "I must be feeling rather light-headed. A bit from a vid I watched with my son Arthur and young Nikki Vorsoisson. Silly thing about witches and wizards, from a Muggle point of view. You should know it; it's from your century."

Snape shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"Well," added Pym, "the principle is not a bad one. You could try wishing very hard. It couldn't hurt."

It seemed to Snape that time had corrupted more than magical competency among Barrayaran wizards. "Even if it worked that way," he said caustically, "I have been. All day."

"Oh?" said Pym. "Have you?" Turning, he moved toward the shelves to return the herbal to its proper place. "I'll tell the Countess you've gone to your room, then, shall I?" He began to fade away in the direction of the door, becoming Pym the impeccable butler once more.

Snape rose and took two steps forward, wanting very badly to call out to him, to ask him not to leave, but he was unable to frame the words. Pym seemed to understand, however, because he turned in the doorway, and said, "I can't tell you anything more, sir; you do understand, don't you? We have to make our own choices in life; we can't know ahead of time what's going to happen to us." He hesitated. "I don't expect to see you again, sir. It was... a pleasure to meet you." He bowed, and left the room.

It was a pleasure to meet you, as well. An odd feeling, to think of oneself as someone's ancestor. But one worth dwelling on for a few additional moments, to see if one still liked the idea... Snape wiped the incipient smile from his lips. He set off on what was meant to be a walking tour of the library, but which took him only as far as the great fireplace. Reaching out to touch one of the carved horses, he remembered how easy it had been to imagine himself a vassal of Aral Vorkosigan, a knight-in-waiting to the Countess Cordelia. I would have done well, I think. But he will do much better.

Standing there by the cold fire, he began to hear a roaring in his ears. Before it overwhelmed him, he just had time to regret not having said good-bye, and then he was hit by a whirlwind that tossed him in a fury of cold, unrelenting squalls, like that immense depth and terror and peace of the waters under the lake at Hogwarts, until it spat him out with a violent thrust into his seat in the train, just pulling into the station at Plymouth in the late afternoon.

His seat companion started convulsively, but then subsided into the typical complacency of Muggles who have just witnessed a magical event and are determined not to believe it. No one else seemed to notice his abrupt arrival. His first thought was for Potter; he darted a glance past the passengers in the rows forward of him, gathering belongings and preparing to exit the train, and saw the tall youth just rising to his feet, brushing strands of black hair over his forehead in the habitual gesture. Snape ducked his head down, both avoiding Potter's sight and achieving his secondary objective, which was to be certain his briefcase was still secure. It appeared to be completely untouched. The Muggle in the seat next to him, tapped him on the shoulder, looking guilty, and handed back his copy of the Times.

He timed his merge into the line in the aisle perfectly, ending up five places behind Potter, and followed him out of the train and into the station. Maintaining his distance, but certain always to keep Potter in view, he trailed him through the building, and out the front doors, where Potter turned left and headed down the street. The boy was looking out for himself, Snape had to admit; in fact, he had to keep alert to prevent being spotted. He wondered for the first time why he had been placed back in the train at the end of his journey, rather than outside Bristol where he had left it. Perhaps the sheep could be left to stray a bit, for their own well-being. He didn't think he could have finished the crossword, anyway.

Potter reached a tiny churchyard, where he stopped and glanced about -- Snape slid behind a tree -- and then rushed forward as an enormous black dog sauntered out from the shadow of a monument. "Snuffles!" he called happily, laughing, and patted the dog on the head. It was admirably done; there was nothing in Potter's behaviour to indicate that the dog was anything but a mislaid family pet. In fact, Potter was now even digging into his rucksack to produce... yes, a collar and lead. As Snape leaned out from the tree's shelter to glimpse this charming scene, his movement caught the dog's attuned vision, and all the hair rose along its neck as it stared in his direction, their eyes meeting in instinctive enmity. For an instant, the dog's teeth showed in a snarl, and then it seemed to reconsider; butting Potter's hands away as the boy started to slide the collar over its head, it turned once in a complete circle, taking in its surroundings. Finding no one in the vicinity, the dog transformed itself into a thin man with longish black hair, who instantly wrapped an arm around Potter, standing ready with his rucksack in hand. Sirius Black shot a challenging look in Snape's direction, and then Disapparated, taking Potter with him.

They also serve who only stand and growl, thought Snape, as he took his last look around the streets of Plymouth, empty of Death Eaters, Muggles, and wild geese. Opening his briefcase, he took out his wand -- thirteen inches, black walnut and dragon heartstring -- and fitted it into the curve of his right hand. First stop, the Leaky Cauldron, he said to himself, valiantly resisting the temptation to click his heels together, and Disapparated.

* * * * *

Forty-five minutes later, properly attired in black robes and divested of his Muggle paraphernalia, he entered the Hogwarts gates and began his journey across the grounds, where the heather had just come into bloom. The lake glimmered in the setting sun; the blue-edged clouds reflected and filtered the pinks and oranges of the sunset, lending them a refinement and subtlety that gave the scene an almost mystical air. Beauty... Snape took out his wand, and, standing in a more formal pose than he had used for spell-casting since the day he passed his N.E.W.T.s, his shoulders squared and his chin lifted defiantly, called out, "Aranea luminosa!" and watched as a tremendous spider's-web of blue light shot out, spreading over the water and then settling down slowly like the dying embers of a fireworks display. Several lazy tentacles waved from the middle of the lake; the giant squid, his only audience, had evidently enjoyed the spectacle.

Try not to be so self-indulgent in the future, Mr Snape, he told himself acidly, as the last blue sparks vanished into the lucent waters. From now on, he would reserve the use of his regained wand for more productive purposes, but the spell had been gratifying while it lasted. Tucking the wand away again in his robes, his hand brushed against the inner pocket near his heart where he had stowed the white rose after removing his Muggle trousers, and he drew it out and looked at it.

It was already beginning to fade, its scent nearly gone and its petals crushed and torn from rough handling. He could simply throw it away, and the memories of the day would slowly fade as though they were rose petals, and the future would come about all the same, although it might not follow exactly the same pattern. But really, his decision had been made back in the library, looking into Pym's eyes. It occurred to him now that he didn't even know the man's first name. He drew out his wand again, and tapped the flower, whispering, "Conservo." A gift for the future. It won't last forever, but a few hundred years ought to be sufficient. Slipping both the rose and the wand back into his pocket, he began to make his way slowly up the hill, toward home.

THE END

Ten points to anyone who can spot the fictional origin of the wine glasses in chapter three.

Dumbledore's waddling teapot (and much more) belongs to R.J. Anderson. Susan Hall inspired Mark's tour of Vorbarr Sultana, and I do wish I could have included the whole itinerary. The train in the tunnel is for Cally -- don't lose your ticket. The white rose is for Helen.

The moment completely devoid of inspiration is courtesy of Noel Coward and Alan Rickman.

Stay tuned.