The Serpentine Chain Part 1 - Year Of The Snake

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Ten -- Testing the Waters

The Three Broomsticks was crowded, warm and full of smoke. Quintus Snape, Christopher Cale and Matthew Seraphim were sitting at a small table by the fireplace, right at the back of the room. Seraphim had suggested the trip as a means to cheering Christopher up - although Quintus wasn't particularly fond of the head of Gryffindor, he'd agreed to go along for his friend's sake. Although it was very close to Halloween, it wasn't an official Hogsmeade weekend. Only seventh year students were allowed out, and he'd seen quite a few on the way to the inn, earlier. In varying states of intoxication, too, he'd noted. Gilly Grey, the landlady and sister of the Head of Ravenclaw -- a fact that various opportunistic Ravenclaws were eager to exploit -- smiled at the teachers cheerfully as she served a bunch of surly looking trolls at the bar. Not much of a family resemblance, Quintus thought, as he did every time he was in the tiny inn. Lydia Grey was serious minded, scholarly and intense -- the stereotypical Ravenclaw -- but Gilly was extroverted, very talkative, and exceedingly generous with the vodka after closing time. The last was a quality that Quintus Snape personally appreciated, even if it meant putting up with an assault on his ears for several hours.

"Shall I get the drinks?" he asked as he stood up. "The usual?"

The head of Gryffindor nodded, but Christopher shook his head. "Smirnoff," he said, and, in response to Quintus' raised eyebrow, "I haven't been properly drunk for ages and the urge is upon me."

Quintus headed to the bar, jingling the coins in his hand. Whilst Gilly whittered on about some incident involving a hag, a banshee and a really frightened werewolf, his thoughts were elsewhere. It had only taken a few gentle prompts from him to get Christopher talking some days earlier -- in the quiet, undemanding atmosphere of his office, he'd told the Potions master about the letter from the Ministry, about how he'd left the letter unopened for over a day not daring to open it, about his brother who'd been declared missing in action, about the long letter he'd written to his parents and then ripped up, about their total incomprehension of what John's job had actually entailed --

Wordlessly, Quintus had passed him a cup of Yorkshire tea, and Cale had wrapped both his hands around it, watching the steam drift upwards. He looked exhausted, and the Potions master toyed with the idea of offering him a Sleeping Draught.

"I didn't sleep last night," Christopher had confessed when asked, but rejected Quintus' offer apologetically, claiming that a cup of hot milk and cinnamon would do the trick.

"A Muggle substitute for the Sleeping Draught?" Quintus asked, smiling. "Something I should know about?"

Christopher shrugged, sipping his tea. "I just like milk," he said, wincing as the hot liquid scalded his tongue. There was a vagueness in his eyes that worried the Potions master, but he was unsure of what to do about it. Quintus had had little experience in dealing with emotions, intense or otherwise -- he dealt with people on an intellectual basis. But there wasn't anything intellectual about death.

As he'd watched his friend drink, Quintus had been uncomfortably aware of an awkward thought at the back of his mind. According to Christopher, John Cale had been working undercover in Northern Europe for several months before his "disappearance" a fortnight ago. Quintus wasn't sure, but it was possible -- probable, even -- that John Cale had been one of the three dead Aurors who'd been discovered in Belgium. The details of what had happened to the dead Aurors were classified information - Quintus hadn't expected the Ministry to tell even the close relatives of the victims what had happened, the effects of the Nox Mirabilis being rather unpleasant. He would make inquiries; to find out whether John Cale had indeed been one of the unlucky Aurors, but whether or not he would tell Christopher was another matter. Perhaps he'd be better off not knowing, Quintus had thought, looking at his friend's drawn face. No comfort to grieving families, he thought. Although his own memories of John Cale weren't especially fond -- he'd found Christopher's brother annoyingly overwhelming at times -- it wasn't a death he would have wished on him. Or anyone, he thought, remembering the batch of the selfsame potion he'd recently brewed with Aurelius. Not for the first time, he wondered whether his cousin's apparent indifference was truly feigned. He could never tell, with Aurelius. He'd never been very close to his cousin, and getting a straight answer out of him, without evasions, would be well nigh impossible. Something Quintus regretted. But nothing he could do about it, now.

Returning to the present, he paid for the drinks and returned to their table, skillfully extricating himself from the clutches of an over friendly hag as he did so. Christopher was staring into the fire, apparently lost in thought, and didn't look up when Quintus placed his drink before him. He exchanged glances with Seraphim, who shrugged helplessly.

"Gilly's put the prices up," Snape said conversationally, when it became apparent that Christopher wasn't going to snap out of his thoughts any time soon. Christopher didn't respond, so he added "Blamed it on the war," for good measure.

The mention of the war was enough to drag the Chantwork teacher's eyes away from the quietly crackling flames. Cale visibly roused himself, and turned to his friends. "Oh," he said.

It was better than nothing, Quintus supposed. He was watching his friend closely. "It's not just alcohol either -- the prices for some of the most basic potions ingredients have skyrocketed. Armando Dippet almost had a heart attack when I told him we'd have to rearrange the budget."

This drew another "Oh" from Christopher, who, noticing his glass, drained it swiftly, in one. Then he coughed, his face contorted in disgust. "I always forget how revolting this stuff is."

"An acquired taste, I think," Quintus mused.

"And you've never been much of a drinker," Matthew Seraphim pointed out.

This drew a smile from Cale. "You can say that again," he said wryly. "I still have very painful memories of our last year."

Quintus snickered. "So you should," he said. "Lightweight."

"I was a good child," Christopher said, smiling into his empty glass. "You were an alkie."

The Potions master feigned affront. "I grew up surrounded by most potent substances, I'll have you know -- and unlike some, I never passed out after a glass and a half of cheap red wine."

"Two glasses," Christopher corrected him. "And I didn't pass out. I just had to rest my eyes for a while."

"I've heard better excuses from my first years," the Potions master smirked.

Matthew Seraphim grinned. "There is one good point about your complete inability to handle alcohol."

"I'm a cheap night out, I know," Christopher said. His smile had gone. "Three more of these and you two'll have to carry me back to Hogwarts."

"I'm not as young as I used to be," Seraphim protested, trying to lighten his friend's mood somewhat. "My ageing muscles can't take your weight like they used to."

Christopher shook his head. "Your muscles couldn't take the weight of a Cleansweep Thirty, let alone mine, you limp-wristed liberal," he said, imitating Octavius Malfoy's sneering manner.

He'd seen it often enough to do a good job of it, too

, Quintus thought. Although he himself was on fairly good terms with the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, who'd taught both him and Christopher during their last year at Hogwarts, he grinned. "Limp-wristed liberal?" he asked, curiously.

"Oh," Matthew replied. "Christopher and I were talking about the child who was expelled from the Zurich Institute last year -- and Malfoy overheard." His voice was decidedly bitter as he mentioned the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher.

"Last year -- that'd be the child who got bitten by a werewolf?" Quintus said. "The year before she was due to graduate?"

Christopher nodded. "She was expelled as soon as the Institute Governors found out," he said. "Malfoy -- I can't think of him as Octavius -- wasn't impressed with us for saying it was unfair treatment."

Quintus eyed his friend closely. "Werewolves are Dark creatures," he pointed out.

"They could've arranged something," Seraphim interjected. "So she wouldn't have to leave school without qualifications."

The Potions master shrugged, suppressing a brief flicker of irritation. "Not many people want their children studying with werewolves," he said. "I can see Octavius' point."

"After the things he's supposed to have got up to, though, it's a bit hypocritical --"

"What do you mean?" Quintus said sharply.

"He didn't exactly keep the best company himself when he was younger," Seraphim said sanctimoniously. "Werewolves were probably the least sordid of the creatures he mixed with."

Quintus smiled knowingly. "Oh," he said, "I take it you've heard about his experiences at the Dark Side of the Moon?"

Based in Knockturn Alley, the Dark Side of the Moon inn was run by a pair of Veela who'd moved to England in the 1920s. It aimed to teach customers the finer techniques of the arts of love. Apart from the Veela and various well trained witches and wizards, there were several vampires working there as well. There'd been some controversy a while back over the validity of their work visas -- but illegal or no, Transylvanian immigrants had certainly ensured high profile publicity. The Minister of Magic's wife, Cupid Copernicus, was rumoured to be one of the inn's patrons -- something that had had the weekly magazines filled with wild speculation regarding the Minister's sex life. Although Quintus hadn't been himself, he'd heard glowing reports of it from Amelia Bloom and the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, Terry Boot, of all people. And the state of their sex life really wasn't something he wanted to picture. But it had been Heathcliffe Lockhart who'd shed the light on that area of Octavius' life last year, during a very drunken staff night out at the Hog's Head last Christmas -- something that most definitely did not endear him to the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. In fact, Octavius had threatened to sever a vital part of Lockhart's anatomy with a rusty spoon if he even so much as breathed in his direction again. The then Divination teacher had suddenly remembered a prior engagement with his crystal balls, and had escaped back to the castle.

"We may have heard something mentioned along those lines," Cale said, as he carefully tore a beer mat into neat squares. The absentmindedness of a few minutes earlier had been replaced with intense amusement. "I'd never have thought he had it in him, myself."

"You innocent soul -- Octavius is quite the lady-killer, apparently," the Potions master said, amused. "Last of the famous international playboys, and all that."

"You can't kill the undead," Seraphim said, his mind obviously on the inn's Transylvanian concubines. "Unless you stake them."

"Well, he certainly staked them well and good," Quintus said, his lip curling. "Or so they say. I've never asked him about it myself, and I wouldn't recommend it." Unless you want hexing so hard that you can never sit on a broomstick again, he added mentally.

"You think Malfoy's sex life interests me that much?" Seraphim scowled.

Christopher grimaced. "I've seen him tetchy often enough," he said ruefully. "I don't care to repeat the experience if I can help it."

"Then change the subject," the Potions master said, looking towards the door of the inn, through which the object of their discussion had just entered, along with Elspeth Haven. "And one of you can get the drinks in whilst you're at it."

"They've been very close recently," Seraphim pondered aloud. There was a curiously intent look on his face. "They were at school together, too."

"Before our time," Christopher said dismissively. He and Quintus were the youngest members of staff on the Hogwarts faculty -- Octavius Malfoy and Elspeth Haven had graduated before the two Ravenclaws had even turned ten. "I'll get this round," he added, getting up.

Quintus watched as his friend made his way over to the bar. He wasn't especially delighted at being left alone with Matthew Seraphim -- small talk and Quidditch were two things that he'd never fully mastered. Two things he'd never wanted to master, either. He'd never been able to stand heights and had still been barely been able to stay on his broom when he'd finished his NEWTs. Unlike Quintus, the Muggle-born Christopher had been very good at flying. He'd been the Ravenclaw Seeker for several years, and had been partly responsible for their House winning the Quidditch Cup for three years in a row. To the annoyance of both Slytherin and Gryffindor, of course. They were the two Houses that took Quidditch personally -- for Ravenclaws, the sport was simply a sport, and the Hufflepuffs never seemed to take any notice of the traditional House rivalries, preferring to go about their own business. It was as if they existed in a world of their own.

"So," Seraphim said. He was as ill at ease as Quintus, but showed it more, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He was looking at Octavius Malfoy as he continued. "It's not looking good in Europe, is it? I'm surprised the Ministry aren't doing more."

"Copernicus has his career to consider," Quintus said, pensively. And he's doing more than you think.

"There are -- rumours," the head of Gryffindor said, watching as Octavius Malfoy said something to the Divination teacher, who laughed. "They say Grindelwald's turning his attention to us next -- we could end up like Beauxbatons."

"You think we have members of the Dark League on our staff?" Quintus asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. He knew Seraphim hated Malfoy, but really -- he could try keeping his suspicions to himself. Unless he had proof, in which case whining about it to a simple Potions master wasn't the most effective response. But I'm not just a simple Potions master, am I? To dispel his feeling of disquiet, he added, "I'm sure Dippet knows what he's doing - and Dumbledore, of course, is certainly very much in control."

"I expect that's what people thought about Mademoiselle Jeury," Matthew Seraphim said somberly. "And now, of course, it's too late."

There were Ravenclaws who liked Slytherins, Ravenclaws who preferred Gryffindors, and Ravenclaws who favoured the Hufflepuffs. Quintus definitely preferred the company of snakes. More subtlety. And less noise.

As Christopher returned with a tray of drinks, the Divination teacher and Octavius Malfoy made their way towards them. There were no spare tables, and so, at a nod from Quintus, the two ex-Slytherins joined them. Elspeth Haven, whom he hardly knew, nodded politely as she sat down beside Quintus, whereas Octavius Malfoy sank smoothly into the chair beside Matthew Seraphim -- much to the Flight instructor's disgust. And people call Slytherins prejudiced, Quintus thought, watching as the Head of Gryffindor's scowl deepened. Octavius Malfoy had noticed it too, and there was a decidedly vindictive glint in his eyes as his lip curled in what was presumably a greeting.

Deliberately turning away from the newcomers, Matthew Seraphim began to regale Christopher with an analysis of the tactics used by the Chudley Cannons in their latest match against the Teignmouth Terrors. Apparently the Cannons supporters had made use of some sort of chant, in order to disconcert their opponents, and the two teachers began to link this with some Muggle sport named football. Yet another sport Quintus knew nothing about.

"Whilst the children chatter," Octavius Malfoy said, too softly for the two Quidditch fanatics to hear, but loud enough for Quintus and the Divination teacher, "the adults can converse."

Quintus raised an eyebrow. "About what, may I ask?"

Elspeth Haven picked a speck of invisible dirt off her perfectly pressed emerald green robes. "Cabbages and kings," she said, smiling.

Quintus raised his other eyebrow. "Stimulating conversation, I see. Perhaps I should have tried harder at Quidditch."

"Not wishing to disparage your -- friend's -- accomplishments," the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher said archly, glancing towards Christopher Cale, "but your potential, as you well know, would have been wasted on Quidditch."

"An overrated sport, at best," added the red haired woman, her voice low and amused.

"Then it's probably fortunate I never managed to fly higher than ten feet," Quintus said dryly.

"Indeed, the Hogwarts faculty has been greatly enriched by your inability," Octavius Malfoy said. "Potions academics should be eternally grateful for your complete and utter uselessness on a broomstick."

"How like a Malfoy to mix a compliment with an insult," Quintus observed. "I don't know whether to be flattered or offended."

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher smiled lazily. "Which would you prefer?" he asked.

"Flattery works best in most cases," Elspeth Haven pointed out. "Compliment him on his amazing stirring techniques, Octavius."

"I thought I'd start with his truly masterly handling of the pestle and mortar first," Octavius Malfoy said, smirking. "Which works for you, Quintus?"

"It depends on the reaction you want to elicit," Quintus said, adopting a scholarly air. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Oh?" asked the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, looking at Quintus sideways, through slanted eyes. The Potions master was suddenly reminded that Octavius Malfoy's interests weren't, and never had been confined solely to the opposite sex. Elspeth Haven cleared her throat, and Quintus realized that he'd taken too long in replying.

"Except into my private stores," Quintus amended hastily. "I haven't trusted your lot since the Lestrange twins stole a rather large amount of Boomslang skin."

Octavius smirked. "In Slytherin, we call that borrowing."

"What did they do with the Boomslang skin?" Elspeth Haven asked curiously.

Quintus inspected his fingernails casually. "Brewed a rather bad batch of Polyjuice Potion and tried to impersonate the Hufflepuff Beaters, I believe. I found the poor quality of their potion far more distressing than the crime, of course."

The Divination teacher laughed softly. "Of course you did."

"Though it was a terrible, heinous crime," Octavius Malfoy added, his voice silky with sarcasm. "Those poor Hufflepuffs were traumatized when the potion wore off halfway through the match."

Quintus smiled. "It reflects very badly on my teaching skills," he said, "when a student's potion goes publicly wrong. Even though I still maintain that certain students shouldn't be allowed near a cauldron, let alone a copy of Moste Potente Potions, even if the fate of the wizarding world depended upon it."

"Not all students were given that book as bedtime reading," Malfoy said as he sipped his drink, which, under Quintus' well-trained scrutiny, turned out to be merely Butterbeer. "You must admit, your family has a certain advantage."

Quintus conceded the point. "We have had several centuries experience, I agree," he said. "But I'll still never understand how some students manage to melt their cauldrons simply by looking at them."

The red haired Divination teacher had turned away from the two men, to where Seraphim and Cale were earnestly discussing the Slytherin team's new Seeker. Caroline Higgs, a second year, had only been given the chance on the team due to Aurelius Snape's decision to withdraw -- something that had made Seraphim much happier about his own team's chances. Higgs was, however, shaping up to be a very good replacement. Although not a patch on the Gryffindor Seeker, of course, Seraphim said with satisfaction.

"Some have the skill, some don't," the daughter of Erasmus Haven the Seer said, turning back to Quintus and Octavius. "Certain talents run in the family. It's in the blood, so to speak."

"And your cousin's certainly no exception to the rule," Octavius said, meeting Quintus' level gaze directly. "Advanced theoretical study, and all."

"Indeed," Quintus said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "He is the Snape heir, after all." And dealing with Aurelius certainly has its advantages, he thought. You should always have a Slytherin in the family. Or two, he thought, remembering that Aurelius' father, his uncle, was also a Slytherin. Perfect for practicing your poker face.

"Of course," Octavius Malfoy said, not looking away. His grey eyes were unreadable. "And you're the next in line."

Quintus nodded, wondering what point the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher was trying to make. "Until Aurelius marries, yes," he said. "His children will take precedence over me then."

"But you're happier teaching, aren't you?" Elspeth Haven asked, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "I have no ambitions," Quintus said, his tone dry. "Teaching suits me perfectly."

Octavius Malfoy's eyes flickered at the Potions master's barbed comment, and Quintus smiled inwardly. "That is evident," the wayward Malfoy said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "One would almost think you'd been conceived in a classroom cauldron."

Matthew Seraphim, who seemed to have drawn a conclusion to his conversation with Christopher, interrupted. "Your teaching skills aren't too bad though, are they Malfoy?" he asked meaningfully.

Octavius Malfoy smirked. "I do my best for all my students," he said, placing a slight emphasis on his words.

"And a more impartial, fair-minded teacher I'm sure they've never had," Seraphim continued, watching Octavius Malfoy avidly. "Qualities I'm sure all your students appreciate."

Quintus could guess what Seraphim was getting at -- it wasn't hard, bearing in mind the head of Gryffindor's complete inability to master any form of subtlety. He'd heard of the clash between the Slytherin and Gryffindor sixth years from Aurelius, although he was perfectly aware that his cousin had watered down his version of events somewhat. Aurelius had carefully avoided mentioning Constance Malfoy's use of the Tremens Hex, for starters. He'd heard about that from the enraged Seraphim in the staffroom one evening -- as well as the details of Octavius Malfoy's subsequent rescue of his errant niece. Quintus, however, suspected that Seraphim had modified his story as well -- it was highly unlikely that the Flight instructor had been as civil and calm during his encounter with the two Malfoys as he'd made out. Seraphim wasn't particularly good at controlling himself. Not where Slytherins -- and Malfoys in particular -- were involved. Then again, Aurelius had said Constance got off pretty lightly, so perhaps Seraphim had learned some restraint. The Potions master wasn't sure why Seraphim was so bitter where the Malfoy family were concerned, and wasn't especially interested, either.

If the head of Gryffindor had been hoping for a reaction from the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, he was to be disappointed. Although his eyes narrowed slightly, Octavius simply smiled. An unpleasant smile, but still a smile. "You're too kind," Malfoy replied.

"With some students you don't need to try too hard, I suppose," Seraphim continued. "Whereas others might need special help."

"Some students just need a push in the right direction," Octavius Malfoy corrected him, his voice dripping acid. "A shame to let potential go to waste, wouldn't you say?"

Christopher looked nervously from Matthew to Octavius, obviously hoping that there would be no direct confrontation between the two. The Divination teacher seemed to share his sentiments exactly. Leaning forward slightly, she placed a restraining hand on Octavius' arm.

"Speaking of potential," she said to her blonde friend, "I wonder if you'd be willing to give your niece a push in the right direction for me."

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher turned away from Seraphim, albeit reluctantly. "Constance?" he asked, unnecessarily. "How so?"

Elspeth Have smoothed an errant strand of red hair back into place. "The sixth years are starting their History of Magic assignments, are they not?"

"You think she should take Divination?" Octavius mused. "And you want me to exert my avuncular influence upon her?"

"I thought you'd been doing enough of that already," Seraphim sniped, and was instantly hushed by Christopher.

"Come to the bar with me," Cale said, "you can help me carry the drinks back. Same again?" he asked the group. A series of nods answered him, and the two men headed towards the bar.

Octavius Malfoy hadn't taken his gaze from the Divination teacher, who nodded slowly. Quintus, watching, wondered at the relationship between the two Slytherin alumni. Familiarity, and something else.

"You haven't Tested them yet, surely?" queried the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher.

"Not yet," Elspeth Haven said, calmly. "I do, however, have a hunch."

"You know I don't like hunches," Octavius Malfoy jibed, but there was no malice in his voice as he addressed the woman. "I like them even less when they are yours."

Elspeth Haven said nothing, but waited.

"But I shall obey you, never fear," the tall blonde man said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Don't I always?"

The Divination teacher smiled, her eyes sparkling in the half-light of the smoke filled room.

*

Aurelius was not surprised to find the library almost deserted -- it was nine thirty on a Sunday morning. Only two or three seventh years were present, bent forlornly over spidery notes and large, uncompromising piles of books. Aurelius looked at them without sympathy, doubting whether they'd be displaying such a hunger for knowledge and learning if they hadn't been out abusing seventh year privileges the night before.

"Catching up on work sacrificed at the altar of the Three Broomsticks, no doubt," Richard said, concurring with Aurelius' unspoken thought. "Serves them right," he added, taking in the bleary eyes and worn faces of the beleaguered students.

The two boys were sitting at a desk right at the back of the library, close to the Restricted Section. Richard had placed a few strategic piles of books on the desk, partially concealing them from the viewpoint of any observers by the library door, yet allowing them an unimpeded view of the room. It had been his urging on Saturday afternoon that had convinced Aurelius and Constance to head for the library with him, ostensibly to get a head start on the horrific amounts of homework they'd been set by various teachers. The blonde girl hadn't turned up in the common room to meet them, though, and the boys had decided not to risk her wrath by hammering on the door of the girls' dormitory. Constance has the right idea, the lazy cow, Aurelius thought enviously, aware of both the nagging sense of hunger in his stomach and a distinct desire to go back to sleep.

Richard didn't seem in a particular hurry to start working either, Aurelius noted. Instead, the brown haired Slytherin was watching the activities of the school librarian with amusement. Abiatha Groan, an elderly, emaciated looking man, seemed decidedly resentful of the presence of students in his beloved library. He'd frowned horribly in their direction when they'd entered, and scowled as they'd sat down undeterred. After a few moments glaring impotently, the librarian had turned his attention elsewhere. Whilst the two boys watched, an expression of intense bliss suffused his withered features as he contemplated the dust free shelves of beautifully bound books. He had, in fact, the day before, rearranged them in accordance with the Dewey Decimal System Version Two -- the magical variation upon the theme familiar to Muggles -- and had evicted various students who had been trying to work.

"Is he actually stroking those books?" Richard asked, not bothering to keep his voice down. His head was tilted slightly to one side in an attitude of puzzled, polite inquiry. Minerva McGonagall, a seventh year Gryffindor, overheard, and shot the boys a disapproving frown before returning to a particularly tricky Potions essay.

"I was hoping it was a form of cleaning ritual," Aurelius answered, watching Groan's hands slide gently down the spine of a particularly obscure looking book -- Zen and the Art of Broomstick Maintenance. Oddly enough, Aurelius had never read it. "I was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt."

Richard Marlowe shook his head sadly. "You're too generous," he said sorrowfully. "Look at the tenderness of the caress with which he is, even now, blessing those unfortunate books. Look at the sordid, yet fervent gleam in his eyes, the slightly furtive air with which he proceeds to the next shelf..." he trailed off. "It's enough to make you lose the will to live," he proclaimed melodramatically. "I hate this place."

Aurelius was unimpressed. "Unless my memory fails me," he said, "and, never having done so before I see no possible reason for it to start now, I seem to recall a certain tone deaf Arithmancy whizz kid all but begging Constance and I on bended knee to come here. Out of the distant past of yesterday, this was."

Richard sighed. "What an unsubtle way of asking me to stop talking shite. I'm disappointed, I really am."

"Are you planning on doing any work today, or is this all just a ploy so you can laugh at my hunger and misery?" Aurelius asked.

"Well," Richard began, flicking through a number of crumpled scrolls. "I have to admit that is a tempting prospect --"

"I believe that I gave up breakfast for this," Aurelius said, ignoring his stomach's audible protest. "I don't think you understand the effect this will have on me for the rest of the day."

"The more interruptions you make, the longer this will take," Richard said, shutting one of his books with a decisive thud. His eyes widened innocently. "I just can't concentrate with you sniping at me."

"And I believe breakfast involved croissants," Aurelius said dangerously. "So shut up and do your Divination, or whatever it is you're stuck on."

Richard smiled and patted his friend's shoulder with mock sympathy. "There, there, Snapey," he said considerately.

Snapey

growled murderously.

Richard, seeing the look of outraged dignity in his friend's face, hastily turned to a thick sheaf of scrolls on the desk. "Have you decided on your minor subject then?" he asked, after a few minutes of silence during which Aurelius had been trying to rest his eyes without falling asleep. "For Binns' assignment?"

"Care of Magical Creatures," Aurelius said, giving up all thoughts of his nice warm bed. "I'm going to write about Grindelwald's twisted fetish for Hungarian Horntails, or, more precisely, to what purposes he employs those horns," he deadpanned.

Richard tried to sneer and smirk at the same time, and failed miserably. "Potions, I presume?" he said instead.

"It's my best subject, you dolt, I'm not likely to choose Muggle Studies, am I?" Aurelius replied scathingly. He began to shove some useful facts about Chinese calligraphy into his Ancient Runes essay.

"So you'll be putting all those late night sessions with your cousin to good use then?" the brown haired boy asked. "What is it you actually do anyway?"

"Things that you're too thick to understand," Aurelius said unfeelingly, not looking up from his essay. "You ignorant sod."

Richard chucked the nearest thing available at Aurelius' head. Unfortunately this happened to be his bag of Divination runestones, which promptly burst upon impact and scattered the jade stones all over the floor. His "oh arse!" coincided with Aurelius' yelp of pain, and various exasperated outbursts from the other inhabitants of the library.

Abiatha Groan bore down upon them, eyes glittering furiously. Seeing him, Richard quickly slid off his chair and onto the floor, where he began to pick up his runestones.

"I will have no disturbances in my library," announced Groan ponderously. "The next time you disrupt the peace and quiet, you will have to leave."

"Sorry sir," mumbled Richard, who was halfway under the table. "It was an accident, I dropped my bag and it burst --"

The librarian made a noise like a strangled snort, indicating his complete lack of belief in Richard's story, but rotated sharply on his heel and marched away.

"An accident?" said Aurelius sarcastically. "That bloody hurt, you stupid git."

"I can't help it if your head got in the way," Richard said haughtily, from underneath the table. "It shouldn't be so big."

"The famous Marlowe wit's as sharp as ever," Aurelius sniped, rubbing his head where the bag had struck it. "For the sake of the Snake, boy, just do what you dragged me here to do and get some bloody work done!"

Without actually coming out from underneath the table, Richard began dropping his runestones one by one into his bag, each one giving an offended "clink". Aware that there were over fifty stones in his friend's collection, Aurelius gave into temptation, and kicked his legs forward. There was a muffled thud, a distinct groan, and then silence. Honour was satisfied. Big head indeed, Aurelius thought, watching as his friend crawled back out from under the table, and began to write his Divination essay, his slapdash handwriting as illegible as usual.

Aurelius put the finishing touches to his Ancient Runes essay, rolled it up, and stowed it carefully in his bag. Then he turned his attention to the brief notes he'd made earlier, regarding Binns' assignment. He'd decided upon his approach to the subject -- To what extent did Grindelwald's successful assaults upon the security of Eastern Europe during the period 1915 -- 1921 depend upon his use of unauthorized substances? -- and was already familiar with the effects and composition of the various potions he'd need to research -- Veritaserum, Draught of the Living Death, and Corpus Immobilatus. He could also consider the response of the Albanian Crime Squad -- they'd tested certain variations of Veritaserum upon captured Grindelwald supporters, eighteen of whom had died due to the virulence of the undiluted asp blood. Shame I can't focus on his more recent activities, Aurelius thought wistfully. He would have liked to have been able to concentrate on Grindelwald's use of the Nox Mirabilis, and the Ministry's plans for retaliation with the same potion. And the Impervio, of course. But he didn't need to bring the matter up with his cousin to know that the answer would be absolutely, unmistakably no.

A sudden draught rustled the papers on the tables as the library doors opened, making the two boys look up. To the extreme displeasure of Abiatha Groan, who cracked his knuckles horribly, three more students entered the room. Aurelius watched as Tom Riddle, Marcus Malfoy and Felix DuPre headed towards their corner of the library. Constance's brother nodded politely to his sister's friends, but did not join them, following Tom Riddle and the head boy to an empty desk a few feet away.

"Great minds think alike," Richard said, eyeing Tom Riddle malevolently as the half-blood spread out various parchments on the desk. "Does he ever give it a rest?"

"You could try following his example," Aurelius suggested, looking pointedly at his friend's unfinished Divination essay. He glanced over at the other table, to where the head boy was poring over something Riddle had shown him, brow furrowed. Aurelius squinted, but he couldn't quite make out what the papers said.

There was an audible tut of disapproval from Groan as the door opened yet again, this time admitting a flushed, breathless Constance. She hurried over to where they were sitting, glancing curiously at her brother as she passed.

"Slept in, did we?" Richard asked snidely. "Thought you'd have a nice lie-in? Nice dreams about your teachers? Wuthering Heights Revisited and all that?"

"Oh ha, another decidedly unsubtle Lockhart reference," Constance said as she pulled up a chair and sat down in between her two friends. "You're so predictable."

Richard grinned. "Works every time, though."

"Serves you right for having no standards," Aurelius chipped in. "Serves you right for drooling over that -- overdressed, oversexed, overindulged -- thing."

"Lockhart was a tart, my dear, a tart in gilded clobber," Richard said, as eloquently as ever.

"Oh just die, the pair of you," Constance snapped, forsaking banter for bluntness. "As a matter of fact, though, I did have rather perverse dreams," she added, after a moment's pause. "They were very vivid."

Aurelius raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"You'd better keep them to yourself," Richard said, "unless you want to terrify poor innocent Aurelius with your heinous tales of lust and lechery."

"Poor innocent Aurelius my eye," Constance said, before Aurelius could reply. "You'd never know by looking at him, but beneath that cool and composed exterior there's a veritable furnace of unbridled--"

"When you've quite finished discussing my fiery sensual side, or lack of," Aurelius said wryly, "some of us have work to do."

"I dreamed that I was in the Forbidden Forest," Constance said, looking back at the table where her brother, Riddle and DuPre were sitting, "and I was talking to centaurs about the stars -- then they turned into unicorns and I flew away on the back of a Hippogriff." She shuddered. "I hate those things."

Aurelius sneered at her. "I'd like to be able to discuss the deep underlying significance of this dream," he said, "but there isn't one. You're just certifiable."

"Been eating any cheese recently?" asked Richard. "Cheese dreams are always weird -- I remember once I had this brilliant dream about Potter --"

"I'll bet you did," Aurelius murmured. "Pervert."

"Shut it," Richard leered at him. "Potter's not my type."

"Oh?" Aurelius said, grinning. "And just who is your type?"

The brown haired boy sighed tragically, and, putting his hand on top of Aurelius', began to stroke his friend's fingers. "After all these years, you have to ask me that?"

Aurelius tried and failed to maintain a straight face as Richard snorted with amusement.

As he exchanged cordial insults with Richard, he noticed Constance had turned to look at the other table again. Her brother was smiling slightly at something Felix had said, but the blonde girl wasn't looking at either of them. She was gazing at Riddle, who had taken a small black book from his bag, and was writing something on the front page, oblivious to her stare. So that's the way of it, is it, Aurelius wondered. Well. Constance could certainly do a lot worse than the most brilliant student in the school. Even if he was only a half-blood. Her brother didn't seem to disapprove of him. Quite the contrary. She could still do better, he thought, surprising himself.

Riddle stood up abruptly, causing Constance to lower her eyes. The tall sixth year headed for the Restricted Section, handing a note casually to Groan as he passed. After a brief hesitation, Felix DuPre followed. Constance's brother remained seated, but watched as his companions disappeared from view, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"I'll be back in a minute," Constance said suddenly, interrupting Richard's long, involved explanation of his Potter dream. "I need to ask Marcus something."

"You mean you're not fascinated by Richard's secret lust for Andrew Potter?" Aurelius asked, voice laden with sarcasm.

"Nothing secret about it," Constance said as she stood up. "I've seen him drooling when he thinks no-one's looking -- he couldn't be more obvious if he tried."

Gives you both something in common

, then, Aurelius thought as Constance walked off. Subtle as bricks.

"Oh very funny," Richard said to the girl's retreating back. "I've done nothing of the sort."

"Nothing?" Aurelius said, watching as Constance slipped into Riddle's empty chair. "Nothing tra la la?"

"Potter is my nemesis," Richard said seriously. "I will always maintain that the presence of dancing broomsticks in my dream had nothing to do with phallic symbolism, but rather represents a strong subliminal urge to beat his brains out with his blasted Silver Arrow."

"You keep telling yourself that," Aurelius smirked.

Richard made a face, and underlined the title of his remarkably short essay. "Do you think she"- he nodded in Constance's direction -- "will let me copy her Divination if I ask nicely?"

"Maybe if you confess to your impure thoughts regarding Potter," Aurelius said, enjoying the look of outrage on Richard's face, "in public, wearing sweaty Hufflepuff Quidditch robes -- she might let you take a look."

"Maybe if you confess to impure thoughts regarding Dumbledore," Richard countered, "in public, wearing only the school Sorting Hat, I'll consider it."

Whilst they bickered, Constance and her brother, after having had a brief and inaudible conversation, came to join the two boys at their table. Richard didn't look particularly enthused by Marcus' arrival, but that was understandable. In Richard's third year, Marcus had discovered that one of Richard's ancestors had broken an engagement with one of the Malfoy ancestors in order to carry on a liaison someone else. Which Marcus could have forgiven if this someone else hadn't been a Muggle, an actor, and male, in that order.

"It was almost four hundred years ago, for God's sake," Richard had complained, arguably justifiably aggrieved. "It's not like I was personally involved!"

The situation hadn't been rectified by Richard's decision to hex Marcus' broomstick during Quidditch practice, in retaliation for several cutting insults that Constance's brother had flung at him in the common room. There had been more than just words exchanged between the two, and it took a combined diplomatic effort from both Aurelius and Constance to restore order. Although Marcus' anti-Muggle stance had relaxed enough to allow a close association with Tom Riddle, his relationship with Richard was still notably lacking in warmth, even after three years. Then again, what was three years to someone who got seriously pissed off over the events of four hundred years ago?

The brown haired boy nodded curtly in response to Marcus' greeting -- which was only just bordering on civil in its perfunctory nature -- then shot Constance a venomous glare.

Constance pretended not to notice. "So, how's your Divination going? Want to borrow my notes?" she asked brightly.

Despite the icy grey stare of Marcus Malfoy, Richard accepted her offer instantly -- his Divination essay was nowhere near the four feet that Professor Haven had demanded. More like four inches, Aurelius thought, amused. Not for the first time, he wondered why Richard bothered with the subject -- he himself had dropped it after the third year, finding it too vague, hazy and generally unscientific, rather like Lockhart had been. According to Constance, Professor Haven was highly competent, and fiercely intelligent. Aurelius was still skeptical.

"Have you planned your History assignment yet?" Richard asked, copying Constance's notes down hurriedly.

Constance shook her head. "I can't decide what to choose as my minor subject," she explained. "It's out of Divination, Chantwork and Defence against the Dark Arts at the minute."

"Play to your strengths," Aurelius advised. "Get your uncle to do it for you."

Constance gave him a mock-severe frown. "As if I'd use my family connections like that," she said, smiling. "No, I'm probably going to choose Divination -- but I'm not sure. I quite like the thought of studying Invocation Chants, you see."

"Invocation Chants?" repeated Aurelius curiously. "Invoking what, precisely?"

Constance grinned widely. "Demons," she said. "Grindelwald's done it before, according to Professor Cale."

"You can repel Dementors with the right Banishing Chants too," Marcus offered loftily. "Although our uncle says it's probably more effective if you master the Patronus charm."

"You've managed the Patronus?" Aurelius asked. "That's very advanced magic."

"Well, I haven't had the opportunity to test it on a real Dementor yet," Marcus confessed.

"They're in remarkably short supply around Hogwarts," Richard said seriously. "For some reason."

"So there's lots I could get into my essay that way, you see," Constance concluded, getting back to the original topic of conversation. "But as I said, I can't decide what to do."

"O fool, fool!" Richard sighed, not looking up from his work. "Pick whatever's easiest!"

As they talked, Aurelius saw Tom Riddle and Felix DuPre emerge from the Restricted Section. As far as he could see, they weren't carrying any books, but Riddle's bag looked even heavier than usual. Felix paused when he saw that Marcus was no longer alone, and after a quiet word from Riddle, he left the library. Aurelius wondered briefly at that, storing it in his mental filing cabinet for future reference, as Riddle sat down beside Constance's brother.

"I hear you've been studying very advanced areas of Potions," Marcus said, looking at Aurelius with interest in his pale grey eyes.

Aurelius blinked, then remembered Octavius Malfoy's unwavering stare from his cousin's fire, several weeks ago. Quintus had lied, saying that they were studying the theory behind Transfiguration potions -- Aurelius was almost flattered to know that the Malfoys had been talking about him. And slightly disturbed.

Constance was looking between the two of them curiously. Obviously her uncle hadn't mentioned anything to her.

Aurelius dipped his head, acknowledging what his friend's brother had said. "It is a family specialty."

"Are you planning on joining your family business straightaway?" Marcus asked conversationally.

He'd been thinking about this during the summer. The Snape Pharmaceutical Company, founded by Flavius Daleinus Snape II, had passed through more generations of Snapes than Aurelius cared to consider. He stood to inherit the company anyway, along with a very sizeable fortune upon his father's death, but it was tacitly understood between his father and himself that he would be joining the companies laboratories immediately after he'd gained his NEWTs. His life's course, as it were, had already been determined.

"Of course," Aurelius, the son and heir of Valerius Snape said, somewhat pensively. "It's what I was born to do, after all," he added, surprised at the trace of bitterness in his voice.

"You shouldn't underestimate the importance of family," Riddle murmured, tracing a pattern on the desk with a long, elegant finger.

"I don't," Aurelius said, slightly nettled at the implication. "Blood will tell, after all."

"The Malfoy motto, I believe," Marcus said smiling coldly.

"Whether we like it or not," Tom Marvolo Riddle continued, "what we inherit from our fathers defines us forever."

"And mothers," Constance said tartly. "We females do have something to do with it."

A sharp amusement registered on Tom Riddle's face as he acknowledged Constance's words, but only after the first instant, and the brief smile had been preceded by another expression.

Richard snorted. "I don't complain," he said. "Sadly, I'm the son and heir of nothing in particular."

The Marlowe family, although old, were nowhere near as wealthy as the Malfoys, or as respectable as the Snapes. Or the Zalaras family, Aurelius remembered, watching Constance watching Tom. Riddle's mother's family dated right back to the time of the Founders -- although the Zalaras fortune had diminished significantly during the past few centuries. Julius Marvolo Zalaras had still been wealthy when he'd died, but his daughter Styliane had refused all contact with him and the wizarding world when she'd married Riddle's father. She'd been disinherited, and her father had died before any reconciliation had been possible. Or so Aurelius had heard.

"You've certainly inherited your family's penchant for the theatrical," Marcus said disparagingly, the events of the 1580s obviously still fresh in his mind. "Planning on snapping your wand anytime soon?"

"I can resist anything except temptation, Malfoy," Richard said haughtily, "but living as a Muggle is decidedly not tempting."

"A sound magician is a mighty god?" murmured Riddle. There was a clear trace of amusement in his voice.

Richard Marlowe looked at him in mild surprise. "Quite," he said, appreciatively. "And aren't you the studious artisan?"

Richard's words obviously meant something to Riddle, who smiled lazily. "Who would not be proficient in this art?" the prefect said, with the air of one quoting something learned by heart.

"That's a certain text," Marlowe said, grinning.

"Would I appear frightfully ignorant if I asked you what in Merlin's name you two are prattling on about?" Constance asked, looking at Riddle.

"In a nutshell: yes." Richard sneered knowingly at her.

"I think they're indulging the Marlowe taste for the theatrical," Aurelius said. He was familiar with the works of Richard's ancestor, and had recognized the quotes.

Richard nodded. "The theatre's in my blood, Constance my cherub," he said, giving Marcus the type of withering glare that would have shocked a Basilisk. It wasn't just the Malfoys who held grudges. "I have immortal longings in me."

The main difference between Marcus and Constance, Aurelius thought, was that Marcus was decidedly lacking in a sense of humour. As Constance smiled at Richard's words, Marcus was giving the sixth year the kind of scowl that promised an end to Richard's visions of immortality.

"I didn't have you down as the dramatic type," Aurelius said to Riddle, mostly to defuse the rather tense atmosphere that was rapidly developing rather than a genuine desire to make conversation.

Styliane Zalaras' only child smiled thinly. "I have my moments."

As the conversation turned to safer channels, largely due to Constance's mention of Quidditch, Aurelius remembered the change of expression on Riddle's face after the girl's rebuke. His smile had been sharply ironic, but only after a second's pause, so fleeting that only Aurelius had caught it. In that brief second, Aurelius though he'd seen something very different flash across Tom Riddle's face, and he wasn't entirely certain he knew what it was.

*