Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Seven

Breakfast on the morning Severus Snape crossed every bound of human decency was the usual affair of grunted, semi-incoherent greetings and red-eyed contemplation of dry toast. Rebecca slouched amenably between the twins and Seamus Finnegan, who sat dipping his toast into his eggs with enthusiasm.

"That´s disgusting," she said, taking a ginger bite of bacon. Her head throbbed dully from lack of sleep. She´d spent another night in the clutches of Professor Snape, and four hours of rest was all she´d managed. Worse still, she had yet to produce an acceptable Camoflous Draught, which meant she could expect to find herself there again tonight.

"It is not," Seamus retorted. "You Americans, always so finicky. It all ends up in the same place anyway."

"Seamus, please," she groaned, dropping her fork and closing her eyes against an unwelcome image of Seamus´ breakfast sitting in a congealed lump inside his stomach.

"What?" he asked innocently, taking a large bite of greasy sausage.

"Oi, Rebecca," George cut in before she could muster a retort, "sorry about your hair, eh?"

"Don´t worry about it," she said, flapping her hand dismissively. "It´ll go away sooner or later. Besides, it´s kinda cool." She had awakened this morning to discover that the Rain-Glo Coiffure Cracker had developed unexpected side-effects. Far from fizzling out after five minutes as previously thought, her hair had begun to display the interesting habit of intermittently blazing a brilliant red, green, or blue for a minute or longer before lapsing into its more sedate golden hue again. As if to prove its point, it flared a brilliant red, eliciting good-natured laughter from the rest of Gryffindor Table, laughter in which she gladly joined.

"Well done, Weasley. Now perhaps you can take her home and use her as a traffic signal for your family. Merlin knows there are enough of you in that ramshackle house of yours. Or was it a cardboard carton?"

They turned to see Draco Malfoy standing there with a superior smirk plastered on his pale face, cronies in tow. One hand rested loosely on his hip. The other delicately held a gooey cinnamon roll. It was such an effeminate gesture and posture that she fought not to laugh, and yet he still exuded a burgeoning masculinity that had made many girls momentarily heady. Rebecca was not immune, but she was realistic enough to understand that falling victim to a hopeless, sado-masochistic crush on someone she could never have was the ultimate stupidity, and her hatred of his elitist, smug demeanor succeeding in crushing whatever seed of lust planted in the dim reaches of her brain by those cold, bright grey eyes. She gritted her teeth against a tart reply and remained silent. She was too tired to fight this morning.

Draco, however, had no such reservations. He turned his gaze to her, dropping his hand from his hip. "You know, Stanhope, it really is an improvement," he sneered.

She smiled apologetically. "Pity nothing can be done for you."

His eyes hardened. "I can do anything I please, stupid bint. One of the advantages of being a Malfoy, I´m afraid. So sorry to disappoint you."

She had no idea what the term "bint" meant, and so most of the sting of the insult was lost on her, but something in his tone infuriated her. He was so sure of his vaunted pedigree and all of the privilege and entitlement that it carried with it. He was invulnerable, or so the insulated world in which he lived had led him to think. Nothing, especially not a bit of deformed rabble like her, would ever dare stand against him. The power of his name would see to that.

She had no idea why she did what she did next. Perhaps it was because she was tired. Maybe her unbreachable wall of careful indifference had been worn down by a combination of Professor Snape´s scathing disdain and her own desire to finally let life inside her stolid mental fortress. Or maybe it was because she just wanted the conflict, the excitement of disquiet, the bitter tang of adrenaline in her mouth, and the exhilarating thrum of energy in her veins that made the whole world brighter, if only for an instant. Maybe she wanted to taste cruelty from her own bitter lips.

Whatever the reason, a lazy smile spread across her face, and her hand came up to stroke her chin. "On second thought, Draco, I think I can do something for you," she said slowly. Quick as a striking cobra, her right hand swung out and smashed the cinnamon roll he was holding into his face.

He stared at her in surprise for a moment, a runner of sweet cream dripping from his burnished platinum hair. Then his marble hand flashed out with blinding speed and cracked across her face like a whip. Her head snapped back with the force of the blow, and she hissed as her neck spasmed painfully. The slap was hard enough to make her ears ring; she barely heard Draco growl, "Bitch!" in a throaty whisper as his hand came up again.

Bedlam erupted in the Great Hall. Fred and George came off the bench like coiled springs and launched themselves at Malfoy, who took a startled step back. Seamus dropped his fork and lunged at Goyle. Crabbe stood paralyzed in dumb surprise, unable to believe what was happening around him. Rebecca sat in her chair, tasting blood on her lips and feeling the heated sting that Malfoy´s palm had left on her cheek.

She watched the chaos around her with clinical detachment, absently rubbing her burning cheek. All of this, wrought by her hand. And everyone thought it fragile. She smirked, turning to watch as George and Goyle rolled by, a red and black mass of furious arms and legs. There was a meaty thud; Goyle´s ham-sized fist had connected with George´s right eye. Students from all Tables were swarming around the combatants, and the shrill, feverish cry of "Fight!!" rang out like exultation.

Crabbe, sluggish synapses firing at last, stepped forward, intending perhaps, to collar Fred, who was choking Malfoy with savage abandon. But then a new sound echoed through the Hall like judgment and black wrath-the sound of chairs being pushed back from the High Table. All sound and motion ceased, and three hundred heads swiveled to watch the advent of calamity.

They moved calmly, leisurely. The throng parted noiselessly before them. Few dared look them in the eye, and those who did could not look away. It was clear from the purpose in their stride and the grim set of their faces that they would be bringers of terrible justice. An exhalation, soft and mournful, rippled through the assemblage. They knew that whatever they were about to see would not be readily forgotten.

McGonagall, her face as hard and cold as her mythical namesake, appeared, her eyes blazing. "What in the name of Merlin is going on here?" she thundered, taking in the carnage at her feet. Her thin mouth worked. "I have never, in my life, seen such...such barbarity."

Fred and George looked chagrined. Goyle looked oddly embarrassed. Even the luckless Crabbe, who had never gotten involved in the melee, stared shame-faced at the floor. Only Draco looked unrepentant. He sat on the ground in a state of rumpled dignity. He clutched his left hand to his chest. Three of his fingers dangled awkwardly, broken by mistimed contact with Fred Weasley´s nose. They had already begun to swell, bloated sausages on the end of a supple, slender hand.

Rebecca sat in her chair, unaffected by the fracas she had helped to instigate. She felt no remorse for it. Draco Malfoy deserved everything he had gotten and more. For the first time in his life, he had experienced painful negative consequences for his actions, and from the pained, sullen look on his face, it was something he found most distasteful. Good. The sooner he found out that life was not a plaything constructed to cater to his every whim and fancy, the better off they would all be. Except for Malfoy, of course, but who gave a damn about him? She took a vicious satisfaction in the knowledge that she had played a part in his education.

She watched McGonagall as she turned accusatory eyes to each member of the fist-to-cuff. She didn´t give a damn what she thought, either, come to think of it. What did she know about it anyway? Secreted away with her books and parchments, when was the last time that she had stepped into the real world and dealt with anything besides teapots and silver sets or the imaginary boggart of third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts? Did she expect her to duck her head in proper deference each time Malfoy passed her in these hallowed halls, yet another stepping-stone on his path to bought-and-paid-for-glory?

The stunned throng parted again, and this time Snape stepped through in a swirl of velvetine black. He was black death in human form, and the students beneath his gaze recoiled. His simmering gaze fell on the Weasley twins, who sat sprawled at his feet. "Get up," he hissed through gritted teeth. "And if I find even one drop of blood on my boots, both of you will be most unhappy."

They struggled to their feet, each carrying the battle scars of their brush with Malfoy and his cohorts. Fred clutched a broken nose behind one bloodied hand. Ill-timed as Draco´s punch may have been, it had still done its damage. George´s right eye was swollen shut, a grotesque tattoo on his wan face. Snape eyed them in disgust.

"You too, Malfoy," snapped McGonagall. "On your feet."

Malfoy, who had not uttered a peep since calling her a bitch a few minutes before, suddenly began to howl and moan. He clutched his wounded left hand in his right, making sure his broken digits were on prominent display. "But Professor," he moaned, "my hand." He thrust it at her with an agonized groan.

McGonagall watched his theatrics in unimpressed silence. "Perhaps if you weren´t throttling it like a dead goose, the pain would lessen considerably. And last I checked, your hand was not needed to stand up. So get up. Now."

He got to his feet with oaths of retribution and lawsuits from his influential father. Seamus, too, pulled himself from the floor, remarkably unscathed by the brawl. A single shallow scratch above the bridge of his nose was the only evidence he´d been involved at all, and he´d probably only gotten that because he´d missed Goyle on his initial leap and crashed to the stone floor.

McGonagall folded her arms across her chest and scowled. "I asked you all a question! What happened here?"

No one said a word. Feet scuffled nervously on stone. And then, "Malfoy started it." A thick, wet voice. Fred, talking from behind his bloody hand.

"Oh?" McGonagall turned her sharp eyes to Malfoy, who glared smugly back with no discernible unease.

"Yes, ma´am. He called Rebecca a bint." There were gasps of horrified surprise.

"He what?" sputtered McGonagall. She turned the brunt of her ire on Draco, who suddenly looked far less sure of himself. "Mr. Malfoy, I am appalled. How could you use such crass, filthy language?" A red flush was creeping into her cheeks, and her voice grew shrill with her ever-increasing rancor.

"Mr. Weasley, kindly remove your hand from before your mouth. No one can understand a word you´re saying," Snape spoke up. He had been watching the unfolding drama without a word, a picture of dull disinterest. Now, though, his eyes gleamed with a spark of thoughtful cunning, a spark that made Rebecca suddenly very afraid. He was up to no good.

"Don´t be ridiculous, Professor Snape. I heard Mr. Weasley perfectly well. He said Mr. Malfoy called Rebecca a-," McGonagall sniffed, but Snape paid her no mind. He was staring at Rebecca as though she were the most important thing in the world. At her face.

"No one has asked Miss Stanhope what happened. Surely she saw the whole thing?" He glided to her side and placed a pale, heavy hand on her hunched shoulder. "Tell us what happened, Miss Stanhope. How did you come by that rather nasty welt on the side of your face?" he asked in his dark liquid purr. His hand came up to probe the mark with cold, feathery fingers, and she winced.

"My word," cried McGonagall in renewed alarm, just noticing the ugly black bruise blooming on her cheek. "Miss Stanhope, to the Hospital Wing at once!"

Rebecca fought to keep her face expressionless as irritation bubbled just beneath the surface. It had just been a slap-a good one-but that was all. It hadn´t been a roundhouse punch or a karate thrust. She was fine. Her jaw would throb and sting, maybe even swell a bit, but there was definitely no cause for alarm. She´d gotten worse injuries tumbling out of bed or slipping off the toilet. So why was she being sent to the Hospital Wing? Fred and George were in far worse shape, especially poor Fred, who was now developing raccoon eyes as his nose continued to swell. Yet McGonagall ignored them completely, focusing instead on her face like it was the gravest injury she had ever seen.

You know why she´s sending you. She quashed a disgusted cluck behind her teeth. She was not made of blown glass, no matter what anyone thought. A slap to the face affected her the same way it did everyone else-with a throbbing face. She was not going to fall down in a frothing seizure or go blind. She would not develop a permanent lisp or facial tic. Her legs were not affected by her face, and this overprotective mothering was an exercise in stupidity. She would go to the infirmary, only to be told by Pomfrey what she already knew. It was a simple bruise, not a cancer or tumor, and time would take care of it nicely. On the other hand, any chance to away from this brewing storm was worth taking. She turned to go.

"Stay where you are, Miss Stanhope." Cold steel dancing across silk. "Professor McGonagall, I see no reason to send her to the Hospital Wing just yet. Her injuries do not appear life-threatening, or indeed, threatening at all. I think there are other matters to sort out first. Namely, the exact nature of this sordid little business."

"But Professor Snape, her face," she protested.

"Is bruised. Nothing more. The Weasleys and Malfoy are far more seriously injured, and yet I don´t see you clamoring for them to get medical attention," he said with asperity.

"They are not as delicate as Miss Stanhope," she snapped.

Snape closed the gap between himself and the indignant McGonagall. His thin, pallid lips grazed her ear. "I have spent every night save one with her since her arrival. I know unequivocally what she can and cannot do, and I can assure you, the slap will not prove fatal."

McGonagall drew herself away. "Yes, well, your judgment has been impaired before," she hissed in a low whisper.

Snape stepped abruptly back, his body stiff, and Rebecca, too far away to hear the muffled discourse, got the distinct impression that an invisible line had been crossed. His lip curled in an outraged sneer, and he whirled away from his colleague. "Perhaps we should take this up in the Headmaster´s office," he said shortly.

"Yes, I think that would be wise," came the somber voice of Albus Dumbledore from behind McGonagall´s sparse frame.

Rebecca wondered how much he had seen and heard. His serene blue eyes betrayed nothing, but something told her he was well aware of everything that had gone on, including the nasty little conversation between her two professors. Though his bearing was relaxed, his eyes were hard and calculating, scrutinizing the pair of brooding academics. Neither of them was comfortable with his gaze; they cast their eyes anywhere but on his face. McGonagall commenced polishing her spectacles; Snape contented himself with making the curious students around him squirm under his merciless eyes.

"Headmaster, Malfoy has made a perfect beast of himself. He has struck Miss Stanhope, as you can clearly see from that monstrous mark upon her face. She needs attention at once. I demand something be done." She was in a self-righteous rage now, and her wiry finger shook as she pointed at Malfoy.

"I am quite aware of what happened, Professor McGonagall," he said crisply, and something in his tone silenced her. She lowered her pointing finger, and her shoulders slumped. "Now, let us proceed to my office, so that the affair may be sorted out satisfactorily."

"But Stan-,"

"I quite agree with Professor Snape in this instance, Professor. Miss Stanhope appears none the worse for wear after her experience. A bruise never killed anyone as far as I can recall, and I have lived for a very long time. The others, however, clearly do need seeing to." He turned to the High Table. "Madam Pomfrey, would you please join us in my office as soon as possible?"

Madam Pomfrey´s voice carried from her seat at the High Table. "Right away, Headmaster."

To the assembled band of groaning, dismayed students, he said, "Everyone please follow me."

The crowd of students parted reverently as the Headmaster swept past. Most were convinced that the ragtag group of pupils following in his wake would be on the train to King´s Cross by midday. In the case of Draco Malfoy, few considered this a bad thing; indeed, there was much private jubilation at the thought. Fred and George Weasley, though, would be a terrible loss. Bright and popular and Beaters on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, they were regarded by many as a happy fixture at Hogwarts. Hogwarts without the Weasley twins was like summer without sunshine. About the possible departure of Stanhope and the others, there was bland apathy.

The retinue made an odd sight as they marched through the deserted corridors to the Headmaster´s office. Malfoy walked with his back bent, as though burdened by a great weight, his broken hand cradled on his stomach. Fred came behind him, surreptitiously cupping his nose, which bubbled dark red blood with every breath. George was beside him, wincing at his swollen eye. Seamus came next, uninjured but dazed with the growing realization that he was in very serious trouble. Crabbe and Goyle came next, for once not by their master´s side, each wearing expressions of dim alarm. Bringing up the rear was Rebecca sandwiched between Snape and McGonagall. It looked like the processional to an execution.

Rolling between the two ominously silent teachers was not an experience she relished. The air sizzled with tension, crackling between them like electrical current down an overheated wire. Clearly, the conversation between them in the Great Hall had not been an exchange of morning pleasantries. She risked a glance up at them as they walked, praying that neither one would notice her attention. McGonagall was striding rapidly along, her lips pressed together so tightly they were all but invisible. She looked neither to the left nor to the right; her gaze remained fixed on the Headmaster´s back as he moved ever closer to the entrance to his office.

To her left, Snape stalked beside her, hands balled into loose fists at his side. His wand jutted from between his fingers like a wooden exclamation point. The muscles of his jaw worked, and even from where she sat, she could hear his teeth grinding together like dried bones. His black eyes burned with offended, seething fury. Unexpectedly, they darted to her upturned face. "What is it, Miss Stanhope?" He did not slow down.

Caught by surprise, she fumbled for an answer. "Nothing, sir. I thought you had spoken," she muttered, dropping her gaze to the safer territory of her lap.

"Is your hearing amiss as well? Perhaps you should see Madam Pomfrey. I said nothing. Rest assured I will have plenty to say shortly." At this, Professor McGonagall´s head swiveled in his direction, but she remained silent, for which Rebecca was profoundly glad. The idea of things escalating out of control with her trapped between them made her mouth go dry and her stomach feel loose and hot.

She was acutely aware of the Potions Master´s dark eyes on the back of her head as they moved through the hall. It was a disquieting feeling, and she made an effort not to break into nervous, warbling song. The intensity of his gaze was disturbing. If she raised her head, she knew she would see those black marble eyes scouring her face, glittering with hostility and smug triumph at having a chance to disgrace her in front of Headmaster Dumbledore. They had weight, a prickling pressure against her scalp and the nape of her neck that made her flush and shiver at the same time.

Now is not the time t´be moonin´ over your Potions professor´s eyes, came her grandfather´s gruff voice. You need to be thinkin´ of a way out of this mess.

The idea of mooning over dour, unpleasant Professor Snape struck her as ludicrous, and though she knew it was unwise in the present circumstances, a small, strangled, scoffing titter escaped her. Snape was on her in a second, the crisp snap of starched cotton echoing through the halls as he turned to her and bent down, his pallid face scant inches from hers. A few glistening beads of sweat stood out on his sallow upper lip, and his breath, smelling faintly of doughy pastry and sweet cream butter, danced lightly on the tip of her nose.

"You are in very serious trouble, Miss Stanhope. I fail to see anything amusing about your predicament whatsoever. Would you care to enlighten the rest of us?" He gestured at the rest of the group, who was watching them with morbid interest.

I doubt you find anything amusing about anything, she thought wryly. She prudently kept this thought to herself. To utter it aloud would be akin to performing Avada Kedavra on herself. Snape was far too constipated a man to appreciate or forgive such a retort. Oh, this line of thought was leading to the formation of most unwholesome images. Her mouth twitched, and she bit down on a wave of giddy laughter. Her jaw creaked with the effort.

"I´ll ask you again, Miss Stanhope, what is so amusing?" His voice was quiet, the bubbling, grinding, building hiss of faraway river water as it swelled to catastrophic rapids just before plunging over the falls.

She mustered the last flagging remnants of her self-control and sat as stiffly as a poker in her chair. "Nothing, sir," she said, passing a limp hand over her mouth to hide a final rebellious upturning of the corner of her lips. "Just an involuntary muscle spasm."

"Indeed. Are you laughing at me?" he asked in a queerly flat tone. His inkwell eyes were hard and speculative.

She sensed the tightly controlled anger behind his bland face and casual inflection, and the last vestiges of her amusement evaporated. "Absolutely not, sir." I would never be that damned stupid.

"Good. Most wise of you." He rose and resumed his journey to the Headmaster´s office.

The Headmaster stopped before the stone gargoyle and gave the password. Draco, she noted with private glee, was looking positively ill. Apparently, it had taken this long for the gravity of the situation to catch up with him. Bit slow on the uptake, then. Fred was still trying vainly to staunch the bleeding from his broken nose, and George was gingerly massaging the black and purple goose egg that had sprouted just below his eye. Seamus seemed to be mentally composing his last will and testament. His lips moved in silent prayer.

She felt bad for Seamus, sorry that he had gotten dragged into this. He hadn´t actually done anything, after all; his lunge at Goyle had missed by a good six inches. If he received punishment, it would essentially be for dropping his fork. The rest of them, herself included, were the ones who had started the whole thing, and they deserved whatever they had coming to them. It was a shame an innocent bystander had to go down with them. She shot him a sympathetic look and was rewarded with a thin smile. That was good. At least he wasn´t going to throttle her the minute Dumbledore let them go.

"Follow me now. Single file, no jostling. Quickly, quickly." Dumbledore disappeared in a scarlet flourish, and the others trailed dutifully in his wake.

She rode the spiral staircase for the second time in as many weeks. Now that she knew what to expect, it was really rather pleasant, and she took comfort in the knowledge that if the Levitation Charm should fail and send her crashing to her death, at least she´d take that bastard Snape with her. Her life would be well-spent. She smiled cheerfully in the dark.

The confines of the spiral staircase were very cramped, and as a result, Professor Snape was nearly standing on the back of her chair. The rub of his agonizingly starched robes across the back of her head was oddly comforting. If she hadn´t known all too well exactly who was standing behind her, she would have let her head sink into its rigid folds. It smelled of dust and allspice, a strangely homey smell. It was an incongruous feeling, being comforted by the presence of a man she was growing to fear and despise, and yet it was so, and she did not fight it. She had seen stranger things in this life.

Home and comfort were not two things usually associated with Severus Snape, and if he had known that Rebecca was harboring such thoughts about him, he would have regarded her with even more suspicion than he already held for her. As it was, he was too busy fulminating wrathfully on her infuriating impudence and damnable stubbornness. The finely-tuned wheels of his mind whirred as he prepared his accusations and proposed punishment. McGonagall would make things difficult; she always did. She was always interfering, always meddling in his attempts to see Gryffindors properly brought to task for their actions, especially when it came to the Potter boy. His eyes narrowed as he recalled the numerous scrapes and clashes he had had with Minerva over the years about Saint Potter and his merry band of juvenile delinquents. Each and every time he was sure he had finally found a foolproof way to at least see him upbraided or subjected to temporary removal from the Quidditch team, he always discovered a means to slip the noose at the last moment. Minerva was constantly excusing his atrocious behavior, sweeping it under the rug, treating it as a minor quibble. Albus was no small help in the matter, either, though he couldn´t go accusing the Headmaster and man who had given him a second chance at life of blatant favoritism, even if it was as prominent as the nose on your sallow face. That would not do.

Damn Potter. The boy was crucial to the defeat of Voldemort, perhaps its only hope, and the problem was, he knew it. With each year and each new spectacular defeat of the most powerful Dark wizard in history, he grew more quietly cocksure, more certain of his invincibility. Each year his flouting of rules that had been in place for millennia grew more brazen, more flagrant. The death of Cedric Diggory at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament last year had knocked him down a peg or two, but it wouldn´t last long. He would recover himself in a remarkably short period of time. Boys like him always did.

Now he had another stubborn, arrogant troublemaker on his hands. Well, he was going to take control of this one before things got out of hand. This one wasn´t going to get away with breaking the rules and trampling his authority as a teacher. He was going to break her back right here and now. She was going to learn to respect him and to toe the line if it killed her. Which, given her condition, might not be entirely out of the question.

That being said, he could more than guess what had happened. Whenever Malfoy and the Weasleys came together, trouble usually followed. No doubt Draco had decided to stir up a spot of trouble to start off his day and chosen the twins and Miss Stanhope as his target. The Weasleys had been his favorite sport since his arrival at Hogwarts; their poverty attracted his lazy malice the way a bright light attracted fluttering moths. He could no more stop tormenting them than the moths could avoid the light. It was a fundamental law of nature. Unfortunately for him, he had not taken the addition of stiff-necked Stanhope into account, and the end result had not turned out well for anyone involved.

Frankly, he was amazed by the action Stanhope had taken. He had looked up from his poached eggs and griddle cakes in time to see the white blur of her wiry hand dart out and smash the cinnamon bun into his smirking, unsuspecting face. He was so surprised that an unseemly grunt of astonishment had nearly escaped him. In all his years of glib bullying, no one besides Potter and his cronies had ever challenged young Malfoy. Most were content to tuck their tails between their legs and count themselves lucky. He would have wagered his salary that Stanhope would do the same. A person like her should keep as low a profile as possible, not draw dangerous attention to herself.

He had to admit, though, that he felt a miserly flicker of disgusted admiration for it. She had bollocks, that was certain. Whether she demonstrated any appreciable common sense was another issue. Draco was a vindictive little git; he would make sure she paid dearly for her little moment of glory. Whether he went running to his father and made an international incident of it, or whether he bided his time and struck without warning, he would extract his pound of flesh. No one ever laid their hands on a Malfoy without penalty.

Lucius. Damn, did this ever complicate matters. Leave it to Stanhope to create more trouble for him. Malfoy had struck a fellow student; moreover he had struck one who could not defend herself-at least that´s how it would look. He had a feeling she was tougher than she appeared. Evidently, if the reaction of his colleagues was any indication, he was alone in that belief. Whatever the case, there was no getting around this. Draco was going to be punished.

The only saving grace in this, the only thing which might allow him to keep his dignity as a teacher and stay out of trouble with Malfoy and Voldemort, was the fact that, as Slytherin Head of House, it would be up to him to determine that punishment. Suspension or expulsion was not an option. Even if the student involved were not so prominent as Draco, those possibilities would not be considered. Skirmishes between the Houses were not uncommon, though they usually entailed wands rather than fists and revolved around more pressing things like Quidditch, or catching your paramour snogging someone else in a darkened corridor. No matter the penalty he imposed, McGonagall would complain it was far too lax. That was all right; he had been defusing her ire for years and knew exactly which buttons to push with the fierce Gryffindor matriarch.

Rebecca was among the last to enter the Headmaster´s office, and she found that it no longer possessed any of its former inviting charm. The atmosphere in the room was thick with tension, laced with an undercurrent of fear. The Headmaster sat at his desk, solemn and silent. The other participants in the morning soiree of bedlam sat in front of the desk or stood at stiff attention, rocking back and forth on their heels. They studied the floor, hoping to divine their fortunes from the intricate pattern of the rich plum Oriental rug that carpeted the hard stone floor. Rebecca joined them, pulling alongside Fred to complete the motley crew that clustered before the silent, contemplative Dumbledore. The sleeve of Professor Snape´s robe slithered brusquely over her cheek as he swept past her to stand beside the desk, the gleeful executioner presenting his charges for sacrifice. McGonagall took up her post on the opposite side, her face taut and strained with anger and concern.

The door opened again, and Madam Pomfrey bustled in. Rebecca knew what was coming even before she saw the nurse make a beeline for her. She would have laughed had she not been so disgusted. Ignoring the bleeding noses and broken limbs of the other inhabitants of the room, the Mediwitch set about prodding and probing her face with gumption. It never failed. Otherwise sensible and level-headed medical professionals were reduced to tunnel-visioned mother hens anytime she happened to get so much as a surface scratch.

"Sorry, Fred. Looks like you´ll just have to bleed to death," she said drily.

Madam Pomfrey tutted, unappreciative of her humor. George snickered, wincing as his swelling bruise throbbed. Snape was not amused. "Silence," he snarled. "Your cheek is neither wanted nor advisable."

Neither is ignoring more severely injured students to make sure you don´t suffer your first bruise fatality. She was grateful for the temporary reprieve, though. It was an opportunity to think, and free from the oppressive weight of Professor Snape´s baleful stare, her nimble mind was hard at work exploring all the possibilities, examining them like bits of ore, discarding those that shone falsely beneath logic´s light and hoarding close those that twinkled with the promise of pardon. One in particular caught her eye.

It was not a rare gem, this thought that the eye of her mind seized upon so greedily. It was as old as infirmity, an ancient chestnut used by D.A.I.M.S. students since time immemorial. It was a weapon passed along from one generation to the next, covert information passed from the lips of one convict to another behind jailhouse doors, lore of the oldest, most reliable sort. It was unscrupulous, yes, but successful, and that was all that mattered. And if it could fool the trained eyes at D.A.I.M.S., there was little limit to what it could do among those who knew no better.

Are you really gonna do it? Her grandfather again.

I think so.

Think careful on this now. This isn´t fair t´the others.

One of the first things you ever taught me was that life wasn´t fair.

Yes, girl, I did, but I di´ not raise you to be like this.

Oh, yes, you did. Whether you meant to or not, you did. You told me to do whatever I had to to survive.

Yes, but to live always with honor and dignity. I never taught you to lie.

I want to stay here. It´s as simple as that. I´ll do whatever it takes. And if I can screw Malfoy in the process, all the better.

What about Fred, George, and Seamus? Are you goin´ t´leave them to Fate, then?

She looked at the three of them sitting in suffering silence and felt a pang of guilt. They had only gotten into this because of her, and it seemed wrong to leave them hanging now. The vision of Hogwarts fading into the twilight mist as the carriage returned her to the train station in Hogsmeade made her heart wrench. She wanted so badly to stay here. Torn between her desire and what was right, she saw Draco Malfoy´s face. The pendulum swung.

I can´t help them. Behind the face that was still being scrutinized by Madam Pomfrey, a draconian smile.

No better than Malfoy, then?

That jibe hit its mark. The draconian smile faded, replaced by uncertainty. It wouldn´t be like that.

Yes, it would. You think he gives a fig for those two slack-jawed toadies of his? Don´t you believe it. He´ll hang them out to dry faster than you can blink. You´ll do no better if you leave those three lads swinging in the wind.

She was better than Draco Malfoy, but the temptation was so strong. With just one little lie, she could slither from the noose and retreat to safety, where she could watch the arrogant snob get his comeuppance. But that would mean leaving her new friends behind, deserting like a rat from a foundering ship. What to do?

Maybe not, said the cold voice of self-preservation in her head. Maybe you can get them all out of trouble if you play your cards right. These people don´t know anything about you. You can weave whatever fairytale you wish, and unless Madam Pomfrey has amassed a great deal of knowledge in a very short time, they won´t be able to prove a thing.

Snape will. And Dumbledore. They´re not stupid.

No, but neither are you.

I´m smart enough to know I can´t outwit them.

You give yourself far too little credit. Listen, you´re right about Dumbledore. The man knows everything; he must have eyes in the back of his head and in places it is impolite to discuss. Snape is a different animal. He knows as little as the rest, no matter how much he thunders and blusters to the contrary.

That still leaves the Headmaster, she countered, determined to play this mental chessgame to the end.

It does, but that is a risk you will have to take. If it works, the payoff will be enormous.

If it doesn´t, I´ll have the rest of my life to think about it.

Are you a gambler or not?

At long, blessed last, Madam Pomfrey pronounced her verdict-she would live.

"What an earth-shattering observation," observed Snape flatly. Madam Pomfrey shot him a wounded, offended glance.

Rebecca felt like clapping and cheering. For once, she and Snape were of the same mind. "Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," she said. If she didn´t, she was going to laugh.

"You´re welcome, dear," she sniffed.

It took no time at all for the assorted injuries of the others to be remedied. With a swish and flick of her wand, Pomfrey mended Fred´s broken nose, George´s swollen lump, and-much to Rebecca´s disappointment-Malfoy´s broken hand.

Pomfrey replaced her wand and straightened. She turned to Dumbledore, who had watched the proceedings without a word. "Will you be needing anything else, sir?"

"No, no, Poppy. You´ve done a splendid job. Thank you," he assured her warmly.

Madam Pomfrey left, shooting Snape a take-that-you-cad look before closing the door.

"Now," the Headmaster said when she was gone, "who would like to tell me precisely what happened this morning?" All the warmth had left his voice.

Feet shuffled. McGonagall tapped a rolled parchment on the palm of her hand. Snape straightened his robes and sneered, daring someone to step forward. Sand shifted through the hourglass behind the desk. Fawkes sedately ruffled his feathers.

Finally, Rebecca raised a wavering hand. "I would, sir." From the corner of her eye, she saw Snape lean forward, a panther gathering its haunches to spring. She took a deep breath. "It was an accident, sir." The die was cast.

"An accident?" The Headmaster sat back in his chair and pushed his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose.

Here goes nothing. "Yes, sir. You see, Malfoy and I got into a spat on the train, and he was bringing me the cinnamon bun as a peace offering. Unfortunately, just as I reached out to accept his generous gift, I had a spasm and smashed it into his face."

Draco was on his feet. "That´s a lie! She hit me deliberately," he protested, jabbing an emphatic finger in her direction.

"Please sit down, Mr. Malfoy," said Dumbledore calmly. "Now, what were you doing by the Gryffindor table then, if not making a peace offering as Miss Stanhope claims?"

Malfoy opened his mouth and closed it with a snap. She could see his mind working as he tried to make sense of this unexpected turn of events. His eyes narrowed, and then he said, "I was going to offer the cinnamon bun as a peace offering, sir, that´s true, but she laughed at me, and then she hit me with the bun." He was trembling with outrage.

"Are you absolutely certain it was deliberate, Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore asked shrewdly.

"Well...yes," he said, thrusting out his narrow chin.

"An odd reaction to a peace offering, don´t you think?"

"Stanhope hasn´t exactly acted as one would expect since her arrival, Headmaster," Snape interjected quietly. "Non-traditional House placement, a house elf, specialized equipment. Perhaps all the preferential treatment has caused her to believe she need not adhere to school rules. A lesson to the contrary may be in order."

Dumbledore pushed up his sleeves and looked at the looming Potions Master. "Ah, did you see what happened, Severus?" he asked. "Good. At last we can get to the truth of the matter."

Snape´s mouth thinned. "Unfortunately, no, Headmaster. I was enjoying my breakfast. I looked up in time to see Draco´s retaliatory action."

"Then you cannot say for certain whether or not Stanhope acted with malice?"

Snape´s mouth pursed, as though he had bitten into a particularly sour lemon. "No, but I think it can be safely inferred that-,"

"From some of my conduct, it could be safely inferred that I was mad as a hatter," interrupted Dumbledore placidly. "No, we must stick with the facts at hand, and so far the only fact we have indisputably established is that Mr. Malfoy was attempting a peace offering." At this, he eyed both Draco and Rebecca skeptically. "We have yet to ask anyone else what happened. Fred? George?"

The twins exchanged glances. Rebecca´s duplicity had caught them off guard. They were merry pranksters, accustomed to innocent fun and harmless frivol. Lying to the Headmaster, a man they respected very much, was not something they had never considered, and yet the choice stood before them now. If they told the truth and contradicted Rebecca, she would be in a world of trouble, possibly facing expulsion. If they went along with the ruse and were discovered, they would be in hock themselves, and with their father an employee at the Ministry, they could expect trouble at home.

Honestly, they couldn´t understand what she was up to. Why hadn´t she just told the truth? It would have been no worse for them if she had. They had thrown punches; they would get detention and letters sent home to their parents, no matter how well-intentioned their part in the melee had been. Lying complicated matters exponentially. They did not know yet her penchant for holding a venomous grudge, nor did they comprehend the lengths to which she would go to see her enemies swing. If they had, their fondness for her would have been profoundly tempered. They didn´t find out until much later, and by then it was far too late.

"Yes, sir?" they said, trying to buy time and gather their thoughts.

"You were there. What happened?"

"It was just as she said, sir," George answered.

"Headmaster, this is ridiculous. These boys are clearly lying to protect her." Snape was pacing like a caged wildcat beside the desk, staring at Rebecca with undisguised loathing.

This brought McGonagall to her feet. "Don´t be ridiculous, Professor Snape. Fred and George Weasley are mischievous and more than a little lax, but they are not now, nor have they ever been liars. What reason would they have to lie, especially for Stanhope?"

Snape gave a lopsided, smug smile. "For the same reason that you saw fit to try and send her to the Hospital Wing for a simple bruise."

Dumbledore cut off McGonagall´s retort. "Crabbe? Goyle? Seamus? Have you anything to add?"

Crabbe and Goyle, lost without Draco´s guidance, could only make incoherent noises of confusion and shake their heads. Seamus merely shrugged. The less he said, the better, in his opinion.

Dumbledore sat back in his chair and sighed. "It seems we have reached an impasse. Somewhere in all this lies the truth, but if no one is willing to stand up for it, then you leave me no choice but turn the matter over to your Heads of Houses for punishment."

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. "Well, I think it´s obvious that Miss Stanhope deserves no reprimand. She´s been through enough trauma already. She clearly meant no harm."

"Whether she meant to inflict harm or not is irrelevant," countered Snape coolly. "The fact remains that she did, and for that she must be punished."

"But she cannot help it if her body does something beyond her control."

"A drunk man often cannot control his mouth. Does that give him the right to behave like an ass at a pub, perhaps start a bar brawl? And if today was a small example of the sort of mishap that can happen when she loses control of herself, then I strongly suggest we re-evaluate having her here in the first place. Would you accept responsibility if she happens to blow up three-quarters of the school because of her lack of control?"

"That´s hardly fair," she sniffed.

"Neither is letting her escape punishment simply because she is disabled," he pointed out.

"Professor Snape is right. No matter how unfortunate the circumstances, I´m afraid Miss Stanhope must take responsibility for her part in the affair. Therefore, you must render a decision, Professor McGonagall."

Snape inclined his head in agreement, a triumphant smirk upon his lips. McGonagall thought for a moment, rubbing her hands together slowly. "I suppose a detention is in order, as well as a letter to her parents," she said at last.

"Very well," Dumbledore said, looking relieved that this mess was nearing an end. "As for the others?" He nodded in the direction of the twins and Seamus.

"The same. I see no reason for a deduction of House points. They were reacting to what they saw as a threat to a vulnerable fellow student."

"Professor Snape, what do you plan to do about members of your House that took part in this incident?" asked the Headmaster, whose eyes were slowly regaining their customary twinkle.

"I think a letter to the parents will be sufficient for all three boys," he said smoothly.

McGonagall was immediately outraged. "Absolutely not! If Miss Stanhope is to take responsibility for her actions, then Mr. Malfoy must take responsibility for his," she fumed.

"But Malfoy was only acting in self-defense. He was not the aggressor here." Snape´s voice was almost too low to be heard.

"Defense against what? A cinnamon bun? Merlin, I had no idea they were such a deadly weapon," McGonagall shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Dumbledore held up his hands in a placatory gesture. "Professors, please." Both fell silent and turned to look at him. "Professor McGonagall is right. You cannot have it both ways, Severus; if you insist on Miss Stanhope shouldering part of the blame, then young Mr. Malfoy must bear his share as well. What will it be?"

"I suppose a detention is in order," Snape muttered in a tone that suggested he would rather pass a kidney stone. "Goyle will receive detention and a letter. There is no evidence to show that Crabbe was involved at all, and therefore I find punishment unnecessary."

Dumbledore nodded. "Agreed. Is that arrangement satisfactory, Professor McGonagall?"

McGonagall, looking as though nothing short of public flagellation would do, gave a curt nod. "Yes, Headmaster."

"Excellent. Then I consider this matter closed. All students may proceed to their classes, but I must ask you, Professors, to remain behind a moment." He smiled at the students. "Off you go."

When the students were gone, Snape turned to Dumbledore, his cold black eyes darting to the hourglass behind his desk. "Headmaster, it is nearly time for the first class of the day. I have never been late for a single lesson in my life, not even as a student, and I do not intend to allow the actions of a few undisciplined Gryffindors to change that."

"Need I remind you that Gryffindor was not the only House involved?" McGonagall bristled, her eyes flashing dangerously behind her spectacles.

"Not to worry, Severus, you will both be in your classrooms on time, I assure you. I only wanted to ask that you both refrain from squabbling in front of the students. It won´t do to have the very people charged with teaching and caring for them acting like one of them. In the future, please keep all disagreements between yourselves and behind closed doors. Is that clear?"

"Of course, Headmaster," came McGonagall´s contrite reply. "It won´t happen again." Snape´s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

"Severus?"

Snape gave a curt nod and looked impatiently at the hourglass again.

"All right, Severus. That is all." Snape was gone before Dumbledore´s lips had fully closed.

"Good day, Headmaster," said McGonagall politely, scowling disapprovingly at the space where Snape had been. Then she was gone, stalking briskly from the room with a derisive snort.

When she was gone, Dumbledore sighed and gently kneaded his temples with his fingertips. That had been the most disagreeable fracas he´d had to sort out in some years, the worst since a young Hufflepuff named Aloyiusius McGriff had tried to romance an unwilling Ravenclaw sixth-year named Dominia Crowler ten years ago. A mess that had been. This had been little better. His two finest professors fighting like truculent first-years hadn´t helped. Merlin. He was used to a certain amount of stubborn petulance from Snape, but Minerva´s behavior had been shocking, a far cry from her usually calm, level-headed demeanor. She had been hostile and accusatory, outright baiting Snape more than once. Odd.

Part of her defensiveness stemmed, no doubt, from a strong desire to protect Stanhope. He couldn´t say he blamed her. He himself felt that impulse every time he looked at her and saw her withered frame perched in that rolling armchair like a dried-apple doll. She was undeniably fragile, held together, it seemed by bull-headed optimism. It was all he could do not to enfold her in powerful protective magic and hide her in the safety of his office.

Yet...yet. He was not entirely convinced that everything about her was as it appeared. There were times, like his first interview with her and the meeting just now, when he sensed incredible power in her. Not magical power, no; he had seen scores of pupils with far more magical power than her, but an indefinable aura of staunch intractability, of staggering recalcitrance. Severus sensed it, too, which was probably why she was driving him insane. It was a sort of joie de guerre. The greater the conflict, the more vital she grew. Her mind thrived on the pressure. It was astounding, really.

He slowly spun her chair away from the wall, meandering along the train of his thoughts. He hoped she could hold up. Whether she was aware of it or not, the world around her was about to be plunged into unspeakable upheaval. She was going to need every ounce of that steel-spined stubbornness just to survive. So would they all. He smiled sadly, watching thoughtfully as the Sneakoscope hidden on the wall wobbled dreamily in the stillness.

Unaware of the rumination going on several floors above her head, Rebecca rolled in the direction of Arithmancy with Professor Vector. Though she was disappointed not to have wiggled out of punishment entirely, she was relieved to know that neither she nor her friends would be on the next train home. All in all, it had been worth it to smash that cinnamon bun into Malfoy´s face.

A shadow fell over her as she rolled. She recognized the sharp, cruel tap of hard-soled boots behind her. "Miss Stanhope."

"Yes, Professor Snape?" She stopped and turned to face him.

His pale hand reached out to clamp her shoulder in a vise grip. "I suppose you think you were terribly clever in there?"

Instinctively, she put up her protective walls. He was livid. "I don´t know what you mean, sir," she answered, honestly perplexed.

He bent down so that they were nose to nose. His hand squeezed her shoulder, the closely cropped nails digging into her robes. His eyes were flat, unreadable pools. The smell of allspice was positively cloying. "Oh, yes. Yes...you...do." He enunciated each word as though it were a terrible curse. "And I promise you, child, I´ll make sure you pay for it."

She could only gawk at him in stunned silence. He was gripping her shoulder so tightly that her arm burned and throbbed, and a heavy numbness was rippling down her arm in an icy wave. "Professor Snape, please, sir you´re hurting me," she said, trying desperately to keep an edge of panic out of her voice.

He looked at her scornfully for a moment, and then his gaze fell on his hand ruthlessly grinding the thin bones of her shoulder together. He jerked away from her as though struck by a Tingling Curse, and for just a moment she saw the look of dazed horror on his face. Then the blank wall came crashing down again. He stood up and straightened his robe with the offending hand. His fingers twitched, and he rubbed them compulsively against his palm, as though trying to rid them of a particularly noisome bit of muck or an invisible stain. "I´ll see you in detention, Miss Stanhope," he said stiffly. He swung away from her and stalked toward his classroom, running his long fingers through his lank hair as he disappeared.

Arithmamcy was her favorite subject. It was a discipline of the mind. It really didn´t require a body, per se. As long as you understood the concepts involved, you could be a talking head. Professor Vector was an annoyance. His voice got in the way of her intense concentration, and so she tuned him out. As his voiced faded, so did the sharp, pulsing ache in her shoulder. She wandered the inner corridors of her mind, letting the incantations swirl through her consciousness, picking up the luminous threads of the unlimited maybes of the world and holding their shimmering ends in her hands and letting them fall. She never looked at them, never explored the kernels of glowing possibility they held. She understood the danger in that, the tantalizing, seductive power in holding all the worlds that could be in her hands. It was enough for now to know that she could.

By lunch, the pain in her shoulder was a hammering spike. She had trouble just bringing her fork or goblet to her mouth, and when Fred inadvertently jostled her reaching for another slice of kidney pie, she bit her tongue to hold back a scream. She should have gone to Pomfrey, but she was too afraid to ruffle Snape´s feathers again today. She tried to move it as little as possible and preoccupied herself by drinking goblet after goblet of pumpkin juice. Sooner than she would have liked, it was time to make the grudging trip to the dungeons where she spent so much of her time.

She should have gone to the Hospital Wing and let Madam Pomfrey fuss over her. She should have turned tail and run to the safety of Gryffindor Tower, to the comfort of Winky and her solicitous little voice. She should have done anything but step into the Potions classroom that afternoon. She knew it as soon as she crossed the threshold into the dismal, musty room. Her neck went taut, and the sensitive skin there prickled in rough gooseflesh. Snape´s seething anger permeated the room, clinging to the walls like a thick wool blanket. Get out of here, her mind whispered, but it was too late. Snape had already seen her. She pulled up to her desk and tried to ignore the knot of unease cramping her too-full stomach.

He was more cutting, vicious, and vituperative than she had ever seen him. He stalked around the classroom snarling and snapping at anyone within range. Even the Slytherins were on the brunt of his steel velvet tongue; he reduced a gangly fifth-year girl to sniveling tears for the minute infraction of letting her spoon clank against her cauldron. The room was stifling with the tension. Even Malfoy was quiet.

He was unrelenting. He criticized every aspect of her potion, from its consistency to its color to the way she ground her thyme. If he could, she was sure he would reprimand her manner of breathing. To compound the problem, the pain her arm was a ravenous, sawing throb. Each motion of her hand sent a bolt of agony clawing from her shoulder to her wrist. She gritted her teeth against it, knowing she would receive no quarter from Snape today.

Though he was as demanding as ever, she sensed a subtle change in him. He was reluctant to come near her, keeping at least three feet between them, his customary crowding loom forgotten. It was strange to see him like that after two weeks of growing to know his moods and habits. He was betraying nothing, as stern and tight-lipped as ever, but his moments were uneasy around her, stiff and ungraceful. Is he that angry at me? she thought, or is he afraid? Now that was an odd thought. Professor Snape wasn´t the type to be easily spooked as far as she could see. Had the incident in the corridor upset him that much?

Things might have turned out all right in spite of Snape´s infectious gloom if her bladder hadn´t chosen just that moment to protest against the massive quantity of pumpkin juice she had so unwisely quaffed at lunch. The tight heaviness in her groin made her wince. Please not now. She could hold out. Asking Snape if she could be excused to the bathroom was handing him an engraved invitation to embarrassment and ridicule. Not to mention the fun Draco would have with such an announcement. He would laugh and hoot himself sick, and Snape sure as hell wasn´t going to do anything to stop him.

Twenty minutes later, the urge to urinate was overwhelming. Her bladder and shoulder were singing in tandem, and she was nauseated with the dull weight in her lower belly. If she didn´t go to the bathroom soon, she was going to have an accident. She raised her hand.

It was five long minutes before Professor Snape´s oil slick eyes flicked upward, one eyebrow arching in bored inquiry. "Yes, Miss Stanhope?"

"Please. Sir, may I go to the restroom? Her earlobes burned.

The predictable guffaw came from Draco, perched in his corner like a malevolent, gilded falcon. From Snape there was silence, the granite white mask of his face impenetrable to her careful scrutiny. Ghostly hands rubbed together with a dry hiss. "To the bathroom?" Thoughtful. The heads of her fellow students lifted from the steaming vapors and swiveled to watch the dance that was rapidly becoming commonplace between them. This time, they had joined the dance in the middle and seemed to know it. She knew it, too. Draco was watchful in his corner. Beside her, Neville Longbottom´s nostrils flared delicately, like a hare scenting the first acrid plumes of brushfire smoke.

"Yes, sir, the bathroom." One, two, three, one, two, three.

"You were at lunch before this?" He walked with slow deliberation from behind his lectern. Turn and step. Careful not to trip.

"Yes, sir." One, two. Dull heat radiated from her anguished bladder.

"Then you had more than ample time to go to the lavatory." Spin, step.

"Yes, sir, but I did not have to go then." One.

"I am not responsible for your lack of anticipation or your poor judgment. Your lack of foresight is your problem. You may not waste my valuable time traipsing off to the loo." The dancers broke apart. Snape´s attention returned to his lectern.

The next twenty minutes were a blur of breathless prayer and uncomfortable shifting as she put up a Herculean effort to stem the swelling tide sloshing ominously inside her overtaxed bladder and kidneys. Her groin clenched to hold back its restless contents. Aggravated by the tension thrumming through her body in a ceaseless rush, her shoulder sang an aria of protest. A warning spasm jolted her, and against her better judgment, she raised her hand again.

Snape looked at her expressionlessly for a full three minutes before acknowledging her. "Yes?"

"Sir, I really need to use the bathroom."

He set his quill down with a quiet click. "I believe we have discussed this matter already. You made the decision not to go when you had the opportunity. Now you will live with the consequences of that decision."

"But, sir-,"

"Ten points for your obstinacy. If you ask me again, we shall return to the Headmaster´s office forthwith."

It happened while she was macerating her newt eggs in vinegar. There was a rippling convulsion and then the warm gush of liquid over her thighs and down her legs. The only thing she could think was, Please don´t let them hear the piss dribbling onto the floor. Let Neville blow something to kingdom come. But for once in his life, Neville was breezing through his Potions assignment. His cauldron remained intact. Everyone heard the hissing patter of hot urine dribbling onto the floor.

Neville, being closest to her, was the first to notice. He looked at her, then down at the rapidly expanding pungent pool beneath her chair. His eyes rounded in surprise, and she saw his far hand pull the hem of his robe from the threatening puddle as it seeped outward. Though he tried to hide it, a flash of disgust crossed his face. Then sympathy surfaced. God bless you, Neville Longbottom.

Draco, who had seen everything, called out in a shrill, triumphant voice, "Professor Snape, Rebecca´s soiled herself."

Snape, busy demolishing the work of a young Gryffindor girl on the opposite side of the room, replaced the ladle he had been holding in the cauldron and stalked over, his eyes glittering. As he drew closer, his sensitive nose twitched, curling when it detected the pungent, citric, unmistakable reek of piss.

"What is the meaning of this, Stanhope?" he hissed, his face a rictus of revulsion as he peered at the urine on the floor and then back at her.

"I´m sorry, sir," she whispered, dropping her gaze from his burning face, "I just couldn´t hold it any more."

"Once more your lack of control has caused a calamity. You´ve...defiled my classroom. There are no words in the human language to express my disgust. First you attempt to make me look foolish in front of the Headmaster with your fanciful tales, and now you void your bladder all over my room. I have had enough of your behavior." He conjured a bucket and scrub brush and dropped it onto her lap. "Clean it up."

"But-,"

"You don´t expect me to do it? I´m not your mother; I am under no obligation to coddle you. Clean it before your classmates become ill from breathing this stench."

"But sir, I can´t reach the ground from my chair with this brush."

"Then I suppose you´ll just have to get down on your knees and do it," he said with a nasty smirk.

"But-,"

"Now," he hissed through clenched teeth. When she hesitated still longer, he roared, "NOW!"

She pulled her chair away from the puddle and turned to face it. It glowed eerily in the torchlight. It was almost beautiful. She turned the chair off, unclasped her safety belt, put the bucket on the floor, gripped the armrest with shaking hands, and pushed herself forward. She fell out of the chair in an ungainly flop, landing less than an inch from the terrible golden pool.

The pain from the impact was paralyzing, and she lay on the cold stone floor a moment, listening to the snickering laughter of the Slytherin side of the room. Then Snape´s tailored leather boot appeared at the edge of her vision. His voice, a feathery lash from above. "Well? What are you waiting for? If you´re worried about getting filthy, it´s a bit late for that. Draco´s strident laugh cut through the cottony silence. Snape´s boots clacked and disappeared from her line of sight.

She pushed herself up on one elbow and reached into the pail for the scrub brush. "Sir? I need water."

Snape pulled out his wand. "Aparecium water!" He went back to his desk.

This close, the jungly smell of cold urine was overpowering, and she struggled to breathe through her mouth. The golden ends of her hair dipped into the puddle and grew sodden and sticky. The rough stone of the floor bit into her elbow like an auger, and she could feel it rubbing raw as the worn stone scoured it.

Ten minutes later, the class was dismissed, and they filed past her, some clucking sympathetically, but most studiously avoiding looking at her hunched, struggling body. She saw Harry Potter shoot Snape an ugly look, but he left without a word. Draco lingered as he left, grinning down at her. Suddenly, his foot jerked out and kicked over the bucket, spilling freezing water across the floor.

"I´m so sorry, Professor," he said in mock horror. "It was an accident."

"Not to worry, Mr. Malfoy," said Snape calmly.

Draco swaggered out the door. She watched him leave with a barely concealed snarl. Had her wand been close at hand, she would have hexed him into oblivion without hesitation, but it was trapped beneath the voluminous folds of her urine-soaked robes, and she was so tired that her aim would have been markedly off. She concentrated on scrubbing the floor, an impossible task now that her water had been spilled.

Her back ached dully from the exertion of holding herself out of the now-freezing urine. She was so cold; the stone floor was leeching the heat from her skin with parasitic greed. Back and forth. Back and forth. The bristles of the scrub brush grated across the floor laboriously, rheumatically. Her shoulder creaked, keeping the time of her punishment like a macabre internal clock, each jab of pain ticking off the seconds.

All the while, she knew Snape was watching her with those mesmerizing, dead eyes, drinking in her suffering like the finest vintage. His presence was as silent and painful as old memory, and she tried to block him from her thoughts, adding another layer to the unscalable walls of her defenses. I hate you, she thought. Then with more conviction, I despise you. Her frail body trembled with the force of feeling. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she choked back a cry of frustrated defiance.

Keep your back stiff, girl. Don´ give in to him, came her grandfather´s voice.

"Like hell," she said, her voice too low for even Snape to hear.

Snape was indeed watching her, but he felt no triumph as he stood over her just beyond the range of her sight. He should have. He should be congratulating himself on bringing another enemy low, but instead there was only a smoldering irritation tinged with...worry. Something was wrong with her, though he couldn´t say just what. During the gross amount of time he´d spent with her, he had grown familiar with her odd movements and physical quirks. She wasn´t moving the way she should. Her scrubbing arm was too tentative, too narrow in its arc.

His mind returned to their meeting in the hallway. He had grabbed her. On that very shoulder. He hadn´t meant to. In fact, until she´d spoken, he hadn´t known he was holding her at all. The only thing he remembered was a white-hot fury at the smug way she´d told a bold-faced lie in the Headmaster´s office. The next thing he could recall after that was her frightened face and her voice, small and apprehensive. His mouth went dry.

"Miss Stanhope," he said gruffly, "stop."

The motion of her arm paused in mid-arc, and she looked up at him with a fogged-mirror gaze. "Sir?" Her voice was flat.

He squatted on his haunches beside her. He had to see. "Hold out your arm."

She didn´t move. She was contemplating him, assessing the risk. He saw her eyes dart around the silent room, registering the fact that they were alone, that she was alone with the man that hated her more than anything else. Her small, wasted fingers unfurled from around the brush one by one, and the tiny arm slowly stretched out for his inspection.

He rolled up the sleeve of her robe and fought hard to stifle a groan of dismay at what he saw. The flesh of her shoulder was puffy, and the skin was already ripening from an angry pink to a light purple. By tonight, it would be a deep black. The outline of a hand was clearly visible. His hand.

"Stay still," he ordered, and got to his feet. He left her and retreated to his Potions cupboard. He could feel her inquisitive eyes on his back. Not doubt she was deciding whether or not he was going poison her. Tempting, but no. He rummaged around until he came upon the topical analgesic. From the looks of that arm, she needed it, and whether he gave a damn for her or not, it was his responsibility to see that she was cared for.

He returned to her side. "Your arm," he said briskly.

She eyed the bottle of brackish brown liquid dubiously. Then the arm extended. He noted the soft grunt of pain the action produced. He gripped the thin wrist presented to him with gentle dexterity. He could feel the brittle bones just beneath the skin and the hot flutter of her pulse as blood rushed through paper-thin veins toward her heart. She is so small, a thing of paper and prayer, he thought with dark amazement. Then, Yes, and she deserves no better treatment than anyone else.

And no worse.

He opened the bottle with a deft motion of his thumb, and dripped a few drops of the astringent liquid onto the bruise. She hissed as the stinging ointment made contact. "Stop whinging," he barked, irritated by her ingratitude. He recapped the bottle and set it on the floor. Then he reached out and softly massaged the decoction into the skin, shooting her an irascible scowl when she flinched. "You may go," he said when he was finished.

"But the floor..."

He pulled out his wand, nonchalantly muttered a Disappearing Charm, and the mess evaporated. "I´ll see you in detention, Miss Stanhope."

"Sir, I can´t get back in my chair without help. Permission to use magic?"

"No." Another wave of the wand, and he Levitated her into her chair. "Miss Stanhope?" he said when she turned to go. She paused, her hand dancing lightly on the guiding stick of her chair. "It is within your rights as a student to file a report with the Headmaster about your injury, both how it happened and who was responsible," he said diffidently. There. He´d done it. He´d given her the weapon with which to destroy his career.

Rebecca sat in her chair and looked at the Potions Master standing in front of her. His hands were clasped behind his back, his feet wide apart. His face was a careful mask. He reminded her of a Puritan minister, all staid blackness and spartan efficiency. Sinners in the hands of an angry God, she thought nonsensically.

The proverbial sword dangled precariously over his head, and with the purposeful forward push of her hand, she could send it down upon him. The question was, did she want to? If she did, it would only cement his suspicion that she was out to make trouble for him. If she didn´t, there was the risk that his behavior could escalate.

Do you really think so?

Oddly, she didn´t. He was ruthless vindictive, petty, and cruel, but he was far from stupid. Why would he waste his time and jeopardize his career beating on a pitiful cripple? He wouldn´t; he would be more cunning, more subtle.

Well, if you keel over in a few minutes, your theory will be proven correct, her subconscious piped up. You did let him daub you with that potion.

Yes, she had. Nobody knew about it but the two of them. If she collapsed in the hallway, none would be the wiser. Still if he were going to poison her, he wouldn´t be thick-headed enough to send her to the Headmaster. He wasn´t exuding triumphant malevolence, either. Rather, she sensed something akin to contrition. It wasn´t remorse; she doubted that he was capable of such a thing. It was more like self-disgust that he had overstepped a self-imposed boundary he´d sworn never to cross. So, did she want to?

Yes, she thought savagely, her hatred for him swelling in her heart like pus in an abscessed tooth. The galling lust for revenge coated her mouth like ash.

An image arose in her mind of him squatting beside her. For an instant, just after he had rolled up her sleeve, she´d seen a litany of emotion cross his face-surprise, concern, and a flash of self-castigation so stark it had made her stomach drop. The gentle prodding of his fingers as he massage the medicine into her skin. There had been no malice in his touch, only cool efficiency and calm thoroughness. He had not tried to hurt her further. Did she really want to destroy him simply because she could?

This is your first brush with true power. What will you do with it?

The question hung in the air. "I don´t think that will be necessary, sir. Accidents happen. I bruise easily, something of which I´m sure you weren´t aware." She swallowed, and the taste of ash was gone.

He looked at her for a very long moment, gauging her intentions. "If it should hurt you again, go at once to Madam Pomfrey."

"Yes, sir."

He opened the door to the classroom and stood aside. "In the future, Miss Stanhope, use the lavatory before class. I will tolerate no more accidents of this nature."

"Yes, sir." With a soft motion of her finger on the navigation stick, she was gone.

Severus Snape closed the door and leaned heavily against it, resting his head against the cool wood. He took several deep, steadying breaths and then went to his desk, where a pile of third-year essays waited to be marked. He pulled the stack to him, sat down, stabbed his quill into the inkwell, and began to work.

Infuriating chit, he thought uncharitably, trying to decide whether he was angrier at himself for his egregious lack of self-discipline, or at her for her appallingly Gryffindor display of mercy. There was nothing worse in the world than owing your enemy.

Soon, the merciless slashing of a sharpened quill on parchment filled the room, and eventually, his mind.