Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Nine

Care of Magical Creatures was an interesting affair to say the least. There weren´t any other words to describe the experience of grooming a Borgergup as far as Rebecca was concerned. By the time it was over, there would be plenty-hell, controlled pandemonium, the best exercise since Quidditch-but without the blessing of foresight, interesting was all she had.

Only Hagrid seemed unaware of the folly of such a thing. He announced his plan with gusto, beaming around at them as though he had just announced that they would all be receiving top marks for the rest of the term. He was stone deaf to the groans of consternation as he called each pair up to claim their Borgergup from the crate by his feet. In fact, he hummed and clapped each student on the shoulder as they passed.

"Be fun, this will," he chortled. "They love a good bath. We´ll be filing their toenails, too."

No one had the heart to point out that the Borgergups hadn´t seemed to like any of their previous baths. They got one at the end of every session to rid them of the perpetual streams and clots of vomit with which they coated themselves, and they fought it every time. Viciously. They scratched, scrabbling at exposed arms with dagger-tipped feet. They bit, sinking needle-sharp teeth into careless fingertips. When all else failed, they projectile-vomited into the face of their enemy and scurried to the temporary shelter of the rocks dotted around the paddock. Only a great deal of sweat, swearing, and straining corralled them again. Each day saw a troupe of students trekking dispiritedly to Madam Pomfrey´s for first aid, dirt smeared on their faces like the mark of war. The next battle in the endless campaign was about to begin.

"Are you ready?" she asked Seamus, speaking out of one side of her mouth so Hagrid wouldn´t hear.

His only response was an incredulous snort that said more than words ever could have. She found herself agreeing wholeheartedly. She loved Hagrid dearly, but she was regretting ever having made Mischief´s acquaintance. She had enough bumps, bruises, aches, and pains without a smattering of burning claw marks and assorted teeth marks beneath her nail beds. Snape alone had introduced her to a cornucopia of new discomforts.

The thought of Snape brought to mind the memory of the livid black bruise that currently festooned her shoulder. Her fingers crept to her shoulder to steal over the secret mark beneath her robes. Though it hadn´t pained her since Professor Snape had applied his mystery ointment, it was quite visible. Winky had been beside herself when she saw it. Rebecca´s explanation that a student had given it to her while trying to keep himself from falling had been absolutely useless. The little elf had seen right through it, and only her frantic pleas that she was more afraid of the Hospital Wing than of the dull black blemish on her pallid shoulder had convinced her not to drag her charge to Madam Pomfrey at once.

A faint scowl creased her forehead. She didn´t want to think about it. It was too unpleasant; she still felt the phantom grip of his hand, and after battling Judith this morning, she didn´t have the energy to relive it just yet. At the mention of her name, Judith´s forlorn, determined memory tried to well up again, but the presence of others had deprived her of much of her potency, and after a brief struggle, she retreated to await her next opportunity at resurrection.

"Here y´are, Rebecca," Hagrid greeted her, and he plopped the warm ball of Borgergup onto her lap. He clapped her on the back, predictably striking her directly in the center of the bruise. Though there was no pain, she instinctively flinched, anticipating what logic told her must exist. Hagrid grew serious. "A´right, Rebecca?"

"Oh, erm, yes. It´s just, I fell out of bed this morning. Shouldn´t have tried to get up without Winky." She mustered what she hoped was a convincing smile.

"No you shouldn´t," he agreed emphatically. "Very foolish of you."

"Yes, sir," she murmured. Being brought to task by the usually placid Hagrid was a new experience, and judging by the nonplussed expressions on the faces of her classmates, she wasn´t in much company. Still, it wasn´t all that bad. Not when compared to Snape, anyway.

He gave her a long, searching look, as though trying to think of something else to say. Then he nodded. "A´right. But if you start feeling worse, you see Madam Pomfrey at once. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Of you go, then."

She returned to her place, grateful to have escaped from beneath his kindly, querying gaze. It was maddening, the well-meaning sympathy. It drove her to distraction. She knew the teachers were only trying to be helpful, but all they really succeeded in doing was setting her further apart from the rest, cutting her off from the vital protection and support of the others as quickly and efficiently as a pack of jackals singling out a lame zebra for the kill. They might as well hang a neon sign that screamed Vulnerable! Different! over her head.

Go see Madam Pomfrey if it gets worse. It was almost a religious benediction, a common phrase in the daily medical liturgy that was her life. Even Snape had said it. It was as though Pomfrey, with her white smock and tri-cornered hat, was the high priestess of health, the all-knowing seer who could remedy every ill with a wave of her wand. Nothing was further from the truth, and the teachers, burdened as they were with infinitely more life experience than her, should have known it.

It was funny, she mused, the way people put so much faith in doctors. In nurses. In medicine. Such blind faith. Maybe it was the white uniforms. Maybe that was it. Maybe they saw the gleaming white smocks and pristine lab coats and mistook them for miracle workers, for holy emissaries of the Divine Being, capable of healing all wounds and righting all wrongs. Maybe that´s what they all wanted-needed-to see, to believe. Maybe the truth was too horrible.

She knew the truth, had seen it. Soldiers and cripples all over the world had. Doctors and nurses knew nothing. What they did was the same as what Sybil Trelawney, with all her incense and warped crystal balls did. What Professors Vector and Sinistra did. They guessed. They made it look good; of course they did. Got to give the people what they paid for. They poked and prodded and theorized, and they hid their lack of knowledge behind the ritualistic clack and beep of machines and the comforting, mystic drone of medispeak.

The uninitiated, the occasional interloper into the sacred and treacherously clean otherworld of medicine, was fooled, remaining blithely ignorant of what lay behind the sterile plastic curtain. And it was better for them that way. The rational, just inhabitants of the world of walking upright would have been driven mad by the grim reality.

Doctors were helpless, really. Sometimes, they guessed incorrectly, and even when they guessed right, the choice was out of their hands. They could pray and they could hope, they could jab with needles and inoculate with their strange potions, but in the end all they could do was watch. Nothing, not even their laboratory-born magic, could win every round. Usually they lost more than they gained. They considered it a good day if they broke even.

It was never pretty when they lost, not for them, and especially not for their patient. No one ever went quietly. Self-preservation was strong, even in the bodies of those for whom life held no more joy. They fought until the last, hands clawing and scrabbling wildly atop the thin, bone-white coverlet. They drew ragged breath after ragged breath, craving the air even as it stank of their own rot. Even when consciousness left them, they fought, the primordial center of their brain refusing to surrender to the inevitable. They kept breathing and pissing long after the bewildered shamans had packed away their magic stones and dried goat´s testicles and headed for the cleaner, safer territory of their offices, leaving them to the priest and bonecarrier. They outlived hope, reason, and while they held on, people given everything threw it all away.

No, she had no faith in the clean, white myth. It was a happy childhood dream, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, and like those dulcet dreams of infancy, it too eventually shattered under the weight of cold reality. For her, the religion of medicine was little more than the ramshackle remnants of a defiled church, and Madam Pomfrey, Hogwarts angel-in-residence, little more than a false prophet.

"We should get going." Seamus interrupted her in his soft Irish brogue.

She blinked. "Oh. Sorry. Lost in my own thoughts there for a minute." Truthfully, she had no idea how long she had been sitting there, and that disturbed her. Obviously it hadn´t been too long, as Seamus didn´t seem all that concerned. Still, she´d have to keep a tighter rein on her thoughts from now on.

They carried Mischief to what had become their habitual spot against the largest boulder. He sat contentedly in her lap, black tongue dribbling thick runners of saliva onto her knees. He was happy enough now, but as soon as he saw that water-stained wooden tub, he would be all business, struggling with all his might to escape. She scratched him beneath his furry, matted chin, and he gave an appreciative belch.

"That´s disgusting," she chided him, waving a hand in front of her nose. He panted up at her. To Seamus, she said, "Have you served your detention yet?"

"Yeah. Professor McGonagall had me polishing and waxing the desks in the Transfigurations classroom. Got a Howler from my mam, too. You?"

She shrugged. "I serve detention with Professor Snape every night, so it really doesn´t matter. Haven´t got a Howler yet, but it probably takes awhile, coming from the States and all."

She neglected to mention that she probably wouldn´t be getting one. Her parents weren´t all that interested in her life. In fact, they were probably relieved to have her so far away. Her mother in particular made no secret that she considered her a burden, a liability, an unwanted penance. Her father was never home enough to notice her absence. He spent his life sifting through the drek of people´s septic tanks and avoiding her mother´s venom.

"Well, we´d better get started," he said. They had been procrastinating about bathing Mischief. Everyone else had already started, and the air was filled with the scent of soap and the sounds of grunting students and mortified Borgergups. As they watched, a ball of suds with legs streaked past, trailing bubbles in his wake. His owner, red-faced and sweating stumbled past, nearly tripping on his soaking robes. On her lap, Mischief squawked in wary dismay.

"You better hurry, Seamus. I think he´s getting suspicious."

"Right."

He ambled over to the few remaining tubs and picked them over, rejecting one with a rotten bottom and tossing aside another before choosing the sturdiest of the bunch. Through it all, Mischief´s glittering eyes tracked his progress. She could feel the tension in the little creature´s body. She almost felt sorry for him. To him, a bath must have been like the dozens of useless medical procedures to which she had been subjected. Frightening, inhumane, and incomprehensible. She stroked the top of his head in reassurance. She could feel the blood pulsing beneath his fur and flesh. He was a high-tension wire ready to spring.

I understand, little buddy. Got no choice in the matter, though. You understand, don´t you? Of course he didn´t, anymore than she had when the white-masked doctors had assailed her with their probes, syringes, and machines. She had fought like a caged animal then. She would have run if she could. If Mischief were smart, he´d run at the first opportunity.

Seamus returned, gripping the tub carefully and walking slowly so he didn´t spill any of the water over the side. Then he set the tub down with a clunk and sloshed a freshet onto the ground anyway. He wiped his hands on his robes, and then held them out for Mischief. "Ready?"

It happened so quickly that she was left sitting in bug-eyed disbelief. One moment Mischief was wriggling and struggling in her outstretched hands, and the next he was streaking across the grass, long black tongue lolling comically behind him like a dripping black banner. Fast little sucker, she thought stupidly as she watched him scamper toward the safety of the Forbidden Forest.

"Bugger!" shouted Seamus, and he took off in hot pursuit of the runaway Mischief.

His cry galvanized her, and she followed behind him, though she wasn´t sure exactly what she could do to help. Moving just seemed better somehow. At least she was doing something. She manipulated her joystick in hard, jerky arcs, trying to keep up with Seamus and avoid gawking onlookers at the same time. The wheelchair growled and burred as she made a sharp turn. She squinted to keep sight of Seamus´ scarf fluttering like a beacon in the wind.

She watched him run as the chair chugged behind him, lurching as it reached top speed. She loved watching people run. It was divine, running. If it weren´t for the rank sweat and the flush it produced, she would have thought it effortless. Feet always seemed to float across the dirt and grass, remembering, perhaps, older, headier days of Hermes and his winged sandals. They flew, even if it was only a few centimeters off the ground. She envied them that freedom.

They never seemed to notice they had it, and that was so strange to her, because she saw it in every graceful, loping stride. It was in the way they stretched forth their faces to meet the sun, to touch God as they passed. It was in they way the breeze cupped their faces and tickled their hair, drying the sweat on their skin. They never noticed it, though, never understood the gift they had. Instead they built elevators and escalators and conveyor belts and complained about having to walk or climb. They complained about the fact that for the briefest of moments, they could grasp heaven between their fingers. They shunned their Divine gift, and she found that very sad.

Seamus used his Divine gift to pivot Mischief away from the treeline and toward the paddock and castle grounds. "Oi, Rebecca, cut him off!" he gasped, lunging for a tuft of the creature´s hair and missing by two feet.

She pulled the stick hard left, throwing herself to the right to balance the weight. The chair responded with a whine, but it was too late. The Borgergup on the lam was like lightning, his hairy form a brown blur as it raced past her front wheel. She could have sworn it shot her a smug look as it kicked a rolling cloud of dust into her face. She coughed and spluttered and redoubled her efforts, leaning forward and trailing a powdery hand along the trampled blades of grass.

"Dammit," Seamus bellowed, doing his level best to keep up with the determined Mischief.

She understood how he felt, but she couldn´t deny that she was having a marvelous time. She was outside in the grass and sunshine doing something that required physical effort. She was using muscles that hadn´t seen so much activity since...well, never, and she was using them in a cooperative effort rather than in a vain attempt at avoiding Professor Snape´s unforgiving recriminations. She was living, not just alive, and she never wanted it to end.

You might not think so if you were in Seamus´ shoes. Well, no. She probably wouldn´t. Sitting in a magic-propelled wheelchair was a far cry from sprinting in the early fall morning. It needed a hell of a lot more energy, for one thing. As charming as she found running, it had clearly lost its appeal for Seamus. He was flagging badly, huffing and wheezing. The distance between him and the feisty Borgergup was growing.

Mischief knew it, too. He almost grinned as he skittered across the well-manicured lawns, wet, jagged canines jutting happily from his mouth. His furry feet flew, razor claws digging up divots and chunks of dirt. The race was on, and freedom was the prize. He intended to make the most of it. She watched as he carved a tri-clawed path from the paddock to the castle. He was having a jolly time. In fact, he was toying with Seamus now, pausing just long enough to give the boy a miserly glimmer of hope before darting out of range again.

Even though she knew he´d have to be caught if they wanted to receive marks, she couldn´t help but feel a faint tug of admiration for him. He was bucking the system, seizing the day. Carpe Diem, baby. He was free and conscious of the fact. The wind was in his fur, and the earth was beneath his feet, evidence of his fleeting liberty. He was reveling in it in the most fundamental sense, understanding the experience in a way Seamus, bound by his desire to capture, and tired as hell, could not. She silently cheered him on, smiling guiltily as her intellect called treachery.

The Borgergup stood invitingly in a patch of sun, and Seamus took the bait. He dove for it all. Mischief sidestepped him, the world´s smallest bullfighter dodging the red-eyed bull. Seamus met the empty ground with a bone-rattling thud and earned a mouthful of uprooted grass and earth for his troubles.

"I´ll get you, you dodgy little sod!" Seamus raged, swiping his forearm across his chin and scrambling to his feet to resume the chase.

Maybe he would, but not before Mischief was ready. The hairy dervish veered toward her, and, caught by surprise, she stuck out a retaining hand ten seconds too late. A glob of sticky drool flecked her hand as he sped by. She turned her chair just in time to see him weave through the minefield of tubs, where snickering students sat with their rapidly pruning hands immersed in sudsy water. Seamus staggered after him.

She took off in pursuit, the magnets used to pivot the wheels clicking crazily as she slalomed recklessly through the tubs. Seamus was a few steps ahead, and she slowed to avoid ramming into his heels. His robes flapped in her face, and she pulled away from the sweaty fabric. The other students shifted to let them pass, yelping as her rear wheels skimmed buttocks or toes.

This is getting ridiculous. She pulled out her wand. Maybe a well-placed Petrificus Totalus would do the trick. She raised her wand and took aim, but just them Seamus cut into the line of fire. Damn. She would have to be careful. It would be easier to just petrify them both, but she doubted he would appreciate it very much, especially if it came from behind. So she waited. Her wand jittered as she skidded through a narrow opening between tubs.

"Seamus, move," she called. He looked back, saw her wand, and moved to the right.

Her first shot fell just short, leaving a scorch mark inches from Mischief´s bobbing rump. He looked around in surprise. Well, that was most unsportsmanlike, his wide black eyes said, and he put on a burst of speed.

"Oh, shit," they said in unison.

His agility was maddening. Each time she thought she had him dead to rights, he swerved or zigzagged at the last instant. The evidence of his prowess was all over the grass. A dozen smoking scorch marks and counting. Hagrid was certainly going to have his work cut out for him when this was over. Or was it Filch? She wasn´t quite sure under whose jurisdiction the lawns fell.

The thought of Filch scowling and muttering as he repaired the smoldering black divots in the emerald sea of rolling grass struck her as hilarious, and she burst out laughing, her high-pitched guffaw startling Seamus, who skidded to a halt.

"What? What is it?" he panted. "Have I split my robes?" He turned his head and pulled the rear of his robes toward his hips to find the source of her amusement.

"No...Filch...lawn," she gasped, pointing a wobbling finger at the scorch marks.

Thinking the surly caretaker was on his way to throttle him for trampling the immaculate lawns, Seamus froze, trying to look in every direction at once. "Filch? Where?"

"No, no. Filch...oh...gasket," she wheezed. She was laughing so hard now that she dropped her hand to her knee to keep from toppling headlong from her chair. The hand holding her wand dropped to her side.

"You´ve gone barking mad, woman," he told her. Then he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be running down a freedom-starved Borgergup and took off again.

She trailed along behind him, hiccoughing laughter. Then a new thought occurred to her. If Filch ever figured out that she was the one responsible for giving the lawn a bad case of liver spots, he´d hang her from the Whomping Willow by her toes, joyfully and with more verve than he had shown in years, maybe decades. He was already angry that he had to escort her to detention each night. He shuffled along ahead of her, muttering darkly about unrepentant miscreants and reminiscing about the good old days when detention actually discouraged pupils from their own stupidity. If he had the opportunity to punish her himself, he´d probably make a festival of it, bringing out the thumbscrews and toasting almonds over a bonfire while she swung from the tree. He might even sing and dance an Irish jig.

The image of craggy, gnarled Filch capering around a roaring fire like an opiate-soused hedonist proved too much, and she yodeled laughter, her hand cramping around the joystick. Laughing while conducting a high-speed chase was a worse idea than laughing while belching, she soon learned. The chair swerved erratically, and she sat up just in time to see Neville Longbottom leap out of its oncoming path. She tried to stop, but mirth still held her in its grip, and she could only snort helplessly as she ploughed into the washtub. She ground to a halt amid a soggy puddle of gray soapsuds and waterlogged planks.

Double your pleasure, double your fun. Freed from his wooden prison, Neville´s Borgergup wasted no time in joining its renegade companion in the bid for escape. With a happy bark, it streaked toward the nirvana of liberty.

"Sorry, Neville," she said, trying to sound contrite and failing horribly as another snort of laughter escaped her.

"It never ends," he moaned, and jogged after his fleeing Borgergup.

She rejoined the chase, sputtering laughter. It was clear that she wasn´t going to capture either of the determined escapees, but she couldn´t leave her friends to fend for themselves. This was her mess, after all. She put her wand away, knowing it was useless. There were too many targets on the field now, and the risk of accident was too high. Ahead of her, the two boys trotted disconsolately, Seamus moving at a staggering clip. The Borgergups were clearly in the lead.

A collective wail arose from behind them, and they turned to look. Inspired by the boldness of their brothers, the remaining Borgergups had made a break for it. They scaled the sides of their tubs, hitting the ground with a wet squelch. Those unlucky enough to be caught by their alert handlers, nipped and scratched at detaining fingers, drawing yelps of surprise and pain. The terrain was filled with fleeing white puffs of desperation.

It was like the charge of the Light Brigade as her fellow students rumbled across the field after their pets. Scarves fluttered like the banners of an advancing army as they surged forward, laughing and shouting. There was no malice in their pursuit. It was joyous, unconcerned. It was a game. Group tag. Catch-as-catch-can. They jostled, grasping for fugitives at random, calling out as they were thwarted by the feral cunning and sheer determination of their small adversaries. The lawns had become a living, breathing chessboard. Strategies formed and collapsed in an instant. It was a game without rules.

Rebecca joined the happy throng, weaving among them like a butterfly with broken wings. She soaked in the sound of their happy chatter as they ebbed and flowed around her. They were vibrant and glorious. They even smelled alive, earthy and green. Their pungent sweat was ambrosia. They radiated heat, covered candles of secret flame. It enveloped her like a blanket.

They swooped and wheeled across the grounds, a flock of raucous phoenixes, a herd of frolicking stallions. No, a tribe. A tribe. Yes, that felt right. They were a tribe, a traveling clan of gypsies exulting in the wonder of life, corporeal jubilation as they danced across the earth like the red and yellow tail of a comet passing before the face of the sun.

She ran with them, soaring in spite of her chains. And when Seamus smiled at her from where he sat recovering himself, she felt the subtle click in her soul. This was her initiation. They were no longer a tribe; they were her tribe. Whether they accepted her or not, she chose them. With a silent oath, she bound her fate to theirs. Whatever happened, whatever it cost, she belonged to Hogwarts.

While Rebecca was casting her lot with the students swarming over the lawns, Professor Snape was presiding over a class of bungling first-years. He paced the room, black eyes ever watchful for signs of imminent disaster-a smoking cauldron, a scorched potion. His ears twitched, awaiting the claxon of shattering glass or the sizzle of melting copper. Familiar sounds after four years with Neville Longbottom. His nostrils flared imperceptibly, searching for the scent of fire or the stink of too much of some ingredient or other. There would be no explosions on his watch. He moved with sinuous grace, a panther prowling the boundaries of his territory.

Though he presented nothing less than perfect stoicism to the inepts nervously going about the business of making a mess of things, his mind was troubled. In spite of the generous dollop of Anti-Ache Powder with which he had laced his morning tea, a headache thudded dully behind his temples. He knew it was only going to get worse as the day wore on, and if Minerva held true to her threat-and he knew she would-he could expect a visit from Albus later on this evening. If not that, then a conversation at the High Table while McGonagall watched imperiously. His headache throbbed murderously at the thought. He fought the urge to knead his temples. Merlin, he would be quaffing Anti-Ache like Albus devoured lemon drops. He clenched his teeth behind closed lips and willed the throbbing to go away. It didn´t, but after a moment it eased to a manageable level. He let his jaw relax.

Damn that girl. Damn her. Anyone with two good eyes and a nominally functional brain cell in their head could see that she shouldn´t be here. She couldn´t keep up, and when the war came, in all likelihood she would be one of the first casualties. Yet, she was just tenacious and bothersome enough to cause him problems. Mulish little twit.

What problems?

This headache, for one. He squinted at another bright jab of pain in his temple.

She certainly didn´t tell you to stay up all night, pointed out his conscience drily. Contrary to what McGonagall and the others believed, he did have one, though he would never have admitted it to anyone.

She was most certainly the cause of it, he protested irritably.

Why? Because she saved your job?

I´d rather not think about it.

Can´t accept mercy from a Gryffindor?

That has nothing to do with it.

But of course it did. The thought that a Gryffindor, one of those smug, self-righteous, perfect ambassadors of all things virtuous, had saved his job and preserved his position as a spy for Dumbledore turned his stomach. They were always lording in their glorious past achievements, parading them about like priceless treasures. He hadn´t been the least bit surprised when Harry Potter had been Sorted into Gryffindor. The thought had entered his mind before the boy had even mounted the steps to the Sorting stool. There goes a Gryffindor. When the Sorting Hat had confirmed his suspicions, it had been another shining jewel in the House´s already bestudded crown and a slap in the face to Slytherin, whose only renown came as being the House to spawn the all-powerful Dark Lord bested by a knight in nappies. Sickening, really.

He was not a man who bore debt easily. He loathed it. His obligation to Albus he wore uneasily, like ill-fitting clothes. To owe Stanhope was unbearable. Stanhope, with her unreadable eyes and galling intractability. Stanhope and her determination to participate, to prove him wrong. Her refusal to break under his will, to bow to his dominance in the one place it had never been questioned. Her quiet bullishness frustrated him to no end, frustrated and frightened him. He´d never seen anything like it before.

And she´s a blasted Gryffindor. It would have been slightly less wounding to his pride had she been Hufflepuff. Another blow for McGonagall in the House rivalry.

Stanhope doesn´t know anything about the history between the Houses.

Thank God for that. That meant there would be no superior sidelong glances, no preening in the corridors as she surreptitiously flouted the fact that a mighty Gryffindor had graced a lowly Slytherin with her tender mercy.

We´ve been that route before.

He scowled. James Potter. We most certainly will not be discussing THAT.

Unfortunately, his mind was not to be deterred. It trotted out every unpleasant memory of those bygone days. Potter and his band of hangers-on sneering at him from the corners of their mouths, laughing at him with the slant of their eyes. Even in his youth, he had been a sallow, cautious, uncommunicative boy, and by comparison, Potter and his cronies had been the golden children, a fact of which they had been acutely aware. Most of them were not overtly malicious; only that bastard Black had ever deliberately antagonized him. They were more subtle in their cruelty, some would have said unknowing. They tormented him by virtue of their perfection, reminding him with their poise, aplomb, and prowess with the fairer sex of all he had yet to achieve, and though he said nothing, he hated them.

Then had come the fateful night at the Whomping Willow. Sirius Black and his damn prank. It had nearly gotten him killed. Miraculously, Potter had regained a modicum of intelligence at the last moment and pulled him back from the slavering, snapping jaws of the werewolf that, in saner hours, bore the name of Remus Lupin. In that moment, in that single motion, James Potter had bought for himself and bequeathed to his as yet unborn son his undying hatred.

It wasn´t a breach of trust that had scored him to the core. There had never been any trust to breach. It was something much simpler. In the last numb, adrenaline-soaked instant before Potter had pulled him from the bloody, eager jaws of the werewolf, Snape had urinated, the hot liquid dribbling down his legs as terror choked him. Potter had seen. For the briefest instant after it was over, his eyes had flitted to the dripping lap of his robes. He never said a word, but he had seen, and that was enough. Dignity was all he had ever had, and Potter had stolen even that.

He balled his hand into a fist, furious at the memories he told himself he had buried long ago. I will not waste any more time on the things that lie in times past, he thought savagely.

Now history is repeating itself, and you can´t stand it. You owe a Gryffindor. Again.

He stalked around the room, snapping at a student who had the misfortune of choosing that moment to whisper to her seatmate. His head was throbbing now, all traces of Anti-Ache wiped away. That isn´t the point, and you know it.

Oh, what is, then?

He forced himself to slow his pace. Yes, owing a Gryffindor was terrible and owing Stanhope was worse, but that wasn´t what had kept him up all night. As his mind had so kindly pointed out, he was no stranger to the burden of debt. No, what had plagued his sleep and caused him to pace the floor until after midnight was the egregious lack of control he had displayed in dealing with Miss Stanhope outside the Headmaster´s office.

Control. It had always been his hallmark. He had learned it as a young boy, and it had served him well in his days as a Death Eater. It had allowed him to stand beside Lucius Malfoy and watch as Muggle women and children were raped and strangled, still as a stone while his insides writhed in revulsion. It had prevented him from thrashing the arrogant Potter child to within an inch of his life every time he opened his sainted mouth. It helped him preserve the veneer of cool approval when he looked into the face of Draco Malfoy, even when the boy´s sense of entitlement filled him with the urge to backhand him across the room. That legendary control had failed him with her, something he had sworn never to let happen.

So quick it had been. He had seen her rolling along the corridor, one skeletal hand wrapped around that odd guiding stick, and he was seized by an overpowering need to confront her, to let her know that he was aware of what she was trying to do. He had never intended to touch her at all. Then he had seen her face, that thin sliver of sculpted obstinacy. She had shown no fear of him, no discomfort. Only that same practiced nothingness, that bland, taunting neutrality. The wall around her had been all but tangible; he almost could have sworn that he saw it. He´d wanted to break it. The only thing he´d managed to do was nearly break her shoulder. The flicker of fear he had heard in her voice wasn´t satisfying; it had come at too steep a price.

He rubbed his hand across his forearm. It still tingled intermittently with the sharp jut of her shoulder. It felt alien to him, traitorous. It had acted of its own volition. He hadn´t realized he was squeezing her until her wavering voice had pleaded for him to let her go. Her voice had sliced through his righteous anger like a clarioning thunderclap, and when he looked down again, he saw his hand settled on her shoulder like a treacherous white spider. He had jerked away and fled, hiding his reeling confusion behind the façade of sneering disdain.

He wondered what she was, what she really was. He resented her, the ease with which she deflected him, sealed him out. It was as though he did not exist, like he was merely a specter flitting inconsequentially through a realm over which she alone presided. Her indifference needled him worse than the seething hatred directed at him by the rest of the student body. It told him that in her eyes he was beneath her contempt; he was nothing. He hadn´t seen that look since Azkaban.

That was a path down which he was most assuredly not going. He was almost thankful when a small, timid voice cut into his thoughts.

"Excuse me...Professor Snape?" Low, strangled. One step above petrifaction.

A bitter smile twisted his mouth momentarily before the mask of stoicism slipped back into place. He whirled noiselessly around, his cloak swirling around his ankles. "Yes?" He scanned the shadowy room for the source of the voice.

Shuffling, the dusty shifting of shadows, and then, a tiny girl stepped from behind a cauldron. "Erm, sir, I think there might be a problem with my potion."

He searched his mind for her name. Lei Hyung. Her Thai parents were living in London, working as ambassadors at the Thai consulate there. Quiet, unremarkably inept, and terrified of him beyond all reason. He swept to her workstation, smirking as she cringed. Her fear was almost amusing. He wondered what she would think, what they all would think, had they known the lurking monster in their midst was actually trying to protect them. He doubted any of them would believe it.

"A problem with my potion" turned out to be an unmitigated disaster. His nose registered this even before he laid eyes on the brown slime inside the cauldron. It stung with the acrid reek of burnt rosemary. He sighed at the mess. The potion, which should have been a mild yellow and the consistency of potato soup, was a goopy, viscous, brackish brown, and it sucked the ladle into its depths and held it there like gelid plaster. He suspected he could hold it in his hands if he wished, though it would likely cling to him like tar and perhaps burn the pale flesh of his fingers to the bone. He let the ladle drop.

"A problem, did you say, Miss Hyung?" he asked tartly, one eyebrow raised. "I would hardly call this infantile, inexcusable, unidentifiable mess, this insult to my craft, a problem. You see, a problem denotes something that has the possibility of being fixed. This..." He lifted up the ladle, which resisted him mightily. "This is irredeemable. There is no excuse for it. The lowest Muggle could do better. You have surpassed my lowest expectations."

He loomed over her, his shadow falling over her like divine judgment. "Clean it up. Don´t bother trying again. From the looks of this, you´d only be wasting more of my valuable time. I expect a six-foot parchment on the history and correct preparation of the Pepper-Up Potion on my desk by morning. When you are finished putting everything away, do us all a favor and get out. I´ve had enough of your incompetence for one day," he snapped.

He knew he was being too harsh, but he didn´t care. His head was pounding, and his stomach twisted at the thought of the discussion he would be having with the Headmaster at dinner. He was in absolutely no mood to tolerate such glaring stupidity. Normally, he would have assigned detention as well, but those had become the sole province of Stanhope. He supposed he could have held other students there with her, but it didn´t seem appropriate. Detention was more than just his way of making Stanhope miserable, of pushing until she broke; it was his chance to study her, to find the hidden entrance into the impregnable fortress of her mind. It was better that they were alone, free of interference from some sniveling first year.

Lei Hyung´s lips began to tremble. Her brown, almond eyes welled with tears, and her chest began to hitch. All the classic signs of a bout of hysterics. He had seen it all a thousand times. It bored him. He felt no pity. The only student ever to resist such nauseating shows of weakness was Stanhope, and he found himself wishing for her now. Stop whinging! he wanted to shout. If a helpless cripple can retain her dignity, why in Merlin´s name can´t you? He said nothing, betrayed nothing in his rigid stance and dead face, but the contempt he felt for the whimpering child blubbering in front of him deepened. He turned away from her and stalked to the classroom door.

"If you are going to simper and wail like a fluttering premenstrual, please leave my classroom at once," he snarled, wrenching it open with a brutal twist of the knob.

Morbid satisfaction washed over him at her expression of shock. Apparently the thought that a male teacher, especially one so obviously dried up and decrepit, would know anything of the finer points of the female anatomy had never entered her mind. She gaped at him, scrubbing the back of her arm over her wet, red face. Then she shut her mouth with a snap and left the room on unsteady, hesitant legs, sparing him a hateful sidelong glance as she went. He looked after her for a moment as she shambled down the corridor, the sound of her watery sniffles receding as she retreated to the sheltering bosom of her Common Room. It was a scene that would have elicited sympathy from most, but he felt nothing, nothing at all. He slammed the door without a second thought.

He resumed his silent patrol around the room. The room, unearthly quiet during his tirade, slowly filled with the sounds of pointless industry. He watched them from behind lowered lids, studying their earnest, bovine faces. Vapid, ignorant little fools, the lot. Sometimes he wondered why he was wasting his time with them, trying to mold decent human beings out of empty shells. As far as he could see, it was an unwinnable battle.

Then why did you agree to become a teacher?

Because Albus had asked him to, and he would have hurled himself in front of a Death Curse for the old man. After everything he had done for him, he simply couldn´t refuse. It wasn´t all bad; he got to make potions for a living and earn a comfortable salary in the process. Had he tried to strike out on his own, a reformed Death Eater setting up a shop in the drabbest corner of Knockturn Alley, he wouldn´t have lasted a month. Angry mobs of vengeful innocents would have shown up in the night to pillory him and burn his home to the ground. Not that he wouldn´t have deserved it. So Hogwarts it was, a safe harbor under Dumbledore´s beneficent gaze. And...

And once he had begun his penance as professor and shepherd to the idiot masses, he had discovered something startling. He liked it. It was not the students that he liked; he found nothing interesting about any of them. It was not the tedium of marking scream-inducing parchments. It was the dark thrill of power the position gave him.

Power. The ultimate aphrodisiac. The most addictive drug ever conceived. Nothing he could brew in his cauldron could hope to match it. It was the thing for which he had joined Voldemort in the first place as a bitter young man, and he had found it here in the unlikeliest of places. It was pure power, too. What could be more powerful than holding someone´s mind, some would say their very essence, in your hands? Why, you could make them anything you wished. If you were so inclined, you could destroy them.

He never had, though he had been sorely tempted. McGonagall might dispute that. She would say that he was well on his way to crushing Neville Longbottom. It wasn´t true, of course. It was hardly his fault that the boy had the mental fortitude of a shucked oyster. He was weak because he chose to be, and he, Snape, wasn´t about to change his demeanor to accommodate him.

If Albus ever became aware of his musings on this particular subject, he would doubtless be dimly alarmed. This was not the sort of notion a lover of the Light should be holding. Those on the side of Good and Right should never crave power, and if they held it, they should never enjoy it. Bollocks. Power was neutral; it was the people who corrupted it.

Take Albus, for example. He had been Headmaster here for a very long time. Nearly thirty years. Yet he seemed in no particular hurry to surrender the position to McGonagall or anyone else. In spite of all the problems inherent to the title, he was quite comfortable in it. Indeed, he had wasted little time in trying to regain it when Lucius Malfoy had succeeded it getting him suspended for a time. He claimed-and Snape believed him; Albus was too good a man to be disbelieved-that he had been in such a hurry to retake his place at the apex of the Hogwarts hierarchy solely out of concern for the Muggleborns, but Snape had seen something other than worry for others in those sparkling blue eyes. No matter what Albus said, he enjoyed his coveted status as Headmaster of Hogwarts and the prestige such power awarded. Whether he chose to admit it or not, the lust for power had infected him, too.

A sloshing sizzle tore him from his disturbing musings. He spun around to see that a careless student had knocked over a boiling cauldron, sending the scalding contents across the stone floor. Luckily, no one had been within splashing distance. The culprit was now standing white-faced over the mess.

"I´m sorry, Pro-,"

"Carelessness in this class can be fatal," he hissed. The headache, which had retreated during his musings, reappeared with a vengeance. This was going to be a very long day.

What else could possibly go wrong?

It could be worse. Be grateful Longbottom has no younger siblings.

If that news ever found its way to his ears, he would promptly leap from the top of Serpens Tower. There were some tortures even his iron constitution couldn´t endure. He set his teeth when he saw that the repentant student was making no move to clean up the mess.

Remember, Severus, this is your penance.

And what a terrible penance it was. He swallowed the knot of anger in his throat and calmly deducted sixty points. "Clean it up," he snapped, and sought the temporary refuge of his desk.

He was still in a murderous mood when Stanhope made her regular appearance at eight o´clock sharp. "Come," he told the soft rapping at his door.

He felt her enter rather than saw her. There was the momentary displacement of air as the door opened and then closed behind her. Then came the whir of her chair as she passed his desk. After two and a half weeks the routine was well-established. She understood what was expected of her and did not bother with pleasantries or silly questions. He heard her fumbling with the pointer beneath the blackboard.

"Stanhope."

He felt the atmosphere of the room tense; her hand had no doubt frozen on the pointer. "Yes, sir?" Polite. Mildly confused.

"Come here."

The click of the guiding magnets, the soft whir as she approached. Click. She was in front of him now. "Yes, sir?"

He looked up from the research scroll on the proper preparation of the Living Death Draught. She was sitting directly across from him, her free hand curled possessively around her cauldron. The other rested on her guidance stick. He noted with miserly approval that she had not bothered to bring the pointer stick with her, knowing full well that he would take it from anyway. She was a quick learner. Her face showed neither curiosity nor fear. It was a blank mask.

"Let me see your arm."

There was no need to ask which one he meant. She held it out obediently. He felt like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime as he rolled up her sleeve, but he had to see it again, to be sure it was truly there. He wanted to make certain it was healing, fading. Maybe when it was gone it would take the gnawing guilt and self-reproach with it.

It was still there, dark and accusatory against her pale skin. He gently probed the circumference with his fingers, waiting to see if she would flinch. Her face remained impassive, and she did not pull away from his touch.

"Has there been any pain?"

"No, sir. Not since you applied the ointment. Thank you."

He looked up sharply at that. He had received a handful of thank yous in his lifetime, not one of them from a student. He narrowed his eyes.

"Are you being impertinent?" he snapped.

Guarded blue eyes looked back at him. "No, sir."

He gave it a final prod. "Are you certain there is no pain?"

For the first time since their initial confrontation, her eyes lost that vague distance. She was there, really there. The barrier was gone. "Yes, sir, I´m positive." No anger...reassurance?

He hid his confusion by pretending to examine her arm further. Aside from the livid mark his anger put there, the skin was unmarred. It was nearly translucent in the unsteady torchlight, and beneath it he could see the spidery network of her tiny veins. The bones of her misaligned wrist jutted painfully against the thin flesh that covered them. Her hand dangled bonelessly, and at the end of it her fingers twitched daintily, her nerves standing by for the next order. It was fascinating and repulsive at the same time, and he wondered what it must feel like to live inside such a body.

He couldn´t ask her such a thing, of course, and so he said, "That will be all, Miss Stanhope. Your arm is hardly worthy of a museum exhibit. Get to work."

Her arm dropped, and he saw her retreat behind the walls. Her eyes grew cold and distant, and her jaw stiffened. "Yes, sir." She pivoted away from him and moved toward the blackboard again.

For his part, he returned his attention to the dissertation he was reading, and soon he heard the sound of vials clinking in her cauldron. She was getting remarkably efficient at that; it was a rare occasion now that she didn´t collect all her things in under two minutes. Clink. An indrawn breath. She may have gotten faster, but it was still a difficult process for her. Clink. Clink. Almost done now.

A last clink, and then the sound of her chair crossing the room to her desk. She was a creature of habit; she always chose the same desk she sat in during the regular class time-first seat on the first row. Clunk. That would be the sound of her cauldron being set in place. Silence spun out between them. Expectant. She was waiting.

His hand reached out to set the hourglass. He never looked up from the parchment. "Begin."

Immediately her knife began its rhythmic song.

When he was sure that she was absorbed in her work, he chanced a glance at her. She was hunched over her jackal meat, her brow furrowed in fierce concentration. Her technique had not improved. She still held the knife too awkwardly, and her strokes were still too large, but there was improvement in her methodology. She was more deliberate in her cuts, more precise in where she chose to make them. The desperation to simply cut for its own sake was gone.

There was something different about her tonight. She was decisive in her movements. She seemed tranquil, comfortable. It was as though a great burden had been shifted from her shoulders, a decision made after much deliberation. In spite of the little mistakes she made in her work, she toiled with furious determination. In sixteen nights, her resolve to create a potion he thought out of her reach had never wavered.

It´s a pity that such raw stubbornness has nothing behind it, he mused as he watched her grapple with the stopper on her rosehip vial.

How do you know if there´s anything behind it or not? You can´t read her homework scrolls.

What was it the Headmaster asked him? Given a normal body, would she be able to complete the coursework like everyone else? There was only one way to find out. He opened the topmost drawer of his desk and pulled out the stack of graded parchments. He shuffled through them until he found hers. Her ugly, scraggling script stung his eyes. He squinted disdainfully at it.

"Miss Stanhope."

She raised her head, knife tip poised over the dwindling piece of jackal meat. "Yes, sir?" Cautious. This night was not turning out as they usually did.

"Explain the properties of Blast-Ended Skrewt carapace."

Surprise flashed across her face.

Good. She´s not totally impervious, after all. "Quickly."

Her brow knitted as she brought to mind all she knew of Blast-Ended Skrewt carapace. "Blast-Ended Skrewts are the result of crossbreeding between a manticore and a Fire Crab. As such, their carapace retains all the medicinal properties of both species, though some are weakened because of the hybrid genetics. For example, Fire Crab shell is essential in the brewing of the Calos Internus Potion, a potion used in the treatment of frostbite. Skrewt carapace would serve as well, though it would not be as effective since the poison found in manticore skin would preclude its use in amounts sufficient for noticeable relief."

"Correct."

A small, satisfied smile crept across her face.

"Don´t look so pleased, Miss Stanhope. Any fool can get lucky once," he said disagreeably. "Name its other uses."

"Because manticore flesh is highly toxic, Skrewt carapace is a popular ingredient in several poisons and acids. Retaining most of the potency of pure manticore flesh, it is preferred because one can handle it without risk of tactile ingestion. As little as one-one hundredth of a milliliter can be fatal. It is the principle ingredient of the Living Death Draught. More accidental deaths have occurred as a result of improper preparation or administration. In fact, a special license is required to brew this potion, and fewer than twelve wizards are known to carry it."

"Correct," said one of those twelve.

He continued to quiz her, varying the level of questions from the most basic to ones he knew she could not answer. She did her best to answer each one. She missed all the ones he had anticipated, though she was surprisingly close on more than a few; it was clear she was using logic to fill in the gaps in her knowledge. She also missed a few had had not foreseen, but here again, she was closer to the answers than most. Throughout the question and answer session, she never stopped working on her potion. She started over again three times.

By the time he ran out of questions, he was awed and disgusted. He had underestimated her intelligence by a fair mark. She was undeniably intelligent, particularly adept in the areas of non-linear logic and abstract thought. She was able to think on a level many others were not. Unfortunately, her penchant for thinking in the abstract and extrapolating based on given facts meant that she often missed the obvious implications. She was blinded to the flames by the smoke, as it were.

It made him sick. It was a cruel irony of Fate that such a fine mind was wasted on a helpless wreck while strong, able wizards walked around with withered, impotent minds. It wasn´t right. Why give her such a mind? She´d never be able to put it to good use.

"You are in possession of an extraordinarily keen intellect, Miss Stanhope," he said after a brief silence broken only by the sound of mortar striking pestle as she ground her dung beetle exoskeleton into powder.

"Thank you, Professor." She sounded pleased.

"Too bad you will never be able to put it to any good use."

The hurt on her face was so plain that it startled him. Her eyes widened, and her hand trembled. Her pallid, bony cheeks reddened, and her jaw stiffened. The left side indented; she was biting her cheek. He could literally hear the doors slamming and the locks turning as she sealed herself off from the careless hurt he had inflicted. The glow of wounded pride in her eyes guttered and died, and the blankness returned. She was gone again.

She dropped her head to her work. "Yes, sir." Her voice was dull, uninterested.

He watched her for a few more minutes as she doggedly stirred her potion. "Why? Why do you try so hard? What do you have to prove?"

"Nothing, sir. Then in a barely audible voice, "Nothing but everything."

The rest of the night passed in silence.