Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Ten

The conversation he had been expecting at dinner the night before actually took place at breakfast the following morning. He saw it coming. Dumbledore was looking at him in that irritatingly smug manner he always assumed when about to embark on a discussion of unpleasant matters. Snape poured milk into his tea and tried to pretend he didn't notice the Headmaster's serene gaze. Not this morning. Not any morning. Not this mor-

"Good morning, Severus," the Headmaster greeted him amiably.

His voice was far too pleasant, and Snape took this as a very bad sign. He cringed inwardly. "Headmaster." Cool. Neutral. Perhaps if he were churlish enough, Albus would call off the charge.

"Another long night? You look tired." Undaunted. Clearly not breaking off the assault.

Damn. "No longer than usual." He left the second part of that sentence unfinished. Since you've saddled me with that incorrigible child known as Rebecca Stanhope. He scowled into his blueberry scones.

"I can't help but notice that you've been spending quite a bit of time with Miss Stanhope."

"Yes, well, she needs a great of remedial tutelage." He chewed a scone without tasting it.

"Indeed? That's the reason for all the detentions, then?"

"That, and her appalling mulishness." From the corner of his eye, he saw McGonagall drop her fork and square her shoulders. Bloody hell.

"Has she shown any improvement since tutoring began?"

Snape thought about last night. Her cuts had been cleaner, and though the end result was the same, it demonstrated that she was making an honest attempt. The oral quiz had illuminated a startling understanding of the mechanics of the subject, and even her writing, while still enough to make his eye burn, was progressing. "Yes, I think so."

"Does she cause problems in class?" Dumbledore pushed his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose.

"Aside from her gross incompetence? No." His appetite was fading. He wiped his mouth and dropped his napkin onto his plate.

"She is only 'incompetent' because you refuse to allow her access to implements that would lighten her burden considerably," McGonagall cut in, putting her teacup down with a clatter.

"We've been through this before. I am not giving her an advantage over the other students," he said flatly.

"It wouldn't be an advantage; it would be evening the odds," retorted McGonagall.

"And as I have told you before, Minerva, life is unfair."

"No need to make it worse," she huffed.

"We could argue our philosophies until the end of the age. It won't make any difference. Besides, Miss Stanhope's Potions ineptitude is not what this is about, is it?" He was tired of playing games. "Rather, I imagine it's her incontinence you wish to discuss."

The High Table fell silent. Every member of the staff had heard about the Stanhope-Snape incident-most of them from a livid McGonagall-and they were keenly interested in hearing Snape's version of events. Someone, maybe Vector, coughed in the sudden stillness.

"Severus, you have absolutely no tact," spat McGonagall. Several students craned at the High Table to watch the brewing storm, a phenomena becoming more and more commonplace. Aware of their curious gazes, she lowered her voice. "Really, Severus, isn't it enough that you humiliated her in front of her peers? Do you have to make light of it?" Her breakfast was forgotten.

"I am making light of nothing. The fact is that she urinated on my floor. Any humiliation she suffered was her own doing," he snapped.

"How can you say that when it was you who put her in that position in the first place?" She jabbed her finger at him.

"I most certainly did not," he bristled. "She was the one who squandered numerous earlier opportunities to use the lavatory. Why should I be held accountable? Is there an additional medical infirmity of which I am unaware that would excuse her loss of control?" He cocked an inquiring eyebrow at the Headmaster, who had been watching this latest wrangling between his two best professors without a word.

"As far as I know, no other such incidents have been reported, and no note about bladder disorders was made on her record," he offered, stirring his tea thoughtfully.

Snape sat back with a triumphant smirk. "Then, as far as I am concerned, the responsibility for this matter lies entirely with Stanhope."

"Even so, there most certainly must have been other underlying factors that caused her to do such a thing," McGonagall persisted. "She's transferred from a different country, away from her friends and thrust into unfamiliar surroundings. Perhaps it was all too much for her."

Snape looked at his colleague in disgust. "That has nothing to do with it. Every first-year who boards that train on the first of September goes through the same thing, and they don't piss themselves. Stop making excuses for her. It solves nothing. What happened that day was a result of poor decision-making, pure and simple."

"Excuses? You think I am making excuses for her?" McGonagall's voice had risen dangerously, and the other professors shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Flitwick was trying so hard to appear enamored with his tea that he choked on it. "I am not. I am merely trying to make sure that you don't do permanent psychological damage to that child just because you don't want her here." She was staring at him with undisguised fury.

"Psychological damage?" he repeated incredulously.

It was the most absurd thing he had ever heard. In all the time he had spent with Stanhope, he had discovered many things about her. She was willful, distant. She protected herself with an iron fortress. Her mind was as quick as her body was slow. She was most certainly not a candidate for psychological damage. In fact, she was probably the only pupil within these walls who he could not break with his hateful tongue. At this point, anyway.

"She has many problems; a weak mind is not one of them."

"And how would you know that? Are you admitting that you have been trying to destroy that child?" came the shrill retort.

The bald accusation in that question was like a slap in the face, and he sat forward so quickly that he upset his teacup, sending cold tea into his congealing eggs. "Is that what you think? That I'm torturing her during detention, trying to break her mind like an eggshell? Tell me, Minerva, have you asked Stanhope about any of this, about how she feels?"

McGonagall looked nonplussed. "No. I didn't see the need."

"Why don't we do so now?" He pushed his chair back from the table with a brutal scrape, and swept down the dais toward Stanhope. He was not surprised to see that she was waiting for him, her own chair parallel to the table. McGonagall's light, quick footsteps pursued him. No doubt she suspected that he was about to throttle Miss Stanhope in front of the entire student populace. Dumbledore's measured stride also reached his ear.

This is becoming a regular event, he thought dismally. The Daily Hogwarts Teacher Dancing Bear Parade. Stanhope was a calamity never-ending. First bumbling Neville Longbottom, and now a living scourge in the body of a fifteen-year old girl. Throw in the constant hectoring of McGonagall, and he was beginning to wonder if his contrition was worth the trouble. He risked a furtive sidelong glance at the Headmaster. Yes, it was. Every bit of it.

"Miss Stanhope, come with me," he ordered shortly, looking down his long nose at her rounded shoulders.

Her face betrayed neither surprise nor concern, but her eyes moved between the three professors in front of her, and he could see the question in them as easily as if she had asked it. What do they think I've done this time? It was a look of weary resignation. Just as quickly as it had been, it was gone supplanted by vague inscrutability. The defenses were up. She was on high alert.

Either I'm growing more proficient at reading her, or she is growing lax about hiding herself. Either way, it was an encouraging development. She's not invulnerable, after all. With a final appraising glare, he spun away from her and stalked from the Hall. That she was to follow him went without saying.

She waved goodbye to Fred and George, who were watching the drama uneasily. See you later, she mouthed, then added to herself, I hope. She turned and followed Snape.

He was furious again; she could see in his long, stiff strides and in the set of his jaw, but she didn't think he was furious at her, not directly. When he had escorted her back to Gryffindor Tower just after midnight, he hadn't said a single word, nor had he given any sign that he was any more displeased than usual. He'd left her at the portrait hole with a terse "Goodnight," and disappeared. So unless the very sight of her now inspired a simmering rage inside his bones, someone else had stoked the embers of his wrath.

Actually, it wasn't all that hard to figure out what was happening. McGonagall was on one of her crusades again, and now they were all on their way for another lively chat about "how she was feeling" or how "her needs could be better met." She rolled her eyes. More amateur psychologist doublespeak was the last thing she wanted to hear, but it looked like there was no escaping it. Honestly, she wished Professor McGonagall would just let things be. She only made things worse. Every time she tried to intercede on her behalf, it only antagonized Snape further.

It was going to be one hell of a fight this time, too. The air around Snape was crackling with black, tightly controlled emotion, and McGonagall, marching resolutely behind her, was no better. Though she could not see her, she had the distinct impression that her Head of House's eyes were glued to the pale back of Professor Snape's neck and shooting daggers of molten indignation. Only Professor Dumbledore seemed unaffected by all of the hubbub. He strolled a few feet away, stroking his long, white beard thoughtfully. He exuded serenity, and she instinctively swerved to get closer to him, to duck beneath his sheltering, peaceful aura.

He looked down at the sound of her approach and smiled, eyes twinkling. "Good morning, Miss Stanhope," he said genially. "So sorry to disturb your breakfast."

"Good morning, Headmaster."

"I shouldn't worry about this. You've done nothing wrong. Professor McGonagall simply has some concerns she thought important to discuss." He patted her shoulder reassuringly. Thankfully, she didn't flinch this time.

"Oh, all right, Headmaster," she said, feigning a relief she did not feel.

The walk down the corridor and subsequent ascent of the rotating staircase was little different than the one a few days before. Sullen, tense, and hostile, three teachers and one hostage to fortune spiraled upward to the summit, and all of them had their own agendas. Snape was bent on proving his innocence against charges of gross mental cruelty. McGonagall was determined to do just the opposite and see a man she had never really trusted pay for sins past and present. Dumbledore was simply trying to retain control of his faculty. And Rebecca was doing what she had always done. Watching and waiting.

At present, she was watching the spotless black plain of Snape's cloak. It rippled as he shifted his weight from one side to the other. Today it was plain cotton. On other days, it was velvet or wool. On the night of the Welcoming Feast, it had been silk. All of them, like this one, had been meticulously clean and crisply pressed. She was tempted to touch it, tug it, see if it was cool or baking with its wearer's own internal heat, but she knew better. If Snape caught her touching his clothing, he'd rip her fingers off at the knuckle. Enough to know that his clothes were a reflection of him, immaculate, unadorned, and severely utilitarian.

She took a deep breath, inhaling his spicy, clean scent. It really was odd of her to be sitting here sniffing a teacher that held her in no sort of esteem or affection whatsoever, but she found it calming. It was steady, a hallmark of his rational profession, and a stark counterpoint to the mercurial chaos preparing to erupt around her. He shifted again, and a puff of scented air washed over her face. Her blood pressure dropped ten points.

"Are you all right, Rebecca?" McGonagall asked sharply, mistaking her deep breathing for the onset of some asthmatic fit.

"Yes, ma'am." Her blood pressure surged again. So much for relaxing.

"If you trample my heels in your fit, Miss Stanhope, the repercussions, should you recover, will be severe." Snape's voice floated from the riser two steps ahead.

She suppressed a snigger. Dependable as clockwork with his jibes, was good Professor Snape. Such an arrogant bastard! With all the things he had said and done since her arrival, she should hate him, and there were moments when she did-the day she had urinated in his classroom, for instance-but for the most part, she felt only vague dislike, occasional fear, and an unshakeable curiosity as to what made him what he was. Sitting in his classroom was like studying a tiger without the benefit of a cage; it was dangerous and unpredictable. Just when she thought she had discovered the thing which would crumble the barrier of his resistance, make him see her for both her talents and her shortcomings, he put up another, crueler obstacle.

Just like last night. For a split second, she had seen unwilling appreciation in his eyes, but then the veil had dropped over his shining black eyes, and he had struck at her with his cutting tongue. Flush with her success, she had never seen it coming, and he had scored a deep hit. Worse yet, she had betrayed that fact. She hadn't shut that particular door fast enough, and now that he knew it was there, he would come back to it, picking and niggling at it like a master locksmith until he threw wide open. She had to be careful now.

"Can you be any more beastly, Professor Snape?" hissed McGonagall.

Rebecca could feel him tense. He was strangling on an acid retort. He shifted again, more violently this time, and she saw the muscle in his jaw twitch ominously.

Leave it alone, McGonagall, just leave it alone.

What was wrong with the woman? Yes, Snape was a mean-spirited pain in the ass, but his goading and vituperation were hardly life-threatening. Her internal defenses, while sorely tested, were holding admirably, and in a perverse way, she was enjoying the battle of wills. She had a feeling that things had barely begun, and that, as bad as things had been, this was still only the testing stage, the process of feeling one another out. Snape, she suspected, had not even started to bring the full extent of his pressures to bear. When he did, it was going to be all or nothing, winner take all. She had to be ready, and with McGonagall constantly running interference, she was bound to miss important signs and clues, perhaps even the critical blow.

She suffers from the malady that affects every would-be saint, girl. She thinks you need her help.

I do, just not that kind. Snape is up to no good, but he's not trying to kill me. I don't think he's dangerous.

Yes, you do. You still think about his hand squeezing your shoulder. It bothers you.

No, I-all right, so I do. Who wouldn't? It freaked me out. I wasn't expecting it. Still, I think it was an accident. His face wasn't exactly a picture of glowing satisfaction. In fact, for a second there, he looked horrified. Then he put ointment on it. Not exactly the actions of a man set on my injury or death.

Maybe not. But you be careful. Keep on your toes. Keep watching. Keep waiting.

I will, Grandpa. I always do.

The stairs slid soundlessly to a halt, and the Headmaster opened the door to his office and went inside. They followed suit. McGonagall closed the door behind her. Snape came to a halt in the center of the room, arms folded across his chest. He scowled at nothing in particular. McGonagall took a position behind the Headmaster's desk, eyeing her adversary with seething rancor. The gloves were about to come off.

Christ, this is going to be a blow-up. No minor scuffle, not this time. And I'm going to be right in the middle of it. The thought made her stomach clench. Nothing good was going to come of this.

The Headmaster seated himself behind his desk and gave her a beaming smile. He reached for a crystal dish of lemon drops on his desk and offered it to her. "Lemon drop?"

"Thank you, sir." She took one, hoping she didn't swallow it whole before the discussion was over. Her lips puckered as the bitter tang coated her tongue.

"Quite bitter, aren't they? They're a favorite of mine. Professor McGonagall? Professor Snape?" He offered the bowl to each of them in turn. McGonagall shook her head stiffly. Snape eyed the sweets with loathing. Unperturbed by their rejection, Dumbledore set the bowl on the desk, sat back in his chair, laced his fingers across his chest, and waited.

McGonagall fidgeted with the sleeve of her robe and then said, "Is there anything you wish to discuss with us, Miss Stanhope?"

Get those defenses up right now. The thought was an urgent command. She brought the walls down with a resounding crash. She sensed the answer to this question was very important. McGonagall was fishing for something. The question was too general. All three of them were looking at her with discomfiting interest. To buy time, she said, "Like what, ma'am?"

She surveyed her professors through half-lidded eyes, pretending to straighten her robes. Snape gave nothing away. He was absolutely motionless in the center of the room. His eyes bored into her, his mouth a thin line. She flicked her eyes to the right. Dumbledore gazed at her, his blue eyes searching her face with casual scrutiny. She raised her eyes to where Professor McGonagall sat. She was fidgeting more than ever. If she weren't careful, she would pick the stitching from her robe.

"Well," began McGonagall, obviously at a loss as to how to broach the subject, "specifically, we would like to know about Potions class, that is, if you feel everything as is it should be."

Where is this going? She had no idea what the woman was talking about. Had Snape confessed to bruising her? No, if that were the case, they would not be having this discourse now. Snape would be going before a disciplinary committee, and she would be getting a signed letter of apology from the board of directors. Something else was afoot here.

"I'm still not sure I understand the question, ma'am."

Snape rolled his eyes. "What the ever-eloquent Professor McGonagall really wishes to know, Miss Stanhope," he murmured testily, "is whether or not I, in my black and evil malice, have been torturing you during detention."

She did swallow her lemon drop then, but fortunately for her, it had dissolved enough so that she did not choke on it. She stared at Snape in disbelief. To her right, McGonagall was red-faced and sputtering.

"I meant no such-,"

Snape cut her off. "So, Miss Stanhope, please enlighten us. Since the disgusting incident in my classroom, have you experienced any ill effects? Nightmares? Uncontrollable weeping? Hallucinations? Inexplicable urges to curl into the fetal position?" He said all of this calmly, matter-of-factly, but wounded anger brimmed just beneath the surface.

They're kidding. They have to be kidding. They weren't. The Headmaster would never waste her time or his own with such a terrible joke. They watched her expectantly. What did they want her to say? Her accident in Snape's classroom had happened three days ago, the passing of an age as far a she was concerned. She had trained herself long ago not to dwell on things already done, things she could not change. Wetting herself-horrible pun damn well intended-was water under the bridge. Aside from a minor moment of sniveling self-pity the night it happened, she hadn't given it any thought. And yet, the three most distinguished professors at Hogwarts had obsessed over it enough to warrant this meeting. Incredible.

She did something none of them had been expecting. Given the circumstances and the importance of the people present, it was probably the least wise thing she could have done, but frankly, she was at a loss. There was nothing else she could do, aside from continue to stare at them like a dithering fool. She threw her head back and laughed, her arms reflexively pulling toward her chest.

McGonagall was staring at her, her eyes widened in alarm. Probably on the lookout for an impending attack of frothing insensibility. This made her laugh even harder, and she sat back, tears streaming down her face. Through the hazy blur of tears, she could see Professor Dumbledore watching her without a word. He absently popped another lemon drop into his mouth.

"Are you quite finished?" Snape asked coldly.

She wiped her shaking hands across her eyes, huffing and tittering. "Yes, sir," she managed. "I'm sorry. That was just the last thing I expected."

"Perhaps now you will be so kind as to answer my question."

"Yes, sir," she said hesitantly, unsure of how to proceed. "Well, no, I haven't had any of those things. Why do you ask?"

Snape smiled thinly and shot a smug glance at McGonagall. There! You see? He did not answer her.

"Well, you see, dear, we are well aware of your delicate condition, and we thought that perhaps Professor Snape, with his demanding curriculum and constant night tutoring, was becoming too much for you," offered McGonagall, adjusting her spectacles.

"Let us be perfectly clear, Professor McGonagall," snapped Snape, "you thought it was proving too much for her. I think no such thing. In my opinion, Miss Stanhope, while inept and lacking in the courtesy to visit the lavatory before class, is perfectly capable of attending my class. Whether she ever contributes to it is another matter."

That was high praise coming from Professor Snape, but Rebecca kept her mouth shut. If she acknowledged it in any way, he would pervert it, turn it into a stinging, bitter barb. He was glowering at McGonagall, arms folded across his chest like a shield. His glittering eyes dared her to contradict him.

"Rebecca," Dumbledore said, kindly, entering the fray for the first time, "do you feel Professor Snape treats you fairly?"

That was a difficult question. No, he didn't treat her fairly, but he didn't treat anyone else fairly, either. He was an equal opportunity bastard. She sneaked a glance at Snape. He was watching her with wary eyes. McGonagall, too, was watching, leaning forward ever so slightly in her chair.

She bit her lip. "Permission to speak freely, Headmaster?" McGonagall suddenly sat up straight.

"Of course, dear."

She could feel the tension radiating from Snape. The smell of allspice intensified. He's waiting for something. But what? Then it struck her. He's waiting for me to tell them about the bruise. She turned her head to look him in the face. His fingers were curled around his elbows so tightly that the fabric of his robes was crumpling, shifting with a soft hiss. His eyes were flat, his mouth a non-existent line. He thinks I'm going to hang him.

She returned her attention to the Headmaster, who was waiting patiently. "While Professor Snape is hardly the most congenial of instructors, I don't think he treats me any worse than the others. He treats everyone unfairly." Her ears caught the soft hiss as Snape relaxed his grip on his elbows. Dumbledore's lips curled in the faintest of smiles.

"Headmaster, might I suggest that Professor Snape wait outside? Perhaps Rebecca feels uncomfortable discussing him in his presence." McGonagall was looking at Snape with a cool, calculating expression.

Several things passed through Rebecca's mind in the space of seconds. Her respect for McGonagall, negligible since their first awkward meeting at the train station, plummeted. Did the woman really think her so weak-minded as to be intimidated into silence by Professor Snape? She was afraid of him, but it was a healthy fear. She feared him the way she feared electrical outlets or crossing a busy street. He was intrinsically, undeniably dangerous, but she was aware of the danger, and she accepted it. She certainly wasn't going to cower in abject fear and refuse to speak her mind at the mere sight of him.

Something else bothered her, too. There was something familiar in her attitude, something that stirred unpleasant memory. A face flashed in her mind. Deidre. Haughty, self-assured Deidre, who decided who would be accepted at the insular world of D.A.I.M.S. Deidre, though she hadn't forced pitiful Judith Pruitt to end her sad life, had certainly given her no incentive to stay. That was who McGonagall reminded her of now, taunting, bitchy, cruel Deidre. She had already decided that Snape was undeserving of kindness of trust, and she was trying to cut him off at the knees. She had found her other, and now she was using Rebecca as an excuse to bring him down.

She's waiting for the blood; she wants me to give it to her. Judith's face filled her mind. She had watched one person be torn down. Was she going to watch another?

Since when have you given a damn about Professor Snape?

I don't.

Then what's bothering you?

That McGonagall is trying to use me for her little game. There's a difference between watching something happen, and being used to make it happen. I won't give her the rope to hang him with; I won't help her do this.

Why do you care? Snape hasn't exactly endeared himself to you.

Because, she thought irritably.

Because some things were just simply, inalienably wrong; not even the bleak perspective cast by disability or the nihilistic survivalism of a place like D.A.I.M.S. could make it otherwise. To accuse a man of wrongdoing and then exile him from the room so that he could not hear the aspersions cast against him was one of those things. Even Deidre had possessed the dubious honor to ridicule Judith Pruitt to her fat, pimply face. Whatever she had to say about Professor Snape, she would say to his face or not at all.

"If you please, Headmaster, I would prefer that Professor Snape remain here."

McGonagall drew herself up. "Miss Stanhope, you have no authority to make such a request," she said briskly.

Rebecca's temper slipped. Sneaky bitch.

Mind your tongue. Mouthing off to a teacher will get you in deep, deep trouble.

I don't care.

You'll care plenty when you're on your way back to King's Cross Station.

That thought sobered her just enough to avert disaster, but her nails continued to dig into the soft flesh of her palms like pricks of conscience. "You're absolutely right, ma'am," she said, struggling to retain her equanimity. "I meant no impudence. I only meant to say that I am not bothered by Professor Snape's presence."

McGonagall's shoulders relaxed. "Apology accepted."

Albus watched everything silently, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He wondered if Minerva had seen; he was almost certain she hadn't. He had. So had Severus. He could tell by the way the younger man was looking at her. His black eyes were riveted on her, as though he were waiting for it to appear again. Though no one else would have been able to detect it, Dumbledore knew that the Potions Master was torn between incredulity and irritation. He himself was more than a little worried.

The expression had been quick, no more than a fraction of a second, but it was there. She was still pressing her fingernails into the tender palms of her hand. At the suggestion of sending Severus outside, young Stanhope's face had contorted with contempt, maybe even loathing. The anger lingered in her eyes, dark and smoldering, embers in dry tinder. The mask had slipped effortlessly into place, but the eyes told all he needed to know. At the present, the girl was not at all fond of Minerva McGonagall.

"Miss Stanhope, what is a typical detention with Professor Snape like?" he asked, hoping to distract her from her fury.

She looked at him, and the fury left her. She gave a small smile. "Not much. Mr. Filch drops me off at eight o'clock sharp, and I stay until Professor Snape escorts me back to Gryffindor Tower."

"At what time is that, generally?"

She shrugged. "There is no set time, sir. I've stayed as late as four o'clock in the morning."

"Four o'clock?" cried McGonagall. "That's entirely too late! No wonder she has such dark circles beneath her eyes."

He saw Rebecca shoot her Head of House a mutinous glare. The fingers that had begun to relax curled tightly again. "And what do you do during this time?"

"I work on the Camoflous Draught, sir. Professor Snape says I have to keep trying until I get it right."

"I see. Do you enjoy it?"

"Enjoy? Not exactly, but I do find it interesting."

"Oh?"

"Yes, sir. I like getting the chance to prove I can do something."

Dumbledore nodded. "Do you and Professor Snape speak?"

"Not usually. He is busy with other things. Sometimes, he quizzes me on potions."

"Do you feel comfortable with him?"

"Yes, sir. Why shouldn't I?"

"No reason at all." He sat back, and Rebecca knew the interview was over. "Well, I see nothing out of form here. Miss Stanhope seems to be in good spirits and none the worse for wear. I do ask, Severus, that you end your detentions no later than half past twelve. You both need your rest."

Snape nodded stiffly. McGonagall stood to leave. Rebecca rested her hand on her joystick.

"Off with you, then." He dismissed them with a smile.

He watched them leave, his mind lightning-quick behind his light-hearted smile. They were all sending signals that his sensitive emotional antennae detected. Most were visual, slight treacheries of the body that spelled out their inner feelings in every twitch and stiff footstep. The predominant feeling of the moment was anger, followed closely by mistrust. Severus, as was his wont, was stalking from the room, hands curled into fists beneath his cloak. His face was hard; his eyes glittered with unspoken frustration. McGonagall was striding along at such a clip that she was just short of running. She gripped her wand like a lance, jabbing it forward with every stride. Even her hat sat stiffly upon her head, an exclamation point of disapproval.

Sandwiched betwixt them was Stanhope, and he found her most interesting of all. Anger flowed from her; it seemed to shimmer around her twisted limbs in a gossamer suit. This did not surprise him. The anger was always with her. It ebbed and flowed, but it was ever there. The darkness within to fight the darkness without. What did surprise him, though, was at whom that swirling, infectious rage was directed.

Though McGonagall was her Head of House and self-appointed protector, Rebecca was pulling away from her, putting as much distance between them as she could. She was, in fact, staying as close as possible to Severus Snape, narrowly missing his heels. It was abundantly clear, that, no matter her intentions, the young lady wanted nothing to do with the woman behind her.

What other surprises do you have for us, Rebecca? The thought lingered in his mind for a moment, and then he put it aside in favor of the supply reorder form sent in by Professor Sprout.