Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Twelve

Draco Malfoy was smiling. Not smirking, as was his wont, but smiling. He even smiled pleasantly at Crabbe and Goyle in the Common Room before breakfast. This made them very nervous, indeed. They had known him from earliest childhood, and never in their long and grudging partnership had he looked upon them with any favor at all. They had grown to accept his sneers and taunts, view them almost as tainted, warped gifts. At least he knew they were alive. So, when Draco smiled at them, Vincent Crabbe felt a sudden urge to sit down upon the couch.

That did it. The smile vanished, replaced by an irritated grimace. "What are you doing? Get up, you stupid prat! We're going to be late for breakfast."

"All right, Draco. Sorry." He dutifully got up and followed him out of the Common Room.

He was relieved, actually. Sniping meant he was back to himself again. A kinder, cuddlier Draco would have been quite worrisome. There would have been questions, suspicions, and if there were one person he feared more than Draco, it was his father, Lucius. The man was cold, colder than subzero chill, and if he even thought that one of them had been mucking about with his only son, he would kill them without hesitation, children of family friends or not.

Though Vincent Crabbe couldn't see it, Draco was still smiling when they walked into the Great Hall, thought not quite so brazenly. If Potter and his gaggle of harebrained groupies caught him smiling gormlessly at nothing in particular, they were bound to stick their noses where they weren't wanted. Today was a wonderful morning. He had such plans. If things went well, Rebecca Stanhope would find herself in world of trouble before the day was out.

He had been thinking, planning. All night, even after going to bed, he had thought about her, what he had learned, and between Goyle's bonesaw snores and the sleepy muttering of Crabbe as he wrestled with uneasy dreams, pieces of the fractured puzzle had begun to fall into place. One by one, he examined them, fitting them where he could. Goyle snored, and he seized on the first element. Rebecca. Her body. That frail, thin, wreck that twitched and jerked at the slightest provocation. It could prove useful, he had realized; indeed, it could be a boon. It was her weakness, her worst enemy. He had smiled in the dark.

The second ingredient in his potent tincture of malice came to him just after he had rolled onto his side, arm propped beneath his head. Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin and a sure ally. He hated Stanhope, and he made no secret of the fact. His constant berating of her had become a form of entertainment for most of Slytherin. Not that Draco could blame him. He saw her for what she was, no doubt. He understood as well as anyone else that she was useless, a blight, and unfit for society. And he would, naturally. He was a proper Slytherin, after all. Aside from his father, Professor Snape was the most Slytherin man he had ever met.

The third element was not a separate entity at all-it was merely the manipulation of the two personalities at his disposal. One would have to be played against the other. He was certain he could manage it. Both of them were suicidally proud and stiff-necked beyond redemption. Once backed into their fighting corners, they would have no other choice, as they saw it, but to come out swinging. Under no circumstances would either retreat or surrender. It would be a bloodbath, and an enjoyable one at that. All he had to do was give things a bit of a nudge in the right direction.

Snape had even helped with that part, too. A bastard and a thorough teacher. The man was extraordinary. He was constantly carping about her ineptitude, about the danger she presented to him and the other pupils. It had become part of his daily routine, like his brooding menacing stalk into the classroom and his rabid sarcasm that he lobbed at the hapless students in his way. It was getting a bit tired, but perhaps he could make some use of it, be the Delphian Oracle that brought the prophecy to pass.

Oh, you are good.

Of course I am. I'm a Malfoy.

He slid into his customary seat at the Slytherin table, indulging in the self-congratulatory smile for one second more before slipping into the more familiar disapproving sneer. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him immediately, their large, square faces filling his peripheral vision. The Great Hall was filling with groggy students straggling from their Common Rooms, puffy-eyed and gravel-voiced. The first-years came last rubbing their eyes and looking every inch the sniveling, pathetic children they were. Even the Slytherin first-years disgusted him, small and rat-faced and weak. Some of them still looked for their parents in the morning.

He poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice and took a sip to cleanse his throat of the morning muck that was always there when he awoke. On either side of him, his flunkies were already well-ensconced in their breakfast plates. The sounds of their lip-smacking and open-mouthed chewing were almost enough to put him off his own food, but he managed to take a bite of warm, buttered roll. He let his eyes wander to the Gryffindor table.

Rebecca was already there, wedged between the Weasley twins, who were chattering animatedly into her ears. Her bent back was to him, so he couldn't see her reaction, but knowing the Weasleys, they were probably marveling her with witty jokes from their vast repertoire. Her shoulders were quaking. It could be laughter, or it could be just another one of those odd contortions that sometimes assailed her. Her improbable hair shone in freshly-washed splendor. The house elf had braided it for her, but a few wisps had already escaped their bonds, and they tickled her neck with their golden threads.

He popped a piece of bacon in his mouth, fastidiously wiping the grease from his fingers with a linen napkin. Shoddy workmanship like that would earn our house elves a proper and deserved beating.

Well, any work on Stanhope is an improvement.

Yes, but still; you'd think she'd have some care about herself.

Don't be silly. This is a Mudblood we're talking about. And a deformed one to boot.

As he watched, she brought a glass up to her face with a shaking hand. She nearly dropped it, then recovered her grip. Miraculously, it returned to the tabletop unspilled. Her infirmity was like a beacon, and he watched it manifest itself in a thousand little ways. It undermined everything she did, but it affected her not in the slightest. The force of her will, her personality, still radiated cleanly and powerfully from its battered lighthouse. Yes, she would be a worthy opponent, and he would consider beating her a fine achievement.

Don't underestimate her. His father's voice.

Father needn't have worried. Underestimating her was not going to be on his rather lengthy list of mistakes. He knew better. He had never underestimated anyone, when it came down to it. Tested them, yes, but not underestimated. It was a technique he had learned from his father. Lull them into a sense of smug superiority, of safety, and then, when they were least expecting it, move in for the kill.

She was not expecting him. He could tell by her relaxed posture. For the first few days after their squabble on the train, she had been watchful, alert. Her eyes had darted to the Slytherin table every few minutes to make sure he was still where he should be and not sneaking up on her with his wand drawn. He had never moved, never given any indication that he saw her. He continued eating and talking, and eventually her caution had waned. She looked less and less often at him, going half an hour at a stretch without a glance. Now, she wasn't bothering with him at all. She thought the danger was past. She was so comfortable that she sat with her back to him. How foolish.

He watched the Gryffindor Table with interest. No longer was it a cohesive unit; Stanhope had made it a House divided. There was no rancor. No, Gryffindors would never allow that, but there were two distinct camps now-those who accepted and embraced her, and those who tolerated her because they must. It amused him to see that Potter and his friends apparently fell into the latter camp. Obviously his noble protection of the innocent and helpless did not pertain to her. Good. It would make things easier for him.

Doesn't say much for him, does it? Exposes him for the raging hypocrite he is. Some Gryffindor sensibility.

Actually, he was behaving exactly like a Gryffindor. Noble when it suited him and exercising the better part of valor when it didn't. Gryffindors were opportunists, just like the Slytherins, maybe even more so. At least Slytherins had the decency and audacity to admit it. Gryffindors would hem and haw and recite the law while they sharpened the knife beneath their robes. Slytherins would simply plunge it into your chest and smile while they did it.

He thought about going over and stirring up a bit of trouble, but decided against it. That might put her on alert again, and he wanted her calm and unsuspecting. Besides, he knew what would happen. The twins would leap to her defense, the furious red of their hair bleeding into their pale faces. Rebecca's blue eyes would blaze and then go quiet as she slammed the damper into place. Behind her thin lips, her sharp, venom-dripping tongue would quiver with the need to sting. The rest of her Housemates would look away. Not worth the risk.

He shifted his gaze to the High Table. Professor Snape was there, eating his porridge with a sullen, desultory expression. Eating breakfast was not an act of survival for him. It was an act of aggression. His face was tight. Angry stress lines creased his face. He was in a miserable humor. Perfect. All the conditions were ripe for some beautifully engineered calamity.

"Hello, Draco."

He cringed, his teeth setting on edge. She was the last person he wanted to talk to now. Or ever. "Pansy."

She beamed at him, peeking from behind Goyle's beefy forearm. She was an extraordinarily ugly girl, and looking at her stubby, pug nose and broad forehead made him weep for Pureblood genetics. It was all well and good to date and marry within the insular confines of high wizarding society, but the rampant inbreeding was bound to produce unpleasant results upon occasion. True, the Parkinsons were not nearly as noble or refined as the Malfoy family, which could trace its bloodlines for millennia, but one would think they would have had the good sense to hide her glaring deficiencies with an Appearance Enhancing Charm. At least buy the girl some expensive cosmetics, for Merlin's sake.

"You look pleased today, Draco."

"I am."

"Ooh, care to let me in on your secret?" she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

"No," he said flatly.

Her face fell, and her pathos made her even uglier. He turned away from her, washing the bitter taste from his mouth with a sip of pumpkin juice. That was enough of her for one day. Everyone outside of Slytherin thought the two were an item. Well, that was a laugh. He couldn't stand her. The only reason he'd escorted her to the Yule Ball was because Father had insisted.

It will be good to form that sort of alliance, Draco, keep the power base strong. Even I won't be around forever, and when I'm gone, you will require your own contacts, your own liaisons.

Draco had understood the meaning behind his father's words quite well. It was obvious he hoped to marry him off, to forge an alliance between the two families through the union. Unfortunately for father dearest, that was going to be a pipe dream. He would do anything for his father, for the cause, but he wouldn't do that. He refused to make any sort of alliance with Pansy Parkinson, let alone an accord between the bedsheets. It had been all he could do to survive the Yule Ball with her. He'd sooner court Millicent Bulstrode.

At the thought of her name, his eyes slid to where Millicent sat ravaging her breakfast. She was a human steam shovel, piling her food into her mouth gracelessly. Her chin wobbled as she crammed a more than was decent forkful of eggs inside. She was a tank of a girl, squat and thick, with beefy arms and a barrel chest. She looked up at him quizzically, a glob of bacon grease dripping from her chin and a dollop of orange marmalade smeared on a cheek. He looked away, lest she think he was flirting.

On second thought, celibacy is good.

If the truth be known, Dina Knott was the most attractive of the Slytherin girls, for whatever that was worth. She had a small, pretty face framed by chestnut hair. She also had very nice bubs, a fact he never failed to notice when he sneaked a peek in Herbology. Sadly, she was thick as a brick. If she could walk and twine her hair around her fingers at the same time, it was a good day. It was the one thing he hated about Slytherin-an appalling dearth of desirable girls.

Of course, there were reasons for that, or so he had heard. The patrician Pureblood society placed a very great value on boys. A penis made the world go `round, as the old saying went. Sons were spoiled. Sons were glorified. It didn't matter how stupid you were, how feckless, how inept in the ways of the world. Your sex organs were your keys to the castle, your entry into the ivory towers of privilege. If you were an only son, so much the better.

Girls, on the other hand, were not so lucky. They were valued only insomuch as they would become the brood mares to provide more boys, more walking, talking virility tokens for the men to exhibit at the never-ending succession of summer cocktail parties. Aside from that, they were worth nothing. Some of the wealthier parents, according to the legends passed around the Slytherin Common Room fire, would go to extraordinary lengths to get a male heir.

Agrippina Delerov was the bogey most frequently mentioned in these sordid tales, the faceless witch who would give you the child of your dreams...for a price. It was said that she would Transfigure girl-children into hearty, hale boys with her twisted, unholy magic. The price was astronomical, rumored to be in the hundreds of thousands of Galleons. According to the more macabre tellers of the lore, the price was even more treacherous and terrible. The transformation was at Agrippina's whim. If she felt so inclined, either from spite or from vengeance, she could reverse the spell, and some poor soul who had so assuredly been a male a moment before would suddenly find himself missing vital parts.

The image of Julian becoming Juliette struck him as funny the first time he'd heard the tale, but before climbing into bed that night, he had conducted a thorough inspection of his undergarments to be sure that everything was anchored into place. Not that he believed such nonsense, of course. No record of any such happening had ever been recorded anywhere. If it had, the Daily Prophet would have pounced upon it immediately, splashing blaring headlines and gaudy photos across its front pages with unbridled glee. The rest of the pages would be filled with interviews with hapless, bewildered victims and dissertations on the hows and whys of the phenomenon from every quack and pseudo-educated philistine in the land. Charlatans would come crawling out of the rotten woodwork of Knockturn Alley with claims of cures or ameliorative nostrums. Still others would claim to be the fiendish mastermind of the nefarious plot to rid the world of male Slytherins. No one would believe them. Everyone knew all that was evil stemmed from the mind and heart of Lord Voldemort.

No, what he believed was much simpler. Magic had nothing to do with it. What he understood to be true with all his heart was far simpler, far more monstrous. The girls weren't changed, bartered for boys through the machinations of a cunning, cruel witch. They were killed, simply and methodically. Maybe they were Killing Cursed in their swaddling while they slept. Perhaps they were killed by the same doctors responsible for bringing them into the world, smothered quietly and without fanfare. There were enough Slytherin Mediwizards to perform the task; medicine was a lucrative business, after all. Even those not of the Slytherin persuasion could be convinced to do the awful deed if the price were right. Greed was a universal malady.

Things like that had been reported. Dead infants sometimes turned up amongst the refuse piles heaped and stinking in Knockturn Alley, and some green-faced young Auror was sent to retrieve the bodies. There was usually an autopsy and an inquest, but nothing much ever came of it. There were too many other concerns. Outlasting the ever-growing pall of Lord Voldemort, for instance. Besides, they were likely the unwanted children of destitute paupers. Nothing to do but cremate the wretched things and move on.

Oh, if only they'd think of performing a Paternus Divinitio test. What surprises would they find? The secrets I could tell.

He turned his gaze to the Ravenclaw table. They had the prettiest birds there, and more than a few of them were inclined to the Dark. They were intelligent, intelligent enough to recognize true power, at least. Even if they didn't nurse the darkness in their own souls, they didn't mind being caressed by it from time to time. He smiled. The stories he could tell if he wished. He took another bite of bread. Time was running out for Rebecca Stanhope.

Rebecca had forgotten about Draco, but not through arrogance or ignorance. She was simply happy. She was rested and relaxed. The curfew of midnight had helped her tremendously, though if anyone had asked, she would have insisted it made no difference. The pounding headache that had dogged her incessantly was gone, as was the permanent cramp in her lower back. Fred and George were excited about the looming prospect of Quidditch season, and some of their enthusiasm had passed to her. Quidditch was still a novelty to her, and her sole experience with it-until the appearance of the Dark Mark and the ensuing pandemonium, that was-had left her exhilarated and eager to see more.

So perhaps it was understandable that she was less cautious than she should have been. If only the Fates were so forgiving. Greater men than she had learned viciously, painfully of the soulless, pitiless caprice of the three sisters spinning, weaving, and cutting the threads of life, and that afternoon after a happy morning of Transfiguration in which McGonagall kept her prying, invisible fingers to herself, Fate's teachers came bearing a cruel lesson. Ironically, it was a lesson Professor Moody could have taught with a great deal less trouble had she thought to ask him.

Everything was as it always was when she rolled into Potions that day. Snape was in his customary miserable humor, shooting her a seething, disgusted glare when she entered. The Slytherins greeted her with snorts and sniggers, and the Gryffindors sighed and waited for the first salvo in the latest battle of two intractable wills. In short, there was nothing to tip her off, to trip the delicate sensors of congenital wariness. The trap was flawless.

She took her seat and pulled out her parchment and quill. Professor Snape insisted she write, so write she would. No matter that it was illegible, a mess of indecipherable squiggles and lines and wobbles. If he wanted it, then she would most certainly give it to him. It was his eyesight, after all, and if he wanted to ruin it by squinting and scowling over her scratchings, who was she to tell him nay? It sure beat the pants off the consequences.

What were the consequences? She didn't know. Nightly detentions had become a de facto way of life, a routine as expected as Winky's thorough scrubbing when she returned to the Common Room at night. They had long since ceased to be a true punishment. They had changed into something else, a game, maybe? No, not quite. That was too trivial a term for it. A contest? Yes, that was closer, but still not what she was looking for. An experiment? Yes, that was it. An experiment, a litmus test to see who was stronger. To see, in effect, who had the bigger balls.

I shouldn't tell him that if I were you. He's apt to show you.

Not to worry there. That was one little tidbit of sentiment she was keeping to herself. If Professor Snape ever caught wind of the fact that she no longer considered time with him punishment, he would most certainly change that. He was a man who prided himself on his pristine malice, and he would see her inexplicable enjoyment of his ill-intended castigations as a catastrophic failure. He would seek out new ways to burden her, to add to the yoke around her neck. He would purge her of such ideas any way he could.

She hadn't expected to grow used to his malevolent scowls and savage snarlings, but she had. They no longer frightened her. They were only his idiosyncrasies, part of his personal landscape. She still paid heed when he spoke, of course. She was not yet that far gone in her complacency. That voice was a magnet, a siren call velvet hammer that held her in its sway even as it sought to destroy. It called her to attention even when she was on the teetering edge of exhaustion. She knew when she heard it that it was trying to undermine her walls, her stolid castle of hard earned sanctuary, but she was powerless to stop it. She couldn't very well tell him to stop talking. Nor would she if she could have. It was a pleasant erosion.

She watched him as he wrote on the blackboard in his small, flowing script. Chalk dust fell from the board onto his long fingers and the sleeve of his robes. His touch was light and crisp. Her own hand straggled and wobbled across the parchment beneath it, woefully behind. She could tell by his posture-ramrod straight and tense as an overextended muscle-that he was on edge. It was no mystery as to why.

Damn right it isn't.

McGonagall and her meddling. Her sanctimonious, stupid, irritating meddling. Snape hadn't been at all pleased about the Headmaster setting limits on the time he could keep her in his dominion. She had seen the muscle in his jaw twitch at the news. He'd been murderous ever since. Detention last night had been tense, and more than once he'd snapped at her for no apparent reason. The motive behind his fouler than usual temperament wasn't that hard to figure out. His classroom was his, dammit! His to run as he saw fit, by God, and now thanks to McGonagall's whining, some of that treasured autonomy had been stripped from him. He was being bridled in his own stall, and he was damn sure going to make his displeasure known.

She wasn't thrilled about it, either. Yes, the extra hours of sleep were badly needed, but the price for them was high. Too high as far as she was concerned. They were a concession to her disability, and she had made far too many of those. Taking them made her look weak, needy. Whether she needed them or not, she didn't want them. She would rather faint where she sat than take any charity proffered by McGonagall.

Rather unkind for someone who just got the best night's sleep they've had in weeks.

Wonderful. Now she would look healthy and vibrant, and old McGonagall would pat herself on the back for a job well done. Rosy cheeks and clear eyes would justify her decision to interfere and pry, and then there would be no escaping it. She would be at every turn, squawking and hectoring and making her life a living hell even as her physical body blossomed from the proper rest, nourishment, friendship, and fresh air. The old crone would crow about her accomplishment, setting herself up as the courageous champion of the weak, while she and Professor Snape stewed and fulminated in the shadows, each nursing their own resentments. She scowled.

Rather have the puffy bags beneath your eyes, the stiff, cracking joints, and the pounding headache?

Yes. If it means McGonagall will leave me the hell alone.

Worse than everything else, McGonagall's pestering had lost her valuable ground in Professor Snape's eyes. The grudging respect she'd fought for, clawed from the hard, unyielding soil of his heart had evaporated the instant Dumbledore handed down his edict. She had seen it wilt and die. Those eyes, which had just begun to regard her with something other than put-upon loathing, had closed off at once, dimming like electric lights with insufficient power. Clearly, he thought she was pleased with the way things had developed. Maybe he had even thought she had planned it. In that moment, she grew to hate McGonagall. Had the Death Eaters swooped in and killed her on the spot, Rebecca would not have so much as batted an eyelash.

What does it matter so much to you, his respect? Why do you need it?

Because it mattered. Because she sensed that it was important, that it was valuable. It was as rare and worthy as gold, and if she managed to mine even a fragment of it from the miserly vein that coursed through him, hidden by layers of thick insulation and daunting bitterness, she would have attained the ultimate prize, checked the cold black king and won the endgame. If she could make him see her, even for an instant, as something other, something better than a nuisance, then he could never look at her the same way again. Not in good conscience, anyway.

You're assuming a conscience.

It was a big assumption, but she thought he did have one, eroded, pitiful, and anemic as it might be. She saw it in him sometimes, flashes of strangled humanity that he quickly smothered. He was never kind, to her or to anyone else, nor did he display emotion of any sort, but all the same, there was something oddly fragile about him. Her eyes would catch fleeting motions of his body, momentary flickers of expression on his normally blank face. She couldn't read the emotions, not the subtle, rarely seen ones. They were too elusive, too quick. The anger was all she recognized, and she recognized it easily because it was so often on her own face.

She could read his body, though; it betrayed what his face would not. Perhaps he had never felt the need to train it in the way it should go, in the art of deception. For all these years, his caustic manner and sneering face had been enough to keep the curious away. Sympathy quickly faded in the face of such cruelty. Her own had. No one had stayed close to him long enough to translate his silent language. No one, save the Headmaster, had chosen to roll the bones and see what lay between their dry lines. No one wanted to enter the cage and seize the tiger by the tail. Now the tiger, through his own volition, had invited her into that cage and sealed the door behind him.

And what had she seen? What had he unwittingly given away? Just enough. Just enough to tell her that he was something more than stone and wormwood and slow, bitter poison. Some nights as he sat hunched over his poorly lit desk, tearing the feeble defenseless souls from the parchments of his pupils, she caught a glimpse of a feeling unintended. Most often it was desperation, a thick caul over his blank face. It was in the set of his mouth, the unconscious curling of his lip. Sometimes, it was in his thin, white hands, in the way he rubbed them together absently but compulsively. It clung to him selfishly, a jilted lover refusing to take graceful leave. Tenacious as terminal disease.

There were other things, too, other parasites that clung to him. Hatred was his bastard child, and he nursed it from the marrow in his frozen bones, but it was an unforgiving, gluttonous child, and it turned on its sire, demanding more of him than he could safely give, relentless in its avarice. He didn't just hate her or the world; he hated himself. Himself most of all. He was his own most brutal critic. Sometimes she would see him muttering to himself, the words too low for her to hear. Other times he would suddenly slam his hand upon the desk in frustration, making her jump. Then he would scowl at her as though she had caused some great mischief and peevishly tell her to get back to work.

She caught a glimmer of something else at times, something so faint she couldn't trust that it was really there. It was way down deep, a systemic infection that she couldn't quite grasp, a low-grade fever that made him look withered and drawn and yet far too young for his years. She had reached for it only once, and he had looked at her so sharply and so speculatively that her slumbering fear of him had returned with startling asperity. She was neither so impertinent nor so unwise as to try again.

"Psst!" Neville nudged her in the shoulder.

She turned and saw to her horror that her quill had trailed off the edge of the parchment and wandered over the desk, leaving spidery, black trails of ink along the would. She jerked it back where it belonged and shot Neville an apologetic look. Snape would love that; yet another crime he could add to her list of transgressions. Damn, she had to curb the mental wanderings. They were going to get her into serious trouble.

Neville was of the same mind, apparently. He was eyeing the inky scrawls with growing trepidation. He knew Snape as well as she did. He looked from the marred desk to the narrow back of Professor Snape hovering in front of the blackboard, then back to the desk again. He seemed to be considering something.. Then he sat forward, folding his arms across the desk and hiding the scribbles beneath them.

Professor Snape chose that precise moment to spin around. "As anyone with a modicum of sense can see, this is a most complex potion, but since none of you have displayed any notable intelligence to date, I shall spell it out for you. This is highly dangerous work, and I expect you to exercise extreme care." He sent a piercing glance in her direction. "I will tolerate no carelessness. Should a lapse in concentration or an error in judgment result in injury to another, I will personally see to it that the responsible party is expelled." He sneered at the suitably terrified class. Then his black eyes darted to Neville, who sat hunched and trembling over the desk. His eyes narrowed. "What's the matter with you, Longbottom? Sit up at once. Why are you lying across Miss Stanhope's desk?"

Neville hesitated a moment, knowing what acquiescence would mean. But when Snape folded his arms across his chest, his resolve abandoned him, and he sat up, offering her a guilty sidelong glance. Black ink smudged his chin and it coated the desktop in a thick, uneven smear.

Snape's face remained impassive, but when he spoke, he sounded absurdly merry. "Ah, what have we here?" He stepped forward and swiped an inquisitive finger through the ink. He examined the tip of his finger, now blackened, and then scowled at her. "More of your doing, I trust, Miss Stanhope?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, sir," she muttered, looking at her hands.

"I didn't hear you, Miss Stanhope."

The malice that had begun to fade over the weeks beneath his unrelenting tutelage returned, reinvigorated by his petty torment. She stared up at him, trying to match his stoicism with her own. He said nothing, still as the statuary in a cemetery. Only his eyes spoke of living things, of essence of being, of soul, and the things of which they spoke were warped and twisted, much like her own body. They were diseased, and she looked away from them, suddenly frightened and sad. The corner of his mouth turned in a small smirk.

How can a man live with a soul like that? And what hell has he lived through to get it?

The questions were too big, too discrete for her to answer. The impact of them made her feel ill, and she closed her eyes against a nauseating wave of vertigo. When she opened them again, he was still there, pale face daring her to defy him. Whatever she had seen in his eyes was gone, and in its place was the more familiar practiced nothing.

What did I see? Oh, God in Heaven, what did I see? On the heels of that near-hysterical thought, Did he know I saw?

All of her anger left her. She felt it leave her in a physical release, a loosening of her chest and a relaxing of her chin. It was impossible to sustain in the face of such naked hopelessness, such crushing self-recrimination. She was seized with the ridiculous urge to grip him by the shoulders and shake him, to tell him that whatever it was that gnawed him in the landscape of his dreary dreams and haunted his heart, it couldn't be that bad. It couldn't. She also wanted to weep in terrified melancholy. A lump caught in her throat, hard and cold as gristle.

His heart is as hard as a stone, girl, buried beneath uncountable layers of hate and guilt and self-pity. If something has gotten past all those barriers to burrow into the meat of it, into the small part of him that still exists, you better believe it could be that bad. Maybe worse.

"Well, Miss Stanhope?" he snapped.

"Yes, sir, it was my doing," she said loudly when she could trust her voice. It had no force in it, no life. It was tired and dead. She felt tired. She wanted very much to run away and sleep.

"Ten points from Gryffindor," he murmured, but his voice was flat, lacking its usual venom. He studied her for a very long moment before he turned away and finished his lecture.

Before it happened, things were going remarkably well for her. The knife was cooperating, and Professor Snape had been strangely silent. He still brooded and skulked and spent an inordinate amount of time eyeing her cauldron, but the requisite insults and jibes were distinctly lacking. He seemed confused, almost subdued.

It started as a burning tingle in her right ankle, sharp and hot like the unexpected jab of a syringe. She clutched at it, scratching at the perpetually cold skin there in an effort to quell the sensation. It only served to make things worse. The stinging raced up her leg into the backs of her knees.

What is wrong with me? Her heart thudded in her ears, and her chest constricted. The panic rushed up from one side, a solid wall of hot terror, clouding her reason, and from the other side came the relentless, biting sting that was now swallowing her entire lower half. They met in the middle in soundless fusion, and the seeds of disaster planted upon her arrival blossomed into a vine of deadly simplicity. The last of her good luck vanished.

Make it stop! Oh, God, make it stop.

The stinging, pricking burn had swallowed her whole. It bit into the soles of her feet and punctured her delicate scalp. It was electric and hot and terrible, and she rubbed the palms of her hands all over her body in a desperate attempt to wash it away, but the fire continued to burn. She was lost to the panic, flailing blindly at her invisible tormentor. The pain was beneath the beds of her fingernails now, and she slashed them savagely across the desk to drive it out. She did not hear the sharp snap as two of them tore to the quick. All of her senses had gone numb; only touch was alive, and it was vengeful.

Neville was staring at her in wide-eyed terror. She tried to speak, to tell him to do something, but what came out of her mouth was, "The hornets! The hor-hornets!"

Yes, it's the goddamn hornets.

When she was three, she had crawled out to explore her grandfather's backyard, especially her favorite orange tree. Her grandfather would sometimes lift her up to pluck a fat, ripe orange from the lower boughs. She had crawled out to see if she could find something edible on the ground, one not too bruised or dirty. What she had found was a hornet's nest that had been blown out of the tree. She had put her hand in it reaching for a likely orange.

The pain had been immediate and excruciating, living fire beneath her skin, and by the time her grandfather had come hobbling out to rescue her, she had been stung seventeen times. The same pain had returned now, only it was a thousand times worse. It was as though the ghosts of the insects her grandfather had burned alive along with their nest had come back and brought all their old malices with them.

"Miss Stanhope, stop!"

A voice, far away. Even through the suffocating, deafening pain, she recognized Professor Snape's voice. "Professor...help...me." She shrieked as a nasty stab of agony sliced through the back of her neck.

She looked up at him. He was foggy, distorted in her oddly cataracted sight. He was coming closer, his face brimming with authoritarian insolence. Some part of her understood that this was bad, that it was dangerous for him to be near her now, and she tried to get away, leave him and the desk, but just as she was clawing for the stick, the liquid fire swallowed her arm, and she screamed, jerking her hand wildly to the right. It struck something solid with a metallic clong. There was a wet hissing splash, and then a shout.

The pain disappeared. It didn't fade slowly away. It didn't linger, leaving a dull memory in her muscles and bones. It was there, and then it wasn't. She sat in her chair, her eyes closed and sweat cooling in a sticky mat on her forehead. She felt ill, as though she had just emerged from the grips of a near-fatal fever. She shook slightly. Her throat was dry and her eyes throbbed.

The silence disturbed her. It was too complete. There was a single sound, an agonized hissing, as of someone fighting off excruciating pain. Fear coiled in the back of her mind. Her hand throbbed to remind her that she had struck something. Then she remembered the wet, sizzling hiss, and she knew something terrible had happened. When she opened her eyes, she instantly wished she hadn't.

Professor Snape was in front of her, but he was not frightening or imposing now. He was bent double, clutching both legs below the knee. His robes were soaked, and beside him lay her empty cauldron, its empty mouth lolling witlessly at the blackboard. The hissing was coming from him. Between his white fingers, she could see puffy, swelling, red flesh. Scalded flesh.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and her nails dug into the tender flesh there, drawing blood. A sound started in her throat, low and anguished.

I hurt him. I hurt Professor Snape. Look at what I've done to him!

The thought held no pride, no glee, only a sick, swooning misery. She felt like throwing up. She sobbed behind her hand, unable to believe what she was seeing and wishing she could take it all back.

At the sound of her voice, Snape's head shot up, and behind the blinding anger she could see pain, dark and constant. Another sob escaped her, and one thought crossed her mind. He's going to kill me.

His hand shot out, and for a moment, she thought he was going to do just that. Then it grabbed the collar of her robe and yanked, prompting an ominous purr from the seams. He straightened, grimacing with the effort.

"You, Miss Stanhope, are coming with me." His voice was barely a whisper, but she heard the fury in it all to clearly. What was worse, she heard the pain, and it made her heart spasm with remorse.

I did this. I did this.

"Miss Granger, supervise cleanup. Class is dismissed," he hissed, stumbling as he tried to take a step forward. He grabbed the back of her chair for support

"Yes, sir," came Granger's small, stunned reply.

He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear. "Now, Stanhope, get moving! You are in a great deal of trouble."

She knew that all too well. Her racing heart told her so with every heartsick beat. She didn't care. For the first time in her life, she knew she deserved it. Whatever Professor Snape did to her, it wouldn't be enough. What she had done was unforgivable, and each time he shuffled behind her as she rolled to the door, clutching her push-handle for support, her heart broke a little more.

In the confusion, no one saw Draco Malfoy slip his wand into his robes, a satisfied smile on his face.