Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Seventeen

By the time Rebecca rolled into the Halloween Feast, she felt horrible. The cramps had been building all day, and now they were a heavy weight in her lower abdomen, making her sluggish and sick. Her head was pounding with a dull ache. Her scalp felt bruised and stretched, and her tongue tasted faintly of rice paper. Food was the last thing on her mind, but she was going anyway. All week the students had been buzzing about the Feast, and she didn't want to miss it.

Not all of her malaise could be attributed to her period, she knew. Ever since the...whatever it was in Potions, her bones had seemed too light, scraped hollow, and the skin of her arms felt prickly and hot. Confusion whirled in her brain like dirty sleet, and the more she tried to make sense of it, the more bewildered she became. Thinking about it sharpened the throbbing of her head, but she couldn't stop trying to decipher the riddle. She kept tugging at it, nibbling at it with tiny, pointed teeth of curiosity.

The trouble was that she couldn't remember. The forgetting of it had begun as soon as it ended. For a few seconds, everything had been so clear, emblazoned on the acetate of memory, but then the edges had begun to blur. The colors had run together, and the voices had grown tinny and weak, the voices from an ancient gramophone. Over the hours, it had receded into only the barest recollection that tickled the base of her brain persistently. It had been important, she felt that deep in her bones, but when she reached for it, it slipped through her fingers like the silvery wisps of tainted Pensieve.

Why couldn't she remember? Her memory was an iron trap. She still remembered every phone number she had ever had since childhood, every teacher and the subject they taught, and the name of every enemy she had ever made, and there had been a lot of them. But something that had happened a little over five hours ago was lost to her. It was a wall of white noise. Disconnected thoughts and phrases would surface only to be lost in the endless roaring blankness.

(not much time)

(open the door)

(no)

(go away)

(Do you think you can save me)

(-don't know-)

(door)

(coming for you)

(coming for)

(coming)

Something danced on the tips of her groping fingers, feather light and fleeting as a blown kiss. She reached for it, stretching the formidable will of her mind, but it danced out of reach, disappearing into the vast white wall that kept her from her thoughts. She gave up the chase and let her neck and shoulders relax. The pain in her head eased a trifle, and she took a deep breath.

She had been somewhere. It most certainly had not been the Potions classroom. It had been huge, monolithic, reaching into a black, roiling sky, stabbing victoriously through torpid air that stunk of ozone. A cathedral? She didn't know. An iron gargoyle flashed across her vision, its twisted visage leering at her with bloody, ragged fangs. Frozen iron brushing her fingers, and then the splintery, pocked feel of old wood. Low vibration in her knuckles. She had been knocking. She had wanted in. But why?

Someone had been on the other side of the door. She had heard them, faintly and far away. She had known them. She had been frightened, too, terrified, in fact. Her bladder had been shrunken and tight, an over-saturated raisin. She hadn't feared the voice, not that she could remember. She had been afraid for it. Something terrible was coming, and it was vindictive and cold, and it was hungry. She had wanted to run, but she hadn't. She had continued to knock.

A sound echoed in her mind, and she instinctively shrank from it. Clittering. Pebbles tumbling over a precipice. The coy approach of slinking annihilation. That had been a part of it, too. The worst part maybe. What had made the sound? No, that was a blank. Too many pieces of the tableau were missing, swathes of grey amidst the vivid color.

Let me in, child. I will not harm thee. I only carry death in my arms.

Blood. Blood on the wind. Harbinger of lives spent. Her arm jerked, sending her fork screaming across the edge of the golden plate. Let me in, child. I will not harm thee. I only carry death in my arms. Soft. Lyrical. Damnation's lullaby. Most certainly not her own thought.

"What?' she whispered, the muscles of her chest suddenly too loose to put any force behind her words.

Someone nudged her in the shoulder. "You feeling all right?" George eyed her dubiously, fork dangling loosely from his hand. "You look a bit off color."

"Oh, I'm brilliant." She tittered. She felt irredeemably insane. She stabbed at her sliced ham with an unsteady fork. It took three tries before the tines struck home. The room seemed overbright.

"Maybe you should see-,"

"If you tell me to see Madam Pomfrey, I'll hex you." She was absolutely serious. Madam Pomfrey couldn't fix this.

He must have seen the sincerity in her face. He raised a conciliatory hand. "All right. No need to get upset."

"Tell me about Quidditch," she said, changing the subject in the hopes of returning her mind to an even keel.

Fred and George brightened. Quidditch started this weekend, and it was all they had talked about for weeks. Most of their free time had been spent in practice on the Quidditch pitch, and they returned to the Common Room with sweat-slicked robes and grins of delirious joy upon their faces. Nor were they the only ones. The entire team was gregarious, often loud and raucous late into the night. Other times, they could be seen huddled by the hearth, heads bent in solemn, whispered conference. Quidditch fever.

"I think we've got a smashing chance at the Quidditch Cup this year," Fred said through a mouthful of whipped potatoes.

"Of course we do. Our strategies are first-rate. Harry's a whiz. Bloody good captain." George beamed down the table at the oblivious object of his praise.

"And a wicked Seeker."

Rebecca snorted. This lavish praise of the sacrosanct Potter was eroding her appetite.

"What?" George asked, smiling uncertainly.

"Harry isn't the only member of the team, you know."

"Of course not. But he is the youngest Seeker in a century," said Fred.

"Wonder how he came by that," she murmured, fighting not to roll her eyes. The pointless gushing was irritating as hell.

"Harry's not a bad sort." George buttered his bread and gave her a knowing, indulgent smile.

"Never said he was." She hid her rising contempt beneath a veneer of casual observation. "Pass the stuffing, please."

The bowl of steaming food was pushed in front of her, and she smiled her thanks. It was useless discussing Potter with any semblance of rationality or logic. He held everyone here in his thrall, even Fred and George. He was the resident deity. No Christ-child here, no; here reigned the Potter-child, holy infant so tender and mild. Savior of civilization. Every knee to him shall bow, and heretics shall be consigned to the purgatory of Slytherin. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Patronus, amen.

She shoveled a forkful of potatoes in her mouth and surveyed him from the safety of her silence. He did not notice her gaze, did not feel the searching heat of her eyes. He was too busy reveling in the adulation of his favorite sycophants. He was never without them. They followed in his glowing wake like doomed lemmings, clinging to the perfumed hope he exuded from his exalted pores like holy water. They were convinced of his sanctity with the fevered, exhilarated surety of the zealot. Anyone who ventured to speculate that he might be mere flesh and blood and unworthy of such idolatry would be turned to a cinder beneath the indignant heat of their wands.

They were the deacons in the Church of Harry Potter, and the rest of Gryffindor House was the congregation. They knelt at his altar daily. He was their living icon. The same fervor was in every eye in varying degrees. "Harry Potter" was a benediction, and it was said with the same tone of reverential awe that people in the Muggle world reserved for the Pope. They basked in the honor of living and breathing with sainthood incarnate.

Though they were the worst afflicted, they were by no means the only ones. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, too, had come under his sway, though his prestige among the former had waned considerably since the death of Cedric Diggory. He had been one of them, and whether or not Potter had intended such a fate for him, he had been lost simply because he had happened to be sharing the same patch of dirt as living perfection. The strong young god had failed to save one of his flock, and so, for the Hufflepuff, Potter had lost much of his luster. They did not hate him-he was still Potter, after all-but the light of adulation did not burn so brilliantly in their eyes.

Even the professors had been touched by the myth of Harry Potter. McGonagall, tough as tempered nails with the rest of the Gryffindors, was quite content to look the other way as far as he was concerned, at least when it came to Quidditch. Too young according to the rules? No obstacle there. Bend the rule, trample it underfoot if need be. What were a thousand years of long-standing tradition when compared to a chance to regain lost ground on the Quidditch pitch? A trifle. First-years not allowed their own brooms? Who cares? A state-of-the-art broom shall be his. Such a hard life, poor boy. Why shouldn't he have a few forbidden delights?

She had heard all the stories. They were Hogwarts lore, and inexplicably, a source of profound pride for the House. The older students passed them on to the younger with gleeful relish, as though sharing a particularly cherished hearth tale. She found it odd that a House that loved to trumpet its virtues of bravery, honor, and supposed willingness to earn respect through sacrifice and toil should count the bestowing of undeserved honor upon a boy known then only for his staggering good fortune in not being killed alongside his parents as an achievement to be remembered. It carried with it the fishy, oily reek of favoritism, of the principle of doing whatever it took to get ahead. From her vantage point, it bore a more than striking resemblance to the litany of Slytherin's sins.

Tell that to old McGonagall. See how much hide you have left after she exhausts her tongue and her breath tryin' to convince you of the error of your ways.

No thank you. The less she saw and heard of the old crone the better. Her very breath was contaminated with the blighted honeysuckle whiff of self-righteous sanctimony. Her skin probably crawled with it. If she were ever foolhardy enough to express the secret thoughts of her heart regarding Harry Potter, she had little doubt that she would soon find herself publicly marked as outcast. The exclusion and "otherness" would no longer be unspoken. They would cut her off with silent synchronicity, the act as subtle but unmistakable as the clicking of one thousand turning locks. She would be an outsider in her own Common Room, lumped it with the likes of Slytherin.

Slytherin. She took a long drink of water to wash the bread from her teeth and considered them. The pariah House, the House that wealth and treachery built. They were the only House able to resist the siren song of Potterism. They had their reasons, to be sure, none of them noble. Some hated him because he represented the failure of their fathers and their fathers' master. He had taken from them and from their lines the glory of absolute victory. As long as he went on breathing, their faith in the Dark Lord could not be wholly justified. Some hated him as a symbol of rebellion, as a war cry against the society that looked down their noses at them because they dwelt in the House of darkness and cunning and voracious ambition. Still others hated him because they were too stupid to think for themselves, hated with the vapid eagerness of bovine followers of the masses. And one, Draco Malfoy to be precise, hated him with all the marrow in his bones.

She couldn't be sure, but she thought she had a good guess as to why. Draco Malfoy was a child of privilege, a product of untold centuries of refined and carefully selected breeding, the glorious progeny of flawless bloodlines and alliances meticulously forged. As such, wealth, rank, and all the trappings thereof were his by right. He was entitled to praise and flattery because the blood coursing through his veins said so. They were as much a part of his inheritance as the mountains of gleaming Galleons in his family's vault.

And yet, for all of that, for the purity of his blood and the riches heaped inside a cold, lightless vault, he was denied what he most expected, what life had taught him to expect. Neither blood nor money could buy him the respect and adoration cast at the feet of Harry Potter like rose petals cast before the feet of a king. He could not force words of praise from their mouths or ignite the embers of awe and loyalty in their watching eyes. He could only stand aside, silent and furious, as an orphaned boy with one-tenth of his wealth and none of his pedigree took everything he knew to be his, and for that he despised him. He would never not despise him. Should Potter rescue him from certain death, Malfoy would still seek opportunities to plunge the gilded silver knife into exposed and unsuspecting flesh, and he would smile when he felt it strike home. Like him, like his blood, his hatred was pure, strong, and intoxicatingly beautiful. She could only hope that his hatred of her was as perfect. If she was to be hated, she wanted to be hated well.

Strange. As much as everyone adores him and flaunts him as a human trophy, as much as they watch his every move, they must not look very closely.

Harry looked strained. He was happy enough; he was laughing and talking with Ron Weasley, but there were faint lines around his eyes, fragile crow's feet encircling those brilliant green eyes. He was pale, too, blue-veined milk. Even his lips were light, faded pink rather than the rosebud red of youth. A quick glance at his plate, and she knew he hadn't eaten much. A bite here, a bite there, and the rest pushed around to disguise his lack of appetite.

His friends didn't notice anything amiss, and she was not terribly surprised. They were so sure of his indestructibility. Harry Potter couldn't possibly get sick. He had defeated the greatest evil in the known world. Surely nothing so mundane as illness could touch him, much less fell him. Besides, it was easy to ignore. Harry was quiet, Harry was retiring, and Harry never complained. Besides, heroes never needed help, never needed a respite from toil. That he might falter was inconceivable.

It was his own damn fault, partly. He was more than content to perpetuate that myth. He was always willing to make the sacrifice, always ready to uphold Gryffindor honor. He did it all-school, Quidditch, defense of the entire wizarding world, heroic, perfect friend-with nary a whimper of protest. He carried all these burdens alone, and he would rather chew off his own leg than admit a task was beyond him.

One of these days, the little pissant is going to reach too far, and the fall will be spectacular.

Looking at Potter was stirring her fathomless sea of resentments, so she turned her mind to the decorations in the Hall. They were far beyond anything she had ever beheld, and seeing them loosened the rock-solid ball of tension in her chest. She felt five-years old again, full of wonder and inexplicable delight. The warm thrum of unbridled magic vibrated in her bones, just as it had the first time she had set foot in this room. The feeling of it coursing through her veins and beneath her skin was exhilarating. She let her head fall back and gazed at the enchanted ceiling high above.

The enchanted candles hovered in their places, eternal flames flickering and dancing merrily. Someone, McGonagall most likely, had changed them from pristine white to orange and black. Pumpkins had joined them tonight, bobbing gently. One the size of a watermelon floated directly above her head. Live bats wheeled overhead, their leathery wings making a sound like gently shifted parchment as they parted the air.

"Hey, George," she called, still watching the fluttering creatures as they glided through the maze of candles and pumpkins.

"Yeah?"

"D'you think a bat has ever shit in our food?"

"What?" he guffawed, nearly spitting pumpkin juice onto the tablecloth.

"Well, they are alive, aren't they? They must have to go sometime."

"Sure, they're alive, but they wouldn't go in our food."

"Why not? I highly doubt they're toilet-trained."

"No, but Headmaster Dumbledore must have put an anti-poop Charm on our food or something." Though he was trying to sound unconcerned, she noted that his eyes traveled surreptitiously to his plate.

She sniggered at the thought of regal Headmaster Dumbledore performing an incantation to ward off bat shit. He certainly could, but it seemed such a menial thing for him to do. He must have a thousand other things to do in the course of keeping the school running smoothly. Keeping bat crap out of the school food supply was probably a task relegated to someone a bit lower on the administrative totem pole. Professor Flitwick was the Charms teacher, so maybe it fell to him.

"An anti-poop Charm? What could that possibly be?" she asked. And where was it when Judith Pruitt was around? she thought, and immediately felt a sharp stab of guilt as Judith's lonely, bloated face tried to push its way into her mind.

George thought for a moment. "Fendi Merda?" He took a contemplative bite of ham, remembered the subject they were discussing, and put his fork down gingerly.

"Hmm, maybe." She jerked her napkin unsteadily across her lips. "Bit crass, isn't it?"

"I suppose. But a spell doesn't have to be fancy. It just has to work," he pointed out.

"Fendi Excrementum?" offered Dean Thomas, leaning over his plate to peer down the table.

Yes, that sounded a bit more formal, more in line with acceptable school material. She couldn't imagine any teacher willingly uttering the word "merda" in any context, not even in the name of keeping foodstuffs safe. Not even Filch, the grottiest, greasiest, crudest member of the staff. In fact, now that she thought about it, protecting the food from bat turds was something that would fit nicely under Filch's job description. Too bad she had never seen him use magic, not even a simple cleaning spell. He would have loved the opportunity to spew forth curse words without reprisal.

"Who would put on a Charm like that?' she mused.

"Flitwick would be the natural choice," said Seamus. "Bet he'd make it good and strong." He took a hearty sip of pumpkin juice.

"What if someone different does it every year?" pondered Fred. "You know, sort of a Mangiest Git of the Year Award?"

"If that's the case, then there wouldn't be much of a rotation," observed George. "A certain Slytherin would win every year, hands down."

There was a low murmur of agreement. Neville suddenly looked very uncomfortable. "You don't suppose he did it this year, do you?" He was surveying the food he had heretofore been gobbling with sinking horror.

She knew what he was thinking. The same thought was dawning on several other faces at the table. If Professor Snape were the one responsible for guarding the food and tables from an aerial assault, then the odds were very good that they had ingested a healthy dose of phosphates with their evening meal. A dozen minds played host to the disquieting image of him standing before the empty Gryffindor table and smiling down at the empty, unprotected plates as he passed them without granting them the protection of two simple words. A collective shudder rippled through them.

Burgeoning respect for Professor Snape aside, she knew such speculations were not wholly outside the realm of reason. His loathing of Gryffindor was well-known, and he would find grim humor in the idea of oblivious, self-assured students shoveling down mouthful after mouthful of the substance that they so carelessly heaped upon him and his House with words and with glances. As far as he was concerned, they heaved it at him with every breath, and she suspected that he would delight very much in knowing that, in some small, unknown way, he had quietly avenged himself.

It would never happen, of course. Despite the suppositions of her Housemates, Professor Snape was not the kind of man to leave a job undone, and if the Headmaster ever asked him to charm the tables against bat guano, then he would. All of them. He might grumble and mutter as he cast the spell over the Gryffindor table, but he would do it. Whether or not he did it with a joyful heart was beside the point. To do anything less would be an insult to both his pride and the Headmaster's trust, and she knew intuitively that he would never do anything to harm either one of those things.

Poor Neville was unaware of any of these musings, and she suspected he wouldn't care were he informed of them. He knew all he needed to know about Professor Snape from five long years of dealing with his scalding tongue and pitiless heart. If she started prattling on about honor and integrity and associated those two fine words with sallow, venomous Professor Snape, Neville would look at her as though she'd grown a second head. Nor would he be the only one. The rest of the table would silently place her dossier in the mental filing cabinet marked Barking Mad.

So instead of endeavoring to enlighten him on the redeemable qualities of one Professor Snape, she simply said, "Maybe none of the teachers do it. Maybe the house elves do it before they send the food up."

"You think so?" Some of the color had returned to Neville's cheeks.

"Sure. They're powerful enough, and they'd do anything to make sure their masters were happy. That and they have too much pride in their work to let it be ruined when they could very easily prevent it."

Everyone looked pleased and not a little relieved with that theory. House elves, insofar as everyone knew, harbored no prejudices, and therefore had no reason to contaminate the food supply. Everyone, that was, except Hermione Granger. She was sitting at the table with her lips pressed in a thin, disapproving line.

"House elves are asked to do far too much, and we don't even pay them for it," she declared.

"They don't seemed to mind," Rebecca said mildly.

"Of course they don't. They don't know any better. They're operating under thousands of years of mental conditioning." Hermione was wagging her fork fiercely.

"Some of them are, yes," she agreed, "but the ones here seem quite happy."

"So if the slavery is kind, then it isn't wrong?" Hermione was getting strident now.

"I didn't say that." She stifled a groan. This reminded her far too much of the race debates in the Muggle world. They started out peaceably and sanely, but soon enough they degenerated into accusations and name-calling. The issue was far too personal, and so was this one. She should just shut up right now. "I just think that if they're happy working, we should leave them to it."

Hermione bristled. "They'd be happier paid."

"Have they said so?"

"Er, well, no...but that's because they've never known any other way," she persisted adamantly.

"And being paid is better?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Every creature should be rewarded for their work."

"They are rewarded. Haven't you seen their faces? They love what they do."

"They deserve more."

"Who says they want more? Do any of the Hogwarts elves get paid?"

"Yes, one. A Galleon a week from Headmaster Dumbledore. He's quite proud."

"What about the others? Did they ask for the same?"

"No."

"But they were given the opportunity to ask?"

"I suppose."

Well, then, there you have it. If they don't want it, you can't force it upon them."

"They would if they understood what they were missing, what they were being deprived of."

"If they could be shown the error of their ways, you mean."

"Yes. No."

"Brainwashing. Imposing your will on them because you think it's better. Not because it's what they want. Remarkably obnoxious thought."

Hermione turned a bright crimson. "Do you honestly think Winky enjoys everything she does for you?"

"I honestly don't know, but she's never complained. If she did, I wouldn't make her do it."

"She deserves to get paid for all that she does for you."

"Maybe so. You'd have to take that up with Dumbledore."

It might have ended there, but Hermione, for reasons unknown, added one last thought. "Poor thing. Not even a day off. She's working far too hard, taking too much on."

"That's not my fault."

"Surely you could do a bit more for yourself?"

Rebecca put her goblet down very slowly. Ice and acid were seeping through her veins. She looked at Hermione, sitting in her chair and looking back at her with her analytical gaze, fingers interlaced atop the table. She saw shine of health in her face and the smooth perfection of her limbs. She saw her grace of movement when she took a bite of treacle. She caught a whiff of her confidence as she sat beside the Golden Child, and something inside her snapped. Fangs gleamed in the darkness of her mind, and she shivered as she felt the trickle of venom in her throat. She backed her chair away from the table.

"Rebecca," George said uneasily.

"No worries," she said, but her voice was low and dark.

She rolled her chair to where Hermione sat and positioned it so that they were nearly knee to knee. "Is that so, Hermione?"

"Yes," she said forthrightly. She wasn't going to back down easily. Good. She hated cowards.

"What would you know about it? Hmm? You don't know me. You don't know what my life is. How could you, with your perfect arms and sturdy legs? Nothing hurts on you, does it? Not so much as a twinge. If it did, your parents would haul you to a specialist before you could blink. Nothing would be too good for you. Who the hell are you to tell me how I should live my life?"

"I just think you rely on her too much is all." Hermione was clearly taken aback.

"Do you? Funny, I don't see you offering to lighten her load. If you really gave a damn, maybe you'd offer to comb my hair or help change the linens once in a while. But you don't, and I know why. It's because you don't want to get your hands dirty. It's all well and good to point out an injustice, but when it comes to it, that's all you can do. Talk. Why should you do anything else? You're friend of Harry blessed Potter, and he'll always be there to clean up the mess."

"You don't know what you're talking about. And you still haven't denied that you could do more if you wanted to," Hermione said calmly.

"Because you're right. If hard-pressed, I could do more, but honestly, it would take all the energy I had, and if comes down to lightening Winky's load to make you feel good about yourself or staying here at Hogwarts, there is no choice. I'll do whatever I have to do keep my place here."

"Including standing on the back of an innocent house elf," Hermione said hotly.

"I would stand on the backs of a thousand house elves if I had to," she said softly. "Even break them. I wouldn't like it, but I'd do it. I know what I want, and I'll do what has to be done to get it. Even if those things are unpleasant," she said quietly.

Hermione regarded her coolly. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"So should you. At least I don't base my whole identity around my best friend and live in his shadow like an underfed dog begging for table scraps."

Hermione's eyes darkened with fury, and in them Rebecca could see the desire to strike out.

Hit me. I dare you. I want you to.

She did, too. She wanted to feel the surge of adrenaline, the heady rush of it. She wanted a chance to hurt one of the Untouchables, to draw blood from the Holy of Holies, to show that they were no more than human. Most of all, she wanted a chance to slap the taste out of Hermione Granger's mouth. Her hand was heavy with the need for it, and her ears could already hear the satisfying crack of flesh striking flesh.

A hand fell on her shoulder, and she very nearly shoved it off, but her nose was mercifully faster than her reflexes. It caught the smell of allspice and parchment dust before her hand could commit the fatal error. Starched cotton brushed her upper arm. Puritanical black.

"Miss Stanhope, come with me." Satin belladonna.

"Yes, sir." She did not look around. There was no need. She carefully backed away from Hermione and turned toward the door.

Another chair scraped from the High Table.

Shit. Here comes McGonagall to stick her nose in. Probably wants to know what madness seized my brain and made me challenge the Holy Trio. Need medication, I will.

Professor Snape's measured footsteps stopped abruptly. "Wait here," he snapped.

She stopped on a dime. His footsteps retreated to the High Table once more, and then came the sound of three voices in whispered conference. She knew them well. One low and measured, smooth as honeyed cream. Another shrill and strident even as it whispered. The last calm, assured, carrying with it a quiet melody of serenity. The sound of them made her nervous. It meant Professor Snape wanted her alone. Clearly, quelling an intra-House squabble had not been on his mind when he pulled her away from the table. She bet a thousand Galleons that she knew what had been.

He wants to know what happened in there.

The voices continued, rising and falling in the rhythm of urgent speech. There was the sound of fierce protest-McGonagall, no doubt-and then the low, serpentine murmur of Professor Snape. A stifled protest. Silence. Then, two words. "All right, Severus."

His footsteps again. "Follow me." He swept past her, his robes billowing imperiously.

"Yes, sir."

She started forward, looking neither to the left nor to the right. She riveted her eyes on the slinking swish of his cloak. It was safest. She wasn't a bit sorry for sharpening her tongue on the hind end of Hermione Granger, but it wouldn't sit well with the rest of Gryffindor, particularly the implied aspersion against Harry Potter. Fred and George would not understand, and the confusion and disappointment in their eyes would sting, salt rubbed into a fresh wound.

Since when have you lost your balls? I taught you better than that. Don't you ever be ashamed of sayin' what you think, no matter who you piss off. Life isn't a popularity contest. Not for you.

Fine.

She squared her slumped shoulders and turned to look at Gryffindor table, her head wobbling slightly. Most of them had returned to their meals and chatter, but their eyes tracked her path as she moved. Fred and George were too far behind her to be able to see their faces, but she could imagine them.

I wouldn't be looking for a warm reception in the Common Room tonight.

Not that it matters. Everyone will be asleep by the time I get back.

She followed him through the massive doors of the Great Hall and into the lonely corridors. Though she was sorry to be leaving the feast and the raw magic permeating the air, she was no longer afraid to follow him. She was comforted by it. It was like their own private ritual, something no one else could share. A strange smile passed over her face.

I know something you don't know. I get to dance with the tiger.

The confident clip of his sleek black boots tapped out a secret code over the cool stone floor. It was the call to begin the dance again, the unceasing minuet of two minds groping for a foothold in the dark. They were going to something illicit, something darker than sin and deeper than sex. They were going to play the game again, and she couldn't wait.

He moved along at his customary brisk stalk. Never once did he look back to see if she was keeping up. He took it for a matter of course that she was. She felt a swell of pride at that. It was a sign of quiet confidence, and she knew that to win his confidence, even in something so trivial as following in his wake, was an achievement unto itself.

Down and down they went, until at last they reached the dungeons. The cold settled over her bones like a mantle, and she drew in on herself to preserve body heat. The air plumed from her nostrils like wisps of smoke from a sleeping dragon's snout when she exhaled. Even the light from the torches was cold, smothered by the icy chill. The sound of his footfalls was sharper here, and they rang in the stillness like a pickaxe striking frozen rock.

She stopped when they reached the Potions classroom, fully expecting him to open the door and go inside, but he passed it by without a glance. Her heart began to beat a little faster. This was going to be different. The stakes for this game were going to be higher. The sweat of anticipation dewed on her palms, and her senses grew crisp. Boots on stone became thunder in her ears. Dust and allspice tickled her nose and made her want to inhale as much as she could. The cotton threads of his cloak stood out in individual relief, and she was certain she could count them if she wished. Beneath the thunder of his feet was the rattling whisper of her own indrawn breath.

A jingle rattle cut across the solitude, wind chimes shuddering in the breeze. Professor Snape held a ring of keys in one ghost hand. He slipped one of them into the lock, and it turned with a grating hiss. The door opened noiselessly, and he disappeared inside, vanishing into the narrow beam of torchlight that came from within like a phantom.

She rolled to the threshold of the door and froze. She wasn't sure if she should go in or not. This was not a classroom. It was private living quarters, and she was staring at an enormous four-poster bed of rich, red mahogany. There was no canopy, only dark ceiling and shadows. The linens were plain white cotton. A single, thin pillow lay at the head of the bed. Opposite the bed was a wardrobe of matching wood, and over by the window sat a simple, sturdy desk. Concealed in the shadows was a heavy chair with a pair of black trousers folded carefully over the back.

Professor Snape's pants, she thought stupidly. His pants. I'm looking at his pants.

She had known, of course, that he wore pants. She had seen him wearing them every day. But seeing a pair of them draped carefully over the back of a chair was still stupefying. It told her that there was more to him than just professorial robes and brutal discipline. It meant he actually had to put them on in the mornings, that they were not sewn onto his skin. It meant that, terror that he was, he was human. There was flesh and bone inside his clothes, and anything that was flesh and bone could be bruised and broken.

I'm looking at Professor Snape's pants.

So you are. If he wears them, that also means he has to take them off. He has to get naked.

Shut up, Grandpa, just shut up.

A vision passed through her mind of Professor Snape emerging from the tub, dripping wet, water beading on the ends of his fragile eyelashes and rilling down the valley of his chest.

St. Mungo's, here I come.

Professor Snape sat behind the desk, and he was scowling impatiently. "Well, come in," he snarled disagreeably. "There are no monsters here. And close the door."

"Yes, sir."

She rolled inside, pivoted, and gently closed the door, wincing at the cold silver beneath her hand. This was surreal. She was in Professor Snape's private chambers. He had brought her to his inner sanctum. She was frightened by the idea. Why hadn't he just taken her to the Potions classroom? No one would have dared intrude. The other students knew by now that detentions with Professor Snape were her province alone.

Because there will be no interference here. Not even the teachers come here.

Her stomach knotted uneasily. She was very close to the tiger now, close enough to smell its meaty breath and feel the warmth of it on her face. She wasn't just in the same cage with it anymore; she was nose to nose with it, and if she made a misstep, there would be no one to pull her back. Her sense of complacency vanished and the fear of self-preservation filled the hollows of her bones with lead.

She made her way to where he sat, maneuvering carefully and averting her eyes from the floor, terrified lest she should be treated to the sight of his unwashed underwear peeking from beneath the bed. That much humanity was more than she could stand. She came to a halt in front of his desk and gripped the armrests with vinyl-tearing force.

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. The silence was complete, save for the whisper of sand trickling through the hourglass.

"That was quite a discussion with Miss Granger," he muttered.

"I'm afraid we don't see eye to eye on things, sir."

"Obviously," he said drily. "What were you discussing?"

"She seems to think I mistreat Winky."

He rolled his eyes and snorted. "Ah, yes, Miss Granger's campaign to save the world. You'll find a S.P.E.W. badge on your pillow tonight, Miss Stanhope."

"Sir?" What in the hell is S.P.E.W.?

He made no answer. He simply sat with his long, white hands tented on the desk. Several more silent minutes spun slowly by. He seemed to be deciding how to approach the issue. He didn't give a damn about her spat with Hermione Granger. He wanted to know just what in God's name had happened between them in the Potions classroom. That made two of them. The specter of it sat between them, the white elephant in the sitting room, as it were. She could feel him prowling around it, trying to make sense of the strange madness that had passed between them.

"This afternoon in Potions, Miss Stanhope," he said slowly, "there was an incident."

"Yes, sir," she agreed.

He sat forward, his black eyes gleaming. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure, sir. It's hard to remember."

"Tell me what you do recall. Leave nothing out," he demanded. His eyes were blazing.

Christ, his eyes are beautiful, like polished onyx. She shook herself. "I remember knocking. Always knocking. Wood beneath my knuckles. Cold iron. Gargoyle faces. Disjointed phrases." She shook her head, as if jostling it would bring forth more memories.

"Phrases? What phrases?" he asked sharply.

"They don't make much sense. Something about not having much time, about wanting to come in. I kept saying something was coming, and I think it knew what it was once, but I don't now." She squinted, trying to clutch a fading memory. "Someone asked if I was there to save them."

"Do you remember anything else?"

She started to shake her head, and then something came to her. "A sound. A scary, wrong sound. A clittering. I didn't like it. And then there was the lullaby. Or whatever it was."

"Lullaby?"

"Yes." She straightened and recited it. "Let me in, child. I will not harm thee. I only carry death in my arms." She stopped, feeling sick. Even here in these austere surroundings, the thought disturbed her.

He stiffened, his knuckles going white. "You heard that?"

Comprehension dawned. It was you, wasn't it?"

"Such a sharp wit," he murmured disagreeably.

Touche. She should have known it was him. She had shared the damn thing with him, after all. Who else would it have been? Where had she been, then? Someplace he knew? It certainly hadn't been familiar to her. At least now she knew why she hadn't been afraid of the voice.

"Where were we, sir?"

His jaw tightened. "I don't know."

Yes, you do. "Oh. Do you know anything about the lullaby, sir?"

He only looked at her. It was as though time had stopped, as though God had reached down and turned him to marble. His blinking eyes and the slight rise and fall of his chest were the only indications that he was a living man. She felt his eyes taking inventory of her soul, riffling through its contents with fingers deft and sure. She put up no resistance, let him look as much as liked. There was nothing for him to find. She was hiding nothing.

She had not rebuilt her defenses since he had so unwittingly smashed them down. The rubble of them still lay strewn about in the pockets and recesses of her mind. The dust had long ago settled, and all that was left was a vast, open plain with ten thousand identical holes burrowing to the center of her. Each one held a different memory, a different secret, and some of them still lay behind immeasurable walls of crumbled rock. The darkest of them still slumbered in the unbreakable steel vault in the furthest, most inhospitable corner. It was safe to let him in.

She shivered. It was cold in here. The flesh of her arms prickled with gooseflesh, and she pulled them between her knees to warm them. No use in complaining. He'd only remind her that they were in his territory now, and that if she were unhappy with his quarters, he would gladly deduct points until her blood attained the proper temperature. So she pressed her lips together and prayed her teeth wouldn't chatter too loudly.

He stood abruptly. "Wait here," he ordered.

"Yes, sir." She watched him as he disappeared into another room.

Out of Rebecca's line of sight, Snape moved about his small kitchen with purpose. Out came the teakettle and lemongrass tea. He rummaged in the topmost cupboard until he found what he was looking for, a vial of amber liquid. He set it on the counter with a disagreeable thump.

Damn that girl. He couldn't get anything out of her, much as he had tried. She was just as lost as he. The things she had revealed to him had been everything he had seen from his end of the nightmare. The same disjointed phrases, the same terrifying clittering. Except for the gargoyle. That had been new.

Of course it was. You've never seen the outside of your fortress. You're too busy hiding in it.

He turned on the stove with an irritable snap and set the kettle down with a thump. So now she knew something about his fortress that he didn't. How comforting. Next she'd bring out the grappling hook and try to scale the walls.

Why didn't she just come in when you opened the door?

He froze, his lips parted in surprise. Had he opened the door? It was unthinkable that he would have. He didn't remember it, but then, he could recall almost nothing. What he could recollect was feverish and dreamy, a blurred mirror image. One moment he had been staring into her deep blue eyes, and the next they had swallowed him up, becoming as wide and endless as the placid sea. Head over heels he had tumbled down, drifting through a haze of blue so thick he was sure he could have put his hand through it and drawn it back to find that it was covered in gelid, glistening, blue ink. Then he had landed with a bone-rattling thud and looked up to find himself inside his fortress.

The rest was a jumble of tangled sounds and thoughts, misty perceptions without an anchor in fact or reality. His head pulsed with a memory of gargantuan agony, of a pain so huge it blotted out all else. He gripped the counter and gritted his teeth until it passed. Sound and wind and sunfire hair. And the lullaby, of course.

That wasn't what it was, not precisely, but it was close. He didn't know when he had first heard it, but it had been long ago, far before she was born. It had been with him as a first-year at Hogwarts, but before that he wasn't sure. He thought so. A fuzzy memory of his mother singing it to him as he sat in her lap came to him, but it didn't quite ring true. Wherever and whenever he had learned it, it had been with him ever since, and it had sounded in his head whenever danger drew near. For a time, he had recited it to his victims before he brought the Killing Curse down. It was his secret poem, the secret song of his heart. No one else had known it. Yet she had recited it back, word for word, in the proper cadence.

He opened his cupboard, pulled out a teacup, inspected it, then put it back. Too fine a china for her. She was a trembling wreck of a girl under the best of circumstances. He pulled out another one. Still too fine. He reached back into the furthest corner and groped around until his fingers landed on something heavy and coarse. Curious, he pulled it out.

He looked at it in consternation for a moment, and then he remembered. Minerva had given him a tea set for the staff Boxing Day party seven years ago. An attempt to refine him, he supposed; never mind that he already owned three set of exquisite tea rose china. The set had been hideous, clunky, as graceful as a chipped boulder, and he had hidden it away in the hopes that it would disappear. Over the years it had. He thought he had gotten rid of it all, but apparently here was a survivor. It was perfect for Stanhope. Hell, if she broke it, he might award her a point or two for ridding him of such an eyesore.

When Albus turns a backflip, I will.

The teakettle gave a shrewish howl, and he jerked it from the heat. He turned the heat off, spooned two teaspoons of tea into the cup, and poured boiling water over it. He stirred it a bit, reached for the milk, and hesitated. He didn't think Americans took milk in their tea. Then again, they usually took their tea cold.

Sod it. If she doesn't like it, she can bloody shampoo with it. I could give her nothing at all. He poured in a generous drizzle of milk.

He retrieved the vial of amber liquid from its place on the counter, popped the cork, and tapped in two drops of the thin, amber liquid. It floated on the surface of the steaming tea for a second before sinking to the bottom Another quick stir. That should do it. He picked it up and left the kitchen.

He set the tea on the outer edge of the desk and took his seat again. "That is for you, though I would advise you wait a while if you value your tongue," he said gravely.

She looked at the steaming cup, blinked, and then looked at him. "Thank you, sir," she said uncertainly.

"I have no intention of poisoning you," he said waspishly, irritated by her trepidation. "It will help ease your symptoms."

"Sym-how did you know?" She was eyeing him incredulously, an embarrassed blush spreading behind her ears.

"I have a sensitive nose," he said bluntly.

She transformed from young girl into a beet in the blink of an eye. Until that instant, the reddest thing he had ever seen had been the famous Weasley locks. She suddenly looked very small perched in her chair, and in her eyes was a silent prayer for the floor to swallow her up.

"Oh, stop it," he snapped. "There are four hundred girls in this school, and not a day goes by that my nose isn't offended by some stench or other. You're hardly unique." When she looked no better, he said, "Besides, you looked awful."

"Thank you, sir," she said quietly.

He glared at her, searching for signs of malicious cheek. After a long silence, "Your tea should be safe to drink."

He watched two tremulous hands slowly reach for the steaming cup, the fingers of her frail hands splayed impossibly wide. Merlin if his carpet wasn't about to acquire a new stain. His hand shot out to grab the cup. "Allow me. This carpet cost a fortune," he muttered gruffly. He lifted the cup from the saucer and held it to her lips.

She was staring at him. Where is Snape, and what have you done with him? her eyes asked.

I don't know. "Hurry up. I haven't got all night." He shifted from foot to foot.

"Yes, sir." She took one sip, then another. "This is very good, sir."

"I'm thrilled with your assessment. I can rest easy knowing I have a career as a manservant after my Potions-making days come to an end. Can you hold this on your own now?"

She took it from him, and he winced as it jittered dangerously. "Spill one drop, and I'll deduct a thousand points," he hissed.

"Yes, sir," she said, and he could tell that she wouldn't have cared had he threatened ten thousand. At the mention of point loss, a sneer had twisted her features for an instant.

Intrigued, he said, "Points no longer concern you?"

"No, sir." Another sip.

"Professor McGonagall would be appalled."

A snort, and the cup trembled again. "I suppose so, sir."

"Have a care with that cup. Scald yourself, and I'll never hear the end of it."

The cup stilled. "Yes, sir."

"Am I correct in assuming you are not terribly fond of our esteemed Deputy Headmistress?"

A very long pause. She took a sip of tea and swirled it around in her mouth, biding her time. Her eyes darkened as she considered her answer. Finally, "It isn't wise to speak ill of one's superiors, sir."

"That may be, Miss Stanhope, but it is also unwise to refuse to answer a direct question from a Professor," he said quietly. "Besides, the stupidity of slandering those in positions of authority has never stopped anyone else."

She looked up at him, and when their eyes met, he knew she'd caught his meaning perfectly. She gave a halting, one-shouldered shrug. "Fair enough, sir. No, I am not."

He tutted. "How very un-Gryffindor of you," he said snidely. "May I ask why?"

She pursed her lips and dropped her gaze into her teacup. She studied it for a very long time, as though she were trying to divine the answer from the soggy dregs there. Her finger absently stroked the side of the cup. Tap tap went her finger in slow and contemplative rhythm."She's a liar, sir."

Of all the things he had expected to hear, that was not one of them. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly. He had known Minerva for more years than he wished to consider, and though he found her to be many things-annoying, self-righteous, and an alarming prig, he had never known her to lie. Such an unfounded accusation must be dealt with.

"That is a very serious accusation to level at a teacher, Miss Stanhope, and unless you have solid evidence with which to back your claim, I suggest you rethink your assessment," he said coolly.

She set her teacup down, and when she looked at him, he noted with some surprise that there was no chagrin in her eyes, only steely conviction. "She lies to herself," she said softly, folding her hands in her lap. "She thinks she understands me, what I need, what I think, what I feel, but she doesn't. She tries to pretend that I don't bother her, but I know I do. She keeps staring at me, all the time. Even in the train station, she was staring. She thought I didn't see, that I've never seen, but I've always seen. Every time." Her small hands were fisted and shaking in her lap.

I've no doubt about that. You see everything, whether you want to or not. Do you ever pray for blindness?

"She's not what she seems. Everyone thinks she's so good and virtuous, but she's as dirty as the rest of us. So is all of Gryffindor, for that matter. They're just better-looking hypocrites, is all." Her eyes were blazing with smoldering fury now. "You hate me, sir, but at least you have the guts to do it to my face. You don't hide behind such nauseating goodness, not like her, and not like Potter." She spat the last word as though it were dreadful poison.

You hate me, sir. That had been true once. He had hated her with all the hatred that was in him. He had longed to break her will beneath his iron heel, and the urge to throttle her had haunted his dreams the way naked and wanton witches cavorted through the nightscapes of the young men in his charge. But now that loathing had faded, its place usurped by curiosity stronger than addiction. He still didn't like her, and he would shed no tears should she return to the United States, but he no longer wished to drive her out. For as long as she remained here, he wanted to plumb the depths of her mind, to find out what made it work, what made her keep going in spite of a thousand obstacles that said she shouldn't.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Balderdash. Stupidity did him in, and I have no intention of being a fool.

No one ever does.

"She wanted...but I wouldn't. I wouldn't."

That caught his attention. "She wanted what, Miss Stanhope?" He leaned forward in his chair.

But whatever courage had caused her to speak so freely, so unconsciously, had deserted her, and she dropped her gaze to the toes of her scuffed white speakers. He heard a knuckle pop as she forced her fingers to relax.

"I don't know, sir," she muttered.

"She wanted what?" he repeated. "You've come this far. No use backing out now."

"Nothing, sir."

He waited. She would tell him eventually. The silence spun out, passing over both of them like the hand of an unseen lover. One minute. He saw her look around the room as though seeking help from the draperies in the window. Two minutes. She ran her finger over the fine down of hair on her forearm. Three minutes. She licked her lips and opened her mouth to speak.

A sharp rap sounded on his door. He stifled a groan. He knew that knock anywhere. Damn her. Almost. I almost had her. "Come."

The door opened, and Professor McGonagall stuck her head in. "Professor Snape, I just came to see how things were getting on." Her eyes widened when she saw the half-empty teacup.

"Yes, Professor McGonagall, you caught me. A few minutes more and I would have successfully poisoned her."

"That isn't funny." She walked in and inspected the bottom of the cup, searching, he supposed, for some trace of lethal poison. "Isn't this one of the set I gave you for Boxing Day?" She sounded pleased.

"Yes. I gave it to Stanhope in the vain hope that she would rid me of it," he snapped.

"I see." Disappointment flashed across her face. "You've been here nearly an hour."

He was too angry at her ill-timed interruption to feel like a prat. "Thank heavens! I still haven't mastered the art of hourglass reading. What would I do without you?"

"I came to collect her. It's time she returned to her Housemates," she said stiffly.

His eyes flicked to Stanhope, who sat staring at McGonagall's back. That flat, reptilian gaze was back, the one that screamed of hatred seared into flesh and bone. She felt his gaze and turned her eyes to him, and he saw her wage a silent war with herself. He saw the question in her eyes, the plea for rescue, and then he saw it die. She had decided it was useless. Her gaze returned to McGonagall, and he saw the walls go up, saw the stones sliding into place. Her fortress was alive and well as far as the rest of the world was concerned.

"Actually, Professor McGonagall, her detention starts in a mere twenty minutes. It would be useless for her to return to Gryffindor Tower."

Disbelief flickered in Stanhope eyes, and an ugly smile flashed at McGonagall's back. Seeing it gave him a queer stab of satisfaction.

"Is that so? Well then, I'll leave you to it. Remember, half-past twelve." She started for the door.

"How could I forget?"

She shot him an irritated glare and opened the door. Before she left, she looked at Rebecca for a very long time, and in her eyes was an unfamiliar expression.

Defeat. It's defeat, he thought, and then the door closed, leaving him alone with the mercurial, misshapen child that drew him against his will. Push her away. She's dangerous.

Too late, too late, the warning voice in his head whispered again, and this time he knew it was right.