Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Eighteen

The first Saturday of Quidditch season dawned bright and crisp. A light breeze blew from the east, making the grass sway and ripple gently, passing whispered secrets from blade to blade in merry communion. Warm, honeyed sunlight blanketed the castle and grounds, and, pillowed in the lazily drifting clouds, the insect buzz of excited, faraway voices carried across the sky, a happy din originating from the Quidditch pitch.

Rebecca Stanhope did not revel in these things. Indeed, she was not aware of them at all. She was in the silent, heavy air of the Hogwarts library, surrounded by weak, rheumy sunlight and swirling dust motes, silent sentinels to her lonely chore. The labored scratch of a quill and the rustle of turning pages drifted through the cavernous space. The library was empty save for herself and Madam Pince, who hovered militantly behind her desk, eyes large and questing behind thick, round spectacles.

She thumbed through a volume on aquatic healing plants, bored. She was working, as she had been for weeks now, on an essay about the healing properties of aquatic plants and the distillation of them for Potions work. It was yet another in the unending stream of scrolls and parchments Professor Snape had demanded of her since the scalding. The fourth, by last count. The first three she had turned in had been deemed unsatisfactory on account of her "abominable penmanship." About the actual content of the essays, he had uttered not a word.

She dropped her quill and flexed her fingers, letting out a slow breath. Her hand burned and prickled, the nerves and muscles twanging with exhaustion. Not for the first time, she thought longingly of her Dicta-Quill. Things would be so much simpler if he would let her use it. She could have had the essay done in three days instead of a week and a half. She frowned, fuming at his deliberate obstruction of her academic potential, and then she forced her lips to relax. No use pouting about it. He would see her point of view at about the same time he was named Teacher of the Year. The Dicta-Quill in her room was never going to touch ink on a Potions parchment. Still, she wished...

Wish in one hand and shit in the other. See which gets filled first, came her grandfather's voice.

"Thanks, Grandpa, that's just the visual I need at this time of the morning," she muttered. She sat back in her chair and scrubbed her hands over her face.

"Did you say something, Miss Stanhope?" Madam Pince's voice floated eerily in the still, dusty air.

"Uh, no, ma'am." She turned her head to see the librarian's pale frame silhouetted in the milky sunshine dribbling lazily across the Persian rugs that carpeted the cool stone floor. Her shadow carried a book as broad as her chest.

"Very well. Just leave the books there when you're finished with them." Footsteps as she retreated to the protective rampart of her desk. A heavy thud as she set the book down. A sneeze. The crackling creak of old leather as the book's spine stretched. Silence.

Oh, don't get all offended on me now. You used to giggle like a loon whenever you heard it. High humor, it was. Too good for it now, are you? Hmph. Besides, if old Professor Glum there came to you and said you could use the Dicta-Quill with no strings attached, would you?

Hell, yes. I'm sick of being stuck inside the library every weekend. Well...maybe not.

She scratched the side of her nose. That was a question, wasn't it? Her finger slowed as she pondered it. It was this morning's Million Dollar Question. Would she use it if he told her she could? On the one hand, it would simplify her life immensely. Homework would take one-third the time it did now, and Winky, bless her little soul, would stop fretting over her stiff, sore fingers and making daily threats to drag her to Madam Pomfrey for some foul-smelling liniment and futile tutting. It would also give her free time to work on her Exploding Snap finesse, which was negligible, and just rest. Maybe she could actually talk to Neville, Seamus, and the twins instead of mumbling incoherently at them as she staggered into bed at one o'clock in the morning. It would be nice.

But on the other hand, it would also mean that she had lost, that she had thrown in the towel in the mental war of attrition between herself and Professor Snape. It would mean that she had capitulated and was willing to admit that he was right, that she was incapable of existing in his world, playing on his field with the rules he had established. It would mean surrendering all the precious ground she had gained in his eyes. It would mean branding herself a proven disappointment.

To hell with that. She pulled another book from the pile in front of her and flipped it open.

She would battle the book mites and impending myopia from poring over hundreds of tomes filled with microscopic text until the last, until the chiggers had stripped every scrap of flesh from her arms and her desperate squinting had narrowed her eyes to irritated slits. She would sacrifice every free moment of her time here to the cause of forcing him to see her, to register her on his internal radar as more than an unwanted charity case, to count her as an equal, if not to himself, then at least to the other students.

Besides, the Gryffindor Common Room was not the most comfortable of places at the moment. Ever since their verbal skirmish in the Great Hall, Hermione had been avoiding her with the utmost care. They were like two cats quarreling over territory, claws extended and tails rigidly erect, fur on their backs standing on end. They eyed each other warily when they passed on the stairs or chanced to be dressing at the same time. Hermione's expression was always a mixture of defiance and contrition, much to her bemused annoyance. If Granger was going to bellow her convictions, she might as well stick with them. No use drifting around like a pole-axed weasel after the fact.

Water Plants of the Caribbean proclaimed the table of contents. She stifled a yawn. Good Christ. She trailed her fingertip down the page, scanning the rest of the chapter titles. Plants of the South Pacific, Aquatic Herbs of Asia, Medicinal Properties of Watercress. That last was mildly interesting. She checked the page number. 413. She painstakingly shuffled the pages until she found it.

Medicinal Properties of Watercress

Watercress, a flowering, green-leaved plant of the mustard family, can be found in Europe in Russian Asia, usually alongside springs and running watercourses. It can be recognized by its smooth, shiny, brownish-green leaves, which are of the pinnatifid variety. It also possesses smaller, ovate leaflets. When in bloom, small, white flowers are produced at its extremities, forming a terminal panicle.

The constituents of watercress are numerous and include: a sulfo-nitrogenous oil, iodine iron, phosphates, potash, with other mineral salts, bitter extract, and water. Its volatile oil is rich in nitrogen and also contains sulfur when found in the sulfo-cyanide allyl.

Watercress is particularly valuable as an antiscorbutic, and it has been used as such from the earliest times. As a salad, it promotes appetite. Juice from the bruised leaves will prevent blotches, spots, and blemishes when applied as a lotion. It has also been used as a specific in tuberculosis, and is most potent when in bloom.

It is often mistaken for Marshwort, or Fool's Cress, a lethal, highly toxic plant.

Feh. Useless. Professor Snape would give less than a damn about a glorified zit cream. Marshwort sounded interesting, though. Anything about that in here? She flipped to the index. Marshwood, marshwort. 512. She riffled the thin, yellowing pages.

Marshwort

Marshwort, a close relative of watercress and member of the mustard family, is found in Europe and Russian Asia, generally alongside streams and other watercourses. It is often mistaken for its benign relative, watercress, which can be used in salads. It is distinguishable, however, by its hemlock-like white flowers, and when out of flower, by its finely-toothed leaves, which are longer and a much paler green than its harmless counterpart. Its Latin name, Nasturtium, is derived from the words nasus tortus, or 'convulsed nose', on account of its pungent odor.

It has no known medicinal purpose, and is fatal if ingested.

Well, that was a whole lot of nothing. She slammed the book shut and shoved it aside. A throat cleared behind her.

"Sorry, ma'am," she said, wiping dust from her eyelashes.

"What is the library motto, Miss Stanhope?" came the shrill, warning retort. Pince sounded very much like McGonagall.

Rebecca sat up straight and recited the litany that had been drilled into her tortured brain the instant her tire tread had crossed the threshold into the dogged Madam Pince's territory. "My hands will be spotless ere I touch a single volume among these stacks. I shall not fold, crease, spindle, smudge, smear, doodle, stain, tear, or otherwise deface the books herein. I will treat books with the respect and dignity they deserve. Should I fail to live up to this oath, I hereby grant Madam Pince, the esteemed librarian, the right to fold, crease, spindle, smudge, smear, doodle, stain, tear, or otherwise deface me, and I will be banished from the Hogwarts library for all eternity."

"Too right. Have a care," she demanded primly.

"Yes, ma'am."

There had to be something she could use in these ancient, moldy volumes. She pulled a volume toward herself. Some of the cover flaked onto her fingers, and she grimaced, eyes shifting furtively to see if Madam Pince had seen the grievous transgression. When no outraged, murderous bellow sounded from behind her, she counted herself fortunate and gingerly opened the nondescript cover. Her fingertips stung ever so slightly, as though the tannic acid used in curing the leather had begun to leach from its pores. A yellow, stale puff of dust erupted from the crease, and she coughed, wiping her hand across her lips to rid them of the thin coat of tickling, chalky dust that had settled there.

Complete Muggle and Magical Toxicology

By

Salvatorus Caligula, IV

Nice name, she thought wryly, delicately fingering the crumbling pages. With a title like that, there had to be something worth discussing inside. She flipped through the pages, letting her eyes stop where they would.

Atropine: A naturally occurring alkaloid of Atropa belladonna, it is also a highly competitive antagonist of muscarinic cholinergic receptors. It is absorbed from the gastro-intestinal tract and excreted in the urine. Atropine undergoes hepatic metabolism and has a plasma life of 2-3 hours. It should be stored away from light and should never be frozen.

She yawned. Deadly dull. The text was far over her head; she understood exactly nothing, and such ignorance would unquestionably show in her work. Best to look for something a bit more within her grasp. She continued her search. "Cyanide" was the next word to attract her attention.

Cyanide: Cyanide can exist in two forms-as a gas called hydrogen cyanide, as a powder called sodium or potassium cyanide. Hydrogen cyanide, under the name of Zykklon B, was used as a Muggle genocidal agent in the Great War of 1939-45. It is also used in the execution of dangerous criminals.

Despite its obvious and dangerous toxicity, indeed, lethality, it is used in countless Muggle activities, including metallurgy, the manufacture of paper, textiles, and plastics. It is also used in the development process of-

Her reading was interrupted by the shuffle, scrape, and pound of excited footsteps. Shadows jostled in the corridor, and then Seamus and Neville appeared, sweaty and grinning, hectic patches of heat on their cheeks. It was obvious from the way they huffed and wheezed that they had run at top speed to the library.

"Hey," she said, giving them a faint, puzzled smile, "I thought you guys were going to the Quidditch match." Her fingers trembled beneath a half-turned page.

"Oh, we are," said Seamus jauntily, "and so are you."

"That's right," agreed Neville with a Cheshire cat grin. "It'll be fun."

"Oh, I can't. I've got to finish this essay for Professor Snape." She gestured at the half-filled parchment in front of her. "It was sweet of you to offer, though."

"Bollocks! The essay can wait. You need to have some fun," insisted Seamus, his brown eyes glowing.

"Yeah. All you do is hang around in this library all weekend," said Neville. At the sight of Madam Pince's disapproving glower from behind her book, provoked no doubt by the perceived insult to her immaculate haven, he hastily amended, "I mean, not that the library is a bad place or anything, really, it's just, well, there are other things to do, is all." He fell silent when he realized his feeble attempt at appeasement had fallen on deaf ears. Pince continued to glare beadily at him, her scrutiny punctuated by the offended flip of pages. After several long and uncomfortable seconds, she stood, her hatchet nose buried in the cradling sheath of fading text, and shambled behind an impressive row of long, stout bookshelves.

"I'd love to, but you know how Professor Snape is. If I don't finish it, he'll have me for breakfast."

"On dry toast with a spot of tea, no doubt," agreed Seamus amiably. "What difference does it make? The old git has you in detention for the rest of your life. Probably your firstborn's, too. How much worse could it get?"

She pursed her lips. He had a point. As it stood, she would be in the depths of Professor Snape's dungeons until the end of days. The Camoflous Draughts she had produced, while markedly improved were still not perfect, and they never would be. The cuts required were simply too precise for her stiff, fumbling hands. The good professor was well aware of this, or so she suspected, and he had no intention whatsoever of cutting her any slack. Even if, by some unfathomable miracle of God, she managed to concoct a perfect Camoflous, she was quite certain that he would not relieve her of her burden. Most likely he would tell her that she now had to create a perfect Anti-Quease, or a perfect Dreamless Sleep Draught, or a perfect anything, so long as she did not escape his domain, his unceasing vigilance. He wanted her there, for reasons known only to him, and strangely enough, she wanted to be there.

It was tempting, though, this proffered opportunity to slip the shackles from her feet and bound and leap and breathe fresh, green air for a few hours. It had been weeks since she had experienced the joy of being one of the throng, a member of the thriving tribe called the Hogwarts student body. She had been separated from the symbiote for too long, deprived of the revivifying rush of life coalescing and parting around her in the glorious, warm, collective heartbeat that pulsed in the vibrant hues of green, blue, yellow, and red. She no longer felt its resonance within her, and she missed it.

Still, shirking her homework was not possible. It had long ceased to be homework. It was a gauntlet thrown down in haughty challenge by an opponent sure of her failure. If she tossed it aside for a moment of fleeting pleasure, she would suffer the indignity of seeing his smirking, superior face, of seeing the knowing gleam of victory in those black eyes. She would falter. The upraised baton of momentum would slip from her fingers and she would be left with nothing. It wasn't worth it.

"Sorry, guys, but I can't." She reached for her quill.

"Right. That does it. You're coming with us." Seamus marched resolutely forward.

"No way," she laughed. "Absolutely not."

Seamus paid her no attention. He marched behind her chair and grasped the push handles. He pulled with all his might, grunting when the chair moved not at all. He tried again with the same result. "How do you move this thing?" he demanded.

"I'm not telling." If they couldn't move her, they would give up and leave her alone.

"That the way it is, then? I'll get you moving. See if I don't."

"She moves with that stick," Neville offered, pointing at her joystick.

She shot him a venomous glance. Thanks a lot, she mouthed. Neville blushed.

Seamus leaned over her shoulder and peered down at the glossy black joystick. He prodded it with an inquisitive fingers. "This moves your whole machine? Wicked." He wrapped his fingers around it.

"I wouldn't-,"

Too late. Seamus gave a vigorous yank, and the chair shot backwards, ramming into his belly and shins with staggering force. The breath was driven from him with a loud "Ooof!"

"Let go," she said, struggling not to laugh.

But he didn't let go. Instead, he shoved the stick forward. She lurched forward, smashing into the heavy wooden table and pinching the skin of her legs between the table lip and chair. The wheels continued to whine and spin, the armrests groaning as the chair pushed against something it could not best.

"Owwowww! Good Christ, leggo! LEGGO!! Ow, shit!" she screeched, thrashing as the wood dug into her thin knees and upper thighs. The pinched nerves were sizzling, and an enormous spasm was building beneath her flesh. She could feel it there, setting its diseased claws into the taut fiber of her muscles, crouching on its cruel haunches.

Oh, Jesus. Seamus, let go. Let go. Please let go right now. "SEAMUS!! Let GO!" she shrieked. If she had the spasm with her leg under the table, she would break every one of her toes and probably her ankle.

Some of the desperate urgency in her voice must have reached him, penetrated the veil of his pain, because he released her joystick and stumbled away, trying to rub his bruised shins and get his breath back at the same time. He looked absurdly like a one-legged crane. She jerked back on the stick, tearing away from the table with a loud, ominous groan. She leaned down, clutching her wounded knees. She couldn't see them yet, but she knew that by sundown there would be a thin, bruised band across both legs, dark as a strip of fetid blight in an otherwise pristine banana. It would hurt like a mother, too, deep and ugly, a low, ferocious throb that burrowed into her bones and made the muscles cramp with remembered pain. Already the red welt was forming, the last flush of sunlight before night swallowed the sky. The sting of it needled her pale, cool skin like the acid burn of heated copper, and she grunted.

"You all right?" Seamus asked, hobbling beside her on his throbbing shins.

"I think so," she said slowly, sitting up with a hiss. "Don't think the table did so well, though."

"Huh?" Seamus turned his head toward the table and let out a slow whistle when he saw the damage. "Oh."

"I'll say," muttered Neville, coming over to investigate the carnage. The three of them surveyed the aftermath of their misadventure in silence.

The fine mahogany table, once proud and pristine, now bore a grievous wound. The smooth, gleaming varnish had been scoured off by the friction of her adamant, lunging chair, and a deep black smudge of dye from her vinyl armrests scorched the exquisite grain. The scrape was cruel, ragged in places, and obvious as the light of day.

"Madam Pince is going to kill me," she moaned quietly. "That table must cost a fortune."

"Maybe she won't notice for a while, and by the time she does, maybe someone else will have sat here," offered Neville, but he said it without much hope.

"The only person here with better eyesight than Madam Pince is Professor Moody," she said glumly.

"Well, maybe if we leave now, she won't see it until we're long gone. And if she didn't see it, we didn't do it." Seamus motioned her forward with his hand and began to creep toward the door.

She still hesitated. The essay for Professor Snape was only half-finished, and he could ask for it at any time. That was another of his favorite tricks, to never give her a firm due date on her assignments, only a nebulous "week of the twenty-third," or "the third week of November." She had learned quickly never to try and anticipate his demands. If she expected him to call for it on the first day of the time period, he inevitably waited until the last, and she had rushed the project for nothing. If she took her time, anticipating that he would collect it at the end of the time frame, he asked for it the first second on the first day. So she gave up and learned to have them finished days in advance. This one was cutting it close. Only two days remained before the opening of the time window.

"I don't know..."

Before any further argument could be had, her body revolted. The spasm that had been building for the past few minutes suddenly erupted. Her foot shot out and kicked the battle-scarred table, sending numbing pulses of impact shiver up her leg. The toxicology book she had been reading tumbled to the floor, landing with a heavy thump. Her quill rolled to the edge and teetered precariously there, seesawing lazily.

Well, that was a Bruce Lee moment. The thought was so ridiculous and so random that she was seized by a mad urge to giggle. She clapped her hands over her mouth and tittered. Soon Seamus was chuffing and biting the inside of his cheek.

All the noise drew Madam Pince from behind the bookshelves. The back-breaking volume was still in her hands. "Miss Stanhope, what is the meaning of all this noi-," she began, then faltered. Her eyes fastened onto the unbecoming gouge in the heretofore unblemished table. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" she thundered, the impossibly loud voice shaking her sparse frame. The book she held slipped greasily from her grasp and crashed to the floor with a sound like doomsday thunder, and the purple, ozone crackle of lightning flashed in her eyes.

That decided her. Heart in her throat, she scrabbled for the speed control. Torn between terror at the advancing Pince and a feverish hilarity at the strange turn her day had taken, she could not find the mark. Her fingers slipped three times before settling around the small black knob. She struggled to turn it to the right, cursing softly when she slipped. Less than two feet separated her from a furious Pince.

Come on, come on, she thought, prodding frantically at the dial. It slipped to the right with a stealthy click. Thank God.

She turned the stick hard left, chortling helplessly as the wheels spun crazily, bunching up the thick rug as she pivoted sharply to the left. For an instant, there was no movement; the rug had caught beneath the tread, preventing contact with the floor. She rocked back and forth, trying to jar the rug loose. A sudden lurch, and then the chair rocketed forward, slaloming and careening wildly. The chair was at full speed and full power, and her control was minimal at best.

She was too exhilarated and too terrified to laugh. All she could manage was a reedy gurgle. She was high on defiance. The watery light filtering through the dust and shadows was suddenly a thousand times brighter than the light of a supernova sun to her eyes, and the rush of the wind in her face as she raced to the beckoning doorway was as fresh and bracing as crisp arctic air. Freedom and sunshine were thirteen paces away, and on this day at least, she meant to have it.

She was nearly there when she remembered the essay. It was still lying sedately on the table, and if she left it there, any chance she had of finishing her work on time would go down the drain. And Professor Snape would strip the penalty from her flesh, piece by anguished piece, with a joyous countenance. Well, as joyous a countenance as he could manage, anyhow. She skidded to a halt, the rubber of her tread squealing petulantly against the bare stone, sending up a gossamer spray of dust. Click. Grrrrrt. She spun around hard.

Madam Pince was almost on top of her. Her eyes were blazing, polished redwood fire. She intended to avenge the shameful desecration of her sacred realm, and Rebecca had no desire to see just what she might do. She threw it in reverse, not daring to look away from the enraged face of the advancing Mistress of Hogwarts Library. The threshold and safety of the stairs were close at hand.

Please, Jesus, don't let my aim be off. If it is, I'm in for a very long fall.

She streaked backwards through the door, casting a wistful, longing gaze at the forlorn piece of parchment sitting on the table. She needed to get it out of there, for the protection of her mental well-being, but any attempt she made to rescue it would surely result in all her hard work being torn to pieces in a paroxysm of righteous librarian fury. Not even the most sophisticated Reparo Charm would be able to set it to rights again. Stopping was out of the question, if Pince's demeanor was any indication. Clearly, discretion was the better part of valor.

Her rear wheels left the earth, and for a heart-squeezing, eternal moment, she was suspended over nothing but the tenuous grace of God. She realized with dim alarm that the stairs were not there. They had shifted during her flight, and when gravity exerted its inexorable force over the fervor of desperate wish, she was going to plummet at least four stories.

Our Father, who art in Heaven...

Her bones tingled with dreamy terror. She could feel every hair on her body, was keenly aware of their roots descending beneath her frozen skin. Her stomach catapulted into her throat, heavy with adrenaline. Her heart beat twice more, rapid as a sparrow's, and then God let her go.

Hallowed be Thy name.

The fall was exquisitely slow. Each millisecond was as an hour, and the blood was heavy in her veins. From the corner of her eye, she saw her hair fan out in a golden halo. She wondered how it would look soaked with the blood from her broken body. She made a half-hearted attempt to reach her wand, but her arms were logy with the knowledge of impending death, and so she let her hand fall to her side.

Thy Kingdom come.

She looked up as she fell, and she saw the white, horrified faces of Neville, Seamus, and Madam Pince. It seemed that as she drew closer to forever nothingness, her senses grew sharper, drawing energy from the tissues that would soon need no sustenance. She could see the huge, disbelieving, white saucers of their eyes, and the individual pinprick pores of their skin. Madam Pince's thin, pale, dry lips were rounded in an O of horror, and her thin, knotted hands were clamped to her pasty cheeks. She saw with detached amusement that Neville was clutching her Potions essay in one trembling hand. Seamus was fumbling in the folds of his robes, trying, no doubt, to reach his wand in time. Incredibly, she felt herself laughing. It was funny, really, a cartoon made flesh.

Thanks, Neville, but I won't be needing that anymore. Thy will be done.

Seamus wasn't going to make it. Terror had rendered him useless. His lips were moving, and from far, far away, she could hear his beautiful Irish brogue, so like her grandfather's. It was the sound of good memories, and of home, and she smiled sweetly. He was praying. Praying. It was good to know she mattered.

On Earth, as it is in Heaven.

The chair was beginning to tilt, bowing to gravity's will. The ground was rushing to meet her, to crush her to its unyielding bosom. She felt the weight of it pressing greedily into the small of her back. She wondered if she would be aware of their abrupt union, or if all sensibility would depart from her in that first sundering second when motion stopped. She would know very soon now.

Seamus and Neville were receding quickly now, and Pince stood between them like a sculpture of Edward Munch's The Scream. Well, she wouldn't get in trouble for wanton destruction of library property, though Filch would likely long to throttle her for the mess she'd leave on his floor. The seconds of her life ticked away, and she thought, not of hearth and home and loved ones, but of the sour face of the Hogwarts caretaker as he scraped and mopped her brains from the floor. Another myth dispelled.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the comforting quilt of numbness in which she had swaddled herself, a voice as bright and unexpected as the glint of midday sun on a shard of broken mirror. It was authority and confidence, salvation and damnation, all wrapped in razorblade silk.

"Wingardium leviosa!"

There was the rushing hiss of air, and warmth washed over her in a sparkling wave. All motion ceased, and her neck snapped backwards with a painful jolt. A spasm tore through the left side of her face, and she grunted, saliva dribbling down her chin. Then the downward motion resumed, much more slowly and gently this time, until her wheels touched down with a gentle thump.

She didn't move. She didn't dare to. The blood was still thudding in her ears like the footsteps of God, and her limbs were frozen with the sudden realization that they were still functional. She felt the drool dribbling down her chin and belatedly decided to swallow, but her throat was still on standby, so she coughed, spraying spittle.

I'm still alive. I'm still alive, she thought wondrously. Then she remembered the voice responsible for it. She forced her elbow to unhinge, wincing as it popped, and turned her chair around.

Professor Snape stood a few feet away, staring at her with his dead black eyes. His wand dangled lightly at his side, but she could still feel the residual magic radiating from it. A shattered china teacup lay at his feet in a small puddle of tea, and drops of it clung to the toes of his boots. She took him in from the bottom up, craning her rigid neck to look him in the eye. He suddenly seemed enormous.

"Miss Stanhope." Nothing else.

Until that moment, she had never understood how much meaning could be poured into two simple words. She opened her mouth to say something and found that she couldn't. Not even a squeak. She tried once, twice, and then she gave up, closing her mouth with a snap. The familiarity that had diminished him in her eyes was gone, and he was once again the terrifying demigod and wielder of the power to crush her into powder.

Why she should think such a thing when he had just saved her life was beyond her, but so it was. The awe in which she had held him on the very first day she set foot inside his classroom, an awe that had gone dormant in the countless hours and nights since, had returned, and she shook with it, her fingers and teeth chattering with the force of it. Looking up at him now was like gazing into the face of God, and she fought the urge to cower beneath his inscrutable gaze.

Miss Stanhope. No one else in the world could say her name quite that way. It sent a shiver of apprehension down her spine. She knew from the bland, calculating expression on his face that it was currently synonymous with "big trouble." No one else but he could turn her name into such a damning indictment. There was anger in those words, and repulsed amazement at her stupidity, and underneath it all was professorial authority, hard as dried bedrock.

Still, she dared not open her mouth. Because everything in his voice, all the venom injected into those words, was deserved. She had been incredibly stupid. She had violated the first rule of the road, had, to put it in plain old American vernacular, forgotten to watch where the fuck she was going, and her carelessness had very nearly earned her a trip to the mortuary. She had known better, had known better since she was seven, as a matter of fact, and there was no excuse for what she had done. Not for any adult, and especially not for Professor Snape, who had lost acquaintance with feeble excuses years ago.

What to say? Her brain was the only part of her that didn't seem to be frozen, and it was racing, agog and jumbled with thousands of words, all of them equally useless. Sorry, sir. Was running from Madam Pince after I vandalized a library table and demonstrated my martial arts expertise. Normally, such a thought would have inspired an irrepressible urge to titter, but now it only made her feel dizzy and sick. The adrenaline was still thick in her system. The biting tang of it lingered in her mouth, and in her heightened state of awareness, she was certain that he could smell it rising from her pores like redolent steam.

Please, sir, say something. Ask me. He remained still and silent, waiting. The question hung between them, throwing out another tiny tendril of connection to join the glistening strand that already joined them in mutual confusion.

Flirting with madness, she tore her eyes from his face and let them rove to the broken teacup at his feet. Its delicate shards stared accusingly up at her like fragments of bone. She could just make out the faint timbre of a tiny rose on one of the pieces. Even to her untrained eye, it was exquisite. Clearly, a fine china. Professor Snape's fine china. Oh, that the world would end right now. That china was going to cost her dear.

"Royal Albert. I've had it since I was a young man. A rich china, indeed. The same can be said for the tea. Earl Grey, it was. Do you know it?"

"I've heard of it," she said faintly. Her head felt like a lead weight.

Look up at him, dammit. You're not some simpering maiden.

She forced her gaze upward, dragging it by sheer force of will. He was fixed on her, arms folded across his chest, fingers lightly brushing the crooks of his elbows. His eyes were sharp, shining with intellect and savage wit, and his glossy black eyelashes twitched with anticipation.

Say something, but don't you dare apologize. He'll kill you on the spot.

"Thank you, sir." It came out as a rusty croak.

"I was hardly going to spoil my boots with you," he snarled with deliberate viciousness.

After his mysterious civility of a few nights previous, his rancor struck her like a roundhouse slap, and she let out a dismayed squeak. The muscles in her neck jumped uneasily. She ventured nothing else.

Surely you didn't think he'd changed his mind, did you? He wanted information, and when you couldn't give it, he was through with you. Now it's back to square one.

The disappointment was so stark that she sucked in her breath. Embarrassment for having allowed herself to believe that anything had changed between them warmed the frigid soles of her feet and made her scalp tingle with the tickle of its uninvited fingers. Gall joined the adrenaline in her throat, and the thick, dark taste of anger almost made her gag.

Don't you let him see. Don't you flinch. Don't you give him the satisfaction.

The fortress that had sustained her for so long was gone, but the will and tools that had built it were not. Those were unending for as long as she should live, and she reached for them now, wrapping the cold hands of her bitterness around them, greeting them like old friends. Set the bricks, then paste the mortar. She would build her fortress again, and this time, nothing would break it down, neither respect nor compassion would undermine her this time.

The scrape of the trowel, the satisfying burn of mental exertion. She concentrated on the toil, pulling away from her folly, drawing the veil across her eyes and bending her back to the labor of reconstruction.

Never make that mistake again.

"Of course not, sir. All the same, thank you." Disinterested. Colorless.

She saw his left eyebrow arch daintily, and his eyes sharpened still further. He was searching her out. Good. Search all you like. I won't show you.

"Are you all right?" he asked brusquely.

The trowel wavered in its work. Could it be that she was more than a commodity, after all? She looked at him speculatively. He certainly wasn't gushing concern, but neither did he seem to rue his decision to let her live. She quietly set the trowel down. He was a bastard; she had known that from the beginning. What was the use of bowing out now?

"Yes, sir. I think so."

"What, precisely, were you doing?" he demanded. It had finally dawned on him that she wasn't going to volunteer the information.

"I was attempting to escape from Madam Pince, sir," she told him.

"You were what, Miss Stanhope?"

She cleared her throat. "There was a misunderstanding in the library, and I damaged a table. I thought discretion was the better part of valor, sir."

"I see." He clearly did not. He was studying her as though she were a fascinating new specimen of mad.

At that moment, two steps of panicked footsteps clattered down the stairs, and she heard wheezing, pained breathing. Neville and Seamus had arrived on the scene at last.

Don't come any closer. Stay where you are. He won't like it if you interfere.

But of course they didn't. Seamus skidded to her side, panting like a wounded buffalo. His eyes were wide and wild, and his dark hair was plastered to his head in a sweaty skullcap.

"Saints be praised," he cried, crushing her in a hug. "I though' you were gone for sure."

"Yeah," said Neville weakly from behind her.

She couldn't see him, but she could guess what he looked like. Pale as bleach and wide-eyed as a bludgeoned fawn. He was probably leaning against the wall, weak-kneed and terrified. Poor devil.

"Fast as lightning, you were, Professor," babbled Seamus, and then he realized who he was addressing and lapsed into silence.

"Where is Madam Pince?" Rebecca asked, her eyes fixed on Professor Snape, who was still trying to digest the fact that he had received sincere praise from a Gryffindor.

Seamus released her from the hug and straightened, looking chagrined and exhilarated at the same time. "Oh, she's still standing there with her hands glued to the side of her face. Bit scary, really."

"I believe a trip to the library is in order," murmured Professor Snape, recovering himself. He stepped lightly over the teacup and drying tea stain. "Seventy points for my teacup, Miss Stanhope. Thirty for my lost tea. And fifty for nearly giving me a heart attack."

Neville and Seamus spluttered, but she was unmoved. She merely inclined her head as if to say, Yes, sir, and followed him up the stairs. There was a momentary cramp of terror in her chest as they began their ascent, but when she felt Neville and Seamus at her flank, she forced herself to relax. They wouldn't let her fall, and neither would Professor Snape, though he might flay her alive should she try it again.

One hundred and fifty points was quite lenient, considering that she had almost killed herself. If he had arrived even two seconds later, it would have been too late. Only sheer luck had brought him to that place at that particular moment, and it occurred to her that she ought to be thanking God he hadn't needed to use the restroom or left for the Quidditch pitch.

Like the smallest of sparrows in His hand. Can I get a hallelujah?

Everyone was quiet during the trek to the library, each absorbed in their own thoughts. She could feel the tension emanating from Seamus and Neville, musky and faintly nauseating. From in front of her came the warm scents of allspice and parchment dust. They seemed to puff from Professor Snape's clothes with every step he took, an olfactory accompaniment to the clear, sparse sound of his boots clacking on the stairs. Enveloped in the invisible, writhing currents of smell that laced the air, she took a deep breath and willed her shattered, seized nerves to settle. The tremors that had started when she realized that the tiger still had his claws had not abated; they were as strong as ever, and her heels rose and fell in an incessant tap.

Stay a ways back. Kick him in the shins, and you'll be making a second trip down the stairs, faster than the first, I'll wager. Good, old-fashioned Irish common sense.

She moved back, mindful of the advice. She had already experienced his temper, and she knew that any sudden motion from behind would produce disastrous results, especially since she so foolishly raised his hackles with her idiotic decision to back down the stairs. Startle Professor Snape, and she would spend the rest of her short life in the Hospital Wing.

Madam Pince was indeed still bolted to the fourth floor landing. She was exactly as Rebecca had seen her during the interminable plunge. Her wrinkled, blue-veined hands were still fastened to the sides of her face, and her brown eyes were wide and glassy. Her mouth hung in a boneless gape. She moved not at all, save for the shallow rise and fall of her narrow chest.

At the sound of Professor Snape's approach, she turned her head slowly; it wobbled dangerously, as though she were overcome by a wave of vertigo. She blinked, slowly, dreamily, and then her eyes cleared a bit.

"Professor...Snape?" She nodded as though to confirm her assessment.

He snorted. "Now that we're all here, perhaps we can proceed to the library?" he muttered irritably.

She blinked more rapidly this time, and Rebecca saw some of the cobwebs fall from her mind. "Mm? Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. Absolutely." She ran a trembling hand through her long, loosely-plaited auburn hair that was gracefully graying at the temples and crown. She gave an unsteady laugh. "Bit of a fright, that," she said weakly, and tottered into the library.

Professor Snape said nothing. He merely scowled disagreeably at her back and swept into the library behind her. Rebecca followed dutifully in his wake. It seemed unwise to stray too far, lest he should need to rebuke her further. If he had to find her to do it, woe be unto her. Seamus and Neville hung back by the door, well aware that this was one battle they should steer clear of. Neville still held her Potions essay in a sweaty hand.

Probably smearing the ink, she thought, a tad ungratefully.

At least he thought to get it for you, rebuked her grandfather.

She supposed so. Though fat lot of good it would have done her had she fallen to her death. Nonetheless, she smiled at Neville, nodding at the parchment he held. He returned her smile, but she thought he looked a trifle queasy.

That's no wonder. Not a good day for him, all things considered. Nearly gets the unpleasant privilege of seeing a friend splatter on the stone floor eighty feet below him, and now he gets to spend time in the company of the worst person in the world.

The aforementioned worst person in the world was presently examining the uneven gouge her chair had inflicted on the library table. His head was bent studiously over it, and a thin, pale finger prodded it gently. His lip curled into a momentary snarl and relaxed again. He took a deep breath, as though trying to inhale the scent of wounded mahogany, discern the faint odor of dormant sap deep within the wood.

He could do it, too, with that nose of his. Certainly smelled the blood well enough.

Heat prickled behind her ears. That was something she would rather not think about. It had been humiliating to know that he could sense such a thing, such an ugly, secret thing, especially after her unwanted vision of him emerging, dripping, from a bathtub. That memory would be going into the Don't Wish to Relive file if she could manage it.

His brow furrowed, and he trailed the finger over the black smudge almost lovingly. He held his fingertip up to his nose and sniffed. Then he looked up at her, his eyes glittering.

"Miss Stanhope."

"Yes, sir?" Here it comes.

"Can you explain this?"

"Yes, sir. I was working on the essay you assigned, and there was a mishap with the chair."

"What sort of 'mishap'?" His eyes bored into her face.

"It was my fault, sir," Seamus interjected, stepping forward with a plaintive expression.

Professor Snape whirled to face him. "Mr. Finnegan. I don't recall addressing you," he snarled. "But since you've begun, please continue." He made a gesture of invitation with one hand.

Too late, Seamus realized the error of his ways. His eyes darted this way and that, trying to find a dignified exit from this mess. Then, resigning himself to scathing excoriation, he said, "I came to take her to the Quidditch pitch, but she wouldn't come. She wanted to finish the Potions essay. I wouldn't listen. I figured out how she made it go and tried to bring her with me, but I pushed her forward instead of back. Hurt the table and her knees."

At that, Professor Snape dropped his gaze to her knees. "Roll up your robes," he demanded.

She started to protest that she was fine, but then thought better of it. No use antagonizing him further. She leaned forward and painstakingly rolled up the hem of her robes, revealing her emaciated, pasty legs. She closed her eyes against a stab of withering need to be anywhere else. Why did they have to see this?

Eyes still closed, her breath stopped in surprise when she felt a finger brush across the fiery bloodband on her knees. It was as light as shifting dust, and cool, like the first touch of fresh air after a long confinement. Gentle, delicate, careful. All sensations to which she was unaccustomed. It was oddly comforting, this touch, and she relaxed into it, wincing only when it reached a particularly painful spot.

She opened her eyes to see Professor Snape unfurling her hem. He looked up at her, letting it droop to her ankles.

"That needs seeing to."

"Yes, sir."

"Whether you seek help is up to you," he murmured, and rounded on Seamus again. "Once again, your startling ineptitude moves to the fore," he sneered. "Thirty points from Gryffindor for endangering your fellow student. I suppose we should thank the Fates that it wasn't Longbottom doing the driving. Miss Stanhope would have had her limbs severed completely." He spared the quaking Neville a scornful glance. "Leave. Now. Miss Stanhope will be along in a moment."

Seamus wasted no time in making a hasty retreat, but Neville bravely stepped forward, holding out the Potions essay.

"Here, Rebecca," he mumbled, stealing a cautious peek at the watching Potions Master, clearly expecting him to lunge at any moment.

Professor Snape did lunge, but not at Neville. Instead he plucked the proffered parchment from his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Longbottom. Out." He never took his eyes off Rebecca.

Neville went without a word, and they were alone again, just as they always were when they danced, when they played the game. Madam Pince had sought refuge in the labyrinthine stacks and swaying towers of books. Rebecca thought she could hear the desperate, searching scrape of her shoes as she looked for panacea in the written word.

Professor Snape simply looked at her for a very long time. His eyes betrayed no emotion, only a veiled thoughtfulness that made her heart gallop in her chest. She tightened her grip on the armrests of her chair and fought the need to smile.

Oh, but the tiger is close now.

He looked at the parchment in his hand, his eyebrow raised ever so slightly in his austere face. His eyes scanned it quickly, and a forelock of hair grazed his cheek. Without thinking, he brushed it away. When he reached bottom, he tapped his finger against it, as if pondering what he had read. Then, silently and without preamble, he calmly tore it to pieces.

"Your penmanship has not improved," he said shortly.

She stared at him, fighting down her disbelief. Ten days of her life had gone into that, and he had torn it apart like nothing. He had not taken into account the hard work and careful consideration that had been poured into it. He saw only its shoddy housing and cared nothing for the heartfelt craftsmanship inside. He didn't even bother to try.

Your hygiene isn't much to sing about, either, she thought childishly.

Don't you dare. If you're going to play this game, play it clean. He doesn't care about the work. All he cares about is the end result, and your results just aren't up to snuff.

She squared her shoulders and forced her jaw to relax. "Yes, sir."

He sneered at her, and she was struck by the idea that he knew what she was thinking. She remained quiet as he began to pace around her, his strides long and fluid, his cloak swishing elegantly. She heard his finger drum contemplatively on one of her push handles. Step. Step. He stopped beside her left shoulder.

"This...contraption of yours is dangerous," he mused.

"Yes, sir, I suppose it can be, but I can't live without it. It's like my body."

Step. Step. Turn. Step. In front of her again. "If it were truly like your body, then one would think you would have a bit more care with it, don't you think?" he purred.

Touche. She had walked right into that one. "Yes, sir."

"Seventy-five points for your stupidity, and an additional seventy-five for the table."

An involuntary cry escaped her.

"Whinge, and I'll make it one hundred each," he said coolly.

"Yes, sir."

"Now, since you seem incapable of wandering about on your own, I will be escorting you to the pitch. That is where you were going, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll not babysit you again, Miss Stanhope. Fall again, and Sprout will be able to use you as potting mulch."

"Yes, sir."

When he gestured her forward, she wordlessly obeyed. Game, Professor Snape. At the bottom of the stairs, they collected Neville and Seamus, and the strange entourage made its way to the Quidditch pitch.