Rating:
R
House:
Schnoogle
Characters:
Severus Snape
Genres:
Drama
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix Half-Blood Prince
Stats:
Published: 06/11/2006
Updated: 11/09/2006
Words: 36,194
Chapters: 5
Hits: 1,934

The Hanged Man

Lady Lazarus

Story Summary:
Before he died, Albus Dumbledore made a request. It's now up to his murderer to see it done. Again. (SS, OFC, DD, and the Malfoys)

Chapter 02 - Extract of Vanilla

Chapter Summary:
Flash back, 1991: The Muggle market and the Dark Mark.
Posted:
06/25/2006
Hits:
388


Chapter Two: Extract of Vanilla

May, 1991

He would never, never understand this Muggle money.

He'd managed, after several disastrous scouting expeditions, to navigate with some precision through the aisles of Powell's Market itself. He'd spent at least an hour among the Muggle bathroom products, hunting for something base enough to counteract the acidity of murlap. The racks and racks and of spices on aisle three had sent his mind reeling in further frustration and, though he was loathe to admit it, wonder. He certainly would never understand--nor did he care to--how Muggles made it through the day.

This weekend had been aisle three again: there'd been no avoiding it. With the prospect of marking final exams looming, he'd be in need of extra stores of Migraine Mixture. And, as he had discovered several years back, a few bottles of the Muggle "extract of vanilla" was particularly useful for masking the overwhelming bitterness of his singularly strong formulation.

So, upon finding the cupboards at Spinner's End all but bare, he had made his mind up to the necessity of the outing. Every fluorescent-lit, noisome moment of these excursions filled him with disgust and dread: but the alternative, visiting shops in Diagon Alley, was even less enjoyable. He'd discovered that fact very quickly.

As a boy, the mere thought of a trip to Diagon Alley had thrilled him. The shops were always bustling and alive, hiding treasures he didn't yet know he wanted. The bookshops had been particular delights, and he soon found himself on a first name basis with almost every one of their proprietors. When things at home became--unpleasant--he would slip out a window and apparate to Toil and Trouble Tomes to surround a well-worn armchair with whatever volumes caught his eye. The owner, a Mister Jeremiah Hawkins, had taken an interest in recommending progressively harder and thicker texts, and, on occasion, brought him a butterbeer when he finished a particularly complex one.

But things, as they always do, had changed. His first trip to the Cup and Cauldron had been enough to teach him that lesson.

It was his first term after the Fall. The Longbottoms had just been taken, and, of course, he'd been in need of supplies for the start of school. He'd entered shop after shop with the same result: cold stares, mothers clutching their children a little closer, barely concealed whispers. And then, the venerable gentleman at the Cup and Cauldron who had vehemently informed him that, having lost a son, an Auror, to the clutches of You-Know-Who, he was not inclined to do business with Death Eaters--no matter how Albus Dumbledore felt.

And he'd found, quickly enough, that he wasn't inclined to take his business there either. In fact, he took his business out of Diagon Alley altogether. He didn't even return to Mister Hawkins': he didn't want to hear what that gentleman thought of how he'd put to use all the knowledge gleaned from those generously loaned books.

He had, before each trip to Powell's, considered taking his business to Knockturn Alley instead: but that, he guessed, would merely bring about a different set of memories and familiar faces altogether.

And the entire purpose of these occasional weekends away from Hogwarts was relaxation and study. A few days in which he could be his solitary, unpleasant self with no teenage hijinx to interrupt his reading and no twinkle-eyed headmasters trying to "cheer him up." His face and his past were too well-known in the wizarding world: in the Muggle market he could be just another snarky sod.

So he'd left the comfort of Spinner's End to retrieve the extract. He made certain to gather any other ingredients he might need over the next year as well: no sense, of course, in making the trip more than absolutely necessary. Being anonymous was refreshing: being alone was better.

But, despite his improvement in navigating the aisles, he still couldn't make heads or tails of the wad of coins and paper now balled, helter-skelter, in his hand. And, as he unfolded them, sifting and dropping them left and right, the grumbling of the customers at his back was growing unmistakably more savage.

"52 pounds 50, sir," the teenage boy at the register repeated--for the third time. The red hair and spotted face reminded him of those Weasley twits, and he suppressed, with some difficulty, a rising urge to exercise a little nonverbal hexing.

Instead he settled for tugging at the ill-fitting collar of the Muggle shirt he'd chosen. The Muggle sizing system was another arena he'd yet to master, and the only number he could remember was that of a sweatshirt his father's sister had given him as a boy. Apparently, Muggle sizes were not as forgiving as those of wizarding robes.

"Um, one of the red ones."

It came from behind him in a discreet whisper. He prepared his best scowl and threw it over his shoulder lazily.

The offending busybody was a tall, mouse-haired young woman who couldn't have been much older than the cashier. She wasn't smiling and didn't seem at all intimidated by his glare. She simply raised her eyebrows and nodded at his paper-and-metal hand. "A red one and two of the biggish coins."

"Thanks," he spat, turning back to the puzzle. He examined the bills again with this in mind: the only problem was he didn't see any red ones...

"Here, this one, there." She'd taken hold of his hand before he realized it, pulling it closer to her. The touch was abrupt and startling, and he almost protested. But, he reasoned, watching the girl's fingers work through the bills dexterously, if she could get him out of that place and that ridiculous costume sooner, so much the better.

She however, did not.

Just as she'd straightened through the tangle of paper, she froze, fingers jerking away as if grabbing a hot plate. Her whole body recoiled, and the glass bottle she'd been holding crashed to the floor. Lukewarm apple juice lapped over his boots, sneaking through the seams and into his socks.

"Bugger. Clean up on two! Can I get somebody here?"

"I--oh--I'm sorry," she stammered, glancing only briefly back at him before leaning down to retrieve her other items. Her hands, so nimble just moments before, trembled slightly.

Staring down, frustration building to a crescendo, it took him a moment to realize what had caused the violent reaction.

From beneath the bottom of his ill-fitting left sleeve, the extremely pale, reddish outline of a skull stared out through empty eyes. Normally, it could not be seen, but lately, over the last month, its shadow had begun, ever so slightly, to darken.

Damnit. So much for anonymity...

She afforded him only the shortest of glances before moving her items to the next register. Another spot-faced teenager replaced her, sliding a mop indecorously over his boots.

Yes, go on, run away. All too familiar, wasn't it?

But that was just it. She did look...familiar. She was young enough to have been at Hogwarts during his tenure, but he couldn't seem to place her among the unfortunate catalogue of previous students. He certainly had never been aware of any witches or even Squibs living in the area. But, when she had looked at him, those stricken eyes--he'd seen them before.

"Sir? 52 pounds 50?"

The well-honed glower was, at least, not wasted on the boy. No, Severus. Hexing teenage Muggles is not the way to keep out of Azkaban.

He spotted the girl, in line again several registers away, and he could feel her assiduously not looking his way. Her hand, still shaking almost imperceptibly, was pushing, nervous, through her hair.

Too nervous by half, he thought, still trying to place her. There was definitely something to it, that reaction. If she was someone he knew, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. But he was sure of one thing: he could not risk word of his Muggle excursion going public. He had a very carefully manicured reputation and, in the circles in which he moved, such a revelation could result in more than harmless, back-alley gossip.

"Oi! Are you paying or what?" The boy had, apparently, recovered from the glower.

Giving him a second dose, Snape slammed the entire wad of money down and tore from the market, each step squishing with the sugary glue of apple juice.

***************

The girl didn't emerge for several minutes, but, when she did, it was at an almost breakneck pace. He watched for a moment, trying to decide upon the best means of approach. Judging by her reaction, he didn't think a friendly hullo would do. And, with juice soaking halfway up his socks, he didn't think he could muster anything so amiable.

Well, if it was a Death Eater she expected, it was a Death Eater she'd get...

He rounded the market corner and apparated with a pop.

But she was already half a block ahead of his destination, and he knew that this approach was only going to result in apparition-induced nausea. If she wasn't going to slow down and cooperate--

Several feet ahead, the bottom of her grocery sack tore open, spilling cans and boxes into the gutter. He heard her swear loudly, and, as she leaned down yet again to retrieve her items, he closed the gap.

"Allow me."

He grabbed a stray can, making sure to take an inconspicuous hold on her wrist as well.

And, he immediately realized, it was a good thing he had. The gray eyes staring up at him were those of a woman ready to abandon her belongings and run.

"Relax," he purred, with a bit more threat than he'd intended. Old habits die hard, they said: and he certainly couldn't deny that the frailty of her thin wrist and the distinct fluttering of her pulse under his grasp filled him with an all too familiar thrill. It came back to him, through the haze of many years. Like riding a bicycle, it was.

But he'd never been able to suppress that other instinct: that overwhelming reflex bourn of a heavy, insistent conscience. He'd never been able to enjoy that look of fear--that look of revulsion, on a woman's face.

"You were so helpful at the market. I just thought I'd return the favor." He held out the can with mock flourish.

"Th-thank you. Now let me go."

"I'd be more than happy to, if you'll satisfy my curiosity. What in the world would a Muggle like yourself know about this?" Vaguely aware that the low silk of his words was quickening the cadence against his palm, he allowed the faint mark to slither free again, razzing out at them with its serpentine tongue.

She had grown very still, coiled. "I'll scream."

"No, I think you'd rather stay here in this lovely public street for our little chat. Unless, of course, you'd prefer I help you apparate someplace more...private..."

Her lips pressed tight.

"Yes, as I said, there's no need to scream. I'm merely curious as to why you'd feel the need to douse my boot in apple juice over this trifling tattoo--or, perhaps, you've seen it before?"

There it was. A spark of anger. Suddenly, with the flicker of defiance in her eyes, she looked very familiar indeed.

"So, not a Muggle after all."

"A--a Squib." She seemed to blurt it before thinking better. It was a braver--or stupider--admission than he'd have expected: to admit to helplessness while still firmly in his grip.

But it did begin to explain the fear. Perhaps a little honesty, a different tack, could speed up the process. "You--look familiar. Your parents were..."

Her lips pressed tighter. Or perhaps not.

"...at Hogwarts?"

"Slytherins," she answered quickly, as if expecting it would be the key to her release.

And it almost was. He almost dropped her wrist, afraid that he must know her parents. It would explain her familiarity and, of course, a quite intimate knowledge of the Dark Mark. And, that being the case, manhandling one of his fellow's daughters, even if she was a Squib, hardly seemed advised. He doubted any father would take kindly to such an affront.

But he held firm, settling for a softer tone. "And...their names? Someone of my...acquaintance?"

The same tight-lipped silence.

As far as he knew, none of his closest Slytherin colleagues had a Squib daughter: though that was unsurprising as most of them would have been likelier to admit to a particularly nasty case of hemorrhoids. In which case, he realized, with a rather pragmatic rush of relief, he didn't need to worry overmuch. Knowledge of "weak blood" amongst any of his acquaintances would be more than a bargaining chip: it could ruin the reputation of any self-respecting Slytherin. Blackmail, in his experience, was always worth cataloging when it came your way.

Suddenly he felt far more eager to pry the information from her lips, and accordingly, he felt the pressure of his grasp tightening. "Come now...their names?"

Nothing.

Again unsurprising. Her parents had probably sworn her to the greatest secrecy to prevent just such an unlikely occurrence as had now come to pass.

Watching her debate the situation in her own mind, he tried to run through a list of those most likely to have hidden away or disowned the girl. Macnair was old enough, as was Julius Avery: but she was too tall and slender to have come from any amount of Macnair's stock, and certainly too attractive to have come from Avery's. In fact, he could rule out a good number of his old friends simply based on physical appearance. Most of them, like himself, could have mated with a Veela and not managed a progeny that even approached pleasant-looking. A Black, perhaps. He didn't know if Regulus or Bellatrix had ever produced progeny, and he strained to see a resemblance in the young woman's face.

No, this was ridiculous. He could find out just as easily by--

He grabbed her chin, forcing her eyes to his. "Their names, my dear. Perhaps you could extend them my felicitations, if..." He began to push forward into her eyes.

"Branch. Antigone Branch."

He paused. No--the name didn't ring any Slytherin bells: which was in it itself odd. He was no social butterfly, but, as a Slytherin, you got to know everyone. Someone was always related: someone could always trace ancestors down some tangled, vaguely inbred family tree.

But this was a name he'd never heard. "And your father?" Her pale eyes blinked so close that he could make out tiny flecks of blue and brown amongst the gray.

She remained silent long enough for him to begin again, pushing forward to where the face and emotion lay, no doubt on the vulnerable surface of her mind. "No--I--I don't know. He left my mother when I was a baby--"

"Liar," he whispered, pressing harder. He didn't need Legilmency to detect this falsehood: her parents might have been Slytherins, but she certainly wasn't. He pressed again, even harder.

"Please...don't..."

But he didn't hear her as he bored through, feeling her mind open up before his.

A flash, and he saw it. Skull and snake, pale, threaded trace of red across paper-white skin. But this mark was not like his: it was warped somehow, as if someone had sketched it, haphazard and uneven. He'd never seen the Mark look so--disgusting. The snake protruding from the skull's mouth seemed only half existent, tapered head and tongue faded as if it had burrowed under the flesh and into the blood. He pushed further, harder, searching for a face, an explanation--

He ran, brain first, into a wall.

It was as haphazard as the Mark had been. It was weak and desperate. But it was a wall nonetheless.

And, more than that, it was blocking him, moving frantic with his every attempt to circumvent it.

This time he did release her, eyes and wrist, with the gaping, sudden fear of one who'd just been had.

She was still shaking, still near frozen. But he couldn't miss the look of relief that had injected itself into her taut features. Relief and--satisfaction.

"A Squib, eh?" he grasped, trying to regain some foothold in the situation. Perhaps she was Slytherin material after all.

But he had no chance to find out.

With no further word, no further explanation, she had bolted, out of sight in a second, leaving him standing vexed and alone amidst an abandoned collection of toilet tissue and produce.

*****************************

At the end of term, it was not unusual for the Headmaster's office to be a little busy. O.W.L.S. and N.E.W.T.S. meant an influx of students: many with excuses for poor performance, and even more with impassioned pleas for a second chance. There were always one or two overachievers--almost exclusively Ravenclaws--who were thrown into nervous and self-destructive funks over questions missed. They were inevitably referred to Dumbledore for his pitiful assurances that a D in Potions did not mean they were failures or that any aspirations of mediwitchery or Auroring or heading the Bureau of Magical Law Enforcement were forever foiled. Snape grimaced. If it were up to him, anyone who couldn't withstand the pressures of a Potions exam wouldn't be trusted with the lives of so many others.

And then there was the other group of students--almost all Slytherins. With only a few weeks left in the term, the Slytherins who braved Dumbledore's office were one of two types. One group--and he could probably guess the likeliest candidates from his class rolls--were the sort who, with limited time left in the castle, took their last few days to execute the pranks they'd been planning all year. There was always an exploding toilet or five. Last year, a particularly daring seventh year Slytherin had slipped one of the heads of house a small dose of Lasciviolixir, resulting in some more than amusing scenes between Pomona Sprout and Filus Flitwick. No one was ever certain which of them had actually been under the influence. That particular Slytherin had gone out a house hero.

And then the second group of Slytherins--for Slytherins they always were. Snape viewed them with the greatest pity--and the greatest fear for he was sure that, in his time, Voldemort had been one of them. They were the students who requested, every year, to be allowed to remain at Hogwarts for the summer. They were the ones, Snape imagined, who could use a place at Mr. Hawkins', as he'd had.

Today however, it was not only students who crowded the already cluttered office of Albus Dumbledore. No less than three professors, the Groundskeeper, Mr. Filch, and the yellow-eyed cat Mrs. Norris were mulling about. Fawkes the phoenix had, wisely, chosen this moment to burst into flames. Somehow sensing the chaos, all the instruments stacked across shelves had likewise come to life, whirring and puffing, punctuating the general clamor with shrill and unrelenting voices of their own.

The Headmaster merely sat, looking placid, as Argus Filch and Sibyll Trelawney vied for his attention.

"Headmaster, I do think that unless we address these end of term hijinx with the appropriate measure of severity--"

"If you please, Argus, this is of far greater urgency than childish shenanigans--black, Headmaster--a black raven circled the school no less than three times--"

"Ah, Severus." Dumbledore stood, leaving both petitioners in a lurch. "So glad you could make it. Please, sit down." He gestured to the chair currently occupied by one of the Weasley twins: Snape could never tell them apart.

But he had no intention whatsoever of trying to push through the crowd and was already turned to leave.

"Severus, please do come in. I'm sorry, everyone, but I'm afraid Professor Snape and I have a most urgent matter to discuss, and you will all have to return at a later time..."

He snorted. Dumbledore seemed to realize that Snape was the only threat capable of clearing the room. He glided forward, sure to offer only the most unwelcoming of glares. It was enough to disperse all but the most tenacious of solicitors.

"Headmaster--"

"I assure you, Argus, I trust the staff completely as far as the enforcement of punishment is concerned." He looked over his half-moon spectacles at the still seated defendant. "And I also trust that Mister Weasley has realized that he must keep a closer eye on his blast-ended skrewts so they do not wander off into the boxers of unsuspecting first years: isn't that so, Mister Weasley?"

The boy, who, judging from the large "G" now visible on the back of his sweater, must have been George, stood to attention with a salute. "Of course, Headmaster. Constant vigilance!"

"Yes, that will do, Mister Weasley, thank you." Argus Filch looked murderous, but Snape was sure he saw a smile ruffle the Headmaster's long beard.

"But Dumbledore--the raven!" Sibyll Trelawney's magnified eyes threatened to overtake her entire face.

"Yes, Sibyll, very worrisome, indeed. Please consult your crystal and keep me advised."

The Headmaster's confirmation of the grave situation seemed to satisfy her, and she dashed out in a whirl of gauze and bangles.

Dumbledore closed the door behind her with a sigh. He pressed his eyes closed for a moment, leaning on the jamb, clearly enjoying the absence of appealing voices. When he finally opened them again, they had resumed their usual, jovial twinkle. "Ahh, Severus. Today, you are my Slytherin angel."

"My pleasure," he growled, taking a seat and finding himself still painfully assaulted by the scent of perfume and sherry Sibyll Trelawney seemed to exude.

The Headmaster retook his place beside Fawkes, looking about with an expression of utmost peace. Despite the renewed brightness of his eyes, he was looking haggard.

"Coffee I think, yes?" He flicked his wand and a tray of refreshments appeared. "Cream? Sugar?"

"Black is fine."

"Ahh, of course."

They sipped in silence for a long while, and he found himself lost in thought as he stared at the now smoldering pile of ash where Fawkes had, moments before, been burning at full forces.

He wondered if he'd ever be able to sit there, looking back at the Headmaster, without the barrage of memories. Without Potter and Black and Lupin looming over his shoulder, blurting excuses over one another while he sat, silent, stinging with repressed rage. Or without the simmering burn in the crook of his arm as the words spilled from his lips, Ican'tdothisanymore. Idon'twantthis. Or without the drops of blood dripping from his robes as he related, cold and detached, how they'd tortured the witch until she broke, until her pleas for death were finally satisfied.

No, those shades would always be lurking, in the corners, among the portraits and the whirring instruments, ready to pounce.

"Severus?" The Headmaster had leaned forward slightly, twinkling in his direction. Snape was certain Dumbledore knew what he was thinking--was inviting him back to the present. "Did you, in fact, have something you wished to discuss?"

He swallowed, laying his cup aside. "Yes. It's hardly urgent, but--"

"As long as it does not involve hanging Fred Weasley by his toenails or interpreting the flight paths of common English fowl, please do continue."

"Fred Weasley?"

"Indeed. Rather amusing, though don't let Argus know I encourage that, mind."

But Snape never found Dumbledore's indulgence of Gryffindor pranking all that amusing: a fact which the Headmaster seemed to recall just as he said it. He cleared his throat quickly. "So, apart from Gryffindor justice: what's on your mind?"

Snape sat back, trying to decide how best to approach the subject. He was more than aware Dumbledore would not approve of his stopping the girl and would reprove him even more harshly for his impromptu use of Legilmency. It would be best to get to that bit of the story only when absolutely necessary. "Do you remember a student named Antigone Branch?"

He expected the Headmaster to think for a few moments, but instead the answer was immediate. "Yes, a Slytherin."

Snape could read volumes from the Headmaster's tone alone, quiet and solemn. "I did not remember hearing the name..."

"You wouldn't, I suppose. She left Hogwarts the year before you arrived."

So that explained the solemnity. " 'Left' Hogwarts? Can I assume then that she did not graduate?"

"No, she did not." He poured a copious amount of sugar into his cup and set a spoon to stirring it vigorously while he spoke. "She became pregnant the summer before her seventh year and did not return. She took up residence in Knockturn Alley until her death a few years--well, no, my, almost eleven years ago now."

Snape tabulated this mentally. The girl couldn't have been more than twenty: she would have been very young when her mother died. For that matter, the mother herself must have been quite young. "How did she die?"

Now Dumbledore himself sat back, spoon still stirring madly. "It was a subject of some debate. Well, not enough debate, in truth. The Ministry didn't concern itself too much with the case. It was at the fever pitch of Voldemort's grab for power and given what they considered the relatively unimportant position of the woman--"

"Unimportant position?" he interrupted, grabbing the incessant spoon and removing it from the overflowing cup himself.

"Oh, yes, sorry," the Headmaster mumbled, recovering the cup as if remembering himself. "Yes, Miss Branch unfortunately found herself in rather dire circumstances. At the time of her death, she'd been working for two years at the Scarlet Siren."

"Ahh," was all he could manage, praying suddenly that this was not the reason the girl looked familiar. He had been, in his more desperate youth, an occasional customer of that establishment. It was a well-known site, in fact, for a number of informal Death Eater gatherings, and it had been common gossip that the business' madame was a secret supporter of the Dark Lord.

"Yes. The death was recorded as a suicide, but no one will ever be certain. As I recall, they found that she'd ingested a rather large dose of Aceribus serum."

He couldn't help but breathe in sharply. He'd seen the effects of the poison on numerous occasions: small doses were often the Dark Lord's choice of--persuasion. A large does--large enough to be fatal--would have been tormentingly painful and death would have taken several hours. It was hardly a practical choice for suicide.

He continued running through the faces of his companions from the Siren. He could not recall any named Antigone nor any reminiscent of the girl's features. "And...the child?"

"Yes, Messalina Branch." Dumbledore himself seemed to be running a picture reel through his mind. "She was not with her mother at that time. In fact, before her trial several years after, Madame Mew swore to me she had never been aware that any of her employees had children."

In spite of himself, he felt relieved by this. The Scarlet Siren would certainly not have been the place for a young girl. "And the father?"

"No one--or at least no one of whom I am aware--ever claimed paternity of Miss Branch." The Headmaster said this in such a way that Snape suspected he had his own theories on the subject. "And, in fact, I did not learn the whereabouts of the young Miss Branch until another few years later when her name came up on the Hogwarts roll."

He had been poised to question the Headmaster further about the girl's father, but this revelation caught him off guard. He glanced down at his half-empty cup, wishing it was something a bit stronger.

"The Hogwarts roll? She's--not been one of my students, I assume?" he attempted, producing a second cup and saucer, this time with his own slightly Irish blend. He would see, then, where the Headmaster's information led...

"No, indeed, she was not," Dumbledore said, smiling as if cataloging Snape's subtle reaction. After many years of such conversations they had both grown more adept at reading one another's mannerisms: slight, barely noticeable signs of caution, of holding back, and the even slighter signals of emotion. Snape was quite sure that, at that moment of pause, Dumbledore had already begun to formulate several reasons for his interest in the subject. Unfortunately, this time, Snape was also fairly certain the Headmaster wouldn't be able to guess--nor likely to imagine--the precise set of circumstances that would throw his Potions Master into the path of a Muggle market customer.

"The young Miss Branch--or Miss Ross as she called herself then--did not attend Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued, adding another lump to his coffee. "When I saw her name come up on the list of prospective students, I, of course, felt the need to follow up on the letter personally, to ensure its reception and to satisfy myself that the girl, whom most had assumed lost, did, in fact, find herself in bearable conditions."

Snape did not bother to hide his surprise. The Headmaster rarely performed this duty himself. He occasionally sent a staff member or the Gameskeeper to facilitate the enrollment of certain students who otherwise might face difficulties from caregivers or from lack of adequate wizarding knowledge. But the Headmaster himself, due to the seniority of his position, had only performed this function a handful of times since taking the job--at least to Snape's knowledge.

"I'll admit it was partially my own healthy curiosity as well." A more serious tone. "Curiosity coupled with a feeling of responsibility to the girl's mother, who, while not an outstanding student, could have, I feel, found her situation far different had she finished her education here."

Now this, Snape said without anything more than a nod, seemed closer to the truth. He could easily imagine the Headmaster doing almost anything out of a sense of duty and guilt.

"The address on her letter was in a Muggle town, so I paid the house a call as the time of enrollment approached. The Muggle couple there, a Mr. and Mrs. Ross, informed me, and quite kindly, that they had indeed received the notification, but that their daughter would not be attending. The girl had, they said, been abandoned at their town's church at the age of six, and they had taken her in, unable to have any children of their own. They had enrolled the girl at the church school and did not feel that a school for witchcraft would be in her best interest, academically or spiritually."

Snape obliged the Headmaster with the sneer he was sure had been expected. It was not an uncommon occurrence to meet with this objection among Muggle parents. He himself did not know much about their dogma, but knew, as every Slytherin was taught from birth, that religious Muggles did not look kindly on witches and wizards. It was one of the facts that had led to the ancient Slytherin disgust--or perhaps mutual enmity--with anyone who came from a Muggle home.

"Though the couple assured me they had discussed the matter with Miss Branch as well, I felt inclined to speak with her myself," the Headmaster said, steepling his fingers, clearly remembering the encounter. "I was surprised to discover that she herself did not wish to attend, though her concerns were not spiritual in nature. She informed me that she was a Squib, and it was for that very reason that her mother had deserted her. I tried to disabuse her of the notion, telling her that only those with magical ability found themselves on the Hogwarts roll. However, she was very adamant on the subject, and, I must say, from further discussions with her adopted parents, it didn't seem she'd shown any special propensity for magic, even when angry or afraid." He sighed deeply. "So, with neither her guardians' nor her interest, I was forced to remove her from the roll. I must say, I felt it might be a mistake, but--" He fell off, further thoughts drowned in what Snape could only imagine must be a very sucrose-crusted draw of coffee.

But there was no doubt what the Headmaster was thinking. They had never discussed it, but Snape had realized, over time, how deeply Albus Dumbledore felt the regret over every student lost--every student gone astray. He'd seen the same slow gaze, heard the same tinkle of pity in every conversation of Hogwarts alumni gone Death Eater and every current student following a path leading to ruin or devastation. Albus Dumbledore's boggart, he'd often mused, would be not a threat to himself but a threat to his students. It would be those lost souls like Antigone Branch, Tom Riddle--himself, when young.

"Well, Severus," the Headmaster signed again, peeking over half-moon spectacles, eyes sharp. "Now I've told you everything I know, why don't you tell me what you know."

It didn't surprise him. He might have once been more than adept at hiding things from the Dark Lord, telling half-truths and manipulating conversation; but his skills were no match here--no match for the only one Voldemort had ever feared. "Well, if it sets your mind at ease somewhat, I ran into the young Miss Branch over the weekend. In Sutton Hill, near Spinner's End. She seemed to be doing better than her mother."

This was clearly not what the Headmaster had been expecting. Perhaps he had expected some revelation regarding the mother's death or some gossip amongst his old friend about her Hogwarts tryst.

"Did you? And what, pray tell, could have dragged you away from home fires and into town?"

A fair question: beyond his reputation for avoiding all things Muggle, the Headmast was well aware that on his occasional weekends away from school, Snape religiously cloistered himself at Spinner's End, away from all prying eyes--even Dumbledore's.

He shifted. "I was in need of some items most easily acquired at the market there." He did his best to avoid what he could tell was the Headmaster's amused smile. "The young Miss Branch happened to--run into me there."

"Did she. And you two struck up a friendly conversation, then?"

The sneer surfaced, unbidden. It was a familiar dance, Dumbledore pressing him closer and closer to the truth.

"Of sorts," he said, flat. "She happened to catch of glimpse of my--arm, and as you know, for the last month I have found my mark getting somewhat more pronounced." Dumbledore produced a sound of knowing anxiety. "Miss Branch was most--disconcerted--to see it, as you can imagine. The reaction makes sense now, considering the company her dear mother must have been caught up in."

"Indeed." But the Headmaster was clearly not about to let him shift the explanation yet. "And you came to discussing her mother by--?"

No, there was no wriggling free this time: he'd already been pinned by the twinkling. He almost regretted bringing the girl up in the first place. If it hadn't been for that vision--that deformed Mark--he might have even dropped the topic then and there. But the girl had been hiding something and desperately. If Dumbledore could rid him of that bit of worry, it would be worth a bit of unpleasant truth on his end.

"I was suspicious of her reaction and--" He paused, trying to judge his confessor's response, but the Headmaster's eyes remained impassive. "And I was apprehensive that someone might hear about my excursion among Muggles."

At least the Headmaster's slow nod indicated he, too, understood the danger such seemingly idle gossip could hold.

"I located her after leaving the market and asked her about the reaction," he said, affecting the same cold countenance he once had, relating the activities of the mask and the hood. "She told me, as she told you, that she was a Squib. When I asked about her parents, she told me they were Slytherins. You'll understand, this made me even more uneasy--"

This time the nod was more reluctant.

"And, of course, I could tell she was hiding something. Very deliberately. So--I--"

The Headmaster sat back, approval stopped abruptly. "So you decided to find out for yourself," he finished, quiet.

"Yes."

There was a long silence, but Dumbledore did not attempt to fill this one with coffee or sugar or spoons. He was watching Snape closely, a study in gravity. Snape tried to imagine what words the Headmaster would say, which one of a handful of speeches he'd choose.

But the expected lecture did not come. Instead, Dumbledore took his usual perceptive leap. "You must have seen something of note, if you're talking to me."

He had no choice but to respond by lowering his own tone, filling it with the requisite hint of penitence. "Yes--and no. But what I didn't see is, in itself, interesting."

The lack of answer did not discourage his continuing.

"I saw the Dark Mark," he pushed forward, seeing the strange image flash again across his mind. "It was floating on the very top of her consciousness, unsurprisingly after our encounter, I'll admit. However, it was unlike any Mark I've ever seen: it was--incomplete, twisted. It was not something, I can imagine, came from the Dark Lord directly."

He couldn't be certain, but the Headmaster seemed to be considered this as if, somehow, trying to work it into the pieces of previous thoughts. Encouraged by the possibility of explanation, Snape continued. "And then, she stopped me."

Dumbledore's piece-fitting halted, eyes dashed suddenly up. "Occlumency?"

He nodded. It had been haphazard and ill-controlled, but it was, there could be no doubt, Occlumency. While the Headmaster appeared to be weighing this information, he examined the pieces himself. Her mother had been a Slytherin, and, it seemed likely, her father also. Her mother had continued to run in those dark circles until her suspicious death. The girl's father, it seemed hard to deny, then, must have been a Death Eater or, at the very least, a supporter of them. Many Slytherins at that time, too cowardly to commit to the Mark, had settled for channeling money and resources to the cause--and to young men, who, like himself were powerful but poor.

And the girl was hiding something, pretending to be a Squib, keeping her distance from the wizarding world. The steps didn't seem to follow. If she was simply afraid of her mother's likely killers, what was she hiding? And abandoning the wizarding world was extreme, especially considering that there hadn't been a Death Eater incident in almost a decade. Unless, there were more who, like Dumbledore, worried that it was only a matter of time until that changed...

And then the mark. If her father had been one of the fold, his mark ought to have been whole. And her mother, well, Snape was well acquainted with the small number of the Dark Lord's female initiates, and Antigone Branch, from the sound of it, would never have made the cut. The female Death Eaters had been, as a rule, extremely powerful and ruthless witches--had to be to catch the Dark Lord's eye. The men could weasel their way into his services through various facets of utility: the women, on the other hand, were accepted only when they made him stronger.

That meant, as far as he could discern, that the mark was, most likely...the girl's.

And that threw any plausible explanations into a cocked hat.

"Did you have any suspicions as to the girl's father?" he asked at length, the Headmaster seemingly lost in the same spirals of thought.

Dumbledore looked up, and Snape could see only one thought on his mind: the only thought that ever quenched the twinkling. He had been thinking of Voldemort, of signs.

"I had my suspicions at the time," he said absently.

Snape expected something further, but the Headmaster merely flicked his wand, causing all the cups and spoons to pop out of existence.

"However, I think, given what you've told me--given what you saw--it might be wise to ask Miss Branch herself."

Snape grew very still.

"I must admit that I had, to some extent, forgotten her." He was now chastising himself. "My visit with her happened amidst the chaos of Voldemort's downfall, and, as I said, I thought--"

His slight voice was interrupted by the squeaking and stirring of a newly resurrected Fawkes. The bird's tiny scarlet head lifted wide-eyed from the ruins of its former self.

"Resurrection, return." His smile was wan. "Yes, I think we should pay Miss Branch a friendly call. Given what's apparently on her mind--" Snape didn't miss the harsh emphasis here, "--perhaps it would be best if we satisfied ourselves regarding her situation."

He felt a heavy tingling as the Headmaster's eyes shifted over him. " 'We'?"

"Yes, Severus. We."

"But, Albus, judging by her reaction--"

"Judging by her reaction she did not take kindly to your interrogation nor to your forcible entry into her thoughts."

He breathed in deep, feeling the familiar stony mask fit itself across his face. For some reason--Merlin only knew why--it was only the Headmaster's disapproval and judgment that seemed to penetrate his thick skin. That slow, tempered voice was the only one that could worm its way through the armor he'd forged over years and years of torment.

"So, I think it only just, Severus, that you locate Miss Branch's residence in Sutton Hill and accompany me there." Dumbledore had turned away, moving on, it appeared, to other business. "Perhaps you can help ease whatever worry you may have caused and--" He paused, meeting Snape's eyes gently. "--apologize."

That was almost more than he could bear, even from Dumbledore. He stood slowly, unable to suppress a derisive snort as he looked down his crooked nose at the man now stooped over several pieces of parchment.

"Thank you, Severus. I am glad you told me."

But that was just it: it was Dumbledore. He couldn't argue or even let slip a single trademark barb. Not because he felt guilty or because he was afraid, but because the Headmaster, damn him, had a quiet, kind way of always being right. Talking to him, all Snape's carefully-styled Slytherin pragmatism seemed to collapse like a house of cards.

He found it utterly infuriating.

But he also knew that it was because of this that he would follow that man--that hooked nose old fool--even to his death.

"Once again, my pleasure, Headmaster." He turned to leave.

"Oh, and Severus--?"

He arched an eyebrow but did not turn around.

"The unauthorized use of Legilmency is illegal, you know?" A tone that could have been severe was, unexpectedly, playful. "So, you see, my indulgences are not always reserved for Godric's crowd..."

This earned the Headmaster nothing more than a deeper frown as he slammed the door.

A/N:

Thank you to whitehound for the Brit-picks of Chapter 1. I, luckily, have never had occasion to find out the color of scrubs in Britain. I did, however, remember the lack of air-conditioning (being from Texas, that sort of thing doesn't escape notice). That's why Snape simply "didn't know" how Muggles cooled their domiciles.

As for mace being illegal, I suppose Lina is just the crafty, paranoid sort who'd smuggle some somehow (American that I am, I would never have imagined mace to be banned!).

Just to clear up any confusion: the flashbacks all occur immediately pre Philosopher's Stone (1991)--the summer before Harry's first year at Hogwarts.

Thanks, and please let me know what you think!

*Chapter 2 now edited and typos zapped (I hope)*