The Hanged Man

Chapter Three: A Thousand Thousand Slimy Things

May, 1991

Whatever anonymity Snape might once have enjoyed in the town of Sutton Hill was now dying a slow and humiliating death. With every step they took from Spinner's End, his frown etched deeper and lower across his face, his eyes turned resolutely to the pavement. He was vaguely aware of the twisting heads, the raised eyebrows, the small noses of children pressed flat against he inside of store front windows. One teenager with bold shocks of upended pink hair had even gone so far as to hoot and whistle after them before dissolving into spasms of laughter.

They were barely halfway to their destination, No. 8C Kingsfoil Row, when he made the decision. No--it was more a personal vow, really. He was never ever going to bother wearing Muggle clothes again.

Dumbledore had fashioned fitting attire for their excursion through Sutton Hill: fitting, that is, in that all pieces were the correct size. He had never, however, seen a Muggle wear the precise shade of screeching yellow the Headmaster had chosen, nor had he noticed, in his few Muggle outings, that the mandarin-collared waistcoat was a particularly popular choice.

He'd practically begged the Headmaster to simply apparate to the girl's building--or as close as he allowed himself to come to "begging." But the Headmaster insisted that apparition would be both rude and conspicuous, and that the fresh air would do him some good.

Yes, wonders. His mood had improved ever so much.

He glared down at a young boy who appeared dangerously close to dropping his ice cream cone for staring.

Yes, he truly loved getting out in the world, feeling the oppressive sun wet his already greasy hair with sweat and burn the pale protuberance of his nose like an overcooked wad of dough.

Besides, if this was being inconspicuous, wearing his full set of robes could only be described as "pure stealth."

"Left," he growled, directing the glowing ball of the Headmaster around a corner.

Luckily, most of these ridiculous stares were directed at Dumbledore, who had the sense to conjure his Potions Master something less--chic. Nonetheless, Snape simply didn't feel--clothed. The color, the materials were the same, but the substance was all wrong. He'd grown more than accustomed to his pitch linen robes: they'd become an extension of himself. He knew just how to move--just how to bend an arm or shift a foot--to send the folds billowing. A second skin that flowed graceful yet unnerving at once.

It was, he'd realized, nigh impossible to achieve any air of intimidation in a black, button-up dress shirt and khakis cut just at the ankle.

"This one," he said at last, scowling magnificently up at what was surely the most unassuming brown box of a building he'd ever seen. The window sills were uncertain lines, and the doors seemed set, nonchalant, atop three steps that begged to be considered nothing more than sufficient. The rusted orange letters marked the address in the dullest whisper. It was the sort of building that resolutely refused to be noticed.

The Headmaster eyed the front door a moment, as if trying to puzzle it out. In truth, Snape had seen Muggles work these systems before, pressing a small button to speak with the flat's owner and release the lock. But he was in no mood to have their arrival announced and anything but eager to confirm that the occupant was, in fact, home.

Unconcerned with betraying his absolute disregard for their pathetic attempt at "blending in," he removed his want, and the door gave way with an apathetic creak. If Dumbledore disapproved, he said nothing, merely pushing his way into the narrow, upward-snaking stairway beyond.

Snape didn't miss the small label taped hastily beside button 8C, scrawled in meticulous yet sweeping green ink. Lina Ross.

It was the same name he'd located the Muggle listing book, after an unsurprisingly failed attempt to locate a Messalina Branch in the county. This was definitely a woman who didn't want to be found. She'd chosen a name that blended, a building that blended in a town that, had his father not grown up in, Snape would never have given a second look.

Just the sort of town that would spawn a sponge-brained ape like Tobias Snape, he growled to himself, gliding up between the tortuous, uneven hands of the hallway. Drab and dull with an almost sadistic insistence of normality.

"Good day, madam!" the Headmaster offered, cordially tipping his lemon-colored bowler hat at the curler-headed woman who apparently resided in 8B. The lumpy gray mess of her head along with its wide, bifocaled eyes had poked out as they passed, releasing the unmistakable musk of cats into he hallway. She didn't return the greeting, content to merely watch them through slit eyes with intensely magnified distrust. He gave her his own greeting: a superior glare down the expanse of his nose. The door slammed, quick.

"Ahh, at last. I feared we'd hit the clouds first."

Snape looked back down the stairway which rolled like a tongue in tight, manic turns to the closed mouth of the entrance far below. So she'd locked herself away in a tower, as well: how charming.

"Yes, well, at least here the stairs stay put," Dumbledore sighed, straightening his hat and taking the parcel Snape had carried all the way from Spinner's End into his gnarled hands. When questioned as to the contents of the sack, the Headmaster merely replied that it was the height of good manners to bring a small gift along for a social call. Snape couldn't begin to guess what was really in the sack; but it wasn't just a few boxes of Bertie Bott's or a lovely arrangement of nightviolets from Famous Flora's. The sack was heavy--another fact he'd registered with every step through town--and, by the way the Headmaster's blue eyes twinkled when questioned, it was certainly something that would prove...meaningful.

"Now, let me see. I saw a Muggle do this once..." The Headmaster beat a complex and wild rhythm on the door, rattling it on its brass hinges before looking back at Snape, excessively diverted.

He sighed, and, leaning forward, pressed the bell with a long impatient finger. Well, at least one of us is enjoying himself...

A long pause followed, and while he gave way to a moment's hope that the occupant was, in fact, not home, the eventual muting of the obnoxious music within and the unmistakable sound of shuffling behind the door disabused him with almost violent quickness. Shades of movement slid across the transparent eye of the peephole, and he could imagine her quibbling, wide-eyed, at the yellow man magnified and warped against her sight.

No fewer than three locks clicked loose before the door swung open. He slid carefully along with it and out of immediate sight. No sense in seeing the door slammed directly on the old man's amiably arranged face.

"Headmaster." Cautious greeting. "What a--surprise."

But, he noted from out of view, she certainly didn't seem surprised. Not enough for seeing the old man again after nine long years. Her voice, while slow and calculated, was far more certain than on their previous encounter, almost to the point of being unrecognizable. For a moment, he wondered if it was even her or if perhaps she had a flatmate.

"Good day, Miss Branch--or is it Miss Ross?"

Interesting which she'd choose: wizarding or Muggle name. Would this be a conversation between witch and wizard or between a Muggle woman and some quite awkwardly-dressed callers?

"Lina will do just fine, Headmaster."

Neither. How very--calculated.

"Of course, Lina," Dumbledore replied, removing his hat politely. "And I believe you've already met Professor Snape--?"

It was precisely at moments like this that he especially enjoyed his close relationship with those black robes. He would have slid into view, billowing like an overgrown bat, with that indefinable aura that brooked no tedious niceties. As it was, he merely stepped, more awkwardly than he'd planned, past the comforting mask of the door, trying to balance his features between the disdain he was feeling and the affability he was sure Dumbledore expected.

Her face, like her voice, was markedly different than what had been playing back in his mind's eye: less skittish mouse, more coiled serpent. The flat brown hair that had hidden her reluctant features was pulled back, revealing a leaner, keener look. Those gray eyes that had slipped from his with such tenacity were now trained, impassive, on his. He could almost believe, on this encounter, that her parents had been Slytherins. He'd recognize that summoned courage anywhere: not the blustering, fiery Gryffindor courage, but the lazy, cool brand which defined Salazaar's house so completely.

"Yes, but I don't believe the Professor and I were properly introduced."

And a Slytherin response. He had to admire, however grudgingly, that perfect, laconic lilt.

Not the same woman at all: this was a witch. The frown of her lips and the slight relaxation in the curve of her shoulders convinced him that, no matter what she said of surprise, she'd, somehow, expected their call.

"Ah, well, then. This is Professor Severus Snape, my Potions Master at Hogwarts. And, Severus, this is indeed Miss Messalina Branch--or Ross, as the lady prefers." He glanced between the two of them with that seemingly oblivious smile that many took for foolishness. In fact, as Snape was now aware, it was only a sign of the Headmaster's imperturbable power. Dumbldore never missed a thing: it simply took a great deal--certainly more than a couple of taciturn Slytherins scowling at one another--to provoke even the smallest hint of frustration.

"Pleasure to meet you again, Professor," she drawled, turning back to the Headmaster as if Snape was nothing more than a fixture of the hallway. "Is there something I can do for you?"

She remained lodged, firm, in the doorway.

"Er, might we come in? I was rather hoping we could have a chat."

Pale eyes whipped back at him, cracking across his face knowingly. He ignored them, wondering how in the world Dumbledore would get her to talk. Most witches and wizards opened up to the Headmaster almost reflexively: in fact a good number of them were regularly vying for his ear. That implicit air of trust and wisdom about him could only be compared to a mild dose of Veritaserum. The most tight-lipped and wayward of Slytherins often cracked under those twinkling eyes, if, for no other reason than the utter shock of a look so warm yet so objective. It had even worked on him, once upon a time.

But, judging from the glare she was throwing his way and the very slow, reluctant movement of her arm from the door frame, he wondered if even the Headmaster would be able to tease the truth from those lips.

She conceded after a long pause, simply turning back into the flat and leaving Snape to close the door behind himself.

The room was bathed in sunlight filtered through the strainer of blinds. Tiny specks of dust danced through the rays lazily, drifting in all directions like tiny sleepwalkers. Despite, however, the light and open windows, the entire room felt choked, cluttered. It was the opposite of the plain, bland building at Number 10 Kingsfoil: chaotic, eccentric, and--he turned around to confirm the observation--absolutely filled with junk.

Most of the junk fell into one of two categories, the first being boxes. All manner of boxes littered the floor: tall and thin, long and wide, tiny and deep. Some were half open, cardboard tongues lolling out obscenely. Others were positively draped in packing tape, closed so tight he didn't know how she'd ever open them again.

The second and more ubiquitous item--so ubiquitous that, in fact, it gave the impression of actually being the theme of the décor--was books. He considered his small library at Spinner's End to be more than adequate for any but the most academic needs. But this was not academic: it verged on obsessive. Bookshelves covered every inch of wall space save one cramped spot reserved for the smoky gray of what he eventually recognized as a foeglass.

Every bookshelf was, in itself, another microcosm of confusion, each packed tighter than should have been possible, row upon row weaving over one another, defying all notions of space and order. Those that didn't fit on the shelves were stacked, with no apparent logic, in any available space about the room. The air of the flat was thick with the heady musk of paper and oilcloth, and, for a moment, he almost forgot his displeasure at the sunlight and the dust and company, transported to some of this best memories at Mister Hawkins'.

"I hope we've not come at an...inconvenient time?" Dumbledore said, having some difficulty navigating the maze of boxes to an unoffered seat on the sofa.

"No, not really. I was just doing a little packing. Trying to get out by the end of June or July." She'd resigned herself to the armchair across from the Headmaster and was watching Snape like a hawk.

Ahh. She doesn't like the way the neighborhood is going...

"Well, then, it is most fortunate that we found you here in time."

And headlong they plunged into a stretched, evaluating silence. Dumbledore watched her, she watched Snape, and Snape, still standing awkwardly behind the couch, stared at the bookcase nearest him, scanning the exposed spines methodically. Transfiguration and Ethics, Resmiranda Marshall. Wizard Geneaology in the 1600's, Septimius Mercer. Life After Crucio, Julius Winchester.

If sunlight made noise, they would have heard it.

The Wereworld and Its Symptomology, Romulus Falstaff. Unicorn's Blood: the Abom--

"Would you like some tea?" the Head master offered abruptly, as if, somehow, they were all sitting in his office at Hogwarts, discussing a student or a lesson. "I find its really quite useful in these situations: plenty of things to do with your hands, plenty of things to stir and measure."

The girl's smile was slight but natural, the first hint of a lessened guard. It gave her cold features yet another unfamiliar facet.

He found that, often, this was a facet he never saw in people. Fear and repulsion--and anger, on occasion: but he rarely got to see unguarded, genuine amusement. It made him--uncomfortable.

"Yes, sorry, of course. But, if you don't mind, I'll get it. I can't stand that conjured stuff."

She gave him a hard look before disappearing into the kitchen. It said nothing more or less than, Sit down and keep your hands off everything.

Which of course he had no intention of heeding. The many shelves of magic texts had already piqued his curiosity at the mystery of the supposed Squib, and, as soon as she was out of sight, his feet started him on a circuit about the room, searching.

Almost without thinking, he gravitated to the foeglass hung haphazard between the imposing mass of bookshelves. Its surface remained blank and placid even as he leaned in, most almost tickling the dusty silver. That should convince her at least. Perhaps he didn't need to bother with an apology after all. Just a, See? No harm, no foul.

As he leaned in, a box beneath the foeglass whispered with movement. The lid yawned wide, and it swelled, almost bursting along the seems from the collection of bric-a-brac within. He nudged the lid open completely with a brief, cardboard sigh.

A small lamp. An end table-sized replica of Gladys Steerpike's famous sculpture, Morgana at Rest. several pots he could tell from smell alone had once held herbs.

And one leather-bound corner peeking up amidst the chaos: a notebook with the small gold-lettered proclamation of "Photos."

Most of the photographs inside were as dull as the rest of the box's contents: unmoving Muggles scenes of beaches and monuments and the girl at various ages and various stages of gawkiness. Two pictures, however, tucked inconspicuously between scenes of a family holiday in Rome, moved with alacrity, appearing to spin amidst the sea of static smiles.

The first was at Hogwarts, and, more specifically, he recognized quickly, the Slytherin common room. A witch lay sprawled across the serpent-carved arms of a chair, looking bored in a stylist way and waving out at him with one long, dark hand. She was exceedingly attractive: thin and smooth-skinned with particularly piercing amber eyes. Her lean, tanned shoulders were bared with calculated allure, allowing long chestnut plaits to dust down them and nestle her generous bosom. Her ankles bounced, bare, supple feet curling and stretching, languid.

The second photo confirmed his guess as to the witch's identity. The same tanned woman stared out at him, hands clasped behind her back, the dingy, lean-to shop fronts of Knockturn Alley as a backdrop. She looked only very slightly older, Hogwarts robes absent and plaited hair now straight and sober at the base of her neck.

And, at the woman's hip, a young girl concentrating fiercely on a Lizard Lolly, tasting it repeatedly while ignoring both the woman and the observer completely.

So that was Antigone Branch, standing beside her young daughter, pointedly not smiling.

She appeared familiar now, through a haze, and he knew at once he must have seen her, in passing, during her companioning years.

Yes, those honey-colored eyes...

But he had never, thank Merlin, enjoyed her services. His tastes ran in a different direction, fairer and brighter. He could certainly think of a few Death Eaters, though, who might have hemorrhaged Galleons for a night in that witch's chamber d'amour. Perhaps he'd be able to puzzle this out after all...

"Severus, I admire your initiative, but I am not currently in need of your investigative services."

He replaced the album, feeling the Headmaster's reproving gaze.

"Sit down, for Godric's sake."

The sofa seemed to radiate unpleasantly, the intensity of the filtered sunlight only brightened by Dumbledore's neon garbs. He sighed, sure that he could work out the girl's father with just a few moments more searching. However, he was in no mood to be forced into apologizing for any further violations, and so stalked through the light, resting, uncomfortable, beside the Headmaster. He returned in sullen silence to the myriad spines eying him from a tall pile of books at his arm.

A History of Houselves, Gwendolina Gompett. Curse Classes of the East, Yiling Zhang. Unfogging the Future, Miranda

"Here we are." She'd reappeared, laying a plain porcelain tea service on the table between them. Tiny, flaky biscuits formed a feeble pyramid in the dusty river of sun.

"Lovely, thank you," the Headmaster replied, offering Snape an unsweetened, steaming cup.

It was without a doubt the worst tea a human being had ever imbibed.

The weakness of the taste was surpassed only by the scalding heat that ensured he wouldn't have to taste it--or anything else for the next few weeks. He forced himself to swallow, feeling the substance he refused to recognize as tea burn its way down his throat to a boil in his stomach.

He replaced the cup on the table resolutely with no attempt to mask his disgust.

"It's green tea," she said, contempt oozing from every dipthong and vowel. "If you don't approve, I'm sure I could find you something else...?"

He didn't meet her eyes. "Don't bother."

She didn't reply, merely taking Dumbledore's suggestion and busying herself with the alleged tea. Cool milk quenched the cup's rising steam. "Well, now that we've plenty of things to stir: what can I do for you, Headmaster?"

"Albus, please. You're not a student."

"Indeed."

"As I said, I thought it was about time for a chat." He began, roundabout, apparently having no similar objections to the tea which he sipped at with vigor. "It has been a while, and I should have come by to do this long ago, but your adopted parents seemed eager to keep you away from us, and, at the time, we had--"

"You had problems of your own," she interrupted quickly.

He could tell, from the heavy slowness in her eyes, that the young woman did not want to risk any discussion of the Dark Lord.

"Yes, but that is no excuse. When Severus told me of encountering you here, I felt perhaps it was time to remedy the oversight."

No response.

The Headmaster's twinkling froze as he set his cup down, an empty porcelain eye rimmed with shadow. "I--have you heard about your mother?"

He watched close but again saw no hint of surprise--just the briefest flicker of grief in the line of her frowning lips. "Yes. I heard shortly after...it happened." Her voice was as hollow as the cup set between them.

"I'm very sorry for your loss. I should have come to tell you myself."

In the intervening silence, he suppressed the urge to groan. The Headmaster seemed to have no intention of asking how she'd heard about it: it was unlikely that anyone from the Ministry would have known how to contact her. Logic dictated, then, that she'd heard it from some unknown contact in the wizarding world, possibly her father. These things, he'd thought, were the sort of answers they ought to be pursuing. But he held his tongue, trusting that Dumbledore would get there in his own measured, infuriatingly tactful way.

"Well, it was hardly a surprise. My mother talked about killing herself all the time."

Flattened words again, leaving him with the unassailable impression that not only was this assertion true but that she also knew her mother's death had likely not been a suicide.

She ended the statement, however, with the fullest of stops and did not seem eager to pick up the subject again. She tipped the teapot absently over Dumbledore's cup, steam renewing its sinuous curls through the thick air.

"I've brought you something. It took me a few days to track everything down, but the Ministry had kept them faithfully stored away," Dumbledore said, hefting the sack into his yellow lap. "They were your mother's possessions at the time of her death."

And there it was: the first genuine appearance of surprise. Suddenly fire-eyed and eager, she reached out to take the bag, pulling it open and upending it on the table without so much as a word. Her pale hands trembled as she turned the contents over and over, separating and--yes, she was searching.

Most of the bag's contents seemed of little consequence. A few hair ornaments, odd, stiletto shoes, a tarnished silver locket, an apparition license, a handful of sickles and knuts, a pair of rose-tinted spectacles, and some tattered issues of Witch Weekly.

But the girl kept ferreting through layer upon layer of junk as if expecting to find a million Galleons tucked away. She abandoned the hunt only when she'd turned over almost every itme twice.

"This is--everything?"

Dumbledore watched her with as much fascination and probing as she afforded the items. "Yes. Everything she had. Is something missing--in particular?"

"No--no." She sat back, biting her lip, leaving the knick-knacks strewn across the table, spilling over into the tea service. "It's just--there's so little of it."

Liar, he heard himself almost whispering again. She must be particularly unskilled at fibbing when flustered. How lamentably un-Slytherin.

But once again, Dumbledore did not press her. How lamentably Gryffindor...

Merlin's teeth, they'd be there all day at that rate. He turned away to hide the scowl, lazily resting his eyes on the bookshelves until something of note might occur.

For a supposed Squib who seemed to have known they'd be calling, she certainly hadn't gone to any trouble to hide the volumes of wizarding texts sprinkled amongst the Muggle ones. Grindewald's Reign and Fall, Winston Scoresby. 1001 Potions for What Ails You, Eleanor Pringle. What Lies in the Cards, Alexandria Le

"I thought this might interest you." The Headmaster was clinking through the jumble of items, and he turned back. He wasn't sure what he heard in that tone, but he knew it was calling for his attention as much as hers. He'd rolled a thin piece of wood from under the edge of the tea tray and had extended it to the girl. "I believe it must have been your wand...?"

Aha. That sly bastard was really getting somewhere.

It was thin and dark--possibly ebony. It looked hard and unused, thick handle carved elaborately: a serpent coiled about the horn of a unicorn, both framing a crest he couldn't make out from his angle. Judging by the workmanship and the intricacy of detail, it must have been quite expensive--a custom job. Only the most affluent pureblood wizards had those sorts of wands made and usually only to mark special occasions like graduation, promotion, or marriage. Wandmakers like Ollivander required a good deal of monetary persuasion to take on a project like that. He doubted a Squib with a tart mother would merit the effort.

She snatched it from Dumbledore's hand with frantic speed. Their eyes were locked, blue and gray, and for some reason, the image of the serpent and unicorn suddenly seemed all too apt.

She tossed the wand out of sight, into the nearest open box.

"I assumed it was yours as they found your mother's on her body, snapped in two."

The sneer that bled across her face sent a chill through the roiling, tea-filled pit of his stomach. She'd sat back and was appraising the Headmaster differently now: sizing up the field.

"You would be correct," she replied, arm drawn under herself, supported on the chair. "My mother bought it for me when I was young. I suppose she hoped that with a wand--and a ludicrously expensive one at that--her hopeless Squib of a daughter would suddenly transform into Circe herself." The sneer melted. "She was mistaken."

"Was she?"

"Yes, Headmaster."

"Albus, please."

"Yes, Albus. As I believe we discussed the last time you were so good as to call."

Words had flown like javelins for a brief span, and he allowed himself to hope that Dumbledore had at last begun pushing forward for answers. But, of course, that manner of interrogation was far too harsh, far too unsettling for an old Gryff like the Headmaster, and the conversation fell, screechingly, into its previous pace, gentle and slow as the dust trekking down the sun rays.

Let the dirty work fall to me, Albus. You always do. And he readied himself, drawing his torso up to its full height.

"You have a good number of magical texts for a Squib who's cut herself off from the wizarding world." His voice was strident, far moreso than he'd dialed up, and the baritone seemed to clash magnificently with the décor. What could he say: somehow, she--and her damned situation--brought it out in him.

He'd expected some reproach from Dumbledore, but the old wizard merely sat facing her, measuring the thick silence in sips of tea. One. Two. Three.

"I have a flair for the melodramatic, Professor. I enjoy marinating in the tragedy of my circumstances." Eyes perfectly--insanely--cold. "I learned it from my mum."

"And did she teach you about the Dark Mark as well? Or perhaps that was your--"

"Severus--"

"No, please, Albus." Her glass, half-full, dripped green-white as she set it down, hard. She stood, and now, with the full force of whatever lurked behind the steely, guarded gaze, she was ready to play, to see what path they were taking inwards, towards her secrets. Again he recognized that look, controlled yet fierce impatience: another Slytherin staple, and beyond that, he'd seen it before, elsewhere...

But she turned away too quickly, and, when the eyes returned, they were freshly composed, matter of fact. She was holding the wand once again.

"I think I see where this is going, sir, and I think I can save us all a good deal of time right here and now."

And suddenly, he was staring down the end of her wand.

He hesitated, shocked. His wand was not in its usual place, his legs were crossed, awkwardly, and her lips, pale and tight, were already moving. Too late...

"Wingardium leviosa!"

Nothing happened.

Nothing except, of course, that she was now also staring, unmoved, down the long expanse of his wand as well.

But he did not respond.

The annunciation had been perfect, the motion flawless. By all accounts, he should be floating as aimless as the dust, looking down at the scene like the mockery of a cherub.

But nothing had happened. And that, he was afraid, could only mean one mind-boggling thing.

She tossed the wand aside again, retaking her seat as if he didn't' exist, standing taut with rage and surprise, wand still aimed firmly between her eyes.

"Severus, please. Sit back down."

Muscles obeyed without the mind's consent. His mind was too busy elsewhere.

She really was a Squib. Had to be. With any kind of a focus and the correct incantation and movement, something should have happened. Something should have happened. Especially with such an elementary spell.

But she had just stood there, like a child with a toy too adult, impotent and harmless.

No sense. Just as he'd thought himself closer to ridding it out--she went and did nothing.

"So, I hope that assuages any doubts you might have had, Albus." Her tongue typed, typewriter objective against her teeth. "Because, believe me: if I could have hexed the dear Professor here, I would have."

Dumbledore, quiet, had stopped sipping.

"And, as for...the Dark Mark. I think we can all agree I'm not the only one who might not wish to be buying toothpaste next to a patron with that particular insignia."

The nod was slow. Dumbledore was clearly as befuddled as he.

"And now, I think it's time for you to leave. Unless of course you have anymore hoops for me to jump through--?"

The careful movement of the Headmaster's hand as it separated the sunlight and rested light on Messalina Branch's white hands was unlike any response Snape could have envisioned. It was that gentle twinkling made tactile. He had never seen Dumbledore reaching out: people quite often reached for him, for his comfort or consolation. But the Headmaster had a way of judging what people needed, despite what they said.

It was things like that that made Snape feel guilty.

And apparently, she was not immune herself. She did not jump, but the cold fire in her eyes guttered.

"I am sorry, Lina--I am. We did not come here--we ought not to have come--to disturb you. I am aware that you have been through a great deal: I am aware your encounter with Professor Snape was--unpleasant. I am aware that your relationship with the wizarding world as a whole has been so. It was no our intention to confront you with it." There was no pity in the voice: she would have, like any good Slytherin, spurned it. The Headmaster's words weighed as nothing more or less than the truth.

Her eyes were mirrors for a moment, and he spied the same turning calm, the same gnawing guilt that he felt when Dumbledore's voice became so strong and right.

"I brought Severus along to assure you that he is most certainly in my confidence and most certainly not a threat to you. Or anyone else, for that matter."

In the only way he knew how to apologize, Snape nodded, silent.

"I am sorry it has taken all these years for me to see to this meeting and to ask you this question. But, Lina, all I really want to know is: are you doing well?"

He fought the urge to sneer very, very hard. Everyone in the room knew the Headmaster wanted to know a good deal more than that: everyone knew the girl must be hiding something.

But that Gryffindor honor wouldn't allow him to press forward through discomfort or tragedy, to upset the girl's tenacious sense of privacy. Being Slytherin made things so much more efficient--so much more expedient.

And so very much dirtier. At least, occasionally, when he deferred to Dumbledore's methods, he almost felt, for brief moments, like had done something Right. Not right, perhaps--but Right.

The girl was almost hunched now, staring at the Headmaster's gnarled hand on hers. "I'm fine, Albus. Thank you. Just a little--uncomfortable--with the past being thrown in my face."

Bravo, he heard the sarcastic silk echoing through the quiet of his brain. Her flat, whispery voice--like a victim of Veritaserum--was emotionless and unreadable. But he wasn't buying that impression of maudlin candor. It just didn't add up.

But Dumbledore withdrew his hand and stood, light bouncing manic across his yellow coat. That was enough for him, after all, Snape realized as he watched the Headmaster replace his bowler hat with a bit more joviality than expected. "I'm glad to hear it, Lina. You've set my mind at ease."

She matched his stance, recovering the keen, cautious length of her limbs.

"Is there anything else I can do for you? Aside, of course, from keeping my admittedly crooked nose out of your affairs?" He did that sometimes, anticipating a Slytherin barb like a Keeper with a Quaffle. It drove Snape mad.

The self-effacing smile she produced was one he had grown far too old to manage in the Headmaster's presence. He stood, collar and pants shifting in the unfamiliar way that made him all the more eager to be back at Hogwarts, back in his quarters. He was no closer to an answer than when they'd arrived: if anything, he was further away, and had nothing to show for his time other than a gnawing headache and a numb, swollen tongue. He was beginning to tire of this mystery now: leave Dumbledore to puzzle it out if necessary.

"Well, actually..."

"Yes, my dear?"

Somehow, he could feel her glance on his turned back.

"I have a strong tendency toward migraine headaches--"

Steps frozen, torso skewered by a golden ray. It was the chill of spying a dagger hidden in your enemy's cloak.

"Muggles have no cure for them, and I haven't the ability to brew the Mixture myself, obviously."

Obviously. Oh sweet Salazaar...

He turned again, determined to stop this before even allowing his mind to begin working out why in the world she would do this.

"Ahh. And you do not take owlpost here, I assume?"

Damn that amused hint in Dumbledore's voice. Damn what he was about to do...

"My landlady is rather unforgiving on the issue."

He tried to stare past the detached look she had thrown his way. Why in the wizarding world would she do this? What purpose could another one of these barely civil riddling sessions serve for her? She wriggled away from the Headmaster: why pursue it further?

Dumbledore knew better than to look his way. "Well, as it happens, Severus here has just finished brewing a batch of Migraine Mixtures himself. I'm sure he'd be good enough to deliver a supply to you if you'd like."

No attempt to hide his indignant snort at the word "good."

"That would indeed by very--good--of him," she returned, pressing the four letter further into the wound. If the girl had been scared of him, she wasn't scared enough. She'd be lucky if his hand didn't slip in the bottling process: a little Veritaserum would speed up this ridiculous game of cat and mouse quite handily.

"That is, of course, on the provision that he does not call again. Ever." A quirked half-grin.

"Miss Branch, no provision could give me greater pleasure."

The Headmaster's slap on the back was the most farcical gesture yet. "Marvelous. Severus is a first rate potioner. I think it should round out this matter rather--justly."

And now the girl had everything she wanted--he could tell by the lightened cadence of her steps--she strode, eager, to the door.

As she brushed past him, pulling the door open in a yawn, the gray of her eyes groped him, close, tracing every movement and shadow of his face. He could have sworn she was mocking him, offering those windows so freely as if to say, It's all here, tucked away behind my gaze. Too bad your master has you on such a short leash.

Or perhaps that was his own brain, projecting onto her.

It didn't stop him, however, from giving her a look that resolutely replied: Sod off.

"Well, Lina. I'm glad to see you again. I assure you I'm at your disposal if ever there's anything you wish to--discuss."

And the Headmaster's gaze twinkled, ever so briefly, down the girl's sleeved left arm.

He didn't miss it, and he could tell from the sudden collapse of that ease of step, that she had too.

At least that wiped the satisfied look off her face. Dumbledore wasn't as easily fooled as she'd apparently assumed. "Thank--thank you, Albus," she said, eyes not daring to approach his this time.

And they were left staring, suddenly, at the wooden lines of the door. It was quiet enough to hear the mewing of cats from the next flat.

He expected the Headmaster to say something almost immediately. Not to apologize for that little ad hoc duty of course, but to at least begin theorizing, breaking down observations, asking him what he'd thought as they unwound there way from the building. He was used to acting as Dumbledore's sounding board, a cynical, pragmatic voice that could work through aspects the Headmaster's straightforward and honest mind, as formidable as it was, could not.

On this occasion, however, he remained frustratingly silent, weaving down the stairs with a speed most would not have guessed possible for a man far past the century mark. This could only mean, Snape mused, that the Headmaster still had no theories worth sounding out. Unsurprising, since it had been nothing more than a colossal waste of time. And his tongue.

Still, he would have preferred to hear something from Dumbledore. Any explanation he could offer: for the magical texts, possible means of blocking magical ability. Why in the world the girl could possibly want him of all people to return.

"I'll take those Mixtures tomorrow afternoon," he attempted as they reemerged into the street, sunlight now much heavier, much harder.

"Yes, thank you, Severus. I think it must be important for you to return: she certainly has something she'll say only to you."

He snorted, this time oblivious to the turned heads and appraising stares that trailed them back toward Spinner's End. "Indeed. Strange to invite me back, alone, when she seemed so--unenthusiastic--about my presence."

More silence. No discussion on that topic...

"She was rather strange on this encounter: different than at the market. Almost--believably Slytherin," he tried again.

The smallest and briefest of smiles ruffled the Headmaster's determined face. "Yes. She reminds me very much of her mother. Certain mannerisms."

He considered, measuring it against the pictures of the elder Branch. They certainly weren't strikingly similar in appearance. The girl was not as feminine nor as attractive, and her whole person was reminiscent of ice rather than honey: cold, colorless eyes set in pale skin. But he could see the alternately lazy and stern movement in both, and, despite stark difference in hue, the gazes of mother and daughter did match--heavy stares like unmoving stone. It reminded him of someone else. Who...

"She did not, luckily, seem to share much--apart from the odd genetic gift, of course--with her father. That, at least, is somewhat--"

"Her father?" he'd halted, mid-step, causing a thin woman and her tiny dog to stumble acrobatically into the street. So that was Dumbledore's game: stringing him along, seeing what he'd caught...

"Your suspicions were confirmed, then?"

The Headmaster, realizing he'd lost his audience, doubled back and took Snape by the arm, leading him down a narrow, empty alley. "Yes, I believe so."

He swallowed the impatience, allowing himself to be led physically and conversationally. Above all, this was the answer he needed. Once he knew the father's identity, he could learn the rest for himself: over bourbon, over scotch, with his old--friends.

The Headmaster was twinkling again: it was, he had pieced together, some mature version of Gryffindor mischief, enjoying the suspense.

"And? Who is it?"

"Did you see Miss Branch's wand?" Dumbledore said, pulling his own wand out in preparation, Snape realized with relief, to apparate. Some small mercy at least.

"Yes, an expensive one. Unicorn and serpent. Must have been a custom job."

"Correct. It must have been made for the girl, an expense, as you might have surmised, Antigone Branch could not afford."

"Yes, yes. The father must have financed it, that I could have guessed, but--"

"And did you happen to see the crest on the wand?" Dumbledore continued, removing his hat and wiping at his brow.

Snape refused to dignify this ridiculous not to mention cruel exercise with a response. The fact that the father was wealthy did not narrow the field overmuch. Most of the old wizarding families that had fallen in with the Dark Lord were.

"It contained the girl's initials," the Headmaster conceded, no doubt spying the flash of resentment in Snape's eyes. "Her birth initials."

"Yes."

"Not M.B. but--M.M."

The two letters hung, rang empty in the air for a split second, before falling, twin pieces, into place.

Of course. He had been ridiculously blind. The eyes, the skin, the occasional haughty bite.

The Headmaster, predictably, punctuated the realization with a pop, and he was left to whisper the damnable answer to himself. "Lucius Malfoy."

He ought to have learned long ago that answers are not always what they're cracked up to be.

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

Severus Snape was, occasionally, a man of his word.

Not only had he returned to 10 Kingsfoil Row with the requisitioned Mixtures, he had also not--in accordance with his own personal vow--donned Muggle clothes. Despite the heat and the sticky syrup of the air, he'd kept with those black linen robes, buttoned straight to the chin. And he'd apparated straight into the building, bypassing the gawks and the guffaws.

There were definitely advantages to traveling without the Headmaster.

Just as there were pitfalls.

Even after the revelation of Miss Branch's paterfamilias, Dumbledore had insisted Snape return alone, all arguments for discretion and respecting Slytherin social politics brushed aside. No matter how many time, no matter how many ways he tried to explain the dangers to the Headmaster, he met the same twinkling smile. It could answer our questions, Severus. And, besides, it's the least we can do.

That damned "we" again. As if the two of them were bound, soul with soul, lion and serpent, on some mutual journey of morality.

It had been the same when he served as spy. Then it had felt comforting: now it simply reeked of--manipulation. How in the world Dumbledore could manage manipulation while still coming out so lily-white, he still had not grasped. Perhaps it was merely the Headmaster's way of speaking in a language he knew Snape would understand.

And he'd understood this little mission well enough. Feel out the situation, see what she's willing to say without the ears of the most beloved and perceptive wizard of the day sitting on the other side of the table.

He stared at the door a moment longer.

He'd spent the intervening night mulling over the possible scenarios, leafing through the school's files on Antigone Branch. She'd been a dull student: he recognized the type after so many years teaching. Either minimal effort or minimal intelligence. Or, more likely, both. It was likely that, even if the elder Branch had remained without child long enough to sit her NEWTs, she would have ended up at the Scarlet Siren sooner or later. She'd barely earned enough OWLs to qualify as a waitress at the Leaky Cauldron.

That began to make sense now, at least. The mother was a year ahead of Lucius, a Slytherin, a lazy student but clearly an ambitious witch. And there were two well-worn avenues of ambition for a Slytherin witch: strength or sex. Power with the magical arts or the arts of pleasure. A Malfoy would have little use for or interest in the former.

A half-hearted second search of the files had revealed no other Branch in the recent Hogwarts roles. If he'd truly cared, he might have checked the Prophet archives: but that would not answer any of the questions foremost in his throbbing head.

Namely, what kind of a delightful surprise he could expect waiting behind this innocent, silent door.

She was still in contact with someone in the wizarding world, that was almost certain. He could only hope it was not her dear father or his associates. Those circumstances would make their way through the old Circle and back to him: and if there was one thing he hated discussing with Lucius it was circumstances. Especially those involving him and Muggles, Squibs, and Dumbledore.

Perhaps she wanted to tell him to keep his mouth shut about what he'd seen. Perhaps she wanted to feel out his acquaintance with Lucius. Perhaps she wasn't a Squib at all, and this murder-and-Dark Mark backdrop was a clear indication that toying with her further was the Headmaster's worst idea to date.

Merlin's Beard. He could fabricate a thousand scenarios if he waited. Best to get in, do Dumbledore's usual dirty work, and find out firsthand.

He wrapped on the door, firm, unwilling to feel the shrill buzz of the bell cleave his aching head in two.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

No rustling about, no moment of silent evaluation: only three quick clicks of the lock replied to his knock. Logic might have led him to expect greater trepidation this time: but he'd given up guessing in this matter. It was answers he'd come to find. Logic hadn't yet prevailed in this case.

An observation that held up as, once again, the demeanor of the girl greeting him had utterly transformed. There was certainly no anxiety, nor were those pale eyes guarded as they had been just the previous afternoon. She merely looked like someone opening the door to sign for a bit of expected post.

Which, in a way, he growled inwardly, was precisely the case. Severus Snape, Hogwarts Owl.

"Miss Branch."

She leaned out the door, loose-hair shifting around her face like a curtain. "Professor."

He was about to assure her that he had come alone--he'd drawn the exasperated asperity into his lungs--when he caught a glance of the blue-haired woman's bifocaled eyes staring up at them, narrow, from down the winding staircase.

"Good afternoon, Miss Watson," the girl sighed in that direction, with a half-hearted simper.

And then, for the second time in their brief acquaintance, Messalina Branch had the nerve to touch him, grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling him into the flat with an impatient growl.

The grip of her fingers was loose, and she released him as quickly as she'd taken hold, once they were safe from those prying bug eyes. But the touch had sent a strange jolt down the tensed cord of his spine. More than surprise at the suddenness and presumption of the contact. More than the normal shock he experienced when anyone touched them of their own volition.

No this was--unnatural. Or, more to the point, it was magical. He'd felt something similar the first time he'd tried an Unforgivable. He hadn't the stomach to really mean the words, and all the magic had fizzled, backed up his bones a bit. A little shock through the system, his partner had observed, trying to reassure him that it happened to most everyone the first time.

It didn't happen a second.

He shook the distraction away, filing the sensation alongside all the other tiny questions. Answers, that's what he was after. Answers.

"Couldn't be bothered with Muggle clothes I take it?" She was looking him up and down froma comfortable distance, wrapping her fingers around the door three sturdy locks. Click. Click. Click.

So the lady doesn't wish to be disturbed...

Their shoulders squared against one another, and, once again, he couldn't believe his previous inability to distill pure Malfoy from her sharp features. He had a good five inches on her, but, at the moment, she was exhibiting the family knack for making herself seem taller than anyone or anything in the room. It was affected, just as it was with Lucius: but affected did not preclude effective, and he marveled, with some disdain, at the girl's ability to change with every encounter. Skittish mouse, cold Slytherin, and now--untouchable. Untouchable and unreadable.

"Well, I suppose it's better than Albus' fashion choices, but I've no doubt my landlady will be popping by again with a few more quest--"

"I've brought the Mixtures." His sotto voice sliced through hers, stern yet slow, all knife through warm butter. He watched her reach for them, hand skirting his with marked caution. She carried the small box of vials to the table, settling down over them to inspect.

"The supply should last around a year," he continued, as she removed one of the bottles, and uncorked it, held it up to the sunlight, sniffed it deeply. "I assure you they're--"

Apparently, however, his assurances weren't necessary as she gulped down an entire vial in one throw.

Not Slytherin enough by half. No one with any brains--or perceptive faculties of any kind--had ever quaffed so recklessly at his concoctions. He almost wished he'd dared to slip some jobberknoll feather in them: it would have expedited any fact-finding quite nicely.

She paused a moment, eyes unfocused, waiting to judge the effects. The judgment betrayed no fear or suspicion, but eagerness, as if she was the Potions Mistress deliberating over his mark.

Foolish girl. Your father would have had no patience for you. Which, come to think of it, was probably a very accurate account of the girl's relationship with the elder Malfoy. If she'd been raised under Lucius' elevated nose, she'd carry a bezoar in her pocket. Just as he did.

"Brilliant," she drawled simply, replacing the empty vial. "Relief at last."

"You know, a teaspoon is more than sufficient dosage." He frowned. At that rate, the supply would last closer to a month than a year: and he would not be prevailed upon to perform another random act of kindness. Dumbledore could twinkle all he wanted: Sutton Hill would never see Severus Snape again.

"Mister Snape--excuse me, Professor: I have had a migraine almost every day since I turned sixteen. Just this once, I think I'll indulge."

If it was sympathy she'd expected, she'd be disappointed. They sold Migraine Mixtures in every wizarding town across England. If she couldn't be bothered to catch the Knight Bus, he wouldn't bother with empathy. Besides, there was more to this little visit than a medical issue...

"Thank you, Professor, for your troubles." Hand through her hair in that seemingly unconscious gesture. "I trust you remember the agreement--?"

The dismissal--unfortunately--was clearly disingenuous. She had settled into her seat, barely looking back at him and making no ready movement to see him out. She merely sat, breathing deep and blinking long. He recognized the symptoms of relief all too well. Perhaps, he'd given her short shrift: the claim of headaches, was, perhaps, more than a stratagem.

"I remember quite well, I assure you." His fingers wrapped, leisurely, around the back of the sofa, causing stretched shadows to ripple through the damnable sunlight. She had curtains: why didn't she draw them, for Salazaar's sake...

He cleared his throat, a deliberate, pedantic mannerism borrowed from the classroom. "I promise you, Miss Branch, I will not darken your lovely doorstep again. However--" An interested glance drawn across his face. "--the Headmaster suggested I offer you one further service."

No response. But he was glad to see those easy lips part slightly, discomfited.

"He thought you might accept the offer of a few inconspicuous wards on the flat. Since you seem so eager to remain--unavailable--to visitors." His free hand flipped through the sun, lazily indicating the foeglass. Its gray eye peeked out from its vigil amongst the overwhelming bookcases, vision still deadpan and lifeless.

He'd insisted to Dumbledore--once the visit had become a foregone conclusion--that he hardly expected the girl to allow him (of all people) to draw his wand a begin casting spells around her flat. A bit like letting Voldemort make you a spot of breakfast. But she'd taken the Mixtures easily enough, and she wasn't looking particularly concerned by his presence. If anything, she seemed at ease, as if, somehow, she had the advantage. Perhaps the Headmaster's vouch of trust actually meant something to her.

No, not Slytherin enough by half.

Unless, of course, she now had no reason to fear him. Perhaps her father's vouch was more to the point.

They watched each other again, but this time she was not affecting anything at all. She was just looking, eyes half-hidden by hair, beetle black on gray. It wasn't silent though: he could still hear the echo of her relaxed breathing, rising and falling through his ears. And a fly. A damned fly buzzing, screeching like a banshee, from someplace in the room.

"That's a very generous offer." She smiled. It was really more of a tilted, half-frown, but somehow he could decipher it as a smile. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, it--couldn't hurt."

It. Couldn't. Hurt.

Was she stupid or brilliant? It was impossible to make out on her masked face. As in chess, he noted: a player who charged forward, throwing pieces into the flames, was either a completely inept novice or--

Or a master.

He desperately hoped for no method to the madness. But he'd never been very good at self-deception: he wasn't built for it.

"No trouble at all," he growled, watching her sidelong as he removed his want, swift as a dagger. Again, no response.

Well, if she was going to play this out, he was bloody well not backing down. He'd played a few games of this sort in his own time...

Besides, he thought, starting with the door, the sooner he got on with it, the sooner he could get out. Stalemate perhaps: but Dumbledore couldn't accuse him of not trying.

"I assume I can't interest you in some tea?"

He snorted, gold light dripping from his wand and enveloping the door, shaming the paltry sunlight. "I think not." The spell faded and dripped through the seal and hinges, emitting a soft, mellifluous hum. Across the room, the fly buzzed a shrill response.

She was staying quiet, expectant. Another brief memory flashed through his mind: playing gobstones with Mum. In the closet where Father wouldn't see. She'd sit, quiet, and stare over her own hooked nose with that same palpable air of expectation. Make your move, it offered gently. I'm already three moves in. Get a lead on.

He growled again, moving towards the first window.

That had always disconcerted him then: he'd made mistakes.

Gold again, hum and returned buzz.

The words barely grazed his passing eye before setting off its own buzz in his mind.

He paused and leaned into the bookshelf to be certain.

Magic of the Mind: Legilmency and Occlumency, A Methodology. Master D. Fitzwilliam Bruce.

Fly buzz exploded very close to the echoing chamber of his ear. He traced the dart, half-consciously, and, with not so much as a moment's thought, he slammed his palm down on its purple-black body with a crunch.

Now that was silence.

Dog-eared and spine-pressed. The Squib had been studying...

"Wards and pest control. You really should charge."

For a moment, he forgot the situation and chuckled, inspecting the heel of his hand now dotted with brown blood and exoskeleton.

Not as badly marred, however, as the fly's final resting place, which was now strew with purple guts of an insect undone. He lifted the smeared book from its spot on the small end table, reading the unfamiliar title from between disconnected legs and wings.

"Rime of the Ancient Mariner," she offered as he laid the book aside once more. "Muggle poet. Do you know it?"

He moved on, not really listening, mind returning to the work of Master D. Fitzwilliam Bruce. It was the text Dumbledore had recommended to him.

"Shame. Muggles make better--and more apt--poets than any wizard. You might agree." She cleared her throat, a mockery of his own mannerism.

"The many men, so beautiful!

And they all dead did lie:

And a thousand thousand slimy things

Lived on; and so did I."

He paused, mid-cast. Deliberate. Remarkably, Slytherin-ly deliberate. The few enunciated syllables hung, purple, in the air, buzzing with more ferocity and greater pointedness than any fly.

A thousand thousand slimy things. Well, it was good to know her acceptance of his presence hadn't sprung from some sudden regard. "Slimy" was an appellation he'd become more than familiar with in his time at Hogwarts: it was somehow comforting to hear it from her. It put him in more familiar territory--in a place her could find his bearings.

And it meant, of course, that she was willing to play. Foolish girl...

He turned back to her, to the same tilted smile: less malicious than Malfoy, more conversational.

"Are there any other windows easily accessible by broom?"

Don't say yes: be done with this. He saw positively no use in dragging the charade out further. The only way to force her hand was to keep things brief with no more opportunity to circle around one another, sniffing the air.

If she would just stop watching him through those Lucius eyes, so similar, yet, in some way, much worse. As if she could see through him.

Legilmency, Severus. Remember that. She'd clearly studied and, Squib or not, she was searching him for something, trying to confound his defenses. The windows, damnit. Are we finished here or not? -Those were the only thoughts he would allow her to read.

"You were a Death Eater."

Straight to the gut, another jolt. But this one wasn't magical: it was pure, cruel shock.

This wasn't chess anymore: it had become boxing.

That would do much better to be getting on with.

The nearest bookshelf creaked a little as he leaned on it, forcing amusement. "Yes." He was more than aware of that sharp past tense, that "you were." He made sure his response matched in ambiguity, in heaviness. "Obviously, I would have thought."

A fact that seemed to please her, unexpectedly. Perhaps she, too, felt eager to speed up the farce--to return to their separate corners and nurse old prodded wounds.

"Did you--know my mother?"

Not scathing nor accusatory. The words had all the appearance of genuine curiosity. Even more suspect.

"No, I did not," was all he could find to say. The alternation of punches and pulls was throwing him off, but he pulled his face into contempt as best he could. "But I know your father."

Changed again, simple expression deepening into complex tugs and sparks, everything brightening like fire.

He spied, for the first time, a weakness in her defenses.

"He never mentioned you--or your mother."

She read the question in the declaration and turned her face away. Simple rejection. Surely she could have anticipated this: surely she was regrouping, raising the alarm.

But he reacted to advantage like a kneazle to a dark wizard: he pounced. With claws.

"The Headmaster seems to think several of my former--colleagues--had a hand in your mother's death."

He couldn't see her resolutely turned face, but the flat stretch of her hair trembled, shivered, a betrayal of slow and silent fury--of repressed words and thoughts and, doubtless, expletives. Her hands pressed together in her lap, spotted white with tension, all her carefully constructed calm beginning its tumble into the rubble of rage.

His voice always got softer when he felt at his most vicious. It got simple and clean and precise: a surgeon's instrument. "Let's get straight to the point, Miss Branch, shall we?" The stiff row of books behind him toppled as he removed the title in question, throwing it onto the table before her. "What does a supposed Squib want with Legilmency?"

Silence.

He slid forward, blotting the light as he stood over her, close. Close enough to brush her thin knees with dark linen. "What would a Squib want with any of these texts?"

That gained her eye contact once more. Flashing, striking eye contact that might have made someone like the Headmaster quail for propriety's sake. But he'd seen fiercer, fierier eyes in his time. You're not Voldemort, dearie. Wiggle out of this one, if you can. But save your intimidation for someone who hasn't stared through the empty red of the darkest wizard of our times.

"Get. Out." Her voice had matched his in its razor-edge quiet.

"I don't think so, Miss Branch," he sneered back. "Not until you explain why the foremost thing on your Squib mind is the Dark Mark. And don't feed me lines about tragedies of the past--I'm not Dumbledore. I've seen Lucius' Mark, and that's--"

"Of course you have!"

And suddenly, it was far closer than he'd ever intended. Hot breath broke, crashed up at him, and he was lost in the pulsing ice of her deep, desperate stare--impaled by the bite of her gaze.

A cornered serpent always strikes: it was the unofficial motto of his house.

Despite his earlier bout of bravado, he stepped back slightly, unwilling to feel the quaking of her taut muscles as they rippled up the folds of his robes. But she'd sunk in her teeth and would not be shaken now, following him step for step, ferocious, stalking.

"How dare you talk to me about the Mark? How dare you!" The crescendo of each word as it built from quiet threat was a full symphony: strings stretched, winds all tremolo, tongue percussive, pounding out a rhythm of hate. "Is this just another little thrill for you? Like Muggle torture. You did that--I know. A pregnant woman. You crucioed her until she choked on her own tongue in the contortions of pain."

"How the bloody hell--"

"Yes, you enjoyed that one though: but you felt bad. You went back to her funeral, didn't you? Julianne Emory was her name, wasn't it?"

If it was possible, she'd moved even closer, until it felt as if she was inside. Inside his rapidly heating skin.

"That's what you do, isn't it, Snape? You torture the inferiors, get a few jollies to make up for your dad telling you what an ugly, useless worm you were? You showed him, didn't you. Made up for that cute little Muggleborn girl who wouldn't have touched you with dragonhide gloves. Or maybe it was for those kids who hung you upside down and showed your ratty old knickers to the whole of Hogwarts? Eh, Snivellus? Was that the one that did it? That the one that sent you off to him? Or was it that little werewolf prank? Or that Scarlet Siren you did enjoy, who charged you 20 galleons extra in hardship pay?--Or maybe it really was just seeing your Muggle father pound his fists into your dear mum's tender face! How simple, how weak--"

He didn't think, couldn't. He just reached out, reacted, crashed. Like the fly. But heavier. More sadistic.

He'd pinned her to the nearest bookshelf, wand jabbed into the slender hollow of her throat.

"Show me, Snape. Show me how a Death Eater handles his past..."

"Silence!" No longer soft and dangerous. It was a howl, a roar, as he fought for some semblance of control. Control over himself.

"You won't do anything, Snivellus. You went to Dumbledore to save her, didn't you. And you never looked back. Only thing that saved your wreck of a soul. You couldn't do it now. Dumbledore has changed you...you wouldn't dare start up again with me...It would make you think of Emory or of Potter..."

This was too much. She'd penetrated too deep somehow, violated parts of his past that no one should ever have known.

"Who told you that?" He slammed her harder against the solid oak, books raining down around them, punctuating the question with the crash of paper and tile. "Who the hell are you working for?"

His wand was convulsing, forcing the words from her throat in strangled half-whispers. "Go. To. Hell."

His voice was stretched to tight to sound. Legilmency was no good: he was too damn scattered. He could barely keep his eyes still from the rage.

Tear her open, Severus. Rip her open, like she did you. Rip, tear, rend...

He settled, in the seizure of sadism, for tearing from her the one answer he could.

The Muggle sleeve ripped, easy, with a tiny scream of stitches up her arm, exposing the pale cream of bare, unmarked skin beneath.

Almost unmarked. For, in the sea of pure white, faint pink stared back, warped but crisp, every ugly line a mirror of what he'd seen, skull and half-buried snake mocking his anger.

The flash overtook him, tumbled and mixed with everything she'd hurled back into the light. Mum and Lily and Potter and Malfoy and Father and Black and Emory and

Voldemort.

Voldemort surfaced between them all, looked back at him through all those eyes.

He threw her away, sickening jolt shaking his bones again, his mind swimming--no drowning in those warped, buried faces.

"Get out! Out!"

The path to the door twisted, turned over. She's in your mind, Severus. She must be. There was nothing else to do but tumble along--get out. Run, Snivellus, run. If he opened his mouth, even for a second, he would do something--something Unforgivable. He'd lost all sense of time and place, entombed by white rage and that Mark and that face--her face, his eyes--damn.

The locks, the knob were ice under his skin.

Slimy Snape, Slimy Snape, he can't get a single date--

Damnit. Damnit.

Slimy Snape, Slimy Snape, his mother must've screwed a snake...Slimy Snape, Slimy--

"Snape!"

The raw vertigo of his brain was suddenly achingly physical.

Bloody hell. She'd thrown something at him. She'd hurled a bloody book at the back of his head.

He was almost grateful for the blow: it had banished the memories, the voices, the upended flood of fury.

"There's your answer, you cunt," she hissed. She purred. "Now leave me damn well alone."

Slam.

Click. Click. Click.

That silence again. Vacuum of silence.

Answer, she'd said. Answer. That's what he'd wanted, somewhere, before it had all disappeared into wrath and reminiscence.

He leaned down and cradled the book--the missile--in his still trembling hands.

Mapping Time: Advanced Studies in the Art of--

He paused as his overheated brain clicked, all at once, into gear.

Cartomancy.

Bloody hell. Bloody fucking hell.

The Occlumency. Her expectance of their call. The knowledge of events in the wizarding world. Her intimate knowledge of his--

Divination.

The bitch was a Seer.

Barely gripped in his loosening fingers, a single leaf of parchment drifted, with mocking gentleness, to the ground.

He didn't need to lean down to see it clearly.

Covered in scrawled pictures and symbols, he recognized the girl's looped handwriting. And, atop a carefully sketched diagram of cards and planets, the words glared at him, up through the silence.

Severus Selenius Snape.

Repeat the lesson, Severus. Sometimes answers aren't all they're cracked up to be.

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

A/N: Sorry for the delay in this chapter: as you can see it's rather ambitious in length, and editing took a good long while.

Snape's middle name was shamelessly nicked from Ladyofthemasque's In Annulo.

I hope some questions were answered, some mysteries solved. More tastiness of that sort to come.

The next chapter will be a short one, back in the "present"--a sort of reliving of "The Lightning Struck Tower" from Snape's POV.

Please R/R! Thanks again to whitehound and wynnleaf!