Girl Most Likely

Girl Most Likely
by LizBee

Chapter Eight

Space, Harry told himself. Distance. Time. He glanced at Lilith, stiff, nervous and compelling, and looked away.

Space.

His dreams the last couple of nights had been filled with it: space between bodies, space between molecules.

Space between lips, compressing and expanding with words and kisses.

And behind it all, a dark whisper of Parseltongue.

He'd felt all but dead since Ginny had died. Even after his mind had re-engaged, his body remained unresponsive, and he liked it that way. The idea of anyone, anyone at all, taking her place was still abhorrent. Whatever his subconscious said. For the old responses to return now … Harry wasn't sure if it was a good thing, evidence that his depression was finally lifting, or proof that other things long-suppressed were stirring along with his sexuality.

After all, Lilith Borgin was only fifteen, for all she had seemed a woman of thirty in his dream. He'd lain awake in the humid darkness of recent mornings, staring out at the hazy sky and wondering what was happening. At least, he'd eventually convinced himself, the whispering vision in his dream was more Severus Snape made female than Lilith Borgin made adult.

You know you're having a bad time when harbouring a subconscious sexual desire for Snape is the better option.

The thought was only slightly amusing. Harry attempted to put the whole issue out of his head, avoiding Lilith and spending a day at the Tower. The triple-headed investigation - Borgin's activities, the attack on Diagon Alley and the protection of Lilith - absorbed his mind, and his long nocturnal flights absorbed his energy. But it seemed he wasn't going to be able to avoid the girl forever.

Michael's message had said that Lilith was "really, truly shit-scared", but whatever emotion she felt had been well and truly suppressed by the time Harry arrived. She turned to him as he entered the kitchen, and said, "They'll kill my father."

"Not a chance." Harry pulled the magazine out of her hands. The other Aurors were Apparating in around him. "Lisa, go down to the press offices and find out who placed this and when. Then find out whether this is in every newspaper, or just that one - and if so, why. Ron, take Dennis and Michael and reinforce all the wards around this house. Maybe around the entire neighbourhood. Enid, contact the British magical consulate in Paris and see if anyone has seen hide or hair of Snape since the last time we asked. Then send an owl to Remus Lupin, telling him that the urgency of the situation has just increased. Don't mention any names; he'll understand. Then, I need you to contact St Mungo's and check on the security around Mrs Figg."

This accomplished, Harry turned to Lilith. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." She licked her lips. "Concerned, perhaps."

Harry flipped through the magazine, pausing over a particularly detestable article about his relationship with the Borgin-Snape family.

"Charming, isn't it?" Marion said. Without waiting for orders, she had already begun brewing Guardian Potions, which would be hung by all the doors and windows, glowing green unless danger approached. "My flatmate was reading it this morning - I thought it was disgusting."

"I've seen worse," Harry said. He stared at the article, examining the by-line and turning the story over in his mind. "Listen, Marion, can you have this Phillida Gride checked out?"

"It's probably a pseudonym for one of their other journalists. These rags usually only hire a couple of people. They have considerably larger payrolls, of course."

"I'm just wondering if it's just coincidence that this appeared on the same day as the threat in the classifieds. If this is the only paper carrying the message to Lilith, the article might have been deliberately timed as a lure."

"I'll find out," Marion promised.

"Not too forcefully, please. We don't want to leave a trail of traumatised tabloid journalists in our wake today."

"I promise to be on my best behaviour, like the charming Hufflepuff my mother thinks I am." With a gentle smile, Marion ripped the head off a mandrake baby and threw it into her cauldron.

Harry stayed by Lilith's side that day. She was withdrawn and quiet, and he was glad when Enid pulled him away for a few minutes.

"Look, about that magazine," she said.

"Marion and Lisa are checking it out."

"No, I mean its coming into Lilith's hands." She sighed. "Look, I'm really sorry, Harry, but my niece brought it into the house."

"Along with herself, I presume."

"Yeah. I'm sorry - it was unprofessional and stupid. And I'm not convinced that this is really the high priority case you make it out to be, but I shouldn't have jeopardised it like that."

"It's no problem."

Enid stared at him. "I'm sorry? Harry, if this were my case, I'd have the offending party strung up by his balls-"

"Yeah, but I don't have that authority."

"Very funny."

"Might be a quick way to gain promotion, though."

Enid smiled thinly. "I didn't think you cared about rank these days. Or has that changed? I have wondered if this whole Lilith distraction was an elaborate scheme to get yourself promoted."

"It hasn't changed. I don't care about rank."

"Really."

Harry exhaled, checking to make sure that no one else was around to hear this discussion. "It's a lovely, Slytherin sort of notion, but it's a crock. I really don't care about my rank, Enid. Frankly, I don't even care about my job, most of the time."

"Then you have no right to be in it."

"Maybe not. But since you came to me to discuss your infraction - was that because you actually regret it, or because you didn't want me to hear about it from Lilith first?" She scowled, and he knew he'd scored, "I don't think this is your turn to criticise me."

Enid glared at him, and walked away.

Lilith remained silent throughout the day, refusing all attempts to draw her out. Harry was not scheduled to spend the night at the Snape residence, but he couldn't bring himself to return to his flat, and the ghosts within. He lingered in the house, even after his shift had ended.

Ron paused by his side as he prepared to leave.

"Going home?"

"Staying here."

"You're welcome to stay with me. Hermione won't be home 'til late."

"No. Thanks. I don't really want company."

Ron looked like he wanted to say more, and Harry braced himself for a repetition of the days following Ginny's death, when his friends had never left him alone. But whatever Ron was considering, it was rejected, and he left.

Harry made himself a cup of tea and wandered out to the living room. He passed Marion, on night watch, on his way, giving the younger Auror an approving nod as a signal that Harry wasn't here to usurp her position.

The bookshelves in Snape's study formed a whispering presence in the house, more prominent now that the building was almost silent. Harry ignored them and found himself a novel, but in the end, he switched off the lamp and brooded in the darkness.

Around one in the morning, a silent figure entered the room, moving towards Snape's study. Lilith froze as she saw Harry.

"Good evening, Lilith." She didn't move. In the dim green light of the Guardian Potions he could make out her features, and the Cheshire cat grinning on her thin printed t-shirt.

"I hadn't realised that you'd be staying back."

"And Marion rarely checks your father's study."

"I only read. I don't - I don't perform any of the spells."

"I don't doubt that."

She found a spare cushion and curled up on the floor beside his chair. "You don't seem particularly shocked or horrified."

"I figured it out a while ago. Anyway, I spent a lot of time in the Restricted Section when I was fifteen."

Her eyes glittered. "That was the year Aunt Arabella taught you, wasn't it?"

"If you can call it that."

"You didn't like her."

"Not at all. And it was mutual." Harry moved so he could see Lilith's face as he spoke. "She was a great teacher - brilliant, in fact. More intimidating than Lupin, but less than Moody - than Crouch, I mean. She could sit behind her desk, not even paying attention to her students, and we wouldn't be able to imagine looking at anything or anyone else. But she didn't like me … or at least, she didn't approve of me. Or maybe it was just an act. I could never figure her out, and she never bothered to explain it for the poor, dumb Gryffindor."

"Oh, so this is about being Slytherin, then?"

"That's … a simplification."

She looked up at him, seeking something in his face. "So it's not true, then, that you were almost sorted into Slytherin?"

He smiled thinly. "It's true. The Daily Prophet had a field day with that revelation."

"Rita Skeeter is a Ravenclaw."

"I never said that all Dark, ruthless or irritating witches and wizards are Slytherin."

"But all Slytherins are Dark."

"You said it, Lilith. Not me." He returned to his book, but she remained by his side. Eventually, he said, "I didn't hate her. Not really… But I was angry, that she'd known who and what I was, yet she had allowed the Dursleys to treat me the way they did. She had no right to show up in fifth year and tell me to buck up Potter, it was all for my own good." He stared into the darkness, unseeing. "It was one of the greatest betrayals of my life, to find that my family had lied to me for ten years about my parents and my magic. But they were Muggles … and Dursleys. They didn't know any better. Mrs Figg could have done more."

"I understand."

"I doubt it. But thank you."

Bitterly, she said, "I didn't know my mother was a Death Eater until I got to Hogwarts. And I didn't know about my father until Uncle Janus told me."

Harry shuddered at the image of a small girl being given all that unwanted information about her family. He, at least, had been fifteen when he'd discovered the full truth of his background, and that discussion with Dumbledore had been one of the most painful of his life.

I am going to tell you everything, Dumbledore had said, and in return, he demanded full honesty from Harry about his nocturnal visits to the Restricted Section.

"I remember," he said slowly, "that when I was eleven, I said I'd rather die than support Voldemort. And it stayed true, but oaths like that leave a lot of room for curious boys to read up on the Dark Arts."

"When I was young," Lilith said, "I hated the thought of it. Even reading about the Dark Arts in books, in fiction, made my skin crawl. I don't know when that changed… I can't remember."

Harry gave her a long look. "How old were you, the first time you visited the Restricted Section illegally, then?"

"Oh … twelve. Nearly thirteen. It was my third year."

"Just after your father became headmaster?"

"Yes. Around that time."

Harry held her gaze, but she volunteered no more information. She didn't need to: he knew enough.

It was around that time that she'd met her uncle.

Aware that his stare was making her uncomfortable, he said, "Play Quidditch at all?"

"Some. I'm on the house team, but only because the others want to please Dad. As though he'd want to see me fumble the Snitch at every match."

"You're Seeker?"

Her smile was mirthless. "I'm no Potter. I suppose that I'm not as bad as Dad thinks - we usually beat Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff - but Gryffindor is always that little bit better. No matter how hard I try, Leach is always ahead."

"That must be hard."

"Not that you'd know."

"I've lost games before."

"Yes, but you don't have to face your father afterwards. Let alone the rest of Slytherin House."

"Well, no. But you should have seen Angelina and Lee after I missed the Snitch in the European Cup. Not to mention the rest of England."

"What's it like?" she asked, her eyes gleaming, "what's it like to play professionally?"

Harry paused, wondering how he could sum up such an indescribable experience. A wave of memories assaulted him: the cool, smoky air around the Quidditch pitch, the sick feeling in his stomach mixing with the exhilaration of flying over thousands of people, all of them chanting his name… It had been 2000, two years after he defeated Voldemort, and he'd emerged from a deep depression to find that everything that Harry Potter touched would turn to gold.

He remembered the Snitch, moving in his hand as his friends surrounded him. Ginny kissed his cheek, and he'd found himself wishing for more, which was stupid, because they were friends, finally, and what kind of moron would ask for more…?

"Amazing," he said finally.

He'd expected a snort and a dry comment on his powers of expression, but she simply nodded.

"Yes. I imagine it would be."

"You don't want to try it for yourself?"

"Weren't you listening when I said I wasn't good enough to play for my house?" She smiled. "I'd rather write … though I'm not sure what. I'd hate to be in front of all those people. I'm not given to performing."

"Neither am I. But I seem to end up with an audience anyway."

"I don't know if you've noticed, Potter, but that's not a common problem. Price of heroism, I suppose. Should have thought of that before you defeated the Dark Lord." She looked up at him seriously, and said, "do you ever dream about it?"

"About performing? Well, I sometimes dream about trying to arrest someone, and realising that not only is my wand in my other cloak, but I'm in my underwear."

"I meant about the Dark Lord. He Who Must Not Be Named."

He stared at her, trying to see what she was hiding behind the question. "Sometimes," he said cautiously.

"I do. All the time. And of my mother. I can hear them calling me…"

"I dream about my parents, sometimes."

"This is different, I think."

Fear, Harry realised. That was what she was hiding. He rejected the urge to dismiss her out of hand, and said, "I don't know a great deal about Oneiromancy. It's a very hazy sort of affair, I think. A lot like Divination. Are you, um, do you have the Sight? Are you a Seer?"

"Hardly. I failed Divination and changed to Arithmancy after my third year. Professor Trelawney said that I was a 'difficult student'."

"Did she predict your death, too?"

"Every chance she got. But if you ask me, it was her way of controlling the important students. I heard she did it to Leach, too, in the Gryffindor classes. I'm the daughter of the Headmaster, he's the son of the Minister of Magic. You're the Boy Who Lived. Do you see the pattern?"

"Yes. It's rather brilliant, actually. I wonder if your father put her up to it?" She scowled, and Harry became serious again. "Look, I know nothing at all about Dream Magic, except that it can be induced by almost any kind of spell. Even Transfiguration, provided you know a bit about the human brain. And it might even be psychological, instead of magical." Quietly, he said, "I get the impression that you think about your mother a lot."

"Almost every day."

"And Voldemort?"

She flinched when he said the name. "Not … as such. But if I think of my mother, he's there … I can't separate them. Not since I found out what she was."

"I'll talk to someone," Harry promised. "Hermione, probably. With your permission. I'm having lunch with her tomorrow." Slowly, she nodded. "Go to bed, then. I'll be back tomorrow."

She rose to her feet. "Thank you."

"Any time," Harry said sincerely as she walked away.

A quiet cough in the doorway interrupted him.

"That was very good of you," Marion said.

"Just my job."

"Perhaps. But it's good to see you take an interest again. We've been worried about you, Harry. Even Enid, though she hates to show it."

"Um." Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know what to say."

"Just say thank you. And drink this." She handed him a mug. Harry sniffed it suspiciously. "It's milk, Harry. Laced with cinnamon and vanilla."

"Oh. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Drink that, and get yourself home. Honestly, you look like death warmed over. And you know how much I hate being the cuddly nurturing one."

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, be sensible. Take better care of yourself, stop sitting up moping until two in the morning, and don't make me worry about you."

Harry handed her the empty mug, already yawning. "What would we do without you, Marion?"

"Well for one thing, you'd have to brew a lot more potions. And since rumour is that you didn't even get a single NEWT for Potions, I think you should be nice to me."

"A dozen roses on your birthday, every year without fail."

"I'd prefer carnations, actually. And you could make a start by remembering my birthday. Oh, and Harry? This is a really good thing you're doing for Lilith."

"You make it sound like I'm doing her a favour." He blinked, then yawned again, much to Marion's evident amusement.

"I meant taking an interest. There's a kid that really needs someone to look after her for a bit. Even if she doesn't know it herself."

Harry considered that. "Yeah. You may be right."

"I'm always right. When will you learn that?"

Harry kissed her on the cheek, chuckling, and Disapparated. In his flat, he collapsed fully dressed on his bed and kicked off his shoes. After a few minutes, he made an attempt at removing his pants, but he was too sleepy to do anything more. He'd have to pass his compliments to Marion later … maybe recommend her recipe as a particularly tasty knock out drug … he'd tell her tomorrow … after he'd seen Hermione about Lilith and her dreams of Voldemort…

"He seems to lurk in the back of my thoughts."

Must be going around, then, eh Potter?

Harry finally lost consciousness, but Marion's brew did nothing to reduce the intensity of his dreams.

***

The young man fell into step beside him on the streets of Marseilles' magical quarter. Snape continued walking, making no move towards his wand.

"Professor Snape."

"Shadow. And what have you done with yourself since you finished school?"

The young man laughed, his sunny smile belying his sinister name. Snape glanced at the narrow doorway which, he knew, concealed the entrance to the local equivalent of Knockturn Alley. It would be empty at this time of day. There would be no witnesses.

"Oh, this and that," said Shadow. "My father tried to give me a job, but it didn't work out. You know how it goes."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'd always believed that the two of you would get along, if only he'd make the effort."

Would Shadow follow him, he wondered. It was so obviously an ambush…

"Too little, too late, I'm afraid. He never forgave me for being Sorted into Slytherin. Said I reminded him of his father."

"Gryffindors," Snape sniffed.

"But you - your success is legendary! Promoted to Headmaster, I heard."

Snape smiled slightly, and moved towards the doorway. "Three years ago, now."

Shadow followed. "Old McGonagall retired, eh?"

Severus gave him a disapproving look. "She did, yes. I believe she credited your antics for finally wearing her out."

"My antics? What about the Potters, or the Longbottoms, or that steady stream of Weasleys? Or - or you? It was a collaborative effort, Professor, and I only played a minor role."

Snape entered the deserted alleyway. A faint scent of blood tickled his nostrils. He paused to peer into a shop window, examining a pewter cauldron engraved with inscriptions in the magical Gaulish language. "I'll be sure to pass your comments on to her."

"Actually, sir, you won't. You won't live long-" Shadow broke off as Snape spun around, pressing his wand against his throat.

Snape moved forward, backing Shadow against a wall, and said, "You know, Mr Lux, the Ministry in England is very concerned about the lingering strength of the Dark Order in Europe. I'm sure they'll be relieved to hear that its current membership includes as astonishing array of incompetents, amateurs and dunderheads as I have ever seen." More quietly, he added, "your father will be disappointed to hear of this."

"I expect he knows already." Shadow smiled slightly. "You might want to keep an eye on your daughter, Professor. You may have a disappointment of your own one day."

Snape contemplated the array of Dark curses and minor hexes at his command. He could make Lux pay for that, pay for this whole sorry mess, yes, watch the boy suffer-

Ah, but he'd known Shadow since he was eleven.

And there was an element of truth, however much unwanted, in his words.

"Stupefy," he hissed. Shadow's eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell to the ground. His head hit the ground with a resounding crack. Snape smiled thinly, Transfigured the body into a glass vial and slipped it into his pocket. It clinked as it joined the others already collected.

He toyed with the idea of contacting Jean-Pierre, but rejected the idea. Jean-Pierre trusted him, to a point, but he was an Auror, and Snape had once been a Dark wizard. And some stains could never be completely washed away; he had not borne the Dark Mark for fifteen years, but the taint was still inside him.

to be continued