Rise From The Ashes

Chapter Three: Back to Hogwarts

Even at night, her first glimpse of the castle took her breath away. She had never seen anything so big before; the sheer magnitude of the structure kept her silent, but it was its gothic beauty that made her dizzy. She walked unsteadily, as if she were still blindfolded and bound at the wrists. Her mouth ached from hanging open so wide. She followed the strangely dressed people, and though they were talking quite loudly, she was oblivious to everything but the magnificence of the castle. She didn't say a word until they were right in front of what she would soon learn was the entrance to the Great Hall.

"This place is a school?" she blurted out. A few of the people around her chuckled.

"It certainly is," said the man who seemed to be their leader - Dumbledore was it? He smiled down at her, his blue eyes twinkling. "And for the next seven years, it will be your home. I believe we can arrange some summer accommodations in an area nearby." He paused for a moment, and she could tell he was contemplating something unpleasant.

"That is, of course, unless you would rather stay at the orphan - "

"No!" She shouted, yelling louder than she had the last time she had been beaten. "You can't send me back there, ever! I hate it, I hate it!" She realized she must sound hysterical, and took a deep breath. "I hate it," she repeated softly, but with no less urgency. "And they won't even let me stay. They'll just put me in another home."

He seemed satisfied with her answer, but there was a sadness in his eyes that she did not understand.

"You have not let an easy life, have you, child?" he said softly, and Florence flinched, as though something had been thrown at her. She had been the recipient of many emotions - chiefly anger, sometimes annoyance, and often outright hatred. These feelings she could understand, because she constantly carried them inside herself. But pity from someone was rare. And in her young life, being the object of someone's pity was the one thing she hated most of all. She made no distinction between pity and compassion.

"I've survived." She said quietly, but her eyes blazed up at him in silent defiance. His gave was kindly, but piercing, and she surprised herself by being the first to look away. She was used to saying whatever she must to survive, whether it was the truth or not, but she had a feeling she would fail if she tried to deceive to this man. She had learned to lie without blinking, and the realization that she might not be able to spin her usual tales frightened her a little.

"You must have a great deal of strength and determination. I think you will do very well here." It was the first time in her life she could remember feeling flattered, though she struggled not to show it. "Well, I think the first thing to do is to take to the hospital wing, and have you checked for illness and injury. It is probably best that you stay there overnight for observation, especially since the Sorting Ceremony won't be until tomorrow. I will explain in the morning," he said, in answer to her questioning look.

She was getting sleepy, and had only dim memories of their trek to the hospital wing. When she got there, an older woman with a careworn face asked her to disrobe for a medical examination. Too tired to argue, she complied, wincing as the bruises and scars on her body where exposed to the air. The woman behind her was silent and still for a long time. Florence was nearly nodding off, but was startled back to wakefulness when she finally spoke.

"My - my goodness. You poor child. Who did this to you?"

Pity again. Florence felt her face grow hot. Her thin lips curled in a scowl.

"No one," she said in a dull, flat voice. " I did it myself. I'm very clumsy. I fall down a lot."

Even though she could not see her face, she could tell the woman didn't believe her. Mercifully, however, she let the matter drop.

"Well," she said briskly, clearing her throat, "I should be able to heal most of this. A few scars may be left, but nothing too noticeable."

She then applied some balm over all the bruised, bleeding and scarred areas on Florence's body. She was amazed at how much better she immediately felt, and even more stunned to find that almost all of the ugly marks on her body had disappeared. Only two remained; the curved scar on her shoulder, and the cigarette burn on her arm.

"How -" she started to say but the woman shushed her. "Here, drink this," she said, holding out a small bottle. Florence took it hesitantly and sniffed. The odor was strange, but not unpleasant. Well, I guess she wouldn't heal me just to poison me, she thought as she but the bottle to her mouth. Bottoms up.

Immediately, she began to feel even sleepier than before. The thought crossed her mind that she had just been drugged, but she couldn't seem to make herself care; she was just too tired. The last thing she remembered was a terrific yawn. The next morning, when she woke up, she was surprised that this wondrous new place she was in hadn't melted away like a dream.

Dumbledore had explained a great deal to her that day, before the Sorting. She had been provided with all her school supplies, which she eagerly examined, and she had started reading the books right away; even though she had little real schooling, she was a prolific reader, and fairly devoured books when she could get her hands on them. Despite strong protests from the woman running the hospital wing, she was taken by a teacher to Diagon Alley to get a wand. Made of dragon heartstring and ash, it was twelve inches long, and surprisingly flexible. She still had it to this day.

Fingering her wand in her pocket, Florence smiled. She kept it in excellent condition. Dumbledore had paid for it. The first year, he had paid for everything, until Florence insisted on supporting herself, at least partially, by working over the summer. She found a job in Knockturn Alley. She grinned at the memory; she learned all sorts of interesting things on that little street. And she had been adamant on paying the Headmaster back in full when she finally had the means. She was grateful to him, but was very weary of charity, and did not like the thought of being in someone's debt, even someone as kind as Professor Dumbledore.

She had been sorted soon after she got her wand - into Slytherin, of course, along with.... No. She set her mouth in a determined line. She would not think about a silly little schoolgirl ... friendship, or whatever you wanted to call it. She had not come back to Hogwarts to dwell on the past; she had come to make herself a new future.

Although outwardly calm, Florence felt her pulse quicken as she approached the entrance to the castle. The sight of it still awed her a little, even after all these years. Inside, she was greeted by the Headmaster and the other professors, along with groundskeeper Hagrid and caretaker Filch. She shook hands warmly with all of them, especially Dumbledore and McGonagall, whom she knew fairly well from her own school years. That is, of course, until she got to Snape.

She paused awkwardly in front of him. His pallor was even sicklier than normal, and he looked very tired. Thanks to the privileged nature of her previous job, she was fairly certain as to why. She guessed that his return to the Death Eaters as a double agent had not been easy. It must have been difficult convincing Voldemort to accept him back into the fold.

Squelching any feelings of sympathy, she was careful to keep her voice even and neutral as she greeted him simply with "Hello."

"Professor Riordan," he nodded at her, but was careful avoided her gaze. This was probably the warmest welcome he had ever given a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, but this knowledge did not impress her. Almost everyone else had greeted her by her first name. Professor - so that's the way he wants to play it, is it? Fine then.

"Professor Snape," she said, with just a hint of disdain in her voice. They shook hands silently. As she had several times before, Florence reflected on how different their hands were; his were lean, with long, graceful fingers - a musician's hands, she had often thought, though she knew that he had never played an instrument. Hers, meanwhile, were small, with short, stubby fingers. However, they did not deter her from making potions as complex and difficult as she knew he could. It was one of several skills they had in common.

His hand was cold, and clammy to the touch.

When the silence that followed became uncomfortable, Florence attempted to smile, though for the life of her she couldn't fathom why. "It's - it's been a long time."

Again as if not trusting himself to speak, Snape merely nodded. He still had not managed to look her in the eyes. She felt an irrational but potent anger boiling up inside her. Perhaps it was silly, but she felt as though she had extended an olive branch. And Severus had snapped it in two.

"Well," she said, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of her voice, "apparently it hasn't been long enough." She stalked away from him and back to Dumbledore, doing her best to affect a pointedly more pleasant manner with him.

"Headmaster, if someone could show me to my room now, I'd be very grateful. I have a great deal to do before the start of the term."

"Of course," the Headmaster said, but she could see he had not missed the curt exchange between her and the Potions Master. For that matter, neither had anyone else. Professor McGonagall was looking awkward, clearly affected by the tension that had filled the room; it was an expression that did not suit her at all, Florence noticed. Meanwhile, chatty little Professor Flitwick was clearing his throat, apparently at a loss for words. Professor Sprout had suddenly become very interested in the floor. Bug-eyed Professor Trelawney was the only one who actually left, muttering something about the need to "cleanse my aura."

With effort, Florence pulled her attention away from the reactions of the other teachers and focused again on Dumbledore. "We will have the house-elves bring up your things," he was saying, "and I'm sure Professor - " his eyes flickered over to Snape, and Florence groaned inwardly. He was going to try to get her and Severus to interact pleasantly with each other. Impossible. She was very fond of Professor Dumbledore, but sometimes he took his peacemaking routine a little too far. He must have seen her expression however, and thought better of it. "One of the elves can also show you the way to your quarters in the Slytherin tower," he finished, much to her relief. She nodded and again, she made an almost painful effort to smile.

With that, the people milling about the entrance hall excused themselves and went their separate ways - rather quickly, Florence noted. She sensed rather than saw that Severus had not moved, but she ignored this. "Welcome back, Florence," Dumbledore said warmly. Then he too excused himself. No doubt, she thought, he had even more to do than anyone else to prepare for the start of the term.

They were the only two left in the room. She knew this, but did not turn to look at him. A moment later, an excitable little house-elf had arrived to show her to room.

"Dobby is being very honored to meet you, Professor Riordan," he squeaked, and bowed low. "He is hoping you likes it here as much as he does, and will show you to your room now."

Florence followed him silently. Why is it all house-elves always refer to themselves in the third person? She had learned many things in her years at Hogwarts, and later with the Ministry, but she had not yet managed to figure out this little puzzle. She was about to ask Dobby himself when his high-pitched voice intruded on her thoughts.

"Well, here we is, Miss Professor," he squeaked, seeming delighted that he had managed to guide her successfully. She opened the ornate door, carved in classic Slytherin style, and entered her new room.

Her eyes swept over everything, taking it all in with satisfaction. They had paid her very well at the Ministry, so her flat in London had been quite posh. She had taken a pay cut to teach at Hogwarts, but one look around told her the fringe benefits would more than make up for that. The décor, unsurprisingly, was silver and green, with the Slytherin snake blazed across the plush carpeting. There was a fireplace, two leather sitting chairs, and a highly polished oak desk. Her window had a view of the grounds, and the large, four-poster bed was heaped with pillows and soft blankets. Perfect.

"Is you needing anything else, Professor?" Dobby squeaked respectfully, after a moment of silence. Seeing that all her things had already been brought up, she shook her head, favoring him with a small but sincere smile. The agreeable little elf returned it with a toothy grin. "Then Dobby must be off - there is much work to do in the kitchens. Welcome to Hogwarts!" He bowed low again and then left her, scurrying off in the direction of the kitchens.

Florence shook her head slightly, trying to clear her mind of superfluous thoughts. "Well," she said out loud, doing the best to put Snape's coldness towards her out of her mind, "the first thing to do is unpack."

* * * * * *

Severus Snape was dreaming of her.

It was the sort of dream you might expect. There were thirteen again, both of them dressed in their school robes, and sitting together on the floor of the Slytherin common room. Everything seemed strangely stifled - the colors were washed out, sounds were muted, and images themselves were blurry. The only thing he could make out clearly was her face.

Her face was thirteen, but her eyes were much older, and they were drained of their vibrant color. He didn't like that. He was use to see her eyes spark with wickedness, shine in determination, or blaze with defiance. Even if she was sad, her eyes were always bright, alive and strong. He would rather she had been staring him down with pure black hatred. She was not supposed to look this way.

For what seemed to be a long time they just sat there, contemplating each other. Then she said something to him. Her voice was soft and expressionless.

"Show me."

"Show you what?" he heard himself ask, though he already had a pretty good idea what she was talking about.

"You know," she whispered fiercely, "You know what I mean."

He didn't want to. He was beginning to feel sick. But it was as if he was under the Imperious Curse. Slowly, he raised his arm and lifted his sleeve, exposing the Dark Mark, burned onto his arm.

She studied it for a moment, her pale face unreadable. Then she looked up at him, her expression becoming pained. "How could you?"

"Florence, I had no other reason to go on living, I -"

"No." Some of the color had come back to her eyes, but only in the form of rage.

She extended her own arm, the one with the cigarette burn, and lifted up the sleeve.

He gasped. Instead of the small, single burn on her otherwise unblemished skin, there seemed to be a whole series of them, joined together to form the letters which spelled out a single, ugly word:

Mudblood

She looked up at him again. "How could you do this to me?" she whispered, and he saw that she was crying. I've made her cry, he thought in shock, I've made her cry. But Florence never cries.

Snape's eyes flew open, and he sat up straight in bed, shaking. He knew what he needed to do. Quickly and quietly, he put on a robe, made his way to the nearest bathroom, and became violently ill.

It had been a long time since something unpleasant had affected him so strongly. In fact, he remembered the last time this happened all too well. It had happened not long after he had joined the Death Eaters.

He had learned of them through his schoolmate Lucius Malfoy, who was a year older than Snape and had always fancied himself to be something of a mentor. Truth be told, Snape was a far more powerful wizard than his "friend," but he had always been careful to hide that from the arrogant Lucius during their school years.

Like all the rest, Snape had been lured to the Death Eaters with glittering promises - promises of power, naturally, but there was more. Much more.

The Dark Lord always promised each of his followers something uniquely personal, something he knew they would not be able to resist. It was as though he lurked behind each of them, and had seen what they would have seen if they looked into the Mirror of Erised. He promised the resurrection of family and friends long gone, the power to change the past and own the future, the possession of abilities even the most skilled sorcerer could only dream of having - by the time Snape had joined up, the word was that some people had already had their ultimate wishes granted.

It still hurt to remember what his had been. He should have remembered what Dumbledore said so often: "No spell can wake the dead."

He felt weak, very weak. The last time he felt this way was the night after his first Muggle killing.

At first, being a Death Eater did not seem to entail much. He brewed potions, passed on information, attended a secret meeting or two - and he never had to see what part his actions played in the harming of innocents. But always, it loomed before him: Voldemort's loyalty test, which his fellow Death Eaters had dubbed "The Trial of Blood." After the Dark Mark was burned on one's arm, the person had a month to prepare before the Dark Lord would require them to perform the killing curse on a Muggle, or a Muggle-born witch or wizard.

Snape's victim had been a child. A little Muggle girl, who couldn't have been older than seven. He remembered her tiny, vulnerable form, her terrified blue eyes. He still dreamt of it, watched those eyes silently pleading with him. A flash of green light was all it took. She had died with her eyes wide open.

He felt sick again, but there was nothing left in him to vomit up. He remembered what Lucius Malfoy had said just after Snape had been through his "Trial."

"I know how you must feel, Severus," he had said clapping a hand on his

shoulder. "But just try not to think about. You get used to it after a while. I mean, my first time I -" for a moment, he looked as if he felt sick too, but he quickly recovered. "Well, I was a little shook up, but really, it does get easier you know. It gets easier each time you do it. You even come to enjoy it a little." His eyes were misting over. "You just have to remember, it's not really people you're killing. Not people at all. Just Muggle filth and Mudblood scum."

That was the night he decided to turn against them. He had gone to Dumbledore. At first, he was loathe to accept the spy role which the Headmaster proposed, but in time, he came to see it as a way atoning for his sins, though he knew deep down inside that nothing could make up for what he done. Dumbledore had helped him arrange things with the Ministry of Magic, and had defended him when Voldemort had finally been brought down. He had commended Snape, and had gently tried to prod him into forgiving himself.

Snape shook his head. It was almost funny, really, in a morbid sort of way. He had never been able to forgive anyone for anything. He couldn't forgive the only true friend he'd ever had, and he certainly couldn't forgive himself.

He made his way back to his bedchambers, where he quickly downed a sleeping potion. No more dreams tonight. But there was still tomorrow to face - and tomorrow, and tomorrow.... Why did she have to come back? He thought, even as sleep took him. If only that cocky bastard Potter had just let me die.

It was not the first time he had thought that. And it would not be the last.