Animalexus

Some days, Snape wasn't convinced that teaching potions to a classful of dunderheads was, in fact, less hazardous than playing double agent for Dumbledore. Today, for instance. Six cauldrons exploded in the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw first-year class alone--all Hufflepuff, of course--and another three in the Slytherin-Gryffindor sevenths. Thus far.

"Mr. Longbottom, if you wish to live to see your afternoon Herbology class, I would suggest that you put down that phial and not add its contents to your undoubtedly already-unsalvageable 'potion'." Neville winced and haltingly set the glass container back onto the tabletop. He glanced sideways at his cauldron, which was belching orangeish bubbles every few moments. The boy was hopeless--God knows how he'd scored well enough on his exams to make it into this class--and his failures today only confirmed the fact for the thousandth time. His usual savior, Hermione Granger, was absent today--a startling development in and of itself; she was hardly the sort to miss class. Snape remembered that Minerva had mentioned asking Granger to serve as a guide for Marie Llewellur. God help her, Snape thought. After spending hours with that insufferable know-it-all, the girl's going to regret the day she ever stepped into that fireplace after saying 'Hogwarts'.

He'd seen them earlier, from a window near the Great Hall. Granger had been chattering on, of course, pointing at this and that and no doubt explaining in great detail the origin of every aspect of Hogwarts and its grounds. Snape recognized the look on Marie's face--he'd seen it on hundreds of faces in his classes--and knew she hadn't been paying terribly close attention. She'd still been wearing that cloak, the one Lucius had given her some time back--or to be more accurate, tossed at her in disgust. The silver clasp had glinted even in the overcast light, and Snape had to wonder why she hadn't thrown the thing away at the first opportunity. It had been a good cloak once, had probably done a serviceable job of keeping her warm in the Dark Lord's dungeons, but she'd worn it every day for two years, and the thing had turned rather threadbare. He wondered too if Marie knew that the silver-lined black fabric was more than an ostentatious touch of Lucius'; the colors tagged the garment as a DeathEater's.

Snape jerked his attention back to his class. 'Constant vigilance', as the eternally irritating Alastor Moody would say, was imperative when combining Gryffindors with a potions classroom.

"Mr. Potter," he snapped, slamming his palms down on the table, mere millimeters in front of the boy's face. "Might it be too much to ask that you focus on the task at hand?" Another marvel that Harry Potter had also made it into the advanced class. Snape was well aware that he was only taking it because he had aspirations of being an Auror and the course was in the suggested plan of study, but the boy was in genuine danger of failing, and that was simply unacceptable. Snape prided himself on being able to pull even the most unskilled student through a class and bring him up to at least a minimally-qualified level.

"Sorry, sir." The apology was less than half-hearted, and Snape saw Potter slip a narrow roll of parchment inside his robes. Notes for his beloved DADA class, almost certainly. Snape stood over Potter's desk and glared for a few moments more, pleased to see that the boy still withered under his stare, if only slightly. Yes, Harry Potter was special, he could admit that. Important. One of a kind. But the endless coddling he'd received had caused him to develop an astoundingly irritating arrogance. And he frequently wallowed in self-pity, and that, too, lowered him immensely in Snape's eyes. There were two paths in life: a person could take what life dealt and work with it, or he could die. Simple.

***

Dumbeldore's office was empty when Marie reached the top of the spiraling staircase. She'd expected to be stranded downstairs in the corridor, as she had no password, but the door had opened for her nearly as soon as she stepped in front of it. Now, though, she was alone in the big room. No headmaster, no Fawkes, even the portraits were gone, the frames surrounding empty backgrounds.

Marie's face was still flushed in anger at Hermione's comments. She stalked furiously around the office, glaring hard at everything her eyes fell on. Her third trip around, she'd calmed enough to actually take some notice of what she was seeing. The shelves were full of books, but most had no titles on the spines, and Marie was wary of touching any kind of wizarding book without knowing precisely what it was. There were a number of instruments and objects lining the shelves in front of the books, but none of them were familiar. Several looked breakable, and Marie was tempted to throw something just to hear it shatter, but she was afraid to touch these, too. She tugged nervously at a strand of hair that had come loose from her plait, suddenly all too aware of how little she knew about this world she'd been pulled into. She was sick of things moving on their own, inanimate objects doing things they had no business doing, sick of people being able to force their ways into her mind, force her into doing things she had no desire to do. There was immense power in this world, and she couldn't access any but her tiny corner of it.

Her eyes fell on a heap of fabric on Dumbledore's desk. Marie knew about the Sorting Hat, knew what it did, and she wasn't naïve enough to believe that it was coincidence that the hat was laid out plainly on the table just as she was left alone in this office. Marie had half a mind to stubbornly ignore the thing, if only to let the old man know that she wasn't manipulated as easily as that, but no sooner had she sat down in one of the chairs near the fireplace than she let her curiosity get the better of her and she stood up again, went to the desk.

After all, she was a witch, wasn't she? She was an Animalexus, and she was fairly certain the latter wasn't possible without the former. Besides, she'd felt her own magic, now and then. Sometimes she was sure that if she had a wand, she could point it at one of the DeathEaters--Malfoy, maybe--and with the right words, make him scream. It didn't explain why she'd never been invited to attend Hogwarts, but she had to be a witch. Anyway, she was at Hogwarts now, and Houses seemed to be a vital part of a wizard's identity.

Marie picked up the limp hat and turned it over in her hands. Totally unimpressive. A bit ratty, even. She hesitated just another second, then placed it carefully onher head, half-expecting nothing to happen.

"Oh my," she heard, in her head. Or was it out loud? She didn't wait long enough to find out, snatched the thing off her head and dropped it. She knew what it was like to have something inside your head like that, digging around in your thoughts, and she didn't need more of that.

Again, though, curiosity succeeded in getting the better of her--if she were an Animagus, she decided, she'd have to be a cat--and she gingerly let the Hat settle back over her ears.

"My goodness, child, I'm far too old to be thrown about like that. Nothing to be afraid of, I assure you. Let's see...ah, yes, a Llewellur...it's been some time...ah, and should have been much sooner. Interesting." Marie stood rigidly still, clenching her teeth against the voice in her head, reminding herself that she'd only have to put up with it for a few minutes more. It was a mantra she'd recited many times over the past years. Just a few minutes more. "Hmm," the Hat continued, "I don't think I've had one so difficult in decades. Let's see...should have been a snap decision, with a mind like this one. I would have said Ravenclaw, and I wouldn't have had to think about it for more than half a second. But there's so much else here, too, and it can't be disregarded. Bravery, certainly, a Gryffindor trait, as a rule...that's not right, though. And Hufflepuff is absolutely out of the question, isn't it? Your loyalty is only to yourself. And only right, too, since that's what's kept you alive. After all, survival hasn't been a foregone conclusion for you. You might even say it's ambitious of you to even try. And I think this incident yesterday has proven that you'll do whatever it takes." Oh, Christ. It was going to-- "Yes, my dear, it would be a crime to put you anywhere but...Slytherin." The hat whispered this last word aloud.

Marie opened her eyes, and half-expected to find Dumbledore watching her, that benign sparkle in his eyes. Instead, she saw Snape, managing to look both rigidly upright and dangerously at ease in one of the high-backed chairs opposite the desk. His elbows were settled on the armrests, his fingers steepled together, shielding the lower half of his face. He arched an eyebrow when Marie saw him, raised his head. "Interesting," he murmered, drawing the word out far longer than necessary. Marie could see his lower row of teeth when he spoke, a line of slick not-quite-white glints.

Marie backpedaled slightly, bumping into the very solid desk behind her. "What are you--I mean, I'm waiting for--I don't think--"

"Please spare me the stuttering." Snape paused to tug at the cuff of one of his sleeves.

Marie dropped the Hat onto the desk. "I think it made a mistake."

Snape wore an expression of grim satisfaction. "Oh no, Miss Llewellur," he purred, "The Sorting Hat doesn't make mistakes. And you do realize that if you honestly want so badly to not be in a certain House, it will not put you there."

Marie certainly didn't want to dwell on the implications of that little bit of information.

"You are not a student," Snape continued, "And therefore, as Head of Slytherin House, I consider this...declaration...utterly irrelevant. I suggest you regard it as same. Besides," he added, black eyes glittering, "I very much doubt that you would willingly take up residence in the dungeons."

*

Dumbledore burst in through the main door at that moment, sparing Marie having to try to reply to Snape. The old man smiled when he saw her, the cheer tempered by a definite worry in the man's blue eyes. "Good afternoon, my dear, I trust your day has gone well so far?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Severus, good afternoon." Snape rose halfway out of his seat. He noticed Marie shoot a glance towards the desk. The Sorting Hat lay there, absolutely still and absolutely silent.

"Plenty of perfectly good wizards come out of Slytherin House, Marie," the Headmaster said, softly.

Snape rolled his eyes. How many times had he heard this speech? He had a hard time thinking of any 'perfectly good wizards' to have come out of Slytherin House. Many Dark wizards, yes. And yes, there were also many who chose the opposite path. But because of their close association with the other Slytherins, they were often the first to become victims. Snape had a difficult time believing that one could be a 'perfectly good wizard' if one was dead. The opposite of Dumbledore's statement was certainly true: Dark wizards came from all Houses. There were more than a few Ravenclaws, a few Hufflepuffs--they were valued by the Dark Lord for their intense loyalty--and, loathe though the Headmaster would be to admit it, a fair number of Gryffindors as well. Hogwarts House didn't mean everything.

Marie didn't even seem to be listening. She frowned. "If it put me in--" she began, finally. "That is, my parents--I'm not a Muggleborn?"

The Headmaster shook his head. "No, my dear, your parents--"

"You're a pureblood," Snape interrupted, sliding the words easily into the conversation. Albus pursed his lips, but Snape ignored him. "The Llewellurs are one of the oldest families in the wizarding world."

"And one of the best," the Headmaster offered. "Your--"

Marie turned to Snape though, nearly snarled at him. "I'm a pureblood and the Dark Lord treats me like this?"

"Blood isn't everything, Miss Llewellur," he replied, in a low tone. Bloody hell, if anyone knew that it was him. The Snapes were one of the oldest families in the wizarding world, too, and his Hogwarts letter had arrived addressed to: Severus S. Snape III, The Small Bedroom, The Flat Over the Apothecary, Knockturn Alley. Blood didn't necessarily get you money, respect, or, as Miss Llewellur was learning, good standing with the rest of the pureblood world. "Your parents made it quite clear where they stood in regard to the Dark Lord. You are simply paying for their convictions."

Dumbledore stepped gently but firmly between Marie and Snape, guided her to a chair. "As soon as your parents realized what you were, they went into hiding. They knew there were those who would exploit your talent. Even after Volde--I apologize, Marie--He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named fell, they feared his return. They broke off all ties with the wizarding world, buried themselves in Muggle life. They asked that we not send you the customary invitation to Hogwarts, and we respected their wishes. Even that one owl could have given you away."

"Yes, well... It appears something gave me away anyway, doesn't it?" She stared evenly back at Dumbledore, and Snape thought that he saw the old man almost flinch back. Not quite the typical damsel in distress you were expecting, is she, Albus? He certainly didn't blame Miss Llewellur for her attitude. He knew what she had to be thinking. Growing up in the wizarding world might have provided her at least some ammunition. She thought she might have been able to fight when he and the other DeathEaters had come for her; she thought she might have been able to save her parents, save herself.

She was wrong, of course, but Snape couldn't blame her for fantasizing.

"Headmaster," he said, quietly. "I do have afternoon classes. I presume you have asked me here for a purpose other than bearing witness to Miss Llewellur's temper tantrum?"

The older man studiously ignored Snape's rudeness. "I have indeed. I believe I have a solution to our problem."

"To which of our...myriad of problems are you referring, if I might inquire?"

"As you pointed out, Severus, Marie is too old to pass as a traditional student, and too inexperienced to be a professor. So, we shall give her another job."

"As what, exactly? Hogwart's Official Keeper of Shrill Outbursts?"

"Severus!" Dumbledore scowled. "Really, your manners are simply atrocious today."

Marie snorted.

"Marie will be our new stablemaster."

"I wasn't aware we had an old stablemaster," Snape drawled.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "Well, precisely. We have a good fifty horses down there. It's really more than Hagrid can handle, what with his other responsibilities, and I don't think we've had a riding instructor at the school for nearly a century."

"Indeed. And riding is such a valuable skill for a people with the ability to Apparate."

Marie shifted in her seat. "Um, if I could--"

"It'll never work." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, and Snape suppressed the urge to snarl. The Headmaster's perpetual calm always made him feel as though he were failing some sort of test. "As I explained to you yesterday, sir, the Dark Lord is very much aware that Miss Llewellur is here at Hogwarts. I believe," he stressed the word, "That thus far he has accepted my claims that you've hidden her away and I don't know where she is. Giving her a seat at the professor's table in the Great Hall is not going to lend my story great credibility."

Dumbledore raised one index finger. "Ah, but Severus, listen: yes, I have no doubt that Voldemort--" Marie flinched, and Snape did his best not to. "--will hear of the decision nearly as soon as we have made it. But, as you say, he already knows Marie is here. So it puts her in no additional danger. And it protects you as well, since even Voldemort cannot expect you to be able to kidnap a fellow member of the staff."

Snape wasn't nearly as confident of that as Dumbledore was. There were a great number of things that the Dark Lord expected him to do that seemed to defy reason or possibility.

Dumbledore turned to Marie. "I trust this is an acceptable arrangement?"

She nodded, though it seemed a rather helpless gesture to Snape. At least, he thought, she was aware of how terribly precarious her existence here was.

*

Dumbledore sat up, pleased. "Well, then. On to other matters. I've some guests with me, Marie, if that's all right...?" He didn't wait for a reply, simply looked to the main door, which swung open easily. Hermione burst into the room first, a flurry of black robes and uncontrolled brown hair. "Oh Marie I just wanted to apologize for what I said earlier I can be so bloody insensitive sometimes and I just wasn't thinking and I'm really really sorry and I hope you'll forgive me and I'd like to still be able to show you around and I want you to know I didn't mean anything by what I said and I--"

"It's okay," Marie interrupted, a desperate note entering her tone. She just wanted to make the girl shut up. She couldn't listen to her make such a fool of herself. "It's okay," she repeated, "I--I wasn't at my best either."

Hermione grinned, stuck out her hand. Marie reluctantly took it, and she heard Snape's voice behind her, a dry sotte voce, "Touching."

"And this is Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore announced, raising his voice to cover Snape's remark. He nodded to a wispy-haired man in plain--though rather old-fashioned--wizarding dress who stood still near the door, his arms loaded with dusty narrow boxes. "Mr. Ollivander, Marie Llewellur."

"Charmed," said the man in an appropriately somber tone. Marie wondered if the greeting was intended to be a pun.

"Mr. Ollivander is the best wandmaker in all of Britain. The world, most would agree." Dumbledore said this last with a meaningful glance at Snape, who was evidently not one of these 'most'. He gazed back coolly.

"A wand?"

"Of course, Marie. Every wizard or witch needs a wand."

She folded her arms, feeling just as cornered as she had when she'd realized Snape was in the room. "I can't--that is, I don't know how to--"

"Oh, nobody does at first, Marie," offered Hermione. "Don't worry about that. Everyone needs a wand."

"I don't think I should..."

"Nonsense." Dumbledore.

She gave up after that, submitted to Mr. Ollivander's measurements. In a matter of minutes he had placed a wand into her hands and yanked it back out only a moment later. He announced some of them, 'dragon heartstring, cherry, eight inches, rather swishy' or 'Phoenix feather, ash, twelve inches, whippy', and others he simply handed her without a word and then took away again. They felt the same to Marie, mostly, that same dull buzz she'd felt after she'd snatched Sythe's wand from his hand.

Ollivander rocked back on his heels, taking a few seconds rare pause. Twice he had her wave a wand, and twice she shattered one of the delicate-looking objects on Dumbledore's shelves.

Ollivander paused and eyed her carefully. Marie tried not to squirm under his scrutiny.

"Try this," he said at last, handing her a sturdy wand made of some dark wood.

This one felt different. This felt electric, intense.

The wandmaker smiled. "Yes, I daresay we've found one. That's a good wand for reactive magic. Shields, other defensive spells, and...er...dueling." Marie was fairly certain that was code for 'curses'. "Ten and three-quarter inches, inflexible, mahogany," he paused here and arched an eyebrow. "Shard of unicorn horn."

Snape's eyes darted to the older man, but Dumbledore and Hermione seemed surprised, too.

"A particularly potent ingredient," Ollivander continued. "Very rarely used as a wand component, and certainly not one of my usual cores. Only a handful of wands in the world like that one." He nodded towards her hand. "Extremely powerful. And not nearly so innocent as it might sound."

Marie could believe that. Snape was still watching her warily, his brow lowered intently. Dumbledore and Hermione had gotten past their initial surprise, and both were smiling. Marie gathered that finding your wand was supposed to be happy, was supposed to feel right. This felt right, yes, but dangerous. She'd never been taught any spells, and the ones she'd witnessed were rarely for good. This wand felt right in her hands because with it she felt like she could really hurt people. Hurt them terribly.