Animalexus

Dumbledore watched Severus worriedly. The younger man was always on edge when he returned from one of Voldemort's calls, but at the moment he held every one of his muscles so taut that it seemed as though he would positively burst. His jaw was set, the joint at his temple prominent, and his eyes darted just slightly back and forth, constantly. He was also coming very close to rambling, which was perhaps the most obvious indication that something was wrong, coming as it did from a man well-known for keeping his words to an (albeit scathing) minimum.

"...very serious problem, Albus, very serious. He has blown this far out of proportion--you know how he can be--this is an obsession now, an obsession. That girl is the one thing first and foremost on his mind, and this matter is not going to simply fade away. Merlin, I haven't even heard the name 'Harry Potter' come out of his mouth in weeks." He stared at a point in space a meter or so to the left of Dumbledore's face, and suddenly slammed his fist down on the table next to him. "Damnit!" In a display of undirected wandless magic most often associated with a young wizard under duress, one of the smaller of the silver instruments on Dumbledore's shelves shattered, the shards falling musically on top of one another. Even Fawkes, who often chose to sit near Severus at these sorts of meetings, had retreated to his perch behind Dumbledore's desk and huddled there, his head beneath his wing.

"Severus," the Headmaster began, working to find that calm-yet-concerned tone that he knew the man sometimes respond to, "You must take a step back from this for a moment. You simply cannot hope to think clearly in such a state."

The Potions Master's dark eyes flared, and for that instant he looked far more like the furious boy Dumbledore remembered from years ago and less like the man who had worked long and hard to concentrate and barricade his emotions. And then it was gone, hidden again behind a countenance that gave away nothing and could suggest anything. "Albus," he said, using his softest and most highly controlled tone, "I have just spent two hours watching several of my...colleagues...torture an eight-year-old to death because her father was unable, within that time, provide the Dark Lord with a means to remotely fell Hogwarts' wards and enable him to secure the return of Miss Llewellur."

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a long few seconds. He'd seen so much, heard so much more from Severus, and yet his stomach still turned at every report of this kind. "Who was it?" The man would be dead of course, after a failure like that, though Dumbledore allowed himself some grim satisfaction that the wards around the school had proved to be as strong as intended.

Severus shook his head. "I didn't recognize the name...Reylock, I believe it was. An employee of the Ministry's magical defense department."

Dumbledore searched his memory, finally came up with an image of the black-haired Keeper who had helped Hufflepuff win more Quidditch games during his seventh year than they had in any single year in decades. It was both a blessing and a curse, he supposed, this propensity to call up names as teenage faces. Every victim of murder, every perpetrator of same, was known to Dumbledore as a young man or woman, an adolescent. He used to like to think that the witches and wizards who left this school still had every potential for the good and positive, that their destinies were theirs for the choosing. Sometimes, though, a student reminded him otherwise. Severus had been one of those, so set in his bitterness and determination to provide for himself even at the young age of eleven, that it seemed--though tragic--ultimately impossible that his life could have taken any path other than the dark and twisted one it did.

Severus now sat patiently in the chair opposite. Though, Dumbledore corrected, perhaps it would be more accurate to say he sat waiting, if not necessarily patiently. He had his wand in his hands and turned it absently between his fingers. It was a nervous habit he'd never exhibited before he became a DeathEater, and Dumbledore hadn't been able to help but notice that it was always his second wand he held at these moments, the Gypsy wand with the tiny yet intricate carving at the hilt, the wand that had aided in committing only-Severus-knew-how-many terrible crimes.

"We cannot do nothing, Albus."

The Headmaster looked up sharply. "And suppose that is precisely what we do, Severus? Nothing?"

The corner of the younger man's mouth turned upwards slightly in a dangerous sort of smirk. "The Dark Lord seemed to think that might be your first choice. He...suggested...that I find a way to convince you that action on the matter would be in your best interests."

Dumbledore folded his hands in front of him, raised his chin, allowing himself to feel just the slightest bit of irritation that Voldemort--that Tom Riddle--thought he could bully Albus Dumbledore. "And just what does he propose to threaten me with?"

Severus held the Headmaster's gaze easily. "Near as I was able to gather: my bloody, broken, and most definitely dead body, displayed rather prominently outside Hogwarts' front gates."

Dumbledore's throat constricted sharply. "I see," he managed. He leaned forward and grabbed a fistful of sherbet lemons from the dish on the table and put them all into his mouth. Poppy could say what she would; he was quite certain the candies had medicinal properties and no one would convince him otherwise. Severus watched complacently, seemingly unconcerned that he'd just described his own excruciating end, but Dumbledore knew him well enough to be quite aware that the fact that he didn't wear his heart on his sleeve did not mean that he had none. And the Headmaster himself was all too aware of the implications of this threat; it was disheartening to think that Voldemort realized how much Severus meant to Dumbledore. Bloody hell. They'd worked too long to let this all end this way, and yet how had he expected it would end? He never should have sent Severus back to the DeathEaters after the Triwizard Tournament. There was too much to explain away, too many stories to keep straight, too many 'coincidences' to attempt to rationalize. Even a master of Occlumency couldn't hope to hide it all.

And yet Albus couldn't simply give up Marie, could he? She, after all, was an absolute innocent. She'd suffered enough for one lifetime, and as Severus had pointed out several times, Voldemort would be sure to extract penance from her for her escape. He couldn't condemn anyone to that, not after all she'd done to get here, after all the effort Ayeforth and Sanja had put forth to keep her from such pain. But Severus was a member of the Order, was of use to the Order. And he had worked, and continued to work, towards his own atonement. Dumbledore could hardly let him be cast to the wolves, either.

He stood and paced once around his desk before looking back to Severus. "Can you delay on this?"

The Potions Master was standing, too, his wand once again out of sight. "You have to make a choice, Albus." He narrowed his eyes. "Sir."

Dumbledore felt his own hands clench into fists, relax. "Just until the end of term, Severus. Just delay until after the Ball."

"This isn't--"

"Can you bloody well do it or not?"

Severus didn't even flinch at the Headmaster's uncharacteristic outburst. Just as Dumbledore had witnessed Severus at his worst and lowest, so had the younger man seen Albus himself at his own despondent moments.

Now, Severus simply straightened, squared his jaw, visibly withheld whatever scathing reply was obviously on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he lowered his voice and said, "I can try."

***

As she'd anticipated, exam week was slow for Marie. Few students came to the stables for lessons--too busy either studying or planning a way to cheat, Marie assumed--and she was left with hours of free time she'd grown unused to. She hadn't seen Snape since the night last week when she'd had her outburst. He hadn't come back to her apartment, and she certainly hadn't bothered to seek him out.

So instead of using her leisure time to practice any of the curses and defenses Snape had taught her--would they really help her, anyway?--she saddled up Mash and headed out across the grounds for a hack. It was overcast, but the air was still and cold, so she had spread an exercise rug over Mash's hindquarters, and she wore her old cloak over her own coat. Marie held the reins in only one hand, loosely, letting Mash pick his own way over the grounds. He already knew her preferences, though, and had started immediately towards the nearly-always-empty far side of the grounds.

"Quiet around here," Mash said, conversationally. He let a pause hang in the air for a long few seconds before continuing. "Of course, exam week is always like this. I think the Sevenths especially are worried this year. The wizarding job market isn't in the best shape these days, and I'm told the good jobs are quite hard to come by. I did hear that the Ministry is planning to hire more Aurors this year, though, which is definitely a good thing, seeing as there are so many students hoping to join the force these days. Of course, any Ministry job is quite sought-after, really, but most of them still require an apprenticeship first, and those are scarcer and scarcer. I did hear tell that one of the Quidditch teams is looking at recruiting one or two of this years' class, though I don't know who, for certain..."

Marie didn't answer, didn't even really listen. Instead, she kept her eyes on the edge of the Forest, just a few yards away. In the feeble light of the day, the tangle of trees looked even darker than usual, an inky black highlighted by leaves the color of tarnished silver. The barrier between the Forest and the edge of the meadow she and Mash were crossing seemed perfectly solid, bleak, and most of all, utterly impenetrable. Which it essentially was, for her, of course. She could never leave here.

It seemed that Mash had finally noticed her wandering attention. "Marie?"

"What?"

"Tell me what you were going to do."

She shifted her gaze away from the Forest, looked down at Mash. Even that scene seemed monochromatic: gray horse, white numnuh, black saddle and reins, black coat sleeves, black gloves. "What are you talking about?"

"What were you going to do? In your life. You'd finished school."

She shortened the reins but didn't ask Mash to stop. "How do you know that?"

His ears flopped out slightly to the side before turning back towards her again. "I just heard it somewhere."

She waited to see if he'd choose to elaborate, and when he didn't, she muttered, "Yeah, well, it's not important what my plans were, is it? Not like they're ever going to play out."

Marie turned back to the Forest and was therefore caught off-guard when Mash abruptly came to a halt. "I just thought you might want to--"

"Yeah, and I don't, all right?"

The big horse turned his head to the side so he could watch Marie with at least one eye. She refused to look back. "You know, Marie, when I first came here to Hogwarts--"

"Mash," she snapped, "Whatever your demons were, mine are a hell of a lot worse, all right?"

He looked more annoyed than cowed, but at least, Marie thought, he didn't deny it. Instead, he turned forwards again and set off at a very deliberate, almost sulking walk, his hooves hitting the ground with more force than necessary at each step.

Almost as though determined to prove Marie's point of moments earlier, the falcon she'd spotted several times over the past few weeks circled sharply above her head, disappearing again on the far side of a low hill. It soared into view again a moment later, cutting through the air with a menacing ease and stillness.

"Hey," Marie called. "Hey, come back here!"

Mash launched into quick canter-cum-gallop without even being asked, and Marie kept one hand on his mane and her eyes towards the sky. The falcon was circling more tightly, but beyond that, it gave no sign of hearing or understanding her. She had to figure out what this was about, though; she couldn't just let it go again. She had no idea what she was planning to do about it, but she had to at least find out why it so often seemed to be watching her.

"Who are you? Why have you been following me?" The bird continued to ignore her, and disappeared back over the rise, but she and Mash were almost there themselves, just a little further... "Hey! What is it you want?"

"For Merlin's sake, girl, STOP HARASSING MY BIRD!"

Mash skidded to a stop, and Marie snapped her eyes back down to find Snape standing opposite, an imposing figure despite the fact that she was astride a large horse and he was not. He blended in well with the day's pall; only the muted silver and green Slytherin scarf around his neck offered even a hint of color. He wore a heavy black cloak that fell all the way to his heels, and his hair hung loose and lank, framing the scowl on his face miserably.

Before Marie had a chance to say anything, Snape put a gloved hand to his brow, shielding his eyes against the nonexistent sun, and peered up at the sky. "Blast it! You've sent her off her quarry, you inconsiderate, meddlesome little..." Marie didn't quite catch what insulting label he'd plastered on her, but the implication was clear when he spat, "...just like a goddamned Gryffindor!" Marie was still trying to wrap her mind around the connection between the bird she'd assumed was somehow evil and the man in front of her. He, for one, seemed perfectly content to ignore her. While she gaped, he conjured a red shred of meat and held it up, offering a thick-gloved hand. The falcon swooped out of the sky, landing heavily on his fist. She was smaller than Marie had thought. She turned her head and stared at Marie for a moment with sharp gold eyes before starting to tear at the meat.

"What are you doing here?" Marie finally managed.

Snape very deliberately, very slowly raised his head and turned his attention back to her. She almost wished he hadn't when those hard, dark eyes met hers. When he spoke, it was in that cold, patient-to-the-extreme tone he seemed to so often rely on. "As should be obvious even to the most idiotic of persons, Miss Llewellur--which, incidentally, up until this point I did not consider you to be--I am hunting my bird."

"She belongs to you?"

Snape cocked his head very slightly. "Perhaps I have been overgenerous in my assessment of your intelligence, Miss Llewellur."

"No, it's just--I thought--" Marie broke off. What was she supposed to say? That she thought the bird belonged to someone dangerous? That it belonged to a DeathEater? Marie hadn't grown relaxed enough around Snape to believe Dumbledore's assertions that Snape was neither of those things. "That is, I didn't--"

"Enough!"

*

The girl was stuttering through every sentence she uttered, all for no apparent reason. Snape knew quite well that Marie was, in fact, very intelligent--too much so for her own good, on occasion--but at the moment she was behaving in as pathetic a manner as even the most feeble-minded Hufflepuff. All this coddling from the Headmaster was doing her no favors.

"Pull yourself together," he growled, shifting his gaze to Nimue so he wouldn't have to watch Marie. He had been pleased to see that his bird hadn't bothered to reply to the girl's screeching; he'd always suspected that sort of behavior would be beneath her dignity. That was the best thing about falcons. Well, that and their price. Owls were expensive, and he'd never been able to afford one while he was at school here; a raptor, on the other hand, could be trapped in any number of places--say, the Forbidden Forest--and only stayed with a person if they so chose. Severus Snape was rightfully not considered an animal lover by most, but he had maintained a falcon ever since his first year at Hogwarts. He'd always been tempted to name one of them 'Merlin', but as all hunters--and therefore all of his birds--were nearly always female, he'd finally settled for 'Nimue'.

Snape kept his attention on Nimue as long as he could, but it became obvious that Marie was not going to take the hint and leave; subtlety, it seemed, was not her strong point. Her presence was most unwelcome; rare were the occasions on which he was free to come out here and hunt without having to explain himself to colleagues or insolent students. Besides, Marie was very nearly the last person he cared to see right now--not with the memory of the Dark Lord's proceedings of the night prior still fresh in his mind--and yet here she was, in front of him, showing no indication of intending to move along. He sighed and looked back to her. "Miss Llewellur, what are you still doing here?"

That, for some reason, shocked her into indignance. "I have every bit as much of a right to be here as you do, and you--"

Snape held up his free hand and winced inwardly. He'd never noticed how shrill her voice could be; it was enough to make a man long for the days when she'd been afraid to utter more than a handful of words at a time, and barely above a whisper at that. "Miss Llewellur," he purred, "I merely mean to point out that you made it...abundantly clear several evenings ago that I am not someone you care to see, let alone converse with. As such, I fail to understand why you insist on remaining here when I am quite certain that beast you are riding is more than capable of carrying you away. Quickly." Snape briefly considered adding that the 'beast' she was riding was, in fact, his horse, at least according to the ownership papers. Hell, she'd probably never ride the thing again, never mind talk to it. But he restrained himself, less because he cared to protect her blissful ignorance and more because it felt like something of a lie. He was--technically--Rinnamash's owner, yes, but he only very, very rarely set foot in the stables, and he most certainly did not ride. The acquisition was many years distant, and he'd only purchased the creature because the sight of that skinny, bloodied horse had sickened him in a way nothing else had in those days.

"Of course," Marie muttered now. She picked up her reins and tugged on the left one, turning the horse away. "Sorry to intrude."

She looked different from behind. Younger. Her hair was down, that was it. Loose, not bound up in that too-professional plait as it had been since she arrived here. A dark red-brown wave, the only splash of life in a colorless landscape.

"Miss Llewellur," Snape called, pleased in some part of himself to notice that his tone was just as commanding here as it was in the classroom; Marie halted her horse immediately. She didn't turn, though.

"Yes?" The word came out tersely, as though it had been forced from between clenched teeth.

"Should you care to resume your...studies...my evenings are still free."

She sat very still up on the horse, her spine perfectly erect, her outline not even relaxing with her breath. And then the tableau was broken as she lifted one hand and ran it back through her hair, shaking it out behind her.

"I should like that."