The Long Road to Damascus

THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS
by Morrighan



PART 6: Nocturnes II



4.

Tuesday December 9, 1980, 9.00 PM, Flybynight Broomstick Port, Toronto.

It had been an extremely long journey.

Pete Gudgeon dismounted his broomstick gratefully (if a little stiffly), and looked around him, trying to take in his unfamiliar surroundings: the long, wide landing strips that stretched out before and behind him, the multicoloured luminous windsock floating beside them, the noisy and bustling city below. The Flybynight Broomstick port had been established on the top of an unplottable tower on one of the islands overlooking the harbour, (ironically not far from its Muggle equivalent) and the lights of the city spread out to the north of them in a web of interlocking lines like the grids and contours of a living map.

"Sir!" A Broomstick Port official, dressed in royal blue robes covered in reflective stripes, waved him hastily away from the landing strip, and when he glanced up he saw another broomstick already coming in to land. He moved hurriedly out of its path, feeling dazed and somewhat bewildered by the sheer size of the city below him, wondering how he was ever going to find his way about.

The official ushered him towards the edge of the runways, where a small crowd of people stood in knots and groups, and he joined them uncertainly, scanning the crowds for a familiar face amid the strangers, almost sagging with relief when a small, smartly-dressed man darted between a group of gossipping witches and a security troll and came towards him, his face split by a wide grin.

"Pete! How are you?" The man shook his hand vigourously. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

It had been fully three years since Roy Weston, feature-writer for Toronto's wizarding newspaper, The Town Scryer, had stayed at Gudgeon's Westmorland hill farm while researching an article on rural wizardry in Britain. For some reason Weston, a city boy to the core, had retained a long affection for the Gudgeon family and their rustic ways and eccentric outlook on life. Why else, for instance, with a perfectly adequate Portkey service available, would anyone choose to fly from Appleby to Toronto?

It was an immeasurable relief to see a familiar face in this strange city and Gudgeon grinned widely. "Roy! How are you? Gladys and the kids send their love."

"I'm good. How was your trip?"

"Better than I expected, actually. I had the wind behind me for the first leg of the journey, so I've made good time. I expect I'll be a bit saddle-sore for a few days, though."

"Beats me how you guys can put yourselves through that sort of thing. Give me a nice safe Portkey any day, and no worries about cushioning charms or stray bristles. You need to find a bathroom before we go anywhere?"

Gudgeon laughed. "Oh no! Find me a cup of tea, and I'll be ready for anything."

* * * * *

The Flybynight's café was dimly-lit and dingy, a place where nobody would linger through choice. Gudgeon's tea was weak and lukewarm with far too much milk; Weston, very wisely, had ordered coffee instead, a drink which turned out to be merely bad, rather than appalling.

"Your first time in Toronto, isn't it?," he asked his guest. "So what do you think?"

Gudgeon smiled, his face still full of wonder. "I dunno - I've hardly had time to see any of it yet. I mean, it's all so big. Like London, but huge! Is it all like this? And where are the farms?"

Weston assured him that most of Canada was very different indeed to the Golden Horseshoe. Gudgeon, poor man, could not have looked more out of place in Toronto if he had tried. Wizarding fashions in Toronto favoured long shimmering robes of midnight blue or dark green or red, and Gudgeon, in waistcoat and knee-breeches and a long tweed cloak, might have stepped off another planet. "So how is the farm doing? Is Tom watching it for you?"

Tom was Pete's elder brother, and kept the next-door farm with his wife Edith and younger son Davey. "He said he'd keep an eye out for me. But it's quiet this time of year, and now our Hetty's old enough to mind the farm I can leave most things to her and Gladys for a bit. But I don't like to leave the farm for long, you know. Don't suppose I'd be here now if Dicky hadn't moved here. You remember Dicky, don't you? Tom's eldest lad."

"Of course I do! I've run into him several times since I've been here." He took his pipe out of his mouth and took a sip of the coffee. "He had a bit of trouble settling in at first, but he's really found his bearings now, especially after he switched positions to Keeper - you'd think he'd been doing it all his life. He's got quite a following now, especially among the witches."

"Well, so long as he's happy." Gudgeon suppressed a sigh. "What happened to the Appleby Arrows really knocked him for six, y'know. We was all very worried about him."

Weston looked a trifle awkward at this. "Ah, well. I, uh, never discovered quite what did happen. Dicky's doesn't mention it, and nobody likes to ask."

"No? Well, there's no secret about it. Dicky joined the Appleby Arrows straight from school, as a reserve player. They're based not so far from us, so he could still come back and help his dad and me come lambing time. He made the main team about four years later, about the time that the Arrows started winning the league. But that's by-the-bye." He took another sip of the tea and grimaced. "People drink this stuff here? S'pose they must do. Anyway, about a year ago, I don't know why but, ah, He Who Must Not Be Named started to take an interest in the team. Games started being sabotaged and one of the chasers was kidnapped, and a month later the Death Eaters stormed their headquarters just outside Appleby. Only two of the team survived: Tom's lad Dicky and a Chaser, Tarquin Boot."

Another sigh, another sip of the disgusting tea. "Boot's paralysed from the neck down now -- he'll never walk again, much less play Quidditch. How Dicky survived I'll never know, but he was in a pretty bad way. They'd tortured him -- a lot -- and then left him for dead."

"A bad business," Weston said softly. Gudgeon was staring unseeing down at his teacup, and it was a few seconds before he continued.

"Well, he made a full recovery, did Dicky, but he was never quite the same after. Went very quiet -- kinda withdrawn. We was hoping the transfer to Canada might take him out of his shell a bit. Change of scene, y'know. He was always such a chatty lad before it all went rotten. He and his brother Davey - they could talk for England, the pair of them."

A sullen-looking waitress with spiky ginger hair approached their table. "We're closing now," she said, in a bored, singsong voice.

Weston glanced towards Gudgeon. "Let's go," he said. "It's not so far to my place. There's an apparition point about twenty yards from my front door."

"Well ... could we bob round and see Dicky this evening, do you think? He's not expecting me 'til tomorrow, and I thought it would be a nice surprise for him."

Weston marvelled for a moment at Gudgeon's seemingly inexhaustible stamina. "Oh, it will be," he said. "He'll be delighted to see you, I'm sure."

* * * * *

"This is it. Savoy Yard, Sultan Street."

Sultan Street, and its fellow, Sultana Street, formed the heart of the Wizarding quarter of Toronto, and Savoy Yard proved to be a very smart address indeed. It was an ornate apartment block fifteen storeys high, the stonework wrought in Baroque arches and Corinthian columns. A thick iron portcullis was set in the arched gateway, and when Weston and Gudgeon approached it, it glided up silently to admit them. Gudgeon hung back, daunted, but Weston walked straight in, nodding casually to the goblin who stood, sentry-like, just beyond it.

"Roy Weston and Peter Gudgeon to see Dicky Gudgeon," he told it. "Is he in?"

"Certainly, sir. That'll be Number 12. Up one flight of stairs and third on the left."

They climbed the stone stairs and Weston led the way down the torch-lit corridor to an arched door at the end. A cast-iron number 12 was affixed to it, and it glowed blue when Weston pulled the bell rope which hung to the side of the door. The two men listened for a few seconds to the heavy footsteps on the other side of the door, and then it was opened.

The man who stood in the doorway was in his thirties, tall and muscular, though slightly less heavily built than Gudgeon. His hair and beard were dark brown; the eyes a bright sapphire blue.

Pete Gudgeon stepped forward eagerly and grabbed his arm. "Dicky!" he exclaimed affectionately, "How ye doing?" And then he stopped abruptly as his brain caught up with what his eyes were telling him. "Hang on! You're not -- "

"Obliviate."

The spell caught both men in its blast and they stood there slack-faced for a moment. But the first spell was followed by another. "Confundio," the man said carefully. He thought for a moment, his wand poised, and then began to speak softly to his companions. "I am Dicky Gudgeon. No doubt about my identity will occur to you at any point. If I do anything unusual or uncharacteristic you will not notice it or attribute any importance to it."

He lowered his wand and sighed. "Let's try that again, shall we?" he asked softly.

* * * * *

At least they had gone now.

The man calling himself 'Dicky Gudgeon' sank gratefully into a plush leather armchair and breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

It hadn't been his choice -- would never have been his choice -- but that was irrelevant. He was not in the habit of disobeying the Dark Lord. It was an honour, he supposed, in its way, a sign that he was trusted, and the least he could do was fulfill his duties well. After all, another few days and he'd be finished here. Back in England, and out of disguise.

As usual after a close shave his mind flew instinctively back to how it had all begun. That unexpected summons in the small hours of the morning to a bare hillside somewhere in Westmorland where his master had awaited him. He'd answered the summons as quickly as possible, slightly nervous because of the lateness of the hour. Summonses in the small hours usually indicated severe punishment.

But instead all he had found was the Dark Lord and three of his servants on the mountain, and with them a fourth man -- a prisoner. The Appleby Arrows Beater Dicky Gudgeon, unconscious and badly wounded.

They'd had him take the mask and hood off, and he had complied, well aware that such an order usually preceded execution. No such act had been forthcoming. They had merely stood there, watching him closely.

"You see?" one of them had said. "Almost identical. Put ten years on him and darken that ridiculous straw-coloured hair, and he'd fool almost anybody."

"Not so fast," the Dark Lord had said, and then proceeded to fire a string of questions at him.

"Our prisoner here -- do you recognise him?"

He'd nodded. "Dicky Gudgeon. Beater for the Appleby Arrows."

"Do you know him?"

"By reputation. I've seen him play."

"You play yourself, I believe. As Reserve Keeper for the Wimborne Wasps, they tell me. Have you ever played against him?"

"No. Never."

"Ever met him socially?"

"No."

"What about the family? Know any of them?"

"No." A memory intruded. "Yes. Davey Gudgeon was at Hogwarts when I was. Graduated at the end of my first year. I didn't know him."

"Very well," the Dark Lord had told him, apparently satisfied, and then surveyed him in silence for a few seconds before continuing. "We have a job for you. A very special undercover job. As from tonight, you will become Gudgeon. You will take his place immediately, as the sole survivor of the massacre that cost your teammates' their lives."

He had opened his mouth to protest at this, but with an immense effort of will shut it again and said nothing. The Dark Lord stared at him, and there was unmistakable amusement in the burning red eyes.

"You need have no fears - you will run little risk of detection. Gudgeon is due to transfer to Toronto in just four weeks' time, and once you are overseas your safety is virtually assured. In the meantime ... we shall make sure that his family suspects nothing, of course." How? he had wondered, and then suppressed the doubt with a twinge of guilt. "You are of course to tell nobody of this," the Dark Lord continued, "Not your friends or your family, not even your fellow Death Eaters. Arrangements will be made to explain your disappearance. This operation is to be conducted in complete secrecy - not even your mentor is to be told what has become of you."

"What am I going to do?"

"That is no concern of yours. You will be told when it becomes necessary for you to know. In the meantime..." The reptilian eyes had bored into his, and then the Dark Lord said, quite casually, the very thing that he'd been fearing. "Of course ... we will have to give you some convincing injuries so that the substitution is not suspected."

And then, almost as if conferring a favour, he had raised his wand and proclaimed in a high, clear voice the single word, "Crucio"...

‘Gudgeon' pulled himself back to the present, suppressing a shudder. They had been very, very thorough over that part of the job, and he'd been in St Mungo's for nearly a month, almost until the anticipated date for Dicky Gudgeon's mid-season transfer to the Toronto Quidditch team, the North York Ninjas.

And that had been that. He had lived as Dicky Gudgeon ever since, spending his days as a professional Quidditch player, his free time in ... other work.

There had been no other contact with the Death Eaters here, of course, except for two: a pair of middle-aged men calling themselves Tom and Jerry (he was almost certain the names were false) who came to deliver instructions periodically and then left, barely saying a word to him. He'd done whatever was asked of him, and then returned to his quiet life, unpunctuated by summonses from the Dark Lord. The work was usually simple and mundane, done by stealth and in silence: planting evidence, and sometimes removing it, the occasional death, usually made to appear accidental. And of all those tasks, nothing - nothing at all - that revealed the hand of the Dark Lord behind it.

And now he was nearly finished here. One last job remained -- one assassination of a figure so high-profile and powerful that the Canadian defences against the darkness would be left in tatters. And then it would be back to England.

At last.

What would become of him then he did not know. Resuming his real identity was out of the question: they'd faked his death in order to explain his disappearance. Apparently he'd been found drowned in Poole harbour (Gudgeon's body, he assumed), leaving behind a letter to his mother and stepfather. Suicide, it seemed, after the breakup of his relationship with the actress Dido Borgin, who'd recently left him for another man.

Still, real identity or no, he'd soon be back on English soil again. Just four more days and one last job ... and then it would all be over.





5.

Thursday December 11, 1980, 00.30 AM. 4 Shatter Lane, Kew.

Echo Rathbone watched the door of her flat click shut, and gazed unseeing at it for a moment as she listened to her lover's steps descending the stairs that led away from her.

The evening had not gone well. She'd been ill at ease and inattentive - noticeably so, for he had commented on it twice. The trouble was, the more she'd tried to hide her unease, to act normally, the more stilted and unnatural her behaviour had become.

He hadn't asked if anything was wrong, for which she was immeasurably grateful. She supposed it would have been nice to know that he cared, but she could hardly have told him about her sister's letter, could she? Not that she would have aired her petty fears in front of him even if she could. Rathbones were not supposed to show weakness.

She wondered fleetingly what he would have said if she had told him, what his reaction would have been. "Oh, by the way, my sister's a Death Eater. She thinks I ought to join too. Do you think I should?" But that wasn't quite true. The letter had been an ultimatum, not a suggestion.

She nearly laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion, but the sound died stillborn, as she realised that she had no idea how he'd react or what he would say. He would be shocked, surely -- anyone would be. Yes, surely he must be. But there was doubt in her mind even as she thought it. Would he care? Perhaps he'd just be indifferent, shrug his shoulders and dismiss it, or possibly angry, at the idea that she might give her allegiance to somebody else.

She was glad he'd gone. She was too tense to act normally this evening. It was all she could do to control the cold panic which sat like a toad in the pit of her stomach. Oh, she'd known all along that the ultimatum would come eventually, but that hadn't made the moment any easier.

It wasn't that Echo didn't believe in the inferiority of Muggles. Of course she did -- who couldn't? It wasn't even as if she disapproved of the Dark Lord's methods, which she considered no business of hers. It was the certain conviction that she would fail -- as she always did -- and fail badly. It was the awareness that, once again, she would be placing her shortcomings under her sister's nose, and that, once again, her sister would judge her, and find her wanting.

She sighed and turned away from the door, padding with bare feet across the cold tiled floor, her toenails painted a translucent pale pink that matched exactly the silk dressing-gown she was wearing. She picked up the two wine glasses that stood on the mahogany coffee table, absently examining their paper-thin bowls. One was stained slightly with lipstick; the other was unmarked, but a poised drip of wine at the rim showed the place where her lover's mouth had touched it. She carried them into the kitchen and placed them in the sink, noting automatically that the flowers in the vase on the windowsill were getting old and would need replacing tomorrow. She could have prolonged their lives by magic, but to do so would have destroyed their scent.

"Why do I do this?" she asked them aloud. "It only makes me miserable." The words came out in a pitiable whine, and she grimaced, thinking of her sister. "But Cissy ..." she used to say, and her sister would snap back at her: "Stop that noise. What do you want people to think of you? And don't call me Cissy."

She ran a shallow bowl of washing-up water and immersed the two glasses into it, wiping them absently with the dish cloth that hung over the taps. Then she rinsed them carefully, swilling the water around inside them, and stood them, upended, on the draining board. She emptied the sink and rinsed it, wiping down the working-surfaces and placing the empty wine bottle by the waste bin. It could all have been done in seconds if she had used magic, but she found the mundane chores soothing.

The kitchen was spotless now, and there was nothing left to be done in there. She left the two glasses on the draining board and went out, drifting aimlessly into the bedroom, where she stared down at the rumpled covers of the double bed.

She didn't want to be alone, not tonight, not here, lying in that big empty bed, dreading the coming day and the decision she still hadn't made. Suddenly she wished he'd stayed with her, wished she could have woken up beside him in the morning. But he never stayed the night, of course. He always left immediately without looking back, back to his house in the suburbs of Leicester, back to the wife whom he claimed didn't understand him, and the children he said bored him. In the early days of their affair, Echo used to dream constantly of waking in the morning to find him beside her. But what was the point of that? It had never happened, of course.

She bit her lip, a childish habit she'd never outgrown, and then stopped awkwardly, remembering that she'd spoil her lipstick. There was no point in going through all that again. He couldn't stay the night, she knew that. It was selfish of her even to expect it.

She pulled the covers back over the bed again in an unnecessary act of censorship, deliberately banishing from her mind everything it stood for. Turning her back on the bed she went into the en suite bathroom. Might as well get ready for bed. She didn't exactly have anything else to do.

In the bathroom she stopped before the mirror, examining the girl who faced her, wondering what on earth he saw in her.

The face that looked back at her was thin and pale, with light blue eyes and blonde hair, naturally straight, which she charmed daily into ringlets. It was made up subtly and with impeccable artistry, the makeup only slightly smudged. It was the family face: her mother had had it before her; her older sister had it also. But they were both beautiful, and she -- she was just Echo.

It was, as her sister had always told her, character that was lacking. Her sister's pallor always shone like the moon; hers was mere insipidity. Her sister always looked radiant; she merely looked faded, an insignificant creature with rounded shoulders and worried eyes.

Ever since she had been a child, she had been the odd one - a quiet, awkward creature, in the midst of a powerful, ambitious family. Her parents had eventually written her off, and then her sister, eight years older than herself, had taken it upon herself to mould Echo into what a Rathbone should be, but bullying, cajoling, threats -- all had failed. The more she'd been exhorted to be assertive -- to make something of her life -- the more she had wanted to hide from the world.

She'd always so craved her sister's respect, and at every obstacle, it seemed, she had failed.

It had been her arrival at Hogwarts that had doomed her. That fateful day at the Sorting she hadn't even made it into Slytherin, their ancestors' house for generations. She'd been put instead into Ravenclaw, according to her sister the spiritual home of the weak and apathetic. That was when her parents had given up on her, and her sister had taken up the reins in their stead.

Her sister had already left Hogwarts and was preparing for her wedding when Echo had started there, but she had treated her new self-imposed mission like a vocation. Echo had been grateful for the help -- she still was, of course -- but it hurt to know what a disappointment she'd always been to her sister. She'd tried hard. She'd even made friends with some of the Slytherins in her year, but her friends were still the wrong ones. Frannie Zabini and Amber Pucey were not from the best families, her sister said. They did not have the right connections.

"Make something of yourself," her sister had told her, repeatedly. Make what, Echo had always wondered. Her sister had married well, was renowned as a society beauty; Echo spent her days as a junior filing clerk at the Arcane Records Office at Kew, her evenings waiting for her lover. And when she saw her sister she spent all her time vainly trying to pretend that she was doing what she wanted, that she was in control and happy, and not merely the helpless victim of her own weak nature.

She continued to frown at her reflection in the mirror discontentedly, until it sprang suddenly into life. "Smile, dear," it chirped at her. "You'll feel better for it."

It was too late for that. Echo did not even attempt it, merely turned away and left the bathroom, wandering disconsolately back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed, her mind drifting inexorably back to the ultimatum, and the decision that, more than anything, she did not wish to make.

Yes. No. I will. I won't.

It all looked untenable. What choice was there? Join her relatives in the Death Eaters, and be ridiculed as an inefficient servant of the Dark Lord who only got in because of her influential family. Or refuse, and lose forever her chance to prove herself to them.

She knew she ought to say yes, and to say it willingly. It was sheer cowardice that had made her put it off for so long, and it was probably cowardice that now made her want to back out completely now and give up the perpetual futile quest to win her sister's admiration, to give up the fight forever and just resign herself to her inadequacy.

It was such an attractive idea, never again to have to look into her sister's eyes, never to be weighed in the balance and found wanting. Not to mention not having to do difficult and dangerous things for a creature reviled by most of the Wizarding world as the epitome of evil, and risk his wrath as well as her sister's.

Echo sighed, not liking at all where her thoughts were leading her. Refusing wasn't really an option, for all that it seemed so attractive. She'd never have the courage to do it anyway, not to her sister's face.

She sighed again, ruing her own cowardice, and turned to her bedside table, opening the secret draw concealed in its base. It was empty, save for a single narrow strip of parchment, coiled into a tight roll. She unrolled the parchment carefully and gazed down at it, looking at the writing without reading it. Her sister's handwriting was flowing and elegant, the graceful loops and curlicues strangely at odds with the terseness of the message her sister had sent her:

My dear Echo,

I don't know what you think you are playing at, but I recommend strongly that you desist. I urgently need an answer from you and I do not appreciate this perpetual procrastination of yours. I should not need to tell you that this is important.

I will meet you next Thursday at the Flying Cat Tea Room in Richmond. Be there at noon, and have your answer ready.

Your loving sister,

Narcissa

6.

Friday December 12, 1980, 3.15 AM. An Cruachan, Scotland.

Snape left his workshop and shut the door quickly behind him, mentally running through his habitual security routine as he locked and sealed the workshop door.

It was a complex ritual, involving three keys and seven charm, the words of one of the charms varying according to the phase of the moon. He normally performed it rapidly, accurate from long practice, but tonight he was too tired to do it quickly, and plodded through, stage by stage, muttering the syllables of the charms as he twisted the three keys in the deceptively simple-looking lock. First a jagged brass key, then a flat one of dull grey pewter, and finally the largest key, a complex filigree thing wrought of pale yellow electrum - silver and gold united. The last key stuck repeatedly in the lock, and it was three long minutes before it would turn smoothly in the lock to seal the charm.

It was a cold, clear night. A fleshy segment of waxing moon hung just above the horizon and the stars shone clear and bright, undimmed by the lights of the remote Muggle towns. He walked slowly back to the door of the barn, the frosted grass crunching softly under his feet, the world around him silent and grave. He could feel the bite of the frosty air against his skin, seeming to tell him that, yes, he was still alive. Alive on sufferance, perhaps, and living on borrowed time, but alive nonetheless.

He reached the barn door and let himself in, igniting the three lamps. Then he sat down in the wicker armchair, pushing the greasy hair back from his face. He stared for a moment at the empty fireplace and then, in defiance of his normal habit, ignited a fire. He seemed to be feeling the cold more these days, and he made a mental note to check the barn's weatherproofing charms.

He'd spent the evening in his workshop, bottling and stoppering the new batch of Draught of Living Death that he'd just completed. In its traditional state it produced a crude, workable simulation of death, but he'd modified the formula somewhat to make the deathlike appearance it produced more authentic, and the resultant black liquid now stood in neat rows of vials in one of his most secure cupboards.

Oh yes! As if he'd be able to administer it without arousing suspicion! That was just imbecile naivete. But what other options did he have? There were no known charms to simulate the effects of the killing curse. That had been the first thing he'd checked, and not even the most up-to-date charms dictionary listed anything remotely suitable. As for transfiguration into a corpse, it was simply too slow, too fiddly and too cumbersome even to be attempted. And what was more, any more overt means of trying to help his victims would get him killed quicker than you could say 'Master, I-'

No. There was no point in going through all that again. He knew he'd checked every possible avenue - checked it about five times more than was necessary, if the truth be told - and yet he was painfully aware that his arsenal of defences remained basic and inadequate. He would need great skill - and not a little luck - to accomplish anything. And yet all the skill and luck in the universe would be useless if he lacked the self-mastery to overcome ... other things.

He stared into the fireplace, where the restless red and gold flames were tracing complex patterns against the black grate behind, and shivered, in spite of the restless heat prickling against his hands and face. He had to get some sleep, he told himself, if he wanted to be alert for tomorrow's raid.

They'd not given him any details, which meant that the target was important. All he'd been able to tell Dumbledore (in an anonymous owl sent to an even more anonymous Owl Office Box) was that the victim was to be Ministry worker, probably living somewhere near London - which meant it was all down to him to do what he could. After all, not even Dumbledore could work miracles.

He was anticipating the raid with a mixture of eagerness and dread. The previous two weeks had been a strain, simultaneously the longest and the shortest of his life, and the forced inactivity had come as both blessing and curse. It had given him time to prepare, of course, and, more importantly, time to regain some measure of his previous self-possession, but each passing day had grated on him. Two weeks, and he still had not struck a single blow for Dumbledore. At least if he died after even a single raid, he would die facing the right direction, having at least started to pay his debts.

He didn't imagine he would have long to wait.

It was strange, really, how life could go on even knowing he was under a death sentence, how everything was just the same when nothing ought to have been the same again.

The previous day, for example. It had been a perfectly ordinary day in its way, dull, and reassuring in its blandness. Most of the morning had been spent in a long and unnecessary meeting about increasing Skower's market share (a matter of seemingly fanatical obsession to Skowers' rather maniacal Sales Department), the afternoon spent running the preliminary QC checks on MacPherson's handwash project, which had turned out to be a surprisingly effective evil-smelling green jelly. He'd stayed late to complete the monthly stock-take, and then returned home to work in his own laboratory on his modified Living Death potion.

All the days had been like that, in fact: bearable, reassuring almost in their set routines, running in their set courses like so many trains along so many railway lines, their routes and their stops pre-ordained by time-hallowed tradition. In daylight those nightmarish twenty-four hours took on an ethereal, unreal quality like some half-forgotten fever-dream. Amid the mundane surroundings of Skowers he could almost believe nothing had ever changed.

And then would follow the nights, when the trains would leave their tracks behind and blunder headlong whither they would in the darkness - and he, who was supposedly their driver, would be powerless to dictate their direction. It was in the nights that the old demons would come back to him, the love of destruction and the desire to harm, and the memories that had been their fruit. They haunted him late into the night as he tried to sleep, torturing and tantalising him in equal parts, leaving him racked with both revulsion and a yearning that was almost physical in its intensity. And then, - almost at the point when the memories and the fantasies became intoxicating in their vividness - then the guilt would start, crushing him boulder-like beneath its load till it choked the breath out of him leaving him with no answer to the voices of his accusers.

How could he ever cancel out such deeds? How could anyone blot out a past both unforgivable and unforgettable? It was hopeless, pointless, utterly futile.

Snape put the thought out of his head. He needed to sleep, if he was to be alert tomorrow night, and dwelling on his misdeeds wouldn't help. He stood up slowly, his thin face rendered skull-like by the dancing shadows of the fire and the flickering of the lamps. He had to risk sleeping some time.

He went through the preparations mechanically and slowly, without interest or care, like a puppet whose clockwork had wound down. A bottle of sleeping potion stood on the windowsill above his bed and he briefly contemplated taking a dose, and then rejected the idea. He'd come to distrust sleeping potions recently. The temptation was too great.

He climbed into the bed and pulled the covers over him. The blankets of the bed were cold and damp, and he reminded himself again about the weatherproofing charms, running through them in his mind and pondering the ones most likely to be effective.

The longer he kept his mind occupied, the longer he could keep control of it. The moment he began to relax it would take charge of him and subject him to its filthy, degrading fantasies.

It should never have been like this. Why did I ever-?

But he knew the answer to that, not that it helped. The conflicting loyalties that had dogged his youth had all been severed forever by his father's death - and the betrayals that had followed it - and he had been cast adrift, an anchorless, rudderless ship, with neither star nor compass to guide it. When he had graduated from Hogwarts he had gone out into the world caring for nothing and nobody, with neither creed nor allegiance to support him.

Most of his former friends had not bothered to keep in touch (but then nor did I, some part of his mind reminded him), and even Evan Rosier, who had been perhaps closer to him than the others, only contacted him infrequently. His job at Skowers had been mind-numbing - dull and repetitious - and his new colleagues there disliked him, even those who had at first given him the benefit of the doubt. As for his family, he'd already severed all contact with them.

And then had come the day that Travers had first made contact with him. He'd had no particular reason to listen to him, but then again there'd been no reason not to. He could have decided either way.

But he hadn't.

Hadn't Potter (damn him) always predicted he'd come to a bad end? Well, you were perfectly right, Potter - and much good may it do you.

Potter, of course, would never even have contemplated talking to Travers - but then Travers would have recognised Potter for what he was at once, and steered well clear, warned off by the invisible badge of office that all the Gryffindors seemed to wear on their souls. If there's one thing I envy you now, Potter, he thought wearily, it's your virtue, your effortless, natural virtue - and yet you take it so much for granted you probably don't recognise the protection it gives you.

But he couldn't get himself to care what Potter might have thought. He could feel the beginnings of sleep settling around him, and mentally braced himself for the visions it would bring with it. Tonight, however, they did not come. Perhaps the weariness kept them at bay; perhaps the awareness of the following night's impossible task. But whatever the cause, only a single memory, vivid as the day he had lived it, came to disturb his rest.

* * * * *

It's a hot humid day in August, and Severus is eleven years old. In three weeks he will be leaving home for the first time, to attend Hogwarts. His mother has taken the three of them to Diagon Alley to buy school supplies. She's looking very thin and pale, with long black hair that curls in graceful arcs down her back, and she's wearing the dark green velvet robe that makes her look like a banshee. Even in summer she finds England cold.

Nero, who's fifteen, has gone off to find his friends the moment he arrives in the street, but mother keeps tight hold of Severus's and Agrippina's hands while she takes them round the shops, buying the things that Severus will need in his first year at Hogwarts. Severus doesn't want Agrippina there while he looks at schoolbooks and is fitted for his first school robes, but she tags along like an annoying shadow, and mother won't let her out of her sight.

It's towards the end of the day when they arrive at Ollivanders; for some reason mother has left buying Severus' first wand until last.

A bell above the door rings as mother leads them into the shop. It's a dull, doleful sound that echoes on and on, long after the door has shut behind them. An old man with creepy silvery eyes is sitting behind the counter, trimming what looks like the end of a dragon heartstring from a pale unpolished wand. He leaves the work aside and stands up as he sees them.

- Good afternoon, he says politely.

- Good afternoon, Mr Ollivander. It is good to see you again.

- Of course. Madam Snape, is it not? A birch wand, with a unicorn-hair core, as I recall. To replace one that was lost when you left Israel.

- As you say. This is my second son, Severus. He will be starting at Hogwarts in September.

- Ah, yes... I remember him from your last visit. But he used to have hair like yours, Madam. It is a shame to straighten it like that.

- His father prefers it like that.

Mother's voice invites no further discussion on the subject.

Aggie has left her mother's side and is carefully exploring the piles of boxes. She seems unaffected by the heavy silence of the shop as she reads the labels, even takes one lid off and peeks inside, before going over to the counter to examine the wand that Mr Ollivander has just been making.

- Dad doesn't like Sevvie, she announces to the world in general. - Dad thinks Sevvie's a wimp.

Severus mutters something rude at her and she sticks her tongue out at him. Severus tries to kick her in the shins, but mother pulls the two of them apart, her mouth set in a thin line. Mr Ollivander ignores them and picks up a tape measure from the counter.

- Now, Severus, he says, - Which is your wand hand?

Severus looks at his hands, unsure. He uses both equally. He knows there's a special word for it, but he can't remember it.

- Either.

- His right. He writes with his right, Mother tells Mr Ollivander.

Severus would rather be left-handed like mother. He only writes with his right hand because Father insists.

Mr Ollivander starts to measure his arms and legs, or rather the tape measure starts to measure him. It moves strangely, like a snake, and Severus watches it, fascinated, until Mr Ollivander commands it to stop and it drops to the floor, becoming a tape measure again.

Mr Ollivander hands him a wand -- birch and phoenix-feather, he says -- and bids him try it. Severus looks at it doubtfully. It looks and feels very ordinary, but he raises it obediently -- and it is snatched out of his hand again.

- No, no. Try this one. Oak and dragon heart-string.

A second time he scarcely has time to raise it before it is pulled from his fingers again, and a third and fourth follow it in quick succession. More wands are pulled out for him to try, so many that Severus loses count of the types and combinations, and wands and boxes are scattered over Mr Ollivander's tidy workbench.

And then Mr Olivander pulls a box from near the bottom of a very old and dusty stack near the back of the room. It doesn't look as though it's been touched for decades.

- Now perhaps ... this one may work better...

Mr Ollivander seems to be talking half to himself and he sounds pleased, as though he's just solved a tricky problem. He draws the wand out and offers it to Severus.

- Cedar and dragon heart-string. Give it a try.

And this time the slender strip immediately comes to life under his fingers, with a thin stream of purple and green sparks.

- Hmmm...

Mr Ollivander doesn't seem entirely satisfied.

- Perhaps your other hand-

Severus transfers the wand to his left hand, glancing at his mother for approval, but her face is expressionless. The wand feels more comfortable there and he raises it again, bringing it down in a wide diagonal arc. A fountain of sparks, far brighter and more abundant than before, flow from the end as he tries it for the second time.

- Beautiful, his mother says. A lovely wand.

- Is that all? Aggie asks, rolling her eyes ridiculously.

Mr Ollivander takes the wand from his hand and examines it. Severus peers up at it too. The cedar wood is reddish in colour and slightly flexible, the heart-string at its core invisible.

- Ah yes ... a most distinctive wand. The cedar was an import I picked up from the Holy Land decades back. Very little of it was useable, but it produced some very fine wands, powerful in their way. This wand will be excellent for healing spells and hexes.

Severus looks at it, wondering how Mr Ollivander can tell, but Mr Ollivander is still speaking, in an absent, remote voice, as though he's talking to himself.

- Healing spells and hexes: two opposed branches of magic. It's a unique combination -- the two rarely mix. I wonder which you will choose, young Severus.

- Hexes, if he has any sense. Healing spells are for wimps, Agrippina interrupts, but Mr Ollivander is nose-to-nose with Severus again, and Severus is trying to stop himself backing away.

- Hexing and healing, healing and hexing. The choice isn't as easy as it seems - such choices seldom are. I hope you choose wisely, Severus Snape.