A Habit of Turning Up in Unexpected Places

Author's Note: Thank you so much, Lindsey, for motivating us to post more chapters and being a most wonderful beta.

Chapter Fourteen: A Habit of Turning Up in Unexpected Places

No sooner had Severus made up his mind to inform the headmaster than he was striding towards the classroom door. Would Isolde still be waiting outside, or had 'Barny' sent her away to her dormitory?

Worse still, had he hauled her away with him to relay the delightful news, no doubt peppered with threats of domestic isolation and permitted rape?

That would have to wait, he told himself inwardly. He had to see the headmaster before he lost his nerve.

"Er... we weren't sure what to do, sir. You told us last week to wait here in silence, but, but..."

Held at his own threshold, Severus was met by a faultless line of anxious first-years, the green and blue emblems stitched upon their robes a sporadic murmur of colour along the otherwise dank corridor.

Damn.

Concealed behind his well-practised mask of disinterest came the realisation that he still had one more lesson to teach. Severus felt his resoluteness turn in on itself as he crossly eyed the boy who had dared to speak. Round and toothy, he had an air of Longbottom about him that Severus found almost nostalgic.

"And yet," Severus began, feeling his robes almost inflate with authority as he recovered his train of thought, "you have still managed to flout that, Mr Burnett. How forgetful of you." His dark eyes flickered just enough to catch the trickle of fear filter through the class. If it was possible, the air fell even colder as every breath was held for his finale. "Perhaps an evening of de-tailing salamanders will help you with your memory. Eight o'clock tonight, Mr Burnett. Don't be late."

"Yes, Professor," the boy whimpered, his quivering cheeks betraying a promise of tears.

"Enter."

It was only when Severus set the class to work that he realised they had been waiting outside his classroom for over ten minutes; this did not make the lesson progress any more speedily, however. The sheer simplicity of the Boil-Cure Potion failed to distract Severus from the less-than-desirable dialogue he knew he would have to exchange with Dumbledore in just over half an hour's time.

Between verbal lashings and clumsy stirrings, he found himself repeating internal incentives to himself, for fear of going back on the decision he had made.

It must be done. For her own safety, it must be done...

"As much as it would amuse us all to see you covered from head to foot in self-renewing pus, Miss Robbins, I suggest you think twice about stirring your potion anti-clockwise again."

It must be done. It's gone on for too long. Albus will know what to do...

"Congratulations are in order, Mr Burnett." Severus smirked darkly over the boy's boil-encrusted face. "Having already proven yourself to be utterly useless, it appears that you have indeed surpassed yourself. Get your belongings and go to the hospital wing – quickly, I suggest, if you don't want to be seen by the rest of the school as they leave their classes."

The afternoon seemed to amble infuriatingly slowly, but Severus finally found himself at the all-too-familiar gateway. Rolling his eyes, he scoffed the words, "Cockroach Cluster" and stepped heavily onto the unveiled stairwell as it began to ascend.

Before the stairs even came to a halt, a cheerful voice called from within, "No need to knock, Severus."

He would never admit it, but the habitual whirring and tinkling of the silver apparatus in the headmaster's office was an intangible comfort to Severus, but it provided no respite as he drew closer to a now outstretched bowl of sherbet lemons.

"No," Severus shot anxiously. "No, thank you."

Dumbledore smiled softly as he brought the half empty bowl down to rest beside a swinging pendulum. One of many of the headmaster's own inventions, its use had once been explained to Severus, but in the midst of his troubled thoughts, its function evaded him.

"Well then, Severus, to what do I owe the delight?"

As he deliberated how to begin, he felt the edge of the chair press invitingly against his calves, but his agitation made the concept of sitting unthinkable. The familiar pair of blue eyes arched noncommittally over the cluttered desk, so before he had to suffer their infuriating twinkle, he began:

"It has come to my attention, Headmaster, that Mr Flank..."

"The Triwizard Advisor?"

"Yes – the very same," Severus confirmed, biting the inside of his cheek heatedly. "It has become apparent that Mr Flank has begun to take certain liberties in his role which have begun to forfeit the safety of our students."

Dumbledore's expression remained unchanged, but something behind his half-moon spectacles darkened. "You are referring, I presume, to Miss Hamilton, and – more specifically – the night of the Yule Ball?"

As the headmaster rested one aged hand over the other, the younger wizard's face visibly blanched, his defined brows creasing into perplexity. "You... already know?"

The headmaster simply nodded.

"Why?" Severus spat towards the unmoved face. "Why did you wait until now to tell me you already knew about this?"

"I might ask you the same question, Severus." Again, the face and tone remained unchanged, but the eyes were full of challenge.

Snape opened his mouth to retort, but sank into the chair defeated. For several seconds, both men sat resolutely, the metal devices practically urging a quarrel.

Curiosity broke through the silence.

"How did you know? It took me almost an hour to locate Miss Hamilton, and it was clear that no one else had attempted an intervention..." Severus trailed off bitterly as he recalled his own failed attempt at heroism.

Seemingly ignorant to his employee's accusation, Dumbledore delayed his explanation to feed himself a sherbet lemon. "Sometimes," he paused, his tongue exploring the explosion of tanginess, "there are enough loose threads to make one substantial yarn. It was Miss Parkinson, actually, who first alerted me to something being amiss. In the Entrance Hall, on my way to the lavatory, I heard her offload her qualms to Mr Malfoy about you reprimanding her in the common room; she said you were looking for Miss Hamilton, and that she had seen her being escorted away by Mr Flank..."

"Escorted?" Severus sneered, his broad palms gripping each knee beneath his robes. "You make this sound like a romantic stroll through the rose garden!"

"Which, ironically," interrupted Dumbledore once more, "is where I gathered my next loose thread."

Severus rolled his eyes less discreetly this time; the old fool sounded like a celebratory child on a scavenger hunt. Did he even consider this a serious matter?

"It was Hagrid, in fact. On his promenade with Madame Maxime, he had seen a very aggravated Mr Flank leave the castle through a door I never even knew existed! Right into the school grounds, no less!"

Unable to palate any more of the headmaster's buoyancy, Severus rose to his feet again. "Forgive me, Headmaster, but this was nothing less than attempted rape. Surely we are not just going to stand aside and let..."

"Attempted, Severus – yes." His tone had become noticeably grave. "And as it remains as such, I think we should let this run its course."

"Run its course?" Severus could not recall the last time he had raised his voice at the headmaster in such a manner, but images of Flank's sweaty palms on Isolde's reluctant skin clawed for his attention. "While I am usually quite content to play the puppet in the show only you seem to know the end to, I refuse to allow an innocent girl to be toyed with in such a flagrant manner. Do you know they intend for her to marry this lech?"

Dumbledore closed his eyes as he simultaneously exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I did not know that, Severus, but this is essentially a private matter, and it would be wise to treat it as such."

"Headmaster..."

"Hear me plainly, Severus." Dumbledore rose to his feet, his voice uncharacteristically strained with bridled anger. "You will not allow this girl to cloud your priorities."

"You mean Potter..." Severus spat the words with open animosity, his usually composed lip wavering with unspilt venom.

Blue eyes tore into black, and though the wind-berated hilltop was a sorry memory, the same look of disgust radiated from every crease in the old wizard's face, the same disapproving stare he had given another selfish request long ago. Fourteen years, in fact.

A number of unvoiced promises and long-fastened, fraying knots passed between them before either man spoke again. When one finally did, his tone was noticeably softer.

"Severus – his name did not end up in the Goblet by accident – you know my theories about this all being connected: Bertha, Frank... your Mark..." Dumbledore gestured pointedly with his brow towards Severus' left forearm. "We cannot allow one brush stroke to tarnish the larger picture; you know he will return, Severus. Do you think he will welcome you back with open arms?"

It was only at these words that Severus broke his gaze and looked down at his own arm, where he knew his Mark lay, blacker than his blackest robes – an indelible token of the greatest error of his life. The greatest loss of his life.

Severus sensed Dumbledore walk around his desk to his side but he did not – could not – look at him. The hideous irony was that the most permanent mark – the most stagnant hold over him – lay not on his left arm, but in one word he had uttered himself: 'Anything.' He may have often felt like Dumbledore's prancing puppet – his jangling marionette – but he had handed him the strings, told him to do as he pleased with them. Merlin knows, he had been all but ready to hoist them up for good.

"Severus..."

The aged fingers ghosting his shoulder jolted him to awareness.

"You cannot afford to risk your guise – not when Voldemort is so near to resurrection. You're going to need all the friends you can get – anyone to vouch for your continued alliance to him. Mollify them for now, Severus. I know you can."

oOoOoOo

Hardly able to recall their parting words, Severus departed the encircling stairwell and returned to the dungeons in an almost Confunded state. As he got closer to his chambers, his frustrations reawakened to a state only a bottle of Firewhisky could quench. Unable to decipher whether his anger was charged more towards the old man or his own spinelessness, Severus surrendered his endeavour to separate the two.

It was only when he passed by his office that he stifled his inner monologue, noticing a warm arch of colour creeping through the cracks around the doorframe. Glad to be offered an opportunity to throw a hex or two, Severus drew his wand from his robes before invading his own office.

As his eyes adjusted to the sudden onslaught of light, a familiar, bulbous eye rolled on its axis before him. Its owner stood guiltlessly – challengingly, almost – by his bottle-laden shelves.

"Moody – would you care to tell me what you are doing in my office?"

Doused in the fickle glow of dying candles, the Auror appeared as though he had sprung from the darkened shadows of every child's nightmares. The mutilated gash in place of a mouth twisted in a foul parody of a grin, the magic-infused glass eye whizzing maniacally in its adopted socket. Moody did not answer audibly, rather tapping the polished leg of Severus' mahogany desk with his gnarled cane. A light jingle caused the Potions master to snatch his obsidian gaze away from Moody, observing instead the small collection amalgamated on his desk's smooth surface. He knew every bottle intimately, recognising the tint of the glass, the worn edges of each label. It had been many years since he had relied on the jagged words scrawled upon their surface.

It was in that instant that fury captured him, tortured him, squeezing his lungs and twitching his thin lips. Moody's presence in his office was offensive enough, but these came from his personal safe. He did not even dare store them within the private storeroom, knowing full well the students' propensity for pocketing such items.

"An interesting collection," Moody growled, the syllables slipping from the gash almost incomprehensible. Scarred fingers wrapped around a small, olive-hued bottle. "Venom of the Western Australian Three-Headed Viper Snap. A single microscopic drop to the skin proves instantly fatal."

"Thank you, Moody, for educating me on the contents of my personal stores." Sarcasm oozed from Severus' tongue, almost as venomous as contents of the vial pressed between Moody's fingers. "Now would you care to explain your presence here?"

Moody once again ignored the question. "I am sure Dumbledore would be fascinated to know what you keep in your office."

"As Dumbledore provided one of the three signatures necessary for me to obtain this venom, I seriously doubt he would be."

Moody huffed, popping the bottle carefully back on the desk. "Just doing my job, Snape."

"Last time I checked, nowhere in the regulations does it state that Defence Against the Dark Arts professors are required to search their colleagues' offices."

Moody's normal eye remained fixed on Severus, its magical brother dancing maniacally. To the trained observer it was easy to ascertain that the ex-Auror was drawing at short straws. Had the situation been less irritating, or serious, Severus may have found it a touch amusing.

"This afternoon you were seen in the company of a known You-Know-Who sympathiser, Barnabus Hamilton."

The name, especially spouted from Moody's lips, caused Severus to shudder inwardly. Nevertheless, he kept his face impassive. "Mr Hamilton is the father of one of my students; there is no reason why he should not visit me." Severus crossed the office in two long strides, his long fingers picking up Moody's little collection, placing them within a discarded box. "Was there any reason you thought to impede on my personal space?"

Moody was evidently furious, even more so by Severus' packing up of the ingredients. Had he not done so, the Potions master suspected that the ex-Auror would have pocketed them for himself. Sure enough, Moody had proven himself a warrior for the side of right, but his mind was nonetheless a bag of cats. Such emotional instability, mingled with a long-lasting thirst for revenge, meant that he was very much tipping on the line between light and dark.

With several loud clunks, Moody departed, slamming the door in his wake. It was only then that Severus noticed another object on his desk, a letter he had never before seen: a letter that had been opened.

Curious, he placed the last of the vials in its temporary home, snatching up the expensive parchment. The elegant script was that of Lucius Malfoy; the small numbers printed upon the top a clear indication that this correspondence had been sent by owl that morning. Swallowing back an unwelcome lump in his throat, Severus began to read.

To my dear friend Severus,

Lucius Malfoy

Any hope that the evening might improve instantly slipped from Severus' mind. Rather, he felt like he had been knocked head first into a vat of snakes, lying amongst writhing bodies waiting for the first serpent to strike.

The letter was concerning enough, yet the scramble of honey-soaked words paled in comparison to the implications that rose from its presence.

Moody had read it.

oOoOoOo

The Mewling Quim was a haven of lavish wealth and foul debauchery. Smoke of multiple hues rested in unsettling swathes above the congregation, like fetid storm clouds waiting to strike. It was not a place Severus visited often; in fact, if life had dealt him a different card, he would have been pleased to have remained ignorant of its very existence. A number of scantily dressed witches slipped about the room, supplying drinks and sexual favours to the foulest of patrons.

He located Lucius, Hamilton and Flank at the farthest corner of the victualling house. The centre of their table was dominated by a bottle of Ogden's finest, four crystal glasses placed like petals around a sinister flower. If the visage was not repulsive enough, Hamilton appeared to be entertaining one of the waiting staff, his thin fingers beneath the thin slip of lace at her groin. Flank joined in the frivolities, pouring a small amount of his expensive beverage onto the witch's breast, sucking an alcohol soaked nipple with mirth.

Severus seriously hoped the girl was a good actor.

"Severus, old boy, how nice of you to join us."

The Potions master kept his gaze firmly on Lucius, but the whore's sickening whimpers hammered his eardrums none the less. "You hardly provided me with an alternative, Lucius." As the words left his lips, Severus knew full well that it was not Lucius who had truly given him the ultimatum. That had been the work of Albus Dumbledore.

Acknowledging the presence of their guest, Hamilton dismissed the waitress with a sharp "Be gone". Despite her previous mewling, the girl did not seem overly displeased. Severus shuddered to contemplate how many lecherous men had slipped their fingers – or more – beneath her knickers that evening.

While Hamilton painted his face with his usual sly smile, Flank scowled like a small boy who had had his favourite toy broomstick confiscated.

"And here he is!" the blond snapped angrily. "King cock-blocker himself. Tell me, Snape, did you find my failure amusing? Did you and my future bride have a good old laugh as you shoved your cock in her tight little c...!"

"Ichabod, Ichabod," coughed Lucius indulgently. "We are all friends here. There is no evidence of Severus partaking in your woman. Jealousy is such a... repellent emotion."

Partaking in your woman? Severus scowled. "I assure you, Mr Flank, I have no intention of bedding one of my students, just as I had no intention to allow rape to take place on school grounds. You will soon be wed to the girl; perhaps it would be wise to control your ardour in preparation for the wedding night?" Even saying the words filled him with bile. "Besides, I have stated before that I simply cannot display the level of control over Miss Hamilton that you require of me. I am not her father." He looked poignantly at Hamilton, who was licking his fingers. "She is also of age."

"You are, of course, right, Severus," Lucius crooned, "but as Miss Hamilton is to be wed at Easter, we simply ask that you keep an eye on her. There have been rumours of a certain Ravenclaw...?"

"Mr Spencer is merely a friend of Miss Hamilton. They are in no way romantically involved, as far as I am aware."

Hamilton cocked a dark eyebrow. "You sound as if you are concerned for the boy."

"I am not," Severus lied. "I simply think it would be unwise to focus your attentions on a whelp like Spencer." His fingers brushed against his Mark. "With only hints of what is to come, killing innocents at this stage of the game is foolish to say the least."

Taking a welcome sip of his drink, Severus barely observed the reactions of his fellows. All he could think about was Albus-fucking-Dumbledore, perched on his throne in Hogwarts. Surely the headmaster would be pleased now. His puppet was doing exactly as he asked.

As though the unseen Monarch of Cruelty had tossed him a few Knuts to the ground in encouragement, Severus opened his mouth once more, the wily cigar fumes nipping and drying the back of his throat. "Besides, you must have more than enough matters to occupy yourself with at present, Ichabod. I must confess, I was almost touched when Barny informed me of your intent to actually wed the little shrew."

Stooping dutifully into role, Severus welcomed the way his irises began to shroud themselves in smoke – yet another mask to add to his hoard. Knocking back the remains of his Firewhisky, he watched Flank's lip curl, wondering if he had even heard the hollow good wishes, so transfixed was he on the curved behind of a nubile witch as she leant over the adjacent table to clean its surface. "Some sacrifices will be more taxing than others, clearly," Severus continued suggestively as Flank's nearest hand gravitated towards the exposed skin, almost as if it moved of its own accord. As his fingers, clammy with spilt whisky, finally made contact, he hummed with visible craving.

"Sacrifices?" Lucius scoffed on Flank's behalf, his thumb stroking the textured glass as he eyed his own minx across the room. "We're married, not dead, Severus." His mouth still wide with amusement, his tilted glass dribbled some of the hot liquid down his cleanly-shaven chin and into the ends of his flaxen hair. Clearly a regular patron, Lucius merely snapped his fingers to beckon the buxom redhead to his side, tapping his chin as further instruction.

As Severus stared with a mix of repugnance and fascination, the whore bent down to suck the burning stickiness from his skin, the meagre traces of rouge lipstick only hinting at the number of clients her mouth had serviced that evening alone. "Indeed," he observed sullenly, half wishing he had the drive for such frivolities. Surely even the simple puppet deserved a temporary distraction from the farce he entertained daily?

As if on cue, a witch in a plum-coloured corset slunk beside him to fill his glass, the centralised crease of her undergarments granting a promising hint of a reckless night. Three sets of fingers twitched as she shifted her angle, feigning ignorance in every flick of her lashes. Snape's hands remained still, but as she leant further over the table, providing a temporary pastime for his companions, Severus caught a glimpse of her eyes. Shrouded more thickly than his own, her irises told nothing of her history, of days of mirth and innocence. Darkly, he wondered how long it would take Isolde to adopt the same vacant countenance once she had joined the house of Flank; how long it would be before she languished in concaved bitterness, rotting in her prime.

Though the answer would no doubt sicken him for days to come, he had to ask: "While we're on the subject of this heartfelt union, perhaps you could enlighten me with your intentions? Shocking though it is, there appears to be more at stake here than the simple prospect of plucking a virgin."

For the first time since his witch-whore took his gaze, Flank looked wide-eyed at Severus as he jeered into his upturned tumbler. "Simple! Have you seen what she left me with at the Yule Ball?" he challenged as his free hand gestured angrily at a substantial gash in his neck. Severus had not noticed it until Flank had turned his head to one side, but the scar was more than a mere graze and did not look like the work of magic. "Scratched me with her claws, she did – the diabolic minx. You know how a bit of reluctance thrills me, but she put up a more than reasonable effort." Severus need not have fought to veil any signs of pride towards Isolde, for Flank's subsequent words quenched them in an instant. "We'll see how long that lasts!" he chortled darkly as he smacked Hamilton on his back and received mirrored amusement.

The unconstrained response stirred more revulsion in Severus than the neighbouring display of Lucius and his fickle whore – his arduous tongue in her mouth as his index finger explored her rear. Was Isolde's father so enticed by assurances of grandeur and involvement that he would forfeit his only child to this libertine? As the two men chuckled extensively, urged by the alcohol swilling in their veins, Severus scrutinized Hamilton, scouring every laughter-line for hints of shame – something to imply he had sentiment for the girl.

Severus cleared his throat, obliquely calling order to the table. "And what else could this union possibly offer you, Flank, when you have so many other... willing... victims to enjoy?" he enquired, briefly indicating the witches oozing around the foggy labyrinth of tables.

Ichabod opened his mouth to speak, but Lucius took the reins, extracting his finger to raise a hand and call attention to him. Unrestrainedly, he smacked his palm against the rounded behind of his rouge waitress; her well-rehearsed giggle rang through the air as she obediently moved out of listening distance to refill her decanter. Lucius followed her teasing saunter before returning his gaze to Severus, who fought hard to suppress an eye-roll. "It may have escaped your notice, my dear Severus, but we are not getting any younger..." His fingertips feigned a casual graze of the material veiling his Mark. "Something is clearly advancing, whether we are ready or not..." Severus swallowed the sudden onset of bile in his throat. "The Dark Lor..."

"Lucius!" Severus hissed in interjection. "Are you so topped with Firewhisky to care, or have the passing years caused you to discount stealth entirely?"

Silence consumed the table until an inebriated Hamilton spoke. "My Isolde already shows the capacity for brutality, and though she doesn't often display it, she has a sharp head on her shoulders."

Flank nodded in agreement, a rough fingertip stroking the line of his disfigurement. "Barny's right; with a bit of moulding, she could replace those we have lost along the way."

His inclusive pronoun half-amused Severus – did he consider himself a Death Eater already? – but the remaining words caused more unsettlement than anything else he had seen or heard that evening.

With a wry smirk, he mustered his blithest tone. "Surely you're not suggesting that my most talented Potions student offers the same... mentality... as the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange?"

Lucius chortled callously. "We all know Bella is two wings short of a Hippogriff, Severus. We're not claiming otherwise. But you must admit we are running a little short on... cavalry... at present. My Draco, of course, has the predisposition..."

"So that's why you were pushing for their union earlier this year," realised Severus, before a wry smile upturned his lip. "Quite an upgrade, isn't it? An inexperienced teen to a self-confessed satyr? I'm not sure who I feel happiest for."

"Draco has his own schooling to focus on," surmised Lucius. The gravity of his tone made it clear that he was not referring to his O.W.Ls or N.E.W.Ts. "On reflection, it would not be wise to put two novices in the same cauldron. No," he mused almost idly now, "they need proper tutelage, both of them. I hope you'll do your part for Draco, Severus."

"Of course, Lucius," Severus snarled as he downed another shot of Firewhisky. "As you know, I have so much free time on my hands now the school year has begun."

"You really need to lighten up a bit, Sev," drawled Flank, word stitching into word with increased intoxication. "Here," he comforted, beckoning over the plum-enveloped whore with the vacant eyes. "You need to relax..." Inching closer, her half-exposed upper thigh brushed deliberately against Severus' right sleeve. For a few seconds, he tolerated her hollow caresses until he glanced at Flank and saw him nod his head towards the girl, urging him to take a bite. Lucius, meanwhile, looked nothing short of smug as he sat back against his high-backed crimson perch. Did they see themselves as debauched philanthropists, parting with their rotten fruit for him?

Lucius' grin widened, pointing the end of his cane at the girl, the open-mouthed serpent ready to devour her far from blameless flesh. "Be honest, Severus, when did you last experience la petite mort at the hands of another?" The men on either side of him snickered into their glasses, their eyes daring their idol to continue, to part with more venom. "You must be simply aching...."

Severus rose sharply to his feet, knocking the plum harlot into their table, Ogden's spilling everywhere. Uttering her only sincere whimper of the evening, the witch murmured a multitude of apologies as she cleaned the tabletop and refilled each glass.

"As difficult as it may be for someone of your... stature... to believe, Lucius, I have not reached that level of thirst just yet." His black eyes bore resolutely into Malfoy's, though the latter's were so clouded with lust and intoxication, Severus doubted he would note the challenge in them. "Now, is there anything else I can assist you with at present, or am I permitted to return to my stack of fifth-year essays?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Turning on his heel, Severus swept through the lewd maze as swiftly as possible, hoping that would be the last time he'd set foot there, but knowing that was a blessing he did not deserve.

oOoOoOo

He did not Apparate to the school gates as he usually did.

Severus materialized in a deserted Hogsmeade alley, feeling an ardent need to rinse himself of the last few hours with the aid of a long walk. As the chilly air began to drag the lingering smoke from his head, his memory echoed the repulsive exchanges again and again. The final topic had enraged him the most; the rest he was used to, as disturbing as the news had been, but to be offered one of those whores as charity – to have his sexual experience scrutinised in front of those two repulsive sycophants – was almost too much for even his well-practised ruse. If he had been a novice spy, or had even been too liberal with the Firewhisky, he would have cradled the image of their shocked faces as he informed them that Isolde had freely offered herself to him only a fortnight ago. The remembrance of her whispered proposition – her leg strewn around his thigh – caused him to stir with longing as he passed the building he knew too well.

Glancing only briefly in the direction of the shop, Severus noticed something that caused him to stop mid-stride.

A flicker of candlelight shone in unceremonious blotches through the grubby windows, and as he squinted for better perception, he was sure the clumsy silhouette in the centre belonged to Brinkley. Brinkley reading a book.

Hardly aware of his own feet gravitating towards the door, Severus found himself reaching out to test the ornate handle. Giving to his force immediately, the door opened with a soft click, and Severus stepped inside.