Meanwhile, Back With Our Heroes...

Disclaimer: I Dis anyone who claims I own Harry Potter.

Author's Notes: With this chapter, TPP is now caught up to the other archives where I originally posted this WIP. I'm sure you are relieved to know that there is now more coming; I've worked the story out to the end.

Super thanks to my most truthful beta, Verity Brown.

Chapter 23: Meanwhile, Back With Our Heroes...

At the headmaster's request, Severus strode ahead towards the castle. Relieved to have avoided the unpleasant scene which was certain to ensue between Miss Bourne's mother and the headmaster, he hurried on ahead, ignoring the chill.

Upon entering the castle, Severus went first to the kitchens to pass on Dumbledore's request for a guest room. That duty discharged, he returned gratefully to his own quarters.

The Heads of House each had a small suite of rooms, comprised of a bedroom, sitting room with a fireplace and private bath. Severus accepted the luxury as his due for putting up with an entire House full of Slytherins getting up to no good at all hours of the day and night.

Severus started a fire in the fireplace with a quick gesture, crossed to a cabinet where he picked up an empty glass and bottle of Ogden's, and then eased himself into his favorite chair in front of the hearth.

What a night it had been! Early in the evening, as soon as he could have been expected to be free of his duties, he'd been called to the Dark Lord. He had then spent half the night listening to Him rant on about Severus's Mudblood intended and her Muggle mother.

Severus had known that the headmaster would need to be informed of this development and that he would be impelled to take action immediately. What he had not known was that Albus would send him personally to pick up Rowan's mother.

You would think, he said to himself, while pouring two fingers of firewhisky into the glass, that after catering to the whims of a Dark wizard for so long one Muggle woman couldn't possibly hold any terror for me.

So, why had he suddenly felt like he'd swallowed an entire nestful of tiny snakes when Albus told him he must go?

Well, for one thing, he'd been afraid she would become hysterical when an ugly stranger suddenly appeared in her living room. He could hardly Stupefy the woman, no matter how foolishly she behaved; Rowan would have gone spare if he'd popped in holding her mother's unconscious body in his arms.

In the event, though, his fears had been groundless. Mrs. Bourne had turned out to be an entirely sensible woman. A rarity and a gem, she had neither made an unpleasant scene, nor insisted on packing any useless fripperies. He had told her she must go, and as soon as he had set the illusion, she had left with him.

By now, Mrs. Bourne must know everything. Rowan would not have concealed his part in her woes; her mother would not trust him so again.

He drank from his glass and grimaced into the fire. It might not matter how Rowan's mother felt about him; he was unlikely ever to see her again. He did not know where Dumbledore intended to hide her, and Rowan would surely take her release from the necessity of marrying him gladly and go as far from him as possible.

Well, she was a Ravenclaw, wasn't she? She was certainly not stupid enough to link herself with him, if she could avoid it.

Severus frowned as he stared into the fireplace, then took a drink from his glass.

What woman with a choice would link herself with him, bound as he was to two masters? He had indentured himself for life when he followed Bella's lead and took the Dark Mark. He had still been a student then, full of his own genius, with no idea how many kinds of an idiot he was being.

It had taken years before he had seen how empty the Dark Lord's promises were, how everything he touched became corrupted.

When that realization had finally come, he had feared it was too late to ever free himself. Dumbledore had helped him find a way to repay the debt, and he had done as Albus asked. Fifteen years later, he was still doing so, but the stain was not yet gone.

Sometimes he felt as if he were no better off than his poor Muggle grandfather. His father's father had spent his entire life working himself to a thin, bitter shadow, raising a thin, bitter son and owing an ever larger share of his meager paycheck to the mill for rent on the little house they lived in and for the rot they were forced to buy at the Tommy store. His own father had been hardly better off.

Then that wondrous day had come. A letter, handwritten in green ink and addressed to Severus Snape, had been left on the doorstep, and everything had changed!

After he'd read the letter, his mother had told him the truth about herself and about him. Suddenly, he'd envisioned a bright new future for himself. Severus was going to be different from his father – he was a wizard! He would have power, command respect! No living in a tiny hovel and wearing threadbare, old clothes for him!

His dreams had lasted until his arrival at Hogwarts. His ambition had gotten him sorted into Slytherin House. There, he had learned that nothing had changed – he was still second class to all his peers. The bile that had risen in him at that discovery had threatened to choke him.

Now, close to thirty years later, where was he? He owed his life, his very soul, to Albus Dumbledore. Although Severus knew it was kindly meant, better than he deserved, he felt as trapped as his grandfather had been. It did not matter that he only feigned allegiance and was working to bring the madman down. Each time he answered the Dark Lord's call and submitted to his service, he felt his debt mount.

He had thought that in marrying Rowan, he might actually have been able to buy back some of that debt. Just this once, he could stand up and protect someone, take her under his wing and keep her safe. For a brief while, he had even believed she might want him, too – be a real wife to him. Then, she had come to her senses, and so, necessarily, had he.

Severus did not believe in any almighty power; he only believed he owed Albus all that he could give and more. His was the endless duty and never the reward. Only, for one brief moment and dimly, as if through a smoked glass, he had glimpsed the possibility that such a mercy could exist.

Severus's eyes focused back on the flames in front if him. It was late, but he should speak to Albus and find out what had been done about Mrs. Bourne before he slept. He stood, put the bottle away, and left the glass on the table for a house-elf to clean.

Checking that his coat was straight, he walked up the stairs to the headmaster's office.

After leaving her mother and the headmaster to their discussion, Rowan closed the door softly behind her and headed down the stairs. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a shadow detached itself from the wall at the bottom and addressed her.

"Miss Bourne."

"Professor Snape!" Rowan cried.

"Sshhh," he hissed. Taking her arm, he guided her firmly away from the base of the stairs.

"Why are you here?" she asked, more quietly.

"I was going to see the headmaster, but I did not wish to interrupt."

"I think he'll be a little while, my mother wanted to speak with him alone," Rowan told him, glancing nervously back at the guardian gargoyle. "I'm going back to my dorm."

"In that case, I shall escort you; perhaps they will be through by the time I get back here."

He turned and started towards the stairs, but the touch of Rowan's hand on his elbow checked him. He turned back with a questioning expression.

Rowan had been wishing to speak with him and hadn't expected to have the chance so soon. There was a lot she wanted to say, but it was all tangled up in her head, and Snape was looking impatient. She settled on a simple, "Thank you," and waited to see his reaction.

"It is no trouble," he responded, "since I must wait anyway. Furthermore," he asserted, "students shouldn't be wandering around alone at this hour." He made as if to usher her along, but Rowan knew he had misunderstood and tried again.

"No, Professor. I meant, thank you for rescuing my mother. We found out a little while ago that you brought her just in the nick of time."

Snape drew himself up stiffly. Not usually slow to accept gratitude, this time he did not welcome it. "Your mother would have been in no danger, if not for me," he told her finally, his discomfort obvious.

Rowan hesitated, uncertain what more to say; he looked so very prickly. "I'm still glad she's here safe. And I'm glad not to be walking back to Ravenclaw alone."

He nodded acknowledgement, relaxing slightly. "Let us go, then."

Rowan picked up her nightgown from over the chair where she had tossed it earlier that night and changed quietly into it. She climbed into bed, undoing the bronze tiebacks and drawing the blue velvet curtains shut. There couldn't be more than a couple of hours remaining till dawn; expecting Flitwick to wake her wouldn't help her get to sleep. Rowan sighed and fluffed her pillows, then lay down flat on her back.

Twenty minutes later, Rowan's eyes still stared up into the darkness. It was becoming obvious that trying to sleep was useless. After a few more minutes she gave up the attempt and quietly climbed back out of bed. The clock read nearly three a.m.; no wonder it was so cold in the dorm.

She couldn't sleep, and she couldn't go anywhere. She was far too upset to read. There was only one thing to do till dawn. She slid her feet into her slippers, stood and slipped on a robe, then fished around for her knitting and crept down to the deserted common room.

Rowan built up the fire in the fireplace, dragged her favorite comfy chair and an afghan into the warm circle in front of it, and settled herself in with her knitting. It felt a little like those days over the winter hols, when she had had the entire Ravenclaw tower practically to herself.

She thought she'd been worried and upset then, but for all her stewing, it had never occurred to her to fear for her mother's safety. She'd been so wrapped up in her own pain and grief, and her fear for Professor Snape, that she hadn't paid attention to anything else. The Daily Prophet stories and the bereaved and missing students should have warned her.

Rowan had a great deal to think about and was grateful for the solitude. She had a sense that something had changed within her tonight, but she did not know what. She only knew she felt different somehow than when she had first lain down to sleep that night, now many hours ago.

She settled herself to wait out the remainder of the night. She pulled up her feet and sat cross-legged in the chair, with her legs tucked under the afghan, and pulled her long-neglected knitting from the bag.

Now, that it was spring she wasn't especially motivated to have the new winter socks she had started months before, but she didn't want to have to think about a new project; she only wanted the soothing peace that knitting on something easy and familiar could bring. She picked up the half-formed sock, untangled the ball of yarn from the five double-pointed needles, and set it to rights. How long has it been since I've touched this? How long has it been since I knitted anything? Rowan wondered to herself as she counted the stitches on the needles. Two had slipped off the needles and had started to ladder from the bag being kicked around her dorm the last few months.

Brow wrinkled briefly in concentration, Rowan picked up and re-knit the dropped stitches. When it was sorted, she slipped the yarn over her finger and began deftly forming stitches. Now, only her hands were needed for the task, and her mind was free to return to her troubles. The gentle rhythm of her knitting took the edge off of grief and worry and let her examine her own soul most effectively.

Hours before, the evening had started off normally: she had done her homework with her friends in the common room and then gone to bed. She had lain awake for the usual restless period worrying about her life and then dropped off to sleep.

She had been awakened, softly, from a dream in which she had been floating alone in a small boat on the lake. She had opened her eyes to see a house-elf holding a lit candle. The creature had apologized for disturbing her and told her she was summoned to the headmaster's office. Still shaking the image of the lake from her head as she followed the little elf through the castle, Rowan thought that the night had felt no more real than her dream.

When she had seen Professor Snape waiting with Professor Dumbledore, she had felt as if a great swell had just come under the boat from her dream, tipping her into the icy water.

She had not wanted to see Snape just then. She was still confused, torn between relief that she would not have to marry him and hurt that he had maneuvered her so neatly to get out of it. If she had known that she would be required to allow him into her mind, she would have told that elf to sod off.

No, Rowan decided. With her mother in danger, she couldn't have backed out.

She had been distrustful and frightened, but the touch of his mind had not been distasteful. He had been as good as his word and had not rummaged, but allowed her concentration to guide his touch. He had said she would likely not know if he probed further, but she felt entirely certain that he had not.

What had he thought of all those scenes of Muggle life? Rowan smiled to herself, remembering again the memories that had risen up in her mind at his touch. Scenes so intimately tied to her memory of her home that they all drifted to the surface just because she had been concentrating on it. With a pang, Rowan remembered that that home was gone forever.

She lowered her hands, still wrapped in the yarn, to her lap and let her eyes close. A tear ran down her cheek, leaving a warm track which turned cold even before the drop splashed onto her wrist.

She gave a great sniff, then twisted around to dry her cheek on her shoulder without untangling her hands from the needles. She would not sink into pathos now, no matter how much she deserved to. With determination she lifted her knitting again and counted stitches 'aloud' in her mind as she worked them so that the sound filled her mind, precluding other thoughts and distracting her until her composure returned.

From fifth year, when a witch could reasonably be expected to do such things magically, if she did them at all, Rowan had been teased about her hand knitting. Tiring of the jibes finally one day, she had taken out two sets of needles and balls of yarn. She had picked up one set of five needles in her hands and had spelled the other set to working in midair next to her, in perfect syncopation to the movements of the needles in her hands. She had done this for four nights straight and had finished both the left and right socks of the pair simultaneously. Having proved her point, she had done it the way she preferred from then on.

There had been some trouble with her friend, Hermione, after that story had gotten around, some matter about wanting hats for house-elves. Rowan eventually convinced her that her time was already committed to projects for her family and friends, and she couldn't take on any more – but the friendship had suffered.

Smiling to herself, Rowan tried to imagine herself knitting for Severus Snape. What would he like? Certainly not mittens! Socks, or a muffler in plain black. Not that she was likely to be taking up any such project!

And there, she realized, her thoughts had come around again. All paths, no matter how unlikely, led to Professor Snape.

He had – almost – said he was sorry for what had happened. He had said her mother wouldn't have been in danger except for his actions. Clearly, he felt that the whole sorry state of her life was his fault. Well, wasn't it? He'd raped you after all, her subvocal 'voice' grew strident with anger. So, what should he have done? Refused? Let you be killed? a more rational part of her asked.

He shouldn't have gotten me into the situation where that was the only choice in the first place!

Rowan felt suddenly how her breathing had grown harsh as she grew more upset, and her fingers hurt from gripping the needles too tightly. She took deep, deliberate breaths and forced her hands to relax. Putting down her knitting, she alternately stretched and stroked her stiffened fingers as she struggled to find calm again. She'd been through this whole discussion with herself hundreds of times before and never found a resolution. She was tired of going around and around and always coming to the same place.

Now, when she was exhausted and discouraged, the still, small voice spoke to her, and in the quiet of the predawn, she listened.

Professor Snape blamed himself for everything that had happened, but many others just like her had been killed or lost family that year. Attacks were random and widespread. How could anyone be certain that she or her mother would have been safe, even had they had not come to You-Know-Who's special attention?

Her mother had nearly been killed, and her childhood home was burned down. Why? Because He-Who – no, Professor Dumbledore was right: call him by his name, Voldemort, she winced slightly even at sounding the name in her head – was annoyed. He hadn't done it out of anger, or envy, or lust, or any other reason that was no justification, but was, at least, within the normal range of human motive. There was no reasoning, or predicting, such insanity. Plenty of families had been killed already, adults and children. Who could say that Rowan or her mother would not have been among them?

This realization allowed Rowan to let go of some of the anger she felt towards Professor Snape. If Voldemort won, every single wizard or witch who defied, or even just annoyed him, would be punished or killed. Her kind – Muggle-born – would be first on the list.

And what about Professor Snape – Severus? He had chained himself to that monster when he was young, no older than Rowan was now, and possibly younger. Rowan sat up and tucked her feet further under the afghan. She hadn't added that up before, but it must be so. It was strange to think of Severus at her age; was he as frightened and unsure then as she was now? It gave her some perspective to think of him making his choices with little more wisdom or experience than she knew she now had.

Rowan's fingers started moving again as she gazed into the fireplace, her deft fingers making the simple knit stitches without requiring further attention from her mind.

What had driven him to such an allegiance, so young, and what had happened to make him change his mind? Was he required to do something more terrible than he had imagined, or had the everyday, casual cruelties finally added up to an unbearable burden? Did his own conscience wake from within, or did some external influence manage to reach deep inside him?

The fire popped, and a tiny burning ember landed on the stone hearth.

He had known, he must have known, that there could be no backing away once he had agreed to join; service to a Dark Lord was for life. When he knew he could not continue, was it courage or cowardice that governed his choice to turn spy for Dumbledore? Did he do it because he could not stand for such an evil to continue to gain power? Did he have to do what he could to thwart it, no matter the risk? Or, was he simply unable, too afraid, to escape by ending his own life?

Rowan doubted she would ever have the courage to ask him, but she felt what his answer must be. Severus Snape might be many disagreeable things, but he was no coward. He was strong, and he was brave. She had thought, months ago, that she was in love with him, but now she keenly felt how silly she had been then. She no longer attempted to force her feelings into such a romantic mold. She only knew that she admired and respected him, and she desperately wished he could know how much and maybe be healed a little.

She counted her stitches up again, calmer, and feeling more sure of herself than she had in weeks.

She had completed the leg and was turning the heel of her sock by the morning sunlight, which was peeping through the windows, when she heard a thin, squeaky voice answer the Ravenclaw riddle. Rowan turned her head at the sound and saw the door swing open, giving a cheery "Good morning, Professor." In another moment, Professor Flitwick struggled through the portrait hole into the common room.

"Miss Bourne, I came to speak with you, but I did not expect to find you awake," he said on entering.

"I couldn't sleep, Professor, so I just came down here."

"You know already, then?" he asked delicately, in his tiny voice.

"Yes, sir. The headmaster found out last night and told me. He said I should try to get some sleep if I could, but I couldn't."

"No wonder, my poor child," Flitwick said kindly, taking her hand in his tiny one and patting it gently with the other. "Such a terrible thing and such a shock. The Headmaster told me he has received the official notification from the Ministry. I'm sorry, but the story will be in the morning papers. We both feel you would be more comfortable if you had some privacy while the rest of the school hears the news. I am taking you to the hospital wing. You need rest, and I hope you will find your grief easier to bear when you have slept a little."

Flitwick's gentle speech sounded slightly rehearsed. Well, no wonder, he's probably given it a dozen times already this year, Rowan thought, pitying him.

"Thank you, Professor," Rowan said, standing. "I'd like to change first, though."

"Of course. I'll wait for you here, Miss Bourne."

Rowan went up to her dorm room, put away her knitting, and quickly changed from her nightgown into clean robes without waking any of her dorm mates, then hurried back down. She followed her Head of House out and to the infirmary.

When they got to the hospital wing, they found Madam Pomfrey already awake and aware of the situation. She took Rowan in hand and bustled her into a bed in no time. "You look as if you haven't gotten a wink of sleep and no wonder. Lie down, and I'll give you something to help you sleep for a bit."

Rowan lay down with a tired sigh and allowed herself to be fussed over. A short while later, she was fast asleep.

A/N: I've picked up what we have learned of Snape's background in HBP, but DH was not yet out when this was written, and I'm letting it stand.