Part Third: The Hart Subvertant, Chapter 31, Part 1

Chapter 31, Part 1:

If there was one thing Emily found intensely irksome, it was waiting to get better after she had been sick or injured. It had now been four days after her confrontation with Molly Weasley, and after four days of treatment with compresses soaked in the new iron burn Healing Potion, she felt so much better that she had started pestering Catherine to release her from hospital.

"Not yet, not yet," Catherine said on Friday night, when she brought up a tray of supper and an armful of books and magazines for her increasingly restless patient. "You're healing fast, but we're still experimenting with the new potion, Em, so I'd rather err of the side of caution."

"Tomorrow, then?"

"Maybe – I'll tell you after I've checked your bandages tomorrow morning." Catherine sat down by Emily's bedside with a cup of tea as her patient started on supper: a large green salad with roast chicken and vegetables, and a pot of herb tea. "So, Em... do you want to tell me how you met up with that iron poker, and then got magically cursed afterward?" she asked, very tactfully indeed.

Emily looked sharply up at her friend. "Who told you about the curse?"

"Severus did. He wrote me the day before he brought you in, telling me that some unnamed Faery mutual acquaintance of ours was going to need treatment for burn injuries, and some nasty-sounding magical curse – here's his letter." Catherine reached into her large pocketbook, sitting on a chair in the clinic foyer, and put a letter in Emily's hand – she immediately recognised her colleague's stark handwriting.

As she read though his letter, she found herself strangely touched by what he had written. Although his disapproval of her actions came across loud and clear – so did his concern over her potential injury. He gave very specific details of the potential side effects of the Cruciatus Curse and listed various ways of treating someone who had suffered it. There was a brief inventory of potions he had enclosed with the communication – both varieties of Healing Potion, Calming Draught, tincture of belladonna – so apparently he had taken it upon himself to supplement Catherine's clinic's pharmacy as well.

"Does this have anything to do with that enormous new barely-healed slash on your left shoulder, by any chance?" Catherine asked quietly. "I noticed it while I was getting you into your hospital gown on Monday night."

Emily blushed, looking down at her supper. "I can't... really tell you about that, Cat. All the information is highly sensitive."

"I get it, I get it. Although I heard something through the grapevine about how some wizard thug had stabbed a Fianna knight in the back in Diagon Alley, and how everyone was really upset about it. At the time I hoped it hadn't been you, because you didn't come to see me about it," Catherine said, blowing on her tea. "But it was you, wasn't it."

"Yes, it was," Emily admitted. "I would have come to you afterward, but I wasn't sure if you'd be here or at home, and I was bleeding so much I just let them take me to St. Mungo's and refused anything but willow bark infusion. You know, that's – "

"The Wizarding equivalent of aspirin, yes, I know. Any reason why you couldn't have come to me afterwards, though? At the very least I could have prescribed you something non-narcotic for the pain."

"Catherine... I'm sorry," Emily said in a conciliatory tone. "There was just a lot going on at work at the time, and I didn't want to trouble you."

"Emily – you're a dimensional plane away from home, and I'm one of the few people you actually know here. Not only that, but we've been friends for almost twenty-five years, and I'm a practicing physician. When you become the victim of what sounds like a violent hate crime, trouble me, all right?" Catherine declared, with a look of severest reproach.

"Look, there was more to it than that. The bloke who did it wasn't just some anti-Fae bigot, it was actually... oh hell, I shouldn't even be telling you any of this, but here goes." Emily pushed her plate away. "The stabbing was a contract hit put out on me by a fellow working for some Dark Wizards who thought I knew more about them than I actually did. As to what these blokes are like... oh, let's just say they're about the worst criminals the Wizarding world has, and leave it at that."

"Voldemort and the Death Eaters," Catherine said levelly. "Yes, I've heard of them. I think everyone who's acquainted with a European witch or wizard has heard of them. And from what I've heard, You-Know-Who somehow pulled a Dark Lord Sauron and brought himself back from the dead."

Emily stared at her. "How did you know?"

"Laurent's youngest brother is still at Beauxbatons, and one of his best mates was a Triwizard Tournament exchange student. The kid who told Rowan Collier heard it straight from Albus Dumbledore himself at a dinner at Hogwarts. As soon as Laurent heard, he wrote all his friends in the U.K. and warned them. He especially stressed it to me, because he thought I might want a heads-up if there was a sudden spike in magical injuries. He also thought I might be at higher risk to become a target because I work in a hospital. So I figured that if Laurent was telling me all this, and you weren't, when you bloody well live at Hogwarts – then it had to be because you were involved in the resistance effort somehow and were keeping your involvement quiet." She put down her tea mug, not letting up with the reproachful glare for an instant. "Am I right?"

"Cat... "

"I am, aren't I," Catherine said flatly. "I know you, Em – you couldn't walk away from a fight if you tried, especially since these Death Eater scumbags tried to have your father killed back in the eighties. They were the reason your father left England and isn't coming back."

Emily averted her eyes. "My word – you're so well-informed today you're positively frightening me."

Catherine shrugged. "I've spent a lot of time in Gwydion's library reading medical texts over the years, and seeing as how a lot of the time your dad is the only other Briton at Court, he and I have gotten to talking. A lot. I asked him once if he ever got back to England much, and he said that Arcadia was his home now. Then it came out that he'd been targeted by some Muggle-hating Dark Wizards after he wouldn't join up with them, and didn't ever want to go back, and he didn't want you or your mother anywhere near the Wizarding world either. He also said once that he was pretty disappointed that he couldn't convince his other children to move to Arcadia as well, but I got the distinct feeling there's been some really bad blood there, and didn't pry."

"Yes, there has been," Emily said quietly. "He doesn't like to talk about them. They haven't spoken to each other in years."

"So Emily, come on," Catherine chided her. "I knew you'd want to go after these guys once I heard what had happened. I know how much you love your father – you'd go medieval on anyone who'd ever tried to hurt him. And these Death Eaters certainly seem to be doing their best to bring this fight to your doorstep, what with killing one of your students like that."

Emily sighed. "All right, yes, it's true. I joined Dumbledore's resistance effort, and I got burnt and then cursed because of something I was doing for them. You are, as always, one hundred percent right."

"Dumbledore's resistance effort? So the Hogwarts headmaster is running the show?"

"Yes. They call themselves the Order of the Phoenix."

Catherine nodded thoughtfully. "Is Severus a part of the group as well?"

"Yes, he is. If there's a chain of command in the Order, he's probably ranked about third in it, right after a Magical Law Enforcement veteran named Alastor Moody."

Cat shook her head admiringly. "Bloody hell, and somehow he finds the time to work on a cure for iron burns while trying to free his world from oppression." She turned another reproachful look at Emily – "Why do you not like him again?"

"Cat – honestly!" Emily protested, now blushing furiously. "Do I have to explain every stupid workplace conflict I get into to you? My word, you're starting to sound like my mother."

"Good – your mother's a damned clever lady." Catherine reached for her mug of tea again. "So, this Order of the Phoenix. Do they have any doctors in the ranks?"

Emily turned her most dire look of prohibition on her friend. "No. I don't want you involved."

Catherine didn't give an inch. "Why not?"

"Because you're a Muggle, Cat. The Death Eaters would kill you as soon as look at you."

"So would all those bloody Orcs, but somehow I'm still here. Emily, listen to me – Severus told me that he administered first aid to you when you came back from whatever it was that you did on Monday, and he's a pretty decent amateur triage medic – for an organic chemist," Catherine pointed out. "I, on the other hand, have extensive experience as both a combat medic and an emergency room physician, and I'm not exactly crap at magic either. Don't tell me the group can't use someone like me."

"I've been listening to you – and I'm not letting you become their next target. Back when we were at war together, I never expected you to pick up a sword and charge onto the battlefield – that's my job – "

"Exactly – and it's my job to patch you up after you get hurt doing your job. And, if you'll remember, I usually do a pretty decent job of it." She quirked an eyebrow at her patient. "How's your head, by the way?"

Emily reached for her fork and salad plate again, sulking. "It's fine, thank you."

"Any headaches? Blurry vision?"

Emily sulked all the worse. "Leave me alone. You're interrupting my supper."

"Patched you up real nice that time, didn't I," Cat goaded, smugly crossing her arms over her chest. "Right after saving your arse, no less."

"I'm recuperating, you know," Emily said huffily. "Some doctor you are, baiting people while they're recuperating. Real therapeutic, darling."

"Not even a scar," Cat continued inexorably. "Though I was rather astonished to discover that something had actually been found that was harder than that head of yours, truly."

"All right, all right, all right." Emily threw down her napkin, conceding defeat. "I'll introduce you to Dumbledore, and if anyone gets hurt, we'll perhaps entertain the option of bringing you in – but that's all I'll let you do, and I mean that, Cat. Despite the constant insubordinate cheekiness – which I only let you get away with because you're my friend – I was your commanding officer once, so don't make me pull rank on you."

"Yes, my Lady," Catherine said, smiling.

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After Emily finished supper, Catherine changed her bandages for the final time that night, again marvelling over the rate at which she was healing. The burns were now just large bluish splotches of extremely sensitive new skin, and Catherine predicted that at this rate, she would be fully healed by tomorrow evening. "Okay, sweetie, I have to go, my shift starts in ten minutes. I'll be back to check on you before I go home, though."

"All right, I'll see you then." Cat was sitting on the edge of her bed, and Emily impulsively wrapped her arms around her friend. "You still love me?" she asked in a small voice, letting her head fall onto Catherine's shoulder.

"Of course, silly." Cat gathered her in for a long, comforting hug, then kissed the top of her head. "You just worry me, trying to save the world all the time. And you never want to let me help you, either. I know I can't really be in the Fianna and get honours like you and the others, but I do my best."

"Hey, if I had my way, you'd be Lady Orson, Senior Medical Officer, and be covered with medals," Emily said. "But there's only so much a person can do to change the rules when she's only tenth in line for the throne."

"Really, you're that far down?"

"Tenth or eleventh, I forget. It's somebody else's job to remember all that stuff, thank goodness."

"I know – you hate all that courtly stuffiness," Cat laughed. "Well, milady, here I have to leave you. People to save, wounds to stitch, you know the drill."

"I know." Emily let go of Cat with reluctance; after the week she had had, it felt wonderful to get a kind, sisterly hug from a good friend. "Bye. Save lots of lives, and all that."

"Good night. Try and get some sleep."

Not long after Catherine had gone, there came the flitter-rustle-scritch of a post owl at the clinic window, and Emily got up to answer it. A little brown barn owl she recognised as one of the Hogwarts school owls alighted on the windowsill, carrying a small white box addressed to:

Miss Professor Emmalee Swane

Lundon

Emily thanked the bird with head-scratch and a bit of chicken from her dinner plate, and it bobbed its head in thanks before it flew off.

Inside the box was a little bouquet of fragrant wildflowers that could be found all around Hogwarts in summer: yellow iris, primroses, haresbell, dog violets, and heath orchids, loosely bound with narrow pastel satin ribbons, and three letters. The first was a simple little card, written in large, childish hand:

Get Wel Soon

Cecile

Simple words and dodgy spelling aside, the elf's note and exquisite bouquet made her throat tighten with gratitude. She set the little bouquet on her hospital bed tray, where its fragrance could reach her nose, then opened her second letter, which was written in a flowing hand and deep purple ink, on white parchment monogrammed with the initials A.P.W.B.D. – Albus Dumbledore's personal stationery, no doubt. His letter read:

Dear Emily,

Albus

The third letter was a simple thing written on lined notepaper:

Dear Swain,

Tonks

"I'll be there, Tonks," she muttered, with a small, happy smile.

Then, Emily's eyes fell on another letter lying on the bed tray. Catherine had not asked for Professor Snape's letter back, and now Emily lay in her hospital bed reading it and then re-reading it, unable to suppress a furtive thrill that he had written such a letter in the first place. In the day leading up to the confrontation, not even the Headmaster or Emily herself had had the practical foresight to line up expert medical care for her after the incident with Molly, but Snape had. It occurred to her then that acid tongue or no, her prickly colleague was a very good man indeed to have about in a crisis.

Why did he do all this? she wondered. Why would he do this for us?

She had no doubt that Snape would nonetheless have diligently done everything he could to aid any member of the Order of the Phoenix who needed help... but to take that diligence to the point of anticipating a need for a Healing Potion variant designed to cure iron burns, and then taking it upon himself to create such a remedy was so far above and beyond anything she would have expected of him that she could still scarcely believe it. She recalled Lucius's remarks about the Wolfsbane Potion Snape had created in order to render werewolves harmless during their transformations – he had made it sound as though Wolfsbane had been Dumbledore's idea, and he had then foisted all the practical work for it off onto Professor Snape. But Snape himself and then Dumbledore made it sound as though the professor had been thinking about the need for such a remedy for some time, and that he had taken it upon himself to experiment with Wolfsbane well before Remus Lupin had ever come to work at Hogwarts. Snape hadn't made it sound as though the work was an unwelcome imposition upon him at all, but a project undertaken because he saw there was need for such, and he had the knowledge and expertise to create one. Some people might do crosswords or collect model trains, but apparently Severus Snape liked to work on cures for supernatural ailments in his spare time.

For a creature made of thorns and prickles, he certainly was generous with his abilities – being neither a lycanthrope nor a Faerie himself, both Wolfsbane and this new iron burn Healing Potion seemed to be purely utilitarian undertakings on his part, intended to impart the greatest good to the greatest number of people. Everyone knew how much Snape personally disliked Remus Lupin (and how indifferent he was on the topic of another Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor, for that matter) and yet he had obviously put in a tremendous amount of work to help both of them, and others like them. Not only that, but he seemed to expect absolutely nothing in return, other than perhaps the satisfaction in seeing suffering alleviated, and in his own achievement. By all appearances, he had seemed content to work on the Healing Potion variant with Catherine and Laurent and never even mention it to her.

By the Lady... I've done him yet another disservice, she thought. I've underestimated him.

Emily resolved then that before she left this place, she was going to find some way to repay her colleague in kind for all he had done for her, and for Liria, and now, for the Faery people in general. She knew that she had let him down unforgivably as a lover, and had probably been less than thrilling to have as a colleague. But now she was determined that when she left here, the very least she could do was leave him with the impression that she had been a competent comrade-in-arms, and perhaps even made a half-decent friend.

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The days since he'd admitted his colleague to hospital had been long and empty for Professor Snape.

He again had Hogwarts almost entirely to himself. Dumbledore was spending quite a bit of time visiting with Black and the Weasleys at Grimmauld Place, and with Professor Swain and Hagrid gone, the only other inhabitants at Hogwarts that week were Argus Filch, Mrs. Norris, and the ghosts. Dumbledore had invited Snape to go along with him on his visits to the Order's headquarters, but Snape had brusquely declined, loath to spend any more time in Sirius Black's home that he absolutely had to, and having no desire to accept Black's hospitality.

Black's odious presence aside, the dust, filth, and general neglect of Black's home not only annoyed him, but served as a constant reminder that he hadn't been able to make as much headway in the endless repairs to Snape Hall as he would have liked that year. He kept trying to put enough Galleons aside to finally put a whole new roof on the place, but every rainy season brought more small leaks and minor repairs that needed to be performed just to prevent further deterioration, and after the way this year had gone, he finally just shelved the project until next year or the year after that. He would rather have liked to get a chance to spend a few quiet days at Snape Hall, just to be alone with a pile of frivolous reading and perhaps pay a visit to his old friends in the Chess Society on the weekend, but he didn't think he had time to leave just yet, not with the situation being what it was at present.

Snape had all that week been reviewing the memories of previous Death Eater meetings recovered from Cecile's mind, and while he wasn't yet finished reviewing all the information, what he had seen thus far had confirmed what Professor Swain had reported – Lucius had become entirely convinced that Snape was a traitor and had been doing his best to convince everyone else of the same for some time. The Dark Lord himself had been suspicious of Snape's interaction with Professor Quirrell while Voldemort had possessed Quirrell's body, but after Snape had not immediately appeared along with the others at the meeting in the graveyard, it was Lucius who had become convinced that his failure to appear was inalienable proof that he was a threat that must be eliminated, and had arranged the pub explosion in a private, closed-door meeting, attended only by Lucius, Walden Macnair, and the two largely invisible house-elves who tended the fire and refilled their plates and brandy glasses.

Not only that, but from the way Lucius dealt cuffs and kicks to all of his elves and addressed them all as "You, elf!", it was more obvious than ever that Lucius had never really bothered to note that they were different from one another. Snape was well aware of Lucius's callousness toward his servants – he could recall any number of times when his cousin had declared house-elves all looked alike to him – and he now strongly suspected that Lucius may not have even realised that Cecile, the elf he had given to his mistress, had witnessed so much. It was beginning to look like Professor Swain's idea of persuading Lucius to give Cecile to her had been a real stroke of genius on her part, and he hadn't even gotten a chance to examine everything that had gone on in the weeks following the private meeting in which Lucius and Macnair had planned his demise at the Fusilier. Good work, my Lady, he thought as he exited the Pensieve after his most recent foray through the elf's memories on that Saturday afternoon.

After making another report on all he had seen to Dumbledore, Snape then returned to his apartments and wrote five very carefully worded letters – to his great-aunt Druella Black, to Emmitt Parkinson, Theodore Nott, and to the Messrs. Crabbe and Goyle, respectively. If it was true that Druella, Parkinson, Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle were all still unpersuaded by Lucius's blandishments, he would need to cultivate every ally he could to defend himself against his cousin's charges. He went up to the Owlery and dispatched his letters, and was now sitting in his study trying to calmly research flesh-transfiguration potions, but in truth anxiously awaiting replies from all of them. Additionally, he had been sending daily post owls to Catherine Orson for updates on their patient's condition ever since she had been admitted to hospital. Professor Swain was, after all, the most serious iron burn case they had yet treated with what was still an experimental potion, and he thought it was only a professional courtesy to monitor her progress and make certain she was all right.

At perhaps half-past seven p.m. he was roused from his reading by a post owl at his window. He collected the letter, recognising Dr. Orson's now-familiar handwriting:

Dear Severus,

Catherine

Snape set down her letter with a long sigh of relief, his forehead inclining onto his hand.

He had known Professor Swain was going to get hurt on this idiotic mission she had undertaken, but the time between her departure from Hogwarts and her arrival at Grimmauld Place had been excruciating. He had paced the kitchen floor, watching every clock in sight and answering anyone who spoke to him in the most curt and abrasive monosyllables – couldn't they see he was in no mood for frivolous conversation? He remembered feeling acute pity for Arthur Weasley, who sat pale and nervous at the kitchen table, obsessively refilling his tea cup and staring down at his hands, with Tonks and Dumbledore sitting silent beside him. Yes, Arthur he understood, but everyone else's presence had only annoyed him to no end – he'd even snapped a vicious No at Albus when the Headmaster offered him a cup of tea. At that moment he hadn't even been able to look at Albus – Albus who was usually his closest friend and ally – without wanting to shout at him and shower abuse on him for ever agreeing to this ridiculous undertaking in the first place, and not having the brains to just send the woman home while there was still time. If he kills her, it will all be your fault, you old fool, and I will hold you personally responsible for whatever happens. His jaw had begun to hurt with the pressure of what he couldn't say as he watched the clock, and paced.

Then the door creaked open, and Mrs. Weasley arrived, only to be mobbed by her husband, eldest son, and the twins – Merlin's beard, couldn't they see that Molly had just suffered a terrible shock and the last thing she needed was to be accosted by a lot of howling savages? For heaven's sake, sit her quietly down and put a hot cloth on her forehead, get her some Calming Draught and a brandy, and stop pawing her, he wanted to tell them.

Another half-hour went by.

Then the door opened again, and whatever he had expected, he hadn't been prepared for what Professor Swain looked like when she returned. She had wavered across the threshold of Grimmauld Place, stumbling, barely aware of where she was, and with literal tears of blood trickling from her eyes and nose in the manner of those who have suffered prolonged exposure to Crucio. Not surprisingly, she started to collapse before she got three steps into the foyer, and everyone else had been too transfixed with watching her bleed to recognise that she needed help, for pity's sake. He could have killed those idiotic Weasley twins, making idiotic war whoops in celebration of their mother's safe return while his colleague – the formidable ice maiden who wasn't afraid of anything – shrank into him and cried.

No, she may have been surrounded by ineffectual idiots, but he'd be damned if he'd let her suffer that indignity for one instant more. They may both have been outsiders in Sirius Black's house, in the Order, at Hogwarts, in this world, bloody well anywhere, but he wasn't going to abandon her to this. She'd clung to him so tightly while he carried her out of there – if he'd been in the same condition she was at that moment, he'd probably have been lashing out at everyone who came near him in a pain-maddened rage, not lying quiet on someone's shoulder. While he treated her, he'd been angry about the entire situation: that Dumbledore had foolishly and short-sightedly accepted her help, that Black hadn't bothered to so much as clean up a sickroom in anticipation of her arrival, that Mrs. Weasley was troubling her with self-indulgent hysterics when the woman didn't have a mark on her, that the Weasley twins were such goddamn hooligans – but Professor Swain hadn't spoken one word of complaint, even though she was lying there with the worst burn he'd ever seen on anyone. The fact that she had returned at all was impressive – she must have been able to hide her real motives from Voldemort's mind magics even while injured, and Snape knew from agonising prior experience that the Dark Lord's Cruciatus curses were something to be dreaded.

Then she'd asked, Would you just... talk to me about something? catching him completely by surprise, and he hadn't been able to refuse her, since all she had seemed to want was to keep listening to the sound of his voice. Well, if it comforted her to hear him lecturing about potion-making for some incomprehensible reason, he'd be damned if he was going to refuse her at this point – Merlin knew he could hold forth on this topic for as long as she wanted. And then she'd gotten concerned when he told her about having to collect his own tears to create Healing Potion – oh honestly, it wasn't even that difficult; two minutes of recalling his mother's coffin being lowered into the ground was enough to get all the tear water he'd ever need. But how she'd been able to feel compassion for him while in her condition, he'd never know.

Yes... perhaps he'd judged her too harshly. Perhaps –

But then he looked sharply up at his transom window again, for another creature was scratching at the glass. He opened the window and peered out, and a large bird, what looked like a North Sea kestrel, alighted on his windowsill. Snape untied a large, heavy parchment envelope from the animal's leg, then fed it a handful of dried minnows from a jar on the shelf. A moment later, the bird shook out its feathers and winged silently out of sight.

The return address was that of his home at Snape Hall, posted to his work address at Hogwarts. Opening the envelope, he found a second letter inside, with a note on white stationery with his own family crest:

Dear Master Severus,

SNAPE HALL

The enclosed letter was on the Malfoy family's watermarked stationery and bore their family seal in green wax. He instantly recognised Lucius's ostentatiously ornate handwriting – the son of a bitch never put pen to paper without acting as though he was signing the bloody Magna Carta or some such.

Old man ~

L.

Snape checked the clock on his desk –

7:47 p.m.

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Half an hour later, Snape was in the Headmaster's office, both of them looking over Lucius's letter, which lay open on Dumbledore's desk.

"He sent this to my home in Orkney, so apparently he thinks I'm staying there at the moment. When I contacted Officers Tonks and Shacklebolt about potentially accompanying me tonight, they both told me the same story – that they were both committed to attend an instructional lecture by Alastor Moody, from eight to ten p.m. tonight," Snape told him. "Then next I spoke to Moody, and he told me that he had been engaged by Tibernius Solon, the judicial magistrate, to give an instructional lecture to the United Kingdom's Aurors' Corps on new methods of detecting magical traps, which Moody thought was a fine idea at the time. He couldn't talk long, actually, because he was on his way out the door at that very moment." Snape paused, looking up from the letter at his companion. "Solon, of course, has been a crony of Malfoy's for decades."

"Somehow I don't think any of this timing was coincidental," Dumbledore said quietly.

"And I think you're absolutely right," Snape replied. "It appears that Malfoy has been trying to figure out where my loyalties lie for some time now. And after what I've seen in the Pensieve... " He shrugged, his fingers drumming restlessly on the desk in front of him. "Lucius doesn't know if I've joined the Order, or if I haven't returned as a Death Eater for some reasons of my own. But given the situation he's created now, I'm fairly certain that he does in fact believe I've joined the Order and is looking for evidence he can present to the group to confirm his suspicions. The only way to refute those suspicions, of course, is by turning up to this proposed meeting and convincing him that all this time I've been salivating to take up my black robe and mask again, but haven't had a safe opportunity due to my close association with you."

"I would not have you go at all if it will put you in any kind of danger, my friend," Dumbledore told him, his white brows creasing seriously. "You and I both know that we can trust Malfoy about as far as we could throw Hogwarts Castle itself."

"But to decline the invitation outright would be an overt show of no confidence," Snape said, turning away from his colleague to gaze out the window onto the lake. "And to refuse to appear at the meeting would mean passing up on an opportunity to negotiate with Lucius, if he is sincere. And of course he's timed the bloody thing so that I have to make a snap decision. I've no doubt that he's timed this meeting to conflict with Moody's instructional session on purpose, so that if I have in fact joined the effort against them, none of our Auror allies can accompany me for protection. I'd have to go into this completely blind."

"I leave it up to you, my friend. If it was my decision, I would forbid you to go – I do suspect that this latest invitation will just turn out to be another attempt on your life," Dumbledore cautioned.

"It may be," Snape said grimly. "But Lucius conducts a great deal of his business by means of these secret little back-door meetings, and it wouldn't be the first time he has asked me to attend one of them, especially when pharmaceuticals of any kind were involved. You no doubt can recall all the times he asked me to accompany him to this sort of meeting back in the early eighties. As we both know, if we'd ever been able to get proof of all the blackmail, extortion, bribery and corruption he committed back then, he'd have gotten life in Azkaban."

"Yes, of course I remember," Dumbledore replied, nodding thoughtfully.

"Both he and the Dark Lord have always been quick to point the accusation of traitorousness at their confederates – oftentimes it's their way of asking for reassurance of loyalty. I've seen them apply this sort of pressure to others in the group any number of times." Snape took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I'm willing to go to this meeting, and tactically, I think it would be a mistake not to put in a token appearance – but what with Lucius's current hostilities toward me, in all honesty, I don't have any idea as to what to expect. It could be another trap, and it could be a genuine attempt to bring me back into the fold. I simply have no idea either way at the moment.

"However, if no one can be found to accompany me as backup in case it is another murder attempt, the potential risks of going outweigh the advantages. But nonetheless, I'm not looking forward to the idea of open war being declared between me and the entire lot of them, because my chances of surviving such open hostilities for any period of time... are not optimistic." Snape's tone was fatalistic, but his only indication of nervousness was the slow, silent drumming of his fingers against the windowsill.

Dumbledore got up and crossed to his colleague, laying a supportive hand on his arm. "Don't worry, my friend. Someone has been found who can accompany you to this meeting and guarantee your safety." The headmaster glanced toward the office door – "Ah, there you are, Professor. So glad to see you're up and about again."

"Thank you very much, sir. It's good to be out of hospital," came a lilting voice from over Snape's shoulder. He turned toward her.

The silver chain mail was now painted soot-black, flowing with her every movement like armoured skin. A side lock of her pale hair was braided with crow feathers; a single rune like a broken cross – which she would later tell him was the muin, symbolic of the Morrigan – was drawn high on her cheekbone in blue woad. She was barefoot and all in faded black, bearing no visible mark of Third Kingdom loyalty for this stealth mission. For one very long moment, as she came toward him, with the sword on her back, and the dagger on her hip, and the pitiless resolve on her face, Snape knew what the doomed satyr Robinett had faced across a forest clearing, and feared it. A chill crept down his back – A goose walking over my grave, his Scottish grandmother Octavia Prince would have said.

But Severus Snape had betrayed Lord Voldemort at the height of his power, and he had seen many far more terrifying sights than Fianna Commander Emily Swain-Tumnus at full battle readiness.

"Good evening, Professor," he said, with a cool, gracious nod of greeting. "How are you feeling?"

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"I'm fine," Professor Swain said. "Between an excellent doctor and this really clever apothecary bloke I know, I healed up in record time – Catherine pronounced me fully recovered this morning. And yourself?" She paused, slanting an appreciative smile at him, and silently spoke the words Thank you.

Snape acknowledged it with another nod of his dark head, and a ghost of a smile. "I'm well enough," he replied, black eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He paused, allowing himself just an instant's vicarious delight at seeing her healthy again, looking as vital and insolent and... totally insufferable as she had always been, with that little lift to her chin, and all that impatient, athletic confidence restored. After seeing her collapse in the foyer of Grimmauld Place earlier that week, it just did his heart good to see her back to normal.

"Good evening, my dear." Dumbledore came forward to warmly clasp her hands, also seeming pleased to see her looking so hale and hearty, then turned back to Snape. "When you Flooed Malfoy's letter to me and were on your way down, I took the liberty of Flooing Professor Swain and asking her to join us."

"Albus told me another member of the Order might need a bit of backup for a dangerous mission, and I was happy to volunteer," Emily added.

Snape was silent, watching her. He knew what she must be feeling, having already seen this eager aggression in her once before – or rather, having already felt it in the memory of battle she had shown him at Grimmauld Place. It didn't seem to matter to her how often he said, You have no place in this conflict, you are risking all in helping us; nor that she had been released from hospital only hours earlier – here she was again reporting for duty, armoured and prepared for battle. He thought about protesting her involvement yet again... but after a moment's consideration, he said nothing. He now knew the woman too well to imagine that voicing his objections would change a damned thing, and while she was still the biggest fool he had ever seen to keep coming back for more, just another victim of her own vain idealism – he needed her tonight, and there was no denying it.

"Thank you, madam. Your efforts are... much appreciated," Snape said quietly. "Though are you absolutely sure you're up to this?"

"Oh yes." She turned toward him with a raffish little smile, flexing her sword hand in front of her. "I'm quite looking forward to it."

"Now listen, both of you," Dumbledore said, very seriously indeed. "I don't plan on losing either one of you tonight. If either of you detects any live magic on the area – take no chances and leave at once. If Malfoy or his agents do meet you, Severus, do not go off with them to any other location – stay exactly where you are in the open, where Emily can follow you. If at any time you feel threatened, abort the mission and Apparate back here immediately."

"Yes, sir," Emily said, with what Snape knew to be a formal Arcadian salute, closed fist crossed over her breast, and a deep, respectful nod – and then she turned back to Snape with a bright, diabolical smile. "All right then, sir – let's go hunt some Death Eaters, shall we?" He thought she looked as though she couldn't wait to get started, bless her dear, gleefully violent little heart.

"Alas, in all likelihood, we'll probably just meet up with their hired thugs – the actual Death Eaters prefer not to dirty their hands," he told her.

"No matter," she scoffed, shrugging. "Just let me at 'em."

Snape chuckled. "Then after you, madam," he said, and gestured her through the door with his most polite bow.

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Emily had returned to Hogwarts at perhaps half-past six p.m. that night to discover her quarters absolutely sparkling clean, every surface dusted and everything polished, laundered, and mended, with vases of wildflowers on every surface – clear indicators of Cecile's doting presence at every turn. Her armour and all the clothes and gear she had worn on the night of the attack at the Burrow were all neatly folded on top of a dresser, immaculately cleaned and repaired. Emily was left absolutely aghast at how the elf had managed to get such dreadful bloodstains and char marks out. House-elves, gotta love them, she murmured to herself as she examined her boots, tunic, and breeches.

Catherine had told her to get some exercise in the time following her recovery; that the increased circulation would be good for the new, regenerated skin and muscle in her left thigh. "Keep yourself moving, sweetie, don't let that leg stiffen up. Get in some stretches every day, maybe go for a run. Let me know if any of your friends in the Order need patching up, and keep your arse away from iron pokers, you hear me?"

"Yes, Catherine, my love, I hear you."

Upon her return, she had gone straight to the fencing practice studio and worked up a good sweat with some training long forms, glad to be out of hospital, and even gladder to no longer be injured. Now that her injury was healed, now that the Cruciatus curse was a memory, and between Professor Snape's concern and several days of Catherine's nursing, her terror and despair had abated. In its place was now a sense of furious indignation, and an angry, mad-doggish kind of energy that made her practice thrusts and feints even more savagely than usual – Snaky-eyed fucker thinks he can Crucio me, does he? She moved through the room as though slaying a whole platoon of Orcs, cursing up a storm as she did so. What she wanted, more than anything, was someone she could fight, something she could hit, some vile evil she could irrevocably drive out of the world, just to prove that she would not allow herself to be permanently crushed under some tyrant's boot heel. Some soldiers she knew were intimidated and demoralised by serious injury, but this time, it had only made Commander Swain-Tumnus angry.

Then – the Headmaster's voice came from the studio hearth – "Emily? Are you up there?"

"Yes, sir, what is it?"

"I do apologise that I haven't been to see you since your return, but Severus and I are facing a rather serious dilemma at the moment. I know that you've only just returned from hospital, but could I perhaps trouble you for a favour this evening? Please believe that I wouldn't ask this of you if we had any other alternative."

"Of course, sir, what's going on?" she asked, approaching the hearth.

As Dumbledore began to explain the circumstances, Emily quickly realised – the perfect opportunity to show her appreciation for all Professor Snape had done for her after the Burrow attack had just fallen into her lap.

"Give me twenty minutes to prepare, and I'll be right down."

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Now as they left the Headmaster's office, Snape took his leave of her with a serious nod. "I'll need to run down to my apartments and retrieve a few things, madam, but it shouldn't take long. Can you wait for me at the gate just outside the campus?"

"Of course, sir."

"I'll meet you in a moment, and then we'll Apparate from there."

Perhaps five minutes later, Snape met his colleague at the gate. He had put on a light black topcoat, and was pulling on a pair of thin black leather gloves as he hurried down the path.

"Did you get everything you needed, sir?" Emily called to him as he approached.

He drew a sheathed dagger from an inside pocket of his coat. "Yes – I wanted to bring along a certain letter opener someone gave me once."

Emily laughed grimly. "Excellent idea. And there's something else you can probably use tonight, if you'll allow me – " She held up a familiar silver medallion on a long silver chain, then looped the Amulet of Protection around his neck. "That'll make you a significant percentage harder to hit."

"Thank you," he said, dropping the amulet under his collar. "Now, shall we?"

She paused. "Sir, before we go, can I ask you something?"

He glanced at her in mild surprise. "Yes, what is it?"

"Why did you do it? Why did you decide to create the new Healing Potion?" she asked.

He shrugged. "There was a need," he said, and to him, that was the end of it.

All she could do was stare at him, amazed. "Thank you," she said finally. "Thank you so much. I hope someday you'll know how much this will mean to us. I can't even imagine how much I'd still be suffering if you hadn't done this."

He averted his eyes to somewhere far over her shoulder, an acid tinge of self-consciousness suffusing his scent. "You're welcome," he said quietly.

"It also provides me with the perfect alibi as to where I was tonight," she said, with a devious little smirk. "It'll never occur to any of them that I could have accompanied you to this meeting, because as far as they know, I'm still laid up with a horrible burn wound and can't even stand up, much less stand guard over someone."

"It would probably never occur to any of them that you would offer to go with me even if you hadn't been injured – Lucius thought you would have been glad to hear I'd been blown up in a pub bombing, last I heard," he replied, with a grim little chuckle.

Emily blushed, averting her eyes to over his shoulder. "Well, you know. Midsummer or no Midsummer, I'm not quite that much of a vindictive bitch, I suppose," she said wryly.

Snape paused – for about one second, it looked as though he might rather like to pursue this topic of conversation – but then he glanced down at his watch. "It's now quarter to nine," he said. "We should be on our way."

"All right then, where are we going?"

"We're allegedly meeting Lucius at the back entrance of an ironworks he owns at the far end of Endustree Alley. Are you familiar with the place?"

"No – under normal circumstances, there's no way you could get me anywhere near an ironworks," she replied, shuddering.

"I understand. Don't worry – like the Headmaster said, we'll not be going inside under any circumstances. Now, as time is rather of the essence, if you'll excuse me, madam – "

He moved to her side and put an arm around her waist. An instant later they had both disappeared, with a crack of Apparition.

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They reappeared just beneath a quaint wooden signpost on a London street corner, so that the cool grass under her bare feet suddenly gave way to cold, damp cobblestones. One hand pointed east toward Endustree Alley and Knockturn Alley, another pointed south to Diagon Alley, and a third pointed west to League Alley and Litur Alley. Once they had arrived, Snape wasted no time in relinquishing his hold on his colleague, and taking a polite step away. "Come along, it's this way."

"Of course. Now you'll want to look away from me." Snape turned his back to her, and she first Obscured herself with an utterance of her True Name, then went from her soft bare feet to her hoofed form in another instant. Right behind you, she told her companion, projecting her Glamoured voice into the chamber of his ear.

Snape made his way down the east alleyway, into Endustree Alley, past the Ollivander wand woodworks, the now-defunct and boarded up Cleansweep Broomstick factory, and a large cauldron manufacturing plant. This late in the evening on a Saturday, all of the factories were closed for the weekend, and the area was for the most part deserted. Unlike the attractive shopping streets of Diagon Alley and Sartor Alley, this area was clearly intended to be a place where one went to work, not to enjoy oneself, and it looked like it. The sparsely lit walkways led past chain-link fences surrounding blacktop yards devoid of landscaping, and heavy pieces of machinery were blackly silhouetted against the sky. Now and then the cobblestones were strewn with greasy wrappings from chip shops, dead leaves, and discarded newspapers. Emily followed close behind him, scanning their surroundings for any sign of danger, both with her usual sight, and the third form of Obscurantis, which would have alerted her to any attackers approaching from beneath Invisibility Cloaks.

He paused at the entrance to a covered brick alleyway leading behind a row of sprawling industrial complexes. Several small wooden signs mounted at eye level pointed into the portal: First Butterbeer Bottling Co. Ogden's Old Firewhiskey Distillery. Tugwood Laboratories. Black Binderers and Printing Press. Vulcan Ironworks. Snape paused before entering, leaning against the brick wall and seemingly taking a moment to compose himself.

"Professor Swain? Are you still with me?" he called softly. As Emily came closer to him, she could see the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline and smell the fear and nervousness boiling in his scent. But those were the only indicators that he was at all disquieted by the situation; otherwise, he was outwardly his usual imperturbable self.

I'm right behind you, but don't look for me or you'll make me visible again, came her Glamoured answer. She placed her open hand lightly on his back, letting him know by its reassuring pressure that she was there.

"Thank you," he whispered, and his breathing quieted. "I don't think there will be more than two or three of them, if Lucius holds to his usual precedent."

I'm not worried, she replied soundlessly. I've faced far worse odds before and come out all right.

"Yes, I remember," he murmured. "However, if Lucius does appear, try not to vent your anger on him just yet, no matter what he says. I know we're both rather annoyed with him, but if we riddle him with curses and hexes, the other Death Eaters might interpret that as an aggressive action and retaliate."

Inconvenient, that, she replied, with a silent little chuckle.

Snape smirked. "Truly. Now, are we ready?" He straightened up, smoothing his lapels.

Lead on.

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The ironworks was located at the very end of the tunnel. The walkway terminated in a large walled courtyard of brick and upright wooden beams. Bolted to one of the beams was a painted sign: Vulcan Iron Manufacturing, Since 1781, with a picture of a man in a leather apron pounding at a bit of red-hot metal with a hammer.

The back entrance of the factory consisted of a wood and concrete loading dock where lorries could be loaded, and a double set of back doors leading out onto a long row of concrete stairs. Lucius was nowhere to be seen, but there were three men casually sprawled on the back steps, chatting in low voices, laughing now and then. The first was a young, wiry fellow with close-cropped blond hair, wearing a soot-stained white jersey and a blacksmith's leather apron, with tattoos on both arms. The second was a stringy, middle-aged fellow, with brushy ginger hair and thin lips, wearing a woollen pullover with holes at the elbows and a shabby brown wool cap. The third was portly and red-faced, with the stump of a cigar between his thick fingers, and wearing a long grey overcoat. Emily didn't recognise any of them, and from the look on his face as he approached them, neither did Snape.

The three of them looked like bored employees perhaps lingering after a late shift at the factory to have a smoke and a pull of whiskey, and talk over sports scores and what birds they fancied. Snape's frown deepened when he saw them, and the fear in his scent intensified. I'm right beside you, Emily's voice whispered in his ear, by means of reassurance.

"Evenin', sir," the fellow in the grey overcoat said as Snape approached them. "Can we be helping you with anything?"

"Yes, I am to meet with Mr. Malfoy this evening at nine," he replied crisply.

"You wouldn't be Mr. Severus Snape, by any freak of luck, would you?" the man asked, getting to his feet.

"I am. If one of you gentleman could please tell him that I've arrived?"

"Right away, guv," the man in the shabby cap said, snickering. He stood up as well, and Emily noticed his right hand going into his back pocket. She moved silently forward, positioning herself perhaps two paces in front of Snape, and pace to his right, adjusting her unsheathed dagger in her hand.

"Yeah... Mr. Malfoy, he sends his regards," the fellow in the grey overcoat said, his hand going into his pocket as well. Something in the man's hand caught the light – a long line of metal.

Then they started toward him.