Part First: The Hart Assurgent: Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

The next day, the morning Emily was to teach her first fencing classes, dawned clear and bright – the first day the sun had shone that week. When she met her Gryffindor and Slytherin fourth-years in the courtyard closest to the Quidditch pitch, she was dressed for fencing, in a hooded sweatshirt, baggy fencer's knickers of dark grey canvas, and heavy, laced boots. Her students were dressed for strenuous exercise as well, in baggy gym shorts, grey fleece sweatshirts with the Hogwarts crest embroidered on the front breast pocket, and trainers.

She made them line up and do warm-up callisthenics, then led them in a brisk run, once around the Quidditch pitch, and back. When she was sure that they were warmed up, she started them on basic footwork drills.

Some of her students, like Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Dean Thomas, Parvati Patil, and Lavender Brown, were naturally agile and took to the footwork drills right away; some, like Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Blaise Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson, were merely too self-conscious to fully concentrate yet; some, like Neville Longbottom and Seamus Finnigan, suffered from some adolescent clumsiness, and others, like Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, and Millicent Bulstrode, had years of inactivity to overcome. In all though, they were just like any other class of young squires she had trained.

After an hour of advances and retreats, lunges and recoils, lateral and horizontal attacks and dodges, she led them through some cool-down stretches. Then she allowed them the last ten minutes to rest, mop their faces with towels, and guzzle bottles of water before lunch.

"Oh, come on," Draco Malfoy called to her, when they were all sprawled on the grass after the session's workout. "When do we get to use a sword?"

"Be patient, Mr. Malfoy. You have to learn how to fletch arrows and string your bow before you can become an archer. It's no different with fencing."

"And when do we get to use knives?"

"After you get reasonably proficient with a sword."

Draco was making disappointed noises, demanding to know why that was. She had to turn away to hide a knowing laugh. How exactly like his father.

"Once I've taught you how to use a rapier, your dagger training will build on what you already know. Using a dagger is actually more difficult than using a sword, believe it or not, and it's a less effective weapon. Daggers are only really good for close in-fighting and situations when you need something easily concealable. A sword is better for hand-to-hand combat, and if you want a really powerful distance weapon, a bow is best."

"So we're going to learn some archery, then?" Draco asked.

"No – your Headmaster didn't think it was necessary."

"There's no mention of archery in the syllabus," Hermione said. "It's all sword combat first term, then we do some dagger training the next term, but it's mostly all about unarmed self-defence."

"Don't recall asking you anything, Granger," Draco retorted.

"Oh really? Well, I've got a question for you, then – a lot of us were trying to recall what sound a ferret makes. Some of us thought that they hissed, like snakes, and some of us thought that they squeaked, like mice. Care to clear things up for us?" Hermione asked, with a saucy grin.

Emily thought that was simply the most extraordinary non sequitur of a question to ask anyone, but for some reason, it made Draco Malfoy turn pink, and leave off arguing with Hermione.

How very odd.

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As frequently happens with groups of teachers, the conversation at lunchtime centred around odd pronouncements made by students during their classes.

"Oh yes. One of my students asked this question during my last class about ferrets," she remarked to the other teachers on her end of the table – Moody on her right, McGonagall on her left, and Snape just beyond Moody – during lunch. "She asked one of the boys if he could clarify for her what sound a ferret makes. It was the strangest thing."

She thought there was a noticeable lull in the conversation.

"Really." Moody's face lit up with what she thought was a wicked smile. "What did she ask, now?"

"Well... we had been talking about what they were going to learn this year in my fencing class, and one of the other students said something rather snarky, and then she asked him if he could tell her for certain whether ferrets hissed, or squeaked. Just out of the total blue, this question about ferrets, apropos of nothing."

"And what did he say?" Moody asked, with the air of one egging her on in some mischief. Snape glowered dangerously at the two of them for some reason.

"He didn't say anything," she said, now feeling very self-conscious, wishing she had never opened her mouth to begin with. "Seemed very embarrassed about the whole thing."

"Did he?" Moody seemed delighted. He reached for a flask that he carried in his pocket, and took a long swig from it, chortling. "Well, lassie, in case you were curious, ferrets squeak like anything. Yes, that's it, they squeak like anything! Isn't that right, Professor Snape?"

Moody threw Snape a truly demonic look of hilarity and gave him a rather violent clap on the back. She thought Professor Snape looked angry enough to swallow his tongue along with his roast beef and peas.

These Hogwarts professors made even odder conversation than their students did.

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That Friday night found Emily sitting on her window seat bench alone, before the open window, with a glass in her hand. The inch of wine in her glass was the last of the last bottle she had brought from home. She was still dressed in a sweatshirt and fencing knickers from her final class that day: an instructional session with her Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw seventh-years.

Supper had only been over for an hour – it was still early in the evening. The session with the seventh-years had not been terribly strenuous – she had taught far more demanding groups than that one – yet she still felt drained and bone-weary.

The strain of being so very civilised this first week, of fitting in with these proper wizard professors, learning the rituals of behaviour established at this thousand-year-old school, finding her place in their pecking order, all the while pretending to be fully human, was as exhausting to her now as perpetually balancing a china plate on her head.

Now – breathing the cool outside air, the freshness left after the hard rain, she wanted the smells of night, of growth and greenness, of musty piles of rotting leaves, of running water. She wanted drums in the dark, pipes in the distance, and to breathe the scent of a strong male in rut.

In short, she was having a great self-indulgent wallow in homesickness. And it was, as she reminded herself, only the end of the first week of classes.

It had been so much easier to ignore these dormant impulses during her long period of self-imposed celibacy in the last three years. But after she had impulsively had that dark stranger almost a week ago – no, now she had a name to put to the black eyes, the mouth and the body, Severus – a return to long celibacy looked bleak to her.

She had thought that she would never see him again after that first night. Now she felt foolish for not realizing that he was a wizard, and had of course been waiting for exactly the same train to Hogsmeade that she was, but had had to wait on Platform Nine instead of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, because Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was open to the sky, and it had been storming that night. All the clues had been there – she didn't see now how she could have missed them.

Yet when she had been introduced to Severus Snape in the teacher's lounge, with the scent of his lust still saturating her body, and had been greeted so coldly, the civilised part of her had felt snubbed and powerless. Her more primal side, however, had wanted to throw him on the nearest table and force him to act again on the impulses that she knew he had, beneath his ever so controlled exterior.

Certainly, she could have understood if he found matters a bit awkward – she found the situation awkward too. But now, he was giving every indication of not being able to so much as stand being near her. The pointed questions during her lecture had been startling – and what possible reason could he have had to glower at her so violently because she said something about ferrets? What was so bloody offensive to the man about ferrets? She thought ferrets were rather cute, herself. Lots of people she knew had them as pets.

Ultimately, the only reason she could come up with for his behaviour was (face it) – that he was undeniably no longer interested in her, and didn't want anything embarrassing to get back to his colleagues.

Well then. If that's what he wanted, she would leave him alone, and the peace of the Lady go with him.

But right now, this moment – she really had to get out of this castle.

She downed the last of her wine, and stood up, padding out on bare feet toward the side exit door near the base of Ravenclaw Tower, that spiralled down a curved flight of stone steps that ended on the northwest lawn of Hogwarts Castle. She turned toward the north, and east around the Astronomy Tower, past another tower that carried the strong scent of owls' feathers and owls' droppings, and finally in the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

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The feel of the cool grass under her bare feet was wonderful. Underneath the dew and damp, she could feel warmth radiating upward from the earth. The sensation of a thick green canopy of trees closing over her head felt both comforting and familiar, yet alien and exciting.

Her first impression was that this forest was ancient. Primeval oaks stood shoulder to shoulder with giant conifers that covered the ground with raised root systems as complex as mosaics. All around her the branches formed graceful, black arches, like the doorways of some forgotten cathedral.

She scented the air – nothing threatening – and was off. Tearing through the woods with thoughtless exuberance, trees silhouetted before her in silvery light. After she was some leagues into the forest, she noticed that her shirt was ripped probably beyond repair, and she was covered with mud, but those were human cares, and she was lost in the feel of her own swiftness, the thrill of ground rushing by under her feet and small branches breaking against her skin, and the companionable scents of other creatures around her in the trees.

There was a sudden sound of more hooves just behind her.

It was something big, judging from the weight of its steps – and something fast, for it was keeping pace with her easily. The sound of the footsteps had a quadrupedal cadence, four hoofbeats – a horse, a unicorn – or perhaps something else.

She slowed her pace as she reached a clearing, an indication to whomever it was that she was willing to be approached. A murky four-legged silhouette appeared behind a stand of trees.

As he came into the clearing, she saw that her companion that evening was a centaur. He stood as tall as the tallest man and would have looked the huge Hogwarts groundskeeper Rubeus Hagrid in the eyes. His skin and flanks were coal-black and heavily muscled, and his scent indicated maturity, virility. He was magnificent.

"You are far from home, Arcadian," he said, in a vibrant baritone. "Do you flee from me?"

"I run in the woods because the woods are good to run in. I miss the woodlands of my home," she said. "Will you share yours with me?"

"How do you come?"

"In peace, and in friendship." She lowered herself to one haunch, bending her head in the submissive posture of hoofed creatures. It was an acknowledgement that he was the strong one here, and this was his territory. She asked merely for permission to pass.

"Rise, Mistress Faun. And tell Bane, steward of these woods, what you are called here."

He offered her a new name, and then gave her his name before he asked for hers. It was extreme graciousness on his part, and it put her at ease.

"Lady Swain, also called Lady Tumnus, of King Gwydion's Fianna. At his command, I serve the Wizard Dumbledore in this world for a year and a day."

"Hail to thee, warrior. The names of both thy good masters are known to us. Walk with me, if you will."

She fell companionably into step beside him, the sound of hooves sounding dully in the still night. "Pluto is bright tonight," she said, by means of a conversation opener.

"Aye. The Underworld's planet will grow brighter as Samhain draws near."

As he mentioned the autumnal holiday festival that both her people and his celebrated, she hoped for a second that an invitation to participate in his observance would be forthcoming. She realized a moment later, though, how unlikely that was. He had, after all, just made her acquaintance two minutes ago, and a centaur's tendency toward privacy made most Faeries look like exhibitionists by comparison.

"What does that bode for the future?"

"Extremes, my Lady. Death, carnality, regeneration. Matters of great import, and great consequence. Dark, dormant powers growing stronger. As Pluto draws apace with the Scorpion, the Hierophant will diminish, and hide his true face away to brood jealously on the rise of Mars. Summer should not succumb to Winter, my Lady. It is against the way of things."

She was heartened to discover that the conversation of Second-World centaurs was just as impenetrable as the conversation of Arcadian centaurs. He could have been telling her that it would be an unusually long winter, or he could have been telling her that Albus Dumbledore would have a big sulk in his office over an increase in the price of Mars bars come Hallowe'en. Best thing to do with centaurs was just look thoughtful and nod a lot.

As the lights of Hogwarts Castle appeared in the distance, Bane turned to her again. "My Lady Swain, I must return. Mark me well now – run not in your rambles more than five leagues northeast, for there lives an acromantula and his mate, and their many children, all hungry."

She nodded. Now that was useful advice. "My thanks for your counsel and hospitality, Bane."

"I bid you good night." He disappeared back amongst the trees.

A moment later she bounded up the front steps of Hogwarts, her steps first clacking and then softly padding on the carved stone. The flagstones were cold under her sore feet. She felt euphoric, and very worn out.

If she had a forest like that close by, then perhaps she could like it here.

At first she thought the great front hall was empty, and she could slip upstairs unseen without magic, but then she heard a sharp voice to her left.

"Messy girl, incorrigible girl! What are you thinking, tracking mud all over my hall floor!" Argus Filch stalked over to the muddy, dishevelled person in torn clothes entering the hall late at night. "I'll see you in detention for a week for being out late at night, you'll be cleaning hospital chamber pots without magic if I – "

Then he looked at her face.

"Oh... Hello, Professor... I, erm, didn't know it was you."

Snape had hurried up beside Filch, no doubt eager to see an unruly student get detention. He pulled up short when he saw who had come in.

"Good evening, Mr. Filch, Professor Snape." She greeted them distantly, her senses still full of the Forbidden Forest. "Lovely night, isn't it."

Filch and Snape both glanced out the open door at the nearly impenetrable black dark outside, lit only by a waning moon, fog hanging thick on the banks of the lake. Filch smiled at her as if humouring a dangerous lunatic. "Yes, jest beauteeful," he growled.

She glanced bemusedly down at her bare, muddy feet, and the muddy footprints she had tracked onto the stone floor.

"Waskan." Then her lips moved again, soundlessly.

The floor was spotless.

"Sorry to trouble you, sir." She turned toward the great stone steps.

Filch and Snape were still staring at the mud on her feet, calves, and arms: at the scratches on her exposed skin, the torn clothes, the tangled and dishevelled hair. She even had fine sprays of mud droplets on her face and neck.

"You, eh, run into somethin' nasty out there, Professor?" Filch asked finally. "Should we be callin' Hagrid out to, erm, check on things?

"Oh no." She addressed him casually over her shoulder, starting up the front steps. "Just taking a walk. Good night." Filch and Snape watched silently as she turned past the Great Hall, and was gone.

Filch turned toward Professor Snape in disbelief. "Oh, jest taking a walk, was she. Jest getting some fresh air, taking her evening cons-teetutional, by herself, in the ruddy Forbidden Forest, was she. I tell ye, Professor, I don't know what the man was thinking, hiring one of those Faery types. We got some odd birds teaching here, but that one wins the prize for Odd Birdery hands down, she does." Filch moved off, muttering.

Severus Snape glanced in the direction of his colleague's exit. His black brows knit together in thought, but he said nothing. If he had a particular favourite contender for the staff prize for Odd Birdery, he kept it to himself.

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As September turned into October, the novelty of learning a foreign system of magic was supplanted by excitement over the upcoming arrival of the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, and speculation over who would be selected as Hogwarts champion. Emily found her class size shrinking to a more manageable level as the merely curious, and those frustrated by a lack of easy success at creating a Mot de Puissance, dropped her class.

She also suspected that some of her students dropped once she disabused them of the glamorous notion that achieving proficiency at sword combat was an effortless thing that would happen the moment a sword was put into their hands. Many of them, she noticed, were dismayed to discover how much bludgeoning physical work was really involved in sword fighting and combat. For the first month, she had not even brought any swords out, concentrating on teaching them an increasingly difficult series of training drills designed to teach them footwork and build agility. There was really no point in giving any of them a weapon until they could move as though their feet were not cased in cement, and could duel an opponent for more than five minutes without getting hopelessly winded. When they complained of exhaustion and sore muscles, she would shift into her best Fianna commander voice and tell them that she didn't know any magic that could substitute for physical conditioning, and pass out pots of Madam Pomfrey's muscle liniment.

Nonetheless, she was still slightly unnerved by the number of students, and the idea that part of her duties would be to discipline those who were uninterested in what she had to say. In her previous teaching situations, her students had had to prove themselves time and again to arrive in her classes, and that hard competition produced students who paid close attention to everything she said. The strain of dealing with uninterested teenagers was nearly a new phenomenon to her.

A few of her students, however, were such a joy to her that they more than made up for that inattention. Hermione Granger seemed to have read the entire library section on Faeries within a week of Emily's arrival at Hogwarts, and her increasingly knowledgeable questions always led to some lively class discussions. Fred and George Weasley seemed to hold her in unusually high regard, perhaps because she could unerringly tell them apart, even when they tried to fool her into mistaking their identities. (Fred, who was less fastidious about washing, and who enjoyed his Stilton, sausage rolls, and curry, smelled much different than George, who had an incurable sweet tooth and used sandalwood shaving lotion.)

In her fencing class, she had Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Both had the perfect build for the rapier – slender and wiry, with proportionally long arms and legs. Of all of her fourth-year students, those two seemed the most naturally agile, due in part, no doubt, to training with their House Quidditch teams. They had also both realized early on that they were the two best students at fencing, and had pitted themselves against each other competitively from practically the first session. But then, she would have had to be blind, deaf, and anosmic to miss the intense rivalry between the two of them – which, she suspected, had been going on for years before she had ever arrived at Hogwarts.

While she had struck up cordial acquaintances with some of her fellow staff members, most notably Dumbledore, Irma Pince, Pomona Sprout, and Filius Flitwick, she found it very easy in the following weeks to miss ever seeing Professor Snape – indeed, her impression was that he had been avoiding her. He wasn't much of a social animal, apparently, rarely visiting the teacher's lounge, preferring to spend his free time in his own dungeon office, or his private quarters. The only time she ever saw him was at meals, and then he didn't talk much. When he did, she thought he seemed to almost make a point of talking to anyone but her.

Well, except perhaps Professor Moody. He definitely seemed to prefer her company to that of Professor Moody, but not by much.

One unseasonably cold afternoon in mid-October, she had curled up on the window seat in the teacher's lounge with a copy of The King of Elfland's Daughter by Lord Dunsany. (The Muggle treatment of the Fae in their literature never ceased to surprise and amuse her.) A dark shape appeared in her periphery – someone was approaching her with purposeful intent.

"Professor Swain?"

She glanced up. "Yes...Professor Snape?"

"I have, madam, a bone to pick with you." He stopped dead in front of her, dark eyes flashing, arms folded tightly over his chest.

She glanced around – the other Professors in the teachers' lounge, McGonagall, Sprout, Vector, and Sinistra, had drawn close together in a tight, wide-eyed knot, but she could smell curiosity all over them. They wouldn't be much help, and Dumbledore wasn't there.

Oh, bloody flaming Christian hell.

"Whatever about, sir?" she asked, in what she hoped was her most neutral voice.

"Your curriculum. Now that you've taught the students in your class – " here he sniffed a contemptuous sniff " – how to create their own Mots de Puissance, some of them have already accomplished it to some minor degree – "

She smiled excitedly at him. "I know. Isn't it wonderful? I'm astonished at their progress. I awarded George Weasley forty points for being the first student at Hogwarts to be able to use one. He made an Obscured nosegay of daisies materialise on my desk by way of demonstration – "

He was not interested in the progress of her students. "I assure you they have been using this ability to Obscure various sundry items that are not of such a pleasant nature as nosegays of daisies as well, Professor.

"The Obscuring of inanimate objects – that's a neat little trick," he said, glaring at her. "Funny how all of a sudden I've got students tossing Obscured Dungbombs into each other's cauldrons in Potions class, that no one else notices until they go off. Someone else – and I'm certain it was your precious Weasley twins – thought it was amusing to set a pan of treacle mixed with soot outside the Slytherin common room door, which no one noticed until a large group of students trod in it. I've demanded to see contraband items in my class on five separate occasions, all of which disappeared completely a moment later. I can only assume that you gave them the idea as to how to use this trick.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I fail to see how the use of this effect is going to protect any of our students from a Dark Wizard attack. Obscuring themselves from view no doubt has its uses, but the ability to hide objects from view merely makes them even more diabolically efficient at mischief-making than they were before.

"Which leads me to another thing, madam." He lowered his voice a bit, but lost none of his indignation.

Oh oh. She could see where this was going. She bent her head and grimaced.

"I also suspect that this trick had something to do with the... temporary disappearance of a rather important item of baggage of mine, earlier this year. I suspect that... someone found it amusing to play a prank on me by hiding such baggage from my sight."

Shite – he knew. She felt her entire body suffuse with blushing.

"Whomsoever the culprit was, I do hope to tell such persons that I am most displeased by such actions. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir," she said in a tiny voice, her face burning bone-white, focusing on something located very far over his right shoulder.

She glanced over at where the other professors were staring, open-mouthed, at her and at Professor Snape. They turned back to each other, resuming their conversation with an elaborate air of not listening.

"I...I do beg your pardon, sir. I first taught my students the simplest version of Obscurantis, that is, the Obscuring of small objects, because that is a far easier task to accomplish initially than the Obscuring of oneself, and I thought a gradual number of increasing successes would encourage them in pursuing this art more fully. I certainly did not intend to encourage them in making mischief of any kind in your classes."

"You mean to tell me that it never occurred to you – " that you lumped her in with every miscreant and blackguard that had ever tossed a Dungbomb into a gently simmering cauldron " – that they would use this art to Obscure items like Dungbombs and their ilk?"

"No, sir, it did not. My next question would be to ask you what exactly a Dungbomb is, sir."

"I find it difficult to believe that you have taught at this school for all the weeks that you have and still have no notion of the pranks that our students constantly play upon their teachers," he snapped.

"Well, I have no practical experience with such pranks. I have never had a student let off a Dungbomb in any of my classes."

"Excuse me?"

"I have no experience with pranks, sir, because students don't play pranks in my classes, involving bombs full of dung, or of any other substance," she replied truthfully.

"You mean to tell me, that no Hogwarts student, not even the Weasley twins, has ever played a prank in one of your classes?"

All right, this was getting out of hand. At first, she had been apologetic. Now – she was getting angry. She folded her own arms in front of her, in an unconscious imitation of his hostile posture. "If what you mean by prank is, some sort of action intended to disrupt the class by means of either alarm or hilarity, sir, then no, I have never had a prank played in any of my classes. If that explanation is not quite clear, I will do my best to rephrase my statement in a manner more readily apparent to you."

Snape's black eyes shone with scarcely concealed rage. He threw a irate look over his shoulder at the other teachers, who again elaborately resumed their inane conversation.

"So you mean to tell me that you have never had a student set off a Dungbomb in your class?"

"No, I have never had a student set off a Dungbomb in any of my classes."

"And you have never had your lectures interrupted with spates of Whizzing Worms?"

"No."

"And you have never had your usual teacup replaced with a Nose-Biting Teacup?"

"No."

"And you have never had your wand mysteriously replaced with one that became a parrot upon being waved?"

"No."

"And you have never had any encounters with Stink Pellets?"

"No."

"Belch Powder?"

"No."

"Filibuster Fireworks?"

"No."

"Ever-Bashing Boomerangs?"

"No."

"Screaming Yo-Yos?"

"No."

"Frog Spawn Soap?"

"No." She was almost sorry that she hadn't had any pranks played in her classes, so as to simply make the man feel a bit better.

"You are certain there has not been one single prank, madam?" He was gripping his own arms with white-knuckled rage at this point.

"There has not been, sir. The impression that I have received from my students is that they rather enjoy my classes, and were thus disinclined to disrupt them, sir."

There was an audible Huhhhh from Professors McGonagall and Sprout at her retort. If possible, Snape's fine black brows reached even greater heights of altitude.

"As for Fred and George Weasley, like I said, they were the first of my fifth-years to develop Mots de Puissance of any magnitude – they were Obscuring very small items by the end of the fourth week. Fred Weasley can already become difficult to spot amongst obstacles. Hermione Granger, of my fourth year class, quickly became even more advanced. She's done a great deal of independent research and is – "

Snape interrupted with – "So you tell me you keep perfect order in your classroom, madam?"

"Well... I do not require perfect order in my classroom, sir. I believe that in order to keep a student riveted on his lesson, one should present him with a riveting lesson. I strive to provide those.

"However, I do not doubt that the fact that they know their professor can be anywhere, at any time, observing their behaviour while unseen by them, does have some effect in making them feel reluctant to set off Dungbombs during one of my lectures."

Snape had fallen silent, though she could tell that he was furious at her response, his eyes flashing dangerously. She realized, with a pang of guilt, that she had been far from offering him any aid with what was probably a real problem; but his means of approaching her regarding it had been so off-putting that her first reaction had been to attack him right back. She stood up and laid a conciliatory hand on his arm.

"But regardless of how they behave in my class, the point is that they're Dungbombing the cauldrons during your class. Will you let me see if I can help?" she asked, in a gentler tone.

Severus Snape was not appeased. He was furious with her, and he was not the sort of man to let perfectly good fury go to waste. He turned away, disengaging his arm from her touch with stiff formality, and firing a parting question over his shoulder. "And what, Professor, do you propose to do about it?"

"I shall tell them that they are not to use the arts I teach them to make it difficult for other professors to teach class. I did not make the journey all the way to the wizarding world in order to disrupt anyone else's classes, and I shall remind them of such. I shall attempt to present a unified front with my fellow professors, and make it clear to the students that they are not to imagine that they have my support in such pranks as you describe. If need be, I will give detentions and subtract points from their houses," she said simply.

He paused. The eyebrows relaxed a little. "That would be an excellent start."

"I shall address them all today, right now, during my lectures." She picked up her book and began to gather up her notes.

As she passed him to leave the room, she paused at his shoulder, seriously addressing the air next to his left ear in a lowered tone.

"Lastly, regarding the matter of the piece of baggage that briefly went missing, I have it on good authority that the individual responsible feels well and truly chastised, and extremely apologetic, for such actions. This person regrets that such means were employed for what she believed to be the harmless goal of attempting to attract the attention of a certain person. She now fervently wishes that some means that the second party would... better respect... had been employed towards that end. For any upset her actions caused you, I am certain that she would like to apologize very humbly, and sincerely beg your pardon."

He regarded her profile coldly. "Were she here, such a person would become well acquainted with how distressing her actions were to the other party involved. That gentleman had spent many long and exhausting hours in London searching for potion ingredients, and was very upset at the thought of having misplaced all of them."

"I am certain that he was, sir, and rightly so. I do not mean to make light of the difficulty that gentleman no doubt experienced."

"Please do tell her to consider her actions, if she is capable of such, Professor," he said, in tones of the most dulcet scorn imaginable. Then he stalked out of the teacher's lounge and shut the door with a bang. She watched him go, crestfallen.

This had gone far beyond simply taking the gentleman's way out of an unwanted association. His manner, his voice – everything about him dripped purest vitriol. It wasn't simply that he didn't especially like her. He hated her.

"He does unfortunately treat everyone like that, Professor," Professor McGonagall said with a gentle smile. "But don't worry, you'll become quite immune to it by terms' end. Before long, you'll be able to listen to a Severus Snape rant without having to even put your book aside."

"He's most of the reason why we value an ability to work in a volatile environment," Professor Sprout said, leaning over to pat Emily's hand.

"Yes, he's a pill, but he is the best Potions master in Britain. Well, the best Potions master in Britain who's willing to work for a public school teacher's salary," Professor Sinistra offered helpfully.

"In short, my dear, just ignore him when he's like that. We all do it," Professor Vector said, shrugging.

"Thank you for your advice," said Emily.

Thought Emily, I wish I could ignore him.

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What a truly foul day this was turning out to be.

Emily's mood never recovered after her dressing-down from Professor Snape. So, after her last class, she had wrapped herself in her black cloak and a pale blue silk Beauxbatons scarf left over from her school days, and set off from the Hogwarts campus toward town. She had been intending to do a bit of window shopping, but the air, which had been only brisk a few nights earlier, was now bitterly cold. At first she only wished that she had brought gloves with her. By the time she was halfway to town, she was vowing to buy a heavier cloak. But by the time she got into Hogsmeade, her hands were numb and she was shivering, cold seeping into her very bones. Then she had made for the Three Broomsticks and gone gratefully into the warm, firelit room, taking a seat at the bar.

"Good afternoon, miss. What can I get you?" The landlady, Madam Rosmerta, was a pretty blonde witch in a low-cut purple robe. She met Emily at the bar, wiping down martini glasses.

"Do you, by any chance, have any Arcadian dandelion wine? Or anything like it?"

"Faery wine, eh? I think I may have a bottle or two, but it won't come cheap. The transportation fees, you see."

"I understand." The blonde witch disappeared into a back room.

"Why, Emily, my dear."

That silky, drawling voice – it could only be one person in this world.

She turned to see Lucius Malfoy slide into the seat beside her with effortless grace.

Her first impression was that the years had been very kind. Still the same tall, gorgeous, conspicuously well-dressed and well-groomed picture of pure-blooded wealth and good breeding that he had always been. The long white-blond hair was, as always, perfectly in place, tied back at the nape of his neck with a black velvet ribbon. He wore what looked like something bespoke of obscenely fine black wool, with a black cashmere over-robe.

He smiled at her. "Still looking lovely. You haven't aged a day." He squeezed her hand and pressed an airy kiss on her cold cheek.

"Lucius! Why, hello. What a surprise. It's lovely to see you."

He suddenly seemed the first really familiar person she had encountered since leaving Arcadia. She gratefully clasped his hand, still resting warmly on hers, in both of her own. His leather glove felt as soft as baby's skin.

"Draco mentioned in his letters home that he had a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor named Emily Swain. I was simply delighted to hear that you had returned to Britain. I had been meaning to send you an owl asking you to visit, now that you live so nearby."

"I really should have sent you an owl at home. I'm just so preoccupied with my classes... "

He waved the apology away with an expansive gesture of his hand. "Completely understandable. But then I had the good fortune to see you through the window – of course I had to come in and say hello."

"Thank you. I'm glad you did. How is Narcissa?"

"Lovely, thank you. And you've already met my son."

"You know," she said confidentially, "I could tell Draco was your son from the moment he raised his hand in my first class. Such a handsome boy. He's very like you."

The corners of Lucius Malfoy's mouth turned up. "Thank you."

They were silent for a long moment, as her eyes lingered on his pale face. The years had been not only been kind – they had been amazingly generous. He had to be forty or so now, and his etched profile had only become more distinguished. If anything, he was better looking now than he had been when she had first met him, seventeen years ago.

Madam Rosmerta returned with a bottle and a glass. "We've a few bottles of this vintage, miss – oh hello there, Mr. Malfoy," she added anxiously.

Malfoy took the bottle from her with an authoritative air, glancing over the ornately drawn, hand-lettered calligraphy label. "Fifth Kingdom dandelion, Third Age... five years old. A good year." He nodded cool approval at Madam Rosmerta.

"Madam Rosmerta, a second glass – perhaps?" Emily looked an invitation at Malfoy.

He smiled again. "Please."

Madam Rosmerta busied herself pulling the cork, and pouring a splash into a glass for Emily to taste. The scent and taste were so redolent of the Summerlands that it made her throat tighten and her eyes mist.

"It's lovely. Thank you." The landlady poured two glasses and courteously excused herself. Emily turned to Malfoy with a rueful grin. "Thanks for coming in to say hello. I'm rather in the mood for a quiet drink with an old friend, if you'll forgive me."

"As always, I can refuse you nothing. Cheers." He clinked his glass against hers. "So, how are you enjoying your position at Hogwarts?" He turned expectantly to her. The warmth and interest of his expression broke her heart.

"The truth?"

"Certainly, dear."

"With the day I've had, I can't wait until the year is over and I can go home," she said, in a rueful undertone.

He laid his hand over hers again, looking closely at her face. "Why? What on Earth is wrong, dear?"

"It's... it's a lot of things. The sun doesn't come up until late, and goes down too early, and since about the first week of October, there isn't anything green here anymore, and I'm just bloody cold all of the time."

"Scotland's hardly the Land of Eternal Summer, love," Malfoy murmured.

"Yes, you're right, I should have expected it, but this is the coldest place I have ever lived in. And the food is – Dumbledore's been very kind about my preferences at meals, but away from Hogwarts, you can't get a decent slice of toast without having to order organic nine-grain bread or whatever. And I freely admit that this is probably only noticeable because I've lived in Arcadia these last few years, but the vegetables are like mush."

"Welcome to the United Kingdom, my dear." Malfoy smirked at her over the rim of his glass. Emily laughed in spite of herself.

"I know, I know... I sound provincial, and probably terribly petulant in the bargain. I'm sorry. But then... Dumbledore has gotten owls from parents complaining about a part-human teaching non-Wizarding magic at Hogwarts – he didn't tell me, but I overheard Professor McGonagall and Sprout talking about it. The staff members can be some tough nuts to crack – well, all right, not all of them. Irma Pince, Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout, Madam Hooch – they're all very nice, but McGonagall is always looking at me like she thinks I'm dangerous. Some busybody must have told her about Robinett." She tossed off half a glass of wine with a deep scowl at that. "Professor Moody means to be kind but he's just enough to give anyone the willies. Honestly, have you seen him?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Malfoy said, with a flicker of apprehension in his eyes. "Looks like a thousand miles of bad road, doesn't he?"

"Absolutely. And Hagrid is the sweetest man imaginable, but he has this absolute fascination with supernatural creatures – so naturally, I'm the latest interesting specimen. Every time I'm with him, he simply cannot stop staring at my ears. I know he doesn't mean anything by it, but if I've had a bad day it makes me feel like a freak in the circus. And Professor Snape? Just forget about him."

He was leaning on one elbow, listening to her long litany of woes with the most charming expression of concern. "Oh? How is old Snape troubling you?"

"Oh... it's really nothing, but... " She took another deep swallow of wine. "He's just taken a huge dislike to me from... practically the moment he met me. I can't take a step without it offending him somehow. He never says a single civil word to me – he gave me a huge scolding in front of a lot of other faculty today."

Malfoy laughed, also charmingly. "I'm certain that's not personal. Let me give you a bit of advice. I've known Severus Snape for a very long time – longer than I've known you. We were both in Slytherin together. He's never been known for his personal magnetism. Believe me, he treats just about everyone like that."

"That's what the other professors said. But he seemed... I thought... " She fell silent, brooding into her glass of wine.

The concerned look was back. "This is troubling you, isn't it. Do you want me to have a word with him? I flatter myself that have a small amount of influence with the man – "

"No, no, please don't. You're kind to offer, but I'm afraid it'll look like I'm sending my big brother after him because he teased me in the schoolyard."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed when he heard himself described as a 'big brother,' but a second later he had resumed a flawless mantle of smooth camaraderie.

They passed an hour in such chatter, until the wine was gone. It had seemed a tragically short time to her.

"Madam Rosmerta? Is there another bottle of that?" Emily turned back to Malfoy. "You don't have to rush off, do you?"

"For you, my dear, I have all the time in the world."

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By the time she said it was getting late and Emily had to get back to Hogwarts, several hours and as many bottles of wine later, the chill had picked up considerably, so much so that she made a half-facetious comment about asking Madam Rosmerta if she could camp in the Three Broomsticks overnight. Malfoy then took out his wand, and touched it to her cloak.

"Calidus." Suddenly her cloak slowly seemed to warm itself from within. "It's a Warming Charm – one of those spells you've no use for in the south of France or Arcadia, but one of the first things we learn up here in the Arctic Circle. But do let's get you back – its effects are only temporary. Now give me your hands." He pulled off his own black leather gloves and fitted them over her fingers. They were too big for her, but the lining felt wonderful – almost as good as his warm, uncallused hands felt as he put them on her.

"That's lovely, Lucius, thank you. And Arctic Circle is right – I don't know if I'll ever get used to it."

"Now you're beginning to sound a little petulant, love," Malfoy said. "I brave the freezing wind for you, and you're still complaining? You never did properly appreciate me. Shocking, just shocking."

His tone convulsed her with laughter. "I always could count on you to tell me these things, couldn't I? I know I shouldn't go on so much about things like food and the weather. 'When in Rome,' and all that. But you know how it is when you're homesick."

"Indeed I do. For the first few months in Arcadia, I would have walked half a day for a plate of Yorkshire puddings."

"Oh yes, I seem to remember this adorable fair-haired young man who kept trying to get anyone back home to send him some Honeydukes chocolates – "

"That was different!" he mock-protested. "I wasn't feeling well. What you lot call bread was sitting on my stomach like holiday fruitcake."

"Oh yes. I'm certain it was for purely medicinal purposes."

"I had – stomach-ache!"

"Of course you did," she crooned indulgently. "Poor sickly Lucius – it's not as though he went out carousing with us every night anyway – "

"Well, I couldn't let my aching stomach keep me from performing my ceremonial duties as a page of the King, now, could I?"

She giggled like a young girl. "You seemed pretty healthy to me... "

"Did I. Well." Glancing back, she found him slanting a brazen grey gaze directly at her. "And you seemed rather blooming yourself, now that I remember it."

She paused for a second, as coy and uncertain as a fawn. Then she giggled again, turning away from him. "Do you remember the day Father introduced us?"

"Oh yes... my first day at Court. I was just twenty-three, and you were what, seventeen... and you were fencing that silly little duel against that ridiculous fop Traltivere... "

She laughed hugely at the memory. "Wasn't he just the most self-satisfied prig you ever saw?"

"Absolutely certain he was going to beat you from the first – was he in for a rude awakening when you trounced him like that."

"Oh, I wouldn't call it a trouncing... "

"What do you call it when a fencer goes for three bouts without her opponent scoring a single point, my dear?"

"All right, it was a trouncing. But he deserved it after all the bragging he'd done about how he knew he was irresistible to me, and what he was going to do to me at Beltane... "

Malfoy sighed. "Beltane. I know I'll never forget it. I had never been to a Rite of Spring before..."

"Neither had I, you have to be of age to take part in the bonfire celebration, to go out into the fields... " Her voice quivered with the memory of long-ago excitement. "It was the first time that I had been there for the ritual, heard the music... " But she seemed to remember who she was talking to, and suddenly became very interested in the leaves of the dead hedge.

"Everyone else had run off over the grass towards the river, but you looked at me, and ran towards the wood... "

"You didn't have to run after me like that, you know."

Malfoy laughed, low and richly. "After the way you looked at me, I most certainly did have to run after you like that."

Sudden faint perfume of desire from him. After the wine, and the warmth, and the comfortable talk, it felt only right to her.

"I could hear you following me, crashing through the grass like that... no grace at all."

"I was hardly in a mood to think of being – graceful – at that moment..."

"Then of course that shed had to have such a convenient haymow full of fresh clover. I can't smell clover these days without thinking of it... "

"Neither can I... "

"And then it started raining... "

"I have never forgotten what it was like... the fresh mown hay, with the rain pattering on the roof above us... It's one of my favourite memories." Malfoy turned to her fully. "You know, you never did tell me why, of everyone at Court, you chose me that night."

She laughed mischievously. "It was your hair, of course."

"My hair?"

"You have always had this long, blond, perfectly-in-place hair." She stroked a long lock of his hair, where it lay over the shoulder of his black over robe. "That night, I was possessed with this mad desire to see it all messed up."

"All messed up... " Malfoy glanced lazily down at where her fingers were lingering on his shoulder, then back at her face.

"With bits of hay in it."

"Was the picture all that you hoped it would be?"

"Oh yes. You were quite adorable with some of that icy reserve melted."

"And you were quite adorable with bits of hay in your hair, without any reserve, as well... " He fingered a pale lock of her hair, one of the curly ones at her temple, then let the hand curve around her cheek, gently turning her face to his.

Their eyes locked. It appeared, for one long moment, that Beltane was not quite over.

A shrill flurry of excited children's voices sounded, quite close. She started, then headed down the path again. "But I should probably get back – it's gotten late. Thanks for these – I'll have to get down to the shops and get myself a pair soon." She took off his gloves and pressed them back into his hand.

"Of course." Malfoy had smoothly reassumed the mantle of a concerned friend again.

"Lucius? Thanks so very much. You've been very kind."

"You're very welcome, my dear. Now I'll expect you to send me and Narcissa a fat letter with all the news from Court, or else."

"Or else what?"

"I'll pelt you with... mushy vegetables."

"Oh no! Anything but that!" She pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, still giggling. Then, she turned and began to make her way up the steps toward the side entrance to the great castle, but paused after a few steps and turned back to him.

"It really is lovely to see you, Lucius. Good night."

"Good night, Emily."