Part Second: The Hart Rampant: Chapter 17, Part 1

Chapter 17, Part 1:

Severus Snape was having a rather worse day than usual in his Gryffindor-Slytherin fourth-year class.

The students were acting up even more that usual – and he couldn't for the life of him remember what potion they were all working on, other than the fact that not a single solitary one of them had managed to get it right. Every cauldron in the classroom was doing something wildly dangerous, or foul-smelling, or at least just plain bizarre. The Gryffindor Triumvirate of Potter, Granger, and Weasley had cooked up a reaction rather like Vesuvius on a particularly peevish day. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown (Parvatinlavender) were being chased all around by what looked like balls of green fire shooting out of their concoction. The Slytherins seemed to be wrestling with a cauldron that was fighting them back just as hard, belching sulphurically noxious ooze all the while.

The Gryffindor Three were sitting around bemusedly contemplating their molten mess when he approached them. Harry Potter was of course tremendously blasé about the whole thing when Snape ordered him to do something to defuse the situation.

"Why would I bother with that, Professor?" Potter asked, looking up at him with his usual irritating green-eyed smirk. "That would require me to apply myself to learning something of subtle science and exact artistry, and I have all the intellectual curiosity and ambition of your average garden slug. I think I'll spend my entire life coasting along on the glory of something that happened when I was a drooling, pre-conscious, year-old infant. Of course I'm not so much The Boy Who Lived as I really am The Sprat Who Was Saved By the Heroic Sacrifice of Lily Potter, but try telling that to the history book writers. My mother was the only brave and decent Gryffindor in years, but I'm still willing to shuck everything she did for me in order to go shopping for trifles in Hogsmeade. But I'll still get all the glory no matter how often you risk your life for the common good, despite the fact that my larval one-year-old self could do little more than cry, eat, and shite at the time of my alleged heroism. Cheers, mate!"

Snape gritted his teeth and barely suppressed the desire to strangle the crapulous little ingrate for the thousandth time. Then he turned to Hermione Granger and told her to tend to the cauldron. She very cheerily said: "Oh, yes, sir, of course you're making a great deal of sense and it would be an excellent idea to take your advice, but I think I'll do better by second-guessing you. Thanks!"

When he turned to Ron Weasley and told him to contain the reaction, Ron chirpily answered, "Of course I can't do that, Professor, as neither Potter nor Granger told me to do it. You see, my function in life is to trail 'round after the clearly intellectually superior Miss Granger and the famous Potter whelp, and I can't be arsed to do anything that my two friends haven't thought of first. But anyway, thanks for trying! A for effort!"

Someone came up and tugged on Snape's arm – he saw Neville Longbottom looking up at him with an unusually thoughtful expression. "You know, Professor, I've concluded that perhaps I'm little more than a useless waste of skin who invariably slows down the entire class with my ineptitude. I think I'll go to Albus immediately and ask to audit your class, because I'm entirely hopeless."

"That was the most sensible thing I have ever heard you say, Mr. Longbottom, and with perfectly understandable non-stammering diction, too," Snape replied. "Why don't you run along to the Headmaster's office and do that right now. We'll wait."

Then Longbottom scurried off, ostensibly to get an exemption from Potions classes on the grounds of being an inept waste of skin, and Snape turned his attention to the Slytherins.

His gaze lit first on Draco Malfoy, but as he was opening his mouth to speak, the boy airily held up his hand and stopped him. "Don't even bother, Professor. You're stuck kissing my arse no matter what happens, because if my father cared enough to notice what you're really up to, he would have your flayed hide mounted above the mantelpiece in our overdecorated drawing room in no time flat, and you know it," the younger Malfoy said pleasantly. "Nonetheless, I'm rather fond of you, with the same kind of affection that I feel for that nice, long-suffering dog of mine. And for all that, you really should be grateful."

"Ah, yes, I suppose that's true," Snape said resignedly, breathing a heavy sigh.

One of the halves of Crabbengoyle – this was the taller one, so it had to be Gregory Goyle – looked up from where he was wrestling with the belching cauldron. "Don't mind me, sir, it's my job to just support anything Malfoy says. You already of course know that I will never realise that I am essentially wasting my youth by acting like a thug. But then I'm too thick to read Mother Goose, let alone introspectively examine my own actions," Goyle said earnestly.

Crabbe thoughtfully listened to his counterpart's statement. "Yeah," he agreed, nodding.

Then the classroom door opened, and Professor Swain traipsed in. She was wearing that black frock from the other day – the smart one with the skirt above her knees and the tiny silver buttons, that black velvet professorial robe that looked quite handsome with her fair hair, and those laced kid boots that outlined the sinewy modelling of ankle and calf.

"Good afternoon, Professor Snape, how are you?" Same lilting voice, same insouciant ice-maidenly demeanour she always affected, as if her feet didn't quite touch the ground and her breath didn't smell when she woke up in the morning, and no one else's opinion of her meant anything.

"As well as can be expected in a session of double Potions with this lot of dunderheads, thank you, madam," he informed her. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"I was just doing some thinking, and it's just come to me – Lucius Malfoy is just a ruddy great idiot, isn't he? I can't for the life of me fathom how I manage to stand still whilst he oozes all over me the way he does. It's just disgusting the way I've been acting, isn't it?" She laughed, sounding hugely amused at this discovery. "I mean, look at him sometime, he is so obviously unworthy of the devotion of someone like me. Honestly, what has he ever done, other than pick his parents well? I don't think he ever reads anything other than Ministry memorandums and his own income statements, and everyone knows he's never held a political conviction that wasn't directly parroted from his father. Wouldn't you agree, sir?"

"Absolutely," he replied. "I've thought that of him for years."

Now her hands were inching up his lapels while she gazed appealingly up into his eyes. "And it's just appalling the way I treat you, Severus. You're deserving of so much more than just a cup of tea and a quick shag. I'm so desperately sorry that I've been such a proud, obtuse little brat, and I promise I will immediately endeavour to grow a longer attention span. After all, I was by all accounts happily married for some time, so I should be capable of that, I think. Please come out somewhere with me for dinner – I promise I will ask you how your day was at the very least. Then I shall not only listen to all that you say in that very fetching manner I did earlier, but readily hold forth on any topic that you want me to tell you about. Then, after a respectable interval, but not too long, we'll end up in bed, because I still haven't stopped fantasising about that time we had sex last September. We really need to do that again."

"I couldn't agree more," he said. "That all sounds like a capital idea."

Now they were alone in his classroom, and she had brazenly insinuated herself into his arms. "You know, Severus, I've wanted you to take me again for the longest time – and you haven't done it yet." She sounded tremendously dismayed and put out by that omission.

So of course he bent her back over his desk and kissed her, lustily, confidently. The silver buttons of her dress sighed open without effort, revealing a very complicated bit of black lace lingerie underneath. Of course she was wearing suspendered black stockings again. Her fair head fell swooning backward – and he devoured that neck, felt her quivering at his touch, just as she had the first night he met her.

Now they were in his dimly lit bedroom, and their clothes were gone, and she was lying under him with her arms locked around his shoulders the way she had the first time, again kissing him like a randy schoolgirl. Her breath tasted like Chateau Latour burgundy, and her sweat smelled like hot perfume.

He was achingly hard by now, and she wrapped her thighs around him, lifted her tousled fair head from his pillow to gaze into his eyes in just the most inviting manner, making it absolutely clear that she wanted him, that moment, now. The piercing, unsatisfied desire that he had been burdened with ever since he met this damned woman relaxed its grip as he finally, finally sank inside her again. He found her just as hot, ready, and eager for him as she had been that first night – same innocence and sensuality, same inexplicable but completely unabashed lust for him. Now, instead of furtively hurrying through the act while standing up on a cold night, they had time and privacy.

He took her hand – she had such elegant hands, whether she was holding a book or a quill or a sword – and brought it to his lips, kissed it fervently. She was rapturously enjoying herself, responding to him shamelessly, like she had before... her hot, flushed skin on his, that impossible fluid heat encompassing him, those ecstatic, soaked-in-oestrogen gasps again... her body rising to meet his thrusts without inhibition, just like that night... He felt himself hardening even more, but wanted to prolong this, wanted to soak in her arousal and excitement –

Oh, Severus...

She was his; she wanted to be here, and she would stay as long as he wanted –

Then somewhere in his peripheral earshot something began to drone in an irritating manner, some flat dissonant note that did not go away, but only got louder –

Oh, Severus... Oh, please... Yes, love...

The drone grew inexorably louder –

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Would that every god in every plane of existence anywhere lend their fury to damning the invention of that infernal device, the alarm clock. Just as he was actually having a pleasant dream for once, too.

It was ten to seven in the morning, and today, of course, was the day of the bloody Second Task.

Snape slapped off the clock, rolled over, and allowed himself the luxury of a few minutes' further drowsing.

Like most adults who spend a significant amount of time celibate for whatever reason, Snape was prey to the occasional unbidden erotic dream or imagining. For many years now, his usual fantasy scenario (admit it) had been of a great deal of uninhibited, anonymous sex with some nameless beauty, who then conveniently disappeared once he was satisfied. But when he had unexpectedly fulfilled that very fantasy last September – found himself having sex with an exciting, nameless beauty who had vanished afterward – the vanishing afterward had been the last thing he had wanted her to do.

It was so much easier to imagine someone who was more or less an animated doll disappearing after his desire was spent in some idle dream than it was to actually let a warm, receptive, real woman out of his arms, especially when she was still sweating gently from the pleasure he had just given her. Particularly especially when she appeared to empathise so well with the demands of his work, and at least on first impression had seemed literate, clever, and a wonderful listener.

He had imagined all kinds of farfetched romance about her in the afterglow of an extremely intense orgasm – but the truth of her certainly was stranger than anything he could have dreamed up last September. A Faerie who went about seducing inconsequential mortals under a Glamour, he thought, scowling deeply into his pillow. Probably with sprigs of Love-in-Idleness in her pocket for the next victims. Perhaps he should consider himself lucky to have escaped without making any more of an ass of himself that he had. Snape rolled onto his back and crushed a pillow over his face.

Now, she wasn't proving to be any more exhilarating to have as a colleague. The warm, charming lady he had met in King's Cross seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a cool, insolent creature who scowled or cracked wise every time he asked her a question. She always seemed so happy every time someone at Hogwarts showed promise in the Faery arts – that is, every time someone at Hogwarts other than him showed promise in the Faery arts. Orla Fecking Quirke Obscured one of her fecking earrings, and that trivial achievement was enough to make the woman bounce around in absurd jubilation. But when he demonstrated Obscurantis to her, she had gone into a huff about it. Yes, so she only appreciated independent study on the Faery arts if her precious favourite Hermione Granger or her little gang of adoring Ravenclaws were doing it.

Then of course the woman was about as dignified as a first-year. The other day during the break between classes, he had spotted her chasing two of the Slytherin Chasers, Pucey and Montague, up and down the hall outside her classroom, all of them engaged in a spirited water pistol fight, to which the boys finally offered a draw. "Professors shouldn't have legs like that, mate," Snape overheard one of them mutter to the other while they watched Professor Swain go back to her classroom. "It's just not right."

Then she had to turn out to be so bloody chummy with Lucius. During the New Year's Eve Ball dinner, the two of them had been practically finishing each other's sentences like some old married couple. Narcissa had been so furious at such obvious intimacy between her husband and another woman that he thought she was going to crush the crystal wineglass in her hand.

Yes, one could be for damned certain that if he was to imagine his ideal woman, she wouldn't be some capricious, inconsistent, sharp-tongued, foul-tempered, self-satisfied, Malfoy-toadying little blonde git, who thought she was entitled to unconditional forgiveness from everyone merely because she was pretty.

A dream, nothing more.

It was 6:57 a.m. now, so Snape reluctantly threw back his bedclothes (this February being as unreasonably cold as last September had been), reached for his bathrobe, and made his way into the shower.

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As with the First Task, the Second Task drew a tremendous number of onlookers – what looked like the entire staff and student populations of Hogwarts, much of the residents of Hogsmeade, any number of vacationers and nearby pensioners besides. Harry Potter turned up barely on time, huffing and puffing and looking rumpled and disreputable – really, the boy might consider how his behaviour as a champion reflected upon his school once in a while. But as the Second Task took place entirely underwater in the lake, there really wasn't much to see once Ludo Bagman blew his whistle, and the four Champions had performed their various Bubble-Head Charms and partial Transfigurations and made use of magical herbs, like gillyweed, for their waterbreathing effects –

(Gillyweed? Could someone please tell him where that thieving little shite of a Harry Potter actually got a handful of fresh gillyweed, pray tell? Snape knew from long, bitter, exhausting personal experience that gillyweed was damn near impossible to come by that year at any of the Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley apothecaries, and there was no gillyweed on campus other than the handful of it that had better still be in his personal stores. If that was gone when he got back up to his office, he was going to raise holy blasphemous hell with the Headmaster, and for certain.)

Snape shook his head direly and crossed his cold hands under his arms beneath his black cloak. Honestly, if wizardkind had to have its own personal infant Messiah come to rescue it from its darkest foe, why did that person have to be a thieving, shiftless schoolboy, sired by an arrogant, sadistic bastard like James Potter? Why not a Childe Rolande, a Perseus, a Beowulf, a Brian Boru – or if someone with a few more human complexities was required by the Powers That Be of his universe, why not a Hamlet, or a Brutus? Why did it have to be that decidedly ill-mannered, ungrateful, unglamorous, unremarkable, unexceptional, intractable discipline problem of a Potter? Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall treated him like the Second Coming, made disciplinary exceptions for him right and left, and yet the little ingrate still flaunted the authority of every adult every chance he got, even those as sympathetic to him as The Lupine. If Dumbledore had showed him the same attentions while he was in school here, at least he would have appreciated it.

The surface of the lake had settled, and now there was really nothing to do but wait out the hour until Potter, Diggory, Krum, or Miss Delacour brought his or her respective captives up from the merpeople's village. Snape himself had compounded, measured out, and administered the Dreamless Sleep, Anti-Hypothermia, and Waterbreathing Potions to the four captives now being held underwater, adjusting the dosage for the eight-year-old Gabrielle Delacour's slight body weight. Thus, he knew with certainty that all four of them could have spent the next forty-eight hours underwater with no ill effects to their health, and accordingly, he was much more at ease regarding the imposed time limit than most of the other people watching that lake. Now, all they had to do was wait.

Snape hated waiting.

He turned toward the stands, his gaze flicking incisively over the faces of the other onlookers. A small crowd of the Malfoy set had put up a fussy little picnic – Lucius and Narcissa, Emmitt and Beatrice, the Crabbes, the Goyles, and the Bulstrodes, all with their respective offspring – and were now passing around steaming cups of something. For a moment, Snape thought about going over and joining them, in hopes of being given a cup of whatever that was – but then he spotted Felina Rosier among the group. Hmm, something hot to drink – versus Mrs. Rosier's attempts at being charming. It took about one second for the Professor to decide to brave the cold.

At about twenty past nine, with no sign of movement from the lake, the onlookers had begun to leave their seats and visit amongst themselves. Beatrice Parkinson nudged Lucius and indicated Professor Swain, who was sitting with the other Professors talking to her darling bosom chum Irma Pince. Of all of the assembled Malfeasant set, Snape liked Beatrice the most – she had always been such a lively good sport when she had been at school. Beatrice had been Sorted into Slytherin two years after he had been, but then got married just after leaving school to a man twice her age, and became a mother the year after. The dour Emmitt Parkinson, he knew, kept her tied to hearth and home on a short, tight leash – so to Beatrice, Professor Swain was probably a very exotic creature indeed.

Now Beatrice seemed to have persuaded Lucius to go over with her and say hello. Lucius agreed to this jolly plan, first asking Emmitt's permission, and then escorting Beatrice through the press of the crowd. All in the most genial and sporting manner imaginable – Snape could smell the snake oil from a hundred feet away. That was trusting for that jealous tyrant of a Parkinson, but if Severus Snape had had a wife himself, there was nothing on Earth that could have induced him to leave her alone with his cousin Lucius for even a nanosecond.

Professor Swain looked... well, she looked cold, he thought, even gloved and scarved and muffled in that ostentatious fur-lined cloak she always wore. Her shoulders and arms were hunched in to conserve her body heat as she came down from the stands to greet Lucius and Mrs. Parkinson. A moment later, Lucius took out his wand and pointed it at her cloak – probably some kind of Warming Charm – and Professor Swain simpered at him with what Snape thought was fatuous gratitude. Lucius smiled at her, then stroked a strand of hair away from her eyes with his gloved hand. Just the smallest, slyest little caress... but he infused it with endless amounts of possessiveness. Know ye all by these tokens that this woman is mine.

Snape turned his back on them with a scowl of disgust.

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Whatever Lucius had said to dear Mrs. Rosier, Emily thought, it seemed to have done the trick of convincing her to behave in a more civil manner. Or rather, whatever Lucius had said to Mrs. Rosier, it had done the trick of making her stay as far away as possible.

When Lucius and Beatrice Parkinson had come over to say hello, she had only intended to come down from the stands and chat briefly with the two of them. But then Beatrice had very cordially invited her over to join their party – among whom, she had noticed Lucius's wife and Mrs. Rosier – for a cup of tea. Emily had been about to invent a reason to politely decline, but Lucius caught her eye and gave her such an eloquent, brazen, what-the-hell sort of look, one in which she could almost hear him drawling, Oh why not, love, what do they know? that she smiled and accepted. Thus she found herself joining their group, demurely greeting Narcissa with a handshake and a warm smile and joining the chatter between Beatrice and Pansy Parkinson about how very unexciting the Second Task was by comparison to the first. Lucius brought her a china mug of steaming orange spice tea, which she accepted gratefully.

Emily had been expecting Felina Rosier to eventually take a seat nearby and start in on her and Mrs. Parkinson with the usual sort of pleasantries that any woman other than Narcissa Malfoy or the very old, very rich, and very frumpy invariably provoked from that kind lady. Instead, Mrs. Rosier took one look at Emily, and turned around, as if she was afraid to even look at her. It was so pronounced of a response that Emily began experimenting with it, casually putting herself in Mrs. Rosier's field of vision to see if she would turn away again – which she then did, with a look of creeping discomfort. This temptation was too much to bear – soon Emily was casually putting herself in Mrs. Rosier's view every so often, all the while chatting demurely with everyone, just to watch her former antagonist discreetly turn away with the inevitability of a plant turning toward the sun.

But then Emily was distracted from her Rosier-baiting by something Draco Malfoy was saying, something about Montague and Pucey, two of her sixth-years. She turned toward the boy with a laugh. "You heard about that? That was just about the silliest moment of an incredibly silly day. Something about handing a lot of water pistols to teenagers just makes them get rambunctious, I guess. Argus Filch is still furious with me about the wet floors."

"Whatever did you do?" Narcissa asked, in a decidedly sniffy voice – but Draco was standing next to his mother with such an impish grin on his face that she couldn't help but smile back.

"What happened was two of my Slytherin sixth-years got a bit mettlesome during my Protection Amulet practical. I had them testing the amulets' effectiveness with squirt pistols, and two of the boys were getting overly competitive with each other. So I came over to tell them to settle down, and as I was walking away, both of them decided to quite brazenly squirt me right on the back of the head."

"So how many years of detention did you give them?" Draco asked.

"Oh, come on, who wants to be the professor who gives the most detention, Mr. Malfoy?" Emily asked him. "There was only one way to react to such obvious provocation. I picked up my own pistol, gave chase, and battled the miscreants to a draw out in the hallway."

The usual people laughed, and the usual people looked at her as though she had just grown five extra heads – but Emily was now resigned to this reaction amongst Lucius's friends and family.

Beatrice and Lucius wanted to hear all about Protection Amulets and the water pistol testing session, which Draco and Pansy helped her describe with their own anecdotes and lots of giggling. While Emily was telling the story, she noticed that apparently all this joviality had gotten too much for good Mistress Rosier – she had gone over to greet Professor Snape, who was standing by the side of the lake, helping oversee the Second Task. Now that wasp-tongued harpy was cosily chatting to the black-cloaked Potions master, who looked about as thrilled to be involved in this conversation as can be imagined. He also had his cloak wrapped tightly around him and seemed to be shivering.

For some reason, the sight of the two of them together filled her with a fine, hot wave of irritation, as intense as it was completely irrational.

Emily had always been a terrible prey to impulse – in another second, she excused herself from the Malfoys and the Parkinsons, picked up one of the clean china mugs on the picnic table, poured out a cup of steaming Earl Grey from one of the teapots, and took it over to Professor Snape.

Lucius Malfoy watched her go, one blond eyebrow quirked with interest.

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"Good morning, Professor. You look cold. Have some tea." Emily knew Snape liked Earl Grey, or at least drank it – she had smelled it on his breath on numerous occasions. Snape turned in her direction when she addressed him – Emily didn't wait for a reaction, but handed the steaming mug to him. He accepted it automatically.

"Er... thank you," he said. Same look of faint shock and surprise she remembered from the King's Cross Lost Items office.

"Good morning, Mrs. Rosier, how are you?" Emily asked, turning toward that good lady with a bright smile. Mrs. Rosier nodded her greeting with a rather sickly smile of her own. A few seconds later, she remembered something desperately important she needed to talk to Narcissa about and excused herself.

Emily leaned toward Snape's ear. "I've discovered this morning that I now seem to have a ten-foot Mrs. Rosier-repelling field around me. So I thought I'd come over and extend the radius of protection to you, since you looked like you were enjoying her company so very much."

For another of those rare and tremendously gratifying seconds, Snape looked sideways at her and seemed to suppress what might have been a laugh. "'For this relief, much thanks,' " he murmured, taking a grateful sip from his mug.

Emily grinned at him – for some inexplicable reason, hearing him quoting Hamlet was disarming to her. "Well, 'Tis bitter cold,' and such a Rosier could make anyone 'sick at heart.'"

Snape gazed out over the lake, again with the smallest of amused grins lingering on his face – Emily was beginning to thoroughly enjoy that ironic little grin. "A ten-foot Felina-repelling field about you, eh?" he muttered. "You'll have to teach me that trick."

"To be honest, I'm not sure why I suddenly have one. I did bathe this morning. Really."

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Lucius Malfoy was watching his lover chat with his cousin very attentively.

Cousin Severus had just said something to Emily – Lucius had known Severus Snape long enough to well know the little eyebrow raise and infinitesimal smirk that signalled he was about to launch a shaft of barbed wit – and that irresponsible damsel was shaking with laughter at whatever he had just said. And wasn't Cousin Severus looking pleased with himself.

Then Emily glanced back at him with a blackly humorous grin of her own and answered him, eyes twinkling – and Severus actually chuckled as he replied. To Lucius Malfoy, this was absolutely extraordinary.

To an outside observer, the two of them would not have seemed extraordinary at all – just a lively woman having a pleasant chat with a dark, reserved man. But Lucius Malfoy had known Snape since he was a sombre, serious little boy – and in all of that time, Malfoy could have counted the number of people he had ever seen his cousin pleasantly chat with on the fingers of one hand.

Lucius listened with half an ear to his son's chatter, nodding and making the appropriate sounds of acknowledgement at the appropriate times, his gaze turned in the direction of the lake.

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"In all, I think I'm rather disappointed with the Second Task, as compared to the First. What do you think, sir?"

"Oh, so you thought seeing teenagers risking their lives with dragons was more exciting than standing around watching a completely still lake, did you?" Snape asked.

"Yes, it was," Emily said, nodding.

"I have to admit I agree with you there. In my opinion, if one is going to make a bunch of schoolchildren risk their lives for a relatively paltry sum of money, I would hope that it could at least be staged in a manner more entertaining than watching paint dry."

Again with the flawless sarcastic delivery – Emily laughed until her eyes teared. "So the revival of the Tournament wasn't your idea, I take it?" she asked, dabbing her eyes with the edge of her sleeve.

"Not a bit. Take the First Task, for example. If I had been running it, they wouldn't have only had to take eggs away from dragons. I would have made them do it while dodging flaming arrows and simultaneously translating Joyce's Ulysses into ancient Urdu."

She had only finished drying her eyes before his next remark made her collapse laughing again. "Ooh, now that would have been really fun to watch."

"I know I would have enjoyed it," Snape muttered.

"Plus, think of what that translation would mean to the ancient Urdu-speaking community – everyone knows how crazy they are about modern Irish experimental prose," Emily said, nodding her total understanding and approval.

Then, to her absolute delight, Snape laughed – a natural baritone laugh. He caught himself a second later, coughing into his gloved hand. "Yes... no doubt," he replied, turning the sinister eyebrow on her, as if to say how dare she distract him with this frivolity, when there was glowering to be done.

"Don't look at me like I'm crazy – it was your idea," she retorted merrily.

Just then, there was a disturbance in the lake's surface as the figure of a tall teenage boy, Cedric Diggory, rose from the water, his head encased in a large round bubble, which burst a moment after he emerged. He was carrying a slender teenage girl, who Emily recognised as Cho Chang, one of her Ravenclaw office-hours regulars.

"Ah, a sign of life – it appears I must be off." Snape finished the mug of tea and handed it back to her. "Thank you, madam."

"Is Miss Chang all right?" Emily craned her head for a better look at the two students, concerned.

Snape nodded, again the unassailably confident Potions master. "All the captives are fine, don't worry."

He took his leave of her with a respectful nod and hurried down the lake shore toward Diggory and Miss Chang. Madam Pomfrey, Dumbledore, and Professor Sprout were converging on the dripping pair as well.

I made Severus Snape laugh, Emily thought as she turned back toward the Malfoys' picnic.

It was really absurd how proud she was of that.

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A moment after Cedric emerged from the lake, Viktor Krum appeared as well, his head still Transfigured into that of a shark, and carrying an unconscious Hermione Granger – looking to Emily like nothing so much as a Muggle B-movie monster carrying a swooning female victim. It would have been funny if she hadn't been so concerned about Miss Granger's welfare. Madam Pomfrey and several others converged on them a moment later, wrapping them in blankets and dosing them liberally with Pepper-Up Potion.

Emily had rejoined the Malfeasant picnic a moment after Snape had left, and Lucius had positioned himself on her right, and was now keeping up an airy commentary on all that was happening. Fleur Delacour emerged from the lake a few minutes after Krum and Hermione, drenched, alone, and hysterical. She desperately tried to enlist her Headmistress's aid against the grindylows in the lake, which had apparently kept her from finding someone named Gabrielle. Madame Maxime refused, saying that the time limit was up, and told Fleur that she would not be allowed to go back after Gabrielle – at which news, Fleur bolted away from her Headmistress back toward the water. She was in the middle of speaking the incantation for the Bubble-Head Charm when Madame Maxime stopped her. Fleur struggled to return to the water – and Madame stopped her again, the part-giantess restraining the girl as gently and inexorably as a mother with a rebellious two-year-old. Now Fleur's efforts to shake off her Headmistress and go after Gabrielle were growing more and more desperate, which Lucius seemed to think was just the most hilarious thing he had ever seen in his life.

Lucius might have found the Beauxbatons champion's situation amusing, but Emily's chest clenched with pity at Miss Delacour's distress. Whoever Gabrielle was, she was clearly very precious to Fleur, so much so that the girl was willing to defy anyone in order to save her – a sentiment with which Emily heartily sympathised.

But just then, Harry Potter emerged from the lake, dragging both Ron Weasley and a little girl-waif of about primary school age, with clouds of soaked fair hair plastered over her face and shoulders, and accompanied by a small crowd of singing merfolk, who filled the air with ululating, melodic cries. Dumbledore, Percy Weasley, Ludo Bagman, and Madam Pomfrey converged on them, young Weasley even walking out into the freezing lake in his fussy little business robes.

Fleur shrieked out, "Gabrielle, Gabrielle! Is she alive? Is she hurt?" then engulfed the little girl in her arms, weeping with relief. The family resemblance between the two was so pronounced that the child could only have been her younger sister.

"Oh, how touching," Lucius drawled.

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Harry's return caused quite a commotion. Poppy Pomfrey all but mugged him with blankets and Pepper-up Potion, dragging him off to join the other soaked captives and champions. Hermione Granger seemed all right, because she ran up to Harry and began bubbling to him immediately, Victor Krum trailing behind her.

Meanwhile Dumbledore had a long conversation with one of the merwomen who had arrived on the lakeshore just after Harry, after which he called a conference with his fellow judges before the marks were handed out. Finally Ludo Bagman's hugely magnified voice recited the points awarded. Twenty-five for Miss Delacour, unfortunately. Emily was none too happy about the girl's misfortune amongst the grindylows, but Fleur just seemed ecstatic to have Gabrielle back. Forty-seven for Cedric Diggory – apparently the judges had shaved three points off for returning one minute too late. Viktor Krum was likewise penalised for going over the time limit, and received forty points. But Harry Potter, over the time limit though he was, received high marks from the judges for refusing to leave Gabrielle Delacour behind to whatever uncertain fate lay ahead of her on the lake floor – forty-five points in all.

The crowd began to break up after the points were awarded. Lucius turned to Emily in the milling crush, as baskets were packed up and chairs folded.

"Well, it's been lovely to see you, dear," he said, aside to her. "It's been especially lovely watching you torturing dear Felina all morning."

Emily blushed, feeling like a little girl caught in some mischief. "I'm sorry. I know I'm being a bit evil, but I just couldn't resist."

"No worries – I think I like you a bit evil," he said, the usual smirk playing on the corner of his lips. He pressed her hand between both of his and leaned closer to her, as if to say good-bye, but instead of the usual Good to see you or We must get together again soon, he said, "Seven p.m. Friday. Cockatrice Inn, top floor."

"I can hardly wait," she replied. Her hand went to her earlobe, and toyed nonchalantly with the brilliant diamond earring dangling there. Lucius smiled.

They nodded to each other, outwardly the picture of platonic cordiality. Lucius went back to his wife's side, and Emily rejoined her colleagues in the stands.

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The Malfoys lingered after most of the other spectators had gone, for a short visit with Professor Snape. "Severus, hello, cousin. I wanted to say thank you for coming all the way out for Druella's birthday. She does so enjoy your company," Lucius said.

"Yes, really – Mother's so fond of you, it does just brighten her day when you can visit," Narcissa said, pressing Snape's hand and warmly kissing his cheek.

"Thank you, it was kind of you to invite me," Snape replied, smiling at her as mildly and gently as he ever did at anyone.

"It was so lovely to have company," Narcissa said. "We've been so lonely in the country lately – mostly it's been just me and Mother. Lucius and my brother are so busy lately with their work, they're hardly ever home." She looked from cousin to husband, long-suffering patience quivering prettily on her alabaster features.

"There there, love, you knew it was going to be a busy year," Lucius said in a very low voice.

Just then Draco stalked up, complaining yet again about how unfair it was that Harry Potter had been allowed to compete in the Tournament, and Narcissa of course had to excuse herself to tend to her son. Lucius turned to Snape with a look of commiseration.

"Sorry for that, she's a bit peevish lately because I've had to spend so much time in London," Lucius said.

"I suppose you must be distracted, what with the events of this year," Snape replied, in a low, leading tone, that subtly encouraged the speaker to continue on this topic at length if he so desired.

"Yes, I've indeed been rather... distracted lately," Lucius purred – and at that moment, his gaze lit on Emily, who was chatting with Irma Pince and Professor Sinistra by the stands. Lucius allowed himself one long, heavy-lidded look before turning back to Snape with a conspiratorial little smirk. "Can you meet me for a drink later, old man? Do some catching up?"

"Yes, I think we should," Snape answered. His expression, as he made plans to meet with Lucius, then said his good-byes to the Malfoys and their company, was inscrutable as always, if perhaps a bit more remote than usual.

Perhaps Severus Snape was not as unschooled at detecting solid fact from a nuance of information as he had previously imagined himself to be. Or perhaps Lucius Malfoy disliked seeing his bachelor cousin and his mistress beginning to patch up their months'-long enmity, and saw the opportunity to cultivate it again, to serve his own purposes. Whatever the reason, if Professor Snape had harboured any suspicions that perhaps the friendship between Lucius and Professor Swain was not entirely platonic, that fleeting, gloating glance confirmed every one of them.

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The day after the Second Task, Emily met with Professor Snape for their now accustomed Wednesday practice session. As usual, he arrived right at 6:53. But Emily immediately noticed there was something different about his manner this evening.

There had been a kind of truce between them for some time – as if they both had recognised they had a job to do together and realised that being reasonably civilised and businesslike about the whole thing had been the most efficient way to get through it. Last week, he had come close to being decent company. On the morning of the Second Task, in the few brief moments they had stood aside together and discussed the various foibles of Mrs. Rosier, and Snape had envisioned his ideal Triwizard Tournament – she thought that she had finally seen the return of the blackly humorous, endlessly intriguing man she had met in King's Cross, at least for a moment.

But the evening after the Tournament, he had stalked in too early, as was his wont. Completely ignored her greeting, and then proceeded to snap at her all evening over every triviality imaginable. All of his extreme irascibility from earlier in the year seemed to have reasserted itself with a vengeance for some reason – which Emily now found painfully disappointing. She had to bite down very hard on a plaintive query of: What's wrong? What's the matter? What happened?

There was no point in asking him what was upsetting him, though – it wasn't as though there was any relationship to be put right, after all. He wasn't her friend, and certainly wasn't her lover. There could only be said to be the barest of polite working relationships between them most of the time, but... But. She had thought the last week's nearly cordial relations had indicated that he had put some of his indignation at her (admittedly) less than stellar initial treatment of him aside. For the space of about one week, she had felt him becoming more approachable and had thought that this was the beginning of... well, of something.

Evidently, she had been wrong.

By quarter past eight, she was so irritated by his snide little darts of criticism and complaint that she halted the bout, yanking off her mask and raking an impatient hand through her sweaty hair. "Professor. I swear by whatever deity you require that I will not forget to respect you if you dispense with the operatic bastard persona for the remaining forty-five minutes that you have to spend in my company today. I've not had a good day, and we'll both get through this far better if you stop bloody sniping at me. I can't take it right now."

He seemed to consider that, watching her with glacial calm. "Would you prefer to meet Friday evening instead?" he asked. "Or perhaps Saturday?"

"I'm busy this weekend, I'm afraid."

"Oh, yes, weekends do seem a busy time for you," he said blandly. "Visiting friends in Cambridge again?"

"Visiting friends, yes," she replied shortly.

"Do have a lovely time," he said, very coolly. At least his tone was cool – his scent was inexplicably laden with so much adrenaline fury that it sent her own pulse rate spiking up.

Emily felt her face flame. "Sir. You do realise that I am an entire dimensional plane away from my home," she snapped. "I don't deny that I find some comfort in spending time with my friends. Do you so begrudge me the occasional day off? Do things really go all to hell here when I'm not around?"

"Why you would waste one moment's concern on my opinion of your actions is entirely beyond me, madam," he said, his eyes all but sparking with repellence, even through a fencing mask.

"Fine, I won't then," she said, yanking her mask back on and assuming en garde position. "Ready?"

Snape threw his shoulders arrogantly back as he faced her. "Yes."

A casual observer might have thought their remaining bouts of the night were much more ferocious than usual – and now he was spending the rest of the evening punishing her with stony silence. Before long, she thought she could have endured his cruel verbal slings and arrows better than that icy emptiness.

"Think of it this way, sir – it's now February twenty-fifth," she said as the session was breaking up.

"And what does that mean?" Snape asked flintily.

"It means that there are exactly six months and twenty-seven days before I can go home," she said, with a poisonously sweet smile. "Do have a pleasant evening."

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March blew in with much overcast grey sky and torrents of freezing rain – and more storms of bad temper from Professor Snape, who seemed to bristle every time she so much as passed him in the halls. His endless sarcastic barbs perturbed Emily so much that at one point she flopped down into a chair in front of the fire in the teacher's lounge without noticing that it was already occupied by the History of Magic teacher, Professor Binns. The mild-mannered Binns had been a pleasant, helpful, and in all ways irreproachable colleague all year, and his only real sensitivity was in having a fuss made about the fact that he was a ghost. Having a colleague abruptly sit in him put him rather in a huff, despite the fact that Emily sprang up immediately and apologised. Wonderful, now everyone's angry at me today, she thought, huddling miserably on the window seat.

At meals and in the teacher's lounge, Emily was profoundly glad of the comforting presence of her friend Irma Pince. While the slight, grey-haired librarian was much like a cosy, indulgent aunt in her relaxed moments, Irma could also be as strict and domineering as a Seventh Kingdom queen, especially when she was chivvying students for eating or talking in her book-lined library fiefdom. The icy remarks from Snape stopped when Irma was around – there were many, many times during the second term in which Emily had cause to feel grateful to her.

"I wonder what happened to him sometimes," Irma said aside to Emily one afternoon, after Professor Snape had gathered his notes and left for class. "Severus Snape was the quietest, cleverest, least troublesome lad imaginable when he was in school here. I never had to scold him or so much as give him an overdue notice. But he went off to his mother's funeral in his sixth year, and he's never been the same. He fell in with a rather nasty Slytherin crowd, and he's the only one of them who's made anything of himself since. Lord knows he's not one to confide in anyone except perhaps Albus, but I always thought there had to be some reason why he's gotten so sour and bitter."

Irma shook her head ruefully – and Emily looked down into her teacup, remembering her own role in a blow to the Professor's ego, and felt very small indeed.

But apparently Emily herself wasn't the only target for his rotten mood this term – an article titled "Harry Potter's Secret Heartache" appeared in a rather fluffy women's magazine called Witch Weekly that Friday, again by Rita Skeeter, whose name was becoming synonymous with sensationalistic tabloid hackery in Emily's mind. The article painted Hermione Granger as some kind of love-potion-brewing temptress who had ensorcelled the affections of both Viktor Krum and Harry Potter by treachery – and from the reports of various students, it seemed that Professor Snape had read the article out loud in its entirety in Potions class. Emily was certain the entire article was utter shite from beginning to end – everyone knew that Harry and Hermione were the best of friends, and that Hermione had more than enough admirable qualities to prompt the seemingly honest affection that Viktor Krum felt for her.

However, given the contempt Snape evidently felt for other people's "tangled love lives" – Emily shuddered to think what his opinion would be if he ever found out about certain temporary entanglements in her own love life.

Six months and seventeen days until I can go home, she reminded herself.

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Lucius hadn't been able to bring an Arcadian volcanic hot spring to her – but he had managed to find a hotel stateroom with a private Roman-style bath by the first weekend of March. To Emily, that bathing chamber seemed absolutely the height of decadence, all done in deep jade-green marble and dimly lit by a giant fireplace and bronze candelabra. Logs of fragrant herbal incense were stacked beside the firewood, which filled the room with a piney, woody scent when tossed on the flames. There was probably a collective acre of dark blue bath sheet warming on heated racks, and the walls were hung with risqué etchings of Roman ladies and lords engaged in various illicit activities at a sumptuous public bath.

The round central bath seemed itself the size of a pond – Emily could easily have swum laps from one side to the other. Dozens of elegant silver filigree taps poured steaming water mixed with different sorts of bath suds and bath oil. One tap poured pale green suds scented with eucalyptus, one poured long-lasting icy-white suds so thickly that they seemed to cover the top of the tub like a glacier's frost. She became particularly fond of several taps that poured water and bath oils of an especially silky and lubricious texture, scented with balsam, sandalwood, cedar, and wild mint.

After a delightful time investigating the various taps, Emily dropped her clothes on a carved fruitwood bench, knotted her hair up on top of her head, and slid into the delectably hot, scented water. "Come on in, love, the water's fine," she called, submerging herself up to her collarbones and tilting her head back onto the side of the pool, as unselfconscious as an otter in its favourite kelp bed.. He wasted not a second in throwing off his clothes, tying his own hair back, and slipping in after her.

For months now, Emily had been used to her fingers and toes feeling perpetually icy, of hunching under heaps of blankets and eiderdowns, of the agonised chill in the moment between emerging from the bath or the shower and wrapping herself in a robe. The steamy warmth was paradisiacal to her, like bathing in her favourite hot spring back home, but in such different, luxurious, surroundings. This pool might not have been surrounded by spreading trees or riots of flowers, or inhabited by singing water nymphs – but the heat, the deliciously fragrant oils and unguents, and this randy blond Adonis of a companion were hardly a poor alternative.

It was an eventful evening indeed. Something about being kissed endlessly while steam billowed all around, and the deliciously slippery qualities the oil lent to the skin made several hours' splash in that pool extremely memorable. The buoyant support of the water was such that Lucius could lift her off of her feet almost effortlessly – and then she was lowering herself onto him, slipping down to take him to the hilt with unabashed eagerness, her legs tight around his waist.

Some time afterward, as he reclined on the side of the bath, she slid down in that hot, fragrant water, coiled her arms around his hips and repaid him in kind for being the deliciously oral creature that he was. It was intensely satisfying to make him lose that chilly composure, throw his fair head back, and groan with pleasure like any other man as she drained the orgasm from him. He sank onto the green marble afterward, breathing hard.

"Your year here can't... possibly be half over already, can it?" he asked, looking terribly dismayed.

"Yes, just about half over." She very deliberately drew her tongue over her upper lip, shamelessly gazing into his eyes – which made him half-swoon again.

"You could always move here permanently," he suggested helpfully.

Emily shook her head. "I don't think so, love."

"Perhaps I could get you a nice flat near Diagon Alley," he said, sliding into the bath again.

"I'm sure you could, dear," she said, with an indulgent smile.

"No, really," he said, seeming to warm to the idea as he imagined it. "You could have all the art and books you wanted, and flowers even in the winter, and house elves doing everything for you. You could write, go to the theatre and the museums with me, have all the peace and leisure you wanted." He pulled her into another steam-wreathed embrace, let his lips come to rest against her temple. "Just think of it, darling. No Dumbledore ordering you about, no Snape spoiling your appetite, no one coming to you wailing Help, help, a panther ate my baby ever again. You wouldn't have to worry about a thing, except what to wear to greet me in the evening."

"And there you would keep me very well." She raised her head from his shoulder to look him in the eye. "I have my own money, you know."

"With the surname of Swain, you'd have to." He took her hand in one of his, trailing her fingertips up his neck, then placing a heated kiss on her palm. "I just adore the idea of having you entirely to myself."

"Staying exactly where you put me."

"Yes. Staying exactly where I can have you when I want you," he said, his grip tightening around her waist. "Don't expect me to deny that I want you to come to me when I want it, not when Albus Dumbledore allows it. It's tiresome to only be able to see you when you have time off from work."

She stretched, laying her head on his shoulder again. "So you'd have your wife at the country estate for social and breeding purposes, but spend all your real passions with your mistress, who you keep in the city," she said in an arch, facetious tone.

"Exactly." He seemed terribly pleased that she understood his meaning so well. "Perhaps you're joking when you say that, but I'm not. I can't think of any arrangement I'd like more."

Her expression turned serious. "I'm going home in September, Lucius. I'm a knight commander, remember?"

"And service in the Fianna is entirely voluntary, remember?"

"Oh yes. What am I supposed to tell Gwydion?" She pantomimed writing a letter, using her forefinger for a pen and his bicep for paper – " 'Good my liege, I am leaving your service to become the kept tart of a married Second-World wizard. Happy Beltane, love to Aunt Dahlia and the family.' "

"I'll get my quill."

"Lucius."

He glanced down at her, unconvinced. "My dear, we are talking about the same man who came to Britain, had a snowball fight with some Liverpudlian children, then turned around and went right back home?"

"He wanted to see what snow was like. And then he found it to be... rather cold for his taste," she said, shrugging.

"Don't you think that a man like that would understand absolutely your desire to prolong a torrid affair with someone? As I recall, he's never exactly been moderate in his affections for his Queen. I saw them on the dance floor at Beltane. And at your mother's return banquet... and at your wedding... "

"He would probably understand if I told him I was staying here because I was madly in love with someone, or getting married or something – "

"Then simply omit all the details." A slight scowl crept onto his face – evidently her intractability in this matter was starting to annoy him.

"Lucius, you know that I can't." She drew his face down to hers and kissed him delectably – but he was not distracted for long.

"What if the school governors prevailed upon Dumbledore to ask you to stay for another year?" he asked, turning his lips a fraction from hers. "Would you do it?"

"Maybe, but first I'd have to ask Mother what the situation with the Orcs was like. You know how they are about breaking non-aggression treaties," she reminded him. "Although, wouldn't that do your cousin Severus out of the Defence Against the Dark Arts position for another year? Everyone keeps telling me how badly he wants to get it."

Lucius laughed. "Darling, if you think I'd put crusty old Snape's career aspirations ahead of keeping you here, you've got a rather exalted opinion of my altruistic tendencies."

"What altruistic tendencies?" she asked, smirking up at him, as though his self-interested streak was a very loveable quirk indeed.

"Dear lady, I'll have you know I made a sizeable contribution to St. Mungo's Hospital this summer."

"And what did you get out of that, darling?"

"A tremendous amount of personal satisfaction in knowing that people suffering from magical maladies and injuries were being cared for, my dear! And... choice seats in the VIP box at the Quidditch World Cup for the entire family, and quite a few brownie points with the Minister of Magic, but that was nothing compared to my great pleasure in helping the less fortunate – "

At that point, he had to shield himself from a spirited splashing with bath suds.

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The following Monday dawned cold and grey, again bringing torrents of freezing rain. Emily sat at breakfast feeling rather sleepy and bemused, not quite fully returned from her sybaritic weekend with Lucius – until a small crowd of owls descended on the Gryffindor table, surrounding Hermione Granger. Emily glanced up from her breakfast as Hermione opened a series of letters, seeming to grow more and more disgusted with each one. Seconds later, a sharp cry of, "Owww!" came up from the Gryffindor table, and Hermione rushed from the great hall, eyes tearing, with her hands held painfully in front of her – from amidst the Slytherins, Viktor Krum watched her leave with a very concerned look on his face.

Emily was up from her seat and over to the Gryffindor table in a moment. "Potter, Weasley, what happened?" she asked, bending down to whisper to them privately.

Ron Weasley silently handed her one of the letters that Hermione had left behind, a sinister little missive contrived from letters cut from newsprint and pasted onto a sheet of paper –

You are a wicked girl. Harry Potter deserves

better. Go back from where you came from Muggle.

"Oh, really," Emily hissed, throwing the letter down onto the table. "Where did Miss Granger rush off to?"

"The hospital wing – there was bubotuber pus in one of them, and it got all over her hands," Ron Weasley said.

"Bloody hell," she snapped, and stalked off muttering a torrent of eloquent Arcadian profanity under her breath.

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Rubeus Hagrid mentioned at lunch that Hermione had not turned up in his Care of Magical Creatures class – so Emily quickly finished her own lunch and headed off to the hospital wing to check on the girl's condition. She found Hermione hunched miserably on a cot, her hands covered with foul-smelling anti-inflammation salve and doing her best to drink some soup from a mug. Her poor hands were so swollen that she could barely bend her fingers.

"Hello, Professor," Hermione said as Emily came in, offering a little, resigned smile.

Emily sat down on the edge of the cot and patted Hermione's knee comfortingly. "Harry and Ron told me what happened. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"And of course it had to happen on a day when I wasn't wearing my Amulet of Protection," the girl said sourly.

Over the course of the school year, Emily had grown very fond of the brainy young Gryffindor. She now often joined Minerva McGonagall in singing Hermione's praises, noting her grace in the face of provocation, her loyalty to her friends, her endless intellectual curiosity. Seeing Hermione in this condition made a surge of outrage well up again – but she hesitated to vent it in front of her student. Instead, she took off a silver pendant from around her neck – her own Amulet of Protection – and as Hermione watched, she spoke a long incantation under her breath, in some complicated, melodic language, followed by a silent invocation of her Word of Power. When she opened her hand again, the amulet glowed with a faint green light for a few seconds – and then she looped the long silver chain around Hermione's neck.

"There – that'll keep bubotuber pus off you. Now, I want you to keep that until all of this dies down. Promise me you'll wear it every day, without fail, all right?"

Hermione nodded, looking up at her gratefully. "I will, promise. Thanks, Professor."

"Anytime. Now, is there anything you need up here? Can I bring you something to read?"

"If you could ask Ron and Harry to get me copies of their notes for the classes I've missed today," Hermione said. "I've missed Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. I've got Arithmancy this afternoon – Seamus Finnigan should have notes for that class. And... I'd kind of like Buckminster Swain's Encyclopaedia, too."

"Consider it done."

Emily left Hermione a bit more cheerful, settled back amongst her pillows and examining the Faery amulet with interested brown eyes. Before lunch was over, Emily had asked Potter, Weasley, and Finnigan to keep Hermione current on the day's classwork, and dispatched a house-elf up to the hospital wing with the Encyclopaedia.

Then she went into the teacher's lounge, picked up a quill, and fired off an absolutely excoriating letter to the editor of Witch Weekly.