Part Second: The Hart Rampant, Chapter 25, Part 2

Chapter 25, Part 2:

Back at Hogwarts, in the borrowed Pensieve, it took Severus Snape the better part of a minute to stop staring, speechless and immobile with shock, at himself and his colleague.

No. No, it couldn't have been that easy.

Nothing, nothing, in Snape's experience was that easy, especially her. She was an icy, unapproachable creature with a bitchy wit and a flashing rapier – she certainly wasn't his to nibble on like a Honeydukes truffle; he wouldn't have imagined that she was for an instant. It couldn't just have been a matter of... drawing her lips down to his and planting a lazy, sensual kiss on her. Had he tried such at any time during the school year, he would have expected a cold, mocking rejection at best and a well-aimed slap at worst... but, on Midsummer's Night in an Arcadian nightclub, he had apparently done just that.

When he did, he had not been coldly mocked or rejected, and had certainly not been slapped. No, she had then kissed him back, quite sensually and impassionedly.

And from there, it had continued.

And continued, and continued.

By all appearances, his memory-self had forgotten there was anyone in the world at that moment other than the woman in his arms, looked as though he had completely lost himself in her. This was nothing like the sort of awkward groping some teenagers did – no, she knew how a man liked to be kissed and touched, and how to wordlessly let him know that she wants nothing more than to be exactly where she is, with him. And although it had been some time for him – just one day short of nine months, at the time of this memory – it looked as though he hadn't forgotten how to kiss a woman, either... and from the way her arms had twined around his neck and her fingers trailed down his spine, he seemed to have been in rather good form that night.

Oh bloody hell, from the response he was provoking, he looked to have been in a form that Casanova would have envied that night. Snape's chin went up and his shoulders went back just a bit with satisfaction.

This kissing and embracing went on for so long that the amazement of it wore off a bit after about half an hour, and he wandered off a ways to watch the dancing, the musicians, the exotic varieties of Faeries running about. It was really interesting the way the Fae all seemed totally familiar with and accepting of even the most unusual types of people – women who were also trees, men with antlers and horns, girls with hooves, people with slit-pupilled eyes and snakes' skin. The Naga changelings still gave Snape the willies; but then, he had known exactly one person with slit-pupilled eyes before in his life, and that person was a legendary Dark Wizard who got them by means of some rather frowned-upon and highly unnatural Dark-Magical transformations, so perhaps this reaction was understandable. Your average Naga changeling didn't have abnormally large, violently red eyes, however – their eyes all seemed to have gold or green or brown irises, and to be of a size proportionally normal for their faces.

And by Merlin, they were a people who just loved to dance and play music. He hadn't really noticed this before, but they seemed to have quite a rich folk-music tradition. Some of the slower tunes, played at less deafening volume, were actually quite listenable. Additionally – he didn't seem to have been the only person, or even the only human, who had spent part of that evening "in the arms of the Blue Faerie." Quite a few Faeries were meandering around with looks of childlike wonderment on their faces, entranced by all the dancing lights and giggling at everything and nothing. He passed that young wizard again, William or whatever his name was, still talking to the first Naga changeling Snape had noticed and the brunette Beauxbatons girl, JoAnna Something. Miss JoAnna had conjured up a Glamoured school of tiny luminescent goldfish who were now merrily swimming all around William, and the lad was looking hugely amused by these antics. Snape remembered that the young wizard had drunk a glass of absinthe voluntarily, from all appearances knowing full well what it would do to him.

So there were people who drank the stuff because they actually liked its effects. How extraordinarily odd.

When he came back to his memory-self and Professor Swain about half an hour later – they were still kissing. Good lord, they were acting like a young couple at a local pub. Like they could have been dallying in the shadow of a rosebush. Snape thought about all the rosebushes he had blasted at the Yule Ball, with a twinge of embarrassment. That saucy dark Miss JoAnna Something sauntered by, still trailing Glamoured goldfish, and stage-whispered Get a room at them – which they didn't seem to notice at all.

Another half hour went by – still kissing. That Alain bloke and the woman with the toffee-coloured ringlets, Mackenzie, walked past them, exchanged a look, laughed, and went back to dancing.

He checked his watch again – the two of them had apparently contentedly embraced and kissed each other for at least an hour and a half. Snape began to get impatient. From the look of it, this must have been very absorbing and a great deal of fun for the two participants, but now that he was sitting outside of that clinch, watching it go on, he was rather perversely starting to feel a little excluded.

Another Faerie walked past him and Professor Swain as they enjoyed their dark corner, a very small man with long grey hair. He casually glanced at the two of them – then seemed to recognise them. At that, he stopped dead, a huge grin breaking over his face. He actually bounced up and down in jubilation for the space of a second, shaking with soundless laughter. No doubt about it, he seemed happy to see them together for some reason.

Then suddenly, Snape recognised the fellow – it was the old man from in front of the library, looking quite the Arcadian swell indeed, all tarted up in a wine-coloured spidersilk shirt and velvet breeches, and a handsomely tooled brown leather doublet, with a heavy medallion of what looked like burnished gold around his neck. As he made his way past them and toward the bar, people were greeting him with bows, calling him "My Lord." The huge SECURITY fellow with the horns, who had been watching the door earlier in the evening, was constantly at his side. Who exactly was this elderly beggar?

But now the music had stopped, and the club was closing. What time was it in this memory? He glanced at the wristwatch on the Naga changeling at the bar – had to search a bit before he found a watch on anyone in this crowd – and found it was now half-past two a.m. He made his way back to himself and Professor Swain.

The Beauxbatons lot were quite cordially making their good-byes to the two of them, embracing his colleague and shaking his hand, even that annoying Alain bloke. They all seemed to have accepted that he was his colleague's date for the evening, and for some unknown reason, they acted as though they quite approved of this development. The curly-locked Mesdame Mackenzie extended an invitation to the two of them to join a local after party ("You're welcome to bring your lover, if you like," she told Professor Swain) – but Emily had said they both had to work tomorrow, and promised to make the next one.

Professor Swain then disengaged herself from him with many small caresses, said she was going to say some good-byes, and promised she wouldn't be long. He followed her a short distance into the crowd and saw her hug both Catherine and Roddy, who were on their way out. Catherine gave her a packet of something, which she tucked into her pocketbook.

Then he noticed that the old beggar or noble Lord, whichever he was, was sitting at the bar and had just caught sight of Snape sitting on the sofa alone. His merry, wizened face lit up again, and he bounced down off his seat and traipsed over to him.

The two of them began talking, and suddenly Snape understood the man's cryptic remarks in front of the library about "the Circle" – Snape now realised he was at that moment within "the Circle." And then the two of them made introductions to each other, and Snape discovered that he was talking to none other than Lord Robin "Goodfellow" Puck's own great-nephew. "Well, I'll be damned – who would have thought Shakespeare's Faeries were historical personages," Snape muttered to himself.

Now the two of them were chatting away in a totally opposite manner from their enigmatic first meeting. How strange that when he had met the old man for the first time, he had seemed so closed off, so unwilling to be questioned – but he seemed to open right up in this situation, especially after Snape introduced himself. He pondered for a moment – on his first meetings with Faeries, they had taken the first opportunity to disappear from him when he tried to ask them any sort of question. ("That 'I'm getting pressure from a human, time to disappear!' thing is practically reflexive with them," Dr. Orson had said.) When he had pressed Emily for her name during their tea and again right after their impulsive escapade in the callbox, she not only hadn't given it, but had vanished. When he had met Lord Puck and asked him about "the Circle" – the old man had also taken the first opportunity to disappear.

But once he introduced himself on Midsummer's Night, Malabar Puck had offered his own name a second later. ("Tell us your name and be known to us before you ask your questions, we'll tell when we're ready," the Puck said.) Interesting. All right, perhaps next time he made a Faerie's acquaintance, he would try introducing himself first, and see if that made conversation any easier.

And like the Beauxbatons lot, Malabar Puck seemed pleased indeed at seeing his colleague with a new romantic interest. From the amount of time they had spent in each other's arms that evening, he seemed to have inferred that there was some relationship between the two of them. When Snape admitted that he made no assumptions about his claim on the lady's affections, the Puck seemed to think he was selling himself short for some reason. "By my troth, Professor Night, the woman dotes upon you" – what was that all about? No one doted upon him, and certainly not one Professor Emily Beauregard Swain, and it would take more than the many delectable, melting kisses lavished upon him that evening to make him believe that. Kisses and frantically good sex were easy – it was knowing that she would be there to kiss on a day-to-day basis that most interested him, at this stage in his life. The first and only woman who could have been said to faithfully dote on me, sir, he thought, is almost twenty years in her untimely grave, thank you.

A moment later, the Puck seemed to think Snape's reluctance to presume on his colleague's regard meant that he was only amusing himself with her. The Puck fixed Snape with a look and hinted that Professor Swain was not an ideal candidate for trifling, and that he might do well to simply let her down easy. Apparently he knew his colleague quite well, was familiar with the tragedy of her recent past, but he only touched on it very discreetly.

This got Snape's hackles up – he didn't see why he should be chided for a lack of honourable intention toward a woman who had abandoned him fifteen minutes post-coitus. "Not that it's any of your business, sir, but on the first night I met the lady, I was willing to take my first day of leave in my entire teaching career to spend more time with her – the reason our association had come to such an abrupt end was not my doing," Snape tartly informed the fellow.

But the unfairness of these assumptions didn't seem to register with his absinthe-adulterated memory-self – instead, he paused, his brows creasing thoughtfully. "No, it's not that I don't... reciprocate, it's... "

The Puck smiled, very warmly indeed, in the manner of a wise and venerable grandfather who knows exactly what it is to be a skittish, infatuated youth. "It's what, laddie? Jill's fond of Jack, and Jack's fond of Jill – it seems a simple enough equation, to me."

Snape's memory-self seemed first amazed by that suggestion, then seemed to go through any number of silent internal denials as to why it could not possibly be that simple. Truly, Snape was sure that if the old man knew about all that had happened, the first night they had met, the introduction, the Dungbombed cauldrons, the Malfeasant weekend, the pyrotechnical arguing, Lucius hanging about making insinuations – he would have realised how bloody complicated the matter really was.

But now, Snape's memory-self was desperately – and probably wisely – changing the subject. He asked the old man what he was sentry of, why Diagon Alley needed a sentry – yes, he would like to know more about that, come to think of it. He turned to Malabar Puck for his answer, but the Puck evaded the question – or rather, he evaded it and then dropped a tantalising hint that there was far more to this sentry business than he had previously imagined. Damn – so bloody typical!

And what was this about the sentry of Christchurch College? He knew there was a sentry of Diagon Alley – so there were more Fae sentries out there, and Professor Swain had at one point been one of them? He might have to find some way to ask her exactly what was going on there.

But Professor Swain had just returned to collect him – and now she was looking at Malabar Puck half-accusingly, as though she just knew that this earnest heart-to-heart he was having with the man who had lately been thoroughly kissing her meant he had to be up to something. The two of them turned to her like nothing so much as a couple of small boys caught in some mischief. Snape was expecting a sharp exchange between them, but instead Malabar Puck played off her displeasure with debonair ease. The Professor had to stifle a laugh at that – he was quite familiar with my lady Swain's ability to shrug off all criticisms with a killingly twinkly smile, but she was an earnest amateur compared to this old charlatan. It was quite satisfying to see someone use her own tricks on her for a change.

The two of them withdrew for a serious sort of chat – perhaps she was catching up on the latest news regarding her parents, as she knew this Lord Puck had seen them more recently than she had – and Snape's memory-self was left alone for another few minutes. He had turned toward someone standing nearby in the crowd, stared fascinated at her for a long moment. Then Snape himself glanced around for whatever he was looking at so wide-eyed, and the two of them gaped and stared in unison as he realised that yes – he was standing in the same room as a person who looked as though she had genuine, honest-to-goodness, fully functional wings attached to her body.

Snape would have been intrigued by such a person even cold sober, but his absinthe-adulterated self had gone right up to the woman and touched one of her black and silver wings. Apparently Seventh Kingdom absinthe not only improved your dancing ability and caused you to assume Casanova-like qualities with previously unattainable women, it also brought the act of going up and petting strange Faeries into the realm of socially acceptable behaviour. With his luck, he had probably just mortally offended the woman and was now about to get ticked off royally.

But no such thing happened – It doesn't hurt to look at you, either, pet? Well well well. Now he was scratching her wing, and she was having a catlike stretch under these attentions, looking at him sidelong with her own take on that Puck-surveying-a-sleeping-Athenian-youth expression. (From what he had seen that night, Fae women all seemed to have something of the hormonal anarchist in them.)

Oh my, who was this he was petting? Huge almond eyes ringed with copper lashes, luxuriant red hair, some kind of gold sheen on her lips and eyelids. Dressed in a short black silk frock of a classical, vaguely Roman cut, with an impossibly intricate band of what looked like jewel-encrusted gold filigree around her left bicep. One certainly didn't see the likes of her every day. She would have been impressive even without the wings – and she was... oh my... she had just paid him a high-flown compliment about his Byronic mode of dress, her shameless little hand stroking his lapel. Snape felt his jaw drop for the hundredth time today – unless he was labouring under some absinthe-flashback delusion at present, she had just made an unmistakable pass at him.

Snape gulped. This Lord Trent bloke must be quite the famous celebrity indeed, if he had women like that after him.

Then he noticed Professor Swain was observing the two of them, off to his right, talking to that obnoxious Alain bloke. He came closer, so he could hear what they were saying: "Well, how do you like that," Professor Swain said, extremely tartly. "I leave him alone for five minutes, and some nixie's on him like brown on rice. Maybe I should leave the two of them alone, do you think?"

Alain laughed. "Anyone could get a bit distracted by a nixie like that. I should know, because she's distracting the ever-loving Christian hell out of me, too." Emily had given him a swat on the arm, only half playfully.

Oh, that was priceless – she was jealous. The sight of another beautiful woman flirting with him made her insecure. She was exhibiting all the classic signs of jealousy, as evidenced by a first-year, no less. Her eyes were flashing, her lips were pouting, her complexion was practically a delicate shade of green – Snape was tempted to leave the Pensieve and return to this memory just to watch his insouciant ice-maidenly colleague get hot and bothered like that again.

Finally, she had gone up to him and stood at his elbow, as if waiting for him to notice her again – and the second he saw she had come back, he pulled her into his arms as though he had been waiting anxiously for her return. "There, you see? Even when not in my right mind, and faced with this kind of... redheaded provocation, I have my priorities in order, thank you very much," Snape pointed out, feeling very put upon indeed to ever have been doubted.

Luckily, this warm welcome seemed to have appeased Professor Swain's fit of jealousy entirely; she had nestled against his side with seeming contentment. At this, the redhead was now looking a bit annoyed – a moment later, she made her good-byes and melted away into the crowd. Why, Snape wondered, had she and his colleague greeted each other the way they had – my Lady Acherontia? A moment ago she had referred to the woman as some nixie – how did she now know the redhead's name, and where she hailed from? He was definitely going to have to ask her about that, too.

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But now, the revel had ended. Professor Swain was trying to get him home. She led him along the alley, hailed the Knight Bus, and coaxed him on board. (Another volley of peevish non-sequiturs fell out of his mouth as she managed this Homeric task, which made him cringe again.) Finally, she had gotten him up to the nearly deserted second level, where she had manoeuvred him onto a bed. She had taken a moment to get him comfortably situated... and then seemed to take another long, thoughtful moment just to look at him in the darkness, dwelling on some private musings of her own. But then the reverie passed, and she got up and started to head toward the bed next to him – but then his memory-self sat up, wrapped himself around her from behind, and put an impassioned kiss on the back of her neck.

Snape's eyes widened. Damn, that was forward of me. But apparently this little bit of provocation had been quite effective, because after a second's hesitation, she turned around and kissed him like to singe his eyebrows. The kissing progressed. Then his jacket came off, and she was unbuttoning his shirt and stroking his naked back, and then she was cradling his head in her arms as he imprinted humid kisses along the swell of her cleavage – and then he was devouring her lips again, while her body arched hungrily up to his and her fingers raked down his back. Apparently that nibbling of collarbones and shoulders was entirely consensual – and oh my, there was nothing even remotely reserved about this, they were entwined together like a mated pair of anacondas, just consuming each other.

Bloody hell, wasn't I a bit randy that evening, Snape thought, the sinister eyebrow going up until it nearly met his hairline. And wasn't she a bit randy as well. Oh MY – now his memory-self's hand was curving around the back of her stockinged knee, and – holy Merlin's teeth – his hand was under her skirt, gently squeezing her lacy-knickered little arse, and then her filmy silk skirt was slipping down to reveal a slender black-gartered thigh pressed tight around his hip. What they had been doing in the club had been flirtation – but this... this was foreplay. Extremely heated foreplay at that – just the sight of them together, of her responding to him like that, made his heart rate spike up slightly and brought a light sweat out on his palms.

Snape was barely aware of the existence of Muggle pornographic films, and he was not the sort of man who would have sought them out if he had been. Even though he knew the man on the bed was himself, he had to avert his eyes once the two of them really got going. Snape turned around, facing away from them, feeling his face alight with horrible blushing and feeling them knocking up against his back as this primal wallow in Dionysian lust continued. Now all he could hear were kisses and sighs, gasping and panting, both baritone and soprano. He had previously been worried about making a fool of himself in public – when the truth of the matter was, perhaps he had given rather too good of an account of himself in private.

Then a deeply alarming thought occurred to him – how far had this progressed? Had he made love to her again? Swept her completely off her feet somehow, made grandiose promises to her... in the heat of the moment, had he done something really horrible like propose marriage or some such afterward?

Good lord, had she accepted?

But then someone took a deep breath behind him, and he heard Professor Swain's voice say, "No, not now, I can't."

"Why not?" he heard his own voice gasp, with comical disappointment. Snape slapped a hand over his face in an agony of embarrassment.

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Then, to his great surprise, she said, "Because I do not take advantage of men in the arms of the Blue Faerie. That wouldn't be fair to you."

It seemed that she had actually had him completely willing, nay, pleading, to be taken advantage of, and she had refused because he couldn't consent to it properly. What the... could someone please tell him exactly when she had acquired all these scruples, especially regarding the way she treated him? In this instance, it really looked as though he had become the aggressor, trying to persuade her to just use him in the old London-callbox sort of way, but no, all of a sudden she wouldn't.

Now the two of them were talking, in low, intimate voices, as he continued to lie over her, wrapped in her arms. He sat silently next to them on the bed, while they talked, and heard every word – oh, wonderful, more ridiculous non-sequiturs out of him, but at least his companion seemed amused by them.

And – what? He had actually told her about that insane erotic dream he had the morning of the Second Task? "What was in that absinthe?" he fumed. "I'm never going to bother taking an entire lunar cycle to make up a batch of Veritaserum again, now that I know I can just offer someone a nice glass of Faery absinthe instead. She's no doubt going to have a field day with that later, I just know it."

He turned back to Professor Swain for her reaction – and she had replied: "Then you can ask me to sleep with you tomorrow, when you're sober."

"I can?" he gasped.

"Would you?" his memory-self asked softly. "If I was to say, 'Emily, come to my quarters and spend the night with me'... you would do that?"

Snape was first absolutely staggered that he had ever had the pure brazenness to ask her that at all – he may have wondered now and then as to what her answer might be to such a question, but he wasn't used to anyone asking anyone else that sort of question out loud like that, much less himself. But what staggered him even more was her answer – Yes, please, gladly, she would have spent her first night at Hogwarts with him if he'd asked... ?

He got up off the bed and stared at her in shock. "What?" he spluttered.

His memory-self found this revelation just as incredible as he did now – he had also stared at her, speechless, and then put his head down on her shoulder and laughed. "Are you serious? The very next night?"

"Yes, damned bloody right, is she serious!" Snape exclaimed, in full support of his earlier reaction.

"After what happened in that callbox? Absolutely," Professor Swain had said. No, scratch that – she practically sang it.

"What? Where did that come from? When did that happen? Bloody hell, why didn't you tell me that before?" he demanded. Did she have the remotest idea of how many nights she could have been... pleasantly entertained if she had only let him know that she desired such, ever? Last winter was fecking cold – he could only imagine how much less frigid those snowy nights would have been given the opportunity to carry on those blisteringly hot callbox-ish sort of activities with her underneath the eiderdowns. There was no Hogwarts policy prohibiting staff members from seeing each other romantically; they could have quite openly gone to all the Christmas holiday functions together if only... if only.

If she'd said a word about this to him before, he could have made her forget to pine for home, and that you could be certain of. "I could have given her something to write home about, thanks," he muttered, with a knowing arch of the sinister eyebrow.

But the two of them were still talking – "Then why did you leave?" he had asked, sounding disgustingly like a small boy whose feelings had been hurt. Oh yes, there was subtlety for you. Just bare your own back for the scourge, Snape, there's a fellow.

But she hadn't scoffed at him. Instead, she had explained herself quite thoroughly – and as he listened to her reasons as to why she had disappeared on the first night they met, he came to a most unforeseen conclusion.

She wasn't, he had to admit, completely without understandable reasons for her reaction. She probably hadn't thought that things would go so far between them until it was actually happening – he certainly hadn't either. Afterward, with her new lover pressing her for her name and more time together, she remembered the worlds of difference between the two of them, and her duty to her king. And how could she have possibly gotten in contact with him again after that evening? She had been in the same bind he would have faced with a new Muggle lover – how would he have gotten in contact with her again, if she really had been a Muggle herself? She had secrets she had to keep from Muggles, just as he did.

He supposed he really couldn't fault her for concealing her Faery origins from him; after all, he had done his best to conceal the fact that he was a wizard from her. Only for a Faerie, the stakes were even higher – she couldn't even let her true face be seen, lest she betray the existence of her people. And there was the tragic loss of her husband only a few years earlier... perhaps it was understandable that, in a moment of weakness, she hadn't been able to resist enjoying some solace with a sympathetic stranger – an attractive member of the opposite sex, even. Later that day, she had gotten to Hogwarts and been introduced to him, and instead of being pleasantly surprised that their earlier subterfuges were no longer necessary, he had (admit it, you fool) run her off, and then avoided her like the plague.

It was really amazing how similar their impressions of the introduction had been – he had believed her to be so self-contained and standoffish, whereas she had believed the same of him. They had both been afraid to approach each other again afterward and had believed the other's aloofness to be the result of disinterest, not uncertainty.

Oh... and that bit about her inability to turn red when she blushed, well, come to think of it, that explained a lot.

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But the Pensieve memory was still continuing on... he had asked her to kiss him again, and they had apparently lain entwined together for another half-hour or so doing just that. His companion seemed to grow more and more aroused under his... attentions, until she was kissing him as though his lips buried in hers were enough to send her halfway to orgasm, that lithe gartered thigh under his hand... he could practically feel the heat radiating from that clinch like the sun shimmering off hot pavement. Their exploration had been more explicit before, but this kind of focused slow burn brought sweat out on his brow (and began to stir another, distinctly male sort of response as well). It was agonising to know that mutual desire like that had gone unconsummated.

"Oh, why couldn't I remember that," Snape muttered, dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief. "That looked like it was bloody memorable, it does."

Now she was whispering to him again, pleading with him to remember that talk when he woke up the next morning. "Oh, please, please promise me you'll remember all this tomorrow. I simply can't go back to ripping each other's heads off at the slightest thing after this," she had implored, her eyes big and brown and soft, her lips millimetres from his.

"I would have liked to remember it, truly," Snape protested miserably. "It's all the Blue Faerie's fault, that vindictive little slut."

"I don't see how I could possibly forget this," he heard his own voice say. And how happy his colleague had been with these reassurances – she had embraced him and kissed him adoringly, like he was the one person she most doted upon in this world or any other. Until an hour ago, he hadn't consciously been aware that she even had these feelings for him, but now he felt the loss of her affections as keenly as a fishhook turning in his stomach.

For a few hours, the impossible ice maiden had been his, absolutely his. She had hovered protectively over him, kissed and made much of him, let him know that she wanted him in no uncertain terms. He couldn't quite recall exactly why he had ever thought her to be such a treacherous creature; she seemed like such a warm and charmingly straightforward sort of woman, once you got to know her a bit better. His recklessly tender little nymphet from the callbox, who he had never forgotten and who he had lusted for ever since, was back, and the Merlin knew how much he had missed her.

Yes, he really didn't see how he could have forgotten all of this... but then by all accounts, he had gotten back to his own bed, fallen asleep for a few hours, and awakened the next morning – having done exactly that.

No wonder she was hurt.

He lowered his head into his hands again, in a wash of self-castigation.

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But now Professor Swain seemed to be getting a trifle insecure about how much she had revealed to him – she had just had an eleventh-hour fit of playing hard to get, of all things. "I think I'll insist on being taken to dinner first, just so you don't get it into your head that I'm easy. Even if you know damned well that I am, where you're concerned," she said.

Snape smiled satirically at her – Oh, come off it, madam, he thought, there's no point in playing coy with the same bloke who's ripped the knickers off you and made you bloody well like it. But if she wanted him to take her to dinner first just so she could be reassured that he respected her, he could humour her in that.

His memory-self had accepted her conditions quite readily, but he also had a few conditions of his own that he wanted taken into consideration. He decided to wax a bit maudlin in naming those conditions, embarrassingly enough – "After breakfast I want at least the possibility of having you there again the next night if we haven't come to hate each other in the interval in between. I'm thirty-five fecking years old and I know damned well that no one will ever call me the most charming, handsome, or wealthy bloke on Earth or any other plane of existence, but I want more from a woman I'm involved with than a nice cup of tea and some three-minute swive in a bloody callbox."

"Oh, shut up with the self-pity," he said, glaring at himself. "I know intimately what you're talking about because we're the same sodding person, and even I don't want to hear it – what makes you think she does?" Really, he kept giving her these horrible straight lines, wonderful opportunities to get dear little jabs in at him... but she just kept not taking any of them now. When he had made his speech about how he wanted her still there for breakfast the next morning and didn't think that was an unreasonable request, she not only agreed with him, but punctuated that with another of those melting kisses. By this point, Snape wasn't at all sure that the woman lying in his memory-self's arms was the same one he had worked with all year. No one, no one, ever acted as though anything he said was reasonable.

But now his memory-self seemed to be gearing up for another revelatory speech... Snape grimaced, waiting for the next horribly embarrassing declaration to fall out of his mouth –

"I don't ever want to see you with Lucius again," he told her. "I don't know what's gone on with the two of you, and I don't care to know. I only want him gone."

"Don't worry," she had assured him, her voice ringing with truth. "There is nothing between me and Lucius."

Snape was, for the second time that night, jaw-droppingly, pulse-stillingly aghast.

"There isn't?" he gasped.

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Snape waited for the two of them to expand on this topic of the nothing between her and Lucius, to quantify the extent of the nothingness that existed between her and Lucius. Someone wants to know more about this nothing, madam, speak again. Do you mean, there is nothing now, or that there never was anything? Did she mean there is nothing romantic, or nothing even remotely friendly, because she had finally realised that his cousin was an honourless criminal and a general all-round son of a bitch? "Pray continue about this nothing, madam," he entreated.

But no more was forthcoming about the extent of that nothing – not long after that, they had both nodded off at practically the same moment, just past four a.m., according to the clock on the wall of the Knight Bus. They looked sublimely comfortable together, her fair head on his shoulder and his dark head inclined to hers. It was just that unutterably luxurious and contented sort of lovers' embrace, guaranteed to provoke longing in anyone observing it from the outside. Severus Snape has himself noted that he is not made of stone, and perhaps the sight of himself and his colleague sleeping in each other's arms moved even him. Suffice to say, he forgot to scowl as he watched the two of them together, and waited to see if there was more to this memory that he should know about.

In barest truth, he was starting to think that the two of them made quite a handsome couple, what with himself so dark and her so fair.

The Knight Bus arrived at Hogsmeade, perhaps an hour or so before dawn. Snape's memory-self looked exhausted at that point, and Emily had gently coaxed him up from the bed and off the bus, then Obscured both of them as they crossed the green up to Hogwarts, so that they both faded from his sight. She had said that she took him to his room and put him to bed at that point, so he hurried up ahead and into his own quarters, to wait for them.

Sure enough, not a few minutes after he arrived, the door opened again, and there she was, leading him in and gently lowering him onto his bed. She helped him out of his cloak, coat, and boots.

"Remember, you're to see me tomorrow... tonight," he said, not letting go of her hand. "You promised. You will come, won't you?"

"Of course I will, dear heart," she had replied, bending down to tenderly kiss him again. "I'm very much looking forward to it."

Then she had hung his cloak and coat up in his wardrobe and put his boots neatly beside it. Then she had taken a tiny envelope from her handbag, crossed to his desk, and written something on it with his quill. Then she had propped it up against a book on his bedside table. Put in tea – marvellous for hangover. Catherine's hangover cure.

Then she had kissed his forehead, doused the lamps, and silently let herself out.

Snape watched her go and then made his way out of the Pensieve and back into his real-time life.

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Once back at his desk, Snape got up and stretched, and then went into his bathroom for a glass of water. He had been in the Pensieve memory for some hours, and all that ranting at various memory-people had left his throat uncomfortably dry.

All right, it really had fallen out as she had told him, except for a few glaring omissions.

Yes, when he had gone to see her in her classroom, Professor Swain had decorously omitted the fact that he had quite openly propositioned her after the Midsummer's revel from her account of that evening. She had also refrained from mentioning that she had accepted such proposition – and quite enthusiastically, at that – but playfully demanded to be taken on a real date first, to which he had readily agreed. She had also forgotten to tell him that the euphoric hallucinogenic liquid courage in his veins had also prompted him to finally ask her why she had left him behind that first night, and her reasons, he had to admit, were somewhat understandable. Thoughtless and ill-considered, certainly – she was not off the hook with him yet – but understandable. She also hadn't said anything about how they had both admitted to secretly still harbouring an attraction to the other, and she had said there was nothing between her and Lucius.

There was nothing between her and Lucius. She had said it. He had spent months suspecting her unfairly – oh bloody hell, he'd spent months freezing and sniping and clawing at her over his suspicions – and none of it was true. He downed another glass of water, then wet his hands and raked them across his forehead.

And the next morning, he couldn't remember a bit of it, and had gotten angry and offended with her. He made a date for dinner and... whatever followed dinner with her, had even gone so far as to promise her he wouldn't forget what had happened – and then he had. Of course she had gotten upset. Had the situation been reversed, he would have felt profoundly ill-used himself. Snape lowered his forehead into his hands, grimacing.

Oh, by the Merlin, he thought, what an idiot I've been. And what an idiot she's been. We've both been so proud and ridiculous, all year. What a lot of time wasted.

Oh hell, all of this speculation was just stupid, he thought, dabbing at his face with a towel. Where was she, right now? The two of them needed to talk. Really talk.

Hogwarts professors typically remained on school grounds long enough to grade all their final exams and turn them in to the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress – the deadline was one week after the students left school for the year. And the last day of that deadline was – Snape went back into his bedroom and consulted the calendar on his desk –

Tomorrow.

He had exactly one day before she left England, and his life, forever – and that was only if she hadn't been uncharacteristically prompt with her grading.

Something had to be done.

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There were many situations at which Severus Snape excelled.

Danger, he could handle. Political dissembling was a topic he could have written authoritative works upon. Sarcastic repartee taxed him not one iota. Had circumstances required that he defend a stated position in yet another round of verbal sparring with Professor Swain, he could have comported himself admirably, with very little self-consciousness.

But to seek the woman out and apologise to her, confess to having been needlessly suspicious of her, ask for her forgiveness, and then ask her to re-consider accepting an offer to some bloody social engagement – that was the stuff of sweaty palms and hours of strategic analysis.

After some time, he decided to do something really risky and decisive, like write her a letter.

He sat down at his desk with parchment and quill and began:

Professor Swain,

Due to your continued recalcitrance on the subject, I have been compelled to recreate the events of June 22nd via a Pensieve.

No, too accusatory. He didn't want to put her on the defensive and start yet another argument with her. He crumpled that sheet up and threw it toward the wastebasket.

Madam,

Certain recent events have prompted me to seek your opinion regarding a potential social engagement in the near future.

No, too vague, completely unspecific, and... just generally god-awful. He crumpled that sheet up and threw it after the first. Then he paused, black brows tensing, and furiously scrawled down –

Emily –

I've just now watched the events of Midsummer's night in a Pensieve, and truly, any idiot could see that you want me and I, you. The antagonism between us is obviously the result of frustration, unfulfilment, a denial of the inevitable. This constant warfare is pointless – let's put an end to it, tonight, this instant. If you make any denial now, madam, I shall take you to the secret vault beneath the school where the Mirror of Erised is kept and stand you before it – your reflection will betray you. And my reflection will probably shock you.

Let's both of us stop being so damnably coy and just name our terms of surrender. Or if you prefer, once you are with me, there need be no words spoken at all.

Why are you still reading this ridiculous letter? Get down here. You'll find what you desire.

He stopped writing, a tremor in his hand as he lifted it from the page. He noticed that he had been holding his breath while scrawling these words on paper, and exhaled deeply.

But a moment later, he crumpled that sheet up and hurled it after the first two. Oh forget it, that was just horrible. Too curt, too melodramatic, and too fecking desperate – there was such a thing as being too direct.

He picked up the quill again. Bloody hell, you idiot, just write something and finish it.

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7 July 1995

Dear Miss Swain,

Curiosity got the better of me this morning regarding the night of June 22nd. As such, I borrowed Albus's Pensieve and observed my memory of that evening again, this time without the dubious benefit of three glasses of euphoric hallucinogenic Seventh Kingdom absinthe.

Having seen and heard all that actually transpired that night, I must confess myself to be quite surprised.

I must now conclude that any suspicions I had regarding that night were unfounded, and I regret having forgotten a promise made to a lady who seems to have done her best to look after me in those extremely unusual and highly uncharacteristic circumstances. In my defence, you said yourself that Seventh Kingdom absinthe does strange things to people's memories, and it appears that despite my sincere best intentions, I have not proved to be the exception to that rule. Please do accept my apologies, madam, regardless of your response to this letter.

In conclusion – it is not my habit to leave my promises unfulfilled. Please let me know if you are still amenable to allowing me to make good on my dinner invitation before you embark for home. I shall remain at Hogwarts for the next week, finishing various duties, and will await any reply you send.

Sincerely,

Severus Snape

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All right. That was quite good. Even if she never responded to it, it went a ways toward clearing his conscience.

Now, there was the matter of making sure Emily got it.

Snape was very tempted to simply toss it onto the hearth with a pinch of Floo powder and just send it up to her apartments now. But – he had a critically important meeting with Lucius that evening, and he knew that had to take precedent over something as trifling as his own personal life.

However, for one very long, blissfully escapist moment, desire and emotion were winning out over duty and valour. How long had it really been since he had anything even resembling a personal life? Given Albus's blandishments about how he should get out more often, and attend more social events where he actually didn't have to keep his political mole's agenda in mind, perhaps he might understand in this instance. Maybe he could send his regrets to Lucius at the last moment and put off this meeting for one whole day, and instead go on with the much more enjoyable business of wining and dining his ice-maidenly colleague – and then sweeping her off her feet and into bed and devouring her like a Honeydukes truffle, in the manner she had given every indication that she wanted him to do. Well, perhaps not just yet, she probably wasn't entirely healed of her stab wound, but he could be patient. Poppy had left campus for her summer holidays and perhaps Emily would like someone to look after her for a bit, and it couldn't hurt if that fellow knew how to make Healing Potion from scratch...

For another very long moment, he imagined her beside him at that very moment... that face and those lips and that body beside him in bed, wearing one of those weightless little silk chemises and those black suspendered stockings... even before the night at the Mushroom Circle, she had once or twice given him an inadvertent glimpse of lace stocking top when an errant breeze billowed her light frock, or as she retrieved a book from a high shelf in the library, which meant that he became constantly aware that she was wearing them, became acutely conscious that if he slipped his hand under her skirts he would find warm, downy thigh flesh under his fingers. Felina Rosier had once sniffed to him that "Lucius's pet Faerie" always looked as though her hair had been put up with a broom, but he rather liked the effect of all those little blonde wisps around her face, especially in sunlight... he imagined that hair mussed on his pillow, her arms holding him desperately close, like she had in the callbox, that neck under his lips... the woman truly did have a beautiful neck, she was a vampire's wet dream between the chin and shoulders...

The Professor had not indulged in such delectable erotic imaginings in some time, and the object of his desires seemed very close and attainable at that moment, so perhaps it is understandable if his hand lingered on the box of Floo powder on his mantelpiece for the space of a great many heartbeats.

But then the clock chimed six p.m., and duty won out. Yes, it had been far too long, and she was still exciting to him, painfully so – but his world was being menaced, and that outweighed what he himself wanted at that moment. Snape got up and dressed for this rare occasion when he had to enter the Muggle world: a white dress shirt and black trousers, and a plain vest and day coat of summer-weight black linen. He then left his quarters and headed down toward the front doors, only to turn around once he was halfway down the corridor and go back into his bedroom to retrieve his forgotten wand. Given his initial resistance to the idea of learning Faery magic, he was now almost embarrassed at how much he had come to rely upon the use of his True Name since December. On several occasions during the second term of the last school year, he had returned to his quarters after supper to find his wand still in its case on his desk, which meant that he had spent entire working days without it, and not missed it.

He slid his wand into the interior pocket of his coat, and again headed down the corridor toward the front foyer of Hogwarts.

Somehow, he now felt as though whatever questions Lucius asked him, however he found himself on the spot – he could turn the situation round to his own advantage. Yes, his confidence level had improved considerably, now. Besides, unlike poor old Lucius, he also now had the advantage of being able to perform magic without so much as drawing his wand, which levelled the playing field somewhat.

Lucius had asked to meet in a public place, so Snape felt as though he would have some control over the situation. A Muggle pub seemed like an entirely secret and neutral location – indeed, it seemed as though Lucius was purposefully giving up the home court advantage so as to put the two of them on equal footing. Snape would have been leery of an invitation to meet at Malfeasant; had he been invited there, he would have suspected that he was walking into an ambush.

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With one thing and another, it was very easy to linger at Malfeasant until well into the afternoon, loitering over lunch and in the garden, and then spend another pleasant hour in the great front hall polishing off the last bottle of champagne and talking about favourite travel destinations on the Continent. Sitting upright had gotten uncomfortable sometime in the mid-afternoon, so Lucius had gotten her situated on the green velvet chaise, reclining on a pile of silk cushions. Somehow she had managed to find a way to lay back without putting any pressure on her wound, and between the lazy warmth of the July afternoon, the champagne, and finally being really comfortable, she was feeling relaxed and a bit sleepy.

She had told him that she was planning to spend part of the summer in either France, California, or coastal Australia, and now he was trying to convince her that France was by far the best choice. He wasn't fond of the United States in general ("Too many Muggles, everything looks like it was built last week, and even the wealthiest American wizards still dress like Muggle field labourers.") and was similarly unimpressed with Australia ("More sheep than people, and their wizard community is a singularly uncouth lot with no respect for anything."). He also thought the distances involved in either of those two destinations would have been too fatiguing for someone recovering from an injury.

"If you want to recuperate in the French countryside, darling, I could send out one owl, and have everything arranged for you by tomorrow. I know the most charming lady with an out-of-the-way little maison in Grasse that she lets out now and then, and we could get you set up there in a day." He refilled her champagne glass, then crossed to a carved and gilded side table, poured himself a snifter of brandy from one of the many crystal decanters there. "If you like, I could even send a couple of house-elves to look after you until that shoulder heals properly. You shouldn't have to cook and keep house for yourself in this state."

"Well... I don't know, maybe." Emily took another deep drink of wine and leaned back on the pillows again. She didn't want to accept any more help from him, and this did feel somewhat like his earlier offer to set her up in an apartment in London for his own personal use, but she was still wavering. Emily was much more used to having to look after other people, be it as a teacher or military commander. As a result, she had a weakness for those who wanted to take care of her for a change, and Lucius was extremely good at taking care of her. It would save her so much trouble to let him find a place for her to spend the rest of the summer, and of course if Lucius knew an out-of-the-way little maison for let in Grasse, it had to be exquisitely beautiful and luxuriously appointed. She had also enjoyed having house-elves about to take care of the housework while she lived at Hogwarts – it was easy to get used to coming home to immaculately organised quarters and clean, freshly pressed clothes every day without having to lift a finger. "I do remember what a fine job my little ladies' maid from the weekend party did. It wouldn't be too bad to have her around again," she said.

"Oh, yes, what was her name?" Lucius asked. He sprawled himself beside her on the chaise, one hand covering hers, the brandy glass clasped lazily in the other. Spoiled, self-centred, and arrogant though he was, one had to admit that he was beautiful. Painfully so.

"Ah... Cecile, I think." His fingers were lightly entwining with hers.

"I'm sure we could spare her for a bit, until that shoulder was healed at least," he offered graciously. "You know how house-elves are. They adore having someone to take care of."

Yes, house-elves certainly did seem to thrive when they had work to do – and it might be a welcome respite for the elf as well, to get out from under a cruel taskmistress like one Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy. "Well, all right, but I'd only let you make the reservation and loan me Miss Cecile for a bit, if she wants to come. You are by no means to pay any bills for me, I'll get those myself."

"Of course," Lucius said smoothly.

"I mean it," she insisted.

He fixed her with a very understanding look indeed. "I know you do. Relax, my dear, I've always known you were a woman of independent means, who could go anywhere and take up with anyone she chose. That's why I've always been so thrilled whenever your fancy lighted upon me."

Emily blushed and smiled. "You are so transparent, oh thou silver-tongued flatterer," she said, but when that silver-tongued flatterer leaned forward and put a soft kiss on her lips, she didn't turn away. Instead, she thrust a hand into that silvery mane and kissed him back, caressing that tongue with her own.

Oh, my love, I missed you, he sighed, drawing her into his arms very tenderly and gingerly, as though she was made of spun glass and might break. His desire to hold her, to kiss her again was achingly apparent, as was his desire not to hurt her. This combination of ardour and protectiveness was irresistible, and before long the kisses had progressed considerably. In times past, Lucius would have now been inviting her up to bed, or if he was in a more urgent mood, starting to remove any clothing preventing him from taking her then and there.

The lust hung thickly in his scent now, as his hand traced the outline of her silk-covered breast. But then he embraced her too hard, squeezed her just a fraction too tightly, and Emily recoiled with a gasp of pain at the pressure on her shoulder.

"Oh, no, I'm sorry," he whispered, releasing her immediately. "Forgive me, love, I was... I forgot."

"It's all right, it's healing, it's just a bit tender." He picked up his brandy glass, set aside on a low table, and offered her a sip, but she declined with a smile and a little wave of her hand. He then took a long drink, as though to calm himself. His breath was still coming fast, his scent still coloured with arousal as he set the empty glass down.

"How unforgivably clumsy of me, I hope I haven't made it worse." He very gently pushed her jacket off her shoulders, then drew the ribbon drawstring of her camisole blouse open, and uncovered her shoulder. "Bloody hell, what did that bastard do to you. Oh, you poor dear," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He bent down to kiss her neck, just above her half-healed shoulder. It felt like the times her father used to kiss her forehead and make her frequent scrapes and skinned knees all better when she was little, when she had a child's perfect confidence that she could just go to Da for help, and then everything would be all right.

She slipped her hand under his chin, was raising his lips to hers for another kiss –

– then paused. The scent and taste of brandy on his lips was suddenly cloying, nauseatingly familiar, and set off a pang of sharp recognition within her –

occasionally Professor Moody will go out in the evening and come back smelling like expensive brandy –

this brandy. The false Moody would come back smelling like Lucius's favourite rare and incredibly expensive Napoleon brandy, which he had more than once told her that he had imported from a small-production winery in France for his own consumption. Not something one could find anywhere else in Britain, most likely.

As his lips delicately brushed the cusp of her throat, his silken hair rustling against her cheek, it now occurred to Emily that she would very much like to know what Lucius – her Lucius – had been doing having drinks with one Bartemious Crouch, Jr.

He must have felt her body stiffening, because he pulled back and gazed down at her face. "What is it, my love?" he drawled. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm fine," she said, smiling at him – but something was wrong, very wrong, because her soldier's instinct didn't usually kick in while in a lover's embrace, and Emily was now mentally reviewing ways of escaping from an opponent who has one in a two-armed hold. She was also suddenly very aware that his right arm was resting on the back of the chaise behind her and that his left was curved over her thighs –

His left arm – as she focused on it, she noticed that there was something on his left forearm, something black, that she had never quite noticed before. Perhaps he had consciously concealed such a mark from her before, and now he simply didn't care if she saw it –

Or perhaps he had never tried to hide it from her, and she had just never thought to look for it.

He didn't resist as she took his left wrist in her hand, and pushed up the sleeve of his robe for a better look.

A detailed skull, with a greenish serpent protruding from its mouth. It was unlike any sort of tattoo she had ever seen – this appeared less inked onto his skin as much as seared into it, like an acid burn, or a brand.

As she stared at that bizarre brand, its colours and curves seemed to shimmer, to undulate under her gaze... the eye sockets of the skull seemed to gleam with awareness, to look at her –

and the snake coiling from the skull's mouth wavered as well, seemed to lift its head from Lucius's arm and face her with a flick of its forked tongue and a sinister hiss –

"Emily?" Lucius was saying. He raised that marked left arm to caress her face – but she recoiled from him as though he had offered to strike her.

"What is that?" she gasped.

"As you bear the mark of your Lord, I bear the mark of mine," he said, smirking. He glanced down at that mark with such avidity in his eyes – the same sort of look he had often given her, when she was lying naked under him.

"What?" she asked. His Lord? Since when was Lucius the vassal of a noble Lord? "What are you talking about?"

But Lucius didn't seem interested in answering her questions now. His hand curved insistently around her cheek, then down her neck and onto her breast. Then he drew her in for a long, greedy kiss, in which the elaborate consideration of his earlier embraces gave way to unrestrained ardour and lust.

Just then, a furious voice came from the doorway behind them. "What's all this, then?"

Emily spun hard around toward the direction of the voice, her hands frantically jerking at the ribbons of her blouse, and grimacing as the sudden movement twinged her injured shoulder.

To her utter, utter horror, she turned to face a very surprised and outraged Menzentius Black, who had apparently just come in through the front foyer.

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"You," he spat, his eyes fixed balefully on Emily's face. Then he turned toward Lucius with a look of purest loathing on his face. "And my sister's husband."

Lucius only shrugged, brazen as you please.

The usual cliché protestations of It's not what you think and I can explain immediately sprang to mind, but she remained silent, because it was what he thought, and she really couldn't explain what she had been doing in Lucius's arms, her blouse half off and engaged in a highly explicit embrace with him, in any terms this man would have found acceptable.

Menzentius stalked toward them, his face contorted with anger. "So I'm not good enough for you – but he is," he hissed, with a curt nod in his brother-in-law's direction. Lucius smirked and said nothing, not a word of explanation or excuse.

Emily got up from the sofa, scrabbling to put her clothes to rights, and backed away from both of them, looking from one man to the other. She knew herself to be caught, her secret found out; and was now unable to think of a word to say in her own defence.

"Narcissa was right – your kind really are just a bunch of whores," Menzentius snarled – and then, to her utter horror, he drew back a fist and threw a punch at her face.

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Emily's instinctual reaction was to throw up a block with her right arm, and stop his swing cold.

"I'm sorry," she said. "This can end here. Just stand aside, and I'll leave. Then I promise that you and your family will never see me again."

If she had her way, this confrontation would have ended there, if it ever started at all. But Menzentius recoiled, shaking his head hard, and struck at her again, teeth bared. Emily blocked his second punch with her left arm, wincing as her injured shoulder protested absorbing the momentum – and knocked him back, crumpled over and gasping, with a stiff-arm blow across the windpipe with her right.

But he recovered again, and from there, the fight was on.

Menzentius was a better fighter than she would have imagined, with a nasty sort of eye-clawing scrapper's ability that no doubt came from any number of belligerent, no-holds-barred barroom brawls. Nonetheless, he had drunk enough that day to throw off his balance and coordination, and he was also attacking a soldier positively jaded with experience on stronger, better-trained, and more motivated opponents than he.

Emily's injury was not appreciating this exertion – every left-arm block and strenuous movement brought her painfully closer to tearing the staples in her shoulder. He annoyed her with his dumb, mule-headed persistence, and he was breaking an awful lot of furniture and fragile ornaments in bouncing off of her. Peripherally, Emily noticed that Lucius was still reclining luxuriously on the chaise, watching this fight go on with a look of avid interest, as though it was some kind of polo match or Quidditch game.

After attacking unsuccessfully some number of times, Menzentius seemed to have noticed that she was favouring her left shoulder. He lowered his head, eyes narrowing with animalistic cunning, and aimed a swing at her left collarbone. But Emily seized his wrist as she saw the attack coming, turned the back of his elbow in her direction, and smashed it out with a single hard blow, breaking his right arm and rendering it useless. Menzentius sank to his knees with a wild cry.

"Any mediwizard with a bottle of Skele-Gro can heal that cleanly in a day," she told her fallen opponent, her breath heaving with exertion. "But if you come at me again, it'll be your knee next, and I'll do it in such a manner that you'll limp for the rest of your life. So stay down."

Menzentius seemed to be finally taking her advice. He sank into a crumpled heap on the hearth rug next to the ruins of a potted lily and its porcelain stand, clutching his elbow and groaning.

Emily turned furiously back toward Lucius, intending to say exactly what she thought of his behaviour at that moment – but to her total surprise, he smiled pleasantly and gave her a languid little golf-tournament round of applause. "Beautiful, darling. Good show, splendid show, I couldn't have asked for better," he drawled in an admiring tone, then turned toward the back corner of the room. "I do hope my Lord is pleased?"

"What are you talking about?" she gasped. What was all this about his Lord? Why had he let his brother-in-law try to beat the snot out of her without so much as a word of intervention, without even attempting to talk him out of it or apologise to him somehow? This situation only got curiouser and curiouser, weirder and weirder. Lucius and his family were just bizarre, no two ways about it. She was going to leave, now, leave the Wizarding world and whatever damage this situation did to her already tarnished reputation and never be seen in this part of the world again.

She was turning to go when she noticed Lucius had stopped clapping, had stood up, and was coming toward her, but the sound of polite applause was still going on. It was coming from behind her, but it couldn't be Menzentius clapping, he wouldn't be in any condition to applaud anyone until that elbow was healed, and why would he be applauding her after she had just broken his arm... What the – ?

Emily spun around, and stared in the direction of that applause, which seemed to be coming from a tall mirror framed in gilded mahogany, mounted near the entrance to the room.

A black silhouette was stirring within the frame of that mirror, as though someone very far away was drawing closer. But then she took a step closer, and saw there was nothing casting that reflection – there was someone behind the mirror. The surface of the glass shimmered, became liquid – then rippled as a tall dark figure stepped out from the mirror's frame, his long, tapering hands still clapping.

My Lady, that black-robed figure said, in a high, cold, sibilant voice. I thought it was high time we were properly introduced.

Despite her exertion over the fight, despite the warmth of the early July evening, Emily felt cold at the sound of that voice.

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The newcomer was tall, a head taller than Emily was, and rail-thin, with hands even thinner and more elongated than any Faerie's. His face, whiter than bleached bone, was dominated by enormous, slit-pupilled eyes of a livid scarlet, striated with gold. His features were formed on sleek, reptilian, and profoundly alien lines – gaunt cheekbones, a flattened nose with twin slits for respiration, a thin, nearly lipless mouth. The creature before her had by now gone through any number of forbidden and unnatural transformations intended both to instil fear into his enemies and imbue his body with greater physical power, but as Emily herself could physically manifest what human beings would call bestial characteristics, some of that impact was lost to her eyes. To her, he looked like an extremely odd variety of snake changeling, one that she had never before been aware of. She took a step closer to it, to him, both unnerved and fascinated.

"Are you of the Naga tribe?" she asked the creature before her, in a wondering voice.

No, came the sibilant whisper. I am my own tribe.

She stood for a moment, her head cocked to one side, just looking at the newcomer with equal parts wonder and curiosity, suspicion and fear; for all accounts like a deer encountering some strange new fellow creature in its forest for the first time. Her nostrils flared, investigating his scent, which was not that of a snake changeling, nor even the musty, leathery, mossy smell of a healthy reptile – this creature smelled of powdery rot, graveyard dirt, and adrenalin-laden human blood, the odours of decay, death, and fear.

The dark man... being... before her held out his hand, silently, palm up, in greeting, and she approached him hesitantly. He offered her no threatening gesture or movement, as though he realised she might spook and bolt at the slightest sign of aggression. Finally she covered his hand with hers and allowed him to clasp it. The temperature of his skin was cool, chilly; her impression was of metabolism as still and slow as the pulses of a deep underground cave.

It was not the way he looked, but rather his voice, scent, and ice-cold hands that set her pulse pounding in her throat, and brought the cold sweat out on her palms as she greeted him.

Emily looked into the abyss of his eyes, and he into hers.

Good evening, he said. I am Lord Voldemort.

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"Good evening, sir," Emily replied, with all the self-contained politeness she could muster. Her voice seemed about three octaves higher than usual.

This is the same person who sought to corrupt my father to his cause, and threatened Da's life when he refused. He is responsible for Cedric's death, and he tortured Harry, she thought – yet nonetheless, she was fighting off the urge to bow or curtsy, as she might have to a member of another Kingdom's royalty at Gwydion's Court.

This creature had the indomitable air of a born leader, one whose will was backed by an armed, aggressive power. Emily had on several occasions met Queen Mab, the ruler of the Seventh Kingdom, who was known to have killed six people in honour duels before she was even thirty, who regularly had convicted murderers publicly executed, and whose people thought a trial by combat was a good afternoon's entertainment. Lord Voldemort had all of Mab's magnificent cruelty and conviction, but none of the fierce, proud love for her people and her land that Mab carried always before her. None could have doubted that the Queen would have sacrificed, killed, and died for her country and the least of her subjects – but Emily's first impression of Lord Voldemort was that if countless armies poured their blood out for him, he would have believed that sacrifice to be only his due. It was terrifying, yet at the same time, strangely alluring. She wanted to listen to this man, hear what he had to say.

Lucius was standing beside her. "My Lord, may I present Lady Emily Swain-Tumnus, Master-at-Arms of King Gwydion's Fianna," Lucius said proudly. "Is she not all I told you she would be?"

Indeed she is, the Dark Lord purred. Forgive me, my Lady. When Lucius showed me, in a Pensieve, the kill you made at the boar hunt, I found it hard to believe that such warriors could exist – but you are indeed all he promised. I am well pleased. He finally relinquished her hand, pressing it in his in a conspiratorial, understanding manner before letting go.

"Thank you," Emily said faintly – and not without just the smallest thrill of pride in his words. Lord Voldemort – the great and terrible Lord Voldemort, whose name people scarcely dared to speak – was pleased with her. She had impressed him. Her chin went up a inch with a fine, perverse little surge of self-satisfaction as she glanced from the hypnotic eyes of the creature before her, back to Lucius.

"This introduction has the air of having been rather carefully staged," she said. She turned toward Menzentius, still groaning and whimpering on the floor, annoyance registering on her face.

Lord Voldemort followed the direction of her gaze, then motioned to Lucius. Remove him, he ordered. I would speak to our guest privately. His voice never rose above a soft hiss, but Lucius scrambled to obey, raising Menzentius to his feet and helping him out of the room.

"Thank you," she said, her attention riveted on the Dark Lord.

He nodded graciously.

"So, is this a purely social visit?" she asked finally. "Or do you have something to say to me?"

Yes, there are many things I would discuss with you, my Lady, the husking voice said. It makes me wonder, after seeing what a Morrigan knight is capable of... why your people are content to hide their unique beauty beneath such magics.

His thin, tapering hand made a delicate pass in front of her – and Emily gasped as a chill wafted over her face, like the touch of icy silk. She turned toward the tall mirror, and one glance confirmed what she already suspected – he had removed her human Glamour, leaving that face that the Fae called pretty and normal, and humans called exotic and uncanny, uncovered again, for the first time in over a week. To the Fae magical canon, the ability to see through Glamour was an advanced art, but the ability to dispel another's Glamour entirely was difficult magic indeed. She turned back to face him, amazed, and not a little impressed.

There, Voldemort said. Judging from your father's works, the Fae seem to me a proud, magnificent race – and yet, you hide your presence among humans. I see no reason why you should not let your real selves be seen in this world.

"Probably because it can be dangerous to show our real selves in this world," she said. "Even the strongest Faerie may fear an iron knife in the night. You have, sir – " her hand went to her left shoulder, for just an instant – "some rather zealous servants."

Overzealous, in the case of the younger Bartemious Crouch, Voldemort said, shaking his head with the air of a wise old teacher speaking of a ne'er-do-well student. You lead soldiers... surely you have now and then met the kind of rash foot soldier who hastens to commit unnecessary atrocities in the name of your cause?

"Well... " She glanced down at the shattered lily amidst the wreckage of its painted pot. "Perhaps I have."

Bartemious acted on his own, without my directions. Had he sought my counsel in this situation, I would have... dissuaded him from the course he chose.

"Really," she said. "Do you give me your sacred word of honour that you had no knowledge Bartemious Crouch, Jr. had hired an assassin to seek my life?"

I do, he replied. Bartemious Crouch's soul was drawn forth in a Dementor's Kiss... had he been my trusted, valued servant, I would never have allowed him to suffer such a fate. But he was a fool and an embarrassment, and as such, I allowed my enemies to mete out their justice upon him.

"I see." She nodded. "You say you see no reason why the Fae should hide our presence among humans. Can I infer from that statement that you have some plan to make our subterfuges in this world unnecessary? How is your way superior to our current method of going about this?"

Your people are content to wait until humankind matures enough to accept you without fear, Voldemort said. But it has always been my opinion... that no one is more tolerant than those who fear you.

Emily thought of the way the elder Bartemious Crouch had treated her, when she came into his Department office back in September... the way he had treated her before he ever knew she was the same Lady Emily Swain-Tumnus who had killed an enemy in a notorious trial by combat, years earlier. She thought of the Ministry employees and Department of Magical Law Enforcement officials who thought her very existence was suspicious. She recalled several long hours of pain and dread, as she lay wounded in a hospital bed, with Law Enforcement guards outside her door, waiting for Albus Dumbledore to come and help her. Waiting for a friend's support, that never came.

She turned back to the creature in front of her. "I'm listening," she said.

Good, he purred. I am sure, that in time, we may be able to find... areas of mutual agreement. Perhaps you and I can discuss... any wishes that you may have, which I may help you accomplish, as a demonstration of my goodwill.

Beneath the elegant rhetoric, he was offering her a bribe, and they both knew it. What can I do for you, you personally, to secure your compliance as my envoy to your people. What do I want, she thought.

Any number of fevered, corrupt desires occurred to her, in the heat of Lord Voldemort's unflinching gaze, with both lust and bone-breaking aggression still coursing through her veins. I want every Orc in Arcadia dead, down to the last ugly, squalling child. I want to mount Richert and Steifan Robinett's heads on pikes. I want my mother and my king to forgive and respect me, no matter what I've done. I want Albus to care if I'm free or in a foreign prison. I want Severus on his knees before me begging for one look, one kiss...

"We can discuss that later," she said.

Voldemort smiled – or rather, the corners of his lipless mouth turned upward in satisfaction.

Come, he said, motioning to the French doors. Walk with me. We have much to discuss, you and I.

She followed him into the garden.

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Shortly before seven p.m. that night, Emily re-appeared with a crack, just outside the gate leading to Hogwarts. She paused for a long moment, just leaning on that barrier, watching the sun set, and thinking.

Voldemort had said that they had much to discuss, but in truth, it felt as though he had much he wished to say to her – she had barely had to volunteer anything at all. The glamour of his charisma and flattering attentions faded nearly the moment she was away from Voldemort's immediate presence, leaving her feeling cold and faintly sickened by the way she had responded to him.

I am not like him, she reminded herself. I'm not.

She didn't hate Muggles, there was nothing that could convince her to hate all Muggles. Her grandmother, Mabel Greenbarrow, had been a Muggle, and she had been something of a surrogate mother to Emily during her Christmas school holidays while she attended Beauxbatons. She had loved Mabel dearly, had been heartbroken when she died in 1985. And now, she had Muggle friends, both from Cambridge, and of the Tithe pages she had met over the years, who she loved dearly as well. Catherine Orson was a Muggle, and the Mother knew she was one of the worthiest people Emily had ever met, one who devoted much of her life's work to treating the ailments of Faekind. Her friend Aelfraith Reilly's father was a Muggle, and she had always admired his scientific genius. Her favourite student, Hermione Granger, was the child of Muggle parents who encouraged her to accomplish anything she set her mind to do.

No, Muggles were not the root of all evil, and he was not going to convince her that they were, no matter what he said. All his high-flown promises of that evening began to ring false now that he wasn't in front of her, backing them with the conviction of his presence. Really... what did this man and his followers have to offer her King, as far as aid against the Orcs? Emily thought that the Fianna had managed to rout the Baalorites pretty damned well on their own in the last conflict, and they did so without any help from wizard allies of any political stripe, thank you very much. As for the British Second World Faery community... who was to say that peaceful integration wasn't still possible, on their own terms, without violence. Indeed, the earlier attempt on her own life didn't seem like a real hate crime any longer. It had been the attempted elimination of a potential security leak, not motivated by the fact that she was a Faerie at all.

She remembered the brand on Lucius's arm... a snake threaded through a skull. Every British wizard schoolchild knew this symbol, but Emily had been taught the history of modern Wizarding magic by French teachers, and had always found Second-World magical history less interesting than the history of Arcadian magic to begin with. Grindelwald had menaced the French Wizarding community more than any Dark Arts adept in recent history, and thus the French texts tended to discuss him more extensively than any other threat to emerge in the twentieth century. Voldemort had largely confined his aggressions to British Muggles and his opponents within the British Wizarding community, and as such, was not studied as extensively in any of Emily's classes.

But she remembered a picture from her old L'Histoire de la magie text back at Beauxbatons – a skull, a serpent – it was the Dark Mark, the symbol of Voldemort's faction. He had magically seared it into the flesh of each member of his cabal of followers.

Which made Lucius a Death Eater.

Then she remembered their discussion of Professor Snape's recent behaviour, earlier that afternoon, and the meaning behind Lucius's cryptic remarks hit her with full force. She wondered how she had not realised it sooner –

I can assure you that you'll never have to worry about him again. It just so happens that around eight o'clock tonight, I'm going to be meeting up with my extremely ungentlemanly cousin Severus, and I'll make my feelings clear on the matter around that time... I'm just meeting him for a drink tonight at some beastly little Muggle place in London called the Fusilier Pub.

Just some family business dealings that have to be kept very hush-hush for decorum's sake, I'll not embarrass you by airing our dirty laundry. Suffice to say you're not the only one he's irked of late, and he needs to account for himself a bit. But tonight I'll make it a point to let him know exactly what I think of how he treats my dear friend Emily. I promise you, after my ever so tactful and considerate way of dealing with him, you'll never have to worry about him hurting your feelings again, my love. It's the least I can do for you.

Severus Snape was a Hogwarts professor, advisor and confidante to Albus Dumbledore. Snape's cousin Lucius, with whom he had had a close relationship since childhood, was a Death Eater, an advisor and accomplice to Lord Voldemort himself. During one of their earlier training sessions, Snape had admitted to working against the Death Eaters as an intelligence agent outside the Ministry's jurisdiction – as an unofficial spy – and according to Dumbledore, he had selflessly opposed Voldemort.

So selflessly – that he must have betrayed his own family in order to do so. Lucius was in league with Voldemort – which meant that Snape had to have been spying on none other than his own cousin, in order to bring intelligence of Voldemort's actions to Dumbledore.

And now Voldemort had been resurrected, Lucius had again pledged fealty to his Dark Lord – and somehow, Snape's secret had been found out. Her hand went to her shoulder as she recalled the way that Death Eaters dealt with those who inconvenienced them even inadvertently.

There's a certain sort of behaviour one expects of a gentleman, especially in the way he treats women and family, and Severus has not been a shining example of either this year. I want to let him know exactly what I think of his behaviour – and I want to do something for you.

Emily glanced at her watch – 7:03 p.m. – and suddenly, everything coalesced into perfect, hard clarity.

"They're going to kill him," she said to the empty air.