Part Third: The Hart Subvertant, Chapter 27, Part 1

Part Third: The Hart Subvertant

"I am invisible;

And I will overhear their conference."

– William Shakespeare, "A Midsummer Night's Dream"

"Be strong, saith my heart;

I am a soldier, I have seen worse sights than this."

– from the Iliad of Homer

"But the worm shall revive thee with kisses;

Thou shalt change and transmute as a god,

As the rod to a serpent that hisses,

And the serpent again to a rod.

Thy life shall not cease though thou doff it;

Thou shalt live until evil be slain,

And the good shall die first, said thy prophet,

Our Lady of Pain."

– Algernon Charles Swinnerton, "Dolores"

Chapter 27, Part 1:

Dumbledore had not kept Emily long after accepting her offer to become an informant against the Death Eaters. It seemed to be his opinion that both she and Professor Snape had been through quite enough that evening, and he very gently and tactfully ordered them to go have a well-deserved rest.

They left his office by the spiralling staircase, in total silence. As she followed Snape down the stairs, her eyes fastened on the back of his dark head with a welter of emotions hammering under her chest – anger at having been Stunned, at being made to confess to that wretched association with Malfoy, at being called vain and a fool, all warring with disappointment that her offer of aid against Voldemort – her efforts to save his own rotten unfeeling hide – had all gone unappreciated. She wanted to scream at him, hit him, shake him, anything that would finally provoke a reaction out of the man.

They reached the outside corridor and passed the statue of the gargoyle just outside.

"Well. So now you know the whole story," she said to the immovable back of his head, his rigidly set shoulders. "I do hope you're glad of it."

He finally turned and looked at her. He was silent, his face again completely unreadable – then he turned and started down the corridor away from her. Nothing he hadn't done a hundred times before, but for some reason, this reaction now filled her with an unreasoning anger. In a second, she had caught up to him – grabbed his black-cloaked shoulder – almost threw him around to face her. "Don't you walk away from me – how dare you!"

He didn't flinch; one long deft hand reached up and coolly smoothed down the lapel that she had disarranged. "How dare I do what? Stun you, or make you confess your various sins to Dumbledore?"

"Both. Either." She stepped back, her breath labouring. "You had really best watch your back from now on, if that's the sort of thing you like to do to people."

He laughed cruelly, taking a step toward her. "I have been watching my back, my Lady, since before your Word had power. And seeing as how you've recently confessed to being the latest in a long line of Lucius Malfoy's extramarital entertainments, kindly remember that you are in no position to be self-righteous tonight."

Everyone has a limit of endurance, and Emily had reached hers. She clenched her fist and aimed it at his jaw –

– but to her great surprise, Snape took a backward step and simultaneously threw up a block that deflected her punch completely, neatly imprisoning her wrist in his right hand.

Much of her anger dissipated when he stopped her so efficiently – she glanced down at his hand on her wrist with a flicker of proprietary pride in her eyes. A teacher proud of producing a capable student. "If you'd been any slower, you'd be in a lot of pain."

"If I'd been any slower, I'd have deserved it. But you're not going to hurt me." He raised her captured wrist to his face and brazenly drew the back of her hand down his cheek. "Not after you've gone through so much trouble to keep me alive tonight, and you're not stupid enough to undo your own labours out of spite. You won't be doing the Dark Lord's work for him after the promise you made to Dumbledore. No, I think you'll actually be spending a great deal of time watching my back for me."

"I've kept a lot of people alive – that's my job," she retorted. "Don't assume there's anything personal about it necessarily."

He made no reply, but turned on his heel and started down the hall toward the dungeons, not letting go of her wrist, so that she was drawn along with him.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't think knocking me to the ground was exactly therapeutic for that stab wound. Now be quiet for once, and come along."

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Of course Snape had been right about the less than therapeutic effects of tackling one's colleagues on lacerations that had barely healed over – Emily's exertions of that evening had caused the fragile new skin at the edges of her wound to split again.

Snape led her to his office, pulled out a three-legged stool and curtly motioned for her to sit, then went into the anteroom, emerging a moment later with a bottle of Healing Potion.

"Er... if I could examine the wound, madam... ?" Snape asked. His voice was businesslike, but his scent betrayed an acid tinge of embarrassment. Evidently he didn't feel entirely comfortable asking women to remove their clothing.

Emily flushed slightly, then turned her back to him and took off her green velvet jacket, now torn and covered with dust and debris, and untied the ribbon drawstring of her camisole blouse, letting it fall down over her back to bare her shoulder and raking her hair back with one hand. His fingertips delicately lifted the strap of her brassiere off her shoulder and let it drop down her arm, so carefully that he did not jar the wound at all. He then carefully removed the bandage that covered her slashed shoulder.

"You've reopened the slash somewhat, but not too badly – there isn't much blood," he said, soaking a pad of cotton gauze in a bottle of clear solution, which he then applied to her shoulder at the end of a short metal tongs. "Just alcohol," he muttered. Emily nodded.

Snape picked up a second bottle and swabbed blue Healing Potion over the wound – she flinched as a long ribbon of the familiar intense itching unfurled across the back of her shoulder. He then produced some surgical gauze and tape from a laboratory first aid kit in a drawer of his desk and put a neat bandage on the back of her shoulder.

She readjusted her clothes when he was finished, all the while very acutely aware of his dark presence behind her, but would not turn to face him. "Thank you," she said, staring at the floor. His only acknowledgment was a brusque nod at the side of her face.

They were both silent for a long moment. Snape busied himself putting bottles and bandages away.

"So Lucius is a Death Eater," Emily said abruptly, apropos of nothing.

"When did you find out?" Snape asked.

"This afternoon," she replied dully.

Snape's hand paused in the middle of closing a cabinet. "Only just this afternoon?"

"Yes. I wish someone had told me about him before." She turned accusingly to Snape. "You knew, didn't you? He's your cousin, he confides in you all the time – "

He turned on her in disgust. "And why should I have to take it upon myself to tell you about the skeletons in his closet? Since when has it ever been my responsibility to save you from your own poor judgment?" he snapped. "Do you not realise that I spent the entire year worrying about the Dark Lord's return? Did it never dawn on you that perhaps married men in general should be left well alone, let alone a married man who is the de facto head of the Death Eaters, just as the Dark Lord is about to regain his full power? Good lord – you're a grown woman and a remarkably obstinate one at that – "

"Not so obstinate that I wouldn't pay attention if told that an old family friend had joined up with those people!"

"Oh, really. Then answer me this," he demanded. "How would it have gone over if I had said – perhaps as I was leaving one of our training sessions – 'By the way, the man I think you may be sleeping with is a sociopathic Death Eater who will eventually spectacularly betray you, because that's what he does with all his women?' First of all – I wasn't going to accuse you of having an adulterous relationship unless I'd personally seen it happening, because you've not only got something of a temper, you're also rather handy with any number of weapons. So even if you hadn't thrown a glove down in front of me for so much as airing my suspicions, even if I did so only with the intention of warning you about him – "

"I wouldn't have done that," she interjected –

" – I still don't believe you would ever have gotten past dodging the question of whether or not you were sleeping with him," he continued, inexorably.

"All right, fine – you're right," she said. The admission hurt, and she could only make it through gritted teeth. "You're right on all counts. I should never have gotten involved with him in the first place, Death Eater or not. I wish it hadn't happened." She turned away from him, again unable to face him after having done something so indefensible. "There – are you happy now?" she shot back over her shoulder.

"No," he replied, black eyes glittering. "A mere acknowledgment that my opinion is correct does not make me happy. What you don't understand is that I am very frequently right, Professor. My judgment proves sound on a regular basis, on an astonishingly diverse array of topics and situations. Yet, no matter how many times it is shown, in hindsight and retrospect, that my prescribed advice or course of action was in fact the best one, or that my opinion on a certain matter was entirely justified, sensible, and well-reasoned, does anyone here ever fucking listen to me. I'm honestly beginning to think that the best way to see everyone around me safe is to start advising you all to do the exact opposite of what I truly think, so as to keep you out of danger and give you the satisfaction of thinking that you're disregarding me at the same time – "

"I don't disregard you," she retorted. That he could say that, after the events of this evening, sent a hot, inexplicable pang through her. Oh, ye of little faith.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps. But even if I had tried to warn you about Lucius – and don't think I didn't want to, for most of the bloody second term – " he threw the scissors back into a drawer hard enough to make them bounce – "I had no doubt that hearing that kind of warning from me would probably only have made him look more attractive to you than he already did." He paused, arms folded across his chest, tapping one foot impatiently. "Wouldn't it. I probably should have spent all my time gushing to you about what a wonderful fellow he is – then you wouldn't have wanted him at all."

Emily started to speak, and then thought the better of what she had been about to say and stopped herself. She did this two or three times.

"It must have been a very trying year for you," she said finally.

"Yes," Snape spat. "Yes, it was."

He stared at her, his eyes glittering with fury, as though he could barely stand to look at her, then turned and stalked toward the door. But then he stopped, his hand on the doorknob, his back to her.

"You know... I've known Lucius almost all my life. I've seen him reduce proud, decent women to the level of rats in a laboratory pressing a bar for more cocaine," he said. "But I thought you – a noble lady, a knight – would be better than that."

If he had turned around at that moment, he would have seen her face crumpling with guilt and shame and tears starting in her eyes. But he did not turn around.

Snape let himself out, silently closing his office door behind him.

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The next five days following the explosion passed in blessed uneventfulness. Only Dumbledore, Snape, Argus Filch, and Emily herself were still living at Hogwarts, although others came and went with regularity. Sirius Black was often about, conferring with Dumbledore, as was Alastor Moody, but Emily was not privy to any of these conversations. As it was, she had very little to do but heed Dumbledore's urgings to get some rest and wait for her shoulder to heal. The swelling had gone down and it was healing quickly, like the surgiwitch at St. Mungo's had promised. By the morning of the following Monday, it had gotten to the puckered skin-drawing-together-around-the-central-seam-of-a-long-thin-scab phase, which was a constant tight, itchy annoyance. Like most athletes, she found forced inactivity obnoxious in the extreme, and she longed for the wound to be completely healed so that she could go about her usual sort of training again.

Later that morning, she went down to the Great Hall for breakfast, thinking to catch Dumbledore and talk to him about what she should do next, as it had been a full week since the foiled assassination attempt. But when she got down to the table, there was no one there but (of course) Professor Snape, bent over a newspaper, a cup of coffee, and a plate of bacon and eggs. He didn't acknowledge her presence as she entered the room, and of course it would be cowardly and rude as all bloody hell to turn around and leave because he was already there. Ah well, nothing to do but have some breakfast and pretend to be completely cool and collected about it.

Emily took a seat, poured a cup of herbal tea, took some wheat toast, and forked up some grilled ham from a covered plate. Snape picked at his eggs and nursed his coffee. Emily picked up someone's discarded Daily Prophet, and Snape remained engrossed in his own paper. They sat at their opposite ends of the table and studiously ignored each other.

She had been sitting there for perhaps five excruciatingly long minutes, staring at the paper but not seeing it, when she heard the flap of wings above her, and looked up to see the Malfoys' black eagle owl fly through an open window toward the High Table. It circled the table, then dropped a white parchment envelope toward her. She caught it automatically.

Inside was an elaborately embossed green parchment invitation, requesting the pleasure of her company at a country weekend party celebrating the fifteenth birthday of Draco Lucius Saturnius Malfoy, to be held the Saturday and Sunday of that coming weekend, July 17th and 18th. As she opened the card, a small handwritten note fell out. She recognised Lucius's distinctive, ornate hand –

Darling ~

Could you by any chance come early? Friday afternoon at 3 p.m., perhaps?

The boy would love to do some fencing with you before everyone else arrives, and I promised I'd try to arrange it as a treat for him.

Well. It appeared that the perfect opportunity to commence her career as an informant had just fallen into her breakfast.

"I've just been invited to a weekend party for Draco's birthday," Emily announced, not turning in Snape's direction. "I suppose I'll have to go, then." She dropped the invitation desultorily beside her plate.

Snape looked up at her, and for a moment, he seemed about to speak – but then silently turned back to his newspaper. She noticed that unlike the last time she had been invited to a Malfeasant weekend, no invitation had arrived for Professor Snape that morning. He seemed to have dropped off the Malfoy guest list for some reason.

Uncomfortable silence descended on the breakfast table again, until Snape silently took his coffee cup and left the Great Hall. But as he passed her on his way to the door, he dropped the newspaper he had been reading in front of her. It appeared to be a Muggle publication, The Times, open to a headline that read:

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PUB GAS LEAK CAUSES EXPLOSION: NONE HURT

LONDON – A massive gas leak in the kitchen of a popular neighbourhood pub ignited a spectacular blast that completely destroyed the establishment Wednesday night. Fortunately, the leak was detected by kitchen staff, who led a complete evacuation of all staff and patrons barely minutes before the explosion occurred.

Fusilier owner Jacques "Jack" Vintner, Master Sergeant, Ret., blamed the explosion on worn-out gas lines that must have been overdue for replacing. "I thought they were supposed to last a while longer than they did, but really, everyone who's got a gas stove past a certain age should have the pipes checked out," he said. "An ounce of prevention, I always say, but I wish I'd taken my own advice on about Tuesday." Vintner plans to re-open the Fusilier at another location in the same neighbourhood in spring of next year. "I was out scouting new locations the next morning. And you can bet I'll be putting in top of the line modern everything as far as a gas stove!"

Long-time Fusilier chefs Charles "Crazy Charlie" Archer and Everett "Ev" Scott, and Igor "Iggy" Wilgien, the pub dishwasher, are being lauded as heroes for their quick and level-headed reaction to the crisis. "It's because of them that we all got out in time. I knew they were good blokes before, but you never know the measure of a fellow until he's under pressure, and the lads came out with flying colours," Vintner said.

Rachel Nym-Doran, 19, a local University student, was standing at the bar when the warning came. She recalled: "The lads came barrelling out of the kitchen as fast as they could, and I could smell all the gas even from where I was standing at the bar. Gods, I was so bloody scared. I'd been just about to light a cigarette, too."

Miss Nym-Doran phoned in the first call to Emergency seconds after the blast occurred; her quick response is being credited with the prevention of a larger neighbourhood fire. As it was, only the Fusilier was destroyed, and the adjacent buildings only suffered some smoke damage and mild scorching.

Tilia Gentle, an expatriate American working in London, had been at the Fusilier with friends on the night of the explosion. "Jack was just wonderful, got all of us out in no time. No one even panicked. I can't wait to see all those guys again when Jack re-opens the pub," she said.

Amazingly, none of the pub's patrons or staff were killed or seriously injured, although the building was reduced to what Fire Chief Dane Hansen described as "a smoking crater." There were no injuries beyond some minor scrapes and lacerations from flying debris amongst bystanders. One unnamed woman on the scene appeared to have fainted, but her unidentified husband told witnesses that she was merely overcome by the stress of the explosion, and was not injured in any way.

The explosion has led to a citywide safety campaign targeting old and potentially hazardous gas lines...

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The article went on to describe the safety campaign in detail, and list telltale signs of a potential gas leak and pointers on gas stove maintenance. So... something good really might have come of that evening.

Scratched at the bottom of the page, in Professor Snape's stark black handwriting, were two words:

Good work.

Only two words, but somehow, perversely... it was really absurd how proud they made her feel.

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Professor Snape could not sleep at all the night the Fusilier was destroyed, and nodded only fitfully for the remainder of that week. He had far too much to think about.

An image kept recurring to him – Professor Swain letting her blouse fall back over her shoulder, revealing her bent neck and finely articulated athlete's back, and then the blue-stained bandage coming off, to reveal a livid, puckered gash longer than his hand hacked into her flesh. Perhaps she came from a culture where women regularly went into combat alongside men, but he did not; and the sight of that wound affected him more than he would have admitted to anyone. Just the memory was enough to make his stomach clench and the blood run acid in his veins. One would think that being on the receiving end of a Death Eater's commissioned knife in the back would have served as caution enough for her not to get involved here, romantic little idiot that she was.

So Barty had known enough to either give his assassin an iron blade, or tell him to use one. Lucius had spent a year living amongst the Fae themselves – who knew what he had learned about them. Clearly, the enemy in this situation was well lessoned on the weaknesses of the Faery folk – and if that bloody woman didn't have the brains to keep herself out of danger, then obviously someone had to take measures to preserve her from her own folly.

So the Friday afternoon following the explosion, and Professor Swain's decidedly ill-advised resolution to begin informing on Lucius, Snape sat down at his desk, took quill in hand, and composed a letter:

Dr. Catherine Orson, M.D.

Hidden Sixth-Floor Clinic Window

St. George's Hospital

Summerstown, London

UNITED KINGDOM

Dear Dr. Orson,

Recently, I have had reason to be concerned about the welfare of the Fae regarding the toxic effect of iron. As you may know, I consider myself to have acquired some mean skill in the art of medicinal Potions, and now wish to turn my efforts toward devising a more effective remedy for iron burns than those currently available.

I wish to research a variant on regenerative Healing Potion that will counteract the effects of iron burns on Faerie patients with the same efficiency that wizard Healing Potion affects simple burns. As you know, the Wizarding community has within its pharmacy a potion that can heal simple heat and electrical burns on contact, and chemical burns within minutes – I seek to duplicate this effect.

Forgive me for troubling you, but you are the only person of my acquaintance familiar with Faery physiology and the chemical composition of their flesh, and their blood. I would greatly appreciate if you could assist me in understanding exactly why Faery tissues react so violently upon contact with forged iron...

He continued to write, warming to the topic and becoming more and more interested as the letter progressed, until he was rather surprised to discover that he had composed a three-page query to Catherine full of theories and speculation on the subject of Faeries and iron.

Finally he sealed this epistle with his habitual black wax and a monogram of an intertwined §, and took it to the Owlery.

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To Snape's surprise, his own post owl returned to his office window within two hours with Dr. Orson's almost immediate reply. Her handwriting was almost as stark and legible as his own:

Dear Professor Snape,

You're bloody brilliant – that's an incredible idea. Let's go ahead with it.

I'll need a little more time to come up with a real response to all your questions and theories, but I wanted to drop you a note and tell you that I got your letter, and that I'm beginning work.

Also, if you don't mind, I'm going to make a copy of your letter and forward it to my friend Laurent Collier, Lic. Hea., at L'Institut de la médecine supernaturelle in Paris, and get his input on this as well. Laurent's spent a lot of time studying Faery medicinal potions with Samiel Cobweb, the Third Kingdom's Royal Apothecary, and he probably could add some interesting insights into this task as well.

Anyway – enclosed please find Xeroxes of my notes on the chemical composition of Faery blood and tissue. I haven't found anything traditionally thought to produce an extreme reaction when exposed to iron or ferrous compounds of any kind, but I'm certain that there's lots more to learn.

Regards,

Catherine

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Later that day, at perhaps eleven p.m. Friday evening, two days after the explosion, Professor Snape had gone for a walk around the highest turrets and towers of the castle. The brilliant light of the full moon lit his way.

He had been doing a great deal of thinking, and in the last day or so, the deep game his cousin was playing with Emily Swain had suddenly become obvious to him.

Voldemort was back. The Dark Lord's power was rising again, and he was calling his old allies to him, and cultivating new ones. What with the new, more open political stance the Fae had adopted recently, culminating in the arrival of one of their own military commanders at Hogwarts to teach their magic and their style of combat... what a triumph it would be for Lucius to be able to lay an alliance with the Faeries at Voldemort's feet.

Lucius and Dumbledore had both seen the Fae for what they were – a vast, undiscovered country, without overt political affiliation or loyalties in the Wizarding world, and with powerful magics and military might behind them. Now, the opposing Wizarding factions would grasp for alliances with this power, both with their own cards to play. Dumbledore had his long ties of friendship and sworn brotherhood with Gwydion, ruler of the Third Kingdom; but Gwydion was an old, old man, one hundred and ninety-six according to Swain's Encyclopaedia, and his influence waned with his declining health. Lucius had his family's ties of long friendship with the Swains and through Buckminster Swain's marriage and Lucius's Tithe service, he had ties to the royal Greenbarrow family. Additionally, Lucius had, or thought he had, his own amorous hooks sunk deep in one Lady Emily Swain-Tumnus, an influential Fianna commander.

There was a sentry of Diagon Alley, and there had been a sentry of Christchurch College, watching for change. Under the entry about the Tithe in Swain's Encyclopaedia, there was an oblique mention of sentries being sent into the Second World to recruit the most talented, promising, and fair-minded young people for introduction to their society as Tithe pages – and suddenly Gwydion's subtle, elegant strategy for peaceful outreach was apparent to him as well. Who knew how many other Fae sentries, a kind of benign intelligence-gathering agent, were watching Wizard- and Muggle-kind for signs of positive change, for the moment when peaceable, enlightened integration would be possible. Malabar Puck had made it sound as though Professor Swain had been one of many sentries of Cambridge University, and now, whether she or her King had intended it or not, she may have also become the de facto sentry of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Her assessment of the Wizarding world's political situation might be instrumental in determining whether the Third Kingdom entered this conflict – and which side they supported.

The venerable King Gwydion might soon be gone, and Prince Corryn would ascend the throne – like all new monarchs, he would be seeking allies, looking to solidify his power base. Lady Elaine Greenbarrow Swain had stepped down from active combat duty to plot defence strategies with sovereigns – in the event of another war breaking out, she and the reigning monarch would appoint a successor to lead the troops into battle, as per Fianna tradition.

The most natural candidate for acting First Knight, now that Lady Elaine had retired from combat duty, was of course her daughter, Lady Emily, the Fianna's Lady of the Blade. And if the unchallenged leader of all those Morrigan knights was related to Lucius by marriage... if the Ministry appointed Lucius to create a Department of Interdimensional Magical Co-operation, putting him in charge of overseeing Faery diplomacy, and Faery immigration... if the carrot of political and social power in Wizarding society was dangled before enough disgruntled and downtrodden Faeries...

And then Lucius Malfoy could present Lord Voldemort with his very own personal army.

Yes, the Fae were a powerful ally, and their loyalty was now effectively up for grabs.

Snape scowled direly, and resumed his walk.

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Emily took the invitation to Draco's birthday weekend to Dumbledore's office that evening.

"Lucius has asked me to show up early to his son's party," she said. "I don't think he would have done that if he had any idea of what I did last Wednesday. Do you think he's figured out that the murder attempt on Professor Snape was unsuccessful?"

"Truthfully, I don't know," Dumbledore said, thoughtfully stroking his white beard. "I've been doing everything in my power to find out, however."

"It might be for the best if everyone does think Professor Snape was killed," Emily said. "He'd be beneath their notice, if they think they've already eliminated him."

"But they have access to all the same Muggle newspapers that we do, so in all likelihood they already know that the pub was evacuated before the explosion. To be honest, Emily, if you accept this invitation, I hope that you might be able to find out what the Death Eaters know about that evening, and whether or not they know Severus is still alive," he replied. "If they believe you to be a potential ally, you could perhaps learn a great deal. However, the one person best qualified to advise you in this matter is Severus himself. For the last fifteen years, he has been my eyes and ears regarding Lucius Malfoy and his cronies."

"Professor Snape was there when I received the invitation, but he didn't say anything to me at the time. But then, I can imagine how the last weeks must have been unsettling for him," Emily said. "I know they have been for me."

Her companion nodded grimly. "As you know, Emily, Severus was very much against accepting your help, for reasons of his own," Dumbledore said quietly. "As such, don't expect him to seek you out to discuss this event. One of my rules of thumb is – when one wants Severus's counsel, one will most often have to make the effort to speak to him."

"I'll do that now, then. Do you know where he is?"

"Not exactly, but I can give you a very educated guess. Severus sometimes likes to go for walks in the evenings, and on a night with an exceptionally bright moon like this, he is probably on the tower walk, up amongst the turrets. He also unfortunately suffers from fairly severe insomnia, especially when he is under stress, so I warn you that he may be rather more than usually irritable at this time."

"Thank you, sir. I'll go speak to him now, then." She stood up and excused herself from the Headmaster's office with a polite nod.

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The moon was exceptionally bright that night, just as Dumbledore had said. When Emily emerged from the torch-lit dimness of the long, winding stone staircase to the turret walk, her eyes were very accustomed to the dark, so that the brilliant moon blinded her for a few seconds when she reached the top. She was now at one of the highest points of the castle; the walk was a stone arch that stretched from the great North Tower to a landing adjacent to the Astronomy Tower. The breeze was much stronger up here than at ground level; it lifted her hair off her shoulders and set it swirling around her face.

She became aware of a dark figure several yards ahead of her, wrapped in a blowing black cloak, walking away from her. She started after him, quickening her pace to catch up.

"Professor Snape?"

He didn't stop or turn to look at her, but his pace slowed slightly. "Madam."

She fell in step a pace behind him and off his left shoulder. "You can't avoid me forever, you know," she said. "You're the only other person here with the faintest idea how I should proceed from here. Without any counsel from you, you do realise I'll be walking into this little Death Eater company picnic next weekend completely blind."

"You'll have to forgive me if I'm not exactly motivated to come talk to you," Snape shot back. "I shudder to think of how much Lucius has heard about my activities of this past year already, with you on the next pillow."

"I didn't tell him anything about you," she said quietly. "Not about the fact that you used to inform on him and the Dark Lord to Dumbledore, not that I trained you, not that you've created a True Name, not about what's happened between you and me – nothing. He honestly thought I'd be glad to see you dead – and we led him to that conclusion ourselves. And the only reason you know about my relationship with him is because you put me in a situation where I had to confess it. If I had my way, no one else would ever have known about it."

He stopped, finally, crossed to the stone rail and gazed out over the glimmering silver lake and darkened expanse of the moonlit Quidditch pitch below them. "Well – since we're being so honest with each other, then, I'm not going to make any secret of the fact that I was against bringing you on as an informant, and have been from the moment that the idea was proposed," he said coldly. "You are just about the last person on Earth I would want to work with in this matter."

"I really don't believe I'm as much of a potential liability as you think," she retorted. "I've always been good at assimilating just about anywhere, sir. As I recall, my Muggle disguise is pretty seamless." So seamless that it had even fooled him, she thought, but refrained from saying.

"Other than the fact that with your accent, you really should stop implying that you're from the Lake District," Snape said. "You sound more Irish or rural American, or perhaps Australian, than like a Cotswolds native."

"Good to know, thanks," she replied, with sarcastic brightness. "At any rate, I really don't think gathering information from Lucius should be too difficult – it seems that I've already been doing it inadvertently. Lucius likes having someone around to confide all of his nastiness to – the man just loves the sound of his own voice, and he adores having an audience."

Snape rolled his eyes. "I could have told you that when I was nine years old," he muttered.

"Exactly – you've managed to keep tabs on him since you were hardly more than a boy."

"But, you see... being a treacherous bastard has always come naturally to me, and I have no religious objections to telling complete and utter lies," he replied in tones of silky insouciance. "You're used to charging in at the head of an army with the sun glinting off your armour, Professor. I'm used to biting the hand that holds my leash. I doubt, somehow, that you will become any better at my speciality than I am at yours."

She took a deep breath before continuing. "Flattered as I am to hear such... respect for my previous valour – "

"Which makes me wonder at your current capacity for stupid romantic notions of bravery and valour – "

" – I think your concerns are a bit unfounded," she snapped, ignoring the interruption. "I've been more treacherous this year than I've ever been in my life."

His mouth kinked in amusement. "How is that?"

"Well... there is that whole secret mistress of a married Ministry official bit," she said, absolutely matter-of-factly.

"You're deceiving yourself if you think no one knows about that, my Lady," he remarked, glancing back out over the turrets.

She stared at him, feeling a sick pang in the pit of her stomach. "What do you mean?"

"Whatever he may have told you, Lucius Malfoy is the sort to flaunt his conquests. He's probably not come out and told anyone the exact particulars, but if he's following his usual precedent, he'll have made it quite clear that everyone in his inner circle is to think of you as belonging to him and only him, no matter to whom he chooses to marry you off."

She bristled. "I don't belong to anyone, thanks – and I'm not a conquest."

"If you say so," he replied in his silkiest tones. Only he could agree with her in a manner that was worse than any insult.

"Well, if you must know, the only reason I haven't abandoned him completely, after what he tried to do at that pub, is because of this task I've undertaken for Dumbledore," she retorted. "The affair had already soured even before I knew Lucius was a Death Eater – as far as I was concerned, it was over by the end of May. If you think I'd have ever stayed with him one minute after it no longer suited me, then you've been inhaling the fumes from too many Potions cauldrons."

"Really – you had abandoned him already? What, the lavish flat in London didn't tempt you at all?"

She stepped back, stung, teeth clenching.

"Do you think you would have been the first woman he kept in London?" Snape asked blandly.

"I'll have you know I already own a place in Muggle London, thanks," she spat. "I have my own assets, and I'm no stranger to earning an honest pay cheque either. His money never meant anything to me."

Snape shrugged. "I don't doubt it. But some people always want to acquire more, even if they already have more than they could use in a lifetime. For some, one woman is all they'll ever want – but Lucius Malfoy always wants to keep his pretty wife at Malfeasant and a succession of pretty mistresses as well. And if one of them is the Faery noblewoman who snubbed him in his youth, so much the better."

"He really did tell you all about me, didn't he." It was not a question.

"He's found occasion to mention quite a few details of your history to me, yes," he muttered. "He enjoys talking about you. And somehow, when he told me that you had dropped him without so much as an explanation when you were seventeen, it did seem rather in character for you, begging your pardon – "

"I find it hard to believe that you're sympathising with him, sir. After all, he did try to kill you not too long ago," she interrupted in a flinty tone.

"I have no sympathy for him at all, my Lady." He turned from the railing and was pacing behind her, his silken voice focusing on one side of her face, then the next. "I'm looking forward to the day his master is dead, whether it's by Harry Potter's or Neville Longbottom's or anyone else's hand, and his lily-white carcass is either dead, or forever incarcerated in Azkaban. Do not mistake me – I've hated Lucius Malfoy since I was a child. But you – you've been his lover." He leaned close to her ear and snarled the word, making it into a particularly vile insult. "Are you ready to be the one who gives the testimony that sends him to prison? Do you really think that you can betray him?"

"Yes, I think I can," she replied, coldly, and truthfully. "At first it was all very pleasant, but then he tried to pressure me into an arranged marriage, drugged me and tried to learn my True Name, and then he introduced me to this hideous snakelike thing, which wanted to cosy up to my mother and my liege, and then he tried to kill one of my colleagues and claimed it was meant to be a token of his goodwill toward me. Additionally, I'm still not convinced that he didn't set up that knife attack in Diagon Alley, so he could play white knight and make me feel like I needed him again."

Snape stared at her. "He drugged you and tried to learn your True Name?" he asked, eyes widening. "What drug did he give you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Oh, I don't know, this black, sweet-tasting stuff that made us both sort of telepathic," she snapped, turning away from him. "Nothing I'd ever come across before."

"But he didn't pry it out of you, even after you'd both taken this... black, sweet-tasting stuff?" Snape pressed.

"No, he didn't – if he had, I'd probably have beaten him into a coma just so it was mine again, believe you me," she retorted. "So – would you feel any loyalty toward such a person?

Snape seemed to think about that for second. "Well... probably not," he admitted, his mouth twisting with a hint of black amusement.

"And then I saw... that day at Malfeasant, when he introduced me to You-Know-Who himself, Lucius had this horrible mark on his arm. I had never seen anything so hideous – it seemed to writhe and hiss on his arm when I looked at it."

"He had a hideous mark on his arm," Snape said blandly.

His hand went to his left sleeve.

"Did it look anything like this?"

He turned his own left forearm toward her.

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Emily backed away from him, her eyes dilating in horror, breathing an indrawn hiss of aggression – if she had had a sword or dagger somewhere about her, she would have drawn it.

"You're one of them... you're a Death Eater." she whispered. "By the Mother of Us All – I had sex with you."

Snape's face twisted. "Professor – "

"You vile, disgusting, horrible – " She was speechless, unable to think of invective foul enough to describe him. When Lucius had revealed himself as a Death Eater, she had been shocked and repulsed, but this (not you – how could you) this defied belief. She started to turn away from him, and in another moment would have stalked away in revulsion – but was stopped by his hard grip on her wrist.

"Shut up, damn you, and listen to me for once. Yes, I was one of them, until the day I decided to start bringing Dumbledore information on them instead. Do you really think Albus would knowingly let an unrepentant Death Eater live at Hogwarts, teaching children? You may be many things, Professor, but you never struck me as stupid or obtuse before – "

"You must think me stupid indeed, if you think I'm going to believe there's such any such fantastic beast as an apostate Death Eater," Emily retorted, tearing her arm out of his grasp. "My father told me that no one who left them ever survived. All those who tried were hunted down and killed."

"Oh, yes, they were. Which is why I never openly left him – I just betrayed him. As to why I became involved with them in the first place... I wish I had the necessary eloquence to explain all of what makes an angry and orphaned teenage boy without fortune or prospects fall in with an extremist political group, especially when all the family and friends he has in the world are a part of it, Professor," he said, raw emotion rasping in his voice. "You'll also have personally and intimately experienced how persuasive Lucius's recruiting tactics are by now, haven't you – and for me to have refused their offer would have been risky indeed. Unlike some, I didn't have the option of going home to my loving parents in the Faerielands."

She fell silent, stung, and averted her eyes in embarrassment. Of course she didn't have the option of going home to her loving parents in the Faerielands now – but he didn't need to know about that.

"Yes, you've seen how they work by now, haven't you," Snape continued, in a low insinuating voice, taking a step toward her. "They like to target people who are vulnerable, who are at low points in their lives, who have suffered losses, or who feel powerless. They befriend you, take you under their wing, tell you how brilliant you are, how much potential you have. They figure out what you most want, and give it to you without even being asked. Soon you're entirely dependent on them because they're giving you what you need, or think you need. Before long they've become your entire world, you know nothing other than what they show you, and all you have to do in order to have everything you've ever wanted is ignore the inconvenient pangs of your conscience.

"Then they'll start to let you see what they're really doing – the extortion, the intimidation, the blackmail, the bribes. The adultery and the corrupt business deals. If you're not careful, you'll end up implicated in some crime yourself, which makes it even harder to preserve any sense of conscience, because it goes against your own self-interest. Then, as they begin to trust you more and more, since you've seen so much and never protested, then they'll show you the very worst of it – the assassins hired, the innocent bystanders being murdered, the poisonings."

She could only stare at his face, transfixed by the naked emotion contorting his pale, dark features.

"But I found that brewing up poisons for a would-be violent dictator somehow lost its charm after a year or so," he continued. "That was when I sought out my old Headmaster and turned myself in to him. But Albus had other plans for me."

It made sense. That was how he had become a spy, because he had been one of them – until the day he decided that he wasn't.

"And don't ever, if you have any consideration at all, call me a Death Eater again." His lips peeled savagely back over his teeth – "Even if it was true once, it isn't now, and I'll be damned if I'll let anyone say it."

"I won't – provided you don't ever call me a conquest, or an extramarital entertainment again. True as it may be, I don't want to hear it," she retorted.

Then he did something completely surprising to her. She had expected him to find some way to indicate that he did in fact think her to be nothing but Malfoy's latest conquest, backed up by some airtight example of her conquered status he had observed in her behaviour – and the Mother knew he would have had plenty of such examples to throw in her face if he did.

But instead, he held out his hand, and growled: "Deal."

They shook on it.

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"Tell me something, if you will," she said, after some time. "How did you manage it? Lucius and his cronies got off by pulling political and financial strings – everyone else is in prison. How is it that you were never tried and are now teaching at Hogwarts?" It was both a bold question and a personal one, but somehow she dared to ask it.

"Dumbledore assisted me with striking a plea bargain agreement with the previous Minister of Magic under terms of absolute secrecy, in exchange for my services as an informant. I was twenty years old at the time."

She looked at him with grudging admiration. "Good work – you may have been young, but naïve, you weren't. And you were probably well aware of what happens to those who betray him."

He shrugged. "I can be hard to get rid of. Rather like cockroaches."

"You've had a little help in that regard, my Lord Roach," she said, with a sinister-eyebrowed look of her own.

"Yes, so I have," Snape said, regarding her with that infrequent, grudging little grin. "So you decided you didn't want my head on a charger, then?" His eyes gleamed.

Emily shook her head wearily. "Contrary to popular opinion, sir, I am not in the habit of collecting men's heads. The last couple of them were quite enough."

He turned away from her in a grim, silent little laugh and resumed his walk, motioning for her to join him. "All right, then. What do you want to know?"

"All of it. Let's have all the dirt and in spades."

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Emily arrived early to breakfast the next morning, hoping to meet up with Dumbledore, and found the Headmaster at the High Table, having a hearty breakfast of waffles with candied apple slices and honeyed lemon tea. It was heartening to see that even with the Wizarding world on high alert against a powerful enemy, some things, like Albus Dumbledore's sweet tooth, were eternal.

"Ah yes, Emily, do come have a seat. I've been meaning to talk to you," he called to her when she arrived.

She took a seat beside him, took some whole-wheat toast and poured a cup of tea. "What is it?"

"Severus has told me that you and he have spoken regarding the event at the Malfoys', and that he has briefed you as to what information we would like for you to gather. Do you feel quite confident about what you know?"

"Yes, I feel as prepared as I can be – he didn't mince any words. Really, I'm amazed that he could endure those people long enough to listen to their confidences."

Dumbledore nodded grimly. "I've always been astonished at what Severus could find out for me. He has a capacity for dissembling, and a daring, that I still haven't even begun to fathom. I daily have cause to thank whatever powers that be that he decided to join our side." His mouth tightened; he gazed down at his teacup, momentarily troubled. "But before you leave, there are several people I would like you to meet, our friends and allies in the underground resistance society we call The Order of the Phoenix. We meet fairly regularly, at least once a week, and it so happens that our next meeting will be falling on the Wednesday before you leave. I would very much like for you to attend that meeting."

"I should be happy to, sir," she replied.

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That Wednesday, Emily met Dumbledore at the gate just below Hogwarts, as they had planned. "Ah, good, there you are, Professor. Ready to go?"

"Yes, I think so, sir." She had dressed very simply, black trousers and boots and a man's black silk shirt – but Dumbledore was resplendent in one of his favourite purple velvet cloaks.

The Headmaster smiled. "We'll be going to London, but as the Headquarters is hidden, I'll need to show you how to get there. Now, repeat after me – Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place."

She repeated it, once, and then Dumbledore smiled again and held out his hand. "I'll Apparate the both of us the first time, so that you'll know the way."

"All right." And she put her hand in his seamed and age-spotted, but reassuringly strong one.

A second later, they had both vanished with a CRACK of Apparition.

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They arrived at a small square in a once-fashionable, but now very unprepossessing part of London – graffiti and broken windows were very much in evidence amidst the once-sumptuous stone facings and ornate railings, as were neglected gardens growing a fine crop of beer bottles and old rubbish. Emily wanted to train a fire hose on the place for about a month, and then spend another month weeding and replanting. There was a neglected block of row houses in front of them – and the Headmaster came to a stop just between numbers 11 and 13, Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore took a small device from his pocket and quickly put out the streetlights just in front.

"Now – recall the address I told you," he whispered to Emily – and as she did, the front of another row house simply sprang up into existence between number 11 and number 13. It was no better kept than the other houses on the street, with a long-dead front garden and filthy windows.

She followed Dumbledore up onto the porch, toward a door covered in blistered black paint, but then stopped him with a tactful hand on his elbow as he reached for his wand. "Sir... I was wondering, how much do the people I'm about to meet know of my... involvement, here? It's just, I'd prefer to know."

"Yes... I've been debating what to tell them for much of today, and confidentially – " he paused for an aside to her – "I have decided that the entire Order does not need to know your exact relationship with Mr. Malfoy, in the interest of preserving your dignity and credibility amongst the group."

Emily relaxed. "Thank you, sir, I greatly appreciate that."

Dumbledore smiled gently at her. "No, I think we'll simply tell them... most of the truth," he said, with a subdued twinkle. "I'll say that the Swains and Malfoys were long-time family friends, and that Lucius Malfoy is attempting to use his connection to you to ally the Death Eaters with the Fae. And I'll tell them that you, like your father, are very much against Voldemort and all he stands for, and that once you realised what Malfoy was after, you came to me and offered your services as an informant. All of which is entirely true and correct... if somewhat lacking in scandalous detail."

"Close enough," she said, grinning at him. He winked at her.

"And I've asked Severus and Sirius to reveal no more than that as well, and I trust both of them to do so." Dumbledore tapped the door with his wand, just below a tarnished door knocker in the shape of an ornate, twisted serpent – many mechanical clicks and whirrs went on just behind it, and then the door creaked open.

He politely motioned her across the threshold. "Please, after you."