Part Third: The Hart Subvertant, Chapter 30, Part 2

Chapter 30, Part 2:

Emily looked up as Dumbledore pressed a large glass of brandy into her hand. "Try to calm down, Professor," he said, patting her hand.

"Perhaps a drop of Calming Draught, Albus," Snape murmured.

"Excellent idea."

The Headmaster brought out a tiny phial from his right-hand desk drawer and added a single drop to Emily's glass. "Thank you," she murmured, with a long swallow from the glass.

"Now, please tell us, Professor, what happened at the Death Eater meeting you attended and what was said about the intended murder of Mrs. Weasley," Dumbledore asked in a gentle tone. "Begin at the beginning."

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She began at the beginning, with the Death Eater meeting on Thursday: how she had begun with a series of small challenges to Voldemort, all that had been said and all that had transpired at the meeting. She included a spare, diplomatically worded account of the curse on Mrs. Rosier – and how Voldemort had offered to resurrect her late husband right afterward. That offer having been exposed for the sham it was by Professor Snape's timely intervention (she offered him a small, grateful nod of acknowledgment at that) – she proceeded on with a very censored account of her meeting with Lucius that weekend and how he had told her that in order to properly join the organisation, she must complete a task of Voldemort's devising.

"Yes, they're proceeding according to their usual form when they induct a new member into the group," Professor Snape remarked grimly. "Once you've completed your initiation task, the next step would be the taking of the Mark." His left hand flexed thoughtfully.

"Did you have to do all this?" she asked him softly. He glanced at her, seemed about to speak – but then turned silently away a second later.

"We must let our potential victims know about the danger," Dumbledore said. He moved to the great hearth and then threw a handful of green powder into it from a box on the mantelpiece. "Molly, Arthur," the Headmaster said, leaning into the fireplace, "I'm sorry to disturb you at home, but this is a matter of utmost importance. Would it be possible to speak to you privately?"

A woman's voice came through the fireplace – "Why, Albus, I wasn't expecting to hear from you on a Sunday. Yes, it's just me here at the moment, Arthur's out de-gnoming the garden. Is something wrong?"

"Yes, Molly, something is, and it concerns your family. How soon can you and Arthur meet me at Grimmauld Place?"

"Something of utmost importance that concerns the family?" Mrs. Weasley's voice rose sharply with apprehension – "Oh, dear me, what's happened? Is it one of the children? Has one of them gotten hurt? Been seen? Died?"

"No, no, the children should all be fine. Please, Molly, just fetch Arthur and then come directly to Grimmauld Place," the Headmaster told her.

Ten minutes later, the Headmaster, Professors Swain and Snape, and the Weasleys were ushered into the kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place by Sirius Black, who greeted Dumbledore and the Weasleys with handshakes, Emily with a sniff, and Snape with a hateful glower. They had all just taken seats around the kitchen table when a crash from above brought Black back to his feet – "'Scuse me, sounds like Buckbeak's pulling down the curtains again, back in a moment," – and left the room.

"Now, what's this you need to tell us?" Arthur Weasley asked, holding his wife's hand, his red brows creasing with concern.

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Mr. and Mrs. Weasley took the news that Molly had been marked for death by the Death Eaters about as well as could be imagined.

Arthur paced about the kitchen looking as though he wanted to hit someone very hard, muttering: "Threaten my wife, kill my Molly! I'll drop the bastard with a Killing Curse myself, no one'd better harm a hair of her ginger head, they won't! First my daughter, now my wife – the man's a blackguard through and through. What sort of a scoundrel attacks a man through his family! They ought to bring back the gallows, just to string him up!"

Mrs. Weasley took Emily's hand across the table and looked pleadingly at her, lower lip trembling – "Professor, you wouldn't do something like that, I can't believe you would, I know we didn't hit it off like gangbusters when we first met, but that's no reason to do away with someone – "

Emily squeezed Molly's hand in reassurance. "Of course not, madam. I assure you I'd never willingly harm an innocent person, much less kill one. I've taken solemn oaths to protect the persecuted and defenceless, and I'm not breaking those just because Lucius Malfoy told me to, believe me. You have my true and original word as a Knight of the Order of the Morrigan, you will not, now or ever, die by my hand," she said earnestly.

Molly's face flushed, and she pressed Emily's hand in return. She got up, pacing for a moment, her voice rising in a nervous monologue – "That's... that's good to know, dear, thank you, you don't really seem the type, what with coming to Albus and telling him and all, I should have... " Then she turned to her husband and burst out, "Oh, Arthur, whatever are we going to do!"

"Yes, that does seem to be the burning question of the evening," Professor Snape murmured, glancing at Emily. Mr. Weasley went to his distraught wife and hugged her close. Unperturbed, Dumbledore went to one of the kitchen cabinets and took out several shot glasses and a bottle.

"Albus, what do you think?" Snape asked, turning toward the Headmaster.

"I think we should all have a brandy and calm ourselves," Dumbledore said, turning a resolutely twinkly smile toward the assembled company. "Then, we'll need to figure out what is to be done."

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Nearly all of the assembled company downed their brandy shots with the enthusiasm of patients taking medicine, then resumed their seats at the table. Mrs. Weasley was jittering so much that Mr. Weasley made her swallow a second shot of brandy.

"In my opinion, Albus, the best thing to do is simply to send Professor Swain and Mrs. Weasley into hiding," Professor Snape said. "We'll find an out-of-the-way place where the two of them can conceal themselves until this blows over." He turned toward Emily – "You are aware that there are magics that would make the two of you impossible to find unless your location was specifically mentioned by a Secret-Keeper – "

"The Fidelius Charm, yes, I'm familiar with it," Emily replied. "But that way we'll lose my vantage point within the organisation."

"Better that than the loss of your life, or Mrs. Weasley's," Snape pointed out, and Arthur Weasley vigorously nodded agreement.

"No, no," Emily said, shaking her head. "There's no reason to compromise my cover with them if there's any other way around it."

"What on Earth else is there to do?" Snape demanded.

"I've had an idea." Emily stood up. "All right – let's consider this realistically. I'm a professional soldier, and Mrs. Weasley is – no offence, madam – a somewhat heavyset housewife."

"Call a spade a spade, dear, I'm fat. I'm well aware that my sylphlike days are over," Molly said wryly.

"You're beautiful," Arthur said fiercely, hugging his wife again.

"And I assume you've had no combat experience outside of Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts classes, correct?" Emily continued.

"Yes – unless you count wrangling with seven headstrong children as combat practice," Molly told her.

"I understand. So – if Mrs. Weasley and I got into a mortal confrontation in which I was armed, and she wasn't, the logical outcome is that I would kill her," Emily said brusquely. "So if tomorrow I go ahead with their orders and attack her, unforeseen circumstances would have to come up to negate my advantage of weaponry and training and allow her to somehow fight me off."

"So if I'm following you aright, Professor, you're thinking you'll actually go through with it – but find a way to throw the fight, then?" Mr. Weasley asked. "You confront Molly, but you purposefully take a dive at the end?"

"My thoughts exactly," Emily said, nodding. "And if we're going to make it look as though I tried in earnest to kill Mrs. Weasley, and she successfully fought me off due to some total fluke of circumstances, I can think of exactly one way to do that."

"Please tell us," Dumbledore said grimly.

"The scenario I'm envisioning is – I arrive armed with a twelve-inch dagger. I offer to attack Molly. Molly just so happens to have a weapon with a longer reach in her hand – that, coincidentally, happens to be made of iron. I'm given pause by this, which gives Molly the necessary instant to counterattack. She hits me, injures me – then, like any other Faerie faced with cold iron, I go into a blind panic and abort the mission. Then, I go back to the enemy and wail, there was nothing I could do, she had an iron weapon, and hope they believe it. Then Mr. Weasley moves Molly somewhere inaccessible. My cover is preserved, and Molly is safe and sound."

"But how would we do that?" Mrs. Weasley asked, glancing worriedly from Emily to Dumbledore.

Emily turned to Mrs. Weasley. "You perhaps have an iron fireplace poker somewhere in the house?"

"Yes, but – " Mrs. Weasley stammered.

"Think you could give me a couple of good whacks with it?"

"Absolutely, she's wicked with that thing," Mr. Weasley said.

"No," Professor Snape interjected. "That's insane."

"As far as I see it, that's the only convincing weakness we have to exploit here," Emily said.

Snape turned to Emily, his face white with fury. "I need to talk to you," he barked. "Outside, now." He moved purposefully into the corridor, and there was nothing to do but to follow him.

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He lit into her the second the door closed behind them – this time it was he who caught her shoulder and all but threw her around to face him. "You aren't going to do this," he said flatly. "This is not an acceptable risk."

"Last I checked, sir, you didn't have the authority to forbid me to do anything," she said, a warning gleam in her eyes. "Besides, everyone else seemed to think it could work."

"Mrs. Weasley doesn't have any idea of how dangerous this is – she hasn't seen what iron does to your people – "

"Exactly – and you aren't going to tell her! That woman's life is at stake – "

"That woman has absolutely no combat training and no idea what she'll be doing. If you allow her to attack you with an iron weapon, she could accidentally disable you or even kill you. At the very least you'll be severely injured – "

"There has to be that risk in order for it to look convincing – you know that – "

"This is idiotic, it's the worst kind of stupid, ill-considered Gryffindor grandstanding – "

"Do you have a better idea? Because if you do, I would dearly love to hear it – "

Sirius Black came down the stairs at that moment and shot a baleful glance at Snape. "By the Merlin, Snape, do you ever stop – "

Emily turned on him in a fury, her face paling. "My colleague was talking to me – do you mind?" she snapped at Black. "Why can he never get a sentence out without you interrupting him?"

It would have been hard to say which of the two men facing her was more surprised at that moment – Black, because someone had actually defended Snape in his presence, or Snape, because Professor Swain had actually spoken up in his defence.

"Well, pardon the fuck out of me," Black retorted, then went into the kitchen and left the two of them alone in the corridor.

"Professors?" The Headmaster's head poked out of the kitchen door. "If you can excuse Emily for a moment, Severus, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would like to speak to her about her plan for tomorrow."

"Two minutes, Albus," Snape said. Dumbledore nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Snape turned back to Emily, black eyes burning into hers. "I cannot say this strongly enough, madam – not only do I think you would be absolutely mad to undertake this plan you're proposing, I think there's a very great chance that the consequences will be more dire than you can possibly imagine. As for this confrontation with the iron poker – at worst, she could leave you debilitated for life, and at best, you'll still have to go back to the Death Eaters and make your report with a traumatic injury. The Dark Lord will not take your word for why you failed sight unseen, trust me. He is extremely skilled in Legilimency, and when he searches someone's mind for the information he wants, he is both thorough and decidedly less than gentle, and you will have to make him see what you want him to see while in tremendous pain, don't you realise that?"

"I think I can do it," Emily said quietly.

"For heaven's sake – put that damnable pride of yours aside for just one blessed instant, and really think about what you're doing!" he insisted. "If he discovers that you threw the fight on purpose because you're working for the Order, he will kill you on the spot, don't you understand? And then even if you are successful in this hare-brained undertaking, it won't stop there. This will only be the first step – they'll demand more and more of you, and the fact that you failed on your first assignment for the group will forever be used to undermine your credibility and put you at a disadvantage in any further negotiations. You'll only be getting yourself in deeper and deeper from here on in – how long do you think you can stand it?"

Emily faced him without quailing, looking him respectfully in the eye as she listened to his arguments... and something about the sight of him so impassionedly trying to talk her out of endangering herself affected her more than she cared to admit. His attitude was far from just angry – there was an edge of something desperate in his voice, an acid edge of pure fear in his scent. Perhaps he felt as though he was arguing with his younger self, trying to talk him out of the path he had chosen; or perhaps that stubborn streak of chivalry in him simply wouldn't allow for a woman to voluntarily expose herself to danger.

But unexpected and very welcome show of concern aside, he was talking to a Morrigan knight, and she was not about to shirk her duty in protecting an innocent, ever.

"Sir... I do truly appreciate what you're trying to say, and believe me, I'm not looking forward to meeting the blunt end of an iron poker. But what you keep forgetting is that I'm a twice-decorated combat veteran, not some student who's just taken her Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. and now feels invincible. I have had to make crucial decisions while injured and under stress before – what kind of field commander would I be if I couldn't? Do you really think I'll let myself turn tail and run at the first sign of danger?"

"Has no one ever told you that discretion is the better part of valour?" Snape retorted.

"There is a time and a place for discretion, and I think that time is past," she replied. "My mind is made up – I'm going to do everything I can to maintain my cover, while keeping Mrs. Weasley from harm. As to what happens afterward, I'll deal with it as it comes up."

"Then again, I do hope you're right – for your own sake," he said, then turned and left by the front door.

Emily watched him go – she couldn't have said why, but somehow his departure made her feel less sure of herself. Perhaps she had not previously realised how much she had come to depend on him as an ally against all outside antagonists; while he would never have hesitated to go head to head with her on any point of conflict, somehow she couldn't imagine him standing by and doing nothing when she, or anyone else at Hogwarts for that matter, became embroiled in a mortal crisis. Cold, difficult, and disapproving as his manner was, she hadn't wanted him to go.

She took a deep breath, and rejoined the group in the kitchen.

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Everyone looked up as she returned – "What did Professor Snape have to say, if I may ask?" Dumbledore said, white brows creasing.

"He let me know what will probably happen when I return to the Death Eaters and tell them I didn't complete the assignment," she replied. "He thought I should know what to expect."

The Headmaster nodded grimly, his face paling beneath his wealth of white beard. "Of course. Now, I believe you have some questions, Molly?"

"Yes. Professor Swain... my sons Fred, George, and Ron were all in your Defence Against the Dark Arts class last year, and they were saying you were a knight in the Fae army, and... does that mean you've actually... killed people before?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her voice rising shrilly.

"I'm afraid it does," Emily said, with a self-deprecating shrug. "I didn't mention the specifics of my own military service in class, but you know how curious children are about that sort of thing. But it was a war, you see, all the people I killed were enemy invaders," she added.

Molly Weasley sagged onto Mr. Weasley's shoulder. "Oh, Arthur... I'm bloody doomed, I am," she wailed.

Emily scowled in annoyance. "Stop it, you're not doomed. All right, it looks as though someone has to take charge of this." She threw her shoulders back and began issuing orders with a crisp, militaristic authority. "So – Dumbledore, sir, you'll want to go about your business today and tomorrow as if nothing's going on. If you have any appointments or meetings going on today, make them and act as though you haven't heard a word from me. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, I want you to go home and grab a bite to eat, then meet me in the main foyer at Hogwarts in half an hour for an emergency strategy session. Mrs. Weasley, you'll need to wear something you can move around in – if we're going to go a round together, I'm going to need to prepare you for it, so be ready for a crash course in self-defence."

"In self-defence?" Molly lifted her head off her husband's shoulder. "You really mean for me to get into a fight with you?"

"Yes – and not only are you going to have to fight me, you're going to have to win." She glanced down at her watch – "All right, it's now just after two p.m. – we've got about twenty-nine hours before our meeting date in your living room tomorrow, so let's get started."

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Professor Snape arrived back in his own office in a high dudgeon of anger and irritation, cursing under his breath in a way that would have lost prodigious amounts of points had he heard a Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw student doing the same. Of all the stupid, idiotic, self-flagellating things to do – that colossal arse putting herself in harm's way – I've heard of masochists enjoying a good beating, but they haven't a patch on that... that woman...

He stalked past the worktable in the centre of the room, lighting the brazier under an alembic full of cloudy greenish-blue solution with an Incendio and an inaudible word as he went, then went to his desk and began to hastily dash off a letter:

Dear Catherine,

Due to circumstances unfortunately beyond my control, the odds are very likely that a mutual acquaintance of ours will soon find herself in a situation where serious injury is unavoidable. I have done everything in my power to dissuade her from the course of action she has chosen, but she remains stubbornly obdurate.

Circumstances unfortunately preclude me from being more specific at this moment, but please be ready to admit a Fae patient to your clinic at St. George's tomorrow evening, any time after eight p.m. In all likelihood, she will require treatment for moderate to serious iron burns to the lower body, and for shock. The shock will be caused by a highly unpleasant magical curse – its common after-effects include extreme disorientation, memory loss, fatigue and loss of muscle tone, and mild haemorrhage in eyes, ears, and extremities...

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Emily had been right when she guessed that Mrs. Weasley's sole experience with self-defence of any kind had been limited to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classes she had taken as a student at Hogwarts, and unfortunately, the lessons she had learned wrangling small children didn't translate well into combat situations with Faery knights either. She took reasonably to the half-hour's lesson in short staff thrusts and parries Emily gave her – but the first time Emily actually approached her with a practice dagger drawn, her first reaction was to cringe and throw her hands up in front of her face, rather than to counterattack.

"Mrs. Weasley, please," she admonished sharply. "You've got to make it look more convincing than that." Professor Snape's stern lecture about how she was taking her life in her hands by trying to lie to Voldemort made her temper much shorter than usual.

"Oh, Professor, I can't do this, I simply can't!" Mrs. Weasley cried, wringing her hands. "It's one thing to give one of the children a rap on the wrist or a smack on the rump – but beyond that I've never struck anyone in my life. I don't know if I can – "

"Look, how do you think I feel?" Emily snapped back, her patience breaking. "After you smack me about with an iron weapon, I have to go back to You-Know-Who himself and lie to him about what happened, and I tell you I am not about to take a Killing Curse because you were too squeamish to play your part with conviction, all right? By all that's holy, I can't even imagine the courage that goes into giving birth to seven babies, so I would think you would be able to find it within yourself to cosh someone who's just broken into your home and look like you mean it. So for heaven's sake, buck up, and let's make this look believable."

Molly glared back at her, eyes flashing and looking as though she wanted to say something very rude indeed – but then she paused, took a deep breath, and picked up the short staff again. "All right, you've made your point," she said, her usually pleasant expression turning flinty and businesslike. "Let's get this shite done."

Emily gave her a grim nod of approval. "Now I see why they put you in Gryffindor."

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Once her opponent's blood was up, Emily could see why this woman's children held her in such awe – heavyset fortyish housewife or no, Molly Weasley had quite a fighting instinct. "Remember, you'll have maybe a split-second to react," Emily reminded her, with merciless, bludgeoning repetition. "As far as you know, I'm a Death Eater assassin coming to slit your throat, and you have a second to save your own life."

She advanced again, goading Mrs. Weasley as she came on. "And I'll not lie to you, I'm known for being fast with a weapon – and tomorrow, you have to be faster than I am. You must be."

Sweat was beading off Mrs. Weasley's forehead as she studied Emily's face – and then she unexpectedly darted forward as Emily finished her last sentence, and gave her such a hard rap on the knee with the staff that she dropped her dagger and hopped away from her opponent with a yelp.

Molly dropped the staff and darted forward – "Oh no, I'm so sorry, are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Emily leaned against a chair, bending down to rub at her leg with one gloved hand. "Don't apologise – you're doing well. That's exactly what you're going to need to do tomorrow. But I'm going to need to stay mobile after I'm injured, so let's aim a few inches higher, all right?"

After they practiced the fight for several hours, Emily and the two Weasleys sat down at the studio worktable with quill and parchment, and Mr. Weasley sketched a rough map of the first floor of the family home. An hour later, after much intense strategising and the creation of a diagram that included a large rag rug and the fireplace hearth, they had eked out what Emily thought was a workable plan.

"All right, all of this is looking good, but I'm not sure about the distraction," Emily said, bending over the diagram. "The creaky floorboard is a good idea, but what if I miss stepping on it the first time? What if my weight is insufficient to set it off?"

"Oh no, that floorboard's utterly deafening," Mr. Weasley averred. "The reason we've never had it fixed is because that thing's our answer to those nightingale floors the Japanese shogun lords had in their castles. I don't know how many times we've caught the boys coming in at all hours because they've stepped on it. Why, even the cat stepping on it can – "

Emily held up a hand to stop him – "You have a cat?"

"Yes, Pyewacket, she's a big tortoiseshell Kneazle mix – "

"Perfect," Emily said. "If one of you could pop on home and bring the cat here, I'd like to add her to our strategy meeting, if you don't mind."

The Weasleys exchanged a look. "My dear, you do realise she's a cat," Mrs. Weasley said gently.

"Yes, I know, but – " Emily glanced from one Weasley to the other, shrugging. "For lack of a better description, I can speak Cat, using a certain sort of Faery magic."

The Weasleys exchanged another look – "Well, she speaks Cat," Mrs. Weasley said. "What do you know."

"I'll go get her. You two keep working," Mr. Weasley said, and left the room.

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Arthur Weasley returned not too long afterward with a wicker animal carrier under his arm, then released a large, plump, and affectionate tortoiseshell cat with a bottle-brush tail onto the worktable. Emily invoked the first form of Deceivre with a silent utterance of her True Name and greeted Pyewacket in the usual polite feline manner, with a pleasant Mrrrrrrrr and mutual nuzzle, which put the cat instantly at ease. Then Faerie and feline had a long, involved discussion, both hovering over the floor plan of the Weasleys' house. Before long, Emily added a sketch labelled Pyewacket and a dotted line representing the actions the cat would take to the diagram. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could only look on in amazement as this interspecies planning session went on.

Finally, Emily turned back to the Weasleys with a relieved smile. "Pyewacket says she'd be happy to help stage a distraction if it's to protect you, Mrs. Weasley. You are, after all, her pack alpha, the one who pets her most often, the possessor of her favourite lap, and the one who opens the food cans and liver snaps, so to her that makes you completely indispensable."

Mrs. Weasley laughed. "Er, Professor – while we've got an English to Cat translator here, would you mind terribly telling Pyewacket that I'd prefer it if she didn't scratch the furniture, but used that nice scratching post we just bought for her?"

Emily relayed this message to Pyewacket, who chirruped back a reply. Emily turned back to Mrs. Weasley – "Ah, she didn't realise the scratching post was for her because it doesn't smell like her other things. She asks for your forgiveness."

The odd foursome of Faerie, humans, and cat continued their planning until late in the evening, until Emily pronounced their plan as airtight as they could make it. The Weasleys collected Pyewacket and took their leave, shaking Emily's hand, and the three of them wished each other good luck tomorrow.

"Now remember, all day tomorrow, just go about your business like usual," Emily told the two of them. "Molly, you just take care to be in front of the hearth at the time we agreed upon, ready to fight, and I'll take care of the rest."

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After the Weasleys had gone, Emily got in a few training forms and fencing drills, just to calm her nerves, then had a long, leisurely stretch and downed most of the pitcher of water on the windowsill. Afterwards, an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach finally registered, and she pulled on a black fleece sweatshirt and made her way down to the kitchens to hunt up a late-night meal. Passing through a door on the right of the main staircase, she proceeded down the corridor until she arrived at a very large painting of a bowl of fruit and tickled the pear until it shivered, then turned into a door handle. The painting opened to admit her into the kitchens.

Candles ignited to illuminate the cavernous space hung with an endless variety of copper pots and cookware, with a huge brick hearth at one end; the workspace of the house-elves daily toiling to feed the hundreds of people who lived at Hogwarts during the school year. As she turned a corner and faced the four enormous butcher-block preparation tables, she noticed that another inhabitant of the castle was already in the kitchen having a late supper. Professor Snape was distractedly working on a plate of roast beef, steamed vegetables, and a mound of what smelled deliciously like potatoes au gratin with garlic, with a cup of tea at his elbow. Some handwritten correspondence and an open notebook were spread out before him on the table. As she drew closer, she noticed that Snape looked a bit exhausted himself, in shabby black laboratory robes rolled up to the forearm, his shoulder-length hair scraped back into a rubber band at the nape of his neck.

"Good evening, sir," she said.

"So what have you been doing about the Molly situation?" he asked, not looking up from his plate.

Emily paused, facing him from across the wide table. "The Weasleys and I have come up with what we think will be a workable plan. She's going to have just coincidentally decided to sweep up the fireplace from seven-forty to whenever I get there tomorrow night and have the poker within easy reach. I'm going to ever-so-accidentally alert her to my presence by stepping on a creaky floorboard they have in their living room, and I also talked to the Weasleys' pet cat, and she's going to help me make certain that my Obscurantis effect gets blown when I enter the house, thus allowing Molly to see me. Kneazle-mixes are very intelligent and trainable, and it's notoriously difficult to fool certain sorts of animals with Obscurantis effects, so I think that ought to come off without a hitch. Then I gave Molly a rather intensive crash course in self-defence, and we rehearsed attacks to non-vital target areas with the short staff for most of the afternoon and evening. She's going to aim for my left thigh, as I'll be attacking her right-handed." She glanced down at the plate in front of him, distracted. "My word, those potatoes smell good. I'm absolutely starving."

He frowned. "Oh for heaven's sake, Professor, ask the house-elves to make you a bite to eat. You probably haven't had an instant to feed yourself all day, so sit down and have supper."

"You're right, I haven't. Are any of the elves up, or should I just rummage, do you think?"

Snape raised his voice and called toward the doorway behind them – "Dobby? Are you still awake?"

A spindly house-elf clambered out of the pantry with a clatter of canned goods. "Yes, sir, Mr. Professor, sir, Dobby is organising the pantry. Be you needing anything?" He noticed Emily, and made her a small bow. "Miss Professor, can Dobby be helping you? Shall I be getting Cecile up to help?"

"No, let Cecile sleep, this should only take a moment. Miss Professor would like a bit of dinner. Can you get her a plate?" Snape inquired brusquely.

"Yes, Miss, what would you like?" Dobby asked.

"Er, how about some roast chicken or fish, some of that potato casserole if there's any left, a green salad, and some herbal tea?" she asked.

Perhaps a minute later, Dobby set down a golden plate in front of her, covered with several slices of herbed chicken breast and salmon brushed with lemon, a nice mound of steaming potatoes, and a salad of spring greens lightly dressed with vinegar and olive oil. A moment later, a pot of steaming lemon tea and a china mug appeared as well.

"That's lovely, sir, thank you," she said. Dobby bowed again and disappeared back into the pantry.

"You really should stop forgetting to sleep and eat," Snape said curtly.

"Sorry, I was distracted today," she retorted, forking up some chicken. "Trying to prevent a murder and all, you see."

"Yes, I know," he muttered.

At the first bite of supper, the appetite forgotten during the stress of the day returned with a vengeance. What seemed like a minute later, she was polishing off the last of her meal, feeling much more composed and clear-headed.

"Now, I need to talk to you as well." She emptied the teapot into her cup and regarded him stoically. "I'm going to come back injured tomorrow, and I'm going to need your help."

"You do know it will be worse than just the iron burn injury," Snape told her quietly. "When you report back to Malfeasant and inform the Dark Lord that you weren't able to murder Mrs. Weasley, he will exact some punishment upon you for your failure. That you can be absolutely certain of."

"I'm aware of that," she said, willing her voice to stay calm.

"His usual punishment for failure is a Cruciatus Curse," he said, very gravely indeed. "However, I've also seen him use Killing Curses as well, when his temper has been sorely provoked."

She shivered, her hands clenching around her teacup. "I... I see. But if I do make it back with a grievous iron burn... as far as I can tell, you're the only person in the Order with any experience as a triage medic, and who has access to anaesthetics, antibiotics, and Healing Potion, and I can't exactly stagger into St. Mungo's in full armour gasping that my murder attempt didn't go right and You-Know-Who used a Crucio on me for it, can I," she said, her voice taking on a sharp, nervous edge. "I'm well aware that I'm hardly your favourite person in this world, but we are both on the same side in this."

One black eyebrow quirked. "If you're asking me what I'd do if I had a choice of administering first aid to you, or letting you go into shock on the front stoop, then yes, I would choose the former," he said. "I would do the same for any member of the Order."

"Can you make certain to be at Grimmauld Place tomorrow night after half-past seven and wait until I come back?"

"Yes, I can." He scowled down at his plate in annoyance. "And I'll bring the full complement of medical supplies available to me, because Merlin knows Sirius Black is useless when it comes to actually being prepared to offer practical help to anyone."

Emily looked meditatively down at her tea. "You and Sirius Black have hated each other for years, haven't you," she said.

"Yes," he replied curtly. "Since we were in school together."

"Why?" she asked. "What did he do to you?"

"Madam, if I were to attempt to list all of the various grievances I have against Sirius Black, I could keep you here until we both died of old age," Snape said grimly. "Suffice to say he's something of a bully and found a particular relish in tormenting the bookish Slytherins of his year."

"That's all of it? Just some tribal schoolboy rivalry? It just seems... I don't know, deeper than that somehow."

Snape regarded her silently across the table for a long moment. "Do you have a few minutes?" he asked.

"Of course I do."

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Five minutes later, Emily was staring at her colleague across the kitchen table, horrified.

"He tried to send you into a room with a werewolf?" Her voice rose in disbelief. "Are you joking?"

"No, actually I'm not," he said.

"But... but he could have killed you!" she cried, outraged. "Or you could have gotten mauled, or maimed, or infected with lycanthropy, or – "

"Yes, I think that was the general idea," Snape said.

"He did this at seventeen? And the werewolf was purportedly a friend of his?"

"Allegedly, though how he can remain on friendly terms with someone who treated him so abominably has always been beyond my comprehension."

"Oh flaming Christian hell, that's just... that's horrible. I am... I am truly sorry, sir," she said, sincerely outraged. "How absolutely hideous that you had to deal with someone like that as a boy. My word, I can only imagine how the werewolf would have felt, if he came to himself and then found that his supposed friend had tried to feed a schoolmate to him while he was so vulnerable... that sounds like a set-up for suicide, in my opinion." She clasped her shaking hands in front of her. "Some people simply don't think about the consequences of their actions at all, do they?"

"You sound as though you've had some experience yourself with such people," Snape observed.

"Well, confidentially... " She turned a grim look down at the table. "The way he always behaves toward me, like I'm completely expendable and beneath his contempt, and then hearing this story from you... all I'll say about it is that Mr. Black just reminds me of someone I killed once."

"If Jayson Robinett was anything like Sirius Black, I'd say you should have been commended for laudable public service in exterminating him," Snape muttered.

Emily gave a short, humourless laugh, then looked off into the middle distance, remembering something. A gentle, mild-mannered Professor with an apologetic demeanour that belied his physical presence, an unusual robust muskiness to his scent – "It's Remus Lupin, isn't it. The werewolf."

He looked up at her in surprise. "How did you guess?"

"Just a hunch... something about his manner, and the way he smells," she said.

"Yes, your instincts are correct in this case, but I can assure you he's not dangerous now," Snape told her. "To his credit, Lupin volunteered to be the first test subject for a Wolfsbane potion I'd been working on for some years, and the effort has had the desired effect of rendering him harmless while in his changed state. Now, if only I could come up with a potion that would actually keep him from forgetting to take it at certain crucial moments... " He shook his head direly.

"Well, I've less reason to fear him than most. He couldn't infect me with a cold virus, much less lycanthropy, even if he did bite me," Emily said, shrugging. "He'd be just like any other big ravening wolf to me."

"I see." Snape's brows creased – clearly, an Arcadian's immunity to infection by werewolf had not previously occurred to him.

She regarded him across the table. "Well, what do you think of my plan for tomorrow?" she asked, unable to keep a note of nervousness out of her voice. She couldn't have said why she was seeking his approval, but it would have meant a great deal to her if he had given it.

Snape, as usual, remained unimpressed. "As plans go, it's completely idiotic. I still think you should give up this whole thankless undertaking and take yourself somewhere safe, but I do realise it's probably asking too much of Fate to expect you to see reason," he said and bent over his notebook again.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." She got up and left him to his supper.

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Emily found it very difficult to sleep that night.

Now and then she would nod off, but sleep felt like a direct fall into murky, disturbing dreams – she was fleeing through a forest, alone and unarmed, hiding from any number of pursuers. There was a man who wanted to enslave and destroy her, and one who she had to hide from forever, lest a single scornful glance reduce her to smoke... flame in the darkness, men in black robes carrying torches, the ring of iron blades drawn from scabbards. The air was full of soft, enticing, threatening whispers, but when she turned toward the voices, there was never anyone there. Red serpentine eyes peered out from under thick briars, glowing in the darkness –

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, she jerked awake, sweating.

As a result, she slept very, very late into the next morning and still felt exhausted when she finally awoke, but there was no shirking her duties for a long lie-in that day. Finally she got up, took a long shower, had a light breakfast, and did some listless preliminary stretches and dagger drills. It seemed that the clock on the mantelpiece kept moving perversely fast, taking fifteen- and twenty-minute leaps forward every time she looked away from it for even a moment.

Then her treacherous clock had ticked to five past seven, and Emily began to suit up for her stealth mission. Black tunic and close-fitting breeches of the most supple suede leather, high boots, then her blackened armour and dagger belt. Everything in her wanted to do something further to protect herself – don a suit made of head-to-toe asbestos as protection against burning, perhaps – but she didn't dare. She had to leave herself vulnerable to attack, or the charade would be over. The situation she faced today was so totally at odds with her previous combat experiences that her stomach was slowly filling with acid at the sheer strangeness of it – when she had gone into battle in the past, her previous objective had always been to evade attack by any means necessary, not to let those blows connect. She had never had to face an opponent armed with iron, for it was impossible to come by in the Faerielands, and it would have only been the most sociopathic of Orcs who would wield such a weapon at all.

Next, she laid out her paper of swords and daggers on her desk and mused over the blades within it. She finally decided on a twelve-inch, double-edged mithreal dagger and attached the blade's scabbard to her belt.

Finally she went to the bathroom mirror, brushing back her hair and securing it away from her face with a rubber band. As she gazed at her own reflection in the mirror, an instant's stomach-wrenching panic washed over her – What am I doing? Why am I even here? He's going to kill me, I know it, I know it. The person in the mirror was barely recognisable as herself, just some ghostly white individual with eyes full of staring horror.

But then she calmed herself and crossed to her desk again, draping the long soot-black sniper veil around her neck and picking up a pair of black gauntlets.

Twenty minutes past seven.

Holy Mother of Us All, Lady of the Sky, if I should meet my death tonight, please let me find myself in Your loving arms, and I beg You to forgive me for all I have done to offend You, now and ever.

Then she left the room, and made her way down to the front foyer.

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There was a second pale person in black already in the foyer when she arrived. Professor Snape was sitting on the bottom step, dressed as usual in black robes, and hunched forward with his hands loosely clasped in front of him. At his feet was the same large black physician's bag with the peeling gold initials she remembered from the first night she met him.

"So you're off then," he said as she passed, not looking at her.

"I am."

"Just so you know – if this doesn't go exactly the way we want it to, I'm going to personally put you in the next portal back to Arcadia, and don't think I won't Stun you and bundle your unconscious carcass into a trunk to do it," he snarled at her as she passed – but his face was as ghostly white as hers.

"Look, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not up to my usual level of repartee right now," she snapped back. She was trying for a tightly controlled tone, as would have become a soldier, but was unable to keep a rasping edge of fear out of her voice. "So if you have anything to say besides Good luck, I would thank you very much to keep it to yourself."

Peripherally, she felt his eyes burning into the side of her face, and something in him seemed to relent. "I'll be at Grimmauld Place when you return," he said quietly – and she gave him just one instant's look, her eyes full of desperate gratitude.

"Thank you," she said, and left the school by the front doors.

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A small send-off party of Lucius Malfoy's closest friends and associates had been assembled in the Malfeasant conference room that evening.

Walden Macnair glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. "Seven thirty-five," he said, turning to Lucius. "She's late. Are you sure she's going to go through with this, Malfoy?"

"Just for your information, Walden, Arcadians don't really have our sort of clocks in their world, so as a result, they can be rather indifferent to the concept of late and early," Lucius said pleasantly. "She'll get here when she gets here, that's just how Faeries are."

The clock ticked to seven thirty-seven. Menzentius Black glanced up lazily from his carved armchair, a glass of port dangling from one elegant hand. "Five Galleons says she stands Lucius up again," he jeered.

Lucius was turning toward his brother-in-law in annoyance when Emily's voice sounded from within their very midst – "Gentlemen."

The assembled group all gave a start as a slender, veiled figure clad entirely in black – armour, breeches, dagger belt, and boots – suddenly appeared, solid as life, sitting cross-legged on the end of the conference table. She raised a gauntleted hand, and very deliberately uncoiled the length of diaphanous black veiling from around her head, revealing a familiar pale, elfin face and red-gold hair. "Good evening, everyone," she said, shaking out her hair.

The group surveyed her with various combinations of shock, apprehension, and admiration. "Well, one thing I'll say for the Faeries – they certainly know how to make an entrance," Emmitt Parkinson said, raising his brandy glass to her. "Good evening, my dear."

"My Lady." Lucius went to her side and put a decidedly unchaste kiss on her black-gloved hand. "I shall tell my Lord you have arrived."

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Lucius took Emily's arm and led her down the ornate corridor into another room, a lavish bedroom suite as luxuriously appointed as Lucius's own master suite upstairs, carved stone walls richly draped in green velvet and antique tapestries. The draperies were tightly drawn, so that the only light in the room came from a vast black marble hearth blazing in an unbroken sheet of flame, and the very occasional candle. The air in this room was very close, and it was stifling hot.

There was a vast armchair set before the roaring fire, and Lucius paused behind it, calling out in an obsequious voice – "My Lord? Our guest of honour has arrived."

A long, bleached-white hand extended from the depths of that chair, and stroked something beside it – and then Emily's eyes adjusted to the gloom well enough to discern that what she had initially taken for a very large round ottoman beside the chair was in fact an absolutely immense snake coiled there. The beast lifted its head in Emily's direction, forked tongue flicking out.

The chair creaked, and Voldemort stood, uncoiling to his full, rail-slender height. Leave us, he told Lucius. I would speak to Lady Swain alone.

"Of course, my Lord," Lucius said smoothly. He bowed deeply, and left the two of them alone.

Voldemort's imperturbable red gaze lingered on Emily as she stood at attention before him, her right hand clenched around the hilt of her dagger. Finally he made a slow circuit around her, surveying her from all angles. The expression on his face held even more cruel, bemused hauteur than that of a Seventh Kingdom queen inspecting her troops. The giant snake coiled at her feet watched her with opaque eyes, tongue now and then darting out to taste the air. Emily remained motionless, wishing there was a polite way to wipe away the film of sweat forming on her hairline and upper lip.

I wonder, Voldemort mused, from over her left shoulder, if a Fianna knight is given a task that she must accomplish... and then returns to her commander and reports that she was not successful in that task, what consequences does she face?

"She would be held accountable for her failure," Emily told him. "The case would be evaluated by a council of officers, and if it was decided that the knight was at fault, her commanders would bring a disciplinary action against her."

Yes, of course, Voldemort said, from behind her, close to her right ear. We are leaders of men, both of us, my Lady. I must maintain the fear and respect of those who follow me, or I have nothing.

"I quite understand, sir."

You do not pay me homage, as you do to another lord, and I permit this, for now. But should you not return with news of your success... there will be penalties. You do understand this.

"I do, sir," Emily said, her hand clenching on the hilt of her dagger.

You will accept responsibility then, if you fail?

"I will, sir. You may hold me personally responsible if I don't return with that fat woman's red scalp as my prize." It was bad enough that he was threatening her with reprisals if she failed; but on top of everything he had to make his actions seem entirely rational, even just. He couldn't just punish her – he had to make her give her permission for such punishment. And when she thought of the penalties someone like Lord Voldemort would mete out on someone who had failed him in any way, her fear was so intense she could smell it in her own sweat.

The Dark Lord's red eyes half-closed with gloating satisfaction – and then he took her hand and raised it to his lips. Go then, my warrior, he purred. Show that upstart and his brood sow the meaning of pain and fear. He lazily waved a hand, and a set of French doors draped in velvet opened onto the starlit lawn outside.

Emily gave him a predatory smile. "I shall do my best, sir."

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The Weasley family had long had an enchanted grandfather clock in their living room, with nine golden hands in the likeness of each member of the family, and a face around which were inscribed various activities and locations, among them "Home," "School," "Work," "Travelling," "Lost," "Hospital," "Prison," and "Mortal Peril."

At 7:47 p.m. that day, the clock's hands were nearly all pointing at Work, except for Ginny's and Ron's, which were pointing at Travelling. Molly Weasley's hand pointed cosily at Home.

At 7:48 p.m., however, as Emily appeared outside the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, close to the Weasleys' front door – Molly's hand made a crisp click over to Mortal Peril.

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The Weasleys' house was a picturesque old pile with several red-brick chimneys – a lopsided, funny, harum-scarum sort of house, very like an illustration from the bright picture books Emily had loved as a child. A little painted sign near the door bore a quaint moniker: THE BURROW.

There were several fat brown chickens scratching about just outside the house's front door, but Emily sent the flock away with a pass of her hand and an inaudible word, then made her way toward the front door. As promised, Mrs. Weasley had left the door unlocked, to preserve the illusion that she was not expecting an intruder of any kind.

As Emily silently crossed the threshold, dagger in hand, any number of homey, poignant details caught guiltily at her heart – the crayon drawings of many children tacked on the walls, the mantelpiece heaped with well-thumbed cookbooks, bright rag rugs, and clean, hand-crocheted white doilies on worn armchairs. Everything looked shabby and much-used, but the Burrow had such an unmistakable air of being someone's home that it took all the resolve she had to violate this sanctuary.

As they had planned, Mrs. Weasley was alone, kneeling in front of the fireplace in an old, soot-stained chintz house dress, nervously humming a tuneless little song to herself as her brush swept the hearth.

Molly! Emily's Glamoured voice hissed inaudibly, deep in the recesses of Mrs. Weasley's ear. Behind you at three o'clock, remember what we practiced –

As she advanced toward the hearth, Emily trod heavily on the violet patch in the rag rug before the hearth, and as promised, the floorboard creaked and groaned deafeningly. Mrs. Weasley's song halted, and she turned around, calling, "Arthur? Who's there?" Seeing no one, her body tensed with fear, and then her hand went to the iron fireplace poker in the wrought-iron stand beside the hearth.

Pyewacket the cat had been drowsing in her usual spot on the sofa and, as practiced, came over to investigate the odd sound – lingered to investigate the smell of an unfamiliar, invisible person – then hissed, and struck out with all five forepaw claws extended, catching Emily a sharp blow just above the top of her boot. She yelped Owwwww!, then bent down to swat at the animal – and made herself visible in the process. Pyewacket wheeled around and fled from her with a loud caterwaul.

Molly stared at the black-veiled, armoured figure who had just appeared in the middle of her cosy living room, with a long, wicked-looking silver dagger in hand – and that poor lady could scarcely have looked more frightened than if Lord Voldemort himself had materialised before her.

"Who are you?" she screamed – "Leave me alone!"

And then she swung the poker.

It connected with the upper part of Emily's left thigh with a solid meaty thud, followed by a sizzling sound –

There was no need to pretend that hurt at all. A scream reverberated through the Burrow –

"Go away! Leave me alone!" Mrs. Weasley cried, then gritted her teeth, and resolutely swung again –

Emily turned, gasping with pain, and ran for the door as fast as she could – at least, as fast as she could on such an injury. The poker fell from Mrs. Weasley's boneless fingers and clattered on the floor, and she fell heavily to her knees, trembling, tears starting in her eyes.

Thus Molly Weasley became perhaps the only fortyish housewife in the United Kingdom to ever defeat a Fianna knight in an armed confrontation, but somehow she seemed disinclined to gloat over her victory.

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The façade of Malfeasant swam queasily in Emily's sight as she Apparated as close to the manor as she could. The distance from her Apparition point and the French doors of the conference room seemed endless; every footfall was a torment and a penance. There was blood dripping down her leg, pooling around the top of her boot, and her thigh now felt like someone had left a red hot coal on her skin, and it had penetrated through the meat straight to the bone.

Lucius turned toward the French doors with a smug, triumphant smile as Emily threw them open – but then his look turned to a deep scowl as she staggered across the threshold, gasping. She limped across the room to fall against the conference table, oblivious to the fat droplets of blue blood falling onto the vast Oriental rug with every step.

"Are you all right?" Emmitt Parkinson's voice called sharply.

"What's going on? Is the Weasley bitch dead, or what?" Menzentius Black demanded.

Emily raised her head and tore off the black veil – "No, I... the fecking cow had an iron weapon, she... " She broke off with a long hiss of pain, her teeth gritting.

"What?" Lucius cried, scandalised. "You didn't complete the mission? Don't tell me you left the woman alive – "

"What was I supposed to do?" she shouted back at him. She glanced down at her left leg, which was still oozing blood onto the rug – "After she coshed me with an iron poker, I could barely even move – was I supposed to just stand there and let her finish me off?"

Then someone who had been sitting in the great armchair at the head of the table slowly stood up – and the whole room fell silent.

So, Voldemort said, gliding toward her, you mean to tell me that you came back to us... without that woman's red scalp as your prize? How disappointing... you seemed so confident when you left us earlier.

"She was cleaning the hearth when I got there – damned cat sensed me, it's hard to get past dogs and cats even with Obscurantis," Emily protested desperately. "And then she grabbed the poker and... you told me she was a fat, dim-witted housewife, you didn't tell me the fucking sow would defend her home like a goddamned cornered tigress – "

A fascinating tale, but now I think I'd like to judge for myself what happened, Voldemort said icily. His wand pointed at her –

Emily forced her real motivations down down down, disassociating herself from the events of the last few weeks, forgetting the Order of the Phoenix ever existed, forgetting she knew Albus Dumbledore, or Severus Snape, or Alastor Moody and Nymphadora Tonks – forced herself to concentrate on her pain, anguish unimaginable, torment that made perfect concentration impossible. She tensed her left leg until her entire body screamed in protest at the stress on her burned flesh, making the pain worse on purpose to mask her true thoughts –

Sweet Lady of the Worlds, make him see, make him feel –

Legilimens, the Dark Lord said.

She closed her eyes and felt the recent past playing on her eyelids like a Muggle film – he had forced his way into her short-term memory now, and she tried not to cry out at the hated sense of violent mental intrusion. He was a cold presence among her recent experiences, reliving her entrance into the Weasley house, the groaning floorboard, the cat smelling her and then scratching her, the gasp that dispelled her Obscurantis effect, the instant's hesitation, the frightened Mrs. Weasley attacking in an aggressive panic –

Emily seized on the memory of the poker connecting, amplifying the burning pain for the benefit of the interloper in her mind, then ferociously turning up the venom on the shockrageshameagony she felt afterward – stupid fat bitch like to kill her for this –

And then he was gone from her mind, apparently having seen and felt enough.

Ah, but that stupid, fat bitch still managed to defeat you, didn't she? the cold, hissing voice said. So even a mighty knight of the Fianna can be made to flee before even the least threat of iron? Am I to understand that a mere household implement can fell the greatest warriors in this world or any other?

"You don't understand!" Emily cried. "It's not the same as it is for you humans – iron is – "

Silence, he warned, and she quieted, shrinking away from him.

Now he was coming toward her, his voice like fire hissing – I told you there would be penalties if you failed.

"No, please! Wait, just listen, I can explain, it was – it was – "

His black robes swirled behind him as he came on, raising his wand again – and Emily could feel blood pounding in her temples and throat. She knew she wasn't the one destined to finish off this wizard, but if he tried to use an Avada Kedavra curse on her, she was going to see how this would-be immortal reacted to a twelve-inch mithreal blade hurled into his throat, and hope that bought her enough time to escape through the open doors behind her.

His lipless mouth parted, forming the first syllable of an incantation – but not the vowel A, instead, a hard consonant C.

So it was to be the Cruciatus Curse.

There was nothing she could do but tough this one out, it seemed – she steeled herself, tried to mentally prepare for it – she had taken the worst iron burn of her life today, how much worse could it be than that –

Oh shit, she thought, trembling – ohshitohshitohshit –

The Dark Lord pointed his wand at her –

Crucio.

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Iron burns were nothing compared to this. She would rather have been burned over every inch of her skin than endure this –

Wracking, mind-whitening agony; not waves of it, but a single instant of pain without end, as though every sensory torment the world could offer hit her every nerve cell at once. The doomed Fae of centuries ago, feeling the meat cook off their bones in immolating fires, feeling their skin sizzling and their bones crushed in the iron maidens forged by humans, might have felt like this –

The crystal prisms in the chandeliers above her vibrated with her shrieking, thrashing, pleading –

holymothersaveme –

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The pain stopped.

Her body relaxed from its contorted rictus, and she hit the floor hard, breathing raggedly. Her body felt completely bathed in sweat, and her throat burned raw with screaming.

Later on, Emily would only be able to recall very little of what happened after she confronted Molly, of how she got to Malfeasant, and what went on there. But one instant would always stand out in her mind with perfect lucidity – how Lucius turned with the others and followed Voldemort out after that very angry and disappointed personage stormed out of the room, and left her bleeding and grovelling on the conference room floor and never looked back.

After some time, she got up, and staggered out of the open French doors and outside.

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Emily found her way back to number twelve, Grimmauld Place entirely by rote. By the time the door appeared in front of her, she had accepted the idea of walking on a leg that felt as though it was on fire as her usual lot in life, and couldn't imagine how it had ever felt otherwise. Her hands felt nerveless and very far away; it took several tries before she could make them turn the doorknob.

A second after the door opened, a young woman's voice called out: "Who's there? Emily, is that you?" A second later, a very worried-looking Nymphadora Tonks hurried into the foyer from the kitchen. She stopped dead when she saw Emily, her face paling under her bright pink hair, brown eyes widening in alarm. "Em? Are you all right, mate?" she asked.

"I'm fine," Emily said dully.

"You're really not looking very well," Tonks said, gingerly coming toward her, both hands extended. Bill Weasley, Remus Lupin, and Alastor Moody appeared behind Tonks a second later, and both of them reacted exactly the same way Tonks had when they saw Emily, stopping dead and surveying her with wide, apprehensive eyes.

"I'm fine," she snarled irritably – there were just too damn many loud, garrulous voices in this room, why wouldn't they all leave her in peace! She wanted to go somewhere and lie down – it seemed as though everything that had ever been wrong in the world would be all right if she could only get to somewhere safe and quiet where she could sleep – but she never made it past the foyer. A second later she noticed she wasn't standing upright anymore, but had someone's black broadcloth shoulder under her cheek. There was a rustle of a cloak beside her – Moody had gone down on one knee and was examining her burn injury. He gasped and pressed his hand hard against his lips.

"Professor? When you got back and made your report, what happened?" Snape's voice in her ear, a low, very gentle tone. "Did he use the Cruciatus Curse?"

She meant to say, Yes, he did, sir, and I couldn't believe how painful it was – but all that came out were rasping sobs. She buried her face in his shoulder as though to hide herself under his skin; it was all she could do to force herself to continue breathing.

"No, you are not fine," Snape whispered. She felt him cradling her head against his shoulder with one hand while the other raised her right arm and looped it around his neck. Then his arm was under her knees and he lifted her up off the floor, careful not to apply any pressure to the burn. The relief of not having to walk or remain upright, of allowing herself to just go limp against him with her arms around his neck, was unbelievable.

"Oi!" Fred and George Weasley came running into the foyer – "Mum's back and she's all right. She's won the – " Then, like Bill Weasley, Lupin, Moody and Tonks, they took one look at Emily and immediately stopped, turning pale and silent.

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley appears to be uninjured, that's been established," Snape said curtly, starting forward with his colleague in his arms. "However, her opponent did not come out unscathed. So if you would all get the bloody hell out of the way... ?"

When Professor Snape used that tone of voice, everyone in that room instinctively scattered.

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In a moment he was down the corridor and into a small and very neglected-smelling back bedroom, and laid Emily on the bed.

"Hold still," he said and lifted the skirt of her chain hauberk up and off of her thigh, then took a large scissors out of his bag and cut the leg of her breeches open to her hip. Emily got her first look at the damage she had taken from Molly Weasley's two blows with the poker – and had to turn aside and jam her closed fist into her mouth to avoid being violently ill. The first blow, high on her thigh, was a mass of running blue blister, outlined by black charring, but the second, just below it, was even worse – a long patch of crisply blackened skin peeling bloodily away from exposed muscle.

There was an abrupt knock on the door, and then it flew open, admitting a puffing, white-faced, very concerned Mrs. Weasley, closely followed by her son Bill. "Emily? Emily dear, please, I've been sick with worry. How bad was it – "

She stopped dead, staring – and the sight of the ghastly burn, the blood, and the pain on the other woman's face was too much for poor, tender-hearted Molly Weasley. She turned, threw herself into Bill's arms, and began crying horribly.

Emily seized Snape's hand in a desperate grasp. "Please get her out of here," she pleaded, aside to him.

Snape glanced down at her with a barely perceptible nod, then turned toward Bill, who was trying to calm Molly – "I didn't mean to hurt her, we had to do it, she told me to do it, I had to! Why did this happen! I didn't want to hurt anyone, I've never hurt anyone in my life – "

"William – your mother is hysterical. Kindly take her out of here and calm her down. I recommend a double brandy. And do it now, please," Snape said, in his usual calm, effortlessly authoritative voice. It had the desired effect of Bill gently but inexorably removing the distraught Molly from the room, closing the door behind them.

"Thank you," Emily whispered. Snape glanced at her, and said nothing – but soaked a clean piece of surgical gauze in Numbing Potion and delicately dropped it over her burned flesh. The blinding, searing pain instantly diminished into a low throbbing ache – and she sobbed with relief.

Snape took a gleaming pair of scissors from his bag – "Look away," he said firmly, and then she felt his hand on her thigh, the pressure of metal on her skin, and a quick, decisive snip as he removed the charred flap of skin hanging from her flesh. He then hastily dampened another piece of surgical gauze with something else – she caught the sweet, acrid scent of Healing Potion – and very gently dropped it over her wound as well.

"We have to stop meeting like this, Professor," she said softly. The Healing Potion began to take effect, itching like a fury, even through the cooling effect of the anaesthetic.

"Absolutely," he muttered, rummaging through his bag for something else. "I'd like to try something, madam, if you would permit me... your friend Catherine Orson and I have been corresponding lately, regarding potential treatments for iron burns. She also put me in touch with a wizard Healer named Collier, in Paris, who has ties to the Faery community and who is also studying Faery physiology."

"Healer Collier in Paris? You mean Laurent Collier?" she asked, raising herself on her right elbow with an effort.

"I said, don't move, damn it."

"Sorry," she replied.

"Yes, that is his name. He attended your alma mater of Beauxbatons, I believe."

"Oh, I know Laurent, he was a – " she winced as the itching built to a furious crescendo of irritation, "he was a Tithesman the year I finished school. Alain Collier, who you met, is his half-brother."

Snape grimaced. "At any rate, the three of us have been working on a variant on Healing Potion, specifically created to heal iron burns. It is an experimental formulation, and we haven't been able to test it in a real clinical setting, but both Catherine and Laurent have apparently had some success with testing it on Faery patients. If you would permit me to use some now, I think we can perhaps cut your recovery time significantly."

Emily stared at him, amazed. "You're working on – when did – why did – "

"Please, Professor, there will be time to tell you about it later. Right now my greatest concern is that another member of the Order has taken a serious injury and I'm being forced to treat her in less than sterile environs. I'd like to do everything I can to minimise your discomfort and speed your recovery time before any sort of infection has a chance to set in – so please, with your permission?" he urged.

"Yes... all right, go ahead."

Snape turned back to his satchel and took out a large phial of greenish-blue solution and a roll of surgical gauze. He then wet the gauze with the greenish solution and, uncovering her wound, dropped the third piece of potion-soaked gauze over it. Emily winced again as the third potion took effect – it itched a bit less than the regular Healing Potion, though its effect was still not what you could call a comfortable sensation. The pain, however, noticeably lessened almost at once. She fell back against the dusty-smelling pillow with a long sigh.

She heard him again rummaging in his satchel. "Professor? I know you can't take morphine, but do you have any adverse reactions to belladonna that I should know about?"

"No, belladonna's fine. You'll need to give me about four times the usual dosage though – my tolerance for it is a lot more than a human's would be."

"I see. Approximately how much do you weigh?"

"About a hundred thirty-five or forty pounds... "

A moment later he was helping her up into a reclining position and clasping her hand around a small cup. "Drink this – it's tincture of belladonna, Antibiotic Potion, and the new Healing Potion. The first will numb the pain and help you sleep, and the others will hopefully speed your recovery."

"Thank you." She drank the medicine down, and he eased her back down onto the pillow.

There came the sound of more rummaging, and then his hand curved gently around her cheek as he peered down into her face. "Now hold still, try to keep your eyes open – I'm going to put few drops of regular Healing Potion in them. You have some broken blood vessels in your eyes and nose... it's a common side effect of the Cruciatus Curse. Stay very still... "

The pad of his thumb peeled her eyelid back with incredible delicacy, and then liquid dropped into her left eye. He repeated the process with her right eye, then wiped a piece of wet surgical gauze over both her eyelids and nostrils and her upper lip. For the first time, Emily realised that she must have had a film of blood rimming her eyes and leaking from her nose when she returned that evening. He then peeled off both of her gloves and peered at her fingernails, many of which looked bruised.

The sedative he had given her was now beginning to take effect – the pain was still a dull red haze, but she didn't mind it so much. Professor Snape's back was to her as he replaced an eyedropper, bottles, and jars in the open satchel beside him. After a moment, he turned and looked down at her face again, examining her eyes. "You're looking much better," he said softly.

"Would you just... talk to me about something?" she entreated, clinging to his hand. Please don't go.

He remained bent over her, didn't pull his hand away. "What would you like to talk about?"

"I don't know... what Potion do you most like to make?"

He took a seat beside her on the bed, very gently clasping her hand between both of his. "Let's see... I find Healing Potion can be very satisfying to make," he said. "I have to pick some of the ingredients under a full moon, which can be rather pleasant in good weather... when I'm preparing the fixative, I have to extract an oil from wild mint that's been anointed with human tears... and it's always exciting when I can find a good big chunk of narwhal ambergris or a human trichobezoar, because those will make the mixture even more potent... "

He went on like that for some time. From many other people, this sort of discourse would have been dull, but Snape's interest in the topic was obvious – it illuminated every syllable he uttered with a subtle glamour and excitement. It really was extremely interesting – and it had the desired effect of taking her mind off of her own pain.

"I'm sorry to bother you... I'm just... "

"No need to apologise," he said in a voice that completely excused her from any wrongdoing this time. "Just try to rest."

"Where do you get human tears?" she asked. "Do apothecaries carry those?"

"Yes, but they're rather prohibitively expensive. Anyone's tears will work, so most of the time it's easiest just to use my own."

She glanced up at him, her hand tightening around his. "You just let yourself dwell on sad things?"

Snape brushed her hair back from her eyes with an awkward, infinitely careful gesture. "Yes."

Perhaps a minute later, she was asleep, still holding his hand.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Professor Snape sat beside Emily for a long time after she was sleeping deeply, probably much longer than was necessary to ascertain that her condition was stabilised. Finally, he disengaged her hand from his, again delicately stroking red-gold hair from her flushed hairline.

He got up and made his way out of the bedroom, silently closing the door on his way out. He met Fred and George Weasley hovering rather anxiously out in the hall and, taking them aside, administered a terse and eloquent reprimand to them, about how their teacher, who had had her life interrupted and jumped through any number of political hoops for the privilege of teaching them Faery magic that year, who had just been severely injured in preserving the life of their mother, needed to recuperate from her injury. And in order to do that, she needed absolute silence so she could rest. He charged the two of them with keeping themselves and anyone else in the house quiet as well, and with comforting their mother – the woman who, he reminded them, had devoted her entire life to their care.

To their credit, Fred and George nodded agreement and took their leave of him without insolence, and diligently followed his instructions to the letter for the entirety of Professor Swain's short stay at number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The other members of the Order had assembled in a comforting little cluster around the pale and very much shaken Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen. Everyone looked up at Snape when he came into the room, and instantly Dumbledore, Moody, and Tonks came out with some variation on How is she? nearly in unison.

"How is she? She's as well as can be expected, given that she's been staggering about for some time on a burn that looks as though someone took a blowtorch to her, and was subjected to Cruciatus at least once," Snape said grimly. "Mind all of you, this was a Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor – I've seen her shrug off right crosses to the jaw like they were nothing. But as I think you all noticed, her first experience with Crucio left her crying like a little girl."

Holy shite, Tonks muttered under her breath. Molly Weasley lowered her head into her hands, shaking with silent weeping. Arthur Weasley stood close beside her, his arm around her shoulders.

"Has the new Healing potion been effective in treatment, Severus?" Dumbledore asked tensely.

"I think it will be, but as far as I know, it's never been used on a burn of this severity before. I did all that I could for now and then gave her a sedative – she's sleeping. The actual healing and regenerative process is painful, so I thought it would be better for her to sleep through it. Though I did hope that there would be some cleaner rooms prepared in this house, seeing as how we did have an entire day's previous notice that part of it might have to be used as a burn ward." Snape looked daggers across the table at Black. "The worst danger to a burn victim is infection – and it isn't as though your schedule is so bloody full right now."

"Look, I have better things to do than do the scrubbing for Malfoy's little friend, thank you," Sirius snarled back. "We still don't have any idea if they won't be after Molly again – "

Snape's right hand, which had been resting on the table, clenched into a fist, and his eyes glittered malevolently. "Care to repeat that?" he interrupted in a low, warning tone.

"We still don't know if they'll be after Molly again, we can't be sure of any of the Weasleys are safe. No one's heard if – "

"No, I'd like to hear more about how you have better things to do than do the scrubbing for Malfoy's little friend, Black," Snape demanded. "Would you care to perhaps elaborate on that sentiment for us? Because I do hope that you didn't mean to say that the Professor doesn't deserve any consideration from you, after she was badly wounded on a mission for the Order. Is that what you just said, Black?"

"Severus, please," Dumbledore implored, in a low voice.

"No, Albus, he's the one who said it, let him explain himself," Snape hissed, glaring at Black.

"You're wasting time, Snape. There are more important issues at hand than – " Black protested –

"No really, I'm extremely interested in your attitude on this matter, and I think everyone else here should be as well," Snape continued relentlessly. "If I come limping back here in the same sort of condition that she did today – and it's entirely likely that I will at some point – am I going to be refused any kind of medical care because the lord of the manor has no concern for others, and never has? Iron is highly toxic to the Fae – she took second- and third-degree burns from that poker. You heard any number of times yesterday that she was going to come back here injured today. And you didn't even try to create a sterile environment where she could be treated? She took a Cruciatus Curse from the Dark Lord himself – and you couldn't even pick up a mop?"

Alastor Moody turned to Sirius, and his expression was not kind. "Now... far be it from me to take sides on the famous Severus Snape-Sirius Black grudge match, but I'd like to hear your answer to Snape's question myself," he growled. "Because it did sound to me like you intend to administer or deny medical care to injured Order members based on your personal feelings about them – "

"I didn't say that, I'd never do something like that – " Sirius insisted.

" – and there's no place for that in the line of duty," Moody finished in a steely tone. Sounds of assent came from Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"It's like Moody said, Sirius," Tonks said. "With Aurors, it doesn't matter if you hate the guy you're working with – you have to back him up if there's a need, and that's it. There's no two ways about it. I mean, what if she got back, and no one else had been here?"

"I didn't say anything of the sort, Tonks," Black insisted. "He's twisting my words for his own purposes, like always – "

"You said, in the context of referring to the treatment of a wounded member of the Order, and I quote – 'I have better things to do than do the scrubbing for Malfoy's little friend, thank you,'" Snape snarled. "Now please, parse that sentence for us so that we might be enlightened as to the hidden depths of altruism contained within that sentiment. We'll wait."

Everyone looked at Black. Sirius glared hatefully at Snape, his face going dark red, but remained silent.

Snape watched Sirius's face for a long moment, then turned away with a scowl of purest contempt. "Yes, I figured as much." Then he spun around, and started out of the kitchen.

"Severus – " Dumbledore called after him.

"I'm not leaving her here with him," Snape snarled, with another venomous look at Black.

"Professor, wait," Molly Weasley called after him. "It's only right that I look after her. I'm the one who... " She broke off, wringing her hands. "What I mean is, I've had lots of experience nursing sick people. I'll be glad to – "

"No," Snape said instantly. Molly's face crumpled, and she seemed to blink hard against tears. Snape addressed her again in a lowered tone – "Mrs. Weasley, I don't doubt that you mean well, but you've had such a shock yourself that you really shouldn't have care taking duties imposed on you right now. What you should have is someone looking after you." Arthur Weasley immediately went to Molly's side and put his arm around her shoulders.

"Look, Snape, I'm not doing anything right now, I can make a point of looking in on – " Remus Lupin began in a conciliatory tone.

"Spare me, Lupin, I wouldn't leave a cat I liked with you and your friend Black, much less an injured colleague. Not only that, but this kitchen is the only room in this house that could charitably be called sanitary. So, it appears that I'll have to take care of this myself, since the last scion of the noble House of Black obviously can't be bothered." Snape continued toward the door.

"Severus? Where are you going?" Dumbledore called after him, some strain sounding in his voice.

"I'm going to go make arrangements to have the Professor looked after by someone both competent and trustworthy," Snape snapped, and left the room.

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Thirty-six hours after her confrontation with Molly Weasley, Emily woke up in one of the beds in Catherine Orson's secret clinic at St. George's.

She awoke from a dream of being very, very thirsty, of tasting sand caked on her lips. Then she opened her eyes, to see a plastic bottle of water sitting within arm's reach on a bedside table, still sweating cold condensation. It seemed that she had only uncapped the bottle and brought it to her lips before it was gone.

She knuckled the corners of her eyes and sat up. There was an IV needle taped down into her left hand, into which clear glucose solution was dripping – from that, she inferred that she had been asleep for some time, long enough to require sustenance. The agonising pain in her left thigh was gone; in its place was only a dull, hot, itchy ache.

Catherine appeared from the doorway into the laboratory. "Good, you're up," she said, coming into the recovery room and perching on the side of Emily's bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Really stiff. My leg's killing me, and I really want to brush my teeth." Emily groggily looked around. "How did I get here?"

"Your extremely tough bastard of a co-worker brought you in," Catherine said. "He told me you'd gotten burned in an incident with an iron fireplace poker, and he didn't know anyone else who could properly treat you."

Emily shook her head – she had some memory of two people talking over her bed, but it was almost as vague as her infant impressions of her parents talking over her crib. "Professor Snape was here?"

"He came to see me at about eleven p.m. Monday night, then brought you in at about half-past midnight that morning. Then he came by to check on you again last night and brought some of your stuff." Catherine nodded toward a small black valise on a chair near the foot of the bed. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

Catherine brought out some breakfast from the hospital cafeteria, just some fruit and muesli with milk and currants, but Emily thought it was the best fruit and muesli with milk and currants she had ever eaten. Catherine also brought her patient several more bottles of water as well. "Make sure you drink as much water as you can – if you're dehydrated it'll slow your recovery time. Now roll over, it's time to change your bandages."

Emily rolled somewhat stiffly onto her right side, and Catherine gently raised the skirt of her hospital gown, uncovering a large white square of surgical gauze taped over her left thigh. Catherine then carefully peeled the bandage off, revealing a damp pad of surgical cotton that had apparently been impregnated with some greenish-blue substance, and here and there stained with blue blood.

Then Catherine peeled off the cotton pad, and Emily glanced down at her leg in astonishment. She would have sworn previously that her skin had been charred, blackened; now her thigh bore two long splotches of angry lavender, slightly blistered in the centres. It looked as though she had perhaps spilled two splashes of hot water on herself, rather than been struck by an iron poker. "By the Lady... it must not have been as bad as I thought," she said. "I thought my skin looked like a well-done steak right after I got burned. This is – "

"No, it was that bad," Catherine interjected. "Most definitely. You took a couple of third-degree burns, Em, luckily only over about three percent of your body, but still nasty. Even with ordinary Healing Potion, you probably would have spent some time in the burn ward getting debrided – you might have even been looking at a minor skin graft. But thanks to a new Healing Potion formulation a few of us have been working on, you're regenerating at an incredible rate." She shook her head, astonished. "Damn, just look at that, that's not even scar tissue. That's skin – pores, hair, and everything, and it's not even been two days. I can hardly believe it."

"Oh, yes, Professor Snape mentioned that he was working on an iron burn Healing Potion with you and Laurent," Emily said, her forehead creasing as she tried to recall the conversation – due to her mental state at the time, she could barely recall what was said. "How did that come about, by the way? How long have you been working on it? I even didn't know the two of you were still in touch with each other."

"Yes, we've been furiously writing letters back and forth for awhile now. He's really interested in the project." Catherine took a thin wooden paddle and very carefully slathered Emily's wound with blue antibiotic ointment from a jar on the tray beside the bed. She then unwrapped two rectangles of sterile surgical gauze padding and dampened them in a greenish-blue potion from a large bottle also on the tray. She then expertly rebandaged Emily's leg so that the wet gauze pads were taped securely against her burned flesh. The compresses itched when they came in contact with her skin, but pleasantly, with the same half-ecstatic, half-painful relief to be found in a good back-scratch.

"Damn, I've never seen an iron burn heal this fast," Catherine said. "This is amazing, and I haven't observed any negative side effects so far."

Emily watched Catherine's face, hardly able to believe what she was saying. "And you say Professor Snape has been working on this for awhile, now?"

"Oh yes, he's researching it like mad – sometimes he writes me twice a day," Catherine said, closing the bottle of burn potion. "Yours is the first third-degree burn I've gotten to treat with this stuff, but it's worked like a dream on some of the minor iron burns I've seen lately. I'm really glad you introduced me to Severus, Em, because that man is a bona fide goddamn genius."

"Oh," Emily replied – so that man stubbornly insisted on remaining on a Professor Snape-Professor Swain basis with her, but to Catherine, he was Severus, the goddamn genius. It occurred to her afresh just how very attractive Catherine was, with her sleek red hair and perfect skin and those big green-gold eyes. She was awfully clever, too, everyone knew that – and Professor Snape had treated her very respectfully on the night she introduced them. "Great. I didn't know you'd gotten to be such good friends," she said, elaborately casually.

Catherine rolled her eyes. "Oh, stop it," she chided. "I like my men with silver eyes and perfect physiques, remember? Look, I don't know the particulars of why you don't like him, but I do. He's a lot more decent of a person than you've ever given him credit for. This new Healing Potion was his idea, did you know that? Out of the total blue, he just wrote me a letter proposing it, and we've been working on it ever since."

"Look, I... I didn't know about any of this, he never said anything to me about it until I got burnt," Emily said, now very abashed. "And I never said I didn't like him, or that he wasn't a decent person – I said he was an extremely tough customer," she pointed out. "And he is."

"Well, okay, he has a certain no-nonsense quality about him, sure, but that's kind of a given with a certain breed of perfectionist scientist. Hell, compared to some of the surgeons we have here at the hospital, Severus is positively mellow, believe me," Catherine said, shrugging. "I'm really surprised you have this attitude toward him, Em."

"What?" Emily stared at her friend, aghast. "I don't have an attitude toward him – he has an attitude toward the whole fecking world."

"Okay, okay," Catherine said, in a conciliatory tone. "It just surprises me, because the truth is... I kind of would have thought he was your type, myself."

"What?" Emily repeated, even more aghast. "I don't have a type, and even if I did, Severus Snape is not my type. He's not anybody's type, and he'd be the first person to say so."

"No, I think he is," Catherine said teasingly. She crossed to a cupboard and brought out a tiny tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush wrapped in plastic. "Don't think it's escaped my notice that every time you've gotten serious about a man, he's always been tall, dark, brooding, and unbelievably clever, just like – "

"Oh, don't you dare – "

"Just like your father!" Catherine finished, crossing back to her friend with an evil little grin. "You like your men just like the one who married Dear Old Mum."

"Ooooh! Catherine Grace Orson, you are SO full of shite! I am in awe of your full-of-shiteness!" Emily took the toothbrush and paste and slammed into the bathroom, hobbling a little on her burned leg.

"It's true!" Catherine retorted through the bathroom door. "I've known you since you were a little eleven-year-old punk whining because Mummy and Da made her go to school in the big bad Second World, and you are the biggest Daddy's girl I ever saw, Swain! Face it!"

"I am not listening to you!" Emily cried.

"Come on – so I wasn't supposed to notice how you spent most of my Tithe year drooling at Laurent? Sure, you may have amused yourself for a couple of months with Whatsisname, you know, that blond snobby wizard bloke, but you regarded him about like a puppy does its favourite chew toy, and everybody knew it but him. You were completely done with him the day after Beltane."

From within the bathroom, there came a disgruntled grunt of Mmmmrhfff, then the sound of water running, and furious tooth brushing.

"But then Whatsisname Blond Wizard Bloke thought everyone wanted him – I never saw anyone so convinced he was God's gift to women. But I could tell you and he wouldn't last – he wasn't clever enough for you, and I knew that Muggles-are-lower-than-dirt 'tude of his would get on your nerves sooner than later. He worked in your father's library all day, had unlimited access to all those ancient High Arcadian lexicons, and he still couldn't figure out a True Name. Not only that, but he'd get all defensive if anyone asked him how the work was going. But you fancied Laurent like anything – he'd be following Samiel around the infirmary and you'd be watching him with your little heart all aflutter."

"Laurent was ten years older than me," Emily protested, around what sounded like a mouthful of toothpaste.

"Which is probably what held him back, you know. He really liked you, but he just wasn't the sort who goes around chasing teenage girls at twenty-seven," Catherine said, quite sensibly. "But you had a huge crush on him back then, just admit it. He was your ideal, the dark, broody, nonconformist intellectual."

"But then he had to go fall in love with Eithne," pouted Emily's voice from inside the bathroom.

"And Eithne married Corvus – yes, I know, I was there, remember?" Catherine reminded her. "And Laurent is still married too, I believe."

"Did I ever tell you I sent Laurent a letter when I was at Cambridge, just to say hello and casually mentioning I was still single, I'd just had my twenty-second birthday, and that I was about to take my degree in Classics? It took me a week to actually get up the nerve to post the bloody thing – and then he sent me back a very nice reply with a fecking wedding invitation in it," Emily said sourly.

"Oh, I didn't know that. That's... that's terrible. Oh, honey, I am so sorry." On the other side of the bathroom door, Catherine's head fell into her hands with silent laughter. "You have to admit it was a nice wedding, though."

Another disgruntled little Mmmmrhfff sounded from behind the bathroom door, accompanied by the sound of toothpaste being spat into the sink.

"But your colleague, unless I'm very much mistaken, is an available bachelor," Catherine reminded her.

"So what, he still doesn't like me," Emily said tartly, punctuated with even more vociferous spitting. "Well, not like you're thinking, at least."

"Oh, Em, you are so oblivious," Catherine muttered to herself. She shook her head with another private little laugh.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

To her credit, though, Emily was only barely conscious when Professor Snape brought her into the clinic, late Friday night.

Please, Doctor, I'm sure you're busy, but you are the only person in this world I would trust with her, he had said.