Chapter Eight

He was surprised that Granger and Weasley had not scurried off after their departed friend; instead, they shared a dark look and muttered together. Granger looked distressed, and Weasley flashed him a bitter look before they left the classroom. A few Slytherins loitered, chatting, before a scowl prompted them to also pack away their things and leave for lunch. Snape heard Draco Malfoy's voice from the hallway, muttering something about Potter's Invigoration Draught; his milling followers laughed obligingly, and then those sounds drifted away, and Snape was left in the silence. Flicking his wand, the gathered phials on his desk smartly lined themselves up, tinkling merrily and glinting in the meagre sunlight, and with the merest huff of despair at the prospect of examining the dubious offerings before him, he settled down to marking the class work.

A large ledger rested upon his desk, and he pulled it carefully into its customary place before him. Thoughtfully drumming his fingers on its abused spine and running his other hand over the rough, leather cover, he stared at the cracked and pitted book. His mind was pulled back twenty years to another time when he had banished a worthless potion, and although he had been generous and sympathetic with the unsuccessful brewer, he had still been on the receiving end of a venomous glare equal to that of Potter's.

--X--

He had been perturbed to see a young girl in Malfoy's basement and equally annoyed that she was messing with what he had grown to consider his potion equipment and supplies. Intending to interpose and end her little game, he hesitated when something about her movements caught his eye: the gentle and precise motions as she chopped, diced and measured the ingredients and the graceful way she added them to the cauldron. She had dispensed with the chandelier, instead placing three lamps on the table, one to each side and one across from her, a perfect arrangement to prevent her shadow falling across her workspace. The cauldron was slightly to her left so she could easily and efficiently drop ingredients into it without fear of knocking it, and his lips quirked at the sight of a single-burner camping stove underneath it.

Gathering up his cloak, so as the hem would not drag against the stone floor, he descended the last few steps, utilising the shadows to sneak closer to the girl and the table where she worked so diligently. A variety of ingredients lay neatly ordered on the desk, each within easy reach, and he noted with some interest that she had no book to follow. Her thin, pale face was a picture of contentment as her fingers danced assuredly over the prepared materials and her cauldron.

Recognising her immediately as Narcissa Black's younger cousin from his earlier visits to Malfoy Manor as his friend's guest, he took the opportunity to study her at his leisure. She was young, not yet at Hogwarts, and yet she managed herself with a grace and skill that many of his fellow fourth-year students had failed to acquire.

Impressed, but still annoyed at the intrusion into what he considered to be his domain, he scowled...Lucius had not told him that his father allowed the girl down here...but in spite of that irritation, intrigue found his mind working with her, trying to deduce the nature of the potion. His eyebrows twitched in surprise when a possibility blossomed, and he idly wondered if the potion was for herself, although she seemed too young to have problems with her menses, or merely as a personal challenge. Despite his efforts, he could not fault her attempts to brew the Balancing Potion until she added a handful of finely chopped sweetflag leaves. The method required that the leaves be coarsely chopped and rinsed in pure water before being added to the cauldron. The potion had few ingredients, but they had to be prepared in a specific and detailed way, as the potion was incredibly fragile at every stage, and a slight error would result in total failure.

"The sweetflag must be roughly chopped and added after the cauldron has been sufficiently stirred; otherwise, it will react with the yarrow and the potion will thicken."

Jolting at his voice, she whipped around sharply to see him step from the shadows. She glared at him, her dark eyes flashing dangerously and her cheeks reddening with anger and embarrassment. He moved closer to the table and peered into the cauldron; sure enough, a honey-coloured mixture speckled with green slivers of sweetflag rapidly acquired the viscosity of egg custard. He prodded the congealing mass with the tip of his wand, huffed in disappointment, and then cast Evanesco; her eyes narrowed, and her expression became quite poisonous as she watched him.

"The potion was worthless; I suggest that next time, you refer to a book before making such elementary mistakes."

"Who are you?" she demanded hotly.

"I'm Severus Snape."

"Really?" Her fierce expression dissolved into one of interest, and he found himself growing anxious in the unaccustomed attention.

"Up to the point where you added the sweetflag, the potion was flawless," he said quickly, trying to draw her focused attention from himself and back to the potion. She blushed violently and nervously tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "Out of curiosity, did you know about the proper way to prepare the sweetflag?"

"Yes," she said softly, gently tugging on the ends of her long hair and watching him intently.

"So," he asked with some confusion. "Why add it?"

Her face split into a delighted grin, and she launched into a fascinating and breathless explanation. Thrumming in sympathetic resonance as they discussed a shared passion, he sloughed off his anger and forgot his wounds. The child's knowledge of potions was impressive, but she adamantly refused to share anything else with him, although she asked frequently about him and seemed quite affronted when he reciprocated her reticence. He did discover that she was visiting with her Aunt Elladora Black and would be staying with the Malfoys over Christmas. As time wore on and his level of respect increased, he asked her if she would like to brew some potions with him, but before she could respond, a noise distracted her, and she turned to look at the stairs; he followed her gaze and saw Lucius Malfoy standing on the bottom step, peering distastefully into the gloom.

"I thought I'd find you here, Severus," he drawled while fastidiously lifting his elegant verdant robes so as not to dirty them. "Father wants all the guests upstairs." He looked over at Ophelia, and his grimace deepened. "I suggest that you wash for dinner and change into the robes Narcissa brought for you." The blond-haired youth strode over to the table and glanced at the gathered ingredients and the empty cauldron.

"Five more minutes please, Lucius; we were discussing Pemberton-Smythe's second law and how it ..." She saw his expression and ground to a disappointed halt. "I'll go and wash." She turned off the gas to the stove and used a damp cloth to wipe the table clean; her attention to detail meant that there was very little in the way of wasted ingredients. Once everything was neatly cleaned and stowed, she trudged up the stairs and exited the basement.

"Father allows her down here," Lucius said dismissively. "He likes that she's out from underfoot."

Severus watched him poke his wand at the camping stove with an expression of intense dislike twisting his features. "She may as well be a Muggle," he spat venomously. "Still, she does brew excellent potions." His mouth quirked as he spoke in a conspiratorial tone, and his eyes glittered merrily. "Her sleeping potions have allowed Narcissa and I some leisurely quality time together while she's been here." His smile widened, and he winked at his friend. Snape smiled back politely, and then his grin expanded when the implication struck home. Lucius chuckled and draped his arm over the younger boy's shoulders.

"Father was telling Madam Black that he has never felt so rested; the child, Muggle brat that she is, has her... charms." He laughed blithely and took a deep sip of champagne.

"Who is she?"

Lucius sighed and let his hand fall from Snape's shoulder. "She is Aunt Capella's daughter, a bastard child rescued by Aunt Elladora from a pack of Muggles." His lip curled back in disgust, and he shook his head slowly. "She is spoiled...damaged goods. She can barely hold a wand much less cast spells; it's a wonder that she is so adept at potion-making." Lucius drained his glass and placed the flute on the workbench; turning to his friend, he gripped the dark man's shoulders. "I will tell you this though," he murmured before he licked his lips and swallowed...nervously, Snape thought. "Tread carefully around her, my friend."

Snape thought to laugh at the idea that he should be wary of an eight-year-old who seemed more Squib than witch, but something in the fixed expression and the flash of worry in his friend's eyes stopped him.

--X--

The meal had been exquisite, although neither Snape nor Ophelia had tasted much. They had surreptitiously chatted about potions and their more interesting effects around mouthfuls of duchess potatoes and tender goose with vegetables of julienne. Ophelia may have been distracted by her slice of luxury Yule log with whipped cream, but over coffee and petit-fours, she came back with a vengeance.

He listened to her and found himself pondering the girl's status: who was she that a Malfoy should feel deferential to her? She was inquisitive, perceptive and possessed a sometimes vicious wit that appealed to his own dark humour. Nothing about her suggested anything disturbing; despite her awesome knowledge of potions and her keen wit, even at such a young age, she was a normal, awkward child. The dollop of cream on the tip of her nose hastily wiped away had evidenced that, and she had seemed to take no offence at his chortle, even if she had blushed.

Aunt Elladora had sequestered Ophelia's attentions in the early evening, and Snape had sought out Lucius, concerned that his lack of attention had offended him. He was waylaid in his task by a stay in the Malfoy family library and then later by Bellatrix, who seemed to be talking to him out of politeness rather than necessity or interest. After an hour, he finally found his friend on the terrace, chatting intimately with Narcissa. Their fur coats and hats were speckled with fine snow, and their hair shone like silver in the brief moonlight. The clouds shifted, and the terrace was plunged into shadow; only their outlines were visible against the crisp, snowy backdrop. He had the impression of the shadows merging together and then caught the sound of a sigh. Knowing that he was not missed and uncomfortable with the scene before him, Snape moved back into the house and returned to the drawing room.

A late guest had arrived and had seated himself in one of the large, brown, leather chairs by the hearth. The household had gathered around him, listening with rapt attention to his tales. Abraxus Malfoy was smiling with an odd mix of apprehension and pleasure, and the Blacks...Elladora, Alphard and Bellatrix...were sitting and drinking him in, lapping up every word. It wasn't until Snape moved further into the room that he saw Ophelia sitting at the man's feet with her back resting against the visitor's shins, playing with a snake. The stranger caught sight of him and smiled warmly.

"This must be the young man you were telling me about, Opella." His voice was pleasant and cultured, and his eyes were almost greedy as they looked upon him.

Ophelia grinned up at Snape. The snake coiled around her arms and hissed playfully in her ear. The others looked at him strangely, Bellatrix looked positively jealous and Abraxus' worried smile became more pronounced. Snape sensed a power shift...no longer was he merely the guest of a school friend. Now he was the focus of a formidable wizard. Snape, however, felt more like a butterfly frantically fluttering its wings as a pin poised over its body, ready to fix it to a display. He was sure that this moment was one of those that Slughorn kept referring to as life-defining. Snape swallowed nervously; he was well aware who this guest was and wondered what he could say when Ophelia rendered him speechless.

"Yes, Uncle Tom."

--X--

Coming back to himself with a shudder and breathing heavily, he could still remember the appalled dread that had crept over him when the realisation struck home that the girl he had spent the best part of the day with...and probably offended at least once...was close to the Dark Lord. He had stifled a nervous laugh at her words, his heart racing as he had then found himself the sole recipient of the Dark Lord's attentions for the rest of the evening, all the while wondering when the hammer would fall. Even now, twenty years on, the memory still had the power to leave him with a dry mouth and clammy palms. And he had been right, he thought bitterly; it had been a life-defining moment.

Dragging his attention back from his dreadful daydreaming to the ledger and the grading of the potions, a sudden thought sparked, scattering his morbid musings; frowning, he went further back into the book than necessary, back twenty years in fact. He looked down the list of names until he found, in the neat handwriting of Professor Slughorn, the name 'Ophelia Black'. The first term of her first year had been exemplary: Outstandings for every potion and every piece of homework. The whole of her first year had been the same; the second year followed suit with only a few marks for absenteeism and a few Exceeds Expectations. He continued until part way through her third year where her average grade dropped. No longer were there a series of perfect 'O's, but 'EE's, and then that dropped to Acceptable; throughout her latter years at school, her grade in Potions had been pitiful. His frown deepened, and he thought back on Sirius' revelation in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. Was there some connection? Regulus' death may have caused a sudden drop in results and attentiveness, but not the sustained decline that he saw in the neat columns before him. What had precipitated such a catastrophic slip in a subject that she had an intuitive grasp of and a natural talent for?