PART ONE: HARRY

 The weather was particularly foul on August 31st, and it was under heavy rain that Harry Potter and his friends made their way to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The ride in carriages pulled by Thestrals was done in silence. Most of the student body was acutely aware that many of their comrades could now see the fleshless winged creatures with dragonish heads and white pupil-less eyes.

Once they’d reached the castle, they quickly hurried inside to escape the weather. Students from years two to seven hurried along the familiar hallways until they reached the Great Hall, where the four long tables awaited them. The room was lit by thousands of candles floating in mid-air, and above them stood a velvety, black ceiling dotted with stars. The tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Ginny parted ways with Luna. The spacey blond rejoined her dorm mates at Ravenclaw table, the second table on the left, while the Gryffindor students moved to the one on the far right. Hufflepuff’s stood between the two, while Slytherin’s stood on the far left, and thus, as far away from the Gryffindors as possible.

Harry sat with his back against the wall, and he took a moment to survey the room at large, stopping an instant at the foot of Slytherin table, where Draco Malfoy had just made his grand entrance. The aristocratic blond appeared to have grown another inch during the summer. He wore his fine-tailored robes with a certain nonchalance that exasperated Harry to no end. It was as if he couldn’t be bothered. That holier-than-thou vibe he always had going was probably his most annoying trait. Next to him stood his friends, Vincent Crabbe—who’d grown a couple of inches too, horizontally—and Gregory Goyle—who looked like the embodiment of brawn, not brains.

“Give it a rest, Harry,” Hermione said in warning, having caught the direction of his stare. “For once, let us enjoy the feast and not start a war with the Slytherins on the first day, please.”

“He’s up to something; I’m sure of it,” Harry replied. But he did force himself to look away. He couldn’t have told her why he’d said that. Something in him just knew it. Draco Malfoy was up to something, and knowing him… it couldn’t be anything good.

Directing his attention to the opposite side of the Great Hall, Harry let his gaze wander along the High Table, which stood at the farthest point from the entrance, perpendicular to the other four. The entire Hogwarts staff was already installed, save for Professor McGonagall, whom Harry knew was busy getting the first years ready for their Sorting Ceremony. At the centre of the table, positioned on a throne-like, golden chair, was the current headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore himself.

Harry saw that the seating arrangement had been altered somewhat from their previous year and now was as follows: at the end of the table, on Gryffindor’s side, sat the half-giant Rubeus Hagrid, who taught Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid seemed to be deep in discussion with the woman next to him, Astronomy professor Aurora Sinistra. On her left was Saturnine—or rather, Professor Leen Nine, Harry corrected himself, mentally—who was their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Next to her was Professor Bathsheda Babbling of Study of Ancient Runes, and then the part-goblin Head of Ravenclaw House, Professor Filius Flitwick, who taught Charms. Next to him was the vacant seat of Transfiguration professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House.

On the other side of Headmaster Dumbledore sat Professor Pomona Sprout, the Head of Hufflepuff House, who taught Herbology. Professor Charity Burbage of Muggle Studies was next. Then came Septima Vector, their Arithmancy professor. Next to her sat her best friend and Flying Instructor Rolanda Hooch and, finally, Sybill Trelawney—whom Harry had a hard time thinking of as a professor—who was notoriously bad at Divination, save for the occasional earth-shattering prophecy. The left half was completed, at the far end of the table, by the brooding Slytherin Head of House, Potions Master Severus Snape, whom Harry also had a hard time calling a professor, for entirely different reasons. The only missing teacher was Cuthbert Binns, who taught them History of Magic, but the man never left his classroom. He had the excellent excuse of being a ghost. So, Dumbledore never begrudged him for missing meals.

Harry was surprised at Saturnine’s positioning, as traditionally Defence teachers tended to be on the left half of the table. Her disguise was the same as he had seen when they’d left Cove Cottage a week ago. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight chignon and her blue eyes were camouflaged beneath a pair of brown contact lenses. Strategically applied makeup made her cheeks appear hollower and higher, gave her eyes an almond shape, and made her lips fuller. Also, she wore the same pair of thick creole earrings studded with sparkling gemstones that were oddly distracting. But that wasn’t all. Her posture was demure and shy to the extreme—a clear departure from her usually confident and alert stance. But beneath her fake, square prescription glasses, Harry saw that her brown eyes were intently scanning the room. When her attention landed on the Gryffindor table, their gazes met and held each other for an instant. She was the first to blink and look away, and Harry felt a tiny pang of pain at that. But this was how it would be between them from now on, he reminded himself. The woman who’d taken care of him all summer had assumed a new role, one that required them to keep their distance and behave as if they were strangers.

“I hate this,” he muttered to himself.

“What’s that, Harry?” asked Dean Thomas, who sat next to him.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, mentally chastising himself. When he looked up, Hermione caught his gaze, and he could see that she understood what his outburst had been about. He gave her a voiceless nod of thanks, which she returned with an encouraging smile.

A moment later, Professor McGonagall made her entrance with the first years, and the Sorting Ceremony began. The Sorting Hat—an old, battered, sentient pointed hat that once belonged to Godric Gryffindor—was placed upon a stool at the head of the Great Hall, whereupon it sung a song of its own composition about the four founders of Hogwarts and the qualities sought by their respective Houses. New students were then summoned to the stool, one by one, in alphabetical order by last name, where they sat down. Then, the Hat was placed on their head. After a moment or two, the Hat shouted the name of the House assigned to each student loudly enough to be heard at the back of the Great Hall.

Once the Sorting Ceremony was finished, Headmaster Dumbledore took a minute to address the students at large. “Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. First off, let me introduce to you the newest member of our staff, Leen Nine. Professor Nine, a graduate of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, has agreed to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

There was a cursory round of applause at the announcement. At that, the dark-haired witch rose to her feet with some uncertainty. Her shoulders were hunched forward as if she wanted to curl into a tight ball and disappear. Though Harry knew that to be an act, he had to admit she was an excellent actress.

“As you know, each and every one of you was searched upon your arrival tonight. You have a right to know why,” continued Professor Dumbledore. “Once, there was a young man who, like you, sat in this very hall. He walked this castle’s corridors and slept beneath its roof. He seemed, to all the world, a student like any other. His name? Tom Riddle.”

The Hall went utterly silent at that name, and Harry swallowed nervously, as his eyes searched for Saturnine’s. She was looking his way, too, he discovered. And he held onto her gaze for the rest of the speech.

“Today, of course, the world knows him by another name,” Dumbledore continued. “Which is why, as I stand looking out upon you all tonight, I am reminded of a sobering fact. Each day, every hour, this very minute perhaps, dark forces attempt to penetrate this castle. But in the end, their greatest weapon remains—you. Just something to keep in mind.”

Then, at a flick of the headmaster’s wrists, plates all over the four tables were covered in scrumptious food and pitchers filled to the brim with a variety of soft drinks. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore finished before returning to his chair.

“Well,” said Ron as he lugged a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “That was cheerful.”

“Yeah,” agreed Harry. “So’s the group of Aurors that stand guard just outside the entrance hall.”

Though he knew they were here for his protection and that of every other student, he couldn’t help but dislike the thought of them being there at all. In his book, trained fighters had no business patrolling the corridors of a place of learning, but such were the times they lived in. As the headmaster had so aptly reminded them, the war was waging outside the castle walls—closer perhaps than even they thought. Death Eaters’ raids happened every other week now, and the death toll was well into the double-digits numbers.

“At least the Ministry’s finally seen the light,” muttered Hermione, between two bites of smoked salmon. “Everyone knows the truth.”

“Took them long enough, though,” Harry grumbled. He couldn’t help the bitterness in his tone at the memory of their previous Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor, Ministry employee Dolores Umbridge—another one that Harry couldn’t bring himself to label as professor. His left arm still bore the scars inflicted by her Blood Quill, the faint white lines tracing a familiar I must not tell lies pattern.

“Do you think they’ll finally get him, then? You-Know-Who, I mean,” asked Ginny from where she sat, next to Hermione. “What with everyone looking for him now.”

Remembering the Prophecy that had secured Trelawney’s position at Hogwarts, Harry shook his head. “I doubt it’ll go down that way, Gin.” This war was fated to end in a gruesome battle—Voldemort and his Death Eaters on one side and Harry and his friends, on the other.

“…either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…”

***

“You okay there, Harry?” Hermione asked him, as she settled herself on the Gryffindor common room sofa. “You’ve barely said two words since we left the Great Hall.

“Just got a lot on my mind, I guess,” he replied, and that wasn’t too far from the truth.

“She was different from what I expected,” Hermione said, “Professor Nine, I mean. That’s quite the act she’s pulling off.”

Harry smiled at that, tendrils of pride rising in him. “Yeah, she got the idea from Muggle magicians. Can you believe it? Misdirection and all that.”

The Muggle-born witch chuckled at that, evidently getting it. Beside her, Ron appeared puzzled.

“Still,” Harry continued, “it’s weird seeing her like that. I mean, I know it’s her—but at the same time, it isn’t.” While he could see past the trait-altering makeup and coloured lenses, every time he looked at her, she felt—wrong, somehow. As if she wasn’t his Saturnine. Which was ludicrous, because she surely didn’t belong to him, but still—that was how he felt. Reaching a hand up, unconsciously, the tips of his fingers felt for the necklace with the small ‘S’ pendant she’d given him through the layers of his clothes, and his worry settled.

“I’m sure she’s going to be a brilliant teacher, though,” Ron said, chewing on a Dragon Tendril candy. How the ginger-haired boy could still have room for sweets after everything he’d stuffed himself with over dinner, Harry had no idea. “I mean, did you see how she dispelled Hermione’s fog when we were in the forest? Whatever spell that was, it was fierce!”

“Did you ever find out what it was?” asked Hermione, her brows furrowing. “I tried looking it up, but I couldn’t find anything even remotely close.”

“Didn’t Remus say it was a Windstorm Charm?” Ron asked, stuffing two more strawberry-scented tendrils of gum down his throat.

“Yes, but that wasn’t it,” she said. And Harry recognised the look on her face—whenever Hermione got that way, it meant she was certain to be right.

“Never thought to ask,” he admitted. “I’ll try to remember to talk to her about it, sometime.” Sometime. Whenever he got the chance to speak with Saturnine privately again. He had no idea when that would be. She had said she’d find a way to spend time with him once they were both at Hogwarts. But however she planned to go about it, she hadn’t shared it with Harry yet.

“Sixth year, though,” Ron breezed out. “Can’t believe after this year we only get one more, and then we’re done.”

“We should start revising for our N.E.W.T.s,” mused Hermione. Both boys stared at her in surprise, and she rolled her eyes.

“Dad sat me down for a career talk this summer,” Ron admitted, and it almost sounded as if it had been as bad as the talk about the birds and the bees. “Wanted to know what I planned to do after school.”

“Let me guess. Auror?” asked Hermione knowingly.

“I thought Mom was gonna faint when she heard it.” Ron smiled. “She wants me to have a nice, safe job at the Ministry, like Dad and Percy.”

“Excuse me, but doesn’t one of your brothers spend his time with fire-breathing dragons?” Harry asked.

“Exactly!” he replied loudly, glad that someone saw things his way. “That’s what I told her.”

“What about you, Harry?” asked Hermione. “Any plans?”

Auror didn’t sound half bad, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to look past the war that lay ahead of him. The way the world was unravelling around them, at an ever-increasing pace—he knew, he just knew the final battle would happen before his time at Hogwarts was over.

What was the point thinking about what lay ahead when odds were so high that he wouldn’t see another sunrise after the last battle’s blood-red one?

Harry had been wondering all summer what the classes of Saturnine—Professor Nine, he corrected himself mentally again—would be like. Damn, I had better get this name thing right, he thought. If he kept thinking of the friend he’d made during the summer, he was sure to slip up at some point.

Would she be the kind of teacher she had been to him? Patient and understanding; eager to explain the finer points and ready to unravel the logical thread until Harry was all caught up? Somehow, he doubted it. While Harry was familiar with the sixth year syllabus’ broad lines—and was he ever eager to learn more about wandless and nonverbal magic—he had no idea what the witch’s attitude would be like. Her new demure and shy persona had taken him by surprise, and it had shattered any preconception of her teaching method he’d had.

So it was that on Monday morning, he entered the redecorated Defence classroom with the same uncertainties as the rest of the students. Once again, Gryffindor was paired with Slytherin, like a badly matched couple who’d chosen to have their honeymoon on a sinking ship.

The students with the red ties and lapels sat on one side, while those wearing green took over the other half, with a few scathing comments about the strange vibe that the classroom gave off. The blinds had all been drawn, and they filtered the incoming light by half. Huge black-and-white portraits had been hung on the walls. They depicted various wizards and witches who were either throwing or receiving curses. Their new teacher had put the dark in Dark Arts.

Students had been sitting alone for close to five minutes when Professor Nine made her entrance, descending the staircase that led to a private office on the third floor. She had forgone the use of her teaching robes and wore nothing more than her dark, tight-fitting trousers and an ample light-blue blouse. Her long hair was, as always, held back in a tight, severe chignon.

Her lack of robes was a clear sign that she expected to be doing magic and wanted the complete freedom of movement to do so. That was also the reason why, Harry knew, she’d decided on trousers instead of a robe or a skirt and why her choice of shoes had leaned towards practical low-ankle boots, rather than high-heel pumps.

“You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe,” she started, her voice coloured by a faint French accent that she faked with eerie ease. “Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion, I am surprised that so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with N.E.W.T. work, which will be much more advanced.”

While their lessons would tend towards the practical, their professor informed them that she would assign them a lot of extra reading on top of their regular homework. While this was unfortunate, it was also the only way to get them up to speed with a demanding syllabus geared towards giving them a fair chance for next year’s N.E.W.T. exam.

She explained what her take on the class would be like, and it was easy to understand that she wouldn’t suffer any nonsense from the students. She would be strict but fair, she assured them. She wouldn’t sugar-coat the harsher truth of life for them. Some things had to be learned the hard way, and her teachings would be geared towards a much-needed practical approach.

“Your defences must be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo,” she finished before pulling out her wand in one sleek motion that put Harry’s seeker reflexes to shame. An instant later, dark tendrils of smoke curled from the tip of her acorn wand. They seeped forward at an ever-increasing speed, swirling and twirling about as if they had a mind of their own, until two large black dogs stood by the professor’s side. At a snap of her fingers, they leapt forward, snarling mouths agape, teeth bared. They went for two of the students sitting in the front row, Neville Longbottom and Blaise Zabini. Both leapt from their chairs the second they understood the dogs’ intent. Blaise was quick to get out of harm’s way, but Neville stepped onto one of his untied shoelaces, and he fell flat on the floor. Or he would have, if a spell hadn’t frozen him inches away from the ground.

The dogs were still dead-set on their prey, though. And when it looked like they were about to leap in for the kill, they vanished into thin air. Here one instant and gone the next, leaving behind a puff of black smoke that quickly vanished.

Professor Nine stepped forward and, with a strong hand, she hauled an unarmed Neville back onto his feet. She kept an eye on him until he was safely back in his chair before returning to her spot at the front of the class.

“Now that I have your attention,” she said. “Who can tell me the spell I used?”

Harry half-expected Hermione’s hand to shoot up at that, but there was no such reaction from his bushy-haired friend. Turning his head to look at her, he was surprised by the puzzled expression on her face—she didn’t know. Judging by the heavy silence in the room, no one else did, either.

“Cheap parlour tricks,” someone muttered, and Harry recognised Draco Malfoy’s haughty tone.

“I will not dispute that fact—Mr Malfoy, is it?” their professor said. “But I wasn’t trying to impress, merely to instruct.” Her almond-shaped brown eyes narrowed at the blond boy sitting in the back row. “Seeing as nothing seems to escape your notice, perhaps you would like to enlighten us as to the subject of today’s lesson?”

All eyes rounded on Malfoy, and he squirmed in his seat. Harry rejoiced on the inside and smirked on the outside. In only one sentence, Saturnine had put the annoying Slytherin squarely back in his place. First, she had made sure to let him know that she was fully aware of his identity, and then she had shown him that it didn’t matter to her. In this class, Malfoy’s Pureblood status and the size of his father’s Gringotts vaults would be of little importance.

“No idea, Mr Malfoy?” she asked, drawing her point home. “What a shame. Perhaps if you’d paid more attention.” Then, addressing the room at large, she asked, “Can anyone else tell me what I just demonstrated—not once, but twice, before you?”

That did the trick, and Harry’s hand shot up. It was the only one, and their professor gave him a nod that prompted him to talk. “Nonverbal spells, ma’am,” he said, recalling that she hadn’t said a word when she summoned the smoke-dogs, and she’d been equally quiet when she arrested Neville’s fall.

“Five points to Gryffindor,” Professor Nine said, her mouth slightly curling up in one corner.

Harry had a hard time resisting the urge to smile.

“In the coming weeks, I will be teaching you to perform nonverbal magic,” the dark-haired witch started to lecture. “While it will be of little use to your daily life, I assure you that it can be the difference between life and death in a duel. Every time you utter a spell aloud, you inform your opponent of your actions. You tell him exactly what you will cast and give him enough warning to counter your attack. Nonverbal magic eliminates that liability.”

Next to him, Hermione was furiously writing down each word Professor Nine said, and Harry jotted down a few remarks of his own as their teacher sought to explain her lesson subject further. More than once, she illustrated her propos with a demonstration of her talent at nonverbal spells. The knife that came out of nowhere and shot across the room at high speed sure shook the students out of the torpor her lengthy lecture had plunged them into. It was one way to keep them on their toes, Harry guessed.

Thirty minutes in, Professor Nine had them split into pairs to practice their first nonverbal spells. She allowed students three spells, which they could try and use on each other in turns—the Jelly Legs Curse, Stupefy, and a Tickling Charm. Twenty minutes later, she put an end to their misery when it became clear that none of them had grasped the subject. Thus, she launched herself into another lecture centred on mentally focusing on the intent of the spells.

All in all, the double-lesson flew by. And it was evident throughout that their professor was passionate about the subject and that this year would be nothing like the ones that had come before. Students wouldn’t need to gather in secret groups to learn how to defend themselves, for they would be getting proper teaching in class this time around.

It also became obvious that a certain level of discipline would be required at all times. For it seemed Professor Nine, exacting as she was, had no patience for students whispering to each other or the passing of enchanted notes from one end of the classroom to the other. Pansy Parkinson lost one or two of her brow hairs when the flying paper plane Blaise Zabini had charmed her way nonverbally caught fire inches from its destination.

This year, Defence Against the Dark Arts classes would be held with rigorous respect of the craft, and Harry had a fleeting thought that Saturnine’s methods reminded him of another professor’s teaching practices. Unfairness and scathing comments aside, their Defence Against the Dark Arts classes now looked a lot like Potions’.

***

Harry understood he was in trouble the moment Professor Snape started handing back their Potions’ summer essays. Hermione’s face crumpled as she discovered the red ink A in the top left corner that signalled her work had been deemed nothing more than Acceptable. Ron sighed when he saw that his parchment held a T that was short for Troll. No one in their class had scraped anything better than Hermione’s A—not even Snape’s star pupil, Draco Malfoy. Even the Slytherin blond had tied with the Gryffindor witch.

“What about me, sir?” Harry asked when it became apparent the Potions Master was done handing back the parchments covered in copious amounts of red ink, and that his wasn’t amongst the lot.

“Problem, Mr Potter?” Professor Snape asked, his tone a sardonic drawl, as he sat back down behind his wooden desk.

Harry decided to bite the bullet and play the surly wizard’s game. “You haven’t handed me back mine, sir.”

Snape’s elbows came to rest atop his desk, and he steepled his long fingers. Black eyes glinted above his hands as his focus narrowed on the young Gryffindor. “You haven’t handed in any, I’m afraid, Mr Potter.”

“Yes, I have.” Harry’s anger roared up at his words. He’d done the work, slaved over it for days—and—and the man wasn’t going to grade him, again. “You know I have; I handed it to you last week!”

And Harry knew he’d said exactly what Snape had expected him to say when the man’s lips stretched into the kind of smile that would have had its place on a shark’s face—if sharks knew how to smile, that was. Harry had walked right into whatever trap had been laid out for him with both feet.

“Oh, but I have the essay you handed in, Mr Potter,” Snape said, acerbic tone at the ready. “But it certainly wasn’t yours. You’re welcome to stay behind after class to discuss your punishment for this blatant attempt at cheating.” A pause. “In the meantime, twenty points from Gryffindor.”

Biting his tongue to keep from retorting, Harry placed his hands under the table, where he curled his fingers into fists.

“Now,” Snape said, sitting up and getting everyone’s attention. “Can anyone list for me the ingredients for the Anti-Sleeping Charm Potion you were assigned at the end of last year?”

Hermione’s hand shot up, but Snape ignored her, choosing instead to run his eyes up and down the rows, waiting for somebody to attempt an answer. For once, Harry did know the answer—it was one of the potions he’d considered for his essay before deciding on the Strengthening Solution. Heaving in a breath, he rose his hand, wondering if he would be ignored as Hermione was.

An onyx brow shot up at his gesture, and when Snape called out his name, it sounded like crushed gravel. Focusing on the memory of the parchment he had looked at for hours on end that very summer, Harry correctly listed all the ingredients in the precise order they should be used.

Snape said nothing as he turned away to slowly pace in the front of the room, and he launched himself into a lecture about the benefits of using a potion to counter a charm rather than another charm.

***

Harry waited for the last student to have left the room to gather his stuff—and his courage—to walk up to his professor’s desk. His essay was on full display on the wooden surface, but there was a notable absence of red ink over its length.

Professor Snape remained seated, his greasy black hair hanging limply at his sides, shrouding his face in dark shadows. A grim leer was revealed on his face when he pushed his chair backwards to give himself room enough to cross his arms over his chest. He’d been waiting for this moment for the entire class, it would seem—and he fully intended to enjoy it.

“Whose work is this, Mr Potter?” the Potions Master asked, pointing at the offending document with one index finger.

“Mine!” Harry said, fighting hard not to let his temper get the better of him.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr Potter. I’m used to your barely passable homework and, quite frankly, dreadful summer essays. This may be done in your handwriting, but the content most definitely isn’t of your device.” If at all possible, the man’s tone darkened. “Cheating now, Potter. I never thought you would stoop so low. So much like your—”

“I didn’t cheat!” Harry said, cutting him off mid-sentence. It was rude, but he hadn’t wanted Snape to finish that phrase, knowing full well it wouldn’t have led to anything good. “It’s mine.”

“Why do you insist on lying to me, Potter? You tried to cheat, and you were caught. Cease this game, now, and admit to it!” Snape was long since past furious; his eyes glittered in warning. “You cannot seem to be able to complete a potion without Ms Granger’s helping hand, and you would like me to believe that you had enough understanding to grasp the Simili Principle and the Substitution Axiom? Stop taking me for a fool.”

“I’m not, sir. Honest,” Harry said, and boy did that sir cost him. He drew on his last reserve of Gryffindor courage to stand his ground and face the man with something akin to calm. “I had someone look over it when I was done to make sure it was all right, but I did it all myself.” Then, taking a breath, he added with venom, “I don’t know why I bothered, though. I should have known you’d never be fair to me.”

That seemed to trigger something in the elder wizard, and he inched forward menacingly, seemingly barely able to control his actions. He hadn’t liked it that Harry dared to question his motives, and despite the height difference, he managed to look down his nose at him.

“Your proposed Cure for Boils—why the chilled Alka-Seltzer?” Snape asked, throwing him off with the randomness of the question. “Why not use it at room temperature?”

“It’s not as potent as the Advil that’s traditionally used, sir. The chill adds an extra kick that evens things out,” he replied, remembering that Saturnine had made him swallow mouthful after mouthful of both liquids in various states until he’d made the connection for himself.

“Was that why you switched the mistletoe flowers to the rose petals for the Forgetfulness Potion?” Snape continued without missing a beat.

That was a trick question, and Harry knew it. “I supplemented the mistletoe berries for red roses’ petals for their shared intent.” Then feeling his cheeks redden, but with no other choice than to explain further, he added, “They’re both strong romantic symbols—the roses more so than the mistletoe, which is why three petals were enough to balance four berries.”

“And your reasoning to explain why you’ve replaced the viper venom with coffee, Potter? Surely you will not have me believe that they have the same effect on the human body?”

“Actually, the coffee’s just that, sir—a little something to give the Strengthening Solution an extra boost. It’s rather harmless, just like the viper venom gets when it’s set to overheating for ten minutes like that potion requires it to.”

When he’d realised that the venom in the potion was next to useless, Harry’s mind had suffered a little meltdown. Chuckling at his dismay, Saturnine had launched into a lengthy lecture, supplemented by dozens of examples, on potions that used rare and costly ingredients for no reason other than to look fancy. It was something that was a bit of a favourite pastime of 18th Century potioneers, he’d learned.

Snape opened his mouth to volley another question, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, hard obsidian eyes bore into softer green ones, and something seemed to come to life within the dark orbs. Harry felt the familiar tug of a Legilimency attack in the back of his mind—wandless, nonverbal Legilimency, he noted in passing.

If his professor thought he would catch him unaware, though, he was in for a nasty surprise. Heaving in a deep breath to centre himself, Harry brought forth his Occlumency barrier that consisted of a massive forest with a long sinuous river that had been turned into a training ground for Quidditch practice. The further he felt the wizard dig, the more Harry added to it, until he was frantically zigzagging around giant treetops and a plantation of hoops, all the while avoiding half a dozen nasty Bludgers dead-set on dismounting him.

Snape pulled back with a reverberating slap that felt like he’d been hit in the face by a rubber band. “Potions are not the only thing you’ve learned over the summer, it would seem,” he said after a while. The glare in his obsidian eyes lost its intensity as his face emptied of all emotions.

Harry almost, almost, had the feeling he’d impressed the sour Potions Master somehow.

“Who tutored you?” he asked, with the barest hint of curiosity.

Forest firmly in place, Harry calmly flew along the river to make sure his thoughts would stay clear of his tutor’s identity. “A friend,” he said, in a tone that held no emotion at all.

“So, you are capable of learning, after all. Wonders never cease,” Snape said in a tone that made his words sound nothing like a compliment. “Very well, then. I accept your essay, but know that I will be testing each and every one of your proposed potions to check the results myself.”

Incapable of repressing a winning smile, Harry reached for the three tiny phials he’d been carrying all day. “Don’t bother, sir. I’ve already done that.”

That effectively shut the dark-haired wizard up. Snape bent forward, long, pale fingers clasping around each phial in turn, to better inspect them. “You would have me believe that you brewed these?” he asked at last, and his surprise was such that he forgot to sound scathing.

“Under supervision, but yes,” Harry said. “You can test them, sir. They all work.”

“That’ll be all, Mr Potter,” Snape said at last, waving a dismissing hand in his direction. His eyes had yet to leave the tiny phials perched on the edge of his desk.

Harry obliged him, only turning back when he’d reached the door.

“Will I be getting my essay back, sir?” he asked, hoping against all odds.

“Eventually, Mr Potter.” Snape stood up, phials in hand. Then he turned on his heel to retreat to his private office, his voice calling out over his shoulder, “Once I am done grading it.”

And with that, Harry understood that Professor Snape would most likely never be done grading that particular essay; the man just didn’t have it in him to give him a good grade.

It was sheer dumb luck that Harry overheard what he did. If Professor Snape hadn’t asked him to stay behind to discuss his essay, he would have left with the other students. He would already have been in the Great Hall when that particular exchange took place.

As it was, he emerged from the Potions classroom just in time to hear the faint echo of voices drifting up from further down the dungeon’s corridors. Freezing in his steps, for he’d recognised one of the voices, Harry was desperate to find somewhere to hide. There was no statue in sight, no angle to the dimly lit cobblestone corridor, a long, meandering, gloomy tube.

If only I had my cloak, Harry thought as he debated whether to stay or leave.

The voices were getting closer, and whoever was down there would see him if he stayed where he was any longer. And yet, he wanted to hear more of their conversation. Risking it all, he heaved in a deep breath as he pulled out his wand. The spell was simple enough, but saying it aloud was anything but. The students in the hallway would hear him as surely as he could hear them. Harry would have to do it nonverbally or leave. Those were his only two options.

Harry had paid attention to Professor Nine’s classes on nonverbal magic, and he’d read more than one book on the subject over the summer while he helped Saturnine structure the syllabus. But theory was one thing, and practice was another. Concentrating intently, with a death grip on his wand, he pointed the wooden tip at himself and cast the Disillusionment Charm in his head. Harry willed the spell to act as he wanted it to, envisioning its effect in his mind to help it come along. It was all about focus and clear intent.

He felt the charm slide over him like a second skin as he caught movement emerging from the darkness on his left. Holding his breath, Harry remained as motionless as a statue as three Slytherin students entered his field of vision.

It was Draco Malfoy and two of his snake friends—Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. Both were sixth-year students from families with strong allegiances to the Dark Side.

“Hogwarts,” scoffed Malfoy. “What a pathetic excuse for a school. I think I’d pitch myself off the Astronomy Tower if I thought I had to continue for another two years.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?" asked Parkinson. Her face hardened.

“Let’s just say that I don’t think you’ll see me waste my time in Charms Class next year,” Malfoy replied, his voice a sneering drawl.

Harry saw that the blond’s reply seemed to confuse Parkinson, and she glanced at Zabini with a puzzled expression. The dark-skinned boy snorted derisively in response.

“Amused, Blaise?” asked Malfoy haughtily. “We’ll see just who’s laughing in the end.”

And with that, they walked away loftily. They reminded Harry of regal couples he had seen on Muggle TV when he was a child. Parkinson’s back was taut, her arm entwined with Malfoy’s. Malfoy’s platinum-blond hair and fair skin provided a stark contrast to Parkinson’s chestnut curls and caramel skin. Harry watched them go with an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

He’d been right the night of the Sorting Ceremony—Malfoy was up to something. What had his father been whispering in his ear? Harry wondered. The Malfoy patriarch—whom Harry knew to be a loyal Death Eater—wasn’t simply evil. He was part of Voldemort’s inner circle—one of his most trusted lieutenants. Whatever nefarious plans the Dark Lord had cooked up in his dank basement, Lucius Malfoy surely knew about them. And Harry had little doubt now that he’d told his son all about them.

As he moved back out of the dungeon’s hallways, Harry removed the Disillusionment Charm and vowed to keep a close eye on Draco Malfoy. Now, more than ever, he needed to know what ferret-boy was up to.

***

The Dark Lord wasn’t the only one with tricks up his sleeve. Harry had them, too—or rather, he had some invaluable inheritances. His father’s Invisibility Cloak, for one, allowed him to prowl the castle at night without triggering the teachers’ wrath. They couldn’t punish students they couldn’t see. Another useful item was the Marauder’s Map that his father had created with Remus Lupin’s and Sirius Black’s help.

The map, a magical parchment, revealed all of Hogwarts. It indicated not only each classroom, hallway, and castle corner but also every inch of the grounds. Everything, from the secret passages concealed within its walls to the location of every person on the grounds, was represented by a labelled dot. If Harry was ever caught with this artefact in his hand, he knew he’d serve detention with Filch until the very last day of his seventh year.

Looking at the other four-poster beds to make sure that his roommates were asleep, he closed the red and gold curtains on his own before sitting cross-legged atop the blanket. Then, tapping the map with the tip of his wand, Harry recited the words that would activate the enchanted parchment. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he said, and the familiar greetings of Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs appeared on the front.

For all its utility, the Marauder’s Map was a nightmare to use during the day, when moving, overlapping dots littered every inch of the vellum surface. But at times like these—way past curfew, when most students were dark lumps of ink in their respective dorms—it was easier to see who wasn’t where they ought to be. Harry scanned the dungeons area first. Professor Snape was in his rooms, and the hallways were deserted. The Great Hall was equally devoid of life, and the only person roaming the ground floor was a patrolling Argus Filch, who paced near the front doors.

Aside from Professor Burbage patrolling the third floor and what seemed to be a class on its way to the Astronomy Tower for some late-night stargazing, no one was in the castle tonight. Even the Aurors, it would seem, had retreated to their assigned quarters for now.

Placing his cloak back in his trunk, for he wouldn’t be needing it tonight, Harry heaved out a sigh. Standing up, he looked through the window, and his gaze caught the bright moon that lit the night. It was full, and he spared a thought for his friend, Remus Lupin, who was surely having a worse night than he was.

Harry knew he wouldn’t be seeing much of the werewolf again for the next couple of months—not until the Christmas break, at least. Over the summer, he’d grown used to having him drop by Cove Cottage every now and then for tea in the afternoon. And he loved it when Remus stayed over for supper so that they could spend the evening playing board games. Mr Moony had shared many stories with him during their afternoon walks outside. He’d told Harry about his time spent at Hogwarts alongside Mr Prongs and Mr Padfoot, Harry’s deceased father and godfather, respectively. The boy lived for those moments—those precious few memories that helped him flesh out his father in his mind’s eye. But the memory tap had run dry, and Harry wouldn’t be getting any new content for weeks to come. Or would he?

Glancing at the map, he let his gaze travel to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, finding it predictably empty. The third-floor office was equally bare, as were the teacher’s living quarters next to it. Saturnine was nowhere in sight, he realised. He hadn’t caught her name anywhere else on the bewitched parchment. So, he knew that she wasn’t patrolling the grounds. Scanning the map once more, Harry wondered why she had left the castle. He fleetingly wondered if maybe it had to do with Remus. As she knew of his affliction, maybe she helped him out with it, like she used to when they lived in France.

Closing the map again, he tapped it with his wand and said, “Mischief managed.” The ink bled out of the document until it was blank once more. Harry folded it and placed it securely further down inside his trunk before closing the lid and muttering a spell that would stop intruders from trying to pry it open.

Moving back to his four-poster bed to lie down beneath the blanket, Harry fleetingly wondered if he should tell anyone what he’d overheard earlier in the dungeons. But who could he tell? His friends would say that he was paranoid, the headmaster couldn’t be bothered with something so trivial, and Saturnine—well, it seemed the dark-haired witch had agendas of her own to carry out. Harry would be nothing more than a distraction at that stage, a thorn in her side. Remembering that he was sixteen years old now, he decided that he was more than capable of handling the situation on his own.

Whatever Draco Malfoy was up to, Harry was onto him like a Niffler looking for gold.

***

Harry was luckier the following evening. He opened the Marauder’s Map just in time to see the lone dot bearing Draco Malfoy’s name sneaking out of the Slytherin common room. Harry was out of the Gryffindor dorms, cloak bulging from his pocket, before Malfoy had time to make it to the ground floor level.

He had no idea where Malfoy was going at such a late hour, but he was determined to find out. Slipping out of the portrait-hole with the cloak now securely tossed over his shoulders, Harry moved to the stairs quickly. Map in one hand, wand in the other, he navigated the treacherous stairs while keeping an eye out for his target. His majesty of the snakes, he saw, was now busy making his way to the Grand Staircase.

“Where are you going, ferret-boy?” Harry muttered between two breaths, as he rushed down Gryffindor Tower in a flurry of hurried steps. Careful not to march on the hem of his cloak, he forced himself to slow down some to avoid certain death when the stairs decided to move to the left.

When the map showed that Malfoy had reached the third floor, Harry got off the stairs and into one of the fifth-floor corridors. He didn’t want to run into him on the stairs. Huffing and puffing as Harry was, he didn’t trust himself to remain inconspicuous in such a tight space. Eyes glued to the light-brown parchment, he tracked Malfoy’s progress. The Slytherin kept going up, and soon enough, Harry saw him walking by, going further up.

Harry had just enough time to catch the tired, worn-out look on Malfoy’s face when the stairs lurched to the side again, forcing the blond out of view. He heard him utter a low curse at that. Then the soft padding of his shoes hitting the steps resumed as Malfoy kept going up. Harry counted to twenty in his head. Then he went after him.

Both boys kept going up until they ran out of stairs as they reached the seventh floor, and Harry had a sinking feeling he knew where Malfoy was going. Not needing the map to help him navigate the familiar corridor—for he knew the area well—he gave it only the barest of glances to make sure he was still on target. When he saw Malfoy’s dot walk past the same area three times in a row, Harry knew he’d been right—the bloody bastard was aiming for the Room of Requirement. An instant later, his dot disappeared through a wall, confirming Harry’s suspicions. The young Gryffindor swore under his breath. He couldn’t follow Malfoy inside without knowing what kind of room the Slytherin had wished for.

Folding his map and securing it away in one of his pockets, Harry was at a loss for what to do. Even if he stayed here all night, he wouldn’t learn anything new. And even if he stuck around until Malfoy came back out—which could take hours—he still wouldn’t know what he’d been up to. He would have to content himself with watching Malfoy walk down the stairs until he reached the dungeons.

It was pointless, and in frustration, Harry removed his useless cloak and turned on his heel. He’d barely finished rounding the next corner when a bright light exploded in front of him, effectively blinding him. He grimaced in pain as he brought a hand up to shield his eyes. He cursed himself inwardly when he realised he’d been caught out of bed, past curfew, by a member of the staff.

“Well, well, well,” Professor Snape drawled in his familiar, deep baritone. “If it isn’t our local celebrity.”

Harry’s insides sunk as the sour Potions Master lowered his wand and dimmed the intensity of the light that shone from its tip.

“Out for a little walk under the moonlight, are we?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

The words, more than the tone, made the Gryffindor’s blood boil. They hadn’t been chosen at random, and Harry felt the cut of the well-aimed barb quite keenly. But he could think of no excuse to save his skin. Fact: he was a student. Fact: students weren’t allowed out of their dorms past curfew. Fact: it was almost midnight, and he’d been caught wandering the hallways alone.

It had been sheer stupidity on his part to remove his cloak and fold away the map when he did. He should have kept examining the artefact to make sure the path back to the dorms was safe, and he should have stayed under the cloak as a secondary precaution. He’d been stupid—and now he would pay the price for it. Surely nothing could save him from Snape’s wrath now.

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” said Severus Snape, and Harry was surprised the man had taken so few. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“Nothing, sir,” Harry rushed out to say. “Just wanted to stretch my legs a little.”

Snape’s thin lips stretched into a sneer that consumed half of his long, tired face. “And another ten points for lying to me. Shall we try again? What are you doing here, Mr Potter?”

If this was the game the Head of Slytherin House wanted to play, Harry would lose many points very quickly. He had better think of something convincing, fast. “I wasn’t doing anything, honest. I had a nightmare and couldn’t go back to sleep.”

“And that was another ten points.” Snape’s obsidian eyes glimmered in the dim light. “I can do this all night, Potter.”

Rising his Occlumency shield to make sure the Potions Master wouldn’t be able to see through his lies, Harry shouted, “I needed some air!” Then, acting as if that had been an unwanted admission, he added more contritely, “I just went to the Astronomy Tower for some fresh air.” Then, with even more reluctance, his eyes lowered as he said, “I—I wasn’t lying about the nightmare, sir. I’ve been having a lot of them since the night Sirius died.”

Harry was saved from having to lie further when the sound of steps coming their way echoed on the tiled floor. He fleetingly thought it was Malfoy coming back—until he realised the sound came from the opposite direction. Whoever it was had a light gait and wore heeled shoes—it was a woman’s step.

An instant later, the familiar figure of a tall, dark-haired witch rounded the corner. Leen Nine’s movements were more lively than usual, the spring in her step quick and assured. She slowed down when she caught sight of the two wizards, and she ducked her head so that her face remained partly in the shadows of the dark corridor.

“Professor Nine,” Snape said, an acknowledgement rather than a greeting. “Unless I am mistaken, this isn’t your night to patrol the corridors.”

The sentence had been as much a statement as a question, and Harry gulped as he wondered how his friend was going to react. Though he knew she’d likely come to his rescue, she didn’t belong in this corridor any more than he did.

“You’re correct,” she said, her accent slightly thicker than it had been earlier that day. She was dressed as she always was, and once she’d reached them, she wrapped her black robes tightly around herself as if to fend off the cold. “I was on my way up from the kitchens when I heard voices.”

Harry kept his face blank and his Occlumency barrier firmly up at her words. He knew she was lying; she had been absent from the castle when he’d checked the map earlier. Wherever she’d been returning from, it wasn’t the kitchens.

“A student out past curfew—nothing I need your expertise with, Professor,” Snape said. His voice was dismissive and condescending as he returned his attention to the young Gryffindor facing him.

“Of course,” Saturnine said, and her shoulders hunched forward a little as she made herself appear smaller. “But seeing as I’m here now, I will escort him back to his dorm.”

Snape turned on her faster than a snake could pounce on a mouse, one eyebrow arching up in silent interrogation.

Reaching a hand forward, Saturnine grabbed Harry’s shoulder, forcing him to step closer until he’d reached her side. “That way, Professor,” she continued, stepping back a little to escape from the harsh halo of light that still came out of Snape’s wand. “You are free to return to your patrolling duties.”

There was no reply from the sour Potions professor as he stalked away in a fury of black robes. His wand-light died a moment later, plunging the corridor into darkness.

“This way, Mr Potter,” Saturnine said, in a voice that brooked no argument. Her fingers hadn’t loosened their grasp on his shoulder, and she pressed on it until he got moving in the right direction. It may have looked like she was merely doing her job of escorting him back to his dorm, but Harry knew better than that—she was angry at him.

Saturnine said nothing as they returned to the portrait of the Fat Lady, and she kept silent as Harry woke the plump woman up to request that she let him in. When he disappeared within the Gryffindor quarters, Saturnine followed him inside. And after making sure the common room was empty, she cast a spell that would ensure their discussion would remain private.

“Well?” she demanded in her regular voice. All shyness and hesitation were gone from her attitude. She was pissed all right. “What have you to say for yourself, Harry?”

“Sorry I got caught,” he said, moving to sit on a sofa. “I got careless.”

“Not quite what I was expecting to hear.” Saturnine moved closer, and Harry saw that she’d crossed her arms over her chest. “But please do go on.”

Harry had no choice but to tell her the truth, all of it. He spared no detail, from Malfoy’s attitude since term began to the discussion he’d overheard in the dungeons. He finished by telling her about the Marauder’s Map and the Room of Requirement, which had been the Slytherin’s secret destination tonight. Saturnine remained silent throughout, and when it was clear that Harry was done with his account of events, she unleashed the dragon.

“Do you have any idea how stupid all of this was, Harry?” she asked. Then, she resumed talking before he could reply. “I’m not talking about the why—I’ll get to that later. I’m talking about the how. How could you not tell me of your concern, or anyone else? How could you go wandering the hallways alone at night while we’re at war? Anyone could have gotten to you. Merlin; even Malfoy could have. Didn’t that thought cross your mind at all? Not to mention your carelessness at the end, which led you to be caught by a teacher. And Professor Snape, at that! He’s not going to let that slide, Harry. If he so much as suspects you’re up to something, he’s going to keep a very close watch on you.”

When she paused to draw in a breath, Harry tried to get a word or two in edgewise, but she beat him to it.

“As for the reasons for your nightly crusade,” she continued, “where do I even begin? That Malfoy ponce could have meant anything. Maybe he was just venting his frustration. Maybe he was trying to impress his girlfriend by spooking her. You have no proof that he’s up to something!”

“But the Room—”

“Yes, I know the Room of Requirement is a concern,” she cut him off, continuing with renewed passion. “But it wasn’t enough to warrant putting your life on the line that way—not when I am here. Not when Aurors are patrolling the school grounds. Or have you learned nothing?”

That rubbed Harry the wrong way. What did the Aurors or any of the adults care about what he thought? When had they ever? They only directed him about, pushing him in one direction or another when it suited them. Or they fed him information by the droplet when they felt it was adequate. He was tired of all this.

Some of his inner turmoil must have shown on his face because Saturnine’s stance changed, and she tensed up. “What is it, Harry?” she asked. “Is there something you want to say to me?”

He looked up to her at that—at her tone, which had held some measure of warning in it. “I’m just tired of it,” he said. “Tired of adults telling me what and what not to do. Deciding what I can know and what I can’t. Or how I should act.”

A look of hurt crossed the witch’s face, and Harry regretted saying the words the moment they’d left his lips.

“Do you mean adults in general? Or was that grievance directed at me specifically?” she asked, blowing out a breath that sounded tired and pained.

“I—I didn’t mean it like that, Saturnine,” he said. “I—I’m just—” he sighed. “It’s been a long night, all right? My temper got the better of me. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Changing her stance again, Saturnine let her arms drop by her side as she moved to come to sit down sideways, next to Harry. She was done berating him for the moment, it would seem. Her tone was gentle and open as she said, “That’s not quite true, though. You did mean it, and I can understand why. But we’ve had that discussion already.”

Harry nodded. “I know, and I get it. I’m not mad at you for that.”

“Then what are you mad at me for?” she asked, annoying him with that uncanny habit she had of seeing right through him at a glance.

That whole dang situation, he wanted to say. I’m mad at you for abandoning me, for acting as if I don’t exist anymore.

“Harry?” she asked, her tone gentler than it had been before.

“I—I miss you,” he admitted at last, and the anger vanished faster than food did on Ron’s plate. An intense wave of sadness overtook him. “I just miss you, Saturnine.”

Tears sprung to his eyes when the dark-haired witch reached a hand around his shoulders. And they were almost impossible to hold back when she used her arm to push him forward until he was leaning sideways against her chest.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she soothed. “I thought being reunited with your friends would be enough of a distraction. It seems like I was wrong.”

Harry nodded. It was all he could do with the lump that blocked his throat.

Saturnine held him a little tighter and leaned her head on his, her chin becoming a comfortable weight on the top of his head. “You should have told me,” she whispered.

“You didn’t say it would only be student and professor from now on,” Harry murmured. “You said that you’d find a way.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Cocooned as he was in Saturnine’s comforting embrace, Harry felt safe enough to admit to his fears. “It’s like you don’t care anymore.”

Her pained gasp sounded loud to his ears. “That couldn’t be further from the truth, Harry.”

He felt her press a small kiss on the top of his head, and he melted inside at her words and gesture, which could only be described as motherly.

“I care about you a lot.” Another quick kiss. “A lot more than I should,” she admitted. “And I’m so very sorry for this rotten situation. I wish it could be different, but there are so many things in motion now. Death Eaters attacks are almost a daily occurrence, and no one is safe—not even the students of this school. You have to be careful, Harry. Please. We’re all trying very hard to keep you kids safe. But you’re negating all our efforts when you behave stupidly like tonight.”

Harry nodded against her chest. “I will. But you have to believe me; Draco is up to something. I know it. I just know it.”

“I’ll trust your judgement on that and keep an eye on him—if you promise to start using your brain and acting like the intelligent young man that I know you to be. Deal?”

He nodded again. Then, because it sounded like their conversation was coming to an end, he folded his fists into Saturnine’s robes, and he held on for dear life, not wanting this moment to end. He wanted to ask her to stay and felt like begging her never to let him go. But he held his tongue; he knew not to ask for things he wouldn’t get.

“I’ll ask the headmaster for remedial Defence classes for you,” she said at last. “I know you don’t need them, but it’ll give us a chance to spend some time together, once a week. It’s the best I can do, lad.”

“Thanks, ’Nine,” he muttered, feeling some of the pain ebb away. “Please don’t go just yet.”

“Of course not,” she whispered, her left hand moving to the space between his shoulder blades to rub slow, gentle circles. She stayed until Harry fell asleep, and then she stayed until the sun started to rise.

***

Reading the Daily Prophet each morning had become a grim affair. Saturnine hadn’t lied when she said things were getting rough on the outside. There were reports of wizards getting badly injured—or worse—every day. Sometimes the attacks were blatantly attributed to Death Eaters—the Morsmordre left behind made it impossible to miss the connection—while others remained slightly vaguer, and words like ‘under suspicious circumstances’ were used.

It was only a matter of time until one of the Hogwarts students was personally affected, and that day happened a little after Halloween, when a first-year Hufflepuff’s parents were killed during a Death Eaters raid. The young boy, Kevin Ingram, left school the next day. A week later, the Patil twins’ uncle died in the fire that destroyed his house under suspicious circumstances. By the end of November, no less than five students had left Hogwarts. Two Gryffindors, two Ravenclaws, and that one Hufflepuff. Slytherin House, predictably, was the only one that got spared.

A general wave of fear and anguish descended upon the entire school, and laughter became a rare commodity as everyone wondered who was going to be next. The tension between snakes and lions was at an all-time high, and it truly peaked in the final days that led to the first Quidditch match of the season between Gryffindor House and Slytherin House.

The raven and badgers took the opportunity to declare their allegiance to the lions and made it clear they now sided against the snakes. And thus it was that the entirety of Slytherin House was ostracised for the sheer amount of Death Eaters offspring it contained. According to the rumour mill—and Hermione’s copy of Hogwarts: A History—that was a first. Never before had three Houses banded together against the fourth in such a blatant fashion, thus completely negating the very spirit of the school.

Harry saw how bad it had gotten when he took flight on his trusted Firebolt and looked down at his friends in the benches. Red and gold were everywhere, the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students having somehow charmed their clothes to match that of the lions. And everywhere Harry looked, there was a sea of carmine—but for a small patch of green on one end. Chancing a glance towards where Snape sat—not with the teachers but with his students, for once—Harry saw that the Slytherin Head of House was even paler than usual.

Facing him in the Quidditch field was the green and silver team of snakes in all its glory. There were a few new faces, Harry saw: Vaisey had replaced Pucey as Chaser, and Urquhart had replaced Montague as both Chaser and Captain. Next to them stood familiar players: Miles Bletchley as Keeper, Blaise Zabini as the third Chaser, the improbable duo of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, as the Beaters, and of course, Draco Malfoy—the best seeker Slytherin had had in years.

Crabbe and Goyle were prime examples of players who employed brute strength rather than skills. Bletchley and Zabini were smart and sneaky like all Slytherins tended to be. Malfoy was the devil Harry knew, but Vaisey and Urquhart were unknown quantities, and Harry wondered at their new Captain and where he would lead his team. The answer became obvious the minute the game began and the balls were released. While it was the Beaters’ job to protect their teammates from the Bludgers, and at the same time, to aim them towards the opposing players, Crabbe and Goyle took that purview to the next level, teaming up with Zabini to relentlessly—and quite forcefully—throw them towards unsuspecting, rule-abiding Gryffindors. The snakes were out for blood, and Harry knew the game would turn nasty if it went on too long.

Flying his broom high over the melee, Harry frantically looked around for the small, golden snitch, knowing he was the only one who could put a quick end to the massacre going on below. Until a loud, pained scream tore his attention away, and he had just enough time to watch Ginny Weasley fall to the ground. Their Chaser had just been hit over the head with a Bludger, and if the nasty sneer on Zabini’s face was anything to go by, Harry knew who had tossed it her way. There was a short pause in the game to allow Madam Pomfrey to assist the fifth-year Gryffindor. Then the game resumed—only now it looked more like an all-out war between the lions and the snakes.

Students in the benches were on fire, too, screaming their support for their respective teams at the top of their lungs. The cries of “Slytherin for the win!” were far outweighed by the combined efforts of Houses Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, which chanted simultaneously, “Gryffindor will be the victor!”

When a blur of gold zipped him by minutes later, Harry pulled hard on the tip of his broom, and he turned on himself as he started the chase. By his reckoning, Malfoy was thirty feet away at least, which meant he had every chance of getting the snitch before the annoying blond. Forcing his trusted Firebolt to the limits, he lurched forward, zigzagging left and right at an impossible speed, his gaze so focused on the fuzzy spot of gold that he got tunnel vision. Feeling as he so often did when he brought up his Occlumency barrier and indulged in a maddening frantic race that pushed him beyond the limits of physics and magic, Harry started gaining on the snitch. Inch by inch, the distance between them decreased as their respective speed increased. The gasping audience below him was but a blur of red and green. The hoops and other players were nothing but secondary information that he barely registered as he easily sidestepped them. He was getting closer, and closer, and closer, and—his gloved fingers clasped over the golden ball. And thus it was that the ’96 Quidditch game between Gryffindor and Slytherin would forever be remembered as one of the shortest Hogwarts Quidditch game ever.

The Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw game played two weeks later, however, lasted nearly four long, bone-chilling hours. Three of them were spent under a beating rain that saw half of the spectators leaving the benches to return to the warmth of the castle. When the Ravenclaw seeker, Cho Chang, finally caught the snitch, everyone was delighted, no matter which team they supported.

As days morphed into weeks that stretched into months, Harry found that his only source of solace was his weekly hour-long Defence remedial class. It took place every Friday at six and was the highlight of his week. He lived for those short moments when the dark-haired witch removed her square-shaped glasses and dropped the foreign accent and shy persona. For an entire hour, Professor Nine disappeared, and Saturnine was returned to him.

Unless Harry had a question regarding his homework due for the next week or something they’d studied in class that had left him puzzled, they would spend the hour discussing their respective week. Saturnine would mention any interesting moment that had happened in her Defence classes, and Harry would tell her the highlights of his.

They had a tacit agreement not to speak of the war or whatever recent attack the Daily Prophet had reported on. Their weeks had one hundred sixty-seven hours to be grim, dark, and depressing. But that one hour that they had together was not to be tarnished by outside forces.

So it was that when, during the first week of December, Saturnine broke their unspoken rule not to address the elephant in the room, Harry knew things had just gotten serious.

“What more have you discovered about Draco?” she asked minutes after Harry had arrived and they’d exchanged their usual greetings. “And of what keeps him busy at nights?”

“I’ve been careful, as you asked me to,” he said defensively, thinking that she would berate him again for his use of the Marauder’s Map and cloak. While he’d been scanning the map often, he hadn’t creeped out after Malfoy on nights where Snape was patrolling again, not since he got caught that one time.

Saturnine chuckled at his reply. “I know you have, lad. Trust me, if you hadn’t, you’d have heard from me.” She moved to come and sit on top of the table closest to Harry’s. “But I also know you, Harry Potter. And you won’t have me believe that you gave up trying to figure out what’s going on. So spill.”

And Harry did. “Draco practically lives in the Room of Requirement now. He has Crabbe and Goyle standing watch while he’s there. And he’s there a lot: every time he’s got a free period, every evening and late at night.” Harry frowned. “I still don’t know what he’s up to, though. Why do you ask?”

“What I’m going to tell you needs to remain between us, Harry,” she said, looking squarely at him. “I won’t ask you to keep it from Ron and Hermione, of course. But this cannot spread throughout the entire school. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded.

“The entire staff went to great lengths to keep this quiet, but there have been two attacks on the headmaster’s life since the term started.” Harry gasped in shock. “The second happened today, which prompts me to have this chat with you. The first attack was hard to make sense of, but now that there’s been a second—we can see a pattern emerging.

“Mid-October, an Imperiused Katie Bell was forced to deliver a package containing an opal necklace to Dumbledore. For some reason, she got into an argument with her friend Leanne, and the package fell to the ground and opened. Katie accidentally touched the cursed necklace through a tiny hole in her glove, and she was cursed herself.”

Harry was gobsmacked that none of that had filtered through. All he’d heard was that Katie had been sick. “Is that why she left school?” he asked.

“She’s been at St. Mungo’s ever since,” Saturnine said, her voice grave. “It’s going to be a while until she’s fully recovered.”

“How could we not hear about that?” Harry demanded. An Unforgivable had been used on a student, and she’d been cursed so badly she had been staying at the hospital for months.

“It happened outside of the castle, for one thing. And then, the headmaster decided that it would be best, given the current circumstances, not to add to the general worry and paranoia that permeates the school.”

Right, thought Harry bitterly. You-Know-Who is out there intent on whipping out half the wizarding community. But yeah, let’s pretend all is well—who would like another serving of treacle tart? Once again, adults were busy deciding behind their backs what to share and what to keep to themselves as if they had every right to do so. “What of today’s attack?”

“An Imperiused Madam Rosmerta gave Argus Filch a poisoned bottle of mead to give to Dumbledore. But the man kept it to himself and decided to have a toast after lunch today to fend off the cold. When his blasted cat started meowing like someone was trying to gut it, an elf stopped by to see what the ruckus was about. Professor Snape barely got to him in time with the antidote to save his life.”

“A pattern, indeed,” commented Harry. “And you think Draco’s behind it?”

Saturnine heaved in a deep sigh. “This is why we have kept quiet about it, Harry. No one wants a full-blown witch hunt on school grounds. And this is the moment when I appeal to your better judgement and beg you not to jump to any sudden conclusions. We have no proof of anything, and thus, we are not going to start throwing out random accusations.” She paused to let the words sink in. “Am I making myself clear?”

“But, if he’s—”

“Am I making myself clear?” she repeated, louder this time.

Harry nodded, biting his tongue.

“I am going against the rules telling you all this, Harry. I do it because I think you need to know and because I trust you to keep a cool head about this. Don’t make me regret it.”

Harry promised himself he wouldn’t—not this time. He might not be very trusting of adults, but he and Saturnine were a team. “I won’t let you down, Saturnine. But you do suspect Draco, don’t you? You wouldn’t have asked me about him otherwise.”

“It’s a possibility—one I cannot prove nor disprove. Which is why I wanted your insight on it.”

“What does Professor Snape think of it?” Harry asked, wondering what the Head of Slytherin House thought of his favourite pupil’s more than questionable actions.

Saturnine’s brow furrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“Draco’s one of his snakes, and he is a spy, isn’t he?” Harry couldn’t entirely keep the sarcasm from his tone, no matter how grave the situation was. “Can’t you ask him to do some snooping into his own House for a change?”

“I’ll have a word with the headmaster about it,” she replied.

Harry thought it weird that she wouldn’t do it herself, but he refrained from bringing up that subject. He had noticed how removed from the other teachers Professor Nine always was, keeping her interactions with them to the bare minimum. The only time he had seen her talk to their dreaded Potions Master was the night the dungeon bat had caught him on the seventh-floor corridor past curfew. Saturnine had let it slip once that she knew Severus Snape—after all, he’d been a student at Hogwarts at the same time as she was, for several years. And perhaps she feared that he would recognise her more than most.

“What’s your working theory?” Harry asked at last, certain that the dark-haired witch had one. Not only had she been an Auror for seven years, but she was one hell of a tactician. Though she had only introduced Harry to the works of Sun Tzu, he had no doubt that her knowledge of military strategy extended further than the Chinese General.

“Voldemort wants Dumbledore dead. There have been attacks before, but never with this much insistence, and never this close to home. He’s upped the ante, and that doesn’t bode well for us. Add to that the increasing Death Eaters attacks and the lack of response from the Ministry.” At Harry’s frown, she added, “Not that they are not trying, but they’re overwhelmed and understaffed. Our side is losing ground, fast. And I fear for the days to come.

“What you overheard Draco saying in September has remained in the back of my mind ever since. He is up to something; that is evident. What you know of his movements within the school doesn’t bode well for him. His odd behaviour in class adds to that.”

Harry hadn’t noticed anything particular about the obnoxious blond. Actually, Malfoy hadn’t been much of a bother in class at all recently. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you noticed the state he’s been in lately? He barely pays attention in class and neglects his schoolwork and prefect duties. And it’s not just my class; McGonagall and Flitwick reported the same thing. That boy has a lot on his mind, and it’s starting to show.”

“Of course,” scoffed Harry. “If he’s trying to come up with inventive ways to kill Dumbledore.”

“Open mind, Harry,” she admonished him, warning in her tone. “As a matter of fact, how would you do it?”

“Do what?” he asked, uncomprehending.

“Kill the headmaster. If you had to do it, how would you go about it? Humour me, if you please.”

Harry had never had to ask himself such a thing. He thought about it for a minute or two, not liking having to do such a thing. “I guess I’d ask to talk to him about something, and then—um—the killing curse?”

“Yes,” Saturnine nodded. “That’s what I would do, too. Quick and efficient, with a high percentage rate of success. Now, what do you think of the two attempts made on Dumbledore’s life so far? How would you rate those?”

Doomed to fail, came to his mind. “Sloppy,” he concluded. “A lot of things could go wrong with plans like that. Which indeed they did.”

“Exactly. Now, Draco Malfoy may be many things—but stupid he is not. And if he truly is behind all this, why hasn’t he come up with better plans? Why not a more direct approach?”

“You don’t think it’s him, then?” Harry had a hard time keeping up with her leaps and bounds.

“Remember, we’re trying to keep an open mind and a cool head here, okay? This situation reaches much further than your petty personal vendetta with Draco Malfoy.” She sighed, and it looked like she debated whether or not to continue. “I do think it’s him, but I also think that his heart’s not in it.”

“You mean he could be Imperiused, too?” Harry knew that if Malfoy ever tried to play that card one day, he’d have a hard time believing it.

“I am trying to look at the broader picture, Harry. And I would like you to do the same. This is bigger than you and Draco. This is bigger than Hogwarts. It’s a game of chess between two very talented players. We’re all pawns on their board, and it’s a game to the death.

“Think of who Draco is and where he comes from: sole heir to the House of Malfoy. His father’s son. I wonder how much of a choice he really has in the way he lives his life—and how much of his actions are truly his own.”

Harry had never tried to look at things from that vantage point, and he found that he had no desire to. “He could refuse to do what his father tells him.”

“It’s never that simple, but you wouldn’t know much about that,” she said. “All children feel the need to make their parents proud, to make them happy, to do what they expect them to. Family is a complicated thing.”

Saturnine was right; Harry didn’t know much about that. Or rather he hadn’t—for a long time. But he understood the pain that came from disappointing a parent. It was a recent discovery for him, but he was acutely aware of how much it could hurt. He kept those thoughts to himself, though.

When Saturnine’s gaze lowered to fix on his chest intently, it took him a full minute or two to understand why: the necklace. He was so used to wearing it, its weight a comfortable companion around his neck, that he’d forgotten he had it. Reaching under the hem of his shirt, he tugged at the silver chain until it was fully revealed before reaching up to unclasp it.

The dark-haired witch stopped him with a raised palm. “Keep it, lad,” she said. “Until the end of the school year. That was our deal.”

“I’ve never taken it off,” Harry admitted truthfully. The simple yet elegant necklace was Saturnine’s most-prized possession, and she’d entrusted him with it for the duration of the school year. It was a little something of hers to take with him while they were forced to keep apart. Cupping the small silver ‘S’ pendant in his right hand, he asked, “Who gave this to you?”

A sigh, and then she admitted, “My brother—and he’s got another one that’s similar. Or at least, he used to.”

“Is he—” Harry wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask. But he did anyway, tentatively. “Is he dead?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Then why does it make you so sad to think of him?”

Pain clouded the features of Saturnine’s oval face as she looked inward for the answer. “I miss him,” she replied at last. “We haven’t talked in over fifteen years.”

Reaching forward, she covered Harry’s hand with her own and directed his fingers upwards until the pendant was safely tucked beneath his cotton shirt again. Harry couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t want to see her brother for so long or why he didn’t want to see her. Having grown up without anyone, he would have given anything for a sibling.

Then she let go of his hand, and the moment passed. Returning to their earlier discussion, Harry asked, “You’re not worried about the attacks, but you are worried about what Draco does in the Room of Requirement, aren’t you?”

“The attacks are not to be dismissed, of course, but they’re half-hearted attempts at best. What worries me the most about those are the third parties getting hurt in the crossfire. But whatever that boy has cooked up on the seventh floor, that warrants all of his attention and focus. And this has me very worried, indeed.” She heaved in a deep breath and seemed lost in thought for an instant. When she came back to herself, there was a focus to her gaze that Harry was familiar with. He was about to get a lecture.

“Are you familiar with the word Maskirovka, Harry? It’s Russian. It means the art of misdirection. The threats on Dumbledore’s life and all the recent Death Eaters attacks hit close to home, and we can’t stop ourselves from looking at them from every angle. And while we’re trying to come up with some explanation for those, we miss what this is really about. Blood is the best camouflage.”

Understanding her logic, Harry pushed the reflection further, “No one but us knows that Draco is up to something; if I hadn’t overheard him when I did—”

“—we wouldn’t even know about it,” she finished for him.

“Should we stop him? Whatever it is that he’s doing—it can’t be good.”

“I’ve been weighing that question often, lately. We could forbid Draco access to the Room of Requirement, but that would show our hand. In the end, I think that we don’t have enough aces up our sleeve to lose that one advantage we have on the enemy.”

“So we do nothing? And wait for—for whatever he’s cooking to blow up in our faces?”

“Like I said, I’ll talk to Dumbledore. Maybe Severus can get something out of Draco—if he can find a way to get through to him.”

Harry’s heart sunk. If their hopes hung on Professor Snape’s ability to play the role of supportive and understanding Head of House, they were screwed.

***

December was hot on the heels of November, sweeping in with its bitter cold and snowstorms. Winter in Scotland was a study in contrast. It was, at times, eerily beautiful and dangerously scary. On quiet mornings, snow covered everything, and not a sound could be heard for miles around. Nature itself was put to sleep beneath its white blanket. And there were violent nights of storming, howling winds, and gale—beasts unleashed in the raging night, brazing with their coldness. Unstoppable and relentless, they seeped in through every crack and fissure of the old, draughty castle, which shook and groaned under their attacks.

Students stayed inside more, Quidditch practice hours were reduced, and even Herbology lessons were moved from the now-glacial greenhouses to much warmer spaces within the castle, where classes became less practical and more theoretical. And the poor students who chose to take Astronomy classes bitterly regretted their choices, which forced them to stand outside in the cold one night per week. Harry had never been happier to have chosen Care of Magical Creatures over Astronomy.

Morning deliveries of the Daily Prophet had lost their appeal. Students still read the old rag, but it had become a perfunctory task, at most. They had become so used to the violence reported in black ink that they had become desensitised to it. Near-daily Death Eaters attacks had become the new normal for Wizarding Britain, and what a sad thought that was.

The Christmas holidays were fast approaching. There would usually have been bubbles of nervous excitement permeating the air and talks of buying presents and being reunited with loved ones. But now, apathy and feelings of moroseness seemed to engulf students and staff alike.

Sybill Trelawney had stopped coming to the Great Hall altogether, preferring to remain in her tower, where she spouted nonsensical prediction after prediction of the world-ending variety. Professors Flitwick and Sprout, typically lively and amusing, had become both tensed and closed-off—characteristics that could also be used to describe Professor McGonagall’s current attitude and that of most of the staff. Even the buoyant Rubeus Hagrid seemed to have been infected. He grinned only once in a while now, the smiles never quite reaching his eyes.

Surprisingly, the two worst-hit teachers were Professors Nine and Snape, though their symptoms varied greatly. The dark-haired witch became more discreet and demure than ever. She barely attended meals anymore, coming in late and leaving quickly after only a few perfunctory bites. It was as if she had no desire to be in the Great Hall at all but had forced herself to make an appearance for conventions’ sake. Her lectures also suffered from a change of tone, her speeches coming out less enthused and passionate than they had been at the start of term. She remained no less demanding of her students’ assiduity and application.

As for their Potions professor, the man was as vitriolic and short-tempered as Harry had ever seen him, if not more. But for the first time, his wrath wasn’t only directed at him but extended to encompass the entire class with no distinction—Slytherin House included. Snape seemed to have lost what little patience remained after years spent trying to carry inept students through to the N.E.W.T.s finish line, and there was now a zero-tolerance rule for interruptions of any kind. It got to the point where even sneezing at the wrong time would trigger his ire. As a result, students had never been more disciplined and quiet, and it had been weeks since a cauldron had so much as boiled over, let alone exploded.

As for the headmaster—well, Albus Dumbledore hadn’t been seen in weeks. In the beginning, this had caused many rumours of him falling ill, of kidnapping attempts, and even a ludicrous theory of a second honeymoon with one of the mermaids from the Black Lake. Until the theories died away, and his absence became another fixed point in everybody’s routine—something not worth discussing anymore.

As he sat by himself in the Gryffindor common room one evening, gaze lost in the fire dancing in the massive fireplace ahead of him, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about what Saturnine had told him two weeks ago about Draco Malfoy. He hadn’t stopped using the Marauder’s Map to check on the blond’s comings and goings. And he even went as far as to discreetly follow him about the castle every now and then under his cloak. But he hadn’t been able to discover his secret. And his attempts at wishing for the Room of Requirement to heed to his need to enter the room where Draco Malfoy goes had been for nought. Harry wasn’t giving up, though, and he would get to the bottom of this—one way or another.

What was currently eating at him, though, was Saturnine’s insistence that he be the better man and look at the bigger picture. That was no easy task, and he’d baulked at it for weeks. But the dark-haired witch had trusted him with sensitive information, and she’d had faith in him that he would follow her advice. He owed it to her to try. That was no easy task, for a very simple reason—Harry Potter hated Draco Malfoy, and he had no intention for that to change. So far as Harry was concerned, it was a fact set in stone. He had hated that snobbish git from the first time they’d met, when they were eleven and thus it would remain until the end of time.

Only, Harry hadn’t really hated Malfoy from the start. Happy as he was to be at Hogwarts, surrounded by other wizards like himself, his first instinct had been to try and be friendly to everyone, the small boy with the slicked-back platinum-blond hair included. And then Malfoy had opened his mouth, and at the contemptuous drivel that came out, Harry had refused to shake his proffered hand. And it was that small rude gesture—his own action—that had spiralled out of control to the all-out war they now found themselves in. But that wasn’t how Harry liked to tell the story; he much preferred to say that if there was one thing both boys could agree on, it was that they had hated each other from the start.

Draco Malfoy was an aristocratic brat, a pompous prick, and an annoying ponce with a holier-than-thou attitude. He had no redeeming qualities but the depth of his pockets, something that Harry couldn’t care less about. Oh, and he had a darker side, too. Harry hadn’t forgotten the many pranks the blond and his cronies had pulled on him and his friends over the years. But the Gryffindor trio had paid the Slytherins back in kind for those, hadn’t they?

Saturnine had called it a personal vendetta, and now Harry wondered at her words. Was this what this was? A childish loop of constant retaliation that they’d been caught up in and unable to extricate themselves from for years? Crabbe throwing a dung ball into Harry’s cauldron during Potions, followed by Ron calling him names. Then a Jelly Legs Curse, thrown at the ginger-haired boy by Goyle in the hallways leading to the Great Hall, topped by Hermione asking Dobby if he would be so kind as to pour salt into all three boys’ pumpkin juice today. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseam, as if none of them could ever learn from their mistakes?

Saturnine wanted him to keep a cool head and had asked that he examine the broader picture for once, and Harry tried to do that. He really tried. He thought of everything he knew about the Slytherin teen and expounded further, recalling his hair-raising meetings with Malfoy Senior, a man who embodied everything wrong with Pureblood wizards. Lucius was nasty, perverted, and cruel, characteristics that leaked out of his very pores so much that he was infested with them. His mother hadn’t seemed as bad. But maybe that was because all her emotions—good or bad—had been frozen to their core by a magical blizzard only a small eternity ago. Narcissa may be a cold beauty, but she was a glacier, nonetheless. Sharp as ice, she carried herself with the pureness of the first snowstorm and the inner strength of a northern gale.

An irrational part of Harry had always envied everyone that wasn’t him—everyone who had a loving home and affectionate parents. But now that he forced himself to look at life from Malfoy’s point of view, he wondered how he would have fared had he been forced to grow up under Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy’s care. And, for the first time in his life, Harry wondered if perhaps, just maybe, possibly—he wasn’t better off having had no parents at all.

Despite the current situation, Harry was delighted to be back at Cove Cottage. He and Saturnine had Apparated here the evening before students would board the train back to London. While it meant he couldn’t spend the last night of the school year with his friends, it also meant he had one more Cornish sunset to behold. And what a treat this had been. The Cornish cliffs were even more impressive in winter as the ocean raged at their feet, froth forming on the surface as angry waves leapt at the half-submerged rocks.

Saturnine was back to her old self the following morning, makeup and coloured contact lenses gone, as she’d reunited with her favourite navy hoodie and sturdy pair of black boots. The only thing different from last summer was the absence of the plait over her shoulder; she’d let her hair loose, for once. It was probably to let it breathe after months of being held back in a tight chignon, Harry thought. He had only seen her with her hair untied a handful of times, and it was a different look for her. The dark-brown strands added volume to her long oval face, cast shadows over her cheeks, and made her traits appear more mysterious. And, most of all, that sea of dark walnut really made her blue eyes pop.

“No chignon this morning,” he asked, unable to stop himself from teasing her. Merlin, but he was glad that disguise was gone, and he’d gotten his witch back.

“No Gryffindor tie?” she replied with a pointed look at the maroon sweater he wore over a pair of denim slacks.

Harry made them breakfast—an omelette with bacon. Though he hadn’t cooked in months, he wasn’t the least bit rusty.

“What’s the plan for today?” he asked before taking a bite.

“You have some homework to do, yes?”

He nodded over his mouthful.

“I expect you to be done before the end of the year,” she continued. “You can work on those in the afternoons. Come see me if you have any questions.”

“Occlumency in the mornings, then?” They hadn’t trained together in all his time at Hogwarts, but he’d kept practising bringing his barrier up—almost daily.

Saturnine’s eyes narrowed at him. “I’m not sure you need more classes. I will, however, test you to make sure you haven’t regressed. If your level is consistent with that of last summer, it’ll be enough.”

Harry sensed there was more to it, but he remained quiet, waiting to see if she would elaborate on her own.

“Professor Dumbledore would want me to teach you Legilimency,” she offered after a sip of coffee.

“You disagree?”

“Strongly,” she said, her brow furrowing. “You don’t need that.”

“Why?” he said. Then, he felt the need to clarify. “Why does he want me to learn it, and why do you think it’s a bad idea?”

“No,” she replied as if that single word answered everything.

“No?”

“No,” she repeated in the same definite tone.

“To which question?” Harry demanded, puzzled.

“Both,” she replied, slicing through her omelette with more strength than was necessary.

“Why?”

“Because I know you, Harry. And if I tell you, you will want to do it.” She speared the bite of omelette she’d just cut and brought it to her mouth. After swallowing it, she continued. “I will have none of it; so, my answer is no.”

“What if I promise to be reasonable about it?” Harry offered. “And not to do anything rash without talking to you about it first?”

A suspicious glare zipped past the tip of the empty fork she still held up.

“I am capable of learning, after all,” he said. Then, he frowned as the words caught up with him—wasn’t that word-for-word what Professor Snape had told him earlier that year? That shook him up; Harry had never thought he would see the day when he’d started quoting Snape, of all people.

The suspicious glare became intense and challenging as Saturnine weighed her options. In the end, she relented, and placing her fork back on the table, she steepled her fingers and caught Harry’s gaze above them. “Dumbledore wants you to go looking inside Lord Voldemort’s brain. I refused.”

Panic surged within Harry at her words. Then, something akin to rage at the headmaster’s scheming caught fire in his belly. But Saturnine’s gaze held onto his, willing him to make good on his promise to behave like the grown up he claimed to be. Pushing the feelings aside for now, he tried to view the situation as she did and sought to ask a more mature question. “What information is he after?”

Saturnine’s lips curled up at the corners, and he knew his reaction had been the right one. “Have you ever heard of Horcruxes?” she asked.

He thought about it long and hard but couldn’t remember ever having heard the word. He shook his head no, and Saturnine did what no adult had ever done for him: she told him the truth. The whole truth, in its unabridged version.

“That’s why we haven’t seen much of the headmaster since the start of term?” Harry asked when she’d reached the end of her tale.

“Yes, his health has declined,” she said. “Severus and Poppy are doing the best they can, but it’s not enough.”

“What—” Harry wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. It was Professor Dumbledore they were talking about; he was the most powerful wizard he knew. Surely he couldn’t be dying. “How long does he have?”

“Months,” she said, giving him the cold, hard truth once more. “They estimate that he will not live through next summer.” A long silence punctuated her words, and she added, “I’m sorry, Harry. But you wanted the truth. And now, you have it.”

“Thanks for that,” he said, swallowing hard. “You were right all those months ago. Asking the question is the easy part; being ready for the answer isn’t. What can I do? Will it make a difference if I do what Dumbledore wants me to?”

“I honestly believe that it wouldn’t. Even if you could master Legilimency—and it’s a big if. The odds of you actually finding out the exact information we’re after—no, that’s madness. Besides, there are other ways to get to that result—safer ways.”

“Is that what you’ve been working on?” A curious eyebrow arose at his question. “You’ve been leaving the castle a lot. I wondered where you went. Were you looking for those Horcruxes, then?”

“How would you even know that I ever left Hogwarts? Have you been spying on me, lad?”

“No, of course not. I would never,” he said hurriedly, although he was pretty sure she wasn’t angry with him. She wouldn’t have called him lad otherwise. “It’s just the Marauder’s Map. When I was looking for Draco, I noticed a couple of times that you weren’t there—that’s all.” Come to think of it, he had never seen her on the map, had he? Surely it couldn’t be; the map showed everyone. But then, he would remember it if he had seen her on it—to this day, her surname remained a mystery to him.

As that last thought crossed Harry’s mind, understanding dawned on him. “You did something!” he exclaimed. “You—you found a way to trick the map or to confuse it, didn’t you?”

Saturnine smiled an innocent smile over the steeple of her fingers but remained silent.

“Didn’t you?” he repeated, realising that a little part of him was hurt by that realisation. The Marauder’s Map was all he had left of his father and Sirius, and he hated to think someone had tampered with it.

It must have shown on his face, for Saturnine relented and explained, “You do know me, don’t you? Or have you just met me? Of course I did, Harry. I nagged Remus for a solution to that little conundrum the minute I learned of the existence of that bloody map of yours.”

“How? How did you do it? It shows everyone, it always has.”

Another smile. “That is a secret between me and Mr Moony, I’m afraid.”

Harry threw lightning at her with his eyes, or at least he pretended to. But that only made Saturnine chuckle. Learning that Remus had helped eased the pain a little. He was one of the Marauders, after all, and if he’d sanctioned her behaviour, that changed things.

Then, finding his serious again, Harry asked, “You did look into the Horcruxes, though—didn’t you?”

“Yes, the headmaster tasked me with finding them,” she explained. “Since I apparently stood in the way of his Grand Plan or something, it became my responsibility to come up with an alternate solution.”

“And?”

“I’ll tell you this—it’s a long and difficult job. But I have a list of potential items the Dark Lord could have used and a list of potential victims that could have been part of the ritual ceremonies. One of my leads is a serious one, and I’ve been focusing on it a lot lately.”

***

On Christmas morning, Harry awoke bright and early. A glance outside the bay window revealed a fresh layer of snow outside the cottage, and it couldn’t have been more apropos. This was his first Christmas in a real home. The ones at the Dursleys had been very festive, but he’d never been allowed to participate. The last five he had spent at Hogwarts with a handful of other students remaining in the castle for the holidays. Those had been brilliant, and the Christmas banquet the headmaster always insisted upon was divine. But still, it had been that—Christmas at school.

This year, though, it would be different. He would spend the holiday in a proper home with a lit fireplace, with stockings on the mantelpiece—one with a big letter ‘H’ on it and another with a big letter ‘S’. There was a Christmas tree in one corner that they had decorated together a week ago, and Harry knew—he just knew—that despite the Fidelius Charm, all his gifts would be found beneath it when he entered the living room later that day. Saturnine might never reveal how she’d done it, but he was certain that she would have seen to it that he got his presents on time. And that warmed Harry’s heart.

A home, a parent, and a decorated tree—this truly was Christmas.

His hand rose to cup the necklace that he wore beneath his shirt. He never took it off, not even for the shower. The small ‘S’ was a comfortable weight against his chest. And it had inspired him for his gift to Saturnine.

Pushing away the heavy blanket, Harry ambled to the shower room to freshen up. When he reached the living room half an hour later, the smell of freshly-baked gingerbread cookies welcomed him.

Sure enough, he found Saturnine in the kitchen, bent in half over a tray of biscuits she had just pulled out of the oven. Her braided hair was in its traditional plait, and she peered over the cookies as if they were a dangerous artefact to be analysed. One of her onyx eyebrows rose as she peered down more closely. Reaching with two delicate fingers, she flicked a biscuit over to inspect the other side. It must have passed inspection, for she eventually gave it an approving nod before straightening up.

“Morning, lad,” she said with a warm smile when she caught Harry hovering in the kitchen’s entrance. “These will be ready in a few minutes.” She paused. “I think.”

“They smell delicious,” Harry said. The smell was enough to make his mouth water.

“I hope the taste matches,” she said as she flicked her wrist until a plate landed on her waiting palm. She delicately pushed half a dozen cookies on top of the ceramic surface. “I can’t remember when it was that I last baked cookies.”

The sight was so eerie that Harry couldn’t hold back the bubble of laughter that escaped his lungs.

“What?” she asked, placing the plate on the table.

“Nothing,” he mumbled. He could feel his cheeks beginning to tinge.

Saturnine crossed her arms over her chest with the beginning of a pout. “Harry?”

“Don’t take it the wrong way, Professor,” he admitted at last, “but you look like a mom.” And she did. She had put a navy apron over her green hoodie to make sure her clothes would stay clean, and several fingerprints made of flour could be seen on the blue cotton surface. A few stray hairs had gotten loose from her plait, adding to the overall attitude she gave off. And Harry couldn’t help but think of her as a younger-looking Mrs Weasley.

Saturnine exploded in laughter at his words, and a minute later, he couldn’t help but join in. Sweet Circe, but did it feel good after months of gloom and doom.

“Come here,” Saturnine said at last as she fought to get her breathing in check. She waved at him to get closer, and the instant he was within reach, she pulled him in for a hug. “I’m so glad to have you here with me, Harry. Merry Christmas.”

Harry let himself be pulled willingly into her open arms, not minding the flour and crumbs that would stain his clean jumper. “Merry Christmas, Saturnine,” he muttered as he soaked in her warmth.

“Now,” she said a while later as she pulled him backwards. “Gifts?”

Harry nodded with an eager smile, and they brought the plate of cookies with them as they relocated to the living room. And just as he’d imagined it, he found his presents piled beneath the tall decorated Christmas tree. They’d done one half in Gryffindor red, and the other, in Ravenclaw blue. And Saturnine had charmed an enchanted golden snitch to hover around the green tip.

In the pile of presents, Harry found the traditional Molly Weasley jumpers—blue this year, for both of them. Books from Hermione—for both of them, too. Ron had sent Harry a box of special Christmas edition Every-Flavour Beans. Luna had sent him three wooden cherries tied to a red ribbon—he appreciated the sentiment, although he had no idea what to do with the gift. There were more books from Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore, and a box containing half a dozen board games from Remus—who promised, in the adjoining card, that he would drop by shortly and often to give each of them a try.

Aside from her Weasley jumper and the book from Hermione, Saturnine had received a bottle of Meade from the headmaster and a blue scarf the exact colour of her eyes from Remus—‘because anything that is not a baggy hoodie is a good idea,’ read the adjoining card. Though she’d huffed at the words, a warm smile stretched her lips at the kind gesture.

When they were done opening every present, Harry went back to his bedroom to retrieve the one he’d secreted away—the one that was destined for Saturnine. When he returned to the living room, the dark-haired witch had a large Manila envelope that bore his name between her fingers.

Harry held out his gift before she had the time to hand out hers.

“For me?” she asked with a playful smile.

He nodded, feeling his cheeks turning red, despite his better judgement. He’d spend a long time deciding what to get her. And he’d had to dig deep within his Gryffindor courage reserves to go through with his idea. But after the last four months they’d had, he had felt the need to clarify a few things and redefine their relationship. What he’d chosen for her was as much a statement as it was a gift; it was honest and truthful and reflected how he felt. Moreover, it was everything he had never dared say aloud. But in a world where children were killed because of so-called blood purity, and headmasters were sent poisoned Meade, time was in short supply, and things had to be said before it was too late.

Saturnine made quick work of the playful Quidditch-themed wrapping and unveiled a small, plain black rectangular box. When she went to open it, Harry stopped her by raising a hand.

“It—it’s probably unexpected,” he admitted, feeling the need to explain. “But it’s honest and something I have meant to say for a while. I—I wanted you to know.”

A small frown marred Saturnine’s brow, and she slowly pushed the lid open to reveal a simple silver charm bracelet. Several engraved charms had been added to it: six in total. Peering down to inspect them, she saw that they had been etched with runic symbols.

Harry listed each one in turn. “Respected, valued, safe, cared for, cherished, loved.” He paused, then added, his voice faltering, “It—it’s how I feel—when I’m with you. I wanted you to know.”

“It’s a lovely gift, Harry. Truly.” Holding out her left hand and the box, Saturnine waited for him to fasten the bracelet around her wrist.

“You’re not mad?” he asked as he closed the clasp with shaking fingers.

Saturnine reached for his hand with hers the instant he was done. “Why would I be?”

“We never really spoke about this—what we—I don’t even know how to call it.” And it was true. They had never broached the subject, choosing to go with the live and let live approach instead. But that tactic didn’t work for Harry anymore. There was too much nastiness going on in the world. Dumbledore was dying. He, himself, was marked for death, and parts of Voldemort’s soul had been left hanging about, waiting to be found. Harry couldn’t deal with any more uncertainty. He needed Saturnine by his side—needed her reassuring presence, her steady personality and calm attitude. And he needed to know that she cared.

“I know you didn’t want any part of this in the beginning and that Dumbledore somehow made you take me in,” he continued. “But I really wanted you to know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me and how much I value the moments when it’s just the two of us. I didn’t know how to explain it—I’m not good at those things. But that bracelet seemed like the perfect way to get the point across.”

There was mist in Saturnine’s eyes now, and she had yet to let go of his hand. “I care about you a lot, lad, you know I do. And you’re right that it wasn’t my choice to come here, but I don’t regret for one instant having had the chance to get to know you.” She blinked furiously, and Harry was taken aback to see her so close to tears. “I know I’m not perfect, but I’ve tried very hard to make you feel respected and valued and cared for—and the others, too,” she said, and her voice broke a little at the end. “This truly is a lovely gift, Harry. And I’m glad you feel this way—you deserve to.” Using the hold she still had on his hand, she drew him in for their second hug of the day.

“Thanks,” he murmured in the crook of her shoulder. If home was a feeling, he knew it would be that exact moment—Christmas morning at Cove Cottage, with the smell of gingerbread cookies and pine needles filling the air, the fireplace crackling at their backs, and the loving arms of Saturnine holding him close. It was all the assurance he had needed that he truly was safe and cherished and loved—and the others, too.

“Do you want to know what my gift is?” Saturnine asked softly after a while.

Harry nodded and reluctantly pulled away. The envelope was back in her hands an instant later.

“It’s a bit of an unusual gift, too,” she admitted, and she sounded hesitant. “I wondered how it would be received and almost thought better of it, but—” She glanced down at her bracelet. “Something tells me that this will be okay.”

She handed him the plain tan-coloured Manila envelope, and Harry tore it open. It was a bunch of documents, and he was surprised to see the Ministry of Magic’s crest at the top of the first page. His heart nearly leapt from his chest when he saw the words printed in bold on the white paper. His eyes teared up as he read the subject matter again and again: “Adoption Request Form 22b.”

“I know you already have a mother and a father, Harry. But they’re not here anymore, and you need someone to take care of you,” Saturnine said, tone cautious but earnest. “While I know I’m far from perfect, I am willing to try my best to be the guardian you need—if you’ll have me.”

Harry was too choked up with tears and surprise to reply. So, he just burrowed himself deeper in her chest and hoped that his action got the message across.

“I will fill in my half of those papers now, and I want you to fill in yours,” she continued. “And while we cannot send it to the Ministry just yet, I promise you that I will go there myself to hand it in the instant the situation allows me to.” She paused, and her voice gained in resolve. “But please know that, while the adoption won’t be official just yet, it will be for me. As I hope it will be for you.”

Sitting there in the witch’s strong, yet gentle embrace, inhaling the smell of pine needles and gingerbread cookies in the air, Harry felt everything he’d carved into the small round silver charms that now adorned Saturnine’s wrist bracelet. He felt respected, valued, safe, cared for, and cherished. And most of all, he felt loved.

PART TWO: DRACO

 As far back as Draco could remember it, Christmases at Malfoy Manor had always been fast affairs. His mother, ever the gracious hostess, knew how to throw the most outlandishly decadent parties that his father’s vaults could more than cover. He had a vivid memory of white elephants Imperiused to tap-dance to the tune of Irish Carols and Pixies dressed to look like snowflakes.

This year, alas, was a severe departure from the Malfoy tradition. There was no scrumptious banquet covered in exotic delicacies, no lavish decoration along the corridors leading to the pièce de résistance that was the winter-themed ballroom where enchantments and diamond-encrusted baubles awaited the Pureblood guests that had made it on the most exclusive guest-list.

Filled to the brim with unsavoury guests, the hallways of Malfoy Manor were, for the first time ever, desperately bare, and the ballroom, dreadfully gloomy. Most of the heavy drapes had been closed, and the furniture enchanted to look as if it were made of dark mahogany wood. Most of the carpet had been removed, which added to the austere ambience that permeated the entire residence. Even the white peacocks that liked to feast on the lush shrubs that lined the gravel path leading to the Manor’s entrance seemed to have understood that it was better to stay as far away from the residence as possible.

Death Eaters came and went at all hours, as per their master’s wishes, treating the noble Manor as if it were a mere run-of-the-mill brothel. As a result, Draco had never before spent so much time locked away in his bedroom. Though instructions had been given that the Malfoys’ quarters were off-limits to the Dark Lord and his followers, it was a concept that some seemed to struggle with. When Draco woke up, one morning, to find a creepy Bellatrix Lestrange perched on the edge of his bed, he’d nearly had a heart attack. The smile she’d given him then made him want to take a headcount of the peacocks, for she sure as hell looked like she had just eaten one for breakfast. Determined that such an event should never occur again, he’d taken to barricading his door with spells upon spells to keep intruders and homicidal aunts at bay. And as a rule, he stayed as far away from the rest of the house as he could.

All in all, this Christmas holiday had turned out to be the worst that Draco had ever had, and he found himself languishing for the day he’d return to Hogwarts—something that had never happened to him before, either. Worse still, he envied the orphans and the penniless who’d been forced to stay at the draughty old castle for the winter break.

Being the Dark Lord’s follower was nothing like what he’d imagined. And follower, he’d found out, was too kind a word for what went on behind the ballroom’s closed doors. More like servants, he thought bitterly, the whole lot of them.

Having heard his parents speaking of Lord Voldemort, for years, as if he were the best thing that had happened to the Wizarding World since Merlin, Draco had been unprepared for the twisted, barely-human-anymore wizard that had slithered his way towards him earlier that year. His sibilant voice had scraped at his very brain, like nails scratching a chalkboard. But that wasn’t the worst of it: the more sickening part had come later when he saw his father—his father!—regal, proud Lucius Malfoy bend the knee before the inhuman creature. And if only it had stopped there but, while on his knee, his father had bent his head down to kiss the hem of the Dark Lord’s dusty robes, prostrating himself before him like a mere house-elf—worse, even. And then, for some reason unknown to his son, Lucius had been made to suffer his master’s displeasure, writhing on the ground as the Cruciatus Curse hit. He moaned in pain until he couldn’t hold it in anymore and his mouth let out agonised screams of pain. Draco had never seen his father like that before, and the image had broken something within him. Irrevocably. It had thrown his carefully constructed world out of its axis and sent it spinning to new uncharted grounds.

Surrounded by madness, locked within his own room, a huge Damocles sword hanging over his head, a bottomless pit edging ever-closer to his feet, Draco had never felt so lost and alone. And for the first time in his life, he realised he had no friend to turn to, no one to seek help from. He had allies and associates, people he was expected to frequent. But that was the extent of it. He didn’t trust any of them within an inch of his life. And by the looks of things, his parents were out of commission, too.

Weighing his options was a quick affair. If he wanted to survive, he’d have to toe the line—for now. He had to carry on as he had, to buy himself another day of respite, and then another, and another. It didn’t matter what he thought, or what he believed in—in truth, it never had. But the status quo wouldn’t last forever. The chips were bound to fall sooner or later. And for the first time—and it truly was a season of firsts—Draco wished they would fall on the side of the Light.

“Merry bloody Christmas,” he muttered to himself as he stared at his haggard reflection in the full-length mirror that stood next to his wardrobe. He was dressed in black from head to toe: black slacks, a black satin shirt, and a black vest. It made a sharp contrast with his too-pale skin and blond hair. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked like he had aged ten years in just as many days.

Despite the sea of blackness that already enveloped him, Draco knew more was to come. It was Christmas, after all, and Christmases always came with gifts. His father had been ecstatic when he’d told his son that the Dark Lord had one for him. “A special gift for a special boy,” he’d said, and if that didn’t sound perverted, he didn’t know what did.

The Malfoy heir was to receive his Dark Mark today: a magical tattoo that would be etched deep within his skin like a permanent reminder of his servitude. It was a brand to identify the cattle’s owner and make the herding easier. Merry bloody Christmas, indeed.

Staring unseeingly into the mirror, Draco spent the last minutes of his life as a free man bringing up his Occlumency shields. He’d first learned to protect his thoughts from his mother and couldn’t thank her enough for the lengthy, arduous lessons. Even his crazy aunt, Bellatrix, deserved some of his gratitude for the pointers she had given him more recently. And his godfather, too, of course. Severus was the one who had taught him the most—not that he’d been very gentle about it, but at least it had been effective.

The Dark Lord was a fine Legilimen—or so he’d been told. And while Draco had no hope to keep the truth from him—if he truly went looking for it, that was—he hoped to be able to keep the surface of his thoughts calm enough and panic-free. It wouldn’t do to show his fears now—not to the Dark Lord, not to his parents, and not to anyone else who’d be in that room when he took the Dark Mark. He had to stay strong and play the part convincingly. And then perhaps the Dark Lord wouldn’t look further.

He dreaded to think what that madman would do if he knew the truth of his thoughts. How would he express his displeasure? If the rumours were true—and Draco was pretty sure they were—it would probably cost him his life. He’d heard others had died for a lot less. Steeling his resolve, he started to get ready.

Inhale, count to five. Exhale, count to five.

No fear.

Inhale, count to five. Exhale, count to five.

The Dark Lord is my master.

Inhale, count to five. Exhale, count to five.

It’s an honour to serve the Dark Lord.

Inhale, count to five. Exhale, count to five.

“I don’t want to die.”

The summon to Professor Snape’s office had somewhat thrown him off. Though he’d seen it coming a mile away, Draco remained surprised that his Head of House hadn’t waited for their first day at school to end before requesting that Draco come to see him.

Eager much? he thought sarcastically as he left the Slytherin common room to make his way to his godfather’s private quarters further down in the dungeons. Can’t wait to grill me on everything that’s happened during the holidays, I bet.

Severus Snape’s office was in the image of the Potions Master’s classroom: dark, ominous, and covered with jars that sported stomach-churning content of the mummified variety. After about a month of tolerating Lord Voldemort and his cohort at Malfoy Manor, Draco did not wish to see any more creatures of the twisted and macabre sort. Thus it was that he decided to show up directly to Severus’ den.

Few students had ever seen the man’s private rooms. But Draco had been let in more than once, on the account that the two were, in a way, family. He hadn’t been invited in years, though; their relationship was not what it used to be.

What did it used to be? he asked himself on the way. His inner voice sounded harsh and reproachful and he reminded himself that he wasn’t being fair to Severus; his sour godfather had tried to be there for him. There was a time when he didn’t miss a birthday and always sent something for Christmas. That habit had long since been broken, relegated to the background to make room for more pressing matters, such as the resurrection of the Dark Lord and the war it rekindled. But there was no denying that Severus had tried.

It was no great loss, though; his godfather’s presents had always paled compared to the ones he got from his parents and other relatives. Severus’ gifts were of the homemade variety. When Draco was little, they consisted of charmed, sculpted figurines that came to life at a tap from his wand. When he’d become too old to play with toys, Draco had been given useful Potions that couldn’t be found anywhere else.

Trifle things, the whole lot of them, Draco told himself as he neared the gloomy passageway that led to the man’s sanctum. Stupid things I ought to have thrown away.

Standing in front of a cobblestone wall so dark that it appeared black, Draco pulled out his wand to trace the intricate pattern that would reveal the door leading to Severus’ living room. It shimmered into existence as the veil hiding it lifted, and Draco tapped twice at its surface with his wand to signal his presence.

The Potions professor waited a good five minutes to answer it—though Draco knew it would only take him half a minute, maybe less, to make it from his office to this door. He’d been kept waiting on purpose. When the door swung open, it revealed a brooding wizard with crossed eyebrows and pinched lips.

Draco was so used to the affected look that it washed over him like gentle rain. In return, he beamed at his godfather with a cheerful smile that was just as fake. “Evening, Severus,” he said, not thinking twice about addressing his Head of House by his first name. “You wanted to see me?”

The Potions Master’s face darkened as he moved to the side to let the blond in. Draco’s apparent good humour unnerved him further. The more Severus’ expression soured, the more Draco smiled.

Walking in as if he owned the place, the young wizard proceeded to the dark-brown leather sofa that faced the lit fireplace. He had half a mind to ask the brooding potioneer to serve him a drink. But he held himself back, knowing some limits were better not to be crossed—if he wanted to keep breathing.

Severus sat in a nearby, matching, well-worn armchair, crossing his arms over his chest as he did. His silence indicated that he wanted Draco to go first in the verbal joust that was sure to follow.

Draco pondered what to lead with. He was half-tempted to question the man’s absence from the seasonal festivities that happened at Malfoy Manor. As far as he knew, Severus hadn’t attended once. Or if he had, he’d been careful not to be seen. “What did you want to know?” he asked at last. The question lacked originality, he knew. But he could feel a headache settling in, and he wanted this imposed discussion over and done with quickly.

Two could play this game, it would seem, for Severus chose an equally direct route to address his concern. “Show me your arm,” he demanded, his tone cold and dispassionate.

Years of practice were put to good use as Draco feigned surprise. He rose both of his fully clothed arms a few inches above his bent legs and wiggled his fingers for good measure.

Severus was unamused. “You know what I want to see.”

And Draco did—of course he did. Not that he would take it easy on his Head of House; after all, he was a Slytherin, too. “You’ll have me remove my clothes now? How improper, Professor,” he replied with mock-seriousness, his tone more haughty than offended.

The Potions Master leaned forward slightly, his presence imposing and looming despite his seated stance. How he managed to pull that off, Draco could never understand. Was it the coarse, stringy black hair? he wondered. Did it add to the voluminous black ensemble he wore? Or was it the discomfort produced by his unfathomable obsidian eyes, the large, hooked nose, and sallow skin?

“Don’t test my patience, Draco,” Severus said, his tone lowering an octave.

Draco knew to heed that warning, and he rolled up his left sleeve. Despite his better judgement, he felt his smile vanish as more and more of the dark ink was revealed on the inner side of his pale forearm. It was a tattoo of a skull with a long, winding snake protruding from its mouth like a tongue. Magical, like everything else in their lives, the snake slithered faintly about under Draco’s close scrutiny.

Not wanting to see the Dark Mark further, and curious as to Severus’ expression, Draco kept his silver eyes on the other wizard’s obsidian ones as he turned his arm over. The Potions Master’s eyes narrowed at the revealed pale expanse of skin, and something akin to pain flickered within his dark orbs. It lasted only an instant, but Draco had been watching the man intently, and he caught it, same as he detected the short gasp that passed his slightly parted lips.

It wasn’t his parents’ pride or the manic grin his aunt, Bellatrix, had sported on her face when the Dark Lord had inflicted his dark signature on him. If only for an instant, Severus had shown surprise, pain, and a sliver of regret. And that, coming from a man of his ilk, was like a long monologue on how he felt about the subject.

Finally, clueing in on Draco’s scrutiny of his person, Severus shot to his feet to slink away, his black robes following him like a flurry of dark, angry wings. Stopping by the small kitchenette niched in the wall left of the corridor leading to his bedroom, his godfather opened a cabinet to take out a glass and a bottle of amber liquor.

“You’re an idiot,” he said as he poured himself a drink. His tone was little more than a whisper.

Though he knew that it was futile, Draco felt like defending himself. The idea of his godfather criticising him—and on that particular subject, no less—didn’t sit well with him. You’re one to talk, Draco wanted to say. But he went with the more gracious, “It’s not like I had a choice, and you know it.”

Not wanting to see the reaction that sentence garnered on the sour man’s face, Draco turned away, and his gaze became lost in the fire. There’d never been any choice for him, and they both knew it. Ever since the Dark Lord had returned, him joining the Death Eaters had never been a matter of if but when.

That didn’t stop Draco from feeling the shame that the sodding mark produced in him every time he looked at it, and he hurried to smooth his sleeve back over it. It was the symbol of his enslavement, the proof that he was no better than his father and all the other wizards who grovelled at the feet of the half-breed monstrosity that had taken up residence at Malfoy Manor.

A moment later, a glass of liquor appeared in his line of sight, held up by a pair of pale, long, familiar-looking fingers. Without glancing up at his godfather, Draco took the drink from him. Bringing the glass to his lips, he took a large swallow, discovering that it was whisky—and a good vintage, at that.

When Severus’ now-empty fingers resettled themselves on his shoulder, something stirred within him. For the briefest moment, Draco felt like a child all over again—a small child who never thought of Severus as an imposing figure despite the huge height difference. A child who openly sought the older wizard’s odd bouts of affection every chance he got and managed to cram in way more hugs than anyone else would have thought possible. A child who’d requested evening bedtime stories, who’d adored the dark-haired man’s mild, deep, velvety baritone. Severus’ gentler voice, one he hadn’t heard in years, was now permanently laced with tension.

But Draco wasn’t a child anymore; he’d joined the world of adults through the most barbaric rite of passage. Holding onto his drink with slightly more strength than necessary, he tilted what remained of the whisky into his mouth, rejoicing at how it burned on the way down.

Once a Malfoy, always a Malfoy, he thought. And siding with power was what they did best, after all. They aligned themselves with the winning side, regardless of the dubious morality of their actions—as long as it benefited them in the long run.

What now? Draco wanted to ask. What happens to me now? But he didn’t have the strength to voice his thoughts aloud. So he remained silent as Severus let him go and returned to his chair. He knew the answer already; they both did. Now, Draco would do as he’d been told. He’d find a way to fulfil his mission or die trying—the effect of an unacceptable failure.

“Thanks for the drink,” he said, placing the empty glass on the low coffee table. Then he stood up and sauntered back to the front door.

Draco had his hand on the handle when Severus called out his name. He stopped, looking back to peer over his shoulder at the older wizard. His godfather was staring at him, his expression at first guarded, then faintly anxious. If he didn’t know Draco’s mission yet, he could certainly guess at its nature. Did he fear that he wouldn’t be able to carry out the deed? That he would fail?

Steeling his own features, the blond arched one of his eyebrows questioningly.

“You’ll have to be careful from now on, Draco. I won’t be able to protect you in these circles,” he explained kindly, his tone a stark contrast to his harsh demeanour.

The young wizard almost scoffed at the words. When had Severus ever tried protecting him, anyway? Sure, everyone seemed in agreement that the Slytherin Head of House was a bit more lenient towards him than he was towards—well, everyone else. But Draco was the best at Potions in the entire House, and he’d always figured that was part of the reason. Other than that, Severus Snape had never shown Draco any more kindness than his other students.

When it became clear Severus wouldn’t say anything more, Draco let himself out.

Severus hadn’t been the only one who wanted to take a peek at his arm, as Draco later found out. He’d been about to turn in for the night when Pansy Parkinson sauntered into his dorm—her ivory nightgown loose over her shoulders and riding up her thighs in a way that could only be described as improper. She looked like a vestal virgin, cultivator of the sacred fire. Well, he thought, her heated gaze certainly lit a fire when it settled on him.

Letting the lid of his trunk slide free of his hand, Draco moved back to his bed, scooted to the middle, and arranged himself amongst the fluffy pillows. The caramel-skinned witch was all hungry eyes and low inhibitions as she swayed her hips left and right to get closer to his four-poster.

When Pansy reached the edge of the plush mattress, she lifted a knee to place it atop the soft surface, revealing the absence of knickers. It was soon joined by her second knee, and then she slithered her way upward until she straddled his relaxed hips. Though this vestal had not taken a thirty-year vow of chastity, Pansy sure knew how to carry out the sacrosanct rites. She looked all but ready to collect her due from the sacred spring. Draco felt himself harden beneath her.

“Did you have a nice Christmas?” she asked, her tone as suggestive as her lewd attitude.

Draco shrugged. “It was all right.”

“Hmm,” she purred, moving her hips back and forth over his crotch. “Did you miss me?”

Frankly, he hadn’t. He had not given Pansy a single thought; they didn’t have that kind of relationship. Friends with benefits would be one way to label what they had—except they weren’t exactly friends. She was only a a bit of fun on the side. It was a crude way to put it, yes. But they were Slytherins, and Slytherins didn’t do affaires de coeur. They entered into arranged marriages to further their families’ lineages and formed strategic alliances to earn beneficial positions. And Death Eaters marriages were even worse; they involved so much adultery that no one even blinked anymore.

Pansy was only a means to an end. She was a way for him to satiate his carnal needs and escape the realities of life—if only for a short while. He wasn’t sure what he was to the caramel-skinned witch—if she felt the same way or was only trying to gain his favour to secure her place in the race to the Malfoy name. Either way, he didn’t care.

When Pansy bent down to kiss him, Draco let her, parting his lips obligingly. When her rolling hips became more insistent, he moaned into her mouth. The instant she let go of his lips, he reached for his wand and spelled the curtains closed around his bed. She had him naked and eager less than a minute later.

And it would have been a fun night, too—if Pansy hadn’t stared at his Dark Mark too long once it was unveiled. Her stare contained so much awe and admiration that it made Draco’s stomach churn when he caught her intense gaze. He had half a mind to flip her over on his bed and take her roughly from behind in response. But just then, the thought struck him that it would have been exactly the kind of thing people like him—Death Eaters—were expected to do. They took without asking, with no regard to the welfare of others, seeking only to fulfil their own needs. Draco may have been branded a Death Eater. But at heart, he wasn’t one.

He violently pushed Pansy off, snarling at her to, “Get out of here.”

“Draco?” she asked, blinking stupidly at him.

“Get. Out. Now.” He made the words sound like separate sentences, and they cut her with their sharp intensity. “And don’t bother coming back again.”

***

Classes were the same monotonous drag they’d been the year before, and Draco’s week sunk to an all-time low when he entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom for a double period with Gryffindor. Those shared double servings—Potions and Defence—were the bane of his existence. Why the headmaster insisted on that grotesque combination, he had no idea. Slytherins would work so much better with the brainier Ravenclaws, or hell, even the anaemic ’Puffs if they had to—anything but the goody-two-shoes lions they were always paired with.

Hermione Granger, for one—insufferable, snotty, know-it-all that she was—was a constant annoyance. How she had any room for a brain beneath all that hair was a mystery to him. Yet Granger had always been able to best his grades, no matter how hard he worked. Inept, cowering, pathetic Neville Longbottom was equally annoying for entirely different reasons—but at least Draco needn’t suffer his ineptitudes in Potions anymore. And then, of course, there was Harry bloody Potter—Boy Who Lived and wizard extraordinaire, the hero of the Wizarding World, the teenager on whose shoulders the fate of humanity rested. What a joke! Scarred forehead, unfashionable glasses that consumed half his face, some kind of exotic bird’s nest for hair—if that was the best the Light could do, they had reasons to be worried. At least Potter didn’t look like he wore hand-me-down clothes anymore. But there was still plenty to criticise about the opposite side’s champion.

As always, Weasley the weasel sat next to him, his ginger hair an affront to everything tasteful. Some golden trio they were. Between the Brainiac Muggleborn and the Pureblood urchin, sixth-year Gryffindor was the embodiment of everything wrong with today’s wizarding society.

“Really? Can no one think of a way to circumvent that?” Professor Nine asked, catching Draco’s attention, for her tone had risen above her usual soft speech. And he surmised this wasn’t the first time she’d had to ask her question—though which question it was, he had no idea.

He couldn’t help but glance at where Granger sat. Her right hand was resting on her table, her fist clenched. Well, well, well—looks like Ms Know-It-All has no idea, he thought mirthfully.

Their tall, raven-haired professor’s chestnut eyes scanned the class, waiting for an adventurous attempt at an answer. He felt her gaze sweep past him, but it didn’t linger. Instead, it came to rest on—Harry Potter, of all people.

“Wandless magic?” the Gryffindor replied tentatively. “House-elves do it all the time for any number of things.”

It must have been the correct answer, for a pleased smile bloomed on their teacher’s glossy lips. A long, pale finger rose to push back the glasses on her nose—a frequent nervous gesture—and she moved back to the centre of the class to launch into a monologue. “Yes, wandless magic, indeed,” she replied. “And that will be the subject of today’s lesson. It will keep us occupied for the next two months or so. Can anyone…”

Draco let their professor’s French-accented voice trail off into the background as he fought to keep his annoyance at bay. Wandless was so passé, and Harry blasted Potter was their new Defence Against the Dark Art’s teacher’s pet. Though she tried not to be too obvious about it, it was undoubtable that Leen Nine favoured him. It wasn’t like Remus Lupin, their third-year teacher, who’d been cheering on the brat due to a shared past with the boy’s father. No, it was something much simpler—Professor Nine liked Potter because he was an excellent student.

And loathe as Draco was to admit it, it was the truth. Somewhere between last year and September 1st, Potter had become skilled at many things. Where he used to barely scrape As in Charms and Transfiguration, he now got frequent Es. Even their exacting Potions’ Professor had been forced to refrain from giving him Ts and had gone as far as to give him an A a month’s back. But Defence was the class where the dark-haired menace most excelled. At times, he knew the answers to questions that left even Granger stumped, which was quite a rarity—as if Boy Wonder needed the ego boost. It almost made Draco regret the days of Dolores Umbridge. Dumb as she had been, at least she’d had it in for Potter and his prim entourage from day one.

The only teacher Draco could still count on to be consistent in his discontent for the scar-faced teen was their dreaded Potions professor. Severus Snape was the only one these days who didn’t toady to Wizarding Britain’s scrawny hero and his lacklustre entourage.

Such a shame their new Defence teacher was so biased. If Nine had favoured Slytherin House a little more, he’d have considered her more than decent and adequate. She did know what she was talking about, and her syllabus was well-structured and tried to cover substantial ground quickly. Professor Nine had never shared her academic background with her students—and Draco hadn’t been bothered to try and find out—but it was obvious she’d had a lot of hands-on experience. It showed in the very stance she sometimes took in class. Her posture slipped into that of a witch ready to duel so quickly and effortlessly that you’d think it was second nature. And the rigorous seriousness with which she led her classes was second to none but Professor Snape.

Yes, under different circumstances, Draco would have enjoyed Leen Nine’s classes very much. But as it was, he wondered why he bothered showing up. What was the point, after all? By the end of the year, it would all be over—or if he should fail, he would be over.

At times like these, he wished his side would lose the damned war. Let Dumbledore and his army of goody-two-shoes win. Let Boy Wonder gallantly sweep in to save the day. Draco couldn’t see himself living in the world of darkness that Voldemort’s rise to power was sure to bring. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, with no third option in sight. It was either fail at the suicide mission he’d been tasked with or succeed, only to earn himself a life of grovelling at a sick bastard’s feet.

He’d never envied Potter as much as he did at that moment. That annoying brat really had it all: the loyal friends, the dedicated teachers standing in his corner, and a headmaster who looked at him like he was the best thing to have passed Hogwarts’ doors in decades. Merlin’s beard, but that sure as hell beat the hand that Fate had dealt him.

***

Draco’s annoying day culminated in an irritating evening spent alone in the Room of Lost Things. He’d spent most of his free time last year in that god-awful mess of a room, amidst knickknacks and clutter, but even that hadn’t been enough. Or so he’d been told when he’d been forced to admit that he hadn’t succeeded in his mission—yet.

Punishment for his failure had been swift and fierce. A slap across the face from his father which resulted in a split lip when his signet ring connected with his tender flesh. And his first experience with the Dark Lord’s favourite brand of punishment—the Cruciatus Curse—later that same night. Something had to be wrong with him that he couldn’t tell which one had hurt more.

Both of the puppeteers that pulled his strings had gone to great lengths to explain to him that he better complete his task—and fast. Seeing as he couldn’t plot a good old-fashioned murder on his own—and boy, had those words hurt when they came out of his mother’s mouth—breaking through Hogwarts’ defences, like the Greeks had done in Troy centuries ago, was the only viable option.

Draco had missed the reference when Narcissa had brought up that famous story. Where his Pureblood mother had learned it from, he had no clue. An opera, maybe? But he had looked it up afterwards. He’d easily found Homer’s book and thumbed his way through the Odyssey until he reached the right chapter detailing that tipping point of the Trojan War. And what an interesting read that had been. Hiding an elite force inside a giant wooden horse and fooling the Trojans into wheeling the horse into the city as a trophy—that was a stroke of genius. Surely the man behind it, Odysseus, had been a wizard.

During the holidays, Draco had proceeded to read the entire book from beginning to end. And when the time came to return to Hogwarts, he’d packed its prequel, the Iliad, at the bottom of his trunk.

He sometimes dreamed that he was Telemachus and working with Athena to find his missing father, Odysseus. The missing war hero had left for Troy when his son was still an infant, and in his absence, his house had been occupied by hordes of suitors seeking the hand of his wife, Penelope.

Even if parts of the story hit too close to home for comfort, those dreams were still much better than the ones that the Dark Lord inspired. But Draco was no Telemachus; he didn’t have a faithful Peisistratus by his side or a benevolent Athena to accompany him on his quest. And his father wasn’t worth finding.

Draco was alone with his herculean task. And should he fail, there would be no one standing between him and a well-aimed Avada Kedavra that would throw him straight over the Styx.

Draco was used to having to watch his back; he’d done it most of his life. But he could usually relax when in Slytherin’s quarters. Sometimes he’d hang out in the common room for a few drinks and games, or he’d have a few laughs with his dormmates before nightfall.

His uncompromising rebuke of Pansy Parkinson had changed all that. He had no idea what the tart had told everyone else when he’d refused her advances. But it had changed the precarious dynamics of the inner House. There was no river to be cried over Pansy’s poor, hurt feelings; she’d been quick to replace him with Blaise Zabini—quite possibly that very night, Draco surmised. Nevertheless, something imperceptible had shifted around him. The insistent looks that tracked his movements were one thing, and the silences when he neared groups of comrades engaged in discussions were another. Are they afraid of me? he wondered? Quite possibly, yes.

Of all the sons and daughters of Death Eaters in attendance, he was, after all, the only one who’d taken the mark. Children were rarely inducted before they reached the age of majority, but the Dark Lord had made an exception for Draco—probably at Lucius’ insistence. Or maybe it was a direct result of his one-of-a-kind position at the centre of the enemy’s lair, where he was in the perfect spot to strike from within.

Either way, his mark had upset the balance and forced Draco to include additional steps in his nightly rituals. On his bed, he placed several Repelling Charms that joined the Silencio he used to keep his nightmares to himself. Then, once the green drapes were closed, he magically sealed them together and strengthened their thickness to something akin to metal.

He was truly alone now. Well—he still had Crabbe and Goyle’s allegiance, of course. But it was only that. There had never been any genuine friendship between the trio. There had been nothing more than their respective parents’ influences—a mirror reflection of the Death Eaters’ own interactions. Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle responded to Lucius Malfoy in much the same way that their sons answered to him.

***

January morphed into February, and snow thawed on the grounds of Hogwarts. The Quidditch game against Ravenclaw was fast approaching, and their Captain, Urquhart, put in a request to double their training sessions. Their Head of House—who didn’t seem to like that his snakes were currently at the bottom of the scoreboard—granted it.

Unable to indulge in the sport anymore, Draco found an excuse to bow out of the team entirely. When he heard a few days later that Harper had replaced him, he knew his godfather could kiss goodbye any hopes he had of housing the Quidditch Cup in his quarters come summer. As it stood, Slytherin would be lucky not to finish last.

Draco had always liked Quidditch; it was the one good thing that was truly his. His talent and, frankly, out-of-this-world abilities weren’t a result of his father’s wealth. They were all his own work—unlike his education, his fine-tailored clothes, and even his haircut. Nothing in his life was his but his ability to play Quidditch.

Sure, his father may have paid for his broom—and the brooms of everyone else on the team—but he was the one flying it, and he knew he bested any other seeker in a race, even on an old Cleansweep. Except for the Potter brat, of course. Boy Wonder, it turned out, was just as good as he was—but then the Fates did like to throw him the odd curveball every now and then.

It had hurt to let go of Quidditch—even more so that it wasn’t really his decision. But it had been made clear to him, over the Christmas break, where his priorities lay—and it wasn’t on the pitch. It was in a dusty old room, piled to the ceiling with long-forgotten knickknacks.

The note he found in his quarters at the end of class, which requested he meet his Head of House at once, was a surprise. Maybe the old chap wanted his chance at holding the Quidditch Cup more than Draco had thought. Steeling his features into his usual mask of nonchalance, he made his way to Severus’ door—the door to his private quarters, of course. The note’s commanding tone had ruffled Draco’s feathers, and his godfather could make it up to him by sharing his good whisky again.

After the usual swishing of the wand and knocking, the Potions Master let him in, and Draco made his way to the sofa. Severus sat in his habitual armchair, and a heavy silence fell over them. His godfather was a man of few words, and he liked dilly-dallying even less. So Draco expected him to waste no time and dive headfirst into the matter at hand. But Severus remained obtusely silent as he stared at the flames in the grate.

Unwilling to play whatever game the older man had in mind, Draco put an end to the silence before it became oppressive. “What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked. “If it’s about Quidditch, you can save your breath. I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

When Severus remained mute, Draco pinned him with his gaze, knowing it was bound to annoy him to the point of action. Besides, if his Head of House wouldn’t talk, he could try to determine some other way to discover why he’d been summoned. The dark-haired wizard looked more tired than he’d expected. The creases at the corner of his eyes were more pronounced than usual, and the skin beneath his lashes was a darker hue. He’d lost some weight, too, if the hollowness of his cheeks was any indication.

Physical clues were all Draco could gain from his close scrutiny. Severus was Occluding something fierce, and all his emotions had been locked tight behind the thick curtains of his lashes. Yet his lips remained tightly pressed together. A little too tightly, Draco noted, and that was a clue, all right. It showed that Severus wanted to talk to him, and yet he didn’t. He was forcefully preventing himself, it would seem.

Now that he’d found his opening, the boy dove in. “What did you want to talk to me about? Quidditch?” he demanded.

“I do not care the least bit about Quidditch,” the man replied at last before pressing his lips together once more. But it was too late. His tone had provided Draco with another clue. It hadn’t been the dark, scathing one he liked to use on unsuspecting students. Nor was it the bland, unaffected tone he resorted to when forced into adult discussions he had no interest in. His voice had held a wealth of emotions, and Draco replayed the sentence in his head a few times to dissect the syllables. There had been anguish there—a sure sign that his godfather was genuinely troubled by something. And so Draco waited for more.

“Your back’s against the wall, isn’t it? You’ve made no headway?” Severus asked at last, and Draco sneered at the words.

He’d never liked being made to feel like a failure, and somehow, that it came from Severus Snape, of all people, hurt even more. He’d asked him here only to criticise him—to berate him for his lack of success. Well, now Draco knew where they stood with each other. His memories of his caring, kind godfather were just that—memories. Severus was no longer on his side, and he’d stopped giving two Knuts about his wellbeing long ago. And Draco didn’t even know what he’d done wrong to earn himself the cold-shoulder treatment.

“I’ve still got time,” he protested. And he did—even if it was running out faster than food on Crabbe’s plate.

The Potions Master glanced his way, looking down at Draco’s forearm, and his obsidian eyes became fixed on the thick black wool of his robes. The Dark Mark wasn’t on display, but they both knew it was there just the same. “You shouldn’t have done this,” he continued sternly as his eyes steadfastly held on.

Draco saw his throat stir as if he wanted to say more, but the Potions Master’s thin, pale lips remained tightly closed. Severus’ emotionless face made it hard to tell if he was angry or simply deeply disappointed. Draco tried to meet his eyes, but Severus looked away, choosing instead to focus his attention on the flames dying a slow death in the fireplace.

Can’t even look at me anymore, can you? Draco thought bitterly. Wasn’t that just grand? Pain surged in him so violently his own lips almost parted to let out the ugly truth, the desperate aching need he felt in his very core.

Help me—please help me, Severus.

He bit his tongue so hard to keep the words at bay that he tasted blood.

He’s going to kill me. Please—I don’t want to die.

But Draco wasn’t a needy child anymore, and he couldn’t run to adults with his every problem. So he remained quiet and smothered the inner voice until it squeaked into submission.

“Do you require assistance—with your task?” Severus asked eventually. And this time, the dark timbre of his voice was so cryptic that Draco doubted anyone but Severus himself could have made sense of it.

“Not from you,” he replied, standing up. He gulped down the blood in his mouth so that it wouldn’t stain his teeth. “You can report back that I’m working as fast as I can. That blasted old thing is a nightmare. But I’ll find a way to sort it out, and the Dark Lord will have what he wants.”

Something shifted on Severus’ face at his words, something that Draco refused to acknowledge as a display of pain. It was so brief that he convinced himself that it must have been a trick of the light. Without another word, he turned on his heel to see himself out.

His godfather did nothing to stop him, and Draco was out of the man’s rooms in no time. He’d planned to go directly to his dorm, but didn’t object when his feet took him to the stairs leading back to the ground floor instead. Minutes later, he was out of the front door and into the cold February night.

Despite the chill in the air, Draco took a deep, long breath and held it in for a few seconds before exhaling. Then he repeated the action two more times, realising that he had needed that. A breath of fresh air—and the illusion that there was some freedom left in his life and not everyone was trying to control him.

His head was a mess of conflicting thoughts. He couldn’t reconcile Severus’ behaviour with what he knew of him. Most of it was on par with the man he knew him to be, but the odd piece here and there simply refused to fit in with the rest of the jigsaw. Severus’ hesitance was foreign to him, and there had been a moment when he’d seemed to genuinely care. That, too, was an odd display for him. Had he been trying to trick him? Was he playing some kind of twisted mind-game on him? Was it an ill-concealed attempt to gain his trust to better keep him on a tight leash? What was he hoping to gain? Did he think Draco would now come and pour his heart and soul out to him, reveal his every hesitation and doubts, just so that he could be punished with another bout of Cruciatus when he next met his Lord? Did he really think that Draco was that stupid?

It hurt—damn, the colliding thoughts hurt. But when tears sprung into Draco’s eyes, he blamed them on the cold, biting February air. Severus was his godfather; he was family—once. He should have been on his side—like his parents. But he, too, had shown where his true allegiances lay, and it turned out that, these days, family meant little anymore.

Taking a few steps forward into the sluggish snow that blanketed the courtyard, Draco turned on his heel to face the imposing facade of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It loomed tall and imposing in front of him, and he felt small and desperate as he faced it—and alone. So utterly alone.

He was backed into a tight corner, and the walls were closing in on him. His time was running out, and the Damocles sword magically held above his head swung lower and lower.

***

Increasingly, Potter was proving to be an annoyance. It was no secret that the two had it in for each other and got into a fight—verbal or physical—every chance they got. But their little game had stopped being fun a long time ago.

Everywhere Draco went, there was the shaggy-haired brat with an eye out for him. Merlin, but it had gotten to the point where he wasn’t even trying to be discreet about it anymore. Granger and Weasley had apparently given up on trying to get Boy Wonder to change his mind, too, for they were conspicuously absent most of the time. Or perhaps they were too busy snogging in a corner or something. Not that Draco thought they would do much more than that. He’d bet a Galleon Ms I’m-all-brains was too prudish to consider taking her clothes off, and the weasel too clumsy-fingered to do more than attempt to lethargically eat his way down her throat.

Gryffindor’s hero, constantly breathing down Draco’s neck, remained a nuisance. And boy, was he good at tailing him. Whenever Draco tried giving him the slip, Potter invariably found him again in no time—like they were playing some twisted game of hide-and-seek. So much so that Draco wondered if Potter had placed a Magical Trace on him or something. He’d checked one evening but found nothing to explain the prat’s uncanny ability to keep track of him through the meandering hallways full of bustling students going from one class to the next. Potter was just that good, it would seem.

The only times he managed to move freely anymore were after curfew. While Draco had no qualms about breaking the rules to relocate to the seventh floor to get more work done, it seemed that Gryffindor courage only went so far.

And so the young Slytherin had been forced to revise his schedule to work around Potter’s attempt at sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. He stopped trying to get to the Room of Requirement during daylight hours, instead spending time in the library or in the dorms, where he studied schematics and spells older and dustier than the cobweb in the Room of Lost Things. But come nightfall, he moved to the seventh floor to put what he’d studied during the day into practice.

It wasn’t a perfect solution, but he couldn’t afford to have Potter discover what he was up to. The tattletale would run back to the headmaster at once, eager to spill the beans to get his reward Lemon Drop. Merlin knew, he’d probably earn a couple of hundred extra points for Gryffindor in the process.

***

It was later than he’d intended when Draco reached the seventh-floor hallway. Though it was dimly lit, he found his way effortlessly. He’d been coming to the Room of Requirement so often that he could have done it in pitch-black darkness.

Draco had found a new spell in an old carpentry book that he wanted to try. It was said to be able to restore the cellulose in the wood to a near-pristine condition. If that didn’t work, he’d try good old-fashioned polish and elbow grease next. That was how desperate he was to make the blasted thing work.

Distracted as he was by his own thoughts, he never saw his teacher coming until it was too late, and he’d been backed into a corner, a brightly lit wand-tip in his face. Whoever was facing him had started in on his or her rounds early.

Heart pounding in his chest, eyes burning in pain, Draco brought a shaking hand up to shield his gaze from the blazing light.

“You better have a good explanation, Mr Malfoy,” his attacker said, “or points will be deducted from Slytherin House.”

Soft-spoken as it had been, the woman’s voice was unmistakable. The reserved tone and slight French accent told him that he’d been caught by their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Leen Nine.

“Mind lowering your light, Professor Nine?” he asked as he wracked his brain for a suitable reply.

“Ah, désolée,” she said, and Draco realised this had to be the first time he’d ever heard her speaking French. The light dimmed, and she moved her wand to the side for good measure.

Blinking back tears, Draco could finally focus on her face. She looked as she always did. Much like their Potions Master, Nine always wore the same clothes. Her dark hair was pulled into the same tight chignon it always was. For jewellery, she wore the same sparkling earrings—though she’d added a charms bracelet during the holidays. And her blouse was the same shade of blue, regardless of the season. Severus wore his clothes like armour, Draco knew, and he wondered what her excuse was.

“Your answer?” she asked with a demanding raised eyebrow when his silence had lasted too long.

Having no believable lie to feed her, Draco went with a variant of the truth. “I had to recover something from the Room of Requirement, ma’am,” he said, thinking that if she didn’t know such a room existed, it wasn’t his problem.

She took it in stride and barely blinked at him. “And it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” Her raised onyx brow stayed where it was as her eyes narrowed at him, and Draco felt studied like a Mandrake on a dissecting table. “I wonder what could be so urgent, Mr Malfoy?”

“His medicine, probably,” said a dark voice that seemed to materialise from the shadows.

Draco wasn’t the only one who hadn’t heard the Potions Master arriving, and Professor Nine cowered in fear as he stepped into the light, an imposing figure clad in ample black robes. Her hand shook a little as it lowered an inch or two, and the light at the tip of her wand dimmed.

Looks like first years aren’t the only ones Severus can scare off with his mere presence, thought Draco as he fought to keep a smirk off his face.

“Medicine?” Nine asked, voice now so soft it was barely audible.

Once more, he was saved from having to reply by his godfather’s interruption. “A sensitive subject, I’m afraid,” Severus said. “One I have been appraised off as Mr Malfoy’s Head of House.”

Choosing to go along with whatever lie the man had thought of, Draco added. “I’ve run out of it, and I keep my supply here.” A pause followed that he hoped had some dramatic flair. “I need to take it every evening.”

The woman raised an eyebrow at his words. “Why would you keep it here, of all places?”

Severus lent a helping hand again. “You’ve clearly never been to the Slytherin quarters, Professor,” he said before forcing out a sigh that Draco felt was a touch too theatrical. “I am forced to admit that adherence to the rules sometimes leaves a little to be desired within my House—particularly where personal belongings are concerned. It was my suggestion that Mr Malfoy keeps his stock in a more secure location. The medicine is rather valuable, after all.”

Beautifully done, Draco thought, thankful for his godfather’s quick thinking. There would be no arguing that, and it was an excuse he could use again should he find himself in a similar situation in the future. In truth, if word got out amongst the staff of today’s incident, it would only help him.

His Defence Against the Dark Art’s professor wasn’t willing to admit to her defeat quite yet, though. “You will do well to retrieve your—valuables during the day next time, Mr Malfoy,” she said. “Or remember to ask your Head of House to accompany you, should you run in so late to take your medicine again.”

He nodded, affecting a chastised look. “Of course, Professor. I didn’t really notice the time when I left the dorms.”

“I’ll see to it that Mr Malfoy takes more care with his undertakings,” his godfather said with a pointed look that all but screamed, ‘You’re almost in the clear. Now do shut up’. “The impetuousness of youth, I’m afraid.”

Has the man just called me a child to my face? Draco wondered, feeling his blood boil. Somehow, that sentiment must have been reflected on his features, for Severus hastened to add, “We’d best be going before you land yourself in more trouble, Mr Malfoy.”

A long arm clad in black to the knuckles reached for his shoulder, and he was yanked forward until his feet followed, and he stood by his Head of House’s side. Not only had he been told he acted like a child, but he was manhandled as if he were one.

Draco had half a mind to fight himself free of the man’s tight grip. He didn’t need his help, anyway. He hadn’t needed the rescue either; he’d have found a way on his own. What did Severus Snape care what happened to him, anyway? Was he trying to make a good impression on their new teacher and look like the honourable Head of House he was supposed to be? What kind of scheme was he trying to pull off now?

Their Defence professor saw through him once more, and she doled out a warning. “These are dark days, Mr Malfoy, and help is in short supply. When someone reaches out a hand to you, it’s best not to fight it off—no matter how clumsy it is.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away. The light from her wand disappeared with her as she rounded the next corner. It was soon replaced by a similar nonverbal Lumos burning off the tip of Severus’ wand.

Professor Nine’s parting words had stunned Draco into silence, and he let himself be led away without protest.

What did she know? he thought bitterly as a familiar rage rose in him again. Severus wasn’t trying to help him; he didn’t care. Severus was just another servant doing his master’s bidding, nothing more. And what had he been doing in the seventh-floor corridor so late at night? Had he been spying on his godson to make sure that he was toeing the line?

And what if, one day, Draco decided not to do as he was told anymore? Would Severus report him to the Dark Lord himself? Would he be the one doling out the punishment this time—a slap to the face from his hand, followed by a Cruciatus from his wand?

Deep inside of him, a broken, childlike voice sobbed, pleading for some compassion and help.

Why don’t you love me anymore?

But the voice was so small, broken, and distant that it never made it past the confines of his chest.

Draco was finishing up in the shower room when his arm began to feel like it had just gone up in flames. Anguished, he rolled up his sleeve to peer at his flesh but found only unblemished skin—save for the black tattoo undulating along the length of his forearm. Draco had never seen it move like that before. But it was agitated now, and the snake’s eyes glowed menacingly.

Though he’d never felt like this before, he knew what it meant: a Summon. And Lord Voldemort’s Summons could only be answered in one suitable way: instant Apparition. He was in Hogwarts, however, and no one could Apparate from within the castle. Never mind that he didn’t really know how to Apparate on his own, either.

Depositing his comb on the porcelain counter, Draco rushed out of the Slytherin dorm as if his robes were on fire, not minding when he bumped into several students on his way out. Clutching at his arm to keep some of the pain at bay, he dashed into the Potions classroom—only to find it empty. Crossing through at a run, he barged into his godfather’s office without bothering to knock.

“Draco?” Severus asked, looking up from the papers he’d been grading. For once, surprise was evident on his face. The tip of his quill had been recently dipped in blood-red ink, and it dripped onto the white parchment below.

It was an ominous sight, and Draco’s stomach churned even as he said, “The mark—it burns.” Not his most loquacious moment, but it did the trick. Severus was out of his chair and reaching for his robes an instant later. He quickly grabbed Draco’s arm and dragged him out of the castle.

Severus didn’t let go when they reached the grounds; he kept pulling all the way to the gates. Draco said nothing, too focused on fighting off the pain, which had doubled in the last five minutes. He’d heard that the Dark Lord wasn’t a patient man, but Draco had yet to experience his displeasure. He had half a mind to complain about the rough treatment at Severus’ hands. But at the moment, his sole focus was on getting to wherever they were going as quickly as possible so that the pain would end.

When his godfather brusquely stopped in his tracks, Draco bumped into his shoulder.

“I haven’t passed my Apparation test yet,” he explained, stating the obvious once more.

He needn’t have worried; Severus hadn’t let go of his arm. “I’ll be going with you,” he replied. “Just focus on the Dark Mark and its connection to our Lord. I’ll read your mind and take us there.”

Draco nodded, ready to comply.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to, and keep your attitude in check at all times,” Severus advised.

Draco nodded again, eager to get going. It must not have been enough to pacify his godfather, who grabbed Draco’s chin, forcing him to meet his obsidian gaze. “Did you hear what I said, child? This isn’t a game. If he’s unhappy with you, it will hurt—a lot. And I will be unable to help you.”

Something in the man’s words and tone unleashed a fresh wave of fear within him. And he knew his gaze had turned desperate, but he couldn’t help it. “Severus…” he whispered in a panting breath, the word a feeble plea.

His godfather took a step closer, and his hand trailed upward to cup his cheek. The warmth was a soothing comfort—a clear contrast to the chilly February air that nipped at him from all sides. In his haste, he’d forgotten to take his coat.

“Occlude as best you can, and don’t give him lip,” Severus instructed, his own voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t fight back, no matter what happens. It’ll be quicker that way.”

There was concern in his obsidian eyes now; this was the man he’d known when he was a child. Seeing him again brought Draco the strength he needed to nod his head, steel himself, and prepare to face his fate.

He felt the tell-tale signs of Apparition take hold of him, and he closed his eyes, even as he held his breath.

The pain vanished the instant they arrived. Looking around, Draco tried locating himself, but it was a wide courtyard he’d never been to before. He’d expected Malfoy Manor, but this was something entirely different: an old cloister, maybe. Though he couldn’t see a cathedral or church in the distance, the covered walk Severus was dragging him to left little to interpretation. The colonnaded arches may have been worn-out and on the verge of collapsing in on themselves, but they remained part of a monastic foundation.

Severus must have been here before because he took the lead once more, stringing Draco along barren, dimly lit corridors until they reached a set of tall, wooden double doors. The wizard Draco knew as Wormtail stood guard next to it, shifting from one foot to the other in nervousness. His nose sniffed at the air around him like a mouse who’d caught a whiff of cheese.

“He isn’t expecting you,” he said to Severus.

“I had to help Draco out of Hogwarts, and he doesn’t know how to Apparate, anyway,” his godfather said by way of answer. Severus’ gaze was hard, his jaw locked tight. The shorter, plump wizard cowered a little before his imposing stature. Resigned, he pushed the doors open to let them both in.

The room was as dark and austere as the exteriors led you to expect. A lone, throne-like chair—that reminded Draco of Dumbledore’s chair at the High Table but with more black and less gold—stood in the middle of the empty space. Sitting comfortably in it was the Dark Lord himself.

Draco only had an instant to take in his features before Severus’ grasp tightened painfully around his arm, and he remembered to look down. Not that he’d wanted to look at that noseless, pale, greyish face and those red-slitted eyes any longer.

“Ah, Severus, my old friend,” the Dark Lord said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Draco felt rather than saw the Potions Master bow as they both came to a stop three feet away from the throne. “My Lord,” he said, his tone most amicable.

“How kind of you to have seen to it that Draco came,” the sibilant voice continued. “And practical that you should be able to get him home afterwards.”

Draco’s mind almost went into overdrive at the words. What did he mean by ‘practical’? Did he intend to hurt him to the point where he could not return home of his own volition? Remembering that he ought to be Occluding, Draco brought his shields up one after the other, and soon, large slates of Black Marquina marble stood, fortress tall, in front of him. The dark marble was polished to such a shine that it was as reflective as a mirror. The ivory-coloured veins crisscrossing over the surface seeming to come to life with their intensity. Draco felt better immediately as the fear was caught behind the walls, the same as everything else.

At a flicker of the Dark Lord’s wand, Draco’s knees buckled, and he knelt on the floor. He didn’t fight it, allowing a demure “My lord” to pass his lips.

“And what of you, my young servant?” Lord Voldemort asked. “And of your progress within Hogwarts? When can we expect to invade the lion’s den?”

Draco licked his lips as he sought a pleasing answer. “I’m still working on it, my Lord,” he said, keeping his tone in check. “But I’m close; I know it.”

The wand in Voldemort’s pale, grey fingers twitched, and Draco tensed in anticipation, but the pain didn’t come. It had been only a nervous twitch, not the beginning of a spell meant to hurt him. He let out a shaky breath.

“What do you think of that?” the Dark Lord asked, his sibilant voice rising in volume as if he were asking the room at large. As far as Draco knew, he and Severus were the only two guests at the moment. But he hadn’t really been paying attention when they’d entered.

He heard someone stepping closer and realised more people were present. At least two more, he thought, going by the sound their heels made on the dark stones. It was a man and a woman.

“If Draco says he’s near,” he heard his father say, “he must be near.”

“Draco wouldn’t lie, my Lord,” his mother added. “Not to you, my Lord.”

Draco gulped despite himself. He couldn’t understand why his parents were here. He hadn’t seen them since his return to Hogwarts. They hadn’t so much as sent an owl, and he’d assumed they were still at the Manor, playing perfect host to Voldemort’s entourage. Had they been summoned as he had? But then why the family reunion? Did the Dark Lord suspect he was lying and want his parents to confirm that he wasn’t? If so, that was a terrible plan; he’d gotten quite a lot past them in recent years.

“Is that so?” the Dark Lord asked, and a duet of “Yes, my Lord,” replied in unison.

The Malfoys had stopped a few feet behind him, which meant Draco couldn’t see them at all. But at the tone, he could guess at their stance—heads bowed like his was. Deep contrition on his father’s face that betrayed his need to please his master, to be a good Death Eater so that he’d be rewarded one way or another. And by his side, his mother, cold as ever—except for her eyes. There’d be a gleam in them, a definite sign that she was alive and not an ice sculpture. The proof that she burned for this moment, for the attention and the praise, as much as her husband did.

Chancing a look to his right, Draco glanced at the only face he could see, that of his godfather. He was a little awed to discover that it revealed nothing. Aunt Bellatrix hadn’t lied when she’d said Severus was the best Occlumen she’d ever met; his barrier was so complete that he gave absolutely nothing away.

When he felt the Dark Lord’s attention return to him, Draco quickly looked down at the floor again. It was an ugly shade of blueish-grey, and it could do with a bit of a polish.

“Look at me,” Voldemort ordered, and Draco complied, forcing himself to meet the blood-red gaze. “Now, tell me again how it is going.”

And Draco did. He told the man everything he could think of. And all the while, Draco felt the Dark Lord’s carmine gaze bore into him, dragging itself and bags of filth into the last confines of his soul. Searing pain surged through him as the Dark Lord tore through slate after slate of marble until he got to the truth behind them. A scream tore through Draco’s throat mid-sentence as the last barrier fell, and there was no need for words anymore. The Dark Lord could see the answers for himself—and a plethora of other things along the way. The young Slytherin was powerless to stop him as the dark wizard dredged up memory after memory, taking a perverse pleasure in lingering on a wild night where he’d shagged Pansy on the platform of the Astronomy Tower in their fifth year.

When the Dark Lord finally retreated from his mind, Draco felt as if his head had been torn open. He had a hard time remaining upright. Panting as if he’d just ran a marathon, it was hard to fight off the wave of nausea that threatened to overthrow him. And that was nothing compared to how violated he felt, knowing the dark wizard had seen so many of his private thoughts.

“You’d do well to redouble your efforts, young man,” the Dark Lord said in warning, and Draco fought to regain enough control to appear to pay attention to the words said to him. “You have until the end of the term to succeed. If you don’t—you won’t like what will happen to you then, I assure you.”

Draco nodded frantically, not trusting himself to speak without vomiting.

“You may go now,” he said, and Draco felt so much relief that it wouldn’t hurt more that he almost sagged to the floor. He had just started to rise when the Dark Lord said, “But first, a little incentive…”

If Draco thought he’d been Crucioed before, he was wrong. Whatever he had felt that day at Malfoy Manor had been nothing compared to the torment of proper punishment. His veins felt like they were filled with liquid fire as every nerve alighted. For long minutes that felt like a small eternity, he writhed in agony. At some point, he threw up, nearly choking to death in the process. Everything hurt everywhere, and there was no escaping the pain, even as his body contorted and spasmed, desperately seeking a way to relieve itself of the ache. Screams tore from his throat until he lost the strength to yell anymore. But his mouth didn’t get the memo, gaping open as his throat desperately tried to push enough air out of his inflamed lungs to produce a sound. The torture may only have lasted minutes, but it felt like hours.

Draco had hoped to pass out at some point. But the pain kept him rooted to the moment, forcing him to withstand each excruciating second until finally—finally, the Dark Lord put an end to the torture session. By that point, Draco was a most undignified pool of tears and snot on the floor, unable to tell which way was up anymore. His parents had been there, hadn’t they? He tried to remember if that was true or if he’d imagined it. He must have imagined it, he realised, for they wouldn’t have let him be tortured for so long otherwise, surely.

Someone else was there, though; a large pair of hands moved over him, cradling his head and shoulders to ease him up into a sitting position. But Draco had lost control of his limbs at the same time he’d lost control of his bodily functions; he could only moan. He leaned into whoever was at his side with all his weight. His cheek came to rest against coarse wool, and an aromatic scent, woody and mildly herbaceous, made it through his nose. Though he couldn’t place it anymore, the smell felt comforting in its familiarity.

Upon awaking, Draco knew without opening his eyes that he wasn’t in his room. The sheets beneath him were wrong, for one: plain cotton instead of the smooth silk he was used to. The smells weren’t that of a room where several teenagers had been sleeping in for hours, and Goyle’s incessant snoring was made conspicuous by its absence.

It wasn’t home either, and it didn’t smell like the infirmary. So, where the hell was he? Opening heavy-lidded eyes, he got his answer in the form of a sleeping Potions Master sitting in a chair, inches away from his bed—well, Severus’ bed, most likely. His godfather’s head rested on his chest, and his eyes were closed. He looked utterly exhausted and more than a little uncomfortable folded as he was on the small chair. But he was there, and he’d let Draco sleep in his bed. And something warm pooled in the blond’s chest at the thought, even as moisture appeared in his eyes.

Draco tried moving, reaching out a hand to wake him from the uncomfortable position he’d fallen asleep in, but searing pain stopped him cold. Feeling as if his arm had been dipped into molten lava all of a sudden, a moan escaped his lips as he stilled himself. Severus’ hands were on him an instant later.

“Hush, Draco,” he said, voice a little raspy from having just woken up. “Don’t move just yet.”

Draco let himself be pushed back onto the mattress and rearranged into a more comfortable position. When his godfather pressed a glass phial to his lips an instant later, he obligingly swallowed without question. Whatever it was tasted foul, but it made some of the pain go away. So, it wasn’t that bad. Severus’ hand was on him again, his fingers losing themselves in Draco’s hair, and he leaned slightly into Severus’ touch as his eyes lost the battle to stay open, and he fell back to sleep.

***

The next time he woke up, Draco immediately knew where he was. And he was conscious enough to swallow the few spoonfuls of soup that Severus fed him without a word of complaint. The soup was followed by another potion, which catapulted him back into the arms of Morpheus instants later.

***

The third time was the charm, as the saying goes. And Draco could prop himself up to a mostly sitting position against Severus’ plump navy-blue pillows. His mind focused on the colour to analyse it more thoroughly. It was blue—not green or silver, but blue. Looking around the bedroom of Slytherin’s Head of House, he realised that both House colours were absent from the decor. The walls were eggshell, and the bookcase that lined the right wall was light oak, as was the wardrobe that stood on the opposite wall.

Looking closer to where he lay, underneath an equally blue blanket, Draco found that the bed and bedside table were of a matching type of wood. The room’s simple furniture gave the place a homey, comfortable feel. It was far from the austere, dark crypt students seemed to expect from Severus Snape.

Speaking of Severus, the man was nowhere in sight. And Draco couldn’t hear a sound, save for his own breathing. Looking back at the bedside table, he found that his godfather had left him a sandwich, a crystal phial with something blue inside, and a note. He reached for the note first, instantly recognising the spidery scrawl.

“Eat the sandwich first, then drink the potion—all of it.
I will be back once classes end.

Do not leave my rooms. I mean it!
S.”

Draco happily obliged, taking a large bite of the curry chicken sandwich that had been left for him. It was his favourite, he noted, surprised that Severus would have remembered. He was hungrier than he’d thought, he realised, and he polished off his plate in no time. He postponed drowning the potion right away, though. Draco did not know what it was, and he feared that it would put him right back to sleep. He refused to waste this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to pry through Severus’ most personal sanctum. A poor way to repay the man for his kindness? Well, yes, it was—but Draco was a Slytherin, and so was Severus. And honestly, his Head of House might take it as a personal affront to the very memory of Salazar if Draco didn’t at least try to snoop a little.

Fighting off the bout of dizziness that surged when he got vertical, Draco took small tentative steps to the bookshelf, curious as to which titles he would find. Severus’ office was filled with potions books—various recipe repertoires ranging from rudimentary to so complex that they took over a week to brew. There were also academic treaties on the subject, thought-provoking essays written by some fellow potioneers, and a few books that would be more at home in the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher’s office.

Severus’ living room’s bookshelves had their own sets of tomes, and they were of a different variety. Historical volumes sat next to books on Creature Lore and accounts of vampire encounters. Philosophical manifestos debated the merits of race status within their society, and there were a dozen more thick volumes on just as many subjects. But here, in Severus’ bedroom, Draco discovered that the books were all Muggle literature. He didn’t recognise a single name—but then, the only Muggle books he’d ever read in his life were Homer’s.

There were many tomes by a chap named Arthur Conan Doyle—and really, you’d have to be a Muggle to have a name made up of three first names. Further along, he found several thick, leather-bound editions written by someone who went by J. R. R. Tolkien. And really, who but a Muggle would choose to use three initials and zero first names? Out of curiosity, he plucked the first one out. The Fellowship of the Ring, it was called. And Draco flipped it over to read the back cover. It sounded interesting enough.

Deciding that he might need something to pass the time if the potion didn’t put him to sleep, he took it with him as he continued to discover the room. The grand tour of Severus Snape’s bedroom didn’t take him long. Save for the wardrobe, the bed area, and the bookshelf, there was little else to see. With a smirk, he moved to the pièce de résistance, the grand finale, the object of many a speculation amongst Hogwarts students past and present: Severus Snape’s armoire. It was a plain, double-door oak wardrobe, seven feet tall and about three feet wide. Reaching for both metallic knobs at once, Draco pulled open both doors and stared at the contents revealed to his curious gaze.

Laughter bubbled from his throat at the copious amount of identical sets of clothes it contained. Black trousers, check. Black frock coats, check. Long-sleeved white undershirts, check. Boy, the man was predictable. Draco found one or two dark-coloured hoodies and two jumpers, but he feared those didn’t see the light of day very often—forgotten as they were at the bottom of the lowest shelf.

***

When Severus returned that evening, the four Hobbits had just gotten to Rivendell, and the elves that lived there weren’t anything like the elves Draco knew. He was reluctant to put down his book. But his godfather had come bearing gifts—or rather, a very large tray laden with supper and dessert. Draco figured the race to save Middle-Earth could wait.

“How are you feeling?” Severus asked after he’d taken a few bites.

“Much better,” Draco replied truthfully. His body didn’t ache much anymore. And the last potion had taken care of what was left of his headache. In all honesty, he’d felt worse after some of his more brutal Quidditch games than he felt now. “Thanks,” he added, feeling that a modicum of gratitude was needed.

Severus gave him the barest nod of acknowledgement, and Draco’s appetite sagged. It felt like their relationship had shifted yet again. This was no longer Severus, his Severus. It was Professor Snape, Hogwarts’ austere Potions Master, and Lord Voldemort’s personal potioneer Death Eater. Draco found that he missed the man he’d been reunited with, however briefly, last night. The man who had cared for him and tended to his injuries. The man who’d offered him warmth and protection and had brought him solace from the pain, hurt, and shame.

“Finish your food,” his Head of House instructed sternly from where he was leaning against the wardrobe with his arms crossed over his chest. The chair he’d dragged over from the kitchenette the night before had been gone when he’d woken up. And with Draco in bed, Severus had nowhere to sit.

“I’m not that hungry anymore, sir,” he protested. A flash of hurt passed through his godfather’s tired eyes at the formal address.

He half-expected the man to call him Mr Malfoy in reply, but he went with the more minimal, “Eat, anyway.”

And Draco did because Severus’ tone meant he had better comply. He forced the rest of his mashed peas down without tasting them and almost choked on a piece of cod that he’d cut too big in his haste. He drew the line at the desert, though. There was no way his stomach could digest that slice of strawberry cheesecake.

Severus didn’t give him any grief over it and simply levitated the tray away and back to the kitchenette in the other room. When he came back, he had a chair with him, and he placed it by the bedside table again in the same spot where it had been the night before. Sitting on it backwards, he rested both arms on the wooden back and, in a rare display of vulnerability, leaned his head forward until his forehead rested on his folded arms.

When his head lifted back again, moments later, Severus looked exhausted, old, and weary to the bone. And Draco squirmed a little, unsettled as he was to see his godfather so open, as if all his Occlumency barriers had been removed—or, at least, a good portion of them.

“How are you, really?” he asked, his tone genuinely concerned. Draco looked down and shrugged. He wasn’t sure how to reply to that. “Yes, the Dark Lord’s displeasure tends to have that effect on many people,” Severus said at last, seeming to have understood the silent response.

Draco wasn’t going to reply, but words tumbled out of his mouth of their own accord an instant later. “My parents—” he choked out. “They—they just stood by. They did nothing, while—while—”

He was unable to continue, so horrid was the thought. If it had been only him and Severus, he could have understood. He’d been given a task, and he’d failed. Thus, he’d been punished. But that his parents had been there, that they had stood by without so much as a word to try and stop what everyone in that room knew would happen…

“If it’s any consolation, Draco,” Severus said after a world-weary sigh, “they weren’t at liberty to do anything.”

“Don’t make excuses for them,” Draco said, and the words came out harsher than he’d intended them to. He barely remembered leaving that dreadful place, but he’d been cognizant enough to retain a few flashes of his parents’ faces. And it wasn’t concern that he’d seen on his father’s features—only discontent and disgust. And there had been nothing on his mother’s icy exterior, as usual. They hadn’t said or done anything to help him—only Severus had.

“It’s complicated, the—”

“What’s bloody complicated about it, Severus?” Draco roared. “They did nothing, said nothing. They just stood by and watched it happen. And then they just looked down on me like I wasn’t even worthy of being their son.” He was well aware that he sounded like a child throwing a tantrum, but he couldn’t stop himself. Months of repressed anxiety and fear were getting the better of him, it seemed. “It’s simple enough to understand; it’s not complicated at all. Not a word—not even a gesture of comfort. They gave me nothing! My own parents.” He was crying now—he could feel it, but still, he couldn’t stop the words from pouring out. “My own parents, Severus! And they did nothing. Why? Why?”

Draco couldn’t help asking that one word even as tears turned into sobs, and all the pain that he felt came pouring out. And his godfather mustn’t have had the answer for it, either, for he kept quiet. But he had something better to offer. Sitting up, Severus was by Draco’s side an instant later, and he wrapped the crying boy in his arms as he kept pleadingly asking why.

Though the pain seemed to want to tear at his heart until it was no more than a gaping, bleeding hole, Draco was keenly aware of Severus’ presence by his side. The familiar woody and herbaceous scent that came from spending hours hunched over boiling cauldrons; the deep velvety voice that was impossibly his as it murmured a litany of shushing words; the warmth that brought back so many memories of earlier, better times. This was his Severus again: the man who’d always been there for him as far back as he remembered. The one who carved little figurines for him to play with when he was a child and never complained about reading the same inane bedtime story over and over again every time he visited. The man he didn’t want to be forced to lose ever again.

“Please don’t go, Severus,” Draco heard himself plead through the sobs. “Please don’t go again.” He felt his godfather’s strong arms tighten around his shoulder, and he buried himself deeper within his embrace even as his fingers grabbed fistfuls of his dark robes. “Please. Please. Please don’t go again.”

It wasn’t until Draco felt the chin resting above his head nod that he allowed himself to be comforted enough to let go of some of the fear. And it took him long minutes to get his breathing back under enough control for sleep to claim him.

***

Draco was once more alone in Severus’ bed when he woke up the next day. Casting a quick Tempus, he saw that, though it had already started, breakfast wasn’t over yet, and he still had time to be ready for class. Looking around, he found no note or sandwich. So, he let himself out of his godfather’s rooms. After a quick change of clothes, he joined his comrades in the Great Hall for however many bites he’d have time for before he had to head to Transfiguration.

He only saw Severus in passing during the day and received little more than a nod of acknowledgement from the man. Unsure once more where they stood, Draco suffered through his classes in silence. He got his answer that evening, though, when he found a book on his pillow that was most definitely not his. It was a leather-bound volume from a Muggle author who’d chosen to use a set of initials instead of a first name. It was a story about elves that didn’t behave like any he knew and a boy who’d been given an impossible task to accomplish. It was Severus’ copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Draco returned to his task like a man sentenced to death going to the gallows. Day after day, week after week, he tried to mend the stupid thing, but the Vanishing Cabinet remained resolutely beyond repair.

Spring bloomed around the Scottish Loch, and even the Whomping Willow flourished, branches bourgeoning all the way to their tips. But Draco had no interest in nature; O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s exams were but a week away, and his time to complete his assignment was drawing to a close.

He’d brought a new book with him tonight, leather-bound and so old that some pages were fraying at the edges, its ink illegible in some parts. It contained long-forgotten spells he was eager to try. Some weren’t even in English, but he’d try them anyway—that was how desperate he was. He was on attempt number four when the impossible happened.

A voice that had no business being in the room said, “Move away from that thing, Malfoy.”

Draco froze where he was, crouched by the Vanishing Cabinet—incriminating evidence in hand. He’d recognise that voice anywhere. Without needing to look over his shoulder, he knew that he’d just been caught by Gryffindor’s golden boy himself—Harry Potter.

Closing the book, he placed it on the bottom of the cabinet before standing and taking an obliging step to the left. His wand was in his trouser pocket, and he cursed himself for having put it there. Standing as he was, with Boy Wonder at his back, he couldn’t reach for it without being seen.

“Don’t move,” Potter ordered before stepping closer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw him approach, stopping inches from the Vanishing Cabinet. “What are you even trying to do with that old thing?” he asked.

He tried not to let his fear show and fought to get some of his haughty swagger back in a vain attempt to deflect. “Not that it’s any of your business, Potter, but I’m a collector of antiquities,” he replied. “This is quite the treat; it would fetch an acceptable price at auctions once restored.”

“Right!” Potter snorted. “You’ll have me believe that’s what you’ve been doing coming here every other night for the past—how long has it been now? Six, seven months?”

Draco barely stopped himself from cursing aloud. How the hell did that prat know that? Wait—was he bluffing? Sure, Draco knew that Potter was keeping tabs on him. But the prat couldn’t possibly have known that he came to the Room of Requirement so often.

“That cabinet’s not the only interesting thing here,” Draco said, not minding if it made him sound as if he were looting the place. That was still better than Potter figuring everything out.

“Yeah, right. You could probably buy the entire school, Malfoy. Why would you need to steal anything?”

Could he? His mind couldn’t help but start running the numbers. He stopped himself with a shake of his head and focused all his attention on the task at hand. And on Potter, who had gotten way too close to the Vanishing Cabinet, even if he didn’t know yet what it was.

The annoying Gryffindor kept his wand trained on him as he took another step towards the cabinet to peer inside. Draco’s hand moved lower, and the tips of his fingers touched wood when Potter’s “Hmm” stopped him.

“The hinges are misaligned,” he said eventually. “The first four are okay, but the plate of the one on top is too far back. It’ll never close properly.”

“What are you going on about?” Draco said, forgetting everything about Potter’s wand and his need to reach for his own. His head was next to the raven-haired wizard an instant later so that he could check the hinges’ positioning for himself.

“I wonder…” Potter said thoughtfully. Then he flicked his wrist and uttered, “Reparo.”

The small hinge jumped to the side and settled into its new slot as if it had always been there, and Draco pulled back in surprise. Potter took the opportunity to reach for the door and push it close so that he could check his work for himself.

“No! Don’t close it, Potter.” Draco grabbed his hand to stop him, but it was too late. The Vanishing Cabinet’s door closed, and the whole thing shook. Magic surged from within as a halo of light seeped through the cracks around the opening.

“No, no, no,” Draco chanted as he reached forward to force the door open again. At first, it refused to give, and it was only when the Vanishing Cabinet had stopped trembling that he could pry it open again. The book wasn’t there anymore; it had crossed through to the other side. And if anyone had been present when that happened, it would be minutes until the Dark Lord was informed that the task had been completed.

“What did you do, you moron?” Draco lamented in frustration, shoving Potter backwards in a very Muggle-ish way.

They had no time. Only bloody Potter was still standing there, his wand drawn, with an expression of pure incomprehension on his face. Of all the times to be Gryffindor’s moronic hero, he’d had to pick that one.

“Get out of here, Potter,” Draco said. “They’ll be here any minute now.”

“Who will?” he asked, his wand-hand not lowering an inch. “And where did that book go?”

“Just piss off, Potter,” he tried again. “For your own good.”

“Like hell, I will. I don’t know what you’re up to, Malfoy, but that’s enough from you. I’m telling Professor Nine about this. We’ll see what she has to say about it.”

“Whatever, Potter,” Draco said, grasping at straws. “Run along. Go tell the headmaster himself for all I care—just get the hell out of here before it’s too late.”

But it was too late already. A surge of magic boomed out of the wardrobe, which flung itself closed, and Draco only had an instant to react. He reached for the other teen’s arm, sidestepping the extended wand and grabbing hold of his wrist, and he yanked as hard as he could to drag him along to the back corner of the room. Draco pushed him behind a large display case and got in after him. Sensing that Potter would protest the rough treatment quite vocally—or perhaps that he was about to hex his bollocks off—Draco silenced him by placing his palm over his mouth.

Potter’s eyes went as wide as his stupid glasses at the unexpected gesture. Draco couldn’t explain further. So, he rose his index finger to his own lips, begging him with his eyes to comply—to do as he was fucking told, for once.

“Well, well,” a voice that dripped with familiar madness said as a pair of low-heeled boots clicked on the dusty hardwood floor. “Back at last.”

“Move over, Bella,” said a gruffer voice that Draco didn’t recognise. “It’s cramped in here.” A much heavier set of feet made the floorboards creak in protest as someone else exited the Vanishing Cabinet.

Next to him, Potter’s eyes were frantic as he rose a hand up to push away Draco’s offending palm. Not wanting to risk the two of them getting into a fight, the blond relented and removed his hand while pinning down the Gryffindor with his gaze. His unspoken message was eloquent enough to be understood by a dimwitted four-year-old.

Two more people emerged from the magical cabinet—a pair of siblings Draco knew only as the Carrows—and then all four wizards left the Room of Requirement. Draco exhaled a sigh of relief, immensely glad that he was still alive enough to do so.

“What have you done?” the other asked him, pointing the wand back in his face.

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter, get off your high horse.” How things had deteriorated in so little time, Draco had no idea. His mind was running a mile a minute trying to figure out a plan.

Death Eaters had invaded the castle. And it wasn’t just anyone. They’d sent the mad witch of the west, and he’d heard rumours about the Carrows that could turn anyone’s blood cold. And whoever the fourth man had been, well—judging by Potter’s reaction, he was an equally jolly fellow, for sure.

They hadn’t seemed that bothered not to find Draco here to welcome them. But given a minute to breathe and think clearly, he was sure that he could come up with a suitable explanation as to why. And still, if the Dark Lord got what he wanted tonight, there was a chance that no one would bother to ask him about that slip. Draco could return to the plan, join up with the Death Eaters, and stand by their side as they took down the enemy. Merlin, he could even hand-deliver them the Chosen One on a silver platter. A quick Stupefy would do the trick—a simple charm, a first-year’s charm.

Only Draco found that he couldn’t—he simply could not do it. He’d never killed anyone, never even seriously hurt anyone. Oh, there had been the attempts on Dumbledore’s life last year, but he hadn’t had much success there. Aunt Bellatrix had mockingly said that it was because he didn’t have the heart for it, that he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as she was—and she’d been right. Draco was no killer. He couldn’t hand-deliver Harry Potter to the Dark Lord any more than he could stand by and do nothing as Death Eaters were let loose on a school of unsuspecting sleeping students.

“We need to warn someone,” Draco said, more to himself than Potter.            

“Aren’t those your Death Eater pals, Malfoy?” Potter sneered at him down his wand. “What are they here for, huh? What do they want?”

Merlin’s balls, could the hero of the Wizarding World be any more obtuse? “What do you think, Potter? They’re here to kill Dumbledore and you.” The Gryffindor had the decency to flinch at that last sentence. And a part of Draco enjoyed the reaction despite the seriousness of the situation. “And they’ll kill anyone who stands in their way—students and staff alike.”

“But the entire school’s asleep—they’re defenceless,” Potter countered, and he had a point there. Bellatrix Lestrange was mad enough to want to bring the whole castle down on principle alone. “We need to get help.”

Draco was ahead of him and already moving towards the Room of Requirement’s exit, Potter hot on his heels.

“Professor Nine,” he offered. “She’ll help. She’s much stronger than she looks—trust me.”

Draco shook his head. Of all the bloody moronic ideas! “Nine, that mumbling French broad? She’s all but afraid of her own shadow. No way!” he protested. But the other did have a point—they needed help. And there was only one person in this antique castle that he trusted with his life. “We’re getting my godfather.”

“Who?” Potter asked as they exited the room and started down the seventh-floor corridor.

“Snape,” he amended, remembering that only a few students in Slytherin knew about their relationship. “We’re getting Professor Snape.”

Potter froze to a stop next to him. “Wait—Snape’s your godfather?”

Of all the things to focus on right now, Draco thought. Do all Gryffindors lack a sense of self-preservation, or only Potter?

“Does it matter?” he asked. “Yes, Severus is my godfather. The man has a life outside of Hogwarts, you know. Now get over that earth-shattering revelation and get a bloody move on.”

Rushing down the Grand Staircase, they did their best not to trip over the treacherous, moving steps. They’d just passed the fourth floor when a jet of red light hit them from the side. Draco recognised the familiar effects of the Stunning Spell even as his muscles locked, and he toppled forward on the stairs due to the sheer momentum of their mad dash downward. He fell on his face, hard—and with no grace at all. Next to him, Boy Wonder had no more luck than he’d had. The Stupefy had turned him into a sack of potatoes just as surely as it had him.

“Well, well, well,” came Aunt Bellatrix’s taunting voice again. Out of the corner of his right eye, Draco blurrily saw her coming out of the fourth-floor corridor’s shadows, wand in hand. “And what have we here?”

The mad witch sauntered her way down the steps, smiling like a little girl on a sugar high. “If this isn’t my favourite nephew and—” She paused, having recognised Potter, and a Cheshire cat smile stretched her blood-red lips. “Oh, but Draco, why don’t you introduce me to your friend?” She faltered, seeming to remember something. “Only we’ve met already, haven’t we, kiddo? How’s your godfather doing these days, Potter?” she giggled. “Resting in peace, is he?”

Predictably, no reply came from the Gryffindor’s limp form, but Draco fancied he could feel the anger emanating from him just the same. Hell, maybe some of it was his own anger, too. He’d never liked his mother’s crazy sister, and he wouldn’t be caught shedding a tear if she were to tumble down the stairs all the way from the seventh floor to the dungeons. Wait until my godfather hears about this, you wench, he thought. He’ll have your skin.

And then, a shower of bright sparkles fell onto them, and Draco saw Bellatrix tense, wand in hand. She looked around to see who had cast the charm. Her eyes narrowed as her gaze fixed on the fourth-floor corridor.

The next burst of light didn’t sparkle, and it was aimed straight at the witch, who was thrown back a few paces under the impact. Draco felt the Stupefy lift, and he regained the use of his limbs at the same time as Potter. Moving up a few steps, he finally caught sight of their rescuer. It was Professor Flitwick, the tiny half-goblin Charms teacher.

“Can someone tell me what is going on?” he asked in his usual squeaky voice. He sounded breathless, too, as if he’d sprinted to get here.

“Death Eaters in the castle, sir,” Potter explained, rushing up to join him. Unsure of what to do, Draco followed. “We have to warn Professor Nine, sir—and the headmaster.”

Flitwick seemed to think it over, but Potter had reached the end of his patience. “Please, sir, it’s extremely urgent,” he said. “Can you—hmm—maybe a Patronus?”

Seeming to debate the issue a while longer, the little man finally raised his wand. His lips formed the words below his thick moustache, “Expecto Pa—”

He never had time to finish. A bright blue streak of light hit him squarely in the chest and threw him back at least twenty feet. It had come from the stairs; it had come from—

“Bella!” Draco muttered, and he could have slapped himself. He’d been so dumb. Why hadn’t they made sure she wouldn’t be a threat anymore? He spun on his heel, wand drawn, but it was too late.

The curly brunette had cast another spell, and it was coming for Potter so fast that Draco only had a split-second to react. He threw himself at the shorter teen and pushed him out of the way, taking the brunt of the attack on himself. He’d expected to be thrown backwards, same as their teacher had, but this was a different curse—an Unforgiveable Curse.

His muscles seized and froze as magic coursed through him at lightning speed, setting alight every cell in his body. Screaming in pain, he was dimly aware of Potter throwing a spell of his own, trying to attack his aunt so that she would stop hurting him. But Bellatrix merely flicked her wrist in his direction to alter the curse’s course, hitting Potter on his left side.

When Draco stopped screaming, Potter took over. When Draco got a second wind, Bellatrix altered her aim again, giggling madly as she did. Left, right, left, right—it was as if this whole thing was a game to her.

She kept it up until both teenagers passed out.

Draco was tired of waking up in places he didn’t recognise, with his limbs feeling as if they’d been dipped in molten lava. He rolled off his side, his face brushing against damp, cold stone. Though part of his brain protested the idea of sleeping on what felt like a barren floor, another welcomed the cool sensation that eased some of the tension in his temples.

Blinking aching, sandy eyes open, he saw darkness and what looked to be a small room in a cellar or something. Without moving his neck, he could only see half of it. He didn’t have the strength to attempt more at the moment. So, he stayed where he was.

Until memories came flooding back to him, one intense blow after the other. Harry bloody Potter activating the Vanishing Cabinet. Cuckoo Bellatrix and the Death Eaters coming to Hogwarts. Their mad dash down the staircase, and the fight that had ensued—the fight in which he’d sided with Gryffindor’s golden boy against one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted lieutenants.

“Potter?” he muttered sluggishly, wondering if Wizarding Britain’s last hope was here, too.

There was no answer, and Draco pushed himself up on his hands—or tried to, anyway. He lifted his torso a few inches up. It was enough for him to turn his head and discover that he wasn’t alone in what was—judging by the iron manacles that hung from the wall facing him—a prison cell.

Heaving in a deep breath, he reached out a hand to prod the unconscious lump by his side. “Wake up, you prat,” he muttered as he poked him again, more forcefully. When his action was rewarded with a pained moan, he let his arm fall, content to know that the other wasn’t dead.

***

Draco passed out and came around two more times until consciousness took hold, and he could get to a somewhat sitting position. He had no idea how long they’d been here. It could have been minutes or hours. But his eyes had gotten used to the darkness, and he could take in more of the room they were in. It was square-shaped, about nine-by-nine, with a low ceiling and floors and walls made of dark cobblestone. There was no other decoration than the manacles he’d seen before—not even a cot to lie on or a chamber pot. But he chose not to dwell on that particular issue just yet; they’d cross that bridge when they got there and not before.

Both he and Potter had been divested of their wands, and neither Hogwarts’ student was in any shape to cast wandless spells.

The dark-haired lion seemed not to have been injured as severely as Draco had been. And unlike the wounded Slytherin, he’d been able to stand and pace around the room. He’d tried the door first and found it locked. A few kicks later, he’d given up on being able to force it open, and he’d moved to sit cross-legged on the floor against the wall opposite Draco.

“What do you think happened at Hogwarts after we left?” he asked eventually, his voice loud in the silent darkness.

“No idea,” Draco replied.

“But all the ruckus we made—surely someone heard that. Do you think students came out to see what was going on?”

“How could I know? I’ve been with you the whole time.”

Potter remained silent, and Draco could have left it at that, but he realised he wanted the conversation to continue—if only to break the dreadful silence. “They were supposed to kill Dumbledore. That’s all I know.”

“It’s stupid,” Potter said in a small voice. “Dumbledore’s dying, anyway.”

That piqued Draco’s curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“He’s been cursed since last summer,” he explained, his voice becoming melancholy. “He’s badly hurt, and they can’t stop it.” A sigh. “He won’t last the year.”

Draco couldn’t believe his ears, and he wished they were sitting closer so he could see Potter’s face. “That’s impossible—he’s Dumbledore!”

“He’s just a man, Draco,” Potter continued in much the same tone. “I’ve seen it. His hand’s entirely black, like it’s been singed or something. It’s moved up his arm now, and when it reaches his heart—it will be over. He’s got months left.”

He hadn’t known, and the irony of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. “We’re all fucked, then.” The Dark Lord had already won, though he didn’t know it yet.

“Thought you weren’t on our side,” the Gryffindor said.

Draco scoffed in reply. “You know nothing about me, Potter,” he said, his tone acerbic. And their discussion came to an end as silence engulfed them once more. The chilly dampness of the cell had long since made it through his clothes and seeped into his very bones, and he would have given his wand-arm for a warm bath or cup of hot cocoa.

“You never had a choice, did you?” Potter questioned tentatively a short while later. “Your parents, their expectations—you didn’t have a choice but to side with them.”

Where the fuck did that come from? Draco wondered. What did Boy Wonder care what went on in his life? “What’s it to you?” he muttered darkly, his attempt at warning him to drop the subject.

But in true Gryffindor strong-headedness, Potter ploughed on. “You didn’t really want to kill Dumbledore, did you? That cursed necklace and poisoned Meade—it was like bad jokes gone wrong.”

“Shut up,” he said, realising that Potter was too close to the truth for comfort.

“If one day, you really want to do it, there’s a spell, you know—Avada Kedavra. I hear it’s very efficient.”

“Shut up,” he repeated. “Stop trying to analyse me, Potter. I won’t make it through the bloody night. Can’t you at least let me die with my dignity?” He hated that his last sentence had sounded like a plea, but he’d meant the words. He had earned that much, hadn’t he?

“They’ll find us,” Potter said, shuffling a little closer. “It’s going to be all right, Draco.”

He should have been offended at the use of his first name, but he let it pass without remarking on it. “If you really think that, you’re stupider than I thought.”

Silence fell on them again, and Draco returned to his dark, murky thoughts. He didn’t last five minutes until the urge to break the silence won over his resolve. “I never did have a choice,” he muttered through clenched teeth. This was a discussion he didn’t want to have, especially not with Gryffindor’s golden boy. But the words had tumbled out of his mouth before his brain had had time to sound the all-clear.

“Still, you could have done something,” Potter said. “You didn’t have to fix that bloody cabinet.”

Draco scoffed at that, remembering what had truly happened in the Room of Lost Things. “I didn’t—you did it, you moron.”

Once more, he regretted not being able to look at the Chosen One’s face. He was sure a glimpse of his guilt-stricken features would have made him feel a little better about their shitty situation—if only for a short while.

“I didn’t know,” the other muttered under his breath.

The words had been soft-spoken, almost reluctant, but in the silence of their cell, Draco heard them clearly. “Nice epitaph, Potter. ‘I didn’t know’. I’ll make sure they write it on your tombstone,” he mocked, his tone scathing. And it put a quick end to their discussion.

***

Silence birthed impatience, and Potter had been pacing the room for the past—well, however long that had been. He’d tried banging at the door a couple more times and messing with the lock—all to no avail.

“Where do you think we are?” he asked at last.

“Don’t know,” Draco said truthfully. This wasn’t Malfoy Manor or any other propriety his father owned. The cloister he’d been taken to during the last Summon didn’t seem to have had a basement. So, he drew a blank. “The Dark Lord stays at many different locations at random.”

“How do you know where to go when you’re summoned?” he asked.

If Potter is making a dig at me being a Death Eater, he’ll end up bloody, Draco thought. But then he passed the sentence through his inner filter once more and realised it had stemmed from genuine curiosity.

“You don’t,” he said. Then he explained it as it had been explained to him. “You just follow the Summon, and it takes you where you need to go. You only discover where once you get there.”

“So witches and wizards can Apparate to this place,” Potter asked, and if he was thinking of the rest of the golden trio swooping in for the rescue, he was in it for a rude awakening.

“This place is protected. You can’t Apparate unless you’ve been summoned,” Draco explained. “And the Floo will be warded, too. Face it, Potter. No one’s coming to save us—we’re alone.” Alone and doomed to die a slow, painful death, he thought bitterly.

“But can they walk through the door?” the Gryffindor asked.

The question was so innocuous that it threw the Slytherin. “What?”

“Can someone walk in through the door?” he repeated as if he were talking to an obtuse child.

“I don’t know,” Draco said honestly. He’d never thought to ask Severus about that. Surely, it would be guarded. But what did it matter, anyway? “I guess so—but why?”

It seemed to have been the answer the other wanted to hear. “Good. She’ll find us, then.”

Is he losing it? Draco wondered? Had Boy Wonder finally lost what little of his brain remained? “Who?”

“Nine,” he said with as much certainty as if he’d just declared that the sky was blue. “She’ll find us.”

Yes, Draco decided, the Chosen One has lost his marbles. “You’re mental,” he said.

“You don’t know her like I do, Draco,” Potter retorted. “She’s brilliant. So, she’ll figure it out. And she’ll find us.”

***

“…up!”

The ground was shaking under Draco, and it sent fresh jolts of pain throughout his body. He moaned in discomfort.

“Wake up!” a voice said from somewhere close, and a firm hand shook him up once more.

He blinked his tired eyes open, and the memories came tumbling back at the sight of the dank prison cell they’d been tossed into.

“How long was I out?” he asked, but it came out so indistinctly that he wasn’t sure Potter could decipher the words.

“Merlin, I thought you’d croaked on me,” the Gryffindor said as he knelt next to him.

Draco struggled to come to a sitting position. Shite, the cold dampness had seeped in deep, and it exacerbated the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse. What he wouldn’t give for one of Severus’ potions right now—or even some Muggle painkillers.

“Hold off the waterworks, Potter,” he replied. “I’m not dead yet.” He’d meant the comment to be scathing, but his head was killing him, and he’d barely been able to force the last words out of his sluggish mouth.

“Prat,” Potter said, the answer coming so fast it sounded reflexive.

“Moron,” he replied.

“Berk,” Potter volleyed back.

The next one came tumbling out of his mouth with ease. “Wanker.”

“Snake,” Potter retorted, and Draco felt the corners of his mouth lift.

“Lion,” he replied, this time unable to stop himself from grinning. There was such a comforting familiarity to their bickering that they both smiled at each other through the tears that threatened to fall. And suddenly, Harry was holding onto his hand, or perhaps it was Draco that was holding onto his—it didn’t matter at that point. All that mattered was that he wasn’t alone. Neither of them were.

And as he forced himself to breathe through the pain, Draco realised they weren’t so different, after all. They were both the heroes of their own tragedies. He was Telemachus of Ithaca, desperately seeking the loving parent he’d lost. And Harry was Frodo of Middle-Earth, tasked with destroying the Dark Lord.

As his gaze locked with Harry’s, he could see in the emerald eyes that the Gryffindor teen was thinking along the same lines. At that moment, they were united like they’d never been before. And Draco found it comforting to know that he wasn’t alone. But the shared moment shattered into nothingness when the sound of a key being inserted into the door lock echoed through the walls of their cell.

Draco tried standing up but realised he couldn’t. His legs just didn’t have the strength for it. “Help me up,” he muttered, and Harry complied without a word.

The Gryffindor sneaked a hand under the Slytherin’s arm, reached around his shoulder until he had a secure hold, and he used his second hand to grab a fistful of the blond’s shirt to yank him up. Once Draco was vertical, he swayed a little at the change of stance. But Harry stayed by his side and continued to take some of his weight without complaint.

Draco forced his queasy stomach to settle down, even as he tried bringing up his mental marble walls. If he died tonight, he would die standing. He was a Malf—no! He was Severus Snape’s godson, and he’d been taught better.

He wouldn’t go down grovelling and snivelling like an imp—he’d go down standing, like a free man.

Draco realised that the Cruciatus Curse was much more intricate than he’d first thought. Unlike many other, more straightforward spells, this one varied greatly, depending on the caster’s intent. For example, the first time he’d been Crucioed had been more of a sampling than anything else—a small taste of what would be in store for him should he keep displeasing his Lord. His second session had been exactly what that first sip had promised: a full-frontal assault. It had been a sheer display of raw strength—quick and to the point. Bellatrix Lestrange’s attack—with its strange ebb and flow—had been an entirely different dance. It was a study in contrast—seconds of sheer relief at the pain ending only to have it rear its ugly head back for another bite. A very manic approach meant to drive the victim insane more than anything else.

Tonight’s variant, Draco found, was more subtle in its perversity. The Dark Lord intended to inflict pain strongly but slowly, suffusing it throughout the entire system without overloading it. It was carefully measured and dealt in appropriate doses. The ultimate aim was to prolong the torture session as much as possible.

Unlike Bellatrix, though, the Dark Lord had no trouble inflicting his displeasure on both students simultaneously. Draco had tried holding back the screams for as long as he could, as had Harry. Their crazy situation had turned into yet another match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, so accustomed they were to being on opposite sides.

Harry had won—by far. He hadn’t broken yet, and Draco marvelled at his strength. There was no doubt that pain was dealt to them both in equal measures. But Harry’s lips stubbornly refused to open, remaining instead in a thin, taut line so pale it was almost invisible.

Draco couldn’t help looking at him. Harry’s display of defiance, born out of sheer willpower, was spellbinding. It was obvious that he wasn’t impervious to the pain. Sweat pearled profusely on his brow before trailing down his temples, a large rictus of agony distorted his boyish features. His eyes had glazed over in tears before Harry had shut them firmly to avoid any unwanted spillage. And yet, Gryffindor’s golden boy, Britain’s Wizarding World’s hero, the Boy Who Lived, refused to succumb to the Dark Lord’s demands. It was a silent protest, small and invisible, but a loud and explosive statement amongst the gathered crowd of black-robed onlookers.

Before the last of his muscles seized under the strain, Draco forced his mouth shut and willed it to remain so. If Harry could do it, so could he. This was an affirmation of his true self—emancipated at last. A scission from everything that had come before—his final act of defiance. He was no longer the obedient son, a slave to his Pureblood’s lineage. Freedom was his, earned fair and square in the face of adversity.

Harry’s eyes opened a slit, and his watery emerald-green orbs met a pool of quicksilver. Their eyes locked, and the message that passed between them was eloquent in its silence. “Hold on,” one of them said. “You, too,” the other replied. The connection between them was so sharp and fast that neither could tell who had spoken first and who had replied. It might as well have been both.

***

Draco wasn’t sure how he managed to maintain consciousness, and he knew that without Harry, he could not have made it back to their cell. He’d have remained in the throne room—a messy lump at the Dark Lord’s feet, a carpet of blood and tears ready to be trodden on.

Draco tried to take in some of their surroundings as Harry half-carried, half-dragged him down the corridor, but his brain was extremely uncooperative. It was a house with a throne room on the ground floor and their cell in the basement. The male Carrow had to lend a hand to help Harry get him down the stairs. And Draco almost froze in fear, stumbling in his steps, when that helping hand strayed south to grab at some parts of him that the sick Death Eater had no business touching.

Their prison cell was as barren as it had been when they’d left, but Draco realised it was of little concern. He hadn’t had a drop to drink in hours, and food was but an even more distant memory. It didn’t matter that the facilities were lacking. There was little chance he’d need to pee anytime soon.

Harry helped him sit down against a wall, kneeling alongside him, his hands never letting go until he was sure Draco could keep the position on his own. Even then, a warm hand stayed on his shoulder while the other hovered nearby—just in case.

“Thanks, Harry,” he said, forcing the words out past unresponsive lips. But he needed to say them anyway.

“Shhh—it’s okay, Draco,” Harry hushed. “Don’t talk now.”

And Draco obeyed, feeling his eyes close on their own accord. When had they stopped being Potter and Malfoy and become Harry and Draco instead? he wondered briefly before losing consciousness.

***

“I’m not sure I remember everything,” Draco said after he’d regained consciousness to discover more of the same. Harry hadn’t left his side, though, and he’d chosen to sit down next to him, cross-legged, with his back against the wall. The part of his arm that touched the other teen’s shoulder was the only part of him that felt warm.

“What do you want to know?” Harry asked, his tone as raspy as Draco’s had been.

He dreaded asking the question but feared the unknown even more. “Did he say what’s going to happen to us?”

“He’s going to kill me during some kind of special ceremony, in front of all of his Death Eaters,” Harry said, voice matter-of-fact.

“And me?”

“Same,” Harry said with a sigh. “I’m just the main course.”

“I’m sure I’ll taste better,” Draco said, forcing a smile he didn’t feel.

Harry didn’t miss a beat, replying, “I hope I give him indigestion.”

Draco genuinely chuckled at that. Harry’s answer had been better than his. “Didn’t know you had a sense of humour, you prat.”

“Didn’t know you knew how to laugh, what with the silver stick you’ve got stuck up your arse.”

“Platinum, not silver,” Draco replied, and boy, did the banter feel good. “Diamond-encrusted.”

“Ouch,” Harry replied. “Hope those precious studs don’t chafe at your dainty, porcelain skin too much.”

Laughter bubbled from Draco’s lips at that. Only it morphed into something else mid-way—something that sounded much like sobs. He hadn’t broken down before. Draco had stood his ground in front of the Dark Lord, but now—he just couldn’t hold on anymore. He leaned more fully into Harry—needing the warmth and the comfort of another human being. And Harry let him, closing his arms around him as he shook under the weight of pain and fear. Draco might have said something then—something along the lines of ‘I’m sorry you’re here, but I’m glad I’m not alone’. But with the way his brain had become mush and his throat wracked with sobs, he wasn’t sure he’d gotten the words out. And even if he did, he probably hadn’t been that coherent.

***

It had taken them both time to get some semblance of control back. And even then, they had remained close. They weren’t exactly hugging anymore, but Draco wasn’t ready to let go of the warmth that radiated against the entire length of his right side. Though Harry had removed his hands from around his shoulders, he hadn’t made a move to untangle them further. If the Gryffindor didn’t mind their proximity, Draco decided he didn’t, either.

Letting his gaze wander about the room to pass the time, he frowned when it settled onto something he hadn’t seen before. Reaching a hand up, he snatched at the small silver chain he’d just discovered around Harry’s neck.

“Didn’t pick you as the jewellery type,” he commented, pulling back a little to better inspect his finding.

Harry tried swatting his hand away. “Let go, Malfoy,” he said.

The return of his surname was almost warning enough to convince him to drop the matter, but his curiosity overruled his sense of self-preservation. In one tug, he pulled the small chain free of Harry’s undershirt. Not just a chain, he realised—a chain and a pendant. And—

Draco’s breath caught in his throat at the sight; he had seen that necklace before—the same one, he was sure. The memory came back to him, as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

It had happened on a hot summer afternoon, years ago, at the Manor. The weather had been humid the whole week, but it had peaked that day. And Severus, who’d stopped by to spend the afternoon in the gardens with his godson, had uncharacteristically removed his frock coat and spent the entire afternoon in his white undershirt with the top buttons undone.

As he’d bent down to pick him up, little Draco had caught a glimpse of something unexpected around his godfather’s neck—something silver that reflected the rays of sunshine. He’d reached for it without thinking twice about it, his tiny fingers grabbing onto the silver chain before his godfather had the time to realise what was going on and put a stop to it. And Draco’s impetuous tugging had revealed an elegant S-shaped pendant dangling at the end of the simple chain.

His hand had been rudely slapped away; the necklace returned to its hidden confines as the white shirt’s buttons fastened themselves at once with a nonverbal spell. Severus had never explained the striking piece of jewellery, and he’d left the Manor moments later with barely a goodbye.

The two of them had never talked about that event again, but Draco had never forgotten it had happened. He’d never forgotten that day and knew he never would. For he had never seen such intense pain on Severus’ face as he did the moment that silvery ‘S’ was revealed for all to see.

Looking at the similar pendant that dangled from Harry’s neck, he knew it was identical to the one he’d seen years ago—even the chain looked equally thin and modest. Like the other one, this ‘S’ had been magically carved by a hand both sure and deft. The curves of the single letter were both simple and elegant. It was Severus’ work—he could swear it. He’d recognise his touch anywhere. That man was extremely able with a wand; Draco had a box full of miniature carved wooden animals to prove it.

“Where did you get it, Potter?” he asked, voice thick.

For an instant, he feared he wouldn’t get an answer. But then he realised Harry’s curiosity was as piqued as his was. “A friend gave it to me,” he said cautiously.

“A friend? Who?” Surely he couldn’t mean Severus. His godfather loathed the Gryffindor golden boy, and he’d die before giving Harry anything.

“Just a friend,” Harry replied evasively. “She gave it to me for safekeeping. She said it was very precious to her.”

Draco didn’t push him further; he knew he wouldn’t get a name, anyway. But his brain latched onto the feminine pronoun. Had Severus given it to someone else who had then passed it down to Harry?

“Why, Draco? Have you seen it before?”

Unlike Harry, he had no problem telling the truth, and the words came out quickly. “Yes, this—it’s Severus’ necklace. He has the same one,” he said, his brain still trying to form hypotheses. “He keeps it hidden all the time, but I swear it’s the same one.”

A gasp escaped the Gryffindor’s lips, and Draco stopped looking at the pendant long enough to stare at his face. There was a look of understanding on Harry’s features as if he’d just come to some grand realisation. But Draco had no idea what it was.

“What?” he asked, curious.

“Holy Merlin on a Hippogriff,” Harry muttered after a pause. “She’s his sister.”

PART THREE: SEVERUS 

 The security gong that detonated within the hallways of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the early hours of the night of May 27th, 1997, woke everyone up at once—staff and students alike.

Severus Snape, who’d been having a particularly disturbing dream that was a mix of several twisted interwoven memories, was out of bed in an instant. Wand in hand, he spelled his usual clothes on without uttering so much as a word. He was out of his chambers and rushing through the dungeon’s dark corridors in minutes.

School etiquette dictated that his first action should be to see to his snakes, to stop by the Slytherin dorms to check in with the prefects and dispense instructions and a modicum of reassurance. But he turned on his heel and stormed up the corridor until he’d reached the stairs that he started climbing, three steps at a time. His were Slytherins; they didn’t need their Head of House to hold their hands in a crisis. Besides, Professor Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff, would be nearby, and his students knew to go to her as a last resort. As it was, the Potions Master had more pressing matters to attend.

As he rushed to get to the ground floor, Severus only had one goal, one thought that drove his entire focus, one word repeating itself in a loop in his head. Draco. Somehow this involved Draco, and whatever it was that the boy did in the Room of Requirement, night after night. He couldn’t tell how he knew, but he just did. His godson was in trouble, and he was Severus’ responsibility. So, he would damn well be there for him.

An image of the last time he’d seen Lucius and Narcissa, the boy’s parents, flashed in his mind, and he pushed it back out with a snarl. If they’d been alone that day, if he’d had his hands to himself—he’d have hexed them into next week. As it was, the Dark Lord had been at their backs, and he’d had a handful of hurting, crying, frightened child in his arms. His godson—his Draco.

That night had been high on Severus’ list of worsts. Standing by and watching without intervening had been as excruciating as if he’d been put through the curse himself—worse, possibly. But the true pain came afterwards, later that night, in the privacy of his bedroom. During the long hours he’d spent watching Draco’s lithe frame shake with the aftereffects of his ill-advised decisions, the embodiment of Severus’ failure at protecting him. Each tremor bit at his heart as he watched, unable to do more, unable to take the pain away.

He’d tried to caution Draco away from the Dark Lord’s luring promises—the same promises he had once fallen prey to. He’d tried to subtly show him another path, all the while knowing how it would turn out in the end. With the Malfoy patriarch pulling at the ropes behind the scenes, it wasn’t so much a matter of if but when. Severus had only hoped he could have had more time.

Though he’d known Draco was working under orders from the Dark Lord, he’d hoped he’d refrain from inflicting the Dark Mark on his skin until he was of age. One more year—he was supposed to have had one more year. Three-hundred and sixty-five days to impart a few more words of his biased wisdom—to teach the boy a couple more tricks that would help in navigating these murky waters. It had come too soon—and Draco had been ill-prepared. Not nearly ready to face the Dark Lord’s inquiring mind, much less his wrath.

Severus had kept his distance from Draco these past years, relinquishing his role of godfather to step into that of teacher and mentor. While it was what had been expected of him, his decision had solely been motivated by his wanting not to influence the boy’s ultimate decision. The last thing he needed was for Draco to want to emulate his wrong choices, to willingly tie a noose around his neck the way Severus had all those years ago.

But Lucius had been pulling a different set of strings in the background, manoeuvring in the shadows to complete his dark designs. Severus had lost the game to his old rival, and he prayed his failure wouldn’t cost the boy his life.

Reaching the Grand Hall, he noted that it was empty. His next stop would be the Room of Requirement. He turned on his heel and went to the Grand Staircase. Mid-way through, he stumbled on a worried-looking Professor McGonagall, who’d clearly left the comfort of her own bed with more haste than he had. Her dark-grey hair was uncharacteristically untied, and she wore her black teaching robes over a long dark-green nightgown.

“What’s going on?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

“Death Eaters, Severus.” She forced the words out between panting breaths. “Death Eaters in the castle.”

The words slammed into his chest like an attacker, and now, he was the one left panting. “What—how?”

McGonagall gave him no answer. She was running again, going down the stairs as quickly as she could. Torn between his need to find Draco and his thirst for more information, Severus turned on the step where he stood and followed.

“Minerva,” he asked, his voice slightly louder, “do you know who activated the alarm?” He needed to know, needed all the information he could get.

“Wasn’t me,” she answered between two breaths. “Caught two of them scurrying away, though.”

“Which way?” he asked.

“Down,” she replied, her tone indicated that it had been a stupid question. “Why else would I be running down the stairs?”

But he hadn’t run into them. Either they had quite the head start, or they’d gone to another floor. Or they knew of some of the secret passageways within the castle that allowed one to move about with a modicum of discretion.

But a more pressing question nagged at his quick-firing brain. Only the headmaster or a Head of House could have been responsible for activating the antiquated alarm system. It hadn’t been the Transfiguration professor, and he knew it hadn’t been him. That left only three possibilities. He doubted it could have been Sprout, for he hadn’t seen any disturbance in the lower levels. That left Flitwick and Dumbledore—and Severus surmised that the Headmaster’s Tower was their next stop.

They needn’t have bothered. Albus Dumbledore was on his way to them, his long pointy beard flung over his shoulder and his periwinkle robe creased and rumpled. He’d forgone hiding his cursed hand in a glove, and his dark skin melted with the darkness of the castle’s entrance. He looked tense and tightly gripped his wand in his uninjured hand while the other stood limp at his side.

“Sweet Merlin, Albus,” McGonagall said, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Minerva,” he replied, his voice sounding strained and impossibly old. “An uncoordinated attack if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Who attacked you?” she asked. “I barely had the time to catch a glimpse of them as they hurried down. I followed as fast as I could.”

Searching around for possible threats, Severus realised the front doors were open. They hadn’t been when he’d walked by before. He felt a chill course down the back of his neck. Had it been used for a hasty exit or the alternative?

“Only Fenrir Greyback made it close to my tower. I believe the other two were the Carrow siblings,” Dumbledore said. Then, indicating the open doors, he added, “They’ve gone now.”

“No one else?” Severus asked, doubtful that the Dark Lord would have sanctioned such a critical mission to be led by the werewolf, of all people. Someone else ought to have been in charge­­—someone within the inner circle.

Their discussion was cut short by the near-simultaneous arrival of Professors Sprout and Nine, the two witches coming in from opposite ends of the same corridor. Severus felt his right eyebrow twitch at that and fought to keep it from rising in question—Leen Nine had come from outside.

Dumbledore asked the question in his stead, turning to face the young foreigner with an enquiring look. “Anything, my dear?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. They’ve gone, sir.” A pause, then she added. “But the doors to the Astronomy Tower were open.”

“Is that how they got in?” McGonagall asked. “They ought to have locked automatically after curfew. How could this be?”

Their discussion was once more interrupted by the arrival of both Professor Vectra and Hagrid—who’d also come from outside. They assaulted them with questions, and Severus had half a mind to shout for order.

“What’s going on?” Vectra asked, twisting her hands together nervously.

Her words were dwarfed by Hagrid’s loud. “Who banged the gong?”

A sideways glance at Sprout from McGonagall caused her to blurt out, “It wasn’t me.”

Two curious heads turned Severus’ way, and it was the Head of Hufflepuff that asked him if he’d been responsible. He shook his head, not wanting to add his voice to the downpour of “Who, then?” and “Has anyone seen Filius?” and “So, what’s going on?”

To everyone’s surprise, it was Professor Nine that called for silence. Her soft-spoken, “Quiet!” barely broke through the cacophony of worried voices. But the dissonance in magic that accompanied it had everyone close their gob and turn their heads to look at her—including him.

It had been a carefully controlled discharge of power, born not from anger but from an intent to surprise—power measured with a precision that most wizards could never attempt to master. It had shifted the very air in the corridor, catching even Severus’ heavy black locks of hair in its current.

Nine was dressed as she always was: a bland mix more Muggle than magical but comfortable and practical, nonetheless. She wore her habitual accessories, from her formal square glasses to her oddly out-of-place earrings and bracelet. Though it was the middle of the night, she looked ready to go to class. No, Severus corrected himself; she wasn’t quite the same as usual. Something—something was different about her, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. It wasn’t anything his eyes could see, but it was there, nonetheless. Just out of sight—an incessant tugging at the back of his mind, like a tiny voice screaming at him from within that something was off. That he ought to beware, that he was—somehow—being deceived.

“Our colleague’s right,” Dumbledore said. “We all need to calm down. The threat has passed. Professor Vectra, Hagrid—can you see to the students? Make sure they all stay in their dorms.” Both teachers nodded in agreement before departing. “Everyone else—my office, if you please.”

Severus half-expected Professor Nine to be given a secondary task. But the fact that she wordlessly followed suit made it clear to everyone that she’d be coming with them.

They were halfway to the stairs when Professor Flitwick’s squeaky voice stopped them cold. The half-goblin was coming at them as fast as his short legs allowed. His face was red with exertion, and his wand shook in his trembling hand.

“The children—” he said, panting as if he’d been forced to run a mile and then some “—they took the children.”

As he approached them, Severus noticed a fine trail of blood running down the length of his temple. There was a long, bleeding cut on his left arm, close to his elbow. The Charms teacher had been in a fight recently, and that titbit of knowledge made it clear who had sounded the alarm.

“Which ones?” Dumbledore asked in a tone that betrayed his concern. It seemed as everyone else shared in his worry, for they collectively held their breaths.

Severus felt his stomach turn to lead as he waited anxiously for the familiar name he was sure was to come. The one that would cement his failure, prove without a doubt that he’d let his godson down and that once again, his misguided actions had led someone he cared about to their death.

“Harry Potter—and—” Flitwick wheezed the words out between laboured pants, “Draco Malfoy.”

For as long as he lived, Severus Snape remained incapable of remembering the minutes that directly followed Flitwick’s grim announcement. How he had made it from the ground floor to one of the headmaster’s plush armchairs with a glass of Firewhiskey in his hand would forever remain a blur in his otherwise razor-sharp memory.

Returning to the moment with a gasp, he realised that the Heads of both Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were missing, and only Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Professor Nine remained. Surmising that Sprout had probably offered to help accompany Flitwick to the infirmary, he made a conscious effort to focus all his attention on the discussion at hand. McGonagall and Dumbledore stood by the headmaster’s large claw-footed desk as they exchanged ideas to find a viable solution to recover the missing students. Their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had secluded herself—from both the discussion and the general awareness, it seemed—and kept to herself in a corner of the room, in the shadowy place where he usually stood.

Dumbledore must have sensed that his spy’s attention had returned, for the Potions Master was immediately included in the discussion. “Severus, do you have any idea where Bellatrix may have taken them?”

Bella? His brain barely paused as this new piece of information sunk in. He’d been right; someone else had been calling the shots. The fact that Draco was with his aunt did nothing to assuage his worry. He knew Bellatrix wouldn’t think twice about killing him if the Dark Lord ordered it.

“None,” he replied, reluctant to admit to this truth. Wherever she’d taken the boys wouldn’t have been one of the hideouts he’d know about. She would have seen to that. The mad witch knew of his soft spot for her nephew, and she’d made it clear how much she distrusted Severus because of his proximity to Dumbledore. “The Dark Lord has many places he can go to—in Britain and abroad. Not all of them known to me.”

Dumbledore nodded. “As I feared.”

“I could ask around,” he continued. “But if I appear too eager, it will make my intentions obvious.”

Dumbledore raised a hand to dismiss the idea. “We cannot risk that, Severus. The Order needs you—now more than ever.”

Damn the Order, he thought. Damn them all. If he’d thought that he stood a chance at getting a straight answer, he would have left already. But aside from asking the Dark Lord or Bellatrix directly, he knew he wouldn’t get far.

“What do you think will happen?” asked a very distraught McGonagall, her ancestral Scottish roots now thick on her tongue. “Are they even still alive?”

It had cost her to ask that question, Severus saw, and Dumbledore patted her hand as he reassured her, “Tom Riddle will seek to make an example of them. He will want an audience, which means we’ve still got time.” Then he turned his head towards his trusted Potions Master. “My dear boy, do you think you will be summoned—when the time comes?”

Severus knew the answer to that one at once—of course he would. The Dark Lord would see to that. He’d even give him a choice place to appreciate the experience to the fullest, he was sure. And if he showed any emotions other than glee during the proceedings, he’d die—along with his godchild.

“I won’t be able to do anything, Albus,” he confessed. Then, reflecting further, he added, “Nor will I be able to warn you once I have Apparated to my destination.”

“As I feared,” Dumbledore said gravely. “As I feared.”

“There must be something we can do—a way to track them down.” McGonagall protested, with a brittle edge to her brogue. “Don’t you have anything?”

The question had been aimed at him. But before he could respond, the headmaster redirected it to Professor Nine, who stood at the back of the room. “What of you, my dear?” he demanded.

Professor Nine was so discreet that Severus had almost forgotten the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was in the room with them. Her ability to escape his notice unnerved him. But then, he wasn’t at his best at the moment, he supposed.

“I have no idea how to find Draco Malfoy,” she admitted. “But there might be a way for one of us to track down Harry Potter.”

Severus stared at her as much as he could. But shrouded in the darkness as she was, her face was unreadable. Though Leen Nine was a pale smudge of fair skin amidst the nightly shadows, something in her tone had set him on high alert. Her soft-spoken words had lacked their usual shyness and hesitation. Her voice had lowered a fraction, and her ever-present French lilt had all but vanished. Her earlier display of magic, and now this, made it clear to him that he’d been played. There was more to the witch than he’d been led to believe. Who else had she duped?

Returning his gaze to the seasoned wizard facing him, Severus studied Dumbledore as he thoughtfully considered her answer. “I see,” he said at last, with a nod that seemed to admit defeat. “How certain are you that it will work?”

Dumbledore was bowing down to her expertise, Severus realised. He’d dispatched her to make sure the grounds were safe earlier, he remembered. Then he’d let her attend this meeting she should never have known about. He knew, of course, the old rascal knew—Nine was probably in his bloody Order of the Phoenix, too. Only no one had bothered telling him they’d welcomed a new member.

Nine sighed in resignation. “It will depend on Severus, sir,” she replied.

That halted him cold. He sharply turned in his seat to stare at the feminine figure shrouded in darkness. People rarely ever spoke his first name, and her voice—the way she’d said his name—was so familiar it hurt. Though Severus’ mouth was open, he couldn’t draw the air in because his mouth refused to—much as his mind refused to follow the facts to their logical conclusion.

The young witch stepped forward then, letting the light reveal her true nature for all to see. A silent spell released her hair from the tight chignon she always wore, and her long dark-brown hair tumbled down to frame her oval face as it always had when she was younger. As she held her glasses in one hand, she crushed something in the other: small discs of clear plastic that Severus understood to be contact lenses. Without needing to look, he knew that her eyes would now be the same azure-blue they had always been. A Muggle disguise: he’d been duped by a Muggle disguise, of all things. Even her name, he now realised, had been deceptively obvious. Leen Nine—so devilishly evident, and yet he’d been as oblivious as everyone else—unable to look past his own damn nose to see what stared him in the face.

Clever girl, he thought. She’d always been a smart cookie.

Saturnine stopped inches away from him, and he couldn’t keep his eyes from seeking hers. A spell must have removed all the makeup she had worn, for he now clearly recognised her traits—so similar to his own. He had no idea what his face displayed right now, what emotion had been ripped out of his thudding heart and forced outwards for all to see. He couldn’t care less—couldn’t have Occluded, even if his life had depended on it. His sister didn’t seem to have the same issue. Her face was controlled and relaxed, but her eyes were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, azure pools bulging with feelings so intense Severus couldn’t untangle them.

“Hello, brother,” she said. “Long time no see.”

He wouldn’t have replied, but the light curve at the corner of her lips drew out the name he hadn’t spoken in years. “Saturnine.”

Her lips smiled slightly before flattening altogether. “I’m sorry, but there’s no time to address the situation now. I need your help.”

He nodded at her words, acknowledging his agreement. If she had a way to find Draco, he would focus on that and worry about the rest later, maybe. Or perhaps once this mess was over, she would crawl back to whatever hole she’d been hauled out of and disappear once more.

While it was clear Dumbledore had been in on it the whole time, the reveal of Professor Nine’s identity came as a surprise to Minerva McGonagall. Though the old Scott kept quiet about it, no one missed the dark look she sent Dumbledore’s way.

So, Severus thought, the old codger hasn’t told anyone that the newest member of the Order of the Phoenix’s real name is Saturnine Snape. The irony of that was hard to miss.

“Please tell me you still have your necklace,” Saturnine demanded.

Severus swallowed as he nodded. Of course he did. “Why?” he asked. What had that to do with anything?

“Harry’s got the other,” she replied, and if he hadn’t been sitting already, this admission would have forced him into a chair.

It was under everyone’s attentive gaze that Severus began to unbutton the top of his frock coat. He undid the first four buttons. Then, he did the same to the undershirt beneath before reaching long fingers below to seek the chain that was forever there, around his neck. Removing it took an effort of will; he hadn’t taken if off since he’d put it on at age fourteen. It was funny how small the little S-shaped pendant looked in his hand now. It had looked different on his younger self’s hand—more imposing, a suitable match to the meaning behind the gesture.

The idea of necklaces had come to him during the summer between his third and fourth year at Hogwarts, a few weeks before Saturnine was due to start her first term. He had felt that what had been but a small tear in their relationship when he’d left for Scotland three years earlier had stretched into a rift that threatened to become un-mendable. Fearing that she wouldn’t be sorted in the same House he had been—for his sister could not be sorted anywhere but in Ravenclaw—Severus had needed something physical to remind himself of the bond the two of them shared.

After some careful consideration, wanting to have something that could be easily concealed, he’d decided on a set of matching necklaces. He had made the pendants by melting some of the old silverware his mother kept in the basement. They never had visitors. So, there was never an occasion to take out the fancy cutlery they’d received as a wedding present. Then he’d used his wand to carve the pendants. The twin simple silver chains he’d bought with what little pocket money—earned by tutoring other students at Potions—he’d been able to set aside.

Saturnine had been delighted by the gift—even more so when he’d explained that he had made them magical so that they would always recognise each other. Despite his good intentions, it hadn’t been enough to stop the chasm’s growth. And within the next three years, the rift between them had grown as wide as a canyon.

“Are the two linked?” Dumbledore asked, peering at the simple jewel with undisguised curiosity.

“A matching set forged at the same time and linked so they would recognise each other and entwine when in close proximity,” Saturnine explained, her voice detached.

“Then there is a chance,” Dumbledore agreed. “You’ve never taken them off?” he asked, looking intently at Severus and then at Saturnine.

The former shook his head, and the brown-haired witch said, “Not until last summer, when I entrusted mine to Harry for safekeeping.”

“Then each should be strongly imbued with your own magic,” he continued as he twirled the tip of his beard around a gnarled finger. “Saturnine, if you use Severus’ pendant to seek yours, chances are high it will respond to your call, regardless of the distance.”

“What then?” asked McGonagall. It seemed she had recovered from her shock at discovering that her new colleague was one of her former students. “We can’t just Apparate headfirst to where the boys are.”

Severus thought he could, and unless presented with a better alternative, decided he would.

“With enough care, it might take you close enough,” Dumbledore mused.

“‘Care’?” Saturnine asked, one eyebrow raised sceptically.

“Small jumps until you narrow it down,” he added.

“Albus?!” roared the Scottish witch.

If McGonagall hadn’t voiced her disbelief so loudly, Severus would have.

“Short hops in the right direction,” the headmaster elaborated. “Cutting it off before you reach your true destination.”

“A good recipe to end up inside a wall,” McGonagall countered. “Or off a cliff.”

“Or Splinched seven ways ’till Sunday,” Severus added. But it was their only option, and they all knew it. It was pure luck that they had that chance at all. It was a Hail Mary, but they’d have to risk it. Chancing a glance at Saturnine, he forced a sneer to his lips for good measure. “After you.”

To his sister’s credit, she took it in stride. Turning her gaze to Dumbledore, she asked in a level tone, “Can you lower the Apparition Wards, Headmaster?”

Pulling out his wand, Dumbledore sliced the air in a series of complicated moves before pocketing it again. “It’s done,” he said. “I will alert the rest of the Order, and we’ll be ready for when you’ll be able to send word.” Then, with a soft, benevolent smile, he added, “Be careful.”

Severus stood then before his resolve had a chance to waver or his sanity snapped under the strain. There was a certain comfort, he found, in having a purpose again—a task to accomplish. It allowed him to centre his thoughts, his mind taking the lead and discarding everything it deemed distractive. His mission was to find two missing students, and the sister that now stood by his side happened to be the shortest way to get to them. That was all there was to it—a straightforward addition of facts that required no emotional involvement whatsoever.

Extending his arm, palm turned upwards, his S-shaped pendant still resting in a pool of silver chain, Severus said, “Lead the way, Professor.”

And Saturnine must have felt equally dedicated to the task at hand, for she stepped forward without a word to clasp her palm over his. Already, he could feel the first tell-tale signs of Apparition within him.

It took seven jumps for Saturnine to throw up whatever she’d had for supper. Severus outlasted her by one jump only, but he couldn’t help but feel a bit proud of himself for it.

“How much further, do you think?” he asked, spitting out what he hoped was only saliva.

“Not far, I think. Maybe one or two more jumps,” his sister answered, looking around the small clearing they’d Apparated to as if it held all the answers. They’d been steadfastly going south, but that was about the extent of their knowledge. “I’ll have to cut them really short now.”

He nodded, barely repressing the cynical criticism this last sentence inspired in him. He hadn’t remained silent to spare his sister’s feelings but because he didn’t trust his stomach much at the moment.

What they were doing was a hair’s breadth short of utter madness. The first rule of Apparition was to never jump to a place you had never been before. Another was to never attempt consecutive jumps in a short period. Not only were they likely to Apparate in front of an oncoming train or inside a mountain, but the more they tried it, the more they were at risk to leave behind body parts.

Severus had the sense that the first four or five jumps had been to places Saturnine had been more or less familiar with, but there was no denying that they were Apparating into unknown locations now. As much as it made him ill-at-ease, he also knew there was no other way to find Draco and Potter. They had no choice but to keep following the thread of their necklaces’ magic and hope for the best.

Taking a step closer to his sister, he held out his arm for her to Apparate them both away for the ninth time. Saturnine surprised him by reaching for his shoulder instead. He froze when he felt her thumb digging in to massage a spot near his clavicle.

“Are you okay?” she asked him, her voice gentle despite the strain her body had been put under sustaining the multiple double-Apparitions.

Severus felt like snorting at the stupidity of her question—as if she hadn’t been the one puking her guts out during their last stop in Nowheresville. He was about to remind her of that fact when his eyes caught her searching gaze, and he noticed the concern within. She wasn’t worried about his upset digestive tract.

He couldn’t go there, though—no matter how much he wanted to. It wasn’t the right time for it, not with the clock of doom steadfastly working against them. Severus needed to keep a clear head—to focus on the task at hand. There’d be time later for—well, for all the rest.

He nodded, and Saturnine’s hand moved to his forearm. They were gone an instant later.

***

Two more jumps and they Apparated outside a tiny village somewhere in the Fenlands. The eastern low-lying agricultural land was instantly recognisable to the Potions Master.

Going by the soil around his feet, Severus judged them to be near the coast. The ground here was rich, fertile, stoneless, and silty, while inland soils were made primarily of swathes of dark, friable, fen peat. Several of the plants he had in his storeroom came from around here, and in other circumstances, he would have been on the lookout for rare herbs.

“How much—further?” he asked as he bent over in half to try to stave his upset stomach.

“One more—jump,” Saturnine panted. She’d assumed a similar position. “I’m sure. I can—feel that—we’re close.”

“Somewhere secluded—in the middle of the marshes, then,” he said, forcing himself to straighten back up. “An old manor—of some kind—probably.”

Saturnine was still bent in half, but she’d regained control of her breathing. “What’s the plan once we get there?”

“Get in—find the boys—get out,” he panted out, and that was the gist of it. They could work out the finer details when they got there.

***

The house they had Apparated in front of might have been considered a lavish manor in its heyday, but it hadn’t aged well and was long past its prime. It now looked worn-out and dilapidated, much like the 12 Grimmauld Place townhouse that had once been a statement to the grandeur of the House of Black but was now no more than a sore spot tarnishing the Pureblood’s real estate pantheon.

“Know whose house this is?” Saturnine asked through clenched teeth.

Whether her clipped words stemmed from the tension preceding the battle to come or the aftereffects of one too many Apparitions Severus, didn’t know. Nor did he care to find out. “No idea,” he replied. “Someone sympathetic to the cause, most likely.”

They had Apparated in a small grove near the back of a large, two-storey building and had immediately crouched low to avoid detection. At their backs, a roddon marked the former course of an old riverbed. The inland silt bank looked like a stranded, giant sea serpent above the dark peat soil, and Severus couldn’t think of it as anything other than a bad omen.

Saturnine stooped a little as she started creeping forward. Severus understood her intention to stalk along the eastern facade to inspect the front, and he followed suit, hunching as low as his tall frame would allow.

The ground was muddy beneath their feet, and it was impossible to quiet the squelching sounds of the earth’s attempts at swallowing their shoes with every step. Glad that he’d left his long teaching robes behind, Severus glanced forward to check on his sister’s choice of footwear. While she may have worn her usual pair of dark trousers and blue blouse—the same azure hue of her eyes, he now realised—she’d switched to another pair of shoes for their nightly escapade. Her leather boots were of a thicker matter, sturdier, and as a result, Saturnine had no trouble navigating the uneven ground. She’d probably had them on earlier, too, but it hadn’t been relevant for him to take notice before. His own shoes were of the same type: sturdy and reliable on many terrains.

The side of the imposing, two-storey building revealed much of the same as the back: a fraying facade, half-eaten by vines and moss. The siblings crept towards the front as much as they could, stopping when they ran out of coverage to hide behind. There was no guard in sight. But that didn’t mean there weren’t other means of security, and neither of them risked revealing themselves just yet. Despite its ghastly exterior, the house was inhabited, as evidenced by the lights shining outwards through the many windows. But whoever was inside remained clear of the openings.

“My necklace’s in there,” Saturnine said before giving its twin back to him. “I’m sure of it.”

“This type of building probably comes with a cellar of some kind,” Severus said as he fastened the necklace back around his neck. “That’s where I would keep prisoners.”

“Bedrooms and bathrooms on the upper floor,” the brown-haired witch said, her hand rising to indicate the locations in turn. “Kitchen on the eastern side. Probably a small parlour close to the entrance—a dining room in between.” Her hand strayed west to the further half of the manor. “Following down the chimney we can see on the roof, we ought to get to a large living area. It probably takes up most of the western wing—unless there’s a small library there, too, or a study.”

“The Dark Lord will be using the living room or the dining room, depending on the mood of the day,” Severus informed her, praying that it wouldn’t be the latter and that blasted snake wasn’t in attendance. Nagini was always hungry for some wizard skin, and—Occlumency or not—he didn’t think he could stomach the sight if the Dark Lord let her loose on Draco.

“We’d best get in through the kitchen, then.” Saturnine’s gaze returned to the facade they had just skulked past. “Where do you estimate the stairs to be?”

He couldn’t tell. “Close by, I hope.”

She thought it over, her gaze darting left and right. “Without knowing where the boys are and who’s with them, I won’t risk Apparating directly inside. The windows are pretty old, the hinges rusty. It shouldn’t be too hard to force them open.” Severus nodded his agreement. “Shall we break in the Muggle way, then, brother?” she asked with a smirk.

He was saved from having to come up with something equally humorous himself when movement in the Manor’s courtyard caught his attention. Where there had been nothing now stood a dark, moving shadow. An instant later, it was joined by another, and another.

The wizards’ attire left little to the imagination. He owned a similar mask and set of dark robes himself.

“Death Eaters,” Saturnine muttered as she stepped closer to him, retreating to the grove’s darkness.

He nodded. A lot of them. Apparating with short, frequent bursts of magic in response to their Dark Lord’s Summon. Looking down at his idle forearm, Severus frowned as comprehension dawned on him—he hadn’t been summoned. He wouldn’t be included in whatever entertainment the Dark Lord had planned for this night. And that could only mean one thing: his spying days were over. He’d had his doubts when the school was attacked without his notification beforehand—not to mention what the Dark Lord might have seen if he used Legillimency on Draco again. Now he knew for sure that he’d outlasted his usefulness to his Master. Reaching inside one of his coat’s inner pockets, he retrieved a small crystal phial he always carried with him. Removing the stopper, he brought it to his lips before drowning its content. The taste was as awful as he’d expected.

Saturnine gave him a puzzled look, but he shook his head to indicate that she had better save her breath and refrain from asking him any questions. Besides, they had more pressing matters to attend to. Namely, rescuing two kidnapped teenagers from a house swarming with Death Eaters.

They could have called in for reinforcement, but the last thing they needed was a full-frontal assault of the place with hexes flying left and right. The unpredictability of such a bloodbath was too dangerous to consider. Besides, they had to act now; whatever time had been given to them to attempt a rescue was dwindling to a close. The Manor’s security would only be weakened during the summoning phase. Every second they wasted could turn out to be the one instant they would end up missing in the end. It would have to be a surgical strike, he realised.

Having come to a decision, Severus instructed, “Go to the boys. Get them out.”

Saturnine rounded on him, eyes narrowing like a bird of prey on a hunt. “What of you?”

“Distraction,” he said without wanting to get into details.

Taking a step closer to him, she flatly refused. “No.”

Severus hmphed, letting his annoyance show. “Don’t fight me on this, Saturnine. We don’t have the time for it.”

She shook her head, and he knew she wouldn’t let him have his way; stubbornness was a hereditary trait with the Snapes, after all. “I said no, Severus. We can still go with my plan—creep in discreetly.”

“We won’t last five minutes, and you know it. You can still feel the necklace’s pull, can’t you? Give me a head start to get in and start a riot, then Apparate to the boys. It’s our only chance.”

Saturnine reached for his arm to halt him. “I said no, Severus.” Her tone was resolute, but she’d kept the volume of her voice in check. “I won’t watch you sacrifice yourself. Not now that I—”

“Let go!” Severus cut in, mid-sentence. He couldn’t restrain his sneer—as if he would give her a choice. This whole mess was his to clean up, and he would do what he had to. As he prepared to wrench his forearm free, he felt a hook grab him from behind the navel, and he was forcefully yanked away for the twelfth time that night.

Saturnine had forced his hand, and Severus had many sharp words on the tip of his tongue in response to her actions when they were done Apparating. They died on the edge of his lips when the room came into focus, and he caught sight of the two boys huddled in a corner of the cold, damp cell they had popped into.

Saturnine noticed, too, and she pushed him forward even as she moved to cover the door, wand in hand. Knowing that someone had his back, Severus gave his full attention to the wounded teenagers at his feet. With their torn-up clothes and dishevelled looks, it was undoubtable they’d already been made to suffer the Dark Lord’s displeasure. Thank Merlin that we’re not too late, he thought as he crouched down in front of his godson.

He found that Draco was feverish and nearly unconscious, signs of a long session of Cruciatus evident in his trembling extremities. By his side, Potter seemed to be only marginally better. When he focused on him, Severus saw the Gryffindor boy recoil slightly and—to his utter surprise—shield his godson with his own body. That gave him pause, and he wondered if perhaps Potter had not recognised him.

Moving as cautiously and unthreateningly as he could, the Potions Master leaned closer and asked him, “Can you stand?”

There was no answer, and he bent lower to try and catch the boy’s unfocused gaze. “I asked you a question, Potter,” he tried again, louder this time. “Can you stand?”

No words came, and he wondered at his diagnosis. Maybe he was worse off than he’d thought. He started running through the list of possible spells and potions the Dark Lord could have given him.

“Answer him, Harry.” His sister’s voice cut in from behind his back. “Are you okay?”

A nod came at the sound of Saturnine’s voice, then a tentative, “Not at my best, but I can stand.” Potter’s voice shook over every two words, and there was a certain haziness to his gaze, Severus noticed. He’d been Crucioed, too; there was no doubt about it. “I’m not sure about Draco,” Potter added. “He’s not been well for a while. He—he was harder on him.”

“How long ago were you two cursed?” Severus asked as he searched his inner pockets for the correct phials.

“I’m not sure, Professor. It’s hard to tell the time down here—one, maybe two hours.”

Severus quickly did the math. If the boy’s estimate was correct, that would put the torture session at around the time when they’d been kidnapped, which made sense. Leaning close to his godchild, he tipped the content of one of his crystal phials into his mouth before lifting his chin up so he’d swallow. Draco’s pallid skin was clammy to the touch, and he ran a hand over his brow to check his temperature. Not liking what his palm found, he reached for another potion.

The third one, a mild Pepper Up, he handed to Potter. The dark stare that accompanied it had the boy removing the stopper and gulping down the clear blue liquid in under a minute.

“We’re straining our welcome,” Saturnine warned him from where she stood guard by the door. “Are they fit enough to Apparate?”

“No,” he replied. “Potter might be, but Malfoy’s too unstable.”

At his words, the Gryffindor did something that caused Severus’ eyebrow to rise again. The boy grabbed hold of Draco’s arm, clearly intent on not letting go. The action had been so quick that it had looked reflexive. Since when does Potter care what happens to Draco? he wondered. It looked as though the brave Gryffindor didn’t want to be forced away from the wounded Slytherin at his side. If he hadn’t seen it with his own two eyes, Severus would never have believed it.

“We’ll have to use every charm in the book to get out of here alive,” Saturnine said. Her voice had come from closer than before, and an instant later, she entered Severus’ peripheral vision. She crouched down next to him, and her lips stretched into a warm smile, despite the dire situation, as she met Potter’s gaze. “Hey there, lad,” she said. “Ready to go home?”

Despite his exhausted state, Potter beamed at her in reply. “I knew you’d come, Saturnine. I knew you’d find me.”

“Told you I’d keep you safe, didn’t I?” she said, reaching a hand forward to help the young wizard up. Potter went along willingly, leaning against her side a little once he was vertical.

Severus stared in bewilderment as more pieces of the jigsaw that was their current situation slotted into place. But still, they refused to come together to form a coherent picture. Potter had called his sister by her first name—her real first name. While even Minerva McGonagall hadn’t known the true identity of their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, it seemed that the headmaster’s golden boy did. Not only that, but the young lion clearly trusted her.

Albus Dumbledore was scheming in the dark again, and Severus sensed that there were many things he hadn’t been told about. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the right time to start demanding answers.

“Harry, do you know where we are in the house?” Saturnine asked him as she sneaked an arm around his shoulders to make sure he stayed upright.

“Cellar,” he replied in an exhausted voice. “We took the stairs down from a large room upstairs—living room, I think. That’s where he—” Harry faltered for a moment, then seemed to find his courage again. “That’s where he was. Voldemort.”

“What of the stairs?” Saturnine asked. “Were they close to the living room?”

Potter shook his head. “At the other end of the corridor, by the kitchen.”

That was good news; they could use it as their mean of egress. Reaching forward, Severus sneaked his arms around Draco’s waist to hoist him up. The sharp motion was enough to jolt him into full awareness, and he was faced with a pair of uncomprehending, silvery eyes an instant later.

Holding onto his godson to make sure he didn’t face-plant, he debated giving him a Strengthening Solution but decided against it. In his current state, it would set his nerves aflame. Having experienced this firsthand himself more than once, he knew it to be the kind of torture he didn’t wish on anyone, least of all someone he cared about.

“Try to get walking, Draco,” he said sternly instead. “I’ll get you to safety.”

The boy nodded feebly and attempted to reply, but his speech was so slurred, it didn’t make sense. Severus fancied it had been his first name, but he couldn’t be sure.

Stepping to Draco’s right side, he draped one of his lithe arms over his shoulders, and he took most of his weight on himself. That would make it difficult for him to use his wand. But they’d have to risk it; they weren’t getting out of here any other way.

Saturnine, who had more range of motion than him, cast spell after spell on all of them to shield them from sight and muffle their steps. And then, heaving in a deep breath, she spelled the door open.

***

It took them longer than Severus had hoped to reach the ground floor. They had to make several turns in the cellar corridors to reach the stairs, and going up the old, worn-out, concrete steps turned out to be a hassle on their charges. They were halfway down to the kitchen, their destination in sight, when all hell broke loose, and someone screamed that the prisoners had escaped. The sound of feet running about the old Manor soon reverberated around them.

Throwing caution to the wind, Severus accelerated their cadence as he half-dragged, half-carried his godson along the dusty carpeted floor. Saturnine and Harry were slightly ahead of him, and though he couldn’t see them for the Disillusionment Charms, he saw the kitchen door swing open as they entered. Severus was inside with the moaning, panting Slytherin a short instant later.

He knew that he caused Draco pain, but with no other choice, he urged him to hold on a little while longer. “We’re almost there, Draco. Just a couple more steps, if you can.”

The large kitchen window opened noiselessly, and a quick “Finite Incantatem” had them all returning to their normal state so that Saturnine could help the young Gryffindor over the windowsill. Potter landed on the other side an instant later, and Saturnine peered after him to make sure he was okay. He must have been, for she quickly turned to Severus, ready for Draco’s turn.

The windowsill was about twenty inches from the tiled floor on this side and maybe thirty/thirty-five inches from the ground on the other side. The state his godson was in would require the two of them working together to get him safely through.

“Get on the other side,” Severus instructed. “I’ll hand him over to you.”

Saturnine obeyed with a nod and jumped through like a lithe panther. She was reaching for Draco with both arms an instant later.

The ruckus grew louder behind them, and Severus could feel the house coming alive with feet thundering in every direction. They would be on them in no time, and in the state the boys were in, they wouldn’t be able to get away in time.

“Cast a Disillusionment Charm on them again, then head for the other side of the roddon. Hunker down against its length and signal the Order for backup,” he said as he pushed his godson towards the opening.

Bending down, he sneaked a hand under Draco’s knees to lift him up. Twisting his hips, he passed the boy’s feet through the window first and straight into Saturnine’s waiting arms. In no time at all, she had Draco safely cradled against her chest.

Severus couldn’t help but lean forward a little, following the departing warmth of his godson like a man lost in the desert and thirsting for water. Looking down at his pale face, he tried to disregard the lines of pain that distorted his visage. Severus pushed through them to reach for the core of that boy whom he loved more than he’d ever admitted—even to himself. Carving his features into his memory, he let the fingers of his hand ghost down along one cheek in a silent goodbye.

Meeting his sister’s gaze, he said, “Keep him safe. Please, keep him safe.”

And then he turned on his heel to skulk away, wand in hand. “Get the hell back here, Severus!” he heard Saturnine hiss. But he ignored her. At a flick of his wrist, the window closed in her face, effectively drowning out her protests.

A part of him had always known he would not live to see the end of the war, and his clever mind had envisioned many a scenario in which he died along the way. Perhaps it would be one of the Order of the Phoenix’s members who would betray him, or the Dark Lord discerning his duplicitous nature during an intense Legilimency session. Or perhaps he would give himself away when his reluctance to execute a particularly vile order would make it obvious which side he truly worked for. The list of his hypothetical causes of death was a long one, and it had haunted many of his dreams. But never had he thought it would end this way, though. And what a fine ending this was. If he were to die tonight, Severus Snape would die a free man—a small mercy, indeed.

Steeling his resolve, the Potions Master blasted the kitchen’s front door into oblivion, leaving behind little more than gaping, broken hinges and splinters of wood.

If he went out tonight, he’d go out with a bang.

Severus stood his ground as he faced the wizards he’d been forced to call his friends and allies for years. Despite the many hoods and masks, he recognised everyone by size and bulk and the tailoring details of their black robes.

It felt good no longer having to pretend that he was on the masked Death Eaters’ side. It was liberating to finally be allowed to declare his true allegiance for all to see. He was no longer one of the Dark Lord’s followers, nor the Order’s spy—this was a clean scission from everything that came before.

Avery was the first to attack. If he’d had the time to reflect on the moment, Severus might have wondered at the deeper meaning of the first hit coming from the wizard he had come closest to calling a true friend. His “Impendia” was as weak as the man was kind, and Severus’ shield easily blocked it.

Rabastan Lestrange was next, and his “Bombarda!” was as strong and bulky as he was. It crashed upon Severus’ protective barrier with the intensity of the Knight Bus hitting a wall, and the Potions Master felt the impact all the way to his back molars. Knowing he couldn’t play defence all night, he threw in a few spells of his own. A nonverbal Levi Corpus had Avery pinned to the ceiling in no time, while a carefully aimed Stunning Spell caught Rabastan unaware between two attacks.

Seizing the opportunity, Severus rushed forward, past the stairs and towards where he estimated the living room to be. He was running into the snake’s nest, he knew. But he had to draw his pursuers as far away from the kitchen as he could, lest they’d realise which way the others had gone. If Saturnine managed to get as far as the roddon undetected, she and the boys stood a chance to be rescued. He only needed to make sure no one went after them until help could get here.

The ancient manor came alive around him, screams shouted out from every direction, and Severus could feel all the Death Eaters in the house congregating on him. He readied himself for their arrival, forcing more power into his protective shields. It would reduce the intensity of his attacks, but it was a concession he had to make if he wanted the fight to last.

Someone tall and large rounded the corner ahead of him, and Severus smiled at his fortitude. Despite his impressive strength, Greyback had always been slow on the uptake, and the Potions Master had no trouble casting a Stupefying Charm before the other had time to pounce. He followed it with a Bludgeoning Curse for good measure.

As he pushed forward, Severus was faced with two more of Lord Voldemort’s disciples. Neither wore a mask. So, it took no deduction to recognise Rabastan Lestrange’s brother, Rodolphus, and Antonin Dolohov. Knowing these two wouldn’t be as easily dispatched, Severus stopped walking to adopt a fighting stance.

The corridor became a light show as spells zinged one way and the other in all manner of colours between the three combatants. There were two attacks to each one of Severus’, and the sheer volume of them soon had him panting under the strain. As the fight continued, he was forced to divert more and more energy to sustaining his shield, and his own attacks started to lose their potency.

Dolohov attempted to attack his mind with Legilimency, and Severus would have smiled at his lack of talent if he’d had the time for it. Lestrange was less subtle as he simultaneously hit him with a Cruciatus and Imperius Curse. Severus focused on resisting the urge to obey Lestrange’s command to drop his wand while he kept defending his mind from Dolohov’s intrusion, which was becoming tiresome. Gritting his teeth, he broke away the connection with Dolohov with a hard, mental shove.

Severus kept his attention on both targets and tried to effectively defend and attack without leaving openings in between. When both Lestrange and Dolohov managed to hit him simultaneously, the Potions Master was knocked backwards a few paces. Already buffeted in a windstorm of pain, he felt his mouth fill with blood. He saw, more than felt, his protective shield flicker to dangerously low levels as his body tried to overcome that last bout of trauma.

Risking everything, he shut the protective barrier off completely and redirected all his strength to what would have to be his final attack. The time for discretion had passed, and he bellowed “Crucio!” as his wand-hand moved to encompass both Death Eaters. Willing the spell to do as much damage as it could, he poured all of his resentment into his soul. Years of repressed bitterness came pouring out as he remembered the Purebloods disparaging him for his mixed heritage and limited means. All the jokes, the taunts, and the barely veiled insults he’d been forced to endure for decades fuelled his revenge.

Surprise barely had time to register on the two wizards’ faces before their traits contorted with pain, and the vindictive part of Severus rejoiced at the sight. They both passed out from the sheer intensity of the attack.

The Potions Master’s celebration was cut short as a pulse of power hit him in his left side an instant later; the shockwave was so fierce he worried it would rip him apart as it blasted through his skin and tore through his muscles. Dolohov’s parting gift flung him backwards, his shoulders taking the brunt of the impact as he collided with the drywall. He was pretty sure he left a Severus-shaped dent in it.

Baring his teeth, he forced himself to move further down the corridor. He was a sitting duck in that long, barren rectangular passageway, and he had to find somewhere safer to parry the next attack. Despite the burning ache in his side, he kept going. Staggering, he ducked into the closest room—a small library, he discovered—and found cover behind a tall wooden grandfather clock.

One shaking hand reached inside his coat for the last phial he had with him: a personal favourite, his most potent Strengthening Potion. He gulped it down in one swallow and waited for the incoming invigorating kick. The old timepiece caught two hexes while he struggled to get his breathing back under control—in through the nose, out through the mouth—until the world stopped spinning.

Severus was drenched in sweat and strained to the core—so much so that even his wand-hand was trembling. But still, he had to continue fighting. They needed him to continue. Every minute, every second that he kept the Death Eaters occupied was one more second that Saturnine had to carry the boys to safety.

Drawing in a deep breath, Severus rounded the clock again to cast “Sectumsempra!” at the two wizards who’d followed him inside. Now, without the strength to cast Nonverbals, he prayed whoever was on his tail wasn’t familiar with that particular spell of his.

One of the dark-robed wizards, a youngling he didn’t recognise, was a mess of cuts and spraying blood an instant later, but the second brought up a shield in time to deflect his attack. No wonder, he thought, when he saw who it was.

Bellatrix Lestrange walked in with murder in her gaze. With her curly hair puffing around her face, she looked like an unhinged, gothic harpy out for blood—his blood. Just his luck.

So that was what the Fates had in store for him: Severus Snape was set to die at the hand of Bellatrix Lestrange—the very woman who had lured him to the Dark Side all those years ago. The one who’d seen through his lone wolf’s act and straight down to his needy core. She had discovered the troubled child that lay beneath the stone-cold facade, the lonely kid who desperately sought his peers’ acceptance—one so eager to belong anywhere he’d doom himself willingly for the chance to have someone he could call a friend. Ever the true Slytherin, Bellatrix had seen his weakness and exploited it to its fullest, guiling him into a false sense of security, of belonging, only to better serve the talented potioneer that he was to the Dark Lord on a silver platter.

Severus had never forgiven her for her willowy womanly tricks and incessant mind games. Pushing away from the clock’s moderate shielding, he faced Bellatrix full-on, easily slipping into a familiar duelling stance.

The brunette smiled at his action, her blood-red lips curling up in childish delight. “Cute, Sevy,” she said, and the annoying nickname caused his blood pressure to rise to unparalleled levels. “I ought to have known, though—someone like you could never be one of us.”

Though he’d never been someone particularly petty, it felt good to be able to say, “I’m going to enjoy killing you, Bella. I’ve waited a long time for this.”

She cackled at that, taking another step forward before she reached for the hem of her black, floor-length skirt to stretch it slightly to the side as she mockingly bowed before him—formally accepting the duel they were about to embark on: a duel to the death.

Mad as she was, Bellatrix Lestrange was no weakling. She was a force to be reckoned with on a good day, and she was downright terrifying in her maddest moments. Having poured through all the tomes of both the House of Black and the House of Lestrange’s extensive libraries, she was also crazy enough to be willing to use all the dark secrets she’d learned over the years.

Severus was holding on by a thread, remaining on his feet out of sheer will alone. Any hex that would penetrate his defence could prove to be fatal. He didn’t stand a chance to win, and he knew it. Just as surely as Severus knew he wouldn’t run from this fight. He’d draw it out for as long as he could so that they would be safe—Lily’s child, his godson and the one person Severus cared about more than he valued his own life.

Despite the burning pain in his side, he returned Bellatrix’s theatrical bow. The instant he was standing tall again, the fight began in earnest—with no warming up.

Once she engaged, Bellatrix’s hits came at him, sharp and fast. There was nothing of her usual mad whimsy to her attacks tonight. She was so enraged that her blows were almost clinical. Her focus had narrowed through the prism of her anger. Unable to fight back, Severus deflected attack after attack, denying himself the ability to respond in kind. And even that was draining what little strength he had left.

Fuelled by desperation, he burned the last of his energy, the last of his magic to draw out the issue. Intent to make the fight last just a little bit longer, he screamed as pain poured out of him—along with his desperation. Years of regret fuelled him, a passion that he’d never been allowed to voice tore out of him in one long, mournful cry, and he pushed more and more of his energy out to form a crackling dome-like shield of white-blue light.

Bellatrix was snarling her impatience as she hurled spell after spell at him, only to watch them splinter into bursts of light as they splayed on the Potions Master’s shield.

Sinking to one knee under the strain, Severus held on. The protective dome had shrunk by half, but still, it was there. He could feel blood seeping out of the wound at his side, and in his hand, his black wand shook under the strain. Reaching deeper still, he drew upon his memories to fuel his dwindling magic—burning up images of Draco’s birthday parties and days spent in the playground pushing his little sister on the swings. With one last cry of defiance, he gave up everything he had, everything he was, to earn them one more moment, one more instant…

And then his magic ran out, and his shield flickered away to nothingness.

He felt himself sink to the floor in a boneless heap. Exhaling what had to be his last breath, Severus realised there was nothing left inside of him. He’d given up everything, and it hadn’t been enough.

He hadn’t been enough.                        

And the flames engulfed him.

Hungry flames of red and yellow surged through the room, eager to devour everything in sight. They leapt at the furniture, latching onto wood and carpet with no intention to ever let go. They feasted on the books like they were the sweetest delicacies available, gorging on their cellulose sheets like ravenous children in a candy store.

Severus watched the dreadful spectacle they presented with a certain reverence. It was a sight to behold, after all. And it wasn’t like he could move, anyway. What little was left of him was now imprisoned in his depleted body. A body that was slowly dying of exertion, nearly unable to draw breaths anymore.

It wasn’t long until the flames took notice of him, and they jumped happily in his direction. He felt them reaching nearer, lapping at him from all sides in an attempt to swallow him whole. He closed his eyes as he waited for the pain to come.

But it didn’t.

He waited a little longer, but still—nothing. They must have reached him by now. They were so close, he could feel their warmth surrounding him, but they’d yet to sink their teeth in. Curiosity won over his morbid thoughts, and he forced one eye open, then the next. The flames were there; he’d been right. Only, they had stopped two inches away from his face. Unable to so much as twitch his head, he glanced down the length of his nose as far as he could. His wand-arm was twisted at an odd angle by his side; the wand still clutched between his useless fingers. But that was not the most surprising sight; the flames were there, too, but they kept their distance. They no longer seemed in a hurry to devour everything in their path. Such as it was, it looked more like they were attempting to protect him. They’d built themselves into a cocoon of dancing amber tongues.

And Severus couldn’t understand why Bellatrix would cast such a spell on him. Something must have gone wrong, for she must have intended the flames to devour him, not protect him. And yet, as he watched on in amazement, the flames stayed where they were, unmoving and gently cradling his prone form in their warm embrace.

Severus was dimly aware that he should have passed out from the lack of oxygen by now, but he could breathe effortlessly. The air that drafted in to him seemed to come straight from outside. It was both fresh and pleasantly moist, and Severus felt his mouth open of its own volition, desperate to drink the humidity out of the air itself. Somehow, it must have succeeded, for he could swear he felt droplets of water land on his parched tongue.

He realised that he hadn’t seen or heard Bellatrix in the last few minutes, and she should be on him by now, enraged at her spell going awry and determined to finish him off some other way. He had no doubt she’d gladly resort to tightening her fingers around his neck until he’d breathed his last if she had to—so determined she was to kill him.

Sprawled to the floor as he was, Severus couldn’t see the entrance of the library where he’d last seen Bellatrix standing. He wanted to, though. Gulping down the water drops on his parched tongue, he heaved in a reinvigorating breath before forcing his neck to crane forward and to the side a little. He managed with a moan, and the sight it revealed chilled him to the bone despite the ambient heat.

Bellatrix was there—only she wasn’t Bellatrix anymore; she wasn’t much of anything anymore. Her hair had been singed away, and her face burned into nothingness. Flames feasted on her corpse with the vigour that Severus had envisioned for himself, and he shuddered at the sight.

Feeling the last of his strength abandon him, he marvelled that the flames still hadn’t advanced on him. And then the world went blissfully black.

***

As far back as he could remember, Severus had always hated hospitals. St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was no exception, and he couldn’t leave this appalling sterilised place soon enough. If only he were stronger, he would have already.

But it wasn’t only his body that had taken a beating. He’d reached his limits—physical and magical—and then he’d pushed beyond. As a result, he’d fully and truly depleted himself of magic. He was dry to his very core, unable to perform even the simplest of spells—no better than a Squib, for the time being.

Thankfully, he was told that it would not be a permanent state. But his recovery would be long and arduous, and it could not be counted out in days or weeks. It would take months. Exactly how many was anyone’s guess. It depended on the wizard and the magical levels that were there to begin with. Not to mention that it was a rare occurrence and that relevant documentation on the subject was seriously lacking. Few wizards were stupid enough to push themselves to such extremes—or so the Mediwitch had told him, not too kindly, when she’d finished her recap of his present condition.

It had hurt a little to hear that nothing but time would help him, not even his trusted potions.

“Time and rest,” the Mediwitch repeated with a frown that was a clear warning he’d about maxed out her reserve of patience. Still, he couldn’t help but point out that he could get ample doses of both in his own quarters at Hogwarts and that there was no point in keeping him at St. Mungo’s any longer.

“Be nice to the lady, Sev,” a familiar voice said from the room’s entrance. “She’s only doing her job.”

His heart skipped a beat at the voice—her voice—and even the Mediwitch’s charms picked up on it, flashing red by the foot of his bed for one instant. Saturnine—he’d all but forgotten about her return, and her sudden reappearance brought forth a flood of memories.

“The boys?” he asked, jumping onto the most pressing issue.

“They’re safe, both of them,” she replied, entering the room. Then she stared at the Mediwitch until she cottoned on and left them alone. “They were taken to a safe house this morning. Harry’s still got a few scrapes and bruises, but he’ll be right as rain in a day or two. Draco will have to take it easy for a little while longer, but there will be no lasting damages.” She paused, then allowed the next words out cautiously, “Physically, at least.”

He arched an eyebrow questioningly.

“They both say they’re fine, but I don’t believe a word of it,” Saturnine explained. “They’re just kids, and what they went through in that house…” She let her words hang. There was no need to elaborate. Severus knew better than most what the Dark Lord was capable of.

“Where are they?”

With a resigned sigh, she said, “I can’t tell you any more than I already have.”

Severus understood the words for what they were. Not won’t but can’t—a literal physical impossibility due to a magical restraint placed on the building itself. Wherever they were, the children were protected by a Fidelius Charm. And that piece of knowledge took the edge off of his worry.

With one last thing to worry about, he returned to his earlier concern. Now that he’d been temporarily freed from the Mediwitch’s scrutiny, it was time he made his grand escape from this lime-green prison. Stifling a moan, he pushed the equally appalling-looking covers off himself as he rolled to his side. Knowing it would be hard to stand but refusing to ask for help, he decided to take it one step at a time. And the first step was to swing his long, aching legs over the side. He hadn’t so much as stepped a toe over the edge of the mattress when an alarm went off.

The matron made her grand return an instant later, as if she’d been waiting behind the closed door all along for him to try and do something like that. She pushed him back to the mattress with little delicacy as she looked down on him.

“I’ll have none of that, young man,” she said in a tone that caused Saturnine to chuckle audibly from where she stood by the foot of his bed. “You try that again, and I will stick you to the mattress with a charm, I will.”

A dark sneer was his only reply, and the Mediwitch looked down her nose at him all the way to the door. Once it had closed after her, Saturnine moved to take her place by his side. Severus was surprised to see she’d taken out her wand.

“If you want to get out of here, you have to bypass the Monitoring Charm first,” she said, aiming the wand at his head before reaching out a hand for him. “Sit up,” she instructed.

Not having any idea what she was talking about but wanting out of that dreadful place yesterday, Severus complied. Saturnine had no trouble hoisting him upward, but he had some difficulties staying vertical. The world swayed dangerously around him, and he felt his stomach lurch.

Beside him, Saturnine was busy waving her wand at the spot where his head had been. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, Severus saw a mist of green energies floating on the pillow behind him.

Saturnine reasserted her hold onto him, sneaking her fingers down to his forearm, and she pulled a little as she said, “Come closer to me, and sit on the edge of the bed.”

He did as instructed and watched as the mist grew to cover the spot his body had just vacated, like a warm imprint left behind on the sheets.

“Ready to stand?” Saturnine asked, glancing his way an instant. He nodded even though he felt anything but. Ready to topple over was more like it.

His sister kept her wand on the space behind him as she focused back on the charm. “On three,” she said, clasping his arm a little more strongly.

Unsure what would happen but somehow guessing it would hurt, he clenched his teeth in anticipation. The last thing he needed was to scream out and alert the Medidragon that was surely patrolling the hallways nearby.

“Three,” Saturnine said, and she tugged on him so hard that he was flung forward and into her chest. She caught his bulk one-handed, swaying a little under the impact, even as she hurried to finish the spell on the vacated lumpy mattress. The instant she was done, her wand vanished up her sleeve, and she reasserted her hold on her brother. It wasn’t a minute too soon, the world having dangerously blurred around the edges for Severus.

“Don’t touch that bed again,” Saturnine explained further, and her words were a welcome distraction from the close proximity they were now in. “And the charm will keep thinking that you’re in it.”

She passed an arm around Severus’ shoulder to steady him, assuming most of his weight as he fought to keep his breathing under control and the bile from rising in his throat. An “Accio” from Saturnine caused his torn-up clothes to shoot out of the wardrobe and land into her waiting hand. They were gone an instant later.

Severus drew in as deep a breath of fresh air as he could the instant they Apparated back into the land of the living. The ocean brine in the air was a welcome surprise and a much-appreciated relief after agonising hours spent in the antiseptic-filled air of St. Mungo’s.

Not recognising the place, Severus looked around for a familiar landmark, but couldn’t find any. They’d arrived in a desolate plot of land by the sea or the ocean.

Looking towards the open horizon, he was surprised to find the beginning of a sunset. But hadn’t Saturnine just told him that the kids had been taken away ‘this morning’? Well, it looked like he’d been out of it for longer than he’d thought.

Before he had the time to voice his questions, Saturnine pushed a piece of parchment in his hand. He glanced down to find a short note in the headmaster’s handwriting.

“Cove Cottage can be found at the end of Sennen Path, Cornwall.”

The instant his weary eyes finished taking in the words, a small cottage shook itself into existence in front of him. It sneaked out of the ground like a reptile who’d just felt a mouse darting by, settling on the flat, desolate surface by the cliff to better inspect its surroundings.

The walls were built out of light-grey stone bricks and covered with a slated roof of the same colour. Several windows made from white-painted wood and clear glass afforded him a peek inside what looked to be one more of Dumbledore’s in-case-of-emergencies modestly adequate hideouts.

“Almost there,” Saturnine said, helping him forward again. “Then you can get some rest in a proper bed. How does that sound?”

“Lovely,” he admitted between pants of laboured breaths as they entered. He barely noticed the interior of the cottage as they crossed through. It wasn’t much, but it looked clean and safe. Not a bad place to haul himself up for a day or two to lick his wounds.

He was only too relieved when Saturnine helped him lie down on a comfortable bed with fresh linen that smelled of lavender instead of antiseptic. He sank into the plush mattress with a relieved sigh and almost fell asleep the moment his head hit the warm, fluffy pillow. But then someone pulled up a warm blanket over him, and a delicate hand pushed a strand of hair off his face.

When he reopened his eyes, she was still there. Not an illusion then, he realised. Saturnine was really there, and so were a million questions. They were getting louder in his head, colliding with each other as his tired, addled brain tried to make sense of this visual impossibility. He wanted to ask her for an explanation, but his mouth had gone to sleep already.

Leaning down a little, Saturnine murmured, “Not now,” with a knowing smile. “You need to rest, brother-mine.”

He nodded in acceptance; there was too much to ask, anyway, and even more to analyse. In the span of a handful of hours, his world had been turned upside down: his duplicity revealed, his position as a spy blown to smithereens, the boys almost killed. And amid all that, Saturnine—his Saturnine—had returned.

His fingers curled around his sister’s before he could order his hand not to. And once he felt her warmth clasp around his cold digits, he found that he didn’t want to let go, after all.

“Sleep now, Severus,” she said in that same soothing voice that was a direct echo to much younger days. Another strand of his hair was tucked in place, accompanied by the brush of warm fingers on his temple. “We’ll talk later.”

More than the words, it was the warm hand in his that he believed. It was a promise in itself.

Like a whisper on the wind—on his last exhale before he allowed sleep to take him—he released from his lips the nickname he had denied himself for over fifteen years. “’Nine.”

~ End Of Part Two ~