A huge golden moon nestled like a newborn babe within the cradling arms of the towering pines, oaks and firs of the Forbidden Forest until, by slow degrees, the lustrous orb was weaned from it's earthly breast and was sent soaring upward in a wide arc across the sky. The myriad twinkling stars were humbled by the brilliance of the larger sphere, and more so those that hovered near, for in shame they hid their meagre glow behind its radiant aura.

Far below, icicles hung from bare branches like crystal dagger blades and the snow blanketed the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, making the wide flagstone steps treacherous at best. It was late, and even the most diligent of students had long since gone to bed, leaving behind their homework for dreams of winter and academia. Still, a pale flickering light shone weakly through the rime-frosted windows of the School’s greenhouse. If anyone besides the cloaked figure kept stranger hours, it would be the Herbology teacher, Professor Sprout.

Huddling deeper into the scanty warmth of his voluminous black cloak, he was not surprised to see his breath coming in little white puffs, and a sneer twisted his lips as his knee-high boots crunched the snow, disturbing the near perfect silence of the night. Ignoring the trenches he made as he walked, Professor Snape quickened his pace. He loathed having to ask the woman for things he should have procured on his own, but the mid-term testing and recent events had left him with no time for personal errands. Best get this over with, and return to the only slightly less chilly accommodations of his dungeon chambers.

He raised a black-gloved hand to the glass-and-wood door of the greenhouse to knock, but the door fell ajar with the barest rap of his knuckles. He raised a brow. Sprout was positively rabid when it came to securing her treasures after hours. She trusted the students, particularly the Weasley brothers, less than he did, which was quite the accomplishment. Without ceremony, he pushed the door open and slipped inside.

Scents of earth, compost, herbs, and rare plants assailed his nose, rather like wet pepper. Mist touched his face and the near tropical warmth of it reminded him of a shower, making his cloak nearly unbearable. He slid it off his slender frame, folding ever so precisely over his arm. The flickering light that had drawn his eyes outside came from a series of enchanted candles from the main building, the spells keeping them from dripping and setting the greenhouse afire. It was almost… pleasant, though not as comforting as a roiling cauldron.

His eyes settled over a freshly made pallet of mistletoe and he sneered again. He’d almost forgotten that Solstice holidays were only a few weeks away. He did not approve of the giddy sentiments behind the plants, or the disgust of seeing some of the professors acting much in the same way as the children. Crisply turning his back on the glossy green bunches with nearly translucent white berries; he searched the room for Sprout. That was when he noticed the noise for the first time.

It came so softly he almost didn’t hear it, and then one single sustained note rose in the room above the raining sound of the misters. He strained to listen… yes, there it was, the words first in Hebrew then changing flawlessly to English. A muggle Solstice carol, what holiday they called Christmas. Though the song meant to be praising and uplifting to the heart, the purity of the voice cause a swift pang in his heart, as memories and something aching coursed over him like a wild river. They tasted bitter.

He looked around more, and spotted a small brown shape bobbing among a bed of Snapdragons, trying not to be bitten. That too was where the song came from. He was not aware that Sprout had such talent. Annoyed by the emotions the music had caused, he stamped over to where she was.

“Madame? My usual amounts of wormwood and asphodel, if you are quite through entertaining yourself—“ His speech was cut short, the words dying on his thin lips.

The brown shape straightened and turned around to face him. She was small, slender and as fragile looking as a winter rose. Long russet hair fell in curls about her shoulders and halfway down her back. Her delicate face was very pale and what skin of her hands he could see that weren’t covered by rich dark earth was also nearly white.

Her eyes, mixed brown and green gleamed like wet agates in the dim light, fearful and haunted stared at him questioningly. She wore robes of fitted wool, the colour of coffee which were not very flattering at all, making her seem if possible, more sallow. She wore no house emblem, but it was easy to see she was probably some sixth or seventh year.

Snape didn’t like the way she was looking at him, didn’t like the way she had caught him off guard, didn’t like this at all. Assuming his most chilling air, he glared at her, knowing this single look had withered nearly every single student he had ever had, including the smug Draco Malfoy. “When I discover which House you belong to, young lady, you may be assured that they will thank you for fifty points taken from it. Just who are you and why are you not in your dormitory?”

She lowered her eyes to the floor, unaware of the dirt streaked across her robes and her left cheek. Her hair closed around her face like a curtain. “W-wren. G-grigori, Sir, begging your pardon.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, with the same lilting tone as she had when she had been singing. There was an underlying accent Snape could not place but found intriguing. “I did not ask you to beg my anything, Miss Grigori. I have asked, however, why you are not in your dormitory.”

Her shoulders slumped further with each word, making her seem smaller and smaller as he spoke. “I…d-don’t have a dormitory—“

“And where is Professor Sprout? Perhaps she will be more forthcoming with simple answers.”

“Ah, Severus. I was hoping you two would get a chance to meet,” came a third voice from behind Snape. He turned to meet the Headmaster’s twinkling blue eyes.

“Good Evening, Professor Dumbledore.”

“Good Evening Severus… Miss Grigori. I think it’s entirely too late for you to be toiling in here. Gather your cloak up and return to the main building. You may wait in my office if you like. I am sure Fawkes will welcome your company.”

The girl curtsied quickly and like a mouse, scampered away with as little grace as she could muster. Snape watched her leave, slightly bemused, before turning back to the Headmaster. “And why, Albus, would I want to meet that pitiful creature?”

Dumbledore gave him a long look from the corner of his half-moon spectacles. “Well one, she reminds me of you. Two, she is our newest arrival, and three I thought since she will be sharing the dungeons with you, you might want to know what she looked like.”

It took several moments for Dumbledore’s words to finally make their impression.

“What?” Less than eloquent, but very much appropriate.

“I said you might want to know—“

“I heard you Albus, but I am simply clarifying that you are not playing some kind of infernal jest.” Snape’s lips were barely a white line in his wan face.

“Why would I make a joke?” Dumbledore’s eyes misted, all traces of levity and good humour leaving his craggy face and he heaved a weary sigh. “ I have decided to make special accommodations for Miss Grigori. Her great-grandmother Oriel was a dear, beautiful and most talented witch in her day. We attended classes together here. Great friends. Then she had children and I taught her daughters, and then their children. The only one of them who had children was Lark. She, too, was a promising witch with a great deal of talent in the charms area… but music, muggle opera to be specific, was her true love. She left Hogwarts a few years before you came here.”

Dumbledore paused and reaching up to wipe his eyes, remove his spectacles. His voice was calmer when he spoke again. “Lark eventually fell in love and married a muggle composer, and lived a life of passion and art. Then, Wren was born. The three of them travelled the world. When she was old enough, Wren was sent to Beauxbatons. I can tell you it was a terrible, hard thing, Severus. I was sure she would have been sent to me…to us.”

Snape nodded, still not quite sure what this had to do with anything.

“Her parents were killed last week. Plane crash. And it so happens she had one living relative. Oriel is not in good health any more. She sent me an owl, and asked that I look after the girl. It’s as simple as that.”

In those few minutes, Snape had learned more about the Headmaster than he had in several years. “That explains why she is here, and who she is, Albus. But as for the rest? Though I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“She’s in the last semester of her last year. Would you honestly subject her to…yes, I see you would. Still --close your mouth Severus, it’s not wholly attractive—if she must be sorted, it will be done with privacy, unless you are suggesting putting her in Slytherin.

“As you wish, Headmaster.” Snape said through gritted teeth. He picked up his wormwood, and his asphodel and headed back into the winter night.

The morning dawned cold and grey, as if an army of clouds had taken position overnight. Snape lifted his head wearily from the back of his chair and glared bleary eyed into his fire. He had sat here all night unable to sleep, not even with the aid of the potion. He wanted to blame it all on the memories.

He had recalled for the millionth time, the snowy night that he had run into his father’s study, his face alight with childish joy. He had spent many hours and not a little blood carving the figurine for his father, a Nutcracker like the one in the play his mother had taken him to see in the West End. He could only recall his father’s scowl at the interruption, the snide, knowing smile as he raised his wand… and the bandaging of his hands for a few weeks afterwards, the figure having caught fire under his father’s curse.

If that had not been enough to keep him awake, then the girl had some fault in it too. It had been the singing. Haunting and melodic, it had penetrated the walls of his chamber, as no spell could have. Several times, he had the full intention of going to her room and silencing her by a simple spell if that was the only way. But somehow, he just couldn’t. This irritated him to no end, and now, his first class was only thirty minutes away. Well, certainly, they would have Grigori to thank for his resentment.

Rising, he dragged himself into his private bath. He sat on the lip of the claw-footed porcelain tub and filled it with the hottest water he could stand. A handful or angelica and a dash of pennyroyal, and then he turned the taps off. It took a few moments to unbutton the row of tiny buttons down the front of his cossak. He slid into the bath scrubbing vigorously, washing himself and his hair. Then he immersed himself up to his chin, closing his eyes

Slowly, his muscles started to relax, the tension between his shoulders ebbing, and his body shrugging off the weary pain. His breathing deepened just a touch and he started to succumb the pleasure of slee- -

“Oh!”

The softly whispered gasp was enough to bring him to full wakefulness and he sat bolt upright, wet hair plastering to his shoulders and chest.

“I-I… I’m s-so sorry, Sir….” Wren stammered, paralysed by fear and shock. Wide-eyed, her pallid skin now a brighter crimson than that the Hogwarts Express, she stared at him before dropping her eyes to the floor and covering her mouth. She couldn’t have known that the washroom connected to both suites.

“ARE YOU DEAF?!?! I SAID OUT!”

She turned to flee, but by no means quickly enough for Snape, whose body now quivered with fury.

“Of all the insolence I have seen! I don’t care what Dumbledore says, you’ll be gone. Tonight! Mark my words!” He yelled out as the door closed behind her retreating figure. Snatching up a towel, he walked back into his room and dressed quickly. The potions lesson could hang for all he cared. He was going to see Dumbledore this very second.

“I won’t tolerate it, Albus! I daresay I could care less about whatever loyalties you keep from your youth, but this…this is out of the question! I want her gone. Do you hear me! GONE!”

“Such an outburst, Severus, really. Now sit down and have a cup of tea, and I’ll send someone to monitor your class for you.” Dumbledore sat behind his desk, running a light hand over Fawkes’ feathers, almost as if petting a cat.

“I don’t want any bloody tea. I want her packing her bags and leaving.”

“Severus, allow me to point out that there were several objections when YOU came back to Hogwarts as a professor. Did I care then, of all those who wanted to see you anywhere but here? Wren couldn’t have possibly known you were… indisposed.”

Severus, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground, managed to sit in one of the plush armchairs Dumbledore had pointed too. The Headmaster had a good argument. However, how could he understand the deep embarrassment and sheer discomfort that Snape felt? He’d worked to hard to erect a cold barrier around himself and enjoyed his privacy.

“I know.”

Snape looked up, unnerved. He hated, had always hated, the Headmaster’s strange talent of reading people’s faces and knowing their inner thoughts.

“Severus, please. As a personal favour to me…let the girl stay. Surely, she cannot trouble you more than Harry.”

At the mention of Potter’s name, Snape ground his teeth. He was forced to concede. “Fine, Albus. But I warn you…she’ll get no cosseting from me. One breath that annoys me and I swear she will…. Have detention. For life.”

“Excellent. Now are you sure I can’t tempt you with a treacle tart?”

Snape came down the final set of stairs in the dank dungeon that served as both his quarters and his classroom and paused a moment to straighten his robes. Once he was sure they were suitably in place he forced himself to walk at a normal place toward the Potions room. The air carried a faint note of orchids… of night blooming jasmine. It mingled with wet stone and the ever-present dank, mouldering scent that was just as pervasive as the gloom that hung cobweb-like even at the torches placed at regular intervals about the walls. A muscle worked in his jaw. Already, she was setting her mark on his …well, kingdom really.

Running his hand through his hair, he sighed. The door swung open and he walked in, face set. If Dumbledore wouldn’t agree to moving her at the least, he would force her own hand.

“You’ll of course be ever so pleased to see I have returned.” Snape said gruffly. A withering glance to the Ravenclaw Prefect sent the boy wordlessly from the room. Snape looked about the class, caught Malfoy’s smarmy grin, and the disdain on Potter’s face as well as his cohort, Ron Weasley. They both looked as if they had just stepped into something unpleasant. His eyes were drawn to a shadow in the upper worktable, something about the way the light fluttered on a pallid hand that clutched its owner’s throat like the wings of a startled bird. He smirked at her.

“Ah yes. It seems I have yet to introduce our newest student.” He raised his hand to beckon her to his side. He would have sworn he had heard a squeak of discomfort as he did so. “Come now, Miss Grigori. I think everyone is eager to meet the girl responsible for encouraging me to add to their homework.”

Wren slowly rose from the bench and stood there a moment, and Snape could tell she was wishing the ground would open and swallow her. His almost pitied her right then. Almost. Head bowed, her hair veiling her face, she walked like one condemned, only to stop a few paces away from him. Her back was to the rest of the room that had suddenly gone a buzz with hissing and snorts of anger. Her head tilted upward, it’s faint blush a beacon in the dim light. She said nothing, but her eyes begged him for mercy, pleaded absolution for whatever sin she had committed.

Snape stood a little straighter, and he addressed the assemblage. “This is Miss Grigori, formerly of Beauxbatons. I am sure none of you have forgotten THAT lot.”

He touched her shoulders lightly, and could feel her trembling beneath his palms, before he turned her around. Snape’s voice dripped sarcasm like so much venom. “Take a good look at her. It seems she is a bit shy, but I am sure you will all wish to get to know her better. Now, say hello, Miss Grigori.”

She cast a look from the corner of her eyes, but remained stubbornly silent. Potter and Weasley glared down at them, probably adding to a list of abuse students suffered at his whim. Malfoy’s pale eyes did not leave her face, not until Pansy Parkinson smacked him in the arm and huffed an angry sigh. Snape knew he had accomplished what he had set out to do.

“Come now, my little song-bird,” he whispered in her ear silkily. “You were so eager last night to show off that pretty voice of yours.”

She glared up at him, lower lip caught between her teeth. Then, with more dignity than he could have ever expected, she turned sharply and fled the room, tears brimming in her eyes, unshed.

Part 4

The Wren

Mercifully, she managed to shut the door before the tears could spill down her cheeks, embarrassing her further. Her legs gave out, and she sank to the plush Persian rug her grandmother had sent with her trunks. She wept silently for a very long time. Finally, she raised her head and pressed her palms to her aching eyes, and let out a ragged breath.

The chill air seeped dankly through the poorly mortared stone like blood from a mostly healed wound, and she found herself waving her wand toward the huge, maw-like fireplace absently. “Incendio!” she said in her whisper-soft voice. A blaze sprang up, if less than cheerful, it was a start.

At last, she rose to her feet and looked around the room. A bed hung with heavy brocade curtains that had not seen use in over a centaury, carved from mahogany. A matching desk, replete with quills, rolls of parchment and a few of her personal effects. A rocking chair, and the rug, and a dresser. On the wall was an ornate sconce, which held a lighted torch. Hardly what one would call “cozy”. She missed her great-grandmother’s house, filled with trinkets from the world over, which bore more than a passing resemblance to a curio shop. And it was a place no one punished her for her music.

She crawled into bed, her temples throbbing.

Snape. The man was a maniac. She could not understand how such a man could be trusted with educating the young. He was a bully...a…

The knock at her door disturbed her mental tirade and she slipped out of bed and smoothed her wool robes. Insistent, the knock came again. Well, he could bloody well wait before he insulted her further. And this time…she would give him an earful. Gripping her wand firmly in her left hand, she opened the door. “Змея!”

Dumbledore stared at her, brows lost high on his forehead by the long, gleaming silver hair he boasted. He carried a tray upon which sat a tea set and a plate of cakes. Conspiratorially he glanced about, light from the torches flickering across his spectacles. “Snake? Where?”

“Headmaster…I….it is nothing. Please, come in.” She moved aside to allow him in, her face warming in embarrassment. She was surprised to see him, and more so having discovered he was familiar with her native tongue.

“Well, if your quite sure I don’t need to call on Mr Filch…”

“Please! NO!” She said a tad too desperately. “I mean...no no. I was…expecting someone else.”

“Dear me! I had not known that or I would have come to see you at a later time. Would you like that I go?”

She took the tray from his hands and set it on her desk and then turned her brightest smile at him, even if it looked like an anaemic grimace. “Not at all, Professor Dumbledore. Please, take the rocking chair. Thank you for coming.”

“Ah, quite all right. I simply wanted to check on you. You missed breakfast, and lunch. I was hoping you weren’t wasting away, being lost.”

“Most kind,” she said gratefully, pouring two cups of tea.

“I hope your classes are going well.”

The china cup rattled against the saucer and she forced her hands to become rigid. “Yes.” She lied. “I am enjoying them much.”

“Including potions? Oriel said it was your best subject next to music and Herbology at Beauxbatons.”

“Yes.” She did not meet his pellucid eyes.

“Good. I thought you might find Professor Snape a bit harsh. He means well, be sure.”

She nearly choked on her own tea. Dumbledore leaned forward and patted her on the back until she thought her teeth would be shaken from her mouth. “T-thank you.” She gasped, holding out a hand.

“There now dear,” he murmured, and at once she could see why her great grandmother cared so much for him. He was exactly what every child could wish for in a grandfather, yet commanded respect for his age and brilliant mind. Oriel had once told her that Dumbledore was the most brilliant wizard the world had ever produced. At the time, Wren thought her great-grandmother had been remembering what she chose to. Wren had been wrong.

“I hope your accommodations are suitable. If not, I could see about getting you a room in Gryffindor Tower.”

“No, thank you, s-sir. I do not mind this.” She waved her hand airily about the windowless room, hoping he did not see how her hand shook.

He looked at her for a moment, but seemed content with her ruse. “It’s a shame that there are no windows down here. Very little sunshine. Can’t be good for a body, you know.”

She nodded.

“And a might chilly, but it does grow on you when you get to know it. And just sometimes, if you look very hard, you can see that little bit of light shine through the cracks. But I’m just prattling now. I’ve got some work to do. I hope you will excuse me.”

He rose and patted her shoulder absently, before leaving quietly, allowing the pot of tea to remain behind.

Wren wondered, as the door closed behind him, if Dumbledore had really been talking about the dungeon.

Part 5

A week had passed since Miss Grigori had run from his potions class. Snape smiled to himself. She either learned sing more quietly or had stopped completely and nothing seemed to interrupt the silence of his evenings. It was what he wanted. So why was he now dwelling on it? Not that it mattered. A few more months and he would be free of her. That left him with one last year saddled with Potter and then he could return to the blissful state of complete bitterness.

A light snow was falling again this evening and the sky showed no signs of clearing by morning. Every last student was bundled up inside somewhere, studying or playing games such as wizard chess or exploding snap, the third years and older having taken the Express to Hogsmeade. That meant no one would be in the owlery to disturb him.

Snape walked to the door and called softly, and soon a great black shadow spread its wings, disturbing several of the school owls as it descended from the narrow tower. As he held out his gloved arm, he could feel the bird land and tuck its talons around his wrist. It was larger than Potter’s snowy owl, and more graceful than that pile of feathers too. Sleek black feathers that gleamed with an iridescent sheen ruffled as he stroked the raven’s breast gently with the backs of his fingers, the raven cawed at him haughtily.

Reaching into a pocket, he withdrew a scrap of steak-and-kidney pie he had taken from breakfast and placed in his handkerchief. The raven set it, as if starved. The grain and mice Hagrid fed the owls just wasn’t good enough for Elegy. Blood red eyes, like garnets, stared at him demanding more and Snape stifled a laugh. “Not too much, then. You’ll still want to fly.”

The bird gazed at him for a moment then turned its dark head toward to Forbidden Forest. Overhead, the clouds turned darker, heavy and leaden. The air turned colder, making Snape’s face feel like a mask of ice.

“Yes. Messages wait to be sent. The usual. Do you feel up to it?”

The raven cawed discordantly, in reproach. It allowed Snape to tie his missive to its leg, all the while preening itself.

“Allow no one to see you. Not even Dumbledore. Go.”

The raven stretched its jewel-black wings and took flight. Snape watched it soar. He was free only as long as the raven flew; until it had delivered it’s message and was lured back to the owlery where it would be tethered by its oaths and loyalties.

Part 6

The Wren

She walked back to the stairs, head bowed, lost in thought. Wren knew she should have turned and returned to the school when she had seen Snape. She knew better than to have listened to him, but she had been too enthralled by the gentility in his voice and manner as he spoke to the raven. But now what was she to do? He had told the bird not to let anyone see it. Was he, then, plotting against Dumbledore? What did this all mean? Should she bother to get involved?

“Wren.”

She stopped and looked up.

He was tall, and slim. His face was finely etched, almost feminine with the palest eyes she had ever seen touched with hues of silver and blue. Translucent hair was slicked back off his high forehead. Indeed, he was beautiful. Like an angel. She reminded herself that Lucifer too was once an angel.

“D-Draco.”

The smile he displayed showed very white teeth, and though she guessed it had meant to be pleasant, it managed to be more feral than anything. “Drah-coh. I like that. Yes. I think I like that very much.”

She half smiled, not sure what to say. When she turned to continue, two arms came about either side of her, in effect pinning her to the wall as Draco moved closer. “Don’t go yet. There is so much I want to…ah…know about you, Wren.”

Something about the intonation he used saying her name made her skin crawl. She looked down, so as not to see it in his eyes. She clutched her books tightly to her chest, imagining that they could act as a shield. Or so she thought when the long fingers of his hand curled and tucked under her chin, raising it until she was eye-level with him once more.

“So curious. You wear no House colours. You never join us at meals. Why is that, Wren? Do you think you’re too good to join the rest of us? No. I can see the way you look to the floor, you know your place. So what is your secret? Are you a mudblood?”

Mudblood? She didn’t know what that was.

“Well, you aren’t burning with shame, so that can’t be it.” He leaned in very close to her, his lips just a hair’s breadth from hers and she felt her chest tighten. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. Her vision began to swim as panic clawed its way up her throat. “Остановитесь, пожалуйста остановитесь.”

Draco frowned, not understanding the gibberish. “That French? Or can’t you speak proper Queen’s English?”

His mocking tone stung her. Gritting her teeth, she raised a slight hand and struck him on the cheek.

“How dare you! Do you know who I am?” Swift as the snake of his House crest, he caught her wrist before she could deliver a second blow.” I swear I will cuff you if you strike again.” He murmured with a honeyed voice in her ear.

“You…you are no gentleman”

“Is that the best you could do? What about the waspish tongue I heard you possess?”

“If I am wasp….beware the sting.”

He shrugged. “Then I would treat you as I would any wasp- pluck the stinger out before it could do me any harm.”

“So, you would cut my tongue out?”

“No. I would remove the stinger from where it lodges—in the wasp’s tail.” He allowed the implication hang in the air. “You would do well, Wren, to know some people aren’t as generous as I am.”

She felt his cold, wet lips graze her ear and shuddered.

“Mr. Malfoy, I do believe you are late for class. Unless you would like to repeat the lesson with Longbottom, I suggest you go.”

Her gaze flew over Draco’s shoulder, to see her unwitting saviour standing just behind the boy, his face an emotionless mask, his lips a grim line in the half-darkness of the stairwell. Still she could see…yes. Disgust in his eyes.

Draco stood and turned on the Potions Master. “I was...simply getting to know Miss Grigori, as you asked, sir.”

“Do it on your own time then, Malfoy.”

Draco shrugged again and continued down the stairs. She wanted to sink down and thank Snape but his gaze stopped her.

“Don’t bother coming to class, Miss Grigori.” And with that he swept down into the darkness of the dungeon.

Part 7

He’d never banned a student from his class before, though he’d been sorely tempted to. Oh, Dumbledore would certainly be at his heels as soon as the little songbird twittered in his ear. And as blind as he was toward her, the Headmaster would probably censure him in front of the other professors. Wouldn’t that be a bloody great show?

Snape hung his cloak in the wardrobe, then his cossak. Left in shirtsleeves and leggings, he turned to his mantle. Taking the goblet that waited him; he drank deeply of the brandy and stared into the flames. Yule was now but three weeks away. The school had decided to keep the ludicrous ball, and he’d been asked to chaperone.

One hand slid into his midnight hair, and as he closed his eyes, he raised the glass to his lips again and pressed it there, savouring the vintage.

“Sonata, audio!” He said, the words coming in a softer voice than he’d ever used in class. At his bidding, just loud enough to be heard, came the perfection of Tchikovsky, as if played by a spectral orchestra.

He crossed from the fireplace to his armchair and slumped down in it, one leg thrown casually over the plump arm. His head cradled between the back and other arm. He let the music drift over him, note upon note. So many days to come up with a suitable excuse, otherwise he’d be forced to pull out his finery, cravat and all. The thought disgusted him.

His traitorous mind rounded on him and he was back to the scene he witnessed this afternoon between Draco and the girl. Why on earth that should have bothered him, he didn’t know, but it had. Deeply. Of course, in his years of teaching and in his years as a student, he had often spied would-be paramours cosseting in hallways where their furtive attentions could not be spied on. Among the Slytherin wenches, Malfoy had a banquet of flesh to choose from. It was his money, or family, or possibly his looks…certainly not his charm, but it was there for him. Just as it had been for both James Potter, and now his son.

As for the girl, she wasn’t exactly what he would call breathtaking. She was not at all like Lily, whose smile could burn any man’s memory with it’s radiance. She was tiny, mousy and…foreign. Yes. That was it. She was something new, and she must have noticed his forced favouritism on Draco. Perhaps, she thought Malfoy would protect her from him. Perhaps, she was testing Dumbledore’s permissiveness. Well, whatever her reasons, he would not subject it in his domain.

“And we’ll just see about the ball, little songbird. Perhaps I will give you detention, and then you will see how quickly childish ardour cools.

As he finished his second snifter of brandy, there came a gentle knock on his door. He’d been expecting Dumbledore. And now he would find out what his punishment was to be. “Come.”

The door opened behind him. He made no effort to rise. “Yes, I was expecting you. Do come in. Come in and have a drink, and we shall talk like old friends, won’t we?”

He heard Dumbledore fix himself a glass and walk over to the back of his chair.

“Well?”

“I—I was not expecting this, sir.”

Snape straightened himself in the chair, his upper lip curled in scorn. “Why are you here?”

“Technically, sir…you did invite me in.”

“And now I am inviting you to leave. Get out.”

“No.”

One simple word. And in it, all the defiance in the world. “What do you mean no?”

“Not until…until you listen to me sir.”

Snape hadn’t realised he stood until he was towering over her. “You’ve come into a snake’s den, girl… you would do well to remember it can strike at any moment.”

“Empty words, professor. I do not believe you would lay a single hand on a student.”

“I think you trust me too much.”

“And I don’t think you trust me enough.”

He watched, incredulously, as she raised the brandy she had poured herself to her mouth and took a quick drink. He narrowed his eyes, in a moment of understanding then took the glass from her hand. “You shouldn’t mix potions and alcohol, child.”

“Why not? No one would care if I fell sick, least of all, you.”

“That’s not the point.” Snape sighed. “Very well. You have sufficiently caught my attention. What do you want?”

Wren sat in his recently vacated chair. “Many things. I want to know you hate me so much. I want to know why you sent me down from your class. That shall do to begin with.”

“You had better get used to disappointment.” He took her arm and escorted her a little more forcibly than necessary to the door and closed it before she could speak again.

Part 8

The Wren

It began the next night at supper.

She stood, staring at the mirror, which hung on the back of the door. She had never known so arrogant a man as this. Yet he would be repaid in kind. For whatever reason, he had decided she was a thorn in his side. And a thorn she would be. Wren smiled to herself as she turned from the door, straightening the woolen brown robes she had come with, and with a considerably lighter heart, crept up to the Great Hall.

She sat at the Ravenclaw table, most of whom were discussing things quietly between small groups, unsure of her place. No one seemed to mind her presence, and her first glance around the huge dining hall, draped in evergreen and holly, was one of polite coolness. A few sniggers came from the Slytherin table, but she refused to meet the eyes of Malfoy. The Hufflepuffs paid her no mind, and there were not a few relived faces among the Gryffindors.

Amidst bites of Caesar salad, she stole furtive glances at the staff table. Vector and Flitwick, were talking quietly but enthusiastically with Professor Sprout. Dumbledore was seated in the middle, wearing a truly fantastic robe embroidered with golden comets and silver stars that actually moved and changed position. She envied him that robe terribly.

Besides Dumbledore sat Professor McGonagall, tidy in her green tartan robes. Next to McGonagall, a huge man with wild black hair that draped over his broad face like a shaggy curtain was almost overflowing his seat She studied him, noting the well-worn clothes and the hands wide as a dinner plate, not scrubbed completely clean. Someone who spent a lot of time outdoors and enjoyed it. His face was usually beaming a cheerful smile and Wren decided she liked the way he looked.

Further down the table was the thin, scowling visage of Snape. She was very glad that the entire school seemed to be here, as it kept her from hurling one of the plates straight at his head, especially after she caught him glaring at her several times. The first few times she had scowled back, but the next time she caught him, she smiled back gently and his face became even angrier.

In the brilliant but soft light of the candles, his eyes sparkled night-black… deep enough to be comfortable for bats to nest in. Harsh lines set in about his mouth and brow, and there were purple shaded bags beneath his eyes the size of Europe, making him look older than what she guessed his age to be. She actually found herself wondering what Snape would look like, relaxed and devoid of anger. She surmised she would never know.

A voice near her ear startled her, and she looked up into a pair of lovely green eyes tucked rather large glasses. It was one of the sixth-years, who shared her Potions classes. He was half leaning backward from the Gryffindor table, but smiling pleasantly just the same. “If you see Cho…could you… that is…if it’s not asking too much…”

She nodded, only half listening. Potter. That was the young man’s name. Another favoured target of Snape’s. Pity. He seemed nice enough. The meal continued for nearly half an hour, in which she actually found herself hungry for the first time in weeks. She helped herself to small bits here and there, and at last, set her knife and fork upon the great golden plate.

Dumbledore rose and smiled, and she expected him to be making his exit. Instead, he turned his glittering eyes on her. “If Miss Grigori would indulge us, we have quite a treat. Her mother was hailed one of the greatest soprano voices ever heard, and I have it on quite good authority,” the Headmaster glanced at Snape, “that her daughter has also inherited her talent. Will you do us the honour of singing for us, dear?”

A chill spilled down, glacier fast, down her spine. Heavens above! All eyes turned on her. “Yes…do give us a show, little song-bird.” She heard Snape’s voice darkly whisper beneath the current of polite applause. Mortified, she had small choice in the matter as Dumbledore clapped his hands and the tables parted. In a blur there was a stool placed in the clearing, and from the air, came the formless notes of a finely strummed harp.

She crossed to the stool, aware of keen observation, and she wished she had dressed better. She clenched her fists tightly in the folds of her robes, so tightly in fact, they began to go numb as she searched her mind for words.

She cleared her throat.

“On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road run by

To many-tower'd Camelot;

And up and down the people go,

Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below,

The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Thro' the wave that runs for ever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers,

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle embowers

The Lady of Shalott.

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded barley,

Hear a song that echoes cheerly

From the river winding clearly,

Down to tower'd Camelot:

And by the moon the reaper weary,

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers "'tis the fairy

Lady of Shalott."

As she sang, her voice echoing into itself, images began to form from shadows and candlelight, ghostly visions of a cold and lonely tower, and in the highest tower window, a beautiful woman stared down sadly at the assembled House tables. Several gasp of fear and awe offered up the sound of the breeze and the river. Each stirring note painted more of this spectral tapestry, but no one spoke, nor wondered how Wren did this magic without the aid of her wand.

“There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colours gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care hath she,

The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear

That hangs before her all the year,

Shadows of the world appear.

There she sees the highway near

Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two by two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott.”

A few of the girls now sighed sadly, including McGonagall, their hearts heavy with regrets of loves past and those still dreamt of. Though she could not see them through her closed eyes, Ron sat just a little closer to Hermione Granger, slipping his hand over hers.

“But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed;

"I am half sick of shadows," she said

The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,

And flamed upon the brazen greaves

Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,

Beside remote Shalott.”

A collective huff from her audience did nothing to distract her as a knight appeared far below the tower window, his face that had haunted many a Hogwarts student for years after they left the school. Draco stifled a laugh, and the Potter boy could do nothing to shut his mouth. He’d never seen Snape portrayed as anything but a nasty, ill-tempered bastard before.

“His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down to Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

"Tirra lirra," by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro' the room,

She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

"The curse is come upon me," cried

The Lady of Shalott.”

Snape stood so quickly, his chair almost clattered to the ground but he caught it just in time. No one looked as he melted into the shadows and disappeared, and for that he would have been grateful, as his cheeks actually held colour, a hue nearly as brilliant as the setting sun.

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

Over tower'd Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat

Beneath a willow left afloat,

And round about the prow she wrote

The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse--

Like some bold seër in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance--

With a glassy countenance

she looked to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

The Lady of Shalott.

The phantom lady clutched an armful of calla lilies to her breast and lay back upon the silk caparisoned boat, until at last, the breath left her body and she sank into the cold embrace of night without protest.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her blood was frozen slowly,

And her eyes were darken'd wholly,

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden-wall and gallery,

A gleaming shape she floated by,

A corse between the houses high,

Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

And round the prow they read her name,

The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they cross'd themselves for fear,

All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, "She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

The Lady of Shalott."

At last, her voice died to but a whisper, and the hall fell into deep silence. Tears poured freely from every eye, and Hagrid took an edge of his tablecloth to wipe his rounded face. Wren slumped weakly, her breath slow and faltering. To those still watching in rapt fascination, the shades of Tower, Lady, Knight and boat faded reluctantly, leaving behind no trace of their existence.

Wren struggled to her feet and walked out of the Great Hall before anyone could applaud.

Part 9

"In a hurry to be away?” Snape said softly, emerging from the shadows.

"Only as much as you. Now if you will please excuse me, sir” she replied her voice as smooth as broken glass. His dispassionate black eyes flickered over her face as she watched him in return. "Did I offend you in some way without knowing? Because if I did, I'd like to know-so I can do it again."

Snape's face twisted in anger, his mouth working, but his eyes reflected only her visage in their sable depths. He leaned forward as she leaned away.

"Some of us think that a young girl appearing out of nowhere, speaking to no one if she can avoid them, and living apart from her fellow students is suspicious." His eyes were glittering with venom and something else. "A girl with no family name I've ever heard of, who hasn't been to any of the wizarding schools and who so conveniently has no one to remember her."

Wren opened her mouth to say something, her face blanche and so very delicate with shadows much like his own beneath her eyes, but he raised his hand and she faltered. Her lips were as bloodless as the rest of her face. His own lips twitched into a smile.

"I don’t think there’s a point in pretending. It’s only a short time before they,” he tossed his head over his shoulder in the vague direction of the Great Hall, “realise what exactly you are. I would imagine Dumbledore would be quick to act before any harm is done.”

She said nothing, did nothing, only watched him steadily, but her eyes were beginning to burn.

"So therefore, I shall be watching you closely…very, very closely...” Snape found himself fascinated by her discomfort. She stood remarkably still under a glare he knew had cowed lesser men than himself, but even in the few feet that separated them, he could also feel her pulse throbbing in her throat. He dipped his eyes to watch it thrum beneath her skin. It took him a moment of effort to drag his gaze away.

“Bastard. Amusing. Juvenile but amusing. I’m sure it would come as a great shock for my mother to know that.”

“This is the only place I have to go.”

“And that should mean exactly what to me? I cannot right all the ills of the world. And I can’t say that I’d care to if I could. There are a bloody lot of orphans in the wizarding world. No one is bound to notice one fallen out of its nest. ”

He regretted that choice of words as soon as he’d spoken them. Maybe it was the look on her face. Maybe it was because he suddenly heard himself sounding exactly like his own father. Maybe…

He looked back down at her for a moment, then wordlessly pushed past her and swept down the corridor that led to Slytherin.

Part 10

Disclaimers: We don’t need no steeeeenkin discl--- oh. Well, I see. Fine. What’s mine is mine and what’s Jo Rowling’s is hers. Neither of us is making any money off each other.

Wren managed to escape from the Castle a few nights after her performance. She had waited until she smelled the faint, bitter aroma of wormwood being simmered. Another half hour and the draught should have been finished. Tiptoe, she padded ever so quietly along the many stairs and hallways until she was clear of the dungeons. Once outside, under an angry, inky sky she trudged across the grounds and into the owlery she ducked out of the heavy snow falling.

“Lumos.” Her wand, sleek dark and made of ash, it’s dragon heartstring core, gave off a slight sliver of mellow light. Exhausted, she settled in a clean pile of straw in the corner.

She had come here in refuge. Tired of the pointing, tired of the whispers and muffled sniggering behind hands, she kept away from classes when she could. When she had no choice but to leave her rooms, she never failed to notice the looks she received of silent pity from the professors. It was almost more than she could bear. At least the taunting could be amusing at times.

And Snape. He kept his promise well. In Potions, he had her work beside him this afternoon, punishing others for her slightest mistakes. Fortunately, she only made two. Far more disturbing, were the silent meals of late that he shared with her in her room, his glittering black eyes narrowed and disapproving.

“He is like panther,” she told the owls, her eyes drifting closed, “watching. Waiting. For what, I don’t know. Like I am to grow fangs and scales. I haven’t spoken to anyone in three days… and have been alone only to wash. There is mercy in that. Yet, is it my fault? Did I ask to sing? Can I help who my ancestors were?”

The owls hooted in commiseration, shifting on their perches.

“I could go and see Dumbledore, yes. But what would that prove? That I am a child in constant need of someone holding my hand. And for what? He will only tell me something about the rugs needing to be aired, or that sometimes one must prune a sapling for the tree to grow straight.”

She sighed, burrowing into her cloak, hoping to ward off the chill. She should not be so flippant about the old Headmaster. He meant well. Often though, people were blind as to the things closest to them, and if nothing else, Dumbledore loved the school, its students and professors more than anything in the world. So much different was he from the Potions Master.

“От любви, к Новому Году, и там Появляется девочка, Вы не можете добиваться - Чтобы не объяснить нас, почему она синяя.” She let out a helpless giggle at the thought of Snape acting like a suitor come mealtime. “From love, by the New Year, and there appears a girl you cannot woo -Not to explain us why she's blue.”

If he tried to court someone, pity on the poor girl. Passion was one thing, but the fire of acidic sarcasm was quite another. Had he no love in his youth? No tenderness?

“Caw.”

Wren, startled, wearily lifted her head up at the high, narrow stone niche that served as a window. Silhouetted against the heavy snow, was the raven. “Come!” she said warmly, holding her wrist out to the creature, the snow melting on it’s black wings making them gleam, diamonds scattered across silk. The raven glared down at her, turning its proud head to the side, the deep red eye on her glimmering with ominous mischief.

She watched for a moment as it spread it’s glossy wings then soar in narrowing spirals down the centre of the tower. It was heavier than she would have expected, and gripped the fragile bones of her wrist in an iron grip, its talons digging into her sensitive flesh. She ignored the pain, swallowing a cry so as not to startle it.

“Handsome. And proud. Sinister. You are very worthy of your master.” Wren stroked its feathers with her cheek. “Odd, isn’t it? A gathering of ravens is called an unkindness. What would a gathering of Snapes be called?”

At the mention of its Master’s name, Elegy stuck out his leg in obedience. Attached was a small piece of parchment, tied with dapper grey ribbon. Unable to stop herself, she untied and unrolled the tiny scroll. The words were written in a fluid, sparkling ink.

Wren’s face passed through several contortions as first she stared, astonished at what she read, then laughed until her sides ached, causing many of the owls to screech at her in annoyance. Finally it was shame and compassion that settled around her like the tattered remnants of a mouldy old cloak.

The bird stared at her indignantly, cawing for her attention.

“Oh, poor thing. Forced to send himself gifts? And I thought I was misfortunate. It’s no wonder he scowls whenever anyone mentions the Yule Ball and Christmas. Perhaps we should fix this. Perhaps.” She yawned. Folding up the parchment into her hand, she didn’t notice sleep enfold her in its arms.

Part 11

Snape lay in his bed, one arm bent beneath his head, his eyes staring up at the black velvet canopy above him. Even with his infernal potion, he could not sleep. Restlessness gnawed at the corners of his mind like mice at a sack of grain. Each time he did close his eyes, he could hear her voice.

“The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried

The Lady of Shalott.”

“What does she know of curses?” He snarled, throwing back the woolen coverlets of his bed. “What can she know of pain? She’s but a child. She has yet to look into the fiery eyes of hell and see her reflection there. She has no right!”

He picked up his robe, not the one he wore to classes, but the one he wore over his soft grey nightshirt, and slid it around his narrow shoulders. The stone floor was frigid beneath the soles of his bare feet. He accepted the penance with stalwart determination. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture he had never outgrown from his youth. Curses indeed. He walked through his sitting room, into the bath he shared with her.

Without the courtesy of a knock, he opened the door of her room and swept inside quickly. His eyes, already adjusted to the darkness, could just barely make out the silhouette of her bed. He moved forward.

Clutching one of the curtains in his hand, he drew it aside. “Wake up.” His voice ordered with barely disguised displeasure. “You’ve a bloody lot to explain.”

The words had little affect on the small teddy bear laying against the pillow. It did not cower before him, nor uttered a single word of protest. Damn her! Where had she gone now?

He dropped the bed hanging back into place, and stalked back to his room, to throw on his School robes. He’d not be caught dead searching the castle for a wayward child in his nightclothes, by Filch or anyone else. He had never heard her leave—he thought, struggling to get one arm into the blasted sleeve. “Does every single problemed student own a sodding invisibility cloak? ”

He threw his door open. “This is the result of improper supervision. McGonagall can say what she like about firm but understanding guidance. I’ve a mind to get the Board of Governors to reinstate the use of the bloody dungeons. Or at the very least, the shackles.”

He refused to admit his concern. He’d certainly never voice finding some small pleasure at sharing evenings with the little wretch. Someone, on whom he could always rely, to be fantastically terrified when he watched her with dark eyes. He’d found the last few days almost companionable. His career languished in the nether regions of acute apathy, and it would be suicide to have any less expected of him.

He did not really mind being alone, most of the time. Just occasionally, every now and again, he thought how nice it would be to spend time with an educated soul. Up ahead, he heard a sound. A light, delicate tapping. He listened intently, the image of half-finished cognac and a game of wizard’s chess cast from his mind. His ears were alert for the slightest sound.

“Professor Snotty…. something you lost? Or just sulking about for your complexion?”

“Peeves. Get bent.”

“Ooooooh, do you kiss Dumbledore’s bum with that mouth of yours?”

“Listen you overgrown, illiterate bit of ectoplasm… If you don’t get out of my way, I’ll see to it the Baron makes your pathetic unlife an absolute misery.”

“And why should I? I wasn’t the one who lost my itty-bitty frostbitten nightingale.”

Frostbitten? Oh bloody hell. She’d gone out.

Without another word to Peeve, Snape ran the rest of the way and out the front doors.

Part 12

Wren awoke to the sounds of light snoring. Disoriented, she sat up groggily pushing the curtain of her hair away from her face and taking a look at her surroundings. She was in her bed, in her nightgown. One side of her bed hangings had been pushed aside to allow the faint, golden glow of candles to flicker over her. It would have seemed perfectly in order, had it not been for the boots pinning her covers to the bed, boots that were attached to long legs crossed at the ankles, which in turn led to…

Her eyes grew wide as saucers. Snape had pulled her rocking chair over to the left side of her bed and had fallen asleep, judging by the way his head was lolling on his shoulder, her patchwork quilt thrown over his chest. Strands of lissome black hair tumbled over one sharp cheek, cutting a drastic line against the pallor of his skin. In sleep, he looked less gaunt, less harried. There was gentleness in his features that surprised her. A small part of Wren wished she had a talent in art, as the scene begged to be drawn in charcoal by a masterful hand.

“Continue to stare like that and you may find yourself in the unfortunate position of explaining far more than you already have to, Miss Grigori.”

Wren snapped out of her fanciful daydream.

“I beg your pardon?” she replied, lamely.

“Well…you’ve already been caught out after curfew, and unauthorized use of the Hogwarts Owlery and-”

She remembered now, the owlery, the raven, the note and falling asleep. “True. But if that’s the case…then how did I get back to my room and into my nightclothes?”

Snape waved a hand airily, but his eyes did not meet her face. “Some meddling professor no doubt. You should consider yourself lucky that someone thought you were worth the trouble. You were half frozen by the time you were found.”

“Then, why am I not in the hospital wing? Madame Pomfrey-“

“Is a snarky old gossip. If she were the all-powerful miracle worker everyone seems to think she is, I have no doubt she would be working at St Mungo’s or the like.” Snape scowled.

“But, how then…?”

“You ask too many questions,” he snapped curtly, standing and passing. “You may as well resign yourself to some answers. Why were you out? And why in the name of dragon’s blood did you not even dress warmly?”

She sat back against her pillows, holding her stuffed bear in her arms like a shield. “You are incredulous. Absolutely insane. I went out because I was tired of being caged in…in this dungeon. With you. Do you even know what it’s like, being pointed at? Whispered about? Children are cruel, Professor. I suggest you take notes, watching your precious Slytherin students next time you deign to grace their common room with your presence. They might be able to teach you a thing or two. And I daresay-“

“This is NOT about me. I don’t flagrantly disregard the rules set down for MY well-being. I tend to think about people other than myself.” Abruptly, Snape whirled around faster than a snake striking, and grabbed her chin between his index and thumb, the rest of his fingers curling under her jaw. His face was just inches away from hers, his words a deadly whisper. “I owe everything I have, everything I am to Dumbledore. Because of him, I can stand to look at myself in the mirror every morning. He told me to watch over you. And that is exactly what I have been doing.”

“And you take no pleasure in it?” Her eyes glittered in the candlelight. Dangerous, glowing that indescribable green streaked with brown.

He whipped his hand away as if burned.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Miss Grigori. It’s not becoming.”

Part 13

“Neither is buying gifts for yourself. Or is that something you English find acceptable?”

He closed his eyes. How did she know!? Of course. Elegy had gotten back earlier than he had expected. As he let out his breath, he was unable to swallow the string of foul language that bubbled up his throat along with the bile. He was glad his back was to her now.

“So, blackmail, is it? I think you should know, there wouldn’t be many who will find that all too surprising. Yes, I will be mocked for a time, but then it’s something I’m used to now. Nothing a few months of detention won’t cure. You would be amazed at how excruciating chopping harpy liver and cleaning hinkypuff bile out of flasks can be, what effect it has on someone’s sense of humour.”

“If you’re the one to judge by, I can see it already. But I wasn’t planning on blackmail. I was starting to feel pity-“

His snort stopped her. “I don’t want your damned pity! I don’t want anything from you, other than your exit from my life. And that’s just a matter of time.”

“Why? You never did answer that.”

Anger coiled up the length of his body. “Because you remind me of a past that’s dead and gone. You remind me of things I have spent most of my life trying to forget. Every time you open your mouth, every time you look at me, all wide-eyed and innocent, asking for something you have no right to. I want you gone so I can find a moments peace.”

“And what happens when another student comes along like me?”

“It’s taken me seventeen years between then and now. If there is someone looking out for me, I’ll be retired or dead.”

“You are-“

“Insane. Yes, I know. You’ve said so many times already.” He gave a half laugh and turned back to look at her. She was on her knees, drawing her blanket around her like a cloak. So fragile, but she had yet to break. He’d given her anger, hurt and embarrassment. She’d returned fire, tears and sullen silence, but she hadn’t given him control. He’d been crazy to think she was nothing like Lily. She was. Just not on the outside. And he’d learned a long time ago that appearances weren’t everything.

“Now, your best course of action is to get some sleep. Morning will be here soon enough and what kind of educator would I be, if I allowed you to lounge about in bed all day when I know Binns has a most fascinating lecture on the extinction of mountain clan goblins in the third century?” The smile tugging at the corner of his lips did not reach his eyes.

“The same kind who picked me up out of the straw, brought me here and dressed me in clean nightdress, I would imagine.”

Pausing in the doorway, he refused to look at her. “No worries. Your virtue, if it was there to begin with, is intact. I’m sure you’ll have Mr Malfoy send his compliments for that.”

He was quick enough to close the door before a forgotten teacup could hit it and shatter into a thousand pieces.

Part 14

“…breast.”

Snape’s head jerked up and the book he was attempting to read fell from his suddenly slack hand. It hit the carpeted floor of the Teachers Lounge with a startling thud. His eyes narrowed on McGonagall’s pinched face. “Pardon?”

She sniffed, ever so secure in her superiority. “I asked how Grigori did on your test. Albus has done nothing but sing her praises since she arrived.”

He shot her a foul glance and bent to retrieve his book.

“Honestly, Severus, what has gotten into you? You’ve been in the most horrid temper all week. And it’s almost Christmas. I would think you could try being a little more pleasant.”

“And I would think you would learn to mind your own business, Minerva.” He said in the sweetest voice he could muster. Before she could recover from shock, he rose to his feet and left the staff room, cursing himself with every step down the hall.

Truthfully, he didn’t know how Wren had managed his test. She hadn’t been in his class in the week since he had found her in the Owlery. She was never in her room during mealtimes, and he had not so much as seen a flash of her brown wool robes as she turned a corner ahead of him.

“Severus, how fortunate that we meet. I wish to speak to you.” Dumbledore said, falling into step beside him.

“I don’t really have the time right now, Albus. Tests to grade… ingredients to inventory. I’m sure you’ll excuse—“

Dumbledore’s hand fell onto his shoulder, restraining him. Snape frowned and cast a glower at the Headmaster, and was surprised to see the harshness in his blue eyes and the stern lines around his mouth. “No, I don’t think you understand me, Severus. I said I wished to speak to you, and so I shall. Ah, look…we’re at my office. How convenient. Marzipan Flutes”

Snape found himself ushered into Dumbledore’s office before he could utter a single word of protest, but it did not stop his hackles from rising at being treated little better than a first year student.

“Alb-“

“Severus, for once in your life, drop your sanctimonious indignation and listen to me.” Dumbledore sighed, looking very very old, very very tired

Snape snapped his jaw shut and glared at the Headmaster, sinking further down into the overstuffed chair near the fire. The light from the flames licked at the side of his face, throwing half of him in shadow, and adding to the already sinister air that followed him wherever he went.

“I’m disappointed in you, Severus. I asked one favour. I asked that you watch over Wren, to keep her safe. Of all the people I trust, I figured you were the most vigilant. But she’s gone.”

Snape bolted upright in the chair, no longer slouching. “What??”

“She’s left…I went to her room last night, to chat, see how she was…and I found this.” Dumbledore handed him a scrap of parchment. The handwriting was dainty, written in light, flowing strokes.

The parchment fluttered out from between his long, supple fingers. She’d run away. Of all the stupid, juvenile things to do…the only thing worse being suicide ala Romeo and Juliet. Still, it would look incredibly bad for Hogwarts should this get out into the press. “And what do you want me to do about it, Albus? I’m a professor of potions. I’m head of House Slytherin, both impressive and for which I am grateful, but hardly making me a candidate to give her sympathy. Maybe you can get in touch with that idiot Fudge over at Ministry-“

“I am not involving the Ministry, Severus. I am, however, involving you. You’ve spent a good deal of time with her; you probably know her better than I do. Something I wish I could remedy.”

“You’re surely joking if you think I have the time or the wherewithal to leave the grounds and try to find some little heartbroken chit who thinks she’s too good to finish her education just because a few of the other students have decided to tease her.”

“Severus, I will not have you talk like that about her. For the love of Merlin, don’t you dare speak about my great granddaughter like that again. And you will leave this minute to go find her, do I make myself clear?”

Stunned, all Snape could do was nod his head. “Crystal.”

Part 15

Snape was nearly fit to be tied. She’d left! How could she do such a thing? To Hogwarts? To…to HIM?!? Not even a simple goodbye. He’d thought…he’d thought they’d been…friends.

“Twenty points from Gryffindor, Longbottom. And next time you sneeze, cover your mouth, thank you very much. I doubt anyone here wants to catch the plague from the likes of you.”

He sat behind his desk, his brows furrowed, not paying too much attention to his class. He was having them categorize one hundred and forty-four different shades of green and their associations with potions of the twelfth century. Possibly the most silent class the students had ever had down in the dungeons.

“Ten points from Mr. Potter. If you must breathe, please do so a bit more quietly.”

He had been kind to her…he had even cheated a time or two at chess. She must have known that he hadn’t been serious when he made the acidic comments about Malfoy. Hadn’t she?

“Mr. Malfoy, you will get one warning. If you cannot keep your eyes off Miss Parkinson’s parchment, you’ll find yourself picking them up off the floor after having them regurgitated by Mrs. Norris, as I will have them fed to her personally.”

My great Granddaughter, Dumbledore’s voice had been as quiet as a tomb. Merlin’s beard! How was he to have known she was related to Dumbledore? She bore him no resemblance. Well…maybe a little…about the eyes, which sparkled when she sang. But now, now she was gone. And he had to find her.

“Put your hand down, Miss Granger, before it falls off your wrist. I’m quite aware the bell has sounded. Yes, you little wretches are free for the day. I will expect your essays to be handed in when I return.”

Not a sound was made as they filed slowly out of the dungeon classroom like mourners at a funeral.

When he was certain he would not be observed, he slid off his stool, and made his way down the corridor to her room. It was exactly as he remembered it, almost. Gone was the patchwork quilt that had lain across the back of the rocking chair. Gone was the teddy bear she insisted on sleeping with. Yet she had left her robes behind. In the closet, they hung, all but two sets. The faint scent of water lily and sandalwood clung to them, making his chest ache where he expected his heart was. He reached out to touch them. They were soft as clouds, lamb’s wool.

He glanced to the bed, where she had knelt the last time he had been in here, her eyes ablaze with righteous anger. The memory brought a ghost of a smile to his lips. He missed her already.

He searched through the rest of her belongings. Not a single clue did they yield, as to where she had run off. Turning back to the closet, he went to shut the door when something caught his eye.

The little, battered book caught his eye, peeking out from beneath the folds of her robes. It looked sadly neglected, it’s binding cracked and the leather cover seemed a little faded. He picked it up gingerly and fluttered the pages open. Various stamps from countries visited long ago laid a map of Wren’s young life, and loneliness.

“I see him, riding horseback. He sweeps me away, in his arms and tells me I am his love. Coal black hair and eyes like the darkest heavens. I do not know who he is. But I will know him if I ever see him.” He translated to the walls that were his only audience. He skipped ahead to the last entry, pretending, if only to himself, that he did not care so much. It was hard going, seeing how she felt. Seeing through her eyes how he had behaved. How he had become the thing he most hated, and even now in the intimacy of her most private thoughts, which he violated out of curiosity, her words could wound, like a knife.

“I want to go home. There is no Snape in Russia. Thank Heavens for small miracles.”

The diary found itself on the floor, laid open for the world…or at least the world that fit inside Hogwarts…to see. The soft thud of his boots on the cold stone floors echoed into nothingness as he returned to his own chamber and began to pack for an extended trip to the muggle world.

Part 16

The dull throbbing in his temples that began with trimming his hair and removing the contacts from his eyes now thrummed along his spine and spread slowly, like poison made from cobra lilies, to his stomach. Shallow breaths barely inflated his lungs, leaving him nauseated and light headed. All around him lingered spicy perfumes and exotic colognes, body heat and loud, obnoxious chatter from the crushing throng that stood in line here at Gringotts. All in all, he’d rather have his liver devoured by a roc than wait in line.

He’d never really liked crowds but this was almost too much to bear, he thought being jostled by an overweight wizard in garish plaid and paisley robes. As minutes crawled lazily into hours, he finally came to stand before one of the goblin bank clerks who was none too pleased over his request to turn such a hefty amount of galleons into muggle money, and foreign currency at that. The clerk made this no secret as they took a cart down to his vault. After unlocking it, Snape was taken aback.

It had been some time since he had been here last, and indeed he had forgotten half of what the vault contained. There was a portrait of his mother in her youth. Her black hair splayed across her bare shoulders, the deep indigo eyes alight against her delicate face and her smile held soft warmth. It had been commissioned the day she discovered she was with child, before his father’s many and varied cruelties had drained the joy from her soul. She gave him a small wave and returned to her book, and he couldn’t remember the last time he has seen her look that way.

Propped up against the gilded frame of the painting, was a token of his childhood. Half an ear, one eye and three claws were missing. One fang was chipped. Still, with stuffing coming out at the seams, the battered, and much patched teddy bear had been his first friend and confidant. And it was still his very own. A statue of the Goddess Kali from India, a lock of Lily Potter’s hair, the wand he received on his fifth birthday. All these things marked milestones in his life… the first of every important thing that ever had happened to him. Scattered, they lay amidst seven years worth of salary and investment returns. Yes. He had memories. And he had money to burn, so the muggle phrase went.

The golden galleons were in a larger disarrayed pile than he remembered, and quickly, his eyes burning, he scooped up two large sacks and then a third. The goblin eyed him warily, as Snape handed it the third bag. “And what does the gentleman wish, sir?”

“I want that whole sum to be transferred to the Marigold Bauer Hogwarts Muggle Scholarship fund, and another half as much to be transferred into the Weasley account, also to be sent to Hogwarts, for supplies and such. Put it in halves, one each for George and Fredrick Weasley. I want both donations to be made anonymously.”

“Yes, sir.” Said the Goblin and then the vault was locked once more and they were on their way back up to the lobby, where Snape would pick up the exchanged currency.

Had he thought Gringotts was bad, Snape realised it had been nothing compared to the madness that was named Heathrow. Almost immediately, he wondered at first if Dumbledore had wanted him dead. He stared, despairingly, at the thousands of employees in their little uniforms, and at passengers, all of whom were muggles he was certain, as they moved zombie-like from one terminal to the next, which in itself was like walking from one end of London to the other. He’d seen polar expeditions take less time.

After making inadvertent intimate contact with nearly half the population of the world, he finally managed to pass through a narrow set of metal archways, tickets for his “flight” clutched between white knuckled fists. He nearly leapt from his skin when an incredibly shrill alarm went off about him and a burley man in a security officer’s uniform ( who could have been closely related to Hagrid, if his size was any indication) pulled him aside and began to wave a metal wand at him. To Snape’s dismay, the metal wand bequeathed a feeble imitation of the shriek the arch had given.

“I’m afraid sir, you’ll ‘ave ter come wit’ me.” Said the guard in a surprisingly soft voice.

“I beg your pardon?” came the indignant reply. “Do you know who I am?”

The guard took the ticket from Snape’s fist. “Yeah…says yer Emrys MacMaster, but yer still going to ‘ave ter come wit’ me, sir.”

MacMaster? He was going to kill McGonagall when he returned to Hogwarts. He should have known her well enough to be suspicious when she had offered to help him make reservations. Using his middle name was one thing…but… this was just ludicrous. Snape’s internalized anger was quickly flamed by the guard tugging at his arm. Snape jerked his arm free and glared at the muggle. “You will NOT touch me again or you will be very sorry indeed. I am not a child you must lead by the wrist. Now walk and I will follow you on the condition you tell me what this is about.”

The guard led him to a small room away from the concourse and locked the door behind him. “I’m goin’ ter ask ye ter empty yer pockets then, Mr. MacMaster—“

“Emrys, if you must.”

“Okay then, Emrys. Remove everything from your pockets then and place them on the table. Keys, spare change and the like, if you please.”

Snape, offended, reached into the front pockets of his muggle slacks, black and pleated to razor sharpness. He removed the wallet the traveller’s cheques and false identification, which had been secured from the Ministry, keys that were for appearances, and the small handful of sickles and knuts he refused to part with. From the breast pocket of the black, loose chambray shirt he wore came a few honey drops, and from the inside of the long, black leather trench coat he had substituted for his cloak, came his wand. It was of deeply polished rosewood and its core was a dragon heartstring. It totaled thirteen inches and all but glimmered a very dark blood hue. The muggle raised his eyebrow at it.

“An what is that?”

“My wand, with which I plan to cast wicked spells and curse every last curious mortal with. That’s what it is.” Snape snarled. Glaciers melted into the sea and reformed by the time the skeptical look passed across the guard’s brow. “Look here. I’m a professor of “ he so very much wanted to say Defense Against the Dark Arts, “antiquities at a private institution. I’m growing short on time to make my flight to Moscow, where I will be attending a most serious lecture. As you can see, I have nothing harmful in my possession. May I please be on my way? Or is there a reason you persist on harassing me?”

“Well… I do have one question, really Emrys.”

“I haven’t got all day.”

“I noted, ye ain’t got no wedding ring…. but I wondered if you were seeing anyone?”

“Seeing anyone?” The question hung in the air.

“Yeah..a girlfriend, perhaps?”

“Surely not.” Snape bit back a bitter laugh.

“A boyfriend then?”

Realization dawned on Snape. “Honestly! May I go?”

The guard sighed and looked dubiously at the ground, searching for some invisible speck of lint. “I’m sorry sir. Yes. Collect your things and go through the door to your left, then your right.”

“My left.”

“Right.”

Snape sighed in frustration and did exactly that.

***

“Do you have anything to declare, sir?”

“I swear, if I ever live through this, I am never EVER leaving Hogwarts again! I would have been better off attempting to apparate and risk loosing half my bloody body!” Snape muttered under his breath as he stood in line at customs. He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Either that or the cosmos had singled him out for extreme torture.

“Sir?” the rather bored looking woman with a face that could only be described as the aftermath of a train-wreck asked him impatiently. “I asked, do you have anything to declare. Plants, fruits or vegetables?”

“No.”

“Animals?”

“Alive or dead?”

She did not appear amused. Snape cleared his throat. “No.”

“Have you any intention of bringing the previous items back with you?”

“No…no and no. Now are you through, Madame Torquemada or shall this inquisition continue?”

She gave him a sour look and Snape suddenly pitied the man she was married to, if the poor man was still alive. She heaved a great sigh, which shook her bosom like a typhoon, and then she waved him through, back to the concourse. Mercifully, he surrendered to his better nature and went on his way, especially when he overheard something about a cavity search. He wasn’t quite sure what this was, but it did not sound pleasant, and there were rules about cursing entire airports. After a hike through the great unwashed, he found Terminal 4. Tears threatened to spring to his eyes as he watched the plane he should have been aboard take off.

He made arrangements for the next flight, which was four hours away, at best and settled himself down for the long wait with this morning’s Daily Prophet. He flipped through several unimportant passages until he found the crossword puzzle.

“One across, seven letters, considered the Villain of Bram Stoker’s best known work. Dracula.” He mumbled aloud, his nerves calming. “I don’t know… Vlad Tepes was a rather agreeable fellow. Heads on spikes…hung a man once for his dishonesty, nothing wrong with that…”

Three hours later, he finally managed to get aboard the plane. He wondered skeptically how muggles ever got the stupid things airborne, as it looked like a long metal cigar holder with large less than aerodynamic wings and tiny little wheels. He found his seat near the rear of the cabin, and having missed his original flight, which he had paid for first class, he was stuck in coach. The woman behind him had a pinched face, and the child beside her was extremely portly, causing Snape to wonder how much time she had spent in customs explaining that the child was not some sub-species of land-dwelling whale.

He had just settled when the disembodied voice intruded into his thoughts. He rolled his eyes as the captain informed them of the airline, their destination, flight length, and all things Snape figured they should have already known before boarding the plane. If the other passengers made mistakes, then they deserved to reap the rewards of their folly. He fastened the amusing little strap of cloth they called a “safety belt”, as the stewardess began her lecture of precautions. If the plane were to crash, he seriously doubted this strip of cotton would save any one. They needed apparation licenses, the ability to grow gills…any of the comfiture charms. It was a wonder the race had ever gotten this far along the evolutionary scale.

He was just about to close his eyes, when the back of his seat gave a tremendous heave. His head whipped about sharply and his gaze focused on the obese child behind him. “Do try and keep his corpulent legs and feet kindly off the back of my seat, Madame.”

The woman gave Snape a scowl and turned to soothe the boy. “It’s okay Duddy-kins. Some people do not deserve to be around children.”

“Children, Madame? Surely you jest. I am quite a competent man of scholarly pursuit, and I do educate young children. Secondly this creature you refer to, as “duddykins” is obviously some kind of behemoth that should be on display in a circus, or studied by the World Health Organization. Perhaps even rescued by Greenpeace.”

The woman looked in dangerous peril of fainting outright as all the colour in her face drained, leaving it looking like parchment stretched over bleached bone. “Well! I never!”

“Incorrect. You must have…at least once judging by the mere fact your son is sitting beside you and taking up two seats of his own.” Snape’s smile held all the warmth of the Marianas Trench. “Which should be quite plenty for him…that he needs not interfere with my seat at all.”

The woman, horror-struck snapped her jaw closed and Snape returned to face forward. One of the stewardesses passed by with a rolling teacart and offered them refreshments, and managed to bang the cart against his knee. Apologetically, she offered him a “Guinness”. Snape had never seen anything quite like it, and sniffed at the drink suspiciously. It was black with a taupe head of foam and reeked of hops. He was rather reminded of the bottom of his cauldron last year when Hooch overindulged in butterbeer, and had an unfortunate accident in his office when seeking a remedy.

He really should have known about heights and the effects of alcohol. Less than thirty minutes and two pints later, Snape found his head light and himself feeling positively giddy. So much so that he didn’t mind the twelve times that the stewardess, Karen, who’s plastic smile and over cheerfulness would ordinarily make his stomach turn, rap his elbow and knee with the damnable cart. In fact, her smile was sort of… attractive.

He was attempting to work out a strategy to inform her of this, when there came another heave of his chair, followed by a short pummeling. Snape turned again and glared at the boy. His mother was no-where to be seen and his eyes narrowed, chilling and deadly. His voice was but a hoarse whisper. “Listen here you bloody great, snot-faced, bugger. If you do not cease aggravating me you will spend the rest of your short, miserable life wishing…let me just say there are worse things than death…and I can do all of them.” With that, Snape pulled out his wand and hissed “Immobilis.”

It would be a much more pleasant flight with the corpulent wretch unable to move. He closed his eyes and slept, dreamlessly.

A/n: I would like to thank my wonderful betas, Claudia and LoI, who are whipping me into better shape with insightful comments and sustaining good cheer. I would also like to thank Lydia soooo much for giving me an idea what life in Moscow is like, and for me stealing a bit of it for Wren. Please be aware that any mistakes, either technical, literary, or about life are my own, much to the dismay of these three ladies, to whom Snape, Wren and I owe a great deal. With that….

Chapter 17

Wren stood at the coffeemaker, idle for a few moments, rolling her shoulders to relieve the tension they contained. She emptied two pots and began making another round. In a few minutes the milling crowd outside the doors would begin pouring in to listen to amateur singers; local musicians who were drawn to the open mic and free refreshments. It was one of the things she liked about the Insomnia Coffee-house.

She had worked here just two day now, and while she found herself missing the grounds and the stone walls of Hogwarts, she had convinced herself living a Muggle life would be best for her. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to writing Headmaster Dumbledore, and she had yet to go home. She did not want to see the look on her great-grandmother’s face. The disappointment, the compassion and the ill understanding would prove to be her undoing just now. So she had rented a flat nearby in one of the better neighbourhoods.

It was small, with only two windows, a bedroom, bath, kitchen and small sitting room, little less than three-quarters the size of her dungeon chambers, but it was her own, paid for by the money she herself would earn. She had exhausted her inheritance; such as it had been, then made a series of apparations across Europe, on her way back to the land of her birth. That had been three weeks ago.

She had half expected the Ministry of Magic to send an agent her way, as she had no apparating license, nor did she have written permission to leave the school grounds. She had lived out of her suitcase so to speak, in various hotels for the first week she had been here, trying to figure out what to do. She had never been the type to run before.

It was his entire fault, really. There was something about Snape that set her blood boiling in her veins, and not always pleasantly. Yet she was powerless to avoid him. She had done all she could to set herself away from him, and she could not alter that course. She had even tried to forget the small gift she had bought at the outdoor market in Belgium for him. She had almost turned back then, to beg the Headmaster’s forgiveness and to resume her education. The feeling passed as quickly as the shadow of a hawk across the sky. She couldn’t ever

“Wren…you have a customer. Stop daydreaming, before we all get into trouble.”

Wren smiled at the other waitress, pouring a couple mugs of coffee just incase. She wove her way carefully through the maze of sofas and tables that provided the décor, passed the large fish tank and the café` tables where games of chess, back-gammon and cards were being played. There was a subtly hued haze from the smoke of clove cigarettes, but the customer was plainly visible, almost as if the smoke was meant to frame him in a living portrait.

The ice water ran down the front of her shirt, past her jeans and made its way rapidly toward her socks where it collected as a manifestation of her surprise. The man sitting in the arm chair, book in hand, looked so much like…

“Severus?” She half choked, half whispered as he looked up at her, a mixture of confusion and amusement clearly written on his aquiline features. The lines that usually marred unyielding lips were gone…or had never been there. His hair was quite a bit shorter and lighter. And the eyes. Deep, intense and tranquil, they beckoned to be stared into, but they were the deepest shade of grey she had ever seen, the colour of antique silver. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

“I beg your pardon, lass?” The accent was all-wrong…thicker, broader sounding, but the soft whispering baritone was the same.

“I-I’m sorry. You just remind me of someone I know.” She stammered, not realising until now that her hands were shaking.

“Ah. Well. I shall hope that it is a pleasant acquaintance.” He smiled, the even white teeth gleaming in the soft light of the reading lamp. The warmth of the gesture turned his eyes molten silver. He continued to meet her gaze steadily, expectantly. She still couldn’t breathe right but managed to stop trembling.

“It…is in the past. May I get you anything?”

“I’m verra sorry to hear that. Yes, please. Coffee, straight black. And perhaps a cranberry scone if you could manage….?”

She smiled in return, her pulse pounding loudly in her ears. “As you please.” She dipped a quick curtsey and went to fetch his request; her socks squelching the whole way back to the kitchen.

Her hands had finally stopped shaking as she poured a third cup, this time managing to get all the coffee in the cup. She was angry with herself. Why had she reacted like that? Even if it was Snape, he had no power over her, not here. She had only herself to be held responsible to. Besides, she feared him; she had good reason to loathe him so she needn’t have to act like a girl in her first love.