According to the internal clock that was his stomach, breakfast had come and gone hours ago. Though after last night's dinner, he was just as glad to miss it.

He had reached the chapter on border-line Dark Potions for strenghtening the drinker's magical powers when the door opened to admit Voldemort himself. After the previous evening's encounter with Veritaserum, Severus saw little point in curbing his first reaction: retreating as far away as he could without leaving the bed, and drawing his knees up to his chest like the frightened little boy he was. He watched with wary eyes as Voldemort closed and warded the door behind him, then crossed the room towards him.

The dark wizard sat down directly next to him, but there was nowhere to shy away to on the narrow mattress. Voldemort reached out at bushed cold fingertips along his cheek, as Mother used to do when he was scared. "Ssshh, you are sssafe, my Ssseverusss." If he had truly been Mother, Severus would have burst into real tears and fallen into her open arms. But Mother was dead.

He leaned into the offered embrace, ignoring the part of his mind that screamed that he was taking comfort from the very creature that was causing his distress. The part that said he should draw his wand and do his best to fight his way to freedom instead of wallowing about in fear and misery. He tightly grasped the dark lord's robes and began to shake with silent, tearless sobs. It was all very well for Matty to want to leave. He had friends and people who cared for him at Hogwarts. After what Matty had suffered during the distraction, Severus wasn't likely to get anything but hate and fear.

A cold hand rubbed circles against his back. "My Ssseverusss," the hissing voice murmured, almost succeeding in being soothing. Severus relaxed minutely into the arms that held him. Here, at least, people wouldn't look at him as if they expected him to kill them painfully without warning or cause.

"Yours," he confirmed quietly, much of his tension and terror leaving with the word. That same part of his mind rebelled and screamed, Never yours! But that part held no control on his body, and could only seethe inwardly against the fact that any part of him could accept the monster's touch as anything but disgusting and creepy. Severus inwardly told Matty to go back to sleep and that he wasn't welcome here. It was Severus's turn to be accepted.

Voldemort pulled away, just enough to look into Severus's eyes. A cold finger lifted his chin, and the dark lord smiled as red eyes looked into dry black ones. "I sssee you are a true Ssslytherin, after all. Do not dissssappoint me, my Ssseverusss." It was his father's highest praise followed by his father's standard warning for when Severus had come periliously close to doing just that.

"I won't, sir," Severus promised, as he would if Voldemort had really been his father. Truthfully, the two were very similiar in Severus's experience of the two wizards. Voldemort might even be slightly more openly caring. Severus's father certainly would not have sat quietly sat through two such shows of weakness with him as Voldemort had done. "I won't dissapoint you," he reaffirmed, black eyes earnestly meeting those red ones that weren't nearly as intimidating as they had been.

Voldemort chuckled quietly and brushed long cold fingers against his cheek again. This time, Severus did not flinch away. Voldemort smiled. "No, I expect you will not." The dark lord rose to his feet and turned back to look at Severus, who was no longer fearfully curled up on the corner of his bed, sitting comfortably at its head. "The morning grows late. You will join me for lunch."

Drawing courage from their recent closeness, Severus said, somewhat more insolently than he would to any adult not his parent, "I'm not eating any more of that stew. It was gross."

Voldemort laughed, not entirely in humour. "Did you truly believe there wasss enough of Gideon Nott left to cook, my sssmall Ssseverusss? What you removed into you napkin was transfigured celery."

Severus wasn't sure if he was more relieved that he hadn't eaten Gideon, appalled that 'there wasssn't enough of him to cook', or embarrassed that he had been so thoroughly fooled. "Aren't you kinda old to play with your food?" he asked before he could squash the thought. He slapped a hand over his mouth and fidgited nervously under Voldemort's incredulious stare. Merlin, he wouldn't even say that to Mother, nevermind Father or, fatally worse, the Dark Lord. He hadn't even injested anything that could provide an excuse for his outburst. He managed to simulaneously flush in embarrassment and pale in horror. "I didn't mean to say that out loud, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

To Severus's surprise, Voldemort did not kill him on the spot. Didn't even hit him with a Cruciatus. In fact, he laughed. "Foolissh child. Come eat."

Severus rushed to comply, hoping vainly that it would make the dark lord forget his stupid remark.

Breakfast was nothing more sinister than pancakes and bacon. Voldemort did eat as well, which assured Severus of both the dark wizard's continued mortality (at least in regards to nutrition) and that the food was neither poisoned or drugged with truth serum. When the silence at the table became overbearing, he made the first comment that came to his mind on the subject he had been mulling over for the last ten minutes. Perhaps it would redeem him some, too. "It was a good intimidation technique. The stew, I mean. But it would have been better if you were there eating the celery."

Voldemort just looked at him, and he blushed again. "Not that I'm critcizing your methods or anything, my lord." You should be, that outraged part of him told himself. And don't call him lord. You don't have to anymore, your cover's blown. Severus pushed the thoughts away. They wouldn't help him here. This was a snake's pit, and Gryffindorish thoughts had no place here. Just because Voldemort was being strangely indulgent didn't mean that he would go unharmed or even survive should he become an annoyance. Besides, Hogwarts had shown him what the Wizarding world thought of someone with Voldemort's brand. It was time to make the most of the hand he was dealt. There wasn't a lot of alternative.

"You do not ccease to assstound me, my Ssseverusss."

Beyond which, Voldemort didn't seem nearly so bad as people made him out to be. That's why he branded you and uses the Cruciatus at the drop of a hat, his Other snapped back sarcastically. You're being selectively blind. Remember Gideon? He's dead because you tricked him. Merlin, the monster jokes about eating people!

Severus tried to convince himself it was just a violent temper, and proof that he shouldn't cross the wizard. But that betrayed his pride. He would never comply out of fear. He was his own self, free to make his own choices, even as a prisoner. On defiant impulse, he drew forth the letter written in blood. He tossed it across the table to Voldemort. "I wrote a letter to Katryna Tragyl. Would you send it to her? She was the only one at Hogwarts who was decent to me. I would also like a pot of ink and parchment in my room. It was tedious using blood and I find tearing pages out of books offensive."

By the look the dark lord gave him, he imagined he had managed to continue astounding him. "How . . . resssourccceful." He unrolled the page and read the short letter. When he finished, he rerolled it, sealed it, and summoned a distinctive looking white-winged owl. Where it had come from, Severus couldn't begin to guess, but it appeared on command. "Bring thisss to Katryna Tragyl at Hogwartsss." When it was gone, he looked at Severus and said only, "A sssparrow, Ssseverusss?"

"Imperium avia, my lord." He smirked a little, "How did you suppose I let Dumbledore know to find me at Nott Manor?"

"You grow insssolent, sssmall Ssseverusss," Voldemort warned.

Severus ducked his head. "I apologize, my lord."

The rest of the meal passed with only the sound of clinking silverware. When he finished, Severus placed his fork and knife at the proper angle, as his mother had taught, and looked over at the dark lord. "Have you plans for me today, or will I spend the day reading in my room, sir?" It could have been summer vacation again, if only the head of the table was occupied by his father instead of Voldemort.

"I wish to test that ability you demonstrated yesterday. Come." The dark lord swept to his feet and strode from the room. Severus hurried to keep up. They only stopped when they reached the same place where he had demonstrated the Cruciatus the day before. The side yard was barren of anything but the scragliest of grass. The dirt was dry and full of small rocks, which might account for the lack of growth, though Severus wasn't certain that was the only cause.

The dead cat still lay where it fell.

Peter shortly appeared from whatever hole he had been in during breakfast. Voldemort gave his instructions: Peter was to stand behind Severus, holding his shoulder. Voldemort would make the cat corpse burn, while Severus attempted to keep the flames doused.

It resulted in something of a stalemate with the fur slightly smouldering, and stench of burning hair in the air. Predictably, Severus began to flag first. The smouldering grew into small flames. His wand shook as he tried to continually cast and recast the extinguishing charm. Sweat appeared on his brow more from the effort of sustained spell casting than from the heat of the fire, though that was starting to get warm enough to feel as well.

He tried to draw magic from Pettigrew, but failed.

He tried not to draw magic from Pettigrew and succeeded.

He tried to ignore Pettigrew, but failed.

He refocused on the cat, and tried a far stronger extinguishing spell than the one he had been using. One that he wasn't entirely familiar with, but had some book knowledge of. He concentrated on the new spell, putting everything he had into getting it perfect. More magic than he had left in him flew through his wand and towards the cat, and the flames went out entirely. The world blinked out with them.

It was two days since Severus's escape. Two detentions down, the rest of term left to go. Six Hogsmeade trips to miss out on. Made up infractions lost her points whenever she saw Clarence. Jansten - her auror brother - hadn't quite sent her Howler accusing her of being Dark in front of the whole school. It was a Howler, but he was so angry, the only thing he managed to convey was a hiss of frustration, and so it resulted only in twitters of amusement instead of shunning from the other Houses. Fortunately, her two Gryffindor brothers, Kib and Menteron were left in the dark.

She was obviously in favour among the Future Death Eater crowd.

Battle lines had been drawn among those in the know and she was standing on the wrong side.

The morning post arrived, and she watched warily for another red envelope. As of yet, she still had not heard from three of her older brothers. But the only owl that flew towards her was a black one with white wings. She had never seen the odd looking bird before, and wondered who it could be from. It hooted seven times before it allowed her to take its burden away.

Feeling flustered from her battle with the owl, she shot an mildly annoyed look around to see if anyone was laughing at her. No one was, but there was a strange attentiveness around Draco Malfoy and a few others as they watched her open her mail. The handwriting was not one she immediately could identify, so her eyes tracked quickly towards the bottom. Severus.

Her eyes widened, and she started again at the top, reading each word as if it might hold salvation. None of them did. No resounding declaration of having made a mistake. No cry for help or rescue. Just a somewhat obscure reference to Voldemort's beliefs of his loyalties and the notion that he was a prisoner there was clearly established. For all that, it seemed a captivity he held little interest in leaving.

Then she noticed the ink. A flaky brown substance. Blood.

People do not write in blood unless they're desperate. Why write to her? Why did it not say right out what he wanted or needed to say?

And why send it secretly by sparr- He didn't send it by sparrow as he said in the letter. It was sent by owl. She read the letter again. Aside from the note about her broomstick and the hope she hadn't gotten in trouble, she saw little reason why he would tell her the rest. So maybe she wasn't the intended recipient. Maybe he was trying to tell somebody else something else.

But who?

Severus spoke to nobody but herself, Clarence, and the auror. He wouldn't be writing to Fletcher, of that, she was certain. Clarence, then? Maybe they had developed some kind of code that Clarence would be able to decipher from the letter to get the hidden message? So why not send it directly to Clarence?

Because he's not suicidal, idiot, she snapped at herself. You're a Slytherin, girl, think like one. Severus writes a coded message to Clarence asking for help. Of course he can't address it directly to Clarence. If Voldemort caught him with it, he'd be killed. Clarence wasn't at all considered even remotely dark, for all that he idolized the Professor. Who was a traitor. The words from two days ago repeated themselves in her mind.

He has two options. To stay there and become what everyone expects of him. Or to try to leave. If he attempts the latter, there are two possible outcomes. One is far more likely than the other. The unlikely one is that he makes it back to Hogwarts safely and isn't killed by either the aurors hunting him or the Death Eaters he has betrayed yet again. The likely one is that he dies trying. As you said, he is twelve. Two years younger than Kib. Can you see Kib escaping the dark lord intact?

You don't know him, Dad. He's almost as smart as Clarence -

Smarter.

This was his first quiet step in his escape then. The note might have even been discovered and sent to her to confuse the issue. That was why it was by owl instead of sparrow. She would just need to get it to Clarence without the pass being noticed by anyone who might tell Voldemort. She was under observation by the Future Death Eaters of Hogwarts club, that much she knew already.

She was fairly confident of her ability to slip it into her brother's robe pocket without being seen if she could just manufacture a reason to get close enough to do it. Well, shout down matches with him were becoming increasingly common. Perhaps, she could taunt him into a physical fight? No. Not Clarence. Kib, though, would do it. He wasn't involved at all and no one would suspect the youngest Tragyl son of anything that didn't have to do with Muggle entertainment or Quiddich trivia. Perfect.

It wasn't like she'd be starting a new trend or anything suspicious like that either.

"But Professor," Kib Tragyl complained to McGonagall, "She's my sister and a Slytherin, it's our duty to fight."

Tryna nodded to show her support of this defence, as she always did whenever Kib tried to use it.

"I believe, Mr. Tragyl, you performed this duty yesterday, and two days before that, and the day before that, and so forth, quite frequently before that. Ten points from both Slytherin and Gryffindor. Again."

"She's just mad because you caught a glancing blow on Colin this time," Tryna told her brother calmly.

"I said I was sorry," Kib pointed out. "You didn't mind, did you, Col?"

The fourth year shook his head, "Nah. Dennis and me get in worse over the summer. Barely felt it." He grinned, "But since I'm a casualty, do I get to learn what it was about this time?"

"Tryna called me a ninny."

Tryna stuck out her tongue. "You called me a dummy first."

"Because you are," Kib retorted.

"And you are a ninny."

Kib ran at her again, and would have gone into a flying tackle if McGonagall hadn't cast an invisible wall between the two siblings which Kib ran face first into. Tryna burst out in laughter, which Kib immediately joined in on. "Ok," he laughed, "You win that round."

McGonagall sighed. "Five more points from Gryffindor."

Kib dug through his pockets, looking for the pot of marbled red and gold ink he had in there somewhere. He came across a folded piece of muggle paper that he didn't remember putting in there, and pulled out, curious. Give this to Clarence, Tryna's handwriting spelled out.

He shrugged, dismissing the weirdness of it. Tryna was Slytherin and Clarence was Ravenclaw. If they were Up To Something, he wasn't going to get involved any more than delivering that piece of paper. While periodically attacking or being attacked by Tryna - all in good fun, and more for tradition's sake than anything else - was a sure way to lose points, getting mixed up in a scheme with those two could mean expellment.

Clarence distrustfully opened the square of paper Kib had given him. He had not forgiven Tryna for putting his Professor in danger, but anything involving enough secrecy to use Kib as a go-between had to be important.

I don't think this was meant for me, was all that was written on the inside of the muggle paper shell that enclosed the more traditional parchment used by wizards. He unfolded that as well and recognized the neater version of Snape's handwriting that the professor used for notes that he might have to read again. The ink - no, that wasn't ink, was it? Chills slid down the Ravenclaw's back as he realized the note was written in blood.

It was addressed to Katryna. He read it through three times before reaching the twin conclusions that his sister had been both right and wrong. The letter was not meant for her. But neither was it meant for him.

He left Ravenclaw Tower and made his way to Professor Snape's office. Zmiya was there, as he had expected. He posed a series of questions to the substitute that he knew the man would be unable to answer. Zmiya quickly lost patience with the line of interrogation, and bit out, "Why don't you bother the Headmaster with this?"

As this was the alibi he had been looking for, he nodded agreement, "Okay, I'll ask him then."

When he reached the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore put aside a piece of paper he had been writing on as Clarence entered. "Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Tragyl?"

Clarence shook his head. "Me, no. But I thought I should give this to you," he said and handed Tryna's letter to the Headmaster.

Dumbledore's pleasant expression quickly drained away as he read the short note. "Where did you get this?" he asked, sounding tired and old for the first time in Clarence's experience.

"Tryna gave it to me. Indirectly. I think she got it by owl this morning. The black owl with white wings. It doesn't belong to any of my brothers and rental owls are never that distinctive. I had thought at first it was Gran's but she's never gotten that owl before, and she said she's received letters from Gran before now."

Dumbledore nodded, filing away the facts and Clarence's deductions.

"Is Professor Snape going to be alright?" Clarence asked, his worry and fear bursting from him in that one question.

The Headmaster sighed. "Severus is a survivor. He will adapt to the circumstances as neccessary. I fear for his innocence, not his life."

"Seems his innocence was already lost," Clarence said more bitterly than he had intended.

Dumbledore chuckled softly, almost sadly, "I suggest you review Matty Groves' potions essays one more time, Mr. Tragyl. I also trust you will tell no one of what you discover when you do so."

Clarence frowned, curiosity piqued by the non-sequitur.

"Was there anything else, Mr. Tragyl?"

Clarence knew a dismissal when he heard one. "No, sir."

The only third year Slytherin-Gryffindor essay that Matty had turned in sat ungraded in his room with those of the rest of his class. Zmiya had hardly assigned any homework, and only once Clarence attained his time-turner four days ago, had he relented to Clarence's demands that essays should be turned in at every class. On the condition that Clarence grade them. Keeping the pile at a constant height required him to double the use of his time turner to keep up with the incoming.

He pulled out Matty's paper from the rest, and nearly popped his eyes out when he saw the handwriting.

He hadn't spent five years as Professor Snape's favourite pupil for nothing. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley were in for a detention tomorrow. On whatever moderately believable excuse he could come up with. He was sure he could get Zmiya to let him proctor it.