Blood Tell


Over the next few days, Potter and I kept an eye on Voldemort; a brief touch every 
morning and evening to ensure that he had not moved.  We could do nothing more on 
that front without revealing ourselves to him, although we could and did scan for 
Draco Malfoy as well.  Wednesday morning, Albus received a reply from Pansy 
Parkinson, saying that Draco had told her he was coming to stay, but that he had 
never arrived.

Her mistress likely would not have allowed it in any case, but I suspected Pansy 
of duplicity.  She was fully capable of providing Draco with the means to hide 
himself, either in London or somewhere in Europe.  That evening I called her young 
sister to my office.  

She hovered in the doorway, her eyes wide.  "Miss Parkinson.  Do come in."

She entered and stopped in front of my desk, her hands clasped before her.

"Sit down, child," I said.  "You've done nothing wrong."

"I didn't think I had, sir," she said, settling into a chair.  "I--this is about 
Draco, isn't it?"

Good girl.  "Yes."  I folded my hands and studied her.  She was a pretty child, 
not as sharp-featured as her elder sibling.  "How close are you to your sister?"

She shrugged.  "Pansy's a lot older."

"Do you think she would tell you if she knew where Draco Malfoy was?"

Her face was less young, now, more thoughtful.  Her eyes narrowed. "I don't know, 
sir.  Maybe.  If I asked her the right way."

I leaned forward.  "And would she tell you *where*?"

Jessica twisted her fingers around each other and chewed on her lip.  "I don't 
think so.  Not unless I swore not to tell anyone."  She looked up at me 
thoughtfully.  "But there are ways to tell someone without telling them--aren't 
there, sir?"

"Of course, Miss Parkinson."  I crossed my left arm over my chest, pressing my 
Mark against my breastbone.  "Now, child, if your sister gave you this 
information, would you find some way to let me know?"

"Yes, sir," she said.  She frowned.  "I'll want points for Slytherin, of course," 
she said.  "Nothing without its price."

I smiled.  "Slytherin to the bone, Miss Parkinson.  I cannot give you points now; 
they would be posted, and this must remain secret.  However."  I stood and walked 
around my desk to stand next to her. "You will receive five points for agreeing to 
undertake the project, five more if you can verify for us that Pansy does or does 
not know the whereabouts of Draco Malfoy, a further five if she knows and reveals 
the location, and five for keeping me fully informed." I tapped my left forefinger 
against my right shoulder.  "And five for your trouble, whether you are successful 
or not.  I know that this is not an easy task." I extended my hand to her.  "You 
have my word on it, Miss Parkinson."

She looked at my hand, then met my eyes and said, slowly, "Add another five 
because I must wait for those points until it's over.  And another thirty for 
betraying the confidence of a family member.  Sir."  Her voice trembled, but she 
never dropped her eyes.

"Done," I said, without hesitation.  I was pleased she had asked--the child would 
go far, if she kept this up. "Of course, you realize that if you do not keep me 
informed, I shall be unable to distribute any points whatsoever."  Nothing, Miss 
Parkinson, without its price.

She nodded and shook my hand.  "I usually owl Pansy on Fridays, so I'll need to 
hurry.  If--if you want me to start right away."

"It's a delicate job," I answered, "but time is short.  Tread carefully."  I put 
my hand on her shoulder.  "I have confidence in you, Miss Parkinson."

She nodded, blushed, and dashed out.

Ah, students.

* * *

Potter slammed his fist on his desk, and I looked up from my book.  "Voldemort," 
he said.  "Why aren't we going after him?  Why are we waiting for him to get 
stronger?"

I closed my book over my finger.  "We know nothing about the situation, Mr. 
Potter.  Investigo does not give us an exact location, and we do not know what 
forces he has gathered."  

He ran his hands through his hair.  "And all we can do is check in, is that it?  
Every day--yes, yes, Minister, he's still there."  He appeared rather wild, and I 
raised my eyebrows.  "Can't we--"

"No."  Arthur Weasley had the Aurors scouting for Voldemort; until they located 
him, nothing could be done.  Potter knew this.

He stood and began pacing the room.  "We have to--I can't even warn Hermione!  And 
Ron's not telling me anything, and--"

His face went white.  "And--" He looked at me, his mouth open, his breath coming 
fast.

"Yes," I said.  "You see it now.  You see what we have been through."  I rose to 
meet him, gripped his shoulders, ignored the spasm of pain in my arm.  "Hogwarts.  
The center of his power; his home within our world.  And the home of the three 
greatest threats to him."

"Dumbledore.  Me."  He swallowed.  "You."

I laid my palm over the scar on his forehead.  "Make a weapon of your fear, Mr. 
Potter.  We will need it, in time."

He threw my hand off impatiently.  "We don't *have* time!  Voldemort--"

I cut him off. "This is pointless!  If you're so damned concerned, boy, start 
thinking of effective ways to spy on him once he's found, since I can no longer 
perform that duty.  Put that brain of yours to use for once." 

He shoved me and I caught myself against the edge of my desk.  "Why don't *you*, 
damn you--you do *nothing*, you just wait, like an idiot--"

This was a Potter I had not seen since the war: savage, willful.  Thoughtless.  It 
had been his one true weakness, though he compensated for it well.  Still.  Unlike 
his friend Weasley, he had no patience, no head for strategy.  It fell to me, 
then, to teach it--mastery of the mind, magical and otherwise.

I rose, twisted, backhanded him across the face.  He went down--stupid boy. He 
*knew* my strength.  I stood over him.  "That is *enough*," I said.  "I was a 
Death Eater before you were even born, and a traitor when you sucked at your 
mother's breast.  Do not speak to me of what I do and do not do."

He spat at my feet.  Blood ran from his lip to the stone floor, and he blotted his 
mouth with his hand.  After a moment, he raised his eyes to mine. "You want 
someone *thinking* about it, Snape, you tell Hermione.  She's cleverer than either 
of us." 

Hah.  The boy had spirit.  I smiled at him.  "She's your friend, Mr. Potter.  I'll 
have nothing to do with it." I stepped over him and retrieved my book.

"I hate you," he said, his voice rough and bitter.

The sharp smell of blood rose through the cold air.

"I know," I answered.

* * *

Saturday evening found us outside Hagrid's hut. Inside, that monstrous beast he 
calls Fang barked, and then fell silent.  Hagrid knew we were here; he would keep 
his creatures from troubling us, and out here Hogwarts' ghosts could not find us.  
Potter shivered by my side, and his breath frosted in the air.

"Do I have to do this?" he said, and for a moment he was a child under the 
moonlight.  And then he shifted, and the shadows on his face aged him at once.

Easy, at times, to forget he was only eighteen.  

"You must," I answered.  "I do not undertake this lightly, Mr. Potter.  This is 
powerful magic, and you must learn it."  And its counter, of course, but I did not 
say that; it did not suit my purposes to say it.
  
He mouthed the words of the spell at me and took a step backwards.  "I don't 
really want to turn you into a tree," he said.  "Not--"

I raised an eyebrow at him.  "I've seen your Transfiguration marks, Potter.  
Minerva assures me that you have never killed a live subject, and that you are 
able to restore transfigured objects to their initial state.  View this as an 
exercise."

He narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth at me, and I knew that face; I had seen 
it in battle.  He said only "Yes, Master," but I heard the fury behind it.

Good.  Let him use that anger against me; it would be his strength.
  
I set my feet shoulder-width apart and waited.

"*Balsamo myrrha*!"

The boy's reputation as a wizard was not wholly without merit; over the years, he 
had learned to cast complex spells correctly on the initial attempt.

My skin stiffened, twisted; I felt my body blaze with pain and then cease as the 
transfiguration took hold.  I took one last breath and wondered, briefly, if this 
was how Lucius Malfoy had felt with my hands around his throat. 

And then there was nothing left of me but my mind.

The nerves of a tree are not the nerves of a man; they are composed of wood and 
water and sap, of subtle pressures and of vibration.  I could feel Potter's hand 
on me, hear his voice. *Master.  Are you in there?*

I could not answer.  If he had taken an axe to me, I could not have stopped him.

*Veritas!*

And I was a man once more, looking at my apprentice with a man's eyes.  His hand 
left my chest as I drew breath once more, and he said, quietly, "You didn't 
scream.  I screamed."

I held out my palms to him; my nails had gouged blood.  As he watched, they 
healed, leaving only pale new-moon scars in their place.  "I have been 
transfigured before," I said.  

"You--how do you heal so fast?"

I laughed.  "A combination of things, Mr. Potter.  Transfiguration makes the body 
fluid, for one.  For another, only a fool spies on a mass murderer without taking 
precautions; I cast a rapid-healing spell on myself years ago.  For the last--
well.  For the last, I blame my family.  We all of us heal quickly."

He let his fingers hover over my left palm without touching, as if he did not 
believe the scars were real and was afraid to find out.  "Will I ever meet your 
family?"

"A cousin or two, perhaps, if our paths cross.  My parents and siblings are dead."  
I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering.  "Now.  Transfigure me again, Mr. 
Potter, but this time, do not change me back for several minutes."

I inhaled, and Potter raised his wand.  "*Balsamo myrrha*!"

I let myself flow into it, waited until the transfiguration completed, and then I 
focussed and ended it with one sharp thought, one powerful thrust of magic.

Potter cursed and jumped back.  "How the *hell*--"

I could not answer right away; it is not an easy thing to end a Horrific 
Transfiguration, and my body felt torn apart.  He stepped close and slid his arm 
around my shoulders, offering support.

I might have felt gratitude, had the contact not made my Mark burn viciously.

"I will teach you how to do that," I said, when I could speak.  "It is not easy."

"I can see that," he said, and his expression was wry.

I straightened, shrugged off his touch.  "The mind, Mr. Potter, is your most 
powerful weapon, but it is a difficult one to master." I reached out my hand, let 
my fingers brush his scar.  My Mark flared again. "Mastery of the mind--your 
friend Mr. Longbottom's parents had bravery, Potter, and discipline, but not 
mastery.  They could not keep themselves whole and sane."

He nodded, and I dropped my hand and stepped back.

"Now.  How do you think I did that?"

* * *

Three days later, Minerva stormed into my office.  "Severus!"  

"Yes?" 

"Perhaps you can explain why half my students have been useless this past week."

I raised my eyebrows, surprised that it had taken her this long to decide that I 
was responsible; she ought to know me better than that.  "I can't imagine what you 
mean."

She slammed her hand on my desk.  "Dammit, Severus!  I've got the fourth-year 
Hufflepuffs and the fifth-year Ravenclaws after Divination this term, and none of 
them have been able to manage a thing.  What did you do?  Add a potion to 
Trelawney's tea?"

"Of course not."

"Severus Snape, I swear to God--"

"Minerva."

"What?"

"I swear to you that I did not add any potions to Trelawney's tea."

She stepped back.  She didn't believe me; it was all over her face.  After a 
moment, she sat down across from me.  "No *potions*.  I see."  She rubbed her 
forehead.  "Will you tell me what you *did* do?" she said, and all the anger was 
gone from her voice.

I leaned back and studied her for a moment.  "I did nothing that could harm the 
children."

"I know," she said.  "I know, Severus, but--you tread a very fine line, at times.  
Don't force me to go to Albus over this."

I smiled grimly.  "I have the utmost respect for Professor Trelawney's work, of 
course.  I knew she was running short on tea for her Divination classes, so--"

Minerva held up her hand for me to stop.  "Cannabis tea."  She sounded weary.

I spread my hands apart, as if in surrender.  "As you say."

She buried her face in her hands.  "You will be the death of me yet."

I threw my head back and laughed.  "I hope not, Minerva.  I hope not."

"How much did you give her?"  Her voice was muffled by her hands.

"About two weeks' supply.  Perhaps three."

She dropped her hands from her face, and she looked grave.  "Severus, was Harry 
involved in this?"

"Yes."  I couldn't imagine why she was asking; it was hardly relevant.

"I thought so.  It sounds like him."

Well, that was surprising.  "I beg your pardon?"

"The execution is you, of course; Harry's not that subtle.  But I've known you 
since you were a boy, Severus; it's not your style of prank."

I raised my eyebrows.  "Because it doesn't involve a potion?"

"Because it doesn't involve humiliation," she said.

I crossed my arms and tapped my fingers against my shoulders.  "Ah.  You may have 
a point.  Continue."

She laid one hand on my desk, palm open and down, pressed flat to the wood.  "All 
I am saying is--be *careful*.  It's a hard thing, to keep from bleeding into one's 
master.  I imagine it's just as hard to keep from bleeding into one's student.  
Don't change too much."

I made no reply.  After a moment, she stood and swept out of the room.

I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, breathed out once, and held it, counting 
slowly.  At fifty, I inhaled again, and thought of the boy.

Potter.

My apprentice.

Blood on the floor, in spittle; blood of a foe in Voldemort's veins. My Mark 
burning like acid on my skin, my skin turning to bark and my blood to sap--

My apprentice, bleeding into me, his magic twisting me outwards with Investigo, 
his reading and his research and the hot familiar feel of his hatred--and the 
cooler, unfamiliar feel of his companionship.

My.  Apprentice.