Chapter 10: Looking Through Windows for Demons


Shortly before the Easter holiday, I entered the rooms I shared with my apprentice 
to find him seated next to the Weasley girl.  She looked at me and blushed, 
leaping to her feet.  "Professor Snape.  Sir."  

I inclined my head.  "Miss Weasley."  I did not ask what she was doing there; 
Potter sat, pale and unmoving, next to the place she had vacated.  I stood between 
her and the door; she had to brush past me as she hurried out.  Hah.

"I hope," I said, as soon as the door closed behind her, "that you and Miss 
Weasley are *not* romantically involved."

"No, sir," he said.  His hands were white-knuckled.

"Don't lie to me, Apprentice Potter."

He unclenched his fists.  "I'm not.  I just--I *wish* we were.  I--" He broke off 
and put his head in his hands.  

I flicked one finger against my shoulder.  "If you are lacking in companionship, 
you might consider Minerva McGonagall."  He dropped his hands and stared at me; I 
smirked. "You are both on the staff here.  She's certainly a more appropriate 
choice for a liaison than Miss Weasley." He continued to gape, and I gave a 
dismissive wave.  "Go, Potter.  Write your love-lorn letter about Miss Weasley to 
Hermione Granger.  Pour out your heart."  I leaned over, trapping him between my 
body and the chair.  "And then let it be."

"Master.  I swear to you--she's a friend.  Just a friend.  I'm not going to owl 
Hermione or anyone else about her."

"Hm."  I straightened.  "And?"  

He sighed.  "She's a student. I won't touch her, sir."

"Good."

He glared at me.  "Do you have any idea how frustrating this is?"

"I was eighteen once myself, Potter."  I gestured at the pile of essays on his 
desk.  "I suggest you complete those before the holiday.  I don't expect you'll be 
spending much of the time human."

He threw a quill at me.

* * *

The first Tuesday the students were gone, I headed for Albus's office, hoping for 
a quiet afternoon chat.  Perhaps with tea; Albus made even better tea than I did.  
I had nearly reached it when I heard someone calling my name. "Snape!"

Hell. Albion. He had been an annoyance for months, and I'd come to the conclusion 
that working with him was worse than working with Black.  At least Black had the 
good sense to let me be whenever possible.  "What do you want?"

"Where is Potter?"

I examined my fingernails.  "What business is it of yours?"

"It's my business if you're using Dark Arts to control the boy."  He leaned in 
closely.  "I don't trust you."

"That is no concern of mine."  I turned to walk away, but he seized my shoulder 
and spun me around.  I threw him into the corridor wall and advanced on him, but 
another hand fell on my shoulder, and Albus spoke in my ear.

"Severus.  Enough.  I will not have the teaching staff at odds."

"I will not have Potter's apprenticeship interfered with.  *Sir*."

Albus raised his eyebrows at me, his expression--as ever--mild and gentle.  "Oh, 
now, I'm sure Arthur didn't mean to do *that*."

"All I asked," said Albion, "was where Potter was.  And he won't answer me."

Albus waved his hand.  "Oh, come now.  Severus?"

I folded my arms into my robe.  "He is currently behind Hagrid's hut."

"There, now, you see?  No problems at all."  Albus patted me on the arm.

"I looked there," Albion said.  "As you and he have been spending a great deal of 
time there."

I stared at the ceiling and said nothing.

After a long, silent moment, Albus said, "Severus?"

Damn the man. "Oh, for pity's sake, Albus, Potter's old enough to consent to being 
turned into a tree for twelve hours.  It's in the curriculum."

Albus gave me a sunny smile.  "So it is.  And how is he handling it?"

"Quite well, actually," I answered.  It was no less than the truth; Potter had 
determined the true reversal of the spell without much trouble; he'd learned the 
thought-structures of the Latinate Transfigurations well, which enabled him to 
deduce counter-curses and structural reversals.  All that remained was for him to 
learn to implement the reversal, and we could move on.  I was rather proud of him, 
although I certainly did not intend to tell him that.

Albion's voice cut in, disbelieving. "An Horrific?  That's--"

"Not forbidden," I said, "provided it is performed by a qualified instructor as 
part of a course in Defence Against the Dark Arts."  I stared at him.  "I'm sure 
you're aware that Potter *is* a Defence apprentice."

"From what I hear, there's more of the Dark Arts than there is of Defence about 
your curriculum."  

Albus shook his head.  "Professor Snape's curriculum--"

I overrode him.  "My curriculum was designed with an eye to Potter's strengths, 
including Transfiguration.  Good day."  I spun on my heel and headed off to the 
dungeons.

"You can't hide from me, Snape," Albion called.

I should hang that man by the heels and slit his throat, and use his blood as 
sauce for my supper. I did not answer.  Let the bastard take my silence how he 
would.

I could hear Albus dragging Albion to his office for "a little chat, Arthur, about 
professional respect" as I rounded the corner.

Still, my afternoon had been spoiled, and Albion had to pay for that.  I headed 
for my workroom.

* * *

Later that evening, I whispered to my cauldron as I stirred six times counter-
clockwise.  This was the final ingredient: the whisper of the potion-maker, 
sibilant and pure.  The fire beneath the cauldron died as I let my left hand fall.

The potion, silver-pale, murmured to itself.  Perfect.

As the bottling charm took over, Potter came in.  "Master?  What are you making?"

I bared my teeth at him.  "Paratoxica.  Did the spell wear off, or did you manage 
to make it back on your own?"

He sat down on one of the laboratory stools and peered at the cauldron.  "Wore 
off.  I don't know that one."

"You wouldn't.  I developed it just recently."

"What is it for?"

I cut my eyes at him, but decided to answer.  "Albion."

"You're poisoning him?"

"No."  I let a smile stretch over my face.  "No, I'm not.  That's precisely the 
point."  I caught a bottle out of the air by its chain and held it up to the 
light.  "Paratoxica, Mr. Potter, makes the victim *believe* he's been poisoned."

He propped his arms on the table and looked thoughtful.  "Albion's probably doing 
this on his own," he said.  "Mr. Weasley wouldn't ask him to bother you so much."

"I know," I answered, and frowned.

"So," Potter said, leaning forward, "we need to find out why!  He can't get *away* 
with it--we've got to--"

"Mr. Potter, is this how you and Weasley got Granger into all that trouble?  I 
always wondered why such a nice studious child was forever wreaking havoc on this 
school. Thank God I've got more sense."  

He scowled, in such precise imitation of his bastard godfather that I was 
startled.  

I raised my eyebrows at him and began reshelving the ingredients of the potion: 
alihotsy, skosh, elderflower, lacewings, dried root of white bryony, viper's 
blood.  "All the same," I said, "if you can gain his confidence--" I reached out 
and traced his scar; he pulled away from my touch.  I thought of how it had felt 
to strike him, and smiled.  Perhaps that was a lesson that would bear repeating, 
if he ever came to trust me too much.  "If Albion believes you fear me, all the 
better."

Something hard and alien crossed Potter's face then, before it smoothed out once 
more.  "You know I'm afraid of you," he said.  "You are my Master, and I--" He 
thumped his chest lightly with one clenched fist.  "I don't know all I feel for 
you.  But fear is part of it."

Hrr.  The boy who had asked me to take him as apprentice--was it nearly a year 
ago?--would never have admitted that.  I wondered, not for the first time, what 
changes the apprenticeship brought to him, other than the increased knowledge.

Whatever changes it had brought to me were not yet enough for me to ask.

"I'll find out what he wants," Potter said.  "What he *really* wants, this time.  
The Weasleys can't be *that* worried about me; I see Ron nearly every weekend, and 
Ginny almost every *day*, and I send owls."

"Hm."  I took a jar of crushed calendula flower off the shelf and held it out to 
him.  "Another gift for Trelawney, do you think?"  I kept it on hand for its 
medicinal purposes, but it could be used to induce prophecies in those sensitive 
to the currents of time.

He made a face.  "Won't do her any good.  I saw her make a real prophecy once, and 
she didn't remember anything afterwards."  He took the jar from me and studied it.  
"She uses all that damn incense.  I wonder why she doesn't use any of the direct 
herbal aids.  She must know about them."

I snorted. "She comes from a particular school that disapproves of such things.  
Calendula, jasmine, cannabis, roses--she does not know them, nor does she wish 
to." I plucked the jar from his fingers and shelved it.

"It might help the students, though," he said.  "I don't care about her so much, 
but it would have been nice to know that Divination wasn't all incense and moony 
predictions about me dying."  He paused for a moment, and then said, "I liked 
Herbology, the past few years."

"It is a useful discipline." I reached into my robes and withdrew a stoppered 
vial.  "Blood resin," I said, handing it to him.  "Yours."  

I had collected it from him while he was transfigured; blood resin, taken by the 
hands of the transfiguring wizard from the victim.  Bound with yarrow, it was a 
powerful intensifier for magic--dangerous, but powerful. 

The blood resin of a man could also be used to control him; it bent the will as 
readily as Imperio.

He turned it over in his hands.

"I would bind it immediately, Potter, if I were you.  It is a danger to you, 
pure."

He checked the measurement on the side of the vial and began to set up a cauldron 
next to mine.  "Why did you collect it in the first place?" he said, and there was 
an edge to his voice.

"Perhaps because I am a danger to you," I said, "and perhaps, boy, because I am 
Potions Master and blood resin is useful."

He weighed out yarrow and then paused and looked up at me.  "Orris as the binding 
agent?"

"Very good."  I tilted my head to one side.  "And perhaps, Potter, a little 
because I wish you to keep your Potions skills in good order."

He snorted again, and took the orris from the shelf.  "My Potions skills are 
pathetic at best.  Do you think we could use it to strengthen Investigo?"

I laid my hand on his shoulder, and he tensed under my hand.  "Yes, Mr. Potter," I 
said, my voice soft in his ear.  "Yes, I think we could."

He shivered, and I let him be while I cleaned my cauldron.

As I scrubbed at it, I noticed that my Mark had not made itself known when I 
touched him.  Curious.  It still did so when we activated Investigo, but just 
then--

Curious.

* * * 

I speared naked chickens and watched my apprentice out of the corner of my eye.  
He had edged away from me, towards Albion, and flinched every time I made a move 
in his direction.

Hah.  The boy could be taught.  Nearly a year of driving him to use his fear, to 
turn it into a weapon--and this was the first time I'd seen him use it 
consciously.  Perhaps the flinching was not entirely for show--he knew rather more 
about my innards than anyone ought, thanks to Investigo, and I *had* struck him--
but this would only give it an air of authenticity.

Cybindia leaned in from my other side and stole a chicken, which she toasted over 
a candle flame. I glared at her, and she smiled back, quite unperturbed. If she 
weren't such an insufferable brat, I might call her a friend.  "What did you do to 
Harry?" she asked, biting the head from her pilfered chicken.

"Nothing," I said.  "If the boy feels like being a fool, I'm not about to stop 
him."

Albion dropped his fork with a clatter and pushed back from the table, his hands 
shaking.  "Professor Albion?"  Potter sounded young and panicked, and his face was 
pale.  "Are you--"

"Poison," Albion rasped, and I crunched bones between my teeth to keep from 
smiling.  

"Nonsense," Cybindia said.  "The house-elves would never allow it.  Besides, who 
would poison you?"

Potter played it masterfully; his eyes slid to me for a second, and then back to 
Albion, and he stood.  "I'll take you to the infirmary, Professor," he said, and 
began to guide Albion to the door behind the staff table.  Albion twisted away 
from him, lunging at me, screaming that he was going to kill me with his own two 
hands.

Potter caught him and wrestled him back; for all that the boy was small and 
slight, he was strong.  "Sir," he said, his voice pitched low.  "Sir, not in front 
of the students.  Let me take you to the infirmary.  Please.  Sir."

Albion, with one final snarl in my direction, yielded.  Poppy followed them out, 
and I was left to endure the stares of my colleagues. 

"Severus," Minerva said, and I bared my teeth at her.   The hall was silent; none 
of the students were eating or moving.  Their eyes were fixed on the head table.  
Minerva leaned close to me and whispered, "Severus.  What did you do?"

"Nothing dangerous," I answered.  "He'll be fine in a few hours."

Minerva frowned.  "Not to Arthur.  To Harry.  He's terrified of you."

I smiled at her, thin-lipped.  "What I do with my apprentice is my business."

She narrowed her eyes at me, but knew better than to pursue the matter. Albus 
ignored the entire exchange.  I suspected that he knew--the infuriating man knows 
*everything*--but chose to remain silent.

After dinner, I headed for the Quidditch pitch.  Celebrating the success of 
Paratoxica with some high-speed one-man Quidditch sounded like an excellent idea, 
and I proceeded to implement it, leaving my outer robes on the ground.  My Nimbus 
2600 was only a year old, and was by far the best broom I had ever owned.  I have 
always been fond of the Nimbus line.

I released the Snitch, which immediately zipped towards the far end of the pitch.  
I took off after it, hooking one leg around my broom so that I could enter a roll 
at a moment's notice.

I had been in the air three-quarters of an hour when I finally managed to catch up 
to the Snitch.  I came in below it and used my hooked foot to spin my broom 
downwards and myself upwards, spinning into the air with arms outstretched.  The 
Snitch slammed into one palm, and I twisted into a dive and caught my broom one-
handed on the way down.  I swung myself back astride and landed at the edge of the 
pitch, just as Potter emerged from the shadows.  "Master," he said, "what *was* 
that?"  

I shook my hair back from my face and caught my breath before answering.  "An Ugu 
Roll," I said.  "Invented by Ugu the Shoemaker less than a century ago."

"I've never seen it before."

"Stunt flyers will do it.  You'll probably never see it in tournament play, 
though.  Too risky, and too difficult."  I flicked one finger against the Snitch, 
remembering.  "It was, perhaps, the only thing I could do on a broomstick that 
your father could not.  He was the better Seeker, but I could perform an Ugu 
Roll."

"You were a Seeker?"

I snorted.  "Until I grew too tall, yes.  After that, I played Keeper."

He crossed his arms and looked up at me.  "The Headmaster once told me you were 
jealous of my father's prowess at Quidditch."

I nodded.  "True enough. I beat him only once as Seeker, out of all the times we 
played.  That is a bitter pill to swallow, for a young boy.  Now.  What can you 
tell me about Albion?" 

"Later," he said, taking the Snitch from me and tossing it into the air.  "Accio 
broom!"  His Firebolt smacked into his outstretched hand.  "Care to play, Master?"

I took to the sky before the sounds had even died on the air, Potter close on my 
heels.

He would have won the game of Seek, but he played clean, and I did not.  I took a 
rather vindictive pleasure, actually, in colliding with him hard enough to send 
him spinning off the pitch while I took the Snitch.

Being rather too tall and heavy to be a Seeker in actual tournament play has its 
advantages on occasion.

Still, Potter was in a good humour when I landed next to him.  "You cheater," he 
said, without heat, and I bowed to him with all the grace I could muster after 
nearly two hours of flying.  I understood his good mood; flying always did the 
same thing to me. 

"Albion?" I said.

"God, you're single-minded."  He fell in beside me as we walked back towards the 
castle.  "Albion," he began, "is a hero."

I snorted.

"I'm serious.  He thinks--he thinks I had too much put on me at a young age, and 
he wants to protect me.  From you, from anyone who pressures me or threatens me.  
He thinks I've had no chance to be a child."

I studied him.  "He is correct that you have had much asked of you."

Potter shrugged.  "It wasn't anything I couldn't handle.  Even--even when Cedric 
died."  

"Cedric Diggory was only the first," I said.

"Yes," he said, and his shoulder knocked against my arm.  "He was murdered in 
front of me for no reason whatsoever.  A *spare*, Voldemort said."  His voice 
softened and lowered; I could hear hate seething in its depths.  "He wasn't a 
spare *anything*.  He was honest and decent and he was the first person I ever 
really saw die."  He took a deep breath.  "Even now, the moment he died is the 
worst moment of my life.  Worse than my parents dying--I don't remember that, not 
really."  He shook himself.  "Anyway.  That's Albion's deal.  He wants to protect 
me."

I walked beside him in silence for a moment, and then said, "I shouldn't let him, 
if I were you."

"I wasn't planning on it, Master.  I'd rather protect myself."

"Good."

"I knew you'd agree."
 
* * *

Final exams were upon us, and the students--those not exhausted from revising--
were twice as obstreperous as usual.  Potter, as the most junior member of the 
teaching staff, had been tasked with controlling them in the hallways.  He entered 
our rooms late one evening and flung himself into his desk chair, jarring my elbow 
as he did.  I shoved him away, and he propped his chin on his hand and asked, "Why 
do those Sindar brats hate me so much?"  

I set down my quill. The sixth- and seventh-year Slytherins caused little trouble 
for Potter; I suspected that they feared him.  The younger students were, for the 
most part, also fearful.

The first-year Sindar cousins, however, were taking advantage of end-of-term 
jitters by making Potter's life rather more hellish than strictly necessary.  
"What have they done now?"  Two days ago, I'd caught them hexing chairs in the 
classroom where Potter tutored for Charms and Defence, and taken five points from 
each of them for being so careless as to let me find them.

"What *haven't* they done?  They've tried just about every minor curse in the 
book.  Lucky I'm good at dodging and not afraid to take points from my own House."

I raised my eyebrows, unsure if he was aware of what he'd said.  He did not appear 
to have noticed it.  "Hm," I answered.  "Curse them back, why don't you?  And with 
something nasty."

"I'm on the *staff*," he said.  "As you like to point out if I so much as glance 
at Ginny."

"Oh, come off it, Potter.  I curse students all the time.  Particularly when 
chasing young lovers out of bushes."  I have several extremely startling and 
rather painful curses that I use for that.  "Ask your friend Weasley about it.  
For that matter, ask Miss Granger."

He looked faintly horrified, and I went back to writing.

"What I can't understand," he said, after a moment, "is why they hate me so much.  
I haven't done anything to them."

I sighed and put the quill down again.  The boy was in a talkative mood; on nights 
like these, I was fortunate to sneak ten minutes' work in edgewise.  "I suppose 
you wouldn't know."  He'd grown up with Muggles; they wouldn't've known to tell 
him.  His father would have, of course, but never had the chance. I rubbed the 
bridge of my nose.

"Know what?"

"The Sindar line split off from the Potter line about two centuries back, and 
declared a feud.  It's never been reconciled; the family split nearly down the 
middle.  The Potter half kept the name and the land; the others renamed themselves 
and moved away."

"So," he said, frowning, "they hate me because of something someone did two 
hundred years ago?"

I shook my head and went to the cabinet to fetch the Name Scroll.  "They hate you 
because you're a Potter.  Here."  I handed him the scroll, and he unrolled it 
carefully.  "You'll have to trace your father's line," I said.  "You aren't on it; 
you're halfblooded."

He narrowed his eyes at me.

"I didn't enchant the damn thing, Potter.  It's one of Salazar Slytherin's little 
toys."  I sat down next to him and touched my finger to the parchment.  "James 
Potter," I said, and his name appeared.  I ran my finger up the paternal line, 
watching the names flash by, until I came to a label: The Sundering.

And there was the Sindar line, where none had been before, and the Potter line was 
diminished.

Potter brushed my hand out of the way and ran back down the pathways to his 
father, and then up the maternal line.  Ah.  This should be interesting.

"Sapphira Snape?"

"Your grandmother."

He rested his finger on her name for a moment, and let the parchment re-roll.  
"Just tell me."

I did not pretend not to understand him.  "Sapphira, your grandmother, was my 
father's first cousin."

"So we're related."

"Yes."

"And no one ever told me."

I took the scroll from him.  "Potter, your father was a *pureblood*.  My position 
on the actual purity of the blood aside, the pureblood community is a small one.  
You're related, through your father, to every pureblooded wizard in Britain."

He made a face.  "Even Draco?"

I laughed.  "Even Draco.  Narcissa Malfoy was your father's third cousin, I 
believe, through Isolde Dumbledore.  Although the Potters haven't crossed with the 
Malfoy line directly in a few hundred years."  I returned the scroll to its place 
on my shelf, and shrugged. 

Potter fastened onto something I had said like a dog with a bone.  "Purity of 
blood.  I read your book."

"I know."  He'd read it at least twice, but had never before offered to discuss 
it.

"You said purebloods actually interbred with non-humans."

"Mm.  Yes.  Outside genetic material comes in through the non-humans or partial 
humans; not through Muggle-born or part-blood wizards."  I steepled my fingers and 
studied him over them.  "They were magic, Potter.  Goblins and vampires and veela 
and giants--all of them, magic.  The purest of blood, some said.  Others, of 
course, denied that any such mixing existed."  I eyed him lazily.  "Professor 
Flitwick is one-quarter goblin," I remarked.  "And Hagrid--his line is as 
pureblooded as they come, for all his mother's a giant."

He flashed me a grin.  "And Fleur Delacour was part veela.  I expect you're part 
vampire." 

I smirked. "Well tried, Apprentice Potter.  I shan't deny that I'm not fully 
human--but then, neither are you.  Your line has a fair amount of vampire crosses, 
actually; it's where you get those pretty green eyes."

He flushed, but protested, "I got my eyes from my mother."

"So you did," I said, and I turned on my heel and went to visit Minerva. Hah.  Let 
him chew on *that* for a few days; it would keep him busy.

* * *

We had collected and bound with yarrow enough blood resin to make an attempt at 
strengthening Investigo; Voldemort continued to evade the Aurors, and Jessica 
Parkinson reported that Draco Malfoy had been in touch with her sister twice 
weekly until three weeks ago, when all communication ceased.  My Muggle contact, 
Jack Mayhew, had also come up empty.

I painted the resin onto my apprentice with careful fingers.  For the intensifier 
to work, it must be done properly: over the eyes, into the hollow of the throat, a 
handprint over the heart. Over the curse scar on his forehead, on the palms of 
both hands--and his fingers closed on mine, his eyes snapping open. "Reperio!"

The spell ripped through me like a storm, and the world shuddered and fell apart.

When it reformed, we were not in our rooms. My hands burned from the resin; my 
Mark set my left arm on fire.  I knew this, and yet I was not there, not in my 
chambers with Potter's hands in mine, not in my body. "Where are we?" Potter said, 
and I glanced out of the dingy window.  It looked out onto the edge of a sign I 
would know anywhere. 

Knockturn Alley, in the room above The Hanged Manticore.  I had lived here once, 
shortly after my family died.

Something moved behind me, and I spun around.

Voldemort.

His long snake's tongue flicked out, and he swung his head to and fro blindly.  
"Snape," he said.  "I can smell you.  Where are you?"  He spun around, searching 
for me, tasting the air.  "Traitor.  You cannot hide."

A heartbeat pounded against my ears, off to the left--Voldemort swung towards it, 
and Draco Malfoy sat in the corner of the room, wrists and ankles tied.  "Where is 
he?" Voldemort said.  "Where is Snape?"

Draco raised his head from his knees.  An ugly bruise marred one cheek, and his 
lower lip was split.  "Hogwarts," he said.  "With Potter."  His mouth moved again, 
but no sound emerged. 

"Back," I hissed, "Back, Potter, stop the spell--"

And we were standing in our chambers. The blood resin had burnt off, leaving 
blisters on his skin and mine; there was also a long raw burn running the entire 
length of my left arm.  Potter collapsed against me, and I held him with one arm 
while I threw Floo powder into the fireplace. "Infirmary." 

I left Potter in Poppy's capable hands and went to Albus.  He was sitting with 
Albion and Minerva, and I knew what a sight I was--burnt and stained and wild.  
"Draco," I said, "prisoner.  Of Voldemort.  At The Hanged Manticore."

Minerva and Albion were gone almost as soon as I got the words out; Albus's arms 
closed around me.  "Infirmary," I said, into his beard.  "Harry's hurt.  Blood 
resin--"

"Ssh," he said, and then the world went black.