The Serpent and the Sorceress - Book 1: Shadows Rising

Chapter 5

Snape was in the dungeon late after the second day of extremely disappointing classes. Each year he reserved some hope that somewhere talent would emerge, but the best he'd seen was little above complete incompetence. Barely a handful of even his own Slytherins could be considered tolerably proficient, and even that just meant that their own blunders were not as grave as the rest.

With a snort, he banished another spill that students had failed to clean up after themselves (he'd find out who left it and give them double - no, triple detention), and then turned back to the simmering potion near his desk. It was a deep gray, and bubbled slightly above an enchanted flame. It would nearly be done, and thankfully not a moment too soon. Suddenly all concentration on the task in front of him, Snape carefully cut and weighed his freshest stock of lacewings, before tipping them into the potion quickly so that the juices wouldn't run and the ingredients wouldn't lose potency.

He'd spent all summer attempting alternatives to the standardized Polyjuice Potion; it had always seemed positively ludicrous that the effects would only last one solid hour. After much, often painful, experimentation, Snape had managed to create an alternate that lasted for five hours, a great triumph in his opinion. The ingredients, however, were hard to come by, and those for the particular variation he was brewing could be considered, quite simply, illegal. Perhaps that was why the public version of the Polyjuice Potion had been allowed to stagnate without revision.

From this triumph he believed it was possible (in theory) that the effect could last for days, even months. When he retired, and if he still had the drive and commitment to pursue it, Snape decided that he would attempt to brew a variation that would last a full week, at the very least.

He stirred the Potion twice clockwise and four times counter clockwise, then quickly removed the rod and threw it into the disposal.

Satisfied, Snape turned away from the potion and charmed the heat down lower. It would be done in a day, ready to be bottled for use - which could be at any time. He'd received a letter early that morning, brought by a very disgruntled Charon, his raven, that had said only:

Loyalty will be rewarded, failure to follow through will be punished. If you speak truth, you will survive and be welcomed. Stand by.

There had been no name, no signature, but none was necessary. The scrawl was the same that had appeared on every letter he'd been sent by Voldemort.

"Severus...if you are prepared...you know what I must ask you to do."

Those words had been Dumbledore's, spoken last June, but were only an echo now, fading as they repeated over and over, until they became incoherent chatter, ever present at the back of his mind. Deep into the night of the Triwizard Tournament finals, Snape had penned his letter to Voldemort, carefully crafted so that it would seem he was still, in fact, loyal to the Dark Lord. That night had unveiled the perfect opportunity for their plan to begin.

In the letter, the first step towards regaining access to the Death Eaters, Snape had claimed that he could not Apparate because Dumbledore had kept a close eye on him the entire year, and it would have been suspicious, particularly because Karkaroff had run away from Hogwarts - it would have blown his entire cover, had he gone. He'd related Crouch's treachery; how he'd told the entire plan to save his pathetic life before the Dementor performed the Kiss anyway (Snape had conveniently left out the part of the Veritaserum initiating the confession). He had also indicated that he had plans for aiding in the future, including a stand in for himself, one he could use when he was summoned so that he might leave the school undetected. That was the reason behind why the Polyjuice Potion had to be on time. He'd closed with hinting at Dumbledore's re-establishment of an underground Order, the very same that had been in operation during Voldemort's first attempt to seize power - and subtly suggested that it might be possible for him to gain access.

He'd hoped Voldemort's greed would blind him from seeing any gaping holes in the proposition, and that his ambition would stay his hand from killing before putting Snape to use. The first few months would be crucial, and that was if Voldemort was trusting enough to take him back. Snape had sent the letter long before daybreak, knowing his response would have to be immediate, to Lucius Malfoy, who had merely responded with "received". There had been a time when he and Lucius had been a formidable team, but the other man's thirst for blood and pain and the Dark Lord's favor cut him off from the rest of the initiates. He'd quickly surpassed those who'd followed Voldemort longest, and had sat in the inner circle for three years before Snape had been moved into it as well.

From that night in June, the only word he'd gotten that his letter was even being considered was the note and the Mark turning sickly green. But he found it promising. The ability to lie to Voldemort was yet another thing he considered an accomplishment, Occlumency was indeed a very difficult talent to pursue. But, when looked at objectively, his accomplishments were sparse and not of much use for anything more than furthering himself. Perhaps that would all change.

With a final look around him, Snape extinguished the lights and left the dungeon and the Potion simmering silently in the darkness. He climbed several flights of stairs before he turned right and followed a long corridor that led to what appeared to be a dead end with a diamond patterned tapestry hanging from the floor to the ceiling. With his wand he jabbed a diamond slightly left of center, and the entire thing evaporated, revealing a stone door. He stepped through, and the wall-hanging re-spun itself behind him.

The tapestry concealed his chamber, the only place in the school aside from the Potions class that he felt was his own. Here especially he would not be disturbed. The furnishings were not elaborate, but the theme consisted of a lustrous mahogany, from the desk pushed against the far wall, the bookshelves, and the frame of the bed, to the mantle of the fireplace, centered within the innermost wall. The actual walls themselves were paneled, painted a crimson so deep that in the lantern light it could easily be mistaken for black, and were trimmed by a base of mahogany that skirted the perimeter of the room.

Not willing to sleep, even though the hour was past two, Snape settled into his black armchair and picked up the book he'd left open beside it. Secretly, he was not eager to return to his dreams, which had become gorier since school had resumed. Death did not faze him, but in the dreams he brought death, with a power mightier than any Muggles and Wizards had ever seen. Driven by an unseen force he'd unleashed this power, and though many had died, it seemed, in his dreams, only that justice had been served. There was no reason for remorse.

Perhaps Occlumency is not as effective as it once was.

That was something he'd feared since he'd heard of the reincarnation. The present balance of power had been drastically changed from the war that had ended fourteen years ago. Voldemort surely still craved power, domination and a presence in name alone that caused people to tremble. But now, after a summer that had passed slowly, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting, Voldemort hadn't rallied his forces in the open. No, he was wiser now, stronger too, if the reincarnation spell had been performed correctly; he would choose stealth and would not gamble unless the dice were weighted in his favor.

But would he try to infect dreams? Could he? Legilimency allowed Voldemort access into the minds of the unsuspecting, and who was more so than a dreamer? Snape held the book open, staring through the pages. The choice of a snake as a messenger in particular...the constant warnings...the death...it appeared suspiciously like there could be some pattern drawn, and if conclusions were to be made, it could easily be said Voldemort was acting as a puppeteer, and able to bend wills by manipulating the subconscious.

Shifting uncomfortably in the seat, he found that there was something poking into his side. Irritated, Snape reached into his pocket and picked out a vial full of amber liquid - the very same he'd used two days earlier to melt the side of the Express. Unconsciously he'd attempted not to think of what had happened, but found he had no choice at the moment - he'd leave dream analysis for the fools in Divination, Trelawney would have a field day with it.

That woman, Arienne Jacobs, unsettled him far more than she should be able to, and thankfully than she was aware of.

There was something about her he couldn't quite put his finger on, but along with that came a deep, unquenchable anger. He still didn't fully believe her innocence in the day's events, but something else was speaking to him as well. It wasn't a voice, really, rather a feeling that seemed as old as time itself, his thoughts and not his thoughts at the same moment. A part of him, somehow, was drawn to her, and another part wanted nothing more than to see her scream for mercy.

And yet I've only just met this woman. Who is she?

He'd resolved to keep an eye on her, but could not sort out the emotions he felt. Somehow, a fury that had nestled itself inside him was trying to break free, and grew stronger each time their paths crossed. It seemed connected to his dreams, somehow, if only vaguely. Did she and Voldemort have some sort of connection? What sickened him most about the situation, however, was realizing that, awake, he would enjoy her pain - guilty or not.

A sharp knock on his chamber door brought Snape from his reverie. Shaking his head he called out his permission to enter, knowing only two people would find his door and knock at that hour of the night - well, perhaps three if Remus Lupin was not just mere annoyance - Snape would speak to Dumbledore about that at some point.

"You're late," he remarked, setting the book down. He'd read it later.

The woman who'd entered gave him a wry smile. "You're not the only one I have to baby-sit," she replied, closing the door behind her.

~~***~~

Arienne watched the clock with annoyance as the minute hand slid lazily to the twelve. Lunch would be ending shortly and her last class of the week would begin to filter in. It was a gray afternoon, and the only sound that penetrated the dense silence of the room was the drumming of the rain on the high, arching windows. Stifling a sigh, Arienne turned from the clock and looked at the woman sitting by her desk. Arabella Figg had, only rarely, left her side since their meeting, and now was no different as she sipped her tea, watching Arienne through appraising eyes, a thoughtful frown on her lips.

She's worried.

Arienne knew it for truth, even though it had only been a week since she'd met the woman. It was logic that Arabella held highly in regard, and logic had told her that today's class would tell whether the events on the Hogwarts Express could be justified. Arienne, however, was much more skeptical of the woman's logic, as she'd been through the story nearly twenty times already, and felt it had been tweaked to perfection. Still, the woman seemed convinced that this class would prove to be the most trying, and insisted on being present in the classroom.

There was, however, one thing that had Arienne apprehensive, as much as she tried to deny it. She certainly had a plausible excuse for not carrying a wand, and could even suggest that what appeared to have been healing was, in actuality, a Chimera - similar to a psychological band aid, if that was what the caster wished it to be used for. She could not, however, deny to Harry Potter's face that she'd done nothing physically to him, no matter how much Poppy Pomfrey had fretted over him. The younger ones had been too frightened to remember specifics, or too new to the world of Magic to doubt her, but Harry had been the oldest, and both the girl and the other boy he'd been with had seen her heal him. It took every effort not ball her hands into fists as she waited, knowing that this class, would indeed, be a challenge.

But how would Arabella know that? What had Dumbledore told her?

And if they had indeed, met, why couldn't Dumbledore find the time to speak with Arienne?

She was thankful for the older woman's company, but Arienne had been even more grateful that Arabella had never pressed her for the details of what had happened - perhaps because she'd already been filled in. Apparently the staff had been told some story or another, but a great deal of them still walked on eggshells when they were around Arienne. Polite. Too polite.

"Oh, the whole lot of them are a bunch of baboons if I've ever seen them," Arabella had said crossly when Arienne had related her observations. Her tone had indicated clearly her belief that "baboons" was the most scandalizing thing to call another person.

The memory made Arienne smile now, and out of the corner of her eye she noticed Arabella lift an eyebrow.

About to explain, Arienne was cut off by the bell that signaled the start of afternoon classes. Arabella waved it away dismissively, and they waited for the students to enter, the younger of the women feeling a wavering confidence, in spite of Harry, while the older was clearly apprehensive.

Schooling her face to impassiveness, Arienne watched as students immediately began to file in, pausing warily in the doorframe before taking a seat. She couldn't blame them. She did, however, doubt that they would stay wary once she demonstrated her 'excuses' to them. It had gone over well with each other year, even earning awed gasps and delighted grins from the older years that she promised she'd teach the trick to. The Object Concealment charm was slightly complex but an effective piece to work up to.

Closing an open book in front of her, Arienne turned her eyes to the students coming in.

Beside her, it seemed that Arabella had become even stiffer than she'd been before, her eyes on the group walking through the doorway. Arienne's own eyes followed the three Gryffindors as they took a seat to the side, heads together as they whispered. The girl had given her a cold look before sitting down, the red head had gulped when he met her eyes, and Harry had kept his own eyes downcast, and after he'd sat appeared to be greatly interested by the index of his textbook.

Time will tell, a voice inside her head whispered. Arienne found no comfort there, and turned to catch a glimpse of the other woman.

Arabella, too, it seemed, observed their reactions, but when she met Arienne's eyes, her expression was unreadable.

"Welcome, fifth years," Arienne began when the final seats were filled, pleased that the class immediately fell into silence. She would just continue as planned, and hope for the best. Stories of her class and 'excuses' must have spread, so if anyone had questioned it, they would have done so already. With a flick of her hand, the heavy door swung shut with a groan. She'd pulled the same trick with each class, and the reactions from the fifth years, Gryffindors and Slytherins, were no exception. The few closest to the door jumped, and soon the room was full of buzzing whispers.

"If I may have your attention?"

Immediately she was met with wide-eyed silence. Good. "Res Appareo," Arienne intoned, loud enough so that everyone in the room could hear her. Instantly the wand in her hand became visible, inciting further whispering to break out.

"This behavior I expect from first years, not fifth," Arienne said calmly, pocketing her wand with a pat of satisfaction. "If I cannot even get through one sentence without interruption, this class will be very difficult - not only for me." She let the last of her sentence hang in silence for a moment before continuing. "As some of you may or may not know, I worked with the Ministry before becoming a teacher here. I was not an Auror, but worked within the same branch, quelling Dark activity. Along the way I learned some very interesting charms, and what you've just witnessed was one of them." She paused, surveying the classroom. Thankfully, they were hanging on to her every word, though some faces had fallen in disappointment when she'd revealed that she had not been an Auror. If they only knew.

"The Object Concealment charm is widely used even outside of the Ministry, and provides a tactical advantage to the caster, if that is indeed the way in which it is used. If my opponent does not see my wand, he or she may believe that I am not armed, and delay attack. Many witches and wizards have let their guard down because of this." Several students nodded in agreement and waited for her to continue.

"Now, I understand that there has been some...concern about what happened on the Hogwarts Express earlier on this week." There was a sound of shifting in seats, and the atmosphere changed instantly from curiosity to unease. "Two complex spells allowed me to achieve the results I did. As you now all know, the Object Concealment charm was one of them. I must ask you to forgive me for not giving advance warning, but it's habit for me to carry my wand around invisible. The second was a Chimera - does anyone know what that is?"

Arienne was prepared to wait, but almost immediately a hand shot up - the girl sitting beside Harry. Hermione. Arienne nodded to her.

"A Chimera is an illusion, though very few are able to cast one that lasts more than a minute. While it does not actually bend reality, to the people in the area it is being cast, and the person it is cast on, it affects their perception in such a way that they believe they see changes or are being changed."

Arching an eyebrow at several of the Slytherins who snickered, Arienne smiled at the girl, but was met with a dark look. "Exactly right, Miss..."

"Hermione Granger."

"Miss Granger. 20 points to Gryffindor, you're the only student who's known that, out of all the classes." Hermione's cool expression didn't change, but a flicker of satisfaction glimmered in her eyes. Arienne knew at once that this girl would be where the difficulty would lie, but after a brief pause, she continued.

"Indeed, Miss Granger is right, it is a complex spell, but one that I had to learn as well. Shall we have," Arienne darted a quick look at the attendance, "Mr. Malfoy, come to the front so it can be demonstrated?" Malfoy. Could it be...?

A tall, blonde boy with cold silvery eyes stood up from his desk and made his way slowly to the front of the class, an unpleasant twist to his lips. Yes, that would have to be Lucius Malfoy's son. She knew Draco's father only from the pictures she'd seen and the stories she'd heard - none that had been good - and the boy was clearly the 15-year-old version of the man. Something else wriggled at the back of her mind, something that paired Lucius with...Snape. Odd.

Turning her attention back to the class, she saw the Slytherins were nodding encouragingly, but the Gryffindors - all of them - had open contempt on their faces. Draco Malfoy stopped beside Arienne, a smirk on his face as he crossed his arms.

"So, what are you going to turn me into?" he asked, his drawling voice immediately grating on her nerves. Perhaps yet another difficulty, though one she believed would be easier to handle.

"Maybe a ferret if you don't watch out, Malfoy!" the red head called from beside Harry. Ron.

Arienne caught sight of Draco Malfoy's face, contorted with rage, his mouth half open as if to send back a retort or a jinx, and smiled inwardly. Yes, she would be able to deal with him easily, but as much as she would have liked to let the comment hang, she could not. Not exactly. "10 points from Gryffindor Mr. -"

"Weasley," Ron mumbled.

"Let Mr. Weasley's outburst be an example to you all that we are in a classroom. However badly you would like Mr. Malfoy as a pet," she arched an eyebrow, "your requests will have to be made to him outside of my class."

Ron's face brightened when he caught on to her own play on the joke, and with a small smile, Arienne turned to face a sneering Draco.

"Actually, I won't be turning you into anything. A Chimera stretches reality. It exaggerates some features and minimizes others. For example, your hair could be longer, and black," she paused when an image of Professor Snape's face jumped into her mind, quite unwelcome. She'd avoided him since being introduced in the hospital wing, but to go around without seeing him at all was impossible. He and his strangely suspicious glare had proven to be inescapable. What had Dumbledore told them? Trying not to frown as she groaned inwardly, Arienne continued, "or your eyes could be larger, and, say, purple. Or..." she pulled out her wand and smiled sweetly at his apparent disbelief, "vaframentum". Shocked gasps resounded through the room, and Draco's own eyes grew likely as wide as they could go as he watched himself grow.

He quickly bypassed seven feet, then eight feet, his width expanding at the same rate so that his head sat on what appeared to be a perfect sphere, completely armless and legless. But just as he was nearing ten feet, the door of the classroom swung open, and Severus Snape strode in. Arienne's concentration faltered, and instantly Draco was as tall as he'd been before, though very much chastened. Turning to face the man who'd haunted her nightmares since her encounter with him on the Express, she quickly suppressed her surprise and allowed a subtle trace of irritation to accentuate her words. He was much less intimidating with his mouth half open in shock - even if only for a split second before regaining complete composure.

"Now, with thanks to Professor Snape, you can see why the Chimera only lasts for short amounts of time. The spell is linked to not only the caster's ability but to their concentration. Take your seat, Mr. Malfoy."

Arienne didn't turn back to the boy, but rather folded her arms in front of her. "May I ask the reason for this intrusion on my class, Professor?"

Snape had not moved from the frame of the door. "I was informed that Arabella Figg would be here," he said silkily, his upper lip curling into a sneer.

Out of the corner of her eye, Arienne saw Harry's eyebrows rise in shock, but she quickly turned her attention back to Snape.

She was given no time to answer him, however, as Snape had already turned to direct a glare behind her and snapped, "in your own time, of course." Turning slightly so that she could see Arabella's reaction to the man's claim, Arienne struggled with the desire to snort in disbelief. However, she was unpleasantly surprised when the other woman came into her viewing range. Arabella, whom she'd come to respect for her fiery temper and complete inability to tolerate any sort of superiority exercised over her (Arienne had had more than enough examples in the past week to choose from to support her beliefs), was standing passively and moving to follow Snape, who'd already turned on his heel and marched out of the room, clearly expecting the woman to follow. Silently, Arienne watched her go, swallowing her disgust for the man, and her shock that Arabella would comply, with him, of all people!

"Well," Arienne said, turning to her students. The Slytherins were smug, the Gryffindors appraising. Apparently the rivalry between the houses existed normally with the teachers too. With a flick, her wand was out of the pocket of her robes and the door slammed slightly harder behind the retreating Professor then she'd intended. Arienne finished her introduction with a promise of attempting to teach the Object Concealment charm before the year was through, and neutrality settled itself among the students. Glancing at the clock, Arienne let them out five minutes early without homework, but promised much harder classes ahead, particularly in preparation for the OWLS. She didn't follow them out of the room, but sat at her desk instead, reading and planning, all the while oblivious to the growing shadows as night settled over Hogwarts.

~~***~~

Hours later, Arienne looked up at the clock and blinked when she read the time to be nine. It was then she became aware of her stomach rumbling its protestations, and set down her quill beside the enormous volume she'd been pouring over. The book, Standard Regulations and Rules for Defense Against the Dark Arts: OWLs Series, was several thousand pages thick, and Arienne had to be through it within the next month or so. With an irritated sigh that she was only half way through after a month of reading, (it just got so onerous during some very insignificant sections), Arienne stood, recognizing the book's victory over her that night, and decided to go to the staff room. There was always tea and biscuits available, and that would at least curb her hunger until she found something more substantial.

Some minutes later, Arienne found the staff room surprisingly vacant, except for Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, a scraggly, pathetic looking creature, that hissed at her before darting out the open door. Shaking her head, Arienne settled into a comfortably plushy, forest green armchair by the fire and poured herself a cup of tea from the pot on the small table beside her. She held it between her hands for a moment, enjoying the warmth, before taking a sip and sighing contentedly when she tasted the chamomile. Somehow, the taste had always reminded her of home.

Home. It had been an arbitrary word for Arienne, in terms of physical location, but it had always managed to be where her Aunt Ignacia had resided. The woman had taken her in after Arienne's parents had been murdered during a period referred to as the Rise of the Dark, or Rise of the Shadows, even despite the fact that it compromised her job considerably. Ignacia Jacobs, Arienne's father's sister, had been an Unspeakable, working in the Department of Mysteries. She'd never married, as she'd been an ambitious woman who feared that familial ties would only hold her back in her pursuits. She had, however, been in love with a Muggle journalist at one time, and was devastated when he'd died in a car accident while visiting his parents in the country one winter. That had seemed to settle the issue of family once and for all. Surprisingly, it had been only a little after the accident that she'd accepted Arienne into her home, and vowed that the two of them together would leave their problems, and England, behind them.

They'd moved around a lot after that, depending on Ignacia's assignments and where the Ministry placed her. In the first months, they never stayed in one place long enough to look for a permanent dwelling, but they settled in Egypt after a year, staying long enough so that Arienne could complete her schooling and graduate from a proper wizarding school that provided extensive knowledge of ancient magic, allowing her to qualify as a Watcher with the Ministry.

It was on that particular assignment, the one that had stationed them in Egypt for those seven years, that Ignacia was so gravely injured that her mentality reverted to that of a five-year-old, while her body had aged hundreds. The staff at St. Mungo's had attended to her carefully, but she continued to waste away, mind growing younger, body, even older.

It hadn't been until her second year of working as a Watcher (a job Arienne had pursued not to avenge her parents, but because she'd desperately wanted to find a cure for her ailing Aunt who'd cared for her so unconditionally) that she learned how her Aunt had developed the sickness.

While in Egypt, Ignacia had been searching pyramids for artifacts, and had stumbled across one particular tomb that had not been found by Muggles or documented by the wizarding world. While there, she'd disturbed one of the items, and the curse had descended upon her, creating her present state.

After researching for many months following the discovery, Arienne was able to learn that it had been a gift to an impostor Pharaoh, a plate-like object that apparently could have been used to summon mythical monsters to serve at the summoner's command. It had been cursed, though, with the intent that the impostor's greed would lead him to use the plate, and in doing so trigger the curse so that justice might be achieved. It had not, however, worked that way, and the curse had descended onto Ignacia instead, after lying dormant for several thousand years.

The Ministry had refused to allow anyone access to the tomb after the incident, and as hard as Arienne had appealed the decision, stating that a further examination of the artifact might result in her Aunt's cure, she'd been met with stone-wall resistance and infuriatingly sympathetic looks from the Council. She'd been surprised that none had tried to pat her head or offer her a lolly for all the respect and seriousness they took her with.

Sipping from the near empty cup, Arienne looked through the flames, remembering her last visit with her Aunt before leaving for Hogwarts. The once formidable Ignacia Jacobs had been reduced to wailing incoherently like a babe, while flailing arms that looked like skin had been pulled directly over bone. She'd been strapped down by then, a danger to herself, and Arienne could not rid herself of the memory. One image in particular remained with her, and each time she closed her eyes, Arienne could see the skeletal face with sunken eyes staring up at her with a mixture of wonderment and trust, while she had stroked what was remaining of her hair and coaxed her Aunt to sleep.

Arienne involuntarily tensed at the memory, and started when the cup she'd been holding shattered in her grip. Pieces flew in various directions, and a painful stinging spread across her hand. It was the curse from the door that made Arienne swivel around in the chair.

Her eyes instantly met with those of Severus Snape, who took a step towards her, opening his mouth as if to speak, and then, realizing what he'd been about to do, closed it furiously and swept out of the room.

Arienne watched him leave until the door slammed shut behind him. Merlin curse the insufferable man! Narrowing her eyes at the place he'd occupied not seconds before, Arienne turned back to the mess, and muttered a Banishing charm. She didn't leave immediately, however, and sunk back into the chair, holding her hand up to the light of the fire. Deep crimson had already begun to make rivers across her palm, and Arienne, feeling an odd mix of apprehension, disgust, fear, denial and intrigue prodded the cut gently with her other hand. Closing her eyes, she called up the fire, but after a few moments felt only emptiness inside. With more determination, she willed the cut to be healed, but again, while reaching inside herself for that flame, felt as if she was groping blindly through air. There was nothing. And then...

"My Aunt...I can help her...I can heal her!"

"Can someone get the girl out of here, please?"

"One more try, please, it will work this time...I swear. I can do it."

Gentle hands firmly ushered her out of the door, but she could barely feel them. A numbness had descended upon her, and all she was aware of was the vision of her Aunt's frail body lying on the bed.

"Come on, dear, we're going to get you something warm to drink. Do you like tea?"

"She needs me...please, let me go back. I can help her. I just need another chance."

"There's nothing you can do, dear, but be strong for her. Don't worry, she's in good hands. The doctors will take good care of her."

Her pitch grew higher, almost hysterical. "The doctors can't do anything! They've tried! She's dying!"

And then, as treacherous tears began to leak from her eyes, "This is my fault."

"Shh, shh, it's not your fault. You couldn't do anything..."

She wrenched herself away from the grasp, coldness clutching her heart in place of where the fire should have been. "Stop saying that! I could have! More than any of them!" It was nearly a scream, her hands clenched at her sides. Hands.

Lifting them to her eyes, they appeared as normal, but she hated it now. Not her hands, no, but the power she'd thought she'd had. As a child it had come to her, sporadic, random, but always when she was in dire need. The girl who'd been hit by a car had miraculously survived with only a few scratches. The bird that'd flown into her window had lain in her hands only seconds before it flew away. The boy who'd saved her when Death Eaters had killed her parents...

It had always been there, a comfort, and she knew that if she faced anything before death itself, it could be healed. And now, this gift, this confidence, this fleeting reassurance, had betrayed her beyond any level she'd ever known.

Nurses and doctors rushed by her in a blur. At eighteen, standing in the hallway of St. Mungo's, Arienne had learned the hardest lesson she'd ever known. Dependence was misplaced unless it was on yourself, your will and mind alone - and even then, you could never really be sure. Nothing was certain, nothing was ever permanent, and everything could change between one second and the next. There would always be hurt, pain and suffering, and no fantastical powers could heal that.

And she accepted it, vowing never to try to use whatever power she'd thought she possessed, because nothing hurt worse than shattered hope. So it remained locked inside, tightly reined, and forgotten, except for the resolve it had founded. She did not give up on believing that upon another path lay her Aunt's cure; she would find it, no matter what it took.

But never again would she be betrayed like that.

Shuddering, and forcing herself to breathe deeply, Arienne opened her eyes and reached for a napkin to blot away the caking blood. That had been when it ended, and now, all the resistance she had built up had been torn down, because of the events on the Express.

Does that mean I may have a chance at healing my Aunt now? She forced the thought away angrily and focused on the throbbing of her hand instead. The answer to her Aunt's illness lay out there yet, and she would find it, and accept that it would not ever lie within herself.

Rubbing her temples, she forced her mind back to the present. There was still the issue of Severus Snape that she had to puzzle out; reminiscing would have to wait. She knew something about him, she was certain of it now. They'd never met, but she'd heard of him, from somewhere...but where, damn it? What connection am I missing? She worked it out in her mind, all the facts, all the observations, and tried to come up with a plausible conclusion, her Aunt nearly, but never fully forgotten. Looking through the flames again, Arienne sat up when the pieces finally fell into place.

Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape. As a Watcher, it had been her duty to, at the very least, know the names of those pardoned because they'd been reconciled with the Ministry - just in case. If she closed her eyes, she could conjure up an image of the book, to the very page, faded with age and use that her answer lay on. Number 752, Lucius Malfoy, and below him...in a whisper, she recited it to the empty room:

"Number 753, Severus Snape, Death Eater."