Chapter 1: The Great Muggleborn Shopping Trip of 1993
Notes:
This chapter is set during, and diverges from, Chapter 6 of Chained Servant. There is also one small change made to the events of Chapter 4. All other events up to the start of this story are the same as in Leigha's fics.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As he stepped out of the Floo of the Leaky Cauldron and caught sight of her, Mary Elizabeth Potter’s Head of House and favorite professor, Severus Snape, froze in his tracks, a look on his face as though someone had slapped him.
Well, his face didn’t change all that much, really, but Mary had learned to read the subtleties in his expressions by now, and she couldn’t remember many other occasions when she’d seen him show this much emotion. Maybe she hadn’t ever. She couldn’t decipher it all, but there was shock, and pain, and grief, for only a split second, and then they were replaced by a terrible blankness. He stared at her for a long moment without saying a single word, then simply turned around and walked back into the flames.
The worst part was, it was all her fault.
Thirty minutes earlier, Mary stared out the back window of the Grangers’ car, still half asleep, watching as the countryside morphed into city.
It was a long drive from Maidstone to London—well, not as long as the drive down from the hospital in Penrith that Mary, her best friend Hermione, and Hermione’s mum Emma had made overnight the weekend before, but not a short trip, either. And they’d had to wake up before dawn, because Emma had been determined to be the first ones to arrive at the Leaky Cauldron for the big muggleborn (and muggle-raised) shopping trip of 1993.
This was for the same reason that the Grangers had somehow ended up in charge of planning this trip—along with Professor Sinistra, who taught Astronomy at Hogwarts, because every other professor involved was either too busy or claiming to be too busy: this entire thing was an excuse for Emma and Dan Granger to begin making contacts with the other muggle parents as part of their ongoing scheme to fix the wizarding world.
Ostensibly, Professor McGonagall—Mary’s legal guardian and Transfiguration professor—was in charge of the trip every year. She had led the same trip in 1991, where Mary had first met Hermione, entirely by herself, but there had only been four students in attendance. This year, thanks to the post-war baby boom—or whatever you called the fact that the Death Eaters had stopped killing off muggleborn babies as soon as they showed any signs of magic—there would be nearly twenty, along with another couple dozen parents, guardians, and siblings.
So, this year, there would be not one chaperone, but seven. In addition to Professors McGonagall and Sinistra, and Emma and Dan Granger, they would be joined by Professors Burbage (who had joined the school to teach Muggle Studies the previous year), Vector (with whom Mary would be taking Arithmancy beginning this autumn), and Snape.
Mary was uncertain about the plan to inflict the Potions professor on the muggle parents. Her Head of House was really nowhere near as bad as the other three Houses thought—well, maybe if you were a Gryffindor, but he took care of his snakes. In fact, he was her favorite professor, and they had gotten pretty close by the end of her second year, although she still wasn’t quite sure where she stood with him. But he wasn’t, well, nice. Or patient with people he thought were idiots. Not to mention the whole ex-Death Eater thing.
But, on the other hand, he was the second youngest professor, after Sinistra, and had been raised muggle—in the same neighborhood as Mary’s mum, no less—so she supposed it made some sense. Besides, not that many professors had been willing to give up a Saturday of their summer to wrangle a crowd of muggles around Diagon Alley. She’d honestly been a bit surprised he’d even agreed, but then, maybe Headmaster Dumbledore had forced him into it. He seemed to do that a lot.
In any case, besides their professors and the families, there would be one other person joining them: Lilian Moon, Mary’s yearmate in Slytherin and other best friend. Mary hadn’t seen Lilian all summer—she had been supposed to visit Mary at the Urquhart Mansion the first week of August, but then ‘some idiot,’ as Lilian had described him in her letter, had summoned a Skriker, a sort of demon dog, but drawn their circle wrong, allowing the dog to break free, kill them, and run amok in the Spanish countryside.
Anyway, los Guardadores had contacted the Aurors, who had contacted Lilian’s dad, because her family were Britain’s foremost experts on Black Dogs, a category which included both mundane and infernal canines. He’d gone off to Spain, bringing along Lilian and her sister Aerin—who was a Ravenclaw like Hermione, but a year above the three girls—because he’d thought they needed to learn to deal with Spectral Hounds if they were to take over the family business someday.
All of this just meant that Lilian had canceled their plans. A lot of people had canceled on Mary this summer, actually. Her friend Ginny Weasley had invited her to visit her house, then disappeared to Egypt without even writing her! At least Lilian had written; the letter had come on her birthday, and it hadn’t even been the worst thing to happen that day, which really went to show what sort of summer Mary had been having.
Despite the chance to see Lilian for the first time all summer, Mary was not looking forward to today’s shopping trip. She had tried to convince Professor McGonagall to let her, Hermione, and Lilian do their shopping alone this year—they didn’t need the same stuff as the first years, and she didn’t really feel like dealing with the slow pace of the younger kids, plus there was this hob-run clothing store that was way better than Madam Malkin’s, if a bit more expensive—but fucking Sirius Black, Mary’s onetime godfather, had broken out of Azkaban, and McGonagall didn’t think it was safe for the girls to go off on their own.
This was not the first thing that Sirius Black had ruined for Mary. She was, in fact, keeping a running tally, so she would know how many times to curse him if she ever met the bastard.
First, of course, was the obvious: getting her parents killed, so that she’d been forced to grow up with the accursed Dursleys. She had managed to escape them eventually—when Professor McGonagall had come to their house to tell them about Hogwarts, Aunt Petunia had demanded that she take Mary away and never bring her back, and had signed over Mary’s legal guardianship on the spot. (Though, as she’d found out recently, this was only valid in Magical Britain.)
Mary had only seen the Dursleys once since that day, just over a week ago. Another thing that was Black’s fault, but she was getting ahead of herself.
Secondly, when her parents had died, Black was meant to have raised her himself, so in some ways, it was doubly his fault that she’d been stuck with the Dursleys. Okay, maybe she wouldn’t have wanted to be raised by a Death Eater, but he shouldn’t have even agreed to be her godfather if he was just going to betray her family. James could have given his spot to someone else, and then she would have at least had one godparent to take care of her, even after her godmother, Alice Longbottom, had been hospitalized with brain damage from the war.
Personally, Mary thought James should have chosen Remus Lupin instead. Mary liked him quite a lot. She’d met the Last Marauder back in her first year, after she’d heard about him from Hagrid and had written him a letter to introduce herself (and ask where the hell he’d been for her entire childhood). He’d come to visit her on her first Christmas at Hogwarts, and they’d stayed in touch ever since. She’d mostly forgiven him for ditching her, since he apparently hadn’t even known she was with the Dursleys.
And now he was going to be her Defense professor, which was exciting—she thought it might be her favorite subject if she ever had a halfway decent professor. She was kind of worried about him, though, since everyone knew the position was cursed. Out of the two Defense professors she’d had so far, one had died, and the other had been sent to Azkaban for fraud.
At first, when Hagrid had told her about her parents and their friends, she hadn’t been that upset about Sirius Black, but she hadn’t understood then what him being her godfather had meant. It hadn’t been until this summer, when her tutor, Miss Catherine Urquhart, had taught her about the tradition, and how a child’s magical godparents were supposed to play almost as big of a role in their childhood as their real parents, that she’d realized what he’d taken away from her, and how big of a betrayal it had been. Agreeing to be a godparent was almost as big of a commitment as marriage!
After she’d understood, she had been furious. Which had led to the next things that Black had ruined for Mary: her birthday, and her wand arm!
Mary had found out the morning of her birthday about Black’s escape from Azkaban. Aunt Minnie (Professor McGonagall, that was, but Mary wasn’t supposed to call her that in front of her classmates) had come to visit Mary at the Urquhart Mansion, where she was being fostered. Her guardian was too busy being Deputy Headmistress to actually raise Mary herself, especially when she was doing Dumbledore’s job half the time on top of her own while he was off being the Chief Warlock. Aunt Minnie had been married once, to an Urquhart, but her husband had died in the war.
The Urquharts, and in particular Catherine, who had been a Slytherin like Mary, but had graduated two years before she’d started, were teaching Mary all of the stuff that she would have already known, had someone not gotten her parents killed. The sort of things that any young pureblood(-ish) girl was meant to know, but especially the Heir to a Noble House like Potter. Stuff like etiquette, and dancing, and household charms, and how all the purebloods were related, and Wizengamot precedents, and Latin, and how to attend boring, horrible tea parties with the pureblood girls in her age group every weekend.
They were a very old-fashioned sort of family, Mary thought, even for purebloods. Lord Urquhart hadn’t even wanted her to play Quidditch, because it was ‘no sport for young girls,’ apparently, but his son Mr. Urquhart, and his sons, had overruled him and supported her interest in it, especially since she was so talented—she’d made starting seeker on the Slytherin team as only a second year! But regardless, whenever she was in their house, she always had to be proper and well-dressed and polite, and if she made the slightest error in her etiquette, Catherine would make her write an essay about what she’d done wrong.
On the other hand, the Urquharts taught her interesting stuff, too, like about the traditional wizarding practices and holidays. Mary had been so excited for her thirteenth birthday, when the family would hold a ritual to introduce her to Magic, like the one she and Lilian and Aerin had done for Hermione last autumn. And after her birthday ritual, she had been invited to participate in the Urquhart family ritual for Lammas, one of the eight traditional sabbats, where they would celebrate the Binding and Orderly Powers.
(The Urquharts were a Balanced family, which meant they celebrated both Dark Powers like the Binding Power and Light ones like Order, and traditional, which meant they celebrated any Powers at all, unlike people like the Headmaster and her friend Ginny’s family, who were progressives—Snape always said the word like a curse—and celebrated muggle holidays like Christmas, and didn’t even think the Powers were real.)
But then Aunt Minnie had stopped by and asked if they’d read the paper yet, and the whole morning had gone to hell.
Well, Mary supposed her day hadn’t been completely ruined. She’d been in a bit of a funk, but she’d still gotten to participate in both rituals, and they’d been wonderful. Or, at least her birthday ritual had. The Lammas ritual had been powerful, certainly, but she wasn’t sure she’d call it wonderful.
The Urquhart family ritual, which she was supposed to keep a secret, even from her friends, involved meditating on a choice they were considering making in the coming year, and then they drank a potion and sat in a circle around a giant oak tree all night while the Powers showed them different visions of how that choice might turn out.
Mary had been so preoccupied by Black that she had wondered what might happen if she left school and hunted him down herself. She had seen herself getting lost and hurt. She had seen Black killed, and kissed by dementors. She’d seen him and a strange, scared little man she didn’t recognize kneeling at her feet, both of them telling her that the other one was to blame and begging her to believe them. Black had called her ‘little Fawn’ and told her he was innocent. She had seen herself believe him and let him go free, and then she had seen herself turn away from him and let the dementors take him instead.
She’d come to in the morning with no idea what the vision had meant, really, but with tears running down her face, and she almost never cried, she hated crying, and that was Black’s fault, too.
Anyway, it had all culminated less than a week later, when she’d gotten so angry about Black that she’d skipped her dancing lesson and gone flying instead. She hadn’t meant to run away, hadn’t even meant to leave the wards, but once she had, she had just kept going, angry and wanting to do something reckless—her first thought, before flying, had been to glamour objects to look like Black’s face and then blow them up, but that would have been unladylike.
So instead, she’d flown straight into a thunderstorm, crashing into a tree branch when some lightning distracted her, and ended up being taken to a hospital by a muggle family who had been out for a walk in the woods.
Which was how she had discovered that the Dursleys were still her legal guardians in the muggle world—they’d had to drive all the way up to Penrith to sign her out of the hospital in the middle of the night. Luckily, she had called the Grangers first, and they had taken her back home with them once she was released. The Grangers had treated her almost like a second daughter since that first shopping trip, when Hermione had somehow convinced them to bring the girl she’d just met home to spend the final weeks of summer with them.
Aunt Minnie had been furious about Mary running off, of course, but she had seemed at least a little sympathetic to what Mary was going through. And guilty, as she should have been, that she hadn’t actually told Mary that they thought Sirius Black was after her specifically, or that Snape had put an extensive series of anti-tracking spells on her so that no one, including Aunt Minnie or the Urquhart house elves, could find her with magic.
Not guilty enough to let Mary go shopping alone, or even to allow her to join in on the Hogsmeade weekends this year—it was too dangerous, apparently, which made Hogsmeade yet another thing Black had ruined for her. But she had at least allowed Mary to stay with the Grangers for the past week, though she would be returning to the Urquharts after today’s shopping trip.
On the other hand, Emma Granger had somehow talked Aunt Minnie out of getting Mary’s broken arm healed with magic. The muggle hospital had put a cast on her, and Emma had argued that Mary should have to let it heal the muggle way because of her reckless behavior. She’d even said that Mary was getting spoiled, taking risks because she knew she could count on magic to heal her, and had pointed out that Mary had been in the hospital wing more than half a dozen times since starting school.
Which, okay, maybe she had a point, but Mary’s arm hurt, and it was her right arm, too, which meant that she couldn’t write or even do magic. Or, she had been practicing left-handed casting, but that was hard, and then Hermione had lost her Ministry approval to use magic at home because Devon Troy, the witch Dan Granger had hired to try to make a magic-powered generator for their house, had accidentally triggered the Ministry alert for too-powerful magic being used in a muggle home, and they’d had a visit from the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad (in other words, the Ministry obliviators) yesterday afternoon.
In any case, her arm would be healed once she got back to Hogwarts so that she wouldn’t fall behind in her classes, but in the meantime, she had to wear this stupid, awful cast, and it was all Sirius Black’s fault.
At least she’d had an excuse to spend another week at Hermione’s, and to get out of her lessons and the dreaded tea parties. She’d visited the Grangers the first week of summer as well, but that had been awkward, because they’d been furious that Mary and Hermione hadn’t told them about the whole thing with the basilisk and the Chamber of Secrets, and they had even been talking about pulling Hermione out of school and sending her to Beauxbatons instead.
They’d relented in the end—though their compromise had been doing stuff like this shopping trip, basically, involving themselves in the wizarding world to try to change it by sheer force of will into a place where their daughter would be safe—but it had been a stressful visit, and Mary still felt guilty for her own role in getting Hermione into trouble.
And they’d had to tell the Grangers everything in exchange for Hermione being allowed to stay at Hogwarts. Like, for instance, the fact that they, along with Lilian and Aerin, the Weasley twins, three older Slytherins (Morgana Yaxley, Perry Wilkes, and Adrian Lestrange), and, for some reason, a first year Ravenclaw girl named Luna Lovegood, had assaulted and drugged three-quarters of the student body with homemade Veritaserum in their efforts to find the Heir of Slytherin. (Three-quarters because Professor Snape had already questioned the Slytherins himself using legilimency.)
It had worked. In April, they had finally discovered that Ginny was possessed, though that had led into a huge mess in which Ginny (or, Tom Riddle in Ginny’s body) had stunned George, who was meant to be guarding her, and taken off into the Chamber of Secrets. And then the Weasley twins had fucking kidnapped Mary, taken her wand and tied her up and dragged her down into the Chamber after Ginny, against her will, when she’d wanted to do the sensible thing and get Professor Snape first, all so that she could open doors for them with Parseltongue! And then they’d had to fight a bloody basilisk.
Or, well, the twins had fought it—and by ‘fought,’ Mary meant ‘transfigured everything they could possibly find into a rooster until one crowed.’ Mary had mostly just hidden out of the way once she’d realized that the snake wasn’t going to listen to her, Parselmouth or not. And when it had finally died, its magic had flooded the Chamber, rendering their wands useless, and though she’d managed to stab the diary with a basilisk fang and save Ginny from having her soul sapped away, she and the three Weasleys had been trapped in the dark for days, cold and hungry, before finally finding their way out through the Slytherin tunnels.
That was what Mary remembered, anyway. But Snape said that wasn’t what had really happened. He’d examined her memories and told her they’d been voluntarily altered, and he’d also said there were signs she’d participated in a Black Arts ritual (which was a ritual calling on the Dark Powers, but unlike holiday rituals, which were benign and basically religious in nature, Black Arts rituals were really illegal and generally involved some sort of sacrifice).
From what they’d been able to piece together, Tom Riddle, the young one from the diary, had used mental compulsions to make Mary and the Weasleys trust him, at least enough to help him instead of fighting back. He’d held them captive down there for a few days, and the five of them had done some sort of ritual together.
Snape wasn’t sure, but he thought Riddle might have forced the group to make him a body using Mary’s blood (she’d had a cut on her wrist when they were found) and free him from the diary, which Snape said had been a horcrux—basically like an anchor tying his soul to the mundane plane. Then, presumably, he’d stabbed the diary to sell the cover story, led them out of the Chamber, taken their memories, and run off to Powers knew where, to do Powers knew what.
So. That was pretty horrifying.
What was worse, when he saw how she looked and that she was a Parselmouth, Riddle had immediately assumed that Mary was related to him somehow. And she’d thought it was just whatever weird soul-bond she had with the Dark Lord that had stopped his wraith from possessing her in first year, but Snape had been curious enough to suggest doing a blood lineage test, which was how they had discovered that Mary was the Dark Lord’s granddaughter.
Apparently her mother Lily hadn’t been a muggleborn at all, but the offspring of the original Tom Riddle and a muggleborn named Matilde Harrison, who had placed her daughter with her muggle sister, Mary Evans née Harrison, most likely altering the memories of the Evans family to make them believe that Lily was one of them. (Snape had told her, very uncomfortably, that the ‘relations’ between Riddle and Harrison had probably not been consensual.)
Harrison had died, apparently, at some point during Lily’s childhood, and so far as Snape knew, she’d never found out that she was adopted. Snape didn’t think the Dark Lord knew he’d had a daughter either. The two of them had decided to keep it a secret, which Mary thought was for the best—she’d had nightmares all summer about the truth coming out and the Prophet decrying her the next Dark Lady of Britain.
Mary had spent the summer trying as hard as possible not to think about what she termed ‘the Undead, Evil Grandfather Thing.’ Instead, she thought about how much she hated Sirius Black, and about how awkward she felt around Professor Snape.
Mary’s relationship with her Head of House had always been complicated.
Well, maybe not back in first year. He hadn’t paid much attention to her then, though he’d been nice enough when they interacted, and had let her get away with sneaking a dragon off the Astronomy tower surprisingly easily. But then, at the end of the year, Quirrellmort had nearly killed her after she’d tried to tell Professor McGonagall about her suspicions about him (thanks in no small part to the Professor, who was such a blasted Gryffindor, confronting the possessed Defense professor about Mary’s suspicions instead of doing literally anything else).
Anyway, Professor Snape had saved her life, and then he had tracked Quirrellmort down and attacked him. And through a series of bad decisions on the parts of Mary, Hermione, and Lilian, Mary had been there to see it. The face on the back of Quirrell’s head had ordered him to kill Mary (or, she hadn’t been entirely sure who the Dark Lord had been talking to, since he’d just said ‘my servant,’ which could technically have applied to either wizard in the room).
But before Quirrell could even move, let alone try to hurt her, Snape had slit his throat with a curse, killing him. And after the Dark Lord’s wraith had tried (and failed) to possess Mary, Snape had performed an exorcism (well, he’d called it a ‘devocation,’ but she was pretty sure that was wizard-speak for ‘exorcism’) and banished the wraith back to whence it came, which they thought meant either Albania or Godric’s Hollow.
Mary and Snape had both passed out, and when she’d woken up, he’d been carrying her to safety. And he’d called her ‘Mary Elizabeth’ then, not ‘Miss Potter,’ and he’d been nice to her, if only for a moment. She’d even made him laugh, when she’d asked him why he hadn’t killed Quirrell sooner—say, before he’d cursed her broom in flying class.
After that, they’d been friendly, especially since, shortly after, Snape had sat her and Hermione and Lilian down and told them everything that Dumbledore was keeping from Mary. Like the fact that there was a prophecy which the Dark Lord thought referred to Mary, but Dumbledore thought it was about Neville Longbottom, because the full prophecy used male pronouns for the subject, and Dumbledore was just letting everyone believe it was Mary so that Neville wouldn’t be in danger.
Snape didn’t seem to think too highly of the Headmaster, and Mary didn’t think she did, either. Besides him hiding stuff from her, and using her as a distraction, and leaving her with the Dursleys all those years, he was also way too familiar with her. He kept calling her by her first name, or even ‘dear girl,’ when she hadn’t given him permission to address her informally, and she was pretty sure he thought it was bad that she was a Slytherin, and that he didn’t approve of her learning all the pureblood etiquette and celebrating the traditional holidays.
In every conversation she had with him, she felt like he was testing her and being disappointed in the results. It was like he wanted her to be this symbol for the Light, and didn’t care about who she actually was as a person. And she was pretty sure he wanted to use her as a political pawn or something—he’d invited her to attend a Wizengamot session with him, which Catherine said would be inappropriate and would give the impression that House Potter was under Dumbledore’s control.
Not to mention how little he seemed to care about the safety of his students. There was that silly obstacle course he’d put in the third floor corridor first year, and the fact that he let Hagrid supervise detentions when the half-giant was clearly mentally incompetent and had no sense of what was too dangerous for children (or humans in general). He was apparently refusing to replace the Defense position with anything else, even though everyone knew it was cursed. He had refused to do anything about Colin Creevey stalking her, though he hadn’t been able to stop Professors Snape and Sinistra from intervening, and he’d tried to make her go back to the fucking Dursleys at the end of first year, though of course, she had refused, and threatened to have Professor McGonagall raise hell.
And Lilian thought he’d tried to use legilimency on them without their permission at one point, which was apparently not just unethical but illegal, given their age.
In any case, at least she had Snape to actually tell her anything about her life and why she was in danger when the Headmaster wouldn’t. And Snape and Hermione didn’t think the prophecy was actually about Neville. Hermione had all these theories about ways that the prophecy might be misleading or vague, though Mary didn’t entirely understand them all.
Snape had also told her about her mum, Lily, and how, even though she was remembered as this perfect muggleborn Light witch who’d saved Mary with the power of love or whatever nonsense Dumbledore liked to tell people, she’d actually been a total badass who had probably blown up the Dark Lord on purpose using Mary as bait. Snape’s theory was an illegal soul magic ritual combined with a large amount of muggle explosives. He suspected that something had gone wrong with the soul magic ritual, causing a connection between Mary and the Dark Lord, something that meant that her scar hurt when he was around, and that he couldn’t possess her.
Snape said Lily had put a curse on the Dark Lord in 1978, something involving ritual magic that had messed up his brain and caused him to go mad. Before that, apparently, he had been somewhat more reasonable, which she supposed explained how Snape could have ever thought it was a good idea to follow him. And he’d said that Bellatrix Lestrange had mostly led the war after 1978, and she’d been trying to recruit Lily, both to get her to reverse the curse and also just because she was so scary good at ritual magic. But that plan had been tossed aside when the Dark Lord heard the prophecy.
After all that, in Mary’s second year, she and Snape had gotten along pretty well, but then there had been the stuff in late spring with the Chamber and her undead, evil grandfather. And besides finding out her lineage, there had been two lasting consequences from all that.
First, even though they’d caught the Heir of Slytherin and saved the school, Snape had given Mary, along with her friends, one hundred hours of detention for drugging everyone with Veritaserum, though they weren’t allowed to tell anyone about the detentions because they could actually be sent to Azkaban if people knew what they’d done. They would be starting the first Saturday of the new term, and continuing every Saturday until their time was up. (At least he’d also given the twins detention every night for the final months of last term for kidnapping her.)
Secondly, when she’d found out about her grandfather, he’d told her even more about Lily than he had back in first year. He’d told her that he had grown up with Lily, and that she had been his best friend (“my first and only true friend,” he had said), and like a sister to him—though Lilian had thought, when he first told them about Lily in first year, that it sounded like Snape had fancied her, and she wasn’t sure which of them to believe. Snape would definitely lie to her if he wanted to hide something like that. But he had promised to tell her more about his friendship with her mum when she was older—apparently he didn’t think she’d be able to ‘understand the nuances’ right now, or something like that.
He’d also told her that Lily had been, well, kind of Dark, and ‘calculating,’ and generally the kind of person Snape wasn’t actually all that surprised to discover was the daughter of the Dark Lord. But most confusingly, he had told her that, if they hadn’t ended up on opposite sides of the war, Lily would have named him her godparent instead of Alice Longbottom. Mary had thought about it, and said that she would have liked that. At the time, she hadn’t thought much of it.
Except then she’d had that talk with Catherine over the summer, the one where she’d found out what Sirius Black had really taken from her, and had realized the full implications of the conversation.
Basically, for Snape to say he would have been her godfather implied that he should have been treating her like his daughter this entire time, or at least like a favorite niece. And him even raising the topic implied that that was how he thought of her now, or how he wanted their relationship to be, or else he wouldn’t have brought it up.
Except that he had been raised muggle, which meant that she didn’t even know if he’d understood what he was implying, because, well, she sure hadn’t! She’d literally just meant that it sounded kind of nice to have a godparent who wasn’t evil or permanently hospitalized, especially Snape, since she liked him. Except it turned out that she’d accidentally implied, more or less, ‘I wish you were my dad.’ Or, well, that she wished he had raised her.
Which was really embarrassing, because that was a much stronger sentiment than she’d meant to express. Not that Snape would have been a worse guardian than the Dursleys or anything, but she didn’t think of him like a dad, and she was worried she had given him the wrong impression. Unless, of course, he had no idea about any of it either… Ugh.
She’d been stressing out ever since then about how to act when she saw him next, as well as how she was supposed to address him. Once she’d said the thing about wishing he’d been her godfather, he had given her permission to address him informally, and he had said he would call her ‘Mary Elizabeth’ instead of ‘Miss Potter’ from now on, at least when they weren’t in public.
But even though she was allowed, she didn’t think she could possibly bring herself to call him Severus. Or, Powers forbid, ‘Uncle Sev’ or something, like when she called McGonagall ‘Aunt Minnie.’ He just wasn’t that kind of person. She didn’t think even Professor Sinistra called him Severus, and they were apparently shagging (ew). But if she just went on calling him ‘Professor Snape,’ he might think that she was rejecting his offer of a closer relationship, which she didn’t want to do either! Because, well, only an idiot would reject an offer of informality from him. And she did like him quite a bit, even if she didn’t see him as a father.
All this etiquette stuff was still so confusing, even though she’d been studying it for the past two summers. She couldn’t help but think that if Black hadn’t screwed her whole life up, she would have known it all already, and wouldn’t have made a mistake like basically asking her professor to be her dad without realizing what she was doing.
So far, she’d just settled on calling him ‘Snape,’ without the title, when they weren’t in class or anything, but she was still really nervous to see him today.
And now, she’d made even more of a mess of things.
What had happened was this: Mary wasn’t speaking to the twins, on account of them fucking kidnapping her and making her fight a basilisk. She’d hoped to just ignore them until they got the hint that they weren’t her friends anymore, like she’d done with Hagrid, but they seemed too stupid and Gryffindor to pick up on it, so they’d sent her a birthday present—a collection of cantrips, little matchsticks they’d enchanted with different charms that would be released when they were broken. And even though she was mad at them, that wasn’t going to stop her from taking advantage of the cool gift.
Then, earlier this week, she and Hermione had been talking about Sirius Black being after her, and how Aunt Minnie thought she wasn’t safe in Diagon Alley, and Hermione had come up with the idea of a disguise.
On their own first year shopping trip, Mary had introduced herself to everyone as Elizabeth Evans, not wanting to immediately be singled out as Mary Potter, Girl Who Lived, and she had told people on the train to school that autumn that she was Elizabeth Granger, Hermione’s sister. But it hadn’t worked as well as she’d liked, even though she’d tried to hide her scar.
Morgana Yaxley, the Slytherin prankster two years above them who’d participated in the Veritaserum Conspiracy, had pointed out that Mary had the quintessential appearance of a Black—she took after her father, who in turn took after his mother, Dorea Potter née Black. She had the dark hair, pale skin, and thin features that most of the House had shared. (Though the untameable nature of her hair was apparently inherited from the Potter side.)
This year, Mary and Hermione had decided, they would do better. At first, Hermione had wanted to buy muggle hair dye and make Mary’s hair brown, so that she could be a Granger—although, given that Mary was, as previously mentioned, hopelessly pale, while Hermione’s dad was part black, she wasn’t certain how well that would work. People on the train had pointed out that they didn’t look much alike when they’d claimed to be sisters. And she wasn’t sure that she trusted Hermione to use bleach on her hair.
But then she’d remembered the cantrips, and how the label on one had said it would turn her hair Weasley red.
So they had settled for trying to wrangle Mary’s curls—which thankfully were more of waves now, with how long her hair had gotten—with a muggle straightening iron and painting over her scar with makeup with Emma’s help, and she had held on to the cantrip until the last possible minute, when they’d been walking into the Leaky Cauldron. Then Mary had broken it, and felt the chill over her scalp as the glamour took effect.
The plan had been to introduce her, as they had during a visit to Hermione’s muggle summer school the previous year, as Hermione’s cousin.
This had not gone quite as planned. See, everyone always said Mary looked just like her dad, except for the eyes. So it hadn’t really occurred to her how she might be perceived when she walked into the Leaky Cauldron with (mostly) straight, red hair. Not until Professor McGonagall had taken one look at her and teared up, pulling her into a startlingly tight hug and whispering, “You look just like your mother, you know!”
And even then, she hadn’t considered what might happen a moment later, when Snape caught sight of her.
All that agonizing over their relationship, and what the conversation about him being her godfather had meant, and how she should act when she saw him again, and when she finally had, she’d ambushed him first thing in the morning, looking like the ghost of his dead best friend, or sister, or crush, or whatever it was her mother had been to him, and sent him fleeing the building entirely.
Well, fuck.
“Should I do something?” Mary whispered to Hermione.
“About what?”
“Professor Snape. Didn’t you see his expression?”
“He looked the same as ever to me. Maybe he just forgot something?”
Right, Mary kept forgetting that Hermione, as a non-Slytherin, didn’t know how to read Snape’s moods. To the other Houses, he was emotionless and cold; only his snakes knew better. Besides that, Hermione didn’t really know about Snape’s friendship with her mother. She hadn’t told her friends—or Catherine—anything yet about their conversation at the end of the previous year. Somehow, even though Catherine might have been able to help her puzzle out all of the etiquette stuff, she had wanted to keep it to herself.
But for Snape to have actually reacted to something, to have turned around and left instead of just glancing over her and pretending not to care, meant that he must have been seriously affected by it. Was he even going to come back? Had she ruined the entire plan for the shopping trip by choosing the wrong hair color? Was he going to go back to being as distant with her as he’d been in her first year?
Mary fretted, only half able to pay attention as Professor McGonagall introduced her and Hermione to an odd-looking, clumsy young woman with one blue and one green eye who turned completely pink, including her hair, when the Professor called her ‘Nymphadora,’ insisting that they refer to her as ‘Tonks.’
The young Auror, whom the Grangers quickly determined was the daughter of Andi Tonks, the solicitor who’d been helping them with their mission to get a Floo connection for their house, was going to be Mary’s bodyguard for the day. She approved of Mary’s disguise, apparently, though she said that it would have been better to use muggle hair dye after all: glamours were too easily dispelled, according to her boss, Auror Moody, of whom she did an impression, shouting, “Constant vigilance!” at the startled girls.
Mary couldn’t even bring herself to be excited when Hermione convinced the adults that they and Lilian should be allowed to go shopping on their own, with Tonks’s supervision. Her eyes were still on the Floo when, a few minutes after he’d left, Professor Snape walked back through, looking absolutely normal, as though nothing of importance had happened. Without another glance at Mary, he stalked over to the bar, grumbling to Professors Vector and Sinistra about needing a “bloody coffee” and how it was “too fucking early for all this nonsense.”
Back to his usual self, then, though time would only tell if he was mad at her. Finally able to relax, at least a little, Mary turned back to Hermione just in time for both girls to hear the squeal of Lilian exiting the Floo: “Lizzie! Maia!”
As her best friends pulled her into a group hug, chattering excitedly about Lilian’s trip to Spain, Mary decided to put the problem of Snape out of her mind for the rest of the day, and mostly succeeded.
Notes:
If you are curious about all of Mary's crazy adventures thus far, like Quirrellmort and getting trapped in the Chamber (including the truth of what happened down there), you should check out Mary Potter and the Call to Adventure and Mary Potter and the Heir of Slytherin.
For anyone confused about the timeline of where Mary's been living: she was with the Dursleys until July of 1991, when McG came to deliver her Hogwarts letter instead of Hagrid (major point of divergence) and took her away. She spent a few weeks living at Hogwarts while McG figured out what to do with her, which is when she met Hagrid and found out about the Marauders. McG took her on the muggleborn shopping trip in August of '91, where she met Hermione and the Grangers and went home with them for the last weeks of the summer. Then, starting summer of 1992, she moved in with the Urquharts, though she usually spends a couple weeks each summer with the Grangers.
Chapter 2: Welcome to the Snake Pit
Notes:
This chapter is still setting up the story, characters, differences from canon, etc. so it's not diverging much from Leigha's story. The prose is mine, but the actual events in it, and the dialogue, are borrowed from Chapter 7 of Chained Servant with Leigha's permission (have I mentioned recently that she is a QUEEN?). It's basically an abridging of that chapter, with more backstory about Snape, Mary's friends at school, and the unique culture of Slytherin House worked in.
In the next couple chapters, we'll have a major divergence from Chained Servant, and then it'll be much more original, and less exposition-heavy. Until then, bear with me.
CW: Brief mention of past suicide attempts, not by a main character.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After that rough start, the shopping trip went well enough. Snape didn’t say anything to Mary, except for a “Miss Potter, Miss Granger, Miss Moon,” when he saw the three girls. She tried not to read too much into him calling her by her last name again—maybe he didn’t want to look like he was singling her out from her friends?
They went to Peaseblossom and Puck’s for robes rather than Madam Malkin’s, just as Mary had wanted. She ended up having to pay a high premium for being fitted with her cast, given that all of their clothes had to be tried on and magically adjusted, requiring her sleeves to be slit open and re-stitched, but she was still willing to pay for the difference in quality—the enchantments allowing the clothes to grow with the wearer alone were worth it.
The actual fitting was uncomfortable, though, because she and Lilian and Hermione all shared a single changing room. Mary didn’t like being naked in front of people in general—during the purification bath before her birthday ritual, Catherine had made fun of her for trying to cover herself, calling her a prude. But it was almost worse changing in front of Lilian and Hermione than Catherine, because they were all going into the same year, which meant that Mary couldn’t help but compare herself to them.
Hermione looked way more grown-up and, well, curvier than her, though part of that was probably because she was nearly a year older, and Lilian was tall and blonde and had abs. Compared to them, Mary felt like a little kid—not only was she under five feet tall still and skinny as hell, with big glasses and hair that was ridiculous even at the best of times, but also, she was basically as flat as a boy, even at thirteen.
She did end up buying her first few bras while they were at the shop, but mostly because Emma and Catherine had both said she’d need one before long. She wasn’t sure whether she believed that—so far as she could tell, there was barely anything there!
Luckily, her friends didn’t comment on her figure at all—though they weren’t so polite with each other, Lilian calling Hermione chubby, and Hermione retaliating with a comment about her muscles that Lilian seemed to take as a compliment—but only on the little tattoo of the Libra symbol that had mysteriously appeared on her sternum after her birthday ritual, just above the nautilus spiral she’d received during the previous year’s Mabon celebration. The latter, at least, was meant to vanish one year after it appeared, but the birthday one was a mystery—Hermione didn’t have anything like it, and neither did Lilian.
Ritual magic could be pretty weird.
Hermione dithered so much at the bookstore and apothecary that she nearly made Mary and Lilian miss getting to see the new Firebolt at Quality Quidditch Supplies. Mary had been the Slytherin seeker since last year, and would be defending her spot again in September—against Draco Malfoy, no doubt, who was reserve seeker and eager to replace her—while Lilian had been working out all summer in the hopes of being moved from reserve chaser to the starting lineup.
(Of course, this was assuming that the Veritaserum Detentions didn’t get them kicked off the team entirely, given that their standing Saturday appointment with Snape would overlap with the first match, and quite possibly practice as well.)
Their Ravenclaw friend, however, didn’t share their love of the sport, and was prone to making frankly appalling comments like, “It’s just a broom,” and, “What do you even need the snitch for anyway?”
Ravenclaws, Mary thought, were all brains and no sense. Last year, when Hermione had put herself in the hospital wing by way of a cup of Polyjuice potion and some cat hair—she’d brewed the potion just to see if she could, and the twins had given her the hair, claiming it was Fred’s and that they needed a third Weasley twin for a prank—Mary had said as much: “Bloody Ravenclaws! Let’s do it just because we can!”
Which Hermione had informed her was, word for word, exactly what Snape had said, with the same intonation, and asked if he trained all the Slytherins to talk like him. Mary had been rather flattered by the comparison, to tell the truth. She wasn’t alone in that, though—most of the Slytherins thought it was an honor to be compared to their Head of House, at least in any way but looks.
Over the afternoon ice cream break, during which Mary and Lilian refused to speak to Hermione due to her Quidditch-related crimes until she stormed off in a huff, one of the muggleborns, Dave Rhees, approached them. He’d been pestering the three girls all day with questions about the different Houses, but now he wanted to know about how to fit in at Hogwarts.
Mary and Lilian told him everything they could think of, like, “Don’t call older students by their first names, it’s considered rude,” and, “Don’t wave your hand in the air in class, it’s undignified, Hermione,” and, in their best Snape impression, “The proper procedure when one is aware of a ‘hypothetical’ class five highly dangerous magical creature on Hogwarts’ grounds is to report it to a professor, not sneak it off the top of the astronomy tower, Miss Potter!” Which led to Mary and her friend quietly telling Tonks and Dave the Dragon Story, to the Auror’s glee and Dave’s utter shock.
Privately, Mary had a feeling the kid might end up in Slytherin. If he did, he would be the first muggleborn in the House in—well, she didn’t know how long. Maybe since before the war? She’d have to ask Catherine, or one of the older students. Or Snape, she supposed, if he was speaking to her.
At the pet store, Mary finally got her own owl, a tawny female she decided with the help of her friends to name Eirene, while Hermione chose a huge orange cat with a squashed face already named Crookshanks, and the Grangers got a second owl to join the first in bringing near daily letters of complaint to the Ministry.
What Mary really wanted was a snake—she loved snakes—but Professor McGonagall had already preempted that: every year, she added a handwritten note to Mary’s supply list that simply said, “No snakes!”
When the day was over, Mary bid goodbye to her friends, and McGonagall took her back to the Urquharts’ for another two weeks of lessons. At least she had a dicta-quill now, so she wouldn’t have to try to write with her left hand.
The final two weeks passed quickly, the only real event of note being a letter from Hermione saying that she’d overheard her parents talking about trying to adopt Mary in the muggle world, which was really exciting! She hoped they’d do it. Otherwise, she just continued her lessons and practiced her left-handed casting, still being excused from the tea parties on the grounds that she was too upset about Sirius Black to possibly go. Before she knew it, it was time to catch the train back to Hogwarts.
The train ride, as Mary had quickly learned from her first two years, was a time to catch up with friends and classmates, to trade gossip from the summer, and to scope out the new firsties and try to trick them with made up stories about how the Sorting worked. Lilian was planning to tell them they’d be sorted by way of a spelling test. If anyone did tell them about the Hat, it would be written off along with the other ludicrous suggestions.
To her displeasure, the first people to visit her, Hermione, and Lilian in their compartment were the Weasley twins, who not only still hadn’t noticed Mary was mad at them, but also seemed to be flirting with the three of them—mostly Hermione. Her Ravenclaw friend had gone awfully pink, and Mary couldn’t help but think she was a traitor. While Hermione claimed that she was waiting for the twins to let their guard down so she could get back at them, both for kidnapping Mary as well as the whole catgirl thing, Mary had to wonder if Hermione was just saying that so she wouldn’t be mad.
Next, since Hermione was reading some ridiculous book about ‘extra-planar physics,’ which apparently had something to do with ritual magic, and just generally being boring, Mary and Lilian wandered off and stumbled across Remus Lupin, who had been asked to ride the train with them for extra security. Mary was glad to see him, though now she had to start remembering to call him Professor Lupin in front of the other students. The two Slytherin girls excitedly dragged him back to their compartment to meet Hermione.
Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley swung by next, although only Ginny stayed. Really, Luna just sort of delivered Ginny to them, informed the young Gryffindor that this was the compartment she was meant to be in, and then walked away. She did things like that sometimes.
Fred and George came by again after that, looking for their sister, and upon discovering from Mary that Remus was one of those Marauders, the ones who’d made that map they carried around, hung around awhile, insisting that he tell them stories about his time at Hogwarts. Remus told them about how James had pursued Lily for years—something Mary hadn’t really known—and about pranks they’d pulled, like turning Professor McGonagall’s robes into a dressing gown in the middle of the Welcome Feast.
“Do you think I should have told them we got detention for a month for that?” Remus asked after the twins left, still laughing over his own stories.
Hermione, without even looking up from her ridiculous book (really, even Remus thought it sounded boring), said “I shouldn’t think it would make much of a difference. Snape—”
“Professor Snape,” Mary and Lilian corrected in unison. Like most Slytherins, they were particular about making sure the other students referred to their Head of House with respect. He might not have the best reputation at the school, but he was a professor, damn it.
“Yes, him. He’s already given us all detention for the next three months of Saturdays, give or take a bit. At their rate, they’ll be booked up until they graduate by the end of this year.”
Mary cursed Hermione inwardly as Remus turned to stare directly at her. “What did you do?”
“We’re… erm… not allowed to say,” she said, her voice going a bit squeakier than she meant it to.
Raising an eyebrow at her, Remus said tiredly, “Miss Potter, I’m asking as your professor.”
“No, really, I can’t say,” she insisted. “You’d have to ask Snape.”
Before Remus could argue further, Hermione broke in to demand, “Why do you get to call him Just Snape when you correct me every time?!”
Mary hadn’t been hiding Snape’s offer of informality from her friends, exactly, but she hadn’t felt like telling them yet, either. Especially after the shopping trip. Trying to play it off as a joke, she told Hermione, “Because he likes me more than he likes you,” and everyone laughed.
Remus, though, caught what she’d really meant, fighting back laughter as he said, “Okay, stop, stop. You can’t be seriously telling me that Severus Snape invited a Potter to be informal with him.” Drat.
Well, there was nothing for it now. Nodding, Mary replied, “But I’m pretty sure he thinks of me as a bastard Evans, so, you know…”
Which only made her remember the shopping trip, and Snape’s reaction to her hair, but she pushed it aside—he’d acted normal after that, so she was hoping that things were still okay between them. Or, at least, that she was still allowed to call him Just Snape. Still, she wouldn’t know until she actually saw him in person again.
“He’s still got a crush on Lils after all these years? Merlin’s balls! Erm, sorry. Beard.” The girls just shrugged; they, especially Mary and Lilian, swore quite a bit when there weren’t professors around.
If Remus, who had gone to school with them, said that Snape had had a crush on her mum, that was one point in favor of Lilian’s theory, she supposed. Still, Mary said, “He insists it’s more of a brotherly affection.”
For some reason, she wanted it to be true. Mostly because she wanted to believe that Snape hadn’t lied to her, and that Lilian and Remus didn’t know something about him that she didn’t. It was fun, being the person in her friend group who understood their enigmatic professor the best.
Lilian, predictably, blurted out, “When have you been talking to Snape about his feelings?”
Mary fought the urge to grin. It was kind of exciting, she thought, to have a secret. And she didn’t really want to share with Lilian everything that Snape had told her, at least not right now. Although maybe, she thought, she should correct Lilian—he hadn’t told her she could call him Just Snape, after all. Only Mary.
“She can’t have done. He hasn’t got any,” Ginny argued, which thankfully made it easier for Mary to dodge the question.
“Hmm, yes, I’m making it all up.” Mary smiled innocently at Lilian, ignoring her skeptical glare, and the conversation moved on to other things.
After lunch, Mary went with Lilian and Ginny to explore the rest of the train, leaving Hermione to her boring book. They talked to the older members of the Slytherin Quidditch team for a bit—they teased Mary mercilessly for running into a tree and wearing a muggle cast, of all things—and saw Lilian’s sister Aerin, who was in a bad mood for some reason. Mary thought she might still be mad at them for involving her in the Veritaserum Conspiracy.
They left Ginny with the twins and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team—apparently Ginny was considering going out for seeker this year, since their current seeker, Thorpe, was pretty mediocre. Gryffindor had come in dead last the previous year, so they’d probably be eager to get some new blood. Mary hoped she’d get the position. It would be fun to fly against her friend, she thought.
They briefly ran into Morgana Yaxley and her clique—her boyfriend Perry Wilkes, their friend Adrian Lestrange, and his new girlfriend, Lindsey Turner—but didn’t stay long. They’d been friends last year, but after Snape had caught them out on the Veritaserum thing, they had informed Mary that they didn’t want to hang out with her anymore, lest they find themselves in detention until graduation. There weren’t really any hard feelings, at least not on Mary’s part, but it was still kind of awkward.
So, before long, Lilian and Mary moved on, looking for the rest of their yearmates in Slytherin. They found them sitting in two separate compartments, which wasn’t surprising. Since almost the very beginning of first year, Mary’s cohort had divided down the middle into two distinct cliques.
There was Draco Malfoy’s clique, which consisted of every kid in their year from Death Eater families, with the exception of Theodore Nott—so Pansy Parkinson, Vinnie Crabbe, Greg Goyle, and Millie Bulstrode. Tracey Davis was in the clique too, since she followed Pansy around, though her family hadn’t been Death Eaters. Actually, she was a halfblood, but her father came from a Noble House, so the others accepted her—albeit reluctantly.
In the other clique were the politically neutral, non-blood-purist students—Mary, Lilian, Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, and Daphne Greengrass. They were the ones who actually cared about upholding the Truce, which was the informal agreement that allowed Magical Britain to function when everyone in it had been at war against each other just over a decade ago.
As Snape had explained to Mary’s cohort on their first day in Slytherin, the Truce meant, basically, that you didn’t talk about specific events from the war, the Dark Lord, anything like that. Students weren’t supposed to take revenge or harass each other for what their parents had done in the war, or what side they’d been on, and the students from Dark families weren’t meant to deride people for being muggleborns, halfbloods, or “blood traitors.” And, most of all, breaking the Truce meant that you were no longer protected under it.
In other words, if Draco Malfoy went around calling people mudbloods, and the Slytherins failed to keep him under control, the rest of the school would retaliate against them, and Slytherin House was outnumbered three-to-one. No one would care that Mary and her friends didn’t agree with Draco, or that Theo, despite his dad being a Death Eater, just wanted to be left alone to be an antisocial ritual magic nerd in peace. To most of the school, all Slytherins were the same, and if one of them broke the Truce, they’d all pay the price.
The Truce was the reason Mary called Riddle the Dark Lord and not Voldemort—not because she was scared, no matter what bloody Dumbledore thought—and why she called her parents Lily and James, not Mum and Dad. Her very existence as Mary Potter was a reminder of the war, and to survive in the Snake Pit, she had to distance herself from her reputation as much as possible.
Mary and her friends had been making an effort to keep the other half of their year in check, and after the day back in first year when they’d defeated Draco’s clique in an impromptu duel, it had mostly worked. Draco and the others were definitely less obnoxious than they’d been before, at least when Weasley and his friends weren’t around, though Mary still wasn’t about to hang out with them.
Meanwhile, Blaise and Daphne, who were the social butterflies of their year, had decided that they wanted to make allies in other Houses, to bridge the gap between the Slytherins and the rest of the school and to gain the social power needed to deal with their more obnoxious housemates. Which was why Mary was unsurprised to find Blaise, Daphne, and Theo hanging out in a compartment with Zacharias Smith and Fay Dunbar, a Hufflepuff boy and Gryffindor girl in their year.
Blaise explained to the visiting girls that they were running a betting pool on the new first years, and Mary put a galleon down on Dave Rhees going to Slytherin.
Next, they passed by Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley, and the rest of the third year Gryffindor boys. They tried to make polite conversation and find out who the new Creatures professor was going to be, but Ron refused to answer.
The Little Weasel, as they sometimes called him, despite Ginny technically being littler than him, was just as bad as Draco when it came to the Truce. He had apparently decided that, since Draco’s father had been the one to get Ginny possessed (which Mary hadn’t even known until this very moment), and Mary and Lilian were “friends” with Draco (in other words, they weren’t rude to him in public, because the code of Slytherin House necessitated presenting a united front), this meant it was basically their fault? Somehow?
Bloody Gryffindor logic.
Irritated, Mary and Lilian left, overhearing Weasley tell the other boys that the two of them were ‘stuck-up bitches’ as they did. She was pretty sure he just hated all Slytherins as a matter of principle, but he had had a bit of a grudge against Mary in particular since back in first year, when she’d lied on the train and convinced him she wasn’t Mary Potter. He’d never forgiven her for making him look stupid in front of the twins, who’d caught on to her identity right away, like he thought it was personal or something, and it had only made matters worse when he’d seen her threatening Colin Creevey in Parseltongue last year for blinding her with his camera flash during Quidditch tryouts.
No one really liked the Little Weasel any more than they liked Draco, though, other than the boys’ respective little cliques, so it was no skin off Mary’s back. And not all of his friends were so awful—Neville, at least, was alright, even if he let Weasley bully him into doing stupid shite all the time.
Rolling their eyes and deciding that, if they were stuck-up bitches, it was only because they actually had a modicum of class, unlike certain boys they knew, Mary and Lilian returned to their original compartment. They found Hermione and Remus sitting quietly right where they’d left them, one still reading and the other, once again, asleep. They were recounting all of the gossip from the other students to Hermione in hushed tones when the train suddenly lurched to a stop.
Well. That was horrible.
Fucking Sirius Black again. Mary was holding him personally responsible for those thrice-cursed dementors, and the fact that she’d screamed and fainted in front of not only her best friends but Remus too.
Her friends hadn’t been much better off, either. At the end of last year, Snape had taken the memory block off of Ginny, letting her remember everything that had happened while she was possessed, and used an Inception Charm to let Hermione see Ginny’s memories of that year. When the dementors came onto the train, Hermione had apparently remembered those memories, and a vision she’d had during the Yule ritual last year of what would have happened if she’d been sorted into Slytherin.
So Hermione had been very pale when Mary had come to, and when they’d gotten off the train, Ginny had made a beeline for them, shaking and clinging to Hermione’s hand while the older girl whispered in her ears. Mary didn’t think Ginny had fainted like her, but she was pretty sure that her worst memories would have been even worse than Mary’s—apparently she had attempted suicide multiple times last year, but Riddle had stopped her every time. Mary didn’t even want to think about what her younger friend had been through.
At least when Madam Pomfrey was looking Mary over afterward, she fixed her arm for her as well, taking the cast off, but by the time they were done, Mary and Hermione, who’d tagged along to talk to Professor McGonagall about her class schedule for the year—apparently she was somehow taking every single class—had missed the Sorting!
Mary would have been pleased to find out that she’d been right about Rhees going to Slytherin, and had won fifteen galleons, considering the odds, except that the atmosphere at her House’s table was so incredibly uncomfortable that she couldn’t help but think that it might have been for the best if she’d been wrong.
His first month in Slytherin would probably be worse than hers, and that was saying something—she’d nearly been killed at one point, when the bullying had escalated to the extent of an older student pushing her down the stairs. She had only managed to get everyone to back off when she’d had the idea to bring a mated pair of Cleo’s Asps—magical, highly venomous snakes—from the Forbidden Forest into the castle, and to wake up Draco Malfoy, who had initiated the bullying, with one snake coiled around him, fangs against his neck, and the other draped over her shoulders.
After that, the other Slytherins had pretty much accepted her presence in the House, because really, where else would a Parselmouth belong? Though it had caused some trouble for her, as the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs had started shunning her once they’d heard, and Hermione had been angry with her for weeks, and when the whole Heir of Slytherin thing happened the following year, it had only gotten worse.
Still, as far as Mary was concerned, it had been worth it. Especially because, when Snape had found out, he’d told her that her plan had been “effective, but lacking in grace or subtlety” and then given her five House Points!
Rhees, however, didn’t have any rare Dark abilities, as far as Mary was aware, so she wasn’t sure how he’d be able to defend himself against what was to come.
Maybe Professor Snape would intervene? He always said to tell him if hazing escalated to the point of bullying, and had offered to do something when Mary was the target, but she had felt that the other students wouldn’t respect her if she went running to their Head of House for help. Still, they didn’t need to respect Rhees, so long as they didn’t kill the poor kid.
Taking a seat beside Lilian, Mary snuck a glance at the High Table, wanting to see if Snape was paying attention to the tension brewing among his students, but found him glaring with utter loathing at Remus Lupin instead. Shite. She knew they hadn’t been friends in school, but Remus always talked about it with an air of nostalgia, like he knew he’d been young and foolish, but could reminisce about it almost fondly now. But Snape looked downright murderous. She hadn’t seen him so angry since—maybe ever? He hadn’t even looked that angry when he’d been in the middle of killing Quirrellmort.
If her two favorite professors hated each other, Mary probably had a long year ahead of her. It was well-known among the Slytherins that Snape, who had applied to the Defense position and been rejected many years in a row, would always hate the Defense professor, no matter who they were. One of the Snape Facts the prefects told the new first years was, “Don’t ever say anything complimentary about the Defense professor if you want to stay on Professor Snape’s good side.” But how was Mary supposed to manage that when the new professor was Remus, and when Snape apparently hated him even more than the others?
Snape looked a little different today, too, and not just because of the hatred on his face, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, so she turned back to Lilian. Quietly, her friend caught her up on what she’d missed, mostly the Sorting and the reaction of their housemates to Rhees. They were just wondering where Blaise, Daphne, and Theo were—they’d promised to sit together—when Blaise snuck up on them from behind, whispering in Mary’s ear to make her jump before pushing his way in between them on the bench.
Mary hit him for scaring her, complaining, “Don’t do that, you arsehole!” Blaise, however, did not seem especially chastened.
“I think he likes that,” Lilian pointed out with a smirk.
Wrapping his arms around them, Blaise pulled the two girls in close and whispered, “Of course I do, but then, you always knew I was a sick puppy, Moon.”
He was being such a flirt—way more than he’d been before they’d left for the summer, she was pretty sure—that Mary finally asked, “Aren’t you and Daphne dating?”
“Dating might be too strong of a word. We’re friends. Our parents are in pre-pre-nuptial negotiations. It’s an open relationship,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows. “It’s no big deal until we’re at least fifteen.”
Merlin. Mary knew from her lessons with Catherine that the Noble families tended to be old fashioned, and that fifteen was considered the age of adulthood in many ways, even if not by the Ministry—it was the age when you could form magically binding contracts, and be presented to society at the Festa Morgana on Yule or the Midsummer Ball, and it was the age of consent—but it was something else to think that two of her yearmates would be engaged in two years’ time. Less, actually, since their birthdays were earlier than hers.
After a bit more of Blaise gossiping, teasing, and flirting with them, which seemed to be his new modus oparandi, he left them behind, and Mary and Lilian spent the rest of the meal voyeuristically observing Professors Snape and Sinistra at the High Table.
“Snape shoots furtive glance at Sinistra,” Mary commented in her best newscaster voice, “who appears to be checking out Remus, possibly only to irritate Snape.”
“Ooh,” Lilian added. “Snape’s left hand vanishes behind the table. Judging by that expression, I doubt it’s doing anything innocent down there…”
“Sinistra, boiling mad, or potentially just boiling, gives Snape a smoldering glare.”
“Have you been reading Hermione’s romance novels?” Lilian teased.
“No, only the particularly well-worn scenes of Catherine’s. Why?”
“Your sexy dialogue needs work.”
Mary pouted. She thought it had been a good line, thank you very much!
The Potions and Astronomy professors were well known to be, well, not lovers exactly, but involved, even though they didn’t actually seem to like each other much. But they didn’t want anyone to know, even though everyone already did, at least in Slytherin, so if you caught them alone together, like Mary and a group of her friends had back in her first year, you could usually blackmail Snape into some sort of favor. For instance, overlooking them being out on the Quidditch pitch in the middle of the night.
In the process of their spectating, the two girls finally realized what was different about Snape today—his hair wasn’t greasy anymore! It was well known among the Slytherins that Sinistra had put a curse on it, but it looked like he’d finally found a way to break it, or else somehow convinced her to. The prefects would have to come up with a new Snape Fact for the first years.
The Snape Facts included things like:
“Professor Snape is not a morning person, holds his office hours and House Meetings late at night, and can be bribed with black coffee.”
“Professor Snape used to be a Death Eater and takes the Truce very seriously.”
“Professor Snape is very thin and skips most meals, but he is not anorexic, and to say so is insensitive and crass.”
“Professor Snape is almost always in his office, even outside of office hours, but you can only knock on his door if it’s not fully closed. You can also trail him after dinner and try to follow him into his office before he shuts the door, but you must never knock on the door to his personal quarters. The last kid who did was in the hospital wing for a week.”
“There are three things that will get you a detention from Professor Snape, without fail: Jokes about his hair, messing around in Potions, and using the word ‘mudblood.’ Not only is it filthy language and a minor breach of the Truce, the Professor himself is a halfblood, so watch your mouths.”
“Professor Snape is shagging Professor Sinistra, but don’t comment on it within earshot of either of them if you value your life.”
But they weren’t in earshot of the professors now, and so, giggling, Mary and Lilian whispered back and forth to each other, narrating every glance and expression.
Finally, when the cacophony of the school song ended—the Slytherins, as always, covering their ears and refusing to participate in the madness—the magically amplified voice of Chesterfield, the new fifth year boys’ prefect, whispered in their ears, telling them the new password to the common room, and that they would have a five minute headstart to get there before the first years, who would, as always, be forced to play a game of telephone with the password before they would finally be allowed to enter.
It was supposed to teach them not to spread rumors or something, according to Snape, but Mary was pretty sure he and the prefects just thought it was funny.
In the common room, they found Blaise laying on top of both Daphne and Theo—what was up with him this year? While Daphne was unconcerned, playing with her almost-fiancé’s hair, Theo begged Mary and Lilian to rescue him, but like hell were they going to give Blaise a chance to trap them, too.
“What the hell happened to you over the summer, Zabini?” Lilian asked, mirroring Mary’s own thoughts. “You never used to be this physically affectionate.” But it sounded like she was only pretending to be annoyed. Which Mary could understand: Blaise was probably the fittest boy in their year.
“Either I’ve decided to embrace my true heritage as an incubus, or Number Seven finally bit it, and I’m in need of comforting.”
Mary considered commenting on that—she was pretty sure he was joking about being an incubus, but not completely sure, and she’d almost forgotten how open he could be about his mum and her husbands (victims)—but came to the conclusion that she’d rather not get pulled into his nonsense. Besides, not long after, Blaise let Theo loose, and Snape appeared out of one of the many side tunnels leading into the common room to await the first years.
While Lilian, Blaise, and the others went to bed as soon as Snape was done introducing the new students to the rest of the House and giving everyone a basic reminder of the rules, Mary hung around, waiting somewhat awkwardly on the couch as Snape went into his much longer spiel for the firsties. He seemed to spend even more time than usual on the Truce, and on the fact that bullying would not be tolerated, probably trying to head off trouble for Rhees before it began. Mary couldn’t help but think he was fighting a losing battle, but it was good of him to try.
She hid a grin when he very seriously told the snakelings the two rules of Slytherin House: “What happens in Slytherin stays in Slytherin” and “Don’t get caught.” He made the students repeat them back until satisfied they would remember.
Mary was lingering for two reasons. Primarily, after the announcement that Hagrid would be the new Care of Magical Creatures professor, she wanted permission to drop the class. She had enough electives already, with Arithmancy and Runes, and given that this was the same Hagrid who’d tried to raise a dragon in a wooden hut, and who had brought a group of eleven-and-twelve-year-olds into the Forbidden Forest to look for something that was killing unicorns, she was certain there would be at least one fatality in his class this year, and she didn’t want it to be her. She had already nearly died quite enough times for one academic career, thank you very much.
Secondly, though, she just wanted to check if things were okay between them. Normal, she meant. They hadn’t interacted at all during the shopping trip, so she still had no idea if he was holding a grudge against her for showing up looking like a ghost from his tortured past and making him show something like an emotion in front of other people. He was prickly about that sort of thing.
When he was finished talking, though, he left the room before she could even get off the couch, doing that dramatic thing he did with his robes all billowing behind him. Trying to impress the snakelings, probably. Well, shite. She considered just going to bed—if he was actually avoiding her, she didn’t want to press the issue and get snapped at—but she really wanted to drop Creatures before her first class, so she followed him out into the hallway.
To her relief, she found that he was waiting for her, leaning against the wall with a smirk on his face. And when he said, “Hello, Mary Elizabeth. Need I remind you of my office hours again?” she knew that everything would be just fine.
Notes:
Tbh "his FWB got mad at him and cursed it" is my favorite explanation for Snape's hair I've seen in any fic.
Chapter 3: The First Betrayal
Notes:
This chapter runs concurrently to Chapters 8, 9, and 10 of Chained Servant. Some dialogue is taken from CS, again with permission, while other parts are original. Changes are building up, and the next chapter will be totally different than what happens in CS!
Thanks to the wonderful Leigha for sorta beta reading the final scene of this chapter and helping me with Snape's characterization.
CW for briefly implied CSA/incest involving a minor character, discussion of a past case of attempted rape via love potion, and various examples of people being nonconsensually dosed with potions, including in this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The first week of classes got off to an interesting start with Remus’s first lesson. Mary’s yearmates hadn’t believed her claim that they finally had a decent Defense professor, so they’d decided to haze him, despite her protests. Blaise was an obnoxious prat all class, getting himself chosen to demonstrate how a boggart worked, only to force it to change shapes over and over until Remus stopped him.
Apparently some more traditional families, Blaise’s mum among them, used boggarts to teach their kids occlumency, which could be used to control the Dark creatures. Daphne even told Mary that Blaise had a pet boggart at home, though Mary wasn’t entirely certain she believed her.
In any case, Blaise had gotten himself thoroughly told off: apparently controlling a boggart like that was something called Shadowmancy, which was both a Dark Art and also illegal, and he had ruined the simplified explanation Remus had used to explain the creatures to them. As it turned out, Remus had hoped to prime them to see the boggart as something more harmless, like a snake or a ghoul, rather than their real greatest fear, which was probably something more like the deaths of their families and friends.
But they’d had to face it anyway—once you saw a boggart take a certain form, you were more likely to see it that way the rest of your life, and he wanted them to settle on something now, before they’d seen enough of life to have even worse fears. Still, thanks to Blaise messing up the lesson for them, Lilian had seen her sister Aerin lying dead on the ground, so Lilian was furious with him.
Greg Goyle’s had been pretty horrible, too: he’d seen his big brother with his hand down his trousers, touching himself, which Mary had tried not to think about the implications of. Pansy, Vinnie, and Daphne had gotten permission to face the boggart in private in Remus’s office, so theirs must have been even worse. None of them had been very happy with Blaise by the time they were done.
When Mary had stepped forward and it turned into a dementor, the class had devolved into absolute chaos: Blaise had shouted, “Potter, you idiot, you gave it mind powers!” and stunned her to force it to target someone else. When she came to, Theo and Daphne had cornered the boggart and forced it to turn into Lady Malfoy, who was berating Draco on the state of his tie.
By the end of the lesson, though, even Blaise had been forced to admit that Remus knew what he was doing, and their new Defense professor had gotten the stamp of approval from the third year Slytherins, at least.
Remus, on the other hand, was less than impressed with Blaise, along with Draco, Daphne, and Theo, whom he seemed to have decided were budding Dark mages. Blaise had been scolded on trying to play “sadistic” games with magical creatures and assigned a detention copying out the relevant laws on Shadowmancy. Mary hoped Remus would warm up to her friends in time, but really, Blaise had only himself to blame, the arse.
She had her first Ancient Runes lesson with almost all the Slytherins in her year—the Slytherin dorms had private bedrooms and, starting next year, they’d have to set their own wards, lest they fall prey to pranks and hazing when the default wards were removed. On the plus side, it meant that they’d finally be allowed to have friends in their rooms; the default wards were set up to forbid anyone but the room owners and the seventh year prefects from going inside.
Mary had been right to drop Creatures, from what Lilian told her: Draco had gotten his arm savaged by a hippogriff in their very first lesson. Mary tried very, very hard not to tell her friend I told you so. Still, Lilian was staying in the class, as well as Divination, despite it being taught by a total fraud, according to her and Hermione. Hermione was upset they wouldn’t be learning anything useful, but Lilian was happy enough to use the class as an excuse to gossip with Pansy, Tracey, and some of the Hufflepuff girls. Mary, however, was glad she’d decided not to take it.
Speaking of Lilian and gossip… Ever since the train, Mary had been avoiding her, certain that her friend wanted to interrogate her on why she hadn’t told her she was on informal terms with Snape. Sure enough, after only a few days, Lilian caught her off guard, dragged her into a corner of the library, and said, “Okay, you. Professor Snape. Spill.”
Though Mary did her best to change the subject, Lilian refused to let her, and finally, the whole story came spilling out.
“Well, at the end of last year, we got to talking—he’s weirdly talkative if you can get him going—and he mentioned he was friends with my mum. Like, really good friends. Like, he would probably have been my godfather if things had gone differently kind of friends. They met when they were five or so, and, well, it sounded like she was the sister he never had, basically.”
From Lilian’s skeptical look, she could tell her friend still thought Snape had fancied her, but they’d just have to agree to disagree on that.
“So I told him that I thought I would have liked that—mind, I didn’t know then what being a godparent actually means, here in the magical world, but I mean, I still think he would have been a good one—much better than Black, at least, but I don’t know if he knows I didn’t know that then, or if he thinks that I’m thinking of him in basically a parental sort of way or what. Which I wasn’t. Don’t. Whatever. I don’t really think I need a parent at this point. If I did, I might choose him, maybe, I mean, he’s been nice enough to me, always saving my life and stuff, and like, turning a blind eye toward our messes… but I don’t really know how to think of him now that I do know what he meant. Or probably meant.
“And then he invited me to be informal, and I said yes, because you don’t turn down an offer of informality from Professor Snape of all people, but it’s like, super weird calling him by his first name, and I don’t want to call him ‘Uncle’ or anything, and honestly it’s practically impossible to think of him as anything but a professor and our Head of House first, and it’s been bothering me all summer.
“And then I saw him at Diagon Alley, but, well, remember how I glamoured my hair red as a disguise? I swear, Lilian, he looked really upset when he saw me, he even left for a second, and I’m certain it’s because he thought I was my mum at first, only Hermione didn’t believe me that he was upset, and it’s not like I can just be like, ‘Sorry for accidentally looking like my dead mum who was your best friend and maybe you also fancied,’ even if he was angry he would just be even angrier at me for acknowledging that I maybe saw him display an emotion for once in his life, but I’m afraid things are going to be weird between us now. Weirder than they’d already be, with the whole godfather thing, I mean. But—but what if he thinks I did it on purpose?
“But I can’t bring it up, ‘cause when he came back to the Leaky Cauldron, he was like pretending none of it had happened, so I suppose he doesn’t want me to acknowledge it, and then he was all Miss Potter like he always has been when everyone was making introductions and greetings, and I don’t know if that was just because it was, like, public, or if he was mad at me for the hair thing, or what, because he called me Mary Elizabeth when I went to talk to him about dropping Hagrid’s class, and I just have no idea where I stand with him. Merlin and Morgan—some days I just hate all this propriety BS. Lilian, I’m so confused!” she finished in a sort of desperate, uncomfortably shrill voice.
Throughout the entire rant, Lilian’s mouth had been hanging open, and by this point, she had progressed to laughing at her, but Mary couldn’t stop herself from adding, “Oh, and I’m pretty sure he sent me a potions knife as a thirteenth birthday gift, but I don’t know for sure, because the note wasn’t signed. I can’t think of anyone else it might have been, though.”
She really should stop talking now.
Looking around to make sure no one was listening, Lilian leaned in and whispered, “So, do you call him… Severus?”
“No! I call him Snape! Or sir. I’m not sure even Professor Sinistra calls him Severus.”
With a slightly irritating smirk, Lilian asked, “Is that it, then? That’s the secret turmoil that you’ve been hiding?”
“Lilian, you didn’t see his face when he saw my hair!” Mary whined. “But I did, and he knows I did, and I can’t imagine he’s happy about it. I’ve literally never seen him look that upset.”
“Come off it,” Lilian scoffed—apparently, like Hermione, she just wasn’t going to believe her. “It was probably a trick of the light or something. Fancying your dead mum is one thing, but Professor Snape’s not the type of person to get all… emotional. I think his primary emotions are ‘pissed off’ and ‘sarcastic.’”
Mary considered trying to argue the point, but didn’t. Honestly, she hadn’t even wanted to tell Lilian all this in the first place. It felt… private. And Lilian was making fun of her for being stressed out about it, but it was a big deal! She’d made an enormous mess of her entire relationship with Snape, and it wasn’t like he was an easy man to just talk to and clear things up with.
Especially not when she was still technically in trouble with him for her actions the previous year: her first detention for the Veritaserum Conspiracy was quickly approaching, having been scheduled for one p.m. on Saturday. After days of dodging Marcus Flint, their Quidditch captain, she and Lilian had finally come up with an excuse, telling him they were in ‘remedial potions tutoring’ on Saturday afternoons, which everyone in Slytherin knew was code for ‘detention’.
It took some back-and-forth with Snape and Flint, but eventually, they’d worked out an agreement: Quidditch practices would be Sunday mornings, so there would be no overlap, and Mary (along with Lilian, if she made the starting lineup) would be allowed to miss detention for their first match in November, so long as she made up double the hours on the Sunday following the match.
Which would be a major pain—Mary would have almost preferred letting Draco take her spot in their first match, rather than having more detention, as she was pretty sure Snape was planning something horrible for them. But on the plus side, she wasn’t being kicked off the team, and she and her friends weren’t going to Azkaban for committing a Class 4 Felony against their fellow students, so she had that going for her.
Mary was right: Snape’s detention was horrible, and in a completely different way than she had expected.
The few days leading up to it had already been eventful: first, Lilian and Draco had gotten into a shouting match at dinner over him trying to get Hagrid sacked and the hippogriff put down. Everyone knew that Draco really just wanted his father to let him drop the class, but Lilian thought hippogriffs were awesome, so now she wasn’t speaking to him.
Then, after stopping eight first and second year Slytherin boys from attacking Dave Rhees in the hallway, breaking not just the Truce, but also the first rule of Slytherin House by doing it in public, Mary had gotten put on a fucking tribunal by the Slytherin prefects, Morgana among them. Apparently the little brats had made up a bunch of accusations against her, and they all came from good families, so the prefects had taken it seriously. Flint had spoken on behalf of ‘the families of the aggrieved,’ since his little brother had been one of the students she’d stopped.
In reality, though, Flint had actually been on her side, since she was his star seeker. She’d gotten away with ten hours of detention for using magic against and threatening her fellow students, while the boys had all gotten five to eleven hours each, varying based on their ages and involvement in the attack. But in exchange, she’d had to promise Flint some unspecified favor in the future, which probably wouldn’t be anything good.
Finally, on Friday night, Mary and her yearmates had their first lesson in “Slytherin Emergency Resources, Protocols, and Conduct,” which was Snape’s secret class for the third years, and was more colloquially referred to as “Introduction to Slythering.” Snape didn’t seem to like that name, making a face when he said it, but Mary thought it was cute. (The name, not the face.)
Snape told them they would be learning his emergency protocols, like the ones the prefects had implemented when the troll had been set loose back in first year, then strategic thinking and planning, and the “Slytherin Sneaking Spells,” which included a whole bunch of stealth and anti-eavesdropping spells, plus basic first aid and emergency charms.
On the one hand, Mary was excited about this, especially the stealth charms—she’d been wanting to learn the Disillusionment Charm since first year—and felt bad, as she often did, for her friends in other Houses. Compared to Snape, it seemed like Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout barely did anything.
On the other hand, between Potions, this new class, the Veritaserum detentions, and now her additional detentions over the Rhees thing, she was starting to feel like she might have a little too much Snape in her life, especially given that she barely knew how to talk to him normally anymore. Her first detention for Rhees was served that night, immediately after the Slythering class.
Mary was really nervous for it—not because she thought Snape would be that upset about her defending Rhees, even if she had cursed some underclassmen to do it, but because it would be the longest time she’d spent alone with him since the shopping trip.
When they were alone in his office, Snape raised an eyebrow and smirked at her, looking amused enough that she was pretty sure he wasn’t mad about her getting herself more detentions, at least.
“Mary Elizabeth.”
“Professor Snape,” she responded, mimicking his expression, but erring on the side of formality. For some reason, this made him look even more amused.
“The prefects inform me that you have taken up arms on behalf of young Rhees.” But still, he didn’t sound mad. It sounded almost like he was testing her, she thought.
Mary decided that the safest answer was probably, “I was defending the Truce.” Whether he approved of her defending her first muggleborn housemate or not, she knew he’d approve of that, at least.
“And a first year muggleborn.” Still with that testing quality in his tone, like he wanted to figure something out.
“I would have done the same for a pureblood,” she insisted, self-conscious at his scrutiny. “It was eight against one. I don’t like bullies.”
Snape examined her for a moment longer before sighing, pointing out that her interfering once would hardly be enough to protect Rhees. Which was true, unfortunately. Mary wasn’t really sure what else to do if—when—her housemates continued harassing the younger boy. Set the Weasley twins on the culprits, maybe?
Still, Mary was left with the impression that Snape rather approved of her actions—or, at least, he didn’t disapprove. All she had to do was copy something out of an old Latin book, then translate it into English in her next two detentions. And she didn’t think their conversation had been too awkward. He hadn’t acted any differently than before the shopping trip. It was almost enough to make her question her own eyes, wondering if, like Lilian had suggested, the pain on his face had been a trick of the light.
On the other hand, they also hadn’t… Mary wasn’t really sure what, just that she’d wanted something that hadn’t occurred. Maybe for them to really talk? At the end of last year, he’d talked to her more about her mum, and the Dark Lord, and himself, and that had been nice. And since it was her first time talking to him alone since then, not counting that short conversation outside the common room Sunday night, she’d maybe thought… Well.
Just because he’d talked to her like that once, and said she was like his goddaughter, that didn’t mean it would happen again. But despite knowing that, she still felt the tiniest bit disappointed when leaving his office that night.
But that didn’t mean she was dreading her Saturday detention with him any less. It wasn’t like they were going to have a nice conversation about life and magic while he was punishing her and her friends for drugging everyone. By the time the following afternoon rolled around, after a nice morning of flying practice with Lilian and Draco—who were apparently already speaking again—Mary found herself dragging her feet down the hallway to the Potions classroom. It felt like she’d only just left detention with Snape, and now she was right back!
But when she got to the classroom, along with Hermione, Lilian, Aerin, Luna, Fred, George, Morgana, Perry, and Adrian, Snape wasn’t even there. Nor did he appear, even when the clock struck one, but instead, the door slammed shut of its own accord, and words appeared on the chalkboard in front of them. Only two sentences, rather simple:
Three among you have been exposed to improperly brewed Veritaserum. Your detention consists of diagnosing and reversing the effects before the time runs out.
What in the nine hells?
The students erupted into chaos, arguing about whether or not Snape would actually do that. Hermione was firmly on the side of ‘No,’ because he was a professor. A real one, not possessed or anything, and he wouldn’t just poison a bunch of students.
But the three older Slytherins felt differently, as did the twins. Pale and grim, all of them talking at once, the upperclassmen tried to tell the five younger girls about someone named Damian Stryke. From what Mary was able to gather, he had been a boy who, four years ago, dosed a Hufflepuff girl with a homemade love potion and nearly killed her.
Snape, according to the upperclassmen, had poisoned Stryke in retaliation with a potion known as Narcissus’s Cordial, and for two weeks, Stryke had been so obsessed with his own reflection that he had stopped going to classes or even eating, staring into the mirror until he’d ended up in the hospital wing and Dumbledore had finally called Snape off.
Adrian concluded the story: “And then, when Stryke finally ‘recovered,’ and it got out what he’d done, the professor had the lot of us in the Commons for a two hour lecture on potions safety and consequences, and it was pretty damn clear he was giving Stryke a look in the mirror.”
(“Literally,” said the twins, who had to make a fucking pun.)
Mary, though, didn’t believe it—that he would poison them, that was, not the Stryke thing. She didn’t have Hermione’s blind trust in their professors, not after Quirrellmort, and Lockhart, and fucking Hagrid, but this was different. This wasn’t just any professor; this was Snape. His entire thing was protecting her! There was no way he would poison her.
She tried to tell the others that Snape must be lying, that he wouldn’t put them in danger just to make a point. But no one believed her.
They were all shouting over each other, giving her a fucking awful headache, and Perry said Snape was a “cruel bastard,” which, okay, was not entirely untrue, but he wouldn’t.
But then Hermione said that she was experiencing chills, and trembling in her hands, which were two side effects of botched Veritaserum, and everyone lost it even more than they already had, and Mary’s protests were drowned out. No one was listening to her, and—
“Mary Elizabeth, you’ve been rubbing at your temples for over a minute now,” Luna said quietly, and everyone turned to look at Mary, and she knew just what they were thinking.
“I’m not poisoned!” she insisted. “Snape wouldn’t do that.”
But no one paid her any mind at all, only insisting that she was in denial, that she was hysterical.
“He’s saved my life loads of times! He wouldn’t poison me!”
They only cast her pitying looks, Lilian patting her on the back, as she gave up arguing and laid her head down on her desk in her frustration and the pain of her headache.
Mary might not know how to interact with Snape right now, but she did know some things about him, like that he protected her. That was the bedrock of her understanding of him as a person, had been since the end of first year. He talked to her, told her things that other people wouldn’t. Told her things about himself that none of the other students knew. That had to mean something.
In truth, Mary could believe that Snape would poison a student. Damian Stryke, from what the others had said, had had it coming. She could absolutely picture Snape putting that bastard in the hospital wing. And of the people in this room, well, he really didn’t like the twins, especially after they’d kidnapped her. And she could even imagine him slipping Hermione something non-fatal, maybe, since she’d been the one to come up with the Veritaserum plot in the first place, and he thought she was a reckless know-it-all.
But her? No. No!
Professor Snape would never put her in danger like that, not just to punish her. He wouldn’t. Not after their talk last term, when he’d said he saw her as his goddaughter—even if he hadn’t known exactly what he was implying, it had to mean something. At the very least, she should mean more to him than the other students. Out of everyone in this room he could poison, he wouldn’t choose her.
Would he?
From the corner of the Potions lab, surrounded by a powerful Notice-Me-Not spell and a Bubble-Head Charm to avoid breathing in the air, Severus Snape watched ten students race to cure themselves of a potion none of them had ingested.
He had thought the concept for their first detention rather clever. As the group had covertly dosed most of the school with homemade Veritaserum the prior term, the detention had been orchestrated to make them believe that they themselves were facing one of the consequences they had risked inflicting upon their fellow students.
When they’d arrived for the detention, they had been greeted not only with his note on the chalkboard, but also: a selection of “potions ingredients” at their disposal for brewing, all nothing more than transfigured water; an aerosolized Suggestibility Solution diffused into the air of the lab; and, of course, Severus watching it all, completely unnoticed.
Unfortunately, his enjoyment of his own cleverness, and the entertainment of watching his students work themselves up over a nonexistent threat, did not survive the onset of symptoms in the group.
He had guessed correctly ahead of time that the most likely to develop psychosomatic symptoms would be Miss Granger, who was especially trusting of authority figures and had done the most research into potential symptoms already. Indeed, once she had realized what was happening, her symptoms had progressed with the same textbook precision of her answers in class: chills and shaking hands which, over the course of the eight hour detention, would progress to full-body tremors, symptoms of Conculi’s Error.
This was just as planned, given that these punishments were perhaps directed more at her than any other student, except perhaps Miss Yaxley (who, as one of his prefects-in-training at the time, ought to have known better). Even reprimanding his prefect, however, was less urgent than curtailing Miss Granger’s thoughtless pursuit of her own mad ideas and utter conviction of her own rightness.
After becoming aware that she had roped her friends into assaulting and drugging three-quarters of the school, brewed Polyjuice Potion with stolen ingredients from his stores in an unsupervised laboratory with the Weasley twins, and turned herself into a bloody cat, he had come to the conclusion that the Ravenclaw girl was as big of a danger to Mary Elizabeth as the remaining servants of the Dark Lord, and that, if left unchecked, it was only a matter of time before she came up with a scheme that killed them both.
The need to teach Miss Granger this lesson had become even more pressing this year, as Minerva and Filius, the utter imbeciles, had put a time turner into her hands. Even if a Miss Granger with access to time travel and an increased amount of free time did not lead directly to Mary Elizabeth’s demise, Severus would eventually be required to clean up whatever mess she inevitably made of time.
It was one of the duties Dumbledore forced onto him—fixing any esoteric or Dark problems within the school, including the misadventures of whichever students ended up with time turners in any given year. It was one of his least favorite duties as a professor, perhaps second only to having to pretend to respect the old goat, at least in front of other people.
In any case, Miss Granger’s symptoms were proceeding just as he’d planned, but the other two students’ were not. Had he taken the time to determine the other most likely students to be affected, he would have guessed the younger Miss Moon (disappointingly gullible for a Slytherin) and either of the Messers Weasley (who were not just the only Gryffindors in the room, and therefore more like his usual targets, but had also kidnapped Mary Elizabeth, an act which had hardly endeared them to him).
He would have been wrong. Not only who else would exhibit symptoms, but also the fact that they would be psychosomatic in the first place—because Miss Lovegood and Miss Potter were exhibiting very real symptoms, though not from Veritaserum.
Miss Lovegood’s reaction to the Suggestibility Solution had been to begin displaying a greater lucidity and coherence than he had ever seen in her before. The only thing he knew could cause that effect would be if she had been taking the antidote to Suggestibility Solution unnecessarily—not just once, but on a regular basis for at least six months. The results of this could include chronic confusion, delusions, and even hallucinations, which, he had to admit, would go some way towards explaining her general disposition.
None of the ten students were meant to be on any potions. He had checked with Poppy before carrying out this detention, not wanting to accidentally poison anyone via an unexpected interaction. This suggested that the second year student was either continuously abusing or being nonconsensually dosed with an unnecessary potion without the knowledge of the school healer.
Now that he was aware of this, Severus, as Potions Master, would be responsible for calling a meeting with Poppy, Filius, and, most likely, Miss Lovegood’s father. Another of his least favorite parts of his job. His annoyance with this added task, and his anger at the idea of the young student potentially being dosed against her will, or else without her understanding, quite spoiled his fun.
Then there was Mary Elizabeth’s reaction—not more concerning than the Lovegood girl’s, but somehow more immediately troubling to Severus. Her headache was not a result of her imagining symptoms, falling prey to the Suggestibility Solution, but rather a result of her resisting it. She was wrestling with cognitive dissonance, refusing to believe what the situation was engineered to make her believe. Had she simply given in and accepted it, her pain would have vanished.
But she wouldn’t. From the first moment, she had told the other students that they were wrong, that the note was a trick. She insisted, over and over, that Severus “wouldn’t do that,” that he wouldn’t put her in danger, not after the times he had saved her life. Her fellow students attempted to convince her, reminding her that he was a Death Eater and a spy, and even telling her the tale of Damian Stryke.
(They had gotten all the facts of Stryke’s case correct, except that Severus’s punishment of the attempted rapist had been at Sinistra’s request, after Dumbledore had refused to expel the boy, not wanting to let a “mistake” ruin the life of a promising young Gryffindor. Sinistra had also been the one who’d leaked the story to the Prophet, but she had preferred to let Severus take full credit for the punishment, not wanting the student body to know how vicious she could be. He did appreciate a certain vindictive streak in a woman.)
However, Mary Elizabeth flatly refused to believe them. Watching her, Severus found himself genuinely dumbfounded. His snakes were typically more trusting of him than students from other Houses, but they still understood that he was fundamentally a cruel bastard, as Mr. Wilkes had put it. He took care of his students, protected them when necessary, as he had protected the girl, but he could not think of one of them in all his years of teaching that had shown anywhere near the degree of faith in him that she was demonstrating today.
In some ways, it was for the best that she be cured of this naivety early. Even if she was not entirely wrong that he would not purposefully put her, or any student (well, other than pigs like Stryke, perhaps), in danger, her trust in him was quite undeserved. Protecting his students from harm was the bare fucking minimum. In the long run, she would be better served by a healthy degree of cynicism—perhaps especially when it came to men like him. Painful as she might find the lesson, he ought not to regret teaching it to her.
However, whether he ought to or not, he found the entire experience surprisingly agonizing. The astounding discovery that the girl—Lily’s girl, as he had been so painfully reminded only a few weeks prior—held him on such a pedestal, followed by having to stand there for hours, silently watching as she was soundly punished for her trust in him, suffering only because of her refusal to believe the worst in him as the others so readily did, made him feel genuinely sick.
He found himself having the very un-Snape-like urge to end the ruse early, just so that he could reassure her, end her suffering. For fuck’s sake, the other students were not even able to brew a proper Willowbark Tea to at least ease the poor girl’s headache, given that none of the ingredients were real.
Severus was not a sentimental man, but with nothing to do but stew in his thoughts as he watched them, he had the thought that he was watching something quite innocent and remarkable being snuffed out before his very eyes, akin to the possessed Quirrell’s hunting of the Forest’s unicorns. Something he had not even known existed, had not even dreamed could exist, before he so carelessly destroyed it.
The worst part was knowing that, if he chose, he could reveal himself, proving himself, in that moment, the man she believed he was—but at the cost of a crucial lesson. He could not allow these students to go out into the world after Hogwarts believing they had the right to choose to inflict such risks on their fellow mages as they had when they drugged them with Veritaserum, and to end their punishment halfway through out of softhearted foolishness would only reinforce the opposite lesson, teaching them that they were above reproach, that they could get away with anything.
And with Miss Granger in the group, along with multiple students with Death Eater parents who might one day encourage them to follow in their footsteps, he could not afford to allow them to come away with that impression.
Not to mention, it would break one of the rules he had set for himself when Lily’s daughter had become one of his Slytherins: not to coddle her or blatantly favor her above her fellow students, for that would not only ruin his credibility as their professor but also interfere with the growth necessary for the girl to become a functional adult, one without the arrogance that had been the flaw of both of her parents.
It had been difficult enough to remain impartial already. Her first year at Hogwarts, he had done his best to simply avoid her, not trusting himself to be unbiased in his treatment of the girl. Not simply because of Lily, or even Potter, but because, ever since the summer of ‘91, when he had learned from Minerva that the girl had been brought to the castle early—a measure only taken for students from highly abusive homes—and their first meeting, when she had refused his assistance with the bullying she received as an outcast within Slytherin House, she had reminded him of neither of her parents so much as of a younger version of himself.
He’d barely known the girl, and already, there had been entirely too much history there, too much that she signified to him, for him to feel that he could simply interact with her like any other student. He had despaired when he’d seen her sorted into his House—why could she not have gone anywhere else, where she wouldn’t have been his problem?
However, as the year had gone on, he had learned that Mary Elizabeth Potter was such a magnet for danger that simply ignoring her was not an option. Minerva was too busy, and too much of a Gryffindor, to protect the girl as needed, and the Headmaster saw her as nothing but a political symbol. If Severus did not look out for her—not only keep her alive, as he had vowed after Lily’s death, but give her sorely needed mentorship—she would be left to the wolves.
So he had been trying, despite the fact that he had no idea how to be a good influence on a young girl, or how to have any sort of positive familial-like relationship. Because it had been clear that she needed someone. At the same time, however, he would have to walk the line of keeping their relationship professional, remembering that she was his student first and foremost. She needed a functional, consistent adult in her life, not someone viewing her as a symbol of his own mistakes, his own guilt.
He had been tested recently, on the morning of the shopping trip. There had been a time when Severus could walk right into the Dark Lord’s headquarters and allow his mind to be opened up and examined, all without ever showing a whit of his true motivations. (Of course, it had helped that the Dark Lord had been quite mad by the point Severus had turned coat, thanks to Lily’s meddling.)
However, that had been over a decade ago. And while he could still maintain perfect control of himself when prepared, he had not actually expected for his emotional control to be tested while on a routine school excursion at eight in the fucking morning, having dragged himself out of bed after a mere three hours sleep, and hungover to boot. He had, he could admit, gotten sloppy in the years of relative peacetime.
Although the hair hadn’t been quite the right shade, and the eyes were not exactly the same, regardless of what everyone said, and of course, she wore glasses like her father—in spite of all that, in the low lighting of the Leaky Cauldron, for a moment, he had seen the girl as Lily reincarnated, and it had been akin to a punch in the gut. He was doing his damnedest to try to separate the two in his mind, to treat Mary Elizabeth as her own person, and for the most part, he had been succeeding—until that moment. His inability to hide his reaction had, for a spy, been shameful, but the only thing he had been able to do was to remove himself to privacy until he had gotten himself under control.
This, though, was exactly why he hadn’t wanted the blasted girl in his House.
Since she’d come back to the castle, he’d been observing her again with her natural appearance (which resembled Potter far more than Lily), in better lighting, trying his best to remind himself not to confuse the two witches. His grief and guilt over her mother’s fate could not be allowed to influence his treatment of the girl—but it was cursedly difficult to remember that in this moment, when he had unthinkingly betrayed the daughter as well as the mother.
Although, Lily had been intelligent enough to never show the blind trust in him that Mary Elizabeth displayed—but then, Lily had been his peer, and from a basically loving household. Perhaps Severus should have realized what it would mean for him to attempt to show a young girl who had been neglected and abused by nearly every adult in her life that he could be relied on to protect and advise her.
But then, how would he have known? When he had been her age, there had been no one—no adult, at least—not even a vicious, cruel bastard and former Death Eater—that had even cared what happened to him, much less gone out of their way to win his trust. Not unless they, like the Dark Lord, or, later, Dumbledore, had some use for him of their own.
The idea of trusting anyone as much as Mary Elizabeth seemed to trust him—to have trusted him, at least, until this moment—was unimaginable to him. Maybe he had trusted Lily that way, once, but it had been so long ago that he had nearly forgotten. He told himself it was for the best, that it was time she learned how the world worked, that no one deserved that much faith. Certainly not himself.
But he wished he did, if only so that the girl might have had one person that would not let her down. Well, too late now.
Severus’s punishment for his wayward students had turned out to be a punishment for himself as well, and he only stood there silently until time ran out, all eight agonizing hours, rather hating himself all the while. And when he revealed himself and explained what he had done, although he had hoped that the knowledge that he had “only” poisoned her with a Suggestibility Solution might have softened the blow, it did not seem to. He shattered Mary Elizabeth’s faith in him and watched it break, replaced by a look of utter betrayal as she fled the room.
Notes:
I hope the pacing isn't too uneven! Stuff like the first DADA lesson, the attack on Rhees and resulting tribunal, etc. which are the same as in Chained Servant, I'm skimming over a bit because I don't want to copy Leigha's whole fic or anything! Things will be more steady once we diverge more from her story. In the meantime, if you want to read the scenes referenced in more detail, check out the chapters of Chained Servant mentioned in the beginning notes of the chapter.
For those who are curious, most of the events of this chapter are the same as in CS, except for Mary's anxiety about the hair thing (which didn't happen in CS, she used the cantrip on her birthday instead), but in the original story, Snape didn't notice how upset Mary was. This will lead to a major break from "canon" in the upcoming chapter.
Also, man, Leigha did not intentionally write Mary as having a crush on Snape, but I still think it's a totally valid reading of the text. More than half of her rant to Lilian, and her mimicking Snape's body language when she talks to him, and the "(The name, not the face)" are the same in CS. (I couldn't resist stealing that one parenthetical aside for my fic, because come on, that's adorable.)
I love Leigha's Snape because like, if it hadn't been for Luna and Mary, he would've just been sitting there for eight hours watching his students panic, trying and failing to cure themselves, thinking they were going to die, desperately trying to get out of the lab and run for help, thinking "lmao, suckers." He's such a dick.
Chapter 4: Overshooting the Target
Notes:
This chapter happens at the same time as Chapter 11 of Chained Servant, but is pretty much entirely original and different from Leigha's story, although parts of the conversation are inspired by a scene between Mary and Snape in Chapter 27 of CS.
Thanks again to Leigha for sorta beta reading this chapter and helping with Snape's characterization.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Severus stayed up late that night—well, later than he already would have, which meant that by the time he fell asleep on his sitting room sofa, an empty glass of firewhiskey in his hand, the sun had already begun to rise over the Scottish Highlands. He had tried to tell himself it was for the best, and yet, he could not stop replaying in his mind the betrayed look on Mary Elizabeth’s face as she had left his classroom.
There were, however, more reasons than sentiment to regret his actions. A healthy degree of cynicism was one thing, but he worried that the detention had catapulted the girl to the other extreme of the spectrum, erasing any trust in him she had developed over the years. This was worrying because, as evidenced by the behavior for which they were in detention in the first place, Mary Elizabeth and her friends were never more of a threat to themselves and those around them than when they decided to take into their own hands matters which would be better left to capable adults.
Which was to say: if he had managed to unthinkingly convey to her that he could not be relied on to protect her—to protect any of his students—then the next time she suspected that someone was possessed by the Dark Lord, or came across a group of students bullying young Mr. Rhees, or, Powers forbid, Sirius Black found a way into the castle, Mary Elizabeth would not think to come to him for help, but would rather enlist Miss Granger and Miss Moon into addressing the threat themselves.
Considering that, Severus had come to the conclusion that he must find a way to repair his mistake, at least partially. He did not want—It would not serve Mary Elizabeth to return to idolizing him, believing that he could do no wrong, but some degree of trust in him as an authority figure must be preserved if he wished to able to effectively protect her.
The question was, how? He’d thought on that all night, and by dawn, had come to the conclusion that it would be necessary to do something which he had not done in quite a few years.
Severus Snape would have to apologize.
Mary and her friends didn’t discuss what had happened on Saturday, or the detentions still to come. She thought that all of them were affected by it in their own ways, and she, for one, did not want to think about it—about how betrayed she had felt, or how stupid she had been to trust Snape so much. If she thought about it, she would have to think about how he had been listening the whole time, probably with a stupid smirk on his face, thinking about what a gullible, un-Slytherin idiot she was, and how easy it had been for him to fool her, and then she might do something reckless again. Her adventure over the summer had taught Mary that when she felt that angry, she didn’t make the best decisions.
At least she could stop worrying about what to call him, and how she should interact with him now, and whether she wanted him to be like a real godfather to her. She didn’t. And he didn’t deserve another moment of her consideration.
Unfortunately for Mary, given that she would have liked nothing more than to avoid Snape for roughly the rest of eternity, she was cursed to see quite a lot of the professor. Not only did she have another ninety-two hours of Veritaserum Detentions with him, taking up all of her Saturdays until mid-November, but she also had Slythering 101 with him every Friday night, and individual detentions with him on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of that week for defending Rhees.
At least, she thought reluctantly on Monday, her detention that night would not be nearly as traumatic as that two days prior—she was only translating a legal passage from Latin to English, something related to the old patronage system by which Noble Houses had taken legal responsibility for, and offered protection to, select muggleborns. She thought maybe Snape was trying to imply something to her, like that she should do something like that for Rhees to protect him from the bullies, but it was hard to tell with him.
Especially when even just having to see him again put her in a bad mood.
She greeted him politely but shortly, forgoing her usual attempt at small talk, and began her assigned task without another word. After working silently and diligently for three hours (well, except for the moments when she indulged herself in sulking over the betrayal, and how he was acting like nothing at all had happened), during which she did not so much as glance his way, let alone say a single word to him, Mary set her half-finished translation on his desk and turned to leave.
Professor Snape, however, seemed to have other ideas. “Mary Elizabeth, would you take a seat?” he asked, and she froze for a moment, her back to him, before turning back around and settling into the chair in front of his desk with a reluctant sigh.
Mary knew that she was not being particularly rational about this, because she had felt angry before, throughout the detention, that he did not even care enough to acknowledge her clear unhappiness with him. But now that it seemed like he might want to address it, she was angry about that, too, that he wouldn’t just let her leave in peace and enjoy the few hours outside of lessons that she was not currently forced to spend in his presence. It was already ten! She wanted to go to bed.
“Was there something else, Professor?” she asked, trying to keep an expression of polite, cool disinterest on her face. She might have been a gullible idiot, but she wouldn’t lose face in front of him now.
But Snape did not indulge her, cutting directly to the point, making her burn with embarrassment as he stated, “My actions on Saturday upset you.”
Trying to recover her mask, Mary replied, “No, not at all. I learned an important lesson: not to trust anyone completely. I won’t be so foolish again.” She smiled at him, anger simmering just beneath the expression. “I would expect you would be relieved to see me becoming a proper Slytherin, like Lilian and Morgana’s crowd. They weren’t stupid enough to ignore what was right in front of their faces.”
She cut herself off rather abruptly as she realized that she had gone on more than she’d meant to, passive-aggression quickly morphing into outright accusation, bitterness obvious in her tone.
Snape only let her vent, waiting to make sure she was finished, before asking, “Were you ‘stupid’?” Before she could respond, he continued, “You claimed that I would not put you in danger, despite what the others were telling you. Not only was the Suggestibility Solution harmless, a way to induce fear without any actual risk, but I was present the entire time. No harm would have come to you. I would say that your comments were actually quite astute.”
Mary gaped at him. If she hadn’t been so angry, she might have noted how unusual it was for him to compliment her reasoning so directly; usually, if Snape was pleased with you, he’d make you read between the lines more to figure it out, not just say outright that you were ‘astute.’
But she was angry, and all that she could think was, “Is that how you justify it to yourself? Poisoning me—us like that? I know what you’re going to say: that that’s what we might have done to those students, and that we needed to know what it feels like if we’re going to learn. But isn’t your whole point that it was wrong? So how come it’s okay for you to do it? At least we had a good reason—we were trying to find the Heir of Slytherin before anyone died, and we did. You only did it to make us afraid.”
She flinched, suddenly worried that he would rebuke her for speaking that way to him—after all, he was still a professor, even if he was also a cruel bastard. But Snape only sighed, taking a moment, as if he were actually considering her words. “My point is not to lead you to believe that your actions were ‘wrong’—or right, for that matter. I only wish for you to think at all about the consequences of your actions, regardless of what conclusion you may come to.”
He didn’t even address the question of whether it was any less wrong for him to do what they had done. Mary supposed that if she pressed him, he would tell her that he did not claim to be a good person.
See, she did know what he was like. It was not like she was completely naive.
A sudden urge to tell him so struck her, born of an entirely petty desire to make him feel bad. She knew it was childish, but then, she was a child, and he should feel bad. “Anyway, it’s not like I was completely stupid about it. You know, I didn’t tell anyone, but I did believe, once I considered it, that you might have poisoned Hermione. I just didn’t think you would—”
Mary broke off abruptly as she realized that her attempt at guilt tripping would reveal rather too much of her own feelings: her embarrassing delusion that she had been important to him. But not soon enough.
“You didn’t think I would poison you. Not any student, but you specifically,” Snape finished softly, the understanding in his voice only making her feel even more humiliated.
For a moment, Mary considered denying it, blustering her way out of it somehow, ending the conversation and leaving the room entirely. Instead, she folded in on herself slightly, hands grasping her elbows, and looked away as she finally admitted, “Yeah. I know it’s stupid, but after the conversation we had at the end of last year, I thought you cared about me. Not just like any other student. Even if it was just for Lily’s sake, I still…”
She couldn’t bring herself to finish that sentence, to admit how much she had liked the thought that she was somehow special to him. Even now, part of herself was screaming at her to stop, that it was stupid and decidedly un-Slytherin for her to reveal weakness to someone who had just broken her trust, that she was only going to lose his respect, if she had somehow failed to do so already.
There was a long silence, as though Snape was considering how to respond, before he asked, “When I saw you in Diagon Alley last month, there was a cast on your arm. Why was that?”
Unable to see where he was going with this, Mary cocked her head and answered, “Mrs. Dr. Granger said that I was being too reckless, counting on magic to fix any injuries I got and ending up in the hospital wing all the time, and that maybe I should have to heal the muggle way to learn a lesson. And she somehow talked Professor McGonagall into it.”
“Did you appreciate that?”
“No, I thought it was stupid and unfair.” Well, some part of her had understood, but she certainly wasn’t going to admit that and let them win.
“Do Mrs. Dr. Granger and Minerva not care for you?”
Mary shot him an annoyed look, starting to get his point but not enjoying it one bit. “I guess they do,” she begrudgingly admitted, knowing that he was talking her into a trap.
“Minerva may care for you, but she is your professor and guardian first, which means she cannot be your friend. Her care for you means that your well-being is more important to her than your immediate feelings. She, like myself, is in the unenviable position of needing to make sure that you grow up into a somewhat functional adult with at least a smidgen of humility and common sense—which, given your parentage, could be an uphill battle.
“Would it be caring for me to coddle you, to spare you necessary lessons and blatantly favor you over your peers? My impression has been that you are not so impressed by Mr. Malfoy, and that type of treatment is precisely how boys like him are created. I am sure that Lady Malfoy cares deeply for her son—so much so that she has utterly failed to shape him into someone capable of functioning in society.”
Mary couldn’t help but smile at this. As much as she hated to admit it, this was exactly the type of behavior that had confused her in the first place—Snape gossiping about her fellow students with her, making her feel as though she were in some inner circle of his that they were excluded from. Still, she insisted, “There’s a bunch of options in between ‘coddling’ me and poisoning me, you know.”
Snape sighed deeply. “I am aware. I planned a lesson that I believed was necessary. In truth, I did not anticipate your reaction. Had I, I genuinely might have considered another, less extreme way to get the same lesson across. However, if you remember the statements your fellow students made about me while arguing with you… I had no reason to expect that you saw me any differently. My life has not been one in which I can expect that others will give me the benefit of the doubt—and for good reason, considering the path I have taken.
“Am I wrong in guessing that part of your discomfort comes from uncertainty about the nature of our relationship, and about whether you overestimated your importance to me?”
Mary squirmed uncomfortably in her seat at his spot-on analysis of her feelings. Sometimes, when he turned his full attention on her, she felt like she was under a microscope or something. “No…” she admitted. “I know you said you might have been my godfather if things were different, but things aren’t different, and I wasn’t even sure if you knew what you were implying when you said that. I didn’t even know what a godfather was supposed to be until Miss Catherine—Urquhart, I mean—told me this summer.”
Wait, did he know she was being fostered by the Urquharts? Mary had lost track of who was meant to know what about her location. But then, this was Snape, so it was probably okay, even if he was a git who’d poisoned her to make a point.
In any case, Snape didn’t look surprised at the mention of the Urquharts, but only nodded, like he’d anticipated her response. “To be honest, I did not expect this issue, because I have no practice with any sort of positive familial relationship, god- or otherwise. This is a role that is entirely new to me. If it is possible, I would like to attempt now to alleviate your uncertainty by at least telling you where you stand with me, and what you can expect from me going forward.
“I care about you.”
Mary blinked, startled to hear him admit it so plainly. In fact, for a moment, she thought she might have misheard, but no, he’d definitely said it.
It was such an un-Snape-like thing to do that she was reminded of the train ride to school just over a week ago, of Lilian’s disbelief that Snape would talk to her about his feelings, and Ginny’s disbelief that he even had any. No one would ever believe that Snape had said that to her; really, even she wouldn’t believe it if she wasn’t seeing it for herself. Something about it was exciting, like she was being chosen to witness something rare, and it was almost enough to make her forget her remaining anger entirely.
“Not merely because of who your mother is,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to her reaction. “When you came to Hogwarts, I was ready to protect you from harm, for Lily’s sake, but I had no intention of forming any sort of personal relationship with you. In truth, I intended to avoid you as much as possible—something I now regret. When I choose to spend my time and effort on you, to supervise your detentions personally, rather than pawning you off on Filch as I do with most of my rule-breakers, and to speak to you as frankly as I do now, offering you information and informality, it is on your own merit, as an individual, and that has nothing to do with Lily.
“I fully understood what I was implying when I said I would have liked you to be my goddaughter. I wish I could have played a larger role in your life thus far, and regret not doing so earlier, when I might have been able to remove you from the situation to which you were abandoned by the headmaster. I had believed that, wherever he had placed you, you would be better off than you would have been with me, and did not learn otherwise until you arrived at Hogwarts. I was foolish, trusting that he would look after your best interests—that anyone would, if I did not do so myself.
“I intend to remedy that going forward, and to prove myself someone that you can count on. You will not always like me, and I will do things that you find upsetting or unfair—particularly, I expect, over the next several months, until your detentions end. There are lessons which you must learn, if you are to become a reasonably functional adult, and I cannot spare you them, no matter how harsh you might find them. The world outside of Hogwarts is not a kind place, and it is my responsibility to prepare you for it. Even outside of our detentions, I will not always be kind to you, because it does not come naturally to me, and I will inevitably hurt your feelings.
“However, while it is in my power, I will always protect you from harm, and I will always act in what I believe to be your best interest. You can trust that, and you will not be made to regret that trust. If you are ever in need, you can and should come to me.”
Mary hadn’t heard any magical vows, but she knew that they generally involved some sort of invocation of Magic as a whole, and that they were typically sworn on something. Snape’s statement had none of the hallmarks of an official oath, but it somehow felt like one all the same. Not just emotionally, but in the air around them, as though Magic had heard his intent and responded to it.
Gazing at the wall past her head, he continued, and part of Mary remarked at how much the professor was able to talk, once you got him started. About the Dark Arts, yes, and magical theory, but also, sometimes, about things like this. Feelings.
(No one would ever believe her, that this had happened, and she wasn’t even going to try and tell them. This moment was hers alone.)
“I do not often have the option to simply not do a thing because it is wrong or cruel. Part of the role that I play involves doing whatever is necessary, not what is right. My lesson was not intended to be hypocritical, or to state decisively that you should have not taken the actions that you did. I only wish for you and your fellow students to reflect on the idea that you may not wish to follow in my footsteps. The life that I lead is not one that any of you would find comfortable or easy.
“I did not deserve your trust, not to that extent, and perhaps you are correct that it was foolish of you to believe the best of me. I cannot claim to be the person you believed I was. However, if I am to be painfully honest, I do regret what I had to do, and that it did not occur to me that you might be hurt by it. Seeing the extent of your belief in me made me wish I had the luxury of being that person—if only because you deserve at least one consistent source of support in your life.”
This was what was so confusing about Snape! He told her—or, well, strongly implied to her—that because he was responsible for her, he couldn’t be her friend. But then he went and talked to her like this. Even Remus, who was probably the adult she considered closest to being a friend, didn’t say things like that to her, expose himself so much.
Looking at Snape, he really did look exposed. She had never even imagined he was capable of this sort of vulnerability, staring directly at her with a sort of solemnity that nearly took her breath away. Mary had to look away, suddenly anxious, but she found herself thinking that she couldn’t imagine Snape ever saying something like this to any other student. Maybe not to anyone at all—even Professor Sinistra, who she thought was the closest thing he had to a friend, among other things.
Or maybe Mary just wanted to believe that, her ego ready to jump on any sign that she had access to a side of Snape that no one else got to see. Because she had wanted to believe that she was special to him, and, well, this was pretty special, even if it was also terrifying. It felt like she was being invited into something too significant to even wrap her head around yet.
“And so, while I would not have done anything different—at least not after the punishment had already begun—I am sorry. I genuinely apologize for betraying your trust. If there is a way that I might redress this wrong, I ask that you tell me.”
Mary was startled into meeting his gaze again. Looking back, she tried to remember another time she had ever heard Snape directly apologize to anyone. And making what was basically a formal offer of restitution, like something Catherine had told her about… He was really serious about this.
Any remaining resentment in Mary seemed to completely melt away in the face of this, of her proud, distant professor genuinely asking her forgiveness, and looking at her like it was important to him that she grant it. Like she was important to him.
At the same time, she felt a little overwhelmed by the gravity of the conversation. This was not what she had been expecting, and it all just felt a little too serious to her, too much. Trying to lighten the mood, she responded slyly, “Well, there is one thing you could do for me…”
“Yes?” Snape quirked an eyebrow, like he knew she was about to say something silly, but was indulging her anyway.
“What do I call you?!” Mary burst out. “I’ve been wondering all summer! I know you said I could call you Severus, but I just can’t, it’s too weird!” While she had been genuinely stressed out about it, she purposefully exaggerated her distress, playing it up for him to break the heavy atmosphere.
And it worked, because Snape laughed! Mary found herself grinning in response. It was rare to get a real laugh out of him, rather than a sardonic chuckle or simply a huff, and she always felt like she had accomplished something when she did.
His voice still warm with amusement, he told her, “The customary form of address would be ‘Uncle,’ but many of your peers use foreign languages to differentiate between biological uncles and godfathers. My preference would be for the Greek: Theíos.”
“Theíos,” Mary repeated, trying it out. “Alright.”
“Only in private, mind you. I cannot be seen to be giving you special treatment.”
‘Cannot be seen,’ like, she was special, but her housemates weren’t supposed to see that. Mary had to bite back a grin. “Understood, sir.” Despite part of her wanting to stay longer, so that she wouldn’t break whatever spell had caused Snape to talk to her like this, she found herself yawning widely, and realized that it must be quite late. Her morning classes were going to be miserable. “Um, if that’s all, I should be getting to bed.”
“It’s after curfew,” Snape pointed out. “Do you have your invisibility cloak?”
“No,” Mary said. Hermione had convinced her that it was too valuable to just carry around with her everywhere.
For a moment, for some reason, she thought he might offer to walk her back to her dorm, but he only scrawled out a quick hall pass for her, saying that she’d stayed late in detention. It wasn’t like any of the other professors would be patrolling the dungeons anyway.
Still, when Mary left Snape’s office to the words “Goodnight, Anipsiá,” she had almost completely forgotten that she had been angry with him in the first place, and she had to pause outside the door to replace the silly, somewhat stunned grin on her face, her teeth biting down on her lower lip, with a more dignified expression before finally proceeding back to her dorm.
Notes:
And here we have our biggest divergence from Chained Servant. In Leigha's fic, Snape didn't address Mary's anger until January, at which point their relationship had become very distant and awkward. When I started writing my fic, I knew I wanted to change that, and explore how close they might have gotten if there hadn't been that wedge between them.
The chapter is titled "Overshooting the Target" because Snape just wanted Mary to trust him enough to ask for help (and maybe to stop being mad at him, but he's not entirely admitted that motivation to himself). Instead, she has been rocketed straight to Crushville, of which she was skirting the outskirts before. Great job, Snape! Problem
solvedchanged!For those used to canon!Snape and his relationship with Harry, his honesty in this chapter might seem surprising. Part of that is because Leigha's Snape is a bit different, but it's also because you're coming into the story after two years. It took time to get to this point, but by May of Mary's second year, when Snape performed the blood test to determine that Voldemort was her grandfather, they'd reached pretty much this level of comfort with each other. Doesn't mean that Snape is always going to be nice, but he does talk to Mary almost like a friend when they're alone. He's a little more direct here when admitting to caring about Mary compared to their conversation in January in CS, but mostly because seeing Mary as Lily for a moment has made it a bit harder to keep a professional distance.
(Actually, if you were going to read only one scene to know what their relationship was like before this story began, it would be the blood test scene, the second scene in Chapter 22 of Mary Potter and the Heir of Slytherin.)
Chapter 5: Friendship Is Exhausting
Notes:
The pacing might be kinda fast in this one, since we're covering events from Chapters 11, 12, and 13 of Chained Servant, and there's still a lot of stuff happening the same in both fics! That's why this chapter took a bit longer, as I was stuck on how to find the right balance between covering stuff at a reasonable pace and not copying too much. Pretty much rewrote a lot of this chapter last night.
A lot of the dialogue between Lilian and Mary is borrowed from CS, though some is original as well, and the conversation between Snape and Mary is totally original.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was too early for this. Or, it was already half-past seven, so it could be worse, but it was a Saturday. Not that Mary thought she’d be able to get her head around the fact that Hermione Granger had a time machine (okay, okay, ‘time turner’) any better at a different time of day, but still, it was a hell of a thing to be confronted by when she had only just woken up.
And here she’d thought Lilian was just being paranoid.
Ever since the start of term, Lilian had been convinced that Hermione was hiding something from them, insisting that it wasn’t possible for their Ravenclaw friend to be attending all of the classes she claimed to, while also having time to prank the Weasley twins—or, more accurately, manipulate things so that their own pranks backfired onto them.
Mary, on the other hand, hadn’t bought it—she’d mostly just been happy that Hermione hadn’t been lying about planning to get back at the twins—so Lilian had resorted to asking everyone else if they thought something weird was going on. None of them had noticed anything unusual, except maybe Luna Lovegood, who had responded, “I expect if any of her need help with anything, they’ll let you know.”
Lilian had spent an entire day trying to puzzle that one out, but Mary’d thought it was just Luna being Luna. Trying to understand the inner workings of their strange little friend’s mind would never lead anywhere useful.
In the process of questioning everyone, however, Lilian had finally gotten around to asking the twins, who’d been annoyed enough at Hermione by that point that they’d just straight-out told her, having apparently figured it out from seeing Hermione in multiple places at once on their Map.
“Their brother Percy had one,” Lilian explained. “Doing twelve OWLs is the excuse they use for the Department of Mysteries Mentee Program to authorize their use.”
Mary was still stuck on the whole time travel thing, though, never mind what the bloody hell it had to do with the Department of Mysteries. And they only had a few minutes to actually discuss the revelation, seeing as they were already making their way across the grounds to the Quidditch pitch, where tryouts were being held. Everyone except their captain, Flint, had to re-audition for their spot every year.
They’d need a new keeper, since the old one had graduated and the reserve, Chesterfield, had dropped off the team to focus on OWLs and his prefect duties, and both a main beater and a reserve beater had left the team as well. And, of course, even the existing members of the team faced competition. While Cassius Warrington and Sextus Feldsmark, also known as Warbler and Snark, the remaining two beaters, were likely to take the starting positions, Vinnie and Greg from Mary’s year were challenging them. Meanwhile, Lilian wanted to replace Draco as starting chaser (or Bole, but he was a sixth year and less likely to lose his spot), while Draco wanted to replace Mary as seeker.
Point was, Mary would need to focus on flying as well as she could to keep Draco from taking her spot, which would be harder if she was distracted by things like Hermione Granger having a bloody time machine! Or that, according to the twins, she was sometimes in up to three places at once.
And then there was what Lilian wanted to do about it: “We need to have an intervention!”
“Why?” Mary asked cautiously. Somehow, she had the feeling that whatever Lilian was thinking, she wouldn’t like it.
“Don’t you see?! She has this amazing resource! She could live every day three times over, and have all the free time in the world for sleeping and studying whatever she likes and still have a social life, but she’s just wasting it and wearing herself out with this three-extra-hours dragonshite!”
Mary had to admit that Hermione did seem pretty tired and stressed, which, if she was staying awake for twenty hours a day and studying in pretty much all of her free time, made sense. And it wasn’t like she didn’t think that, as Lilian pointed out, she should at least use it to sleep a bit more.
On the other hand… Lilian had pointed out earlier that Snape would probably be pissed Hermione had the time turner, because the last thing they needed was a Hermione who could break the laws of time and space whenever she wanted. She might be Mary’s best friend, but that didn’t mean Mary couldn’t be realistic about the fact that she could be a bit… insane.
See: turning herself into a catgirl. And as Mary told Lilian, “Can you imagine what she would do with all those extra hours? Catgirl would be nothing.”
“Yeah, but… she’s our friend. Our ally. It’s pretty much guaranteed that she’s not going to use it to goof off. I can’t see that happening. Experimenting, yes. Breaking laws and sneaking into the restricted section after forbidden knowledge, yes. And probably even yes to trying some dangerous things that she’s not quite ready to handle yet. But, I know she’s got a list of things she wants to look into as long as her arm, and at least half of those have to do with… Tom Riddle, and whatever happened back in 1981. A Hermione with more time to research is a more valuable ally in the long run.”
They might be in the same House, but Mary still found it uncomfortable sometimes just how Slytherin Lilian could be. Like, for instance, wanting to convince their best friend to casually mess with the fabric of reality just because it would benefit them.
Plus, it made Mary wonder how much Lilian got away with manipulating not only Hermione but her. They’d had a whole conversation about it back in second year—Lilian had pointed out to Mary that whenever she didn’t want to talk about something with Hermione, she’d just start a fight over something random to change the subject. And besides that, she’d also told Mary that she needed to learn to ‘manage’ people better, which Mary knew meant ‘manipulate.’
Now, for instance, when Mary pointed out how selfish her idea was—because Hermione was likely to just drive herself off the deep end—Lilian responded, “I wouldn’t ask her to do anything specific, just point out that she could have a lot more time if she wanted it… and then let her do what we both know she wants to do anyway. Do you really trust Professor Snape to come up with the answers for us?”
Lilian had been the only one of the ten Veritaserum Conspirators to think that their first detention had been justified, in spite of the fact that she’d been the one who’d spent over an hour desperately trying and failing to get out of the lab and go for help while it was happening. The rest of them had been varying degrees of annoyed with her for even having the nerve to suggest she agreed with Snape’s choice of punishment.
The fact that she was bringing up Snape now, knowing that Mary had been the most hurt by what he’d done, even if Mary hadn’t admitted as much to her friend… it felt a bit like a tactic. Like Lilian was ‘managing’ her.
But she couldn’t really address it directly without looking crazy and paranoid, especially since she wasn’t even sure her instincts were correct. In any case, it made her feel a little better to think that if Lilian was trying a tactic on her, it wasn’t going to work. Her friend didn’t even know that Snape had apologized to her, never mind any of the rest of it, so she wasn’t expecting Mary, after a thoughtful pause, to say, “Yeah, I do.”
Before their conversation on Monday, Mary would have said no—or, she would have been lukewarm about it, at least. But after what Snape had said to her, and the almost-vow he’d made… Yeah, she trusted him.
Raising her eyebrows skeptically, Lilian replied, “Seriously? Even after what he did?”
Mary wasn’t sure how to explain it, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Lilian about her conversation with Snape. Not after how much she’d teased her last time. It was private. If Lilian heard about it, she’d make it into a joke, or just otherwise be immature about the whole thing, if she didn’t try to use it somehow to get Mary to do what she wanted, and it was too important to Mary for her to give Lilian a chance to cheapen it.
Instead, only a little awkwardly, she said, “Don’t get me wrong, the detention was horrible, but he’s still Professor Snape. If it’s something important, I think we can trust him.”
“Maybe…” Lilian sounded doubtful. “Still, it can’t hurt to have Hermione looking into it, too. Independent confirmation, you know. Plus, I trust her absolutely. I’m… not entirely sure about Snape.”
Mary frowned to herself as she considered that. She… thought she might actually trust Snape more than Hermione? Or, she trusted Hermione’s intentions, but didn’t entirely trust her common sense. Snape was harsh, and not very considerate of people’s feelings (see: not realizing she would be upset about him poisoning her), but she absolutely believed that he’d meant it when he’d said that she could trust him.
Yes, okay, if she had to say it: she trusted him absolutely. She was a little more aware of his limitations than she had been before last Saturday, but at least he was aware, too, telling her that he would inevitably hurt her feelings in the future, even if he didn’t intend to.
But she didn’t think she could say that to Lilian—it would just invite too many questions. And she didn’t want to just agree outright, especially when she still had the feeling she was being manipulated—but she didn’t want to totally dismiss the idea either, not when Hermione did seem exhausted.
Instead, she finally just shrugged and said, “I’ll think about it.”
Quidditch tryouts were a mixed bag. On the one hand, Mary successfully defended her seeker position against Draco, and they found a really fantastic new keeper, a fourth year girl named Sadie Rosier. On the other hand, Lilian still failed to make starting string; as much as she’d worked out over the summer, Draco, Flint, and Bole still worked best together as chasers. Lilian left tryouts in a horrible mood. And their next detention with Snape directly after, in which they had to copy passages on all the laws they’d broken out of old, boring legal texts for eight hours straight, did nothing to cheer her up.
Mary decided to avoid her for a bit, just until the temperamental Slytherin girl had cooled off. And, on the plus side, it meant more time to decide what to do about the Hermione-with-a-time-machine situation. It turned out to be easy enough, given that Lilian was bitter enough about not being chosen for the spot that she avoided everyone on the team for the rest of the weekend—not just Mary and Draco, but Vinnie and Greg as well, even though they were only reserve beaters.
Instead, Lilian spent time with Blaise and basically all the third year Slytherin girls other than Mary, while Mary worked on her correspondence—finally writing back to Emma, Dan, and Catherine—tried to do her homework, and spent time with Hermione, who still didn’t know that Mary and Lilian knew what she was up to.
It might have been harder to hide the fact that she knew something was going on if it had been Lilian, but Hermione tended to be oblivious to a lot of things outside of her own head, especially when she was fixated on something. The weekend of Quidditch tryouts, for instance, it was her new club, the Muggleborn (and Muggle-Raised) Students’ Association.
This meant that Mary could avoid the topic of the time turner by letting Hermione drag her along to the first meeting. Unfortunately, that only raised new problems for their friendship—namely that, by the end of the meeting, Mary had realized that she had no interest in joining the club, and had no idea how to tell Hermione that.
It wasn’t like Mary thought the club was a bad idea (well, maybe a little, she was kind of worried the muggleborn students would use it as an excuse to only hang out with each other instead of integrating more with the rest of the school). Mostly, though, she just didn’t have anything in common with them, even if she had grown up in Surrey.
Because, well, it wasn’t like she’d ever had a normal life in the muggle world—she didn’t know about TV shows or sports or much else besides cleaning and running away from Dudley—and she hadn’t been back in over two years, save for the handful of weeks she’d spent with the Grangers. Spending time around all those muggleborn students talking about their favorite memories of their childhoods just kind of rubbed in the fact that she hadn’t had anything approaching a normal childhood.
Besides that, she simply felt more at home in the magical world—while some of the purebloods she knew were kind of awful, like Draco and Pansy, a lot of them, like Catherine and Lilian, and even Blaise, Daphne, and Theo, had been really welcoming and helped her learn how to fit in. And she couldn’t help but think that the other muggleborn students would be better served talking to people who were different from themselves and learning more about the new world they’d just joined, instead of sequestering themselves to talk about football or whatever.
But she wasn’t sure how to tell her best friend that she didn’t want to join, never mind the rest of it. She was almost certain that Hermione wasn’t going to take it well, and she might even take it as evidence that Mary was ashamed of her muggle background or something, which really wasn’t the case. She just didn’t feel like she fit in anywhere, either the muggle or the magical world, but at least she had some good memories of the latter. The only good memories she had of the muggle world were the handful of weeks she’d spent with the Grangers over the last two summers.
It wasn’t like she would be the only muggle-raised student not joining! Dave Rhees hadn’t attended, probably because he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself as a muggleborn—and for good reason, considering the reception he’d received in Slytherin so far.
Mary had written Catherine about Snape’s implication that she should offer to protect Rhees as the Heir to House Potter, and not long after the first MSA meeting, she received a two-foot scroll debating all of the pros and cons, informing her that the patronage system was still well known—apparently House Crabbe and House Goyle were ‘clients’ of House Malfoy, and that was why Vinnie and Greg followed Draco around all the time—but that sponsoring a muggleborn hadn’t been done in decades, maybe longer.
Finally, though, her tutor had suggested that she do it anyway. It would, apparently, be a rather bold political move, simultaneously traditional (dusting off an almost forgotten custom) and progressive (in being pro-muggleborn). And it would get everyone talking.
Mary wasn’t sure she wanted everyone talking about her, but she supposed it was better they be talking about her for something she actually chose, and that aligned with her values, rather than because she was the Girl Who Lived or the Heir of Slytherin. After some deliberating, she’d finally decided that she would do it, and made the offer to Rhees—Dave—the next time she saw him, which he, after some hesitation, accepted.
It wouldn’t be official until they both came of age, but in the meantime, she supposed he was sort of like an adopted little brother or cousin. At least it should give the other Slytherins pause before they attacked him again if he was linked to a Noble House—she hoped.
The first weeks of school seemed to pass quickly, even though a lot happened. More detentions with Snape, for one. He hadn’t been kidding about the fact that she’d find them ‘upsetting’: in the third, they had to dissect cute little puppies for potions ingredients! He seemed to be changing it up every week, always finding a new way to torment them, never letting them get used to any one punishment.
Lilian got over her bitterness about the Quidditch team eventually, and since she was still a reserve chaser, they saw quite a lot of each other, with practice three evenings a week and from six to noon on Sunday mornings. Mary managed to avoid the topic of Hermione and the time turner, still uncertain what to think about it.
At least Lilian was distracted: in the time she’d been ignoring Mary, she had managed to form some sort of weird truce with Draco that involved a scheme to kill all of Hagrid’s flobberworms so he’d be forced to go back to teaching interesting creatures again. (Or, that was why Lilian was doing it, anyway. Mary was pretty sure Draco just wanted to cause more trouble for Hagrid. Whatever—she was doing her best to stay out of that whole mess.)
It wasn’t only Draco Malfoy who had a problem with Hagrid, though. Assistance came from the unlikeliest of sources: Hermione’s mum had started writing anonymous letters to the Prophet complaining about the Headmaster’s leadership of the school. Hagrid’s employment was one major point of contention, but so was Binns’s, the obviously cursed Defense position, and the whole basilisk debacle, which he had utterly failed to notify the families of muggleborn students about.
When Emma had found out about the petrifications, courtesy of Catherine, with whom she occasionally took tea, she’d roped Mary’s tutor into helping her send a Howler to the school. It had targeted not only Mary and Hermione, but also Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Flitwick, for keeping the news from her. (As Mary had found out, there was nothing to make the school stop acting like you were a terrifying, Dark Heir of Slytherin like getting a Howler from someone else’s muggle mum.)
In any case, Emma had started an anonymous petition to get Binns sacked—or, at least, Mary and Hermione were ninety nine percent sure Emma was behind it. Apparently a bunch of the pureblood mothers had signed on, not even realizing it was written by a muggle. Mary wouldn’t be surprised if Hagrid was next on her list.
Hermione, meanwhile, was on a crusade of her own (in addition to the MSA, that was): tormenting the Weasley twins, who had tried and failed to convince Mary and Lilian to call her off. She had put labels on the twins, so all their professors found out they had been swapping classes, and in retaliation, they’d altered her hair and teeth until she looked far more like Daphne Greengrass than her regular self, all skinny and blonde, which Hermione had taken as implying that her natural looks were ugly. This had upset her enough that she’d spent a whole day crying in the loo.
As pleased as Mary had been that her friend wasn’t just letting the twins get away with everything they’d done, the situation was really spiraling out of control. Which was why she still thought Lilian’s plan was a bad idea—the last thing Hermione needed was even more time to do mad shite.
Maybe, Mary thought, her own new club would give Hermione something to think about other than harassing the twins and trying to make Mary hang out with the other muggleborns. It had been the MSA, actually, that had given her the idea of restarting Lockhart’s ill-fated dueling club. After all, with the way her life had gone so far, she kind of needed to learn how to defend herself, and thanks to the Defense curse, most of her fellow students were far behind where they should be in the subject.
The problem was, of course, finding a faculty sponsor. Hermione had gotten Professor Burbage to sponsor the MSA, but Mary found herself torn between two options: Snape or Remus?
On the one hand, Remus was the Defense professor, making him the obvious choice. Plus, he was her friend. But he would also be gone by the end of the year—hopefully by his own choice, and not by some horrible accident from the curse. She knew he’d insisted on a fixed-term contract in the hope of avoiding it. But, either way, they’d be stuck trying to find a new sponsor next year, and there was no telling what the next Defense professor would be like.
Unlike Remus, Snape would be around past the end of the year, and he was also almost certainly a better duelist than Remus (or anyone else in the school), considering what she’d seen when he faced Lockhart the year before and the fact that he’d been a Death Eater. But he was also really busy and didn’t even like teaching, so he might not agree to do more of it, even if it would give him a chance to kind of teach Defense. He’d told her last year that he would have become a researcher if Dumbledore hadn’t insisted he stay at Hogwarts for spy reasons.
Plus, they hadn’t spoken alone since that conversation, and she—she wasn’t avoiding him exactly, she just wasn’t sure how to talk to him now, and she didn’t want to overstep. Just because he apparently cared about her didn’t mean that he wanted to talk to her all the time or anything.
It was a bit funny—whether things were going well or very badly between them, the end result always seemed to be that she felt awkward around him and wanted to avoid him.
But there was also the fact that… well, maybe she was overthinking things, but the fact that Snape and Remus hated each other so much made the decision feel even more weighted, like she was tacitly choosing between them by deciding who to ask to sponsor the club. Or, maybe Remus didn’t hate Snape, but Snape… She’d thought he might calm down as the term progressed, but he still spent most of his meals looking like he wanted to kill Remus in his sleep. He hadn’t even looked so murderous when he’d been actually murdering someone in front of her.
The point was, she just couldn’t predict Snape’s reaction. If she asked him, he might be annoyed that she was wasting his time, or think she was being presumptuous, but if she asked Remus instead, he might think that she was choosing Remus over him. Which, it was stupid she should even have to consider any of this in the first place, since they were both grown men and it would be totally petty for them to care about that, and maybe Snape wouldn’t even care, but still, it worried her.
In the end, fear of offending Snape wore out over fear of annoying him, and she managed to catch him in his office one of the few times she didn’t have classes, practice, or detention. With the door unlatched, thankfully—everyone knew you weren’t meant to bother him if it was totally closed.
At least he didn’t seem annoyed when he first opened the door, though there also wasn’t any sign of what they’d talked about the last time she’d been in his office. Not that she knew what she meant by a sign, just that it seemed like things should be different, somehow, now that they’d basically decided he was her godfather. But he was the same Snape as always, gazing at her inscrutably as he asked, “What can I do for you, Mary Elizabeth?”
Taking a seat in front of his desk, she took a moment to gather her thoughts before she spoke—Snape hated stuttering. “I assume you’re aware of the state of Defense education at this school.”
Snape quirked a brow at her. “Disenchanted with Lupin already?”
Oops, maybe that hadn’t been the best way to start off. “I meant in general,” she explained, sidestepping the question. “Even when we do have good Defense professors, there’s not much they can do for us in just a year.”
“And what, exactly, are you hoping I might do about this?” he questioned. “Seeing as I am neither a Defense professor nor a cursebreaker.”
He clearly wanted her to get to the point, so she said, “The dueling club, sir. I was hoping to start it again, but for that, I’d need a faculty sponsor. Would you consider it?”
For a split second, she was distracted by a vague mental image of her and Snape running the dueling club together. She was just a third year, so probably the older students would be more in charge than she would, but in her imagination, it was just her and Snape running the meetings, working on ideas for it together… Something about the idea of sharing a project with him made her happy.
Her hopes, however, were promptly dashed. She had expected it, but even still, it stung when he gave her a slightly exasperated look and asked, “And how, exactly, do you propose I find the time for such an endeavor? Between the old goat’s demands and dealing with you and your fellow rule-breakers, I consider myself lucky to still have time for a few hours of sleep a night these days.”
Disappointment aside, Mary smirked slightly at his dismissive nickname for the Headmaster. “I thought that might be the case,” she said. “But I thought I’d at least ask, since you’re the best duelist in the school. I thought you’d have a lot to teach us, if you had the time.”
Snape scoffed, like he wasn’t buying her attempt at flattery. “Hardly. The best fighter, perhaps, but the Blackheart didn’t exactly train us to fight under traditional dueling rules.”
“The Blackheart?”
“Bellatrix Lestrange—‘the Lady Blackheart’ was her epithet among the Death Eaters. She was in charge of training the Dark Lord’s army.”
“Oh.” Mary hadn’t thought about that—that knowing how to fight and knowing how to duel were two different things. If given a choice, she’d probably rather learn fighting, but given what Snape had just said about being busy, she knew better than to ask him to teach her. Still, she couldn’t help but point out, “You still humiliated Lockhart in front of everyone.”
“An average fifth year could have done the same,” he replied with a smirk. “If you want to learn to duel, you’d be better off asking Professor Flitwick.”
Mary, who had already resigned herself to asking Remus next, frowned. She knew Professor Flitwick had been a professional duelist once, but, “He’s already got Charms Club to supervise, so I figured he’d be too busy.” Actually, she’d hardly considered him at all.
Giving her a pointed look, Snape responded, “Seeing as such concerns did not prevent you from asking me, I would recommend giving it a try regardless. Flitwick generally makes himself quite available to his students—my suspicion is that he will agree. And unless you plan to ask Lupin, there are hardly any other suitable options.”
Her face must have given her away, because Snape let out a sharp scoff.
“Don’t waste your time. Lupin may be qualified to teach you how to ward off grindylows and hinkypunks, but he is hardly a duelist—or a fighter. He stayed away from the front lines of the war whenever possible, sticking to intelligence work, and on the rare occasion that I faced him on the battlefield, his skills were mediocre at best.”
Maybe this was a sign of things being different. She wasn’t used to him talking about his time as a Death Eater so openly. And while he didn’t like Remus much, she didn’t think he would lie to her about his abilities, so although she was more comfortable with Remus than Professor Flitwick, she finally agreed to ask the Charms professor.
Plus, she kind of had the feeling that Snape would be irritated if she turned around and ignored his advice.
Overall, as she left his office, Mary decided she’d count it as a victory. Snape hadn’t agreed to supervise the club, so she wouldn’t get to work on it with him, but she’d hardly expected him to in the first place. At least he hadn’t seemed annoyed with her for asking, and he’d talked to her about stuff he might not have before she’d been his Anipsiá.
Mary’s hopes hadn’t been high, but to her surprise, Professor Flitwick easily agreed to supervise the dueling club, although he said he wouldn’t have time for the first meeting until October. She supposed the start of the year was as busy a time for the professors as it was for the students.
She mentioned the club to Remus when they hung out that weekend, getting together for tea in his private quarters like she did with Aunt Minnie each month. To her relief, he didn’t seem offended that she hadn’t asked him—didn’t even raise the idea that he could have been the one to supervise it. Of course, she didn’t tell him she’d asked Snape first. Not that he should care, but still, best to avoid the topic.
Instead, they talked about his old school days, and her excitement about the club, and she teased him about his obvious crush on Professor Burbage, and he continued trying and failing to convince her to explain how she’d gotten so much detention.
Remus seemed a bit worried about her and all of her stories from first and second years, like about how Quirrell had been possessed and tried to kill her, or that Snape had killed him right in front of her, or the whole thing with the Chamber—and she’d only told him the cover story! Nothing about the fact that she’d participated in a Black Arts ritual (probably), or that there might be a teenage Dark Lord out in the world with her blood in his veins.
As far as Mary was concerned, October, and the beginning of the dueling club, couldn’t come soon enough, because her patronage of Dave was already getting her in trouble. One afternoon, Flint’s little sister Melisandre and this git Jasper Le Parc attacked him in the common room right in front of her, forcing her and Lilian to fend them off. Poor Dave ended up in the hospital wing after getting hit with a nasty, painful-looking curse she didn’t recognize.
At least Dave had made some friends in his own cohort as well—a pair of halfblood outcasts named Alex and Nora. He spent more time with them than with Mary, but she’d basically made it known that the three of them were under her protection, and the fact that she didn’t have the skills to back that up made her nervous, to say the least. Le Parc, for instance, was two years older than her, and after she’d landed him in detention over his attack on Dave, she had the feeling he wasn’t just going to let it go.
Nor was he the only person who couldn’t let something go—Lilian had been all over her about Hermione and the time turner. For every argument that Mary presented against it, her friend had a counterargument.
For instance, when Mary pointed out that it hardly seemed like a good idea to give Hermione even more time to get obsessive over things like her rapidly escalating prank war with the Weasley twins, Lilian pointed out that Hermione had to learn to control herself eventually. And, given that, she “might as well start when she’s already having detentions with Professor Snape every week. If anyone can drum sense into her frizzy head, it’s him.”
To which Mary had responded that Snape was hardly going to be happy with Hermione—or them, if he found out they’d encouraged her—if she started abusing the time turner, but Lilian seemed to think they could keep it a secret from him. Mary wasn’t so sure—he always seemed to know when they did stuff they shouldn’t. But Lilian only said, “I’m not convinced he’d even mind. It’s un-Slytherin to let a resource like the time turner be wasted!”
In response to Mary saying that she was just worried that Hermione would use the time turner to run herself into the ground, Lilian just argued that she already was, and that if she used it a bit more, at least she’d get some sleep.
Which was taking a lot for granted, Mary thought, like that Hermione would actually use it to sleep, rather than just fixating even more on her various schemes than she already was. Lilian, though, thought that even Hermione had to sleep, and learn to moderate herself, eventually, even if it took her exhausting herself three times as fast before she learned her lesson.
But that was the best case scenario, Mary thought. Worst case, Hermione would get obsessed with something bad next, like the Dark Arts, or come up with another scheme like the Veritaserum Conspiracy and get arrested before Snape and Dumbledore could cover it up, or, like, blow up the time turner and get lost in time, or break the bloody fabric of reality.
When she tried telling Lilian as much, though, she somehow twisted the whole thing around, making Mary feel guilty for distrusting Hermione so much, implying that she had trust issues or something because of how she’d grown up. Which was unfair, Mary thought, except Lilian talked her in circles until she was questioning herself, wondering if maybe she wasn’t giving Hermione enough credit.
It wasn’t like she’d ever had a friend before, after all, and she didn’t want to be a bad friend to Hermione. And it wasn’t like she disliked the Ravenclaw, or thought badly of her or anything. Hermione was her best friend, she was also just a lot sometimes. Which Mary could hardly blame her for, having met her parents.
In any case, Lilian somehow talked Mary into agreeing to confront her. It had felt like the right thing to do when they were talking about it, but afterward, Mary couldn’t really remember why she’d agreed. Still, there wasn’t any going back, not without getting in a big fight with Lilian, so when Lilian decided to corner Hermione after Charms Tuesday morning, Mary reluctantly tagged along.
The whole thing still felt like a bad idea, but Lilian had seemed so certain about it. As the two of them dragged Hermione away from her Ravenclaw friends and into an empty classroom, Mary could only hope that Lilian knew what she was doing.
Lilian hadn’t known what she was doing.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into that,” Mary complained to her friend as they walked out to the Quidditch pitch for practice after dinner. “That was awful.”
The conversation had gone awry almost immediately—it turned out that keeping the time turner a secret was a condition of the mentee program, so Hermione had completely freaked out over them spoiling her chances of getting into the Department, even though Mary was pretty sure that some of the Ravenclaw girls already knew. She’d called Lilian a ‘nosy bitch’ and shouted at them both.
Then, to make matters worse, the Weasley twins had busted in on them, demanding that Hermione end her campaign of terror against them. Apparently she had transfigured their potions ingredients, causing them to blow up their secret lab and nearly seriously injuring them. Which, Mary thought, kind of justified her concerns about what Hermione would get up to with all her extra free time! And she didn’t like that Hermione was using the twins kidnapping her to justify her insane, increasingly dangerous prank war with them.
Then the bloody twins had bluntly informed them that they didn’t regret kidnapping Mary, because they’d just been trying to help Ginny, so she’d stormed out—justifiably, in her opinion. She didn’t know what had happened after that, which was why she was hoping Lilian would tell her, but she couldn’t help pointing out first that she’d told her it was a bad idea. She’d tried ignoring Lilian, actually, for most of the day, but she hadn’t been very good at it, as evidenced by their current conversation.
“Don’t be a baby, Liz,” Lilian said dismissively. “She came around in the end.”
“Wait, really?” From the state Hermione had been in when Mary had left, she wouldn’t have expected that.
“Well, she said she’d think about it,” Lilian admitted, in a tone which implied she thought that was basically an agreement on Hermione’s part.
“What happened?” Mary lowered her voice, conscious of Draco, Vinnie, and Greg walking just ahead of them.
“Mostly just Maia and the twins yelling at each other until they came to an agreement. Oh, that reminds me, you’ll never guess what we have now.”
“What?”
“That map they carry around! Hermione demanded it from them as a ransom, basically, to get her to stop messing with them. It was awesome. She had to agree to fix their potions ingredients, and to swear a truce oath with them—”
“A what?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. Maia swore on her honor to stop punishing them for the Catification Incident and the Chamber of Secrets Debacle, and they all swore not to try to take revenge on each other for past pranks. If any of them break it, they’ll be branded with an Oathbreaker’s Mark. I wrote it myself,” she added, sounding smug.
Mary really didn’t know how to react to that. On the one hand, she didn’t really feel like it was Hermione’s place to forgive them for what they’d done to her—or Lilian’s to suggest she do so. On the other, if Hermione had kept escalating, she and the twins probably would have murdered each other eventually. Plus, Hermione having the Map probably meant Mary would get to use it, too.
Instead of commenting on that, she asked, “How did that convince her to use the time turner more—or to consider it, anyway?”
“Well, even she had to see that we could hardly have known we were messing up her Department of Mysteries thing. She only got as angry as she did because she’s exhausted.” Lilian winced. “By the way, we’re throwing her a birthday party this Sunday. I tried to pretend we didn’t forget, but she saw right through me.”
“Merlin and Morgan,” Mary swore. How could she have forgotten Hermione’s fourteenth birthday? She’d been caught up in her own stuff this term, true, but she still felt like a pretty shite friend.
With a sly look, Lilian added, “By the way, I suggested that she borrow your cloak, at least until she masters the Disillusionment Charm. If she uses the time turner more, she’s got to make sure no one sees her.”
Mary really wanted to point out that Hermione with access to a time turner, an invisibility cloak, and the Marauder’s Map sounded like a recipe for an apocalypse, but her guilt over forgetting Hermione’s birthday and making her break down like that won out (even if she was also miffed about her forgiving the Weasley twins).
“Fine, I’ll let her borrow it,” she finally said, feeling a bit like she’d been backed into a corner. Just to be contrary, though, she added, “But she’ll need to ask me for it herself.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Lilian said, sounding entirely too pleased. “Oh, this is going to be great.”
Notes:
Reader, it was NOT going to be great.
Next chapter might be a little late because I have a lot going on over the next week, I'll probably find time to post it though.
In the original MP series, Lilian calls Hermione "Jeanie," from her middle name. I changed it just because I didn't want to confuse myself too much, so now she calls her "Maia" like Mary does.
Chapter 6: The Undead Evil Grandfather Thing
Notes:
This chapter overlaps with Chapters 13 and 14 of Chained Servant. The Carrow twins' dialogue in the opening scene are taken from CS, and the ritual happens the same in both CS and this fic. The conversation in the final scene is inspired in places by a conversation in CS, but most of it is my own invention.
CW for briefly depicted accidental death of a child OC in a flashback, and for non-graphic discussion of the past rape, torture, and death of another OC.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
September had been so eventful this year that it seemed to simultaneously rush by and last forever, but before Mary knew it, Mabon had arrived.
The next traditional sabbat after Lammas, held on the autumnal equinox, Mabon was dedicated to purely Dark Powers, rather than both Light and Dark, like Lammas. As it was a celebration of the Deceptive Power—otherwise known as the Wise or Experienced Power—it was the one sabbat that was as popular with Ravenclaws as it was with Slytherins.
(Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were almost entirely full of progressives, with a handful of exceptions. For example, Susan Bones in Mary’s year seemed to observe the old ways, and the Weasley twins usually attended the rituals, though maybe just for a lark. Ginny had been at some last year too, both when she was possessed and after.)
For the traditional holidays that fell during the school year—except for the purely Light ones, Imbolc and Ostara—Slytherin House held their own holiday rituals, and students from third year and up were allowed to invite their friends in the other Houses. The sabbats were one of Mary’s favorite parts of life at Hogwarts, along with Quidditch and her friends.
Two of them, Samhain and Walpurgis, were celebrated by Revels, which were more like big parties out in the woods than anything else, and the ritual part was the same every year. (Or so she’d heard, when it came to Walpurgis. She was still too young to attend that one; apparently it tended to get… risqué.)
The remaining Dark or Balanced holidays—Mabon, Yule, and Litha (or Midsummer)—were celebrated differently each year, although Litha, falling as it did during final exams, was often overlooked. An upperclassman from a traditional family would be chosen and, with the help of Professors Sinistra and Flitwick, adapt their family ritual for any students and faculty who chose to attend.
Mary had heard there were sometimes celebrations for Imbolc and Ostara as well, but definitely not in Slytherin, and she’d never attended one. Light and progressive had become so synonymous in Britain that there were hardly enough Light traditionalists left in the school to hold rituals, although she knew Professor McGonagall was one.
Last Mabon, Marcus and Alex Young from Slytherin had put on a ritual in which all of the attendees had held hands in an enormous spiral in the courtyard. The Deceptive Power had entered them and forced them, one by one, to share their deepest secret. After each one, every other participant who shared the secret would echo ‘You are not alone,’ and this weird thread of light would connect them.
In theory, this sounded horrifying—Mary had actually tried to break away from the ritual and run once she’d found out what it would entail, but it had already been too late. In the end, though, it had been alright, because once the ritual ended, she had forgotten every secret except her own, as well as which of her peers had shared it, and everyone else had forgotten her secret as well. She had only been left with the knowledge that she did not carry it alone.
Magic had chosen the words for her, turning her discomfort with the Girl Who Lived legend into something which others could relate to: I think I might be forced into a role by those more powerful than myself, even though I don’t want it.
She still had a design imprinted on her chest from that ritual, a nautilus spiral marked at thirteen points with little black dots—each one, she thought, an unknown person who had shared her secret. It would be disappearing today, now that a year had come and gone.
This year, instead of the courtyard, they all met at noon in a room on the seventh floor. Or, ‘room’ wasn’t really the right word: through the door that Mary followed the other Slytherins to was a beautiful autumn maple grove, despite the fact that this shouldn’t be possible. But things like that just happened at Hogwarts sometimes.
Mary couldn’t see everyone who was there through the trees, but like she’d expected, almost everyone around her was either a Slytherin or a Ravenclaw. Ginny was there, though, seemingly tagging along with Hermione, who thought that maybe the room was a portal to the woods that only opened on Mabon or something. Mary couldn’t see her brothers anywhere, but maybe they were farther off. No Luna, either.
Most of the other third year Slytherins were there—Lilian, of course, but also Draco, Pansy, Millie, Blaise, Daphne, and Theo. Mary was glad to see Dave and Alex from first year, since she’d made a point of telling the muggleborn boy that he and his friends were welcome at the ritual.
There were probably a few professors as well, though she couldn’t see them anywhere nearby. She’d seen Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Vector, Sinistra, and Snape at previous school rituals, but they only seemed to attend sometimes. She wondered idly if Remus was around, although she’d gotten the feeling that he wasn’t especially traditional.
Mary and her friends were just wondering who—and where—the master of ceremony was when a pair of voices seemed to whisper right into her ear. “We are Flora and Hestia Carrow, and we will be your mistresses of ceremony for this year’s Mabon celebration. Today we will call on the Wise Power in an adaptation of the Rock in the River.”
The Carrow twins, she knew, were fifth year Slytherins, though she didn’t know them very well. The way they spoke, however, in sync but shifting from one to the other as though sharing a single train of thought, reminded her of the Weasley twins.
“Each of you must choose a partner, in whose eyes you will see reflected a moment, not known to you, that has affected the course of your life, the Rock that has diverted the course of your life’s stream.
“You will see your partner’s Rock as well as your own. Do you keep their secret, they must keep yours. Should you break this covenant, the Power will take from you all you have learned since the bond was formed.”
Mary and Lilian paired up, and Hermione, as the odd one out, somehow ended up with Theo, despite the fact that Mary was pretty sure they’d never even spoken before. Beside them, Mary saw the even odder pair of Draco and Ginny, as well as more expected pairings, like Blaise and Daphne, Pansy and Millie, Dave and Alex. As instructed, Mary and Lilian held hands, gazing into each other’s eyes.
Craning her head back to meet the hazel eyes of the taller girl, Mary heard the twins begin to speak again. As they did, the feeling of magic filled the air, and all the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood up.
“We call upon the Wise Power, the Deceptive Power, on the day of Turning Darkward. We honor the Power on this, its day, and beg a boon in celebration. As we stand at the edge of the valley of the year, as the world turns, and with it, our fates, we would know how our lives have been shaped by forces unknown to us.
“We would grow in experience and in wisdom. We risk betrayal, risk deception. We ask clarity, ask understanding. We offer ourselves to the Power and to each other. We offer trust, we offer weakness.
“Show us the secrets that make us who we are.”
And the world dissolved into mist.
Lilian’s moment was first. Two young girls, one blonde, one brunette, fighting over a toy broomstick—Lilian and her older sister Aerin. They were out in what must have been the yard of the Moon family manor. As they struggled, their magic flared as well, pushing against each other. Further away, Mary could see their brother Sean, who was a seventh year prefect in Slytherin now, holding a camera, as well as a small boy toddling towards them. She knew he must have been Lilian’s little brother Connor, the one who had died before she’d come to Hogwarts. Lilian didn’t talk about him much.
The boy got closer, and there was a flash of light—Lilian and Aerin’s magic overflowing as they fought. All three children were flung backwards, down to the ground. The two girls got up; Connor didn’t. That was when Sean arrived, dropping to his knees beside his youngest sibling, touching his head. His hands came up covered in blood.
There wasn’t any sound in the vision, so Mary couldn’t hear when Sean started to scream.
All that Mary could do was watch in horror as their parents arrived, and the Ministry Obliviators as well. She watched as Mrs. Moon sobbed, pushing her daughters away, refusing to even look at them; as Lilian and Aerin were obliviated, one at a time; as Sean led the two girls to the house, leaving their parents kneeling on the ground beside the body that had been the youngest of the Moons.
Mary was next, and her vision was less horrifying, but far more cryptic. She was only a baby in it, she guessed, though she wasn’t actually visible. In the vision were Lily and James Potter, Sirius Black, and a man she recognized from the newspapers as Black’s victim, Peter Pettigrew.
The vision was silent, like Lilian’s, so she couldn’t tell what they were saying, but Black was kneeling at Lily’s feet while her mum cast some sort of a spell on him. There was a misty glow all around the traitor, most concentrated a few feet in front of him, and his eyes were dull and empty. As Mary watched, baffled, Lily drew something out of the mist, some sort of darkness, dispelling it, before the remaining mist was sucked back into Black’s body.
The spell ended, and the four of them spoke to each other. James hugged Black, and Mary wanted to shout at her dad to get away, not to trust him, but she couldn’t. Once again, she could only watch as the four went down into the basement of the home and set up a ritual circle, with Lily, James, and Black forming a triangle around a terrified looking Pettigrew, holding hands. Black cast a few complex-looking spells, beams of light connecting him, James, and Lily at their heads and hearts, and Mary had to fight down a wave of fury at the sight of how much they trusted him.
As before, Lily seemed to lead the process, tracing intricate patterns in the air with her wand, guiding a ball of light into Pettigrew’s chest. His eyes glowed white for a moment as it sank into him, and then the ritual was over, and Mary and Lilian found themselves back in their own bodies. Mary had only a moment to think What the hell did that mean? before she noticed the tears streaming down Lilian’s cheeks and realized there were more important things for her to be worrying about.
Mary held her friend as she cried, there in the forest in the castle, and looked at the students around them, each one looking just as lost as she felt.
Led by the Carrow twins, they gave thanks to the Powers, ending with, as always, “Blessings of the Dark.” But all Mary could think was that maybe she didn’t love ritual magic quite as much as she’d thought.
Mary had intended to go to Snape’s office after classes that evening, as there was something she needed to tell him about. She’d thought she might see him as they all left the ritual, actually, and had lingered outside the door for a moment, but he hadn’t been with the group of faculty that left the forest-room together.
As a professor, he could probably find out what they were going to be doing in advance, so she thought maybe he hadn’t wanted to share his moment with anyone, even Professor Sinistra. That did seem like the kind of thing he would worry about. Or maybe it was just that if he’d come, they would have had an odd number of teachers attending, forcing one of them to pair up with a student.
In any case, her plans to visit him that evening came to nothing, because it quickly became clear that Lilian was not in a state to be left alone.
Mary spent that evening, and most of the following days, comforting her friend and observing Lilian’s family drama as it unfolded. Sean had confirmed it—Lilian and Aerin had accidentally caused their little brother’s death. This had led to Lilian agonizing over whether or not to tell Aerin what she’d seen, if only because it explained why their parents basically acted like they didn’t exist most of the time.
Sean didn’t think she should, though, and Mary was inclined to agree with him—Lilian clearly felt horrible about it, even though it hadn’t been her fault at all, and if she told Aerin, her sister would only feel just as bad for no good reason.
In any case, by the time Mary managed to get away without feeling like she was abandoning her best friend in her time of need, it was Saturday evening, when Snape had his office hours anyway. They’d spent the whole afternoon in the restricted section of the library, reading about alternative truth potions or charms they could have used instead of Veritaserum and writing an essay on them.
On her way to his office, she found herself thinking about the Mabon ritual again—not Lilian’s vision, but her own, which had been overshadowed by her friend’s discovery. Mary hadn’t had a chance to talk to anyone about it, and she wondered if maybe she should tell Snape. He knew a lot about ritual magic, after all, and about her mum. Maybe he could help her understand what it meant. That wasn’t what she was seeing him about, but she might have time to ask him about it once finished with the main business of the day.
When she knocked softly on his unlatched door and stepped inside at his invitation, he looked vaguely surprised to see her, like he would have thought the last thing she’d want after an eight-hour detention would be to spend more time with him. But this was different. She needed his opinion on something, something that none of her friends could know about.
“Something arrived for me the morning of Mabon,” she told him, closing the door behind her and approaching his desk. “A birthday present… from my grandfather. I’m pretty sure, anyway.”
At breakfast on Wednesday, Mary had received a mysterious package with postage stamps from all over—not just France and Britain, but the ICW as well, and even America, plus a customs seal. Inside, she had found three things:
A nearly six-hundred year old book titled Lingua Serpentis, which appeared to be a Latin treatise on Parseltongue.
Twenty pages of handwritten notes in English, the first page titled, Ad Filia Prima de Familiae Slytherinis, on this the occasion of her thirteenth year.
A second note, reading, Belated, I assure you, through no fault of my own. Are you aware that all owls sent to you without a location are returned to sender? It is most vexing. I assure you, there are better owl-wards out there that can screen undesirable post without turning away perfectly harmless books as well.
A bit of free advice for Mabon: get your bloody wards tuned!
Mary had laughed out loud at that. A lot of her mail had gotten lost over the summer—a consequence, Professor McGonagall had told her, of the spells Snape had cast to protect her from being tracked. Owls couldn’t find her unless the sender knew where she was, and most people didn’t know she was staying with the Urquharts.
Now, Mary wasn’t certain that this book was from Riddle, but she didn’t know any other Parselmouths, though apparently there were a lot in India. Unless one of them had read that she was a Speaker in the newspaper and decided to send her this, it seemed pretty obvious who it had come from.
Snape was on his feet in an instant. “Please tell me you didn’t open it.”
Shifting slightly in embarrassment and glancing away, Mary said, “Oops?”
He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mary Elizabeth, when receiving mail from a Dark Lord, the proper procedure is bring the unopened package to a professor—namely, myself—not touch it with your bare hands.”
“I didn’t know it was from him until after I opened it! Besides, Hogwarts wouldn’t let a cursed package in, would they?” she asked, but he just looked at her with raised eyebrows. Right, it wasn’t like the school cared that much about their safety. “Well, anyway, it seems to just be a book on Parseltongue, nothing bad, but you can take a look for yourself.”
Sitting down in front of his desk, Mary began rifling through her book bag, and Snape, after shooting her a bemused look, maybe at her presumptuousness in seating herself without waiting to be invited, took his seat across from her.
When she finally dug up the old book, sandwiched between her textbooks, and set it down on the desk, Snape cast a quick spell, probably to check it for traps, while giving her a look like, See, this is what you should have done. “No trace of magic on it, at least, other than preservation enchantments,” he muttered, before picking up the book and beginning to page through it.
Mary sat back, watching him read for several minutes, looking around the room at all the potions ingredients in jars to kill time. She wondered if he actually used them, or just had them on display to creep out the students. The whole room was kind of creepy, actually, and cold without the hearth lit. She would have thought he’d want a more comfortable space, considering how much time he spent there.
Once he finally set the book back down, she asked, “So, do you think it was him?” Her second question—And if so, which him?—went unstated.
“Unfortunately so. The dedication is written in the style of someone who considers himself the Acting Head of a House to his Heir. Which would suggest it’s from the younger Riddle, as there’s no reason to believe that the elder might know of your relation to him.”
“He thinks I’m his Heir?” Mary repeated, incredulous.
“The Dark Lord wanted to live forever, and a familial legacy is something akin to that. You are famous and, in some ways, powerful.” Before she could object, he continued, “You are to be a Lady of the Wizengamot, while Riddle was a halfblood orphan with a muggle name. In addition, your being a Parselmouth as well strengthens his claim to be Heir to the Slytherin line. It is no surprise that, in your memory of the Chamber, he told you he liked the theory that you were his granddaughter.”
“So he’s, what, sending me gifts to court my favor, so that I’ll be his Heir?”
“Something along those lines.”
“What do I do?”
“Read the book and learn from it. Knowledge is power, after all. Was there a return address or name on the packaging?” She shook her head. “He does not expect thanks, then, and is not ready to reveal himself yet. He may or may not know that you know he sent it, which could be to our advantage. I would expect future gifts—which you are to bring to me before opening, is that clear? Just because the first was not cursed does not mean the rest will not be.”
She nodded quickly. That hadn’t occurred to her—that he might be trying to trick her into letting her guard down.
“Do you still have the packaging?”
“No,” she said, but tried her best to tell him about all of the postmarks she remembered seeing. Snape looked down at the book, lost in thought for a moment.
“The furthest mark, then, was from the Americas. He may have routed the package through there in order to throw off our trail, but the most logical conclusion is that that is where he is hiding out for the meantime, unless he is on the move.”
That made sense to Mary. “What do you think he’s doing there?” she asked.
“I couldn’t say, but if I had to hazard a guess…” Snape gave her a considering look, as though deciding whether to tell her. “Have you ever heard of Miskatonic University?”
She shook her head.
“You may have heard it referred to as, simply, ‘The University.’”
“No, sir.”
“The International Dark?”
“Sorry… No.” Mary hoped that wasn’t something she was meant to know about. Snape had seemed hesitant to even tell her about this, and she didn’t want to come across like an idiot.
“The International Dark is an unofficial grouping of states, organizations, and peoples which are, in some way, associated with either the Dark Arts or the political Dark—I trust that you know the difference between the two?”
Mary nodded, thankful that she finally knew something. Catherine and her friends in Slytherin had explained to her, here and there, all the different ways mages used the word Dark, though she still found it a bit confusing.
Dark magic, for example, was magic cast in a Dark frame of mind—that was, cold and calculating, or wanting to cause harm or take vengeance, that sort of thing. And some people’s magic could be Dark, which just meant that, like Snape, they were better at casting Dark spells. And doing enough Dark magic could alter the polarization of a person’s magic, like how, after coming out of the Chamber, Mary’s magic had been Darker. That was one way Snape had figured out she’d participated in a Black Arts ritual.
But the Dark Arts didn’t refer to all Dark spells, just a general category of magic that was used to cause harm, or that the Ministry thought should be illegal. It all sounded a bit vague to Mary, and she suspected that different people considered different things to be part of the Dart Arts. She couldn’t have actually named many of them, but she knew from Defense class earlier in the month that Shadowmancy was one. And maybe soul magic?
Then there were Dark Houses, like the Notts, or the Blacks when they’d still existed. They were traditionalists who celebrated only the Dark Powers, instead of both, like the Urquharts. Their magic tended to be Dark as well. And a lot of Dark families were also politically Dark, but that was confusing too, because there were different definitions there as well.
The traditional political Dark, she’d heard, was about independence and limiting regulations on stuff like what kinds of magic you could do, and the autonomy of the Noble Houses over the Ministry, and they were in favor of Creature Rights, like for werewolves and vampires and other Dark Creatures. But they were kind of against muggles, because the Dark thought that people (or Creatures) who had magic were better than those who didn’t. They were represented in the Wizengamot by a group called Ars Publica—Sadie’s family, the Rosiers, were among them, though when it came to the Powers, the Rosiers were Balanced, not Dark.
But then the new political Dark, a position exemplified by, well, the Dark Lord, was against non-human beings as well as muggleborns, which apparently hadn’t been the case for the Dark in the past. Except it was strange, because some Dark Creatures had allied with the Death Eaters, but most of the Death Eater families were against Creature Rights? At least the pureblood ones. And those families were brought together politically by Lady Malfoy within the Allied Dark bloc of the Wizengamot. It was kind of like how Dumbledore’s progressive Light and the traditional Light were totally different things, although the traditional Light was dying off.
Honestly, Mary didn’t really understand it all, and she wasn’t even sure she was remembering it right. Mary might be able to name all of the Noble Houses and their allegiances in the Wizengamot, thanks to her lessons with Catherine, but when it came to the ideological distinctions between the different groups, she had more trouble. Light and Dark, progressive and traditional, populist and—whatever the opposite of populist was… It was all a bit much to keep track of, and she didn’t find it very interesting.
Still, she wanted to show Snape that she wasn’t totally clueless, so she asked, “But when you say the political Dark, do you mean the original Dark, or the Allied Dark?” At least she knew those groups were different.
“Not quite either,” Snape said, though he looked like he approved of the question, and she fought the urge to grin at the feeling that she was keeping up with him. “Most of even the ‘Dark’ Noble Houses, regardless of their specific allegiances, are too entrenched in the establishment to truly be connected to the International Dark, which is by definition counter-culture in Britain.
“The International Dark, as I said, is a coalition of politically Dark states and groups in the wizarding world, as well as those who practice the Dark Arts and those opposed to the Statute of Secrecy, the latter of whom are known as neo-Gemeenschoppists or neo-Grindelwaldians. As politically Dark states do not restrict the use of the Dark Arts as Britain does, practitioners of these arts tend to have ties to the International Dark in order to gain access to literature and materials which are… unavailable here. Most groups in Britain with significant ties to the International Dark exist outside the law, and in opposition to the established order—the Death Eaters, for example.
“In any case, the Americas have always been on the Darker side—if you haven’t already covered it in History of Magic, or with the Urquharts, the International Confederation fought a rather bloody war against them shortly after the Statute of Secrecy was implemented to force them into compliance. Although they eventually lost, they remained a haven for those with interests that might be disallowed in Britain, and expatriates from Europe who traveled to the New World founded a state, the Miskatonic Valley Magical Cooperative, which serves as the primary hub for the International Dark. Within the Valley is Miskatonic University.
“The University is the premiere research institute for… all kinds of magic, actually, but their reputation is for researching the sort of magic that will lead one swiftly to a life sentence in Azkaban here. They are known for, among other things, unethical human experimentation, primarily on muggles, as well as meddling with the fabric of reality.”
Snape did not sound disapproving. In fact, Mary thought, he sounded rather jealous. He’d told her that he would have rather been a researcher than a teacher, and she wondered if he’d wanted to go to Miskatonic, but decided not to ask.
“This is, of course, mere speculation, but the Dark Lord I knew was rather fond of the University. His goal, before Lily set her curse on him, had been to secede from Britain and establish a new state, one which would lead the International Dark in the way that Miskatonic does now. If the younger Riddle is in the Americas, my bet would be that he would go there.”
That—the part about the Dark Lord wanting to secede—was news to Mary. She’d never really thought about what he had actually wanted; she’d always just assumed it was something generically villainous, like killing all muggleborns and taking over the world.
“Is there a way to find out?” she asked.
“Perhaps. He would certainly be operating under an assumed name, but if he was working with them, there might be evidence in the Árthra Endiaféronta—ah, Miskatonic’s research journal, that is. Riddle published a fair bit of research under his own name, back before he attempted to distance himself from his past.”
He’d told Mary that at the end of last term, when he was trying to distract her from waiting on the blood lineage test; apparently Riddle had put out some paper on the connection between legilimency and freeform magic, maybe just to piss off Dumbledore, who didn’t like freeform magic for some reason? Mary didn’t really understand why.
“Now, I am not saying I would have any way of accessing recent copies of the Árthra, given that the entire journal is Anathema in Britain, and merely owning a copy is worthy of a guaranteed sentence in Azkaban, but if someone did, and that someone was familiar with Riddle’s original research, they might be able to recognize his ideas or writing style.”
Mary nodded, understanding that this was another one of those conversations she and Snape sometimes had, like, ‘Say there was, hypothetically, a baby dragon…’
“Can I help?” she asked, despite knowing what he would say.
As expected, Snape let out a sharp huff and said, “Yes, why don’t I have my thirteen-year-old student search through the Árthra with me?” Then, under his breath, he added, “Help me straight to a dementor’s kiss,” and Mary snickered.
“Right, I’ll just forget I ever heard any of this, then?” she asked, and he gave her an approving smirk.
“There is something else I’ve been meaning to speak to you about,” he added after a moment. “Over the summer, I did some research into your maternal grandmother, Matilde Harrison.”
“Oh!” Somehow, it hadn’t even occurred to Mary to do so—but if she’d been a British witch, Mary supposed there should be some record of her. It wasn’t like the population of Magical Britain was all that big. “What did you find out?”
“She was an Auror,” Snape began. “On Mabon of 1959, she disappeared and was believed to have died, as a monitoring charm on her person was triggered. She resurfaced in Magical Britain several months later, however. She had been… attacked. Left in a burning building, where she nearly died, before being found by muggles and brought to a hospital. It took months of recovery before she was well enough to leave and return to the wizarding world. She gave birth to Lily several months after that—although, of course, those records have been erased.
“At some point after her return, she began working on the case of the Knights of Walpurgis—what the Death Eaters called themselves, in those days. It is my suspicion that she chose to place Lily with her muggle sister because of the risk that she would be attacked again—and, in point of fact, she was. On Walpurgis of 1961, she was abducted, tortured into a coma, and left in front of the Auror offices with a Dark Mark branded over her heart. She spent the rest of her life in the long-term ward at St. Mungo’s, where she died in 1966.”
Mary shuddered. She supposed she should have expected to hear something horrible, given that her grandfather was the Dark Lord, but… Merlin. And Snape was so matter of fact about the whole thing, just outright telling her that her grandmother had been tortured into a coma. She wasn’t angry about the poison anymore, but she was starting to think that he didn’t really know how to deal with children—like, what sorts of things might be traumatizing to a thirteen-year-old girl.
Although, she supposed, he had not been entirely straightforward about it, because when he had paused before saying ‘attacked’ the first time, she was pretty sure that what he’d meant was, well, raped.
“Do you think he knew?” she asked, deciding that she definitely wasn’t going to take offense to him talking to her like an adult, even if it was horrible to hear. She’d seen him kill someone, after all—she was mature enough for this conversation. “When he tortured her in ‘61, I mean, do you think he knew that she’d had his child?”
Snape gave a slight shake of his head. “If he had, I highly doubt Lily would have been allowed to live—at least, not with muggles. He would have either killed her or taken her in as his own child, I would think. For that matter, we do not even know that he was the one who tortured her. It could easily have been one of his followers instead, taking care of a nosy Auror.
“In fact, given the similarity to the Longbottom case, I would suspect Bellatrix to have been involved—she did something rather similar to Frank and Alice Longbottom in 1981,” he clarified at Mary’s confused look. “However, she would have been eleven at the time—not even a student at Hogwarts yet. So far as I know, she was not Marked as a Death Eater until she was fifteen.”
Fifteen? Getting engaged at fifteen was—well, still quite a lot. But becoming a Death Eater… “Is that—was that normal?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“No, Bellatrix was… a special case. The Dark Lord was not above Marking those who were still in school, but he usually waited until we were at least seventeen.”
We. Had Snape been Marked when he was still a student? Mary was curious, but she didn’t want to be too pushy. Instead, she asked, “How did you learn all of this? About my grandmother, I mean.” Some of it sounded like stuff only an Auror would be able to find out.
With one of his more sinister smirks, Snape said only, “I have my ways.”
Right, so, probably legilimency or bribery or something like that. “Thank you, sir,” she said, because however he’d found out, she thought he’d done so for her.
Snape gave her one of those surprised looks, kind of like when she’d wished him a happy summer at the end of first year—like he wasn’t used to people thanking him or something. Instead of accepting her thanks, he only said, “I was primarily satisfying my own curiosity.”
After a moment, he added, “There is something else. Given that she did not begin investigating him until after the attack, meaning that he would have had no motive to target her at that time, and that it took place on a major sabbat… While I cannot be certain, it seems likely that the attack was ritually motivated. Perhaps the Walpurgis attack as well, although that may have been a more straightforward retaliation against her for investigating their activities.”
“Ritually motivated, like, a sacrifice?” Mary asked, suddenly realizing that the Mabon ritual she’d experienced could have been much worse when Snape nodded grimly. And… she didn’t really want to talk about this, but she did kind of feel like she should know. “Is there… I mean, I’ve heard there are rituals where you kill someone.” Even the school Samhain ritual involved the sacrifice of an animal. “But, um… I mean, are there rituals where you’re meant to…”
She made slightly desperate eye contact with Snape, hoping he’d realize what she was trying to say and spare her, but he only scowled and said, “Dark Powers, Mary Elizabeth, get to the point.”
“What I mean is, are there rituals where you—the person performing the ritual, I mean—is meant to rape the sacrifice, instead of killing them?”
Snape immediately looked about ten times as uncomfortable as he had before, and she felt a little vindictively glad, given that he was the one who’d made her say it. He hesitated for a long moment before admitting, “Yes, there are.”
Mary shuddered again. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised her—it wasn’t like it was any worse than killing someone, really—but it still did. She’d liked most of the rituals she’d participated in so far, except this Mabon’s—and, probably, whatever Riddle had made her do in the Chamber—but she was starting to think that a lot of ritual magic—high ritual, at least—was way more horrible than what she’d seen of it so far. Though she supposed the Black Arts were illegal for a reason.
Part of her just wanted to leave right now and try not to think about any of this ever again, but if it was related to the Dark Lord, it could be relevant to the mystery that was her connection to him. So she swallowed back her discomfort and asked, “Do you know what the ritual was for?”
Snape shook his head slightly. “It’s only a half-formed theory,” he said. “Besides that, the Dark Lord’s use of ritual magic tended to be rather improvisational. If he did use Harrison in a ritual, it may have been one of his own invention, rather than something you might find in a book.”
“Oh.” Mary wasn’t sure what to say about that. “The Black Arts are kind of horrible, aren’t they?” she asked tentatively.
“They can be,” he said. “They are a tool, more than anything—one that can be used to different means, depending on the intentions of the practitioner.”
Mary bit her lip, wondering if he’d ever practiced them, but she was pretty sure that she shouldn’t ask him that. Especially not at Hogwarts. Even him basically admitting that he read that journal seemed like a leap of faith on his part—not that she’d tell anyone. Besides, he might have just been thinking of Lily—Mary knew she had done ritual magic, after all, and not just the basic, legal holiday rituals.
And speaking of that, “There was something else I was wondering. You didn’t attend the Mabon ritual this year, did you?” Snape only gave a curt shake of his head. “Well, the Powers gave me this vision…”
Mary started describing it, but Snape’s face did something funny as she did so. He looked the way he did when he was looking at Remus, except even worse. Feeling uncomfortable, she trailed off halfway through the recollection and asked, “Um, sir, are you alright?”
“Hmm?”
“You look like you want to stab something,” she told him, then blushed, wondering if she’d been too blunt.
“Sirius Black and I have… a history,” he explained.
Maybe he would finally tell her why he was so weird about Remus, if she played her cards right. “Oh?” she asked, but he didn’t elaborate, so she tried again. “Can you tell me, then… I’ve talked to Remus about him, and he says there weren’t any signs, really. That my parents couldn’t have known, because Black fooled them all. But I can’t help but think that, given how awful he is, there must have been something.”
Snape gritted his teeth at that, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. “Lupin is a blind fool,” he said. “I knew Black was foul from the moment I laid eyes on him.”
“Okay, but… how? What did he do?” Mary prompted.
For a time, she thought Snape wasn’t going to reply at all, but then, finally, he said, “At the end of your first year, Dumbledore told you that your father saved my life.”
She nodded. “And you said it was only because he didn’t want his friend to go to Azkaban for killing you as part of a ‘prank.’”
Snape raised his eyebrows at her, and Mary got it.
“Oh! Black was the friend, wasn’t he?”
“He was… involved. The prank was his idea, but the consequences, had I died, would have fallen on another.”
Mary mulled this over for a moment. “I’ll add that to my list of reasons I hate him.”
Snape’s mouth twitched. “Is that a figure of speech, or do you have an actual list?”
“I have one,” she confirmed. “Well, it’s in my head, but I go over it a lot so I won’t forget, like when I can’t sleep. And I think about how I’m going to curse him if I ever see him.” Perking up, she asked, “Can you teach me any really gruesome curses to use on him? Melt all his skin off or something?”
Based on her vision back at Lammas, she wasn’t certain she could actually bring herself to do it, but it was still a pleasant thought.
Snape gave her another of those vicious, sinister smiles before seeming to remember himself, blinking slightly. I saw that, Mary thought, pleased. You like the thought of me cursing him, huh? She filed that down in her other unofficial list, the one where she tried to figure Snape out.
“I’ve already corrupted the youth of this school enough for one evening,” he told her firmly. “Out with you.”
Before she left, though, Mary realized he’d never actually said anything about her vision. “Oh!” she said, one hand on the doorknob, and turned back to look at him. “What about what I saw? The ritual Lily did with Black and the others? Do you have any idea what that was?”
For a moment, a strange look flashed through Snape’s eyes, one that she could not for the life of her interpret, but he only said, “No, I am not familiar with any rituals matching that description. Lily, like her father, tended towards improvisation.”
“Oh.” Mary sagged a bit, but she guessed it would just be yet another mystery. The Powers seemed to like showing her things that made no sense recently. “Alright, well, thanks anyway.”
Notes:
Yes, that is a Lovecraft reference.
The fun worldbuilding and backstory isn't mine, and I just hope I've gotten it all right (though Mary's descriptions are oversimplified since she's thirteen and doesn't know that much). The story of Matilde and Tom, Miskatonic, and the International Dark are Leigha's. For the Wizengamot, I mostly ended up using the guide to Magical British Politics, Lysandra Greene Style, as it's more detailed than anything Leigha's posted about the Wizengamot in the MP universe, and they share some worldbuilding anyway (like I think the Allied Dark were originally Leigha's, then Sandra expanded on it?). So the descriptions of the Wizengamot political parties, as well as (I think?) the idea of neo-Gemeenschoppists and the European-American war over the Statute, should be credited to inwardtransience.
Since they'll come up again, very quick guide to the Wizengamot parties: there's Ars Publica (traditional Dark), Allied Dark (new Dark), Ars Brittania (traditional Light), Light (new Light), and Common Fate (populist, third oldest bloc after AP and AB). The Light is Dumbledore's bloc; they (along with parts of Common Fate) are the political progressives, though some of them are traditionalists in the sense of celebrating the Powers (yes, it's confusing). The Allied Dark can sort of be considered like the neo-reactionaries of the Dark; their policies aren't actually that aligned with what are traditionally considered Dark values. The light-aligned members of the Wizengamot have enough of a majority to push through Ministry appointments, which, along with Dumbledore being the Chief Warlock, gives them some control over Magical Britain, but on individual votes, the Wizengamot is kinda deadlocked. The first chapter of the guide linked above explains more.
I won't be posting a chapter this weekend; the next will either be next week or next weekend.
Chapter 7: Time Out
Notes:
Happens within the time span of Chapters 15 of Chained Servant and directly after. The events of this chapter do happen in CS, but differently. Some of Snape and Luna's dialogue is taken from Chapter 15, and some of the conversation with Hermione is based on a similar one in Chapter 24, though details are changed since it's earlier.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Following Mabon, Lilian became quite depressed, and started avoiding Mary in favor of their other housemates. Sean reassured her that it was only because she reminded Lilian of finding out about Connor, and that she’d come around eventually, but it still kind of stung, more so because of the people she was choosing to spend time with instead of her best friend.
Mary didn’t really know how Lilian could stand some of them, particularly Pansy and Tracey, who’d taken to referring to Dave as ‘Mary’s mudblood.’ When Lilian wasn’t with those girls, she was with Draco, with whom she was still working diligently to get Hagrid sacked. Killing his flobberworms had only led him to start teaching them about acid slugs instead, so, following in Emma’s footsteps, they’d started their own petition.
Speaking of Emma’s petition, Hermione was surprisingly upset by her mum’s efforts to get them a new History professor. Not because she liked Binns, but because of something more personal—from what Mary understood, she felt like her mum was getting too involved in her life. Mary could sympathize, especially after Emma owled her a muggle book about her ‘changing body’ out of nowhere, which she opened at the breakfast table, to the amusement of all of her housemates and to Mary’s utter mortification.
The rest of the students were still speculating over the author of the petition, since Mary and Hermione hadn’t told anyone but Lilian who was behind it. Most of them had come to the conclusion that it was someone affiliated with Lady Malfoy—her Wizengamot bloc, the Allied Dark, was directly opposed to Dumbledore’s Light, and the consensus seemed to be that she was aiming to damage his reputation and undermine his authority at Hogwarts.
Without Lilian around, and with Hermione making much more use of her time turner, Mary might have expected to spend most of her time with Hermione, but that wasn’t the case. Hermione had convinced herself that if she started hanging out with her friends more often, people would wonder why she wasn’t studying, given her course load. Mary thought that was a bit paranoid of her—it wasn’t like people paid that much attention to Hermione’s schedule—but in any case, she was rarely anywhere to be found. Mary thought she was using her extra hours hiding out in the restricted section or sneaking around under the cloak or something.
Not to mention that Hermione was kind of angry with her, because Mary had finally admitted she didn’t want to join the MSA. Exactly as Mary had feared, Hermione had taken her lack of interest as a personal insult, suggesting that Mary didn’t want to hang out with muggleborns for some reason, which was ridiculous. Hermione was a muggleborn, and so was Dave, and Mary hung out with them. She just didn’t have anything in common with most of those kids.
Mary, Hermione, and Lilian seemed to be fighting more this year than they ever had before, and Mary didn’t know why—maybe puberty or whatever—but she really didn’t like it. She just wished things would go back to normal. Then again, ‘normal’ would include Aerin hanging out with them too, but she’d hardly seen the elder Moon girl since the start of term.
So, without her best friends, Mary started spending more time with the trio of first years she’d adopted. They’d been exploring the tunnels under the Slytherin dorms, most of which were accessible with Parseltongue—you just had to hiss <Open> at any doors you came across. They found some that led out to the Forbidden Forest, and the boat launch at the edge of the lake, and some important-seeming room at the very heart of the school that wouldn’t open to any passwords they tried, English or Parsel.
Sometimes, she hung out with Blaise and Theo as well, but mostly, when she wasn’t with Dave, Alex, and Nora, she focused on Quidditch, and her classes, and the Dueling Club, which had finally begun.
They’d had their first meeting around the end of September, and Snape had joined them for an exhibition duel, like he had with Lockhart’s club—but his duel with Professor Flitwick had been way more interesting to watch than his trouncing of Lockhart had been (if less amusing). He’d forgone his usual billowing cloak for tighter dueling robes and had faced off against Professor Flitwick for a quarter of an hour, Flitwick jumping and tumbling out of the way while Snape barely seemed to put in any effort at all.
He had lost, in the end, but Mary was pretty sure that was only because they were following professional dueling rules. Professor Flitwick had been a professional duelist, but Snape had been a Death Eater. If he didn’t have to fight fair, she was pretty sure he could have kicked Flitwick’s arse. Regardless, watching him fight had been so cool; she hoped she could be half as good as him someday.
Mary had been hoping that Remus would show up too, but he’d apparently had some business in London that evening. They talked about it later, though—they’d been getting together for tea roughly every other week.
It was nice to have a chance to get to know him in person, even if she knew he’d be leaving by the end of the year, but also a bit nerve-wracking, because there were so many things she couldn’t tell him about—like their detentions, and Lilian’s brother, and the present from Riddle, and Hermione’s time turner. She was starting to think she ought to keep a diary where she just kept track of what stuff she’d already told who!
Sometimes she wondered if Snape would have tea with her, like Remus did, but she wasn’t entirely sure how to ask. He was probably too busy, anyway. Talking to him about Riddle’s present and her grandmother and everything had been—well, not nice. A lot of it had been kind of horrifying, actually. But she’d left the conversation feeling oddly satisfied. She liked that he talked to her like she was old enough to understand that kind of stuff. Professor McGonagall and even Remus tended to try to shelter her, which she thought was pretty stupid, given everything she’d been through.
For example, Professor McGonagall still wouldn’t agree to let Mary visit Hogsmeade. The first trip was coming up, reminding Mary of how much she hated Black for preventing her from going. On the bright side, at least it meant she had an excuse to turn down the boys who had started asking her on dates, something she found almost as embarrassing as Emma’s book. One of them, this older Gryffindor boy named McLaggen, had been infuriatingly persistent.
Remus, trying to cheer her up, had invited her to have tea with him while all her friends were off exploring the village, which was nice of him, if not really a proper replacement. Although even if she could go to the village, she wasn’t really sure what she would do there, given how strained things were with Lilian and Hermione. Hang out with Blaise, maybe? Most of her other friends—Dave’s trio, Ginny, Luna—were too young to go anyway. She supposed there was always the rest of the Quidditch team, though if Lilian was with them, it might be awkward.
Lilian’s inclination to avoid her, however, did not go far enough to keep her from promising Daphne they’d attend her tea party in late October, and without even asking Mary’s permission at that! It wasn’t like Mary had a problem with Daphne—after Lilian, she was Mary’s favorite witch in their year in Slytherin, although the competition wasn’t stiff. Mary just hated the tea parties—all the uptight, girly-girl, pureblood nonsense. She had enough of putting on airs during her summers with the Urquharts; she didn’t need it at school, too!
At least at school, unlike over the summer, they wouldn’t have everyone’s aunts and older sisters hovering around the room ‘chaperoning’ and limiting what topics they could talk about, but Daphne would be choosing the guest list based on people’s families and connections, which meant more time with Pansy and Tracey. And none of the girls she was close friends with except for Lilian could attend, seeing as Hermione was a muggleborn, and Ginny and Luna weren’t the ‘right’ sort of purebloods (too poor and too odd, respectively).
Once Mary and her friends were fifteen, they’d be allowed to host their own tea parties—smaller ones, with just girls they actually liked, and no chaperones at all. Catherine still attended ones like that with her school friends from time to time. But her fifteenth birthday felt like forever in the future, and in the meantime, she knew that she would just be bored and annoyed the entire bloody time.
But Mary knew what Catherine would say—something about the importance of making connections with potentially influential people—so she gritted her teeth and agreed to go. It wasn’t like she had much of a choice, anyway, with Lilian having already said she would. To back out now would be an enormous snub to Daphne, and would cause way more trouble for Mary in the long run than just being bored for an afternoon.
Meanwhile, their detentions had continued on. Many of them involved things like brewing potions for the hospital wing, or solving ethical dilemmas, and those weren’t so bad, at least compared to getting poisoned or cutting up cute little puppies.
In late October, though, the day before the dreaded tea party, Snape hit them with another bad one. Maybe she should have known it was coming, especially given what a rotten mood he was in when they arrived at the meeting point for that day: an abandoned, dusty classroom on the first dungeon level, empty save for a desk at the front of the room.
And Snape wasn’t the only one in a bad mood: Luna had shown up to detention visibly angry, which was just… weird. Mary was pretty sure she’d never seen Luna angry before, not even with the Ravenclaw girls that bullied her, but she was clearly angry with Snape, for some reason. Enough to be passive aggressive, calling him ‘Professor Phobetor’ and refusing to look at him, losing Ravenclaw ten House Points. (In response to Snape’s ire, Luna only informed him, “Names are like shoes.”) Mary had no idea what that was about.
In any case, she was soon distracted by Snape announcing the day’s punishment: “It has come to my attention that nearly every… single… one of you has expressed an interest in self-defense recently, through the medium of the Dueling Club. This afternoon, in that same spirit, you will be completing an Auror training exercise. If any of you finish before the allotted time has passed, I will consider you to have completed a full eight hours for the day. The goal is to break the spell I will cast upon you.” Then, pointing at the desk, he added, “Place your wands on the table and take a seat.”
“Wandlessly?” Adrian asked with a nervous look at the professor.
“That is the challenge of the exercise, Mr. Lestrange,” Snape replied, staring the boy dead in the eyes. After a long moment, Adrian laid his wand on the table, and the rest of them followed suit. “The spell is called the Isolation Hex. It results in complete physical sensory deprivation, not coincidentally mimicking one of the few non-fatal side effects of over-administration of Veritaserum. In that case, however, the condition is permanent. The hex is finished by a simple Finite. Unless you manage to successfully break the hex, you will remain in your position for the next eight hours.”
After informing them that he would put a suspensory charm on them, “to keep you from soiling my dungeons,” and waiting for the ten students to lie down on the hard stone floor, Snape cast the spell over each of them in turn—a long, complex incantation in a language Mary didn’t recognize. When it was her turn, the last thing she saw were his cold, dark eyes, and then the world fell away from her.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Mary panicked almost immediately at the feeling of her senses being cut off. It was the strangest thing, her fear building to a crescendo before her thoughts vanished as abruptly as the classroom had. She was pretty sure she’d passed out, although she wasn’t sure what that meant when you didn’t have a body.
Once she woke up again, though, and started adjusting to it, she thought for a moment that it might not be so bad, at least compared to many other detentions—it was restful, at least, without any homework or drama with her friends or housemates—but she quickly learned the true horror of the exercise. For instance, not having any idea how much time was passing outside of herself, whether it had been minutes or hours—or even days, if Snape had lied to them about lifting the hex eventually.
Not that she thought he would, but if he had, she’d have no way of knowing!
She thought that if she stopped thinking, time would go by faster, so she tried to stop thinking, only to find that she couldn’t, and started feeling like she might be losing her mind, and thinking all sorts of strange things. Which just made her wonder if this was how it felt to be Luna Lovegood all the time. Or, for that matter, if this was how Riddle had felt, trapped in that diary for fifty years. If it was, she could almost understand him being willing to possess and kill Ginny to reembody himself. She didn’t think she’d kill someone to get her body back yet, but after fifty years…
Then she found herself worrying about the rest of them out there, and how they were faring with the exercise. Even the twins, as much as she resented them, but more than anyone else, she worried about Lilian. As hurt as Mary was by her friend avoiding her, she still cared about her, and she knew that Lilian was having trouble thinking of anything but Connor these days. Being trapped alone with her thoughts certainly couldn’t be enjoyable for her. Mary wondered if Snape knew about Connor, and what Lilian had found out about him on Mabon, and if he still would have done this to her friend if he’d known.
Which then got her started thinking about Snape in general, and why he did things like this to them. Okay, Mary kind of understood it. Nothing seemed to upset him more than people misusing potions, and she knew what they’d done had been really bad, and she was starting to wonder if it had even been worth it. But… well, she couldn’t really imagine any other adult putting them through detentions like this. The professors at Hogwarts weren’t the most reasonable people as a whole, but she didn’t think they were meant to do things like tricking students into thinking they’d been poisoned, or taking away all their senses for hours on end, or all the other stuff he’d had them do in detentions.
On the other hand, in some ways, Snape seemed like the most reasonable adult she knew. He wouldn’t have gone running to Quirrellmort and let him know that she was on to him. Well, Remus was alright too, she supposed, but she couldn’t really talk to him.
No, that wasn’t exactly right. Talking to Remus was easier, less nerve-wracking, than talking to Snape. But he couldn’t know things about her, not without freaking out. Snape was someone that Mary could talk to about horrible things and trust that he’d stay calm and know what to do, and she kind of needed that, because her life was horrible sometimes. She didn’t need someone who would freak out and say she was a child and shouldn’t be in danger; she needed someone who’d tell her what to do and, well, kill someone to protect her if she needed them to.
The point was, in some way, she felt like she could rely on Snape like she couldn’t anyone else. He’d promised her, after all, and he seemed to know everything and be able to do anything at all. So when he did things like this, it confused her, because it felt extreme, like he was just trying to hurt her just to make a point, but that didn’t seem right. He’d said he would act in her best interests, which meant that, in some way, he must think he was helping her.
Like—as insane as it seemed to think that a thirteen-year-old could pull off an Auror training exercise, if he was asking her to do this, maybe he really did think it would help her work out wandless magic?
Only, Mary had no idea how it was meant to help. And while she did trust that Snape at least meant well, this kind of just reminded her of the reason he wasn’t always the best teacher. He never really took the time to explain how you were supposed to do something; he just expected you to figure it out.
If she didn’t do anything, eventually the eight hours would be up and he would lift the hex. She did trust him to do that, even if she felt alarmingly helpless like this. But she didn’t want to wait. For one, she had no idea how long had passed, or how much longer she had to go, and just lying here not doing anything to try to help her situation was sure to drive her spare.
Besides that, though, she wanted to figure it out. She didn’t want to need to be saved. Yes, Snape had said she could trust him, but that didn’t mean that he would just do everything for her. It was in her own best interests to become stronger, to be able to take care of herself, and if she gave him the benefit of the doubt, she thought he was probably trying to help her do that.
If he was putting them through this, she wanted to believe that he thought it was at least possible, if not likely, that they could break the spell. And that was mad, since it was an Auror training exercise, but also kind of flattering, that he might think she was capable of that. She didn’t want to fail, and have him look at her like she was a disappointment or something. Plus, if she got it before anyone else—even the older students, and other than Luna, they were all older than her—he’d have to be impressed with her, wouldn’t he?
That was a nice thought—impressing Professor Snape. Maybe he’d even give her a real compliment again, like when he’d said she was ‘astute’ after the poison detention. She wouldn’t hold her breath, of course, but she could dream.
Okay, so, wandless magic. How could you do wandless magic?
Freeform magic was done without a wand, though she knew it wasn’t the exact same thing as wandless magic. And she knew from Snape’s rambling at her last term that freeform magic was kind of like mind magic, but she’d never done mind magic, so that didn’t really help.
When had she seen people do magic without a wand? Well, Snape did it all the time, and Dumbledore too. And… oh! Ritual magic was done without a wand! She’d done that.
Was ritual magic like wandless magic, though? She didn’t think so. But maybe it could help her. The last rituals she’d done were for Mabon, Lammas, and her birthday. Those involved calling on the Powers, but she didn’t know how to do that properly, and it wasn’t like she could light a candle or anything.
But on her birthday, she’d felt magic go into her, and seen it in the air around her, like whirlpools in turbulent water. Was that how freeform magic worked? She wasn’t sure, but it did make her realize one thing—Snape had cut off her sight, and her hearing, and her senses of smell and taste and touch, but when she felt magic, she didn’t think she used any of those senses.
So the question was, could she still feel magic? Her own, or the magic in the room around her, or if Snape was doing magic out there or something?
She focused as hard as she could, but there was nothing. Except… when Snape or Dumbledore legilimized people, they were reaching out with their magic, right? So maybe Mary just had to reach out…
As she was trying, she felt something. Something like a wave passing through her, and she was pretty sure it had been magic. Because what else was there? So she tried even harder, trying to push magic back out of herself, like it had come into her, and she felt something again! Not like the wave, but like she had brushed against something with her magic. She tried it again, except that this time, it grabbed hold of her, trying to drag her… somewhere, she wasn’t sure, but it felt like the time Dudley’s friend had pulled her under the water in the pool.
She panicked, trying as hard as she could to get away, to make it stop, to pull her magic away from whatever had hold of her and make it stop.
And then the blackness was gone, and everything was bright and loud and someone was screaming, or multiple people were screaming, and she was pretty sure that one of them was her, but then another wave of magic hit her and she passed out.
When Mary woke up again, it was to find Luna Lovegood kneeling over her, staring at her with wide eyes, holding Mary’s wand, which she immediately snatched back.
Luna smiled. “The King of Nightmares is pleased.”
What? Mary let Luna help her to her feet, disappointed that she hadn’t been the first one to escape. At least, she thought, it seemed she’d been the second, because everyone else was still lying flat on the floor. Snape was sitting calmly at his desk, essays spread in front of him which he seemed to be halfway through marking, smirking at her. She thought that maybe he looked proud, but that might have just been wishful thinking.
“The King of Nightmares, I presume?” she asked, approaching him.
After scowling briefly at Luna, he said, “Congratulations; you broke free more quickly than I had expected any of you would. It took you just under four hours.”
Mary tried very, very hard not to look too pleased with herself. Which was easier than it might have been, because, “Luna beat me.”
Luna looked up innocently from where she was crouched on the floor next to Aerin, drawing patterns on the back of her hand with her wand. “I could escape from Time Out when I was five,” she blithely informed them. “But it’s much harder to cast wandless magic outside of yourself. Mummy used to say I would have to wait until I was grown-up to do it properly and on purpose. Nowhere makes a good thinking place, though, don’t you think?”
Mary and Snape exchanged a look, and she was almost certain he was thinking the same thing as her, which was something like, What the fuck? Or, Maybe that’s why she’s like this?
“You may leave, if you like, Mary Elizabeth,” he said. “I will consider your eight hours fulfilled.”
But she didn’t really want to. She wanted to be here when her friends woke up, and she wanted to know more about how she’d done what she did, and whether the thing with the screaming was supposed to happen. “Would you… tell me more about the exercise, sir?” she asked. “I don’t really know if I did it right.”
Snape looked at her briefly before, to her slight surprise, conjuring a chair so that she could sit next to him at his desk. And then he began to explain what had happened to her.
Apparently the wave she’d felt had been him renewing the Isolation Hex after two hours, although it had felt like way longer, and it hadn’t felt like nearly another two hours had passed between that and her breaking free. The screaming had just been a natural response to suddenly coming out of sensory deprivation—“like being hit with an overpowered Supersensory Charm,” he said—and the other person screaming had been Lilian, before Snape had stunned them both to shut them up.
Lilian hadn’t broken the spell on her own, though. The grabbing she’d felt had been Lilian lying next to her, feeling the probing of Mary’s magic and seizing onto it, causing her to panic. Mary had somehow managed to break the spell on both of them in response, even though, as she pointed out, she hadn’t cast a Finite.
“What are the three key components of magic?” Snape asked in response.
Rattling off an answer from one of her first year exams she kind of remembered, Mary tried, “The wand motion, the incantation, and the intent?”
“No, not a casting a charm—base magic. Intent, yes, and power and control.” Even though he was correcting her, though, he was smiling a little, like he was pleased with her, and a weird little warmth built in her chest.
“You turned your magic on yourself—which is in this case the aspect of control, though undoubtedly unpolished—with sufficient desire to make whatever was happening stop, which is the intent behind the Ending Charm. You did this with enough force or power to disrupt the magic already acting on your mind, breaking the Isolation Hex. Now that you are aware of your magic, all that remains is to practice until you can maintain and direct it outside of your body.”
“Oh,” Mary said. She supposed that made sense, even though she wished he could have just told her that. Then, without really thinking about it, still riding off the high of him smiling at her, she asked, “Would you possibly consider teaching me?”
At that, he gave her a slightly surprised look, and she immediately felt stupid. She’d already tried asking him to teach her occlumency last term, and dueling, and curses, and he’d said no to all that. Plus, she knew he was busy.
“At this point, your next step is simply to practice on your own,” he said. “An instructor would be superfluous. If you find you are stuck on something, you are free to ask me, of course.”
That wasn’t a terrible response. It wasn’t like he’d said, ‘Of course not, you dunderhead, I’m way too busy to bother with trying to teach you,’ or ‘You probably won’t be able to learn,’ like he had about occlumency. So why did she feel upset? Embarrassed, and even a little hurt, not wanting to even look at him anymore.
“Right, of course,” she said, standing up. “Thank you, sir. I’ll let you get back to your marking now.”
She went to Luna instead, asking what she was doing to Aerin, and heard the scratching of Snape’s quill as he resumed his work behind them. As Luna explained the monitoring spell on their fellow Conspirators, Mary did her best not to think about how stupid she felt, asking Snape to teach her and getting shot down again.
Mary had thought Lilian would react badly to the hex, even though she’d only been under it for as long as Mary had before waking up and promptly getting stunned. She’d been preoccupied enough worrying about her that she hadn’t even noticed how badly Hermione had taken it until later that night, when Mary ran across her in a nook in the dungeons, all alone, rocking and crying and hugging her knees to her chest.
“Um,” Mary said, already feeling awkward, because she wasn’t really good at dealing with crying people, and Hermione froze. “Are you alright?” Hermione lifted her head, staring at her with red, watery eyes, and she winced. “Right, stupid question.” Sitting down beside her friend, she asked, “Is this because of the detention?”
In response, Hermione made a weird noise—not really a laugh or a scoff, but kind of similar, except wet and teary and overwhelmed—and rubbed at her face with her hands. “Yeah.”
“Want to… talk about it?” They had barely spoken since their fight over the MSA, but this seemed a lot more important than some stupid argument.
After staring at the wall for a moment, Hermione said, “He did something like that to her. Riddle, to Ginny, I mean. When he took over her body completely after she got the diary back. To punish her, and to make her feel what he’d felt when he was trapped in it all those years.”
Mary felt momentarily traitorous for her thoughts about Riddle when she was under the hex. “And you remembered that?”
“That, and basically everything else,” Hermione said. “Everything of Ginny’s, I mean—the memories of that year. It was like I was her. Like I was reliving them. Endlessly, the whole time. Felt like a lot longer than eight hours,” she added with a shaky laugh. Like most of the other students, she hadn’t managed to break the spell before the time was up.
“I’m sorry, Maia,” Mary said, stupidly. She just didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t have the memories that Ginny and Hermione did, so she probably couldn’t even imagine how bad it was.
Luckily, Hermione didn’t seem bothered by how completely useless she was. Looking lost in her own thoughts, she said, “That’s not all. Do you remember the ritual last Yule, when we all lived our alternate lives?”
Mary nodded. That had been one of the weirder rituals she’d taken part in—it had felt like years had passed, even though it had only been a few minutes in the real world. Theo had told Lilian afterward that there were tons of other universes, all separated from theirs by their choices, and that what they’d seen had been a universe that they could have lived in if they’d made a different choice.
In Mary’s, she’d stolen a box of matches as a kid and, while playing with them, nearly burned the Dursleys’ house down, feeding the flames with accidental magic. The Dursleys had become more scared of her after that, so they’d tried to beat the magic out of her, and when her Hogwarts letter had come, they’d tried to keep her from getting it.
For some reason, Hagrid had been the one to come tell her about magic and Hogwarts in the end, not Professor McGonagall, and he hadn’t taken her out of the Dursleys’ custody like the professor had. He’d only taken her shopping in Diagon Alley, where she’d met Draco Malfoy, and he’d made such a bad impression that she’d asked the Sorting Hat to put her anywhere but Slytherin so she wouldn’t be in the same House as him.
She’d ended up in Gryffindor instead, along with Hermione, and they’d somehow become friends with Ron Weasley. She hadn’t known Lilian, or about the school rituals, or that Snape could be nice if he wanted to—she’d thought he was trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone! Still, it had been alright at first, except that when she’d been revealed as a Parselmouth, all the Gryffindors but Ron and Hermione had turned on her.
She’d taken to wandering the halls, avoiding everyone, until Yule, when an older Slytherin girl, Wendy Madden, had taken pity on her and invited her to the ritual she was hosting. When Wendy had initiated the ritual, Mary had come back to her own life again.
Lilian’s vision had been better: she’d seen a world in which she and Aerin had run away to the Rosiers, their relatives on their mum’s side. It had been a wake up call for their parents, who’d stopped ignoring them, and they’d become a real family again. Lilian had been despondent for days after at having to return to her real life.
But Hermione’s, from what Mary remembered, had been far worse than either of theirs, though she’d refused to give many details. “The one where you were sorted into Slytherin?”
Actually, hadn’t Hermione remembered it when the dementors had come onto the train? Mary remembered her saying something like that: ‘I remembered, well, terrible things—Tom, and Slytherin-me.’
Hermione nodded, still with that absent, haunted look in her eyes. “I met Malfoy in Diagon Alley before school started, and he told me that muggleborns weren’t welcome in Slytherin, so I convinced the Hat to put me in, just to spite him.”
Funny how Malfoy had influenced both of them in their visions, and in completely opposite ways. Mary considered this for a moment—it had sounded bad when Hermione had mentioned it last year, but now that she’d seen how Dave had been received… And Hermione wouldn’t have had an older, more established member of the House to look out for her, like Mary tried to do for Dave.
“They must have been awful to you.”
“They were, but that’s not what I was thinking about,” Hermione said. “I wanted to find a way to defend myself, so I, I went to some of the older Slytherins and convinced them to teach me. I had to do… stuff for them, and keep it secret, but some of them helped me, and one even let me read some books from their family library. And I—the other Hermione, she did things. Hurt people, I mean. It was the only way I could come up with to fight back—using Dark magic. I didn’t have the channeling capacity at that age to hold my own against the older kids, so the only thing that worked was finding spells too Dark, or illegal, or obscure, for them to defend against.”
Mary found she could imagine that all too well—Hermione alone in the Snake Pit, with no defenses but her wits and ruthlessness. After all, hadn’t Mary put snakes in Draco’s bed? She knew well enough that when you were surrounded by enemies, you couldn’t be picky about what you did to keep yourself safe.
“You did what you had to do,” she said, but it didn’t seem to make Hermione feel any better. She just gave her a troubled look and hugged her knees closer to her chest.
“I… didn’t like who Slytherin made me into,” Hermione answered. “Even if I had to do it, I don’t want to be that person. But… today, under the Isolation Hex, I started thinking about how that Hermione was only barely thirteen, and she’d really only just started on the path she was on. I started imagining what might have happened to her next, and what she might have done. I can imagine it a lot better now, because…”
She trailed off for a moment, then turned to look at Mary again, biting her lip. “Promise you won’t be mad?”
“How can I answer that question without knowing what you’re talking about?” Mary asked—quite reasonably, in her opinion—and Hermione glared at her. Trying again, more gently this time, she asked, “Why would I be mad?”
“Because you’re… I mean… You can be… weird. About Professor Snape.”
“Weird?” And what did this have to do with Snape?
“I don’t know,” Hermione said quickly. “Forget it. Just, promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“Of course.” Mary could promise that, at least. She was good at keeping secrets.
“Well, I’ve been kind of doing an independent study with him. Snape.”
Mary felt a strange jolt, like the floor had fallen out from under her. “What?” she asked, dumbly.
“You know how I started using the time turner more, after we talked?” Mary nodded. “Well, Snape caught me almost immediately and called me into his office. He, ah.” Hermione blushed a bit. “‘Child-proofed’ it, is how he described it. Basically, making sure I couldn’t take it apart and try to figure out how it worked, even if I wanted to. Which, at first, I was a bit insulted, but then I thought about it, and I definitely would have been tempted to do that eventually.
“And in detention that night, he had me read a log of all the time turner mishaps he’d had to solve since he started working at Hogwarts—mostly to get me to be more careful, I think. Some of them were insane. One student spun the time turner forwards instead of backwards, and displaced seventy-three versions of himself from alternate timelines. Snape made sure my time turner couldn’t spin forwards—that was part of the child-proofing. Another student broke her time turner, cut herself with it, and the sand got into her blood, and all of her blood was transported three seconds into the past.”
Mary shuddered, trying and failing to imagine what that would feel like.
“He also told me that it was the Death Eaters who first invented them. Bellatrix Lestrange did the arithmancy, apparently, and You Know Who did the enchanting.
“Anyway, he didn’t actually tell me to stop using it so much, and a couple weeks later, I asked him for a pass to the restricted section, because I’d run out of references in the open section already. He said that he wouldn’t let me have unrestricted access, not unsupervised, but that I could have a pass if I would write him research reports, and meet with him every week to discuss them. Like a sort of guided reading.”
Mary blinked. She knew Hermione had been interested in stuff like ritual magic, and freeform magic, and the Libra symbol that had appeared on Mary’s breastbone after her birthday ritual. And she’d thought, like Lilian had suggested, that she might look into that stuff once she was using the time turner more. But… with Snape?
“Basically, we’ve been looking into blood wards and protective rituals, the sort of thing that your mum might have done in 1981, plus possession and soul magic. Anything that might help us figure out what happened between you and—well, both Riddles, really. Not just in 1981, but in the Chamber. Did you know Snape went down there last term to see if there was any evidence left behind?”
“…No,” Mary said slowly. Snape hadn’t told her that. He hadn’t told her, but he’d told Hermione.
“Riddle cleaned most of it up after himself,” Hermione went on. “Or, we assume that’s what happened. There was a circle burnt into the floor still, though, and Snape says there was evidence that certain Powers had manifested—Binding, Chaotic, Constructive, and Destructive, specifically—and that probably at least three or four separate ritual events took place. Traces of basilisk blood, too, probably from blood-based runes, but we don’t know why or how it was used. And there were a few rocks that had been transfigured multiple times, with, er, traces of your blood on them, mixed with chalk.”
“What… does that mean?” At least she was distracted from her uncomfortable feelings by the horrifying question of what the hell Riddle had done with her blood. She’d known he’d taken some, since there had been a knife wound on her arm when she’d been found, but… yuck.
“No idea yet,” Hermione admitted. “We’re looking into it, trying to determine what runes he might have used, since they were all scoured away. And, you know, trying to find references to rituals invoking one or more of those Powers. Plus reading up on the sort of Dark Arts Riddle might have employed in making his Horcruxes, or subsumation—you know, what he was doing to steal Ginny’s soul.
“The problem is, it’s hard to find any relevant books. Snape has a decent collection, and contacts for acquiring more, but a lot of the magic we’re looking into is really Dark, so the literature is mostly banned or Anathema.”
“Like the Árthra?” Mary asked, and Hermione gave her a strange look. At least she wasn’t crying anymore.
“How do you know about that?”
“Um… A rumor from some of the older Slytherins. Why, have you read it?”
“No, I’ve only heard Snape mention it a few times.”
Good, Mary thought, surprising herself with her vehemence. It was just… Snape had rejected her four times when she’d asked him to teach her stuff outside of class, but he was teaching Hermione?! If on top of that, he had let Hermione read the Árthra when he’d told Mary she couldn’t, she wasn’t sure how she would have reacted.
“Well, yes, like that,” Hermione admitted. “Though I don’t know if Snape would let me see the really illegal stuff even if he had it. But some of the things I’ve read about, even in the books we have been able to find… I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” she admitted. “So when I was under the Isolation Hex…”
“You were thinking about that?” Mary asked, and her friend nodded. “And that Slytherin Hermione might have used those sorts of Dark Arts?”
“It’s… different, knowing specifics. Knowing how those curses work, and what they do to a person. I mean, some of the stuff in those books… It’s not like I didn’t know there were bad people in the world, but I didn’t realize how much worse it can be, with magic. How much worse war can be when everyone basically has a loaded gun at all times.”
It took a lot of effort for Mary to push her complicated feelings aside, intending to deal with them later. Right now, her best friend needed her.
“Maia, maybe you should tell Snape that this stuff is a little too much for you,” she said. “I mean, you’re older than me, but not that much older. I don’t know if he should be showing you things this Dark.”
Still, some part of her wondered uncomfortably if she was only saying this in the hopes that Hermione would stop meeting with Snape. Why, she wasn’t exactly sure. That was one of the things she intended to worry about later.
“It’s important, Lizzie. It’s to help you. If we can figure out what Riddle did, with his horcruxes,” she said, in the lowest of whispers, “and making a body, it can only help. We might even be able to figure out the connection between you and You Know Who.”
Which only made Mary feel guiltier for feeling whatever way she did.
“I appreciate that,” she said carefully, “but… Snape’s an adult. He can look into that without your help.” Or he could ask me, if it’s about me anyway, she thought, slightly hypocritically. Hermione looked doubtful. “Look, I’m not saying you should stop researching with him, just maybe stay away from the stuff that’s going to make you curl up in a ball of misery in the dungeons like this?”
Hermione bit her lip again, shaking her head. “No, I can handle it,” she insisted. “It’s important, and besides, I’m curious. Knowing is better than not knowing. And if I tell him I’m having nightmares, he’ll probably just stop teaching me altogether.”
Mary would be just fine with that, but she didn’t think saying so to Hermione would help. If anything, it would just make her even more stubborn about it. She could be that way sometimes. Still, Mary muttered, “I don’t know, Maia. I don’t like this…” Although she didn’t think she could really explain why she didn’t like it, even if she tried.
Giving her a nervous look, Hermione said, “Don’t tell him I told you, okay? And don’t tell anyone. He was pretty clear that if word got out what we were doing, it would stop immediately.”
For some reason, Mary had a really strong urge to do exactly that, so they would be forced to stop, and though she wanted to believe that she felt that way out of concern for her friend, she didn’t think that was exactly why.
“Besides,” Hermione went on quickly, like she was trying to convince her, “it’s not all bad. I have so much time that I usually get through the stuff he’s asked me to read a few days early, and then I can look into whatever I want. Really interesting stuff, like really advanced magical theory and philosophy, digging deeper into what the Powers actually are and how magic actually works, and we talk about that, too. It’s really cool, Lizzie—Snape knows so much, and I’m learning way more than I ever have in normal classes.”
Mary’s hand clenched into a fist at her side, where Hermione couldn’t see, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting. But she knew what Hermione wanted to hear from her, and the sooner she said it, the sooner they could be done with this strangely horrible conversation. “Okay,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone.”
When they’d said good night, and Hermione had stopped crying and gone off to do whatever it was she did with her time—chatting with Snape for hours about magical theory and fucking philosophy, apparently—and Mary was on her way back to her dorm, and didn’t have to focus on the conversation and acting normal anymore, it occurred to her, all of a sudden, that she felt really angry. Like, flying into a thunderstorm angry.
What was that about?
Notes:
Snape, psychologically torturing a bunch of teenagers: This is a normal and reasonable teaching method.
It probably won't come up in this fic, but Luna was pissed at Snape because he yelled at her dad for giving her unnecessary potions without a healer even knowing. But they talked about it while everyone else was under the hex and she's forgiven him.
Also multiverse theory is true in the MP universe; basically all of Leigha's stories take place within the same multiverse, just diverging at different points. (I like to think of my fic as just another possible world for Mary.)
Chapter 8: Feelings Are Confusing and Horrible
Notes:
Set during Chapter 16 of CS. Most of this chapter is original, except the conversation between Mary, Snape, and Remus, which borrows some dialogue from CS.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Four times. Mary had asked Snape to teach her outside of class four times, and he’d said no. He wouldn’t teach her occlumency, or wandless magic, or dueling, or curses—had said he didn’t want to ‘corrupt’ her. He’d said he was busy.
And then he’d turned right around and started teaching Hermione about the Dark Arts instead.
Not only that, but he was meeting with her to talk about stuff like philosophy, which wasn’t even relevant to the Dark Lord or anything that Hermione claimed was meant to help Mary! Because, for some bloody reason, he wasn’t too busy for that. No, he was only too busy when Mary wanted to spend time with him.
(Over the summer, she’d wanted to glamour objects to look like Sirius Black’s face, and then blow them up. But now, she wanted to do that with Snape’s face, and also Hermione’s.)
Gods and Powers, she felt so stupid. It was awful to admit, but for a time, she had thought she was special. She’d believed that she was the only student who Snape shared secrets with. When he’d talked to her about the Dark after Mabon, about illegal research journals that he might or might not have, and trusted her not to tell on him, she had thought that it was because she was his Anipsiá. Or because he’d thought she was mature enough to hear it. She’d thought that she was in his inner circle, that she had access to a side of Snape that her friends never would.
(It had made her feel better than the rest of them. Like, by choosing her, he had elevated her, somehow, above her peers.)
But, not only had he been telling Hermione the same sort of stuff, but also more than he’d told Mary. It wasn’t just that she wasn’t special: she was less special than Hermione! Hermione saw a side of Snape that Mary didn’t, one that was closed off to her. One that he had, in fact, repeatedly declined to share with her.
(And she wasn’t even a Slytherin. What gave her the right—)
Hermione had said it was to help Mary, but Mary knew better. It was because she was curious. And, well, she probably felt special, because their closed-off professor had chosen her. She was probably going around laughing at Mary on the inside, or feeling sorry for her, when Mary said things like, ‘Snape likes me more than he likes you,’ or reminded her to call him ‘Professor,’ because Mary was too stupid to see what was right in front of her nose.
(Had he given Hermione permission to be informal too? Was that why she called him Just Snape so much? Did she call him ‘Severus’ when they were alone, talking in his office or—or in his private quarters, Merlin, like when Mary met with Aunt Minnie or Remus?)
Why Hermione, and not her? Was it because Hermione was smarter than her? Snape had tried telling Mary about freeform magic back in May, but it had mostly gone over her head, and he had seemed annoyed, like he’d thought he was wasting his time on her. But she had gotten out of the Isolation Hex when Hermione hadn’t! That had to mean she was better at wandless magic than her, right? Shouldn’t that mean she could learn about freeform magic better than Hermione could, even if she didn’t understand all the theory?
All this reminded her of the end of last year, when Hermione had turned herself into a catgirl as a result of the twins’ prank, and Snape had spoken to her in the hospital wing. Lilian and Mary had had to translate the Snape-speak afterward for their Ravenclaw friend, but without using so many words, he had basically confirmed that he liked Hermione, that he respected her intelligence and thought she had potential—despite her doing rather silly things sometimes, like the aforementioned encattening, or dangerous and unethical things, like the Veritaserum Conspiracy.
At the time, she and Lilian had been excited and happy for their friend, but when Mary thought about it now, she felt, well, less happy. (Almost seething with anger, actually.) She knew that she wasn’t as smart as Hermione, that she couldn’t keep up with Snape when he went off on tangents about magical theory. Hermione was insane and bloody brilliant and was probably going to rule the world someday, and Mary, despite being famous for stupid reasons and being related to the Dark Lord, was really a very ordinary girl.
(She’d thought she had the Anipsiá thing—that that would mean more to Snape than whether she had memorized Hogwarts: A History or read books on extra-planar physics in her free time. Stupid, stupid, stupid.)
Sometimes, when Snape talked to her and Hermione and Lilian at the same time, she felt like she was the only one who actually got was he was saying. He’d meet her eyes and smirk and she’d feel like they were in on a secret together, just the two of them. But then other times, he and Hermione would start making veiled comments back and forth, and Mary would be completely lost, just as she imagined she would be if she sat in on one of their ‘research’ sessions.
The more she thought about it, the more angry and, well, helpless she felt, like she was watching them leave her behind and go somewhere she couldn’t follow. It made her feel small, unimportant. It made her want to fly her broom really fast, or blow something up. It made her feel a bit queasy, too, as she lay on her back in bed and glared up at the ceiling.
(It made her hate them both, just a little.)
Mary should have had every advantage over Hermione. She was his Anipsiá, she was Lily’s daughter, she was a Slytherin. Hermione was just some random student Snape would have never even noticed if she wasn’t Mary’s friend. What gave Hermione the right to insert herself, to take the place that should have been Mary’s? He was Mary’s godfather, not Hermione’s.
(Plus, she was kind of annoying. She was Mary’s best friend, sure, but—didn’t Snape think she was annoying? Why would he rather spend time with her than Mary?)
Snape had said to Mary that when he chose to spend his time and effort on her, it was because he cared about her. But if he was also spending time and effort on Hermione—more time, certainly, than he voluntarily spent on Mary outside of detentions and classes and Head of House stuff—when, on paper, he had so much more reason to care about Mary, what did that say about where they each ranked in his esteem?
Okay, maybe it was more complicated than that. It wasn’t like she could do some arithmancy on the number of hours he spent with Hermione versus herself and conclusively determine which of them he cared about more. But it still bothered her. It felt like the world was wrong, and she needed to do something to put it to rights again, but she didn’t know what.
This year, she thought, was shaping up to be a lot more confusing than the last two.
“Can I join you?”
Mary looked up from her Transfiguration essay to find Hermione hovering next to her table in the library, a tentative smile on her face.
Daphne’s tea party (just as tedious as Mary had expected) and the past few days of classes and Quidditch had distracted Mary from her anger, but at the sight of Hermione, it all came flooding back. Mary wanted to say, ‘No, bugger off.’ Only, if she did, Hermione would want to know why, and then she’d have to come up with an excuse.
“If you like,” she said instead, and Hermione’s smile drooped a bit. There, that was a better approach. She could just act cool and superficially polite until Hermione understood she was annoyed with her without them having to talk about it.
Unfortunately, the cold, distant act only seemed to make Hermione more determined to make nice with her. She tried giving Mary tips on her essay—of course she had already finished hers—and asking what she’d been up to over the past few weeks—which, Mary certainly wasn’t going to tell her she went to an exclusive, pureblood-only tea party; she’d have a fit.
In response, Mary gave her one-word answers and grunts of acknowledgment, not taking her eyes off her essay. Which was terribly rude of her, but it wasn’t like Catherine was there to scold her.
Finally getting fed up, Hermione hissed, “What is it? Why are you being like this?”
“Like what?” Mary asked, which, from the look on Hermione’s face, only seemed to increase her frustration tenfold.
“All… bitchy.”
“I am not being bitchy,” Mary snapped. “I’m just trying to focus on my essay. Not all of us have unlimited free time, you know.”
“I tried to help you with your essay, though, and you just brushed me off!”
Somehow, that just increased Mary’s anger. “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t need your help. I’m not an idiot, you know.”
“What?” Hermione’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Lizzie, I never said you were an idiot. I don’t think that.”
“You implied it, if you think that I need your help to write my essay. We’re both in the same class, you know. We learned all the same stuff.”
“I—what? We help each other with our homework all the time. You’ve never had a problem with it before.” Then, eyes narrowing, “Is this about Snape and I? You promised you wouldn’t be mad!”
Mary’s heart sped up at how quickly Hermione had caught on to her real problem; it made her feel uncomfortably exposed. At the same time, everything about the statement just provoked her further. ‘Snape and I,’ like there was a ‘Snape and Hermione’ for Mary to have a problem with. Calling him Just Snape again, so easily. And saying that Mary had promised she wouldn’t be mad, which was an outright lie. She’d promised not to tell anyone. That was different.
It wasn’t the first time Hermione had done this, either. Mary knew her friend had basically perfect recall—she memorized all of her textbooks, after all—and she only ever ‘forgot’ what Mary had and hadn’t said when she was trying to get her away, to trick Mary into thinking she’d already promised something she hadn’t.
Like with the MSA, actually. That was how their last fight about it had started, with Hermione lying and claiming that Mary had promised to attend the second meeting when they both knew she hadn’t.
Which gave her an idea for changing the subject, actually. “This has nothing to do with that,” she lied. “If you must know, perhaps I’m a little irritated that you stopped speaking to me for a week and a half just because I didn’t want to join your silly club, and now you’re trying to just act like nothing happened when you haven’t even apologized.”
“‘Silly’?!” Hermione whisper-yelled, taking the bait, just as Mary had known she would. It was a move she had stolen from Lilian, actually—avoiding talking to Hermione by picking a fight with her, just so she’d get angry enough to storm out and leave Mary alone. “I can’t believe you’d say that, Lizzie! There’s nothing ‘silly’ about muggleborn rights—in case you’ve forgotten, people were killing us like ten years ago. If anyone needs to apologize, it’s you, but I was trying to be the bigger person and let it go.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “And how is standing around talking about football and telly programmes meant to promote muggleborn rights, exactly?”
Before Hermione could launch into an answer, she went on, “Besides, I don’t think you can blame me for choosing the Dueling Club over the MSA.” (At least, not so long as she didn’t know that Mary had scheduled their meetings to overlap on purpose so she’d have an excuse not to attend.) “Sorry, Maia, but when the Dark Lord tries to kill me, I think knowing how to defend myself is going to be a little more useful than whatever I’d learn from your club.”
“And what about us?” Hermione demanded. “Muggleborns? Are you going to care when he tries to kill us, or are you just worried about protecting yourself?”
Mary’s mouth fell open. “What—how can you even say that, Maia? Of course I’d care.” Hermione softened for a moment, but then Mary added, “Besides, that’s even more reason to learn to duel—you and the other MSA members should come to our next meeting. All of you learning to actually defend yourselves would do a lot more to protect muggleborn rights than a social club.”
At that, Hermione was thrown right back into her self-righteous anger. “I—you—you’re impossible, Lizzie,” she snapped, before standing, shoving her things back into her bag, and storming away.
Just like Mary had intended. And yet, she only felt more horrible than she had when Hermione had first sat down. With a groan, she dropped her head down onto her essay, only realizing when she felt a wetness on her forehead and the tip of her nose that she was smearing the ink all over her face.
Bloody fantastic.
What ended up making her feel better was the strangest thing.
She’d spent the rest of the week avoiding Hermione, hanging out with Dave’s trio instead, or else occasionally with Lilian, who was tentatively speaking to her again. Then, that Saturday, a week after the Isolation Hex detention, Mary was left alone while every single other bloody third year in the school went to Hogsmeade without her.
Lilian had decided to go to the village with Draco Malfoy, of all people. Mary didn’t get why anyone would be interested in him. Not to mention, everyone acted like he and Pansy were basically betrothed, like Blaise and Daphne were. Except she’d gotten the impression he didn’t really like Pansy all that much, hence him agreeing to go with Lilian when she’d asked him.
But anyway, Mary had her tea with Remus that morning, so she’d gone to his office to meet with him. He’d finally gotten the stink of Lockhart’s cologne out of the room, so they didn’t have to meet in his classroom or his private quarters anymore.
Mary chatted with him for a couple hours, doing her best to avoid the topic of Hermione, because she didn’t want to try to explain why she was mad—part of her knew it would sound crazy if she actually said it out loud. Because Hermione was probably trying to help her, and didn’t even know about Snape being Mary’s godfather, and it wasn’t really like Mary could call dibs on a professor. There was no logical reason for her to be as upset as she was, so she’d rather just… keep it to herself. Even Lilian didn’t know; she thought they were just fighting about the MSA again.
Plus, she couldn’t tell him about Snape teaching Hermione about the Dark Arts, not without Snape and Hermione being really angry with her—and while a small part of her thought it might almost be worth it, she knew that was stupid. If she snitched on Snape, he’d never teach her anything interesting ever again.
Instead, she and Remus passed the time talking about how Lilian was doing. Mary hadn’t told Remus the details, of course, but she’d told him a sort of vague outline of the situation a few weeks back, about how her friend was depressed over something she’d learned about her family. He’d given her advice about it, so he was invested, and wanted to know how things were playing out. They talked about that, and Lilian and Draco’s petition, and the Informed Muggle Parents group that Emma Granger was starting.
But then there was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” Remus called, and the door opened to reveal Snape, a goblet smoking in his hand.
He narrowed his eyes when he saw her, stopping in his tracks halfway through the door. “Miss Potter. Lupin.”
Ignoring his reaction, Remus thanked him, telling him to leave the goblet, whatever it was, on the desk, but Snape didn’t move. He just flicked his eyes back and forth between the two of them.
Blushing, for some reason, at Snape’s sharp stare, Mary admitted, “Professor Lupin and I were just catching up. We have tea every few weeks.”
She had intended to ask if Snape would do the same with her, but hadn’t gotten around to it before finding out about him and Hermione. And besides, if she tried, he’d probably just say no, and she’d feel even more stupid than she already did.
“Catching up?” Snape repeated—scornfully, she thought—and her face turned even redder. She remembered wondering, at the start of the year, how she was supposed to avoid pissing Snape off when she was friendly with the professor he hated most of all.
“You’re aware Rem—Professor Lupin was friends with my father,” Mary said, and she wasn’t sure whether the intensified glare was because of the reminder of their school days, or because she’d almost used Remus’s first name by accident. Quickly, she added, “We’ve been in touch since my first year. I wrote him a letter, and he came to visit over Christmas.”
Remus, Mary noticed, was looking rather curiously between the two of them.
“I… see…” Snape turned to stare at Remus without another word. “You should drink that directly, Lupin.”
“What is it?” Mary couldn’t help but ask, leaning over to peer into the goblet.
Remus snatched it away. “A particularly complex potion I require for relief of a chronic medical condition,” he told her, swallowing the potion quickly with a look of disgust on his face.
Snape snorted and said, in a rather dark voice, “Chronic medical condition, indeed.”
“Are you okay?” she asked Remus. “You’re not dying, are you?” He was a Defense professor, after all.
“His condition is not life-threatening… At least, not to him.”
Across the desk, Remus broke out into a sudden coughing fit.
“What do you mean?” Mary asked, worried, tilting her head up at Snape, who was ignoring her in order to stare at Remus like he wanted to dissect him for parts.
“That’s enough, Snape.” Remus’s voice was so sharp that she nearly jumped.
Snape only smirked at him. “Yes, she is rather intelligent, isn’t she?” Mary would have been flattered, except for the way he said it, like somehow it was meant as more of a jibe at Remus than a compliment to her. “Other, perhaps, than her taste in company. Well, we shall see.”
Finally fed up with both of them—if she wanted cryptic nonsense, she’d go to Luna Lovegood, thank you very much—Mary demanded, “What in the names of Merlin, Morgan, and Mordred is with the two of you?”
Neither wizard said anything at all. They just kept staring at each other, for an uncomfortably long time, and then Snape snapped, “Don’t be late for detention, Mary Elizabeth,” and swept out of the room in one of those dramatic billowing motions he did when he was trying to show off.
What the hell? Mary wondered as she walked to lunch. What in the nine hells was that??
Detention that day was lines, and a shorter one than usual, too. She wondered if Snape was running out of ideas. As she wrote out her line (“I must respect the rights of my fellow students”) over and over, until the motions became monotonous, ignoring the occasional glares Hermione threw her way, she thought over what had happened earlier.
Mary had never seen Snape act like that before. It had been like putting him in the same room with Remus had caused him to revert into a petty teenager. More than his grudge against Remus, though, and more than his comments about the Defense professor’s ‘condition,’ which was still worrying her (Remus really hadn’t been looking good today)… More than that was the way he’d reacted to Mary’s presence. He had been acting like her being there, taking tea with Remus, was some sort of personal affront to him.
Snape had been acting, Mary realized, just like she had felt like acting ever since last weekend! Like Remus was his Hermione, if Mary and Hermione had been old rivals or something instead of best friends. Like he was jealous, caught off guard by the realization that she was friendly with a professor other than him (especially one that he hated as much as Remus), and slightly offended by the fact that he hadn’t even known.
And the comment about her—‘She is rather intelligent, isn’t she?’—and the way he’d called her ‘Mary Elizabeth’ there, at the end, had been almost… possessive? Or performative. Like he was trying to show Remus that Mary was his student. Like he was marking his territory.
Or maybe she was projecting, but it kind of fit! Mary snorted slightly to herself at the idea of Snape being motivated by anything so juvenile, though she quickly stifled it and made herself look serious when he glanced up at her.
But the idea stayed with her, turning over in her head as she finished her detention and headed to dinner. Mary didn’t have a great idea of what was going on in Snape’s head most of the time, and when she tried to guess, she usually just ended up embarrassed by how far off the mark she was. But something about this just felt right.
And that made her feel, well, good. She couldn’t say why, but it was like something that had been digging into her skin ever since that conversation with Hermione had just been removed, or at least partially. Like maybe, even if she was stupid and overly dramatic for caring that Snape was friendly with more students than just her, he was stupid and dramatic too, and that made it okay somehow.
Which gave Mary the courage, finally, when Quidditch practice got out the following day—and she’d finished her post-practice nap—to knock on Snape’s office door.
She was finally going to do it! She was going to gather up her courage and ask him to have tea with her!
(And then, maybe, she’d get him to tell her about the Dark Arts, and she would really listen this time, and ask intelligent questions, and she wouldn’t shudder or make faces, and he’d realize that she could be just as good of a research assistant as Hermione if he gave her the chance.)
Unfortunately for Mary’s newly gathered courage, Snape wasn’t there. She should have realized it was a long shot—the whole Castle was preparing for the Halloween feast.
The fact that the school even had a Halloween feast, Mary’s friends in Slytherin insisted, was a sign that it was run by progressives like Dumbledore. A lot of traditional families fasted on Samhain and just sort of sat around thinking about death, so having a big, noisy party with food was sort of like a slap in the face to their culture. But… Mary still kind of liked the feast. It was fun, and she liked getting to have sweets with dinner. (She thought a lot of the Slytherins did too, even if they wouldn’t admit it.)
But anyway, Snape was probably busy decorating the Great Hall or something. She couldn’t find out where he was, because Hermione was hardly going to loan her the Map in the middle of a fight, and she wouldn’t want Hermione to know what she was planning anyway, so she just gave up, deciding maybe she’d get some homework done instead.
Mary was just trudging back to the Slytherin dorms, though, when she passed the Potions classroom and a thought occurred to her. The classroom looked empty, but through the door, she could see the apparent cupboard through which Snape’s private lab could be found. He had taken her there in May, when they’d done the blood test to determine that she was related to Tom Riddle.
Despite suspecting that he wouldn’t want to be bothered—he didn’t even like when people knocked on his office door when it was closed, never mind his private lab that most students didn’t even know existed—she had a really strong urge to try it anyway. She’d spent the whole morning working up the nerve to try to talk to him, and the thought of just giving up and going back to her room was a big let-down.
And besides, it was Samhain, which was when terrible things always happened, and she’d just thought it might be nice to have something good happen today.
Mary entered the Potions classroom and stood in front of the cupboard, wondering if she dared. After a moment to steel herself, she rapped on the door.
It swung open in front of her to reveal Snape on the other side of the room, standing behind the tall stone workbench that was the only furniture in the lab. “Care to explain what is so urgent?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm, and she realized immediately that she’d pissed him off. Which she really should have expected—in hindsight, of course the Potions professor would hate being suddenly forced to interact with another human being—a student, no less—when he’d thought he was blissfully alone. And, she thought, he might still be in a bad mood from the thing with Remus yesterday.
“I guess you’re busy,” Mary said quietly, as he simply stared at her, knife in hand, his workbench covered with half-diced ingredients. “Sorry. It’s not that important.”
Very slowly, he said, “It’s not that important, and yet you chose to interrupt me in my private laboratory on my day off?”
Powers, what was I thinking? Turning bright red, Mary muttered, “I’ll just go,” and turned to flee.
However, before she got very far, she heard him set the knife down on the countertop and say, “Mary Elizabeth, you have already interrupted me. Do, at least, do me the courtesy of telling me what it was that you wanted.”
Mary tried for a moment to think of something less stupid to say, but was utterly unable to, and finally blurted out, “I, uh, was going to ask if you wanted to have tea with me.” She turned back to face him once more, wincing. “Sorry, I wasn’t really thinking. You weren’t in your office, and then I was passing the classroom and I thought you might be in here, but now that I think about it, obviously if you’re in here, it’s because you’re brewing, and so you wouldn’t have time to drink tea with me.”
Cutting off her rambling, she paused and added, “Sir.” Just in case being extra polite helped her not to get murdered and thrown in a cauldron.
Snape blinked at her. “Is there something you need help with?” he asked slowly, clearly thinking she was in some sort of emotional distress, or else trying to ask a favor—those were the usual reasons for Slytherins to approach him for tea, she was pretty sure.
“No…” Mary wasn’t sure how to explain it without embarrassing herself or making him realize that she thought he might have been jealous of Remus. “You know how I have tea with Professor Lupin and Professor McGonagall sometimes.” Mentioning both professors, she thought, might keep him from thinking that this was weird. Because it wasn’t weird. It was totally normal. Just Mary wanting to have tea with another of her favorite professors. “Well, I just thought it might be nice to catch up with you as well, and I had the afternoon free. Again, I realize that now is probably not the best time. Sorry about that.”
It seemed that she had failed to hide her real motivations, because Snape narrowed his eyes at her and said, “Believe it or not, I am not a child that requires an equal portion in order not to throw a fit. Your choice of acquaintances is no business of mine.” So obviously he had picked up on the Remus thing. Whoops, maybe she could have come up with a better way to approach him. He continued, “Besides, I am busy enough as it is. Maybe some professors have nothing better to do than to gossip with you over tea, but I have a great deal occupying my time.”
That was true, Mary supposed, and it kind of hurt her feelings, and part of her felt like she should just go before he verbally eviscerated her. And yet, she found herself wanting to stand her ground, because if she didn’t, she’d never get him to spend time with her, and then Hermione would definitely win.
(Win? What the hell did that mean? Mary decided not to think about it.)
So, he was busy… But maybe if spending time with Mary was productive, rather than simply ‘gossiping over tea,’ he wouldn’t see it as an imposition. After all, he and Hermione were doing research, which was productive. So Mary needed to find something productive to do with him, too.
“Can I help you, then?” she blurted out, then realized how vague that sounded. “With the chopping, I mean. You know I can do it well enough from class, and with two of us, it’ll go twice as fast, and you’ll have more time for all your other… stuff.”
There, that was a good idea! Maybe it was even better than Hermione doing research with him, because she probably spent a lot of time rambling and making him explain stuff to her. But Mary could just… chop things for him. She would be more helpful, and less irritating, than Hermione, and he’d see that there was no reason not to spend time with her!
“Don’t you see enough of me already?” Snape scoffed, and Mary immediately flushed, mortification making her face and throat burn. It was stupid to be so affected, except that it seemed that he had immediately seen right through her stupid excuses to spend time with him, and was mocking her for her neediness when she already burdened him enough.
Or that was how Mary’s mind chose to interpret his question, anyway, but when she squeaked out, “I’m sorry, I’ll just go,” he stopped her.
“I meant no offense, Anipsiá,” he said, though the words came out through his teeth, like it pained him to be nice to her. “I only meant that you spend over a dozen hours per week either in my classes or in my detentions. In the minimal free time you have, should you not be off with your friends, enjoying the holiday, rather than volunteering to spend your afternoon in the dungeons performing the same work I make students do as punishment?”
Mary calmed a little, abashed at how personally she had taken his words. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I had six hours of Quidditch practice this morning. Standing still and chopping ingredients for a while sounds kind of relaxing.” Plus, well, she wanted his company more than she wanted the company of her friends, if only because talking to Snape alone when she wasn’t in trouble was a bit of an infrequent occurrence, and so the opportunity felt more valuable. She could hang out with her friends anytime.
(If they weren’t too busy hanging out with Snape themselves like traitors.)
“As for the holiday, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, sir, but Samhain is… not really my lucky day. At least if I’m down here, I’ll be extra safe when a troll or basilisk shows up.”
As soon as she’d said it, she wondered if it was a mistake—she didn’t want him to think she was only here because she wanted protection against the inevitable Halloween catastrophe. But then again, maybe it would work in her favor. He was always worried about her getting into trouble, so maybe he’d rather be able to keep an eye on her. She wasn’t above using that, if it got her what she wanted.
“If you are so determined to waste your afternoon down here, then you might as well make yourself useful,” Snape finally said, because he had to accept her offer in the most insulting way possible, but he conjured a second stone bench for her just beside his, one low enough for her to reach, and handed her a pair of gloves and a knife. All in all, a far better reaction than she could have hoped for, if she had paused to consider what might result of her disturbing him in here.
In some ways, Mary thought as she began to carefully mince a handful of daisy roots, working much slower than Snape to avoid making mistakes, she might prefer this to having tea. If she was doing something useful, then she didn’t have to worry that he was secretly viewing her as an imposition on his time. And with something else to focus on, there was no pressure to sit there and trade awkward small talk. They could speak, or not speak, as the mood occurred to them; Snape was certainly much more prone to long periods of comfortable silence than either Remus or McGonagall.
Indeed, they mostly worked in silence, but as the afternoon stretched on, Mary dared to broach a potentially heavy topic. She had realized yesterday, when Remus had made a comment about it, that this time of year might be difficult for both Remus and Snape. After all, they had actually known her parents.
“Are you planning to attend the Revel tonight?” she asked, trying to sound casual. The Samhain Revel was the ritual party in honor of the dead held each year in the Senior Woods—the area just at the border of the Forest, where it was still relatively safe. The participants invited the dead to dance among them for the night, to possess them, and the spirits flowed through them, briefly sharing with the Revelers the memories of their lives—being granted a chance to feel alive again in return, if only until the morning.
The Revel in first year had been her very first ritual, and she still held a particular fondness for it. It was certainly less complicated than Mabon tended to be.
Snape attended some of the sabbats; over the past couple years, she had occasionally seen him at Mabon and Yule. However, she had heard that he almost never attended the Samhain Revel. He had only been seen at two in the past nine years, and those were both before Mary’s time. The older Slytherins said it was because he didn’t always care to face everyone he’d known who died in the war. Like her mum, she supposed.
It could pass for an innocent question; after all, it had been a topic of discussion all week in Slytherin House, the Revel and whether or not the rain would clear in time. Some of the upperclassmen had even gone out to perform a weather-working spell, hoping to force it to clear up (which was restricted magic; they’d be in trouble if anyone found out).
They hadn’t been able to hold a Revel the previous year, what with the Chamber of Secrets being opened, and Mary doubted she was the only one impatient for another chance to celebrate the holiday. But at the same time, some part of her hoped (not very strongly, knowing how private he was) that Snape might take the opportunity to speak of her mother, as he had done on a few rare occasions so far. Or he might tell her about ritual magic, and his own experiences with it.
Anything, really, that he hadn’t told Hermione yet.
But he only responded with a simple, “No.”
Mary wanted to ask why not, but she wasn’t sure he’d take well to that. Instead, after thinking a moment, she asked, “Did you use to go, back when you were a student here?”
Pausing in his work, Snape gave her a considering look. “Every year,” he finally said. “Lily loved it. All the sabbats, but Samhain especially. She was quite insistent that we both attend.”
Bullseye! Mary immediately wondered if everyone had it wrong. Maybe Snape didn’t sit out the Revel to avoid the spirits of the dead, but because it had been something he had always shared with his friend. She only said, “Oh?” hoping to lure him into talking more.
Somehow, it worked. Maybe he was in a mood to reminisce. “The Samhain Revel in first year was her first sabbat. I was not supposed to invite her, seeing as I was only a first year myself, but, of course, I did. She took to it right away, like she’d been born for it—far more so than myself. After that, she attended every single school ritual.
“Our sixth year, she was chosen by the Slytherins to serve as one of the anchors of the ritual—the people who make the sacrifice and invocation to the Deathly Power. She had impressed them at Walpurgis that spring, you see, when the Chaotic Power had chosen her as its host for the night.”
Mary barely understood how the ritual worked, but she understood that being an anchor was impressive—almost always, it was sixth and seventh year Slytherins who were chosen, or maybe the occasional Ravenclaw. For a muggleborn Gryffindor to be selected, and during the thick of the war, when the tensions between traditionally-aligned mages and muggleborns were nearing a maximum? It was nearly unbelievable.
“Did she do well?” Mary asked, despite having only the faintest idea of what an anchor did.
Snape very nearly smiled, his eyes far away, as he replied, “I saw her dancing with the Lady Persephone Herself.”
Mary had gotten exactly what she wanted, so why, she wondered, did she suddenly feel sad? It just felt as though Snape had gone somewhere else, somewhere she couldn’t follow him. He spoke to her, but he wasn’t seeing her at all; he was seeing a long dead girl, dancing with a goddess in the light of a bonfire.
She wasn’t certain if she was sad that she would never have the chance to share that with her mother, to dance with the dead together, or if she was sad because she felt as though she too were watching from the shadow outside the circle of firelight, excluded once again, despite her best efforts to get closer.
As she left the dungeons, making her way up to the Great Hall for the Feast, feeling strangely subdued, Mary wondered just how many parts of Snape were entirely closed off and unknown to her—maybe to everyone but his ghosts.
Notes:
Mary is not being very nice to Hermione. In her defense, she is extremely a thirteen-year-old girl. She'll come around.
Mary: [holding a bucket of abandonment issues behind her back]
Hermione: What's that?
Mary: A Transfiguration essay.
Chapter 9: Quidditch Madness
Notes:
This overlaps with Chapters 16 and 17 of Chained Servant. Some dialogue is borrowed again; more details in end notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For all her anticipation, Mary did not attend the Samhain Revel. Nobody did, because of fucking Sirius Black.
Thirty minutes after the Feast, as everyone sat around the common room in anticipation of the moment they’d sneak out to the Senior Woods, Snape stalked in and announced an Alpha-Deux situation.
He had a whole set of codes for different emergencies, which they were learning in Intro to Slythering, and protocols for each. The troll two years ago, for example, had been a Beta-Funf Evacuation. Case B, or Beta, meant that the majority of the House was out of the dorms—in the Great Hall, for example. Class 5 was a major threat to the school, with German indicating a danger of physical destruction or demolition.
When Snape had announced it, the fifth and sixth year prefects had escorted the Slytherins out of the castle, while the seventh years had locked down the Potions labs and dormitories to minimize damage. Unfortunately, the troll had run out of the school as well, pursued by the professors, and had nearly made it to Mary and her housemates before being stunned.
Anyway, a Case Alpha situation just meant they were all in the dorms, which didn’t tell her anything new, and she thought Class 2 meant a threat to a non-specific student or students. But they hadn’t covered what French meant yet, or what the procedure was. Alpha-Dos would be a complete lockdown of the House within Slytherin, to be used if, for example, Fenrir Greyback were to break into the school.
Mary was only frustrated by the lack of information for a second, though, before Snape said to Sean, “Moon, choose five NEWT students and fetch back anyone who has already left to prepare the Revel. I have sent a Message, but it appears to have gone unheeded. If you encounter the convict Black, you may use all due force to defend yourselves.”
Everything seemed to go very quiet in her head, even as Snape continued, confirming for them that, yes, Sirius Black had likely infiltrated the castle, and commanded them to go up to the Great Hall so that the professors could perform a search. And Mary was pretty sure he looked at her when he added, “To be caught out of bounds before the all-clear will be considered a suspension-worthy offense.”
Dazed and frustrated, Mary followed the crowd of Slytherins up to the Hall, where Dumbledore proclaimed the Head Boy and Girl in charge and conjured them hundreds of purple sleeping bags before heading off to lead the search.
Still trying to process that Sirius Black was here, and that she wasn’t allowed to do anything about it, Mary looked aimlessly around the Hall and immediately spotted Luna standing on top of one of the House tables which now lined the walls, waving at her and Lilian. For lack of any better plan, she followed her friend over, only to stop in her tracks when she saw who else was there: sitting under the table, on top of their sleeping bags, were Ginny, Aerin, and Hermione.
Noticing her hesitation, Lilian turned to Mary and said, “Come on, enough of this.” Then she grabbed her by the hand and dragged her over to the four girls, despite Mary’s struggles. Ginny seemed to be in the middle of telling a story, but she was cut off by Lilian shoving Mary at Hermione and insisting, “Alright, you two, make up. I’m not dealing with you refusing to speak to each other all night.”
Mary blushed at the curious stares they received from Ginny, Aerin, and Luna. Or, well, the first two looked curious. Luna looked like she always did. Hermione froze, looking up at her with a sort of troubled, wary expression, and Mary let Lilian tug her to sit down before saying, eloquently, “Um.”
“Hello, Mary Elizabeth, Lilian Grace,” Luna added, lying flat on her stomach on top of the table and hanging upside down to look at them.
No one responded to her; they just stared back and forth between Mary and Hermione.
Now that she’d spent the afternoon with Snape, Mary was feeling a little less… however she’d felt before. Angry, she supposed, and frustrated. In fact, she was a bit embarrassed about how much she’d overreacted to the entire thing. It wasn’t like Hermione knew how complicated things were between her and Snape, and she did probably mean to help Mary. (Plus, it didn’t sound like she was exactly enjoying studying with him, at least not entirely.)
Only Hermione didn’t know why she’d been upset in the first place, so she couldn’t exactly say that. Instead, she said, “I’m… sorry I was being so touchy the other day. I don’t think the MSA is silly.” Well, maybe she did a little bit, but she wouldn’t have actually said so to Hermione’s face if she wasn’t trying to provoke her. “I was just upset that you got so mad at me for not wanting to attend the meeting.”
Lilian gave Hermione a pointed look, and after a second, she said, “I’m sorry, too. It’s just… it’s important to me.”
“I know that.”
Then, more reluctantly, “Sorry if I overreacted to you not wanting to attend the meeting.”
If. She still couldn’t fully admit it. Still, Mary hadn’t actually been that mad about that in the first place, and with Black somewhere in the castle, it felt stupid to be fighting with her best friend about something so trivial. And she felt bad for her own overreaction, even if she couldn’t say so.
“Now hug,” Lilian instructed, like they were her dolls or something, and Ginny snorted. But Hermione leaned forwards and put her arms around Mary, and after a second, she squeezed back. She wasn’t really much of a hugger, but it was a relief not to be fighting anymore.
With that sorted, and the tension dissipated, Ginny resumed her story, telling them about how the Gryffindors had returned from dinner to find the portrait that guarded their common room sliced up, and how Peeves had announced to everyone that it had been Sirius Black who’d done it.
Which was interesting, because people thought he was after her, but everyone knew Mary was a Slytherin. It had been all over the papers back in first year, after she’d outed herself as a Parselmouth. These days, the Prophet was more likely to call her the ‘Heir of Slytherin’ than the ‘Girl Who Lived,’ in spite of the fact that it had been proven that she hadn’t opened the Chamber last year.
The girls speculated for a moment about the idea that Black might be after something else in the castle, something that wasn’t her. He’d been a Gryffindor, after all. Maybe he’d left something in his old dorm, and now he wanted it back.
Hermione’s eyes widened. “The Map!”
“What map?” Ginny and Aerin asked, and Luna tilted her head, which was still upside-down. Mary wondered if she wasn’t getting light-headed by now.
“Hang on… Muffliato!” Mary said, casting the spell over their little group. Snape had just taught it to them last week, as part of their unit on Slytherin Sneaking Spells. Lilian repeated the spell after her, just for extra security.
With their privacy secured, Hermione went about explaining the Marauders’ Map to the three uninformed members of the group.
“I bet that’s what he was after. Just think how useful it would be if you were looking for someone,” Lilian said, and a thoughtful look crossed over her sister’s face.
“Like Sirius Black?”
They all leaned in, practically holding their breath, watching Hermione perform the locator charm… but nothing at all happened. He must have already left the wards.
With all of their names clustered in the Great Hall, however, it was very easy to see the few outliers—the handful of people who weren’t with the group. Including one, all by itself, in the Gryffindor dorms. Laying a finger over the name, Ginny asked, “Who’s this?”
“Oh, just Peter Pettigrew,” Hermione said offhandedly.
“What? But—the wizard Black killed? How?”
Hermione nodded, still looking totally unconcerned. “I think it’s in fairly poor taste, now that, well… you know… but Fred and George think it’s a prank on Pettigrew—he was one of the Marauders, too, right? So it makes sense, as a sort of in-joke, since he’d have seen the Map. But, well, I’m getting ahead of myself.
“When I asked about it, they said he seems to attach himself to the Gryffindor boy, or maybe just the boy or the person in general, that the owners of the Map would find most amusing. Sometimes his dot just hangs around their bed all day. Makes it look like they’re together, you know? They say… well, I shouldn’t laugh, but it is a bit funny… it used be attached to Prefect Weasley, and then when Ronald started, it switched to him.”
Despite Hermione saying it was in bad taste, she joined in when the other girls started giggling. It made sense, Mary thought—a lot more sense than any other explanation she could think of. In Magical Britain, two boys being together wasn’t really that weird—Sean had a boyfriend, and she’d never heard anyone make fun of him for it, like they would have back in the muggle world. But based on Remus’s stories, she could definitely imagine the Marauders thinking it was hilarious to make it look like their friend was dating the most unpopular boy in Gryffindor.
Kind of morbid, though, now that he was dead. Like a ghost, preserved in that scrap of parchment.
They chatted a bit longer before Prefect Weasley declared lights out, but Mary couldn’t sleep. She lay awake for hours, mind running over everything—how angry she felt, how helpless. The man who’d betrayed her parents had been so close, and she hadn’t been able to do anything at all!
She stayed awake until past three, when Snape and Dumbledore reappeared, their conversation confirming what she’d already suspected—Black had escaped. They hadn’t caught him at all. From the look on Snape’s face, though, she could tell that at least one other person in the school was as angry about this as she was.
Somehow, she found that comforting. As their conversation petered out, and the two wizards left, she was finally able to drift off to sleep.
Mary had kind of hoped that, since Black had tried to break into Gryffindor rather than Slytherin—strong evidence that he wasn’t actually after her—Professor McGonagall would let her go to the next Hogsmeade weekend.
It turned out to be quite the opposite. Not only would she not allow her to go, but, even worse, she didn’t think Mary should fly in the Gryffindor-Slytherin game that weekend!
When she first said it, Mary’s first thought was that Wood had put her up to it somehow. Both the Gryffindor captain and Flint were taking the match incredibly seriously—like, frighteningly so. Both of them would be graduating at the end of the year, and they wanted to cap off their tenures as captains by winning the House Cup. For Flint, one more victory would make a perfect winning streak, while for Wood, this was his last chance to beat the Slytherins at least once.
Professor McGonagall denied this, however, insistent that it was for Mary’s safety, which was stupid. Even if he was after her, it wasn’t like Black was going to attack her in the middle of a bloody Quidditch game!
Okay, there had been some ominous signs recently. Some of the students who’d been preparing for the Revel, before Snape had called them back, said they’d seen the Grim in the Senior Woods—Flint and Warbler among them. Draco and Snark kept insisting that meant someone was going to die, but Lilian, who actually knew about these things, said that Grims just showed up in places where the Veil was thin—for example, the site where people were preparing a ritual to part the Veil for Samhain.
Mary thought Lilian probably had the right of it. Just because a Black Dog might have shown up in the woods, that didn’t mean something bad was going to happen! Still, she made sure not to mention it to Professor McGonagall—mages could be awfully superstitious sometimes.
While they were arguing, Snape appeared in the doorway to Professor McGonagall’s office. Mary was worried at first that he’d agree with the professor and say that it wasn’t safe, but to her slight surprise, he took her side instead, pointing out that, given that Black was capable of breaking into the castle, the safest place for her would really be in the game, with the entire school watching her.
Which was a really good point, one Mary wished she’d thought of herself. Especially since all the professors would probably be there (except Snape—he’d be supervising her friends in detention). Plus, what the hell was Black going to do to her without a wand, while she was on a broom? Take a running leap at her from the stands?
The conversation, however, quickly devolved into a shouting match between the two professors while Mary looked on in fascination.
“That is the sort of paternalistic hand-holding that results in graduates too weak to defend themselves in the outside world!” Snape shot her guardian a look of scorn. “She’s thirteen. You can’t keep her under your paw forever.”
“So you would throw all your children to the wolves at thirteen?”
“To the wolves? Never!” Professor McGonagall’s eyes widened at his tone—impassioned, almost violent in his refusal. “But I would acknowledge that they are no longer children. In two years, they reach the age of consent. In four, their majority! Is it not better to observe the age of recognition, and prepare them for the challenges of adulthood, than to throw them into the deep end, as so many of my generation were?
“In case you have forgotten, sixteen of my year died within two months of graduation, Minerva! Sixteen.”
She’d never heard him talk about the war like that before. Like it was personal. Listening to him, Mary felt like something was fitting into place. A missing piece, helping her to finally figure out why he was so harsh on them, with the detentions and telling her and Hermione all that stuff about the Dark. She’d wondered about it before, but this basically confirmed it, she thought—he was trying to help her, in his own way.
“They’re children! Even the bravest child is no match for—”
Snape seemed to get a hold on his anger—when he responded, his voice was once more cool and collected. “No match for what, Minerva? Possession? A basilisk? The Dark Lord’s wraith? A troll? A manticore? A dragon? The acromantula colony in the Forest? Students have faced all of those in the past two years!
“Or perhaps the more mundane dangers that lurk within these halls—Bullies? Kidnapping? Predatory teachers? You may recall that there are students yet to graduate who were assaulted by Maccabee in ’87. We may not be at war, but that is no excuse to wrap our students in cotton wool or teach them to do anything other than look out for themselves.”
He was right, Mary thought, though she didn’t say so, preferring to sit back and let the two professors fight it out themselves. Especially since it seemed like Snape was winning. Because he was right: they couldn’t just lock her in a cage or something until all of the danger went away.
“You swore you would protect her!” Professor McGonagall shouted, slapping a hand down on her desk.
Mary’s eyes widened. Snape had basically said as much to her, but she hadn’t known he’d made the same promise to other people—to her guardian. That made it so much more real, somehow, and she found herself having to fight the urge to smile.
They went back and forth, shouting at each other, for quite some time, but in the end, Snape got his way. She’d be free to fly in the match on Saturday, and to remain on the team, so long as Snape made sure there were at least four seventh years at all of their practices. She was a bit embarrassed at the thought of having to tell Flint that they needed to bring two extra students to practice as bodyguards for her, on top of him and Podmore, but it was better, she supposed, than being forced off the team entirely.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only bit of drama surrounding the match, because Flint finally decided to call in the favor that she owed him for his support during that ridiculous tribunal at the start of term.
Basically, in trying to ensure good weather for the Revel, the seventh year Slytherins had poked a hole in the storm front moving in, which more or less guaranteed that it would be storming the entire rest of the week, including on Saturday. The main threat to their getting the Cup this year was Hufflepuff, led by Diggory—but unlike the Slytherin team, they had only started all-weather practices this year, so they weren’t as accustomed to flying in the rain.
Flint had decided that he’d rather face Hufflepuff than Gryffindor in the coming match, because they’d have the advantage in the storm. Ginny hadn’t managed to unseat Thorpe, and the Lions didn’t even have a reserve seeker—or any reserve players at all, apparently, which was just stupid—so Flint wanted Mary to keep Thorpe out of the game by any means necessary, knowing that Wood would have to either ask to switch spots or forfeit.
Mary really didn’t want to do it. ‘Accidentally’ cobbing the other players was one thing—Flint always pushed them to play rough, and about half their plays involved making contact with the opposing team’s players in some way, shoving or elbowing them as much as they could get away with. But this was cheating, and it could get her in a lot of trouble with Professor McGonagall, or Snape—he might not mind her cheating, but he’d certainly mind if she managed to get caught, as that would be breaking the Second Rule of Slytherin.
But she didn’t feel like she had a choice. Not only did she not know what the seventh year would do if she went back on her word, but she also couldn’t afford to get kicked off the Quidditch team for crossing him, not now that Professor McGonagall had agreed to let her keep playing.
Mary had been begrudgingly accepted by the other Slytherins, but especially now that she was defending Dave, her position in the House was tenuous. Her reputation was pretty much entirely based on speaking Parsel, playing Quidditch really well, and being willing to occasionally resort to violence when pushed too far (like with Malfoy and the snakes in first year). A lot of the other players on the Slytherin Quidditch team were older and more popular than her, and they often supported her in inter-House conflicts, but only because she was their star seeker. Without their support, she’d be basically screwed, and so would Dave.
So she brought Lilian in on it, and the two girls began the unsavory mission of figuring out how to take Thorpe out of the game. They didn’t tell Hermione, of course—Dark Arts nerd or not, she would never approve of this kind of thing. Mary didn’t approve of it either, but, well, she was a Slytherin. She did what she had to do.
So… Mary and Lilian decided to push Thorpe down the stairs.
Okay. In Mary’s defense, she knew he wouldn’t die or anything. Her thought process was, well, she had fallen forty or fifty feet from her broom when Quirrellmort cursed it during her flying class back in first year. But she’d heard that mages were more physically resilient than muggles, and that magic wouldn’t let you get hurt if you believed in it. So, when she’d fallen, she had just tried really hard to believe that she wouldn’t get hurt, and she hadn’t.
But she had apparently used up all of her magic by slowing her fall. And while a broken bone could be fixed right away, Madam Pomfrey had explained that school policy was always to keep a student for a full day and night of observation in a case of magical exhaustion, in case something was causing a constant drain on their magic, like a hidden curse or something. That could be fatal if no one caught it in time.
So, yes, they were going to push him down the stairs, because magical exhaustion was the only thing Mary could think of that would definitely keep him in the hospital wing long enough to prevent him from playing.
(Well, in the end, they decided to provoke a fight between the Slytherins and Gryffindors near a moving staircase, making it look like the Gryffindors’ fault, and then take advantage of the chaos to cast a Summoning Charm on his robes to yank him into the empty space where the stairs had been a moment before. If she wanted to be specific.)
It was the best plan they could think of. He wouldn’t get hurt, just scared, and he’d have to spend the rest of the weekend in the hospital wing. How could it go wrong?
It went wrong.
Thorpe did not, as it turned out, have the same faith in magic that Mary had—or maybe it was that she had fallen onto the grass, and he onto the stone floor. In any case, he ended up having to spend the weekend in the hospital wing undergoing Skelegrow for his shattered ankle and cracked pelvis. Thanks to Lockhart, Mary knew firsthand how painful the process was.
“We are never doing anything like this again,” Mary told Lilian, as the pair of them sat, still and horrified, in a corner of the Slytherin common room.
Lilian, who’d been the one, in the end, to cast the Summoning Charm, confessed, “When I watched him fall, all I could think was, oh, gods, I’m so sorry.”
As it turned out, however, not everyone involved shared the sentiment. That evening, Flint called the Quidditch team together and passed around a note from Snape, a cruel smile on his face that only grew each time he met Mary’s eyes, until she could scarcely stand to look at him.
Capt. Flint,
Due to the unfortunate accident suffered by their seeker earlier today, Prof. McGonagall has petitioned to switch places in the official line-up with Hufflepuff. In the interests of fair play, I have acceded to her request. I trust this does not unduly impact your strategy for the morning’s match.
Prof. Snape
He knew. Mary knew he knew, if not necessarily which of them were behind it. She certainly trusted him, but sometimes, Mary couldn’t help but wonder if Professor Snape wasn’t a bit of a bad influence. She stayed up most of the night, remembering the way Thorpe had screamed when he’d fallen, and the sound he’d made when he’d hit the stone floor.
The match was hellish, even before the dementors swarmed the pitch. The rain was freezing cold, her braid becoming sodden and heavy with water, her fingers numb and frozen—though at least, unlike in practice, Flint had allowed her to cast a water-repelling charm on her glasses.
The Hufflepuffs, probably in response to Slytherin’s strategy, became more aggressive with them, their chasers and beaters trapping Mary and haranguing her, hitting her with their elbows and knees and bats, giving her a bloody nose. It felt less like Quidditch and more like getting beat up in midair, and not for the first time, she wished their captain was a little less vicious in his strategy. It was all well and good when you were a tall, muscular, eighteen-year-old boy, but for a girl her size…
Even Flint, however, had to acknowledge that it was a problem if their seeker couldn’t fly. They tried switching it up to no-contact plays, like the Three-Headed Wyvern and Kitsune they’d been practicing, and at first, it seemed to work—at least for keeping Mary from getting quite as battered. But she still couldn’t find the snitch, not in the downpour, and then she spotted what looked like another Grim in the stands. Despite what Lilian had said about them, she couldn’t help the frisson of fear that went through her.
And then the fear spread, icy and cold.
She had been glad, only a few days ago, that Snape had convinced Professor McGonagall to let her play. But as she fell from her broom, her mother’s screams ringing in her ears, she had only two thoughts.
One: maybe Professor McGonagall had been right after all.
Two: maybe this was her punishment for what she had done to Thorpe.
Mary woke in the hospital wing to the sound of her friends arguing over whether or not suspending a Quidditch match was even allowed.
“What happened?” she mumbled.
“You took a header from mid-stands,” said not Hermione or Lilian, who she’d been expecting, but Sadie Rosier, their keeper. Her flat, unsympathetic tone reminded Mary of the team’s nickname for her—Sadist.
Mary swallowed hard: mid-stands was over a hundred feet. How had she even survived? She opened her eyes to see three blurry shapes at her bedside, and once she slipped on her glasses, struggling up into a seated position, they resolved themselves into Sadie, Lilian, and Hermione. She had heard Vinnie Crabbe’s voice too, when she’d been waking up, but Sadie had sent him to tell Flint she was awake.
“Totally distracted Diggory falling off like that,” Lilian added. “He lost the snitch, and Hooch suspended the game on account of dementors. We have a rematch tomorrow.”
“You won’t be playing,” Sadie added, before Mary could so much as ask. “First off, you broke your arm, three ribs, fractured four vertebrae in your spine, and cracked your skull on landing, even with sinking about a foot into the mud. Pomfrey’s keeping you here at least until Monday. Secondly, your broom drifted off into the forest, and there’s no way anyone’s going to be able to track it down in this weather. It’s probably gone for good.”
Well, shite, there went Mary’s first broom, and one of the first (and favorite) things she’d ever bought for herself. At least, she thought morosely, she hadn’t emptied out her trust account to buy a Firebolt, as she’d been briefly tempted to do over the summer. And, a small silver lining—Lilian would get her first chance to fly in a real game. With Draco taking Mary’s place tomorrow, his chaser position would need to be filled.
Mary chatted with the three girls a bit more. They gave her chocolate for the dementor exposure, and a sandwich from the Great Hall for dinner, and told her more about what had happened after she’d fallen. Dumbledore had managed to slow her fall enough to save her life, then cast a Patronus to scare off the dementors, although they’d nearly run into the stands before some NEWT students had added their own Patroni to his.
Once Sadie left, Mary tried to get Hermione and Lilian to tell her about the day’s detention—which was the reason neither of them had been there for the match—but they refused, saying that Snape had forbidden them from telling her what it had been until she made it up.
Mary was a bit… not disappointed, she told herself, just surprised that he wasn’t there. He usually showed up when she managed to land herself in the hospital wing. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Where is he? Er, Snape, I mean.” For some reason, she couldn’t meet Hermione’s eyes when she asked, so she focused on Lilian instead.
“Well,” Lilian said, “we found out what had happened about thirty minutes after everyone else, since we were all in the dungeons. He came up here with me and Maia as soon as we heard, but Professor Lupin was here with you already, and they—”
“Got into a fight?” Mary interrupted.
“Quite a major one,” Hermione agreed.
“Madam Pomfrey basically dragged them out by their ears and yelled at them like they were a couple of students themselves,” Lilian finished. “It was awesome.”
Thinking of the weird conversation they’d had the day before Halloween, Mary asked them if Snape and Remus had said anything interesting, hoping there might be some hint as to what the hell was going on between them, but from what her friends could tell her, it was just more cryptic nonsense and vague comments about Remus’s ‘condition.’
When she finished her sandwich, Hermione said, “Take this,” impatiently pushing a vial of sleeping potion into her hand. “Madam Pomfrey wants you to get at least another twelve hours of sleep for your recovery.”
Mary’s fingers closed around the vial, but she paused, not really wanting to drink it.
On the one hand, despite their cryptic B.S., Mary was more than a little amused by the mental image of Snape and Remus getting dragged out of the hospital wing by their ears—even if metaphorically, she supposed. What utter children, she thought to herself, getting a secret thrill out of being the superior one for a change, getting to look down on the adults for getting into petty, pointless fights.
And it was another point in favor of her ‘Snape is jealous’ theory. She knew that his feud with Remus wasn’t really about her, of course, and that she wasn’t that important in the grand scheme of things, not compared to the decades of history between them. It was just fun, sometimes, to pretend like she was.
On the other hand… okay, she’d admit it. She was kind of disappointed that Snape wasn’t there. It didn’t feel right to wake up in the hospital wing and not hear his annoyed voice calling her ‘Miss Potter’ and telling her how reckless she was. And she would have thought that he’d be mature enough to keep from getting kicked out of the hospital wing when she was injured.
But what was she going to do? She couldn’t exactly ask her friends, ‘Hang on, before I drink this sleeping potion, can you please convince Madam Pomfrey to let Professor Snape back in so he can scold me? It’ll make me feel better.’ So instead, she forced herself to swallow down the potion, drifting back to sleep with her brow furrowed in frustration, wishing, despite herself, that Snape was there.
When Mary woke a second time, early Sunday morning, Madam Pomfrey was back. She fussed over Mary for a few minutes, checking on her progress and telling her that she would be spending another night in the hospital wing before she would be fully healed.
With the curtains drawn back, she could see Thorpe a few beds down, looking just as miserable as she felt. It made her feel weird, her stomach kind of squirmy, to be so close to him, seeing the consequences of her actions, while he remained oblivious to the fact that she was the one behind his injuries. He even gave her a tired sort of nod, as if in solidarity—two seekers who’d been prevented from playing by a great fall and several broken bones.
That made her feel worse, but also somehow better at the same time. Like the fact that she’d experienced something very similar to what she’d put him through—except the Skelegrow—meant that she had paid for her actions already, and now it was balanced out. She tried to believe that was true.
Still, she wouldn’t be telling him the truth anytime soon. (Or ever.)
Not long after she woke, when she was in the middle of eating her breakfast, Snape appeared beside her in that sneaky way of his, like he’d been silencing his footfalls the way he’d taught them in class. Mary choked on her eggs. “P-professor!” she stammered, embarrassed, trying to cover her mouth.
Then it occurred to her that, if he’d gotten here so quickly, he must have insisted that Madam Pomfrey tell him the moment Mary was awake. Snape really wasn’t a morning person, after all, and she was pretty sure he slept in most weekends. Maybe he’d just wanted to beat Remus to her, but still, the thought of him waking up early and coming straight to see her was pleasant, and she smiled up at him, no longer annoyed about him getting himself kicked out the night before.
Actually, when she thought about him fighting with Remus, she kind of wanted to tell him, ‘Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite professor,’ but that was stupid. Just because Mary wanted to hear something like that didn’t mean that Snape did. (Still, he was. Her favorite professor. And he was here, just to see her.)
He scowled down at her and said, “You are awfully cheery for someone who almost died yet again.”
“Oh, come on,” she complained. “You can’t blame me for getting attacked by dementors. You’re the one who said it was safe for me to fly.”
“Indeed.” Snape’s eyes darkened, and she wondered if she’d made him feel guilty. Oops. She didn’t mind making Snape feel guilty, but only when she actually meant to. He drew up a chair beside her and took a seat, but didn’t say anything else, and she wondered if he’d just come to glower at her or what.
She had the urge to tease him about getting scolded by Madam Pomfrey the previous night, but she doubted he’d take it well. Instead, she asked, “Think we’ll win the rematch?”
“Hm? Oh, perhaps.” Snape sounded, for a moment, like he cared as little about Quidditch as Hermione. Which was weird, because usually, he was a bit intense about Slytherin winning (though not quite so intense as Professor McGonagall was about her team).
Mary was the one hurt, and drowsy from the potions, and yet she still managed to feel awkward, like she was supposed to say something but didn’t know what. It felt like Snape wanted something from her, from the way he was just sitting there silently, staring off into space.
“Sorry,” she tried.
Turning his gaze back to her, raising a single eyebrow, he asked, “For what?”
“Getting hurt again. Making everyone worry. I do tend to do that a lot.”
With a sigh, he said, “As you yourself just pointed out, no one could possibly blame you for falling from your broom.”
“You look like you want to yell at me, though,” Mary pointed out. “That’s the face you always make before you start yelling at me, right there.”
It occurred to her then how she was talking to him, and she wondered when she’d gotten so comfortable with Snape. Maybe it had been so slow that she hadn’t noticed. It was sort of like testing the ice over a lake, she thought—each time, she walked out just a little bit further, then waited to see if he would scold her, or call her ‘Miss Potter’ and tell her she was being too presumptuous. But so far, he hadn’t, so she kept on going, stepping further over that line.
Now, too, he did not rebuke her, but only sighed and said, “It is not you at whom I wish to yell.”
Well, that was good, at least. “You can’t yell at the dementors,” she pointed out. “Or, well, you could try, but I don’t think it would do anything.”
“I once knew a witch who frightened dementors,” he informed her, looking distracted by the thought. “She claimed to have found a way to set them on fire, although I never saw it myself. In any case, she growled at one, right in front of me, and it fled.”
Mary coughed on the water she’d been sipping, startled. Her first thought was, “Was it my mum?” She wasn’t sure why she thought that, except that whenever Snape told her about a witch doing something utterly mad, it was usually Lily.
“Hm?” Snape gave her a startled look, like he was caught off guard by the question. “No, it was Bellatrix.”
“Oh.” Mary felt a bit bad that she’d mistaken her mother for the Blackheart. She wasn’t sure what that said about her mental image of Lily. Changing the subject, she said, “Well, anyway, how about Sirius Black? You could add this to your list—you do have your own list, right?”
Snape gave her that sharp, cold smile again, and a little thrill went up her spine. Intimidation, maybe. Sometimes he could be quite scary, if not as often as the other Houses thought. “Oh yes.”
“There you go, it’s going on both of our lists,” Mary said, nodding. Lowering her voice, she leaned over towards Snape and added, “Why don’t you track him down and kill him? I could come along and help.”
That got a real chuckle out of him, and Mary had to bite her lip to keep from smiling in satisfaction. It always felt like she’d won fifty House Points when she made him do that. “Don’t tempt me,” he said in a low tone, and she ducked her head, unable to keep a straight face any longer. A moment later, he added, “You should rest. I’ll leave you be.”
“Okay,” Mary said, slightly disappointed. “Thank you for stopping by to see me.” Then she blushed, because, really? What a stupid thing to say when she was in the hospital wing.
Snape seemed to think so, because he only raised his eyebrows at her, like she was being ridiculous. “Don’t thank me yet,” he warned her. “I’ll be back later to carry out your detention.”
“Seriously?” she demanded. “Seriously, Theíos? I almost died! I lost my favorite broom, and I didn’t even really get to finish the match. Don’t you feel bad for me?”
But he only smirked at her forebodingly before he walked away.
True to his word, he came back that afternoon, not long after Lilian, Hermione, and Professor McGonagall finished their own visits with her, and offered her a choice: relive the worst of the former detentions—probably with mind magic, she thought—or sit there quietly for eight hours and be obliviated at the end.
Well, Mary sure didn’t want to relive Snape’s betrayal of her—she was mostly over it by now, but going through it again would be awful. And she would be sitting in the hospital wing all day anyway, so it seemed like an easy choice to make. Snape shot her a look of surprise at how quickly she had agreed.
That evening, Snape stopped by again to inform her that she had served her make-up detention and voluntarily had her memory of it erased, and she spent the final hours before bed lying there, trying to figure out what had happened, and why she had done that. It was unpleasantly similar, actually, to the aftermath of the Chamber of Secrets—although having her mind altered by Snape was far less horrifying than having it altered by Tom Riddle.
Whatever she had done, it couldn’t have been too bad. After all, she’d been in the hospital wing the entire time, as far as she knew, and Snape wouldn’t have done anything that wasn’t in her best interests. He had promised her. Knowing that, Mary was finally able to drift off to sleep.
Notes:
A lot of the dialogue about Pettigrew being on the Map, all of the snippets of the McGonagall-Snape argument, Mary and Lilian's reactions to Thorpe, Snape's note to Flint, and parts of the conversation with Sadie, Lilian, and Hermione in the hospital wing are borrowed from CS. (Once again, Leigha is a queen for letting me do this! Before too long, we'll get to a point where most of the story is original, but for now, it's important to weave in these bits of "canon" to establish a base for the rest of the fic.)
The conversation with Snape in the hospital wing is entirely original. One of the things that made me want to write about Mary and Snape in the first place was their banter. ("Did you bring a Cleo’s Asp into the Slytherin dorms in order to ambush Mr. Malfoy?" "No, sir." "No?" "I brought two, sir." / "If you had managed to sneak a basilisk off the Astronomy tower, I would be very impressed. At least dragons fly.") They've just got a really good vibe to me.
I find the events of this chapter interesting because we know from canon that the Slytherin Quidditch team are kind of dickheads. They fight dirty, they cheat, they shove the other players when Hooch isn't looking. I think it's cool to explore that from the perspective of someone on the team who isn't super comfortable with their methods, but has also had them normalized to her to some extent, and to see the way these methods sometimes backfire on them. In general, I like how Leigha's fic adds more depth and diversity to the Slytherin characters without ignoring the ways many of them are known to be shitty people.
Chapter 10: It's Not Just a River in Egypt
Notes:
This chapter takes place during Chapter 18 of Chained Servant, and is mostly original, with some exceptions mentioned in the end notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Slytherin won the rematch, with Draco catching the snitch and Lilian scoring her first official goal, but Mary missed the celebration, still stuck in the hospital wing. She was released on Monday morning, throwing her robes on and going straight to class from there.
At lunch, to her surprise, Hermione approached the Slytherin table. “I’ve been looking in the library,” she began, with no prelude. “If you really want to know how to ward off dementors, your best bet is the Patronus Charm.”
Of course Mary wanted to, but she hadn’t actually told Hermione that—or had she? At her confused look, Hermione frowned and said, “We talked about this yesterday, remember?”
“When?”
“The second time Lilian and I stopped by, after dinner. You—oh. Were you making up your… you know?” she added vaguely, lowering her voice, with a suspicious glance at Mary’s housemates.
Mary nodded. “Do you know what it was?” Not that Hermione could tell her in front of everyone, but she could at least tell her if there was anything to tell.
“Nope,” she said. “You seemed like you were just sitting there when we came by. You said you were bored.”
“Huh.” The mystery of what her detention could possibly have been grew. “Well, in any case, I do want to learn how to fend off dementors. What’s this Patronus Charm?”
“It’s a NEWT-level spell,” Hermione said. “A Light construct, basically, that repels dementors. Professor Lupin might teach it to some of the older students; I haven’t checked yet.”
Mary frowned, doubting there was much hope that she could learn a NEWT charm at her age. Still, she had to appreciate Hermione for going out of her way to look it up for her. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll look into it.”
She started with the Ravenclaw seventh years, who at least confirmed that they were covering the Patronus in Defense, but when she asked them to teach her, they only laughed and said that they had better things to do than try to teach her a spell hopelessly beyond her level. The Slytherins were more agreeable, but they all wanted a favor in return, and she’d learned her lesson about promising Slytherins open-ended favors after Flint and Thorpe.
She didn’t really consider asking Snape to teach her, not after he’d already turned her down so many times. Now that she’d worked out a strategy for interacting with him—namely, making herself as helpful and un-irritating as possible—she didn’t really want to deviate from it by asking him for a favor. It was a Light charm, anyway, and he was a Dark wizard, so she wasn’t even sure he’d be able to cast it.
In the end, she and Lilian approached Remus after class one day and asked if he’d teach them. He was the Defense professor, after all, and he must already have a strategy worked out for teaching the charm, since it was covered in his NEWT classes.
After a bit of prevaricating, he agreed, though he said that he wouldn’t have time until after the holidays, which was basically forever away, and warned them not to practice on their own, as they might hurt themselves. A mixed bag, overall.
Lilian asked if he’d teach Hermione, too, and he said he would, but not to invite anyone else. Mary felt a little weird about it, though she wasn’t sure why. Hermione was her friend, and anyway, she was supposed to be over their fight by now. They’d made up and everything.
Although, that didn’t last long.
Over breakfast on Friday, Mary and her housemates were discussing the upcoming Board of Governors vote—spurred on by Emma’s petition, they were deciding whether to implement new standards for Hogwarts professors, or at least, that was what Tracey claimed that Lavender Brown had overheard Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley discussing.
But Daphne and Blaise confirmed it, and both of them had parents on the Board alongside Neville’s grandmother, so it was probably true. The whole conversation quickly devolved into the two of them explaining the entire complicated political situation of the Board to their yearmates, but the long and short of it was that it seemed fairly likely to pass, and if it did, they might have new professors for History of Magic, Divination, and Care of Magical Creatures as soon as the upcoming term.
Lilian, of course, was ecstatic at the idea of a new Creatures professor, and Daphne was excited that Binns might be replaced—she actually liked History. Last time it had come up, she’d explained it was “because I’m proud of my heritage and our history, and I’ve been raised to respect it. I think everyone ought to learn about it, not just those of us who are already interested.” She’d been writing her father in support of Emma’s petition since it had begun.
In any case, they were in the middle of discussing that when Hermione, for the second time that week, approached the table and asked if they could talk.
“What did you want to talk about?” Mary asked, reluctantly abandoning her porridge to stand up and step off to the side with her friend in the hopes the other Slytherins wouldn’t eavesdrop as much. Hermione looked very serious, which didn’t bode well—it was too early for Mary to deal with much seriousness.
“I’ve been thinking about our fight,” Hermione began, “and you’re right—it makes sense that you’d want to learn to defend yourself. Plus, you helped found the Dueling Club. It wasn’t fair of me to expect you to choose the MSA over it. And a lot of MSA members want to attend the Dueling Club, actually, so… we’ve rescheduled the meeting so it won’t conflict anymore. We’re meeting tomorrow, not Sunday.”
“Oh, good,” Mary said, deciding to play dumb—she was tired of arguing. “I’m glad you guys will be able to attend the Dueling Club now.” She did mean it; she hadn’t really considered that she’d be depriving them of that opportunity when she’d purposefully set up the meetings to conflict.
Hermione, however, wasn’t letting her get away so easily. “So, now that the meetings aren’t conflicting anymore…” When Mary didn’t say anything, she continued, a sort of wheedling tone in her voice, “You can come to both.”
Well, she’d tried to avoid the argument, but there didn’t seem to be any way around it. “Maia, I already told you,” she said with a sigh. “It wasn’t just the scheduling conflict. I’m just not interested, okay?”
“Can’t you give it another try? It’s not all like the first meeting—‘standing around talking about football and telly programmes,’ as you put it.” Her voice was a little bitter, reminding Mary of the words she’d thrown in her face during their argument.
“I… I just don’t have time. Can’t you just drop it?”
For just a moment, Hermione hesitated, looking conflicted, and Mary thought that maybe, just this once, she’d respect Mary’s wishes instead of trying to push her into this.
Then Tracey fucking Davis opened her mouth.
From her spot at the Slytherin table, where she’d apparently been listening in, Mary’s housemate piped up, “Will you still be attending Daphne’s little get-together on Sunday? She was ever so excited that you agreed to attend again.” The smirk on her face left no question that she knew exactly what she was doing.
“What’s on Sunday?” Hermione asked, her face clouding, before Mary could find a way to steer the conversation away from the path it was on.
“It’s a rather private affair, with a somewhat… selective guest list. For the right people, you see…”
“It’s just a tea party, for Daphne’s little clique,” Mary said, as dismissively as she could without being actively insulting towards her housemate.
Hermione exploded.
“Oh, I see how it is! You have time to hang about all afternoon sipping tea and talking about boys and beauty spells with a bunch of air-headed purebloods and halfblood wanna-bes, but not to spend one measly hour with the muggleborns discussing things that actually matter! You don’t even like tea!”
And with that, she turned and stormed away, not even giving Mary a chance to explain—not that she could, with everyone watching her. It was hardly like she could say, ‘I actually hate tea and boring tea parties and half the girls who attend them, but I can’t afford to alienate House Greengrass’ with half of Slytherin listening in.
They’d hardly even made it two weeks this time. Was that what this term was going to be? Just her and her friends losing their tempers at each other again and again, spending half their time not speaking?
<Go tie yourself in a knot,> Mary hissed under her breath—it was the closest equivalent Parsel had to ‘Go fuck yourself.’ Then, turning to Tracey with the coldest, most Snape-like sneer she could muster, she snarled, “Count your blessings for Rule One, Davis.”
If she was going to be a bitch, she didn’t get first name treatment anymore, and Mary didn’t give a damn if that was ‘rude’ of her. Turning on her heel, she stalked out of the Hall, leaving her porridge half-finished on the table. She wasn’t hungry anymore.
So, once again, Mary and Hermione weren’t speaking to each other.
If only, Mary thought, Hermione wasn’t so stubborn. She’d told her she didn’t want to attend the MSA meetings multiple times, and not just because of the scheduling conflict. Presuming that Mary would want to go if the time was changed was just… missing the point entirely.
It was Tracey’s fault too, of course, but the whole tea party thing didn’t need to be an issue if Hermione would just be reasonable about it! It wasn’t like Mary enjoyed the tea parties, and she certainly didn’t like the ‘air-headed purebloods’ more than she liked Hermione. But Catherine had drilled it into her that she had to make a good impression on those girls.
It didn’t matter if Mary liked them or not, or if there were a thousand things she’d rather be doing with her time. It was just like… work. Like Mary’s job was making those people like her, to prepare for when she became a member of the Wizengamot someday. She didn’t think purebloods were better than muggleborns, but politically, many of those girls were from important Houses, and they had… well, frankly, they had more to offer her than Hermione’s club.
Still, Hermione would never listen to that. If anything, she’d take even more offense to Mary acknowledging (quite practically, she thought) that from a purely Slytherin standpoint, making nice with her peers from Noble Houses was worth putting up with an event she hated, while awkwardly talking with a bunch of students she had nothing in common with besides growing up in the muggle world wasn’t.
There was a reason, after all, that Hermione hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin with her. She was the type to insist on embracing her muggleborn heritage, even if it made her life harder. Mary actually rather admired that bullheaded pride of her friend’s, but she wasn’t like that. She would rather keep her head down, fit in, and fight back when it mattered—like standing up for Dave. Or, for that matter, like playing the game, making nice with the snooty purebloods, until she had enough political power to actually do something about the position of muggleborns in Magical Britain.
Not that Mary had many political aspirations at the moment, but she was keeping her options open, not burning bridges.
So Mary decided she wasn’t going to apologize to Hermione, not until she pulled her head out of her arse, even if that meant even more weeks or months of her best friend avoiding her. And, in some ways, it was almost a relief to have an excuse not to talk to her. It meant that she didn’t have to feel guilty for her still complicated feelings about the whole Snape thing.
Mary attended the tea party, even though her sudden coldness towards Tracey made the third year Slytherin girls’ table—always the center of the event—rather awkward. In the following weeks, as Hermione showed no sign of moving past her anger, Mary spent time with Lilian instead (when she could get her away from Tracey and Pansy and Draco), and Blaise and Theo and Daphne, and Dave’s group. And, despite her trepidation, she went back to Snape and asked if she might help him in the Potions lab again, and he agreed.
It was nice, having somewhere to go to get away from everything. She felt caught, in some way, between her friends—Hermione, who wanted Mary to embrace the muggle heritage she felt no connection to, to stand up to the Slytherins, and Lilian, who, despite being politically neutral, didn’t seem to see any problem with surrounding herself with the blood purist arseholes in their year. (Speaking of—why didn’t Hermione ever get mad at her?)
Even just being in Slytherin in general felt a bit fraught, between the way they treated Dave and her own concerns that maybe she was becoming a worse person than she’d been before, with the compromises that she made to fit into the House.
Spending time with Snape in his lab was a relief. It was quiet, and they didn’t have to talk, but she felt like he understood her anyway. And, well, it also helped her reassure herself that he truly had meant what he said, that he did actually care for her and enjoy her company. Especially when she started thinking about Hermione, and how infuriating she was, and wondering how often she might be meeting with him. When Mary thought like that, the only thing that really helped was to seek him out herself.
Soon, their unhurried conversations, processing ingredients side by side at their work benches or tidying his supplies or brewing—even once, on Mary’s favorite occasion, stepping out into the Senior Woods to harvest herbs—had become one more thread woven into the fabric of her everyday life in the castle.
By the second half of November, their detentions were drawing to a close—only two more to go, and then they would finally have their Saturdays back. Mary, for one, was ready to have it over with, in spite of her revelation that Snape was only putting them through all this so they’d become stronger. But she still braced herself, suspecting that her Head of House had a few more tricks up his sleeves, and was proven right in the second-to-last detention.
They entered the same empty classroom in which they’d undergone the Isolation Hex, only this time, there were ten chairs arranged in a large semi-circle in front of the teacher’s desk. Next to each chair was a small table, on which sat what looked like a dicta-quill, a long, blank scroll of parchment, and two small vials of light green liquid.
Having led them into the classroom, Snape stepped up to the desk, leaned one hip against it, and summoned one of the vials to his hand. “This,” he informed the students, “is Sheppard’s Solution—one of the many truth serums which you read about in your detention eight weeks ago. Not so potent as Veritaserum, but easier to produce, with fewer potential dangers if brewed incorrectly, and sufficient for the purposes of compelling response in the vast majority of the population.
“Unless any of you have ingested any potions within the past two weeks of which Madam Pomfrey is unaware…” and he paused, staring at each of them in turn, waiting to see if anyone would speak before he continued, “there should be no adverse effects. You shall each, when instructed, drink the entirety of your first vial—and the second, four hours later.
“Following this, I will ask you a series of questions, which you will answer in full—the potion will ensure that. Around each of you will be cast a one-way sound ward. You will be able to hear my questions, but your responses will not be audible to anyone but yourself and the dicta-quill beside you, which will record your answers onto your scrolls.
“You may find this process, and the things which are asked of you, invasive. It may be upsetting or frightening, being unable to restrain yourself from revealing everything that is asked of you, to having total power over your responses taken away from you by another person—one, perhaps, whom you do not fully trust. I hope that, during the course of this detention, you will reflect on these feelings of helplessness and frustration, and come to terms with the extent to which you inflicted this same experience on each and every student that you assaulted.”
Snape paused for a moment, letting his words sink in, before he added, “Any questions?”
Lilian slowly raised her hand. “What are you going to do with our scrolls afterwards, sir?”
With a rather sadistic smile, he replied, “I suppose you will have to wait and see.”
Mary had a feeling this was going to be one of the worst detentions, and from the looks on everyone else’s faces, she wasn’t the only one. The anticipation of not knowing what Snape would ask, or whether he would read their scrolls at the end… She knew that was the point, that he was trying to make them realize what it felt like, but that didn’t make it any less awful. She exchanged a nervous glance with Lilian as they took their seats.
The first few questions weren’t so bad. Snape positioned himself behind the desk, marking papers, and only looked up to drawl a new question every thirty minutes or so, paying little attention to them in between.
Most of it was stuff that Mary would not have chosen to tell Snape on her own, but mostly because she didn’t think he would care that much about her thoughts and feelings, and she wouldn’t want to annoy him by going on about them. But it wasn’t like she had a problem with him knowing that she’d considered leaving school to hunt Sirius Black down herself, or that she felt caught between Hermione and the Slytherins, or that she hated being the Girl Who Lived, or that her only really big dream for her life was to just have a chance to be herself, not what other people wanted her to be.
The fact that she couldn’t stop herself from talking, from rambling on and saying every word that came into her head, was more uncomfortable, but also weirdly exhilarating? She knew that the lesson was meant to be that being dosed with a truth serum was horrible and invasive, but it probably would have been more effective if the person dosing her hadn’t been Snape. After all, she trusted him. And if he took the time to read her scroll after, wouldn’t that mean that he cared what she thought? That wouldn’t be too bad.
Even when he asked her to confess what she’d done wrong, what she was ashamed of, it wasn’t too awful. Telling him about Thorpe, for example, was almost a relief. Because, well, she was pretty sure he already knew the Quidditch team had been behind it, and he hadn’t seemed upset or anything. And she didn’t think she could be blamed for getting caught when he was literally questioning her under a truth serum. Given that, it felt good to have a chance to get it off her chest.
And when he asked who her first crush had been, she found herself feeling a bit smug, because unlike a lot of the girls in her year, she wasn’t all stupid about boys, so he couldn’t embarrass her. She told him firmly that she’d never had a crush before, and that honestly, she couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about anyway.
The serum did get her to admit eventually, as the silence stretched on, that she thought the fittest boys in the school, objectively, were probably Diggory and Davies for the upper years, and Blaise and that fourth year Ravenclaw boy Kirke for those closer to Mary’s age, but it wasn’t like she fancied them. She just had eyes, not to mention ears to hear the other girls gossiping about them all the time.
So, altogether, not so horrible. But she should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. When they’d nearly reached the end of their eight hours, and her voice was starting to break from talking so much, he broke out his trump card: “What is something which you would very much not want me, specifically, to know? Explain in as much detail as you are capable of.”
Mary knew why he asked it. It was rather clever, in a Slytherin sort of way, meant to get under the skin of even someone like Mary, who did not have much to hide from him. Even if he never looked at the scrolls—which she was suddenly very much hoping he wouldn’t—just the memory of being forced to say the words aloud in front of him, not knowing whether he would read them or not, would be discomfiting to any of them.
That didn’t stop her from feeling absolutely mortified, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, as she was unable to stop herself from going into the most embarrassing monologue of her life (and there were more than a few to compare it to—Mary was a babbler).
“I don’t want you to know how much I think about every single interaction we have. It’s your fault, for saying you wished you were my godfather last term. I didn’t know what it meant when I agreed, and then I found out, and I spent the entire summer thinking about it constantly, because I didn’t know what you meant by it, or if you even knew what a big deal it was, and whether you knew that I didn’t know what a big deal it was, or that I was basically saying that I wish you’d raised me, because sure, you would’ve been better at it than the Dursleys, and you’ve been my favorite professor since first year, but it’s not like I’m sitting around wishing you were my dad or something, that would be weird, but I didn’t want to offend you, either, and I just didn’t know how I was supposed to interact with you anymore, and I still don’t fully know, so I’m constantly worried that I’m somehow getting it wrong, because even if you did mean that you see me almost like a family member, I don’t really know what having a family is supposed to be like—I never had a family before or even a friend before I got to Hogwarts—and I’m just constantly certain, in the back of my mind, that I’m doing it wrong and everyone else knows how to be close to each other except for me and I’m having to put all this thought just into trying to act normal, which is the least normal thing of all!”
Mary took an enormous breath, realizing that that last sentence—if it could even be called that—had gone on entirely too long, but she wasn’t finished. Although she’d read about about it, she didn’t remember how this particular truth serum worked, but it seemed almost as though her emotional distress intensified the effects, making the words begin to spill from her mouth faster and faster, until she couldn’t even keep up. It would have been interesting if it hadn’t been so horrible.
“And you don’t help, you know! You’re not very consistent. First you poison me, then you say that you care about me, like, out of nowhere, and then you go back to acting like nothing happened and barely seeming to notice I exist, so it just makes me think about you even more, because I never know what to expect from you or what you want from me or if I’m annoying you. You said to trust you, so I’m trying, but then sometimes I think, you gave me points in first year for saying that I didn’t trust you, so maybe it’s a trick or a test or something, because honestly, why else would you just come out and say that you care about me? Sometimes I feel like, as soon as I actually let my guard down, you’re going to tell me that I’m too gullible and un-Slytherin and lose all respect for me and then you’ll start treating me like you treat Neville Longbottom or something and I couldn’t stand that, I really couldn’t, and maybe that’s the most childish and un-Slytherin thing of all is how much I care what you think about me!
“But it doesn’t make any sense, so I just keep worrying about it. You said you spend so much time on me because you care about me, but all the time you really spend on me is in class, or detention, or when I get in trouble or get hurt or something, and every time I try to get you to spend any time with me that you don’t have to, you pretty much always say no. And it drives me crazy because you said yes to Hermione—I know you’re teaching her about the Dark Arts and everything, even though you say you’re busy and you wouldn’t teach me any Dark curses or let me read that journal thing, and I think maybe it’s because you like her more than me, maybe because she’s smarter than me or something.
“And yeah, I know that Hermione isn’t your Anipsiá or whatever, but that just makes it worse, cause I know you said you cared about me for me and not who my mother was, but that’s still probably what made you start paying attention to me, is that I’m Lily’s daughter, but Hermione is just some girl you’d never heard of before, she’s not even a Slytherin, and you still started tutoring her on your own, and I don’t think you would have done that for me, not if I was just some girl named Mary who wasn’t Lily’s daughter or the Girl Who Lived or anything, not if I wasn’t constantly getting attacked so that you’re forced to pay attention to me.
“And it sucks, thinking that you only care about me because of Lily, or because I’m such a danger magnet, because—I don’t know, it’s like everybody else has people, just like they know how to act normal—Hermione has her parents, and even Lilian has her brother and sister, even if her parents don’t like her, but I don’t have anyone, and then you said that you cared about me and that you could be like my godfather, and then I thought maybe I could have one thing that was just mine, but that’s pathetic, me just latching on to the first person to say that to me, when you aren’t even nice to me and you probably don’t care nearly as much as I do, and I only care this much because my life’s so fucked up and I’ve always been all alone and I didn’t care, I really didn’t, until you said all that stuff to me and it felt like I wasn’t—alone, I mean—and you said you didn’t know have to have a family either, so I thought we might be the same, but we’re not, not when I care so much even though I don’t want to and you don’t seem like you care at all.
“But it was something, at least, except then Hermione started trying to steal you from me or something even though she already has her own family, and I hate it so much, and I know that’s crazy because you’re not even my real godfather and you have to care about all your students and not just me, I just want something that I don’t have to share with anyone else, even Hermione, and to feel like someone cares about me more than anyone else, because no one does, probably not since my parents died. But it’s stupid to think that person could be you when I really don’t even know you that well, it’s only been barely two years and normal people don’t get this attached to their professors, but it just meant something to me when you said you cared about me because I don’t know why, exactly, it just did, and I’m constantly afraid that it didn’t mean anywhere near as much to you.
“And I know it’s stupid of me to be jealous of Hermione, cause she’s my best friend and you and her are trying to help me, but I still am, because you talk about things with Hermione that you don’t talk about with me. It makes me really mad, like, sometimes I hate her, and I hate you a little bit, too, for making me care this much when I never did before. It’s not like I want to hear about the Dark Arts, and by the way, I think some of the stuff you’re teaching Hermione is scaring her, she’s not been sleeping well, and she’s just a third year too, you know, so I’m kind of mad at you about that, you should be more careful with her, or, honestly, maybe you should just stop, I know you’re trying to help me but I’d really prefer you just stopped meeting with her for like a million different reasons. I could help you research, you know, I know I’m not as smart as Hermione and the Dark Arts creep me out sometimes, but I’d do it if you asked, I just want to spend time with you, okay? I don’t even care what we do. I’d drink tea if you wanted to, or go out in the Forest, or learn to melt people’s skin off, or help mark essays, I’d be happy with anything.
“But if was up to me, I think we’d just talk, because when you talked to me about your feelings, it made me happy, because no one else gets to hear about that—Ginny doesn’t even think you have feelings, you know—and I really really liked that and I don’t know why? It just made me feel really good, honestly, like I was special or something, thinking that you told me things you wouldn’t tell anyone else, except then I found out you were telling Hermione things that you didn’t tell me, and I hate it, I hate it so much, I hate the idea that anyone might get to see any part of you that I don’t get to see, because then I start wondering how special I really am, and how many other students you’re talking to the way you talk to me, and maybe there were other students before me that you talked to about stuff like your feelings or gave permission to call you by your first name, even though I’m still too scared to, and I don’t think I could stand that!
“I know you said you can’t give me special treatment, I understand why, I just still can’t stop wishing that you would just come out and tell me that I’m your favorite student, and you won’t ever care about any student half as much as you care about me, and that you don’t even mind what a pain I am by getting myself into trouble all the time, and that Hermione is more of a pain because she acts like she knows everything and talks too much, and I probably shouldn’t want you to say mean things about my best friend, I just need to know that you care about me more than her and also every other person you’ve ever taught in your entire life so I can stop thinking about it all the time.
“You could tell me if you did care about me that much, you know, I’d keep it a secret from everyone, I’m good at keeping secrets when I haven’t been dosed with a bloody truth serum, damn you. I like when you tell me secrets, not because of the secrets themselves, but because no one else knows, and it feels like I’m in a special club with you and no one else is allowed in. And if I really was your favorite student, that would be the best secret you could possibly tell me, I think, and I wouldn’t tell anyone, not even Hermione, even though honestly I would really want to gloat and tell her that you like me best, which would be mean, but I’d want to do it anyway, if I’m honest, which I have to be because you drugged me. But that doesn’t matter, because you wouldn’t tell me even if I was, because you can’t ever make anything easy for me, right?
“And that’s why I keep volunteering to help cut up potions ingredients and stuff, because I feel like if you spend more time with me than Hermione, that means that I win and you like me better than her, and I know that’s ridiculous and not even how it works, and I want to help with potions stuff because that gives me another advantage, because when you spend time with other students, you’re helping them, but if I can help you, then maybe I’ll be different than them and you won’t think I’m a burden even though you’re always having to rescue me, and besides, it’s an excuse to be around you, and I like being around you a lot, you know? Except that’s even more pathetic, that I have to do all this stuff just to trick you into spending time with me when you just went out and volunteered to meet with Hermione.
“And maybe the dumbest part is, I keep deluding myself into thinking that you care what I think about you, like when you seemed mad that I was having tea with Remus, it made me wonder if you ever get jealous like I do, and I wish you did, because then it would be less ridiculous that I’m thinking about these things all the time, I wouldn’t just be all crazy by myself, but honestly, even if you were jealous, you shouldn’t be, because Remus is just Remus, he’s just there, he’s nice but he’s not confusing like you and I don’t think I would care nearly as much if I found out he was having secret research meetings with Hermione, I don’t care that much what anyone thinks of me except for you.
“Like, Remus said that he sees me like a niece, so it feels like maybe I should care as much about him as I do about you, if I was being rational, but I just don’t, and I don’t know why. It would be better if I did, if it was Remus or anyone but you that I cared this much about, because you’re confusing and sometimes you really hurt my feelings, but honestly, that’s probably why I care so much, because if it were easy then I wouldn’t have to try so hard, and I wouldn’t feel so proud of myself when I actually get it right.
“And there are these moments when I feel like I am getting it right, like when I manage to make you laugh, or like when back at the end of first year, I wished you a good summer, and you looked so surprised, like no one had ever wished you a good summer before, and I know it’s awful but I hope they haven’t, because then I could be the only one, and maybe if I keep asking you about yourself and offering to help you with things and thanking you and stuff, I’ll be different from all the other students who only want you to do things for them and you’ll like me best, but it’s hard because I have to push and I feel like I’m annoying you every time we talk.
“But I remember every one of those moments, you know, when you look at me like I’ve surprised you but in a good way, and I think about them when I’m sad sometimes, or when I can’t sleep, and I imagine you telling me that I’m your favorite student and that you care about me more than anyone else.”
By this point, face burning with humiliation, tears actively threatening to spill over, Mary switched to trying to speak as quickly as possible, mumbling a bit, in the hopes that the horrifying words wouldn’t be recorded properly by the dicta-quill.
“But I don’t know how I can be your favorite, or be anything but a burden, when I can’t repay you for things like saving my life and telling me the truth when Dumbledore wouldn’t, because I’m thirteen and I can’t fight anyone to protect you even though I would if I could, and I can’t tell you anything useful, and anyway I can’t even repay you for small things, like the present I’m pretty sure you sent me for my birthday, ‘cause I don’t even know when your birthday is and I don’t think you’d tell me if I asked, and all I do, really, is make trouble for you, and I’m afraid that you only see me as a child that you have to look out for and ‘coddle,’ like you said, and if you read what I’m saying now, it’s only going to make that ten times worse, because you’ll see how crazy and childish I am for caring so much more than is normal about every single stupid interaction we have and for not wanting to share you with anybody and being so desperate for you to like me, and you’ll realize that I’m not Slytherin enough for you to respect me, and then I’ll never be your favorite student!”
Mary finally managed to stop herself, covering her mouth frantically with both hands, fingertips digging painfully into the wet flesh of her cheeks, her eyes wide with horror. A moment later, he called, “Time,” and began passing out vials of the antidote, saving her from any further humiliation, but she barely noticed. All she could think was, Oh Merlin, oh no, what if he reads it?
When the sound wards were dispelled and they’d all drank their antidotes, Snape picked up each scroll of parchment, one by one. Mary held her breath as he skimmed over the contents, his face betraying absolutely nothing, before burning the whole pile to ash.
The other students looked more relieved than she felt, probably because they wouldn’t want their secrets to be lying around out there for anyone to see. But the worst person who could possibly have seen Mary’s secrets already had. True, he hadn’t looked that long—it had seemed like he’d lingered a second longer on hers than anyone else’s, but that might have just been her imagination, and regardless, it hadn’t been long enough for a normal person to fully read something that long. But he was a mind mage, and brilliant as well. She couldn’t rule out the possibility that he’d read it, or at least parts of it.
It wasn’t like a giant wall of words in the middle of her scroll, incriminatingly studded with the word ‘you’ every five seconds, wouldn’t have caught his eye. Even just skimming it, the worst bits probably would’ve stood out, like the parts about how much she cared what he thought of her, or hating Hermione for trying to steal him from her, or about wanting him to say she was his favorite student, or, worst of all, the bit about her imagining him telling her that when she couldn’t sleep.
Merlin’s saggy balls, why???
He hadn’t reacted, his face just as blank and uninterested when he skimmed her scroll as it had been for everyone else’s, but that didn’t mean anything. Snape wasn’t the type to reveal his thoughts that easily. At least that meant he would probably act like he hadn’t noticed anything, even if he had, but on the other hand, that would mean that she would be left to wonder forever just how much he’d read, and whether he was thinking of it when she was talking to him, and how was she supposed to ever face him again?
She wasn’t nearly as mad as the serum had made her out to be… she thought. It wasn’t like she thought those things about Snape all the time. Usually, those considerations were playing out in the back of her mind, mostly unconscious, while she thought about other stuff. It was just that shining a light on it had forced her to realize just how many irrational, paranoid calculations went into her side of her relationship with Snape, and once she’d started thinking about it, she’d been unable not to tell him everything, even though she was only realizing that she felt those things the same moment that she said them.
One thing, Mary knew for certain: she never wanted to hear the words ‘truth serum’ ever again.
Notes:
Bits and pieces of Mary and Hermione's argument are taken from CS, as are Tracey and Daphne's words. Everything else is original.
Mary: I've never fancied anyone in my life. Crushes are for suckers.
Also Mary: If my Potions professor doesn't pay attention to me 24/7 I will scream.This chapter was a lot of fun to write. It's a little bit inspired, actually, by a scene in a yuri manga I like, Adachi to Shimamura.
There was this study the animal behaviorist B. F. Skinner did where he put rats in a box ("Skinner's box") with a lever that dispensed food. If it dispensed food every time, or at regular intervals, they'd press it a bit. But if the lever dispensed food at random intervals, the rats got addicted to pressing the lever, like gambling addicts convinced that if they just tried one more time, they'd get the payoff.
Basically: Mary is the rat, and Snape is the lever.
Chapter 11: An Unexpected Deer
Notes:
This chapter overlaps with Chapters 18 and 19 of Chained Servant, and contains some dialogue from the original fic; more details in the end notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Slytherin Conspirators—Mary, Lilian, Morgana, Perry, and Adrian—congregated in a corner of the common room behind privacy spells the moment they returned. Mary had discreetly cleaned her face as best she could, but was weirdly relieved to see the tear tracks on Lilian’s cheeks. She should have felt bad for her friend, but she was just glad not to be the only cry-baby, especially in front of the three fifth years.
Mary was the first to ask it. “Do you think it’s possible that Professor Snape knows what we said?”
Though she’d hoped otherwise, Adrian immediately nodded. “Some mind mages can recall their own memories in perfect detail. Just a glimpse would be enough for someone like that. We don’t know if he’s capable of it, but… it’s possible.” His voice was dark, and Mary had the feeling that he wanted his secrets known as little as she did.
“He probably won’t tell anyone, even if he does know what was on the scrolls,” Morgana said. “Not unless he thought someone was in danger or something. If he would rat us out, he would have done so about the Veritaserum.”
“He had better not rat us out. Do you know how much trouble he’d get into if we told anyone about our ‘detentions’?” At surprised looks from Lilian and Mary, Adrian clarified, “The Isolation Hex, to start with, is a Dark spell, and its use is controlled by the Ministry. Even Aurors have to undergo evaluation by a mind healer before being put under it—the risk of lasting mental trauma is too high. And using it on minors, especially ones under the age of consent like you two, is completely illegal.”
“Not as illegal as drugging hundreds of students with Veritaserum,” Perry pointed out, and Adrian glared at him. Mary got the impression that this was an argument the two of them had had before.
Mary wasn’t sure how to feel about what Adrian had said. Her first instinct was to say it wasn’t that bad—that Snape must have had enough of an idea of whether they were mentally stable enough to undergo the hex or not—but… it did sound bad when he put it that way.
“Well, okay, he probably won’t tell anyone,” she said, trying to steer the conversation back to what she wanted to know. “But still… is there any way to know if he read the scrolls?”
The older students exchanged a glance and shrugged. “You could ask him, I suppose,” Morgana said, which Mary was absolutely not going to do.
For a second, she entertained the idea of coming up with some convoluted plan to determine whether Snape was capable of perfect recall, but he’d almost certainly see right through it.
“Be careful,” Adrian added. “If you do talk to him, don’t admit to anything, even if you already said it under the truth serum. Especially since you’re under the age of consent, anything you said while dosed shouldn’t stand up before the Wizengamot, especially if all the evidence he has is his own memory of a scroll that’s not even in your handwriting. But if you implicate yourself verbally, when you’re not under a truth serum…”
Mary suddenly had the feeling that she and Adrian were worried about their scrolls for very different reasons. Still, she thanked him before heading back to the third year girls’ dorms with Lilian, leaving the three older students to whisper to each other in the corner of the common room.
On the way there, Lilian leaned close to her and murmured, “You told him about Thorpe, too?”
Oh, she had. Mary had almost forgotten that. But if Lilian wanted to believe that was what Mary was worried about, she’d let her—she was hardly going to tell her the truth, after all.
“Yeah.”
Lilian sighed and put an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Liz,” she said. “Like Morgana said, I don’t think he’ll tell anyone.”
Mary was pretty sure Lilian was just trying to convince herself, but she nodded anyway, pretending to be cheered up. At least until she was alone in her own bedroom, and finally free to bury her face in her hands and groan.
What was she going to do now?
After a lot of thinking, Mary had decided to do her best to pretend the detention had never happened. Whether Snape had read her scroll or not, he would likely never let on, so thinking about it was just going to drive her mad.
That said, she thought she might avoid him for a while. She wasn’t quite ready to know for sure if he was going to treat her any differently now, or even just to face him with the things she’d said still ringing in her ears. She still couldn’t believe she’d said all that—had hardly even realized she felt those things until they’d come pouring out of her.
The one good thing that had come out of the whole ordeal, as horrible as it was, was that she had a lot better understanding of why she’d gotten so angry with Hermione. Basically, she thought, some part of her cared about the fact that she didn’t have a family of her own—even the Grangers were Hermione’s parents first, and Mary’s… whatever they were to her second. She hadn’t thought she cared about that sort of thing, but when Snape had told her that he wanted to be her godfather, it must have activated some embarrassing, childish part of her that wanted a family of her own, and she was angry with Hermione for getting in between them when she already had one.
Not that Mary wanted Snape to be her parent or anything… she thought. She just… oh, she didn’t even want to put into words what it was that she did want (to be ‘special’ to him, apparently). That was too ridiculous of a thing for her to want from a professor, especially one that poisoned her and made her dissect puppies and used restricted, Dark charms on her for punishment. If she were going to try to look for something like a family of her own in her professors, she’d be better off with Aunt Minnie and Remus. Yeah, they both had their flaws, but at least they weren’t… well, distant and cruel and confusing and all the other things Snape could be, when he wasn’t being strangely nice. (Actually, he was confusing then, too.)
Honestly, she really should spend more time with Remus. At least she could be relatively normal about him, and he was a lot more predictable. She always knew what to expect from him. Maybe while she was avoiding Snape, she’d see if he was available to have tea with her more frequently or something.
She had Dueling Club the following evening, at least, to take her mind off things. She’d missed the last one while sitting in the hospital wing all day after the Quidditch match, doing whatever she’d done for her detention before Snape had obliviated her. (If it were anything like the scroll detention, she could see why she had agreed to be obliviated. She kind of wished that had been an option again this week.)
Professor Flitwick had split them up into groups while she was away, wanting them to work across House lines with people of similar skill levels. Mary’s group included Lilian, which she was happy about, but also Ron Weasley, to her displeasure. Neville Longbottom, Lisa Turpin from Ravenclaw, and Ernie Macmillan from Hufflepuff were in their group as well.
Practicing dueling was fun, though Professor Flitwick made them play this weird strategy game that Mary wasn’t all that good at. She ended up talking to Neville quite a bit throughout the meeting, and found, to her slight surprise, that he was actually pretty cool. Unfortunately, Weasley took offense to his friend talking to Mary and Lilian, mostly because he was mad that Hagrid was losing his job—which, unless he liked flobberworms and acid slugs, Mary wasn’t sure what he was complaining about!
Yes: the Board had finally passed new standards for professors, thanks to Madam Longbottom voting aye, even though she usually supported Dumbledore. Now all their professors had to have an Outstanding NEWT in their subject, or else a Mastery; at least four other NEWTs to show they were well-rounded; at least five years of teaching experience (except the Defense professor, who only needed one); and they had to be licensed to carry a wand.
Hagrid didn’t meet any of those standards, and Binns couldn’t carry a wand since he was dead, so they were both being sacked and replaced by new professors after the winter hols. (Unfortunately for everyone taking Divination, Trelawney was not, having somehow met the minimum standards for her post.)
Mary had thought everyone would be happy about this—except Dumbledore, who’d been in a horrible mood ever since the vote, but he hardly counted. But Weasley seemed to have added it to his list of reasons to dislike the two girls, since Lilian had been the one pushing for Hagrid’s replacement, and he even accused Neville of planning to ask Mary out on a date, making him go all red and awkward, the great prat. So, yeah, that had basically ruined their conversation.
Unfortunately, Mary’s new plan to distract herself with things like the Dueling Club, and Remus, and the question of who their new professors would be, only lasted a few days. She’d thought herself clever, managing to keep the truth of why she was so upset about the scroll detention from Lilian. But her friend’s utter lack of knowledge about… well, any of the ridiculous feelings Mary had about Snape meant that there was nothing to stop her from deciding, all on her own, that Remus was taking too long to teach them the Patronus Charm… and that maybe they should ask Snape instead.
When they’d talked about it at breakfast that morning, Mary had been half awake and had thought Lilian meant they should ask Remus if they could start Patronus lessons any sooner. She’d been on board with that. They’d gotten a new batch of dementors overnight, and the aura of depression around the castle was worse than ever. And with how tired Remus seemed all the time, Mary had to admit she wasn’t totally confident he wouldn’t just keep blowing them off even after the holidays, which were already long enough away!
But it wasn’t until the end of Potions class that Lilian revealed her plan—or, if she had mentioned it earlier, Mary hadn’t been listening. Not only that, but it had been a particularly eventful class: Neville had managed to blow up his cauldron again, leading to Snape dismissing the entire class early.
So, of course, now—when Snape was in a bad mood due to dementors and Neville, and Mary was still unable to even look him in the eye without wanting to run and hide under her bed—now was when Lilian thought they should ask him for a favor. Of bloody course.
“Come on, Lils,” she whined, trying to drag her friend towards the door. “He was already in a bad mood before Neville’s explosion. He’s not going to say yes.”
“He can hear you.”
Mary jumped slightly, looking up to see a rather irritated Professor Snape. “And your Pepper-up has now been simmering for two minutes too long. Vanish it, ask your question, finish cleaning up, and then leave. Your incessant whispering is hardly adequate thanks for an extra half-period free.”
Mary searched his face. While he looked annoyed, obviously, she didn’t see anything in his expression like derision, or pity, or discomfort, or anything else she’d thought he might feel if he’d heard her insane little rant about him.
Lilian, meanwhile, just snorted and said, “Thank you, sir, we truly do appreciate the additional free time.” With a pointed look at Mary, she started cleaning up their potion.
This was another part of the plan she hadn’t agreed to before he’d interrupted them—Lilian’s idea that Mary should be the one to ask him, because ‘he likes you better.’ Probably just throwing her own explanation for Snape’s offer of informality back at her, but it had still made Mary blush a bit, stupidly, when she’d said it.
Left alone with Snape, though, Mary was cursing her friend. Sure, Lilian couldn’t know why Mary didn’t want to talk to him, since she’d gone out of her way to hide it from her, but did she have to be so bloody pushy all the time?
“I’m waiting, Miss Potter,” Snape said without even looking at her, still focused on cleaning up Neville’s mess, and she frowned. Probably he was being formal because Lilian was there, but what if he wasn’t? What if he’d read her scroll, and now he regretted having offered her informality at all?
Mary froze, unable to come up with a response, wanting more than anything to flee. He looked up at her, irritation painted all over his features, and she involuntarily flinched, preparing for a verbal lashing… but then something in his expression softened, the impatience going out of his eyes. Actually, he even looked a bit amused, she thought. “Go on, Mary Elizabeth.” His voice was a little bit lower now, less harsh.
Behind her, she heard Lilian pause in her scrubbing, and a little flash of pleasure went through her—this was the first time he’d used her first name in front of anyone else. Somehow, it made her feel smug to think of Lilian hearing it and knowing that she hadn’t been making the whole thing up or something, and yes, she knew all too well why she felt that way, but she wasn’t going to think about it. She let herself enjoy the feeling, giving him a tentative smile, a small amount of tension leaving her body.
“As you might have noticed, the dementors are getting a bit… horrible.” He let out an amused huff at the understatement, which only encouraged her. “And since I don’t know how to set them on fire, I’ve been hoping to learn the Patronus Charm instead. We have,” she corrected, nodding in Lilian’s direction. Almost added ‘And Hermione,’ then didn’t.
“Professor Lupin said he’d teach us, but he keeps blowing us off, saying we have to wait until after the holidays and that we can’t practice on our own. And anyway, you know at least as much as he does about Defense, so…”
Snape scoffed. “Flattery will get you nowhere.” Okay, so her attempts to manipulate him by using his rivalry with Remus might have been a little obvious. She really should get better at manipulation. She wondered if they’d cover it in the second term of Intro to Slythering—so far, they were mostly focused on Sneaking Spells and emergency protocols.
Giving up, she said, “Okay, fine, will you please show us so I don’t fall off my broom again?” Since he hated her landing herself in the hospital wing, maybe that would work. Plus, he wanted them to win the House Cup, and even if Draco had won them the last match, she was still a better seeker when she wasn’t being attacked by dementors.
With a sigh, he said, “I assume Lupin gave you the usual nonsense about the damned things sucking all the happiness out of you?”
“Yes,” Lilian said, finally joining them. “But that doesn’t make sense. If the Patronus is made of happy memories, wouldn’t it feed dementors, instead of repelling them?”
“The construct itself is made of Light magic, motivated and directed by a happy memory—specifically a memory of something you would protect with your own life. And based on my observations over the course of these past few months, I am inclined to suspect that they feed not on happiness, but on misery. Their aura suppresses happy memories and, in close proximity, leads you to dwell on those that make you most miserable, anxious, and depressed, dragging those feelings to the surface.
“While the Patronus Charm is the only common spell used to repel them, advanced occlumency can be used to ameliorate the effects to a degree.” He paused, then added, “Don’t even ask—it is far more difficult to learn occlumency than it is to learn the Patronus.”
Mary knew better than to ask if he’d teach her, anyway. He’d already said no at the end of last year, after everything went down with Riddle. Apparently her personality was ‘unsuited’ to it, and puberty was the worst time to learn.
(She flashed back to the book Emma had sent, about hormones and changing bodies, and shuddered. Thank Merlin none of that had happened to her yet, other than her finally fitting into a bra.)
“What about setting them on fire, sir?” Lilian asked. “I heard what Elizabeth said.”
“Are you Bellatrix Lestrange, Miss Moon?” Snape asked, and Lilian’s eyes widened. At least he didn’t seem mad at her for mentioning the information, so she supposed it wasn’t a secret.
“Bellatrix Lestrange can set dementors on fire?” she demanded.
“So she claimed.”
Mary felt like this conversation was spiraling out of control. “Would you show us the Patronus, sir?” she asked. “Or teach us, if you have time, but I know you’re busy.”
Snape cocked his head to the side for a moment, as if considering, before nodding slowly and saying, “I will demonstrate it—once.” Moving his wand in a languid motion, he said, “Expecto Patronum,” and a blue silvery light shot from the tip. Standing in front of them was a ghostly doe, radiating such a sense of safety and warmth and love that Mary could hardly believe she had come from Snape, of all people.
Safety? Yes, maybe that. But it was so gentle.
“She’s beautiful,” Lilian said, holding out a hand, and the doe nuzzled it. Mary just stood there, looking at it in shocked silence. “Is it always a doe?”
“The shape varies by the person casting, and by the nature of the memory used to create it, but generally remains stable over time once you have successfully produced a Patronus.”
“Why is yours a doe?” Mary asked, finally breaking out of her dazed state. She took a step forward, and the doe came to meet her, brushing against her leg through her robes. It felt like magic, like static electricity.
“Convention says that it represents the soul of the person who casts it,” Snape said, but his voice was dry.
“You disagree, sir?” Lilian asked, though Mary thought the answer was obvious.
“My soul was never so pure as this.”
Mary’s eyes shot from the doe to the professor’s face, watching his profile as he looked down at his Patronus, his hair obscuring his features. He spoke lightly enough. Not as though he was being self-deprecating, but simply stating the obvious. In fact, he looked fond, more relaxed and calm than she’d ever seen him before, and a weird little thrill went through her—one she didn’t entirely understand.
“You do recall my saying that the memory behind the Patronus must be linked to something you would protect with your life, and this shapes the construct?”
Lilian nodded. Mary didn’t say anything, still watching him, unable to look away.
“I believe it is more accurate to say that the Patronus takes a shape representative of that which you would die to protect. The doe has a whole slew of symbolic meanings in the general way of things, among them subtlety and trust.”
“Is that what you would die to protect?” Mary asked, not even realizing she was going to say it, and his eyes shifted to meet hers. “Sir,” she added, belatedly.
For a moment, he only looked at her inscrutably, before saying, “Obviously.”
She swallowed, feeling very… still, all of a sudden, and she wasn’t really sure why. She knew she should speak, or look away, but she couldn’t do either, so she just stood there and looked at him—at those eyes.
Lilian interrupted, not seeming to notice the charge to the air. Maybe it was only Mary that felt it. “And in the not-so-general way of things, sir?”
The strange moment ended, and Snape turned back to Lilian. “There is a bit of lore regarding the Patronus that suggests the form may shift to match or complement that of your beloved. Matching is especially associated with unrequited love. If you are familiar with the Tale of Parallax and Quincey, it was a key plot point.” At their utterly lost stares, he rolled his eyes. “It’s a modern classic, look it up! The point is, the Patronus can symbolize a person, rather than an abstract idea.”
“Does yours?” Lilian asked, and Mary’s heart stuttered. That was way too personal of a question! She glanced back at Snape, waiting for him to get angry, but to her surprise, he only snorted.
“No, despite what certain people believe—in fact, you would do best not to mention that fact outside of this room.” At their nods, he continued, “The form of my Patronus matched that of Lily Evans. However, mine was based on a childhood memory, an abstract idea, and hers, she said, was based on mine.”
Mary went through so many different emotions in one span of time that she couldn’t identify a single one of them. She was still just standing there like an idiot when Lilian blurted out, “Does that mean Lizzie’s mom was in love with you?”
“No.”
“But—”
And that was when he kicked them out.
Still reeling from everything—the feeling of the Patronus, and the shock of going from that sense of warmth back to the gloomy aura of the castle, and that strange moment when he’d told them what the doe meant, and the million questions she now had about Snape and her mum, Mary turned to her friend and said, “Lilian, I can’t believe you said that!”
Lilian rolled her eyes. “Come off it, Lizzie. Anyway, what is up with you and Professor Snape lately?”
“What do you mean?” Mary asked, trying not to sound too uncomfortable with the question. Things with Snape were, well, weird, but if Lilian thought she didn’t want to talk about it, she’d only assume that meant there was something to talk about.
“I mean, since when do you talk to him like that? Joking around and stuff? You sounded like me. You’re usually so awkward around our professors.”
Mary glared at her over that. Just because she was polite, unlike her rather cheeky friend, didn’t mean she was awkward.
“And he called you ‘Mary Elizabeth.’ And—since when has he been telling you about Bellatrix Lestrange?”
“I did tell you he invited me to be informal with him,” Mary pointed out. “We talk sometimes. Like Professor Lupin and I.”
“Huh.” Lilian didn’t sound convinced. “But you kept staring.”
Hoping it didn’t come off as defensive, Mary asked, “Wouldn’t you? I mean, that was weird, wasn’t it? Him showing us his Patronus, and telling us about all that.”
Lilian looked at her for a moment, but agreed, “Yeah, you know, it was.”
They chatted about it more as they walked down the hallway, and Mary spent all of her next class wondering what in the nine hells had just happened.
Severus was not quite sure what he’d been thinking when he’d decided to supervise one hundred hours of unofficial detentions for ten students, but at long last, they were finally over.
On the final Saturday in November, all ten students had convened in that empty dungeon classroom one last time. He’d begun by speaking to them, driving home the lessons he had hoped they had learned over the past months—an unsubtle approach to be sure, but as a full half of them were not Slytherins, it seemed prudent. He had pointed out that their detentions, being unofficial, had been fully unenforceable, and yet, they had all chosen to come back each weekend and serve their time. (A trick, of course—by framing it as something they had consented to, they would be less likely to go running to their parents or the Headmaster with tales of all the horrible punishments he’d inflicted on them.) He’d given them a last chance to leave, to decide they didn’t want to see it through till the end, and been gratified to find that each and every one of them stayed. Even the bloody Weasley twins.
Then he’d had them write an essay for him. Not any essay, of course—he had infused the parchment with Trust Tincture, a subtle compulsion to write, and the Curse of the Honest Author, before telling them to attempt to justify their actions to him—or, if they now believed them to be wrong, to explain exactly why.
This final assignment was more for his benefit than theirs. Many of these students, from Miss Granger, to the Weasley twins, to the three older Slytherins—all of whom came from Death Eater families—had proven themselves potential dangers to society as a whole. He needed to know whether they had learned their lesson, or whether he might expect further actions along this line from them.
The essays, he found as he read them, ranged a wide variety of responses. On one end, he had the elder Moon girl, the Ravenclaw, who made it clear that she fully regretted her actions, and had since she’d seen the betrayal in the eyes of her fellow students after drugging them. In fact, she expressed relief that he had caught them and given them a way to atone for what they’d done.
At the other extreme, there was Mr. Adrian Lestrange, one of his Slytherin fifth years, who had recognized the compulsions laid on the parchment and, rather than follow instructions, used the essay as an opportunity to list out the details of every detention Severus had put him through, making it clear that he did not consider himself to have consented to them, and that, if Severus were to reveal the crimes he had committed last year, or anything which he had revealed during the previous detention, he would be going to the authorities to reveal that Severus had used the Isolation Hex on them.
Given that the potential penalty for their use of Veritaserum on their fellow students was an Azkaban sentence—although, as minors, they might get off easier—he was confident that even Mr. Lestrange would not follow through on his implied threat unless forced. Still, it was troubling that the boy did not seem to have learned from the past several months, particularly given his family. Severus would have to keep a closer eye on him.
Another troubling aspect of the essays was that every single student at some point mentioned that they felt their actions were necessitated by the lack of response from the school administration to the basilisk attacks. From Dumbledore failing to investigate anyone other than Mary Elizabeth and the younger Moon girl, to Filius ignoring the concerns raised by his Ravenclaws, to Pomona refusing to allow Severus to question her Hufflepuffs ‘willy nilly,’ as she’d put it, the students had come to the frankly correct conclusion that the adults who were meant to protect them were either uninterested in, or incapable of, doing so.
Severus tried his hardest—he slept only about four hours a night, spending the rest of his time either working or trying to keep the school from devolving into chaos, à la Lord of the fucking Flies—but there was only so much he could do when his colleagues were incompetent fools, either over-or-under-reacting to every threat which arose in the school. He could not even bring himself to fault the students for their frankly accusatory tones as they pointed out that, had the school administration done their fucking jobs, they would not have been required to take matters into their own hands.
For now, however, he put that aside, returning to the question of which of his students had expressed genuine regret for their actions, and which seemed unrepentant. He was gratified to see that Miss Yaxley and Mr. Wilkes had been more amenable than their friend.
Miss Yaxley in particular… Well, he suspected she was trying to tell him what he wanted to hear, but she was not wrong when she said that his detentions were motivated, on some level, by the desire not to see his current students go down the same path that he and his contemporaries had, following their parents and their friends blindly into the ranks of the Dark Lord when he inevitably returned.
Knowing that she shouldn’t be able to resist the compulsions laid on the parchment, it was gratifying to see Miss Yaxley honestly confess that she didn’t wish to become a Death Eater, and that even her father, who had served the Dark Lord, was glad to see that Severus encouraging his Slytherins to think for themselves. He knew that was not the case for most of his snakes—many of the older ones found themselves caught between the free thinking which he encouraged and the pressures of their families to follow in their footsteps.
Miss Yaxley also expressed a sentiment which had become common among his Slytherins in the past several years: the wish for a third path. For those from families like the Yaxleys, the idea of serving Albus Dumbledore and his Light was unthinkable. Many of them might not wish to follow the Dark Lord, but they saw no other option.
Severus felt a bit foolish for thinking it, because the girl in question was only thirteen at the moment, but he had found himself hoping, this year more than ever, that young Mary Potter, along with her friends in his House, could be the sign of a new way forward. Her choice to extend her Patronage to Mr. Rhees in particular, something Severus was quite pleased he had led her to, was a refreshing change from the established order—neither the Dark Lord’s way nor Dumbledore’s, but a third, mixing wizarding tradition with more modern values.
Mary Elizabeth herself, however, was becoming more of a problem than he had anticipated. Or, well, he had anticipated her continuing to get herself into various ridiculous and life-threatening situations, as she had the past few years. But it seemed that, whenever he adjusted to one type of nonsense from her, she came up with something completely new and unexpected to vex him.
The latest of which was, of course, the fact that the silly little chit had developed something of an infatuation with him. Not that she would have described it that way, being blissfully unaware of the nature of her feelings, going from confidently telling the dicta-quill that she had never had a crush to confessing a desire for him to ‘care about [her] more than anyone else.’ (He had, admittedly, struggled to keep a straight face when he’d processed that juxtaposition.)
What a ridiculous girl. Perhaps he ought to have seen this coming, and yet, he found himself completely blindsided. Following that first detention, he had attempted to regain her trust, both out of softhearted feelings of guilt as well as the more practical concern that if she mistrusted him, she certainly would not come to him for help the next time she found herself in a life-threatening situation. However, without meaning to, he had overshot the target to a laughable extent, and now found himself facing a thirteen-year-old girl with what he was coming to realize were extensive abandonment issues who had latched onto him as a drowning man to anything in reach.
Of course, her feelings were not a crush in the sense of true romantic or physical attraction, but only a certain misplacing of affection. Quite understandable, once he considered the situation more clearly. He did not know the full details of what she had endured with that vile cunt Petunia and her family, but from the diatribe which the truth serum had provoked, there was no doubt the girl was starved for affection. An older male in a position of authority singling her out, promising to look after her, would certainly be compelling, regardless of who that person might be. Even more so, though, if he were known to be difficult to impress and sparing in his praise—the psychology of it was obvious.
The idea that she might fancy him was not, in of itself, cause for concern. Ridiculous, perhaps, but teenagers developed ridiculous crushes all the time, and grew out of them just as often. (He usually tried very hard not to think about just how many of the upper-year Slytherins thought him fanciable—mostly, of course, because he was the only young male professor in the castle.)
However, the degree to which she had already become dependent on him was more worrying. Not surprising—it was hardly as though Severus did not understand a neglected child’s urge to hold on to the first person to offer them protection and kindness. But worrying, seeing as his attempt to provide her stability had, ironically, led to him destabilizing her, putting her into a sort of heightened state of insecurity when it came to him, causing conflict between her and her other sources of support.
There was also a small part of him that worried about the similarities to her mother and grandfather. Lily and the Dark Lord were different in many ways, but one trait they both shared was a certain possessiveness, a tendency to view the people they liked—so much as the Dark Lord could like anyone—as theirs. In fact, since discovering the relation between them, Severus had begun to realize how much his own friendship with Lily had mimicked whatever the fuck Bellatrix had had going on with the Dark Lord—with himself, of course, in the position of Bellatrix.
However, this was probably going too far. Had he not known of her relation to the Dark Lord, he would have thought her feelings easily explained by circumstances in which she had been raised. There was hardly anything sinister in an abused, neglected young girl wishing to hoard what little kindness she was shown, and even her anger towards Miss Granger for what she perceived as her interference was not so unexpected. Mary Elizabeth was, after all, only thirteen, and right in the midst of the overwhelming hormonal changes of puberty.
In any case, even if she were to develop a sense of possessiveness to rival that of her grandfather’s, it was better it be directed towards Severus than one of her peers. Given their relative ages and positions, she held no power over him that could be misused, even if she did wish it. The most she could do was cause him quite a headache.
No, he would put aside thoughts of Lily and the Dark Lord for the moment, and operate instead under the assumption that Mary Elizabeth’s feelings were nothing more than the understandable neediness born of a lifetime of neglect combined with the volatile emotions of puberty—an intense but harmless schoolgirl crush. One which she would hopefully grow out of, given time. For now, he was left wondering how he could possibly thread the needle, providing her the needed support without simply increasing her dependence on him.
Of course, the last thing he wanted was to encourage her feelings, but neither did he want her to continue feeling so uncertain of their relationship that she was caught up in emotional turmoil which he did not intend to inflict. As she had put it herself, his inconsistency and emotional unavailability were likely the root cause of her fixation on him. Were he to attempt to come across more like Lupin apparently did—a stable, boring, pseudo-parental presence—the allure would hopefully fade.
There were limits, of course. He would not be ending his mentorship of Miss Granger simply because Mary Elizabeth had come to view them as being in competition for his affections. The Ravenclaw’s essay, in which she stubbornly insisted that she had been in the right, even mentioning that she had been aware of basic ethical principles before making the decision to drag those around her into a scheme to assault and drug three-quarters of the student body, made it clear that he had more work to do if he wished to curb her dangerous—and, frankly, obnoxious—arrogance and thoughtlessness.
At present, while she had improved a little over the time he had been working with her—two months by his timeline, nearly six by hers—Miss Granger was still someone he would consider a danger to herself and others—none so much as Mary Elizabeth. Had it not been for her tendency to get caught up in her Ravenclaw friend’s schemes, Severus would not have gone so far out of his way to keep an eye on the Granger girl—particularly given that her personality was singularly irritating.
Now that he had, however, he found that he did not dislike working with her so much as he had anticipated. She was arrogant, yes, but admittedly brilliant, and had made a surprisingly helpful research assistant as he approached the monumental task of determining what the Riddle from the diary had done with Mary Elizabeth and the Weasleys, and what had happened between Lily, her daughter, and the Dark Lord on that Samhain twelve years ago. Miss Granger had the potential to be a true scholar in her own right someday—potential which he did not want to see squandered.
One part of Mary Elizabeth’s diatribe had given him pause, however: her commentary that Severus was frightening her friend, causing her insomnia from the reading material which he entrusted her with. Perhaps, he thought, there was some merit in that concern. Bright though she might be, Miss Granger was only fourteen, and from a rather sheltered background.
On the other hand, her reaction was probably a good sign. If she were completely undisturbed by the material, he would be far more concerned. For the moment, it would be best, he thought, to watch her more closely and attempt to discern whether their research was doing her actual harm, or whether she was simply adjusting to the knowledge of how incredibly harsh the world could be—a lesson which he believed she, like all of his students, ought to learn as soon as possible.
There was also, of course, the question of whether Miss Granger could keep it secret, given that Dumbledore would hardly be happy about Severus even possessing half of the books he allowed her access to, never mind sharing them with a student. He had, in truth, expected her to eventually give in and tell Mary Elizabeth about their lessons, but not quite so soon.
He would, he decided, keep an eye on her, looking for signs that she was unable to handle the strain of the material or of keeping their work a secret. While he did not, as a rule, legilimize students without their consent (or anyone other than his enemies, for that matter), his mind magic abilities did make it easier to read people, particularly those as completely untrained in occlumency as Miss Granger. Most likely, he would notice her struggling long before she reached her breaking point.
There was, of course, still the problem of Mary Elizabeth’s ridiculous resentment of her friend, but he did not see what he could do about that. The best thing to do, he decided, was to continue as though unaware of how she felt, to act as he normally would with respect to both her and Miss Granger, save for attempting to behave more consistently towards her—and to hope that, with the help of time, Mary Elizabeth would settle into a less, say, agitated state when it came to the tentative pseudo-familial bond they had formed.
Still… what an utterly ridiculous girl.
Notes:
Some, but not all, of the dialogue between Mary, Lilian, and Snape during the Patronus scene is copied from Chapter 18 of Chained Servant.
Ron is pissed about Hagrid because he still became friends with him even in Harry's absence. Charlie liked Hagrid a lot, so he told Ron about him, and he goes out there to visit when he wants to get away from the other students.
If you're interested, you can read snippets of all the students' essays in Chapter 19 of CS; just scroll down until you get to the text in italics. Mary's would be different in this story, but everyone else's should be about the same. (Luna's in particular is delightful, written as a letter instead of an essay, addressed to "Professor Snape, King of Nightmares and Prince of Spies, Potions Master First Class, etc., etc.", and contains a pointed quote from Gellert Grindelwald.)
Chapter 12: Creature Rights
Notes:
Longest chapter yet. I considered splitting it into two parts, then decided, YOLO.
This one runs concurrently to Chapter 20 of Chained Servant.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Mary did not have much time to enjoy being free of her detentions. Merely two days after the last one—the one where they’d written an essay for Snape, justifying their actions—she found herself crying in Moaning Myrtle’s loo, wondering what the point was of finally having her Saturdays back when she didn’t have any friends to spend them with.
Things with Hermione hadn’t gotten any better; they’d barely said a word to each other since their fight over the MSA, and that had been weeks ago. But at least she’d had Lilian… up until now.
What had happened was, during breakfast, Mary had overheard Ria Prewett, one of the more annoying Slytherin first years, telling a Hufflepuff girl who apparently desperately wanted to meet the Girl Who Lived that she could get her an invitation to Daphne’s next tea party in exchange for a favor. Which was just weird and uncomfortable, being used as a bargaining chip by someone she’d barely even spoken to.
Only then, when she’d gone back to the Slytherin dorms, she’d overheard voices coming from her cohort’s shared bathroom. Specifically, Daphne and Lilian’s voices.
“So you’ll make sure she’s there?”
“We’ve been there the last two times, haven’t we?” was Lilian’s response. She’d sounded sleepy, a little bored. Casual.
“Good. I’ve got Prewett, Greengrass, and Avery recruiting among the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. All the little girls want to meet the famous Mary Potter.”
“Yeah, yeah, as long as you keep following through on your end, we’ll be there.”
When Mary had confronted them, enraged, Lilian had the audacity to say that she was doing it for Mary’s own good, so she could ‘meet the right people’ and ‘start having a presence in society.’ Which was infuriating enough as it was, but she wasn’t even sure whether it was true, or just what Lilian thought would make her the least angry. Given that Lilian wasn’t even from a Noble House—the Moons were a Common House, albeit a fairly well-off one—she couldn’t help but wonder whether her real motivation had been more along the lines of using Mary as an in with the noble girls.
Mary had stormed out in tears, skipping the rest of her classes for the morning in favor of crying in the loo. Fighting with Hermione was bad enough—at least she, while stubborn and pushy, still meant well. But Lilian manipulating her, possibly even using her, was something else altogether! Powers, did she even have any real friends?
Just as she was thinking that, the door opened, and Hermione’s voice called out, “Lizzie?”
Mary didn’t really think she wanted to see Hermione right now, but she wasn’t sure she had much choice in the matter. “Yeah?” she asked, trying not to sound like she’d been crying, but was immediately foiled by Hermione unlocking the door to her stall with an Alohomora. Hermione went in to hug her, but Mary quickly brushed past her to the sink, washing her face.
“Are you alright?” Hermione asked anxiously, trailing after her. “You missed class. And… Lilian told me what happened.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Mary said curtly.
“Liar.”
Turning to face Hermione, crossing her arms over her chest, Mary asked, “Do you even care? I thought we weren’t speaking. Besides, I figured you’d be happy to hear those stupid tea parties backfired on me after all.”
Hermione sighed, suddenly looking very serious. “I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you, okay? It just made me really mad to think that you’d rather hang out with those idiots, and then I didn’t know how to bring it up and apologize without getting mad again, and then I, well… I’m sorry.
“I know you don’t really like Greengrass and Davis more than me, and no matter how much it sounds like it sometimes, you’re not really falling for their anti-muggle, pureblood supremacy attitude. I haven’t been angry about it for a while, I just… It worries me, sometimes, the way you act like you have to do things to fit in with them—the other Slytherins. You and Lili both. And I didn’t know what to do or say, so I just… didn’t want to bring it up again.”
Mary stared at her. How could Hermione even think she was becoming a pureblood supremacist when half her problems lately were due to her defending the one muggleborn in her House? Well, maybe the same way the Little Weasel thought she was ‘friends’ with Draco—the Slytherins did make an effort to present a united front in public, or else she might have hexed Davis for what she’d said to Hermione the other day. The First Rule, after all, was: What Happens in Slytherin, Stays in Slytherin.
But it wasn’t like Mary hadn’t told Hermione all about the problems she’d had with the other Slytherins over Dave! Besides, Daphne wasn’t even a blood purist. She might be a manipulative bitch, basically selling tickets for people to come see the Girl Who Lived, and she was proud of her ‘heritage,’ as she put it, but she’d never said anything bad about muggleborns.
Trying not to get too annoyed, Mary said, “You know I don’t think purebloods are any better than anyone else. But they’re my housemates. I kind of have to put up with them, even if I really don’t like some of them. First Rule, you know?”
“That’s what I’m saying—you think you have to,” Hermione insisted. “Slytherin solidarity is highly overrated.” Before Mary could react to that, though, she added, “And that’s not the only reason I was avoiding you, you know. I… Look, I know you’re angry about me taking lessons from Snape.”
“What? Am not,” Mary insisted. “I’m a bit angry with him, for letting you read stuff that scares you so much, and I think the whole thing is a bad idea, but that doesn’t mean I’m mad at you.”
“Come on, Lizzie,” Hermione said, stubborn as ever. “You get this look every time I so much as say his name. I know that I’m not a Slytherin, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not allowed to study with him.”
Mary had been trying to be mature about this, but Hermione was making it accursedly hard on her. “Can we not talk about this?” she asked. “I don’t like it, okay? I’d prefer it if you would just stop, but you’re not going to—I don’t have any right to tell you to stop—so I’m trying not to make a big deal out of it. It’s not like I’ve yelled at you over it or anything—I haven’t even brought it up. So can you stop trying to make me talk about it?”
Just as she should have expected, Hermione looked uncomfortable with the idea of just accepting a disagreement between them, rather than continuing to pick at it. “But… I just don’t understand why you’d be so upset,” she said. “You get all weird and distant, and I hate it. I just want us to be friends like we used to be.”
And I want you to back off Snape, Mary thought, but didn’t say, because that seemed like too dramatic an escalation of their current conversation. Instead, she said, mostly honestly, “I want to be friends again too, but I don’t want to talk about Snape, okay? I can’t tell you what to do, but you can’t make me be happy about the whole thing. So… if you want to be my friend, can you drop it?”
Hermione just looked at her for a moment, clearly still uncomfortable with the idea, before finally saying, “Okay. Do you… do you want to complain about Lilian instead?”
That actually managed to get a laugh out of Mary. “You know, I do, actually,” she admitted, so Hermione scourgified a section of the floor, and they sat down together, Mary leaning against her friend’s side. She’d gotten taller recently, making Mary wonder just how much she’d been using the time turner.
“It’s just… I hate being used. Manipulated. I hate this whole Girl Who Lived thing, and Lilian knows that, but she’s trying to say it was ‘for my own good’ or something. Which is stupid—it should be up to me to decide! You know, the first tea party, Lilian just told Daphne I’d be going without even asking me! If she really thought it was that important, she could have just told me so and let me make up my own mind.
“But I don’t even know that she’s telling the truth, you know? I keep thinking… what if that’s why she became my friend in the first place? Just because I’m the Girl Who Lived, and Heir to House Potter and stuff, and her family’s just a Common House. What if she just, I don’t know, wanted an in with Daphne and the rest of them, and I was just, like, a stepping stone she used to do that?
“And Daphne’s alright, but this whole year, Lilian’s been spending all this time with Pansy and Davis and Draco, and they’re awful. I mean, they’re all blood purists, even though Davis is a halfblood, and Davis lets Pansy and Draco treat her like shite just so they won’t turn on her, and it’s just so uncomfortable to be around. I don’t know how Lilian can stand them, I really don’t.
“It just makes me wonder—I mean, if Lilian can be friends with people like them, no matter how awful they are, maybe it’s because they’re all from Noble Houses too? Maybe she doesn’t even care what they’re like, or what I’m like, and she only cares about our families. I don’t think she’s like that—I don’t want to believe she is—but… would I even be able to tell? She can be so manipulative sometimes, and, and maybe I’ve been thinking we’re best friends all this time when really, she’d be Pansy’s best friend if she was the Girl Who Lived.”
“Lizzie, no, it’s not like that,” Hermione insisted. “Not that I can judge you for worrying about that, given what I’ve been thinking sometimes, when I see you with those girls, but you should have seen Lilian after your fight this morning. She feels so bad, she was practically in tears. I don’t think she could fake that.”
Mary bit her lip, wanting to believe Hermione. But she wasn’t a Slytherin. If Mary couldn’t tell if she was being manipulated, what was to say that Hermione could? “Why don’t you ever get on her case about all that, anyway?” she asked, changing the subject. “I mean, I just tolerate most of the blood purist girls, but Lilian is actually friends with them. Why don’t I see you fighting with her over it?”
Hermione looked embarrassed for a brief moment. “I guess I just expect better of you,” she admitted, “since you grew up with muggles and Lils didn’t.” Before Mary could point out how stupid that was, though, she added, “And, honestly… don’t tell her I said this, but… you’re my best friend. And you’re Lilian’s, too, I think. Not that she and I aren’t friends, but… I don’t think we’d really be that close if you weren’t there in the middle, you know?”
Oh. “No, I didn’t know,” Mary admitted, suddenly subdued. For someone who had never really had friends before, it was kind of weird to think that she was the center of their little group, and not one of the other two girls. “Well, anyway, it just kind of sucks. I’m too friendly with those girls for your tastes, but not friendly enough for Lilian’s, and I just feel like I’m caught in the middle all the time. I mean, being in Slytherin would be a lot easier if I didn’t care about all this muggleborn stuff. Not that I’m going to stop caring,” she added quickly, before Hermione could get angry. “I’m just saying, I don’t think you really appreciate how much I am pushing back, and how difficult it makes my life sometimes.”
“Tell me about it?”
So Mary did—she vented about Lilian, and Pansy and Davis, and Draco, and the upperclassmen, and everyone calling Dave a mudblood and her a ‘blood traitor,’ and all the million stupid, exhausting little social power plays she had to put up with on a daily basis. Hermione was, of course, sworn to secrecy on all of it, but Mary thought it seemed to make her feel a bit better, just hearing how much Mary disliked certain aspects of life in Slytherin (even if she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else).
When they’d exhausted that avenue of conversation, Mary asked Hermione what she’d been doing while they weren’t speaking, and was startled to realize that Hermione had been using the time turner so much that, from her perspective, they hadn’t talked for two months.
At the rate Hermione was going, she’d be turning sixteen—physically, at least—by the end of the school year, and she thought she’d be ready to take her O-Levels the coming summer, as she’d been using some of her extra time to study for them. It was disorienting to think about. Before long, Hermione would be more than two years older than Mary.
Was that why they were drifting apart? Because Hermione had this whole other life, lived during the time she turned back, that Mary wasn’t a part of? Because she was outgrowing her?
Before she could consider putting this fear into words, though, Hermione said, “Hey, I was wondering… do you want to spend the holiday break with me and my parents? Have a proper muggle Christmas, catch up more?”
Mary had to consider that for a moment. Things had been weird with Hermione, and to be honest, they still were. Agreeing not to talk about Snape didn’t mean that her anger about the situation wasn’t there under the surface, and she couldn’t entirely believe that Hermione was just going to let the MSA thing go.
On the other hand, it might be nice. For one, just getting away from the bloody dementors for a couple weeks would be a relief. And at the Grangers’ place, there wouldn’t be any MSA, or tea parties, or Snape, for them to fight about. It could be just like when they were eleven and Mary had gone home with her the first time, before things had gotten so strained between them.
“Yeah, okay,” Mary said after a long pause. “If Professor McGonagall agrees.”
She saw the Professor that weekend. They always met for tea on the first Saturday of the month, sometimes to go over Mary’s inherited accounts and properties, other times just to catch up. As Mary had anticipated, Professor McGonagall wasn’t too happy about the idea of her spending two weeks at an undefended muggle home, but the argument that Black had already attacked Hogwarts, while he’d never found her in the muggle world so far, finally served to convince her.
Once that argument was out of the way, they had a nice last visit before the holidays. Mary tried fishing for information about Remus and Snape, and why the latter hated the former so much—she was still trying to figure it out, whether they liked it or not. Sadly, while Professor McGonagall did tell her a bit about their time in school, none of it explained their whole deal. But she did tell Mary that at one point, when Snape was in his third year, just like she was now, Snape and her mum had kissed under a mistletoe!
McGonagall seemed amused by the whole thing, but Mary couldn’t help getting distracted by wondering about Snape and Lily—a mystery, she thought, on par with that of Snape and Remus. Lilian kept insisting that he’d fancied her, and there was the whole thing with them having matching Patroni, but Snape said she was like a sister, and that Lily’s Patronus had been based on his. Back in May, he’d told her that he’d tell her more about Lily when she was older, but he hadn’t said when, and she was getting impatient. It bothered her, not knowing what had actually happened between them.
Besides that, it was just weird, thinking about Professor Snape kissing her mum. Or, maybe, kissing anyone.
Mary didn’t know what the big deal was about kissing, anyway. She hadn’t done it yet, unless Aeronwyn Carpenter’s chaste peck when she’d concluded the Yule ritual in Mary’s first year had counted. But actual kissing, the kind she knew some of her yearmates were doing already, she didn’t understand at all. It just sounded kind of wet and gross.
She couldn’t imagine the scene Professor McGonagall had described, even when she tried, though she wasn’t sure whether it was that she couldn’t imagine Professor Snape kissing someone—Lily in particular, who was supposed to be like his sister—or if she just couldn’t imagine him at her age.
Both, maybe. Both kissing people and being thirteen seemed too undignified for Snape. Sometimes she thought he’d been born as a fully formed adult dressed in five layers of black robes, calling the doctor a dunderhead on his way out. And sometimes she thought that she thought entirely too much about Snape, particularly after the truth serum detention.
For instance: “Is is a book, sir? Or a play?”
“What?”
“Parallax and… Quentin?”
“Quincey,” Snape said, the slightest tone of surprise in his voice. “It’s a play.”
Mary was back in the potions lab, helping Snape again, and she had been thinking. About, well, Snape. Sometimes he talked about stuff that she didn’t know anything about, like magical theory or wizarding plays. And when she was clearly lost, he would scoff or otherwise express annoyance, but he didn’t seem surprised, so she thought that maybe he wasn’t actually expecting her to know, and was talking just for the sake of it.
But if you mentioned something Hermione didn’t know about in front of her, she would jump on it, and make you explain it until she understood. Maybe that was why Snape had decided to teach Hermione about the Dark Arts instead of Mary. And if Mary made more of an effort to pay attention to the things he talked about, and learn about the ones she didn’t know, then he would realize that she could be just as intelligent as Hermione when she tried, if in a less Ravenclaw-ish way.
And besides, maybe there was some clue in the play as to what the deal was with Snape, and her mother, and their respective Patroni.
So she said, “I know that you can buy the scripts of muggle plays to read them—I borrowed A Midsummer Night’s Dream from Hermione last year. Is that the same for wizarding plays? I mean, could I get a copy of Parallax and… Quincey from Flourish and Blotts, or would I be missing too much by not seeing it performed? Only, I don’t know if I would be able to go see a wizarding play anytime soon, you see.”
Since she was either at Hogwarts or out in the countryside at the Urquhart Mansion most of the time, she had no idea how she would even go about such a thing. Maybe Catherine would agree to take her over the summer—after all, Mary’s ‘cultural education’ was her business—but Mary wanted to find out about the play sooner, before she’d forgotten all about it.
Snape didn’t say anything for a moment, and when she glanced up, he was just looking at her through narrowed eyes, like he suspected some kind of manipulation. Which, given that she was a Slytherin, was fair, but she really did just want to know!
“There should be copies of it available at most wizarding bookshops,” he said. “I only read it at first myself, back when I was in school, as I did not have the chance to see a play until far later in my life. There is certainly something to be gained from seeing the stage production, but reading it will at least give you an idea of the story, which has become quite well known.”
“I’ll see if I can order one, then, or pick it up over the break. Hey, what are wizarding plays like, anyway? How are they different than muggle plays? I mean, I guess I wouldn’t know the difference, I’ve never been to a muggle play before, either, but still…”
They talked for quite a while about wizarding stage productions, and the way magic was integrated into the performance, and Mary left his lab that day feeling quite pleased with herself.
As for Snape and Remus, and whatever was going on there, she had, she thought, been making some progress: she thought it might have something to do with Sirius Black’s prank. After all, Snape had said that her dad’s ‘friends’ had almost gotten in trouble, which implied multiple people had been involved, and the only friends of his she knew about were Black, Pettigrew, and Remus. (She felt rather like a detective, trying to put the story together from the meager clues she’d been given.)
However, it turned out she didn’t have to wonder long, thanks to Snape’s latest assignment for Intro to Slythering. They’d been covering the emergency protocols for all sorts of creatures this term: acromantulae, dragons, manticores, vampires, and trolls. This week, though, the subject of the assignment was werewolves.
Normally, she’d work with Lilian on their assignments for the class, but they still were barely speaking to each other (and only ‘barely’ because Flint had threatened to kick them both off the team if they didn’t stop being ‘angsty fucking teenage girls’ and making practice difficult). Instead, she ended up spending a long afternoon in the library with Blaise and Theo, who gave her the rundown on the creatures—or, ‘nonhuman beings,’ technically, since they were sapient. (Calling them ‘creatures’ was apparently offensive.) Blaise knew a lot about werewolves—Theo had slyly informed her that, when Blaise was seven, he’d wanted to be one when he grew up.
Only, they kept getting off-topic, and most of the stuff they told her was horrible, too. At one point, they’d nearly convinced her that the Old Families were cannibals, and that Blaise had eaten one of his stepfathers. After she thought about it a bit, though, she decided that they were taking the piss. Or, at least, she was pretty sure. It was always hard to tell with Blaise, who’d told her with a straight face back in second year that he’d watched three of his stepfathers die.
Then they’d told her that the Black family had used muggle sacrifices for their Yule ritual up until the fall of the House in the 80’s, and that some witch named Araminta Black had tried to bring back ‘muggle hunting’ in the 60’s, which had apparently been a popular passtime pre-Statute. The whole House had been mad, the boys claimed—Sirius Black had actually been one of the saner ones. Especially compared to his cousin Bellatrix, the one Snape always talked about, and who Blaise claimed had been friends with his mum back when they were in school.
That one, she thought, was… probably true? Given that the witch apparently set dementors on fire, Mary couldn’t bring herself to be surprised by the idea of Bellatrix and her family ritually sacrificing muggles to the Dark Powers. And since everyone knew Blaise’s mum was a serial killer, well, who knew what kind of company she kept?
But anyway, eventually they’d gotten back on track, and the boys told her about werewolves. First, the political situation around them, like how the Light were prejudiced against nonhuman beings, especially those considered ‘Dark Creatures,’ and that their textbook was full of propaganda—which, given that it said that all werewolves were cannibals and pedophiles, she could easily believe. Who even wrote that stuff?
Then they told her about different types of werewolves—the ones who embraced the Curse, living in packs, like the ones Blaise had apparently met on vacation in Canada, and the ones who fought it. Most of the werewolves in Britain were the latter sort, because of all the magical states, Britain was one of the worst when it came to Creature Rights—at least according to Blaise, who might just have been biased in favor of Italy, his mother’s homeland.
The pack wolves, Blaise said, lived on reservations and ran together on the full moons, and were sort of halfway between wizards and wolves, like apparently they didn’t do magic or write much. And they were the ones who targeted children, trying to build a society of fully acclimated werewolves or something, like the infamous Fenrir Greyback who’d fought with the Death Eaters in the war.
In comparison, the ones who fought the Curse were more human, but they suffered for it. They were always scarred and sick after the full moon from locking themselves up, and they were often short-tempered before and after, too, from having to fight their instincts. But some things helped—like chocolate, which helped with the mental side effects, and a potion called Wolfsbane, which let them keep their control even when transformed.
Which was about the moment that Mary thought, Hey. Wait a second.
She went to an almanac first, looking up all the dates of the full moons that term. The night before the train ride to Hogwarts had been one, and Remus had looked awful. The one in September, she couldn’t quite remember, but the one in October had been the day before Samhain, when she’d had tea with him, and Snape had brought him that potion. And the morning after the last one, less than a week ago, he’d been ill—had even missed classes.
Even looking back at her letters from him since they’d met, not a single one was sent around the date of a full moon.
She went to Hermione next, since she still wasn’t speaking to Lilian. As it turned out, her friend already shared her suspicions, as Snape had apparently given a lesson on werewolves to Hermione’s section of Defense the prior week while substituting for Remus. The pair of them used Hermione’s Restricted Section pass to look up Wolfsbane to see if it looked anything like what Snape had brought Remus that day—and it did. Not only that, but Hermione reminded her that they’d all seen Remus’s boggart in Defense class at the start of term, and it had been a full moon!
So, Remus… was almost certainly a werewolf. And Snape was brewing his Wolfsbane. (‘Chronic medical condition’ indeed.)
Mary only had a day to mull this over, and worry endlessly about whether she should confront Remus with her knowledge, before someone else figured it out. Specifically, that bitch Pansy Parkinson. And that, unfortunately, was when all hell broke loose.
“You did this on purpose!”
“Good afternoon to you too, Mary Elizabeth. What is it, exactly, that I have done?”
Snape’s tone was pointed, clearly irritated. Which made sense, seeing as how she had knocked on his latched door and begun yelling at him the second he’d let her in. But Mary wasn’t going to be made to feel bad, not after her conversation with Remus. He’d been so afraid, panicked at the news that all of Slytherin knew he was a werewolf.
Yes, all of Slytherin. Pansy fucking Parkinson had told Gemma Farley, the seventh year girls’ prefect, and by the evening, the prefects had called a House Meeting and announced it to everyone.
“You know what I’m talking about,” she insisted, folding her arms over her chest. “You gave us that assignment for a reason. Besides, it’s not like you’ve even been trying to keep it a secret! You’ve been going around all term talking about his ‘condition’—practically wearing a sign ‘round your neck saying, ‘Professor Lupin is a werewolf; ask me how!’”
After a pause, Snape seemed to give up on pretending not to know what she meant. “Why, exactly, does this bother you?”
Mary gaped at him. “Because Remus could lose his job!”
As she’d expected, Snape didn’t look the least bit concerned by this prospect. She kind of suspected that had been his goal in the first place. “I was under the impression that it was now a House Secret. Your fellow Slytherins are unlikely to spread the information further—not given the potential consequences.”
Basically, Sean and Gemma and the other prefects, and upper-year students, had decided that Remus’s secret would be kept by the Slytherins, because he was the best Defense professor they’d had in years and the upperclassmen wanted to pass their OWLs and NEWTs. That, plus they all needed to learn how to defend themselves, given… just, Hogwarts in general. They’d told the Slytherins, under no uncertain terms, that anyone who leaked the information would be ostracized by the entire House and no longer protected by the First Rule.
Mary, however, was not convinced that even this would hold back the force of the students’ panic. She’d kind of hoped that the Slytherins would be more reasonable about werewolves, more like Blaise and Theo, but as it turned out, a lot of them were from Allied Dark families, which were about as bad as the Light when it came to Creature Rights. Draco had been among several students demanding to be allowed to contact their parents, while Flint’s younger sister had actually made a run for it before being stunned by a prefect. She’d even heard a student saying that Remus should be ‘put down like a rabid animal.’
Expecting a quarter of the student body to keep his secret for the next six months, especially when many of those students were virulently prejudiced against werewolves, and some as young as eleven, just seemed like a tall order. But even if they somehow did…
“Even if no one tells while he’s a professor, the House Secret only lasts until he leaves.” At which point, Draco and everyone else would be free to tell their parents, their friends, and whoever else they’d like. “And I know you gave the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors an essay about werewolves too—Hermione basically figured it out from that, and I doubt she’s the only one who will. And they don’t do House Secrets.” (At least, not as far as Mary knew…)
Remus had told her, when she’d asked why he’d kept his condition a secret from her, that werewolves were considered subhuman by most mages. In fact, she was pretty sure the reason he’d been so close to her parents was that they’d been some of the rare people who were okay with it—apparently her dad had not only known about him being a werewolf, but also, he and their other friends had become animagi to keep him company on the full moon. James had been a stag, and—actually, he’d not gotten around to telling her what Black and Pettigrew had been.
But anyway, that was why he’d barely spent any time in Britain over the past decade, and why he’d been absent from her life when she was growing up. She’d thought that maybe he’d stick around more after he stopped teaching, but if he was outed as a werewolf—which Snape’s assignment had almost guaranteed he would be, even if it wasn’t until the summer—he’d hardly be able to set foot in public, and she’d probably never get to see him again.
Their books talked about those Cursed like they weren’t even people.
And, worst of all, she knew why Snape had done it. This was all part of their stupid school grudge, and Mary didn’t find it funny anymore. She liked Remus. She didn’t want him to get fired or have his life ruined, and the thought that Snape did—that he’d actively tried to make that happen—was infuriating.
“Would you have preferred to remain ignorant?”
“Y—no, I,” Mary stammered. That was—those weren’t the only options! Her not knowing, or Remus being outed to the whole House, and maybe others besides. “I wouldn’t be mad if you had just, I don’t know, told me.” Told her, not those morons she called her schoolmates.
“I could not.” At her confused stare, he added, “Dumbledore extracted a vow from me not to discuss Lupin’s condition with anyone who was not already aware.”
“Oh.” For a split second, she almost relented, but… “But why let the whole House find out? And why hint to other Houses, too?” She was certain he could have found a way to get the information to her if he’d wanted. Having Hermione study werewolves in their private lessons, for instance—she definitely would have figured it out and told Mary.
“Do you not believe students have a right to be informed about risks being taken on their behalf? To be given a chance to take their own precautions?”
“No!” Mary shouted, frustrated. “Not when they’re all such idiots!” Either the safety precautions, the Wolfsbane Potion and whatever else the school had set up, worked, or they didn’t. Everyone knowing didn’t make them any safer. It just spread panic.
It would be one thing if he’d led the prefects and NEWT students into figuring it out, then let them inspect the safety precautions themselves, as they’d told the House they were going to be doing. But there was no bloody reason idiots like Pansy Parkinson needed to know, not if they thought that Remus was a bloody cannibal pedophile because of something that wasn’t even his fault!
Snape looked vaguely amused at her ranting, which just made her angrier. And—he was making it sound like it was about the principle of the thing, when the truth was… “I don’t believe that’s why you did it, anyway. It’s not about us deserving to know—it’s just about how much you hate him, and wanting to get rid of him. What did he even do to you? You’ve been horrible to him all year, even though he’s clearly trying to be polite, and anyway, hasn’t it been nearly twenty years since—whatever it was? Shouldn’t you be over it by now?”
The amusement had faded completely from Snape’s face, replaced by undisguised anger, and she felt a bit nervous, knowing he was probably going to throw her out of his office for this—she’d never spoken to him this way before. But she wasn’t going to be cowed, not after what he’d done. He was trying to ruin Remus’s life over a bloody schoolboy grudge!
“Thank you for your brilliant insight, Miss Potter,” Snape said. Yep, definitely mad. “I was not aware that you were so familiar with the details of my life history, to tell me what I should and should not be ‘over’.”
But Mary steeled herself and said, “I just said that I don’t know the details. I just think you’re acting really immature.”
Because that was the core of it. The more she thought about the whole thing, the more she felt herself losing respect for him. Snape had said she could trust him, but how was she supposed to do that if he would let a grudge nearly two decades old interfere with his students’ ability to learn from a decent professor for once? With her ability to have someone else around who actually gave a damn about her? How could she rely on him when he acted this way?
Even the memory of how he’d gotten thrown out of the hospital wing wasn’t funny anymore—he might have been there when she’d woken up, and Remus too, if he could just grow up!
Snape opened his mouth, then paused, taking in a deep breath, like he was trying not to lose it completely. “Trust me,” he began, his tone clipped, “when I tell you that this is not a matter of some petty squabble from our school days. I did not set that lesson to drive Lupin out of this school—though I would not be sad to see him go—but because I do not believe that it is safe—”
“I don't believe you! The prefects said that there are safety precautions, and that you approved them! And it’s not like everyone being all panicked about it makes things any safer. From where I’m standing, it looks like this is just about you getting revenge, and you’re right, I don’t know the details! Because no one will tell me! So all I can think is that this is just some stupid, immature—”
“He nearly killed me!” Snape snarled, and Mary flinched. He had genuinely lost his composure now, which was a rare sight, and her instinct was to flee. But she took a deep breath instead. When she thought about it, she supposed it made sense of a lot of things.
Something occurred to her, and she asked, “On purpose? Or when he was a wolf and didn’t know what he was doing?”
“Does it matter?” he snapped, which she was pretty sure meant ‘The latter, but I don’t want to admit it.’ “There were ‘safeguards’ in place then, too.
“Safeguards can fail, Mary Elizabeth, especially in a school full of children who don’t know that they exist or why they exist, and go about sticking their noses into all manner of business which doesn’t concern them! Who see locked doors as challenges and vague warnings as advertisements for an interesting adventure!”
“Yes, and telling a class full of Gryffindors that there’s a werewolf in the castle is going to make them less likely to go poking around!” she responded with a scoff. Whatever safety precautions there were for Remus, they weren’t very conspicuous—Mary might not have even noticed there was anything weird going on with him if Snape hadn’t made it so obvious.
Besides, “You don’t even seem to care what’s going to happen to him when people find out! And why, just because of something that happened when he couldn’t control himself? He obviously feels awful about it.” Remus had insisted to her, when they’d talked, that he was dangerous, and she was pretty sure that was part of the reason why. “I mean, I’m sure it was horrible, but he didn’t do it on purpose. He’s not a bad person!”
Snape laughed angrily. “He’s certainly not a good one.” He paused, pressing his fingertips so hard into his temples that Mary thought he must be hurting himself. “He. is. a. werewolf, Mary Elizabeth! It’s in his nature to portray himself as harmless, to gain your trust. He is Cursed, and that Curse doesn’t simply go away when he’s human-shaped! He is as much a werewolf when you are taking tea in his office as when he was trying to rip my throat out in a mindless rage.”
Mary was filled with so many conflicting emotions that she felt slightly dizzy. First of all, it was upsetting to hear Snape using the same kind of language to talk about Remus as the most prejudiced of her textbooks and her housemates. She would have thought he’d be more similar to Blaise and Theo, politically speaking, but then, maybe his personal experience with Remus outweighed his political leanings.
But she also had to wonder, when he mentioned her drinking tea in Remus’s office… had he done this because of her? Was this all because she was close to Remus? Was he worried about her? But—no, if that was all, he wouldn’t have let the whole House find out this way… Unless, of course, he was trying to get Remus fired out of some misguided notion of protecting Mary from him, whether she liked it or not. Which, ugh, was just like Lilian. Snape making choices for Mary, deciding what was best for her, instead of just letting her make up her mind about whether or not she wanted Remus in her life.
“He’s Remus; he’s not trying to manipulate me into trusting him, that’s ridiculous! And it’s not like he’s even ‘mindless’ when he transforms now, is he? Hermione and I read about the Wolfsbane Potion—you brew it for him, right? So there shouldn’t be an issue. Honestly, he’s less of a danger to me than any other Defense professor I’ve had.”
“That is an incredibly naive statement. The potion allows him to keep his rational mind; it does not make him any less dangerous.”
Snape wasn’t making any sense! Why would Remus, in his ‘rational mind,’ be a danger to her? “He wouldn’t hurt me,” she snapped, clenching her hands together in frustration.
“Because you know him so well.”
“He cares about me! He said I’m like his niece—he wouldn’t hurt me.” The look of disdain on Snape’s face only grew, but she pressed on. “I… I care about him. He’s someone I can actually count on, and you know I don’t have many people like that. I can’t afford to lose any of them. And—when people find out, he’s going to leave again.”
She couldn’t even tell herself she was angry anymore, not really. She was just scared for Remus, and for the day she would find out he was leaving her life forever, chased out of the country by a bunch of self-righteous, stupid bigots. Why would Snape put her through that?
After a moment, to her surprise, his expression shifted, his rage disappearing, and he looked at her with quiet, contemplative eyes. He sighed deeply, steepling his hands together on his desk. “How much control do you believe I have over whether Lupin is found out as a werewolf?”
“I—what?” Mary asked, thrown by the sudden change in subject as well as tone.
“Have you heard of the Werewolf Registry?”
“Well, yes,” she admitted. “Hermione and I owled the Ministry on Monday to request a copy, before the prefects announced it, though it hasn’t come yet. We wanted to check if Remus was on it.”
“He is,” Snape informed her. “That is a matter of public record. For that matter, the Board of Governors of Hogwarts are already aware of Lupin’s status—and that includes Mrs. Diggory, whose family votes with Ars Brittania. I presume I do not have to tell you their position on werewolves?”
Mary shook her head slowly—Ars Brittania, the nearly defunct traditional Light party, were the staunchest opponents of Creature Rights.
“Simply by coming to teach at this school, he made it a near inevitability that his status would eventually be revealed—the only reason it has not been thus far is that Dumbledore has used his political influence to keep it out of the Prophet. If Lupin is chased from Britain by a pitchfork-wielding mob, it will not be my doing.”
“But you wouldn’t mind,” she pointed out, folding her arms over her chest. “You’d probably be happy about it.”
“Well, yes,” Snape admitted, “but that is hardly my motivation. Believe me or don’t, but I have far more important matters to attend to than pursuing a vendetta against Lupin. Such as, for example, the safety of my students.
“You may believe that, under the Wolfsbane Potion, Lupin would recognize you and refrain from attacking—and you may even be right—but make no mistake: the Curse’s influence is strong, and can overpower even an unclouded mind. While the potion will hopefully prevent him from trying to escape his confinement, there is no guarantee that he would be able to control himself when faced with a defenseless human—one, perhaps, that he is less emotionally attached to than yourself. Believe it or not, Mary Elizabeth, not everything that happens in this castle is about you, nor are you the only student whose safety is my concern.”
She flinched at that, drawing in on herself.
“Do you truly believe, for instance, that he would be able to resist attacking the Weasley twins if they happened to try to plant a prank in his office on the night of the full moon? What if he somehow came into contact with an ‘idiot’ like Miss Parkinson, trying to investigate his office while he is apparently out sick, looking for evidence to support her suspicions about him?”
“Sorry—he’s turning into a werewolf in his office?” Mary didn’t know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t that.
“Warded in by Professor Flitwick,” Snape confirmed. “I did not insist he leave the castle as, on the whole, it is best if he remain where I might keep an eye on him.”
“‘Keep an eye on him’ like, what, are you staying up all night standing guard?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Mary didn’t want to admit it, but… if Snape was doing that, he must really think that Remus was a danger to them.
“It would, however, be to everyone’s benefit if the students were to take precautions themselves, and remain in their common rooms on the night of the full moon—something they cannot do without being made aware of the danger.”
“And you don’t think telling everyone will make some of them more likely to go looking?” Maybe not the Slytherins, but the Gryffindors were another story altogether.
Snape glared off into the distance at the thought. “As usual, I can only hope that the majority of the student body does not have an active death wish, and that perhaps the prefects might prove capable of controlling those who do.”
Mary didn’t really know what to say. All the wind had gone out of her anger, but she didn’t want to just give in. (Remus had looked so scared.) And Snape kept saying stuff about how he’d enjoy watching him get chased out of the school, or the country—saying stuff that made it sound like he thought Remus was less than human—when Remus was important to her.
And—she still didn’t know how much he was even telling her the truth, and how much he was following his own agenda. Just like Lilian, actually. He could sound so reasonable, talking about it now, but what explanation was there for Snape getting kicked out of the hospital wing for fighting with Remus, or talking to him the way he did?
“Do you have to be so horrible to him?” she finally asked, her voice coming out smaller than she meant it to. “The safety precautions are one thing, but the way you talk to him… I mean, you must know he didn’t mean to do what he did. How can you hate him for it?”
She could almost understand Hermione now, that urge to just keep pushing when she thought someone was being irrational about something. Mary didn’t usually feel that way about people, but—Snape was supposed to be better than this.
“I do not lack for reasons to hate Lupin,” Snape said, but before she could ask what he meant, he continued. “Imagine, for a moment, that someone were to transform one of your classmates—Miss Moon, perhaps—into a vicious, slavering beast, then compel her to attack you. Imagine that, every time you saw her face, fear spiked, and you remembered that moment when she came mere inches from killing you. Do you believe that is the sort of thing which you might easily ‘get over’?”
There it was again: the vulnerability she’d almost thought she’d imagined, back in September. For just a second, he looked so… human.
“No…” she admitted slowly.
She just—she didn’t like it. Maybe she was being a hypocrite, holding him to a different standard than she would hold herself to, but this was Snape. It was weird, discomfiting, to see him this way, to realize that he was afraid—so afraid that he would still be controlled by it so many years later. He always seemed so strong. Like someone who’d never been afraid of anything.
“I cannot pretend that my personal experience has nothing to do with my concern at his presence in a castle full of students, nor can I say that I do not hate him, but my actions are not rooted in a desire for ‘revenge,’ as you so put it.”
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. And then, unable to help herself, no matter how selfish it felt, she added, “I just… I feel like I’ve been caught between you both all term. You’re both important to me, but you can’t be in the same room without fighting—you got kicked out of the hospital wing when I was hurt and I—I would have liked to see you. When I woke up. And… I just hate this.”
Mary chewed on her lip, staring down at the floor, and Snape let out a heavy sigh.
“I can… make more of an effort in the future to keep any hostility between Lupin and myself from impacting you.”
That, Mary was pretty sure, was the best she was going to get. “I… okay. Thank you.”
After all of that, she still felt frustrated, conflicted. Part of her was embarrassed: Snape had turned out to have a point, and she probably should have given him a chance to explain himself before launching into yelling at him. But… it would be much easier to trust that he was being unbiased about the subject of Remus’s Curse if he didn’t hate him so much, and if he didn’t act so petty whenever Remus was around. She wanted to believe that Snape was telling her the whole truth, that he wasn’t being influenced by prejudice or fear or a personal vendetta, but she didn’t know that she could.
Sometimes, when she talked to him and Remus about those days, she got the feeling that there was so much history there, so much that had happened between them—not just the two of them, but Lily and James and Sirius Black as well, and even Peter Pettigrew—that she would never be privy to. She felt like an intruder, a hopeless newcomer thrown into a tangle of history older than she was, unable to see the forest for the trees. Even what he’d told her today felt like only the tip of the iceberg.
She was coming to think that she rather hated it, all of it. Mysterious rituals and vicious pranks and mistletoe and grown men that turned into little boys every time they saw each other. Everyone having their own agenda; having to question whatever they said to her.
Was this what adults were? Just people still living with one foot in their school days for the rest of their lives?
At the same time, it made them all seem awfully human. It was suddenly much easier to imagine Snape at thirteen. He would look, she thought, rather like he did right now. And she found that she couldn’t blame him for it, even if she didn’t like it. She didn’t even feel angry anymore, just tired and, well, a little bit older than she had been before.
Mary lingered in front of his door, feeling like she should say something else, but not really sure what. Finally, she said, “Um. I’m sorry that Remus attacked you. I mean, I meant what I said, that it must have been horrible. I’m sorry you went through that.”
Snape gave her a look, simultaneously tired and incredulous, like she was being a pain in the arse by expressing any sympathy for what had happened to him. He said, “Thank you, Mary Elizabeth,” but his voice was tight. “Goodnight.”
Mary knew a dismissal when she heard one, particularly from Snape. She nodded, slipping out the door before she could make things any worse.
Notes:
The dialogue between Lilian and Daphne, and parts of the conversation between Mary and Hermione, are taken from CS.
I'm pretty sure Ars Brittania, the Wizengamot party the Diggorys belong to, comes from Sandra's canon, not Leigha's; a guide to the political parties can be found here.
This chapter took so long because I was uncertain about the final scene and ended up having Leigha beta read it for me, and we reworked it a lot today. The resulting scene and dialogue, past the point where it says "if he could just grow up," is basically a collaboration between Leigha and myself; parts of Snape's dialogue in particular were written by her, and a lot of the direction the conversation takes was her idea, even if I wrote the final form of it.
Chapter 13: Worst Yule Ever
Notes:
This chapter overlaps with Chapters 21 and 22 of Chained Servant.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Despite the awkward note she had departed on, Snape did not seem angry with her in the days following their argument. He even called another House Meeting, taking the time to explain the precautions that were being taken to her housemates. By the time he’d gotten done describing the effects of the Wolfsbane Potion, and the fact that he himself was brewing it and confirming that Remus drank it each of the five days surrounding the full moon, as well as the fact that Remus was kept behind Dark Creature wards when transformed, some of the panic that had spread throughout the House seemed to have faded.
If the Slytherins trusted one thing, it was that Professor Snape did not fuck around when it came to potions.
Mary wasn’t sure if he had been planning on doing that anyway, or if it had been because of their argument. She definitely wasn’t going to ask. The memory of him saying, “Believe it or not, Mary Elizabeth, not everything that happens in this castle is about you,” was more than enough for her to torment herself with for roughly the rest of eternity, thank you very much.
In any case, the next time she joined him in his lab, he acted just like he always did, and neither of them raised the subject of the fight, but things felt… different, somehow. Like maybe, by arguing like that, they’d gotten closer? Or maybe it was just her, telling herself what she wanted to believe. Still, she had a hard time believing anyone else would have gotten away with talking to him like that, or that he would have admitted that he was afraid of Remus if he didn’t trust her at least a little.
Snape wasn’t the only person with whom Mary had smoothed things out, either. She had avoided Lilian since their fight, but eventually the other Slytherin had managed to corner her. Mary hadn’t been especially open to hearing her apology, no matter how bad Hermione claimed Lilian felt, but then her friend had explained that Daphne’s ‘end of the deal’ had just been seating Lilian and Mary with the girls Lilian thought would make the most useful connections for them. Apparently she’d wanted to help Mary ‘manage her influence on the student body.’
Which, it was still weird to think that she had an influence, just because she was the Girl Who Lived (and the Heir of Slytherin, and Heir Potter, and all these other things that had little to do with who she actually was, like, as a person). But on the other hand, having an influence meant that she and Lilian could try to push Slytherin House in the direction they wanted it to go—meaning, against all the blood purist nonsense—so it wasn’t all bad.
Mary was still annoyed, because she hated people trying to make decisions for her. And the fact that Lilian had taken seriously her sarcastic suggestion that maybe she and Catherine should just manage Mary’s entire life for her didn’t help. Eventually, though, she’d given in, mostly just because she was tired of fighting with all her friends all the bloody time. Not to mention that Lilian was clearly struggling with having to go home for the first time after finding out about Connor—to face her parents now, knowing what she knew. Especially since Aerin, still blissfully ignorant, couldn’t support her.
The second that Mary reluctantly forgave her, Lilian asked for a favor, begging her and Hermione to come to her house for Yule, for… morale or something? Though she wasn’t really sure how them being there would do any good, she and Hermione had agreed, mostly just because they wanted to do something to help.
Not long after, the copy of the Werewolf Registry that they’d requested from the Ministry arrived, and just like Snape had said, Remus’s name was right there, visible to anyone who chose to take a look. It made Mary nervous, as well as surprised that he’d made it so long already without being publicly outed.
There’d been some sections of the Registry that Hermione hadn’t quite understood, so they and Lilian had taken to researching the relevant laws, which had apparently been updated right after the war. As it turned out, when the Registry said, “Remus Lupin—Custos, Albus Dumbledore,” that was because Remus, as a nonhuman being, wasn’t even a citizen of Magical Britain. Like a house elf, he had to be in the custody of a human wizard or witch.
This meant that he couldn’t own a home, or rent a flat, or open a Gringotts account, and that when he worked, all his wages went to his Custos, to give him an allowance from like a child. Dumbledore could even send Remus to Azkaban if he claimed that he was disobeying him—although if Remus was convicted of a crime, Dumbledore would be punished right alongside him.
Hermione was furious, calling it “a combination of slavery and—I don’t know—childcare!”
Lilian, on the other hand, was actually in support of the laws, insisting that werewolves weren’t human, that they were dangerous, and that they couldn’t just be treated like anyone else—though she still admitted it was awful and inhumane, and that it was no wonder he’d moved to France.
Especially after everything Snape had given her to think about, Mary found herself somewhere in the middle. Not that she believed, as Snape had implied, that Remus’s behavior was somehow all a front orchestrated by the wolf in his brain to trick her into letting her guard down. And she didn’t like that he wasn’t even legally classified as a person.
But she couldn’t bring herself to get as angry about it as Hermione either, because, well, it was hardly a surprise. If anything, she was surprised the laws were even this lenient, considering the horrible things she’d read about werewolves in that book and what her housemates had said about them. Not that she thought those things were true, but if the Light really believed that werewolves were cannibals and pedophiles, the fact that Remus had been allowed to attend Hogwarts in the first place, let alone teach there, was more than she would have expected.
Hermione, though, was set off on another of her crusades, and spent the rest of the week talking about Creature Rights. Finally, Mary invited her to spend the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend with her and Remus, so she could just talk about it with him directly instead of ranting to Mary all the time. Plus, maybe it would help Remus feel less bad about the whole thing if he saw how strongly Hermione supported him.
So, when the weekend rolled around, Mary and Hermione spent the morning making Christmas cards for the Hogwarts house elves with their friends in the lower years, then the afternoon in Remus’s office. It went… differently than she had expected.
Specifically, Remus and Hermione got into a massive argument about the restrictions on werewolves—nearly as heated as the disagreement she’d had with Snape—with Hermione calling it ‘modern-day slavery,’ and Remus insisting that werewolves were ‘inherently dangerous’ and needed to be controlled, pointing out that werewolves in more lenient countries, like France, were more likely to kill and turn humans. He might not like how difficult it was for him to live in Britain, but he passionately defended the custos system, pointing out that without it—without the Headmaster taking responsibility for him—he would have never been allowed in Hogwarts.
Despite all of this, Remus actually seemed to enjoy the conversation, inviting Hermione to come back and discuss it with him more in the future, but by the time they left, she looked like she was about to explode from frustration. It was almost as bad as when she’d first met Mary’s house elf friend Cammy and realized she didn’t want to be free.
Mary hardly got a word in edgewise the entire day, so she spent a lot of it just sort of watching them and trying to sort out why she felt so differently about Remus and Snape. It was annoying, having Hermione totally monopolize the conversation, and she’d probably prefer to meet with Remus on her own in the future so they’d actually get a chance to talk, but if Hermione did take him up on his offer to talk more about the werewolf laws when Mary wasn’t around, she didn’t think that would bother her.
Most different, though, was how it felt. When she watched Hermione and Remus talk, she felt a bit left out, but there was no… clenching in her chest, no feeling like she wanted to get in between them and physically shove them apart, or yell, or something. It didn’t hurt, being excluded by them—it was just a little bit irritating.
It didn’t make any sense, so Mary decided to stop thinking about it.
Once everyone got back from Hogsmeade, anyway, there was something to distract her from her thoughts of Remus, Hermione, and Snape: Lilian and Draco, who had gone to the village together again (but insisted quite loudly that they were not dating, thank you very much, regardless of what a jealous Pansy seemed to believe), had overheard a conversation between Professor McGonagall, Hagrid, and the Minister of Magic, who were having a pint together for some bloody reason. The pair of Slytherins had seen it as the perfect opportunity to practice the spying spells they’d learned in Snape’s extra class.
They’d apparently been talking about Sirius Black, and how he’d been the secret keeper for a Fidelius Charm on her parents’ house—without even using any privacy spells, either. Lilian had come away insistent that there was something fishy about the whole story. Basically, she didn’t think the timelines added up—though Mary thought the Minister might have just been confused—and didn’t understand why Hagrid hadn’t handed her over to her godfather when he’d asked, even though he didn’t know yet what Black had done. Mary, however, was quite pleased he hadn’t, and didn’t see the point in questioning her good fortune.
Really, the one thing that Lilian said that seemed to have any merit was that it was strange that they claimed all that had been left of Peter Pettigrew was a pile of bloodstained robes and one finger—she and Draco were insistent that they didn’t know of any curses that could destroy an entire body other than those parts, while also blowing up an entire street. And Draco’s dad had been a Death Eater, so he should probably know.
Mary was skeptical, but then, Lilian had been right about Hermione’s time turner. Maybe she was right about this, too. Still, even if it was fishy, she still had no idea what that would mean.
Two days after the Hogsmeade visit, everyone left the school for the holidays. It was Mary’s first time spending the break away from Hogwarts since she’d started school, but she was glad she’d chosen to leave, if only to get away from the dementors for a bit. Plus, literally all of Slytherin House was going home this year, so she would have been the only one left behind in the dungeons.
Well, other than Snape, she supposed, but she doubted he’d have time to keep her company.
Usually, more Slytherins stayed at the school than any other House, and many of the ones who did go home would be in a notably bad mood in the weeks leading up to the holidays. But for most of them, apparently, seeing their families was still better than being around the dementors, and the rest found opportunities to be elsewhere—Millie, for example, was going home with Pansy, and Nora had managed to get an invitation to go home with another first year girl, not having the money for a Portkey all the way back to Germany.
Theo, who hated his father, had finally found a way around the fact that Lord Nott wouldn’t allow him to spend the holidays with the Zabinis—he simply told him that he was staying at the school, then left with Blaise anyway. Blaise had agreed to this on the condition that Theo pretend to be his boyfriend in order to make Husband Number Seven uncomfortable. (Apparently the man was not dead, despite Blaise’s joke at the start of term. Not yet, anyway.)
As for Mary, she went to the Grangers’, where her hopes of having a nice break to catch up with Hermione and get their friendship back to normal were promptly dashed.
“She still won’t come out of her room?”
Mary shook her head, giving Hermione’s parents an apologetic smile on her friend’s behalf, feeling intensely uncomfortable at having to be the one to figure out what to tell them. “She said she’ll still go to Lilian’s with me this evening, but…”
“She’ll come around,” Emma said kindly, seeming to notice her discomfort. “Now, what are you thinking about the color scheme?”
Despite the older woman’s words, Mary was almost certain her—and Dan’s—feelings were hurt. They hadn’t seen Hermione since September, and while the holiday break would last almost three weeks, the Grangers had only managed to get the first week off of work. Mary had tried telling her friend that—that she was upsetting her parents—but she’d only replied, “Good! Maybe they’ll think about me next time before they go changing our whole bloody life around!”
They had changed their life around, but not in ways that should have been bad. Well, maybe Hermione having to share her bedroom with Mary, but it was only a few weeks!
The first sign of the change had been how they’d gotten home from King’s Cross station. Rather than driving, as usual, or even taking a portkey, they had simply Flooed to the ‘Quibbler Associate’s Auxiliary Office,’ otherwise known as the Grangers’ tiny new garden shed, complete with a portable brazier with a Floo connection.
Basically, after months of trying and failing to convince the Ministry to connect their fireplace to the Floo, they’d mentioned the problem to Luna’s father, Xenophilius Lovegood, who they’d met at the train station at the end of second year, and he’d solved it in less than a week by naming them Quibbler Associates. As Dan put it, “No one questions why Xeno Lovegood wants to attach a mobile fire-grate to the Floo network.”
It wasn’t just for show, either—the Grangers were actually writing for the Quibbler now. Or, at least, Dan had written a few pieces for the naturalism column, which Hermione found mortifying—while Mary hadn’t known this, apparently ‘naturalism’ was code for ‘sex.’ (Mary was never going to be able to hear the words Crumple-Horned Snorkack without blushing again.)
But the Floo connection was just the beginning of the changes. They’d given up on trying to get a magical generator or a ward system that allowed electricity within. Instead, they’d gotten Devon Troy, the enchanter who’d been working on the generator for them, and her friend Bill (Ginny’s older brother), to create a ward scheme for the house with a null field surrounding the kitchen and the room above it.
This meant that the kitchen and the room which had been the spare bedroom, where Mary had slept the previous times she’d visited, were now the only parts of the house with electricity, powered by a normal muggle generator. The rest of the house was now lit by candlelight and oil lamps, and they’d replaced their record player with a magical version. Everything that needed electricity to run, like the television and the computer, had been moved into the former spare bedroom, which was now the entertainment center.
But anyway, this meant that Mary and Hermione were sharing a room—they’d moved the extra bed into Hermione’s room while reorganizing. In the long run, the Grangers were remodeling the study into a bedroom, hence all the talk of color schemes—since Mary would be the main person using it, they wanted her input on the design.
It was a bit weird, thinking that they were redesigning a room in their house for her, at least in part. But if it meant fewer overwhelming floral prints, Mary certainly wasn’t going to say no. She was thinking green and gold would be nice.
So, overall, she really didn’t understand what Hermione was so upset about. Yes, her parents had made big changes to their house since the summer, but they were doing it for her. To connect the house more to the wizarding world, even if Hermione still couldn’t cast spells at home since her Ministry exemption had been revoked after the incident over the summer. To add protection from unscrupulous mages, particularly if Mary was going to be spending time there.
Even having to share her bedroom, well, Mary could see why that might be a shock, but it was less than three weeks, and it wasn’t like Hermione didn’t have a roommate at school! Honestly, Mary was probably worse off than Hermione—she’d never shared a bedroom with another person in her life, and had found it difficult to fall asleep the previous night with the sound of her friend breathing a few feet away.
But for whatever reason, Hermione was upset—furious, in fact—holing up alone in her room and sulking all day, snubbing every effort her parents made to interact with her. Which just left Mary in the uncomfortable position of feeling that she had to make up for her friend’s rudeness somehow—be more agreeable, more in the holiday spirit—because she couldn’t stand seeing Emma and Dan upset when they’d gone out of their way to plan what they’d thought was a nice surprise for their daughter.
She’d only been there for a day, but by the time she and Hermione left for the Moons’ residence, she was relieved just to escape the tense atmosphere of the house.
Not that Lilian’s house was any better. Sean was angry that she had invited the girls over without telling him first, and that he hadn’t been allowed to spend the holidays with his boyfriend. Aerin, while perfectly polite, just didn’t have much in common with the three younger girls anymore; they’d hardly talked all year. Mr. Moon wore a permanent scowl, kind of like Snape when he was teaching, and his wife was so placid and spacey that Mary was almost certain she was drugged, like with whatever the magical equivalent of a Valium was.
As soon as they’d arrived, the three girls went off on their own, Lilian showing her friends around the house, gardens, and kennels, but Hermione’s mood hadn’t improved, and she monopolized the conversation the whole time, complaining about… well, pretty much everything. Her parents’ involvement in the wizarding world, her mum’s petition, having to share her bedroom, having things moved all around, having to go into the spare room to use any technology.
Maybe Hermione had a point, that they ought to have told her in advance what they were doing, but they’d done it for her. And it was their house, anyway—Hermione only spent a few months of the year there. The Grangers had a right to make changes to it.
Honestly, she couldn’t help but feel that Hermione was being a brat. Compared to the bloody Dursleys, she hardly had anything to complain about!
Which was probably why she said it. She hadn’t meant to, it just kind of came out, when they were up in Lilian’s room waiting for supper. They’d joined her parents and siblings in the ritual lighting of the hearth at sunset—the family put their fires out during the day as part of their observance. Once that had been done, though, and the house elves had begun their cooking, the family had scattered again.
As they settled into her room, Lilian seemed off, clearly preoccupied with thoughts of Connor and the fact that she couldn’t bring herself to tell Aerin the truth about him. And Mary just couldn’t take it anymore. Not Lilian and Aerin allowing themselves to become strangers, or Hermione ignoring her parents to punish them for—what? Wanting to support her? Wanting to stay connected to her, instead of losing her to the magical world the way a lot of muggleborns’ families did?
She tried to be gentle at first, pointing out to Lilian that maybe she should just tell Aerin. Right after Mabon, Mary had agreed with Sean that it would only make things worse, but that was before she’d seen the way the secret was isolating Lilian from the sister she’d once been closer to than anyone.
But then Lilian, stubborn as ever, said, “You don’t understand,” with a sort of vicious, defensive anger in her voice, and Mary, well, she lost it.
“No, I don’t. Because I don’t have a family. And—and I think it’s wrong that you and Hermione are screwing up the ones you’ve got!”
Within seconds, Mary found herself outnumbered two-to-one, Lilian and Hermione finally coming out of their separate funks to find common ground—namely, being pissed at her.
“What did you just say?” Hermione demanded, rounding on her, as Lilian continued to glare.
Mary immediately felt anxious—she didn’t like conflict, and she hadn’t meant to say that, and now that she had, she kind of wished she could take it back. On the other hand, she was right, and it somehow helped, being able to finally put into words what had been so awful about the break so far: that Hermione had dragged her home with her, just to make her watch as she took for granted something which Mary had never been lucky enough to have.
Steeling herself, she locked eyes with Hermione and said, “You heard me. You and Lilian are both screwing up, and… and it bothers me.” Okay, not the strongest finish, but even just speaking up when something bothered her was miles away from the passive girl she’d been when she’d first met them both.
“I don’t really think it’s any of your business,” Hermione said, her voice as cold as Snape’s when he was pissed off.
“It is, though. You two are my friends, and you’re hurting yourselves and your families, and you’re the one who invited me home with you, anyway. You put me in the middle of it.”
“I’m not hurting anyone! I have a right to be angry!” Hermione insisted—Lilian, for her part, kept quiet, seeming relieved the attention was off of her for the moment.
“Angry about what?” Mary demanded. “That your parents love you? That they want more than anything to be a part of your world? That you can’t just have magic all to yourself—that you have to share?” Not just magic with her parents, but everything else. Her room, with Mary, for example. But it was easier to be angry on Emma and Dan’s behalf than on her own.
“Emma and Dan are good people. They don’t deserve to be treated like, like muggles who don’t belong just because you want to be—what? More independent? You don’t like that they changed the house without telling you, I get that, but they meant it to be a surprise! Not speaking to them about it is just… petty! It’s petty and immature, and you need to just get over yourself.”
Besides, it really seemed like all the traits Hermione disliked in her parents—the way they inserted themselves into everything, the way they were always trying to give her advice, the way they couldn’t stop trying to fix things—well, that was exactly what Hermione was like, only worse, half the time.
Turning on Lilian, riding the high of her anger as long as she could, Mary added, “And you! You are so worried about hurting Aerin and making her hate you and herself that you’re pushing her away, just like your parents! Instead of trusting that she’d get over it eventually and you two could be real sisters again, you’re just taking that chance away from her, and that’s not helping either of you! You’re right, I did think it was better not to tell her when I thought things would go back to normal between you two, but they haven’t, and it’s bothering you, I can tell!”
Hermione started to say something, but Lilian seemed to have preferred it when Mary’s anger was focused on their Ravenclaw friend, because she ignored Mary entirely in favor of turning on her.
“Shut up, Maia! Lizzie’s right—you’re being selfish. Oh, boohoo. Your parents didn’t ask you what you thought about them getting involved in our world. They remodeled without telling you. You have to share your room for a few weeks. You don’t have their undivided attention anymore. If you don’t pull your head out of your arse, they really will start to like Liz more than you. That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?”
Well, Mary hadn’t wanted to say it, but… yeah. That basically did seem like what Hermione was really afraid of. But she only had a moment to feel vindicated before Lilian decided she was done ignoring her.
“And Liz—you have some nerve! You don’t have any idea what this is like! Aerin and I killed my brother, Lizzie! And I can’t tell anyone I know that I did it—my parents would hate me even more, and it would fucking break Aerin to know she had a hand in it! She’d hate me for not telling her sooner, and for telling her at all! She’d hate herself as much as I hate myself, and I can’t do that to her! She’s my sister! But you wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you?”
Mary very nearly said it. She nearly came out and told them that no, she didn’t know what it was like, because—what family did she have? An undead, evil Dark Lord. An escaped horcrux sending her cryptic presents from somewhere in America. A godfather who broke out of Azkaban to fucking kill her, and a godmother drooling in a long-term ward in St. Mungo’s. An aunt and uncle who locked her in a cupboard and treated her like a house elf, a cousin who chased her down and beat her whenever he could. Two pseudo-godfathers who hated each other—one who couldn’t take care of her because the government didn’t even think he was a person, and another who Hermione was trying to bloody steal.
She didn’t say any of that, though. She’d made it this far without spilling the Undead, Evil Grandfather secret, and she hardly thought they deserved to know now. Instead, letting her own voice become as cold as Hermione’s, she replied, “You’re right, I wouldn’t. You two ungrateful bitches are the closest thing I’ve ever had to sisters. But I’d like to think that if I did have a family, I wouldn’t take them for granted!”
From there, it just escalated. Hermione losing it, yelling that her parents never thought about what she wanted, that they only knew about magic in the first place because of her. Mary, somewhat sarcastically, pointing out that that was rich coming from the founder of the Muggleborn Students’ Association. Lilian mocking Hermione, pointing out that she sounded like Draco Malfoy, complaining about her parents being too involved in her life, caring about her too much.
By that point, Hermione had tears of frustration in her eyes. “You don’t understand. My entire life has been one long series of Mum butting in and taking over everything! I’ve never been allowed to do anything by myself! Going to Hogwarts was the first time I ever spent a night away from home. Magic was supposed to be mine! My chance to do something that didn’t have her fingerprints all over it! And now she’s forcing her way into the wizarding world, too. It’s not fair! I just wanted one thing that was mine, and I can’t even have that!”
“One thing?” Mary repeated. “You have loads of things! You have parents, you have a house, you have all this stuff!” One of the first things she’d noticed when she came to stay with Hermione the first time had been just how many things Hermione owned. Her clothes, overflowing out of a closet that was bigger than the one Mary had slept in for a decade. Books lining the walls. Every inch the doted-on only child of posh parents—more like Dudley than Mary, for all that her personality was better.
Yeah, the Grangers might be a little controlling. Actually, if she was comparing them to the Dursleys, Emma did bear an uncomfortable resemblance to Aunt Petunia in her need to direct her child’s life. And she had noticed, when they’d first come into Lilian’s bedroom, that it actually looked like a teenage girl’s room, with Quidditch posters and artwork and handmade decorations all over. Hermione’s bedroom, on the other hand, looked more like something out of a display magazine, every part of it clearly selected for her by her parents.
But saying that she didn’t have anything that was hers was so tone deaf! Mary was literally an orphan. She’d slept in a cupboard—she’d even told Hermione that when they’d been fighting over the MSA. Even Remus and Snape, she had to share with Hermione, whether she liked it or not.
“From where I stand, you have everything,” she hissed, “and you’re throwing a bloody tantrum just because, for once in your life, you might have to share! If you didn’t want me to come home with you, you shouldn’t have asked me in the first place!”
Hermione’s eyes went very wide. “Lizzie—what? That’s… that’s not what I meant. It’s got nothing to do with you.”
Mary really wasn’t sure about that. Neither was Lilian, apparently, because she couldn’t seem to help but chime in, “If you’ve been acting like this the whole time you and Lizzie have been home, I don’t blame her for being pissed at you.”
“I didn’t know it was going to be like this!” Hermione protested. “They—they just sprung it on me. This visit was supposed to be… My life as a witch and my life as a muggle were separate, and now they’re not! I wanted—needed this holiday to be a break from the magical world! It was supposed to be normal. And now it’s not, and they didn’t even warn me!”
And with that, she promptly burst into tears, curling herself up into a ball of misery in Lilian’s armchair.
“Um… Maia?” Mary asked, concerned enough to forget her anger for a moment.
“Just… just leave me alone.”
Out in the hallway, having relinquished Lilian’s bedroom to Hermione, the two remaining girls looked at each other.
“I think you might have been right about the time turner,” Lilian said quietly. “When I thought the worst that could happen was a breakdown, I wasn’t expecting… this.”
Mary wanted to press her further—Lilian really should tell Aerin. But she’d already said as much, and her friend didn’t seem to be listening. No, she’d rather use Hermione as a distraction. Well, Mary could accept that, at least for the moment.
“I’m worried about her, too,” she said, and, for a second, contemplated telling Lilian why. About Snape, and the Dark Arts, and the time she’d found Hermione crying in the dungeons. But in the end, even if her loyalty to Hermione alone wouldn’t have been enough to make her keep her mouth shut, her loyalty to Snape was.
Instead, she added, “Maybe we need to have another intervention.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Lilian agreed. “But… probably not right now. I think she needs a moment.”
Lilian and Mary tried to hang out on their own after that, but neither was really in the mood, and they ended up splitting up before long. Mary found an unoccupied room overlooking the dark garden, where she sat, lost in her own thoughts—about Hermione, and the Grangers, and the Dark Arts, and Snape, and family, and how little of it she had—wishing she’d never agreed to visit either of them for the holidays, if it just meant seeing everything that she could never have dangled in front of her face by people who didn’t even appreciate it.
She kept coming back to what Lilian had said, about how Hermione’s parents were going to start liking Mary better if she didn’t stop acting like a brat. Because, well, some part of her thought that she was acting like a better daughter than Hermione, which was part of why it was so frustrating that Hermione was the one who got to have a family that loved her, while Mary got, well, whatever her friend deigned to share with her.
Like she was being fed the leftovers of other people’s happiness. Bloody scraps, while Lilian and Hermione turned up their noses at a full meal because they didn’t quite like the seasoning.
Why did they get to have these things, and Mary didn’t? Deep in her heart, though she could hardly stand to admit it, she felt like she deserved it more than they did. She would appreciate it more; she wouldn’t take it for granted and push her family away over stupid things like they did. And yet, there was nothing she could do but watch them fuck it up—from the outside, like always.
This was meant to be her first real family Christmas, one where she was actually wanted and included, but she didn’t feel either of those things. Hermione clearly resented her, angry that she had to make any room for Mary in her life and family, and the Grangers were preoccupied by their daughter’s rejection, leaving her feel like an unwanted intruder in the midst of their family drama.
That evening, the three of them shared an excruciatingly uncomfortable Yule dinner with Lilian’s parents and siblings. They didn’t even perform a real ritual, other than the few words they’d said over the hearth as they’d lit it. Later on, the Moon siblings would keep vigil in the parlor until dawn, talking and playing games, but Mary and Hermione would already be gone.
By the end of the day, Mary found herself fervently wishing she had just stayed at Hogwarts, where she could have celebrated the Powers with the handful of students and professors remaining behind. With Snape and Aunt Minnie.
Then again, with all the Slytherins gone, there probably wouldn’t have even been a ritual to begin with. Because of the dementors. Because of Sirius fucking Black.
Mary dragged herself out of bed later that night, after Hermione had fallen asleep, and had her own—well, not ritual, really, but observance.
The Samhain Revel in had been her first ritual, but Yule had been the first sabbat she’d gone out of her way to celebrate. With her friends gone for the holidays back in first year, she’d ended up spending a lot of time with Blaise and Theo, the latter of whom had explained the sabbats and Powers to her.
Yule was the day to celebrate the Dark Solitary and Infernal Powers—the latter was sometimes also called Mystery—and the Light Intangible Power. Theo had told her that, if she wanted to observe it in the traditional style, she should spend the day in quiet contemplation, avoiding other people from sunrise to sunset, thinking about what she wanted out of life and enjoying her own company.
That first year, she’d climbed up to an empty tower at the top of the castle, looking out over the grounds and thinking, although Snape had eventually found the same spot, and she’d left not long after for fear of disturbing him. In second year, he’d already been there when she’d reached the tower, so she’d spent the day in a quiet corner of the dungeons instead.
Now, Mary found herself wishing she’d just celebrated the holiday alone in the first place, rather than spending the day getting into stupid fights with her bloody spoiled friends. The day was about self-sufficiency and independence, after all, and that was something she could relate to—especially now, when she felt more alone than ever.
Still, she could at least make use of what remained of the day—or night—to do what she should have done in the first place, sitting alone in the living room and writing in her journal everything that had happened over the previous year. It was the first time that she really got a chance to think over it all.
The past year had been, well, kind of awful actually, from the Veritaserum Conspiracy and being kidnapped into the Chamber up to a term full of Slytherin House drama and fighting with her best friends. It felt like she’d just been running and running, too overwhelmed by everything to really think about any one thing for long.
Like her Lammas vision, for example. Now that she looked back on it, she kind of thought the unfamiliar wizard she’d seen in it, the one fighting with Black for her trust, had been Peter Pettigrew, but that didn’t make much sense, since he was dead. She hadn’t even taken the time to figure out what the vision had been trying to tell her. Or the one on Mabon—Snape hadn’t known what it was about, but maybe Hermione would? Mary could try asking her about it if they were speaking again anytime soon.
It was hard to keep track of everything. There was just too much going on, all the secrets with Remus and Snape and Hermione and Lilian and everyone, strange visions and all sorts of things she didn’t understand. Every time she tried to sit down and put it all together, something else would happen to dash everything to pieces, and she’d forget about everything she had meant to try to figure out. Like her life was just a constant, low-level crisis.
Mary had been hoping that this visit with the Grangers would be a chance to get a break, to breathe and reconnect with her best friend, but it wasn’t shaping up that way. That, at least, she could understand about Hermione’s weird little breakdown, because she’d said basically the same thing.
She wrote it all out, even the embarrassing stuff, like the scroll detention and the things she’d realized she felt. She still didn’t really understand why she wanted Snape to like her so badly. Most of the other Slytherins looked up to him, but she was pretty sure they didn’t feel as strongly about it as she did, and the whole thing was just awkward and embarrassing.
(She couldn’t help but think that if Sirius Black hadn’t betrayed her parents, and she hadn’t grown up with the bloody Dursleys, she’d know how to just, like, have a normal familial relationship with someone, and wouldn’t be so weird and intense about it.)
Part of her wanted, in the new term, to spend even more time with Snape, to find out more secrets about him and try to make him laugh and get closer to him than Hermione was. The other part of her wanted to avoid him for roughly the rest of eternity, because the fact that he could make her feel so many confusing things was really unpleasant, actually, and she constantly embarrassed herself in front of him, and what if he had read her scroll and knew about all the embarrassing stuff she’d said? He hadn’t acted like he’d read it, and he’d only glanced at it for a second, but he was a spy and a mind mage.
Really, she thought, there had to be a limit to how much one person could confuse her. Ever since he’d invited her to be informal with him, their relationship—or how she felt about it, at least—had just gotten more and more complicated, to the point that she almost wished they could just go back to when he was only her mysterious Head of House and she had no idea about him and her mum being friends.
But… not really. Because then, he wouldn’t have said that he cared about her. And she did believe he did, even if she also worried that he liked Hermione more than her sometimes. Still, she hoped there was some limit—that eventually, she’d understand what Snape’s deal was, and know exactly where she stood with him, and wouldn’t have to think about it all the time.
Getting it all out on paper, the events of the past year, and her conflicting feelings about her friends, and the Grangers, and Remus, and Snape, was cathartic. But when she finished and read back over it, she immediately realized how many Azkaban-worthy offenses and secrets it contained (the Veritaserum Conspiracy, the ritual she’d probably performed in the Chamber, Snape’s mention of reading the Árthra, Hermione’s studies, Remus’s condition), so she tore out the pages and burned them in the backyard.
As she watched the wind carry the ashes away into the darkest night, she whispered, “Here’s hoping next year is better.”
Notes:
More than half of the dialogue between Mary, Lilian, and Hermione is taken from Chapter 22 of Chained Servant. Originally I'd skimmed over it, because I don't want to copy too much of the fic, but Leigha doesn't mind and it ended up being relevant to stuff that happens later on, so I included it after all.
I should start a betting pool on how long it'll take Mary to figure it out. (I started writing that sentence thinking of her crush on Snape, but actually, it applies to Sirius and Peter, too.) What do y'all think?
Chapter 14: Family
Notes:
This chapter follows along with Chapters 23, 24, and 25 of Chained Servant. Up until near the end, most of the events happen the same way they do in the original fic, so parts may seem more rushed/abridged than usual.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In the days immediately after Yule, things weren’t quite as bad, as though Mary’s wish really had carried some weight with the Powers. She was pretty sure that Emma had talked to Hermione, because her friend’s attitude improved—though she didn’t apologize, preferring to pretend as though the argument, and her behavior leading up to it, hadn’t happened at all.
They went Christmas shopping at the local mall, and Mary sent off last minute gifts to her friends and professors. She’d gotten Snape a mug that read, “You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps,” which she’d sent anonymously, both in case he didn’t like it and as a nod to how he’d delivered the potions knife for her birthday. She could just picture him sipping coffee out of it next to Dumbledore while the Headmaster pretended not to notice it was a comment on the state of the school.
On Christmas Day, they opened presents first thing in the morning, and Mary received, among many other things, a fancy-looking leather bound copy of The Tale of Parallax and Quincey, sent in unlabeled packaging without a note. She claimed not to know who it was from, though that just caused Hermione to speculate that the sender might be whoever had sent the Parsel book on Mabon.
As for the real sender of that book, well, she’d have to wait until she was back at Hogwarts to find out if he’d sent anything, but she somehow doubted that Riddle would celebrate a progressive holiday like Christmas. Some traditionalists gave each other ‘late Yule’ presents, but mostly the younger ones. (Not that he wasn’t young, technically, but he’d been born in the 20’s, which probably was the more pertinent detail.)
Once they were done with presents, Mary changed out of the muggle clothes she usually wore with the Grangers (almost all of which they’d purchased for her, actually), putting on her very nicest day-robe, black and almost dress-like in silhouette, with her winter cloak on top and her curls piled atop her head. With a bottle of wine and a neatly wrapped present in hand, she made her way to the Floo shed, leaving the Grangers behind. There was somewhere she’d promised to be.
“How was your visit with the Longbottoms?”
Mary, having just come in from the cold after Flooing back from Longbottom Manor, slumped against the Grangers’ back door and groaned.
“That bad, huh?” Hermione looked sympathetic, while Emma was barely hiding her amusement. “Was it his gran?”
After the final Dueling Club meeting of the term, Mary had pulled Neville aside to ask if she could visit his parents over the holidays. His mother had been her godmother, and although she’d heard that Alice Longbottom and her husband had been mentally damaged in the war to the point that they resided full-time in St. Mungo’s, she’d still felt that she should meet them at least once.
Neville had told her that he and his grandmother, Madam Longbottom, usually visited his parents on Christmas Day, so she’d arranged to go along. The elder Grangers had visited his home a few days prior, just to make sure everything was in order, and Emma had described his grandmother as ‘formidable,’ which Hermione claimed was code for ‘awful.’
She had been formidable. By which Mary meant, Madam Longbottom was probably the meanest woman she’d ever met, including Aunt Petunia. She was especially horrible to Neville, constantly criticizing and mocking him, to the point that Mary now had a much better understanding of just why he was so self-conscious all the time. And when Mary had introduced herself, putting on her best pureblood manners, curtsying to the older witch—even calling Neville ‘Heir Longbottom’ and letting him escort her into the room, which was just weird—Madam Longbottom had stood and slowly circled her, inspecting her like a bloody dog at a dog show, before saying, “I suppose you’ll do.”
But no, that hadn’t been the worst part.
“Actually, I think she rather approved of me,” Mary said. “She told me to come back whenever I like—Neville said that’s the first time she’s told one of his friends that.”
She’d gotten the impression that Madam Longbottom might even be thinking they should date or court or something, which she was trying not to think about too hard. She liked Neville, sure—better today than when they were at school, even. He’d clearly found all the formality just as over-the-top as she had, and had made little sarcastic comments to her about it all when his gran wasn’t listening. Right before she’d left, too, they’d had a nice conversation about blade-fighting. He could be pretty cool, she thought, when he wasn’t swallowed up by his own insecurities.
But that certainly didn’t mean she wanted to date him. Or anyone, for that matter.
“So then, what was the problem?” Emma asked.
“Well, you know how Neville’s parents have been in St. Mungo’s since the war because a Death Eater basically tortured them into insanity?”
The Grangers all nodded—that had been discussed before they’d visited Longbottom Manor, so they could avoid putting their feet in their respective mouths.
“Well, the Death Eater in question was Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dark Lord’s second-in-command—and a distant cousin of mine, through my dad’s side. And nobody bothered to tell me that I look just like her, when she was my age.”
Hermione’s mouth fell open. “Oh no.”
“Oh, yes. The sight of me terrified Alice Longbottom to the point that she stole Neville’s wand and tried to attack me.” At the sharp inhales from the Grangers, she quickly added, “No, I’m fine—the Healers stopped her.”
“Still—oh my god,” Hermione said. “How’d Neville react?”
With a bemused frown, Mary said, “Better than I expected, actually. He thanked me. Said it was the first sign he’d ever had that she knew who he was—she pushed him behind her, like she was trying to protect him from me. But—Merlin, I feel so bad.”
She’d ruined his holiday visit with his parents, worked her poor godmother up into a frenzy, and had immediately been asked to leave the room by the Healers. No one had needed to tell her that she definitely shouldn’t visit them again.
After the Grangers were done expressing their sympathies over the disastrous visit, Mary and Dan got to cooking Christmas dinner—he was the chef in their household, with Emma and Hermione both being useless in the kitchen, and Mary had developed a knack for cooking after all her years with the Dursleys. Now that she wasn’t forced to do it all the time, she even liked it.
Once supper was in the oven, Mary was left without much to do, but not long after, Lilian arrived. They had made the plans for her to join the Grangers for Christmas dinner before that awful Yule visit, and Mary had worried that they would only jump right back into fighting, but luckily, her friends seemed no more keen on resuming their argument than she was.
So while, like Hermione, Mary and Lilian didn’t offer apologies, they seemed to have come to an unspoken agreement to pretend Yule had never happened. After a much shorter tour than Lilian had given them—the Grangers’ house was hardly a manor, nor did they have any puppies to play with—the three girls ended up in Hermione’s room, all piled onto the two beds, which they’d pushed together for the evening.
After exchanging gifts, they wound up back on the topic of Mary’s visit with the Longbottoms, which meant she had to go over the whole story again for Lilian’s sake. Lilian, however, unlike Hermione, apparently knew what the Blackheart looked like—Mary knew from studying the pureblood family trees that Bellatrix’s mother had been a Rosier, and so had Lilian’s mum, so they were distant cousins as well.
Upon hearing the story, Lilian gave Mary a long, unnerving stare before saying, “Wow. I never even thought about it, but yeah, you do look like her.” At Hermione’s expression of curiosity, she added, “I’ll see if I can find a photo for you in one of mum’s old albums.” Then, turning to Mary with a smirk: “Good news, twiggy, you’re going to grow up to be a real looker!”
Mary immediately punched her in the arm, despite some small part of her that was kind of pleased with the comment, even if it came along with a comparison to the most notorious British Dark Lady in centuries.
“I’ve already seen one, actually,” she said, when Lilian was done laughing.
After returning from St. Mungo’s, she’d wanted to go back to the Grangers’, but Madam Longbottom had basically held her and Neville hostage, making them wait while she combed through all of her photo albums in search of one specific event: the 1964 Festa Morgana.
Held on Yule, the Festa was the most important Society event in Magical Britain, though only those fifteen or above were allowed to attend. Mary would be making her debut there in two years, demonstrating that her training as a young Heiress was complete.
Madam Longbottom had triumphantly presented the photograph to Mary: two beautiful young witches, spinning together in a dance before turning to grin at the camera. One had been pale, with large, dark eyes and a mass of black curls atop her head, wearing a layered black gown. The other had had tanned skin, a daringly cut red dress, waves of golden brown hair, and curves that would have put any of the girls Mary knew at school to shame. She’d looked older than the paler girl, though Madam Longbottom said they were the same age—fourteen, just a year older than Mary herself, meaning they had crashed the party. But, as the older witch had said, “No one was about to tell them to leave.”
And, when Mary looked closer at the photo, she spotted someone behind them. A tall man, just as pale and dark-haired as the first girl, but with icy blue eyes, raising his glass to the camera in a toast.
Mary hadn’t recognized the girls, who she was informed were Bellatrix Black and Mirabella Zabini—Blaise’s mum—but she’d recognized the man. Of course she recognized Tom Riddle, looking less than a decade older than the boy from the diary, even though he ought to have been nearing forty at the time. Madam Longbottom, on the other hand, seemed to have no idea who he was, despite having told Mary earlier that day that she’d been in the same year at Hogwarts as a ‘chap called Riddle.’
Mary told Hermione and Lilian about the photo—or started to, though she’d only gotten as far as describing the two girls dancing together before Lilian interrupted her.
“Wait—Bellatrix Black and Lady Zabini were a thing? I wonder if Blaise knows.”
“He mentioned that they were friends,” Mary said.
Hermione, fighting back a smile, a small note of condescension in her voice, said, “I think Lilian is implying they were more than friends, Lizzie.”
Lilian nodded in that authoritative manner she got when they talked about the sort of wizarding society stuff she’d grown up with. “Girls don’t dance with other girls at the Festa. It’s just not done.”
Which just led them off on a tangent about why that was the case, when no one cared about Lilian’s siblings dating people of the same sex—Mary did her best to hide her surprise at the revelation that Aerin and Lara weren’t just friends. Basically, it seemed to boil down to: gay or not, pureblood kids were expected to get married and carry on their family names. Which didn’t surprise Mary much, but nearly set Hermione off on another of her rants.
Finally, though, Lilian added that the idea of the two witches together was surprising because, according to her, everyone thought Bellatrix had been with the Dark Lord, even though she was married, which reminded Mary to mention that he’d been in the background of the photo. Hermione immediately asked for a copy of it, as Riddle’s picture had been blacked out in the Hogwarts yearbook in the library. It was clear, they thought, that he’d made an effort to sever all ties to his past as a halfblood orphan.
Hermione wasn’t the only one on the case, either: Neville had, at Mary’s behest, said that he’d try to spread the word about the Dark Lord’s origins to some of his friends. Mary had gotten the impression that Dumbledore didn’t want many people to know, but, well, to hell with Dumbledore. Snape wouldn’t mind if she told people, anyway—when she’d asked him why it had to be a secret, he’d only said, “The old goat does not fully understand the balance between secrecy and effectiveness.”
From there, they somehow ended up on the topic of trying to convince Hermione to give the Dueling Club another try, but as she and her friends chattered away, she couldn’t help but think back on that photograph, touching a hand to her curls almost unconsciously as she did so.
It had just been unsettling to see Bellatrix at her age, looking as though she could have been Mary’s older, prettier sister. And so carefree, all three of them: the Blackheart, the Black Widow, and the Dark Lord.
Three beautiful, vibrant young killers.
Christmas dinner with the Grangers and Lilian was unquestionably the highlight of Mary’s break thus far. They sat around the table with none of the tension that had characterized their meal with the Moons, eating the food Mary and Dan had prepared, talking about the mass Mary and the Grangers had attended the night before—her first time in a church—and how it compared to the Moons’ traditional holiday practices. And when they were done eating, they went on a walk around the neighborhood, looking at all the lights and decorations, stopping for a moment to listen to a group of carolers.
The rest of the break aside, Mary would definitely say that day—at least after she’d returned from the Longbottoms’—was the best Christmas she’d ever had. That night, she closed her eyes and thought to herself that, for once in her life, she almost felt like part of a real family.
The day after Boxing Day, on the elder Grangers’ first day back at work, Mary woke early and somehow talked herself into cleaning their entire house.
It wasn’t quite as mad as it sounded. While Emma and Dan kept things neat, the fact was that their housekeeping standards were more… relaxed than the ones Aunt Petunia had raised her to maintain, and she had an important visitor to impress—Aunt Minnie was stopping by for tea.
Mary, perhaps having too much free time on her hands, had decided to think of this visit as a sort of test. Aunt Minnie had placed her with the Urquharts, after all, to train her to become a proper young witch, and hostessing was part of that. She didn’t want her guardian to think that the lessons were wasted on her.
So she cleaned their house from top to bottom, which turned out to be much easier without Dudley purposefully messing it up whenever her back was turned. When she still had time left over, she took to baking, making tea-cakes, crumpets, and shortbread to go with their tea.
Then she set about bringing herself up to the standards of her environment, putting on a nice, freshly pressed crimson day-robe with an underskirt, bloomers, and the Mary Janes which Catherine had declared ‘absolutely darling’ on her. Her curls were pinned up as neatly as she could manage—she’d had her hair cut recently, and the nice, manageable waves she’d had before had reverted back into their usual wild mess, which was probably a large part of why she’d found herself mistaken for Bellatrix.
Maybe she should grow it out again.
Hermione, who’d been eating leftovers and reading all day, ignoring Mary’s cleaning frenzy, took one look at her, setting the table with tea-trays and freshly baked goods, careful not to get any crumbs on her nice robes, and said, “You look like a 1950’s housewife.”
She wasn’t wrong, but Mary didn’t think that was a bad thing, even if Hermione said it like she was teasing her. Being forced to follow all the Urquharts’ rules could be tedious, not to mention how much she’d hated being bossed around by Aunt Petunia, but when it was her own pride as a hostess on the line, a chance to show off how much she’d learned from her lessons with Catherine, there was something satisfying about making herself, and her environment, picture-perfect.
Hermione, though, didn’t seem to understand this, and it occurred to Mary that her friend had never really seen her in anything but the school uniform or muggle clothes, other than when she’d dressed up to visit Neville.
“I wear this kind of thing all the time at the Urquharts’,” Mary explained. “Less so before my birthday, but even then, I still had to dress up for tea. Anyway, I’m not a little kid anymore. You know how our uniforms changed this year? They’re really strict about what young adults wear, even more so outside of school.”
Thirteen, after all, was the age of recognition, at which a person was no longer considered a child, even if they weren’t exactly an adult until a few years later.
Hermione, looking back and forth between Mary’s ‘housewife’ outfit and her own faded denims and baggy jumper, declared herself an ‘unkempt frumpet,’ whatever that meant, and ran upstairs to change, although she complained profusely about ‘outdated sensibilities’ the whole time.
Mary found this a bit silly—it wasn’t like she’d been trying to make Hermione look bad in comparison, nor did she think Aunt Minnie would hold her friend to the same standards as a noble girl like Mary—but whatever. Her friend did look quite nice when she emerged twenty minutes later in a green dress and tights, her usually frizzy hair in a neat plait down her back.
In any case, the three of them had a nice tea together, exchanging presents and polite small-talk, and while Hermione used the wrong curtsy to greet Aunt Minnie—or, she tried to copy Mary’s, but since she was a muggleborn and not a noble Heiress, this was actually unintentionally rude—and didn’t know the proper manners for a pureblood tea party, Aunt Minnie thankfully didn’t comment, only looking slightly approving that she was at least making an attempt.
Even Mary, however, couldn’t maintain her prim and proper facade when Aunt Minnie informed her that someone had sent her a Firebolt for Christmas!
Since the anti-tracking spells kept post from finding her outside of school, it had been returned to sender, and the broom company had ended up reaching out to her guardian to accept the delivery instead. It would be waiting in Mary’s bedroom when she returned for the new term—something which she suddenly felt could not come soon enough.
Draco was going to be so jealous.
This break, Mary decided, was just one long chain of visits. Her and Hermione visiting Lilian, Lilian visiting her and Hermione, Mary visiting Neville, Aunt Minnie visiting Mary.
And now, the morning of New Year’s Eve, Emma Granger was visiting Lady Malfoy.
Or, at least, that was what Hermione had deduced from Emma’s absence and cryptic note saying that she had gone off to Wiltshire. Apparently she’d been dropping hints for ages that she had an unlikely supporter of her Informed Muggle Parents group, and Hermione was almost certain it was Draco’s mum.
Which made no sense to Mary—the Malfoys were literally a Death Eater family—but when she pointed this out, Hermione launched into a surprisingly well-informed argument.
“The fact that the Malfoys managed to weather the end of the war with most of their fortune, influence, and reputation intact should tell you something, shouldn’t it? Narcissa has been in charge of the official House Malfoy political stance since she became Lady Malfoy in… 1977. Pureblood supremacy was already a failing position politically even then, when the Dark Lord was still gaining power outside of the Wizengamot. She shifted their official line to be more about maintaining traditional values and the rule of the elite, and generally defensible.”
When Mary tried pointing out that there was a big difference between being less pureblood supremacist and socializing with muggles, Hermione retorted, “You’re overlooking that Malfoy is absolutely ruthless in her politics. She’s obviously willing to say and do whatever she has to, to maintain her power and influence, even if it means publicly renouncing the Dark Lord and her sister and pureblood supremacy. Embracing the demographic shift and working with a muggle group would be minor in comparison. If she spins it right, it will be a bloody coup when it comes out that the Allied Dark are behind IMP.”
And she went on like that, unleashing a torrent of political speculation on the unprepared Mary. Like that Lady Malfoy could use this as an opportunity to take the moral high ground away from Dumbledore’s Light, to undermine his influence at Hogwarts by making contact with muggleborn students and their families before they even arrived at the school, nudging them in the direction of traditionally Dark values.
Emma, meanwhile, wanted more resources for the parents of muggleborn children, and Hermione suspected she would be willing to put up with even the Allied Dark if it got her what she wanted, especially when she wasn’t a fan of Dumbledore in the first place. So far, IMP was mostly just a monthly newsletter that put together summaries of news in the wizarding world for muggle parents, but Emma had all these plans for it—she’d barely talked about anything else all break.
Besides all that, the Democratic Expansionists—those wanting to add elected seats to the Wizengamot, or even create a House of Commons—were gathering numbers, mostly among Common Fate and Ars Publica, and Hermione claimed that most arithmancers thought it would be twelve years or less before they got their way. At which point, Magical Britain’s government would be flooded with commoners and muggleborns, most of whom currently supported the Light.
So, basically, the Dark Houses needed to court the public—muggleborns among them—before they gained political power, or the Light’s hold over Britain would become even more unbreakable than it already was.
“The Parliamentarians, that’s the Ravenclaw political analysis club, have a pool going on it, and most of the older students’ money is on Yaxley or Rowle in the next three years. I think they’re underestimating House Malfoy because of Lucius’s history and the way Draco acts in public. Lord Yaxley and Lord Rowle weren’t actually Death Eaters, even though there were Death Eaters in their families. But if you look at the transcripts, the way the Malfoys vote is borderline neutral.”
Why wasn’t Mary surprised that Hermione had gotten into gambling on politics in her free time? At least it was better than certain other things she could be doing with the time turner. Although she was surprised when, a moment later, Hermione added, “Speaking of which, you’ll win me twenty galleons if you start a new political faction before you leave school. I got really long odds on House Potter starting its own voting bloc when you finally get to take over your own Seat.”
Mary had no idea how to respond to that. That was just… insane. She was thirteen. She didn’t care about politics—never mind starting her own political party! She cared about—about Quidditch, and hanging out with her friends, and normal stuff!
She would never get used to this Girl Who Lived nonsense.
Since Emma was out visiting her mysterious benefactor, and Dan was at the clinic, Mary and Hermione spent the rest of the day actually catching up, like they’d originally meant to when they’d made plans for the visit but hadn’t yet gotten around to. There was a lot they couldn’t talk about when Hermione’s parents were around, not to mention all the arguments they’d had since the break began.
Mary, though slightly hesitantly, asked what Hermione had been doing with all the free time she’d had, and she talked about studying for her O-Levels, and her work on the MSA, and all the clubs she’d checked out, and hanging out with her roommate Padma and their friend Mandy in Ravenclaw, and how she thought she could probably pass her OWLs at the end of the year if she wanted, but she’d rather wait and ace them all. That wasn’t so bad.
But then she started talking, more awkwardly, about what she was studying. As in, with Snape.
Hermione was clearly making an effort to follow Mary’s wishes, because she didn’t ever actually say his name. She just talked around him, telling Mary about the Dark Arts, and her theories about the Dark Lord—how he might have gotten started on making horcruxes and how she might go about finding out about Mary’s connection to him.
But… Mary still didn’t like it. And she felt stupid for feeling that way, because, well, Hermione was trying, and pretty much everything she talked about was related to trying to help Mary. Like finding out about the weird ritual tattoo that she’d found on herself after her birthday, the one that might have something to do with whatever Riddle had made her do in the Chamber, or about looking into soul magic because that might be what Lily had done to protect her.
Hermione was trying, and Mary didn’t want to fight with her, but she didn’t like it. It sounded like Hermione was just getting deeper into her studies with Snape—she even sounded like him, with some of the things she said about the Dark Arts.
Which was unsettling, because Mary was supposed to be the one who talked like Snape, and Hermione was supposed to be the one who was intimidated by him and needed Mary to translate his Snape-Speak for her. It made Mary wonder where the girl who’d been convinced that Snape hated her had gone—and wish, somewhat viciously, that she could trade this new Hermione in for her.
There was another stab of something in Mary’s chest, something that made her want to, well, she wasn’t sure what exactly. Throw a fit like a child, maybe. Or maybe what she wanted was to steal Hermione’s time turner, go back to September, and stop herself and Lilian from telling her to use it more in the first place—paradoxes be damned.
She tried to pretend to be happy that Hermione was looking into all this, keeping her irritation out of her face and voice as much as possible, but she wasn’t sure that she managed it, because before long, Hermione trailed off, looking uncomfortable. And the rest of the day, even when Dan and Emma came home to celebrate the holiday with them, Mary couldn’t quite break out of her bad mood.
And it would only get worse. Because, when they were getting ready to watch the fireworks on the BBC that night, Mary spotted an unfamiliar watch on Hermione’s wrist and asked, “Is that new?” and her friend, after some uncharacteristic hemming and hawing, guiltily admitted that it was a handmade Christmas present from Fred and George Weasley.
Also known as the boys who had fucking kidnapped her and weren’t even sorry about it.
Unsurprisingly, Mary lost it.
“Why are you even still talking to them? And why didn’t you tell me? Have you been—have you been hiding this, intentionally?
“No!” Hermione insisted, before immediately adding, “Well—damn it! Only because I knew you’d react like this!”
At which point, Dan and Emma came back into the room, sparkling wine and popcorn in hand, and quickly realized they were walking into an argument. Hermione immediately clammed up, but Mary, realizing that her friend’s parents probably didn’t even know, shouted, “Hermione is still friends with the backstabbing wankers that kidnapped me into the Chamber of Secrets!”
“Is this true, Maia-bee?” Hermione’s dad asked her, already looking concerned, and Mary felt a small stab of vindictive pleasure.
“They were worried about their sister!” Hermione snapped.
From there, it only escalated, Mary and Hermione shouting back and forth at each other—had she really thought the tension had dissipated after their fight on Yule? It hadn’t gone anywhere, but had just been simmering under the surface, waiting for the right catalyst. Finally, when Emma failed to interrupt them, Dan whistled loudly enough that they both fell silent.
“I don’t think we feel entirely comfortable with your keeping company with those sorts of people,” Emma said, shooting her husband a grateful look for the interruption, and Mary folded her arms over her chest and glared at Hermione, enjoying having the elder Grangers on her side. “Weren’t they the ones who turned you into a cat-person? And the ones you said were bullying you about your looks?”
“They apologized for that!”
“But not for kidnapping me? Are you fucking serious?!” Did Hermione not even care?
Finally, Hermione lost it altogether, jumping to her feet. “You can’t tell me who to be friends with!” she shouted at all three of them. “You’re always doing this, trying to control my life. And Lizzie too—it’s like I’m not allowed to talk to anyone. I’m sick of it!”
And with that, she stormed from the room, leaving Mary standing in uncomfortable silence with her friend’s parents as Auld Lang Syne played on the telly. She excused herself to the living room sofa a moment later—there was no way she was sharing a room with Hermione tonight.
They’d made it how long this time before losing it on each other? Ten days? What a fantastic start to the new year.
The thing was—that wasn’t the really bad part of the night. That was, in fact, just the preview.
Because a couple hours later, when Mary had tried and failed to sleep, Hermione came sneaking downstairs, a lamp in her hands, whispering, “Lizzie, are you still up?”
Reluctantly, Mary sat up, reaching for her glasses. “What is it, Maia?”
“I’m sorry. I just… we were hardly talking all year, and I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to hide that I was friends with them. It just didn’t come up, and it was easier not to say anything, because I… I didn’t think you’d understand.”
Well, she had that right. Folding her arms over her chest, Mary said, “I’m not just mad because you didn’t tell me, you know. I really don’t understand why you’re still friends with them.”
Hermione tried, haltingly, to explain, telling her how their prank war had gradually morphed into something more friendly after she’d helped to restore their potions ingredients, and how, since the twins were some of the only people who knew about her time turner, they’d started keeping her company. They’d been exploring the castle together, had found a room that could become anything—the same one where they’d had the Mabon ritual. And working on enchanting projects together too, like the watch they’d given her.
She even said that the twins had admitted that they should have listened to Mary and gotten Snape to help before going to the Chamber, even if they didn’t regret going down there. Fat lot of good that did Mary, when they hadn’t said as much to her, never mind apologized.
“They’ve been keeping me sane, Lizzie. Grounded. They make me laugh. You don’t know how important that is, when you’ve spent as many hours as I have surrounding yourself with stories of horrible things and magical theory that pushes you to the edge of madness, and it’s like, if you just go a little further, you might be able to see everything, grasp it all… It’s scary; I’ve been having nightmares all term, barely sleeping. I… I don’t think I could give it up, what they do for me.”
Mary considered this for a moment. Honestly, she wasn’t even that mad about the twins, it was just… everything. In fact, in her heart, she knew Hermione sneaking around with the twins was just the excuse she’d latched onto to justify the anger that had been simmering inside her all day.
“Why don’t you give up the other thing, then?” she asked, trying to sound neutral, even though she was the further thing from it. “The research.”
She was starting to think that that was why Hermione had freaked out so much about the changes her parents had made, saying that she’d wanted a break from magic. Because she’d wanted to stop thinking about the Dark Arts. Mary felt a flash of anger towards Snape for pulling her friend into all this.
“If I don’t do it, who will?” Hermione asked. “Snape hasn’t the time. Dumbledore keeps him so busy, I’m surprised he has time to even review my summaries. And—”
“I could do it,” Mary interrupted, and Hermione just stared at her.
“You?”
“Why not?”
“I mean… you’re… You’re not interested in the Dark Arts—you told me they creep you out a bit! And you’re even younger than me—you shouldn’t be reading this sort of thing. Plus you don’t have a time turner, you’re busy with the Quidditch team, and you’re not really the researching type.”
“Excuse me?”
Hermione was looking a little shifty now. “I mean… You’re more of a doer than a sit around reading books about magical theory sort of person. You wouldn’t be interested in the stuff I’m reading.”
“You don’t know what I’d be interested in. Just because I don’t memorize my bloody textbooks doesn’t mean I’m not intelligent,” Mary hissed, growing tenser.
Hermione just sat there for a long moment before finally saying, “Lizzie, I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but… this kind of seems like it’s about Snape? And I don’t know how to talk about it without talking about him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mary insisted stubbornly, and Hermione let out an aggrieved sigh.
“Lizzie, just stop. Look, it’s obvious you’re jealous, and I get it. I know how much the Slytherins look up to him. But… I mean, just because I’m not a Slytherin doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to do research with him. I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal, or why you keep acting like this, and I want to understand, because you’re my best friend, and I—”
“He’s my godfather.”
Hermione broke off, her mouth falling open. “What?”
“Not really, I mean. Officially, my godparents are Sirius Black and Alice Longbottom. Unofficially, though… it should have been Snape. My mum was his best friend—like his sister. They grew up together. He told me at the end of second year, and we basically agreed to think of ourselves as godfather and goddaughter. I… I call him Theíos. It means uncle in Greek.”
“Oh,” Hermione said softly. “I had no idea.”
“He didn’t tell you?” Mary asked, more bitterly than she meant to.
Hermione shook her head. “We don’t talk about thing like that—his life and stuff. Just, you know, magic, and the Dark Arts, and whatever’s going on with you and the Dark Lord. So… is that why you’re upset?”
Mary didn’t want to say anything, because it was all stupid, but she couldn’t help herself. “You’re monopolizing him,” she hissed. “You just said it, he’s busy, and… You keep taking up his time and… I don’t know. I don’t like it, Maia. He’s my godfather, not yours.”
None of that was really the real problem, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud—that she was afraid that Hermione knew him better than Mary did. That he liked her better.
Maybe Hermione picked up on some of that, though, because she said, with a bit of laughter in her voice, “Lizzie, he doesn’t even like me. He’s always saying I’m, like, a ‘self-righteous know-it-all,’ and that I should have been in Gryffindor, and that I’m reckless and thoughtless and all that. It’s not like we’re having tea parties together like you and McGonagall. We’re doing this for you—I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason he even puts up with me.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you to.” Mary was getting sick of people doing things ‘for her’ without her consent.
Hermione scoffed a bit, and Mary realized she was angry now, too. “What, do you just want me to stop because it bothers you?”
“And what if I did?” Mary demanded, because—obviously she wanted Hermione to stop. She’d been saying that this whole time, ever since October! Not only did she hate it, but it was driving Hermione spare as well, making her fight with Mary and her parents, keeping her up at night, pushing her to the Weasley twins for comfort.
Her friend didn’t respond at first, just took a deep breath, like she was trying to calm herself. “I… I really think this is important, Lizzie. It could make a difference for you, and for stopping Riddle. But if it upsets you that much… I guess I could stop.”
It was funny, that that was the thing that finally pushed Mary over the edge.
Because… it made her think of dealing with Lilian, the way she’d manipulate Mary to get what she wanted. She didn’t know that Hermione was consciously trying to manipulate her, but it still felt like she was being trapped. Like the options were, either she sucked it up and put up with it, or else she was being an immature child, stopping Hermione from doing something important, something meant to benefit her, just because it made her uncomfortable.
But that was such dragonshite. This was bad for Hermione—she’d basically said so herself! It just, it didn’t feel like a real choice. It felt like Hermione was just trying to make her say that it was okay, like that was the only right answer, and once she did, then she would be giving her consent and wouldn’t have the right to be mad about it anymore.
It would have been better, honestly, if Hermione had just told her to piss off, that she would do whatever she liked. At least then Mary could sulk and feel bad for herself without anyone saying, ‘But you agreed to this!’
“Do whatever you want,” Mary muttered, glaring off at the opposite wall. “You always do.”
Hermione threw up her hands. “What do you mean, Lizzie?! I’m literally saying that I’ll stop if you want me to!”
“Only to trick me into saying it’s okay so you can hold it over my head!”
“What? I’m not Lilian. I—I meant it.”
“And if I say that I do want you to stop, you won’t resent me? Think I’m being a child?”
Hermione fucking hesitated. “Well… I mean, it is kind of irrational.”
Letting out an infuriated noise, Mary nearly shouted, then lowered her voice to a hiss so as not to wake Hermione’s parents. “It’s not irrational! He—he’s my godfather. You have no right—I don’t have anyone, Maia! You have everything, you have your parents and your life here, and you don’t even appreciate it, and then you try to come and take the one thing I have away from me, and you act like I’m being ridiculous when I’m upset about it!”
“You’re the one who’s doing that!” Hermione retorted. “Whatever I have, I share with you. I never had siblings, you know, it’s not easy for me to share, but I do, because I know you don’t have—” She trailed off, looking sad. Great, now she pitied her. “But when it’s your turn, you can’t even stand letting me do research with a wizard who’s not even your real godfather! You don’t own him, Lizzie!”
Hermione didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand what it was like growing up the way Mary did, not having anyone at all. Mary knew she didn’t own Snape—she didn’t own anything, not really. That was the whole problem! She knew that she couldn’t have Snape all to herself, but that didn’t mean she wanted her best friend taking her place in his life.
“I don’t care,” Mary snapped, not even knowing what she was responding to. “He’s… he’s my godfather, not yours. You don’t have any right to him.” She was repeating herself, but there wasn’t really anything else she could say. She couldn’t explain it, not when she didn’t even understand it herself.
And then Hermione said it: “Yeah, well, if we’re splitting hairs, this is my house, and my family, not yours. Just because you don’t have a family doesn’t mean you have the right to take mine.”
Mary’s mouth fell open, utterly speechless. Not that Hermione felt that way, because of course she did—but she’d actually said it.
Hermione seemed to realize what she’d done, because she went very quiet for a moment, then said, “Lizzie, I didn’t mean…”
“No, you have a point,” Mary said flatly, standing abruptly from the couch and heading for the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Hermione whispered, trailing her anxiously, apparently worried or guilty enough to forget her own anger.
Mary didn’t respond until they were in Hermione’s room with the door closed, not wanting to wake the Grangers by speaking as they passed their bedroom. She grabbed her bag, beginning to angrily shove her clothing back inside of it.
“I’m packing my things,” she said, like it wasn’t self-evident, with stiff formality worthy of the strictest pureblood tea party. “Like you said, I don’t belong here.”
“Lizzie—that’s not what I meant! I didn’t say that!”
Mary ignored her. Maybe she hadn’t said those exact words, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t meant them. Nor had she even been wrong.
Facts were, this wasn’t her house, this wasn’t her family, and she’d been stupid to ever let herself believe otherwise. As nice as Christmas had been, the Grangers weren’t hers. She’d only ever been borrowing them, playing house. But it was a new year, and she was a little bit older, smarter than she’d been before. Too smart to play pretend any longer.
Fair or unfair, some people in the world had people—people they belonged with, people who loved them unconditionally—and some didn’t. And Mary knew—had known all along, really—which group she fell into.
Notes:
Other than the brief conversation with Emma and Hermione after coming back from the Longbottoms', all the dialogue up until halfway through the final scene is either borrowed from or based on dialogue in CS (although the present Snape sends Mary is new). Apologies if it seems rushed, but I didn't want to copy too much from Leigha's fic, and some of the conversations (like about Lady Malfoy, or about Hermione's studies in the Dark Arts) were really long. You can read them in the original fic if you like, though keep in mind that some details will be different as a result of changes to the story thus far.
After Mary says "I could do it," all of the dialogue is my own invention. In CS, she and Hermione ended up making up before long and falling asleep on the couch together, but the addition of Mary's feelings for Snape and her resulting jealousy means that the argument escalates a lot further than it otherwise would.
In the original Mary Potter series, Blaise's mom was named Isabella Zabini and wasn't really developed as a character. Mirabella (and her various jobs outside of serial killing, which are going to come up more later) was originally the invention of Sandra (inwardtransience), but Leigha adopted her and developed her personality a lot and used her in many of her later fics, so for Fuel to Fire, I'll be using this later composite character of theirs. (Also, y'all have no idea yet what a simp I am for Mirabella, or how hard I ship her and Bellatrix, but you're gonna learn.)
Most of the political situation described in this chapter is from the original MP series, but Common Fate and Ars Publica are stolen from Sandra's canon. If you're curious about Emma and Narcissa's alliance, Leigha posted a "cut scene" of their first meeting.
Chapter 15: Wants and Needs
Notes:
This chapter is concurrent to Chapter 25 of Chained Servant, but the contents are 100% original; we've diverged enough from Leigha's story by now that the changes are finally adding up.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione hovered around for a while, trying to apologize, to talk Mary out of leaving, but when Mary flat out refused to so much as speak to her, she eventually gave up, sitting down at her desk and just sort of radiating misery and guilt at Mary while she packed. Not until Mary was finished and on her way out the bedroom door did she give it one last try.
“Lizzie,” she said, standing and wringing her hands, trying to put herself between Mary and the door. “I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Mary said, holding her chin up. “It’s good that you finally told me how you really feel.”
With that, she ducked around Hermione, shutting the door firmly behind her before the other girl could follow, and made her way down to the couch to wait for the dawn. She doubted she would be able to sleep, and she didn’t, just ended up sitting there quietly with her messenger bag at her feet.
She was worried Hermione would come out again and try to interfere in the morning, but she didn’t—though whether she’d fallen asleep or just given up, Mary wasn’t sure. When Emma woke up, surprisingly early considering how late they’d stayed up, she was still alone in the sitting room.
“Beth?” Emma said softly, stopping in the doorway at the sight of Mary sitting fully dressed on the sofa with a packed bag at her feet. “What happened?”
The sight of Emma made her feel preemptively guilty for what she was about to do. Hermione had been a bitch to her parents the first few days of break, refusing to spend any time with them, and now, Mary would be asking to leave them over a week early. It felt like a shite repayment for everything they’d done for her, but when she contemplated spending one more night in their house after everything that had happened… She couldn’t face it.
“Hermione and I talked more, after you and Dan went to bed,” Mary said, staring down at her hands as she turned the strap of her bag over between them. “I very much appreciate your inviting me into your home, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I’d like to go back to Hogwarts now, if that’s alright.”
Emma walked over, taking a seat on the couch next to her. Mary didn’t look up, but she could feel the older woman’s eyes on her. Emma always had this way of peering right into her head and seeing just how she felt, like a muggle legilimens or something. Even when Mary didn’t know how she felt. Sometimes it was nice, but right now, she just kind of wished Emma would stop looking at her. It was only making this even harder than it already was.
“I know that Hermione hasn’t been exactly pleasant during this break,” Emma said, “but I don’t want you to feel like you have to leave.”
Mary shrugged, not sure how to respond to that. Just because Emma didn’t want her to feel that way didn’t mean that she didn’t. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” she said quietly. “I just want to go back to the castle, please.”
“Beth… Whatever Maia said to you, you’re welcome here. You know that we see you like our own daughter.”
“But I’m not.” Emma flinched. Frowning, Mary closed her eyes for a second, feeling exhausted. She wasn’t trying to make Emma upset. “I didn’t mean… I’m not saying you don’t care about me, but if you add up all the time I’ve spent with you, it would be, what, two months? Less? Hermione is your daughter, and I’m… I’m just intruding somewhere I don’t belong.”
“Don’t say that,” Emma insisted. “You do belong here. We wanted it to be a surprise, but we’ve been looking into adopting you in the muggle world.” She reached over, placing a hand on Mary’s.
It was funny—on the train to London, Mary had wondered if that topic would come up during her visit. She’d been so excited. Now, she kind of wanted to cry. She pulled her hand away—gently, but pulled away all the same.
“It’s not that I don’t want that,” she began carefully, because the last thing she wanted was for Emma to feel like Mary was rejecting her, “but… I don’t think that I can do that and stay Hermione’s friend at the same time. I don’t want you to be angry with her about it or anything, it’s just… she feels the way she feels, and I don’t think she can really help it.”
“She just needs time to adjust to the idea.” The firmness in Emma’s voice reminded Mary of Hermione when she was determined to make something happen, no matter what anyone else said. They really were so much alike.
But Mary knew very well by now how Hermione felt about her parents making choices for her, and that Hermione wasn’t even wrong when she said that her mum tried to run her whole life. Mary didn’t want her adoption to be just another thing that Hermione’s parents forced on her.
“I don’t know,” she said, not wanting to argue. “But right now, I’d really just like to go back to Hogwarts.”
“Are you sure?” Emma asked. “If there’s anything I can do… We could go out for the day, take you somewhere. Dan and I are both off work. Things might look different once you and Maia get some space from each other.”
That nearly got a laugh out of Mary. Sure, Hermione would love it if her parents took Mary out without her. That definitely wouldn’t just make everything worse.
“I just want to go back. I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but… I kind of think you guys and Hermione need to work this out. Like, without me here.” Just steamrolling Hermione and insisting that Mary was part of the family, no matter what she wanted, wasn’t going to help anything.
Emma was silent for long enough that Mary finally gathered up the nerve to glance up at her. She was giving her a sad smile, her eyes so knowing—sympathetic—that Mary immediately had to look away for fear she would cry if she didn’t.
“You’re always thinking of everyone but yourself,” Emma said softly.
Mary thought guiltily that maybe Emma didn’t know her so well after all: half of the reason for the fight had been that she was too selfish to share her pseudo-godfather with her best friend after Hermione had invited her into her family. Anyway, it wasn’t selfless of her to leave, not really. The only thing that hurt worse than being alone trying to force herself into a place where she wasn’t wanted.
An hour later, Dan was awake too, and Hermione was either still asleep or hiding in her room to avoid Mary, and Aunt Minnie, whom Emma had called by Floo, had arrived at the house to pick Mary up. She looked concerned, Mary thought, but she didn’t ask questions, other than, “Do you have everything you need?”
Mary nodded, grateful for her guardian’s brisk demeanor. She hugged Emma and Dan goodbye, both of them hanging on a bit longer than her, like they didn’t want to let go. It made her feel like crying, which sucked, because she was not going to cry over this. At least not where other people could see her. She swallowed it down, thanked them both again, and followed Aunt Minnie out to the Floo shed.
Only when they’d arrived in her office did she ask, “Are you alright? Did something happen?”
It was embarrassing, being fretted over this way. Compared to the Dursleys, the awkwardness of being with the Grangers was really nothing. She suddenly felt very childish, having derailed everyone’s plans and demanded her guardian come fetch her just because of what Hermione had said.
But when she contemplated the idea of going back—no, she couldn’t. She just wished there had been a way out that hadn’t involved bothering anyone, upsetting the Grangers and making Aunt Minnie worry. If only she could have just disappeared right out of their house without anyone noticing and curled up in her room for the rest of the week.
Still, Mary was here now, and she had to deal with the consequences of her choice. She gave her guardian a tired half-smile, trying to reassure her. “I’m fine, Aunt Minnie. Hermione and I just had a fight, that’s all. I think… she thought she wanted me to visit, but once I was there, she kind of didn’t want me there anymore, and I didn’t want to stay where I wasn’t wanted.
“I… I’d like to go to my room now, if that’s alright. I didn’t get much sleep.” By which she meant, ‘any.’
Aunt Minnie peered at her for a second, that concerned frown still on her face, but finally said, “Alright then. How about we have tea and talk more once you’ve gotten some rest—perhaps tomorrow?”
Mary nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Come up at four, then, and make sure you’re packed for the Urquharts’. You can Floo directly there from my office—assuming you’re still able to go?”
Flushing at being treated like a sick child or something, Mary said, “Of course I’ll be going.”
They’d had these plans for months—now that she was thirteen, she was finally allowed to sit in on her first Wizengamot session, to begin learning about what she would need to do once she became Lady Potter. She’d be spending the night at the mansion, then accompanying Lord Urquhart to the Wizengamot Hall in the morning.
“I suppose we could ask Miss Catherine if you can stay with them for the rest of the holiday, if you’d like…” Aunt Minnie frowned to herself at the thought.
“No, that’s alright,” Mary said quickly. The last thing she wanted was to force the Urquharts to scramble to accommodate her. Anyway, she mostly just wanted to be alone right now.
“Alright, lass.” Aunt Minnie looked at her, her eyes too sympathetic, like the Emma’s had been, and Mary fought the urge to squirm and look down at the floor. “You get some rest now.”
Then, just when Mary thought she was free, “Oh—your Firebolt is down in your room, but see you don’t take it out to fly without me. It’s still not safe. Once I have a break from work,” and she gestured to the veritable mountain of papers on her desk, “you can try it out, with my supervision. Understood?”
“Yes, Aunt Minnie.”
And then, finally, she was allowed to leave, sagging in relief the second she got through the door, despite the malaise of the dementors immediately setting into her bones.
Mary went down to the empty dungeons and slept straight through till dinner.
Sometimes, Mary thought, things were too good to be true. For instance, when you were eleven years old and met a girl who invited you to go home with her for the summer, and her parents immediately took you in, and they were nicer than any family you’d ever met. Sometimes it turned out they were just as dysfunctional as any other family, but you didn’t yet know how to see the cracks.
It wasn’t that they didn’t care about her. But it seemed like the Grangers wanting to adopt her was just one more example of them making decisions for Hermione without consulting her, taking over her friendship with Mary like they’d taken over the rest of her life. And Mary didn’t want that—not only for Hermione’s sake, but for her own. If they adopted her when Hermione didn’t want them to, it would tarnish the entire thing.
When Hermione had first overheard her parents talking about adopting Mary, she’d been just as excited as Mary had been—more, even. She’d been the one to write Mary about it, saying that maybe they could be sisters. But fantasizing about having a sibling must have been different than the reality of actually having to share her parents and her home with Mary.
And that was okay. Really. It was hardly like Mary could judge Hermione for being possessive of Emma and Dan, given… whatever her deal was with Snape. As much as a childish part of her wanted to sulk and pretend otherwise, deep down, she knew that it didn’t mean that Hermione didn’t care about her. Nor had she meant to be cruel, to rub Mary’s face in everything she could never have.
It was just… Well, it seemed obvious now, but there really wasn’t any spell Mary could cast to erase the fact that she was an orphan—that she was fundamentally alone in the world. With the Grangers (and even with Snape, a little), she’d gotten her hopes up, but the fact was that no one was going to care about her the way that her parents must have before they’d died, not ever again. That wasn’t how the world worked—you couldn’t just meet someone when you were eleven and be as important to them as if you’d grown up with them. You couldn’t just walk into someone else’s family and expect them to treat you exactly the same as their flesh-and-blood relatives, just because you wanted it.
Like Remus had said to her on Halloween, life wasn’t fair. Some people had families, and some didn’t, and that was just the way it was. And people like Hermione, who had everything—who didn’t even realize how much they had—didn’t owe her anything, so she should just get over herself.
It was hard to tell whether she was in such a self-pitying mood because of the dementors, or if she was just like this now. She wished she could cast a Patronus already.
After Snape had shown her and Lilian his Patronus, he’d told them that, until they learned, they should just try to do things that made them happy. So maybe she should do that, then, instead of sulking in bed all day.
Mary sat up, examining the Firebolt leaning against the corner of the room. She’d looked at it a bit after dinner the night before, but hadn’t been in the mood to get as excited about it as she normally would have. Now, though, she wished she could try it out, but Aunt Minnie had already warned her against flying alone, and it seemed unlikely she’d have time to supervise a flying session before their tea. Besides, Mary had already bothered her guardian enough by insisting on coming back early.
What else could she do? Looking around her room, it struck Mary suddenly that it didn’t look that much different than it had her first night in the castle. It was nice enough—a round little room, with torches on the stone walls and a big four-poster bed with green covers—but there wasn’t really anything to it to suggest that a thirteen-year-old girl named Mary Potter lived there, other than her belongings scattered haphazardly around.
Remembering Lilian’s bedroom in the Moon family manor, Mary wondered if maybe she ought to decorate or something. She might not have a family to go home to for the holidays, like her friends did, but she had this little room of her own, and it was a hell of a lot better than a closet under the stairs. It felt almost representative of her life as a whole—the way that, when she looked at it from the right perspective, she had so much more than she ever had before. So maybe, instead of sulking over what she didn’t have, she should try feeling grateful for what she did?
This was basically her home, even if it was just a dorm room that dozens of students had slept in, even if she didn’t have a family to share it with. In some ways, maybe it was better—no one could make her feel unwanted here, or yell at her, or take it away from her. She wasn’t reliant on anyone else’s goodwill or charity. She wasn’t an imposition.
This, she thought to herself, looking around at the little stone room, this is something that’s mine. At least for the next few years.
That settled it, then—she’d spend the day decorating her room, making it feel more homey. Maybe that would cheer her up. Only, when Mary stood up off her bed, preparing herself to begin, it suddenly struck her that she had no idea how to do something like that. She wanted to make this room look like Mary Potter lived in it, but—who was Mary Potter? What sorts of things did she want to decorate her room with?
Her mind came up completely blank, and for some reason, this felt mildly terrifying, like she’d uncovered a far more significant problem than a lack of talent for interior decoration. It was just—she’d never been allowed to choose things for herself before. Telling the Grangers that she liked one color better than another was one thing; this was more open-ended, leaving her feeling stumped.
It even made her feel a bit… When she tried to think about what she might want, she felt almost stupid for thinking that what she wanted in her room should matter, or that she had a right to want more than what was already in front of her. She had a room of her own with a real bed to sleep in. Wanting more felt like, like she was being ungrateful, saying it wasn’t enough.
Stupid. It was just some measly decorations. What had Lilian had hanging in her room? Dried flowers… Well, it was the wrong season to go flower-picking. There had been posters, Mary supposed. Maybe she should get some posters.
Ugh. Mary sat back down on her bed, feeling very silly for being so unexpectedly bad at something as simple as wanting things.
Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised. Lilian had told her once, actually, that she was bad at this sort of thing. It had been back in second year. They’d gotten to talking, and Lilian had told Mary that she was a bad Slytherin, because she never went after the things she wanted, never tried to get anything she didn’t already have.
It had been a frustrating conversation, because Lilian wouldn’t believe that was because Mary already had everything she wanted. She’d said that it was impossible, which Mary had thought was ridiculous. She had a nice place to stay, enough food, a real bedroom and a bed to sleep in. She didn’t have to live with the Dursleys anymore, she had friends, she got to learn magic… She had so many things she’d never had before.
Lilian had come over all sad, saying that those things—food, shelter, company, an education, not living with people who locked her in a cupboard—were needs, not wants. She’d called them ‘basic human rights.’
Which was stupid, because if those were ‘needs,’ she wouldn’t have survived the first eleven years of her life! But Lilian had been weirdly upset about it, saying that Mary always let other people have their way, that she never stood up for what she wanted. That she only acted to defend herself, or else just put up with bad situations and hoped they would go away on their own.
That, Lilian might have had a point about. It hadn’t really occurred to Mary that she might do things just because she wanted to, or walk away from things that made her unhappy. She’d never been allowed to before.
Mary thought she’d gotten better about that. Or, not better, but different. Because Lilian had said back then, ‘I’ve never seen you argue with anyone about anything,’ but now, it seemed like Mary did nothing but argue. She argued with her friends, and the other Slytherins, and Aunt Minnie, and even Snape. And when things at the Grangers’ had gotten really uncomfortable, she hadn’t just put up with it. She’d left. The Mary of a few years ago probably wouldn’t have done that.
But, if she was being honest, she still didn’t want all that much. Except, maybe, things she couldn’t have, like real parents, or Snape’s attention all to herself, or to hunt Sirius Black down and make him pay for what he’d done. Not achievable things—just things to think about when it was late and she couldn’t sleep.
Little things, though, like posters for her walls… trying to want that sort of thing made her think of Dudley pouting on his birthday, saying, “Only thirty-six presents? That’s two less than last year.” It felt wrong, like she was being a spoilt brat by not just appreciating having a bed to sleep on and a room she could stand all the way up in.
But she still felt like she should try. It would be a distraction from sulking about her fight with Hermione, at least. Besides, if she could learn to want small things, things she could actually have, then maybe not having the big things wouldn’t hurt so much.
Right now, though… Mary realized that what she wanted was lunch. She’d slept straight through breakfast, her sleep schedule thrown off by napping most of the previous day.
Standing again, grabbing her uniform, she decided that would be her schedule for the day. First she would eat, then she would try to figure out who she was and what she wanted. No big deal.
Her plans for the day were derailed almost immediately. She’d showered, dressed, and made her way out through the common room, expecting it to be as empty and silent as it had been the night before. Only, Snape was there, sitting right on the couch with some sort of journal in his hand, like he was waiting for her or something.
“Mary Elizabeth,” he said. “Would you like to have lunch with me today?”
Okay, maybe he was waiting for her. But, why? He’d never asked her to have lunch with him before—or to spend any time with him that wasn’t for a specific purpose. She was always the one seeking him out.
But that certainly sounded better than braving the Great Hall again, even if she was a bit nervous to find out what he wanted from her, and she was curious to see if he’d let her see his rooms, like Aunt Minnie and Remus sometimes did, so she gave him a polite nod and said, “Yes, Professor.”
To her mild disappointment, he only brought her to his office, where he set up a conjured table and called an elf. In fact, it happened to be Cammy, so then they got briefly sidetracked by her thanking Mary effusively for her and Hermione’s card. When she’d finally left, the spread of food laid out on the table, Snape was giving her a questioning, slightly amused look.
“I take it you’ve never made a Christmas card for the Hogwarts elves?” she asked.
“Somehow, the thought never occurred to me.”
He set up the table by the armchairs in front of his hearth, rather than having her sit in her usual chair across his desk. Which was probably just because he didn’t want to clean the desk off for them to eat—it looked a mess, with papers stacked everywhere and no sense of organization that she could make out—but was exciting regardless. It made her feel like she was his guest, not just a student.
As she filled herself a plate, sitting down with it on her lap—a bit awkward, but the table wasn’t really positioned in such a way as to be easy to eat off of—she decided to ask, “How were your holidays?” Mostly in the hopes of postponing him asking why she’d come back to school so early.
Letting out a small scoff as he sat down with his own plate, Snape said, “Hardly worthy of the name. I’ve spent most of the break working on an update to the wards with the Headmaster which we hope will keep Black out.”
That was good, probably, even if Mary felt stupidly disappointed that the chances of her catching Black herself were decreasing. “I bet you enjoyed having all the students gone, though.” There were a couple left—she’d seen them at dinner last night—but no Slytherins.
“The castle has been blissfully quiet, yes, and with a much lower concentration of stupidity than is usually present.”
Mary thought that sounded nice, other than the dementors. She wished she’d spent Yule in the castle, rather than fighting with her best friends and watching Lilian and Aerin dance around each other while their parents pretended they didn’t exist. Maybe she could have gone up to that tower again, where she’d seen Snape the past few years.
“That tower must have seemed empty on Yule, though,” she said with a teasing smirk.
Snape just gave her a blank look. “Hm?”
Mary blushed and quickly said, “Never mind,” feeling like the world’s biggest dork. He might not even remember that they’d both sat up there together on her first Yule, never mind her briefly sticking her head in and then leaving last year. It was her who remembered every interaction they had, not him.
Even worse than her failed attempt at reminiscing, if it could be called that, was that the awkward silence that followed gave him the opportunity to say, “I was surprised to hear from Minerva that you’d returned to the castle over a week early.”
Mary bit her lip. She didn’t really want to talk about it, but there didn’t seem to be any getting around it—he was her Head of House, after all, and she was kind of inconveniencing him by coming back to school when she hadn’t been on the list to stay for the holidays. At least talking to him about it didn’t seem as bad as talking to Aunt Minnie, even though objectively, it should have been the reverse—he was way more intimidating than her guardian, after all.
“Hermione and I got into a fight,” she finally said. Snape just looked at her, didn’t say anything, like he wanted her to elaborate, and though she didn’t think she wanted to talk about it, she found herself saying, “Her parents… kind of want to adopt me. In the muggle world, I mean—because right now, the Dursleys are still technically my guardians. But I don’t think they’ve really considered whether Hermione wants that.
“Or, maybe she thought she wanted it, at first, but my actually spending Christmas with them was… too much. I mean, she’s an only child. She’s not really used to having to share. And, well… no matter how much I’d like them to be, they’re not my family, not really, and I don’t think they ever will be. Not like they’re Hermione’s.
“She basically told me exactly that, when we were fighting: that just because I didn’t have my own family didn’t give me the right to take hers.”
Even repeating the words made her feel angry and hurt all over again. But… why was she telling Snape all this? Did he even care? He wasn’t saying anything.
Just when Mary was starting to feel like an idiot for going on so much, making up her mind to eat as quickly as possible without seeming uncouth, in the hopes that she might be able to go back to her room before she embarrassed herself any further, Snape said, “I was in a similar situation when I was around your age.”
Mary’s head shot up, looking at him in surprise.
“It was not exactly the same. My friend—Lily—welcomed me into her home, as did her mother, but her father and sister never wanted me there. They made it clear that I was not a part of their family, and never would be. Even when it was only Lily, Mrs. Evans, and myself there, I was not able to forget that.”
Mary had absolutely no idea what to say to that, especially lacking basically all of the necessary context on Snape’s childhood and friendship with Lily. She knew they’d grown up together, and that they’d been best friends, but that was about it. “That was… my Aunt Petunia that didn’t like you?” she asked, just to have something to say, and he nodded. “Sounds like her.”
Snape let out a huff of breath at that—almost a laugh, she thought. He didn’t say anything else.
Tentatively, not wanting to overstep, Mary asked, “What about, um, your family? If you don’t mind my asking, sir.”
“There’s no need for that, Anipsiá,” Snape said, probably meaning her addressing him as ‘sir,’ and she dipped her head to hide her smile. “My family was… unpleasant. The Evanses’ house was better, save for the fact that I could not help but be aware that I was an intruder, an outsider to their lives.”
He didn’t seem like he wanted to say anything more about his family, so she didn’t push. Instead, she said, “That’s exactly how I felt. I know it was kind of dramatic of me to insist on leaving, but I don’t… I don’t think Hermione understands how awful it is, feeling like that. It’s worse than being alone, really—feeling like an intruder. I know she feels bad for what she said. But I don’t think she gets it, not really.”
Snape nodded, looking off into the distance. “It is difficult for someone who has grown up in a basically loving family to understand how different the world looks to someone who has not.”
Mary’s heart clenched at that, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe just knowing that someone understood. Part of her couldn’t help but wonder if that was why she cared so much about Snape—if she had somehow known he was like her, even before he’d told her.
“Did you ever…” She lowered her voice, hardly wanting to say it out loud. “Did you ever, I don’t know, resent Lily? For having things that you didn’t?”
Snape was silent for a moment. “Perhaps now and then, when we were younger,” he finally said. “Not that I was not resentful of my circumstances, but those feelings were usually directed towards… others. Lily told me on multiple occasions that she wished she could take my place, and I do believe she meant it. It was difficult to resent her, after that.”
Biting her lip, Mary wondered what it would be like to have a friend like that. A couple of weeks ago, she would have said that she did—two of them, even—but now, she wasn’t so sure.
Then she thought about what it would be like to have a friend like that and then lose them. Because, Snape had said once that Lily had been his ‘first and only true friend,’ but she’d been dead over twelve years. And here he was, spending his holidays alone in the Hogwarts dungeons, just like Mary. She’d never heard him mention any living family or friends that he spent time with—the closest thing she could think of was Professor Sinistra. She almost wondered if he was lonely, but it was difficult to imagine Snape, of all people, feeling something like loneliness.
“However you feel about the situation,” he added, “you need not feel guilty for it. It is natural to feel some level of resentment, even towards people you care for. That is your own business; you are not harming anyone, simply by having those thoughts.”
“Even…” She shouldn’t say it. But she was going to. “Even if sometimes I think that… Hermione wasn’t just upset that I was there, you see. Her parents had made some changes to the house. It’s warded now, for our safety, so they had to get rid of most of their electronics.
“But Hermione wasn’t grateful for that, even though it means she’ll be able to do magic at home once she’s of age without damaging anything. She was awful about it, actually. She was a huge bi—not very nice, I mean, to her parents, refused to even speak to them for our first couple of days there.
“And Lilian too, she—well, she’s messing everything up with Aerin, her sister, and she won’t even listen to me when I tell her that. And sometimes I think…
“I mean, it’s not like I want them to be orphans or anything, that would be… no. But sometimes I feel like, why do they get to have families and I don’t, when they don’t even appreciate them like I would? I was, I really think I was acting like a better daughter to the Grangers than Hermione was, but that doesn’t matter, because they’ll still never care about me like they care for her.” Sneaking a glance at her inscrutable professor, she tentatively asked, “Isn’t that horrible?”
“No,” he said, with a sort of certainty to his voice that she found oddly comforting—like, if she didn’t know how she should feel, maybe Snape could tell her. “Not horrible. But fallacious.”
Mary frowned, confused enough to be distracted from her guilt over the feelings she’d confessed. “What do you mean?”
“Your appreciation for the Grangers is a direct result of your deprivation. Had you been raised by them, you would take them for granted just as much as Miss Granger does. It would not occur to you to be grateful for having living parents who treated you well—it would simply be normal, unremarkable.”
“Oh.” When he put it like that, yeah, it was obvious. “I guess that makes sense… I still wish I had been. Raised by them, I mean. I… It’s not that I’m not grateful that they want to adopt me, and it’s not like I don’t want them to, except, maybe I don’t, a bit? Not because I want to not have a family, I just, I want to actually just be their daughter, and for them to feel exactly the same way about me as they do about Hermione, and to not have to feel like an, an outsider, I guess, or a charity case. And even if they adopt me, that won’t happen.
“But it’s stupid, thinking like that, because it’s not like I can go back in time and make it so that my parents never died, or I’m the Grangers’ real daughter, so getting angry about it won’t help anything, and being adopted by the Grangers is actually possible, so I should just be grateful they want to do that much for me.”
When Snape spoke again, it was with that same unquestionable certainty in his voice. “There is no ‘should.’ You are not required to feel any way other than how you feel. If what you feel is anger at the unfairness of your situation, even if that anger is not productive, that is fine—normal, even. It is how most people would feel in your shoes.”
“Were you angry?” she asked, trying not to let herself be overwhelmed with relief at how good it felt, just to hear someone tell her that she wasn’t strange or wrong. “When you were my age.”
“Oh, yes. At the entire world.”
“The worst part—” It just came spilling out of her. “The worst part is how unfair it is, like you said. I mean, that some people get to have families, people who love them, and other people don’t, and it’s not like I did anything to deserve that—it just happened. There’s just, there’s no reason for any of it. You just get unlucky, and that’s it, that’s your whole life screwed up, just from, like, a roll of the dice. It’s not fair.”
She stopped herself from continuing to rant, waiting for him to tell her that life wasn’t fair, but he just said, “No, it’s not.” And then, after a pause, “But it’s not, as you said, your whole life. Your childhood circumstances need not define you forever.”
That didn’t really help, though. “I don’t know. I feel like it makes you—one, I mean, a person—different. Being alone. Like you said, it’s something people like—like Hermione can’t understand. And… I’m never going to be like them, am I? Like the people who grew up… somewhere normal. With people who cared for them.”
“No,” he admitted, and she felt a strange fondness for him—the way he didn’t lie to her, even to make her feel better. “You are not like them. But that is not necessarily a bad thing. It does not make you any worse, just different. You understand things about the world that they do not.”
Why were tears threatening to well up in her eyes? Mary clenched her jaw, fighting them back. It was just… good. Knowing that someone understood, and didn’t think she was hopelessly broken or something.
“Does it get…” She didn’t know how to finish that question. “Is it always like this?”
“No,” he said. “One gets used to it. It ceases to matter as much, after a time. Eventually, it is simply the way things are.”
Mary frowned. “That’s kind of sad, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is simply a matter of perspective.”
Maybe it was, she thought. Like making a choice to decorate her little room in the dungeons rather than mourning the house she’d left behind, the one that wasn’t—could never be—her home. Snape seemed like the kind of person who’d understand that. She wondered if, when he’d been her age, he’d taught himself to see the Hogwarts dungeons as his real home, too. She wondered if he’d decorated his room, or if he’d ever sat on the edge of his bed, paralyzed with the realization that he had no idea how to want things.
Maybe that was why she did it. Just that image in her head, that suspicion that he was just like her. And the fact that he’d gone out of his way to invite her to eat with him, just because he’d noticed her coming back earlier than expected—that he’d cared. And that he didn’t have anyone to visit for the holidays either, so maybe he was alone, really alone, just like her.
Because, Mary might not know what decorations she wanted for her room, but right now, she wanted something. She wanted Snape to talk to her like this more, and to know things about him. Because he understood how it felt to look at her friends and classmates and hate them a little for not realizing how much they had.
And… she wanted Hermione to leave him alone. Because Hermione already had people, she had her parents, and they would always choose her over Mary. She’d spent the entire holiday season having it rubbed in her face that she was no one’s first choice, no one’s favorite. She wasn’t special. She was, in some fundamental sense, alone, trying to subsist on the scraps that people deigned to share with her.
So she wanted to be special to Snape, if no one else. Because if he didn’t have anybody either, anyone important enough to spend Christmas with, maybe that meant there was room for her in his life—a place that didn’t already belong to somebody else. She could have one thing, just one, that was really hers.
Maybe that was another impossible dream, another thing she couldn’t have, that she was insane to even imagine, but she could at least make him choose her over Hermione. It was awful of her, but… she never asked for anything. She never went after what she wanted, just like Lilian said. Didn’t she deserve this, if nothing else?
“There’s something else about Hermione, actually, that I wanted to talk to you about,” she said abruptly. “But you need to promise me you won’t tell her I told you.”
Snape raised an eyebrow, considering her for a moment, before nodding and saying, “Go on.”
Mary bit her lip. She really didn’t want to talk about the scroll detention, but it was awkward, not knowing if he already knew… Well, she could just pretend he didn’t, and hope he wouldn’t correct her. “Don’t be mad at her, but… she told me about her ‘independent study’ with you, back in October.”
“Did she.” It was a little nerve-wracking, how little his expression gave away, but he didn’t seem angry, so Mary continued.
“I think she needed to talk to someone about it. She… The stuff you’re teaching her, about the Dark Arts. It’s getting to her. She thought about it the whole time under the Isolation Hex, that and Tom Riddle—she was crying when I found her, just, like, crying and rocking by herself in a corner of the dungeons.
“She’s been having nightmares about it, too. We shared a room while I was staying with her family, and she was tossing and turning every night, and she always seemed really tired in the morning, like she hadn’t gotten enough sleep. And I’m almost certain that the Dark Arts stuff is why she got so upset about her parents changing the house to allow magic, and getting more involved in the wizarding world—because she’s so freaked out by it that she wanted to get away from magic completely.
“She said something to me, over the break, about, um… being surrounded by stories about horrible things, and feeling like it was pushing her ‘to the edge of madness’ or something. Lilian doesn’t know about her research with you—I’m pretty sure she only told me, anyway—but even she could see there’s something wrong with Hermione, and she only spent, like, two days with us. She said that she wished we hadn’t encouraged Hermione to use the time turner more, because, she said something like the worst thing she’d expected was a breakdown or something, but whatever’s going on with Hermione seems even worse than that.”
It occurred to Mary belatedly that she didn’t know if Snape knew that she and Lilian had been the ones to encourage Hermione to abuse the time turner. Well… too late now. If he was angry about that, she’d take the lecture. So long as he listened.
“I just… I really don’t think this is good for her. I know you guys are doing it to help me, but it seems like Hermione is one bad day away from a nervous breakdown, and I… think you should stop. I told her that, and she seemed like she wanted to stop, but she said she had to keep doing it because no one else can, since Dumbledore keeps you so busy. I don’t think she’s ever going to tell you, because she thinks she has to do it, but it’s too much for her. I know she’s smart, but she’s still just fourteen.”
The thing was—all of that was true. And Mary actually thought she might be doing the right thing, telling him. Or, at least, that it would be better for Hermione in the long run. But she felt guilty anyway, because she knew that she was only saying it because it seemed like the best way to get Hermione away from him. If she hadn’t been so jealous, she wouldn’t have betrayed her friend’s confidence for anything. After all, Mary knew how frustrating it was when other people decided on their own what was best for her.
Plus, Hermione would be furious with her if she found out. But Mary didn’t think she cared anymore. Hermione had dangled the promise of a family in front of her and then taken it away, and if this was what it took to ensure that she at least got to have at least one person for herself…
To her relief, Snape looked like he was actually considering what she’d said. “I see,” he said at last, and then, “I’ll take care of it.”
Mary wanted so badly to push, to ask how he was going to take care of it. Because if he just asked Hermione if she was okay, she’d lie, and if he kept doing research with her but didn’t let her read the scary stuff anymore, well, that would be better for Hermione, but that wouldn’t work at all for Mary’s purposes.
But she was pretty sure that was the best she was going to get from him. She doubted he would willingly discuss the details of his plans for Hermione with her, and if she pressed him, he might realize that her motives were… well, less than pure.
And while there was also a part of her that wanted to add, ‘And by the way, if you need a research assistant that badly, you should use me instead of Hermione,’ she knew there was no way that would work. Not when she was over a year younger than Hermione at this point, and he’d already refused to let her see the Árthra or teach her any real curses.
Plus, if she was honest with herself, she wasn’t sure she’d react any better to it than Hermione had. She didn’t really want to know all the gruesome details of the Dark Arts. Or, maybe part of her did, because knowing what was out there was better than knowing, now, that there were horrible things she didn’t know, but… yeah, she’d probably have nightmares too.
She didn’t want to learn about the Dark Arts, she just wanted to hang out with Snape. And for him to tell her stuff he wouldn’t tell anyone else, and to understand why he was the way he was. But trying to achieve that goal in this conversation seemed a bit too ambitious. Get Hermione out of the way first, and then move in, she decided.
(See, Lilian? I can be Slytherin, too.)
Snape hadn’t said anything else, and now that they were about finished eating, she was afraid he was about to dismiss her. While he wasn’t going to tell her everything about himself right now, or promise her that he liked her better than Hermione and that he was going to drop the other girl as his research assistant, she thought she could at least get a little more time with him.
So, on a whim Mary asked, “Do you know anything about knife fighting?” and Snape looked up at her with such a look of surprise that she nearly laughed. “Because Auror Tonks was meant to come over and teach me yesterday, but then I ended up coming back to Hogwarts instead, and I’m not sure we’ll find another time to meet during the holidays, but I’m really curious about it.”
During her visit with him, Neville had suggested that, since Mary was interested in dueling and took after the Blacks, she should learn to fight with a knife—it was part of the House’s famous dueling style, or at least that of the witches in the family.
Mary had written to Auror Tonks, whose mother was the Lady Blackheart’s estranged younger sister, and she had agreed to bring over one her old dueling knives on New Year’s Day to show Mary how it worked. She’d been really excited. But even the promise of that hadn’t been enough to get Mary to stay with the Grangers any longer, not after what Hermione had said, so she’d owled Tonks to cancel.
Snape ordered himself up some coffee from the kitchens, and while he drank it—out of the mug she’d sent him for Christmas, no less, which she could barely hide her pleasure at seeing—he told Mary all about ‘secondary foci’: how some people could cast with two wands at one, like she’d seen in the last meeting of the Dueling Club before break, using one to shield and the other to attack, and how others could channel power into a knife, like the Blacks.
He even told her a few stories about the insane ways the Blackheart had used hers during the war. Most people with dueling knives could only channel power to enhance the properties of the blade, basically making them cut more effectively—if they could even do that much, rather than simply using them like mundane blades—but Bellatrix had actually cast through hers, throwing out lightning from it in the midst of battle.
Of course, he also told her, “Carrying a dueling knife anywhere but a Ministry-sanctioned dueling event is illegal unless you have a license, which you will not be able to get until you come of age. And channeling power through one is considered a Dark Art, which means it’s not allowed by the International Dueling Commission. So if you do acquire a dueling knife, and you decide to carry it at all—let alone use it as a focus—be sure to abide by the second House Rule.”
Mary grinned wickedly at that. “Don’t get caught?”
“Precisely.”
By the time she returned to her room, she felt like she was floating on her success, and she couldn’t even bring herself to feel guilty for snitching on her best friend. It was for Hermione’s own good anyway.
Notes:
As the traditionalists would say, well met and glad tidings on this, the day of the longest night. I hope your Yule is better than Mary's was!
Chapter 16: Politics Is Boring; Knives Are Awesome!
Notes:
This chapter runs concurrently to Chapters 25 and 26 in Chained Servant.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In the end, Mary didn’t have time to decorate her room, much less convince someone to supervise her flying. She barely had time to run back to her dorm and pack up her things for her overnight with the Urquharts before rushing up the stairs to the Deputy Headmistress’s office for tea, but she didn’t mind too much. There was always the rest of the break.
As expected, Aunt Minnie questioned her more thoroughly about why she had left the Grangers, but not in the same way Snape had. What Mary meant was, her guardian was pretty… hands off, emotionally. Not that she didn’t care for Mary, but she was all old and Scottish and, well, distant, so she didn’t tend to pry that deeply into what Mary was thinking and feeling most of the time. In fact, Mary got the impression that Aunt Minnie thought that worrying about feelings was pointlessly self-indulgent. Mary didn’t really mind—somehow, she was far less inclined to share the details of her anger towards Hermione with Aunt Minnie than with Snape.
Her guardian mostly seemed to want to know if there was anything she ought to be concerned about, or if Mary had felt unsafe or like the Drs. Granger weren’t fit to look after her during her visits. Once Mary confirmed that the answer to these questions was no, she appeared mostly satisfied, if a bit bemused, like she was chalking up the whole incident to the inherent melodrama of teenage girls. Which was annoying, but at least it meant Mary didn’t have to discuss it anymore.
Once the appointed hour came, Aunt Minnie stood, brushing off her robes, and said, “Well, then. Do you mind terribly if I send you on to the Urquharts on your own? I would accompany you, but I have an enormous amount of work to do.”
Mary wasn’t totally sure if that was true, or if Aunt Minnie mostly just wanted to avoid her in-laws. Not that she disliked them, but Mary had gotten the feeling that even her guardian sometimes found Madam Urquhart—who was nearly as old as Dumbledore, and nearly as scary as Madam Longbottom—rather stressful to be around. She called Aunt Minnie ‘girl’ still, despite her being in her late sixties, and seemed to almost hold it against her whenever Mary failed to live up to their standards, like when she’d run away and broken her arm.
In any case, it wasn’t like she minded. She could certainly make it through the Floo on her own. “Yes—I mean, no, Aunt Minnie, I don’t mind.”
Aunt Minnie looked Mary up and down, taking in her day-robe and neatly plaited hair, probably checking to see if there was anything the Urquharts might object to, before saying, “Off you go, then. I’ll see you at the Wizengamot Hall tomorrow. Perhaps the day after that, we might see about taking that broom of yours out for a test.”
Mary barely managed to keep from beaming and bouncing on her toes at the news, knowing that she needed to keep her manners in place.
Dinner with the Urquharts was fine. As stiff and formal as ever: with Madam Urquhart, along with Lord and Lady Urquhart, present at the dinner table, even the little kids were on their best behavior. Merely eating with them, making polite conversation with Mrs. Urquhart, Miss Catherine, Ms. Primrose, and Ms. Nanette, felt like a test, like she was being examined to see how much she had slipped in her comportment since spending a few months away—because, of course, it was, and she was.
But that was alright. She’d already had to brush up on her manners before visiting the Longbottoms, and she was fairly certain that she managed to give the Urquharts no reason to be displeased with her over the course of their meal.
Or, so she’d thought. But once they were finished eating, and she and Catherine had snuck off alone to catch up, one of the first things the older girl said was, “I’m very disappointed in you, Miss Mary.”
Uh-oh. Was this about the Grangers? Taking a moment to compose herself, so that she wouldn’t stutter or pepper her speech with Ums and Ers, as she was prone to doing, Mary replied, “Might I ask in what way I have disappointed you, Miss Catherine?” Normally, they spoke informally when they were alone, but if Catherine was calling her ‘Miss Mary,’ she knew she had to respond accordingly.
Catherine gave her a Look, like she should already know, but said, “Your friend, Miss Moon, wrote to me a few weeks ago.”
That was not what Mary had expected at all, and she had to wrack her brain for a moment to think about what Lilian could possibly have said to make Catherine upset with her. She didn’t want to just volunteer things she’d done wrong, in case Catherine didn’t know about them yet, but she also didn’t want to come across as an idiot without even the sense to recognize how she had messed up. (Damn it, Lilian.)
Despite actually being quite nice, and not even that much older than her—Catherine had been a year below Ginny’s oldest brother in school—it always made Mary feel particularly awful to earn her disapproval. Eventually, she overcame her fear of implicating herself enough to ask, “Would this be related to Daphne Greengrass’s tea parties?”
“It would.” Then, before Mary could begin to defend herself, or at least to explain, “You should know better than to reject the opportunity to make connections with your peers, particularly ones as influential as Miss Greengrass. And, if that were not enough, Miss Moon tells me that you were incredibly rude to Miss Greengrass in the process. Did you even think about how that might damage your future relationship with her House?”
And from that, Catherine launched into a nearly hour-long lecture on the importance of making the right connections, of maintaining positive relationships with members of other Noble Houses regardless of what Mary thought of them personally, of holding herself to a certain standard of behavior. By the end of it, Mary was ready to admit that she’d overreacted, to promise to apologize to Daphne and beg the opportunity to continue to attend her tea parties in the future, if only to get Catherine off her back.
Once Catherine was satisfied that Mary had internalized the lesson, she switched back to informal language, asking how Mary’s term had been—in particularly, her patronage of Dave Rhees, which her tutor seemed to feel personally invested in after advising her on. But Mary was so exhausted, tired of arguing with everyone, that she begged off to go to bed at the earliest opportunity, claiming she needed her rest for the morning.
Sometimes, Mary thought it was exciting to be an Heiress—it was something she never would have dreamed of, back with the Dursleys. Other times—most of the time, at least when she was with the Urquharts—she thought it was rather exhausting and confining, and envied people like Hermione, who could just walk around in jeans and a jumper and not be constantly thinking of who they needed to impress, or how their behavior might reflect back on their guardian or foster family, or what the papers might say about them this week.
Mary ended up being glad she’d gone to bed early when the Urquhart house elves woke her long before dawn, telling her that it was going to take some time to get her into her dress robes.
The formal robes she would be wearing for her first political appearance had been a thirteenth birthday present from the Urquharts over the summer. Or, well, ‘robes’ was an understatement: the full outfit consisted of stockings, bloomers, a skirt, an undershirt, an underrobe, an overrobe, a dragon-bone corset, an ornamental belt, and high heels.
The first time Mary had tried it on, at Peaseblossom and Puck’s over the summer, she’d told Catherine that she could hardly walk, or even breathe, in it, and Catherine had replied that that was the point. It wasn’t an outfit for walking, but rather, for ‘seeing and being seen.’
It was beautiful, Mary had to admit: layers upon layers of bright spring green and cloudy, dappled grey showing through the sheer, silvery overrobe. She’d looked good in it when she tried it on over the summer, but somehow, the impression was more now. Maybe because of how the elves had put her hair up into elaborate braids, coiled around her head like a nest of serpents (which made her look even more like that photo of a young Bellatrix Lestrange than she normally did, but she was trying not to think about that). Or maybe because, for the very first time, with the help of the corset, she thought she saw the beginning of real curves on her body.
Examining herself in the mirror, Mary found herself feeling good about her appearance—a foreign feeling—as Lilian’s words (“You’re going to grow up to be a real looker!”) rang in her ears.
Of course, this sense of satisfaction only lasted until she had to actually try to walk in the heels they’d given her, and she realized that, even if she looked like a proper young lady while standing still, it was much more difficult to move like one. In fact, thanks to the impractical shoes and the surprise of Catherine awaiting her with a camera, she nearly fell down the stairs on her way down to the main parlor. Just wonderful.
At least Mary had Lord Urquhart’s arm to hold on to as they made their way through the Floo to House Urquhart’s office in the Wizengamot Hall, and from there to the Chamber of Governance. She found the wizard himself somewhat intimidating—he was about the same age as Aunt Minnie, and she’d barely spoken a few words to him up until now—but when they found the Urquhart seat, he murmured to her, “Steady on,” and she found herself grateful for his solid presence.
The Chamber itself was huge and intimidating, made of blindingly white marble, light shining down in rainbows through fragments of quartz in the ceiling. The seats—desks, really—were arranged in circular tiers around the raised Floor, with a floating lectern for the Chief Warlock, or whoever else would be addressing the legislature.
Each desk was decorated with the colors and crest of its House, its position in the Chamber determined by seniority. At the center, for example, were seventeen desks, although a full twelve of them were empty. These had once belonged to the Ancient Houses—the seventeen founders of the Wizengamot—and had been left as a sort of memorial to all the Houses which had fallen over the years.
At the five occupied desks, Mary spotted a few familiar faces. Along with the Ingham, Monroe, and Black seats—the last of which, she’d heard, was voted by a proxy, as Madam Walburga Black, mother of her traitorous godfather, was known to be a complete recluse—were the seats of the Ancient Houses of Longbottom and Bones.
Sitting with his grandmother and her unmistakable hat, in stiffly pressed dress robes, appearing just as nervous as she felt, was poor Neville. Must be his first appearance, too, she thought. Well, unless he just looked that frightened whenever he was making a public appearance as Heir Longbottom—with Neville, one could never be sure.
In contrast, Susan, sitting with her aunt Madam Bones—who, in addition to sitting as her Regent and Proxy, was also the Director of Magical Law Enforcement—looked incredibly bored already, like maybe she’d done this before and resented having to wake up early and sit through a full day of politicking.
Mary was with the Urquharts in the second tier—they were one of the oldest non-Ancient Houses—but her own House’s seat was back in the fourth, the Potters being a much younger House. She looked around for it, but didn’t manage to find the right desk in all the business of the room. She knew Aunt Minnie’s brother was acting as her proxy, but she’d never actually seen him before.
There were plenty of people and Houses she did recognize, however, looking around the room. Aunt Minnie at the McGonagall seat in the third tier, and the distinctive Lady Malfoy all the way back in fifth—their family had only come over from France earlier that very century, around the time of Grindelwald’s rise to power.
Also in the second tier with her was Zacharias Smith, which wasn’t surprising—like her, he was Heir to his House (and rumored to be Heir to the extinct Hufflepuff line as well, according to Catherine, though it had never been proven). Actually, taking Zach, Neville, Susan, Draco, Theo, and Mary herself into account, they had quite a surprising number of Heirs in their year alone. She didn’t see Theo anywhere, but that wasn’t surprising, given that he had snuck off with Blaise rather than going home for the holidays.
All in all, the Chamber was rather busy. Along with the Lord and Ladies of the Wizengamot, the young Heirs learning the ropes, the press section, and the thirteen Ministry Directors, Mary found that the vast majority of the seats had multiple people behind their desks, legal aides and personal assistants accompanying the various representatives.
And there was just so much to take in. Along with being organized by seniority in the Wizengamot, the desks seemed to be roughly clustered together based on the political affiliations of each House. The Allied Dark, for example, formed a sort of slice up the tiers of seats, with Lady Malfoy presiding over Houses such as Nott, Parkinson, Bulstrode, Davis, and Yaxley from her desk at the top of the Chamber.
Dumbledore’s Light, on the other hand, was positioned nearly opposite, encompassing the McGonagall and Potter seats. Being in Slytherin, Mary didn’t actually know most of the young Light kids that well, although she knew Prefect Farley’s family was among them. Clustered near them were the four remaining Houses of Ars Britannia, the traditional Light.
To the side of the Allied Dark seats were the older Dark bloc, Ars Publica, beginning at the Monroe, Black, and Ingham desks in the center, stretching back to encompass Houses like the Rosiers and Lestranges. On the other side of Ars Publica, nearest to the Light, sat Common Fate, beginning with Madam Longbottom and Madam Bones. This last group included the Smiths and Urquharts, meaning that Mary and Zach were seated almost directly behind Neville and Susan.
(Although, from what Mary understood, the Urquharts were mostly aligned with Common Fate for historical reasons—compared to families like the Bones or the Greengrasses, they hardly lived up to the party’s reputation for populism.)
Trying to keep track of everyone’s political alliance was already giving Mary a headache, and they’d hardly even started yet! She was momentarily overwhelmed by the thought of what it would be like once she was seventeen and responsible for voting the Potter seat, where all her little social faux pas would have far worse consequences than Catherine being annoyed with her.
While seeing all the Lords and Ladies, and the handful of her classmates who were in the same boat as her with respect to learning to take over their family seats, was interesting, the session itself turned out to be rather boring—so many speeches. No one could just get to the point—even Dumbledore, as the Chief Warlock, had to give a big, formal opening speech instead of just throwing out some random words like he did at school.
At lunch, after talking to Susan and Neville a bit, she got to meet her proxy, Angus McGonagall, for the first time. He told her that he’d gone through the voting records of her grandfather, Charlus Potter, and had been attempting to simply keep voting the way he would have, unless Mary had other preferences. She didn’t really think she was well-informed enough on politics to be making those decisions yet, though, so she’d agreed that he should just keep on in the same vein, even if she hadn’t necessarily agreed with all the votes he’d cast that day.
For example, there was a vote on whether to restrict texts on healing magic only to fully licensed healers, because healing magic could actually be quite dangerous in the wrong hands. On the other hand, making them restricted meant healers-in-training, midwives, or just anyone who wanted to learn basic first aid couldn’t read them.
Mary would have voted against it, she thought, but Mr. McGonagall had voted for it. Though she supposed that made sense—most of the Houses in Dumbledore’s Light had been in favor, and she knew the Potters had been aligned with him since her grandfather’s time. (In fact, he had been so close to Charlus Potter that he’d been named James’s godfather.)
Anyway, there had been months of arguments going on about that proposal, and she hadn’t heard them all, so he was probably better informed than her to make that call. It didn’t matter much in the end—that vote ended up being tabled because they couldn’t get the required majority on either side.
There was another vote she thought was kind of interesting, considering her recent conversation with Hermione about Lady Malfoy. The witch in question had proposed a bill that would set standards for how orphans, like Mary, were cared for in Magical Britain, and that would address safety standards for Hogwarts students. It all sounded good to Mary, and it passed, but Dumbledore looked pretty annoyed about it for reasons she couldn’t understand. Maybe he just didn’t like people interfering in Hogwarts, especially his political enemies? Or maybe, she thought, he was just against anything the Allied Dark suggested on principle.
Other than that, the only interesting things that happened were Dumbledore and Madam Bones trying and failing to remove the dementors from Hogwarts (they got three-quarters of the Wizengamot to vote for it, but not the four-fifths they would need to overturn the Minister’s Emergency Order) and a report on the construction of a stadium for the Quidditch World Cup. That, Mary paid more attention to—she was desperate to attend.
There was also a moment where Mary glanced over into the Ministry section of the Chamber—the Directors of each department could attend if they wanted, though they didn’t vote, unless they were also representing a Noble House like Madam Bones was—and felt a weird moment of déjà vu as she spotted an incredibly beautiful, olive skinned witch who looked to be around Professor Vector’s age. It took Mary a moment to realize why she looked familiar: she had only just seen a picture of her from nearly thirty years prior. Mirabella Zabini, that was—because, in addition to being an alleged serial killer, Blaise’s mum was the Director of Education.
Lady Zabini noticed Mary looking at her and caught her eye with a little smirk. She blushed and quickly looked away.
When they finally finished for the day—it took forever, and Mary had come to the conclusion that Wizengamot sessions were as bad as tea parties—she joined Professor McGonagall for the trip back to the school, bidding a polite farewell to Lord Urquhart. Her guardian had absolutely fawned over Mary in her new dress robes before introducing her to her brother earlier, something which Mary had found embarrassing, and even as they made their way out of the Chamber, she couldn’t stop commenting on how ‘grown up’ Mary looked. Even worse, Mary nearly turned her ankle trying to Floo back to the castle in her blasted high heels.
As Mary left Professor McGonagall’s office, taking her heels off the second she was out of sight, hoping no one would run across her walking through the halls with feet bare of anything but her stockings, she couldn’t help thinking that Hermione would have loved the whole experience, and then hating herself for it, because they were fighting.
But her friend had been so jealous about Mary getting to go—she’d tried to find a way to come along, but had been informed that, since she wasn’t a member of a Noble House or the press, she wasn’t allowed to visit until she was of age, and even then, she’d have to submit a lengthy application just to attend a single session. Honestly, Mary wouldn’t be surprised if she eventually managed to wrangle a press pass through her family’s association with the Quibbler, or did a legal internship or something just to get through the doors.
Mary felt a bit melancholy as she headed down to the dungeons to change before dinner, thinking that, if she’d been staying with the Grangers, Hermione would demanded to hear every detail of the session the second Mary returned (and then probably gotten cross with her when she inevitably couldn’t remember half of it). Compared to their house, the castle was just so quiet right now.
Though at least that meant there was no one around to see her—or, so she’d thought. She had nearly made it down to the Slytherin dorms unnoticed when, to her absolute mortification, she came across Snape. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of her walking down the empty dungeon corridor in full dress robes and a bloody corset, impractical high heels clutched in one hand, stockinged feet padding against the cold stone floor.
That morning, Mary had felt that she looked really good—almost more like a woman than a skinny little girl. She’d even asked Catherine for a copy of the photo she’d taken. In front of Snape, however, she suddenly felt rather silly, like a kid playing dress-up.
Still, there was nothing for it now, so she raised her head high, trying to look elegant and dignified, in spite of her state. “Professor,” she said, giving him a little half-curtsy, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Heir Potter,” he said with an exaggerated bow, clearly making fun of her, and she scowled at him.
“Shut up,” she muttered, and she walked straight past him in as composed a manner as she could muster, feeling his amused eyes on her back all the way down the hall.
The next day brought with it the highlight of Mary’s break: she was finally allowed to try out her new Firebolt! Aunt Minnie went out to the lake with her and watched her zip around on it all morning, cheering and clapping for her with all the enthusiasm of a witch who’d played beater for her own House team back in the 40’s. When Mary offered to let her have a go, though, she firmly declined, insisting that she knew better than to put her ‘rickety old bones’ on something that moved like that.
Later that day, there was even more excitement. First, at lunch, she received an unexpected notice from Gringott’s about a couple of deposits someone had made to her account. The first one was for a rather incredible amount of money; the second was three times the first.
This was entirely unexpected, and Mary was pretty sure it was a mistake. She intended to go up to Aunt Minnie’s office and ask about it when she finished eating, but before she could, she received a second note. This one was not delivered by owl, but by a little paper airplane which came flying straight to her: the Messenger Charm they’d eventually be learning in the Slythering course.
Please come to my office at your earliest convenience.
-SS
Given that she had nothing but free time at the moment, and that the note seemed a little ominous—she couldn’t actually tell if something was wrong, or if it was just Snape’s naturally terse writing tone, and he wasn’t at the High Table for her to check his expression—she finished up her meal and went straight there, where he surprised her by saying, “You ought to have received a notice in the past few days concerning a deposit made to your account.”
“Er, yeah,” she said. “Two of them, actually. Does that mean you know what they are?”
“I know what one of them is,” Snape said. “A ten percent finder’s fee, following my successful dissection and sale of the basilisk’s remains.”
“Oh!” Mary frowned, fishing the notice out of her pocket. “What about the other one, then?”
Snape confirmed that the larger of the deposits was his and, after some back-and-forth, that he had given an additional ten percent to the Weasley twins. Which meant they’d each received half as much as he’d given Mary, despite having been the ones to actually kill the basilisk—but then, Snape liked her better than them.
“I think I know what the smaller deposit is, then,” she finally said. “When they asked me to speak with you about it, they said they’d give me a third of whatever they made off the basilisk. I suppose they don’t know that you already paid me.”
“Well,” Snape said with a smirk, “I see no reason they should be made aware of that.”
Mary nodded, giving him a conspiratorial grin. Then, considering the amount of money she’d received from a mere thirteen percent of a basilisk, she said, “With this kind of money, maybe we should go into basilisk farming.”
Her attempt at a joke, however, fell flat. Snape only gave her a very tired look and said, “I beg you not to even think those words again, at least until you are graduated and therefore no longer my problem.”
“I—I wasn’t actually going to do it, I’m not an idiot,” she said, feeling chastened, but Snape only looked skeptical, possibly thinking of the mischief she’d gotten up to over the past few years. Rude.
She wanted to ask what Snape was possibly going to do with six times the money she’d received—she hadn’t gotten the impression he was especially wealthy, so it might even be more money than he’d even had before selling the basilisk—but she felt too awkward, and he seemed impatient anyway. A moment later, he dismissed her, saying he needed to get back to work on the wards, leaving Mary to kick herself over how frequently she seemed to fail at talking to him.
To Mary’s pleasure, Auror “Don’t Call Me Nymphadora!” Tonks did manage to find time to visit her over the break, and she didn’t even seem bothered by Mary having so rudely canceled on her at the last minute on New Year’s Day. She did ask why Mary had left the Grangers’ so suddenly, but accepted her halfhearted excuse without question.
“Snape around?” was one of the first things she asked when they’d left Professor McGonagall’s office, where she’d arrived through the Floo, and Mary looked at her in confusion. Tonks appeared younger and smaller than usual, as though just being in the castle had put her back in the mindset of her teenage self.
“He’s busy working on something for the wards for Dumbledore, I’m pretty sure,” Mary said. “Why?”
“Well, I was going to demonstrate how to use a dueling knife for you, but I need a proper partner for that. Since he was trained by Bellatrix, I’m pretty sure he’d know how to use one.” Frowning, she said, “How about Flitwick?”
“I saw him at lunch. Not sure if he’s busy or not.”
“Let’s go check, then,” Tonks said, and Mary shrugged, following her up to Ravenclaw Tower.
She hadn’t been to Professor Flitwick’s office in ages—probably not since first year, after she and Hermione, Lilian, and Aerin had gotten stuck in that weird obstacle course the Headmaster had set up in a third floor corridor. They’d made it all the way to the potion room, where the Ravenclaws had easily solved Snape’s riddle, but then Mary had pointed out that Snape was a Slytherin, not a Ravenclaw. If he’d actually wanted to protect something, why would he leave directions for how to get through his obstacle in a riddle that a bunch of first and second years could solve? That wasn’t Snape’s style at all. More likely, she’d thought, he would lie, try to trick them into drinking the wrong potion.
They’d argued over that a while, with Hermione pointing out that all of the other obstacles had been so easy to get through that they probably weren’t trying to keep people out, but in the end, Mary’s argument that even if it was the right potion, they didn’t know if it would work if split between four people, or if they were meant to pour it onto the flames instead of drinking it, had won out, and they’d called Cammy to rescue them.
But somehow, the professors had found out about that—Cammy had probably told them, Mary thought, or else the obstacle course had been monitored—and Professors Flitwick and Snape had called them into a meeting to interrogate them on being out of bounds after curfew and breaking the Headmaster’s order to stay away from that corridor.
It had been a strange meeting. Snape had clearly only been annoyed that they’d gotten caught, and once Mary had explained that they’d only called Cammy because she’d told her friends that they shouldn’t trust his clues, he’d given her five House Points and then billowed out of the room all dramatically, leaving Professor Flitwick to handle the actual discipline.
Anyway, long story short, they’d had to write the Head of Ravenclaw four feet of parchment each on what they’d learned, and whether it was or was not worth it to go wandering in a dangerous corridor after hours.
Sometimes, Mary thought, Hogwarts was really weird.
She and Tonks found Professor Flitwick in his office, working on what looked to be lesson plans for the new term, but he jumped up immediately, apparently delighted to see his old student. He fetched a sword from his private quarters before leading them to the room where they held the Dueling Club meetings.
On the one hand, his presence meant that Tonks had to play things very by the books, lecturing Mary at length about how she couldn’t wear the knife she’d brought anywhere but official duels, and certainly couldn’t channel power into it—in fact, she said that the one she was giving Mary, which had belonged to her mother, and her great-aunt Walburga before her, was still tuned to her own magic, so Mary wouldn’t be able to use it as a focus if she tried.
On the other hand, getting to watch Tonks and Professor Flitwick duel pretty much made up for it. Mary thought they might actually be more evenly matched, in this setting, than Snape and Flitwick had been—she was certain Snape was a better fighter than either of them, but Tonks seemed to have more experience with following the strict IDC guidelines. And while she’d worried she wouldn’t, Mary did get to see Tonks channel power through the blade, using it to break one of Professor Flitwick’s shields at one point!
Not to mention the way she moved. The usually clumsy Auror was so much more self-possessed when she dueled, ducking and rolling more acrobatically than Mary thought she could manage. Even without the knife, it would have been worth it, just to see her fight.
When they’d finished, Professor Flitwick, who’d won, gave Mary one last warning against using the knife anywhere but official duels—and against even thinking about trying to use it as a focus during Dueling Club—before rushing off to get back to his work. Tonks waited until he’d left before saying, “Speaking of things you aren’t supposed to do with a dueling knife, this one’s got enchantments on it so that if you wear it under your clothes, the hilt won’t distort the fabric.”
Sheathed, the knife appeared to be all hilt, the blade simply disappearing into a flat strap of leather. Tonks demonstrated wearing it for Mary, strapping it to her wand arm with the handle sticking straight up from her skin, then pulled her sleeve down under it—it lay flat, like there was nothing there at all.
“That’s illegal—you can’t buy them like that, not since the war. But, you know… House of Black.” The Auror gave a little shrug, her hair darkening as she did so, features shifting to look more like—well, like Mary, she supposed—and Mary snorted. “So don’t wear it under long sleeves, even in duels. Won’t look good for either of us if you’re caught with an illegal blade I gave you.
“Anyway, if you want to learn how to channel power through it, shoot me an owl over the summer and I can teach you. If you do get into a fight—like, a real fight, for your life—it can make a big difference.”
“I’ll let you know,” Mary said. She would have said ‘absolutely yes,’ except that she wasn’t certain whether the Urquharts would even let her take fighting lessons, even if she didn’t mention that she was learning a Dark Arts technique. Plus, she kind of hoped she might be able to get Snape to teach her how to use it, so she wouldn’t have to wait until the summer.
Although, if it was still tuned to Tonks, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to without having her re-tune it… “Would you mind tuning it to me, just in case I get a chance to try it before then? Like with Snape or something, not on my own,” she added hastily at the suspicious look the Auror gave her.
“Yeah, sure,” Tonks said. “Just don’t tell Flitwick. It’ll make it easier to summon it wandlessly, anyway, if you lose hold of it—though don’t go throwing it during duels. It’s just dumb and flashy, never works as well as you want it to.” Her crooked smile told Mary she’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Tonks had Mary prick her finger on the tip of the blade, then guided her in drawing runes in her blood down it, the knife glowing dark as they sank in. Which looked pretty creepy, and made Mary wonder if they were even meant to be doing blood magic in Hogwarts. Well, she supposed, Tonks was an Auror, so she probably knew better than Mary whether they were likely to get in trouble for it.
“You’ll need to do that about once a year to keep it in alignment with your magic, unless you’re using it as a focus a lot.”
“Thanks for all this,” Mary said, taking the knife back and sheathing it. “You sure you don’t mind me having this?” It was an old family heirloom, after all.
“You’re as much a Black as I am,” Tonks pointed out. “More, maybe, since Dorea didn’t get herself blasted off the family tapestry. Plus, I’ve got others I like more—I prefer more curve in my blades.
“Let’s see, what else… If you have a wand holster on your other arm, you can cross-draw them both at once, but you’re not allowed to wear a wand holster without a license either. Oh! Don’t carry the blade unsheathed through a Floo. It’ll probably explode.”
Feeling herself go a bit pale, Mary said, “Noted.” She was already bad enough at taking the Floo—if she actually managed to blow herself up going through one, even if she survived, she’d never live it down.
The rest of break wasn’t so bad. She didn’t have any more meals with Snape, or even manage to catch him in his lab, as Dumbledore seemed to have him running all over the place. Aunt Minnie, as well, seemed too absorbed in her work to pay her much mind, so Mary was left entirely to her own devices.
Hermione sent a letter trying to apologize, and the Grangers sent one to check on her as well, but Mary didn’t feel like dealing with that yet, so she just set the letters on her desk and didn’t respond. Mostly, she caught up on her homework, started on the ward scheme for her bedroom next year, continued trying and failing to think of decoration ideas, and finished her translation of the book on Parsel that Riddle had sent her for Mabon, having been reminded of him by the basilisk thing.
It even came with a Parsel syllabary and discussion of using the language in runic casting, although she knew that runic casting was a Dark Art and maybe illegal? Or at least restricted, she thought. (She briefly wished she could ask Hermione, then pushed that thought aside.) Plus, the syllabary was a bit difficult to interpret, seeing as it was in Latin; depending on what she translated any Latin word as, the corresponding Parsel sound might be completely different.
Honestly, if it hadn’t been for the bloody dementors, having the dungeons all to herself might have been nice. It meant no fights over Dave, no tea parties or bitches like Tracey and Pansy, no one trying to manipulate her or make her attack Gryffindor Quidditch players.
Mary couldn’t imagine being anything other than a Slytherin, but it did get exhausting sometimes. Or maybe it was just people that got exhausting, whether they were her fellow Slytherins, the Grangers, the Urquharts, or anyone else. She’d been feeling bad for herself her first day back, feeling like she was alone, but there were also perks to that, once she thought about it.
Being alone was certainly better than being with the Dursleys, anyway. And from what she’d seen while visiting Hermione and Lilian, and what she heard from her friends in Slytherin or even Ginny, it seemed like even relatively normal families spent half their time fighting with each other. So maybe she was better off as she was. Being on her own was restful, at least, in a way she’d needed. Part of her felt smug that she was managing to have a decent break after leaving the Grangers’, like, Ha, I don’t need anyone after all. I’m perfectly fine without them.
On Friday, she finally remembered something Hermione had mentioned in the midst of all their arguing: the room. The one where they’d celebrated Mabon last term. Apparently, it could turn into anything, not just a forest. Almost the exact moment she remembered, she was running out of her dorm, heading up to the seventh floor.
When she got there, though, she found herself stumped as to what to actually make. It would be more fun with friends, she thought. If she had thought to bring her Firebolt, she would see if it could make a place for her to practice, maybe with obstacles or something, but she didn’t feel like going all the way back downstairs to get it. Finally, she settled on making something like a gymnasium, but for dueling.
She had her knife with her (in her bag, not on her arm, so it wasn’t illegal), so she took the chance to practice some of the movements she’d seen Tonks make during her duel—lunging forward and stabbing, slashing at a practice dummy the room provided, stuff like that. She practiced what dueling spells she could without a proper partner, and tried doing some somersaults and stuff like that, wanting to learn to move as acrobatically as Tonks could.
Then, when she’d tired herself out, feeling a bit frivolous, she managed to turn the room into what looked like a bunch of clouds, except that when she sat on them, she didn’t fall through, but only sank down into something soft and fluffy and a little bit bouncy. She stretched out on one of them, looking up at a blue ‘sky,’ letting herself believe that she was floating through the air, and fell asleep for a little while.
When she left, she decided to make herself a list of things to do with the room as they occurred to her. She was certain she’d only scratched the surface.
That evening, the missing professors all seemed to return at once, the empty High Table suddenly filling out for dinner. They were all talking to each other, like they’d come from a meeting or something. Without much else to capture her attention, Mary snuck looks at them, wondering what they were talking about. Even Remus was back from France, and he caught her eye during the meal, giving her a slightly confused smile. After the meal, he caught her to ask what she was doing there, but accepted her explanation that she’d come back early without too much prodding—though she kind of suspected he was just waiting for an opportunity to interrogate her over it.
The morning after that, as Mary left the still-empty common room, she ran across Professor Sinistra in the dungeon corridor. She didn’t look like she was just waking up, but that was probably because she wasn’t—Mary was pretty sure the Astronomy professor was nocturnal. Upon spotting Mary, she faltered for a second, looking strangely like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t, before shrugging slightly and continuing on her way, shooting Mary a careless wink as she passed.
Mary was confused, wondering what Sinistra would have been doing all the way down in the dungeons, as far as one could get from the Astronomy tower, first thing in the morning, before it occurred to her: wasn’t the door to Snape’s personal quarters that way?
Oh. Oh, no. Ew!
By the time she’d worked it out, still too sleepy to think very quickly, she was at the breakfast table, and she let out a disgusted noise that made the Hufflepuff first year sitting nearby glance at her in confusion. Mary immediately began attempting to forget the realization, shoveling eggs quickly into her mouth to distract herself.
She wasn’t sure why it grossed her out so much—everyone already knew they were shagging. Or at least all the Slytherins did. But it was one thing to joke with Lilian about them checking each other out over dinner, or to run into them out for a midnight stroll, and another to see Professor Sinistra leaving Snape’s rooms in the morning.
Especially when he and Mary were basically the only people left in the dungeons, and especially when, thanks to that blasted book Emma had sent and the Talk the Urquhart ladies had given her a while back, Mary was now much more aware of the fact that, while she’d been blissfully sleeping in her room, Snape, only a short walk away from her, had been—no. Merlin, why?!
She didn’t think she was a prude, no matter what bloody Catherine said. But sex was just… well, if kissing seemed gross and wet and undignified, sex had to be even worse, right? She couldn’t really understand why any sensible person would want to do that. It was unsettling in the same way that it would be if she found out that all the adults she knew were secretly eating their food with their hands like animals when she wasn’t looking—it was just gross and uncivilized.
And yes, she knew how much Lilian, or Blaise, or any of the boys on the Quidditch team, would make fun of her if they heard her say that, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. The whole sex thing just seemed like evidence that one of the side effects of puberty was, like, going insane or something, wanting to do something like that.
Not to mention, it was Snape. First of all, he seemed too composed and sensible to do something that gross. And secondly—what would make Professor Sinistra want to do something like that with him?
Okay, not that he was ugly like some of the other students liked to say, though he was a bit… unusual-looking, to put it nicely. But it was more that he didn’t seem like a person that someone could even do that sort of thing with. Mary couldn’t picture it—not that she was trying to picture it. Certainly not. She would never want to picture something like that. But she just didn’t understand how Professor Sinistra could get past how Snapelike he was. How did a person even go about doing something like that with someone so intimidating?
Well, she told herself, maybe she was just sneaking into his rooms to prank him. Cursing his hair again or something. Mary decided that she would believe that was the case, for her own sanity.
The problem with being basically all on her own was that it left her entirely too much time to think about weird things. She’d wanted a break, but she suddenly found herself kind of missing the chaos of her usual life in the castle.
Notes:
An alternative title for this chapter is “Mary Potter and the Horrifying Realization That Professor Snape Fucks.”
The scene with Tonks is based on her visit to the Grangers in Chapter 25 of Chained Servant, but with significant changes. The Wizengamot session happened in CS, though some details have been changed, because the political situation I’m using here is a weird mix of Leigha and Lysandra’s. This is partially because I like Sandra’s approach but also just because, when I started writing this fic, I was using their collab fic as a reference and didn’t realize which details belonged to which author, and I’m too lazy to change it all now.
The name “Chamber of Governance,” the relative ages of Houses like Potter, Urquhart, Smith, and Malfoy, and the McGonagalls being nobility at all, are all taken from the original MP series, but Common Fate, Ars Publica, and Ars Britannia are Sandra’s, along with the Inghams and Monroes. The Light and Allied Dark exist in both canons, but the breakdown of members of each party is mostly taken from Sandra’s Magical British Politics guide. The Ministry Directors attending the session, and the location and most details of the appearance of the Wizengamot Hall, are also Sandra’s.
Chapter 17: Slytherin Fight Club
Notes:
This chapter runs concurrently to Chapters 26 and 27 of Chained Servant.
If you've noticed the total chapter count decreasing, it's not that I've deleted anything, I've just been reorganizing the chapters a bit. It might continue to fluctuate by a chapter or two as I edit.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Okay, spill. What the hell happened?”
Looking up at Lilian, who had dragged her off into a corner of the common room the second they got back from the start-of-term feast, Mary couldn’t help but think that she’d liked things better when everyone was gone. Not that she wasn’t happy to see her friend, exactly, just—how many more people was she going to have to explain her fight with Hermione to? Couldn’t everyone just mind their own business?
“What did she tell you?” Mary asked in lieu of answering, stalling for time.
“Oh, pretty much everything,” Lilian replied, which made Mary’s heart falter slightly. Had Hermione actually told her about Snape? About her studies with him, and about Mary’s reaction? “I went over to her place on Friday to play with the… computer,” she said slowly, pronouncing the word like it was from a foreign language, “and she was sulking about it the whole time. She told me about how you found out about her and the Weasley twins being friends—I didn’t know about that, by the way,” she added quickly, before Mary could get upset, “and that you, like, got fed up with her fighting with her parents and decided to leave.”
Reading between the lines, Mary was pretty sure that meant that not only had Hermione not told Lilian about Snape, but also, that she hadn’t admitted to the awful thing she’d said to her. Mary thought of telling Lilian about it, if only to get her friend on her side, but if she did, then Hermione might retaliate and tell her that Mary had thrown a fit over her doing research with Snape, and the idea of anyone else hearing about that was just… uncomfortable.
Besides, Mary was really sick of talking about their fight at this point. So, instead of telling Lilian her side of the story, she shrugged and said, “That’s about what happened, yeah.”
Lilian winced. “I know Maia was being a pain, and don’t get me wrong, it’s shite that she went behind our backs with the twins—honestly, I don’t know what she sees in them—but did you really have to leave? Her parents seemed pretty sad about it.”
Great, more guilt. Mary couldn’t really explain it in a way that Lilian would understand, not without telling her things she didn’t want her to know. It was uncomfortable, letting her friend think she was just overreacting by walking out on the Grangers like she had, but it still felt like the best of several bad options, so she looked away and said, “Yeah, I did.” Then, before Lilian could pry any further, she asked—mostly just to torture herself—“How is Maia? Is she…?” She didn’t know how to finish that question.
“Depends on her mood. She keeps swinging back and forth between blaming herself, saying she’s a horrible friend, and being pissed at you and saying you’re acting like a child.” Mary scowled, feeling outrage building already. Obliviously, Lilian continued, “I’d give her some space, let her calm down a bit.”
“No problem there,” Mary said sharply. “I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t even want to see her.” ‘Acting like a child’? How dare she.
“That… might be a problem,” Lilian said tentatively, despite the fact that she’d been the one to say Mary should avoid her. “We talked to Professor Lupin on the train; he says we can start Patronus lessons soon. Apparently he’s thinking about getting a boggart to use as a fake dementor.”
Mary felt an irrational stab of anger toward Lilian for having been the one to ask if Hermione could join their lessons. It wasn’t fair that she should have to share Snape and Remus with her. “I wish we’d never invited her,” she grumbled.
Lilian looked uncomfortable, which Mary probably should have anticipated—she wasn’t fighting with Hermione, after all. Still, instead of arguing, she just said, “Like she wouldn’t have invited herself along the second she found out what we were doing anyway.”
There wasn’t really much else to say about the topic of Hermione and Patronus lessons, even if Mary was unhappy with the situation, so she changed the subject. “Anyway, how was the rest of your break?”
Lilian made a face. “Mostly awful, but I expected that. Sean was off with Carter most of the time, and Aerin… well, you know.”
Though she considered, for a second, trying again to convince Lilian to tell her sister the truth, Mary decided not to. The last thing she felt like doing was getting into another fight with one of her best friends.
“Oh, but you’ll never believe what happened on the train,” she continued, perking up. “Did you know that Maia’s mum is working with Lady Malfoy?”
Mary shot a quick glance around before redoubling the Muffliato she’d cast at the start of the conversation. “Yeah—we thought so, anyway. Why?”
With a delighted smirk, Lilian said, “Draco didn’t. Not until over the break, when she came to their house. He came storming into our compartment and threw a fit over the fact that his mum had forced him to eat lunch with a muggle. Said he was probably ‘contaminated for life.’”
Mary’s mouth fell open and a small, shocked laugh escaped her, even though she wasn’t sure she should be laughing. It was just such a ridiculous thing for him to say, the arsewipe. “Did Maia kill him?”
“I wish.” Funny, she’d thought Lilian and Draco were friends. “First she just laughed at him, but then he kept calling her mum ‘it,’ like an animal or something, and she got mad. She said…” Lilian frowned, clearly trying to recall Hermione’s exact words, “something like, ‘I know English is difficult for you when you’ve killed off all your brain cells with hair-care potions, but the proper pronoun for a human being is ‘he’ or ‘she.’
“Then, when he couldn’t respond to that, she started explaining what ‘cells’ were, because, as she said, ‘wizards don’t do science,’ and then he said, ‘I know what cells are,’ and she said…” This time, the pause was because Lilian was laughing too hard to continue, holding up a hand while her shoulders shook. “She said, ‘It’s so good to see your people are catching up with the times.’”
Damn it—as angry as Mary was with Hermione, that was an incredible comeback. She was unable to stop from joining Lilian in her laughter, wishing that Hermione hadn’t been so awful over the break, so that she could have been on the train to see Draco’s reaction. “What did he say?”
“He apologized.”
“He what?”
“Well, before he could insult her back, she told him he should go cry to his mum about it and ask her what the whole thing was about, and he admitted that his mum wouldn’t tell him anything, so Maia made him give her a formal apology before she’d explain why they were working together.”
Every word out of Lilian’s mouth just made Mary wish she’d been on that train more—or, failing that, that she was a mind mage like Snape so she could see her friend’s memories. “How’d he react?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure if he believed her—or, at least, he didn’t want to. Said there weren’t enough muggleborns to make a difference, even if the Democratic Expansionists get the vote, and that his mum wouldn’t degrade House Malfoy by catering to them.”
That was more or less what Mary had expected. Still, now that she was thinking about it, “Someone should make sure he keeps his mouth shut—Maia, too. Emma and Lady Malfoy probably have a plan for how they want to reveal that they’re working together, and if the whole school finds out because their kids can’t keep a secret…”
Lilian paled. “Shite, I didn’t think of that.”
“By ‘somebody,’ I meant you, by the way.” Merlin knew Mary didn’t want to have that conversation with either Hermione or Draco. Although, she probably should finally respond to that letter from the Drs. Granger, if only to warn Emma that the secret might be out already. It was really a toss-up whether Draco would have spent the train ride complaining to his friends that there had been a muggle in his house or would have been too embarrassed to admit it.
“Yeah, I’ll take care of it,” Lilian agreed, still looking troubled at the thought. But she seemed to recover quickly, because a second later, she added, “What about you? How was the rest of your break?”
While it hadn’t felt that eventful as it was happening, Mary found that she actually had quite a bit to tell her friend—the Firebolt, the Wizengamot session, the Room up on the seventh floor, the basilisk money, the visit from Tonks… (Although she left out her lunch with Snape, and the fact that she’d seen Professor Sinistra coming from his rooms.)
By the time she’d finished, Lilian was staring at her with a distinct expression of jealousy. “I should have stayed in the castle too.”
“Even with the dementors?”
“Couldn’t have been any worse than my parents—talk about sucking the happiness right out of you.”
Mary wasn’t really sure what to say to that, and the conversation died off before long. Lilian ran off to find Draco, and Mary returned to her room, opening the Grangers’ letter with a sigh. She supposed she couldn’t put off dealing with them forever, no matter how much she’d like to.
Hermione, on the other hand, she would and could avoid dealing with for as long as possible. Of course, it helped that she seemed to be avoiding Mary right back, going around with Padma and Mandy instead, though she shot her looks now and then, which Mary pretended not to notice.
Mary was spending more time with the Slytherins instead, having forced herself to apologize to Daphne and been ‘rewarded’ with an invitation to yet another bloody tea party. There seemed to be no escape from it. Still, it was probably for the best that the most popular underclassman in the House didn’t hate her.
At least there were some nice things about the new term, like getting to show off her new Firebolt in practice. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t have the chance to use it in the match against Ravenclaw the upcoming weekend—Flint told her that a week and a half wasn’t nearly enough time to break in a new broom, so she would be benched, with Draco flying in her place again.
She was less disappointed than she might have anticipated. She’d been worried the dementors would show up again, since she hadn’t made any progress yet on learning to defend herself against them, and anyway, the excitement of having the Firebolt at all made it difficult to be too upset. Plus, it meant Lilian would get to play again. With Flint graduating at the end of the year, and her experience flying in two out of three matches this year, Mary was hopeful that her friend would finally make the starting team come September.
Classes resumed, with the added excitement of a new professor (or, well, two, if one counted Professor Grubblyplank, but Mary wasn’t taking Creatures). History of Magic was now to be taught by Professor D’Onofrio, a wizard who looked to be a few years older than Snape and who came from New Illyria, a magical state located within muggle Italy.
(Binns, meanwhile, was apparently still lecturing in the old History classroom, oblivious to the lack of students. Mary had heard rumors that the other professors had begun assigning students to sit in on his lectures as a form of detention.)
Professor D’Onofrio immediately made himself very popular by announcing that they weren’t going to have any homework assignments, only weekly discussion topics that they were all expected to prepare for and participate in, and they would be given ten weeks to write a term paper in lieu of a final exam. That would have made him the new favorite teacher of most of the students in and of itself, but he also seemed to be genuinely competent, which was a big change. (Daphne was thrilled.)
Their first class involved a rousing debate about the ethics of allowing dementors to feed on prisoners as Azkaban did—a topic which was now very personal to the students, given their own experiences being surrounded by the creatures day in and day out.
Daphne and Leanne Malone from Hufflepuff immediately began arguing against it, the latter saying that even a death sentence would be preferable to being locked up in Azkaban, while Zacharias Smith argued that the dementors were so horrible that they served as a useful deterrent against crime, although Mary thought he might just be playing devil’s advocate.
Blaise, of course, had to chime in with something ridiculous. “Magical Britain doesn’t use the dementors on prisoners; we use prisoners to keep the dementors satisfied with being trapped up on Azkaban themselves.” Mary turned to stare, wondering whether he was taking the piss—with Blaise, one could never be sure.
“I’m telling you, that’s not it—if it were, they’d just manage to find a way to kill off the dementors,” Theo argued, sounding like he’d had this conversation with Blaise before.
“I don’t think you can,” Susan Bones said. “I’ve never heard of anything that can even hurt them, let alone kill them.”
“Bellatrix Lestrange can set them on fire,” Mary said, without thinking, and the entire class turned to stare at her. Even Lilian, who already knew.
“Where did you hear that?” Theo asked, looking very interested, and Mary shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Snape never really talked about the war with the other Slytherins, and she wasn’t certain she was meant to have shared that.
“Um… somewhere,” she mumbled unconvincingly, which just got her even more weird looks. “Never mind.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Blaise said. “Considering what she did at the ‘73 Festa Morgana. She’s my godmother, by the way,” he added smugly, which thoroughly derailed the class as the students all tried to figure out if he was telling the truth. The Hufflepuffs were especially aghast at the idea.
If he was, Mary supposed they had something in common—both of them had an insane Death Eater from the Black family for a godparent.
Professor D’Onofrio, however, forcibly redirected them back to the topic at hand before anyone got anything more out of Blaise, so Mary (along with Theo, Daphne, and Lilian) had to wait until after class to drag him aside and ask if he’d been telling the truth—and, for that matter, what had happened in 1973.
After pulling them into an empty classroom and casting some Slytherin Sneaking Spells, Blaise said, “Yes, yes, she’s really my godmother,” smirking broadly all the while.
Theo and Daphne didn’t look surprised, but Mary and Lilian exchanged a look. “Wasn’t she already a Dark Lady when you were born?” Lilian asked.
“Well, yes. Mother never said as much, but I suspect she was hedging her bets: if the Death Eaters had won, at least I would have been taken care of.”
Mary supposed that made a Slytherin sort of sense. The Zabinis had been neutral in the war—in fact, she’d heard from Catherine that Lady Zabini had been the driving force behind the Truce—but if the witch was anything like her son, of course she would have had a plan for either outcome.
“What about the Festa Morgana, though?” Daphne asked. “Daddy’s mentioned it a few times, but he’d never tell me the details.”
“Well, the story goes, the Ministry helped a group of mercenaries infiltrate the ‘73 Festa in order to provoke the Death Eaters, who were just starting out back then, and arrest the ones who took the bait. But then, it turned into a full-fledged riot, and the Dark Lord and Bellatrix took out a dozen American vigilantes that were notorious for killing non-humans the Light would call ‘Dark.’
“The way I heard it, the Dark Lord fought them all at once, keeping them busy, while the Blackheart popped in and out of the shadows and stabbed them, one by one. No one could even touch her.” His broad grin was at odds with the grisly subject matter—Mary suspected he was just pleased to be the center of attention.
Theo snorted. “No way. She’s not a bloody vampire, Blaise.” At Mary’s confused look, he explained, “Shadow-walking is a vampire thing. Blaise is full of shite.”
“I am not. Ask anyone. The Dark Lord and Bellatrix killed them all and suppressed the riot. That’s half the reason so many non-humans got on board with the Death Eaters in the first place. Especially after it was leaked that the Ministry was behind it—Crouch, specifically.”
“I’m not saying they didn’t kill them, I’m just saying, there’s no way Bellatrix Lestrange can shadow-walk,” Theo argued.
“Besides, if she was that powerful, there’s no way the war would have lasted as long as it did,” Lilian pointed out. “Wouldn’t they just have crushed the Light right off the bat?”
“Unless they didn’t want to,” Blaise argued. “For instance, if Bellatrix and the Dark Lord were toying with them.”
Lilian and Daphne made skeptical noises at this, but Theo—the only one of them from a Death Eater family—looked thoughtful. Mary didn’t know what to think, so she mostly just kept quiet, looking back and forth between them.
“Where did you even hear all this, anyway?” Lilian asked. “Your mum?”
Blaise shook his head. “Mother never talks about my godmother. I asked Adrian Lestrange about her. Some of his and Prefect Yaxley’s older cousins were there.”
“They were probably just taking the piss.”
Mary, though, had a more pressing question. “Hey Blaise, speaking of your mum and Bellatrix, were they together?”
That actually seemed to surprise him, especially when Lilian let out an eager noise and turned to stare at him expectantly. “Where did you hear that?”
“Neville’s gran showed me a picture of them dancing together at the ‘64 Festa over the holidays.”
“Why were you hanging out with Neville’s gran?” Daphne asked.
“Long story.”
Blaise looked at her for a moment, like he didn’t quite know how to respond, then smirked. “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t surprise me. I’ll ask next time I go home—maybe I can shock her into giving something away.”
The start of term also meant fewer opportunities for Mary to get Snape to herself, to enact Phase Two of her plan, which was to get him to spend at least as much time with her as he had been spending with Hermione. Although she wasn’t certain that Phase One (get him to stop doing research with Hermione) had even worked—or, for that matter, how she would know if it had when she and Hermione weren’t speaking. She could hardly ask without making it obvious what she’d done, and Lilian was still oblivious to the entire drama.
Between whatever he’d been doing with the wards and, well, Professor Sinistra, it was hardly as though she’d had many opportunities to encounter him even when they’d been the only ones in the dungeons. Yet she couldn’t help feeling like she’d missed her chance somehow, like things wouldn’t the same anymore with all the other Slytherins around.
A couple times, she found herself hesitating as she passed the closed door to his office, contemplating knocking, but couldn’t quite work up the nerve. Everyone knew you didn’t just knock on Snape’s door, and while she’d done it once, to yell at him about Remus, she couldn’t seem to summon up the courage she’d felt that day. Some part of her felt like, since she was his Anipsiá, she should be allowed to bother him when other people weren’t—but if it turned out she was wrong about that, she’d be mortified. She hadn’t forgotten her multiple failed attempts at joking with him over the break.
So she didn’t knock. She hung out with Lilian, Blaise, Daphne, and Theo, and tried her best to pretend Hermione didn’t exist—she really should demand her invisibility cloak back, but that would mean dealing with her, which Mary didn’t have the energy for—and practiced with her new Firebolt, and tried to find time to check out the Room again, and spent time with Remus.
He was clearly worried about the fact that she’d come back to school early, and after the first class of term, he’d held her behind to ask if she’d have tea with him that weekend before the Quidditch match. Maybe she could talk to him about her worries about learning the Patronus with Hermione then—some part of her was hopeful he might let her uninvite Hermione from the lessons. That would be petty and vindictive of her, but Mary kind of liked the thought that Remus might choose her over Hermione, even if no one else would. He’d said she was like his niece, after all.
On her way to his office Saturday morning, Mary considered how best to broach the topic, but in the end, she didn’t have to: after only a minute or two of pleasantries, he said, “I heard that you and Hermione had another fight.”
Mary scowled, for a moment feeling irrationally angry that Hermione had talked to Remus about her. Which was ridiculous, given that her absence from the train would have likely come up at some point. She was just in such a state of irritation with Hermione where even the most innocuous things she did could make her angry.
“What did she tell you?”
She wasn’t just asking out of annoyance, but also because she didn’t even know what she could say. Hermione obviously wasn’t going to tell Remus that she’d been studying the Dark Arts with Snape, which hopefully meant that she wouldn’t tell him that Mary was angry about it—especially since she hadn’t even told Lilian.
Remus sighed. “Not that much, honestly, just that you had a serious argument on New Year’s and you went back to Hogwarts. She seems to regret it, whatever it is that happened.”
Well, good. Mary wasn’t ready to forgive her yet, but she was glad Hermione felt bad.
She told Remus what she could, despite her annoyance at having to repeat herself again. She lingered on the way Hermione had reacted to the changes her parents had made, and the fight they’d had with Lilian on Yule, and Hermione being friends with the twins still, and what she’d said about how they were her parents, not Mary’s—because, unlike Lilian, Remus was unlikely to ask Hermione about it.
Mary knew it wasn’t a very fair retelling. Leaving out her own comment about Snape, and the fact that Hermione’s research into the Dark Arts was probably what had prompted her reaction to her parents introducing magic into their lives, as well as her choice to spend time with the twins, definitely made Hermione look worse than she otherwise would.
Which Mary didn’t feel entirely bad about—it was almost fun, just ranting about Hermione without worrying about being fair to her, winning Remus over to her side—but by the end, she felt guilty enough that she admitted that Hermione’s parents were pretty overbearing, and that Mary might have been the one to start the fight with her and Lilian on Yule by telling them that they were screwing their relationships with their families up.
By the time she’d finished, Remus was shaking his head. “And I thought being a teenage boy was bad.”
Mary scowled for a moment, then cracked a smile. She supposed she and her friends were getting a bit ridiculous with their constant fighting.
“Seriously though, Fawn,” he said, “it sounds like you just got caught in the crossfire between Hermione and her parents. It doesn’t mean that she didn’t want you there. That’s just how families are sometimes.”
But Mary wasn’t really in the mood to listen to someone make excuses for her supposed best friend. Folding her arms over her chest, she said, “Yeah, well, I wish she would have just not invited me at all, if she was going to be like that.” Before Remus could say anything, she added, “I know, she didn’t know that her parents were changing everything around.”
He just didn’t understand, she thought. Not how shitty it was to think that she was going to have a real family Christmas for once, only to have it rubbed in her face that she didn’t have a family. Everyone she’d talked to about the fight had been the same way, not understanding, saying things that just made her angrier.
Everyone but Snape, but trying to get him to talk to her was like… well, like trying to catch a snitch, she supposed.
“I’m sure you’ll make up before long,” he said, which just deepened her feeling that he didn’t get it.
“I don’t know about that,” she said. “Is it too late for us to uninvite her from the Patronus lessons?”
Remus looked uncomfortable for a moment, just like Lilian had. “Well… I know you’re upset, but it wouldn’t really be fair to her.”
Mary was surprised by how angry she felt at that. Just once, she wanted someone that would always be on her side, even if she was being ‘unfair.’ It was like everyone cared more about being fair to Hermione than about how awful she’d been to Mary.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to summon ‘happy thoughts’ with her there.”
“Maybe the two of you will get a chance to talk things over before we meet—I had been thinking this Thursday might be a good time.” When Mary just glared at him, Remus sighed and said, “I’ll tell you what. If you give it a try with her there, and find that it’s just as bad as you fear, I’ll try to make time to teach you separately.”
That wasn’t any better. He didn’t really have that time, or else they wouldn’t have had to wait this long to get started, and in any case, the idea of being excluded from the lessons she’d made the effort to organize… Mary wanted to pout or argue, but she had the feeling that Remus wasn’t going to budge. He could be such a bloody Gryffindor sometimes.
With an annoyed sigh, Mary asked, “Can we talk about something else?”
Remus looked at her for a moment before saying, “Sure. How was the rest of your break?”
So Mary told him the same stuff she’d told Lilian (except that she left out the less legal details of the knife Tonks had given her, and the fact that they’d done blood magic to re-tune it) and he told her about his werewolf friends in France in return. He even gave her some advice for the ward scheme she was working on for her bedroom—his Christmas present to her had been a copy of The Enchanter’s Handbook, heavily annotated by not only the Marauders but Lily as well, with little notes and doodles and conversations in the margins.
He also confirmed that, yes, runic casting was a highly restricted Dark Art, and looked vaguely concerned that she was even asking about it. Drat.
When the time for the Quidditch match arrived, they went down to the pitch together, though Mary had to join the reserve players on the benches, so she couldn’t sit with him. At least he had agreed to root for Slytherin. He hadn’t seemed that enthusiastic about the match—like Hermione, he didn’t really get Quidditch—but was a good sport about it, even wearing a green scarf she’d loaned him.
To Mary’s relief, they won the match, even without her. With only Gryffindor left to go, she was pretty sure they’d win the House Cup this year. She joined the rest of the reserves in rushing the pitch, surrounding their players, and Lilian, clearly excited to have played her first full game ever, hugged her so hard that she lifted Mary clear off the ground.
The ones who’d played had to shower, and they all had to have dinner, but when that was done with, the Slytherins returned to their common room in high spirits for a party. Seeing as Mary had been in the hospital wing last time, it was her first post-Quidditch party of the year, and while their parties might not get as wild as the Gryffindors’ and Hufflepuffs’ were known to, they were always some of her favorite nights of the year. They were moments when, for once, she felt accepted in Slytherin, like she was surrounded by people who actually liked her, if only for helping them crush the other Houses on the pitch.
So when Sandra Bletchley, an enormous sixth year girl who’d been among her accusers at the tribunal back in September, stormed over to her, practically dragging Dave by the neck of his robes, Mary wasn’t prepared at all.
“Potter,” the older girl snarled. “Your Client has committed an act of thievery against House Bletchley.”
“I didn’t!” Dave insisted, struggling against her grip. “I told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“Travis, search his bag.”
Bletchley’s little brother Travis was one of Dave’s fellow first years—and one of his attackers. He was probably still mad, Mary thought, that she’d called him a ‘squibby little arsewipe’ in front of everyone, because he was glaring at her with a look of absolute contempt. The kid didn’t even try to make the farce believable either, but only plunged his hand into Dave’s bag and pulled out a book without looking for more than a second.
The older Bletchley took the book from her brother, holding it up for the assembled Slytherins, now mostly watching quietly as the drama unfolded. “Are you aware of how rare this book is, Potter?” she demanded. “This mudblood stole it from me. As you have taken on the role of his Patron, I demand satisfaction from you on behalf of my House.”
Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, Mary said, more to the assembled students than Bletchley herself, “Don’t be ridiculous. What would my Client want with that book? You clearly charmed it Unnoticeable and planted it in his bag simply to make an excuse to challenge me.”
But Bletchley didn’t seem thrown off by how quickly Mary had caught on to her plan. “Are you impugning the honor of my House by accusing my brother and I of deception?”
“I am, if you are impugning the honor of my Client by accusing him of theft,” Mary retorted.
That was the point at which things escalated. All of the Slytherins began taking sides, the blood purists rallying behind the Bletchleys so quickly that it was as if they’d planned it. Which Mary was almost certain they had—they’d clearly been waiting for a chance to challenge her patronage of Dave since last term.
On Mary’s side, meanwhile, she had all of the neutral students in her year—Lilian, Blaise, Theo, and Daphne—plus Dave and his friends, Morgana Yaxley and hers, and a handful of people associated with the Quidditch team—Sadie Rosier, Envy Seran, and Blake MacDougal. Before long, Lilian and Envy’s brothers joined them. A few seventh year girls Mary barely knew were annoyed enough by the obnoxious bigotry of the other side—who had devolved to shouting that Mary and Dave were a ‘filthy blood traitor’ and a ‘worthless mudblood,’ respectively—to step up as well.
Unfortunately, most of the other older students—in particular Flint and all the prefects besides Morgana and Sean—decided to stay neutral. Though that wasn’t too surprising: Flint mostly cared about the team, and there were players on both sides, with Draco Malfoy and William Higgs joining her accusers, the great prats. The prefects, meanwhile, who formed the de facto leadership of the House, preferred not to fight amongst themselves where others could see, sort of like a miniature version of the first House Rule.
Finally, a sixth year on the blood purists’ side, Thane Rowle, stepped up and called out, “The proper thing to do, seeing as this is a matter of Honor, would be to call for a duel, rather than brawling like a bunch of mudblooded Gryffindors.”
A bloody honor duel? Really? Before Mary could respond, though, Morgana and Envy were shouting back that she would be more than happy to duel Bletchley on behalf of her Client.
‘Happy’ was not the word Mary would have used. While she’d kind of expected something like this to happen sooner or later, that didn’t meant that she felt prepared for it.
If she had been thinking properly, rather than caught up in the chaos and her own indignance, not to mention the encouragement of the two older girls, it might have occurred to her that she was playing right into their hands. There was no way she could win: Bletchley was not only sixteen or seventeen to her thirteen, but also huge (which wouldn’t necessarily make a difference in a duel, but served to make her even more terrifying).
Besides that, hadn’t Professor Flitwick said honor duels were illegal under most circumstances? But before she could think it through, the entire House was dragging her out to the same old dueling arena Flitwick’s club used, all of them seeming caught up in the excitement of the fight. Mary had barely even said anything before she was pushed up onto the platform, face-to-face with Bletchley, their housemates a wall of noise around them, booing and cheering and heckling the two girls.
Facing down the terrifying sixth year, looming over her like the nearly grown adult witch that she was, visibly smug that they’d cornered her into this duel, all that Mary could think was, This was a very bad idea.
Having spent the entirety of what was meant to have been his break adjusting the wards to prevent dogs from entering the castle, thanks to the revelation that Lupin had been hiding Black’s status as an animagus the entire first term, Severus was forced to spend the first week of classes finishing the work he had meant to do over the holidays, and did not find time to meet with Miss Granger until Saturday evening.
Mary Elizabeth’s comments to him after her return to the castle, obviously motivated by jealousy as they were, had confirmed what he had suspected for some time: Miss Granger was not doing well at all.
In truth, perhaps he had forgotten that just because he had been able to handle jumping headfirst into the Dark Arts at Miss Granger’s age, that did not mean that she was. As his Anipsiá had reminded him mere weeks before, unlike himself, Miss Granger had lived a life largely sheltered from the evils of the world, and it was not unexpected that she would find the knowledge of the darkest sorts of magics difficult to come to terms with.
After Mary Elizabeth’s statements under the influence of the truth serum (“You’re scaring her”), Severus had kept an eye out for strain, but he had underestimated the degree to which Miss Granger would be able to hide her state from him. Not that he had not suspected, but he would not have thought she had devolved to the condition which Mary Elizabeth had described to him. As a legilimens, however, he was quite adept at determining when others—particularly non-occlumens—were lying to him, and his goddaughter’s questionable motivations did not change the fact that she had been telling him the truth.
Obviously, things would have to change. Having a research assistant was useful, yes, but not worth destroying the mental health of a young student. Not to mention that, given her intelligence and ruthlessness, a Miss Granger with an intensive knowledge of the Dark Arts and a mental instability provoked by said knowledge would hardly be any less dangerous to herself and others than the ignorant, bullheaded child whom he had begun teaching.
Miss Granger needed guidance and supervision, and her potential as a researcher should not be squandered, but Severus was beginning to think that he was not the best influence on the young Ravenclaw. At the rate she was going, it seemed equally likely that she would either undergo a complete collapse, or else use the things he taught her to become a genuine threat to the world around her—no longer out of thoughtlessness, but rather, intentionally. Particularly given the budding interest in politics which she had developed over the past months.
He had put quite a bit of thought into the best way to go about this. To speak the truth, of course, would be counterproductive—it would only provoke the stubborn girl to try to prove him wrong. What he needed was to direct Miss Granger towards a new, safer outlet, one which would be less damaging to her mind when she inevitably became obsessed with it, and which would be more difficult to turn to dangerous ends. Even better if he could direct her towards a mentor with more free time and less… troubling interests than himself.
Severus believed he had found an acceptable solution. When Miss Granger sat down in the chair in front of his desk, her hair a frizzy mess about her head, dark circles under her eyes—despite the fact that, with a time turner, she should have as much time to sleep as she might need—he did not give her a chance to ask if he had finished reading her most recent report before saying, “I am afraid our work has drawn some unwanted attention.”
“What do you mean?”
“Over the break,” he began, lying smoothly, “I was approached by your Head of House. Madam Pince, it seems, has become concerned by the quantity and… subject matter of the books which you have been checking out from the restricted section, and she brought the matter to Flitwick. He wished to know why I had allowed you an unlimited pass to said books.”
Miss Granger immediately began to look panicked, her emotional regulation clearly impaired by her exhaustion. “What did you tell him?”
“I invented an extracurricular project you were pursuing on the topic of Defense with the intention of compensating for the inconsistency of instruction which you have faced in this area. He accepted this excuse, but remains suspicious. We will need to make some changes this term. I cannot risk the Headmaster discovering my… collection.”
Chewing her lower lip—a rather irritating habit which, despite his scolding, she had never managed to break—Miss Granger said, “What kind of changes?”
“You will continue researching the matter of the ritual which took place in the Chamber of Secrets, but from a new perspective. Specifically, arithmantic.”
He went on, explaining that it would be helpful to come up with arithmantic models of the rituals which had been performed. A task which was, of course, far above the skills of a student who had only begun taking the subject this year, and would thus require a significant amount of study before she made any progress—but this, of course, was the point.
It was no lie when he told her that it would be helpful. Arithmancy had never been his area of expertise, and if Miss Granger managed the task, it would inform his own research into the matter, which would remain more in the realm of the Dark Arts. He even had an arithmantic breakdown of the horcrux ritual which he could provide her when she reached a point at which she could actually understand it.
(Lily had derived it as a Yule gift for him in fifth year, although she had extracted a promise that he find a power source other than a human life if he chose to use it. He had never pursued actually performing the ritual—as a teenager, he had simply found the idea of it exciting, more for intellectual than personal reasons.)
On the other hand, this mission would serve a dual purpose of requiring Miss Granger to approach Septima for extracurricular tutoring in the hopes of learning enough to complete the project, getting her out of his hair without leaving her completely unsupervised with a time turner in her possession. Septima was not someone he would call a friend, exactly, but she was one of the more sensible members of the faculty and had been a Ravenclaw herself. She would know better than he how to channel and temper Miss Granger’s obsessive tendencies.
Arithmancy was not a completely harmless discipline, of course—the ends to which Bellatrix had turned it during the time he had known her proved that well enough—but it was one of the most benign subjects which had any use to his research, and he knew Miss Granger already had a knack for it. All in all, he was quite pleased with the solution which he had found.
“You will, of course, have to return the restricted section pass which I have given you, but once you begin working with Vector, I am certain she will be happy to allow you access to any books you may need.”
He could see Miss Granger hesitating—annoyed by the thought, as he had known she would be, that she would no longer have unlimited access to whatever she might be interested in. “But what about the rest of it?” she asked. “If I’m not looking into it, who will?”
With a small smirk, he told her, “There’s that classic Granger arrogance,” and her mouth fell open, torn between confusion and offense. “I made do without your assistance before. In any case, you have made enough progress in the topics on which we have focused thus far that I have a foundation from which to continue—particularly as we are wading into areas which are beyond your abilities as a third year, well-read or not. It will be of the most help to me for you to focus on a new point of approach.”
“But—you’re so busy!” He thought he could see an ambivalence within her—she wanted to believe herself essential, but at the same time, as Mary Elizabeth had said, part of her wished for an excuse to stop. Well, he was willing to provide her one.
“I will make the time to do what is necessary.” He always did, after all, even if it meant using the blasted time turner which he had kept from his days as a Death Eater, when Bellatrix had used him as a test subject for the project. When Miss Granger failed to look convinced, he added, “Trust that I am as committed to finding answers for Mary Elizabeth as you are.”
Frowning, Miss Granger said, “I suppose you’re right. I don’t want you to get into trouble, either. It’s only… I don’t think I can forget, not now that I know what’s out there.”
That was, of course, the danger of the Dark Arts. That particular Pandora’s box tended to be rather difficult to close, and he realized that, perhaps, he ought to have been slightly more hesitant in encouraging the obsessive young Ravenclaw to open it.
Still, she was young yet. Even with the time turner taken into account, she had been pursuing the subject for less than a year, and her knowledge was still theoretical. She had not seen what he had seen, in the war—did not have the images in her mind of what the Maleficia could truly do when put into practice.
Despite being the one who had put her into this position in the first place, however, he had no easy answers for her, other than, “You might consider spending a little less time on your studies, and more time with your peers. In all honesty, it would behoove you to use the time turner less, to make yourself more a part of the world around you.” Anticipating her argument, he added, “You will be of no use to me—or anyone—if you drive yourself to the point of a nervous breakdown.”
“I suppose…” she began, clearly reluctant to admit that the fate of the world did not rely entirely on her efforts. In all honesty, he doubted that she would listen to his advice, but at least the potential damage would be limited by her change in focus.
Before either of them could say anything more, though, the fire in his hearth flared green, and Poppy’s voice called out his name, a strained urgency in her tone that did not bode well at all.
He was on his feet in an instant, vaguely aware of Miss Granger standing as well, stepping forward to hover behind him. “What?” he snapped, knowing this could not be anything good.
“It’s Miss Potter,” she said, and the ground seemed to drop out from under him. “Severus, she’s—I need your help.”
Severus did not bother saying a single word to Miss Granger—in truth, he nearly forgot she was there at all. He only stepped through the fire, heart already in his throat, to find Poppy wringing her hands with what appeared to be half of his fucking House standing behind her, looking varying degrees of guilty or horrified. Even at a brief glance, a few specific images registered in his mind: Miss Moon’s tear-streaked face. Mr. Rhees’s wide, terrified eyes. Miss Yaxley’s solemn guilt and fear.
“Everyone who is not a patient or a healer, out!” he snapped, feeling a brief glimmer of satisfaction at how they scattered at the sound of his voice. “What happened?”
Poppy was already drawing him up to a bedside, where—
No.
Lying motionless in the hospital bed—skin pale and cold, lips blue, blood-soaked robes torn open at the chest and shoulder to reveal the mangled flesh beneath—was Mary Elizabeth.
Notes:
A few lines of the conversation in History of Magic are taken from CS. Also, having Hermione be mentored by Professor Vector is an idea that Leigha came up with while we were brainstorming about this fic.
I didn't include Mary and Bletchley's fight because it's the same as in Chained Servant, I didn't want to rewrite it, and I suck at writing fight scenes anyway, but if you're interested in reading it, it's the first scene in Chapter 27 of CS. You can jump over and read it there, or wait until the next chapter of this fic, where it'll be discussed in hindsight.
Chapter 18: Stay
Notes:
This chapter coincides with Chapter 27 of Chained Servant.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For the smallest, most horrible of seconds, Severus thought the girl was dead. A moment later, however, the rest of his senses caught up to his eyes. He could feel her mind, her magic, although it was as weak as a guttering candle burnt down to the bottom of the wick—and, when he looked closer, he could see the smallest motion of her chest as she breathed in and out.
Just unconscious, then, and… cold? Touching a fingertip to her neck confirmed it: she was freezing, her skin cold as ice. “What happened to her?”
“Blood-Cooling Curse,” Poppy said shortly, and he swore under his breath. “She fought under it for nearly five minutes before succumbing, according to her housemates. Magically exhausted her. Took a strong slicing curse to the chest and shoulder as well.”
“Fought?” Severus repeated, his voice going cold with his anger.
Behind him, Miss Granger made a noise, alerting him to the fact that she had followed him through his Floo and had failed to leave with the rest of them. He briefly considered throwing her out, but so long as she stayed out of his way, it would be more disruptive to take the time to tell her to leave than to simply ignore her.
“A bloody honor duel against Miss Bletchley,” the Healer said, sounding—well, not nearly as angry as he felt, but he was not sure that it would be possible for anyone to sound as angry as he felt. “The older girl took a number of snakebites, mostly to her leg and arm—non-venomous, but she lost a lot of blood as well. She’s stable, should recover by the morning.
There was someone in the bed next to Mary Elizabeth, another, bigger girl in blood-soaked Slytherin robes. He had not noticed until this very moment, and found that he did not have it in him to care. A witch fully of age using an illegal, Dark curse on a third year girl half her size? On Mary Elizabeth? Poppy had said she was stable, so, as far as he was concerned, she might as well not exist at all.
Particularly not when Poppy was saying, her voice grim, “But Miss Potter… I don’t know. She’s weak, Severus—her pulse is so slow, and her magical reserves are completely depleted.”
Severus rolled up his sleeves, staring down at the girl in the bed, looking as though the life was draining out of her by the second—thought, in some back corner of his mind, how horribly small she looked, how helpless, nothing like the girl who ran around the castle getting into trouble, yelling at him over her werewolf friend, flying stunts over the Quidditch pitch—and got to work.
Two days later, Severus was fucking exhausted, and every bit as furious as he had been the moment he had seen her in that bed. More so, even. But Mary Elizabeth lived.
He had spent the entirety of Saturday night in the hospital wing, and most of Sunday as well, with only a few quick breaks for just enough food and rest to keep him from collapsing completely as he worked with Poppy to keep his student alive. On a few occasions, he’d used his time turner to steal a few hours of sleep without leaving her side, despite his visceral hatred of the infernal device.
When they’d begun, Mary Elizabeth’s body temperature had bordered on hypothermia, although this had turned out to be an unexpected blessing: the only reason she had not died of blood loss from the enormous slash across her chest before her friends could even bring her to the Healer was that the Cooling Curse had inhibited her bodily functions enough to slow her bleeding. Her magic was nearly depleted from attempting to resist the curse, and from fighting under the strain of it. Several times throughout that first twenty-four hours, she had come close to slipping away from him entirely, her life preserved only by the very utmost of his and Poppy’s abilities combined.
She was stable now, though not recovered from her magical exhaustion or from the curse—if she was not continually kept under warming charms, covered in blankets and hot water bottles, she would quickly slip back towards hypothermia. Nor had she woken up, lying just as horribly still as she had been when he’d first seen her.
Still, the improvement in her condition had at least allowed him to leave the hospital wing long enough to get a sparse few hours of sleep and to deal with his worthless fucking students.
A grown witch had baited a fucking third year into an honor duel; Mary Elizabeth, whom he had thought he might have taught a modicum of fucking sense over the years, had rushed headfirst into the trap; and the pair of them had nearly fucking killed each other, Bletchley throwing around Dark, illegal curses, Mary Elizabeth conjuring a bloody snake to attack her opponent. Bletchley had pulled through faster, but she had been in the hospital wing all of Saturday night as well, being fed blood-replenishing potions, Poppy’s apprentice knitting her wounds together while he and the Healer worked on Mary Elizabeth.
Still, their survival did not change the fact that two of his students had nearly died while his entire fucking House had stood by, not only watching but fucking egging them on.
He was not sure he had ever been more furious, or more disgusted, with his Slytherins.
He had shouted at the entire House for well over an hour, making it clear that if anything like this were to happen again, every single one of them would be banned from the next Hogsmeade visit, and the instigators would be in detention for the rest of the year. He thought he might regret not simply going ahead and banning them from the village already, if only to give them some punishment, woefully inadequate as it felt, but it was more important to use the leverage to make sure a rash of honor duels did not break out among his students.
Bletchley, he had given detention with Filch every night until the Easter holiday—frankly, she was lucky he hadn’t expelled her. He might have tried, had he thought the Headmaster would agree to it. Mary Elizabeth’s punishment, on the other hand, would have to wait, seeing as Poppy was not expecting her to wake until Tuesday morning.
At least, he suspected, even the most staunch blood purists among his students would leave her the fuck alone now. From what he’d gathered, and what her supporters in the House had told him, seeing her fight a sixth year to a draw, continue fighting despite a Dark curse and a massive wound, and set a serpent on the older girl with Parseltongue had been enough to cement Mary Elizabeth’s reputation as someone not to be trifled with.
Which was not to say that he was any less furious with her—but if one good thing were to come out of this fucking insanity, it would be that her housemates would be unlikely to test her like that again.
His anger had not dissipated after his verbal evisceration of his students—one which had reduced many of the younger Slytherins, Miss Moon included, to tears—and, given his inability to tell the unconscious Mary Elizabeth what a reckless fucking idiot she was, it had overflowed onto any other target within reach.
Poppy had taken offense several times to his manner of addressing her while they worked, accusing him of ‘barking orders’ at her and attempting to remind him that she’d been the school Healer since he was a student, as though that mattered in the slightest. At another point, Lupin was stupid enough to attempt to hover around the girl’s bedside, impeding his access as he worked on healing her—had Poppy not been present, Severus might have actually cursed him for that.
Miss Granger had been irritatingly present as well, insistent on sitting vigil over her friend, but at least she knew better than to get in his way. Thanks to her time turner, she was able to stay with Mary Elizabeth practically every second, if under the invisibility cloak at some points, so he had enlisted her to fetch him the moment the girl awoke.
Meanwhile, other versions of Miss Granger, turned back in time, continued showing up at his office whenever he was not teaching or in the hospital wing himself, asking his thoughts on Mary Elizabeth’s recovery, whether there was anything she might do. He considered telling her to fuck off, and occasionally did, but on other occasions, he simply allowed her to stay as he muttered, more to himself than her, every vicious thought he had about the fucking imbeciles who called themselves his students.
Perhaps queen of the imbeciles was, of course, Mary Elizabeth. Bletchley was vile, and many of his Slytherins were apparently idiots, but it was his Anipsiá who had chosen to duel someone against whom she was hopelessly outmatched, putting her life on the line for a fucking book.
And here he had dared to hope that some of her recklessness might have been curbed by the many detentions of the past term. While she had still ended up in the hospital wing in November, at least it had not been her own doing, unlike many of her previous misadventures. But it seemed that the girl was simply incapable of thinking of her own safety, particularly when riled up.
Severus had to admit that he was not at all certain what to do with her. He could give her more detention, but if the lesson had not sunk in already… She seemed to have inherited many of the worst traits of her parents, from Potter’s noble stupidity to Lily’s hot-headed impetuousness and disregard for her own limitations. Of course, it hardly helped that she was thirteen. Perhaps in a few years, she would grow out of this foolishness—but only, of course, if she survived those years, which was questionable, given that she seemed determined to help the Dark Lord along in his mission to kill her.
It was during one of his many repetitions of this mental rant throughout the days in which she lay unconscious in the hospital wing that an idea occurred to Severus—an uncomfortably Machiavellian one, yes, but an idea nonetheless.
Mary Elizabeth had developed an… attachment to him. Ridiculous, yes, but at the same time, utterly predictable, given her experiences thus far and the position he held in her life. And while she might not care for her own safety, she did seem to care, at least, for his opinion of her.
He would need to keep a closer eye on her in any case—that much was clear. He had come to understand that the Grangers, for all their affection for her, were not necessarily a source of stability in her life. Miss Granger felt guilty enough for her fight with her friend—that much was clear in her behavior over the past few days—but that did not mean that they would not continue to quarrel. And even if all smoothed out from here and the elder Grangers did adopt her, they would not be present for the ten months out of the year she spent in the castle.
Minerva, meanwhile, was too busy to pay much mind to her charge, taking up many of the Headmaster’s duties when his attention was drawn to the political realm, while Lupin was… Lupin. Even putting aside his character, as a Defense professor, he was unlikely to remain in the girl’s life in any significant way past the end of the school year.
No, this would have to fall to Severus. What Mary Elizabeth needed, he suspected, was not a temporary punishment meant to teach her a lesson, but ongoing supervision. She needed someone to involve themselves in her life, to take notice of her before she went and got herself nearly killed. And while her dependence on him was slightly worrying, and would likely only increase if he involved himself further in her life, it also meant that she might actually fucking listen to him. He was not above leveraging her silly fixation on himself to keep her from running off into danger.
In any case, given both her abusive upbringing and the amount of trauma she had endured throughout the past several years—not to mention the fact that she was still half a child and, as she’d pointed out, lacking anything close to parents—it was unsurprising that she felt the need to depend on somebody. It was through no fault of her own, after all, that she had been deprived of support, attention, up to this point. Developing a dependence on an attachment figure was a natural response to that deprivation.
He would, of course, have to keep to certain boundaries—the last thing he needed was the ridiculous girl getting the wrong impression. Although he hoped that, perhaps, she would grow out of the intensity of her interest in him before she had a chance to realize its nature.
But in any case: if Mary Elizabeth wanted his attention so badly, well, she could bloody well have it.
Mary awoke with a groan, cold and aching. It took her a moment to realize where she must be: the hospital wing. I knew that was a bad idea…
The last thing she remembered was Bletchley on the ground, disarmed by Mary’s snake, shouting, “I yield, Potter,” but… it had been too late, hadn’t it? She’d done something to Mary, some bruise-brown curse she didn’t recognize making her slow, weak, before hitting her with a slicing curse that had ripped her open from shoulder to breastbone, and though Mary had held on for as long as she could, she’d ended up collapsing to the ground right in front of her pinned opponent, to exhausted to even accept her surrender.
Someone had vanished her snake then, and someone else had shouted her name… she thought. It was hard to put her thoughts in order, like whatever Bletchley had done to make her slow and weak and cold hadn’t gone away. She’d woken up in the hospital wing lots of times before, but she wasn’t certain she’d ever felt this horrible.
Slowly, she tried to grab her glasses and wand from the side table, where Madam Pomfrey always put them, but Hermione’s voice interrupted her. “Don’t try to get up; it’ll set off the wards.”
Of all the people to find when she woke up, it had to be Hermione. But Mary couldn’t even bring herself to be annoyed, really—she was too busy feeling like she’d been hit by a bloody truck, and also like she’d spent hours outside in the snow. She could only shiver, clutching the blankets closer to herself, and mutter, “What happened? I’m really cold…”
“Here, I’ll heat up some water for you.” A moment later, Hermione handed her a steaming mug, which Mary accepted with an honestly pathetic amount of gratitude—even more so as Hermione began digging through the blankets, pulling out what seemed to be hot water bottles and renewing the warming charms on them.
“It’s Monday night,” Hermione informed her when she was through, then checked her watch. “Nearly Tuesday, actually. You’ve been unconscious a bit over fifty hours—Madam Pomfrey hadn’t expected you to wake until the morning. You were hit by a Blood-Cooling Curse during the duel, which is why you’re so cold. You won’t be able to regulate your own body temperature until sometime tomorrow.”
Mary groaned, then cast a suspicious look at the Hermione-shaped blur hovering over her. “You weren’t there.”
“No, but I was unfortunate enough to be in Snape’s office when Madam Pomfrey Flooed him. He was… not pleased. And Lilian filled me in on the rest.”
Of course she was in Snape’s fucking office. Mary didn’t respond, just glared morosely at nothing in particular, clutching the hot mug to her chest, using it more as a hand-warmer than anything. She wanted to know what had happened—if she could at least say Bletchley had gotten the worst of it—but she could wait to ask Madam Pomfrey or Lilian later.
Hermione sighed. “Lizzie, look, I don’t know what your deal is with Snape… but it doesn’t matter. I’m not doing research with him anymore.”
Mary blinked in her direction—she’d been expecting her to say something more like, ‘So get over it.’ “What?” she croaked.
“Professor Flitwick was poking around, trying to figure out why I was checking out all that stuff from the restricted section. Snape got nervous, so he’s pawning me off on Professor Vector.” There was a clear hint of bitterness in Hermione’s voice. “He says I can help with arithmantically modeling the rituals Riddle might have performed in the Chamber, but I think he might just be trying to keep me busy so I don’t cause any trouble with my time turner.”
“Oh.” Mary wasn’t sure what to say about that, and she found herself having trouble keeping from smiling. Snape had listened to her after all. And he hadn’t even told Hermione that Mary had snitched on her.
With a sigh, Hermione said, “I know you’re glad; you don’t have to try to hide it. I… look, Lizzie, I’m so sorry for what I said on New Year’s. I mean, I already was sorry, but… When I saw you here Saturday night, I really thought you were dead for a second.”
Mary couldn’t make out her expression at all, but she could hear in Hermione’s voice that she was fighting back tears.
“I think you nearly did die—if it hadn’t been for the Cooling Curse, Snape says you would have bled out. Even still, I think it was closer than he’s admitting. He was here most of yesterday trying to help you—I’ve never seen him so frantic before. He threatened to castrate Professor Lupin if he didn’t get out of his way and let him work.”
Mary, who had been beginning to feel a strange mixture of guilt and pleasure at the mental image of her composed Head of House ‘frantic’ over her, was startled into choking on a sip of her water. “He didn’t.”
“He did,” Hermione said firmly. “I was surprised at first by what you said about him being your godfather, but he really does care about you, you know. I’ve never seen him so worried, or so angry. Well, I think he would have been angry about it no matter who was involved, but still. Lilian said he shouted at the entire House—everyone who just stood back and watched you and Bletchley nearly kill each other, anyway, which was most of them—until some of the younger students cried.”
That probably shouldn’t have pleased Mary as much as it did. Still, she had to ask, “Was he angry with me?”
She heard Hermione inhale through her teeth. “I think so. More so with Bletchley than you, but he said he was going to have a long talk with you when you woke up. I actually need to go pretty soon—he insisted I fetch him once you were awake, no matter the hour. But, if he is angry with you, I think it’s just because he was as worried as I was.”
Still, Mary couldn’t help but dread whatever conversation she and Snape were going to have. Somehow she doubted he would hold off on yelling at her just because it was nearly midnight and she’d been unconscious for days.
“I kept thinking about it, you know—like, what if you had died, and the last thing I’d said to you was… that stuff about my parents, and I never got the chance to tell you how sorry I was. I didn’t mean it. I was just angry, and confused, because the way you were acting didn’t make sense. But I’ve been thinking about it, and… I guess I can’t really know what it was like, growing up the way you did. I think that maybe, having a family—or even a godfather who isn’t, you know, a crazy murderer—is, like, important to you in a way I can’t really understand. And I just… I don’t want to fight anymore.
“So… I know it doesn’t make up for what I said to you, but I wanted you to have this.” Rifling in the pockets of her robes, Hermione withdrew something flat and parchment-colored, pressing it into Mary’s chest. The Marauder’s Map, she realized. “It was your dad who made it, him and his friends, and I think it should be yours. Plus, I know I didn’t really have the right to forgive the twins for what they did to you, especially when they haven’t even apologized to you for it. I’ll give you the cloak back tomorrow, too—I just need it to get to Snape’s office and back up to bed tonight.”
Mary wasn’t sure what to say. Nearly dying, then waking up to find the person she was most angry at sitting watch over her bedside, only for her to immediately apologize and say all that, and to give her the bloody Map of all things, was kind of giving her emotional whiplash. She didn’t know how to deal with people fretting over her in the best of situations, and given her current level of exhaustion, it was almost too much.
She certainly wasn’t going to turn it down, though. Hermione was right—if the twins had given her the Map as a sort of apology, then really, they should have given it to Mary instead, especially since it had been her father’s. “Will you be able to get around without the map and cloak?” she asked, despite the fact that she definitely wanted them.
“I’ll make do. I think I’ve nearly got the Disillusionment Charm down. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be having any more research meetings with Snape after curfew. And… I might not use the time turner quite as much for the next little while anyway. You weren’t entirely wrong—it has been driving me a bit batty.”
Mary snorted. “You can say that again.”
“I just want to help,” Hermione insisted. “With, you know, Riddle. After what he did to Ginny, and what he might have done to you and the twins, and the Dark Lord trying to come back… I just want to do something to prepare. I… you don’t know him like I do, from Ginny’s memories. I don’t think he’s going to leave you alone. He’ll be back someday, and I want us to be ready, whenever that happens.”
Despite herself, Mary had to admit she could understand that. Still, “I appreciate that, but you’re not gonna be much help to anyone if you drive yourself mental in the process.”
“Funny,” Hermione said softly. “That’s just what Snape said. Speaking of which, I guess I better go get him—it’s already past midnight. I can tell you more about what you missed in the morning, if you like. Lilian and Dave and Professors Lupin and McGonagall have been by a lot, and some of the other Slytherins too, and your friends on the Quidditch team.
“But, for now… Lizzie, I really am sorry for what I said. I really didn’t mean it. I missed you when you left—we all did. And if you’d still be interested, I’d love to have you as my sister. I talked about it with my mum and dad and everything, and we’re all in agreement that you should be part of our family.”
Once again, Mary found herself overwhelmed, and had to take another long sip of water before she came up with a response. “I’ll think about it,” she finally said. She couldn’t make out Hermione’s face, but somehow, she got an impression of disappointment from her. “It’s not that I don’t forgive you—I do. I’m sorry I yelled at you over Snape, and if you want to be friends with the Weasley twins, I’ll deal with it. It’s just… a lot.”
Part of her still really wanted the Grangers to adopt her, but another part of her, honestly, didn’t want to get her hopes up, to start believing that she could have a family. Especially not one that Hermione might only be offering her out of guilt. And especially when she knew that, no matter how much they cared for her, she’d never be theirs in the same way Hermione was. She wasn’t sure that it wouldn’t be more painful to be close to them while still being unable to fully believe she was part of their family. Since New Year’s, she’d come to see the advantage in being alone, in taking care of herself; relying on other people could be more trouble than it was worth.
Not that she’d done a great job at taking care of herself recently, given that she’d apparently nearly died again, but still.
“Okay,” Hermione said slowly. “If you want to talk about it more, let me know, but otherwise, I’ll… give you time to think about it.” She sounded like she was struggling with the concept, which she probably was—Mary knew her natural instinct was to push. “I’m really glad you’re okay, and that you’re not mad anymore. Does this mean that we’re friends again? Even if you aren’t sure about being sisters yet?”
“Yeah,” Mary agreed, fighting back the urge to get emotional, to ask for a hug or something, because honestly, fighting with Hermione was the worst. Instead, she said, “Thank you for staying.” It meant a lot that Hermione hadn’t let her wake up alone, even when Mary hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. She liked to think that she’d have been as loyal if their roles had been reversed, but she wasn’t so certain.
“Of course,” Hermione said, and then she bent to hug Mary without even being asked, and Mary set her mug aside to hold onto her. When the hug ended, she leaned up and kissed Mary on the forehead, like she was a child or something, lips ridiculously warm against Mary’s freezing skin. “I’ll go get Snape for you now, okay?”
It embarrassed Mary, the way she said that. Knowing that Hermione was aware, at least partially, of how much more he meant to her than he should. Feeling like she was a needy child who had to be placated or something.
But… she really wanted to see him, even if he was going to yell at her. Knowing that he had told Hermione to get him right away, even in the middle of the night… It made her feel so good that it was a little scary, because she knew how bad it would feel if it turned out he didn’t care as much as Hermione claimed he did.
“Okay,” she repeated quietly, and Hermione wrapped the invisibility cloak around herself and was gone.
Despite her best efforts, Mary had all but fallen asleep by the time Snape came in. He moved as silently as ever, so she didn’t even know he was in the ward before the curtains on her bed were swept back enough to let his dark shape slip inside. For a split second, she thought he was a dream.
“Hi…” she mumbled sleepily, feeling a combination of happiness and sheepishness.
Snape let out a long, aggrieved sigh. “How many times is it now that you’ve nearly died since coming to this school? Four? Five?”
Mary frowned—counting was hard when she was this exhausted. “I think maybe nine or ten, but at least half of those were Quirrellmort.” Then, biting her lip, “Are you angry with me?”
All but collapsing into the visitor’s chair—a surprisingly ungraceful movement for him—Snape huffed and said, “What do you think?”
So that was a yes. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“You’re sorry,” he repeated incredulously. “What, precisely, are you sorry for?”
“Nearly getting killed again. I… I realized, right before the fight started, that they were setting me up. But I didn’t really know what else to do—Morgana and Envy—Enyo, I mean—said I’d do it before I’d even realized what was happening.”
“Be that as it may, you did not have to escalate to the use of semi-lethal spells.”
Mary winced—someone had clearly told him that she’d started out with Serpensortia. “It was the only strategy I could think of besides just running, which would have just made things even worse for Dave and I. I knew I couldn’t beat her in a fair fight, so I thought I should end it quickly.”
“And that would have been a sound strategy, were you in an actual, unavoidable fight.” Yep, that was definitely Lecture Mode Snape, the way he spoke as though spelling something out for a particularly dense child. “However, you had the option to run, as you said, or even to simply allow yourself to lose. Slytherins do not escalate against an enemy who has us outmatched—we bow our heads, take our licks, and survive to fight another day.”
“But I did survive, and I fought her to a draw, too!” she protested.
“You nearly died. In a duel over a bloody book. That is the most foolhardy, ridiculous… Do you not have the slightest sense of priorities?”
“It wasn’t about the book, it was about them accusing Dave of something he didn’t do! They made it sound like a matter of honor.”
“Honor will get you killed.” She could hear the sneer in his voice. “By approaching the situation like a bloody Gryffindor, allowing Bletchley and her allies to frame it in that way, you played right into their hands. You could have simply allowed them to believe themselves victorious, then pursued your revenge when you were not hopelessly outnumbered and underprepared!”
“I should have just… let her beat me?” Mary repeated questioningly. That hadn’t even occurred to her as an option. She’d thought that she had to stand up to Bletchley then, to put a stop to things before the blood purists in the House did something even worse.
With a sigh, Snape said. “There are a great many things which you might have done—all of which would have been far better than nearly killing yourself in an honor duel against a grown witch. You can rest assured that we will discuss them in detail once you are released from the hospital wing—after which, you will write me an essay on how you ought to have handled the situation.”
“Is—is that my punishment?” Just writing an essay? “I don’t have detention?”
“I confess, I am beginning to believe that no amount of detention will keep you from acting like a reckless dunderhead.” She glared at the dark blob next to her bed.
“I wasn’t—it all happened so fast. I didn’t have time to think of all of that! I thought if I didn’t stand up to them then, it would only get worse.” She wasn’t a dunderhead!
“Mary Elizabeth, I shall tell you this only once,” Snape began, suddenly sounding very serious. “You have a great many enemies. Being the Girl Who Lived in Slytherin House, claiming the title of the Heir of Slytherin and bucking many of the expectations society held for its golden girl before your reappearance, and making it clear that you plan to have a voice and use your position in politics by attending that Wizengamot session—all of that puts you in a unique and dangerous position.
“Being put on the spot is no excuse for acting rashly and without thought for your own safety. Your first instinct cannot be to protect your honor or your Client’s, or anyone or anything other than yourself, because if you die, or are incapacitated, those points are moot. You cannot save anyone else if you do not first save yourself. Do you understand?”
Mary curled in on herself, feeling chastened. The thing was, she’d known all that. With the Dursleys, she had survived by keeping her head down, swallowing her pride. But since coming to Hogwarts, things had changed. In Slytherin, being shy and polite hadn’t worked, and things hadn’t gotten better until she’d stood up for herself, made a show of strength. She supposed she just had gotten used to the idea that she couldn’t show any weakness, and backing down from that duel would have made her look weak.
“I understand,” she said, unable to look directly at him, even though she couldn’t really see him. Snape sighed.
“Your determination to defend Mr. Rhees was… admirable,” he said softly, and her eyes shot up to him in surprise. “However, if you are not smart about such things, you end up doing more harm than good. Do you think that Mr. Rhees is glad to have watched his friend nearly die on his behalf? That he is not lying awake at this moment, believing that your condition is his fault?”
“I—” Mary was struck speechless by that for a moment. She wasn’t sure why, really. Maybe she just felt so responsible for Dave that she couldn’t imagine him believing he was responsible for her getting hurt.
And maybe it was a little bit because, as the flying incident over the summer had demonstrated, it never really occurred to her until afterwards that other people would be upset if something happened to her. Angry, maybe, but certainly not worried. Even now, she half-expected Aunt Petunia to appear in the doorway, furious that Mary had chosen to inconvenience her by getting hurt—didn’t she know how much housework there was for her to do? Did she think the dishes were going to wash themselves?
“It wasn’t his fault,” she protested weakly. “It was my choice.”
“People often feel responsible for the well-being of those they care about, whether they ought to or not,” he said—a pointed comment, she was pretty sure, on her own actions. Before she could point out that he was the one who’d implied she should take Dave on as her Client, however, he continued, “Believe it or not, Mary Elizabeth, your actions affect more than just yourself.
“Miss Granger was beside herself with worry—she did not leave your bedside for over fifty hours. Your friends, Minerva, Lupin, every one of them was frightened for you, some already grieving the possibility of your death. Many of them blame themselves for failing to prevent what happened—rightly so, in the case of your housemates.”
Just when Mary was beginning to feel overwhelmed, like she could hardly breathe for the weight of other people’s concern for her, Snape went and made it even worse. Speaking very quietly now, he admitted, “I was frightened for you. Deeply so. I have hardly slept for days, working to keep you from the grave into which you seem so determined to throw yourself.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Although Hermione had told her as much, she had not expected Snape to bring it up, let alone to admit to being, as her friend had said, ‘frantic’ over her. Somehow, that was what did it, cut through all of her excuses: the knowledge that she’d hurt Snape deeply enough for him to admit it to her. For the first time, she found herself really believing that someone—that he—cared that much about her. Enough so that he had been terrified to lose her.
Almost dying hadn’t really seemed so bad before. She always figured, well, she hadn’t died, so what was the problem? Other people making a fuss about it was just embarrassing and annoying. But Snape would never say something like that if he wasn’t completely serious, and unlike most people she knew, he didn’t get worked up about things that didn’t matter.
“I’m sorry,” she said—whispered, really. And she meant it, she really did, she just didn’t know how to make him believe her. Spurred on by the thought that she’d disappointed him—hurt him—she admitted, “I just… don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to tell when I should pick my battles and let them win, and when I should fight back like I did with Draco in first year. I know dueling Bletchley was stupid, but… it’s hard, being in the Snake Pit. I feel like I can’t show any weakness at all, or they’ll just turn on me.”
Not Lilian, maybe, or Dave, but the rest of them… Even Blaise, Theo, and Daphne could be really mean when they sensed weakness. For some reason, she found herself remembering what Hermione had said, about the things Mary thought she had to do to fit in with them. She found herself remembering Thorpe, and nearly said something before she realized that telling her Head of House that she’d put someone in the hospital wing would definitely be breaking the second rule of Slytherin.
“I was twenty when I began teaching,” Snape said after a long pause, and she looked at him in surprise. “And when I became Head of Slytherin. Over half of my students had been my housemates, and knew me only as a poor, ill-tempered halfblood who got the shite kicked out of him by Slytherins and Gryffindors alike for years. Trust me, I understand the need to make a show of strength—but you must be aware of your own limitations.”
If she’d been less tired, she probably wouldn’t have said it, but Mary found herself blurting out, “Is that why you’re so mean?” Then, realizing what had just come out of her mouth, she winced and said, “Sorry, I didn’t intend—”
But Snape was actually chuckling. “I’m afraid I was likely born with this temperament. But yes, much of the current persona I wear can be traced back to the necessity of somehow gaining the respect of a plethora of entitled teenage Slytherins while barely out of my own teens.”
Mary bit her lip, trying as hard as she could to hide her happiness at his confession. These were always the best moments: the ones where he let her get a glimpse behind the Professor Snape mask. She couldn’t see him admitting to most people that it even was a mask.
“The time you spend writing your essay is what I will assign as your official amount of detention,” Snape said, abruptly switching back to an earlier subject. “That said, I would like to see you at least once a week for the next several months.”
“See me?” Mary repeated, wrinkling her brow in confusion. Was this more secret detention, like for the Veritaserum?
“As we were doing last term, only more frequently. You may help me in my lab or, if I happen to have the time free, we might simply have tea, as I am aware you do with Minerva and… Lupin.” The scorn in his voice reminded her that he’d threatened to castrate Remus over her, and she had to fight down another confusing wave of mingled flattery and exasperation.
“I—sure,” she said quickly. “But, um… why?”
“As I have said, you are in a very precarious position, and I happen to have at least some relevant experience. I believe it would be… beneficial for us to see each other more often. Not as a punishment per se, but, guidance, you might say. Or… supervision.”
Mary blushed—or, well, blood rushed to her face, though it failed to warm—at him putting it like that, like she was a child he needed to look after. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time…” she mumbled, staring down at the blanket.
“You are my goddaughter,” he said simply. “More or less, anyway. I can spare a few hours a week for you.”
Particularly, she realized, as he’d just stopped meeting with Hermione. It was actually a little frightening how everything had worked out just as Mary had wanted it. Snape and Hermione weren’t meeting anymore, Hermione had apologized and given her the Map and asked her to be her sister, Snape had shown he really did care about her, and now he was inviting her to spend time with him without her having to scheme her way into it.
All she’d had to do, it turned out, was nearly die.
Not that she would have done that on purpose, mind you. Especially not after… what he had said. But given that she’d nearly died quite a few times now, it was nice to actually get something good out of it for a change, even if she was more than a little suspicious at him suddenly deciding to do exactly what she’d wanted him to do. It almost made her wonder if he had read her scroll and knew how much it would mean to her—but no, if he had, he’d probably be avoiding her because he would know how crazy she was.
It was fine, she told herself. He probably didn’t know. She could pretend to be a totally normal person who wanted to hang out with her godfather a reasonable amount.
“Okay,” she said, suddenly feeling shy. “I… I’d like that.” Wait, was that a normal thing for her to say? It wasn’t exactly a punishment, but it wasn’t not a punishment either. Maybe she shouldn’t sound so happy about it? But it was also really nice of him, especially with how busy he was. And while she knew it wasn’t so straightforward as that, there was still the part of her that jumped to equate the amount of time he spent with her with a measurement of how much he cared.
Finally, even if it was weird of her, she decided to add, “Thank you, Theíos. For all the time you spent healing me, I mean, and, um, everything.” As she spoke, she was unable to keep from letting out an enormous yawn, her jaw popping.
“Once you are recovered, I will contact you with a time for us to meet and discuss your actions this weekend more thoroughly,” he said instead of accepting her thanks, reminding her that she still wasn’t entirely off the hook. But the fact that he was waiting to chew her out more thoroughly was surprisingly thoughtful—unless, of course, he was just worried she was too sleepy to remember whatever he said.
Still, when he added, “For the moment, you should get some rest,” it was with surprising gentleness—like he really cared. And when he renewed the warming charm on her blanket, the instant rush of comfort was such that she almost drifted off right then and there.
Before she could, though, an odd thought drifted across her mind, and, already half-asleep from the warmth surrounding her, she was unable to keep herself from acting on it. Just as he was getting to his feet, she reached out and grabbed hold of his sleeve.
“Stay?” she asked. “Just ‘till I sleep…”
The last conscious part of her mind was somehow surprised that he was tangible at all—that she could simply reach out and touch him, or even just his robes. She couldn’t remember them ever touching before, other than when he’d carried her out of the mirror room after Quirrellmort. Somehow, it seemed as if he should have a force-field around him, given how far away from everyone he always seemed to hold himself.
“Alright,” he said quietly, settling back into the chair. “Until you sleep.”
“Thanks…” she mumbled again, nestling down into the blissfully warm blankets, feeling like she was floating away. She was so sleepy and comfortable, it was like she was half in a dream already, scarcely aware of what she was doing or saying. “Y’know,” she whispered, “you’re always saving me.”
Snape didn’t say anything in response to that. Laying as she was on her side, facing him, she could tell he was looking at her, but couldn’t make out the expression on his face. Still, just his presence there, right by her bedside, made her feel… good. Safe. She smiled sleepily at him as her eyes slipped closed and her hand finally released his sleeve, falling limp against the edge of the bed, outstretched in his direction as though reaching for him even as she drifted off to sleep.
The last thing she felt before unconsciousness took her, so light she thought she might have imagined it, was the sensation of warm, gentle fingers brushing her hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear.
Notes:
Bits and pieces of Mary's conversations with Hermione and Snape are taken from or inspired by the corresponding conversations in CS, but a lot of the material is new to this fic.
Just to clarify, "Envy" is just a nickname; the girl who encouraged Mary to fight is Enyo Seran, a fifth year Slytherin who was a reserve chaser on the Quidditch team the previous year after coming in third for seeker (following Mary and Draco). She'll come up briefly in a future chapter so I figured I'd explain that now.
Chapter 19: Light in the Darkness
Notes:
Decided to post an extra chapter in honor of hitting 50 kudos! (And also just because I felt like it.) Thank you guys so much for reading and supporting this story! I'll probably do another one for 75 and/or 100 if this fic gets that many before reaching the end. Next update will still be this weekend.
This chapter coincides with Chapter 28 of Chained Servant.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione was back in the morning when Mary woke up, Lilian along with her, and together, they caught her up on everything she’d missed while unconscious.
Bletchley, who hadn’t been nearly as badly injured as Mary had, was already fully recovered, but in detention until Easter. Meanwhile, according to Lilian, everyone was leaving Dave alone—they seemed cowed by the fact that she’d taken Bletchley down, even if she’d nearly died in the process. Dave, however, seemed to feel personally responsible for Mary’s condition, just like Snape had suggested he might, and both her friends thought Mary should talk to him about it soon.
Meanwhile, Daphne had apparently come into the hospital wing Monday, while Mary was unconscious, to complain to Hermione about her missing her bloody tea party, as if nearly dying wasn’t a good enough excuse. The whole thing was beginning to feel a bit absurd, like she could run away to the Arctic and Daphne Greengrass would be there waiting for her, a tea service already at hand.
Mary had to face it: there was no escape. So long as she lived in Magical Britain, she would be trapped in a purgatory of endless tea parties.
Lilian and Hermione had her covered when it came to homework and notes, thankfully, and Flint had told Hermione that Mary was excused—or barred, really—from Quidditch practice for the next two weeks, but that “you’d better be ready to rein in the Firebolt after that, and stop hurting yourself, because he’s not going to miss out on the opportunity to rub Wood’s face in the fact that Slytherin has such a nice broom on the field come April.” Which, for Flint, was like saying, ‘I love you, get well soon.’
Remus had found a boggart they could practice with, and still thought they might begin on Thursday, but that was contingent on the approval of Madam Pomfrey, who had threatened to “help Filch string him up by his toes” if he put too much stress on Mary too soon after her near-death experience.
Professor Flitwick, meanwhile, had threatened to disband the Dueling Club if anything like Mary’s duel happened again, had forbidden any Slytherins from supervising dueling practices from now on (whereas before, sixth and seventh years from the club had been allowed to lead practices without a professor present), and had warded the dueling arena they’d used to keep students out.
Hermione said he was probably going to scold her just like Snape had, and that he’d said something about taking her knife away as well, because he didn’t think she could be trusted not to use it on her fellow students—even though she hadn’t used it when she’d fought Bletchley! Mostly because, if she was allowed to use a blade, her opponent would have been, too, and she undoubtedly had more practice than her, but still.
Mary felt surprisingly bad about Professor Flitwick, even though she hadn’t thought at all about his reaction before now—he’d been so helpful starting the club up again at her request, and if she’d ruined it for everyone, she’d feel awful. That, plus he was just so nice, she hated to think she’d disappointed him. And she had to figure out what to do about the knife, because she wasn’t certain he wouldn’t report her or Tonks if he noticed the illegal stealth enchantments on it.
Hermione had spared Mary the ordeal of telling the Grangers what she’d done, writing them as soon as Mary was awake in order to fill them in. Mary was certain she was going to have some very concerned, angry letters on her hands before long. She’d have to write to Catherine too, even though Professor McGonagall had probably already told her.
The most entertaining news, however, was that Hermione had dropped Divination. Not only that, but the way in which she had dropped it. On Monday, apparently, while Mary was still unconscious, Professor Trelawney had predicted she was in imminent danger of losing one of the people closest to her, and Hermione, in return, had called her a ‘sherry-soaked old hag of a fraud,’ stormed out of the class, and reported her to Professor McGonagall for unprofessional conduct.
Mary really wished she could have seen that—Lilian had confirmed that it had been legendary. However, Hermione didn’t seem to see the humor in the situation, too busy being disappointed at how useless the class had turned out to be. She had apparently tried asking Professor McGonagall how she could learn more about scrying, but the only professor who used to teach it, John McKinnon, had left teaching to work at St. Mungo’s as a mind healer when Dumbledore became Headmaster.
Mary was pretty sure Snape had told her about McKinnon before—something about him and Riddle putting out a paper on the connection between legilimency and freeform magic. She also thought Snape probably knew about scrying, since it had something to do with mind magic as well, but there was no way she was going to tell Hermione that when she’d only just gotten her away from him.
In the light of day, she felt a bit bad about that, but certainly not bad enough to confess. Plus, she was pretty sure this would be better for Hermione in the long run.
Mary had to stay in the hospital wing all day Tuesday, which was boring, even with the long nap she took in the middle of the day, but at least she’d slowly started warming back up. She might like snakes, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be cold-blooded like one!
Professor McGonagall stopped by to see her at lunchtime, looking more or less the way she’d looked when she’d found Mary at the Grangers’ after she’d run off over the summer: like she couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or furious. She scolded Mary for a bit, but got choked up halfway through, abruptly broke off, and hugged her, which was just weird. It made Mary think of Snape’s words from the night before, and guilt settled low in her gut at the thought that she’d hurt Aunt Minnie, too.
Between classes and dinner, Lilian and Hermione came back for another visit, this time with Dave and his friends in tow. Mary could see what they meant: the way Dave looked at her, it was like he wanted to fling himself down next to her bed and beg her forgiveness, even though it had been her own stupidity that had gotten her hurt. But with everyone there, they couldn’t really talk about it. Dave was like her; he wouldn’t want an audience for a talk like that.
Even after that crowd left, Mary wasn’t left alone for long: rather than going to the Great Hall, Remus came up to the hospital wing for dinner, having a house elf bring a plate up for him so he could eat with her and keep her company, which was honestly really nice of him. Though it also didn’t help with her growing feelings of guilt, especially with how worried he looked.
She wanted to apologize to him, too, but didn’t quite know how. Instead, she just told him about all the news her friends had shared with her that morning. She was in the middle of complaining about how she wasn’t meant to fly for two whole weeks when he stiffened. Before she could ask what was wrong, Snape had appeared.
Remus, for some reason, immediately got to his feet, though not like he was leaving. More like he was trying to be taller and more intimidating or something? (Which, he was taller than Snape, but if he was trying to be more intimidating than him, it was a lost cause.)
“Lupin,” Snape said coolly.
“Snape.”
Remus called him by his first name sometimes, Mary remembered, so him saying ‘Snape’ was probably a sign that he was still angry about the fight they’d had while she was unconscious. Interrupting the tension before it could boil over, she said, “Hi, Professor.”
Snape swept past Remus in a sort of catlike manner, like he’d decided not to bother with him after all, and approached the side of her bed, looking down his long nose at her. Which was when Mary’s brain saw fit to remind her of a half-forgotten moment the night before, when she’d grabbed his sleeve and asked him to stay with her, and she supposed it was a sign she was getting better that she could feel the heat in her cheeks this time.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, and she saw Remus giving him a surprised look from behind his back.
“Um… better,” she said. “Madam Pomfrey says I can probably leave tomorrow morning and go back to my classes.”
“Good,” Snape said, “then you can report to my office directly after dinner tomorrow for your detention.”
Oh, was that why he’d asked how she was? Mary was a little disappointed. Except that, if that had been all he’d wanted, he could have just waited to see if she was in class or at dinner tomorrow, or sent a note or something. Maybe he really had wanted to check on her, but didn’t want to show weakness or whatever in front of Remus? Or maybe not… but Mary decided she’d let herself believe that was the case.
“For Merlin’s sake, Snape,” Remus snapped. “Can’t you give the poor girl a break? She’s not even left the hospital wing yet.”
Honestly, Mary thought the fact that he hadn’t simply lectured her and made her write her essay as soon as she’d woken up counted as a break. “It’s okay, Professor Lupin,” she said quickly, before Snape could chew him out. “I don’t mind. I’ll see you tomorrow night, Professor Snape.”
She very much hoped the tone of her voice sounded like that of a student resigned to their detention, rather than someone who was actually kind of looking forward to it, but her hopes were not high.
With a sort of noncommittal hum, Snape nodded at her and turned on his heel, leaving without another word. Remus waited until he was gone before sitting down and saying, “I really can’t believe him sometimes.”
“He’s not that bad,” Mary said, and Remus gave her a look. “Really.”
(The ghost of a memory, fingers against her cheek—but that had been a dream, hadn’t it?)
“I’ll take your word for it,” Remus muttered, shooting another dark look in the direction Snape had gone, and Mary sighed. And here she’d thought that her conversation with Snape about Remus last term might have made things a bit better.
Mary was released Wednesday morning, rushing to her room to change before going straight to Defense, where she promptly exhausted herself trying to cast a Light Repulsion Charm in an attempt to convince Remus she was totally well enough to learn the Patronus. But he did reluctantly agree to see her and her friends the following evening after dinner, so it was worth it, even if she was on the verge of falling asleep on her feet by the time she got to Snape’s office—tired enough that she found herself agreeing with Remus after all. Why couldn’t he have given her more time to recover?
But it didn’t turn out as bad as she’d feared. Snape seemed to realize how tired she was, because he just made them both some tea, smirking a little at the sheer amount of milk and sugar she put in hers to make it palatable, and led her to the armchairs by the hearth, so that it hardly felt like a detention at all. And then they just talked—about what her other options had been, the ones she hadn’t thought about at the time.
For instance, as Heir Potter, she apparently could have just offered to pay Bletchley a small restitution for the book. Which would have meant accepting her lies about Dave, of course, but also would have caught Bletchley and her allies off guard by refusing to let them back her into a corner, defusing the situation.
Or else, Snape pointed out, she could have simply gone to him for arbitration, or threatened to involve the Headmaster. Apparently it was highly unlikely that Bletchley’s family would have allowed her to take a rare, valuable book to school, meaning that she was either bluffing, which would have embarrassed her to have called out, or likely hadn’t gotten permission from her parents to take the book outside their family library, which would have gotten her into trouble with them.
This was especially the case because most rare, valuable books from pureblood House libraries were rare because they were either restricted, banned, or anathema (which apparently was a category of material so forbidden that the Ministry tried to destroy everything related to it, like the Árthra). If Mary had involved the Headmaster, it was pretty likely he would have confiscated or destroyed the book—which meant that if she’d threatened to do so, Bletchley probably would have been forced to relent. Or Bletchley’s lie might have been found out, and then she would have been in trouble for trying to frame Dave.
Mary hadn’t known most of that—like about most rare old books being illegal to have outside a family library, or that she could just throw money at a problem and make it go away. But she did know she should have involved Snape, like she’d done when Creevey was stalking her. In fact, Snape explicitly said so on several occasions during their talk, making it clear that what he was most angry about was her failing to go for him for help when he’d told her that he would look out for her.
Honestly, if her essay just read, “I will ask Professor Snape for help before putting my life in danger,” repeated over and over again until she’d filled the scroll, she had the feeling that he wouldn’t be displeased.
Near the end of their talk, she also worked up the courage to ask, “So, hypothetically, if I had already acquired a dueling knife which was attuned to my magic, and if that dueling knife were enchanted so that the hilt wouldn’t show through clothing, and I were to willingly hand this knife over to you, would you be obligated to report me to the Ministry and/or Headmaster?”
At Snape’s exasperated stare, she elaborated, “Hermione said that Professor Flitwick wants to confiscate it, but he doesn’t know about the enchantments, so I thought it might be better if I gave it to you. Hypothetically.”
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I assume I have that pest Miss Tonks to thank for providing my most foolhardy student with an illegal, concealed weapon?”
“I certainly couldn’t confirm or deny such a thing,” Mary said, ignoring the fact that, if he asked Professor Flitwick about it, he’d tell him that she’d gotten it from Tonks.
In lieu of answering, Snape simply held out one hand, looking at her with a raised eyebrow until she finally relented, pulling the sheathed knife from her book bag and handing it over. She’d only have to hope that he wouldn’t tell anyone, or get Tonks in trouble—after all, he wouldn’t want to discourage her from being honest with him, would he?
Snape drew the knife from the sheath and examined it. “Old,” he commented. “And it’s seen a lot of use. Which of the Blacks did this belong to?”
“Tonks said she inherited it from her mother, who got it from Madam Walburga Black—Sirius Black’s mother.”
“Hm.” After a little more inspection, Snape re-sheathed the knife and closed his hand around it. When he opened it again, the knife was gone. Without meaning to, Mary let out a small noise of distress, and he looked at her, amused. “It hasn’t been destroyed—only sent somewhere for safekeeping.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling a bit silly. She came close to asking if that meant he’d give it back to her someday, if she behaved herself and didn’t get into any more honor duels, before deciding that during her detention for said honor duel was probably not the best time to ask. Better to wait at least a few weeks—months, maybe—until he’d had time to cool down.
Instead, she said, “Thank you,” in spite of the fact that he still hadn’t explicitly said that he wouldn’t turn her in.
He inclined his head slightly in response. “If Filius asks, you may tell him that I have already confiscated the knife from you as your Head of House.”
It was hard to tell, but she got the impression that he was pleased she’d offered the knife up to him without anyone needing to force her. It felt good, knowing that she’d done something he approved of for once, especially so soon after his chastisement of her. She still wasn’t looking forward to telling Tonks she’d immediately lost ownership of her family knife, but at least it seemed like neither of them were going to get in trouble over it.
All in all, it was probably the most pleasant ‘detention’ she’d ever had, especially since, when he saw her yawning, Snape said she didn’t need to start on her essay right then, so long as she handed it in to him by the end of the week.
Which meant she’d probably have to write it Friday, because the next night, she and Lilian and Hermione had their first Patronus lesson. She hated to admit it, but Remus had been right—things had sorted themselves out between her and Hermione, even if not in a way any of them could have predicted. Lilian didn’t say so, but Mary could tell that she was relieved her two best friends weren’t fighting anymore.
They started out practicing without the boggart, simply thinking of a happy memory and trying to call up the Patronus. Remus told them his own memory as an example: it was of James confronting him about being a werewolf, and all of his friends accepting him despite the Curse. Hermione said that hers would be of getting her Hogwarts letter, while Lilian’s was of her first puppy.
Mary, meanwhile, decided to think about her first time on a broom. And when she tried casting the spell, she was surprised to find that it kind of worked: she produced a bit of silvery smoke from the tip of her wand on the very first try! Hermione and Lilian didn’t manage it nearly as quickly—it took forty minutes of trying, and brainstorming different memories, before they’d all produced something.
She might have made up with Hermione, but Mary was still kind of glad to be better than her at something for once. But when Remus finally let the boggart out, and it turned into a dementor, every happy thought was gone, and she heard her mother screaming, and not one of them managed to produce anything at all.
Finally, fed up, Hermione strode forward, and the boggart shifted… into a teenage Tom Riddle, his arm around an image of Hermione, except that her eyes were jet black and her veins were standing out dark under her skin. Mary couldn’t be sure, but she had the feeling that this was Hermione from the vision she’d seen the other Yule, the one who’d gotten far too deep into the Dark Arts.
Hermione tried casting the counter-curse, but it had no effect at all, and Riddle only taunted her. “Is that the best you can do, Maia-bee? Perhaps one of you others ought to give it a go. The sheep in wolf’s clothing? The young murderer? What about you, granddaughter?” He hissed the last word in Parsel, so that no one but Mary could understand him.
Before he could give away her secret to her friends, Mary stepped forward, crying, “Riddikulus!”
The boggart was replaced by Ginny Weasley, dressed up in frilly pink robes like she was about to attend one of Daphne’s tea parties. Or, more precisely, a possessed Ginny, meaning that it was really Riddle wearing the robes—Riddle who cried, “Not funny!” and stomped Ginny’s foot as they began to laugh.
Remus stepped forward, trying to force the boggart to change again, but before he could, it flipped him two fingers, shouted, “Bugger off! I’m going!” and stormed back to the box he’d kept it in, climbing back in and closing the lid behind itself.
The four of them ended up howling with laughter at that, and it took Remus a minute to collect himself and ask, “Who even was that?”
Lilian answered, even though she was the only one of them who didn’t know what Riddle looked like, explaining that Ginny had been possessed the year before. When that explanation failed to satisfy him, Hermione reluctantly added, “I ended up with a copy of Ginny’s memories of last year. And before you ask, you really don’t want to know how.”
Glaring at the three of them, Remus announced, “Someday, I will no longer be your professor. And when that day comes, I want a full accounting of what the bloody fuck is going on in this school!”
Unfortunately for Remus, this only made the girls laugh all the harder.
They tried twice more, but failed to produce even the faintest of wisps when confronted with the boggart-dementor. Finally, Remus announced that the lot of them might be masochists, but that three rounds with a dementor was plenty for him, and sent them off to bed.
Mary was left exhausted after that—from overexerting her magic so soon after her bout in the hospital wing, and her detention the night before, and the boggart-dementor. And yet, she still had to write her essay for Snape. It was easy enough, given that he’d basically given her the answers, but it still took most of her free time on Friday, and she only had time to eat a quick dinner before finishing it up and bringing it to his office.
She’d been prepared to just leave the scroll outside his door, but it was unlatched, so after a moment, she knocked gently, and he called for her to come in. When she’d handed over the scroll, though, before she could leave, he asked, “Did you have any luck with the Patronus Charm last night?”
Right, she had mentioned that during her detention. “Not really,” she admitted. “I produced some silver mist before the dementor—or, boggart—came out, and Maia and Lils too, but once it was out…” She shuddered. Then, remembering how hard they’d laughed, she added, “Hermione’s boggart is Riddle, by the way, but I turned it into Riddle possessing Ginny while she was dressed up for a tea party. It was hilarious. Remus—er, Professor Lupin, I mean—was so confused. I think he’s cross that he’s so out of the loop on everything we get up to.”
Then she realized she was rambling a bit, but luckily, Snape wore a slight smirk, so at least he found it kind of funny. Either that, or he was laughing at Remus for having the misfortune to be less informed than him. “The fact that you were able to produce anything at all on the first try is an encouraging sign.”
“I got it first,” Mary bragged. “Like, right away. It took Hermione another thirty minutes, and Lilian even longer.” Then she blushed, realizing how silly she sounded, bragging to him like that.
But Snape only said, “I’m not surprised. From what I’ve seen, new spells come more easily to you than most others your age.”
No one had ever said so to Mary before, and she found herself blushing even further. “Thank you, sir,” she said shyly, looking down, then remembered she didn’t have to call him ‘sir’ when they were alone, which only made her more self-conscious than she’d already been. When she dared to glance up, his lips were twitching like he was trying not to laugh at her, and she decided she should probably leave before she embarrassed herself any further.
She opened her mouth to say goodnight, but that wasn’t what came out. Instead, she found herself saying, “I was wondering… might I see it again? Your Patronus, I mean.”
Merlin, why had she said that? It was true that she had been thinking about it, wishing she’d gotten a better look at the doe, or that Lilian hadn’t been there distracting her. And, well, she had just felt really nice for a second last night, when Remus had cast his own Patronus to demonstrate the charm. With the dementors around, there was this sort of nearly imperceptible aura of gloom to the castle, one which she only noticed when it was lifted.
“Haven’t you had enough lessons for one week?” he asked, looking surprised.
“I didn’t mean to ask you to teach me. I just kind of… wanted to see it.” Oh no, she was being weird again, wasn’t she? Rushing to explain herself, she said, “I mean, it was beautiful, and when Remus cast his yesterday, or when you showed Lilian and I the first time, I felt so much better.”
Snape just looked at her for a moment, and she fought not to blush again, trying to exude an aura of normalcy, like this was a totally not weird thing for her to ask of him. Finally, after a moment of contemplation, he said, “Very well.”
Without even leaving his chair, Snape cast the spell again, and the ghostly light of the doe flooded his office. Mary immediately felt a thousand times better. The doe exuded such a sense of calm and warmth that she found herself instantly relaxing, as though she’d climbed into a hot bath.
Sneaking a glance at Snape, Mary wondered if he felt better with it here too. He certainly seemed more relaxed, just like he had the first time he’d demonstrated it for her. If she could cast a Patronus, she thought, she would want to do so all the time—unless it was too much effort? Hermione had said it took more than eighty times as much energy as a Lumos to initialize, though it was lower once it had been cast and was only being maintained. She didn’t want to think that she was making him drain his energy to do this for her. But he seemed unbothered, only looking at her without a word.
Mary turned to face the doe, watching it approach her. She wondered how he could just ignore it—whether he’d cast the spell so many times that the beauty of it didn’t even register to him. She couldn’t imagine. Once again, as it nuzzled into her hand, the contact giving her only the electric feeling of magic on her skin, no actual texture or weight to it, she found herself marveling that this had come from him.
Too soon, though, Snape dropped the spell, and the doe faded away, leaving Mary feeling strangely bereft. She didn’t want it to leave; she didn’t want to go back to her lonely room in the dungeons.
When she was younger, Snape’s office had creeped her out, with all the jars of potions ingredients and the dim, cave-like atmosphere of it. Not to mention that she was usually only there because she was in some trouble or another. But, at some point, it had become not only familiar but comfortable, the crackling fire and the shadows flickering over the room, the stone walls making her feel not confined but protected.
For the moment when the doe had been there, she’d felt almost perfectly content. She wanted to ask him to bring it back, to let her stay. But she couldn’t ask him for that sort of thing—at least, not when she wasn’t in hospital after a near-death experience. Still, there was something heavy in her chest, something that wanted to revolt against the knowledge that the moment was over.
There was nothing else she could do, though, but say, “Thank you, Theíos,” hoping that she sounded properly grateful. Snape acknowledged her with a slight nod of his head, and she turned and left the room, feeling with each step as though she were forcing her feet in a direction they did not wish to go.
Notes:
The dialogue in the Patronus lesson with Remus is copied from CS, as is Flint's message to Mary. The rest is original.
Chapter 20: Between Innocence and Experience
Notes:
This chapter also coincides with Chapter 28 of Chained Servant.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The weeks after her duel seemed to drag on. Without Quidditch practice, Mary wasn’t quite sure what to do with her time. She spent more time with Hermione, now that they’d finally made up, and explored what her friend called the Room of Requirement with her and Lilian.
Professor Flitwick gave her a bit of a talking to, but he didn’t punish her or anything, seeming to think her brush with death was punishment enough. Nor did he ask about the knife, so she assumed Snape had already spoken to him about that.
She exchanged a few letters with the Grangers and Catherine. As she’d suspected, all of them were upset with her, though none gave her quite the dressing down she’d received from Snape. Still, she was uncomfortably aware that she had more than proven Emma’s point from the summer about her carelessness with her own safety.
In their letters, Emma and Dan reiterated Hermione’s words: that they’d all talked about it after Mary left, and that they wanted to adopt her in the muggle world if she consented. She thanked them for the offer but asked for more time to think about it. At the moment, she didn’t really feel capable of working out her complicated feelings on the subject—and, if she was being honest, she kind of wanted to see if the peace between herself and Hermione would outlast the older girl’s guilt.
A week after their first Patronus lesson came the first full moon of the term. Two days later, on Saturday, Mary went to Remus’s office for tea, a bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans in hand. She’d owl-ordered them from Honeydukes with the intention of giving them to him Friday morning, but had unfortunately forgotten that it would still be dark until after classes had started, and that he’d therefore be busy being a wolf, so she’d decided to just wait until they were going to be seeing each other anyway.
“I come bearing gifts,” she announced, shaking the bag as she entered the room, and he looked up at her from where he was setting out his tea set, obviously confused.
“Er… thanks? What’s the occasion?”
“You know… the moon,” she whispered, glancing upwards for some reason, then shaking her head at her own silliness. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Oh.” Remus just sort of looked at her for a moment, and she nearly blushed, wondering if bringing him a post-full-moon gift was a weird thing to do. She just couldn’t seem to be normal with her professors lately! But then he smiled weakly and said, “Thank you, Mary, that’s very thoughtful.”
Handing him the bag, Mary took a seat in the chair in front of his desk, and he dragged his own chair around to sit beside her so as to be more informal. “I meant to give it to you yesterday,” she said, “but I guess you probably transformed last night too.”
“No, only Thursday night. Why did you think I transformed last night?” he asked, sounding confused.
“Blaise Zabini and I were talking about it,” she said, and he made a little face, the same way he had when she’d said that Blaise had told her about how some werewolves had packs. She was pretty sure he didn’t like Blaise—hadn’t, probably, since that first class. “He said werewolves transform two days on either side of the full moon or something?”
“We can,” Remus corrected, “but the Wolfsbane Potion inhibits the first and fifth night entirely, and on the second and fourth, the transformation can be avoided with enough self-control. I stay behind the wards on those nights, just in case, but I haven’t transformed on any nights but the full moon since I started taking the potion.”
“Oh.” Mary considered that for a moment, then frowned. “Why weren’t you at dinner Tuesday night, then?”
Rolling his eyes, Remus said, “I was trying to get ahead on my lesson plans and marking, since someone had to cover my first class yesterday morning, and he used the lack of a lesson plan last time as an excuse to deviate from the schedule. Bastard.”
Mary bit her lip, frowning to herself. She was pretty sure he was referring to the werewolf essay Snape had assigned to Hermione’s class back in November. Honestly, she could understand why Remus was angry about that—she’d been angry about it, before Snape had explained his reasoning to her. Besides that, she’d gotten the feeling Remus was even more anti-Snape since her duel than he’d been before.
(Which she supposed made sense, given certain threats which had been made regarding certain parts of his anatomy.)
It still made her feel awkward, though. Remus didn’t normally outright insult Snape in front of her, not since she’d scolded him for calling her Head of House a ‘greasy git’ the first time she’d met him, and she wasn’t entirely sure how she should respond. Even if she understood where Remus was coming from, she didn’t like him talking about Snape that way, and she didn’t want to give him the impression that she agreed with him or something.
As she pondered this, Remus, who’d been giving her a sidelong look, added, “You know, I’m not supposed to say this, but your Head of House is a dick.”
Caught off guard by Remus calling someone a dick, and the tone in which he’d said it, Mary nearly laughed. A moment later, though, she caught herself, folding her arms over her chest. “He is not.”
Remus just looked at her, like he had in the hospital wing.
“Well… maybe sometimes,” she admitted. “But that’s not why he talked to your classes about werewolves, you know. He really was worried about the students’ safety.”
“Is that what he told you,” Remus said flatly, like he didn’t believe her, and Mary glared at him.
“Yeah, it is.” At his continued skepticism, she added, “I thought the same as you—that he was just trying to out you as a werewolf because he hates you. We, er, actually got in a fight over it. But then he explained it to me.”
“You… got in a fight,” he repeated slowly. “With Snape.”
Mary wasn’t sure why he was saying it like that. Okay, it was a bit odd to say that she’d ‘gotten in a fight’ with one of her professors, but he wasn’t just any professor. He was Snape. Things were different with him. He was basically her godfather, after all (though she supposed Remus didn’t know that). It was hardly any different than the rows she had with Aunt Minnie.
“Yeah,” she said again, trying not to blush at the memory of how self-righteously she’d told him off, and how embarrassed she’d been when he’d turned out to have a point.
“Okay…” He was still talking in that weird way, like he thought she was a bit mental. Then, shaking his head, he said, “I don’t know what, exactly, Snape told you, but I think the situation is more complicated than he might have implied. There’s… a lot of history between us. Old grudges that he’s never quite gotten past.”
“Like the prank?” Mary asked, because she’d been thinking about her theory, and the best way to confirm it seemed to be to mention it to Remus and see if he reacted—after all, he was way easier to read than Snape. “The one Sirius Black played?”
To her satisfaction, his mouth fell open slightly. “He told you about that?”
“Not really,” she said. “I just kind of worked it out from stuff that you and he—and the Headmaster—said. Tell me if I’m right: Black played a ‘prank’ on Snape, except the prank was, he tried to make it so that you—werewolf you, I mean—would, like, bite him or turn him or even kill him. But then James stopped it from happening and saved his life.” Remus was looking at her now like she’d grown a second head, and she grinned. “Am I close?”
After a long moment of silence, looking like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or hide his face, Remus shook his head again and said, “Nothing gets past you, does it?”
Well, if you and Snape didn’t want me to figure it out, you shouldn’t have been waving a Mystery in my face all year. But even as she thought that, the troubled, uncomfortable expression on his face grew, and she realized that maybe it had been a bit insensitive to bring up something that still clearly upset him.
“You do know it wasn’t your fault, right?” she asked, before he could sink too much deeper into the self-loathing she was pretty sure he felt. “If it happened like I said, then you and Snape were both the victims. Only person whose fault it was is Black.”
One more reason for her to hate him. Although she did kind of wonder how Remus could have possibly gone back to being friends with him after that.
“I… don’t like thinking about it,” he said, instead of answering the question. “Up until your parents died, it was the worst day of my life.”
Suddenly, Mary felt guilty for even bringing it up, and for prying so much into their past. Unless, of course, he was just trying to make her feel guilty so she’d drop it… but no, he wasn’t that Slytherin.
“Sorry,” she said. “For what it’s worth, though, it wasn’t your fault. I told Snape that too.” Remus’s eyes flashed up to hers in surprise, and she quickly added, “I mean, I didn’t know the whole story until you confirmed it, but he said enough for me to get the general idea.”
“You… told Snape that my nearly turning him wasn’t my fault?”
“Um, yeah. When we were, you know, fighting.”
If she’d thought Remus had looked taken aback before… “He let you get away with that?”
“Well, he did yell at me a bit,” Mary admitted.
“Still, I’m surprised you’re not in detention for the next fifty years.”
She laughed at that, even though he didn’t sound like he was joking. “He’s really not as bad as you think.” Not that she could blame him—most of the school probably thought the same. But Mary knew better, and that made her feel a bit smug, if she was honest with herself. “He can even be nice, when he wants to be.”
“Severus Snape? Nice? Have you been Confunded?” He was squinting at her eyes, and she was pretty sure he was joking, but there was something weird in his tone.
“Well…” She folded her arms over her chest, feeling strangely awkward under the scrutiny. “He’s nice to me, anyway.”
For some reason, Mary almost immediately got the impression that she’d said something wrong. She wasn’t sure exactly why—it was just the way Remus looked at her. It made her feel like, maybe she shouldn’t have said that, or told him about their fight?
It wasn’t like it was a secret or anything. But then, she supposed that her friends and people didn’t really know that she and Snape had the kind of relationship where she could get angry with him and he’d talk to her about it instead of punishing her—even Hermione didn’t really know how they talked when they were alone. And the way Remus was looking at her made her feel… exposed. Like she was doing something wrong, even though she wasn’t.
Especially when he asked, “Do you and Snape… talk often?”
“Um, yeah, I guess,” Mary admitted, because even though it felt weird, she knew she wasn’t actually doing anything wrong—it wasn’t a secret—and acting evasive would have just made the whole situation feel even weirder. “I have tea with him, like with you, or help him in his lab—brewing stuff for the hospital wing, or preparing ingredients for his stores, that sort of thing. Like every week or two.”
“Isn’t that basically what he makes students do as detention?” Remus asked, sounding incredulous, and she shrugged uncomfortably.
“I like Potions. Besides, Snape is, like, really busy, so it’s better if we do something productive while we… talk.” She’d nearly said ‘hang out,’ but somehow she thought that would sound even weirder. Not that it was weird, but Remus was acting like it was and making her second guess herself.
“How did this come about, anyway?” he asked casually—but, like, too casually? “It’s hard to picture Snape being friendly with any student, even Lily’s kid. Or actually, maybe it’s just hard to picture him being friendly with anyone, period.” He chuckled to himself at that.
The whole godfather thing wasn’t a secret, right? She didn’t think it was, even if it felt kind of… personal. Anyway, she’d already told Hermione. A little reluctantly, she said, “Well, you know that he grew up with Lily, right? And they were best friends—like brother and sister.”
“Erm…” Remus said, clearly about to make some comment about Snape fancying Lily again, and she hurried to keep talking before he could.
“Something like that, anyway. So basically, that makes him kind of like my uncle, or my godfather, or something. I mean, technically Alice Longbottom and, you know, Black are my godparents, but since one is a Death Eater and the other isn’t… healthy, Snape’s like the closest thing I’ve got. And you, of course,” she added quickly, not wanting to offend him.
“So Snape and I talked about that—about how he would have been my godfather, if things had been different—and decided that means he kind of is, and that’s when he invited me to be informal with him.” Then, although she knew she was rambling, she added, “And I’ve been seeing him more since the whole honor duel thing—he says I need ‘supervision.’”
Remus had been looking thoughtful as she spoke, but he snorted at her last few words. “He’s not wrong,” he admitted, and Mary scowled at him. “Well, I suppose that does explain it. Still, I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.”
She wasn’t sure she knew what he meant by that. Had what in him—being nice to her? Caring about someone?
At least Remus had stopped making that face, but still, Mary didn’t like the way he was talking about Snape. Even if he was kind of rude to Remus, he also brewed his Wolfsbane, and she knew from reading up on it with Hermione that it was an extremely complex brew. Yeah, he was definitely doing it for the students’ benefit, not Remus’s, but that didn’t mean Remus didn’t owe him for it.
“He’s not as bad as you act like he is,” she insisted again. “And you’re not as bad as he acts like you are, either.”
Remus looked slightly offended by that for some reason. “He’s the one holding a grudge, not me. When I say he’s a… git,” and she was pretty sure he’d almost said ‘dick’ again, “it’s because of how he behaves now. He hasn’t given me any reason to think any better of him.”
Mary shrugged, wanting to argue with that but not being able to. Snape did act like a git to Remus a lot of the time. “He’s meanest when you’re around,” she finally said. It was true—Remus pretty much brought out the worst in Snape, something even she found uncomfortable. “But that doesn’t mean he’s like that all the time, just because that’s all you see.”
“I suppose,” Remus said, like he didn’t want to admit it. It was more subtle than Snape’s outright animosity, but she thought that even Remus was pretty attached to the idea that the other professor was awful. Which still bothered her, but she didn’t know what else she could say to change his mind. In any case, he quickly changed the subject. “So, looking forward to being able to fly again?”
They talked awhile about that, and about what she might do different for the next Patronus lesson the upcoming week—they were planning to meet every other Thursday—and what form she thought her Patronus might take. Which reminded her, finally, of something she’d been meaning to ask for months.
“Wait, what were Peter and Black’s animagus forms?” she asked. “You never told me, except that my dad was a stag.”
“Peter—Wormtail—was a rat, and Siri—Black was a dog. Padfoot.”
Huh. Well, she supposed that explained the nicknames.
As Mary left Remus’s office, however, she couldn’t help returning to the thought of how strange their conversation had become for a moment. It just unsettled her—left her feeling like she’d made a mistake of some sort.
Which was silly, except, what if it was a secret? What if Snape didn’t want people knowing that he was nice to her, like it could ruin his reputation or something? But… it was just Remus. Snape knew she had tea with Remus, so Remus knowing she did the same with Snape didn’t seem like it should be an issue… She didn’t know why Remus had acted like it was so weird, either.
Things would be a lot simpler, she thought, if her two professors and pseudo-godfathers could just get along.
The following day, Mary and Hermione and Lilian went to the Room of Requirement and turned it into a big, open room, like a muggle gymnasium, but with no gravity, and had a great time bouncing all around and trying to stun each other. It was a lot harder to aim while floating through the air!
Then, on Monday, Luna Lovegood cornered the three of them in the library to ask—or, well, demand—that they celebrate Imbolc with her the following night. The Light sabbat, also known as Maiden’s Day, was only celebrated by children—by the standards of magic, that was, which meant anyone under fifteen—and not at all within Slytherin House, given that there weren’t any Light traditionalists among them. Or even in the school, as far as Mary knew, other than Professors McGonagall and Flitwick and, apparently, Luna.
Actually, she was mostly asking Mary and Lilian. When Hermione took offense to being ignored, Luna actually laughed at her before explaining, “Hermione Jean, Imbolc is the celebration of the Youthful Power—honesty, innocence and naiveté. Your soul is not a child’s soul, and your choices have carried you far into her Dark sister’s realm. Eve chose knowledge over innocence, and you would do the same, would you not?”
Hermione reacted to this with a significant amount of paranoia, clearly trying to determine what Luna knew about her studies in the Dark Art and how, while Lilian, who still didn’t even know about her studies with Snape, looked on in confusion. Mary, meanwhile, felt even more vindicated in her decision to tell him about Hermione’s nightmares.
At Hermione’s offense, Luna finally invited her to come along as a witness, even though she wasn’t allowed to participate, telling them all that she would see them at the Scrying Tower just before midnight the next day.
“Which one is that again?” Lilian asked.
“The one where the air is clearer, and Sight is paramount: the sounds of the castle don’t reach it, and you can see the whole grounds, if you care to look.”
Wait, that sounded familiar. Was that the same tower where Snape always went on Yule—or at least the previous two years, when she’d run into him?
“The one off the sixth-floor corridor with the statue of the Children of Cerridwen?” Mary asked.
With a nod, Luna said, “Yes, the Scrying Chamber. It’s the only place in the school where one can see past the anti-scrying wards.”
“Wait, there are anti-scrying wards on the castle?” Hermione asked, apparently not having forgotten about her mission to learn proper divination.
“Of course there are! Daddy says they’re to stop people spying on the school, but they stop the school spying out, as well.”
Fixing an intense look at the younger Ravenclaw, Hermione demanded, “You know about scrying, then? Can you teach me?”
Luna looked amused, Mary was pretty sure. “Just like Eve,” she murmured, a weird note of fondness in her voice. “I can try, Hermione Jean.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” But Luna had already started walking away, leaving Hermione to chase after her, demanding an explanation.
“Should we be worried about Maia killing her one of these days?” Mary asked, watching the pair of Ravenclaws leave.
Shaking her head, Lilian said, “You’d think she’d realize Luna is just winding her up… Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d say they were flirting. It would explain Luna letting her come along to the ritual, and agreeing to try to teach her scrying, anyway. But if Luna is, I don’t think Maia’s realized it.”
“Wait, you think Luna is interested in Maia? She’s like twelve.” Wasn’t that a little young to start fancying someone? Mary hadn’t even started thinking about that stuff yet, and Luna was not only younger than her, but also seemed to barely live in the same world as them half the time. Fancying someone, never mind flirting with them, seemed too mundane for someone like Luna.
“So? You were twelve last spring, and that didn’t stop you mooning over Envy.”
“I was not!” Mary replied, shocked. “I just wanted to learn all her tricks before she left the team for her OWLs.” The older girl was an amazing stunt-flier, though she had never made the starting string, having lost the position of seeker to Mary and, like Lilian last year, lacking the upper-body strength to hold her own as a chaser.
“What about Snark? I’ve seen you checking out his arse in his robes.”
“He’s a good flier too!” Mary had not been checking out Sextus Feldsmark’s arse. The accusation was ridiculous.
But Lilian wouldn’t bloody drop it. Next, she brought up Kirke, who was a Ravenclaw boy in Aerin’s year who had asked Mary to Hogsmeade. Mary had mentioned, at one point, that she might have said yes to him if she’d been able, but that was just because he was the only boy who’d asked that she was actually friends with! That didn’t mean she fancied him.
“Who do you fancy, then?” Lilian demanded. “There must be someone.”
“There’s not!” Mary insisted, her face growing hot—not because she fancied anyone, but because Lilian was making a scene and it was bloody well embarrassing!
“I bet there is. Is it Blaise? Diggory? Daphne? Ginny? Draco?” Lilian just kept on going, listing off whoever she could think of. “Oh Merlin, it’s not Dave?”
“Ew, no! Dave’s like… a little kid!”
Lilian gave her a speculative look, and Mary got the feeling that, whatever her friend was about to say, she wouldn’t like it. “So that’s it, huh?”
“What?” Mary snapped.
“I bet you’re into older wizards,” Lilian said, and Mary’s mouth fell open. “Oh Morgana, you totally are. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. You’ve been so weird around Professor Snape this year. You keep staring at him, and you were, like, basically flirting with him that day we saw his Patronus.”
“What?! Flirting?” Mary sputtered, struck almost speechless for a moment. “I was not! What are you talking about?”
“Hey, don’t get mad. I hear a lot more people fancy him than you’d think. It’s not that weird. He is fanciable enough, in his own way, even if he’s not exactly what I’d call fit…”
“I do not fancy Professor Snape!” Mary said it as firmly as she could, but from the look on Lilian’s face, her denial was just making her even more convinced of the ludicrous idea. Frustrated by the fact that she couldn’t say anything to change her mind, since apparently even arguing would be seen as evidence of her guilt, she decided to try another tactic: “But I’m starting to think you do.”
That, to Mary’s relief, actually worked—Lilian got distracted enough by trying to convince her that she didn’t fancy Snape that she dropped the topic. At least until dinner, when she pulled Blaise and Pansy into a game of Guess Who Mary Fancies. Blaise treated the whole thing as a joke, suggesting people like Percy Weasley and Hagrid, but Pansy seemed to take it seriously. Before long, she and Lilian had convinced themselves that Mary definitely had a secret crush she was trying to hide from them.
Sometimes, Mary really hated Slytherin girls. Or maybe just teenage girls in general. She spent most of the meal trying her best to ignore them while inwardly fantasizing about stabbing them both with her fork, or setting snakes on them or something—but she’d learned her lesson about that, at least.
Mary refused to speak to Lilian for the rest of the evening and all the next day. Just as she’d feared, all sorts of rumors had sprung up about her fancying Envy, or Kirke, or, worst of all, Snape. Because Lilian couldn’t just accept that Mary didn’t fancy anyone and keep her bloody—no, Mary thought, her fucking mouth shut. And she’d had to involve that absolute bitch Pansy Parkinson.
She was only hoping that the rumors wouldn’t somehow get back to Snape. That was the last thing she needed, especially when she felt so awkward around him, and she still wasn’t sure if he’d read her scroll. Given all the nonsense she’d said under the influence of the truth serum, if he heard people whispering that she fancied him, he might actually believe it, and then she would never be able to face him again.
And she didn’t fancy him. She really didn’t. She knew that she was acting differently around him this year, as Lilian had pointed out, but that was because, well, he was basically her godfather, and also he was really confusing and inconsistent in whether he chose to be nice at any given moment, or open up to her, or act like a total bastard instead. He was like a puzzle, one that she kept poking at because she couldn’t figure it out.
But she didn’t fancy him. Fancying someone meant wanting to, like, snog them, and she couldn’t imagine snogging anyone, nor could she imagine Professor Snape snogging anyone, so the combination of the two things was doubly impossible to imagine. He was a professor, and she was thirteen, and snogging sounded gross and wet and unpleasant. And that was without even getting into the other stuff people did when they fancied each other.
She just… wanted to be his favorite student, in a totally normal, not-fancying sort of way. Because he was really kind to her, sometimes, and showed her his Patronus, and saved her life, and told her things that Dumbledore wouldn’t, and didn’t even care that the Dark Lord was her grandfather. Because impressing him was difficult, which meant that she felt extra proud of herself whenever she actually managed it.
(Because she wanted to be special to someone, at least.)
In a way, she was offended that Lilian had suggested that she had a crush on him, because that seemed so juvenile. Frivolous. A crush was, like, Pansy fawning over Draco when he clearly didn’t like her back, or Hermione getting all pink and silly over Lockhart last year, before she’d realized what an idiot he was.
Mary’s relationship with Snape was way more complex than that. He was her Theíos, and he protected her, and, well, a million other things that were way more important than snogging and whether someone was ‘fit’ or not. For Lilian to try to reduce it to something like a dumb little crush was insulting.
Not to mention, Snape wasn’t even in the category of people one could have a crush on. Crushes were meant to be guys like Diggory or Kirke or even Blaise, not Professor Snape. He was… old, and weird-looking, and intimidating, and completely off-limits, and just… not a person who belonged in the category of potential crushes. When she’d touched his sleeve in the hospital wing, it had surprised her that he was even tangible. Having a crush on him would be like having a crush on Merlin or something.
What had Lilian been thinking?
Mary kind of hated her friend for even making her think about it at all, because it was just such a weird thought, one that never would have occurred to her if Lilian wasn’t being stupid. And she was already bad enough at being normal around Snape without her making Mary think about things like snogging him and how weird it would be.
What was worse, she already had plans with him the following evening, before the ritual, and unless she wanted to make up an excuse to cancel, that meant spending hours in his presence after bloody Lilian and bloody Remus had made her feel weird about things that were perfectly normal, thank you very much!
Though she tried to keep her mind off of it, the problem with hanging out with Snape was that he wasn’t exactly talkative most of the time. Which meant that she was left with entirely too much time to think—after all, drying herbs for his ingredient storeroom wasn’t the most intellectually stimulating of tasks.
Finally, near the end of the evening, she broke. It didn’t even feel like she’d made the choice to talk—more like she’d thought about it so hard that the question had gone from her head to her mouth without any input from her.
“This isn’t a secret or anything, right?”
Snape paused in his work, giving her a strange look. “What do you mean?”
“I was talking to Remus the other day,” she said, having mostly given up on trying to use his proper title in front of Snape by now, “and I mentioned that I was helping you in your lab sometimes, and that you’re kind of like my godfather. Is that… I mean, that was fine to tell him, right?”
Mary had tried to convince herself it was, but Remus’s reaction to the whole thing had made her incredibly self-conscious, and Snape was just a very private person in general. (Also, worrying about that meant she didn’t have to think about what Lilian had said.)
“No, it’s not a secret.”
For some strange reason, Mary felt a little bit disappointed? Which was silly, especially since if it was a secret, she’d already given it away.
But then he added, “However, it might be best not to spread it around Slytherin House as a whole. Your friends knowing is one thing, but were it common knowledge that you are my goddaughter, your housemates might begin to suspect me of favoring you over them.”
“Oh… okay. I won’t.”
They kind of already did think that, actually, at least since her duel with Bletchley. Some were scared of her now, but others resented her for getting off with less punishment than the older girl, saying it was favoritism on Snape’s part. It was nonsense, of course—Bletchley was nearly four years older than her, and had used a Dark curse on her, and Mary had almost died. But that hadn’t stopped people from whispering about it behind her back.
When Snape said it, however, she had to fight the urge to smile. Somehow, she liked the idea of having a sort-of-secret with him, especially one that would make her housemates jealous if they knew.
In any case, he didn’t have to worry about her running around telling everyone. She hadn’t even told her friends she was meeting with him like this. Or, well, Lilian and Hermione knew she did sometimes, but not this often—usually she just made up some reason that she was busy, and since she had the Map now, they had no way of seeing what she was up to.
It wasn’t like she was doing anything wrong, it was just that Snape was a sore topic for her and Hermione, and she hadn’t wanted her friend to think that she’d just swooped in and replaced her as soon as they’d stopped meeting (although, honestly, that was pretty much what she’d done). As for Lilian, Mary mostly just hadn’t wanted her to tease her, like she had at the start of the year, but now that she’d come up with her ridiculous theory about her fancying Snape, she certainly wasn’t going to tell her. It would only give her more ammunition.
Unfortunately, that thought only led her away from Remus’s weirdness and back to Lilian’s insanity, and thinking about that was not the best idea when the wizard himself was in the room with her. It only made her think about how weird it would be if she did fancy him and wanted to snog him or something, and about the entire concept of Snape and snogging in general, and then she was suddenly very aware of his presence and the fact that he could, if he wanted to, read her mind and know that she was thinking about weird, gross things, and it was all Lilian’s fault.
And—what if he knew what people had been saying about them today? What if that was why he’d said the thing about her housemates thinking he favored her—because he didn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression?
Mary shook her head a little and focused her attention back on stripping the leaves from the dittany sprigs in her hands, doing her very utmost to keep both her face and her thoughts as normal as possible. She was just drying herbs with her professor/godfather whom she definitely didn’t fancy. Nothing weird about that.
Damn you, Lilian.
Not wanting to deal with her irritating friend, Mary left for the Scrying Tower early, sneaking out of her dorm under the cover of her cloak not long after curfew. Between Lilian’s behavior, the harassment from her housemates over the matter of her nonexistent crush, the weirdness with Remus, and the fact that they’d all managed to make her feel even more awkward around Snape than usual, she was hardly in a mood to celebrate any Power, let alone Innocence. If anything, Destruction would have been far more suited to her mood.
Still, she’d given her word that she’d be there.
At the top of the tower, she found not only Luna and Hermione, but also Ginny and a group of fourth year Ravenclaws: Aerin, her girlfriend Lara, Kirke, and a boy named Thomas Atwell. Most of them, like Mary, were dressed in dark clothing, suitable for sneaking around the castle after hours, but Luna was wearing ethereal white robes that made her look rather like a ghost—the same ones she’d worn to the Midsummer ritual last year.
“Tonight we’re invoking the Youthful Power in the aspect of Gelach,” she informed them once Lilian had arrived, the Slytherin shooting a reproachful look at Mary for leaving her behind. “She represents potential in waiting.”
That was new for Mary. She’d participated in plenty of rituals by now, invoking one Power or another, or else just Magic as a whole, but she’d never seen one where they invoked a specific Aspect.
(Well, unless that was what she’d done with Riddle in the Chamber, but that had been Black Arts. That was hardly the sort of thing that a group of second, third, and fourth years could just do in the middle of Hogwarts—even the White Arts, as they would be termed when invoking Light Powers, were really illegal.)
Aspects were, as Theo had explained over her first holiday break in the castle, sort of like faces that the Powers wore to communicate with humans, ones that represented different, well, aspects of those Powers. They were usually gods, or mythological figures, except they weren’t, not really. They were all just Magic putting on different masks so that people could understand it better. Or, something like that.
Turning to the three older Ravenclaws—Lara, Kirke, and Thomas—Luna continued, “You three and Hermione Jean will be the Second Circle—experience. Aerin Mae, Ginevra Phyllis, Lilian Grace, and Mary Elizabeth will be the First Circle—standing between innocence and experience.”
“Does that make you innocence, then?” Ginny asked, which was just what Mary had been thinking.
Luna, however, simply stared at them for a moment, eerily lit by the soft moonlight coming through the window, looking like Mary had never seen her before. Looking old—something in her eyes very far away, almost haunted. The silence hung over them, oppressive, before she finally said, very softly, “No.”
She arranged them in their circles, surrounding the center of the room, and Mary expected her to move to the center, but instead, she placed herself at the window, looking out.
Luna began, in a sort of sing-song-y chant, “My lady, I call out to you, to the power of youth, to what-may-be, to the moon and the distant winter sun. I call to you by the promise of the return of the light, as the Dark half of the year comes to an end, and by my dedication to your grace.” She went on, inviting Gelach into their circle, addressing the Power—the goddess—in a strangely knowing, almost intimate way. Like someone calling to their friend.
Mary had never heard anything like it, and she thought again that this was very strange—so much more personal than the usual holiday rituals she’d participated in. Just like on her birthday, there was an electric feeling in the air—potential building up in their midst.
Weaving back through the circles, Luna next addressed the participants.
“Four stand as witnesses for Experience this night, two by choice and two by nature—their minds, their bodies and souls no longer yours, but given over to the Dark mirror of Youth by their own will and the passage of time. Four stand poised at the boundary, children still, and yet touched by darkness—yours, but not yours alone.”
One by one, she stopped in front of the four youngest girls, speaking like she was introducing them to something—or someone.
Ginny was first. Earlier, when Luna had arranged them in the circle, she’d given them each a role, or a title; Ginny’s was chance. “Untamable, fire burning away fear; the heart of a child chosen for sacrifice and saved by chance, bound not to be so again.”
Then Mary, named as fate: “Undeniable, power of fate, shaping the child chosen as its instrument; the catalyst who will, in her turn, shape the world.”
Because that wasn’t ominous at all.
Lilian and Aerin—choice and innocence—looked similarly uneasy as Luna addressed them. Lilian was “choice deferred, made and unmade by secrets kept—the child haunted by the past, her future in her own hands.” And Aerin, “the child living in that blissful state of innocence, easy heart unaware of the past, future held in the hands of others, at the mercy of their will, and yet not without hope.”
As she spoke, she traced runes over them with her fingertip—on Ginny’s heart, Mary’s hands, Lilian’s mouth, Aerin’s head.
Magic filled the air of the small, circular room, goosebumps rising on Mary’s exposed skin. Dropping to her knees at Aerin’s feet, Luna cried out, “By these four aspects of potential untried—bold, powerful, uncertain, and innocent—I call upon the Youthful Power! Lady Gelach, winter sun, maiden moon, join your oath-bound daughter, tainted by grief and knowledge too young, but yet sworn to serve; by my mother’s sacrifice and by my own choice I give myself over to you!”
Luna went up in white flames, the fire surrounding her small body, rising her to her feet as her hair rose about her head like a halo, and Mary could feel power draining out of the runes Luna had drawn on her palms, flowing to the strange little Ravenclaw. For a second, Luna was lifted clean off the ground—and when she was set back to her feet, her eyes were glowing white.
Then, Luna—or Gelach, because Mary was almost certain she was possessed—went around the circles again, addressing them each in turn, giving her blessings to the innocent with a kiss on the forehead, like Hermione had given her in the hospital wing. Like a mother to a child. Not only the four girls in the inner circle, but Lara and Kirke as well; despite their age, Gelach said, there was still innocence in them.
Thomas and Hermione, however, were denied her blessing. To the latter, she said, “Just as my Luna said, your choices have given your soul over to Experience. You are not so far gone as you might have been—you have been granted a reprieve, a chance to choose a new path. But you are beyond my reach.”
Hermione looked troubled at that for a moment before she nodded shakily, her curls obscuring her face from Mary’s view.
Then, with the goddess back in the center of the circle once more, smiling benevolently at the six of them who were still innocent enough to receive her blessing, Mary felt the world dissolve. She found herself in a sort of empty void with the others—Lilian, Ginny, Aerin, Lara, Thomas, and Luna. And… the goddess.
Gelach was made entirely of light, like a human-shaped Patronus, and gave off a rather similar feeling to one, all safety and warmth and love. And there were more lights, too, all around Mary, like little matches burning in the darkness, and she realized after a second that they were potential. Children, seedlings, baby animals—new life. The world seen through the eyes of the goddess.
She could see the light in her friends, too. Interestingly, the brightest were Aerin, Lara, and Kirke, not Luna, who burned with a low but steady glow. Ginny was darker, like smoldering coals, and Lilian’s light flickered and winked in and out, like a candle on the verge of burning out completely.
Mary wasn’t sure if she wanted to know what her own light looked like.
When they came back to the world, Luna collapsed to her knees, whispering her gratitude, leading them in a chorus of, “Blessings of the Light.”
Feeling strangely rejuvenated, Mary couldn’t bring herself to deny Lilian when she asked to share her cloak. The two girls crept quietly through the empty, darkened corridors together, back down to the dungeons, where Mary crawled into bed and dreamt strange dreams—of candles flickering in the darkness, and of a fey little girl with the eyes of a tired old woman, and of an endless field of white, star-shaped flowers.
Notes:
A few parts of the conversation with Remus, about half the conversation with Lilian (and Hermione and Luna), and basically the entire Imbolc ritual are taken from CS.
Mary: [figures out the entire Prank situation based on hints from Snape and Remus]
Also Mary: Huh, Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black were a rat and a dog? Weird, but I can't imagine that information will be important. Anyway, back to thinking about Snape.I feel like this should work like the first episode of Ouran High School Host Club, where we see a little lightbulb turn on every time someone realizes Mary fancies Snape. So far, we've got Snape, kind of Lilian, and maybe various Slytherins, though they mostly just think of it as a joke. (And two other characters have figured it out for sure, but that hasn't come up yet; feel free to try to guess who they are.) The question is, when will Mary figure it out? (I very nearly named this chapter "The Lady Doth Protest Too Much.")
Chapter 21: Maiden Moon and Fallen Star
Notes:
This chapter coincides with Chapter 29 of Chained Servant.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
One Sunday in mid-February, Mary and Lilian were headed to the Quidditch pitch for their morning practice when they were suddenly swarmed by every single sixth or seventh year on the team—Flint, Podmore, Warbler, and Bole—along with Lilian’s brother, Sean, and Graham Montague, who’d been a beater the previous year. One moment, they were walking towards the doors to the grounds, too sleepy to even talk to each other; the next, they were surrounded by a literal wall of teenage boys. It was a surprisingly intimidating experience, given that most of them were nearly a foot taller than Mary, blocking her view of her surroundings completely.
Of course, ever since Black’s break-in on Samhain, the upperclassmen on the team, along with at least two additional seventh years, acted as Mary’s unofficial bodyguards at practice in order to placate Professor McGonagall. But they’d always met her out on the pitch. This was the first time they’d actually gone to the trouble to try to walk her out there like she was the bloody queen or something, and she immediately had a feeling that something must have gone awry.
“What happened?” she asked Flint, yawning up at the older boy, but it was Sean who answered.
“Sirius Black broke in again.”
Mary would have reacted more if part of her hadn’t somehow suspected from the moment the boys had approached them. Or, for that matter, if she’d been more awake—it wasn’t even six yet. Beside her, Lilian gasped loudly, so she supposed she could be surprised for the both of them. Mary just asked, “Last night?”
Sean nodded. “Professor Snape woke up the prefects and a few seventh years to help retrieve the students who were out of the dorms and to make sure no one else left, but he thought it best to let the rest of you sleep instead of causing panic.”
She wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that. Part of her felt like she should have been told, but then she would have just spent another sleepless night lamenting her own uselessness.
There was no point in asking if Black had gotten away—if he’d been captured, presumably Sean would have led with that. Instead, she asked, “What did he do this time?”
Flint, Monty, and Warbler exchanged smirks and a few whispered comments she couldn’t quite make out, so she figured they already knew. Sean, though, kept his voice neutral as he said, “He managed to break into Gryffindor Tower and was seen in the third year boys’ dorms. Ronald Weasley is alleging that Black tried to attack him, and Professor Snape confirmed that the curtains around his bed were cut open with a knife.”
“Huh.” Mary thought about that for a moment. While they’d slept, a madman had broken in, menaced Ron fucking Weasley, and then vanished without a trace. Sure, why not? (Hogwarts could be bloody ridiculous sometimes.) More to the point, though, “Why do you guys need to walk me out to the pitch, then? Even if Black somehow failed to notice that I’m a Slytherin, I’m pretty sure he knows I’m a girl, at least. He can’t be that mad.”
There was a chorus of laughter—less mean-spirited than the chuckles they’d let out at the story of Weasley’s brush with danger—and Podmore slapped her on the shoulder, nearly knocking her off balance.
“Professor Snape said we had to,” Flint explained gruffly, clearly as annoyed with this as she was. “Now come on, we haven’t got all day.”
By the time the girls had finished with practice, showered, and joined their friends for lunch, the wildest rumors were flying around the school.
At least Daphne, being the undisputed gossip queen of their year, seemed to have some concrete info, like that the Fat Lady had finally returned to Gryffindor Tower, along with a pair of security trolls for her protection, and that Black had gained entry in the first place because Neville Longbottom had written down all of the passwords and then promptly lost them.
That, Mary could confirm: Neville had confessed it to her during the last Dueling Club meeting. He’d given her a bunch of reasons why he shouldn’t tell anyone which she had thought were mostly excuses, but she’d kept her mouth shut. Now, it seemed, she’d been proven right. When she glanced over at the Gryffindor table, Neville wasn’t there—probably hiding from his housemates, the poor bloke.
Weasley, on the other hand, was holding court to a group of alternatively skeptical and horrified looking Gryffindors, gesticulating wildly, miming stabbing and slashing motions with his butter knife, as he retold the story of his supposed near-death experience. His sister was clearly one of his skeptics, sitting with her arms folded over her chest and an exasperated glare on her face.
For her part, Mary thought she’d rather talk about literally anything else, but that didn’t seem likely to happen so long as the other students were around. At least she and Lilian had plans to study in the library with Hermione after lunch—if they hid in the back and cast unobtrusive charms on themselves, maybe people would leave them alone and she could manage to focus on literally anything but the thought of Sirius Black having been in the castle again.
But these plans were quickly waylaid when, on her way out of the Great Hall with Lilian and Hermione, Mary found herself accosted by none other than Luna Lovegood, asking to speak to her with an abnormally serious expression on her face.
“Um.” Mary turned to her friends, who were both staring curiously at the younger girl. She shrugged slightly, to convey that she didn’t know what this was about any more than they did. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Luna took Mary by the hand—which was also weird, she’d never done that before—and led her off into a random empty classroom just down the corridor a bit. As the door shut behind them, Mary had the sudden, disorienting thought that maybe Luna was trying to ask her out.
With Valentine’s Day tomorrow, and a Hogsmeade weekend approaching not long after, boys had been hounding her for days. They didn’t fancy her, of course—just the Girl Who Lived, or the Heir of Slytherin, or whatever. She’d taken to fleeing in the opposite direction whenever she saw basically any boy other than Blaise, Theo, or Neville approaching her. Cowardly, maybe, but it was a pain in the ass having to toe the line of being polite but also firm in her rejection.
But no witches had asked her out, and Mary was momentarily thrown by the idea that one might be about to, even though she knew it wasn’t that unusual at Hogwarts—Lilian, after all, hadn’t seemed to think it would be any stranger for her to fancy Envy than any of the boys she’d named. But even after that exasperating conversation, Mary had never given serious thought to whether she liked girls, especially when she didn’t really like anybody that way. Luna was her friend, though, and she didn’t want to hurt her feelings…
Mary was so caught up in her own thoughts, trying to figure out how she would respond—Luna couldn’t go to Hogsmeade either, being a second-year, so if she was trying to confess to Mary or something, her usual excuse of not being allowed to go to the village wouldn’t work—that she almost missed what the little Ravenclaw actually said to her.
Which was not, ‘I fancy you,’ but instead, “The Fallen Star says that Mary Elizabeth must beware of rats.”
This was such an unexpected sentence, even out of Luna’s mouth, that Mary’s mind went completely blank for a second. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Could you repeat that?”
A wrinkle formed between Luna’s brows, like she was frustrated. “The Fallen Star,” she repeated slowly, and Mary could hear the capital letters somehow, “says to beware of rats.”
Luna had said a lot of strange things to Mary since they’d met last year, and yet, this might be one of the strangest. Mary took a deep breath. “Who,” she began, “or what, is the Fallen Star?”
“The Trickster’s Light,” Luna said, looking at Mary as though she expected this to clear everything up.
Mary had to take a deep breath, reminding herself that the other girl probably wasn’t trying to frustrate her. In Luna logic, whatever she was saying must make sense. “Luna, I don’t understand.”
Luna grabbed her hand again, staring at her like she was imploring her to listen. “It’s very important,” she insisted. “The Moon says to listen to the Star.”
Every word out of her mouth just made it worse. “The Moon?” Mary repeated, for lack of anything else to say.
“Yes!” Luna nodded fervently. “The Moon trusts the Star. If the Star says you’re in danger, then you must be.”
“From… rats.”
“Yes.”
Another deep breath in through her nose kept her from losing her temper. She could try pressing Luna for more information, but she feared that if she tried, the fey girl would just start adding more celestial bodies into the mix, and the whole tale would become more confusing than it already was.
In any case, while it wasn’t clear what stars or moons had to do with anything, Luna’s greatest concern seemed to be with the rats. She might have been spouting nonsense, but honestly, the few times that Mary actually managed to understand what Luna was on about, she usually had a point.
So, unable to think of anything else to say, Mary looked Luna in her silvery eyes and said, “Alright, Luna. I’ll stay away from rats.”
Luna’s grip on her hand tightened, her eyes growing even wider than normal, which Mary thought really shouldn’t be possible. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Oh, good,” Luna said, releasing Mary’s hand with a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad I was able to tell you in time.”
“Er… me too,” Mary said, despite still having no idea what the hell had just happened. “Thanks for the heads up.”
Mary joined Lilian and Hermione in the library after that, and the three girls spent quite some time trying to make sense of Luna’s cryptic message. Hermione thought there was no sense to be made of it, but then, she’d never had much patience for Luna’s Luna-ness.
They didn’t make any headway on ‘the Star,’ but they knew, at least, that ‘the Moon’ wasn’t Lilian or one of her siblings. Luna didn’t use last names, instead referring to people exclusively by their full first and middle names (much to Ginevra Phyllis’s unending annoyance). Mary had tried asking Luna why she did that once, and had been told it was because middle names were “every bit as given as the first, and so should be celebrated alike.”
Anyway, their best guess was that ‘the Moon’ was just Luna’s way of referring to herself in the third person.
As for what sort of danger rats might pose to Mary, the only ideas they’d come up with were biting her, being gross in her general vicinity, or giving her the Black Plague, but they were still working on that one. In the meantime, Mary figured, she’d just try to stay away from them. She didn’t think there were that many rats in the castle anyway—or, if there were, she never saw them.
Once they’d run out of ideas, they actually tried to get some studying done, but despite her relief to be away from all the gossip about Black, she found that she couldn’t quite concentrate. She tried for an hour or so, but when the idea occurred to her that perhaps now Aunt Minnie would let her go to Hogsmeade, she was more than happy to take the distraction and run with it. Saying goodbye to her friends, she packed up her book bag and made her way up to the Deputy Head’s office.
This turned out to be a bad move. Which Mary probably would have realized if she’d taken the time to think about it. As the Head of Gryffindor—also known as the House that a dangerous escaped convict had just broken into—her guardian had been kept up all night dealing with the fallout, and while she didn’t overtly say as much, Mary was pretty sure she’d been irritated that she was bothering her with something so trivial.
In any case, she’d gotten all upset and shouted, “This just proves that he is unstable, unpredictable, and still in the area!” Then, when Mary had tried to argue, she’d all but thrown her out of her office.
Damn.
Mary sulked all through dinner, picking at her food, staring around the room in an attempt to ignore all the conversations going on about Black. It was when her eyes skimmed over the High Table that it occurred to her: Snape had talked sense into Professor McGonagall for her once. Maybe he could do so again.
Although, she probably shouldn’t bother him tonight, not unless she wanted to repeat her earlier mistake. Even though it hadn’t been his House broken into, she had no doubt that, like on Samhain, Dumbledore would have had him leading the search efforts.
That reminded her of the conversation she’d overheard between the two of them as she’d been falling asleep that night. Snape had implied to Dumbledore that Remus might have helped Black get in, which was just bloody ridiculous. She knew from talking to Remus that he was just as hurt by Black’s betrayal as she was; if he’d seen any sign of Black, she was certain he’d have reported it immediately.
Wait.
Something occurred to Mary, far later than it should have. Not long ago, Remus had told her about how James, Peter, and Black had become animagi to help him during the full moons. But—had he told Dumbledore? Or the Aurors?
He must have… Right?
Unable to push the thought from her mind, Mary left dinner early, heading to Snape’s office. He’d already left the Hall, and while she wasn’t sure he was there, she figured she’d check first before going back to her room for the Map. (Hermione had kicked up such a fuss back in first year about Mary carrying the cloak around with her, saying it was bound to get lost or stolen, that Mary had gotten into the habit of leaving stuff like that in her dorm unless she needed it.)
The door was latched, but this time, Mary only hesitated for a split second before knocking. She really hoped that she was worrying over nothing, but if she wasn’t, Snape would want to know right away.
“Can I help you?” He didn’t look annoyed when he opened the door, and she wondered if he had a way of knowing who was out there without even looking.
“Sorry to bother you,” she began as she stepped inside, “but, um, I just wanted to make sure… You and the Headmaster do know Black’s an animagus, right?”
Snape stared at her for a moment, then said, “Yes.”
“Oh.” She immediately felt stupid for how much she’d worked herself up—and for doubting Remus—beginning to wonder if she should just leave.
Before she could, though, Snape asked, “Lupin told you?” When she nodded, he scowled. “When, exactly, did he tell you this?”
“Um…” She took a moment to wrack her memory before answering. “He told me back in December, after I found out that he was a werewolf. But he didn’t tell me Black’s animagus form until a few weeks ago.”
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself. She caught the scorn in his voice, if not the actual words he said. Something vulgar and insulting, no doubt.
“What?”
Fixing her with a tired, irritated sort of look, though she didn’t think he was irritated with her this time, Snape said, “Lupin told you, a third year student, before he saw fit to inform the Headmaster. That is why I was occupied with the wards over the winter holidays—Dumbledore and I were altering them to prevent dogs from entering the castle. Because Lupin waited an entire bloody term before sharing that information.”
Mary’s stomach sank. She’d really believed—or, at least, wanted to believe—that Remus would have told someone right when Black had escaped, even if she’d doubted him enough to go to Snape anyway. Taking a seat in the chair in front of Snape’s desk, she frowned and said, “He shouldn’t have kept that a secret.”
If Remus had told someone sooner, maybe they could have caught Black already. Well, maybe not, if whatever Snape and Dumbledore had done to the wards hadn’t managed to keep him out of the castle, but still, Remus couldn’t have known that! Especially after Samhain, she would have expected him to know better.
Why had he kept it a secret? Did he still think of Black as a friend or something, deep down?
“Indeed,” Snape said, his hatred of his fellow professor somehow audible in that one word alone. Then, with a sigh, like he anticipated her asking about it, he added, “I did not tell you because I thought you were more likely to go chasing after the next dog you saw than to take caution, but seeing as you already know, I would appreciate a promise that, should you see any dog on Hogwarts grounds, you will fetch me rather than attempting to deal with it on your own.” Seeing her momentary hesitation, he added, “I assure you, the chances of taking Black into custody without any harm to yourself will be much higher if I am present.”
It wasn’t like she didn’t know that, but, “What if there isn’t time to go find you? Like, what if he’s going to get away?” She could just promise, but she knew herself well enough to know that it might be a lie.
“Use the Messenger Charm.”
Mary frowned. “I haven’t managed that one yet.” Conjuring and animating a paper airplane to fly to her target was really hard!
“Practice more, then,” Snape said, utterly unsympathetic, which, she wasn’t sure why she’d expected anything else. “Unless you’ve already mastered the Patronus?”
She shook her head, pouting slightly. They’d had another lesson in early February, but neither she nor her friends had made any real progress. “We’re trying again this Thursday,” she said. “Maybe I’ll get it this time.” Even as she said it, though, she didn’t really believe it.
“Once you manage it, ask Lupin how to use the spell to send messages. It’s a better option than the Messenger Charm, as your recipient will be certain that it came from you.”
That sounded so useful! Mary’s frustration with her seeming inability to cast the charm only increased.
“In the meantime,” he continued, “if you are unable to catch the Messenger Charm, and it comes down to a choice between letting him escape, or else chasing after him on your own, I want you to promise that you will let him go.” Looking directly into her eyes, he said, “There will be more chances to recapture him. Your chances of doing so on your own are minimal, and it is not worth risking your life.”
Mary frowned. He was right—she knew he was right—but that didn’t mean she liked it. “I hate this,” she muttered, surprising herself—not that she’d said it, but that she’d said it to Snape. Did he even have time to listen to her teenage angst?
But he only looked at her with raised eyebrows, like he was waiting for her to explain, so she blushed and went on, “It’s just like Samhain all over again. He was here—the man who basically ruined my whole life—and I couldn’t do anything. And I know, I know,” she added, before he could lecture her about her recklessness again, “I wouldn’t be able to do anything even if I saw him, other than get myself killed, but it still drives me mad. Isn’t there anything you could teach me that would make me able to fight him?”
Snape smirked slightly at that. “Unfortunately, that is not the way the world works. Even if you had an adult’s channeling capacity and years more training, Black was an extremely formidable battlemage. One of the most formidable in Britain, in point of fact. Like his brother and cousins, he was trained by the Blackheart since he was old enough to hold a wand, and went through Auror training as well. Besides that, the Blacks are known for their ability to channel absurd amounts of magic, and he was a prime example. Not as much as Bellatrix, but compared to any normal wizard…
“Not to mention,” he added, “he is utterly mad, lacking any sense of self-preservation or regard for the consequences of his actions—which makes him an extremely dangerous person to face in a true fight. He loved battles in the same way Bellatrix did. The pair of them lived for it—for violence and death and chaos. They were like two sides of the same coin.”
Mary shuddered at the thought. “So you’re saying that even if I wasn’t thirteen, I’d be too, er, sane to stand a chance against him?”
“Precisely.”
She scowled. “Well, if you can’t teach me to fight him, would you at least speak to Professor McGonagall about letting me go to Hogsmeade?” Snape looked—well, a bit surprised, she thought, that she’d bring this up now—and she hastened to explain, “It’s just, he’s already ruined my life, but now, between the dementors and the Hogsmeade thing, he’s ruining my third year at Hogwarts, too!
“I tried pointing out to Professor McGonagall today that the break-in proved he’s not after me—I mean, he was my godfather, he must know I’m a girl—but she wouldn’t hear it. And I just thought that, maybe, since you were able to convince her to let me keep playing Quidditch…” She trailed off, looking down at her hands.
Though Mary had thought that Snape might scold her for bringing up something so trivial so soon after the break-in—unlike Professor McGonagall, he wasn’t prone to holding his tongue with her—she hadn’t expected him to just flat-out say, “No.”
“No?” Mary looked up, brows wrinkling in frustration. “What do you mean?”
“Mary Elizabeth.” He sighed, looking her straight in the eyes. “Less than one month ago, you nearly killed yourself getting into an honor duel with a sixth year over a book. Do you expect me to believe that, if you run across Black, you will be able to restrain yourself? Believe me, you would fare far worse against him than you did against Miss Bletchley, and I have no desire to spend another weekend in the hospital wing piecing you back together.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but… well, she couldn’t actually say for certain that she wouldn’t go after Black if she saw him. Right now, talking with Snape, when she was calm, she could agree that it was a bad idea, but in the heat of the moment…
Mary shut her mouth again, scowling at him, and Snape smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
There was nothing she could do. She couldn’t fight Black; she couldn’t leave the castle; she couldn’t even cast a bloody Patronus! He’d just keep on breaking in, taunting her, while the Headmaster and the Aurors and the dementors did fuck all to stop him, and in the meantime, the useless dementors would keep floating around the school, doing nothing but making them all miserable.
“Are the dementors troubling you that much?” Snape asked, and her head jerked up. For a second, she nearly asked if he’d been legilimizing her, because that was just uncanny, but she knew better. Unlike some people at Hogwarts, Snape didn’t go around reading people’s minds without their permission. Indeed, in response to her look of shock, he explained, “You said that they were ruining your year.”
“Oh.” She blushed a bit, feeling stupid that she hadn’t remembered that. “I mean, yeah. It’s bearable, but they’re just kind of always there, making me feel like sh—awful, and I still haven’t managed the Patronus. Plus, I have to wonder if they’ll come out the next Quidditch game, if I don’t get the hang of the charm by then.”
Wasn’t that a depressing thought? They weren’t playing Gryffindor until April. If she still couldn’t cast a Patronus by then, she’d bloody scream.
“You have only had two lessons thus far, correct?” Snape asked, and she nodded. “I would have been astounded had you managed it in that time—it is, after all, a NEWT-level spell. Keep practicing.”
That was just what Remus had said, but Mary was sick of hearing it. Besides, she wanted Snape to be astounded. Hadn’t he said last time they’d talked about it that spells came more easily to her than other people? She’d liked hearing that. Even if she weren’t concerned about the dementors, she’d want to cast the Patronus just to see how impressed he was.
Snape was still looking at her, his eyes thoughtful. “Would you like for me to cast it again?”
Well, now that he mentioned it… Pretty much every time Mary had met with him recently, part of her had been hoping she’d get to see the doe, but she hadn’t been brave enough to ask. “If… if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Not at all.” Before she could say anything more, he’d cast the spell, and the doe was there, and all of the frustration of the past few days—Black, and the confusion of her conversation with Luna, and the inescapable gossip around the school, and Aunt Minnie’s refusal to listen to her, and even the boys hounding her steps for a date—all evaporated at once. She even let out a small noise of relief, though she was immediately embarrassed, hoping he hadn’t heard.
And yet, with the warmth that had settled into her chest, the release of tension, she finally found the courage to ask, “Would it be okay if I… stayed for a bit? What I mean is, would you mind… holding the spell for a while?” She knew from Hermione that the charm required much less energy to maintain than to initialize. Still, it felt like a very forward, almost selfish, thing to ask, so she hastened to add, “I won’t even speak, if you have work to do. I’ll just sit and read or something.”
For a second, she found herself unexpectedly desperately afraid that he’d say no—that he would end the spell, letting the cold back in, and send her away—but Snape just looked at her, inscrutable as ever, and said, “If you like.” His eyes flickered in the direction of the hearth, and a second later, the doe stepped away from Mary and walked over there, curling on the ground in front of the fire as though she was taking a nap.
Mary stood, clasping her hands together in front of herself, sinking into formality in response to the strange, bubbling anxiety inside of her that even the Patronus couldn’t chase away. And yet, it wasn’t entirely bad—it made her feel a little giddy, like she’d had too much tea or something. “Thank you, Theíos,” she said, trying to sound grateful but not, like, too grateful, because it was a little embarrassing how much she’d wanted this.
She sat in the chair closest to the doe, leaning an elbow on the armrest as she watched it. The doe was so beautiful, her chest rising and falling as she gazed placidly at the fire—not napping, then, just… relaxing. The whole room seemed to have filled with a sense of peace, of warmth that didn’t just come from the crackling fire in the hearth. She chanced a look back at Snape, who seemed already engrossed in his marking, but some of the harsh lines in his face seemed to have softened—unless that was just the effect of the gentle blue light.
It took her a little too long to realize she was staring and look away, but luckily, he didn’t seem to have noticed. For want of something to keep her occupied so she wouldn’t do anything else weird, Mary summoned her book bag over and pulled out The Tale of Parallax and Quincey. She was over halfway done with it now, and had been thinking of reading more tonight anyway, so it wasn’t like she was taking it out just to make sure that he saw that she had appreciated his present.
But it still pleased her when he glanced over for the smallest of moments, and she thought she saw the hint of a smile on his face at the sight, one which only added to the warmth in her chest.
Curling up in the chair, Mary settled in with her book and began to read.
Mary came back to consciousness slowly, reluctantly, the lack of tension in her body telling her that the doe hadn’t left yet, making her want to stay right where she was and drift peacefully back to sleep. And there was something else—a blanket of some sort, warm and soft and cozy—draped over her. She nestled further into it, drawing the fabric up around herself to block out the light.
There was a scent to the blanket she couldn’t quite place, but it was comforting and familiar. She pressed her cheek against it and inhaled deeply, a silly, half-awake smile spreading over her face where it was hidden in the dark folds of fabric. Something about it made her chest feel a little funny, but, like, good funny, like flying her broom really fast on a warm summer day.
“Anipsiá,” a quiet voice said, and she stilled, halfheartedly hoping that if she pretended to still be asleep, he’d leave her alone. “It’s past curfew. You should be getting back to your room.”
“Nuh uh…” she mumbled incoherently, and heard him chuckle in response.
Despite his amusement, though, he told her, “I’m afraid you must.”
With a disappointed groan, Mary opened her eyes and slowly got to her feet, catching the blanket before it could fall to the ground. She was halfway through folding it, not wanting to just leave it piled on the armchair haphazardly, when she finally realized that it was not a blanket at all, but the thick black cloak Snape always wore over his robes. And—oh, gods and Powers, she’d been rubbing her face on it, thinking about how good it smelled!
But, she hadn’t known! It had felt like a blanket!
Mary took a moment to school her mortified expression into something she hoped looked normal and pat down her messy hair before turning back to face him. “Um, thank you,” she said. “Sorry for falling asleep.”
He only gave a quick shake of his head, as though both her thanks and her apology were too unnecessary to be worth commenting on, before giving her a shrewd look and asking, “Have you not been sleeping well?”
Caught off guard, Mary said, “Uh, no. I mean, I’ve been sleeping alright. It’s hard, sometimes, with, you know, the dementors here, and Black and—everything,” and she was suddenly remembering one of the many mortifying things she’d said in the scroll detention, about what she thought about when she couldn’t sleep, and turned her gaze down to the floor before finishing lamely, “but it’s not so bad. I was just… really comfortable here. With the Patronus and everything. And I had to wake up at five for practice. So I fell asleep.”
Realizing she was over-explaining again, she quickly shut up, but Snape looked satisfied enough with that answer. “Alright,” he said, scrawling a quick pass and handing it to her. “Mind you go straight back to your room.”
“Of course.” She and her friends hadn’t been getting up to nearly as much adventuring this year compared to their first two years, between all their fighting, Lilian’s problems with Aerin, and Hermione’s insane course load. Other than the Imbolc ritual, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out after curfew for rule-breaking reasons. “Um, I hope you sleep well.”
Snape gave her one of his surprised looks in response, like she had done something strange. Maybe she had. Why had she said that? It wasn’t like he was even going to bed; he’d probably be awake for hours more.
But he only said, “You too.”
Back in her room, Mary flung herself down on her bed, feeling flushed and jittery for some stupid reason. Maybe because she could still smell what she now knew was Snape lingering where the cloak had touched her robes and skin, like he was all around her, and that was just—it was weird, and embarrassing, to like the way her professor smelled, and she knew what Lilian would have to say about that, even though she’d be wrong, and—had he noticed? Had he seen her sticking her nose in his bloody cloak and sniffing it while smiling like an idiot? Just the thought made her face burn, made her want to hide under her bed where no one could see her, even though she was alone.
It doesn’t mean anything. Certainly not… what bloody stupid Lilian would say. She buried her heated face in her pillow with a groan and tried very hard to believe that.
Notes:
A few lines (Luna's warning, her comment on middle names, and McGonagall's response to Mary) are taken from the original Mary Potter series, but all the scenes in this chapter are original.
Luna really does think she's being helpful, bless her heart. I love her so much. If you were wondering, yep, she absolutely did go wandering through the castle that night and run into Sirius Black. I couldn't include it here since I only write from Mary and Sev's POVs, but if you're curious how that went, it's the second scene in Chapter 29, beginning at "Saturday, 12 February 1994."
Chapter 22: I Fucking Hate Tea
Notes:
This chapter is concurrent to Chapter 30 of Chained Servant.
CW for discussion of physical and psychological torture and suicide attempts, all involving children, as well as the rape and torture of Matilde Harrison. Or basically, Tom Riddle is his own warning.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After her talk with Snape, Mary considered going to Remus and just asking him why he hadn’t told anyone about Black, but in the end, she didn’t. She told herself it was because he had already come forward, but maybe she just didn’t want to be disappointed. As long as she didn’t ask, she could believe he’d had a good reason for it.
The Saturday after the break-in came another Hogsmeade visit. All of the third year Slytherin girls except Mary were going together, mostly because Draco had pissed Lilian off by being a git to Neville in Dueling Club and she’d wanted an excuse not to go with him, even though they ‘totally weren’t dating.’
Mary didn’t feel left out or anything. Or, she felt left out of the visits in general, but not by Lilian and the others hanging out without her. While she obviously liked Lilian, and Daphne (at least most of the time), the rest of them were… Well, Pansy was an enormous bitch, Tracey a sycophant who tried to make up for being halfblood by following Pansy around and agreeing with everything she said, and Millie was… Mary wasn’t sure how to characterize her, exactly.
She hadn’t actually seen Millie be, like, militantly blood-purist or anything. She actually seemed decent enough, but she trailed after Pansy everywhere, like a slightly awkward shadow, and never stood up to her. Mary got the feeling that she wasn’t very confident—from Millie’s boggart, at least, she knew that the girl was insecure about her looks and size—so she’d just latched on to the extroverted, domineering Pansy.
Kind of like Neville and Ron Weasley, actually. Or like they had been, before Neville had lost the passwords to the Gryffindor common room and they’d all started shunning him, the Little Weasel included. He’d hung out with Mary and her friends a few times since then, since they were some of the only people who would still talk to him—other than Ginny, anyway, who seemed to have decided that Neville was her responsibility to take care of despite him being a year older than her.
The point was, Mary didn’t really enjoy Slytherin Girl Bonding Activities, not when it meant putting up with Pansy being a bitch, and Tracey either joining in or letting Pansy degrade her for her blood status without ever fighting back, and the rest of them just accepting it most of the time. While she knew Lilian and Daphne weren’t blood purists or anything, they were much more comfortable being friends with their more openly prejudiced housemates than Mary was.
She supposed that Hermione would say the same thing about her, but she personally thought there was a difference between presenting a united front in public—if they didn’t have each other’s backs, they’d get way more shite from the other three Houses than they already did—and going out of her way to spend time with arseholes like Pansy and Draco, the way that Lilian seemed to be doing lately.
It wasn’t something she was going to start a fight over or anything. Lilian could make her own choices about who to be friends with, just like Hermione could be friends with the wankers who’d kidnapped her if she wanted to. But that didn’t mean Mary didn’t judge them for it a little bit, or that she wanted to join in their group hangouts any more than she already had to during Daphne’s tea parties.
In any case, she’d made plans with Snape for later in the afternoon, but she didn’t have anything to do the morning of the visit, other than sleep in a little and appreciate how quiet the castle was. She might do some homework, she thought, or work more on the ward scheme for her bedroom.
These tentative plans were promptly waylaid by an angry Ginny Weasley, who sat herself down right next to Mary at the Slytherin table during breakfast, flipping two fingers at the students who tried to tell her she wasn’t meant to sit there, and then dragged her off to an empty classroom the second they were done eating.
“Er,” Mary said as Ginny slammed the door behind them. “What’s going on?”
“I just… I need someone to bloody talk to.”
Okay, but… “Why me?” It wasn’t like she and Ginny were especially close. They’d only gotten to know each other in the first place because the twins had dragged Mary down into the Chamber after her, and because Ginny had kind of just… latched on to Mary and her friends in the aftermath. The other Gryffindor girls in her year didn’t seem to like her much, and it had been obvious that she’d just wanted people to hang out with that weren’t her brothers. Even after that, though, she and Mary hadn’t ever really talked alone before. “Wouldn’t you rather talk to Hermione?”
Somehow, this only made Ginny more upset. “Hermione is part of the problem!” she shouted.
Right, well, if she for some reason felt like Mary was the person she wanted to talk to, she supposed she could listen. Casting some of Snape’s anti-eavesdropping spells, Mary sat down in one of the dusty chairs and said, “So, what is the problem, then?”
Ginny immediately began to pace, scowling at nothing in particular. “Oh, well, let’s see, shall we? There’s the fact that Neville’s been trailing after me like a lost puppy since last weekend, there’s the way Hermione keeps treating me like some fragile little kid who’s about to break if anyone looks at me wrong, and then today I tried to sneak out to Hogsmeade, only to find out that she’s got the twins on her side now! They caught me and made me come back, instead of being all like, ‘Sounds like fun times, we’ll distract Filch for you!’”
Wait, Hermione had gone to Hogsmeade with the twins? Mary knew they were friends, but she hadn’t heard anything about that. Was Hermione still hiding their friendship from her? Or… “Is Hermione dating one of them? Fred and George, I mean.”
Ginny stared at her like she was completely missing the point. “I’m pretty sure they’re just friends,” she finally said, “but that’s not—I’m not some little kid who needs to be protected all the time!”
Mary had felt pretty much the same when Professor McGonagall had first told her that she wasn’t allowed to go to Hogsmeade, but she’d mostly managed to put it out of her mind. Dwelling on it—like Ginny seemed to be—would just piss her off for no reason, since her guardian didn’t seem likely to change her mind. Plus, when she’d talked to Snape, he’d almost managed to convince her that it was for the best.
“You’re just a second year,” she said, and Ginny shot her another glare. “I’m not saying that makes you a kid, just, it’s not like you’re being singled out. None of the other second years are allowed to go either.”
That, however, did not seem to make Ginny feel any better. “None of the other second years had to deal with Tom Fucking Riddle in their heads for a whole year! If I can handle that, I think I should be allowed to go visit the Shrieking Shack if I want to! I don’t—I’m not—”
And then, to Mary’s dismay, tears welled up in the younger girl’s eyes and she collapsed into a chair, burying her face in her arms and sniffling. Mary wasn’t really good at dealing with crying people, especially not when she barely knew them. Part of her wished that someone else, someone better with this sort of thing, would come in and rescue her, but obviously, they were alone. She’d just have to do her best.
Awkwardly patting Ginny’s arm, Mary said, “…Are you okay?”
“No!” Ginny snapped in between sniffles. “I just want to move on, and they won’t let me, always treating me like some glass doll—like some fainting bloody flower—it just drags me back! Even on the pitch, they try to protect me all the time, and—and—it’s like because I fucked up just once, it’s like they’ll never trust me to look out for myself again! They haven’t played any pranks on me at all since the Chamber, like they think I can’t handle it or something. And that’s just Fred and George!
“Hermione’s worse! She’s so afraid of ‘triggering’ me—that’s her word, ‘triggering’—that she cuts herself off all the time, talking like a mind healer or something, like she’s the responsible adult, and I’m this damaged sodding child! Like she’s so much better than me, and not every bit as messed up. I never should have let her have those memories. She thinks she knows me so good now, but she only knows victim Ginny—she doesn’t know how I was before, or how I want to be, and she keeps acting like that’s all I am! Fucking Riddle’s victim. I hate her!
“Every time I get too close to the dementors, I remember—I remember being so fucking weak. I—he wouldn’t have been able to get to me if I hadn’t been.”
Mary opened her mouth, automatically starting to tell her that it wasn’t her fault—that she wasn’t weak—but Ginny wouldn’t let her get a word in edgewise. She stood up, advancing on Mary angrily, and it occurred to her, for the first time, that Ginny was already several inches taller than her. Somehow, she’d never noticed before.
“You don’t get to tell me whose fault it was or wasn’t! You weren’t there! If I hadn’t been so overwhelmed by… everything… then I never would have depended on him! I never would have told him everything I did! But I was, and I did, and that’s on me. I should have told someone, at least when I got away, and Luna had the book. That’s on me, too. You don’t… you don’t get to say it wasn’t my fault, because then whose fault was it? I wasn’t just a puppet from day one!
“And Hermione’s all, ‘It’s okay, Ginny,’ and ‘No one blames you, Ginny,’ and ‘You were only eleven—it’s not surprising that he managed to trick you,’ and ‘The important thing is you got away!’ But it’s not okay and they should blame me, and even if it’s not surprising, that doesn’t mean it was all him. I made choices! Bad ones, but they were still mine! I—I…”
Ginny trailed off, too emotional to continue talking, and just paced back and forth some more, more violently this time.
Mary could kind of understand how she felt. At least, she hated when her friends made a big deal out of her stories about the Dursleys and acted like she was damaged or something, an attitude which Hermione was especially prone to. She knew Hermione probably thought she was helping—Ginny and Mary—but her concern really just came across as kind of overbearing and smothering. (Not dissimilar from how Hermione described her mother, actually.)
Still, Mary didn’t really know what to do with a furious, crying Ginny Weasley, even if she could understand why she was so upset. She felt almost completely useless. After everything Ginny had been through, what could she say or do to make it better? Finally, a bit desperately, she asked, “Do you… want a hug?”
“No!” Ginny shouted, and then immediately threw her arms around Mary, squeezing her so tightly that Mary was genuinely worried she might crack a rib or something. It was less of a hug and more of, like, Ginny taking out her frustration by using Mary like a human stress ball, and crying on her all the while.
At least when Ginny finally let go of her, she seemed a bit calmer, and she wasn’t crying anymore. Slumping down in a chair as though all of the energy had drained out of her, Ginny confessed, “I wouldn’t have survived. Hermione doesn’t understand. She has all of my memories, and she still doesn’t get it—I didn’t escape. The only reason I’m alive is because he stopped me from killing myself. Over and over.
“It was like a game to him. Let me try, let me get close, but then heal me, make me step back, make me go back to my room and forget anything ever happened. I—I’m not stronger than him. I’m weak. I was weak. And every time they act like I need protecting, it’s like they’re saying I still am—like they’re saying I’ll never get better. Never be better. Like I’m always going to be his victim, now.”
Though Mary couldn’t fathom what Ginny had been through, she had her own issues with Riddle. It drove her a bit mad, knowing that she was missing three days of memories from the Chamber, and that anything could have happened between them and Riddle during that time. She didn’t know what she’d done, other than that it had involved the Black Arts, and spilling her own blood, and letting him erase her memories. Helping him, even.
If Mary had gone through a whole year of that, instead of just a few days, she didn’t think she would have coped with it any better than Ginny had, or that it would have been easy to stop seeing herself as a victim, to just go back to her life, after something like that. Honestly, if it had been Mary, she might have killed herself after, when he couldn’t stop her anymore.
In hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have actually said so to Ginny, but the words just kind of fell right out of her mouth, leaving the both of them in shocked silence for a moment.
Luckily, Ginny didn’t freak out at Mary’s complete lack of tact, but only confessed, “I nearly did, you know. In Egypt. They… They were watching me, all the time, my family. I only got away from them one night, went up on the roof of the hotel. I almost jumped. I think. I don’t know if I really believed I could do it. I think I half-expected him to stop me, you know? Even though I knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
“Charlie found me, standing on the ledge, looking down. I don’t know how long I was there, but I was working myself up to it. And he talked me down. He—we talked about monsters.”
“Riddle?” Mary asked quietly, scarcely able to breathe under the enormity of Ginny’s confession.
“Me. He possessed me. He was inside my head. It was… I felt dirty. I still do, every time I think of him. Like I’m infected with his evil, or something. I… I wanted to get rid of that feeling more than I wanted to live, I think. I—I still do, sometimes.”
Mary wasn’t sure why she said what she said after that, either. After all those months of keeping it a secret—from Hermione, from Lilian, from everyone but Snape—it just kind of came out: “He’s my grandfather.”
“What?” Ginny stared at her, like she was mad or something, and it made Mary feel even more anxious, as well as a little lightheaded, because—she shouldn’t be telling her this, she knew it, but she was going to anyway.
“You can’t tell anyone. Even Hermione and Lilian don’t know, just Snape. We did a blood test, and he looked into it more over the summer. My grandmother—my mum’s real mother—was a muggleborn Auror. Riddle kidnapped her and… and raped her. Tried to kill her. Snape thinks it might have been part of a ritual or something, because it was on Mabon. She got away, and left my mother with her muggle sister, and tried to catch Riddle. To stop him.
“But… he got her first. He—or the Death Eaters, I don’t entirely know—tortured her into a coma and dumped her in front of the Auror headquarters. Like Neville’s parents, I guess. She never woke up, and she died a few years later. Snape doesn’t think my mum ever knew.”
Maybe not the best thing to tell a borderline suicidal twelve-year-old girl, but, well, Ginny had been right when she’d said that after everything that had happened to her, she didn’t need to be babied. It wasn’t like she didn’t know how evil Riddle could be.
Indeed, when Mary was done, Ginny said, very quietly, “He likes stuff like that. Hurting people, I mean. Even when he doesn’t have to, he just… likes it. He made me, last Yule. He made me sneak out to Hogsmeade and convince this little boy to follow me into the woods, and then he… he tortured him. With my hands. He made me cut him. He—we—healed him and stole his memories and sent him home, and then Riddle took my memory of it and gave it to the Dark. As an offering.
“I don’t remember doing it—even Snape couldn’t bring that memory back, not after Riddle sacrificed it. I only remember it from his perspective—he left some of his memories behind in my head, I think from what he tried to do to me in the Chamber. I’ve only just started trying to sort them out. Bill taught me a bit of occlumency over the summer, and that’s helped a bit.
“Anyway, after it happened, I was just… disgusted, and I hated myself, and I didn’t even know why, not until recently. Hermione… she doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know what I did. She thinks I was just a victim, this—this poor, innocent, helpless little girl. But I’m not. He got in my head, and he made me like him. A monster.”
Mary opened her mouth to say that the fact that Riddle had used Ginny’s hands to hurt someone didn’t mean that she’d done it, then closed it. Ginny had said that she felt like getting possessed was her own fault in some way, for being stupid enough to trust the diary, and that she needed to believe that, because otherwise, it meant that she’d never had a choice at all. By that logic, of course she would feel that what had happened to the boy had been her fault as well.
Finally, she said, “If you were disgusted, doesn’t that mean you’re not a monster?”
“No, you don’t get it,” Ginny snapped. “I remember being him. I don’t remember being horrified when I cut that boy. I just remember being Riddle, and liking it. Liking the boy’s pain… and my pain too. How horrified I was… he enjoyed that. I don’t remember being horrified, but I remember being him and enjoying it, so doesn’t that mean that I enjoyed it, too?”
Okay, that was actually a… not a good point, Mary didn’t think Ginny was a monster or anything, but she could see why she’d feel that way. It wasn’t like Mary really understood, like, consciousness, or what was different between remembering being Riddle and actually being Riddle.
She had to think about it for a minute before she responded. “I don’t think so? Professor Snape is a legilimens, and he saw my memories of Riddle in the Chamber, but that doesn’t mean he’s me. Oh! And Hermione, she has your memories from when you were possessed, but that doesn’t make her you. It doesn’t even mean she knows you, just that one part of your life, right? Like you said.
“So… I don’t think having some of Riddle’s memories makes you like him any more than my having his blood makes me like him.” Or, she hoped not, anyway. “I guess what I mean is that, what happened to you, and those memories, they’re part of you, but you’re more than that. Just like, maybe you were a victim, but that’s just one part of who you are, and the longer you survive, the smaller it gets compared to everything else that’s happened in your life. Or… something like that.”
Mary wasn’t really sure if she was making sense, but Ginny was looking at her like she was—like she’d actually managed to say something to help. And either that look, or the sense of lightheadedness that still stuck with her from having revealed one of her biggest secrets to someone who wasn’t even that close of a friend, or just the gut feeling that she shouldn’t leave Ginny alone, made her say, “Hey, do you want to see something cool?”
Mary led Ginny up to the seventh floor, to a seemingly empty corridor featuring a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. “Do you remember coming up here on Mabon?” she asked, and Ginny frowned.
“Yeah, there was that door that led out into the forest. Where’d it go?”
“You have to… summon it, basically. Only, it doesn’t just become a forest. What you do is, you walk back and forth three times thinking about what you need, and if you do it right, the door will appear, and the room inside will be, well, whatever you want, basically. Hermione calls it the Room of Requirement.”
Ginny considered this for a moment, looking very serious, before beginning to pace back and forth. When she opened the door, Mary saw, to her surprise, what seemed to be a huge, pristine parlor, like something out of the Urquhart Mansion. Not at all what she had expected. Ginny, though, looked satisfied, so she followed her into the room.
“What’s all this for?” Mary asked.
Instead of answering, Ginny pointed her wand at a table and fired off a hex. It went flying, slamming against the wall with an enormous bang, and splintered into pieces.
“I wanted something to destroy,” she said. “Snooty rich people things, preferably.” Then, turning to Mary, smiling just the tiniest bit for the first time all day, she said, “You can have a go, if you’re not too prim and proper.”
“Prim and proper?” Mary repeated, laughing. That wasn’t really how Ginny saw her, was it?
But the Gryffindor didn’t laugh. “Well, yeah. You’re always all, I don’t know, composed, like the purebloods—the rich ones, I mean, like Greengrass and Parkinson—and pretty much all you do is go to tea parties. With those girls and the bloody professors! You, I don’t know, you act like you’re like thirty sometimes, not a teenager. Or… like a mini Professor McGonagall.”
Though Mary still laughed, it made her feel a bit awkward, somehow, that Ginny saw her like that. It was so different from how she saw herself that she didn’t even know how to react. Yeah, she could put on a proper front in public, like Aunt Minnie and Catherine had taught her to—it would reflect badly on them if she didn’t—but she still cussed and got in fights and flew her broom into lightning storms. Did people really think she was some sort of goody two shoes?
But then, as a Slytherin, she knew the value in a spotless reputation; it meant you could get away with so much more mischief.
“Want to know a secret?” she asked, instead of trying to explain any of that, and Ginny raised her eyebrows expectantly. “I fucking hate tea.” She’d been trying to like it for years, pouring tons of milk and sugar in to make it palatable, in her attempt to become a proper British pureblood-ish girl, but she hated it. “And I hate tea parties, and I really hate Pansy Parkinson. Every time I’m having tea with her and she makes a snooty comment, I just want to punch her in her stupid face, but I can’t because I’m supposed to be all proper, and I hate being proper. I just want to blow shit up.”
For some reason, Ginny seemed to find this extremely amusing, shaking her head and laughing heartily. “Go on, then.”
So Mary turned her wand on a vase, imagined it was Sirius Black, and blew it the fuck up while Ginny whooped in encouragement. They didn’t stop until every object in the room was in pieces on the floor.
It had been a good distraction, but as Mary helped Snape in his lab that afternoon, she found herself thinking more about what Ginny had said. About feeling tainted. She managed to wait, at least, until they were wrapping up before finally blurting out, “Can I ask you something? Or… can we talk?” How the tables turn. Except that she certainly wouldn’t be crying or hugging him like Ginny had done to her. She just… needed his opinion.
Snape looked at her for a moment before conjuring a pair of armchairs, just as he’d done when they’d done the blood test last May. Actually, the whole setup was so similar to then that she felt a moment of déjà vu.
With him looking at her, though, waiting on her to speak, it was difficult to get the words out. But she didn’t want him to get annoyed with her for wasting his time, so she forced herself to ask, “You knew the Dark Lord, right? And Bellatrix?”
It had mostly been a—well, not a rhetorical question, but one she’d expected him to answer easily. However, he hesitated. “In a sense. As I mentioned in your first year, I believe that Lily, in the process of subverting the Dark Lord’s ritual on Mabon of 1978, placed a sort of curse on him which impaired his ability to reason. This was less than three months after I left school, meaning that he was under it for the majority of the time I knew him. But, yes, I knew them—Bellatrix better than the Dark Lord. Why?”
“Am I… like them?” she asked, staring down at her hands to avoid meeting his eyes. “Because he’s my grandfather. And Tonks said I’m more of a Black than she is. And Neville’s mum, Alice Longbottom, she mistook me for Bellatrix when I visited her in St. Mungo’s on Christmas. And then Madam Longbottom showed me a picture of Bellatrix at my age, and she could have been my sister or something.”
Not that her looking like Bellatrix meant that she was like her in any way but the physical, but something about it had still unsettled Mary, and she hadn’t fully realized it until she’d started thinking more about Riddle today.
“Why were you visiting Alice Longbottom?” Snape asked rather than answering her.
“She was my godmother,” Mary explained. “I just thought I should meet her at least once, so I asked Neville if I could go. But I just scared her. She stole Neville’s wand and tried to attack me, actually.”
“There is a resemblance,” Snape admitted. “I didn’t know Bellatrix when she was your age, but… yes, you do look like her. But trust me, the resemblance is only superficial.” His tone was a bit sharp—Mary had gotten the feeling that he really didn’t like the Blackheart.
“What was she like?” she asked, rather than press him for an answer about Riddle. Maybe just because she wanted to stall a little. Like with Remus, if she didn’t ask, he wouldn’t say something she didn’t want to hear.
“She was…” Snape seemed to be searching for the right words, and when he followed up with, quite emphatically, “a sadistic bitch,” Mary was so surprised that she snorted and had to cover her mouth with her hand. His lips twitched, like he was amused at her reaction.
He continued, “For the final years of the war, she took out her frustrations over the Dark Lord’s growing madness by—well, by beating the shite out of me. I was her whipping boy. When she wasn’t torturing me for fun, she was using me as a test subject for her mad experiments.” He said all of this with venom, but his voice was still steady, like it wasn’t painful for him to recount or anything.
“Trust me. I knew the Blackheart as well as anyone, and you are nothing like her. You inherited the Black looks, for certain—the hair, the cheekbones, the smirk. But you managed to escape the madness the family is known for, so far as I can tell.”
In that moment, it wasn’t Bellatrix that Mary thought of, but Sirius Black. She wondered if Snape was thinking about him too, but didn’t ask. Instead, feeling at least partially relieved, she prompted, “And… the Dark Lord?”
“Again, a superficial resemblance. Your coloration, and your being a Parselmouth… The way you carry yourself, as well, is similar to the teenage Riddle I saw in your memories. Much of that, I suspect, is that you came from similar backgrounds: raised in the muggle world, studying as much as you could of pureblood society in order to fit in.
“I believe I told you last spring that you, and Lily, both shared the Dark Lord’s pragmatism and disregard for convention. That said, no, you are not like him—certainly not in the way you seem to be concerned about. The Dark Lord was—is—an extraordinarily sadistic person with a need to dominate all those around him. You are nothing like that.”
The words, and the certainty with which he said them, settled something in her chest that she hadn’t known was loose. Still, she said, “I… Sometimes I think I’m a bad person, even if I’m not as bad as him. Sometimes, in Slytherin especially, it’s easier to just… go along with stuff, even if I know it’s not right.” Like Thorpe, but she wasn’t going to tell Snape she’d been behind the Gryffindor seeker’s injuries if he didn’t already know.
“There is a difference between that and actively seeking to hurt others for your own enjoyment.” Then, with a sigh, he added, “Not that it is not something to be concerned about. You are not like the Dark Lord, but… you, and your housemates, are not so different from many of the people I knew during my own time in Slytherin. People who simply ‘went along’ with things, because it was easier, then woke up one day to realize they had sold themselves to a madman.”
“Oh,” Mary said. “Is… is that why you’re so harsh on us? Because you don’t want us to end up like them?”
“Partially.”
Maybe she shouldn’t—he didn’t tend to like talking about anything too personal—but she found herself asking, “Is that how you became a Death Eater?”
“In a sense.”
She wanted to ask more, but she was getting the feeling that he didn’t want to talk about it. When he wanted to talk about things, she didn’t have to pry. He’d just go on about them at length, whether she was following him or not.
So instead, she asked, “What about Lily?” and he glanced at her in surprise. “I mean, last May, you said that she was like the Dark Lord in some ways. Was she more like him than I am?”
“Most definitely.”
Somehow, she hadn’t been expecting such a quick, definite answer. “How so?”
He paused, considering the question, before saying, “Well, leaving aside their penchant for dangerous, improvisational ritual magic… Lily could be quite cold. She, like the teenage Riddle, was charming and intelligent, but she also had a strong vindictive streak and a bad habit of gratuitously manipulating those around her. She did not tend to consider others’ feelings—or, at least, to consider them worthy of taking into account in her decisions, unless they were one of the very few people she genuinely cared about. Sometimes not even then.”
When he’d said ‘vindictive streak,’ Mary had thought that might apply to her, too, given that she’d spent the early part of the afternoon blowing stuff up and pretending it was Sirius Black, but the rest of it didn’t sound like her. Or, at least, she didn’t think it did.
“Although she differed from Riddle,” Snape continued, and apparently he did want to talk about Lily, since he was being all wordy again, “in that she had a rather weak sense of self.” At Mary’s questioning look, he elaborated, “She tried instinctively to be whatever she thought you wanted her to be in the moment. She used to tell me that the Lily I knew was the witch behind the masks, but I don’t think she ever spent enough time alone to know what she was like when she wasn’t playing off of someone else’s expectations.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Though perhaps the Dark Lord was the same, and only concealed it better.”
Mary tilted her head. “You make her sound like a boggart.” She didn’t know what shape boggarts took when you weren’t looking at them, actually—something to ask Remus in their next lesson.
Snape actually smiled at that, though the expression was a bit strange on his face. “I suppose it’s not an altogether inappropriate comparison, if a boggart reflected the things you liked best about yourself, instead of your deepest fears. Though as far as I know, there was no legilimency involved—unlike with her father.”
Sometimes she could see why Lilian thought he’d fancied her mum. He definitely seemed to admire her, even when he was talking about her being ‘cold and vindictive,’ and he didn’t normally smile like that. It made Mary feel a bit sad somehow, but she wasn’t really sure why.
In any case, the conversation had reminded her of something else she’d been planning to ask him. She’d almost forgotten, in all the drama with Ginny and her thoughts of Riddle. “Speaking of boggarts,” she began tentatively, “is there any chance you’d help me practice the Patronus Charm? Remus can only meet every other week, but he won’t let me practice on my own, and I feel like I’m not making any progress. We just had our third lesson the day before last, and I didn’t do any better than the first two times. Maybe even worse.”
“It is a NEWT-level spell,” Snape reminded her again, looking amused. “It’s not unexpected that you are struggling with it.” At her pleading look, though, he added, “I doubt what you need is additional instruction. It’s more likely that the memory you are using is not strong enough.”
Mary wrinkled her nose. “I’ve tried lots of memories, and none of them are working,” she complained. What if she just didn’t have any memories happy enough to form a Patronus? Now that was a depressing thought.
Snape gave her a thoughtful look. “In that case,” he said, “there is something else you might try.”
Notes:
A lot of the conversation between Mary and Ginny (basically everything up to when Mary starts describing what happened to Matilde Harrison) is taken from Chained Servant. Which I feel a bit weird about, cause I don't like to copy such huge chunks of dialogue when I can help it, but it's a really important scene for both Mary and Ginny, and Leigha's said she doesn't mind, so. The ending of that scene and the RoR scene are original, and the conversation with Snape mostly is, though a few bits of dialogue are stolen from their conversation in Chapter 27 of CS. The story about the little boy Riddle/Ginny tortured is taken from Leigha's Plan series.
I never really used to like Ginny, though I didn't dislike her either, just wasn't very interested in her. Leigha was the first author to make me love Ginny, so writing scenes between her and Mary for this fic is a lot of fun. I feel like there's so much complexity to explore in their dynamic, even though they aren't that close yet. They make great foils for each other, which is something I'll be exploring more as the story goes on.
I'm glad to have diverged enough from CS to not have to copy so much anymore, but at the same time, I'm sad that I had to leave out the way that Mary ends up asking Snape for advice on the Patronus charm in the original fic. In CS, since she isn't as close to Snape, she first asks Blaise and Theo (since she'd heard Blaise had a pet boggart), and they, along with Ginny (who tags along after her and Mary's conversation), search the castle for several hours before deciding that if they can't find a boggart, they'll just summon one themselves.
When Snape finds them, Theo is drawing a summoning circle on the floor in chalk, Blaise is holding a cat he found in the corridor, and Ginny and Mary are arguing with him over whether or not to ritually sacrifice it. Snape opens his lecture with "Which of you would like to explain why you are all here, in my office, after having attempted to summon a class-three demonic entity into the school, rather than down in Hogsmeade tormenting Madam Rosmerta?" It's one of the funniest scenes in the fic, and I wish it had fit into this story, but so it goes.
Chapter 23: Nothing Good Ever Happens in a Chamber
Notes:
This chapter coincides with Chapters 31 and 32 of Chained Servant.
CW for... minor psychological torture? Victim-blaming of a child abuse victim? A brief suicide attempt that doesn't actually happen? It's hard to describe. It's a kinda dark chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It wasn’t until the following weekend that Mary was actually able to act on Snape’s advice. She’d wanted to do so that Sunday, but she’d had to go to Daphne’s tea party, and then Dueling Club right after. It was the first of the parties she’d managed to attend since the fight with her and Lilian at the end of November, when she’d found out about them using her to get more people to attend, and it was even worse than she’d expected.
Other than Daphne’s table, where Mary had to sit with the rest of the third year Slytherin girls (including, to her annoyance, Pansy and Davis), and a handful of upperclassmen like Sadie who seemed to be attending for networking reasons, the majority of the attendees were first and second year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. Mary was almost certain that the purpose of the whole thing was for Daphne to wrest the title of most popular girl among the lower three years from Fay Dunbar in Gryffindor by folding the little lions and badgers into her ever-growing clique, and Mary was nothing more than the bait she dangled to draw them in.
The fact that she was basically the guest of honor meant that everyone stopped by their table at least once throughout the afternoon, and she could just tell some of them wanted her attention way more than she was comfortable with. Three of the first year girls even informed her that they’d been named after her (Marie, Mary-Anne, and Mariah), like they expected her to be flattered by that rather than creeped out.
Dueling Club was fun, at least. Hermione had started attending again, since she’d moved the MSA meetings and gone to enough of the practice sessions held by various NEWT students to catch up, and had luckily been allowed to join Mary and Lilian’s group. Unfortunately, Weasley was still in the group with them as well, and given that he was now angry with Neville, who’d been his only friend among them before, he seemed determined to make the experience as uncomfortable for the rest of them as he could. Which thankfully wasn’t that uncomfortable—she, Hermione, and Lilian had just taken to pretending he wasn’t there at all.
In any case, she wasn’t sure how long their mission would take, and she and Lilian had Quidditch Tuesday and Thursday evening anyway, so she and her two best friends didn’t get together until Saturday, when they met up on the first level of the dungeons in front of a closed, nondescript wooden door. Despite the fact that it was midday, it felt very much like a throwback to their first two years of school, when they, along with Aerin, would sneak out at night and explore the whole castle. They hadn’t really gotten the chance to do that this year, between all of their various activities and their fights, and Mary was pretty sure that Lilian and Hermione were just as eager to relive the old days as she was.
Of course, Aerin wasn’t there—she’d distanced herself from them after the Veritaserum Conspiracy, and Lilian had been avoiding her sister since Mabon, unable to decide whether or not to tell her the truth. Other than that, though, Mary felt very much like she was eleven years old all over again, particularly when Lilian turned to her with a grin and asked, “You ready?”
Mary, however, hesitated. It wasn’t that she was changing her mind, but she didn’t really know how the thing worked, and she was a little afraid to go first. Still, the whole thing had been her idea, and Snape had said it was safe, so she stepped forward, placing a hand on the door, and said, “Chivalry.”
It swung open—revealing, rather anticlimactically, an empty passage.
The Tempering Chamber, which Mary and Hermione had looked up in Hogwarts: A History at Snape’s suggestion, had been Godric Gryffindor’s addition to the school, just like the Chamber of Secrets had been Slytherin’s. Up until about a century ago, it had been used as a sort of Gryffindor hazing ritual. Snape had said it was kind of like the Sorting Hat, in that it judged the person who went inside, but with more of an agenda: “To shape students to appreciate Gryffindor’s noble warrior ethos in the absence of actual wars in which they could participate.”
In short, it was meant to make them face their fears, flaws, and weaknesses. And this was… somehow supposed to help them cast the Patronus, but only if they ‘passed’? Now that she thought about it, Snape really hadn’t given her much information on how it worked, and the section on it Hogwarts: A History hadn’t said anything about that. Still, it did sound kind of like a boggart, or a dementor—all three responded to dark parts of the minds of those exposed to them. And if she could manage to cast a Patronus in the Tempering Chamber, she thought she could probably cast one anywhere.
Still, it was a bit nerve-wracking, and the three of them hung back uncertainly for a moment, staring into the empty passage. The stone floor sloped up slowly, eventually disappearing into the darkness, and charcoal sketches lined the walls. Mary and Hermione shared a nervous look.
It was Lilian, ever the boldest of the three, who finally said, “Let’s get on with it then,” and stepped through the doorway… only to find that nothing happened at all. She didn’t say she was relieved, but Mary could see it in her face.
Hermione’s hand slipped into hers, giving it a squeeze, and after a moment, they followed Lilian through the door and up the passage. Nothing happened, exactly—except that the door swung shut behind them, making them jump, and the sketches on the wall, already more abstract than the rest of the art in the castle, grew more ominous as they went on: black slashes on white canvas moving almost violently, each one darker than the last. There was a strange feeling building, like she was being watched. Like something trying to make her turn back.
Why couldn’t we have gone to Hufflepuff’s Chamber instead? Did Hufflepuff even have a Chamber?
Finally, though, they reached a small, round room which seemed to be the end, lined with even more of the threatening sketches. It was dark enough that she couldn’t even see Lilian or Hermione’s expressions, just their silhouettes. Tightening her grip on Hermione’s hand, she wondered if it was too late to change her mind.
Nothing happened, though, other than the unsettling feeling growing stronger. Finally, Hermione lost her patience and said, “Well, is this it?”
At which point, the world promptly dissolved.
What followed next was nothing less than a sort of nightmarish carnival ride through everything Mary had ever hated about herself—everything she’d ever feared, everything she’d ever been too weak to face.
It began on the playground at the age of six—the first time she’d ever seen Dudley and his friends bullying someone other than herself. Some poor boy named Paul had gotten their attention, and they’d stolen his jumper, playing keep-away with it until the kid was nearly crying with frustration.
The Chamber was showing her this, though, because of what she’d done—or hadn’t done. Because when a teacher had caught them, noticed her watching, and asked what happened, she had lied for Dudley, in the hopes that he would—well, not leave her alone, but at least that he wouldn’t go after her more for snitching on him. Watching the scene from outside herself, she could see the judgment in the teacher’s eyes, and the hatred and betrayal in Paul’s as he clearly decided she was just as bad as Dudley.
From there, it took her through more instances watching Dudley hurting other kids and doing nothing, and then to her earliest attempts at thieving and lying. Stealing money from Petunia, burying it in the garden in hopes of running away someday—although she usually just ended up buying food with it when the Dursleys wouldn’t feed her. Stealing food from the school kitchens to hoard in her room. Lying to the Dursleys to avoid punishment. Lying to the neighbors, to her teachers, when they asked how the Dursleys treated her, why she was missing school, why there were so many bruises on her arms. Moments she could have saved herself, but didn’t, because she was too afraid.
And then the Chamber made her experience the same memories, from the perspectives of the people she’d hurt: the kids Dudley hit and stole from; the teachers who’d wanted to help her and couldn’t; the school cook fired over all the food going missing on his shifts. Even Petunia, here and there. Then they moved on to Hogwarts, going through all the people she’d hurt, showing her how she’d made them feel. Not always in chronological order—more connected by severity, or type of offense.
Lying and cowardice, first. Hiding things from her friends (about her grandfather, about Snape). Not wanting to go into the Chamber of Secrets after Ginny because she valued her own life over that of a younger girl she barely knew. Neville being bullied by his gran, by Draco, while she just sat by and watched. Davis—Tracey—when Draco and Pansy made fun of her for being halfblood and Mary looked down on her for putting up with it.
Making people worry about her, not thinking about how her actions affected them. Snape standing by her bedside after her duel, so tired that he kept halfway nodding off and yet refusing to leave until he knew she was alright. Professor McGonagall after she fell from her broom, feeling that she’d failed at keeping Mary safe. Snape and Remus fighting over her while she lay unconscious, spurred on in their hostility by their fear for her, their unwillingness to trust each other with her safety. Brushing off her various near-death experiences to Lilian and Hermione. Catherine, Aunt Minnie, and the older Urquhart witches when she’d run away.
She felt the worry and fear she’d caused all of them. She felt the Grangers’ horror as she and Hermione told them what they’d gotten up to in their second year—what she’d let their daughter do.
She saw herself through other people’s eyes—people who had looked up to her or been intimidated by her because of the Girl Who Lived mythos and been rebuffed or humiliated. People she’d scared with Parsel, with her fighting. Her fellow Slytherins. A gaggle of starstruck little girls with her name, brushed off with only the most obligatory, false politeness. Draco and Ron Weasley when she’d first met them—both wanting to be her friend, both embarrassed, Draco by her disinterest and Weasley by her lies. Collin Creevey, dragged up to Professors Snape and Sinistra in front of the entire school and accused of stalking when he’d desperately wanted a photo of his hero. Even the Headmaster, when he’d invited her to attend a Wizengamot session with him and had been met with cold rejection.
It got worse from there.
Snape’s anger and frustration when she yelled at him over Remus, told him to get over nearly being mauled by a werewolf—being told that she didn’t believe him when he said Remus was dangerous.
Watching her own face as she told Snape about Hermione’s nightmares—trying and failing to hide a smile when Hermione told her she wouldn’t be doing research with him anymore—actively scheming to replace her. Following Snape around, pathetically obvious in her need for his attention—her greedy, childish possessiveness.
The Grangers and Hermione sitting around their house on New Year’s Day, after Mary had left them behind, the holiday ruined for them. The way she’d almost wanted to hurt them for not being able to give her what she’d wanted from them, to make them miss her so she could actually believe she was wanted. The way she’d wanted Emma and Dan to blame Hermione for chasing her away—to like Mary more than her. To take her side against their own daughter.
Draco Malfoy soiling himself in fear with a snake in his bed back in first year, truly believing she was going to make it hurt or even kill him.
What Cadmus Thorpe had felt in the moment he’d realized he was falling, when he’d thought he was going to die—the pain of his pelvis and ankle shattering and being regrown—the look of malicious satisfaction on Flint’s face when she’d gotten him what he wanted. Not unlike Dudley’s face when she’d lied for him, all the way back in primary school.
A nearly endless parade of each student she’d assaulted and drugged during the Veritaserum Conspiracy—their fear, their helplessness.
From there, the Chamber just seemed to move at random, dragging her through everything she’d ever done that was wrong, or cowardly, or deceptive, or weak, or just un-Gryffindorish, until she could think of nothing else. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, something inside her broke, and she realized…
She had been wrong. She couldn’t justify many of the things she’d done. She wasn’t a good person, not in the slightest.
The Chamber seemed to freeze around her—it felt alive, it really did—and then it dumped her back in the room where she’d started. Only this time, she was alone, and the portraits were changing, the darkness in them coalescing into… a dementor. Coming for her—and she tried, but she couldn’t cast magic, not even the smallest of spells.
The dementor approached, cornering her against the wall as she attempted to scramble away, looming over her… and then turned. Headed, instead, for the other side of the room, where Lilian and Hermione had suddenly reappeared. One by one, it bent over them, sucking their souls out through their mouths, as Mary just watched. When it was done with them, it moved on to others, appearing in the room just to be taken away from her. Dave, whom she’d promised to protect. Remus. Catherine. Aunt Minnie. The Grangers. Snape.
By the time the dementor took her own soul, it was almost a relief.
She woke in her cupboard next: thirteen years old, suddenly realizing that the past several years had been nothing but a dream. That she was still nobody. Not a witch, just an unwanted girl whose parents had died in a car crash. No choice but to go back to her life with the Dursleys—the only life she’d ever really known.
Mary dragged herself through the day, skipping school, not seeing the point in going anymore. Not when no one cared what happened to her—herself least of all. All she wanted was to get through the day, get back in her cupboard, and sleep, so that she might have another dream like the one last night, the one with magic.
So perhaps it wasn’t that surprising when she stole Aunt Petunia’s sleeping pills and swallowed the whole bottle.
Instead of sleeping, she only sank down—down into the darkness, into heavy, black water, filling her lungs. But then it changed, and the water was an enormous snake coiled around her, nearly crushing her to death, and Tom Riddle was there, too, telling the snake to stop, because she was his. Because
<she will be brought around to my way of thinking in the end. Won’t you, my heir?> he asked her in Parsel, giving her a sharp, cruel smile. Then, again to the snake, <She has already begun to follow in my footsteps, after all…>
<I haven’t! I would never!>
<Cadmus Thorpe? Veritaserum? Taking what you want—what you need—always an admirable quality. And the allies you have already begun to draw around yourself? The Houses of Urquhart and Granger, your professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Snape? Powerful, devoted, loyal ‘friends’—even Moon, Lovegood, and Weasley have their uses. And when they step out of line, disappoint you, like the Granger girl did, you find your own ways to get even.>
She tried to deny it. Snape said she wasn’t like him, after all. She didn’t want to hurt people; even Thorpe had kept her up at night for weeks after. And she certainly didn’t hate muggleborns.
But Riddle only replied, <Silly child—whoever said I hated muggleborns? They were convenient, that is all. And as for hurting people, well… what about Sirius Black?>
<That’s different!>
<Is it? Are you sure?> She wanted to say yes, and yet—she couldn’t. No matter what Snape had said, part of her was still afraid she was like Riddle, deep down, and was only hiding it from everyone. And Riddle must have been able to tell, because he laughed at her. <Face it, granddaughter: you and I, we share more than the blood you would deny.>
<I should have thrown your book in the lake!> she snapped. Even then, she knew it was a bad sign that she couldn’t think of any real retort to his words.
<Ah, but you didn’t. Like my Severus pointed out, it wouldn’t be to your advantage. He makes a useful advisor, does he not? Or perhaps I should say acolyte, the way he follows one of us after the other. First Evans, then myself, and now you.>
Chuckling, he turned away, ordering the snake to follow as he made his way to one of the pictures on the wall—they were back in the round room again. Just before he disappeared, he added, <Granddaughter… When you are ready to seize the power that is yours by right, I’ll be waiting.>
Then he was gone, and Mary was lying on the floor, watching the sketches change once more—into portraits now. She found herself surrounded by the faces of everyone she cared for, all staring down at her in hatred. Each one taking a turn to tell her the thing she was most afraid of hearing from their lips.
“You know I’ve just been using you. Why would I want to be your friend?” asked Lilian.
Dave was next. “I don’t need your protection. Don’t you realize how patronizing it was for you to even offer? Why would I want to be associated with the Girl Who Lived?”
Catherine, a look of disdain on her face: “You won’t even put in the barest effort, so I don’t see why I should continue to waste my time with you! Good riddance!”
Then Emma and Dan: “You’re not our daughter. You’re nothing but a danger to Hermione—a bad influence. We were relieved when you left. We never would have let you come home with us in the first place if we’d realized what you were really like. It was only because we pitied you that we ever let you into our home—what a mistake that was.”
Remus told her that she had ruined his life—her and the prophecy that had stolen all of his friends from him. That the more she reminded him of James and Lily, the more he would hate her for their deaths.
Neville told her that every time he looked at her, he only saw Bellatrix Lestrange.
Ginny told her that she was just like her grandfather—that she had been afraid of her ever since Mary had told her the truth.
Hermione said, “I wish I’d never met you. I invited you home with me, and all you did was mess things up. It’s like you’re a parasite or something, forcing your way in where you don’t belong. Just because you don’t have a family doesn’t mean you’re allowed to leech off mine.”
But worst of all was Snape.
“I’m your Head of House. It’s my job to babysit your tedious self. You don’t think I truly care for you, do you? If you had never been born, Lily never would have died, and I will never forgive you for that. Nor will I ever see you as anything more than an inferior replica of the woman I loved; you only have any value to me when you remind me of her.
“Your fixation on me, your dependence, is as obvious as it is pathetic—just a lonely little girl latching on to the first person to pretend to care for her. Sooner or later, your minor resemblance to Lily will not be worth the absolute tedium of your presence—of having to pretend that I have any modicum of respect for you—of putting up with the way you follow me around like a pathetic little dog.”
At that, Mary finally broke down in tears. There was nothing, nothing worse than this, at having all of the worst, most secret fears of her heart confirmed. She curled in on herself on the ground, hugging her knees to her chest, trying not to listen.
It’s not true, she told herself. It’s not. Snape told me in September, didn’t he? That he cares about me. Snape lied about a lot of things, but he’d said that she could trust him, hadn’t he? That she wouldn’t regret it. So this must be a lie.
And if his portrait was lying, probably the others were, too. No: the Chamber was lying to her, she decided. She wouldn’t believe it. “I won’t!”
The clamorous voices of the portraits cut off, and a man appeared in front of her, one she’d never seen before but thought must be Godric Gryffindor: bearded and long-haired, with hard, cold eyes and a long, twisted scar across his face. But… he smiled at her. Or, not smiled, but grinned sort of fiercely, nodding, and the room disappeared again.
Mary braced herself, but it was a good memory the Chamber showed her this time—lying in the grass out in the Senior Woods in first year following the Samhain Revel, her first ritual at Hogwarts. She was holding hands with Hermione and Lilian as the sun rose, sprawled in a triangle with their heads together.
She remembered that, and remembered the Revel: remembering dancing with the dead all night, realizing that she was part of Magic, that she belonged to it. That she belonged somewhere: here, at Hogwarts, with her friends.
The memory dissolved, and she was on the floor of the room again, but Lilian and Hermione were back, and she knew, somehow, that it was over. The next moment, the room spun around them, and part of the wall opened to reveal a courtyard. The three got to their feet, Hermione hesitating, until Mary and Lilian took her by the hands and pulled her out into the sunlight.
“Did you get what you needed?”
“What?” Mary looked up distractedly from her valerian root.
“In the Tempering Chamber,” Snape said with a smirk. “Given your thousand-yard stare, I’m assuming you went.”
“Oh.” Then, scowling, “You knew it would be that horrible!”
“Yes,” he agreed, completely unrepentant. “But did you get what you needed?”
She sighed, reluctant to admit it and justify him sending her to that place without any real warning, but finally said, “Yes. Lilian too, but… Hermione didn’t pass.”
Snape snorted. “You took Miss Granger with you? I would have told you that was a lost cause—she is incapable of accepting her flaws and admitting fault to the degree which the Chamber requires.”
Though Mary tried to glare, her heart wasn’t in it. She knew—especially after the Chamber—that it was rather horrible of her, but she kind of liked it when Snape insulted people to her. Especially Hermione. It was like he was saying: You’re on the inside, and they’re on the outside. Was she really that childish?
“I think it really freaked her out,” she said, doing her best to sound disapproving—to be angry with him, rather than pleased. She was a bit worried, actually: Hermione had been weirdly subdued ever since they’d gone.
Without the slightest hint of sympathy in his voice, Snape said, “She should count herself lucky she was able to leave at all. If you remain too long, the Chamber will simply pull you back under and repeat the process, attempting to force you into alignment with itself, regardless of the degree of mental trauma induced along the way. It becomes highly unpleasant after the third iteration.”
Mary went through a bunch of different thoughts rather quickly. First was irritation that Snape had sent her in without even warning her about that. Then, she thought that maybe he’d done so because he’d been confident she would pass, which made her feel kind of flattered. Then she thought, What do you mean, ‘unpleasant’? Like it wasn’t unpleasant before??
Finally, much later than it should have, it occurred to her that he sounded like he was speaking from personal experience.
“Wait,” she said, staring at him. “Did you go through it? More than three times in a row?”
“Yes,” he said easily, like he wasn’t talking about something that must have been incredibly traumatizing.
“Why? When?”
“My fifth year,” he answered. “As for why, a group of my fellow students thought it would be amusing to throw me into the Chamber without warning and lock me in.”
Mary’s mouth fell open. He had said something, back when she was in the hospital wing, about getting bullied by both Gryffindors and Slytherins when he was in school, but she hadn’t thought much about it since then. “Who?” she demanded, because—well, she just had a feeling, but she didn’t want to say so in case she was wrong.
But she wasn’t. “Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew.”
It was one thing, hearing that Black had played a ‘prank’ that had nearly gotten him killed by a werewolf. She’d thought, somehow, that was a one-off event, explained by Black being an evil git. Even though she knew her father and Snape had hated each other in school, she hadn’t thought… And, Remus had taken part in it?
“Did they… do things like that a lot?”
“Oh, yes.” Snape smiled sharply—or, didn’t smile so much as bared his crooked teeth at her.
Then he just… left her to stew in that for a moment. When she’d heard he’d had a feud with her father and his friends in school, she’d pictured something kind of like Draco and Weasley, where they both went at each other constantly, each backed up by their own little gang. But what he described sounded more like… well, like her with Dudley and his friends, if they’d been creative enough to do anything but beat on her.
And… Remus had let her believe that Snape only hated him because of Black’s prank. She had yelled at Snape over it. Told him to ‘get over it’—and thanks to the Chamber, she knew just how he’d felt when she’d said that.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, and Snape arched a questioning eyebrow at her. “For telling you to get over everything with Remus. I didn’t… know.”
“Of course you didn’t. A point which I recall trying to make at the time: that you were not, in fact, familiar enough with the details of my history with Lupin and his friends to decide how I ought to feel about them.”
His words just added to her guilt, making her want to shrink in on herself. “I’m sorry,” she said again, for lack of anything else to say. Snape didn’t respond, or say anything else to make her feel better about it, just kind of let her stew in her own self-loathing. Finally, just to break the silence, she dared to ask, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why’d you let me think…”
Snape gave her a slightly irritated look. “Ah, yes, because dredging up more stories from our school days would have cured you of your conviction that I was being, as you put it, ‘immature.’” She winced. “It was obvious that Lupin had already convinced you that I was the one insisting on perpetuating the conflict between us, while he himself was blameless of anything more than being Cursed. To argue the point would have only made me come off worse in comparison to him, given that he makes sure to put on his best face when you are around.”
Wait. “When I’m around, meaning… it wasn’t just when you were in school? You mean that Remus is…” She couldn’t really think of a word for it, and finally settled on, “He’s still a git to you?”
“Does it matter?” Snape asked tiredly, but when she just looked at him, he finally said, “Yes, you could say that. The mature, put-upon Professor Lupin who is doing his best not to respond to my unprovoked attacks is an act for your benefit. In your absence, he reverts to form. Less overtly aggressive without Black and Potter, but more than willing to insult me at every opportunity, when he judges there will be no consequences for doing so. No doubt it makes his return to school feel more like the good old days.”
Mary wanted to ask for concrete examples, but then, wouldn’t that just be the same as her saying she didn’t believe him? It was hard to picture Remus acting like that… but if Snape was right, Remus had purposefully made sure that would be the case.
“In any case, you were correct in one thing,” Snape continued. “My issues with Lupin are mine alone. Regardless of my opinion of him, it was—is—clearly important to you that he remain in your life, and I would be remiss if I were to separate you from one of the few people looking out for your interests, so long as I can make sure that you are protected from his… condition. I did promise to prioritize your well-being, after all.”
It struck Mary then just how much he must have meant it when he’d promised her that. If she’d been older, and some clueless kid had come to her, yelling and demanding that she forgive Dudley for how he’d treated her—or at least accept him being around, constantly reminding her of it—just because they liked him… Well, she didn’t think she would have reacted very well.
She generally didn’t think of Snape as a very nice or accommodating person. But he’d put up with that for her, in spite of how completely ignorant she’d been. He’d just accepted that she cared about Remus, and that had been more important to him than his own justifiable resentment towards him—important enough to allow her to go on believing the best of Remus, even if she wished he’d just told her the truth.
She couldn’t even speak for a moment, just sort of stared at him—finally, entirely too late, managed to squeak out a, “Thank you.”
Snape dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment and said nothing more about it.
Mary decided that she wasn’t just going to burst into Remus’s office and yell at him. She’d learned her lesson about assuming that, just because she’d heard a little from one of them, that meant she had the full picture.
What she needed to do, she decided, was find out if Remus had the guts to tell her the truth of his own volition, without knowing that Snape had already told her. (And to find out if what Snape had said was true—but on some gut level, she already believed him.) She needed a Slytherin approach.
So she waited until after her next Patronus lesson with him. She’d hoped that it would be the one where she was finally successful, but to her annoyance, it was the worst one yet! Before the boggart even came out, she found herself unable to really connect to even the memory the Chamber had given her, too distracted by her own guilt and discomfort over everything else it had shown her and the problem of Remus and Snape.
But that—and the fact that Hermione and Lilian had performed just as poorly—would do well enough for her purposes. Which were that, when she visited him in his office the weekend after that disastrous lesson, she could sigh and say, “I really thought I would get it this time. After all the trouble I went through to find the right memory…”
“What trouble?” Remus asked, looking curious, but also a bit wary. Though it seemed like just his normal level of wariness at realizing he might be about to hear of another of her dangerous misadventures—or else be told that he wasn’t allowed to know.
Hoping that the look on her face was suitably innocent, she asked, “Have you ever heard of something called the Tempering Chamber?”
Remus choked on his tea. “The Room of Doom?” he sputtered. “You went to the Room of Doom?”
“Um, yeah, if that’s the room off the west end of the northeast portrait gallery in the first dungeon level. The one that shows you all your weaknesses and fears and stuff?” If she’d known people called it that before she’d gone, she might’ve stayed away.
“How on earth did you find out about it?”
“Hogwarts: A History,” she said—it was only half a lie. “I thought it might help me learn to cast a Patronus. How did you find out about it?”
Maybe he was just a really good liar, but he look guilty or anything. “Your father and I and the rest of our friends stumbled across it in our fifth years,” he said, corroborating what Snape had told her. “We didn’t know what it was at first—just thought it was some kind of nightmare torture chamber. None of us made it through to the end. Honestly, I didn’t even give much thought as to why something like that would be in a school until much later.”
Mary felt very cold all of a sudden. “I see,” she said, and Remus looked up at her, clearly taken aback by the change in her tone. “A ‘nightmare torture chamber.’ So then you just decided you might as well throw one of your classmates in and lock the door? That’s the kind of thing you guys did for fun back then?” She’d intended to string him along a bit more, see if he’d admit to anything without being forced, but she just couldn’t. She was too angry.
Remus blanched, his eyes widening. “Snape told you about that?”
“Well, yeah,” she said. “Unlike some people, he generally tells me the truth.”
Another wince from Remus. “Mary, I didn’t mean—it’s ancient history. I didn’t see any point in dredging it up for you.”
“I guess not,” she said. “Just like you didn’t see the point in telling the Aurors, or the Headmaster, that Sirius Black was an animagus until months after he broke into the school?”
By this point, he couldn’t seem to meet her eyes, looking down into his teacup like it might somehow hold the power to get him out of this conversation. She thought, with a sudden rush of derision, that he was quite a coward for someone who’d been a Gryffindor. No wonder he hadn’t made it through the Room.
“Well?” she prodded, folding her arms over her chest. “Are you going to explain yourself?”
If she’d been in a better mood, she might have been amused at how it was almost like she was the professor and he was the student, about to get detention for some infraction or another. As it was, she only felt her annoyance and disappointment building. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t just jump to conclusions this time, that she’d listen to Remus’s side of the story, but he certainly wasn’t making it easy for her.
“I don’t know what to say,” he finally admitted. “About Black, first… It was a mistake. I know that. I had convinced myself that it probably wouldn’t make a difference, but the truth is, I just didn’t want to admit to Dumbledore that after he’d stuck his neck out to get me into Hogwarts, I had deliberately circumvented the protections he’d put in place. I was ashamed. But after you and I talked, I realized I was being a coward, so I told Dumbledore the truth.
“As for Snape… Severus… What we did to him was wrong. In our defense, we didn’t… I didn’t take the Room that seriously at the time. It didn’t occur to any of us how messed up it was to have something like that in a school full of kids. It was just another adventure to us.
“Then… well, Black suggested it would be funny to put Severus through it. Because if it made you see what you’d done wrong—well, we all suspected he would have a lot to see. He had a reputation, you see, even back in school. For being rather Dark. He knew more curses when we first arrived at school than half the NEWT students. Still, I shouldn’t have gone along with it.”
Mary was stuck on one word. “‘Funny,’” she repeated flatly.
“We… we were pranksters,” Remus said. “Like the Weasley twins. We could, occasionally—often, I guess—be… cruel. We weren’t very good Gryffindors.”
“You were bullies,” Mary corrected, thinking again about Dudley. The way Remus kept trying to downplay it only made her anger and scorn build further.
“I—yes,” Remus finally admitted.
She’d trusted him. Like Snape had said, she’d believed that he was the sensible one, and Snape the one being immature, unable to let their past go. She’d been completely blind to what he was really like.
“And you thought you could put it behind you,” she repeated, and Remus gave a very small nod. It occurred to her, suddenly, that he was… intimidated by her or something. Or, at least, afraid of her judgment. It felt strange, having this kind of power over an adult, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t use it. “Did you even apologize to him?”
She’d gotten the feeling, in the Chamber—the Room of Doom—that it had wanted her to apologize. In fact, she’d even started drafting some letters to Catherine, Aunt Minnie, and even Madam Urquhart, meaning to apologize for worrying them, but then she’d decided that she needed to find an etiquette book that would help her figure out how to do so properly—because while she knew there was some formal pureblood apology process, she hadn’t actually learned it yet.
But anyway, the thought of Remus just slinking back to Hogwarts and expecting Snape to act like he hadn’t bullied him, to brew the Wolfsbane for him, without even apologizing—it just made her lose even more respect for him. If it had been her in Snape’s shoes, her and Dudley, or one of his arsehole friends…
Remus winced. “It was a long time ago,” he said weakly. “And I didn’t feel that Snape would accept it. More likely, he would hold it over my head.”
So he hadn’t even tried, because he wasn’t willing to give Snape that power over him. Great.
“It was a long time ago,” she repeated. “So you’re perfectly civil to him now, then, even if you haven’t outright apologized? I mean, he spends what must be hours each month brewing the Wolfsbane for you, and you’re trying to tell me that you understand what you did back then was wrong. So you certainly wouldn’t still be acting like a git to him when I wasn’t around—because that would just be the most immature, childish thing I could think of. And you’re meant to be an adult.”
Remus seemed to understand that her questioning was rhetorical. He looked down at his teacup again. Quietly, he said, “I don’t know what he’s been telling you, but…” He trailed off, not even able to finish defending himself.
Mary set her tea aside and stood, and Remus looked up at her, something vulnerable in his eyes that made her feel uncomfortable and a little guilty. But she pushed it aside, setting her jaw, looking down at him coolly. “You owe Professor Snape an apology,” she said. “I can’t make you give him one, but I don’t think I’ll be having tea with you again until you do.”
“Mary, wait.”
She paused on her way out the door, looking back at him. He’d stood, but didn’t seem to be aiming to follow her—was just staring at her, hands shoved into his pockets, kind of hunched in on himself like a kicked dog, but she didn’t feel sorry for him. She didn’t.
“I’ll see you in class, Professor.” With that, she turned her back on him once more and was gone.
Notes:
Bits of the dialogue from Riddle and the portraits, and a few things Remus says, are borrowed from CS, and one of Snape's lines was written by Leigha (the one about Remus missing the "good old days"). Sorry if the Room of Doom sequence is a little rushed; I didn't want to rehash the entire thing in detail, so I just focused on a few parts of it, but you can read it in Chapter 31 of CS if you're curious.
Though there's a little bit of story left in Chained Servant before it hits the point where it was abandoned, the Room of Doom is the last major scene that's the same in both fics. From here on out, there'll still be a lot of inspiration from CS and Leigha's other fics, and a few more events that happen the same, but my story is about ready to strike out on its own.
Chapter 24: The Favorite Fake Uncle/Godfather Competition
Notes:
This chapter takes place during Chapter 32 of Chained Servant.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As Mary made her way back down to the dungeons, she wondered why she had demanded Remus apologize to Snape, but hadn’t tried asking for the reverse when she’d argued with Snape back in December. Part of it, she supposed, was that she had realized she had more leverage over Remus. He seemed to care more what she thought of him. Snape was too proud—if she’d asked, he probably would have told her to bugger off.
But also, she was angrier with Remus. She felt like she’d been deceived, made to believe he was trustworthy and mature when he was actually a coward and a git. When he was—had been—well, maybe not like Dudley, but at least like one of the kids who’d followed him around and helped him hurt her.
Okay, maybe it was a little personal.
She’d intended to go down to her room and sulk, but when she got to the first dungeon level, she found herself hesitating before leaving the stairs entirely, heading for Snape’s office, though she didn’t really know why. I’ll just see if he’s still there—if the door’s unlatched. I won’t bother him otherwise. Except, the door was latched when she got there, but she only hesitated for a moment before knocking anyway.
It swung open to reveal Snape, who didn’t look too annoyed or surprised, which meant that he’d probably known it was her. “Yes?”
She hadn’t actually thought this far ahead, nor was she even certain why she’d come here. “I’m mad at Remus,” she finally announced, stepping into the room and closing the door again behind her.
“Fascinating,” Snape said. “But seeing as I am not Lupin, I am not entirely sure why you have decided to tell me this.”
“Well, I already told him,” she said, embarrassed. “By the way, uh, he might come talk to you at some point? I told him I’m not speaking to him until he apologizes to you, so…”
He didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, and just looked at her with his eyebrows raised for a moment before saying, “You do remember that Lupin and I are both your professors?”
Okay, maybe she was getting a little… overly involved. But they had kind of made all their drama her business when they’d started fighting about it in front of her! Besides, “Well, yes, but you’re also both kind of my family, so I think I have a right to be angry with him.” Snape looked at her a little blankly at that, which made her think she’d surprised him. “Anyway, I’m not going to act any differently in class. I’m just not having tea with him again until he apologizes.”
“What punishment,” Snape muttered, rather more sarcastically than was warranted, in her opinion. “And what, exactly, are you insisting he apologize for? Forcing me into the Tempering Chamber?”
“Bullying you.”
He stared at her for a moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “Mary Elizabeth,” like an expletive or something. “You do realize how incredibly not your business any of this is?”
“Well, since I already yelled at you, it’s only fair that Remus gets a turn,” she said with an awkward shrug.
Snape let out a surprised huff. “Very even-minded of you,” he said. “Well, did you only stop by to inform me that Lupin has been thoroughly chastised for his behavior, or would you like some tea while you’re here?”
Since her duel with Bletchley, Snape had occasionally invited her to spend time with him, but it was still rare. Most of the time, it was still her seeking him out. “Oh, um, yes please,” she said, a little too quickly, and then, for some reason, blurted out, “You know, I actually don’t like tea all that much.”
Oh, why had she said that? What if he changed his mind?
Snape gave her a skeptical look and pointed out, “Strange, seeing as you seem to spend about fifty percent of your time drinking it with various people.”
“I’ve been trying to like it.”
“Well, you’re doing a shite job,” he said, and she was startled into barking out a very unladylike laugh. “Everyone whose had tea with is aware of your preference for tea-flavored milk.”
Mary blushed, but she didn’t mind him teasing her, exactly. It was kind of nice, in a weird way. Feeling bold, and taking note of the mug on his desk—the same one that she’d gifted him for Christmas—she asked, “What are you drinking? Is that coffee?”
“Yes,” he answered, eyeing her like he knew what her next question was going to be.
“Can I try some?”
If she’d asked Remus or Aunt Minnie, they probably would have said she was too young for coffee, but this was Snape—the one who’d inflicted on her the Isolation Hex, puppy dissection, and, most recently, the Room of Doom—so she wasn’t surprised when he only smirked at her and warned, “You’re not going to like it.”
“You don’t know that!” She folded her arms over her chest, glaring at him.
“I’ve seen what you have to do to tea to make it palatable. Trust me.”
And yet, a moment later, he was calling a house elf from the kitchens, ordering up what looked to be half a cup of coffee, with milk and sugar on the side, and moving from his desk to the armchairs where they usually sat when she wasn’t in trouble these days. Once Mary had taken a seat, he presented her with the cup, but withheld the milk and sugar next to him, and she looked at him in distress.
“Try it the proper way first,” he told her. “If you insist on polluting it to satisfy your childish tastes afterwards, I won’t stop you.”
She pouted, both at the insult to her tastes and the fact that he was clearly just making her try it black for his own amusement, but steeled herself and took a tiny sip of the hot, pungent liquid. The taste was so strong and bitter that she gagged slightly, and had to force herself to swallow it rather than spit it right back up into the cup—only the thought of what Catherine would say if she saw her do such a thing allowed her to control her reaction.
But only to an extent. “Yuck,” she complained once she’d swallowed, sticking her tongue out, and Snape huffed again.
“Fine, then,” he said, a hint of scorn in his voice. “You don’t realize how many of your classmates would kill to get their hands on that, but then, I knew it would go unappreciated by you.” He held out the milk and sugar in resignation.
Confused, Mary paused in the middle of reaching for the sugar to say, “Wait, don’t they serve coffee in the Great Hall?”
“Hardly. What passes for coffee at the student tables is a pathetic excuse for caffeinated water—primarily to make sure that you little monsters don’t become even more unbearable than you already are. This, you can only get at the High Table, or by going down to the kitchens and demanding it from the elves in a suitably intimidating manner.” Then, after a moment’s pause, “Don’t tell anyone I told you that.”
Mary smirked. “Right. What year were you in when you figured out you could do that?”
“Third.”
So he’d already been drinking coffee at her age! Determined, she put a bit of milk and sugar into the cup—not drowning it out as she might have otherwise done, had she not wanted so badly to… what? Impress him? Make him not regret letting her try it? She wasn’t sure; she just knew that she wanted to like it, maybe just so that they could have another thing in common.
She took another tentative sip and tried very, very hard not to wrinkle her nose. “It’s good,” she lied.
“I told you you wouldn’t like it.”
“I said it was good!”
“Yes, while looking like you were scrubbing caked-on potions out of a cauldron.” Okay, maybe she hadn’t done such a good job at keeping a straight face. “You don’t need to force yourself to finish it—I won’t hold your utter lack of taste, or the waste of good coffee, against you.”
Mary clutched the cup close, out of his reach, and took another, bigger sip. “I’m going to finish it,” she insisted. “I bet it’s an acquired taste.”
With a sigh which somehow managed to convey both exasperation and regret, Snape said, “If you become hyperactive, I will throw you out of this office.”
“Noted.”
But with that little distraction over, Mary found herself feeling awkward. She wasn’t even sure why she’d come here, she’d just… wanted to talk about it. Only, she wasn’t sure what there was to say. Or maybe, she thought, she’d just wanted to tell him she was angry with Remus on his behalf—only, why? How had she expected him to react?
Actually, it was kind of like Remus was the Weasley twins, and she was Hermione, and Snape was her. What Remus had done (the worst of it, anyway) had been much longer ago than the Weasley twins kidnapping her, but also less excusable. It wasn’t like he could say he’d been trying to save his little sister’s life. And she just didn’t like how Hermione had handled the whole situation. She wasn’t sure what she would have wanted her to do differently, exactly, just… something. So she kind of just wanted to do better than Hermione had, even though she wasn’t sure how, or if Snape even cared about that sort of thing.
Obviously he still cared what Remus had done, or else Snape wouldn’t dislike him so much, but that didn’t mean he cared whether Mary was friends with Remus or not. She doubted he would admit it even if he did care, given how proud he was. Still, she supposed she just wanted to demonstrate that she was on his side, not Remus’s. (Maybe that was what she wanted from Hermione.)
“I didn’t want to believe it,” she said, just to fill the silence. “I didn’t think Remus was that kind of person.”
“To be fair, you’ve only met him as an adult, and he has made an effort to present a good face to you. Pettiness aside, he is far more tolerable out of the company of Black and Potter.”
That sounded more charitable than almost anything Snape had ever said to her about Remus. “So… they were the worst ones, then?” She’d suspected as much about Black, given the ‘prank,’ but it was kind of disappointing to hear her father referred to on the same level as him.
“By far. Lupin was never an instigator of their antics, only a participant.”
“But why would he do that?”
“Why does Miss Davis spend time with people who degrade her for her blood status, and participate in calling others ‘mudbloods’ when she, herself, is a halfblood?”
Mary gave him a startled look. Somehow, she hadn’t expected him to know about that. After a moment, though, she said, “To fit in? Or, because she feels ashamed of her blood status?” Honestly, she wasn’t completely sure herself—it had been something she’d wondered about off and on the whole time she’d known Tracey.
“More or less. Given that you are no doubt aware of how werewolves are viewed in Britain, it will come as no surprise that Lupin was too grateful to have friends to risk rocking the boat by taking issue with their treatment of a single Slytherin student. Particularly since, if they had someone else to target, they would not turn on him.”
It was funny: Snape was really petty about Remus sometimes, but he could also say stuff like that, which made it clear that he could imagine what it was like to be him. Of course, he said it with a sneer in his tone, making it clear what he thought of Remus’s weakness.
She hardly wanted to ask, but the only thing worse than knowing would be not knowing. “And… my father?” she asked. “Why did he do it?”
Snape considered her for a moment before saying, “Young James Potter bore a rather striking resemblance to Mr. Malfoy in personality, but with the trouble-making instincts of the Weasley twins, and without the overt pureblood supremacy.”
“But… why you?” she asked. “I can understand why you hated him, if he was like that, but why’d he hate you? Or was he like that with everyone?” But if he had been, she doubted that Remus, or Aunt Minnie, would have spoken of him so fondly.
“Why do you think?” Snape asked, and it didn’t sound rhetorical—more like he actually wanted to know what she thought. So she took a moment, trying to puzzle it out. Mary didn’t know much about her father or Snape while they were in school, but she did know about bullies, and about Gryffindors and Slytherins.
“Because… you were an easy target?” she tried. “Not that you couldn’t defend yourself,” she added quickly. “But… I mean, you have a muggle surname. I can’t imagine there were many others like you in Slytherin at the time, since the war would have been building. And you said that your family wasn’t… pleasant. Plus, you said something about the Slytherins disliking you, too. Which means… you didn’t have anyone to have your back? The first House Rule wasn’t a thing then, was it?”
“No, the House Rules were my own addition when I took over from Slughorn—mostly as a response to his mismanagement of the House.”
Right. And everyone knew the reason Slytherins always had each other’s backs: they were outnumbered and unpopular among the other Houses. No Truce, and no First Rule, meant there was nothing from stopping a Gryffindor bully from picking off the weakest of the herd, particularly if they knew that even the other Slytherins didn’t like him.
“He doesn’t sound like Draco,” Mary said. “He sounds like my cousin. Aunt Petunia’s son.”
She wasn’t sure why she said it. Usually, she tried to avoid talking about the Dursleys as much as possible, because people just pitied her or got all annoyingly concerned when she did. But Snape only looked at her steadily and said, “Oh?”
So she decided to elaborate. “Well, he sounds like if Dudley were smarter, I guess. More creative. And that would make Black his friend Piers, and Remus and Pettigrew some of the other boys who followed them around, mostly so they wouldn’t pick on them instead. Dudley and Piers had this game they called Cousin Crushing where they’d hunt me down, wherever I tried to hide, and just beat the hell out of me when they found me. Or, one time, Piers tried to drown me in the public swimming pool.” That was a lot of the reason Mary had never learned to swim, actually.
Snape looked at her for a moment, and she shifted uncomfortably, worried he was going to make a big deal out of it. Finally, though, he said, “I would say there were some differences. Potter liked to see himself as a good person, you see, and Black… wanted Potter to see him that way as well, even if he was well aware that he was not. You are not incorrect that my lack of support was the reason he felt empowered to harass me, but that was not why he hated me in the first place, or how he justified it to himself.”
Hm. Mary considered that for a moment. She was about to say she had no idea, but… “Because you were Dark?” she tried. “Because you knew a lot of curses and stuff. That’s why Remus said they wanted to put you in the Room of Doom—the Tempering Chamber, I mean.”
“That,” Snape said, “would be the justification. And a rather flimsy one, given that Black knew far more Dark magic than any other student in our year—myself included—simply by virtue of his family. I suppose you know of the House of Black’s reputation?”
She nodded. “Blaise and Theo told me some stuff, though I’m not sure whether they were exaggerating or not. They said one of the Blacks tried to bring back muggle hunting as a sport in the sixties, and that they used them as sacrifices until the fall of the House.” Then, eyes widening, she said, “Would that mean that Black—Sirius Black, I mean—sacrificed muggles too? Like, when he was still in school?”
“I always suspected as much. It was an open secret that the House had practiced human sacrifice in the past, although they tried to maintain some level of plausible deniability that they were not doing so during the years Black and I were in school together.”
“I honestly thought Blaise was having me on,” she said, feeling a little lightheaded at the thought.
“Not in this case. Considering his mother’s relationship with the Blackheart, he might have more than just rumor to go off of.”
Oh, maybe Snape would know. “Were they dating?” she asked. “Because I saw a picture of them dancing together at the Festa Morgana in 1964, and Lilian says that means they were girlfriends.”
“I am not certain that either of them would have used the word ‘girlfriend,’ but they were certainly shagging,” Snape said, and she nearly choked on her coffee, blushing harder than she really should have. It wasn’t like she didn’t know about shagging, it was just that she wasn’t used to Snape saying stuff like that. “At least up until the final years of the war. But I believe we’ve gotten off track.”
“Oh, right, sorry,” she said, still blushing. “Okay, so, you were Dark, but probably not any more so than the rest of Slytherin, or even Sirius Black. But that was how they justified bullying you?” At Snape’s slight nod, she asked, “So why did they hate you, then?” deciding to just give up on trying to puzzle it out herself.
“Well, to begin with, I was friends with Lily, whom he coveted. Besides that, as I said, he was much like Mr. Malfoy, but without the overt blood purist rhetoric. He would not have admitted to hating me because I was a poor halfblood with a muggle name who nevertheless had my pride and refused to treat him as my superior, and yet…”
“Wait, he had a problem with you being halfblood? But he was…” Mary wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. Light? Gryffindor? Someone who had married a (supposed) muggleborn?
Snape seemed to understand what she meant, though. “It was more a matter of class than blood status—he was not just any pureblood, after all, but Heir to House Potter. Regardless, I do believe he thought himself better than me because of my parentage. He might not have ever put it in those terms, even to himself, but the way he reacted when I failed to show him the deference he felt entitled to made it very clear.
“If you have not already noticed, while the Light may not be overtly horrible to muggleborns in the way many in the Dark are—although, of course, anti-muggleborn sentiment is more a product of the war and the political climate around it than an inherent aspect of Dark politics—they still have a certain… chauvinism. Oh, the Light loves muggleborns and halfbloods—so long as we know our place, and are suitably grateful for them deigning to treat us like human beings.
“Personally, I always preferred the overt prejudice. More honest, at least, and as you have discovered, it is possible to win a certain grudging respect with the right show of strength. The Light, on the other hand, prefers their muggleborns weak, the better to place on a pedestal. So that they might feel proud of themselves for how open-minded they are, how much better than the Dark, in extending kindness to a social inferior. The prouder, the stronger, one is, the less that ‘kindness’—which is really, of course, condescension—is extended.”
“But… Lily wasn’t like that, was she? So why did he…?”
“Obsess over her? No, Lily was not that sort of muggleborn. I doubt anyone would have described her as weak—her temper was well known. That said, she was good enough at pretending to a sort of… humility, positioning herself as the hardworking model muggleborn, that many still remember her that way. Lupin, for instance, and Minerva. Dumbledore pretends to, although I suspect he knows very well what she really was.”
Boggart Lily struck again. Before she could ask any more about that, though, Snape added, “Of course, he also hated me because Lily chose to spend her time with me, while refusing to give him the time of day—particularly as we grew older and his feelings for her developed. But at the core of it, I very much believe that his hatred was born of a deep-seated belief that he was better than me and frustration that I refused to accept my place.”
Almost as an afterthought, he added, “As for Black, I suspect pretending to be Light was difficult for someone of his background and personality, and he simply needed an outlet for his more sadistic urges. In targeting me, he could indulge himself without earning the disapproval of the friends he wanted so badly to fit in with—earning their approval, in fact. His primary motivation in all things was sucking up to Potter and distancing himself from his family.”
Was that like a spooky legilimens thing, or was Snape just that good at reading people? Though Mary supposed he could have been making it all up, or completely deluded, and she wouldn’t really have any way of knowing. Although what he’d said about Remus, at least, rang true.
As for the Light, she’d overheard Aunt Minnie’s fight with Dan over the summer, or her other many slips when she revealed that, well-meaning or not, she definitely thought mages were superior to muggles. And she’d seen the way some of them talked to Hermione, the sort of patronizing attitude they adopted, like, ‘Oh, it’s so amazing and brave of you to be brilliant and muggleborn at the same time!’
Not that the Dark seemed to be any better—and she wasn’t sure she’d agree with Snape that overt prejudice was better than condescension, considering what Dave had been through this year. It was just kind of disappointing to realize that everyone sucked, and some were just better at hiding it.
Mary was about to ask more—about her father, maybe, and why on earth Lily had married him—when there was a knock on the door. Snape shot her an exasperated look—not aimed at her, but like he was including her in his derision of whoever was knocking, which made her feel kind of warm—before snapping, “Come in.”
It probably shouldn’t have surprised her, seeing Remus there, but given how avoidant he’d been about the whole situation, she hadn’t even known whether he’d apologize at all—and if he did, she had thought it would take days, or even weeks, of shunning from her.
He looked surprised to see her, too, and Mary set her jaw, looking at him coldly, hoping she was projecting a general aura of, ‘Look at me having coffee with Snape while I ignore you. That’s because I’m on his side now, not yours.’ Snape didn’t laugh, or even smirk, but she somehow got a general impression of amusement from him regardless—like, for all his feigned indifference, he was actually enjoying seeing her shun Remus on his behalf.
“…Severus,” he said, after a moment of hesitation. “Mary.” Then, after another long pause, he added, “I wondered if we—er, Severus and I—might speak alone for a moment.”
Mary was slightly irritated by him interrupting her conversation with Snape, given how much information she’d been getting out of him, but she had told him to apologize, and it was good, if surprising, that he was actually doing so, not to mention so promptly. So she was fully prepared to accept him and Snape throwing her out so they could talk.
Snape, though, seemed to have other plans. Not even standing up from his armchair—in fact, suddenly looking much less stiff and more like he was lounging than she’d ever seen him before, like he was making a show out of his lack of concern—he drawled, “Don’t be rude, Lupin—Mary Elizabeth and I were having a conversation. If you have something to say to me, surely you can say it in front of her.”
Mary probably shouldn’t have found his pettiness as entertaining as she did, and yet, she found herself having to suppress a grin. Or maybe she just liked that he was letting her stay—like it was another piece of evidence that she was in his inner circle—even if he was only doing it to humiliate Remus.
Looking irritated, Remus said, “Come on, Severus, I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to air our private business in front of a student.”
Maybe she was getting a little too comfortable with the two professors, but Mary couldn’t stop herself from snorting at that, and he shot her a surprised, slightly affronted look. “Like you haven’t been fighting in front of me all year,” she pointed out, sipping her coffee, which was actually starting to taste a little less awful by now, if only through the sheer power of wishful thinking. “Besides, Snape’s my godfather, and you said I was like your niece, so really, this is a family issue.”
She thought Snape might have taken offense to being referred to, even obliquely, as Remus’s family, but he only smirked at the uncomfortable-looking wizard still hovering in his doorway. She was pretty sure that he knew Remus felt uncomfortable with her knowing he’d been a bully in school, and that forcing him to talk about it in front of her was intended as a sort of punishment for him or something, but she wasn’t going to complain.
For a moment, though, she thought Remus might be too stubborn, too unwilling to have this conversation in front of a student, niece or no, but then he let out an aggrieved sigh, as though to communicate just how unreasonable he found Snape, and closed the door behind himself.
“I suppose Mary’s already told you about our conversation this morning?” he began, a dry note in his tone.
“Yep,” Mary interjected, mostly just out of annoyance about being talked about right in front of her face.
“Right.” He looked like he wanted to squirm in discomfort, or look away or something, but instead, he looked right at Snape and said, “I owe you an apology for my behavior when we were in school, and for failing to address it when we first began working together.”
Wait, that wasn’t it, was it? Snape seemed to have the same thought as her, because he said, “You will notice that that was not, in fact, an apology, but only an acknowledgment that one is owed. Also, to clarify: what behavior, exactly, are you apologizing for?”
Remus looked a bit frustrated, like he thought Snape was being purposefully difficult, but after a second, he sighed in resignation and said, “I am sorry for participating in… harassing you during our years in school, and for failing to intervene in James and S—Black’s actions, even when I didn’t join them in it. Our behavior towards you was…” He shot a look at Mary before continuing, “bullying, and it was, on many occasions, cruel and unjustifiable.”
On ‘many’ occasions, he’d said, meaning, not all. And he hadn’t said anything about how he’d been acting since they’d started working together—did that mean he wasn’t sorry for that? She turned to look at Snape, curious to see how he’d respond.
“Yes,” he said evenly. “It was.” And then he just kind of… sat there, looking blandly at Remus, sipping his coffee.
Remus sighed yet again. “I don’t suppose you intend to accept my apology.”
“You would be correct.”
Mary wasn’t really surprised. Snape was Snape, after all, and Remus’s apology had been pretty mediocre. He hadn’t even made an offer of restitution! Maybe she should have given him one of her etiquette books first… But then, maybe he just thought Snape would hold it over his head, or else demand something of him he wasn’t willing to give.
“But,” Snape went on, and Mary’s eyes snapped back to him, “I will… tolerate your presence in this school, given that Mary Elizabeth is, for some inconceivable reason, fond of you.” And then, not smirking but somehow looking like he wanted to smirk, he added, “That is, if you apologize to her as well.”
“To—to Mary? What for?” Remus turned to stare at her, looking about as confused as Mary felt.
“Mm… For deceiving her into thinking more highly of you than you deserved.”
Snape! Mary almost objected, but something stopped her. The First Rule, maybe: presenting a united front. And, well, he wasn’t entirely wrong, even if he didn’t have to say it so harshly. She had felt kind of betrayed by Remus letting her think the whole feud between them was Snape overreacting to Black’s prank, even after she’d directly asked him about it.
Something flickered in Remus’s eyes—hurt, maybe—and she felt a bit bad, thinking that this seemed like the sort of thing the Room of Doom might show her if she went back there. But after a moment, he swallowed and said, “Mary… I’m sorry for allowing you to believe that Severus’s animosity towards myself was unfounded, and that I was not an equal participant in the conflict between us.”
Well, at least he understood what he was apologizing for—even though she thought a better phrasing would be leading her to believe it, not just allowing her. She didn’t think it was an accident that he’d made himself out to be the mature one, and Snape the totally unreasonable, petty one. Still, it was something.
For some reason, she had the urge to look at Snape, or even to ask his permission to be friends with Remus again. Maybe because of how thoroughly Hermione had disregarded her feelings when it came to the twins. But then, Snape wouldn’t have told Remus to apologize to her with the expectation that she rebuff him… right? He had to know she’d feel too guilty to do that. Unless this was like… a test of her loyalty or something?
But in any case, she couldn’t bring herself to be that cruel. Even if Remus hadn’t done a perfect job of apologizing, he was trying really hard—he looked really uncomfortable. “I accept your apology,” she said. And then, with a flash of inspiration, she added, “For deceiving me, not for what you did to Snape. That’s not up to me to forgive.”
Just like her being kidnapped hadn’t been Hermione’s slight to forgive.
Remus still looked upset, or maybe just ashamed, but he said, “Thank you, Mary.” Then he just sort of hovered there, looking at the pair of them sitting in their armchairs, making no move to invite him to sit or otherwise relieve the tension. Maybe she should feel bad for that, but she didn’t. Just because she’d accepted his apology didn’t meant that she totally forgave him, or that she wasn’t still on Snape’s side.
Finally, he gave a sort of awkward chuckle and said, “I’ll just go then, I suppose. Mary?”
It took her a moment to realize he was asking if she was going to follow him, and she gave him a sort of uncomfortable half-smile, so he would know she wasn’t trying to punish him more or anything. “Professor Snape and I were in the middle of something.”
If she wasn’t imagining it, Remus looked a bit disappointed, or hurt, or something, but he said, “Right, then, I’ll see you at dinner,” and left the room again, leaving the door slightly ajar. Snape shut it behind him with a wave of his wand, and Mary was pretty sure he’d let it close that loudly on purpose—if he’d wanted it to, it probably would have been silent.
“Well,” he said, sounding amused. “You certainly have a talent for berating grown men into doing your bidding.”
Mary snorted, wondering if he was including himself in that category, but she knew better than to ask.
There was more she’d wanted to ask him, mostly about her parents, but the moment seemed to have vanished, somehow. Instead, casting around for something to say, she looked down in her empty mug and asked, “Can I have more coffee?” Not that she liked it, but she wanted more practice at trying to like it.
But he said, “No. I would rather not deal with an over-caffeinated version of you today.”
Mary didn’t think she’d ever been over-caffeinated in her life, but whatever. Instead, she tried a different tack, since she’d been meaning to ask about this for months anyway. “Um, I was wondering… do you think I might ever get that dueling knife back?”
“Someday, perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” she repeated hopefully.
“That depends on your ability to convince me that you are mature enough to be trusted with a concealed weapon, and that you will not immediately turn around and challenge one of your fellow students to an illicit knife-fight.”
“What if I only used it around you?” she asked. “I mean, you could take it out and show me how to channel magic into it, but without letting me take it out of your office.”
Snape tilted his head for a second, fixing her with a scrutinizing stare, before saying, “Alright, then. So long as you promise me—”
“Not to tell anyone?” she finished, already grinning in triumph. “‘Course not. Second Rule.”
He retrieved the knife from a cabinet in the back of his office and spent the rest of the afternoon teaching her how to use it. Mary decided that, between the revelations about Remus and him letting her play with an illegal dueling knife, Snape had definitely won the Favorite Fake Uncle/Godfather competition.
Notes:
This entire chapter is original, yay! (Though Snape comparing James to Draco is based on something he says in Chapter 27 of CS.)
If I were less lazy, I'd make a meme of Mary going, "Friendship ended with Remus. Now Snape is my best friend."
Chapter 25: Slytherin Values
Notes:
This chapter also takes place during Chapter 32 of Chained Servant.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Over the next several weeks, Mary apologized to as many people as she could think of, in the hopes that it would clear her conscience enough for the memory provided by the Room of Doom (for all Remus’s flaws, that was a much better name for it than ‘Tempering Chamber’) to work. She wrote letters to Catherine, Aunt Minnie, and the other Urquharts. She apologized to the Grangers for leaving so suddenly, and for getting Hermione in so much trouble over the years. She apologized to her friends for fighting with them, and to Snape and Remus for worrying them.
She had high hopes when she met with Remus, Hermione, and Lilian for their next Patronus lesson, but in the end, it still wasn’t enough. While it went better than the lesson right after their visit to the Room, she only managed to get back to where she had been before—producing a mist when there wasn’t a boggart-dementor in front of her, and nothing otherwise.
Maybe she still needed to apologize to people? There were things she couldn’t own up to, not without getting other people in trouble. The Veritaserum Conspiracy, for one, and what she and Lilian had done to Thorpe. Then there were people she couldn’t apologize to, or else didn’t want to. She could hardly reach out to Dudley’s former victims, or her old teachers. And there was no way she was apologizing to the Dursleys for fucking anything.
Then there was Draco—while she did feel a little bad for scaring him, he had never apologized to her for inciting the bullying that had nearly gotten her killed. And if she made an offer of restitution, which she would have to do for him to take her apology seriously, she didn’t trust that he wouldn’t demand something ridiculous of her just so he could feign offense when she failed to follow through.
But there was still one thing weighing on Mary’s conscience beyond the rest: specifically, her actions towards Hermione, the fact that she’d gone behind her back and told on her to Snape. Especially because the memory the Room provided was of Hermione and Lilian in the first place. It was difficult to connect to that feeling of belonging with them, of friendship, knowing that she was deceiving her best friend.
Only, Mary didn’t want to tell her. They’d been fighting all bloody year, and things were finally peaceful between them! Part of her felt like, well, what Hermione didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. She seemed to be sleeping better now, and she was enjoying her independent study with Professor Vector—she certainly talked about it often enough. Everything seemed to have worked out for the best for everyone involved, so far as Mary could tell.
But she still felt guilty about it, and had a feeling that maybe she needed to tell Hermione the truth before she could finally overcome whatever was blocking her from casting the Patronus. But she hesitated, not wanting to drop another bomb on their reconciled friendship. Especially after watching what happened between Hermione and Ginny on Ostara.
Ostara, the spring equinox, was another Light sabbat, like Imbolc. Luna insisted that Mary and her friends celebrate it, for the sake of balance—they had celebrated Mabon, after all.
The ritual, to Mary’s slight relief, was much less personal than the Imbolc celebration had been. They gathered in the courtyard at noon, meeting the small handful of students and professors who actually celebrated the Light holiday—most of whom, like Mary herself, had been dragged there by Luna. Lilian, Hermione, Aerin, Lara, Ginny, and Neville all came along.
Apparently they couldn’t find a Light traditionalist student to lead it this year, so Professor Flitwick led the ritual himself, even playing a flute (or, Hermione said later it had been a fife) to lead them in singing in some other language, the unfamiliar words pulled out of them by magic, standing in a circle surrounding a gorse tree. A feeling had welled up during the ceremony, almost like a Patronus, filling the courtyard with feelings of life and joy and rebirth, and when they finished, the gorse had burst into bloom, bright yellow blossoms opening before their eyes.
Overall, as far as Hogwarts holiday rituals went, it was pleasantly simple and benevolent. No mysterious visions or people getting possessed, just a feeling of connection to Magic, to the Lively and Constructive Powers which were honored on the equinox. It was nice. It was what came after, during Dueling Club, that made Mary wary of telling Hermione the truth.
She didn’t actually catch the fight, being busy talking to Lilian about dual casting. All she knew was that one moment, Ginny and Hermione were practicing together, and the next, the younger girl had lost it.
“You’re not my bloody mother!” she shouted, and Mary, along with everyone else in the room, turned to stare at her and Hermione, the latter of whom looked just as startled and confused as their audience. “Circe, I can hardly stand to even talk to you anymore. I hate you, Hermione! Just leave me alone!”
As Mary and Lilian followed a shocked Hermione out of the room, Mary thought to herself that she ought to have seen this coming. Maybe she should have even warned Hermione about it? She could have told her that she was just making things worse for Ginny, that she needed to back off. Except, Ginny had told her that in confidence—and anyway, she doubted Hermione would have listened.
Hidden in the back of the library, she and Lilian managed to extract the whole story from Hermione—or, her version of it, which Mary would guess was probably a bit biased. “I was just trying to help her with her shield charms, and… she just… lit into me, about how she didn’t need my help, and why didn’t I just leave her alone? And I said I was just trying to help, and that made her even angrier. She… she said I didn’t know how to help her, and I said, no, it’s just the last wave, she was doing it too quickly, and she said I knew that wasn’t what she was talking about. I said I didn’t, and she said I was lying to make her feel better or something, and I should just stop trying and leave her alone. I said I had no idea what she was talking about.
“I tried to stay calm—all the books say you should stay calm, when you’re dealing with someone who’s been through trauma, you know—but I was so confused. And that’s when she started yelling that she hated me, and how I should stop acting like her bloody mother—and I—I haven’t been. I just—I don’t know what’s going on! Why is she so angry at me? I’ve only ever tried to help her!”
Deciding that, if she didn’t tell Hermione, the other girl would never realize her mistake, Mary said, “You’ve been treating her like a victim.”
“But she is a victim! I mean—I know—I have her memories! The things Riddle did…”
Mary really hated arguing with Hermione when she got like this—so convinced that she was right, that she knew best. But for Ginny’s sake, she argued, “Maybe she was a victim, but that’s not all she is. She’s trying to move on, which she can’t really do with you hovering around trying to take care of her, like she’s weak or something.”
“I’m just—the books say—” Hermione was getting frustrated now, running a hand into her bushy hair and tugging at it, which just served to make her look asymmetrical and a bit mad.
“Have you listened to what Ginny has to say? Because I can guarantee you she doesn’t want your… your pity or your concern, or for you to treat her like she can’t take care of herself or needs to be protected from anything that might upset her.” Honestly, she couldn’t blame Ginny for losing it. If Hermione was treating Mary like that, she’d probably do the same.
“Oh, like you’re such an expert!” Hermione snapped, clearly annoyed that Mary was claiming to know better than her precious book.
Lilian, who’d been watching them in silence, piped up with a single word: “Dursleys.”
A jolt of surprise and anger went through her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Uncowed by her anger, Lilian raised an eyebrow and said, “It means, Liz, that I’m not sure whether we’re talking about Ginny, here, or you.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “This isn’t about me. Ginny literally told me she feels this way!”
“When did she tell you that?” Hermione demanded, offense creeping into her tone at the idea of Ginny complaining about her to Mary behind her back.
“While you were in Hogsmeade with the twins,” Mary said. “She also said that you think you know everything about her, but you really don’t have any idea what she was like before she met Riddle, and that’s the person she wants to be, not the person whose memories you share.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do, then? Just pretend nothing happened? Do you want to see the letters she sent me over the summer? Because I can tell you that she was not alright. Riddle left the kind of damage you don’t just get over in six months or less. I mean, look at you! The Dursleys didn’t ever get inside your head like Riddle did to her, and you’re still getting over them, and it’s been years!”
“What?!” Mary demanded, loudly enough that Lilian grabbed her elbow and frantically tried to shush her before Madam Pince heard, but she was beyond caring. Why the hell did everyone keep trying to make this about her? Like just because her life with the Dursleys had sucked, she couldn’t have an opinion about Ginny and Hermione’s fight without people thinking she was projecting.
Getting to her feet, she forced herself to lower her voice and said, very coldly, “Maybe you ought to think a bit less about how damaged Ginny and I are, and focus on your own issues instead. I mean, I’m not the one who couldn’t get through the Room of Doom—you are. You’re not a fucking mind healer or psychologist or whatever; you’re just a teenage girl who thinks she knows better than everyone else.” And with that, she stormed out of the library.
So, yeah, she had ended up fighting with Hermione again, and she hadn’t even told her the truth yet. And if she did, she was pretty sure that it wouldn’t go well. Hermione was one of the most stubborn people Mary had ever met—as evidenced by their fight—and if she found out that Mary had gone behind her back, she would never admit that she was happier with Professor Vector as a mentor than Snape, or that her studies in the Dark Arts had been too much for her.
And, even worse, she would probably use Mary’s possessiveness over Snape as proof that the Dursleys had fucked her up. (Which, okay, maybe it was, but that didn’t mean Hermione had the right to say so.) In fact, Mary was pretty sure she’d been implying that already, which was probably why Mary had gotten so angry with her. If Hermione started trying to treat everything Mary did as a symptom of ‘trauma’ or whatever, like she seemed to be doing with Ginny, she wouldn’t be able to stand it.
So Mary was stuck. She couldn’t tell Hermione the truth, not without a bunch of unpleasant consequences, but she suspected that until she did, the memory of that first Samhain wouldn’t be enough to let her produce a corporeal Patronus.
Finally, she decided to go to Snape about it. She knew she’d have to be careful with what she told him, but while he hadn’t explicitly said so, she was pretty sure it was his own experience in the Room that had given him the ability to produce a Patronus. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have suggested it. If anyone knew what she should do, it would be him.
She managed to catch him in his office again this time, wheedling another half-cup of coffee out of him (or, more accurately, out of the elves, but through him), before saying, “I’ve got something I want to tell you.”
When he indicated for her to continue, she took a deep breath and said, “Back in January, when I told you Hermione was having nightmares about the Dark Arts… I wasn’t lying, but I wasn’t doing it because I was worried about her, either. Or, not really. I was doing it to get back at her, because she’d said the thing about the Grangers being her parents, not mine. I… Well, I kind of thought that if she could take her parents away from me, then I could take my godfather away from her.”
While she didn’t think she could tell Hermione the truth, part of her hoped that telling Snape would be almost as good. She had kind of manipulated him back then—in fact, she had known she was being manipulative even while she was doing it. Now, coming clean, she found herself tensing in anticipation of his reaction.
But he didn’t look surprised or annoyed, only a little amused. “Well, yes, I did know that,” he said, and her mouth dropped open a little. Smirking, he added, “You are nowhere near as subtle as you think you are.”
For a moment, Mary was actually speechless. All that time, feeling proud and guilty about her own success in manipulating her way to the outcome she wanted, and he’d known from the start?! “But—you—why did you stop tutoring her, then?”
“Because you were correct about the impact it was having on her,” Snape said, looking at her like she was an idiot. “Your motivations had less than nothing to do with it.”
“Oh.” When he put it like that, it was embarrassingly obvious. She bit her lip. “I still feel bad about it, though. Do you… I’ve been wondering recently if I should tell Hermione the truth about it. Or if… if I’m a bad person or something.”
Snape let out a sigh, like he was annoyed with having to talk about morals. She thought he probably was—he didn’t seem like someone that put a lot of weight into being a good person. “Is Miss Granger any worse off for your machinations?” he asked, with a strained sort of patience in his tone, like he had to force himself to entertain the question.
“I think she’s doing better, actually.” Mary was pretty sure she really believed that, and wasn’t just trying to rationalize what she’d done.
“So what, exactly, would be the benefit of telling her? Other than assuaging your own guilty conscience.”
“Nothing, I guess…” she admitted. Except that Hermione would be angry to know that Mary had kept it from her. “I don’t know, I just can’t seem to stop thinking about it. About it and other things I’ve done wrong, and whether they make me a bad person.”
Snape looked at her for a moment before asking, “And would this recent fixation on your own moral standing, as well as apologizing for long since committed slights, have anything to do with your visit to Gryffindor’s Chamber?”
Fuck, how did he keep doing that? She was pretty sure he wasn’t legilimizing her or anything—he just always seemed to know. Just like, she supposed, he’d known that she was telling him about Hermione for less than altruistic reasons.
Giving up, she slumped a bit in her chair and admitted, “Yeah. The room gave me a memory, but we’ve had two Patronus lessons since then and I haven’t gotten any closer to casting the spell. If anything, I’ve gotten worse at it. I thought that maybe it was part of what the Room wanted from me. It gave me the impression that it wanted me to apologize or something—to be better. I thought maybe I had to do that before the memory would work.”
Snape didn’t respond, just made a sort of skeptical noise that instantly put her on the defensive.
“What?” she demanded.
“I was only thinking that, had I known you were this gullible, I might not have suggested you visit the Tempering Chamber in the first place.”
“Gullible?” Normally, she might be hurt by Snape implying he was disappointed in her, but in this moment, she was too busy being annoyed.
“Yes,” he said, not in the least bit apologetic. “The Tempering Chamber is useful, in that it can steer you towards a memory which will aid in producing the Patronus Charm. A memory, not the only possible memory. But it was built with a specific agenda in mind. You should not be so hasty to internalize its judgment of you. In addition, its influence on you ended when you left the Chamber; it cannot prevent you from casting a Patronus until you carry out its wishes.”
Once again, she had to admit he made a lot of sense. It wasn’t like she’d believed everything the Room had shown her—she didn’t think she ought to feel bad for disobeying Aunt Petunia, for example, or for lying to her—but… in order to win the Room’s favor, she’d had to stop making excuses for her actions, to accept that she was a bad person. How was she meant to do that, then turn right around and say she wasn’t?
Snape sighed, like he could tell she was having trouble with the concept. “The Tempering Chamber was Gryffindor’s addition to the school. Seeing as you are not a Gryffindor, or a member of a warrior culture from a millennium hence, its values are not necessarily aligned with your own. In other words: just because you are not Gryffindorish does not mean that there is something wrong with you. I thought you had a stronger sense of self than to substitute others’ judgments for your own.”
Mary found herself having to fight the urge to get angry, and was partially successful. Still, she wound up grumbling, somewhat bitterly, “I don’t have a weak sense of self. The Room just kind of got in my head. I mean, isn’t that what it’s meant to do?” Like a boggart, or a dementor. Maybe an occlumens could withstand it, like how Blaise wasn’t that affected by the dementors, but Snape was the one who’d refused to teach her occlumency in the first place!
She was worried Snape would just continue berating her for her foolishness, but after a pause, he said, “Yes, I suppose it is. So there is no misunderstanding—Godric Gryffindor’s standards are not ones that I, or most anyone, would consider reasonable to hold children—to hold anyone—to. As I mentioned before, he created the Chamber to instill in students an appreciation for a warrior’s ideology in the absence of any actual wars to fight.
“From my own experience with the Chamber, considered with the benefit of hindsight, it is clear that he was a man who would choose to die fighting a battle he could not possibly win, rather than have the cunning and self-preservation to take the loss and survive. In other words, the opposite of the ideology which I believe brought you to Slytherin, just as it did myself. He would view as weakness what we would call ‘pragmatism,’ or ‘adapting to circumstance.’”
Mary suddenly remembered Snape sitting by her bedside in the hospital wing back in January, snapping, “Honor will get you killed!” If he were anyone else, she wouldn’t have been able to bring herself to talk about it, but seeing as he had always somehow reacted to her mentions of the Dursleys in a way that didn’t make her uncomfortable—unlike literally everyone else she’d ever met—and had even indicated that he had similar experiences…
“The Room started out by showing me memories of when I was a kid and didn’t do anything about Dudley—my cousin, I mean—hurting other kids, because I thought if I did, he’d just hurt me for it. Or, like, stealing money from my aunt and food from the school cafeteria so I could eat, or lying to my teachers and neighbors when they asked if the Dursleys were mistreating me or I needed help or something.
“It’s not like I totally believed it, but I did feel kind of stupid, or bad, for some of it. Because it’s not like lying to protect Dudley kept him from hitting me. And maybe if I’d told someone the truth, they would have taken me away from the Dursleys way sooner.”
“Or,” Snape replied, “they might have gone to your aunt, who would have lied through her teeth, assuaged their concerns, and punished you for it later. Not unlike what happened when Minerva confronted Professor Quirrell. For that matter, the fact that your cousin still hit you when you protected him did not mean that he would not have caused you greater harm had you done otherwise. It is understandable, however, that you would internalize the idea, as presented by the Chamber, that had you only been braver, or stronger, you might have been able to save yourself. That idea is far more palatable than the truth.”
“Which is?” Mary’s voice was a little hushed now, because—it was like he was seeing right into her head somehow, telling her a truth about the world that no one else seemed to understand.
“That sometimes, there is no way out. When you are a child in an abusive home, there are no right actions—only bad ones and worse ones. The most that you can do is damage control. And the fact is that it is very, very easy for an outsider—particularly an adult, and particularly one who, like Gryffindor, has never experienced that uniquely helpless position—to judge. To look at your life and say that had you done one thing or another differently, you might have saved yourself.
“But you are the one who lived it. You adapted to that environment and learned, on an instinctual level that another would not be able to understand, how best to protect yourself from harm. The fact that you were not able to save yourself is not evidence that you were weak, but that the obstacles you faced were too large for any child to overcome.
“And, in point of fact, you did not fail. You successfully survived a decade in that household. Taking your beatings, keeping your head down, and waiting for a chance to escape—bending, so to speak, rather than remaining rigid and being broken in consequence. Which takes a very different kind of strength than fighting in a war. Gryffindorish courage is all well and good when you and your enemy are well-matched, but when you are a child and your enemy holds all the power, it is not only useless but dangerous. There is a reason so many of us end up in Slytherin.”
Mary was so overwhelmed by what he was saying—how right it sounded—that she didn’t process that final statement at first. “Us?” she repeated, looking at him questioningly.
“Victims of abuse.”
He said it so plainly, meeting her eye evenly, like he wasn’t ashamed in the slightest. That—the bravery of it—made her breath catch, because… she’d never been that brave.
She almost wanted, like Ginny had, to protest that she wasn’t a ‘victim,’ but… if Snape could refer to himself as one, it seemed not only ridiculous but insulting for her to get offended by it. And besides, he had a point. She knew Ginny couldn’t accept that what had happened wasn’t her fault because to do so would be to admit that she’d been powerless. That there had never been a way out. Snape was right—it was easier to blame herself than to accept that.
At the same time, she couldn’t help but feel like he might have gotten the wrong impression. When she thought about ‘abuse,’ she thought of things a lot worse than what the Dursleys had done to her. Like the alternate self she’d seen in that vision on Yule, where the Dursleys had tried to beat the magic out of her. If Snape had been through that sort of thing, then she didn’t want him to… she wasn’t sure. Give her more credit than she deserved?
“It wasn’t as bad as you might be thinking,” she said quietly. “Dudley was the only one who hit me much. My aunt and uncle mostly just yelled and shut me up in my cupboard.”
Snape’s eyes went kind of hard and glittery for a moment. “Your cupboard?” he repeated in a low, icy tone.
“Yeah, the one under the stairs,” she said. “That’s where I slept. And when I was in trouble, they’d make me stay in there—but they usually didn’t actually lock it, so I could sneak out and eat and use the bathroom when they were asleep.”
There was a long silence. Snape closed his eyes and breathed in slowly.
“Um. Are you alright?” she asked.
“Simply trying to resist the urge to go murder Petunia and her family in their beds.”
“They moved, I think. Might be hard to find them.”
With a sinister smile, he said, “There are ways to track down even the most reluctant of muggles. But, as you may recall, I am ‘reformed.’” He didn’t actually do air-quotes around that last word, but she could somehow hear them anyway. “In any case, Mary Elizabeth, that is abuse. The fact that they were not actively beating you does not imply otherwise.”
Well, yeah, objectively she knew that, but she couldn’t help but feel like he was reacting more strongly than was necessary. Most days, her life hadn’t been unbearable, just, like, kind of awful. But whatever. At least now she didn’t feel like she was tricking him into thinking that she had survived worse than she really had, even if she still didn’t think it was worth this much fuss.
“As I was saying,” he continued, “You cannot be blamed for failing to escape from your abusers. You were a child. That was not your responsibility.”
Mary knew that he had her cornered—she couldn’t argue with him now, couldn’t say that it was her fault that she hadn’t found a way out, without indirectly saying that whatever had happened to him had been his fault.
Instead, taking a slightly shaky breath, she said, “There wasn’t anyone else, though. What I mean is—okay, maybe it shouldn’t have been my responsibility. But… I was all I had.” She clenched her jaw, feeling, for a dizzying moment, like she might cry, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come.
“Indeed,” Snape said, looking thoughtful. “But you didn’t fail to escape. You played it safe, protected yourself, found ways to get what you needed—even if that meant lying or stealing—and when a good enough chance came to leave, you had the strength to take it. Even when Dumbledore himself, one of the most powerful wizards alive today, tried to send you back, you refused.”
Dumbledore told him about that?
“You can drive yourself mad, if you wish, wondering if you might have escaped earlier, had you reached out for help. I cannot stop you from doing so. But it would be far more sensible to consider your actions in the context of the life you’d led. It is hardly surprising that you did not believe that the adults who expressed concern would save you, not when adults had done nothing but abuse you or look the other way—not when you had already been taught to rely on no one but yourself.”
“I… guess that makes sense,” she admitted reluctantly.
“However,” he continued, “you might wish to consider that the strategies which you learned in that environment might not serve you so well outside of it.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, unable to make much sense of his statement.
“To put it bluntly, you could do with learning to be less self-sufficient, even by Slytherin standards. You learned that you could trust only yourself, that adults would not save you, and that was a useful mindset to adopt under those circumstances. However, you have not lived with those people for nearly three years now, and your tendency to take matters into your own hands has repeatedly led you to risk life and limb when you would have been better served by asking for help.
“Let me tell you this once, so there will be no misunderstanding: in those memories, you were a child, and in many ways, you still are. Your… independent approach to problem solving is not a failure of character, but rather, the result of your having been failed in every conceivable way by those who were meant to protect and care for you. You have been made to carry responsibilities far too heavy for one your age, and to carry them alone. That is not your fault.
“However, I, along with Minerva, am working to ensure that this will not be the case for you in the future, and that you will be cared for as you ought to have been from the start. You have, in fact, a right to that care, even if you have regrettably been taught to expect that you will not receive it. And while many of the adults in your life may be quite useless, as you and many of your fellow rule-breakers pointed out in your essays in November, I would like you to attempt to trust that I am not, no matter that said trust does not come naturally to you.
“In short, you are under my protection now, and the neglect that you have faced up to this point in your life is not an inevitability. It is in the past.” He stressed these last three words as though trying to force them into her head, staring her straight in the eyes.
Mary had to look away, almost flinching at the way some buried part of her heart reacted to his words. It was, to put it frankly, fucking terrifying, having someone just look right at her and tell her everything that the little girl who’d lived with the Dursleys had so desperately wanted to hear. She had to swallow past a lump in her throat, clenching her jaw again in an effort to keep herself under control.
Either not noticing or choosing to ignore her reaction, he added, “I would ask that you attempt to remember that the next time you are on the verge of running off into danger alone. Of course, I support your learning to defend yourself, as there are certain to be times in the future when you will need to do so, but in the meantime, ask for help. I have promised to protect you, but that is useless if you will not allow me to.”
She felt like she’d been snuck up on—that wasn’t the conversation she’d thought they were having—but getting scolded for her recklessness was a welcome distraction from whatever wave of emotion had been threatening to pull her under while he’d talked. Forcing herself to meet his eyes, despite still kind of wanting to run away, she said, “Okay.” And then, after a moment, added, “Theíos.”
As if deciding that the atmosphere had grown too heavy for his liking, he jumped back to their earlier topic of conversation. “If the memory the Chamber provided to you does not suffice for you to produce a Patronus, you may wish to try another. There are likely several which would work. The one shown by the Tempering Chamber should be one of them, but that does not mean that it is always the most effective option. After all, the choice of memory is colored by the wizard who created the Chamber, and by values which are not your own.”
Mary groaned. “Great, so I’m right back where I started.”
“Perhaps not. If the issue is one of a mismatch of values between yourself and whatever form of consciousness lies in the Chamber, then you would do well to consider what it is that you value, and what is important to you.”
“My friends are important to me,” Mary told him, then realized that required more explanation. “Uh, the memory, it was of waking up from the Samhain Revel in my first year and finding Hermione and Lilian with me.”
“Camaraderie,” Snape mused. “Yes, that is a value of which Gryffindor might have approved. However, while many things are important to a person, it is those memories of greatest emotional resonance which make casting the Patronus Charm easiest. It can be done with many memories, but the effort required may be greater. If this memory is not working, perhaps camaraderie is not what drives you.”
“What about you?” Mary asked. Part of her worried she might be overstepping, but he seemed to be in one of his more talkative moods today. “I mean, do you mind if I ask what memory you use? Or memories, if it’s not always the same,” she added, remembering Remus saying that the same Patronus form could be produced with different memories.
Snape looked at her in silence, as though considering whether to answer. For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to, but then he finally said, “My memory—it is almost always the same—is of an experience of safety. Specifically, the first moment in my life in which I felt truly safe and protected.”
Surprised, Mary took a moment to think this over. When he’d said that his doe symbolized trust, and that this trust was something he would die to protect, she’d thought he was referring to someone else’s trust. (Not hers, that would be stupid, he’d said it was a childhood memory when he’d first shown her the doe. If she ever had thought it could be hers, it had only been for a split second, before she’d realized how ridiculous she was being.)
All along, though, it had been his own trust that he’d meant. It struck her, suddenly, that she had never imagined Snape as someone who might feel in need of protection. His entire thing was that he protected her. He was one of the most intimidating people she knew. Even when she’d realized he was afraid of Remus—even a moment ago, when he’d referred to himself as a ‘victim of abuse’—she couldn’t have imagined it.
But… when he’d said she had a right to protection and care, maybe he’d been thinking of himself, too, when he was younger. Even though she could hardly picture him as a child, he’d been one once, just like her. He’d been afraid, and… people had failed him too, hadn’t they? He wouldn’t have been able to say all that to her if he didn’t know from firsthand experience how she felt.
“How old were you?” she asked quietly. “In the memory.”
“Nine.”
Mary was pretty sure that was quite old to feel safe for the first time. She couldn’t say for sure—after all, she’d never felt that way with the Dursleys—but she thought that most people, with normal childhoods like Hermione’s, probably grew up believing they could take their safety for granted.
She wondered if she was supposed to say something, to comment on how that was terrible, or say she was sorry, but then, she hated when people said things like that about her own childhood. It always made her feel awkward and annoyed, like the other person was more upset than she was, and it was her job to make them feel better about it. Maybe it would be different, since Snape knew that she could understand it, but she didn’t want to risk making him all prickly again, not when he was sharing something personal with her.
Instead, she said, “That day you first showed us your Patronus, you said she didn’t represent your soul, because your soul hadn’t ever been pure like that, right?”
Snape tilted his head slightly in response, looking surprised by the change of subject.
“But… she’s still part of you, isn’t she?” she mused, looking down at her hands to avoid those sharp eyes. “I mean, the doe came from you. I’m not saying you’re like the doe, just that I don’t think you’d be able to make her if there weren’t something like that inside of you, even if it’s small. Like the part of you that was a kid once and felt safe—it’s got to be in there somewhere still, right?”
Realizing that she might not be making sense—or that, if she was, she might be pushing him too far—Mary glanced back at up Snape, only to find him staring at her. After a moment, he said, “Even at that age, I was nothing so pure. It was… the other person who provided me their unconditional acceptance and kindness.”
“Lily?” Mary asked, suspicions raised by the way he was talking around the subject.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think I’m onto something. I mean, you were nine. I saw… Okay, this is a bit strange, but I celebrated Imbolc with Luna, and the Youthful Power showed us all the sparks of life all around us. You know, kids, baby animals, that sort of thing. They were all… They reminded me of the doe.”
“Youth alone does not confer innocence—there are some experiences which can twist even a child’s soul.”
Mary wasn’t sure why this bothered her so much, but it did. It was just hypocritical of him, to say that stuff about her, about what she’d been through, and then to talk about himself like whatever he’d gone through as a kid had made him somehow, well, she didn’t know what, exactly. Tainted, maybe. Less deserving.
“I don’t know,” she said again. “I think that for someone who’s been taught to believe they won’t be cared for, that they have to take care of themselves, like you were saying…” Like me, she thought. “For someone like that to actually trust someone else and feel safe with them… I think that means more than when it’s someone who’s always been cared for. Isn’t that kind of pure, in a way?”
Snape narrowed his eyes at her. “You have been spending far too much time with Miss Lovegood. You are even beginning to speak like her.”
That sounded an awful lot to Mary like ‘You have a point, but I don’t want to admit it.’ After all, Luna had this uncanny ability to be right about things. Anyway, despite his grumbling, she knew she had got him. Even if he disagreed, he couldn’t exactly say so, not when she was pretty sure he knew that they were talking about her as much as about him. She had turned his own tactic around on him.
Snape shooed her out of his office not long after, like he’d had enough personal talk for one day (or week, or month).
Mary didn’t mind. She found she had rather a lot to think about.
Notes:
Parts of the fight with Hermione are taken from CS, though not all. The conversation with Snape is new, though the dialogue where he and Mary talk about him wanting to kill the Dursleys is borrowed from one Leigha's unfinished scenes for the rest of the series, and the information about Snape's Patronus memory was told to me by Leigha.
When I first started writing this fic, my dumb ass really believed it would be a short fic. Like, a few chapters tops, for third through seventh years. I wrote it like that first, basically with a few pivotal scenes throughout Mary's adolescence, and then I enjoyed writing it enough that I just kept on adding and adding stuff until it became this monstrosity. Anyway, every time I get to post one of the scenes from that very first draft I get excited, because I feel like they're the heart of the story, and the conversation between Mary and Snape here is one of them (along with the first half of the next chapter).
Chapter 26: The Tale of Parallax and Quincey
Notes:
Yet another chapter taking place during the time frame of Chapter 32 of Chained Servant. Someday, it will no longer be March of 1994, but not today.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Lost in thought, Mary left Snape’s office and headed straight back to the Slytherin dorms, where she pulled out her leather-bound copy of The Tale of Parallax and Quincey and sat cross-legged on her bed, considering it. There was something about the things he’d said that reminded her of the play—or made her feel like the play, and their conversation today, and Snape’s Patronus, were all part of a larger puzzle. One that she needed to put together, like she had with the prank.
In the play, Parallax and Quincey were lovers and allies fighting against an oppressive government who one day hatched a plan—they would make it appear as though the former had betrayed the latter, going their separate ways, so that Parallax would gain the enemy’s trust and be able to infiltrate them. But he had played his part too well, and they had been apart from each other too long. When Parallax had finally returned, Quincey hadn’t known whether to trust him again—he hadn’t known which Parallax was the real one, and which was the act: the one he’d loved, or the one who’d betrayed him.
Until, that was, Parallax had cast the Patronus Charm, demonstrating that his still took the same form as Quincey’s, and the other wizard had believed him at last.
Which echoed what Snape and Remus had each told her, about matching Patroni being a sign of love. But Mary wasn’t as interested in that part of it. What interested her was the idea that Parallax hadn’t known whether to trust his former lover, because Quincey had lied to him before and could do so again—but the Patronus told Parallax something about him, his values and priorities, that couldn’t be faked.
Since her time in the Room of Doom, Mary had been trying to figure out how much of what it had shown her to take seriously. Part of her had just wanted to dismiss it all out of spite, but that would be childish. Talking with Snape—about the difference in Gryffindor’s values and her own—had helped. Mary thought he was right: maybe she couldn’t be blamed for not telling anyone what the Dursleys were like when she was a kid. It wasn’t like she’d had any reason to believe that adults would help her.
And she didn’t think that she regretted every time she’d hurt or scared someone, either. Draco, for instance, had initiated the bullying that had nearly gotten her killed, and threatening him had worked. Plus, she hadn’t hurt him; he’d only been scared and embarrassed. Maybe she would still apologize to him someday, or maybe not, but she couldn’t say she would have done anything differently.
Other things, though, she thought the Room was right about. Thorpe, for instance, might have been the worst thing she’d done since arriving at Hogwarts. She’d told herself she hadn’t had a choice, that she’d owed Flint a favor, and he’d probably do something terrible to her if she backed out, but who was to say that whatever Flint would have done to her for reneging would have been worse than the pain Thorpe had experienced? She could have dealt with the consequences, instead of hurting a boy who’d never done anything to her. Granted, she really had expected him to catch himself with his magic, but that wasn’t an excuse.
Maybe, she thought, she should view what the Room had shown her less as a rebuke and more as information. For instance, even if she didn’t regret embarrassing Weasley, and Creevey, and even Draco, it was important for her to be aware of what her impact on other people was. She realized she’d been viewing herself, in a way, as small and inconsequential, like she’d been when she was with the Dursleys. But here in the wizarding world, she had power. People could be intimidated by her, or in awe of her, and if she didn’t realize her power, she would use it badly. So she was grateful, at least, for the reminder that the way she saw herself wasn’t how everyone else necessarily saw her.
But then there were the things that her friends and guardians had said to her in the Room—or, not them, but her own invented versions of them.
Some, she thought, were probably just her own insecurities speaking to her through their mouths. She didn’t think she had any reason to believe that Remus thought it was her fault that he’d lost all his friends. He’d always seemed happy to have her in his life, at least.
Others, there was probably a kernel of truth to, like that Hermione resented Mary somewhat for causing problems in her family. But even that needn’t be as horrible as it had sounded in the Chamber, because Mary had learned this year that someone could feel resent their friend for some things while still liking them and caring about them. It wasn’t an either-or; people were more complicated than that.
If Hermione did resent her, that didn’t cancel out the fact that she had spent two days straight time-turning to be able to sit at Mary’s bedside in the hospital wing. Mary knew as well as anyone that sometimes you just couldn’t control how you felt, or stop resenting someone, just because you cared about them and knew you were being irrational.
What Snape had said, though, was harder for Mary to categorize as true or false, because she just didn’t understand him. He was a spy, which meant he must be a really good liar. And he did things sometimes, like poisoning her, that made it hard for her to believe that he actually did care about her. At the time his portrait had been talking to her, she’d tried to tell herself that the Room was lying, that he had told her he did care and she believed him, but with as hard as he was to read, she’d never felt fully secure in that belief.
But… she had looked up the symbolic meanings of animals in the library, and he had been telling the truth about the doe symbolizing subtlety and trust. He could have been lying about the memory, but she didn’t think he would have made up something that… revealing. If he’d been lying to her, he would have said something that made him look more like the persona he presented to the world, not something that made him seem weak—at least from some perspectives. That, she thought, was the kind of person he was.
Which meant that the form of his Patronus, and the memory behind it, told her something real about Snape. So much about him was hard to pin down and define, always shifting, but the Patronus couldn’t be faked. What did it tell her?
It told her that he was like her. He understood what it was like to grow up the way she had, because he had grown up that way, too. He understood having to take care of yourself, because no one else could be counted on to do it for you. If his happiest memory, the thing he would die to protect, was a moment when someone had made him feel safe, then he would understand exactly how much it meant to her to have someone she could trust.
Mary wasn’t sure about the rest of what the portrait had said: whether he found her tedious, or only liked her as a stand-in for her mother. She hoped it wasn’t true. But the one thing she found she was certain of was that he didn’t think she was pathetic for trusting him. If his own ability to trust, after a childhood without safety, meant that much to him, there was no way he would look down on her for it.
The realization made something inside of her unclench, just a little. Mary realized that, ever since he had told her that she could trust him, she had been torn between hope and fear. Maybe the reason Portrait Snape had told her that she was pathetic and laughable, she thought, was that part of her felt that she was. The Room had taken the words from her mind, after all, not his.
Because, on some level, she could feel that she wanted to trust him with an intensity bordering on desperation, and that was terrifying. She’d never had anyone do this before: come into her life and protect her, tell her that they would take care of her, that she didn’t have to fend for herself anymore. No one had ever made her want to trust them so completely—no one that had actually seemed capable of following through. And she had, like he’d said, been taught to believe that no one could be counted on in that way.
But she really, really wanted to believe it. She wanted to trust him so badly, and that was scary, because if she did and then he betrayed that trust, it might actually destroy her—or at least the part of her that still had the much-abused ability to trust someone like that.
It was far more comfortable and less frightening to only depend on herself. If children needed to be cared for, then she would rather just be an adult—make herself strong and purge herself of weaknesses like the desire to rely on someone else. It was that part of her, she thought, that had spoken through Snape’s Portrait in the Room to call her pathetic. Because knowing that she was still capable of hope, of trust, was far worse in a way than simply accepting that the world was not a safe place for her to exist, that she would always have to be on her guard.
After all, wasn’t that why she’d ended up in Slytherin? When she’d read about the Houses over the summer before first year, paging through Hogwarts: A History with Hermione, the phrase that had stood out to her about Slytherin was ‘self-reliance.’ When she’d read that, she’d known that was where she belonged.
But Snape had said that she should think about what she valued, and how it was different than Gryffindor values, and that could go both ways: maybe she didn’t have to be completely Slytherin either. Maybe, sometimes, she wanted to be brave and a little reckless, rather than smart and independent. Even Snape wasn’t completely Slytherin, and he was her Head of House. He’d been able to look her in the eye and call himself a victim, tell her that his Patronus was based on feeling safe and protected, without even sounding ashamed. So maybe she could do the brave thing, take a leap of faith, and trust him.
She knew he wasn’t perfect. The memory of the poison detention still stung a bit. He could be really petty when it came to Remus, even if she understood why now. And his approach to imparting lessons that he felt she and her friends needed to learn could be a bit, well, medieval.
Compared to, say, Professor McGonagall, or even Remus, he wasn’t as… Mary wasn’t sure the word, exactly. It wasn’t like he was immature, except sometimes when it came to Remus, but he was somehow not as stable or predictable. He talked to her about his past, and his feelings, in a way that she couldn’t imagine someone like Aunt Minnie or Emma Granger doing. He lost his temper, and he had a mean sense of humor sometimes (or a lot of the time), and he was awful to Neville. There was something about him that seemed, honestly, a little messed up sometimes.
But none of that was as important to her as this: he protected her, and he had promised not to break her trust, and she thought that maybe she could believe him. He must understand how hard-won her trust was, because he was in some way the same, which meant that he wouldn’t look down on her for it or take it lightly. If he was sometimes, as Perry Wilkes had put it in their first detention, a cruel bastard, that didn’t necessarily bother her, so long as he was on her side. So long as she could rely on him.
All of this gave her an idea for her Patronus memory.
She had been thinking about what he’d said, about how he hadn’t felt safe anywhere until he was nine years old, which had led to her wondering when she had first felt that way. Not pre-Hogwarts, that was for sure. Even when Professor McGonagall had taken her away from the Dursleys, while Mary had been happy, she hadn’t completely trusted it. She had still felt the need to be on her guard, to advocate for herself, making sure that she wouldn’t be sent back or trapped into another bad situation that she couldn’t escape.
The moment that stood out to her in hindsight was at the end of her first year, when Snape had killed Quirrellmort. He’d gone after him after he’d cursed Mary, and really, she had only ended up following because (as Snape had pointed out) she didn’t trust anyone else to take care of things for her. She had wanted to stop Hermione and Lilian from interfering with him, true, but that had been because she didn’t trust that Snape could handle Quirrellmort and a potential interruption. And because she hadn’t been able to simply sit back and wait, knowing that her friends, and Snape, were running into danger. She’d felt like she’d needed to do something.
But then she had shown up, and she hadn’t really been needed after all. The instant that Quirrellmort had shown any intention of attacking her, Snape had simply slit his throat like it was nothing, and banished the Dark Lord’s wraith afterwards. And when it was all over with, and Snape had passed out, despite all of her adrenaline, she had simply laid down on the floor right next to him and done the same.
She had woken up to find herself cradled in Snape’s arms as he’d carried her to safety, and she had felt… Well, at the time, it hadn’t been so noticeable, but simply the absence of fear, of having to be on her guard. It was only in retrospect that it seemed remarkable, compared to the entire rest of her life: of the way she hated being touched, hated letting other people take care of her, hated having to trust anyone but herself.
But waking in Snape’s arms, having seen him kill for her, knowing he had tracked down Quirrellmort and mercilessly put an end to him the instant he’d learned that the wizard meant Mary harm… It was the first time she had felt like, okay, somebody strong and capable had a handle on things. Like she didn’t have to take care of everything herself, and could just relax and believe that someone would take care of her. Someone who was stronger and scarier and smarter than anyone who might want to harm her.
Even after all of the danger, after nearly having been killed, she had drifted back to sleep in his arms, able to finally let her guard down and rest. That, she thought, was the first time she had ever felt completely safe.
Looking back on it now, with what she had learned of Snape recently—how he had grown up like her, probably; how he had promised to her that he would always protect her from harm; how the thing that he said he would die to protect was ‘trust’—the memory took on a new significance. It made her feel strange, almost like crying—not from sadness, but from a feeling of relief that seemed too big to entirely fit inside of her body.
It made her feel like she would die, or kill, to protect that moment of peace, of truly believing that she would be taken care of.
It was with that memory in mind—drifting comfortably to sleep, cradled against Snape’s chest, knowing that he would take care of everything, that there was nothing she needed to do in order to ensure her own safety—that she finally produced her first corporeal Patronus: a large, stalwart, silvery stag.
Remus immediately ruined it.
Or, not immediately. First, there was celebrating, and eating chocolate, and him and Lilian and even Hermione fawning over her. (They had sort of made up earlier in the week, mostly because both of them were just sick of fighting with each other at this point—Mary had admitted she’d overreacted, and Hermione had admitted she could be a bit overbearing sometimes, and they’d left it at that.)
But then, when she and her friends were leaving, he asked her to stay behind.
“I was surprised,” he began, still smiling, “to see the form your Patronus took. Do you mind if I ask what memory you used?”
Despite his friendly tone, Mary suddenly felt uncertain. Because… well, certainly it didn’t have anything to do with anything, but Snape’s Patronus was a doe, and hers was a stag, and that seemed like the obvious connection between the shape of the Patronus and the memory. But how could Remus know that? Did he even know what form Snape’s Patronus took?
“The same one as last time: after the Samhain Revel in first year with Maia and Lils,” she lied. “Why?”
“Oh.” Remus suddenly looked a bit awkward. “Sorry, I just thought… I suppose I thought your memory might have had something to do with your father.”
“My father?” Mary stared at him, completely baffled. “Why?”
“Well, because his Patronus, and his animagus form, was a stag.”
Oh, right, Remus had told her that—the animagus thing, anyway. Honestly, she’d nearly forgotten. Shifting uncomfortably, she reminded him, “I don’t have any memories of him.” Not even one of him begging for the Dark Lord to spare her life, like Lily.
“Right, of course,” he said, shaking his head a little, as if at his own foolishness. Then he added, “I thought perhaps it could have been related to… hearing about him. Or something like that.”
“Nope.” At this point, Mary didn’t think the things she’d heard about her father would inspire the kind of feelings that would help her produce a Patronus. The opposite, really. But she didn’t want to tell Remus that—she doubted he’d take it well. And things between them had been tense since their fight over what he’d done to Snape, even if, like her and Hermione, they’d supposedly made up.
But, apparently unable to drop it, Remus smiled wistfully at her and said, “In any case, it was nice to see. Like a piece of him is still living on in you.”
Despite having just decided not to, Mary couldn’t help herself. “I don’t think my Patronus has anything to do with James,” she insisted. “It’s probably just a coincidence that it’s the same. I… I would rather not be like him, to be honest. I know you mean well, but…”
Remus looked almost like she’d slapped him, an expression of surprised hurt and disappointment coming to his face. After a moment, he said, “Mary… I know that you and Severus are close, and that he’s told you a lot of… things. And of course I was at fault for not admitting that my friends and I were cruel to him when we were your age. But your father was a good man. You shouldn’t allow anyone—even Severus—to make you doubt that.”
“Was he?” Mary asked, her tone coming out flatter than she’d intended. She didn’t want to fight with him again, but something about his insistence that the Patronus had to be because of James was seriously annoying her.
“Of course he was,” he said, and she could hear the emotion in his voice, the need for her to believe him. “James could be immature, yes, but he was only a teenager. He grew out of it and came to regret how he’d acted by the time he had you. And even when we were in school, there was more good to him than bad. He was the first person to accept me as a werewolf, you know. He was kind and generous to his friends; he and his parents took Black in, not unlike Hermione has done for you. I wish you could have known him, Mary.”
But nothing he said felt that convincing, because, well, he’d already proven himself willing to lie to her to make James and their little group sound better than they had been. And besides, he wasn’t like Snape. He didn’t understand what her life used to be like, or why Mary hated bullies so much. He’d never even asked. Sure, James had been a good friend to him—and Dudley was probably a good friend to Piers. That didn’t really help her, and it hadn’t helped Snape, either.
“I don’t know that he’s someone I would have wanted to know,” she said, even though she should probably just let him think he’d convinced her so she could leave before this blew up into another argument. “Just because he’s my dad doesn’t mean I have to think well of him.”
Looking a bit stricken, and horribly sad, Remus said, “He died protecting you, Mary.”
Oh. Well, there was that. Still… “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t a bully,” she insisted, crossing her arms over her chest, despite the small pang of guilt she felt. “I’m not saying I hate him. I just don’t like you insisting that I’m like him somehow. I don’t want to be like him.”
Remus took a moment to answer her, seeming like he was weighing the pros and cons of whatever he was thinking of saying, before he said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this, actually. I don’t know if now is the best time, but I can’t just…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“I know that you have a lot of respect for Professor Snape, but… he’s not exactly unbiased. Not about your father, or about your mother. And I don’t think you should just take whatever he says at face value. While I respect him as a colleague, the Severus Snape that I grew up with… would take great pleasure in convincing James Potter’s child to hate her father, and to believe that Lily would have ever named him godfather after he went over to the Death Eaters.”
Though he couldn’t know it, Remus could not have picked a worse time to talk badly about Snape to her. After the conversation she and Snape had had, the one that had preceded her success tonight, the idea that Remus could ever convince her not to trust Snape was ridiculous. “Professor Snape has always been honest with me,” she told him coolly, “even when other people weren’t.”
Not just Remus, but Dumbledore, too. Snape was the one who told her the truth that other people hid from her—like about what her parents were really like. Not the noble, heroic James and the loving, motherly Lily of Remus’s memories, but the boy like Draco, like Dudley, who’d locked another student in what he’d thought was a ‘nightmare torture chamber’ for the crime of being poor and proud, and the witch who even Bellatrix had wanted to recruit, the one not so different from her Dark father.
“He… Mary, I don’t want to speak ill of another professor, but I’m honestly not convinced Severus should be a professor, in spite of his admittedly flawless track record when it comes to keeping his students from dying or being permanently maimed—which I suspect is the reason Dumbledore’s kept him around all this time. He’s cruel to his students—poor Neville is terrified of him—and the way he acted when the three of us spoke the other day was incredibly unprofessional, using you in order to punish me like that. Not to mention, he was a Death Eater, and to tell the truth, I’m not totally convinced he’s renounced his former beliefs, no matter what Dumbledore says.
“I know you’ve become… close to him, and I do have a certain respect for him, but that doesn’t mean he’s a good influence, especially on someone your age. Honestly, I’m starting to feel like you two are a little too close. He shouldn’t be filling your head with all this stuff about your parents, poisoning your memories of them without even thinking about how it’ll hurt you. It’s like he sees you more as a way to get revenge on them than as a student he has a duty of care to.”
And here she’d thought Remus had actually regretted what he’d done to Snape in the past. What bloody right did he have to badmouth him to her now, after what he’d done? To say they were ‘too close’ because Snape told her things Remus wouldn’t? To say he was ‘poisoning’ her memories of her parents just by being honest with her—like it was a flaw that, unlike Remus, he wasn’t willing to lie to her to make her feel better? Fuck that.
She hadn’t put up with Draco Malfoy trying to tell her what sort of people she should be friends with, and she wouldn’t accept it from Remus, either. Staring the professor down, she said, “I think I can decide for myself what sort of people I want to associate with, thank you. And frankly, I have far more respect for Professor Snape than almost anyone else. Certainly more than I have for James Potter.”
(She didn’t even notice the way her voice sounded just like Snape’s in the moment she said her father’s name—though she did notice the way Remus winced in response.)
No matter what Remus said, being descended from someone didn’t mean she had to respect them. If James had been an arsehole, well, after the Undead, Evil Grandfather Thing, she knew how to accept that. What she couldn’t accept was Remus talking that way about the one person who looked out for her. Snape was… He was her…
What? What was he?
She wasn’t sure, but he was important. Her favorite professor, of course, and her godfather, basically, but he was more than that. He was… her favorite person, she supposed. More, even, than Hermione, after the events of this past year. If she had to say who she trusted the most—whose respect she wanted more than anyone else’s—who she enjoyed spending time with, even more than her friends… It was Snape. Like a best friend, except not really, because he was old and took care of her.
He was just her Snape.
Remus was staring at her with a sort of deeply resigned sadness on his tired face. “You’re very loyal to him, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” she told him plainly. “And if you try to make me choose between you two…”
She didn’t finish the threat. She didn’t have to; already, she could see the hurt in Remus’s eyes as he realized what she meant to say, and she didn’t even feel bad for it.
Remus was, for all his flaws, someone she liked and wanted to keep in her life. But he wasn’t Snape.
Notes:
This whole chapter was original, though Leigha helped me work out the premise to Parallax and Quincey (she'd only referenced it vaguely in a few stories). In CS, Mary produces a Patronus with the Samhain memory and it's a big cat (panther or mountain lion, she's not sure which) but I changed it back to a stag both because I felt like it fit the memory she uses better and because her and Snape's Patroni sorta matching is significant here. (Not for magical reasons, this isn't a soulmate AU or anything, just psychological ones.)
Mary is very different than Harry due to her different life experiences, but in some ways, she's the same. Harry is "Dumbledore's man through and through," and Mary is Snape's, which actually explains a lot of their differences. Just like Harry and Dumbledore, with a few exceptions, she trusts the people Snape trusts, hates the people he hates, echoes his political opinions, and sees the world from his perspective, without even really realizing how much she's molded herself after him. When she talks shit about Dumbledore and his progressives, or goes around grumbling about how she's surrounded by idiots, in some sense, Snape's voice is coming out of her mouth. I tried to capture this here: it's not as sinister as Remus thinks, but her perspective is definitely biased and limited in certain ways because she wants so badly to be someone that Snape would approve of.
Chapter 27: Sometimes a Stag Is Not Just a Stag
Notes:
This chapter takes place during Chapter 33 of Chained Servant! In the next chapter, we'll finally be moving beyond what Leigha originally published.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione and Lilian could tell that Mary wasn’t as pleased with her success at the Patronus Charm as she should have been, but she didn’t tell them why. Even though she felt guiltier about it now, after the Room of Doom, she still had the urge to keep certain parts of her life… separate. There was her friendship with the two girls in one box, and in the other was what she had to admit was probably her over-involvement with the decades-old drama between her two favorite professors.
It was probably weird for her to care so much about it, but she did. Maybe because Remus and Snape were kind of the closest thing she had to family right now, letters exchanged with the Grangers aside, or because it made her parents feel more… present. Like Lily and James Potter were relevant to her life, and not just two strangers who’d died when she was barely old enough to remember them. She wasn’t entirely sure why she wanted that, but she thought she did. Even if her feelings about her father were ambivalent at best right now, it was still more like having a family than knowing and feeling nothing about him at all.
In the end, it wasn’t surprising that it was Snape who she talked to about her Patronus, and the resulting conversation with Remus, the next time she saw him. That seemed to be how it went: she’d fight with Snape and tell Remus, then fight with Remus and tell Snape. By this point, the two of them seemed to have mostly given up on keeping her from getting involved.
It was the day after the long-awaited Gryffindor-Slytherin game—the first game she’d flown from start to finish on her Firebolt. The match had gone amazingly well, like a dream. Not only had they won, but she’d managed to pull off a feint in which she’d hit a beater with a bludger, catching it in her slip-stream and running it into one of the Weasley twins while Warbler and Snark distracted him.
When Mary went to Snape’s office the following day, the game had been all she could talk about for the first twenty minutes or so, and he had indulged her, but it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that, as soon as she finished, he asked whether she had managed to cast a Patronus during her lesson that Thursday. After all, they’d talked quite a lot about it, and he knew that she was hoping that lesson would be the one when she’d finally manage the charm.
It wasn’t surprising, but it was nerve-wracking, because even though he shouldn’t have any way of knowing what memory she’d used, and she was almost certain he wouldn’t legilimize her without permission, it still made her feel weirdly exposed when, after hearing she’d finally been successful, he asked for a demonstration.
Especially since she didn’t really have an excuse not to show him. If she was trying to keep him from realizing that she’d used a memory of him for the charm, then she should just act totally normal, like she had nothing to hide. A Mary who had used a different memory wouldn’t hesitate to show off to him. So she closed her eyes, summoned up the memory again, and cast the spell.
It came more easily this time, even with no boggart-dementor, and she wasn’t sure if it was just due to practice, or if having Snape in the room with her somehow helped. But that thought would lead her into more awkwardness, so she decided not to think about it, only opened her eyes to see him watching the stag with a thoughtful expression.
“What memory did you use, in the end?” he asked, and she worked hard to keep her guilt off her face, because—he didn’t know. He was just asking the natural question, considering how much they’d talked about finding the right memory. There was no reason, none at all, for her heart to be pounding as though she had been caught out of bounds.
Honestly, she wasn’t even entirely sure why she was so terrified he might find out what memory she’d used. It just seemed like yet another way she was weird, a continuation of the pattern of her caring so much more about their every interaction than he did. And to make matters worse, although she should have expected this question, she hadn’t, so she hadn’t thought of a lie, and ended up hesitating for a second too long before just going with what she’d told Remus.
“The same one as before, with my friends on my first Samhain at Hogwarts. I think I just needed to, like, think about things differently. The stuff the Room showed me, I mean. After we talked, it didn’t bother me so much.”
There, that wasn’t a terrible lie, was it? But Snape made a noise, a noncommittal sort of hum, still looking at the stag.
“What?” she asked, trying not to sound nervous, letting the charm end. She missed the warmth of the stag the moment it was gone.
“The form of your Patronus is not what I might have predicted, based on the memory.”
How did he always know stuff like this? Mary swallowed nervously before asking, “Why not?”
“Your memory, so far as you described it, was one of belonging among peers—a sort of equal camaraderie—as well as in Magic. Stags, on the other hand, are associated with leadership, confidence, and wisdom. Fatherhood, at times—a sort of guiding, protective figure.”
Oh no no no. Feeling like alarms were going off in her head, Mary shrugged and said, with a sort of forced casualness, “Huh, that’s weird.” Then, in an attempt to distract him from the truth, “Er, maybe it’s, like, Magic? Like, the Samhain ritual was my first introduction to the Powers, and I’m… looking to them for guidance?” He didn’t look convinced, though, so she decided to change the subject. “Remus thought it was because of James.”
Snape shot her an uncomprehending look.
“Er, right, I guess you might not know, but his Patronus was a stag too, and so was his animagus form. Remus told me about him when he first told me about Black being one. And Peter Pettigrew too—he was a rat.” She frowned slightly at the reminder that Remus had kept this information from them for so long.
“Lupin mentioned that Potter and Pettigrew were animagi as well, but not their forms.” Then, with a bit of a scowl, he added, “Which certainly explains a lot about our school days.”
Mary wasn’t sure what to say to that. To her slight surprise, Snape didn’t seem to actually want her to stop being friends with Remus on his behalf, but the more he talked about what Remus had been like, the guiltier she felt for making up with him. She wondered, still, if she was being selfish by prioritizing her desire for family, or something like family, over her loyalty to Snape.
Suddenly, she found herself afraid that he believed what Remus had: that her Patronus really was because of James. What if he thought she was lying to him about the memory because she didn’t want him to know she’d cast a Patronus while thinking of the worst of his bullies?
“I wasn’t thinking about James,” she blurted out before she’d even had a chance to consider what she was about to say.
In response to her non-sequitur, Snape only raised an eyebrow, and she found herself blushing. Come on, Mary, be normal.
“I mean,” she said, her voice coming out faster than usual from her nerves, “Remus thought I was thinking about my dad or something when I cast the Patronus, and I know you said it can represent fatherhood, but I wasn’t. I don’t even have any memories of him. But then Remus just said that even if I wasn’t, us having the same Patronus means that I’m like him, or that he’s, like, living on through me or something.” She found herself anxious, or annoyed, or something, twisting her hands together and scowling down at the ground.
“Yes, Lupin would like to believe that,” Snape said dryly. “I take it his theory displeased you?”
“Yeah,” she admitted. “I get why he’d think that, but, couldn’t it be a coincidence? Can’t a stag just be a stag? Does it have to mean that I’m… like him? James?” Then, more quietly, without even meaning to, she admitted, “I don’t want to be like him.”
Snape didn’t answer at first. They’d just been standing around while they talked, since she’d demonstrated her Patronus for him, and in lieu of acknowledging what she’d said, he sat down in one of the armchairs by the hearth, gesturing for her to take the other. Like he knew it was going to be a Conversation. Mary felt a bit self-conscious at how transparent she was, but after a moment, she sat down as well.
“He said it was your fault,” she added, because he still wasn’t saying anything. “That I don’t want to be like James—that I don’t think he was as great as Remus still thinks he was. He said that you were just trying to make me hate him, like, for revenge or something. But it’s not like he denied any of the things my dad and Black did to you, which means he thinks I wouldn’t care about it you weren’t making me somehow, which is just… ugh.” She let out a small, frustrated noise. “It’s like he doesn’t know me at all.”
“Does Lupin know about your cousin, or your aunt and uncle?”
Mary shrugged. “Not really. I mean, he knows they weren’t… great, and that Professor McGonagall took me away from them, but not the details. But I shouldn’t have to tell him all that for him to believe that maybe I just think my dad sounds like an immature bully.”
“Lupin has his own image of James Potter,” Snape pointed out, “entrenched by the years that have passed and the tragedy of Potter’s death.” He didn’t say the word ‘tragedy’ with quite as much scorn as she might have expected, and she was pretty sure that was because he didn’t want to make light of her being orphaned.
“Still, that doesn’t mean I have to agree with him, or that his image of James is more real than yours.”
“No, it does not.”
Mary hesitated a moment, because—earlier, he’d just kind of ignored it, and maybe that was for the best, but she wanted him to address it anyway. “Am I?” she asked. “Like him, I mean.”
“In some ways,” Snape said, which wasn’t the answer she’d wanted to hear. “Not the ways in which you are worried about, however.”
It struck her how similar this was to a conversation they’d had a few months ago about Bellatrix and the Dark Lord. Just as she’d wanted him to tell her she wasn’t anything like them, now she wanted to hear that she wasn’t like James Potter. But Snape always told her the truth, rather than what she wanted to hear, which was probably why she asked him things like this in the first place.
“How am I like him?” she asked, trying her best not to sound offended.
“There is a certain thread of noble stupidity which you have unfortunately inherited from him,” he said dryly. “The incident in which you challenged a grown witch to an honor duel rather than allow a younger student for whom you felt responsible to be falsely accused? That was one of the most Potter things I’ve seen you do.”
That wasn’t so bad, and Mary felt a little relieved. Snape might hate her being like that, and she was embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of any alternative approaches to the problem at the time, but it wasn’t the worst thing she could have in common with her father.
“Your talent for Quidditch, as well, and your loyalty to your friends,” Snape went on—surprisingly measured, she thought, given how much she thought he hated James. “Your channeling capacity—Lily, for all her talents, was a rather weak witch.” Then, as though to balance it out, he added, “Your recklessness and penchant for getting yourself into trouble. That ridiculous hair of yours, and the glasses.”
All of that was alright, but didn’t really touch on what she was worried about. Like the stuff she’d seen in the Room of Doom, Draco Malfoy and Cadmus Thorpe in particular. She’d hurt them and scared them both. She didn’t think she’d do what James had done, or Dudley—wouldn’t just pick on someone for years for no reason other than because she could—but she had hurt Thorpe worse than her dad had hurt Snape, so far as she knew. Even if it was just once.
Maybe she was only making excuses for herself, or being a hypocrite. In any case, she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t push anyone else down the stairs, and she’d already asked Snape whether he thought she was a bad person, so bringing all that up again didn’t seem worth it. He wasn’t going to tell her anything she didn’t already know.
Besides, before she could, he added, “Nevertheless, you are no bully. You do not have his arrogance or sense of entitlement, nor the other traits which made him so insufferable.”
Mary bit her lip, nodding slowly. Maybe she’d known that already, but hearing it from Snape helped. Still, the knot in her chest didn’t unravel, and she wasn’t sure why until she burst out, “I’m just sick of finding out that everyone I’m related to was awful.”
She wasn’t sure how else to put it, just… She wanted to be able to think about her family and be proud, not ashamed. It made her feel like there was something wrong with her—like she was tainted somehow, like Ginny said. Even Lily, who sounded way better than James, at least, had still been someone who was apparently similar to the Dark Lord in a lot of ways. Cold, even according to Snape, who’d been her best friend. And she had married James, for some bloody reason, despite him sounding like an arsehole to rival Draco and the Little Weasel—and despite the fact that it had been her best friend he’d been bullying.
Snape looked faintly amused, though, as he responded, “I know the feeling. You are not the first person to have parents or grandparents whose blood you would prefer not to share, nor will you be the last. However, you are who you are. If you are happy with the person who you are now, then their… influence need not be something that you fear.”
She’d honestly forgotten for a moment that Snape would understand. After all, he’d said his family was abusive too, and unlike her, she didn’t think he’d been raised by his aunt and uncle. Maybe she was just upset because, when she’d lived with the Dursleys, she used to fantasize that her parents were these really amazing people, and that, if they ever came back for her, her life would be perfect. She thought she’d outgrown that dream, but having it shattered still hurt.
But Snape had never even had the luxury of imagining a mum and dad who were different, or better, than what he’d had.
“Is it… Remus acted like it was awful of me to say I didn’t want to be like James,” she confessed. “Because he died protecting me.”
Snape didn’t roll his eyes, but he kind of looked like he wanted to. “That does not mean that you somehow owe it to your father not to form your own opinion of him based on the information which you have. Particularly seeing as he is dead, and therefore not around to be hurt by your judgment of him. There is nothing wrong with feeling any way you like about him, no matter how uncomfortable it may make Lupin to see Potter’s daughter refuse to accept his excuses for the man’s behavior.”
He sounded like he was pleased by this, actually—by the thought of her thinking badly of James. Maybe it was like Remus had said, that he wanted her to hate her father. But so far as she could tell, he’d never lied to her about him, not like Remus had. He’d just given her the truth and let her form her own opinion. And, well, she could hardly blame him if he did want that, just a little. She thought she’d feel the same way in his position.
“I guess,” she said. But she still felt a little guilty. “It’s just hard to know how to feel about him, you know? On the one hand, he sounds like a git, and he was awful to you. On the other hand, he fought the Dark Lord, and he was a good friend to Remus, and he died to save me. It would be easier if he was just completely horrible. Then, at least, I’d know what to think.”
Snape hummed thoughtfully. “People are rarely entirely good or entirely horrible,” he said, and this was why Remus was an idiot—because even if Snape hated James, and was pleased that she kind of hated him a bit, too, he was still fair when they talked like this. He didn’t try to make her believe anything.
“If it helps,” he added, “the Potter who raised you for your first fifteen months, and whom you would have known as your father, had he lived, was almost certainly more similar to Lupin’s Potter than mine. By all accounts, he could be very kind and generous towards those whom he cared about.” It went without saying, of course, that Snape hadn’t fallen into that category.
Mary considered that for a moment, then frowned. “I think… I think that makes it worse, actually.”
“Oh?”
The trouble was, she didn’t really know how to explain it. She had to think for a long moment before finally saying, “It’s like… if he’d lived, I wouldn’t even know. I’d think he was just as great as Remus does.” It was like imagining being brainwashed or something, or thinking about what Riddle had done to her in the Chamber.
Maybe she was being overly dramatic or hypocritical. James Potter was hardly worse than the Dark Lord, and Snape was probably right that there had been good sides to him, or else Remus wouldn’t like him so much, and Lily wouldn’t have married him. But it just made her uncomfortable, imagining a version of herself who thought as highly of James Potter as Remus did. A version of herself who, even if she did know about him bullying people, would probably have just made excuses or ignored it—because if she hadn’t grown up with the Dursleys, she wouldn’t know what it felt like. She wouldn’t be able to imagine so vividly being the target of one of his ‘pranks.’
Mary never thought she’d be glad she’d lived with the Dursleys, or that she was an orphan. And she still wasn’t, not exactly. But… she thought she might like the person she was now better than she would like the Mary Potter who’d been raised by her own parents, and that was a strange and uncomfortable thought. What did it mean to feel that way, to be both glad and not-glad that she’d lived the life she had?
“And,” she added, and this was a kind of silly thing to be upset about, she knew, but she couldn’t help it, “he probably would have told me bad things about you, too, like Remus did, and I would have just believed him. Or, I would have been more like him, and even if I hadn’t thought you were as awful as they did, you might have hated me for being just like him, and either way, we would have never ended up… like this. Talking like this, I mean.”
She blushed a bit, seeing the amused look on Snape’s face. She knew it was silly to work herself up over hypotheticals like this, but imagining another Mary and Snape who hated each other—a Mary who walked around acting like James Potter and couldn’t understand why Snape was the way he was—who couldn’t be his, well, friend, or whatever it was that she was to him… it unsettled her a lot.
Which, she knew that if she’d grown up with her parents, and not the Dursleys, she wouldn’t really need to be friends with Snape like this. She wouldn’t be as alone, and she wouldn’t be all messed up, the way Hermione had implied she was when they’d fought about Ginny. But that didn’t make the thought any less uncomfortable.
“If Potter had survived, Lily likely would have as well,” he pointed out. “She would not have tolerated his giving you a… one-sided perspective on our school days. Nor would she have allowed him to turn you into the sort of entitled little monster which he was when we first met.”
Oh, right. Still, “Why did she even marry him, if he was like that?” It was like if Hermione went and married Dudley or Draco or something.
Snape sighed. “It’s complicated.”
Pouting a bit, because she thought she already knew the answer, Mary asked, “Am I old enough to hear about all that yet? Lily, I mean.”
“Not quite yet,” he replied, just as she’d thought he would, and she scowled.
“When, then?”
“In time.”
Great. What an incredibly frustrating answer. Folding her arms over her chest, she said, “I don’t think she should have married him. I wouldn’t, if someone treated one of my friends that way.” Partially just to say it, and partially to see if she could provoke him into telling her more about Lily.
But he only said, once more, “It’s complicated.” And then, “It is not as though I were a helpless victim. Potter was a prick, but even he would have eventually felt guilty for tormenting someone incapable of defending themselves. While I was not usually the one to escalate the conflict, I—and Lily—often gave as good as we got.”
“Oh?” Mary didn’t think, like Remus had tried to imply, that that meant Snape had deserved it, or that her dad hadn’t been, as Snape had said, a prick. But it did make her feel a little better, somehow. “What did you do to them?”
Snape smirked. “Let’s see… For example, as you might have heard, Lily was a Gryffindor prefect. In our fifth year, we brewed Polyjuice Potion together, which I used to imitate several different first years—almost always girls. I would provoke a fight with Black, frustrating him to the point of hexing me, at which point, Lily would just ‘happen’ to walk by and catch him, and I would feign tears and deny all wrongdoing. She, of course, would believe the crying young girl over Black, taking points from him. He fell for it… eight times, if I recall correctly. A few of those times, he was caught by other prefects or professors before Lily could even enact her part of the plan.”
Mary was unable to keep from breaking out into giggles, laughing until her eyes watered at the image of Snape impersonating a crying little girl just to get Sirius Black in trouble. Eight times. He simply watched her laugh, looking amused and a little smug. Finally, when her laughter trailed off, she shot him a look and asked, “Didn’t you tell Hermione it’s illegal to use Polyjuice to impersonate someone?”
Looking entirely unconcerned, Snape said, “If you tell anyone, I will deny I ever told you.”
She bit down on her lip, still grinning. The story had made her feel better, somehow. Maybe just because it made the whole thing sound a little less like her and Dudley, and more like the Weasley twins’ prank war with Morgana and her boys.
“Do you think we would have been friends?” she asked, before she even thought about it, and then found herself blushing again. She didn’t know why she was doing that so often these days. “If I’d been your age, I mean.”
“Possibly,” Snape said, and, at her questioning look, added, “It would have depended on your level of… tolerance. If you think my current self is, as you put it in the hospital wing, ‘mean,’ you would likely have found my teenage self even more unpleasant.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she protested, even though she kind of had. But she hadn’t meant to say it to him! And him being mean didn’t mean she didn’t like him anyway! “But you…” No, she couldn’t just ask outright whether he would have liked her (as a friend). That would not be very normal of her. “I wouldn’t have reminded you too much of him? James, I mean.”
Or maybe what she was really asking was, did she remind him of James Potter now? Did some part of him dislike her, deep down, because she looked or acted like the person who’d bullied him? Because, if she was honest, that was a big part of why she was so upset over the whole thing. She could live with her father being a prick, so long as Snape didn’t hate her for it.
“No,” he said simply. There was a brief pause, and she suddenly expected—and, honestly, kind of feared—him saying something like, ‘You’re half Lily, after all.’ Because… she didn’t want that to be the reason he’d have wanted to be friends with her. But he only said, “Nor do you remind me so much of him now that I find your company unpleasant, if that is what you are worried about.”
Mary glared at him. “Are you sure you’re not using legilimency?”
“No, you are simply that transparent.”
“Hey!” Then, because he already knew what she was thinking, she sighed and admitted, “I just… don’t want to be like someone you hate.”
“I do not ‘hate’ James Potter,” Snape said, and she gave him a skeptical look. “He’s been dead for over a decade. The person I hated is gone, and is a teenager besides—one who exists only in my memories. I, on the other hand, am a grown man. I have moved on, regardless of what Lupin might think.”
Mary wasn’t sure if she believed him. He certainly seemed to hate Black, and even Remus—but then, they weren’t dead, she supposed. “I don’t mind if you hate him,” she insisted. “I might hate him still, if I were you.” She wasn’t really sure—she couldn’t imagine being thirty-three or thirty-four, or what it might feel like to look back on someone like Dudley with that many years between.
Snape hummed noncommittally and changed the subject. “In any case,” he said, “rest assured that I do not hold your father’s actions against you, and that sharing a Patronus with him need not mean anything. There are, after all, only so many animals—particularly those which hold enough symbolic meaning to be common Patronus forms.
“In fact,” he added, “it’s quite likely that Potter’s Patronus had less to do with any personality traits which you might share with him than it did with a certain redhead with a doe Patronus who wanted nothing to do with him for many years. After all, there is some evidence that Patroni can be influenced by romantic interest, particularly of the unrequited sort.”
Mary had several thoughts about that. First, she remembered that Remus had told her the same thing at one point, or at least something similar—that someone’s Patronus could change to a different form due to unrequited love. Then she wondered if Snape was right or not, because she wasn’t sure that James’s animagus form could have been influenced by Lily, even if his Patronus had been.
Then she hoped he was right, because she’d rather be able to think that her Patronus was a stag because she’d used a stag-like memory, and James’s was a stag because he’d had unrequited feelings for someone with a doe Patronus, and those two things were totally different. It wasn’t like she—
Wait.
Mary paced back and forth in her bedroom, thinking, Unrequited love. Doe Patronus. And… Snape.
Snape??
She—she couldn’t be in love with Snape. That was ridiculous, no matter what Lilian said. He was old, and mean, and basically her godfather. Plus, she was just thirteen. She didn’t fancy anyone. She didn’t even know what fancying someone felt like. But if she had fancied someone, it certainly wouldn’t have been Snape. He was, like, the last person that she would—could—fancy. He was—he was just—he wasn’t even in the category of people that she could possibly fancy.
No, Mary definitely didn’t feel that way about Snape. So why was she even thinking about it?
The problem was, since she didn’t know what feeling ‘that way’ was like, she was a little worried that she wouldn’t know how to recognize it if she did. Like maybe she could somehow fancy him, as mad as that sounded, and just had no idea because of her total lack of experience. But… she certainly didn’t want to snog Snape, no matter what bloody Lilian thought.
Right?
Just to check, Mary forced herself to imagine it, and just like back in January, her brain recoiled at the thought. It was just too weird.
It wasn’t like Snape was disgusting. He wasn’t a handsome man, for sure; not someone the girls in her year would call ‘fit.’ But he wasn’t a complete troll, either. At least he looked much cleaner than he had during her first two years, now that his hair wasn’t cursed anymore.
Still, Mary just couldn’t picture it. Snogging in general sounded gross, which probably meant she wasn’t old enough to fancy anyone, let alone Snape.
Plus, people her age didn’t snog grown men. The mere thought of it was kind of scary, like she was looking down from a high cliff. Because in any situation in which Snape was snogging her, it would mean that she couldn’t trust him after all, like he’d told her she could—because men she could trust didn’t snog thirteen-year-old girls. She might be inexperienced, but she knew that much.
No, snogging Snape would be scary and weird and gross, which meant that she definitely didn’t fancy him. She was relieved to have made up her mind on that, because otherwise, it would have driven her mad.
Still, it was confusing. Her Patronus was a stag because of him, right? Not James? Snape had said the stag symbolized leadership and fatherhood and stuff, and while James was her real father, he didn’t feel like that to her. He was just some old friend of Remus, and enemy of Snape, that they both told her stories about. He didn’t even seem to have much to do with the idealized father she used to imagine, back when she didn’t know anything about her parents save for the Dursleys’ lies.
Anyway, the way she felt in the memory—the way Snape had seemed to her, when he’d killed Quirrellmort to save her and had carried her to safety—wasn’t it kind of like the stag? Leadership, protection, that sort of thing. And ‘wisdom’ made sense, too—he always talked with her and helped her figure out things she was confused or upset about.
Except that thinking of Snape as like a stag felt strange. If he was an animal, she thought, he’d be a bat, or a panther or something—black and nocturnal and a little scary. And it still felt weird to her that her Patronus was the same as her dad’s Patronus and animagus forms. It seemed like too big of a coincidence, no matter how much she wanted to believe it was. Especially with the whole ‘stag equals fatherhood’ thing.
Although, maybe the stag was related to fatherhood, but not to James? In the memory, when Snape had been carrying her, she had felt sheltered—like no one could hurt her anymore. She thought that, maybe, that was how a father was meant to make you feel. Obviously, she had nothing to compare it to.
Had she cast the spell with the concept of being protected as if by a father in her mind, and the spell latched on to the animal form most associated with fatherhood to her? Did she associate stags with James, or James with the idea of a father? Or did the fact that stags were generally associated with fatherhood make a difference, even if she hadn’t actually known that until after she’d cast the spell? She wasn’t sure.
But besides that, Snape had told her that the form of her Patronus would be related to something that she wanted to protect. How did that work, if her memory was about being protected herself? If the thing she wanted to protect was her own sense of safety, shouldn’t her Patronus have been something more like Snape’s doe? After all, her memory wasn’t so different than the one he’d used—except that his was about feeling safe with another kid, and hers was about an adult, so maybe that was why?
And she had thought that the doe must be a part of him, but then, that would mean that the stag was in some way a part of herself. It sounded stupid, when she put it into words, but maybe she was trying to protect herself? Her younger self, the one who had failed to find protection from the Dursleys?
As Snape had pointed out, no one had stepped in to save her, and he seemed to believe that someone should have. Maybe choosing a memory of her younger self being saved from danger meant that she was trying to make herself (and her Patronus) into the protector that she hadn’t had as a child? The incantation, as Hermione had pointed out, meant, “I await a protector.”
Mary let out a frustrated noise and flung herself facedown on her bed, but that didn’t stop her from thinking. Did she fancy Snape? Did she think of him like a dad? Did she think of James like a dad? Did she just want to be protected by someone, whether Snape or herself or James Potter or even just some vague idea of what a father ought to be?
Her mind kept going in circles—James, Snape, fatherhood, love.
To make things even more complicated, it wasn’t only fathers who protected people. In the end, her strongest protection had come from Lily. Lily’s Patronus had been a doe, just like Snape’s. Did that have anything to do with her Patronus form? Or maybe, Snape had said Lily’s Patronus was a doe because she’d been inspired by his choice of memory, so maybe Mary’s own Patronus kind of matched Snape’s because she’d thought of her memory after hearing about his?
This would be much easier to figure out, she thought, if she didn’t have three separate people in her life who were somehow associated with deer. If her Patronus had been a wolf, for example, it would have been obvious who it represented. Assuming it represented anyone at all, and not just an abstract concept of a father protecting her…
Ugh, her head was starting to hurt.
Out of the three people, James was definitely the most stag-like in her head, but she also just didn’t feel like he was that important to her, nor were her feelings about him especially positive. Lily was, at least in her imagination, something more fluid and effervescent than the sturdy animal. And Snape wasn’t much like a stag at all, as she’d thought earlier. But maybe the stag was about the feeling of being protected, not the person doing the protecting?
On a whim, Mary rolled over and cast her Patronus. It seemed a little more difficult than it had been in Snape’s office, which supported her theory that his presence had made it easier, but it could also just be because she was distracted now. Regardless, the stag came to life in front of her, standing beside her bed, his large form taking up most of the available space on that side of the small, circular room.
She sat up again and scooted to the edge of her bed, settling her elbows on her knees and her chin in her palms, considering the stag. He stared steadily back at her, a familiar sort of calm and yet enigmatic look in his eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked, but of course, he said nothing at all. Still, she felt like she knew the answer: whoever he was, whether he was associated with her parents, or Snape, or herself, or no one at all, he was a protector. He was there to shield her from harm—not just dementors, like any Patronus, but more generally.
He looked immovable and confident and big, probably three or four times her size. He gave her the feeling that she could rely on him, could lean against him and he wouldn’t even feel her weight at all. She felt that she could climb onto his back and he would take her to safety, despite knowing logically that he was intangible.
And… he felt a little like Snape. Or, he wasn’t like Snape. Not on the surface (except maybe the eyes). But the feeling he gave her—safety, and warmth, and comfort—felt like she’d felt when Snape stayed by her bedside in the hospital wing in January, and when he’d said that he would protect her, and that he cared about her.
Okay, maybe… It was super embarrassing to even think about, but, what did ‘unrequited love’ even mean? Did it have to be romantic?
She just meant… Well, trying to imagine how James might have felt about Lily… The romantic stuff, she couldn’t really imagine, but she thought that he had probably wished he was closer to her than he actually was, and felt frustrated by it. He would have wanted Lily to like him as much as he liked her—to like him better than anyone else.
And… wasn’t that how she felt about Snape? The idea that she fancied him was ridiculous, but that word—unrequited—felt… relevant, somehow. Like maybe she wanted something from him that she couldn’t have, just like James had wanted Lily.
Only, she didn’t know what that was, exactly. It wasn’t snogging, that was for sure. But… oh, by the Morrigan, this was embarrassing. But she thought she would probably like it if he hugged her. Had maybe even wished for it a bit, back in the hospital wing in January. And she already knew that she wanted to be his favorite student. And she liked to be near him, in his lab or in his office, whether they were talking or working or she was simply reading while he graded papers and sipped on his coffee.
And she thought this might be unrequited, whatever it was that she felt, this attachment or whatever. Like she wanted to be closer to Snape than he wanted to be to her—like she cared more than he did. She was really, really afraid of it, actually; that was why he’d been one of the worst parts of the Room of Doom.
Did she… What if she did love him, but not in a romantic way? What if she even wanted him to be her dad or something, her family, except she knew that he could only be her professor and sort of godfather, and that was similar enough to unrequited love for Magic to make her Patronus match his?
But just like she didn’t know what fancying someone felt like, she also didn’t know what having a dad felt like. Or if any of the things she felt about Snape, like how badly she wanted him to like her the best, or to give her a hug or something, were normal things to feel for a dad. It certainly wasn’t how she felt about Remus or Dan, who were the only other dad-like people in her life.
Still, it did feel kind of right. After all, she wouldn’t be the only kid in Hogwarts—or Slytherin, or her cohort—to desperately want the approval of an emotionally distant father figure. Draco and Lilian came to mind. Maybe Snape and Remus and Dan were all kind of dad-like, but she felt this strongly about Snape because he was the most distant, or inconsistent, or hard to impress?
So maybe her Patronus did represent ‘unrequited love,’ but that didn’t have to mean anything weird, right? Just… a little embarrassing. Even if she didn’t want to snog Snape, she didn’t really want him, or anyone, to know that her Patronus might be based around wanting her Head of House to tell her that she was special to him, or to protect her, or to give her a bloody hug. How childish.
Still, if Mary summoned her stag each night after that, just so she could drift off to sleep in the blue glow of his light, feeling safe and protected as he watched her with inscrutable, steady eyes, no one else needed to know. Anyway, it was good practice.
Notes:
The whole chapter is original, and the second half is some of the first content I wrote for this fic. For those familiar with CS, you might notice one significant change, which is that I removed the part where Mary's towel attacks her after the Quidditch game. Basically, when I was writing this I had no idea where Leigha planned to go with that, since she hadn't published RIP Mary Potter yet, and I decided this story didn't need another subplot. Similarly, the whole thing with Jasper Le Parc and Nora won't be included.
Mary. Babygirl. You were SO CLOSE. "Thank god I don't fancy Snape. I just want him to be my dad, a thing that is both normal to feel towards one's Potions professor and less embarrassing than just having a normal crush? Somehow?" (And the gold medal in mental gymnastics goes to...)
Although she's really not as dumb as she might seem here. As the chapter shows, she is aware of how she feels, just not what that means or what label to put on it, mostly because she has no past experience to compare it to. I actually based this on my own first crush. It was very different, since she was my age, but also similar, because it had never occurred to me that I could have a crush on a girl before, so I kept mistaking my feelings for something platonic. ("I just want us to be super special best friends who live together forever and never get married to boys.") When you've never had a crush, and the person you like isn't the type of person everyone expects you to like, it can be a surprisingly difficult conclusion to reach.
The question is: what's it gonna take for her to realize it? Our girl is the queen of denial.
Chapter 28: The Painful Truth
Notes:
This chapter begins during Chapter 33 of Chained Servant, then moves beyond the point at which the story was abandoned.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You should just do it tonight, Lils,” Mary murmured to her friend as they sat in the corner of the Slytherin common room. “Get it over with.”
With a troubled frown, Lilian said, “Tonight? I’m—I’m not ready, Liz.”
“If you wait until you feel ready, you’ll be waiting forever.”
All year—ever since Mabon, at least—Lilian had been torn, vacillating between the urge to protect her older sister from the horrible truth and the need to share the burden of it. To tell Aerin what she’d learned: that it had been the two of them who’d accidentally caused the death of their little brother Connor, and that their parents had had them obliviated in the aftermath.
All year, Mary had watched, doing what she could to help her friend—which hadn’t felt like much. Mostly, she’d just tried, unsuccessfully, to convince Lilian to tell her. At first, she hadn’t thought she should. It hadn’t seemed like it would do anything but make Aerin feel as horrible as Lilian did. But after months had passed, and Lilian had only become more and more weighed down by the truth, Mary had changed her mind.
When she’d met Lilian and Aerin, they’d been best friends—just like she’d always thought sisters should be. But the secret that Lilian carried had driven a wedge between them, and they’d gotten to a point where they barely even spoke to each other anymore, and never about anything real. She didn’t see any alternative but for Lilian to tell Aerin, to get it all out in the open. All term, she’d tried to convince her friend, while Lilian had argued and avoided the subject and resisted with all her might.
But Saturday, after their victory against Gryffindor, there had been… a breakthrough, Mary supposed. Or a breakdown. It had just been the two of them in the changing room, Sadie having left early to meet some boy, and they’d decided to use the hot tub. Somehow, though, the topic of Aerin had come up, and Lilian had suddenly broken down in tears.
Crying on Mary’s shoulder (while they were both naked, no less, which had made it possibly the single most awkward moment of Mary’s life thus far), she had admitted that she knew she needed to tell Aerin, and to confront their parents, but that she was scared to—that she knew it would get worse before it got better, and that she didn’t feel like she could face it.
So, of course, Mary knew what she had to do: she had to help Lilian face it. Or, well, make her. Otherwise, she was just going to keep torturing herself for the rest of the year, and when she went home for the summer, she’d be stuck in a house with parents who barely acknowledged her existence without even her sister’s support.
“How do I do it, Lizzie? How do I just tell her something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Mary admitted. “I think you just have to do it. Just get the words out—that’s the hardest part. And then you can figure the rest out together.”
As she spoke, though, she hoped she wasn’t leading Lilian astray. It wasn’t like she had any experience having siblings to draw on. She couldn’t help wishing Hermione was there—yeah, sometimes it annoyed her, how bossy Hermione could be, but other times, she had to admit, it was nice how certain of herself she always was, how she always seemed to know just what everyone else should do.
Still, when Lilian gave her a pleading sort of look and asked, “You really think so?” she nodded and tried her best to look like she knew what she was talking about.
Lilian went quiet for a moment, her eyes far away, before setting her jaw. “Alright,” she said slowly. “Alright, I’m going to tell her. Tonight.”
Despite the secondhand anxiety churning in her gut, Mary gave her a half-smile and started to say, “Good,” but Lilian interrupted, grabbing hold of her wrist and pulling Mary to her feet with her as she stood.
“And you’re coming with me.”
As they made their way up to Ravenclaw Tower, Mary couldn’t help but wonder if this was a good idea.
Yes, it had been her idea in the first place. But… maybe they should have taken more time to plan out what Lilian was going to say? Or, at least, it should have been Sean going with her, not Mary. He was their brother, after all. Other than their parents—and, Mary supposed, the Ministry Obliviators—he had been the only one who’d known the truth, at least until Mabon. Not to mention, he was older, and a prefect, and just generally way more qualified to help than Mary was.
But she understood that this was kind of a now-or-never deal for Lilian. If she lost her nerve, who knew how long it would take her to gather it again? So Mary kept her mouth shut, letting herself be pulled along after her friend—though when they’d solved the riddle and passed through the door into the Ravenclaw common room, she was relieved to see Hermione on the other side of it, sitting at a table covered with scrolls and textbooks alongside Padma and Mandy.
“Lils? Lizzie?” she asked, getting to her feet. “What’s going on?”
Lilian, however, only had eyes for Aerin, laying across a couch with her head in her girlfriend Lara’s lap. As Lilian charged on ahead, Mary lowered her voice and told Hermione, “She’s telling Aerin. About—you know what.”
“Oh.” Hermione’s eyes went wide, but she immediately joined Mary in awkwardly trailing after Lilian, uncertain whether she wanted them to be part of the conversation or just in the general vicinity of it.
“Hey, girls,” Aerin said, sitting up with a smile that was already starting to fade as she spotted the look on her little sister’s face. “What’s up?”
Mary couldn’t help but think, with a sort of dark premonition, that if Aerin reacted anything like Lilian had to the news, this might be the happiest they’d see her for the rest of the year.
“Can we talk, Aerie?” Lilian asked, her voice trembling the tiniest bit. “I—I need to tell you something.”
Aerin frowned, exchanging a look with Lara, but she stood, saying, “Sure.”
The way Lilian grabbed Mary by the wrist as she led her sister off to a corner of the room left no question about whether she was meant to follow. Hermione seemed less certain, hovering behind them but standing back a ways, like she wasn’t sure if she was intruding on the moment.
“You—you remember the Mabon ritual,” Lilian said—not a question, more of a statement—and Aerin slowly nodded. “Well, I—I saw something, Aerie, and it’s—it’s about us. It’s about us, and Connor, and it’s horrible, and I didn’t know—” She was already getting choked up, her grip tightening painfully on Mary’s wrist, and Mary thought again that maybe they should have done more planning first. “I didn’t know whether to tell you, Aerie, I’ve just been going back and forth all year, and I don’t know what to do, because—I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to make you feel the way I feel, but I can’t just—I can’t keep hiding it, and I—”
“Annie,” Aerin said gently, cutting her off, but there was a note of fear in her voice. “What is it?”
For a second, Lilian looked like she was just going to burst into tears before she’d even managed to get the words out, but then she said it: “We killed him, Aerin!”
“We—what?”
“We killed Connor.” Lilian was starting to cry now, but she went on nonetheless. “It was accidental magic, we were—we were fighting over that toy broom of yours.” At that, she let out a choked sob. “We knocked him down, and he hit his head.”
“What are you talking about, Lilian?” Aerin asked with a nervous laugh. “That’s not what happened. We were at Hannah and Janine’s place. We came home, and Mum and Dad said there’d been an accident.”
“They obliviated us, Aer!” Lilian insisted, crying harder now. “They—the Ministry came and they obliviated us.”
Aerin was quiet for a long moment. Next to Lilian, who still hadn’t let go of her wrist, Mary felt useless and out of place. People were staring at them now, she couldn’t help but notice. Hermione’s eyes were wide and nervous, fixed on the two Moon girls.
“That’s not funny, Annie,” Aerin said flatly. “Why would you say something like that.”
Struck speechless, Lilian opened her mouth, no sound coming out for a second. Then, sounding unbalanced, a little desperate, she said, “It’s true, Aer, you have to believe me!”
But Aerin was getting angry now. “I can’t believe you!” she said, drawing even more looks from the Ravenclaws, who were beginning to edge closer to them, unsubtle in their attempts to eavesdrop. “That’s horrible, Annie, I can’t believe you’d—you’re sick.”
Mary should cast a privacy charm, she thought. She should stay something, do something. Instead, she stood frozen, feeling sort of like she had while watching the memory in the first place. Like a ghost witnessing something terrible occur, unable to do or say anything to stop it because she wasn’t really there. Because it was inevitable.
Then, it had been Connor’s death. Now, it was the disintegration of what was left of Lilian and Aerin’s relationship.
“Why would I make this up?!” Lilian demanded—all but shrieked. “You think I want to know this? You think I don’t stay up every night wishing I could just—just forget? Why would I lie about this?”
“I don’t know,” Aerin said coldly, “but it’s fucked up. You need help, Lilian. You can’t just… go around saying things like that.”
Finally, Lilian let go of Mary’s wrist, grabbing for Aerin instead, but her sister stepped back, out of her reach. “Circe, Aer, it’s true!” she shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear. She was crying harder now. “We killed him, it was us, we did it!”
Lara had approached them now, a wary look on her face as she stepped up to Aerin’s side. “Lilian, I think you need to go back to your own common room now.”
“No!” Lilian shrieked. “Not until she listens to me—I wouldn’t lie, Aer! I wouldn’t—I would never—not about something like this. We—he just fell, Aerin, he fell and he didn’t get back up and there was all this blood, Sean knelt down and touched him and it was on his hands and he screamed and—”
Aerin stepped back further, watching Lilian with a look of thinly disguised fear, and Lilian broke down into wrenching sobs. It was the most horrible noise Mary could remember hearing in—she didn’t know, maybe ever—and she finally broke out of her paralysis enough to step closer, to touch Lilian’s shoulder, but something shoved her back and she stumbled and fell into the bookcase, knocking several books to the ground as she caught herself.
After that, it was chaos. Lilian’s magic—the same magic that had knocked Mary back, that had knocked Connor to the ground in the memory—began to swirl around her like a whirlwind, pushing everyone—Mary, Hermione, Aerin, Lara, all the onlookers—away as she crumpled in on herself, kneeling on the ground, letting out those horrible, animal sounds of pain.
The fear in Aerin’s eyes wasn’t hidden anymore. “Annie!” she shouted, struggling to be heard over the wind. “Stop! You’ll hurt yourself!”
But either Lilian couldn’t hear her, or she was just beyond caring, beyond controlling herself, because the wind only picked up. People were fleeing now, running out the common room door and down the stairs, and Mary couldn’t do anything, she couldn’t even get close, and it was all her fault—
Hermione’s hand on her arm, her voice shouting in her ear: “I’m going to get Madam Pomfrey! Try to calm her down!”
“How?!” Mary demanded, but Hermione had already fled from the room, leaving Mary to wonder what the fuck she was supposed to do to help Lilian when she couldn’t even get near her.
The room seemed to be shaking now, lamps toppling over, books flying from their shelves. The wind was roaring in her ears. Almost everyone had left, Mary realized suddenly. Everyone but her, Aerin, Lara, and the Head Girl, Penelope Clearwater, each of them pinned to the round walls of the Tower by the force of the cyclone. Maybe everyone else had had the right idea to leave—if Lilian kept this up, she might destroy the whole common room.
But if that happened, Lilian would be hurt, and Mary couldn’t just leave her. Not when she’d been the one to push her into this. “Lils!” she shouted, fighting to be heard over the wind. “Lils, it’s okay! Just—just calm down!”
She wasn’t sure whether the answering shriek came from Lilian’s mouth or her magic.
Mary would have liked to say that she’d gotten through to her in the end. Or, at least, that Aerin had. That they’d talked Lilian down, found the right things to say to help her, and she’d collapsed into their arms and let them hold her, and Aerin had accepted the truth, and everything had worked out.
Instead, she’d just clung to the wall, screaming her head off—completely uselessly, as Lilian almost certainly couldn’t hear her over the wind and the crashing and breaking of what seemed to be every object in the room—until Madam Pomfrey burst through the door, took one look at the situation, and fired a stunning spell into the midst of the whirlwind.
It stopped at once, the abrupt silence somehow louder than what had come before, and Mary slid down the wall, shaking. Lying alone on the floor in the middle of the room, the space around her cleared for meters by the force of her magic like a ruined landscape in the aftermath of a fire, was Lilian, unconscious face red and streaked with tears.
Madam Pomfrey clucked her tongue and levitated her carefully off the ground. And then, before Mary could even work up the strength to get to her feet, they were both gone.
Hermione was at her side the next moment, helping her up. Across the room, Clearwater was doing the same for Aerin and Lara. Mary caught Aerin’s eyes and started forward, not sure what she was going to say—to ask if she was okay, maybe, or to tell her that Lilian hadn’t been lying—but before she could, Lara had stepped between them.
“Potter, Granger,” she said coolly. “I think you both have done quite enough.”
Mary and Hermione went down to the hospital wing immediately, of course, but they were turned away at the door by Madam Pomfrey, who said that Lilian wasn’t in a state to see them. And not just then, either—every time they tried to go back, she told them the same thing, making it clear they wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near Lilian until she recovered.
When Mary saw Sean in the common room the next day, looking absolutely exhausted, he told them the school had called their parents, which Mary knew would only make things worse. Meanwhile, even Hermione, who was in the same House as her, couldn’t get within two meters of Aerin without her friends running her off.
Just like that, they were shut off from their best friend, unable to do anything to help her. Everyone seemed to think that, because Mary and Hermione had been involved in the debacle, it would only make things worse for Lilian—or Aerin—to see them.
The worst part was, Mary wasn’t entirely certain they were wrong. She felt so stupid for pushing Lilian the way she had—she had thought nothing would be worse than watching the Moon sisters’ relationship continue slowly deteriorating the way it had been. But she ought to have learned her lesson after seeing the way Ginny had lost it on Ostara—especially since the Gryffindor still wasn’t speaking to Hermione. She ought to have realized that pushing people to face their problems before they were ready would only make everything worse.
She wanted to blame Hermione, but she couldn’t—Mary had been the one pushing the hardest, even if Hermione hadn’t disagreed with her. And now, she wasn’t sure how long it would take for Lilian to even talk to her again. If she’d avoided Mary for nearly a month after Mabon, just because she’d been the one present when she’d found out the truth about Connor, how would she react to Mary having inadvertently contributed to the complete, very public destruction of her and Aerin’s relationship?
Without any other way to find out what was going on with Lilian, Mary ended up watching the map. She wasn’t in the hospital wing anymore, but she didn’t seem to be anywhere else in the castle either, which made Mary think she’d been taken to St. Mungo’s or something—but no one would tell her.
Unable to locate Lilian, Mary watched Snape instead, waiting for him to be alone in his office. Being Lilian’s Head of House, he’d been busy dealing with the aftermath of the situation, meeting with the Headmaster and the Moons. Finally, on Sunday afternoon, she managed to spot him during what seemed to be a free moment, and quickly ran off to his office to see if she could get any information out of him.
She really ought to have known better.
“Mary Elizabeth,” Snape said, giving her a tired look from where he sat behind his desk. “Friend or not, I cannot give you the details of another student’s medical treatment without their consent.”
Well, when he put it like that… “I just want to know if she’s okay!” she insisted. “I know you called her parents, and I know you probably had to, but they’re just going to make everything worse. I’ve met them—they don’t even act like they like Lilian and Aerin. I’m pretty sure they blame them for what happened!”
Snape ignored her completely in favor of calling down to the kitchen for two cups of coffee, pressing one into her hands. She’d taken to drinking it with him, and while she didn’t love it, it was actually better than tea. (Plus, it was nice having another thing that was theirs, even if it was just a drink.) Mary held the warm mug in both hands and settled into her usual armchair, breathing in the strong smell as she waited for him to say something.
Sitting down across from her, Snape said, “I assume you still remember our conversation about your tendency to take into your own hands matters which would be best left to those older and more experienced than yourself.”
“Well, yeah, but—” Mary began, indignant. That was about dangerous situations, like her honor duel, or the Veritaserum Conspiracy.
But Snape cut her off. “You would think,” he added, “that Miss Moon’s breakdown on Friday would have taught you that, not only are her problems with her family none of your business, but also, that you are liable to simply make things worse when you attempt to meddle in them.”
Mary turned a bit red, momentarily regretting not going to Remus instead of Snape. He might not have been able to tell her anything either, but at least he would have been nicer about it. “But I’m worried about her! I’m not going to do anything. I just want to know that she’s okay, and see her or something. Apologize for pushing her to tell Aerin.”
“If Miss Moon wants to see you, she will ask.”
Mary glared down into her coffee mug, not wanting to admit that he was right, even though some part of her knew he was.
“Anipsiá, look at me,” he said sharply, and her eyes shot up to him. “I recognize that you are worried, particularly about the involvement of Miss Moon’s parents, but I am her Head of House, and I am handling it. Do you trust me to do my job?”
“…Yes,” she agreed reluctantly, shrinking under the intense glare.
“Thank you,” he said, with more sarcasm than she thought was strictly necessary. “You need to realize that your worries about Miss Moon, and your guilt, are your own problems to deal with—in a manner other than forcing yourself into a situation which does not concern you. Just as Miss Moon’s difficulties are hers to deal with, with the help of myself, her family, and those whom she chooses to ask for help. You—and Miss Granger—are not responsible for fixing everything which goes wrong in the lives of those around you.”
Mary knew she must be even redder than before, as Snape told her exactly what she’d been telling herself before coming to his office anyway. Deciding to deflect with humor, she said, “I guess not. Fixing everything that goes wrong at Hogwarts is your job, right?”
With a sort of exhausted, slightly amused huff, Snape said, “Quite.”
He was right, she knew he was. But it was really, really hard to just know that her best friend was suffering and there was nothing she could do about it. To not even know if Lilian would want to talk to her after all of this—if she wasn’t letting Mary visit her because she just needed a break, or because she was done with her. Just sitting back and trusting that someone else would take care of things grated on her, even if that person was Snape.
But she had promised him that she would stop trying to handle everything alone, so, after a moment, she looked at him a bit imploringly and asked, “You promise that you’ll help her?”
“You have my word.”
Mary sighed, taking another sip of her coffee and slowly unfolding her body from where she had curled in on herself in his armchair, tense and anxious. “Okay.”
It was hard. Really, really hard. It went against every instinct she’d developed over the course of her life. But—it was Snape. She could trust him.
Lilian was back on Monday morning.
Unfortunately, what Mary had dreaded turned out to be the case: Lilian wasn’t speaking to her or Hermione. She still slept in the dorm room next to Mary’s, went to all the same classes as her, and to Quidditch practice as well, but she acted like Mary didn’t even exist. And while it was less obvious, Aerin seemed to be giving her—and Hermione—a wide berth as well.
Sean was the only one who would tell her anything. He said that, after a weekend in St. Mungo’s, Lilian was doing okay—that she was going to be visiting a mind healer on the weekends for a while to have the obliviation reversed. (Aerin, apparently, had chosen not to, despite the fact that she’d been forced to accept the truth when her parents and brother had confirmed it.)
He said that her refusal to speak to Mary wasn’t because she blamed her, that it was like after Mabon: Lilian needed a break from everyone who reminded her of what she’d been through. He said she would come around.
But Mary wasn’t so sure, especially as weeks went by without Lilian interacting with her more than was required by them being on the Quidditch team together. At meals, she sat with Draco, or the other third year Slytherin girls, leaving Mary to occupy herself with Blaise and Theo, or else the trio of first years she’d sort of adopted.
Even at Daphne’s tea party later that month, where they had to sit at the same table, Lilian only talked to her enough to be polite, focusing most of her attention on Pansy and Tracey—and her ‘politeness’ was so distant, so impersonal, it was worse than not talking at all. If not for Daphne making an effort to include her in the conversation, and Sadie and Nora sitting with them as well, Mary would have felt like a complete outcast among the girls at their table.
Mary had thought they would have to interact in Dueling Club—they were in the same little group, and had been practicing dual casting together—but when the next meeting came, Lilian wasn’t there. Nor had she shown up to Remus’s office for their Patronus lesson, where Mary had worked on learning to send messages with her Patronus while Hermione had continued in her attempts to master the charm.
“I still think we should confront her about it,” Hermione whispered to Mary as they sat in the back of the library. “She can’t ignore us forever.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “Yes, because us pushing Lilian to do stuff she wasn’t ready for worked so well for us before.”
“You were the one pushing her to talk to Aerin, not me!” Hermione hissed, immediately growing defensive.
“You didn’t think I was wrong, though.” Before Hermione could argue further, she continued, “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I just think maybe we should learn from our mistakes?” She knew she shouldn’t mention it, that it would just make Hermione more defensive, but she couldn’t help adding, “I mean, Ginny still isn’t speaking to you, and it’s been over a month.”
Folding her arms across her chest, Hermione insisted, “They’re both being unfair. Even if things didn’t quite go how we meant them to, we were still trying to help. It’s not like we made Lilian and Aerin fight on purpose.”
“I’m not sure it matters what we meant to do.” Mary sighed. “Look, I want Lilian to talk to us again too, but unfair or not, it’s her choice. I hate it as much as you do, but I don’t want to make it any worse by pressuring her. Either she’ll come around, or she won’t.”
From the look on Hermione’s face, Mary thought she was going through the same mental process Mary had in Snape’s office: knowing that she was right, but not wanting to admit it. Finally, Hermione said, “It just drives me mad, not being able to do anything to help her. I know Sean said she’s alright, but she looks so tired, and her eyes are always all puffy, like she’s staying up all night crying.”
“Yeah,” Mary agreed. “But, well, I talked to Snape about it, and he said that feeling worried about Lilian is, like, our issue to deal with, and not something that gives us the right to make her talk to us. Forcing it would just be making her problems about ourselves. If she wants help, she’ll ask for it. Besides, I’m sure Snape is keeping an eye on her.”
Hermione, she realized abruptly, was giving her kind of a strange look. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said, then immediately contradicted herself. “It’s just, you’ve been mentioning Snape more recently. Are you and he… talking a lot?”
Had she? Mary had actually felt like she was talking about Snape, and Remus, way less than would be expected, given how much time she spent either talking to or thinking about one or the other. She’d wanted to keep those parts of her life separate, somehow—maybe, if she was honest, out of fear that if she brought them up, particularly to Hermione, they wouldn’t be hers anymore.
And the way Hermione asked, it sounded kind of like she was… well, not angry, but like she had the potential to be angry. “I guess,” she said, looking away awkwardly. “I help in his lab sometimes, or we have coffee in his office, stuff like that.”
“Wait, you drink coffee?” Hermione asked. “I’ve never seen you drink it before.”
“That’s because the coffee they serve in the Great Hall is weak rubbish, unless you’re a professor,” Mary explained confidently, even though she’d never actually tried it. Snape said so, which was good enough for her. “But Snape always has the good coffee.”
“Huh,” Hermione said, somehow managing to sound judgmental and skeptical with just that single word.
“What?” Mary demanded.
“Nothing. I just think it’s kind of funny that, after he said we had to stop doing research together, you started meeting with him all the time. Obviously it’s not your fault that Professor Flitwick got suspicious,” Hermione added, sounding almost like she thought it could somehow be Mary’s fault, and her heart sped up a bit, “but it does seem kind of… convenient.”
And here, Mary had thought that they were done fighting about Snape, especially after Hermione had apologized to her back in January. A small part of her felt like she should just tell the truth, but the rest of her just couldn’t stand the idea of neither of her best friends speaking to her. Besides, after Lilian, she was aware of the dangers of just blurting out one’s secrets without a proper plan.
Instead, she said, “Well, he is my godfather,” looking away, and then added, “and anyway, we started meeting more often after the honor duel. I’m pretty sure he’s just trying to keep a closer eye on me so I don’t nearly get myself killed again.”
Hermione hummed, still sounding unconvinced.
“Besides, what do you care?” Mary asked, gesturing at all the indecipherable arithmantic symbols covering the parchment in front of her friend. “It’s not like you don’t like working with Professor Vector. And you’ve seemed happier since you stopped with all the, you know.” She didn’t want to explicitly mention the Dark Arts in the library, even if they’d used Muffliato and no one seemed to be listening.
“I do like it, and I am happier,” Hermione admitted, and despite her still combative tone, Mary felt a little flash of relief. She still felt guilty for what she’d done, no matter what Snape had said. The confirmation that it really was better for Hermione eased that feeling a little. “I just, I don’t know. You gave me so much shite for meeting with him all the time, and now you’re doing the exact same thing. Seems kind of hypocritical.”
Was Hermione jealous now? “It’s not like I’m studying—that stuff,” Mary pointed out, ignoring the fact that she almost certainly would have been bothered by Hermione meeting with Snape no matter what they were studying. Besides, it was different—he was her godfather, not Hermione’s. “We mostly just talk about, you know, stuff I’m stuck on, like the Patronus, or… my parents.”
Mary could recognize that she was being manipulative, playing the dead parents card, but the fact was that it wasn’t fair for Hermione to be bothered by it. Mary had a right to meet with her own godfather, even if it was kind of like she was replacing Hermione. And, okay, she had set that situation up on purpose, but Hermione didn’t know that!
In any case, it worked, as she had known it would. Honestly, she tried not to be too manipulative around Hermione, if only because it felt vaguely unfair. Her Slytherin friends were fair game, but the Ravenclaw was just outmatched when it came to stuff like that.
“He tells you about your parents?” Hermione asked, immediately softening.
“Yeah, sometimes.” Mary hadn’t told her before, for whatever reason, but it seemed like a good way to change the subject, so she started telling Hermione about how James and Remus and their friends had locked Snape in the Room of Doom when they were younger, and about how Snape said her father used to bully him, and even Remus had confirmed they were ‘cruel’ to him.
As she had hoped, Hermione was totally distracted by the revelation. “I can’t believe Professor Lupin would do something like that,” she said. “He seems so sensible.”
“I thought so, too,” Mary agreed. “At least until…” Glancing around, she renewed the Muffliato before saying, “He told me awhile ago that James, Black, and Pettigrew were animagi—they did it to help him on the full moon.” Hermione’s eyes widened. “Except—get this—he didn’t tell Dumbledore. Or anyone. Not after Black escaped, or after he broke in the first time. Not until December, which meant Snape and Dumbledore had to spend the whole break changing the wards to keep dogs out.”
“Dogs?” Hermione repeated. “Black was a dog, then?”
“Yeah, that’s why his nickname was Padfoot. Oh, speaking of which, if you see a big dog around the school, you should go tell Snape, instead of trying to catch it yourself.” She wasn’t sure that Hermione even needed that warning—she tended to be more sensible than Mary about stuff like that—but it seemed prudent to mention.
Besides, while Hermione couldn’t cast a Patronus yet, which would be the easiest way to summon Snape, she could at least use the time turner to fetch him without giving Black a chance to escape. Assuming, of course, that she wasn’t already on her third turn—but she’d been using the time turner less since giving the map and cloak back to Mary. She knew because of the map: it showed each Hermione, with the first being just labeled Hermione, the second Hermione’, and the third, Hermione’’. Over the past few months, she’d seen Hermione’’ rarely enough that she knew her friend couldn’t be triple-timing it as often as she had in the autumn, even if she was probably spending some of her turned time in the Room of Requirement, which didn’t show up on the map.
Hermione didn’t respond to that, busy shaking her head in disbelief. “Why didn’t he tell anyone earlier?”
“Said he didn’t want Dumbledore to know they had snuck around behind his back when they were students. And that he’d convinced himself it wouldn’t make a difference if he told anyone.”
The way Hermione scoffed made it clear what she thought about that. “What were the others? Your dad and Pettigrew, I mean.”
Mary couldn’t help being a little embarrassed, thinking that if Hermione had been in her shoes, she wouldn’t have waited until the end of January to remember to ask about the other animagus forms. “A stag and a rat.”
“A stag… like your Patronus?”
Frowning, Mary admitted, “Yeah. Remus thinks my Patronus takes the form it does because of James, but I don’t think so. I don’t have any memories of him, after all, and based on everything I’ve heard about him, I kind of feel like I wouldn’t like him even if I did know him. Snape says he was kind of like Draco Malfoy, except without all the blood purity stuff.”
Hermione winced, but said, “Well, if he’d lived, he probably would have matured eventually. Besides, how do you know Snape isn’t making him sound worse than he really was? It sounds like he hated him.”
While she knew Hermione meant well, it was kind of irritating to hear her basically parroting the same nonsense Remus had told her. “Remus confirmed the stuff Snape said James did to him,” Mary insisted.
“Yeah, but I’m sure there were good things about him, too.”
“I guess,” Mary muttered reluctantly. “It’s still disappointing.” She almost said something about wanting to have some decent relatives, but then, Hermione still didn’t know about the Undead, Evil Grandfather Thing. It felt a bit weird, that Ginny knew when Hermione and Lilian didn’t, but not enough to make Mary want to tell them.
“I can imagine,” Hermione said sympathetically.
“At least my dad wasn’t as bad as Black,” Mary added. Remus and Snape might not want her to share the details, so she just said, “He pulled one ‘prank’ that nearly killed Snape, back in their sixth year.”
With a little gasp, Hermione asked, “And your dad and Professor Lupin stayed friends with him after that?”
Actually, that was a good point. Mary hadn’t asked Remus why he hadn’t realized Black was horrible then, especially since he had put him in nearly as much danger as Snape when they were meant to be friends. “I guess,” she said again. “Honestly, I can’t believe Remus was surprised that he went Dark. But maybe he had, like, a blind spot for him—it would explain why he didn’t tell anyone about him being an animagus.”
In fact, as much as Mary liked him, she was starting to wonder how much she could trust Remus. Even if he seemed as hurt and angry about Black as her, she wondered if he had really accepted that his old friend was beyond redemption. Which she could kind of understand—if it were Hermione or Lilian, she’d have trouble accepting it, too. But her friends weren’t mad or evil like Black was, so it still seemed like a failure of his judgment if Remus was still holding out hope that Black could be redeemed or something.
Hermione’s face changed for a second, and Mary couldn’t put her finger on why, but the expression was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and she said, “Maybe you should ask him.”
Mary shrugged. She might, but she wasn’t totally certain that Remus would tell her the truth. He’d already proven that he would leave stuff out to make himself look better to her. “He always made it sound like he and the other Marauders were just like Fred and George or something.” Hermione tensed, probably expecting Mary to say something bad about the twins, so she quickly added, “I still don’t really like them, but… I can’t really picture Fred and George doing to anyone what the Marauders did to Snape. Them taking me into the Chamber was awful, but I know they weren’t doing it to hurt me or anything.”
It was the closest Mary had come to acknowledging that the twins had, as Hermione had pointed out once, just lost their heads out of worry for their sister, and she could see the relief in her friend’s eyes.
“I’m glad you know that,” Hermione said. “They can be idiots sometimes, but they’re really not bad people. And they’ve gotten more mature since we started hanging out. They even agreed to actually try on their OWLs.”
Mary had to suppress a laugh at the reminder of the twins’ utter ridiculousness. Back in February, Hermione had discovered they were intending on intentionally flunking most of their exams in an attempt to stop their mother from pressuring them into getting boring real jobs, rather than opening a joke shop or whatever it was they wanted to do.
Hermione had been aghast, and had made it her personal goal to stop them, even considering writing their mum to tell her what they were planning. Mary wasn’t surprised that she’d managed to change their minds one way or another—it had been clear from the start that Hermione wasn’t going to abide her new friends being slackers.
Her closeness with the twins still kind of stung, especially because Mary knew it was partially because she was now closer to their age than Mary’s. So not only did she have to deal with her best friend hanging out with the guys who’d kidnapped her, but also, she had to wonder if she would still be Hermione’s best friend by the end of the year, once she was closer to two years older, or if Mary would just be too young for her to relate to.
But Hermione had been right, back on New Year’s: Mary couldn’t tell her who she could and couldn’t be friends with. Besides, she felt guilty enough for causing Snape to stop doing research with her, even if it was for the best. The least she could do was try to be happy that Hermione had made more friends. Especially since she now had an idea of how much worse ‘pranksters’ could be than Fred and George.
So Mary made herself ask, “What have the three of you been up to recently?”
Hermione looked briefly surprised that Mary was actually asking, causing another pang of guilt, but her enthusiasm overwhelmed her, and a moment later, she was chattering away about some enchanting project that Mary didn’t really understand.
“And,” she added, when she’d exhausted that topic, “they invited me to the Walpurgis Revel with them this weekend. I’m still trying to decide whether I ought to go.”
That got Mary’s attention. “Wait, I thought you weren’t allowed to attend the Revel unless you were at least fifteen.” At Hermione’s raised eyebrows, she added, “Not that you’re not, but most people don’t know that.”
“I thought so too,” Hermione admitted, “but the boys said that there’s always a few younger students who show up, and nobody does anything about it. They attended in their third year.”
“Huh.” Mary frowned, giving Hermione a skeptical look. “But isn’t the Revel kind of…” She trailed off, hoping her friend would understand what she was trying to ask without her finishing the question, but when she didn’t, Mary had no choice but to elaborate. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she asked, “Don’t people, like, have sex there?”
The way some of the older Slytherins talked about it, it sounded like some huge, mad orgy or something. And she’d heard that people did drugs there, too, like muggle drugs, or took potions recreationally, or fought each other with their fists and teeth like animals. All in all, it wasn’t really the kind of event she could ever imagine Hermione attending. So far as Mary knew, she didn’t have any more dating experience than Mary herself did.
“Well, yes, some people do,” Hermione admitted, going a bit pink. “That’s why I’m not sure. That, and, just, all of it. The Unbinding.”
“The what?”
“The Unbinding,” she repeated, like Mary should know what that was. “The way the ritual works, basically, it strips away your inhibitions. Everything that tells us that we should or shouldn’t do a certain thing, that it’s not acceptable in society, it just… goes away for a night. It’s like… being totally free, is how the boys described it.
“So, it’s not like you have to have sex, or do anything else. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, and no one can force you. That’s the point: it’s your choice. As far as I can tell, the Chaotic and Deliberative Powers are more similar than alike, even if one’s Dark and the other’s Light—they both govern freedom and individual choice. So after the Unbinding, you just do whatever you normally would want to do, but don’t because there are social norms or other inhibitions stopping you in day-to-day life.”
Mary wrinkled her nose. “But then, even if you don’t do… that stuff, there’ll still be other people doing it right in front of you. Wouldn’t that be weird?”
“I can’t say I’m comfortable with the thought,” Hermione admitted, “but the twins assured me that once the Unbinding happens, it won’t really bother me. Besides, most people don’t even remember it in the morning.”
Mary considered that, then decided that she couldn’t see why anyone would want to do such a thing—Hermione least of all. Being totally uninhibited and out of control, doing all sorts of embarrassing things—in front of people, no less—and then not even remembering? It sounded like a nightmare to her. Maybe she was a prude, like Catherine had said, but Mary liked her inhibitions right where they were, thank you ever so much.
Was this the kind of thing Hermione liked now? Was it because she was older than Mary, more mature? She’d already gotten her period, after all. Or maybe it was the influence of the twins. Still, she couldn’t help but say, a little incredulously, “I still don’t understand why you’d want to go to something like that.”
Hermione turned even pinker now, chewing on her lip. “I just… don’t you ever think it might be nice sometimes? To not think so much? To not be so worried all the time about what other people think? To just… do whatever you want? With all the time I’ve spent with the boys this year, watching them… sometimes I wish I were a little bit more like them and less like me. You know?”
“I don’t want you to be less like you,” Mary protested. “I like you.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Hermione muttered. “I mean… what if this isn’t me? What if I don’t really know what I want, or who I am, or I’m too scared to admit it to myself or something, and the Revel could… uncover me? That’s how they made it sound. Although honestly,” she muttered, “I don’t think they’re much different during the Revel than the rest of the time. Those boys have never even heard of inhibitions.”
Mary could almost, almost see where Hermione was coming from, but she still couldn’t get past the fact that, “There’s going to be people having sex, Maia. In front of you. And, you know, drinking and doing drugs and stuff, probably, and—what if you do that stuff too? What if you go totally wild and embarrass yourself in front of everyone?” Then, realizing she was being a bit harsh, she added, “I mean, that’s what I’d be worried about if I was going. Which I’m not.”
“Yeah…” Hermione said, still chewing on her lip and glaring off into space. “Oh, I just don’t know, Lizzie. I know it sounds completely mad, and unlike me, but… I can’t help but feel like if I don’t go just because I’m scared, I’ll regret it. Or that it’s kind of… sad, for me to be afraid of my real self, underneath all the… conditioning.”
Hermione sounded, Mary thought, like she’d been spending way too much time with the twins. Like she was just parroting whatever they’d said to try to bully her into this, making her think there was something wrong with being a civilized, sane human being.
“I think I’d rather be a coward than go to some mad orgy out in the woods,” she said stubbornly.
“It’s not an—oh, forget it. Maybe I won’t even go,” Hermione muttered.
But Mary couldn’t help noting that she didn’t sound like she meant it.
Notes:
Lilian's breakdown happened in CS, but offscreen, so the scene is original. The conversations with Snape and Hermione take place after the end of Chapter 33, meaning that we've now officially passed the point where the original Mary Potter series stopped!
Seven years after she stopped posting CS, Leigha published all of her unfinished scenes and outlines for the series as RIP Mary Potter. Because I'd already started writing Fuel to Fire by then, it is not compliant with her plans for the series. That said, I did incorporate some ideas from RIP MP into my fic, and wherever possible, I've tried to make the backstories and characterization of characters like Snape, Lily, Bellatrix, Voldemort, etc. align with what's published in RIP MP and Leigha's other stories.
Because of that, if you read RIP MP, you WILL be spoiled for parts of this fic, even though the plots aren't the same! Read at your own risk!!
From this point on, this fic will be a mix of my ideas, canon, bits and pieces stolen from RIP MP, ideas Leigha helped me come up with, and inspiration from Leigha's other stories. Hermione's motivations for attending the Revel, for instance, are very similar to her thoughts in All According to Plan (which is also a major spoiler risk for this fic!).
I've posted this chapter early because I'm going to be away for a bit and won't be able to update this fic. The next chapter will be posted April 5! (Unless it turns out that there's a curse on Mary Potter where no author will ever get beyond April of 1994, and I vanish mysteriously without ever posting another chapter...)
Chapter 29: The Second Betrayal
Notes:
Wondering how many people paid attention to the title of Chapter 3, and the implications thereof.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“So, how did it go?”
It was a few days after Walpurgis, and basically all Slytherins from the fifth year up—plus half the fourth years, along with some students from other Houses—were still visibly trying to recover from the night of, well, revelry.
“I don’t really remember,” Hermione confessed, though she looked embarrassed enough that Mary thought that might have been a lie. “But I’m pretty sure I had fun. The, um, twins say I did, anyway.”
The very distracting question of what kind of fun Hermione might have had with the twins briefly crossed Mary’s mind, but she pushed it aside, deciding that she was probably just being dirty-minded—and if not, she probably didn’t want to know. It was Blaise’s fault, anyway: he’d been the only other third year Mary knew to crash the Revel, and he kept making these references to the sorts of things he’d gotten up to with multiple upperclassmen they knew, probably just to make Mary blush and Theo roll his eyes in disgust.
Despite his comments about their ‘open relationship,’ she’d half-expected Daphne to take offense to his activities, but she’d only sighed in a sort of long-suffering way and told him it wasn’t polite to discuss such things in ‘mixed company.’ Sometimes Mary really had no idea what to think of that girl—whether she was prissy and stuck up, or secretly just as strange as Blaise.
“Well, um, good,” she said, still uncomfortably distracted by thoughts of what her friends had or might have gotten up to, and how she still didn’t understand what was so great about snogging and all that, especially outside and in front of people. Not to mention, it had been cold that evening! That just couldn’t be comfortable.
Forcefully dragging her mind away from such thoughts, she added, half-jokingly, “No cryptic visions?”
“Hm?”
Wait, had Mary forgotten to tell Hermione about those? She had, she realized. The one over the summer had been overshadowed by running off and breaking her arm, and the Mabon one by Lilian’s discovery of her role in her little brother’s death, and even by Hermione’s realization that her mother had wanted to abort her. Over the holidays, Mary had considered telling Hermione about what she’d seen and asking if she had any idea what it meant, but then they’d gotten into that huge fight and she’d forgotten all about it.
“It’s kind of a pattern for me this year,” she explained. “Whenever I celebrate a sabbat, I get a cryptic vision. Usually about Sirius Black. Well, it only really happened twice, I guess—on Lammas and Mabon. I did see a vision on Imbolc, too, but it wasn’t really cryptic, or related to the others. I think.”
“You’ve been having visions of Sirius Black?” Hermione asked, suddenly looking very alert. “Did you tell anyone about them?”
Mary nodded absently. “I told Snape about the Mabon one, but he didn’t know what it was about. Forgot to tell him about the Lammas one, though.” It was a little embarrassing to admit, but it had been quite some time ago, and so much had happened since then.
Chewing her lower lip like she was thinking hard, Hermione asked, “Would you mind telling me about them?”
Though Mary wasn’t sure that Hermione would be able to make sense of them when even Snape couldn’t, she supposed it couldn’t hurt, and she had been meaning to see what her friend thought, so she said, “Sure, but not here.”
The pair of them went up to the Room of Requirement. It was a pain, going up all those stairs, but there wasn’t really anywhere better to have a private conversation. Plus, it was kind of fitting: this was where they’d celebrated Mabon, after all.
“Alright, starting with Lammas,” Mary said, then frowned. “You need to promise you won’t tell anyone how the Urquharts’ ritual goes, alright? They only told me because they’re fostering me, but it’s like a family secret.”
Hermione promised, so Mary told her as much as she could remember—which unfortunately wasn’t that much. She’d tried to write the vision down afterward, but she hadn’t understood any of it, and had given up soon after starting, feeling stupid. Actually, she wasn’t even sure she still had the scroll of parchment she’d been writing on.
“The vision was basically of possible futures if I decided to hunt Sirius Black down myself instead of going back to school. In the ones where I didn’t get hurt too badly before I even found him, he was talking to me. Saying he didn’t do it and calling me ‘little Fawn’—because my dad was a stag animagus, I guess.
“In some of them, I believed him, and in others, I didn’t. But in some of them, there was another wizard. He and Black kept arguing, and both of them told me that the other one was the traitor. I didn’t know who he was at the time, but after my Mabon vision—I’ll describe that one in a second—I thought maybe he might have been, um, Peter Pettigrew? Especially because… I might be remembering it wrong, but I think Black called him a ‘rat,’ and since Pettigrew’s animagus form was a rat… Except, I don’t think that can be right, because Pettigrew’s dead, and this man was the same age as Black.”
Hermione’s eyes had gone very wide, and she looked like she wanted to say something, but she only asked, her voice a little strained, “What happened if you believed Black? Or Pet—the other man?”
“When I believed Black, he just ran away again, and I didn’t stop him. If I didn’t believe him, the dementors kissed him, or there was this burst of green light and he died. I don’t know about the other man, though. I think I woke up before I saw that part.”
“And Mabon?”
Feeling a bit uncomfortable at the weight of Hermione’s gaze, which was somehow even sharper than usual, Mary began, haltingly, to describe what she could remember of the Mabon vision: Lily pulling this glowing, person-shaped thing out of Black’s body and extracting something from it. When she got to that part, Hermione let out a shocked noise, almost a squeak.
“What?”
“That sounds like soul magic, Lizzie. It’s very dangerous and very, very illegal.”
Huh. Well, from what Snape had said about Lily, she couldn’t say she was surprised. The real question was, “Do you know what she was doing?”
“I… I have some ideas. But I want to hear the rest of it first, make sure I’m not wrong.”
So Mary explained the rest: the little ritual Lily, James, and Black had performed in the cellar of her parents’ house with Pettigrew at the center. When she was finished, she hoped Hermione would explain—even though, if Snape hadn’t known what Lily had done, it seemed unlikely that she would—but she only stood up without saying a word and started pacing back and forth.
“Er,” Mary said, after a moment of watching her pace. “Maia? You’re kind of freaking me out.”
Hermione turned on her, eyes almost frightening Mary in their intensity. “There’s… there’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while,” she said. “But I haven’t brought it up, because I didn’t want to upset you. If I tell you now, you have to promise to listen, okay?”
The last time Hermione had started a conversation by asking Mary not to get mad at her, she’d told her about her research with Snape. Mary hadn’t been able to keep her promise then, but she was desperately curious and tired of not knowing what the hell was going on, so she said, “I promise,” hoping that she wasn’t lying again.
But still, when Hermione asked, “What if it wasn’t Black? What if he was innocent?”, Mary’s first instinct was to laugh in disbelief. “Come on, Lizzie, you promised.”
“Fine,” Mary said, more than a little reluctantly. “Let’s hear why you think he could be innocent.”
“Okay, so, it started back in December, when Lili overheard that conversation in The Three Broomsticks,” Hermione said, switching into Lecture Mode in an instant. “Remember how she said she and Malfoy didn’t know any spells that could destroy a whole street and kill that many people, but still leave behind someone’s robes and finger?”
“Well, yeah,” Mary admitted. “But there are lots of spells they don’t know—they’re only third years.”
“Right, that’s what I thought,” Hermione said. “But after I stopped doing research with Snape, I had more free time, so I looked into it, and I couldn’t find anything either. So then I wrote to the Ministry records office, because I wanted to find out what the official record said, and—he never got a trial, Lizzie.”
“He what?” Mary said. “No way.”
“I promise I’m telling the truth. I can show you the proof later, if you like. The Wizengamot granted Crouch—he was the Director of the DLE at the time—emergency powers, basically, to give him more leeway to deal with suspected Death Eaters, and apparently they decided the circumstances they found Black in were proof enough. Crouch put him straight in Azkaban. As far as I can tell, he might have eventually intended Black to get a trial, but then he had to step down as Director after the war, and no one bothered to check up. Black officially spent those twelve years in Azkaban awaiting trial.”
That was… Mary’s head spun a bit. Wouldn’t someone have tried to get him a trial before now? Madam Walburga, or the other Noble Houses, or Dumbledore? But still, “That doesn’t mean he’s innocent,” she pointed out. “He was laughing when they found him.”
“I don’t know why he was laughing,” Hermione admitted. “But Lizzie, the ritual you described, the one Lily did… What if they switched the Secret Keeper? What if it was Pettigrew, not Black? Because, I looked up the Fidelius after Lilian heard about it, and it’s called a charm, but technically? It’s soul magic. The secret is literally hidden in someone’s soul. So, if Lily took something out of Black’s soul, and put it into Pettigrew’s…”
That did sound like what Mary had seen. But… she just couldn’t believe it. She folded her arms across her chest, frowning at nothing in particular.
Hermione went on. “I think—I think he might be alive, Lizzie. Pettigrew, I mean. If you saw him in your vision, and he could turn into a rat… what if he faked his own death? Cut off his finger as evidence, framed Black for it? What if—oh my god.”
“What?”
“The map,” Hermione breathed, eyes bugging out. “I saw him on the map, remember? The twins told me it was a joke, and I believed them, but—he was in Ron Weasley’s bed.” Gripping Mary’s shoulder suddenly, almost hard enough to hurt, she gasped, “Lizzie—Weasley has a pet rat. And Black was standing over his bed when he broke in! It all fits! Oh my god, oh my god.”
“What, you think Peter Pettigrew faked his own death just to spend the past twelve years as Ron Weasley’s pet?” Mary asked, laughing, but underneath, she was a little unnerved. Because Weasley’s rat had disappeared in February, not that long after Sirius Black broke into the castle. Ginny had told her about it while she was complaining about her brother.
“Oh!” Hermione gasped, like she wasn’t even listening. “The fallen star!”
“What?”
“Luna’s fallen star—Sirius is the name of a star! The fallen star says beware of rats.”
“That’s—that’s ridiculous.”
“Do you have the map on you?” Hermione asked, ignoring her objections.
“No,” Mary said, and then, when Hermione glared at her, “You’re the one who told me not to carry stuff like the map and cloak around with me in case someone steals them! Anyway, it’s not like we’d find Pettigrew on it, even if he was alive. Ginny said that her brother’s rat disappeared months ago. It probably got eaten by a cat or something.”
“Unless he’s hiding somewhere else in the castle. Besides, we don’t need to find him to prove I’m right. If he wasn’t Weasley’s rat, and the twins were right, then Pettigrew’s name should still be floating around the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory, or following Weasley around. But if I’m right, since the rat disappeared, the name will be gone, too.”
“Fine, I’ll check the map when I get back to my room,” Mary said. “But I still don’t think you’re right. Everything I’ve heard about Black and Pettigrew makes me think that if one of them was going to go Dark, it would be Black. Do you know about his family? They’re all mad, everyone says. Blaise says they sacrificed muggles up until the House fell in the eighties, and Snape all but confirmed it.
“Besides,” she added, “he tried to kill Snape, back when they were in school! He was mad, Maia. And—oh, wait, in the paper, it said that Snape said Black was the ‘right hand’ of the Dark Lord!” She’d almost forgotten that, but once she did, she felt much less conflicted, giving Hermione a triumphant look.
But Hermione didn’t react like she had expected—she only looked kind of wryly amused. “That quote was taken out of context from when the DLE interviewed Snape before the trials of the Lestranges and Crouch’s son. I read the court record. An Auror asked, and I quote, ‘Bellatrix Lestrange, known to the Death Eaters as Bellatrix Black or the Lady Blackheart, was the right hand of You-Know-Who?’ and Snape replied, ‘No, you dolts, it was her cousin, Sirius. Of course it was Bellatrix!’”
Mary snorted in spite of herself—she could so easily picture Snape saying that, and the exact expression and tone of voice he would have used. “Okay, fine, I’ll check the map,” she repeated, tired of arguing when there was an easy way to get proof. “Actually, maybe I’ll ask Snape about it, too. Even if Black wasn’t the ‘right hand’ of the Dark Lord, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a Death Eater—and if he was, Snape would know, wouldn’t he?”
Actually, that probably meant that Black couldn’t be innocent, she realized. Because if he was, Snape would know, and he would have—well, he probably wouldn’t have insisted Black get a trial. He seemed to hate him so much that Mary was pretty sure he’d have just let him stay in Azkaban, innocent or not. Snape wasn’t a nice man.
But he wouldn’t have lied to her about it, not after Black escaped. He would have told her the truth, and he wouldn’t have had any reason to try so hard to make her agree not to go after Black herself.
So she would check the map, and she’d ask Snape, because—well, Hermione was right, there was something weird going on, and she’d feel like an idiot if she’d refused to check only to find out her friend was right.
But Mary was almost certain she wasn’t.
Except: Peter Pettigrew’s name was gone from the map. Vanished. And if the Marauders’ little prank had lasted decades, why would it disappear now? She checked again and again, in case she’d just missed it, like maybe the name wasn’t always there, but there was no sign of it.
And when she asked Ginny, trying to be casual, if her brother had found his rat yet, she rolled her eyes and said no, and that he still wouldn’t shut up about it. And when Mary asked how long her brother had had the rat, she gave her a weird look, but answered that he’d only gotten him from Percy shortly before going to school, but that Percy had had the rat basically forever—since Ginny was too young to even remember.
Mary wasn’t sure how long rats were meant to live, but that didn’t seem right to her.
Besides, it matched up with what Hermione had said when explaining the joke: that Pettigrew’s name had been attached to Prefect Weasley’s up until his youngest brother had gotten to Hogwarts. The twins had explained it by saying that the prank spell just picked the least popular Gryffindor boy, but…
It was ridiculous to think that Sirius Black—of the Blacks, the cousin of the Blackheart, the mean-spirited bully even Remus had admitted he was—could be innocent, or that Pettigrew, who Remus had described as an intelligent but timid member of their friend group, could have sold her parents out to the Dark Lord, killed a dozen muggles, and spent over a decade as the Weasley family pet, sleeping in Ron Weasley’s bed.
But there were too many weird coincidences for Mary to dismiss it entirely. Maybe, at the very least, even if he hadn’t been the traitor, Pettigrew was alive and in hiding? Because how could he have shown up in her Lammas vision if he was dead?
She didn’t want to talk to Hermione yet—when her friend got fixated on something like this, she could be a real pain in the arse, and Mary wanted to make up her mind on her own, not let Hermione bully her into agreement. So she’d been ignoring the Ravenclaw’s attempts to talk to her for a few days, even if that didn’t stop Hermione from slipping her notes in Arithmancy that said stuff like, I asked the twins, and they said their family got the rat in 1982! Isn’t that weird??
No, she needed to talk to someone less biased than Hermione about the whole thing, get help sorting it all out. And so, once again, she found herself outside Snape’s closed door, bracing herself to knock. If anyone would be able to help her figure this out, it was him. At the very least, he should know if Black had been a Death Eater, or if he didn’t—if the Dark Lord had hidden the traitor’s identity or something—he might at least recognize Pettigrew if she let him use legilimency to examine the memory of her vision.
The idea of letting Snape legilimize her was a bit scary, even though he’d done it twice before—once just using light contact to make sure she wasn’t lying when he asked if she had opened the Chamber of Secrets, or if she knew who had, and another time to examine her memories of the Chamber. And even then, she’d mostly let him because it was him or Dumbledore.
It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, it was just a very vulnerable position, letting someone read her mind and see her memories. But this was important, and she did trust him. If he thought there was any chance the man in the vision had been Pettigrew, she’d let him take a look.
The door swung open in front of her, even though she hadn’t knocked yet, revealing Snape standing in front of his desk, leaning slightly against it, one eyebrow raised. “Do you intend to stand there staring at my door all day, or would you like to come in?”
Mary blushed. “Er, the second one,” she said quickly, entering the room with her hands clasped nervously in front of her, and she followed him to their usual chairs by the hearth.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, and he didn’t sound annoyed, at least, so she hadn’t caught him at a bad time or anything.
“It’s about, um, Sirius Black,” she began. “Did you know him when you were a Death Eater?”
Snape’s brow furrowed slightly. “I fought against him in several battles, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Not exactly. I meant, when he turned traitor. Did you… work together or something?”
“No,” Snape said, still looking slightly confused. Then, after a moment of hesitation, “As a traitor, his only contribution was passing information about the Order’s activities. He did not actively fight on our side, or take part in any Death Eater missions.”
“Oh,” Mary said. “But… you definitely know he was the one who betrayed them? My parents, I mean.”
“Yes. Why?”
Feeling a bit silly now that he had confirmed it, she admitted, “Hermione’s got this mad idea that he’s innocent, and that Peter Pettigrew framed him and faked his own death.” She let out a small laugh with the words, as though to convey how ridiculous she knew the whole thing sounded.
“Ah,” Snape said, looking so skeptical that she felt even more self-conscious. “And what, exactly, are her grounds for this theory?”
“Well… he never got a trial,” Mary said. “And I had that vision on Mabon, the one I told you about, and Hermione said it sounded like soul magic, and that maybe Lily was switching the Fidelius Charm from Black to Pettigrew. And Lilian and Draco and Hermione all said they don’t know any spell that could blow up a whole street and kill a dozen muggles and a wizard, but leave behind his robes and finger.
“But also, on Lammas, I had a vision of Black and this other wizard—but of the future, not the past. Or, a possible future. Futures. And the wizard kind of looked like Pettigrew, but he was old—like, your and Remus’s age.”
Snape gave her a withering look, and she realized she’d just called him old. She decided to quickly move on.
“In the vision, Black tried to tell me that he was innocent, and that the other wizard was the traitor, and I think he called him a rat. And then Remus told me that Pettigrew’s animagus form was a rat! And after Black broke in, Luna told me something that didn’t make sense, about a star wanting me to beware of rats, and Hermione thinks that the star was Black, because Sirius is the name of a star, and the ‘rat’ Luna was referring to was Pettigrew.”
Mary realized she was rambling a bit, but she wanted to get all of the evidence out there, so Snape wouldn’t think she was a total idiot for almost believing it. And besides, like she’d thought earlier, maybe Pettigrew really was alive, even if he wasn’t the traitor, and had been hiding from the Death Eaters this whole time.
“But the biggest piece of evidence is that we saw him on the map. The one my dad made, I mean.” His face didn’t change, but his inhale was slightly louder than usual. “There was a marker saying ‘Peter Pettigrew’ in Ron Weasley’s bed. The twins said it was a prank the Marauders played on him—Pettigrew, not Weasley—making it look like he was, er, sleeping with the least popular Gryffindor boy.
“But before him, it was attached to Percy, and Ginny and the twins say that he had the rat for ages—since 1982—even though I don’t think rats are meant to live that long? And then, when Black broke in back in February, he was standing over Weasley’s bed, and right after, Weasley’s rat disappeared, and now the name is gone, and—sir? Are you alright?”
Normally, Mary didn’t bother calling Snape ‘sir’ anymore, at least not when they were alone. But she thought some politeness might be called for now, because he’d looked, for a second, really, really angry. Like he was about to explode. Like, angrier than he even looked around Remus sometimes, or when they’d had that fight in December. And she didn’t know why he was angry, but she didn’t want him to turn that anger on her.
A second later, though, it was gone, buried under his usual impenetrable mask. “Yes,” he said curtly. “Although, I was in the middle of something, so, if you don’t mind…”
Mary almost left—almost let herself be made to feel embarrassed for wasting his time. But something stopped her. He was lying about being fine, she knew he was.
That alone was alright. If Snape wanted to lie to hide his emotions from her, whatever, it was none of her business. Except… it felt important. Like something was nudging at the back of her mind.
He hadn’t looked angry—and she knew he’d been angry, no matter what he said—until she’d started talking about seeing Pettigrew’s name on the map, and all the evidence that pointed towards him having been, as absurd as it sounded, the Weasley family pet. And Snape hadn’t seemed rushed or annoyed when she’d first come into the office, either. Something she’d said had made him angry, and it had made him want her to leave.
But… why? Why did he want her gone? Unless he needed to do something…
It all just fell together in her head, even though she didn’t quite have all the pieces. As soon as the idea occurred to her, some part of her knew she was right—even though she really, really didn’t want to be.
The simplest explanation for his reaction was that Snape was angry because it seemed like Pettigrew was still alive. But there was no reason for that to make him that angry, not unless… not unless Pettigrew was the traitor. Because Snape would hate the traitor—the wizard who’d sold out Lily, and Mary, to the Dark Lord.
He hadn’t shown any surprise or emotion when she’d talked about Black not getting a trial, or the Fidelius thing. And he had told her that he knew for sure that Black was the traitor—and earlier, just after Mabon, he’d claimed not to recognize the ritual Lily had performed in the vision, even though Hermione, a third year student, had been able to put it together.
The horrible realization sunk into her bones all at once: Pettigrew was the traitor, not Black, and Snape had known all along.
Not that Pettigrew was still alive, maybe, but the rest of it. Snape had known, and he had lied to her, over and over throughout the year. When she’d asked if he recognized the ritual in the vision, and he’d gotten that weird look on his face. Every time he’d encouraged her hatred of Black, egged her on in her desire to curse the man she thought had betrayed her family. Just now, when she’d asked if he was certain Black had been the traitor.
No. Her mind rejected it, despite how much sense it made. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not to her.
Would he?
“Theíos,” she said slowly, watching his eyes for any flash of emotion, anything that might confirm or deny her theory. “Who betrayed my parents to the Dark Lord? Was it Sirius Black? Or was it Peter Pettigrew?”
Part of her expected him to just lie again—after all, if she was right, he’d done so earlier, easily and without any sign of guilt. And he was a spy. But something in her voice must have told him that she already knew, because after a moment of staring back at her, he sighed and said, “I didn’t know the traitorous bastard was alive. I thought—it didn’t matter. He was dead.”
There was something in the way his tone wavered, just slightly, that made her think he was on the verge of losing it completely. Not with her, but with the revelation of it, that Pettigrew had been out there all along.
“But you knew it wasn’t Black?” she asked, and she got out of her chair, suddenly unable to just sit there and look at him. Snape did the same, and he appeared torn between anger and—wariness, she thought. Like he was afraid of her. It was the same look, she realized suddenly, that he’d had after Mabon, when she’d told him about the ritual. (Afraid she would realize the truth.) “He was innocent?” Her voice broke slightly on the words.
“He wasn’t innocent,” Snape said, a vicious note entering his voice. “He was the furthest thing from that. He deserves to rot in Azkaban.”
“What do you mean?” Mary asked. Desperately, she wanted him to make it make sense—to make it something other than what it was starting to look like. “He did betray them?”
A long silence, and then Snape clenched his jaw and admitted, “No.” Before she could speak, he snapped, as if to defend himself, “But that doesn’t mean he was a good man. I told you last term that Lupin once nearly killed me, and I told you that Black had once played a ‘prank’ that nearly resulted in my death. The two moments were one in the same. Black is the one who sent me to Lupin, who tricked me into nearly walking in on the wolf; he wanted me dead. And he got away with it.
“Well, for a while,” he added darkly.
Mary’s mouth dropped open. That was how he was trying to justify it? She’d already figured that out for herself ages ago. What did that have to do with any of this? What did that have to do with everyone thinking Black had killed her parents?
“I don’t give a fuck what he did when you were teenagers!” she shouted. She’d been trying to watch her tongue around Snape, not let out the language she’d picked up from the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team—not that he had any room to judge her, but he was still a professor. But right now, she didn’t care at all. Like she said, she didn’t give a fuck. Fuck him. Fuck him. “That doesn’t give you the right—he’s my godfather!”
Snape was still trying to calm her down, like that was even possible now. “Believe me, Mary Elizabeth, you are better off without him in your life. The fact that he did not actually lead your parents to their deaths does not mean that he is a suitable guardian for you.”
“You don’t get to decide that!” she shouted. “It’s my fucking life! Don’t I have a right to decide that for myself? What gives you the right to choose for me? To keep things from me about my own family?”
If he’d told her the truth, maybe she wouldn’t have even wanted Black in her life. But that didn’t mean she wanted him dead, or kissed by the dementors, or rotting in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Snape—he could have trusted her. If he thought Black was so bad, he could have told her so, and then she could have made up her own mind. She’d picked him over Remus, hadn’t she?
But instead, he had made the choice for her.
“This whole year!” She swiped at her face with her sleeve, hating herself for crying—she was just so angry. “I’ve been talking about him! Telling you how much I hated him, saying that I wanted him dead for what he did. You encouraged me. You fucking lied to me. You lied to me then, and after Mabon, and today. You said I could trust you.”
Snape’s eyes widened, and she laughed bitterly. Now you get it?
She could have forgiven him for not telling Dumbledore or anyone else that Black wasn’t the traitor, honestly. She knew Snape hated him, and that he wasn’t that nice of a person, and that he hadn’t even known her back then, let alone promised her anything. Besides, he had barely avoided Azkaban himself, and his word probably wouldn’t have been worth that much, even if he had tried.
Not that he had.
But the point was, Snape leaving Black to twelve years with the dementors for a crime he didn’t commit wasn’t the worst part. Nor was him stealing from her the chance to live with her godfather instead of with the Dursleys—because she could almost believe him when he said he’d thought she’d be better off without Black in her life, considering everything she’d heard about the man.
No, the worst part was that he’d lied. Because he’d wanted her to hate Black as much as he did. He didn’t care that it was her life, her godfather, or that he was letting her believe something completely false about something like how her parents had died. Like his fucking grudge from nearly twenty years ago was more important than Mary knowing the truth about her own life.
And—what did that mean about everything else he’d told her? About James, and Lily? She had defended him when Remus had implied that he would lie to her about her parents just to further his grudge against her father. She’d refused to even consider the idea. She had been blinded by him.
“I did trust you,” she said, and it came out more broken than angry, her voice sounding like that of a child, and she hated him for that too—for reducing her to that. “I thought you understood, I thought you knew what it—I fucking trusted you.”
She’d never trusted anyone like that, she realized. When she’d come to talk to him today, she’d been thinking, Snape will know. Snape will tell me what to think about it all, about Black and Pettigrew. And, Black can’t have been innocent, because if he had been, Snape would have known, and he would have told me. She had trusted him over Remus—had believed that, no matter his feelings about her parents and Black, he would never let it get in the way of keeping his promise to her.
She felt so stupid. So small. Worthless, almost, because—she’d thought she was special to him. But she was just some idiot that he could manipulate to continue some stupid teenage grudge, to use like a pawn in his vendetta against her father and his friends. Like Remus had said: “The Severus Snape that I grew up with would take great pleasure in convincing James Potter’s child to hate her father, and to believe that Lily would have ever named him godfather after he went over to the Death Eaters.” He’d been right all along.
This, this whole thing she had with Snape, it had never been about her. It had been about him winning, getting one up on people long since dead or carted off to Azkaban.
Mary turned on her heel, heading for the door before she could break down completely. She didn’t have anything more to say to him anyway.
But then he said, “Anipsiá,” and something inside of her broke.
“No!” Mary shouted, whirling on her heel. “I’m not your Anipsiá. I’m not your niece. I’m not your fucking goddaughter. You stole my real godfather from me, you tricked me—Remus was right about you. I hate you!”
Hermione would have died to see her speaking to a professor that way, to see her storming out of his office and slamming the door behind her, but Hermione wasn’t there. Hermione wasn’t there, Lilian wasn’t there, Remus wasn’t there, and Snape sure as fuck wasn’t there. (To what, ‘protect her’? What utter fucking rubbish.)
Mary was alone, as she had always been. The only person she could rely on was herself. She should have known better than to ever think anything else.
Notes:
The Fidelius isn't actually illegal since it's mostly thought of as a charm, it's more like freeform soul magic like Lily was doing that's outlawed.
This is random but I was watching Saltburn last night and Farleigh kind of makes me think of a campier, softer version of Blaise. He's got the same cunty energy and I love him for it. Also, if anyone's interested, Leigha and I have decided that Mary (a bit later in her teens, anyway) would look like a Heathers-era Winona Ryder.
Chapter 30: Improper Procedure
Notes:
Y'all might notice the chapter count fluctuating a bit; I'm doing some reworking of the final chapters as the end of the fic approaches.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Mary was almost beside herself with anger and shame when she left Snape’s office, but she knew she had no time to dwell on it. Pettigrew had been in the castle, and he might still be, even if Weasley had lost track of him. If she could come up with a way to find him, she could turn him in and clear Black’s name. She still wasn’t certain that she’d want Black in her life as a godfather or anything, but she owed him that much, at least. Especially now that she didn’t know how much of what Snape had told her about him had been true.
Still, part of her thought it was futile. If Snape and Dumbledore hadn’t been able to come up with a way to find an animagus hiding in or near the school, why would she be able to?
But she had to try. If Snape found him first, considering how angry he’d looked, and the fact that he seemed to have been hoping Black would be sent back to Azkaban without anyone discovering the truth, he would probably kill Pettigrew, and then she’d have no proof of Black’s innocence. It would only be her and Hermione’s word against the entire DLE. Merlin only knew how much time she had before Snape would go after Pettigrew himself—and his chances of finding him were way higher than hers. But if she moved quickly, she just might be able to get there first.
The first thing she did, of course, was run down to her bedroom in the dungeons and retrieve the map. She hadn’t seen his name the last time she’d checked, but it was possible she’d just missed it. Worth a try, anyway. Weasley’s rat had gone missing back in February, but maybe Pettigrew had just been hiding somewhere else in the castle since then? Somewhere it would be harder for Black to find him?
But no matter how much she pored over the map, she couldn’t locate his name.
Damn it. Damn it. He’d been right there, at least until February. If Snape had told her the truth, they could have caught him at any moment. Now, she had no idea how to find him.
Maybe, like Ginny had said, he’d crawled off and died or been eaten by a cat or something. Or maybe he was somewhere in the castle and she just didn’t know how to work the map right. Or maybe he was outside the castle, and there might be some way to track him down, even though Dumbledore had never managed to find Black.
Mary didn’t know how to track an animagus who didn’t know how to be found, or how to make sure she wasn’t missing a name on the map, or whether Pettigrew would have turned back to human if and when he died. But there was one person she could think of who might have an answer to all three questions, and who wouldn’t argue with her about whether or not Pettigrew was really alive.
(Well, two, maybe, but the other was right out. She hated how, even now, her first thought was Snape will know, before she remembered. It had become so ingrained in her, in such a short span of time, to go to him for everything. Fuck him.)
Before, she’d been upset about Hermione studying with Snape (because she was an idiot who’d believed that Snape’s attention meant something), but now, she was glad for it. Hermione would at least know some of the stuff Snape knew, if only a small amount of it. And while at first Mary had thought it would be better to track Pettigrew down herself than to rely on someone else, the fact was that this was something she couldn’t do alone. She’d be lucky enough to pull it off with help.
Checking the map again, Mary located Hermione in the library, Hermione’’ in her room in Ravenclaw Tower, and Hermione’ missing, which meant she was probably in the Room of Requirement. She’d start with the original Hermione, she decided. That way, if they ended up needing to use the time turner while hunting Pettigrew, they’d have two turns left.
Mary found Hermione sitting at a table in the back of the library, grabbed her by the arm, and said, “Come with me.” The expression on her face must have given away that something was wrong, because Hermione didn’t argue or ask any questions, just packed her stuff up and followed Mary out of the library and into an empty classroom down the corridor.
Mary warded the room with all the privacy spells she’d learned from Snape’s class so far (fuck him) before admitting, “You were right. Black’s innocent, and Pettigrew’s probably alive. I can’t find him on the map, but he’s out there somewhere, and we need to find him. Like, today.”
As Mary had known she would, Hermione asked, as soon as she’d recovered from her surprise, “Did you tell Snape?”
“Snape knew.” Mary kept her voice flat because—well, if she didn’t, she might cry, and she was not going to cry over Snape when she had a traitor to catch. “Not about Pettigrew being alive, but he knew he was the traitor the whole time. He wanted the dementors to catch Black, even though he knows he didn’t betray my parents or kill those muggles. So, we need to catch Pettigrew before Snape does. If he finds him first, he’ll probably kill him, and then we’ll never be able to convince people that Black is innocent.”
She was glad that Hermione didn’t try to argue that Snape wouldn’t do that. If she had, Mary might have lost it completely. She just nodded and asked, “Any ideas how?”
“Depends on if you know any tracking spells that can find a particular animal. Snape and Dumbledore couldn’t find Black, though, so I don’t know how much luck we’ll have…”
Part of her expected Hermione to immediately say it was impossible—so when she hesitated, brow furrowing like she was thinking very hard, Mary felt a twinge of hope. “If he’s not on the map, he’s almost certainly outside of its boundaries. I know he’s not in the Room of Requirement, I use it all the time, and I can’t imagine anyone staying in the Tempering Chamber for long, so unless he’s found a way into the Chamber of Secrets…
“No, he’s probably outside the castle. Which means that I might be able to scry for him—I’ve been practicing with Luna for the past few months, and I’m starting to get the hang of it. Or we could ask her to do it… She already seemed to know about Pettigrew.”
“There’s anti-scrying wards on the castle, right?” Mary asked.
“Yeah, but we can get around that by going up to the Scrying Tower or out on the grounds,” Hermione said distractedly. “There’s a bigger problem, though. Tracking someone that way requires a focus—something that belongs to them, or identifies them. Blood would be best, but hair would work too, or maybe one of his possessions. Not that a rat would have many of those. Anyway, I’m pretty sure that’s why Snape didn’t just scry for Black.”
Mary really doubted they’d be able to track down some of Pettigrew’s blood. Hair, on the other hand… “Maybe he left some fur on Weasley’s clothes or sheets or something?” Even as she said it, though, she wasn’t very hopeful: the house elves laundered their bedding every week, along with whatever clothes they left in the laundry baskets provided. Unless Weasley hadn’t washed his clothes since February, they were probably out of luck.
Still, it was better than nothing, so she said, “We should find Neville or Ginny and see if we can get them to sneak us into the Gryffindor dorms.”
“You do that,” Hermione said. “It’ll be easier to sneak in one of us than both of us, and I need to do a bit of reading on tracking via scrying before we try it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mary said in response to her friend’s commanding tone, but she couldn’t help smiling a little, for the first time since her confrontation with Snape. It was just nice to have someone in her life who knew what to do, now that she couldn’t rely on him anymore.
According to the map, Neville was in one of the old dueling arenas along with what seemed to be a random assortment of students from every House. Right, there was an extra practice session today run by some of the NEWT students from the Dueling Club. Mary slipped in through the doors, scanning the room until she spotted Neville up on a platform, sword-fighting a fifth year Hufflepuff.
And not only that, but he was winning.
He’d told her back over the holidays that he was good with a sword—infantry sabre, to be particular. It was apparently one of his better ‘useless pureblood skills,’ a category which Neville said including things like “knowing when and how to bow, dancing the gavotte, and speaking Welsh.” But she hadn’t actually gotten a chance to see him in action, despite him promising to trounce her in a blade match once she got a dueling knife.
He was, she thought, way cooler like this than she’d ever seen him before, lunging forward and then dancing his way past his opponent’s blade, wielding the sword with strong, fluid motions, like a knight out of some old movie she’d seen once. He wore an expression of concentration, but not concern, like—like Snape brewing a potion, or, no, she didn’t want to think about Snape… Like Envy Seran on a broom. It was the least self-conscious she’d ever seen Neville look.
Unfortunately, he was also the center of attention in the room, which meant she had to wait until he was finished, leaning against the wall by the door and tapping her foot impatiently. At least Ron Weasley was among his audience, along with the other two boys in their year, which meant their dorm should be empty right now.
Finally, Neville finished, knocking the Hufflepuff onto his back with a blade held to his throat, before sheathing it and helping him up. He stepped down from the platform, accepting the praise of various onlookers with a smile so suddenly embarrassed it was nearly a grimace, before stepping off to the side to get some water as the next pair took the stage.
Which was when Mary grabbed him. “Hey, Neville,” she said quietly, once she’d cast Muffliato. “Good match.” He went a bit pink and looked like he was about to thank her, but she continued before he could. “Look, could I ask you a really strange favor? I can’t explain why, but I really need to get into your dorm and to find something that belonged to Weasley’s rat. Like, some fur or whiskers—or blood, if we can find it.”
“Something… that belonged to Ron’s rat?”
“Yeah,” she said, shuffling her foot a bit awkwardly against the floor. “I can’t say why, but trust me when I tell you it’s important. Someone’s life might depend on it.” Two lives, actually, but she didn’t really care what happened to Pettigrew—only that he wasn’t killed before the world could see that he was still alive.
Neville stared at her, like he was waiting for her to laugh and say it was all a joke, but when she didn’t, he swallowed. It was a testament either to his gratitude that she and her friends had accepted him into their group for a bit after Black’s break-in, when his Gryffindor friends had been shunning him, or else just to what kind of person he was, that he didn’t ask a single question or raise any objections. He just said, “Okay. Er, any chance you can do a Disillusionment Charm?”
Mary grinned. “Don’t need to. I’ve got something better.”
Neville smuggled Mary into the Gryffindor dorms under her invisibility cloak, looking around furtively as they passed through the common room. A few people gave him weird looks, making her wish there was a way to tell him that he was only drawing attention to himself by looking so nervous, but no one actually stopped them.
It was the first time she’d been in the Gryffindor common room, at least in real life—she’d seen it during that vision a few Yules ago, of her life as a Gryffindor, but that had faded into something like a dream by now. She gave the room a curious once-over on their way through, thinking, This could have been my common room in a different life. It was… cozy, she decided. Not as atmospheric as the dungeons, but she could imagine sitting around the fireplace on a rainy night.
Still, when they got up to the third year boys’ dorm—empty, just as she’d hoped—she couldn’t help but think how glad she was to be a Slytherin, if only because she didn’t have to share a bedroom with a bunch of random people. Sharing with Hermione over the holidays had been bad enough!
But she wasn’t here to sight-see. “How often does Weasley wash his robes?” she asked Neville, noting distantly that she sounded like a crazy person. “Think there’d be any rat hairs left on them?”
“I don’t know,” Neville said. “Probably not? Scabbers disappeared in… February, must’ve been, right after Sirius Black broke in. I’m pretty sure even Ron’s had his robes laundered since then… But you’re free to look.”
Scabbers. What a gross name.
Well, first thing’s first… “Accio Scabbers’ fur!” Mary said. Nothing happened. Nor did anything happen when she tried “Accio Scabbers’ whiskers” or “Accio Scabbers’ blood!” Shite. She tried to tell herself hope wasn’t necessarily lost; if the fur was trapped in a fold of fabric or in Weasley’s trunk or something, summoning wouldn’t necessary work.
“Help me?” she asked, heading for the bed Neville had pointed out as Weasley’s. He hesitated for a moment—possibly feeling weird about going through his friend’s stuff behind his back—but he must have understood how important this was, even without knowing what was going on, because after a second, he joined Mary in tearing into Weasley’s bedding—and when that failed to produce results, his clothes as well.
Still, they had no luck… until they reached the bottom of Weasley’s trunk, where they found his winter cloak folded up, probably having been put away when the weather had warmed. Upon seeing it, Mary’s heart immediately sped up, because she wasn’t sure about Weasley, but she didn’t bother to wash her winter cloak all that much, at least unless it actually got dirty. And boys were less fastidious about that kind of thing than girls, right? (At least, Dudley had been.)
Neville had said when they began searching the clothes that Weasley used to keep ‘Scabbers’ in his pockets (which, seriously, gross), so Mary pulled out the cloak, inwardly pleading with the Powers for it to be one of those cloaks that came with pockets—and it was. Turning them out, she found several coarse brown hairs clinging to the black fabric, along with what looked to be a whisker. Neville jumped slightly at her little squeal of excitement.
“Thank you,” she gushed, to Neville as much as to whatever Power had left these for her to find. Then, turning to him, “Neville, you are my hero.” The shy boy blushed furiously at her words. “Seriously, I owe you one.” She wouldn’t have said that to a Slytherin, but Neville, she thought, was safe.
As she’d expected, he just waved it off and said, “No problem, Mary. I mean, that’s what friends do.” She still remembered how nervous he’d seemed on Christmas, back when he’d first called her his friend, like he’d half expected her to contradict him, but he said it with more confidence now.
“I’ve got to get this to Hermione,” she said, already throwing her cloak back on, “but really, Neville, thank you so much.”
“No problem.” He turned back to survey his friend’s bed, now a mess of tangled sheets and blankets, and his open trunk, robes strewn out in all directions after being searched, and sighed. “I’ll just clean this up, then.”
She met Hermione in the Scrying Tower as planned, finding her friend sitting cross-legged on a blanket on the ground with what looked like a large, shallow silver bowl filled with a few centimeters of water. No Luna in sight—apparently Hermione had decided they didn’t need her.
“I’ve got some fur and whiskers,” Mary announced proudly as she sat down beside her, peering into the bowl. “Everything ready on your end?”
Hermione nodded. “Took longer than I thought,” she said. “Had to use up a turn to make sure I knew what I was meant to be doing, but I’m ready now. Hermione-Null is reading in the Room of Requirement as we speak.”
That was a strange thought. Also, “Null?”
“You’ve seen how we’re labeled on the map, right?” Hermione asked, and she nodded. “That’s from muggle maths, and you say it as ‘Hermione-Null,’ ‘Hermione-Prime,’ and ‘Hermione-Two-Prime.’” Then, seeming to remember they had more important things than mathematical syntax to discuss, she added, “Can I see what you’ve got?”
Mary nodded, holding out the little wooden box Remus had given her for Christmas back in first year. It was enchanted to open only to her magical signature—she’d grabbed it from her dorm before finding Neville, not wanting to take any chances with whatever she managed to find. Opening it now, she asked, “Does this look like enough?”
Hermione nodded eagerly, holding out her hands, so Mary handed her the entire box. “What happens now?”
Taking the box and dumping it upside-down over the bowl, so that the contents spread out on the surface of the water, Hermione said, “I’ll use this moonwater as a focus.” At the lack of comprehension on Mary’s face, she explained, “Like a crystal ball. I’ll channel through the water, into the fur, and if it works, an image of Pettigrew should appear on the surface of the water. Like a reflection.”
“Cool.”
“You won’t be able to see, I don’t think,” Hermione added, and Mary frowned in disappointment. She wished the school actually taught this stuff, rather than letting that ‘sherry-soaked old fraud,’ or whatever Hermione had called her, waste everyone’s time. But whatever—at least one of them knew what to do.
Watching Hermione scry wasn’t very interesting. As she’d warned, Mary couldn’t see or feel anything happening; the only change, really, was that Hermione’s eyes got kind of glassy and distant. But after a long moment of her friend frowning in concentration at the surface of the water, brow furrowed, she let out a small gasp.
“You see him?”
“I think so,” Hermione said, her voice quiet and far away, like she was in a bit of a trance—or else just really focused on what she was trying to do. “It’s dark, it’s hard to tell…”
“It’s not dark out now.” Which meant either Pettigrew was indoors, or he was far away.
“That’s… definitely a rat,” Hermione murmured, ignoring her. “He’s… not sleeping. Resting. Looking around. He’s wary. And he’s inside… some sort of small, enclosed space.”
For a moment, Mary felt a little disappointed: as impressive as this was, it didn’t exactly narrow things down much. But then Hermione’s frown deepened and she said, “I think I can… zoom out? Like on a computer? It’s… oh!”
“What?” Mary asked, leaning forward eagerly.
Hermione’s eyes snapped up to hers, suddenly focused and present again, breaking out of whatever trance she’d been in. “He’s in Hagrid’s hut.”
Heart leaping, Mary said, “You’re amazing.” She really meant it, finding herself struck for a second by, just… Hermione. Even with her not studying with Snape anymore, the time she’d spent with him, and with Professor Vector, and even the twins, plus all the extra hours she’d lived through, seemed to have changed her somehow. Maybe she’d just grown up, Mary wasn’t sure, but there was a focus to her that hadn’t been there before, all that intense mental energy channeled into making her a seriously impressive witch.
Hermione shrugged it off, but she went a little pink, a pleased smile on her face. “What do we do now?” she asked. “Should we tell a professor? Not Snape, but… maybe Professor Lupin?”
Mary had to think about that. Her first instinct was telling her no, but she wasn’t sure if she was just too jaded to trust a professor after Snape. But still, “He didn’t tell the Aurors or Dumbledore about Black being an animagus for ages. He said it was just because he felt guilty for breaking the rules, but I’ve always gotten the impression that he kind of… didn’t hate Black as much as he should have. Or like he still cared about him somehow.
“Which I guess he was right to, but my point is, we’d need to convince him that Pettigrew is alive and the traitor first, and what if he doesn’t believe us? Or, what if he says he does, but then when we find Pettigrew, Remus hesitates and lets him go?” It was easy to imagine Remus needing more time than they had at their disposal to come to terms with Pettigrew being the traitor rather than Black.
Honestly, maybe she just didn’t trust anyone but herself (and Hermione) to handle this. After Snape’s betrayal, she would feel stupid if she put something this important into someone else’s hands and they let her down.
Hermione seemed to feel similarly, because she said, “And if we tell the Aurors or the Ministry, they might not believe us, or they might mess it all up… Oh, but I really don’t think we should go alone. Even though he shouldn’t have a wand, what if something goes wrong? We’re just third years, and he’s a grown wizard…”
Damn, Hermione was right. Mary thought for a second. Who could they trust with something this important? Not Snape, or Remus, or Aunt Minnie. Lilian still wasn’t speaking to them, and most of their friends were third years or below too, so they wouldn’t be much more help. Maybe Tonks? But even if Hermione-Two-Prime sent a letter to the Auror at the start of her turn, Tonks might just tell the Ministry and make the situation way more complicated.
“What about the twins?” Hermione suggested, breaking her out of her thoughts. “They’re fifth years, at least. They can help us break into Hagrid’s hut, then maybe we can have them wait outside while we search it? To catch Pettigrew if he tries to escape.”
Mary hesitated, biting her lip. “Do you really trust them with something like this?” she asked. “I mean, they’re—I don’t hate them as much as I used to, but they’re not the most mature boys out there, Maia.”
Thankfully, Hermione didn’t get offended on her friends’ behalf, but only said, “You don’t know them like I do. They’re really a lot more mature than they seem.”
Raising an eyebrow, Mary asked, “These are the same twins that were planning to purposefully fail their OWLs so that their mum couldn’t pressure them into getting real jobs?”
“I talked them out of that!” Hermione insisted, blushing. “Really, I trust them to back us up, and they’re way more capable than a lot of our friends, especially since they’re older. If you don’t want to get a professor or the Aurors or something, I can’t think of anyone better. Well, maybe Prefect Yaxley and her friends, but I don’t think they’d agree to help.”
Mary had to take a moment to consider Hermione’s argument. The twins still hadn’t apologized for kidnapping her, and at this point, she doubted they ever would. A lot of the time, she really had no idea what Hermione even liked about them. But Hermione did like them, and trust them, and besides that, they were actually pretty brilliant—their potions and enchanting work, for example.
Anyway, she was pretty sure bringing the twins along would at least be better than going in completely alone, or with Neville or Ginny or someone. “Fine,” she finally said, “but we swear them to secrecy. I’m not sure yet if I want to hand Pettigrew over to the Aurors right away.”
Not that she knew what else she’d do with him, but the DLE had messed up Black’s case so badly that she didn’t exactly trust them with the only evidence of his innocence.
Thankfully, the twins weren’t in the Gryffindor common room—Mary didn’t much fancy trying to break in for the second time that day. Using the map, she and Hermione tracked them down to what Hermione said was their hidden potions lab, the one where they’d made the Veritaserum last year. (Mary couldn’t help but think how furious Snape would be at the idea of the twins brewing unsupervised in a makeshift lab hidden in the dungeons—and then thought, vindictively, Good.)
When they got there, though, the twins weren’t pleased to see them. Or, at least, they weren’t pleased to see Mary.
“Firecracker,” one of them complained—Mary decided arbitrarily that he was George today, having never gotten the hang of telling them apart. (Honestly, she thought Hermione was lying when she said she could.) “You promised not to show anyone else how to find this place.” When did they give Maia a nickname? she wondered with an inordinate amount of annoyance.
“I do have the map now,” she pointed out peevishly.
“It’s an emergency,” Hermione said, and the twins straightened up, exchanged a glance, and began casting stasis charms on their workspace without saying a word. “Remember how I was asking about your brothers’ rat the other day?”
“Yeah,” Fred said. “We were thinking about it, and you’re right, it is kind of odd he’s lived so long.”
“That’s cause he’s not a rat,” Mary said, her impatience getting the better of her, and the twins turned to stare at her in unison. “He’s an animagus.”
Another inscrutable twin look was exchanged. “Come again?”
“Scabbers is Peter Pettigrew,” Hermione explained, apparently deciding to go along with Mary’s rather blunt approach. “He faked his own death back in 1981 after betraying the Potters and killing those muggles, and he’s been in hiding as a rat ever since.”
The twins were both laughing nervously. “Thought we were over the prank war by now, Firecracker.”
“Oh, by the Morrigan!” Mary snapped. “We’re not pranking you. It’s true, that’s why his name was on the map—following Prefect Weasley around, and then your younger brother. It switched when the rat switched owners, right? And all the Marauders were animagi, Professor Lupin told me ages ago.” Well, not Remus, but close enough—she wasn’t sure if the twins knew about his condition, and if they didn’t, the House Secret meant she couldn’t tell them.
“Lizzie got Neville to sneak her into his dorm earlier and found some of the rat’s fur on Ronald’s winter cloak, then I used it to scry for him. He’s hiding out in Hagrid’s hut.”
“We need to capture him to prove that Black is innocent,” Mary added. “And because he, you know, got my parents killed and deserves to go to Azkaban. But we don’t want to go alone in case he gets the better of us and tries to run for it, and Maia said we should ask you guys for backup, so… here we are.”
There was a moment of silence, and then George said, “Sorry, we’re still stuck on the idea…”
“…that there was just some bloke…”
“…pretending to be a rat…”
“…in our house…”
“…for twelve years.”
“Yeah, it’s gross,” Mary agreed. “Now, are you going to help us catch him or not? We need to do it over dinner—it’s the only time we know for sure that Hagrid won’t be in his hut.”
“Not to be rude, but why the hell are you asking us?”
“Shouldn’t you tell the Aurors or something?”
“So they can bugger it up like they did Black’s case?” Mary asked. “He didn’t even get a trial, you know. No, we’re doing this ourselves.”
George looked back and forth between them and said, “Okay, I definitely see why you’re friends. You’re both the same sort of mad.”
“Excuse me!” Hermione snapped.
“Why not ask Snape, then?” Mary barely withheld herself from correcting them with a ‘Professor Snape’ out of sheer habit. “You wouldn’t shut up about it last time.”
They really wanted to go there? Before Mary could blow up at them, though, Hermione quickly said, “Snape might not help us. He lied to Lizzie about Black being a Death Eater, and we think he wants to kill Pettigrew himself.”
Mary glared at her friend for just spilling her private business like that, suddenly wondering what else she’d told the twins about her, but didn’t say anything. They didn’t have time to be getting in arguments right now; taking the time to convince the twins was already setting them back enough.
“Professor Lupin?” Fred asked.
“Might not have the guts to stop Pettigrew if he makes a break for it.”
Folding her arms across her chest, Mary said, “Look, we don’t have time for this. Are you coming or not?”
“Running off on a mad mission with you…”
“…to catch our brothers’ rat…”
“…who’s secretly an animagus…”
“…and also a murderer?”
“You owe me,” she pointed out flatly. If they felt even the least bit bad about kidnapping her last year, she’d use that as much as she could.
“No need for that, Potter.” The twins were now sporting identical grins. “We were just going to say… sounds like fun.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Idiots,” she said, but she was grinning too, and it just grew wider as George threw an arm around her shoulder.
“Come on, girls!” he announced, like they hadn’t been the ones holding things up with all their bloody questions in the first place. “We’ve got a rat to catch.”
On their way out of the dungeons, the twins and Hermione chattered excitedly away about some pest-control paling Mrs. Weasley used and the arithmancy of adapting it to keep rats in rather than out. When they were being enormous nerds together, Mary felt a little less jealous of their friendship; better Hermione talk to them about that stuff than her.
After a brief stop in the kitchens so they could grab some roast beef to pacify Hagrid’s dog, plus some sandwiches to make up for their skipping dinner, the four of them crept down across the grounds—Mary and Hermione under the cloak, the twins Disillusioned. They watched Hagrid leave his hut for dinner, locking the door behind him, and waited until he was out of sight before they began their heist.
Hermione took charge, of course. “Boys, set up the palings,” she instructed while Mary set to picking the lock with her skeleton key (another present from Remus), glad that Hagrid didn’t have a wand to ward the door shut or anything. “Wands out. If you see Pettigrew, stun him on sight. If you see anyone else, use the signal.”
Before long, Mary had the door open, the twins positioned outside like guards, and the two girls slipped inside. The sight of Fang—gods, she’d forgotten how bloody big he was—made her wish that Lilian was speaking to them, since she was way better with dogs than either of the other girls, but Mary knew from first year that he wasn’t so scary as he looked, and the roast beef did the trick of placating him enough to let them into the hut. He didn’t make too much of a fuss over their presence; apparently, despite it having been years since they’d visited Hagrid, the pair of them were still in the category of ‘friends’ rather than ‘scary intruders.’
Once they’d gotten through Fang, the pair of them didn’t speak, not wanting Pettigrew to overhear them and make a run for it. Hermione had said he looked ‘wary,’ after all. As the pair of them set to dismantling Hagrid’s hut, looking for anything that a rat could hide behind or inside of, the thought briefly crossed her mind that they might not be able to put it all back as it had been before Hagrid returned, but she pushed it aside. If they found Pettigrew, it would be worth it.
(This was still so weird, though, ransacking the gamekeeper’s hut to find a rat that had betrayed her parents over twelve years ago. What a bizarre day she’d had.)
Despite their efforts, something must have tipped him off—the smell of unfamiliar people sneaking into the hut, hands rifling through cupboards and boxes. Mary almost didn’t see him, but something—a movement caught out of the corner of her eye, perhaps—made her turn her head.
“There!” she gasped, hoping this wasn’t just some other random rat that happened to have wandered in. “Stupefy!”
But trying to hit a moving target the size of her fist turned out to be really damn hard, the rat diving behind the table leg to avoid the spell, then scurrying across the floor, heading for a crack in the wall. If he tried to make a break for it past the twins, they could catch him, but if he hid inside the wall, it would be a pain to get him out.
Luckily, Hermione was smarter than to start with a spell that relied on aim like a stunner did. “Accio rat!” she shouted, and said rat flew through the air with a squeal, right into her hand, which she clenched around him in a firm grasp. “Ouch!” she said as he immediately bit her, squeaking and thrashing wildly, but she didn’t let go, despite wincing in pain. Holding out her wand in her other hand, angling it carefully so as not to hit herself if she missed, she said, “Stupe—”
Before she could finish the spell, the rat shifted, exploding out of her hand as it grew without warning into a full grown wizard right before their eyes. Hermione shrieked, knocked off-balance, and in less than a second—before Mary could react or do anything at all—Pettigrew had torn Hermione’s wand from her hand and caught her, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other holding the tip of her own wand to her throat.
He looked just like he had in the vision, a short man with unkempt, balding hair and the general appearance of someone who’d been living on the street for years. Only, in the vision, he’d looked sad and scared, pleading with her to forgive him. He hadn’t looked like he did now: desperate in a way that made her instincts scream danger, those beady eyes darting around, teeth bared like a cornered dog. For a split second, no one said anything.
Then the door burst open and Pettigrew jumped, jabbing the wand so sharply into Hermione’s throat that she yelped and Mary winced in sympathy. In the doorway, the twins froze in their tracks, eyes wide.
“Don’t!” Pettigrew shouted, his voice rough from lack of use, shaking with fear, every part of his tone and body language screaming that he was a hair away from snapping completely. “I don’t want to hurt her, but I’ll do it if I have to, don’t—don’t test me!”
Mary exchanged panicked looks with the twins for a second before turning her eyes back to Pettigrew—and to Hermione, who looked like she was about to cry. Shit, shit, shit. Why had they thought this was a good idea? What should—could—she do?
Well, she was a Slytherin. “You’re Peter, right?” she asked, trying to school her expression into something trustworthy and gentle. “My dad’s friend? We’ve been looking for you. We know you’re in hiding from… the Death Eaters, and Sirius Black. Because… because you put him in Azkaban. We just want to help. I only tried to stun you so you wouldn’t run away before we could talk.”
“She’s ri—” Hermione started to say, but cut off with a pained noise as Pettigrew jabbed the wand harder into her throat.
He laughed, the sound harsh and unsettling. “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” he asked. Before she could answer, he snapped, “Throw your wands over to me. Now.”
She briefly considered trying something else—maybe the twins knew how to cast silently? Maybe they could take him off guard if she gave them a signal? But if Pettigrew saw spell-light, he’d be able to cast on Hermione before it hit him, and the look in his eyes told Mary that he wasn’t bluffing when he said he’d hurt her.
With a sinking feeling in her stomach, beginning to realize just how utterly fucked they were, Mary gently tossed her wand in Pettigrew’s direction, watched it clatter to the wooden floor at his feet. Some part of her still hoped the Weasley twins had some trick up their sleeves—a prank product they could pull out to save the day, something as mad as those bloody roosters they’d taken the basilisk down with—but they only did the same as her, one of them saying quietly, “Hold on, Firecracker.”
Hermione let out a tiny whimper in response.
Once they were disarmed, though, Pettigrew seemed rather at a loss, eyes darting between the three of them. Taking advantage of his hesitation, one of the twins said, “Look, obviously you have us at a disadvantage. How about you just stun us all and fuck off?”
Mary shot him a glare, and Fred—George—bugger it, Fred, responded with an unapologetic shrug—clearly they were far more concerned with rescuing Hermione than with catching the man who’d betrayed her parents. Which, it wasn’t that she didn’t care more about Hermione’s safety, but that didn’t mean she just wanted to let him go! If he escaped now, they’d never catch him.
But that didn’t matter, because the look of panic on Pettigrew’s face only grew, and he said, “You know too much. You were looking for me. You’ve seen me. You’ll tell.”
Hermione spoke up again, her voice firm despite the audible fear in it, and he didn’t cut her off this time. “We’ll swear a vow not to tell anyone. Something magically binding.”
Mary didn’t like the sound of that, but the look in Hermione’s eyes told her not to argue—if she did, he could very well decide to kill them all. If they made a vow, maybe they could—
“You’ll find a way around it,” he said. Then, looking straight at Mary, “You’re Lily’s girl.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said again, sounding even more desperate, and her stomach sank, because that sounded a lot like something that someone who was about to hurt them would say. “I don’t—I’m not a bad person. I don’t know what you think you know, but I didn’t betray them. They were my friends. But Black, he’s mad. He’ll kill me if he finds me. I have to…”
He swallowed heavily, a look of horror coming over his face, and Mary cursed herself for giving up her wand. Maybe she could rush him, kick his legs out from under him?
“Obliviate us,” Hermione said, sounding almost as desperate as Pettigrew—she must have been, to suggest something like that. Mary didn’t know much about mind magic, but she knew that obliviation could lead to serious brain damage if performed by someone who didn’t know what they were doing—like, say, someone who’d spent twelve years as a rat without even holding a wand, and didn’t seem to have been all that capable a wizard even before that.
But Pettigrew wasn’t listening, his eyes growing distant, fearful, bulging out in a way that she thought would have made her think of a rodent even if it hadn’t been for the whole rat thing. “Oh Merlin,” he muttered. “He’s going to kill me. I can’t—I can’t let you kids leave. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He was staring at Mary now, eyes watery and red, like he actually wanted her to forgive him for whatever he was about to do. “I didn’t want this. I just wanted everyone to leave me alone.”
“Hang on a second!” the twins were shouting. “Don’t do anything rash, we can—we can work something out. We’ll pay you—we’ve got loads of money. Just let Hermione go.”
“Take me hostage,” Mary said, stepping forward, holding up both hands palm-out to make herself nonthreatening. “I’m the Girl Who Lived, and Heir to House Potter; Maia’s just a muggleborn. There’s enough money in my trust vault for you to get out of Britain and find somewhere to hide where Black won’t find you. Take me hostage and we’ll ask my guardian for it as ransom.”
She was hardly even thinking now, she just—she couldn’t let him hurt Hermione. This was all her fault.
Pettigrew’s eyes grew more watery. “I don’t want to die,” he said, voice wavering. “I’m so sorry. If I kill you, he might—he might let me live.”
Fear gripped her heart like a fist, and Mary prepared herself to charge Pettigrew—if she dove for his legs, maybe she could knock him down before he got a spell out, give the twins a chance to jump in—but before she could, his eyes rolled back in his head. His hand sagged, wand dropping away from Hermione’s throat, and he followed it, slumping to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
They all moved at once, rushing forward—Mary and one twin caught Hermione, keeping her from being pulled down with their suddenly unconscious captor, the pair of them enveloping her in a tight hug—fuck, Mary had really thought he was going to kill her, and the rest of them after—while the other twin retrieved his wand and shoved Pettigrew’s unconscious body onto his back, holding him at wandpoint now in case he woke up.
It took the sound of someone clearing their throat to get them to turn and look: standing there in the doorway, side by side, were Remus and Snape.
“For the record, Miss Potter,” the latter drawled with a look of exasperation, “…Miss Granger, Messers Weasley… the proper procedure when one is aware of an escaped murderer on Hogwarts grounds is to report it to a professor, not run off and get yourselves murdered as well.”
The four students exchanged a look, and then the twin who’d been hugging Hermione held both hands up and said, “It was Potter’s idea.”
“Hey!”
Notes:
Lots of thanks to Leigha for helping me figure out how Mary and Hermione would track Peter, and for giving me info about how scrying works!
One thing I like about MP compared to canon is that the girls have other friends outside their trio, so I like getting to show Hermione interacting with the twins and that they've kinda got their own group dynamic separate to her friendship with Mary and Lilian; she doesn't just wait around for Mary to hang out with her. Mary would not be happy to know it, but Hermione does kinda think of them as her best friends now, with all the time they've spent together and them being closer to her age. (Not that Mary isn't her best friend too, but she's more of a little sister to her at this point.)
Chapter 31: Emotional Motion Sickness
Notes:
I haven't been naming the chapters of this fic after song lyrics like I did for my other fics, but I couldn't resist naming this one after the Phoebe Bridgers song.
I hate you for what you did
And I miss you like a little kid
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Under different circumstances, Mary might have laughed at the reminder of her previous misadventures, or asked Snape where he thought ‘escaped murderers’ ranked compared to dragons and basilisks in terms of how difficult they’d be to smuggle off the Astronomy Tower. But any twinge of humor inside of her died immediately upon recalling just how angry with him she was, and she shut her mouth before any sound could escape, fixing him with a silent glare.
Remus, at least, seemed to have a sense of priorities: rather than scolding them, he was staring down at the unconscious body of his former friend. “Merlin’s balls,” he said, for once not apologizing to them for swearing, then turned to Snape to ask, “What did you do to him?”
In a tone of barely held patience, Snape said, “Legilimency. A useful trick, temporarily severing the mind from the senses. Now, to ensure that he does not recover and cause more chaos…” He stepped forward, wand raised, and without even thinking about what she was doing, Mary released Hermione and threw herself between him and Pettigrew.
“Lizzie!” Hermione gasped.
But Mary only had eyes for Snape. “You can’t kill him!” she insisted. “I won’t let you.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Potter, for saving your life after you threw yourself into danger yet again.”
“You can’t—”
“I have no intention of killing Pettigrew,” Snape interrupted, giving her an exasperated look. “I only intend to make sure he does not escape from us or kidnap another one of you dunderheads while we are standing around chatting.”
Mary hesitated, staring him straight in the eyes. He gave nothing away. Why was he here? Did he feel bad for what he’d done, even a little?
Finally, interrupting the tension between them, Remus stepped forward and said, “Allow me.” Snape hesitated for a moment before moving aside, and Mary did as well, allowing Remus to approach Pettigrew’s body. With his wand hand shaking only slightly, he cast a spell she didn’t recognize and Pettigrew immediately began to shrink in on himself, reverting to rat form. It was kind of gross to watch.
When Remus was finished, an unconscious rat dangling in the air in front of his wand, he said, “Severus? The box?”
Snape, however, turned to Mary first. “I have brought an enchanted box,” he explained to her, “which can be used to hold Pettigrew in stasis until such time as we decide what to do with him.” And then he just stood there, like he was waiting for her to say it was okay.
Hermione and the twins—huddled together still, as if for protection, with Hermione at the center—hadn’t said anything, but were staring curiously at the two of them, probably confused by the way Snape was deferring to Mary—at least, she was confused by it. For some reason, his surprisingly considerate behavior made her even angrier, even though she wasn’t sure how else she’d want him to behave, so she snapped, “Go ahead, but you better not do anything to him. I need him to clear my godfather’s name.”
Snape looked like he wanted to say something for a second, but he stopped himself and gave her a curt nod instead before striding up to Remus. From out of the folds of his robes, he produced a small wooden box with what looked to be runes carved into the sides.
Remus took the box from him, lowered Pettigrew carefully into it, and closed the lid. Then, turning to look at Mary—because she was in charge now, apparently?—he said, “If it’s alright with you, I’ll hold onto him until we get back to the castle.”
“…Okay,” she said slowly, still trying to figure out what was going on. How had Remus and Snape known they were in danger? How had they known where to find them? Why had Snape prepared that box? Had he been planning on catching Pettigrew himself?
She waited for him to say something to explain, but Snape only glanced over at her for a second before his eyes slid away—as if she weren’t even there—and he said, “We need to return this hut to order before Hagrid returns.”
Mary’s mind was buzzing with questions, but she was forced to wait until the six of them had finished putting Hagrid’s hut to rights and retired to Snape’s office before she could ask any of them—and even then, she was preempted by Hermione, who seemed to have found her voice again.
“How did you find us, sir?” she asked. “How did you even know to look for us in the first place?”
Raising an eyebrow as though judging her for even needing to ask, Snape explained, “The four of you failed to turn up to dinner when mere hours before, Miss Potter had left my office in a rather… preoccupied state. It was not difficult to put the pieces together. I tracked her to the gamekeeper’s hut, then enlisted Lupin to come along—as, unlike yourselves, I am not foolish enough to go after a known murderer without a single adult wizard for backup.”
Hermione went a bit pink, and the twins exchanged nervous looks—they were under the correct impression that Snape couldn’t stand them and would look for any excuse to take points from them—but Mary was beyond being cowed by him. “There were four of us and only two of you,” she said. Before Snape could argue, point out that it hadn’t done them much good, she added, “And if you wanted us to trust you with stuff like this, you should be more trustworthy. Professor.”
The twins shot her identical looks of shock at her speaking to Snape that way, but he didn’t explode, only gave a tired sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. He knows I’m right. It was Remus, not Snape, who responded first.
“You should have come to me for help,” he said. “Going in alone was incredibly dangerous, Mary—if we hadn’t gotten there in time…”
Mary felt guilty, but only a little. Like Snape had said once, she’d been taught over and over that she couldn’t rely on adults to save her—and even he hadn’t turned out to be any different. Remus, on the other hand, might have had good intentions, but… “I thought you might let him trick you or escape or something,” she confessed. “He was your friend, and you didn’t tell Dumbledore about Black being an animagus for ages.” Then, as it occurred to her, “Wait, how much did Snape tell you before you came to find us?” She had just assumed they were all on the same page, but…
“Enough,” Remus said, shooting a poisonous glare at his fellow professor. “He told me that Pete—Pettigrew had been the real traitor all along, and that it seemed he had faked his death and hidden himself as the Weasley family pet. I didn’t believe him at first, but…” He shot a disturbed look at the little wooden box, which was sitting openly on Snape’s desk as they talked. “Thank Merlin we found you in time.”
“Still can’t believe that was in our house,” one of the twins muttered.
“Sorry,” Hermione interrupted, “but how did you find us?” Turning to face Snape, she added, “You said you tracked Elizabeth, but tracking spells don’t work on her—or in Hogwarts at all.”
Remus, who’d been looking rather dazed, blinked in surprise before adopting a concerned frown. “That’s right…” he said. “How did you know where they were?”
“Suffice it to say that I know tracking spells which most people do not.”
That didn’t seem to placate Remus. “Does Dumbledore know that? If you can find her, that means that other people—other Death Eaters—might be able to as well.”
Was Remus implying that Snape was still a Death Eater? Mary reminded herself that she wasn’t going to get offended on his behalf. He didn’t deserve it, even if Remus was being stupid.
“No,” Snape said simply. “There is no chance of the Death Eaters being able to track Miss Potter via the method which I used today. It would not work for anyone other than myself.”
“What does that mean?” one of the twins asked, probably thinking, like Mary was, that that sounded kind of ominous—what could Snape have done that even the Death Eaters couldn’t do?
With a resigned sort of annoyance, he explained, “In April of last year, when Miss Potter disappeared for several days,” and he paused long enough to fix the Weasley twins with a sharp look, as though reminding them exactly whose fault that had been, before turning back to Mary, “I performed a rather obscure Dark tracking charm in order to locate you. It was not especially helpful in the end—it told me that you were several levels beneath the deepest known part of the Hogwarts dungeons, without giving any indication as to how to get to you.
“In any case, the fact that no tracking spells have worked on you since last April is a direct consequence of the charm I performed. So far as I am aware, it should now be impossible for any individual other than myself to locate you with magic.”
“So…” Mary began slowly, not quite certain she was understanding, “you cast that charm again to find me?”
“No,” he said, and she noticed Remus giving him a suspicious look out of the corner of his eye. “The charm creates a lingering bond between caster and subject. It is necessary only for me to scry said bond—a process which takes just a few minutes of concentration—in order to locate you.”
He’d… put a permanent tracker on her? Apparently Mary wasn’t the only one who’d put together this implication, because Remus said, “Severus. You cast a permanent Dark tracking charm on Mary?” For a second, he seemed at a loss for words. The first objection he managed to come up with was, “Does—does Dumbledore know? Does Minerva?”
The twins and Hermione were staring between the three of them again—the twins eagerly, like they were watching a television program, Hermione with a quiet, shrewd expression.
“Yes, Lupin,” Snape said tiredly. “It did come up in the process of trying to determine where Miss Potter had gone and how to get her back. The fact that I am able to do what others cannot for our students is, in fact, one of the reasons Dumbledore keeps me around.”
Mary wasn’t certain whether he was telling the truth. Dumbledore might know, but if Aunt Minnie had known, wouldn’t she have asked Snape to find her when she ran off over the summer? The question was, did she care enough to bring that up? A vindictive part of her wanted to put him on the spot in front of Remus, make him squirm even more… but despite him being an arsehole, she was probably safer with him being able to track her down so easily. Plus, if Remus freaked out too much over the whole thing, they’d never get around to dealing with Pettigrew.
Sure enough, now Remus was saying in a challenging tone, “I highly doubt Dumbledore keeps you around to cast Dark magic for him,” a statement which prompted snorts from not only Snape but Mary and Hermione as well. Ignoring them, he went on, “Was that spell even legal?”
“Professors?” Hermione interrupted again. “I think maybe we should talk about what we’re going to do with Pettigrew. Whatever spell Professor Snape cast, it was to find Lizzie after she’d been kidnapped, and it was over a year ago now. If he can’t undo it, and Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall already know, then… maybe it’s not really relevant now?”
For a moment, Remus looked like he might argue. Which, if he actually thought Snape was still a Death Eater, Mary could understand why he wouldn’t like the thought that he could just find her at a moment’s notice. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be annoying if Remus insisted on arguing about it when they had the man who’d gotten her family killed locked in a box and still hadn’t decided what to do with him.
There was a tense silence, Snape and Remus looking at each other, before the latter finally said, reluctantly, “Alright.”
Turning back to her, Snape asked, “For the time being, Miss Potter, what would you like done with Pettigrew?”
Well. A lot of really horrible things, none of which she should probably say out loud, both because Remus might be upset and because Snape would probably do them. Not for her, of course—she’d learned today that she didn’t matter to him nearly as much as she’d thought she did—but just because he’d enjoy seeing Pettigrew in pain as much as she would. In that, at least, she could count on him.
Instead, she admitted, “I don’t know. I want to prove he’s still alive and the traitor so I can clear Black’s name, but I hadn’t actually worked out how.” Despite secretly thinking Snape would know better than he would, she stubbornly turned to look at Remus before asking, “What should we do?” Anyway, she didn’t trust Snape not to lie—he might hate Pettigrew as much as she did, but he hated Black just as much, if not more.
“Well…” Remus began hesitantly. “We could turn him over to the Aurors…”
Snape scoffed. “And hope they don’t chuck him in the sea to keep their incompetency under wraps?” Despite not trusting him, she couldn’t help but think he had a point.
“They wouldn’t—”
“Black will need a solicitor,” Hermione said, interrupting the adults’ bickering yet again, and Mary felt another flash of gratitude—if no one else, she knew she could count on Hermione. “I think Mrs. Tonks would be a good option. Fighting the Ministry when they screw up is, like, half of what she does. Plus, she’s his cousin, and Mum trusts her.”
“Sirius always spoke highly of her,” Remus admitted with a thoughtful frown. “He said she was the only sane one in the family. They exchanged a few letters after he was disowned, but I don’t think they met again before he was—” He cut himself off, looking a little ill at the thought of what had happened to his friend.
“I vote we contact her first.” Hermione’s decisive tone made Mary feel steadier, somehow. “We can tell her we have Pettigrew and ask what she thinks we should do with him—hand him over to the Aurors, or wait and try to find Black first.”
“That is not a bad idea,” Snape said, and that was it. Mary couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Why are you acting like this?” she demanded, interrupting their brainstorming session, and he turned to look at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re on our side. You’re not. You don’t want to clear Black’s name, you want him to rot in Azkaban. You said so literally this morning.”
Remus let out a sharp noise, shock or anger or something she couldn’t place, while Hermione and the twins shifted in their seats in a way that made her suspect they were nervous about how she was speaking to Snape, but she didn’t look at any of them. She just stared him down, daring him to explain himself—to stop being so fucking confusing for once and just tell her what on earth he was up to.
“My feelings on the matter are irrelevant,” Snape said shortly, his eyes as closed off as ever. “Black is your godfather, and Pettigrew is the man who betrayed your parents. Therefore, the choice should be yours.”
Mary narrowed her eyes, his sudden change of heart somehow making her even angrier. “It should be,” she agreed. “But that’s not what you said earlier today. How do I know you’re not just trying to trick me? Get me to let my guard down so you can get rid of Pettigrew, so I won’t be able to prove Black is innocent?”
Hermione gasped quietly, probably at her having the guts to accuse Snape to his face of planning to murder someone. She thought Remus might scold her—they were both professors, after all—but the normal rules seemed to have been suspended today, because he only said, “I won’t allow that to happen.”
Mary ignored him. Remus was a good Defense professor, but if Snape wanted to get the box away from him and kill Pettigrew, he could. Easily.
She expected Snape to say something, to try to talk his way out of it—confuse her, manipulate her, like he always did. Instead, he pulled out his wand and held it to his heart.
“I, Severus Snape, swear on my magic that I will not kill Peter Pettigrew, or take any other action which will diminish his usefulness as evidence of Sirius Black’s… innocence unless necessary to protect myself or others, or unless given express permission by Mary Elizabeth Potter.”
Remus shot him an uncomfortable look, probably at the implication that he would kill Pettigrew if Mary asked him to. And it didn’t escape her attention that he hadn’t said anything that would prevent him from hurting Pettigrew as long as it didn’t interfere with clearing Black’s name, but honestly, she didn’t care about that. She was too busy being absolutely stunned.
“Furthermore, I will act to the best of my abilities to assist in clearing Sirius Black of the criminal charges against him in Magical Britain so long as Miss Potter wishes me to do so. Twice and thrice-sworn in the eyes of Magic and my… allies, on my magic, I swear it.”
She watched with wide eyes as a flash of light emerged from his wand, splitting into two. One went into his forehead—the other flew across the desk and into her own, making her shiver at the strange and unfamiliar feeling of it dissipating under her skin.
“Will that suffice?” Snape asked, ignoring the way everyone in the room was staring in shock at the sight of him vowing to help Sirius Black on pain of being made a squib.
“Yeah,” Mary said dumbly, unable to get any other words out.
“What the hell?” the twin sitting closer to her muttered.
“Was that really necessary?” Remus asked, looking a little annoyed by the drama of it all—and maybe a little shaken underneath that, shocked just as Mary was by the intensity with which Snape had made the vow to her, or the fact that he’d made it at all.
Snape ignored him. “Now that I have made this vow, I would suggest that I hold onto Pettigrew for the moment, so long as Miss Potter agrees.” Before Remus could argue, he added, “No offense, Lupin,” in a tone which implied quite a bit of offense, “but I don’t trust that you will be able to resist the urge to question your former friend about his betrayal.”
And if Remus did that, Pettigrew might escape—or Remus might lose his temper and hurt him, as hard as that was to imagine. Mary wondered for a second, with what was maybe an unreasonable level of paranoia, whether Snape was still trying to trick her, had somehow faked the vow or hidden some loophole in it that she’d missed—but, no. She’d felt it take hold. She might not trust him, but she trusted magic.
“Why don’t we give him to Dumbledore instead?” Remus suggested, and Mary had to suppress a groan. “I think we should tell him about this as soon as possible.”
Looking as though he wanted to roll his eyes, Snape said, “Imagine for a moment, Lupin, that the DLE somehow discovers Pettigrew’s presence at this school, and that he is being held captive by the Headmaster of Hogwarts himself. What do you expect would be the outcome of such a situation?” Before Remus could respond, he continued, “In the event that we are discovered, it will be in everyone’s best interests for Dumbledore to be able to honestly say that he knew nothing of this.”
Mary was pretty sure he was just coming up with an excuse because he, like her, didn’t want to deal with Dumbledore meddling in the situation, but that was fine with her. If she’d had to come up with an argument against Remus’s idea, it would have been much less convincing and more along the lines of, I don’t want to because I don’t like Dumbledore and I think he’ll make everything worse.
“Snape can keep him,” she interjected, ending the argument—if she was in charge of Pettigrew, she might as well use that power. “And I don’t want to tell Dumbledore, either. Snape’s right, it’s better for him if he doesn’t know. At least while Pettigrew is in the castle.”
She trusted Remus’s intentions, but the fact was, between the two of them, Snape was the one she’d expect to be able to hide an animagus inside the castle without letting him escape or getting caught, and the vow he’d sworn meant she could trust him with Pettigrew.
It was a relief, actually, to not have to wonder whether to believe him for once. Maybe she should make him swear a vow not to lie to her anymore or something—not that he would agree to that. She didn’t even know why he was helping clear Black’s name—he seemed to be dodging the question of what had changed his mind, even while going out of his way to prove that the change was genuine.
“If you’re sure,” Remus said, a little reproachfully, and despite wanting to be on his side, she couldn’t help but think that he was out of his depth with them. This was hardly the first situation that she and Snape (and Hermione, and even the twins) had dealt with together, and she wasn’t used to having an outsider around saying useless things like ‘Why don’t we tell Dumbledore?’ or ‘Was that spell even legal?’ She’d say it was because he wasn’t a Slytherin, but neither were Hermione and the twins, and they, at least, had their priorities in check.
Case in point: when Snape turned to them and asked, “I trust that the three of you will not mention the events of today to anyone not currently in this room?” they immediately nodded. After the Chamber incident, Mary thought, they knew how things worked.
Which was why it was a surprise when Hermione then said, “Actually, wait, no. I think we should tell my mum.” They all turned to stare at her, and she added, “This is the sort of thing she’s really good at. You all saw what she did with getting Binns replaced. And she and Mrs. Tonks already have a working relationship.”
Mary couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of Hermione wanting to involve her mum in something for a change. Maybe she really had grown up.
After a moment of consideration, Snape said, “Do not put anything in writing. Contact your mother and ask her to arrange a meeting with Mrs. Tonks at her earliest convenience. Lupin or myself will meet with them and explain the situation.”
“What about Black?” Mary asked, because that was the biggest thing they were missing.
“It would be best for us to find him and get him away from here as quickly as possible,” Remus said, and she was glad he was finally contributing something rather than starting arguments. “Depending on what Mrs. Tonks advises, he might want to leave the country until we can get him a trial.”
“But how are we going to find him?” It wasn’t like everyone hadn’t already been looking.
“I don’t know,” Remus admitted.
“I will look into it,” Snape added, which was Snape-Speak for, ‘I don’t know either.’
Mary sighed in disappointment, but she hadn’t really expected anything else. At least they had Pettigrew now—at that thought, she shot a hateful glare at the box as though he might somehow feel the force of her anger even in his suspended state.
Hermione had more questions, of course, and even the twins—who still were freaking out a bit over the fact that Pettigrew had been their family pet this whole time—but Mary found she was talked out, allowing herself to lapse into silence as she let the rest of them discuss what had happened, and what was to be done. She sat back in her chair, exhausted, and just watched them. Now and then, she noticed Snape’s eyes on her and pointedly did not look at him.
Honestly, she had no idea what to say, or what to think about Snape, or how to deal with the way he was acting. Not openly begging her forgiveness or anything, but there was a sort of weird, quiet apologetic quality to him: the way he just sat there, watching her and offering to do whatever she wanted.
She wanted to believe that she wouldn’t forgive him, but she could already feel herself wanting to, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t even apologized (just showed up out of nowhere, saved her life, and obliquely offered to murder someone for her, revealing in the process that he’d put a permanent tracker on her without even telling her). But that was stupid; even if he apologized, she wasn’t making the same mistake twice. She knew better than that.
The best thing, she thought, would be to just ignore the question of Snape for now, until things were less… like this. In the span of a single day, she had found out that she had been hating the wrong man all year, and that Snape had been lying to her, and that the real traitor had been living in the castle with her for years, then tracked him down, only to nearly get herself and Hermione (and the twins) killed, then had Snape and Remus show up out of nowhere to save them and capture the murderer. It was just… too much.
And ignoring the fact that Mary didn’t know what to say to Snape in general, there was also the fact that anything she might think to say to him, whether it was about how she still didn’t trust him, or about how she might actually want him to hurt Pettigrew a bit, wasn’t sometime she could say in front of Remus, Hermione, and the twins. Remus was already making things more difficult than they needed to be, and no matter how angry she was with Snape, she didn’t really want Remus sticking his nose in the middle of their issues. For that matter, if he was going to apologize, she knew instinctively that he’d never do so in front of other people—especially not Remus, who was basically his enemy, even if he’d referred to him as an ally when he’d made the vow.
So she sat there, listening to the students’ questions and the professors’ answers and trying not to think about Snape—a difficult thing to do when he was right there, looking at her—until it was nearly curfew and Remus, still playing the responsible adult, told them they ought to return to their rooms. “We can talk about this more over the next few days,” he said. “There’s no rush, now that we’ve got… Pettigrew.”
“Right,” Mary said, grateful for the reprieve, getting out of her chair as quickly as she could without making it obvious that she’d been wanting to leave for the past half hour. “Thank you, Professors,” she said a bit stiffly, remembering her manners at last.
Remus remained behind as the students stepped out into the empty corridor, maybe to resume his argument with Snape, or to start a new one about saying Black deserved to rot in Azkaban; in the second before they door closed behind them, she heard him starting to say something, his voice raised.
Then the door latched, and Snape’s privacy wards cut the sound off completely, leaving the students in silence. For a moment, the four of them just looked at each other, and it struck her suddenly how strange it was that she kept ending up in mortal danger alongside the bloody Weasley twins, of all people. She didn’t even like them.
“Well,” one of the twins said at last. “It’s been fun.”
“And by that we mean horrifying,” his brother added. “Can’t believe we’re saying this, but you two might want to think about being a bit less adventurous.”
“Or, at least, not dragging us into it next time.”
Hermione rolled her eyes with a sort of fond exasperation. “Like you idiots would ever let me do something dangerous without you.”
“Not saying that.”
“Just saying—”
“—have you considered playing Exploding Snap instead?”
“Wizard chess?”
“Dragon-taming?”
“What we’re saying is, you need safer hobbies, Firecracker.”
“Maybe just stick to those books of yours for a while.”
A surprisingly wicked grin spread across Hermione’s face. “Why, boys,” she said. “Are you volunteering to join me in the library?”
Before they could protest, Hermione had linked arms with each of the twins and begun dragging them off down the hallway, chattering excitedly about the OWLs revising schedule she’d apparently already created for them. Mary watched them go, thinking that after today, she almost understood their friendship. At least, she knew that the twins had been ready to do anything necessary to save Hermione, and that was good enough for her.
She’d just turned to head for the staircase that would take her down to the lower dungeon level when Snape’s office door opened again. Immediately, she bristled, not feeling ready to deal with him quite yet, but it was Remus who slipped out and said, “Oh, good, you’re still here.”
Er… “Yes?” she said. “I was just about to go downstairs.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
Mary had no idea what was going on, but obviously she wasn’t going to be rude and say no, so she quietly fell into step with Remus as they made their way to the staircase. She didn’t think this was, like, one of those ‘Mary can’t be alone or she’ll get kidnapped’ things, since Pettigrew was captured, which meant he probably wanted to talk to her about something. Snape? Pettigrew? Black? But they shouldn’t say too much, not out in the open like this—even he should know better than that.
“It’s been a wild day, hasn’t it?” Remus asked conversationally, just as she was about to lose her patience and ask what he wanted. “I still haven’t really wrapped my head around it.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, more tersely than she’d meant to. It wasn’t that she didn’t know that Remus must be having a hard time with it all, or that she didn’t understand why he might want to talk about it. She was just tired. Tired of talking, of thinking, of dealing with other people.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, just as she’d expected him to, and she thought, somewhat uncharitably, So he’s finally getting to the point.
“Don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “It’s been a long day. Haven’t really thought about it much yet.”
“I understand,” he said quietly. For a moment, the only sound was their shoes tapping against the stone floor of the dungeon corridor. Then he sighed and said, “Mary, I know you must be feeling—”
Mary stopped walking abruptly. “Remus, I don’t want to be rude,” she said, as patiently as she could, “but I don’t really want to talk about this right now. I just want to go to bed.”
Under his tired smile, she saw well concealed hurt, and felt a little guilty that she didn’t have the energy to be nicer to him—but underneath that, she felt angry. She was tired of them, of him and Snape both. Maybe it wasn’t fair, punishing him for what Snape had done, but… in some ways, they were kind of the same. Both of them… She wasn’t sure how to put it.
It was just that her relationships with them, far more than even her relationship with Aunt Minnie, seemed to demand her emotional energy, leaving her—at least in this moment—completely drained. Sometimes they seemed so mature, and other times, they were almost like children playing tug of war over her. Getting their feelings hurt when she picked one of them over the other, even if they tried not to show it. Wanting her to be more like her dad, or less like him, or to respect his memory, or to reject it.
Remus hid it well, but she could still feel it underneath the surface of their interactions sometimes. This weird neediness for her to see him as, like, an uncle or something, even though she had barely even known him until this year. The way he was always prying, ever-so-gently, trying to get her to confide in him—but it wasn’t about her, not really, it was about him feeling good about himself.
Or maybe she was just angry with Snape, and her foul mood was being unfairly directed at Remus. She didn’t know, and she was tired of trying to figure out what she felt and why. She was tired of people looking at her, wanting things from her, trying to pretend they didn’t. Asking her how she felt when telling them wouldn’t make her feel any better, when it was just for them. What would make her feel better would be some fucking sleep, and at least a few hours where she didn’t have to deal with them.
“Of course,” he said, putting on that kind, understanding expression of his. “Get some rest, Mary. And if you want to talk—not just about what happened today, but anything at all—you know my door is always open.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Thanks. Goodnight, Remus.”
He hesitated, but she didn’t. She turned to the nearest entrance to the Slytherin tunnels—it looked like a blank stretch of wall, but the ouroboros up by the ceiling meant it was one of the secret paths to the common room—hissed <Open,> and stepped into the dark. The wall slid closed behind her—keeping out the outsiders, as it was built to do—and she was left in blessed silence.
The tunnels took her straight to the third year girls’ junction, and all her yearmates had already gone to bed, which meant she didn’t have to see anyone else that night. Thank fucking Merlin.
Back in her room at last, Mary leaned against her closed door, covered her face with her hands, and laughed, because, what else was she going to do? It felt like a million years had passed since she’d woken up that morning. She felt like a different person. Older.
When she was changed into her pajamas and settled into bed, she tried to cast her Patronus, just like she had every night since the end of March. Only this time, it didn’t come. She couldn’t say that she was surprised—some part of her had probably known already, but had tried to cast the spell anyway, if only out of habit. Because the feeling in the memory—the feeling of safety, of absolute trust—belonged to someone else. Someone that wasn’t her anymore.
This was why she couldn’t just forgive Snape, even if he apologized—even if she wanted to. He had jumped into trying to fix his betrayal more quickly than she would have ever expected, had made what she knew was a significant gesture in vowing to help clear Black’s name for her, even if he hadn’t said that was what he was doing. But that couldn’t erase what he’d done.
In some ways, she felt like he had broken her. Or part of her, at least—the part that was still capable of trusting someone as completely as she had trusted him at the start of this day. She wasn’t sure that she could get that part of herself back. Wasn’t sure if she wanted it back, now that she had been shown what she ought to have known all along: that it wasn’t safe, or smart, to trust anyone the way she’d trusted him. Blindly.
He’d tried to tell her, she realized. All the way back in September, after the poison detention, he’d said, “I cannot claim to be the person you believed I was.” And, “It was foolish of you to believe the best of me.” He’d also said that he wished that he could be that person, but Mary should have known that wishing for something didn’t make it so.
She didn’t think she hated him. Not entirely. And maybe, if he actually apologized, she might forgive him eventually. But that didn’t mean that the faith she’d had in him could come back—not now, and maybe not ever.
Mary tried to convince herself that it was better this way. That it was safer, smarter, more Slytherin. That it was part of growing up—leaving behind the child that had wanted to hide behind Snape’s back and believe that he’d take care of her.
But it was hard to sleep without the stag there to watch over her. Her room felt colder without him, gloomier, and she felt very small and very alone.
Notes:
Thank you guys for all the nice comments on the last chapter! That, plus hitting 75 kudos and ARightFarPiece asking for it, made me decide to post an extra chapter this week. Next chapter will still be this weekend.
Chapter 32: A Look Behind the Curtain
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In the morning, Mary felt at least a little less angsty, less prone to sitting in her bed and feeling sorry for herself. There was no point to it, anyway. She had to get up and go to class, no matter what had happened the day before. No matter that they still didn’t know what they were going to do with Pettigrew, or how they would find Black.
Besides that, she was just tired of thinking about Snape, whether with hurt or anger or whatever else. Tired of going back and forth on him, tired of changing her mind so completely.
It was strange how normal everything was: going to classes and meals, seeing Hermione and the twins and Remus and Snape in passing and acting like none of it had happened, like they weren’t hiding a killer under the noses of everyone in the school.
When necessary, they passed bits of information back and forth—like Remus keeping her after class on Wednesday to tell her he’d be meeting with Emma and Mrs. Tonks that weekend, or Hermione pulling her into an empty classroom to say she’d tried questioning Luna on where Black was and how she’d spoken to him, but had only determined that he was ‘lost’ somewhere dark, which might have been a metaphor. Most of the time, though, they just… went about their days, played their respective parts.
Remus and Snape were both giving her space, at least. Remus probably because she’d dodged his attempt to talk to her after the whole thing with Pettigrew, and Snape for his mysterious Snape reasons. That, or they were both just really busy with trying to figure out how they’d find Black and clear his name, on top of teaching and everything. Either way, neither of them had tried to make her talk to them about everything that had happened, which she appreciated.
And yet, despite not wanting to think about things—despite wanting a bloody break from it all—she found she couldn’t quite help herself.
Maybe it was just having so much free time. With the final Quidditch match of the year over, practices had been reduced to three hours on Sunday mornings, more for fun than anything. She wasn’t meeting with Snape or Remus anymore, and Lilian still wasn’t talking to them (probably for the best, as she wasn’t sure how well she and Hermione would have been able to keep the secret from her). Part of her felt like she should be doing something to help with the Black situation, but there wasn’t much she could do, so she just went to class, studied in the library with Hermione, and tried and failed not to think about Snape.
There was just so much to get her head around, and without any closure—without knowing why he’d done it, or why he’d changed his mind—it all just… niggled at her. A month ago, she had been thinking that she might have some sort of unrequited (platonic) love for him, as evidenced by her Patronus. Then, less than a week ago, she had found out what he had done to Black, and she had hated him. And she was still so angry. He had lied to her, for years, simply because he had a grudge against Black.
It wasn’t like what Black had done to Snape wasn’t horrible, or that he wasn’t a shite person, if Snape’s stories about him were to believed. But that didn’t make it any better, not when Mary had finally been starting to believe that Snape actually cared about her. To find that he would put his desire for revenge over being honest with her about something that important had crushed her.
On the other hand, he had saved her from Pettigrew, let her decide what was to be done with him, vowed to help clear Black’s name without even being asked, and had even put aside his animosity towards Remus long enough for the two of them to work together. The saving her life thing, she could understand—she’d never really questioned his commitment to keeping her alive, even when she’d been questioning everything else—but the rest of it? She couldn’t think of any explanation other than this: he was trying to make it up to her. He hadn’t said so, hadn’t apologized, hadn’t even tried to talk to her, but for whatever reason, he seemed to be doing everything he could to fix his mistake.
The idea that he might have done all that, changed on a dime, just for her, was… overwhelming. Like after the poison detention, when he’d said all that stuff about wanting her to have someone she could count on, it made her left feeling half pleased, half like she wanted to run away from the weight of his attention. She didn’t know how many more times he could do this: make her hate him and then win her back over with some big gesture or confession. She didn’t know why he seemed to care so much what she thought of him—or, if he did, why he kept hurting her anyway.
Looking back on that mad day she’d found out the truth, she thought that all of them—Remus, Hermione, the twins—had probably picked up on the fact that Snape was doing that stuff for her, to win her forgiveness, and that made her feel somehow uncomfortable too, like something hidden was being dragged out into the light for everyone to gawk at. It wasn’t like Hermione and Remus, at least, didn’t know that she had been spending time with him on a regular basis, or that she had seen him as her godfather, or that he’d freaked out when she’d gotten in that honor duel, but she hadn’t told them (or anyone) about the stuff he’d said about caring about her and wanting to protect her. He hadn’t said that was a secret, but it had felt like one anyway—or maybe she’d just wanted it to be one.
Like on the train at the start of the year, when Lilian had asked her when on earth Snape had talked to her about his feelings, and Ginny had insisted that he didn’t have any. Mary had liked that side of Snape being hers alone—being able to see something that other people would have thought didn’t even exist. So having everyone see them fighting that day, knowing that she was angry with him and that he was going out of his way to make it up to her, had made her feel uncomfortably exposed, almost embarrassed. As had the way Remus had looked back and forth between them when Snape had basically implied he would hurt Pettigrew if she wanted him to.
Looking back on that day, some of her irritation, she thought, hadn’t been because of Snape—it had been because of the rest of them. Some part of her had spent that whole conversation in his office wishing they’d all just disappear so she and Snape could deal with things in private, like they always had—except she shouldn’t want that, because there was no ‘Mary and Snape.’ Not after what he’d done. The way she’d gotten used to them being, like, hidden in their own little world was just another thing she was going to have to learn to do without.
So she didn’t go to talk to him that whole first week after finding Pettigrew, despite thinking about him every day, her confusion and anger like a scab she couldn’t help but pick at. She wanted to talk to him, but she didn’t want to want to talk to him. Didn’t want to even think about him. Didn’t want other people, like Hermione and Remus, looking at her and thinking about her and Snape, and how much she’d trusted him, defended him, and how he’d made a fool of her. Or even thinking that he cared about her, that he had done all that stuff for her, because—that was a lot of pressure even without people knowing.
Especially because it was all wrapped up in her feelings—how attached she’d been to him, how much she’d trusted him, how she’d thought she might love him (like a father)—and she didn’t really want people knowing about that, either.
There were other things to think about as well. Like Sirius Black, and how she might meet him. Her godfather. That was confusing and stressful too, because everything she’d heard about him made him sound awful. It had been so easy to believe that he was the traitor, the way that Snape and Remus had talked about him. Only now, she had to wonder how much of that had been true, and how much had been Snape trying to make her hate him, or Remus trying to convince himself to hate his old friend.
Or maybe he was just genuinely awful. That could be the case, too. Maybe she had a godfather who wasn’t a traitor, or a murderer, but just a stupid bully. Wouldn’t that be just her luck? She could be zero-for-two on godfathers.
On the other hand, Black was a lot older now, and he’d been with the dementors for twelve years. Mary had only been around them a few minutes at a time, so she had no idea how he had withstood it. Maybe the years, and the awfulness of Azkaban and the dementors, had changed him, made him a better person. Or maybe they’d just driven him mad—after all, this was a man who’d spent the past eight months trying to break into Hogwarts to kill a rat—one who, traitor or not, didn’t seem to actually be doing anything other than hiding with the Weasleys. That didn’t exactly seem like a mark of sanity.
Finally, Mary decided that nothing but time was going to answer her questions. Hopefully she’d be able to meet Black soon and see for herself what kind of person he was, rather than trusting Snape or Remus to tell her the truth about him. She almost wanted to go to Remus, to ask what Black had really been like, but she knew that if he said good things about him, after having spent the entire time she’d known him saying that Black was awful and he ought to have known, she’d just believe him even less, because it would mean he could make himself believe anything.
And then there was Snape.
It took her over a week to decide to talk to him. For her curiosity, her compulsive need to know, to overcome the part of her that wanted to just be done with him once and for all—to be certain that he’d never disappoint her again.
But she did need to know. Why he’d done it, and whether he regretted it, and how much of it—of their entire relationship, everything he’d said and done—had been a lie. So she made up her mind: she’d talk to him. She wasn’t going to trust him again, or believe everything he said—she wasn’t that big of a fool. But she would give him a chance, at least, to explain himself, and to convince her not to hate him. One more chance.
Snape’s office door swung open immediately upon the slightest touch of her knuckles, like he’d been waiting for her, despite basically ignoring her for the past week, and that felt like pressure too, just as much as his eyes on her during the meeting in his office. But his voice was steady, almost casual, as he said, “Miss Potter, come in.”
Entering the office and taking the offered seat—in front of his desk, not in the armchairs they used to sit in when they talked—Mary examined his face. He looked uncertain. Good. He should be.
She wondered for a moment, like an idiot, whether she should be offended that he was calling her ‘Miss Potter’ again, even though no one was around. Did that mean he didn’t want to be informal with her anymore? Had she made him regret his offer? She tried to tell herself that that would be a good thing, that there was no reason to feel guilty and sad about the idea of him deciding it was too much trouble to go on pretending to be her godfather. But it didn’t quite work.
Or maybe, she thought, it was the other way around. Maybe this was more of the—whatever one would call the way he’d been acting the day they’d caught Pettigrew. Not groveling, exactly, but as close as she thought someone like Snape could get. Contriteness? Anyway, maybe he was, like, trying too hard to be polite to her, to not presume that she’d still want to be informal with him? Which he should be, and she shouldn’t feel sad about that either.
She wasn’t sad, not at all. She was angry.
Finally, raising an eyebrow, he began, “Was there something you—”
“I thought you might want to explain yourself,” she said, cutting him off with an unimpressed glare.
His lips twitched at that, which she supposed was better than simply throwing her out for her audacity, but still infuriating. He was an arsehole, and she was angry with him. It wasn’t funny at all.
“Almost everything you said to me the other day, in your anger, was correct,” he told her, and despite herself, she was surprised. Despite his weird not-groveling, she hadn’t expected him to just come out and admit it. “In hiding the truth from you, I failed to keep your best interests in mind, and I betrayed your trust, breaking my vow to you. You were correct when you said that I should have understood that your trust was not easily won, and I should not have taken it lightly.”
“Oh.”
Mary didn’t know how to respond to that. It was really hard to tell him off when he just went and bloody agreed with everything she said! And it sounded rehearsed, like he’d been practicing, just waiting for her to decide she was ready to hear it. She found herself getting even angrier with him for, of all things, being reasonable. It would be way easier for her if he would just decide whether or not to be a total bastard, instead of doing awful things and then turning around and saying stuff like this.
Finally, folding her arms over her chest, she said, “That doesn’t fix anything. Whatever you say, even if you help clear Black’s name, you still did it.”
“I understand.” His calm acceptance of her anger only inflamed her further.
“Why did you do it?” she couldn’t help but ask, even as part of her was shouting, Don’t give him another chance to trick you!
Snape sighed, steepling his hands together on the table in front of him. “Understand that my decision not to share the truth about Black and Pettigrew was made when you were an infant. By the time at which I made my vow to you, it would not have been easy for me to reverse that decision, nor did I expect you to easily forgive the fact that I had made it in the first place. I supposed I was rather craven, hoping that the matter would resolve itself without your ever finding out.”
“By ‘resolve itself,’ you mean he would’ve had his soul sucked out by a dementor, or been dragged back to Azkaban, or, like, executed?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t even seem ashamed! Mary glared at him. “That’s horrible. I know you hate him, but—”
“I never claimed to be a good man, Miss Potter.”
“That’s not an excuse. Why don’t you be better, then?”
“I am not interested in becoming someone who could simply forgive Sirius Black, whatever you might think of me. However, I will endeavor to be honest with you in the future, and to seek to rectify my mistake, even if it means helping him. Black is vile, and I still believe that you would be better off without him, but you deserve to meet him and decide that for yourself. And if he is to be part of your life, I will do my best to tolerate his existence.”
Despite herself, Mary softened at that. Still, she was more than a little exhausted at having to constantly revise her opinion of Snape. She wished he would just decide whether he was going to be horrible or not, so she could figure out whether to trust him. “It’s not that simple,” she said. “You can’t just erase what you did by trying to help him. I don’t know if I can trust you anymore.”
He nodded slightly, suddenly looking very tired. “I am well aware of that, but I owe it to you nonetheless. If after this you choose to have nothing more to do with me beyond being a student in my House, and if you choose to see Black as your godfather instead, I will respect that.”
“You know I can have more than one godfather, right?” she asked, suddenly wondering how much of this whole stupid situation was just about him being afraid she’d choose Black over him. She was more mature than that, and she was thirteen.
“Regardless, it is up to you to decide.”
“Yeah, it is,” she agreed, though it came out more sullen than she’d meant it to. “It should have been from the start, you know. If he’s really that awful, you could have just told me that. And, I don’t know, trusted me to use my judgment.”
“It is my experience,” Snape said, “that even those who are meant to have judgment surpassing that of a teenage girl give Black entirely too much benefit of the doubt.”
For a second, Mary softened, thinking about how Remus had stayed friends with Black even after the ‘prank,’ and he hadn’t even been expelled or anything, but then she clenched her jaw. Because that was Snape’s issue, and him projecting his trust issues from decades ago onto her when he was meant to be an adult was ridiculous.
“And you thought I’d do that?” she demanded. “I—I was just telling you not that long ago that I kind of wished James Potter hadn’t been my father at all because of how he’d treated you. I told Remus off over it, too. You think I would have just forgotten all that as soon as I met Black?”
She had been on his side. Like, completely and blindly. Even Remus had been able to see that. If he’d just given her a chance…
Snape just looked at her, didn’t say anything, which she was pretty sure meant yes, he had thought that. What an idiot. She’d trusted him completely, but he hadn’t trusted her, so he’d gone and ruined everything when he could have just talked to her.
And now, she was left wondering, “How much of it was true, anyway? The things you told me about Black, and James, and Lily? How much of it was true, and how much of it was you wanting me to, to hate them—Black and James—and to… I don’t know.” She wasn’t even sure what he’d gain from lying to her about Lily. She wasn’t sure why she was even asking him this, when it wasn’t like she could even believe he wasn’t just going to lie to her again.
“I… did not purposefully deceive you about any of them,” Snape said carefully. “Other than when you asked whether Black had been a Death Eater. Even when I warned you away from him, telling you that he was a danger to you, I was not lying—there is no telling his mental state after the years in Azkaban, and I genuinely feared that he might decide to take you captive in a mad attempt to ‘protect’ you. However… that does not mean that what I told you about them was the objective truth.”
“What does that even mean?” she complained. “I never understand you.”
Snape sighed, though he looked less annoyed than she would have expected at her impatience. “It means that you would like for things to be simple: either I am telling the truth and you ought to take it as fact, or I am purposefully deceiving you. I told you what was true for myself—the Black, Potter, and Lily whom I knew. I attempted to warn you that I was not an unbiased source of truth when it came to any of them, but perhaps I did not do so strongly enough.”
“Do you want me to believe you or not?!” she burst out, losing her temper.
“It is not about what I want,” he said quietly. “You must learn eventually, Mar—Miss Potter, not to take anyone’s word as fact when it comes to things which you cannot confirm with your own eyes.”
Gods and Powers, she was starting to hate him, her head aching as she tried to process his words. Maybe he was right: she did want things to be simple. Was that so wrong? She didn’t know how to respond to him telling her things, and saying that he wasn’t lying, but she shouldn’t believe him, either. On some level, what he was saying sounded obvious—that he could only tell her his own thoughts about her parents, and not the whole, objective truth—but she still kind of hated it. It had been better when he’d just told her things and she hadn’t had to question them.
“Stop calling me that.”
“What?”
She’d hardly realized she’d spoken at all until she heard his response. When she did, though, she continued, “Stop calling me ‘Miss Potter.’ It’s… weird.”
Snape paused for a moment before saying, “Alright.” There wasn’t much of any emotion in his voice, but she prickled at it all the same.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she insisted. “I’m just not used to it anymore.”
“Alright.”
Mary tried to hold onto her anger, but couldn’t seem to muster up the energy. She was just tired of it all. “Can I ask you something?” When Snape nodded, she continued, “Did Lily hate you? For becoming a Death Eater? It’s only… Remus made it sound like she did. He said that she never would have made you my godfather.”
Snape was silent for a moment, and she started to fear the worst, but then he said, “If I am to tell you this, you must promise that you will not repeat it. At least, not to Lupin, nor Minerva, nor anyone else associated with Dumbledore’s Order. You have a tendency, when you are angry, to lose your head and speak without thinking. I do not want you blurting this information out in the middle of your next disagreement with Lupin.”
For a second, she felt offended, but then she forced herself to consider what he’d said and had to admit he had a point. If Remus was wrong about Snape, and he kept on insisting on it, telling her that Snape was a big scary Death Eater who couldn’t be trusted, she could see herself losing her temper and telling him just how wrong he was.
“I promise,” she said. “I’ll—do you want me to make a vow?”
“No,” Snape said quickly. “That will do.” He pressed his fingertips together and looked at her for a long moment. “Lupin believes, as many people do, that Lily hated me during the final years of her life. They believe that because Lily and I went to great pains to make them believe it.”
Mary wasn’t sure what she’d expected, what she’d thought the Big Secret was, but it hadn’t been that. “What do you mean?” she finally asked. “Why would you do that?”
“Safety,” Snape said. “Hers and mine.” He took in a slow breath, eyes shifting somehow, going somewhere far away—somewhere she couldn’t follow.
“You must understand what it was like at Hogwarts in those years. During her time at the school—which ended three years before we arrived—Bellatrix Black and her friend Mirabella Zabini achieved utter dominance of Slytherin House. It was theirs—and, as Bellatrix grew more involved with the Death Eaters, it became their primary recruiting ground for the children of the nobility.
“This persisted even after the Blackheart’s graduation, and by the time Lily and I began school, Hogwarts was utterly polarized—much more so than even today. If you were in Slytherin, you were Dark—and if you were Dark, you were expected to align yourself with the aspiring Death Eaters in the House or face the consequences.
“If you were muggleborn, however, there was no place for you among the Slytherins—not even that begrudging acceptance which Mr. Rhees has been awarded. Even if your personality or… politics might have been better suited to the Dark, you would never find acceptance there, and thus had only one true option: to align yourself with the Light, and with it Albus Dumbledore, who recruited among the schoolchildren for his Order just as Bellatrix had recruited for the Death Eaters, or else were left without support, unprotected from the Darker half of the school.
“Lily, I believe, could have belonged in either Gryffindor or Slytherin, but the latter was not an option, not with her blood status. If we had only known then that she was a halfblood—never mind who her father had been—then the entire tragedy might have been avoided. However, we did not, and so she went to Gryffindor, and I to Slytherin. But we were stubborn, unwilling to give each other up, no matter that our being friends prevented either of us from being fully accepted by our respective Houses.
“Among my fellow Slytherins, those closest to Bellatrix—and through her, the Dark Lord—had the highest standing. In particular, Narcissa and Regulus Black in the years above and below me, respectively—the Blackheart’s sister and cousin. Regulus, in particular, was ambitious. He wanted more than anything to impress his cousin, and to secure himself a spot in the Dark Lord’s ranks before his graduation. He took up the mantle of recruiting among the Slytherins, carrying on the Blackheart’s legacy.
“In our fifth year, he set his sights on me as a potential target for recruitment—an offering to bring to Bellatrix to win her favor. A young halfblood, talented in potions and the mind arts, with few other options but the one they offered me.
“When I proved reluctant, he realized that I had a weakness to be exploited. Specifically, Lily.”
“They hurt her?” Mary asked quietly, feeling lulled almost into a trance by the picture he painted of those days, of what must have been a horrible time in his life.
“They tried, yes. They exerted pressure on me by targeting her. In truth, I believe she was more angry than frightened. She had always protected me, ever since we were children, and it infuriated her to be made a liability to me.”
Mary was struck by the idea of that—of Lily protecting Snape—but she didn’t comment on it. She was trying to remember that the Snape she’d looked up to—the one who always told her the truth, and who wasn’t frightened of anything—was a character she’d invented. The person sitting in front of her was someone else entirely, and she didn’t really know him at all.
“Meanwhile, Lily found herself faced with a choice: remain her authentic self or find protection and support among the Light. She began crafting an… image for herself. Prefect Evans, the model muggleborn. Prefect Evans did not speak to the Powers, or sneak away to the Anonymous Bookshop in Knockturn Alley under an aging potion, or curse her fellow students into the hospital wing. Prefect Evans would not have been friends with someone like myself—someone so obviously Dark. And yet, she could not bring herself to give me up. Maybe out of loyalty, or stubbornness, or because she didn’t think she could stand having no one that knew her true self.”
“So… you pretended not to be friends? Like she pretended to be Prefect Evans?”
Snape gave her a small, humorless smile. “At the end of our fifth year, we got into a rather nasty and public fight. That was no act—Lily was genuinely furious with me, though not for the reasons others might have thought. She did not speak to me for the entire summer following our fifth year.
“When we returned to Hogwarts, however, we reconciled—but we decided that it was too dangerous to continue our association publicly. Our friendship was a liability for both of us, making our lives far more difficult than they already were. It was easier for us, and easier for others to accept, if we acted as they expected of us: the aspiring young Death Eater and the model muggleborn.”
Mary took a moment, turning this new information over in her head. If it was true—and she had to remind herself that it might not be, no matter how much sense it made—it explained rather a lot about the way Remus, and Aunt Minnie, and everyone else who’d known them in those days talked about Snape and Lily.
“But you were secretly friends?” she asked. “Even when you actually became a Death Eater?”
After a pause, Snape shook his head, and she frowned. “We continued to meet in secret for a while, but it grew more and more difficult to hide, so we had to decrease the frequency of our meetings until we scarcely saw each other at all, except in passing. I was Marked over Yule of our seventh year, and Lily knew immediately that it meant the end of our friendship—whatever affection we held for each other, we had chosen our sides. In a sense, our masks, the act we put on for the others, had gradually become something like the truth.
“We only spoke once more after that, on our graduation day. We congratulated each other without feeling—like strangers. It… might have been the worst day of my life.” Despite his words, his eyes and voice were emotionless, and she wondered if he was occluding. “After that, we only saw each other across the battlefield.”
The main reaction Mary had to his story was to feel incredibly sad for him—for both of them. If it had been her and Hermione… she couldn’t imagine it. But she didn’t entirely understand, still. “So… you weren’t friends? Once you were a Death Eater? But she didn’t hate you, even though you joined them?”
“She… hated that I had joined them, but she did not hate me. When she saw the Mark on my arm for the first time, she cried. She said that she’d known it was coming, but hadn’t wanted to believe it. When we were younger, more optimistic, we had thought there would be more time. That we could wait them out, play our respective roles until graduation, and then escape. Go to America, perhaps—somewhere with more palatable choices for people like us. Then the Dark Lord began Marking students still in Hogwarts, and our time ran out.”
Mary frowned, still not understanding. Snape hadn’t wanted to be a Death Eater? “Why didn’t you run then? If you knew he was going to Mark you?”
He looked thoughtful, eyes flicking away from hers to rest on the wall. “I would have,” he said at last, “if Lily had wanted to. It would not have been easy: we had almost no money, no credentials, no connections. Still, I would have been willing to take our chances. But she had already gotten involved with the Order, made friends among them. She was not willing to leave them in the midst of a war. There was a reason, after all, that she had gone to Gryffindor.”
Mary wasn’t sure if she was imagining things, or if there was a small note of bitterness in Snape’s voice, like he thought Lily had chosen them over him when she’d decided to stay and fight.
“Then why not join the Order?” she asked. “You could have been on the same side.”
Snape let out a small laugh. “Because I hated Albus Dumbledore and everything he stood for.”
“More than the Dark Lord?”
“Yes,” he said, and the simplicity with which he said it took her aback. “You must understand that this was before Lily laid her tynged—her curse—on him. His followers, the Knights of Walpurgis—as they once called themselves—were… different in those days. Politically, my views were far more aligned with theirs than with Dumbledore’s. Their methods might have been distasteful to me, but I was young and angry and rather obsessed with the Dark Arts, and they offered me an… outlet. I was not altogether unwilling.”
She wanted to ask what had been different, and what political views he had agreed with, and what ‘methods’ he meant, and whether he still agreed more with the early Death Eaters’ politics than with Dumbledore’s. But if she did, he’d probably spend the next three hours explaining, and it would be interesting, but it wouldn’t answer her more pressing questions.
(Besides, she was pretty sure the answer to that last question was ‘Yes.’)
In any case, he had more to say. “There was also the fact that they were losing. I had no desire to tie myself to that sinking ship, even had they been willing to have me.”
It took her a moment to process this. “They—the Light was losing?”
With a look of dark amusement, he said, “It was obvious to anyone with half a brain in their head that Bellatrix and the Dark Lord were toying with them—with the Ministry, and the Order, and Dumbledore. Had they wanted to, they could have had the country in their hands within weeks, assuming that their opponents did not cave and call in the ICW.”
No one had told her anything like that before, even Catherine or the Slytherins. “What changed?”
“Lily.” At that, Snape actually smiled. “Even I underestimated her. I hadn’t guessed half of what she was capable of.”
“You mean the… the tynged?” she asked. “Or what she did to him the night she died?”
“Both of those things, but there was more. Throughout the entire course of the war, only two battles could be said to have ended in decisive victories for the Light. Perhaps three, if you count the slaughter at St. Mungo’s the summer of your birth, but most would say the cost was too high.
“No, the only occasions on which the Light truly got the better of our side were Imbolc and Samhain of 1979—the Battle of Artemis, and the Diagon Alley Massacre. I am not exaggerating when I say that Lily was—perhaps not singlehandedly responsible for those victories, but close to it. I was there, both times, and she was… awe-inspiring. Terrifying. I’d never seen anything like it. Without her, they would not have stood a chance.”
Mary was stunned into silence for a moment. She’d known, of course, that her mother had been a seriously impressive witch, but that was… “What did she do?”
Snape’s eyes were far away when he said, “That is a story for another day. Suffice it to say that the war would have ended much more quickly without Lily Evans on their side. Of course, given the damage wrought by the Dark Lord under the influence of her tynged, an argument can be made that this was not a good thing. Nevertheless, my seventeen-year-old self could not have predicted the role that she would play. I saw only that the Light was hopelessly outmatched and chose my side accordingly. I thought that, if we won, I could ensure that Lily, at least, was spared.”
That sounded very, well, Slytherin. She couldn’t bring herself to be surprised. Part of her still looked down on him for it—not for not joining the Order, but for joining the Dark Lord instead of finding a way to stay out of it altogether—but, well, like he said, he’d been young and hadn’t had much choice. In any case, it didn’t seem like he was going to tell her more about the war right now, or what had drawn him to the Death Eaters in the first place, so she decided to ask about something more immediately relevant.
“Why don’t you want me to tell anyone? I mean, I won’t, obviously I won’t,” she added quickly, before he could get annoyed, “but I don’t understand why. Lily’s dead—what does it matter if Remus finds out that she wasn’t as Light as she pretended to be, or that she didn’t actually hate you?”
Thankfully, he didn’t look annoyed by the question. “I turned on the Death Eaters when I was twenty, when the Dark Lord decided that the prophecy applied to Lily’s—to you.” Her eyes widened, but he didn’t seem to notice as he continued, “I went to Dumbledore and offered to spy for him in order to protect her. As you might imagine, he was rather reluctant to trust a Death Eater.
“At that time, what Lily liked to call the Great Charade came in useful. It made for a compelling narrative, and the Headmaster likes nothing better than a good story. The wretched young Death Eater who had come to repent, redeemed by his hopeless love for a Light witch far too good for him. It reinforced Lily’s image—one which was, by that time, beginning to show cracks—while also giving him an explanation for my change of heart.
“If I loved Prefect Evans—and through her, the Light—then I must have some goodness within my blackened heart. ‘Goodness’ as Dumbledore would define it, that is.”
“So… if he knew that Lily was kind of Dark, and that you were both fooling everyone, then he’d think you were just fooling him, too? And that you didn’t actually feel like you were wrong when you joined the Death Eaters? And that both of you, you and Lily, were only on his side because you didn’t have any other choice?”
“Something like that.”
Mary sat in silence for a moment, contemplating this, before saying, “That’s why you want him to think that your Patronus represents her. Or, I mean, that it’s a doe because you… loved her.”
“Precisely. As with Parallax and Quincey, my Patronus is Dumbledore’s proof that I am worthy of his trust.”
“Then…” It took her a moment to decide how to phrase the question. “You’re not on his side, are you? Dumbledore’s. Or the Dark Lord’s. You’re on… your own side.”
Not that she hadn’t always known that, on some level, but she’d never really put it into words before—the idea that, when Snape said he had been—was—a spy, he didn’t just mean among the Death Eaters. He was fooling everybody. If given the chance, he’d tear them all down.
Snape examined her for a moment before saying, “Mine… and yours. Whether or not you choose to continue our association, that will not change.”
Mary was hit with another of those pangs, that feeling that things with Snape were sometimes so serious, so much, compared to her relationships with… basically anyone else. In a way, it almost frightened her, the intensity of it.
She decided to ignore that comment, focusing instead on what he’d told her about Lily. She had to admit that his story made sense. It felt like it filled in cracks that she hadn’t even known were there. The things Snape had said about Lily in the past, the way that Pettigrew had looked at her and said ‘You’re Lily’s girl’ when she’d tried to trick him, it all fit.
But it could be a lie. She couldn’t let herself forget that. If Snape could pull off lying to Dumbledore for so long, letting him—and the Dark Lord and the Blackheart, when they were still around—believe he was on their side, that he wouldn’t be more than happy to see them all burn, then it would be even easier to fool a thirteen year old girl who desperately wanted to believe him.
“No one else knew?” It would be convenient for him if that were the case, if no one else could back up his story. No one alive, at least.
Snape frowned in thought. “Different people knew different things. Many of those who fought in the war—those two battles in particular, or at Moel Tŷ Uchaf, when she laid the tynged—could tell you that Lily was not what she appeared to be. Both among the Order and the Death Eaters. As for our continued association… No, no one else knew.”
She sighed, though she hadn’t really expected any different.
“Black suspected, however,” he went on. “He never believed the Prefect Evans act, and it drove him mad that Potter did. He was constantly watching us, looking for proof that we were still friends—something he could present to Potter to prove that Lily was not what he believed her to be.
“If, once we locate him, you were to ask him about her… he may or may not be truthful, depending on whether he feels the need to protect your image of her. And I do not know how their relationship evolved during the year. But unless I am very much mistaken, Black knows better than anyone else among the Light that Lily was not one of them, and he might be willing to admit it if pressed.
“Lily was always annoyed by it—the way that he refused to buy her act. Truthfully, I believe they were too similar.” Snape’s lips curled in distaste at the words. “Both joined the Light for ulterior motives, not because they were naturally aligned to it.”
Mary frowned in confusion. “Why’d Black join?”
“For Potter.”
Everything he said just raised new questions, but she thought she’d hit her limit—especially when she still wasn’t sure how much of what he said to believe. The past few weeks felt like some horrible fever dream, and she still needed time to process all of it.
“This was what you meant, then?” she asked. “When you said that your friendship with Lily was complicated and you didn’t think I’d understand the nuances?”
“The broad strokes.” When she frowned again, he explained, “I had originally intended—still intend, if you wish it—to someday tell you as much about Lily as you would like to know. To help you to know her as she—as I saw her, although I acknowledge I may have certain biases. To tell you more about the early Death Eaters, and the war, and how Lily and I came to play the roles in it that we did. There is enough to tell that it would keep us here long past your curfew if I were to try.”
“‘Someday,’” she repeated. “You won’t tell me now, even if I ask?”
Snape shook his head. Before she could ask why not, he explained, “Besides the fact that you still do not trust me—understandably so given the circumstances—you also have a mindset that is very black-and-white in some ways. Not surprising, given your age, but when it comes to, for instance, myself and Lupin, or Black, or your father, you always want to know whose side you ought to take. You want either myself or the three of them to be entirely trustworthy and blameless, and the other side to be irredeemable. You are not yet comfortable with nuance, or the idea that multiple perspectives can have truth to them—or that people are not all one thing or another.”
Mary scowled, even though she wasn’t entirely certain he was wrong. “So, I need to be less like that before you’ll tell me more about Lily?”
“Yes,” he said. Then, maybe realizing she still didn’t understand, he added, “It would be… disappointing if you were too preoccupied with judging Lily—trying to decide whether you approved or disapproved of her as a person—to understand her. There is plenty to judge; her actions during the war alone would cause many to revile her if they knew the truth. But it would be a disservice to her memory for her daughter to come away with such a simplistic image of her.”
Somehow, that made her feel strange. A little sad, and a little angry. Maybe it was just that he seemed to be treating a dead woman with more respect than he’d treated Mary, lying to her the way he had. Protecting Lily’s memory even from her—who, as her daughter, felt she had a right to know.
At the same time, it was probably for the best that he didn’t tell her about Lily now. Not when she didn’t know whether she could believe a word he said about her. It would be worse, she thought: him lying to her about Lily or James, compared to Black. At least Black was alive, and there was a chance she might eventually find out the truth about him.
“Thank you for… telling me about her,” she finally said. “I don’t know if I still want you to be my godfather, though. I need… I don’t know. I need to think. I need to not…”
…be constantly pulled back and forth by you.
When it became clear she wasn’t going to finish that sentence, Snape said, “I understand.”
“I don’t know if I want Black to be my godfather either,” she added, and his eyes fixed on her, but he otherwise didn’t react. “Not if he’s as bad as you say. But… I’m not going to decide until I meet him, and I don’t want you trying to make me choose one way or another. I… I don’t want you to tell me things about him anymore. Whatever happened when you guys were teenagers, I don’t care. Okay?”
Honestly, she shouldn’t have cared so much to begin with. Or, she shouldn’t have let herself get so wrapped up in the conflict between Snape and Remus, not when there was no way for her to ever know the real truth. There was only Snape’s word, and Remus’s, and they’d both proven to have their own agendas. Maybe that was what he’d been trying to tell her earlier.
Snape didn’t take offense to her words, at least not as far as she could tell. He only inclined his head slightly and said again, “I understand.”
“Also,” she added, unable to stop herself, “you said you don’t hate my dad anymore, because he’s gone, but… the Sirius Black you hated is probably gone too, you know. It’s been decades since all that stuff happened between you, and he spent that time fighting in the war, and losing all his friends, and getting locked up with the dementors. I don’t know what he’s like, but… neither do you.”
Snape looked like he wanted to argue with her, to say that Sirius Black would always be a horrible, irredeemable person, but to his credit, he kept his mouth shut. Good. She didn’t want to hear it.
Still, him agreeing with her and accepting everything she said kind of took the wind out of her sails. She found herself suddenly out of things to say. He’d screwed up, and he seemed to know that, and he said he wanted to fix it, but she didn’t trust him. They were pretty much on the same page about all of that, and the only thing that would resolve it, probably, would be time.
So instead, she asked something else she’d been wondering about. “What about Pettigrew?”
“What about him? If you want to give him a second chance…” Snape trailed off with a look of disgust.
Mary wrinkled her nose. “Circe, no. I only meant… I want to know why he did it. Why he betrayed my parents. I’m not going to forgive him or anything, and I still want him to go to Azkaban. It’s just… it’s going to drive me mad if I don’t at least get a chance to talk to him myself and ask him why.”
And… maybe yell at him a bit. Or throw some curses at him, but she didn’t know if Snape would allow that. After all, he hadn’t wanted Remus to take the risk of interrogating Pettigrew before they could use him to free Black—but then, he liked her better than Remus.
Snape was silent for a moment, and she thought she’d hit the limit of what he was willing to do to make it up to her, but then he said, “Meet me here Saturday night at curfew. Bring your invisibility cloak, and tell no one.”
Notes:
If it's not obvious, this is a very different take on Snape, Lily, and the war than you normally see, though it's not wholly incompatible with canon if you assume that Harry was pretty clueless (which is honestly fair). It is incompatible with the memories in The Prince's Tale, but you have to remember that Snape is a really good occlumens. In Leigha's version of canon, some of the memories he gave Harry were doctored or purposefully misleading, created as part of the Great Charade, with his real memories of Lily buried underneath. Leigha shows Sev's death from his perspective in Dreams of Hades:
"Take… it… Take… it…" he rasped, pushing the necessary memories from him in an uncontrolled, wandless, wordless flood – too many; not just the ones of Dumbledore, but his vow, and Lily – some of Lily – her public face, not the private, must-keep-hidden memories of her: those were dissociated from the rest for the sake of their grand deception, all the way back in fourth year, when they began to distinguish between the show and their real lives.
Only a few chapters left! I haven't decided yet, but there might be a short break (like, 4-6 weeks) between posting the final chapter of Part 1 and beginning Part 2, because I'm still finishing up editing and have some life stuff coming up. If you want to read Part 2 and are subscribed to Part 1 right now, you should make sure to go to the Fuel to Fire series page and subscribe to that as well so you'll get the email when Part 2 goes up.
Chapter 33: Snakes and Rats
Chapter Text
Mary went to bed first, so the other girls in her year wouldn’t notice anything strange, then slipped back out after curfew. Rather than passing through the common room, she took the Slytherin tunnels, having thoroughly explored most of them with Dave and his friends earlier in the year. The one she selected let her out in the corridor outside of Snape’s office.
He must have set up a ward or something to let him know when she arrived, because as soon as she reached his door, it opened without her even having to knock—but instead of inviting her in, he stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind him, and set off without a word. She assumed that meant she was supposed to follow him, and wondered if he could tell whether she was. Even though she was hidden under her cloak still, and using the footfall-silencing charm he’d taught her—and even the scent-cancellation one, in case they ran into Mrs. Norris—she thought he probably could.
Snape led her up many, many flights of stairs, through several passageways she’d never even seen before, until curiosity was driving her crazy, given that she couldn’t speak out loud to ask where they were going. It wasn’t until they reached a certain tapestry that she realized where they were: the Room of Requirement. They hadn’t taken her usual path to get there, but then, Snape seemed to have his own ways of getting through the castle.
She waited until he’d paced back and forth three times, opened the door, and ushered her into the room before throwing off her cloak and asking, “You know about this place?” Tonight, it took the form of a simple dungeon-like room, bereft of any furniture at all, the walls and floors flat, not a single crevice to hide in or point of escape.
“Obviously. How do you know of it?”
“Hermione told me. And we had the Mabon ritual here this year.”
“I was the one who first told Miss Granger of its existence.”
But Hermione had said she’d found it while adventuring with the twins, hadn’t she? Mary realized she must have purposefully left out Snape’s involvement, probably to avoid making Mary jealous again. It was a weird thought, especially now that she had basically taken Hermione’s place, sneaking out late at night under the cloak for a clandestine meeting with him.
“Do you know what it is?” she asked, pushing those thoughts aside. “Or how it works?”
“It is Hufflepuff’s Chamber,” Snape answered. “The house elves call it the Come and Go Room; others, the Room of Requirement. It takes whatever shape is needed by the person seeking, assuming it is not already occupied. To use it, you pace in front of the wall three times while thinking of your goal.”
She’d already known some of that—not about it being made by Helga Hufflepuff, that was interesting, but what she’d really wondered was how it turned into whatever you wanted. But Snape didn’t seem to know either, or else he thought she wouldn’t understand if he tried to explain. She supposed it worked like the rest of the castle, like the moving staircases and stuff.
“It’s not on the map,” she said. “Like Gryffindor and Slytherin’s Chambers.”
Snape nodded, looking unsurprised. “This room, like the other Founders’ Chambers, is unplottable and magically isolated from the rest of the castle. That is why we’ve come here tonight. Anywhere else, were Pettigrew to transform back into a human, his presence might be registered by the wards. Here, our actions will be undetectable.”
“Oh, good point.” Mary wasn’t really looking forward to having to walk all the way down all those flights of stairs to get to bed, but she could always sleep in tomorrow. “Wait, does that mean that Ravenclaw had a Chamber too?”
“Allegedly,” Snape said. “The Lost Study of Rowena Ravenclaw is said to be a room full of impossible knowledge, such as books that were never written, or information that no one on earth knows. However, its existence has never been proven.”
Mary smiled slightly to herself, thinking that if Hermione heard about that, she’d probably dedicate the rest of her life to trying to find it.
From his robes, Snape withdrew the same box they’d put Pettigrew into nearly two weeks before and opened the lid; inside, the rat looked completely unchanged. With what she thought was probably freeform magic—there was no wandwork or incantation, at least—he lifted the slack little body and lowered it to the floor at their feet.
Snape used his wand for the part where he made Pettigrew turn back to a man, though. He was still out cold even in human form, which she was grateful for, since she hadn’t exactly decided what she was going to say. She wasn’t even sure why she’d wanted to do this so badly in the first place.
Still, Mary took advantage of the moment to examine the man who’d betrayed her parents more closely. She hadn’t gotten much of a chance in the hut; she’d been too distracted by whether he was going to kill them all, and then by the sudden arrival of Remus and Snape. She wondered if it was just her imagination when she thought he looked rat-like, even unconscious. Or maybe it was just that he looked generally vile, like something she would find crawling around in the garbage, and that was what made her think of rats. She knew from the Mabon memory that he hadn’t always looked that way, so it was probably just what the years in hiding had done to him, but still, it certainly made it even easier to dislike him. He just looked like worthless scum.
She wasn’t sure if she hated him, though. She’d had plenty of time to think about Sirius Black, about all the ways he had betrayed her and her parents. Peter Pettigrew, though, she’d given almost no thought to at all, except whenever Remus had talked about him. He’d made him sound… not useless, he’d come up with the map and the idea to become animagi, but she’d still gotten the impression that he had been the most peripheral member of their group.
And then when he’d attacked them, of course, she’d thought about him, but he’d seemed so pathetic then. Nothing like the dangerous madman she’d always pictured Black as—just some terrified little man desperate to save his own skin. Not even a monster, not really. Something smaller. She wasn’t sure he even deserved her hatred.
“Are you ready?” Snape asked her, and she started slightly, realizing she’d just been staring at Pettigrew for a long time.
“Oh, ye—wait, have you already talked to him, or will this be the first time?”
“The first.”
She was glad for that, somehow. She felt almost a sense of ownership over Pettigrew—it was her he’d betrayed, so she should be the first to question him. Maybe that was why she’d wanted to do this, to speak to him now, before he was handed over to the Aurors or whatever Mrs. Tonks told them to do with him. Before he wasn’t just hers.
Turning to Snape uncertainly, she said, “I, er… I might get angry. And I was wondering if… that is…”
He sighed, probably annoyed with her not getting to the point. “Are you asking my permission to curse him?”
Mary turned a bit red, but set her jaw and admitted, “Yes.” She didn’t like that word, ‘permission,’ but she had to admit that Snape could easily stop her if he wanted to.
“You still wish to clear Black’s name?” he asked, and she nodded. “Then you ought not do anything that will leave him permanently damaged, as that will be difficult to explain at trial, particularly as Lupin knows that he was unhurt when we captured him. Otherwise, I will not interfere. Pettigrew betrayed your family to the Dark Lord; you deserve to do as you like to him.
“I suspected you might ask this, so I have prepared several healing potions for our use tonight. If I see you begin to cast something which I do not have the ability to fully heal, only then will I step in. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes,” she said, slightly stunned at the way it seemed he had brought her up here intending to let her hurt Pettigrew, and had even prepared for it. This was one of those moments where she felt acutely how different he was from every other adult in her life. Then, abruptly, she realized, “Won’t we get in trouble for it? If we hand him over to the Aurors, and he tells them we hurt him…”
Snape gave her one of his more sinister smiles, baring his crooked yellow teeth, and she shivered. “He will remember nothing of this night. You may do whatever you wish to him, and I will erase the evidence afterward.”
Was this more of Snape trying to make it up to her, arranging all this for her, or did he just want to see Pettigrew in pain? Probably both, she decided.
Mary bit her lip, wondering how to phrase this. “You’ll… Don’t interrupt, alright? Or help me. I need to do this myself.” She believed him when he said he wouldn’t stop her if it wasn’t necessary, but given how he’d reacted to learning Pettigrew was alive, and the way he lost his temper sometimes when it came to Remus, she didn’t want him getting angry and jumping in to curse Pettigrew himself. “You can have a go at him after, if you like, but I go first.”
“Understood.” The eagerness on Snape’s face told her that she’d been right after all, about him purposefully wording his vow to allow him to torture Pettigrew as much as she let him.
“Okay. I’m ready.”
Snape turned back to the rat and cast another few wordless spells. The first drew his arms and legs apart, spreading his body out in a sort of X on the floor, and she suspected it was meant to hold him in place. The next one woke him up and, seeing the pair of them, he immediately began to scream.
Mary wanted him to shut up, but she also wanted to hear what he had to say for himself, so almost without thinking, she cast a Stinging Hex at him, and he yelped in pain. She rolled her eyes, thinking, What a baby. A few seconds awake, and now that he didn’t have her best friend at wandpoint, she was finding that he already reminded her a bit of Dudley—far less pampered, but he had the same softness to him, the same lack of dignity.
She hated people like that.
It was the first time, she realized, that she’d ever hurt someone just for the sake of hurting them, rather than as part of a duel—even Draco, she’d only frightened, the snakes hadn’t actually bit him. Certainly it was the first time she’d ever cast on an unarmed person. Gryffindor wouldn’t have approved, she thought, remembering the Room of Doom, but then, she wasn’t a member of his House. She was in Snape’s House.
(Well, and Slytherin’s, but that honestly came secondary to her—being a Slytherin was, in her mind, almost synonymous with being under Professor Snape.)
“Shut up, you baby,” Mary snapped. “Stop screaming and tell me why you betrayed my parents.”
Pettigrew had been staring at Snape over her shoulder, but at her words, he flicked his wide, watery eyes to her. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t really going to hurt you.”
“Oh, shut up!” she said, hitting him with another Stinging Hex, and he yelped. Talking about what he’d done the other day was just making her angry; he was mad if he thought he could somehow make her forgive him for that. Anyway, she knew why he’d done that already: he’d thought they’d send the Aurors after him if he let them live, and he’d hoped that by killing her, the Dark Lord would forgive him for sending him into Lily’s trap, even if accidentally. “How stupid do I look?”
“N-no, you’re not stupid, of course not. Clever girl…
Mary rolled her eyes. The grovelling was really not making him any more likable, though at the same time, she still found it hard to muster up any real hatred for someone so pathetic.
His eyes spotted her tie and widened. “You’re a Slytherin.” Missed that while you were trying to kill me, did you?
“Obviously,” she replied, barely realizing that she was using her Snape Voice. Had being a rat for so long addled his brain? She hoped Black would be less slow than this, but she didn’t have high hopes.
“You’re Snivellus’s—ow! Stop that!” he shouted as another Stinging Hex hit him.
“No,” she said, almost laughing. Why would she stop just because he said to? “It’s Professor Snape to you.” Just because she was still angry with him didn’t mean that this piece of trash got to call him that.
The rat man stared at her for a moment before nodding. “You’re P-Professor Snape’s student, then. But Mary—ow!”
“Miss Potter,” she corrected. “I didn’t give you permission to address me informally, Pettigrew.” Making it clear that she—as a noble girl and not a pathetic rat man—deserved a title, while he did not.
“M-Miss Potter… You can’t trust him! He’s a Death Eater!”
Mary actually did laugh at that. “Kind of hypocritical of you, don’t you think?”
“I wasn’t one of them!” he insisted, then seemed to wither under her unimpressed glare. “Not… not really. I… My mother was sick. Regulus said he could help her. He did something, a ritual, I don’t know. It wasn’t legal. And in exchange, he wanted me to do him a favor. Just a small one, at first, but then he asked for something bigger, and threatened to tell about what I’d done. I got in over my head.”
Mary took a moment to consider that. It sounded true. And the whole thing was the most basic blackmail scheme imaginable—they’d covered it in second term of Intro to Slythering. “So you only betrayed my parents because you’re an idiot and a self-serving coward?” she asked, in her most innocent, Luna-like voice.
“Y-No!” he practically squeaked, then apparently decided to try to deflect, saying, “But Sn—Professor Snape was a Death Eater! Is still, no matter what he’s told you. He was one of the worst, too! He’s k-killed people, you know. Tortured them. He trained under Bellatrix. He wasn’t like me—nobody tricked him. He’s just evil.”
Mary widened her eyes, trying to look young and naive. “Wow,” she said. “You make him sound really scary. He must have done a lot of horrible things, right?”
“Yes!” Pettigrew sounded excited, like he thought he was actually getting through to her. “The-the worst of the worst! He’s a monster!”
She blinked down at him, then smiled. “In that case, I’d really hate to be you right now.” Whatever Snape had planned for him, she would bet it was a lot worse than some Stinging Hexes.
Pettigrew’s face fell almost comically in dismay. “Mar—ow! Miss Potter, I mean. Your father wouldn’t want this for you. He would hate to see you like this. This isn’t you, I know it, you’re a good girl, you don’t want to let him hurt me. Even if you are a Slytherin, you’re still Jamie’s daughter! He’d want you to be merciful.”
“What about my mum?”
“What?”
“Would she want me to be merciful?”
Pettigrew hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Y-yes, she would, Lily was my friend, she—ow!”
“You’re lying,” Mary said sharply. “I saw your face when you said her name before, in Hagrid’s hut. You know what I think?” She paused, letting him shake his head nervously, before continuing, “I think that if Lily were here right now, whatever she’d do to you would make the—the Diagon Alley Massacre look like a picnic.”
She was guessing, talking about things she only half-understood. Snape had mentioned that battle only once, when they’d talked earlier that week, but he’d said that Lily had been there, and that she’d been ‘terrifying.’ In truth, she wasn’t just trying to frighten Pettigrew, but also to check if he would know what she was talking about, or if Snape had been feeding her even more lies about her parents.
To her satisfaction, Pettigrew went completely white, beginning to babble and plead almost incoherently before being cut off by another Stinging Hex.
“Anyway,” Mary said, once he shut up, “that’s just a guess. I really wouldn’t know—I never met my parents, you see. Someone killed them when I was only a baby… Serpensortia.”
She repeated the spell until there were five snakes on the floor of the little room, then hissed, <Hurt the man on the floor, but don’t kill him.>
It seemed a fitting punishment for a rat.
The snakes swarmed over Pettigrew and began to coil around him, tightening, sinking their fangs into some of his less vital areas. He screamed, thrashing against whatever spell was holding him down.
“You did order them not to kill, I hope?”
Mary jumped; she’d almost forgotten Snape was there. Part of her was begrudgingly impressed that he’d kept his mouth shut until now. “Of course,” she said. “Still, er… He might need a Blood Replenishing Potion after. Is that alright?”
“I brought several. As long as he does not bleed out before I can administer one, it should be fine,” he reassured her. Despite the casual tone of voice, his eyes were locked on Pettigrew, an eager, angry fire burning in their black depths.
With a nod, Mary turned back to Pettigrew, who was writhing and cursing on the ground. She wanted to feel satisfied, or vindictive, the way Snape looked, but she didn’t. The longer she watched, the more she just felt kind of empty, and slightly ill at the sounds he was making. There wasn’t even any value in this, not when he was so pathetic to begin with.
<Stop biting,> she hissed reluctantly. <Hold him still for me.>
Mary was beginning to think that she might not like hurting people. She was a bit surprised—she’d always fantasized about cursing Sirius Black, and Lockhart before him, after he’d ruined her arm. But she didn’t feel any better now than she had before.
Scaring people, though? She didn’t think she minded that so much. He certainly deserved it more than Draco Malfoy had.
Dropping into a crouch beside the whimpering, crying man’s head, skirt and robes pooling on the floor around her, Mary extended a hand over him, and one of the snakes lifted up to coil around her arm, winding its way up the limb and draping itself over her shoulders. She knew from seeing herself in the Room of Doom that, despite her age and size, she could be pretty scary with a serpent wrapped around her. At the time, she’d been a bit ashamed, but right now, she wanted to be scary.
“Stop crying,” she told him sternly. “It’s pathetic. Aren’t you a grown man?”
“M-Miss Potter, please!” he whined. “I didn’t have a choice! I would have gone to Azkaban if Regulus had turned me in—or the Dark Lord would have killed me! You’re a Slytherin. Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
Mary took a moment to imagine it. To imagine herself turning Hermione and her family over to the Dark Lord to be killed in order to save her own skin. Then, surprising herself, she leaned over and spat in his face.
Pettigrew flinched, closing his eyes. She watched the glob of saliva travel down his cheek and into his stringy, dirty hair, feeling a cold sort of fury inside of herself. She’d managed to summon it after all.
“I think,” she said softly, “that Professor Snape is going to hurt you very, very badly.” Pettigrew whimpered at that, tears running freely down his dirty cheeks. “Or, at least, I hope so.”
Mary had started to get to her feet when he spoke one more time. “You think you can trust him?” he demanded, a petulant, derisive note in his voice. “You think he cares about you? He tell you how many years he spent trying to get up your mum’s skirt? If he’s nice to you, it’s only because he’s waiting until you’re finally old enough to—”
Before Pettigrew could finish his sentence, Snape strode forward and stepped on his throat, planting one heavy black boot right over the man’s windpipe. He broke off with a sort of strangled gurgling noise, and Snape stared down at him with an expression of absolute disgust.
“You will keep a civil tongue when speaking to Miss Potter,” he hissed, “lest I cut it out of your head.”
She—wow. That was—wow. Mary didn’t even know how to react, so she just stared at the sight, at Snape standing with his arms folded across his chest and his foot on Pettigrew’s throat, staring down at him with the coldest expression she’d ever seen. In that moment, all thoughts seemed to have been erased from her head.
Then, finally, her brain came back online. “He’s turning purple,” she warned Snape in a dazed sort of voice. “I think he’s going to pass out.”
“My apologies,” he said, stepping smoothly back and straightening his robes like nothing had happened. On the ground, Pettigrew curled his head as far into his chest as he could while pinned down, wheezing horribly and sobbing. “I can heal his throat if you have additional questions for him.”
Mary shook her head slowly, still staring at Pettigrew. There was no point to it; she’d found out what she’d wanted to know. And yet, she still…
Before she knew what she was doing, she stepped forward, drew back one foot, and slammed the toe of her own boot into Pettigrew’s side. He shouted in pain, but she did it again, and again, kicking him as hard as she could, surprising herself with the sudden violence welling up from somewhere deep inside her. Blood roared in her ears, drowning out his screams. She didn’t even feel the tears escaping her eyes, only the wet trails they left on her skin as they passed.
Then a hand settled on her shoulder—light, tentative—and she whirled around as if struck, throwing herself straight into Snape’s chest and grabbing onto his robes with both hands. He let out a sharp noise of surprise and stiffened, freezing for long enough that she would have considered it a rejection if she’d been thinking at all, but then raised up one hand to cradle the back of her head, hesitantly petting her hair as she sobbed against him.
A minute or an hour later, it was gone, the emotion passing out of her as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving her feeling hollow and lightheaded. She realized suddenly that she was clinging like a child to Snape, of all people, and released him in embarrassment, stepping back slightly—but her legs trembled and she nearly fell, forcing him to catch her again. He murmured something, then took hold of her elbow and tugged her down to sit in a chair she was certain hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Another murmured spell conjured a glass and filled it with water, and Snape was pressing it into her hands, saying, “Drink. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Mary stared into the water instead, looking at the way the stone floor below was distorted through it as, in the background, Snape stunned Pettigrew again and began casting what she assumed were healing spells over him, pouring potions through his slack lips. By the time he was finished and returned to her, Pettigrew stowed safely away in his box, she’d managed to bring herself to drink half the glass, though she’d barely even registered she was doing so.
“How do you feel?” Snape asked, conjuring a second chair for himself and sitting down across from her, elbows resting on his knees, eyes heavy on her.
It took Mary a moment to get words out. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I thought I wanted to hurt him, but it didn’t actually feel very good.” Then, looking up at him, her movements strangely stilted—slow, like moving underwater—she frowned and asked, “Weren’t you going to hurt him too?”
“I will do so another time, when you are not present,” Snape said. “Unless you would prefer I refrain from doing so altogether.” She believed him—that, despite his eagerness, he would listen to whatever she said.
“No…” she said slowly, as she thought about it, then shook her head. “No. He still deserves to suffer. I just don’t really want to see it. Does that make me a hypocrite?”
“It makes you human,” Snape replied. “You seem not to have inherited Riddle’s—or Lily’s—Dark-mindedness.”
Suspicious, she asked, “Was this a test? Or, um, did you already know that I didn’t really have it in me to hurt him much? Was that why you let me do this—so I’d find that out for myself?” As they talked, she found she was slowly coming back to herself, out of the strange fog she’d slipped into.
Snape hummed. “I suspected,” he said at last. “And it is important to know yourself—what you will and will not do.”
What about you? What will you do? He didn’t seem shaken in the slightest by what they’d done, and had made it clear he’d be doing much worse as soon as she wasn’t around to see it. Thinking back to the sight of him with his boot on Pettigrew’s neck, the way he’d looked at him, she wondered suddenly how much of Snape’s choice to become a Death Eater had been because, unlike her, he enjoyed hurting people. The ones he hated, at least.
“But primarily, I brought you here because I suspected you would appreciate the chance for some closure.”
“Oh.”
Mary still felt embarrassed, and wanted him to say that he didn’t look down on her for it—for not having the stomach to watch the man suffer like she knew he deserved to. To reassure her that he didn’t want her to be more like Lily. But she suppressed that urge. She might be speaking to Snape again, but she wasn’t going to idolize him anymore—wasn’t going to waste her time worrying about what he thought of her. He didn’t deserve it.
But she wanted to. Even now, after everything, she still wanted to trust him the way she had before, despite hating herself for it.
And thinking of that, of wanting to trust him—sitting there alone with him, in silence once more—she couldn’t help remembering what the traitor had said. “If he’s nice to you, it’s only because he’s waiting until you’re finally old enough to—”
Mary knew what he’d meant to say. It added to her dizziness, the thought that someone could look at her and Snape and think… that.
Part of her wanted to address it. To reassure Snape that she hadn’t believed it, because… he’d gotten so angry. He’d kept his word, refrained from reacting to anything Pettigrew had said or done, until that, and then he’d transformed into someone she hardly recognized, pressing his boot down onto Pettigrew’s throat and nearly choking him unconscious for daring to say a thing like that to her.
She actually opened her mouth, intending to say something, like, ‘You know I don’t think that you actually want to—’ But she couldn’t even finish the thought in her head, much less aloud, and anyway, she thought it might just make things worse. After all, if Pettigrew had said, ‘Snape is secretly an elderly Russian woman named Anastasia,’ she wouldn’t have reassured Snape that she didn’t believe it. She wouldn’t have had to. At most, they might have shared a laugh over how completely ridiculous it was.
To deny it would be to acknowledge it—to treat it as something worth denying. And it wasn’t. Which was, she was sure, why Snape hadn’t acknowledged it either. What was he supposed to say? There was a reason Pettigrew saying “I don’t want to hurt you” in the hut had only made her more frightened: because the only people who had to say those words were the people who were, in fact, thinking of doing just that.
Point was, it wasn’t even worth thinking about. Just another attempt by Pettigrew to make her doubt Snape, or to lash out at the pair of them in the only way he could. She should just forget it; the last thing she needed was something else making all of her interactions with Snape awkward. And yet, the truth was, she was thinking about it.
It was ridiculous, and she certainly didn’t believe it, but… the words lingered in her mind all the same, hanging in the air in between them, taking something that had been normal—natural—despite their recent fight and twisting it into something unfamiliar and frightening.
She didn’t know if it was only her, or if Snape could feel it too: the oppressive charge to the air that set her on edge, making her feel uncomfortable in her own skin. Making her all too aware of Snape’s presence, and the fact that they were all alone in this room—after curfew, isolated from the school wards, no one knowing they were there. No one to stop him, to even know, if… She could step outside of herself suddenly, look at the two of them, at the situation she’d put herself in, and know just what Remus or Aunt Minnie would see—the things they would say—if they saw this scene.
It made things worse that she’d clung to him the way she had. It was, she was pretty sure, only the second time they’d ever touched—maybe third, if that half-remembered moment in the hospital wing hadn’t been a dream. In that moment, she hadn’t been thinking of Pettigrew’s accusation—hadn’t been thinking at all. But now, with Snape right in front of her, a wet patch on the front of his robes from her tears, his scent still lingering on her, leaving a phantom sensation of warmth on her skin, things felt… different. Unbalanced. As if, in touching him, she’d broken through a barrier over some high precipice, and now there was nothing left to keep her from tumbling right over the edge.
(He’s waiting until you’re finally old enough to—)
“Did you know?” she asked, her voice coming out slightly strangled, transparently desperate to her ears as she tried to distract herself. “About how Regulus blackmailed him?”
“I did,” Snape admitted, sounding entirely normal. (Was she the only one thinking about it? Was it better or worse if she was?) “But I thought you would prefer to hear it from him.” So I would know you weren’t lying this time, she suspected was what he meant. “I will say, he did not willingly give your parents up—the Blackheart extracted the location from him. But she would not have had the chance to do so had he not made the choice to return to the Dark Lord’s side after being made their Secret Keeper.”
Somehow, that almost made it worse. It would have been more satisfying if Pettigrew had been some brilliant, evil villain. Someone who’d been plotting against her family from the start, who’d believed in the Dark Lord and followed him wholeheartedly. She didn’t know what to do with the truth. It was all so pointless. It disappointed her that her parents had been killed, her life ruined, by someone so small.
“Thanks,” she muttered quietly, not sure if she meant for telling her the truth, or for arranging this entire situation, or for holding her while she’d cried like a child. All of it, maybe. The words were more perfunctory than anything, though, because she couldn’t quite feel grateful at the moment. She mostly felt cold, and a bit hollow, hunching her shoulders and wrapping her arms around herself.
Mary didn’t want to be in this room anymore, but neither did she want to go back to her normal life like nothing had happened. She didn’t know what she wanted. To be somewhere far away, maybe, where things like this didn’t happen.
Snape murmured something, casting a loose figure eight with his wand, and the doe sprung to life in front of her, lighting up the gloomy little room. The cold disappeared. Normally, Mary liked to look at the doe, to watch her gentle movements, but this time, she found herself gaping at him instead. Moments ago, he had stepped on Pettigrew’s throat and choked him until he nearly passed out, and now, he was summoning this beautiful Patronus, in the same cell-like room to which he had brought her in the middle of the night in order to torture the murderer they were secretly holding captive.
Sometimes, she thought, nothing about Snape made any sense at all.
Though in that case, maybe it wasn’t an embarrassing failure of hers that she was confused by him, and didn’t know what to believe, and still sometimes felt like trusting him, despite everything he’d done. Maybe he had that effect on everyone.
“Does that help?” he asked, a gentle question from a cruel man.
I don’t understand you at all, she thought to herself. Just who are you?
But she only said, “Quite a bit, thank you.” She finished her water in silence, bathed in the soft glow of his Patronus, and then he walked her back down to her room through the darkened corridors of the school.
Notes:
Some elements of their confrontation with Pettigrew are borrowed from RIP Mary Potter, though the overall scene is quite different. For more details on how Peter became the traitor, Leigha has a oneshot titled Regulus's Assignment.
With the end approaching, if you want to read Part 2 and are only subscribed to this fic right now, don't forget to go to the Fuel to Fire series page and subscribe to that as well so you'll get the email when Part 2 goes up.
Chapter 34: All the Creatures of the Forest
Notes:
The chapter count's been changing but I think I'm set on 37 chapters total. I'm probably going to be posting these last four faster, because I have distracting life stuff coming up and want to finish Part 1 first, so expect the next chapter sooner than usual.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Mary and Snape’s visit with Pettigrew became another of those things they pretended didn’t happen while going on as normal, except that this time, even Hermione and Remus didn’t know what they’d done. It faded into the background, unspoken, just another layer added to the secrets they shared.
(And the other thing, what Pettigrew had said, and her moment of discomfort afterward—that was buried even deeper down, not only unspoken but un-thought, as much as she could help it.)
Though Mary continued—not avoiding Snape, exactly, but it felt like it compared to earlier in the year, when she’d sought him out at every turn—anyway, though they weren’t spending time together anymore, some of her anger had left her. Not enough to go back to normal, but enough that she didn’t entirely hate seeing him in class or at dinner anymore. It was something, anyway.
She spent a lot of her free time in the following weeks thinking about Sirius Black—where he was, and what he was doing. Snape—and the Headmaster, apparently—thought he was in the Forbidden Forest somewhere, or else so deep in his dog-mind that the school wards couldn’t recognize him. Mary was worried it was the latter—Luna had said he was ‘lost,’ after all—but there was really no telling.
In any case, he was out there somewhere, probably not too far from the school, having no idea that Pettigrew had already been caught. If they could just find a way to get word to him before he got himself caught or kissed by the dementors…
It was frustrating, not knowing what was being done about it or what she might do to help. Remus and Snape had both said they were looking into finding him, but what were they going to come up with that they hadn’t thought of back when they still thought he was the traitor? Normally, she would have asked them, but she still didn’t feel much like talking to Snape for extended periods of time, and Remus was out of the castle half the time he wasn’t teaching or sleeping, running out to Hogsmeade to meet with Mrs. Tonks.
Mary turned the problem over in her head as the weeks went by. The only things they had now that they didn’t have before were: they knew that Luna had somehow talked to him in February, when he’d broken into the castle, and they knew that he was innocent. If he was in the Forest, maybe… maybe Mary could just walk into the trees yelling ‘Here, doggy!’ until he came running out? She scoffed internally at the thought.
Finally, head full of half-formed ideas, she managed to catch Remus long enough to make plans for tea. At the very least, she could tell him what she was thinking and see what he’d been working on. Maybe if they put their heads together, they’d figure something out.
Unfortunately, as much as she would have liked to jump straight into strategizing, it seemed that Remus had not given up on talking to her about feelings, because when she settled down in a chair in his private rooms—she suspected they were meeting there, rather than his office, so they could speak more openly about Black and everything—the first thing he asked was, “How are you doing with all of this? I know it’s been a bit of a shock.”
“Yeah, it has,” she said, only a tiny bit of sarcasm in her voice, because that was kind of an understatement. He just looked at her, so she added reluctantly, “I don’t know. I spent all that time thinking one thing, only to find out the truth was something totally different.”
“I know the feeling,” Remus said, and there was something bitter in his tone. For a second, she felt guilty for not talking to him about it sooner, because he was probably having all sorts of mixed feelings about the revelation, before deciding that it probably wasn’t her job to check on him.
Still, she couldn’t help feeling bad for him, wondering if he was blaming himself. “You couldn’t have known,” she said, and he looked up at her in surprise. “I mean, if they changed the Secret Keeper without telling you, it’s not your fault.”
Remus just shrugged, like he wasn’t really buying it, and changed the subject. “I’m sorry about Severus.”
It startled Mary, him saying that out of nowhere. She had been expecting him to ask about her feelings, yes, but not about Snape. “What about him?” she asked, trying to deflect.
“Him lying to you,” Remus said. “I know you really trusted him, and you seemed rather upset the day we… well, when all of it happened. Normally, I wouldn’t have condoned you speaking to a professor that way, but in this case… It’s okay to be angry with him, Mary. He did a really shitty thing—to you, and to Sirius. If he hadn’t helped us get Pettigrew, I would’ve…”
He trailed off, like he didn’t think she needed to hear the end of that sentence.
Mary knew he was trying to make her feel better, but it actually made things worse somehow. For one, it was humiliating, having him acknowledge how convinced she’d been that she could trust Snape, and how deeply his betrayal had cut her. For another, Remus hadn’t the right to comment on things between her and Snape. Or, that was how she felt, anyway. She was aware that it wasn’t very reasonable of her, but…
Remus had never liked Snape. He’d tried to make her dislike him, too. And while he hadn’t been quite as wrong as she had thought he was, he was still outside of whatever weird bond she’d formed with her prickly Head of House. He didn’t understand it—didn’t understand them.
Despite everything, there was still some part of her that felt the desire to defend Snape; some part of her that was still on his side. She didn’t like it, didn’t want to feel that way, but she still resented Remus for putting her in a position where she felt she had to defend him. It was one thing for Mary to think that Snape was kind of awful sometimes, but for anyone else to say it still raised her hackles.
It was like the First Rule of Slytherin: no matter what problems you had with your housemates, when an outsider attacked them, you closed ranks.
Obviously she knew it was unfair of her to resent Remus for this. Snape had hurt him too, by keeping Black’s innocence a secret. But it still bothered her—like maybe Remus, underneath his concern, was saying ‘I told you so,’ or testing Mary to see if she still liked Snape after everything he’d done. (Or maybe she was just projecting Slytherinness onto him where there wasn’t any.)
In any case, her problems with Snape, and the lingering ambivalence of her feelings, were none of Remus’s business, so Mary just looked at him steadily and said, “Professor Snape and I have already talked about all that.”
He looked slightly disappointed, or even hurt, but after a moment, he said, “I’m glad. If you ever want to talk about it—with someone other than Severus, I mean…”
“I’ll let you know,” Mary lied, then quickly changed the subject. “How are you feeling about it? Like, about seeing Black again, whenever we find him.” There: she’d give Remus a chance to talk about his feelings, as he seemed so keen to do, and then steer the subject to what she wanted to talk about. Namely, finding her lost godfather.
Grimacing, Remus admitted, “Rather anxious. Seeing as he was one of my best friends, and I didn’t even look into whether he had a trial or not—but honestly, I didn’t even want to think about it, after it all happened—and I don’t know if the wizard who came out of Azkaban is the same as the person I knew…”
Though Mary was glad to have distracted him from the topic of Snape, she wasn’t actually sure how to respond to his sudden outpouring of worries. “We’ll find him,” was all she could say. “I bet he’ll just be glad that we know the truth now, and that we’ve caught Pettigrew.” She pushed the memory of that night in the Room of Requirement from her mind when she said the traitor’s name, hoping she didn’t look too guilty.
“Perhaps,” Remus said, not looking especially convinced. “I just hope there’s enough of him left by the time we find him—that it’s not too late. For him, and for you. You deserve a chance to get to know your godfather.”
Mary bit her lip. She was trying not to get too invested in the whole idea, between what she’d heard about Black and how her luck with family-like people had gone so far—her parents, the Grangers, Snape. It was better not to get her hopes up. Still, she said carefully, “I… I hope so, too,” and it wasn’t a lie.
No matter what kind of relationship she ended up having with him, or whether he was a good or bad person, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him—for what he had gone through. They’d talked about Azkaban in Professor D’Onofrio’s class, about how many people thought it was a crime against humanity, and that was without considering that at least one prisoner had been innocent.
“I know you haven’t heard many good things about Sirius, from myself or from Severus,” Remus added. “He was… a complicated person. The people he grew up with were horrible, and they really did a number on his head. Considering that, I always admired him for how hard he tried to be better—to be different from them. That was the hardest part of it to accept, for me: the thought that he might have gone back to that life, and given up on trying to be any better.
“That’s also what I feel the worst about, as his friend,” he confessed. “That I could have believed he would.”
Mary wasn’t really sure how to respond to Remus’s vulnerability. All the stuff between him and Snape and Black and Pettigrew and her parents was really complicated, and by this point, she was regretting having gotten herself so involved in it. To think she’d once wanted to know all this.
Luckily, he went on without any response from her, shaking his head slightly, looking chagrined at his own moping. “But anyway, my point is—he tried really hard to be better than the people he’d come from, and he succeeded, even if he made some… mistakes when he was younger.” Mary suspected he was thinking of the ‘prank’ on Snape in particular. “And he could be very funny, generous, and—magnetic, I suppose. People were always drawn to him. Intelligent and talented, too. I… really do hope that you will give him a chance, whatever shape he’s in now, and whatever you’ve heard about him.”
Giving Remus a little half-smile, Mary said, “I will. I’ve learned my lesson, you know—about taking what other people say at face value.” He looked a little sad at that, but to his credit, he didn’t say anything about Snape this time. “I’ll wait and decide about him for myself after we meet.”
“Well… good.” He looked like he’d expected to have to convince her, like he was relieved. With a sigh, he added, “I just hope we can find him soon. I don’t like to think what he must be going through, out there in the Forest or somewhere, with the dementors all around.”
There! An opening.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” she said. “Doesn’t it seem stupid to you? If we know he’s probably in the Forest, and we know he’s probably a dog, and you know what he looks like as a dog, can’t we just… go find him? I mean, the Forest is only so big.”
To her disappointment, Remus shook his head. “I’ve thought the same thing, but without being able to use a tracking spell, we’d have to search the whole Forest ourselves. Even if all six of us were able to go, that wouldn’t be enough to comb through the woods without him dodging us. And that’s not even considering the dangers—some very Dark creatures live in those woods. There is no way I would feel comfortable bringing you students in there, and even Severus and I probably couldn’t fend them off alone.”
She slumped a little in her chair. Everyone always said the Forest was dangerous; she supposed she’d only hoped that, for wizards as competent as Remus and Snape—mostly Snape—it might be manageable. But she probably ought to have known better: when she’d gone in with Lilian, Hermione, Draco, and Hagrid in first year, she’d only made it out alive because of the centaurs.
Oh.
“Why don’t we ask the centaurs?” Mary blurted out. “Or someone who lives in the Forest—I mean, you know a lot about non-humans. There’s got to be some that would help us find him.”
Remus frowned. “Centaurs aren’t exactly known for their willingness to get involved in human affairs.”
That tracked with Mary’s experience: most of the centaurs she’d met that night had been angry with the one who’d saved her for interfering. But there was that one. “I know a centaur who might help us.”
“You… know a centaur.” Remus gave her a wary look. “Do I even want to know?”
“That idiot Hagrid—”
“Mary,” he interrupted warningly. “Hagrid may not be a professor anymore, but he’s a good man. You shouldn’t talk about him like that.”
Irritated, Mary said, “That good man Hagrid was in charge of supervising my detention back in first year, so he brought me, Lilian, Hermione, and Draco into the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night to look for something that had been killing unicorns, then left Lilian and I alone with just his pet dog for company.”
“He what?!”
“So then,” she continued, breezing right past his reaction even as she felt secretly vindicated by it, “we ran across our possessed Defense professor drinking unicorn blood on all fours, and the Dark Lord’s wraith came out of his head and tried to kill me, except a centaur came up and saved us both—I think his name was Fur-something.
“We rode on his back to safety, which the other centaurs were angry about, but he seemed nice. Basically tried to warn us that the thing in the Forest was the Dark Lord. He wasn’t as cryptic as the other centaurs we met earlier that night with Hagrid—those reminded me a bit of Luna Lovegood, actually. One of them kept talking about Mars, and he quoted this Aradia Montreve poem at us, which Maia said was basically implying that the Dark Lord was going to return.”
Remus pressed both hands against his face and let out a groan. “Did you tell a professor?”
Shrugging, Mary said, “We tried to tell Professor McGonagall, but she didn’t really believe us. She went and asked Quirrell if he happened to be possessed, by any chance, and he said, ‘No, of course not,’ and then tried to murder me. So.”
She had eventually mentioned it to Snape, and he’d said he would ‘have words’ with Hagrid, but she had no idea if anything had come of that.
“Don’t know why I even asked,” he muttered under his breath. “This bloody school.”
Mary fought back a laugh. “I saw them last year, too—not Fur-something or the ones who quoted Montreve, but a different one. Lilian, Adrian Lestrange, and I were passing through their lands for… reasons,” because she couldn’t tell them they’d been collecting thestral blood to make Veritaserum. “They were nice enough that time, said something about Saturn getting brighter.”
Hermione had told her after that Saturn was a titan from Greek mythology associated with change: ‘periodic renewal, dissolution, and liberation, but also time and plenty and peace.’ Actually, she still wasn’t sure what that had been about. Riddle’s diary, maybe? The first part fit, but maybe not the part about plenty and peace.
“So, what do you think?” she continued. “We could go try to find Fur-something and ask him if he knows where to find a dog animagus in the Forest.”
Recovering from his latest bout of existential horror over Mary’s life, Remus gave her a thoughtful look. “I suppose it’s worth a try.”
Mary, of course, had wanted to run off to the Forest right away, but when they’d gone to Snape with the idea, he’d immediately pointed out that they didn’t want any students stumbling across them and getting in the way. He’d wanted to wait until after the end of term and go with only Remus, but Mary had argued that her centaur friend might not help if she wasn’t with them—not to mention, she thought Black would be more likely to trust they weren’t trying to trick him if she was there.
Finally, they’d settled on the final Hogsmeade weekend of the year, which was to come in mid-June. The plan was for Mary, Remus, and Snape to go in alone, to minimize the number of students they’d have to worry about.
Hermione was upset that she wouldn’t be going with them, but she had her own task for the day: meeting up with Emma and Mrs. Tonks to discuss the case. While Remus had been acting as their main liaison, Hermione had been working nonstop on plans for the trial on her own and wanted to talk it over with the solicitor. Mary had, of course, promised to tell her everything they found out as soon as she got back.
The plan had seemed simple at first, but once they actually started thinking about the details, it rapidly escalated in complexity. For example, apparently she couldn’t just charge into the Forest and ask to speak to a centaur. At least, not with Remus and Snape along. A lot of the land out there belonged to their tribe, not the school, and if adult wizards crossed the treaty line without permission, the centaurs might alert Dumbledore, if only to reprimand him for failing to keep his staff off their land. Worst case scenario, they might attack them, though Mary would probably be safe—centaurs generally wouldn’t hurt kids.
Luckily, Snape, as Dumbledore’s right hand, was familiar enough with the various beings and creatures of the grounds, so they didn’t need to ask Hagrid for an introduction, and Remus knew about centaur culture in general, so they were pretty sure they could manage not to mortally offend any of them. Still, there were a lot of unknowns, and both of the adults were noticeably on edge when the day finally came. They hardly spoke a word as Snape led Mary and Remus from the Senior Woods to the edge of the treaty line.
Mary was the first to break the silence as they came to a stop at a small, nondescript clearing. “Now what?”
“We wait,” Snape replied.
After not too much time, they heard hoofbeats approaching. From out of the rustling trees, two figures appeared—ones which Mary immediately recognized from two years ago. She couldn’t quite remember their names, since she’d only met them once, but she remembered the wild-looking one with black hair and fur, and the spacey chestnut-colored one who’d quoted Aradia Montreve. Unfortunately, neither of them was the one who’d saved her.
“Bane of the Dark,” Snape said, bowing to the darker of the pair. “And…”
“Ronan,” said the chestnut. “Mary Potter—we meet again.”
“Hello,” she said with a slightly jerky curtsy—just a generic one, since Catherine had never actually taught her the proper way for a noble girl to greet a pair of centaurs, and Remus had given her a funny look when she’d asked. The way they loomed over her made her a bit nervous, and without really thinking about it, she drew closer to Snape so that he could protect her if he needed to.
“And I’m Remus Lupin. I teach at the school with Severus.” They gave Remus a suspicious look, though she wasn’t sure if they could somehow tell he was a werewolf or were just nervous at having any unfamiliar wizard at the edge of their lands. At least one of them seemed to know Snape.
“What brings you to us today, Mary Potter?” Bane asked, ignoring Remus’s introduction entirely.
“I was, er, wondering… Two years ago, I met a centaur out here who saved my life. Sorry, I can’t quite remember his name, but is there any chance I could speak to him?” Maybe Bane or Ronan could help them instead, but she thought the other one was way more likely to.
“Firenze,” Bane said, a note of exasperation, or even disgust, in his tone—probably remembering how he’d let Mary and Lilian ride on his back. “What do you want from him?”
Mary had hoped he’d just agree, but it was starting to look like this was going to be a drawn-out negotiation. Before they could begin, however, another set of hoofbeats approached, and to her immense relief, she saw it was none other than Firenze himself. Bane gave an annoyed little toss of his mane at the other centaur’s approach.
“Mary Potter.”
Though she wasn’t sure what it was with the centaurs and saying her full name all the time, Mary smiled and curtsied. “Firenze—I’m glad to see you again.” She genuinely meant it, too.
Firenze didn’t look entirely displeased to see her, but he didn’t smile either. “Why have you come here?” Like the others, he cast suspicious looks at Remus and Snape.
Mary thought Snape might take point, but when he didn’t respond, she realized he was planning to let her speak to the centaur herself, seeing as she was the one who knew him. Nervously, not wanting to say the wrong thing, she explained, “We’re looking for someone. A human named Sirius Black who might be hiding in the Forest as a dog—he’s an animagus, you see.”
“I already told Dumbledore we will not be interfering in this human matter,” Bane interjected.
Stomach sinking, Mary decided that, if they reminded her of Luna, she should try to channel her. “The man we’re looking for is innocent,” she said, ignoring Snape’s irritated scoff beside her. “The moon has spoken for him. We’re not looking for him to turn him in, like Dumbledore and the others. We’re trying to help him.”
Firenze looked at her for a moment before saying, “A dog might hide best among wolves.”
Great. The problem with talking to them like Luna, it seemed, was that they’d answer her like Luna. Maybe they should have brought the little Ravenclaw with them to translate.
Remus, thankfully, seemed to actually understand what the centaur was talking about. “The Remoran Wolves,” he said, and Firenze gave a slight nod. “Do you know how we might find them?”
Though he hesitated, in the end, Firenze somehow convinced Bane to pull a worn parchment map from one of the bags he wore on his withers, on which he pointed out the location of the wolves’ camp, outside the borders of the centaurs’ territory.
He also showed them the territory occupied by the acromantula colony, which Perry and Adrian had run across while looking for pentaclover flowers for the Veritaserum the year before, warning them to steer clear of it. Worryingly, the lines of it had been drawn again and again, the oldest ones enclosing a small region outside the centaurs’ lands, while the newest encompassed almost the entirety of the Forest.
Snape inhaled sharply. “They’ve spread this far?”
“They have,” Bane said gravely. “The lands they occupy have expanded twenty times over since the half-giant brought the female to the Forest. We are on the verge of being overrun.”
“Buggering fuck,” Snape muttered, and Mary fought back an inappropriate giggle at his language. “Is the Headmaster aware of this?”
“Oh, yes.” The centaur’s voice was dark and cynical. “He will not exterminate them, as he claims it would make him ‘no better than the acromantulae themselves.’”
“Of course he does.” Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, a dark look coming across his face. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You will kill them?” The centaurs suddenly looked far less put out by their presence than they’d been a moment ago.
“Kill them, contain them, bloody send them to a reservation somewhere far away—whatever it takes to ensure they do not overrun the school.”
While Bane seemed less than happy that Snape’s only concern was the school, and not the centaurs or the other beings in the Forest, it was still better than Dumbledore’s pacifism, apparently, because he agreed not to tell the Headmaster about their conversation, and to lend Snape whatever help he might need in exterminating the colony.
Mary glanced at Remus as they talked, wondering if he’d raise an objection to Snape’s extermination plans—whether out of pity for the acromantulae or respect for Dumbledore’s wishes—but he didn’t say a word, looking as grave at the prospect of the Forest being overrun as Snape was.
While Bane and Snape talked, Ronan sidled up to her, moving surprisingly quietly for such a large creature. “Saturn rises ever higher,” he said, because of course he did.
“You guys said that last year, too,” Mary pointed out.
“It was, and remains, true,” Ronan insisted. “Saturn rises higher, and Mars follows in his shadow.”
Racking her brains, Mary tried her best to translate as the adults continued ignoring them. “So… change, and then war?” That didn’t sound too promising.
Rather than answer her one way or the other, Ronan said, “She will consume those who would subdue her—who would drag her back to the earth.”
“Er. Who?”
“The black flame burning eternal in the cut-open heart of the darkness.”
“…Is this more Aradia Montreve?” Unlike Hermione, Mary hadn’t memorized the whole book of poems—the one that Lily had given to Aunt Minnie at her graduation, which Aunt Minnie had passed to her for Christmas first year—but it sounded like the poet-witch.
Ronan didn’t answer. Cryptic bastard was worse than Luna. She sighed, making a mental note to search through the poetry book when she got back to her room—she’d learned her lesson about ignoring cryptic messages involving celestial bodies.
“There goes my bloody summer off,” Snape grumbled to himself as they walked away from the centaurs, heading in the direction they’d marked out on the map. “If their numbers have grown as much as the centaurs say, I’ll be hunting acromantulae all of July at least.”
He really did have to take care of everything at Hogwarts, Mary thought. “Isn’t the Headmaster going to be upset if you exterminate them?”
“If I’m careful, he need never know it was me.”
“Right…” Mary said slowly. “I didn’t hear a word of any of that, then.”
“Lupin?”
Remus sighed tiredly. “Are you expecting me to help?” He didn’t sound enthusiastic about the idea.
“Much as I’d enjoy seeing you surrounded by acromantulae, you’d only slow me down.”
Remus looked torn between offense and relief at the knowledge that Snape didn’t expect him to go spider-hunting with him. Mary suspected that what Snape really meant was ‘You won’t like the Dark spells I’m going to use to kill them,’ and decided to change the subject before they could get into another argument.
“What are Remoran Wolves, anyway? Are they like werewolves?” She thought she’d heard the name once or twice before, but it must have been a long time ago.
“Not exactly,” Remus said slowly, sounding strangely reluctant to answer, “although some people make that mistake. They are the main reason for the rumors of werewolves in the Forest.”
“But what are they?”
Remus hesitated, so Snape, glancing over his shoulder from where he was leading the way, said, “They’re wolf wilderfolk—which is to say, animals that are able to turn into humans at will.”
“So, like, the opposite of animagi?” Mary asked. She didn’t see why Remus would be uncomfortable about that.
“Yes, well…”
“For fuck’s sake, Lupin. Yes, Mary Elizabeth, they are related to animagi—to be precise, they are the offspring of an animagus and a natural animal of the same species. Many people—including Lupin, apparently—are uncomfortable with their existence because it requires the copulation of a human and an animal, even if said human is in an animal body at the time.”
“Oh.” Okay, that would explain it.
“Severus,” Remus scolded, “I don’t think Mary needed quite so many details as that.”
Snape just scoffed and returned to the task of guiding them through the Forest.
They had only barely crossed into the wolves’ territory when one of them came out of the trees, approaching them with a sort of slow, wary curiosity. It had light fur, almost golden, and something about its proportions—the too-large ears and paws, maybe—told Mary it wasn’t fully grown. Still, she drew a bit closer to Snape again, just in case.
“Hello there,” Remus said, stepping forward cautiously. “We were hoping that we might speak to you. The centaurs told us where to find you.”
The wolf hesitated, tilting its head up at him, and then it changed, body suddenly growing and shifting, raising up onto its hind legs as it turned into a tall, thin woman (or teenage girl—she looked about sixteen or seventeen to Mary) with shaggy, dirty blonde hair, bare feet covered in mud.
She also happened to be completely naked.
Mary let out an embarrassing little eep, hands coming up to cover her eyes as she turned her head away. She could hear a startled noise from Remus as well, though Snape didn’t seem to react in the slightest. Which was even more embarrassing, somehow—she’d seen naked girls before, if only Catherine, Hermione, Lilian, and Sadie, but she’d never seen a naked person while standing in between two of her professors, one of them Snape.
Not that she was certain why Snape was the most embarrassing person to be looking at a naked girl with. He just was.
“Have I done something wrong?” the wolf girl asked, her voice strangely flat, like she wasn’t used to expressing herself in words. “Why are you…?”
“Most humans are not accustomed to seeing human-appearing people without clothes on in public spaces,” Snape said.
At the hint of amused condescension in his voice, Mary reluctantly uncovered her eyes and looked back at the wolf girl, trying her best to keep her eyes on her face. Her own face felt uncomfortably warm, but she didn’t want Snape to think she was an immature kid who couldn’t handle a bit of nudity.
“Sorry,” Mary said, her own voice coming out a bit strained. “You just surprised me.”
Tilting her head, just as she had in wolf-form, the girl said, “But it is not so cold out. What is the point of covering your bodies the way you do?” Then she stepped even closer, approaching Remus, peering at him curiously like she was inspecting his outfit. Only when Mary heard her sniff did she realize the wolf girl was smelling him.
“Social custom,” Remus said, a hint of awkwardness in even his voice as the naked wolf girl invaded his personal space, nosing at the front of his robes. “But that’s not what we came out here to talk about. We were hoping you could help us find someone.”
“Who are you seeking?” The wolf girl pulled back, and Mary didn’t think she was imagining the relief on Remus’s face.
Before she could start trying to explain again, Remus cast an illusion, and a life-sized image of a dog appeared in front of them. “He’s a member of my pack, but he’s lost. We’re trying to find him. Have you seen him?”
“Yes!” The wolf girl looked excited—Mary almost had the feeling that she’d be wagging her tail if she could. “He has been with us since before the winter. He is one of the—the humans who change. Some of them are still humans, even when they are not, but others, like him, know enough wolf things to be allowed to stay. We have… two or three right now, I think.”
Mary was excited enough by the lead that she only vaguely processed the idea that there were multiple animagi living out in the Forest.
“Could you bring us to him?” Remus asked.
The wolf girl shook her head emphatically, shaggy hair flying, a few leaves falling out of it, but before Mary could feel too disappointed, she added, “I will bring him to you. It is best that you do not come too far into our lands. Not all of my kind like humans.”
“Thank you,” Remus said. “That would be very helpful.”
“I will be right back.” A moment later, the girl had shifted back to wolf form, bounding off into the trees, leaving the three of them to look at each other in bemusement.
“Well,” Mary said. “That was way easier than I thought.”
By the time the wolf girl returned, Mary and Remus had managed to talk Snape out of drawing their wands on Black unless he actually tried to attack them. Snape had argued that Black was unpredictable and that, after twelve years in Azkaban, they couldn’t know he wasn’t a danger to Mary, but the argument that they didn’t want to scare him off or lose the wolf girl’s trust eventually won him over. Not only that, but he’d also agreed to move back into the woods, out of sight, and cancel out his scent so that Black wouldn’t be put immediately on his guard.
Well, Mary wasn’t actually sure how much of his agreement was due to her and Remus’s logic, and how much was his lingering guilt over lying to her. She kind of suspected she could talk him into doing almost anything right now if she really tried, and while it lasted, she intended to take full advantage of that fact.
Not that Mary wasn’t nervous about meeting Black herself—innocent or not, this was a man who’d been obsessively trying to break into a school to kill a rat all year. But she didn’t want her first interaction with her godfather to involve him getting stunned out of nowhere.
It would help, she thought, if they had asked the wolf girl what she was going to tell him, or if she was going to tell him anything. She hadn’t seemed like she used human speech much, despite her good grasp of English, but Mary didn’t know if the wilderfolk had their own way of communicating with each other. Not to mention, he might be able to smell them on her. (Including Snape, actually… Oops.)
“Remember,” Remus said as they waited for her to return, “Sirius has been through a lot. He might not be what you expect. Not at first.”
It sounded to Mary more like he was trying to remind himself than her, but she nodded anyway.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of waiting, there was a rustling in the trees ahead of them. The young wolf appeared once more—and trailing her was an enormous, shaggy black dog.
Mary’s godfather.
She shot Remus a nervous look, suddenly unsure what to do, but he looked even more lost than her, just staring. The dog, too—Padfoot—was looking at the both of them uncertainly, a low whine in his throat. The wolf turned to him, licking his shoulder in what Mary thought was meant to be an act of comfort, nudging at him with her nose before stepping back.
Well, if Remus wasn’t going to say anything, she might as well. “Padfoot?” she asked cautiously. “It’s Mary—Mary Potter. And Remus Lupin. You know us, don’t you?” The dog whined again. “It’s okay, boy. We—we know. About Pettigrew. About the rat.” Remus had said that Black might be deep in the dog’s mind after so long in his animagus form, so she was trying to keep it simple. “You were a good boy all along, weren’t you?”
Padfoot’s tail started wagging.
Beside her, seeming to come out of his stupor, Remus said, “Hello, old friend.”
Looking back and forth between them, ears perking up and tail swishing, Padfoot took a careful step forward.
“That’s it,” Mary said. “Come on. Who’s a good boy?”
That was all it took. With a joyful yelp, Padfoot charged for them, and Remus, having stepped in front of Mary just in case, was bowled clean to the ground.
The three of them ended up sprawled on the forest floor, the wolf having long since padded away, seeming somehow satisfied with herself. In his excitement, Padfoot had licked Mary and Remus basically everywhere he could reach—their hands, their faces, their robes—before flopping onto his back on the ground, happily kicking one leg in the air as they both rubbed his belly.
What a way to meet her godfather. Mary’s life was really very strange sometimes. At least, for once, it was a good strange.
Once some of his excitement had worn off, the pair of them were able, with some effort, to convince Black to turn back to human. He looked even worse than his mugshot, which was saying something. To be honest, he looked half-dead, with filthy, matted hair and sickly pale skin stretched tightly across sunken cheekbones. And besides that, he sure didn’t smell very good.
Remus quickly cast some sort of cleaning charm on him, and Mary followed it up with the scent-cancellation charm she’d learned in Intro to Slythering, which half the boys in her House used to hide their body odor rather than for sneaking purposes. As a human, Black was more wary, as if he had suddenly remembered that the two of them should think he was a traitor.
“Fawn?” was the first thing he said, staring at Mary, voice cracking slightly. “I don’t understand.”
Mary looked at Remus, trying to figure out how to explain the sequence of events that had led to them discovering his innocence and coming up with a plan to find him. She didn’t think mentioning Snape right away would be a good idea.
“We were able to put a few clues together and figure out what was going on,” Remus said, and Mary felt grateful he was taking the lead on this. “Well, really, it was Mary—and a few of her friends—that figured it out. They saw Peter’s name on our old map and managed to track him down.”
Black grabbed onto the front of Remus’s robes with an intensity that frightened her, eyes blazing. “You found the traitor?” he demanded. “Did you kill him?”
“No, we just took him captive,” Mary said. “We need him to prove that you’re innocent.”
“Where is he?! If he gets away—”
“Don’t worry, Padfoot,” Remus said soothingly. “Severus—” He broke off abruptly, having realized his mistake, but it was too late. Black’s eyes narrowed, and Remus admitted guiltily, “Severus has him in an enchanted box back at the castle. I looked over the enchantments myself; he won’t be getting loose anytime soon.”
“Severus Snape?” Black demanded. “What the fuck, Remus!” He still hadn’t let go of his robes, and Mary was getting a little nervous. Then something seemed to dawn on him, because his eyes widened, a look of betrayal flashing across his face. “Is he here? I thought I smelled someone else, but I forgot, in all the…”
He broke off, clearly unsure how to sum up ‘Mary and Remus petting him and calling him a good boy and convincing him to turn back to human.’
At that point, of course, Snape decided to make things even more difficult and step out from behind a tree, a rather obnoxious smirk on his face. She supposed it was too much to hope for that he would behave himself for long with his old enemy around. “Black,” he drawled.
Black released Remus in an instant and whirled around, advancing on Snape, and Mary quickly rushed to put herself between them, wondering where the fuck Black had gotten a wand from. And now Snape had his out, too. She stood with her back to Snape, hands extended in Black’s direction, trying to stop them. “Snape is on our side!” she shouted. “And I’m… I’m going to be very cross with you if you hurt him after he helped us find you!”
She realized she was talking to him kind of like a child, but like Pettigrew, he seemed a little mentally addled, maybe because of being a dog for so long, so it seemed best to keep things simple. In any case, it seemed to work, at least a little, because Black hesitated—and Mary, wanting to press her advantage, said the first thing that popped into her head: “Don’t be a bad dog!”
And for a moment, Black actually looked abashed, giving her what could only be termed puppy dog eyes. Behind him, Remus burst out laughing, and even Snape snorted behind her. “Yes, Black,” he taunted. “Don’t be a ‘bad dog.’”
Mary rounded on him. “Theíos!” she hissed, hands on her hips, not even realizing she’d reverted back to their old form of address. “You promised to behave!”
“I haven’t hexed him yet,” Snape pointed out, sounding rather like he was sulking. He sniffed slightly and leaned backwards, away from Mary. “You reek of dog.”
(Behind her, she heard Black demanding, “Did she just call Snivellus her uncle? Moony, what is going on?” His voice was genuinely distraught, like the very foundations of the universe were unraveling beneath him.)
“That’s enough, children!” Remus snapped in the exact tone of voice he used when her class was acting up. “Sirius, Severus is Mary’s Head of House. He looks after her, and he helped recapture Pettigrew. Yes, it’s strange, I thought so too at first, but he’s nice enough to her.” He stressed the final two words, making it clear the statement did not apply to anyone else. “Severus, if you are only going to antagonize Sirius, kindly go back to the castle and leave us to talk. We have a lot to discuss, and we are not going to get anywhere with the two of you at each other’s throats.”
Both men turned to glare at him—Black out of betrayal that Remus would defend Snape, and Snape out of indignation that Remus would dare tell him off. Mary gave him a grateful smile, glad that she wasn’t the only one with any sense in this situation.
“I will not go back to the castle without Miss Potter,” Snape argued, stepping forward to put himself in front of her, though she immediately stepped to the side so she could still see Black and Remus. “Black may not have killed Pettigrew or those muggles, but he is clearly volatile. I will not leave her alone with him.” Completely ignoring the fact that Remus would be there too, of course.
“I am not ‘volatile,’ I just hate you,” Black retorted, and Mary rolled her eyes.
“If it’ll stop you guys from killing each other, fine. I’ll go back to the castle with Professor Snape, and you,” she addressed Remus, “can find me once you’ve filled Black in on everything.” As much as she wanted to be there for that, she could tell that they weren’t going to get anywhere while Black and Snape were within fifty feet of each other. They’d found him, that was the important thing.
Remus seemed fine with that plan, but Black was not. “Hang on!” he protested, grabbing Remus’s sleeve. “You’re not just going to let him take the Fawn somewhere alone, are you?”
“Merlin and Morgan!” she swore, fed up with his attitude and with being talked about like she wasn’t even there. “My name is Mary, and I don’t need Remus’s permission to follow my Head of House back to the castle. Besides, if Snape wanted to kill me, he’s already had plenty of opportunities. I’m alone with him in the potions lab basically all the time.”
Black only looked more outraged at that, so she simply turned on her heel, giving Snape an unimpressed glare.
“If you’re quite finished antagonizing my godfather, you may escort me back.”
Snape huffed at her audacity, and possibly at the fact that she was clearly imitating him in her haughtiness, but he did so, placing a rather possessive hand on her shoulder (touch number three? or was it four?) and pushing her quickly along, which only sparked another outraged noise from Black behind them. Anyway, he retracted his hand soon enough, wiping it on his robes and complaining, “You are absolutely covered in dog slobber. Honestly.”
“Yeah, you know, I hadn’t really expected there to be so much licking involved in meeting Black,” she agreed, and he gave her a look of such utter disgust that she had to laugh.
“That is perhaps the single most repulsive way you could have phrased that.”
Despite her annoyance over their bickering, Mary found herself in a rather good mood as they headed back across the grounds, Snape hovering protectively at her side as if he expected Black to appear out of nowhere and curse her at any moment. She had met her godfather, even if he did seem a bit thick, and now they could finally get moving on his trial. And there was something about Snape’s protectiveness (or maybe possessiveness?) that made her feel kind of happy, even if it was also immensely irritating.
This happiness only lasted a short while, however. As they walked, it slowly seeped away, leaving her feeling oddly drained and… empty. Like after Pettigrew. At first, she thought maybe it was reality creeping back in, reminding her that things with Snape were still all messed up. But then it got worse and worse, until she was wrapping her arms around herself, clutching her elbows, unconsciously seeking comfort—and then, far later than she should have, she realized.
Oh fuck.
Mary stopped in her tracks, and Snape did as well, giving her a questioning look. She supposed he might not be as sensitive to them as she was. “It’s the dementors,” she told him. “They’re way closer than before; I can feel them. They have to be on the grounds.”
And she bet she knew why: somehow, they had managed to sense Black’s return to human form and were now making their way towards him and Remus, still talking near the edge of the Forest.
She turned to run, but a strong hand wrapped around her arm and held her back. “No,” Snape said sharply. “There is no telling how many of them there are.”
“That’s why we have to go,” she insisted, staring up at him desperately. “Remus might not be able to take them all on his own, and Black is…” Not really in a state to cast a Patronus, she was pretty sure. “Without us, they might both be kissed.”
She purposefully didn’t mention that her Patronus hadn’t worked the day she’d found out the truth, or that she hadn’t tried it since then, too scared it was gone forever. Somehow, she would find a way to cast it again. There was no other choice.
Mary could practically see Snape’s mind working behind those dark eyes. Would he drag her back to the castle, make the choice for her again, and possibly cost the lives of her godfather and Remus, knowing that she’d never forgive him? Would he run to help them alone, tell her not to follow—stun her if he had to—and risk that his and Remus’s Patroni combined wouldn’t be enough? That she’d lose all three of them?
“Please,” she added, when he only stared at her, and he let out a noise of frustration that was nearly a snarl.
“If I tell you to run, you run,” he snapped, and then he released her arm, heading at a trot back towards the woods, Mary taking a moment to shake off her surprise before she ran after him.
As they hurried back, the feeling grew stronger and stronger, overwhelming her, and a small part of her wondered if she was being a reckless idiot again, like when she’d gone after Pettigrew with Hermione and the twins. Her Patronus hadn’t worked for weeks, she could hardly get near dementors without bloody fainting, and from how quickly the feeling increased as they got closer, there had to be—
A hundred of them. More, maybe. She could see them now, swarming into the trees like a poisonous black fog, until the woods looked black as night. She was an idiot, and they were all going to die, her and Remus and Black and Snape.
No. That was the dementor effect talking, not her. It’s mind magic, she reminded herself. Like a compulsion. Not that she knew how to fight compulsions, since someone had refused to teach her occlumency, but she knew enough to know it wasn’t real—that she couldn’t trust her thoughts, her feelings.
She’d been able to cast a Patronus before. It wasn’t a question of whether she had the magical strength—she did. It was just the proper mindset she needed to find.
Snape was ahead of her, already shouting, “Expecto Patronum!” as the doe burst from the tip of his wand. Now, she needed to do it now—and she knew, suddenly, looking at him as he ran for the Forest, counting on her to help him—to save Remus and Black together. She knew she could do it again—that the stag would come.
So she did, she called up her Patronus for the first time since the day she’d discovered his lie, and it was easy. Her stag charged past Snape, racing after his doe, and then Snape had stopped and caught her by the arm, saying, “That’s far enough—we don’t need to get closer. They’ll do the rest.”
They stopped at the edge of the trees, watching the doe and stag run on together, the darkness parting around them, and she knew in her heart that it was going to be okay.
And so were they.
Notes:
The line about "consuming those who would subdue her" is adapted from an Aradia Montreve poem Leigha wrote, and the reference to Saturn and Mars was her idea as well. Also, the wilderfolk are from Lysandra's headcanon, and this specific wolf girl is a joint OC of Leigha and Sandra. She appears in The Plan as Sylvie, and in The Good War as Isolde.
I know that in canon, the final Hogsmeade weekend was on Friday of exam week, but that's a stupid time for a Hogsmeade trip and JKR has a vendetta against calendars and almanacs so her timeline never makes any sense, soo I've moved it. It works better for me here anyway. The end of the year has also been moved back to be consistent with other years, Leigha's calendar, and the fact that JKR put the full moon during exam week.
Chapter 35: The Chained Servant
Notes:
I'm thinking I'll post the next chapter on Thursday or thereabouts, and the final chapter on Saturday. They're both completely edited and ready to post.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When the last of the dementors had scattered, they continued ahead to the clearing, finding three Patroni—a doe, a stag, and a wolf—along with a very shaken looking Remus and—what the hell?
For a split second, she feared the worst, seeing Black all curled in on himself on the ground, but a second later, it became clear that he hadn’t been kissed. Because he was talking and moving, rocking back and forth, and—was he crying?
“Jamie,” Black gasped, staring up at Mary’s stag. “You’re back—you saved me. Jamie, Lily—Moony, it’s them, they came back for me. Gods, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
Oh. Well, Mary could kind of understand why, seeing those two specific Patroni emerge out of the trees without a caster in sight, he might have thought that, especially given that he wasn’t entirely all there. She still cringed slightly in secondhand embarrassment as she cleared her throat. The pair of men turned, startled by the sound, to see her and Snape standing together at the edge of the trees.
Their Patroni reacted to their arrival too, trotting back to greet them, and something flipped over in her stomach at the sight—something about the way they looked like they belonged together. She reached out a hand, brushing over the doe’s snout with a small smile before letting her stag vanish; the doe followed a second later, and the wolf as well, so Snape and Remus must have done the same.
“Mary’s Patronus is a stag, Padfoot,” Remus said quietly, but he wasn’t looking at Sirius. He was looking at Mary and Snape, something uncomfortably sharp in his gaze. “Like James. And Severus’s, then, must be—”
“A doe,” Sirius said roughly before Remus could, pushing himself to his feet and wiping the tears from his face, seeming to have recovered from his momentary incoherence. “Like Lily’s.” For a split second, his expression twisted into one of hatred—though Mary got the feeling it was for Snape, not her mother.
“Mary Elizabeth thought the two of you might appreciate some help,” Snape said in a tone that suggested he otherwise wouldn’t have bothered.
Seeming to shake himself out of whatever mood he’d been in, Remus gave a weak half-smile and said, “Yes, thank you both. I’m afraid we were rather overwhelmed.”
“The Ministry may have been alerted,” Snape said, rather than accepting his thanks. “Black, you’ll want to turn back now.” Black hesitated, clearly not wanting to follow Snape’s orders, but he also didn’t want to get sent back to Azkaban, so he popped back into dog form. Addressing Remus, Snape added, “I would suggest the pair of you head to the ward line and apparate to a safer location for the moment. Once the Ministry have left, it should be safe to take him to Mrs. Tonks.”
Remus looked like he had more to say, but like Black, he didn’t want to be arrested, so he nodded curtly and turned to walk away, Padfoot trotting at his heels.
“What are we going to tell the Ministry if they show up?” Mary asked, turning to look up at Snape, and she didn’t even hate herself for once again expecting him to have all the answers.
“Mm… I caught you in the process of sneaking off to the Forest for some sort of mischief. We spotted a man standing between the trees who might have been Black; upon seeing us, he fled. A moment later, the dementors converged upon us and attempted to perform the Kiss, but we fought them off. If we play this right, Dumbledore may be able to finagle a complete removal of the dementors from the school.”
Mary nodded, but she wasn’t entirely confident about his plan. “What if they ask to legilimize me or question me under Veritaserum?”
“As you are under fifteen, you cannot consent to either without the agreement of your guardian, and Minerva is hardly likely to allow them this. If necessary, try to produce a few tears and look very traumatized by the whole experience. I believe you used the same tactic to escape questioning by myself last spring.”
“You knew?” she asked, eyes widening as he smirked at her. And here she’d thought she’d been sneaky, wiggling her way out of letting him search her mind for details of the Veritaserum Conspiracy by getting her overprotective guardian to chase him away for her.
“I gave you five points for it.”
For a moment, she didn’t know what to say, and then she was laughing. Snape didn’t laugh, but he watched her with a look of something like fondness before saying, “Come. We ought to speak to the Headmaster, apprise him of the situation—or, at least, our chosen version of it.”
For the second time that afternoon, they set off back to the castle.
Dumbledore was sitting in his office when they arrived. It was Mary’s first time up there since he’d questioned her about the Heir of Slytherin, and she wasn’t looking forward to the encounter, but there was no getting around it.
“Severus,” the Headmaster said. “And Mary. Is there something the matter?”
“You could say that,” Snape said dryly, taking a seat in front of the desk (like a student, her mind remarked in amusement). She sat beside him. “I suppose you didn’t notice some hundred and twenty dementors crossing the ward line approximately thirty minutes ago?”
Dumbledore sat up a little straighter, his gaze sharpening. “No, I didn’t. Was anyone—”
“No one was hurt,” Snape interrupted. “Although at this point, I am questioning why this school even has wards, seeing as they don’t seem to bloody do anything.”
Ignoring Snape’s complaint entirely, the Headmaster settled back in his chair slightly, clearly relieved, and asked, “What happened?”
Mary kept her mouth shut, letting Snape take the lead. They’d agreed on the way up to the castle that he should do the talking, while Mary should mostly try to look traumatized and avoid eye contact. Apparently Dumbledore wasn’t a real legilimens like Snape, just a powerful enough sorcerer to cast the Legilimency Charm silently and wandlessly, but whatever he was, it would be easier for Snape to get away with lying to him than Mary.
She wasn’t even sure what Dumbledore would do if he found out they’d been in touch with Black, or that they had Pettigrew. It was possible he’d actually help them clear his name faster, being the Chief Warlock and all, but on the other hand, if he’d wanted Black to have a trial, surely he would have pushed for one back in the 80’s. In any case, Snape seemed to think that involving him would just complicate things, and even after everything, she was inclined to trust his judgment. They could probably tell the Headmaster once Black was out of the country, but for now, their plan was going well, and she didn’t want to risk messing it up.
So, as Snape began to tell the story of how they’d been needlessly attacked by dementors who’d mistaken him for Black, Mary twisted her hands together in her lap and sniffled a little bit. Dumbledore only addressed her once during the story, when Snape got to the part where they fought the dementors off.
“You can cast a Patronus?” he interrupted, giving her an expression of interest over his half-moon glasses, and Mary reminded herself to look between his eyes rather than into them.
“Er, yes, sir,” she said. “Professor Lupin taught me.”
“That’s very advanced magic for your age. Might I ask what form it takes?”
Mary wasn’t sure why he wanted to know, but, “A stag.”
“Mm.” Dumbledore smiled to himself, and she was pretty sure that he, like Remus, was thinking it had something to do with her father, but whatever, he could think what he wanted. He nodded his head at Snape, indicating for him to continue.
When the story was finished, Dumbledore sighed. “I feared something like this would happen when Cornelius first insisted on sending the dementors to the school.” Does that mean he buys it? “We can only be grateful neither of you were harmed. Attacking a student… this can’t be allowed to stand.”
It seemed so, at least. Mary was surprised—she would have thought lying to Dumbledore would be harder. But then, Snape had a lot of practice at it. If it had been up to her, she probably couldn’t have pulled it off.
Then, raising a hand, Dumbledore added, “And, as it would have it, it seems that Cornelius and his entourage have just arrived—all the better to make our position clear.” With a look to Snape that Mary couldn’t quite interpret, he added, “It would be for the best if neither of you mentioned the figure you saw in the Forest to the Minister. After all, it may have just been a trick of the light.”
Mary frowned in confusion, looking back and forth between the two wizards, but she didn’t have a chance to ask why Dumbledore wanted them to lie (more than they already had, that was) before the Headmaster was fire-calling Professor McGonagall, asking her to welcome the Minister and bring him up to them.
Convincing the Minister to remove the dementors from Hogwarts turned out to be even easier than lying to Dumbledore. All it took was one fake-crying Girl Who Lived and her very angry guardian shouting about how the dementors had nearly killed her, along with Dumbledore pointedly suggesting they Floo Madam Bones at the DLE and ask what she thought about the situation, and it was agreed that the dementors would be going back to Azkaban and that Aurors would be posted around the entrances to the school in their stead.
It wasn’t until they were back in the dungeons that Mary was able to ask, “Why doesn’t Dumbledore want the Minister to know we saw Black?” Not that she minded, but it didn’t make much sense.
Snape sighed heavily, dropping down to sit in an armchair as though suddenly feeling the full exhaustion of the day. He didn’t answer her right away, motioning for her to take a seat and calling down to the kitchens for coffee and chocolate.
They’d talked their way out of having Madam Pomfrey examine her by telling Dumbledore that Snape already had—apparently he consulted at St. Mungo’s sometimes, so no one thought it was odd. When Aunt Minnie suggested that she ought to be seen by the Healer anyway, Mary had insisted that she just wanted to go down to her room and rest, and Snape had said he would escort her there. Instead, of course, they’d gone straight to his office to talk.
“As you might recall from the incident with the basilisk last year,” Snape finally said, “the Headmaster prefers to handle matters… internally, whenever possible.” At the lack of understanding on Mary’s face, he sighed again and explained, “Dumbledore informed me over the holidays that it was his intention to apprehend Black himself—or, at least, for ‘Hogwarts’ to do so—as he believed that were the Ministry to, they would feel emboldened in ‘meddling in the affairs of the school,’ as well as utilizing the dementors outside of Azkaban.”
“Oh,” Mary said. “Isn’t that… If he thinks Black is dangerous, shouldn’t he be working with the Ministry to stop him?”
“His precise words were…” Snape’s eyes went a little distant, and she was pretty sure he was doing some weird mind magic trick to remember the conversation exactly, “‘I have a duty to keep the students safe, Severus, and I do fear that the Ministry will become a greater threat to us in the coming years than Sirius Black, by far.’”
Mary giggled, and he shot her a questioning look. “Sorry,” she said. “You do a good impression of him.”
Snape’s lips quirked slightly. “In any case, so far as the Headmaster is concerned, today could not have gone better. He at last has the proof he has been looking for that the dementors are too dangerous, too difficult to control, to be allowed off their island.”
She wasn’t sure what to think of that. It was good, probably, that the dementors were going back, even if they hadn’t actually mistaken them for Black. On the other hand, she thought it was kind of awful of the Headmaster to be glad they’d nearly gotten Kissed—or maybe she just thought that because Snape was talking about Dumbledore like he didn’t care about anything but showing the Ministry up, and she was inclined to take him at his word, even now.
Even after what he had done, it was so hard to remember not to trust him, not to just let him tell her what to think. Especially after today: calling the stag back and having it come, seeing it prance alongside his doe, almost like whatever had broken within her had been repaired.
It was exhausting.
But so was all of it, and despite everything, she didn’t want to leave quite yet. So she sipped her coffee and said hesitantly, “Thank you. I was honestly afraid you’d just put a body bind on me and drag me back to the castle when I said we should go back for them.”
“I considered it,” he admitted, so bluntly that she huffed out a small, surprised laugh. She waited for him to explain why he hadn’t done it, then—why he’d decided to let her risk herself—but he didn’t say anything more. Well, maybe she already knew.
“You didn’t, though,” she said quietly.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Do you think they got away?”
Snape smiled humorlessly into his coffee mug. “Oh, yes. Given the events of the past year, I sincerely doubt I will ever be so lucky as to see the last of Sirius Black.”
He said that… but he was still helping him. For her. It made her chest feel warm, and she hated it a bit, the way he could make her want to forgive him—the way that maybe she already had.
“I’ll have to give you detention for running off to the Forest,” he added distractedly, and it took her a moment to realize that, right, that was their cover story. They’d settled on her going looking for Black herself, like she’d considered doing in the past.
“That’s fine,” she said. “What am I doing this time, scrubbing cauldrons?”
“I thought,” he began, with a strange sort of hesitance, “that you might help me with some potions I am brewing for the hospital wing.”
That wasn’t a detention, really. That was what she had been doing with him in her free time before, just to be around him. She understood what he meant by it, and that when he added, “Of course, if you prefer to scrub cauldrons…” what he was asking was, ‘Can we continue as we were?’ Or, ‘Are you done with me?’
“I—” she began, and her voice caught for a second.
She could say no. He could go back to being only her Head of House, Professor Snape, and she could be Miss Potter. No more Theíos, no Anipsiá, no Mary Elizabeth. She could get to know her real godfather, step off this ride of betrayal and reconciliation, of constantly thinking about Snape and wondering how she ought to feel about him—of having to second-guess her instincts and feelings, torn between the desire to trust him and the need to protect herself.
“I could brew some potions,” she said slowly. “That—that would be fine.”
“Then I will see you at eight o’clock Wednesday evening.”
“So… what was he like?”
“Honestly?” Mary bit her lip, considering how to answer. “Saner than I expected, but still not entirely… there. If you know what I mean.”
Hermione nodded, brown eyes thoughtful and concerned. “Well, I suppose it’s only to be expected, given everything he’s been through. But hopefully Mr. Tonks will be able to help him.”
From what Remus had told her when he’d gotten back, Black was going to be staying with the Tonks family for a little bit, until he was well enough to leave the country. Mr. Tonks was a healer, and the plan was for him to tend to Black, treating his malnutrition and other various ailments from the years spent in Azkaban and then on the run. Mary was a little worried that the dementors would manage to find him there, but Remus said that Mrs. Tonks had put up some sort of ward to block them.
Still, she would feel a lot better when Black was away from Britain. Remus was thinking of taking him to Aquitania, one of the magical countries that overlapped with muggle France. Apparently they didn’t extradite to Britain because of the existence of Azkaban.
“I hope so.” Then, rolling her eyes, she added, “I hardly managed to have a proper conversation with him, to tell you the truth. He and Snape were too busy squabbling like children.”
Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, choking back a laugh. “I can imagine,” she said. She paused, giving Mary a hesitant look, before adding, “Still, he… he’s really trying to make it up to you, isn’t he? Snape, I mean.”
Mary shifted on the couch the Room of Requirement had conjured up for them, unsure how much she wanted to talk about this, even with Hermione. But after a moment, she admitted, “Yeah, I think he is.”
“Good,” Hermione said decisively. At Mary’s look of surprise, she added, “Well, he’s important to you. If he were a complete arsehole to you, I’d have to… I don’t know. Do something bad.”
“Gonna break out some of those curses you learned?” Mary teased, surprising herself with the lack of jealousy she felt at remembering Hermione’s studies with Snape. It felt like it had been so long since she’d cared about that.
“Don’t remind me,” Hermione replied with a shudder. Then, surprising Mary, she added, “You know, I think you were right. I didn’t want to admit it at the time, but… Professor Vector’s been great. Studying with her, I mean. Much fewer nightmares.”
“I don’t know, I have plenty of nightmares about Arithmancy.”
Hermione shoved her lightly. “You’re going to do fine,” she insisted. “I’ll help you study.”
Exams were approaching in just over a week and Hermione, to Mary’s amusement, was now spending most of her time doing what Mary termed ‘anti-studying.’ The twins had pointed out that it would look suspicious if she was giving OWL-level answers on third year exams, so she’d fallen into a bit of a frenzy of trying to figure out what things she was actually supposed to know already.
“Suppose you’ve got the time for it.”
“Well, I have to enjoy it while I can.” Hermione had gotten a notice earlier that week that the Department of Mysteries would be confiscating her time turner at the end of the year: too many people knew about it, and besides, her dropping Divination meant that she was no longer taking the course load needed to justify it. Although her current schedule was still too packed to manage on a normal time table; she was still debating whether to drop Muggle Studies or Creatures next term.
“It’s going to be harder to make time to meet with Vector without it,” Hermione added, frowning to herself at the thought.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way. Hey, speaking of the time turner, how much extra time did you end up taking?” It was strange, not knowing how old her best friend actually was.
“By the time the term’s over, it will be pretty much exactly a year,” Hermione said. “Or, it will be if I follow the schedule I laid out for myself. I’m trying to line up the times exactly so I don’t need to remember a new birthday.”
Mary couldn’t help but laugh. Leave it to Hermione Granger to try to optimize her time turning to make things line up neatly. “So you’ll be turning sixteen in September?”
Hermione nodded. “But I’m supposed to keep it secret, so I can’t jump ahead a year, and I won’t be able to get my apparition license until I’m eighteen.”
“You’re nearly two years older than me, then,” Mary mused, taking a moment to let that sink in. While she hadn’t known the exact amount of time until now, she’d had the impression, as the year had gone on, of their age difference becoming more and more significant. It bugged her sometimes, feeling like Hermione was outgrowing her, or looking at her like she was a child or something.
As if reading her mind, Hermione grabbed hold of her hand and said, “It doesn’t matter, Lizzie. You’ll always be my best friend.”
Mary smiled, but, to her surprise, felt a small frisson of guilt. She didn’t think she’d really been that good of a friend to Hermione this year. Not that she was entirely to blame, because Hermione could be really frustrating sometimes, but still. She’d gotten so possessive over Snape, for reasons that still didn’t entirely make sense to her, and had let it drive a wedge between herself and her best (her first) friend.
Only now, with her need for his attention at least somewhat tempered by how he’d abused her trust, could she admit that she’d been a bit unreasonable. Snape was… a complicated person for her, and someone that she still cared a lot about, despite what he’d done. But he wasn’t worth ruining her friendship with Hermione over. Especially because, she was realizing, Hermione had never really seen the two of them as being in competition over Snape’s attention. That had been entirely in Mary’s head.
She still wasn’t going to admit that it was her who’d gotten him to stop doing research with Hermione, though. Not when they’d only just gotten past fighting all the time.
It wasn’t only Snape that had strained their friendship, either. There was Mary’s resentment towards the twins and Hermione’s decision to befriend them anyway, plus the stuff with Daphne and the other Slytherins—the way that she’d dismissed the MSA and Hermione’s objections to her making nice with the purebloods in her House. Even if, in Mary’s mind, she was just being practical, she could kind of see why Hermione would be upset.
The whole muggleborn rights thing just wasn’t as personal to Mary as it was to Hermione, even if she had grown up with muggles. (Or maybe especially because she had.) It was easy enough, from Mary’s perspective, to put up with arseholes like Pansy who would spit on Hermione before they’d shake her hand—after all, she knew she didn’t really like them, that it was just her doing what Catherine had taught her to do. But Hermione, she had finally realized, wanted to know that Mary was on her side.
It was like a balancing act, one that she still didn’t know how to walk: being in Slytherin and being the Girl Who Lived. Being the incoming Lady Potter, behaving as she’d been taught to by the Urquharts, taking advantage of her political power, without letting herself become just like the people who thought they were better than Hermione and Dave and the other muggleborns.
And she didn’t think she’d been balancing it all especially well this year. Somehow, it felt like everyone had been angry with her half the time, from the Slytherins to Hermione. The MSA thing, she’d mostly seen as Hermione being bossy, trying to steamroll Mary into sharing all of her interests, instead of an expression of her fear that she was losing Mary to the Slytherins.
With that rolling around in her head, she asked, “Hey, Maia, is the MSA having another meeting before the end of term? I… might like to give it another shot, if I could.”
Hermione stared at her for so long that Mary began to feel self-conscious. “You… You really mean it?”
The words, the tone of her voice, the sheen to her eyes—they all served to make Mary feel like a complete arsehole, that it took so little compromise from her for Hermione to react like that. “Yeah, if that’s okay,” she mumbled, and then Hermione threw her arms around her, squeezing the wind out of her.
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” Hermione said when she pulled back. “What you said before, about not having any good experiences in the muggle world. I wanted your visit over the holidays to be that, but… I guess it wasn’t, really.”
“No,” Mary admitted, hoping Hermione wouldn’t be offended by her agreeing.
“I know you might not be ready to go ahead with the adoption yet—or ever,” she added quickly. “But I really hope you’ll come stay with us for a bit over the summer. It’ll be better this time, I promise.”
The funny thing was, Mary believed her. The absolute disaster of her last visit to the Grangers had been Mary’s fault just as much as it had been Hermione’s, the two of them clashing as they’d tried to figure out how to relate to each other as they got older and developed separate lives and interests. Neither of them had really handled it well. But after everything they’d been through this year, she thought the both of them had probably grown up enough to make it work.
At least, she wanted to try.
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Despite the impending exams, Mary’s mood only brightened as June stretched on. At long last, the dementors were gone, Black and Pettigrew were taken care of, and things with Snape were okay, if still a little strained. Even the weather cooperated, the mild, cloudless days just begging her to sit out by the lake, which she and her friends frequently did as they studied.
Really, the only thing left bothering her was that Lilian still wasn’t speaking to her and Hermione. Or, well, she wasn’t refusing to speak to them, if only because of Quidditch practice and Dueling Club and Daphne’s tea parties, but things definitely weren’t like they once were. She hadn’t come to a single Patronus lesson since her breakdown, nor did she join them in the library or by the lakeside, and even at meals, she chattered away with Daphne and the other girls, only speaking to Mary as much as was needed to be polite.
Despite what Sean had said, by this point, Mary had almost given up hope on them ever making up. But there was nothing she could really do about that—she’d learned her lesson about trying to force people to deal with things before they were ready—so she did her best to focus on the positives.
There was plenty of other stuff to take Mary’s mind off it as the end of the term approached. Prefect selections, for one: Snape required his prefects to apply at the end of their third year so that they could spend all of fourth year in prefect training—which was, as Mary understood it, sort of like an extended second year of the Intro to Slythering course.
It was tradition in the House for the third years to hold a meeting and decide amongst themselves who would apply, rather than having a bunch of students clamoring for the position. And so, the week before exams, Mary joined the other third years in the House Library for negotiations.
Honestly, she didn’t care all that much who the prefects were, so long as she didn’t have to be one, but she didn’t want them both to be from Draco’s clique—nor was she the only one. It was decided pretty quickly that each half of their year would choose one of the two prefects—one from the neutral students, and the other from the pureblood idiots. (Okay, Millie wasn’t that bad, but still.)
Mary’s side immediately began clamoring for the right to choose the male prefect for the year, given the alternatives: Vinnie and Greg weren’t exactly prefect material, and Snape probably wouldn’t agree if they picked one of them, which only left Draco. And none of Mary’s clique (except maybe Lilian) wanted Draco as a prefect. While he’d become a little more tolerable over the past three years, at least when the Slytherins were alone, he was still the one who picked the most fights with students in other Houses, and she was certain he’d abuse the position to further his stupid feud with Ron Weasley.
Luckily, the other clique didn’t fight them on this. Unluckily, this meant that Pansy was selected, because she was a power-hungry bitch and Tracey and Millie always let her have her way. Bollocks.
From there, it was down to Theo or Blaise, and this was decided just as easily as Pansy’s election: “Theo should do it,” Daphne proclaimed. “He doesn’t care about being popular, so he’ll take points fairly.”
“You’re saying I wouldn’t? You wound me,” Blaise complained, pressing a hand to his heart, and Daphne raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him.
“I know you, Blaise. You won’t take points off anyone you want to snog.”
Changing his tune with a smirk, Blaise said, “You’re right, actually. Theo’s perfect for the position—he wouldn’t recognize a hot bird if she dropped naked into his lap.”
“Piss off, Blaise,” Theo said, flipping him two fingers, although he sounded more bored than annoyed.
With that, though, they confirmed Pansy and Theo as their future prefects. It was, Mary thought, a very Slytherin way to do things.
Then there was their final meeting of Dueling Club before exams. Only about half the normal amount of students showed up, depending on whether they were the type to want to spend the evening before the start of exam week blowing off steam by hexing their classmates or the type to cram until the last possible minute. Hermione, for example, wasn’t there—though given the time turner and her anti-studying strategy, Mary thought that was more for show than anything, like she thought people would get suspicious if she was too relaxed.
With Hermione gone, and Lilian’s cold shoulder, there wasn’t really anyone in her group for her to talk to but Neville. Weasley hated her, and Lisa and Ernie, while nice enough, weren’t really her friends. So as soon as they paired up, she grabbed Neville, leaving Weasley to duel with Ernie and Lilian with Lisa.
Sword-fighting prodigy or not, Neville still wasn’t that good of a duelist, and Mary had him disarmed so quickly that she ended up just tossing his wand back so they could go a few more rounds while the others finished up. Finally, though, she needed a break, so she turned down his offer of a fourth round in favor of grabbing a drink of water, and he followed her down from the stage.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said quietly, as they made their way to the table of water pitchers at the back of the hall. “Did it work out? Whatever you and Hermione were trying to do with the… you know.”
“Oh!” Mary grinned. “Yeah, I think it did! I still can’t tell you what it was for, but it was a huge help, and I really couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks again.”
“No problem, Mary.” Neville looked embarrassed, but then, he normally did. “By the way, I was wondering… Would you like to come over to my house again sometime over the summer? Being alone with Gran and Uncle Algie gets to be a lot after a while, and since she likes you…”
Mary hadn’t expected him to ask that, but she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Neville didn’t have that many friends, she’d noticed, and his closest friend, Weasley, had apparently managed to offend his gran the one time he’d come over by suggesting Neville take Creatures instead of Runes. In any case, she couldn’t see any reason to say no—she liked Neville, and he’d really helped her out with finding Pettigrew.
“That sounds nice,” she said. “Or, if you’d like to get away from your grandmother, I can ask Miss Catherine if you can come to the Urquhart Mansion instead.” She didn’t hate Madam Longbottom, but if she could avoid her, so much the better.
Neville smiled at that, and she was pretty sure that was what he’d been hoping for, even if he was too polite to go inviting himself. “Sure. I’ll ask my gran, but I’m sure she’ll say yes.”
Finishing their water, the two of them began making their way back over to their group, only to be greeted with a very unpleasant sight. “Oh, bloody hell,” Mary muttered. At some point while they’d been chatting, Draco had apparently come over to join them and now seemed to be involved in a heated discussion with both Weasley and Lilian.
“He’s been taunting Ron all weekend,” Neville informed her quietly. “About the hippogriff.”
“The… hippogriff?” Mary stared at him in abject confusion.
“The one that clawed his arm in their first lesson with Hagrid. Lady Malfoy’s been trying to get it put down, mostly just to piss Dumbledore off.” Mary snorted at that—Draco’s mum and the Headmaster went to ridiculous lengths in their feud against each other sometimes. Not unlike Draco and Weasley, actually, but a little more subtle.
“It was supposed to be executed ages ago, but Ron’s been helping Hagrid file all these appeals with the Ministry. Anyway, there’s another appeal Thursday, but Ron’s pretty sure they’ve already made up their mind, because they’re bringing an executioner to the appeal. And Malfoy thinks so too—he’s been bragging about it every time he’s in earshot of us.”
Mary supposed Pansy really was the lesser of two evils. Or, well, personally she thought Pansy might be more evil, but she was also more Slytherin, and tended to go for subtle psychological warfare over Draco’s idiotic, childish nonsense. “Fuck’s sake,” she muttered. “Guess we better go break it up.”
Neville looked a little nervous at that—a lot of his interactions with Draco involved him standing there silently turning red while the Slytherin insulted him to his face—but he nodded seriously to her, and she thought that maybe he’d gotten a little braver over the last year. Or maybe he was trying to be chivalrous again.
“—just a cut!” Weasley was shouting as they approached. “You already got Hagrid sacked. Why do you have to be such a colossal arse, Malfoy?!”
Loathe as Mary was to agree with Weasley on anything, she had to admit he had a point. She often found herself wondering that exact same thing when dealing with Draco.
Draco’s voice was quieter, so she couldn’t make out his entire response, but she caught the words, “not surprised” and “stupid animal” and “yourself” and assumed he was probably comparing Weasley unfavorably to the hippogriff.
By the time Mary and Neville had gotten close enough to actually hear what was going on, Lilian was saying, “Seriously, Weasley, I’m sorry about Hagrid’s bloody hippogriff—just because I wanted a different professor didn’t mean I wanted the thing killed.”
“You’re sorry?” Weasley scoffed. “That’s rich, Moon. You’re just as bad as he is.”
Mary thought that both boys were idiots, of course—Draco for provoking Weasley, and Weasley for blaming Lilian like she hadn’t gotten in a public shouting match with Draco over this exact same hippogriff back in September—but she couldn’t really say that. Rebuking Draco would have to wait until there weren’t outsiders around. Instead, she thought for a second about how she could defuse the situation as quickly as possible.
Weasley and Draco were the most likely of the three to escalate their fight. Draco had definitely started it by wandering over to them to brag like an idiot, so she could try to remove him from the situation, but Weasley seemed angry enough by now that, if left alone with Lilian, he might keep on trying to pick a fight with her. On the other hand, Lilian and Draco usually got along…
“Weasley,” Mary said, interrupting the three of them. “We haven’t dueled in a while. You up for it?”
He hesitated, clearly not wanting to let Draco have the last word, but also likely tempted by the opportunity to work off some anger by hexing a Slytherin as much as he wanted.
“Ooh, he’s scared,” Draco said, like an arsehole. “Afraid Potter’s gonna kick your arse? Didn’t know you were frightened of little girls.”
Though she knew he was just trying to rile Weasley up, Mary wasn’t pleased about Draco making it sound like it would be embarrassing for Weasley to be beaten by her just because she was short and a girl. Unable to help herself, despite their audience, she hissed, <Go eat your own tail and die,> pleased to see both Draco and Weasley turn white at the sound.
“Fine,” Weasley snapped, jaw clenched. Gryffindors are so easily provoked.
Weasley wasn’t that good of a duelist—honestly, Ginny was better than him, enough so that she had to wonder if Riddle had left some of his skills behind—but his anger over the whole Hagrid situation made him more aggressive than usual, keeping her on her toes, and they actually had a good duel for a change. Okay, he also bent the rules a bit when it came to what spells they were meant to use on each other, prompting a nervous squawk from Neville, but Flitwick wasn’t looking, and it was nothing she couldn’t handle. Mary grinned fiercely, parrying each and every hex and returning with her own, enjoying the exertion and focus of the fight—the way it drove other concerns from her mind.
She was so focused on Weasley, she only half heard Lilian and Draco continuing to bicker, or Lilian exclaiming, “Gods, Draco, this is why nobody likes you!”
By the time they finished their duel, Lilian was gone.
With exams in full swing, Severus had taken to keeping his office door shut whenever possible in order to discourage students demanding last-minute extra credit or wanting him to witness their emotional breakdowns. However, there were always a few that were brave, desperate, or stupid enough to knock on his door regardless.
“Come in,” he snapped, already preparing to verbally eviscerate whoever was behind the door—but thought better of it at the look on the young Miss Moon’s face. He had only seen her look so distressed a handful of times. Once had been the aftermath of her breakdown in Ravenclaw Tower. The rest had involved Mary Elizabeth’s life being in immediate danger.
“Close the door,” he said sharply, inwardly cursing himself as she flinched. He was always short tempered at this time of year, when the demands on his time reached a peak, but he had more reason to be gentle with her than most students. He’d met with her regularly throughout the term, monitoring her progress in accepting her role in her brother’s death, and knew that she was far from fully recovered. She was hardly sleeping, distracting herself with anything she could to avoid thinking of it.
He’d hoped for her to have some concern about that situation today, because it was the least troubling of the things which might have brought her to his door. Unfortunately, he had no such luck.
“Sir,” she said, wringing her hands together anxiously, still hovering in front of the door even after she’d closed it. “I think—I think I heard a prophecy.”
A prophecy. Fucking wonderful. “Is anyone in immediate danger?”
Miss Moon shook her head slightly, wide eyed, like she expected to be scolded for wasting his time, and said, “No, just—she said it would happen tonight.”
He held up a hand to stop her. The girl was clearly overwhelmed, and he would get more out of her if she calmed down. So he took a moment to call up for tea from the kitchens and get her seated in the chair in front of his desk before saying, “Tell me what happened.”
“It was Professor Trelawney, sir,” Miss Moon said, her voice slightly more controlled now. “I was in her classroom taking my Divs exam. I was meant to be looking in a crystal ball, telling her what I saw—you know, the usual sort of thing. Only then, she went into what I’m pretty sure was a trance. It matched the descriptions I’ve read, anyway, of what happens when a seer delivers a prophecy. And she said—”
Severus cut her off with another raised hand. “If you are comfortable with it, I would like to examine the memory via legilimency,” he said. There was no way in hell he was relying on a teenager’s secondhand recollection of what might have been a prophecy delivered by Sybil Trelawney.
Miss Moon hesitated, biting her lip, and he knew immediately that there was something in the memory she didn’t want him to see. But she seemed to understand the importance of the situation, because after a moment, she said, “Alright.”
“Call up your memory of the moment before her trance began,” he told her, leaning forward to stare into her eyes from across the desk.
Lilian stared into the crystal ball, pretending as best she could to be Seeing. Maybe she should just drop the class, she thought—she’d still have enough electives to satisfy Snape without it—but it was an easy O and she was already there. So she’d come up with this stupid story about seeing a Grim. She knew enough about Black Dogs to fake it, and everyone knew Trelawney loved her death omens.
She rambled on, wondering with each word how much it would take to satisfy Trelawney so she could leave and go check on her and Aerin’s project—getting a little distracted by how glad she was to finally be on speaking terms with her sister again, even if it had taken something this ridiculous to bring them back together—when her professor suddenly went rigid, eyes blank and unfocused as she said—nearly shouted, really, her voice harsh and guttural, “It will happen tonight!”
“Er… what?” Lilian said stupidly, but Trelawney wasn’t listening.
“For years upon years,” the professor said in that same inhuman voice, eyes rolling, fingers digging into the arms of her chair like she was possessed or something, “the servant has been kept from the master, bound by invisible chains. Tonight, before midnight... the servant will break free and rejoin the master. Reunited, they shall rise again, greater and more terrible than ever before. Tonight... before midnight... the servant... will rejoin... the master…”
The unknown force that had come over Trelawney seemed to have fled her, leaving her to sag into her chair as though going unconscious before she stirred again.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I seem to have drifted off.”
Buggering fuck. That was definitely a prophecy.
When Severus didn’t immediately speak, Miss Moon peered at him with worried eyes and asked, “Well?”
“I will take care of this,” he said. Not that there was much to be done, but Miss Moon didn’t need to be worrying herself about it, given that she was even less able to help the situation than he was. “You may return to your studies now.”
Miss Moon hesitated, however. “Was it really a prophecy?” she asked. “Was it about the Dark Lord?”
Not for the first time, Severus rued allowing Miss Moon and Mary Elizabeth’s other friends to see the way he and his Anipsiá spoke to each other. They had grown far too bold, thinking they could take liberties with him as well.
“I will take care of it,” he said with more emphasis. When she didn’t move, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, it was a prophecy. And given that you heard it as well as I did, there is nothing I can tell you about the contents that you do not already know. Now, you will forget about this and return to your exams, and I will investigate further.”
Finally, he seemed to get through to her—or else she wasn’t willing to test his patience any further. Miss Moon stood, gathering her bag, and said, “Thank you, Professor,” although he could hear in her voice that she was still worried.
“Miss Moon?” he said before she could leave, and she turned back to look at him questioningly. “As for the other information I saw in your mind, I trust that you will follow Rule Two.”
“Of course, sir.” That actually brought a small smile to her face—a reminder of the cheeky girl he had seen less and less of since the previous Mabon.
Then she was gone, and he groaned, lowering his head onto his desk.
As far as prophecies went, it had been rather vague, and he knew better than to jump to conclusions. Yes, it seemed likely that the ‘servant’ in question was Pettigrew—and likelier still that the ‘master’ was the Dark Lord—but he did not know for certain. More importantly, he knew better than to attempt to prevent it from coming to pass or to manipulate the outcome. The Dark Lord’s fate on Samhain of 1981 was a prime example of why such a thing was folly.
What could be done? He would, he decided, watch Pettigrew’s box overnight, but take no additional steps to prevent his escape. Lupin would transform tonight, so he would not be able to help, but in truth, if Pettigrew was the subject of the prophecy, there was nothing that an additional wizard would be able to do to help. At most, Severus could hope to know immediately if Pettigrew escaped.
Dark fucking Powers, could he not have a single week without some catastrophe arising? If he lost their prisoner, Mary Elizabeth was going to be very displeased.
When midnight struck and nothing had happened—the box sitting quiet and inert on the coffee table in Severus’s private quarters—he was briefly relieved, even as he continued to stand watch. (There were uninhabited islands in the Pacific Ocean on which it would not be midnight for another thirteen hours.) However, as the hours passed and dawn approached, bringing with it the certainty that the prophecy had, in fact, not referred to Pettigrew at all, he found his spirits rapidly sinking.
He had been wrong about the identity of the ‘chained servant,’ but he might not have been wrong about the identity of the master. Which meant that somewhere out in the world, another of the Dark Lord’s servants might have found their way to him last night while Severus sat watching a box.
Severus continued his guard duty until one p.m. just to be safe, until the new day had come in all time zones, then used his time turner—a relic from Bellatrix’s early experiments, for which he’d served as an unwilling test subject—to travel back to the early hours of the morning and made his way out to the wardline. From there, he apparated directly to Dunnet Head, a cliff on the northernmost point of Scotland. In addition to a muggle lighthouse, there was a small hut which always contained at least one unlucky rookie from the Department of Law Enforcement.
All visitors to Azkaban were expected to submit to a search and surrender their wands before visiting the island. Severus had no intention of doing so, of course, but neither did he think it was a smart idea to fly over to the prison without permission, as he had done the last time he had visited. If his suspicion was correct, there would be Aurors crawling all over the island.
Instead, he crept closer to the hut, reaching out cautiously with his legilimency, attempting to brush undetected against the mind of whoever was inside.
Almost immediately, it became clear that there were multiple people in the hut. That had never happened before, and his stomach sank further. Picking the one with the weakest occlumency, Severus insinuated himself into his mind. What he saw there left him reeling, cold shock gripping his heart at the confirmation of his worst fear come to pass.
Bellatrix was free.
Notes:
Ah, dueling scenes, my archnemesis. Is it obvious I don't know how to write them? Also, yep, Ron still befriended Hagrid without Harry (Charlie encouraged him to introduce himself) and has been regularly visiting him and helping with Buckbeak's case in the background of all this. I know some people have thought he comes across badly in this fic, but honestly, Ron's not that bad of a dude, just kinda hot-headed and quick to judge. It's mostly that Mary dislikes him, and we only really see him through her eyes.
I borrowed lots of little details from RIP MP for this: Hermione's anti-studying, Lilian overhearing a prophecy, the prefect selection, etc. Leigha intended the prophecy to be a fake-out as well, but a different one; having it (maybe) refer to Bellatrix was my idea, so my version of the prophecy is different from both Leigha's and canon.
For RIP MP readers, I'm gonna be doing something different with Bella than Leigha had planned for her series, as I planned out a lot of this fic before she published RIP MP, but I'm aiming to adhere as much as possible to Leigha's characterization for her across her different fics, so hopefully her actions will still feel true to Leigha's Bella, who I adore. I think what I'm doing with her will become more clear over time.
Chapter 36: Scylla and Charybdis
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mary’s last exam of the year was Defense Against the Dark Arts on Friday morning, and she breezed right through Remus’s obstacle course. While they wouldn’t get their marks until the following week, she’d be genuinely surprised if she didn’t get an O, especially now that she could cast her Patronus again.
The only person in the class she thought did as well as her was Blaise Zabini, though he lost points for not taking the exam seriously: when he climbed into the trunk, the boggart apparently transformed into a kitten and climbed into his lap, and Blaise spent several minutes petting and baby-talking to it before Remus demanded that he come back up and let someone else take their turn.
“Show off,” Mary muttered as he rejoined the group of waiting students. Several of the Hufflepuffs were giving him suspicious looks—they had been separated by House for their first class of the year, so none of them had known about his thing with boggarts. Even though they were friends, she definitely understood why so many people thought Blaise was creepy.
“You’re one to talk,” he replied with a raised eyebrow. “Where’d you learn a NEWT-level Light charm?”
Mary tried not to look too pleased with herself.
Not all of them did as well as her and Blaise (and Theo, who was a close third). Vinnie and Greg, of course, barely made it five minutes. (Combined.) And Lilian, who was one of the last to go, seemed to be doing well at first, but when she got to the boggart… Well, Mary didn’t see what happened in there, but she saw the aftermath, when Lilian emerged with tears streaming down her face and her hands over her mouth.
Daphne and Pansy rushed forward to comfort her, but—to Mary’s slight satisfaction, though she felt bad about it—Lilian pushed them away and fled without a word, running for the Senior Woods.
Mary wasn’t really sure what prompted her to do it. Lilian hadn’t spoken to her in over two months, and she clearly wanted to be alone, but something just made her feel like she should go after her. “I’m just gonna,” she mumbled to Blaise and Theo, caught Remus’s eyes for a second so he’d know she was leaving, and headed off after the other girl.
Luckily, Lilian hadn’t gotten too much of a head start, or gone too deep into the trees. Mary found her just past the edge of the woods, leaning back against a tree with her face in her hands. At the sound of Mary’s footsteps, she jerked in surprise and looked up, but relaxed again—at least partially—when she saw it was only Mary and not some creature from the Forest.
“Hey,” Mary said carefully.
She half expected Lilian to tell her to fuck off, but after a moment of tense silence, Lilian sighed and said, “Hey.” She lowered her hands and shoved them into her pockets, looking down at the ground.
As Mary should have probably anticipated, it was excruciatingly awkward. What did they even have to say to each other? After all this time, she had pretty much given up hope that Lilian was ever going to come around. It had started to feel less like a phase their friendship was going through, and more like the new way of things: Lilian off with the other Slytherin girls, and Mary and Hermione on their own.
That said, Mary didn’t exactly feel angry with her. Maybe she should have been, but mostly, she just felt kind of sad at the way the other girl seemed almost like a stranger to her now. It wasn’t even like they’d fought. Lilian, she was pretty sure, just wasn’t sure how to cope with everything that had happened after the past year, and was doing her best to avoid it instead.
Case in point, whatever she’d seen in the trunk. Mary wasn’t sure she should ask about it—actually, she was pretty sure she shouldn’t. Usually, when something made someone break down in tears and flee into the woods, it wasn’t polite to bring it up. But she had absolutely no idea what else to say, and the silence was growing more oppressive by the second, so she finally asked, “Aerin again?”
“What?” Lilian looked at her in confusion.
“Your boggart. Like on the first day of class.”
“Oh.” A cloud passed over Lilian’s face and she shook her head. “No. Connor.”
“Oh.”
Another excruciating silence.
“He—”
“You don’t have to—if you don’t want—”
“He was an Inferi. Or, something like that, I don’t actually know. He was dead, but walking around and talking anyway, like he’d been raised by necromancy. He told me that he blamed me for… what happened to him.”
“Oh,” Mary said again. Why had she thought that talking about it would be better than standing silently near each other? How was she supposed to do this? “It’s not your fault,” she said. A useless statement, but what else was there to say?
“I know,” Lilian said flatly. “Or, that’s what the mind healer said.”
Running a hand into her hair and wondering why she’d decided to follow her in the first place, Mary finally gave up and said, “I’m sorry. I know I sound like an idiot. I just—I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.”
Lilian laughed humorlessly. “Tell me about it,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to talk to you and Maia for weeks now.”
Mary’s heart skipped a beat in her chest. “Oh, yeah?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“Yeah.” Lilian scuffed her shoe against the grass, then slid down the tree to sit on the ground. “I didn’t want—I don’t know. I kept seeing you guys together by the lake and thinking, maybe I could just walk up and sit down next to you like nothing happened, and things could go back to normal. But it’d been so long, and I figured you’d… I don’t know, yell at me or something, and it would turn into this whole big thing, and I just… couldn’t do it.” Looking up at Mary, who was hovering uncertainly a few feet away, she added, “You can sit down if you want.”
So Mary sat on the grass a few feet away, unsure if she should sit closer or further. Unsure of everything, really, but she said, “You could have, you know. We wouldn’t have yelled at you.”
Like she didn’t even hear her, Lilian went on, “And then I thought, you guys probably don’t need me anymore. Whenever I see you together, you look like—like you’re best friends or something, and I thought, probably there’s no space for me there anymore. You were always closer to each other anyway, you knew each other first, and I thought, maybe you’re happier now that it’s just the two of you and I’d just be intruding or something.”
“That’s not true,” Mary said, but Lilian was avoiding her eyes, pulling tufts of grass out of the ground and tearing them apart with her fingers, so she said more sharply, “Lilian. That’s not true at all.”
Lilian looked up at her, startled, then frowned and looked away again. “I mean, it’s not like—you guys weren’t trying that hard to get me to talk to you either.”
“We didn’t want to make things worse,” Mary said helplessly. “We—I pushed you on the Connor thing, and look how that turned out. Sean said you needed space.”
“I don’t know,” Lilian said quietly. “Maybe I did, for a bit. And then I kind of didn’t want space anymore, but you’d stopped trying, and I kept thinking, The next time Liz and Maia ask if I want to hang out with them, I’ll say yes, but you didn’t, and I didn’t know how—it’s not like I could just walk up and say, ‘Sorry I spent two months pretending you didn’t exist, but everything was shit and I thought you’d want me to talk about it, and I was already talking about it enough with the bloody mind healer, but now I miss you, friends again?’ and just have things go back to normal.”
“Why not?” Mary asked. “I—I miss you too. So does Maia. If you don’t want to talk about it, we won’t talk about it. If we all want to be friends again, then… why can’t we just do it?”
Lilian scoffed, leaning back against the tree trunk and tilting her head back to stare straight up it. “I wasted so much time,” she muttered. “The year’s basically over.”
“Who cares?” As much as she tried to be understanding, she was getting a little frustrated with Lilian’s fatalistic dragonshit. “We’ve got four more to go, and we both want to be friends again, so let’s just do it. It doesn’t have to be a big thing. Okay?”
Finally, Lilian met her eyes, something cautiously hopeful in their hazel depths. “…Okay.”
“Good,” Mary said resolutely. Then, trying to live up to their decision, she added in a tone of forced lightness, “So. What have you been up to for the past… two and a half months?”
Lilian’s lips twitched slightly like she knew what Mary was doing, but indulged her. “Started running.”
“Running?”
“Yeah, like, around the lake. In the mornings, usually. I wake up and can’t fall back asleep, so I just go out and run ‘till I’m exhausted.”
Mary made a face. “I’d rather just fly.”
“Sometimes that doesn’t tire me out enough,” Lilian confessed. “Uh, let’s see. I snogged Blaise a couple times.”
Mary went a little red at that—somehow, she hadn’t expected Lilian to already be snogging people. She’d always thought the three of them—Lilian and Hermione and her—would go through that stuff at the same time, and she was so far from ready for that.
“Daphne doesn’t mind?” she asked, trying to sound totally unembarrassed and cool about the whole topic, even as her voice came out oddly squeaky. She knew Blaise joked about them having an open relationship, and Daphne had teased him at the prefect conference about wanting to snog other people, but Mary still couldn’t believe Daphne wouldn’t mind her close friend and her fiancé being together like that.
Lilian broke out laughing, startling her. “Liz—Daph is gay. Like, really really gay. She has a thing going with Fay Dunbar.”
“Wait, really?” Mary turned even redder, embarrassed that she’d somehow missed that. It had been bad enough she hadn’t noticed Aerin and Lara were dating, but she saw Daphne way more than the Ravenclaw girls. “I thought she and Dunbar were, like, rivals.” Not enemies exactly, but they’d spent the past three years competing to be the most popular girls in their year.
“No, they are,” Lilian admitted. “It’s like, they don’t really like each other, but they like snogging each other. Kind of like Professors Snape and Sinistra, actually.” Mary made a face at the thought. “Anyway, no, Daph and Blaise are like brother and sister. The whole engagement thing is just a business arrangement, and it works out great for both of them, ‘cause he doesn’t mind that she doesn’t like blokes, and she doesn’t mind that he snogs every other person he comes across.
“Besides, it was just a few times that I did it. I mostly just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
“He wasn’t… good?” Mary didn’t know much about snogging, but with all the practice Blaise got, it was hard to imagine that. Plus, he was very good-looking; even she could see that.
“No, he was,” Lilian said breezily, like the whole thing was no big deal—like she was some worldly, experienced woman now. “But he’s such a slag, you know?” That startled a sharp laugh out of Mary. “I don’t really think I want a guy I have to share. I want, like, a boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Mary didn’t have much to say about that—she still didn’t really get the point of boyfriends. But whatever.
“What about you? Still a prude?”
“Hey!” Her offense was half feigned, though—she was too happy to be talking to Lilian again, even if she was teasing her. “I’m not a prude. I just don’t fancy anyone yet.” Then, with a sniff, she added, “I’m not going to settle for just anyone.” It was probably less embarrassing to be picky than a prude who secretly thought that they were all still too young for that sort of thing.
“Yeah, yeah, if you say so,” Lilian said with a grin. “Let’s see… Aerin and I are talking again, as of, like, three days ago. We liberated a hippogriff together.”
“You… what?”
“Hagrid’s hippogriff,” Lilian said. “The one Weasley was all upset about? Hagrid just had him, like, tied up outside his hut, so Aerin and I went out one night and took him.”
Why was Mary not surprised? Just… “What the hell are you going to do with a hippogriff?”
Lilian giggled. “We just led him back to his herd in the Forest. Well, I wanted to take him home—I’m pretty sure we could keep a dozen hippogriffs and our parents wouldn’t even notice—but Aerin overruled me. She said there’s no way the Ministry or anyone would even be able to tell which hippogriff is which, so, he’s back with the rest of them.”
I guess Hermione and I weren’t the only ones aiding and abetting fugitives this year. “I wish I could’ve gone with you,” she said. “Me and Maia.” Like in first year, when they’d taken care of the baby dragon.
“Tell you what,” Lilian said. “Next time I rescue a hippogriff that’s been sentenced to death, I’ll invite you guys. Okay?” She said it lightly, but her eyes were serious, like she was really saying that she wanted to go back to the way things had been, too. “What about you?” she added. “Any illicit adventures I missed out on?”
There it was: the perfect opening to tell her about Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew. Mary opened her mouth—and then closed it again. She wanted to tell Lilian, she really did, but she’d promised Snape and Remus that she wouldn’t tell anyone who didn’t already know. Helping an alleged murderer escape the Aurors, or holding an actual murderer captive and torturing him with one of her professors, was a step beyond letting loose a condemned hippogriff.
“Not exactly,” she lied, resigning herself to hiding the truth even from the girl she’d considered her best friend. “Professor Snape and I did get attacked by dementors, though.”
She launched into the story, fighting back her guilt at lying to Lilian, doing her best to focus on the parts of the tale that were true—the way they’d all swarmed onto the grounds at once, the feeling of casting her Patronus to chase them off—instead of the fabrications.
It left her feeling uneasy, as much as she knew it was necessary. For most of her time at Hogwarts, she and Lilian and Hermione had shared everything. Holding this back when Lilian, as far as she could tell, had been honest with her about what she’d been up to left a bad taste in her mouth. But, she told herself, it hadn’t been her idea not to talk for so long. If it had been up to her, Lilian would have been with her and Hermione the day they’d gone after Pettigrew.
That aside, though, at least they were actually talking again.
Eventually, the pair of them headed back to the castle together, intending to find Hermione and see if she wanted to hang out in the Room of Requirement or something—only to immediately be waylaid by none other than Snape, striding urgently across the grounds in their direction.
Upon seeing them, he stopped and folded his arms over his chest, waiting for the girls to reach him before saying, “Miss Potter. Miss Moon. What were the pair of you doing in the Forest?”
“Nothing,” they chorused automatically, it having been drilled into their heads over the years not to ever admit to any wrongdoing.
A second later, though, Mary remembered that they hadn’t broken any rules. They’d not gone into the forbidden part of the Forest, and it wasn’t like it was after curfew or anything. “We were just talking in the Senior Woods, sir,” she said. “We’re both finished with our exams.”
Snape looked like he wanted to scold them, though she had no idea why. What’s crawled up his arse? This was the least friendly he’d been to her in… she wasn’t sure how long. After a long pause, he said, “Very well. Miss Potter, come with me.”
As he turned and strode away, not even waiting to see if Mary was following him, she exchanged a confused look with Lilian. “I’ll see you at dinner, then?”
“Yeah, dinner.” Lilian gave her a tentative smile, and Mary hurried off after Snape.
As he didn’t seem much in the mood for talking, Mary waited until they were in Snape’s office before asking, “Is there something wrong, sir?” These days, she almost never called him ‘sir’ when they were alone, but it seemed better to err on the side of politeness today.
“You shouldn’t go out to the Forest without a professor,” he said, voice strangely flat.
Mary frowned in confusion. There wasn’t any rule against it; other students went out there all the time. Hell, they had the Samhain and Walpurgis Revels out there, and he definitely knew about those. “…Why?” she finally asked, hoping he wouldn’t get annoyed with her impertinence.
Snape didn’t answer. He walked past her and began rearranging papers on his desk, his back to her, shoulders slightly hunched. Mary was about ask again if something was wrong when he said, very quietly, “Bellatrix has escaped Azkaban.”
Mary laughed nervously, certain she’d misheard. “What?”
But the expression on Snape’s face when he turned around told her she hadn’t. Leaning against the side of his desk and looking at her grimly, he said, “Last night, around eleven, the Blackheart vanished from her cell. Nobody knows where she’s gone, but I have reason to believe she’s rejoined the Dark Lord and is seeking to revive him.”
Though she opened her mouth, no sound came out. They just stood there for a moment, looking at each other. Then Snape said, “Would you like to sit down?”
“Please.” Mary was in such a daze, however, that she barely registered herself walking across the office and taking a seat in one of the armchairs.
Even as she reeled, Snape began talking again. “The Ministry seems to intend to keep it quiet. With how much they have bungled Black’s escape, they do not want the public outcry that will come from having two notorious Azkaban inmates on the loose. Outside of the Ministry, I believe that the Headmaster and myself—and now you—are the only people who know.
“A few hours before the Blackheart’s escape, a prophecy was made by Professor Trelawney—the second true prophecy she has delivered, to my knowledge. It was heard by Miss Moon, who brought the matter to myself, but the wording was vague, referring to a servant who had been kept from his or her master by invisible chains for many years, and I believed at first that it referred to Pettigrew. According to the prophecy, servant and master were reunited on Thursday night and ‘shall rise again, greater and more terrible than ever before.’”
But his words had just been washing over her as her mind buzzed with shock. She’d only really gotten as far as, “Bellatrix escaped?”
Snape leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Yes.”
“…How?!”
“The question is not ‘how,’ but ‘why’?” At Mary’s confused stare, he raised an eyebrow and said, “Do you truly believe that anyone is capable of keeping the Lady Blackheart somewhere she does not wish to be? After her attack on the Longbottoms in ‘81, Mirabella Zabini spoke to her and managed to convince her that the Dark Lord would wish for her to stay in Azkaban and await his return—and, in doing so, orchestrated the Truce which we observe to this day, for most of us with any sense knew that if the Dark were retaliated against too harshly for their actions in the war, the Blackheart would have left her prison and begun the conflict all over again.
“No, there is no doubt in my head that Bellatrix could have escaped at any moment, and simply chose not to. I visited her in prison in 1991, and she seemed exactly as… whole, mentally, as she had ever been. The dementors seemed to have no effect on her at all—she claimed to be immune to them, in fact. Upon my arrival, she attempted to gossip with me, asked for help with some arithmancy she was doing in her bloody head, informed me that she was translating Dark Arts spells into Siren Song and Hamlet into Gobbledygook out of boredom, and then growled at a fucking dementor in its own language and followed up by threatening to, and I quote, ‘set it on fire again.’” He paused before adding, “She also threw a fireball at my head, so clearly, her magical abilities were not hampered.”
He’d mentioned Bellatrix claiming to have set dementors on fire before, but there was so much other unbelievable information included in what he’d just said that she didn’t even know where to start. Finally, she managed to ask, “Is that even possible? Being immune to dementors?”
With a look of annoyance, Snape said, “I would not have believed so, but in Bellatrix’s case… I mentioned before that the dementor effect can be resisted by occlumency, since it’s a form of empathic manipulation?” At Mary’s nod—he’d told her the first part of that, at least—he continued, “Bellatrix has the distinction of being the only naturally perfect occlumens I have ever met. Her mind appears to be surrounded by an impenetrable occlumency barrier, not from active occlumency practice but as its default state. I never managed to find a single flaw in it, not even the few times I saw her asleep or unconscious. So far as I know, the only person to ever successfully legilimize her was the Dark Lord.”
Mary stared blankly into space. “I don’t like that Bellatrix exists,” she said. “I really, really don’t like it.”
With a dark laugh, Snape said. “I know the feeling.”
And now she was free.
“Why were you visiting her in the first place?” she asked. “And why did she throw a fireball at you?”
A dark look on his face, Snape said, “The answer to both questions is the same. The Headmaster had only just informed me of the Dark Lord’s real name, and I wished to taunt Bellatrix with the knowledge that her ‘master’ had been a halfblood as, the last time I had seen her in Azkaban, some five years before, she did not seem to be suffering properly. I thought I might fix that. She… did not take the news well. After her attempt to set me on fire, she went into a near catatonic state. I was surprised by the strength of her reaction—it was enough to make me wonder if the dementors were beginning to have an effect on her after all. After that, she seemed to change, withdrawing into herself and refusing to speak to her occasional visitors.”
“So…” Mary bit her lip, a sinking feeling in her stomach. “The last time you saw Bellatrix, you made her angry enough to want to set you on fire, is what you’re saying? Then she spent a few years refusing to speak to anyone over it? And now she’s loose?”
“Yes.” Snape’s eyes were far away, a distant sort of horror to them.
“Do you know why she left? I mean, you said Lady Zabini told her the Dark Lord would want her to stay there. So if she left…”
“Either she no longer believes that, or she no longer intends to serve him,” Snape said succinctly. “I might have hoped that the revelation about his blood status was enough to drive her away from him—but the prophecy Miss Moon overheard would imply otherwise. There is also the question of, if my visit truly precipitated her choice to leave, why she waited for another two and a half years before doing so, and why she spent that time near total silence.”
Mary was only half listening. There was something about prophecies as a topic that was tugging at her mind. “Oh!” she gasped, wincing in self-recrimination, and Snape gave her a confused look. “Merlin, I forgot. When we were in the Forest looking for Black, Ronan—the centaur, I mean—said some stuff to me that sounded like—well, not a prophecy, maybe, but at least a prediction. I meant to look into it after, and tell you about it, but after the encounter with the dementors, I completely forgot about it. I’m sorry, I should have—”
“Do not trouble yourself over it,” Snape said. “Even had we known that the prophecy referred to Bellatrix in advance, it would not have made a difference. There is no sense in attempting to oppose a prophecy, or to help it along—a lesson which neither the Headmaster nor the Dark Lord ever came to terms with. However, if you can recall what he said—or are willing to allow me to examine the memory—it might give us a better idea of what is to come.”
“Right… He said that Saturn was rising, and Mars followed. So, change, and then war, right?”
“That would be my interpretation,” Snape agreed.
Mary nodded. “Then after that, he said something about a witch. Or, a she, anyway. It sounded like something out of an Aradia Montreve poem. He said she would ‘consume’ anyone who tried to subdue or stop her. I asked who ‘she’ was, and he said something about… an ‘eternal black flame’ in the ‘cut open heart of the darkness.’ It was all very ominous and cryptic.”
After Luna, she really should have learned to take that kind of thing more seriously… But if Snape said it wouldn’t have made a difference, she supposed he was right.
Snape didn’t respond, just held up a hand and performed what had to be a silent summoning charm, because a moment later, a book appeared in his palm. Mary recognized it as the same one she’d gotten from Aunt Minnie a few Christmases ago: The Collected Poems of Aradia Montreve. It looked about as old as hers, too, the spine cracked and faded.
“I didn’t know you owned poetry books,” she said, stupidly.
Paging through the book, Snape said, without looking up, “Lily liked her.” Before Mary could say that she knew that, he said, “Ah,” pausing and pressing a fingertip to the page, beginning to read aloud. “And we shall consume those who would subdue us, / Who would drag us back to earth. / We’ll show them the truth / At the heart of a monster. From ‘Monstrabimus,’ titled after a Latin word meaning, more or less, ‘I will show.’”
He paused for a moment, eyes scanning over the page, before adding, “Another stanza mentions a ‘cut open heart’: The gods will look on us with pride, / And wizards fall in fear. / We’ll show them what lies / In the soul of a monster; / The cut-open heart of the world. / Power most glorious; / Mercy most cruel; / And Truth, world alight, all-consuming.”
Tightening her grip on the arm of the chair, Mary said, “That… doesn’t sound good.”
Snape let out a small, harsh laugh. “No.” Closing the book, he added, “I believe the centaur’s comment about the ‘heart of the darkness’ was a double entendre. The House of Black—Bellatrix’s natal House—was sometimes referred to as ‘the fire at the heart of the Dark’ or ‘the eternal House.’ And, of course, there is her epithet, ‘the Lady Blackheart.’ Considering that…” He trailed off for a moment, staring off into space, before continuing, “I would say the implication is that it is not only Bellatrix who has escaped, but Bellatrix Black—that her plans and future actions will have something to do with her natal House.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Snape confessed, settling back into the chair with a sigh. “I was never the best at predicting her actions. She has been loose for over twelve hours and neither of us are dead yet, though, so… that’s an encouraging sign.”
Mary genuinely couldn’t tell if he was making a very dark joke or actually being serious. When he failed to elaborate in any way, she prompted, “Could she… do that? Isn’t Hogwarts… Doesn’t the school have wards?”
Another harsh half-laugh from Snape. “Allegedly. However, as you may have noticed, they are not especially effective. So far as I understand it, the school’s wards are meant to be intention-based: that is, they should bar entrance to anyone who intends the students or other residents of the castle harm. Given the events of the past… well, I was going to say ‘the past several years,’ but in truth, this was the case before you arrived as well. The point is, they are clearly not functioning as intended.
“Dumbledore believes that the years of repairs and changes to the school’s wards by each successive headmaster has somehow damaged them, and no one fully understands how they were constructed in the first place—Slytherin was an exceptional wardcrafter, and however he designed the school’s wards, they defy conventional analysis.
“In any case, all of this is irrelevant, because the Hogwarts wards never prevented shadow-walkers from entering, even when they were first constructed. So far as I am aware, there are no wards to prevent shadow-walking—at most, like in the Ministry or the Wizengamot Hall, there are wards to raise an alarm once a shadow-walker has entered, but that is the best we can do.”
Mary was suddenly very grateful to be sitting down. “So she could just walk in here at any point and kill us?”
Snape hesitated, like he didn’t want to say it and terrify her, but finally admitted, “Yes.”
There were no words she could say. Inside her head, there was just a faint buzzing noise, like TV static.
“Although,” he added, “she cannot find you unless she has already been close enough to you to feel your magical signature. She would have to shadow-walk to a location where she expects you to be and then locate you through mundane means—physically looking for you, that is, as tracking spells will not work. A Fidelius Charm could also prevent her from locating you, but it would not be possible to place the entire castle under a Fidelius—and, as Black and Pettigrew demonstrated, there are other weaknesses to that charm.
“In any case, if she has not already made an attempt, we can assume that killing us is not in her immediate plans, or else that she believes she cannot get in and of Hogwarts without being noticed and challenged by Dumbledore. My hope, however, is that she will not dare to attempt to kill you herself, given that they still believe you to be the subject of the prophecy and they do not know the full wording—after all, the Dark Lord has provided her with a very compelling example of why you do not attempt to counteract prophecies once they are made.”
Did he really believe that, or was he just trying to make her feel better? “It’s been less than a day,” she pointed out. “What if she wants to revive the Dark Lord first, and then she’s going to kill me? Or, what if she kidnaps me and takes me to him? Or takes him to me? Is side-along shadow-walking a thing? Or, what if she kills you?”
“Yes, it is possible for Bellatrix to bring another person through the shadows.” A haunted look briefly flashed through his eyes, and she had the feeling he was speaking from personal experience. “One reason I asked to speak to you is that I wish to place a spell which will alert me if you are taken through any extra-dimensional means of traveling, including apparition and shadow-walking. This should at least tell me if Bellatrix does abduct you. In addition, it would be best for you to keep a portkey on your person at all times, so that if you are taken, you have a means of escape. Shadow-walking is faster than normal travel, but not instantaneous—if you portkey to a location far enough from her, you should have time to seek help. We may need to ask Minerva for assistance acquiring a portkey for you…”
“I already have one,” Mary said dazedly. “From my case worker at the Ministry. It’s his business card, and it can take me to his office in an emergency.” But she didn’t feel any better at the thought, because, “What help can anyone be if she just follows me back and kidnaps me all over again?”
“Bellatrix is a formidable battlemage, but if you are able to contact him in time, the Headmaster may be able to fight her off, or to make it difficult enough for her to take you that she retreats. Particularly if he has additional support from myself, Professor Flitwick, or another battlemage or duelist. In addition, you can use a Patronus Charm to prevent her from slipping back into the shadows, either to abduct you or to attack from behind as she likes to do.”
“A Patronus?” Bellatrix might speak dementor, but Mary didn’t think she was one!
“The Patronus Charm was first developed in Etruria in the fourth century, during the Italic Vampire Wars. Its initial purpose was not to repel dementors, but to drag vampires out of the shadows to prevent them from spying on or covertly attacking human mages.”
Mary wasn’t very reassured by any of this. “So you’re saying that if I get him to help, and he has backup, Professor Dumbledore might be able to keep her from kidnapping me? And that’s assuming she doesn’t just show up and kill me—or you—before we even know she’s there, or resurrect the Dark Lord and bring him right to me so he can murder me himself. Don’t think I didn’t notice you avoiding my questions.”
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, looking pained. “What do you want me to say, Anipsiá?” he asked. “I cannot promise you any foolproof way to protect ourselves from Bellatrix. The truth is, if she wishes to kill us, she almost certainly will. We can only hope that it does not come to that.”
And yet, he said this in a flat, almost neutral tone of voice. Mary gaped at him. “How can you be so calm?”
“Oh, I’m terrified,” Snape said, looking up at her and sounding anything but. With another sigh, he said, “I am going to impart to you a lesson which I learned during the war: the Blackheart is utterly unpredictable, terrifyingly powerful, and devoid of recognizable human emotions—a psychopath in the truest sense of the word, and unfairly gifted in all matters related to combat. The only way to cope with her existence is to accept that she might kill you at any given moment, for any reason, and you would not be able to stop her—and then do your best to get on with your life regardless.”
That was the least helpful thing Mary had ever heard. “Well,” she said, uncertain how to even respond. “That’s a cheerful thought.”
With a little huff, Snape said, “Forgive me if I am not in a cheerful mood.”
Closing her eyes, Mary did her best to adopt Snape’s nihilistic attitude, to stop herself from spiraling into panic. It didn’t work very well, so after a moment, she opened her eyes again and asked—knowing it wouldn’t make her feel any better, but morbidly unable to stop picking at the wound regardless, “You said that they were winning the first time. That they were only stopped in the end because of Lily—the tynged, and what she did in the war, and whatever she did the night she died. So, now that she’s gone…”
She hoped that Snape would say something—something about how it wasn’t as bad as that, that she was forgetting something important—but he only stared at the wall in silence.
“It’s going to be bad, isn’t it?” she asked, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “If Bellatrix really went back to the Dark Lord last night, and if she’s trying to bring him back.”
Snape closed his eyes for a second, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled. She wondered if, like her, he was trying not to panic. If so, he was doing a better job of it, because his voice was even as he said, “I expect so. There are many unknowns, of course. How much Bellatrix’s mind might have been affected by the years in Azkaban. How she has chosen to react to the news of his blood status. I fear that we find ourselves between Scylla and Charybdis.”
“What?”
Eyes flicking to her a moment, he said, “From the Greek epic poem The Odyssey. They were a pair of mythical monsters between which the hero Odysseus had to sail. To be between Scylla and Charybdis is to be between one evil and another.
“On the one hand, the Dark Lord is quite mad. If Bellatrix returns to him and serves him as loyally as she did in the early days of the war, carrying out his orders… or if she was truly broken by the dementors, and is now as far beyond reason as he… they will be less effective, but less predictable, and may do more damage overall. Even if they are not successful, Britain will likely be torn to pieces by their chaos.
“On the other hand, if Bellatrix is as—if not sane, then functional—as she was before Azkaban, and she chooses to take charge of the war—perhaps deciding that a mad halfblood Lord is not fit to lead the Death Eaters—they will behave more rationally, making them more effective at waging war against Britain and more difficult to defeat, but they will be more sparing and selective about their attacks, rather than lashing out in random violence with no long-term plan.
“I doubt, based on the prophecy and the fact that she carries his Mark, that she will outright betray him, halfblood or no, but she may be able to act as a shadow-leader of the Death Eaters, so to speak. She was already halfway there during the final years of the war—contradicting his orders when she found them irrational, directing the war herself, while allowing him to believe he was still in charge.”
“Would she be worse than him, then?” Mary asked, heart beating fast in her chest.
“I cannot say,” Snape replied. “If left to her own devices, Bellatrix will attempt to drag the conflict out for as long as possible, particularly without the Dark Lord to guide her and remind her of their goals as he did prior to falling under Lily’s tynged. In the early days of the war, he was the ideologue, the one who wished to reshape the world to his liking. Bellatrix was the warlord and general, the one who lived for battle, who wanted war for war’s sake. It was fun to her. If she gains control of the Death Eaters, we will see a lower level of initial bloodshed, but stretched over a longer period of time—because in Bellatrix’s twisted mind, if they win, or crush the Light’s resistance, this will mean the end of her fun. She will give us just enough hope so that we continue fighting back, keep us dangling on her rope.
“The Dark Lord, on the other hand… If I had to guess, he cares now only for revenge and domination. If Bellatrix indulges him, he will, as soon as he is confident in his own power, unleash the full fury of it onto Britain in a campaign of utter devastation. This will likely be targeted at muggleborns in particular, both out of an irrational hatred which grew in him in response to the tynged and as an affront to Dumbledore, who is known for his championing of their rights. He will not be satisfied by anything but the total annihilation of his enemies. He may not be especially effective at achieving this goal, but the consequences for us will still be severe.
“Between the senseless, maddened violence of the Dark Lord under Lily’s tynged and Bellatrix’s ruthless, strategic pursuit of endless war… either would be devastating for the entire country.”
“So… Scylla and Charybdis.”
“Indeed.”
The pair of them sat quietly in their respective chairs. Mary kept waiting, hoping Snape might think of something, some reason why the situation was not so hopeless as they thought, but he said nothing at all until, seeming to shake himself out of it, he asked permission to cast his spell on her. The one that would at least tell him if she’d been kidnapped and taken to the Dark Lord, though what he could actually do to help her, she still didn’t know. He told her that he would speak to ‘Ashe’—who she realized after a moment of confusion must be Professor Babbling—about the feasibility of developing an anti-shadow-walking ward, but did not sound optimistic about the possibility.
And then they were finished, and she left his office, thinking, Well. Shit.
Notes:
Thought this was a good chance to introduce y'all to Leigha's Bellatrix, who is very different from both canon!Bella and fanon!Bella. (Or, Leigha's AU is compatible with canon under the assumption that Bellatrix is also affected by the tynged; canon!Bella is to Leigha's Bella as Voldemort is to Leigha's Tom.) She's not a groveling, cackling sycophant, but a mad warlord who's only not a Dark Lady in her own right because she chooses to follow Voldemort instead of striking out on her own. She's also stupidly OP, basically the Chuck Norris of this universe.
Also, to clarify, it's not that Tom Riddle was a good guy and a champion of muggleborn rights before the tynged, he just wasn't as obsessed with them as Voldemort is. He didn't want to wipe them all out, but was totally willing to kill them (or anyone else, tbh) if it served his goals, which it often did.
Lilian's parents: What's that?
Lilian, hiding a hippogriff behind her back: A smoothie.The Aradia Montreve poetry quoted in this chapter was written by Leigha.
Chapter 37: Reprieve
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mary caught up with Lilian at dinner, mouthing ‘Tell you later’ in response to her friend’s questioning look. Unlike the Black thing, there wasn’t any reason to keep this a secret—in fact, Snape seemed to think it would be for the best if the information about Bellatrix’s escape leaked, so long as no one found out it had come from him.
She’d envisioned getting together with Lilian and Hermione after dinner and going up to the Room of Requirement for a couple hours, catching up and chatting and generally enjoying being free of exams. Instead, she’d be reading them in on the fact that the Blackheart might, at any point, show up and kill or abduct her.
Well. She supposed that—telling the two of them about the latest threat to her life—was just like old times.
As they ate, though, Mary realized there was someone else she needed to talk to. Instead of following Lilian out of the hall, she grabbed Blaise by the elbow and said, “I’ve got some fun and exciting news for you.”
On the first day of third year, he’d come up to her and Lilian at the Feast and, along with all the flirting, told her that he had some ‘fun and exciting’ news: “I hear someone’s favorite godfather is headed to Hogwarts.” While she hadn’t been certain, her impression had been that he was trying to give her a friendly warning of sorts. Now, she thought she should return the favor.
Unfortunately, Blaise couldn’t stop being Blaise for five seconds, because when she pulled him into an empty classroom, he said, “If you wanted a snog, all you had to do was ask,” though in a completely neutral, non-flirtatious tone of voice, so she was pretty sure he was taking the piss again.
Mary tried her best not to blush as she ignored the comment completely. “I’m starting a club.”
“A club?”
“Yeah. It’s for people whose mad godparents have broken out of Azkaban. Think we could find a faculty sponsor?”
Blaise looked at her for a long moment with his eyebrows raised. “You’re not kidding,” he finally said—not a question, but a statement.
“Afraid not,” Mary replied. “Bellatrix disappeared from her cell last night, and no one knows where she’s gone. Your mum might already know—some people at the Ministry do, though they’re trying to keep it quiet. But I thought I should tell you, just in case.”
She expected—she didn’t know what she expected. For him to freak out, maybe, or ask if she was sure, or how she knew about it, especially so soon after it had happened. But Blaise just looked at her and said, sounding serious for a change, “Thanks, Mary. That was decent of you.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
It wasn’t going to make much of a difference, really, if Bellatrix was after them. But at least warning people made her feel a little more like she was doing something, and less like she was just waiting around for everything to go to shit.
Days passed, and neither Mary nor Snape were murdered in their sleep by the Blackheart, so. That was something.
The lower years, as well as the sixth years, had the final week of term free while the professors graded their exams and the fifth and seventh years continued their OWLs and NEWTs. Without much else to do, she hung out with Hermione and Lilian, who’d made up as well—at least when Hermione wasn’t busy with the twins, or Lilian with Daphne. They brainstormed about what Bellatrix might be up to, and ways besides Snape’s spell and carrying Mr. Fulton’s business card everywhere she went that Mary could protect herself.
The main event of Mary’s final week of school, other than the ever-present dread, was her meeting with Black. He’d spent the past several weeks with the Tonkses, getting both mind and body acclimated to not being a dog or living out in the woods anymore. At the end of the week, when the students took the train back to London, he and Remus would be setting out for Aquitania—but before that, he wanted to see her.
Mary thought she wanted to see him, too? She was curious, at least, and she hadn’t really gotten the chance to form much of an impression of him during their first meeting, both because of him and Snape fighting and because he’d just generally been a mess. In any case, she had no reason not to meet him, so…
She’d decided not to tell Snape about it. It wasn’t like she was doing anything wrong, or dangerous or anything. Remus would be walking her out there and staying nearby the whole time they talked, and Bellatrix could get her just as easily in the castle as outside of it. It just wasn’t any of Snape’s business, honestly, and she didn’t want to risk him getting all snippy about it.
So, on the last Tuesday term, she followed Remus to the Senior Woods where Padfoot was already waiting, tail tentatively wagging. She noted inwardly that even his dog form looked better—healthier, cleaner, more present.
Remus only lingered long enough to transfigure them a pair of benches out of sticks and set up wards around the area before saying, “I’ll be right over there, if you need anything,” and stepping away.
Then it was just Mary and Padfoot—at least for a second, before he turned back into Black. There was an awkward moment where he stepped forward like he was going to hug her or something, but then stopped himself, trying and failing to play it off. Mary was relieved; although he was definitely much cleaner than he’d been before, that still didn’t mean she wanted to hug some grown man she’d only barely met.
Trying not to show how awkward she felt, she gave a tentative wave and a half-smile, saying, “Hello, er…” and trailing off as she realized she had no idea how to properly address him. Technically, he should be Lord of his House, so just calling him ‘Black’ sounded rude, but he was also an escaped convict, so ‘Lord Black’ didn’t really make sense. Besides that, he was her godfather, so being too formal with him might come across as cold. But she didn’t want to be presumptuous and call him by his first name, either.
Why hadn’t Catherine prepared her for this?
“Call me Sirius, if you like,” he said, and she gave him a grateful nod.
“Only if I am Mary,” she said, despite the fact that he didn’t seem the type for formalities.
Black—Sirius—nodded to her, the way purebloods did instead of shaking hands, then gestured to the benches and said, “Shall we?”
There was another awkward moment where they both went to sit down and hesitated, uncertain whether to sit on the same bench or two separate ones. Finally, they ended up on the same bench, but on opposite sides of it, a good foot or two of space between them. Sirius let out a quiet laugh, possibly at how uncomfortable they both clearly were.
Doing her best to act normal, no matter how strange the situation felt, Mary said slowly, “Um, you’re looking better. I’m glad.”
“Thanks.” Sirius tried to smile at her, but it came across more like a grimace. “Sorry I was so, er, confused when we met the other day. It was a lot to take in at once.”
“That’s fine,” she said quickly. “You’ve been through a lot.”
“Thanks for… saving me and Moony from the dementors. Impressive work, casting a Patronus at your age.” Then—she’d known it was coming, but felt a bit irritated anyway—he added, “You know, your dad’s Patronus—and his animagus form—was a stag too. That was why I was all…” He trailed off, probably not wanting to outright say that he’d been sobbing on the ground in front of the stag.
“I know,” Mary said uncomfortably. “Remus told me. I think it’s just a coincidence, though—there’s only so many animals.”
Sirius looked disappointed, as she’d expected, but he didn’t press the point. He just sighed and stared down at the ground for a moment before saying, “Do you have any questions for me? I certainly have some for you, but I’ll let you go first.”
“Alright… Er, you broke out of Azkaban to find Pettigrew?” No matter what she and Hermione had put together, there were some parts of the whole story that she was pretty sure only Sirius knew.
“Yes. I saw him in the photo of the Weasleys in the Daily Prophet—Fudge gave it to me during a visit to the prison. But it wasn’t just for him. It was for you, little Fawn. Mary, I mean,” he added, seeming to remember her annoyance from before, although she’d been less bothered by the nickname than by being spoken of like she wasn’t even a person. “I gathered from the paper that he would be at Hogwarts with you, and I was worried he would hurt you, especially if he thought Lord Snakeface was regaining power.”
Mary wasn’t sure how to respond to the idea that Sirius had broken out of Azkaban for her. “Oh… thank you,” she said. He might not have caught Pettigrew himself, but, “If it hadn’t been for you breaking out, I don’t think we would have ever realized he was the traitor.” Snape certainly wouldn’t have told me, she thought bitterly. Despite all he’d done to earn her forgiveness, there were still moments where her anger resurfaced.
“Why did you and my parents make him the Secret Keeper in the first place?” she asked, since she couldn’t think of anything else.
Sirius sighed, a dark cloud passing over his face. “I was meant to be keeping my head down while Jamie and Evans—Lily, I mean—were in hiding. But, honestly, I wasn’t very good at it. I got too impatient, just sitting on the sidelines while people were dying. Kept coming up with reasons to put myself in the middle of the war anyway.
“In… must’ve been September of ‘81, I was nearly killed in a skirmish with the Yaxleys. I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to stay out of it, and that it was only a matter of time before I did get killed or captured and the secret came out. So Jamie and I talked, and we decided to tell Evans she needed to break the Fidelius and re-cast it on someone else.
“We knew there was a spy, but I never considered that it might be Peter. Honestly, I never took him that seriously. I thought it was Remus, and Remus thought it was me. Peter wasn’t on the front lines like I was, mostly he was looking after his mum. The Death Eaters didn’t know him the way they knew me, Jamie, and Evans—or so I thought.”
Mary supposed that made sense, but, “Why didn’t you tell anyone what he’d done before trying to kill him?” If he had, maybe someone would have fought to get him a trial.
“I lost my head,” he admitted, and she found she could relate to that. “And I didn’t want anyone to stop me from killing him.”
Yeah, okay, fair enough. “How did you get out of Azkaban? And how’d you spend so much time there in the first place without going mad?” The Blackheart was one thing, but she’d been mad to begin with, in her own way.
“The dementors don’t really work the same on animals, so I spent most of my time as Padfoot. And knowing that I was innocent wasn’t a happy thought, so they couldn’t take it from me. Once I made up my mind to escape, it wasn’t so hard. I slipped out as a dog when they fed me, and just swam back to shore.”
Honestly, between him and Bellatrix, breaking out of Azkaban seemed so easy that she was surprised no one had managed it before. For all the fuss about Azkaban being a crime against humanity and all, she would have thought it would at least be secure.
What other questions did she have? Him calling Lily ‘Evans’ all the time made her wonder about what Snape had said, about Sirius not liking her, but it didn’t seem the right time to ask. Instead, she said, “Remus said you two are going to Aquitania on Sunday, and that Mrs. Tonks is going to request a trial for you once you’re there,” and he nodded. “What happens after that? If you get the trial, I mean, and they find you innocent. Are you going to move back to Britain?”
“That’s the plan, Fawn. I was only disowned, not disinherited. Word is my dear old mum died just last month, which means I’m the only Black left, so I should be able to take over the House. And once I do… I was wondering if you’d like to live with me? Remus told me that Minnie’s your guardian, but, well, I am your godfather.”
“I know,” she said, but when she didn’t immediately agree, his face fell.
“Of course, I understand if you don’t want to…” he said, though he was giving her that kicked puppy look again. Mary frowned, finding herself annoyed by his neediness.
“It’s not that,” she said, trying not to sound too short with him. “It’s just, I’ve only talked to you for less than half an hour altogether, and you’ve just got out of jail. I don’t really know what you’re like, or how long it’ll take you to recover. Once I know you better and you’re not a wanted fugitive anymore, I’d consider it.”
“Oh. Okay,” he said, still looking dejected. She decided to just ignore it.
“You said you had questions for me?”
“Right!” Sirius snapped his fingers. “First off, Snivellus. What’s up with that? I guess you really are in his House… but why did you call him ‘uncle’?”
Mary glared at him. “If you want to convince me to move in with you,” she said coolly, “you could start by addressing Professor Snape with respect.”
Sirius looked at her like she’d sprouted a second head. “Mary,” he said slowly, “I’m not sure if you know what he’s like. I don’t know what he’s been telling you, but he’s a manipulative bastard. You can’t trust him.”
Getting to her feet, Mary folded her arms and stared down at the wizard. “Any more of that, and I’ll have Remus take me back to the castle right now. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Sirius said, though he sounded rather petulant, almost childish. “I’m just worried about you. I have a right to worry, you know, as your godfather, and he practically told me—”
“I don’t care.” Mary considered him for a moment before saying, “I called him Theíos because Professor Snape is also—well, he wasn’t officially named my godfather, of course, but from what he’s told me, he would have been, if not for the war.”
Sirius opened his mouth, probably to contradict that, but she continued on.
“I will tell you what I told Professor Snape.” You see? I’m being fair. “I don’t care what either of you did when you were sixteen. I don’t care how much you hate each other. I’m allowed to make up my own mind about who I associate with.
“But don’t forget that I have known Professor Snape since my first day at Hogwarts. He’s saved my life before, and he’s always looked out for me. It’s not your fault that you were in Azkaban, but you’re still new to my life, and he is already a part of it. If you want me to give you a chance, much less live with you, I don’t want to hear one more word about him. Is that clear?”
There was a long silence in which Sirius simply stared at her, and then, reluctantly, he said, “Yes.”
After a moment of stony silence, Mary sighed and sat back down. She was still uncertain how she felt about Snape, but she certainly wasn’t going to sit around while a wizard she’d only just met tried to convince her to hate him. (Especially after Pettigrew’s vile nonsense.) It wasn’t Sirius’s place to comment on her relationship with Snape.
Sirius looked like he was sulking, which only increased her annoyance and made her feel oddly like their roles ought to be reversed—her, the adult and godparent, him the moody teenager—but at least he made an effort to change the subject. “So, er… tell me about yourself? We have a lot of time to make up for.”
“Well, as you’ve noticed, I’m a Slytherin,” she began, pausing to see if he was going to say anything negative (he didn’t) before continuing. “I grew up with my Aunt Petunia and her family, but Professor McGonagall took me away from them when I was eleven because they were horrible. Since then, I’ve been spending my summers with the Urquharts, my foster family, since the Professor works all summer. They’re teaching me all the stuff I should have learned as Heir to House Potter—you know, the usual pureblood education, except condensed a lot since I only started two years ago.”
Interestingly, that was what he made a face at, rather than her being a Slytherin—she was a bit surprised, since she’d heard the Blacks were even more old-fashioned than the other Noble Houses, but then, he had gotten himself disowned by them.
Ignoring the look, she continued, “I’m on the Slytherin Quidditch team with my—my friend Lilian Moon—I’m the seeker, and she’s a backup chaser, though she’s hoping to make the main team next year. My best—my other best friend is a muggleborn Ravenclaw girl named Hermione Granger, and I sometimes spend holidays with her parents…”
Mary didn’t tell Sirius about Bellatrix. She’d considered it, but in the end, she didn’t know him that well, or what his relationship with his mad cousin was like. With him still recovering from his imprisonment, she was worried that she’d accidentally destabilize his already shaky mental state. Instead, she told Remus about it, and asked him to pass the information on to Sirius when he felt like his friend would be able to handle it.
She still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of him. Other than his rudeness when it came to Snape, she thought he seemed alright, if a bit intense—he seemed, like, desperate to get to know her, and she still wasn’t sure what to think of him breaking out of Azkaban for her. She appreciated it, it was just… a lot, the way she could see that he cared so much more about her than she did about him. Like she was this symbol to him—his goddaughter, and all he had left of his ‘Jamie’—and he was just some man she barely knew.
As for whether she’d live with him when he was a free wizard again, she really wasn’t sure. At least she had time to figure that one out.
Mary met with Snape only once more before the end of term, as he was busy marking their exams, and kept it brief. Mostly, he just confirmed that they still had no idea what Bellatrix was up to or where she was, which was pretty much what Mary had expected. At least he seemed a little more relaxed than he had on Friday, as if relieved to have made it nearly a week without dying.
On a bit of a whim—maybe because she felt bad lying to him, or maybe to see if he’d keep his word and be civil about it—she confessed that she’d gone down to the Forest to meet with Sirius, and that he’d invited her to live with him after his name was cleared.
Snape clenched his jaw and said, rather curtly, “I hope you do not expect me to say that I approve of the idea.” But that was all—though he did look relieved when she told him that she’d turned Sirius down. (For now.)
On Thursday night, Remus somehow managed to take time away from his marking and the preparations for his travel to give Mary and her friends one last Patronus lesson. Probably unsurprisingly, given that she’d skipped their lessons for the past several months, Lilian did even worse than she had before, producing only the sparsest mist, but Hermione finally managed a corporeal Patronus of her own: a quick little fox dashing all around the room.
Then came the end of year Feast, and the return of their exam grades: Mary was unsurprised to see she’d gotten O’s in both Defense and Potions. Given her Patronus, and all her hours spent brewing with Snape over the year, she would have been embarrassed to receive anything else. Hermione, meanwhile, had gotten straight O’s in every subject, and spent their final day at Hogwarts riding high on the excitement of being told by Professor Vector that she could have gotten her OWL in Arithmancy that year if she’d taken the exam.
Meanwhile, to Hermione’s satisfaction, the Weasley twins had actually managed to pass most of their OWLs—with the exception of Potions, of all subjects. It should have been an easy O for them, but as it turned out, intentionally blowing up your instructor was worthy of an automatic T.
At the last minute, Mary realized that Neville might also want to know about the Blackheart’s escape, so she pulled him aside and told him the news (with more tact than she’d told Blaise, given that Neville actually had feelings). To say he hadn’t taken it well would have been an understatement—there was a great deal of horrified babbling and digging his fingernails into his palms, though he stopped short of actually crying in front of her, thank the Powers—but when he got ahold of himself, he thanked her for telling him.
Overall, the end of the year was quiet, but with a pall over it that only Mary and a select few others were aware of. Sitting among the cheerful students at the Feast, excited for the summer and their freedom from classes, she imagined that, like herself, Snape, Remus, Dumbledore, Hermione, Lilian, Blaise, and Neville were all holding their breath, waiting to see what horrible thing was to come next.
In some ways, it was probably worse than it would have been if Bellatrix and the Dark Lord had just revealed themselves and outright declared war on Britain or something. At least then they’d know. On the other hand, Mary was certain that once the war did begin in earnest—and from talking to Snape, she had the impression that he believed it was sure to come before too long—she would miss these days of relative quiet.
Sunday morning, Mary woke early and went up to Remus’s office to say goodbye. He and Sirius would be departing for Aquitania after the students had all gone home.
“Do you think you’ll come back to Britain?” she asked. “After the trial.”
Remus hesitated. “I don’t know, Mary,” he admitted. “It’s very likely that my being a werewolf will come up during the trial. Pettigrew will almost certainly tell the Wizengamot, and even if he doesn’t, we’ll have to explain why he and Sirius became animagi. If that comes out, it’ll be difficult for me to have any kind of life in Britain. Even more so than now.”
Mary knew he was right, and had expected as much, honestly, but it still stung. She supposed some part of her had hoped, when he’d become her Defense professor, that this would mark a permanent change in their relationship. Even though she’d known he wouldn’t be teaching for longer than a year, she’d thought he might stick around nearby. For her, if nothing else. But that was stupid—he might see her as something like a niece, but that couldn’t outweigh all the negatives of living in a country where he wasn’t even considered a person.
So she fought back her disappointment and asked, “Will you write, at least?”
“Of course,” Remus said, but even still, she couldn’t help but think they would probably go back to how they’d been during her first and second years, exchanging letters every couple months. For the first time, she was glad that it was Snape she’d gotten close to and not Remus; for all his flaws, at least she knew Snape would stick around.
“Well…” Mary said, shifting awkwardly. “I… I liked having you as a professor. It was nice to get a chance to get to know each other better.” Part of her hated it, the stilted formality in her voice, the way she always fell back on her manners when she felt uncomfortable.
Remus looked about as awkward as she felt, but his eyes were soft as he asked, “Would it be alright if I hugged you?”
Mary wasn’t sure if she wanted a hug or not, but she didn’t like this—him just disappearing out of her life again, like he’d never even been there at all—and she thought maybe it would help, so after a moment, she nodded, letting Remus pull her into a rather stiff embrace. He patted her on the back and let her go after only a few seconds, like he was afraid to touch her for too long.
She’d been wrong. It hadn’t really helped.
“I’ll… see you, then,” she said. “Tell Sirius I said bye, and, good luck with the trial and everything.”
Remus nodded. “I’ll be back for the trial, at least,” he said, then just stood there for a moment, looking at her.
“Well… bye, then.”
Just as she was about to leave the office, his voice stopped her. “Mary?” She turned, and Remus smiled slightly and said, “I enjoyed being your professor too.”
Mary didn’t know what to do with herself after that. There were still a couple hours before the train left, and her friends were likely sleeping in (or running, she supposed). She could have gone back to the Slytherin common room, or checked the map to see if anyone else was up and about.
Instead, she went up to the Scrying Tower.
She hadn’t been expecting to find him there, at least not consciously, but she somehow wasn’t surprised to see Snape silhouetted in the window, staring out over the grounds, hair and cloak billowing in a slight summer breeze. It was earlier than he usually woke up, but then, maybe he was finding it hard to sleep these days, what with the sword that was Bellatrix hanging over their heads.
He didn’t turn around as she approached, but stepped slightly to the side just as she reached the window, making room for her. It was still narrow enough that their shoulders brushed together as she stood beside him, resting her elbows on the sill.
(Four touches, or five.)
Several minutes passed, the pair of them looking out over the empty, sunlit grounds together, before he spoke. “You ought to be with your friends, enjoying what time you have left together. Hugging, crying, promising to write—whatever it is you children do at the end of the year.”
“They’re still asleep, I think,” she said. Then, with a bit of a smirk, “Anyway, we’ll have plenty of time to hug and cry on the train.”
Snape made a quiet, dismissive noise. She wondered if he knew: that even now, after everything he’d done, she’d still rather spend the final hours of her third year standing in comfortable silence at his side than doing anything with anyone else. A month ago, she might have denied it, or hated herself for it, but she was able to accept it now. Especially with Bellatrix on the loose and Remus and Sirius gone, it seemed pointless to hold on to her anger, to deny out of spite that he was still ‘her Snape’—whatever that meant.
Mary stole a glimpse at him—his profile, his furrowed brow, staring straight ahead—and wondered what he was thinking. There were times she felt like she could read him, but this wasn’t one of them. So she turned to look straight ahead again, feeling the loose wisps of hair that had escaped her braid tickling her face, caught by the warm breeze.
Part of her wanted to say that she forgave him, or that she’d miss him over the summer, or that she hoped he’d stay safe. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words out loud, to have him hear them and understand just what she meant: how much she wanted to stay right here at his side, rather than going back downstairs to rejoin her peers. How, even after everything he’d put her through this year, it was still him that she wanted to keep close—not Sirius, not Remus.
So she swallowed the words and said, “Besides, I like it up here,” thinking, Do you know? Do you understand what I mean? Snape gave her no sign, did not even look at her. And yet, she felt content, smiling to herself a little as she added, “It’s peaceful.”
And despite everything, it was.
Notes:
And then there's nobody else around
You and me and the silent sounds
Staring up at the clouds
Footprints, walking on the same ground
When I was on my own
I had no place to go
All that I've ever known:
Where you are, that's why it feels like home- Jolé and Maria Gallo, "Still"
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