The wine seemed to sour in Snape’s mouth. “You what?”

Celeste wouldn’t meet his eyes. “They’re just...nightmares. Dreams I’ve been having off and on for about the past five years.”

“And you were going to tell me this precisely when?”

The color flared in her pale cheeks. “Well, how was I supposed to know they were anything besides bad dreams? And no matter what you may think, Severus Snape, I don’t go around spilling every detail of my personal life to someone I’ve known for as short a time as I have you!”

Snape wanted to curse at her for being so simple-minded, but the logical part of his brain told him that of course there had been no way for Celeste to know that these dreams -- whatever they might contain -- were anything but simply that. People had nightmares all the time.

He certainly did.

“Tell me,” he said.

Celeste still looked flushed and upset, but she answered calmly enough. “There’s not much to tell. The dreams are always dark...sometimes I hear a man’s voice, thin and whispery, but I can’t understand what he’s saying. It doesn’t sound like English. Something slithering in the darkness...I’ve never been able to see it clearly, but it looks almost like an enormous snake. But the worst part is his eyes.” With a shudder, she pulled the cloak more closely about herself, as if the memory had chilled her to the very bones. “No human being can have eyes like that.”

Unfortunately, one could, although lately Snape had begun to wonder how much of Voldemort could even be called human any longer. But what did it mean, precisely? Did she dream of Voldemort simply because he was the vortex around which all possible futures for wizard-kind swirled? Or was it something darker, some link between them, as there was between Potter and the Dark Lord?

Attempting to keep the worry out of his voice, he asked, “Do you have any sense of...participating...in these dreams? Or do you merely observe?”

A frown creased her forehead as she appeared to consider his question. “I -- I hadn’t thought about it that way. But it feels more like...watching. Somehow I never get a sense of myself in the dreams.”

Snape didn’t want to give in to the relief that flowed through him at her words. Just because it didn’t sound as if she had a direct connection to Voldemort, as Harry Potter did, didn’t mean she wasn’t still in danger.

“You’re worried,” Celeste said abruptly. “I can feel it coming off you like heat shimmers off hot asphalt.”

Had he been broadcasting that much? Usually he was far more careful than that, but there was something about this young woman which made him let down his guard. That would never do. “It is a matter of some concern,” he said, in his most neutral tone.

“‘Some concern’?” she echoed. “Exactly how much?”

“As to that, I don’t know. Perhaps it is simply another facet of your gift for Divination. Prophecy has never been my area of interest.”

Looking troubled, she settled back in her seat. “Then why -- ” she began.

A booming voice cut her off. “Professor Snape!”

Oh, no, thought Snape, even as he cast a resigned glance upward to see Rubeus Hagrid’s homely whiskered face staring down at him with an expression of doltish puzzlement. “Hagrid,” he said smoothly, his voice belying none of his internal irritation.

The half-giant apparently noticed Snape’s companion for the first time, and Hagrid’s eyebrows shot up as he took in Celeste and the two half-empty goblets of elf-wine that sat before her and the Potions master. The look of confusion slowly morphed into one of half-comprehension, followed soon after by a rather insulting incredulous stare.

“I’m not interruptin’ anythin’, am I?” asked Hagrid, with what Snape recognized wearily as the gamekeeper’s version of a knowing wink.

“Not at all,” he said, although his tone indicated otherwise. “Miss Jenkins, this is Rubeus Hagrid, a fellow staff member of mine from Hogwarts. Hagrid, this is Miss Jenkins.” He did not bother to supply her first name, or any other identifying information. Let Hagrid think what he wanted.

Celeste had been staring at Hagrid slightly open-mouthed, but she recovered herself and extended a hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hagrid,” she said.

Her slender fingers were completely engulfed by Hagrid’s huge paw. “Nah, just Hagrid, miss,” he replied. “No need to bother with ‘mister’ with me. An’ what brings yer to Diagon Alley?”

She cast a quick glance at Snape, as if unsure as to which reply she should give. “A bit of shopping,” she said.

“Oh, sure, yeah, it’s the place fer it,” Hagrid agreed, but again he looked from Celeste’s face to Snape’s and back, as if his brain were incapable of processing the fact that the dour Potions master might be capable of entertaining a female.

“Business of the Headmaster,” said Snape, giving the oaf a quelling glance. Maybe that would be sufficient to silence him. He had no use for Hagrid at the best of times, and his presence now was even more unwelcome than usual.

“Oh, yeah, a’ course.” Hagrid nodded, even though his beady black eyes narrowed slightly, possibly in an attempt to calculate the likelihood of any business of Dumbledore’s involving a young, pretty, and completely unknown witch. “Just droppin’ in to have a word with Tom ’ere -- he’s always got his ear to the pavement, as they say.” He nodded at Celeste. “Very nice to make yer acquaintance, Miss Jenkins.”

“Likewise,” she said, still staring up at him wide-eyed.

Hagrid inclined his head toward Snape. “Professor -- be seein’ yer back at school soon.” And he lumbered off in the direction of the bar.

Snape didn’t bother to reply, but merely nodded so slightly that it was barely an acknowledgment. Well, that did it. He knew he couldn’t continue to speak with Celeste here -- not when that pointless lump might overhear their conversation.

“Who was that?” she whispered. “He’s so -- so -- ” Words apparently failed her.

“He’s a half-giant,” Snape said shortly. “He works at the same school as I. Shall we?” He stood.

But Celeste remained seated, staring over at Hagrid’s hulking physique as he towered over Tom the barkeep’s unimpressive form. “A -- did you say ‘a half-giant’?”

“The magical world contains far more than just witches and wizards,” replied Snape. “But we can discuss this further elsewhere.”

Finally she seemed to get the point. She rose, asking, “Where are we going now?”

“Back to Manchester.” Frankly, right then Celeste’s homely living room seemed to be the safest place for the both of them.

Disappointment rose in her eyes. “So soon? But it looked as if there were so many other shops -- ”

“A wand was our only order of business,” he cut in. “The rest of Diagon Alley’s wares are unnecessary for our purposes.”

Celeste looked as if she would have liked to argue, but instead she merely raised the goblet of wine to her lips and drained the remainder of the liquid inside. “I certainly wasn’t going to let that go to waste,” she said tartly in response to his disapproving glare.

Not bothering with a reply, he left his own half-finished goblet on the table as a sort of protest against the cavalier way in which she had treated the elf-made liquor. Then he stalked out the rear entrance, leaving Celeste to hurry after him.

“You don’t like him very much, do you?” she asked, once Snape had paused in the shabby alleyway that was the entrance to Diagon Alley proper.

“Like whom?”

“Hagrid.”

Snape lifted his shoulders. “We are fellow staff members. Whether or not I like him is a matter of supreme indifference.”

Her right eyebrow assumed its usual tilt. “You don’t like very many people, do you, Severus?”

Very many? he thought. Perhaps one...on a good day. He hoped his stony silence would dissuade her from further questioning.

“Do you like me?” she persisted.

“Again, that is immaterial,” Snape replied. Somewhat to his own surprise, he realized he did like her. To be more precise, he felt he could tolerate spending more than five minutes in her company at any given time, which was a vast improvement over the rest of his acquaintance.

“If you say so,” Celeste said, but that wicked twinkle had returned to her eyes.

Refusing to be baited, he snapped, “Get ready to Apparate.”

Immediately she wrapped her hands around his right arm, returning to the tourniquet-tight death grip she’d employed earlier. He fixed the image of her comfortable, shabby front parlor in his mind, and swirled them away from Diagon Alley.

“I don’t see how anyone could get used to that,” she remarked, almost the second they came to rest in the house.

“And I don’t see how anyone could get used to standing in queues at the airport,” he retorted.

“Touché.” Celeste removed her hands from his arm with more alacrity than she had shown the first time they Apparated, and Snape experienced an odd feeling...was that regret? Somehow he found he almost enjoyed the sensation of her hanging on to him for dear life.

Moving to one of the side chairs, Celeste undid the clasp that held the cloak fastened at her throat and carefully draped the expanse of black velvet over the chair’s back. From somewhere within its voluminous folds, she produced the long, slender box that held her newly purchased wand.

“Are you really going to show me how to use this?” she asked doubtfully.

“Of course,” Snape replied, relieved that she hadn’t asked any more probing personal questions. Giving the slightly cluttered room a quick glance, he went on, “We need more open space than this -- ”

“The reading room,” Celeste suggested. “We can just move the table and chairs off into a corner.”

He nodded. “That should do.”

And he followed her into the reading room, where they each took a chair and placed it in a corner, followed by the table that held her crystal ball. Celeste’s fool of a cat showed up during these proceedings and decided that the trailing ends of the piano scarf which topped the small, round table had been designated her new plaything, until Celeste rescued the crystal ball from certain death and shooed the cat out of the room.

“Don’t want that happening again,” she said, somewhat cryptically.

Then the space was clear, with only a large faded Persian rug occupying the center of the polished wooden floor. Snape judged the room large enough for his purposes; it measured about four meters in length and three across, and since they would be the only two occupying it, the place should do nicely.

Dumbledore had suggested that Celeste be taught defensive spells, but as she had never used a wand before, Snape judged it prudent to start with a very simple levitation charm, the same one that all new students learned in their first week. From there he would move on to the more complex spells.

He looked around, attempting to locate something he could have Celeste levitate. The shelves were full of books, but since first-years started out with feathers, Snape thought he should begin with something lighter. Then he spied a thin magazine sitting on top of one of the bookcases. Not perfect, but perhaps it would do.

With a flick of his wand and a nonvocal command, the magazine zipped through the air, pages fluttering, and landed on the ground in front of Celeste’s feet. “We will start with that,” he said.

Looking somewhat pained, Celeste lifted her own wand, which she had retrieved from its box. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Attempt to raise the magazine into the air -- about waist level should do,” Snape added. At least there was less chance of her putting her eye out with the bloody thing if she aimed lower. “A light flicking motion will be sufficient. This is the charm: Wingardium Leviosa. Accent on the third syllable of the second word, if you please.”

Celeste set her shoulders and took a deep breath, while Snape attempted to ignore the distracting movement of her bosom as she did so. With the wand resting delicately between her thumb and forefinger, she waved the slender piece of beech above the magazine and breathed, “Wingardium Levi-o-sa!”

Instantly the magazine fluttered into the air and hovered about three feet off the ground. Snape’s eyes widened slightly; normally first-years had a difficult time getting a feather a few inches into the air on the first go-round, let alone a few feet. And of course the magazine was much bulkier and difficult to control.

But naturally he couldn’t let her see how surprised he was. Nor would he admit even to himself how worried he had been that she would turn out to be little more than a Squib, the explosive display in Ollivanders' notwithstanding. Apparently all those years of having her magical abilities blocked had done little lasting harm. He wondered then what sort of Potions student she would have made and found himself inexplicably relieved that she had never attended Hogwarts. Somehow it was much easier to interact with her now without the burden of a history as student and teacher behind them.

“So what do I do with it now?” Celeste asked, looking a little alarmed as the magazine continued to hover in front of her.

“Simple enough.” Snape raised his wand, and snapped, “Finite Incantatem!”

Immediately the magazine fell to the floor with a rustle of paper. Celeste bent down and prodded it with the forefinger of her free hand, as if trying to ascertain whether it had any life left in it. “Finite Incantatem,” she repeated, her tone thoughtful. “So that stops whatever spell’s currently in operation?”

“Precisely.”

He wondered then if he’d had a look of surprise on his face, for Celeste said, her tone a gentle rebuke, “I did have some Latin in school, you know.”

Of course. He realized that perhaps he had underestimated Celeste Jenkins simply because she had had no formal schooling in magic. Training her was going to be decidedly different from trying to teach a pack of mutton-headed first-years.

Without bothering to acknowledge her statement, Snape said, “That wasn’t bad, for a first try. But let’s see now if it was just a fluke.”

And with that command he had her practice raising the magazine once more, then again and again. After that he had her move on to lifting progressively heavier books, and multiple objects simultaneously, until at the end she had three books, the crystal ball, and one of the chairs levitating all at once.

It was an impressive display, all the more so for the fact that she had never practiced any sort of magic save some untrained Legilimency and Divination prior to this. He could not count the book levitation he’d first seen her use in the store -- it was the sort of wild, unschooled magic that all wizard-born children practiced in one form or another before they began to whip their native abilities into something approaching discipline.

But even he could tell the strain was beginning to tell on her; Celeste’s face looked pale, and he saw the tension in her throat muscles as she concentrated on keeping all five objects equidistant from one another and at the same height off the floor.

“Enough,” Snape said finally, and Celeste let out a sigh and slowly maneuvered everything back into its proper place before she at last lowered her wand.

“Oof,” she said, reaching up with her left hand to rub the muscles at the back of her neck. “You should have warned me that practicing magic was so exhausting.”

“Perhaps, when one is forced to pack years of training into a considerably shorter amount of time.” Never would he admit that he had pushed her far harder than any student, even that fool of a Potter boy. Perhaps he had continued to press away because he had hoped she would break off in his hand. Then he could have gone to Dumbledore and told the Headmaster that perhaps it would be safer to Obliviate her after all.

Safer for whom? asked a spiteful little voice in his head, and Snape gave a mental shrug, forcing the unwelcome thought away.

Celeste sent a thoughtful glance in his direction. “I suppose I hadn’t quite thought of it that way.” Then her gaze shifted to a small clock of inlaid wood that sat on top of one of the bookshelves. “Look at the time -- it’s half-past six already. No wonder I couldn’t concentrate any more. I’m famished.” Her expression turned mock-serious. “And don’t you dare try to weasel out of my fixing you dinner, because you promised.”

As he had, he thought wearily. Although part of him wanted to just quietly Disapparate back to his solitary quarters at Hogwarts, his stomach chose that moment to express its opinion on the subject. Loudly.

Celeste had the good sense not to laugh, though Snape thought he saw her mouth twitch a bit. “Well, that settles it,” she commented. Moving to one of the bookshelves, she carefully set her wand in the box she had placed there earlier, then stopped, giving Snape a worried look. “You’re not vegeterian, are you?”

“Hardly.” His had been a household that didn’t believe man lived by bread alone, and he hadn’t changed his eating habits much over the years.

She expelled a relieved breath. “Good. Because I have these lovely steaks for dinner, but then I worried -- ” A lift of the shoulders. “Well, I would have made shift, but it’s certainly easier this way.” And with that she exited the reading room, Snape trailing along behind her since he couldn’t think of what else to do.

As with most row houses, Celeste’s home was long and narrow, with the kitchen located at the very rear. But it was a cheerful enough compartment, with a scrubbed butcher-block countertop, Spanish-tiled floor, and the most impressive cooker he had ever seen.

Perhaps noticing the way his gaze rested on the stainless-steel monstrosity, Celeste grinned. “Behold, my one indulgence. Besides books, that is.”

“Seems rather much for one person,” Snape remarked.

“Oh, it is,” she said cheerily. “But I’ve always loved to cook, and I just take the extras down to the boys at Topham’s if I don’t feel like freezing it for later. Poor dears probably would be subsisting exclusively on chips and vindiloo if it weren’t for me.”

With that she stepped over to the refrigerator, removed a paper-wrapped bundle that proved to be a pair of lush-looking steaks, then bent and retrieved several creamy stoneware mixing bowls from a cupboard. It was as she reached up for one of the sprigs of rosemary that had been drying over the sink that she snapped, “Oh, blast these things!”

“Is there a problem?”

In answer she flicked an annoyed finger at one of her voluminous sleeves. “It’s this damn dress. I can’t cook in this thing. I can’t imagine how one does much of anything in this sort of getup, except look decorative and possibly twirl about on stage.” Looking grim, she set the rosemary down on the counter next to a chopping block and announced, “I’ve got to change. Be back in a sec.” Then she hurried out.

Snape found himself hoping that she wouldn’t put on a pair of jeans, which seemed to be her usual fallback attire. Then he frowned. What the devil difference did it make what she changed into as long as it helped her to turn out a passable meal? Besides, when had he ever cared a Knut for what anyone wore?

More quickly than he would have thought possible, Celeste dashed back into the kitchen -- not, thankfully, in denim, but a close-fitting dark top over a long, flowing skirt. She pushed her sleeves up and retrieved a knife from its butcher block, shot him a knowing smile, and said, “Don’t worry -- I knew better than to put on some jeans.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he drawled, and turned his attention to the wine rack that dominated the far wall of the kitchen.

Apparently deciding that she’d had enough Snape-baiting for the moment, Celeste returned to mincing the rosemary. She remarked, “Nothing elf-made, but there should be something worthy in there.”

Indeed. He was certainly no connoisseur, but it appeared that Miss Jenkins had somewhat epicurean tastes to match her cooking skills. He saw wines from all over Europe, and a few from as far away as Australia and California.

“My dad was into wines,” she said, placing a small saucepan on the cooktop and igniting the burner. “He always said he got tired of the stereotype that all we English do is sit around in pubs and drink beer. Not that we don’t do a lot of that, as Boddy liked to point out.”

“Boddy?” Snape had heard some ridiculous names over the years, but that was a new one.

Celeste grinned. “Danny Boddington -- you know, from the brewing company?”

Unfortunately, Snape did. His Muggle father had downed quite a few pints of the brew during the course of his career. He nodded, feeling a sour grimace twist his mouth.

Seeming not to notice his scowl, she went on, “He and I had rather a thing my last year of prep. He took the family business very seriously -- at least as far as sampling its wares went.”

Now, why would such a comment cause a stab of dislike to flare up in him suddenly? Surely it made no difference whom Celeste had spent time with years ago...or, for that matter, whom she might be seeing now.

“He went off to school in the States,” she commented, doing something complicated in a saucepan with the rosemary, some red wine, and what looked like beef stock. Snape had forgotten how much work went into preparing a meal the Muggle way -- for most of his life his food had been provided by the house-elves at Hogwarts, and even lately in his semi-exile at Spinner’s End, he’d made use of certain domestic charms and spells to avoid any unnecessary effort.

Then Celeste looked up from her stirring and gave Snape a rueful smile. “Listen to me, babbling on about people you couldn’t possibly give a fig about. Now that we don’t have to worry about being interrupted, perhaps you could tell me more about my dreams, and this You-Know-Who person.”

For some reason, Snape felt disinclined to do so. Perhaps it was merely that conversation on such a dread topic seemed highly out of place in Celeste’s warm, brightly lit kitchen, which already had begun to fill with wonderful smells. But he knew he could not avoid the topic indefinitely.

“His name is Voldemort,” Snape began, waiting the obligatory half-second for the look of shock that inevitably followed whenever the Dark Lord’s name was uttered out loud. But of course Celeste hadn’t been raised in the wizarding world and hadn’t been schooled in any such reaction. She merely nodded, then laid the two steaks out on the grill that was built into the cooktop between the gas burners.

“There’s no need to go into his entire history,” Snape continued, somehow feeling a bit put off his stride. “His entire being is consumed with cheating death, and he promises to give this power to his followers as well.”

“Can he? Cheat death, I mean.”

“He has been able to survive shocks that would have killed lesser men,” he answered carefully. “For many years he was considered dead, but he has returned and is once more attacking those of the wizarding world who are not on his side.”

For a long moment Celeste remained silent. A casual observer might have assumed she was merely absorbed in attending to the food on the stove before her, but Snape thought he knew better. A small frown fretted her brows, and her mouth looked grim. “And how long has it been since he returned?” she asked quietly.

“Five years.”

“Ah.” Without further comment Celeste went to the fridge and removed a bowl of already sliced potatoes and onions; no doubt she had done some of her prep earlier in the day before he had even arrived. He had to wait for her to place a second, larger pan on the cooktop and stir the potatoes and onions into it before she replied. “That’s when my dreams began.”

“Yes.”

“But why?” she burst out. “Did I know him before? Did my parents? What possible connection could there be between the two of us?”

He had never been the type to offer comfort, but somehow Snape felt moved by her obvious anguish. He said quietly, “I don’t know. Your parents feared for you, that much is obvious. After what happened on your eleventh birthday -- ” And he broke off as he realized that he had never told Celeste about viewing that particular memory.

“What happened on my eleventh birthday?” Her voice sounded calm, but he noticed that she gripped the stirring spoon so tightly her knuckles showed white. “Enlighten me, since I don’t remember anything of it.”

Crossing his arms, Snape gave her a cautious look. No use avoiding the subject; she had that same aspect of controlled fury she’d shown the night she followed him into Topham’s. “It’s how I knew you were wizard-born,” he said, after a brief pause. “That one time you let me into your mind. I couldn’t see any memories earlier than when you were twelve or so, and it troubled me. So I probed further, and saw what must have been your birthday party. You sat at a table, with all your relatives around you -- ”

“All my relatives?” she broke in. “I don’t have any relatives -- Mum and Dad were both only children.”

At that moment he suddenly comprehended the true depth of what she had lost. Not only the chance to grow up in a world of magic, but her entire family save her parents had been taken away from her. Was the spurious safety of Muggle society really worth it?

“Your relatives,” Snape repeated firmly. “I’ve since learned that your parents were both seventh children -- seventh son of a seventh son, seventh daughter -- ”

“Seven?” She sounded incredulous. “You mean I have twelve aunts and uncles out there I never knew about?”

“Perhaps, if they are all still living. I haven’t investigated that yet.” A fruitless exercise, and perhaps a dangerous one anyway. At this point he saw no reason for Celeste’s relatives to know of her whereabouts.

“Bloody hell,” she breathed, then turned and flipped over the steaks with a sudden, vicious movement.

“At any rate,” he continued, determined to keep some control over the conversation, “during the party something unusual occurred. It looked as if you were about to blow out the candles on your cake, when suddenly you cried out and clapped a hand to your forehead.”

Celeste’s dubious look told him so far he hadn’t impressed her with that particular piece of information.

Undaunted, Snape said, “Your birthday is October thirty-first. On that same day, the day of your eleventh birthday, Voldemort attacked a couple in a place called Godric’s Hollow. They had stood up to him, you see, but more importantly, their infant son had been prophesied as the one who would finally defeat the Dark Lord. He intended to kill the boy, but somehow the child survived -- survived with an odd scar on his forehead in the exact place where you apparently experienced blinding pain. The same place, I might add, that you felt pain the very first time we met, when you attempted to do a reading for me.”

“But I don’t remember anything about that -- ” Celeste began, and then color leapt into her cheeks as she apparently put the clues together. “Did you -- did you erase those memories?”

Snape didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Not bothering to reply, Celeste used the flat of a spatula to press one of the steaks against the grill. Snape got the sudden impression that she would have liked to do the same thing with his face. When she finally did speak, her voice shook with anger. “So you just went in and mucked with my memories -- made me think that I’d cheerily seen you off and taken a nap -- ”

“At the time it seemed the wisest course. I didn’t know you weren’t a Muggle, and you had seen things that were...dangerous for you.”

Sarcasm fairly dripped from her tone. “Just trying to protect me?”

“Yes.”

“I need to know that for sure.” Celeste turned down the flame on the cooktop, then stepped closer to him. “Give me your hand.”

Caught off-guard, he said, “I don’t think -- ”

“I told you once that I trusted you. But how can you expect me to continue to trust you if you hide these things from me?”

He wished he could deny her. There was no help for it, however; he saw in her eyes that her belief in him had been shaken, and if he were to continue to train her, he must let her in. Just a little, just enough for her to understand why he had done as he had.

So he extended his right hand, and Celeste took it in both of hers. Her fingers felt warm and soft but strong as they closed around his. Her eyes shut briefly, a sweep of dark lashes against her fair skin. He could feel her enter his mind, but somehow the contact didn’t come across as overly intrusive -- just a feather-light touch, like a brush of moth wings against the skin. There was so much he still needed to keep hidden, but he allowed her to see his memory of that day -- how he had caught her as she fainted, how he had made sure she rested comfortably. And how he had taken the frightening memories from her mind in an attempt to keep her from harm.

She withdrew then, respecting the other barriers he had in place. Her eyes opened, and Snape found himself staring into them, noting the flecks of gold and brown near the pupil, the thin dark-green line that bordered the iris.

Then she smiled, and lifted her hands from his. Without speaking, she turned back to the stove and the neglected dinner.

“Well, then?” he demanded.

She turned ever so slightly, looking back over her shoulder toward him. A few strands of waving reddish-brown hair wisped around her forehead in the heat. The dimple showed briefly in her cheek as she spoke.

“I still trust you,” she said.