Voldemort held court in an abandoned country house very similar to the one his late, unlamented father had once occupied in Little Hangleton. The current residence was ringed about with Muggle-repelling spells similar to those which protected Hogwarts; Snape knew that on occasion the Dark Lord amused himself by lifting those same spells and allowing his followers to “play” with the Muggles who ventured too close to his abode. So far Snape had been fortunate enough not to be present during these little interludes, but he had steeled himself against the day when his luck ran out, and he was forced to participate in the inevitable torture and death.

The spells were in place this dank July evening, a night that felt more like early November than several weeks past the summer solstice. Snape Apparated into a stand of scrawny fir trees that flanked the north-facing wall of the house, trying to ignore the increasing pain from the scar in his forearm. The searing sensation would grow, he knew, until he appeared in the Dark Lord’s presence.

A flash of something pale against the darkness caught Snape’s eye; he paused in the shelter of the little coppice, straining his wizard-trained sight through the murk. A dim half-moon wavered in and out of existence through the clouds, but it did little to illuminate the scene. Then he recognized the fall of silver-gilt hair, the features delicate and regular even at this distance. Narcissa Malfoy.

It seemed that she had just exited the large double-doored entrance to the house. She paused on the crumbling stone of the top step, then raised one hand to her mouth as if trying to suppress a sob. Perhaps it was merely Snape’s imagination, but he thought he saw a glimmer on her pale cheeks, as if from tears recently shed. She reached up and pulled the hood of her long black cloak over her head, obscuring her white-blonde hair, then moved off to the right, away from the half-hearted grove in which he stood. With a swirl of black against black, she Disapparated.

Wondering what on earth that was all about -- and grimly aware he would probably learn the answer soon enough -- Snape moved out of the cover of the trees and strode toward the front door of Voldemort’s residence. At the same time, he methodically put all memories of the day and evening he had spent out of his mind. No stray thought of Celeste Jenkins could be allowed to escape the mental compartment he had built to contain her. He had to forget the fact that he could still taste traces of burgundy and red meat from the dinner she had prepared for him, that he could see her delicate features somehow outlined against the darkness, that he could practically hear the northern lilt of her voice if he just concentrated hard enough --

No! With an almost physical effort, he shoved all those memories and sensations away, pushing them back into the darkness and locking them up, much as he would secure a desk drawer. In fact, the mental image that often came to Snape when he worked to hide all the thoughts and memories which meant certain death if Voldemort were ever to discover them was of a large apothecary’s chest he kept in his office. The chest possessed several tens of drawers, each with its particular spelled lock and key, each containing treasures vital to potion-making. But once they were hidden away they were safe, and only Snape knew the spell to release the contents of each drawer.

Mind cleared of everything except thoughts of wishing to assist Voldemort, Snape stepped inside the house. The doors were magically warded, of course, but Snape, as one of the Dark Lord’s trusted inner circle, passed through easily. Once inside, he made his way through the shabby foyer with its cracked black and white marble floor and on into the large salon where Voldemort sat in an imposing chair of black walnut, Nagini coiled at his feet. A sullen fire in the carved marble fireplace provided the only light.

Unlike other occasions where the Dark Lord had surrounded himself with his sycophants, Snape found himself alone with Voldemort. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. Not that the two of them hadn’t shared private conversations in the past, but ever since a large group of Death Eaters had broken out of Azkaban this past January, the Dark Lord had seemed to make a point of having as many of them around him as possible.

Fear began a slow icy trickle up his spine, and Snape clamped down on it with a sudden, vicious mental movement. There could be no worry, no doubt, nothing save Voldemort and the desire to do the Dark Lord’s bidding.

Voldemort spoke. “You saw our dear Narcissa, did you not?”

Lying served no purpose. “Briefly, my lord. She Disapparated before I could speak with her.”

“Ah.” The Dark Lord’s long skeletal fingers brushed a small cordial glass on the carved mahogany table that sat next to his chair. Garnet-colored liquid shimmered within the cut crystal. It could have been port...or not. “I fear she is a trifle upset at the moment.”

No doubt, thought Snape, with her husband locked away in Azkaban and her place in the wizarding world severely shaken. Voice neutral, he said, “My lord?”

The slit-pupilled eyes met his. “Redemption, Snape. Lucius Malfoy bungled matters badly. It is now his son’s duty to put things right.”

Snape nodded, but remained silent. Voldemort loved the sound of his own voice; he would tell Snape of his plan soon enough.

“It is time for young Draco to show his true worth,” the Dark Lord went on. “Time as well for us to make our next move against Dumbledore. Draco Malfoy’s position as a student at Hogwarts offers the perfect opportunity to destroy the Headmaster once and for all.”

Logical, of course -- Dumbledore was the only wizard in the world who could possibly stand up to Voldemort and have any hope of surviving the encounter. Snape could allow himself no other thoughts on the subject, not with a Legilimens such as the Dark Lord watching him carefully for his reaction. Still, a little cautionary comment would not be out of line; indeed, Voldemort probably expected it. “It will not be easy, my lord,” Snape said. “Hogwarts is protected against incursions of dark magic, and of course those loyal to you would not be able to Apparate directly onto the grounds.”

“Precisely,” Voldemort replied, steepling his pale fingers under an equally bloodless chin. “Young Malfoy will have to come up with something more...inventive.”

Privately Snape wondered how inventive Draco could be. The boy was a Slytherin, and Snape had always protected him to the best of his ability, but even Snape had to admit to himself that Draco Malfoy wasn’t exactly the sharpest thorn on the bush. “And if he is...unable?”

“Then the name of Malfoy will be wiped from the face of the earth.”

That was certainly an incentive to start a few more brain cells firing. Nothing like the threat of having your entire family murdered to force some creative thinking. For a fraction of a second, Snape felt a flicker of pity for the boy. Even if the Dark Lord picked up the emotion, it wouldn’t seem that out of character. After all, Snape was the head of Draco’s House and had spent the past five years shepherding young Malfoy and showing him favor whenever possible.

Snape spoke after the smallest of pauses. “And your wishes for me in this matter, my lord?”

“What you do best, Severus. Watch, and report.” Voldemort’s already fleshless lips pressed themselves into almost nonexistence. “This is a task I want Draco Malfoy to carry out on his own. But I also want to be assured that he is...applying himself...with the necessary conviction. Although he swore that he would carry out my commands without question, I detected a distinct lack of enthusiasm on the part of his mother. I would not wish her over-protective nature to be her son’s undoing.”

Snape thought of the moonlit glint of tears he had spied on Narcissa Malfoy’s cheeks. No wonder her entire being had seemed to radiate worry and despair. With Lucius in Azkaban and her life crumbling around her, what did she have left but her only son?

“I will assist in any way I can, my lord,” Snape said.

“No,” hissed Voldemort, “you will not. You will only observe. Draco must do this on his own, or he is of no use to me. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, my lord.” The threat was only implied, but powerful nonetheless: Anything less than absolute obedience would result in certain death...or worse. And since Voldemort measured a person’s worth by his or her usefulness to him, Snape had long ago learned to make himself as useful as possible.

The Dark Lord made a sudden restless movement with his left hand, and Nagini hissed softly, a sound echoed by a crackle in the fireplace as a log split apart and sent up a shower of sparks. “It is time we made our move,” he said softly. “Time for Dumbledore to learn how fragile his mortal flesh really is.” The firelight made Voldemort’s eyes look more blood-tinted than ever as he cast a sidelong glance at Snape. “You are certain he suspects nothing?”

“Dumbledore is a trusting fool,” Snape said, making sure to inject the correct amount of cold disdain into his tone. “While I cannot make light of his abilities, his judgment slips every year. I assure you, my lord, he will never see this coming. His weakness in believing the best of others will be his undoing.”

“As I thought.” A thin smile twisted Voldemort’s lips.

“Besides -- ” Snape hesitated, but knew that he would have tell the Dark Lord of his elevation to Dark Arts professor at some point. Best to do it now, and present the information as if he were bestowing a gift. “Dumbledore has decided to give me the position of Dark Arts teacher for the coming year. This of course introduces even greater opportunities -- ”

“Splendid,” Voldemort broke in. “You will obviously not teach them anything overly useful -- ”

“ -- just enough to make them believe they can protect themselves,” finished Snape.

Again that narrow, evil smile twisted the Dark Lord’s mouth. “We understand one another, I think.”

Snape bowed. While it had been impossible for him to completely hide his feelings of loyalty and muted affection toward Hogwarts from Voldemort, Snape had allowed the Dark Lord to believe he wanted to avenge the treatment he’d suffered there as a schoolboy by casting down Dumbledore and raising himself up in his stead. The control of Hogwarts -- a Hogwarts scoured of Mudbloods and those loyal to the former Headmaster -- was a prize the Dark Lord had long dangled in front of the Potions master. It had been easy enough to get Voldemort to believe that was what Snape really wanted.

If only the truth were that simple.

“One other thing,” Voldemort went on, sounding casual...unless one knew him well. “I have heard...rumors...of some Muggle who may be a true Seer. So far no one has been able to discover her identity amongst the scores of false mediums and fortune-tellers which seem to infest the Muggle world. In your time at Spinner’s End, have you heard of anyone such as this?”

Every cell in Snape’s body seemed to contract, to center around the blankness of thought that would ensure Celeste’s survival. After a tiny pause, he replied, “No, my lord, I have not. But you know how little attention I pay to Muggle affairs.”

“Pity.” The Dark Lord watched Snape carefully for a moment, and then seemed almost to shrug -- if he were even capable of such a human gesture at this point in his existence. He murmured, “And yet sometimes I almost feel -- ” The words trailed off, and he picked up the cordial glass from the table with a too-casual motion. The liquid within left a blood-colored stain on his lips after he had drunk.

Snape could think of nothing, feel nothing. He could only wait and watch, an empty vessel for the Dark Lord’s commands. Time for doubt and worry and fear later, when he was free of this place.

“Enough,” Voldemort said abruptly, although Snape couldn’t be certain whether the word had been addressed to him or whether the Dark Lord had been speaking to himself. “No doubt the fool Dumbledore is wondering where his erstwhile Potions master has gone to. For now, watch young Malfoy, and await my further commands.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Snape answered. Empty words, but ones Voldemort would wish to hear.

The Dark Lord made a dismissive gesture with one hand, and Snape bowed, then backed away toward the entrance of the salon. It was only after he had escaped into the night and felt the blessed coolness of the fresh air against his face once more that he allowed himself to take a ragged breath. Although Voldemort’s plans for Dumbledore troubled him, far more immediately disturbing was the fact that the Dark Lord had somehow heard hints of Celeste’s existence. Nothing concrete yet, thankfully, but that meant little. Snape knew how persistent Voldemort could be when in pursuit of anything he desired.

His first instinct was to Disapparate immediately back to Manchester and warn the girl, but Voldemort expected him to return to Hogwarts, and Snape didn’t dare do anything that might alert the Dark Lord to the fact that he knew far more about this supposed “Seer” than he was letting on. So back to Hogwarts Snape went...and all the while he wondered how soon he could go to Celeste and tell her that her situation was far more precarious than he had feared....

***

As it turned out, Dumbledore was absent from the school when Snape arrived, and since the elderly wizard had left no note nor confided in anyone as to his whereabouts, Snape was forced to determine his next course of action without consulting the Headmaster. By then it was past midnight, and finally Snape decided to try to get some rest in his familiar and comfortable rooms. Voldemort obviously hadn’t even tracked down the city where Celeste lived, so she should be safe enough for one more evening.

She’d told Snape in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t appreciate another owl on her doorstep, but he didn’t dare trust to the slow and uncertain vehicle of the British post. In the end, he decided to Apparate back to her home late the next morning, only this time into the small garden that backed up to the kitchen. Although his only glimpse of it had been through the window as she had prepared dinner for him the evening before, he thought he could make it there safely enough. It was too risky for him to go directly into the front parlor he had used before; he had no idea what her business hours were, and the last thing he needed was to Apparate in front of one of her clients.

The persistent fog had let up somewhat, and a thin, pale sun shone down on Snape as he emerged in the yard. By daylight it looked a little forlorn -- one side held a neatly weeded herb garden, but the weeks of uncertain sunshine had not done much for the plants there, which looked leggy and undernourished. Up against the fence to his left stood two rubbish bins, and directly in front of him was a narrow flagged walkway, leading to three stone steps topped by a door painted the same green as the front entrance to the house.

Snape paused on the top step, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure his arrival hadn’t been observed by some busybody housewife or other neighbor. But the houses to either side looked quiet and dark; probably their occupants were off at work for the day, and the alley which backed up to the yard was similarly deserted. Satisfied that no one was around to note his presence, he knocked quickly on the back door.

For a long time no one answered. Snape began to wonder whether Celeste had gone out. After all, she didn’t work a regular job the way most Muggles did, and perhaps she had taken advantage of the quieter morning hours to run her errands.

But then the door opened, and Celeste looked out at him, clutching a garish kimono about herself. She was barefoot, and her hair was covered by a turban-like wrapping of fuzzy green towel. Quite plainly, she had just emerged from the bath.

“Oh,” she said, her tone flat. “Mail not working, then?”

Clearly she was less than thrilled with him, but Snape couldn’t be bothered with such niceties at the moment. “I need to come in.”

Celeste expelled what sounded like an exasperated breath, but at least she opened the door wide enough to allow him entry. He stepped inside, then noted briefly that the kitchen looked spotless, with no sign of the elaborate meal she had prepared for him the night before.

“Couldn’t bear to stay away?” she asked tartly.

“I told you I’d be back,” Snape retorted. Although sarcasm was one of his chief weapons, he found he didn’t care for it nearly so much when it was directed at himself.

“Yes, and I believe I said something about a note,” she began, then shook her head. “Oh, never mind. The coffee’s still hot. If you want some, grab a mug. I’m not going to stand here arguing with you with my head in a towel.” And with that she pointed at a cupboard, then turned and left -- presumably to put on something a little more appropriate.

Snape opened the cupboard and found a set of brown earthenware mugs. The coffee did smell excellent, and he helped himself to a cup while awaiting her return. Celeste’s coffee was as delicious as the meal she’d made the night before, dark and rich, and Snape found himself thinking that he was glad to find he wasn’t the only one who preferred a stronger beverage in the morning than tea.

He waited, looking around at the kitchen, at the braided rug on the tile floor, the tiny pots of herbs that sat on the windowsill over the sink, the quietly humming stainless refrigerator that matched the oversized cooker. It was all so ordinary, so far removed from Voldemort and his machinations. Standing here, it was hard to imagine that any harm could possibly come to the young woman who called this place home.

But it was that sort of complacency which led to unnecessary deaths. How many times had Voldemort capitalized on that “oh, it couldn’t happen to me” mentality? He and his followers struck in the darkness, and not just against the Aurors whose work it was to seek out Death Eaters and their ilk. No, ordinary wizarding folk and Muggle alike most often were the victims -- those who couldn’t fight back, those who had nothing to recommend them save the fact that they were easy targets...

The coffee suddenly tasted bitter as wormwood. Snape set the mug down on the butcher-block countertop and grimaced. The ticking of the clock on the far wall sounded abnormally loud in the stillness, and he noted the time, then scowled. What the devil was taking her so long, anyway?

“Omelet?” Celeste asked suddenly, materializing in the doorway.

“What?”

“I was just about to make myself an omelet when you arrived. Do you want one?”

Her voice sounded suspiciously neutral, which probably meant she was still irritated with him. Not so irritated as to have put on a pair of jeans, though -- she’d dug up another flowing skirt, this one in a paisley pattern of muted rust and brown and olive, with an olive-colored top to match. Her damp hair had been pulled back into a hasty braid, she wore no makeup, and at the moment she looked about the same age as one of his seventh-year students.

Snape opened his mouth to say no, then realized he’d only had a bit of buttered toast some five hours earlier. “Very well,” he said, his tone grudging.

Without comment, Celeste went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs, a bottle of milk, and a block of yellow cheese. She busied herself with these ingredients for some time before giving him a sideways look from under her lashes. “That Expelliarmus thing must be pretty important, then,” she remarked, still sounding a little too cool.

For a second he looked at her blankly, then realized of course she was referring to the charm he’d proposed as her first real defensive spell. “Well, yes,” he said, after a brief pause.

The only reply he got was a brief lift of the eyebrows as Celeste went to the stove and poured the egg mixture into a cast-iron skillet she’d set there earlier. In silence she tended to the omelet, while Snape watched her with increasing puzzlement.

Something about her seemed different this morning. Snape couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly. As he’d never been one to study the actions or emotions of others in any great detail -- save when practicing Legilimency -- for the moment he found himself at a loss. Somehow she seemed almost dimmer, as if some spark or brightness that normally infused her personality had disappeared. It wasn’t just annoyance with him turning up unexpectedly on her doorstep when she’d been so clearly unprepared to have visitors. No, it was more than that. In his earlier encounters with her, he’d seen a bold liveliness as alien to him as the world in which she lived. While at the time he might have found fault with such behavior, now that she faced him with the sort of coolness he had often received from others he felt unexpectedly disheartened. He had hoped she would be different.

“Something is worrying you,” Celeste said at last, and finally her tone softened a bit.

“Something is always worrying me,” he replied shortly. He had come here prepared to briskly inform her of the fact that Voldemort had somehow learned of her identity and then to discuss possible solutions to this problem, but something in him faltered as he watched Celeste expertly slide the omelets onto a pair of plates. How could he possibly disrupt her world in such a fashion?

“That’s a terrible way to live, don’t you think?” she asked. For a second her eyes met his, and he caught a flicker of some unreadable emotion there before she looked down and forced a smile. “Fork?”

Snape took the proffered utensil without replying. Perhaps, to someone with as sunny a nature as hers, it would be a terrible way to live. For him, constant worrying and planning contingencies had been the only thing that kept him alive.

With a slight shake of her head, Celeste pointed toward the dining room. “Well, let’s at least sit down and eat this like civilized people. My mum always got on me about standing up and eating in the kitchen -- she said it was low class.”

He shrugged and followed her into the other room, where the cloth from the previous evening’s meal still covered the table. At some point Celeste must have secured the draperies with tiebacks, as Snape was now afforded a not very interesting view of the next-door neighbor’s brick wall.

They ate in brittle silence. He had never been very good at initiating conversations, and Celeste did not seem inclined to hold up her end of things. Briefly he considered probing her thoughts, but that, he decided with some reluctance, would not be very good manners. If she wanted to be angry with him, so be it. Certainly he had suffered far worse over the years.

“Owls all busy?” Celeste asked at last, as if she couldn’t bear the quiet any longer.

Snape studied her for a moment over a forkful of egg. “You told me not to send one.”

Instead of smiling as she might have once, she nodded thoughtfully. “I did, didn’t I?” Then she set her fork down on her plate and said, “Don’t mind me, Severus. I must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

At that comment she did laugh, and a little of the sparkle seemed to return to her eyes. “That’s a lie if I ever heard one. But thank you.”

For some reason Snape felt inexplicably relieved. At least her ill humor hadn’t been entirely his fault. He wasn’t sure what to say, and settled for a muttered, “You’re welcome.”

Celeste dimpled slightly at that, and finished the rest of her omelet with a much better appetite than she had exhibited earlier. He followed suit -- the food was excellent, and although he would never have admitted it to her, he needed the nourishment. His sleep of the night before had been fitful at best, and the omelet now gave him the energy his body had craved.

“Is the reading room still cleared?” he asked, once he had eaten the last bite of egg and cheese.

“Yes,” Celeste replied. “I hadn’t got ’round to putting things back -- my first client isn’t until three today, so I figured I had time.”

“Good. Then we’ll go ahead with the Expelliarmus spell.”

Snape pushed his chair away from the table and rose, and Celeste followed him into the reading room. As she had indicated, the table and chairs were still tucked away in a corner, leaving the expanse of Persian rug free for practicing the spell. Good thing the rug was there -- the Expelliarmus spell could sometimes have fairly violent results, and the padding would help.

“Expelliarmus is a simple disarming spell,” he said, drawing his wand out from its hiding place in his robes. At the same time, Celeste moved quickly to one of the bookshelves, where the box which held her wand sat. She drew out the slender piece of beech and then stepped back to where Snape stood. He made sure he had her full attention, then continued, “Normally, of course, you would be using it against another wizard, where your aim would be to remove your opponent’s wand from his grasp. However, the spell may also be used against someone who wields a more conventional weapon.”

Brow furrowed slightly, Celeste nodded. “Does it -- does it hurt?” she asked.

“Not intentionally,” he replied. “However, if the will behind it is strong enough, the recipient of the Expelliarmus spell may be forced off his feet. In rare instances, if more than one spell hits the victim at the same time, the person may be rendered unconscious.” A thin smile twisted his lips as Snape remembered how he had knocked Gilderoy Lockhart back on his lily-white ass. The sensation, as he recalled, had been particularly rewarding. He raised his wand, and faced Celeste directly. “You try it.”

She looked worried. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you -- ”

“I doubt very much that will be the case. After all, I will be properly defending myself -- ”

With a motion so fast he hardly could see it, Celeste raised her wand and cried out, “Expelliarmus!”

Snape felt himself lifted off his feet and thrown backward through the air, even as his wand was snatched out of his right hand and knocked to the ground. The far wall of the reading room collided with his spine in a sickening thud, and he slid down to the floor, where he came to a rest on the carpet, ears ringing and the blood rushing to his face.

From somewhere off in the distance he could hear Celeste’s startled exclamation of “oh, my God!” followed by the swift patter of her feet across the rug. Before he could register exactly what was happening, she had knelt down on the floor next to him and taken his right hand in hers.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “I’m so sorry -- ”

He should have told her it was nothing, that she had done very well by catching him so off-guard. Once again her strength had surprised him. He should have gotten to his feet and continued the lesson immediately.

Instead, Snape felt content to remain where he was. A sweet herbal smell drifted toward him from Celeste’s still-damp hair, and her braid fell forward over her shoulder and brushed against his hand. Despite the pain in his back and the realization that he would probably have some very nasty bruises tomorrow, at the moment he wanted nothing more than to stay where he was, letting her bend over him and wrap her warm fingers around his cold ones.

Her eyes met his; the worry in those green depths both surprised and comforted him. And there was something else, a warmth he hadn’t expected -- no, he must be imagining things.

But then she glanced away, the color rising in her cheeks as she quickly let go of his hand.

“I’m fine,” Snape said coldly, after an awkward pause. No woman had ever looked at him like that before, he was certain, but probably he was just confusing concern with regard. Just because Celeste had a naturally warm and welcoming disposition didn’t mean -- couldn’t mean --

“I really didn’t mean to -- ” she broke in, and he raised a hand.

“You most certainly did mean to; that is the only way the spell could have worked so effectively. Don’t waste your breath on apologies.”

With that her brows drew down, and she pushed herself back to her feet, then extended a hand to assist him to an upright position. Briefly Snape considered ignoring her offer of help but decided that would be rude even by his standards. So he let her pull him up as he tried not to wince at the various aches and pains the movement caused.

“Accio wand!” he snapped, and his wand sailed into his outstretched palm.

“I am sorry,” Celeste said in a small voice. “I really didn’t think -- that is -- ”

He cut her off. “Enough. Do you intend to apologize to Lord Voldemort when he comes to attack you?”

The second the words left his lips, he regretted them. Her face went pale, and Snape could see the muscles in her slender neck work as she swallowed.

“Is that it?” Celeste whispered. “Has he found out about me? Is that why you’re really here?”

How convenient it would be to lie, to hand her some soothing platitudes about her being safe enough here in Manchester. But whatever else he might be, Severus Snape was not the type to avoid the truth, however unpleasant. “Yes,” he said slowly, then added, “That is, he has heard something of your existence. But he doesn’t yet know where you live, or even your name. We have some time, I think.”

For a long moment Celeste merely stared at him in frozen horror. Whatever had passed between them a few moments earlier seemed to have been completely stricken from her mind. Her knuckles showed white as she clenched her wand. Finally she said, her voice grimmer than he had ever heard it before, “Then we’d better keep practicing....”