Silence fell on Spinner’s End. In a cluttered, poorly lit room, three half-empty wine glasses bore mute testimony to those who had lately occupied it.

Snape had known some day it might come to this, but that forethought did little to reassure him now. It may fall to any of us to make the ultimate sacrifice, Dumbledore had once told him. All we can do is face the future with courage, knowing that we have done our part to defeat the greatest evil the world has ever known.

No, Dumbledore did not fear death, and Snape himself had found the world a bitter enough cup that at the time he had not thought he would much regret leaving it. Now, however...

He shook his head and drained the last of the elf-made wine, trying to rid his mind of the sound of Narcissa’s voice, the feel of her hands grasping the front of his robes. Once upon a time he would have been very glad to have her standing so close, to have those huge sky-colored eyes staring beseechingly up into his. Now he could only think of what it might have been like to have another woman be so near, one whose eyes were a deep warm green, not pale blue.

The knowledge that there was no way he could have avoided making the Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa and still maintain his position as a true supporter of Voldemort offered him little comfort. Bellatrix’s hooded dark eyes seemed to mock him. Good thing she had had no idea of what calmly agreeing to make the Vow had actually cost him. Even as he had knelt before Narcissa and offered his hands to her, part of his mind had screamed at him, What are you doing? You’re agreeing to assist in murdering the only friend you have in the world!

But as he had done so many other times, he had pushed those thoughts away, kept his mind blank and attuned to the task before him. Oh, he knew that neither Bellatrix nor Narcissa was a Legilimens of any great skill, but the habit had been so ingrained in him by this time that he did it almost without thinking. It was only after they had left, their dark cloaks allowing them to melt away seamlessly into the night, that he found himself trembling with reaction. Usually he was very careful in his drinking -- he had the bad example of his father and the worry over appearing in front of Voldemort even slightly impaired to ensure that he did not over-indulge -- but Snape knew he needed the rest of that wine now.

Damn Narcissa anyhow. Her over-protectiveness regarding Draco had only increased after Lucius had been imprisoned in Azkaban. Oh, Snape could understand why; as longtime acquaintance of the Malfoys, he knew just how many desperate attempts for more children Narcissa had endured after Draco had been born, how many miscarriages she had suffered before the couple gave up entirely. Not for Cissy the happy fecundity of a Molly Weasley -- really, the Weasley woman should have been born a rabbit. No, all of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy’s hopes had been pinned on Draco. And now he, Severus Snape, had been dragged into Narcissa’s desperate attempts to shield her son as well.

Still, there was no help for it. Dumbledore would understand why he had made the Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa. Indeed, if their roles had been reversed, the Headmaster would most likely have done the same. Oddly enough, the thought was not entirely reassuring.

Snape knew he should return to Hogwarts as soon as possible. Dumbledore would have to be warned, of course, although Snape knew if fate should decree that his be the hand to strike the Headmaster down, Dumbledore would do nothing to prevent it.

The hair on the back of Snape’s neck prickled. Back on the similarly shabby street where he had grown up, old Mrs. Witherspoon would have likely said that a goose had just walked over his grave. Perhaps she would have even been right. Snape had very little use for Divination, but even he had to admit that sometimes, for better or worse, the veil between present and future parted just enough to allow those gifted -- or cursed -- in such things to catch a glimpse of the other side.

Those thoughts led him inevitably back to Celeste Jenkins. He had left things badly there, he knew -- but blast it, why on earth would that foolish girl ever allow herself to become attached to him? Had he ever given her the slightest encouragement? No, but in a way that was even worse, because that meant she had somehow grown to care for him in spite of himself, despite his brusque manner and sharp tongue, his unkempt hair and sour face.

Had, in fact, come to love him in the way he once dreamed of, back when he was a stupid schoolboy who thought perhaps the world wasn’t the cold, hateful place it had turned out to be. There had been another girl with green eyes once....

But that memory got shoved back into the darkness where it belonged. Whatever Celeste Jenkins might feel for him -- and whatever he might feel for her -- it didn’t change the fact that Voldemort had his followers actively looking for her. That she was in danger. Even though worry for her gnawed at him like a constant mental toothache, he hadn’t yet come up with a satisfactory means of watching over her. Of course he hadn’t dared to leave any magical items in her home that could be used for communication; they would have given her away should the Death Eaters ever discover where she lived, and very likely would have betrayed his own involvement with her as well. Even owls were a risk -- lately there had been rumors that the previously inviolate method of communication had somehow been compromised by the Dark Lord. No, the isolation was necessary, for both their sakes, although Snape had begun to wonder whether it might be prudent to remove Celeste to a location where she wasn’t known.

Abandoning the sitting room and the memory of what had happened there, Snape moved quickly up the rickety staircase to his room on the second floor. Wormtail was nowhere in evidence, but that meant little. The rodent had a definite knack for hiding around corners, looking through keyholes.

Well, just try to look through mine, Snape thought viciously. You’ll find a wand jabbing you in the eyeball, you rat-faced git.

On one wall of the shabby chamber he was forced to call his there hung a small, plain oval mirror in a flaking gilt frame. Its ostensible purpose was as a shaving mirror, but it had another, hidden use. The false Mad-Eye Moody had owned a Foe Glass, a mirror that showed one’s enemies and their movements. Snape’s mirror followed the same basic principle, only in reverse -- it was a Friend Glass, and only revealed those Snape truly cared about. For most people such a thing would have been so crowded that its usefulness would be quite lost, but as Snape had -- until recently, at least -- only counted Albus Dumbledore as his true friend, it had been handy for checking in on the Headmaster and making sure he was safe.

Now, however, as Snape positioned himself in front of the mirror, he saw something quite unexpected. He saw Celeste.

She stood in an unfamiliar flat, speaking with the same fair-haired, round-faced girl Snape had seen before in Celeste’s memories. Unfortunately, the mirror transmitted only images, not sound, so he had no idea what they were saying to one another. But she seemed to look well enough, and Snape found himself obscurely comforted by the fact that she was over at a friend’s house and not home alone. Perhaps she had gone over there for some advice. He didn’t pretend to understand the feminine psyche, but he had observed that women seemed to prefer company over isolation; certainly the female students in Hogwarts tended to travel in packs, going so far as to visit the restrooms in small gangs as well. Very probably Celeste had been upset after the Occlumency lesson and had gone to her friend’s home to avoid being by herself. At any rate, she seemed safe enough, and he felt he could return to Hogwarts unburdened by worry over her at least for the evening.

He knew what her sudden appearance in the mirror probably meant. It would have been easy to lie to himself, to brush off the importance of her image in a glass that showed only those closest to his heart. But he didn’t. He knew how he felt. What he didn’t know was what the hell he intended to do about it.

Snape didn’t bother to tell Wormtail where he was going, of course. He merely gathered into a small satchel the few items he needed to take to Hogwarts with him -- mirror included -- and Disapparated out of the room. It would be good to rest in his own bed; he had a feeling that sleep would be long in coming, what with the Unbreakable Vow he had made with Narcissa and its possible consequences weighing on his mind, not to mention this latest development with Celeste Jenkins. He would just have to trust that the long walk up to Hogwarts through the cool night air would be enough to tire him, to give him the oblivion he so desperately craved.

***

Snape slept, but not as long as he would have liked. He’d stayed up well past midnight talking over the events of the evening before with the Headmaster, and in the bleak gray hour before dawn came an urgent summons to the Order of the Phoenix headquarters at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. There being no time to spare, he’d Floo’d immediately from the fireplace in Dumbledore’s office, only to emerge in the dingy confines of the erstwhile Black kitchen.

Nymphadora Tonks was waiting for him, along with Williamson and Proudfoot, both of whom Snape vaguely recognized from the Auror Department at the Ministry of Magic, although he did not know them well. Tonks looked pale and mousy, her normally bright pink hair a dull brown. Snape wasn’t sure whether that was an improvement or not.

“I trust there’s a good reason for dragging me here at this hour?” he inquired in icy tones. He had never cared much for the Metamorphmagus.

“In need of some expert advice, Professor,” said Williamson, flicking his long ponytail back over one shoulder. “Nasty bit of business, I’m afraid.”

Snape lifted an eyebrow at Tonks, who said, “At first we thought it was a simple case of Draught of Living Death, but the known antidotes didn’t work....”

“Wizard or Muggle?” he interrupted.

The three Aurors exchanged an unhappy glance. “Muggle,” Proudfoot said, after an uncomfortable pause.

“How awkward,” Snape said dryly. Bad enough when Voldemort and his followers victimized wizardkind; when Muggles were involved, all sorts of messy cover-ups inevitably were required.

“A family,” Tonks went on. She ran a hand through her short tousled hair, causing it to stick up more than ever. Snape thought she looked far more like someone who had just rolled out of bed than he himself did. “Mother and father, two younger children. It looked as if the oldest daughter had slipped out for the night for a bit of clubbing, and then she sneaked back in and found them all in the living room -- well, people up and down the block heard her screaming.”

“Of course the Obliviators cleaned up the mess as best they could,” Proudfoot added. “The family’s been moved to St. Mungo’s. A Muggle hospital was out of the question, and as they’re not exactly responsive it’s not as if they’re going to notice anything odd about the place -- ”

Snape cut in, “Then let’s go. I can’t base an opinion on something I haven’t seen.”

Proudfoot and Williamson exchanged a single dark glance, and Snape realized with some bitterness that they, as Aurors, probably didn’t much appreciate receiving orders from an ex-Death Eater. Well, that was their problem. As Professor of Potions at Hogwarts, he was more qualified than anyone else to consult in this case, and if his presence was distasteful to them, so be it. Although Snape didn’t much care about the fate of a Muggle family he didn’t even know, he had to admit that his academic curiosity had been piqued. Was this a new spell or potion, or one that had somehow been perverted by the Dark Lord or his followers?

Since they were all on official Ministry business, a sleek dark car whisked them away from the Grimmauld Place to St. Mungo’s. Even though the beginnings of the early morning rush had thickened street traffic, the car maneuvered its way through the clots of other vehicles and pedestrians with aplomb. No doubt the Muggle passersby would have been shocked indeed if they’d managed to get a glimpse through the car’s darkened windows, only to see there was no one driving it.

The afflicted family had been secreted away in two adjoining rooms on the fourth floor, where the victims of spell damage were usually treated.

“We weren’t quite sure where to put them,” said the plump Healer who led Snape and the three Aurors down the hallway. She sounded a little apologetic. “The symptoms did appear to be those associated with Draught of the Living Death, but when none of the usual remedies seemed to work -- ” Blinking watery blue eyes, she continued, “Anyhow, we thought it best to put them in this ward, where the worst cases are normally treated.”

Worst cases, indeed. When he advanced into the room that housed the Muggle adults, Snape saw immediately that they were in a very bad way. Only by watching very closely could one tell that they even breathed, and even then he couldn’t be sure until the Healer held a mirror above the mouth of the woman, to show the faintest film of condensation from her expelled breath.

The usual antidote to the Draught of the Living Death was the Invigoration Potion, but Snape didn’t bother to ask whether that had been tried, since Tonks and the Healer had already informed him that the standard remedies had been of little use. A faint purplish stain on the woman’s lips showed that she had indeed drunk the Draught -- or something like it. Her features were regular and might have been attractive when she was awake, but now her slackened visage reminded Snape of a waxwork figure that had begun to melt.

Frowning, Snape fished in his pocket for a piece of Reactive Parchment; the enchanted bit of paper could pick up even the slightest trace of potions and reveal the ingredients. It was an invention of his own, and therefore he knew that the Healers at St. Mungo’s couldn’t possibly have used it.

He laid the scrap of parchment against the woman’s lips and watched as its normal yellowish-beige turned a pale lilac in color. At the same time, faint lines of text in a deeper purple shade began to appear on its surface.

“What on earth is that?” Tonks asked, a bit of color returning to her cheeks as she watched in apparent astonishment.

“Something I’ve been working on,” Snape replied, offering her no more. “A means to determine the ingredients used in a particular potion.”

The Healer’s eyes widened at this exchange, and she bent over the victim’s face, squinting to read the tiny words inscribed on the bit of parchment that covered her mouth. “Asphodel, wormwood...”

“Let me see that.” With an abrupt movement he seized the tiny scrap, frowning as he perused the list of ingredients. Yes, of course, and sopophorous beans and valerian root, all the common elements which made up the Draught, but then...

“Nightshade, and monkshood...powdered bloodstone and bat wing...”

The Healer sucked in her breath in an audible gasp, and the three Aurors shot puzzled looks at her and then Snape.

“Bit fuzzy on my Potions, old man,” Proudfoot said. “Care to enlighten us?”

Snape felt a sneer curl his lip. How Proudfoot could have possibly gotten an “Exceeds Expectations” on his Potions N.E.W.T. was beyond him, although since the Auror had graduated during Slughorn’s tenure as Potions professor, very likely Proudfoot had simply bribed his way through with some fancy sweets.

“These additional ingredients serve the purpose of both intensifying the strength of the potion and extending its duration,” Snape replied, speaking slowly, as if to a very stupid first-year. “On their own, they are toxic enough. In combination with the other elements of the potion....” He let the words trail off, and gave an eloquent lift of his shoulders beneath the heavy black robes.

“But can’t you do something?” Tonks asked. Her face looked paler than ever; Snape wondered briefly if she were about to faint. “We can’t just leave them like this....”

Again Snape shrugged. “I can try. But I make no promises.”

“Our stillroom here is very well-stocked, Professor,” the Healer said. “And any ingredients we lack we can get for you from Slug & Jiggers.”

Snape knew he had to make the attempt. Even though he cared very little whether a family of unknown Muggles met their end at the hands of Voldemort and his followers, he wanted to prove that he was better than they, smarter, more adaptable. Perhaps in his own twisted way the Dark Lord had attacked these Muggles in this fashion merely to see whether Severus Snape was up to the challenge.

Besides, Celeste would have wanted him to try to save them...

Crossing his arms, he stared back at the three Aurors and the anxious-faced Healer. “Show me this stillroom,” he said.


***

The day had worn itself away to another dank, dreary sunset before Snape finally allowed an ashen-faced Tonks to lead him away from the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s. The other two Aurors had disappeared hours ago, presumably to pursue other important Ministry business. It was only after he had watched the still forms of the Muggles in their beds for a good quarter-hour, reassuring himself of the steady rise and fall of their chests beneath the starched white sheets, the color finally returning to their cheeks, that he followed the young Auror down to the street. Outside the shabby department store which served as a cover for St. Mungo’s true nature, a long black Ministry car was waiting to take them back to Grimmauld Place.

“That was amazing,” Tonks said, crossing her arms, as if her battered leather jacket weren’t quite enough to keep her warm.

“Merely the judicious application of the correct ingredients,” Snape replied, taking care to sound indifferent. Inwardly, though, he felt a stab of triumph. Who else would have thought to combine periwinkle and the slightest dash of powdered unicorn horn to the usual antidote? Or that the tiniest trace of cowslip would be the activator required to energize the other elements of the potion?

No one, probably, which of course was why Tonks and the other two Aurors had brought him here in the first place. But now his patients seemed to be sleeping normally, although they had not yet regained consciousness. The Healer had said they would keep them overnight for observation, and then in the morning return them to their homes, memories carefully modified so that they would have no recollection of having spent the night in a most un-Muggle-like hospital.

Tonks wouldn’t meet his eyes. Not that he cared -- very few people he encountered, with the notable exception of Celeste Jenkins, seemed able to look at him directly. “Still,” she said quietly, “it was a good piece of work.”

And after that she was silent for the rest of the car trip, as Snape stared out of the window and tried not to think about all the hours he had just lost in St. Mungo’s. No Time-Turner for him, unfortunately -- he would have to return to Hogwarts and hope that nothing earth-shattering had occurred during his absence.

He muttered an absent farewell to Tonks and Floo’d immediately back to Hogwarts. Dumbledore sat behind the enormous desk in his office, watching as Snape emerged from the fireplace, brushing ash from the hem of his robes.

An unspoken question hung in the air.

“They’re fine,” Snape said. “No lasting harm done, and though it was a nasty bit of work, St. Mungo’s has the antidote now, should any new cases crop up.”

“Good work, Severus.” The Headmaster shot an all-knowing blue gaze in his direction. “Make sure you eat something.”

“I’ll have the house-elves send a tray to my room.” Until Dumbledore had mentioned food, Snape hadn’t even realized he was hungry. But he didn’t want to make forced pleasantries in the dining hall with those few of the staff who remained at the school for the summer holidays. Better to eat quietly in his rooms, and take an early bed...after looking into his mirror to make sure that Celeste was still all right.

Dumbledore nodded. “Rest well, then.”

Without bothering to reply, Snape swept out of the Headmaster’s office and down the stairs to the dungeons. He told himself that it was merely hunger and exhaustion that made the journey seem twice as long as usual. When he regained his quarters, he forced himself to first summon a house-elf to take his dinner order before he turned to the Friend Glass, which he had hung in its regular spot behind his desk.

The first image that met his eyes was of Dumbledore, who still sat in his office, this time scratching away at a piece of parchment on the desktop. Snape frowned. Had his vision of Celeste the night before been merely a fluke, a chance apparition that would not be repeated?

But at that moment Dumbledore’s reflection disappeared, and Snape saw himself looking at Celeste. She stood somewhere outdoors; he could see the wind pulling at her loose hair, and the last faint reddish glow of sunset limning the outline of her cheek. Then behind her Snape glimpsed a vast expanse of inky blue water, with a blood-colored disk slipping down below the horizon.

What the hell? While Manchester had several rivers in its environs, none of them were large enough to be the body of water that framed Celeste’s slender form. He glared at the image, as if by concentrating hard enough he could force it to reframe its perspective and show him more of her surroundings. But the image didn’t change -- he watched as she reached up with one hand, as if to wipe a tear from one cheek. Then she turned, staring off into the last of the sunset, before at last she turned and began to walk.

Her surroundings were completely unfamiliar -- a sweep of bay, a town that followed the curve of the harbor. With the falling of night, it was difficult for him to pick out any details. Fists curled in frustration, he watched as she made her way through the streets, climbing slightly as she moved away from the water. She paused on the curb as a bus chugged past her. Perhaps if he could only see the lettering on the vehicle --

“Sir?”

“What?” Snape spun away from the mirror, only to see a house-elf cowering before him, a tray of food gripped in its spindly fingers.

“Withy has the food you ordered, sir,” it squeaked, staring up at him out of enormous frightened eyes and looking as if it very much wanted to let go of the tray and bolt.

“Put it over there,” he snarled, pointing at the desk. “And get out.”

It dropped the tray on the desktop as ordered and fled. Not bothering to watch its departure, Snape turned back to the mirror -- but it was too late. Celeste’s image had disappeared, only to be replaced by the familiar sight of Dumbledore, who now seemed to be dozing as he sat behind his desk.

An inarticulate sound of frustrated anger made its way out of Snape’s throat. He glared at the Friend Glass, but the image it showed never wavered. Feeling as if he’d put his fist through it if he had to stare at it one second longer, he turned and pulled out his desk chair, then sat, although eating the food the house-elf had brought suddenly seemed very unappealing.

Just where the hell was she? On the coast somewhere, and since Celeste had been watching the sunset over the ocean, then she had to be somewhere on Britain’s western coast. But that still meant she could be anywhere from Scotland to Cornwall. Even if he could discover somehow where she’d gone, that still didn’t explain why. What on earth could have caused her to leave Manchester? She had certainly never mentioned going on holiday to him.

Snape forced himself to eat some of the food, but only because he knew that starving himself wouldn’t do any good. Mind roiling, he went through the normal motions of preparing himself for bed, all the while picking at the problem, trying to decide what he should do next. Part of him wanted to get up and go ask Dumbledore’s advice, but that, he worried, would lead to some awkward questions, not the least of which would be the query as to why Celeste Jenkins had suddenly appeared in Snape’s Friend Glass. No, he would sleep on it, try to work it out in his own way. At least she had seemed to be safe enough where she was. Wherever that might be.

Sleep finally claimed him, and Snape welcomed it, falling into its blackness like a deep-sea diver seeking sunken treasure. Let the morning bring what it might...

***

But daylight brought no answers. Another look in the glass gave him nothing but Dumbledore once again. Muttering an Anglo-Saxon expletive favored by his late father, Snape exited his chambers, only to be brought to a halt by the smell of stale cooking sherry.

Sybill Trelawney blinked up at him through her thick-lensed spectacles. “Ah, Professor,” she said, reaching out with one bony hand to grasp him by the arm.

The Divination professor was the last thing he needed this morning. “What?” he growled.

She blinked again, looking somewhat taken aback. “I know what it is that you seek!” she proclaimed, tightening her grip on his arm.

Snape wondered if she would hold his limb so firmly if she knew the Dark Mark lay coiled beneath the tight wool sleeve. “Indeed?”

“She has gone from your sight, but not from mine! As I lay meditating in my chamber last night, a vision came to me -- ”

Normally Snape paid as little attention as possible to Trelawney’s false soothsaying, but her words stopped him short. “A vision of what?”

“The hidden one, the girl who was overlooked. The one you almost lost.”

“Spit it out, woman!” Lost? What the devil was Trelawney talking about? If Snape thought shaking her would do any good, he would have gripped the Divination professor by the arms and given her a good rattling. As it was, he set his teeth and waited.

“She is there, where the Ystwyth meets the sea -- ”

He stared down into Trelawney’s myopic eyes. “Are you saying she’s in Wales?”

She sniffed, and removed her hand from his arm. “Well, erm...yes.”

Not bothering with a reply, Snape retreated into his quarters, slamming the door on Trelawney’s indignant, “Well, really!”

He had already forgotten her. As luck would have it, his Muggle clothing had been returned to his wardrobe, neatly cleaned and pressed. As annoying as they could be, house-elves did come in useful sometimes.

More quickly than he would have thought possible, Snape changed out of his robes and into the plain clothing of the modern world. He would have to leave Hogwarts’ grounds before he could Disapparate, but that was a delay of only a few minutes. Then he would go to Aberystwyth -- which of course was the place Trelawney had meant -- and ask Celeste what the hell she was thinking, up and disappearing like that.

Of course he’d never been to the small Welsh town, but he’d gotten enough of a glimpse of it in the mirror the night before for him to Apparate there safely. Once he was in Aberystwyth he’d still have to track her down, but he hoped that wouldn’t be too difficult. Since he’d seen her there the night before, he’d start at the shore.

Hoping the little seaside town wouldn’t be too busy at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, Snape Disapparated almost the second he stepped outside the gates of Hogwarts. He came down with a jolt on a sidewalk that bordered a narrow cobbled street, almost knocking over a young couple in running togs who were walking a pair of corgis.

“Watch it, mate!” the young man warned, and his wife -- or girlfriend -- gave Snape an irritated look, but then they continued on their way as if nothing particularly untoward had happened.

Shaking his head a little at the obtuseness of Muggles, Snape followed the feel of the fresh morning breeze, heading west until he came to a curved shore bordered in white sand, where the early morning sun caught the fickle waves as they danced in the harbor. No dementor-induced gloom here; the place looked fresh-minted as a new coin.

And then, at the end of the oddly truncated pier, he saw her. As in his vision of her last night, Celeste’s hair waved loose in the breeze. He watched while she put up an impatient hand to push it back. She turned.

Their eyes met. Before he realized what he was doing, he was moving quickly, striding toward her, just as she ran to him. Her cheeks glowed, although with the morning or the sight of him, he couldn’t be certain.

But then she threw her arms around him, pressing her face against his chest even as she gasped, “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life!”

There was no mistaking her earnest tone. Her body felt warm and alive, pressed up against his.

He knew he should have pushed her away. He had questions he wanted answered. He wanted to ask what the hell she was doing here, what the hell she'd been thinking, to run off and frighten him like that.

Snape looked down into Celeste’s face as she gazed up at him. For a second he felt he was drowning in those eyes. The world seemed to dip around him, as if the quay had been hit by a particularly large breaker. Then he clutched her to him, and slammed his mouth against hers.

She tasted of salt and sweet coffee. Her lips were warmer than he could have imagined, soft and strong at the same time. He felt her arms tighten around him, pressing him close, pushing the heat of her breasts against his body. Was that the sound of the surf, or did that roaring come from within his own head?

After several lifetimes, he lifted his mouth from hers. She looked up at him, face alight, and then she smiled, and curled her fingers around his.

“Let’s have a talk, then,” she said.