PART 2: The eyes of the innocent

'Men stumble on the truth from time to time, but most pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing has happened' (Sir Winston Churchill)

Friday 28 November, 1980, 1.00 AM, An Cruachan, Scotland.

You don't sleep, the night after a kill.

It was now half an hour since he had apparated back from Fine Alley, half an hour since the Hit Wizards had forced the door of the already-violated café to find it empty and ruined, had stared at the two corpses amid the wreckage, and the four fading shadows of the disapparating Death Eaters.

Severus Snape had gone straight home, and as he always did, he had gone to his workshop, seeking some way to while away the many minutes until dawn. The adrenalin that had propelled him smoothly through the previous hours still lurked in his veins, making his heart race and his movements unsteady, and sleep would be impossible until it was pacified.

The workshop was freezing cold, and tiny - a mere nine foot square, a lean-to shack built onto the back of an old barn. The walls had been bare stone, like the floor, but were now coated with new whitewash; the ceiling consisted of the rafters and batons of the slate-tiled roof. The equipment was good, and well maintained, chosen and tended with a care he gave only to this tiny room. It was not just a laboratory, this shack, but a refuge, an escape from the world outside.

He moved restlessly about the workshop, testing various potions that didn't need checking, oiling equipment that had been oiled only a week before, wiping down surfaces and cleaning cupboards. All simple, unnecessary tasks. Time-consuming chores.

If the Dark Lord had asked anything of him it would have been easy, but it appeared there was no need of potions at present. Nothing beyond the six simmering cauldrons that stood on the centre of the workbench, and they needed only to be left alone. He crouched down and opened the cupboard under the workbench, and pulled out an old wooden box full of rolls of parchment - logs of failed experiments and abandoned projects, jottings of vague ideas never developed and recipes never tried. He selected a scroll: an unsuccessful attempt at a poison and antidote, and unrolled it, his movements awkward and unsteady.

Dealing with the McKinnons had been a simple enough affair, so basic that not even a fool like Karkaroff could mess it up. Snape had not even taken a particularly active part in the raid, but it seemed to make no difference: he was still too keyed up - too alert - even to think about sleeping. After five years of such work, he would have expected the surge of adrenalin to have worn off, but it never had. Visions of the raid kept whirling through his head, blurring into each other in a discordant whirl of images. His hands were shaking slightly as he smoothed out the scroll, with its neat records of temperatures, pHs and thaumic levels, and let his eye travel slowly down the columns of figures, looking for some anomaly that would explain where he had gone wrong.

Electra would be reporting back to the Dark Lord by now. It had been a productive night's work - they'd got enough from McKinnon to keep several groups busy for months, including the names of five of Dumbledore's vigilantes. He reeled them off in his head: Tulip Mortlake, Jack Bones, Siegfried Yaffle, Peninnah Abbott, and Mundungus Fletcher. He smiled grimly. The Dark Lord would pick them off one by one like September apples, crushing them until their secrets ran out like juice.

He realised that he'd lost his place on the scroll, and turned back to it with renewed attention, but his mind drifted persistently back to the night's work. In exasperation he let go of the scroll and it sprang back into a tight roll, rocking backwards and forwards on the bare workbench as he watched it restlessly, resisting the impulse to bring his fist down and squash it flat. When it came to a standstill he unrolled it again, placing a stone on each corner to hold it down, and tried to concentrate once more on the columns of figures.

Funny, how the McKinnon woman's words kept coming back to him. "How can you do these things...?" Irritating woman, he thought contemptuously, trying to forget how the words had got under his skin. Only an utter neophyte paid attention to his victims' ramblings. The last man to try that on him had been screaming in pain before he'd been able to finish the sentence.

He turned his attention back to the scroll again, but Ailsa McKinnon's face kept drifting into his mind, however much he stared at the parchment.

She'd looked so calm, even though she was facing her death. Like an angel.

He shook his head vigorously to dispel the thought, fulminating at his treacherous mind. He pulled the parchment impatiently from under the stones weighing it down, and thrust it back into the cupboard with the rest of his papers, locking the door.

Useless. He'd have to find some other way to while away the night.

He kept a pack of old playing cards in one of the cupboards - Muggle playing cards with crude symbols and unmoving pictures that had to be shuffled by hand. They had been left in the old barn before he made it his home, and he'd never got round to replacing them with a proper pack. He took them from their box and dealt them out on the workbench: seven stacks of three cards, face up. He stared down at them vacantly for a moment, and then began to play, mentally adding up the face values of the cards, immersing himself in the mechanics of the simple game as he dealt a fourth row of cards on top of them, and then removed three cards from the bottom of the second and fifth stacks before dealing again.

The tumult of images spinning through his mind gradually calmed and faded as he played on, diminishing steadily, until finally there was nothing left but the motionless faces of the playing cards, who neither questioned nor reproached him.

When each game ended he gathered the cards up immediately, shuffled quickly, and dealt again. He carried on playing until dawn.

* * *

The Skowers workshop and offices stood towards the southern end of Turm Inn Alley, an undistinctive building, made of the same dark granite as the workshops around it. It was one of the taller offices on the street, and the upper two floors had been added only nine years before. The Skower family had specialised in cleaning potions for over four hundred years, but for most of that time they had remained in contented obscurity, trading from their homes or by owl order. It was only in the last thirty years - under the leadership of Mrs Laburnum Skower - that a quiet family business had been turned into an international corporation.

It was a quarter past eight when Billy MacPherson apparated outside the front steps of the Skowers building, slightly relieved to find that all of him had made the journey successfully. It was only a year that he'd gained his Apparition Licence (on the fourth attempt), and splinching was still a constant fear, particularly on the daily commute from Thurso, where he lived with his brother's family, to Aberdeen.

Billy was only twenty, still a newcomer at Skowers, which remained an alien and rather ridiculous world to him. He was short and plump, looking much younger than his twenty years, his face disfigured by round spectacles, and topped with mousy brown hair that was as curly as a collection of fine springs. He was universally underestimated, though it never seemed to trouble him. At school he had been the most intelligent student to have come out of Hufflepuff in over thirty years; at Skowers, he had survived working for Severus Snape for nearly a year and a half so far. Such facts spoke for themselves.

He clattered clumsily up the stairs, (nearly tripping over the end of his scarf,) and into the plush reception area. "Morning, Gertie," he called to the girl at the reception desk.

"Hi, Billy." The receptionist, Gertrude Mockridge, looked up from her copy of Witch Weekly, and flashed him a winning smile. "Looking forward to another day with our Mr Snake?"

Billy smiled, a touch ruefully. "Well... He isn't actually as bad as you think, not mostly... Though I won't exactly be unhappy come five o'clock today." He hesitated, colouring slightly, and then said, "You want to come for a drink when we finish?"

Her smile became even brighter. "I'd love to. Quarter past five do you?"

"Splendidly. I'll meet you here." Billy smiled back, dazzled. He was young and in love, and the world was perfect.

"Lovely. Got some parcels for the Snake. You want to take them down, save me a trip?"

Billy rose chivalrously to the occasion, and descended the stairs burdened with five bulky packages, his own bag, the wilful scarf and an umbrella. He walked slowly and carefully, taking pains not to drop anything, pausing at each landing to adjust the wobbly fifth parcel, and push the scarf out of the way.

The Research and Development Department had been relegated to the lowest floor of the Skowers building, three floors below ground level. There were only two rooms, the Laboratory itself and a small and dingy cloakroom opposite which Snape had commandeered as a storeroom. When Billy pushed open the door of the latter it was in its usual cluttered state, with crates and barrels lining the walls. He dumped the parcels, bag and umbrella on top of a barrel of rabbit's blood with a sigh of relief, and hung up his cloak and scarf, putting on a lab robe and dragonhide gloves. He forced his errant hair inside his hat again, checked his reflection in the cracked mirror, and then picked up the parcels again, and went through into the lab opposite.

The Research and Development Laboratory always gave Billy the creeps. It was as cold and damp as a morgue, and about as welcoming, the warm light of the torches totally eclipsed by the blue flames which heated the cauldrons, casting their cold shadows about the walls like faded wraiths. There was a fireplace, but its heat never seemed to warm the room. The marble-topped workbenches which edged the room were always freezing to the touch, cold and smooth as old ice.

Snape was already there, at the furthest end of the room, checking the simmering cauldrons. Along the furthest wall were three narrow troughs filled with pale blue flames, the cauldrons suspended over them on iron chains. One of the potions had exploded in the night: the wall above it was scorched, and the cauldrons each side of it were issuing acrid black smoke. Billy noticed with relief that the one at the end of the row was still giving off pale green steam, as it should. It was the first project he had been let loose alone on: just a basic handwash, nothing complex, but it was his baby, his ewe lamb.

Billy dumped the five parcels down on the nearest work bench. "Morning, Mr Snape, sir. I've brought some parcels from reception for you."

"Book them in, will you?" Snape said without turning round, detaching the half-melted cauldron from the chains that held it. "When you've done that I need a new batch of the Cauldron Cleaner to replace this lot. And we'll need a fresh batch of lye before the day is out. Use the oak ash, not the pine, and see that you filter it properly."

Billy nodded and set to work, attacking the parcels with a pocket knife and sorting out the contents. He watched his boss covertly as he worked, relieved that the exploded cauldron had not made him lose his temper.

He'd got used to working in silence. Most days Snape ignored him, and apart from issuing occasional terse instructions just left him to get on with things. Snape himself would work fast and furiously, snapping at anyone who disturbed him. Billy was spared the worst of his tongue because he was thorough and careful, and knew his job. But there were still days when nobody could do anything right, and Snape would rage and storm while Billy checked all his work extra carefully and resisted the temptation to hide under the workbench. Yesterday had been one of those days, but - thank heavens! - today the storm seemed to have blown itself out.

Billy had always thought his boss would actually be quite a nice man if he didn't work himself so hard.

A bell rang from the fireplace, and Billy turned to see Gertrude's head amongst the flames. "Call for you, Mr Snape. Simeon Whitby from Corydon Ceramics."

"Get rid of him, Mockridge. Tell him I've emigrated - whatever excuse you usually use. I don't need anything."

She ignored this. "I'll put him through," and few seconds later her face was replaced by Simeon Whitby's balding head.

"Good to see you, Severus. How are you keeping?" Billy could hear the undertone of nervousness in his voice.

"What do you want, Whitby?" Snape said sharply. Nothing was calculated to annoy him quicker than the use of his first name.

Whitby looked slightly uncomfortable. "Actually this is just a courtesy call, to see if there's anything you need."

"Nothing at present. I'll contact you when I do." He raised his wand to break the connection, but Whitby interrupted.

"Can I take this opportunity to send you a free sample of our new self-heating crucible? They revolutionise the whole concept of alchemy. I'm sure you'll find them indispens - "

Even bent over his work, Billy could hear Snape gritting his teeth. "No thank you. If I wanted any of your inferior and overpriced products I would ask for them." Whitby started to speak again, but Snape cut through his words with sarcastic politeness. "Thank you for your time, Mr Whitby. Goodbye."

He pointed his wand at the bell over the fireplace and muttered "Finite". Simeon Whitby's face vanished.

Billy remembered with chagrin that it had taken him over fifteen minutes to get rid of his last sales rep, much to Snape's contempt. Maybe I should take lessons in sarcasm from him, he thought wryly, as he finished selecting the ingredients for the new batch of Cauldron Cleaner and began to prepare them. But then again, perhaps not. He carried on working in silence.

* * *

News of the previous night's killing did not reach the basement of Skowers until Billy returned to the lab after lunch (Snape rarely took a lunch break), looking pale and upset.

"You've not heard the news, Mr Snape? It's all over town - I only found out just now. There's been another killing - here, in Aberdeen."

Snape looked up and gave him an irritated look. He was in the middle of heating an alembic full of the new Cauldron Cleaner. Instead of the usual angled 'beak' it had a complex network of glass tubing attached to its neck, long glass pipes leading to various glass bulbs. In deference to the night's explosion, the fire underneath it was extremely small. "What's happened?" he asked, his voice harsh and metallic.

"It was the McKinnons, them who kept the café on Fine Alley. They were murdered by the Death Eaters, last night. They were tortured." He shuddered, and looked up at Snape helplessly, almost imploringly. "It's not right - there's no justice in the world. What did they ever do to hurt anyone?"

Snape shrugged. Billy did not notice him tense suddenly as he studied the equipment in front of him, reaching out to measure the temperature with his wand, writing the figure down on a nearby chart.

Billy carried on speaking, more to himself than to his boss, into an icy silence he didn't seem to notice. "Ailsa McKinnon was my sister-in-law's cousin - I met her and George at my brother's wedding. They were really nice people... They didn't deserve to die like that, they really didn't. I've seen them lots since I've been working here. I always visit - visited them Wednesday lunch times, but I couldn't go this week 'cos we were too busy. I'll never see them again, now. It's evil - it's wrong. There must be something that can be done, something we can do to stop it."

Snape measured the temperature a second time, wondering whether he could justify telling the boy to shut up, but the moment the tip of his wand touched the bulb the entire apparatus exploded - alembic, tubing and Cauldron Cleaner - showering him with burning liquid and shards of glass. "Do you have to talk so much?" he snarled at Billy, and Billy flinched as if he'd been slapped. Snape turned away and strode towards the sink to wash the hot fluid off his face. The flames underneath the broken alembic flared brightly where the explosive liquid had flooded into it, and Billy rushed over to extinguish it, shocked into miserable silence by his boss's words.

Snape pulled a splinter of glass roughly from his cheek. His face was still stinging from the hot liquid, and there was blood seeping from another cut across his forehead. "MacPherson, of all the bloody stupid moments to distract me - " he began angrily.

It was at that moment that the door opened and Madam Skower entered the laboratory.

Snape took a deep breath and let it out slowly, choking down the anger that was welling up in him. This is all I need, he thought bitterly. Skower will have my head if I scare off another lab technician.

"Good afternoon, Madam Skower," he said with all the dignity he could manage. "What can we do for you?"

Laburnum Skower was, by birth, a member of the infamous Jigger clan (her brother Arsenius had taught Snape potions at Hogwarts). Somewhere in the background there was a Mr Skower, who actually owned the company, but nobody had ever seen him. It was Madam Skower who ran the business, made the decisions, bullied the staff, terrified the creditors.

In person she was less than impressive: short and stout with broad shoulders and a gravity-defying hairstyle with what looked like a bunch of grapes fastened to it. When she spoke, it was with a mannish contralto voice, and a manner that suggested that what you said had better be worth hearing, She had short, stubby fingers armoured with rings, and rumour, probably correctly, alleged that she had a punch like a battering ram.

Madam Skower looked round the laboratory, her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the broken alembic and charred ceiling above it. Her glance dwelt a moment on his face, still reddened and bleeding from the exploding potion, and he held her gaze steadily, making no effort to explain his battered appearance or wipe the trickles of blood away. "Ah, Mr Snape," she said with heavy irony, "I trust everything is running smoothly."

Snape squashed down the temptation to inform her curtly that she wasn't wearing a lab robe, and went to inspect the damage from the exploded potion. Billy, still sweeping up pieces of broken glassware, ducked out of his way with his head down, not meeting his eye. Idiot boy, Snape thought.

"As you see," he said with iron control, "we are currently experiencing technical difficulties." Billy finished wiping down the workbench and then went out into the cloakroom. He didn't come back in.

Madam Skower walked over and examined the remainder of the wreckage. "Ah. I see the Cauldron Cleaner is causing you problems. You haven't forgotten, I trust, that we start manufacturing it at the start of February? I hope it will be ready by then."

"So do I. The deadline we were given was somewhat unrealistic," Snape said, glancing at the scorch marks on the ceiling.

"That's not what I was hoping to hear. It must be ready." She subjected him to a piercing stare for a moment. "I have no room here for staff who cannot fulfill their commitments. Remember that." She started walking towards the door, and opened it. She was halfway through it when she looked back and spoke again. "There's just one other thing, Mr Snape," she said. "If I find you bullying your assistant - or any of my other staff - again, I will be most displeased. Do you understand?"

Snape nodded brusquely, and she turned and left the laboratory.

Billy came back a few minutes later, looking calmer, but still subdued.

"My apologies, MacPherson," Snape said. His voice sounded only slightly strained. "I didn't intend to upset you. I was just a little startled by the explosion."

"'Sokay," Billy said awkwardly, wrong-footed by the unexpected apology. "Do you want me to set the test up again?"

Snape answered that no, he would do it, and restarted the fire. He went to the glass cupboard to find a fresh set of glassware. He got out a fresh alembic and used a charm to blow the dust off it, and then got out the spare set of distillation tubing. He inspected it, dissatisfied, noting with annoyance that one of the glass bulbs at its tip had broken off.

"What idiot put a set of broken tubing back in the cupboard?" he asked Billy angrily.

"I don't know. We haven't used that set for months, have we?"

"Just when we need the damned thing... This needs to be done today. MacPherson, you'll have to go to Gaffers and get two replacement sets." He looked down at the broken glass tubes in front of him. "No, forget that - I'll go. I want a word with them about their Unbreakable Charms." Billy grimaced. It didn't take a genius to guess what kind of word that would be. "You need to set up the tests for the Laundry Solution before I get back. It may have escaped your notice, but we have a lot to do."

* * *

The street was quiet under the pale winter sunshine, and Snape found himself blinking in the unaccustomed light as he descended the steps of the Skowers building. The street was almost deserted: a pair of businesswizards having a hushed conversation opposite, in the doorway of the Kemble Cauldrons workshop, a couple of sales reps travelling from door to door, an overall-clad witch with a toolkit emerging from the watchmakers down the road. He ignored them all as he headed up the hill to Gaffers Glassware.

Gaffers was at the far end of Turm Inn Alley, past the crossroads with Fine Alley. He glanced down towards the McKinnons' Café as he passed the crossroads. The café was cordoned off, and a number of Hit Wizards were standing outside it. They were too far away to be seen clearly, and he wondered idly if one of them was his sister, Agrippina. He sneered silently at the thought. Really, if they were reduced to employing the likes of Aggie there was absolutely no hope for them.

As always, when he thought of Agrippina, his hand went to the four thick horizontal scars on the left side of his neck - the relics of a blazing row ten years ago. Four livid red lines, puffy and inflamed that stung like fire in frosty weather. She'd been experimenting with poisoned nail varnishes; had she made the poison correctly the result would probably have killed him.

One day he hoped, he would have the chance to meet her 'professionally'.

He shrugged away the thought and continued up the street to Gaffers Glassware, where he treated the head glassblower, Aeolus Gaffer, to a burst of withering scorn about his Unbreakable Charms. Gaffer listened attentively, agreed that his glassware should not shatter readily, and personally charmed the two sets of distillation tubing that Snape picked out, testing them with a small hammer before his awkward customer finally declared himself satisfied. Snape heard his sigh of relief as he walked out of the door, the package of glassware held carefully under one arm. He gave a crooked smirk as he started to make his way back to Skowers.

He had just passed the crossroads for a second time when someone called his name, and when he looked up he saw a young woman in a green robe hurrying down Fine Alley towards him. He recognised her with a mixture of shock and dislike. Of all the people to bump into, he thought disgustedly, it had to be her.

It was Lily Potter.

She was - oh, she was beautiful all right, for a Mudblood. That had never been in doubt, but it only heightened the unease she provoked in him, the cast-iron certainty he felt that she was dangerous. If he had been able to, he would have avoided her like poison. Poison! The simile was laughably inappropriate in his case.

She smiled kindly at him, a sweet, unstrained smile, seemingly unaware of his discomfort. "Severus, how are you? I haven't seen you for ages." She was wearing a dark green robe, only slightly darker than her eyes, and her red hair fell loosely over her shoulders in smooth arcs. And she had a baby in her arms.

He stared at the child. Potter's child. She saw the direction of his stare and said lightly "This is my son, Harry - he's nearly four months old now. He's going to be the image of his father." The love and pride in her voice were unmistakable.

The baby opened its eyes and looked unblinkingly up at Snape. He had big, calm green eyes like his mother's, that appeared to be filled with the same secret wisdom, the same penetrating stare. The child held his gaze thoughtfully, and Snape blinked and looked away. "He has your eyes," he said. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Yes. Isn't he beautiful?" She smiled down at the child in his arms, and then looked back up at Snape, who was watching her, standing slightly beyond arm's length away from her. He had gone very pale.

"So what brings you to Aberdeen, then?" he asked, casting around for a safer subject.

She sighed. "Last night's tragedy. They were both good friends of mine." She glanced back up at the café, with its retinue of Hit Wizards and bystanders. "I was due to come up in a couple of days anyway, to help Ailsa out in the café. She was expecting her first child, you know. I came up anyway, just to see if there was anything I could do."

"I'm sorry," Snape said inadequately. "It's a bad business." You get used to airing these sentiments. You get plenty of practice, and in the end it doesn't even take any effort - it's just another lie to an experienced liar. It should never have taken such will-power to say them to Lily Potter.

"Yes. All these deaths - and we're still so helpless to prevent them. And to think that they were tortured..." Lily shook her head, looking down at her son for a moment, as if for reassurance. There were tears in her eyes.

"Not both of them, surely?"

Snape realised his mistake the moment he had spoken.

She stared at him in silence. He saw her eyes widen as they searched his face. "How did you know that?" she whispered. "They never made that public."

"Didn't they? The gossips have been full of it at Skowers. I don't know where they got it from." His voice sounded false, unconvincing, an instrument off-key. Memory charm. Quick. He should have been reaching for his wand but his treacherous hands refused to move, tightening their grip on the package of glass tubes like a lifeline, the link to the legitimate side of his world.

And as she gazed him full in the face, she saw for the first time what was clearly written there. "Severus, not you... Severus, please tell me you had nothing to do with that." He said nothing, recoiling involuntarily from her words. She was crying freely, but her voice, when she spoke was steady, controlled. "Why, Severus? You of all people. How can you do such things? How can you follow that - creature? Can't you see what he's doing to us all? Give it up, while there's still time. If you ever cared about me - "

"I - " Perhaps he had planned some dennial, some glib protestation of innocence. Whatever the words they stuck in his throat. Her eyes - her stare - seemed to fill his vision, blocking out the cobbled streets, the workshops, the winter sky. All presence of mind or intelligence deserted him, and he could only look dumbly back at her while some tiny inner voice screamed its head off. The child was watching him again, unblinkingly, his gaze accusatory in its very innocence - you made my mummy cry - then reached up a pudgy hand to touch his mother's tears.

She turned away, holding the baby close to her like a shield. "Forget it. I'm going home. You probably won't see me again." Then she disapparated. He made no attempt to stop her.

If you ever cared about me...

The parcel of glassware slipped out of his hands, falling heavily onto the cobbles, and he stooped to retrieve it with hands that were suddenly lame and clumsy. And then he turned and blundered half-blindly down Turm Inn Alley back to Skower's.

Gertrude Mockridge looked up from painting her nails and stared at him open-mouthed as he strode past her to the stairs down to the lab. He didn't go into the lab, where Billy was singing at the top of his voice, but pushed into the cloakroom opposite amid the barrels and boxes, and collapsed onto a broken wooden crate as the world shifted about him like quicksand.

If you ever cared about me...

There are some things you bury so deep inside yourself that you almost come to believe they don't exist.

John and Electra had asked about her, when he had first joined the Death Eaters. They said they'd heard rumours about what they called 'an affair with a Mudblood'. He'd laughed disdainfully, and said it had just been one kiss, blown out of all proportion by the school gossips. He'd said it hadn't been anything special. Just a dare, and she hadn't even been a particularly good kisser.

They hadn't doubted his sincerity: they could see it in his face, hear it in his voice, because by then he had honestly believed it himself. But it hadn't been like that - No, not at all.

* * *

It's a Saturday morning in May, Severus's third year at Hogwarts, and he's fourteen years old. His friends are in the library, working on an essay he's finished the night before. He's wandering about the school grounds, looking for something to do, but unable to settle down to anything; he's bored and restless, dissatisfied with life, school, his friends, his world.

He's walking along by the lake watching the giant squid and trying to think of something to do when it starts to rain, huge droplets of water that fall with slapping sounds on the surface of the lake. The nearest cover is an archway by the greenhouses, two hundred yards away, and he runs for it, though he's wet through by the time he reaches it.

There's somebody else waiting under there - Lily Evans, one of the Gryffindors in his year. She greets him politely. She's always polite, this Lily, even to Slytherins like him. She's very pretty.

- Oh, er, hi. Lovely weather we're having. The drowned rat look suits you, he answers sarcastically.

She smiles and says nothing, but her eyes travel over his own drenched appearance with amusement. They wait in silence on opposite sides of the arch, two people with nothing in common and nothing to say to each other. He finds himself watching her. She's very beautiful, and there's a gentle serenity to her that both fascinates and scares him. She catches his eye, and he blinks and looks away.

The rain dies down slightly and she moves to the edge of the archway to go back to the castle, passing quite close to him. The ground is slippery with mud, and she stumbles. Instinctively he catches her clumsily and helps her up. She's standing very close to him now, and in a moment of madness he'll never be able to explain, he leans forward and kisses her.

Immediately he retreats, horrified at himself, stammering out an incoherent apology and trying not to meet her gaze. She catches his sleeve and looks up into his face. She doesn't look angry or affronted - her face is gentle and kind. Her green eyes are the most beautiful things he has ever seen.

- Don't apologise, she says, and, incredibly, she's smiling.

- Sorry, he says automatically, and then laughs at his own stupidity. She laughs, too. It's a lovely sound.

- No, really. I don't mind. You're okay. I never realised you...

She stops speaking and blushes. He realises he is blushing too.

- But you're a... I mean I'm a Slytherin... He is confused. Why would a Mudblood want to be kissed by a Slytherin; why would a Slytherin want to kiss one.

- We're both human - probably. I can live with it, if you can.

It's a challenge, and he smiles, in spite of his embarrassment. He understands challenges. And besides, he has fancied Lily Evans forever, or very nearly. It doesn't take much nerve to tell her he can live with it too. They shake hands on it, feeling shy and formal. They even try another kiss, and it works better. The rain begins again with more vigour and this time he's glad of it.

- Come on, she says. - Since we're wet anyway, let's say hello to the rain.

Severus follows her: the world has suddenly become a strange and wonderful place, and the touch of the warm summer rain is almost intoxicating in its richness. They wander slowly through the castle grounds, talking about everything and nothing, drenched to the skin, and not caring. Severus feels deliriously happy, or possibly just delirious. Who would have thought that holding hands could be such a heady experience? He's talking nonsense half the time, and doesn't care. It is the most wonderful hour of his life.

When midday comes, they go back to the castle, by different paths. He feels unsettled in ways he doesn't like to examine. He knows he is playing with fire, but he doesn't really believe it is going to burn him.

It does, of course.

The following day, and he and his friends are heading off to the Quidditch pitch to watch Gryffindor and Ravenclaw play the last match of the season. They've just come up from the dungeon, and they're crossing the entrance hall amid crowds of other students when a Hufflepuff sixth year comes up to them: Bertha Jorkins.

- You'll never guess what I saw yesterday, she tells him, right in front of his friends. Wilkes, Avery, Rosier and Lestrange all stare at her. Go away, stupid Hufflepuff, their expressions say. Lestrange's new girlfriend, Lucrezia de Vitry looks up at the older girl, and her expression is different. Greedy, predatory - tell me more.

The adolescent Severus scents danger far, far too late.

- I saw you behind Greenhouse Three, with that Muggle-born Gryffindor, Lily Evans. You were kissing. She makes it sound dirty, sordid, unnatural. He can see the other students turning to watch him.

He loses control, spectacularly. His wand is out, every hex he can think of in quick succession is poured out on the cowering figure of the girl before him. He's hardly even aware of the crowd of bystanders, of the Head Boy, Joaquin Boot, shouting at him to stop and then, when he pauses for breath, half-leading, half-carrying the crying Bertha away. Boot gets a couple of curses for his pains, too.

It is Lucrezia who takes charge, dragging him into the nearest empty classroom. His four henchmen tag along behind, taken aback. They've never seen him lose control like that before - but then nor has he. Lestrange closes the door behind them, and as it slams the sounds of the angry students outside are suddenly muted and blurred.

- So! I hope you're proud of yourself, Lucrezia says. Her words are like the crack of a whip across his face, and he flinches.

And then they face him, the five of them, and as he looks at them he suddenly sees them all for the first time.

Lucrezia de Vitry, standing poised and upright right in front of him. She's well-born: the de Vitrys are second only to the Malfoys in power and influence. She'd never been part of his gang until Lestrange asked her out, but now she's taken the lead - she has her wand out, threatening him. Her expression is hard and contemptuous.

Felix Lestrange, next to her, tall and slim, dark-haired. Severus has always thought Lestrange a weakling - too highly strung, nervy, useless in a crisis. Now he looks in his element - strong, assured, very angry. He's enjoying this - Severus can read a kind of vindictive satisfaction in his face. Severus has ridiculed him too many times for Lestrange to spring to his defence. He realises belatedly that Lestrange has changed and hardened under Lucrezia's influence.

Virgil Avery, the insignificant, the one you always overlook. Average height, average build, brown hair, unremarkable face. Except today he isn't. His face may be unmemorable, but his eyes blaze with a fury that draws the eye to him, even beside Lucrezia's imperious face. He has the restrained energy, the focus, of a cat about to pounce - he has become dangerous.

Paul Wilkes, who has known Severus since they were babies. Their fathers are business partners, the joint owners of the successful and only slightly shady Atlantis Imports Ltd. He's short and wiry with thin ginger hair, and a nasal voice which seems tailor-made for the snide remarks which are his stock-in-trade. His small eyes are narrowed even smaller, and there is malicious pleasure on his face at his friend's downfall. Severus suddenly realises that Wilkes is jealous of him. They should be equals, but it is always Severus who has dominated the group - until now.

And the last of them, Evan Rosier, with his bright gold hair and his slow voice. He's standing back, as if he's not quite sure whether he's involved or not. Big, silent Evan, whom the others call 'the dumb blond', though he's not stupid, just quieter and not so malicious. Severus only keeps him around because he is very handy in a fight. His expression is sad and sombre, and it occurs to Severus, much too late, that Evan actually used to like him.

I took these people for granted, he thinks, and only now does he realise that they are dangerous.

- So! Lucrezia says again. Do you think you're above us? Do you think the rules don't apply to you?

- Don't you judge me, you little cow! What's it to you what I do? he answers rashly.

He's afraid, he's angry. For Severus the two always come together. After the years of practice, converting fear into anger is as instinctive as breathing. Fight or flight; and no Snape has ever ducked a fight. When Lucrezia steps forward with her wand raised, he is almost relieved. He is so quick to bring his own wand up that he nearly loses his grip on it. Their first hexes are thrown almost simultaneously.

The fight does not go well. Another discovery, another lesson in taking people for granted: Lucrezia is a far better duellist than he. For all his carefully cultivated reputation as the darkest of the dark experts, he suddenly finds himself bested on his own territory. She's running rings round him, carefully and scientifically turning all his favoured gambits to her own advantage. The others haven't even bothered to draw their wands.

But the duel never reaches its inevitable conclusion, for two minutes later the door opens and Joaquin Boot enters, in time to see him throwing hexes with wild abandon for the second time in ten minutes. Even worse, he is followed by Professor McGonagall. The fight stops instantly.

- Snape! Headmaster's study, now! McGonagall snaps. He goes, and Boot escorts him, tight-lipped, not looking at him or speaking to him.

It occurs to Severus that he has probably made more enemies in the last ten minutes than he ever has before in his life.

Dumbledore has a lot to say, and he is there some time. He seems more sad than angry, but Severus barely hears the words, just lets them wash over him. He feels exhausted, too tired to care what happens to him, too tired even for anger. He just wants to crawl away into a corner and lick his wounds like a dog. To his surprise Dumbledore doesn't expel him, and barely even punishes him.

And when Dumbledore sends him away, he finds Lily Evans waiting by the gargoyle for him. She looks grave and unhappy too. She puts a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off.

- You really shouldn't have done that, Severus.

- So they tell me.

- Don't you care? You really hurt Bertha, you know.

- So? She hurt me. She had no reason to do that.

- I know. But nor did you. Her hurting you is no reason to hurt her back, whatever she does.

- Turn the other cheek, eh? he sneers. - That won't get me far in life.

He doesn't understand. Two days later, they break up. Shortly after the summer vacation ends, the gossips start to tell the world that Lily Evans and James Potter are an item. Severus swallows his pride and goes back to his friends, and eventually they grudgingly start to accept him again. They never mention the incident again. Nor does he, but pushes the whole sordid affair, and the feelings that it roused in him, down into the small dark place deep inside him where he keeps his secrets.

And there it stays, untouched and unexamined, until now.

* * *

He wiped his face on his sleeve, as if the action might dull the vividness of the memories. It couldn't: you can't close Pandora's box.

All that trouble, and what was it for? A single indiscretion, no more than that. It had cost him, permanently, the respect of his friends, had made the teachers distrust him, had made virtually every student in the school hate him, had made Electra and John suspicious of him. Was it worth it? How can it be? But his traitor mind kept showing him her face, her red hair darkened and flattened by the rain, her eyes bright and challenging as she had looked up at him. 'I can live with it, if you can'.

She had always shone so brightly. And, however briefly, she had loved him.

If you ever cared about me...

But why should he care? It had been such a brief moment, unimportant compared to so many things that had happened since. She had only been a Mudblood - an irrelevance. Why did it matter so much that he had lost her respect? Why did it disgust him so much, knowing that he had hurt her?

The memories repeated themselves again, their vividness undiminished. The touch of her hand. The brightness of her eyes. The warmth of the rain and its gentle touch on his skin. I had never felt so happy in all my life, he thought bitterly. I should have known there'd be a price.

And of all the people who could have met him in the street today, it had to be Lily Potter. Of all the people he knew, of all the people in the world who could have realised what he was, it had been her.

It was only then that he noticed the sword hanging over his head, realised the danger he now stood in. She knew what he was. A woman with known Dumbledore connections knew the identity of a Death Eater.

He had to track her down before she had the chance to tell anyone. He was going to have to kill her.

I must. I can't. It has to be done.

If it had been anyone but her... He rejected the thought fiercely. It was necessary, it was urgent. This is not the time to be woolgathering, Sev, he told himself. It was the Dark Lord's rules: where security is compromised, memory modifications are not enough, as they can be breached. Only outright silencing is acceptable. And if Lily was not silenced, his own people would have to silence him. Kill her or die in her place. It's that simple.

It has to be done.

The idea revolted him, but he couldn't afford to consider that now. It may already be too late, he told himself firmly. Best to get it over with. It won't hurt for long. The words rang in his head, unconvincing, as he forced himself onto his feet. He grabbed his cloak and slung it round him, just as the door opened, and Billy MacPherson came in, almost colliding with him in the doorway.

"Wha - ? Mr Snape sir are you all right?"t; Billy jumped backwards, garbling the words in his surprise.

No. No, by God, I'm not. I'm a dead man, and I'm about to start spreading it around. "I'm feeling ill. I'm going home," he answered angrily.

Billy stayed standing in the doorway. "Er, is there anything I can do? You look - "

"Get out my way, MacPherson," He found he had his wand in his hand, pointing at his assistant. Billy didn't move: he just stood there with wide and astonished eyes. Innocent's eyes. "If you value your life..." Keep away from me, if you know what's wise. Go home and lock the doors and bar the windows. Put out the fires and block the chimneys. If I am prepared to kill Lily Potter, boy, there is nothing - nothing - in the world that I wouldn't do.<

Billy started to say something, and then thought better of it. He moved out of his boss's way and let him pass through the door. As Snape strode up the stairs, he made no attempt to follow, just continued to watch him from the doorway until he disappeared from view.

PERPETRATOR'S NOTE:

Many thanks to Earthwalk, beta-reader extraordinary and voice of sanity, for proof-reading this for me. She also happens to be one of the best Snape writers out there, so read her fic if you haven't already. Thanks also to Doctor Cornelius for correcting the dates in the Prologue. As to the Benjaminite thing, Doc - you're quite correct and it was deliberate.

A few details: An Cruachan is one of the smaller mountains in the Highlands of Scotland, to the South West of Loch Morar. It's ten miles from the nearest road, and I don't know how far from the nearest village. It's a pretty wild and bleak place - only an utter hermit would live there by choice. The patience game is Nine, Nineteen, Twenty-nine. The rules are very simple and it needs no skill beyond basic arithmetic. It's almost unwinnable.

The whole Skowers sequence borrows heavily from my own workplace (a microbiology lab). Madam Skower is actually setting a very bad example, going into a laboratory without a lab coat, especially when things have just been exploding.

Glassblowers are sometimes called gaffers (according to MS Encarta; I'd never heard it before) and Aeolus in Greek mythology was the keeper of the winds.

Incidentally, this is the first (and probably the last) time that I have used Harry as a character in a Harry Potter fic.

And finally, a theory.

This has been buzzing around my head for a couple of days, so I've decided to inflict it on an unsuspecting world. I present, ladies and gentlemen, Morrighan's First Law of Snapefic.

This law states that all Snape writers can be fitted into one of three categories, which I've named after the three Unforgivable curses. The Imperius writers are the Snape Romance people, who have him falling totally in love with some sweet, innocent young thing, learning to be nice, and generally becoming a transformed man. The Cruciatus writers tend to be the real angst-mongers - Snape as tortured soul and misunderstood loner, complete with unhappy childhood and unrequited love. The Avada Kedavra writers are a rare and wonderful breed of twisted sadists (you know who you are) who seem to get intense pleasure from inflicting massive damage on him, usually winding up killing him in unusual and inventive ways.

Okay, so most of us are probably Cs with bits of I or AK for variety, but it's a nice theory.

 

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