Bloody hell. He's done it. He's finally done it, after years of threats.

He'd expected to see a new DADA teacher -- Dumbledore had assured him at the end of last term that no, the werewolf would not be back in autumn, thankyouverymuchforyourconcern, Severus -- but it had never occurred to him that this would happen, too. He'd known Agremony Throughwax (Muggle Studies) had been so unnerved by Black's intrusions into the castle that she'd tendered her resignation, but it had hardly registered: she was such a nonentity as to make Binns look like an outstanding conversationalist.

The barmy old coot's gone and hired a Muggle.

Because she was, quite obviously. Dressed as such in those disgusting Muggle work-trousers, no teaching robes (and therefore nowhere to conceal a wand), and there was utterly no sense or whiff of magic about her person.

My Slytherins alone are going to make a meal of her. I give her one week, and that's generous.

The boy beside her, now, that was a different matter. Snape surreptitiously palmed his wand and scanned him: a Limiting Charm, Minerva's work, obviously, but not quite strong enough to contain the occasional burst of uncontrolled power that pushed against the Charm's wards.

Another loose cannon. Wonderful.

The boy must be Muggle-born, Snape assumed, and she his mother, although they didn't look alike -- the boy as blond and fine-boned as a Malfoy, and the woman far darker and more solid. It wasn't unheard of for younger faculty children to dine at the High Table with their parents -- Snape clearly remembered Burkett's doing so, after their mother had died -- but it had been a very long time indeed. Snape wasn't pleased with the resumption of that tradition, and prayed he wouldn't be subjected to it for long.

Dumbledore was not at table. Hiding in his office, no doubt. (Which was probably a good thing: no opportunity to make seemingly innocent comments in Snape's general direction about the new faculty.)

There was nothing for it: Snape was hungry (though not as much as he had been a mere minute before) and he'd be damned if he let Headmaster's machinations spoil his first morning back. So he slipped his wand back up his sleeve and strode confidently to the dais --

-- just as Dumbledore walked in through the side door and seated himself.

Damnation.

Snape slipped into his chair and tapped at the table for service, grunting an acknowlegement of greetings from Minerva and Flitwick and doing his best to ignore Hooch's insane grin.

"Bacon and eggs this morning, I think," Dumbledore announced to the invisible waitstaff as he tucked his napkin about his beard. "Severus, this is Professor Hunter -- Muggle Studies -- and her nephew Mr. Neill, one of our new Firsts. Miranda, Professor Snape."

He shot Snape a mild, cautionary look -- Behave yourself, Severus -- and tucked in.

Ah, that's how he's done it: the overlooked and dangerous talent needs a keeper and just happens to have a Muggle auntie who can teach. Fudge must be foaming at the mouth.

Snape sized the woman -- Hunter -- up (he could hardly have avoided it, she was directly opposite him).

She was even less impressive closer up.

She stared back, uncomfortable and defiant.

"Miss Hunter," Snape finally said, grudgingly -- and promptly glanced at Mr. Neill and shut up, because he sensed the boy's magic pushing against the wards. Something about Snape made the boy nervous -- or made the woman nervous and the child sensed it.

"Professor Snape," she retorted, already turning back to Hooch (who was gleefully observing the entire exchange).

Sweet Merlin, the woman could freeze water with one look.

Perhaps he'd best revise his estimate to two weeks -- but no more. A Muggle teaching Wizarding adolescents didn't stand a snowball's chance in Hades.

Snape rather thought not, now. Not after what he'd just seen. Not many wizards cared to confront an enraged and uncontrolled child in full tantrum, but she'd done it: wandless, without magic, and with only her voice and the force of her personality. She'd saved Filius from a nasty drop to the floor and prevented further damage to the Charms classroom, and then thrown herself bodily on the boy to keep him from harming himself (which was yet another astounding accomplishment). In the worst cases of lost control -- as this child apparently was -- something like a mental Splinching of the child and grave physical damage to its minders wasn't unheard-of when all that rage and frustration turned inward. Snape wondered if she knew that was a possibility.

Miss Hunter was, it appeared, a force to be reckoned with, nearly on McGonagall's par. This was no collateral family member sent to keep an eye on a wild child: this woman knew the boy's mind and behavior inside and out, and Snape badly wanted to know the whys and hows.

Damn the woman, she's a teetotaller, he thought as he shoved aside the unfamiliar tins and packages in the cabinets.

She was still in the other room soothing the child (that was most un-McGonagall-like), and Snape ran through his options and strategies for getting the truth out of her. He wasn't at all certain why it was so important to him, so he chalked it up to idle curiosity.

Though it's perfectly justified should I have to deal with that in class, he reasoned, and filed it away as a bargaining point.

He heard the click of the doorlatch and turned to find her staring at him in shock.

"Alcohol?" he said. Because I can damn well use it even if you can't.

Her surprise turned to outrage at the intrusion, and he added, "The potable variety, preferably," and schooled his features into a bored but inoffensive disinterest.

"Leftmost cabinet, top shelf," she finally managed, and when she turned to enter the bathroom he noted a blossoming bruise on her jaw, where the child had caught her.

He felt unaccountably guilty at that: had he ignored her command and restrained the boy himself she wouldn't have been hurt. He had a vague recollection, too, of the times he'd unknowingly inflicted bruises on Nanny Moira. It was inevitable with a child whose magic was so terribly unfocussed.

Thank the gods I learned control rather earlier than Ian Neill.

That thought whetted his curiosity even more -- How on Earth did the child get this far in this condition, and how has the woman dealt with it? -- and he shoved the guilt as deeply into the back of his mind as possible: it wouldn't help him in dealing with Hunter. Cool, dispassionate and clinical was the best approach.

He found what must be the alcohol -- a clear liquid in an unmarked glass bottle -- and poured a measure into a tumbler and sniffed at it cautiously before taking a sip.

Merlin's balls, it must be 80 Proof. Closer to 90, in all probability. His estimation of her toughness went up a notch or two.

On the other hand, it's an excellent thing for loosening the tongue, he thought as a pleasant sensation spread upward through his vitals from the one small sip.

His lips twitched in what passed for the Snape smile, and he decided not to add soda or ice. He didn't know how one would take this... whatever it was, in any case.

More ways to discover the truth than Veritaserum.

The bathroom door opened, and Snape turned to face the Enigma.

That late-night incident in the corridor, for instance. He'd known Potter was there: he could sense the damned boy, could practically see the shimmer of an invisibility cloak on the stair (Damned idiot had probably got himself stuck in the trick step) -- but Snape hadn't dared say anything in front of Moody. Moody distrusted him (entirely understandable, in one sense) and the feeling was mutual: there was something about the man that niggled at Snape, something about his behavior that, while totally in character given Moody's reputation, didn't parse. It was nothing more than an instinct -- but Snape had learned to trust his instincts, through hard and bitter experience.

He couldn't do anything, then, to extricate Potter from the situation that night. It would likely blow his surveillance of the boy: Moody would have confirmation of his obvious suspicions and of Snape's unique ability where Potter was concerned, and Snape would likely find himself accused of being Voldemort's man at Hogwarts. So (with resignation and not a little fatalistic glee) he'd left Potter to extricate himself, determining that Moody was either who he said he was or not likely to try to abduct the boy if he wasn't.

There was no reason for abduction, after all: Voldemort was safely disembodied, floating somewhere in the aether. He knew this from the absolute dearth of information he'd gotten from his contacts in Knockturn Alley, as well as Dumbledore's connections. Malfoy hadn't contacted him either, and apart from a chance meeting Snape couldn't actively solicit information from him at this point. They had not discussed Voldemort since their last hurried conversation before the trials began, when Malfoy had told him the Death Eaters were disbanding.

The only problem with that rationale was the gods-damned Mark, which had begun itching abominably. Voldemort was somewhere, to be sure; but unless he could regain a corporeal body....

The only wild card still in play was Pettigrew, and Snape dismissed him as an unlikely threat. Pettigrew was not the type to act on his own: he was a cowardly opportunist, the kind who needed the direction of a superior as much for brains as for the excuse of having someone else to blame for his own misbehaviors and atrocities. Like Black, Pettigrew hadn't changed an iota since their schooldays.

Years spent as a rodent hadn't improved his conscience or intelligence in the least, either.

One more week, Snape thought grimly as he trudged up the steps of the faculty stand to attend the Third Task of the Tournament. One more week, then I'm shut of the idiot child for two months.

He had to admit Potter had acquitted himself well during the Tasks, but then it was the boy's own fault for getting involved in the first place. (And wouldn't he give his treasured copy of Moste Potente Potions to figure out how the boy had managed that.) He and Dumbledore had puzzled over that acomplishment for many nights, and Snape had almost given up despite Dumbledore's insistence that Potter was being truthful and there must be something -- someone -- rotten behind it.

Snape was late in reporting to the faculty stand -- he'd felt curiously unwell much of the day, and had had a lie-down before the event -- and the only seat available was, alas, beside Hunter. Not that she was distracting -- she minded her own business, he'd been grateful to discover, although he'd caught her snooping in the Library at books that had nothing at all to do with Muggle Studies. She was civil enough when she wasn't ignoring him, and apart from one or two meetings concerning Ian Neill they'd had no contact.

But she was a keen observer of all that went on about her: at times he felt like an insect in a bell jar, as though she were studying him as a prime example of Homo sapiens sapiens wizardii. (He supposed she was, and the scientist in him couldn't fault her for that.) She showed no false interest in him personally, and he was happy to return the favour now that he'd sussed out why she was daft enough to come here in the first place.

She looked more animated than usual this evening, talking excitedly with Sprout, and Snape ignored them, focussing instead on his growing sense of unease, the prickling of the Mark, and what was happening at the Maze.

Snape took a certain grim satisfaction when Delacour screamed twenty minutes in: he'd argued vociferously for inclusion as a monitor, but had been overruled. Damned foolish not to have the monitors inside. They didn't appear unduly concerned, which irked him -- even Hunter had the sense to worry.

"Why aren't they investigating?" she asked Sprout. "That didn't sound at all good." (Snape agreed -- Delacour had sounded terrified, not simply fightened.)

"They're warded, though they don't know it," Sprout replied. "Even if they fail at one of the challenges, they won't be too badly hurt -- so no sparks, no rescue."

Damned stupid rule. I told Dumbledore about the Mark....

Ten minutes later Snape had more than enough confirmation that this was totally bolloxed: a flare was sent up, and the monitors carried a stricken Krum from the Maze.

"If he was warded, he shouldn't be unconscious, should he?" Snape heard Hunter ask Sprout sharply.

"No, he shouldn't," Snape retorted, interrupting. "Someone's used a curse on him --"

The itching on his forearm suddenly swelled to outright pain, and he clutched at it.

Bloody hell -- it's never actually hurt, not since I took it --

He surreptitiously unbuttoned his coat-cuff and felt gingerly at the scar through his shirt: it was burning hot, and he knew if he pulled back the linen the Mark would be clear and prominent.

There was no doubt whatsoever, now. The Mark was far more active than it had ever been since his last calling, the night of Godric's Hollow. Voldemort was back, he was in some corporeal form -- on a night when Potter was particularly vulnerable.

As bad as that was, Snape had the sickening feeling that it was about to get worse.

Diggory and Potter had reached the center of the Maze, and Diggory was making a run for the Cup: Sprout, concern forgotten, was so beside herself with joy that she jostled Hunter, who was pushed even closer to Snape, jarring his shoulder. His fingers brushed the Mark, and he bit back a cry of pain before doing up his coat cuff.

Hunter was watching with concern when he looked up, and he glared back.

Just what I need. Bloody nosy wench.

A cry from the crowd pulled his attention back to the Maze, and he noted with disgust the final challenge -- a huge spider. A grown wizard could dispatch it with a single spell, of course, but Snape doubted Diggory and Potter had had the sense to suss out the appropriate one. This could take all bloody night.

Got to get down there -- get them to stop --

It wouldn't do any good, of course. Bagman and Fudge would overrule Dumbledore, and probably bar Snape from the pitch. Dumbledore would be none too pleased with him, either, having already warned Snape off involving himself in the proceedings while Fudge was present. He hadn't said it in so many words, of course, but merely cautioned Snape that he needed an observer to watch "above the crowd."

Out of the way and out of trouble, in other words, and away from Fudge and Moody's suspicions of him.

Once again, my past comes back to bite me on the arse, Snape thought sourly.

There was absolutely nothing he could do but wait until it was over, and then hustle Potter into the castle as soon as possible.

Potter and Diggory finally disposed of the spider -- through the brute force of Stupefy, true, but it was down, and Diggory was obviously in far better shape to reach the Cup. But he didn't.

"Merlin's balls, boy, take it!" Snape hissed.

Typical Hufflepuff -- foolish pandering to fair play --

Every second Diggory hesitated was another moment for Voldemort to gain control.

But instead of taking the prize, Diggory approached Potter. Snape noted with outrage that the two idiots were discussing who was going to take the cup.

Just do it, it doesn't bloody matter, not with --

The boys staggered over to the Cup and reached for it --

Get it over with you bloody fools, get the sodding thing and get off the fucking pitch, for the sake of all that's sacred --

Somewhere in Snape's brain he noted that he was actually muttering aloud and that Hunter was staring at him in wide-eyed disbelief, so he abruptly shut up --

-- and they touched the Cup, and in a split second they'd disappeared.

"Bloody fucking hell," he snarled, and risked his neck by running down the steep, twisting stairs at full speed toward the pitch.

There'd been the inevitable mess with Fudge and Bagman -- the two incomprehending idiots, they insisted that it was just a hitch, just an aberration. They couldn't seem to understand that the boys had been Portkeyed, for Merlin's sake -- Portkeyed, and there was no way to follow them or get them back. Bagman had insisted on mollifying the crowd with his excruciatingly pommy commentary, and Snape wanted to do nothing so much as to rip out the man's vocal cords. Instead he entered the Maze and set about investigating the central area, hoping against all odds to find a useful clue while Dumbledore continued to argue with the idiots.

He'd only just satisfied himself that there was no way to trace the boys from any residue of magic around the Cup plinth -- nor through that blasted link with Potter -- when the Mark blazed afresh with such viciousness that he stumbled and dropped his wand, and would have fallen had it not been for Hagrid.

"Merlin's bloody beard," Hagrid whispered as he clutched Snape's good arm. "What ails ya, Sev'rus? Yer grey as Sir -- ohhhhhhh. Oh, bloody --"

"Quite," Snape muttered through clenched teeth. "Just -- it'll pass in a moment, just don't let the others see."

"Are ya goin'?" Hagrid asked in what passed for his whisper (a mild roar -- another good reason never to take Hagrid in on a confidence).

"Keep your voice down, damn it." Snape managed to scoop up his wand more or less casually, and stepped closer to the big man. "Dumbledore's told me not to. He's worried that Jorkins may have compromised me --"

Moody stumped into the cleared area and eyed Snape in a decidedly suspicious manner (not that he ever did any other way).

Hagrid had, for once, the sense to shut up: Snape stalked out of the Maze -- or rather, out of the holes he blasted through the Maze, which didn't defuse his frustration nearly as much as he hoped -- and paced along the edge of the pitch.

Moody followed him, now obviously convinced that Snape had something to do with the disappearance --

Or expecting me to disappear? To Apparate to Voldemort? But how would he know? Can that blasted Magical Eye see the Mark? Or --

Now, that would be a great Cosmic joke: the Ministry's most renown Auror, a Death Eater. It would serve them right.

Ergo, it was far too good to be true, damn it.

Dumbledore caught Snape's eye during one of his circuits back and forth along the pitch, and despite the old man's own obvious fury he sent Snape the distinct message to calm down and not do anything rash. Unfortunately, not do anything rash included not hexing Moody, Fudge and Bagman to Perdition.

The latter pair were doing their best to invite further catastrophe, he was certain (Who needs bloody Voldemort with idiots like those in charge?) -- they wouldn't even allow the students to leave the stands for the safety of the castle -- which made the situation immensely worse when Potter eventually reappeared, Diggory's dead body in tow. The ensuing stampede totally preoccupied Snape for the next half-hour (no Slytherins injured, thank the gods), until Dumbledore noted that Potter had, again, disappeared.

Snape immediately thought of Moody -- of his suspicions of Moody -- and after the awful confirmation that he was missing as well, Snape, Dumbledore, and McGonagall had gone to find the pair -- and had managed it only at the last, appalling moment.

(He shoved aside a niggling admiration for Barty Crouch, Junior -- it was a masterful and audacious plan, worthy of the most cunning Slytherin. If he'd only been able to slip some Veritaserum into that blasted hip-flask....)

But his satisfaction was marred by the thought that it was bought with Diggory's life. He'd never lost a student before: Hogwarts hadn't since Moaning Myrtle, as far as he knew. His victory tasted bitter.

There were consequences for himself, too. He'd ignored Voldemort's call, and he was under no illusions that he wouldn't pay dearly for that. The Mark had never pained him before to that extent: the Dark Lord wasn't pleased with him, and it was only a question of whether it was his failure to appear that had caused Voldemort's ire, or that his betrayal had, as Dumbledore feared, been discovered.

He didn't want to think of the implications of that. He could always come up with a plausible lie to excuse his absence -- Dumbledore and "Moody" had been watching him, etcetera. It would be far from a pleasant return for quite some time, but it was still workable. But if he'd been branded as a traitor.... Well, he was done for, on both sides. Fair game for any Death Eater with the guts to take him out, and as for the Order....

What good is a spy who can no longer spy?

Fudge had proven obdurate, even when faced with the Mark and Dumbledore's persuasion and fury; Snape assumed he'd soon face consequences on that account, too. Dumbledore could fight Fudge on only so many fronts before he'd have to concede something, and the continued employment of a former Death Eater ranked pretty low, as far as Snape was concerned.

And then, in the midst of all the marching orders, nearly the worst thing of all: Black.

Dumbledore had known.

That hurt. That Dumbledore had known to begin with, and hadn't warned Snape beforehand; that Snape hadn't noticed, himself, that this was no ordinary cur. Snape was convinced, then, that Dumbledore had had a hand in Black's escape, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it all -- after he did what he had to, and assuming he survived the return to Voldemort -- because, it appeared, that was precisely what he was going to have to do.

"Severus, you know what I must ask you to do," Headmaster said calmly. "If you are ready... if you are prepared...."

His eyes, infinitely tired, looked deeply into Snape's own.

"I'm sorry, my boy," Dumbeldore's voice whispered in Snape's head. "I'll explain all later."

Damn the man. Dumbledore was more than proficient himself at Legilimency, and Snape had never been able to erect sufficient barriers to keep him out as he had with Voldemort -- had never particularly wanted to, though he would have to reassess the situation given Dumbledore's lack of trust.

"I am." He ignored the apology for the time being. The old man can bloody well say it again, out loud, before he explains everything.

"Little Hangleton first, then come back to me. We'll deal with the worst bit tomorrow."

Snape nodded an aceptance of the plan. 'The worst bit' would be the cover story for Malfoy and Voldemort: tonight would be an investigation in the cemetery, to see if Voldemort had been so careless as to leave evidence of the ritual.

"Then good luck," Dumbledore said softly, and Snape took his leave of the Private Ward.

He halted a few steps into the Public Ward, though. As rushed as he was, he couldn't ignore the implications of what he saw: the Hunter woman bent over Laura Madley, eyes fixed on the door -- on the open door -- that he had just exited.

Bloody hell. No telling what she's overheard.

He didn't fancy Obliviating a Muggle -- their memories and brains were, on the whole, less resiliant than Wizards' -- but he had no choice. He pulled his wand from his sleeve and approached the bed.

"Concussed. Pomfrey's seen her," Hunter said softly, of Madley. "I'll stay with her."

Snape halted and stared at Hunter a moment longer; glanced at the empty phial on the bed-table, which confirmed her statement, and then assessed her once again.

Her eyes met his steadily -- not calm, certainly, she'd seen too much this night for that -- but Snape had the overwhelming sense that she was being truthful, and would hold her tongue as well. He thought, in short, that he could trust her: she obviously trusted him despite their acrimonious relationship, thinking he'd drawn his wand to treat Madley's injuries.

Decision made, he nodded curtly, swept from the room, and made his way to Little Hangleton.

Notes for Men Have Died, and Worms Have Eaten Them...