Harry tried to work on the paperwork from the raid, but his mind refused to stay on course.  It had been a couple of years since he'd left his paperwork until the last possible minute, but this time, he'd probably end up signing the final papers as he drank his morning coffee on the day of the deadline.

Further hints that Harry's career (and life) really went off the rails after Ginny died.

Ron routinely pestered Hermione to finish them off for him, but for all that, he was the better Auror.  Ron liked his job.  Harry … Harry had debts to pay off, the moral and emotional kind, which were so much more burdensome than the merely financial.

Blah blah, Harry angst, blah blah, trying to explain why his life is so empty that he comes to obsess over a teenager...

"Harry?"

Harry looked up from his desk, grinning at the head which had appeared in his fireplace.

"Sirius. Mate, you have no idea how glad I am to see your face right now."  His melancholy falling away, he filled Sirius in on the events of the last twenty-four hours.

Alas, poor Sirius.  Have I said that already?  It bears repeating.  He's my infodump guy, dammit!  How am I supposed to replace that?!

"Just promise me that you won't defend Borgin.  Or Burke, if we can bring him in."

Sirius gave him a grim smile that reminded Harry of the Shrieking Shack, and the Ministry Standoff.  "Not a chance.  They've had their chances."

I have this idea that Sirius will defend anyone to keep them out of Azkaban -- but never twice for the same crime.  Oni Jade assures me that this would not be allowed in England, but then, the rules of law, politics and morality in wizarding England are somewhat ... complex.

"Thanks."

"So, aside from the lovely Janus Borgin, how's your day been?"

"Odd.  I spent the morning with Snape's daughter."

"Lilith? How is she?"

Harry raised his eyebrows.  "You know Snape's daughter?"

I tried this line with ever combination of italics possible.

"Harry, I'm the one who persuaded the Ministry to allow her to be born."

And you really have to ask, did Snape thank him?  No, he did not.

Actually, this would be even more significant if Sirius had survived OotP, given that Lilith would be his second cousin.  (As well as a first cousin to Tonks and Draco.)

Snape doesn't like to talk about that.

"What? When? No, wait, I can guess when. I guess I was, uh, pretty out of it that year."

The year after Voldemort's fall had been largely spent in a depressive stupor, punctuated by adrenaline-fuelled broomstick rides.  Had it been three or four Firebolts that he'd smashed before his friends put their feet down and staged a full-scale intervention?

Liz, were you thinking of Aral at the end of Shards of Honour?  Do you read anything but Bujold?

"How much do you know?"

"The outlines.  The public stuff, and a few rumours, most of them pretty tawdry.  Snape and Mrs Lestrange.  The Azkaban Baby."  Harry shrugged.  "That's about it.  I recognised her when I saw her, but then, she's the spitting image of her dad.  I didn't even know her name until yesterday night."

"Well, I can't say that I know the kid well, but I can tell you about her background.  Want to come over for dinner?"

"Love to.  Tonight?"

"Sure.  Bring Ron and Hermione and some red wine.  If I'm feeling especially nostalgic, I'll prepare rat."

"Don't go to any trouble."

"Trouble?  Me?  Don't be absurd."  Sirius glanced at something behind him.  "Look, I have to go.  I'll see you this evening."

I like that exchange.

***

That night, the three of them settled in Sirius' lounge room after dinner.

"David Lestrange," Sirius began, "was recaptured only ten days after the fall of Azkaban.  He committed suicide rather than return to captivity."  He frowned at something beyond Harry's perception.  "I … don't all together blame him."

Hermione leaned forward.  "I did some research when Harry told me what this was about – stop laughing, Ron, someone has to take these things seriously!  Anyway, I can't be sure, but I'm fairly certain that it was Snape who arranged the recapture."

Hermione practically writes her own dialogue.  I give her an idea of what's been happening, and she just bustles around, talking a lot and getting things done.  Lovely character to work with.

"That sounds about right," said Sirius.  "Now, Eugenia Borgin Lestrange was a madwoman, but she was as calculating as all hell."

Eugenia: named because it sounds similar to "eugenics".  I've grown to like the name "Bellatrix", but still feel a small sting of regret for my lost Eugenia.

Ron shivered, stroking Hermione's arm for comfort.  "I remember."

"She believed – passionately – in the inherent rightness of Voldemort's campaigns, and the inevitability of his success.  And since, in the sixteen years she'd spent in Azkaban, her brother had fathered no children, she decided to do her bit for the pure-blooded cause and maintain the family line."

"With Snape," said Ron.

Well hey, it was probably a choice between Snape, Lucius and Voldemort.  And, um, Harry, although Snape's remembrance of that particular bit of paranoia seems to have slipped out of the ending.

Anyway, Eugenia never seduced Harry.

Although she did hint that, given the opportunity, she would.

It made Harry rather uncomfortable, actually, in his brief and relatively painless (compared with, say, Ron or Neville's experiences) time as her prisoner.  And not necessarily in a good way.

"With Snape, although no one knew that at first.  The child was conceived three months before the Fall of Voldemort."

I'm sure that even that is more than Sirius ever wanted to know, or contemplate.

"How could he do that?" asked Hermione, "conceive a child, knowing what kind of mother it would have, and what kind of world it might be born into?  Leaving aside the probability that Snape knew about the Final Campaign at that stage."

Hermione: voice of common sense.

Snape: man of ruthless expedience.

"Snape's a cold blooded bastard, Hermione, and every bit as calculating as Eugenia."  Sirius drained his wine.  "I doubt he really cared about the fate of the child."  He refilled his wineglass, and poured Harry a refill, although Ron and Hermione abstained.

Sirius: man of deep, deep cynicism.

Note that Hermione (and Ron) aren't drinking, although Oni Jade tells me that pregnant women don't usually abstain.  (Which strikes me as being Just Plain Wrong.  On the other hand, my mother smoked half a pack a day while she was pregnant with me, and I was born in perfect health...)

"In July, a month after the Defeat, Draco Malfoy turned himself into the Ministry, claimed to be under Imperius and arranged for a large group of his fellow fugitives to be recaptured.  Among them was Eugenia, now four months pregnant.

"This is where I came in."

"I did wonder how you were involved," said Harry.

"Oh, Snape asked for my help."

Ron choked on his coffee.  "Snape?  Asked?  You?"

"In the sense of backing me against a wall with his wand at my throat, yeah.  Told me that I owed him a favour, and I was bloody well going to pay it back.  I persuaded the Ministry to postpone the Kiss until the child had been born."  Sirius frowned.  "I couldn't talk them out of keeping Eugenia under the Dementors, though, so Lilith achieved minor celebrity as the Azkaban baby."

I find that imagined scene between Snape and Sirius to be really ... sexy.

Hermione scowled.  "They were idiots to trust the Dementors at all, after the Fall of Azkaban.  They should never have built the place at all, but to continue using it, after its ineffectiveness had been proved—"  She paused and smiled slightly.  "Sorry.  I've been having this argument far too often, lately."

In which Liz mentally covers herself against all those people who'll ask, "Why did they take the Dementors back..."

"You're preaching to the choir, Hermione, remember?" said Sirius, "I'm your chief tenor."

"I know, I know…"

"Why did Snape suddenly care about the fate of the baby?" asked Ron.

"I have no idea.  I don't exactly have an insight into the man's mind, Ron.  Nor do I care to."

"Maybe he had grown to care about it," said Hermione softly.

I keep trying to ask Severus about this, but he never gives me a straight answer.  Last minute twinge of conscience?  Some desire to see his family line continue?  ...Blackmail?

"I don't know," said Sirius.  "I can tell you that he never visited Eugenia, either at Azkaban or St Mungo's, and up until a couple of weeks before the birth, he was planning to give the baby up for adoption."

"Why—" began Hermione, but Sirius waved his hand.

"I can actually answer this one.  I was there for the whole thing."  He smiled at the memory.  "He was in my office, conferring with me about MacNair's trial, and Arabella Figg came storming in, calling him every name under the sun.  Told him he was a selfish bastard who minced around looking like a martyr while avoiding as much responsibility as he possibly could, and didn't he think that there were enough orphaned and unwanted magical children around without adding more, and what if the adoptive parents found out where she came from and who her real parents were?

Like most of fandom, I was really, really annoyed when we found out that Arabella was a Squib.  Stupid JKR, foiling all our plans...

"Arabella was the only teacher he ever listened to at school – frankly, we were all a bit scared of her – and he listened to her now.  So he was present for the birth, and he took the child."

"Were you at the birth?" asked Hermione.

"I was."  Sirius frowned.  "They had the Dementors waiting outside, ready to give the Kiss … Eugenia held her baby for a moment, suckled it and named it.  Then she looked up at Snape and said, 'I've done all that I could.  I don't suppose for a minute that you'll do the best thing by her, but try not to mess it up too badly.'  Snape … Snape looked at her.  Didn't say anything.  And then the Dementors were brought in."

I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out Eugenia's last words to Snape.

"How did the baby react?" asked Hermione.

"She was quiet.  A bit unnatural, really.  Too subdued.  Harry, now," Sirius grinned, "I was with Harry pretty soon after he was born, and he would have shrieked his little lungs out of you'd brought him within a mile of a Dementor.  Not that James and Lily would have allowed it…"

"What happened after that?" asked Ron.

"Mrs Lestrange was Kissed, and I left."

"You stayed for that?" asked Harry before he could stop himself.

"I went to school with her," said Sirius simply.  "I knew her when she was just a snotty, snobby eleven year old.  To leave would be … contemptible.  Snape left, and took the baby and Arabella with him.  That's all I can tell you."  He grimaced.  "Snape didn't exactly name me godfather."

Pity.  Would have been a great source of wacky comedy.  No, really.

"Does she have godparents?" asked Ron.

"I don't know.  Arabella might be her godmother.  You'll have to ask her.  But I lost track of Lilith and Snape after that – there was the little matter of my godson to worry about."  Harry blushed and ducked his head.  "You should try asking Moony about Lilith; he taught her for three years."

"Thanks," said Harry.  "I will."

At this stage, I had no idea where Remus was, or why he wasn't, you know, involved in this plot.  The notion that he was in Europe, and acting as the force that would bring Snape back to England, didn't come to me for a very long time.

The conversation turned to other matters, but Harry's mind kept returning to Lilith: the oddly silent newborn, and the girl who stood in the rain in Knockturn Alley.

At the end of the night, Hermione caught Harry's arm before he could Disapparate.

"Listen," she said, "about this business with Borgin – technically, I'm not supposed to interfere with internal College affairs…"

"But you'll make an exception for us, won't you?"

She sighed.  "Yes.  I'll see what evidence I have tomorrow morning."

"Thanks, Hermione."

Um.  May have lost that subplot.  Behind the sofa or something.

"Any time.  But promise me one thing in return."

"What?"

"In the matter of Lilith Borgin ... I want you to exercise some discretion."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Hermione sighed, looking as though Sirius' Apparition parlour was the last place where she wanted to have this discussion.  "This is the first time in ages that you've taken an interest in something," she said, "a real interest, I mean, not just showing up for work and getting the job done, like you have since – since—"

Harry braced himself.

"—Since Ginny died.  And I don't want you to go overboard – I don't want you to get hurt, or get in trouble."

"Hermione," said Harry softly, "what do you mean?"

Ron, he couldn't help noticing, hadn't Apparated in to find out what was keeping Hermione, and Sirius was still lurking in his lounge room, which implied that they'd cooked this up together, probably while he was in the bathroom.  At least they're not staging another full Weasley intervention, he tried to tell himself, but he could feel his anger rising anyway.

"I've met her twice.  I took her home from Knockturn Alley, and I questioned her later."

"Yes, but this is Snape's daughter, and you and he have a history.  People talk."

"Stop beating around the bush.  Explain it in words of one syllable for the village idiot."

Beating around the bush suddenly strikes me as being a very Australian term, but hey, these things happen.

"You're not an idiot," she said automatically.  "And chaperone has three syllables."

Oh Hermione, pedantry will get you nowhere.

"I need a chaperone to talk to kids now?"

"If we were Muggles, it would be standard procedure for all official dealings between law enforcement and minors.  Particularly female minors."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't hurt her.  You know me, Hermione.  What do you think I am?"  Despite his efforts, he couldn't keep the hurt from his voice.  How can she possibly think—

Ah, but they all had their ghosts: Harry had Voldemort, Ron had Mrs Lestrange, Hermione had Lucius Malfoy.

"I know you.  But others don't.  And, Harry, think for a minute: who owns controlling shares in the Daily Prophet?"

"Draco Malfoy."

"Just so."

"I don't like this," Harry spat.

"I know.  Neither do I.  But I don't think that Lilith is the main issue you should be dealing with.  Worry about keeping Borgin in custody, Harry.  You yourself said that she's probably not important.  I can understand why you'd be curious – don't think I didn't see all the parallels – but don't get sidetracked."

"I liked her."

"I know, but you seem to be setting yourself up for some grand crusade.  And Harry, not everyone needs saving.  Not even the daughter of two Death Eaters, no matter how many unsavoury relatives she has.

"I didn't even—"

"Yes, but I know you."  She gave him an affectionate, exasperated look.  "You get curious, then you get worried, and then we waste valuable study time trying to prove that Snape is guilty of some absurd crime—"

"Oh come on, you make it sound like I'm eleven again," Harry snapped.  To his surprise, Hermione smiled.

"You know, that's the first time in ages that I've seen a real emotional response from you?"

"You manipulated—"

"You let me."  She hugged him, to show that there were no hard feelings.  "You'll do fine, Harry.  I trust you.  I just worry about you …"

"Don't.  I'll be fine.  I am fine.  And don't worry about Lilith, either.  I just needed some background, in case she has to give evidence."

"I know.  I guess – I overreact sometimes, you know that.  I'd be interested in meeting her."

"Want to play chaperone?" he asked.  It came out with more bitterness than he'd intended, and she recoiled, looking hurt.  Harry Disapparated before she could answer.

His flat smelt of dust and isolation, but he fancied that there was a faint trace of Ginny's perfume in the air.  An illusion, of course; she'd been dead for nearly two years now.  Her photograph gave him a worried look as he swept past it, but he ignored her.  It.

He had schooled himself to avoid thinking about her, to sleep rarely and deeply, and to spend his days in a flurry of activity that kept his mind busy.

Exhausted, he was asleep within minutes of lying down.

*does the dance of Harry angst*

Oh yes, we're big with the angst here.

***

I overreact sometimes, you know that.

Yes, Hermione thought, but she should have been a bit more subtle.  She was supposed to be an Unspeakable, right?  Supposed to be clever, and cunning.

What, like a Slytherin?

She should have remembered how much Harry hated to be manipulated, even when it was for his own good.  Should have remembered that he was an adult, no longer the scruffy boy who needed someone to look after him, even if that someone was a bossy girl his own age.

Oh well.  She'd make it up to him, next time they spoke.

She lay awake for a long time, Ron's comforting arm thrown over her body.  Automatically, she traced the scar that ran down his forearm (a Laceration Curse two years ago; three days in St Mungo's).  Rolling over, she found the starburst scar on his neck (Vena Hex last year; a month in St Mungo's) and the puckered skin over his heart (Torreatus Curse in January; five weeks in hospital and another fortnight of bed rest at home).

"Keeping a tally?" Ron asked sleepily.

"No.  Yes."  Hermione sighed and burrowed closer to her husband.  "I just worry."

"I'm fine."

"You're reckless. You're lucky."

"I know."  He twirled a lock of hair around his fingers.  "We won't go back to active duty until the Borgin case is over, Hermione.  And I'll be careful from now on.  We'll be fine."

"I know."  Hermione remembered something else.  "About Harry…"

"Harry will be fine, too."

"I just—" Hermione wrapped her arms tightly around her torso.  "I think we should tell him before the others."

"Huh?  How does that relate to—?"

"I think we should tell him before we tell your family.  Maybe on Friday…"

"What I don't understand is why we have to tell the whole family at once anyway."

"Ron…" Hermione shook her head in the darkness.  She loved the Weasleys with the filial greed of an only child, but she suspected that Ron would sometimes be glad to be rid of them.

I'm really proud of the "filial greed" line.

No, that was unfair.  He'd mourned for Ginny, just like everyone else, but he didn't realise how lucky he was to have a large family.  Hermione had only her mother left, and Ron, and the Weasleys, and Harry.  And she was damned if she was going to lose any more of them.

She opened her mouth to tell him that, but a soft snore told her that he wouldn't be interested.

***

Hermione and Ron's house was a study in academic cosiness, Harry decided.  There were none of the chintzy knick-knacks that Aunt Petunia had regarded as essential to the creation of a proper domestic atmosphere, but nearly every surface was covered in books or photographs, or plants, or keepsakes, not to mention Hermione's Kneazles, the offspring of Crookshanks.  In many ways, it would have been a Muggle house, except that the photos moved, and the books covered topics as diverse as The Dark Arts and the Middle East and The Care and Feeding of Winged Horses.  Despite the fact that both Hermione and Ron were liable to spend days away from the house, it felt like a home.

Someone yelled at me for associating the Dark Arts with the Middle East, but the connection really came because I was thinking about Djinns and the origin of the Lilith mythology.  Anyway, it's France that really suffers an image problem here.  Which is funny, because I've nothing against the French or France ... but there had to be a nation where authorities were a bit lax, and it had to be close to England...

Hermione greeted him in the Apparition Chamber, kissing his cheek and whispering an apology for her words the other night.  Harry hugged her; he'd almost forgotten about the incident.  She led him into the lounge room with a nervous grin.

I really hate this scene.  I really, really hate this scene.  I can't bear to read it.

"Sit down," she said.

"Have a drink," added Ron.  They exchanged a look of deep amusement.

"What are you planning?" asked Harry.

"Poor Harry," said Ron, opening a Butterbeer and sniggering.  "Another couple of years and he'll be as bad as old Mad Eye.  Jumping at shadows and turning Malfoys into ferrets … no one but his Foe Glasses and godchildren to keep him company."

"Ron, you'd be the last person to complain if I turned Malfoy into a ferret.  And I am not paranoid, but you both have the most disturbing look in your eyes, and – wait."  Harry's mind caught up with his ears.  "Godchildren?"

Hermione smiled.  "In March, yes.  Well, one, at least."

"For starters," said Ron.  He, too, was grinning like an idiot, and he looked as though he was contemplating another generation of Weasleys.  Christmas would be an expensive time of year for Molly and Arthur, if Ron and Hermione decided to compete with Percy and Penelope…  Harry was arrested by the mental image of small children with red hair and brown eyes, and a light scattering of freckles over the nose—

Dammit, they didn't have to do this to me.  The unworthy thought was immediately suppressed – they're doing it for each other, they want me to be happy – and he shaped his lips into a smile.

"Congratulations," he said.  "Gonna name it after me?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows.  "Harry, one in five magical children are named after you."

"We're taking a new approach all together," Ron added.  "Neville Weasley.  Has a nice ring, doesn't it?"

"You're not serious."

"'Course not."  Ron laughed.  "But it was worth it for the look on your face."

"We haven't picked a name, yet," said Hermione.

"Well, if you won't name it after me," Harry sighed and placed his hand over his heart.  Hermione looked as though she was steeling herself to consider James Weasley.  "Promise you'll give a bit of thought to 'Ludmilla'."

"No way," said Ron

"Constantine?"

"Not a chance."

"Eustace?  Thomasina?  Draco?"

"No, no and definitely not."

"Spoil sport."

It was ridiculous, he thought at home later.  Ridiculous to begrudge his best friends a family of their own …

But he couldn't bring himself to look at the magical clock on the wall over the fireplace, with the hand that pointed at home, and the other that hung, slack, pointing at nothing at all.

Did I mention that I hate this scene?  Mostly because the dialogue is stilted, and it took me ages to write.

***

Ron and Hermione announced their pregnancy to the rest of the family at the Burrow, over a barbecue the next day.  Harry lurked around the refreshment table, watching the Weasleys cluster around the happy couple, feeling more than a little out of place.

They told me first because they didn't want me spoiling the party today.

No.  They told me first because I'm their friend.  Getting a bit paranoid, aren't we, boy?

But he hadn't felt truly comfortable with the Weasleys since Ginny's death.  No one had had blamed him for not saving her, but that had only made it worse.  These days, he avoided as many Weasley gatherings as he could.

"You're family," Molly had said when he tried to apologise.  But he didn't quite know what that meant; every time he thought he'd grasped the concept, some new facet emerged.

"Hey."  Steve Weasley threw himself into the rickety chair beside Harry's.  His gangly adolescent body somehow moulded itself to the chair; he swung his legs over one side and leaned against the other wooden arm.  It looked frightfully uncomfortable to Harry, but Steve was constitutionally incapable of sitting in a chair like a normal person.  Not for the first time, Harry wondered how Percy and Penelope could have produced such a madcap child.

I quite liked Steve at first, but he lost most of my affection on a subsequent appearance in act three.  Little brat.

"Big news on the baby front," Steve said.

"Indeed.  Going to baby-sit for your little cousin?"

"Naw."  Steve wrinkled his freckled nose.  "My sisters can do that."  Over in the children's area, Mary-Anne and Charlotte were happily bossing their younger cousins around.  "I'm too old to hang around babies."  He made it sound as though he were only at the barbecue, indeed, only in the country, as a favour.

Harry suppressed a smile and said, "How old are you, now?  Fourteen?"

"Fifteen."

"Oh, sorry."  A thought struck him.  "Hey, do you know Lilith Borgin?  You'd be at school together."

"Borgin?  The Thestral?  Yeah, I know her.  Well, we see each other sometimes.  She's a bit of a nutter, though.  Why?"

"I met her recently.  She seemed like a nice kid.  Why's she called the Thestral?"

"'Cos she might as well be invisible, and she's unlucky.  The Slytherins call her that.  They reckon she tells her dad what they get up to."

At the time I wrote this, the Thestrals had only been mentioned in Fantastic Beasts, and I presumed they were exactly like any other winged horse, except able to turn themselves invisible.  And perhaps they were a bit scary and intimidating.  Of course, JKR had to go and be creative, didn't she?

Still, I think the nickname holds.

"And does she?"

"Buggered if I know.  I only see her in a couple of classes.  And prefects' meetings.  She doesn't talk a lot."

"Shy?"

"Insane.  Margie Leary reckons that her mum put a whole lot of charms on her, so Lilith'd be evil as well."

Foreshadowing via rumour.

Harry thought of Lilith's cool, black eyes, so much like her mother's.  But all he said was, "You shouldn't be so quick to judge people by their parents.  Or by rumour."

"Yeah, whatever.  Anyway, she got really mad when Margie said it to her face.  Drew her wand, looked absolutely murderous.  But Professor Travers caught her.  I heard that she was almost suspended.  But Margie reckons that Snape was more interested in expelling her."  Steve looked like he wanted to say more, but he was distracted by the approach of his father.

"Steve!  I hope you're not bothering Harry…"

"He's no bother, Percy," said Harry, "no bother at all."

Percy opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by a cry from one of the children.  "Steve, go and help your sisters."

"But, Dad—"

"Stephen.  Now."

Steve slouched off with a scowl reminiscent of his youngest uncle.  Percy gave Harry a what-can-you-do? look and wandered off to mediate a brawl between Fred and Angelina's Daniel and Charlie's twins, who were using teeth and nails to compensate for a five-year age disadvantage.  Bill and Fleur were having a quiet but intense debate near the apple trees; they were about due for their third break-up.  Arthur was happily interrogating Muggle-born Penny about the mobile phone, and Diane, the newest daughter-in-law, was looking completely lost amidst the chaos.  In the centre of it all, Ron and Hermione were looking radiant and oblivious.

Quick infodump re: Weasley family fortunes there.  I actually made a chart mapping marriages and names/ages of Weasley children.  Because I am anal that way.

One big, happy Weasley family.  Ha.

I've spent a great deal of time agonising over whether this fic is really meant for SugarQuill.  It has all the right relationships, but it seems somehow subversive.  Even Ron and Hermione aren't quite normal: they're almost thirty-five, have been married for over a decade, yet are only now expecting their first child.  It could be a slip of logic on my part (she said, not meeting her audience's eyes), but it could also be a sign of some other issue.  Probably related to the unspecified torture Hermione received at Lucius' hands.  Which I hate to think about or acknowledge in any way, because it's such a hideous thing, and I really hate seeing rape in fiction, because it always seems cheapened.  But Hermione insisted, so I had to mention it.  A bit.

Harry leaned, calculated all the possible ways that Dark wizards could attack the barbecue, and wondered when he could make his excuses and leave.

***

Something about the French Defence Against Black Magic teacher made Snape's hackles rise.  On the first day of the International Conference of Magical Educators, she had greeted him with a very small smile, and when Madam Maxime introduced them, murmured, "We've never met, of course, but we have a number of mutual friends, yes?"  Her small smile had widened, and she'd gone on to flatter him about a paper he'd published last year, on the development of shields for the Arcane Curses.  She complimented him on his research; she spoke intelligently about Potions, and all the while, her eyes sparkled at some private joke.

Snape didn't trust her at all.

Snape doesn't trust any woman who shows an interest in him.  He's destroyed at least one promising relationship that way.  (Although there were other forces at work, such as the lady's overriding professional ambition and lack of interest in Lilith.  But still.  Bad Severus!  No nookie!)

"It is a pity," she said, at the beginning of the conference's second week, "that you never had the chance to forge a career as a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts.  I have the greatest respect for Albus Dumbledore, but I cannot help but feel that your talents were wasted teaching Potions."

"Dumbledore … felt that my talents lay elsewhere.  In time, I came to agree with him."

Truth be told, he had never craved the position as much as rumour suggested, but a well-known chink in his armour, an unfulfilled ambition … these were convenient things for the world to believe in.

Or at least, they had been convenient twenty, thirty years ago.

Snape seems like a man whose spent long periods of his life in stagnation: following the Potters' death, and then again (here) after Harry's destruction of Voldemort.  And the sad part is, this is partially through his inability -- and refusal -- to change himself.

"Such a waste," purred Dupont.  "Your writing is quite extraordinary.  I don't suppose I could persuade you to write a textbook, at least…?"

Snape permitted himself a smile.  "Perhaps."

"And I hear you have a daughter, yes?  Will she take the position that has eluded you?"

"I hope not," said Snape sincerely.  "Her talents and ambitions are literary.  Teaching holds no glamour for her."

"Pity.  I have heard," and now Dupont watched his face carefully, "that she would bring a number of special talents to the job."

I've just realised that I really like this scene.  I wrote it in the refectory at university, late in 2002, armed with a mint latte and a really bad pie.  I'd realised that Snape needed a greater presence in the early parts of the story, and thus came up with the notion of his movement through France.  And then this scene presented itself.  I'm particularly proud of his non-seduction technique.

Snape kept his face blank and murmured something neutral.

He knocked at Dupont's door late that night, carrying a rose, two glasses and a bottle of wine.  She smiled, like a spider contemplating its prey.  Or its mate.

He toasted her, drank, and said, "I had not expected to find someone like you at this conference."

Dupont took a sip of her own drink and paused to savour the rare, expensive vintage.  "It took a great deal of work for the Dark Order to infiltrate Beauxbatons," she agreed, and froze.  Ropes shot from Snape's wand and bound her, spilling her Veritaserum-laced drink on the carpet.

"How did you do this?" she demanded, "I saw you pour, I saw you drink—"

"The potion was in the glass, not the bottle," Snape snapped.  "You pathetic amateur, I've had dozens of chances to poison you.  Come to that, why didn't you take Inveritas?  You could have avoided this whole business all together, if you weren't prancing about with your coy games and your vapid threats.  Is this what the Order has come to, that it sends silly chits like you to deal with real wizards?"

"The Order will arise again – we have plans – we have direction—"

"What plans?"

"I don't know … there are only rumours…"

"As I expected.  You know nothing."  Snape pulled Dupont's hair, forcing her to look up at him.  "Now.  What is it you think you know about my daughter?

***

Snape threw a handful of powder into the fire and made a call.  His friend Apparated to the hotel within minutes, taking in the scene with a sigh.

"Severus, what have you been doing?"

"Your job.  Glass of wine?"

Jean-Pierre regarded him cautiously.  "I'd rather not.  Le Ministre frowns on its Aurors accepting drinks from master poisoners who have apparently engineered the most extraordinary scenes."

I like Jean-Pierre, and I love his bantering relationship with Snape, but I'm always hesitant about writing him.  I know nothing at all about France (correction: I knew nothing at the time I wrote this, although I'll take a moment to recommend Almost French by Sarah Turnbull, which is an entertaining account of an Australian woman adapting to life in France).  So Jean-Pierre, and indeed, most of the French characters, were derived from cliches and what little facts I could recall.

Still, no French people have emailed me with flames yet.

"You weren't this paranoid the last time I saw you."

"Hazard of the job."

Snape settled himself in an armchair and said, "I'd hardly have called you here if I had something to hide."

"What if you wanted to quickly establish your story?"

"With the aid of a Wit-Weakening Potion?"  Snape took a sip of the wine.

"You could have prepared a poisoned glass in advance."

Snape smiled thinly.  "Alcohol counteracts it.  I see that Potions is as ill regarded at Beauxbatons as at Hogwarts.  For Heaven's sake, Jean-Pierre, sit down."

Jean-Pierre slowly sank into the other armchair, looking at Dupont curiously.  "Remind me never to join you on a double date."  At Snape's sneer, he quickly added, "joke.  What's her story."

"She's a member of the Dark Order.  Not a particularly competent one."

"I don't suppose you have any proof?  Convenient tattoos, 'If found, please return to Sauron, Lord of Darkness', that sort of thing?"

Yes, yes, I know.  Far too Muggleish and light-hearted, etc.  Not to mention "borrowed" from an American video store advertisement.  I don't think I ever remembered to establish that Jean-Pierre was Muggle-born.  Oh well, he is.  Deal.

"I'm sure she'd be delighted to share her background, given enough Veritaserum."

"No trace of which will appear in her body now, of course."

"Of course not."

"Because Le Ministre de Sorcierie, like the Ministry of Magic, does object to lone Potions Masters handing out restricted potions like that."

"And I wouldn't want to upset Le Ministre."  Snape drained his wine, ensured that the empty vial which had contained the Veritaserum antagonist was concealed in his robes, and stood up.  "I have business to attend to in the south.  I may need assistance.  I'd prefer to deal with you, not your colleagues."

"You have nothing to fear from an Auror, these days."

"Nevertheless."

"And you say I'm paranoid."

"Just so."

Mmm, dialogue demons.  Some exchanges just roll off the pen.  Barring the French, which I had to seek assistance for.

Snape Disapparated, returning to his rooms.  It had been a long time since he'd done this, becoming part of a hunt on a moment's notice.  Many of his robes were too well-made to avoid notice; in the end, he Transfigured them into something more nondescript, and gathered his money.

The letter to Lilith took only moments to write; he contemplated sending a note to Arabella, but thought better of it.  She would insist on joining him, and that would mean bringing Lilith, and that would be foolish beyond measure.

***

She didn't like to admit it, but Lilith had been badly frightened by the raid on her uncle's shop, and her encounter with Potter. She spent a week lurking at home, sitting up in her room, listening to music and perusing her father's library.

This is another scene that was written quite early in the piece.  Before I had a plot, actually.  It was a long time before I knew who had broken into the house, and what they were seeking.  I like it, though, because this was the first scene where I really felt comfortable in Lilith's head.  (It's not a comfortable place at all, actually.)

She received three owls in that time. One was from her father, letting her know that he'd be spending more time in Europe than originally planned. Another came from Roseleen Parkinson, and one was from Aunt Arabella, hinting that she could probably make the effort to travel two streets to visit her godmother. She scribbled dutiful replies to all of them, but made no mention of anything more significant than the last thing she'd eaten, or the book she was reading.

A week after the raid, she was roused from a daze, a half-dream of snakes and mud, a pregnant woman singing to her child in the rain, by the sound of someone – or something -- moving around downstairs. Silently, she grabbed her wand and slipped downstairs.

At Hogwarts, they called her the Thestral, because she could move silently, keeping to the shadows. Other Slytherins had learnt to speak cautiously, for one never knew when the Headmaster's daughter might be listening.

In her five years at school, she'd only repeated something to her father once, and that had saved a student's life.

But no one else knew that, and it suited Lilith to be feared.

She moved down the staircase, silent but for the pounding of blood in her ears.

Lounge room. Empty.

Kitchen. Empty.

Library. Empty.

Lilith paused, trying to remember whether that pile of books had been there earlier. Her memory was useless, sometimes, especially after a migraine.

She moved on. Her father's study.

The door was ajar.

He never left the door open.

Never.

Almost afraid to breathe, Lilith moved forward and burst into the room. The door opened fully, knocking into a bookshelf with a loud bang.

Empty.

And now she'd let the intruder know that she was there.

Lilith froze and considered her options. Perhaps she could light a fire, Floo straight over to Aunt Arabella's... The little jar of Floo powder sat on the mantelpiece, gleaming in the moonlight. Lilith took a step towards it, and stopped.

Something invisible brushed past her, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose.

"W-who's there--?"

There was no answer, only a faint popping sound as the intruder Disapparated.

She couldn't move. For a second, she thought she'd been cursed, but then she was able to force her muscles to relax, and she collapsed on the floor in a shivering heap.

I meant this bit to be incredibly creepy, but I'm not sure I succeeded.  I don't read much horror or suspense fiction, so I'm not really sure how to convey that sort of thing to an audience.

***

Arabella greeted Ron with a smile, a hug and a slice of inedible cake.  Ron, remembering his year in her class, was instantly wary.

I like this scene, but I have lots of problems with it.  For one thing, I can't read it now without being aware of how very wrong I was about Arabella Figg's nature and personality.  And the fact that most of fandom made the same mistake doesn't make it any easier.

Also, it's a bit worrying that there's this random Ron POV here.  Even though he does have quite a few POV scenes, it's still jarring.  Sorry about that -- but there are some things which the audience had to be privy to, that Harry couldn't see, and Lilith wasn't always the appropriate choice.

"Thank you for coming to see me, Ronald," she said, pouring him a cup of tea. "It's quite lonely for an old lady on her own…"

Ron couldn't find it in himself to be sympathetic; he knew perfectly well that Arabella ran a boarding house for young witches going to university in the Muggle world.  Arabella was a wily old Auror, and she was at her most dangerous when she claimed to be feeling her age.

"Anything for my favourite Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

"What's young Remus got to do with this?"

I really like Ron's interactions with Arabella.  Unfortunately, it soon became necessary to get her away from the plot, but she was a fun character to write.

Ron grinned.  "Well, he's out of the country at the moment, so he doesn't need to know…"  He pushed an inquisitive Kneazle away from his shoes.  It was all very nice to be given the Felinoid Sniff of Approval, but he was not a kitty toy, thank you-very-much.  "What can I do for you, Professor?"

"Please, Ronald, it's Arabella.  Or Mrs Figg, if you can't stand being on familiar terms with your old teacher."  Professor – Arabella – Mrs Figg sat down carefully.  "It's about my goddaughter, young Lilith.  And our mutual friend Mr Potter."

"Um…"

"I notice that none of you young louts in the College bothered to inform me that you picked her up in Knockturn Alley last week, by the way.  And I don't suppose Harry sent an owl to Severus, either."

"Probably not."  Ron shifted.  "Look, Harry dealt with Lilith, not me.  Why aren't you talking to him?"

"Because he still thinks I'm the Wicked Witch of Magnolia Crescent.  You, on the other hand, have a small ounce of common sense, not to mention a wife who manages to be sensible enough for all of you.  Anyway, Severus and I are agreed that Lilith and Harry are … not a good combination.

Arabella really is a joy to write.  Lovely words and phrases just fall from her tongue.  So to speak.

"Why not?  Harry seems to like her.  I haven't even met the kid."

"It's complicated, dear.  And while I think you're a lovely boy, I doubt that Severus would want me sharing his personal matters with you."

"All right.  But what about Lilith?"

"I just want to know, has Borgin said anything about her?"

"Not really.  He told Harry to keep away, but that seems to be a popular theme.  Why?"

Mrs Figg contemplated her tea and said quietly, "Someone entered Lilith's house the other night.  Nothing was taken, no damage was done, but Lilith got enough of a fright that she came to me and admitted she'd been in Knockturn Alley.  And Lilith's not the sort of girl who confesses her sins easily, Ronald.  She's like her father in that."

"What do you want me to do?  I could go over the scene, but it's more of a job for Magical Law Enforcement."

"No, no, I've done all that.  I've also reinforced the wards and I'm keeping Lilith close by.  I just wanted to make sure I haven't missed anything obvious in Borgin."

"Nothing that I can see.  We've been looking into Burke's disappearance, but if he's alive, it looks like he's in Greece.  And none of Borgin's other usual allies have involved themselves at all.  It's all depressingly quiet."  He sipped his tea.  "Do you want a Coterie to investigate.  It's not the usual thing, but for you--"

"No, no, that won't be necessary.  I can protect her myself, you know that."

"I don't doubt it."

"Anyway, it might be nothing.  Just a nasty Slytherin prank."

"You don't believe that for a second, do you?"

"No.  But I don't need any help, Ronald.  I just wanted some information."

"Yeah, well, you got that.  Thanks for the tea."

Ron was about to Disapparate, when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.  He turned, and found himself face-to-face with Lilith Borgin herself.

Bloody hell, he thought, sick to his stomach, she looks just like her mother.

Well, no she doesn't.

But I really dislike reading the interaction between Ron and Lilith.  *shudders*  I don't know why, it just doesn't feel right.

He had spent a month as Eugenia Lestrange's prisoner, seeing her every couple of days.  She had haunted his nightmares for two years afterwards.  Lilith had none of her beauty; indeed, she was the ugliest girl Ron had ever seen, all nose and limbs and jutting bones.  But her cool, assessing eyes and oddly generous mouth: those were Eugenia's.

She studied him, leaning against the doorframe.  Arabella gave Ron a worried look, but he ignored her and met Lilith's eyes.

"You must be Ron Weasley," she said.

"Must I?"  He made no move to shake her hand.  "Harry's told me about you."

Lilith's face was briefly transformed at the mention of Harry's name, opening up and becoming both younger and more mature.

Got an admirer, have we, Mr Potter?

"Please give him my regards," she said, her face closing up again.

"I'll do that."

She looked to Ron like a serpent contemplating a rat.  I'll bet he has to speak to her in Parseltongue, he thought.  Something about her made his skin crawl, something beyond her history and heritage.  He had no doubt that she was thoroughly steeped in the Dark Arts.

"Tell him," she said thoughtfully, "tell him I said hello."

"I will."

As he Disapparated, Ron heard her say, "Aunt Arabella, do you have any Analgesic Potion?  I've got such a headache…"

Yeah, serves her right.

Harry had always had migraines following direct encounters with Dark Magic.  The kind of direct encounters where he was casting the curses himself.

I reckon that Harry should be the last of Snape's worries.

Dear Lilith, thanks for ruining a scene I was really enjoying.