Harry Potter 1. Chapter One

Through The Looking Glass: _An enigmatic and brilliant Beauxbatons transfer student with a mysterious birthright has joined Hogwarts in her fifth year. Despite his resolve to dislike her as he did her father, Severus is surprised by his reaction to her._

**The usual disclaimer: I do not own any of the rights to the existing Harry Potter characters, though the characters you won't recognize as J. K. Rowling's are mine. I'm not making any sort of profit from this fiction apart from my own gratification. **

**_Chapter One:_**

Albus Dumbledore sat contemplatively in his high-backed leather chair, his finger tips lightly pressed together in an arch of concentration. The weak light in the circular recesses of his study dimmed yet more as the flickering flame of the lone candelabra extinguished in a final swansong of desperate illumination. His concentration broken, he blinked his luminous grey eyes, usually shining with mirth, and picked up his wand which lay on the mahogany desk before him. 

"Lumos," he murmured, his soft voice barely audible. 

A soft glow illuminated the room once again and he rose unsteadily to his feet, the silence punctuated only by the creaking of the leather on the chair and the soft keening of the magnificent phoenix, which sat on a perch adjacent to his desk. He lit the candelabra with a well practiced flick of his wand and paused before the vast fire place that dominated the study in its gothic grandeur. 

His hand reached tentatively to a small ornate box, perched innocuously on the mantel, but paused. He withdrew the hand, creased with age and instead ran it through his long silver beard in a gesture of uncertainty. Once again the aged hands reached out, more confidently this time, plucked open the lid of the tiny box and pinched between fingers and thumb a small quantity of the vivid turquoise powder within. In a sudden, almost violent gesture, he threw the powder into the darkness of the grate, igniting a vibrant orange flame, which sparked fiercely into the void of the chimney above. 

"Snape!" Dumbledore shouted, the volume of his rich voice filling the highest alcoves of the vaulted ceiling. In an instant, Professor Severus Snape, resplendent in robes of blackest silk, appeared arrestingly in the room, his face wearing an expression of innate boredom and cynicism. The moment he entered, the phoenix gave a start and let out a loud squawk.

"Ahh, Severus," Dumbledore began, his words doing little to temper the potions masters jaded scowl, now directed at the striking bird. "I trust you received my letter of this morning?" 

Snapes expressions soured to a look of pure disgust. "Yes, Albus. Though I hardly think…" 

Dumbledore shot him a warning look which he heeded with a tired sigh. "All I am saying is that perhaps you should exercise a little more caution when accepting foreign students." 

He paused, measuring what effect his words had upon the headmaster. "Especially now," he added pointedly. 

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Dumbledore's wise eyes, and he conceded Snapes point with a nod of the head. "I understand your concern, Severus, but this is hardly some stranger we're inviting into the fold, as it were." 

He sat heavily in the leather chair and opened a secret drawer in the desk with a flick of his wand. Holding a sheath of letters he addressed Severus again. 

"Aloysius first wrote to me last year after that second Death Eater attack to ask if she could continue her studies here." 

At the mere mention of the name, a cloud of annoyance blackened Snapes aquiline features. Aloysius and he had been in the same year at Hogwarts some twenty years before and had never been the best of friends to say the least. Many bitter arguments had occurred between the two, and their rivalry was well known and the passage of the years had done little to temper Snapes dislike of the man. Both had been prodigious in the art of potions and strove to outdo each other at every opportunity. Their rivalry had climaxed one fateful day when Aloysius, along with James Potter and Sirius Black, had added an extra ingredient to Snape's cauldron in their idea of a joke, during their final exam, causing the mixture to ignite and cause extensive damage to the dungeon where the lesson was taking place. A severe chastisement was given to all three boys, yet Snape found himself unable to forgive the tall, athletic youth who he knew had grown into the Ministries most eminent auror. He knew his grudge, though deep-rooted, was ultimately unimportant in the greater fight, against Voldemort, whose depraved tyranny threatened to envelop the wizarding world once again. 

His reminiscences were interrupted by the sound of Albus' voice. "Severus? Severus!" 

He mentally shook himself and guided his attention back to the headmaster sat before him. "Apologies, Albus," he murmured and silently rebuked himself for his inattention. The last thing he needed at the moment was an inquisition from Albus as to his own personal state of mind. 

"Well," he said, aware that the headmaster had already made up his mind and this meeting was merely a formality, "it seems that you are decided. If you are satisfied that the arrival of this girl will be beneficial to all parties concerned then I must content myself and abide by your decision" He smiled a tight lipped smile, his lips curving at the corners into a wryly amused smirk. "However, I would consider it advisable if something were done to limit the effects of her……Abnormality." 

Albus shot him a warning look. "I only mean to say that having a girl with half Veela blood in the school may cause more than a little disruption when it comes to the male pupils," Snape concluded with a self satisfied sneer. 

Albus had to admit that he was right. He had pondered this thought over and over again yet could reach no viable conclusion and having already promised Aloysius that his daughter could attend Hogwarts for her remaining years of education he was reluctant to break that promise on the ground of her "abnormality" as Severus so dryly put it. He was rather taken aback when Severus cleared his throat and put forward the most workable suggestion he had heard so far. 

"There is a tonic, known in some parts as _Felicia Belladonna_ that I believe would serve our purposes. It is based upon an infusion of wode leaf and in simple terms, works in the opposite way to an enhancement elixir, making no physical alteration to her appearance, yet all the same tempering any extreme effects it may have on unsuspecting males."

 He paused, awaiting Dumbledore's response. "Do continue, Severus." Snape retrieved a crumpled strip of parchment from a pocket in his black silk robe, carefully unfolded it and scanned the feathery script upon it. 

"It would be fairly simple to make and could even be made in large enough batches to last our new student for up to a year. It must be taken orally every three to four days. The ingredients are common enough, most of which can be found in my personal stores, apart from the small sample of blood which we would need to take from her." 

He trailed off, expecting a flat refusal from Dumbledore. Expecting a new student to take a glamouring potion was one thing, but extracting her blood was quite another. Severus was well aware of the rumours that fervently circulated the student body, that he was secretly a vampire, and admittedly did nothing to dispel the rumours, finding them useful in controlling the rowdier elements of the lower years. Even the most delinquent first year could be reduced to a quivering mass of fear with just one well practiced look, not of brutish intimidation but one burning with threat and quiet menace. Looking at him, it was not hard to see how the students reached their farcical conclusion: Obsidian black eyes glinted dangerously under expressive black brows, one of which was seemingly permanently fixed in a derisive sneer. A long aquiline nose tapered severely to meet solemn lips, not thin, but clenched together at this moment. Severus Snape was not, at first glance an attractive man, yet possessed a magnetic quality which drew all eyes to his pale, monochromatic face, a study in contrasts of light and dark. 

 Albus, after a moments consideration quietly agreed with the words, "A small phial of blood seems a small price to pay when compared with what she's already been through." At Snape's curious look he explained, "Eleanora has been something of a fugitive for the past two years, since the Death Eater attacks began again. The constant threats against her father have meant that she is invaluable property as far as the ministry are concerned. They've kept her under incessant surveillance lest a kidnapping plot take place, or worse," he ended, his wise brow creased with regret.

Snape privately wondered whether this girl would be more trouble than she was worth at Hogwarts. A Veela, even only a half blood Veela in a school full of hormonal teenage boys was bound to have some "interesting" consequences. Albus once again interrupted his thoughts. 

"I shall write to Aloysius at once, explained the details of the glamouring potion. From what I've heard of young Eleanora she will be only too glad to gain some respite from the effects. I imagine it could get rather tiring being constantly surrounded by adoring males." 

He winked at Severus but the wink was met with a stony expression which told Albus in no uncertain terms that he would not be one of those adoring males. Severus rose from his chair and asked "If that is all Albus?" He was answered by a gentle nod and swept out of the room, his robes billowing behind him. 

As he closed the door, he heard "One more thing, Severus!" He turned back into the room. "She arrives in a week's time, three days before the start of term. I trust the potion will be ready by then if Aloysius can owl over a small phial?" Snape nodded in reply and closed the door which a smart click. In Dumbledore's office the candle flame once again flicked and faded, leaving the room in shadowy darkness. "Fiddlesticks," he murmured as he fumbled for his wand.


	2. Chapter Two

**_Chapter Two:_**

****

Severus Snape slammed the door to his quarters with a resounding crash that echoed around the lofty heights of the cavernous stone room. The heels of his black boots made smart click on the stone floor with every stride he took until he reached an oppressive looking mahogany cabinet and roughly pulled open its doors. Inside was a selection of bottles containing a fiery amber liquid. He paused, selected one of the bottles and a cut glass tumbler, turned on his heel and walked back out through the door into his office. He sank into a green leather armchair and uncapped the bottle, letting a generous measure of its tawny contents flow smoothly into the glass. 

For minutes he just sat, occasionally raising the glass to his lips, his only movement, save the sporadic narrowing of his obsidian eyes as he started impassively at the grey stone of his office wall. His thoughts were a tangle of irritation and anxiety: irritation at Dumbledore's seemingly blind trust and anxiety at what troubles this girl might bring with her to Hogwarts. True, Aloysius was hardly a stranger but setting aside his own dislike for the man, he still felt that his close affinity with the school could only bring trouble. As for the girl, she sounded unremarkable enough. However, half Veela-blood was indeed unusual; most part-Veelas could only claim quarter at the most. His mind chased back to the Veela girl that had visited Hogwarts from Bauxbatons the previous year to participate in the Tri-Wizard tournament. Fleur Delacore. Undoubtedly beautiful, she had exhibited the haughty, supercilious behaviour that he had come to expect of attractive women. He predicted no different of this girl. 

* * * * * * * * * *

Albus had owled Aloysius the moment Severus had left his office, asking for a small vial of Eleanora's blood in order to prepare the tonic in time for her arrival in one week's time. An answer had been prompt, arriving the very next morning, in the shape of a magnificent eagle owl bearing not only a parchment but a small dragon-hide pouch containing a tiny vial of blood. Albus had approached the fearsome owl cautiously, eying its long talons warily but it had dropped its imposing head and allowed the headmaster to remove its parchment gently. It had read:

_ iMy dearest Albus, _

_Many thanks for allowing my daughter to attend Hogwarts for her fifth year's schooling. I have sent an owl to her this evening explaining the importance of her coming to you. I have no doubt she will settle down immediately. I enclose a small vial of blood, as requested, but I must ask this of you: Take every precaution to ensure that this does not get into the wrong hands. I will endeavour to explain more when I visit Eleanora at mid-term. _

_Until then, _

_                 Aloysius D' Souza.i _

Dumbledore, having read the parchment twice, held the tip of his wand to it and in a small burst of light it had vanished. He picked up the pouch and decided to take it to Severus himself in light of Aloysius' concern, He had no doubt of the mans judgement, and would indeed endeavour to protect Eleanora to the full extent of his extensive abilities. 

A smart rap on the heavy wooden door roused Severus from his thoughts. "Enter," he called loudly, wondering who would wish to bother him so early in the morning. Visitors to the dungeons were rare, and who indeed could blame the students and staff alike, for not wishing to enter the dark, portentous underbelly of the school. The darkness however, suited Severus just fine, as did the chill that filled the air even in the mid-summer. Many of the students chose to wear their heavy woollen outer cloaks when working in the dungeons, but Severus hardly felt the cold, through the rich material of his black silk brocade frock coat and outer cloak. 

Albus' benevolent face peered through the shadows at him. "Ahh, Severus," he greeted the sombre man sat before him. 

"It is indeed a delightful morning, what say you to a walk in the grounds?" Severus' darkening expression gave the headmaster his answer, and he shrugged and gave the potions master a benign smile. 

"I have with me here the vial you requested from Eleanora." Severus nodded curtly and gracefully rose from his chair, rising to his full height, several inches above the headmaster who stood at an impressive height himself. It was this lean height that so frightened students when he strode forcefully past them in the dark corridors, his robes billowing stormily in his wake, scattering the lower years like losing thoughts, as they pressed themselves into the cold stone walls lest they incur his powerful wrath.

He gently took the vial and held the tiny container up to the lone candle light that burned in his office. Seeing nothing to his displeasure he turned and said, "Very well, Albus. I can have the tonic prepared in two days time. This batch should last the girl until late spring at least at the normal dose." 

Dumbledore nodded his approval and said, "No doubt, Severus you are eager to begin the process. I shall leave you to your estimable work." A brief moment of understanding passed between the two wizards, no words needing to be spoken to convey the trust they placed in each other.

At the gentle click of the door being shut, Severus once again sank into the chair, sliding his long, lithe legs under the mahogany desk. He downed the last of his fire whiskey and summoned one of the grimoires from his extensive shelves with a well-practiced flick of his wand and a muttered command, "Accio _Potions of the Romanies." _The heavy book landed before him on the desk, and with elegant fingers he leafed thorough it's many pages until he had found what he required. A slow curve of a smile spread across his face, as he read about the distinctly unpalatable taste of this particular potion. He allowed himself a rare chuckle as he imagined the look on the face of this no doubt exasperating girl as she was forced to swallow the unpleasant mixture. Never let it be said that Severus Snape did not poses and sense of humour, dark and mordant though it was. 

He left his writing desk and entered the empty and silent classroom: its many desks set in orderly rows that he regretfully noted would be destroyed as soon as term began. He deftly gathered the myriad of ingredients together and to any invisible spectator, a veritable sight would have been their reward for daring to impinge upon Snapes solitude. His face took on a look of animated passion as he adeptly diced roots, powdered dried leaves and strained viscous mixtures, adding each in turn to a large, simmering cauldron set over a merrily burning flame. So absorbed in his work he was, that he did not realise the swift passage of time has rendered his late for luncheon. A sudden hiss from the cold, empty fire place heralded the appearance of Madam Hooch's disjointed head in the darkness. 

"Severus?" she called. An annoyed glance was her silent reply. 

"What is it, Arachnia?" he asked tersely. Her brows furrowed in irritation at his brusque tone. 

"I just thought I would inform you that you are expected in the Great Hall for luncheon and the staff meeting following," she called from the dark hollow. 

His expression hardened even more so. He resented Dumbledore's insistence that all the staff dined together in the Great Hall, as he would much prefer to take his meals alone, in his quarters, away from the feeble attempts at cheery conversation that always ensued from the other staff. 

Severus Snape was by habit and preference, a solitary man. He found his fellow staff at Hogwarts to be tedious at best and at worse, nothing short of unbearable. Their sorry attempts to initiate him into conversation were unwelcome and irritating. However after several years of failed attempts at conviviality, most had learnt to simply let him be.

"Yes, yes," he replied, waving aside her words, and turning back to his bubbling cauldron. 

A silence ensued, broken by her cry of "Oh, you can't blame me for trying, Severus!" 

He whipped around and shot back in his silkiest tone, "My dear Arachnia, I thank you for your most valiant effort to coax the old bat out of his dungeon but at this present moment, this potion is a more pressing matter than making small talk with Dumbledore over a platter of bread rolls!" His voice had risen to an infuriated shout and Madam Hooch's affronted face gave a sigh of exasperation and disappeared with a loud pop. 

Taking a few moments to make sure that she had in fact left him to his own devices, he turned back to his cauldron, and saw to his perturbation that the viscous mixture had turned a deep, rich brown with ebony depths to it. The potion, it was explained in the grimoire, should, if prepared correctly, turn the exact same colour of the blood donator's eyes as was the want of this particular concoction. The eyes of a Veela were usually arctic blue in colour and he wondered momentarily if he had made an error somewhere in the process. However, such was his expertise in his chosen field and his own knowledge of his extensive skills that he discounted that thought immediately.

The potion having cooled and his earlier doubts having been dispelled, he carefully bottled it in several large doses and locked them in his personal stores. That done, he grimly set out through the dungeons to attend Dumbledore's staff meeting. 


	3. Chapter Three

**_Chapter Three: _**

****

As Severus had predicted, the meeting had been tedious and in his opinion unnecessary. Dumbledore, at the head of the staff table in the Great Hall had informed the rest of the staff of Eleanora's imminent arrival to an array of approving murmurs and satisfied nods. Many of the staff remembered Aloysius from his own schooldays and the others were undoubtedly impressed by his status as the ministries most distinguished auror. He had tread lightly around the issue of her half-Veela status and assured them that the potion would negate any untoward effects that she might have upon the male student body. Severus had sat, deeply bored, throughout the meeting, wearing an expression of utmost ennui. 

When Dumbledore had finished talking, Severus immediately made a move to vacate his high-backed chair and return to the familiar darkness of the dungeon. However, a call from Dumbledore stopped him: 

"Severus? A word in my office if you please?" 

He sighed and reluctantly swept out of the room after the headmaster. They ascended the stone staircase and he had to hide his chagrin as Dumbledore said "Toffee Cluster" loudly and clearly at the entrance to his office. Once inside the circular office, Dumbledore lowered himself into his chair and bade Severus to do the same. 

"Now, how is this potion coming along, Severus?" he asked. 

"It is completed, Albus," came the quietly confident reply. 

"And no…. abnormalities?" 

Severus privately wondered whether anything went on at Hogwarts that Albus Dumbledore did not know about. 

"The colour of the tonic is meant to be exactly that of the eyes of the blood donor. I assumed that with as much as half Veela blood, Miss D'Souza would have the customary blue eyes." 

This statement was met with a contemplative nod. 

"I have no doubt that the potion has been prepared correctly however." 

"Oh, of course, Severus, of course." Albus agreed quietly. He knew that the mans talent for potions was unrivalled in the wizarding world, and his confidence in pronouncing the potion to be correct was not a manifestation of arrogance but a quiet self-belief in his own estimable abilities.

"I have not seen Eleanora since she was a girl of eleven, but if I remember correctly; she was possessed of a most astonishing pair of dark brown eyes, rather like her fathers. Quite remarkable really," he mused quietly. Severus privately congratulated himself on yet another perfectly prepared potion. 

At that moment, their compatible silence was rudely broken by a loud swish of air coming from the direction of the door. A faint miasma of lilac smoke swirled riotously in the air, growing in intensity and speed until all of a sudden it stopped. Severus instantly leapt up from his chair as if he had been electrocuted and instinctively drew his wand, his eyes narrowed in long-practiced suspicion and agitation. Dumbledore remained seated but his own hand reached into the recesses of a pocket for his own wand. The vividly coloured smoke dispersed slowly and revealed to be standing by the door of Dumbledore's office, a young woman accompanied by a motley assortment of suitcases and trunks. 

Even in her state of utter disarray, the girl was arresting. Her hair was a cascading fusion of golden blonde and chestnut brown and hung in an unruly tumble almost her waist. Her skin was deeply tanned and was stretched over high, elegant cheekbones which sat regally beneath large almond shaped eyes, the colour of bitter chocolate. Her robes were somewhat dusty but under the light smattering of grime, they were a deep viridian green. 

As the last wisps of smoke evaporated, she looked up and her face was instantly illuminated with a wide smile of delight as she met the eye of Albus Dumbledore. 

Her smile was returned as she cried with glee, "Godfather! I apologise – I'm a few days early! And I meant to apparate just outside your door. I was a couple of yards off obviously!" 

She dropped her cases and strode over to the tall wizard who returned her elated smile.

"Greetings my dear Eleanora. You are indeed a day or two early but no matter. Welcome to Hogwarts!" He enveloped her in a kind hug and glanced at Severus who stood before his desk wearing an expression of pure wrath. Albus released the girl from the embrace, pressed a lemon drop into her hand, whispered in her ear, "I stocked up on your favourites," and turned her attention to the tall, brooding man stood before her. 

"My dear, this is Professor Snape. He is our potions master here at Hogwarts and head of Slytherin house." 

Eleanora popped the lemon drop between a pair of full lips and smiled graciously at the man and extended one elegant hand in greeting. Snape smiled stiffly, his own lips clenched to a painful thinness, though his eyes remained cold and hostile. He internally debated whether or not to ignore her proffered hand, yet extended his own with the intention of giving her a crushingly firm handshake. He was surprised to find that she was not taken aback by his painful grip and even returned a handshake just as firm and unyielding. Her dark eyes danced with interest and refused to break his penetrative stare. It felt to Eleanora as if she had met the intense gaze of the dark and foreboding man before her for an age but it could have been no more than a few seconds before both of them turned reluctantly to regard Dumbledore.

"You never told me that Miss D'Souza was your goddaughter, Albus," Severus intoned softy, in a tone that Dumbledore and many of the students would have recognised as one of quiet danger. 

The headmaster however smiled benignly at Eleanora and replied, "Yes, Severus. Though we haven't met in years, have we my dear?" The girl shook her head and her unruly mane tumbled over her shoulders, shining in the late afternoon sunshine that streamed in through the open windows. 

"I dare say I've grown a little since the last time you saw me." Amusement played upon her elegant features as she gave a sonorous laugh. 

Severus's expression soured even more. He regarded the girl with well concealed interest. She was undoubtedly striking though did not poses the usual cold condescending beauty of a Veela, but an engaging, personable attractiveness, like that of a Romany gypsy, he thought to himself. Following her swarthy Italian git of a father, he thought bitterly. Still, there was undoubtedly Veela blood in her. The long mane of hair was reminiscent of Delacour, though a distinctly preferable colour, he thought, even coated with a fine film of dust as it was. He eyes attached the colour of the potion exactly and were not, he noticed, dissimilar to his own obsidian eyes, though while hers glittered with interest and pleasure, his were impassive and intimidating. Though she did not appear to be intimidated in the slightest. 

He mentally shook himself out of his thoughts, to find that the girl was now deeply engaged in a conversation with Dumbledore about the probably whereabouts of her father. 

"He left about a month ago on ministry business, but couldn't tell me where he was going. Though from the robes he took, I'd say it was somewhere rather cold. Maybe Durmstrang?" She shrugged and continued, "I received his owl this morning telling me about my acceptance here. Fudge was being an absolute nightmare, so I just packed my things and left." 

Dumbledore raised a pair of expressive brows in mild surprise. "You just left, my dear girl?" 

"I left a note with his secretary," she quickly reassured him. "And after all, there's no safer place than Hogwarts," she ended with a wink.

Severus observed with interest the girl's words. She had obviously been placed in Cornelius Fudge's care whilst her father was on ministry business. He privately agreed with her description of him as "an absolute nightmare." The pompous little man had been wholly uncooperative following the death of Cedric Diggory at the end of the last school year and even went so far to undermine Dumbledore and flatly deny the resurrection of the Dark Lord, despite the evidence to the contrary that was becoming more apparent with each passing day. Obviously this girl was of much the same opinion of the man, and he found himself strangely admiring her somewhat short-sighted courage in simply removing herself from the minister for magic's care.

However, whilst her nerve may have been admirable, it was also dangerous, as Dumbledore was now impressing into her. 

"Eleanora, you must understand that you are particularly vulnerable now, especially with your father absent. Whilst I and the rest of the staff will do all that we can to protect you must promise not to put yourself in unnecessary danger." Severus snorted almost inaudibly. 

"Wonderful," he thought. "Another Potter character to contend with. No doubt she will be placed in Gryffindor, just like her foolish father." 

Indeed, Eleanora was much like her father. She too, he could tell, was possessed of a quick mind and a confident grace, and he noticed with distaste that she even shared his resonant laugh, now once again echoing around the room, this time mixed with Dumbledore's own throaty chuckle. Severus's lips tightened and he made to excuse himself from this happy little reunion.

"I will return to the dungeons if that is all, Albus?" he asked, pointedly ignoring the girl. 

Dumbledore smiled, and replied, "Of course, Severus. I thank you for your assistance. I look forward to seeing you at dinner in the Great Hall." Eleanora smiled at him as he turned to leave. 

"It was very nice to meet you at last, Professor Snape." She once again regarded him with glimmering dark eyes, devoid of any clue as to the real meaning of her words.

He quickly wondered whether the girl was being sarcastic, and was on the verge of dispensing a cutting comment in reply, yet something in her expression stopped him. If he hadn't known better he would have sworn that there was now a sort of keen respect in that look. He swallowed the acerbic remark that danced on the tip of his tongue and instead made tight-lipped smile in response, then turned on his heel and disappeared through the darkened doorway


	4. Chapter Four

**_Chapter Four:_**

****

As the door shut gently behind him, Eleanora turned to face her godfather. 

"Was I interrupting something there?" she asked, with a rueful expression on her face.

 "No, my dear, not really. We were, in fact, discussing you." 

The young woman frowned and bit her lower lip. "It's just that Professor Snape seemed distinctly unfriendly. I thought he might have objected to my somewhat inaccurate apparition." She smiled sheepishly at the older wizard. 

"I'll let you in on a secret, my dear," said Dumbledore in a lowered voice, "he always seems like that." He winked at his god-daughter and they both chuckled loudly. "Now, Eleanora, you know of course of the four distinguished Hogwarts houses?" She nodded reverently. "As a mature transfer student, you have the choice of which you will join. Do you have a preference? I assume that your father has high hopes of you in Gryffindor." 

A furrow appeared on Eleanora's brow. "Yes, he did mention in the letter that he sincerely hoped I would "carry on the family tradition." She rolled her eyes, and Dumbledore smiled. Suddenly, a mischievous glint came into her eyes. "Think of his face if I chose Slytherin!" she crowed, laughing at the mental picture of her irate father. No doubt several incensed howlers would ensure, and as much as she adored shocking her father, Eleanora had no wish to attract the attention of the whole school at breakfast time, with a resonant rendition of the old "Eleanora Delphinia Saturnine D'Souza: You disappoint me!" speech. 

Still inwardly chuckling, she asked Dumbledore, "Would it be alright with you if I allowed the infamous Sorting Hat to have a go at placing me?" 

The old wizard nodded his approval. "Indeed, my dear, indeed. Our old hat had never made an error to this day." He gestured to a tattered looking wide brimmed dress hat, sitting unassumingly on a high shelf above his desk. "We will wait until the Sorting Ceremony. The school does so love to see the new students sorted." In the meantime, whilst you are not affiliated with any particular house, you will be perfectly comfortable in quarters near the rest of the staff, if that is agreeable to you?" 

The young woman nodded affably, and asked, "When will the other students arrive?" 

"In a little over a weeks time," came the answer. "In the meantime, I'm sure that you will find plenty to amuse yourself with." He smiled kindly at her, but his next words were grave. 

"Though, Eleanora, I must impress upon you the importance of your safety here at Hogwarts. Your father was most adamant that your security here was paramount and I should so hate his trust in the school to have been misplaced. Whilst you remain within the castle confines you are practically untouchable, but when in Hogsmeade and outside the walls, I urge you to be cautious to the utmost and never, ever alone."

She made to protest, but he held a hand up to quiet her. "You are currently very vulnerable, not just because you are Aloysius's daughter, but because you are in your own right, a very powerful witch, as you well know." She once again bit her lip in frustration. "I know that you are aware of your powers, but you do not realise, I fear, what lengths Voldemort and his followers would go to destroy you." 

Her dark eyes hardened visibly, and she replied, "So my father sees fit to hide me away from the whole world and cut me off from all my friends. What's the point of going to such trouble to protect my life, when in doing so he's successfully ruining it? I know he's acting in the interest of my safety, but I'm dammed fed up of being controlled and confined!" she finished bitterly, and then looked down into her lap, her cheeks flushed from her frustration. She raised her dark eyes, now burning with aggravation to meet Dumbledore's own vivid blue ones. 

"I'm sorry, but it's been so long since anyone actually talked to me like an adult." She ran a hand through her mane of tangled hair, and said, "Gods! I must look an absolute state. No wonder Professor Snape looked at me as if I was something the cat had dragged in." 

Dumbledore looked at the large grandfather clock that stood in his office. "You have an hour before your evening meal, my dear. I expect you would like to freshen up after your journey. I shall summon one of the elves to show you to your rooms." 

Eleanora stood up from her chair, and turned to face the headmaster before making for the door. "I promise not to put myself in any unnecessary danger. Though I fear our definitions of unnecessary may differ slightly." Her eyes now sparkled with humour and Dumbledore knew that despite her teasing, she would respectfully adhere to his request. He snapped his long fingers and moments later, a diminutive house else appeared at his feet with a soft pop. Eleanora started at the small creature with amusement. The elf was wearing the oddest assortment of clothes she had ever seen: A red sock adorned one tiny foot, and a green and silver striped one (regulation Slytherin colours, she noted) covered the other. A large crocheted tea-cosy served as a hat, and a thick cable knitted jumper embroidered with a Gryffindor lion covered his chest. 

The elf bowed deeply to Dumbledore, then turned and did the same before Eleanora. She smiled warmly at the creature, and his cheeks flushed with pleasure. 

"I has heard that Miss Eleanora is a great witch. I wishes to welcome her to Hogwarts."

 Her smile widened and she bent down to face the spirited elf. "Why, thank you," she beamed. She shook the small hand he offered and squinted at the red sock he wore. "I'm guessing that you must be Dobby?" 

He gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth. "How did Miss Eleanora know that?" he cried. 

She giggled and pointed to his sock. "Your name is embroidered on the sock." She glanced up at Dumbledore who was rocking with silent mirth. 

Having got to her feet again, she nodded her head in the direction of her luggage. "I'll shrink them, and then if you could show me to my rooms I'd be very grateful." 

Dobby nodded enthusiastically, and darted off in the direction of the door. "Give me a second," she called after him, still smiling at his assortment of clothes. She raised an elegant hand and pointed a finger in the direction of her trunks. A pointed cough from Dumbledore stopped her in her tracks, and she mentally chastised herself for her absent-mindedness. With a sigh, she lowered her hand and instead reached inside a picket of her robes for her wand. A slim, highly polished baton of mahogany was produced from the viridian folds, and she twirled it around her fingers before pointing once again at her trunks and murmuring "diminutivius." The hotchpotch of cases instantly shrunk to a size allowing her to pick them up in one hand. 

"I will see you at dinner, Godfather." Dumbledore nodded and smiled at her, and watched her as she strode out of the room, the rustle of her robes soon mixed with the sound of her and Dobby's lively conversation as they descended the enchanted spiral staircase.


	5. Chapter Five

**_Chapter Five: _**

****

Eleanora sighed and lay her lissom form down on the vast expanse of her four-poster bed. The hanging tapestries cast long shadows over the bed and she closed her eyes in a mixture of fatigue and relief. Hogwarts felt like home. The moment she had arrived in Dumbledore's office, she had felt a calm descend over her that she had not felt since before the Death Eater attacks the previous year. Despite the distinctly unfriendly countenance of the potions master, she felt certain that she would greatly enjoy her year at the school. 

Though she doubted whether she would ever be able to negotiate the cavernous corridors of the school without losing her way. As she walked with Dobby, she gazed around her in interest at the mischievously moving stairwells, and the excited flurry of movements that issued from the portraits that hung upon the walls. Their occupants followed the elf and the girl from frame to frame, whispering animatedly about the identity of this beautiful young women. Dobby had stooped outside a heavy, ornately carved oak door, and opened it with a large key that whistled shrilly as he removed it from the pocket of his red and black striped football shorts. He stuffed it quickly into the keyhole and unlocked the door. It had swung open to reveal a high cloistered room, in which an impressive four-posted bed stood regally. The walls were painted a deep royal blue and the tapestries surrounding the bed were richly embroidered in a myriad of silver and cerulean. A high window dominated one wall of the room and Eleanora rushed to it, dropping her diminutive luggage haphazardly onto the bed. The window overlooked the great lake and from her elevated position she could see the Giant Squid gently lapping the cool waters against the shore.

"Is the room to Miss Eleanora's liking?" piped up Dobby. She turned from the window, reluctantly tearing away her delighted gaze. 

"Oh, yes. It's utterly splendid! I adore it." 

She smiled widely and returned to the bed, and made to pick up her luggage to return it to its proper state. However, she remembered her promise to Dumbledore and she instead turned to face the door to the far side of the bed. She gently pushed it open and gasped in delight at what she saw. A huge sunken bath, surrounded by golden taps dominated the room, decorated entirely in black marble. 

She faced Dobby, and cried, "I could stay here for ever!"  

The elf smiled at her delight and said "Dobby will be returning to the kitchens now. If there is anything that Miss Eleanora needs, she must only call." 

She smiled warmly at him. "Thank you, Dobby." 

As he skipped out of the room, shutting the door behind him, she returned once again to the bed. Pick up her luggage, set them on the floor and pulled out her wand. A murmured incantation later, the hotchpotch of cases were returned to full size and she deftly levitated them to stand in the far corner of the room. She was too tired to unpack right now, and she resolved to do it after supper. Having caught sight of herself in the grand full length mirror that stood next to the dressing table, she scowled at her reflection and decided a little freshening up was definitely in order. Her hair was wilder today than usual, no doubt due to the slightly rough apparation she had earlier undergone. 

She had wandered slowly into the bathroom, running a graceful hand over the cool, smooth marble of the walls. The very fortifications of Hogwarts seemed to teem with a kind of benevolent magic, she thought to herself, as she stared disapprovingly into the mirror. 

"Very nice, m'dear," a female voice countered. 

Eleanora started in fright, her hand instinctively brought above her head in a defensive move, then giggled in relief as she realised that it was the mirror who had spoken. She mentally rebuked herself for her rashness and addressed the mirror in a jovial voice that gave away nothing of her still erratically beating heart.

"Hello there." Eleanora was of course used to enchanted mirrors, but in her experience they kept quiet, save for an occasional snore and approving comment. This one however, was loquacious to the last degree. 

"You must be Eleanora." At the girl's frown, the mirror added, "Violet from the portrait on the second floor told me. Quite tired herself out, the poor dear, rushing up those stairs. Ran smack into Sir Cadogen she did! Bet he wasn't best pleased. Gets very uppity about folk rushing through his pasture, so he does." 

Eleanora grinned. She and Dobby had passed the landscape containing Sir Cadogen on the way top her room and he had rushed to the foreground, loudly challenging them to "bear your arms, lest you scurvy knaves be captured in the name of the king!" 

"Yeah," she answered with a grin. "He seemed a little on the defensive side when we passed him." 

The mirror tut-tutted disapprovingly. "Always rushing about challenging folk to a duel. Anyhow, about your hair. No offence m'dear, but it is looking rather unruly now, isn't it? How about a quick taming spell on it?" 

Eleanora looked down at her watch. She had half an hour before her evening meal in the Great Hall. She quickly decided to perform the taming spell on it now then sink into a hot bath when she returned after supper. 

Not bothering to use her wand, she pointed a finger at the top of her head and muttered, "docilarius." The stippled mane, shining in the late afternoon sun that streamed though the window was instantly transformed into a sleek, manageable cascade that hung down her back in a ceaseless spill almost to her waist. She nodded at her reflection approvingly, only frowning as she heard the mirror's astonished gasp. 

"Where's your wand, young lady?" it asked in a censorious tone. 

Eleanora looked at it reproachfully.

"Not you as well," she muttered. "Look, no one is here apart from me an I'm certainly not going to shout it from the battlements that I used wandless magic to straighten my hair now am I?" 

She raised her eyebrows at the mirror, daring it to make a argument, and it conceded, "You just be careful my girl. It won't do to let folk see that sort of thing, you mark my words." 

Its tone changed hastily to one of maternal concern. "Now, m'dear. Are you going to change your robes?" 

"Yes!" Eleanora called already having swept into the bedroom. She flipped open the lid of one case with a well practiced flick of a hand, and stood there, surveying her collection of dress robes. 

"Which do you think," she cried into the bathroom, "the black or the crimson?" 

"Hmm," came the contemplative reply. "How about the black? Never does to be too showy on first impressions after all." Eleanora twirled her hand and the black velvet robe twirled up out of the case and flew neatly over to bed where it draped itself ready to be shrugged on over her clothes. 

She picked it up and appreciatively caressed the sumptuous fabric. She draped it over he shoulders and as an afterthought added a large onyx brooch to fasten the high neck. She paused again in front of the mirror, this time apparently pleased with the reflection. She gazed at the brooch affectionately. It had once belonged to her mother and was all she had by way of a keepsake. Her memories of her mother were hazy and indistinct but she remembered inquisitively fingering the brooch as it adorned her mothers robe, one day in her infancy. Her mother had died when she was eleven, and since then she had been placed under ministry supervision in the absence of another obvious guardian. Her father, whilst loving and generous, was often away on ministry business as he was now, and she was spent much of her teenage years in the care of Cornelius Fudge and his wife Esmeralda. 

The couple had no children of their own and Eleanora had come to regard Esmeralda as a sort of mother. Cornelius however was a pompous and haughty man, who regarded Eleanora as a particularly errant child. He despaired of her headstrong ways and had been in the middle of chastising her that very morning when she had stormed from the room, hurriedly packed her bags, said her goodbyes to Esmeralda, promising to keep in touch, and left the Fudge household. The sudden chiming of a near-by clock roused her out of her thoughts and she quickly dispelled her sentimental reminiscences and strode towards the door, then turned on her heel and grabbed her wand from the bed, tucking it into a hidden pocket in the cloak. 

"Bye!" she called to the mirror, its reply of "Be good m'dear!" echoing down the hall after her. She spun on her heel and called back before the door clicked shut," If I can't be good, I'll at least be careful!" 


	6. Chapter Six

**_Chapter Six:_**

****

Eleanora walked down the echoing corridors, carefully noting each of the branching turns, in case she should lose her way. As she passed a large, gilt-frame portrait that hung impressively on the stairwell, a long, piercing wolf-whistle filled the air. She spun round in a mixture of surprise and annoyance, to find that the inhabitant of the large portrait was leaning heavily on the frame, leering at her as she stared at him in irritation.

 "What a sight!" he crowed. "There's room in my frame for two, you know!" 

Eleanora frowned at him. "Do you mind?" she asked crossly. "Gods, can't a girl even walk to supper without being leered at by overly garrulous portraits?"

She continued her descent down the stairwell, ignoring his cat-calls of "Oh, she's a feisty one for sure!" 

It wasn't that she wasn't used to it: Quite the opposite in fact. Her striking good looks and affable manner had made her quite an attraction at Beauxbatons, particularly with the male contingent of the school. She knew it wasn't strictly their fault. Veela-blood had that effect on men, but even with the countering effect of her self-cast glamouring charms, she still occasionally had to fend off over-zealous admirers. She hoped that it would be different at Hogwarts. Her father had owled her the previous day to explain that the potions master was willing to create a glamouring potion, which would have a stronger effect than the limited power of her charms. The vial of blood, she reflected was a small price to pay for being able to walk down a corridor without fear of attracting smirks and gormless stares.

To her surprise, she found that she had reached the large open doors of the great hall. Mentally congratulating herself on her orientation, she needlessly adjusted the high collar of her dress robes, ran a smoothing hand over her hair, took a deep breath and walked inside. The vast hall was illuminated by a myriad of candles, floating mere feet above her head. She stood at an impressive height for a woman, only inches shorter than her godfather. She carried the height well, and walked the distance to the staff table with her head held tall and her back erect. Most of the other staff were already seated at the long table. A dozen conversations faded as she approached, and they turned to regard her with interest and friendly smiles. 

"Ah, Eleanora, my dear. We were beginning to wonder whether you had lost your way!" He smiled humorously at her, directed her gaze to the rest of the assembled staff. 

"I would like to introduce you all to my god daughter, Eleanora D'Souza. She will be a fifth year student here, and I have no doubt she will do me proud." 

Eleanora smiled to herself at his praise and nodded graciously at the teachers, politely acknowledging their words of welcome. 

"Does the young lady have a house yet?" piped up the tiny Professor Flitwick, whom Eleanora was aware, was head of Ravenclaw. 

"No," she replied. "I've have decided to place myself at the mercy of your Sorting Hat. Though I think the Gryffindor scarf my father sent me this morning might be his subtle way of indicating_ his_ preference!" 

The staff laughed and she grinned, somewhat self consciously. Though she knew she was welcome here, she still felt the desperate need to make a good impression upon these people. She had been regarded as something of an enigma in Beauxbatons, extraordinarily intelligent yet seemingly unafraid of rule-breaking. Her academic prowess earned her as many points of her rule-breaking took away. Her exploits were looked upon by the pupils as exhilarating and admirable dare-devilry, yet by the staff as high spirits in definite need of curbing. Still, upon announcement of her departure, she had been sorrowfully wished goodbye by all the school, even the most disapproving members of staff sorry to see their best student and the bane of their supervision duties leave. 

Having been shown to her seat by her godfather, Eleanora gracefully took her place between Professor Flitwick who was talking excitedly in her ear, and Professor Trelawney, who had deigned to join the conscious world to welcome the new student. Eleanora listened to the tiny, animated professor attentively, as he launched into a detailed description of Ravenclaw's prowess over all the other houses. 

His lively tirade was interrupted by a loud snort from Professor Sprout, who countered his words, saying "Put a bunch of Ravenclaws in the middle of a Quidditch field and then see what you get!" 

Several of the staff laughed loudly at this outburst. 

Professor Flitwick reddened and shot back, "Hufflepuffs may excel at Quidditch, but that does not make up for their rueful inadequacy in…." The angry little man was silenced by a warning look from Dumbledore, and began to study his place setting with great interest. 

"Your father was a great addition to our house, dear" said Professor McGonagall from her behind Flitwick. Eleanora turned to face the grey haired witch. "Yes: He's quite adamant that I carry on the family affiliation."  McGonagall smiled warmly at her. "Well dear, we'd be very pleased to have you. Will you wait until the Sorting Ceremony or will you find out before?" 

"I'll wait until the Ceremony. It'll be nice to spend a few days not having to take sides!"

 She grinned at Professor Flitwick who was now deeply engaged in conversation about recent Quidditch cup winners with Professor Sprout. 

The meal was delicious and the conversation stimulating and lively. The heads of the houses had tirelessly tried, throughout three courses, to recruit Eleanora to their own house, all apart from Professor Snape. The dour looking man had sat at Dumbledore's side, occasionally engaging in quiet conversation with him, but saying little to the other staff. His mood seemed not to have improved since her meeting with him that afternoon, and he disdainfully regarded those around him, wearing an expression of innate abstraction and disinterest. 

Eleanora used the lulls in the vigorous conversation with the staff, to study the man who sat opposite her, with well concealed concentration.  He was a study in exquisite monochromes, she thought to herself. His hair, curling delicately around his strong jaw and the nape of his neck, was of the most intense ebony she had ever seen. It fell liquidly over his face as he inclined his head and she was filled an irrepressible urge to reach out and flick it back behind his ear. His skin, at first appearances sallow, was a salient shade of porcelain which called to Eleanora's mind images of romantic Byronic heroes. His black eyes, which had regarded her so coldly in Dumbledore's office, were in fact smouldering with intensity, a barely discernible clue to the fathomless level of thought that went on behind them. His nose, she grudgingly admitted to herself was slightly over large, but did not seem out of place on a facade that seemed to revel in its own austerity.  Everything about Severus Snape cried out of severity and authority, yet she found herself at times unable to tear her searching gaze away from his austere countenance. 

She was torn from her thoughts by Professor Flitwick, who said loudly across the table, "Severus, you seem to be abstaining from the unofficial competition of recruiting Miss D'Souza to your house! It hardly seems fair that you don't even have a go!" 

His words were spoken in jest, but the look with which Snape fixed him was one of pure scorn. He turned his gaze on Eleanora, who cautiously observed him, as if afraid of what the inevitable cutting comment might be. However, none came. 

Instead he turned back to Flitwick and countered, "I, unlike the rest of you, see no reason to bicker over tenure of Miss D'Souza when she has already made it clear that the decision will be that of the Sorting Hat." 

Fixing Eleanora with a penetrating gaze, he continued, "If Miss D'Souza is placed in my own house, so be it. However, from what I have already seen of her, I have little doubt in my assertion that she is a born Gryffindor." 

His words were dripping with sarcasm, and Eleanora privately wondered how on earth he managed to make the word "Gryffindor" sound like such an insult, even to her own ears.

Refusing to break his trenchant stare, she replied lightly, "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure, Professor. I'm full of surprises." 

She raised one eyebrow challenging him to make a retort, and let her lips curl into a wry smirk, as she turned away, the faces of the other staff etched with mild astonishment at the sight of the fearsome potions master lost for words.

The rest of the meal had passed without event, though she and Snape conspicuously avoided each others gaze. As the clock announced that it was nine o'clock, Dumbledore bid the staff goodnight, and amongst a scraping of chairs and a smattering of good wishes from the staff, Eleanora made her way, alone, out of the Great Hall through the open doors.

A huge thank-you goes to White Raven for being my first reviewer! Thanks for the lovely comments and the advice about the paragraph breaks – hope they're OK now! 

If you haven't already read White Raven's fiction, _Tea with the Black Dragon,_ go do it now! It's my favourite Snape fiction.


	7. Chapter Seven

**_Chapter Seven:_**

****

The next day dawned bright, the early morning sun shining through the crack in the rich tapestries that hung luxuriously around the bed. Eleanora blinked her dark eyes and sat up, pushing off the heavy eiderdown as she gracefully leapt off the bed and padded in bare feet to the bathroom. The mirror snored gently, her reflection rippling slightly with each reverberating exhalation. She leant over the wide hollow of the sunken bath tub and turned the handle of one of the many gold taps that lined its sides. A powerful gush of hot water began to fill the tub, sending clouds of a heady scent into the air, the sunlight from the small high window playing upon the wisps of steam. Within minutes the tub was full to the brim, and she divested herself of her nightclothes and send them spiralling over to the bed with a flick of her finger, where they folded and tucked themselves away under her pillow. She debated whether or not to make the bed, but didn't want to incur the high-pitched wrath of the house elves just yet, so she contented herself in merely straightening the covers somewhat with a sleepy incantation of "reparo." 

The mirror awoke with a start as Eleanora lowered herself into the steaming water. "Hello, m'dear," it greeted her drowsily. "How are you this morning?" 

"Fine, thank you," Eleanora replied, surfacing the water after submerging her long hair under it. She shook her head to clear the water from her ears, then performed a quick cleansing spell on the dripping mane, a soapy lather forming instantly. She leant back against the marble side of the deep tub, sighing deeply. She had an hour to spare before breakfast and had hoped to visit the library beforehand to pick up some light reading matter. Her old schoolbooks from Beauxbatons had all been in French and while she was quite capable of understanding them perfectly, she had taken the liberty of ordering a large consignment of new ones, in English for connivances sake, from Flourish & Botts. They were due to arrive the next day by port key, and until then the only book she had with her was a dog-eared copy of _Hogwarts: A History, _given to her by her father many years before.

Her bathing complete, she rinsed the lather out of her boisterous hair, and summoned a thick towel from the rail. Wrapping herself in its warm folds, she stepped out of the tub, and looked at her reflection in the mirror, wrinkling her nose at what she saw. 

Her hair resembled nothing if not a bird's nest; a particularly large disobedient bird's nest and her cheeks were glowing a deep blush, from both the heat of her bath and the sunburn she had sustained earlier that summer. A light spattering of freckles danced across the bridge of her nose, something which her father called charming in that way which fathers have, along with the slight crookedness of her bottom teeth, a souvenir from a nasty fall from her first broom when she was six years old.

Having worked the myriad of tangles from her hair, she performed a quick and well practiced drying spell on it. She surveyed the contents of her vast wardrobes, having unpacked her luggage after supper the previous evening. The sun shone warmly though the windows, heating her bare skin, so she chose a simple white vest, a pair of muggle shorts and a light weight sage green summer robe. She would divest herself of the robe once in the deserted library but she had no desire to bring upon herself yet more lewd comments as she walked the corridors. 

She grabbed her wand from the bed side table, slipped on a pair of soft leather thong sandals, and walked from the room, calling goodbye to the mirror, and hearing a renewed hum of gentle snores in reply.

* * * * * * * * * *

She gently pushed against the heavy wooden door of the library, and stepped inside. The air was still, silent and heavy with the scent of old paper, ink and ancient leather. The sun weakly filtered through the stained glass windows and illuminated the dance of dust that arose as Eleanora shed her robes and laid them carefully upon the polished wooden reading table to her side. 

The vast labyrinth of shelves were filled with volumes, great and small, most of them old, with ornately bound covers, proudly facing the browser. However, she knew exactly what she was looking for, and wandered around the high cosseted room, peering closely at the labels that indicated the cases contents. 

After a few minutes search she found what she sought. A tall, narrow case stood innocuously in the corner of the room, groaning under the weight of a number of tomes and grimoires, all bearing the same symbol on their front: The Hogwarts Crest. These books were the Hogwarts yearbooks, containing the pictures and details of every student who passed through the learned halls of the school. She ran her slender fingers over their leather bound spines, pausing as she found that dated back to twenty years before the present date. She closed her hand around it and gave a sharp yank to loosen it from the tight squeeze of the shelf. She regarded the book with reverence and opened it to the middle. A few of the occupants of the pictures waved cheerily at her and she smiled back them. She leafed through a few of the pages, then her eyes closed on one particular photo.

The face of her father grinned out at her, very much younger and less lined than it was now. His own unruly hair, a lustrous mahogany colour curled closely over his ears, and he shook his head to rid himself of the stray strand that fell over his own piercing brown eyes.  He looked up at her and waved his hand, clutching his Quidditch broom. She bit her lip, and smiled down at him, trying not to look as if she missed him as much as she did. 

Eleanora had Aloysius had a close relationship, despite the time has spent away on Ministry business. When at home, they lived in a boisterous companionship, rubbing each others corners off and keeping each other out of trouble. Both were headstrong and insufferably stubborn, and many a blazing row had occurred in the D'Souza household, most of which followed her termly reports from school. 

Unable to find any fault with her academic prowess, Aloysius had often blown a fuse over her extra-curricular exploits, which he called dangerous and foolish. She called them a bit of harmless fun. She laughed out loud as she remembered one particularly fierce conflict which arose as result of her recently discovered habit of taking midnight broom flights out of her dormitory window with a group of her friends to enjoy a spot of swimming in the near-by Mediterranean Sea. They had fought bitterly for days, their mêlée only ending when he practically cried with concern for her safety, confessing that he feared losing her more than anything Voldemort could ever inflict upon him. She promised never to endanger herself in such a way again, though privately she felt that he was being dreadfully over-protective, but then again, who could blame him? 

She gazed at the photo a while longer, before closing the book. As the pages fell shut, something caught her eye. A photo of a proud and haughty looking young man stared out at her, tossing his head to flick the veil of lustrous black hair back from his eyes. He wore robes of silver and emerald green, and held a broom in his pale, elegant hand.  She narrowed her own eyes as she stared closer and studied the writing below the picture.

_Severus Isidore Snape.  Head Prefect of Slytherin house. Keeper of house Quidditch team. Potions scholar. Photo taken after Slytherin victory against Ravenclaw in 1977 Quidditch final._

She drank in the picture thirstily, recognising the same harsh features that she had so studiously regarded over the dinner table the night before, but unlined in this picture and somehow more open, less guarded. She gave the picture one final look before sharply closing the book and stuffing it back onto the shelf.

What was it about that man? He had treated her with barely concealed condescension and no doubt considered her to be just another pretty face. And she very much doubted that he attributed much to looks alone. She wondered as she swept her robes off the table, whether he knew about her powers. Her godfather had not mentioned whether or not he had informed the staff, and she was under strict orders from both her father and Fudge not to reveal herself to be anything more than an ordinary fifth year student. 

She snorted gently to herself as she negotiated the labyrinth of shelves on her way to the door. Ordinary, was not a word she would have used to describe herself, all things considered.

****

Thanks got to LinaChristine521 for her review. Keep 'em coming you guys! They make my day!


	8. Chapter Eight

**_Chapter Eight:_**

****

Breakfast had been a noisy and amiable affair, with Professors Flitwick and Sprout still vociferously bickering over their difference of opinions the previous evening. Eleanora laughed out loud as Sprout barely restrained herself from throwing a piece of just buttered toast at Flitwick, instead furiously jamming in his mouth, quelling any further argument. Professor McGonagall turned to her and said with a kind look in her eyes, "You laugh just like your father my dear!" Eleanora smiled, half-shyly and attacked her own pile of toast with renewed enthusiasm. 

Still playing upon her mind was the picture of a young Severus Snape, standing alone upon an empty Quidditch pitch, his shadowy eyes staring sullenly into the obsolete distance. She was, for some reason, unable to shake that image from her mind, and even found herself, to her utmost horror, to be absent-mindedly meditating the fact that the black recesses of her coffee cup resembled those of the potion masters eyes. She downed the cup in one long gulp and having devoured her sizeable pile of generously buttered toast, genially excused herself from the table. 

As she made her way back along the echoing corridors, she thought of the long and empty day ahead of her. She would walk to the owlery at lunchtime to check whether her consignment of books had arrived. They were due to arrive by portkey, yet upon ordering them she had little other idea of where to have them delivered. She had a vague idea of where it was, seeing as she had a number of owls soaring into the night sky the night before from a small window in the tower to the right of her rooms. Apart from that, the day was her own to waste away as she had planned, lazing by the lake or taking a book out into a sunny quadrangle. She sighed happily as her the sound of her footsteps resounded around the cloisters. 

"Eleanora!" a voice called from behind her. 

She spun round, recognising the voice as that of her godfather. She retraced her steps to where he stood and hugged the old wizard warmly.

"Morning, godfather," she greeted him. 

"Now, my dear," he began. "I assume that your glamouring charm is still in effect?"

She nodded. "But it's beginning to wear off I think. Shall I cast it again, or start on the potion right away?"

Dumbledore considered this for a moment. "I think that Professor Snape has brewed enough to last you until late spring, so there is no harm in starting the course now. I would send for one of the house elves to bring it to your rooms, but in the circumstances, it might be wiser if you were to go and collect it yourself." 

He observed the girl before him with a contemplative stare. "I do not expect you know where Professor Snape's rooms are?"

Shaking her magnificent head, she replied, "If I called Dobby, would he take me there?" She had little desire to fruitlessly wander the depths of the castle in search of the professor's rooms, when she could be outside enjoying the remainder of the holiday. 

Dumbledore nodded his approval. "I would have taken you myself my dear, but if you are happy for Dobby to lead you then I can return to my office and begin my attack on the rather threatening pile of paperwork that has seemingly taken over my desk." His blue eyes sparkled with humour, and his expression of mock-irritation was instantly replaced by one of affability. 

"If you need any help at all," Eleanora offered, "then give me a shout. I can't profess to being much good at paperwork but I'm sure I can be useful for something."

Dumbledore's eyes regarded her with intensity. The young woman stood before him shone with potential, her enthusiasm matched and more by her talent and estimable ability. 

"I have no doubt in saying that you will prove invaluable to us here, Eleanora. In all that you do," said the old wizard earnestly. 

His words were pointed, and lost none of their meaning upon the girl. She smiled modestly and flipped back her hair. She made to turn but a question surfaced in her mind. 

"Can I just ask a question?" 

"Please do, my dear. Asking questions is after all the best way to learn the answers."

She lowered her voice and stepped closer to her godfather.  

"Do the other staff know about …me?" she asked tentatively.

Dumbledore sighed and ran a hand contemplatively though his long silver beard. He had only told the staff as much as he felt they needed to know at the present moment, though he had little doubt that as time went on their need for knowledge would amplify, perhaps necessitating the revelation of the full extent of his goddaughters powers. He was torn between a strong desire to protect the girl stood before him from any sort of harm that might result from the disclosure of her strength, yet knew that in time her potency would reveal itself, under the intense pressure of her allotted task. Still, he saw no need to complicate her arrival at the school with hushed whispers and curious looks. 

"I have only told them that you here in order to be protected against any threat that may be posed to you because of your father's position." The old man smiled shrewdly. "Whilst this may not be the whole truth it is by no means untrue."

Eleanora returned his crafty smile, but hers was tinged with trepidation. "They'll find out eventually though, won't they?" 

"Yes, my dear, no doubt they will. I may have decided to tell them myself before then. I will have to inform a select number of them in any case as they themselves are members of the Order. It simply wouldn't do to have you turning up without them knowing."

She chuckled as she conjured a mental image of Professor Snape's face, contorted in anger and disbelief as she strode though the door to the order meeting. He would no doubt greet the news with enmity but she trusted her godfather's judgement and resolved to say nothing to the contrary. 

"Which of them are members?" she asked quietly inclining her head to hear the whispered reply. 

"I suspect you have a good idea yourself." At her non-committal shrug, he continued, "Professor Snape, Professor Lupin who will be rejoining us this coming year, Professor McGonagall and of course myself."

Eleanora raised in her eyebrows in feigned surprise as he spoke the name of the potions master. He, she already knew was a long standing affiliate of the order, and had been a founding member, back in the last reign of Voldemort. She mused to herself that she knew so much about him, yet he knew so little about her, though he undoubtedly had formed an opinion of her as wholly unremarkable and ultimately inconsequential. This bothered her, and she rather hoped that his opinion would change upon learning the truth, and that haughty look of disdain would be replaced with one of respect and concord. 

The old wizard continued, "we will bide our time, my dear. I see no reason to put you in that difficult position before it becomes absolutely necessary. Now, I shall summon Dobby and he will take you to the dungeons to collect your tonic." At these words Dumbledore snapped his aged fingers, and an instant later, the diminutive house elf appeared at his feet. 

"Good morning Professor Dumbledore, sir! Good morning Miss Eleanora! What is you wishing me to do?

Eleanora knelt to the tiny elf's level. "Could you show me the way to the dungeons, to Professor Snapes offices, please?"

The face in front of her placed at the mention of the potion masters name, gulped and whispered, "To the dungeons, Miss Eleanora? Why is you wanting to go there?"

Eleanora thought quickly. "I need to collect some textbooks to do some extra reading before term begins." 

The elf nodded resignedly, and set off down the corridor, pausing at the staircase to wait for the young woman behind him.

"I'll see you at luncheon, godfather!" She called behind her, then broke into a soft run to catch up with the elf.

* * * * * * * * * *

The air in the dungeon was still and chilled, a stark contrast to the warm breeze that had flown freely though the cloisters a few minutes before. Eleanora shivered, and pulled her sage green cloak tighter around her, rubbing her upper arms to dispel the cold.  

Dobby had brought her this far: She now stood alone outside the door to the potions laboratory. The elf had been reluctant to linger with her, and had shrilly made his excuses then run nervously back up the dark stairwell, leaving her standing unsure whether to knock or simply open the door. 

She hesitantly raised a hand, and made to rap it sharply upon the door, when it suddenly flew open in her face, the dark grain of the wood instantly giving way to the menacing spectre of the potions master, his cloak billowing behind him, a decidedly irate expression upon his ascetic face. 

The young woman started in fright, her hand flying to her chest to still her pounding heart. The man before her merely started at her unflinchingly, seemingly oblivious to her fright. 

"I," she began, her breath catching in her throat, "I came to collect my tonic," she managed to choke out, her breath now coming in short gasps, as her hart rate steadied somewhat. 

He continued to stare at her, his eyes expressionless and unmoving. For what seemed like an age they stood, facing each other in the dim light of the torch lit corridor, the silence thickening and stagnating around them. Finally he spoke, his voice soft, the resonant tones undulating around them. 

"You had better step inside."


	9. Chapter Nine

**_Chapter Nine:_**

Eleanora stepped though the door, which he held open for her, closing it loudly behind her, causing her to turn in mild alarm. She found herself once again the object of his scrutinising gaze, as she stood before him, unsure as where to look or what to do. How could this man put her so ill at ease with a mere glance? 

Sensing that the potions master was a man who evidently despised weakness, she straightened her shoulders, and stared squarely at him, returning his own intense gaze.

"The tonic?" she reminded him, her voice sounding stronger than she felt.

"Miss D'Souza, there is no need to repeat yourself," he drawled, his voice running like silk over her consciousness, one eyebrow curving in a derisive arch. 

"Well, I have things to do. If it's not ready, I can come back another time," Eleanora shot back, knowing full well that the tonic was ready and waiting for her. As she had predicted, this cavalier questioning of his skills provoked a tangible reaction. His hard eyes narrowed, and his pale lips thinned to nothing, as he swept across the room without another word, his robes courting the thick air of the dungeon behind him.

Eleanora stood, puzzled at this sudden movement. She opened her mouth to call after him, but was stopped by his own words:

"Are you just going to stand there Miss D'Souza, or are you going to come and get the tonic so that you can get back to your undoubtedly busy schedule?" His voice dripped with viscous sarcasm, and he eyed her coldly from across the room. 

She raised an eyebrow, and walked unhurriedly to where he stood at the door. She knew that the only way to fight this man was to use fire against fire, and she knew that she could give as good as she got. She inclined her head to his and gave him a wide smile, the curl of her lips too wide to be real warmth. 

"Oh, after you, Professor Snape, I insist." Her voice was honeyed, but the dulcet tones coated a streak of pure sarcasm, as hard and obdurate as his own. 

He flung open the door and entered the low ceilinged room beyond. Eleanora stared in wonder despite herself. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with deep shelves, all of which contained a huge assortment of jars, bottles and vats. Their intensely shaded contents glinted provocatively in the torch light, though she knew that to touch would be a very foolish thing, fearing the rebuke of the man stood next to her more than the contents of the bottles. She instead contented herself with gazing raptly around the room, her eyes wide with approval.

Though Potions was not to be her chosen area of further study, she still possessed a fervour and talent for the subject to surpass that of any of her former class mates at Beauxbatons. The choice of which areas to focus upon for her final years at Hogwarts had been an agonising one, her favour finally falling upon Transfiguration and Defence against the Dark Arts. She had been studying at Beauxbatons for three OWL's in various areas of the art of Potion making, and it was with great reluctance that she had chosen to cease her study of the subject at the end of the next school year. The sight of the myriad of bottles and jars absorbed her attention, her eyes dancing with interest as she surveyed the shelves. The store rooms had been well stocked at Beauxbatons but nothing to rival this treasury of ingredients, carefully laid out, each of the labels lovingly inscribed with a small, flowing script. 

So absorbed was she that she was not aware of the man at her side, glaring at her as he repeatedly intoned her name in a vain attempt to catch her attention. 

"Miss D'Souza!" Kindly drag your attention away from the pretty bottles for a moment!" 

His tone was patronising in the extreme, and she deeply resented the fact that he thought her to posses no more than an aesthetic appreciation of the contents of the shelves.

The scowl that scarred her features was one of pure fury as she turned to face him, and her voice, although quiet shook with anger.

"I would warn you, Professor Snape, not to make assumptions when it comes to me. I have not worked these past years to attain three OWL's in the art of potion making merely for it to be assumed by some uptight dogmatist that my interest in the subject does not extend beyond the pretty bottles as you so delightfully put it." 

Her tone was dangerous, and her eyes flashed with rage as she made her statement. He stood; his black clad arms crossed across his chest, and weathered the storm of her anger without so much as a blink of his obsidian eyes. His lips curled into a disdainful sneer as he made his cutting reply.

"If you have quite finished your little outburst, Miss D'Souza, I shall give you this and bid you good day." 

He handed her a tall, slim bottle with an elegantly tapered neck, filled with a rich chocolate brown liquid that seemed to burn with a hot, ebony intensity. She took the bottle and studied the label, swirling the liquid round inside. 

"_Felicia belladonna," she read. She looked up, her boiling anger having subsided, given way to renewed interest. _

"An infusion of wode root, if I remember correctly?" she asked. 

The potions master nodded. "Yes, the infusion is steeped then added to a solution of:"

"Asphodel and nightshade."

His eyebrow curled, this time not in derision but in surprise. The potion in question was an obscure one, and he was mildly impressed at her obviously thorough knowledge of it. However, he revealed nothing in his expression, hiding behind an expression of innate boredom as she continued.

"At what stage was the blood added?"

"After the first hour of simmering," he replied tonelessly to her engrossed questioning.

Her change in tack was puzzling, he thought to himself. A moment ago she had been spitting with rage, but now she was amicably conversing with him about the finer merits of brewing a glamouring potion. Truth be told, he reluctantly admitted to himself, he had been rather taken aback by her outburst. It was a rare occasion indeed that anybody dared retaliate to his sharp verbal bullying, let alone with such assurance and poise. Her mellifluous tones had reverberated around the cramped room; an acoustic mélange of gravel and honey, a suggestion of a French accent, no doubt another legacy of her mothers, rounding the backs of her words.

"Perhaps I could learn to brew it myself," she said, eyebrows raised questioningly. 

Snape replied with an arched eyebrow of his own. "It is a rather complex process, Miss D'Souza, I'm not sure that:"

"Yes, of course: I only like looking at the pretty bottles, right?" The sarcasm had returned in full force to her voice, her lips curled into a challenging smirk, daring him to provoke her further. 

He recognised the danger signs reminiscent of those that resounded in his own voice around the classroom, those same tones that reduced the lower years to a fearful quaking conglomerate beneath his piercing gaze. 

He swallowed the rest of his retort and took a deep breath. Engaging with this girl in a bout of verbal sparring was arduous to say the least, torn as he was between speaking his mind, and not wishing to be further subjected to her acerbic admonishments.  

She grinned, noticing his increasing discomposure, well hidden yet manifesting itself in the bands of flushed colour that painted his pallid cheekbones. She was used to reducing boys to a quivering heap in front of her, inadvertent though it was, but she knew that the professor's discomfort was not a result of her appearance, but from the realisation that in her he had met something of a match at least as far as verbal fencing matches were concerned.

"As you wish, Miss D'Souza," he countered wearily. "I have not the time to teach you right now, but if you wish, you may take the book containing the instructions to peruse at your leisure."

Eleanora nodded gratefully and followed him without comment as he swept out of the door, and strode back out into the classroom, pausing before a huge towering book case, loaded with all manner of tomes and jars which looked suspiciously like they contained pickled specimens. Eleanora wrinkled her nose in distaste and averted her gaze, letting it settle on the professor as he strove upon tip-toes to reach a particularly large and dusty grimoire, lying innocuously upon a high shelf. 

Though Severus Snape was a tall man, he had to stretch to his full height in order to reach the elusive volume, crowded as it was by an assortment of specimen jars and empty cauldrons. He reached as far as he could, and closed his slim fingers around the edge of the book. He gave a hard yank and the book slid off the shelf, bringing with it a bombardment of discarded cast iron cauldrons. He cursed loudly and instinctively raised an arm above his head to shelf himself from the lethal impact. Eleanora raised her own arm above her head and made to cry out.

But the awaited impact of several heavy cauldrons upon his skull never came. The room was deathly silent as Severus Snape raised his head in disbelief, and peered through his fingers to see the awaited cauldrons hovering just inches from his head. His obsidian eyes widened in incredulity, and he became of aware of the girl several feet away, her arm still raised above her head, one finger pointed at the hovering cauldrons, quietly muttering to herself with a look of intense like concentration on her face, her eyes narrowed to steely slits.

"I'd move for a second if I were you, "she intoned softly. He obeyed, too shocked to make a retort, and watched in total silence as she lowered the cauldrons gently to the floor, her concentration broken as they rolled around on the stone floor, softly clanging together.

She exhaled deeply, and closed her eyes momentarily. Upon opening them she found the potions master gaping at her, aghast, in barely concealed bewilderment. He raked a hand though his tousled hair, looked around as if for some explanation then strode to the empty fireplace, leant down and roared with enough force to shake the desks, 

"Albus! Get down here now!

****


	10. Chapter Ten

**_Chapter Ten:_**

****

His voice echoed around the cavernous room, his anger and incomprehension filling every dark crevice. Eleanora flinched as he turned around to face her, his eyes blazing with a strange mixture of hatred and what looked like fear. His mouth was clenched in a grim line, his lips pale and bloodless, and his hands were tightened into fists at his sides, as if itching to wrap themselves around his wand and curse her for her contravention. 

She licked her lips nervously, her own eyes cautiously surveying the livid man before her. A familiar voice insider her head wearily berated her for her foolishness. She'd only been her a day and yet was most likely to get sent back to Fudge in disgrace before lunch time. "Way to go, Nora," she mentally congratulated herself, her bitterness manifesting itself in an exaggerated rolling of her chocolate brown eyes.

"You find this amusing, Miss D'Souza?" shot the professor's voice, its frozen tones exhibiting no attempt to disguise the antipathy with which he now regarded her. One eyebrow hitched half way up his pallid forehead, as he stared at her vituperatively. She took a deep breath of the stale dungeon air before warily articulating her response.

"No, I don't find it amusing in the slightest, Professor. What I do find amusing, however, is the fact that I have been here only a day and already have managed to convince you that I am evil made flesh." She smiled penitently. "That's got to be some sort of record, even for me."

He opened his mouth, no doubt to make a cuttingly acerbic reply, but was interrupted by the slamming of the door against the cold stone wall, revealing the grave figure of the Headmaster to be stood there, his wizened face creased with concern. Snape whipped around to address the headmaster.

"Albus, were you aware that this girl could perform dangerously advanced wandless magic?" His voice was laced with danger, and reverberated with an underlying anger, though jutted in the presence of Dumbledore.

The old wizard sighed wearily, and passed a hand over his eyes. Eleanora regarded him with an apologetic look; guilty at having flaunted her godfathers carefully elucidated rules.

"Godather, I didn't mean to use it. The cauldrons were going to fall on him, I just acted instinctively!" Met by Snape's hateful frown, she continued,

"Of course, if I'd known you would have acted like this, I would have let them crack you over the head." She glared at him, her nostrils flaring in fury in the chilled air, her eyes radiating ferocity at the austere man whom she had, she thought, so erroneously saved.

Their glaring match across the scarred wooden work bench was abruptly ended by Dumbledore's quiet request,

"Severus, please explain what is the causes of your obvious discontent."

"Headmaster," he began, flipping back a veil of ink black hair from his eyes. "Miss D'Souza inadvertently, no doubt, displayed a suspiciously advanced aptitude for wandless magic in an attempt to prevent a fall of cauldrons." He indicated with a slim hand to the cauldrons that littered the stone floor, and turned his gaze back on Eleanora, though continued to address Dumbledore.

"Were you aware of this, Albus?" he asked pointedly.

"Yes, Severus, I was aware of Eleanora's powers," the older wizard replied simply. "I had intended on granting the girl some normality until the time came for it to be revealed, but it seems that time has come sooner than I had anticipated." 

Snape's already severe face hardened even more at the words of the headmaster.

"You mean to tell me that you knew of this yet did not think to inform me? This girl has displayed powers, the like of which are practically never seen, let alone in one so young, and you neglect to tell me?" The stony faced professor was practically roaring with rage, his hands raised above his head in the furious abandonment of his harangue. Eleanora stared with barely disguised fascination at the incensed professor, his usually cold, impassive facade blown away by the tumultuous and passionate force of his wrath. His obviously fiery temper was remarkably like her own, she mused, quick to rise and startling in its intensity, though she doubted whether his would be as swift to fade away to barely remembered annoyance. 

Dumbledore's voice was calm and steady, his placatory tones doing little though to appease the potions master who now viably bristled with silent fury. 

"Severus, please be reasonable. I did not keep this information from you in spite, merely in order to preserve Eleanora's security here for the meantime at least. At present, you are the only staff member other than myself to know this and I would appreciate it if it could be kept that way for as long as possible."

Eleanora, who had been silent throughout the angry tirades and calm entreaties, now spoke up, her melodic voice small and hesitant compared to the sonorous tones of the two men.

"Professor Snape, I apologise if I alarmed you. That was not my intention. Godfather, I'm sorry to have let you down. It won't happen again." She dropped her gaze, awaiting what would no doubt be a heated retort.

Dumbledore however smiled gently at her, lifting her chin in his cupped hand to meet her eyes. He looked earnestly at her, his own blue eyes a reflection of her own dark ones, grave yet gentle.

"My dear girl, you have not let me down. You have merely shown what I have known you to have all along; a brave spirit, not to mention a certain disregard for the rules." He winked at her, and turned to face the silent potions master at his side.

"Severus, you will know the whole story," he began, turning to his goddaughter. "With your permission, of course?" 

"Of course," Eleanora replied quietly, not daring to look at the professor for fear of the scorn his gaze might hold. She took a step back and perched upon one of the desks, needlessly absorbing herself in the arrangement of her robes neatly over her crossed legs.

"Eleanora is, as you know Severus, the daughter of Aloysius D'Souza. She has come to Hogwarts partly for her own protection, as she has in the past and undoubtedly will be in the future the victim of several thankfully unsuccessful assassination and kidnap plots." The old wizard cleared his throat and looked contemplatively at the young woman, now staring impassively at the floor.

"However, Eleanora is also at Hogwarts for a much greater and as yet, confidential purpose. You have already seen the extent of her powers with regards to wandless magic and she has exhibited an extraordinary talent for Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts, which the Ministry and her father feel will be best nurtured here at Hogwarts.  It is expected that after graduation Eleanora will be initiated into the Order of the Phoenix and begin her training as an Unspeakable."

Dumbledore paused, gauging the potion masters reaction, aware that Eleanora was doing the same, albeit from under a curtain of tousled hair which hid her curious face from the searching eyes of the professor she so warily studied. 

Severus' brows knitted together in a deep frown, a map of faint lines appearing upon his forehead, etching his meditation on his abstemious face. His eyes flicked over the girl innocuously sat upon the desk, now biting her bottom lip in uncertainty, still not meeting his eye. 

Of course, he thought to himself, he should have realised it before now. He should have been on his guard from the instant he saw her, revealed from the swirling miasma of ridiculous lilac smoke in Dumbledore's office the previous day. Her words, "I meant to apparate just outside your door – I was a couple of yards off obviously!" had resounded around his head as he had left the cluttered office, inexplicably sickened somewhat by the sight of their happy reunion. The very fact that she had been able to apparate into the school at all should have triggered the tolling of warning bells in his head, he thought irritably, angry at himself for allowing this girl to bewilder him with her little display. However, much as would like to dismiss her as a precocious show-off he knew that she had revealed something astounding and wholly significant. Struggling somewhat to collect his thoughts, he addressed the girl.

"You were able to apparate into the school yesterday despite the numerous anti-apparition charms in place. How so?" His tone was cool and gave no clue as to the clamouring suspicions hidden by the blank obsidian eyes now directed at her. She raised her head, her eyes half obscured by long sooty lashes meeting his, equally void. 

"I can break through most wards fairly easily," she replied levelly, "though those were more difficult than most."

Severus snorted to himself. She was talking about the strongest possible warding spells as if they were pathetic blocking charms conjured by first year students. Just how deep did these extraordinary powers of hers run?

"Just how advanced is your performance of wandless magic, Miss D' Souza?" he questioned further, walking slowly towards her, his hands tightly clenched behind his back. This was the stance that reduced first years to quivering heaps, the looming spectre of the fearsome potions master stalking predatorily towards them, the stuff of nightmares. However, she kept his gaze and replied evenly,

"I can perform all spells learnt up to seventh year at Beauxbatons wandless, plus some that are off syllabus, though it is not very often that I get the chance to use them." She spoke of her astounding abilities with a subtle trace of quiet conceit, her lips curling into a small smirk. 

Her smug confidence in the face of his coercion was disconcerting for the fearsome professor and he wondered how to best continue with his interrogation.  The look of calm overconfidence on her face painfully reminded him of the look which he had seen so often reflected upon his own face during his teenage years, the twist of arrogance which had played over his lips a near reflection of her own expression, as her eyes followed him closely as he paced the length of the class room. He felt the cold hand of trepidation clench at his innards and he found himself sincerely hoping that this young girl would not be led by her self-importance to choose the same cruel and treacherous path that he had.

He was ever mindful of the figure of Dumbledore at her side, silent yet he knew that any unnecessarily harsh questions would be silently reprimanded with a look of admonition. In the temporary lull of questioning, she spoke, cutting him off.

"I understand that you are a member of the Order?"

His eyes narrowed, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face. 

"And how exactly did you know that, Miss D'Souza?" 

She smiled tightly, noting the tone of suspicion and distrust in his voice.

"It's hard to grow up with an Auror for a father and not absorb at least some of what he says.

"Aloysius should know better than to openly discuss the Order with anyone who should ask," Snape replied, his eyes glinting dangerously as he thought of Aloysius, seeing, to his irritation, more of him than ever in the face of the girl sat before him.

She shifted her position and crossed her arms over her sage green robes, shining ethereally in the candle lit gloom of the dungeons.

"I'm hardly "anyone who asks," Professor. If I am expected to join the Order I can hardly be kept in the dark about it."

Snape smirked acrimoniously, his mouth curling to one side. 

"Yet you are happy to keep others in the dark, as you put it, with regards to your abilities?" he asked sardonically, relishing the look of frustration he got in return.

Dumbledore spoke up, sensing the tense antipathy brewing between the professor and the girl. 

"Now Severus, It was my decision to keep Eleanora's powers confidential. If you wish to blame anyone, kindly choose me, though I hardly think you can censure me to for merely trying to preserve the security and secrecy of what may come to be our best chance at defeating Voldemort? His words were heavily weighted and Severus seemingly understood, as he sighed wearily and turned back to Eleanora.

"I apologise for my reaction, Miss D'Souza," he said stiffly, his mendaciousness tangible as his words hung awkwardly in the thick air.

She surveyed him closely, enjoying his uncomfortable expression. He was evidently a man not accustomed to apologies, his pride an impenetrable wall that he had erected around himself, preventing anybody or anything reaching in or out, save a defensive barrage of sarcasm and cruel remarks.

"I accept your apology. I hope that in future we can exist on a more civil plane of conversation?"

His eyes narrowed, though he managed to smile tightly at her, with a slight nod of his head, a strand of soft black hair falling over one eye. He made no move to remove it, and Eleanora was, despite her antipathy for the man, filled with a compulsion to reach out and gently brush it way as she had at dinner the previous evening. Instead, she merely returned his tense smile.

"Something tells me it is almost lunchtime," said Dumbledore, in an obvious attempt to break the tension that had settled over them. "Shall we?" he asked, offering his arm to his goddaughter who took it willingly, in her eagerness to escape the oppressive gloom of the dark dungeon. 

"Severus? Would you care to join us?" the headmaster asked, only to be met with a shake of the head and a short "No, thank you, Albus," in reply.

As Eleanora and Dumbledore left the dungeon, Severus stood at the crack of the door, scrutinising the young woman, arm in arm with the headmaster as they ascended the staircase. Something about her still played upon his mind, and not with the hostility with which he had previously regarded her. He shook his head jadedly, and brought a pale hand to massage a throbbing temple. He needed a drink. With heavy footsteps he walked to his quarters, resigned to spending the afternoon in the company of a bottle of Ogden's, studiously ignoring the riotous tangle of thoughts that fought for attention in his aching head.

Thanks go to my buddy Bri (Lucky-11) for her review: Thanks dude! 

Also to Claribel for her invaluable advice – don't worry: Eleanora is certainly not perfect – she has a lot of flaws that you'll see more of quite soon – hey, that's in incentive to stick with the story, surely?


	11. Authors Note

Authors Note:  
  
I hope you're all enjoying this - I'm not sure how it's going down. I'd really appreciate some feedback so I can work out whether it's worth my continuing to post. Even if I don't get favourable feedback, I'll continue to write it, but I won't bother to post it, as there seems no real point if nobody's enjoying it.  
  
Thanks guys,  
  
Loveday Goodchild.. 


	12. Chapter Eleven

**_Chapter Eleven:_**

****

Dumbledore sighed tiredly, and stood up slowly from his creaking leather chair. Placing both hands on the surface of his desk, he attempted to reason with his, by now, very irate god daughter.

"For the god's sakes," she hissed at no one in particular, her hands raking roughly through her hair, the ends of which seemed to crackle with her tangible annoyance. "I get treated like a pariah by the very people I'm here to help! What the hell did he think I was?"

"My dear," Dumbledore replied in soothing tones, "Professor Snape meant no offence." He privately thought that this was highly unlikely, having many years of experience of the ever scathing potions master. "You can hardly blame him for being cautious, Eleanora."

She stopped her relentless pacing of his office and turned on her heel. Her godfather had as point, she supposed. Truth be told, she had to admit that faced with a practical stranger in her private quarters performing advanced wandless magic, she might have reacted in the same way. Though, she thought ruefully, she most likely would have cursed first, cared later, as was her habit in these matters.

Her brow furrowed in displeasure she started at the elderly wizard stood before her. "But you saw the way he looked at me," she said plaintively, her eyes clouding with what looked suspiciously like hurt. Dumbledore watched her closely, noting the melancholy sheen to her yes with interest. 

Curious, he mused. Eleanora very rarely let anyone bother her in that manner. She possessed, he knew, a very thick skin, that protected her from the jealous and hurtful comments that she was no doubt used to by now. Whilst she was generally the most genial of girls, he knew full well that there had been a number of girls and boys alike at Beauxbatons that had exhibited a marked dislike to her. Still, he thought with a small smile, never let it be said that Eleanora let anyone get the better of her. 

His mind wandered back to conversation with Aloysius that had taken place over a year ago. The younger man, used to regularly dealing with the scourge of the wizarding world, had been at his wits end at how to deal with his wilful teenage daughter. She had, he had been told used a particularly obscure curse to physically seal the mouth of a seventh year who had dared to insult her father, whilst passing her in the corridor. Whilst the curse was easy enough to remove, more difficult was the task of explaining to the school why exactly a third year student had been able to use such powerful and objectionable curse. Eleanora's verdict on the matter had been a distinctly unrepentant grin and a simple, "he deserved it. Maybe he'll think twice about insulting my family again, oui?"

****

Dumbledore shook himself out of his reminiscent reverie**to find that his god daughter had sunk into a deep velvet armchair, her hands now absent-mindedly scraping over the soft material. **

The barely noticeable trace of hurt in her dark eyes had vanished to be replaced by a mixture of acute dislike and animosity, no doubt, he thought, directed at Snape. He cleared his throat, and met her eyes as she looked up at him. 

"Eleanora, you cannot blame Professor Snape for reacting the way he did. I can assure you that his uppermost concern is the safety and security of this school and you must admit, a seventh year student performing such complex magic must have looked slightly suspicious to him." His god daughter nodded reluctantly, though he noticed her scowl remained as extreme as before. 

"He should know more than anyone, though, what it's like to be suspected wherever you go." This sudden statement, laced with a dry empathy escaped her almost unintentionally and she raised her head, her glare a little depleted as she awaited the elderly wizards reply.

She had known for a long time now that a professor at Hogwarts bore the Dark Mark. As she had said earlier, it's hard to grow up the daughter of an Auror without learning a thing or two. It had not taken a great deal of thought to work out who the Death Eater among the staff was. Ex-Death Eater, she corrected herself immediately. She knew and had no doubts about the fact that Snape had switched sides at the height of Voldemort's power at great personal risk to himself and has since proved himself to be a intrepid spy and for a length of time, a particularly effective double agent. 

Dumbledore nodded gently at the young woman. "I do indeed think that Snape knows that more than anyone, my dear. I also think, though you may be reluctant to hear this, that you two have more in common that either of you would wish to admit." 

One eyebrow raised in distaste. "With all due respect, Godfather, I have hardly met anyone who I would wish to be less like." 

Her voice was soft in the quiet stillness of the study, but the meaning was clear to Dumbledore. He sighed. He had anticipated from the start that the relationship between Eleanora and Severus would be an adversarial one, but at this present moment, it looked more like open warfare than respectful and workable truce.

Eleanor shifted uncomfortably in her chair, crossing her long legs underneath her lithe body. She had, she reflected not been entirely honest in her last statement. Whilst she resented his hostile attitude towards her and his almost rude antisocial tendencies, she had to admit a grudging respect for the man who troubled her so. She could scarcely imagine the amount of courage it took to lead a life bowing to two masters, forging loyalty where there was only hatred, and concealing true feelings, instead hiding under a mask of impassion and isolation. Even her father, who made no secret of his petty dislike of the man, talked about him in a professional capacity with unconcealed veneration and respect. 

"Are you going to tell the others now, godfather?" she asked. Dumbledore now seated back at his desk, shook his head, his beard swinging gently against his deep purple robes.

"I see no particular reason to as yet. Professor Snape will keep what he knows to himself as long as I wish him to, and so your security is not yet compromised.

She nodded in silent agreement and unfolded herself gracefully from the deep chair. "I'm going to go and check if my books have arrived now if that's alright?" She padded over to her godfather and hugged him warmly, all traces of her earlier discontent gone.

After she had left Dumbledore's office, she had lost her bearings somewhat. After having stood in bewilderment for a minute or two she looked around the empty corridor cautiously to make sure she was indeed alone then took out her wand from her robes and levitated it in front of her at chest height. With a deft flick of her fingers and a quick mutter of "_owlery_ locatiorum_" the wands spun gently in mid air, the tip eventually coming to rest pointing up a nearby staircase. With a satisfied smile, she pocketed the still air born wand and bounded up the narrow almost invisible staircase. _

After a few minutes more of corridor navigation, she arrived at a heavy oak door though which the muffled hoots of several lethargic owls could be heard. She turned the ancient handle and pushed open the door. The room was illuminated in the afternoon sunshine thought several large glassless windows. An assortment of owls perched on various surfaces, their half open eyes regarding her quizzically. Her eyes scanned the room littered with feathers and droppings. She wrinkled her nose as she crossed the room to a large package that sat upon a window ledge, tightly wrapped in brown paper. "For the attention of Miss Eleanora D'Souza" the label stated regally, the large ornate golden crest of Flourish and Blotts, shining magnificently on the paper. She lifted the package, then lowered it back down again with a thump. It was, she noted, rather heavy. Reaching back into her robes she once again produced the slim tapered baton of mahogany and proceeded to shrink the package to pocket size. Popping it in her robes along with her wand, her hand closed around a sheath of parchment. Deciding to write her father a quick letter as she was there, she transfigured a feather laying innocuously upon the floor into a quill then ensued to write. 

"Dear papa," she scribbled quickly in a large, expressive scrawl. "Have arrived at Hogwarts; I expect Fudge has already owled you to complain of my somewhat hasty departure. Don't worry about me; I'll be just fine here. Godfather is wonderful as are the other staff." 

She decided to censure the account of her run-in with Snape. 

"Will owl you as soon as term starts to let you know how I'm getting on. Take care and see you soon, Nora."

Folding up the parchment and addressing it, she lightly tapped the nearest bird, a handsome barn owl to rouse it. It studied her grumpily with ochre, orb like eyes then reluctantly stuck out a leg for her to attach the parchment. It flapped its wings then soared magnificently out of the window, soon disappearing into the afternoon sun. 

With that she left the owlery, taking care to avoid the conspicuous droppings on the stone floor. If she hurried, she thought, she could still catch the last rays of sun, stretched out indolently on the shore of the lake, the events of the morning hopefully forgotten. 

Thanks go out to Michelle, and the other reviewers – thanks guys! (Don't fret; Eleanora is no Mary Sue!)


	13. Chapter Twelve

**_Chapter Twelve:_**

****

The days had passed in a languid blur of relaxation and repost for Eleanora, punctuated by pleasant meetings with her godfather and lively and entertaining meals taken with the other staff in the Great Hall. They had, she was told by Dumbledore warmed to her immediately and Minerva McGonagall had eagerly and adroitly adopted the unofficial role of surrogate grandmother, much to the surprise of the other staff, who had long considered her an essentially frigid woman.

This congenial reception was extended by all but one, she thought stoically to herself, as she sat in the late afternoon sun of the ancient quadrangle the day before the return of the other students. She weighed the textbook she had been reading absent-mindedly from hand to hand, as she gazed into the dark cloisters, not looking at anything in particular. 

Damned fool, she thought to herself, her lips curling into a frown at the mere memory of the irate potions master. She had seen little of him these past few days, save the occasional meal in the Great Hall, where he had been resolutely silent and uncommunicative. The rest of the time, she supposed, he took his meals in his quarters. Antisocial git, she snorted gently, slapping the heavy book shut with a loud snap. Fury still smouldered within her whenever she recalled his angry, disdainful expression, and she resolved to douse the flames with a trip to the kitchens to get a glass of cool lemonade to see of the heat of the afternoon sun, which had left a gentle perspiration of iridescent droplets upon her skin. 

She unfolded her lithe form off the lush grass and brushed herself down. Today, she had been forced to cast off her summer robes in the sweltering heat and she stood now in a pair of muggle denim shorts and a khaki green ribbed vest that showed off her deep tan and tightly toned form to perfection. She set off across the lawn, swinging her arms carelessly around her, twirling as she walked, relishing her last hours of having the castle effectively to herself. Within a day it would be overrun by students of all ages, most of them also mourning the loss of their holiday freedom. That said, she was actually looking forward to their arrival. Though she was no stranger to loneliness she had often in the last few days wished that she was back in the company of her friends from Beauxbatons. She missed their easy raucous laughter and infallible sense of fun that was so much like own. Somehow without them, having the run of the school seemed like a wasted opportunity for endless fun and mischief making.

The dark coolness of the stonily shaded cloisters came as a welcome shock to Eleanora, and a delicious shiver ran through her body as she ran lightly down the silent corridor, her footfalls ringing out gaily after her. She looked forward to seeing the house elves again; many times she had tried to engage with one of the diminutive creatures to find out where Dobby could be found, but they always regarded her with their large blinking eyes and informed her gravely that Dobby had work to do and could not spend his time bothering her. She suspected that he would be in the kitchens and quickened her pace along the empty passage. She rounded a corner blindly and ran smack into an imposing spectre, clothed in black, a scowl of seething rage etched upon the harsh plains of his face. 

"Merlin!" was her startled exclamation as she fell back, rebounding off the unyielding figure, rubbing her nose gingerly where it had collided with the shoulder of the body stood before her. Looking up, her eyes widened and the pupils flashed with surprise.

"You!" she spluttered accusingly, regarding the austere professor now stood with his hands on his hips in what she assumed was meant to be an intimidating gesture. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Try looking where you're going next time maybe?" she expostulated hotly, still holding her nose which she felt threatened to bleed at any moment.

There was a moment of dangerous silence. The two tall figures eyed each other with innate hostility, two pairs of dark eyes meeting in soundless combat across the shadowy confines of the passage.

"If I remember correctly, Miss D'Souza," the professor began, never once breaking his gaze, in tones that implied that he did indeed remember correctly, "you ran into me." 

His statement was uttered in tones so dispassionate the Eleanora wondered whether the man had actually felt anything at all. From the way that her nose was so ominously throbbing, she assumed that his shoulder, however well padded with all that thick black clothing, had taken at least a small knock. 

She glared at him through her splayed fingers, very reluctantly conceding that he was right. 

"Alright, it was my fault," she muttered grudgingly and almost inaudibly, her skin crawling with prickly irritation at having to concede the point to this superior and supercilious man before her.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked in silky tones, his thin pale lips curling into a provocative sneer.

"I said," Eleanora replied louder this time, her voice brittle with irritation, "that it was my fault." 

An expectant pause ensued, the potions masters' eyebrow hitching up into a derisive arch.

"I'm sorry," she growled with a grimace, her hand balling into a tight fist at her side, whilst the other one alerted her to the delicate drip of her nose onto her palm which so tentatively cupped it.

"You are bleeding," Snape said his voice as dispassionate as ever. 

"No shit, Sherlock," Eleanora shot back acidly, muffled by the flow of blood that dripped steadily from her nose.

"Sherlock?" he questioned, his austere face momentarily clouding with uncertainty.

"Muggle literature," she replied absently, now fumbling inside the waistband of her shorts for her wand, tasking care not to tip her head back or forward.

For the first time, Severus noticed her rather scanty apparel. Despite himself he inhaled deeply and blinked rapidly, mentally chastising himself for his gratuitous reaction tearing his gaze up her golden body to rest firmly upon her face, resisting the temptation to once again flick his eyes up and down those finely shaped bronzed legs concealed only acres above the knee by reprehensibly brief shorts, whose waistband hugged her slim waist tightly, above which a deep green vest rode smoothly over her toned torso as she bent in search of something.

What in Merlin's name does se think she is wearing, he thought to himself, his face once again creasing into a well practiced scowl. "That's more like it," a voice in head echoed, daring him to further consider her lithe agile figure. "I will not," he answered silently in his customary exercise of thankless self denial.

"Why don't you simply forgo the wand, Miss D'Souza and treat me to another little display of wandless magic," he asked mockingly, the snide smirk back in place.

"Because," you arrogant git, she added silently, "I'm currently holding my nose with my casting hand, and much as the house elves love to clear things up, I think their enthusiasm might run dry at a pool of blood on the floor" Her voice was caustic to the last word and Severus silently admitted partial defeat. 

"Where, then, is your wand?" 

"Somewhere in the pockets of these," she muttered still fumbling around the shorts.

Gods, Severus thought, from the look of them there was no where for the wand to hide. He blanched at the involuntary thought and once again tore his gaze from the girl. He filled with electric irritation as his normally obedient mind, well trained by the years of self induced repression, conjured images of him obliging to help the girl before him find her wand in the scanty confines of those shorts.

"Please," he said gruffly, "allow me." 

He took out his own wand, an impressive baton of white cherry, thirteen and three quarter inches long, and looked at her questioningly, the subtle raising of his eyebrows prompting her to cautiously remove her blood stained hand from her still streaming, and by now rather swollen nose. She tilted her head up allowing the tall man stood in front of her to point the tip of his wands just inches from her nose and perform a delicate healing charm which almost instantly stemmed the bleeding.

Her breath came quicker as she realised just how close together they were stood in the gloom of the deserted corridor. His face was bent just over hers still slanting up slightly and his shallow breaths blew a gentle zephyr of surprising warmth across her flushed cheek. For one electric moment their gazes met. His eyes glinted like burning coals in the deep recesses of his face, and his breaths stilled.

Then in an instant it was over, his face torn away, leaving her slightly dazed, her own breathing shallow, and her heart racing erratically against her bruised ribs.

Avoiding the eyes that she knew would have been clouded by their customary indifference her fingers clasped around her elusive wand and she withdrew it, not daring to use wandless magic in front of him, feeling surprisingly afraid of any barbed comment he would undoubtedly see fit to deliver. With a minute flick of the tapered wand and a murmured incantation of _"sanguine disaparro," _she had cleaned the congealing blood from her face and hand. Fingering the wand nervously, she raised her head to meet the gaze of the potions master.

"Thank you….For stopping the bleeding," she said quietly.

He nodded curtly in reply, apparently feeling the same discomfiture with the situation that she did.

"I should be getting back to my rooms anyhow," she said, eager to remove herself from his line of sight and remove from hers the image of the man who she seemed unable to wrench her gaze from. 

As she made to side step the professor, he turned and said,

"You might require a cold compress for that nose to stem the swelling. The Infirmary is up the second staircase on the right. Good day Miss D'Souza."

With that he swept away along the corridor, his black robes billowing behind him casting ominous shadows on the stone walls in the dying rays of the blood red sun. Eleanora shivered involuntarily and rubbed her bare arms vigorously, though she agitatedly doubted that it had anything to do with the frigid gloom of the dark passageway.

Go on, make my day – Leave me a review!


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**_Chapter Thirteen:_**

****

Eleanora stared intently out of the window notched high up the castle walls. Her lofty vantage point afforded her an excellent view over the lake which was by now shrouded in darkness as the evening drew in. She had been keenly perched on the cushioned window sill for almost ten minutes eagerly await the first sight of the new students as they traversed the lake, the last leg of their journey back to school. She shifted impatiently never breaking her vigil, checking the imposing grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the room.

"Two minutes after the last time you looked, lassie. Remember, patience is a virtue." it intoned in an avuncular manner, its hands shuddering slightly as it spoke. 

Eleanora sighed and thought wryly to herself, "patience may be a virtue, but it sure as hell isn't my virtue."

To be perfectly honest with herself, she had little to feel virtuous about these last few days. Ever since her first meeting with the mordant potions master, she had struggled vainly to rid him from her thoughts. She thought him rude and unsociable yet could not shake the urge she had to somehow probe beyond that stony exterior. Of course, in is presence she had exhibited a marked dislike to the man, disclosing none of these irrational feelings, yet in the dark privacy of the cocoon created by her thick bed hangings she revelled in her thoughts of the austere man, torn between feelings of objection and some strange unfounded attraction that she was at an utter loss to explain. 

Their somewhat unfortunate conference in the corridor the day before had left Eleanora with a bloody nose and a mutinous tangle of thoughts to entertain. She had taken the professors advice and gone to the Hospital Wing. Poppy Pomfrey, the motherly medi-witch had clucked over her for the best part of an hour, seemingly absorbed more in convivial conversation than in treatment of her swollen nose. With an enchanted ice pack clamped firmly over her face, Eleanora had replied to the genial questioning as best she could, her words muffled behind the cold compress. When asked how she had obtained the injury, she had managed to choke out something about running into Snape. Hot prickles of embarrassment coursed though her every limb and her cheeks wore a bright blazon of colour as she recalled the wholly indifferent expression on his harsh face. 

Poppy had merely tut-tutted and muttered something incoherent as she gently lifted the ice pack off Eleanora's face. In response to Eleanora's quizzical expression she had elaborated,

"Professor Snape is a brilliant teacher, no doubt about it and an absolute expert in his filed, but he's a funny one alright. Never could quite make him out."

Eleanora merely nodded, not quite sure how to reply. At least, she thought, she wasn't the only one who had a hard time deciphering the enigmatic potions master. 

Suddenly, a host of tiny lights slowly winding their way across the lake drew Eleanora out of her reverie. She jumped up, an uncharacteristic flash of anxiousness gripping her insides. She frowned down at her self as if her apprehension were material then regarded herself in the full length mirror that adorned one side of the wall next to the bed. Her school robes were of ebony black, as was the rule, falling to just below her knees, covering her grey pleated skirt and a white neatly buttoned shirt. As a fifth year student she was allowed to forgo the grey knee-high socks and instead had decided upon a pair of sheer tights, the evening chill in the air warning her against the folly of bare legs. As she had not yet been assigned a house she did not wear the school jumper and the stark white of her stiffly pressed shirt collar shone against the deeply tanned planes of her face, now etched with anticipation and excitement. 

As the lights wound their way nearer the shore, she grabbed her wand from it's place on her bedside table and skipped out of the room, leaving herself plenty of time in which to arrive for the Sorting Ceremony. 

Minutes later, she arrived in the imposing entrance hall, now crowded with throngs of students, all chattering at the tops of their voices. She paused unsure of where to go and cast her eyes around the hall, surveying the many faces of her fellow students. Timid first years stood nervously in a far corner, staring studiously at the familiar face of Professor McGonagall. Eleanora's face relaxed in relief, and she wound her way though the pulsing crowd to her side. 

"Now, first years," she heard McGonagall say in her lilting accent, "You will file into the Great Hall where you will line up along the far wall. You will be called in alphabetical order to be sorted then you will go and join your allotted house's table. You all understand?"

The assembled first years nodded and Eleanora found herself nodding along with them. A small boy with a shock of strawberry blond hair smiled shyly at her and she smiled back, wondering if he felt as nervous as she did. The boy flushed deep pink and nudged the boy slouched next to him. McGonagall turned and suddenly noticed the tall girl standing quietly behind her.

"Eleanora, my dear, I expect you heard all that?" To her nod she continued, "If you go over there," she pointed to a small group of three friends stood conspiratorially in a corner, "you meet some of your classmates. In a few minutes we'll be going into the Great Hall. Tag along on the end of the first years and you'll be fine." She gave the young woman a kind smile and busied herself with removing her gaggle of first years from the aim of Peeves who was causing havoc with a muggle water pistol.

Eleanora, never losing sight of the three fifth years in the corner, silently pushed her way through the throngs of excited students. Upon closer inspection she saw that her assigned greeters were two boys and girl. One boy was tall, taller than her, and bore a head of vivid red hair and an open friendly face, blotched with freckles. He was deep in conversation with a shorter boy whose untidy black hair fell over his eyes as he spoke, obscuring his glasses somewhat. The third in their party was a petite brunette, whose long wavy hair was tied back in a neat braid and coiled tightly at the nape of her neck. Eleanora instinctively crept a hand around her own hair flowing loose down her back, which she had forgotten to braid in her earlier anxiety. She reasoned that it would have to do and she swallowed her nerves and walked over to the small group.

"Hey, sorry to interrupt, but Professor McGonagall waved me over here to meet you three. I'm going to be in fifth year." Her tone was bright and friendly, but her voice was tinged with nerves. Their conversation has abruptly tailed off as she spoke up and they regarded her with interest. The girl was the first to speak, glaring at the two boys for their lack of greeting.

"Hello," she intoned in a friendly voice. "I'm Hermione Granger and these two dunderheads are Ron Weasley and Harry Potter." The two boys made their greetings quietly, somewhat overawed by the dominant presence of Hermione.

"Ahh," Eleanora mused. So this diminutive boy was the famous Harry Potter. Her father had talked of the Potter boy though she had never seen him before. No wonder McGonagall had pointed her in his direction she thought shrewdly. 

"Hi. I'm Eleanora D'Souza," Her eyes sparked with interest as she looked at Harry. She wondered whether he had any idea of the existence of the Order yet, and mentally resolved to ask her godfather at the earliest possible opportunity.

"Ron, will you stop staring," Hermione snapped, her eyes narrowed at the gangly red head. 

"Sorry," he muttered, blinking his blue eyes hard. 

Hermione whispered conspiratorially "Face him with a girl and this is what you get. You'd get a more coherent response if you were a bludger probably." The two girls snickered and Eleanora felt an instant liking to the somewhat maternal girl. 

"You have a house yet?" Harry ventured, pushing his glasses firmly back up his nose.

"No, I'm going to let the Sorting Hat have a go," Eleanora replied, her smile widening into a slight grimace. 

"Better not be Slytherin," she added quietly, at the same time as the exact same words escaped the tall red-heads mouth.

"Jinx!" she laughed , as they all chuckled. 

"We're all Gryffindor" informed Hermione showing Eleanora the distinctive read and gold house crest emblazoned upon their jumpers. As she did so, Eleanora noted a large shiny gold badge pinned upon her regulation black robes.

"'Mione showing it off again," Harry grinned, as Ron mouthed "Prefect," and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. 

"You're turning out just like Percy, you are!" he taunted. 

She good naturedly stuck her tongue out at their gentle teasing and was on the verge of making a retort when Professor McGonagall voice rang out piercingly over the crowd.

"Will all first years and new students make their way into the hall, please?"

Eleanora smiled nervously at her new found compatriots and received reassuring smiles back.

"We'll keep out fingers crossed for Gryffindor" promised Harry, and Ron nodded, adding, "If you sorted into Slytherin we'll come up with an escape plot for you, don't worry!" She smiled back at them as she made her way into the Great Hall, the last student of the snaking line, standing conspicuously tall above the diminutive first years as she made her way to the far end and stood expectantly against the wall, waiting for her turn.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**_Chapter Fourteen:_**

Severus Snape sat uneasily in his high backed chair set at the far end of the staff table. His eyes wandered over the amassed student body, sitting in their houses at four long tables spanning the length of the Great Hall. His own house's table, adorned with banners and runners of emerald and silver conversed noisily, rudely ignoring Dumbledore's repeated calls for quiet. A shot of golden sparks erupting from the tip of the headmaster's wand brought about an instant hush however and the elderly wizard began his customary welcoming speech from his chair in the centre of the table.

"Students, I welcome you to another year at Hogwarts," his resonant voice intoned. "This year will be an uncertain one for many of us; the events of last term and the summer months have told us that much. The best we can do in the current situation is to carry on as normal, all the while hoping for and working towards a happy conclusion to this most unfortunate episode. Many of you will have questions that need answering, and I regret to say that I cannot provide all the answers that you so desire. However, this school has been and will continue to be a united community, and within our community I know that you will never find yourself alone."

The headmaster's searching gaze lingered upon the Slytherin table, where a great deal of nudging and smirking was going on. A blond haired boy leant over to his neighbour, a thick set boy with an out-grown pudding basin haircut, and whispered something to him, an unpleasant grin spreading over his pointed features. The pair snickered then turned the attention back to Dumbledore, still sneering nastily.

Snape frowned slightly at the discourteous behaviour of his house. At best, Slytherin were a dissentious pack of brats, most of them vastly over-privileged and under-disciplined. Malfoy was a prime example, he thought bitterly to himself. Though he undoubtedly favoured the boy in public, in private he considered him a thoroughly unpleasant young man, who bore a marked resemblance to his equally disagreeable father. His pale hands clenched under the obscuring folds of his robes as he watched Malfoy and his allies jeer at the headmaster's words, itching to slap the boy hard for his impertinence. That however, was something that he could never let himself do, so closely tied he was to Malfoy senior. The slightest hint of animosity shown to Draco would certainly result in a rather harsh retribution from his father, and he reflected, unconsciously running his slim fingers over his forearm, that was something he could do without. 

Dumbledore had finished his short speech and had sat down, giving the platform over to Professor McGonagall who set down a rickety looking wooden stool and unrolled a large sheet of parchment. 

"Antink, Camilla!" she called out to a now totally silent hall.

A tiny first year with long strawberry blond braids stepped out of line and walked nervously to the stool. She sat down, her legs swinging inches above the ground, and McGonagall carefully placed the decrepit old hat upon her head. A moment later it straightened itself out and raucously shouted "Hufflepuff!" A deafening cheer arose from he Hufflepuff table as the first student of the new year shyly took her place amongst her yellow and black clad housemates. 

Eleanora stood at the very end of the line, leaning herself against the rough stone wall, her eyes curiously surveying each new student with interest. She caught the eyes of Ron, Harry and Hermione, sitting in the midst of the scarlet and golden Gryffindor table and smiled anxiously at them. Harry gave her the thumbs up as the last of the first years were sorted, and she drew ever closer to he front of the line.

As she let her gaze linger on the platform, she caught the eyes of the potions master, sitting at the staff table, a bored frown etched upon his face. Their eyes met and once again Eleanora felt an almost imperceptible skip in her already racing heartbeat, as he glowered at her. She tore her eyes away and instead concentrated hard upon the remaining first years. 

However, Snape having allowed himself a small surge of satisfaction at his victory in their staring match, was unable to keep his eyes off her, standing as she was, conspicuously tall amongst the first years and radiant in the overhead glow of a thousand floating candles. The subtle shadows cast upon her face darkened her eyes and gave her face a depth that spoke to him of intrigue and enigma. He sighed inwardly and reluctantly turned to stare down at his as yet empty place setting. His eyes felt heavy and leaded from lack of sleep. He had tossed and turned for hours the previous night, his blood still simmering from his heated encounter with the girl hours before. He remembered how his breath had died in his chest as she had rummaged around the pockets of those scandalous shorts, and he chastised himself for the hundredth time, locking away the thoughts that he had no right to think, let alone mull over again and again the dark watches of the night, alone in his fire-lit chambers.

Dumbledore's voice rose again from down the table as he stood slowly and announced,

The next student to be sorted is Eleanora D'Souza. Miss D'Souza is a fifth year exchange student from Beauxbatons. As you know, exchange students have to choice of which house they are to be affiliated with, but Miss D'Souza has decided to place herself at the discretion of our Sorting Hat."

Eleanora felt her stomach constrict into a knotted rag as she stepped onto the low platform, the eyes of the whole school upon her. As McGonagall placed the musty smelling hat over her head, obscuring her gaze, she heard the low hum of whispered conversation running thought-out the hall. 

"Crikey," a sandy haired boy at the Gryffindor table muttered, his eyebrows shooting up into his untidy mop of hair. 

"Cop a load of that," the blond haired Slytherin smirked to his cronies, their faces agog in dumb fixation at the girl sat before them. A pug faced girl sat opposite him stared at her in intense dislike, her unattractive features creased with ugly antipathy.

Eleanora tried to block out the drone of voices and instead attempted to concentrate on the voice that now seemed to be coming from inside her own head. 

"Interesting," mused the voice, creaking with age, "very interesting. Another D'Souza for me to place. Your father was a born Gryffindor if ever I saw one; brave, loyal and fiercely independent."

Eleanora's lip curled into a slight frown as the hat extolled the many virtues of her father. "You're meant to be sorting me," she thought hotly, "not my bloody father."

"Well said!" laughed the voice loudly. "You've certainly got a temper on you!" 

The laughter faded into conspicuous silence, broken by the occasional pondering from the hat; "Bright" it asserted, "quick to act, not afraid of hard work, easily bored….My my, you are a tricky one. I'm at a bit of a loss to be truthful…Hmmm"

Eleanora suddenly became conscious that she had been perched upon the stool under the watch of the school for well over a minute now.

"What's taking so long?" she thought irritably to herself.

"Impatient too," the hat admonished. "Well, this isn't going to go down well at all, but I've got no choice but to sort you into:" It paused dramatically:-

"ARROWSBANE!"

A stunned silence descended over the hall immediately silencing the impatient whispers. Several mouths gaped open and other turned to stare at the house mates in confusion and bewilderment.

Eleanora tore the hat off her head, standing up suddenly, knocking over the unsteady stool. She stared at the now limp hat in her hands in bafflement, oblivious to the growing number of stares directed at her. She glanced over at her godfather who was looking at her curiously, his brow furrowed with puzzlement. 

"What the hell?" she mouthed at him, her burgeoning discomfiture painting two vivid flags of pink across her cheeks. 

Snape adjusted his posture, craning his neck to read the silent words formed on the girl's lips, the cogs of his mind whirring at extraordinary speed ruthlessly dissecting what he had just witnessed. An incident of this kind was unheard of, or at least had been until this girl had upset the system somehow. The Sorting Hat was never wrong, yet here it was placing a student, all be it an abnormal one, into a non-existent house. His thoughts were interrupted by Albus signalling for quiet once again and instructing McGonagall to take the hat from his god daughter. As she did so, she whispered something in the girl's ear.

"Don't worry dear, we'll sort it out and you can have another try." She smiled kindly at the flustered girl, before carrying the hat over to Dumbledore still seated at the table.

Eleanora felt supremely embarrassed, standing in the middle of the platform, the unwitting subject of the whole schools gaze. She caught the eye of Hermione who smiled encouragingly. She could not bring herself to return the smile and instead stared at her godfather who was waving his wand at the hat, positioned innocuously on the table.

When satisfied that he had corrected the fault, he handed it back to McGonagall who placed it once again on Eleanora's head. Almost before it had touched her, it screamed – 

GRYFFINDOR!"

After a second's uncertain silence the Gryffindor table erupted into boisterous cheers, Harry, Ron and Hermione jumping up from their seats to congratulate her as she eagerly vacated the platform and half ran to the sanctuary of her new house-mates, Hermione's friendly hug fending off the inquisitive gawping of the other houses.

As she sat down between her new friends, amidst a myriad of whispered greetings from the other students, she allowed her eyes to traverse over the staff table and to rest upon her figure of Professor Snape. He sat, she noted, strangely erect, his obsidian eyes boring into her, though she was certain he could not perceive her gaze from his distant position. A strange expression marked his face, a mixture of new found interest and curiosity. Her heart skipping at the thought of being caught mooning at him in such a manner, she focused of the rapidly materialising platters of food that were appearing in front of her, eagerly immersing herself in conversation to drive the thought of the potions master from her mind. 

*  *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *  * 

Worry not readers: All will be explained in the next chapter, should be posted in about a week's time. In the meantime, leave me a review! Go on, you know you want to!


	16. Chapter Fifteen

A HUGE thank you to White Raven for her reviews – Hail to the Queen of Snape/OFC fiction! 

Thanks go out to all the other reviewers as well – Keep 'em coming!

**_Chapter Fifteen:_**

Eleanora began to generously heap her plate with a vast and ill-matched assortment of food, and couldn't help laughing as Harry liberally sprinkled a brightly coloured assortment of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans over his own stacked plate. He grinned widely as Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust. Eleanora thought that she wouldn't be at all surprised if the girl chastised Harry for playing with his food. Much to her displeasure, into her mind flashed a hazy recollection of her own mother saying exactly that as an eight year Eleanora enthusiastically enchanted her peas to zoom at high speed into her gaping mouth. 

Pushing the somewhat poignant memory firmly out of her mindscape, she tuned in to the lively conversation just as Harry was defending his eccentric eating habits, insisting that strawberry cheesecake flavour candy complemented his steak and kidney pie perfectly. Eleanora hurriedly waved a hand of polite refusal over her own plate as he offered to "complement" her food in the same fashion. 

"Anyway," Hermione began, gesticulating somewhat dangerously near Ron's face with her fork. "What happened up there with the Sorting Hat?"

Eleanora paused, her loaded fork halfway to her mouth. Pausing, she laid the fork to rest, her dark brows knitting together in perplexity.

"To be honest, I'm not entirely sure," she replied, her eyes reflecting the puzzled looks of her friends. 

Ron face had taken on a strangely absorbed look, his mouth gaping open revealing the half chewed contents. Eleanora waved a hand in front of his face to the amusement of the others, awakening him from his reverie.

"Penny for them?"  she asked the red-head, now hurriedly chewing again.

"Penny for what?" he asked blankly.

"What were you day-dreaming about?" she asked again.

"Right, get this," he began, leaning inwards in a gesture of covert secrecy, motioning for the others to do the same.

"Last year, some nutter tampered with the Goblet to get it to proclaim Harry champion of some non-existent school," he stated, his voice hushed.

Eleanora remembered reading the article written by Rita Skeeter following the announcement and Fudge's angry tirades about the state of the "goings-on in that school."

"So," Ron continued, "what if someone's done the same to the Sorting Hat to get it put you in some imaginary house?"

Eleanora wrinkled her brow, almost instantly dismissing the feeling of slight concern that surfaced as she wondered whether they somehow knew about her and the reasons why someone might resort to such clandestine deeds.

"Why would they bother?" she replied shrugging her shoulders with feigned unconcern, "unless their goal was to prevent me from winning the House Cup?" 

She grinned impishly. "Might be a bit of a job all on my lonesome! Could always give it a go though."

They giggled at the thought of her amassing enough house points to win the cup all alone.

"I doubt that even 'Mione could swing that one!" Harry said.

Seeing Eleanora's quizzical expression, Ron elaborated,

"Hermione here is Hogwart's resident genius," he explained, as Eleanora smiled widely at a now blushing Herminone.

"There isn't a spell that we've been taught that 'Mione can't do," added Harry thickly, through a mouthful of mashed potato and conspicuously purple Every Flavour Beans.

"I'll know who to ask when I need some help with homework then!" Eleanora said cheekily, popping a chocolate biscuit into her mouth.

Seeing that Hermione was about to launch into an in-depth discussion of school work, Ron began hastily,

"But seriously, you have to find out what happened up there. Go and ask Dumbledore and he'll tell you."

"That is if he knows himself," added Harry darkly from behind a spoonful of apple crumble.

Eleanora replied lightly, "Oh come on. It's probably no big deal. I'll go and have a word with him but I bet the old thing just got confused. It is over a thousand years old after all."

Hermione ventured eagerly, "I could go and consult _Hogwarts: A history_ if you like. I've never read anything about Arrowsbane in there before, but it's worth a try."

Ron snickered into his hand, evoking an annoyed stare from the girl opposite.

"'Mione's philosophy: If in doubt, consult a book!"

Eleanora flicked her gaze from the laughing red-head to the irritated girl to her side. "Not a bad plan of action actually," she conceded, earning an approving glance from Hermione. "But I'll go and talk to Godfather – I mean Dumbledore as well."

Harry's emerald eyes widened to the size of his now empty dinner plate.

"Dumbledore is your godfather?" he asked incredulously.

Eleanora mentally smacked herself over the head with her palm for her slip-up. Her godfather had never actually told her to keep their relationship a secret, but she assumed that it would be easier that way, lest he be accused of favouritism or the like.

"Erm…Yeah," she admitted quietly. "But keep it to yourself will you? I'm not sure that it's something I want everybody to know about."

Reassured by their nods and sincere promises of discretion, she attacked her pudding with renewed vigour, keeping an ear on the animated conversation that now ensued between Harry and Ron regarding the up-coming Quidditch season. Whilst having no recollection of any of the county teams that they mentioned, she couldn't help giggling as Ron treated her and an extremely bored looking Hermione to a blow-by-blow account of something called a Wronski-Feint that he and Harry had been practicing over the summer. 

"You pull down on the front of the broom really hard, pick up speed as you drop altitude, then pull out at the last second, then the other guy goes smack into the ground!" he expounded flailing his arms in the air wildly to illustrate his point. One hand flung out to his side and smacked his neighbour full in the face, drawing a shout of pain and a stream of muffled expletives. Eleanora and Hermione watched in half amusement, half embarrassment as Ron attempted to placate the boy, who, Eleanora noted, also sported a head of vivid red hair.

"Watch it, you clumsy sod!" expostulated the red-head knocking Ron lightly over the head. 

"Sorry, Fred," Ron replied sheepishly.

The other boy looked at him reproachfully, his freckled face creased with hurt.

"George?" tried Ron again his eyebrows hitching up his forehead in surprise.

"Nah, only kidding you numbskull," the freckle faced boy replied grinning. "Merlin," he shook his head mournfully, "just my luck to get landed with such a dozy git for a brother."

Right, Eleanora thought, they were brothers. That explained the hair.

"Anyway," Fred changed the subject, "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" He greeted Eleanora with a wide smile and extended a hand across the table, knocking over a bowl of fruit in the process.

"Oops," he said, hastily picking up the upset fruit, "I guess clumsiness must run in the family!"

Eleanora immediately warmed to the friendly unaffected boy and shook the proffered hand firmly. Ron grabbed her hand as she withdrew it from Fred's and examined it closely much to her bemusement.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" she asked, an amused smile playing across her features as the boy turned her hand repeatedly over as if searching for something.

"Sorry," he replied, turning a dark pink colour as he noticed her mirth. "I just thought Fred might have used one of his Technicolor Handshakes on you."  

Eleanora stole a quizzical glance at Hermione who rolled her eyes and explained, "Fred and George, that's Fred's twin, are monstrous practical jokers. The Technicolor Handshake is one of the new tricks that turns your hand some bright colour for days, when one of them shakes it." 

She motioned across the table to a plump brown haired boy who was gripping a toffee apple with a shocking pink hand. "They got Neville on the train earlier. George says it won't wash off for at least five days."

Eleanora's face broke into a grin despite Hermione's reproachful expression as she recounted the tale. That was a stroke of pure genius, she thought gleefully. She leant across to get Fred's attention.

"Fred!" she called. "That was bloody brilliant!" She turned to the brown haired boy down the table. "No offence, Neville," she smiled. "How did you do it?" she asked, turning back to Fred who was now joined in conversation with a mirror image who she supposed to be George.

"I'm guessing you're George?" she asked with a wink.

"The one and only!" he replied," reaching to take her hand.

"No chance!" she exclaimed snatching her hand away, "I've got no desire to end up with a bright blue hand!" 

George shrugged reproachfully, "It would have been red actually. You know, house colours." 

Eleanora smirked. "But how do you do it? Is it a dying charm?"

The twins nodded and Fred piped up, "We combined a dyeing charm with a simple infection charm."

"Yeah," added George. "The first few tries were disastrous." We turned our little sister completely purple."

"Apart from the hair," interjected Ron, craning his neck to stick his tongue out at a petite strawberry blonde girl who sat at the end of the table. She retaliated by contorting her pretty face into a hideous expression, and then blushed a deep puce colour as Harry grinned at her, hiding her red face behind the collar of her robes. 

"Oh, that reminds me!" began Eleanora suddenly. "Where do I get my robes from? I didn't know what house I was going to be in, so I haven't bought them yet."

The four friends started in mild surprise as Professor McGonagall leant over the table at that exact moment, a large parcel in hand. 

"Don't worry about that, dear," she said, smiling warmly at Eleanora. "Your father took the liberty of ordering these for you. They arrived this morning." She handed the package to Eleanora who looked at it with slight distrust, one dark brow arching into an arch of surprise. 

The crafty old devil, Eleanora thought, her lips curling into a smirk. Not for the first time, she imagined his irate face if she had been sorted into Slytherin. That would, no doubt be a domestic spat not to be missed.

"Professor Dumbledore would like to see you in his office before breakfast tomorrow morning, by the way," she continued, her voice slightly hushed. Eleanora exchanged meaningful glances with her friends, but merely nodded acquiescently at the older witch, glad that the incessant chatter of her neighbours obscured any prying ears. 

McGonagall bent down and said in warm tones, "Congratulations, dear. You know your father would be very proud." Eleanora inwardly groaned, doomed to be forever her father's daughter, but smiled graciously at the house mistress all the same.

As McGonagall walked back towards the staff table, Eleanora began divesting the parcel of its paper. She had to suddenly catch a hold of herself as she absent-mindedly raised her left hand intending to snap the thick cords with a simple wandless incantation. She instead awkwardly turned the stray gesture into an attempt to secure an errant piece of hair behind her ear, looking cautiously around at the others in case they had noticed anything amiss. Seeing nothing awry she continued to rip off the paper revealing a set of beautiful blood red and gold Gryffindor dress robes. Their heavy silk brocade ran fluidly over her fingers as she pulled them free of their brown paper constraints and the gold caught the flickering light of the suspended candles magnificently. Further rummaging around the parcel revealed a set of regulation black robes embroidered with the Gryffindor crest, a thin trim of scarlet and gold running sinuously around the neck, hem and sleeves. Eleanora wrinkled her nose in surprise as she pulled free the final garment, a set of Quidditch robes. 

"Oh for Merlin's sakes," she expostulated exasperatedly. "What the hell do I need Quidditch robes for?" She frowned down at the puddle of scarlet material upon the now magically cleared table. 

"Hang on," said Ron, reaching down under her chair. "There's a note." He handed the folded parchment to Eleanora who cracked open the seal and unfolded it. 

_Dear Nora,_

_Glad to hear that you have settled in well. I received an incensed Howler from Fudge, but have managed to placate him_ _with promises that you will be staying Hogwarts in the mid-term. Don't ever go running off like that again, or I'll have Albus place a tracking charm on you like we did when you were a child. I ordered some robes for you and I hope that the colours are suitable."_

Eleanora snorted indelicately, provoking puzzled glances from her friends. "Just something my father said," she said by way of explanation. 

_"I will endeavour to visit you at mid-term. Until then, behave yourself and please don't get into any trouble. Any complaints will go directly to Fudge and I feel another shock like that will give the poor man a coronary._

_Loving regards, _

_                         Papa._

_P.S The Quidditch robes are mine from when I was in my last year. I thought you might be able to make use of them and get the name of D'Souza onto that cup for the second time._

Eleanora stuffed the note into a pocket of her robes and looked up at her friends who were getting up from their seats. They were almost the last students left in the hall, as the other houses had retreated to their common rooms for the night. She gathered up the cumbersome bundle of robes and manoeuvred her slim form out from the table. As the four turned to leave the Great Hall, she caught the eye of her godfather, still seated at the head of the staff table. He nodded at her, his twinkling eyes bright in the distant shadows.

Her dark eyes unconsciously swept the gloom, seeking out the stern face of the potions master that had plagued her thoughts all through the meal, but he had already, unbeknownst to her, swept imposingly out of the room straight after the meal, evoking terrified glances on either side pausing briefly at the door to shoot a venomous glance at the figure of Eleanora, bent deep in conversation with Harry, Ron and Hermione, a mirthful laugh rising from the table. His jaw had clenched, and his lips had pressed tightly together in a pale slash of poisonous disproval. Though if Eleanora had looked up from her vigorous conversation she would have met the gaze of the austere professor, his obsidian eyes shadowed with what looked inexplicably like disappointment, his face, almost ethereally colourless in the waning glow of the candles that grew low in the starry depths of the enchanted evening sky. 

However, she had not looked up, had not raised her eyes to his and had not seen the way in which he looked at her, though if she had, he thought bitterly to himself as he slipped out of the doors into the empty entrance hall, what good would it have done?


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**_Chapter Sixteen:_**

The alarm clock jumped suddenly to life, clattering vociferously on the lacquered surface of Eleanora's bedside table. 

"Get up, Eleanora! Get up! Quick! No time to lose! Get up!"

A slim hand shot from underneath the heavy bed clothes and pointed a finger at it, cursing the interruption of her deep sleep. 

"Jeez, "the disjointed voice muttered. "Remind me never to charm an alarm clock again." 

The clock shuddered into silence and the hand withdrew under the warmth of the blankets once again. Eleanora slowly opened one eye, then the other, blinking in the early morning sunlight that filtered into the dormitory though the cracks in the velvet curtains. She stretched languorously; curling her lithe arms above her head in a feline manner, then threw off the bed clothes and jumped off the bed, taking care not to wake the others, who still slumbered peacefully. 

She grinned at Hermione's prone form, one hand still curled tightly around a book that she had fallen asleep reading. How they had managed to sleep through that wretched alarm was beyond her, but she was glad that she had no need to field questions from her room mates about why exactly she had woken at such an un-godly hour of the morning. 

Padding in bare feet to the shared bathroom she shot one last look at the clock. 

Six o' clock. 

That left her an hour to get ready before leaving for her godfather's office. She gently shut the bathroom door, then as an afterthought sealed the doorway with a silencing charm. She doubted very much that the others would welcome the interrupting sounds of running water pervading their sleep. 

True to his word, her godfather had immediately arranged for all her belongings to be brought up by the house elves to the Gryffindor firth year dormitories. She had followed Harry, Ron and Hermione back through the cavernous corridors and mischievously moving stairwells to the portrait hole of her new common room, and then suddenly remembered that all of her things were still in the room allotted to her on her arrival a week before. Having decided to call for Dobby, she had stepped through the portrait hole, bidding a greeting to the Fat Lady, to be greeted herself by a loud voice exclaiming,

"Bloody hell, girl! How many suitcases did you bring?"

The voice emanated from a tall black boy standing over her motley pile of luggage. His dreadlocked hair shook animatedly as he surveyed the mountainous heap with amusement. 

"Bloody women," he grinned, shaking his head at Eleanora. "Hi, I'm Lee."

Eleanora shot a quizzical glance at her cases, then turned to shake the boy's hand.

"Where did my stuff come from?" she asked him bemusedly.

"The house elves apparated it here just as you came in though the portrait hole," Lee explained. "Practically appeared on top of me!" 

Eleanora grinned. "Well, I better move this lot up to the dormitory then." She turned to Hermione who stood behind her talking to a stunningly pretty Indian girl.

"Hermione? Could to show me to our dormitory please?"

The brunette smiled and nodded, and motioned to the girl stood beside her. 

"Eleanora, this is Parvati, she's in our dorm as well."

Eleanora smiled widely at the girl. 

"Do you want some help with your stuff?" asked Hermione, eying the pile of cases and trunks.

"That would be smashing," Eleanora replied. 

She felt a slight irritation that she couldn't apparate them into the dorm herself and save them the trouble, but she might have a hard time explaining to the gathered students why exactly a fifth year was able to apparate not only herself but a large assortment of luggage inside Hogwarts boundaries no less.

* * * * * * * * *

Eleanora had wasted no time in unpacking and smiled happily to herself as she saw her toothbrush sitting alongside those of her room mates. She shared a room with Hermione, Parvati Patil, (who had proved to be an authority on hair straightening potions; a useful ally for Eleanora,) Lavender Brown, an effervescent blond and Sally-Anne Perks, a quiet red head. She had immediately warmed to her room mates and felt instantly at home in the large circular room that served as their dormitory, dominated by five imposing four posted beds, each hung with vivid scarlet and gold drapery. The walls next to Lavender's bed were plastered with muggle posters, the same chiselled face staring moodily out into the room from each one. Eleanora and Hermione had barely been able to restrain their giggles when Lavender had devotedly planted a kiss on each poster before jumping into bed the night before. 

"He doesn't even move for Merlin's sakes, Lavender!" Eleanora had replied when asked by the blond girl if her poster boy wasn't the most handsome man she had ever seen.

"And he's so…bland," added Sally-Anne quietly

"Yep; give me a distinguishing feature any day," finished Eleanora, smoothing her clothes as she put them away in the solidly carved bureau at the side of her own bed.

Lavender could keep her poster boy, thought Eleanora to herself as she vigorously brushed her teeth, frowning faintly at their slight crookedness. Whilst Lavender's dreams had no doubt been filled with images of the chiselled wonder, her own had been a subversive concoction of the austere face of the potions master, pervaded with the coal black gaze of his fathomless eyes. Her dreams had left her on edge, a feeling of nervous anxiety waltzing in the pit of her stomach, and she tried in vain to dispel the tangle of thoughts that crowded her mind as she tried equally unsuccessfully to work a brush through her tousled hair. 

Throwing a gaze back at the locked door, she shiftily pointed a finger at the knotted mane and muttered the well practiced spell. Her hair was transformed into a sleek stippled spill and she hurriedly braided into a thick plait, thanking the gods that this particular mirror could not talk.

Her morning toilette completed, she carefully unlocked the door and walked over to her bed. Hermione, one eye open, smiled unfocusedly at her, but the other were still fast asleep, Sally-Anne snoring delicately. Eleanora grinned back and grabbed her school uniform which she had draped over the foot of her bed the previous evening. She pulled on her shirt and skirt and but tied her scarlet jumper around her hips as the day promised to the warm. Flinging her robes around her shoulders and hoisting her well worn leather book bag across her body, she grabbed her wand and whispered a goodbye to Hermione, promising to see her at breakfast in an hour's time.

The common room was deserted; the only sounds a muted symphony of decidedly indelicate snores coming from the boys dormitories and the weak protests of a charmed book which had been carelessly left flung open on the floor. Eleanora stooped, picked up the book and placed it, closed, upon the low table in front of the scarlet over stuffed armchairs, then decidedly ungracefully half clambered, half fell out of the portrait hole.

"Morning," she whispered to the Fat Lady, finding her feet again, her reply a disgruntled look at having been unceremoniously woken at such an early hour.

She set off down the silent corridors, enjoying the still tranquillity of the castle at rest. The portraits along the walls reverberated gently with snores and even the valiant Sir Cadogen had found time for forty winks, slumped up against the ornate gold frame of his pasture. 

Lightly jumping a leisurely moving staircase, Eleanora found herself in the corridor outside her godfather's study. She checked her watch. Thirteen tiny hands spun round, the longest one lingering on the number seven. Eleanora silently congratulated herself on her good timing. That left her one hour exactly before breakfast to hear the explanation for the previous night's debacle. 

However, she had not anticipated the time it would take for her to work out the password to her godfather's enchanted staircase. The last time she had entered his rooms, it had been by an imprecise apparition spell and she ruefully admitted that she had no idea what the password was. Although, she pondered, given her godfather's sweet tooth……

"Toffee cluster?" she whispered hesitantly.

Nothing.

"Fizzing Whizbee?" 

Still nothing.

"Hmmm…..Chocolate Frog?"

The stone stood resolutely still.

Eleanora wracked her brain.

"Blood flavour lollipops?" she tried, wrinkling her nose at the thought.

"Oh certainly not, my dear," a voice behind her said.

She whipped around to face her godfather, standing with a look of distaste on his face. 

"Rather an acquired taste, blood flavour lollipops," he mused. "Still, each to their own."

He stepped in front of her and whispered to the head of the phoenix that guarded the staircase, "Tooth-flossing Stringmints."

The staircase grumbled to life and the phoenix began to grate upwards, the sound of enchanted stone filling the empty corridor. Dumbledore leapt nimbly onto the step and extended a hand to his goddaughter who followed throwing a backwards glance down the corridor to check that she had not been seen. 

Dumbledore motioned for her to sit down in the chair opposite his own. He sat down and conjured a tray of coffee. He raised his bushy eyebrows in question and Eleanora nodded. A steaming hot cup of black coffee appeared in her hand ands she settled back into the cushioned depths of her chair. 

"I expect you want to know what happened last night?" Dumbledore began.

To Eleanora's eager nod, he replied, "It took me a while to work it out, I must admit. At first I, no doubt like you and your new found friends, jumped to the conclusion that someone had deliberately befuddled the old thing." 

Eleanora, for the thousandth time in her life wondered how it was that her godfather seemed to know everything that went on, as if it had happened right before his very eyes. However she remained silent, sipping her coffee gratefully.

"However," the elderly wizard continued, "that was not the case. Professor McGonagall and I have performed extensive revealing charms upon it and Professor Flitwick has subjected it to some rather intense revelation spells. He nodded to the hat perched upon the shelf in its usual place. I fear it will take the old thing quite some time to recover."

Eleanora ventured a small grin. 

"The hat was not interfered with in any way then?" she asked.

"It seems not," replied Dumbledore. "I should probably start from the beginning," he mused to himself.

"When the school was founded, there were five founders," he explained, his cool blue eyes surveying his god daughter searchingly.

"The four, you know about; Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor and of course," his blue eyes darkened momentarily, "Salazar Slytherin. However, there was a fifth founder, Artemisia Arrowsbane. Shortly after the founding of this school, she and Salazar Slytherin encountered, how shall I put it, a difference of opinions. Salazar, of course felt that only pure blood students should be accepted into the school, whereas the other four felt that anyone who exhibited an interest and aptitude for magic should be allowed to learn. Whilst the others were able to overcome their differences with Salazar, Artemisia felt that she was unable to affiliate herself with such a man. She left the school shortly after."

"And took her house with her?" Eleanora asked.

"No, for many hundreds of years the house of Arrowsbane still existed. But gradually the number of students sorted into the house grew smaller and smaller until no Arrowsbane students remained at Hogwarts."

"So they just closed the house?"

"No, no official closure ever took place, and the last student to be sorted into Arrowsbane left the school over a century ago."

Eleanora mulled over what she had heard, before asking, 

"Why does no one ever get sorted into Arrowsbane now?"

Dumbledore stared into his half empty cup, as if the answer lay at the bottom engraved onto the delicate china. He set the cup down onto its saucer with a sharp tinkle and gazed at his goddaughter with clear blue eyes.

"The qualities that set an Arrowsbane apart from the other four houses are quite extraordinary."

Eleanora's forehead creased with thought.

"Arrowsbane had produced more Unspeakables then the other four houses put together in the last five centuries. Do you understand?"

Eleanora hesitated before articulating a response.

"You mean that Arrowsbane is the house you get put in if you have really strong magical abilities?"

Dumbledore nodded. "You see my dear; it is truly your rightful house."

Eleanora's eyes narrowed at her godfather. The crafty old weasel, she thought.

"Yet it was hardly on my head when it yelled out Gryffindor the second time." 

Her tone was light and trivial, yet Dumbledore instinctively understanding the meaning of her words shifted somewhat uncomfortably in his chair. 

Hurriedly changing the subject he asked his goddaughter, still staring at him across the desk through narrowed eyes, "More coffee my dear?" 

She held out her cup yet pursued her line of questioning, inwardly guffawing at the elderly wizard's guilty expression. 

"Why do you think it put me in Gryffindor straight away the second time if I was mean to be in Arrowsbane?"

He regarded her cautiously for a second, then seeing the mischievous glint in her eye, dropped his gaze and admitted sheepishly,

"All right, Eleanora. I charmed the hat to sort you into Gryffindor the second time. I couldn't prevent it from saying Arrowsbane again, so I simply made it say Gryffindor. Forgive an old man his deception?"

Eleanora smiled smugly. "Thought so. Well, my father's right; it's probably the best place for me. And yes, you're forgiven, though a lemon drop might sooth me a little as well." 

She grinned cheekily and nodded pointedly at the glass bowl full of lemon yellow candy on his desk.

Returning her smile he pushed the bowl across to her and she took a handful, dropping them into the pocket of her robe. 

"One question though," she said, rolling a tart lemon drop around her mouth. 

"Why isn't there anything about Artemisia in _Hogwarts: A History?_"

"Because soon after Artemisia parted company with the other founders she become what we now know as an Unspeakable. Back then they were called Saturnines, because of the relationship of their powers with the cycle of the moon of Saturn."

To her mystified expression he continued, "You may have noticed that your powers wax and wane at certain times of the year?"

She nodded tentatively. 

"Anyhow, in the grand tradition of Unspeakables, all records of Artemisia were destroyed, leaving her free to carry out her duties undetected and untraced. Hence no mention of her in the book or any book for that matter."

Crunching her candy loudly, Eleanora said candidly, "That's just great. I have a life of anonymity and lack of identity to look forward to! Lucky old me."

Her godfather sighed and stared at her, meeting her confrontational chocolate gaze face on. 

"We all have things we must do, my dear. This is what you must do. Do not fight it."

Eleanora rolled her eyes, but grudgingly admitted that her godfather was right. As always.

They sat in companionable silence, punctuated only by the sounds of crunching that emanated from Eleanora. Suddenly that imposing grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the room tolled resonantly, it's tenor peal startling Eleanora who had sunk into deep thought.

"Breakfast time!" announced Dumbledore, rubbing his gnarled fingers in glee. I do so hope that it's bacon this morning."

Eleanora grinned and suddenly became aware that she was rather hungry.

She grabbed her book bag and another lemon drop and leapt out of her chair. She hugged her godfather and called out as she strode to the door,

"First day of school! Wish me luck!"

Dumbledore smiled to himself as she door shut behind her. 

"Good luck my dear. Though I doubt that you will need it."

* * * * * * * * *

A question for you guys to ponder: Is Blaise Zabini a girl or a boy? It was never revealed in the book and consequently there seem to be two distinct camps. He/she will be making an appearance sometime soon and it doesn't make much difference whether he/she is male or female. If you have a distinct preference, tell me in a review and I'll go with the majority. Wouldn't want to upset any male/female hardliners out there!


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**_Chapter Seventeen:_**

Eleanora sat down heavily at the Gryffindor table, flinging her book bag on the stone floor by her feet. Harry and Ron were already seated and were between them demolishing a large platter of bacon and scrambled eggs.

"Good morning!" she greeted them jovially, pouring herself a glass of orange juice.

Ron looked up from his rapidly diminishing pile of breakfast, his face glum.

"Is it?" he asked tonelessly.

Harry punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Come on Ron. It's not that bad." His only reply was an unconvinced snort through a mouthful of bacon. 

"What isn't so bad?" asked Eleanora, taking in a mouthful of juice.

"Ron's just looked at his timetable for this year," Harry explained gesturing to a roll of parchment lying on the table in front of him. "He's got double potions with the Slytherins first thing this morning."

"Again!" expostulated Ron miserably, spraying morsels of half chewed toast over the table. "Sorry," he muttered, wiping the crumbs off the parchment.

"You'll have to enlighten me," Eleanora said, helping herself to toast, "I understand the whole aversion to the Slytherins, but what's so awful about Potions?"

Harry and Ron exchanged dark looks.

"You've obviously never met Professor Snape," Harry said. 

"Not that you'd want to!" added Ron, making a face. "Crabby old git!"

Eleanora wrinkled her brow, hoping that her face showed no sign of the back flip that her stomach executed at the mere sound of his name. 

"He's not that bad," she countered in what she hoped was a casual tone. "A bit temperamental perhaps, but hardly an ogre."

"More a vampire," finished Ron. "That's what the lower years say anyway. That's why he hides out in the dungeons all day."

Eleanora quirked an eyebrow. The students obviously had no idea of Professor Snapes more clandestine activities, she thought, chewing contemplatively. If they did, they feel a little differently towards their irritable potions master. However from the inconsolable look on Ron's face, nothing short of a mass cull of Slytherins, their housemaster included would solve his problem. 

The contemplative silence that had fallen over the three was broken by the sound of Hermione's cheery greeting.

"Hello, you three! All ready for the new term?"

Harry and Ron both groaned. 

"'Mione! You ask that every year and every year we feel like gagging you with the sleeve of your robe."

Hermione huffed and sat down next to Eleanora who smiled cheerfully at her. Whilst the two boys were obviously not looking forward to the new year she was rather excited, truth be told. Even the possibility of double lessons with the Slytherins couldn't dampen her good mood.

At Hermione reached for the coffee pot, two scrolls of parchment, tied with a scarlet ribbon materialised on the table in front of them. Eleanora lay down her toast and picked it up, frowning as she left buttery finger marks on it. Wiping her fingers on the linen napkin to her side she unfolded the scroll.

"What have you got first thing?" asked Harry.

"Double transfiguration," replied Hermione and Eleanora simultaneously, their eyes roaming over their weekly schedules.

Eleanora caught a glance of Hermione's timetable. It seemed to contain far more lessons than her own and she shot her a quizzical glance.

"Gods, are you doing classes enough for two people or something?"

Hermione shook her head and pointed to the crowded timetable. "It's not that bad if you look. The extra arithmancy takes up a lot of time but I dropped muggle studies so it sort of balances out."

Eleanora looked closely at the girl's scroll.

"Hang on, you're meant to be in potions at the same time as ancient runes," she pointed out looking up at Hermione. "How the hell do they expect you to do that?"

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione. "Go on, you can tell her, can't you?" he asked quietly.

"Tell me what?" asked Eleanora in the same hushed tone.

"They gave me a Time-Turner in my third year," Hermione explained quietly, "so that I could do all my classes."

"Wow," breathed Eleanora, "Gods, no one in their right minds would ever trust me with a Time-Turner! You really must be a genius!"

Hermione blushed and began stirring her coffee with interest, as Eleanora turned back to her own timetable. Double transfiguration was followed by double DADA, then a break for lunch, then double potions then:

"DOUBLE DIVINATION?" 

Eleanora practically choked on her toast as Hermione slapped her back vigorously. Slurping down a mouthful of coffee, she expostulated loudly,

"I hate divination! I thought I was rid of it when I left Beauxbatons! The teacher there was an utter quack and it's all just a load of bloody nonsense!" 

The Gryffindor table went rather quiet as they all turned to look at the irate Eleanora who looked helplessly at Harry and Ron for some sort of solution. 

"Professor Trelawney is a marvellous teacher," gushed Lavender from the other side of a startled Ron, leaning over him in her enthusiasm.

"She's the real thing you know," she continued her eyes shining with adoration.

Eleanora wrinkled her nose, though smiled contritely at Lavender all the same.

"Yeah well, I guess I'll find out this afternoon." Turning back to the others, she asked, 

"She's a loon right?"

"Who?" Harry grinned, "Lavender or Professor Trelawney?" 

"Both of them if you ask me," muttered Ron darkly.

"Professor Trelawney is an utter fraud," said Hermione dismissively. "She spends all her time deciding which way Harry is prophesied to die next."

"Last time it was by being gored to death by a Hippogriff," Harry explained his voice heavy with mock reverence. 

The four laughed loudly gaining an injured stare from Lavender.

"Anyway," Ron asked, "We've got an excuse. Why do you hate it so much?"

Eleanora snorted indelicately. "Bloody waste of time isn't it?" she said quietly so as not to provoke another awed defence of the subject from Lavender.

"I'd rather focus on the here and now," she continued, "as opposed to the far off and quite frankly far fetched." She bit into her fourth piece of toast with an air of finality.

"Still," concluded Ron, "You've got us with you so it won't be that bad."

"Plus, you never have to do any real homework," added Harry.

"I'll just make it all up," shrugged Eleanora, "Not like it'll be any less accurate!"

"Well, that's what we've done for the past two years," said Harry, grinning at Ron. "Just make it as grim as possible and the old bat's too over the moon to notice that you've been run over by a bus twice in the same month."

"Are any of you in my potions class," Eleanora asked, changing the subject as the issue of divination was making her blood boil. "First thing after lunch?"

"Is that the advanced healing class?" asked Hermione.

Eleanora nodded.

"Then yes," Hermione answered after consulting her timetable.

"How come we don't have that?" asked Harry. "Not that we mind obviously," he added hurriedly as he glanced around as if scared that someone was going to come and assign the extra class to him.

"It's an extra OWL," Hermione stated loftily as she rummaged around her school bag. 

"You mean you actually chose to spend more time with Snape?" Ron gaped, regarding the two girls as if they were dangerous convicts.

Eleanora dearly hoped that she was not blushing because once again her heart was performing a rather elaborate drum beat against her ribcage. 

"Get a hold of yourself, you mooning idiot!" she inwardly chastised herself, gulping down the dregs of her coffee in an attempt to kill the troop of performing acrobats in her stomach with caffeine overload.

"Anyway," said Hermione pushing back her chair. "We had better get going. It's a bit of a trek to the transfiguration classroom."

"I guess we'll see you at lunch!" Eleanora said brightly to Harry and Ron, who looked as if he dearly wished to crawl under the table and not emerge until first lesson was over.

"Cheer up glum-guts," she said teasingly to him, "If big bad Professor Snape is mean to you, we'll sort him out this afternoon."

He smiled weakly up at her, though looked like he was about to vomit slugs.

As she left the Great Hall with Hermione, Eleanora allowed herself to steal a glance up at the staff table. There he sat, distant and regal in his black teaching robes, his ebony hair obscuring his grave face as he leant forward to converse quietly with Dumbledore. Eleanora's hands twitched with that irrepressible longing to restrain his locks and she buried them deep into the pockets of her robes letting her gaze linger upon him a while. Ever since their encounter in the hallway, she had been in a state of constant turmoil, sifting through her feelings over and over again. 

She was outraged by his rudeness and abrasive manner, yet knew that he of all men had right to be somewhat reticent. More so, she found herself filled with admiration and a romantic image of the stern professor as the dauntless hero. However from years of living with her father, she knew that spying was anything but an outwardly heroic occupation. Grovelling to a master at his feet and betraying him behind his back was a dangerous game to be playing and one that left her in no doubts that Severus Snape had reason enough to be as surly and caustic as he was.

"Come on!" chided Hermione impatiently. "We'll be late!" The look of utter anguish of the girls face, as if the whole future of the wizarding world balanced on their punctuality, sent Eleanora in a spasm of giggles.

"Alright, alright," she conceded, reining her laughter with a limited degree of success. "I'm coming; don't get your knickers in a twist!"

* * * * * * * * * *

Transfiguration had proved to be an enjoyable and interesting lesson. Professor McGonagall was a hard taskmaster and immediately set the class the assignment of transfiguring a guinea pig into a wooden box. Eleanora grinned to herself as McGonagall detailed the transfiguration process. She had been set this same task the previous year as part of her end of year examination and was confident that she would encounter no problems. A large cardboard box sat upon the professor's desk, sporadically delivering loud squeaks of protest. The students filed up to the box to select their guinea pig, Eleanora choosing a rather over-fed black one. She crooned softly to the creature as it skittered nervously in her arms. Hermione appeared to have selected the live-wire of the bunch and was having difficulty in restraining the little beast as she attempted to perform the spell. Eleanora, holding her pacified guinea pig close to her chest leant across the desk to whisper,

"If you cast_ immobilus_ on it first then it makes it a bit easier."

Hermione sharply withdraw her hand as the creature bared its tiny teeth.

"Won't it affect the transfiguration process though?"

Eleanora shook her head. "It shouldn't do. We did this one last year," she confided quietly. 

She lay her own guinea pig down on the desk, steadying it with one hand as she withdrew her wand from her sleeve. 

"_Immobilus_," she murmured, aware of Hermione peering with interest over her shoulder.

The guinea pig froze, rigid in her hands. "Sorry, little guy," she whispered, as its eyes darted wildly in trepidation.

A swish and flick later and the diminutive creature had vanished to be replaced by a delicate wooden box, ornately carved with a floral pattern. She flicked open the metal clasp, and a high pitched, tinkling strain of music filled the air. 

"Shit," she muttered darkly, hurriedly slamming the lid shut again, glancing around to make sure that she had not attracted undue attention. Everybody else however seemed to be absorbed in their own task, particularly a tall Ravenclaw boy who was nursing his finger after being bitten by his outraged test subject.

It was a bloody music box. 

Whilst McGonagall's instructions had made no mention prohibiting the creation of musical boxes, she was pretty sure that it would not do to cause a commotion especially in the first lesson of her first day.

She swiftly transfigured the delicate music box into a normal, more plainly decorated wooden box, and gave an inaudible sigh of relief as she opened the lid to utter silence.

"Well done, Miss D'Souza," uttered the voice of McGonagall from over her shoulder. "And you too, Miss Granger. You may change them back and replace them in their box."

Eleanora picked up her guinea pig, now mobile again and offered to take Hermione's. Having deposited them in the box at the front of the room she returned to her desk, where Hermione was now copying notes from the blackboard. 

"I went to see Dumbledore this morning," she began quietly, their heads bent close as they worked on their parchments. 

"What did he say?" came the whispered reply.

"Just that……." Eleanora trailed into silence as McGonagall swept past them, keeping a wary eye on her as she instructed the class in their next task.

"I'll tell you at lunch," she whispered, seeing no opportunity to share the story without risking the rebuke of the strict professor.

* * * * * * * * * 

Lunch was a noisy affair, and Eleanora, Harry, Ron and Hermione grabbed seats at the far end of the Gryffindor table so as to be as far out of the reach of prying ears as possible. 

"So, what did Dumbledore say?" asked Harry, shovelling fish pie into his mouth.

"Apparently, there used to be five houses, not four, "Eleanora began to explain between mouthful of food.

"And Arrowsbane was the fifth house?" asked Hermione, her hazel eyes gleaming with interest.

"Bingo," replied Eleanora. "Artemisia Arrowsbane had a falling-out with Salazar Slytherin and decided to leave."

"Understandable," snorted Ron, casting an irritable glance over the Slytherin table.

"The house just grew smaller and smaller and eventually there was no one left," Eleanora finished. 

She felt slight chagrin at not being able to tell her new friends the whole story but in order to do that she would have to explain why exactly she had been placed in the house with the talent for advanced magic and that was not something she was prepared to do just yet.

"So, the house just died?" asked Hermione incredulously.

"Looks that way," Eleanora replied sincerely hoping that Hermione would not go ferreting around for information too deeply.

"Strange that _Hogwarts: A History_ never mentioned anything about it," she mused.

Ron gasped with mock horror and clapped a hand over his mouth. "A book was wrong?" he gaped. "The world is ending! What will we do!"

Hermione merely smiled sarcastically at him and Eleanora tried unsuccessfully not to giggle. Ron cracked her up and she already felt a great affinity for the comic boy.

"Do I have time for another sticky toffee pudding?" Eleanora wondered aloud.

"Not if you want to get to potions on time," Harry warned. "And believe me; you do not want to get in Snape's bad books on your first day. I did and he's been an absolute git to me ever since."

I think I'm already in his bad books, thought Eleanora to herself. Still, she resolved, no need to make it worse that it already is.

Despite her earlier bravado about her first potions lesson, she once again felt the familiar flip of her stomach and began to sincerely regret eating even one sticky toffee pudding. She was immeasurably thankful that she had Hermione with her, and didn't even smirk as the other girl insisted that they leave ten minutes early.

"I'll see you two in divination!" she called over her shoulder to Harry and Ron, still sitting at the table.

"We'll save you a seat right at the back," called back Harry.

"Perfect position for an afternoon nap!" added Ron happily.

As she and Hermione left the Great Hall, Eleanora tried to swallow the nervousness that she felt rising in her at the thought of spending an entire double lesson in the torturous presence of Professor Snape. 

Still, she reasoned, things could only get better between them. At least that was what she hoped.

* * * * * * * * *

A little note to all of you out there concerned about Eleanora being a bit of a Mary-Sue. I realise I might have been a little heavy-handed with the physical descriptions of her, especially with regards to that over long and gushing description in Chapter Seven. I've re-done that section and I hope that it's better now. Go take a look and let me know what you think and if there is anything else you think I should change while I'm at it.

Thanks guys!


	19. Chapter Eighteen

****

**_Chapter Eighteen:_**

****

Eleanora and Hermione pushed their way through the throngs of students that littered the corridors outside the Great Hall, snatching the last five minutes of the lunch break. The taller girl cut easily through the crowd, and Hermione had to practically jog to keep up with her. However, once in the darker and narrower confines of the lower level corridors, Eleanora slowed her pace and looked about her to get her bearings. 

"OK," she admitted to Hermione, grinning apologetically, "I'm lost."

Hermione smiled. "Don't worry," she said kindly. "It took me a full term to know my way around here properly. There first time I came down here I was totally lost as well."

Eleanora felt no particular need to mention that she had in fact traversed these corridors before and instead let the shorter girl lead the way from thereon. 

The torches flickered brightly in their cast iron brackets and cast ominous shadows over the rough stone walls. Despite the heat of the day and the thickness of her robes, Eleanora shivered. How the hell Snape can stand to spend all of his days down here is beyond me, she thought to herself, already craving the bright sunlight that merrily pervaded the upper corridors.

She and Hermione reached the cavernous maw of the dungeons and Eleanora checked her watch. The slim hands spun erratically, one finally aligning just off the numeral two.

"Hermione," she called to the other girl who had already positioned herself in readiness outside the classroom door.

"I'm just nipping to the bathroom," she called. 

"Don't be late!" came the predictable reply from the shadows.

Eleanora hoisted her battered book bag higher on her shoulder and slipped back through the high arch, her eyes seeking out the bathroom door she had seen minutes before. Finding it, her eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, she gently pushed open the door. 

Empty. Thank god.

She threw down her book bag and leant heavily against the wall, the cool tiles sweet relief against her hot cheek. Her heart was performing a complex tattoo deep within her chest and she slowed her breathing, attempting to clear her head before emerging into the darkened corridor.

She would not let him do this to her. Not again. He had flustered her last time and she had barely escaped with her dignity but this time things would be different. 

Checking her watch once again, she got to her feet and took a perfunctory glance at the mirror. Her hair which had been carefully restrained in a neat braid this morning had broken free of its confines sometime during a strenuous DADA lesson before lunch and had rioted into disarray one again. Frowning at her reflection, she pulled open the heavy bathroom door and stole out of it, following the chatter of her classmates to lead her back to where Hermione stood, patiently waiting the start of class. 

"See? Not late!" Eleanora teased as she strode to her friends side. 

Hermione smiled. "Just as well. I should warn you that Professor Snape can get really nasty."

A sandy headed fellow Gryffindor at the side spoke up, "Really nasty? That's an understatement. I heard that he took points off Malcolm Baddock first thing this morning just for being last in the classroom."

A tall Ravenclaw girl grimaced. "He must be in bad mood if he's even taking points off his precious Slytherins."

"Would you rather I took points from Ravenclaw instead, Miss Quirke?" a deep baritone voice drawled silkily from behind the mass of students. The girl spun around to see the potions master standing behind her, his face half obscured by the liquid shadows, his features flickering eerily upon his face in the torch light. He smirked unpleasantly; his hands placed upon his hips, his confrontational stance a stark contrast with the Ravenclaw's terrified cower.

"No, sir!" she stuttered, her face blanching. "I just meant that…"

"Silence, Miss Quirke!" he snapped, his features wiped of their smirk, now bearing the trademark scowl.

"All of you! Into the classroom."

The group stood silent for a moment, unsure of what to do.

"Do not make me repeat myself," he warned his voice ominously soft.

The students suddenly sprang into motion, jostling each other, in their desire not to be the last one into the dark classroom, scared that they too would feel the scathing wrath of the fractious potions master.

Eleanora dared not return the anxious grimaces of her classmates and instead followed Hermione mutely to their seats. She heartily wished that the other girl had not chosen seats directly under the professor's scornful gaze, but saw no way to move now without incurring further reprimand. 

"Welcome to Advanced Healing," Snape began, his low voice the only sound in the now silent classroom. "All of you have chosen to undertake this class of your own free will, so I do not believe myself to be unreasonable when I demand total concentration and the full application of your somewhat questionable skills."

He stared around the classroom, his unfathomable gaze lingering somewhat upon the group of Slytherin who had claimed the back row of desks. 

No one spoke, and he seemed satisfied of the class's undivided attention. 

"Today, we will be discussing the rudiments of two basic wound healing potions, both of which can be found in chapter four of your almanacs. By the word discussion, I mean that I will talk and you will listen in silence, unless a question is directed to you. Do you understand?"

The class nodded in silence, except for one curly headed Hufflepuff who responded with a muted, "yessir."

Snape flung the full force of his contemptuous gaze upon the unfortunate boy.

"Five points from Hufflepuff," he snapped, not blinking an eye. 

The boy opened in mouth in incredulity, but was cut off by the professor.

"Ever heard of a rhetorical question, Mr, Finch-Fletchly?" The potion master's face was contorted in a derisive sneer, and his voice dripped with viscous sarcasm. 

"Umm….Yes, sir," the boy replied timidly, not daring to lift his gaze off the blank sheet of parchment on his desk.

"Then you should have known that it was a question which required no reply. Had the reply been anything but a resolute yes, then you would have been free to leave this class and not come back. Do I make myself clear?" 

The boy nodded, clenching his jaw as if he feared that his mouth might articulate a response beyond his control.

The class sat deathly still, no one daring to move a muscle lest they become the next victim for the wilful beast of Snape's rage.

He perused the motionless class with his obsidian eyes.

"Why, pray tell, have none of you got your books out?" he asked softly, his muted voice belying the menacing undercurrent of danger it carried.

A sudden dash for books ensued and Eleanora scrabbled hurriedly around her book bag for the heavy leather bound volume. She recognised it as the one that Hermione had fallen asleep reading. Leafing through the book, she found the correct page, and set it upon her desk. Dragging her gaze up, she found herself meeting the eyes of the professor. He observed her coldly, her coal black eyes giving no clue as to the thoughts behind them. Meeting his gaze, she was determined not to look away, knowing that this would be taken as a show of weakness that she was not willing to submit to. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, one eyebrow raised provocatively. Eleanora raised her chin defiantly, refusing to break his trenchant stare. Irritation flickered across the harsh plains of his face and he tore his eyes away, turning instead to fix them upon the pages of his own volume.

"Now that most of you have shown that you can count," he sneered, glaring perniciously at a flustered Ravenclaw still flicking through the tome, "We shall see whether you can also read. I personally, do not hold out much hope."

Hermione sat up dead straight in her chair, a determined look etched upon her face, her fingers anxiously twitching over the words inscribed upon the page as if trying to read them by Braille. 

Snape glanced up from his study of his book, a lock of hair falling fluidly over one eye. He made no move to remove it, merely glanced around the assembled students, with the expression of a cobra innately poised to strike at its selected victim.

"Miss Abbot," he barked suddenly, his voice filling every crevice of the darkened room.

"What would I get if I added powdered Graphorn to an infusion of Daisy root?" His tone was demanding and sent a delicious shiver down Eleanora's spine. She bit her lip, anxiously surveying the blond girl, as she stuttered her way though an answer.

"Ummmm….B – b - burn healing balm?" she tried hesitantly, her fear of the domineering potions master manifesting itself in the timorous stutter of her voice.

"Incorrect," Snape snapped. Eleanora expected that he had not even bothered to listen to the girl's answer, so sure was he of his class's ignorance. 

"Could any one of you imbeciles provide me with the correct answer?" he asked tauntingly, pressing his palms upon his desk and leaning forwards threateningly. Eleanora instinctively leant backwards, and prickled with irritation as she caught the acrimonious gleam in his onyx black eyes.

Hermione shot her hand up so fast that Eleanora heard the faint whistle of the air as it rocketed past her ear.

Snape made no recognition of Hermione's hand, now waving excitedly above her head. Slowly, Eleanora raised her own arm.

Snape's eyes widened indiscernibly, and the corners of his mouth flicked upwards in interest.

Well, he thought, the veritable Miss D'Souza has found her feet it seems. He grudgingly admitted that it took an indomitable student to risk such castigation from the potions master on their very first day. Still, he noted with some annoyance, she did not seem to be particularly affected by his tactics of intimidation. We shall see about that, he thought sadistically to himself.

"Miss D'Souza?"

Eleanora took a deep breath. "Powered graphorn and daisy root would give you a wound cleaning potion. Add a measure of crushed bezoar and you'll get a fairly powerful antidote for most poisoned flesh wounds." 

His mouth thinned. That was to have been his next question, designed to floor anyone apart from that insufferable bushy-haired Gryffindor, Granger, who had lowered her hand, somewhat disappointedly.

"Correct, Miss D'Souza," he replied, fixing the girl with a penetrating gaze. "Five points from Gryffindor however, for a blatant display of showing-off that even your friend Miss Granger could have been proud of."

Eleanora's jaw dropped in disbelief. This, coming from the man who had less than five minutes ago demanded complete application, was beyond belief. She shot a venomous glance at Professor, but his back was turned, a triumphant smirk curled upon his lips.

Hermione shot her a remorseful glance, her own cheeks flushed at the professor's vindictive comment.

Resisting the urge to ball up her parchment and take a well aimed shot at Snapes head, Eleanora picked up her quill and instead put her hand to work copying the long list of ingredients that was scrawled across the blackboard.

"When you have finished copying the list," Snape directed overbearingly, you will collect the ingredients for the basic wound healing salve from the central bench and begin your preparation, two to a cauldron."

Eleanora pushed her chair back, her list having mostly been written from memory, jarring slightly from the gating sound it made in the other wise silent classroom, blanketed with the cloying silence of subjugated concentration. Hermione joined her and they collected their ingredients and selected a cauldron stationed as far away from Snapes desk as possible. Snape himself sat motionless at his desk, staring fixedly at the two girls, his face half hidden in the liquid shadows thrown by the torches.

She had unnerved him, a feat largely impossible thanks to the barrage of defences that he had erected over the long and painful years. She seemed unimpressed by his well practiced terrorization of his students, though he had relished the fleeting look of fury on her face as he had deducted house points for what had been a very eloquent answer.

Her blasé attitude towards him ignited a fierce urge within him to impress upon her just what it meant to feel the wrath of Severus Snape. All he had to do was to lie in wait for her to make just one error, though he had an uncomfortable feeling that he might be waiting for rather longer than he would have to with the usual imbecilic rabble.

She and the intolerable Granger were bent in concentration over their bubbling cauldron, a whispered conversation playing upon their silently moving lips. Eleanora stretched out a hand to consult the almanac, her forehead creasing in absorption as she studied the pages. Turning back to the work bench, she picked up the pestle and mortar and began to ferociously crush her spine of Lionfish.

I bloody well wish that this was Snape's head, Eleanora thought to herself, mercilessly pounding the brittle fragments of bone into a fine power. She surveyed the contents of the pestle critically then tipped them into the cauldron. Shortly after followed Hermione's bowl of diced Ashwinder eggs.

Both girls stared expectantly into the cauldron, their faces illuminated with a reflected greenish hue from the vivid emerald potion that bubbled merrily within.

"And we're done!" Hermione said, lifting the cauldron off the flame, setting it down carefully on the work bench. 

"I will be the judge of that, Miss Granger," came the silky voice mere inches behind Eleanora's ear. She faintly quivered at his nearness, but kept her face impassive as he stooped over their cauldron, surveying the viscous contents with a disparaging eye.

Straightening his lean frame he stared coolly at the two girls. Eleanora glanced sideways at Hermione, who was nervously pleating the folds of her robe with anxious fingers as if dreading the harsh rebuke of the potions masters.

But no such rebuke came.

"The potion has been prepared correctly."

With those sparse words, he swept back to his desk. Eleanora gritted her teeth. No words of praise or congratulations, but then she told herself that she should expect no more. Hermione certainly seemed well used to thankless affirmation of her potions.

The lesson had ended with Professor Snape setting an extraordinary large amount of homework. Several of the class gaped in incredulity as he dictated the task, but knew full well that to protest would be to instantly double the amount. 

Eleanora scribbled the notes down roughly, her fierce scowl hidden from view by the thick curtain of hair that obscured her face. She was thankful that McGonagall had let them off homework that morning. With any luck, she thought sullenly, I might have finished this lot by Christmas.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**_Chapter Nineteen:_**

"How many?" gaped Ron incredulously, as Eleanora settled herself into a low velvet armchair at the back of the Divination classroom.

"Four rolls of parchment by next lesson," she hissed angrily, yanking her books roughly out of her bag.

"Four?" said Harry, with a sympathetic grimace. "That's harsh, even for Snape!"

Evil old bastard, thought Eleanora, slamming her textbooks onto the table. But for some unfathomable reason she could not make that sound as convincing as she wanted it to.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a woman who Eleanora recognised as Professor Trelawney.

She was tall and stick-thin, her spare frame adorned with layers of silks and chiffons, flowing voluminously out behind her as she seemed to glide soundlessly across the room. Her eyes were magnified behind a pair of enormous frameless spectacles, giving her the appearance of a gossamer thin winged insect. 

"Hello, my dears," she breathed softly, her eyes widening behind the thick lenses as she took her place at the largest table in the room. Lavender and Parvati quickly moved their seats to her side, and Eleanora could practically feel their admiration radiating throughout the room like the cloyingly sweet incense that threatened to lull her into a deep sleep any moment now.

"Welcome to Divination," Trelawney continued, clasping her hands in front of her in anticipation. "This year we will delve deeper into your subconscious minds than ever before. What we shall unearth, I do not know."

She shot a pointed glance at Harry, who was trying his level best not to dissolve into giggles. Ron was having less luck and was silently rocking with mirth, hiding his laughter behind his hand. Eleanora grinned at the two boys, but kept her attention Professor Trelawney. Let's face it, she thought to herself, when it comes to Divination I need all the help I can get. 

Having collected their teacups from the rickety looking china cupboard, the three sat down around a low table, upon which was precariously balanced a large blue and white china teapot. Eleanora picked it up, surprised at its weight and poured a generous amount into the three cups.

"Got any coffee instead?" asked Harry teasingly.

Eleanora grimaced. "With my luck in Divination, I'd probably get just as much success out of a cup of pumpkin juice." She took a large gulp of the scalding tea and spluttered indelicately. "Probably taste a lot better than this rot too!"

The tea was bitterly strong and had a deeply unpleasant aftertaste. Taking a glance round the room, and finding the rest of the class staring studiously into their cups, Eleanora slyly stretched out her arm and quickly poured the remainder of the tea into a conveniently placed pot plant, taking care to retain the dregs. 

Placing her cup back down on the table, she peered into it, her forehead furrowed in concentration.

"Well, my dear," came the breathy voice of Trelawney from somewhere beside her. "What do you see today?"

"The same thing as I see every time," answered Eleanora, catching Ron's eye mischievously.

"And what is that?" asked the gauzy professor excitedly.

"A mess of soggy tealeaves," came the inevitable reply.

Trelawney's face creased with disappointment, and her eyes lost their animated glitter. She rather brusquely took the cup out of the girl's hands and peered into it herself.

"Ahh," she said mysteriously. "There is much to see here."

Eleanora wrinkled her nose in disbelief. 

"Look!" the professor said, shoving the teacup right under Eleanora nose. "What do you see now?"

Still a load of tealeaves, Eleanora thought sceptically.

"Look harder, my dear!" Trelawney urged, her thin hands trembling in exhilaration as she held the cup. 

Eleanora stared intently into the cup. If she cocked her head to one side and squinted a bit through her fringe, she could sort of make out a very wonky broomstick. However she doubted that much of the future could be gleaned from what resembled a broken Firebolt.

"Hmmm," she mused, aware of Trelawney's growing excitement, "Death maybe?" she tried, remembering what Harry had said about the professors near obsession with his various methods of imminent demise. He tried to arrange her face into a suitably horrified expression but the stick-like woman shook her head vehemently.

 "Look harder still!" she breathed.

Eleanora rolled her eyes, trying not to look at Harry or Ron who were collapsed in silent laughter on their sagging sofa.

"I give up!" she said, her eyes widening in real horror this time, as Trelawney drifted to the front of the class room, her teacup still in hand. The professor clapped her frail hands for silence.

"Class!" she announced in joyous tones, her melodic voice filling the incense heavy air.

"Miss D'Souza has made a wonderful discovery," she continued, as the whole class swivelled in their seats to look at her. Eleanora blushed a deep beetroot colour and hid behind the dependable pot plant, coming to her rescue once again. 

"She has found," Trelawney pronounced dramatically, savouring her proclamation, "the constellation of Venus!" 

This statement evoked deep intakes of breath from both Lavender and Parvati and a blonde Ravenclaw girl whose name Eleanora did not know.

Ron leant across and whispered in her ear. "Pretty clever fitting a whole constellation in that teacup: I would have thought it would've been a bit big!"

Eleanora smiled weakly, still dismayed at Trelawney's interest in her teacup.

"Now, my dears," she began again, "who can tell me what the constellation of Venus signifies?" 

Lavender and Parvati got their hands up almost as fast as Hermione could have managed, and sat there, hopeful expression painted on their faces.

"Yes, my dear?" the professor asked Parvati.

The Indian girl took a deep breath, as if her answer were of utmost importance. "The constellation of Venus when found in a teacup is a strong portent of great happiness to be found in love and matters of the heart. It augers the meeting a new lover or coming to see an acquaintance in a deeply romantic light."

"Correct, Miss Patil," Trelawney praised her eliciting a delighted smile from the girl.

Eleanora however had sunk down so low in her hair that only the crown of her head was visible over the lush foliage of the plant. 

Her face burned bright red and she shot a horrified look at Harry and Ron as she listened to Parvati's answer. Her horror multiplied ten-fold though as the professor asked,

"Have you recently met someone special, my dear?" 

Eleanora jerked herself up from her slouched position, and answered quickly, "No, no one at all." 

In her head her reply sounded forced and far too loud, but as she reflected later, no one else saw the ephemeral flash of the potions master face in her mind, smirking at her tauntingly.

Trelawney however seemed to accept her answer, and merely smiled benignly at her and added, "Well, when you do, you must let us know." Eleanora smiled back as best she could, but stuck out her tongue at Trelawney as soon as her back was turned, much to Harry's amusement. 

"At least your blossoming love life distracted her from my imminent doom today!" he teased lightly, as they made their way down the rickety staircase after the lesson. His only reply was a thunderous scowl that Snape could have been proud of. 

"Come on," coaxed Ron, who had recovered from his fit of laughter. "It's not that bad."

"You think?" Eleanora shot back. "Not only is Trelawney playing my own personal Cupid, but I'm probably going to fail Divination too!"

They looked mystified at her.

"I thought it was a broken Firebolt," she admitted sheepishly, a small grin finding its way onto her lips.

Ron nearly tripped over the hem of his robes at this and their gales of raucous laughter could be heard all the way down the corridor. 

* * * * * * * * *

Severus Snape was in a dangerous mood. He stabbed his fork into his cut of meat with such ferocity that diminutive Professor Flitwick seated beside him, bolstered up to table height by a pile of cushions, cowered away in fear. None of the staff save Dumbledore dared to catch his eye, so used were they to the steely glare that would no doubt fix upon them should they so much as try. 

Dumbledore contemplated the grim spectre of his potions master thoughtfully. It was no wonder that he was in such a foul mood, given the news that he had been forced to give him that morning. Images of Snape's resolute scowl flashed through his mind, the austere features disintegrating into a disconsolate grimace as he was given the news that his entire summers work had come to nothing. 

At Dumbledore's orders, Snape had spent the best part of the summer holiday attempting to worm his way back into Voldemort's inner circle. Whilst all concerned had known that this would be no easy task, as traitors were punished harshly, their lives at the mercy of Voldemort's unbending will, none, Severus included had suspected the mammoth task that lay before him. 

The gruesome details had been divulged to no one but Dumbledore himself, though from the wounds that the man bore, both physical and psychological upon his return, it was obvious that his mission had not been an easy one. Whilst the deep lacerations and bruises upon his assaulted body had been expertly healed by the experienced Medi-witch, by now used to tending to the broken form of the potions master, the deeper wounds were those inflicted upon his mind; old scars ripped open again, deeper and wider than before, a poison poured into them that now ate away at the soul of the dour man, tainting his consciousness; no antidote to be brewed and no refuge to be found in sleep.

To find then, that all his exertions had come to nothing was a deadening blow to the already wearisome man, already hollowed by the many years of double dealing and treachery that tainted his past and now looked set to dictate the passage of time to come. His confidence in thinking that he had successfully infiltrated Voldemort's inner circle had evidently been misplaced, as Dumbledore had had the unenviable task of telling him that two nights previously there had been a Death Eater's gathering at the Malfoy mansion; one that he had been noticeably excluded from, the Dark Lord's trust in him evidently not fully restored, despite his acts of unwavering loyalty at his supposed return.

Snape shuddered despite himself at the mere memory of these acts: Their pitiful cries still echoed through the dark recesses of his troubled mind, stirring his soul into a torrent of guilt and deep regret. These disjointed voices, begging for mercy, had no accompanying faces. He could no longer bear to look at his victims, finding the looks of anguished agony contorting their faces into grotesque masks of pain too much for his overwrought consciousness to bear, when late at night, he tossed and turned in the privacy of his bed, their ghosts trespassing into his mind, reminding him of the dreadful deeds that he vainly attempted to cloak with darkness.

Something of his torment must have shown itself in his expression, as Professor Sprout dared to lean across the table and tap him lightly on his back robed arm, sharply dragging him out of introspective reverie.

"Severus, old boy!" she said jovially, her forced smile a little too bright to be genuine. "We thought we'd lost you there for a minute!"

He smiled tightly. "Sorry to disappoint you, Philomena," he said shortly, as the curly headed witch shrank into her seat under his piercing gaze.

Sweeping his gaze over the rest of the staff table, his eyes narrowed with innate dislike as they alighted upon Sybil Trelawney, who was fervently talking with a very bored looking Minerva McGonagall and a listless Carmel Sinistra, professor of astronomy. Snape managed to grasp snatches of their conversation from down the table and realised to his extreme vexation that she was enthusiastically prattling on about Eleanora D'Souza. 

Gods, he thought angrily to himself, slamming his knife down on the side of his plate, eliciting another scared glance from Flitwick. Haven't I heard enough of that name for one lifetime?

"……Found a constellation of Venus in her cup in my lesson today," she said dreamily, her over-large eyes glittering behind her glasses, as if she was personally responsible for that occurrence. 

Though, Severus thought sardonically to himself, she probably was wholly responsible, as she no doubt interpreted what amounted to nothing more than a few wet tea leaves as some deep portentous augury. If only she could oblige his mordant humour by predicting such omens of death for the impossible Miss D'Souza as she did for that intolerable upstart, Potter. That might take her down a few pegs, he thought caustically, attacking his pudding with new found fervour.

"……She seemed most certain that she had met no such person, but the tea leaves never lie," Trelawney continued earnestly, seemingly oblivious to McGonagall's unsubtle snorts of derision and Sinistra's apathetic yawn.

"It makes a welcome change to receive portent of love for once instead of an omen of death," she said sadly, shaking her head, the many strings of beads around her scrawny neck clattering together as she craned to catch a glimpse of Potter and his trio sitting obliviously at the Gryffindor table.

Love, thought Severus acidly, his lip curling into a sceptical sneer. How in Merlin's name could a few clumps of leaves left in the bottom of a teacup portend love? Next the foolish woman would be seeing love in the remains of his dinner left sitting on his plate. Though, he reflected somewhat regretfully, not even a fraud like Trelawney would go so far beyond the realms of possibility as to predict love pervading the solitary existence of Severus Snape.

He followed her saddened gaze to the Gryffindor table, his scowl returning in full as he fixed his indomitable stare upon the figures of the Terrible Trio. 

Damn, he realised. He would have to think of a new name for the brats now as it seemed that the D'Souza girl was attached resolutely at the hip to them. The Fatuous Foursome perhaps? 

She threw her head back, laughing throatily at something the Weasley boy had said. Suddenly, the cold hand of jealousy crept around Severus' gut, inexplicably tangling itself in his innards and curdling his thoughts. 

Could it be, he wondered, his eyes narrowing in hatred at the red haired boy, that it is Weasley who is destined to win the D'Sousa girl's heart? He reluctantly entertained the thought whilst he stared at the girl who had curbed her strident laughter, and who was now gesticulating wildly with a spoon, almost poking Potter's eye out in her enthusiasm. 

He caught himself sharply, inwardly chastising himself for such a pathetic show of emotion. What did it matter to him what the girl felt for Weasley? And besides, why on Merlin's grave was he putting such stock in Trelawney's words of all people? The woman was a charlatan and a fool, and her auguries were capricious nonsense.

"Then why do you care?" asked a small voice in the back of his mind teasingly.

"I don't," he asserted brusquely, abruptly tearing his gaze off the animated girl.

"Liar," the voice taunted, suddenly taking on a sharp, biting tone.

The voice tittered irksomely, and he pushed back his chair, oblivious to the loud scrape it made on the stone floor. He ignored the several startled glances of the staff, though most of them were used to Snape's volatile exits by now.

He strode dauntingly between the house tables towards the doors, his boots upon the stone sounding like whip cracks. The Slytherins nodded politely to their house master but the other houses avoided his gaze. 

That is all except for one student seated in the midst of the Gryffindor table. She followed the potion master with her eyes as he left the Great Hall, her gaze hungrily eating up his receding form, black robes billowing arrestingly behind him.

She too was weighing over the events of Divination class. Her instinct told her to dismiss the presage as superstitious nonsense but something in the way that her heart had leapt up into her throat as Parvati had revealed the "broken Firebolt's" significance told her otherwise. Even without the augury, she had to grudgingly admit to herself that Severus Snape unnerved her, in a way that she was not entirely hostile to.

"Earth to Eleanora!" Ron said loudly in her ear, waving his hand in front of her face, transfixed upon the now empty doorway of the Hall.

"Sorry," she mumbled, trying to rid her thoughts of the image of his ascetic face.

"What's up?" Harry asked, through a mouthful of custard.

"Oh," she replied, as lightly as she could, "Just thinking about something to do with Potions."


	21. Chapter Twenty

Massive thanks go out to my buddy Bari (Born To Be Wild) who has just become my Beta-Reader -Thanks m'dear: You're an utter star! 

**_Chapter Twenty:_**

****

Eleanora's first week progressed smoothly, if you don't count performing frankly idiotically dangerous leaps over hastily moving staircases having been dared to do so by Lee Jordan, and subsequently being treated to a lecture on student safety by McGonagall. The straight laced witch had ushered into her office and stared at her searchingly with her intelligent grey eyes. 

"What possessed you, you silly girl?" she asked imploringly, taking off her glasses and polishing them meticulously.  

Eleanora shrugged, the familiar blush creeping over her cheeks once again. She would have almost rather that her head of house has shouted angrily at her, so awkward she felt sitting alone in her office attempting to explain why once again she had defied her godfather's wishes and placed herself unnecessarily in danger.

"I guess I was just wasn't thinking," she replied lamely, not daring to meet McGonagall eye. 

The elderly witch had sighed, pushing her glasses up her pointed nose.

"I don't see any real purpose in giving you a detention as I unfortunately know that it would almost certainly not deter you from performing any more idiotic tricks," she said in a calculated tone.

Eleanora's heart leapt and she lifted her head up from its humiliated droop.

"However," McGonagall continued, "one more asinine incident and your godfather and I have agreed that we will face no viable option but to place you under a mischief deterrence charm: A temporary one of course, just until you've learnt your lesson."

The girl's face was frozen in an expression of utter despair. Many times her father had threatened to cast the deterrence charm on her, usually after those unfortunate end of term reports, but he had always finally acquiesced, the eminent auror surprisingly susceptible to his daughters wheedling ways. 

She opened her mouth to protest, but McGonagall's lips were mulishly pursed together, telling her that it would be beyond futile to argue. Instead she merely nodded submissively, though privately the cogs of her mind were already whirring, wondering if Hermione knew a good way to remove a deterrence charm without trace.

That night at the dinner table, she told her friends what McGonagall has said. 

"…So if I put so much as one measly toe out of line, they're going to put a deterrence charm on me," she explained between mouthfuls of casserole.

"Really?" exclaimed Hermione a little too brightly. 

Eleanora stared at her. 

"I mean that's really awful," she added quickly with sympathetic smile. "But the charm itself is truly fascinating!"

"Then you know a way to remove it?" Eleanora asked slyly, a grin curling over her lips as she shot a glance at Harry and Ron.

Ron swallowed his mouthful of bread, and gestured to Fred and George who were absorbed in an arm-wrestling match with Seamus and Dean. 

"Those two have had more deterrence charms placed on them than the whole school put together," he said, his face glowing with admiration for his brother's impudence. 

"Then those are the guys to ask!" she grinned and bounded up from her seat, leaving her plate half empty. 

"Alright, you two," she greeted jovially, just as Fred, or was it George, succeeded in slamming Dean's hand down onto the table, nearly upsetting a jug of pumpkin juice. Eleanor steadied it with her hand and pulled up a spare chair next to one of the red headed twins.

"How may we be of assistance, my good lady?" asked George in a mock courtly tone. 

"Bloody well done for the stair-jumping by the way," said Fred, slapping her hard on the back in congratulations. "Lee told us he never actually expected you to do it."

"I can never turn down a dare," Eleanora replied with a helpless grin.

"Useful thing to know," joked George. 

"Not if McGonagall gets her way," explained the girl, glancing around to make sure she wasn't listening. 

"How so?" asked Fred.

"She wants to put me under a deterrence charm," she said with a frown. 

"Oh, that's nothing!" George exclaimed, his face lighting with a crafty grin. 

"That's just what I wanted to hear," Eleanora smiled, her eyes glinting impishly. 

"Just go and souse yourself with some water from Moaning Myrtle's toilet and it gets it right off," George said in a confidential tone.

Eleanora recoiled in horror.

"You're kidding, right?" she asked, one eyebrow hitched up in horror.

The twins exchanged devious glances.

"Yeah," admitted Fred, looking somewhat disappointed at having to relinquish the joke. 

"All you have to do is take a couple of doses of evasion potion before they cast  the damn thing, and it keeps it from lasting more than an day or two."

George let out a fake gasp of horror and pretended to be choking. "A whole day…" he wheezed clutching at his throat, drawing concerned glances from his neighbours, "without mischief…Can't survive!" 

Eleanora burst into giggles and slapped him hard on the back, as Sally-Anne sitting opposite them proffered a glass of water, missing the joke entirely. 

"So, how do I get this evasion potion," she asked, when their laughter had died down. She had a faint recollection of seeing it detailed in a book somewhere, but couldn't recall any of the ingredients. She was sure that was where Hermione would come in.

George smirked roguishly at her. "Well, I'm sure if you go and ask ol' Severely Snappy very, very nicely," he leered, "he might give slip you a vial. Or something else."

Both boys dissolved into bawdy sniggers, and Eleanora felt her cheeks heat. 

If only they knew, she thought, unconsciously shooting a glance up to the staff table, where he sat, quietly abstaining from the small talk of the other staff.

"Yeah, real mature, boys," she grinned good-naturedly, though a faint shiver of excitement ran through her veins at the implication of their words.

"But seriously, jokes aside, where do I get it from?" 

Swallowing his lewd amusement, Fred replied, "Most of the stuff you can get from the apothecary in Hogsmeade, though keep a low profile in there because the Old Bat gets the owner to report back to him what any of us pupils have bought, just in case we're plotting anything naughty."

George smiled cherubically. "As if we would do a thing like that," he said innocently.

"The recipe is in one of the seventh year textbooks, but we just happened to stumble across a convenient copy," Fred continued winking.

"In Snape's desk?" Eleanora anticipated.

Both boys looked shocked. 

"Of course not, young lady," George said in mock reproach. "In his store cupboard of course."

"Well lend it to you if you need it," he said.

"Thanks!" Eleanora smiled widely at them.

"No worries," Fred replied. "We wouldn't really want you to have to get round Snape," he grinned. "No one deserves that."

I wonder what I _would _have to do to deserve that, she wondered, a faint smirk curling her top lip, then pushed the thought firmly of her head. 

Returning to her seat Eleanora shot a triumphant glance at the others.

"What did they say?" asked Ron.

"A dose of evasion potion should do it," she replied pushing her plate away in favour of the treacle tart that had just appeared.

"Crikey," Ron exclaimed. "Fred and George were actually useful; it's a wonder they didn't tell you to go and drench yourself in Moaning Myrtle's toilet water. That's their answer to everything these days."

"Oh, they did," replied Eleanora with a grin.

Ron shuddered. "I think I'd rather get locked in the cubicle with Snape than do that," he said, his face bearing an expression of horror.

Harry nearly choked on his pudding at this and Eleanora found her self suddenly utterly engrossed in her glass of pumpkin juice, privately thinking that there would be much worse things than to get locked anywhere with Snape.

* * * * * * * * * *

Saturday dawned bright and hot, and the sun streamed thought the Gryffindor common room windows alighting on every surface, giving the cosy room an almost incandescent aura. However, by mid morning after a leisurely breakfast, Harry and Ron were restless and flopped listlessly about on the overstuffed sofa, their divination books laying discarded on the floor under an excess of empty Chocolate Frog wrappers and screwed-up parchments. 

"Oh, sod it!" Ron exclaimed, kicking the book under the sofa. "I'm not staying holed up in here all day trying to work out what the bloody stars have in store for me!"

"Probably a detention with Trelawney if you don't finish that homework," warned Hermione haughtily, her own Arithmancy homework complete and piled neatly on the table.

Ron stuck out his tongue behind her back. 

"Don't think I didn't see that!" she shot back.

Eleanora grinned and slammed her own book shut. 

"How about we go outside and take a break?" she suggested.

"I was under the impression that you had to do some work before taking a break," Hermione said, frowning at Ron.

"Oh, lighten up, 'Mione!" he replied, ripping open another chocolate frog, grasping it roughly as it tried to hop out of the packet. "Damn, Circe again," he said disappointedly. "You want?" he asked holding it out to Eleanora.

She squinted at it, shielding her eyes from the rays of the sun that poured through the diamond paned window.

"Circe? No thanks – I've already got three of her," she replied. "Though I've got a spare Queen Maeve if you want her?"

Ron flicked through the thick pack of cards. "Nope, haven't got her: I'll take her off your hands!" he grinned, reaching out for the card.

"Anyway," Eleanora repeated, "you up for a break?"

Harry stood up and stretched out his slight frame. "Suits me," he replied. "We could go down onto the Quidditch pitches. The maze is gone now, thank god."

"Maze?" questioned Eleanora, puzzled.

"They grew a bloody great maze on the Quidditch pitches last term" Ron explained as if this was the greatest crime of the century. 

"I'll go and get my broom," Harry called over his shoulder, heading towards his dormitory. 

Hermione shook her head in amazement. "Honestly; what on earth can be so engrossing about Quidditch that they feel the need to play it every minute of every day?"

"I could ask you the same question about schoolwork, but I already know what the answer will be!" retorted Ron, his voice muffled as he clambered under the sofa trying to retrieve his Divination book. 

Eleanora, determined not to get involved in their dispute, headed off to her own dormitory to get her light robes and her own broom. She scowled as she removed it from its case: Her father had confiscated her racing broom following rather unfortunate incident the previous term and she was now left with her out-dated Firebolt. Still, she grinned to herself, nothing a few charms hadn't been able to fix to some degree. 

Jumping the last few steps back down into the common room she saw Harry and Ron ogling Harry's new broom: A Nimbus Elite. Chucking her own broom carelessly on the sofa she joined them. 

"That's a beauty alright," Ron whistled, lovingly running his hands over its smooth handle.

"When did you get that?" Eleanora asked in reverence, minutely straightening out the brush.

"I got it out of the money left from what I gave Fred and George," Harry said, blushing a little, as much to Ron as to Eleanora.

Seeing that it was a delicate subject, Eleanora quickly strode towards the portrait hole, beckoning the others.

"Come on – the more time we spend nattering in here, the less time spent on the pitches!"

Harry and Ron both dashed for the portrait hold with such enthusiasm that both the girls couldn't help but laugh, even Hermione who, mortified at the thought of abandoning her studies, had shrunk her Ancient Runes textbook and put it carefully in her pocket, much to Eleanora's mirth. 

* * * * * * * * * *

"Oi, Harry!" Ron shouted loudly. "Catch!"

He served up a quaffle at an impressive speed, and Harry swerved sharply on his broom to seize it, immediately chucking it in Eleanora's direction. She dived on the charmed broom, her fingers almost grasping the large ball, but she missed it and it bounced to the ground.

"Darn," she expostulated, bucking on her broom. "This thing is bloody useless!"

Swooping back down to the ground, she picked up the quaffle, tucking it under her arm. 

"What model is it?" Harry asked, still lazily hovering in the air.

Eleanora scowled. "Firebolt Series 3.6," she called back, eyeing it critically.

"It's still better than mine," Ron grumbled, apparently having some trouble keeping his broom in the air. 

"I thought you said you were reserve chaser for the house Quidditch team in Beauxbatons?" Hermione asked from the ground, looking up from her Ancient Runes textbook, now back to normal size.

"I was," Eleanora replied, flinging the quaffle back to Harry.

"They let you play on that thing?" Ron asked dubiously.

"Nope," she replied a little evasively. "My father confiscated my best broom. This is the old one. "

"Why?" Harry asked, his face contorted in shock as if that was a crime punishable by an particularly lengthy Azkaban sentence. 

"I got thrown off the team," she answered awkwardly, kicking off hard from the sun-baked pitch.

Ron and Harry exchanged glances.

"Why?" asked Harry again, his tone cautious having seen the black look on his friends face. 

"Oh, nothing terrible," she reassured him lightly, executing some sharp turns in mid air. "Just for casting a couple of itty-bitty hexes during a match."

Ron's mouth gaped.

"Oh come on," she cried defensively. "The other team were playing dirty; they'd already felled one of our chasers, so I decided they deserved a taste of their own medicine." She wrinkled her nose. "Though the school didn't see it quite that way."

"I wonder why," Hermione intoned disapprovingly.

Harry asked tentatively, "what kind of curses are we talking here?"

"Just a couple of jelly-legs," she called back airily. 

"On a broom?" Hermione gasped, her eyes filled with condemnation. "Eleanora! That could have been really dangerous! They could have fallen."

"What do you mean 'could have?" she grinned back, going back into a steep dive to catch the ball that Ron has just thrown. 

"Oh relax 'Mione," she said, pulling her broom back up "I didn't let them hit the ground…Well, not too hard anyway." She smiled shrewdly.

"Are you sure you weren't meant to have been in Slytherin instead?" Ron shouted a puckish grin on his freckled face.

Eleanora gasped in mock horror and threw the quaffle dangerously close to his head in playful retribution.

He ducked and called out, "lousy throw, Slytherin!"

"Well," she called back, laughing, affecting a pose. "I always thought emerald green _was more my colour."_

Harry pulled a face. "Yeah, but would you really want to share a house with Ferret Features and his cronies?"

"Ferret Features?" she asked bemusedly.

"Malfoy," Ron called back. "Blond, slimy little git: Hangs around with two gorillas."

Harry laughed loudly, soaring high on his Nimbus. 

"You better watch your filthy mouth, Weasley," a smooth voice shot venomously from below.

Ron nearly fell off his broom.

There, standing a few feet behind Hermione was Malfoy and his "gorillas," their arms crossed across their burly chests menacingly, looking as if they could snape their broom sticks with one finger.

Accurate description, Eleanora thought, stifling a giggle.

"Get lost, Malfoy!" Ron called out to them, his bravado now recovered. 

"Make me," came the supercilious reply. 

Crabbe and Goyle stepped forward threateningly, their muscles flexing underneath their emerald green Quidditch robes. 

Ron paled and soared higher into the air, well out of the reach of their ham-like fists.

Malfoy tore his gaze from Ron and settled it firmly on Harry who hovered in the air, noxious dislike etched on his face. 

"Well, well," Draco drawled lazily. "If it isn't Potty and his amazing flying scar."

Crabbe and Goyle laughed hoarsely at this, jostling each other roughly, earning themselves a sharp glare from their diminutive leader.

Harry glared at Malfoy, his fists clenched angrily around his broom.

"I'd watch out if I were you, Potter," Draco continued, his eyes flashing poison. "Wouldn't want to have any little accidents now would we? Then again," he smirked nastily, "if I were you I would have drowned myself in the lake long ago."

The sharp featured blonde glanced over at his bullish henchmen. "Now you can laugh," he hissed commandingly, sneering at Harry as they chortled stupidly.

"Just do us a favour, Ferret-Face and sod off back to the dungeons!" Harry called loudly, accompanied by a very rude hand gesture made by Ron.

Malfoy sniggered. "Pathetic," he drawled. Suddenly he noticed Eleanora silently hovering almost directly above where he stood. He took a step back and turned his pale face upwards. 

"Miss D'Souza," he said, his tone becoming unctuous and sycophantic, a snide smile curving over his thin lips. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

Eleanora practically retched at the oily manner of the loathsome blonde. Instead she let a tight smile curve her lips though her eyes remained dark, flashing with repugnance.

Her father had told her much about the 'esteemed' Malfoy family, and she definitely did not like what she heard or what she now saw. As far as she understood, Lucius Malfoy had been and very likely still was, a key figure in Voldemort's inner circle, and then swiftly and unconvincingly repented of all his crimes as soon as the Dark Lord fell, claiming to have been placed under the Imperious curse. Though she had never met the man, she had often listened to her father ranting about the "slippery bastard," after a hard day at work, no doubt having conducted yet another fruitless search of the imposing Malfoy mansion. 

"No," she replied coldly, dropping altitude a little. "I don't believe you have."

Draco smoothly extended a pale hand upwards. Eleanora looked at it pointedly, then back into the pale, expressionless eyes of the boy. 

"I wouldn't hold your breath either," she continued, ignoring the proffered hand. 

Harry took a sharp intake of breath and a triumphant grin creased Ron's face as Malfoy's oily smile quickly turned into a sour frown.

"Come on you three," Eleanora called out to her friends, shooting Draco a glacial stare. "It suddenly just got really cold out here.

* * * * * * * * * * 

"That was bleedin' fantastic!" exclaimed Ron happily as they trudged back up the stairs to the common room. "Did you see the look on his smarmy little face?"

"Classic," Harry agreed, pulling off his Quidditch robes and throwing them over a chair as they entered into the comfortable room. 

Only Hermione looked troubled. "It was funny alright, but was it really a good idea to antagonise him like that?" she asked, looking concernedly at Eleanora. 

"Oh come on," she replied, rolling her eyes at the maternal girl. "What's he going to do to me? 

"Set Crabbe and Goyle on you for starters?" Hermione replied with a worried look.

"Nah," Eleanora began then stopped herself short. 

It probably wouldn't be a particularly good idea to explain that if the little weasel or his muscle-men tried anything she would just retaliate with a couple of well-chosen wandless jinxes. Leg-Lock maybe, she mused, or a touch of Rictusempra, the tickling charm. 

"I mean," she backtracked quickly, "Crabbe and Goyle are hardly the brightest crayons in the box now are they? If they try anything, I could probably confuse them with a cupcake or something."

Harry and Ron suddenly erupted into hysterical laughter.

Eleanora furrowed her brow in confusion. "What's so funny?" she asked, as Ron rolled around on the floor, clutching his sides

"That's what we did," sputtered Harry helplessly, "in our second year……..We left a cupcake dosed with Dreamless Sleep in the corridor and they ate it……And then we……"

He dissolved in laughter again and Ron composed himself sufficiently to finish, "locked them in the broom cupboard."

Eleanora grinned delightedly. "And you say I'm the one with Slytherin tendencies!"


	22. Authors Note

Hello m'dears!  
  
I hope everybody enjoyed the long awaited Order of the Phoenix - I know that I did! I think that Snape was revealed to be a lot more human in this instalment, and I was practically whimpering in sympathy for him when Harry saw him cowering in the corner whilst his parents fought in the Pensieve - bless his cotton socks (black cotton of course.) As for the "grey underpants" moment - well, I like James Potter a lot less now.  
  
Now, the release of OOTP means that my fiction has been thrown into contextual disarray. It's set at the same time as OOTP and so is utterly out of sync with it. I hope that you won't be put off by this and will continue to read as I will certainly continue to write. Just think of it as an alternative fifth year, at least that's what I'm doing.  
  
Thanks for your continued dedication to this story, especially to those of you who have reviewed - you really do make my day!  
  
Love you lots and jelly tots,  
  
-X- Loveday -X- 


	23. Chapter Twenty One

**_Chapter Twenty-One:_**

One day in her third week, after afternoon lessons had ended, Eleanora hastily ran down the echoing corridor that lead to the enchanted staircase that would take her to her godfather's study for a hurriedly arranged afternoon tea. She checked her watch and found to her annoyance that she was already several minutes late. 

"Pepper imps!" she said loudly at the stone phoenix who glared down at her imposingly, his claws clenched like her own fists held rigidly at her sides.

Stupid Snape, she thought hotly, her eyes flashing in still raging anger, as the stairs began grating upwards. 

The stern potions master had ordered Eleanora and Hermione to remain behind after the lesson and remove every last trace of armadillo bile from the work benches as punishment for Hermione's whispered instructions to the hopeless Neville Longbottom during the preparation of their shrinking solution.  Her incensed protestations had also earned her an extra load of homework, on top of the unreasonable amount that he had already given them, and she had struggled to retain her already fraught temper as he sat irritatingly serenely behind his desk, staring at her as she scrubbed the stubborn stains from the benches. 

Never before in her life had her fingers itched so badly with need to deliver a sharp stinging slap, as they has when the professor had indolently drawled, as the two girls made their way of the door,

"You missed a bit. Ten points from Gryffindor. Each"

Still, she reasoned, her anger subsiding a little, at least she had someway made up for Snape's quite unnecessary, in her opinion at least, deduction of house points that morning in her DADA lesson. Professor Lupin had set the class an cunning obstacle course of sorts out in the castle grounds, pitting their wits against a variety of malevolent creatures, ranging from the fairly innocuous; grindylows, to the slightly more hairy, both figuratively and literally; blood-sucking bugbears. 

Eleanora had been the last to attempt the course, held back by a discreet shake of the head by Lupin. She had worked her way quickly though the course, a brief moment of difficulty with a Lethifold solved not by the usual patronous charm, but by a swift, though unconventional kick to the gaping maw of the creature, then a tickling charm, which left the nefarious beast rolling on the floor in paroxysms of hoarse rasping laughter.

Lupin had shaken his head in wry amusement at the girl's eccentric approach and awarded her fifteen points to Gryffindor for "use of initiative", though privately mourned the loss of the Lethifold, which he feared would never be quite the same again. 

Reaching out her hand to violently fling open her godfather's door, she found, to her mild surprise, it gently swinging open of its own accord before she even had a chance to grasp the handle, revealing her godfather to be sat behind his desk, calmly pouring two cups of tea from a very oddly shaped teapot indeed.

"Ahh, Eleanora, my dear. I took the liberty of charming the door as I feared you might be in……….a slamming sort of mood," he greeted her gently, peering at her over the rims of his half moon spectacles.

Eleanora slumped down heavily in the armchair opposite the desk, sulkily blowing a lock of hair from across her face with a scowl. 

"That man is beyond impossible!" she expostulated crossly, raking a hand through her tangled hair, surmising that her godfather did indeed know of the recent clash of wills, as he did everything that went on within the walls of the castle.

Dumbledore sighed resignedly.

"I don't care if he has to battle to the death with Voldemort just to get the bathroom every morning, nothing gives anyone the right to be that god-damned cantankerous!"

Her godfather looked at her concernedly, as she rattled her teacup and saucer so violently he thought it might shatter with the fiery force of her annoyance.

"My dear," he began cautiously, as his god daughter met his composed gaze with her own blazing stare.

"You truly must learn to control that temper of yours. Whilst I understand that Professor Snape can be…..… fractious at the best of times, it is up to you to forge a viable working relationship, which, in your current state you are certainly not able to do."

She stared at him blankly.

"His student, I might be, but every single student in the whole castle dearly wishes to kick his crotchety old ass; why should I be any different?"

Ponderously removing his spectacles, Dumbledore regarded them for a moment. Eleanora had come to recognise this as a device of procrastination designed to stall for time when he had disagreeable news to give.

She bit her lip in grim expectancy. 

"Come on," she coaxed wryly. "Spit it out."

Her godfather replaced his glasses and fixed her with a level stare, his fingers laced together under his chin, his silver beard flowing sinuously over them. 

"Your father and I have decided, that whilst it is undoubtedly important for you to continue your academic studies here, it is also imperative that you should begin to learn other skills, which you will no doubt come to require in due time."

Eleanora remained silent, her eyes narrowing in quiet consideration of the implication of her godfathers words.

"It is already clear that whilst you are performing perfectly adequately at your time-tabled subjects, they are not absorbing your full attention." He paused pointedly. "I refer to particular incidents involving a foolish dare, a flight of stairs and a dung bomb let off outside the Slytherin common room in particular."

She squirmed under his assiduous gaze, endeavouring to keep her expression innocent.

"Dung bomb?" she asked wide-eyed. Damn, she thought, I told Fred not to make it so quite so pungent. 

"Yes," her godfather replied knowingly, his eyes silently reprimanding her. "About that particular episode I shall say no more, as I am more concerned about your thoughtless antics regarding certain staircases."

"Nothing happened for Merlin's sakes!" she protested weakly, her indignation fading in Dumbledore's quiet presence. 

He conceded with a moderate nod of his head, "True, in this particular instance you were fortunate, but your father still feels it wise if we were to make arrangements to channel your energies into something more appropriate."

Eleanora ground her teeth. 

"Suggest extra potions lesson and I will go and pack my cases now," she told her godfather in warning tones, her brows knitted together in apprehension.

 To be truthful, it was not only Snape's caustic manner and antagonistic classroom behaviour that aggravated her, but the troublesome doubt in her mind that always leapt up like an inextinguishable flame when ever she tried to convince herself that she did indeed dislike him as much as her words made out. She was not afraid of his quick temper in the same way that Neville was, but instinctively knew to deferentially respect the power that the man wielded, not just in the laboratory but in the greater scheme of the survival of the wizarding world, mawkish as it sounded. She could curse him all she liked, but she knew that even if he made her scrub every toilet bowl in the castle with her toothbrush she couldn't dampen the small spark of exhilaration that ignited within her at the very mention of his name or sincerely despise him, though she could certainly make a damned good show of it. Though, thinking about the vast number of toilets there must be, she quickly changed her mind regarding that particular scenario.

"So what's it to be?" she asked, preparing herself for the worst.

"Duelling lessons," came the measured response, infinitesimally better than the one she was steeling herself for.

"Duelling lessons," she repeated slowly, as if rolling the phrase around her mouth to see how it tasted. She evidently found the taste agreeable because she treated her godfather to a sudden wide smile, a stark contrast from her earlier grim scowl. 

He however remained impassive. "With Professor Snape," he continued tentatively.

Eleanora shrugged. Not even the prospect of extra hours spent in Snape's problematic company could dampen her vastly improved mood, though the irksome voice in the back of her mind told her that she may well later regret her optimism.

She grinned impishly. "Does he know about this yet?" 

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "No, he does not. I have called him to my office in," he consulted his pocket watch, "about five minutes."

Eleanora shifted uneasily in her chair, casting a brief glance at the door and made to stand up, but was waved back down by her godfather.

"Sit," he commanded gently, sensing her eagerness to escape what would undoubtedly escalate into another run-in with the short-tempered professor. Curious, he mused as he watched her sip her tea, his argumentative god daughter would usually need no persuasion to stay and engage in a little verbal sparring, but he sensed that she had perhaps met something of a match in his ever intractable potions master. However, he had no intention of letting either of them off easily and the crafty old man was secretly rather looking forward to the fire works display that was sure to ensue. 

Eleanora hid behind her tea cup, her eyes glued to the grandfather clock behind the desk. Suddenly, it let out on echoing toll, and that precise moment the door to Dumbledore's study flew open, admitting into the room the imposing figure of Severus Snape.

His face, already creased in a deep scowl, contorted into a vestige of sour loathing as he saw the familiar shock of tousled hair that peeked up innocuously from behind the high back of the armchair opposite Dumbledore's desk. 

"Ahh, Severus," Dumbledore greeted the po-faced man jovially, shooting a warning look at his god daughter who had sank further down into her chair, her own face etched with aversion and what looked peculiarly like the first flushes of embarrassment.

"Albus," came the curt reply. "What is so deeply important that you saw fit to interrupt my afternoon teaching?" Shooting a disdainful glance at Eleanora, he lowered his lean frame into an adjacent chair. 

The headmaster ignored his terse question and instead gestured to the teapot. "Tea, Severus?"

Snape's brows knitted together in irritation.

"No," he replied, "thank you. I would be most appreciative if you could enlighten me as to why I am here and then let me get back to my classes."

Refilling his own cup, Dumbledore began, 

"Severus, you will of course know that Eleanora here is to be groomed to join the Order upon graduation."

Snape merely nodded, his obsidian eyes fixed firmly on the elderly wizard, behaving as if Eleanora was not there.

"As it is, both Aloysius and I feel that Eleanora is currently not being stretched to her full potential and her excess energies are hence being directed into somewhat unsuitable activities."

Eleanora wrinkled her nose at this sterile description of her antics. 

"Thus, we feel that it would be beneficial to all involved if Eleanora were to be tutored in slightly more advanced subjects.

Severus clenched his fists on the arms of his chair. _Suggest that I take this girl for extra potions lessons and I will gladly give over my body to one of the more sadistic looking devices in the dungeons, he thought mutinously. __Even that one with the uncomfortably placed hooks._

However, never it let it be said that Severus Snape did not possess self control as he merely nodded and asked,

"What exactly did you have in mind, Albus?"

The elderly wizard clasped his hands together in expectation of what he expected to be a none too thrilled reaction. 

"We had discussed the possibility of tutoring Eleanora the basic rudiments of duelling, Severus," Dumbledore announced a little too brightly, his blue eyes lit with tentative hope.

Snape's expression however remained emotionless.

"And?" he asked in a bored tone, knowing full well what his part in this diabolical little scheme was to be. 

"And we had hoped that you might agree to instruct Eleanora," Dumbledore finished.

Snape shifted his weight awkwardly in his chair. He felt rather like some sort of caged beast, with the optimistic gaze of Dumbledore boring into him on one side and the dark stare of that girl on the other, pinning him to the spot, removing his options of escape one by one. Despite his insubordinate thoughts, he knew full well that he had no choice in the matter, and was uncomfortably reminded of when he had sat, equally helplessly in the headmaster's office some weeks previously, before he had ever had the misfortune to run into the D'Souza girl.

He stole a glance at her now, inclining his head slightly and fixing her with a cool stare. She sat nestled in her armchair, her slim ink-stained fingers clenched uneasily around her teacup, her gaze directed at her booted feet which bobbed irritatingly in nervous anticipation of his answer. Her face was half hidden by a snarled curtain of that dratted hair, and he did not see the anxious licking of her dry lips and the furrowing of her brow as he turned back to address Dumbledore.

"It seems that I have no choice in the matter," he conceded with a frown. 

"Thank you, Severus," replied Dumbledore with a humorous smile "Your willing cooperation is much appreciated."

Snape narrowed his eyes at the obvious sarcasm embedded in the headmaster's words.

"When are these cosy little tutoring sessions to take place?" he asked, the flinty tone of his voice indicating to Eleanora that these sessions would be anything but cosy.

"That is for you and Eleanora to decide," Dumbledore replied lightly, waving a hand to invite conversation between the two reluctant figures seated before him. 

Eleanora lifted her gaze, then promptly wished that she hadn't bothered, as Snape was staring at her as if she were some sort of idiot child, one dark brow hitched in condescension. She narrowed her eyes at him, waiting for him to initiate conversation. After a few painfully silent moments, she sighed deeply and said,

"Well, you let me know when you've managed to fit me into your undoubtedly packed schedule."

Her voice was tinged with ringing sarcasm, and she smiled tightly at the potions master.

Snape stiffened at the obvious barb and glared back at her, nostrils flaring in irritation. 

"You can rest assured that I will, Miss D'Souza," he replied impassively, already rising from his chair. 

"Is that is all?" he intoned coldly, eliciting a small nod from Dumbledore.

"Good day, Albus," he said perfunctorily, nodding at the headmaster as he seemingly glided towards the door, his black teaching robes billowing behind him. 

Eleanora turned her head to regard the potions master, but he had already slammed the door forcefully, the teapot shuddering slightly from the impact. 

"Well," she said mordantly with a grim smile, "that went well."

Her godfather stroked his beard thoughtfully. It had indeed gone well, he thought, despite his god daughters misgivings. He had expected nothing less than a flat refusal, an eloquent excuse detailing too much work, too much pressure, and the professor's almost painless acquiescence had come had come as something of a pleasant surprise. Not for the first time, he wondered just how deep the feelings, whatever they might be, of his strait-laced potions master ran with regards to the girl sat before him, now absent-mindedly fiddling with a strand of her tawny hair. 

Sensing her godfather's gaze upon her she looked up.

"Why Snape?" she asked in a forthright tone, dropping the lock of hair and folding her arms across her chest.

"Professor Snape, Eleanora," he reminded her vaguely. 

"Yeah, Professor Smart-Ass Snape," she muttered incoherently, but Dumbledore appeared not have heard her.

The elderly wizard considered her question for a moment. "Well, my dear," he began, "Professor Snape is already a long standing member of the order, and possesses a great breadth of knowledge with regards to the dark arts and duelling."

Eleanora mused upon this, recollecting something that Ron had said about Snape being "desperate to get his greasy little mitts on the DADA job." 

"So why not Remus?" she asked bluntly. "He is the DADA teacher after all."

"Professor Lupin," he reminded her again. But that familiarity he could forgive, seeing as Remus Lupin was a close friend of Eleanora's father and a frequent, or as frequent as circumstances would allow, visitor to the D'Souza household. Eleanora had been delighted to find that an old and trusted friend had been awarded the prestigious post and so far, he had heard nothing but glowing reports of his god daughter's performance from the affable man. A welcome respite from the slightly less favourable reports that he had received from Sybil Trelawney and Professor Binns, who had found the wilful girl to be "thoroughly lacking in focus and application," and " far more interested in the view from the window, then in the 1564 Dwarf uprisings."

The headmaster regarded her over his clasped hands. As far as he was aware, Aloysius had not informed his daughter of Lupin's affliction, out of both well forged loyalty to his school friend and out of his almost consuming desire to protect his daughter from the knowledge of the harms of the world, however close to home they may be. Whilst Lupin was perfectly harmless, thanks in no small measure to the skills of Professor Snape, Aloysius had still felt a strong need to keep the fact from his daughter, and Dumbledore could hardly forgive the man his over protective tendencies considering the events of the past and the likely events of the near future. 

"Professor Lupin, my dear," he began levelly, "is unable to tutor you as his schedule is already full to the brim, especially in these uncertain times." As much as Dumbledore detested lying to anyone, let alone this canny girl, he did not feel it right to disclose the information that he father had been so adamant she be protected from. 

She frowned slightly, as if she did not quite believe that words of the elderly wizard. Still, she said nothing, merely shrugging in acceptance of his answer.

At that very moment the bell announcing the commencement of dinner rang piercingly, shaking Eleanora into a flurry of movement. She leapt out of her chair, nearly tripping over her feet and made a dash for the door.

"I'll let you know what Snape says!" she called over her shoulder as she yanked open the door.

"Keep out of mischief!" Dumbledore smiled humorously and Eleanora childishly stuck out her tongue in reply as she disappeared from the doorway.

As Dumbledore returned to his desk, he heard her galloping down the corridor, her boots clapping resonantly on the cold stone floor and he wondered if she knew just what she had so readily agreed to in taking duelling lessons with Snape. He smiled amusedly to himself.

_Oh, to be a fly on the wall during that first lesson,_ he thought with relish. 

Then, with a worried frown; _Perhaps__ I should see about having the Duelling Gallery fire-proofed?_


	24. Chapter Twenty Two

_Attention all Weasley fans! I've been following an absolutely hilarious AU fiction written by my Beta-Reader, Born To Be Wild, about Harry and Hermione's summer of fun spent at The Burrow. Go check it out!_

****

**_Chapter Twenty Two:_**

****

"Pass the bacon, please," Eleanora asked Harry thickly, through a mouthful of toast.

Harry looked up from his copy of _Quidditch Monthly_ and handed the loaded platter to her.

"Ugh, bacon and marmalade?" he asked incredulously, as Eleanora carefully placed several slices of bacon onto her slice of toast.

She grinned. "Don't knock it until you've tried it," she said, taking a large bite. "And besides, you're the one who eats Bertie Bott's with mashed potato."

"Fair point," Harry conceded with smile, turning back to his article.

"Where's Hermione this morning," asked Ron, glancing at the empty chair to Eleanora's side.

"She said she had to go to the library," she explained, roughly brushing crumbs for her robe, "to get some books for ancient runes."

"At eight o'clock in the bloody morning?" Ron said, rolling his eyes. The girl is stark-staring mad."

Eleanora grinned. She had told the studious brunette exactly the same thing earlier in the dormitory, but Hermione had been steadfast and had slipped off to the library as the others had trooped to breakfast. She wouldn't say what she was researching, but Eleanora knew better by now than to press the matter: Nothing came between Hermione and her books.

"Shall we save her something to have at break," Ron asked a little too casually, "because she's going to have missed breakfast?"

Eleanora and Harry looked up at him, small smiles creasing their faces. 

"That's thoughtful," Harry said innocently, winking at Eleanora, who was quietly sipping her coffee.

Ron blushed a deep maroon, his freckled face not an entirely dissimilar colour from his school jumper.

"What?" he mumbled embarrassedly, "it's just some breakfast for Merlin's sakes."

Eleanora tried to wipe the smirk she felt forming on her lips. _Just some breakfast, she thought amusedly. Though she had only known the three friends for a matter of some weeks, she was not at all oblivious to the subtle crackle of attraction that existed between the petite brunette and the gangling redhead. Though Ron might tease Hermione mercilessly over her unbending dedication to schoolwork, both Eleanora and Harry had noticed that his repartee was born out of a kind of fond familiarity as opposed to any real malice, and that during Hermione' sporadic absences from their company, he always seemed rather subdued, his lively humour dulled somewhat.  However, try as they might to draw Ron out of his denial, they were met with the same sceptical glares and mutterings._

Ron was saved from further interrogation and embarrassment by the sudden roar overhead of flapping wings as hundreds of owls descended upon the Great Hall, letters and parcels clutched in their formidable talons and beaks.

A large snowy owl alighted on Harry's shoulder, nibbling his ear affectionately. He plucked a large brown envelope from her beak and fed her a small morsel of toast which she crunched enthusiastically.

However, Ron's attention was fixed firmly on a colossal eagle owl which circled menacingly below the enchanted ceiling, today a moody pewter grey sky, stippled with ominous black clouds. He followed the powerfully built bird's course nervously with his eyes, which widened to the size of dinner plates as the monstrous bird swooped down with lightening-like speed, scattering the other birds in its wake and landed solidly on the back of the empty chair next to Eleanora. It blinked its large ochre eyes disdainfully, fleetingly reminding her of someone, before holding out a lethal looking foot to which a single rolled parchment was attached with a leather thong. 

Cautiously removing the parchment, her eyes warily regarding the dangerously curved claws, Eleanora silently wondered who on earth this immense creature could belong to. Her father always sent an overworked, bedraggled Ministry owl, who would routinely collapse on her shoulder and insist on devouring at least two pieces of bacon before going on it's way again. 

She cracked open the thick emerald green seal on the parchment and carefully unfolded it, a faint jolt of excitement gripping her, as she saw exactly who the magnificent eagle owl belonged to.

Shielding the parchment from Ron's curious gaze with her arm, she read,

_Miss D'Souza,_

_Your first lesson in the basic art of duelling will take place at __eight o'clock_ this evening in the Duelling Gallery, on the fifth floor corridor. __

_Should this arrangement be agreeable to you, send affirmation by means of this owl._

_Until this evening,_

_Severus Snape._

Eleanora read the letter through twice, then turned it over and fished in her numerous pockets for a quill. Finding one, she scribbled a brief reply on the back as short as its forerunner.

_Professor Snape,_

_That sounds just fine._

_Until then, (unless I've been gored to death by your monster of an owl.)___

_Eleanora._

Having silently beseeched the owl to stand still while she reattached the parchment to its leg, she cagily held out a piece of buttered toast. The owl stared at her loftily, then, totally ignoring the toast, deftly swiped a sausage from her plate, then flew off before she could retaliate, its formidable wings nearly clipping her head.

"Damn cheek," she grumbled, turning her gaze back to the table. Ron continued to watch her with a watchful eye.

"Who was that from?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Oh, just an old friend from Beauxbatons," Eleanora replied rather too quickly, slurping down the dregs of her coffee.

"Right," he replied, obviously unconvinced.

Harry however was not to be so easily deterred.

"Secret boyfriend?" he asked with a mischievous grin.

Eleanora snorted. "Highly unlikely," she replied, rolling her eyes, and wondering just how different their reaction would be if they really knew who the sender of that letter. She guessed that Ron would very quickly lose his voracious appetite for one.

Sensing that no more could be gleaned on the matter, Harry quickly turned to his favourite topic of conversation: Quidditch.

"First practice of the year tonight," he told them excitedly, practically rubbing his hands in glee.

Eleanora longed for Hermione to be sitting next to her so that they could roll their eyes in perfect tandem as had become their customary antidote to what they had nicknamed "Quidditch Talk."

Instead she let her thoughts drift to what the evening had in store for her, with just a hint of trepidation. Though she had, as requested by her godfather, attempted to forge a somewhat more workable relationship with her professor, there was still a tangible air of animosity that existed between the headstrong girl and the stern man, and whilst the outright hostility that Snape had previously exhibited towards Eleanora had been replaced by a grim tolerance, theirs was still a far from gracious rapport. The brief letter had been a perfect quintessence of their fraught affiliation: civil, distant and cold.

Eleanora frowned to herself. She had almost preferred the state of out-and-out conflict that had been replaced by this distant civility, and in truth rather missed the dangerous tension of potions lessons that had evaporated soon after the previous weeks meeting with her godfather. Since then, lessons had been, in her opinion at least, rather dull, though to confess to her classmates that she grieved for his constant taunts and acerbic insults would have been unthinkable.

At that moment, the bell for the commencement of morning lessons rang sonorously around the Great Hall, shocking the three friends into a flurry of hasty movement. Eleanora scraped back her chair, flinging her bag over her shoulder, grinning at Harry as Ron carefully wrapped up three slices of toast in a linen napkin, and tucked them into his own bag. He looked up and caught them staring at him in amusement.

"Oh, sod off," he muttered, his ears a vivid shade of scarlet.

* * * * * * * * * *

The shimmering fumes of the deep purple potion rose in an iridescent miasma, cloaking the harsh features of Snape as he stooped over the cauldron, a slim glass vial in hand. Lifting a ladle from the depths of the cast iron cauldron, he carefully poured a measure of the dusky liquid into the vial, deftly corking it, labelling it and consigning it to the depths of his desk draw.

Glancing at the clock he realised with a frown that once again he had missed dinner. Whilst he would be perfectly happy to abstain from all meals taken in the company of the staff, Dumbledore insisted that he attend regularly. However, he was sure that he would be forgiven on this occasion as it was imperative that Lupin's potion be prepared in time for the next week's full moon. 

The Wolfsbane potion's correct preparation was essential for the safety of both Lupin himself and for that of the staff and teachers, as without it, the excruciating transformation made by the man each month would become an all encompassing one, altering his mind as well as his body, reducing him to nothing more than an inhuman beast, dangerous and savage.

Snape knew only too well the full extent of Lupin's hideous alterations. In his school day's Sirius Black, ever keen to lead others into peril had convinced him to follow the boy down the secret passage leading from the castle to the Shrieking Shack. He had been saved, moments from an almost certain death by that dratted fool Potter who had followed close behind, dragging him out of the passage as he stumbled upon the werewolf in the agonizing throws of transformation. That unfortunate incident had left him in the undesirable position of being wholly in Potter's debt, something perhaps more painful to bear than what would have been his final moments at the mercy of the ferocious werewolf.

Clearing the litter of jars and vials from the work bench, Snape pondered what was to be the remainder of his evening. Why in Merlin's name he had agreed to tutor that girl was utterly beyond him, and he had spent many an hour attempting to formulate a plausible excuse, but he knew that back down now would have been to admit defeat to the clamouring chorus of insatiable voices that haunted his waking hours with sly taunts and sing-song mockery. 

He felt nothing for the girl.

Nodding in silent agreement with his resolution, he caught sight of himself in the lead paned glass panel of the storage cupboard door. His ebony hair hung limply over the pale stretch of his face, casting limpid shadows over his dark eyes which glinted coldly in the candle-lit gloom of the dungeons. The high collar of his black silk frock coat graced an elegant neck and pointed to the obstinate curve of his jaw line, at ease with the ascetic vigour of his face. The heavy fabric clung intimately to his shrouded form, revealing in its modesty broad shoulders, striated with wiry muscles and slim build that spoke of hidden strength beneath its dark mantle.

Severus Snape had never been a handsome man by any stretch of the imagination. His face, which might otherwise have wielded a stern appeal, was too often creased in a thunderous scowl to be considered attractive, and the dominating presence of his aquiline nose threw the sensitively carved cheekbones into indiscernible silhouette.

Shaking himself out of his contemplative reverie, Snape picked up his wand from the desk and strode towards the door, pausing to perform a series of complex wards upon the entrance to his chambers. Snape was a man of secretive nature, but then he had much to conceal.

* * * * * * * * *

Eleanora pelted down the echoing cloisters, her pewter grey robes ballooning behind her. 

I must look like some kind of overgrown bat, she thought to herself with a grin, as she skidded around the corner, nearly colliding with a suit of particularly disgruntled armour.

"Sorry!" she yelled out loudly over her shoulder, already half way up the stairs.

Gasping for breath and flushed in the face after her run, she arrived at the imposing façade of the entrance to the duelling gallery. A pair of tall oaken doors barred her way, stretching up to a high vaulted ceiling. The walls, painted an ominous blood red were richly adorned with shields and other duelling memorabilia and she winced as she caught sight of a particularly menacing looking mace with what looked suspiciously like century old blood stains.

Smoothing down her hair with some limited success, she found herself wishing that the tangle of anxiety in the pit of her stomach could be soothed so easily.

Tugging at the handle of the door, she found her to vexation that it would not open. Stepping back, she placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head in puzzlement. She tried again, yanking at the handles with all her strength. Still, they wouldn't open.

She huffed, her cheeks reddening yet more in irritation.

Giving them a final almighty heave, she nearly fell over backwards from the force, but still the doors stood unmoved.

She glanced around accusingly, wondering whether this was Snape's ridiculous idea of a joke. But she saw nothing amiss and frowned at the seemingly immovable doors. Her hand snaked into a pocket and withdrew a slim wand. She pointed it at the doors, muttering,

"Aloharmo – "

At that moment the supposedly locked doors flew open, revealing a very irate Snape standing, arms folded angrily across his black clad chest. 

"You are late, Miss D'Souza," he intoned dangerously.

She tucked her wand up her sleeve, a bewildered expression on her face.

"The doors," she began confusedly, "they wouldn't open."

Snape hitched an eyebrow in a scornful sneer, his eyes flashing over the tip of her wand protruding from her sleeve.

"So you thought you would use a little magic instead of common sense," he said in a bored tone. "If you had used just one ounce of the sagacity that your godfather credits you with, you would have tried to push the doors open in the correct manner instead of infernally pulling at them."

Eleanora realising her foolish mistake bit her lip in embarrassment, and lowered her eyes to the floor, cringing at her lack of common sense, something over which her father constantly berated her.

"Still, we must at least be thankful that you deigned to use a wand this time," he added sarcastically, again glancing at the wand now clutched in her hand. 

Eleanora gritted her teeth in frustration at his taunts, but remained silent, painfully aware of the disdain that Snape must now hold her in, her constant application in his lessons, which she had hoped had earned her a sort of grudging respect, undone in a fleeting moment of foolishness.

He stared at her, his gimlet-like eyes boring steadily into her, seeking out her own eyes from under that weighty veil of hair. A moment of painfully awkward silence ensued, Eleanora rocking gently on the balls of her feet.

"Do you intend to spend the whole of the lesson skulking silently out in this hall?" he asked pointedly.

She lifted her gaze, hoping it was one of quiet defiance, but the prickles of mortification that danced uncomfortably over her skin told her that she most probably resembled nothing more than a shame faced child, caught doing something she shouldn't have been. Strange, how Snape always made her feel like she had been caught in the throes of some forbidden pursuit. 

He stepped lightly aside and she pushed past him through the door way, a twinge of exhilaration mingling with her fading discomfiture as her hand fleetingly brushed his thought the overlong sleeve of her working robes. 

Eleanora had never been one to unduly worry about clothes, but that evening she had spent an agonising five minutes critically surveying the contents of her wardrobe, her eyes roving over the selection of robes. She had dismissed all but one set as "too bright," or "too drab," or "too thick," and had finally settled on the pewter grey silk as both practical and suitably flattering, the dark iridescence of the material enhancing the shadowy glint of her eyes. Pulling on the robes, she had realised with a jolt that she was already a matter of minutes late, and her stomach clenched with dread anticipation of Snape's likely torrent of mordant castigation. 

She had fled out of the Gryffindor common room as if she had an irate flock of Hippogriffs on her heels, and had fended off Ron's hasty questioning with a conclusive sounding, "I'll be back before curfew!"

Now, she stood mutely before the imposing professor, her uneasily clenched hands hidden by the soft folds of her robes. Snape, she noticed with well concealed interest, had cast off his usual sombre black teaching robes and stood in a sleek black frock coat, buttoned up to the neck with a single row of innumerable jet buttons. She idly pondered whether he stood each morning, painstakingly doing them up by hand or whether he employed the skills of "foolish wand waving" he seemed to deplore so. It seemed rather incongruous that her godfather had chosen someone who seemed so fundamentally opposed to wand work as her duelling tutor, but Eleanora knew better by now than to probe too deeply into the sometimes seemingly eccentric gambits of the aged wizard.

"I do hope that idiotic error of yours will have firmly impressed upon you the first lesson you will learn here," he drawled, fixing her with a searching gaze, withdrawing his own wand from his pocket, and twirling it absently between his long fingers, luminously pale against the deep blackness of his coat. 

She stared at him questioningly, bridling a little at his blunt citation of her so called "idiotic error."

He sighed, rolling his dark eyes to the ceiling. "The first thing you must learn in order to master the skills of duelling is that every aspect of every duel must be approached with some vestige of rationale. One cannot simply wave one's wand blindly and expect great things to happen."

Eleanora snorted a little too loudly, then turned it into an implausible cough, stifling it with her sleeve.

"If this all depends on common sense then I better just leave now," she said, wrinkling her nose, noting his displeased scowl deepening at her words. 

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment through narrowed eyes then abruptly turned away from her, one elegant hand gesturing towards the door. 

"By all means, leave. It makes no odds to me."

His voice was cool, wholly disinterested and Eleanora felt suddenly aggrieved at his lack of emotion, all too aware of her own racing heartbeat which skipped and danced in nervous abandon in stark contrast to the professor's impassive demeanour.

She glanced towards the door for a moment, and then turned her head resolutely back to face her duelling partner. In several respects, she noted gladly, they were evenly matched. Though she knew that physical strength had little significance in magical duelling, she was pleased to see that Snape stood only a few inches taller than her own impressive height, though his still slim frame was broader and undoubtedly stronger. With an almost imperceptible smirk she relished the advantage she knew she had when it came to magical ability itself. Though she knew Snape was a powerful wizard, capable of strong magic, he did not possess her own aptitude for wandless incantations and she planned to use this to her advantage. 

Though had Eleanora studied the resolute figure of her potions master more attentively she would have noticed the indiscernible curl of his own lips as his fingers curled around his wand and he tossed his head. Suddenly his limp ebony locks were restrained in a leather thong, the graceful tendrils swept back, throwing the full light of the autumn evening that streamed in through the high windows onto the strong contours of his face. 

She stared in ill-concealed admiration. His face suddenly looked more youthful, the deep lines thrown into invisibility by the warm glow of the waning sun and she was afforded a fleeting glimpse of how he must have looked in his younger years before the weary toil of the war took its toll upon him; body and soul.

"If you are quite finished staring, Miss D'Souza," he snapped tartly, turning smartly on his heel, "we shall begin." He seemed aberrantly uncomfortable under her scrutinising gaze and Eleanora detected the palest flush of colour striped across his hollowed cheeks, warmed by the touch of the fading day.

He strode nine carefully measured paces across the highly polished wooden floor of the duelling platform, his heels clicking loudly and waited for her to do the same, the dispassionate scowl back in place.

Eleanora assumed her position, but did not see the intensifying glower that lined the potions master's face as he watched her fairly swagger across the platform, exuding over-confidence in every movement. 

Turning round slowly, she faced him again, her feet thrown apart, shoulders squared. She clutched her wand firmly in her right hand, the cool feel of the wood a comforting constant in her hot hand. 

Her father had spent her thirteenth summer teaching her how to duel. Day after searing, sultry day he had dragged her in from the lush gardens of their then home, and much to her displeasure devoted his time to ensuring that she learnt the basic rudiments of magical conflict. Having been separated from her father for much of that year she would have preferred their time spent together to be of a more frivolous nature, but whilst she may have been able to manipulate him in most things, in this he had been strangely adamant. Still, after so long an estrangement due to his work commitments, she craved any attention she could get from him, and had delighted him in performing well in her allotted tasks. It was with this same desire that she planted herself in alert readiness before Snape, coveting his respect and admiration in that same way her father heaped praise upon her, as liberally as he doled out castigation on other less felicitous occasions. The irksome voice of doubt at the back of her mind piped up,

_"Is that all you want?"_

Eleanora frowned and clutched her wand more tightly.

_"Just his respect and admiration?" it persisted, _"or something more?"__

She shook her head skittishly in an attempt to dislodge the infuriating voice. The voice of doubt, but perhaps also, she admitted grudgingly, the voice of truth.

"Now," he said, "the deep, silky baritone of his voice reverberating richly around the gallery. "I wish you to attempt to disarm me. You may use whatever means you wish."

Eleanora smirked openly at his use of the word "attempt," but her grin was wiped by his deadpan addition of,

"Within reason."

_Damn, she thought__. So much for the Blasting Curse. She doubted very much whether Snape would consider finding himself flat on his back on the other side of the gallery "within reason." _

_Better be the Relashio then, she thought quickly, as Snape was already bent in a chivalrous bow, the arch of his slender back infinitely more graceful than her own hurried curtsey._

She raised her wand hand above her head, drawing her left arm across her upper body like an invisible shield. Her fingers twitched impatiently, but in a rare show of foresight she realised the danger of jumping the proverbial gun in this particular instance. The predatory glint in Snape's eyes told her that whilst she might have the edge now, he would gladly even the balance with a hefty dose of detentions later should she so much as shoot off a spark before the order of commencement. A bewitched pocket watch that Snape had carefully removed from his breast pocket and set down on a nearby chair was acting as the starting signal, and Eleanora glanced at it anxiously.

At its shrill toll, she quickly whipped her casting hand over her upper body creating a deflection shield, and flicked her wand at Snape, shouting,

"Relashio!"

However her fiery jet of burning sparks was misfired into a low rafter as she was knocked clean off her feet and lifted several feet into the air, her lissom body landing with a heavy thud upon the floor, some feet beyond the platform, her wrist, held out to break her fall, splintering with a painfully audible crack.

Disorientated, she shook her head, trying to rid her eyes of their troop of dancing stars. Her mind reeled with confusion more than concussion, and she hoisted herself up on her elbows, trying to ignore the sharp pain in her wrist. Into her field of vision swam the figure of Snape, standing above her, something curiously like concern lighting his obsidian eyes. However as she opened her mouth, the concern hardened into scornful disdain.

"What the bloody hell did you do that for?" she gasped, eyes flashing, wincing as her wrist buckled under her weight. 

Snape merely stood over her, so close that she had to bend her head right back to meet his gaze, and said in measured tones,

"Observe the second rule of duelling: There is no such concept as 'within reason.' If you think for a second that an opponent will play within the rules then you are naïve as well as impetuous."

She spluttered with anger. 

"But you told me 'within reason!' What the hell was I meant to do?"

He hitched one eyebrow in calm response to her flaring temper.

"You were meant to do exactly what you did," he replied evenly, still towering over her prone form.

Her eyebrows knitted in puzzlement. 

"You mean the whole sodding point of this was for me to end up flat on my back, whilst you stood over me and told me what a silly girl I was?"

Snape noticed her hands trembling with rage and he took a step back, a strange pleasure coursing through at the sight of her anger. For weeks they had existed in a strange limbo of suspended emotions during potions lessons, his snide comments as noticeably absent as her fiery temper as they studiously ignored one another. Eleanora dutifully completed her work on time, and received it back with a pleasing grade, and in turn he refrained from goading the volatile girl with derisive remarks and contemptuous taunts. Though he would never admit to it, he sorely missed their unofficial verbal sparring matches, and often had to bite his tongue to prevent the escape of a deliciously acerbic remark that would have immediately elicited the heated response he so craved of her. 

However, judging by the fire that danced wildly in her eyes and the grim slash of her mouth, he had successfully unleashed what promised to be nothing short of an overpowering display of furious fireworks.

Still lying on the floor, her robes puddled around her hips, she once again made a futile attempt to stand up, her wrist hanging limply at her side. For the first time, Severus consciously noticed that she wore nothing but a pair of muggle cut-off denim shorts under her sombre grey robes. He recognised them as the same pair that she had worn that late summer day and once again he found his eyes quickly perusing the tanned expanse of her long legs, their slimness contrasting almost comically with her heavy winter boots, from under which peeked a pair of clumsily knitted maroon socks.

Taking a deep breath and tearing his gaze back up to her face, now reddened in rage, replied in irritatingly cool tones,

"Correct, Miss D'Souza. The whole point of this valuable exercise was to rid you of your wholly erroneous belief that you are somewhat invincible."

"I've never thought that I'm at all invincible!" she protested ardently, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Then you do a remarkably convincing job of acting that way," he replied smoothly, "so far, it has only been a matter of dumb luck that you are not in traction in the hospital wing, after your foolish dalliance with the staircases."

Eleanora slapped her palm on the cool wooden floor. 

"Why the hell does everything going on and on about that?" she asked to no one in particular. "Nothing happened – I'm still here!"

Snape smiled snidely. "And for that, be assured that we are all eternally grateful."

She glared at him and shot back, "Excuse me while I go and fetch a mop and bucket to wipe up all the sarcasm you just dripped all over the floor."

His voice suddenly turned deadly serious and his eyes bored into her uncomfortably.

"Though you may not realise it, Miss D'Souza, you have a great responsibility to those around you. You have been gifted with astonishing powers but so far I have seen or heard of you doing nothing but abusing them."

Eleanora opened her mouth in indignation but he cut her off.

"With the proper training you could be a true asset to the Order but as you are, you are nothing but an arrogant schoolgirl, the expediency of your powers outweighed by your carelessness and foolish disobedience, and so you will remain until you begin to apply yourself to something other than the production of Dung Bombs and exploding toilet seats."

The room was plunged into silence as the girl reeled in shock. No one had dared speak to her like that before and she felt hot humiliation mix with annoyance and run throughout her body, inflaming her senses and heightening her fury. She didn't even consider the need to inform him that it had not been her that had masterminded the toilet seats, (that had been particular flash of brilliance from Terry Boot.) Her hands burned with a latent heat and with some difficulty she gracelessly hoisted herself up from the floor and stood before the taciturn potions master. 

"What the hell gives you the right to come over all high-and-mighty with me?" she demanded the tips of her hair crackling audibly.

Snape stepped so close that she could feel his breath hot on her face. He grasped her shoulders and shook her hard, his fingers pressing uncomfortably into her flesh. 

"What gives me the right?" he hissed at her, his teeth bared in quiet fury. "I cannot help but look at you and see in you the shadow of another, also proud, conceited and convinced that he was untouchable. He craved power and recognition and went to any lengths to get it."

He released her and stepped back, his breathing laboured, and his face suffused with an ugly flush. 

"Whilst we may plainly dislike each other, I have no wish to see you walk the same path that he did," he muttered half to himself, a hand pressed to his ashen temple. "No one deserves that."

The fading sun suddenly vanished from the high window and without its pinkish blush, the room seemed cold and hostile. Snape had walked slowly to the window and was standing perfectly still, staring out over the Quidditch pitches, his back to Eleanora who remained awkwardly on the platform, afraid of breaking the deafening silence that had descended over them. 

"You may go," he said sharply, not turning around. "I will expect you at the same time next week."

She stood dumbly having not really heard his words. Her mind spun, and she frowned in bewilderment. She had a vague recollection of en nd shielding his face your wand?"rds.breaking the deafening silcne that had descened over them. t schoolgirlhim raising his wand hand, his left hand she had noticed, his other hand shielding his face, and then he had flicked his right hand, then all she had seen had been the rafters spiralling over head as she sailed through the air, landing with sickening thump.

"How did you manage to knock me off my feet when I never even saw you move your wand?" she asked suspiciously, her uninjured hand placed gingerly on her bruised hip. 

He turned slowly around, the half light casting fluid shadows onto his face, illuminating the sly smirk playing upon his thin lips.

"It would seem, would it not, Miss D'Souza, that you are not the only one who possesses an aptitude for wandless magic?"

Eleanora closed her eyes as comprehension suddenly dawned upon her. Now that she thought about it, it seemed obvious: The way he seemed to scorn upon wand work, and how he never appeared to carry a wand during lessons yet often cruelly evaporated a student's ill-prepared potion, leaving them with an empty cauldron and a failing grade. 

Opening her eyes again, she found him staring strangely at her, as if he took pleasure in his destruction of what she had imprudently thought to be her advantage. 

"And next time, if you leave your legs uncovered by the hex deflection charm then it is a certainty that you will once again end the lesson flat on your back." 

She bit her lip, but made no retort, unsure of herself in light of Snape's revealing diatribe. Whilst she may not have been the most insightful of girls, she possessed enough acuity to half realise that the mysterious "he" that the potions master spoke of was none other then Snape himself.

Having relinquished her only weapon against him, she felt small and vulnerable in his presence, standing in the long, engulfing shadow created by his body in the twilight of the window. 

"You would be advised to take that wrist to the hospital wing for Madame Pomfrey to look over," he added, turning away from her again, indicating that the lesson was over and that any further conversation was superfluous.

She marched to the door and flung it open, bathing the room in the blindingly bright light from the corridor outside, silhouetting Snape's slim form against the shadows of dusk. Taking one last glance at the silent figure over her shoulder, she slammed the door shut, still painfully aware of the throbbing of her wrist.

Trudging down the stairs, she came to the corridor that led to the hospital wing. She stared down the snaking passageway for a moment, then turned away, instead taking the narrow staircase that led back to the Gryffindor common room.

She could fix her wrist herself with a simple splinting charm but the persistent gnawing of uncertainty in the pit of her stomach, she suspected would not be so easily remedied. 


	25. Chapter Twenty Three

**_Chapter Twenty Three_**

****

"Miss D'Souza!" snapped the insistent voice of Professor Sinistra, "kindly pay attention!"

Eleanora jerked her head up off the desk and rubbed her bleary eyes hard. The darkened room swam into focus and she found herself staring up into the luminous violet eyes of her unusually irate astronomy teacher. 

"Sorry," she muttered, and busied herself with her pile of open books and scribbled star-charts. The figures and diagrams danced erratically before her tired gaze and she squinted vainly at them, attempting to make some sense of the seemingly random configurations. 

Glancing over at Ron's star-chart she realised with a dull jolt that her own was placed upside down. She quickly turned it the right way up, looking around to see whether anyone had noticed her inane error, and continued her study of the unwieldy parchment, her brow furrowed with concentration.

However, try as she might to absorb herself in the secondary lunar cycle of Ganymede, her mind drifted indolently this way and that, bringing certain things that she would rather forget into a painfully sharp focus 

Such as the duelling lesson of the previous night. 

Her stomach constricted uncomfortably at the mere memory of Snape's expression as he had shaken her, his long fingers digging painfully into her shoulders in wrath. His eyes had burned with a freezing fire; their fathomless depths ablaze with consuming anger, and the deep baritone of his voice had reverberated loudly around the gallery, its usual mellifluous tones replaced with the harsh timbre of long fermented bitterness and deep loathing. 

She had shuddered with a strange mixture of fear and exhilaration, her skin prickling at his nearness, so close that his hot breath burned upon her cheeks and she was enveloped in that bewitching, heady scent that seemed to emanate from the black, liquid depths of his robes. Something of this strange delight must have shown in her eyes, because he had thrown her roughly away from him, relinquishing his grip as if she had burnt him. 

Sleep had eluded her for much of the night, her restless mind snatching any vestige of rest from her clammy grasp, leaving her tossing hotly under the heavy blankets, the frigid light of the moon half illuminating her troubled face as it slanted across her disordered pillows.

She closed her smarting eyes, trying to cool their feverish itch, and passed a cool hand over her blazing forehead. Her head reeled with a seditious commotion of thoughts and she hardly heard Hermione's concerned voice at her side.

"Eleanora?" she whispered softly. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, opening her eyes a fraction. Hermione leaned over her, her own completed star chart clutched under her arm, wearing a look of maternal anxiety. 

"I'm fine," she reassured her, blinking hard.

"You look exhausted," Hermione said sympathetically.

Eleanora managed a weak grin.

"What do you expect when they drag us up here for lessons at two in the morning?" she groused, checking her wrist watch. 

"But you can only see Ganymede at certain times of the night," Hermione protested, wide-eyed. "And you wouldn't want to miss it, would you?"

She was met with a stony silence as Eleanora stared at her sceptically.

"Frankly 'Mione," she replied wearily, heavily crossing out her untidy scrawls, "For all I care bloody Ganymede could be parading round the common room wearing George's lucky Quidditch pants.

Hermione sighed, and glanced around the candle-lit room. Leaning further over the tired girl, she whispered in censorious tones, 

"Just this once."

Unfurling her own neatly drawn chart, she laid it out on the desk in front of Eleanora.

Grinning up at her friend, Eleanora mouthed her gratitude.

"Thanks 'Mione. I owe you one."

Hermione smiled tightly.

"Two, actually," she sighed. "The Numerology homework last week, remember?"

Eleanora stifled a snigger. "Oh yeah – good job you're keeping track."

For the next few minutes she immersed herself quickly copying down Hermione's painstaking notes and figures onto her own parchment, which she noted with a scowl was criss-crossed with her own untidy scrawls and ink-blots. Taking out her wand, she performed a simple removal charm, vanishing the ink stains and her numerable errors. 

A sudden clap of Professor Sinistra's hands signified the end of the lesson and Eleanora hastily packed up her books and deposited her completed parchment into the professor's waiting hands. Flanked by a loudly yawning Ron and Hermione, she made her way out of the classroom, and trod heavily down the dark staircase, clutching at the walls for support, as her fatigued legs felt likely to buckle under her at any moment. She was too tired even to offer up some sly remark as Ron chivalrously helped Hermione down the stairs, his hand lingering on the small of her back. 

"Night," he mumbled, his eyes already half closed in sleep, as they parted at the staircase that led to their respective dormitories. 

"Morning, more like," corrected Eleanora grumpily, as she followed Hermione to their beds, flinging her books and robes carelessly to the floor, ignoring Lavender's aggravated grunts as she was woken by the clamour.

Not even bothering to undress, she collapsed clumsily onto her bed, swinging her booted feet up and muttering,

_"Divestio."___

The boots instantly disappeared from her aching feet and appeared neatly placed at the foot of the bed. Many years of apathy when it came to the orderliness of her surroundings had resulted in her being able to cast a near perfect wandless divesting charm, originally borne out of her mother's insistence that the very reluctant nine year old Eleanora should tidy her room before being allowed to play with her broomstick. 

Her cheek rubbed against the starched pillow as she struggled to find a comfortable position. She winced as she inadvertently leaned on her wrist, sharp lances of pain leaping up her arm. Despite her best efforts with a simple healing charm, the fracture had refused to mend itself and whilst the bruising was minimal the residual pain was certainly not. Having initially disobeyed Snape's orders to go to the infirmary, she would be damned if she was going to acquiesce now and would rather endure the constant ache than explain herself to the staid Madame Pomfrey and admit that she had once again been felled by the irascible potions master. 

As the hushed darkness, punctuated only by Sally-Anne's light snores, lulled her into a restless slumber, images of Snape's sneering visage seeped into her exhausted mind, echoes of his angry tirade resounding in the silence of the night.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The flickering flames danced riotously in the fireplace, throwing bright shapes out into the darkened room, illuminating a seated figure, sat stiffly in a high backed leather armchair. The sombre figure stared ahead into the crackling blaze, motionless except for the incessant drumming of lengthy, pale fingers upon the arm of the chair. 

Severus Snape was troubled, his discontent manifesting itself in the deep crease that furrowed his pallid forehead, and the cadaverous look that had settled over his gaunt features like a translucent shroud. He lifted one trembling hand to a bottle that stood on a nearby table and grasped it roughly by its neck. The amber liquid within glowed in the firelight as he poured a generous measure into a stout glass tumbler, setting the bottle back down with a clatter. 

Raising the glass, he paused, an acrimonious sneer playing upon his lips. He held the tumbler in a silent, bitter toast, staring down accusingly at his left forearm. The pale skin shone in the gloom, heavily marked by an ugly black stain, which seemed to radiate malignity. A snake slid menacingly from the empty eye socket of a bleached white skull, its fleshless jaw contorted into a hideous leer.  The serpent rose, its forked tongue lashing, its eyes glinting malevolently.

Snape stared down at the brand, his eyes narrowing with abhorrence. With a sudden tumult of movement he angrily hurled his untouched tumbler into the leaping flames, the glass shattering, spilling its tawny contents into the blaze, which spat furiously, licking hungrily at the surrounding stone. 

Exhausted by his frenzied eruption of emotion, he sank back down into the depths of the well-worn chair; his head slumping wearily into his hands, which felt uncomfortably searing against his clammy forehead. 

_Yet another night spent in the intoxicating company of ole' __Ogden__'s, he thought with a sardonic smile. Leaning back, he relished the sensation of the amber liquid coursing throughout his veins, thawing the glacial chill that gripped his body and dulling the powerful ache that pervaded his every waking moment. _

Sleep had cruelly evaded him for a second night, and not even his usual cocktail of Dreamless Sleep potion and a hearty measure of Ogden's could sooth his overwrought mind, teeming with clamouring thoughts and shrill, relentless voices.

His eyes stung with fatigue, yet to close them was unthinkable. Their cool relief of unblemished blackness was always quickly dispersed, replaced by the laughing visage of a young woman, eyes gleaming with joy, head thrown back in mirth. 

Her voice rang melodiously in his head, and in his light-headed inebriation he almost fancied that he could hear her whisper to him, her lips delicately caressing the soft shell-like curve of his ear, the balmy zephyr of her breath warming the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck. 

Shuddering, at the absurdity of his imaginings, he hauled himself gauchely out of his chair, weaving slightly as he walked slowly across the room. The pale stretch of dawn sky that hung outside the one enchanted window elicited a deep frown, and he turned unsteadily on his bare heel, his boots having been discarded many hours before. 

The door to his private stores clicked softly as he opened it with an unsteady hand. In the near darkness, he groped about the numerous shelves, locating the desired bottles and jars as if by touch alone. Vivid red _Pepper-Up potion, to return the strength to his weary body, _Madame Breezy's Awake-Easy,_ a commercially brewed tincture, but effective nevertheless and a small jar of what looked like gaudily coloured sherbet, bearing the neatly scribed instructions, "__Imbibe after excess consumption of __Ogden__'s Firewhiskey."_

Snape threw back his head and let a generous amount of the bright red potion flow into his mouth. The taste was evidently unpleasant as he nearly gagged, wiping his mouth roughly with the sleeve of his creased robes. Madame Breezy's offering was clearly more palatable, though he scowled disdainfully at the ridiculously flamboyant pink bottle. Summoning a glass of water from the adjacent room, he mixed into it the vibrant powder, and then downed the shimmering solution in one gulp, slamming the glass back down onto the table, a grimace etched upon his face, by now regaining its usual sallow hue.

_Though, he thought darkly, as he entered his bed chamber, slamming the door behind him__, I doubt the entire contents of the stores would properly equip me for the undoubted horrors of a double OWL lesson with Slytherin and Gryffindor first thing in the morning. _

Whilst he made no attempts to hide his deep enmity to Gryffindor house, he doubted whether anyone could see past his blatantly affected favouritism to his brood of Slytherins to see that he despised them with the same, if not deeper, antipathy. He scorned the rash gallantry of Hogwart's golden house, and never missed an opportunity to belittle an unfortunate student's attempts to exhibit such foolhardy behaviour, but whilst the Gryffindor failing may be a largely selfless one, the root of Slytherin's many short-comings were entirely egocentric, nowhere better illustrated than in that insufferable upstart, Malfoy. 

As far as he could see, the millennia of supposedly good pedigree in the Malfoy family had resulted in nothing but extraordinary levels of in-breeding, an overdeveloped sense of self-importance and a distasteful, though long running affiliation with the Crabbes and the Goyles of the wizarding world.

Snape shrugged off his crumpled robes, directing them with a swift flick of the hand to a large ebony chest that stood in the corner of his bed chamber. Standing in only his underclothes, he traced a finger down a deep groove in the dark wood panelling that lined the oppressive room. Suddenly a narrow chasm opened up in the wall, revealing a pristine bathroom, resplendent in deepest black marble and porcelain. Snape stepped inside, closing the rift with another feather-light touch. A large gothic mirror dominated one wall of the room, thunderous snores emanating from its overwhelming form.

Snape pointed an idle finger at the mirror, muttering under his breath. The snoring stopped short, giving way to a roaring voice which echoed throughout the cavernous room. 

"Selinius, m'boy!" it boomed in rousing greeting, the vast frame trembling with its force.

Snape made no reply. The last thing he needed right now was a conversation with a senile enchanted mirror, let alone a vociferous one.  

"What time do you call this?" the mirror persisted, its tone amusedly reproachful.

Snape stepped out of his underclothes and turned his attention to a vast selection of dials and taps that decorated the wall of the immense shower. Powerful jets of steaming water issued forth as if from nowhere, drenching the tired man in soothing heat.  

The mirror bellowed even louder, but its voice was lost amidst the torrent of surging water.

"Been on a bit of a bender have we Selinius, old boy?" it chortled. "That's the spirit – enjoy it while you still can!"

Under the steady deluge of the shower, all Snape could hear was the rhythmic pounding of the hot water upon his aching body, drowning out the voices that demanded to be heard. He ran his hands through his hair which hung in wet strands over his face and neck, just long enough to brush his broad shoulders.

Murmuring a simple cleaning charm, a rich lather appeared, foaming under his hands which roughly kneaded his scalp. He knew that it would do no good though, and that after a lesson spent leaning over the torrid fumes of a cauldron, his hair would once again be reduced to the customary limp tendrils. Still, he mused sardonically, most of the school would be shocked beyond belief to discover that he even knew what shampoo was, let alone allow it near his hair. 

His hair rinsed clean, he charmed his hands, soaping his taut body free of the sour odour that a night spent in a cold sweat had afforded him. Calloused hands ran over pale skin, long fingers cautiously avoiding the chaos of angry red scars that ran amok over his back, carving across the ashen expanse like a black canvas for the brutal illustration of his enslavement.

He closed his eyes against the water as he tipped back his head, stretching out his body like a taut spring.

His lithe limbs ached not only with the exhaustion of a sleepless night but with a suppressed longing, which he had long struggled to keep under restraint, which threatened at any moment to overtake his fraught mind and make his body the instrument of it's reckless will.

Severus Snape was after many years of largely enforced loneliness, a solitary individual, whose irascible persona won him few friends and brusquely pushed away those rare few who infiltrated his enduring smokescreen of intimidation and terrorisation. It had been many long years since he had craved the company of another, his innate desire for companionship eroded by the distrust and cynicism instilled in him by the clandestine nature of his work. 

Yet now he found himself unconsciously longing for the conversation, company and even the loving touch of another. Try as he might to quash this disconcerting yearning, he found that the more violently he tried to deny it, the more forceful the craving became, as if it fed off his refutation, growing in intensity and power at his every attempt to quell it. 

It had crept up on him slowly, silently shadowing him, tittering behind his back like a teasing schoolgirl, whispering tauntingly in his ear, then pulling his well-trodden rug of repression from under his feet, laughing wildly as he struggled upon the floor, trying to regain his balance and then lock up the irritating feeling, imprison it and deny its existence. 

She was just a girl for Merlin's sakes.

Admittedly, not just any girl, but that made little odds when considered in terms of black and white. She was a mere girl, as yet untainted by the filth of living in the shadow of the Dark Lord, and he was a man, polluted and aged by forever acting the pawn in the game between his two masters, standing on opposite sides of the chequered board. He was darkness, she was light; he was sullied, she was pure; he was hopelessly bewitched by her, she was undoubtedly appalled by him. 

He had vainly tried to survey his feelings for the girl, but had been foiled at every twist and turn he made in his exploration of the dark, neglected corners of his mind that had been long reserved for this sort of feeling, yet had lain empty, dormant for many years. She had reignited a flame within him that had been extinguished when he was little older than she, its tender glow doused in the icy waters of accountability and illicit deeds.

That night in the Duelling Gallery, he had felt the sudden surge of long absent desire scream though his body, awakening every dulled nerve and blazing in his fingertips, pressing hard into her rigid shoulders. Fighting back the urge to swoop down and envelop her mouth with his, stemming her angry harangue, he had violently pushed her away, burying his trembling hands in his pockets, and averting his gaze, lest she see the smouldering embers of lust that burned within.

As he moved his hands over his lean body removing every trace of soap, he found himself wishing, willing his hands to be hers, his heart beat quickening at the thought of those slim, ink-stained fingers caressing the wiry plains of his body, and running through his hair as he had often seen her absently stroke that wayward mane of hers.

He closed his eyes, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips. Glancing down, he became aware of his growing arousal, and the dull pang of longing that pulled insistently at his groin. Feeling nothing but a growing sense of shame at the prospect of another pleasureless discharge, Snape leaned resignedly against the slick marble wall, one hand turning up the pummelling pressure of the hot shower, the other giving release to the unappeasable force of his desire. 

Outside the roar of the steaming shower, the mirror stridently held court over the empty bathroom. 

"You need to find yourself a girl, Selinius, old chap!" 


	26. Chapter Twenty Four

**_Chapter Twenty Four_**

****

"I'm telling you," Ron hissed in a hushed tone, glancing around for any sign of Madame Pince, "she's up to something!"

Hermione rolled her warm brown eyes and folded her arms, laying down her open book onto a low table.

"Will you give it up?" she replied exasperatedly. "She's not up to anything, as you put it."

"Well, you're the one who saw her knocking back that potion," Ron said darkly.

"It was probably just something for a headache," Hermione countered, plopping down into an armchair in the deserted library. 

"Why on earth would Snape give her something for a headache?" he asked in disbelieving tones. "You said it was his handwriting on the label, didn't you?"

Hermione frowned at the gangling red-head. "Yes, but that doesn't mean it's anything suspicious!"

Ron snorted. "It's Snape isn't it? That's suspicious enough for me!"

"Oh for God's sakes Ron," Hermione replied, her voice brittle with irritation. "How many times have you suspected Snape of something, and then he turns out to be perfectly innocent?"

"Innocent, my arse," Ron muttered incoherently into his hand. 

"What was that?" the annoyed girl asked pointedly.

"Nothing," Ron replied tonelessly.

"And if she was 'up to something' then Professor Lupin would be onto her. That's why he's back after all: To look out for Harry."

"Maybe she's just really hiding it really well," he answered, shrugging. 

"You're being silly," she told him rationally, "She's Dumbledore's god daughter for Merlin's sakes."

"And what does that prove?" asked Ron scornfully. "Sirius is Harry's godfather yet everyone thought he was trying to kill Harry."

"Yes! And they were all wrong weren't they!" she replied tersely, shutting her book with a loud snap. "Just like you are now!"

"All right," Ron replied undeterred. "What about that nutter Barty Crouch? Look who his father was, yet he was still an absolute head-case!"

Hermione shook her head in disbelief, two flags of angry red colouring her cheeks. 

"I cannot believe you sometimes," she said angrily. "You have absolutely no reason to suspect Eleanora of anything, and yet you're acting like she's been trying to assassinate Harry or something equally ludicrous!

"Where was she that night last week then?" Ron shot back immediately, his voice jarringly loud in the silent library. "She bolted out of the common room without telling any of us where she was going, didn't get back 'till after curfew, clutching a broken wrist, and still wouldn't tell us where she'd been!"

"Is it really any of your business?" Hermione asked. "Maybe she just needed some time on her own or perhaps she was meeting somebody!"

"Yeah – like Volde….."

"Ron!" hissed Hermione fiercely. "You're just being ridiculous now!"

The boy forward in his chair, a challenging look etched on his face. "Fine, whatever you say 'Mione. Then when she tries to push Harry off the Astronomy tower, we'll have you to blame!"

"Oh, just shut up, Ron!" Hermione shouted vehemently, ignoring the shocked look on the redheads face.

"You're just feeling redundant because Harry's getting all the attention again, so you think that you'll make yourself look good by accusing Eleanora of all kind of outlandish things!"

Ron's mouth gaped, as he stared in awe at the irate girl, who despite her petite stature, towered over him as he sat dumbly in his arm chair. Recovering himself, he stood up suddenly, forcing Hermione back down into her own chair as he leant over her, his face just inches from her own. 

"So, you think it's perfectly innocent that she hasn't told us that she can do wandless magic? Is that just nothing to worry about too?"

Hermione blinked, and swatted Ron away, a frown furrowing her brow.

"Eleanora can't do wandless magic surely," she said quietly, more to herself than to Ron, who was now standing before her, a triumphant look upon her freckled face.

"Oh yes she can," he replied assertively, still smarting at his friends harsh words.

"But I've never seen her do anything out of the ordinary," she said, but the assured pitch of her voice was gone now, replaced by one of doubt and uncertainty.

"Yeah well, she'd hardly broadcast it around now would she?" Ron scoffed.

"How do you know?" she asked, regaining her dominant tone, her hands placed confrontationally upon her hips.

"Yesterday, after breakfast, I was coming down the staircase from our dormitory into the common room – I'd forgotten my gloves for herbology and was a few minutes late, and it was just Eleanora in there – nobody else. She didn't know I was there obviously, because she was just on her way out of the portrait hole when she must have realised that she had forgotten something too. She checked her watch, sort of looked around, probably to make sure nobody was in there, then held out her hand, and said "accio wand," and it came flying down the girl's staircase and into her hand."

He stopped for breath, a self-satisfied look in his eyes. 

Hermione drew a hand over her mouth, her eyes narrowed in thought. 

"Yesterday," she repeated contemplatively. "We had Numerology first thing. She was late, said that she'd forgotten her abacus."

"Well, it was her wand that she summoned," Ron emphasized.

"Well," Hermione pondered with a pensive laugh. "She could hardly say that she'd forgotten her wand could she? What witch would honestly forget her wand – that's the kind of thing that only Neville could do!"

"Unless of course, she doesn't need it," added Ron pointedly.

Hermione appeared lost in thought for she did not reply, and instead abruptly turned away, and walked hurriedly to a far shelf, and began quickly scanning the aged volumes, running her finger over the cracked leather of the spines, eliciting throaty sighs of satisfaction from some of the enchanted tomes. Selecting one, she pulled it carefully off the shelf, absently dispersing the cloud of dust it created with a wave of her hand. Chewing on her bottom lip in concentration, she flicked through the yellowed pages, finally stopping and silently reading, seemingly unaware of Ron peering curiously over her shoulder.

"Just as I thought," she muttered to herself, snapping the book closet abruptly, nearly catching Ron's nose in it.

"What?" he replied, as he flowed her back to the chairs, a look of extreme bafflement spreading over his face.

"Oh, nothing," Hermione replied airily, gathering up her books, and pulling on her working robes. 

"You believe me then?" he called out, as the brunette was already halfway to the library doors, as he collected up his ragged assortment of parchments and quills.

"Yes," she replied lightly, as he ran to catch up with her, "about the wandless magic at least. But not about her wanting to kill off Harry – I still think that's a load of rubbish."

Ron frowned. "Alright; fair enough.  But why not tell us about it then? Why should she keep it a secret? We're meant to be her friends after all."

Hermione stopped short, so that the long legged boy nearly tripped over her. Turning around she fixed him with a stare. "Yes, we are meant to be her friends, yet I distinctly remember that not five minutes ago you were practically accusing her of being in league with Voldemort!"

Ron reddened slightly and rubbed his nose embarrassedly. "Yeah, well. I still think there's something funny going on though."

Resuming her pace, Hermione made for the common room, negotiating the labyrinth-like corridors with a deep rooted sense of familiarity. 

"So, are you going to tell me what was so interesting back there?" Ron pressed as they neared the portrait hole.

"Warbling cockatrice," Hermione enunciated clearly, standing back as the Fat Lady nodded approvingly at her and swung open, knocking Ron sideways.

"Oof!" he gasped, rubbing his side. The Fat Lady merely smiled smugly and slammed behind him, nearly catching his trailing ankle. A deep hostility had existed between Ron and the Fat Lady ever since he and Dean had accidentally let off a box of Filibuster's Indoor Fireworks in the corridor outside the common room. The large, fragile-tempered woman had spent the next hour or so attempting to stamp out an inordinate number of smouldering sparks from around her frame, and still bore a large scorch mark on the hem of her garish cerise dress.

"Go and get Harry and meet me up in your dormitory," instructed Hermione, as she ascended the stairs to her own room.

Ron stood for a moment, just watching the dainty girl until she disappeared into the darkness of the girl's corridor. 

"Oi, Ron!" came a loud voice from the other side of the common room. 

He whipped round, embarrassed to be caught mooning over Hermione.

"Pick your jaw up, mate!" Lee shouted, a wide grin spread across his face. 

"And make sure you mop up that puddle you've just drooled all over our nice clean floor!" George added.

Ron scowled, made a crude hand gesture, then hurriedly climbed the stairs, two at a time to his dormitory, slamming the door behind him. 

Harry was lying on his bed, absorbed in the latest copy of Quidditch Monthly.

"Alright, Harry," Ron greeted him.

A vague mutter was his reply, as Harry studied the rapidly moving diagrams on the page in concentration. 

"Where's Eleanora?" he asked, as he flung his books down onto his own bed.

"Dunno," Harry said after a pause. "She was down in the common room about half an hour ago, and then she went out. Parvati said she saw her going down to the dungeons. God knows why."

Ron frowned, but had no time to ponder, as the door was flung open and Hermione strode in, clutching a pile of books and parchments. 

"No need to knock or anything," said Harry sarcastically, sitting up and laying down his magazine. 

"I thought not," replied Hermione briskly, ignoring his acerbic tone. 

"Hey, I could have been naked in here!" he protested.

Hermione stared at him. "Whilst talking to Ron?" she asked, smirking. "

Harry reddened. "Well, no……..……I just meant that …….…..."

"Well, whatever you two get up to in your own time is none of my business!" she replied, a sly glint in her eye.

Ron punched Harry on the shoulder. 

"Really smooth, Harry!" he hissed crossly.

Hermione had opened one of the books and was again quickly flicking through the desiccated pages.

"Right," she began, looking at Ron. You can start – tell him what you told me."

Ron stared at her blankly. "But I thought you said that it was all rubbish?"

"Just tell him," she repeated, her nose buried in another dusty volume. 

"Tell me what?" asked Harry curiously, swinging his feet off the bed. 

"Right," began Ron, throwing a sideways glance at Hermione's back. "We thought that -"

"Not 'we' Ron," she interjected over her shoulder. "Just you."

"OK, I thought that Eleanora might be, you know, up to something," he continued hesitantly, gauging Harry's reaction.

Harry looked at him blankly. "Something like what?" he asked.

Ron appealed to Hermione for help with a beseeching look. 

"Ron thought that Eleanora was obviously harbouring some deep desire to do you in," Hermione explained candidly, her own smirk matching the one that lined Harry's face as he glanced back to Ron.

"Glad you're looking out for me mate, but come on – Eleanora? Not exactly threatening now is she? Well," he conceded with a grin, "not unless you're Peeves and she's in a _really_ bad mood."

Ron blanched a little, even his vivid freckles fading in his recollection. Harry referred to when Peeves had rudely swooped into the fifth year girl's dormitory early on Sunday morning, a saucepan stolen from the kitchen perched at a jaunty angle atop his head, which he was noisily banging with a soup ladle. According to a faintly traumatised Parvati, Eleanora, having been abruptly roused from her slumber had sat bolt upright in bed, a thunderous expression on her sleep creased face, pointed a vague hand at the infuriating poltergeist, now in the middle of a rousing chorus of some particularly bawdy song, and all but knocked him straight through the stone wall with a violent blasting curse. The damage done, she sank back down onto the bed and was sound asleep by the time Filch and Professor Flitwick came running to remove the offending spectre from his uncomfortable position, irremovably wedged three feet within the wall. Lavender's distraught sobs could be heard echoing throughout the Gryffindor tower, as she vainly attempted to magically piece back together the ripped fragments of her poster boy, who had been the regrettable victim of the ricocheting remnants of Eleanora's curse.

He frowned, the colour slowly returning to his cheeks. "Exactly – that's my point. It's always the person you least suspect." He paused and fleetingly glanced at Hermione. "Like when it turned out to be Quirrell who was bent on topping you off and we all thought it was the Greasy Git."

"Why did you think that she was trying to do me in anyway?" Harry asked, puzzled.

Ron paused. The evidence that had seemed so damning in the confines of his own mind not half an hour ago suddenly seemed rather flimsy and unconvincing.

"Well, she was drinking a potion that Snape had given her. That seemed sort of odd."

Harry seemed unimpressed. "OK, that means that she's either stupid or has a sure death-wish for trusting anything that he's given her but it doesn't instantly strike me as a particularly murderous activity." He grinned as Ron continued lamely.

"And she disappeared that night last week and came back ages after curfew with a broken wrist. You can't tell me that's not suspicious."

Harry frowned. "Yeah, that was a little odd. She never told us where she was did she?"

Ron shook his head vehemently. "Exactly – she could have been anywhere."

Hardly 'anywhere" Ron," Hermione cut in. "Anywhere in the school grounds."

"She could have apparated," replied Ron.

Harry groaned and fell back onto the bed, as Hermione whipped around, fixing Ron with a disproving look. 

"How many times do I have to tell you?" she asked exasperatedly. "You cannot apparate or disapperate inside the school boundaries."

Harry quickly changed the subject, sensing a storm brewing between the two friends. 

"So, she disappeared one night and she trusts Snape. Hardly makes her my arch enemy, does it?"

"She can do wandless magic," added Ron conclusively, glancing at the door to make sure it was closed.

Harry's vivid green eyes widened in disbelief. 

"Are you serious?" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah, I saw her yesterday. She summoned her wand from the dormitory." replied Ron, scratching his flame red head. 

"Why didn't she tell us?" Harry asked. "That's one bloody cool ability!"

Hermione broke her silence, as she dumped the heavy volume down onto Harry's bed, narrowly missing his bare feet.

"This is why she didn't, or couldn't tell us!" she said confidently, pointing at a antiquated drawing of a young man in a flowing white robe, holding two wands, one in each outstretched hand, as he gazed reverently up into the night sky. As they observed with interest, sparks issued forth from the tip of each wand, creating a shimmering arc around the statuesque youth, who seemed to glow with some sort of innate power.

"Cool," breathed Ron, his eyes alight with awe. Then, in a puzzled tone, "what's he doing?"

Hermione moved her finger to point at the ornately decorated intertwining script of the words, _"The Unspeakable."_

"Unspeakables," muttered Harry. "That rings a bell."

"It should do," asserted Hermione in censorious tones. "Professor Binns set us an essay on the myth of the Unspeakable last year."

"Yeah, I remember," exclaimed Ron indignantly. "No one knows what it is they do, yet Binn's still only gave me three out of ten!"

"That's the whole point: No one is meant to know what they do," continued Hermione, tracing a finger down the page. 

"The only thing that we know for certain is that an Unspeakable possesses abilities for wandless magic, and -"

"Why does he have two wands then, if he doesn't need either of them?" asked Ron, jabbing his finger at the faded picture, now unmoving.

"Even if you can perform wandless magic, you still carry a wand, Ron," reminded Hermione. "Usually, only vague magic can be produced without a wand, so a wand is still used for more specific, powerful spells."

"Fair enough," replied Harry. "What's the other one for then?"

The three peered closely at the dusty tome, squinting to get a better look at the second wand. It appeared not to be made of the usual wood, but instead of a pale, rose-coloured stone, which bathed the young man in a warm, blushed, light. 

"That is the healing wand," read Hermione from the text. "It's made of rose-quartz, which apparently has healing properties. They use their power to heal other people who have been affected by dark magic." 

She suddenly paused, as if unsure whether to continue reading.

"Go on," urged Harry, nudging her shoulder.

 "A powerful Unspeakable can even counteract the effects of the illegal killing curse, _Avada__ Kedavra." _

Her voice was small and hesitant and she let the sentence hang in the air between them for a moment, not daring to look at Harry, who was still bent over the book, his black hair falling over his eyes.

Ron spoke up first. "I thought they said that nothing could fight that?" He sounded bewildered, as if a childhood belief had been cruelly dispelled before his very eyes.

"They did." Harry's tone was brittle, and his eyes shone suspiciously brightly. He blinked hard. 

"It's probably only the really powerful ones who can do that, Harry," said Hermione quickly, biting her lip in concern as she looked at her friend.

He looked at her, as if he were about to make a cutting remark, then thought the better of it and managed a tight smile.

"Yeah, probably."

"So, this is why she couldn't tell us?" asked Ron, changing the subject quickly as he glanced at Harry.

"I think so," replied Hermione, flicking over the yellowed page. "The reason why we know nothing about what they actually do, apart from heal the odd person, is because when they become an Unspeakable they have to renounce their name and their identity so they can't be traced or tracked down. They become …….….well, nobodies really."

"That sounds awful," said Harry quietly. "Is that what Eleanora will have to do?"

Hermione frowned. "I'm not sure. Not everybody who practices wandless magic becomes an Unspeakable, but if she could have told us, she probably would have."

"How do you become an Unspeakable anyhow?" asked Ron. "Do you get a letter saying 'Congratulations – here's your white robe?"

"I doubt it," replied Hermione, giving him a reproachful look. "But nobody really knows. There's bound to be some sort of training involved though."

"Couldn't we just ask her?" said Harry simply. "Tell her that we know?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not yet. She obviously doesn't want people to know."

The three friends stood in silence, mulling over the discovery in their minds. 

Finally Ron spoke. "These Unspeakables; they're on the right side aren't they?"

Hermione nodded, immediately understanding what he meant. "Yes, from what Professor Binns told us, they were very active during the defeat of Grindelwald."

Harry managed a weak grin. "So, happy she's not trying to bump me off now?"

Ron frowned. "I was only trying to look out for you mate!"

Harry laughed. "I know. Thanks."

"S'OK," Ron mumbled, punching Harry lightly on the shoulder, and receiving a friendly punch in return.

Hermione sighed resignedly. "Carry on with your male bonding session – don't mind me!"

Extracting himself from Harry's grip, Ron lightly pulled on her braid, smiling indulgently at her. "Come on 'Mione. How do you think we feel when you and Eleanora are prattling on about hair straightening charms and whether dragon hide shoes are better than -" 

"We do not 'prattle' thank you very much!" exclaimed Hermione, swatting his hand away.

Ron shot a glance at Harry for back up. 

"Sorry, 'Mione," he said with a smile, his green eyes twinkling. "You do a bit."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond but at that moment the door flew open and Eleanora appeared in the darkened doorway, her face oddly glowing, dark eyes shining in the gloom. 

"They said you were all up here," she greeted, her voice breathless, its bright tone strangely forced. 

"Umm, hi!" Ron exclaimed loudly, awkwardly stepping in front of Hermione as she hastily hid the heavy book under Harry's pillow.

Harry said nothing, just smiled far too widely at her, glancing desperately at Hermione for help.

"Eleanora!" she greeted her cheerfully, bounding off the bed. "They said you'd gone down to the dungeons. We were waiting for you!"

Eleanora's eyes widened. "The dungeons?" she repeated uneasily. "No! No! I just had to…..ummm…...go and see Professor Sprout. About my _Mimbulus__ Mimbletonia_: I over-watered it last lesson and wanted to check if it was still alive."

Her garbled explanation and uncomfortable expression provoked a pointed glance from Ron to Harry, who shook his head warningly. Eleanora appeared not to notice this odd, silent exchange, as she appeared quite absorbed in flattening her tawny hair, which appeared even more chaotically dishevelled than usual, stray tendrils curling over her vividly flushed cheeks, as if they had been roughly pulled out by roving hands. 

"Is it alright?" asked Hermione, attempting to make normal conversation.

Eleanora appeared somewhat flustered. "Is what alright?" she asked, pulling her robes straight, absorbedly brushing dust from her back.

"Your Mimble-bimble-tonia thing," said Ron, who was looking at her with some concern.

She gave him a blank, inquiring look, then quickly recovered. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Yes, it's fine. A bit on the soggy side, but apart from that…….."

She trailed off, running her thumb absently over her lips, which looked tender and swollen. 

"I think I heard the dinner bell!" she exclaimed far too loudly after an awkward silence, quickly changing the subject, as she ducked out of the door.

Harry, Ron and Hermione started after her, confusion etched upon their faces at her strange behaviour. 

Ron opened his mouth as if to call her back, but was stopped short by a glance from Hermione.

"Don't," she mouthed. "Whatever it is, I'll find out later."

Eleanora's voice rang out from the bottom of the staircase. "Are you three coming or what? I'm starving!"

* * * * * * * * * *

_A big thank you to all my lovely reviewers! Keep 'em coming! The next chapter will contain just a hint of the long-awaited lemony goodness – you have been warned!_


	27. Chapter Twenty Five

**_Chapter Twenty Five_**

****

Eleanora stared morosely out of the icily frosted window, her brooding features half illuminated by the frigid glow of the corpulent moon which hung pendulously in the inky blackness of the night sky. Shivering, for the night was bitterly cold, she drew her thick blankets up around her bare shoulders, tucking her feet into the rich folds. 

_What have you done, Nora?_

A thousand times she had asked herself this question: A question with no answer, or perhaps too many answers for her to fully comprehend. 

She blinked hard, the lustrous visage of the moon imprinted against the darkness of her closed eyes, trying to rid herself of the hopeless feeling that washed over her; wave after unrelenting wave of futility and hollow regret. 

Hollow, because even in her wretched mood, she could not convince herself that this was not what she had wanted all along, from the very moment she had first met that fathomless gaze. 

The same fathomless gaze that had, not twelve hours ago, sent an electric thrill of desire coursing up her spine as he had stared at her, those obsidian orbs aflame with what she had erroneously believed to be longing. 

Her cold cheeks smarting with the febrile flush of embarrassment, she buried her head in her blankets, the wool chafing uncomfortably against her skin as it became sodden with the salty brine of her flowing tears. 

 * * * * * * * * * * 

"Damn," she muttered, setting aside her parchment and glancing around her at the muddled piles of books upon the desk. Running a hand through her knotted hair in frustration, she twisted in her chair.

"Lee?" she called to the tall back boy sitting engrossed in whispered conversation with the Weasley twins in the corner of the common room.

"Yes m'am?" he answered with a grin.

"Do you have the OWL potions textbook handy?" she asked, a wheedling tone creeping into her voice as she smiled apologetically at him.

He unfolded his lean frame out of his chair and ambled over to her, glancing over her shoulder at the parchment, half covered in loose, some might say illegible handwriting. 

"Sorry," he said, shrugging ruefully. "I lent it to Angelina. What's the Old Bat set you this time?"

She frowned. "Just an essay on the effects of deadly nightshade."

"What's the problem then?"

She made a face. "I've left my textbook down in the dungeons."

Lee grinned craftily. "Where's Hermione?"

Eleanora smirked back. "Dunno. Best not to push my luck though; she's already saved my neck a few times this week."

Lee perused her essay for a minute, scratching his dreadlocked head. 

"I never knew it could do that!" he muttered in a horrified tone of voice.

Eleanora grinned slyly. "You never know, there might be a Weasley's Wizard Wheeze in there!"

He gulped, crossing his legs instinctively. "What would we call it? Perform Your Own Castration Kit?"

Fred and George suddenly stopped their conversation and whipped their head round to stare at Lee who looked rather nauseous. 

Laughing at their bewildered expressions, Eleanora skipped towards the portrait hole. 

"I'm off to retrieve that book," she called. "If I'm not back before dinner, send out a search party!"

Slamming the portrait hole shut behind her and calling out a cheery greeting to the Fat Lady, Eleanora set off down the corridor, her boots making smart taps on the polished floor.

A chill wind blew in from the narrow windows of the first floor passageways, whistling down the stairwells, and she thrust her hands deep into her pockets, pulling the high collar of her robe up around her face. 

Buried in her pocket her hand closed around a piece of crumpled parchment. Pulling it out, she saw that it was the letter that had arrived at breakfast that morning. Already late for her first lesson and fearing the prospect of an angry Professor McGonagall she had quickly scanned the handwriting on the front, and then stuck it in her pocket, not giving it a second thought until now. 

Pulling a sticky, half chewed sherbet lemon off one corner of the envelope with a grimace, she ripped it open, unfolding the letter within. 

_Dear Nora, it read._

_I am back in __England__ now – business was wrapped up in quickly in you-know-where. Have been hearing favourable and not so favourable reports of your behaviour from Albus – I know you detest Divination but at least try to stay awake in lessons, otherwise old Sybil will be getting a bad opinion of us D'Souzas, seeing as I used to do exactly the same. Still, as always, do as I say and not as I do._

_Will endeavour to visit at mid-term next week all being well and do give my regards to Remus. _

_Much love, _

_           Papa._

_PS. Don't you dare let Snape get the better of you, my girl! On this occasion and only on this occasion I give you permission to use the Tallentalegra curse; not that it will stop him hexing you, but I just think it would be damned amusing to see the greasy git tap-dancing uncontrollably. _

Eleanora giggled, the image of a frenetically foot-loose Snape waltzing across her mind. Though, she thought as she walked past the gruesomely deformed stature that concealed the entrance to the Slytherin common room, all jokes aside, the stern professor, with his slender frame and fluid gestures would most likely be a supremely graceful and elegant dance partner. So rapt was she in this thought that she hardly noticed Parvati Patil walking hurriedly towards her, her long braid swinging animatedly behind her.

"Hi!" Parvati greeted, as if glad to see a friendly face in the ominous gloom of the dungeon corridors.

Eleanora smiled warmly at her, stuffing the letter back in her pocket.

"What brings you down here?" asked the pretty Indian girl with a shudder, as she eyed the dark crevices and dismal stonework that surrounded them. 

"I left my textbook down in the potions lab this morning," explained Eleanora with a frown. "I'm going to see whether I can get it back without landing a detention."

Parvati's eyes widened. "Good luck," she said, "I heard Snape was in a foul mood this afternoon; he made one of the second years test their potion and it made all their hair fall out!"

Eleanora wrinkled her nose. "He let the second years prepare instant scalping potions?"

"Oh no," replied Parvati, shaking her head. "It was only meant to be a Pepper-Up potion."

"Ouch," muttered Eleanora, for once in her life thankful for her full head of hair. 

"If you're not back in half an hour we'll -" Parvati began.

"Send out a search party!" finished Eleanora, laughing.

Bidding farewell to Parvati, she carried on past the numerous locked doors that lined the shadowed corridor, the torches spitting furiously in the damp air. 

Rounding the final corner of the long meandering corridor, she was surprised to find the door of the classroom wide open. Peering inside, she saw the classroom was, thankfully, empty. Further scrutiny revealed her neglected book to be lying on Snape's desk, half hidden behind an orderly pile of completed homework assignments.

Glancing furtively around, she snuck into the empty classroom, her ears tuned for any sound of the absent potions master's return. She muffled her slurred curses with her hand as her hip painfully collided with the corner of a workbench, and crept up to the neatly ordered desk, the numerous stacks of books and parchments perfectly aligned with each other. 

_And the award for the most anally retentive person of the year goes to -, she thought to herself with a smirk, as she carefully avoided disordering the tidy piles. Reaching out for her book, her blood suddenly froze in her veins as she heard the unmistakable sound of Snape's sharp footsteps in the corridor. _

Hastily grabbing the book, she whirled round just as he swept through the door, slamming it violently behind him. His long strides had carried him halfway across the room before her saw her standing uneasily behind the desk, and stopped short, evidently taken aback. His cold black eyes flickered momentarily with surprise, then hardened as he frowned at the girl before him. 

"What, pray tell, are you doing in my classroom, Miss D'Souza?" His voice was ominously soft; a honey coated knife blade.

Eleanora swallowed hard, willing herself not to lose face in front of the severe professor.

"I came to retrieve my book," she explained in level tones, stepping out from behind the desk.

"Your book?" he repeated silkily, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

"Yes," she replied, pointing to the tome in her hand. "My book."

He sneered at her, stalking round the front row of desks. "I know what a book looks like, Miss D'Souza: I do not require an aide memoire."

Eleanora took a deep breath, sensing a confrontation brewing.

"And do not even think of rolling your eyes at me," he snapped, fixing her with a warning stare. 

She snapped her eyes back to meet his gaze, wondering how in Merlin's name he knew her reflexes better then she herself did. She stood under his trenchant stare for a moment, then began to walk slowly towards the door, taking extra care not to trip over anything, for it would be the ultimate worldly injustice to end yet another altercation clumsily sprawled on the floor.

"Do not leave," he commanded sharply, as she neared the door, obviously unwilling to let her escape unscathed. "We have not yet discussed your punishment."

She spun around, eyes blazing. "Punishment?" she echoed incredulously. "What for? I haven't done anything!"

Snape smirked, his lips curling in sardonic amusement. "On the contrary: You first forget your book – that's ten house points lost I think for sheer carelessness, and then wander in here to retrieve it with no regard for locked doors or -"

"The door," corrected Eleanora candidly, "it wasn't locked. It was wide open in fact."

Snape narrowed his eyes at her, and brought a hand to his temple as if trying to remember something. After a moments silence he addressed her again.

"Fine," he retorted waspishly. "The fact still remains that you are in this room without permission. That's another ten house points you've lost."

Eleanora glared at him. _Parvati_ was right_, she thought, _he really is in a foul mood_. But despite her anger at his unwarranted subtraction of house points, she still found herself wondering with some concern the reason for his ill-temper and the pinched, tired look that had overtaken his features since her encounter with him in the Duelling Gallery.  He had been noticeably absent from dinner the previous evening, and she had overheard the pug-faced Pansy Parkinson bitterly remark that he had been nowhere to be found when she had gone in search of help with her homework._

Attempting to keep her voice civil she replied. "Well, you weren't here for me to ask permission."

"Do not make me take away another ten points for your impudence, Miss D'Souza," he warned softly.

Biting her lip to prevent all Gryffindor's hard-won points from being instantly wiped with one impertinent remark, she merely held up her hands in a gesture of defeat as something in Snape's expression told her that this was not a battle she could easily win. Waiting for him to stand aside so she could pass, she weighed the cumbersome tome from hand to hand.

"How could you be sure it was your book anyway?" he asked in a dangerous tone.

"Because I doubt that anybody else was forgetful enough to leave their book down here today," she replied, "and I doubt even more that anyone else's book bears a large purple stain on the cover where Lavender spilt her nail polish."

Snape stared at the cover of the volume in her hand as if to verify the existence of the alleged stain. 

"You should take better care of your books," he intoned quietly.

Eleanora smiled sarcastically at him, feeling an irresistible taunt rising within her. 

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll let you get back to tidying your desk; really, it's a wonder how you can find anything in that mess!" She threw an irreverent glance at the impeccably ordered piles.

Snape's nostrils flared in irritation and his lips thinned to a grim line. Before he could take off any more points, Eleanora sidestepped past him, nearly knocking over a desk, which she steadied with her hand, still bearing the shadows of heavy bruising. 

Suddenly with lightning like speed, Snape seized her arm in a vice like grip, twisting it upwards for closer inspection. Eleanora cried out in surprise, her eyes wide with alarm.

"I thought I told you to have Madam Pomfry heal this wrist!" he spat angrily, his pale fingers uncomfortably digging into the tender bruised flesh. 

"Let go, you're hurting me!" she cried furiously, attempting to pull herself from his clutches, but he was far more powerful than her, despite his lean build and retained his hold with little effort.

"Why did you not obey my orders?" he asked, eyes flashing with displeasure, though he greatly eased his painful grip.

"Because I thought I could do it myself," she replied hotly, ceasing her struggle and glowering at him vehemently.

Snape laughed; a cold, mocking laugh that made the hairs on the back of her stand up in discomfort.

"Yes, I should have thought as much," he sneered, looking down at her with scorn in his eyes. "Why let a trained Medi-witch do the job when you are clearly better qualified?"

Bridling at his overt sarcasm, Eleanora tossed her head, and hissed back. "That's not what I thought!"

"Then please, do enlighten me with whatever preposterous thought it was that possessed you to attempt to heal a broken wrist yourself."

Something within Eleanora snapped; the thin thread that separated the last vestiges of civility from the unchecked anger that now vividly coloured her words.

"If I had gone to Pomfrey with a broken wrist I would have had to invent some story about how I got it and she would have gone running McGonagall, telling her that I had undoubtedly been up to no good again, and I would have been hauled back into her office for another friendly little chat." 

She paused for breath, her eyes narrowed with fury, past caring what consequences her outburst might have. 

"Either that or I would have had to tell her that it was you who gave me the broken wrist in the first place whilst giving me duelling lessons."

She stopped, a defiant look upon her face. "So, which explanation would you have preferred I use? The one that results in me probably getting expelled or the one that blows your cover?"

She laughed bitterly. "In fact, don't even bother answering that. I think I know whose ass you'd rather-"

But her tirade was cut short by a pair of thin lips pressing down crushingly over her own, reducing her strident invectives to nothing more than breathless whimpers. He buried his hands roughly in her hair, his slim fingers knotting themselves in her haphazard chignon as he tilted her face up, the translucent bows of her eyelids flickering open to meet his penetrating stare, the engulfing blackness of his eyes burning with the same fire that roughly daubed two bands of colour across his gaunt cheeks and coursed under his pallid skin, branding her with the mark of his desire with every touch. Engulfing her mouth with his once again, he parted her lips with a persistent tongue, avariciously biting and sucking at the tender softness of her lower lip. She yielded eagerly to his touch and the forgotten text-book fell loudly to the floor as she ran her hands up the lean plains of his torso, resting her weight against the black clad leg that pressed between her heated thighs, for her own knees felt likely to buckle at any moment with the frenzied abandon of their cinch.

One hand wound its way around the elegant curve of his neck, pulling him closer to her as he explored the warm temple of her mouth with a zealous tongue. Impassioned by the insistent nudge of his arousal against her sensitive core, her tongue met willingly with his, leading him in a sinuous dance of pleasure-pain as her fingernails frenetically scraped down the back of his alabaster neck. He growled ferally into her mouth and bucked himself against her, forcing her back against the edge of the workbench. Gasping with breathless surprise as he hoisted her onto the scrubbed surface, she wound one agile leg around his hips, pulling him unto her as she ground herself against his hardness, relishing his groan of gratification at her forceful touch. His hands roamed untamed over her back, sending electric jolts of sensation coursing throughout her body, speeding through her veins like the most powerful of drugs and he rhythmically thrust against her, eliciting uninhibited moans of pleasure.

Then, as quickly as the ardent embrace had begun, it was over. Snape violently pulled away, tearing his hands from her back, leaving her slumped against the wooden bench, gasping for breath. Her lips were unmistakably swollen, painted a lusty red by the ravaging force of his kiss and her hands trembled as she precariously steadied herself.

His heart hammered deafeningly in his chest, as if pounding a fatal war cry and his groin throbbed with the unappeased desire that still threatened to assail him as he stood staring hungrily at the young woman, her dishevelled hair and glazed expression a testament to the intractable nature of his carnal yearning. 

"Go," he commanded her quietly, his voice strained and roughened by his guttural moans.

"What?" she asked confusedly, relinquishing the support of the workbench as she stepped towards him, her face falling as he backed away. 

"Go!" he thundered, flinging a tremulous hand towards the door. "Do not make me repeat myself!"

Eleanora's expression snapped from one of faraway bewilderment to one of furious comprehension as all the passion of his unfulfilled lust congealed into resentful wrath. Shooting him a look of pure odium she roughly pushed past him, nearly knocking him off his feet as she half-collided with his shoulder in her haste to escape the forbidding radius of his condemning gaze. 

The deafening crash of the door being slammed in unconstrained anger roused Snape from his dazed reverie, and he slowly bent to retrieve the once again forgotten book from the floor by his feet. 

It fell open in his hands and he stared at the inscribed bookplate as if seeing for the first time, her name scrawled in that ridiculous magenta ink of hers.

_Property of Eleanora D'Souza – paws off!_

Then in a different, childish script that he recognised as the infernal Weasley boy's: 

_Or she'll cast the Curse of the Bogies on you!_

Tracing one finger lightly over her loose hand writing, he closed his eyes, craving the anonymous protection that darkness gave. Under the cover of the self-shaped shadows he could forget who, where and what he was, yet he knew with a dull, pounding ache that even in the darkest hovels of denial he would never be able to escape the guilt that now flooded his body like bitterest poison. 

He licked his dry lips, reddened and inflamed as hers had been, savouring the flavour of her mouth that still lingered in his own like the pleasant traces of a particularly fine brandy. She had tasted strangely of sherbet lemons, a flavour he usually found abhorrently detestable, more to Albus' dubious tastes than his own, but coupled with the soft warmth of her lips he had found himself fervently craving her sweet essence, possessing her mouth more and more deeply to satisfy his indelible hunger. 

Snapping the book shut, he laid it down on the workbench and strode over to his desk, eyeing his painfully neat stacks with some acrimony. Sinking heavily into his chair, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a smartly addressed scroll, tied with the customary black leather thong. 

He had been on his way to the Owlery to post this parchment when recollection of another urgent letter to be written had brought him back to his office, finding the girl stood in his classroom; a cruel twist of temptation's leash around his neck. Idly twisting the scroll in his long fingers, he thought of the message inside, the words flitting sharply around his clouded consciousness like bats in the twilight. 

Miss D'Souza…………Your second duelling lesson…………Duelling Gallery…………Eight o'clock…………Friday evening…………Practise your shielding spells………….Severus Snape.

Short, curt and wholly appropriate, giving no clue as to the torment he had endured since the last lesson had ended so abruptly. But if that was torment, this was sheer hell.

He had crossed an invisible line that he had no business crossing, prowling in the background for so long, eying the ground suspiciously, all the while hiding behind his empty conviction that he would never allow himself to take those fatal steps, until all at one in an instant of thoughtless abandon, he had cleared the line in one leap, dragging his unfortunate accomplice by the hand into an arena of lies, secrecy and unease.

He raised a hand to massage a hammering temple, catching her elusive scent on the sleeve of his robe, a heady bouquet of patchouli and the pungent undertones of leather and hay, an animalistic smell that he often caught on her during afternoon lessons. The piquant aroma sent his thoughts into an inexorable spin and he whipped his hand away, pushing his chair back against the wall with a resounding crash as he got to his feet abruptly. 

Pulling his robes off as he went, letting them fall in graceful puddles on the floor, he made for the hidden bathroom.

He needed a shower. A cold one. 


	28. Chapter Twenty Six

**_Chapter Twenty Six_**

****

Eleanora lay sprawled out on one of the overstuffed sofas in the Gryffindor common room, her feet curled up on Lee's lap. Fred and George occupied the adjacent armchairs and the four leant their heads together with a conspiratorial air.

"There's a liquefying potion that should do it," said Eleanora, her brows furrowed in thought. 

"Do you really think it would work?" asked Fred quietly, his freckled face creased with doubt.

"Would I lie to you?" she replied with a grin, her eyes twinkling slyly as she took another bite out of a fat chocolate éclair.

George nudged Fred in the back. "You're alright mate," he said through a mouthful of fruitcake, "it's only Filch she lies to on a Wednesday."

The small group burst into rowdy guffaws, eliciting several annoyed glances from the other occupants of the common room. 

Earlier in the evening, the four deviants had been caught by the cantankerous caretaker, surreptitiously slipping out of the kitchens after a visit to the house elves, their robe pockets full to bursting with all manner of cakes and pastries, pressed upon them by the eager creatures. 

"What do we 'ave 'ere then?" he had asked gleefully, creeping out from behind a suit of armour, rubbing his filthy hands together, after watching them each emerge from behind the painting.

Fred and George had looked ready to run for it, but Eleanora had shot them a reassuring look. Stepping out of the shadows she had smiled winningly at the stooped old man.

"We're very sorry to alarm you, Mr Filch sir, but we were sent down to the kitchens."

Filch's eyes had narrowed with distrust, and he cocked his head. Mrs Norris wound her way between his feet and sat there, her lamp-like eyes shining malignly in the gloom.

"Sent down 'ere you say? A likely story! Who by? 

Eleanora not missing a beat replied, "Professor Dumbledore."

She heard Fred's sharp intake of breath from her side, but continued staring straight ahead at Filch, who peered back at her suspiciously.

"Professor Dumbledore sent you lot down 'ere?" He cackled unpleasantly, leaning down to scratch Mrs Norris behind her mangy dust coloured ears. "Pull the other one!"

Eleanora smiled at him indulgently, though she shot a look of pure poison at the caretaker's mite-ridden cat, who yowled loudly, arching her back in grievance. 

"Hermione Granger was ill today and missed dinner, so Professor Dumbledore gave us permission to come down and collect some food for her."

"Did 'e now?" Filch said nastily, "I shall 'ave to check with him about that!"

"Fine," replied Eleanora brightly, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. "We'll let you be on your way then."

Winking at the others she began walking off down the corridor, not bothering to restrain the wide smirk that creased her face.

"I 'aven't finished with you yet!" shouted Filch from behind her, but she kept on walking as if she hadn't heard him. Lee caught up with her as they rounded the corner, nearly skidding into a stature of a portly old wizard wearing a teapot as a helmet. 

"Just keep walking," she muttered to him out of the corner of her mouth. 

"That was smooth, girl!" he laughed, taking out a cookie from his bulging pocket.

George slapped her soundly on the back. "Bloody good ruse! He's never going to ask Dumbledore!"

Eleanor grinned. "Exactly. And if he does, then Dumbledore's not going to care one jot."

Fred smiled joyfully, raising his hand in a mock salute. "Best headmaster we've ever seen, is old Bumble-More!"

Lee chortled. "The only one and all."

"These custard slices are good!" added George thickly.

"And it wasn't technically a lie, seeing as Hermione did miss dinner," Eleanora explained as they jogged up the staircase. 

"When did it suddenly matter to you whether something is a lie or not?" Fred laughed roguishly.

Eleanora had merely smiled serenely, which is hard to do when you've just stuffed an entire jam doughnut into your mouth.

"All I'm saying is, it pay's to cover your tracks."

"Amen to that," sighed Lee as they approached the Fat Lady's painting.

Now happily installed in front of the roaring fire, they were finishing the remnants of their feast.

"Anyone for the last Chelsea bun?" Eleanora asked, eyeing it with desire.

Lee groaned, his hands stretched gingerly over his stomach. Fred merely shook his head, deeming speech of any kind to be far too onerous a response. George however stretched out his hand to claim the sugared cake. 

"Not so fast!" Eleanora said, playfully slapping his hand away.

George grinned slyly, seizing the bun. "You want it, you catch it!" he cried, throwing it high in the air.

Eleanora swiftly leapt up onto the arm of the sofa, nearly treading on the prone figure of Lee in the process, rising to her full height. With an outstretched hand she neatly caught the bun, taking a generous bite as she plopped back down onto the sofa.

George gaped. "That was pretty good!" he said in an impressed tone, shooting Fred a quick glance. "You play Quidditch right?"

Eleanora nodded, breaking off half the bun and handing it to him. Fred had evidently decided that this warranted a comment as he sat up and eyed her studiously.

"About the right build for a Chaser too," he asserted. "Oi! Angelina! Over here a minute!"

Eleanora hurriedly swallowed her mouthful. "I never said wanted to start playing again!" she warned as the tall black girl came bounding over, and sat herself down on the rug.

"What?" she asked, helping herself to the last cookie, which not even Eleanora could find room for.

"We've just found you a replacement Chaser," said George conclusively, ruffling Eleanora's hair.

Angelina smiled questioningly at Eleanora. "Yeah, Harry said something about you being good on a broom. You want to play? Just for one game?"

Eleanora shrugged vaguely. 

"Katie's still having trouble with her arm and the first game's against Slytherin next weekend," she explained. "We need a Chaser. Like, now."

Eleanora remembered Harry coming in dripping wet after one practice the week before, despondently lamenting the loss of one of the house chasers to a low flying bludger aimed by Graham Nott, a thick-set Slytherin with extraordinarily hairy arms. "They shouldn't even have been on the pitch!" he had raged angrily.

"I'm not sure," she replied hesitantly. "I haven't even got a decent broom anymore, that Firebolt 3.6 is lucky to outpace a passing bluebottle!"

"No worries," replied Angelina confidently, "you can borrow Katie's. It's a Cleansweep Deluxe; brilliant on tight corners."

"Who's the other Chaser?" asked Eleanora. "Apart from Alicia?"

Angelina smiled. "Well, I've moved into goal now that Oliver's left, so we've got Tobias Jones in the left Chaser position." She pointed over to the fireplace where a tall boy with a shock of blonde hair was talking to Alicia Spinnet. "You'll be in midfield, by the way."

The older girl stared beseechingly at Eleanora. 

"Come on!" implored Fred. "Just for one game."

"For the pride of Gryffindor house," added Lee in a mock reverent tone, placing his hand on his heart.

"Or, think of it like this," said George. "There's a bloody good chance you'll get to knock the little weasel Malfoy off his broom."

"I'm in," replied Eleanora instantly, her eyes lighting deviously.

Angelina hugged her tightly. "Thanks. Now, your first practice is tomorrow morning, five thirty."

Eleanora's expression turned sour. "You have to be joking."

The older girl smiled happily. "No, I'll come and drag you out there in your pyjamas if I have to!"

"Great," Eleanora groused when Angelina had walked away. "Thanks a million, guys."

The boys smirked at her. "I never said it would be fun," replied George.

"Just think of Ferret Features hurtling to the ground at high speed," said Fred, a wistful expression on his face.

"That'll give me sweet dreams," grinned Eleanora as she rose from the sofa. "Can he land so that the broom sticks right up his snooty little -?"

She never got to finish her question, because at that moment Harry and Ron burst through the portrait hole, a piece of parchment clutched in Ron's fist.

"Woah!" cried Seamus, cross legged on the floor as Ron nearly fell into his lap.

"Sorry mate!" Ron exclaimed, carefully stepping over him.

"What's the big hurry anyway?" asked Eleanora, leaning on the door frame.

Harry grabbed the parchment and unfurled it. "First Hogsmeade trip this weekend!" he announced triumphantly, prodding it repeatedly with his finger. 

"You sure?" asked Fred, grabbing the parchment from his outstretched hand. "Surely we would have been told weeks ago?"

"The bloody Slytherins," butted in Ron heatedly, "thought it would be funny to transfigure all the notices into a poster about some missing broom cleaning kit." He balled his fists at his sides. "Gits!" he added crossly.

"Yeah," added Harry, "we caught Dumb and Dumber trying to transfigure this one; Might have helped if Goyle had been holding his wand the right way round!"

"What happened?" asked Eleanora idly, wandering over to where they stood, a sadistic smirk curling her lips.

Harry's face creased with laughter. "Goyle managed to half transfigure his fat hand into salami, and Crabbe just stood there staring dumbly.

Eleanora snorted. "Bloody wonder he even managed any magic at all, the great oaf."

Ron grinned. "Or that Crabbe didn't try to eat Goyle's hand!"

The group laughed as Dean lumbered around the common room, knuckles trailing on the floor, mumbling incoherently in an uncannily accurate impersonation of the hulking Slytherin. Fred pinned the parchment to the crammed notice board and a flurry of Gryffindors surged forwards to sign up for the trip.

"I took the liberty of signing us all up for it," he told them, pushing his way through a throng of first years squabbling over a self-signing quill. "En mass pilgrimage to Zonkos methinks!" he whispered to Eleanora who nodded eagerly.

"You can probably get that liquefying potion in Zonko's you know," she muttered back. "A few drops of that on the floor outside their common room door and, well….I'll leave it to your imagination!" She winked deviously and turned to Harry.

"You'll have to give me the grand tour then," she said. "Many pubs in Hogsmeade?"

Harry grinned. "Oh, only about six."

"That'll do me fine."

Lee tapped her on the shoulder. "You better watch your back; last year Snape had Alicia gutting Streelers every night for a week just because he caught her with a goblet of some liqueur one of the Beauxbatons lot had bought her.

Eleanora rolled her eyes and tried to look unconcerned. "Oh, I think I can handle the Old Bat. He's not going to be in the pub surely – that would involve some level of social interaction and he's not exactly the outgoing type now is he?"

Lee shrugged. "Well, it's up to you, girl."

Eleanora grinned at him, but inwardly she felt as if her stomach had just caved in, leaving nothing but a hopeless vacuum which threatened to engulf every breath left in her body. For nearly a week now she had, with varying degrees of success managed to purge her mind of all thoughts of the inscrutable potions master, enduring the harsh timbre of his voice through numerable potions lessons, his every word a taunt, reminding her of her stupidity in thinking that he had shared the passion with which they had fallen into that rough cinch. In lessons, he acted like she was not there, not even deigning to comment when she had arrived ten minutes late to a practical lesson, much to the surprise of her classmates who had readied themselves for an extravagant display of Snape's customary oratory fireworks. 

Whilst she was by no means averse to escaping the expected punishment, she had found herself wishing that he would dole out a harsh chastisement just as a mere acknowledgment of her presence, instead of staring straight through her like she was one of the school's resident ghosts. Eleanora thought that Nearly Headless Nick had just reason to complain after spending a whole lesson, sitting next to Hermione in the front row being studiously ignored. Whilst schoolwork miserably failed to fill the aching void that had opened up in what felt like the pit of her stomach, cramming her empty minutes and hours with every kind of mischief imaginable did the job nicely. She, together with Fred and George had unleashed a tidal wave of tomfoolery upon the school, starting with a particularly stubborn sticking spell on every classroom door on the second floor corridor, and finishing only the day before with a deluge of fake wands mysteriously appearing in peoples bags. Eleanora had all but collapsed in hilarity in her Charms lesson, much to Professor Flitwick's shrill indignation at the sight of Millicent Bulstrode ineffectively waving a frozen leg of lamb at the quill she was meant to be shrinking. But, despite her best efforts, at the mere mention of his name, the hastily erected flood barriers of her mind came crashing down, the cold surge of shame and confusion submerging her consciousness once again. 

"You alright?" asked Ron, his hand on her arm.

"Oh, yeah," she replied, smiling warmly. "Just a bit tired."

"Lovely early start for you tomorrow," Harry grinned. "Angelina told me you're our replacement Chaser."

Eleanora grimaced. "Yeah, lucky old me."

"Well, with a bit of luck," Ron said consolingly, "Wonder Boy here will have caught the Snitch before any of the Slytherins realise the game has started."

Harry smirked. "But no hexing," he warned quietly. The last thing you want is to have Snape on your back because you gave on of his precious Slytherins an extra pair of arms or something."

Eleanora grinned back, but became painfully aware of the rising tide of emotion that was now swirling erratically around her chest, threatening to overwhelm her at any moment. All she wanted now was to quietly escape the tumult of the crowded common room and take refuge inside the dark confines of her bed, the thick curtains obscuring her tears from the attentions of her dormitory mates. Hermione's concerned enquiries as to her state, in particular had been especially hard to evade recently, and Eleanora had even resorted to casting a sophisticated glamour over her empty bed to conceal her absence during the long, sleepless stretches of the night when her only solace was to be found far away from the silent dormitory. Tonight however, Hermione was otherwise engaged, tutoring a group of third form History of Magic students. She had left for the library shortly after lessons had ended that afternoon and had, as she had told Filch, missed dinner. Eleanora was relieved beyond measure that she could just fall into bed without having to fend off a subtle barrage of questions about her apparently fraught temperament of late.

As the younger years began to filter off to their dormitories, Eleanora made her excuses.

"Right, I'm off to Bedfordshire," she yawned elaborately as she turned towards the girl's staircase. 

"By the way," asked Fred craftily, "where did you want to stick Malfoy's broom again?"

Eleanora's expression was innocence itself as she smiled beatifically. "Right up his snooty little………..nose, of course." Turning on her heel, she smirked at him, "What were you thinking?"

"See you at five thirty!" called Harry cheerily, his enthusiasm impervious to the black scowl that wiped her smirk right off her face. 

_Still, she reasoned with herself as she climbed the stairs, the clamour of the common room fading into heavy silence behind her, _another distraction is exactly what I need right now.__

She knew from experience that when on her broom, the frigid wind whipping through her hair, whistling in her ears, nothing could touch her, not even the impenetrable shroud of anguish that settled over her stomach at every mention of his name. 

Relieved to find the dormitory empty save for Sally-Anne's diminutive Scops owl which hooted at her softly in greeting, Eleanora quickly undressed and clambered into bed in a pair of thick flannelette pyjamas, not bothering to fold her working robes or take out her open bag the Numerology assignment that begged to be done, quite literally as Professor Vector had charmed the parchments with a ever-repeating refrain spell.

"Please – it'll only take you ten minutes," beseeched the rolled up parchment from inside the bag. "Please – I have to be handed in tomorrow morning!"

Eleanora scowled into the darkness and turned over; pulling the pillow over her ears to block out the assignments muffled pleas. The reedy voice persisted, growing breathless and shrill as the spell began to wear off.

"Please," it begged, "Professor Vector will be very annoyed."

_What's new, thought Eleanora wearily as she reached out, giving the bag a hard poke. The voice suddenly stopped and silence encroached upon her again, the darkness like a haze that had descended upon her, clouding her thoughts and dulling her senses._

_Tomorrow, she thought vaguely to herself as sleep placed its restful hand upon her, _tomorrow I will think about it. Not now.__

* * * * * * * * * *

"Eleanora!" came the insistent voice, "Eleanora!" it came again, louder and now accompanied with a hard shake. "Wake up!"

She groaned and rolled over, a tangled curtain of hair covering her face. 

"Eleanora, if you don't get out of this bed right now, I'm going to get Fred and George to come up and here and levitate you down to the pitches."

Eleanora rubbed her eyes, and sat up. "What time is it?" she asked drowsily.

"Twenty past five. You have five minutes to get your kit on. Come on!"

Angelina, already dressed in hr scarlet robes left the room, shutting the door softly. Eleanora rolled out of her warm bed, gasping with irritation as he feet touched the cold wooden floor. After a quick rummage in her trunk she unearthed the Quidditch robes her father had sent at the beginning of term, a wry smile creasing her face as she padded to the bathroom. Five minutes later, she emerged, her hair somewhat neatly braided into a knot on top of her head, the vivid robes hiding the pyjamas she still wore underneath. Grabbing her broom from where it stood, leant against her wardrobe, she pulled on her boots and disappeared out the door, throwing an envious look back at Parvati who had slept soundly throughout her hurried ablutions.

* * * * * * * * * * 

"What do you mean, he gave you permission?" screeched Angelina, brandishing her broom in a rather aggressive fashion, her voice cutting through the tranquil silence of the morning like a knife blade. 

Marcus Flint smirked, his prominent jaw jutting forward most unattractively. "We asked if we could have the pitch this morning and he said yes."

"But it's not up to that Greasy Git to say yes!" Fred shouted.

"Well, tough," replied Flint. "We're down here now, so you can run along."

Angelina took a step towards the burly Slytherin captain, her eyes flashing angrily. "_We_ asked Madame Hooch – she gave _us_ permission, so _you can run along, you talking ape!"_

The brute stared down at her nastily, then threw glances at his team mates. Crabbe and Goyle advanced, flexing their muscles ominously. George pushed past Alicia and Eleanora and rolled up the patched sleeves of his robes. 

"George, no!" whispered Alicia out of the corner of her mouth, a worried expression on her elfin face.

"Stay out of this, you two," he said, a resolute expression on his freckled face. Fred too had stepped forward, flanked by Tobias, who was wearing a fearful expression and Harry who was utterly dwarfed by the colossal form of Goyle who was now cracking his knuckles with great relish, one by one. 

"You managed to turn that hand back then?" Harry asked tauntingly.

Goyle glared at him, his small eyes hardening with hatred. He muttered something incomprehensible and the Slytherin's laughed. 

"So you all speak the outmoded language of this cave-man then?" asked Eleanora in a conversational tone, one hand on her hip.

Malfoy smirked at her, and nudged a tall black haired girl at his side who looked Eleanora up and down with sly violet eyes. 

"Nice pyjama bottoms you've got there," she smirked eyeing the striped trousers with disdain.

Eleanora grinned back at her, though her eyes were sparking with temper. "Thanks, and might I say how lovely your pet ferret is! Where _did you get him?"_

Malfoy's arrogant sneer faded, and he stared at Eleanora with malice sharpening his pale eyes.  He nodded at Crabbe and Goyle who closed around him.

"You better shut your mouth, you filthy little Veela," he said smoothly, "or something very unfortunate might happen to you."

Goyle pounded his ham-like fist into his palm, an unpleasant leer on his doughy face. 

Eleanora's eyes widened at the boys words and her mind reeled frantically. _Of course he would know,_ she thought furiously to herself. _His father would have told him everything!_

Whilst she knew that she had nothing to be ashamed of with regards to her half blood, she knew all too well that bigots like Malfoy and the majority of the Slytherins would hold Veela blood to be as bad, if not worse than Muggle blood. The looks of disdain and loathing that crossed their faces now were what she had dreaded since arriving at Hogwarts.

"That's it, Malfoy!" shouted Harry, surging forward only to be held back by Eleanora who grabbed his arm and shot him a pleading look. 

"Harry, no!" she cried, staring at the flushed boy, his black hair sticking up in all directions. "Just leave it."

"But, did you just hear what he called you?" Harry asked aghast, shooting a look of revulsion at the pale boy.

Eleanora sighed. "Yes, I heard him and it's true; well – half true, but I've got nothing to be ashamed of." This last part she addressed to the Slytherins, her chin raised defiantly in the face of their looks of odium and disgust.

"You're a Veela?" he asked, his eyes clouding with confusion. "Why didn't you tell us?"

She ran a hand over her hair, and seemed at a loss for words. 

"A half-Veela," she corrected. "I didn't tell you because I was afraid that people would act like those idiots are acting now," she explained, pointing to the Slytherins, all of whom wore victorious smirks across their faces. "Like it's something dirty or shameful."

"We never would have thought that," said Fred quietly, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"I know," she conceded with a small smile, "but sometimes it's just easier to keep quiet about it."

"How do you hide it?" asked Angelina, gazing at her like her secret was hidden in her pocket or up her billowing sleeve. 

"Yeah, how come Ronnikins isn't walking into walls like he was last year with that Fleur bird?" George added.

Eleanora laughed. "He never told me about that!" Swallowing her giggles, her voice took a serious note. "I take a glamouring potion every couple of days. It stops the usual effects. Like walking into walls," she finished with a grin. 

Harry narrowed his green eyes. "Does Snape make your potion for you?" 

Eleanora raised an eyebrow. "Yes. How did you -"

Aware of Malfoy listening to their conversation with interest, Harry shook his head. "Not now," he muttered. "I'll tell you later."

"So, how did that git know?" asked Fred, jerking a hand towards Malfoy who looked to be thoroughly enjoying the scene he had created, Crabbe and Goyle still lurking immensely at his sides. 

Eleanora frowned. "I guess his father must have told him." Her tone was light, but inwardly she uneasily wondered what else Malfoy senior had told his son. 

"But," Tobias began in a puzzled tone, "you're not blonde."

Eleanora rolled her eyes.

"All the other Veelas I've seen have been blonde!"

She shook her head, her hastily arranged bun breaking free of its restraints and tumbling down her shoulders. "Not all Veelas are blonde, Tobe. You saw the Bulgarian mascots at the World Cup didn't you?"

He nodded, his eyes glazing a little at the memory. 

"They weren't what you would call your average Veelas," she said with a smirk. "They were the Bulgarian team manager, Dimitri Volkinoff's personal 'dancers.' Not all of us look like that, sorry to disappoint you."

"Oh," he said, looking rather crestfallen. "Fleur was blonde too though."

Eleanora hitched an eyebrow. "You thought that was natural?" Her face creased with mirth. "That's a good one! Fleur's hair is redder than Ron's naturally!

"You're kidding!" gasped Fred, his eyes wide.

"Nope," she replied with a grin, "but you didn't hear it from me."

Marcus Flint cleared his throat loudly. "Sorry to interrupt your little pow-wow," he sneered nastily, "but get the hell off the pitch!"

The Gryffindor team stopped their conversation, Angelina whirling round to face him. Malfoy and his black haired friend looked particularly bitter that their revelation had not received quite the hostile reception they were hoping for. 

"You haven't heard the last of this, Flint!" Angelina said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Just you wait until Madame Hooch hears about it!"

Flint laughed, his robes stretching tight over his broad chest. "Whatever, like she's going to argue with us."

Eleanora snorted. "She'd have to get a chimp in to act as translator in order to have an argument with you lot!"

Flint glowered at her, but didn't look like he could muster an adequate reply. The tall, black haired girl merely mouthed "mudblood", wrinkling her nose in disdain.

"I didn't think that your nose could get any more squashed, Zabini, but you've just proved me wrong!" exclaimed Harry, his green eyes flashing in anger.

Eleanora laughed loudly. "It's OK, Harry; I might be the mudblood, but at least I've got a blood supply going to my brain which is more than can be said for any of this lot! Merlin, give Crabbe here another brain cell and he could be a pot plant!"

Crabbe, after taking a moment to register the insult stepped towards her, raising his fist.

"Hitting girls, Mr Crabbe?" came a piercing voice from behind them. "That is not what I would call honourable behaviour!"

They spun around to see Madame Hooch walking briskly across the pitch, her vivid yellow Quidditch robes billowing in the breeze, a slim racing broom clutched in her hand.

"What are they Slytherin team doing down here anyway?" she asked, as she neared the group, her hawk-like eyes settling on the burly captain.

"We…..uhhh…..asked Professor Snape if we could use the pitch," Flint stammered, as Fred triumphantly stuck his tongue out at him behind Hooch's back.

"Well, the pitch is not Professor Snape's to designate," came the clipped reply. "In future book any training sessions with me in advance. Now, off you go!"

Malfoy looked as if he was about to object, but Madame Hooch glared at him glacially. A frown settled upon his features, and his pale eyes gleamed with hatred. 

"I'll get you later, Potty," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth as he crushed past, "and your little mudblood friend!"

Harry said nothing in reply, just mimed bouncing something up and down, up and down with a smug smirk on his face. From the look on Malfoy's face, Eleanora had a horrid feeling that he might pay for that later. She didn't have time to ponder this though as Madame Hooch briskly clapped her hands.

"Come on," she called sharply. "We haven't got all morning. Into position!"

The team scattered, Angelina still making last minutes adjustments to their formation. 

"Harry, a bit higher OK? I don't want you in the way of any bludgers! Tobias, over to the left a bit! A bit more! Stop!"

Eleanora grinned as she hovered smoothly in the air, the wind whipping her hair around her face as she gazed down at Madame Hooch who was releasing the balls. Despite her chagrin at Malfoy's untimely revelation, she felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and it was a heady cocktail of adrenaline mixed with relief that coursed throughout her veins, at not having to hide behind the thin veil of normality that had for many long weeks cloaked her heritage and shrouded her past. A Quaffle spun past her shoulder, and she reared her broom and raced after it, diving steeply. 

_This is what I needed; she thought to herself, as her finger closed around the ball, _this is just what I needed.__


	29. Chapter Twenty Seven

**_Hello faithful readers! _**

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**_My utmost apologies for the delay in updating – have just got back from two weeks in _****_Uganda_****_ (yes, _****_Uganda_****_!) so have furiously penned this chapter at the speed of light. I should be back on course with the weekly updates very soon and until then, please stick with it! As always reviews are welcome!_**

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**_Love you lots and jelly tots,_**

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**_-xXx- LoVeDaY –xXx- _**

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**_* * * * * * * * * * * * * *_**

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**_Chapter Twenty Seven_**

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"Oof!" exclaimed Eleanora loudly, as she slipped on a perilous patch of ice, her feet skittering wildly underneath her.

"Watch it," said Ron, catching her arm in his gloved hand. "That's the last thing we need; another Chaser down." 

Harry nodded eagerly, the bobble on top of his knitted hat dancing comically with his enthusiasm. "Only a week to go now!" he grinned, his green eyes shining with excitement.

"Only a week until I get to pound Malfoy into the ground," agreed Eleanora with a smirk, her voice muffled from behind the thick woollen scarf that obscured most of her face from view.

Hermione shot her a warning look, though the effect was somewhat lessened by the pair of bright pink ear-muffs that sat snugly over the girls ears. Eleanora shrugged, but grabbed hold of her hand affectionately all the same, Hermione's lilac gloves clashing horrendously with Eleanora's orange ones, which she had charmed with a fierce warming spell. 

The four friends were walking down the school drive on their way to Hogmeade, their breath billowing in steamy clouds before them as they chattered animatedly. Small groups of cheerful students surrounded them on all sides, a cacophony of joyful voices ringing out, discussing the new robes in Madame Malkin's and whether the rumours of carnivorous toilet seats in Zonko's were true or just the product of Zacharias Smith's overactive imagination. Eleanora stuck a gloved hand deep into the pocket of her duffel coat and her fingers closed around the sizable sack of galleons that sat there, deliciously heavy.  She grinned with relish, and thought longingly of the high stacked shelves and rickety glass cabinets of the infamous joke shop, stocked with all sorts of mirth and merriment waiting to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting school. Fred and George, accompanied by Lee had left school early after a hurriedly consumed breakfast in the hope of stocking up before Filch made his routine visit to inform Mr Zonko exactly what the students were not allowed to purchase. According to George, who had taken the liberty of sneaking into Flich's office the previous night, the list, inscribed upon a filthy six feet long piece of parchment, now totalled some three hundred objects, including exploding door knockers, ever-bouncing balls, indoor portable thunder clouds and edible pillows, which apparently contravened Filch's decree of "no eating in the dormitories." Fred however, had neatly removed some of the more desirable objects from the list, taking great care to ensure that the liquefying lotion they had such plans for was notably absent from the cramped columns of writing.

"Remind me to go to Flourish and Blotts," said Hermione, searching deeply in one of her pockets, "they've got a new order of _1001 Uses For Dragons Blood that I want to have a look at." She pulled out a hair band and tied her bushy hair into a neat bun, as Eleanora watched in wonderment._

Ron rolled his eyes. "Sounds fascinating that does," he said dryly.

"How do you get your hair to do that?" Eleanora asked in an incredulous tone, raking a hand through her own hair, which despite a tangle of ribbon and hairnets still refused to conform to any earthly shape. 

"Did you try that potion Parvati gave you?" asked Hermione.

"Yes, the whole bottle; that day when you said it smelled like I had washed my hair in Bubertuber pus."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "It was more like armadillo bile actually."

Eleanora grinned weakly. "Well, whatever it smelt like it didn't work, that's for sure."

"What else would you expect from something in a bright pink bottle?" asked Ron, looking thoroughly disgusted.

Suddenly a voice rang out behind them. "Oi! 'Arry! You lot! Over 'ere!"

The four spun round, Eleanora once again slipping off her feet and being clumsily caught, this time by Hermione. Hagrid stood on the frozen grass behind them, a bulging sack slung over his broad shoulder, which looked uncomfortably like it may contain rabbits. They trudged over to greet him, leaving trails in the frosted grass.

"Hello Hagrid," greeted Hermione warmly, smiling at the towering man. Eleanora grinned at him over the top of her scarf. 

"'Ello you lot," he replied, a huge smile creasing his hairy good natured face. "Off to 'Ogsmeade?"

Harry nodded. "What's in the bag?" he asked, nodding to the heavy sack. 

Hagrid grimaced. "Rabbit's," he replied a little sorrowfully. "The Thestrals love 'em, won't eat nothin' else."

Eleanora listened with interest. For the past few weeks, she had been helping the affable gamekeeper tend to the Thestrals, the only domesticated herd in Britain. She had, during the spell of warmer weather that had given way to the present frozen snap, developed a habit of idly wandering down to the forest's edge, and just waiting for the beautiful creatures to emerge like shadows, their reptilian faces gleaming in the half light thrown by the skeletal trees. Hagrid had discovered her there one morning three weeks ago, standing perfectly content whilst four Thestrals gently nuzzled her neck, pawing the ground while she stoked their darkly iridescent manes. 

"Wondered 'ow long it would be before you came down 'ere," he had said gently.

Eleanora had turned round, her hands still wound in their silky manes. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" she said quietly, still staring into their orb like eyes, which glowed like opals in the pale dawn light.

"Your dad said you wouldn't be able ter stay away fer long," Hagrid had said, a grin creeping into his voice. 

Eleanora smiled. "He knows me far too well, I think," she replied quietly. 

"'Ow long is it now?" asked the large man softly, leaning his weight against a tree, half cloaking himself in shadows. 

"Six years," she had replied, her tone measured and even, though she kept her face resolutely tuned away, her dark eyes suddenly brimming with salty tears. "Or it will be next month."

"She was a great girl, yer mother," Hagrid said, his voice creaking slightly. "She and yer dad were made for each other, yer could just see it."

"I know," Eleanora said, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her robes, now tinged with the musky odour of hay and warm hair. Turning around, she smiled at Hagrid.

"You were at the wedding weren't you?" she asked softly. "I saw you in the pictures."

"Yeh, that I was," he had replied, nodding. "Great day was that – yer mother looked a real picture."

"She did didn't she," agreed Eleanora, remembering the crumpled pictures, carefully stashed away at the bottom of her trunk, bearing the smiling visage of her parents, her fathers arm draped protectively over her mother's shoulders, her long hair elaborately braided into a coronet of spun gold. Her mother's turquoise eyes twinkled happily as she gazed up into the beaming face of her husband, whose black hair blew wildly about his handsome face in the breeze. 

"There's a lot of yer mother inside yer, yer know," he continued, looking at her searchingly. "Lots of yer dad to – that's plain ter see."

"Tell me something I don't know," grinned Eleanora, patting a Thestral on the neck as it lazily ambled back into the foliage. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears, but her tone was cheerful.

"He's back now," she said conversationally, as she checked her wrist watch. "He said he'd come to visit over the mid term holidays."

"It'll be good ter see him again," mused Hagrid, scratching his beard. "He'll be right glad to see yer doing so well."

Eleanora rolled her eyes. "As long as he doesn't speak to Snape or Trelawney he'll be fine," she said as she wound her way past the burly man. "Wouldn't want to disillusion him now would we?" 

"Yer better get some breakfast down yer," said Hagrid as she turned to leave. "And anytime yer want ter come down to see 'em, yer can yer know."

Eleanora flashed a smile. "Thanks," she said. "It helps I think; haven't got a clue why but it does."

"I know," Hagrid replied, following with his eyes a lone Thestral that was threading its way back into the forest. "Special creatures them."

Since then Eleanora had made regular visits to the gamekeepers hut, partaking in a steaming mug of tea, syrupy with sugar, before braving the frigid air to tend to the creatures. 

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Eleanora spoke up. "Did you manage to sort out the lame one's hoof?"

Hagrid nodded happily. "Yeah," he replied, "she's right as rain now. Make sure yer come and see 'er though; she's bin pining for yer."

Eleanora smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I've had Quidditch practice practically every day. Angelina is a complete slave driver."

"Yer dad will be pleased ter see yer on the team," said Hagrid beaming, heaving the sack further onto his shoulder. "Is 'e still coming next week?"

She nodded happily. "Should be here Saturday morning. He'll be down to see you like a shot once he knows you've got Snorlack eggs. Just don't let him have one whatever you do." 

She raised an eyebrow in warning. Hagrid had recently taken delivery of a large crate of rust coloured eggs, whose thick, brittle shells would soon crack open to reveal what Eleanora regarded as possibly the ugliest magical creature this side of Pansy Parkinson. The claws of the Snorlack, a puny featherless bird with grey mottled skin and a huge bulbus head had potent medicinal properties and Hagrid hoped to rear his brood to adulthood, clipping the claws as required for use in the infirmary. Eleanora knew instinctively that her father would not be able to resist the pull of such a rare creature, and she would most likely have to forcibly drag him away empty handed from the dark confines of Hagrid's hut, his boyish pleas still hanging in the air. 

"Yer alright," Hagrid replied, "Poppy told me I'm not to let any of 'em go – needs 'em all apparently."

Eleanora frowned. "Why does she need them all?" she asked. "Snorlack claws are used for the relief of curse scar damage aren't they?"

Hermione nodded, as Ron piped up, "And apart from yours truly here," nudging Harry in the ribs," no one else is running about with a bloody great scar on them are they?"

Hagrid narrowed his eyes at them. "Never you mind about that," he replied gruffly. 

"Oh come on!" exclaimed Harry, "you can't do that to us!"

"No," said Hagrid, turning to leave, "I should not have told you that. Have a good time down at 'Ogsmeade!"

And with that he lumbered away, the pendulous sack swinging over his broad shoulder. Eleanora looked at Harry curiously. 

"What do you reckon he meant by that then?"

Harry bit his lip in thought. "I don't know. Maybe Dumbledore's expecting my scar to start burning worse then ever now that Voldemort's back."

Hermione and Ron shrunk away, and Ron gritted his teeth. "Harry! Don't say it!" he grimaced, looking round as if her feared the Dark Lord would suddenly leap out from behind a clump of frosted bushes at the sound of his name. 

Hermione laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure that if Dumbledore knew anything, he would have told you, Harry."

Harry smiled at her weakly, though his eyes belied his unconcerned tone. "Yeah, you're probably right. They might need it for potions ingredients or something, right?"

Ron nodded forcefully, as if eager to dispel his friend's doubts. "Yeah, mate. Snape's probably got something nasty planned for it, condemning it to a life in a pickle jar in that office of his, forced to watch his great greasy head bent over a desk all day."

Harry grinned. "Fate worse than death that."

Eleanora however was lost in thought. _Of course, she realised with a dull jolt__, Harry wasn't the only one at Hogwarts with a curse scar. Snape bears the Dark Mark. _

Eleanora knew with the ingrained certainty of a witch brought up in the centre of the wizarding world that the Dark Mark was one of the most powerful symbols of dark magic known, an instantly recognisable and widely feared emblem of the reign of terror that Voldemort had inflicted upon their kind. And now that he was back, stronger than ever, the Mark would be a constant smouldering reminder of Snape's transgressions, his shadowed past, and his uncertain future. 

"Eleanora?" came the distant voice of Ron cutting through the torrent of thoughts that crowded her mind.

"Yes?" she breathed, her brows still furrowed in concentration, as she turned her gaze on her friends who had continued walking, leaving her standing blankly in the middle of path.

"You alright there?" 

"Oh, yes," she replied, jogging to catch up, "just remembered something that's all."

"You never told us you were helping Hagrid with the Thestrals," said Hermione, blowing into her cupped hands to warm them.

"Must have slipped my mind," answered Eleanora evasively, not eager to share the real reason why she had neglected to tell her friends of her new pastime. The revelation that she could see the beautiful creatures would certainly lead to the sort of awkward questions that she so detested, and steeled herself as she walked in silence to answer. The throng was hushed; the only sound the crunch of four pairs of booted feet on the brittle grass, a thousand blades of iced green, gleaming in the pale morning sunlight. 

Ron cleared his throat. "You can see them then?"

Eleanora swallowed hard, glad that her scarf covered her trembling lips.

"Yeah," she replied quietly, gazing over the frosted landscape, the turreted and gabled roofs of Hogsmeade shimmering into view behind the tall trees that marked the Hogwarts boundaries. 

"Who was it?" asked Harry softy, staring at the ground, as if afraid of the girls answer.

"My mother," came the even reply, her voice toneless and dull.

Hermione squeezed her hand, her face, buffeted by the cold wind, creasing into a comforting smile.

"Sorry," mumbled Ron, the tips of ears turning a vivid shade of beetroot.

"S'OK," Eleanora replied. "I've had six years to get used to it."

"Never stops hurting though does it?" said Harry quietly, more to himself than to anyone else, a lock of black hair falling over his eyes.

"No, it doesn't," she agreed. "Gets easier all the time though, or so they say."

"Yeah," echoed Harry flatly, "so they say."

The group was broken out of their quiet contemplation by tangle of shrill voices behind them.

"Eleanora! Hermione! Hang on! Wait for us!"

They turned around, Ron grimacing wearily as he saw who the piercing voices belonged to. Parvati and Lavender were tottering unsteadily down the slick pathway, wearing matching petal pink winter robes, their wrists heavy with assorted bracelets and bangles which clattered merrily as they waved their exuberant greetings.

"Hello you two," they said happily, appraising Harry and Ron with a sweeping glance, then turned their attention on Eleanora who was staring at their myriad of jewellery with an amused expression. 

"Have we got some good news for you!" gushed Lavender, nearly taking Harry's eye out with a large jewelled ring as she swept her hands up in an elaborate gesture.

"Have you?" replied Eleanora, smirking at Ron who was making faces behind Parvati's back. 

"Yes," answered Parvati, in a important tone. "Guess who has just had in a new order of Sleekeasy's Hair Potion? The one you were asking about?"

"Hmmmm? You'll have to enlighten me," replied Eleanora trying her level best to look as enthralled at this news as they obviously were, but failing miserably not to laugh as Ron was now charming Parvati's long braid to swing wildly from side to side.

"Madame Breezy's," finished Lavender looking very pleased with herself. We're going in there first thing and -"

"Could you pick some up for me?" asked Eleanora quickly, privately thinking that the last thing she wanted to spend her morning doing was shopping with Parvati and Lavender for all manner of potions and lotion in Madame Breezy's Aesthetic Enhancement Emporium. Before either of them could protest, she fished a few coins out of her pocket and pressed them into Parvati's hand. 

"Just one bottle should be enough."

"Are you sure?" asked Lavender sceptically, eyeing Eleanora's hair critically.

"Yeah, sure," she replied. "I'll catch up with you later."

Calling their goodbyes, the two girls continued down the pathway, teetering on their high heels.

"Mad," muttered Ron, "absolutely barking mad, the both of them."

"And since when did you become so interested in hair potions?" asked Harry slyly, digging her in the ribs.

"I never said I was _interested_," replied Eleanora carefully. "Just that it might be nice sometimes not to look as if I have a phoenix nesting in my hair."

"Fair enough," replied Ron with a mystified expression.

As they wandered down the main street of the wizarding village, Harry pulled his bobble hat further down over his pale forehead. Eleanora caught his eye and he shrugged – not that she could blame him as already he had attracted an assortment of curious looks and none too subtle stares. As they were passing Flourish & Blotts, Hermione disappeared through the darkened doorway, giving Ron a meaningful look. Eleanora made to follow her, but Harry grabbed her arm, giving her a bright smile.

"She'll be ages in there you know," he said rolling his eyes as he forcefully steered her away. "I want to go to Honeydukes, come on."

"But I need a new quill!" she protested, turning back.

"We can get one later," he said. "Ron needs one too, don't you Ron?"

"Oh, ummm," he mumbled, "yeah…New quill."

Eleanora narrowed her eyes at him in distrust, feeling sure that he was up to something, yet said nothing and allowed herself to be escorted across the bustling high street to the brightly coloured façade of the sweetshop, by now teeming with excited students, bags and boxes clutched in their hands as they parted with their gold. The three pushed through the doorway, nearly getting knocked over by a group of rowdy third years barrelling out into the street, huge pink bubbles streaming from their mouths, disappearing into the stark brightness of the sky.

"Droobles!" exclaimed Eleanora. "I haven't had that in years!"

"Time to reacquaint yourself then!" grinned Ron, grabbing a bag of a nearby shelf and dropping it into her hands. 

"What do you reckon to some Pepper Imps?" asked Eleanora shaking the small black box. "Breathe fire for you friends?"

"Sounds good to me," said Harry, as he deliberated between Toothflossing Stringmints and Ice Mice. 

"Go for the Ice Mice," Ron said. "Hermione always has a load of Stringmints in her bag. Must be the dentist's influence."

"Dentists?" asked Eleanora blankly. 

"'Mione's parents are both dentists," explained Harry. "Better not show her those Exploding Bonbons – really bad for your teeth apparently.

"I'm not surprised," she replied, reading the miniscule writing on the packet with a shudder. "Maybe I'll leave these where they are. Coconut ice seems a lot safer."

Ten minutes later the three staggered out of Honeydukes, their arms laden with a large box, containing their horde. Eleanora's box kept wriggling in her grasp as her Jelly Snakes become more and more agitated, hissing loudly as she hoisted the box up to get a better grip on it. 

"I still say you'll never eat those Blood Flavour Lollipops," insisted Ron, giving her a dubious look.

"We'll see," she grinned, licking her lips lasciviously, relishing the look of nausea that passed over her friends face.

"Where now?" she asked Harry, whose own box was squeaking shrilly thanks to the Ice Mice within. 

"I told 'Mione we'd meet her in Zonkos," he said, nodding his head over to a large shop that looked as if it's upper floors had been added one day by a mere afterthought, wavering perilously over the busy street below.

"Ahh," breathed Eleanora, staring up reverently at the rickety building. "The finest joke shop ever built. I feel almost unworthy."

Harry grinned at her. "Nonsense. If anyone is worthy to step inside this place, it's you. You've kept up with Fred and George so far haven't you?"

"I am but the lowly student to their masterful mentoring," she said in a mock reverential tone. "Wonder if they managed to get hold of those Finger Snapping Books they were on about."

The three strolled in through the narrow doorway. From the looks of the place, nearly every student in Hogwarts was crammed into the musty corners, studiously examining some object or another, whispering quiet recommendations or warnings to their friends, joyously exclaiming as they found another hidden treasure amongst the usual wares. Eleanora spotted Seamus and Dean huddled at the back of the shop with Terry Boot and Fern Baggins, a pretty fourth year Hufflepuff. They appeared to be deep in conversation but Seamus beckoned her when she waved cheerily at him. 

"What do you think of this?" he asked in a hushed tone, pulling something out from his sleeve. It resembled a small, extremely grimy salt shaker, encrusted with what looked like a centuries worth of dirt. It contained a vivid red powder, which glowed strongly in the gloom of the darkened shop.

"What is it?" asked Eleanora, one eyebrow raised sceptically.

"Snoo powder," replied Fern, tossing a dark curl out of her eyes. 

"Snoo powder?" echoed Eleanora, failing to restrain a smirk curling across her lips. "Snoo?"

"It's meant to be like Floo powder but you don't need a fire," explained Terry enthusiastically. "I thought I could use it to visit Fern's dormitory."

"Oh yeah?" said Eleanora, nudging Fern with a grin. "Shocking behaviour."

"So, you reckon it would work?" she asked eagerly.

Eleanora took the small pot out of Seamus' hands and weighed it in her palm. It felt heavy and strangely warm, a rather familiar sensation. 

"Not a chance," she said, handing it back to the sandy headed boy. "What you've got there is a pot full of powdered Ocundu bones. Fine if you want to ease muscle pain, but not much use for sneaking off to the girl's dormitory."

Fern's face fell, but not nearly as much as Terry's.

"However, Eleanora continued, a crafty smile lighting her face "and you did not hear this from me, there is a passage way leading from the portrait gallery off the first floor corridor down to the Hufflepuff dormitories. Might be a bit damp because it goes past Moaning Myrtle's bathroom but apart from that…."

"How do you know about that?" asked Terry, now looking a lot happier.

"Fred and George told me," she replied airily. "See you later – we'll be in The Three Broomsticks if you're at a loose end!"

She sauntered back to where Harry and Ron stood, now immersed in a large display of Nose Biting Teacups. 

"What about this one?" asked Ron, cautiously holding up a large blue and white china cup by its handle. 

"Nah," replied Harry with a wince, extracting his fingers from the sharp teeth of a small shallow cup patterned with swirling Chinese dragons.

"Nose Biting Teacups?" asked Eleanora smirking at them. "That's original."

"Yeah well," muttered Harry, sucking his fingers. "They still bloody well hurt."

Draping an arm round each of the boys, she steered them up the narrow staircase that led to the upper floors, dominated by large glass cases which housed the more expensive, rarer items.

"This," she announced, "is more like it." She gazed round appreciatively, her dark eyes lingering on a dusty cabinet which looked like it contained a rather odd assortment of old toilet seats. 

"Excellent," she breathed, a devious grin spilling over her face. 

"A toilet seat?" asked Ron, his eyes brows practically up in his vivid hairline. 

"Not just any toilet seat, my friend," she answered, gingerly opening the creaking door of the cabinet. "Nothing more and nothing less than a bona fide Carnivorous Toilet Seat."

"Ouch," grimaced Harry. "Just be sure not to leave it lying around in the Gryffindor bathrooms, yeah?"

"Oh no fear," she replied, winking at him. "This little treasure is destined for the fifth year Slytherin girl's bathroom."

Ron grinned. "Oh just imagine," he mused aloud, "Piggy Parkinson's screams when that thing takes a large chunk out of her fat behind!"

"Exactly!" smiled Eleanora. "She could stand to lose a few pounds anyway – I'm really doing her a favour!"

"How much is it?" asked Harry, leaning over to get a better look.

"Ten Galleons," she replied with a slight frown, "but worth every penny. I might reuse it in the Slytherin changing rooms before the match next week."

Harry laughed, his green eyes alight with mischief. "Imagine Ferret Features trying to fly with half his backside missing!"

"That settles it then," said Eleanora decisively, descending the stairs to purchase the toilet seat. "I'm thinking of it as an investment."

As she shook the heavy gold coins out of her money sack, she wondered whether Fred and George had managed to get their hands on the Liquefying Potion. Many clandestine conversations had taken place over the possibilities of that small bottle, and having pooled their resources, they had amassed enough money to purchase a bottle sufficient to service the entire Slytherin corridor.

Clutching her bag with the toilet seat tightly wrapped in brown paper with a few well chosen sealing charms placed on it, she stood by the door whilst Harry and Ron made their purchases. Harry in particular appeared particularly pleased with his Invisible Pea Shooter. 

"Think about it!" he said excitedly. "I can spend all potions lesson aiming ink pellets at Malfoy now, and he won't have a clue!"

The three friends found Hermione waiting patiently for them outside the door, clasping a large bag in her hands. 

"Let's have a look then," asked Eleanora, attempting to peer into the bag but Hermione quickly closed it, promising that she could look later. Eleanora gave her a searching stare, but said nothing.  

After a brief visit to the Quidditch Emporium for Harry to pick up a jar of Speed-Up's Broom Wax, they found themselves outside the Three Broomsticks, the warmly lit interior of the bustling bar glowing invitingly from behind the small panes of frosted glass that were painstakingly inlaid into the heavy oaken door. As she stepped into the bright room, a deliciously savoury scent played around her nose, enticing her senses and making her mouth water. 

"Mmmmmm," Eleanora sniffed appreciatively. "What is that smell?"

Ron grinned. "Never had a slice of Madame Rosmerta's game pie before?"

"Nope," answered Eleanora, now gazing around from the source of the tempting smell.

"You don't know what you've been missing," he said.

Harry grabbed a large circular table that had just been vacated by a group of rowdy goblins, and sat down in a comfortable armchair. Ron and Hermione joined him, Hermione taking care to place her bag where she could see it beside her chair. 

"I'll get the first round in," said Eleanora. "Three Butterbeers?"

She jostled her way through to the crowded bar, lined with students and regulars alike. Pushing her way between a plump witch who wore a jaunty yellow top hat and a short wizard who was humming loudly and discordantly to himself, she gazed at the innumerable selection of bottles that lined the wall, containing all manner of jewel coloured liquids, from viridian green Absinthe to the bright purple hues of the mulberry brandy that Esmeralda had been so fond of. She felt a momentary pang of longing for the homely witch's affectionate embrace, the nearest thing to a mother's touch she had experienced for six years, but quickly dispelled it as she felt a familiar poke in the ribs.   

"Alright, girl?" came the jovial voice of Lee who now stood beside her, his pockets bulging  with what Eleanora supposed to be his purchases from Zonko's.

"Did you get the potion?" she said quietly out of the corner of her mouth.

"Of course," he replied, patting a pocket. "No problems."

Madame Rosmerta hurried up to them, looking flushed, her wavy blond hair coming out of its loose bun in fly-away tendrils around her plump face. She hurriedly wiped her hands on a lacy apron tied around her waist, and smiled gaily in greeting. 

"Hello Mr Jordan! Haven't seen you round here lately," she said, glancing with interest at Eleanora.

"Well, Rose – may I call you that? I've been rather busy what with schoolwork and business – you know what it's like," he replied flashing her a radiant smile. "I'll have three Fire Whiskeys please and by the way, this is Eleanora D'Souza – new fifth year."

Eleanora kicked him hard on the shin, and shot him a glare.

"I mean seventh year! Seventh year!" he corrected himself quickly.

"Thanks mate," he mumbled crossly as he bent down to rub his shin. 

"Well, she's not going to let me have Dragon's Breath if she knows I'm a fifth year now is she?" hissed Eleanora angrily, as Rosmerta busied herself measuring out three shots of the rich amber coloured whiskey.

"You want to try Dragon's Breath?" exclaimed Lee loudly.

"Great Lee! Just tell the whole pub why don't you?" snapped Eleanora. "I don't think that little deaf old man in the corner heard you – want to say it again?"

Lee grabbed hold of her arm. "Listen – that stuff is intense," he told her. "Fred and I tried it once when Charlie brought some back from Romania – didn't stop breathing fire for two hours."

"Oh relax," she said, shaking off his arm. "You're beginning to sound like Hermione. Three Butterbeers and a shot of Dragon's Breath please! Oh, and four slices of your game pie."

"Good luck girl," said Lee, shaking his dreadlocked head. "Can we watch?"

Eleanora grinned. "Sure, as long as you'll make Butterbeer come out of your ears like you did last week with the pumpkin juice."

She paid the buxom bar lady and carefully carried the drinks back over to their table where Harry, Ron and Hermione were now joined by the twins. Lee pulled up a chair from another table, setting the whiskey's down on the table. Hermione absently placed a coaster under each glass, unaware of the amused glances she got.

"Here you go," said Eleanora, handing each of her friends a bottle of Butterbeer.

"What's that?" asked Ron, pointing to her tumbler, filled with a small measure of dark brown liquid, deep red depths burning within like smouldering embers in a dying fire.

"Dragon's Breath," she replied nonchalantly, dipping her little finger in the glass and bringing it to her lips. "Woah!" she exclaimed, her eyebrows raised as she glanced at Lee. "You were right."

"You're actually going to drink all of that?" asked Fred doubtfully, as he slammed his empty glass back on the table, nearly knocking it over.

"Yep – why not?" she replied.

"Because girls don't drink things like Dragon's Breath," answered George hesitantly, as he saw the bellicose glint come into her eyes.

"Oh yeah?" she said tauntingly, "so what do girl's drink?"

"Hmmm…..Butterbeer and….our mum drinks sweet sherry?"

"And a bit too much of that at Christmas," added Ron under his breath.

"Nonsense," said Hermione shortly, setting down her bottle. "Girls do drink whiskey."

"You don't," said Ron quickly.

"I know I don't," replied Hermione with a smirk, "but Ginny does."

"WHAT?" exploded the twins and Ron simultaneously, nearly leaping out of their chairs.

"Yes," replied Hermione casually. "And don't you dare say anything to her, or I shall tell your mother about your own questionable drinking habits." 

They gaped at her, open mouthed. 

"And yes Fred – I do mean the cider you were brewing in your dormitory out of the crab apples Hagrid gave you. You're lucky that the vat did explode otherwise you'd probably have poisoned half the school by now."

"You never told me about that!" Ron complained, swigging from his Butterbeer.

"Yeah well," George groused. "Like she said, it exploded. My bed sheets stank of cider for a month."

"That's what happens when you don't wash them, you stinker," laughed Lee, only narrowly ducking the flying coaster that was swiftly thrown at him. 

"Sorry!" he shouted apologetically to the irate fourth year at the next table who was hit on the back of the head by the assailant coaster. 

"Any one want some Pepper Imps?" asked Eleanora, reaching down into the Honeydukes box for the packet. "Madame Rosmerta said the pie should take about fifteen minutes."

She shook out the tiny black imps onto the table, and they all made a grab for them before they escaped, crunching them hard before they had a chance to start wriggling inside their mouths. Fred banged his fist hard down on the table, flattening one who was intently manoeuvring his way between the empty glasses.

"Gotcha!" he exclaimed triumphantly, popping the belligerent imp into his mouth, choking back a cough as he spat a few sparks onto the table.

"Charming," muttered Hermione, as he slapped them out with his sleeve.

Eleanora stared at her glass, still full, sitting innocuously on the table, aware of the others staring expectantly at her. Picking it up, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. In one swift movement she threw the contents down her throat, gasping as the tawny liquid burnt a path down to her stomach. It felt like she had swallowed a raging flame that was licking hungrily at her insides, constricting her airways in its blazing grasp. She was barely aware of the horrified expressions of her friends as she turned around, her hands flailing wildly in front of her face, her eyes wide with the sensation of a flaming torch burning in her chest. Coughing, she spat out a scorching ribbon of flame, recoiling as the heat hit her blazing cheeks, now bright red with the heat that coursed through her helpless body. She was aware of an engulfing darkness closing around her, the scent of musk and sandalwood mingling with the odour of scorched wood. A deafening roar erupted above her, though through the sound of the desperate coughing that racked her body she could hear nothing but a furious resonance of shouts and curses. 

Wheezing with sparks still dancing merrily in her eyes, she straightened herself back up, raked back her hair, the tips of her braids somewhat scorched, and came face to face, or more accurately face to waist with a furious looking Severus Snape, a rather large hole burnt into his black winter robes, the fatal scowl on his gaunt face more than enough to tell her that she was in very serious trouble.

_Oh shit._


End file.
