Harry Potter 1. Introduction to Destruction

— **To Sunder the Sea **—  
_Introduction to Destruction_

_—_

_They say there was a murderer and 12 corpses.  
They were wrong.  
There was a bystander and 15 victims,  
and then a ghost._

I was there when he had killed all those people. Up close and personal, you could say. No one had expected it, but then no one expects to die. Well, they do, but never so soon. So quickly. So _unexpectedly_. No. No, of course not. Not on a hazy November afternoon where there was still a hopeful warmth in the air.

But it had happened. The time had come. The beginning of the end, as it's said.

The real question is, however: just how long is the end?

— — —

November 2, 1981  
Monday

There was an explosion.

And then, afterwards, silence.

Evelyn Martin had been thrown back by the force of the blast. An instantaneous heat encased the air, and for a quick moment she thought that this was what a volcanic eruption must feel like; the heat kindling against her face, singeing her eyebrows, smothering her airway all within the moment between heartbeats.

Looking back, this would be the moment she remembered most.

The moment when the dust began to settle.

She couldn't move for the longest time, couldn't breathe for the longest time. Her chest shuddered, aching and heavy from the momentum of the surge and from the jarring of being thrown backwards onto concrete. Everything seemed too slow, and there was an instant where she panicked, her body refusing to react when she attempted to push herself upright.

All she seen was black, and then:

A vision was unfolding behind her eyes. Surges of golden light quaked like jolts of lightning, an exact imprint of the same light that had ruptured forth from the darkened alleyway only moments before. It was scintillating and cataclysmic, teeming with force and striking within the blink of an eye. It didn't fade behind her eyelids, but grew brighter, flashing and thrashing, striking through her head and quaking down her spine like a true living force. She gnashed her teeth, fighting against the shock.

It was unlike anything she had ever experienced, and years later when the memory resurfaced, the heat that smothered the atmosphere was still tangible upon her face.

Then came the screams.

Her eyes snapped open, gasping as if some colossal weight had suddenly been lifted from her ribcage, her quick breaths feeling cool against her clammy face. The puffs of air pushed through the dust that was settling around her, spreading through it like a dandelion blown into the wind.

And she saw.

Destruction.

The screams retreated—faded, perhaps—because only the ringing of silence filled her ears. Everything had been masked into gray and dust, and it was haunting. It was hauntingly slow how the curse's haze receded, wherein it felt like hours that she watched lifeless bodies materialize, it had only been minutes. They were strewn across the street like abandoned marionettes.

The haze finally lifted. The screams stopped and a deathly silence reigned. Then the aftershock began to augment. In her periphery, through the density of dust and destruction, there were small speck of black, silhouettes of every Muggle that had witness the eruption. None of them seemed to be breathing, but they stood, silent and stunned from what had just occurred. From a distance, a crumbling block off a building fell to the ground, clattering against a ruptured pit of cement.

The sound shook within her ears.

She moved. Her palms stung as she pushed herself upright, leaving two handprints of blood against the sidewalk. Standing, viewing the calamity on a higher level, Evey felt her feet become fused to the ground. Another scream began, reverberating in her eardrums like echoes that wouldn't fade.

The corner was empty. Not a single speck of existence—nothing. Dust lay undisturbed, settled into a fine layer of gray, not far from the alleyway. With panic her gaze tore around the street, eyes wide with horror, always being pulled back to the last spot she had seen him, the last spot he had stood.

Gone.

Obliterated.

Nothing.

Dust.

The screaming became choppy and muffled, as if filtered through a sieve until all she heard was a toneless ringing. Then, as the seconds slowed and passed and became heavy, her heart began to palpitate and her blood to heat and her eyes to blur. Something hard clenched within her chest, almost knocking her back, when she realized that the screaming was coming from her, that she could barely breathe as her lungs burned for oxygen.

She fell to her knees.

The heat upon her face suddenly cooled, too cool, as though a vat of rainwater had soaked her through to the bones. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She couldn't move.

Gone.

It had only been mere moments before that he had stood here. No more than five minutes, four minutes, three minutes, that he was strolling towards her with his endearing, cooked smile, the dark of his eyes bright and warm. Now, there was no breeze to muss his already unruly hair, no skip to his step, no tenderness, no cryptic magnetism, no warmth encompassing him that was intended only for her and belonged to no one else. Even the yellow rose in his grasp had disintegrated.

Obliterated.

There was no indication or proof or a mere suggestion that he had ever been alive. Had ever breathed. Had ever walked upon the surface of the earth or had been the pinnacle of significance in her world. All that remained was the silver band on her finger, the small diamond barely glistening in the day's drear, a small and final relic of him.

There was nothing.

Nothing.

There was no trace, no evidence, that he had stood there.

Dust.

Evey watched as the blood on her hands began to coagulate, smeared against her dress. The diamond was speckled with it, darkening against each facet. Time, of course, was passing.

What had just occurred was now a memory. Now there was only remembering. There was only empty, ripening, nightmarish memories.

Oh, how they would haunt her.

How they would perpetually lurk behind her eyes, unspeakable and tragic and harrowing, moments that would always prick and pull and tear away at her. Already, remembering was a monster within itself, a creature that devoured without dithering, a continuous reliving in a moment of time where her life had been slated for absolute nothingness.

Already, there was no in-between. Already, there was no moving forward. Already, there was no enduring.

Already, as she was bowed against the ground, watching her blood begin to dry, she feared to forget.

If she forgot, it would have been as if he had never existed.

There was only remembering, even now, as the memories were all too stark and vivid and unendurable. She could feel it sweltering, the anguish, the anger, this last day, the last moments—his last moments and, essentially, her own.

And she remembered.

— — —

_A small fact?  
Only one person has ever made her a bystander  
or a victim, and maybe a lover.  
And on that day, he made it happen twice._

I had watched them die, the dust settling upon them like a comforting blanket. It had frightened her, I'd seen, the spell's surge of lightning reflecting in her eyes. It was a last moment, one of many, and I am still grateful it was never her own.

What happened after that last moment? The truth.

Details are forthcoming.

— — —

But then the silence was fractured and a sudden squall of wind rippled down through the street, cold and startling, the ringing in her ears fading and a new sound plagued itself into her mind. It was terrifying and what made the memory blacker than any nightmare, what grappled with her lungs when she tried to breathe, what snaked up and down her spine and clung to her fingers when she tried to break away from it. It was laughter, another man's—his laughter.

One that she would never forget.

Locking her eyes onto him, everything fell into place. Horror and anguish and rage fought for control within her, hands beginning to shake as she looked at the man responsible for his death. The horror locked itself into her bones, immobilizing her; the anguish surging beneath her skin, blurring her eyes; the rage burrowing deep within her, amassing with each wrathful thought.

She watched so that she would not forget.

He stood there, within the beginning density of the alleyway, and when her eyes snapped onto him, his face was instantaneously cauterized into the back of her eyelids. She memorized him. She memorized his stance, his expression, how his body was rigid with the abominating laughter, his black hair flying out behind him as another jet of wind rushed through. His wand heedlessly flailed about as his laughter increased. His eyes were lit with perverse mirth, his laughter deepening to something like a hair-raising, distorted growl when the Ministry officials appeared.

He never once looked at her, or noticed the panicked Muggles, but his face was one that would relentlessly haunt her long after the Ministry had taken him away. His was also the face that she dared never to forget, feared to ever forget. There was no forgetting.

Ultimately, however, it was his name that kept her wrath, her anguish, resolute. It gave vigilance to her vengeance. And as the years passed, it resounded within her ears like a banshee's heartless, unforgettable shriek.

Sirius Black.

* * *

A/N: All right, so. This is really nothing more than a brainchild gone awry, but I happened to notice the unfortunate lack of stories outside of the Marauder's Era and I thought to myself, 'Self, let's give this a go, eh?' Only minus the 'eh'. I'm not Canadian. Or stereotyping.

But a little FYI in advance: the setting is during OofP, straight after Sirius escorted Harry to the Hogwarts Express. To be honest, I'm more interested in the post-Azkaban Sirius rather than the charismatic, roguish Hogwarts student we all tend to glorify—it'll be interesting to unearth more facets of the man he became because of his incarceration. But adding fragments of his Marauder-esque magnetism is a bit of an inevitability. A lovely inevitability.


	2. With the Result of Killin' and Crumpets

— **To Sunder the Sea **—  
_With the Result of Killin' and Crumpets_

_—_

_I watched her like sunrises,  
and sunsets—  
Like always._

It's funny what death _doesn't _do to you.

— — —

September 1, 1995  
Friday

She had followed them for the last eight blocks, weaving within the heart of London, wholly undetectable beneath the silken folds of the invisibility cloak. There were two of them, and they walked closely together, speaking in hushed tones.

"Dumbledore is going to be absolutely cross."

"But he'll understand. You can't blame him, being locked up like that."

It was evident that they were of the magical sort, as it was also unmistakable that they were trying to appear ambiguously discreet to the Muggles they strode pass. However, she had picked them out like two gems buried amongst a dune of sand. She thanked Merlin for her fortune, but also thanked the funny little man with the large, doleful eyes who had sold her three crumbling cauldrons and had offhandedly (eyes glassy upon the pouch of Galleons in his hands) given her the whereabouts of the wizard recognized as Remus Lupin.

Her eyes narrowed onto the very man. He was tall compared to his companion, with graying brown hair and watchful, wearied eyes. His robes were threadbare and patched, as if he had been through one too many duels. A younger woman strode next to him, although shorter in stature, she held her head high, eyes mutually dynamic and keen. Her hair was redder than a forgotten Remembrall.

"Yes, Tonks, but it's far too hazardous for…well, _you know_."

"Oh, come off it, Remus. You've always fancied taking risks every now and then—you're not always so pragmatic. Besides, try empathizing with him. See things from his point of view."

"I've been trying to ever since we were kids. There is _no _empathizing with him; you can't reason out something he's set to do. Not even Dementors have swayed his obstinacy. He's like a blasted mule."

She stopped, turning stony and rigid beneath the cloak, her heart pounding her in ears. For an instant she couldn't breathe, stifling on the air locked in her throat, watching the two slowly continuing forward in the throng of passersby, and was almost stampeded by a rotund man with a briefcase. It took to forcefully compelling her legs back into motion, narrowly dodging the collision, and taking a few deep, shaken breaths to clear her mind.

Yet the information orbited around her thoughts, spinning faster and faster with each step she took. The more it deepened, the more she felt her muscles tighten by its intensity. A very distinctive feeling of shock coursed down her spine, the words churning in her ears.

"…_since we're kids_."

"…_not even Dementors_…"

It fit.

Kids. Dementors. Her breath hitched with almost sheer disbelief, and once again she had to take a few weighty breaths to keep from becoming completely immobile. But it fit. It fit so well. She was finally, after nearly two years, on the golden path leading straight to him.

This was it. It had to be it. After nearly twenty-four months of scouring the earth, trying to track him down, unearthing specifics through grape-vines, hiding in broom-closets whilst listening for leads, sleuthing on suspects who might possess information, bribing such ones until slowly, ever so slowly, all her funds in her Gringotts vault diminished, she was nearly _there_.

She hadn't eaten in days. Her clothes were worn of color, frayed, and sullied from nights sleeping within abandoned buildings and alleyways. She felt grimy and off-balance, a side-effect of vagrant living and nightmare-riddled sleep for the passed two years. Yet, it was worth everything—beyond everything.

This was it.

Her intuition had been right: Remus Lupin, werewolf, ex-Hogwarts Professor, remained close friends with the world's most monstrous Azkaban convict. He was in league with His most devoted servant. He was in cahoots with the man who had—she stopped, bunging the thought before it capsulated her. Her heart palpitated against her chest, as though a centaur's hoofs here pounding madly inside to get out, and for a moment, she was almost certain that the Muggle passersby could hear.

She didn't care.

Her fists had clenched, hot and white, her eyes locked onto the two figures walking some distance ahead of her. She followed, quivering beneath the cloak, gliding along like some small, invisible specter. She knew. She knew they were leading her down the primrose path. She knew it. They had to be. This was it. After what had happened, after what she had been through—her breath shuddered.

The pair turned a corner, leading her into a very drear and dank borough of London. The buildings were shadowy and brown, and some had shattered windows, the shards glinting through the morning's haze, all centered within a mass of overgrown, mossy lawns that would suffice any gnome. She was vaguely aware of these surroundings and had to shake herself from the heart-pounding, heartrending astonishment that she was nearly there, and sidled along, listening.

"He's lonely, Remus. He already misses Harry."

"He misses James."

"As do you."

"…yes."—there was a moment of silence—"Yes, but nonetheless, you won't ever see me trying to pull those kinds of ruses on Dumbledore. Molly, maybe, but when Dumbledore is informed—"

"He'll be as equally incensed. But he'll be lenient towards him in the end, of course. We wouldn't have a headquarters if it weren't for Sirius."

Sirius.

By then they had come to a halt between two downcast houses, and now, thanks to Merlin, she was in no danger of a Muggle unknowingly stumbling into her as, quite abruptly, she became completely immovable. Not even the most behemoth of giants could have forced her away from the walkway. It felt as though she had been suddenly struck with paralysis or that horrid, constricting Locomotor Mortis spell, rooted to the cement. It hurt. It felt as though she had been doused with arctic water or swathed in some acidic vapor. It stung. It ached. It leeched onto her so that soon she couldn't breathe, couldn't blink, and couldn't shudder. The name smoldered and seared within her head.

And then she trembled, blinking, trying to recoil from the terrible sensations wandering throughout her body.

It felt as though her lungs had deflated, heart palpitating one moment, then languidly thumping another, and it seemed as though her every vein and fiber had depleted to an agonizing, icy finish. She balled a fistful of the cloak in one hand and for a moment her shoe appeared against the cracked sidewalk.

There was a penetrating ringing in her ears, like that of a shriek, so unforgettable and so very familiar. It forced all other thought to an obscure background.

For that moment, that infamous name—_his _name—pulsated in her ears, glacial within her blood, and a dozen images fell across her eyelids. Her body quaked, breath shuddering, reliving the past upon the dreadful reality such a name bestowed.

There was no forgetting. There was no enduring. There was only remembering. And once again, she was suddenly there, seeing the nightmare occur behind her closed eyes…

The power of the yellow light, like fingers of lightning, warping as it sped through the air like shockwaves. It was cataclysmic, the curse, and its aftermath swarmed the street like vapor. Then, as the haze ebbed, the unmoving bodies, corpses, began appearing within the silence.

And then the laughter. The unrelenting, mirthless laughter. His eyes were bright, his hair dark and unruly, the wand in his grasp flailing in the air. The laughter only increased, hair-raising and nightmarish, as Ministry officials Apparated.

But most inhuman of all…the empty street-corner where he had stood, only moments before. Only dust remained, ashes. She had imagined him there, gone, but manifestly there; the lifeless body in the near distance, draped across the street-corner. His eyes were shut, the wind billowing his hair, the spirited smile gone…the yellow rose vanished to dust. And soon, with the flick of a Ministry official's wand, he was gone, as though he had never existed or breathed or was the nexus of relevance in her life, was her life.

At least then she could have truly seen him one last time.

All that was left was the emptiness, the unfathomable, unforgivable sorrow, the nothingness that had voided life since. It was unendurable. And here she was, so close, so close to hear his name.

_Sirius Black_.

She gasped, eyes opening wide, her breath cold and quivering as her heart absconded from its polar shroud. She bit her lip down to keep from breathing too fiercely, from screaming, and her eyes watered and blurred her vision of the wizard and the witch who stood no more than ten feet away. She grappled with the agony she had been striving from for the last fourteen years, with the ceaselessly brewing vengeance that had subjugated so much of her existence.

It had both ruined and centered her life, the vengeance. With it, there was no happy medium. There had been no end to the tracking, to the sleuthing. There was only one way to satiate her anguish. Vengeance was a great thing, indeed. And now, she was there and there was no turning back. This was it.

These were his cohorts, and they had ultimately led her straight to him.

This was it.

The witch and the wizard were moving again, up a pathway and onto dilapidated stone steps. As it is with magic, a crumbling house had progressively emerged from between 11 and 13. She wasn't surprised in the slightest; of course he would be hiding within an enchanted structure. She swiftly, heart pounding once more, sidled closely with the two. Her eyes continued to sting as they fell upon the building.

Number 12 stood dark and dreary in guise. The outer walls were sooty, sun-baked, although it was evident that the sun rarely shined down upon it. The windows were filthy and gray and draped with thick cloth from the inside. It had clearly once been an immense, lovely house in its glory days, terraced in its now decaying Georgian grandeur. For a moment, her breath caught, eyes lingering on the edifice.

She stood no more than an arm's length away from Remus Lupin and his female companion, and breathed carefully, silently. Remus, casting a guarded glance behind him to the vacant street, grabbed the silver doorknob and twisted it open.

It moaned quietly and the young woman stepped in before him.

When she took a step forward, tense, ready to spring silently into the black shadows beyond the threshold, Remus halted and glanced back once again. Her breath hitched, but he soon turned back and stepped over the doorway. Swiftly, her small body pouncing upon the moment, she slid pass the decrepit black door and its ominous serpent knocker.

Her sigh of relief upon the door hastily closing was cut off; she was bathed in complete, utter shadow. It was as if any source of light was strictly prohibited within the interior, as if it would be eclipsed from the dark obscurity if it were attempted. The sickly sweet scent of musk filled her nose, and her body tensed again, sensing movement around her. Yet through the pall of shadow, her heart resounded with her chest all the more powerfully, adrenaline churning.

This was it. This was it. This was it.

Two years…two prolonged, remorseless, remorse-filled years…the sorrow…the agony…the nightmares…the memories. She had made it. She had found him.

This was it.

— — —

_This was it._

_This was it._

_This was it._

She had said it before, long ago, but then it was always in present-tense, before the vengeance was set. It always gave me goosebumps, especially when it was whispered in the dark.

To hear her think it now reminds me that death isn't a barrier, life is.

This is it.

— — —

She smiled grimly within her invisible confines, although her eyes attempted to penetrate the dark. The door was close behind her, drafty. And just when she thought the dark would never be lifted, a voice ruptured the obscurity and the silence.

"_Lumo_-" Remus Lupin's hushed voice began.

"Careful there, Remus," growled a rough, gravely voice from somewhere quite near. "You've got 'ere 'n uninvited guest."

Before she could sidle a step towards the door, before she could comprehend the cold, grappling dread, the hollow drumming in her chest, two large hands without warning reached out and grabbed her. They were hard and calloused even through the cloak, and she stifled a shout when they tightened their hold.

The dread swiftly descending into her stomach and made her instantly nauseous, the musky aroma of the building becoming unbearable. She wanted to heave and puke and wake up from this nightmare. She shuddered, trying to pull awake.

Suddenly, there were glowing spheres of light all around and the cloak was ripped off her with a flourish. She was blinded by the wandlight and could feel a solid chest against her back as a growl breathed down her face and rippled down her spine. The hands constricted.

"Come for a bit o' tea, eh? Why the cloak, then?" the coarse voice asked, becoming deeper and abrasive with every syllable; it rumbled within her chest. "I've always enjoyed my crumpets after killin' an Eater."

* * *

A/N: For the sake of fiction, certain elements of this story will not coincide with what J.K. has created. But they will only be little things, nothing too significant that it would disrupt the harmony of her wizard's world.

Also, as you have undoubtedly noticed, this story is (and will be) positively riddled with angst. I can't help it. I'm an addict. I like angst the way Miley Cyrus likes poles—we were meant to be. But not a junkie? Then, for your retinas to remain somewhat unscathed, you may want to click on that X on the top-right corner of your screen. No hard feelings. Otherwise, a gargantuan _thank you _for reading.


	3. Jinxes and more Undiplomatic Utterances

— **To Sunder the Sea **—  
_Jinxes and more Undiplomatic Utterances_

_—_

_Can you handle the truth?  
Because she will not,  
and he will not,  
and may not  
Ever._

Not until the end, that is.

Details are still forthcoming.

— — —

First from the adrenaline-induced ecstasy of _finally_, after so long, stealing inside Azkaban's most wanted convict's hideout, to being caught so unsuspecting, to being called a Death Eater…

It was too much.

She had yet to completely grasp the shock and dread that churned harmoniously beneath her skin, but now, she could barely endure it. The adrenaline had slowed, thickening to a halt as her blood ran frigidly cold. Her skin prickled; it was hard to breath. There was numbness within her that she could not describe, could not fully comprehend.

It was one thing to be plagued with tragedy and sorrow and vengeance, but wholly another to be named something so closely associated with the reasons why such remorse and ache for retribution existed. That moment, as she stood there, rigid from the shock, from the atrocity of such an accusation, something very abrupt and unbearable and scorching rippled down her spine and eviscerated the numbness.

She was seething.

Her eyes narrowed, adjusting to the three orbs of wandlight illuminating around her face, and clenched her fists together. She felt the skin of her knuckles begin to pull. She believed, right then and there, that if it were not for the bounding fury and indignity reheating her blood, that the sting from being falsely accused as a Death Eater could have been paralleled with the Cruciatus Curse; it was that unforgivable, that excruciating.

Then, as her body began to tremble with ire, gnashing her teeth to keep all the memories at bay, she could not withhold a snarled reply from erupting up her throat.

"_I am __**not**_-"

Instantly the man who held her in a vice-like grip from behind growled, cutting her off with equal vehemence.

"_Langlock_!" he barked into her ear, prodding the tip of his wand into the middle of her back.

At once she felt the shock of the spell undulate from her back, up her spine, throughout her throat, to securing her tongue to the roof of her mouth. For a sheer moment panic was the thing only comprehensible, and then it quickly gave way to further fury as she tried to move her mouth and loosen the spell's immovable grapple. A deep chuckle reverberated behind her.

"Quite an interestin' jinx there, eh?" he whispered in a low, gravely tone, tightening his grasp. "A colleague of sorts taught it to me only this mornin'—a pity he didn't inform me o' the counter-spell."

As he said this he moved to her side, one hand still grasping her arm, the other pointing his wand towards her heart. Her back felt cold without his chest pushed up against it and, upon looking at him, her skin once against prickled.

Unable to speak, she met his hard glare with her own.

He was a rather short, stocky man with a cratered face and a perpetually scored expression of caution. Even within the opalescent glow of wandlight, she noted he had a sweeping mane of grizzled grey hair, and that one eye was a pleasant hue of blue, but the other seemed to have been missed and had been replaced with a large, bulging mechanical piece of work that swiveled in a disconcerting manner. A leg was missing as well, and the man clunked to a stop by her side.

It was impossible not to recognize him, even after all those years.

Quickly flickering of her eyes behind the man, she seen Remus Lupin and his female companion standing near a wall hung with some sort of black clothe, and behind them, a staircase ascended into a musky darkness. The wandlight cast their features into a solemn luminosity, the shadows on their faces profound as they gazed back at her. Though, as she distinguished further, there was a faint quirk on the woman's lips and Remus Lupin's brows were raised.

The grizzled man squeezed her arm, pulling her away from her observation. Her eyes narrowed on him, feeling her limbs begin to shake with something that had nothing to do with the eerie, cold shroud of the darkness. Her nostrils flared.

"Tonks," he addressed the young woman brusquely, although his magical eye remained locked warily on her. "Take word o' this to Dumbledore. Go by broomstick, keep vigilant."

Her mind blanked then reeled, and it suddenly became difficult for her eyes to focus. Her breath hitched, disbelieving…

Dumbledore.

If she wasn't already half immobilize by then, she certainly was now. Her mind began to sear, thoughts racing, wondering how on earth he, the most renowned sage and wizard, could be associating with them, with _him_. How could Dumbledore, a man that she, that everyone, revered be fraternizing with the man who was the topmost loyal servant of the Dark Lord, who had, ultimately, killed him and so many others? She felt her wrath deepen, more so than the hopelessness such news created.

But…why would they call her a Death Eater when he was working for Him?

A gasp struggled up her throat, but it was immediately stifled. Her eyes burned and stung and she gnashed her teeth together again although she knew no sound would be released.

The trio in front of her, however, seemed oblivious to her reaction.

Tonks merely gave a simple nod and, before she turned away, gave a wide and impish grin to her, flourishing the wand in her hand as she turned towards the door. This was discomfiting and...strange. Yet, as her brows furrowed with confusion at the other woman's lighthearted behavior, she almost cracked a grin herself when she unceremoniously tripped on the ledge of the threshold and was sent flying when the door slammed behind her.

Evey heard Remus mutter something about 'graceful, dramatic exiting' before the grasp on her arm constricted even more. Her gaze met the callous pierce of the grizzled man next to her. She glared, tugging her arm in defiance, resulting with his clutch tightening.

"Uncomfortable, are we? Good." He growled, voice all the more vindictive, echoing into the pall of black. Then, giving her a twisted grimace, he turned towards Remus Lupin, rumbling, "Remus, keep Molly oblivious. Ask for a pasty or something. No need to get her feathers all ruffled."

Remus did not glance at her, nor were his brows perked any longer, but his expression was both collected and aloof. His eyes glinted in the dark, the wand in his hand barely moving. He gave a single nod, yet did not move.

"And what of Sirius?" he asked almost casually.

This time the grizzly man noticed her body seize; he could feel the small muscle beneath his hand tense like some lioness about to pounce. She could feel her entire body turn into a stone wall, and knew that her expression had morphed into contortion of complete fury. She dug her nails into her palms.

Sirius.

Even thinking the name, much less hearing it, sent volts of irrepressible hatred throughout her body. But this time the name had not caught her unawares—she knew he was there, somewhere, and all the memories of all the years instilled with unquenchable vengeance and woe coursed up to the surface and flooded out every other feeling she felt at that moment. She bit her lip and soon tasted blood.

The reality was even more profound now that it was confirmed he was hiding within the building. The ringing in her ears was shrieking _'This is it, this is it, this is it_!' and the small matter of her having been caught seemed somehow trivial at this point, at this summit, after the months spent tracking him down, trying to pinpoint his location when so many Aurors were—and succeeding.

Her captor raised a gnarled eyebrow, observing the stony expression on her face as she stared passed Remus, clearly lost in some harrowing thought. _Interesting_, he thought, before he answered Remus.

"Last I knew he was taking a rest," he eyed the girl's reaction; nothing. "Leave 'im. We'll wait with this one for Dumbledore."

She inwardly seethed, wanting more than anything to fulfill the deed instead of lingering about, waiting and waiting, longer and longer. But then she noticed how Remus Lupin's eyes began to glimmer in the black density around them. It was strange how casual and nonchalant he seemed, his body language relaxed and there, she seen, was an almost impish edge to his lips. It was as though there was no unwelcome visitor in his midst at all. Evey narrowed her eyes narrowed.

Remus raised a brow, but not towards her.

"Really? I'm absolutely shocked," his voice was calm, but there was jest in his words. "In your prime you would have completely cursed her head off by now. I think you're loosing your Auror's edge, Alastor Moody." He then met her gaze, saying lightly, "Sorry, I'm not trying to persuade him to do such a thing—he just needs a proper goading now and then. No one will harm you."

"Yet." Alastor Moody mumbled gruffly, looking rather ruffled himself. Then, giving Remus a sharp eye, he said in a hard, meaningful voice, "Don't you have a bloody pastry to inquire about?"

He didn't wait for Remus' response and, with surprising agility, began clunking away into the darkness. His grasp became infinitely more constricting; the momentum behind his uneven footfall tugged her along every time he took a step with his wooden leg. She pulled back on the painful grasp, which only resulted in it tightening. He walked barely a half a foot ahead of her and she had an uncanny, discomfiting feeling that his magical eye was watching her through his own cranium.

As the seconds passed, she began to walk along almost willingly, hopeful to gain some further insight of his location.

The darkness never ebbed. Moody seemed to be pulling her further and further into a black obscurity, only the wandlight illuminating in front of him by a mere couple feet. Surrounded by a small sphere of whitish glow, her eyes roamed across anything and everything that she could, taking note of anything that stood out.

Yet, nothing did.

She was led down a long corridor, but through the wandlight, all that was noteworthy was how unpleasant the building's décor was. The floor they tread (_clunk_—_clunk_—_clunk_) upon was molding hardwood overlaid with a once lush carpet that looked as though it had once been blood red, now maroon. Every few feet there were darkened knots in where the hardwood was visible, and through the carpet, little craters could be seen. The walls were indecipherable in color, teeming with dust and matching the decayed fissures within the floor. There were, however, many doors, all with silver embellished doorknobs.

The building was clearly very ancient and vast.

A few minutes into the journey Alastor's mumbling to himself grow louder and louder until, finally, he was openly deriding her.

"I'll admit I was wary one of you would attempt to find this place. You must have a good eye," he peered back with both of his own, the one rolling wildly. He grimaced, the pits of his face deepening dramatically in the shadows. "Too bad you were caught, eh? Predictable, though, the lack of vigilance. But I sure am keen to find out how you did find out, along with the many other facets concerning your, hmm, _motives_. Or the Dark Lord's, rather."

She gritted her teeth, attempting to ignore his acerbic provocation. He continued, but this time by sighing almost wistfully.

"You Eaters 'r all the same, maybe I am loosin' my edge," he muttered, turning a corner. "Bored to blasted death."

Then he came to an abrupt halt, and when she almost collided into his stocky body, he tightened his grip so that she stopped just in time. They stood within an alcove. A single door they stood before was like the others, dark wood, moldering, with an elaborate silver knob. Only the wandlight illuminated the alcove, but beyond it, the rest of the corridor was like a black miasma.

She peered up at him, an eyebrow raised, eyes still fierce and glowering. He sniggered with a throaty laugh.

"You think you're spirited now, just you wait," he said, opening the door and thrusting her inside.

She froze, not because it was bitterly cold within the room, not because his wand's tip was still burrowed into her back, but because the room was more of a chamber. Not some secretive, magic chamber, but a chamber in which one relieves themselves within.

The lavatory was dank and drear, cobwebs in corners and dust coating every surface of the floor and grimy porcelain. There was no light, except that coming from the wand. When she turned around and faced him, both his eyes were transfixed onto her. He loomed in the doorway, the shadows beyond both eerie and blanketed, a long piece of filthy cloth unraveled in his left hand.

He grin-grimaced again, his form of a flattering smile.

"Now, either I can have a bit o' fun and jinx you into immobility," he growled, swinging the cloth in the air, "Or I can play nice 'n use this old house-elf robe to bind you with. A pity you can't already talk; otherwise I'd have half a mind to gag you with it."

Her eyes narrowed, jaw locking, daring him through the heavy, black silence.

— — —

_Another small fact?  
She used to be afraid of the dark._

Because, once, she had almost died on a moonless night. I hadn't been there to save her.

He had.

She has almost died…

I wonder where our story would have ended if she had, or if that would've been a different beginning.

— — —

It was **black**.

Evey couldn't decipher where the door was, where the room began. All she could feel was the cold wall she sat against, its splinters prickling through her shirt. The black shroud was almost tangibly heavy, the silence profound in the sense she was straining her ears to hear something, but there was only an absolute nothing.

She didn't know how long she sat there in the obscurity for, only that it had felt long ago when Alastor Moody had ultimately decided to demonstrate his twisted humor and bounded her tight with the house-elf rag. She waited, silent, enraged, and trying desperately hard not to ponder if the robe tied around her wrists and ankles had ever seen a bar of soap before, or what, _exactly_, it had habitually seen (or touched, therefore) in its days of usage.

However, as the time passed, the more lethargic she became. Every few moments she would have to pull her head back from when it began bobbing against her chest. It was then she focused on the cold, clinging to it as a means of remaining conscious. She shook, both from the chill in the room and from melting-pot of emotions sweltering in her mind.

Now completely and utterly alone, the reality of her situation fell like a giant on her shoulders, humiliation pilfering her mind and the numbing body. She sagged to the moldy floor.

She was so close, yet she had managed to become captured by the people who were comrades of _his_. Now, after the months of sleuthing, the years of agony and hatred, she was so close. She was so close. Now, she didn't know if she had ruined her chance of retribution, her chance for peace, to bring justice to his name…

She bit her lip, afraid that her anguish was so great that it might break the magical spell and she'd scream and never stop screaming. Then, opening her eyes to the nothingness, she felt hot, stinging tears, and then, if possible, the black began to blur.

But Evey abruptly tensed, straightening and hitching her breath. There was a faint rattling sound not so far off in the dark. Her senses tuning, she not only heard but felt movement on the other side of the door. She looked forward, trying to pierce through the blackness, until the rattling stopped.

The door opened. She was swathed with a single orb of wandlight. Blinking, eyes adjusting, slowly the details of the shadow in the doorway came into view. Her previous tension was nothing to the complete, absolute rigidity that overtook her body the next moment. Her blood ran cold, almost evaporating like the breath in her throat.

There, standing in the threshold, stood a tall, lithe man with a ragged mane of hair. His eyes were still bright, but no longer with sadistic mirth, but were gleaming gray with surprise and sudden interest. His eyebrows were raised and he stood silent, still, and then slowly, every so slowly, the corners of his lips began to rise. He stood out vividly against the black backdrop.

"Merlin," he said roguishly. "May he have mercy on your soul when Kreacher finds out what you've _done _to his father's rags."

* * *

A/N: I would like to take this moment to warmly applaud sovereignty'd for her mad reviewing skills and her inadvertent way of making me grin stupidly at my computer screen. She is a woman of many talents. Go throw flower petals and miniature wheels of cheese at her.


	4. Further Demeaning of House Elf Rags

— **To Sunder the Sea **—  
_Further Demeaning of House Elf Rags_

—

_And now commences  
a blast from the past._

You have been warned.

— — —

Circa 1976

"Let it be known that, as of this moment, I fully revoke my most ultimate aspiration."

This was no ordinary statement. It was said with a heated edge, although the words were somewhat garbled due to the blood in his mouth. He was positively livid.

She smiled.

It was dark, thankfully, so that he didn't notice the quirk on her lips. Madam Pomfrey was scurrying about the Hospital Wing like a mother hen who had one too many firewhiskies, lighting sconces along the wall with a vehement wave of her wand and squawking about disorderly students.

He was easing himself onto a bed, careful, and then huffed as he let his body fall into the plush covers. She settled onto the edge, attentive in watching him as he indignantly kicked the blankets aside. It was apparent that he was avoiding her gaze, knowing that her eyes were roaming across his face, then down, lingering around the wide, thoroughly bloodied lesion beneath his collarbone.

The smile slowly fell from her lips.

Of course he was livid. He had every right to be. He was selfless and relentlessly playing the 'knight-in-shining-armor' whenever her sneaky, mild acts of mayhem caught her in situations she couldn't wily her way out of. In the beginning, this was probably what had captured his attention of her, her trickster's charm and independence, but she knew that she had crossed the line too far this time. He was hurt, tremendously hurt, and there was no warmth in his eyes.

For an instant, a surge of fear coiled its way up her spine.

In effort to sidestep the tremor, she grabbed the edge of a blanket and carefully laid it across his lap. He didn't move, didn't acknowledge this, but stared out across at the stone wall opposite the room. His eyes were very hard, very dark, and they glistened within the yellow light of the lamps. His jaw was tense, tendons popping.

Before the fear could strike again, she grinned sloppily, hoping that the playfulness in her eyes would take the edge out of his. It usually worked, had him melting like candle wax, but he had never been _this _angry with her before. The fear surged again.

"And what's that? Attempting to con me into Madam Puddifoot's?" she finally responded, lifting a brow, hoping to lift his mood. It was almost difficult to mask the desperation in her voice. "_Yeah_, the chances of that occurrence are as slim as Severus washing his hair."

That did it. At once the tension of his jaw loosened, the corners of his lips rising. He peered at her with softening eyes, both of their smiles slowly widening at sight of the others. His smile cocked to the side, subtle, and her stomach quivered with hope. But then, as he was about to speak, a loud hiss of pain escaped from his lips and he instantly clutched his chest.

"Bloody hell," he cursed, seething, voice gravely with pain. "Out of all the blasted girls in this castle I have to be enamored by the one that takes _pleasure _in picking fights with Peeves. You're far more trouble than you're worth, but I think you fancy that damn concept. I don't know why I even blasted bother."

She flinched, her heart pulsating against her chest. For a moment she almost felt winded, as though the sharp edge of his words had punctured her lungs. Her breath hitched, chest tightening. He didn't take heed of her reaction, looking away with constricting fists, so she was glad that he didn't see the fearful breathlessness she knew had whisked across her face. She was glad he never noticed her reaction when he said things like that; he didn't need to feel guilty when she was the one in the wrong. His anger was justifiable, yet she knew he wasn't genuinely angry, just—once again—disappointed in her. She didn't know which was worse.

He had every right to chastise her, to say those underlying threats and empty words. But that was all they were: empty. Evey knew he never meant to upset her with them, but only uttered such things when he was deeply frustrated. But she knew that one of these days, after his taking the fall for her after one of her wayward escapades, it would be too much. Maybe it already was too much.

He deserved so much better.

To hide the slight quivering of her hands, she twisted her fingers together before shoving them beneath her legs. In the silence after his heated statement, she watched him, closely and quietly, her head tilted to the side. After a moment, she sighed and looked away.

He was beautiful. He was warm and spirited and graced with the most rich, compassionate soul she had ever beheld. His patience was unearthly, and it was only times like this when his concern for her that he grew incensed. His tenderness was something she knew she couldn't live without, and dared not imagine a day that would pass if she went devoid of it. He was someone she couldn't abide to scare away or lose…

However, the silence thickened and she suddenly stifled a chuckle, glancing back at him.

"Did you actually just say 'enamored'?"

His reaction wasn't quite as receptive as was previous. Instead, he turned to look at her, his brows furrowing, every feature registered with pain and aggravation. His hand still clutched his bloodied, shredded shirt. His eyes were once again very hard, glistening like glaciers as they met hers.

"Evey, I'm not humoring you," he stated grimly, huskily. "I had a buggering poltergeist throw a suit of armor's _axe _straight into my shoulder because you called him fat," he hesitated, the tension in his face relaxing for a moment before he looked away, grumbling, "Your eyes are brighter in this light. I can barely concentrate on my annoyance."

Although he said this with budding warmth, she watched him, abruptly solemn. His face was turned away once again, and silence settled between them. She stared at the blood, her eyes trailing down to his chest, seeing how his breathing was hitched and rigid with pain, every pore on the palms of his hands drenched in a bright red shine; it was speckled across her shirt, smeared in one spot from when she had helped him up to the wing.

Not an hour ago the very same hands had held her to him, curled against his chest on their favorite velveteen armchair by the common room's fireplace.

Now he was livid, although his annoyance was diminishing. But he was in pain and bleeding profusely all because she couldn't sleep in his safe warmth and went scurrying off for some midnight shenanigans. This wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last. It was an endless cycle, one that he would always endure because she knew that he loved her and her unruliness. But he deserved better. He deserved so much better.

Even if he never exhausted of her, she would perpetually have to live with that fact.

She peered slowly at his face, lingering on his dark eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking away and standing as Madam Pomfrey came clucking over.

"Miss Martin, it's time for you to leave," Madam Pomfrey said in a strained, clipped tone, a flagon and a tattered rag in her grasp. "_Now_."

She nodded, not daring to risk a glance at him, fearing the livid, pain-stricken, disappointed expression still on his face, the hard eyes. But when Madam Pomfrey turned to whisk around the other edge of the bed, a hand grabbed hers. Her body was stiff with fear, with shame, but at the touch, her muscles reacted and relaxed; his calloused fingers entwined with hers.

She looked back, eyes wide when she seen a faint, drowsy smile on his lips. His eyes were alit, glistening, and very warm. He lightly squeezed her hand.

"Hey," he whispered, voice distant as Madam Pomfrey fluttered around him, "Be here when I wake up?"

— — —

Present Day

It had been years since she had seen him.

It was evident that, with being an Azkaban prisoner and escapist, the years had not been good to him. Yet there he stood no more than five feet away within a blackened threshold, straight in front of her, more _real_, wilder than ever. He was no longer aglow with youth, with striking features, but he was simply a shadow of the man she remembered, the man he used to be. It was like looking at the polar opposite of the man that plagued her life.

Somehow, however, it seemed as though he had hardly changed in the dozen of years she had last set eyes upon him.

The memories sizzled in her mind, flickering images of his head wiped back in perverse delight, shrieking with laughter and flailing his wand in the air. The smoke filtering around him, around her, around them. The bodies upon the streets, his body, the impossibility and hopelessness to move as she watched him waltz about, wind billowing his black hair, eyes bright and diabolical, glinting like the madman he was.

Now, as he looked down upon her, all she seen within those damn gray eyes was innocent curiosity, a sort of harmless intrigue that shook her bones.

He looked old, but there, beyond the circles of shadows underneath his eyes, was the youthful, sadistic spirit. His hair was much longer, hanging in a disheveled mane passed his shoulders, still dark as the sky at witching hour. His body seemed atrophied, doubtless a result of his Azkaban incarceration, and even his posture seemed less graceful from when he had killed all those people, had killed him.

That moment, his eyes on hers, something ruptured, something fractured, something erupted within her. It was fiery. It burned. It seared. It scorched. It smoldered through her veins, her heart palpitating, her hands clenching in angry, white fists. Her eyes stung and watered with moisture that felt like acid, narrowing on him.

Simply by looking at her.

He had not looked at her those dozen years ago when he had heinously killed all those people and the one person on the face of the earth she couldn't be fully alive without. In his moments of hedonistic malice, shrieking, laughing, he had never caught her eyes. She had stared, incapable of thought, unable to move, but now after so long, she was looking into the eyes of Sirius Black.

And all she seen was bright gray with dark lashes and an intense inquisitiveness like that of an 8-year-old boy having stumbled across something unexpected and astonishing. There was no madness, no mirth, no perverse glinting.

There was only silence, only the hot rush of blood and rage and memories.

She closed her eyes, feeling them brim with the unshed tears, feeling her limbs quivering and her lungs shuddering. She could still hear his shrieks of laughter, the banshee's shriek ringing in her ears as it had been for the pass decade and more. And for a mere moment, the rage and unearthly desire for vengeance faded, leaving her far from sorrowful, but so deeply and unfathomably exhausted. She slumped against the wall.

There he stood, so close, and now he could so easily end her. After all of those years, all the agony and memories, she was going to watch his initial curiosity fade and he'd slip back into the madman he was and kill her like he had killed him. The only satisfaction she was going to receive was knowing that she had _found _him, at least, and that it was evident that he was poor, raged, and far from happy.

The banshee's shriek still rung in her ears, but as the silence grew more pronounced, she dwelled on the sound of his voice and the words he had spoken only a moment before.

"Merlin," he had said, "May he have mercy on your soul when Kreacher finds out what you've _done _to his father's rags."

Opening her eyes, turning rigid once more, she saw that he had not moved from the doorway and was still staring at her. The faint smile on his lips had faded, his brows furrowed. He took a step inside the room, slow and careful, but stopped when he seen that she had instantly tensed.

He raised a brow, eyes flickering towards the rags around her wrists and ankles again. Another slow, small smile cornered his lips. There was a strange impish brightness in his eyes that she did not like one bit; her fists were quaking again, whether from rage or fear or uncertainty, she couldn't decide.

"Or," he continued, "Maybe you filched one of Molly's pasties and she turned a bit…unpleasant?" He smiled now, eyes crinkling, and he gestured to the rags. "Which could explain the binds and being locked within a lavatory? Or, _hmm_."

His gaze turned appraising as he dared another step forward, either not noticing or disregarding how much more stiff she became. The intrigue in his eyes was intensifying and they narrowed slightly with thought, clearly trying to process this strange scenario out; he seemed to find it a bit too amusing. But, as the moments passed in silence, his eyes tapered thoughtfully and his stare became almost weighty.

Her eyes narrowed, daring him to make his move and stop playing cat-and-mouse and finally end her miserable little life.

Instead, a lop-sided grin fixed his lips and he gestured once more to her binds.

"Or maybe you have a fetish with house-elf rags?" he asked, raising both eyebrows, a mock expression of alarm. He then pivoted on his heels, saying, "In that case maybe it's best I leave…"

But he stopped at the doorway and was wolfishly grinning when he turned around, undoubtedly finding this strange situation very, very amusing. His eyes were brightening, hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants and he tilted his head to the side and waited for some sort of response.

The silence began to settle once more, and slowly, a minute having passed, the grin on his face beginning to vanish and turn impassive. It finally seemed that he was registering the seething glare on her face as a bad sign.

And, Merlin, she _was _seething. She could barely comprehend just how dense he was. It was unbelievable. He was hiding from every legitimate wizard and witch across the globe and he was cackling jokes as though she hadn't scoured the earth for the passed two years to put him out of her misery.

By now she was trembling, visibly so, and he now noticed.

The change was so drastic in his demeanor, his eyes fixing themselves on her hands. Instantaneously and quite visibly, his body tensed and the impassive expression on his face turned deathly calmer. The bright jesting in his eyes turned arctic, glinting and hard, and soon his jaw was locked and tight. His eyes narrowed.

"Or you're a threat," he stated coldly.

It seemed the gray of his eyes had darkened, fists clenching once before suddenly, ever so suddenly, he was coming towards her.

She had no time to realize what he was doing, only that her body had involuntarily locked itself so that when he was abruptly crouched before her, his face no more than five inches away, she couldn't properly think or move or react. Her breath hitched, and the musky scent of decaying wood, cloves and embers filled her nostrils.

Then the fury returned like a wraith, the shock swiftly ebbing away. She was quivering again, almost with the most uncontrollable ire with him kneeled before her, so close_, so close _to the man who had obliterated what light she had in a dark, dark world. She gnashed her teeth together, wanting to shriek her own unforgettable, nightmarish, soul-wrenching banshee's shriek in his face.

So close.

Yet if he was aware of the increasing of her trembling, he did not give on. His face remained stony and expressionless, gray eyes determined. He didn't look at her, but moved swiftly and with a grace that belonged to more of the young man he used to be. He seemed to be repressing something, his own hands quivering.

He grabbed her wrists, one hand encasing both in his own and unceremoniously tugged back the long-sleeves of her shirt. His skin was calloused and scarred with both recent and aged welts, some silvery, some pink, and his touch was mildly abrasive in the sense that it seemed he was reminding himself to be careful. He did the same for her other arm, pulling back the sleeve to reveal clear, white flesh.

He ignored how much she was quivering in his grasp and stared at her arms for a moment before he retracted his hands, sighing and looking away. He was still close, too close, so close, and so unaware that it was taking all of her willpower not to let the burning, angry tears escape.

She could still smell him, feel his skin on her arms, feel her insides sweltering with rage and remorse and the coveting need of retribution.

So close.

Then he let her go, sighing heavily. He glanced back at her, his expression much less severe and somber, his eyes less dark, and another smirk was threatening to corner his lips. His gaze was still intense, tensed, and he still seemed to be repressing something deep inside. Suddenly, however, he shrugged.

"Either you are a threat, or Moody just doesn't like you, which isn't something outstanding," he said slowly, but lightly as his gaze became appraising once more. "Or both."

He was very, very close. Beyond the silent quivering, she could barely move from the utter fury and astonishment of the situation. Yet he simply stared at her, his gaze turning once again to its previous state of questioning and intrigue, now very far beyond the appearance of appraising because suddenly—very suddenly again—his eyes became incredibly bright.

She could feel the warmth of his body and carefully, he peered closer at her and she realized just what strange a thing was lighting his eyes: _recognition_, warmth. Her blood ran cold. She couldn't feel herself. She couldn't move.

"You look familiar," he said quietly, eyes both focused and distant and he faintly smiled, "I…I know you…"

Then, as he hesitantly reached out a hand towards her face, a tremor snaked up her spine. The almost smile on his lips was widening, his eyes still curious and still somewhat wary, but he was so deep within his own thoughts that he didn't detect the jolt, the flicker of emotion across her face.

Needless to say, he was taken by surprise when the heels of her bounded boots came colliding with the unsuspecting target of his right shin.

"_BLOODY HELL_!" he roared, rearing up onto his feet and vehemently rubbing the tenderness (and ego) that would no doubt be soon sporting a vibrant bruise.

She smiled grimly, satisfied with the stricken look of pain on his face; it was a small victory, after all. His face was creased with aggravation and he swore, seething unintelligible curses under his breath. However, before he could react in turn, there came a quiet chuckle from the doorway.

Glancing behind at the same time, they both noticed the silhouette in the threshold that emerged into the room with an unyielding, knowing smile. Remus Lupin chuckled again, eyes flickering from her face to Sirius vigorously rubbing his shin.

"I was beginning to wonder when I'd hear you meet our guest," Remus said, nodding to her with his eyes fixed on Sirius.

Sirius growled, a deep sound that lingered within his throat. He glanced back at her, immediately catching her eye, matching the level of animosity within them. He looked away after a moment.

"I think I understand why you tied her up. Can't possibly imagine how pleasant she is _without _the rags," he said, voice husky with irritation, and then he muttered, "Maybe I _should _sic Kreacher on her."

Her eyes narrowed, but Remus merely chuckled again and put a hand on Sirius' shoulder.

"Actually, we'll soon find out. Once the Langlock jinx is lifted, that is," Remus stated, but continued when Sirius gave him a bemused look. "Moody wasn't particularly 'receptive' about speaking terms when she was first caught."

Evey seen him stiffen, could see every muscle in his arms and back constrict beneath the layer of clothing. Slowly, turning to cast his gaze on her, she saw that his eyes were once again very cold and very hard. Now, after all this time, they were suddenly glinting with a wild madness like before.

"Caught?" he repeated, growling once more. "So she is a Death Eater rat."

Her eyes narrowed, fists clenching, blood sweltering. Their eyes never left the others, the silence weighty. His fists, too, were clenched tightly. Remus glanced at her and after catching Sirius' eye, he sighed wearily and shrugged.

"We'll soon find out," Remus said, casting a glance to the black behind him. "Dumbledore is waiting in the dining hall."

* * *

A/N: To those who review, thank you. I've been receiving some of the most lovely reviews on the face of my fanfiction planet. Those things stimulate a jittery mutation within me that, if not controlled, I do this really humiliating happy dance of happiness. Like the Hulk, but minus the rage, the green, and the pectorals of epic proportions.


	5. From Gluteus Liquefying to a Glib Remus

— **To Sunder the Sea **—  
_From Gluteus Liquefying to a Glib Remus_

—

_In which I revert to the past  
to ignore the truth  
A bit more._

Because you see so much afterwards, after crossing to The Other Side. Even I need to remember, because it's memories that make up our beings, even for those who can no longer be.

But I'll always remember.

Always.

It's an eternal word; use it wisely.

— — —

Circa 1977

"Professor Binns is a menace to society," she muttered, whisking a glance behind and catching the ghost ebb through the blackboard in his dreary, unsettling way. "I _hate _when he does that."

She peevishly slammed the classroom's door behind her, causing a rumble to echo down the corridor, and ignored the moans of the old hinges settling into place and the goaded glances numerous portraits shot her way. They tittered as she cast a glance to her right.

A suppressed grin met her gaze. She rolled her eyes, feeling the uncommon flush of aggravation warm her cheeks, and started down the passageway without waiting for him.

They were the last to leave the classroom, their robes rustling as they hurried down a vacant corridor. She could almost tangibly feel the stifled amusement radiating off of him, and her eyes narrowed, walking faster to ignore the smug grin she knew was fledging across his face. But when the absurdly thick tome in her grasp slipped and she was almost sent tumbling to the ground, it visibly took everything in him to keep from bursting with laughter.

But he deftly grabbed her before she was sent sprawling across the floor, steadying her and trying to control his twitching lips when she tossed back her hair, attempting to compose herself. She huffed as if nothing had happened, but when she met his gaze and he seen that her cheeks were crimson-tinted and her nostrils were flared, he choked, almost snorting, and then lost it.

"I know it's a cliché to say this," he chortled, shoulders shuddering with mirth. "But you should _see _your face! Pure, unadulterated pricelessness!"

Her eyes narrowed tetchily.

"Pricelessness? Is that even a word?" she mocked, raising a brow. "Glad to know the Muggle elementary school system failed you so terribly."

He chuckled, wiping his eyes, unable to hide his wide grin. He bit his lips together, shrugging.

"Come off it," he said, his dark eyes glinting playfully as he helped her wrestle the large tome into her shoulder bag. "You would be howling in hysterics if it were me. Pointing, in tears, and nearly soiling yourself and everything. You know you would have."

"Holy Merlin, this book is bigger than the Fat Lady's butt," she groaned offhandedly, buckling the belts and heaving it onto her shoulder. Then she regarded him, voice wry, "Off course I would have—if Professor Binn's lectures didn't slowly debilitate my will to live."

She huffed again, shifting the weight and spying another grin laying siege on his lips, then trudged onward and muttered unintelligibly to herself.

He walked closely to her, taking long and casual strides although she did her best to remain ahead of him. It wasn't that she was genuinely irritated towards him or his good-natured repartee, but the more distance she kept from him observing her face, the less he would see that she was now straining to hide her own amusement. It was an absolute impossibility to remain angry in his presence, or even possess a fraction of annoyance. He was too warm and indulgent, perpetually emitting an aura of safety and contentment that no place or haven in the world could offer to her.

Taking a swift glance behind, she saw that his eyes were gazing out towards the horizon. It was late in the afternoon, the sun already beginning to descend from the sky, which made the shadows on his face much more profound. The light from the sunset made his eyes darker, intermittently painting his face roseate and ginger as he passed the castle's large cathedral windows. His hair, naturally disheveled, fell into his eyes. There was a small grin on his lips.

She turned away, faintly smiling to herself.

It was times like these when she wondered how on earth—_in Merlin's mind_—or what great thing did she exactly do to be blessed with someone like him. He gave her completion, a sense of compassion and warmth and serenity that her naturally spirited, wily persona could never achieve, could now never live without. He was pure harmony, selflessness that, if he were not so soothing, would make her feel completely and utterly selfish. It was downright irony that, somehow, he needed her just as much as she did him.

She sighed, feeling guilty that her being irritated had caused her to lash out at him, although she knew he was too understanding to sincerely be hurt by anything she said. If anything, he found it more endearing, which was puzzlement within itself. She wasn't as nearly magnetic or impishly intriguing as he thought she was.

When a warm hand skimmed against hers, she started, realizing how deep within her thoughts she had been. She had slowed to a stroll, walking closely to his side and unconsciously brushing against him and his warmth. He took her hand, careful as he entwined their fingers, and smiled down at her. He lightheartedly bumped her shoulder when she returned the smile.

"I love how it's only History of Magic that has the power to aggravate you," he began, grinning once more. "It's actually refreshing—I swear everything else goes straight through you. It's like you have universal diarrhea to the world."

She stopped, trying to keep her face impassive. She raised a brow, her lip twitching.

"Universal diarrhea?"

"Not literally. It's metaphoric."

"Oh, thanks." she rolled her eyes and cracked a smile. "That makes _perfect _sense."

He shrugged.

"Well, nothing fazes you. Maybe you and Professor Binns are related," he quipped, and was about to continue when he detected her sudden glare. He helped up his hands. "Or not."

It didn't take long in their journeying towards the Great Hall, and they slowed their pace even more when they entered the vast, bustling expanse. She had adjusted the strap of her bag across her shoulders and it bounced with every step she took. He squeezed their intertwined fingers, and when she peered over at him she noticed how the candles from the vaulted ceiling brightened his dark eyes. He nodded towards a large and lengthy table, which was teeming with their peers.

"So," he ventured again, deep voice clear over the crowd of chattering students. "How is Professor Binns a menace to society? Is he the 'lock up your daughters' type or more of the 'I shall consume your soul' kind? Because, honestly, I'm having difficulty picturing either. But then again my brain feels as though it's been raped after his lesson."

"I believe you've just proven my point," she laughed, glancing up at him with a crooked smile.

"_Aha_."

"Albeit a tad melodramatically," she finished, grinning. She playfully nudged him with her shoulder and pointed to the Hufflepuff table and its section of first years, saying, "Brain rape? I'd be careful if I were you, considering there are first years here. Keep your voice down lest you give them spooky, spooky nightmares."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "They've already been subjugated to his debasement of the psyche. Don't you ever notice their vacant stares at the start of noon break? They drool into their pumpkin juice."

"I thought that was their usual expression," a beat, "Well, that was yours as a first year, anyway."

"Ouch. _Ow_. Oh, owie," he grabbed his heart in mock pain. "That wounds my hypersensitive, pretty ego."

She raised an eyebrow, deadpanning. "That's retaliation for the diarrhea comment."

"All right, Miss Martin, I will let that one slide. But only because you're cute."

"Good to know," she winked, and then adjusted the strap across her shoulders, groaning, "Merlin, I hate that class. I think that the boredom has reduced my brain into a liquid substance. I'm almost positive I felt it run down my spine—no wonder my butt hurts."

"Where did my brain-rape theory go?"

"It's currently undergoing scientific analysis."

"Let me know when it's proven," he said as they neared their table, promptly grabbing two plates and loading them with food. When he was done he turned towards her, eyebrows raised patiently. "Here or the arc?"

"Arc," she replied, grabbing two goblets of pumpkin juice, picturing their secluded stone-arch that overlooked the lake.

As the nattering of the students and the resonance of silverware and cutlery faded, Evey watched as a sliver of the moon began to sidle up the horizon, sheathing the empty passageway in silver light. Candelabras began to spontaneously light themselves, accentuating the shadows in the corners. They walked along in silence, and she glanced at him from time to time, eyes lingering on his.

For a moment she closed her eyes in contentment, sighing, and then opened them as a discomforting pang began to lightly ripple through her body. It grew more painful, intense, until finally it became almost unbearable and...

She didn't notice that he was eyeing her or that there was a subtle, crooked edge to his lips, or that there was a sudden upsurge of hushed whispering all along the corridor. When she looked up, he was casting her a strange look, an eyebrow raised. She froze, realizing what she had been doing and that he had caught her doing it.

But when a hot and embarrassed flush swathed beneath her skin, he merely took the goblets from her hands and leisurely set them on a nearby ledge, his face utterly unreadable. He grabbed her shoulder bag and let it drop to the ground with an unceremonious _thump_. Then, before she could reply, he was very close to her and had grasped her shoulders, silently pushing his body against hers, pulling her into a nearby corner shadowed by a suit-of-armor that was missing its axe.

It was difficult _not _to feel the next flush that swathed hotly beneath her cheeks. It was suddenly very, _very _warm and very dark. He so close, his head next to hers, one of his hands resting on her hip, the skin of their cheeks skimming the others. She could barely see the moon behind him, and he was nothing more than a warm silhouette against herself. Her breath hitched.

He grabbed her hands, retrieving one until they were both laying in his own. His voice was very hushed

"Stop thinking you're being inconspicuous about rubbing your butt," he whispered slowly, breathing against her neck and feeling her hands quiver in his. "You're offending the portraits."

She gulped, trying to think coherently as the tip of his nose began to trace her jaw line. How in Merlin's name could she be clever-tongued at a time like this? It was unbearably difficult for her lungs to work properly with his heady warmth encircling her. Then she heard the whispers, the affronted portraits murmuring to each other (_Did you see that, Matthias? She was positively rubbing her hindquarters as though something had burrowed itself in there_! and, _Look! Now he's trying to seduce the poor thing. As though that would help her gluteus issue_! Then: _You can't seduce the wanting, Florence. And I can't blame her, either. Oh, grrr._), and she chuckled, which came out staggered and breathless.

"I can't when it hurts," she exhaled, his hair brushing across her forehead and cheekbone, smelling like magic and morning dew and cloves. "I told you, my brain has been liquefied and it's pooled down there."

She felt his smile against her skin, and he asked huskily, "Are you saying that you think out of your ass, Evelyn Martin?"

"Well, uh, it certainly explains why Slytherins are the way they are," she tried to joke, but another warmth shuddered up her spine when his lips pressed under her ear. "…and, um, Severus' constipated expression whenever he, um…thinks."

"That's very profound of you, Evey, with your ass-brain and all," he murmured deeply.

"Thanks," she breathed. "It's nice to be appreciated."

"Don't let it go to your head," he said, letting her hands fall free and slowly wrapping an arm around her waist, the other snaking up her back.

"Fear not," her voice breaking when he kissed the corner of her mouth. "It'll go straight to my ass."

He chuckled deeply, a growling sound in his throat. "Only you."

"Yes," she smiled mockingly, lifting a hand to run it through his hair, feeling brave despite the warm trembling and his tenderness. "And out of all the blasted girls in the castle _I'm_ the one you have to be enamored with."

"Yes," he agreed, lowering his head. "Only you."

— — —

Present Day

Had it been in different circumstances and Remus Lupin wasn't in cahoots with Azkaban's most wanted, she might have respected his pragmatism. It was difficult not to notice his polite manners, the visible thoughtfulness he placed behind each action and word, and that his smiles were rare yet genuine.

It was he who insisted (much to Alastor's chagrin and incessant muttering) that the house-elf rags bound around legs and wrists to be removed. Evey was grateful as she rubbed feeling back into her ankles, able to walk on her own will. He even held the lavatory's door open for her.

This gratefulness soon diminished when a hard body forcefully brushed passed her.

She watched him. It was amazing how unrelenting the stewing, brewing plethora of emotions within her was. It felt as though numerous insects were teeming within her insides, digging and scrapping throughout her vital organs, crawling and nipping into her bloodstream, frenzied to get to the surface and wreak vengeance. It was almost unbearable, being whisked from remorse to absolute rage in a split second. A single glance his way and it felt as though her entire body was sweltering with fire, but when she closed her eyes, all she seen were the empty, meaningless years she had lived because of him.

After so long of sleuthing for his whereabouts, to being caught, to seeing him for the first time in fourteen years, it was now, more than ever, difficult to look at him. For the first time, she was scared of the vengeance skulking deep inside her. She was scared if she looked too long, she would never find herself again.

It was Remus, thankfully, who led her down the vast corridor, one arm guiding her ahead of him, the other holding a wand to illuminate a sphere within the black pall. Alastor clunked grumpily behind, taking the rear, and she could feel his mechanical eye locked on her. She was almost tempted to stop and trip his peg-leg for binding her with soiled elf-rags.

But he would have nothing to do with her.

Sirius took the lead, favoring Remus' side of the passageway, mediating between the blackness and the white sphere of wandlight. Sometimes, when she dared a glance, he face was masked by the dark, only the tension of his jaw-line protruding in the light. He never once looked back, but his fists were clenched by his side, rigidity locking onto his spine; the hairs on his arms were raised like hackles.

Only once did he cast his gaze back, the wandlight swathing his face into a porcelain glow and intensifying every foreboding shadow. His eyes were dark and glinting angrily, and only for a mere moment did they lock onto hers, the severe and stoic expression upon his face tightening. He looked away immediately, his fists clenching again.

It was when she looked away that she realized that not only did his expression, but his posture mirror her own. She adverted her gaze, forcing her periphery to lose its focus on the man who walked only two feet away from her. When that failed, she immediately slowed her pace, causing Remus to cast a curious look and Alastor's mutterings to increase in tempo.

"Soddin' excuse for an emissary, can barely keep ahead of a man with a prosthetic leg," Alastor growled to himself, eyes cast directly onto the back of her head. "No one takes heed of vigilance. Deserves an Unforgivable, that's what. Hope Dumbledore gives her what she deserves. I'll bloomin' eat her for supper if he asks."

Remus frowned, giving her a puzzled expression before looking at Alastor inquiringly. He raised a brow, his voice nothing more than complete calm.

"What is going on inside that head of yours, Alastor? Is all this commotion too much for you?" he teased, his smile laced with poise. "If you're feeling peaky I do have chocolate."

She tried her hardest not to smile, knowing that the old man's face was furrowing itself into one huge cavity. His clunking grew louder and she heard a low rumble in his throat. Remus looked amused, but he hardly reacted.

"What? I'm not as transparent as everybody says?" Moody said indignantly. "Mad-Eye Moody, paranoid 'n batty, can't also be enigmatic, eh?"

Remus softly chuckled, shaking his head and causing the wandlight to shudder.

"Alastor, you're the epitome of enigmatic. And you're also beginning to ramble," he said, nodding towards the older man. "Stop it before we bind _you _with those house-elf rags."

This time he moved. Although his face was lost beyond the veil of darkness, she seen through her periphery that he cast back a glance at the trio. She tensed, but immediately stumbled when something hard jutted itself into her back. His hand immediately twitched towards her, halting before she caught herself.

She wheeled around, seething, resenting the sensation of her tonguing being glued to the top of her mouth more than ever. Alastor Moody's wand was in her face and he was giving her a cruel, cratered glare; Remus gently turned her around by the forearm, but not before she saw the old man nod towards her.

"But if you want to know, I'm merely wonderin' how she discovered Grimmauld Place. It's Unplottable—there has to be 'n inside source. I would greatly like to know _who_. Oh, the curses I'd have for 'em."

She could sense his gleeful smile.

Remus sighed. "We'll find out soon enough."

"Not nearly." Alastor grumbled, and then he muttered to himself, "It's always the small ones."

"The small ones?" Remus quirked his head to the side.

"_Her_," he replied gravelly. "She's small, wiry, can slip in 'n out like a little, spyin' mouse."

Evey stiffened, affronted, sorely tempted to turn around and snap his peg-leg in two. Her hands began to quiver, her anger fuming when she seen that he had slowed and was now completely visible in the wandlight. His expression was less abrasive, interest gleaming within his eyes. He never looked at her, but his head was tilted towards them.

Remus, however, shook his head, exasperation coloring his tone.

"We don't even know if she's truly working for the Dark Lord, Alastor," he looked pointedly at him. "Show some compassion."

There was a gruff bark of a laugh.

"Oh, _sure_, let's let her go because she's small 'n innocent 'n can bat those long eyelashes," he began heatedly, stamping his leg against the floor, "Then **BAM**! You're slammed straight into an Imperius Curse 'n you're skinnin' yourself alive. I've seen it happen1 Compassion my arse, it's almost sickenin'. Keep vigilant, I say."

"All the time," Sirius muttered from his edge of wandlight.

She flinched, instantaneously pressing her fingernails into her palms at the sound of his voice. He kept onward, not looking back, no longer inclined to listen. He was still rigid, and she still was grateful she could not longer glance at his callously glittering eyes; even his dark robes and hair faded into the black shadows, just like they had in the darkened alleyway...

"I'd watch your tongue, Black," Alastor immediately replied. "I'm sure if she had it her way you'd be lyin' cold 'n dormant on the floor the minute she'd seen you. See, you can sense it in her eyes, the way she looks at you. That's pure Death Eater bloodlust, that is."

She gnashed her teeth together, feeling the skin of her palms begin to break. A shudder rippled down her spine and hotness flamed behind her eyes. For that moment, all she seen was red and stark silhouettes of bodies cast along a street, and felt the full sting that such a name associated her with. _As if she was the Death Eater_!

But before she could stop and spring herself on the man, he wheeled around and cast his own fiery glower. His eyes were the same pure black of their surrounding shadows, as though they had been punctured through his face. His nostrils were flared and his fists were balling into themselves.

When his gaze met hers, he immediately tried to collect himself, almost succeeding in appearing unruffled. His eyes were still hard and it seemed he was straining to keep a small, twisted smile on his lips.

"It sure sounds like you had _oodles _of friends when you were young, Moody," he said roughly, raising a brow tauntingly. "I can't possibly imagine why you _wouldn't_."

Alastor's eyes narrowed and it seemed he was carefully perusing his thoughts before he spoke them. He took a step forward, both mad eyes locked onto Sirius.

"Just sayin'," he growled. "And you're to talk, Black. Look at what happened to someone who used to be _your _friend. Betrays you, betrays James 'n Lily 'n almost has their young 'un blasted off the face o' the earth. I tell you, it's the small ones."

"Alastor, stop it." Remus interjected, stepping between the two.

"Don't say I didn't tell you," Alastair finished, turning both his eyes away.

It was silent in the corridor and it seemed as though the mood, if possible, had darkened the shadows. It was drear and dismal and she was left feeling even more hollow than ever, feeling the rage slowly crawling its way back into a cavern in her chest. She shuddered, a waft of coldness taking her by surprise.

He cast her glance, face completely impassive, blasé, before he turned around and started walking once more. They followed, slowly, silently in the corridor's shadows. She held her arms to her chest, warming her hands.

Then something touched her shoulder and she started, settling when Remus was staring intently at her. He smiled faintly.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly. "I apologize, I should have asked before. You must be more upset than the rest of us, considering. Are you in any pain? Bruised? Any nasty scrapes to be concerned about?"

She shook her head, thankful once more for his kindness despite her odds. It was strange to be treated like such, beyond being caught, stealing inside a building that wasn't meant to be discovered, but it had been so long since she was well received by…_anyone_. Her brows furrowed.

But when she turned her gaze back at Remus, she noticed that he had slowed his pace, walking almost so that Sirius had to watch where he stepped. His fists were popping white tendons again. He was listening.

Then she seen that Remus' smile had grown, no longer calm, but edged with a strange jest. Even his brows were quirked, brown eyes glittering waywardly in the wandlight. He even cast Sirius a strange look before he spoke again, voice light and oddly nonchalant.

Her eyes narrowed, suspicious.

"I apologize for Alastor," Remus began, relaxed and gesturing with his wand. His smile grew too large to be natural. "He hardly even trusts himself. And Sirius is just…well, _Sirius_. He grows on you after a while, especially when he takes it upon himself to bath regularly. He has this musky, wet dog smell if he doesn't—it knocks you senseless, causes mass hysteria, and even makes Alastor cry himself to sleep sometimes."

Her eyebrows rose, shell-shocked by the wizard's drastic change in persona. The calmness was gone from his eyes, replaced by a glittering that she immediately recognized. His lips were upturned in an ill-fitted, crooked grin, and even his voice had a roguish tilt to it.

He had halted too, having tensed for a moment before turning slowly around. He gazed evenly at Remus, slowly raising a brow, as though he were trying to understand what he had heard was something that he really _had _heard. Even Mad-Eye was disbelieving and silent.

Remus grinned, eyes glinting even more as he eyed Sirius. Then it occurred to her that he was _provoking _him, somehow, for some strange reason. It seemed as though Sirius had noted this too, and immediately his face returned to his dangerous glower, unimpressed.

Remus nudged her playfully, continuing.

"And don't even get me started on his table manners! Oh, Merlin, he practically wolfs down the silverware. It gives his bad indigestion," he nodded frankly. "Feel blessed that you were locked in the lavatory on a _good _day."

"Remus," Sirius warned, his fist clenching again. She was immediately reminded of the saying, 'If looks could kill.'

But Remus was intractable, flippantly continuing with his guise. He even grabbed her shoulder and bent his head towards her conspiratorially, like a gossiping old bitty. She tugged herself away, glaring at him, but he was as facetious and glib as ever.

"And when he sleeps at night he howls like some old barmy, feral dog. We're all surprised the Muggles can't hear him next door. And he does that funny leg twitch too, as though he's chasing some squirrel in his dreams. Sometimes the squirrel is rabid. Gives him nightmares, which also gives him bad indigestion, surprisingly."

Remus cast him a furtive look, his brows raised. It seemed to give him strange satisfaction by the expression of sheer disbelief on Sirius' face, his eyes wide and jaw beginning to drop with incredulity. Then, as if slapped by some invisible hand, Sirius shook himself and glared wrathfully towards Remus.

His voice sent chills up her spine, rising both fury and fear within her.

"For Merlin's sake, Remus," he seethed, glaring towards her now. "She's one of _them_, an Eater, a loyal follower! If you utter one more nonsensical, idiotic fallacy I am going to mince your bones and feed you as potage to Hagrid."

Remus only brushed him off, patting her shoulder and giving her a frivolous smile.

"Don't worry, it's not you," he said. "He's just shy."

Sirius imploded. A deep, resonating growl ripped its way through his throat and he whisked a step forward, his eyes blazing. She immediately took a step back, watching as the two wizards looked each other in the eyes. Finally, Remus returned to his normal appearance, his expression now once again full of composure. He waited patiently for Sirius to control his ire.

She tensed, unsure what exactly was unfolding before her eyes. Another chill snaked up her spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold of the corridor.

"Stop it," Sirius demanded, visibly trying to prevent himself from snarling. His eyes looked both livid and beseeching. "Stop acting like James to get a rise out of me, Remus. You're too pragmatic to be unpredictable. I know what you're doing."

Remus coolly raised a brow. "And what am I doing, Sirius?"

"You know what you're doing," he responded, pointing a finger in his face. Then, as if to conflict her more, he next pointed heatedly at her, growling, "It doesn't matter because _she _doesn't."

Silence. In her years of vengeance, of being utterly alone, she had never, until that moment, experienced a more compact, profound, terrifying silence. She heard the blood ringing in her ears. Neither of them looked at her, but his shoulders were now slumped in exhaustion, in defeat. He looked away, far into the black miasma. Remus sighed, his calm eyes now troubled and understanding. His voice was very quiet when he spoke.

"You recognize her too, don't you?"

* * *

A/N: Yes, I am absolutely horrid. I should be flogged for my horrendous updating abilities. I should have my face cheese-grated and my toes potato-peeled and forced to look at Robert Pattinson's Cro-Magnon-esque eyebrows for all eternity. Or, you know, _something_. But I did amp up the fluff factor and the tension in this, so be gentle.


	6. To the Transparent, Tangibly: Part 1

— **To Sunder the Sea **—  
_To the Transparent, Tangibly: Part 1_

_—_

_She was always a trickster,  
and should have been a Marauder.  
I would never have been either._

Another look, another memory.

They will never end.

— — —

Circa 1978

The screech was first heard late in the day when the sun was beginning to descend from the skyline, the afternoon light turning opalescent across the white mantle of snow that encompassed the grounds and Hogwart's many towers. The majority of students remained inside the castle and its warmth, shying away from the wintry wind and the graying clouds that promised another whiteout.

It had almost been peaceful, sitting upon the iced cobblestone, back braced up against a pillar and reading Muggle literature in winter's solitary silence. Then it happened again, the strange, voluble screech that nearly approached the force of a sonic boom.

"_Evelyn Martin_!"

Evey sighed, closing the book previously splayed across her lap with a quick snap. There was a flurry of crunching, a staccato of footfall that grew louder and closer, and when she peered up, there was Narcissa Black inelegantly stalking her way through the snow with a rage that could unnerve any boggart. Evey's mouth twitched.

"Oh, Narcissa," she blinked, looking surprised, and then gestured towards the sky. "What a pleasant day we're having, yes?"

Narcissa Black halted a foot away, towering and eclipsing the entire backdrop of the castle from view, casting an ominous, severe shadow across her face. She was quivering with ire and looking so harried that her blonde locks were so tousled that it appeared as though she had recently dueled a jolt of lightning. There was a moment of silence before her astonishing screech once more threatened to shatter the sound barrier.

"How dare you chat idly with me!" she shouted, nostrils flared and hands balled into trembling fists, the echo of her pitch causing mounds of snow to fall from the battlements and icicles to snap from their ledges. High above in the Owlery, owls fluttered from their perch in surprise. "I _know _it was you, Evelyn Martin, you insignificant, little _Mudblood _leach."

"What is this that you speak of, my dear narcissistic Narcissa?" Evey questioned, raising her eyebrows in mock pomposity. "Because, honestly, I've only been reading this mere trifling Muggle book, which might be a foreign procedure to you considering it's not necessarily a prerequisite to read when being an overwrought, blithering wench, but nonetheless."

"You plebian, blood-blasphemous imp!" Narcissa snarled and pivoted on her heels, pointing imperiously towards the archway behind her. "Only _you _would have the _gall _to do _that_!"

Evey stretched her neck over Narcissa's quaking, sylphlike shoulder, noticing that students were beginning to accumulate around the arched entrance and were either sending wary glances in their direction, or were openly snickering towards the blonde-haired girl that was trotting gingerly their way. The girl stopped midway, halting to fix her eyes on something in the distance, her gaze twitching from one unseen thing to another, before raising her hand and slowly, fastidiously licking the backside of it.

Peals of laughter filled the courtyard when the girl folded herself onto the snow, sitting on her hindquarters and preening her other hand. Only once did the girl glance towards the throng of students, sending them an incongruously detached, catlike stare, before suddenly pouncing a hand upon a whirling snowflake. She hissed when another errant snowflake descended towards her other hand, oblivious towards the resonating laughter from the students.

Then Narcissa Black's svelte outline was veiling Evey's view, outrage emanating like fumes from her frenzied glower. Her hand was still extended towards the blonde-haired girl who was indistinguishably her match, from the hair, to the feline, piercing eyes and the black robes cornered in Slytherin silver and green. Narcissa vehemently swung her arm around to point it towards Evey's chest, nearly raking a sharpened fingernail across her cheek.

"You borrowed boomslang skin from Professor Slughorn!" Narcissa seethed, lips thinning into a reptilian sneer. "I _asked_. I'm not as daft as you may think."

"Oh?" Evey blinked, momentarily biting her lips to keep her laughter from imploding. "I beg to differ. There's a difference from borrowing and purloining something that, once used, can no longer be borrowed," she grinned wolfishly. "Just like the boomslang skin I _took _from Professor Slughorn's cupboard to make a Polyjuice potion, giving Mrs. Norris a much needed makeover. I think the look suits her—very haute couture, harridan-esque, don't you agree?"

"I demand that you put an end to this right—_this_—instant!" Narcissa ordered scathingly, tone modulating with rage like a heaving maelstrom. "You will regret this. I will not be insulted by filth that does not even belong amongst magical society! Stop this, Mudblood, before I make you! _Now_."

Before Evey could reply, there was a sequence of snow being crunched underfoot, and abruptly three heads shot forth from behind Narcissa's back. Each expression ranged from subdued amusement to outright intrigue and glee, and James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew were simultaneously looking down upon Evey as though she were an awe-inspiring, renowned diabolist.

James stepped around Narcissa, sweeping away at unruly wisps of hair and bouncing upon the snow with delight. He stepped forward and took one of Evey's hands, shaking it vigorously.

"_Wicked_, Evey," he praised, a daffy grin plastered across his face, glasses fogging. "This is absolutely brilliant, honestly. How did I not think of that?"

Narcissa made a gurgling sound, but was cut short when Remus took a step forward and offered Evey a passive smile. He retrieved James' arm when it began shaking Evey's entire body and ignored when James clapped his hands animatedly, staring at the center of the courtyard where Narcissa Black a la Mrs. Norris was meowing curiously, wide-eyed, at the students. Remus nodded at Evey in recognition.

"Polyjuice potion is not a simple feat," he said, a puckish glint in his eyes. "I'm impressed, Evelyn. Well done."

"Cats?" Peter's tremulous voice caught her attention, and Evey noticed that he was staring nervously at the cat-gone-Black. He made a whimpering sound, then squeaked at Remus and pulled at his robes beseechingly. "_Cats_, Remus! Wormtail doesn't like cats!"

And when the transfigured Mrs. Norris snapped her head towards Peter, eyes leveling with interest, Peter shrunk into himself and immediately went scuttling towards the castle. His thick, awkward limbs paddled against the snow and cobblestone, widely berthing Mrs. Norris and hunched over as though her eyes scorched his flesh, his wails echoed into silence when he disappeared. James and Remus shared an amused glance, lips twitching, before trotting after their frightened friend.

The crowd of students were dispersing, chortling quietly with one another and glancing behind at the form of Narcissa Black licking herself again, too cold to truly appreciate the sight any further. But more peals of laughter erupted from the archway when Evey glanced back again, seeing Mrs. Norris/Narcissa spring upon another snowflake, head twitching upwards from one falling snowflake towards another, before curving her back like a harried, flanked predator and springing back towards the castle. Students rushed to make room as Mrs. Norris' human limbs scampered through the archway, hissing at them as she passed.

"Evelyn Martin," the bona fide Narcissa Black seethed, once again gaining her attention. "I will not forget this."

Evey smiled. "And here I thought you would appreciate my homage to your feline uniqueness—it's something that shouldn't go overlooked. See, you're proving my point right now. The way you garishly hiss and fling spittle should be sung to the four winds," she cocked her head to the side, unctuous when asking, "Do you use a litter-box or do you just squat in a corner?"

"You are going to _pay _for this, Mudblood!"

Evey leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially, "Does Bellatrix know someone let you out?"

"I am going to utterly _destroy_-"

"One sec, there. Hold that thought, my butt's fallen asleep." Evey intermitted, rising to her feet and dusting the migrated snow from her lap. She stretched and casually whisked her book from the ground, then gazed intently at Narcissa's grimace. "You have something in your teeth. Is that a _hairball_?"

Narcissa shrieked, "Why you little pillock! How dare you-"

"Cool." Evey said, looking impressed. "You _do _have claws."

Narcissa's face twisted into an unsightly sneer, eyes tapering into slits and her teeth bared like some overgrown, priggish feline, and she lunged with outstretched hands towards Evey. A squeal of outrage escaped from her lips and her robes billowed gracelessly against a gust of wind, but there was an edge of triumph in her expression.

Caught by surprise, Evey hitched her breath, but did not move a muscle. Her eyes narrowed within the few seconds that it took Narcissa to pounce at her. She felt her nostrils flare, and awaited the sharpened fingernails that intended to puncture her skin, determined not to give the Slytherin satisfaction by flinching or dodging her assault.

And then Narcissa's wail was cut short.

A looming shadow eclipsed everything from view, surprising Evey into a jolt and blinking as a wall of dark, silken robes became a blockade a mere two inches from her face. And then Evey's startled brain immediately recognized the aroma of rainfall and cloves and cinders, and an irrepressible smile cornered her lips. From behind the black profile tensed before her, she peered around and saw something that sent a warm tremor down her spine and widened her smile.

Narcissa's arm was suspended in the air, held in place by a strong, calloused hand. The grip on her forearm was tightening, tendons popping out from beneath his skin, and Narcissa's eyes were embattled with outrage and sheer panic.

When Evey settled a hand on his back, feeling his muscles shift under her touch, she could almost tangibly feel the aggravation radiating off of him. He shuddered under her touch, stiffening and keeping his heated gaze locked onto Narcissa Black. She saw his jaw locking and unlocking, eyes unblinking.

It took a few moments for Narcissa to compose herself, and when she did, her gaze became deadlocked onto his. Her nostrils flared and only once did she try to retrieve her arm, but when the grip constricted, she yelped and fear brushed across her features. She held very still, narrowing her gaze on him.

"_You_." Narcissa seethed.

"Me," he replied calmly, voice rumbling like encroaching thunder.

"It would be best if you would keep your little whelp of a girlfriend on a leash," Narcissa fumed quietly. "Tie her to a tree for all I care, but if she dares to make her trivial, uncouth presence known in my life again, she won't be the only one to regret what I will do to her. Take this as a warning and a promise."

He tightened his grip, the skin of Narcissa's forearm began to redden. It was evident that Narcissa was fighting against the pain, her grimace turning to one of agony, but she did not dare to reclaim her captive arm.

Evey gently pushed her fingers against the sleeve of his robe, and this must have startled him because he flinched and instinctively cast his gaze down upon her. The hardness in his eyes was set aflame, but they scarcely softened when he saw the silent, beseeching gaze she countered with.

"Let her go," she whispered. "Please."

He blinked once, staring at her, but sighed roughly and loosened his fingers from around Narcissa's arm. When he looked back at the Slytherin, Evey felt the hand that had previous instilled a substantial amount of pain snake around her waist, pressing her against his side.

His next words were so low and foreboding that they were almost noxious.

"Try it," he said, pulling her even closer to him; his hard muscles shook against her. "Just try it. Honestly, I would love nothing more than to plunge my wand through your ears—spells be damned. If you so much as lay one measly fingernail on her, I will shred your skin into filaments and rupture every bone in your body. I'm not playing here, Narcissa, there are some people here that live _for _others, and so unless you have a yearning to look like a mandrake, I'd scamper off while your pure, blasted blood is still intact."

Narcissa inhaled deeply, looking stricken and incensed, and was about to retort when he took a predatory step forward and silenced her.

"_Now_," he growled.

And with a slantwise glance, elevating her chin in the air, Narcissa pivoted on her heels and quickly sauntered back through the castle's threshold. She never cast a look behind, but her knuckles were clenched at her side.

Silence fell. It was almost palpably thick, like miasma fog, quietly fanned by the wintry wind that whirled within the courtyard. The sky had turned into various smudges of gray, offsetting the skeletal trees and condensing the setting sun's light from view. Moments passed and she dared to breathe.

He did not move, nor did he look at her. His gaze was fixed upon the threshold, eyes still aflame and his jaw straining with tension. His muscles were solid and tight and lightly trembling against her, and when she attempted to shift against him, he followed her action by tucking her even closer under his shoulder. Lost within his incensed thoughts, she slowly rested her forehead against his arm, waiting out his anger and inhaling dew and cloves.

Then he sighed, long and deep and through his nostrils, like some provoked stallion. His rigidity slowly eased. When he finally looked down at her, she attempted a smile.

"Hi, there," she whispered.

He groaned and rolled his eyes, resignation rather than fury etched into his face. When she tried to pull away from his grasp, he merely paralleled her to his side and forced her to walk with him. One arm enfolded around her waist, the other promptly snatching the book from her grasp.

He was still silent as they walked towards the archway. He was no longer tense, but his eyes were still hard and stony. She had forgotten how intense he could become, and stared down at the cobblestone with an inexpressible guilt.

"Thank you for…you know, back there," she said, feeling as though his silence was her punishment. Then she grinned, trying to lighten his dour mood. "But intense much? Your delivery was absolutely superb, but we should work on your syntax."

He stopped for a moment and cast a level, unimpressed gaze at her, raising an eyebrow before he looked away and continued towards the threshold. His eyes were dark, black under the deep furrowing of his brow. He made not a sound, but remained reticent.

"You're angry with me," she said quietly, watching the castle loom closer. But when he made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, she peered up at him, whispering ardently, "_Please _say something."

"You turned Narcissa Black into a cat."

His even, indifferent tone sent shivers down her spine. She grasped a handful of his robes, feeling another surge of contriteness settle in her stomach; she was sure it would stew and brew and fester there if he wouldn't forgive her soon. There were many things she could endure, but his disappointment when her shenanigans became too significant was unbearable, the guilt that stemmed constantly reminded her that she was _lucky _to have him, that he didn't _deserve _this, that she didn't deserve _him_. She inhaled deeply.

But then she gazed up at him, staring until he looked down at her, and smiled cheekily despite herself.

"I did no such thing," she corrected blithely, seeing his lip twitch, and grinned wider. "I turned _Filch's _cat into Narcissa Black. Really, I think it's a step-up for Narcissa—really adds to her image, especially the licking herself part."

He ran his freehand across his face, sighing long-sufferingly.

"Why did you do it?"

"Why wouldn't I?" she scoffed, then shrugged, inwardly heaving a sigh of relief that he was finally conversing with her; it was good to hear his voice. "She stuffed a dozen acid pops into Laura Abernathy's mouth yesterday, and then chortled with her banshee sister when the poor girl's tongue started to sizzle."

"Merlin's beard," he sighed again, his clipped tone beginning to smooth, and her gave her a withering look. "_Evey_."

"Yes?" she smiled brightly, then her brows plummeted and she scowled at him, nudging his shoulder. "Who told you, anyways?"

"What do you mean?" He looked genuinely surprised.

"Who told you that it was me behind Mrs. Norris' transformation? Honestly, I'm hurt that you think it's always me who does those kinds of things. Polyjuice potion isn't that difficult—it could have been anyone."

"That's because there is only a select, elite few who have the audacity to do them," he deadpanned, giving her another impervious stare, but his lip twitched again and his eyes were beginning to glint roguishly. "And it was James."

"Figures," she snorted. "You know, he could have been feeding you utter bullocks, trying to cover his own tracks."

Though, as if to contradict her point, a harassed yowl rang through the archway and the Narcissa-esque Mrs. Norris came dashing out on all fours, un-clawed appendages momentarily splaying across the iced cobblestone. She stopped, hunching her back and stared at them with tapered eyes, before hissing and lopping away towards the Forbidden Forest.

He turned towards her. "You were saying?"

She shrugged, complacent, then began tapping her finger against her chin in sudden contemplation.

"Do you think Lily would be upset with me if I stuck a handful of shiny Sickles and Knuts in her robe pockets and turned a niffler into Severus Snape?"

She turned towards him, smiling brightly at the thought. Her smile faltered when seeing the very unenthusiastic, daunting stare he was giving her, and another upsurge of guilt flushed her cheeks and the smile instantly vanished. A brow slowly rose on his face, and she glanced down at the ground.

Then he laughed outright.

Her head snapped up and seen that he was smiling widely, his eyes warm and affectionate and before a grin could morph onto her face, he was suddenly encompassing her in his arms. She could feel his chest shaking with laughter, and she laughed too, nestling herself against his body. He pulled away to look at her face, tenderly stroking back a strand of hair from her eyes.

"And that is why you are utterly adorable," he said, eyes glinting happily.

She raised a brow. "Oh? Not my Veela-esque beauty or mystic, sagacious wisdom that would have Dumbledore kissing my feet?"

Before he could reply a tall, willowy figure punctually emerged from the archway. Both jumped, noticing the long, silvery beard and the half-moon spectacles that could twinkle in a sunless sky. There was a mysterious quirk to Dumbledore's lips, the wind billowing his robes behind him as he regarded them from down his long, crooked nose.

He nodded to them as he passed.

"Your feet are very pretty, Miss Martin, but I fear that if I kissed them it would inspire your fellow students to further gossip and speculation. I, for one, have had too many articles in the Daily Prophet for the time being," he stated matter-of-factly, whisking down the steps. "Now I was told there is a rather imaginative sight to be seen in near Hagrid's cabin. I'm told we have an additional Miss Black in our presence, though this one apparently is coughing up a hairball by the pumpkin patch."

Dumbledore disappeared behind a column, leaving Evey to smile with amusement in his wake. She felt the chest she was pressed against begin to shake again, and she looked up to see that he was silently laughing, looking where Dumbledore had vanished.

"You know," he began, glancing down at her. "Dumbledore sometimes has this way of creeping upon people that makes you wonder if he and Professor Binns trade creeper secrets over tea."

She laughed. "Agreed."

"Now let's go, your hands feel like ice," he said, pulling her along, grasping both her hands in his and rubbing them together. He quirked a brow at her chapped fingers. "I've just filched a few tankards of butterbeer from Caradoc—we'll heat them up by the fire. You're going to be toasty warm by the time I'm done with you, Evelyn Martin."

"And you, Logan Thatcher, are a horrible hypocrite—_filching _butterbeers. And you say that _I'm_ bad."

He laughed outright again and pulled her even closer, nuzzling his nose under her jaw and smiling against her skin when she squirmed.

"Come on, James and Sirius loaded up on treacle tarts last night from the kitchens. We'll filch some of those, too."

Evey turned her head and pressed her lips to his cheek, then broke away. "Race you!"

— — —

Present Day

And then, as though the miasma-thick corridor had been sliced in two, the mottled troupe once again found themselves upon the entryway of Grimmauld Place. The antechamber had not changed, still squelched of light and overwhelmingly musky. As the two orbs of wandlight penetrated the dark, Evey saw details that had not been previously noticeable, mainly the peeling royal-blue wallpaper and that gilded frames of portraits lined a wall ascending a staircase.

There was a large frame, tarnished from age and neglect, at the foot of the stairs. She eyed it curiously, wondering idly what picture lay behind the thick curtains and cobwebs, but was abruptly pushed along by the burrowing tip of a wand. She bit her lip in surprise.

"Move, you lil' rat," Moody's gravelly voice breathed down her neck. "Before I make you."

A hand shot forth from the black shroud and a new swathing of wandlight enclosed around her. Remus was suddenly there, standing next to her side and effectively butting Alastor's encroaching presence to the rear. He gave her a subdued smile, but shrugged wordlessly and led her past the staircase and into a new region of the house. A shiver snaked down her spine, her senses reflecting upon the feeling of being led into the maw of some entrapping cave.

She looked behind, giving Alastor an exultant glare, casting away her aggravation at the sight of how deep and craggy his corresponding scowl became. But a movement to Remus' right snapped her head to attention, her gaze fixing upon the man who walked almost as rigidly as she.

He kept his eyes trained ahead of him, half of his face basking in the wandlight, the other consumed by the aged shadows. What part of his expression that remained illuminated sent a harrowing tremor throughout her body. The gauntness was stretched smooth, his brow pulling into a glower and sharpening the hard fixation in his eyes. His lips moved slowly, very slowly, in tight unison as though he were muttering curses into the dark.

There was no hysterical mirth in his eyes, like so long before, but the spine-locked tension and glinting gaze read otherwise. Even his hair fell across his forehead, brushed by a spectral wind of the breeze fourteen years prior, and her fingers constricted into white ball of agony at the sight.

Again, she was brewing in the fury that had been festering for over a decade, reminded once more of what she had lost in the hands of the man who walked a mere three feet away.

When a strangled gurgle inched into the silence, she reeled back from her glare, realizing that her throat was constricting and hot, acrid tears were filling her eyes. She blinked vehemently, fixing her gaze to the putrefying floorboards she walked upon and pushed aside the memories that were breeching her resolve. Her hands shook, but through her periphery she seen that he had shifted again, walking soundlessly, head tilted in her direction.

_Breathe_, she thought distraughtly. _Just breathe...focus on the tempo of footsteps, ignore the silence—ignore the fury and desperation. Breathe but do not let it go…_

And then Remus' hand was on her forearm, coming to a halt and flicking on a light-switch. Immediately bright, luminescent light bathed the room into an almost severe glow from gas lamps that marked the ceiling. She blinked furiously again, eyes dilating and adjusting to the intense clarity, slowly moving her eyes across the room.

The light extended across the expanse of a dining room, sharpening the shadows where it did not touch. The wallpaper had once been the shade of lavender, but was peeling and faded and superimposed by large cobwebs. The furniture was dark, painted in black lacquer and nearly veiled by a film of dust; only a dining table and a massive hutch adorned the room, and a garishly crested china set was placed within.

She hitched a breath as one furry, spindly leg poked out the dresser's door, but it instantly withdrew when Alastor's prominent clanking resounded into the dining room.

The silence was no longer smothering from the shadows, and it felt as though the darkness was tangibly lifting its heavy pall from her shoulders. She basked in the light, relishing its ensconcing comfort although her tongue was still indignantly latched to the roof of her mouth. Remus' grasp was light and courteous, something she had not felt in a very, very long time; she almost sighed at the sentiment.

And then the shadows returned, or a shadow, one that condensed into a looming profile that blackened and eclipsed the rest of the dining room from view. Caught by surprise, Evey stiffened as the swooping came to a halt. He even tensed.

"Evelyn Martin," a even voice drawled.

Her eyes narrowed on the figure towering closer, his robes fluttering behind him like a phantom's cape, and he slowed to a halt before her. A mixture of dread and rankling aggravation merged hotly beneath her skin, the hairs on her arms prickling and her muscles fastening together. Even Remus had tightened his hold on her arm.

If her focus wasn't so centered, she would have noted the heavy, meaningful glance Remus and Sirius had shared for a split second. Both had flinched at the sound of her name.

The man before her smiled, a sort of twisted, devilish sneer that gave clear view of yellowed teeth. He crossed his arms over his chest, chin settled evenly in the air and he regarded her with a look of purely satisfied contempt. His smirk deepened and an eyebrow rose on his sallow face.

"What a strange sight this is to behold," he said, eyes scrutinizing. "The trickster herself, the little, elusive Evelyn Martin has graced us with her presence—should I stand aside and look coy and honored? But what is this? She is muted and bound? Has the lone wolf gone awry again? And _no one _to save her this time? I'm astonished."

He smiled again, his long nose elevating higher into the air, and his hair fell like strands of shredded drapes into black eyes; there was a familiar rancor and an insatiable vendetta within them. When he took another step closer, his smile widened.

Remus must have felt her rigidity beneath his touch, because his voice was low and full of warning. "Severus."

But the man merely waved him off, descending closer to her. Evey narrowed her eyes, feeling her nostrils flaring; fire prickled in fingertips, and she flexed the sinew in her arms. He laughed, his fathomless black eyes noticing her shift like a harried, cornered creature.

His regarding her suddenly morphed into reflection, and he tapped a finger to his chin. When he spoke, his tone was laced with derision.

"I will admit, _Evey_, that I've wondered what hole you crawled into these years, and certainly my imagination hasn't reeled, but I'd never expected you would creep into our midst," he avowed, smirking loftily. "It seems as though your once interminable good fortune has run dry long ago, hmm? And just look at you—the lovely and clever Evey is no longer alluring. You look almost ghostly. How ironic."

"Severus," Remus warned again. "Stop this."

There was a shift and a clunk behind her, and she could nearly feel Alastor's mechanical eye analyzing her face through her skull. Her teeth clenched.

Severus took another step closer, as though his presence would further instill trepidation into her. He must have noticed her lips tightening into a sneer, for his own widened even more, like an ashen, satisfied vampire about to pounce on its unyielding quarry.

His brow rose again, condescending.

"Having quite the misadventure, are we? Did you hit rock bottom, say, fourteen years ago? Life is no longer centered on shenanigans and sunshine, yes?" he asked loquaciously, and then his expression fell like unsheathing shadows, his nonchalant façade gone. "How does it feel to loose _everything _and realize that you've been _nothing _all along? I heard what happened to your little paramour. What a tragedy it must have been, and how heartrending it still must be. And weren't you there, Sirius? Close up and…_personal_?"

Evey could no longer breathe. His words breeched her resolve like a battering-ram and suddenly the light of the room had been extinguished, reality descending and sizzling into empty air like a meteor through the atmosphere. Her blood ran frigid and caustically hot at the same time, her vision tuning out before sharply refocusing.

She wanted to scream, but her lungs were quivering for her to simply inhale.

There was a snap and a clattering behind her, and she jolted as if the sound sent shockwaves through her bones. A hard body stampeded passed her own. The scent of cinders and woodland flora whisk by, and her sanity and fortitude seized once again, but her attention was pulled away by the sight of a now broken chair where he had previously stood next to.

He was almost bearing down upon Severus, fists tight and his ragged shirt beginning to tremble as his body was barraged with quakes of rage; she could almost feel the hot fury radiating off of him, and swallowed hard, taken aback from his intensity and wondering why he was suddenly so defensive. She blinked, recoiling and taking a step back, but Remus tightened his hold on her, staring at the two with equal shock.

Severus cringed slightly, but his held his ground. The silence grew powerful, but was ruptured when a guttural growl rose up from his throat. With a flick of speed, a hand was grasping a fistful of Severus' robes, pulling him closer; she stared wide-eyed, confused and startled. Severus started, reflexively pulling back his body, but was ultimately propelled closer by an arm that was still hard with muscle.

"I would close that mouth of yours, _Snivellus_," he growled, bristling like a rabid dog. "Before I cram the rest of your greasy face into it."

Severus' eyes immediately flashed and tapered at the epithet, and he withdrew his thin lips from his teeth and sneered. He pulled against his hold, which tightened in response. He heaved his shoulders and reflected the deep-rooted malice from his eyes, once more beginning to smirk.

"You're quite touchy for the perpetrator behind our little Evey's tragedy, aren't you?" Severus countered, raising a brow in mock indifference. "Why is that, Black? Feeling sorry? Feeling sympathetic? Feeling as though you can empathize your own loss with another cowardly imp?"

Sirius snarled. "If you as much as snivel out another word I'll-"

"Merlin's beard, what on earth is going on here?" A clipped, incensed voice demanded, abruptly shattering the intensity between the two. "Black! Snape! If you two doddering idiots are not under the Imperious Curse and being forced to fight each other, you are shortly going to wish you were if you two do not—_stop_—_this_—_immediately_!"

Evey flinched at the sculpted pitch of the voice, whirling to her left and seeing two new silhouettes moving into the light of the room. Remus had flinched too and was inching closer to her as an angular, blazing-eyed witch charged towards the two and halted before them, hands on her hips and nostrils flaring like a horse. Her gaze was catlike, and everything about the woman screeched no-nonsense, from her sharp-heeled boots to her thin lips.

Slowly, as though pulling himself from an invisible force, each one of Sirius' limbs began to relax into submission. He did not let go of Severus, but stared at the man with waning anger. Severus was looking both vexed and smug, trying once again to loosen himself.

"Minerva, thank you for your diplomacy," a new voice began, quiet but sage-like and firm. "Sirius, if you would please unleash Severus from your chokehold, I myself—and he, no doubt—would be very grateful."

Albus Dumbledore had not changed within the last decade, except for the addition of wrinkles and his silvery beard was now suspended well past his knees. Evey breathed slowly, eyes adjusting onto one of the most venerated, powerful wizards in centuries, and a new pang of distress rippled into her at the sight of him. How could Albus, wise and genuine, have betrayed mankind by siding with _him_?

Albus moved silently upon the corroded floorboards, his expression serene yet meaningful, his gaze cast upon the two still heatedly interlocked. Silence settled into the room, and Evey looked from Dumbledore to him to Severus, and she could feel Remus and Alastor waiting for the two to abide Dumbledore's request. Her breath became bated, wondering what would occur if Sirius didn't release Severus, and she seen that his fists were still trembling, visibly battling some inner-turmoil, but slowly, very slowly, he loosened his grip and shoved himself away from Severus.

She sighed, feeling resignation filter into the silence as he stalked to the other side of the table, centering it between himself and Severus. But then she halted mid-exhale, because his eyes were now suddenly on her and staring as though he were attempting to gauge her reaction. His eyes were very dark, like storm water, like gray-streaked vortexes that raged and raged and raged, unrelenting.

Evey shifted on her feet, still feeling his weighty gaze upon her when she peered away.

And then she realized that they were all looking upon her: Remus with his collected gaze, Alastor tapering his eyes warily, Severus brooding, Minerva eyeing her like some unruly creature, and then Dumbledore. His gaze had a chilling effect on her, not that his eyes were cold, but that they were so all-knowing and tranquil that it was difficult to concentrate on any one thing.

He nodded his head once, his icy-blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. There was a faint smile cornering his lips, the first sincere smile she had received in nearly a decade, she realized. Evey shuddered, edging towards Remus' side because she didn't truly know how to react to that; her eyes fell to the floor, feeling Dumbledore's munificent smile weighing her down.

Albus gave a soft chuckle, opening his mouth when suddenly Alastor clunked forward, seizing her by the arm and pulling her away from Remus. Her eyes flashed open, immediately seething noiselessly and recoiling her arm; Alastor's grip constricted, but he was glaring significantly at Dumbledore.

"This is the one who we found infringin' the wards, Dumbledore," Alastor spat, yanking her arm for good measure. "I hope you make her punishment lingerin' and tortuous before we hand her over to the Ministry. Would you like me to ensure of its occurrence? It would be my pleasure."

Albus shook his head, folding one hand over the other.

"That won't be necessary, Alastor," Dumbledore replied, nodding towards Mad-Eye's grasp, wordlessly ordering him to let go. He did, but growled in disapproval; Dumbledore smiled benignly. "She may have infiltrated into Grimmauld Place, but she is guilty of no other transgressions. I believe she is here own her own freewill, and not on the behalf of those whom you believe she is reconnoitering for."

Alastor's fingers had been itching towards her forearm, but they stopped mid-air, and he began blinking heedlessly as though Albus had sentenced him to be Cruciated. He began faltering with harried disbelief, and even his prosthetic leg began clunking into an angrily tempo against the floor.

"I know a mole when I see one, and that there is a _mole_," he bristled, shoving a chunky finger in her face. "A voyeur, the Dark Lord's sniffling, deceitful little rat."

"Truly?" Dumbledore raised a brow. "Then why are her arms bare and unmarked?"

"That is no reason to mollify her crimes of breakin' and enterin'!" Mad-Eye's voice was scathing, almost deranged. "This is private property, Albus, and should remain vigilantly so."

"Alastor, how many times have you broken and entered into residences, even without Auror authorization?"

"That is an entirely different, justifiable matter," Mad-Eye waved off the accusation. "You're siding with a Death Eater, Dumbledore. This is no time for compassion, no time to pity this one just because she is small and lookin' helpless. She has spirit," and he nodded towards Sirius, snorting with ridicule. "Kicked him like a blasted Hippogriff, she did. Heard his howl all the way down to the basement's privy—even woke up that foul, screamin' portrait."

Dumbledore gazed levelly with Alastor, the calm in his eyes turning solid.

"I am not siding with her, merely recognizing the differences between an enemy and a mere oddity that needs to be discovered, or explained, rather, in her case," Dumbledore's tone softened. "Be at peace, Alastor, she is not here to stir pandemonium in the name of Voldemort."

"And how do you know this, Dumbledore?" Alastor looked affronted, brows crinkling over his cratered face.

"Simply, Alastor." Dumbledore gestured towards her. "There is no Dark Mark on her arm."

"He could be recruitin'."

"Voldemort does not recruit, Alastor, you should know that. And if he should know of our headquarters Voldemort would not have sent an unarmed and uninitiated witch on his behalf. Rest assured of your conspiracy notions at the moment, surely you are capable of her repercussions if things should go amiss, notwithstanding the backing of four accomplished wizards? If I am incorrect I will owe a round of Ogren's firewhiskey," Dumbledore avowed a little less than dramatically, turning his gaze onto her and taking a step closer, examining her face. "Now I see you had spared no time in silencing the poor thing. Hmm, a peculiar spell, but one I've seen before."

Dumbledore cast a slantwise gaze towards Severus, but with a simply flick of his wand she could feel her tongue loosening from the roof of her mouth, separating and tingling like acid pops from the spell's aftereffects. She heaved a sigh of relief and licked her chapped lips.

Instantly, Alastor's vice-like grip was on her arm. This time her seething was not silent, and her eyes locked onto his and she sneered, a foreboding hiss rippling up her throat.

"Unhand me," she fumed, unmoving like a stone wall. "_Now_."

He freed her, clunking a step back, surprise flitting across his face. His eyes gnashed together into a scowl, but he remained silent. Even Remus had stepped aside, now staring at her with elevated eyebrows. She could feel his gaze upon her, could still feel the dredging weight from across the table, but she ignored the bewildering feeling and turned towards Dumbledore.

His smile was still disarming, but now that she was liberated of the tongue-locking spell she felt like crowing into the silent, archaic mansion like this was some sort of victory. Instead, Dumbledore took another step forward, catching her unaware when he settled a wizened hand on her shoulder; she bit her tongue in surprise, her silence eking out one final time.

"Evelyn Martin," he said softly. "It certainly is a surprise to see you here."

She blinked, hardly breathing, but did not lurch away from his touch. "You remember me?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "How could one not? Your years at Hogwarts were ones that cannot be easily forgotten—many of the portraits still think of you fondly, although you often subjected them to your wily schemes. Even Peeves misses the banters you two shared on many an occasion…_past _curfew, I might add." Then he became very somber, and: "Now, tell me how you came to find us."

Evey stilled, feeling all the sets of eyes on her, and closed her own. Soon her hands were trembling again, all too soon reminded of her resolve, her bereavement, her besmirched need for vengeance. The stupor that had stretched across a decade, through years and lasting over months and weeks and days, was suddenly too profound with Dumbledore's knowing gaze upon her. She shook her head, the images of that final day bludgeoning from a recessed niche, centering itself into her vision.

"No," she whispered.

"Evelyn," Dumbledore said quietly. "This is no time to be steadfast. Be honest."

But then she felt the weight of Dumbledore's hand lifting, and abruptly another presence was looming beside her, and she smelt parchment and ferns. She open her eyes, meeting the sight of witch who was casting her a narrow-eyed and calculating stare. The witch tapped a pointed boot against the floor, lips thinning with speculation.

"One moment, if you will, Albus, thank you," the witch austerely interrupted; Dumbledore humbly bowed his head. "Evelyn Martin? You look familiar—_very _familiar. What house were you in at Hogwarts?"

Evey narrowed her eyes. "Ravenclaw."

The witch's eyes widen for the most mitigated of moments, recognition alighting them in the haze of the gas lamps above. Then her eyes narrowed, mouth twisting as she remembered a long ago memory; her tongue clucked disapprovingly before she spoke.

"I remember you now," Minerva stated in a reproachful tone. "You turned my hat into a teakettle and my first-edition copy of _Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration_ into a teacup and poured me herbal tea so I wouldn't give you a detention for being late—_frequently_. Even conjured up scones from my inkwells. I should not be surprised that your cleverness would have found us if it so was your desire to. You have done many shocking things, but I must admit I am appalled at your current behavior. You're a grown woman, Evelyn, not some rowdy teenager."

Evey glared at the witch. "You only remember me based upon what house I was in? What does my having been a Ravenclaw matter? What? Did you think a _Hufflepuff _could have endured all that sleuthing?"

"I beg your pardon, Ms. Martin," Minerva sniffed. "But the Hufflepuffs are vastly reputable for their perceptiveness."

Evey snorted. "And Syltherin's hold tea-parties for Gryffindors."

The was a muffled choking, gurgling sound behind her, and she noticed in her periphery that Remus had his hand covered over his mouth. His eyes were upturned from the smile he was masking, and when Minerva sent him a swift glare, he coughed into his hand. But then another noncommittal choke facilitated Remus' initial chortle, and she instantly locked her gaze on the man across the table.

Her eyes widened, seeing that there was a strained, twitching smile on his lips. It was evident that he was trying to veil his face with his unruly mane, head tilted downwards, but even she could make out the outline of his mouth withholding another burble of laughter. A strange befuddlement silenced her riposte to Minerva, eyes fixed on him as another surge of bewilderment caused her eyelids to blink repeatedly.

It was strange to see his face lightened with mirth, no matter how trivial, and although the image of his eyes searing with perverse laughter was constantly roaming behind her eyes, it was mystifying to see the polar opposite. Her stomach tightened and she forced herself to look away.

Minerva was staring at her, face etched with unimpressed poise. She was opening her mouth, eyes that missed little narrowing, when Dumbledore stepped in and cleared his throat.

"Pardon me, ladies, if I may intermit," he said, fixing on Evey's face with a mixture of gravity and interest. "You said sleuthing, Evey."

"I did."

"Will you tell me why?" he asked, asking in the sort of succinctly low tone that, never mind the matter, demanded an answer. "Why have you come to Grimmauld Place, aware that it is not permissible or passable? What have you been sleuthing for?"

Evey was silent for a moment, feeling all warmth and cold and feeling disperse from her body. She glanced towards him, seeing but not truly seeing, but seeing through the face of the man she had spent so many wasted years searching for. His expression was not readable, but only because she could not read it or see it nor wanted to, and the numbness pulled within her, transparent yet tangible.

"No."

And Albus Dumbledore was sharing her silence, his arctic-blue eyes no longer twinkling and his smile no longer mysterious. He regarded her as the quiet brewed into something much more potent than the blackness in the corridor had been. All fell away, and she knew he could feel the emptiness fester within her mind and fiber and core. Dumbledore's eyes barely moved across her face, but he sighed deeply and spoke so low and grave and mournfully it almost volleyed her sanity.

"This is because of him, isn't it?" Dumbledore asked, eyes still fixed on her as the seconds ticked by. But then he pulled his gaze away from her, slowly and carefully, and shifted it towards the man standing off to the side, braced against the table.

And they all turned and looked, feeling the dire seriousness permeating the atmosphere. She remained unmoving, still, remote, like breathing statuary and she could feel the others picking off of the heartrending tragedy she wore on her sleeves. Her jaw locked, eyes brimming and blurring and the silence that was following everyone's stares was adding to the numbness.

Then Alastor huffed, clanking his leg against the floorboards.

"Him? Him _who_?" he asked edgily. "You mean Sirius?"

"No." Remus responded quietly, not missing a beat. "Her fiancé."

— — —

_Another truth emerges,  
but you already know._


End file.
