The worst of it had always been that Catriona should have known — must have known — what she was doing. She had been at Hogwarts three years already that summer; she was no longer a child but a young lady, with her hair up and her skirts down, and a new-found distaste for freckled cheeks and scratched arms that had never seemed to worry her before.
But for all her reluctance to join in their old romps, Riona was still the best companion her little sister had ever had. She could skip pebbles across the burn with two — three — four bounces. She could tell the most blood-curdling stories of ghosties at bed-time you ever heard, until Minerva was curled up in such pleasurable terror she would squeak if so much as a spider brushed her. She could stitch a whole miniature trousseau for Minerva's beloved, battered china-doll Jane, and set in ruffles along each hem with tiny doll-stitches more delicate than anything old Morag could manage, even for Mother's own clothes. She could play at Snap and Tell-Me and spillikins in the schoolroom, and then chess and even bridge downstairs with Uncle Jamie and the others in the evenings; when little girls were put to bed, and scolded by Morag when she caught them peeping through the bannisters.
Uncle Jamie was perhaps both the girls' favourite guest. Tall and bony, with bright blue eyes and sandy whiskers, he was Mother's youngest brother and still unmarried; he'd spent years out in Rhodesia, and could spin the most hair-raising yarns of cursed diamonds and Apparating elephants, but that summer he'd come back to stay with friends over at the big house by the loch, and came over to see Mother and the girls almost every day.
The picnic had been Uncle Jamie's idea. The moor had been Mother's. The walk along the burn, when the hamper was empty and the grown-ups were dozing in the shade, had been Minerva's own idea, and she'd tugged and pulled at Riona to come, until Uncle Jamie had opened an eye and told Catriona for pity's sake to take the child away, before their ears all expired of exhaustion. But he'd said it in that special joky way he had, and winked at Minerva when Mother couldn't see.
It had been very hot, though. They'd taken off their boots to paddle among the stones, and then gone on again, with the dry grass prickling Minerva's feet, and a persistent fly buzzing round her nose. She tried to huff it away, but it wouldn't go. Riona told her if she didn't look out she'd end up stuck with both eyes squinting at the end of her nose, so Minerva stuck out her tongue and ran ahead. And when she'd looked back, the horse had been there.
Not a big horse — not then. Just a sturdy little black beast that might have come from any crofter's barn, and the only thing odd about it was that it hadn't been there before. Minerva had been too little to know any better. But Catriona — Catriona had spent three years in Defence Against the Dark Arts. She must have known….
The horse lowered its head and snuffled against her pockets, like old Donald in the stables at home, and Riona laughed and rubbed its nose. "Sorry, old girl, no sugar today. Where did you learn that trick, then? I'll bet someone's out looking for you — daft old thing, you'll have them all worried."
"Mother says you shouldn't talk to strange horses — or dogs," Minerva said, standing on one foot and rubbing the other against her knee, where she'd got a thorn in it. Riona was carrying their boots; but she wasn't quite sure about going that close to a strange horse.
"Mother says little girls shouldn't stick their tongues out," Riona retorted, putting one arm across the horse's back and stroking its smooth black neck. The animal snorted and nudged her, ears pricked, and she leaned against it, rubbing her cheek in its mane.
"Anyway, this horse isn't going to bite me — are you, my lass?" She swung herself onto its back as nimbly as a boy. "She's just looking for someone to take her home…."
"Riona?" Minerva said as her sister's voice trailed away. She took a step closer. Riona was looking at her in a strange way. So was the horse. Riona looked…not there. The horse looked hungry.
"Riona?" Her voice rose. The horse seemed to be getting bigger and bigger, and the sun had gone all cold and thin. "Riona, stop it, I'm scared!"
Her sister was still staring at her, but her eyes had gone a funny colour, as if all the white had disappeared, and the blue part was being swallowed up by the black. The horse licked its lips. It had a forked tongue, like a snake, and its teeth looked extraordinarily sharp.
Minerva's lip trembled. "Mother—" The wail turned into a scream as the fangs flashed out towards her, striking for the throat. She turned to run and slipped on the dry grass, coming crashing down just as those dreadful teeth clipped together, blood streaming from her shoulder. She hardly had enough breath left to cry with. "Mama!"
She could hear Uncle Jamie's voice shouting as she scrambled, sobbing, to her feet among raking hooves, and caught at Riona's arm as the creature swung round, towering over her. Riona was slumped on its neck, eyes blank, one hand trailing, and she didn't move when Minerva touched her.
Then the child was running, barefoot, over grass and heather, with nightmare on her heels, and it was just like a dream because no matter how fast she went the monster was coming faster, and she couldn't wake up—
She didn't know how she'd got to the top of the rocks. She thought she must have flown, because she didn't remember touching them at all. She wasn't big enough to have climbed that high, no matter how scared she was…but she was there, huddled on the grey stone with tears running down her face, and blood on her dress where her shoulder hurt. The bad horse was prowling round and round, trying to scramble up; but its hooves couldn't hold on, and it was hissing and snapping at her and making a horrible bubbling noise in its throat. It didn't move like a horse. It didn't even look much like a horse any more. She didn't understand how Riona could ever have made such a terrible mistake….
And then she screamed. Because Riona had sat up on the creature's back, like some kind of doll. Her eyes were all blank and her teeth were showing just the same way the creature's teeth were showing, in a sort of laugh that wasn't funny at all, but more as if it was starving and going to bite you, and she was pulling out her wand. One by one, she was pointing at the stones that were keeping Minerva up out of reach, and they were starting to go soft and squishy like butter in the sun, and slip downwards. Minerva tried to scramble higher, but there wasn't any higher for her to go. And all the time her sister was smiling that dreadful smile, with eyes like something dead, as she pulled down the rocks to let the monster feed.
"Minerva? Catriona?"
Uncle Jamie's long legs had carried him swiftly up the side of the burn. He had his wand drawn. Mother was at his heels, running almost as fast, the coils of her hair tumbling unheeded in great wisps down over her shoulders.
Minerva set up a desperate wail and Uncle Jamie swung round, catching sight of the rocks and the creature that snarled there. "Dear God, Mary—" he used Mother's name, as if they'd been alone together— "it's an each uisge—"
Mother cried out as the creature turned. "Riona!" It was almost a sob; but she had her wand out and aimed steadily, backing away now as she and Jamie tried to force the kelpie away from the water, away from the child….
"Professor McGonagall—"
It wasn't going to work, Minerva knew. In a moment the each uisge was going to turn and bolt, knocking Mother to the ground.
" —Minerva McGonagall—"
It was going to disappear into the stream as swiftly as raindrops from a summer shower, beyond the reach of any magic the kelpie-hunters would muster in the days to come.
" —Minerva—"
And the last sight the seven-year-old child would ever have of her sister, endlessly replayed, would be of the gutted shell of a body, tossed like a rag, as the each uisge's teeth ripped through its rider's soft belly and entrails before dragging her down to the watery hell that was its home….
"Minerva!"
Magic hit her, hard, across the face, jolting starved lungs into a great sobbing breath, and Professor McGonagall choked and flung out a hand as awareness came flooding back. She could barely even feel the fingers of the other hand where they clutched the vial. The movement wrenched the predator's jaws in the mangled wound in her shoulder just as the each uisge shifted its grip, reaching for the throat, and the agony of it had her senses swimming again.
"Minerva—" The remorseless demand of Snape's voice dragged her back, even as it had penetrated her dream, and she caught a glimpse of him — finally — too late — framed in the doorway. His wand was aimed directly at her.
She shut her eyes. Better that way than to end like Catriona. Severus, make it quick….
But it was a Numbing Curse that struck her. Ragged at the edges with Snape's own exhaustion, it broke like a splash of ice-water, draining away all sensation in her shoulder — all pain— For a moment the release was so great that she gasped. Her mind had cleared as if by a charm.
Carrion breath was hot in her face as the vicious jaws slackened an instant before closing for the last time. Her wand arm hung numbly, useless fingers trailing. In her other hand, the glass of the tiny bottle was slick in her grasp. Now or never. One last chance. Minerva McGonagall brought the Desiccating Potion up in a clumsy overarm blow.
The vial flew free at the top of its arc, and shattered against the gleaming black neck, with a terrible sound like sizzling meat. The each uisge screamed, rearing back, twisting, as a few drops of thick liquid oozed free, and Minerva, flung aside, almost fell. Despite everything, the sound of that agony made her feel sick.
She clawed for the doorway with numb hands, rolling free as the thrashing hooves came down. A black flicker in the shadows, as Snape's ungentle grasp helped drag her back to the doorway and a moment's safety. The fumes from the cauldron there made them both cough.
"It's ready." Snape's voice had ebbed to little more than a croak. He coughed again, his wand pointed at the hovering cauldron, which rose a little further, as if with an effort. Beyond them, the each uisge was still writhing, biting at the seeping wound on its neck.
The potion had come to a wavering halt. Sweat was standing out on Snape's forehead, and Minerva set her teeth and struggled to aim her own wand at the cauldron. She could barely feel what she was doing. Blood had begun to soak her robes, and her hand was trembling despite everything she could do.
A ridiculous, hysterical laugh threatened to overwhelm her. Two trained wizards — and they were going to die because between them they couldn't even muster the strength to levitate a cauldron… Light-headed. A tiny, detached part of her mind was still analysing objectively. Shock — blood-loss—
"Too much blood." Snape was staring at her, grimly.
The cauldron fell as he glanced over his shoulder into the dungeon and pulled her closer, dragging aside what was left of the high collar of her robes. Breath hissed between his teeth at the sight. "Stand still — we haven't got long—"
Entirely typical of dear Severus not to bother to mention "this is going to hurt"…. Minerva's throat tightened as she recognised the first words of the Hot-Poker Hex and felt the instant heat of his raised wand. It should have been white-hot. But for this, the fading cherry-red glow was going to be more than enough…. And then it was all she could do not to cry out as the burning heat touched mangled flesh; despite the Numbing Curse, all she could do to stay on her feet. Her mouth watered, instinctively, at the scent of seared flesh, and that was very nearly the last straw.
Minerva McGonagall clung against the side of the cauldron, struggling for control, and saw the each uisge coming towards them like a cresting wave, in the moment when hunger and fury finally overcame fear and blooming pain. Snape must have seen it too.
The metal quivered and stirred a little beneath her cheek, trying to lift, and she caught at the doorframe to drag herself to her feet, relieving him of that weight at least. But whatever dregs of power he'd had left earlier had been swallowed in the decision to risk that last hex. Snape's breath was coming in harsh gasps of effort, and the cauldron had barely risen enough to hover above the ground. It wasn't going to work—
Her own wand had slipped, useless, from limp fingers to roll beneath the cauldron's base. Instinctively she groped for it with her good hand in the seconds that remained to her; felt the potion lurch against her grasp…. She gasped in sudden understanding.
"Severus!"
A moment earlier, she'd thought she barely had the strength to stand. She got a firm grasp on the cauldron's weight and heaved.
Snape caught his breath in a sharp hiss, releasing his own grip, as the thick fluid slopped across the rim; but in the next instant he had dropped down beside her at the back of the cauldron, thin shoulders braced against hers and straining. The potion lifted, unsteadily.
"One — two—" His voice cracked as the each uisge came through the doorway in a black cloud of magic. "Three—"
Minerva flung everything she had into that last effort, heedless of darkness or pain; felt the weight flying upwards in a great gout of liquid as the nightmare creature came back for the kill. Heard the screams, both boy and horse, as the Desiccating Potion splashed out in a tidal wave that broke over the each uisge's power, boiling, burning, eating at glossy hide and unclean water alike….
Trying to drag them both back, she found herself on the ground, spatters of potion smoking on her robes as a great acrid cloud seemed to swell beyond the empty cauldron. Snape was struggling to his feet, one arm cradled at a weird angle, staggering forward— And then a limp shape was flying towards them out of the cloud, Snape silhouetted trying to break its fall, and she forced herself to her knees to brace him as the rag-doll limbs came down.
Lovell's lifeless body was heavier than Minerva McGonagall had ever imagined. Snape went down hard despite all she could do, the boy spreadeagled in his arms as they hit the ground, and for a moment neither moved. Behind them in the doorway, a formless heap lay near the overturned cauldron, a thin wisp of smoke still rising.
It had tried to shift shape at the last, she realised finally, swallowing. What was left…bore very little relation now to a horse of any kind. Or to any living thing. Even as she stared, the side of the mound fell in, with a little puff of dust.
Movement at her side, as Snape struggled for breath, thrusting Lovell's sprawling weight roughly towards her. Professor McGonagall caught the boy's head before it could hit the ground, dragging him free with her good arm so that his shoulders were cradled in her lap, and bent over the blistered body. Everywhere his robes had been touched by Anhydraserum, the skin beneath was reddened and peeling. Memories of Death Eater atrocities rose and were choked down.
Snape silently produced a handful of glass shards from inside his robes, and held out the largest in front of the boy's lips. Nothing happened.
And then, a long second later, the curved glass clouded over with Magnus' breath, and Minerva McGonagall found her eyes blurring with a sudden, unexpected rush of tears. She bent her head to hide them, holding the boy closer, and felt him stir.
"He'll live." Snape's voice, little more now than a harsh whisper, had lost none of its bitter edge. He tossed aside the remnants of glass, and reached out to tip the young Ravenclaw's head over to the side, thumbing one eyelid open. "He'll live."
He didn't look particularly enthused at the prospect. "I won't answer for how much is left of his mind. If he's lucky he'll remember nothing — which is more than he deserves. He was warned, and warned again; if justice were done, he'd spend the rest of his life raving…."
"If justice were done, few indeed of us would be where we are today," Professor McGonagall said sharply, setting Lovell down gently and climbing to her feet. She reached, automatically, for her wand to conjure a stretcher, swayed, and almost fell.
"You need to get that shoulder wound seen to," Snape observed, pulling himself to his own feet one-handed and stooping to pick up her wand. He passed it to her without a word.
"I can manage." Professor McGonagall's lips tightened. The Numbing Curse was wearing off. It took her four attempts to create a stretcher for Lovell, and another three to get him on it, with Snape's black gaze on her every step of the way, and by the end she didn't know whether to bite his head off or admit that he was right. Her teeth were clenched tightly together.
Poppy would take care of the young Ravenclaw without too many questions. The Matron never probed where students were concerned. But Minerva McGonagall was far from certain if Madam Pomfrey's discretion extended to cover one of her colleagues turning up with not only the marks where something had tried to tear out her throat, but where someone else had tried to stop her bleeding to death by using a Death Eater hex on her….
"Incidentally, Severus—" she had managed to get the stretcher drifting in more or less the right direction towards the door, despite a wand that had begun to feel as if it were made of lead— "just for my curiosity — where did you learn such…creative use of the Dark Arts? Not at Hogwarts, to my certain knowledge. And—"
She broke off. And — not, she was almost sure, among the followers of He Who Must Not Be Named. That was one master who had no interest in employing swords as ploughshares, or in saving lives among the acolytes he'd beguiled into his train. But she had never spoken of Severus' past. Every Slytherin of that year had been lost to Voldemort; one, at least, had returned to them. He was what he was…and what he had been was better left to rest in silence.
But the lines of exhaustion in Snape's face had twisted in what was almost amusement. "I believe you were — briefly — acquainted with my dear departed father?"
"Ah." It had slipped out before she could help it, and the corners of his mouth twitched wryly in response.
"Ah indeed. As you can imagine, running home crying with a grazed knee or a gryphon-bite wasn't really an option. We learned to improvise…with what was available."
And what had been available, to any child of Melegrus and Verilla's, had been above all the Dark Arts. By all accounts, that had been the least of it. A bitter taste was drying in her mouth. Few wizards had deserved their fate more richly than Melegrus Snape — and few could have been mourned less. She glanced back, at the closed face of the man's own son, and saw nothing there but sour memory; and something else.
Professor McGonagall frowned, remembering him leaning awkwardly to retrieve her wand. The way he held himself…. "Severus, what's wrong with your arm?"
For a moment she thought he would deny it; then something flickered behind the black eyes. Snape turned slightly, bringing both hands into the light, and shook back his sleeve. Both hand and forearm were mottled scarlet and white.
"Anhydraserum — when the cauldron spilled." He flexed and closed the fingers with a sharp hiss of breath, glancing a moment towards the dried mound that had once been an each uisge. "Now, if you would kindly deal with your own injuries, Professor, and leave me to salve mine…."
"Poppy should see that," Professor McGonagall said, and Snape cut her off.
"No. I can ma—" An echo of her own words, bitten short abruptly as they both heard it. He'd drawn his hands back into the shadow of his robes. "I'm more than capable of dealing with a simple burn. It isn't the first time I've been…careless." He didn't specify what he considered to be a lack of care; but somehow she didn't think he was referring to the handling of cauldrons. Their eyes met.
"After this fiasco," Snape said softly, taking bitter stock of the ruin that was all the each uisge's onslaught had left of his research, "the last thing either of us is going to want is anything linking both our names to tonight."
And it wouldn't just be Poppy Pomfrey making the connection. There was a deep chill ebbing into her bones at the realisation, now, of just how close their private project had come to disaster; at the sheer blind arrogance of the risk they'd — she'd — taken.
"I can't let you go on," she said abruptly, yielding the point unspoken. "You know that. Even if the potion could be made—"
"Agreed." Snape jerked his head in unwilling assent and turned away, moving stiffly to set the room to rights. Professor McGonagall stared at his back for a minute, searching for the right words; but Lovell, behind her, moaned, stirring on the stretcher, and with a sigh she stooped down beside him.
The room swam alarmingly around her as she moved, in a brutal reminder of just how badly she'd been hurt. She put out one hand for support, blindly, and found the boy's arm. The young fingers curled and clung to hers. "Professor?…"
"Lie still, Lovell. I'll get you up to the hospital wing." Minerva McGonagall managed a fair approximation of her usual brisk tones around the sudden lump in her throat. For a moment, through dizzy eyes, it could have been her sister lying there, ashen-grey in a sprawl of dark hair. Catriona….
"You're very lucky to be alive, young man," she told him severely. "No, don't try to talk. I expect Madam Pomfrey will want to keep you in bed for a day or two. I'll come and see you in the morning."
She disentangled their fingers, giving his arm a final pat, and brought up her wand with an effort once more to guide the stretcher towards the door. She could still feel the imprint of the each uisge's jaws in the grinding agony that had begun to envelop her shoulder; still hear the echo of Snape's desperation calling her back. But it was not the right moment. It never was, with Severus.
She looked back, once, from the doorway; caught only the brief flicker as he turned away into the shadows. Dear God, man— for a moment she could have shaken him— would it be so hard, just for once, to show some grace in the face of gratitude? To acknowledge at least that you saved my life?
A sigh. Enough, perhaps, to know that she could trust him with her life. Too much to expect him to be gracious about it. He was what he was.
Professor McGonagall went wearily up the stairs, to a reckoning with Madam Pomfrey and blessed, pain-free sleep.