Part Two

Sylvester Black was tall, straight-backed, slim, with the vigour of a man many decades younger than he actually was. His grey eyes were made more intense by the long grey hair tied back with a black ribbon, calling attention to a face - and a body - browned from its time on the water and in the sun. He wore an ankle-length skirt of brilliantly coloured material tied around his hips and nothing else.

He used the cheroot in his hand to point to the man sitting on his porch, barely moving, under the watchful supervision of his familiar. "So you want me to keep an eye on your escaped convict."

"He's not guilty."

Sylvester shrugged. "As if I would care."

"He's not."

The man thought a moment, staring at the end of his cheroot. "What was he when he was a man?"

"Potions instructor at Hogwarts, spy for our side deep within Voldemort's inner circle."

"Nice way you had of repaying him that." He didn't expect any response from Sirius and he didn't get one. "How long?"

Sirius shrugged. "I have no idea. Until they stop looking for him, I guess. Or if that's too long, until we can find another safe place for him to be."

Sylvester grunted.

"He'll need watching."

Sylvester chortled "Which does he prefer, boys or girls?"

Sirius shook his head. "That's a moot point. He can't bear being touched. Something else. He has nightmares."

"Really?" Sylvester's tone and face indicated anything but surprise. "Like you had."

Sirius shook his head. "Probably worse. They kept him in a sub-terranian cell. No light. He never got to see the man who used a variety of curses on him, including Cruciatus, nor the one who he thinks just stood by and watched."

Sylvester scowled at his cheroot. "What's your role in all this?"

"I got him out of Azkaban."

"By yourself?" Sylvester imbued a lot of disbelief in the two words.

Sirius shook his head.

"The werewolf helped you."

A nod.

"You two aren't still screwing."

It wasn't a question but Sirius shook his head anyway.

"Why? Not the werewolf, but him."

Sirius finally sat in a chair and looked at his cousin. "We butted heads a few times and it left us with unresolved issues."

Sylvester suddenly grinned. "`Unresolved issues'. You mean the two of you hate each other's guts."

Sirius shrugged as though it weren't important. "We learnt to work together."

"So, he's that bright, is he? Excuse me, was that bright."

Sirius leaned back in the chair, head against the back. "What makes you say that?"

"Sirius, me boy, you suffer from the same disease most Blacks have inherited along with our brains. Well, those of us who have brains. A certain disdain towards those we consider to be our intellectual inferiors. If you and he butted heads, more than once..." He left it up in the air, watching his younger cousin's eyes acknowledge the truth of that.

"He's brilliant. A fucking pain in the arse, anti-social, with even less tolerance for those he considers his intellectual inferiors, of which there are many, but he is brilliant. It's why he's still sane instead of freaking nuts."

"Somewhat sane," corrected Sylvester, refusing to lessen his assessment of the man sitting on his porch. "So, tell me, Sirius Black, if you're not buggering the werewolf, who are you buggering?"

Sirius smiled. "What makes you think I am?"

Sylvester turned very serious. His voice lost its crudeness and the man who had made millions playing in the Muggle world was allowed to surface. "The last time you were here, there was a sharp edge to you. The nerves are still there, but the edge has been smoothed. And you are more than dealing `with issues' here, you're concerned about this man. But you don't love him."

Sirius grinned. "No."

Sylvester made himself comfortable in his own chair. One of the things he liked about his cousin was his ability to follow Sylvester's quick changes in conversation without their getting to him. "Will I like the man you do love?"

Sirius cocked his head as he thought. "I think so. But I know you'll love his mother."

Sylvester laughed. "And does his mother approve of the two of you?"

"Yes, strangely enough, she does. She thinks we'll bring out the best in each other."

Sylvester knew Sirius expected him to laugh about that, but the older man just nodded. "`Bout bloody time someone did! Solfeggio!"

The house elf who appeared growled, "What do you want now?"

Sylvester sat grinning: Sirius was always taken aback by this most unhouseelven of house elves. Solfeggio was blunt, abrupt and as cantankerous as Sylvester himself. They'd been together for a long time.

"We are going to have a visitor."

Solfeggio glared at Sirius. "Since when have we become a half-way house for escaped prisoners?" He also didn't talk like house elves talked.

Sylvester acknowledged Sirius's inquiring expression by gesturing to the pile of Daily Prophets on the table: Solfeggio's question went unanswered. "He'll need to be under constant supervision until I say differently."

"Yes, so what else is new?" There was a deep exasperated sigh. "All right. I'll set up a rotation like we had with Junior here." And he disappeared.

"You kept me under supervision?"

Sylvester nodded.

"Was I that bad?"

"Close enough."

"Those nights you were walking to deal with insomnia..."

"I wasn't the one with insomnia, lad. And you needed to talk about it." He smiled at his young relative as he stood up. "Go home, lad. To your man, and bring out the best in each other. I'll take care of your `issue'."

Sirius stood up and came up to Sylvester. With a slight hesitation - unlike the Weasleys, the Blacks were not a particularly touchy family, probably why there were so few of them left - he leaned over and affectionately hugged his cousin. "Thank you, Sylvester. And not just for this."

"Bring him to see me the next time you visit, Rus." And he hugged the `lad' back.


"Snape?"

He had to think a moment and then remembered: the voice that had admonished the bird.

"Have you warmed up yet?"

Severus had to think about that as well before concluding he wasn't as cold as he had been.

The bird... What was it Black had called it? Oh, yes, a macaw. And it had a name as well. "Fiji."

The bird looked up from its preening. "That's me!" it crowed.

"Yes, that certainly is you." There was laughter in the speaker's voice.

The voice had spoken no longer from behind him. Now it was to the side of him. Severus forced his eyes from the bird to the source of the laughter.

He found a man sitting back in a chair like the one he was sitting in, watching him as he puffed on a thin cigar. The man waited as he continued watching him. There was something about his face...

"My name is Sylvester Black. Sirius is a cousin of mine. He introduced us before he left. Do you remember?"

Severus chewed on his lower lip. Then he nodded because it seemed to be expected of him. Thinking about it, he did remember being told that he was safe here but then the bird had arrived and that's all he remembered.

He turned his head back to the bird only to find it was no longer there. Had he been imagining... Before the panic could grow, the man leaned over.

"He's flown off to eat and then he'll take a nap. The noonday sun here is quite strong. In fact, you'll probably be more comfortable in some cooler clothing."

The man stood and indicated the inside of the house. "I'll show you where you're sleeping. Solfeggio will have your room ready by now."

Though the words had been polite, Severus recognized an order when he heard it. He knew that subtlety was not to be ignored. He tried hard to ignore the panic growing in him.

No Molly. He remembered being told that he was being taken from her care. He closed his eyes and tried to find the safe place within him.

"Snape?"

He had no choice. He found his feet and preceded the man out of the light.

The interior of the house was dark, not as dark as anything he'd gotten used to, but dark after the brilliant light of outside.

"Close your eyes, count to ten then slowly open them. You'll see better."

Yes, he did. He still squinted, but he could make out the floor then the furniture and the walls.

He let go of the breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding.

"Cooler here, too, isn't it? If you can see the hallway to the right? Your room is the first door on the right."

Severus nodded and took a step in that direction. He staggered, his legs suddenly unsure.

"Do you need help?"

Though the voice was kind, Severus felt the panic build.

"I won't touch you, Snape. It's all right. We can wait until you feel steady enough to try again. On your own."

He thanked the voice the only way he knew how: he began walking.

The first door was open and he stepped into a room that was large, with a wall that was doors opening onto the porch that faced the water.

"The bed," said the voice, causing him to focus his attention.

His first thought was that it was large. Much larger than the one he'd been using at the Weasley home. Far larger than the cot...

"Bathroom is through this door," continued the voice, calling his attention to a door that was next to an armoire of some kind. "Shower only, I'm afraid. But the water is desalinated, which is very refreshing at the end of a day."

He nodded because something seemed to be expected of him.

"You can keep your clothes in here, though you'll probably find that what you've brought with you is too warm for our climate."

Severus wondered if he would ever be too warm.

"In fact," the man came into his line of vision, "it might be a good idea to remove those and get into something cooler."

And Severus felt the fear take over. But there was nothing he could do: he had to obey. Black was gone, that he did remember, leaving him here, alone with this man. Not Azkaban. Black had sworn not Azkaban, but nothing had been said about a gaoler. He wondered if this one would be more merciful than his last.

He forced his hands up to the top of his shirt and ordered his fingers to the buttons. They were hard to open, his fingers were trembling so much, but the man made no move to hurry him along and so he continued.

The man turned and allowed him a sense of privacy as he removed the shirt from off his shoulders. He didn't know what to do with it, so he let it drop onto the bed.

His hands went to the jeans he was wearing and he finally managed to get them off as well. The legs got caught in the runners he had forgotten to remove, so he toed his way out of them and the socks before awkwardly slipping out of his jeans and briefs, adding them all to the small pile on the bed.

Severus stood there, naked, arms and hands loose by his sides, head bowed.

This had been one of the games he'd had to play in Azkaban. He'd stood there, blindfolded - at least here he hadn't been...so far - while his tormentor had circled him, touching him, passing comment on his body, explaining what he was going to do to it. The other man had only gone around him, never speaking.

Somehow that had been more unnerving than his tormentor's actions and words.

He waited.


"Solfeggio will delegate one of the house elves to... Bloody hell!"

Sylvester was shocked into silence.

Solfeggio, who had appeared as soon as he had heard his name, ready to challenge whatever new duty was going to be assigned to him with this new arrival, stood there, his mouth agape, not a sound coming out of him.

Snape was standing as though waiting for an order to move. Naked. His body...

Merlin! Sylvester closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Snape's body had been used as someone's grotesque idea of a canvas.

His body, from neck down to his ankles, was a pattern of raised scars. A pattern that someone had chosen to design.

Sylvester looked at Solfeggio who was scowling right back at him. Both of them were fighting off anger at the sight. Both of them realized, without having to discuss the situation, that the man who bore the scars did not have the resources to deal with their reactions to what had been done to him.

Solfeggio cleared his throat.

"You need to put this around your waist."

He stepped up close to Snape, a length of material in his hand.

Sylvester nearly pulled the house elf back. He'd already noted that the extent of Snape's personal space was a lot wider than the norm.

But Snape only weaved a little and then looked at the fabric the house elf held out in his hands.

"You wrap it around your waist and you knot it on a hip. That's all anyone ever wears around here. It's called a sarong."

Snape's eyes slowly inched their way over to Sylvester, as though to verify the house elf's instructions.

Sylvester nodded. "You can wear a t-shirt with it, if you feel cold. But the sun feels too good when you first get here to have something between it and your skin."

Snape looked back at the house elf who offered the cloth yet again. He took it warily and allowed it to unfold, staring at the length before finally trying to wrap it around himself.

"No, not that way." Solfeggio stepped up next to Snape and took the material from him, showing him the proper way of holding it.

Sylvester noted that, apart from an initial response that seemed to be reflexive on Snape's part, he didn't step back from Solfeggio, nor did that panic-stricken look take over his face.

Snape watched as Solfeggio demonstrated how to wrap the sarong and then handed him the material.

"You need protection against the sun." Solfeggio's voice was resuming its normal tones, though much softer. He snapped his fingers and Snape's body suddenly had a sheen to it. "And a hat. Until you're used to the sun, you wear a hat going out, you hear me?"

Sylvester tried to remember the last time he had heard his house elf speak so gently as he issued his orders. The balance seemed to work with Snape: he nodded, without looking frightened.

Solfeggio rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. Just remember that I'm keeping an eye on you."

Snape didn't like that. He looked anxious again.

Solfeggio continued as if nothing had happened. "If you're like any of those other idiots," he gestured to Sylvester, "I'm going to have to run after you until you do. And I want to see sunglasses on you as well."

He turned to growl at Sylvester. "Hat and sunglasses. You can see to those, I suppose. I need to see to lunch, assuming you want any today." He turned once more to Snape whose eyes reflected his surprise at the way the house elf had been speaking to Sylvester. "And you," once more getting Snape's attention, "I don't want to see food left on your plate. You're skinnier than a rail and I don't approve of diets."

And with that, he disappeared.

Snape slowly turned his head to Sylvester.

Sylvester shrugged. "That's Solfeggio."


The chimes announced the possibility of a customer. George looked up from the sketch he was working on, another little idea that he hoped would prove to be as successful as the others he had developed.

Standing in the middle of the floor space of "Wheezies: Jokes ExtraOrdinaires for Everyone" was Albus Dumbledore.

A quick glance and George noted that he was not alone. Two Aurors were glancing around at the displays, as if uncertain exactly what they were looking at.

"Headmaster." George put on his welcome face and surreptitiously pushed a pre-determined code on the alarm button just under the counter. They all knew that this day would eventually arrive. Still, it hadn't been Dumbledore they had been expecting. "It's a pleasure to see you again." He tossed his pad onto the counter and came round to offer the Headmaster his hand.

"Mr. Weasley. Interesting place you have here."

George grinned. "It's George, sir. And thank you. We like to think it might be interesting enough to satisfy anyone's need for humour and laughter."

The Aurors obviously didn't approve of that sentiment. They glared at him. George just grinned back. They had nothing on his mother's glares.

"Your brother Fred is a full partner in this venture, isn't he?"

George's grin grew even wider. "Headmaster. I'm no longer a student of yours. It's been almost eight years now since Fred and I graduated. If you want to know something, there's no need for discretion. Ask away!"

Dumbledore sighed, the way he always had whenever George and Fred had had to stand yet again before the Headmaster in his office.

"Actually, I'm looking for Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. Would you happen to know..."

"Rus and Fred were shagging the last time I heard them." He rolled his eyes significantly up to the ceiling. "In the development room." He shrugged, in an exaggerated manner. "So hard to get good help. You have to put up with anyone these days."

The Aurors were not happy with his attitude, he could tell. But Dumbledore only shook his head. "George. Are you ever going to take anything seriously?"

"He takes me seriously." Remy came through the back entrance, balancing several boxes. George hurried over to help him stack the boxes on the counter.

Remy smiled at the Headmaster as they shook hands. "Good morning, Headmaster. You're rather far from Hogwarts."

Dumbledore nodded his head. "Remus. There was a meeting that I had to attend. I thought I'd drop in and see how things were."

"Bloody hell! Aurors! Who let them in?" Rus's grin belied the tone of his greeting. Remy took the occasion to lean back on the nearest counter, his eyes carefully observing the situation.

The Aurors obviously did not have a sense of humour.

The visitors' attention had turned to the two who had entered the room. Both Fred and Black were disheveled enough to bear truth to George's comment.

Fred's grin challenged George's and the brothers made themselves comfortable, sitting on the counter, legs dangling. Rus leaned against Fred's legs, his arm around his lover's waist. Fred draped a long arm over Black's shoulders. At the soft exclamation of one of the Aurors, they leaned more into each other, Fred smoothing down Rus's rumpled hair.

"It's been a while, Albus," greeted Rus, with a wide grin. "Let me guess. You've come to warn us against selling our products to your students."

Dumbledore managed the semblance of a smile. "I'm certain that you will all be delighted to know that Wheezies products now occupy numbers 736 through 751 of items Filch has banned from the grounds."

George and Fred cheered happily and high-fived as though this was a victory. Rus laughed and even Remy chuckled.

The Aurors disapproved once more.

"Though that is good news indeed," said Remy from his bit of counter, "I'm certain that isn't the only reason you've come to visit us."

"No, it isn't." Dumbledore turned somber, as though hoping his demeanor would help get the message across that this visit had a serious intent.

It didn't have any discernible effect on the four of them. George and Fred just watched him and the Aurors, eyes gleaming, smiles at the ready. Rus was no more serious. Remy, who had at least lost the smile, was waiting with less than trepidation. They'd run through this scenario so many times that it came naturally.

"I need to speak to you about something that happened about two months ago. The night of the full moon, last May."

"Yes?" Remy cocked his head and waited.

No other reaction. No starts, no exchanges of looks. Nothing except benign curiosity.

"What were you all doing that night?"

Remy actually smiled. "Well, Headmaster, since it was a full moon, I had changed into my usual werewolf self."

The Aurors shifted uneasily.

George nodded. "I remember that one. Hermione's Wolfsbane was late and you were nervous about it. I promised to muzzle you if it didn't arrive in time. Remember? You called me an idiot and lectured me on never trying to get near to you during the time of a full moon if you hadn't had your Wolfsbane."

"Oh, yes," Rus grinned at Remy. "I remember that discussion. Fred and I were trying to sleep in and the screaming woke us."

Remy was insulted. "I do not scream."

George and Fred shared a look and a snicker.

"You were screaming," said George. "But that's okay. I got the message, love." And shared a look with Remy that was totally different than the one he'd just shared with his brother.

"Yes, well," ahemmed the Headmaster, "what else did you do that night?"

George noted that Dumbledore was growing a little irritated, as he usual did whenever he'd had to deal with them.

"Albus," Rus leaned back, his elbows on the counter, hips jutting out. Apart from George, none of the others was wearing his robe as they all favoured Muggle jeans and light shirts or sweaters for working in the back. "Albus. Get to the point. What happened that May night of the full moon? What are we being blamed for now?"

George rolled his eyes while Fred sighed, looking quite put-upon. "Why are we still being blamed for everything that goes wrong at Hogwarts?"

"Not Hogwarts," Dumbledore's voice cut in coldly. "Azkaban."

"What!" Remy straightened and actually stepped forward. The Aurors must have found that threatening as they pulled out their wands.

"What the hell!" Rus's wand was suddenly in his hand as Fred and George pulled out theirs.

Dumbledore held up his hand. "Enough! You will all put your wands away and listen to me."

Fred scowled at the Aurors. "When they do, I will."

Dumbledore looked a little taken aback: he was used to immediate obedience. "Mr. Weasley, this is a serious matter."

Fred's head rose and he stared straight into Dumbledore's eyes, addressing him not as a troublesome student but as an equal. "And this is our establishment, Headmaster, not Hogwarts. If you wish to speak to us, you will do so without the presence of these gentlemen. Otherwise, please leave. We're busy."

"Are we being accused of something, Albus?" Remy's was the voice of calm reason.

George rolled his eyes. "Oh, Merlin! Let me guess. Longbottom's still pissed at us for not supporting his harassment of Harry. Don't tell me he's been happily coding and decoding some suddenly found lost pages from that so-called diary of his parents to prove that we...what?

"Azkaban," murmured Fred. "According to the rumour mill, isn't Snape on the run-away from there?"

"Oh, bloody hell!" Rus suddenly looked livid. "So, of course, you come here to me. The original fly boy!"

But Dumbledore was still focused on George. "What do you mean, coding and decoding?"

The twins and the others exchanged glances and this time they were conversations.

As they'd agreed, Remy appointed himself spokesman. "After they leave," and gestured to the Aurors.

Dumbledore went very still and then, when he realized that nothing else was forthcoming, he turned to the two Aurors and told them to leave the store but to wait outside within calling distance.

When the last of the chimes faded, he turned back to the four men. "What did you mean?"

Remy scoffed. "Come on, Albus. We all here know that you and the Ministry had some reason for getting rid of Snape and that Longbottom's piece of fiction was used to do it."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed and he dropped all aspects of the tolerant Headmaster. He bit out, "What are you taking about?"

"Well, it was obvious that the Justice Department had to know something that no one else did. I mean, Snape was a hero even if he didn't want any of the recognition, even if he avoided most of the festivities. You couldn't haul him into court for...what was it? Was he buggering the little monsters in his House? Had some parents complained?"

Dumbledore took offense at the insult. "No one on my staff has ever buggered any member of the student body." His glare moved from Remy to George. "At least, not while they were members of my staff."

"Well, what was it then? It had to be something important that forced Snape to agree to accept those drummed up charges."

"Drummed up... Those charges were appropriate. They were..."

Rus's laughter was bitter. "Like mine?" He moved away from the counter, as though heading into the back area of the store. "Look, you don't have to tell us if you don't want to, but don't come here blaming us if you couldn't keep him in Azkaban." He suddenly swerved to face the Headmaster who was beginning to look less certain of himself. "Do you seriously think I, of all people, would return to Azkaban just to free Severus Snape? You think the dementors would think twice about applying the Kiss to me if they got their hands on me!"

Fred jumped down and went to put his arms around his lover. "Rus. It's all right. Calm down, love. You'll make yourself ill again." And he glared daggers at Dumbledore.

Remy's face showed his bitterness. "And it's not as though I would go out of my way either to spit on Snape even if he were on fire. Merlin knows, I certainly owe him for outing me to his Slytherins. Until you needed me and my special talents for the War, I had no way of earning my living, thanks to Snape."

George knew that Remy was not acting now. That life had been hard for his lover until Voldemort's actions had meant that all wizards of any kind were needed by the Light to defeat him. And even then, his lycanthropy had meant that he'd never truly been accepted, that he had never been completely trusted by the witches and wizards who had fought with him. He'd been the hardest to convince on the rescue.

"You're saying that the Longbottom Diary is ...falsified?" Dumbledore was looking straight at Lupin who shrugged in return.

"Well, by now, Neville probably thinks of it as being the pure, honest truth. Albus," his voice finally showed some concern, "are you saying that the reason...the only reason Snape was sent to Azkaban was..." He shook his head. "Bloody hell! Albus!"

"The evidence..."

"Come on!" Remy finally allowed some of the anger festering in him out. "You of all people," he snapped, "knew Snape better than any of us. He worked for you for twenty years. How could you... Even for a minute?" Remy took a moment to get control over his temper. "I mean," he continued more calmly, "we nearly said something to you about it until we realized it had to be some ruse...something being used as a cover...

"But there was nothing to cover..." And Remy's shock coloured his voice. "Dear Merlin! Even the Greasy Git doesn't deserve that. What the bloody hell have we done?"

Albus Dumbledore shook his head. "No. The basis for his incarceration was solid and factual."

Remy's horror at Dumbledore's continued insistence was slowly replaced by disgust. "I think it would be a good idea for you to leave now, Headmaster Dumbledore."

Rus looked as though he had something distasteful in his mouth. "If you should ever happen to have any qualms about the actual veracity of the socalled Longbottom Diary, you could go have a little talk with Draco Malfoy."

"Malfoy? What does..."

Fred's snort was all too disdainful. George looked at him as though he pitied him. Rus simply looked disgusted. Remy was sad.

At the door, Dumbledore turned once more. George noted that Remy's was the one face the Headmaster couldn't meet.


"Of course, they won't admit they've been had."

Rus rolled the bottle of butterbeer between his hands. To make Molly happy, he had cut back on his intake of alcohol, but he sorely missed it right now.

Harry sat back in his chair, stunned at the news Rus had brought him. He got up and walked to his office window, staring out at the lovely summer gardens that filled the back grounds at Beauxbatons.

"Is there anything they can do? To Neville?"

Rus made a rude noise. "What? And admit that they were taken in? They've moved him out of that nice flat but besides that? He's spent all the money they awarded him as a dutiful son of Justice. Went through it in what, eighteen months? He has only minimal ability in Magic. Someone, a friend of Arthur's in the Ministry, admitted to Arthur that the only reason Longbottom had been allowed into Hogwarts in the first place was out of a sense of sympathy for his parents."

"Snape...was cruel to him."

Rus shook his head. One of the things he most admired about Harry was his loyalty to his friends, even if, in this particular case, the friend had driven him crazy with his demands. An inherited trait. James has refused to accept anyone but a friend for the Fidelis Charm. And like Harry, had paid for that loyalty.

"Snape was hard on anyone who didn't pull his weight. Hell, he was hard on those who did. But Neville was dangerous in his classroom. If you look back, Neville was lucky he didn't kill anyone."

"Snape..."

Black sighed loudly. "Snape is...was a bastard of the first order, Harry. I'll agree with you on that. But he was living a double life and, believe me, that's not easy. Not when Voldemort had second thoughts about him when he returned. And yes, he didn't bear fools gladly. And he had exacting standards. But can you point out any other student as incompetent as Longbottom who was allowed to remain at Hogwarts once it had been determined he was unable to do the work required?"

Rus went to stand next to his godson. "You hated Snape because he picked on you. He mocked your `celebrity' status. He pushed you. He expected you to listen and to learn. And, yes, he was particularly hard on you, Harry. But you see, he knew what you were going to have to deal with eventually and he was preparing you for that in the only way he knew how.

"But as for Longbottom... He was a waste of everyone's time. Even your own. I never was comfortable with him hanging around you all the time. I think I may have mentioned it a few times."

Harry ignored all that as he had Rus's disquiet about Longbottom. "Snape wasn't hard on Slytherin."

Rus shrugged. There was that blasted loyalty again. "To be honest, Harry, he didn't have to be. By the time most of those who do get sorted into Slytherin start school, they've been playing with potions and spells for years. Remember Goyle and Crabbe? Malfoy's bodyguards. Thick as planks, but Ron and Hermione told me that they didn't fail any of their subjects. They didn't head their classes, but they weren't bottom of the pile either. If it had just been Potions... But it wasn't, was it?"

Harry closed his eyes. Finally, he shook his head.

"And now that you're teaching yourself, surely you can understand his frustration with having to deal with Longbottom year after year. All because some members of the Ministry felt sorry for the boy. He would have been better served with their finding him some apprenticeship rather than sending him to Hogwarts."

Rus could actually feel Harry give up the effort to prove Snape the villain in all this.

"Does anyone know where Snape is?"

Rus hesitated a moment, then shrugged.


Apart from eat and sleep and stare at the scenery, Snape had done nothing since his arrival.

Sylvester looked up from the report he was reading. He may have been in a tropical paradise, in the middle of nowhere, but he did keep a close eye on his portfolios, both Muggle and Wizardry. Snape was drowsing once more in what had become his chair on the porch, suddenly waking as though he were aware of being watched.

That wasn't growing any easier with each passing day. He woke with starts, eyes wildly searching to see where he was. Not truly believing where he was when he finally did wake completely. He had nightmares. Screaming nightmares. And even with the house elf watching him trying to wake him before the fact, there were times nothing prevented them.

Sylvester would run into Snape's bedroom and find the house elf in tears as he or she tried to get close enough to the man cowering in terror against the head of the bed to make him realize that he was safe. His eyes would be wide open though they all knew he was seeing something not there. A hellhole where he'd be thrown into and forgotten by all but the man who had tortured him.

One of the advantages of great wealth, both Wizardry and Muggle, was the ability to purchase services. A week after Snape's arrival, Sylvester realized that the situation required a professional opinion. His contacts quickly located a medi-witch who specialized in such cases. In exchange for a generous donation in support of her pet project, she agreed to portkey to the house and examine Snape and then forget that he existed.

With Sylvester, the woman was abrupt, cold, with no time for the merest courtesy. He hesitated to allow her near Snape who was lying somnambulant on his bed.

She underwent a metamorphosis the moment she stepped into Snape's room. She was considerate, kind, infinitely patient and understanding of his fear. At her suggestion, Sylvester left to be replaced by Solfeggio, in whose presence Snape seemed less fearful. When she came out of the room, two hours later, it took several minutes of deep breathing exercises for her to find the self she had presented to Sylvester.

"The man who did that to him," she was almost spitting, "enjoyed himself. Obscenely."

Sylvester helped her to a chair and handed her a glass of cognac.

"Thank you." She tossed it back with no appreciation of its age. "I shall be sending you some potions. Healing Sleep. That is to be used only at night. And only for a short time. He hasn't survived all that to become addicted.

"There will also be a potion for healing. Whoever took care of him did a decent job for her skills, but there is some pain deep within him still. The result of an accumulation of the some of the spells used against him." She waved off his attempts to explain. "No, I am not laying blame. This is not something within a healer's normal range of experience. I deal with victims of torture, not accidents."

She accepted the cup of tea a respectful female house elf presented and sipped quietly.

"You know that he'll never be what he once was."

Sylvester sat back in his chair. For her visit he was wearing more than his usual sarong. Solfeggio had found him a pair of light cotton trousers and a shirt. He placed his hands on the arms of his chair before he carefully said, "You know who he is."

"I am not stupid, Mr. Black." She was still angry from her examination of the man now sleeping dreamlessly in the bedroom. "I am familiar with Professor Snape's work. It was my privilege to hear him debate at a Potions Masters' Invitational Seminar."

He continued cautiously. "And are you aware of his recent history?"

She glared at him over the rim of the teacup.

"He isn't guilty." For some reason it was important to him that she understand that.

She placed the cup down on the small wicker table by her chair. "They would not have treated him this way had he been."

She stood and Sylvester followed her up. "I have discussed his care and nutritional needs with the house elf Solfeggio. Three weeks of Healing Sleep and then his nightly dose is to be diminished gradually. As little stress as possible, though he should be encouraged should he show any interest in anything. I did not wish to push on this visit, but we will eventually need to determine how much brain damage there is."

Sylvester cocked his head. "Is there another project you wish funded?" he asked, ruefully.

Her head lifted sharply. "Yes, there is, and, no, I am not asking for its funding. Your donation is more than sufficient. Especially since the project it will be used for deals with the psychological repercussions on those who have been tortured and your guest may profit from its findings. I shall expect regular reports on Patient #175 from you and will verify them for myself periodically. Should anything occur which bothers you or particularly upsets the patient, you will contact me immediately."

"Yes, of course, Madame de Navarre."

She paused on her way to pick up the small grey sock that was the portkey.

"Will he be remaining here, in your care, for some time?"

Sylvester thought a moment. "I think it is safe to say that should you ever need to contact or see...Patient #175, that you will be able to find him here."

She wasn't satisfied with that. "This may be a long-term commitment," she challenged.

Sylvester nodded. "Yes, I know. To the best of my knowledge at this point in time, I feel confident that, if he is not with me, I will most certainly know where he can be safely found."

And with that she was satisfied. She nodded and took up the sock in her hand.

Solfeggio sniffed, almost disapproving. "She was good with him."

"You sound disappointed." Sylvester was unbuttoning the shirt. He'd gotten out of the habit of wearing so many clothes.

"If anyone comes for him, I'm going to see to it that they never find the Professor."

Sylvester stopped undressing. "Solfeggio, my dear friend, should anyone ever come for him, it is that person who will never be found."


The sleep helped. After a week of Healing Sleep, Snape began showing some interest in his surroundings. Now when he sat on the porch, his eyes followed the birds or the house elves. He listened to Fiji as the bird commented on things he saw while he preened, playing to his audience.

His silent audience.

Snape rarely spoke. He said, "Yes, please," and "No, thank you" and he responded to Sylvester's "Good night", but apart from those, he hadn't contributed a word to any conversation since...since Sirius had left him, thought Sylvester.

He included that in his report to Madame de Navarre.

`Give him time,' she'd written back. `He doesn't know you from Adam.'

So, every afternoon, as they sat in the shade of the porch, Sylvester slowly began introducing himself. He talked about his childhood, his rebellion as a young man, how his parents had been horrified by his adventures in Muggleland.

"Muggle wealth was not Wizard wealth," said Sylvester. "According to them, Muggle wealth was founded on suspicious circumstances." He chortled and noticed that Snape's head turned at the sound. The eyes were less dead than they had been. Sylvester smiled at him. "The Blacks are an old family. They made their money about eight, nine hundred years ago. Long enough time to forget that it was made by free-booting. Piracy, actually. But we don't mention that."

Snape cocked his head and his lips moved slightly in what Sylvester presumed to accept as a smile. "Yes, I know. You're thinking of Sirius. My little cousin, Sirius. Prime material for those days. He'd have loved being a pirate."

Then Sylvester took a chance. "Severus... Do you have any objections to my calling you by your first name?

Snape looked surprised. After a moment, his head moved slightly, indicating that he didn't.

Sylvester smiled. "And I am Sylvester." He wondered if the man would ever feel comfortable enough in his presence to actually use his name. "Severus, can you swim?"

Instead of answering him, Severus's eyes went to the water that was in front of them.

Sylvester stood. "Madame thinks you should begin exercising. Swimming is an easy enough thing to do." And knowing the man well enough by now to know that he would probably do whatever Sylvester suggested, he tossed over his shoulder as he went down to the lagoon. "Come along, then."

He was careful not to look back and see if Severus was following him: there was a chance - very slight - that he might not. Still, Sylvester acted as though he was. He got to the shore line and unknotted his sarong, allowing the material to drop to the sand.

After a minute during which he fought hard against the urge to see if Severus was there, he was rewarded with the sound of something light falling to the ground.

"You need to walk out a good twenty feet before it's waist deep. And don't worry about the fish." He looked over his shoulder at the man whose eyes suddenly moved to meet his. He smiled. "The reef at the mouth of the lagoon keeps the dangerous ones out. But there's a grouper who likes to come out and visit." He pointed to the east side of the lagoon. Severus's eyes slowly left his to trace the direction. "Over by those rocks. He's an ugly brute, but he's the lagoon pet."

And with that, Sylvester slogged into the water. After a moment, Severus followed him.

Sylvester kept it easy and simple. Once the water was deep enough, he struck out for the rocks, careful to keep Severus in view. The man swam awkwardly, as though it was something he hadn't done in a very long time. Sylvester stopped after fifty feet and turned himself onto his back and floated. That, he noticed, was easier for Severus to do. Still, after a few minutes, Severus was having trouble keeping himself afloat and so Sylvester flopped around and headed back to the beach, all the while making certain that Severus was keeping up.

There he kept to the shallows, floating, lazily lying on the shore, allowing the waves to keep him wet.

After an hour, he stood up and went to pick up the cloth that was his sarong. He wrapped it around himself, stooped and picked up Severus's.

Severus's face had gotten some colour as had his body. The scars on his body would never be anything other than white, but the rest of him looked almost healthier because of the colour he'd gotten.

Severus accepted the material and carefully knotted it about his hips. He followed Sylvester back to the porch where Solfeggio was waiting with a tray of cut-up fruit and a pitcher of iced tea.

Severus sat in his chair and waited for Sylvester to serve them. He took the glass of tea and swallowed the entire contents in one go before placing the glass back down.

Solfeggio almost smiled at Sylvester, then turned to leave, grouching, "And I don't want you two to fill up on those fruits. I've got a good dinner going and it makes lousy leftovers."

They went swimming every afternoon and, once Sylvester was certain that Severus's energy levels could handle it, he insisted on a morning swim as well.

By the time Severus had been weaned off the Healing Sleep, he was sleeping better and eating better.

But he was still silent.


Severus woke before the dream pulled him in too deeply. He sat up, rubbing his face with his hands to scatter the last of it away.

It was getting easier to do, wake before he screamed the roof down. He was finally aware that yes, he was truly on an island somewhere in the South Pacific and no, he was not dreaming it.

So when the images of...that other place...invaded him, he knew he was dreaming. But sometimes the images fooled him and they were of Hogwarts, not... And then he wouldn't try to wake. Once more he was walking in the hallways, on his way to teach his classes, to the staff room for a meeting with his colleagues, to his lab to check on some potion... It was only after he got wherever he was heading that the images slowly changed. In the classroom, he would turn and find Longbottom pointing a finger at him and calling him traitor. In the staff room, Albus and the others would suddenly stand and look at him with horror and disgust. In his lab, the door would burst open, and Aurors would appear, surrounding him. In all cases, Aurors would drag him out and throw him into the dark bottomless pit that was...that other place.

He shook his head and looked around the room, verifying that he was indeed in the bedroom assigned to him. He wondered how long he had been staring at the wall. He so easily lost track of time. Not that he was aware of it when it was happening, but then something would indicate that things had been going on while he'd been... He didn't know where he'd been.

He only knew that the man who was his keeper had finished his meal while his food was still waiting to be eaten and the house elf, Solfeggio, was glaring at him and telling him to eat up. Or that the sun had risen higher in the sky or dipped lower to the horizon.

That was his only way of telling time here. The position of the sun in the sky. Back in... He'd needed a timepiece of some sort. The dungeon classrooms were windowless or had only small windows that barely allowed in the grey light. It rained a lot back in... Here, rain did occur but to the best of his knowledge, it rarely lasted more than a few minutes at a time. He was probably wrong about that, surely it rained longer periods, but not that he'd so far noticed. He had noticed that the sun often continued to shine when it did rain. And he had noticed the rainbow that linked one end of the lagoon to the other after each shower.

He suddenly realized that he'd been staring at his wrists again. At the marks that now were noticeably pale against the darkness of his skin.

He'd tanned easily as a child. He remembered that. He remembered his paternal grandmother scowling at him and pointing out that her side of the family were pale as proper wizards and witches should be. And he remembered his mother rolling her eyes before she would pointedly remind the Dowager of the Snape family that, in her country, paleness was equated with illness and perfidy. So that she was pleased to see that her child did not reflect either of those states.

Severus leaned back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. He remembered more and more about those days when he was a child than he did about recent events.

They had been happy times, he thought, happy until his mother had been killed in an accident at her lab the year he'd been eight and Grandmother had taken over the household.

He didn't like remembering those days until he had been old enough to escape her constant displeasure and berating for the relative safety of Hogwarts.

His father had rarely bothered to stand up for his only child against his mother. He didn't care to have "mundane matters" interfere with his work, he'd told Severus the one time he'd bothered to seek his father out in his office. His grandmother had beaten him severely for playing with one of the house elf children, which, according to her, was something no decent Snape would do.

So he had turned into something no decent Snape would have become. A Potions Master, like his mother. A teacher, which was beneath the Snapes, who had distinguished bureaucratic careers in some Ministry or other. Involved in the Dark Arts, which, of course, was too horrific for a decent Snape even to contemplate. He'd been disowned by his father when he'd revealed to him that he was not only working in a lab, but in one of Voldemort's. And then certainly, in the history of the Snapes, he had to be the first one who also worked as a spy. And even there, he couldn't do things simply: he had to be a double agent, balancing on the thin wire of deception.

Funny that he had managed to survive all that to fall under the imaginary charges of a student who had had no business even being admitted to Hogwarts.

Severus forced himself up and off the bed. No, no thinking about that. Thoughts like that were what often sent him into that time warp where nothing happened.

In the bathroom, he forced himself to go through the rituals that helped him focus. He pissed, washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth, passed a brush through the hair that was growing longer and greyer and then tied it back as did...Sylvester.

He was allowed to call his keeper by his name.

He looked into the mirror that was hanging over the sink and stared at the face he saw there. Every morning he did this and the face still looked unfamiliar to him. It was that of a stranger even though he knew it was his own. That, all things considered, in spite of the changes, it was the same face that had looked back at him before... Before. It was thinner. The bones were starker. His mother's cheek bones were in high relief. The mouth was tighter than he remembered. The chin sharper.

He avoided looking into the eyes. The eyes frightened him, there was so little in them.

Sylvester had cast a slow-growth spell on his face, so that he needed to shave only every couple of days. Not that he was permitted to do so himself. Solfeggio would appear and mumble some words and snap his fingers and he would be clean-shaven once more.

Severus looked at his hands. Once he had been able to do that. Mutter some words and snap his fingers and something would happen. He'd tried to shave himself once since becoming more aware. He hadn't been able to remember the words. Some of them, but not all. And when he'd tried, he'd ended up losing the most of a day, upsetting Solfeggio to no end, and causing Sylvester to send for Madame.

He'd remembered her from her first visit. Then she had warned him that she would probably hurt him, but never on purpose. He was to tell her immediately when she did because she would do her best to remove that hurt. She was a tall, thin woman with intense blue eyes, short brown hair and a face that he supposed was kind.

She'd been very kind to him this time as well. She'd pointed out that though his body was recovering far more quickly than she would have thought - she was very pleased with that - his mind and abilities were a different matter. They would need time and a lot of it. So he was not to try anything magical until she gave him the go-ahead. She promised him she would, but only when she thought he was ready.

Severus shook himself and pulled his eyes from the mirror. He couldn't have been staring too long as no one had come to find him. He walked back into the bedroom and over to the armoire where he pulled open one of the doors and looked at the pile of colours that lay there on a shelf, waiting for his selection.

He knew that he'd worn nothing but black back then, but there was nothing of that colour on the shelf. Solfeggio stocked his clothing, such as it was. It had taken him some time to get used to the near nudity of life here. He might not have except that the sun felt so good on his skin and it certainly chased the coldness out of him. In the evenings, when he shivered, Solfeggio would hand him a t-shirt and its tightness against his body would keep in the warmth he'd gathered throughout the day.

He reached for whatever colour was on the top. A white and yellow combination. Yellow that matched Fiji's feathers, he thought as he knotted the material.

It suddenly crossed his mind that his grandmother would have been livid at the sight of him in the sarong. Definitely not something a decent Snape would wear.

Clothed for the day, he turned and made the bed. Madame had insisted that he have chores to do. Keeping himself, the bed and the bathroom clean and tidy she told him - in front of Solfeggio - were his responsibilities.

Not that hard to do: he had never been untidy and he hated being dirty. He hadn't been allowed to wash in...that other place. Someone - probably the man who had hurt him - spelled him clean after each of his visits.

No, he wouldn't think about that.

He had to go out of the room now, out to the porch where the morning meal would be waiting for him.

Where Sylvester would serve him enough to break his fast but not so much that he would be satisfied before he'd eaten all on his plate. He liked the food he was given here, and he meant to eat well but suddenly, in a mouthful, his stomach would feel full and he could barely swallow what was in his mouth.

Sylvester was much more understanding about it than Solfeggio who would glare at him. So Sylvester gave him only a bit of everything and then, when he'd eaten it all, would offer him seconds. Not of everything, but of what he wanted. He'd actually begun taking a bit more these days. The swimming was making him hungrier than he'd been.

And he'd begun noticing the tastes and the flavours, so very different than what he'd eaten in his life.

Sylvester was already at the table, reading some papers which were sent to him every day. Unlike his father who had always had papers in his hand, morning was the only time he had ever seen Sylvester with his.

As he passed the bookcase, Severus hesitated. He would like to have something too in his hands, something to read. But the books were not his and he was afraid that if he asked, he would be told that he still wasn't ready to read. Or that he wasn't to touch them. Ever.

He stopped himself from reaching out to touch one of the books that hadn't been properly pushed in the last time Sylvester had used it. He missed the feel of a book in his hand.

Sylvester had looked up and caught him staring at the bookshelf. He hoped he hadn't given himself away as he continued on to the table.


Severus liked swimming. The feel of the warm water as it passed over his skin, the stretching of muscles that were responding better to his demands, the strength he was regaining.

That first time, he'd barely been able to keep up with Sylvester and even floating had been difficult. All that required focus. And focus had not been easy. He'd had to think of the action then communicate it to muscles that were sluggish in responding. He'd had to concentrate on raising an arm, kicking his feet all the while keeping his knees from bending. His head had to move to one side so he could breathe and then he had to do it all over again.

And floating hadn't been any easier. The moment he had stopped concentrating, had lost focus, he'd started sinking.

But things had become easier with each passing day and now he could swim without having to think about each action required to get him across the lagoon.

The grouper often came out and watched him, swimming alongside of him as though keeping an eye on him in case he lost this new ability of his.

And he no longer fell asleep soon after he sat down. He might drowse, or look at the scenery, or listen to the birds. Fiji would show up after their morning swim to see if Sylvester had messages to deliver, and to bring them up to date on the local gossip.

That still took him aback: a bird who talked. He was used to owls who were very good at keeping secrets and who disdained gossip in any form.

Maybe it was because Fiji was a macaw and they were very different birds from owls, but whenever Fiji showed up with the latest gossip, Severus would find himself wanting to shake his head and ask Sylvester how he could trust this bird with his messages.

But he didn't, of course.

He was deeply afraid to call attention to himself. That if he did, maybe Sylvester would remember that he was here, that he was harbouring an escaped convict. No, more than a convict, a traitor. How had he gotten out of that place? And though Sylvester often told him he was safe, especially after one of those nightmares he had when his screams finally woke him, he knew that one day he would overstep whatever bounds Sylvester had set up and he would be sent...

He didn't want to think about that.

So he kept quiet, other than the rituals of politeness his mother had taught him were important when visiting. Yes, pleases and no, thank yous.

Now he listened, the sun hot on his skin, as Fiji squawked about some boys chasing a dog that had ended up with some broken crockery. Soon Sylvester would tell him to move into the shade. He'd phrase it kindly. `Severus, don't you think the shade would be a better place for you? It's the noonday sun and though you're tanned, it will burn you.'

And he'd move, understanding the order under the kindness.

He really wished that Sylvester would suggest he find a book to read. He was beginning to feel bored.


But Sylvester had noticed that Severus now stopped at the bookcase whenever he passed by it. That his hand had begun rising, as though it hungered to touch the book that he'd purposefully left partially out to see Severus's reaction.

He hadn't understood immediately that the books had caught Severus's attention. He'd thought that Severus's hesitation at the bookcase was him bracing himself to come out of the house and join him at the table.

Navarre had said that he should be encouraged should he show interest in anything. That it would be books was not all that surprising, considering the importance of them in his life.

But still Severus never said anything. He looked with growing longing at the shelves and then, when he noticed that Sylvester was watching him, his face would go blank and he would continue on this way out.

Should he suggest Severus find something to read or wait until the man asked?

He tossed the latest report from Gringotts about the investments he had with them back onto his office desk. They were pleased to indicate that he was another 250,000 galleons richer than he had been only six months ago.

Sylvester sighed. His talent lay in the selection of stocks and funds, Wizardry and Muggle, that only made him richer. He wished he had a bit more in dealing with men who had been severely traumatized.

Severus was looking at the books, head bent slightly sideways as he read the titles. Sylvester stood silently in the entrance to the great room, knowing that Severus was doing it only because he thought Sylvester was still safely ensconced in his office.

Sylvester thought a moment and then decided to go ahead. If there were repercussions, well, it wouldn't be the first time Severus would retreat into that inner world where no one and nothing seemed to touch or reach him.

"Find anything that might interest you?"

And then he mentally kicked himself hard when Severus nearly jumped out of his skin. Damn it, he knew the man reacted badly when taken unaware. He should have cleared his throat or something like that.

He made himself smile, ignoring the panic never far from the man's face.

"A lot of them are financial histories. But there are a few wizardry classics there as well. You might like that one, the History of Modern Wizardry. It's the abridged version, only five volumes. I have the complete version in storage somewhere, all 27 volumes. Though I suppose they must have come out with a 28th some time ago."

He continued, coming up to the bookcase, not looking at the man who was working on calming his breath and fear. "Then there are a few that I picked up since I began sailing around these islands. Wizardry here is much more primitive than ours. No less effective, I have to tell you, but much more direct. The spells and charms are less flowery than ours and not influenced by Latin, of course."

He pulled out a thick, battered volume. "This one, for example. All about the way different spells came about, depending on which part of the Pacific they originated."

Without looking, he held out the book, continuing to peruse the shelves, until he felt Severus take it. "If you're in the mood for some flight of fancy, you could try this one. It's a favourite of mine. Simon de Monfort's version of history. Very fanciful. Bears very little resemblance to reality, but it is great fun." And he held that one out as well. "I'd be interested in hearing your take on it."

Which point was almost as iffy as handing Severus the books, not knowing whether he would accept them.

He straightened and now turned to face Severus who was staring in a slightly bewildered fashion at the books in his hands.

"Severus." He kept his voice even, as if this were an everyday occurrence. "If none of those interests you, please, do scrounge around until you find something that does. All I ask is that they not be left outside in case it rains, and that they be returned to their place when you're done with them. My organization of the shelves is my own and I like to know that if I reach for a book, it will be where I placed it. If all I find is an empty hole, I'll know that you have it."

And with that, he left Severus standing there, his mouth slightly open and his eyes more alive than he'd ever seen them.


He'd wanted so badly to read and now that he'd been literally handed permission...

It was like the swimming had been at first. He needed to concentrate on each word, often trying to remember its meaning. And then in spite of his attempts at focusing on the words, he often lost the meaning of the sentence and had to begin all over again.

He knew he could read quickly. That once he had quickly and efficiently corrected scroll after scroll of essays, in the deep concentration that he found so difficult now to locate within himself.

And he knew that he'd read some of these books before. The Monfort had also been on his shelves. He looked up from the page and wondered what had happened to his books. Had they been destroyed? Burnt? Portioned out among the rest of staff? He hoped the latter though he had his doubts. Why would anyone want anything that had belonged to a convicted traitor?

He winced. That none of them had come out in support of him, nor challenged the so-called revelations had hurt then and still hurt now. Had he been so despicable a colleague that they had been that relieved to get rid of him?

"You care to eat lunch some time today?"

Severus shook himself, bringing himself back to the present.

Solfeggio was watching him with raised eyebrows. Severus nodded and carefully noted the page he had been trying to understand before his mind had wandered off.


The books had not been a good idea, Sylvester finally had to admit to himself.

Severus was spending a lot of time back in that other world as the pages he was trying to read barely turned.

Instead of opening him up to conversation, he was even more silent than he had been before, if that were at all possible.

But once having given him access to the books, Sylvester found it impossible to take that away from him.

Matters came to a head one night when something woke him.

He lay in bed, listening for the sounds that usually meant Severus was having a nightmare, but they weren't what had awakened him.

He sat up in bed and listened carefully. There was a sound, soft and almost muted through his door that made him slip out of bed, grab a cloth and tie it around his hips as he carefully went to get his wand out of the armoire drawer he kept it in.

Prepared for any invader, he cautiously and silently made his way to the great room, Petrificus at the ready to deal with anyone who had dared challenge the safety of his home and his people.

It wasn't an invader.

Sitting cross-legged, in the light of the full moon, was Severus, hunched over as if in great pain.

Sylvester quickly checked that they were indeed alone and then he carefully approached the man whose breath was coming in painful gasps.

He began calling the man's name, softly, barely audibly so that he wouldn't take him by surprise, gradually increasing the volume with each repetition.

The man didn't move. Other than the sound of his breathing, he could have been a statue.

"Severus." Sylvester spoke in his normal voice. He slowly knelt on the floor, next to the man who still didn't seem to be aware of his presence.

"Severus." He spoke a little more sharply, hoping to get Severus's attention and wondering if he even heard him.

Finally, for the first time since Severus had arrived, Sylvester touched him, placing his hand on the man's shoulder and tugging a little, a very little, just enough for Severus to know he was here and wanted him to look up.

At any other time, he would have expected the man to jump at the gesture, but here and now, he had to do it again, a little more strongly this time, both the tug and the calling of his name.

"Severus!"

And this time there was a response.

Severus's head came up and, by the light of the bright moon, Sylvester could see that his face was stark with grief.

Sylvester sat on the floor, careful to keep his hand on Severus's shoulder, and waited for the man to face him.

"Severus, what's wrong?"

Severus shook his head.

"No, Severus. Something is very wrong." He kept his voice gentle with a slight insistence. "And I'd like you to tell me what it is."

Severus's hand moved and Sylvester looked down. There was a journal of some kind on Severus's lap. He had to lean over to see which one it was and then he soundly but silently cursed himself.

It was "The International Journal of Potions".

He'd ordered that particular one soon after Severus had arrived to see what kind of man he'd been. It contained an article written by Severus, written to challenge a previous article by some Potions Master with whom Severus disagreed.

Sylvester had discovered that not only the argument but the specific language were almost beyond his comprehension. Still, he had made his way through the article, aware of the brilliance of the man who had written it.

"Severus."

Severus nodded.

"Tell me."

Severus took a deep breath and pointed to the byline. "I..." He had to take another breath. "I wrote that." His voice was raspy with disuse and unreleased emotion.

"Yes, you did."

"I tried...to read it."

Sylvester gave Severus's shoulder a squeeze, trying to reassure the man. "Yes, I see that."

"I...can't." Whispered as though to admit it was too painful.

"You can't understand it, is that what you mean?"

He took a hitching breath. "I can't even read enough to understand a little of it. The words...they make no sense. I can't remember what they mean."

He finally turned to face Sylvester. "I wrote that and I barely understand the first sentence. I had to read it over and over again before I could grasp what little I can."

The light of the moon was so bright that Sylvester could see the loss in Severus's eyes.

"He... He did that to me. Didn't he?"

Sylvester didn't need to ask who the he was. Dear Merlin, he thought, what could he say?

He didn't need to say anything: Severus nodded.

"Why didn't he just kill me?"

"Because he wanted something from you and you wouldn't give it to him."

Severus's head dropped and Sylvester heard him murmur, "Better I should have died."

"No." He tugged until Severus looked up again. "No. If you had died, they would have won. And they don't deserve to win. We'll work on this, Severus. Like we did on the swimming. It'll come back."

But Severus shook his head, not believing. And then the dam burst and the tears that had been held back since who knew when gushed forth, accompanied with deep, heart-wrenching sobs.

Sylvester quickly gathered the weeping man into his arms and held him long after the storm had abated.


Madame de Navarre looked at the two men sitting at the table with her. She mentally shook her head, then decided not to hide her displeasure from either of them. If Snape was well enough to understand his mental faculties were damaged, he was well enough to deal with her temper.

"Well, I must say that I am quite displeased with both of you."

From the shadows behind her, she heard a comment muttered loud enough for her to understand that the speaker wanted her to hear. "Well, state the obvious, why don't you?" She ignored it. House elves should be seen and not heard, in her opinion. Unless they had been especially trained as hers were. Then of course she valued their opinion.

"You expect to run before you've mastered crawling."

Black had the decency to wriggle, uncomfortable. Snape just looked as though he had entered that world of his and was watching her from afar.

He was a great deal healthier than the last time she had seen him. He had put on some weight and muscle from the exercise regime Black had begun. She sighed. Surely Black hadn't needed to be told to be careful in what he encouraged Snape to do, but it seemed he had.

"Professor Snape."

He barely reacted to her saying his name.

She leaned over and slapped the top of the table in front of him hard.

He started. Then looked at her. Truly looked at her.

"That's better," she said, sitting back in her chair. Black's mouth had dropped open but, though he eyed her with disapproval, he closed his mouth and said nothing.

"Now then, Professor. It has come to your attention that you are having trouble with abilities you once took for granted. This is disconcerting, I understand.

"Disconcerting!"

Really, that house elf truly needed to be taught manners. She glared at Black who only shrugged his shoulders.

"You were submitted to an unknown number of sessions of debilitating curses, Cruciatus among them."

Black winced at her bluntness but she knew that at some point reality needed to be faced: what she knew of this man told her that pussy-footing would not be something he would appreciate, especially now.

"You were spirited out of Azkaban just over six months ago. While it is true that you have thrived in the care of those who have cared for you, you are still much underweight. Your sleep patterns are still disrupted. Your abilities to focus and to concentrate are far from what they once were.

"It is quite foolish of both of you," she looked from Snape to Black then back to Snape, "to think that a mere six months is going to return you to what you were before all this occurred. Just because you survived far better than any other person I have seen who has been submitted to anything resembling such treatment..."

Black seemed surprised so she turned to him. Though she spoke to him, she watched Snape's reactions with her peripheral vision.

"Yes, indeed. Professor Snape has been absolutely fascinating in the speed and manner of his recovery."

Black seemed to understand what she was doing. After a quick glance at Snape, he addressed her. "Has he indeed?"

"Yes, he has. Considering the number and duration of the curses he's endured, he should be like others who have suffered less than he. He should be curled up in a foetal position, diapered, being fed intravenously, housed in a crib so that any spastic movement, should he be fortunate enough to have any kind of movement, would not cause him to fall off the bed onto the floor where he would possibly injure himself."

She was pleased to see Snape was listening, his face slightly frowning as he did so.

"He would not be sitting up, feeding and clothing himself, keeping himself clean, swimming several times a day. Speaking. His muscles would be atrophying from lack of use, not growing stronger. His skin would be grey in pallor, not a healthy tan. He is putting on sun-screen, I trust?"

Black nodded.

"And yes, the chances that he would be able to recognize what a book was, assuming that he was somewhat conscious, would be faint at best." She allowed her voice to sneer, just a little. "He would not be complaining of his not being able to understand an abstract, esoteric exercise in making a point that only three or four Potions Masters in the world would be able to decipher at the best of times."

She turned her displeasure onto the man who had written said exercise. He was watching her with wary eyes, but eyes that she was relieved to see indicated that there was still intelligence in that severely traumatized brain of his.

She reached out her hand and placed it on the tightly fisted one resting on the table. "Professor Snape," she said, her voice sympathetic and supportive. "Yes, it can be terrifying to realize that one can't function at the level one once did. And yes, sadly, there is a good chance that you will never again be able to understand such articles to the same extent or write them.

She leaned forward a bit, her voice intense. "But your brain still functions, Professor. Accept that as a gift. So many others whom I deal with have brains that no longer do. They have no idea what it is like to control their own bodies, to see the world about them, to appreciate it. They live in worlds that are either nothingness or, if they are conscious, often constant terror. You inhabit neither of those worlds.

"Yes, your intelligence may never be what it once was, but the fact that it was once so much more able than the average person's is probably why you can do what you do."

She patted his hand and sat back.

"Now then," she went back into medi-witch mode, "rather than begin with such advanced reading material, I suggest that you go back to the basics. Yes, that may be difficult to accept, but once you were a child unable to read. Your brain had to be taught to recognize symbols and patterns. Well, you need to reacquaint your mind with those patterns. Slowly. And I suggest that you also need to write, in order to re-enforce those patterns.

"And with time, who knows? But, please, learn to be happy with your limits once you discover what they may be. And that, remembering you, Professor, may be the hardest lesson you will yet have to learn."

"You knew me?"

She was pleased that he'd spoken. She hadn't been certain that he would try. His voice, no surprise, was rough, gravelly.

"I had the pleasure of attending a debate at which you were a panel member. Many, many years ago. You were quite scathing in your response to a rather silly question from the floor and more so when one of the socalled authorities on the panel questioned some comment you made. I had to find a dictionary with the proper terms in it to understand why your challenger grew so angry with your response and why the moderator had to hide his laughter."

She noticed that Black smiled quite fondly right then at the professor.

"So, Madame, where would you suggest we begin this retraining?"

She nodded, pleased that Black had gotten them back on subject. She noticed that Snape was subtly less tense.

"At the very beginning. Seriously. Back to early instruction. The basic skills. Reading, writing, arithmetic. It will go very quickly, I don't doubt, but one mustn't assume that the brain will remember all its patterning. Better to repeat than to leave blanks."


The house elf appeared one day soon after the new year.

Sylvester was reading his morning reports at the breakfast table while Severus was dealing with fractions.

As Madame de Navarre had predicted, Severus's review of basics over the next weeks had quickly progressed. His reading skills and comprehension were returning and he could read once more with some ease. At Madam's suggestion, they were to avoid all potions texts until Severus was more confident in his abilities. Sylvester knew that she also wanted them to avoid anything that would remind Severus of what he had lost. Privately, Madam had indicated that she was doubted Severus's magical abilities would ever return to anything that resembled his previous level of skills.

His writing had been at first awkward, as his hand had trouble holding a quill steady. But then Solfeggio presented him with pencils such as small children used and his writing was growing more confident.

Mornings, after swimming, were concentrated on disciplined school work, when Severus was fresh; afternoons for pleasurable reading. Sylvester ordered different levels of reading material, the "William, Terror of Mistleguard" series among them.

Sylvester actually heard him chuckle once or twice as Severus made his way through two of the series that he'd explained had been dis-recommended reading at Hogwarts.

All was going according to Madame's plan until Severus encountered fractions. Addition, subtraction, multiplication and division had proven to be more review than relearning until fractions. And there all had come to a standstill.

Severus attacked this roadblock with a vigour and a determination that was almost tangible. He was making progress but it was slow going. Sylvester had to insist on time limits so that Severus would not stress himself to the point where his sleep was affected.

"Yes?" Sylvester said to the house elf who was looking about him with eyes wide open and with great interest.

The elf, small grey sock tightly clenched in one hand, bowed and handed him an envelope with his free one. "From my Masters, Sir. I is to wait for response, if it pleases."

Sylvester took the envelope and slit it open. Severus had stopped working on his fractions to look with a fair bit of wariness at this house elf who was wearing a lovely red tea-towel emblazoned with the word WHEEZIES in bold gold lettering.

"Who the hell are you?"

Sylvester concentrated on the letter, letting the new elf deal with Solfeggio.

"It's from Rus," said Sylvester, after having scanned the letter quickly.

Severus grew very still.

"Seems they've had an extremely busy Solstice season and are in need of a little break. He's wondering if he and the others can come spend a week. No more as they will be needed back in the store, but they feel that they need a chance at some sun before preparing for Spring Break."

He glanced over the top of the scroll at Solfeggio, who was rolling his eyes in a manner that absolutely scandalized the other house elf.

"I suppose you're going to let him and those other ones come. How do we know that they're not fiends and thieves?"

Before the house elf could protest this slur on his masters' reputations, Severus spoke up. "Who are they?"

Sylvester was almost as floored as Solfeggio was. Severus never questioned. Dear Merlin, thought Sylvester, improvement. But would the visitors set that all back?

"Rus will probably come with Fred Weasley while Remus Lupin will be accompanied by George. Do you remember? You were at the Weasley home before you came here?"

Severus sat back in his chair and cocked his head, obviously thinking. He frowned a little. "Are you telling me that Black and Fred Weasley are..."

"Screwing each other," growled Solfeggio.

Severus blinked and looked at Sylvester who was watching him with some amusement work his way through this information. "Black and Fred?"

Sylvester nodded. "Is that so difficult to believe?"

Severus didn't answer: he just chewed on his lower lip, something he often did when he was working through a difficult problem. After some more thought he said, "Does that mean that Lupin and George..."

Sylvester nodded, carefully not smiling.

"Dear Merlin! The twins! Black and Lupin and the twins?"

Sylvester nodded again. Severus looked positively stunned.

"I almost feel sorry for them."

"Sorry? For whom?"

Severus shook his head. "Black and Lupin. The twins are... They were exhausting at the best of times."

Solfeggio scoffed deep in his throat. "Probably why Black and Lupin need the holiday."

Severus blinked. And then for the first time since he'd arrived, his lips rose with a hint of a smile.

And when he realized that Sylvester and Solfeggio were grinning at him, he blushed and quickly went back to his fractions.

Yes, thought Sylvester, it was time for Severus to mingle with a few more people than the household.


From the shadows of the entrance to the house, Severus watched as the four men who had suddenly appeared in the front yard were greeted by Sylvester and Solfeggio.

Happily and cheerfully.

He leaned his head against the doorway and wondered if anyone had ever been happy and cheered to see him arrive.

And though Sylvester had been talking to him about the arrival every few hours to remind him of it, to ask him if he was comfortable with the idea of visitors... As if he could say no, no, he didn't want to see anyone, most especially not people from... The fear, which was never far away, was reclaiming old territory.

The only way he could think of protecting himself was to wear an old shirt of Sylvester's along with his sarong, hiding as much of himself from view as possible.


Part Three

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