DISCLAIMER: Why does anyone even bother with these? No one is going to sue us, guys. Seriously.

Note: I promised illustrations. I will not break my promise, but I HAD to post this now, and they are not yet scanned in. Rest assured they'll be up this week.

Have I told you all how much I love you? We should get married. You're totally my type.

A HUGE thanks to my dear friend and beta, Jess (Imogen Kain on ), for without her skillful editing, daily encouragement, and endless enthusiasm I might have just given up on this story altogether. If you're a Dark Knight fan and love the Joker (which, if you're attracted to characters like Snape, why wouldn't you be?!) it's absolutely MANDATORY that you read her amazing fic "You Can't Spell Slaughter Without Laughter." That is all, carry on!

POTIONS AND TEENAGED MUGGLES

Chapter Sixteen: In Between the Lines

My head feels pleasantly fuzzy. If I even have a head. Everything is floating. Warm. I'm only barely aware of myself, in the space between sleep and consciousness, or perhaps life and death, and it is lovely.

Is this heaven?

OUCH. NO, NO, MOST DEFINITELY NOT.

I gasp at the pain, of which my body is suddenly and mercilessly making my brain aware, and it sucks me from my reverie in seconds with no apologies.

"She's awake."

Am I ever…

"What…" I mumble this inquiry, noting how dry my mouth is with displeasure. My chapped, busted lips make it painful to speak, and I'm certain I must appear as though I just had a run-in with Chris Brown. I lick my lips in a vain attempt to moisten them and feel the distinct gap where a portion of my front tooth should be. I let out a long sigh. Damn. I guess my redneck roots are inescapable.

"How are you feeling?" A voice near my side erupts, and I'm only now aware that there are people here. Two. No, make that three. Snape is partially concealed behind the curtain next to my gurney; I see his outline cast against the material by the sunlight. The mere knowledge of his presence makes my heart quicken its pace. In the same instant, the scent that is so definitively him reaches me, and I take in a deep breath through my nose. His scent is tinged with another, however, one who's source is in much closer proximity to me.

Dumbledore, perched on the end of my bed, is taking up more space than is polite and I'm starting to get a touch crowded. He certainly makes me feel important, though, being around: waiting for me to gain consciousness for… uh, how long?

"How long was I out?" My own voice sounds foreign to my ears, rough, like I've swallowed sand. Which might actually be an improvement to how the inside of my mouth tastes at this moment.

Madam Pomfrey stops busying herself with a cabinet of odd-looking bottles and brings one to my bedside. "Two days, my dear. And it would have been longer without…"

Dumbledore gives her a significant look and she promptly changes the subject.

Two days???

"Yes, well try and think of it as a long nap, Miss Evans. Now that we've satisfied your query, please indulge mine: How are you feeling?"

Oh. Right. My brain still feels a little foggy- I had forgotten his inquiry.

"Fine. I'm… uh, no, no wait," I toss aside the default answer as how awful I'm feeling really sets in, "I actually feel pretty horrible. Uh, my head, and…" I bring my hands up to explore my face and I feel the swelling and torn skin from a night gone horribly awry.

Wow. My lips must look like Lisa Rinna's.

As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I'm suddenly very grateful that Snape isn't near enough to see my busted face in the harsh light of day.

God, I'm vain enough to be thinking of how I look right now. I inwardly chastise myself but my teenaged sensitivity to humiliation allows me to continue feeling embarrassed to be so… exposed and vulnerable in front of everyone.

Particularly Snape, I remind myself.

"…and my side-" I lift my gown to reveal purple, yellow and red-tinged skin, along with smaller cuts and bruises elsewhere. I decide not to continue my morbid exploration, and just sum things up.

"Uh, I don't feel too hot."

I hear Snape let out a scoff from behind the curtain, but no one save me pays him any mind.

"No, I don't imagine that you would," Dumbledore proffers with a twinkling Father Christmas smile, the kind that, on him, lacks the creepiness it takes on when projected from the faces of those 'come sit on my lap' Mall Santas.

"Though you are in much better shape now than you were when Severus arrived with you on the grounds. We are fortunate for his timely action. And you are quite lucky for Madame Pomfrey's exceptional skills, else you might not have woken up with everything put back together so well." His lighthearted tone is something I can't seem to mirror at the moment, particularly considering the subject matter, though it certainly has the intended effect in easing tensions.

His words register a moment later. Wait- did he just say…

"Put back together?"

At this point the stout witch steps closer to my bed. "Yes, you had a few cracks and breaks here and there, along with some nasty hairline fractures in your cheekbone and jaw, but nothing too serious. And now that you're awake, I can take care of that tooth… Open wide."

I oblige without hesitation, mulling over her words. I'm torn between 'ouch' and 'wow' and 'gross.'

Adrenaline does wonders. I knew I was injured, but… whew. Well, could have been worse, I suppose. They could've forced me to watch re-runs of The Hills. I scowl at the thought of Spencer's creepy flesh-colored beard, and realize I'm going off on a completely inappropriate tangent.

"All better."

I run my tongue over my teeth again, and, as if by magic--wait, no, actually by magic--my tooth has mended itself. Sweet.

These people must not have to deal with dental bills. Then again, they are English, so…

My mind manages to conjure a somewhat pertinent question, thus putting an end to my wandering, ill-mannered, off-subject inner-monologue.

We've only spoken of my health but nothing has been said of what exactly happened, of why or how or who; I'm curious and worried and unsettled. The nagging feeling that they're purposefully skirting these issues compels me to break the silence despite the discomfort.

"What else… uh, what's going on?" Huh. It seems I've lost the ability to eloquently express my curiosity at the moment.

Dumbledore frowns and turns away from me. "Oh dear, Poppy, has she suffered some memory loss as well?"

Very cute.

I sigh and shake my head. "No, you know what I mean! Why did this happen? Have we investigated? Do you guys have some sort of magical police squad or does everyone just run amuck like it's the damned roller derby?"

The blank stares that meet me drive me to be more specific.

"I know the 'who,' for the most part, and the 'how' is very clear as my ribs will tell you, but… there's more to this, isn't there? I mean, someone doesn't just kidnap and beat the hell out of a muggle for no good reason, right?"

The silence hangs in the air for a moment too long, and I'm about to throw a teenaged fit of hormonal proportions over the constant secrecy, but before I can bake up the crazy cakes, the curtain to my right flies open.

Severus stands there, gaze fixed on the floor, eyebrows tensely furrowed either by default or from thought. He is dressed in his usual black woolen slacks, but is wearing a deep green button-down sleeved shirt in place of his usual wrist-to collar tunic. He has rolled the sleeves up, exposing his long, toned forearms. This glimpse of the flesh beneath the cloth reveals a few pleasant surprises: He clearly has more muscle mass than one might expect, though his lanky appearance belies any such bulk. Adding to this decidedly masculine detail is the veritable blanket of scars, nicks and burns covering his exposed flesh- doubtless the result of years of potion-making, dueling and I can only imagine what else. Finally, despite the pallor of his facial complexion, he actually does maintain a tinge of color on his arms; I wouldn't go so far as to call it a tan, but his arms lack the near-translucence of his face.

Just observing him, watching the sinews and muscles of his forearms contract as he reaches up to scratch his temple, red-lines my libido and I'm suddenly on a mental tangent. I try to keep my expression neutral as I'm vividly imagining what those arms would feel like around my waist, how one adept finger would feel running across my lower lip…

Oh dear. I'm not shocked to find myself reacting so strongly to him, and I briefly wonder if blushing shows through bruises.

With my seconds-long fantasy complete, I concentrate on keeping my visual assessment confined to the more appropriate region of his face.

His usually elegant, masculine face carries with it shadows and a drawn character it heretofore had lacked. The lids of his eyes droop almost imperceptibly, but the eyes themselves have lost none of their universally attractive depth and intellect. Though his body language communicates that he likely has not slept, his presence is still commanding.

I shift uncomfortably in my bed and surreptitiously hike up my hospital gown to show more leg.

oO*Oo

Her capacity to bemoan her existence is limitless. I myself haven't slept an hour, but you don't see me complaining, do you? Though I suppose I've contradicted myself by doing just that, even if the grievance remains part of my inner-monologue. Well, the girl should take notes; learn to suffer in silence. It's a life skill.

I was by her bed the entire time, parting only to brew potions which would speed her recovery and alleviate her inter-cranial swelling. I've slept in a threadbare armchair in the infirmary the past two nights; well, less sleeping, more restless observing. It had gotten to the point where even the potent combination of concoctions Poppy had on hand were not working quickly or effectively enough, yet requesting my help was never necessary. I had already begun by the time my skills were required.

What angers me even more than my responsibility in the matter, no matter how downplayed by Dumbledore and Poppy, is the pointlessness of it all. I understand that kidnapping, terrorizing, and murdering muggles and wizards alike is the modus operandi of this--our--group, but the girl should never have played a part in that. Regrettably, what should happen seldom determines what does happen, a lesson paid for in blood many times over. She had no tangible ties to the magical world until we brought her here. We made her a target. Hardly one worth kidnapping, but in desperate times, people will take what they can get.

And these are absolutely desperate times.

And now, finally, she's awake, and (much to my… our relief) seemingly well. But instead of satiating her need to know everything and simply divulging the details to her, Dumbledore chooses to keep silent. Perhaps he's concerned that the truth will upset her, but such is life and we would be underestimating the girl by coddling and insulating her from reality.

Typically I understand when Albus plays things close to the chest. But this? It's pointless. It's all pointless. And it's infuriating me.

Dumbledore deflects the girl's questions again, but she persists. I listen from my place behind the curtain.

"No, you know what I mean! Why did this happen? I know the 'who,' for the most part, and the 'how' is very clear- as my ribs will tell you, but… there's more to this, isn't there? I mean, someone doesn't just kidnap and beat the hell out of a muggle for no good reason, right?"

The silence irritates me. There's not much to tell, so why not just tell her?!

I finally step forward and forcefully throw the curtain aside. I gaze at the ground, not wanting my frustration to become glaringly evident before I have the opportunity to properly channel it. I do not want Miss Evans thinking it is directed at her.

There is a long moment before I speak, and I feel the young woman's eyes intently upon me. Her stare is bordering on a gawk, and it dawns on me that I must appear a great deal more casual than she is accustomed to. She was not expected to wake so soon, and so I find myself dressed-down, under the scrutinizing eyes of a hormonal teenager who most definitely regards me as more than just an authority figure, of this much I am aware.

Yet another ideal situation in which I find myself.

In my attempt to keep my eyes downcast while I gather my thoughts, I've fixed my gaze on the thin mattress she occupies. It is due to this that I catch her hand brushing up the hem of her hospital gown, and I quickly fix my eyes to hers, wondering at the seemingly accidental gesture.

I'm met only with a look of confusion coupled with innocence, which seems too purposeful to be anything but a put-on. Honestly… what is she on about? I force my thoughts to turn elsewhere, immediately. I'll examine my unexpected reaction to that later.

Several long seconds have elapsed since my temperamental entrance, but all eyes are still expectantly on me.

That's my cue.

"On the contrary, I'm afraid that sometimes they do 'beat the hell' out of muggles for no good reason at all."

She is visibly startled by the candid admission, which apparently shakes her from whatever reverie the young lady was indulging.

"What?"

A question is the first regard she gives me after everything. How predictable. I fight to control my facial expression, attempting to prevent the commonplace and rather habitual sneer from emerging.

I can see that her thick skull, once again completely intact, has resumed doing its job. This will take some explaining… and the explaining will require patience, my reservoir of which is nearly depleted.

"Do you remember when we went to the ministry?" I begin, trying to construct a clear and complete explanation in hopes of avoid incessant questioning.

"Yeah…"

Good. She's following so far. That was the easy part.

"And you saw the tastelessly exaggerated newspaper headline you weren't supposed to see?"

"Okay, yes. About my ancestors being--" she stops mid-sentence upon seeing my annoyed expression.

I sigh deeply before continuing. "Well, I imagine Lucius…" I pause, close my eyes and force myself to calm down and think. I cannot allow rash words to worsen this situation. I make what I hope is reassuring eye contact with Ta… with Miss Evans before continuing.

"I imagine the train of thought here being one of 'why not' rather than 'why.' Your bloodline is obviously of interest, however small that interest may be, and the fleeting media attention was enough to catch the wrong watchful eye. I sincerely doubt you were even brought to the attention of the Dark Lord--" at this I hear a chuckle, and realize that at the mention of the Dark Lord's title, her rapt attention has turned into an entirely inappropriate fit of giggles.

She notices my lack of amusement and explains between breaths, "It just sounds- ha- uh, so…so foreboding, heh, like, ah, like a bad science fiction movie, you know? Oh, THE DARK LORD! Ah! Fear my wrath and all that, you know. Funny."

I don't break eye contact as I drawl, "I assure you, it is most definitely not funny."

"Although you admire my sense of humor in light of the situation?" She fights back a grin and my blood pressure leaps to dangerous levels.

Leave it alone. Move on. Count to ten.

But I find that I cannot let her off so easily, and venture to provide a very edited and incredibly succinct snapshot of the larger picture here.

"If you knew how many muggles, not to mention good witches and wizards have died at his hands, I doubt you'd be quite so light-hearted at the prospect of someone so evil that even the mention of his true name is considered a taboo."

Her grin falls and she swallows hard, embarrassed if not a bit ashamed. Well. Good.

I let the seriousness sink in and ignore the disapproving glance Albus levels at me before going on, "Essentially, all signs pointed to you being an asset, and a plan, however hastily concocted, was set in motion to acquire you. I can tell you that this has been the slow season for muggle torture and inducing general terror on the magical world. This is largely because people have become more careful; 'battened down the hatches,' so to say."

I shift my weight and turn my eyes to the windows, coming to the end of the explanation I've been mulling over for the past couple of days.

"The resulting situation leaves us with a group of bored Death Eaters who haven't come across any new or useful intelligence in quite some time, who have lost members to dismemberment and death, and who want most desperately to be the one who pleases their master. Thus, circumstances created the perfect climate for you to seem interesting. And so…" I let myself trail off, as everyone preset knew the rest.

**..$..**

You've got to be. Fucking. Kidding me.

I'm still somewhat embarrassed after my chastising from Snape, but my rather unexpected anger trumps that for the time being.

"That's it? They wanted to impress the boss, so they took a shot in the dark because maybe, just maybe, I'd either be someone useful or lead them to something that was?"

Dumbledore stands, finally, and speaks, clearly in an attempt to mitigate the mounting tension, if not to wrap up the conversation. "Yes, I'm afraid that such is the conclusion we've come to after exhaustive retrospective consideration. And, dear, I'm so very sorry."

My eyebrows shoot up at this.

"Sorry?! Don't be sorry. You didn't boot me in the face." I hear Snape mumble something about my eloquence as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Ignoring him, I continue.

"In fact, quite the opposite. Without you guys I'd probably be in a ditch somewhere. Or a…gutter, or something. D' you guys even have gutters?"

My attempt at my usual humor comes off as a feeble imitation, at best. I'm still struggling to choke down what I've been told.

I was kidnapped and nearly murdered on a hunch? And a bad one, no less? What the hell is going on in this world that shit like this happens?!

Which brought to mind another, equally important query: What are these people facing when they wake up every day?

The possible answers make me shudder.

I also realize something else, something I'd been blissfully ignorant of: I am being a self-centered bitch. I mean. Really.

I look around the room and see, for the first time really see, how exhausted and worn everyone looks. Not just like they haven't slept the past few nights… more like they haven't really rested in years. And I'm suddenly certain that this is dreadfully close to the truth.

I sigh at my uselessness given the circumstances. I allow Madam Pomfrey to poke and prod me for a moment before she's satisfied I'm not going to pass out or something equally humiliating, and she takes her leave of us. I have nothing useful to impart, so I mull over the new information aloud even at the potential of sounding redundant.

"So… they thought you were protecting someone or something that could be used against them, but it never occurred to them that you might be protecting someone from them. They didn't consider that I might not be magical."

Snape rejoins the conversation, stepping closer to my bed once Madam Pomfrey has completely gone.

His proximity is making my palms sweat… in a good way. I really hope I'm the only one who can hear my much accelerated heartbeat.

"I'm certain it was considered. I'm also sure they found it unlikely, as we do not have an historical habit of ushering muggle teenagers into our midst, as you might imagine."

I might.

They seem to be giving me time to process everything, Dumbledore ready to field further questions, and Snape looking somewhat impatient and distractingly sexy…ah. Damnit, focus.

"So what now? Is anything going to be done about them?" Even as the question leaves my lips, I know the answer. If there were some way to foil or deter this group, I sincerely doubt things would have gotten this far. It strikes me as horribly ironic that for all of its advantages and abilities, the wizarding world falls prey to common terrorism. I suppose there is no society or group, no matter how fantastical, completely invulnerable to the evils of corruption and power.

They seem to be deciding how to answer me, so I entreat further.

"Does this change anything?" This must be an easier question, as Dumbledore stands to address the room at large, taking on a certain air of formality. I straighten up.

"The answer to that depends on one's perspective, Miss Evans. In reference to the ongoing conflict and our war efforts, our situation remains essentially unaffected either for the worse or for the better. This is not to say your ordeal is somehow trivial or insignificant, please understand. This violation adds to the disheartening tally of attacks which have hit home for us, and more disturbingly can be counted among the very few offenses which have breached our borders. As such, we are taking action to reinforce off-season security measures, the failure for which I take full and personal responsibility."

Woah. I'm dumbstruck by his way with words, and shocked at the weight of them. War effort. Tally of attacks. They have been downplaying the crisis surrounding them, of this I'm now certain.

Dumbledore comes to rest before me, standing tall with his hands folded in front of him.

"For you, however… well, our involvement seems to have already had some rather inexcusable consequences- I'm afraid…" His pause here takes on a dreadful significance, and as I watch him search for the right words to verbalize whatever is next, I grow wary.

I think I'm starting to understand the source of the tip-toeing and averted gazes. They're worried my fragile little muggle ass is more trouble than it's worth… I'm being sent home. My uselessness has been confirmed and, to top it off, I've endangered one of their indispensable professors. Will they wipe my memory? I don't even waste time wondering if that's possible, only if they trust me so little that they might resort to it. Suddenly scared of where this might be going, I object, trying to downplay the whole debacle.

"Your 'involvement?' Inexcusable consequences? Pfft, come on, Snape is safe, I'm fine now, it's hardly a big de-"

"Hardly a big deal?" Snape interjects, incredulous. "You were nearly killed!"

Dumbledore raises a hand, halting our ensuing argument before it can escalate. I fold my arms defensively and stare at the floor. Great. I guess my fun is over, what with a war on and all.

"I'm afraid that the issue of your safety leaves no room for further discussion," Dumbledore says with a note of regret. "The only prudent course of action is for you to return home, where further unwanted attention is unlikely to follow."

Well, fuck. I nod in surrender, and move to stand so I can pack my things.

"Where, pray tell, do you think you're going?" Snape asks, a bit testily.

I throw him a look communicating where he can shove it, and give the obvious answer. "Home, of course. I need to pack my things."

Dumbledore replies calmly before Snape can throw in some scathing remark. "Oh, dear, you didn't think we were going to leave you on your mother's doorstep, battered and bruised, without so much as a tour of the grounds did you?"

Oh. Well, I suppose that would have been utterly rude.

"No, I guess not…"

"No, no, of course not. You are safe for the time being, and until you've healed completely there's no need to rush you home."

I can't be sure, but I think Snape just rolled his eyes. Ugh, constantly with the attitude.

Dumbledore bids me lie down and pulls my bedsheet up in a grandfatherly gesture, patting my hand kindly after I am settled. He glances at his wrist to check the hour, despite the lack of any timepiece there. I grin.

"Oh, look at the time. I sincerely apologize, but my presence is required elsewhere at the moment, my dear. Rest assured that whatever questions remain, Professor Snape is most capable and willing to answer them. Get some rest, and I look forward to seeing you at our group supper tomorrow evening, following the return of most of the staff. Good day."

With that, he whooshes towards the door with more energy than I would have thought possible and Snape is on his heels, doubtless avoiding the questions he assumes I have. He's correct in that assumption, but as he's made it clear that I'm such a nuisance, I'll get answers on my own.

Alone in the medical ward, feeling unwanted, misplaced, achy and somewhat useless, I close my eyes and pray sleep comes.

*&^^&*

Nearly done cataloging my list of depleted stores, I blindly dip my quill into the crystal ink-well, only to find my next word appearing not in ink, but in oatmeal. I wipe away the still warm apple cinnamon oats with the nearest handkerchief, look up to where my bowl of oatmeal lies, half-eaten and mocking me, and I sigh deeply.

Yet more evidence of your descent into madness.

Deciding I've performed my quota of menial tasks and purposeless work for the day, I leave my desk and resolve to visit the library.

I have found myself horribly preoccupied as of late. While the impending task of explaining myself to Lucius and answering to my fellow Death Eaters remains a priority, there is nothing to be done until I am contacted by my peers. There is little risk of news concerning the ordeal reaching the Dark Lord, as the catastrophic failure would incite repercussions- a result easily avoidable by simple omission.

The source of my distraction is more complicated than the matter of Death Eater damage control, I'm afraid. Despite the lack of any remaining tangible threat to her, my unreasonably exaggerated anxiety concerning the girl and her well being lingers. Simply conjuring the image of her, broken and dying in my arms that first night disturbs me as few things can anymore.

Now, still, a most unsettling, twisting sensation persists in my gut, as though some malevolent creature has invaded my viscera with the intent of splitting my focus regardless of the task.

Two long days have passed since Tamara regained consciousness. I've paid several visits to the infirmary to see how she's faring, each time ensuring she was asleep before doing so. Poppy says she'll be allowed to return to her quarters this afternoon, and that she's well enough to be permitted grounds privileges. Which, of course, means I will have the distinct honor of keeping an eye out that she doesn't manage to put herself directly in harm's way, as she is wont to do. It would not shock me in the least to find her swimming amongst the foul creatures in the lake or wandering about the Forbidden Forest, but not before she's painted a target on her back and attached aromatic foodstuffs to her person. I would find this image humorous, were it not for her recent and rather sobering brush with death.

She's under my skin and I cannot figure out why.

You can, you simply won't.

Refusing to visit while she's conscious, speaking down to her during our last encounter… Deliberately distancing myself is the only manner of coping I can conjure at the moment. She's upset the natural order of things, and still thinks the whole thing is a big joke.

Is that really the only reason you find yourself perturbed by her?

I find the question takes me by surprise, sprung on me by some part of my own mind grappling with my carefully constructed view of myself. I can sense the issue I've been refusing to address creeping in at the edges of my psyche.

The image of her in the infirmary bed jumps to mind, and with it my casual and entirely inappropriate observation at the time of how her olive-skinned legs remind me of Lily's; athletic, long.

You're angry because she finds you attractive.

It is often imparted to children that 'honesty is the best policy.' I beg to differ, as lying to myself is a daily necessity, not to mention adherence to the truth in my daily interactions would earn me a slow, painful death- and I wouldn't be the only one.

I suppose my point is some truths are better left unsaid, just as some gut feelings are better left unexamined.

And you're angry with yourself because you might reciprocate.

This unbidden thought makes me certain that my uneasiness has little to do with any unidentified threat. It's nonsense, though, I reassure myself. She is young enough to be my student. However I cannot recall being so fond of a pupil-

Stop it.

I stop walking and notice my feet have, yet again, betrayed me. I am most certainly not at the library, my intended destination. Self deceit can only go so far. The perfect testament to that is my recent tendency to leave my quarters for one location, and yet somehow find myself arriving at the very place I find myself now.

I sign and look up at the entrance to the infirmary.

Damn.

Author's Notes: OHAI again! This took forever, and of course I'm sorry as usual. I was utterly stuck, and completely unsure of how to communicate what needed to be said, not to mention scared to death about finally taking the story where I've been steering it for a while now. The next chapter is imminent, along with the overdue sketches. Have faith! ;)