Author's Note: Did you know that the Ministry approved the Aurors' use of the Unforgivables during the first war with Voldemort, and possibly the second war as well? This gave them official license to coerce, torture, and kill.

Tonks eyed the dubious surface on which her cheek rested with a scrutiny she'd never offered it before. She regretted it immediately, observing that the ancient dining table at Grimmauld Place bore a disturbing multitude of stains which defied identification. Dark splotches and smears and grime and tiny, needle-sharp slivers just waiting to happen dotted the finish with a disturbing regularity. She picked her cheek up slowly, carefully, as if she might disturb the host of bacteria no doubt populating the surface with a sudden movement. She reached out for her tumbler and took a long pull of the Firewhiskey, grimacing. She really ought to stop drinking alone on nightwatch, she thought, taking another sip. It gave her funny ideas.

Really, though, there was nothing else to do but drink. Every Order member had a way of entertaining themselves when they were on duty. Remus liked to play wizard's chess with himself, and Kingsley liked to read muggle novels, and Molly knitted. Mad-Eye, of course, was perfectly content to remain vigilant for the entirety of his shift; when he was relieved in the morning, one would find him staring at the doorway, his one good eye red from, presumably, not blinking once over the course of the whole night. And Tonks . . . well, Tonks liked to drink. Since Auror duties kept her sober at all hours of the day, she liked to use this opportunity to take the edge off and indulge in a little of Sirius's stash. He'd selfishly secreted it away in a charmed cupboard, whose location only he was privy to. She had managed to find it after only about twelve minutes of searching.

She sighed into the empty air, swirling her almost equally empty glass. Should she refill it, she wondered? She recollected her strange ruminations over the table a moment ago, and began to reconsider. But just then, from the outer hall, there was a sharp crack! like a whip, followed by the click of the door. Then, a moment later, a muffled thump, and a softly uttered "fuck." She drew her wand and rose unsteadily to her feet, bumping her chair, which let out a screech against the wooden floor. She cringed. Well, she had to doubt that a dangerous intruder would announce himself with an eloquent curse, but she couldn't help her heart from pounding as she stepped as quietly as she could toward the hall, her wand poised and at the ready.

It was pitch-dark beyond the kitchen's warm candlelight, and she blinked rapidly to try to adjust her eyes. She could feel the presence of the intruder more than she could see or hear him, and so she stepped blindly forward in the direction her senses seemed to lead her. With each step she took, it felt like the presence receded farther away rather than growing closer, so when she heard a low voice not three inches from her ear, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Put that wand away, Nymphadora," the voice hissed, "before I have a mind to disarm you myself."

Her stomach dropped. There was only one person who would dare to call her Nymphadora, and in a situation like this, no less—with her wand drawn and aimed directly at what was presumably his heart. No mistaking that voice either, even in a waspish whisper. The recognition did nothing to slow the heavy pounding of her heart.

How in Merlin's name had he seen her through this darkness?

His breath was practically tickling her ear, they were so close. She swallowed around the lump in her throat and lowered her wand slowly.

"Lumos," he whispered, and a bright dandelion of light bloomed before her eyes. Severus Snape glowered—no, grimaced—down at her. Even through her bleary vision, she could see her former professor looked a little . . . disheveled. He smelled like fire, like smoke, and . . . a little bit like blood.

Her mind ticked to life like a poorly oiled clock, and with a lurch in her gut she realized where he must have been not seconds before. If he'd Apparated here in the middle of the night, he'd surely just returned from the Death Eaters, and from You-Know-Who himself. A chill ran through her like she'd just brushed through a nest of cobwebs, their cool silk still clinging to her skin. She shivered, and he let his lip curl just a touch.

She thought he would make some biting comment, but he just brushed past her, his cloak snapping at her ankles like a lazy viper. She stared after his back, framed by the candlelight from the kitchen, as he stopped in front of the table.

Oh shit.

He plucked the Firewhiskey bottle by the neck and dangled it dramatically in the air, giving it a swirl. Then, to her shock, he poured himself a generous glass. "This is from Black's personal supply, yes?" he tossed over his shoulder. She nodded, a bit dumbstruck, then found her voice again. "I, uh, only filched a little," she called from where she stood in the dark hall, unsure of whether or not she should approach. He held the glass up to the light and then, without a second thought, knocked it back in one smooth swallow.

She felt her brows rise to her bubble gum hairline.

He stepped around to the other side of the table, poured himself another dram, then glanced up at her through the darkness. "Come, Nymphadora," he barked half-heartedly. "Stop dawdling in the hall and resume your usual . . .," his eyes lingered over the bottle, ". . . duties." He curled a lip with more vigor this time. "Or has my presence spoiled your fun?"

She snapped to attention as if she were still in Potions class, and he'd suddenly appeared over her shoulder to tut at the dismal state of her sliced lamprey livers. Then she realized how ridiculous she was being; she was five years out of Hogwarts, a grown woman, and a professional dark wizard catcher, for Merlin's sake. And just where did he get off calling her Nymphadora?

She tipped her chin up and opened her mouth to say what she hoped would be something astoundingly clever, but he was already sinking into a chair, his attention elsewhere as he swirled his glass between his long fingers. She sighed and began the careful walk toward the kitchen, focusing on her feet in a vain attempt not to stumble. She could be an adult now. She could totally be an adult in front of the once menacing (oh hell, still menacing) Professor Snape, nevermind that she was plastered and he was just sitting there, moodily staring into the dregs of his tumbler, and . . . why exactly was it that he was sitting here instead of going back to Hogwarts? It was—she glanced at the clock—three in the fucking A.M.

She pulled out the chair across from him with a screech, plopped herself down, and squinted at him. He didn't even look up, but he answered her before she could ask.

"Unfortunate for both of us though it may be," he spoke into the fire, then flicked his eyes up to meet hers with real scorn, "and believe me, I take no pleasure in this—"

She braced herself against her empty glass, and he swirled his again, gripping it between pale fingers, gazing into its depths.

"Due to Dumbledore's . . . untimely departure from the school, and the strict monitoring of all transportation and communication routes by our illustrious Ministry, I've come to the conclusion that it would open the door to . . . unwelcome questions if I were to return to Hogwarts at this hour. Since headquarters is under the protection of a Fidelius Charm, the Ministry will be unable to track my location here, if they are indeed keeping tabs." He had spoken all of this into the bottom of his glass, but here he shot her a look over the rim that was all but unreadable. "Come morning, if questioned, I will explain that I was invited to stay with the Malfoys. The Ministry has a deep, abiding love for the Malfoys. And their money. They won't look into it out of respect. Or fear."

"So . . .," she leaned forward on her elbow, pointing at him with tumbler in hand, "you're staying here."

His mouth twisted. "That is the essence of it," he muttered, the tightness of his jaw emphasizing his displeasure. Hence, she supposed, the Firewhiskey. He no doubt hadn't expected to run into a former student tonight, especially not one who was three sheets to the wind. She supposed it was kind of funny really, and before she could stop herself, she snorted.

A dark brow shot up. "Yes, I'm sure you find it all terribly amusing in your present state. We are so very fortunate to have capable Aurors like you in the Order, ever vigilant and prepared to face the dangers of war at a moment's notice."

Her face burned from more than just the effect of the alcohol. How was it he could always do this to her? To everyone? Ever since she was a first-year student, she'd watched him do it. Find the thickest vein and inject the venom straight into it. That was the method.

She tried to let it slough off her like so much rain off a slicker. They were contemporaries now, weren't they? He'd said so himself when they'd finally seen each other again at her first Order meeting.

She was the newest recruit, so Dumbledore had her go around and get herself introduced to everybody. When at last she'd gotten to him, she'd said something along the lines of, "Wotcher, Professor Snape" or "Long time no see, sir," and he'd actually offered his hand, Dumbledore's twinkling eyes glued to his back, and said, "I suppose we're contemporaries now, aren't we, Nymphadora?," an odd little half-smile playing around his mouth, and she'd taken his hand and said, "Everyone calls me Tonks, sir," and he'd said, "Do they?"

He'd called her Nymphadora ever since. She would have preferred "Miss Tonks," even if it reminded her too much of the clumsy little girl she'd been in his Potions class. Well, she was still just as clumsy, but she was not little anymore. And yes, she was a capable Auror, whether he believed it or not. In fact, it was he who had helped her get here, grudgingly or no. It was because of this man who now sat across from her, sipping her pilfered spirits, that she'd managed to scrape an Exceeds Expectations on her Potions NEWT and land the job of her dreams.

She screwed up her lips at the irony.

And realized she'd hardly said more than three words to the man since he'd materialized in the midst of her dull nightwatch duty. Should she drum up a conversation? Or let the not so companionable silence continue? He didn't seem to particularly care, his gaze now shifted back to the fire sizzling and popping away in the corner. But Tonks didn't like silences and usually considered herself quite the conversationalist. Perhaps one more shot of liquid courage would loosen her tongue enough to make this an entertaining night.

She reached across the table for the bottle and watched him raise his eyes to her, tracing her trajectory with a mildly disapproving stare. When she swallowed, she felt a fire burn through her that seemed to both sharpen her clarity and loosen her grip on the present situation. That was exactly what she needed to start a conversation with Severus Snape.

"So, Severus," she began lightly, and she could actually see his eyes widen in surprise, if that wasn't the trophy of the night. "What is it, exactly, that you've got against Aurors like me anyway?"

He met her eyes evenly. "Specifically Aurors like yourself, or the profession in general?" The sneer was mostly implied.

"Well, let's start with me, and you can work your way out," she smiled.

He turned his body from the flames to face her fully, grimacing as if it were painful to wrench himself away from his thoughts and focus on a conversation with her instead. His black eyes ghosted over her face with a strange but familiar intensity as he took her in. When he spoke, his voice was deadly quiet.

"I suppose you think yourself something of a professional now," he said. "A bona fide Dark wizard catcher." His eyes glittered in the firelight. "But have you ever faced a fully fledged Dark wizard in single combat? Have you seen the aftermath of a raid, successful or otherwise, with the bodies of both sides flayed and strewn about the ground like so many mutilated dolls, after a cruel child has finished his play?"

She hadn't. But she had seen—

"Perhaps you've seen the files, the brutal images the Ministry keeps for its records, but do you think they live up to the real thing? Have you seen the dark dungeons beneath the courtrooms that reek of blood and excrement, or read the interrogation transcripts? Is that part of your training?"

No, but she'd found them anyway.

"What about the types of magic they use to get their answers? Or do you think their prisoners surrender them willingly, offering themselves up to the mercy of the Ministry for systematic judgement and execution?"

Veritaserum. Pensieves. Dementors. That's what the files said. The images said more.

"Have you considered that perhaps we are all either wolves, or wolves in sheep's clothing? Tell me. Do you truly believe that you're anything more than a single violent cog in this war machine, because you call yourself an Auror? You're one of the Ministry's dogs, just as the Death Eaters are the Dark Lord's."

He leaned forward slightly, as if to confide a secret.

"Do you know why the vast majority of your peers joined the Ministry's ranks? Because they like violence, and the Ministry gives them an excuse to exercise it. They might not even know it themselves, but that's what it is."

Her mouth was very dry, and that odd tangy scent of blood filled the air again. This wasn't what she wanted, but it was too late.

He leaned back again.

"As for the distinction you so wanted: I despise Aurors like yourself because you refuse to see the way things are, and I despise Aurors like your friend Moody because they see exactly how things are, and carry on anyway. But what disgusts me the most is that you all still insist on making the distinction that malicious magic in the service of government is different than the Dark magic for which you arrest, interrogate, and imprison. It's blind, and it's sloppy. A government's justice system should be neither."

She couldn't stop her hands from shaking. Old images from her training days were flashing past her eyes faster than her mind could process them. The room tilted, the Firewhiskey singeing through the veins pounding in her head. She gripped the table, steadying herself. He had stopped his ceaseless sibilant whispers, watching her now. She felt as if she were going to be ill. She just wanted it to end.

"I saw . . .," she choked, her fingernails digging into the wood. "I saw the photos of your interrogation. I tried to forget, but I saw."

The little color in his face drained from it. His expression, however, remained impassable.

"And what did you think of that, Nymphadora? Were you proud of all of your hard work then, sitting there in the Auror office, looking down on the images of one of the people who unfortunately helped to get you there?"

She slammed her fist on the table, their glasses chittering, and stood. "Stop calling me Nymphadora!" she said, because she didn't know what else to say. He stood to match her, leaning forward on the palms of his hands.

"It's your name, isn't it?" he snarled.

And then, a sudden chill came over her. She had been here before, she thought, as the room swam around her. With him. He had said something like this to her before. The memory floated up before her eyes.

Not here. Hogwarts. Sixth year. His voice cut through her. He said, "What are you hiding from, girl, your own face?"

Then something in the present stirred in her vision. Snape was staring at his hands. He had removed them from the table. A dark smudge glimmered faintly on the surface where they had been. She noticed his entire side was glimmering with it too. He pressed his hand to it, and it came away shining red.

"Damn," he muttered, as if she were no longer there. "Deeper than I thought."

Then she stared in mute horror as his eyes rolled back. His knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the floor.

She threw herself over the other side of the table, miraculously landing on her feet, and crouched over him. His face and hands were shockingly white, except for the slick red substance that covered his fingers.

The scent of blood. She had never once considered that it could be his own.

Methodically, she began to unfasten his robes, trying not to think about what she was doing. This was not Professor Snape. Her hands were not covered in his blood. And she was not undressing him.

The clock ticking loud behind her, she unfastened the last clasp and shucked the dark outer robes away, revealing the white, blood-stained undershirt beneath, and ran her wand over the gash that split through the shirt and tore all the way down his side, revealing layers of dark red flesh. With each breath he took, more blood gushed out.

The wound cut deep, but it did not appear to be cursed, she realized, as she watched the flow of blood slow and then stop, the open gash puckering slightly. She would have to apply Essence of Dittany, which she knew to be stored in one of the spare bedrooms upstairs. It would also be prudent, she realized, to move the man himself into the bedroom. She didn't fancy the idea of Sirius coming down to brunch to find his supposed archrival unconscious on the kitchen floor.

She conjured a stretcher, and for the first time wondered how on earth they had managed not to wake Sirius. But then again, she smiled ruefully to herself, he'd probably fallen into bed at least as sloshed as she was, if not more. She prayed he would sleep hard and heavy through the night and remain deaf to everything going on around him. She took a deep breath. All she had to do was sneak a bloody, unconscious Severus Snape up the stairs, avoiding the steps that creaked, install him quietly in the bedroom, and forget that any of this had ever happened. If she could.

She maneuvered Snape out of the kitchen, only bumping herself against the doorframe once, and kept the stretcher in front of her as she ascended the stairs one step at a time. She focused her eyes on the soles of his black boots, and with each step she took, words of the other Order members echoed in her ears. Spy. Sneak. Turncoat. Traitor. They liked to whisper these things as he swept out of the room. She wondered what they would say if they'd seen what she saw tonight, or what she'd seen all those years ago in the Ministry's files.

She cringed. Why had she told him she'd seen it? She'd always wished she'd never seen it in the first place.

She just hadn't been able to take it anymore. She'd wanted to shut him up because what he said hurt, dammit. But he hadn't shut up. He'd said exactly what she herself had thought, exactly what had made her feel sick looking down on those images for the first time.

She stepped on one of the creaky spots by mistake, and winced as it groaned loudly beneath her. If she were honest, she didn't want to deal with Sirius. Her head was full of heavy, conflicting thoughts of war, and Sirius—she knew it wasn't his fault, but Sirius . . . just sat around and drank all day. He had no part to play in all of this. Plus, she really didn't want to hear another one of his rants about Snape at the moment.

Without further incident, she reached the door to the spare bedroom, safely out of earshot of Sirius's snoring, and pushed it open, floating the stretcher behind her. She placed Snape carefully on the bed and set about rummaging through drawers until her fingers closed around the small bottle of Dittany. With a deep breath, she walked back across the room and stood over Snape, taking in the sight. She'd been in too much shock before, trying to stop the bleeding, but now she was painfully aware of his shirt being open, revealing his pale chest and abdomen. Still covered in blood. "Tergeo!," she commanded, and the blood siphoned off his skin and clothes. Steeling herself, she peeled the white shirt back further, exposing the wound once more. He really was quite thin, she noted, as she poured a few generous drops of Dittany over the gash. With a hiss, green smoke wafted up, and she watched as the wound knit itself closed, leaving only an angry pink scar. She conjured bandages that wrapped around his waist to keep it from becoming more irritated, then pulled up the sheets to cover his torso.

She looked at his face. For the first time, she noticed that he was clearly older than he'd been as her professor. Obviously. That was how time worked. But most children didn't think of time applying to the adults in their lives. They were immortal, and untouchable, and always existed exactly as they were now. Well, she wasn't a child anymore. She realized Snape had been quite young when he'd been her professor. Of course, she knew he'd always been young compared to the other professors, but he'd still seemed very much the intimidating adult to her then. He had been in his 20's. About the age she was now.

She turned away and walked back to the drawer to replace the Dittany, nearly tripping on the threadbare rug. She imagined herself in front of a classroom full of students as she was now, and shuddered, closing the drawer with a snap. No thank you. Why hadn't Snape, who clearly had no love for children, said that—no thank you—when Dumbledore offered him the position? And the answer supplied itself. To be his spy. Dumbledore needed him close. All those years, waiting for this moment . . .

She heard a creak and the whisper of fabric on fabric, and whirled around to find Snape stirring, leveraging himself upright with a grimace.

"Don't . . . move," she whispered dangerously. To his credit, Snape actually stilled.

She approached his bedside and perched carefully on the very edge, eyeing him. All of her thoughts sloughed away, and now she only had one thing on her mind. One thing she wanted to ask him.

"What the fuck, Snape?" she said.

A raised eyebrow. She snorted in exasperation.

"Why'd you just sit there talking to me, when you were fucking bleeding out?"

"I didn't realize it had reopened," he said simply. "I'd only sketched a rather hasty healing charm, you see, as other matters demanded my attention." He gave her a meaningful look.

"Well, I stopped the bleeding and patched it up the best I could," she sighed. "I'm sorry we don't have any Blood-Replenishing Potion." He just shook his head, as if it were inconsequential. "Anyway, I'm not going to be the one responsible for the Order losing its best spy. I'd be the first person to utterly fail on nightwatch, where nothing ever happens."

"Perhaps if you'd taken your duties more seriously, rather than drinking yourself into a stupor—" he began, but she rounded on him.

"Don't you turn this on me!"

His eyes glittered. "Why? You've already turned it on yourself."

It was like there was a secret lesson and an insult encoded into everything he said. It infuriated her.

"Allow me to advise you, as your former professor," he continued with a suggestive curl of his lip, as if he had read her mind. "Don't concern yourself so much with others' opinions. It's a waste of energy."

She met his gaze. "I don't care what people think of me."

The shadow of a dark smile touched his eyes. "Don't you now?"

She wished he would stop that. She wished he would just stop . . . everything. A long silence ensued, in which Tonks stared down at her own hands.

"Do you know the purpose of the nightwatch?" he said suddenly, softly.

She shrugged. "Someone's gotta be around in case something happens to one of our own."

"Yes," he said, his soft tone carrying an undercurrent of menace. "Out there, at this very minute, there are those who are being tortured. Killed. I watched some of them die this very night, before I arrived here. Does that disturb you?"

Of course it disturbed her. It disturbed all of them, what he did. But then again, she mused, none of them really knew, when it came down to it. Snape attended Order meetings like everyone else, but he only ever debriefed in the presence of Dumbledore alone. All of the information they received at Headquarters was filtered down in some way. But right now, she wanted answers. And right now, the question that was most pressing on her mind was . . .

"How did you get that wound?"

He considered her a moment. "I suppose . . . tonight's events were routine enough to share with you, if your curiosity simply must be sated." He graced her with an enigmatic almost-smile. "Besides, you'll no doubt hear about it in the morning, in any case."

Her stomach clenched with dread. She wondered if he'd ever told anyone other than Dumbledore something like what he was about to tell her now.

"The Dark Lord ordered a small force of us to capture a rather troublesome Ministry official. You may even have heard of her." He paused cruelly. "The Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Amelia Bones."

She stood. "You bastard, you didn't!" But he held up a hand.

"You said you wanted to know, foolish girl. Will you allow me to finish, or have you heard enough?"

Her blood burned, but after she steadied her breathing, she sat back down. She would not give him the satisfaction of being right about what he'd said about her before.

"As it turned out, when we found her, she was not alone." He paused again, this time looking into her eyes so intently, she could feel him trying to communicate something to her. But she was either too under-informed or too dense to understand it.

"My . . . allies focused on fighting off the Aurors, while I pursued Miss Bones. Unfortunately, she managed to evade my capture . . ." His gaze lingered over hers again, and something clicked into place in her mind. He'd let her get away. ". . . And this," he gestured to his bandaged side, "was my parting gift from her. The Severing Charm, I believe. Often quite the harmless spell, mundane even, but aimed with the intent to wound, well . . ." He spread his hands. "It can be difficult to deflect . . . and sometimes fatal."

He let the weight of his words wash over her, and then continued, "As you can imagine, the Dark Lord was not pleased with my performance. Therefore, in light of his displeasure, you can understand why I may have forgotten to see to the wound myself, and instead ended up collapsing so unceremoniously before you."

Her eyes were drawn downward. A fine tremor ran through his fingers where they sat clasped in his lap. She recognized the symptom from her training. She tried to forget.

Tremors, spasms, numbness. Over the long term, nerve degeneration.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to her own hands. "That I didn't notice. It's my duty to be more observant."

"Yes, it is," he said. "As it is mine. In this particular case, it was my responsibility, not yours. I was careless." He shook his head bitterly. "I almost paid dearly for it, and the Order would have lost its spy. If Dumbledore were here . . ." He trailed off.

If Dumbledore were here, he wouldn't have to be in this shitty old house with her. He'd be at Hogwarts. His eyes were a little clouded, unfocused. Probably from blood loss, she realized, among other things . . .

"Well," she said, standing up suddenly. "I should probably let you rest." She turned to leave, but a quietly uttered word stopped her.

"Nymphadora."

She turned back to him. He was staring at her intensely again. "Word of this never leaves this room. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir—I mean, Severus."

"Out. I'll be gone long before your alcohol-addled brain wakes tomorrow."

As she approached the door, she felt a crooked smile creep up on her. "I think the shock you gave me tonight scared me sober for good."

"I should hope so," he said, as she closed the door behind her with a click.

Author's Note: A prequel to this story is currently in the works. It takes place during Tonks's sixth year at Hogwarts.