Disclaimer: Alas, Severus Snape is not mine; he belongs to J.K. Rowling, as do all other characters and wondrous things in the Harry Potter universe. There will be a few characters that are mine, but no profit is being made. They only want to play.

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Chapter 4 - The Manor-House of Prince

The manor-house of Prince was a very old medium-sized estate of gray stone, buried deep in a wood. The front of the house was uninviting with half-boarded up narrow windows; broken steps lead to a massive but decaying wooden door. A massive portico loomed overhead, leaning on crumbling granite pillars. Moss grew unchecked on the northern side, where a dilapidated and sunken porch overlooked a backyard garden, overgrown and thick with weeds.

The inside of the manor was in no better condition, even though it had recently been scrubbed clean. Uninhabited for years and mostly unfurnished; the air still smelled dank and stale. The house was three stories high, and even though no elaborate ornaments decorated the casings, there was an unmistakable impression that this manor-house had at one time been a distinguished dwelling. Deep cherry and mahogany wood were mixed throughout, which may have given the rooms a formal look, but with the boarded and heavily curtained windows, sunk the home into a gloomy despair.

The kitchen though, was somewhat of a cheerier nature. The window above the sink was unobstructed, letting filtered sunlight into the plentiful workspace. A long oaken table sat in the middle of the spacious room, where a tiny house elf sat working on arranging steaming rice and vegetables attractively on a plate. Humming a little to herself when she was satisfied with the results, she nodded to another house elf who had just entered the kitchen.

"Is ready, Tiff", she said, nodding her head at the plate of food. "I's hoping Master eats today. I make sure is his favorite today! Master Snape must eat! Not good to only drink tea!"

"I know, Twink", sighed the other elf. "I take it to Master now. Master just finished brewing painkiller potion; bottling it up now. Bad men from Ministry will be here to pick it up tomorrow. Too bad Master Snape can't hide some away. Will need it tomorrow."

"I won't let bad men hurt Master again!" Twink said emphatically. "I protects him this time. Don't cares what Master Snape says! Can't stop me!"

"Twink! Bad Elf! Master needs to make more potion for you, now! Is dangerous what he doing! Must obey him or he get in more trouble because of you!", Tif cried. "Go iron your ears!" he added hotly.

"Master says never punish ourselves", Twink pouted. "Fine for you - you says obey him and then tells me to do disobey thing! You not my master - you get me in trouble in first place!"

Tif glared at the other elf. "I be back. Take Master supper and make sure he eat. I tells him about you. Master will have to make more potion. You prepare ingredients - Master be too tired - hurt hand will cramp again. Must do tonight or you get us all in trouble when bad men from Ministry come tomorrow." Twink glared back as Tif took the plate of food and disappeared with a loud 'plop'.

Twink sighed, remembering how things had gotten so messed up. It really was her fault, although Tif obviously was guilty as well. It was just the fact that she was the only that would exhibit the side-effects that made her appear the more guilty.

If she and Tif were found out, they would be executed. And then their Master would be alone, with no one to take care of him. And probably sent back to that awful prison place again, just for knowing about them and helping them. That fact, more than any other made her determined to obey him, if she could.

She had been a Hogwarts house elf for many years, happily working in the kitchens when the long white-bearded Master Headmaster had reassigned her to work with Professor Snape. Professor Snape was very busy, the white-bearded Headmaster had explained, and needed her help preparing ingredients for his potions, even though said Potions Master had looked at the Headmaster darkly at that. She had been deathly afraid of him at first - none of the other house elves would voluntarily go near him; rumors had it that he used house elves as ingredients when he was displeased and irate - which was most of the time. Gradually she discovered that this was a myth. Master Snape was exacting in his expectations of her, but he had never harmed her. In fact, the one time that she had cut herself and bled all over the salamander leaves, he had grabbed her, healed her half-torn finger, and then had flatly refused to let her stuff herself into a boiling cauldron. He had crossly told her that she would have ruined hours of his work, but she had her doubts.

That year had not been a good year. Her new master had been run ragged, making potions, teaching his dunderheads and grading their pitiful assignments, none of which were worth the parchment they were written on, according to him. Getting him to eat had become a challenge - she had taken to leaving tidbits of food for him everywhere in the vain hope that he would at least eat one meal a day. And to top it off, the Master Potions Master would disappear for hours on end, only to come back pale and trembling, frequently bleeding, and every now and then convulsing with the after effects of the cruciatus curse. Headmaster Dumbledore would sometimes ask her about the Potions Master's health after these absences, but she would never tell. He was her Master now, and she would keep his secrets.

She remembered vividly when Headmaster Dumbledore had come to her toward the end of that year, and had given her special instructions. She had been most anxious, feeling that she was doing something wrong, but the Headmaster had assured her she was a good house elf, that her Master would need her badly in the future. Something Bad was going to happen, something that would send her Master away for a long time. She would be needed to care for him when he returned. The Headmaster had given her instructions on what to prepare and the details of when and where. He had also informed her that she would be going away from Hogwarts as well, but not until after the war. She would not be needed until then. And then she had met Tif.

Oh, she had been furious to discover that she had to share her Master with another house elf. Who else but her knew what foods he liked best? Which ones he was most likely to eat when upset? She had thought this new elf would cower in terror when her Master spoke with the icy venom that was his wont - she had learnt to disregard it. But Tif would probably know it as well. He should. He had been serving the Prince family for generations. Had known the Master from the time of his birth.

As for the icy venom . . . well . . . it had never been heard once since their Master had returned. And Twink found she would give anything to hear it again.

Headmaster Dumbledore had said it would be a while after the war ended before Master Snape would return. That he would probably have to go to a Bad Place first before coming to the manor-house to live. That the Bad Place would somehow hurt Master Snape, even though he should only be there for a short time. She didn't think Headmaster Dumbledore had known it would be for over a year.

Or that he would come back not just a little hurt, but broken.

Twink had been jealous of Tif when she found out he had been able to serve the Master occasionally before the war had ended, after the Bad Thing had happened. He had told her haughtingly that it would have been too risky for their Master for her to do it. Now, she was grateful to have another elf with her to share the burden of fixing the Master.

It was an extreme twist of irony that the young master was functioning as well as he was.

When the balding lawyer wizard had arrived with their Master at last, they had been shocked at his condition. They had cleaned him up quickly, bathed him, washed and cut his hair to its normal shoulder length, and then gently levitated him onto the silky sheets of the large bed, where they continued their ministrations.

First, were the injuries. His body was covered with angry red welts - old ones that had scarred badly; newer ones that still seeped with puss. They both knew he had scars from before the war, and many that his Dark Lord had inflicted during his days of spying, but those were totally lost among the new ones that decorated his body.

The bottoms of his feet were crusted with blood and one hand was kept curled protectively against his chest, fingers gnarled and twisted grotesquely. His right hand, his wand hand and the one he used most frequently to stir potions with. Bones had been broken, healed improperly, and then broken again, time after time by the looks of it. Neither elf had the power to heal it. The bones in both feet had been broken as well, but not as often, and that they could heal better.

On his left arm, the Dark Mark still stood out vividly. This mark would now never fade, as it had been etched most permanently into the skin. Circling his right wrist was a new brand that neither elf had seen before. Resembling a thick, strong chain, it fairly reeked of dark magic. A dark binding of some sort, they guessed, having to do with his status of parolee. It pulsed now with a fevered rhythm, in time with the labored heartbeat of the man who bore it.

Shaking themselves from the sight of both markings, they busied themselves with healing various other injuries - minor fractures of the skull, a thrice broken nose, ruptured eardrums and torn ligaments. There were also minor curses left on his body that they could deal with handily: a rotating insomnia and nightmare hex, a nasty twice-as-gravity hex applied to his whole body, and a one-and-a-half-foot shackle curse on his legs. There were also two charms on his body - one a bowel and bladder cleansing charm and one a basic nutrient replenishing charm. After a little discussion, they removed the cleansing one, but left the nutrient one. They could remove it later when they knew it was no longer needed.

Once satisfied that his injuries were taken care of, they turned their attention to his emaciated form. To say that young Master Snape was malnourished was like saying it was cold out at 40 below zero. Rib and clavicle bones jutted out prominently; pale skin sagged on a once solid frame. The Potions Master had always been on the too thin side to suit either house elf; both had heard Madame Pomfrey, the school nurse, warning about him not carrying any extra weight. According to her, a little extra was necessary to fall back on in case of sickness. Looking at him now, they knew what she meant. Apparently, Headmaster Dumbledore had foreseen this and had stocked plenty of potions to boost his professor's system and get him on the road to recovery. Twink and Tif would take over from there, by providing plenty of nourishing dishes - albeit soup and brothy stews to start with - if they could get him to eat.

What worried the elves the most though, and had Twink wringing her hands in despair, was this fact: all through their ministrations - from the bath to the removal of hexes - their Master had been awake, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling - but not a word did he speak. Even lying there naked as they healed his wounds and soothed his hurts, shivering in the cold until a cuff on the head from Tiff had sent Twink scurrying to find a sheet and blanket to cover him, he did not make a sound. Beads of sweat had appeared on his face as they had removed some of the hexes and healed his wounds and he had flinched away repeatedly when bathing him, but not a sound did he utter.

Nor did he make a sound for many days after that. He was as docile as a lamb - they lead him from his bed to his chair, and from his chair to the kitchen and back again for six days straight without as much batting an eye. In fact, he kept his eyes downcast, which was just as well. Twink shivered remembering how vacant those eyes had been. It was because of the Dementors, they knew. Tif knew the signs; he had seen it before. But that first time had not been as bad as this. Headmaster Dumbledore had said that there would not be dementors this time, but apparently he had been wrong. They had fed on his master - many, many times; it looked as if they had taken him to the brink of the Kiss. They were afraid his mind would never fully come back.

But then the Bad Men from the Ministry had come. The balding lawyer wizard had told them they would; that they would be here once a week until he could find some way to make them stop. The lawyer wizard was afraid they would hurt their master. He did not have to say this - they just knew by the way he fidgeted with his hat. Their Master was under Ministry Restrictions, which meant that he was subjected to the whims of the Bad Men. They would search the house and test for any traces of magic. He was not allowed to do any magic without permission. His wand had been snapped in front of him just prior to his release.

So when the Bad Men came storming into the house, brandishing their wands and breaking what little furnishings decorated the house, both elves made sure they were beside the Potions Master at all times. And when one of the Bad Men, a Mr. Auror Dawlish, had told them to leave, and then had kicked Twink so hard that she flew across the room and thudded into the wall with a frightened squeak when they had refused, well, that was when it happened.

A brief flash of anger in those black eyes.

Twink remembered the joy that had surged through her heart at the sight.

It was gone in a second, replaced by the vacant, glassy look once again, but they watched with a mixture of joy and trepidation as their Master struggled painfully to his feet and limped slowly to stand in front of Bad Man Auror Dawlish.

Dawlish circled him greedily while Snape stood with his disfigured hand clutched tightly to his chest, eyes downcast and head lowered, swaying slightly. The Master was trembling all over, seeming to simultaneously shrink inside himself and brace himself for something unpleasant. But when Dawlish raised his wand, Tif released his magic.

This time it was Dawlish who hit the wall with a thud. The four other Aurors came hurrying forward, but Tif sent them scrambling as well.

Tif was old. And powerful. And he would give his young master his life if need be.

"You will not hurt Master Snape!", Tif declared to a murderous looking Dawlish. "You will . . ."

"Tif. No."

The words were barely above a whisper; the voice hoarse and raspy from disuse. But it was their Master's voice. The first they had heard it since his return. Twink clutched Tif's arm as their Master dragged his eyes upward from the floor to look into the wide eyes of his elf and shook his head minutely in warning. Fathomless black eyes seemed to focus with a faint intensity.

Dawlish stalked forward with a grunt. Eying the elves warily, he rounded on Snape.

"The minister seems to have misjudged the late Dumbledore. Should have known he'd have left guard dogs, as well as shelter for his murderer. But we'll see about that. Don't get too comfy here, Death Eater", the man had growled.

And then had come the rules. No stepping his foot off the property without express permission or accompaniment of aurors. He was to make a pain-relieving potion for St. Mungo's weekly for which he would receive no monetary gain. (And here he was reminded of how he now owned nothing; everything he possessed had been confiscated by the Ministry.) The needed ingredients would be delivered, no other potions ingredients was he permitted to possess. He was to participate in a 'rehabilitation program' devised by Dawlish - and here Dawlish had smiled icily and had given Snape a gloating look that had sent shivers down both elves spines. And finally his house and person would be checked weekly, to ensure that he wasn't 'going astray' by using magic. Any violations of these rules or indications that he was trying to hide anything during their searches would result in his being shipped back to Azkaban forthwith.

The aurors had left reluctantly, grumbling amongst themselves and scowling at the elves. Dawlish had made a few more comments to Snape, of which the elves could only make out the words 'health', 'control', and 'punishment'. Snape had kept his gaze firmly locked on the floor, but his shoulders and back had grown rigid at the words.

When they returned the following week, Dawlish's angry demeanor told of his lost battle to have the elves removed or Snape ousted from his shelter. The estate had belonged to Snape's maternal grandparents, but had been deeded over to Headmaster Dumbledore years earlier. There was no way Scrimgeour could touch it as it had been willed to an unknown wizard residing in America who, after an extensive search to find, had flatly told the minister to butt out of his business; he could let it to whomever he wanted.

The elves apparently, were owned by the same wizard and were charged with taking care of the estate and its belongings.

About a month later, their master had been given 'permission' to go to the general store located about 5 miles south of the estate to get the ingredients for the painkilling potion. The store owner had a list of the approved ingredients - a very short list it was - and the quantity allowed each time. Master was forced to go to the store each time before brewing, a feat that he accomplished like a robot, his body on autopilot. But, Twink had thought happily to herself - he needed the exercise as well as the outdoor air. Twink was nothing if not an optimist. Even about her own predicament.

Which had happened, again ironic enough, after another visit from the Bad Men.

They had taken to coming at random times, trying to catch them unawares, she supposed. She and Tif had been helping the master with the potion at the time, chopping the mandrake roots for him as it was still too hard for him to do it himself one handed. The alarm on the wards had sounded, alerting them to the presence of visitors approaching - something that they were sure Dawlish was unaware of. That they could not apparate directly inside the house was still a source of profound fury on the Minister's part. Dumbledore had erected the wards himself as a precaution; it was the one thing that seemed to have gone right as every effort to break through them had failed thus far. Unfortunately, they could still come up the walk and enter through the front door. They were, after all, not supposed to be evil.

Dawlish had not been with them, this time; instead there was a cocky apprentice named Zuber along with three regulars - Youngblood, Sneary, and Davis. They had done the regular - ransacked the house, checked for magical signatures, and searched and heckled their Master, who had ordered them after the first visit to not interfere. That they remained present was the only thing that prevented the aurors from hurting their Master more than they did, of this Twink was sure. And then Zuber, the young apprentice, had started taunting.

At first, there had been no response as usual, as Zuber had provoked and prodded, calling their Master everything from 'slimy git' and 'Death Eater' to 'mass murderer' and 'the thing'. He joked about Snape's time spent in Azkaban, vaguely referring to things that had been done to him about which the elves had already suspicioned. The master had stood through this with the same tenseness and downcast eyes as always, but with no other reaction.

And then Zuber had started talking about his fellow apprentice, Harry Potter.

Harry Potter, who was very angry at his former Potions Master. Harry Potter, who, everyone said, must have been tricked into getting a defense lawyer for Snape. Harry Potter who, everyone believed, was sure to be the one to serve justice on Snape for the murder of Albus Dumbledore. Harry Potter who was destined to be even more powerful than Albus Dumbledore. Harry Potter who was starting to appear with Scrimgeour at social functions. Harry Potter who had publicly agreed with Scrimgeour about the Werewolf Restrictions Act and had openly argued, rather hotly, with his friend Remus Lupin, calling him - and here Zuber had quoted smugly - 'an animal who needed to be controlled, not only for the protection of the innocent, but for his own protection as well'.

All during this rant, the elves had watched their master carefully, knowing from past experience that if any name could elicit a response, it was the name of Harry Potter. It was not until near the end - at the mention of Scrimgeour - that a reaction could be detected. A slight tightening of the shoulder muscles; a brief scowl that was soon gone, noticeable only to the elves who knew him so well. But at the mention of the Werewolf Restrictions Act, and Potter's argument with Lupin, a sharp piercing look flashed in those black eyes - and stayed. And then, for the first time, their master spoke directly to his tormentor.

"So, the Great Harry Potter is too good now for his pet werewolf?" he said, his voice still rough and abrasive, but unmistakenly acidic nonetheless.

Zuber, visibly taken aback by the unexpected response, quickly recovered.

"Potter understands that some individual rights must be sacrificed to protect the larger society", he had said with disdain. "It is only a minor inconvenience - he can't show favoritism with Lupin when all the other werewolves have to report for lock-up."

Master Snape's eyes had narrowed slightly at this, a sign that quickened both elves heart rates. Their master was considering what he had learned. He was processing the information. Formulating his response to get more information. He was, in fact, thinking. His mind, his brilliant mind, was still intact! Still whole! They contained themselves from exclaiming; and watched their master manipulate the rest of the conversation with wide, prideful eyes.

He had sneered at Zuber. "Potter - sacrificing something? I'm sure our Great Hero sacrifices nothing", his voice, gathering strength, slid into a semblance of the silky tones of old - not quite there yet, but still foreboding enough to set shivers tingling down Zuber's spine. "Is the great Harry Potter afraid of his werewolf even knowing he is rendered quite harmless while on the Wolfsbane? Or is he too afraid to even give his pet his medicine, hmm?"

Zuber, had looked uncomfortable under the potions master gaze, but seemed to find renewed zeal at the prospect of hurting the man before him with what he knew.

"You don't know what happened, do you? I'd have thought that fool of a lawyer would have told you - but, I guess he was too afraid of getting hexed by his Death Eater client. Wolfsbane has been declared unsafe. The Minister just recently discovered that the real inventor of wolfsbane was in fact a known criminal . . . a Death Eater no less . . ." Zuber had smiled a knowing smile. "Can you believe it? All this time we thought Wolfsbane was invented by some French Potions Master. But now we know better. The minister had it tested - said with continued use, why . . . they all would have turned to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named . . . it really is a good thing that most of them didn't have the means to receive a steady supply of the stuff every month. Remus Lupin is being watched most carefully, of course. It seems he took his 'medicine' most faithfully."

Their master's eyes had flared with an intense anger at this news. His voice, now a more velveteen silk, continued with calculated maneuvering, his expression fixed in the classic sneer. "I do hope that our great and esteemed Minister has some plan in mind, if Wolfsbane is no longer an option. Perhaps another Potions Master could . . .improve upon the formula? It wouldn't seem right to just leave the werewolves to run amok every month, endangering everybody. Do tell me that the Minister, or Potter" (he spat the name with convincing hatred) "has some kind of plan?"

"Oh, they do. All werewolves must now report for lock-up each month. We really must get funding for additional cells - they make quite a mess, what with being all packed in there for 5 days a month", Zuber had said matter-of-factly.

"And the great Harry Potter has condemned his father's best friend to this fate?"

"Of course. He did not want to do it - but, as he said, he has learned to 'harden his heart' on some matters. He really has come a long way. After the war, he wanted nothing to do with the Minister - said Scrimgeour was nothing but a 'politically correct, power-hungry machosist'. Can you believe that? Now, he really seems to admire the man. Even taking his advise on how to handle his wife. Seems she's got some funny notions of what's decent for the wife of Harry Potter to be doing. But he put her in her place, he did. Guess he shoulda seen that one coming, seeing she's a Weasley." Zuber was nodding his head at his own words, seeming to forget his audience at the memory.

"I see", was all that Snape said. The elves could tell that he did, indeed see as he stared down at Zuber over the top of his hooked nose, his eyes narrowed and tight.

After the aurors left, Master Snape had paced relentlessly, back and forth, irregardless of his limp, muttering angrily to himself. Twink and Tif had watched happily as he ranted something about 'Potter and his blasted stubbornish pride', and being above following Albus's instructions. There was something in there about the 'damned boy not knowing the difference between love and hate, much less right and wrong'. Neither elf could make much sense out of any of it, but they didn't care.

Master Snape was back!

His mind was sound. The more he muttered and rambled in those beloved scathing tones the more festive they became.

They celebrated with butterbeer. The angrier the Master seemed to become, the happier they became and the more they drank.

And then they had done it.

The Unthinkable Thing.

It was not supposed to happen.

There were safeguards against this sort of thing happening. It hadn't happened to elves who were serving for a millennia. It was a condition of their Enslavement. As much as they loved their Master, they were afraid of what he would do when he found out. Of what he would be forced to do.

And, as much as they tried to hide it, he had found out. On the very next visit by the Bad Men. Twink had known what could happen, she just didn't expect the side-effects to manifest so quickly. She had tried to stay away from them - she had slunk to the back parlor while they were searching the living room. She had tip-toed to the kitchen while they destroyed the master suite. And when they had come in to ransack the kitchen, she had tried to sneak to the attic. But not quick enough. Tif, bless him, had tried to cover for her, but as soon as they came into the kitchen, her Master held at wandpoint, following Dawlish obediently, she had felt the raw anger boil up and knew it was over.

Master Snape had caught her gaze and she knew that he knew instantly.

And then he had commanded her harshly to punish herself. Severely. So shocked was she that she hardly heard him order Tif to accompany her to make sure she did so adequately. Tif had jerked her backward, away from the aurors and down the rickety stairs to the basement. It was a mess; it had already been searched. She had tried to fight; a part of her wanted - no needed - to get back upstairs to defend her Master. She could hear the aurors questioning him snidely regarding his unexpected behaviour. Another part, one that had proved stronger at that moment, had compelled her to obey his command for punishment.

And she had tried - really tried. But for some strange reason, Tif had kept getting in her way. He smartly foiled her plans to smash her brains on the stone walls. He whisked away the cauldron before she could fill it with boiling water to dive into. He had thwarted several more attempts before she almost succeeded in chopping both her and Tif's hand off - which was when he degenerated into tackling her and wrestled her to the ground, where they tumbled over and over each other across the dungeon floor. This they continued for quite some time until they heard a harsh voice growl "Stop!".

They had found themselves sprawled in an undignified heap at their master's feet.

Twink's eyes filled with tears as she remembered what her master had done. What he had said. Oh, she was so lucky to have such a good, wonderful master! Master Snape was back. And Master Snape cared about her - a lowly elf!

They had decided to make the potion that would alleviate most of her symptoms. Most of the ingredients had been found growing in the thick woods that surrounded the house - many ingredients had been discovered there actually - a fact that the idiots from the ministry apparently didn't realize. Perhaps they were too afraid to enter the dense growth - it was rumored to be filled with wild beasts. Whatever the reason, they had all the necessary ingredients but one - wormwood which he was substituting with cattails for the moment - making the potion not as effective but still much better than nothing.

As Twink busied herself with making orange biscuits for the next day, she started once more humming to herself. Yes, she still had bad moments when the potion's effectiveness started to wear off. That's when she felt the great surges of anger whenever she thought of the aurors. She shuddered to think what she might be capable of now if confronted with them without the potion. Master Snape had ordered her to punish herself that first time as a distraction, knowing that she would be compelled to follow the deeply ingrained command. A distraction! Master Snape was so thoughtful as to distract her from her affliction! She hummed happily and decided to make some oatmeal raisin biscuits as well.

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Tif found his master sitting rigidly in the straight-back chair as usual, staring blankly into the fire. He was shivering again. No matter how many clothes they layered on him or how high the fire was kept, he never seemed to be warm enough. Deep lines etched into the pale face made him look so much older than his forty-two years. The hair had turned greasy again, as it always did when brewing potions, and now hung limply in clustered strands about his face. He started out of his reverie when Tif set the food-ladened plate on a small stand beside him.

"Is Master Snape hungry, sir? Twink made Master Snape his favorite today, sir. Does it look to your liking?", the little elf asked hopefully.

The potions master blinked and said, "It is fine, Tif. Just leave it" without ever even glancing once at the plate, and resumed his contemplation of the fire with despairing eyes.

"She be hoping you have good appetite today. You not been eating enough", prodded the elf, which earned him only the barest of shrugs in response.

"Twink making bad comments again. I think potion wear off. They come tomorrow to pick up medicine potion. Maybe better if you give Twink clothes? You too tired and hungry to make potion for her!" Tif turned as if to go, but looked back at his master slyly.

Snape scowled a little before absently reaching for the plate. "No", he sighed, taking a small bite. "I will make the potion. It is too risky to do otherwise."

"Master Snape is very kind", said Tif happily.

A dark look crossed the potions master face and his eyes glinted. "I have never been kind", he said tonelessly, as he set the plate down and rose from his seat. "Tell Twink to chop the maiden grass and the hawthorn roots and to bring them to my - lab". He said the last word with a sneer. There had once been a fine lab in the basement, but the ministry had taken everything but one cauldron and a small worktable. That a potions master as skilled as Severus was reduced to making one potion that most first years could handle with ease was a further slap - a rather brutal one.

Tif watched his master walk away - the limp was still noticeable to those who cared to look - and sighed, eying the largely untouched meal. Well, one bite was better than none. He wondered sometimes if it weren't partly because of the pain from his branded wrist. He knew the pain ebbed and flowed at random, and could be most unbearable at times. Tif knew this only by the tightening of his masters mouth and the pinched look in his eyes. The hand was completely useless, and Snape still kept it curled protectively against his body at all times.

He wondered now, as he had over the past few weeks, if the Fates hadn't made him and Twink get into the trouble they were in to be a distraction for their master. Master Snape had always been a defender of those whom held his respect - sometimes, even those who did not.

He just worried that two lowly house elves would not be enough of a distraction to survive the hatred of the wizarding world.

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A/N I am taking a great liberty with House Elf physiology, behaviour and restrictions. It's probably not hard to guess what the mystery affliction is, but if you haven't, it will be revealed in another couple of chapters.

I now have the weekend free to devote to reading Deathly Hallows. I'm almost afraid to read it - afraid of what JkR might do to my favorite Potions Master. But I swear, whatever she does, my vision of Snape will live on forever.