"Exhale."
In the Ministry of Magic's awards hall, seated in the front row, Severus Snape let out a slow, controlled breath.
He had arrived early. Aside from a few Ministry staff bustling about with last-minute preparations, the hall was empty. None of the Potions Masters he had invited had arrived yet.
Which suited him. It gave him ti to settle his nerves and think through what he was going to say once he was onstage.
It wasn't just the speech. This ceremony was one of the rare occasions where he could speak with the foremost Potions experts of the age in person. Letters were useful, but so questions simply could not be resolved without a face-to-face discussion.
Gathering this many Potions Masters in one place was no easy feat. He intended to choose his topics with care.
He had just managed to focus when a light, lazy voice sounded at his side, sending all his hard-won calm wobbling again.
"Well, now. Nervous?"
Snape shot the young man who had sohow slipped into the chair beside him a flat, wordless look, then deliberately turned his head away.
On a normal day, he would have found a way to skewer Evans with a few well-placed barbs. Today, he needed to keep his mind clear for the discussions ahead; he had no ti for their usual sparring.
Evans, unfortunately, had never needed anyone's permission to continue their "daily bonding session."
"What's this, going for the aloof, untouchable look?" Evans studied the big bat's stoic profile and decided his dear Head of House had to be truly rattled.
A rlin Second Class, after all, was one of the highest honours any wizard could receive. First Class was usually reserved for the dead; very few living witches or wizards ever saw their nas attached to it.
That kind of thing could make anyone tense.
As his most brilliant student, it fell to Evans to support his Head of House in this ti of great stress.
As for the Order of rlin itself, he no longer had much reverence for it. Once, the dal had seed like a shining symbol of achievent. After watching rlin's own portrait get battered into the floor, though, the na just made him want to laugh.
He patted Snape on the shoulder and had his hand smacked away for the effort. Evans shrugged. "Want to get you sothing to eat? I hear a bit of chocolate, or just chewing on sothing, helps with nerves."
"No. Go away."
"You hear that? Classic case of saying no when you an yes. You're welco. I'm pretty sure there's a place that sells Chocolate Frogs in here. Back in a tick."
Before Snape could erupt, Evans vanished in a flash of silver-white light.
"You…" Snape glared at the fading arc where Evans had been. The feeling was like being half-hexed and left hanging. His face flickered between pale and livid as he fought to smother the spike of anger.
Annoying as it was, the burst of irritation had chased his nerves clean away.
He would very much have preferred a different thod of calming down.
He shook his head sharply, determined not to waste another thought on Evans, and turned his mind back to what he ant to discuss with the Potions Masters.
He had barely refocused when a new voice sounded in his ear—drawling, self-satisfied, and instantly unpleasant.
"Severus? Well, well. It really is you."
"What happened, then? Couldn't hack it at Hogwarts anymore? Sniffed out a random award and now you're here to cosy up to a few apothecaries and toddle off into retirent?"
He turned his head with glacial slowness.
A middle-aged man in aristocratic robes stood beside him, every line of his posture steeped in arrogance, lips curled in a mocking smile—as though he were looking at so stray mongrel in the street.
Coincidentally, that was very much how Severus looked at him.
Irritation flashed in his eyes. He should have known. Co to the Ministry, and you are bound to run across these pests.
Vili Selwyn. Head of the Selwyn family. One of the Death Eaters who had managed to slip the Ministry's net. And once upon a ti, his colleague.
"Well, now. That's a stroke of luck."
Evans's tone was odd as he stared down at the gleaming card in his hand.
On the card, a woman with waist-length reddish-brown hair stood in the centre, her face expressionless and cold. Unlike other Chocolate Frog portraits, she hardly moved at all. Now and then she blinked, just enough to prove she was a magical painting rather than a Muggle photograph.
Beneath the portrait, a na and a brief line of text were printed.
"Didn't expect to pull a Morgana card out of a random box. Aren't the silver-edged ones ant to be rare?"
He studied the card more closely. There were no obvious symbols in the image to prove the woman's identity. Why the original painting had been taken as Morgana's likeness at all was a question in itself.
Still, the friend he had asked to investigate that castle should have arrived by now. In a few days, he ought to have news.
Then he could decide whether to take a look himself.
He slipped the card away and headed toward the awards hall.
The venue for a Second Class Order of rlin ceremony wasn't the sa as the one used when he'd received Third Class. The third tier wasn't too hard to earn; Second Class was another matter entirely.
Appropriately, the path to reach the higher hall was much longer.
He wound his way through the Ministry's maze-like corridors. Unlike on the way out, he didn't risk flashing back—he wasn't entirely certain of the hall's exact location, and Apparating blind in here risked embedding himself in a wall.
The walls of the Ministry were laced with stabilising charms. This wasn't like misjudging Apparition distance outside and simply blasting one's way free.
There was plenty of ti before the ceremony began. Walking back would let him get a feel for the Ministry's layout.
After about five minutes of twisting turns, he finally found the grand doors the staff had originally led him through. He pushed one open. As soon as a crack appeared, voices drifted out.
"…I heard a funny story the other day. Rumour says you're a half-blood. That true? Ha. The old crowd would love to hear that."
"Save yourself the trouble. You should focus on that child of yours. Think he dares drink plain water yet? Or does he still need to cast a Freshwater Charm directly into his own stomach?"
The doors swung wider and Evans stepped inside, taking in the scene: two figures in the middle of the hall, locked in a low, heated quarrel.
One was his dear Head of House. The other, that middle-aged wizard in noble robes.
Clark-like arrogance, tight face, eyes full of spite.
An involuntary grin tugged at Evans's mouth, mories from a few years back stirring.
Well now. That was a familiar face.
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