— at some point she becomes aware that someone is watching her.

A lot of people have been watching her today, but there's something strange in how that dark-haired boy looks at her when she catches a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. She politely extracts herself from the conversation and makes her way towards him.

He doesn’t meet her eyes. Under his breath, he murmurs, “Good day to our newest guild member. The youngest in two centuries, I’ve heard.”

Is that a note of — mockery to his voice? It’s difficult to tell.

She's in too good of a mood to be deterred. "Good day," she says, holding out her hand. "Elise, but I suppose you already knew that."

He takes her hand and shakes it, limply.

”I’m sure everyone and sundry has complimented you on your potions skills. I’m afraid I rather disapprove.”

"I confess I find it difficult to see what there is to disprove of in reducing the dangers of curse damage. Or is it the Chameleon Draught you object to? That one's looking like it'll take years of work, no need to worry yet on that front."

”I have found that all too many young persons, fancying themselves prodigies—“ and here he looks up and locks eyes with her, his voice taking on a hateful, bitter cast “—become caught up in their own talent, neglecting to remember intention. They possess ambition without aim, skill without deliberativity, magnitude without direction. And thereby they squander their talents, developing trifles, attractive and impractical and nothing, surely, to marvel at.”

Oh, for Merlin's sake, seriously? She could hardly say that being here was victory enough, and it didn't seem like it would do any good in the face of that sneer in any case.

"I'd hardly call healing draughts either attractive or impractical," she says instead. "If anything, the opposite. I got quite a few remarks before tonight that I should have been a mediwitch, if I was going to go into healing, and leave the potions to the serious brewers."

A smile plays over his lips. “And perhaps you should have.” He draws his cloak around himself. “If you ever desire to rise above the merely plebeian, I am Severus Snape. Doubtless your owl will know how to find me.” And with that he has departed, his robes swirling around him.

Whatever sort of test this was, she’d not passed it. But neither had she failed it.

That was... sure something. 'The merely plebian', really, she couldn't decide if she was more offended or amused.

She turns back to the rest of the party, but the encounter doesn't leave her mind, and she finds herself asking after a Severus Snape - "made a couple rude comments, introduced himself, and left?"

“That would be like him,” an older witch says, shaking her head reprovingly. “I’ve never liked him, myself. Hope he didn’t rattle you too bad, dearie.”

”Did you hear?” It’s a younger, dark-haired man, in his early thirties. “Snape’s supposed to be involved in...” He looks around nervously. “Things.”

Another witch leans in. “It’s remarkable he attended today at all. Usually he skips this kind of thing— not really the sort for socializing, you understand.”

"Oh, I like to think I'm harder to unnerve than that," she tells the first witch.

"Things?" she asks the wizard. "I don't really follow the latest rumors, I'm afraid, I much prefer to be in a lab."

There’s a palpable silence, then the older witch says in a quiet voice, “Some things are better left unsaid.” The others nod in agreement.

"I can't think what he'd be involved with that's so terrible it can't even be - oh." She's not involved enough with wizarding society to pick up on such hints, but she's not so much of an exile not to have heard of Voldemort. Being so afraid of him they didn't even dare speak his name struck her as silly, but she knew her own position well enough. If it came out she was just pretending...

On the other hand, if he attracted supporters like that dramatic show-off Snape, perhaps there really was no sense in fearing him. Honestly, who called people 'plebian' these days?

The darker-haired man leans in, brimming with nervous excitement. “So you know about-”

”Jeremy!” It’s the older woman again. “That’s quite enough! Now, dearie — Ellie, was it? — I was hoping to congratulate you on your recent entrance into the Guild...”

She lets the conversation be steered away from Severus Snape and other dangerous topics, still brimming with excitement from her achievement. She makes a note of the man who had wanted to talk about it, however, and finds him later as the evening winds down.

He smiles nervously when he sees her. “Hi Elise!”

"Hi - I don't think I caught your name - I wanted to ask if you knew anything else about Snape." He'd seemed so strangely interested in her, despite the insults, it seemed worth following up at least that much.

Jeremy pales considerably, making his freckles stand out. “It’s Jeremy. Weasley. And no, I don’t... not really.”

"All I want is any hint as to why he might have stared at me, insulted me, and then told me to owl him if I ever wanted to do, how did he phrase it, 'more than the merely plebian'. As you can imagine, I'm rather confused." Links to Voldemort do cast that invitation in a rather unpleasant light, but she'd like more information before jumping to such an unpleasant conclusion.

“—Oh.” Suddenly Jeremy is looking everywhere except her eyes. “I don’t know Sev that well.... what did he say to you?”

"Said I lacked direction, mostly. Praised my talents with compliments so backhanded I'm surprised he didn't hurt himself getting the words out, then told me his name and to owl him if... I don't remember the words more precisely than what I've already told you, I'm afraid."

“...he said you could owl him?” There’s a note of astonishment in Jeremy’s voice.

"Well, actually what he said was something more like 'I'm sure your owl can find me'."

“Still, though... I’ve been trying to get closer to him for ages. Because of the whole... you know.”

"Is he that much of a recluse that an invitation to owl him is exceptional?"

Jeremy licks his lips nervously, looking rather like an overenthusiastic dog. “Y-y-yes? At least, I’ve never known him to tell someone else to owl him... not anyone I know, at any rate.”

"Well. I suppose he meant me to be impressed by such a distinction."

A small, almost accidental smile from Jeremy. “I rather expect that he just wanted you to owl him.”

"Does he really think insults would work better than 'hello Elise, I was interested in something or other in your work, would you like to discuss it further?' I'm not hard to get ahold of."

“I’m not Snape. I don’t know what he was thinking. Maybe it was some kind of test.”

She snorts. "Well, he sure seems the type."

Shrug.

Then, in a lower voice: “Are you planning to follow up with him?”

"I might. He's got me curious, and there's little harm he can do by letter."

Weasley pauses, then suddenly leans forward and grasps Elise’s arm. “He’s in deep. He’s far into his inner circle. I’ve been trying to get in contact with him for so long... I barely knew him and all the rest at Hogwarts, I was a few years ahead of him but they wouldn’t have wanted me... it’s not an opportunity you should pass up. You’re from a good family... not like mine.

"I will certainly keep that in mind," she says, removing his arm and taking a half-step back.

He steps closer, almost desperately, catching her arm again. His eyes are shining. “Could you— if you talk to him— could you— perhaps put in a good word. For me, I mean.”

"You are assuming a lot about what influence I'll have over him."

He flinches visibly and looks down. “I... I’m sorry,” he whispers, then turns to walk away, trembling.

She watches him walk away with a frown, then leaves herself, stopping on the way to the Floo to speak briefly to a few of the remaining attendees.

When she arrives home she shakes the fireplace dust from her robes and sits down heavily on the couch, turning the events of the evening over in her mind. Meeting Severus Snape had not been the most important event, by far - she'd met men and women whose work she had admired for years - but it had stood out nevertheless, along with Weasley's... performance. It's worth the trouble to at least look for Snape's work, she thinks, and rises again to look through her shelves of potions journals.

There’s— almost nothing. There’s one from six years ago, something about the factoring of lionsbane for the advancement of its bone-mending properties, and the announcement from the guild of his membership three years after that, but other than that Snape seems to have been doing nothing but— what, if not potions?

What had he been doing at her induction ceremony, then? It wasn't an all-guild event, not by a long shot, and Snape seemed something of a misanthrope. Had he been watching her?

She shouldn't write him. She knows it's dangerous, knows it will only call attention to her - nevertheless, she thinks it over as she checks on a few projects simmering in her brewing room and prepares for bed.

Next morning, she starts a quick experiment she'd disscused with one of the Masters she'd met, them jots off a few letters - to her parents, to her brother, several new acquaintances from the ceremony - and then holds her quill over a fresh roll of parchment.

Severus Snape, she writes eventually. Your introduction was quite memorable, and I find myself curious why you chose to speak to me in this manner. I do not find myself lacking in ambition or direction. I find the joy of the craft its own reward, and beyond that my potions have saved lives. To what greater goal do you apply your brewing, if not the advancement of the field and the creation of that which might benefit others?

Elise Jones

Nearly a week after she sends it, she receives the following letter, written in a spidery cursive hand—

Dear Miss Jones,

I observe that my comment has quite nettled you. Perhaps it has hit a nerve?

Regardless, your talent would be remarkable even in ages past. In these fallen days, it is nothing short of miraculous. I, and a select few of my closest confidants, seek to overcome the mediocrity and unimaginativity afflicting our culture — our nation, if you will — at present, by means of extensive cleansing. It is no shame to have been mired in such things when one has been immersed in filth from the time of childhood.

If you remain intrigued, there are several texts I would certainly not recommend for one such as yourself. For example, Potionemaking of the Unknowne contains schemata and experimental procedure for a number of highly illegal and arguably Dark potion bases and axioms. I expect that you understand the dangerous nature of extrapolating from these axioms; nearly every wizard since 1862 has understood this, and therefore has avoided synthesizing these bases and axioms with more recent principles. Such a thing would surely result in power before considered unattainable, and is unacceptable in the scope of its — ambition.

The perils of ambition would be, I think, sufficient topic for discussion if we were to meet in two weeks’ time. On Sundays I take tea at 1196 Bellamine Street. The proprietor knows me as Varia.

~Regards.

The note is unsigned.

"Varia",

I do not find our nation quite so disappointing as you seem to. British wizardkind has its flaws, to be sure, but I do not think the situation is as dire as you are making it out. Perhaps you see yourself mirred in filth, but I have always believed one gets from a culture such as this that which one puts in the effort to find. 

That being said, your reference to Potionemaking of the Unkowne intrigued me. There are some interesting extensions of his experiments with blood magic that may...

...if you wish to disscus this further in person, or for whatever reason insist on continuing with this cloak-and-dagger business, I shall be glad to meet you next Sunday. What time should I expect you there?

EJ

The response arrives promptly.

Dear Miss Jones,

Your optimism is... admirable. I hope the sundry disappointments of reality will not too much damage it.

Regardless, my offer still stands. Any time after noon is acceptable.

-Regards.

I shall see you at around 2:00, then. I apologize for the delay, but brewing imposes a schedule of its own.

EJ

There’s no letter in response.

She shows up promptly at the agreed-upon place a little before 2 and looks around for Snape.

He’s not there. It seems like there might be a back room, though, judging by the stairway leading to a door.

"Excuse me?" she calls to the man behind the counter.

“Eh?” He stops chewing on the toothpick in his mouth momentarily.

"I was supposed to meet Varia here, you wouldn't happen to know where he is?"

There’s a pause. Then he takes the toothpick out of his mouth completely. “What’s it to you?”

"I was supposed to meet Varia here," she repeats, "and would like to know where he is. So I can meet him."

He inspects her critically. “I’ve never seen you before. What family are you from?”

"I don't see how that's any of your concern."

“Ah. I see.” He returns to chewing on his toothpick.

She rolls her eyes and pulls a battered compass from her cloak pocket.

"Point me 'Varia'."

— the compass is suddenly scalding.

She drops it with a gasp.

"For Merlin's sake, it's just a compass," she hisses, cradling her hand to her chest.

The man sitting behind the counter is nonchalant. “I asked what family you were from, darling,” he says, the toothpick hanging out from one side of his mouth alarmingly. His wand is loose, casual in his hand.

There’s an ambiguous bruise on her hand from where the compass had been.

"Varia failed to mention there was a gatekeeper."

He smiles. It’s not a pleasant smile. “Did he? That would be like him. Perhaps he forgot.”

"Perhaps you could remind him I've arrived, and he can clear the matter up himself."

“I could do that.”

He doesn’t move an inch.

She scoops up her compass and leans pointedly against the wall.

...and then immediately drops it again. It’s hot, maybe more than last time. “I can keep this up all day, sweetheart,” the man says. “All I’m wondering is, why you so reluctant, hmm?”

If Elise is paying attention, she might notice his accent is affected.

"I don't see a need to hold myself accountable to strangers."

"And I don't feel a need to tell strangers where Varia is. So it seems we're an impasse, sweetheart."

"That's assuming I know where he is, of course."

This hadn't been a good time to stand on the principle, but like hell is she slinking out of there with her tail between her legs now. She sets her jaw and settles back against the wall, compass left lying on the floor.

"I suppose I'll wait, then."

The man gestures lazily with his wand, and the compass floats towards him. He grabs it and tosses it up and down. "A pretty compass you have here. It's old."

"Family heirloom."

“And what’s the writing here?” He frowns down at the compass. “Is this... an A? an L?”

"Quidquid Latine dictum sit altum videtur."

His eyes bore into hers. There's hunger in his stare, now, and desperation, naked and ugly.

— And then it's gone, and he's smiling assuredly again. "I see. Precious few people speak Latin, these days. It's all fancy-sounding incantations and meaningless statements. Fancy telling me where you got this compass, girl?"

"My parents," she says, curt now from trying not to laugh rather than anger.

"A likely story." His hand closes over the compass possessively.

"Fortunately it doesn't require you to believe it to be true."

Abruptly, he looks away. His fingers caress the compass lovingly, before it disappears into his cloak. Curtly— "I'll take you to Varia."

She is not going to win this one. Merlin, why did she get herself into this?

She nods, just as sharp.

Ignoring the very-inviting stairway, the man behind the counter removes a key from yet another compartment in his cloak. This key he inserts into what appears to be thin air; he gives it an aggressive turn, and suddenly another stairway appears behind him, this time leading downwards, into darkness.

Elise knows better than to enter a warded passage without an invitation. She waits.

"What are you waiting for?" He impatiently gestures at her and begins down the steps.

She follows, trying not to trip as the light fades.

The man takes a grimy lamp from a ledge above the railing, and leads her downwards. "Wards," he huffs irritatedly, for way of explanation.

And that's when she begins to sense them. They're almost affectionate, brushing against her lightly, gently, feeling in every measure as if they're her closest friends. Wards like this aren't common. Not anymore.

They're.... relatively simple, as much of the oldest and most powerful magic is. This one binds her to secrecy, that one to defense, the next to truth. There are ways around them, of course; and perhaps more importantly, they weren't made with Squibs in mind.

But they're good, solid craftsmanship, with intuitive bondings and a light touch.

If she is in a particularly morbid mood, she might wonder how many people have had to die in order to renew them.

It's rude to spring binding wards on someone without any more warning than a word, but she's not surprised at this point. Each delicate touch of the wards means something, and she traces the structure as far as she can before the feeling fades. Even through her irritation, she can admit they're beautiful work.

After a while they emerge into an incongruously well-lit room, a table at its center. At the table sits Severus Snape, who is taking afternoon tea. At their approach, he stands.

“Ah, Seddiq.” A mocking smile plays over his lips. “Thank you; you may consider yourself dismissed.”

After his attendant has left, he stands, and nods to Elise. There is nothing of mockery in his expression now. “So. You accepted my invitation.”

"Your guard dog there made it rather difficult."

“Please, do sit down.” He gestures to a chair across from his. “Seddiq is... a difficult man. But such measures are, unfortunately, necessary.”

"Lots of people wander in here by accident asking for Varia, I gather?"

“You would be surprised.”

“Regardless. You mentioned extensions of experiments with blood magic?”

"I mentioned the reference to the use of blood from in healing potions to bind them to the intended recipient? I was thinking last night that it reminded me of blood wards. Perhaps it might possible to generalize from the principles used in family wards to allow for the substitution of blood of a relative in cases where the intended recipient is unavailable during brewing, or their blood already contaminated. The first steps towards a general substitution principle might be strengthening the bonding, but I'm worried that might cause the draught to instead react badly to anyone not the blood donor."