From Hell

Chapter 17

By Pigwidgeon37

Ginny has a terrible suspicion. Tea laced with Veritaserum can have astonishing side effects. And Hermione has a plan.

But while everyone was sleeping, his enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and went away. (Matthew 13:25)

Mad-Eye Moody, the real one this time, had started teaching Defence Against The Dark Arts two years ago, and still managed to scare the living daylights out of his students. Mostly because—and that made him very different from his fake predecessor—he didn’t give a damn about popularity. No stage effects, no impressing his students, just hard, hard work. In a way, he was almost as bad as Snape, his only advantage over the Potions Master being that he sometimes laughed. Considering, though, that he usually did so when some unfortunate student hadn’t been up to his duelling standards, his laughter wasn’t received with enthusiasm. Now, however, he didn’t even laugh. He was looking very grim, and Ginny fervently wished for her mother to enter the room. If anybody, Molly Weasley could certainly stand up to the eccentric ex-Auror.

“Pro-Professor,” Ginny stammered in a rather squeaky voice, “What—”

“You better give me that, lassie,” he rumbled and snatched the wand from her trembling hand. “And now I’d like an explanation. The quicker and more credible, the better.”

Ginny was quite short, only a little over five feet, and having to look up into Moody’s sinister face didn’t make her feel very comfortable. The thought, suddenly popping into her mind, that he was able to see her underwear or the contents of her stomach if he chose to have a look at them only added to her uneasiness. “What explanation?” she peeped.

Moody grabbed her shoulder and gave her a slight shake. “You may be Arthur Weasley’s daughter, girlie, but that doesn’t give you the right to play games with me. I’m here on a special mission and I want you to tell me where Hermione Granger is hiding.”

“I… I have no idea! Please, Professor Moody, you must believe me, I don’t know where…” A large part of the fuses in her brain might have been blown by the shock of Moody’s sudden and unexpected appearance at The Burrow, but Ginny was not that easy to subdue. After all, to survive her six brothers’ ideas of having fun had been good training. So she paused stuttering, tried to gather her wits and finally put two and two together. “That’s her wand, isn’t it?” she asked, staring up at him incredulously.

“Yes, that’s her wand, so don’t play the smart-ass here and tell me where she is.”

“I have no idea. I just found and re-transfigured it.” Moody frowned at her. “My brothers had the incredibly original inspiration of transfiguring all my school things and hiding them all over the house.” She pointed at the stack of books, parchment and quills sitting on the floor near the fireplace. “That’s what I retrieved so far. Then I saw an old, black sock lying there, performed the Transfiguratio Adhibita and, when it showed a result, cast Ripristinatio. And, to my surprise, it turned out to be a wand instead of one of my textbooks.  Although I admit I should have recognized it as Hermione’s.”

Moody scrutinized her with both eyes, which was maybe even more unsettling than to witness the constant swirling and rolling of the magical one. “Mmmmh…” he growled. “That sounds a bit far-fetched, but not completely implausible. Give me your wand.”

Feeling a little better, Ginny handed it to him. As she had expected, he performed a series of Priori Incantatem on it and then thrust it back into her hand with a satisfied grunt. “Seems okay, missie.” Then, his lopsided mouth twisted into a grin. “Which leaves the fact that you did magic outside school, little lady. Not the kind of behaviour to be expected of a Ministry official’s daughter…”

“I suppose,” Ginny said cautiously, “that putting alarm spells on one’s dustbins isn’t all that conform to Ministry guidelines, either…”

To her surprise, he laughed and patted her cheek. “Look at this! Every inch her mum! You’d give saucy answers to Voldemort himself, wouldn’t you, lassie?”

“I sincerely doubt that,” she replied, giving him a tentative grin. “But try as you might, you’re nowhere near as frightening as he is.”

“I’m doing my best, though,” he growled, winking at her. “And now, I’d like to have a word with your mother.”

He limped off towards the kitchen, leaving Ginny to her own thoughts, which were, to put it mildly, very unsettling. When McGonagall had abruptly ended the search for Hermione, her worries had been temporarily soothed by her Head of House’s announcement that Hermione was safe. But something about the whole affair had still been bothering her, not least because of Malfoy’s expression of deep satisfaction. And now the wand had suddenly shown up at The Burrow, suspiciously near the fireplace. Which could only mean that somebody, maybe even Hermione herself had transfigured it and sent it there by Floo… No, impossible.  To transfigure her wand, she would have needed another one, and where would she have got that from? So probably someone else had turned it into a sock and dispatched it to the Weasleys’ home. But why? The only logical answer was that this somebody didn’t want Hermione to be found. And the implications of this were too horrible for Ginny to consider. Because there simply was no other explanation: Hermione had been abducted, Malfoy had played a crucial part in this crime, and now she was being held hostage—it wasn’t too difficult to guess by whom. Or why would Alastor Moody be sent on a special mission? Suddenly, the holiday assignments were forgotten, and Ginny quickly ran upstairs, to tell her brothers what she had found out.

<><><>°<><><>

Four people were staring at Lucius Malfoy: his wife with undisguised horror in her eyes, Black with a mix of baleful satisfaction and curiosity, his son and the Potter brat with an expression of fascinated awe. Lucius leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and concentrated. Hard. Now that he knew he had ingested Veritaserum, it was difficult but not impossible to tell just part of the truth.  He wasn’t just any wizard, after all. Had he not been able to withstand the influence of the truth serum to a certain extent, he would now inhabit a cell in Azkaban. The Ministry hadn’t been exactly lenient on presumed Death Eaters after Voldemort’s downfall. He had done it once, so he could do it again. Thus he gathered his whole, by no means inconsiderable, willpower in order to resist spilling out the whole story to Black. Fortunately, he succeeded, although he almost choked on his own words when forcing himself to say ‘a student’ instead of ‘Miss Granger’. He was lucky, because both Black and Potter were way too busy snickering about the trap he had set for the Potions Master to give the student’s identity much thought. Bless Gryffindor narrow-mindedness. “And so Snape got sacked,” he finished his account.

Black was roaring with laughter. “That’s incredible!” he panted. “You did it! If you weren’t such a disgusting bastard, I could kiss you for that.”

“Thank you,” Lucius replied, “Both for the compliment and for refraining your irresistible urge to kiss me. I think we are both happier that way.”

“But father,” Draco said, unable to hold back anymore, “That’s… horrible! I mean, what on earth will have become of Professor Snape? He has always treated me well, and I don’t want him to get killed. What if they find him and—” He was silenced by a vicious stare from his father.

“Please spare me the sentimentalities, Draco. He was a traitor, and he is gone. And probably not even dead, so he should thank his maker, whoever that is.”

“Indeed,” Sirius chimed in. “He’s evidently better off than you. So Voldemort got pissed at you because you couldn’t find him?”

“Exactly,” Lucius confirmed. “Therefore I thought it better to go for an extended vacation.”

This was the moment Narcissa chose to end the party once and for all. Many things had been said, many questions had been answered, and all the same, inexplicably and surprisingly, the apocalypse hadn’t yet happened, so it was better to herd the unbidden visitors off her terrace. It was bad enough that they were going to return for dinner. She had already opened her mouth to utter some polite but final sentence. But Harry was quicker.

“That’s strange, Mr. Malfoy,” he piped up, “I mean, Voldemort must have been really angry, and you are still alive. Does that mean he didn’t cast an Unforgiveable at you?”

Narcissa closed her mouth again and instead started inwardly cursing the impertinent brat.

“I already told you he seems rather weak,” Lucius spat out. “He hasn’t cast an Unforgiveable since he performed Cruciatus on you, two and a half years ago.  Since, then, nada. Absolutely nothing.”

Harry nodded. “You’ll probably think I’ve gone mad,” he said slowly, “But couldn’t we just try and get rid of him?”

Four people stared at him in disbelief.

“I think,” Narcissa said, her voice a little higher and less smooth than usual, “that it is really time for us to—”

“Wait, chérie,” her husband interrupted her. “How much Veritaserum did you put into that tea?”

She blushed slightly. “Three vials.”

“Three… mon amour, the long-distance Apparating must have caused some dramatic damage to your sanity,” he said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss on its back. Harry shuddered slightly at the sight, and Black simply closed his eyes.  “That means that each of us had more than half a vial… the effect will last for hours…” He kissed her hand once again. “Maybe you did us all a big favour, petite. Nobody on this terrace will be able to lie for the next few hours.  Regarded from this point of view, Mr. Potter’s question appears in a very interesting light.”

Sirius leaned forward in his chair, regarding the Malfoy couple with rapt attention. “Are you implying you’d join forces with us?” he asked.

“It certainly sounds like a fascinating idea, doesn’t it, Mr. Black? Fame and Orders of Merlin for all of us, your reputation cleared, mine light years beyond any doubt… not bad, is it?”

“My reputation… in that case, I’d need Pettigrew,” Sirius said, visibly warming up to the thought.

“That,” Lucius answered, sneering at him, “can doubtlessly be arranged.”

<><><>°<><><>

The area surrounding the Royal College of Music was deserted by this time of night. Snape had walked away from the Albert Hall and the crowd pouring out of it, to seek some quieter place where his strange behaviour was less likely to be witnessed. Squeezing into a dark corner, he took off his leather jacket and put it on the ground. “It’s safe now,” he whispered, “You may come out.”

The lining of the jacket began to move and wriggle until a small furry head poked out of a rather big, ugly cut that had been made in the fabric. Rabbit Hermione carefully hopped off the jacket, sniffed the ground and started cleaning herself. For a while, Snape watched, fascinated, as the tiny animal rose on its hind legs, shook out its forepaws, wetted them with a minuscule pink tongue and began to rub its face. “Hermione,” he hissed finally, “maybe you should not indulge your instincts right here. Kindly transform. Now.”

“Sorry,” she said with an apologetic grin, “It was a bit stuffy in there, and I was so overwhelmed by the music my self-control must have snapped.”

“Then I can only deem myself lucky because it didn’t snap earlier, causing you to retransform while still inside the lining of my jacket,” he retorted.

“Indeed. You would have had some difficulties explaining that. Blast them for only having a single ticket left.” She passed her hands through her hair.  “However, it was wonderful. And your jacket and body muffled the sound just in the right way. Otherwise it might have been a bit loud. Did you enjoy it?”

Snape nodded. “It was… beautiful beyond words. What about dinner? We might have to walk for a bit, because this area sadly lacks restaurants…”

Hermione considered this. “Couldn’t we leave dining out for another day?” she finally asked. “Because, you know, I think I couldn’t stand the noise of a restaurant right now. Maybe there would even be background music. I’d much rather have a bottle of wine and some bread and cheese at home, and relish the aftertaste of the concert, if you don’t mind.”

He looked down at her and smiled. “No, I certainly don’t mind. To own the truth, I’d even prefer it. It would be a pity to spoil the afterglow.”

“Could we Apparate back?”

He nodded and she transformed. There was no need for her to slip back into his jacket now, for he could easily cover her with both hands.

“Yes, that’s better,” she said, when they were back in their living room. “I’m starving, concerts always make me hungry. What about you?”

“Ravenous,” he said and preceded her into the kitchen. Seeing her take two wine glasses out of the cupboard, he raised his brows. “Do we need to have the alcohol discussion yet again?”

“No,” she replied, “not if you simply let me have a glass. Oh come now, Severus,” she said when his frown deepened at that, “We are doing such a lot of illegal things that a glass of wine really doesn’t matter.”

“You are the one who is doing illegal things,” Snape remarked while putting cheese and ham on a large plate, “As for example being an unregistered Animagus.”

Hermione considered the bread knife for a moment before deciding that it was better to cut the bread than Snape’s throat. “That’s a bit rich, coming from you, Mr. …er, Grappa,” she retorted. It gave her the satisfaction of seeing him blush.

“Well, yes… But it was necessary. I can’t spend the rest of my life doing some strange form of wandless Imperius, in order to convince people they don’t need to see my identification.”

Hermione almost dropped the knife. “You can do Imperius… with-without a wand?”

Inwardly chiding himself for his inattention, he picked up the plates, cutlery and wine bottle, and motioned for her to follow him with the rest. Hermione staggered into the living room in his wake, hardly aware of what she was doing—this piece of information had been too mind-blowing.

“Hermione,” he said, waving a hand in front of her eyes, “there’s no need to be completely beside yourself. Sit down and eat, I’m going to tell you.”

The coughing fit she had when he told her about Obi Wan Kenobi was rather dramatic. “Never inhale breadcrumbs,” he said sardonically while patting her back.

“Thank you for the advice,” she panted. “And—” she gulped down some water “—did it work?”

“Of course it worked,” he said and gave a rather detailed account of his Russian evening in Bologna. While he was talking he could see her forehead wrinkle in concentration. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, wagging her head. “Maybe it works only with Muggles. Would you mind trying it on me? No dirty tricks, though!” she added.

The smile he gave her reminded her vividly of a wolf bearing his fangs. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not nice to abuse—”

“You are forgetting something very important, Hermione. I am not nice.”

“You have been a lot nicer than I thought you capable of. Really. So don’t make me change my mind about you. Go on, try it!”

Snape couldn’t help smiling. That was pure Gryffindor, subspecies Granger. Eager to throw herself head first into unknown territory, merely for the sake of a scientific experiment. “Very well. Look at me.” The artificial blue irises swerved towards him. “You want to go into the kitchen and fetch yourself a glass of water.”

She struggled visibly but got up and, ten seconds later, came back with a glass of water. “That was amazing,” she said, sitting down again. “I remember when Moody, well Crouch, cast Imperius on us during my fourth year. It was more or less the same feeling. Harry was able to resist it after some time, but I could never do it.”

“Potter the wonder pup!” he snarled.

“Don’t be such a grouch, I merely stated a fact.” She poured some wine first for him, then for herself. “Don’t you think we might use this astounding ability of yours for our own ends?” she asked.

“I’d be delighted if we could,” he said, raising his glass and clinking it against hers, “But I honestly have no idea how.”

<><><>°<><><>

Still quite shaken, Peter Pettigrew unlocked the door of his flat. He was living in Norwich, an essentially Muggle-inhabited area, and rather enjoying it. To the eyes of the world, he was an aspiring author, which, at age forty, was still credible but lent him a certain air of failure and hopelessness that made people hesitate to inquire any further about his life and eventual success. His frequent and irregular absences were thus easy to explain by research he had to do for one of his imaginary books, if he needed to provide any explanation at all. His assumed identity also allowed for some eccentricities, such as, for example, his habit of always wearing gloves. This unconventional tic was more likely to be accepted than a right hand made of some shiny, silvery material. He also had to pretend he was left-handed, for it was impossible to fine-tune the strength of this artificial limb. Since he had moved into his apartment little more than two years ago, the neighbourhood had become accustomed to barmy Mr.  Pettigrew and left him in peace.

Today had been rather stressful, he thought, closing the door behind him. A week had passed since Lucius had vanished, and none of his fellow Death Eaters had been able to come up with so much as the shadow of an idea, let alone of a proof, as to his whereabouts. Malfoy was gone, and so was Snape. Difficult to determine which of the two disappearances made Voldemort more furious.  Impossible to placate his wrath. Not that they hadn’t tried, on the contrary; but now that Lucius was gone, it became painfully obvious that only he and Severus Snape were capable of treating the Dark Lord the way he wanted to be treated. The rest of them had failed, quite spectacularly even.

What a meeting it had been! Pettigrew shook his head in bewilderment and carefully folded and stored away his Death Eater robes. Had the whole situation been less serious, he would have described it as cross-torturing. Every single of them had been ordered to cast Cruciatus on at least three other Death Eaters; fortunately only very few of them were powerful enough to make it a truly unpleasant experience, and most of them hadn’t put much energy behind the curse.  However, the gathering had been chaotic and deeply disturbing. Pettigrew himself had been entertaining strong hopes of becoming Lucius’s successor as Voldemort’s right-hand man, given his undeniable merits. But it seemed that this had been an illusion. Their Master was obviously so infuriated at the desertion of his two not-so-faithful lieutenants that he didn’t really consider nurturing any more vipers in his bosom. Bad luck, really bad. Both for himself and for Voldemort, for the latter was missing a unique chance of seeing what the former was really capable of. Only because he wasn’t as arrogant as Malfoy, or as sinister as Snape, that didn’t mean he wasn’t leader material.

Wearily passing a hand through his thinning hair, Pettigrew proceeded into the kitchen to make himself some tea. He had just poured a first cup when he heard a strange scratching sound from the living room. Frowning, he stepped out of the kitchen, wand ready, only to see that a large eagle owl was demanding to be let in. There were not many wizards rich enough to afford this kind of owl; it immediately made him think of Malfoy. After untying the letter from the large bird’s leg, he noticed that it was sealed with the Malfoy crest. It made him feel so uncomfortable that he almost dropped the parchment. Lucius was as good as proscribed; in fact, he and Snape were probably tied for number one on Voldemort’s black list, their recent antics having catapulted them to a higher position than even Potter’s or Dumbledore’s. To receive a letter from an outlaw was very, very dangerous. It could be a trap—maybe Voldemort meant to put his loyalty to the test. On the other hand, he reflected, still standing on the same spot under the owl’s unwavering yellow gaze, this might just be the occasion he had been waiting for.

So he trudged back into the kitchen, rummaged through the drawers until he found an owl treat, snatched his tea mug and returned to the living room. The bird accepted the dainty with a condescending look that reminded Pettigrew very much of its owner and started tackling it with its enormous, awe-inspiring beak.  Meanwhile, he broke the seal and unrolled the letter.

Pettigrew,

Much as it pains me to say so, I need your help. My departure having been quite abrupt, there were a few matters I was unable to attend to personally. As it seems that my ‘vacation’ might be of more than just short duration, I shall need a trustee able to see to certain business affairs, which will certainly not be to his own disadvantage.

Should you be interested, be at Le Chat Satanique in Paris at 11 p.m. on 8 January, unaccompanied of course.

LM

Pettigrew decided that, to digest this message, he definitely needed something stronger than tea. He returned to the kitchen and took a brandy bottle out of one of the cupboards. Back in the living room, he poured a rather generous measure of the liquor into his tea, leaned back in his chair and pensively sipped the now-tepid liquid. So Malfoy needed his help. Or rather, claimed he needed it, although without abandoning his usual haughty tone Pettigrew had come to hate. This was all very puzzling. It would certainly be best to scribble a neat refusal on the bottom of the parchment, retie it onto the owls leg, dispatch the bird back to where it had come from and pretend nothing had happened. On the other hand… The offer was tempting and deserved at least some consideration before being refused.

The tea mug landed on the table with a resolute thud, and Pettigrew got up to open the window. The owl looked him up and down, then spread its large wings and took off into the night. Bridge number one had been blown up. Not really, though. He might just as well not show up, if he deemed this adventure to be too dangerous. But it was alluring… If the message had really been meant as a trap, he could still tell whomever would be waiting for him—probably not Voldemort himself but some Death Eater colleague—that he had meant to catch Malfoy and bring him back to his Master for just punishment. Which was exactly what he intended to do, if this wasn’t a trap. Unless the terms Malfoy proposed for this deal were so irresistibly favourable that he chose to play along for a while.

Maybe he could even embezzle some extra money. Then, he would simply request another meeting and catch treacherous Lucius… Thus gaining not only money but also Voldemort’s unconditional trust… He was going to be second-in-command… finally, he would have some money, not to mention prestige…Peter Pettigrew fell asleep in his chair, dreaming of fame and glory to come.

<><><>°<><><>

“So,” Snape said when they were sitting at the breakfast table on the next morning, “Has sleep brought some inspiration?”

“Maybe,” Hermione answered cautiously. “Although I’m not sure. It would be a bit… well, I suppose you’d say it is a typically Gryffindor plan…”

He rolled his eyes. “What else could I have expected to be born from a Gryffindor brain, especially while said Gryffindor has taken on the form of a rabbit? Harebrained is the adjective that comes to mind…”

Hermione leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Well, I don’t see why I should tell you then, if you think it’s harebrained, without even having listened to what I have to say.”

“But you’re dying to tell me, aren’t you?” he asked in his best silky voice.

She shot him a mutinous look. “Of course I am. But if you don’t want to hear it—”

“Hermione,” he interrupted her, “don’t you think this cat-and-mouse game is a little infantile? Go on, tell me, and then we’ll see.”

For a while, she merely scrutinized him. “Okay,” she said finally, “I’ll tell you, if only to make you laugh. First, the premises: you are able to cast a wandless version of the Imperius Curse, which isn’t really illegal, and maybe it will even get better if you work on it a little. I am able to do some wandless magic, too. Nothing much, but I can work on it as well. It’s enough for summoning and banishing objects. From what I’ve seen, and you confirmed that, Voldemort is very weak. Conclusion: we could Apparate to—”

Snape buried his face in his hands. “Please,” he muttered, “please tell me that you don’t want me to face Voldemort without a wand, but with a tiny striped rabbit in tow. If anything, he’d die of a peritoneum cramp. I have never seen him laugh, not really anyway, but that entrée would certainly do the job.”

“But you are intrigued, aren’t you?”

“Intrigued? I’m bloody speechless, that’s what I am!”

“For being speechless, you talked quite a lot. So, what do you think of it?”

He looked at her, shaking his head in wonderment. “I can’t believe it. You are serious, aren’t you?”

“Well… yes,” she said, trying to twist one short strand of hair round her finger. “I would never have had the idea, had I not seen Voldemort with my own eyes. He was so furious with Malfoy—I was expecting the worst, really, without exaggeration. And then, nothing happened. He just … well, you could say he threw a tantrum, but that was it.”

Trying to be patient, Snape explained that this hadn’t escaped the Death Eaters’ notice. “But we never really believed our… I suppose I should say luck. It seemed too absurd. We always thought—and believe me, I spent many hours discussing this with Lucius—we thought that it was all a show, to put us to the test. That he was waiting until the first of us tried something, only to punish him and state an example. I admit that, during the first times after his rebirth, he might have been really weak, but by now it might all be an act.”

Hermione considered this. “I think,” she finally said, “that you have all been fooled by your own fears. After all, what did he come back for, if not to continue exactly where he had been stopped in 1981? Had he entered the stage in a less dramatic way, I’d agree with you. But to snatch Harry from under the eyes of a thousand spectators, including Professor Dumbledore… I know he’s crazy, but that doesn’t make him stupid.”

For some time, the only sound in the rom was the faint echo of traffic from outside and the crunching noise when one of them took a bite of toast. Snape was the first to break the silence. “You have no idea how many times I’ve already considered this,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, giving him a bright smile, “I can imagine. But then, it’s entirely understandable that you shied away from the thought. After all, I suppose you joined him for a reason, didn’t you? You’re not the kind of person who decides he’ll be a Death Eater from now on, just because he has nothing else to do. There must have been something that attracted you, and you were still very young then. It’s hard to overcome such deeply ingrained sentiments, at least that’s what I imagine. I mean, not that it can really be compared to your situation, but every day since I ran away from Hogwarts, I’ve been waking up with this feeling of guilt, and it’s quite hard to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing.”

Snape gazed at her intently over the rim of his coffee cup. “You don’t seem to think any worse of me because of my past,” he said hesitantly, trying to sound noncommittal.

“You see,” she said, grabbing another piece of toast and carefully spreading butter and honey over it, “It’s easier to simply categorize people as ‘evil’ than to give their motives some thought. Not that I know anything about your motives. But I’ve come to know you quite well in these last days. Besides, you may be a horrible teacher, but there’s no point in denying that you’re also a lot cleverer than the average wizard.”

“Praise indeed,” he commented dryly.

“Coming from me, I’d say so, yes.”

He put down his cup. “Hermione, how on earth did you manage to play the subdued bookworm for so may years? This statement was worthy of Lucius Malfoy at his best.”

“Or Severus Snape,” she said and giggled. “However, I was subdued. That wasn’t an act. But this new freedom seems to bring out some character traits I didn’t know I possessed. Anyway, my point was that somebody as clever as you probably didn’t decide to join Voldemort out of a mere whim. I suppose that what he offered you was quite irresistible.”

To his surprise, Snape became aware that this discussion didn’t bother him in the least. For a Gryffindor, she was being astonishingly rational. And he had to admit that it felt good to be understood, just for a change. “Yes,” he answered, trying to formulate a response that wasn’t too much of a giveaway, “He could be… quite convincing.”

“I bet he could. I mean, there will always be saints like Professor Dumbledore—now don’t give me this look, I have already discovered that he, too, is only human.” He snorted. “What I wanted to say was that there will always be those who are able to resist temptation. Maybe even easily, I don’t know. But for most of us, there is a price that can buy us.”

Again, there was silence. Not of the bad kind, though, Snape thought. Only now he felt that they were treading very personal territory. His usual reaction would have been to lash out at the person who had dared to venture into his personal space. Strangely enough, he didn’t feel the need to do so. All he wanted was a break. But he didn’t see the necessity of obtaining it by knocking out his adversary, probably because he didn’t perceive her as such. Still wondering about himself, he said, “Would you mind if we contined this talk another time?” She just shook her head. “Thank you.”

At that, her eyes went wide with surprise.