A Necessary Evil

by kai

July 2004

---

In this world
Hate never yet dispelled hate
Only love dispels hate.
This is the law,
Ancient and inexhaustible.

--The Dhammapada

---

In my forty-six years on this earth, I have committed many despicable acts.

I have betrayed blood oaths. I have perpetrated Dark Magic on the defenceless. I have conducted magical research with wanton disregard for its moral implications.

I have stood by and watched--I have done absolutely nothing--while innocents were tortured or killed.

I have done so many unforgivable things.

Even so, I have never committed murder. I have never watched my victim's eyes glaze-over with the approach of death, and then dim. I have never felt his pulse stutter and then pause forever beneath my finger tips. I have neither felt the whisper of his final breath against my cheek, nor held his body while it cooled.

I have never committed premeditated murder. No, I have not.

At least, not quite yet.

*

The cheerful blue of the November sky was at odds with the grim battle being waged beneath it. Not content with his usual strike-and-run tactics, Voldemort had decided to launch an overt assault on Hogwarts, to lay claim to its cache of Ancient magic.

His army of Death Eaters, Dark Creatures, ghouls and zombies had overrun the Forbidden Forest a week earlier and now had the castle surrounded. We had managed to evacuate most of the students before the siege began. The few who remained were well-trained Seventh Years and other children, mostly renegades from my own House, who had nowhere else to go.

I stood beside Albus and Potter, watching Voldemort's army swell, surge, and then break against the weakening castle defences. Beneath the crackle of spell-fire, I could hear the chanting of our defenders: the remaining Hogwarts' faculty and the too-few Aurors, who'd managed to Portkey in before the siege began. The wizards and witches stood at strategic places along the battlements, struggling to reinforce the failing wards. The air was so charged with magic that the hair on my arms stood on end.

Albus squinted at the angle of the sun for a moment, studied the faint sliver of moon that still hung in the sky, then smiled. "Gentlemen," he said, in that maddeningly serene way of his. "I do believe that it is time."

Time, indeed; time to die.

Not for the first time, I gripped my throbbing forearm and wondered if the first oath that I'd foresworn would have led elsewhere besides to my death. Nonetheless I nodded and turned from the parapet.

Potter muttered, "Fuck," and then followed me down the stairs and out onto the field of battle.

*

With the sole exception of sloth, the other deadly sins have been my constant companions over the years.

Why? I can offer no sufficient explanation except to say that, unlike most children, I lacked a moral compass. I had a keen, exceptional intellect but, strangely, lacked any interest in the consequences of my acts.

In place of a heart, I had been born, instead, with a vast pit of emptiness and rage.

I was deadly, but unfocussed. I was a well-honed blade without a knowing hand to wield it, until three powerful wizards conceived of a use for me: first Tom Riddle, and later Albus Dumbledore.

As for my involvement with Harry Potter...well, that tale and this one are, perhaps, synonymous.

*

I've read the accounts of that final day and I've spoken to numerous eye witnesses. Potter and I also discussed it at length during our months of desperately conducted research.

I have yet to find two versions that do not conflict.

Regardless, when whichever author's tale is fully stripped of its heroic lyricism, when the facts are laid bare, the truth that remains is brutal.

Horrific.

Voldemort was impervious to the Killing Curse and had warded himself against Muggle weaponry.

Therefore the three of us--a triad of power, generations, and grievances--were fated to cast a powerful alternate spell. Potter, the wronged innocent; Dumbledore, the betrayed parent; and me, the perfect weapon put to improper, immoral use.

The three of us flung curses with abandon and waded through too many bodies and a grisly slush of fluids to reach Voldemort's side. Once there, we did not hesitate to launch the banishment curse.

When it struck, Voldemort screamed. Then, it was if time stopped. The Dark Mark blazed into life on my arm with a savage ache; I felt as if the marrow were being sucked from my bones through a very narrow straw. With no further warning, Voldemort's body pulsed once, then shattered, exploding in a shower of blood, bone, and gristle.

I recall a blinding flash of light and the hot wetness of blood on my face. Potter, Dumbledore, and I stood for a moment, stunned by the blast and gaping at the evidence of our failure: a malevolent, man-shaped spectre hovered where Voldemort had stood.

The spectre wavered briefly, as if making a choice, and then, too swiftly for us to react, it darted straight for Albus.

I heard a chilling, high-pitched laugh. I remember thinking, "I'm dead!" and then I fell into darkness.

To my surprise, I awakened in the infirmary eighteen hours later, only a few hours after Potter. We had, apparently, won the war. Potter was sprawled in the chair at my bedside and beyond his shoulder, I could see the faint rise and fall of Dumbledore's chest, where he lay in the next bed over.

Alerted by a monitoring charm, Poppy came over at once and shook Potter awake; her expression was grim.

"Harry, Severus," she said, "we have a problem."

*

Dumbledore is one of the most infuriating wizards I've ever had the misfortune to know. Despite Poppy's objections, despite my warnings and Potter's pleas--despite the fact that he'd lain in coma for three days and was still too weak to leave the bed, the old man was implacable.

"Yes," he said mildly, as if our objections were absurd. "I plan to bear the child."

Poppy shook a thick sheaf of medical records at him. "Albus, you're 156 years old. You're not in the best of health. This is so far beyond medically unwise that it borders on the suicidal."

Potter wasn't having it either. "This is not just any child we're talking about here, Headmaster. This is Voldemort!"

He was rather restrained, I thought, given that he despised Voldemort and he'd only just learned that male wizards could become pregnant.

As for myself, with Albus, I had abandoned tact years ago. I simply shouted. "Have you finally lost what little remained of your mind?"

"We're talking about an infant," Albus said, shifting a bit against the mound of pillows piled at his back. "A veritable tabula rasa."

Tabula rasa? A grimy scrap of parchment with runes written in shit was more like. For a wonder, Potter clearly shared my unspoken sentiment.

"A child infested with Voldemort's spirit!" he yelled.

Fortunately, I'd spelled the room for silence.

Albus shook his head and stroked his beard with one frail, shaking hand. "And who would Tom Riddle have become if he'd had a different start? If he'd had a true home, a family? If he'd had the opportunity to make different choices?"

Potter and I exchanged incredulous glances. Potter had been neglected by his guardians and I'd been beaten by mine. Somehow we'd both managed not to become nihilistic, genocidal megalomaniacs. Granted, it'd been a near thing with me, but nonetheless...

Poppy sighed. "Albus. Carrying this pregnancy to term will most likely kill you."

"We all die eventually." His brave smile did nothing to pacify any of the three of us.

"Which is precisely the point," I said. "We all die. And some of us, like Riddle, should stay dead."

"Severus..."

"No!" I snapped. Riddle had had two lives to get it right. I'd be damned if I'd allow him to get a third. "You know the spell he used. Ancient magic of the Darkest kind! You know what he means to do. And you know, Albus, for the sake of our entire world, that you simply can not allow this to come to pass!"

"But I can, dear boy," he said sadly. "I can, and I must. I've made so many mistakes..."

Potter clenched his fists. "Then do us all a huge favour and don't make another one!"

Back and forth it went, for nearly an hour, but Albus was immovable. Never had I wished so desperately for Minerva to appear wearing one of her famous prim and disapproving expressions. No doubt she, of all of us, could have convinced Albus of his idiocy.

Much later, after Dumbledore had fallen asleep and Poppy kicked us out of his room, Potter pulled me aside. He clutched my robe so tightly that his knuckles gleamed white. "We can't let him," he said. "We can't allow him to..."

"No," I agreed, closing my hand over his. "We can't. And we won't."

But, as we discovered later, some things are far more easily said than done.

*

Bureaucratic nonsense consumed the bulk of the post-victory weeks that followed.

Fudge--that blithering nitwit--had been deposed and, in the absence of decisive leadership,

Albus co-ordinated the post-war effort, from his hospital bed at first and, later from the comfort of his own sitting room. Potter and I contented ourselves with graciously accepting the recognition and honours due us, with participating in innumerable New Order administrative meetings...and with shadowing Dumbledore's every move. Nagging at him, testing the hypothesis that, given enough time, water will wear through the hardest of stone.

I admit, we were relentless.

Most evenings, Potter would come to my chambers and, late into the night, we would strategise for the next day's campaign against Albus's folly. Then, whenever the three of us were in private, Potter and I would pelt the man with logically sound arguments, with shamelessly manipulative emotional appeals, and, in my case, with scorching invective. Even Poppy waged her own private war against Dumbledore's idiocy.

Our efforts met with less than resounding success.

*

Poppy followed us into her office then slammed the door.

"I am at my wits' end," she said, dropping gracelessly into the chair behind her desk. "That man is a menace. No matter what I've told him, the dire statistics I've cited, my rather extensive knowledge of his medical history, his absurdly advanced age, he still intends to go through with this!"

Potter took a seat on one of the chairs in front of the desk. "So you haven't had any luck, either?"

Poppy gave him an irritated look.

I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms. "I think that we may have to resort to less...savory methods of persuasion."

She looked at me blankly for a moment, then her gaze sharpened. "You can't possibly be serious."

Potter looked down at his hands; we'd discussed this ad nauseam for several nights running. To Poppy, I said nothing.

"You are serious. Severus, no." She slapped her hand on the desk. "I am a physician. I am sworn to..."

"Sworn to what, Poppy? To ensure that Voldemort rises again?"

She stood abruptly and raised her hand as if to ward off the thought. "You don't know that for certain."

I was prepared to quote her chapter and verse about the nasty and ancient bit of magic that Voldemort had inflicted upon Albus. But, to my surprise, Potter beat me to it, with style to spare.

"What does it matter?" he snapped. "Either way, Dumbledore is as good as dead. And if Snape and I are right, given enough time, the rest of us will be dead right along with him. Or wishing that we were."

Poppy looked surprised at the venom in Potter's voice. "Harry, listen to me. I'll admit that you and Severus may be correct in your suspicions. But regardless, if Albus insists upon this, I am oath-bound to see him, and his child, through it safely."

Before Potter could retort, I decided to change tactics. "So you've contacted obstetrical specialists at St. Mungo's, then?"

"You know I haven't." Poppy sounded annoyed. "He doesn't want it to be made public."

"Ah. So then, that leaves you, me, and Potter here, to hand-hold our fearless Headmaster through a high risk and publicly unacknowledged pregnancy." Too bad Granger had been killed a while back. This sort of absurd challenge would have been straight up her alley.

How I missed Minerva right then!

Poppy took a deep breath; she looked very old and tired. "Severus, if I could think of any thing else to do to convince him, I would. But until that time..." She divided her attention between me and Potter. "Listen, I understand your objections. I do. But, even if you're right about the...identity of this child, he will still be just a defenceless infant when he's born. And," she paused to rub her eyes, "like it or not, I'm going to need your help to see Albus through this."

Voldemort, defenceless? Ha!

Potter glanced at me then shook his head slightly. "Exactly what kind of help do you need?" he asked.

"Glamours, protection charms, strengthening potions, and the like," she said, sitting down again. "Here, I've collected some documents pertaining to geriatrics and male pregnancies. Read them and get back to me."

"Potions, hm," I mused, scanning the titles of the journals she'd handed me.

"Severus," Poppy said with a clear warning in her voice. "I expect your full co-operation here."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"I know you, Severus. You swear to me that you will do no harm. Swear it!"

I sighed, then said, with a shocking degree of sincerity, "Of course, Poppy. I swear. I will do nothing to harm Albus."

"Or to harm his unborn child."

Potter looked aghast. I rolled my eyes but dutifully added, "Or to harm his unborn child."

Shortly thereafter, I left her office, documents in hand and Potter hard on my heels.

"I thought we agreed...You can't mean...You're not actually going to..." he sputtered indignantly.

I paused to sneer at him; the boy could be so gullible!

After all, it's not like I hadn't broken an sworn oath or two in my time.

*

Pregnancy is difficult enough for women, who are designed for it, let alone for a male wizard of greatly advanced age who'd been turned into hermaphrodite and forcibly impregnated by one of the most powerful Dark wizards of the last thousand years.

Therefore, Poppy was not greatly surprised when Albus spent most of the first trimester retching up his stomach lining.

Given that I personally concocted many of his 'health tonics,' I was not surprised at all.

Despite my best efforts, however, Dumbledore's stubborn, malignant foetus refused to be decanted from its cosy womb.

*

Hogwarts had been closed indefinitely--given that half of my colleagues were either dead or in hospital, and many part of the castle were structurally unsound--and Albus and his cadre of hand-picked Ministry bureaucrats were deftly handling the reconstruction effort.

As a result, I was able to duck out of a deadly boring meeting and escape to my laboratory to tinker with yet another abortifacient that I suspected would cost Albus a freshly re-grown stomach lining but do very little else.

A few hours--and several failed attempts--later, Potter burst through my wards without warning. "I thought you said this latest potion was going to work," he accused.

I continued to make notations in my lab book. "I see that you've not yet learned to knock before entering, Mr. Potter."

"Cut the sarcasm, Snape," he said. "Why is Dumbledore is still pregnant?"

The infernal pest was far too stubborn--and powerful--to leave without an answer. I set aside my quill and glared at him. "Do you know anything at all about magical pregnancies, Potter?"

He blinked. "Er, just what Poppy gave me. It's pretty specialised stuff."

I thought not.

"Listen very carefully," I said, leaning forward in my chair. "Although the overall birth rate for magical folk is low in comparison to that of Muggles--the Weasleys notwithstanding--the actual ratio of successful pregnancies to miscarriages is quite high. In other words, once children with strong magic are conceived, nine times out of ten, they are born, healthy and hale."

Awareness dawned on Potter's face. "So you're saying..."

"I'm saying that foetuses that possess magic are notoriously difficult to abort, spontaneously or otherwise. The stronger their intrinsic magic, the greater their natural defences against maternal...mishaps. Both Albus and Tom Riddle are powerful wizards. It's reasonable to expect that their offspring would be similarly gifted."

Potter ran his fingers through his hair. "And you can't increase the dosage or potencies of your...tonics without killing Albus."

The boy wasn't in Granger's league, but he wasn't an idiot either; I nodded.

"Bugger." He flopped down into the chair on the other side of my desk. "So what can I do to help?"

I studied him for a long moment. The war and its aftermath had wrought obvious physical changes in the boy: hair-trigger reflexes, new scars, and white strands spread liberally throughout that unruly black hair of his. But it was the more subtle changes that concerned me: his diminished compassion, the wrath that shone in his eyes whenever Voldemort was mentioned, his barely-suppressed fury when my most recent potion failed to meet his expectations. The off-handed way that he stormed through my wards--wards whose strength would have given even Dumbledore pause.

The last thing any of us needed was yet another Dark Wizard Ascendant.

I laced my fingers and leaned my chin on my knuckles. "Why is this so important to you, Potter?"

He looked at me incredulously. I raised my left eyebrow and stared him down.

"You know why, Snape! I can't believe that you, of all people, need me to spell this out for you."

"Humour me."

He flung himself out of the chair and began to stalk around my office. "He doesn't deserve to live."

A cold lump settled in my stomach. "You spared Pettigrew."

"My father wouldn't have wanted Sirius and Remus to commit murder."

"You had Blood-Right, Potter. You could have killed him yourself, and yet you had compassion to spare for poor, pathetic Peter Pettigrew."

"This is different!"

"Is it?" I rose from the chair and paced towards him. With a subtle flick of my wrist, the handle of my wand dropped into my hand.

"Yes, damn you! Pettigrew was useful, Voldemort is anything but." Then Potter swung around and snarled at me. "You hypocrite. You stand there, plotting to get rid of him yourself and you have the gall to question my motives?"

"Yes, I question your motives, you little fool!" I crowded into his personal space and loomed over him. "Answer the question, Potter. Tell me why."

Potter didn't so much as flinch. Thankfully, neither did he pull his wand. "Because," he said, eyes narrowed, "because this is personal. Voldemort killed my parents, he killed my teachers, my friends, he nearly destroyed this school--my home! How many people has he killed, Snape? How many more will he kill, if he rises again, if he isn't stopped?" Potter reached out and gripped my biceps tightly. "Do you really think that this...resurrection will turn out any better than the last one? Do you really believe that we can take that chance? Choices, Snape," he spat. "Dumbledore is always talking about the choices we make. Well, Tom Riddle made his choice and now, I've made mine!"

"To stop him. At any cost."

Potter held my eyes and said, "Yes."

"To play god."

His fingers tightened on my arms. "To do what is necessary."

We stared at one another for a long time, until a slight, unpleasant smile twisted his lips. "Now," he said evenly. "What can I do to help?"

I held his eyes a moment longer, then sighed aloud. Point Potter at a monster and the boy--the man would do the heroic thing. Point him at an intellectual problem requiring research and analysis and well...

"If I remember correctly, you're not half-bad at charms, are you, Potter?" I said, then looked away from him before I could see another repetition of that horrible smile.

*

As it happened, given sufficient motivation, Potter turned out to be a half-way decent research partner. Granger's doing, no doubt, all those hours they spent revising for exams.

But she and Ron Weasley had been dead for nearly a year, and so, I kept my observations to myself.

Apparently, the war had changed me as well.

*

Had I been born into another family, I might have become someone else entirely. Someone brimming with compassion, perhaps, or overflowing with good will and good cheer. In my lowest moments, however, I sometimes believe that it would have been better for all concerned had I not been born at all.

I was a small and rather bookish child born into a family where such things were decidedly unwelcome. My father was a professional Quidditch player who'd been forced to retire early, due to injury. My mother was a breeder of champion crups. My elder brothers were strong, handsome, athletic. In contrast, I was the ugly, know-it-all runt, who--according to family gossip--really ought to have been drowned, like a sickly crup, at birth: "Best not to pass on those defective traits," and "It would have been a mercy, don't you know."

My parents were heavy-handed and contemptuous of their defective runt and physically, I was no match for my brothers. My life was rather grim until I learned to read. But once I discovered books, I knew that I'd found the source of true power; I subsequently tore through my parents' library with an unslakable thirst.

I begged to visit my grandparents, whose collection was well-stocked with countless dusty, weighty tomes on fascinating, forbidden, and truly dangerous topics. I combed that library from A to Z, and back again.

Thinking back, it's a wonder that I'm alive today to tell of it.

Even as a young boy, my lack of wand posed no obstacle; I devised wandless workarounds, I concentrated on the potions that only needed low levels of magic to create. Poisons, for example. I tested my hexes and 'tonics' on the stray animals on the estates and I carefully recorded each experiment, its duration and outcome.

Everything changed, however, when, on my eighth birthday, I received a wand. I immediately set about testing my newly enhanced repertoire of inventions on each of my relatives.

I was rather pleased to note that the beatings and bullying tapered off shortly thereafter.

When I chose Hogwarts over Beauxbatons--my bothers' school and my parents' alma mater--I suspect that my entire family exhaled on a heartfelt, thankful sigh.

It should come as no surprise that I was sorted into Slytherin House.

Of course, I've always believed that the Sorting Hat was a scam. After all, Albus--as cunning a Slytherin as I've ever met--was sorted into Gryffindor.

*

"So glad you could join us this evening, Severus," Dumbledore said, offering me a chair, a plate of sweets, and a tea cup conveniently filled with my favourite brew. "I know you've been quite busy, lately, down in your lab."

"A minor revision on the Wolfsbane Potion, Albus," I lied glibly. Did I imagine the knowing glint in his eye?

I ignored the biscuits and tea--lest it be laced with Veritaserum or some-such, but accepted the pro-offered chair. Potter was sitting rather stiffly in an uncomfortable-looking one beside mine. His eyes were narrowed and his jaw was set with fury.

And no wonder: Lucius Malfoy occupied the only other seat in the room.

*

"That prick has more lives than a thousand bloody cats!" Potter shouted as he stalked through my doorway.

"Quite," I agreed, then reset the wards and spelled the room for silence. Exhausted, I shut my eyes and leaned briefly against the closed door. Meetings with Albus were usually tiring, but adding a Malfoy to the equation was guaranteed to transform any span of time into a never-ending ordeal.

"I swear, at the end of the world, it'll come down to the cockroaches versus the Malfoys!" Potter paced back and forth in front of my fireplace, his dark green cloak flapping. Such was his agitation that sparks literally crackled off the ends of his hair.

I sighed, pushed off the door, and went to the liquor cabinet for the Firewhisky. Given the events of the past hour, I'd say that Potter and I had earned a few tumblers full of the good stuff.

No matter the circumstances, Lucius Malfoy always managed to land on his feet. This time was no different. Despite the "mysterious" death of Draco and Narcissa's convenient 'disappearance,' and despite his most recent--or should I say his rumoured--involvement with Voldemort, he'd somehow managed to avoid prosecution yet again. He'd kept his properties and monies intact and, more importantly, he'd somehow talked Dumbledore into allowing him to rebuild the school.

To rebuild Hogwarts!

Why not just deed the title of the hen-house to the fox and have done with it?

"And Dumbledore, actually sucking up to that two-faced, sleazy, elf-molesting bastard!" Potter frowned and rubbed vigourously at his temples for a moment. "I wanted to beat the filicidal prick over the head with that stupid walking stick then throw up on his dragon-skin boots. How many times did Malfoy try to get Dumbledore sacked? Has the Headmaster gone senile? I thought he hated that poncy fuck wad!"

Potter and Malfoy had been enemies for years. The situation hadn't been improved by the fact that Lucius had, quite nastily (and untraceably), sacrificed his son--Potter's rather odd choice of lover--during a Dark Rite, to raise more power for Voldemort.

Melodrama and coarse language aside, Potter had a fair point. Only a few months ago, Lucius Malfoy had been the topic of several Order meetings during which Albus had proposed to sharply curtail the man's involvement in any post-war efforts. Fool me twice, and all that.

Granted, on the surface, Albus's current line of reasoning had merit:

"Hogwarts suffered extensive damage during the siege," he'd told Harry and me after Malfoy had left. "The Malfoy Estate has deep enough pockets to bear the cost of the school's reconstruction." And, since a fair bit of the damage was caused by spells of Malfoy's devising, I suppose that Dumbledore's plan had a certain irony. "Besides," he had continued, with a distinct glint in his eye, "now that he's bought his way out of Azkaban and into respectability again, I'd much prefer to keep him in plain sight."

Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

Yes, the reasoning had merit; the school governors, utterly besotted by The Man Who'd Slain Two Dark Wizards, had lapped it up like cream.

Nonetheless, the back of my neck prickled.

I poured two generous measures of the whisky and held one out to Potter. He paused long enough to take it and knock it back in one gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and eyed me narrowly. "What, Snape, nothing to say? No snide remarks? C'mon, I can't possibly have a monopoly on the outrage here."

The first trimester had nearly passed; our options were swiftly becoming limited. What else was there to say? "We're running out of time."

"No shit, Professor," Potter said, then held out his glass. His hand was shaking slightly. I poured him another round. The rim of the bottle rattled against the glass when I tried to hold it steady. I filled my own glass and we both drank, again and again, staring into the orange flames in the grate.

Two hours and two-thirds of a bottle later, our mutually unacknowledged tremors had given way to the languid, boneless sprawl of the thoroughly intoxicated.

The room was dark, with only the flicker of the fire to warm it. Potter lay on his back on my hearth rug, sans shoes, socks, and glasses, with his cloak bunched up under his head. "I am such an idiot," he said, staring up at the ceiling.

From my position, cross-legged on the floor, I leaned back against the legs of my favourite chair. "If you're expecting me to disagree, Potter," I said, "you're in for a long wait."

"I actually thought that it would all be over now, one way or another, you know?" Potter rolled to his side and looked at me. The vivid green of his eyes was swallowed by the darkness. "I thought that we would cast the spell. That it would either work, or it wouldn't. And Voldemort would be gone, or we'd all be dead. I wasn't counting on...this. Again."

A naive wish, at best. But the whisky--or something--had softened my edges a bit. "The theory was sound," I conceded.

"Not sound enough," he said, frowning and rubbing his forehead again. "We should have known that--."

"We couldn't have known," I interrupted. "Our research was thorough. We examined the situation from every angle. We tried to anticipate every eventuality--."

"But we should have known. I was our job to know, to expect that he'd manage to find a damned loop-hole. Everyone was counting on us to know! And now, here we are again."

The self-reproach in his voice resonated too closely with my own. "We did our best, Harry," I said.

He was inconsolable; I hoped it was just the whisky talking. "Sometimes the best isn't enough," he said.

There was, of course, no answer to that; I am all too well acquainted with that brand of intractable futility that renders our most well-intentioned 'best' wholly impotent. Instead, I said, "We still have a window of opportunity."

"Not much of one," he grumbled.

I thought that heroes were supposed to always see the glass as being half-full. "We still have a window of opportunity!" I insisted.

"If none of your potions have worked, what makes you think that my ad hoc severing charm will do the trick?"

For Merlin's sake, one of us had to be the optimist! "Because it will," I snapped. "Now shut up, and drink." I poured him another glass and made certain to fill it to the brim.

Later, after quite a few more rounds, the bottle was empty and Potter was staggering towards the door, bleary-eyed.

"Next week, Snape," he slurred, wincing a bit at the light in the hallway. "I'll be ready to test the charm next week." Then he was out into the corridor, grumbling something about a mountain troll pounding a white-hot spike through his brain.

I took pity on the man and handed him an analgesic. A hangover would neither improve the ache in his head nor his spell-casting confidence. I also had a suspicion that we'd need every possible advantage in the months to come.

He reached for the phial and paused as our fingers brushed. "You don't think..." he began, then trailed off.

Something in his voice made my hackles rise. "I don't think what?"

He stared at me for what seemed like a long time, then said, "Think that...that Dumbledore might have told Malfoy, do you?"

My blood ran cold.

"Go to bed, Harry," I told him firmly. "Get some sleep." I placed the phial in his palm with a small smack and closed his fingers over it.

"But--"

"No. Albus did not tell Malfoy. Now get. Some. Sleep." I gave him a slight push and he staggered off down the hall, looking back over his shoulder.

I closed the door and exhaled slowly. The analgesic had a sedative effect; at least one of us would sleep tonight.

*

They say that hindsight is perfect-sight; it's true.

If only I'd been a bit less intoxicated that evening, or a bit more alert, more critically minded. If only I hadn't been bowed beneath the weight of Potter's pessimism, as well as my own...

If I had, I might have read the signs that lay in plain sight. I might have...

No. I must be reasonable. All things considered, in the end it would not have mattered one whit. It still would have come to this.

If only.

Two of the most distasteful words in the English language.

Right up there, come to think of it, with: We did our best.

*

"It's the most marvellous thing, Severus," Albus said to me, his eyes bright with excitement. "I can actually feel him moving about inside!"

I gritted my teeth, smiled, and struggled to find something neutral to say. After a struggle, I finally settled upon, "What a fascinating experience that must be, Albus."

"Indeed, it is!" Albus swung his leg over the side of the exam bed, briefly revealing a pair of knobbly knees and ridiculous fluffy pink socks. He stood and donned his over-robe and boots. How he walked in those high heels was a mystery to me. "Although, I must confess," he said, leaning in confidentially, "I have a healthy new respect for the indignities that women suffer during their yearly physicals."

I couldn't resist. "So Pomfrey's had you splayed open like a gutted toad, eh?"

He chuckled. "And I do believe that she neglected the warming spell on her instruments just to punish me. 'But it was an accident, Albus!' my left foot."

I snorted at that and, for a moment, I felt warm and...light. It was as if my...friend, as if Albus was as he'd always been: annoying, meddlesome. Immortal. Impervious to harm. As if the battle, the failed banishment spell, and this...all of this was merely a nightmare brought on by something benign. Indigestion, mayhap.

"She should punish you," I agreed. "You're supposed to be conserving your strength, not single-handedly leading the reconstruction effort."

"The child is just fine, Severus," he said, patting his stomach, "and so am I. In fact, I confess that I am feeling quite energetic. Although," he paused with one hand on the door knob and glanced back at me, "I am relieved that the morning sickness seems to have subsided."

I felt as if I'd just been doused in ice water.

"Well then," he said briskly. "Shall we check up on Harry? See how his concussion and broken leg are mending? Such a strange thing for that protection charm to backfire so spectacularly. Especially since Harry's deflection glamour has been quite effective so far. I can't imagine what might have gone wrong."

I silently trailed after him to Potter's room. Though there was a cheerful fire burning in the fireplace of the main ward and the sun was streaming through the windows, I felt the mid-winter chill down to the very marrow of my bones.

*

Were it not for my near-perfect recall of all the despicable acts I've committed in this particular life, I might have assumed that my present situation--trapped in a room with Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, and Dumbledore's malevolent foetus--was payback for some heinous crime in a prior one.

I could only thank the heavens that the room was devoid of any Weasley-spawn. Perhaps I had, in fact, pleased the gods in some small way.

Lupin and Black had survived the war mostly intact. Lupin had more grey hair, more lines on his face, and could barely speak above a whisper. Black had lost part of an ear, two fingers on his wand hand, and now walked with a limp. Two dead and two maimed; how the mighty Golden Gryffindor boys had fallen. Both men were clustered around Potter's bedside, clucking over his injuries like over-sized capons.

Potter lay back against the pillows, wearing a much put-upon expression. "I told you both. I'm fine. It's just a bit of a break."

"A compound fracture," Black said. "Not to mention the concussion."

"I've had worse."

"We've all had worse, Harry," Lupin said mildly. "Although I confess that neither Sirius nor I have ever met our doom at the, er, treads of a rogue flight of stairs."

Potter threw up his hands. "It zigged, I zagged, what can I say?"

"You can say that you'll be more careful!" Black said. "What were you thinking, surfing the moving staircases like a bloody Third Year?"

Potter looked trapped. "I was bored," he said.

I wanted to roll my eyes; he never did lie very well.

"Honestly, Harry," Black sounded exasperated. "If you'd just get out of this castle, quit moping about, get a job, you wouldn't be bored. The Aurors are dying to get you and, just the other day, I heard about several openings for..."

"Sirius..." Potter warned, but Albus broke in smoothly. "Harry is fine right where he is, Sirius. I need him here. His assistance has been invaluable in the past few months."

But Black wasn't mollified and the resulting "Discussion, not argument, damn you!" in Black's limited vocabulary, attracted Poppy's attention. Shortly thereafter, she tossed us all out. Potter was obviously recovered enough to whine and the room was packed wall-to-wall with nuisances; I was not in the least disappointed to go.

But after the others had filed out the door, Potter grabbed my sleeve. "What the hell are we going to do now?" he whispered fiercely.

I shook my head and pressed my fingers against his lips. "Later," I said. At Hogwarts, many of the walls do have ears.

Besides, when in doubt--or in dire lack of a plan--stalling for time is only good sense.

*

Either by accident, or by design, for the next week Potter and I had no opportunity to continue our...discussion.

At first, Lupin and Black were always lurking about, playing gatekeeper around Potter's room in Gryffindor Tower. Then, once Poppy declared him fit, Potter was sucked into a never-ending series of meet-and-greet events for the New Order Ministry.

My own hours were absorbed with research, fruitless plotting, and with attempting to place several orphaned Slytherin students with welcoming foster families; I was determined not to repeat Albus's mistake with Potter.

Ten years in a cupboard beneath the stairs, indeed!

As for Albus, well. Now that Potter and I had ceased our efforts to rid him of his parasite, in addition to his extensive administrative duties, he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time...glowing.

And eating peculiar things.

On my way in to Hogsmeade, I stopped by his office to see if he needed anything. Albus was standing behind his desk, the very picture of geriatric good health, with his hand wrist-deep in an enormous jar of Every Flavour Beans.

"I have no idea what I was thinking, Severus, avoiding them all these years," he said with a huge smile. "Here, do try the pickle-flavoured ones. I've culled those out to save for last. They're actually quite tasty."

I snorted. "Headmaster Dumbledore finally admits a fondness for Bertie Bott's Beans. Someone alert the Prophet! Would that Minerva were here, to witness this historic moment."

Albus chuckled and shook his head. "She would have laughed herself into a spasm. Do you remember how, during staff meetings, she'd try to slip me vomit-flavoured beans transfigured to look like Lemon Drops? The Weasley twins had nothing on Minerva when she was feeling sneaky." Then he smiled a little sadly. "I really miss her, Severus."

I looked down at my hands. Minerva and I had been many things to one another over the years. Teacher and student, colleagues, rivals, and--once I accepted the truth, that my affections would remain quite unrequited--close friends. I swallowed past the lump in my throat. "I miss her, too."

In the small silence that followed, Albus ruffled the papers on his desk then handed me his shopping list.

The top-most item was no surprise. "Honeydukes," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Can I help it if I have a bit of a sweet tooth?"

"A bit."

"Honestly, Severus, where's the harm? You could do with a bit of a sweetening of that sour disposition of yours."

"Where's the harm? There is none, if you don't mind having only a single tooth left in your head six months from now."

Albus grinned. "That's why I have you, my dear boy," he said. "My very own potions expert on tap, so to speak. I'm sure you can whip something up to counter the calcium drain during pregnancy."

Arguing with the man was like pissing into the wind. Still, I felt compelled to try. "I fail to see the humour, Albus. In a man your age, the bone loss could be devastating."

"I trust that you and Poppy will do your best."

I nearly threw up my hands. "If Minerva were here--"

"If Minerva were here," Albus cut in, holding my gaze; I dropped my eyes first. "If Minerva were here, I would hope that she would be supportive of my choice." The pressure of his magic against mine was palpable; a beam of spring-time sun against the skin on an overcast day. "I realise that you, Harry, and Poppy have reservations about my decision," he continued quietly. "And I do appreciate your concern. However, what I would appreciate even more is your support." Albus gave me that look over the rims of his glasses. "I can count on you in this matter, Severus, can't I?"

What on earth could I possibly say to that? "Of course, Albus."

He smiled and patted my shoulder; I felt like a first class prick for my deception, as usual.

When I didn't reply, he gently placed his hand over mine. "Everything will work out, Severus," he said. "Trust me."

And for a moment, I believed.

The years fell away. I was a young boy again, called into his office for some transgression--probably one involving a hex on Black, or some such. And Albus was lecturing me in that stern, yet gentle way of his. "It doesn't matter what he did or said, Severus. Two wrongs will never make a single right. Those with great power must also exercise great restraint." And when I looked sceptical--remembering all too well the years spent hiding from my parents or brothers--he would lean close and whisper to me: "You are safe here, Severus. I promise."

And I believed him.

Time spun forward and I was a young man, standing, head bowed, before this very desk. Shattered by the realisation that knowledge, like power, can corrupt absolutely. Offering him my wand, giving what was left of my wretched life into his keeping. "These are grave tidings you bring me, Severus," he had said, returning my wand to my hand and closing my fingers around it. "But all is not lost, my dear boy, all is not lost. There may yet be a way out of this mess. I will see to it."

And I believed him.

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Slayer of Dark wizards, saviour and redeemer of angry, amoral little boys, could most assuredly accomplish anything.

"As you say, Albus." My tongue felt thick and unruly.

He smiled again and I quickly gathered up his list, what was left of my dignity, and made my escape. On my way out, I noticed that the wooden perch in the corner was empty. "Where is Fawkes?"

Albus looked up from his papers. "Oh, out and about, I expect. He's been rather restless lately."

An unexpected chill snaked down my spine. I pulled the hood of my cloak over my head and left without a backwards glance.

*

Hindsight, indeed.

*

Hogsmeade was bedlam.

Months after the fact, the Wizarding World was still celebrating the demise of Voldemort with fireworks and round-the-clock parties. The streets were clogged with celebrants and shoppers of every type. Goblins, elves, a centaur or two, astonishingly enough, wizards, and witches, and representatives of nearly every other sentient magical species had crawled out of their winter dens to celebrate. The frosty air and steadily falling snow did nothing whatsoever to reduce the high-spirited hordes.

I dislike crowds, but after the claustrophobic atmosphere of the castle, any escape was welcome. Even if it meant fending off well-wishers, autograph seekers, and witches wanting to buy drinks for, shake hands with, or marry one of the Three who'd killed Voldemort.

Wanting to marry me, of all people, and some of them, my former students, even! Apparently, fame is as good as a healthy swig of firewhisky for increasing one's sex appeal.

Several hours--and no fewer than six marriage proposals--later, I had crossed off all the items on Albus's list and was nearing the bottom of my own. I was also out of patience with my erstwhile groupies. Once, I would have relished the attention, revelled in every glowing accolade lavished upon me. It was all I could have ever dreamt of. But now...each cheer and shout was as a lash of a whip, a searing reminder of the task that Potter, Albus, and I had left undone.

To escape the mob and replenish my supplies, I ducked into Hypatia's, my favourite herb nook. Fortunately, the store was nearly empty, with only a few serious--and elderly or unimpressionable--potions makers sorting through the jars and bins lining the cramped aisles. They looked up at my entrance, nodded then thankfully, left me alone.

Sanctuary was to be mine only briefly, however.

In the quiet of one of Hypatia's dusty storerooms, amid the jars of pickled newt eyeballs and hummingbird tongues, as I sorted through a bin of chaste tree bark, my luck--such that it was--finally ran out.

"Well, well. If it's not our reluctant hero."

I froze, then straightened up, but didn't turn. What I really wanted was to hex someone. Or, barring that, to run. "Lucius," I said through gritted teeth.

"Severus," he purred. "My dear, dear friend. I knew I'd find you here. This little shop has been a favourite of yours, since the...old days." He stepped close and placed his hand on my shoulder; I suppressed a shiver as I slowly turned to face him. He was, as usual, impeccably dressed in casual robes whose cost likely exceeded my annual salary.

"What, no kiss for your old brother-in-arms," he said, raising a single silver eyebrow. "No warm embrace to welcome your ally in the resurrection of Britain's premier school of witchcraft and wizardry?"

I clenched my fists and bit back an Unforgivable.

If Albus was sunlight on bare skin, Lucius Malfoy was moon-light on a frozen pond. Or perhaps silk over bloodied steel.

Since the ostensible death of Voldemort, I had only ever encountered Malfoy while also in the presence of Albus. Which was likely all to the good since, despite the complicated history between us, I could never quite decide whether to hex him, or fall to my knees and suck his cock.

Old habits die hard.

"You were Dumbledore's choice of benefactor," I said, resisting the urge to draw my wand. "You were most certainly not mine."

Lucius pressed his gloved fingers against my cheek. "Liar," he hissed. He gripped my chin when I would have jerked my face away. "Admit it, Severus," he said, his lips nearly brushing against mine. "You chose me, all those years ago. Not Dumbledore. And not Riddle."

"No," I spat.

He laughed. "Oh, yes, my friend. yes."

I closed my eyes and willed myself not to remember...

...the handsome, much older student who took interest in an awkward, ill-favoured, and intense boy; a boy with a short temper and a ready hex for those who would dismiss him as being beneath notice.

...the occasional gifts of rare books, unique magical trinkets, and ancient scrolls. The gasps of my classmates when his distinctive eagle owl, laden with packages, would seek me out at mealtimes. The introductions to the noteworthy and the powerful.

...the warmth of his hands, the brush of that glorious hair against my cheek, the almost-chaste touch of his lips--at last!--that first time.

...and later--once I'd left school--the nights. Oh, the nights that he would stalk through the wards round my dingy flat, dishevelled, stinking of blood and pain and death. Utterly delectable.

"Should have known you'd still be awake," he would say. "Convenient that." He would sweep the books and papers off my desk, splashing ink everywhere, and next thing, I would be bent over the chair, trousers round my ankles, and his cock up my arse. We would rut like animals in the aftermath of whatever 'entertainment' he and others of our brethren had gotten to that night.

"You should have been there, Severus," he'd say afterwards, lying back amid the debris of my research. "Your potions worked most exquisitely. Our test subject--that pathetic Muggle--she screamed for hours."

I would listen to his lascivious descriptions of their deaths, of our triumphs, our enemies' impotence. I would witness their suffering in a pensieve he kept especially to record those victories. I would complain about the ache in my arse and his piss-poor treatment of my books and papers. But never, not a single word of concern for the... the test subjects...

"No," I said, pulling out of his grasp. "I would sooner that Hogwarts fall into ruin than the Board of Governors accept a single knut from you."

"I do believe that the Potions Master protests too much," he said with a lazy smile. "Dumbledore has kept you muzzled and caged all these years. How many has it been? Ten? Twenty? Teaching inept brats, when you could be setting the world afire with your elixirs. Or better yet," he said, with a distinct gleam in his eye, "perfecting the Dark Arts."

The old yearning and resentment stirred in my chest; I crushed it ruthlessly. "Fuck off, Lucius."

"Dumbledore won't live forever, Severus. And when he dies..." Lucius trailed off significantly.

My stomach dropped. "And when he dies, what, Lucius?"

"Why then, old friend," he said, grinning wickedly. "When Albus Dumbledore dies, you will be free." He leaned forward to kiss my cheek. He laughed and then he swept from the room in a swirl of expensive robes.

After a long moment, I managed to gather up the herbs I needed, with shaking hands. I made my purchases. I walked, numb and unseeing, through the bustling streets, then apparated back to the edge of the Dark Forest.

Two steps along the path back to the castle, I leaned over to be violently ill in the snow.

*

In the autumn of my eighteenth year, I knelt before Voldemort and I accepted the Dark Mark.

It was an agony beyond that of the Cruciatus and a pleasure more profound than anything I had known. One searing instant that lasted a lifetime and then I was Marked. And bound.

Those wizards and witches, who have had the good fortune to live their lives in the sunlight, always want to know: Why?

It's a morbid fascination, I suppose. Why so many of our young men and women? Why Voldemort? They grapple to understand why so many of us bowed our heads, bared our arms, and swore fealty to a Dark wizard like Tom Riddle.

I could exhaust a thesaurus were I to describe his exotic beauty and grace, his lightning-keen intelligence, his charisma. The electric, nearly erotic, nimbus of power he radiated, that attracted wizards and witches, in spite of themselves.

But the truth is, that for every wizard who took the Mark, there was a unique and personal reason. And no matter how much the good, the kind, the blessed strain their bright, unsullied little minds, no matter how creatively they flex their untarnished and wholesome consciences, they still can not--or will not--peer far enough into their own darkness to actually see.

After the trials, after I'd been acknowledged as a spy and long after they'd disowned me, my parents asked me, "Why?"

My reply, "Why not?" was not an answer they understood. When in fact, one might say that my trajectory was inevitable:

I possessed an uncommon intellect, an unusual magical skill, a soul deep rage, and a craving for knowledge, power, for recognition.

Where else would I have gone?

To the Ministry?

*

I returned to the castle at dusk and immediately shut myself in my rooms. There, I applied every ward I knew--including a few grisly booby-traps--to the fireplaces, the owl tube, and to the doors. Only then did I collapse into my favourite chair beside the fireplace, with a glass of whisky in hand, and stare blindly into the flames.

As if my life weren't wretched enough, Lucius bloody Malfoy had now decided to unearth the rotting corpses that I'd done my best to bury long-ago: Fame, Glory, and Power.

But childhood dreams die hard and as a man, I'd never learned to dream new ones. So, they had lingered all these years, after a fashion, hovering like grim spectres, just at the edge of my vision.

For nearly twenty years, I faithfully--if imperfectly--executed the terms of the penance Albus set for me: teaching, setting boundaries for unruly students, nurturing their talents where possible. And in those years, I watched countless ungrateful brats squander the same opportunities that were now forever denied me. All to play Quidditch, or some other such rot!

And of those few who snatched at what was offered and excelled? Well. I would only ever be a foot-note or an off-hand comment: "Of course, Snape was a bastard, but I learned everything I know about potions from him."

Twenty years!

My vision misted over with red; I stood abruptly and dashed my empty glass against the hearth. The fire hissed and spat and the clock on the mantel ticked away another minute of my half-life.

I would have wallowed in self-pity for a good while longer, but a knock at my door announced the presence of the second-to-last person I wanted to see at the moment.

The door knob rattled insistently. I sighed and suspended the wards.

Albus walked in. "Good heavens, Severus," he said, glancing at the tracery of magical energy around the door-frame. "Are you expecting an apocalypse?"

I turned back to the fire. "It only makes good sense to brush up on my warding spells, what with Malfoy on the loose in the castle."

"Given that Filius is overseeing the reconstruction, I daresay you have nothing to worry about."

I laughed shortly. "This is Malfoy we're talking about here, Albus. You know. Death Eater twice over. Disappeared his wife. Sacrificed his only son in a Dark Rite."

"There is a fine line between caution and paranoia," he said, coming to stand beside me.

"And I'm thrilled to say that I'm firmly ensconced on the side of paranoia where Lucius Malfoy is concerned."

He glanced at my face and the shattered glass, then put his hand on my arm. "Severus..."

I pulled away. "Was there something that you needed, Headmaster?"

A fleeting expression of sadness crossed his face, then he was smiling again. "You didn't stop by with my parcels."

Heaven forbid the illustrious Headmaster go without his sweets for more than a few hours!

"I'll get them now," I said, and left him briefly to retrieve the packages from the darkened bedroom.

When I returned, he was standing where I left him, stroking his fingers over the newly repaired whisky glass. "Severus, if it would help to talk about it..."

I nearly shoved the packages into his arms. It was all I could do not to scream at him to get out.

Fortunately, Albus can be a perceptive old bastard; he took the hint--and the packages--and turned to leave.

"Dinner is at seven, should you care to join us," he said, turning back. "Oh, and if you happen to see Fawkes, would you please let him know that I have a special treat for him?" He paused in the doorway for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else. But he shook his head slightly and then was gone.

With a control I didn't know I possessed, I crossed the room slowly and closed the door with a quiet snick. I carefully reset the wards.

Afterwards, I didn't recall how I came to be sitting on the cold stone floor, knees pulled to my aching chest with my back against the door.

I can, however, remember the red glaze over my vision and the cramping in my belly. I remember wanting to vomit up my life. I remember the bitter, salt smell of my tears.

I can also recall lifting my head from my arms, seeing a curious red-gold flash from inside my bedroom. I remember the shock that followed when I recognised, through the gloom, the phoenix perched on my far bed post.

*

Never had I fully appreciated the magnitude of the task that Dumbledore had set for himself--the rehabilitation of one Severus Snape--until he appointed me Head of Slytherin House.

My colleagues, especially Minerva--who knew too much about my personal history--were very sceptical.

I simply laughed outright. "You are placing me in charge of the moral development of the next generation of witches and wizards?"

Albus looked at me seriously, without a smile or a twinkle in his eye. "Who better?" he said.

I scowled. Who better than a man born without a conscience, someone who'd come round to morality and an awareness of consequences via the long and rocky back road?

Indeed!

"You have gone quite mad," I said, startling a bit when Fawkes left his customary perch and landed upon my shoulder. Once there, he rubbed his cheek against my hair and began to sing.

This time, Albus did smile. "So some might claim, dear boy. However, if you don't believe me, trust Fawkes, instead. His judgement in these matters is impeccable."

Which is how I became Head of Slytherin House, counsellor to hundreds of impressionable, spoiled, ambitious, or ethically challenged children, over the years.

It fell to me to teach them to temper their lust for power with an awareness of long-term consequences; to teach them to anticipate--and ameliorate--the responses of those who they'd rendered powerless in their schemes; to try my damnedest to soften their cunning with compassion.

To remind them--forcibly, and using whatever means necessary--where the school and Wizarding Society drew its moral lines, and why.

I did quite well, given the scope of the task assigned to me.

Most notably, I kept Draco Malfoy from following the crooked path that his father and I had trod.

And Potter, for all his power and potential and rage, hadn't gone Dark.

At least not yet.

*

It was late. The fire had burned low in the hearth and it was cold in the darkened room. It was silent, as it should be, except for the faint sounds of...breathing.

I slid my wand from beneath my pillow, rolled over as casually as possible, then narrowly missed blasting Potter into a large, man-shaped, greasy spot on the far wall.

Once again, he had slipped through my wards; I'd ceased to be surprised or annoyed by that. But this time, he'd also gained access to my bed chamber and was sitting cross-legged at the foot of my bed.

I glared at him down the length of my wand. "Potter. What the devil are you doing in my bedroom?"

He looked haggard. "Couldn't sleep," he said hoarsely. He cradled Fawkes in his arms, stroking the bird's feathers with shaking fingers.

The shadows in the room seemed suddenly darker. "And this concerns me how, exactly?"

"My head hurts."

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. "Again, I ask--"

"It's my scar."

A Bludger to the bollocks would have been far more welcome.

I had known for years that Albus was neither omnipotent nor infallible, and that wishing rarely, if ever, makes it so. Yet, despite logic and reason, despite my dim recollection of a drunken Potter rubbing his forehead and wincing in pain, despite the presence of Fawkes in my bedroom tonight...well, I should have known better than to hope.

"Stay here," I said, then stalked into the bathroom. I threw open a cupboard, mixed up a glass of painkiller, and returned to the bedroom.

Hair tousled, sitting hunched and shivering in his pyjamas, with his mis-buttoned winter robe thrown haphazardly on top, Potter looked like nothing so much as a frightened school-boy who'd just had a bad dream.

We both knew better.

I thrust the glass at him. "Drink this."

He sniffed at it warily then, apparently satisfied, downed it all at once.

Meanwhile, I reinforced the wards, cast a silencing spell, then climbed back into bed. After a moment, I held open the covers. I certainly wasn't going to freeze while we hashed this out. "Get in."

Potter hesitated then set Fawkes aside. He shed the cloak, put his glasses and wand on the night table, then scrambled under the covers. He sighed, apparently in appreciation of my heating charm as much as from the relief from pain.

We lay there together, side-by-side, not speaking, as the minutes ticked by and Fawkes made himself a nest out of my spare pillows. After trying to meet for over a week, now neither of us knew quite what to say.

Eventually, true to form, Potter broke the silence with his usual eloquence. "So."

"So, what?"

"So, what are we going to do now?" he sounded exasperated.

I closed my eyes briefly and swallowed hard. My potions had failed, his charm had failed, and now...this. "We see it through to the end."

He frowned. "But..."

"But what? It's too late. We are beyond the first trimester." When he gave me a stubborn look, I continued. "Don't you understand? Any 'measures' that we take now will almost certainly result in Albus's death."

He digested that for a while, then said, "What if we brought someone else into this? Someone we know can keep a secret. Sirius and Remus might have some different ideas..."

"No!" I grabbed his wrist. "We can't tell anyone."

Potter was annoyed but didn't pull away. "I know that you hate them, but--"

"It's not about that, you idiot. It's...listen." I released his arm but held his gaze with mine. "Black and Lupin are powerful wizards, no doubt. But are they powerful enough to controvert biology, to hold Albus back from death if we continue to meddle?"

"But--"

I leaned up on one elbow and glared down at him. "For once, Potter, use that not-entirely-worthless brain of yours and think! What would you say to them? How would you convince them? What if they feel, as Albus does, that, even after all the evil that Voldemort has done, a loving family can remake Tom Riddle from the inside out? What if they believe that Albus is powerful enough to defeat Riddle a second time? What if they choose to tell someone else?" I shook my head. "No. We tell them and the conspiracy widens. We add two more--very powerful--unknowns into the equation, not counting the presence of Malfoy."

Potter sat up. "But we have proof!"

"We have in total: one pregnant senior citizen, who is in denial; the analysis of a rare and ancient Dark spell--offered by a despised former Death Eater, of course--and a twinge of pain from a curse-scar."

He seemed uneasy at my assessment but didn't argue. "I hate secrets." He sounded disgusted.

I didn't disagree.

"So we see it through to the end," Potter said after a long pause.

"Yes."

"And then what?"

Damn the man, he was going to make me say it! "And then, I'll do what's necessary," I said, throwing his own words back at him.

Potter sank back down in the bed and tugged the blankets to his chin. He didn't meet my eyes.

"What?" I sneered at him from across the length of the pillow. "You knew it might come to this." He likely would have been shocked to known how reassuring I found his reluctance.

"I know," he said quietly. "But I was just thinking. What if..."

"What if Dumbledore is right? Is that what you're going to say?" Potter met my eyes; his expression was haunted. "Let me ask you then, Harry," I forged ahead, granting him no mercy," do you believe that he's right?"

He was silent a very long time, but when he finally spoke, his mouth was set in a firm line and his voice was hard. "I don't care if he is."

I felt a thrill of alarm. "Leave this to me, Potter," I warned. My responsibility to him had long since ended. He was no longer my student, the boundaries I'd set--whether magical or moral--were clearly no match for his will. And yet, I would spare him--I would spare all of us!--the implications of his involvement in this act.

"No, Severus," he said, eyes narrowed. "This is as much my responsibility as it is yours."

His magic pressed hard against mine; it was midnight and sunrise and the lash of a sudden, howling summer storm against my upturned face. It was exhilarating.

I shivered in reaction, but still I held fast; there was too much at stake and no time for finesse. I reached for his chilled hands and wrapped my fingers around his; I squeezed hard enough to make him wince. "Can you commit premeditated homicide, Potter?" I pressed him ruthlessly. "Can you--good-hearted, compassionate Gryffindor that you are--kill a defenceless infant, in cold blood?"

He stared me down; I saw the memory of too many bloody corpses in his eyes. "If I need to, yes."

I nearly bit through my tongue; God help us all!

"Harry," I kept my voice even with effort, "I say again. Leave this to me." Please.

He looked at me strangely, then pulled one hand free and traced my cheekbone briefly with his fingers. His eyes were wide and dark, with only a narrow strip of green visible. "There's still time," he said softly, in an odd shift of mood. "Anything could happen. It might not come to that."

His finger-tips left a trail of flames upon my skin. I refused to be distracted; I was too familiar with the price of false hope. "Yes. But if it does--"

"If it does, then yes, Severus," he said, and I could tell that he meant it; I just didn't know how far to believe. "If it comes down to that, I will leave it to you."

I could not quite hide my exhalation of relief.

He settled on the pillows, watching me. After a short while, as the soporific in my potion took effect, his eyes closed and his breathing evened out into sleep.

But I lay awake in the darkness, shamefully glad of the comfort of his presence, of his right hand still clasped in mine, and I planned my first murder.

*

When I awoke the next morning, Potter was gone.

The fire had gone out and the room was frigid.

*

At its heart, potion-making is the art and science of performing the right act, in the right order, at the right time. And certain things--preparation of the Wolfsbane, plotting revenge, pregnancy--cannot be rushed, no matter how desperately one might wish it.

Despite my profession, I have never been the most patient of men. But I have always understood the importance of timing. Add an ingredient one second too late or too soon and...disaster.

Over the years, I have been forced to cultivate a facsimile of patience, to discover useful ways to fill the gaps between moments of action. Potter, on the other hand, had developed no such skills. Or rather, he had cultivated none other than those that involved either Quidditch or pestering me.

Twenty more weeks of breathless waiting. Of worry and planning and deceit.

Far too much and too little time, both.

*

"Wearing a hole in my hearth rug will not alter the fact that nine witches--wizards rather--can't bear one baby in a month."

Potter paused, glared at me, then resumed his long-limbed, fluid stalk across my floor.

For each of the past nine evenings, I had arrived home after dinner and checking on my remaining students to find my wards breached and a moody, glowering Potter either ensconced on my couch--typically with a drink in hand--or pacing in front of my fireplace. Tonight was no exception.

In the years since he'd left Hogwarts, he had grown several inches and acquired a fair bit of muscle on his otherwise lean frame. Though he'd never be tall, he was no longer the scrawny, underfed runt he'd been as a student. Oddly enough, with the passage of time, his resemblance to his father had diminished. These days, he looked more...like himself I suppose. Attractive, but without James' stunning good looks, a faint echo of his mother in his eyes, cheekbones, and his nose and chin. There the similarities ended. Certainly neither James nor Lily had ever worn that hard, exhausted look in their eyes.

Over the years, his magic had also matured and its exhilarating nimbus crackled almost visibly around him as he moved. It darted out at random, rustling scrolls and quills on my desk, causing the fire to spark, striking here and there against the contents of the room.

Tonight, after an hour of pointedly ignoring him, the depth of his agitation--and its effect on my personal belongings--outmatched my powers of concentration. I put down my quill and closed my notebook with a snap. "For Merlin's sake, Potter. Why don't you go burn off all that excess energy elsewhere? Get that Firebolt of yours and fly yourself dizzy around the Quidditch pitch."

"Thunderbolt 2002. And it's too dark. And too cold. And it's snowing."

I fought not to roll my eyes. "Then why aren't you off 'bonding' with the werewolf and your godfather, instead?" I said, shuffling the papers on my desk into some semblance of order. "No doubt they would be most glad of your company." It certainly wouldn't do to let the little sod know I sort of liked having him around. If for no other reason than that he distracted me from my own dark thoughts.

"Sirius has a date and Remus is chairing some committee on the reclassification of magical hybrids," Potter said, then abandoned his pacing and flopped down on my couch with a huff.

Magical hybrids! The Muggle plague of 'political correctness' had finally infected the magical world as well.

I steepled my fingers and stared at the man over the tips of my fingers. I forbore to mention his previous nine nights worth of flimsy excuses. As if he didn't have plenty of friends and admirers in the area with whom he could have spent the evening.

"And so, being deprived of good weather and your usual furry playmates, you felt the need instead to further abuse my carpet and interrupt my work."

Surprisingly, Potter laughed. "Exactly," he said, leaning over the back of the couch to grin at me. "All work and no play makes Severus Snape a dull boy."

"There is nothing I can do to be rid of you, is there, Potter?"

In response, he only smiled more broadly.

I leaned back in my chair and sighed. Why bother to resist? At least this strange new mood was an improvement on his usual grim silence or his relentless, Granger-esque rooting around in my library searching for something, anything, about Albus's condition that we might have overlooked.

"Fine," I said shortly. "Go get the chessboard."

He set up the board while I refreshed his drink and poured myself a generous one. Afterwards, we sat on the floor in front of the fire with the board and its snarling and posturing pieces between us. Potter had a gleam in his eye worthy of Albus himself; I felt an unaccustomed flare of heat in the pit of my stomach.

"I get to be White," he said, stroking a pawn with his nimble fingers.

I licked my lips then shrugged. Despite Lucius's efforts, I was never more than an indifferent chess player at best. Allowing Potter, who'd been trained by Weasley--a chess master in the making if I'd ever seen one--to make the first move wasn't likely to change the outcome of this game one whit.

Fawkes churred his agreement from his perch atop the bookcase in the corner. Dumbledore had ceased to ask after his wayward familiar and I hadn't seen fit to enlighten him.

*

Again, hindsight, and all that.

*

Most First Year students arrive at Hogwarts desperate to "do Real Magic, at last!" They've spent too many years watching older siblings swish-and-flick during the holidays, or playing with their own toy wands or brooms, or in hopeful experimentation with nonsense spells to have any interest whatsoever in the 'whys' of magic, only its 'hows'.

And so those initial lessons focus on doing: transfiguring beetles into buttons, charming feathers to float, and so on. We have to trick the magical theory into them, a bit at a time. Otherwise the ickle brats would squawk to their parents, the parents would send howlers and the Board of Governors would issue memos and call for endless meetings on developing a 'properly balanced applied magical curriculum.'

A fate worse than the Cruciatus, I assure you.

That said, there is one fundamental magical principle that is introduced early and as often as possible. It is a tenet that is common to all magical disciplines, from potions to charms to arithmancy, and that all students must thoroughly grasp if they are ever to be more than mediocre, by-rote spell-casters.

It is called the Moment of Inexorability.

All magical processes are subject to such a moment: a point beyond which the process will inexorably complete itself, for good or for ill. From that moment forward, a highly skilled wizard or witch might hope to nudge the process towards the most desirable outcome possible. The best that the inept can do is to whisper a prayer to their favourite gods then hang on grimly for the rest of the ride.

Master Arithmancers and Seers can sometimes pin-point this thaumaturgical instant in both space and time. Certainly entire libraries are filled with monographs, treatises, and dissertations devoted to the topic.

But the Moment of Inexorability is above all, an experiential pivot-point. It is evident in such sensations as a sharp tug in the gut, or a tingle in the fingertips, or in the build up of pressure in the sinuses that precedes an explosive sneeze. And for seven years, we attempt to awaken our students' inner senses so they might recognise the Moment when it comes; we drill the theory into them so they might operate in that narrow space of potential--with skill and intuition--once the Moment is underway.

But no matter how many years they practice their craft, no matter how diligently they apply themselves, no matter how skilled they become with Arithmancy or Divination, one very simple fact will continue to confound them, as it has greater minds for since the beginning of recorded magical history:

The Moment is rarely ever when we expect it to be.

In retrospect, I would have done well to remember that fundamental truth.

*

One game of chess followed upon the heels of another--as did our consumption of glasses of brandy--far into the night. As a result, I was quite late to breakfast the next morning and feeling more than a bit dragged out.

The few students in residence had already left the Hall for a snowball fight on the east lawn. Sprout and Flitwick were at the high table, arguing good-naturedly over scones and coffee and Sinistra was chatting, across an empty seat, with Lupin. Off to one side, Arthur Weasley and Albus were speaking with some Ministry officials and Aurors in mostly hushed tones.

"Severus!" Filius called out suddenly, "Come here and settle this argument for us."

I started forward but paused just inside the doorway, frowning. The sun streamed brightly through the leaded windows. It scattered fractured rainbows around the room and over the robed shoulders of my colleagues. With the exception of Lupin, they all looked well enough, if somewhat tired. Lupin looked like week old corpse. Of course it was only two days past the full moon.

All in all, it was a familiar sight. Although as always, the absences of my friends--Xiomara, Minerva, Rubeus--made my eyes ache and my throat feel tight. All familiar, yes.

Nonetheless, something was subtly amiss.

By the time I'd crossed the room to the table, I'd realised what it was.

"What happened to the enchantments on the ceiling?" I asked.

Filius shrugged. "Since the last of the students are leaving for their foster homes tomorrow, Albus decided to discontinue them. No point in maintaining the illusions since the students won't be around to enjoy them, I suppose. But look here, Severus..."

The enchantments at Hogwarts have always been a manifestation of the Headmaster's personal magic. My stomach clenched and I immediately looked over to Albus.

He looked healthy enough, didn't he? His skin was just winter-pale, not nearly transparent. There was no tremor in his hands, the Hall was just a bit cold this morning. And his voice was just as clear and strong as always. Surely I heard no quaver as he loudly overrode Weasley on some point about Hogwarts's security.

"...do you think, Severus? Wouldn't you agree with me that Helmsford's Manifesto is the finest example of interspecies magical co-operation that ever..."

"What?" I half-turned towards Flitwick, but Poppy was standing in the far doorway beckoning me. "I must go," I said, snatching a scone from the platter and heading for the door.

"Severus!" Sprout called, but I ignored her. My strides were long but even so, the trek across the Hall seemed to last an age.

"Poppy," I said. "What--?"

"Not here!" she hissed, tugging on my sleeve. "Wait until we get to my office."

Five minutes later, I followed her into her office, closed the door, then cast several anti-eavesdropping spells in quick succession. "Now, what is it that you wanted to--"

She pre-empted my question by thrusting a scroll in my face. "I need for to you to make these potions. Immediately."

I set aside the crumbling scone and scanned the page. My knees had weakened perilously before I'd read to the end of the list. Fortunately, Poppy's office chair--quite used to anticipating such reactions from shocked patients--was there to catch me.

My mouth was so dry I could barely speak. "I thought that he was doing well."

Poppy sighed then slumped into the chair behind her desk. "He was doing well, Severus."

I just stared at her.

"But he has been border-line diabetic for years. And after Grindelwald, well, he's always had a slight weakness of the heart. All that Dark Magic didn't do his liver and kidneys any favours either. And now, with this pregnancy..."

"He's looked so healthy," I nearly whispered. Decades younger, even.

"Many patients experience a surge in energy and well-being during the second trimester as the developing foetus ceases to draw magic directly from the maternal source and instead draws upon external ones. The 'glow' of pregnancy isn't just a myth where magical pregnancies are involved."

I knew all that. I'd read the literature thoroughly. Even so...as if it belonged to some other man, I watched as my fist clenched spasmodically, crushing the scroll between its fingers.

"I've been monitoring him very carefully, Severus," Poppy continued evenly, but I'd known her long enough to detect the strain in her voice. "The decline has been steady, though not obvious to the casual eye. No doubt Albus's talents and Harry's glamour have aided the deception as well." Not to mention her outstanding skills, but Poppy would never openly admit to that.

She paused then and looked at me with something akin to despair. "I've done everything I could think of. But he's a senior citizen, for heaven's sake! You know that I was afraid of this."

I carefully uncrumpled the list and smoothed it against the edge of her desk. Anti-diabetics, diuretics, and anti-arrhythmia medications amongst them. Powerful, complex potions with numerous side-effects and potentially lethal drug interactions. Potions that I was certainly capable of making, but in no way legally authorised to do so. Nor was Poppy authorised to dispense them.

Damn Albus to hell!

The man needed a team of specialists to see him through this, not three well-meaning but ignorant fools who'd acquired their knowledge of geriatric hermaphroditic obstetrics from text books!

"Does Potter know?"

Poppy leaned her elbows on the desk and exhaled heavily. She looked as deprived of sleep as I felt. "No," she said. "Not yet. I'll tell him later this afternoon, once I've compiled the list of monitoring and stabilisation charms I need him to perfect."

I stared down at the wrinkled scroll and watched, bemused, as the letters blurred before my eyes.

"--verus? Severus, are you all right?"

My body twitched with the need to do something. I stood abruptly. "If you need me, I will be in the lab." I yanked open the door then swept through the main ward, already mentally comparing the contents of my private stores with the requirements for the first three potions on the list.

I paused on the first floor landing to catch my breath and shake off a sudden strange wave of dizziness. "Sweet Merlin grant that I do this right," I whispered to myself.

Then I quickly descended the last flight of stairs into the dungeons.

*

I worked straight through lunch, tea, and then dinner.

Every so often, I could hear a distant pounding at my door; I ignored it. Several heads popped up in my fireplace; I doused the fire. At one point, no fewer than thirteen owls were perched on my desk, awaiting payment. I ignored them too. Eventually, disgruntled, they departed en mass, leaving a mound of droppings and unopened mail behind.

Time slipped away from me, distorting, dissolving in a blur of desperate physical and mental activity. The burn of fatigued muscles, the cramping in my fingers, the ache in my belly and throat and head--all sensations receded into meaningless background noise as I chopped and sliced, I muttered incantations, I diced, pulverized...and I silently prayed.

Some unknown number of hours later, I was shivering, my hands were shaking, and my shirt was soaked through with sweat, but at last I had three successful potions simmering at the back of the lab. I gave one cauldron a final stir then straightened up. I staggered as spots danced before my eyes.

Someone grabbed my arm and pushed me, none too gently, onto a nearby stool.

"Sit down before you fall down."

Potter.

He wrapped my fingers around a glass of something cool. It took enormous effort to open my eyes. When the hell had I shut them?

I tried to thrust the glass away. "You should know better than to contaminate an active work space with food or drink!"

"Drink it, you stubborn git." He brought the glass to my lips. "You're no good to any of us if you pass out face first into whatever the hell it is you're brewing."

I opened my mouth to retort but something cool and sweet--mint, basil, honey, ginseng, brandy, and a hint of ginkgo biloba perhaps?--slid past my lips, over my parched tongue, and down my throat. The potion hit my empty stomach, ignited, then spread heat and well-being up my spinal column and outward to every extremity. My eyes watered and I blinked stupidly in the light for a moment.

Potter gripped my shoulder and shook me slightly. My body thrummed under his hand. "Feeling better?" he asked. The infuriating man actually sounded concerned.

I shook him off and stood up. "I have work to do," I said, turning on my heel and striding back to my workstation.

Quite a while later, I noticed he was still present, sitting on one of the lab tables reading through a sheaf of scrolls. He was swinging his dangling feet like an overgrown child.

I scowled. "If you've got nothing better to do than to hang around my lab, then go chop those roots," I gestured with my knife. "Finely, mind, don't butcher them."

He smiled but said nothing, then set aside his notes, picked up a knife, and began chopping.

We worked in an oddly companionable silence thereafter, until the early hours of the morning.

Near dawn, Potter apparently had had enough. He yawned, stretched, and went to gather up his things. As he walked past me towards the door, he paused and put his hand on my forearm. His fingers brushed lightly over the cloth covering my Dark Mark. The contact made me shiver.

"Same time tomorrow--er today, rather?" he said.

I'd passed beyond words some hours before; I closed my fingers over his hand briefly and nodded.

His lips crooked in a fleeting smile, then he was through the door and gone.

I ignored the tingling in my fingers and in my belly. I shut and re-warded the door.

Much later, I cleared away the mess in the lab, bottled up two of the three potions and cast a stasis charm on the third. Then, aching in every muscle and nerve, but with a strange lingering warmth beneath my ribs, I went to seek my own bed.

*

Surly.

Snide.

Spiteful.

Sarcastic prick.

Of course, I preferred 'ruthlessly honest,' though I lived up to the other epithets often enough.

Albus would just cluck his tongue and shake his head, exhorting me to 'upgrade my people skills.' "One catches more flies with honey than with vinegar, dear boy," he would say.

To which I would reply, in turn, "One catches even more with a steaming pile of manure, Albus. You would know."

Ugly.

Vile.

Disgusting.

Greasy git.

In my lifetime, I do believe that I have heard them all, every imaginable insult. And what would be the point of denying their truth? After all, my own parents wished me dead when I was but an infant, and I've rarely been less than ruthlessly honest with myself.

Should I pretend that I was ever anything more than the odd, ugly boy who always got top marks and who knew the best hexes and jinxes, who would share that knowledge, for a price, of course?

Should I romanticise my value to Lucius, to Riddle--to anyone, even Albus--as anything other than a well-skilled or convenient means to an end?

Should I believe that, with just a bit more care taken about my appearance, with the application of a few congenial, social lies, people would somehow care for me rather than about what I might possibly do for them?

I have a dozen recent marriage proposals that tell me otherwise.

Minerva and Xiomara would have been upset were they to hear me say any of that aloud, especially regarding Albus. Two witches blessed with beauty, political savvy, and blunt charm in abundance; no, they were unlikely to understand. But Rubeus Hagrid, ah yes, he would have understood me perfectly, no doubt.

What is physical beauty after all, but a thin crust of transient fleshy lies beneath which cruelty and malice usually hides?

If nothing else, James Potter and Lucius Malfoy taught me that.

So then, perhaps I can be forgiven for my initial blindness where Potter's son was concerned.

Perhaps I am no different from any man who has learned to need nothing beyond that which he, himself, can provide...a man who has learned, most painfully and thoroughly, neither to love nor to hope.

*

The days and nights thereafter followed a similar pattern.

I would awaken early, spend several hours in research (or in stultifying Ministry meetings), then head directly for the lab.

Potter would arrive sometime in the afternoon, help me prepare whatever potions were needed that day, and then I would assist him with practising or casting the charms Albus needed to maintain his health.

Periodically, an obnoxiously cheerful house elf named Dobby would bring us full meals masquerading as 'snacks'. Potter and I would break for a time, scarf down the sandwiches or meat pies and return to our work until late in the night.

Then, after a few hours sleep, I would awaken to continue the cycle.

Even during my time as a spy, I hadn't experienced such prolonged gut-gnawing tension. I didn't care one whit about inadvertently poisoning that horrid foetus, but Albus himself...paralysis, dementia, precipitating kidney failure, a stroke, or a heart attack...now there was the stuff of nightmares!

Oddly, despite the constant anxiety that fuelled our late nights, the times that Potter and I spent together brewing and spell-casting were actually quite...pleasant.

For once, Potter was motivated to put his magical skills and that fine intellect of his to good use; his daily performance in my lab amply demonstrated that his high score on his Potions NEWT was not a fluke. He was quiet, diligent, and--as I had discovered during our previous evenings together--he had a wickedly dark sense of humour.

He also had a curiously lax notion of personal space. Neither my possessions nor my person, point of fact--my shoulder or arm, sometimes the back of my hand--were safe from his casual touch. I do not like being touched but, for some reason, I allowed it; he had rather graceful hands.

And so, despite the circumstances and the stress, the hours I spent awake--that we spent together--were nigh well enjoyable.

Unfortunately, the few hours when I slept were anything but. Nightmares--no, night demons is more accurate--stalked my dreams no matter how many sleeping potions I consumed...

*

...Had I been more wary that evening almost twenty-one years ago, had I been less exhausted from hours of potion-making, had I been anything less than a pathetic heart-sick fool, I would have tossed the letter into the fire when his eagle owl first delivered it. Hell, I would have hexed the damn bird where it sat and been done with it!

Not that it would have mattered, given what transpired later that night, but I sometimes pretend that it might have.

Instead, I flipped my thumbnail under the ornate Malfoy seal and read:

My dearest friend,

I have a lovely surprise for you. Do say you'll come?

--L

Furious, I crumpled the paper in my fist. But before I could pitch it into the fire, the hidden Portkey activated, yanking me away from my flat and into the dungeons of Malfoy Manor.

Lucius swung a companionable arm around my shoulder as soon as I materialised. He was clearly high on something. I couldn't be arsed to identify the compound from the sickly-sweet scent on his breath.

"Ah! I knew you would come," he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

As if I'd had a choice. I tried to push him away but the bastard had a powerful grip. "What the hell do you want, Lucius? Did it never occur to you that I might be busy? That I might be in the middle of--"

"Severus, dear Severus," he said, pulling me close again. "None of that matters because the Dark Lord will be calling for us shortly anyway. LeStrange and I were tasked to provide the evening's...entertainment."

Light from the torches along the walls glittered off his newly minted wedding band. Narcissa. My stomach clenched. How could I have ever believed his lies? This time, I succeeded in pushing him off me. "Again, I ask you--"

He laughed softly and put his fingers over my lips. "Shh. It's a surprise," he said, then clasped my hand and dragged me down the hall.

We paused at a nearby door and Lucius flicked his wand, releasing the wards. "Here, you'll need this," he said, handing me a mask. "Now, go take a look at your surprise before our Lord calls us. You should be delighted: he has placed blood traitors on the menu tonight!"

It was pointless to argue with Lucius when he was stoned.

I seethed silently instead and donned my mask, jerking my hood over my head. I would have a look at this so-called surprise and then get the hell out. Apparate home. Anywhere. Put Lucius and his games and lies and his new fucking bride behind me, in the past, with the rest of my childhood rubbish. And wait until Voldemort called.

When he opened the cell door, I drew my wand then stepped inside.

"Lumos," I said, looking around.

There was a small shape huddled in one corner. A pale, dark haired boy, who lifted his head and squinted in the sudden light. He was perhaps ten years old.

"Hello?" the boy called. "Who are you? What do you want? Why did you bring me here?" he said all in a rush, his voice shaking a little despite his obvious attempt to be brave.

And...oh god, the accent...the shape of his face...the shape and inky colour of his eyes...all were unmistakable--I could have been staring into a mirror--even had I somehow managed to overlook the prominent beak of his nose.

Maximillian Snape de la Rochebeaucourt.

My nephew.

My estranged brother's son.

The first-born of a family openly opposed to Voldemort's plan.

And the Dark Lord would make an example of blood traitors tonight.

Disembowelled, dismembered, sent home in a box overflowing with streaming, stinking entrails, yes. I'd seen it done. I'd done the deed myself. I'd revelled in the triumph, and in the spectacle and the gore.

Lucius stepped beside me. "Such a delicious morsel," he said, with familiar cold delight. "Revenge is a dish best served cold, don't you agree, my friend? Would you like the first taste?"

My limbs were frozen and my tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth. The ache of the Dark Lord's call was but a faint warmth along the icy length of my forearm.

Lucius patted my shoulder and laughed. "I do believe that I have, for once, stunned you speechless, my friend."

Then he levelled his wand at the doomed, cringing child and shouted, "Crucio!"

*

Is there anything more harrowing, more sickening than reliving--night after night after bloody fucking night--that singular moment when the universe seized you by the throat and shook you again and again in its teeth until:

Your mind cracked open--

Your delusions were swept aside--

Your heart--

who the hell knew you possessed such an organ?--

split straight down the centre--

And for the first time in your miserable existence:

All the rage and darkness that you'd packed into those hollow spaces inside rushed out and away--gone!--and the Light poured in so

That suddenly the child who screamed and writhed on the floor was

Not an experiment

Not a thing

Was not an It -- no,

Instead that child was you?

Oh no, believe me when I say that there is not.

*

...The underground chamber was packed, all of us masked and robed, though I could recognise a few by their stance or their placement in the circle: Rosier, the LeStranges, Malfoy.

The Dark Lord himself, cloaked in flowing black with a tracing of silver runes, stood at the centre. Despite his age, his cruel, exotic face was unlined and his hair was still dark; his eyes reflected red-gold from the light of the torches. His familiar, Nagini was coiled, hissing, at his feet.

"My brethren," he said, gesturing grandly. "I have called you here tonight that we might send a message to our blood traitors. Those short-sighted Purebloods who consort with filthy Muggles and Mudbloods. The wizards and witches who should be our allies but who instead think to oppose us, to thwart our destiny."

Murmurs of assent rippled around the circle and Voldemort quieted them with a wave of his hand. "Bring them!" he shouted.

The circle parted and three people were dragged forward: a teen-aged boy with a bruised face and an obviously broken arm, a sobbing girl in a torn dress, and...Maximillian.

I could not move. I could not look away.

Despite their terror and disadvantage, the two older children visibly collected themselves and pushed Maximillian behind them. As if to protect him.

To protect him, for Merlin's sake!

It was futile, of course. The moment for action--theirs or mine--had long since passed; no degree of skill or desperation could alter this outcome.

"Tonight, they will learn that we will tolerate no traitors to our cause, no corruptors of our blood-lines."

The Dark Lord gestured and three of my--three of the Death Eaters moved forward.

"To that end," he said, pausing dramatically, "let us send them our message written in the tainted blood of their first-born!"

As one, the chosen Death Eaters raised their wands.

It was as if I could taste the bitter syllables of that first curse, of many curses to come, that hovered on the lips of the three executioners.

It was as if I stood in place of those children, knees shaking, bowels loose, clammy robe sticking to my sweating skin, waiting without a plan, without hope, knowing that whatever was to come would come no matter how swiftly I ran or how skilfully I hid, no matter how much I screamed or how hard I prayed.

Spell-light flashed; the screaming began.

My Dark Mark pulsed with unwelcome exultation. Hot blood spattered over my hands and lapped against my boot soles.

I clenched my teeth and choked back bile.

Nonetheless, I could not--I refused--to look away...

*

...I clawed my way out of sleep only to find myself snarled in the bed-clothes, gasping for breath, red, sticky, wet, and reeking of death and pain.

No, no.

It was only sweat, the stench of horror and contrition, and my face was wet with tears.

I threw back the covers and got out of bed to lean wearily against the bed post. My limbs twitched in sympathetic reaction to the litany of curses cast that long-ago night. My knees were weak and shaking. Even my left forearm throbbed dully.

The fire had burned low and, by the clock, dawn was only a short while off. Though I'd only tossed and turned for a few hours, there was little point to trying to sleep again tonight.

How many times can a man watch himself shatter? How often can he relive the death of his most cherished, malignant delusions without going insane?

It seemed that Albus would profit, yet again, from my sleepless night.

I stumbled blindly into the bathroom to rinse out my mouth and splash water over my face. One accidental glance in the mirror later and I hastened into the shower instead. The room was thick with steam and my skin was red and stinging by the time I'd scoured away most of the lingering horror.

After towelling off and dressing, I took my wand from beneath my pillow then, intent on picking through the Journal of Magick-Assisted Obstetrics, stepped into my sitting room. And promptly staggered against the doorframe. There, in the gloom, on the sofa before the guttering fire, lay...

"Maximillian!" The firelight painted wet blood over his pale cheeks.

I raised my wand and, with a shaking hand, levelled a banishment spell at the reclining figure and shouted, "Phasma Relinque!"

The spell hit the ghost in a flash of gold. It did not vanish. Instead, it sat up with a sharp cry.

I nearly swallowed my tongue. "Potter! What the devil are you doing here?"

Potter scrubbed his hands over his face then glared at me. "I was trying to get some sleep."

I lowered my arm, took a deep breath, and tried to steady my heart. "I seem to recall that you have a perfectly good bed in Gryffindor Tower."

He swung his bare feet to the floor. "Yeah, well," he said, then put his head in his hands and mumbled something into his palms.

I pushed off the door and stalked over to the end of the sofa. "What was that?"

Potter turned to meet my eyes. "I said, there are too many ghosts up there. But then," he continued, with a wisp of a smile, "you seem to know all about banishing ghosts."

My annoyance evaporated all at once. I sighed and moved to sit down beside him. The adrenaline rush had left exhaustion in its wake. I tried to ignore the lingering pain in my left arm.

"Who's Maximillian?"

For a long moment, I couldn't speak. "He was my nephew," I said finally. "I never actually met him. I'd only ever seen him in photos until the night that...he was..." I shook my head to jar the disjointed thoughts loose. "He was killed during the first war," I finish lamely. And when exactly during the night had I become prone to inane babbling?

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Potter watching me. His cheeks were clear but his stubbled chin was streaked grey with the tracks of old tears. After a moment he placed his hand on my knee and squeezed lightly. "I'm sorry," he said.

I shivered and looked down at my hands. The blood there would never fade, no matter how hard I scrubbed. "It doesn't matter, he's been dead a long time."

He frowned and rubbed at the scar on his forehead. "Somehow, I don't think it makes a difference how long they've been gone, or how long we knew them," he said quietly, then turned to face me. "You look like shite, Severus. How long did you sleep?" He released my knee and swept his hand up and over the edge of my hair, tucking a few damp strands behind my ear.

How could he bear to touch me, drenched as I still was in the blood of innocents, despite the shower? And how could I bear to allow him to?

"A few hours, perhaps." I shrugged, too exhausted to respond in kind to his jibe. "And you?" I looked sideways at him. "You couldn't have found my sofa to be especially comfortable."

Potter's smile was a bit watery. "Less than a few hours," he admitted, "though I think you'd be surprised just how comfortable this lumpy old couch can be."

For some reason, the evening's horrors seemed to lessen somewhat in his presence. The shadows were less dense, despite the dying fire. The morning's worries seemed infinitely far off. I managed to dredge up a smile. "First you insult me, and now my furniture. What is next, Mr. Potter?"

He was silent a long time. Instead of speaking, he traced the curve of my ear and sampled the stubble on my cheek and chin with the very tips of his fingers. It felt as if he'd branded me with fire. Finally, he spoke; his voice was husky. "Next," he said, "I suggest that we both get some sleep. In a real bed."

Suddenly, the room felt warmer, despite the late-winter chill.

He seemed encouraged by the fact that I didn't reply. He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. "Come on, then. Your bed is big enough for both of us. And I, for one, wouldn't say no to that heating charm of yours. It's damned cold down here in the dungeons. Don't know how you stand it."

I silently trailed after him into the bedroom; he was young and implacable and I was far too tired to resist. Perhaps, if we were fortunate, we might each hold one another's nightmares at bay for a while.

In the corner, high up on my bookshelf, Fawkes hummed softly on his now-customary perch, seeming to approve of the plan.

*

When I awoke the next morning, the fire had gone out but the bed was warm and comfortable. Light filtered through the small window set high in the wall and coloured the room a dusty grey.

Apparently, my heating charm had been insufficient: Potter was curled up beside me, one lean, muscular arm flung over my chest and his head tucked under my chin. His hair stuck out in all directions, silver strands glinting here and there, and tickled my nose.

Off in the distance, I could hear the first bells ringing for the eleven o'clock class and, sweet Merlin, I hadn't slept so late in years!

Although I had a lengthy list of critical things to accomplish, the warmth, the comfort, the rare sensation of well-being tempted me to ignore all but the most urgent item. I pried myself loose from my bed-mate, visited the loo, then quickly returned to the bed and to sleep.

Eventually, I drifted up out of a dreamless sleep to the sensation of being watched. I was in my own bed and I was unbound, therefore whoever was watching likely didn't intend me immediate harm.

When I opened my eyes, Potter's face was mere inches away from my own. At that distance, the green of his eyes was striking, even in the dimness of late-afternoon in the dungeons.

"Good morning...afternoon," I said, feeling decidedly awkward.

He blinked, indulged in a long, joint-popping stretch that briefly sprawled his limbs all over mine, then flopped back beside me. "Yes," he agreed, with a slow smile, "I'd say that it is."

Something in his expression made me frown, though, unaccountably, every square inch of the skin beneath my nightshirt became sensitive and overly-warm. I could feel the sweat spring out between my shoulder blades.

"We should probably get up," I ventured thickly. "Lots of things to do today." Had some imp snuck in during the night and stolen my wits along with my vocabulary?

"Mm," he said mildly, his eyes had gone wide and dark. "Later I think. Much later." Then reached one hand down beneath the covers and...shifted. In a rather unmistakable fashion.

And, oh! Suddenly everything--the sideways, heavily-lidded glances, the constant loitering in my lab, the casual or accidental touches, our late-night debates over chess and cognac--made sense. Love? Lust? Convenience? Whatever it was, I found it increasingly difficult to breathe.

He moved closer to me, slowly, as if giving me every opportunity to, what, protest? To turn away? To tell him 'no'? As if I could think past my astonishment. As if I could draw breath to speak!

His smile dimmed slightly, but the strength of his magical nimbus intensified. It crackled over my skin like summer lightning. It stole what remained of my breath and pressed me down, splayed against the bed sheets. Potter followed my movement and stretched out atop me. One of his hands tangled in my hair, the other slipped under my nightshirt and slid between my parted thighs.

"Say yes, Severus," he said, each puff of breath caressing my lips.

Of their own accord, my arms reached up and pulled him against me. "Potter," I managed to gasp out, "I am not Draco."

He bent his head and his lips finally brushed against mine. "It's Harry," he said, in between electrifying nips and licks of my lower lip. "And I'm not Lucius. Or James. Or Lily, for that matter." He pulled back, stared down at me, and waited.

My body knew what it wanted and the magic crackled its assent between us, waiting for fulfilment. But I couldn't shake the feeling that the single act had implications, would have consequences beyond any that I might imagine.

Life, though, was never without risks. So, I surrendered.

"Yes," I said, throwing back my head and exposing my throat. "Yes."

He smiled.

Winter became spring in the dungeons then, as my magic pulsed upwards to mesh with his, as his hands and his lips and his magic laid me bare.

*

There is nothing in this world so annoying, so grating on the nerves, so likely to make one's wand hand itch with the urge to cast a persistent impotency hex, than a couple in love. The gooey looks, the soppy, pitiful paeans to the beloved, the giddy good will and cheer spread indiscriminately about, all of it. The only thing worse are adolescents who are convinced that they've just discovered some grand secret that has managed to elude the millions of generations that preceded them.

What was it about those love-sick idiots, I had often wondered, that induced them to skip hand-and-hand through their days oblivious to cold, harsh truths of the world?

And then...Potter happened.

My few friends were dead. Lucius was frequently present in the castle, lurking about and generally making a well-clad nuisance of himself. Dumbledore's pregnancy was advancing and his health was faltering. My potions, Harry's improvised medical charms, and Poppy's not-inconsiderable skills were proving to be increasingly ineffectual. The spectre of Voldemort loomed yet again in the near distance. Yet, for some reason, in the weeks that followed my first...liasion with Potter, early one afternoon, after lunch and after he'd left for some meeting at the Ministry, I found myself--difficult though it is to admit, even now--I actually found myself whistling as I toiled over a steaming cauldron.

Me, whistling.

Lucius had long-ago obliterated any ridiculous childhood illusions I might have harboured about having...a partner, someone who would always stand with me, fight beside me...perhaps even fight for me, rather than constantly angle for his own advantage.

Yet, for some reason, I was whistling as I worked.

The situation was intolerable!

Though we were discreet, Albus knew, of course, and found it monumentally amusing. "Well, well, dear boy," he'd said. "So you and Harry have finally settled your, er, differences. Had I known that this was what it took, I would have got pregnant years ago! Minerva would be so pleased for you."

Barmy old fool.

Whatever it was, it was most assuredly not love. Not a chance. There was no love in me in any case, and certainly none for the spawn of a boyhood nemesis with whom I argued at least as much as we shagged. Of course not!

Perhaps it was simply a matter of power. I have always been susceptible to powerful, charismatic wizards. Lucius, Albus, Riddle. Should it really come as any surprise that Potter--who was quite possibly more powerful than all three--rounded out the list?

Whatever it was, though, it was surprisingly persistent.

But despite the frequent--and athletic--sex, despite the uncommon and peculiar and inexplicable sunniness of it all, I knew that it would not last. My life is like that. Just a little bit of a taste and then all the good things come to a far too rapid end.

And as always, the screaming and the pain and the blood would begin shortly thereafter.

*

It began, innocuously enough late one morning in May.

Spring was stubbornly refusing to arrive, the castle renovations were coming along well, Potter and I were still alternately shagging and arguing with one another, and without his glamour, Albus was looking rather like a starving python that had swallowed a pig. All in all, pretty much the status quo.

I was sitting at my desk, catching up on some neglected correspondence when my wards flared. A few moments later, someone rapped on my door.

Albus had taken a Portkey to the Ministry several hours earlier (Apparation was inadvisable past the first trimester), Poppy would have used the Floo, Flitwick was overseeing some renovation work in another part of the castle, and Harry would have, as per usual, just strolled right in.

With a shiver of unease, I placed my current research papers in a secret desk drawer then went to the door.

Of all the people I'd wanted to see, Sirius Black was at the bottom of the list, one spot ahead of Lucius. The man was obviously in a bad mood. "Snape," he growled.

"Black," I replied, taking firm hold of the door knob. "And now that we have established our identities, good day." I moved to slam the door but the prick held it open with his foot.

"Not so fast, you greasy bastard," he said and forced his way into the room. "I want to you know you've done to him."

I bit down on my tongue hard. Had Harry, Poppy, and I failed to cover our tracks? Had Black or Lupin noticed Albus's condition? "What I've done to whom?" I said, keeping my voice even with effort.

"You know what I mean," he snapped, prowling around my sitting room, peering suspiciously at every corner as if looking for...who the hell knew what!

I fingered the handle of my wand thoughtfully. I dearly wished to hex him and dump his body into the lake. But then Harry would likely object and I wasn't keen on any action, no matter how satisfying, that might adversely impact my sex life.

Besides, Albus's welfare--the fate of the damn world!--might depend upon my keeping my temper, Merlin help us. "If I knew what you meant," you cretin, "I wouldn't have asked for clarification."

He finally stopped stomping around and faced me directly. "What have you done to Harry?"

I blinked. "To Potter?"

"Yes, you bastard. To Harry."

Well then, perhaps our secret was still safe; I exhaled with relief. "Have you checked the Quidditch pitch? I last saw him at breakfast with that infernal broom of his."

"That's not what I mean," Black said stepping closer. He was taller than me, but Azkaban and the war had pared him nearly down to the bone; his gauntness wasn't especially intimidating. "I can hardly pry him out of the castle anymore," he continued, "he's never in his room and he's always hanging around the dungeons. Supposedly working on 'some project.' With you." He jabbed a finger at and his voice rang with accusation and outrage.

Ah, so Potter hadn't informed Black of our...relationship. Not that I blamed him especially. I am a private man and Potter has had more than his fair share of negative attention, from his so-called friends as well as from the press. Besides, I'm not exactly the sort one wants to bring home to meet the parents--or godparents. Especially not one Sirius Black.

He crossed his arms and tapped a finger against his biceps. "Well?"

Dumbledore's secret was safe and the mangy cur had foolishly wandered onto my turf; there was no real reason not to indulge in a minor bit of recreational mutt-baiting, was there?

"Well, what, Black? Potter is an adult. The fact that he prefers my company to yours only demonstrates that he has finally--and thankfully--outgrown his need for companions whose emotional ages match their shoe size."

"Oh right, I forgot, you're such a paragon of maturity. And don't try to change the subject." Black's eyes narrowed. "I know you're up to something."

"According to you, I am always up to something," I snarled. "On one such memorable occasion, you set a werewolf on me. What will it be this time? A rabid dog, perhaps? A troll? Or maybe you'll do your own dirty work, for once, and simply throw the Killing Curse? Assuming that you have the stones."

"Stop. Trying. To change the subject!" Black shouted. "I don't know what your game is, Snape," he said, crowding into my personal space, "but I'm here to tell you that it's going to stop. Harry has his entire life ahead of him. He's got better things to do than to moulder away here at Hogwarts. Is this some kind of twisted payback for James? Harry is not James, you stupid prick!"

No, I had to admit--though it had taken me long enough to accept the fact--that beyond the minor physical resemblance, Harry was nothing at all like his father. If nothing else, I could not conceive of a universe in which James Potter would be willing to suck my cock. "I am quite well aware that Harry is not his father," I sneered back at him. "The question is, are you?"

Bull's eye; Black was always such an easy mark. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of my robe. "I mean it, Snape. Stay the fuck away from him!"

In an instant, I had drawn my wand and jabbed it into the fleshy hollow of Black's throat. "And I say that we should both leave the matter of Potter's choice of...companions," I shaded the word carefully, "up to the man, himself."

He gripped my robe more tightly and I twisted the tip of the wand against his skin. Stalemate.

Suddenly Black's eyes widened and the blood drained from his face. "Oh my god," he said with near-comical disbelief. "You're fucking him, aren't you?"

Well, well. So he wasn't quite the moron that I'd often assumed he was. I moved in for the kill. "Why, Black?" I said lightly. "Were you hoping to have him for yourself? What, you never could pull James and now you're tired of making do with the werewolf?"

"You fucking bastard!" he roared, right on time. "I'm not--We're not--I've never--" he sputtered, then gave up on words--and using his wand--and took a swing at my temple with his fist.

At which point a brief, but very satisfying, scuffle ensued.

"My word! Severus, Sirius! Am I interrupting something?" Flitwick stuck his head around the door that I'd left ajar.

Black and I pushed away from one another, both of us dishevelled and breathing heavily.

"Not at all, Filius," I said, straightening the collar of my robe. "Black, here, was just leaving." I grabbed the door knob and held open the door wider.

Flitwick looked back and forth between us with a faint smile hovering on his lips. No doubt he was wishing he had a galleon for every such Black-Snape fracas he'd stumbled upon. He'd certainly broken up enough of them at the back of his own classroom when we were students.

"Well then," he said, obviously struggling not to laugh, "Perhaps I could borrow you for a moment, Severus? I have a question about warding theory that I'd like to run past you."

Something in his voice quashed my amusement instantly. "Certainly," I said, brushing hex residue off my sleeves, "shall we adjourn to my office?"

"Actually," he said slowly, and the smile faded from his face, "I think that I'd prefer to show you what I mean."

Black then caught the significance of Filius's visit and frowned. "Anything I can do to help?" he asked in a worried tone, running his fingers through his snarled hair.

Filius cocked his head, no doubt weighing the likelihood of possible bloodshed against our combined knowledge of magical theory, then he nodded slowly. "If you have the time, Sirius. I wouldn't mind several opinions on this."

With a heaviness in my gut, I ushered them out of my rooms, then closed and locked the door behind us. Black and I walked shoulder-to-shoulder down the hallway behind Flitwick until we reached a corner.

But once we were briefly out of Flitwick's sight, Black slammed me against the wall with his forearm against my throat. "If you hurt him..." he warned. The force of his anger, the black and red swirl of his barely leashed magic held me pinned.

I returned his stare seriously. "I have no intention of hurting him."

"I mean it, Snape. He's been through too much."

"As have we all."

"Swear it, damn you," he snarled, unmoved. "Swear that you won't hurt him."

I sighed. "I can't possibly swear to that. No man could."

He was silent for a long time, but I felt the pressure of his magic against mine lessen. "Swear that you'll do your best, then."

We stared at one another and then I nodded. "I swear that I will do my best," I said, and for once, I thought that I'd sworn an oath that I would fight to keep whole.

He snatched away his arm and turned to stalk around the corner after Flitwick. After a moment, I rubbed my throat and then followed.

*

Flitwick led us through the dungeons, down a rarely-used corridor, and finally into the very bowels of the castle itself. The hallways grew more narrow and the atmosphere more oppressive, as we descended. I suppressed a shiver; though I'd never been this far down into the sub-dungeons, given Flitwick's query about wards, I had an unpleasant suspicion about our ultimate destination.

Only a few torches lined the lichen-mottled walls here and eventually, they disappeared all together and we each had to call our own witchlight. The stones were slippery underfoot and our breath steamed in the cool air. A ghost or two swept by as we walked and above us, the castle creaked and groaned as it settled more deeply onto its ancient foundations.

By unspoken accord the three of us kept close together and remained silent, as if to avoid disturbing...whatever might be lurking in the darkness that pressed in from all sides. Hogwarts was, after all, steeped in ancient and--in some cases--very unruly magic.

A short while and several twisting corridors later, Flitwick led us into an apparent dead end and my suspicions were confirmed. I broke out into a cold sweat. If ever there was a time to awaken and discover that the past six months had been a horrid dream, this was it.

"Stand away from the door," he told us.

"What door?" Black said stupidly.

Because I am not an idiot, I grabbed Black's sleeve and pulled him back a few paces.

Flitwick nodded once, then he raised his wand, said, "Nu Onwreon Deogollice Duru!" and I knew for certain that I was not dreaming.

Blue-white light burst from the tip of his wand to splash against the stone. The illusion of stone dissolved to reveal an ancient iron door, blackened with age. Even in the uncertain light, the door radiated strength, implacability, and the serene impression that it could take on an army of trolls yet still not budge.

Black and I gasped, but Flitwick was unfazed. He held his wand steady and said, "Nu Onwreon Deogollice Hyrde."

With his words, the wards became visible, a tracery of blue-white energy lines, criss-crossing the surface of the door in an intricate pattern.

"My god," Black said, suddenly seeming to realise exactly where we were. "Is this the door to the--?"

"Shh!" Flitwick shushed him needlessly: the precision with which he'd cast his spells ensured that no one within the castle would be alerted, despite the magnitude of the magic he'd just performed; Flitwick hadn't been made a Master Charm-Smith for naught. Without hesitation, he held his wand against his palm and whispered, "Seco."

Black inhaled sharply as bright blood welled up from the cut. Once the tip of his wand was drenched in his blood, Flitwick pointed it at the door and said, "Nu Geryman Eow."

Spell energy flashed through the wards overlaid upon the door. Key nodes in the pattern brightened then dimmed, in quick succession. After every pathway had been traversed, the wards flared briefly then dissolved and the ancient lock released with a quiet, anticlimactic click.

Flitwick called light again, then looked back at us over his shoulder. "Follow me," he said, "and keep close."

As if we had any choice: the door swung open silently to reveal another narrow corridor with a ceiling so low that Black and I had to hunch down. At periodic intervals, Flitwick paused and tapped his wand against the walls. Thwarted streamers of crimson, lavender, and green spell-light snatched ineffectually at our faces and clothing when he deactivated the traps that lined the corridor.

I was dripping with sweat, my back was aching, and I was wrestling with a rare bout of claustrophobia--after all, I live in a dungeon for Merlin's sake!--by the time we reached our final destination: a round chamber that appeared to be hacked out from the bedrock itself by hand.

Flitwick said, "Incendio!" and swung his wand in an arc. One by one, the stubby torches along the walls flared into life and the darkness rolled back to reveal an enormous, roughly-dressed granite pillar at the centre of the room. The massive stone thrust up from the earth from floor to ceiling. It radiated age and power and hummed with enough raw magic to ruffle our robes and make our hair stand on end.

"I can't believe it," Black said in a hushed voice, "one of the four Hogwarts cornerstones."

"One of the seven actually," I corrected. "Skipped that chapter in Hogwarts: A History, eh, Black?"

He glared at me. "I thought the other three were just a myth."

"Oh, they exist all right, but only these four are reasonably accessible," Flitwick said, his voice oddly muffled by the dampening properties of the room. "The other three, including the Hogwarts keystone itself, can only be reached via a set of blind Apparation co-ordinates." He walked slowly around the pillar, hands and wand outstretched, but carefully not touching the stone itself. "Each of the four main foundation stones was bespelled and set by one of the founders when Hogwarts was built. This," he gestured towards the pillar, "is Rowena Ravenclaw's cornerstone."

"What of the others?" Black wanted to know.

Flitwick had circled around to examine the backside of the pillar, so I picked up the thread of his lecture. "The keystone itself was set by all four Founders working in concert. The two auxiliary stones, carved from the bedrock like all the others, were added just prior to Slytherin's departure from Hogwarts. The seven stones together provide structural support to the castle." I paused, struck by a very unpleasant thought, then continued slowly, "They also act to stabilise and channel the nexus of magical energy upon which Hogwarts was built."

"To stabilise..." Black echoed, then trailed off, frowning. "Wait a minute. Filius, you mentioned blind Apparation co-ordinates. Who has access to them?"

Flitwick joined us again, brushing dust and cobwebs from his sleeves. "The Headmaster, of course," he replied. "In general, only he--or she--has access to any of the four main cornerstones. Albus has made an exception in my case because I am overseeing the renovation of the castle. The wards embedded in the cornerstones interact with the physical structures of the castle, somewhat akin to the body and the immune system. As for the other stones," Flitwick paused and wiped dust from his face with a handkerchief. His expression was grave when he continued. "During times of great...conflict, the current Headmaster may petition the castle for access to the three masterstones, as they are called."

Black's face looked suddenly very pale in the torchlight. "Masterstones? Does that mean what I think it means?"

I tucked my hands in my sleeves and tried not to shiver. "If you think that it means that they control the power of the four cornerstones, as well as the reservoir of magical energy pooled beneath Hogwarts--not to mention the sixteen ley-line tributaries that feed it--all according to the will of the Headmaster, then yes, Black," I said, "it means exactly what you think it does."

There was, after all, a very excellent reason why Voldemort wanted to seize control of Hogwarts--preferably with Albus left alive to be...questioned.

"Mind, the castle has only granted a Headmaster's petition in very few instances since the Founding," Flitwick said, giving me a very pointed look. "It is quite interesting to note that both of Albus's requests, made during the first and second rises of Voldemort, have been granted."

The three of us were silent for a while, listening to the hum and pulse of the cornerstone. At moments, it almost seemed as if the stone were alive and muttering to itself.

At length, Black spoke. "So the castle itself is a weapon, then, " he said.

Neither Flitwick nor I saw fit to belabour the obvious.

My public assertions to the contrary, Sirius Black was not actually stupid. He had the germ of a reasonably fine mind buried somewhere, under the layers of recklessness and entitlement and decay. And even without the arcane knowledge Flitwick and I had about the castle, he hit upon the key question immediately. "Why did you bring us here, Filius? Do you believe that the cornerstones been tampered with?"

At that, Flitwick smiled a bit grimly at both of us. "That, my friends, is what we are here to discover," he said. "I have come to my own conclusions but would greatly appreciate another opinion. Severus, would you care to do the honours?"

I sighed, approached the cornerstone, then raised my wand.

No matter how brutally honest I was with myself, like any man, sometimes there are truths that I would prefer not to know. Or to have confirmed.

*

I wonder why that moment is so vivid to me now? Especially when, as time would tell, there were so many greater horrors to come.

Is it that I have some absurd, narcissistic belief that, had I not cast that spell, had we three not perceived the incontrovertible evidence with our own senses, that the universe would have spun off on a far different, more benign, trajectory? One in which my friends were alive, perhaps, or in which those I'd reluctantly come to...care for were safe.

One in which Voldemort was truly dead.

Or is it that, until that very moment, this imminent act of homicide--of force and torque applied judiciously to the fragile human body--had not been made real, irretrievable and irreversible, to me?

As a small child, I dreamed of doing something grand. Something of monumental import. A brilliant new magical theory. An unprecedented innovation in potions or the Dark Arts. A something that would shake the very foundation of the world. I would have sold what shrivelled bit of soul I had to achieve such a thing.

I even boasted as much to the grizzled wand-maker in Seville, on the occasion of receiving my very first wand. When he placed the wand in my hand, I felt as if my entire body was afire.

But he shook his head, frowning as if he would have preferred any wand but that one to resonate so strongly with my magic. "Be very careful what you wish for, young man," he said gravely, "you might just get it."

Albus shared his own characteristically cryptic perspective, late one night, when I'd first come to teach at Hogwarts. I had been drunk enough--and maudlin enough--that night to confess my lofty boyhood aspirations.

"True greatness is a side-effect of passionately following one's heart, my friend," he'd said. "It is never a goal, in and of itself. And often," I remember he'd pinned me with his icy blue gaze, "the acts that make us great are not the ones we would have expected. Sometimes," he'd said, in a near-whisper, as if he were conveying a desperate secret, "they are not even ones we would willingly make, had we any other choice."

Oh, and now that my moment has arrived, now that the act is nearly upon me, I find myself wishing that I'd dreamed of obscurity, instead. Of marrying some insipid, matronly witch, of raising a family in a remote hamlet, of days spent at some mundane job in the Ministry with weekends tinkering in a workshop out back. Of being anything and anyone other than the man whom fate had chosen to commit this act.

Tell me truthfully, would it have shattered the world if, just this once, Albus and that old wand-maker had been mistaken?

*

Later, after Flitwick resealed the chamber behind us, the three of us walked slowly back to my rooms in silence.

With each step I took, it seemed as if I could still hear the ominously discordant notes that the cornerstone had sung when I'd cast the first spell of revelation. And when Black had followed up with his own. I dare-say that the others could too.

Once we were safely inside my sitting room, I closed and warded the door and spelled the room for privacy.

"So what's happened?" Black immediately wanted to know. "Has Malfoy tampered with the wards? What's going on?"

Flitwick raised his eyebrow at me. "Ask Severus," he said, then walked to the hearth and lit a fire in the grate.

I glared at the back of Flitwick's head, to no effect. With one sentence, the stubby little bastard simultaneously threatened to break one half of the conspiracy wide open and thrust the responsibility into my hands. "Malfoy has not tampered with the wards," I said, smacking the quaffle right back at the damned diminutive prick.

He countered with maddening ease. "No," Flitwick said, turning to face us. With his back to the fire, his face was cast into shadow. "Even so powerful a wizard as Lucius Malfoy may not pass the blood wards on the final door--assuming, of course, that he could locate it--let alone disarm the traps surrounding the cornerstone itself. Only Albus and I have keyed those wards in the past hundred years."

Clearly annoyed, Black looked back and forth between the two of us. "So? What the hell are you both saying, then?"

Flitwick looked to me. Bastard.

I suddenly noticed a deeply fascinating blank sheet of parchment atop my desk.

"Well?" Black said with some heat.

Flitwick said nothing. I turned away from the desk slowly. Flitwick had moved away from the fire. I met his mild gaze with a furious one and searched for a way to broach the topic obliquely and yet force Black to draw his own conclusions. "You grew up in a house packed to the rafters with Dark Magic, Black," I said. "Do we need to connect up the dots for you, one by one?"

I waited one heartbeat. Another. Then finally, he said, "Oh shit. Albus."

That quickly, Black jumped to the worst of all possible conclusions. It was not a pleasant sight to see.

"Snape, what the hell happened when you three cast that final spell?" Black became agitated, pacing around the room. "Did it damage him somehow? Does Poppy know? How long have you suspected? And Malfoy is loose in the castle. Damn it all! We should probably mention this to Remus. Hell, to Harry," Black said, pausing in his tail-chasing to address Flitwick, "He's pretty good with charms."

Flitwick ignored him to instead favour me with a sharp look. "I am quite well aware of Harry's skill with charms," he said.

I felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room.

Flitwick knew!

My knees went weak and I felt the sweat spring up between my shoulder blades. It was all I could do to clutch the corner of the bookcase and remain standing.

And hell, of course he knew. What had any of us--Albus, Poppy, Harry, or I--been thinking? Or not thinking, more to the point.

But Flitwick knew and yet he'd kept silent.

Why?

I narrowed my eyes. "Yes," I said, playing for time. I've never fancied myself a strategist but I've always had a fine grasp of tactics. "Potter has quite the gift with charms, does he not?"

Black, experienced co-conspirator that he was, immediately picked up on the tension between Flitwick and me. "What is it? What the hell aren't you two telling me?"

"You've a good idea there, Sirius," Flitwick said, holding my eyes. And now he obviously knew that I knew, damn it all! "We should certainly discuss this with Harry," he continued, "and with Albus, of course. It may be that Albus is merely experimenting with some modifications to the wards. Some improvements, mayhap."

Black wasn't buying it. "But--"

So I cut in quickly. "We should, at the very least, confirm that the masterstones have--or have not--been similarly affected, wouldn't you agree, Filius?"

"Yes, yes," Flitwick said, nodding slowly. "It may prove to be nothing significant at all." Clearly Flitwick didn't want Black to know either. Curious.

"Nothing significant? What's the matter with you two?" Black burst out, obviously exasperated with us. For once, I didn't blame him. "You've as good as implied that Albus was injured. Contaminated with Dark Magic, or something, during that final spell-casting."

"But we don't know for certain," Flitwick said mildly.

"Despite Snape's considered opinion, Filius," Black said, glaring down at Flitwick, "I am not an idiot."

Flitwick held up his hands. "I am quite aware of your magical and analytical skills, Sirius," he said, "otherwise I wouldn't have asked for your assistance this afternoon." As if I believed that! Flitwick's perpetually cheerful demeanour made it all too easy to overlook his penetrating intellect and exemplary magical talent. "However," he was saying, "the fact remains that we do not know for certain why the cornerstones are exhibiting these...anomalies. It may be that Albus was injured during the spell-casting. Or it may be something benign."

"And you expect me to believe that?" Black said, glaring first Flitwick, then at me.

"Believe what you like, Black, you usually do," I snapped, annoyed with the entire situation. Exactly what the hell did Flitwick know and what did he plan? I needed Black the hell out of the room to discover the answer to either question.

"I suggest that we approach this situation rationally, with optimism and an open mind," Flitwick said, then clasped his hands behind his back and looked up at us. "There is nothing to be gained here by wild speculation."

Black had clearly exceeded the limits of his minimal patience. "I don't know what the hell is going on," he stalked to the door then turned to glower at us, his hand on the knob, "but I'll be damned if I just sit back and do nothing while you two dither like two grannies nattering on about the damned weather."

Oh hell, and I knew that gleam in his eye. I'd seen it before. Right before he tried to feed me to a werewolf. I wanted Black gone, yes, but not like this, not given these stakes.

"By all means, Black," I said, choosing my words carefully, "rush out and do something foolhardy. That's your usual style, isn't it? Never could keep a secret no matter whose life--or lives--depended on it." Black paled and clenched his fists, but I pressed on. At least he'd stepped away from the door.

"Go on and blather to Albus about our speculations. Tell the internationally respected wizard--who successfully vanquished not one, but two Dark wizards, Order of Merlin, senior member of the Wizengamot, shall I go on?--that we suspect he was damaged by Dark magic." Surely Black had seen the unmasked face of the indomitable, ruthless, and arrogant wizard who'd defeated Grindelwald at least once during the past two wars with Voldemort.

"Offer him no proof whatsoever beyond the results of a spell cast by three less-experienced, weaker wizards. Tell him that we suspect that he has placed his beloved Hogwarts in danger. The very castle which granted him--of all the Headmasters in the past two centuries--access to its innermost secrets. Ah yes, Filius, can you hear the conversation now?" I selected my most scathing tone, "'Honestly, my dear boy, I do believe that you're jumping at shadows. I feel quite fine, I assure you. Perhaps you're in need of a nice long holiday. Somewhere warm, perhaps. I know of a little place in the South Seas with lovely witches and beaches that stretch on forever.'"

Black scowled. "You can't just say, 'Why don't we wait until we have proof?' can you, Snape? No, you have use the most nasty, insulting words possible."

I bared my teeth at him. "Weak minds," like yours, "require blunt methods."

"Gentlemen," Flitwick broke in, "if I might make a suggestion?" He wisely gave us no time to object. "Sirius, see if you can find Harry. And Remus too. Then, let us each do a bit of independent research on the subject, and meet back here. Perhaps later tonight?"

"All right, fine," Black agreed, between gritted teeth. "Whatever you say."

I managed not to exhale too obviously in relief as I released the door wards.

"Oh, and Sirius," Flitwick called. When Black turned back, Filius smiled with the barest hint of a threat, "Perhaps it's best if we don't spread this information too widely, yes?"

I nearly laughed aloud at the murderous expression on Black's face.

Once the mutt had left, to my surprise, Flitwick renewed the privacy ward.

I thrust my hands in my sleeves and waited for him to show his hand.

"Severus," he said quietly, "Don't feel too badly. Harry is tremendously gifted in charms. But I have known Albus a very long time. Even so, I'm not certain I wouldn't have guessed until I inspected the cornerstones. And then all the pieces--Albus's hospitalisation after the final spell-casting, his current weakness, his palsy--it all fell into place."

I remained silent, though I very carefully frowned and pinched the bridge of my nose; with effort, I weathered the moment of greatest danger of inadvertent revelation.

He searched my face with his eyes, then sighed and ran his fingers through his shock of white hair. "I assume that he didn't want anyone else to know of the extent of his injuries? Especially given the disarray at the Ministry."

I nearly blinked; I felt as if someone had kicked me in the belly.

What exactly did Flitwick know?

"No," I agreed faintly.

"Damned man," Flitwick said, shaking his head. "He, of all people, should know the risks associated with psychic damage due to Dark magic. Not to mention nerve damage, organ damage, I could go on! I assume that you and Poppy took all the necessary steps to neutralise the poison..."

I nodded stupidly. I could barely hear past the buzzing in my ears.

Potter's anti-pregnancy glamour had fooled Flitwick. A Master Charm-Smith.

As the man droned on and fucking on in that nails-on-chalkboard squeaky voice of his, as he minced round my sitting room in a smaller, less ragged circle than Black had done mere minutes before, I fought not to fall to my knees from the sudden, inexplicable weight that had wedged itself into my belly, just beneath my pounding heart.

At this very moment, Black was on his way to inform Lupin and Potter--Harry Bloody Potter, the Boy Who Kept On Living, Saviour of the Wizarding World Twice Over, my lover--of the damaged cornerstones.

Flitwick's mouth was moving but he could have been speaking Ancient Troll for all I could understand his words.

I suspect that, in that moment, I experienced the rare, icy spike of foresight that Albus knew when he first heard the name Lord Voldemort.

*

I could describe the results of the meeting that afternoon, of the numerous others that followed, but why bother?

Suffice it to say that Albus was...Albus: arrogant, intractable.

It took far too many hours of the lot of us--Flitwick, Black, Lupin, Potter, and I--yammering on about unforeseen side-effects and potential evil, to make him see reason.

And it took something decidedly...unpleasant for him to finally accept the truth.

*

Winter has always been my least favourite season.

The long and cold grey days; the fitful sleet and snow driven by a bitter wind; the dampness that would grip the dungeons in an icy fist until late spring. The relentless merry-making.

Minerva, who revelled in both the winter's chill, as well the holidays, never missed an opportunity to rib me about my 'thin continental blood.'

"Dear me," she would said, with a sly curl of her lip, "Severus Snape has finally doffed his long underwear and traded his fur-lined cloak for a woollen one. I know that it must be June."

I can't begin count the number of obnoxious singing 'Happy Christmas' cards, vile Christmas crackers, and red and gold mufflers she's given me over the years. I could never quite convince her that there is a difference between weather that is 'brisk' versus that which is 'frigid.' And that merriment and I had never been nodding acquaintances.

We both tended towards late hours and so we would often cross paths on our evening jaunts. Over the years, as our initial hostility faded into grudging respect, and finally became a surprisingly deep friendship, I began to look forward to those quiet, late-night moments.

Even in the most foul weather, our restless feet would eventually lead us here, to one of the smaller, less-frequented--castle towers. We would roust out any trysting couples we found--with an appropriate deduction of points, of course--and then we would settle down to business. Leaning against the parapet, mug of conjured tea in hand, we would share news of the day, or argue, or discuss problem students, or politics. In most recent years, we would worry: about the rise of Voldemort, about the safety of the students.

About Albus.

She'd known of my...infatuation, of course, but she never made light of it. And more importantly, she never looked upon me with scorn or pity. I know I couldn't have borne the latter without snapping that graceful neck of hers.

"I know that you love him as much as I do, that you'll do whatever is necessary to keep him safe," she said to me one night, long ago, and that was that.

She was a wise, shrewd, and powerful witch. Where others trusted and believed in me because Albus willed it so, she instead trusted in my...my love. Tonight I missed her more than ever.

Though the calendar claimed that June was upon us, the evening was strangely damp and cold. The sky was clouded over and a heavy mist shrouded the Forest.

All told, the bleak weather fit my mood quite nicely, despite the chill.

"I thought I might find you here."

"Good evening, Albus," I said, continuing my perusal of the grounds below. The trees and hills were silvered by the light of the full moon, diffused though it was, by the heavy clouds. When I strained my ears, I could hear the howl of a familiar wolf in the distance.

After a moment, he came to lean against the parapet beside me.

"What is it about this particular tower? On any given night, I could always count on finding you or Minerva here."

"It's a good place to come and think."

"And are you doing a lot of thinking these days?"

There was nothing to gained by lying. "And worrying, yes," I said.

"You worry too much, my friend."

I kept my eyes averted. I didn't want to see how frail he'd become. I didn't want to see how badly I'd failed him, how I'd failed us all. Harry was right: we should have known better than to hope. "Albus," I said, willing my voice not to crack, "your health is failing and Voldemort may have gained a foothold in your mind. Don't tell me not to worry."

"My skills in Occlumency far out-strip Tom Riddle's in Legilimency. I very much doubt that a few odd dreams are anything to worry about."

"So sure of that, are you?" I clenched my fists inside my sleeves. What was it about powerful wizards that made them so bloody irritating?

"Severus."

Stubbornly, I watched as a grey shadow ghosted out of the Forest followed by a larger black one. Lupin and Black, out on their monthly prowl. Even so, I shivered as the Grim and its companion crossed the lawn then made for the hills behind the castle.

"Severus," he said, his voice quavering slightly, "please look at me."

I am a weak man; I turned to face him. It was worse than I'd feared: Harry's latest glamour was impenetrable. Impeccable. Clad in his usual purple robes, with his hair loose, ruffled by the wind, and dusted by moonlight, his eyes bleached to near colourlessness, Albus looked magnificent.

But I knew too well the truth that lay beneath the pretty lie.

"I have fought Riddle for many years," he said putting his hand on my shoulder, "and each time, he was undone by his pride." Albus smiled and he looked so much like his old self, so very alive and strong, that I felt it to the pit of my stomach. "I had help then, of course, as I have now. We will succeed in this, Severus, I am certain of it."

"Succeed at something we should never have attempted in the first place." I tried to turn away, but his hand slid down my arm to my hand, gently holding me in place. An odd phantom pain lanced up my left forearm to jar my shoulder. My hand twitched, but Albus held me fast.

"Dare to hope and dare to dream, my friend," he said quietly, then looked out over the grounds. When he turned to face me again, his eyes were shadowed. "I have lived a very long time, Severus, and have made a great many mistakes. As you well know." He squeezed my hand and glanced down at our entwined fingers. "But I don't believe this," he patted his stomach, "to be one of them."

All at once, I was exhausted. What could I say that had not already been said? What could I do--what spell could I cast, what potion could I create, what magic could I wreak--that I had not already tried that would convince him? I closed my eyes.

"Although, I confess," Albus continued, and something odd in his tone--a hint of laughter, perhaps?--made me swiftly blink them open again, "I confess that this," I watched as his free hand lifted, tilted, moved so very slowly until his thumb brushed over my lower lip, "this may well be one."

And then he kissed me.

I stood, stunned. My lips parted on an exhalation of surprise. His tongue slipped into my mouth. I didn't know what to do with my hands.

"Albus," I murmured, but his fingers tangled in my hair and he tilted my head to the side. His tongue brushed my lower lip and then--

What would any man do if he achieved what was once his heart's desire, however many years too late?

--weak, pathetic fool that I am, I surrendered.

And it was as I had always imagined.

Spring arrived abruptly on that windy parapet as Albus's magic rose up to surround me. I was reminded of my boyhood--sunny days under a young Spanish sun, the fragrance of jasmine and orange blossoms, the heat of a tile floor under my bare feet.

But in my months with Harry, I had developed a fondness for the rain, the howling of the wind, and the crash of summer lightning. Oh, I would always treasure the early days, but despite the marks on the calendar, I knew that the time for plucking spring flowers was well past.

Reluctantly, I moved to put some distance between us. "Yes, Albus, this is a mistake," I said. "We cannot do this."

His eyes seemed luminous in the darkness, his fingers were still snarled in my hair. "Oh, but we can, dear boy," he said, pulling me closer. "We most certainly can."

I frowned and took hold of his hand. His grip had tightened and I half expected a hank of my hair to be torn out by its roots. "Albus. What the bloody hell are you talking about? Whatever we might have had, that time is past."

"What we might have had?" Albus's voice echoed strangely. He had a peculiar, far away look in his eyes. I shivered and the back of my neck prickled. But before I could move or speak, he wrapped one arm around my back and pulled me against him. The glamour didn't disguise the hard mound of his belly and its vile contents. I shuddered and tried to pull away but he held me fast with a strength he shouldn't have possessed.

"You mean, perhaps, what we had, dear Severus," he hissed. His eyes narrowed and his hand slipped across my cheek and suddenly closed around my throat. A shift of his body and I was pinned with my back against the parapet. "Or, should I say, what we have. Because I am not yet finished with you, my dear lovely boy. Oh, no not yet."

The darkness rolled over and through my mind then, like a storm cloud blotting out the sun. But this was no summer cloudburst promising an exhilarating downpour followed by a gentle and warm afternoon. No, I remembered too well this airless, lightless heat, this implacable sense of something profound and terrible impending. In later years, I had come to think of it, in the privacy of my thoughts, as standing on the crumbling lip of hell.

"Voldemort," I gasped, trying to loosen his grip with my left hand, while letting my wand slip from its pocket in my sleeve into my right.

"Lord Voldemort," he spat, inches from my face. His eyes burned red. "Your lord and master once, Severus, or have you forgotten?"

"I have forgotten nothing," I retorted, though my strangled throat could barely issue a whisper. My wand was ready to hand but, sweet Merlin, how exactly would I use it? Unnatural strength or no, malevolent tenant or no, Albus's body was still that of an old man. A simple disarming spell could have catastrophic results. One injudicious curse and his bones could shatter, an incautious punch or kick and I could precipitate a miscarriage. Not to mention that Voldemort might snap my neck before I could manage to utter a single syllable or twitch so much as an eyelash.

"Oh, but you have, Severus, I believe that you have forgotten. You betrayed me then, years ago, just as you've betrayed Albus Dumbledore again and again these past months with your pretty little potions. They didn't work very well, now did they? I am still here, Severus. Still here!"

Debating the use of a hex or physical force was rapidly becoming moot as my vision was full of grey mist and sparkles. "Expelliar--!" I gasped, but his hand spasmed and I suddenly couldn't draw a breath at all.

"Almost, but not quite fast enough. Would you care to try again?"

My wand slipped from my fingers and I scrabbled with both hands to pry loose his hand. His nails pinched my skin and I could feel wetness slid down my throat and into my collar.

"You were a scrawny little nothing back then and you haven't improved much with age," he sneered. "Such a pitiful, ineffective traitor. Oh, but your mind," he whispered, and I felt his words scratch against my lips, "your mind was like no other. Is like no other."

Desperate, nearly blind, I kicked out, hoping to distract him, to perhaps break an ankle. Albus, forgive me, I thought, but you can live with a limp!

But, my kick was weak and he managed to dodge the blow. "Albus isn't here, little wizard, I have vanquished him at last," he said, his words chilling me further; had I spoken aloud? "It's just me, your master." He briefly relaxed his death grip on my throat and moved one hand to the front of my robe. "Just me and you."

Gulping for air, I tried to take advantage of his movement and bring my knee up between his legs, but my joints were lax from oxygen loss and I sagged in his grasp. As a reward, he slammed my head against the wall. Green and red sparks burst inside my head.

"Too late, Severus, it's much too late for that now. You've thwarted me, tried to kill me far too many times. This, dear traitor, is the end. Iacto!"

The world spun. Then somehow, I was lying face down on the stone floor, staring at the dirty flagstones. My ears rang. Something wet trickled from hair, down my cheek, and over my lips. His knee pressed into the small of my back. I heard the sound of tearing cloth. I felt something cold against my shivering thigh. My wand lay just out of reach.

"Accio--"

His wand was at my temple in a flash. "Stupefy!" he shouted, and my limbs went slack and numb; I lay stunned on the cold stone. It was all I could do to pant harshly.

"Of all my followers, Severus, you had the most potential. Such a lovely sociopath you were, a beautiful tool. Desperate for acknowledgement, lusting for revenge. My other Death Eaters were necessary, yes, some were even talented. But you. Oh, you could have been my master work."

"I was never yours, Riddle," I stammered through the effects of the spell. The world was growing dim. I had failed Albus, I had failed Harry. What else was left but the cold comfort of defiance?

"Oh, but you were, sweet Severus," he said, then slammed my head against the stone. I felt something splinter in my face. The pain seemed very far away. "Dumbledore might have seduced you away from me--what did he offer you? I hope something better than a pitiful job teaching brats how brew potions! But nonetheless, I had you first. And I will have you again. You still wear my Mark after all."

Fight him, Albus, I wanted to say, but I could scarcely breathe, and Albus was far away, thrust aside, while this interloper, this fiend worked his will.

"Albus can't answer you, you foolish, trusting boy." He fisted his hand in my hair and I could feel the scratch of his beard, the heat of his exhalations on the back of my neck. "How ridiculously easy it was to lure you close. With just the promise of a kiss, a counterfeit of love. No, he can't answer, but I can feel him inside, struggling, shrieking, threatening, listening to our every word. But he is old and weak, Severus. And I fully intend to live forever."

"He will defeat you, Riddle, make no mistake." My voice was so faint, I could barely hear the words myself. Voldemort heard me nonetheless.

"Brave words, little tool," he said genially, "oh, and it's Lord Voldemort, by the way." He punctuated the statement by slamming my face into the stone.

Blood filled my nose and bubbled down the back of my throat. I nearly choked on it until he turned my head to the side.

"Don't die yet, Severus, we haven't finished our conversation."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Oh, but you do. And you will answer my questions and perhaps then, I will give you a cleaner death than you deserve." My ribs creaked as he leaned his full weight on my back. Still stunned by the spell, I could do nothing more than lie there and twitch. "Since Dumbledore refuses to co-operate and since you kept so many secrets from him, I suppose that I will simply have to rape your sorry little plots out of your head."

His words seemed so distant now, it would have been so easy to let go my hold on consciousness and slip free. But the threat they carried was enough to make me hold fast. Albus had fought him successfully; our plans were still safe. And I would be damned to hell twice over if Voldemort stripped me of them before I died.

"Perhaps this will encourage you to loosen your tongue." Something sharp ran up the inside of my thigh then pressed inside me; I couldn't help but cry out hoarsely.

"No? Well then..." He placed his hand on the back of my head and shouted, "Legilimens!"

His will pierced the back of my skull in a burst of white fire. My guts churned as scenes from my life flashed by in a nauseating stream. I could feel him digging for the chink in the wall of my inner fortress, like a Troll with a pickaxe.

"Submit to me, Severus, and I will be merciful!"

I spat blood in response.

"Very well then, Petrificus Totalis," he shouted and my body went rigid beneath him. He paused for a moment and in that instant, despite the pain, the blood-loss, the burning in my guts, my arse, I could see the world with perfect clarity. The flagstones were dirty and worn, stained with my blood. The mortar was flaking away in spots. A spider crawled past my nose. A wolf howled in the distance. His wand pressed against my temple. Dread settled in my belly.

Then he said, "Crucio!"

And the world went white.

He obliterated my fortress; its dust and debris was swept away in the maelstrom. Deprived of movement, for a long, timeless moment, I screamed and screamed.

Then dimly, I felt the stones vibrate beneath my cheek. A red-gold shape streaked across my darkening vision. There was a wordless shout. The weight on my back fell away.

I heard the words, "Finite Incantatum!"

The anguish receded, leaving simple agony in its wake.

"Severus?" Someone brushed my cheek with gentle fingers.

My vision cleared. I found that I could blink.

"Harry," I think I said, then the world slid sideways. I let go.

*

Despite my mental preparations, I had thought that it would be more difficult: to hold this new, wet and screaming life between my hands and contemplate its destruction.

I expected a twinge of unease, at least, perhaps a lance of doubt when I flexed my hands, when I felt the flutter of his pulse against my fingers.

But instead, I remember that night upon the battlements. I recalled the press of his lips against mine, the slick, unwelcomed thrust of his tongue in my mouth. I remember the tearing of cloth, the icy wind and the touch of his chilled fingertips against my bare skin, scrabbling between my legs. I remember the white-hot spike of his will as it ravaged my mind. I remember those eyes in that beloved face.

And then--why then, this act doesn't seem quite so difficult, so outrageous at all.

*

Hell was rumoured to be hot, stinking of brimstone and burning flesh, and filled with the despairing screams of the damned.

Instead, I found it to be rather cool and soft, smelling of sickness and antiseptic wash. It was also quite noisy.

An argument was in progress, directly overhead it seemed. The noise of it made my head throb.

"Now are you satisfied? Are you finally convinced? Does someone actually have to die for you believe?"

I opened my eyes and stared at the white ceiling of the infirmary. The pain washed over me in bright waves. Not hell at all, I thought, merely purgatory.

"Harry, calm down. I admit, I made a mistake. I am a physician, what else could I do? But what's done is done. We can't go back and rewrite history."

"We could," he said, and my stomach lurched at the thought of the havoc we might wreak with a Time Turner, "but we shouldn't have to. If you'd just listened to us the first time round, if you hadn't been so bloody ethical then none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have nearly lost him--them!"

I forced myself up on my elbows. Harry and Poppy were standing at the foot of the bed, fists clenched and faces red from yelling.

For some reason, in my mind's eye, I often saw Harry as small and thin, the ragged waif he was at eleven. But there was nothing of that stubborn, courageous little boy now. He stood only a few inches taller than Poppy and probably weighed just a half a stone more, but his presence was towering. The space around him crackled visibly with magic and the air carried a distinct scent of ozone.

The argument had clearly been in progress for some time and though neither one had drawn a wand yet, it seemed prudent to intervene.

"How is anyone supposed to get any rest with you two yammering on?" My voice came out as a hoarse croak but they both broke off mid-tirade and turned to look at me anyway.

"Severus, you're awake!" Harry said.

I sneered at him. "Your command of the obvious is amazing, Potter." Then my stomach lurched again. I rolled to my side and promptly vomited over the edge of the bed.

It spoiled the imperious effect but accomplished my goal nonetheless.

"Bloody hell!" Harry said, then he was at my side. He put his hands on my shoulders and forced me back against the pillows. "Lie down, you stubborn git. You've got a concussion." There was a spattering of dried blood on his face and he seemed worried.

I let him fuss over me while Poppy clucked her tongue and cleaned up the mess. Truth be told, I had no strength to argue. Some of my injuries had obviously been healed, but there was enough lingering pain in my head--and elsewhere--to sap my will to do more than lie still and be catered to. So I accepted the glass of water, tried to rinse away the horrid taste in my mouth, and allowed him to tuck the blanket around me.

"Where is he?" I asked.

Harry frowned and jerked his thumb to his right. Several beds away, Albus lay beneath a white sheet and an incongruously cheerful blue blanket. Stripped of Harry's glamour, he looked like a week old, pot-bellied corpse laid out for viewing. My skin crawled. "How is he?"

Harry's expression became grim. His eyes darkened and I thought I could smell ozone again. "Never mind him. How are you feeling?"

"I am fine. Now tell me. How is Albus?"

Before Harry could answer, Poppy bustled back to the bed and pushed him aside. He glared at her and, for a moment, they bristled at one another like unfriendly dogs, then Harry allowed himself to be moved.

"You're not fine, Severus, you're lucky," Poppy said. She held out a beakerful of a potion for me to drink. "I could rattle off a list of your injuries but I doubt that would make any impression on you. At the moment, however, the concussion is the most urgent. Now drink this. And Harry, get out of the way so I can examine him."

I sniffed, scowled, then drank. The pain receded and the foul taste in my mouth was replaced by the overwhelming flavour of mint.

Oh, that my memories of the past few hours could be banished as easily!

While Poppy shone a light in my eyes, my ears, and throat, and poked at my ribs with cold fingers, Harry paced restlessly at the foot of the bed. For my part, I clenched my fists and tried not to flinch.

"Damn right, you're lucky," Harry said, pausing to glare at me. "What were you thinking, going up there alone? It's a bloody good thing that I happened along when I did, otherwise..."

I slapped Poppy's chilly hands away and scowled at Harry. "I'll thank you not to complete that sentence, Potter."

"And I'd thank you both to hush and let me get on with this," Poppy snapped. She collected some unpleasant looking instruments from the bedside table and asked me to turn on my side. "Harry, please wait outside," she said, moving to pull the privacy screen around the bed.

Harry lifted his chin. "No. I am not leaving him."

Perhaps it was only the concussion, but I thought I heard the words, "Again" in the air between us. Some icy, uncharted place inside me warmed. Nonetheless, I didn't want him here for this.

Poppy stared him down. The instruments rattled in her hand. I swallowed hard and fought not to vomit again. Or scream. "Yes," she said, "you are."

Harry looked first at me and then at Dumbledore. A strange light came into his eye and I smelled ozone again.

Both Poppy and I jumped as a pitcher of water shattered on the nearby table.

"Harry!" Poppy said.

An instant later, the doors of the potions cabinet exploded outward in a shower of glass and splinters. Before the fallen glass ceased tinkling, several more objects--a tea service on the table near the door, a dozen or so empty beakers on a high shelf, a hideous ceramic umbrella stand in the corner--shattered in rapid succession.

The resulting clatter sliced through my skull like white hot knives, but the wild expression in Harry's eyes urged me to push past the agony.

"Harry Potter," Poppy snapped, "Cease this appalling behaviour at once!"

A cold wind arose from nowhere. A rack of bed pans and gleaming metal instruments crashed to the floor. Albus's bed swung around sideways and banged against the wall, jostling his body dangerously. The scent of ozone intensified and any moment, I expected storm clouds to gather above our heads and begin hurling sleet, hail, or lighting down upon us.

"This is an infirmary, Mr. Potter, not a duelling ground," I said. Poppy stood, white-faced beside my bed. "If you must indulge in such juvenile fits of temper, then I insist that you do it elsewhere, where patients who are convalescing will not be endangered by your thoughtlessness."

Two skeletons burst apart, their bleached bones rattling across the floor like so many dice. Four thick tomes thudded down from atop a book case and split along their spines. The air was suddenly filled with a blizzard of torn parchment.

I struggled to sit upright. "I warn you, Potter, I shall not be pleased should I be forced to remove you from this ward myself!"

One heartbeat, two.

Abruptly, the chaos ceased. The wildness receded from Harry's eyes only to be replaced by a look of misery and grief so intense that it made my chest ache.

The three of us stared at one another for a long moment, then with a strangled cry, Harry bolted from the room. The door banged shut behind him.

Silence reigned.

"Good heavens," Poppy said looking around at the devastation. Her hands were shaking.

She made as if to go check on Albus first but, all things considered, I wasn't feeling especially charitable. I rolled to my stomach and closed my eyes tightly. "Never mind him," I rasped out, "Just get on with this before Potter thinks to call my bluff."

*

Two hours later, the moon had set.

Poppy had briskly treated the rest of my injuries, had seen to Albus, moved him into a private room, and had cleared away the mess in the infirmary. She had also refused my offer of help, insisting that allowing anyone in my condition to spell-cast was "tantamount to medical malpractice!"

Potter had yet to reappear. I could only hope that he hadn't gone to find Black and Lupin to share a recounting of the night's events with them. That was an additional complication that I did not want to confront.

Body and head aching, despite Poppy's remedies, I sat slumped at Albus's bedside holding his thin, wrinkled hand. Moonlight slanted down from the window set high in the wall spilling a diamond-shaped pool of light over my wrinkled hospital pyjamas and Albus's blanket. Meanwhile, Poppy fussed with his pillows and bedclothes and clucked over the list of his injuries.

"Fractured clavicle, concussion, broken hip," she paused to take a breath, "three cracked ribs, a broken wrist, and a bruised spleen." Since Albus was still unconscious, she crossed her arms and fixed me with a glare instead. "And, of course, none of this includes the lengthy list of his pre-existing conditions. What on earth was Harry thinking? What spell did he use? Was it really necessary to cause such extensive damage? I had a devil of a time staving off premature labour as it was!"

Before I could hazard a guess, Albus stirred against the bed-sheets and slowly opened his eyes. I tensed and fingered the handle of my wand--just in case the spells and the potions hadn't properly done the trick.

Poppy gasped. "Albus, lie still, don't try to move." She pursed her lips at me then took out her wand and cast a series of monitoring charms.

Albus relaxed back against the mound of pillows that propped him at a slight incline. Despite the potions coursing through his bloodstream, it was obvious that he was still in a great deal of pain. "Phasma...re..." he said, his voice was very weak and scratchy. He coughed once and tried to clear his throat.

Poppy put away her wand and leaned closer, offering him a sip of water from a straw. "What was that you said?"

I sighed and squeezed his hand. I was slightly cheered by the faint pressure I received in response. "He said that Potter used the phasma relinque."

She straightened up and frowned. "But that spell is for banishing ghosts."

I let the comment lie. Surely, after everything that had transpired--over the past seven-odd months, if not tonight--she wasn't still clinging, tooth and nail, to some absurd delusion, some non-existent shred of hope.

Albus turned to look at me. In the steady glow of the lamp, his blue eyes were faded and sad. Thankfully, the awareness behind those eyes was solely his; I relaxed my grip on my wand.

"Severus. I am so very sorry," he said.

I looked away. I did not ever wish to have this conversation. "It doesn't matter."

"But it does matter, my friend," he insisted.

I closed my eyes and shook my head but he continued.

"Look at me, Severus."

Some odd note of entreaty in his voice compelled me to open my eyes again and turn to him. My heart contracted. He looked so frail, so mortal.

"I thought I was a powerful wizard," he said, his voice barely audible, "I thought that I was more than equal to the task that I had set. But, it seems that I am just a foolish old man."

Poppy cleared her throat. "Albus, perhaps you should rest now. You've had a severe shock."

My eyes stung but remained locked on his. No! I wanted to shout, you are neither old, nor foolish, nor conquerable! But the lies caught in my throat like dry, pointy bones. "Albus, no."

"Yes, Severus. I nearly ra--."

I squeezed his hand again and closed my eyes against the anguish of recollection. My breath snarled in my chest; I felt the burn of wetness upon my cheeks. "Don't say it." Please.

"Go ahead, let him say it, Severus," a new voice cut in. "It's nothing but the truth after all."

"Harry!" Poppy turned as Harry stepped into the room and placed an arm-load of my clothing on a table beside the door. "This is a hospital, young man," she said, "lower your voice, immediately."

Harry said nothing, merely stood, wand unsheathed, and stared down at Albus. He'd cleaned away the blood on his face and changed clothes. His hair was damp and spiky. Given the look in his shadowed eyes I was thankful that Poppy and I stood between him and Albus.

His gaze flicked over Albus's hand where it lay in mine and his jaw tightened. "A long time ago, you told me that it is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities," he said. "Do you remember, Headmaster?"

Albus closed his eyes.

"Look at me, damn you!" Harry shouted.

The newly repaired pitcher rattled on the table and Poppy jumped, stifling a scream. I released Albus's hand and tightened my grip on my wand.

As if that would do any of us a lick of good.

"Yes, I remember," Albus said faintly.

"And as Headmaster, as Commander of the Order of the Phoenix, you chose for all of us. We allowed you to choose for us, again and again." Harry said in tone of voice all the more terrifying because of its utter calm.

Albus swallowed visibly and lay still. Neither Poppy nor I dared to make a move.

"Nineteen years ago you chose for me, Headmaster. You left me with my uncle and aunt. Ten years beneath the stairs and sixteen years as a slave to people who hated me. That was the price of your choice," Harry said softly. "You chose for me again, when you allowed me to meet Voldemort, once, twice, how many times as a student? You may have lost count, Headmaster, but believe me, I have not."

Albus nodded. "Yes, Harry. I did," is all he said. But I could see--in the shaking of his hands, the trembling of the light over the white hairs of his beard--how much the acknowledgement cost him.

Harry stepped forward into the circle of light around Albus's bed. The room felt as if a storm cloud had obscured the sun.

"But choice is a very slippery thing, isn't it Headmaster? It's never quite so cut and dried as we'd like to think," Harry continued, cocking his head. "I wonder: is it truly a choice when the people who love us, who trust us, who have put all their faith in us agree to do what we ask?"

The hand that Poppy held over her mouth began to shake and her chest heaved. I sat, as if paralysed, with my teeth clenched and the crackle of drying tears on my cheeks.

"You chose for Tonks and Kingsley when you sent them to parley with Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy, of all people! Is it a wonder they're both dead now?"

Albus said nothing, but his mouth tightened as if he were in pain.

"You chose for Molly and Arthur, when you sent Fred, George, and Ron to infiltrate Voldemort's headquarters in London. Oh, but they volunteered, didn't they? Volunteered to fight your war, on your terms, with your approval."

I thought it a trick of the light at first, but then I realised that the flicker on Albus's face were the tracks of his own tears. They slipped from the corners of his eyes to dampen his beard.

"You chose for Sirius and Remus when you sent them to negotiate a treaty with the werewolves. But I suppose they're among the lucky ones, Headmaster. They ended up maimed, instead of dead."

I put my aching head in my hands. Enough, Harry, I wanted to say, It's enough. He knows, he knows. But Harry was relentless.

"You chose for Hermione and Professor McGonagall, too. Oh, but you asked them, of course. 'Hermione, Minerva, I have this task I need done, that is suited especially for your talents. I know I can count on you.'"

"Harry," Albus said brokenly, stretching out his hand.

"I won't try to guess the number of times that you chose for Severus. But I know exactly how many times you chose for Draco," Harry said, and for the first time, his voice broke over his deceased lover's name. "When you asked him to continue to spy. When you 'suggested' that he return to his father. I remember each and every time."

Harry brushed past me to stand directly beside the bed. The flare of his magic lifted the ends of my hair, stroked across my skin and thrilled along my frayed nerves.

With the tip of his wand, he gently pressed Albus's hand down to the coverlet. In that moment, all was still--our breath was caught in our lungs, our bodies paralysed, our minds frozen with dread, our faith lay in tatters, not even a single candle flame flickered in the gloom. His next words struck us all with the force of a thunderclap:

"You made a choice eight months ago, Albus Dumbledore, and that choice has brought us here. To this point, with these consequences. What does that say to all of us about who you are?"

*

I wanted to cover my ears, my eyes, and scream.

Albus had already spoken, we all knew the truth; I wished never hear those words spoken aloud again.

Never.

I think there are some truths that the heart is not made to bear.

A gentle hand touched my head and brushed back my hair. I looked up into Harry's eyes. He traced a rogue tear that had found its path from my eye to my chin.

"But none of any of that matters now," he said. "What matters now is what we choose next. And in this case, Albus," he dropped his hand and turned back to face Dumbledore, "the choice can not be yours alone."

Their eyes met, held, then Albus nodded. His face was utter desolation. "Yes," he said, "you are right, Harry."

Poppy exhaled and clasped her shaking hands together. "Well then," she said, "perhaps we could all sit and discuss this like civilised people." She pushed the bed table to one side and conjured another two chairs. "Only for a short while, mind," she said, fussing with the rack of phials on the bed table, "Albus needs his rest."

Harry ignored her and took the chair beside mine, close enough that our knees touched. "So. How much does he know?" he asked, looking from Albus to me. "How much control does Riddle have?"

I took the last question first. "At the moment, Riddle has no control. The combination of your spell and the will-strengthening potions we've given Albus is preventing Riddle from...manifesting."

Harry's gaze sharpened. "But he can hear us."

Poppy looked to me, desperation in her eyes. I would have spared Albus the need to reply, but he forestalled me with a slight shake of his head.

"Before tonight, I would have said no." His voice wavered and cracked over the words. "But given what has happened," he trailed off. Beside me, Harry tensed. "I confess that...that I do not know."

In the moments that followed, the four of us sat so quietly I could hear Lupin's distant howl at the setting of the moon. The world beyond the window was dark and the window panes were fogged with condensation. Albus's eyes unfocussed then finally slid shut; he lay still as a corpse. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest reminded me that he still lived, and that one of my worst fears had already come to pass.

Poppy shifted in her chair and made as if to rise--and shoo us all out, most likely--but Harry spoke first. His voice was eerily steady, as if he'd made some decision. "You never answered my first question, Albus. Exactly how much does Riddle know?"

I thought I detected a whiff of ozone.

"Harry," I said, placing my hand on his arm with care, "it is quite likely that he now knows everything that I know." With each word, I felt as if my remaining hope was being torn out by its roots. "Riddle claimed that Albus had managed to keep him ignorant. I suspect that is why he chose to--" rape my sorry little plots out of my head! "--to acquire the information from me directly. With Legilemency." I choked back the bile that boiled up in my throat.

Harry turned to me, eyes narrowed. "He hates you, Severus, he wants you dead. Or worse." Something dark flickered across his expression and my insides knotted. "He could have been lying." He looked back at Albus who had opened his eyes. "Besides, what you know isn't half so important as what--"

"--As what I know," Albus finished hoarsely. He turned to look at us, placing one hand--that shook briefly, then steadied--over the monstrous mound of his belly. "The castle will no longer permit me access to the cornerstones. Nor to the masterstones."

Poppy's eye went wide. Harry's mouth thinned and his body tensed. The short hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and my hand clenched Harry's arm hard enough to bruise.

"How long?" He jerked away from me and stood, looming over Albus, wand drawn. "How long have you known?"

Albus's adam's apple dipped once. Twice. I found myself holding my breath. Poppy silently shook her head side to side.

"Two days."

"Two bloody days," Harry snapped. His wand was clenched so tightly in his fist that his knuckled gleamed white. "And what about Malfoy? Exactly what does he know, Albus?"

Lucius: who'd been in and out of the castle for months.

I suddenly found it difficult to breathe. My mind went blank, I felt numb. Poppy would have called it shock, 'Brought on by severe physical and emotional trauma, not to mention too damned many hexes in too short a span of time.' But I knew it for what it was: the beginning of the end. The Moment had long since passed. All that was left to us was the impotence of prayer.

"Harry, that's enough," Poppy said, "Albus needs his rest." She stood and moved towards the bed, then froze in place as the lights dimmed and the space between Harry and Albus grew dense and charged with magic.

Somehow, Albus managed to push himself upright against the pillows. His blue eyes gleamed in the odd light. "There is, of course, only one way to know for certain exactly what it is you wish to know, Harry," he said, without a single quiver in his voice.

Their eyes met and held; it was as if the two of them were alone in the world.

One heart beat, two.

"Yes, you're absolutely correct, Albus. There is," Harry said. He tilted his wand in an angle I knew all too well.

Legilimency.

Oh no.

With an effort that let me reeling, I stood and reached for Harry's arm. My vision went grey and spotty, but I thrust the pain away. "No, Harry. He has had a head injury. He is not strong enough."

"If not now, then when, Severus?" Harry said, without so much as turning his head. "After he's actually managed to kill someone?"

Poppy shook off her paralysis and stepped between the two wizards. Never let it be said that Poppy Pomfrey didn't have the bravado of a dragon-handler. "Harry Potter," she said shrilly, "I absolutely forbid this. Albus is not well enough."

"Step aside, Madam Pomfrey." Harry's eyes narrowed but he didn't lower his wand.

"It's all right, Poppy," Albus said, "I consent to Harry's examination."

"I don't care one whit what you consent to, Albus." Poppy turned her back on him, all the better to glare at Harry. "I will not allow Harry to harm any patient under my care. And performing Legilimency on a man with a head injury most definitely constitutes harm."

Before Harry could retort, I touched his wand arm lightly. Though his wand remained steady, I could feel his muscles tremble beneath my finger tips. "Let it go, Harry. Tomorrow is soon enough."

He slanted an outraged glance at me. "Do we really dare take that chance?"

I took a deep breath then exhaled on a silent prayer. "We will move Albus back to his chambers later this morning, after he's had a chance to rest. Then afterwards, with Poppy's assistance, you can commence the examination. The protections in his private rooms against rogue magic are far more substantial than those of the infirmary."

That last seemed to swing the balance. Harry relaxed and dropped his arm. The tension in the room dissipated and Albus lay back against his pillows looking wan and spent.

"Fine. Tomorrow then." Harry turned sharply on his heel and stalking away from the bed. He paused beside the door and glared back at the three of us. "But I'm still warding the damned doors to the infirmary," he said, and then he was gone.

His footsteps echoed through the infirmary and the outer door swung closed behind him with a quiet, angry snick.

Though the storm had been averted, my stomach remained clenched in knots. I stood for a moment, squinting through my headache, and took in Poppy's shaking hands, the gleam of sweat across the bridge of her nose, the hectic rim of white around the blue of her irises; I took in the paleness of Albus's face, the thinness and near-translucent quality of the skin of his hands.

Then, as if drawn by a lodestone, I turned away from the bed.

"Severus, where are you going? You're not well enough to be walking the corridors alone."

But I pulled on the robe Harry had left me and then, limping slowly, I followed him--I followed my lover--out of the infirmary and into the hall.

*

I stepped through the doorway and was promptly held fast by a dense swarm of magical needles. The agents of Harry's ward burrowed deep into my bones, tasted my magic, then apparently satisfied, leapt back into the doorframe in a burst of green light.

I staggered and would have fallen if he hadn't caught my arm in a powerful grip. Despite the pain in my head, I felt a curl of warmth in my stomach. "Potter," I said, "I am surprised to find you still here. I thought you'd gone."

He slung my arm over his shoulder, held me upright, then helped me towards the dungeons. My head throbbed in counterpoint to our footsteps. I didn't pretend not to need his assistance; he didn't seem inclined to let me go, regardless.

No doubt I made a sorry sight, lurching down the hallway as if in a drunken daze, supported by none other than war hero, Harry Bloody Potter. Thank heavens the rest of the castle residents were long abed, and that this section of the corridor was devoid of paintings.

"I'm sorry I left you like that." His right shoulder rose beneath my arm then dipped in a half-hearted shrug. "I just--I just couldn't stay in there with him anymore without--I couldn't listen to any more of his lies."

I squeezed my eyes shut, to clear them. "Not lies."

"What would you call them, then?" he said sharply. "Half-truths? Creative fiction?"

The stairs were tricky to negotiate. I waited until we were at the bottom to reply. "I would call them sins of omission." I wiped my forehead with the back of my sleeve. "And do keep your voice down."

"Lies. Exactly what I said," Harry grumbled. "You had the chance, Severus. You know what's at stake. He's an old man. Why didn't you just--" he broke off suddenly, his face pale.

My body went rigid. Behind my closed eyes, I saw Harry standing before Albus, his wand--holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple--held in his right hand, canted just so.

I pushed away from him and leaned my temple against the wall, panting.

Occlumency has always been classified as a neutral, if rarely taught, art. Its practice is unusual, but unremarkable. Legilimency, by comparison, sits firmly astride the ragged edge of Light and Dark intent.

If Harry had lifted, then rotated his wrist only a few more degrees...Had his lips swiftly shaped different syllables, before I could act...

"Just what, Potter?" I said, all the while my knees knocked together, threatening to topple me to the flagstones. "Why didn't I just kill him? Eliminate the problem at its source? Is that what you were going to say?" I whirled on him, spots dancing across my vision.

Whatever it was he saw in my expression, he backed up a step, "No, Severus, that's not what I meant--"

"Have you ever been forced to kill someone you loved, Potter?"

The muscles in his jaw bunched. He met my eyes for a long moment, then looked away. "You know I haven't."

"Well then," I said, swallowing down bile, "let us dearly hope that you will never have to contemplate the reality of it." Then I made my way towards our rooms.

"Severus, wait."

I kept walking. Shuffling really. Pathetic. Scrabbling at the smooth stone walls for support, finding none.

His arms wrapped around me, drawing me away from the wall. I tried to push him off, but he wouldn't let go.

"Stop, you daft git. Let me help. You're hurting yourself," he said, then held me close, until my heart stopped racing and my breathing eased. "Severus, I am sorry," he whispered into my ear. "What I said was--it was unforgivable."

"Yes, it was," I muttered into his hair. Its clean, unruly spikes tickled my nose, reminding me of the younger days and nights of our passion. When we would lie together, warm and sated, whenever the urge took us. That peculiar lull in our lives--filled with purposeful, if frantic activity--the space between horrors, between the supposed defeat of Voldemort and this current hell we inhabited.

The space between unwilling hope and the certain knowledge of our failure. Of my failure.

"I just--you just have no idea how I felt tonight, when I saw him. When he was--when you were." His breath caught on a sob. "You just have no idea."

I tasted the salt of tears on my tongue and I nodded, though he couldn't see. Every one of us has said things in the heat of anger that we didn't truly mean. "Oh, I think I might have some vague idea, Mr. Potter," I said.

His chuckle sounded watery. His arms tightened around me, enough so that my ribs creaked. I didn't care. We stood in the draughty corridor--only a few steps from our door--for countless heartbeats, not speaking, barely breathing. Very carefully not letting go.

Finally, Harry rubbed his face on the front of my robe and lifted his head. "You shouldn't be standing out here. Pomfrey was right. We need to get you to bed."

"Yes, mother." I smiled down at him. His hair was its usual, endearing mess but his fringe was rucked up, baring his forehead. The zig-zag scar was swollen and livid red. Like the raw Dark Mark hidden by my sleeve.

His hand went to the scar. "It's how I knew you were--in trouble," he said quietly, then released the wards on our door. "I could...sense his intention through the scar."

I pondered that as I stepped into the sitting room. My disjointed conclusions were scattered by a glorious trill of music that poured over and through me, washing away a bit of the evening's horror and filling me with light.

When I held out my arm, a streak of red-gold crossed the room to alight, nearly weightless, on my arm. Fawkes stretched out his head and stroked his cool beak against my nose. He was crying.

Behind me, Harry lit the lamps and closed the door. "The scar is how I knew, Severus," he said, "But it was Fawkes himself who led me to you."

Had the evening been slightly less harrowing, had I been less dazed, in substantially less pain, I might have reeled at the implications of Harry's words.

Instead, I wearily lifted my hand and let the phoenix walk up my arm to my shoulder. When he bent his head to brush his cheek against mine I whispered, "Thank you."

*

I have sometimes wondered if a single life is akin to a complex spell, one cast by an unknown maker of dubious intention.

If, as with any multi-phased spell or potion, there are numerous Moments when any of its subsequent execution vectors can be influenced, for good or for ill. If there are moments that are necessarily opaque--moments that are invisible until they are past, moments that must be confronted in ignorance lest the mere perception of an incipient decision warp or destroy the full range of choices possible.

Moments that must be unknowable, in order that other dependent, yet necessary future moments should come to be.

Arithmancers, astrologers, and Centaurs would suggest that, yes, there are such moments, and that a life is composed of them, moments both major and minor. That--were our tools sufficient, were the human mind able to comprehend the impossibly dense net of intertwined choices that make up the past, present, and future--we could stand outside ourselves and make the single choice that would ripple through all entangled lives, near and far, to write the future exactly as we wished it to be. As if we were the authors of, and yet also written by, our own acts and those of others.

Perhaps now is such a Moment. Perhaps it is no accident that I stand here, in a room--a veritable abattoir--reeking of death, holding this misbegotten life in my hand, and wonder:

Should I have arisen that next morning and gone straight to Black? Insisted that he make good on his 'threat' to take Harry somewhere far from Hogwarts. To spare him--to spare us all!--from becoming ensnared in the dark choices that swarmed so thickly around Albus Dumbledore?

Or was Harry's main trajectory set so firmly from birth that only the barest details of his journey could be affected by someone as insignificant as me?

Should I have stripped Albus of his choice at the outset? Taken advantage of our trust, his affection. Ambushed him, knocked him unconscious, ripped his malignant foetus straight from its womb?

Would that choice--would any choice I could have made--have had power enough to alter What Would Be? Or would Riddle merely have chosen a weaker, more biddable host?

What if my link to the net had snapped? If my life had ended, one month, two, a year, a decade earlier as I had so often expected--would that have been enough?

Or would my death merely have bequeathed this Moment to someone else? Someone with a greater store of hope, compassion, and trust. Someone with less darkness, grief, or rage in his heart.

Someone without a motive--or a lust--to kill.

*

Much later the following day, we moved Albus back to his private quarters. Poppy got him settled and Harry renewed the glamour upon him. It was another two weeks before we were able to examine Albus's memories to Harry's grim-faced satisfaction. I didn't fool myself that my subtle delaying tactics had gone unnoticed.

In the meantime and in the weeks afterwards, it fell to Poppy to inform the rabble--at Hogwarts, the Ministry, and the Wizengamot--that Albus had fallen and broken his hip, that he would be bedridden for several weeks. Since the appointment of a new Minister by the Wizengamot was only a few months away, Albus's unavailability caused quite a stir, not to mention two weeks' worth of front page mentions in the Prophet.

It also fell to her to rebuff the horde of specialists who descended, en mass, from St. Mungo's and other healing institutions to offer their services and to clamour for health updates.

She grumbled continuously--in between bouts of fretting over Albus's health--about "Persistent, if well-meaning, nuisances who won't take 'No, the Headmaster is not available' for an answer."

I had no sympathy for her; we all had our hands full.

Though Harry's spell seemed to have ripped Riddle's spirit free of its moorings in Albus's mind, it had caused significant physical damage. It fell to me to craft a plan (with Poppy's ceaseless interference) that would not only shield Albus from Riddle's influence, but that would also see him through the last critical weeks of his pregnancy.

Albus's insistence to the contrary, the continued health of his foetus was not my most pressing concern; I was far more focused on keeping the exasperating idiot alive to perpetuate yet more well-meaning misfortunes upon the rest of us.

Suffice it to say I spent a great deal of my time in the library, reviewing the literature on possession, on the corrupting effects of Dark Magic, or in my lab, concocting potions to strengthen his failing health and shore up his crumbling inner defences.

We left it to Harry to run interference between Albus and everyone else--including Flitwick, Black, Lupin, Weasley, and Malfoy. A task he he tackled with the tooth-bared, cunning and zeal of a feral crup.

*

"What part of 'unavailable' didn't you get, Malfoy?"

"Hm, I suppose it was the part where you mouthed the words, Potter, rather than the Headmaster himself."

The spiral staircase bore me steadily upwards to Albus's office. It spat me out upon the landing where Harry and Lucius were squabbling--yet again--in front of the door.

"Ah, Severus. Exactly the man I'd hoped to see." Lucius turned in a swirl of expensive robes and smiled at me; I wasn't fooled. "I was just telling Potter here that I needed to discuss the budget for the next phase of renovations with the Headmaster--"

"And I was just telling him to get lost." Harry folded his arms across his chest. His denim trousers were faded and his elbow poked through a hole in his jumper. Gryffindor's mangy Hat, which he'd taken to wearing, rode low on his forehead. He stood completely still, like a snake about to strike, watching Lucius from beneath its brim. "Dumbledore is not seeing anyone right now. 'Anyone' especially includes you, Malfoy."

Lucius continued as if Harry hadn't spoken. "--and I'm certain you understand the importance discussing such sensitive issues in privacy, rather than entrusting them to an ill-mannered, not to mention ill-clad errand boy."

Harry bristled. "Fancy clothes or no, you'll always be an evil, lying bastard."

"Spare me from your sanctimonious, foul-mouthed prattle. I have no intention of entrusting my message to you. Merlin knows I'd have to render it into words of one syllable for you to comprehend it."

"Fuck off, you prick."

While they snarled at one another, I exhaled slowly and counted to ten. Having spent spent most of the night huddled over a cauldron, and the rest of it in an empty bed--a distressingly common occurrence as of late--I was disinclined to make nice with either of them. Particularly not Lucius. "Mr. Potter," I said, "Is the Headmaster admitting visitors this afternoon?"

Harry paused mid-rant, still glaring at Lucius. "No. He is not."

I clasped my hands behind my back and nodded at Malfoy. "Well then, Lucius, I'd say that you have your answer. Why not try back tomorrow morning? Or better yet, make an appointment, like everyone else."

"An appointment? I have never needed an appointment before."

"Times change," Harry said flatly.

Lucius' eyes narrowed. "Do they? And what of Severus, here? Is he expected to 'make an appointment' as well? Or is he already inked in on this fictitious schedule?"

"I am not here to speak to the Headmaster."

Lucius slowly looked from me to Harry then he raised his eyebrow. The bastard had always been maddeningly quick on the uptake. "Is that so." He stepped very close to me; from the corner of my eye, I saw Harry tense. "Then what could have possibly coaxed you out of your lab, old friend? Surely you're not here to see this callow ruffian." He tilted his walking stick towards Harry. "Of course not. Therefore, I can only conclude that you've come to see me."

Harry snorted. "You wish, Malfoy."

Caught in my own lie, I said, "You know the dangers of making assumptions, Lucius."

"Oh, I do, Severus." He reached one gloved hand towards me and touched my chin. I jerked away. "And so should you. You know that 'things' are rarely as they seem. Or how you wish them to be."

Sweat sprang up between my shoulder blades. "What are you talking about?" I said, though I had a damned good idea. Lucius was well-versed in Dark Magic lore. It was probably too much to hope that he'd remained unaware of the Dark influences swirling around the castle of late.

Malfoy's lips curved in a slight, unpleasant smile. "Why, nothing much at all, dear friend. Only that some choices," he leaned in close and stroked his fingers over my left forearm, "can not be unmade. Some ties cannot be broken."

His magic washed over me, cool, dark, familiar, and slick as silk. I knew then how Lupin must feel running freely, and yet paradoxically bound, beneath the full moon.

"I had you first, Severus," he whispered directly into my ear, having apparently abandoned seduction in favour of outright threat. "You would do well to remember that when the time comes."

"Take your hands off him." Harry's voice was low and full of menace; his wand was in his hand.

Lucius stepped back but eyed Harry--and his raised wand--with open disdain. "Oh, ho. So the fledgeling wizard attempts to stake a claim. How utterly fascinating. I see that your loyalty to my son didn't run very deeply, did it?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "You have no idea what was between Draco and me."

"But I can guess, boy. Do you know that even at the very end, he remained convinced that Harry Potter, his noble lover and saviour of the Wizarding world, would somehow manage to defeat space and time to come to his rescue?"

The hallway seemed to darken and the torches on the walls hissed and sparked. "And I would have," Harry said, "if--"

"If, if, if." Lucius tapped his cane against the floor and tossed his head. "Ah yes, that pesky little 'If.'" His lip curled as he sneered. "But you didn't, Harry Potter. You failed. Draco died. And why? Because, for all that the world fawns at your feet, you are still a child. A little boy, in his father's cast-off robes, playing Wizards and Kings with a toy wand."

I might as well have been a portrait for all the notice they seemed to take of me.

"He died because you murdered him. You killed your only son. And for what? A chance to lick Voldemort's pasty arse? That's a piss-poor excuse for killing someone you claim to love in my book."

"Only because you know nothing of true power, Potter," Lucius said cooly.

"Oh, I know more than enough, Malfoy. But unlike you, I don't see the need to flaunt it," Harry said. The space between them crackled with incipient violence. "Which is why, out of respect for the Headmaster, I will politely suggest that it is time for you to leave. Rather than blasting you dead where you stand."

Lucius sniffed with well-feigned disdain, but I could see a sheen of sweat over his upper lip when he glanced over to me. I rather wished that he hadn't. "Ah," he said, "but I haven't finished my conversation with Severus yet."

Harry stepped in front of me. "Too bad," he said.

I wanted to blast them both for treating me as if I were a piece of furniture, to dispose of at will. But unlike Poppy, I was not idiot enough to step between two bull dragons intent on staking a claim. I ground my teeth together, but said nothing.

"I wonder if you even understand what you have in him, boy," Lucius said speculatively. "Surely you don't think that either Dumbledore, Voldemort, or I, kept him around for his good looks and winning personality."

Insanity or no, I'd had enough. "It's time for you to go, Lucius. Make your appointment, then leave."

"It's none of their concern, nor yours, Malfoy. Not anymore," Harry said, pointing his wand at Lucius' forehead, "Unless you'd care to try your luck?"

"But of course," Lucius said, whipping his wand free of its sheath in his walking stick, "I'd welcome the opportunity to teach you to respect your betters."

"Cease this nonsense at once, you idiots!" I snapped.

The two of them ignored me and squared off in the hallway anyway. No doubt the hexes would have begun to fly had not the staircase activated and Flitwick stepped out into the hall.

"Ah," he said. "Am I interrupting something, gentlemen?"

I didn't have to imagine the amusement--with its undercurrent of concern--in his voice. We three must have made quite the sight: Lucius, smirking like a cat with its teeth full of feathers; Harry standing, fists clenched and wand brandished; and me, looming in the background like a storm-ruffled crow, bristling with outrage.

None of us spoke.

"Well then." Filius clasped his hands behind his back and forged ahead with his usual aplomb--no doubt Black and I had long since conditioned him to ignore the occasional hallway fracas. "I was hoping to see Albus, but Lucius, I need to see you, too. I want to ask you about these rather unorthodox modifications you've made to the foundations in the dungeons."

The sweat froze along my spine; the cornerstones were in the dungeons. "What modifications?"

Lucius' eyes flicked to mine, then away. "But of course, Filius. I would happy to discuss them with you." He moved quickly to the head of the stairs. "In your office perhaps?"

Flitwick nodded slowly. "Very well. Harry, please let Albus know that I'd like a bit of his time when it's convenient?"

"Oh yes, and Potter," Lucius called over his shoulder as he descended the stair, "Put me down for tomorrow morning, 10 o'clock sharp. I'll need at least an hour."

"Like hell!" Harry yelled.

But Flitwick and Lucius had departed. Harry and I were left standing in the hallway alone.

He shoved his wand in his back pocket then gave me a long, steady look. Had I been less exhausted or annoyed, I suspect I might have squirmed.

"Pomfrey wants to see you," he said shortly, in a tone that suggested the topic Malfoy had raised was far from closed. Then he turned and followed Flitwick and Malfoy down the stairs. "One of these days," I heard him mutter, "I am going to kill that son of a bitch."

An off-handed comment. No different than the hundreds I'd made over the years. Lucius inspired such strong sentiments.

Nonetheless, something in Harry's voice gave me pause.

*

Poppy looked up from the desk near the window when I entered Albus's sitting room. The door to his bedroom was ajar and through it, I could see him, lying on his side in a bright patch of sunlight, seeming to be asleep.

"Severus." Poppy peered around my shoulder then relaxed. "Thank goodness you left the Little Minister outside. I'd really rather discuss this rationally, without his wild magic histrionics. And, truth be told, I'd prefer that he not know about this just yet."

I blinked. "The little who?"

"Harry," Poppy said with a sour expression. "Several members of the Wizengamot--those few who aren't fawning over him, or who are already in Malfoy's pocket--have taken to calling him that." She closed her journal with a snap and set it atop a sheaf of papers. "Well out of his earshot, mind," she added.

The Little Minister? "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Honestly, Severus. For all that you're sleeping with the boy, you're shockingly oblivious to what's been going on."

I clenched my fists. Sleep was all that had been happening in my bed as of late. I suppose that it made a rare change of pace from the damnable nightmares and flashbacks.

"You could scarcely have missed old Grimbeald Swithulf's diatribe in yesterday's meeting," she continued, "about Harry's 'irresponsible appropriation of an historic artefact and symbol of Hogwarts for his personal use.'"

"Well, excuse me for being a bit preoccupied in the past few weeks. What with attempting to save someone's life," I sneered, crossing my arms over my chest. "And how exactly is Potter's--admittedly eccentric--choice of headgear of any importance? If the Hat wished to be elsewhere, no doubt it would make its wishes known. It's not as if he's taken to prowling the halls, brandishing Gryffindor's sword at passers-by, now is it?"

"Keep your voice down," Poppy glanced towards the bedroom, where Albus stirred briefly, then settled. "You've had your nose buried so far in a book or a cauldron that you can't even see what's been going on right in front of you."

"Well do enlighten me, Poppy, given that your powers of perception, not to mention your ration of free time, apparently far exceeds my own."

She rounded the corner of the desk and shook her finger at me. "Don't get snippy with me, young man." For one painful instant, I was reminded of Minerva. "When you set Harry to watch over Albus, I didn't expect him to all but graft himself to the man every hour of every day." She jabbed at my chest with her finger. "He watches Albus like a hawk. Barely lets him get in a word edgewise in any discussion."

"He takes his task seriously. So what?" I said with forced unconcern, but a cold weight had begun to settle in my stomach.

She hmphed and glared back at me. "That's exactly the problem."

When I didn't reply, she stared at me a moment longer, then finally sighed. It was as if her anger had drained away, leaving her old and tired. When had her hair turned completely white? Hadn't it been merely grey a few months past? "Listen," she said quietly, "haven't you noticed anything...different about Harry lately?"

My breath caught in my chest. "Different?"

She pursed her lips. "Yes."

"Different how?" I asked, though I thought I already knew.

But no, it couldn't be. I'd succeeded with Draco, hadn't I? And against worse odds. I'd spent the last eight months crafting a better fate, for all--for most of us, for those of us who mattered. I'd spent more than a decade setting myself between Harry Potter and the irrevocable choices that would lead him to...that could lead us all into...No.

He wouldn't, couldn't. I'd done my work too well.

Hadn't I?

The silence spun out between us. Blindly, I reached out to grip the edge of the desk; I felt too weary to stand.

As if to steady me, Poppy put her hand on my arm. I tensed. She frowned, then her expression softened and she moved away deliberately.

I wanted to spit. Merlin, but I despise pity!

"Well, never mind that for now. I didn't ask you here to discuss Harry," she said, her voice lacking its customary briskness. "What I wanted was to show you this." She reached across the desk and retrieved a small memory stone, akin to a pensieve, such that healers often used. "But, perhaps, all things considered, I should wait. Until you're feeling a bit...a bit stronger."

A white-hot dart pierced my chest bringing unwanted tears to my eyes. I furiously blinked them away. My arm felt leaden with foreboding, my hand was numb, but nevertheless, I managed to extend it, palm up. "No. Not later. Now. Let me see it now."

Poppy closed her eyes briefly then said, "Very well." But her hand shook as she placed the stone in mine. She tapped her wand once against its smooth, milky surface.

Light burst upward from the stone to display what was obviously the result of Albus's most recent scan. Streamers of energy traced out the pattern of his internal organs, those he'd been born with and those he'd had inflicted upon him. Flashes of colour bore witness to his vitality and that of his burgeoning parasite. Green, blue, red, and black.

Black.

Everywhere, so very much black.

*

Afterwards, hours later it seemed, I entered Albus's bedroom alone.

He was awake, propped up against the pillows, hands resting upon his monstrous belly. He watched me through that obscene glamour of good health. His eyes had gone dark and vague with pain. I sat down in the bedside chair and looked at my hands.

"I see that Poppy has told you," he said simply.

I barely had the strength to nod.

"I had hoped that it wouldn't come to this. I had hoped that I was stronger. But, even though it has, I can not truly regret my choice."

My head snapped up. "After everything. After everything he's done. To you. To...," to me, "...to the Wizarding world, and you don't regret it!"

"Severus," he said, and even now, the latent power, the casual habit of command in his voice brought me up short. "Severus. Listen to me. While there is life, there is hope. For me. For all of us."

For all of us, even Riddle. What utter rot! Albus might as well have slapped me in the face. "I wasn't aware that delusions were a side-effect of pregnancy, Albus. You can not believe that you will survive this."

"Poppy tells me I need only live through the next week or two. By then, the child will be far along enough to survive."

One week or two, and what then? What about you? I wanted to cry, What about me?

Once upon a time, I had believed that Albus Dumbledore was nigh well omnipotent. "Trust me," he would say, and each time I did--though the way often grew dark and twisted--in the end, my faith in him was rewarded ten-fold.

Too many times I'd strayed from the path and stumbled or fallen into darkness. And he'd been there afterwards, more often than I deserved, hand out-stretched, offering me another chance, vowing to make things right on my behalf. When no one else could be bothered.

Was it age and experience that taught him the precise incantation to dispel the fog of my self-deception so that I might find my way home again? Was it some rare gift he possessed? Something denied those of us who were too weak or too flawed?

Was that why, despite months of debate, deceit and outright, shameless begging I had failed to save him from himself?

"I know that you have been opposed to my course of action since the beginning."

"I see your death, Albus. I see a third rise of Voldemort, without you to oppose him." And I see myself, alone, without you!

He shook his head sadly; the sunlight flashed copper and gold over his wispy beard. "And what I see is the chance to put right a mistake--a lengthy list of mistakes I've made. I see a way to give a child, who grew up to be a powerful, twisted and bitter man, the opportunity to make different choices, this time round."

I snorted. "The only mistake I see is in believing that a poisonous viper with freshly shed skin is not the self-same snake who once bit you on the arse."

"And what do you suppose I was told by the Wizengamot," he said, with a quirk of his lips, "by my closest friends, by Minerva even, when I offered a defiant and despondent young wizard named Severus Snape, who came to me wearing the Dark Mark--the brand of our greatest enemy--the chance to set things to rights?"

Albus always did know where to best thrust the knife. "And how is Riddle your fault?" I countered, "Dippet was Headmaster. If anyone, it was his responsibility to guide Riddle. The result of his negligence was not your responsibility."

That made Albus smile outright. "Indeed," he said, "And what of Draco Malfoy, my friend?"

I sighed and put my head in my hands.

He reached out and patted my knee with one thin, bony hand. "Like you, Severus, I saw a need," he said, and for the first time in weeks, I saw a gleam of the old Albus in his eyes. "But I didn't know then how best to reach out to young Tom. I thought a stern approach would be most effective." He shook his head. "I would like to think that I've gotten better, over the years, at helping angry young boys see that a thirst for power need not culminate in domination, and that the rewards of love far outstrip those of hate."

Oh, how I wanted to believe him! It was instinct to do so, right down to the marrow of my bones. Even after all that had transpired, he still had the gift to force me see--to believe in!--the vision of this bright Future To Be that he was so damned sure of. "How can you be certain, Albus? How can you be sure you're right?"

His expression was serene. "Do you remember, Severus, how you came to me late one night, with Draco's life in your hands? Do you remember how I'd planned to expel him once I knew he'd taken the Mark? But you convinced me otherwise. You insisted that he was not lost to us."

If nothing else, pregnancy and his constant inner battle with Voldemort hadn't diminished that shrewd mind of his, not one wit. "Yes, I remember."

"Then you tell me. How did you know? How did you know that he would justify your faith in him?"

I gave him a narrow look. "As I recall, I didn't. Which is why I suggested that Potter be set to watch over him."

He laughed at that. My insides knotted; I had sorely missed that sound. "Indeed you did, my friend. Thereby infuriating both Draco and Harry in the process, as I recall. At least initially." The twinkle in his eye invited me to share the irony of two former adversaries turned lovers. "But how did you know there was any hope for the boy at all?"

I closed my eyes and I sat alone with my memories for a while. When the lump in my throat had dissolved somewhat, I said, "But what of what you told me, Albus, that night," I was ashamed that my voice quavered, "only a few weeks ago? That you'd been wrong, you'd made a mistake. That you weren't equal to the task you'd set."

"Ah," he said so softly that I had to strain to hear, "yes. That." He waited until I'd met his eyes, then he said, "Have you never briefly lost faith, my friend? Have you never succumbed to despair in one moment, only to somehow find the strength to go on, to succeed, in the next?"

I bowed my head, remembering Maximillian. "You know that I have."

"Well then. So it was with me, Severus. I am, after all, just a man. I deeply regret what I did--what I allowed him, through my own weakness, to do to you. I confess that that...incident shook my faith badly. But," he squeezed my knee again, "it did not break it. It did not alter my certainty that, in transmuting Tom's act of violence into one of love, we all might benefit in the end."

He sat there, smiling, in the watery spring sunlight, wearing a ridiculous purple nightshirt and a pink and green striped hat, as regally as any medieval king. And damn me to hell, but I wavered. After all he'd done for me, I'd as good as abandoned him--worse, I'd actively thwarted him--when he needed me most.

"But in the end, Severus," he was saying, in a voice that held a quaver, "it seems that I will need your help after all. If I can not see this through myself, I need to depend upon you to complete the task, to raise the child as I would have done, in my stead. Can I count on you, my boy?"

I closed my hand over his and swallowed hard. "Yes," I said finally, "I will do as you ask."

He rewarded me with a faint smile. "I knew I could count on you, dear boy," he said, then we sat in silence until his lips grew slack and his eyes slid shut.

I squeezed his hand gently. His fingers in mine felt like old, brittle parchment loosely laid upon winter-dried twigs. Then I sat beside him for a long time, allowing my tears to fall as they wished.

Of all the lies I'd ever told, none had tasted quite so bitter.

*

Somewhere, far off in the castle, a clock struck midnight.

Twelve long, disconsolate chimes wafted through the barren courtyards and corridors. Tea and dinner had long since come, then gone, while I ravaged the stacks in the Restricted Section; Dark Magic: its origins, theory, and applications. At least thirty musty tomes lay strewn over the table and stacked up beside my unpleasantly hard chair. Numerous feet of parchment sprawled over the flat surfaces, including the floor.

Irma would have been quite horrified.

"Correction. She'd be livid at the chaos I've wrought in her rigidly ordered domain," I told Fawkes, who was perched on the back of a chair. "We would verbally spar, as a bit of a warm up, but mere professional courtesy would not satisfy her, no. She'd feel compelled to fling a hex or two, first. Then extract a binding promise from me to set the stacks to rights. Writ in blood, no doubt. She was an excellent duellist, Fawkes, nearly as good as Filius. But she's dead, now. Irma Pince is dead."

Killed in Diagon Alley late one afternoon, just outside Bertrand, Barras, and Brookes' Nook for Rare Books. She hadn't gone down without a fight, though. Killed two of Voldemort's arse-lickers before being fatally struck down; three against one, the bloody cowards. Killed for a rare book referenced in one of Nicholas Flamel's lectures, procured on behalf of Dumbledore. The surviving Death Eater had had to sever her hands at the wrists to make off with the tome. Even in death, Irma Pince refused to relinquish one of her precious charges.

Fawkes cracked one eye open, ruffled his feathers, then settled down to sleep again. He was looking tired and ragged round the edges.

"They're all dead," I whispered, "Irma, Xiomara. Hagrid. Draco. Minerva." Former students, former friends, former lovers. The list of my dead scrolled on into dimness. Suddenly wearied, I placed my forehead on my forearms.

Fawkes leapt up from his rest with a loud squawk and a strong hand settled on my shoulder. I just barely managed not to jump. "That's where you're wrong," a warm, familiar voice said into my ear, "It's not everyone, Severus. Not Remus or Sirius," I snorted at that, but he continued, "Or Fliwick, or Pomfrey. And not me. I'm still here."

My voice was a shameful croak. "You have had a peculiar definition of 'here' these past few weeks, Mr Potter." I raised my head and stared into the looming darkness outside the yellow circle of my lamp.

The chair beside mine screeched across the floor as Harry pulled it away from the table. Fawkes puffed out his feathers, glared at Potter, then disappeared in a silver flash.

"I'm sorry," he said after a pause. "I know that I haven't been...around so much...I know I should have, but..."

"But what, Potter?" Obviously I'd spent too long in the dim, dusty library: my vision was blurry and my chest felt tight. I stubbornly refused to look at him. "You haven't wanted much to do with..." I clenched my fists and forced the words past my numb lips, "with me, now that...after..."

"What?! No, Severus!"

He grabbed at my sleeve, but I pulled away and stood. "I'll have no more of your lies!" My shout rang out through the stacks and set a few of the more temperamental books to muttering.

I stared down at him. He looked so curiously small, so young, sitting there in his ragged clothes, the battered Hat perched on his head, its brim curling up and down, as if it contemplated flight. His face was drawn and pale. The skin round his eyes looked bruised behind the dirty lenses of his glasses. There were smudges of something grey--dirt? mold? lichen?--on his cheeks, on his jeans. I turned away; I didn't didn't want to notice.

"Severus, please," he said, taking my limp hand. "Please, sit down."

Somehow, I found myself sitting again, with his hand wrapped around mine. Perhaps the late nights had finally caught up with me.

Perhaps there is simply no fool like an old, battered, and heart-sore one.

He took a deep breath and squeezed my hand. "It wasn't a lie, none of it. I promise you that."

We sat silently in the small pool of light, long enough that the clock chimed the half hour. It took that long for me to find my tongue. Even then, the words jammed up inside my throat like gravel. "If not that," I said, "then why?"

He laughed a little, then sighed. "Why do you sit here, night after night, rereading the same damned books? Why do you spend practically every minute of every damned day chopping beetles, or dicing mandrake, or hunched over some cauldron or stinking pot?"

I shook my head slowly. He wasn't making a lick of sense.

"I--I'm not like Hermione, Severus. I don't always know what to do, what to say. Half the time, I don't even know where to look."

"Look for--?"

Harry plunged on, as if he hadn't heard. "And then even when I do try, when I find some thing, some answer, I'm always too damn late!" He slammed his fist on the table. The old, pitted wood creaked ominously. "And I was too late, Severus, too fucking late, and I'm sorry!" His eyes were so bright I had to look away. "You don't know how sorry I am."

Something inside me threatened to break loose. I yanked my hand out of his grasp. "It doesn't matter," I said. And it didn't. I didn't need him to save me, after all. I'd survived worse. I'd wrought worse in my days as one of Voldemort's misguided faithful. Sweet Merlin, what hadn't I done in Riddle's name--in the name of my own weakness and rage and despair? I deserved whatever I got, ten-fold.

I wrapped my robe tightly around myself, then stood again and sneered down at him.

It was my task, now, to shield him from these sordid, naked truths of war. A weapon might be nicked, damaged, a pawn sacrificed. Discarded. But a queen, no--my heart spasmed at the thought of Albus--a rogue, fractured queen would do us no good, not in the long term.

"It does matter," Harry denied fiercely, rising from the chair. His jaw was set and his hands, clasped around mine again, were pale and chilled. "It matters to me. And I won't let it happen again. I swear it."

What sort of weak, romantic fool am I that, for one moment, I wanted to believe that he could? "You can not make such a promise."

The Hat shifted on his head, muttering to itself. Harry's eyes were hard and unyielding. "I don't care," he said, gripping my hands so tightly that my bones ground together. "I'm making it anyway."

Denied escape, I shut my eyes. He gripped my arms and shook me until I opened them again. "Listen to me, Severus," he said, "Lucius Malfoy is a fucking useless piece of--look, I don't care what he, or Voldemort, or Dumbledore, or anyone else made you believe. You are not just a weapon, not to me. I will not abandon you. I would have been there for Draco if I'd had any idea what he was walking into, if..." he took a deep breath, "...if Dumbledore had seen fit to let me know."

A gross oversimplification of the event in question, but I wasn't about to quibble with him. "Potter, that was not your fault. You mustn't blame yourself for--"

"--the actions of others," he said, with a bitter twist of his lips. "Yes, I know." He let go of my arms and turned to lean his palms against the table. "I've heard it all, you know. 'It's not your fault, Harry.' 'You can't be responsible for everyone, Harry.' 'Every war has casualties, Harry.' But they're all still dead, Severus." He rubbed the back of his hand across his cheek, smearing the dust. "They're still dead." He balled his hands into fists; the table creaked again. "And I won't let it happen again. Not to Sirius or Remus. And sure as hell not to you. I have the Hat now and I won't let anyone, or anything, stand in my way."

I should have felt a chill, then. I should have felt my stomach drop, or sweat bead upon my brow. I should have demanded that he explain himself. He had the Hat, so what?

Instead, I felt strangely...light.

He turned and placed his wand hand against my chest, over my heart. My skin tingled beneath his palm. "You understand what I'm saying, Severus." It was not a question.

I forced myself to shrug his hand off then crossed my arms. "I don't need your..." The firm line of his lips spoke volumes; I cleared my throat, "I don't expect..." But the certainty in his expression, his slight, knowing smile, stopped my words.

"I know you don't," he said quietly, with an unmistakable undercurrent of steel. "But you'll see. You'll all see." He placed one hand against my cheek but gazed off into the murky middle distance. When he turned to meet my eyes once again, his own were dark, shadowed by the brim of the Hat. "Now that I know," he said cryptically, "I can promise you that. Then, in a bewildering shift of mood, he smiled up at me and said, "Now, come on. It's late. Come to bed. You've done enough research for one night."

I'd done enough research for one lifetime, and yet, I knew that no book in any library on earth would contain the answer I sought. Flamel was dead, the Philosopher's Stone had been destroyed, and Riddle had spent nearly two life-times striving to defeat death. I bowed my head.

"Severus?"

I fought not to sigh. "Go on ahead, Harry," I said, moving to pack up my notes and reshelve the books. "I will see you shortly."

"Don't be too long," he whispered against my ear, "I'll be waiting." He kissed my cheek, then he turned and walked away from me, down the aisle between the stacks, not looking back.

I watched until his receding figure was swallowed up by the darkness.

*

In the end, love makes fools of us all.

Minerva always scoffed at my cynicism. "You sound like a bitter old man, Severus," she would say in that crisp, disapproving tone of hers. As if I'd just confessed to whipping up a batch of something illicit, yet...intriguing. As if she were spoiling for yet another impassioned lecture, as well as a dram or two of whatever I'd brewed, if I had it to spare.

"I am a bitter old man," I'd reply, to which she would, of course, laugh.

"No, Severus, you merely choose to view everything--including love, passion, and devotion--in the worst possible light."

Despite her pragmatic, uncompromising demeanour, Minerva had quite the romantic streak. Wizarding and Muggle tales of unrequited love, love against the odds, love everlasting, stories of agape, filios, and eros rendered in excruciatingly vivid detail, all were Minerva's very secret cup of tea. The vindictive old cat even left me her entire--frighteningly comprehensive--stash of erotica when she died.

I would try to hide my smile. "One need only take a look at the juvenile fumblings of those three Hufflepuffs we ran off earlier to see the very living, breathing, not to mention half-clad, definition of the word 'ridiculous.'"

"That's not love, that's lust. As well you know," she'd say archly, taking a sip of her tea. "Love is far more profound. Whether we acknowledge it or not, love is what motivates most of our actions."

Sensing an opening, I would agree. "Ah, yes, love. Love is what renders us blind to the truth. It is what consumes the few shreds of rationality we possess and burns them to ash. It's what turns us all into gibbering fools, willing to murder, to maim, to sing absurdly soppy songs, to compose bad poetry, to throw our very lives away for the tiniest shred of hope that our beloved will return our--"

"I take it back, Severus," she'd snap, tossing the dregs of her tea on my boots, "You are a dried up, bitter old man, indeed."

A more worthy adversary I'd never encountered, nor a more courageous one.

Twice married, twice widowed, one son killed during Voldemort's first rise; she well knew the odds and yet still embraced the risk. She knew that love, or its lack, blinds us to so many critical Moments, to their dependent choices, to the truth.

Minerva loved without reservation.

Which explains why she set out that final morning, with Granger, to infiltrate and set up surveillance on what was suspected to be Voldemort's latest headquarters. Two small feline animagi could easily slip in, deposit the Muggle listening devices Granger had procured, then slip out again, none the wiser.

The intelligence was spotty, but we were desperate. Our losses were mounting. Hope was in short supply.

It was, of course, a trap.

I was there when the Aurors dug them both free of the debris. I was the one who cast Morpheus on Weasley when Granger's limp, cyanotic body was pulled from the narrow space formed by two collapsed walls. I was the one who raised the stone pillar that had crushed Minerva beneath it; she lay mere inches away from Granger, one arm outstretched as if to shield her protègèe, or to thrust her away.

I wiped the blood from her face--and the unexpected curve of her smile--with the hem of my robe.

I delivered the news to Albus and watched him age decades in a single instant.

Such are the wages of love.

If one such as she--wise, well-versed in its nuances, long-accustomed to obeying its dictates--could fall, could fail, had there ever been any hope for someone like me?

Albus and James Potter's son; Minerva would have laughed at the irony and never let me live it down.

How I wish she had lived, even to witness my folly and the price we all paid, in the end, for my blindness.

How love, greater and lesser and in-between, makes fools of us all.

*

Morning found us naked and tangled up in the sheets and one another.

The day was well along and sunlight streamed in through the window high in the wall. It gilded the white strands in Harry's hair and spread a patch of warmth over his stubbly jaw. His body was warm and heavy against mine. My left arm had gone numb, his head lolled against my shoulder, and there was drool on my chest.

I was hard-pressed to remember feeling half so content.

Had school been in session, I would have long since missed breakfast, as well as my first two classes. Someone, Poppy no doubt--or even Minerva the Meddlesome--would have been dispatched to check up on me. To ensure that I'd not succumbed to some potion I'd been concocting, or to a stealth attack by one of Voldemort's spies. Or that I hadn't finally decided to hang myself from a convenient light fixture, good-bye and good-riddance. My having a lie-in, with a lover no less, would have never even crossed their unimaginative little minds.

Or my own, for that matter.

But the sheer ridiculousness of my situation hardly surprised me anymore--the Sorting Hat atop Harry's night table, muttering to itself; the scattering of red and gold Phoenix feathers on the rugs; Harry Bloody Potter in my bed--as of late, my entire life had become one, ever more surreal, moment followed by another.

I raised my hand and ran my fingers through the silken mop of his hair. I let them trail downwards, tracing each knob of vertebrae, each curve and ripple of muscle beneath his sleep-flushed skin, and I wondered: for how much longer?

When would these moments of peace and contentment end? When would we part? How many weeks or days or hours until our feverish, skin-to-skin, urgent Is became a distant and faded Was?

Harry shifted in my arms, one foot sliding up my shin. He snorted, lifted his head slightly, and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

Would it be a gentle parting? I wondered, clasping his nape in one hand, my fingers against the pulse point. A slow, yet inexorable drifting apart, our mutual passion proving to be insufficient to permanently span the twenty year gap between us?

Or would sharp words would divide us, or the snide, bitter recriminations of others? A desirable young man--a hero--and an old, if recently rehabilitated Death Eater. Ha.

My fingers tightened.

Or perhaps death would finally come to take one, or both of us.

"Bl'dy hell, Sev'rus. Quit thinking so loud," Harry said, wrinkling his nose and blinking up at me. There were new lines on his brow and at the corners of his eyes.

I traced the curve of his lips with my forefinger then wiped away the dried spit at the corner of his mouth with my thumbnail. "Excuse me for disturbing your much needed rest, Minister Potter. I shall endeavour to think more quietly in future."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Git. I swear I'll hex the next person who calls me that." He propped his chin on my chest. "Though, I don't suppose I could do a worse job than Fucking Malfoy."

"Minister or no, I would be most displeased if you decided to fuck Lucius Malfoy."

That made him smile. "Fucking is nowhere on the list of things I plan to do to that prick. Although, speaking of fucking," he said, wiggling his hips against my thigh, "what about it?"

I didn't bother to reply, at least not verbally. With a naked and horny young man in my bed, the answer to Harry's question was obvious.

*

Unfortunately--for all of us--the answer to my own question arrived all too swiftly thereafter.

*

"Severus, a moment of your time?"

Just outside the staff room, where the House Elves served meals these days, I turned at the sound of Lupin's scratchy voice. Black stood at his elbow looking shifty and...old. When had that happened?

"Can't this wait?" I'd already missed breakfast, I had no intention of missing lunch as well.

Lupin shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. We've been waiting to speak with you all morning. Filius needs to see us as soon as possible."

The back of my neck prickled. I frowned but walked with them towards Flitwick's office. "You know exactly where I live, Lupin. I suggest that next time, if the matter is so urgent, you try knocking."

"Merlin forbid we 'interrupt' anything," Black said in a choked voice.

I nearly rolled my eyes. "Oh, please. It's not as if Potter and I spend every spare moment--"

"What Sirius means to say is that we were hoping to speak with you. Alone."

That nearly stopped me, mid-stride, but Black grabbed my arm and dragged me forward. "Hurry up, Snape," he said, looking over his shoulder. "We don't have much time."

"Get your hands off me, you flea-bitten cur. Time for what?"

"Not here, Malfoy is in the castle," Lupin hissed.

"Not to mention too damned many of his Ministry arse lickers," Black muttered, tugging harder on my arm.

I bristled at his manhandling but took the hint; we continued the rest of way in silence.

Like Dumbledore's office, Flitwick's was filled, floor to ceiling, with whimsical clutter. Glittering what's-its competed for shelf-space with steam and spark emitting whizzamajigs. Large dusty, leather-bound tomes grudgingly rubbed shoulders with growling iron-locked grimories. The surface of his desk, enormous for such a small man, was covered with books, scrolls, and spare quills.

"Thank Merlin you're all here," Flitwick squeaked. He hopped off his desk chair then quickly closed and locked the door.

"So, what's all the fuss?" I stalked over and took a seat beside the cold fireplace. The face of the large mahogany clock on the mantel glared down at me like a giant eye. "What couldn't wait long enough for me to have so much as a sandwich?"

"Buck up, Snape. Some things are more important than food," Black said, sitting heavily on the couch. "Go ahead, tell him, Filius."

Dread settled in my empty belly and cold sweat broke out along my spine. "Tell me what?"

"It's the cornerstones, Severus," Flitwick said, "I'm afraid that I can no longer access them."

I found myself standing, wand raised. Why, I have not the faintest clue. "Since when?"

"Early this week. Several days." The absurd squeakiness of his voice didn't lessen the doom in his words one whit.

"Days?" My voice sounded strangled. "You waited days to tell me this?"

Lupin's mouth quirked. "Don't feel too left out, Severus," he said, taking a seat beside Black and crossing his legs at the ankle. "Filius only just told us this morning."

Despite the bright sun streaming through the tower windows, the day felt suddenly dark and full of menace.

"That is because I was only certain early this morning," Flitwick said. "After the new moon had come, when the blood-magic should be at its strongest."

"So you are no longer keyed to the castle wards," I said stupidly.

He nodded. "And yet, the anti-Apparation wards are in place and the containment spell around the Forbidden Forest still holds. Among other things, yes," he finished darkly.

"Which is why, Severus," Lupin said in his broken voice, "why we need to know if you know whether Dumbledore still has access to the cornerstones. And to the masterstones."

My knees weakened all at once. I sat down abruptly. "Why not ask him directly?"

"We're not stupid, Snape," Black said roughly. "It's hardly a secret to any of us now that he sustained a serious Dark Magic injury in that final battle with Voldemort."

Suddenly exhausted, I put my head in my hands.

Black, that bastard, was relentless. "And he's scarcely seen anyone besides you, Harry, and Pomfrey for the last two weeks."

I looked up. "Why not ask your godson, then?" I spat back at him.

Lupin and Black exchanged a long look. Black made as if to speak but Lupin put a hand on his arm; the skin of his knuckles was white. "Because," Lupin paused, as if searching for the best words, "because we are asking you, Severus."

The mantel clock ticked away the minutes.

I conceded defeat. "No," I said with a sigh. "Dumbledore has not had access to either set of stones for several weeks."

"Damn it, Snape!" Black leapt from his chair and began to pace. His hands clenched and unclenched, as if he wanted to throttle something--most likely me. "Why the hell didn't you tell us? What the hell have you been thinking?"

"Then it's true," Lupin said hoarsely. "Hogwarts has a new Headmaster."

I squeezed my eyes shut. How could I have been so blind!

Flitwick stifled a wail. Black growled, punched the wall, and shouted, "Fucking Malfoy!"

When I looked up again, Lupin met my eyes. No, he seemed to silently agree, not Malfoy at all.

We were the four of us battle-hardened warriors and yet, we all nearly jumped out of our skins when someone knocked on the office door.

None of us moved to answer it.

After a moment, the wards released--Flitwick gasped--and the door creaked open. Someone entered. As one, we turned.

Harry stood in the doorway, dressed in a tattered robe over his usual scruffy Muggle attire. His hair stuck out from beneath the brim of the Hat like a dark, spiky crown. "So this is where you've all got to," he said, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. He looked like nothing more than a tag-along First Year who'd been locked out of the Common Room. "What's going on? Why aren't you all at lunch?"

Lupin found his tongue first. "We were wondering, Harry," he said mildly and without preamble, "if you knew anything about the castle cornerstones. It seems that Filius can no longer access them."

I was certain that I was not the only man in the room holding his breath.

Harry shrugged. "Don't worry about that. I took care of it."

I felt a sudden chill. Black wore a curious expression of commingled horror and disbelief.

"'Took care of it'?" Lupin said, choosing his words with obvious care. "What exactly do you mean?" Behind him, I could see Black shaking his head and mouthing the words, "No, no, no."

I could smell ozone.

"Just what I said, Remus," he snapped. "I took. Care. Of it." He looked around at each of us; I found that I could scarcely meet his eyes. "What is this, the bloody Inquisition?"

"Hardly that, Harry," Black said, holding up his bleeding hands. "We just want to know if--"

"If what?" Harry said, his face pale and hard. I noticed that he had drawn his wand. "If Dumbledore is going to screw us over again? Then the answer is no!"

Instinct brought me to my feet, though I carefully hid my wand behind my back. "Mister Potter," I said, sneering down the length of my nose. "It is a simple question: What have you done to 'take care of it?' And as your colleagues, it is an answer to which I believe that we are entitled."

Harry whirled to face me. Green and white sparks crackled off the ends of his hair. "Of all people, Severus, you should understand!"

Without warning, power rippled through the room like a silent clap of thunder. It rattled the knick-knacks on the shelves and swept several stacks of parchment to the floor.

I staggered, holding the back of the chair. Black stumbled against one of the bookshelves. "What the hell was that?" he said.

A moment later, a second concussion nearly brought us all to our knees.

Harry recovered first. He stood rigidly, as if listening to something beyond our hearing. "God damn him!" he yelled.

There was a sharp crack followed by a musical cry. Silver light filled the chamber.

A moment later, Harry was out the door and pelting down the hallway.

"Damn it, Harry, where are you going?" Black shouted. "Snape, what the bloody hell is going on?"

Over the din raised by his departure, I heard the rush of wings.

Instinctively, I flung out my arm. Fawkes alighted and sunk his talons through my sleeve and into my forearm. I could feel the blood drip down. He perched there for a moment, long enough that I could see the tears on his cheeks, then he spread his wings.

Another sharp crack and then I was being yanked upwards through wood and stone and darkness to Merlin knew where.

*

Brilliant white light burst beneath my feet. I caught the glimpse of a spell-shattered room below. Fawkes screeched again, released his hold, and then I was falling.

Thousands of hours of duelling and muscle memory transformed my free-fall--and the hard jolt onto a stone floor that followed--into a loose-limbed roll. I crunched painfully over shattered metal bits and broken glass then fetched up hard against a bookcase. Red spell-fire sizzled over my head. Chunks of wood and outraged, shrieking books thudded down. I stifled a groan and realised, with relief, that my wand had survived the impact.

"Not so cocky now, eh, Potter?"

"Not so impressed, you mean, Malfoy. I've seen better hexes thrown by Second Years."

Lucius and Harry, both dishevelled and spell-singed, faced off in the ruins of Dumbledore's office. Harry had lost the Hat somewhere in the scuffle and Lucius's unbound hair was in disarray. The two wizards circled one another slowly, both too intent on their duel to notice that I'd just literally fallen through the ceiling.

"You're far too stupid to understand how doomed you truly are."

"Ooo, Tom Riddle's chief arse-licker is making an ickle threat. I'm so scared, I'm pissing myself here."

The desk and several tables had been up-ended. Scrolls, broken-spined books, and smashed instruments and furniture littered the floor, dangerous obstacles for the unwary. Former Headmasters and Headmistresses shook their fists at the two combatants or cowered in the frames of their portraits. The remains of the office door swung disconsolately from one hinge. Just beyond it, I could see several people milling in the hallway, calling out suggestions and exclaiming loudly whenever a hex was cast.

"Not a threat, Potter, a promise."

"And we both know how well you keep your promises, don't we?"

Lucius scowled. Curses began to fly again immediately thereafter.

I felt a touch on my ankle and nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Severus, are you all right?" Poppy was crouched near my feet beside the listing bookcase. She was covered in plaster dust and bore an enormous bruise across the side of her face. "How did you get in?" she asked. "Are the anti-Apparation wards down, too?"

Too? What in Merlin's name had Lucius done?

"Fawkes brought me. Somehow," I said, brushing an errant clump of book worms out of my hair. "And never mind me, I'm fine." For the most part. "What about you? What the bloody hell happened here?"

"Lucius Malfoy happened," she said tartly. "He came up here with Swithulf and Westmark, ranting on about some overdue appointment with Dumbledore. Wouldn't take no for an answer when I tried to turn him away."

We both ducked as three spells thudded into the wall above the door leading to Dumbledore's personal chambers. I said, "So I see."

"Insisted that it was, 'Long past time to discuss certain things with the Headmaster,' then all but flattened me with the door when I told him to come back later." She reached for my wrist, to take my pulse. I batted her hand away. She frowned but didn't force the issue. "Whatever he did to the door deactivated Albus's office wards as well, hence most of the destruction. Swithulf expressed 'dismay.' Westmark didn't bat so much as an eyelash."

"Not surprising," I said, crawling out from underneath the pile of books. Thankfully, my hands had stopped shaking and my heart had steadied. "He kept it quiet, but Westmark was aligned with Voldemort in the first war."

Her lips thinned. "And apparently, he's in Malfoy's pocket this time round." Despite her obvious injuries, Poppy seemed undaunted. Like Minerva, she was a tough old witch. "Meeting or no, Malfoy is only getting through that door," she pointed to the intact one behind us, "over my dead body."

I quashed the superstitious urge to shush her. "I don't think we have any worries. The two of us can hold the door. And Harry seems to have things well in hand."

"He does, doesn't he?" She said slowly, with an odd inflection I didn't like one bit. "Though I have to wonder what Lucius thinks he stands to gain by..." She trailed off as a new round of shouting and squeaking rose up from the hallway, barely heard above the sizzle of spell-fire.

Black, Lupin, and Flitwick had arrived.

Lupin and Black shoved their way into the room only to immediately throw themselves flat on the floor. Two near-Dark spells whizzed over their heads--courtesy of Lucius--and blasted the doorframe and the remains of the door into splinters.

"I see you've brought your pets as Seconds. Do tell me they're housebroken?"

Lucius and Harry were bleeding now and panting heavily as they moved around the room, dodging spell-fire and stumbling over the debris. Nevertheless, both men still managed to hurl as many taunts as they did hexes.

"They're called friends, Malfoy. You know, people whom you don't pay to like you. Oh wait, you wouldn't know anything about that."

Lucius tossed his head. "Only spoilt little boys have the luxury of 'friends,' Potter. Fully grown wizards have allies."

Harry didn't reply. Instead, he let fly with a blasting curse. The room lit up with searing orange light. Lucius flung up a shield barely in time; he screamed with the impact.

Harry's answering smile was very disturbing.

I turned away. "What he stands to gain is obvious," I told Poppy as we crept towards the door to Dumbledore's chambers, bent low to avoid stray hexes or ricochets. "One good word from Albus to the Wizengamot and Malfoy is the new Minister. No doubt that's why he brought along Swithulf and Westmark. As witnesses."

"Albus would never endorse Malfoy."

"No," I said sharply. "Albus never would."

She sighed, waited a heartbeat, then changed the subject. "I wasn't able to fully spell the door before you arrived. I could use your help."

I sniffed. That was all the apology I was likely to get. I touched the tip of my wand to the doorframe beside hers. Together, we crafted a quick-and-dirty locking charm that would, if nothing else, take a bit of time for someone else to dismantle.

Afterwards, shoulder-to-shoulder and wands drawn, we crouched near the wall beside the door--sheltered somewhat by a toppled credenza--and watched Lucius and Harry hurl increasingly Dark spells at one another.

Though Lucius had, by far, the more extensive and arcane repertoire of curses, Harry had the advantages of youth, natural talent, and an obvious need to punish Malfoy as much as humanly possible. Lucius was clearly suffering.

Swithulf and Westmark seemed worried, as did Flitwick. Who knew what Black was thinking under all that mangy fur. Lupin's expression, however, wavered between proud and despairing, a sentiment I understood too well.

"I really mucked things up, didn't I, Severus?" Poppy said quietly.

I gritted my teeth and kept my voice even with effort. "Regrets are pointless."

"Yes," she said, "I know. But--"

"Cease this, Poppy," I snapped, avoiding her eyes in favour of watching Black attempt to hamstring Lucius. The others knew enough to keep back out of the way, contenting themselves with shouts of encouragement, advice, or outrage. But Black, heedless as always, despite his bad leg, had shifted into dog-form and bounded into the fray. Idiot. "We have one goal," I said, "to see Albus through this, safely. What has come before is irrelevant." I said it so firmly that I nearly believed it myself.

"I never thought how self-indulgent I was being, by adhering to my ethics at all costs."

"The rigid and self-righteous rarely do," I started to say, I gasped instead as a fierce pain shot up my left arm. White-hot teeth fastened themselves in my flesh and began to gnaw. The world greyed out; I could hear myself screaming.

"Severus!"

Distantly, I could hear Harry and Lucius screaming, too.

Then, power rippled through the room like a wave smoothing over sand, leaving absolute stillness in its wake.

The wall vibrated beneath my ear. The pain in my arm eased into a distant throb.

I heard a long, shuddering creak as the door swung open.

I forced opened my watering eyes and looked up to see Albus step through the doorway from his chambers, calmly, glamour perfectly intact, as if out for a morning stroll.

Beside me, Poppy gasped, realising our mistake: our hasty spell had been meant to keep things out, not to keep them in.

The room was utterly silent. Just inside the shattered doorway, Westmark and Swithulf stood gaping. Pale and shaking, Lupin slowly straightened up from behind an overturned sofa. Black crouched at his feet, fangs bared, growling. Flitwick, who'd since entered the room stood to the left of Lupin and wrung his hands. "Albus!" he squeaked, "Thank goodness you're all right!"

And at the centre of the carnage, Lucius and Harry--both pale and shaking--had paused, wands drawn and pointed at one another, their lips shaping as yet unspoken curses.

My breath caught in my throat: the scar on Harry's forehead was livid. Blood dripped down from the lowest most point of the lightning bolt and pooled behind one cracked lens of his glasses.

Poppy and I slowly climbed to our feet, unwisely drawing Albus's attention. He favoured me with a long, considering look. For just a moment, it seemed as if his eyes gleamed red. I took an involuntary step backwards.

Before I could protest, Poppy had moved to intercept him. Foolish woman! "Albus, you shouldn't be out of bed," she said. Behind her back, I could see her wand clenched in her fist. Perhaps, then, not so foolish.

Albus met her eyes and slowly raised his hand. She inhaled sharply and went rigid; her wand clattered to the floor.

Moving slowly, he stepped further into the room and looked around at the devastation: scorched walls, broken or burnt furniture, smashed glassware and torn books. "What has happened here?" he said. His voice echoed oddly in my ears.

Lucius didn't hesitate. "Isn't that obvious, Dumbledore?" he said. "Potter attacked me. The boy has no self-control."

Albus tilted his head to look at Harry. "So I see," he said.

Strangely, Harry didn't protest. Instead, he stepped forward and pointed his wand directly at Albus.

Near the doorway, Swithulf started. "Potter!" he yelled. "What the devil are you doing? Lower your wand!"

Although Harry stopped within easy spell distance of Dumbledore, he stood firm. "No," he said. "That is not Dumbledore."

"What?" Swithulf scoffed. He strode over to Harry and reached out, as if to shake Harry's arm, then pulled back quickly when Black bared his teeth and snapped at him. "What is the matter with you? Of course it's Dumbledore!"

Harry's wand didn't waver. "No, it isn't," he said. "Isn't that right...Tom?"

Suddenly, the room felt as if night had fallen. A sweltering summer night full of fetid, rotting things, as if we were standing before the just-opened gates of hell.

Albus's lips quirked. "Dear, dear," he said, "aren't we the clever boy?"

I heard a roaring in my ears. Blood from the wounds Fawkes had made dripped down my hand, but somehow, I could hear each drop patter onto the floor. Something inside me crumbled and my knees weakened.

"Oh, Albus," Poppy said, covering her mouth with her hand. Tears glittered on her cheeks.

Swithulf backed away slowly and exchanged a speculative glance with Westmark. Flitwick, who wore a near-comical expression of disbelief, seemed to be frozen in place. Black growled and stalked over, stiff-legged and hackles raised, to protect Harry's flank. Lupin didn't even lift his wand. He merely passed his hand over his face and sighed.

I should have raised my wand then, blasted Albus where he stood, while he was distracted, intent on confronting Harry, but...

With the exception of Black, only Lucius seemed to be capable of action. He leaned against the wall beside the fireplace coolly assessing both Harry and Albus. Then, before anyone could interfere, he aimed his wand at the floor between the two wizards and shouted, "Serpensortia!"

An enormous black snake, easily ten feet long, erupted from the end of his wand and fell to the floor with a thump.

A collective gasp went round the room and all of us--except for Harry and Riddle--moved backwards, stumbling over debris in our haste.

Riddle merely smiled. "What a marvellous idea, Lucius," he said, pulling his wand free of his sleeve. "With your intelligence and quick thinking, I do believe that you would make a fine Minister for Magic. Make a note of that for me, would you, Westmark?" Then he looked at the snake and began to speak. The room was filled with the chilling syllables of Parseltongue. "Sskillmasha sa'skhim!" he hissed.

The snake had paused, as if listening. Now it lunged straight for Black.

Harry roughly kneed the mutt aside and yelled, "Protego!"

The snake bounced off his shield and thudded to the floor. Enraged, it re-coiled itself, hissing.

"Stay back, all of you," Harry said. "It's venomous." Then he countered with a shouted, "Evanesco!"

No natural serpent, it managed to dodge the spell and immediately slithered towards Lupin.

Again, Black moved to intercept. Harry blocked his leap with his shoulder. "Sirius, no!" he shouted, staggering to one knee from the impact. "G'sshetsa ethellasma ackashatya'smathema!" Harry's face was streaked with blood and sweat and the knuckles of his wand-hand were white, but the command in his voice brooked no disobedience.

The snake halted as if confused, a good three feet of its dully gleaming body held clear of the floor. Its tongue flickered in and out, tasting the air.

Near the door, Swithulf and Westmark both gaped. Caught out in the open, between Lupin and a downed table, Flitwick went pale. Poppy dug her nails into my sore arm.

It was, apparently, one thing to know that Potter was a Parselmouth, and quite another to witness the results.

Riddle laughed outright. "Well done, little wizard," he said, "A decent first attempt. But remember, I have been at this far longer than you have been alive. Shall we try again?" He strode forward with confidence, robe flapping, and shouted at the serpent, "Attathakshma dimitamsha manasam! Acceleraserpens!"

The snake raised its head at once and seemed to flicker. Then, quicker than my eye could follow, it struck at Flitwick.

Who flung up a shield, moments too late.

The crunch of bone and spray of fluids was sickening.

"Filius!" Poppy yelled and tried to run to him.

I grimly held her back, one arm around her waist. I collected an elbow in the ribs, one to the corner of my jaw, and several kicks in the shins for my efforts. Such was my payment for saving the silly bint's life.

Had she but listened for once, months ago--bloody hell, had I possessed the merest scrap of courage, or of mercy--it might never have come to this.

The serpent shook Flitwick in its jaws once, twice, then flung him against the leg of the table with a crunch of splintered rips. It whipped around sinuously to stare at Riddle, as if awaiting instructions.

The foolhardy werewolf crept out from behind the sofa and pressed his fingers against Flitwick's mangled throat. Our eyes met; he shook his head slightly. In my arms, Poppy suddenly relaxed and put her hand to her mouth, choking back a sob. Filius's lips were stained bright red.

Near the centre of the room, Riddle raised his eyebrow and smiled lazily. "As you can see, Harry, practice makes perfect."

"Fuck you, Tom," Harry spat back. He levelled his wand at the snake and yelled, "Nihilum Es!"

Lupin rolled out of the way as the curse sizzled across the intervening distance. It struck the serpent broadside with a bright red flash. There was a shriek and stentch of tortured flesh followed immediately by an ear-splitting CRACK! as the space once occupied by the snake collapsed inward on itself.

I watched the triumph drain from Lucius's face and knew a dark, savage moment of satisfaction.

"Now, now. Was that really necessary?" Riddle said, eyes narrowed. "Crucio!"

Harry nimbly dove to the side.

The spell blasted a hole through the wall to the left of the shattered doorframe. Cracks swarmed up the wall and across the ceiling. We all ducked, choking on dust, as chips of stone and plaster rained down on our heads.

"There is nowhere to run or to hide, boy," Riddle said, advancing on Harry's position. "Your fate is sealed. As is that of the traitor," he said, glancing over his shoulder at me where I still struggled to hold Poppy. He turned back to Harry and said, "Sanguinivapora!"

Again, Harry dodged.

Riddle's curse strafed the row of portraits on the wall directly above Lucius's head, forcing him to take cover. The occupants of the portraits fled their frames or screamed themselves to dust as their canvases burned.

"Come now, Potter," Riddle drawled. His wand dangled from his fingers, its tip pointed towards the floor. "Even your callow lover met his end without flinching. Stand and accept your defeat like a man, not like a weak, snivelling child!"

Harry rolled out from behind a smashed table. His smile was truly frightening to behold. "Be careful what you ask for," he rasped out, leaping to his feet. He pointed his wand at Riddle and shouted, "Phasma Relinque!"

Powerless to move or to cry out, I watched the end arrive leisurely, as if I stood outside of time.

The tang of ozone overpowered the stentch of brimstone. St. Elmo's fire limned the spikes of metal and wood jutting up from the debris on the floor; the growl of thunder could be heard in the distance.

Riddle raised his wand to shield.

Light flashed from the tip of his wand as his spell shot forth.

But beneath the false gleam of vitality he wore like a cloak, was the frail and damaged body of his elderly host.

The red-gold streak of the spell struck sparks from the topmost edge of the shield, ricocheted upwards, then slammed home in the centre of his forehead.

Like Flitwick, Riddle had cast his spell the barest moment too late.

"Albus!" Poppy screamed.

Riddle staggered back a pace. "Really, Potter," he said, "is that the best you can d--"

He blinked once then coughed. His face and hands shimmered, the cloth of his robes rippled and flared outward. Without warning, the glamour dropped away to reveal the unvarnished truth of his condition to all.

Absolute silence reigned in the chamber.

Riddle stood for a moment, wavering on his feet. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. His slit-pupilled eyes shone red.

Harry took a single step forward and sneered. "You were saying?" he said.

The midnight pall that had shrouded the room slowly drew back then dissipated as if it had never been. Daylight surged forward, painting the room in shades of blood and death. Flitwick's blood gleamed black and slick in the garish light.

Riddle's fingers went slack and his wand clattered to the floor. He blinked as if in surprise; the red of his eyes drained away, leaving them a cloudy blue.

"Harry," Albus said--and it was Albus now--holding one hand out. Then he collapsed, all at once, in a heap of outlandish purple and yellow robes, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Poppy screamed and pulled free of my arms as he toppled.

I watched her kneel down beside him to prop his head on her thigh. The mound of his gravid belly distorted the once-graceful fall of his clothing; the white of his beard was stained with red. One bright pink sock peeked out from beneath the hem of his robe.

"Severus!" she cried, turning to look over her shoulder. "Help me!"

I could neither move nor speak. I stared at Harry, who glared back, eyes hard and jaw set, unrepentant.

"Potter has killed Albus Dumbledore," I heard Lucius say, as if from a great distance. "Swithulf, reset the wards and inform the Board of Governors that Hogwarts will need a new Headmaster. Westmark, contact the Aurors. I want Potter arrested immediately!"

A legend was dead. An era had passed. My friend--the arrogant optimist who had seen something worth cultivating in an angry, disillusioned, young man--was gone.

Shouldn't I have felt something other than relief that I had not cast the final spell?

The sounds of a scuffle brought me back to myself.

"Don't touch me, Westmark, you Death Eater scum. Yes, I know all about your secret pact with Voldemort the first time round. Don't try to deny it."

"You are one to speak of secrets, Potter. I suspect that the Wizengamot will be very interested to learn of this new development of Dumbledore's."

"Not that you'll live to report it, Malfoy."

"Is that a threat?"

"Consider it a promise," Harry said with deadly calm. "Should have done this years ago. Would have saved us all a lot of trouble."

"Harry, no!" I heard Black say.

"Severus, stop him!" Lupin yelled.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Green light pierced my numbness. I watched helplessly as Harry's spell hurtled inexorably towards Lucius--

My mouth tasted of failure, of ashes.

--who vanished, impossibly, up the office Floo an instant before the curse struck.

The hearth, the mantel-piece, and a goodly chunk of the wall crumbled to dust.

Black whistled through his teeth and said, "Holy fucking hell."

I caught a flash from the corner of my eye then heard footsteps pounding down the hallway.

Swithulf and Westmark.

"Sirius, Remus, don't let them escape!" Harry yelled.

Black immediately transformed again and bounded out the door.

"Harry--" Lupin began, but Harry cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Go help him, Remus. They can't reset the wards and I've blocked all the other Floos. But if they make it to the Apparation point, there's nothing I can do."

Lupin hesitated a moment longer, glancing down at Flitwick's body.

"He's dead, damn it," Harry said, the tip of his wand crackling with sparks. "There's nothing we can do for him now."

Lupin met my eyes with a clear, but silent, plea.

I shrugged. What the devil was I supposed to say? "Go on, Lupin. You know as well as I do that Black has a bad leg. They can't be allowed to escape."

Despite his reluctance, Lupin departed swiftly, but not without a backwards glance.

"Severus," Harry said, stepping over to my side and putting his hand on my arm. The nimbus surrounding him had faded and once again, he seemed to be nothing more than a young, unassuming man wearing scruffy clothes and an assortment of cuts and livid bruises. I suppose that we all knew better than that, now. "I am sorry, about..." he said, glancing over to where Poppy knelt beside Albus, punching his chest and breathing into his slack, open mouth. "...about Dumbledore."

"Sorry doesn't cut it, Harry Potter," Poppy said, turning to glare at him. "Now both of you, get over here. We need to get him to his room as soon as possible."

"What?" I said. The woman had clearly gone mad.

"Labour, Severus," Poppy said, slowly, as if speaking to a child. Or an imbecile. "Albus is not dead. Although he is seriously injured." She pinned Harry with a glare. "And Potter, here, has precipitated an early labour."

"Fuck," Harry said.

My mind spun in circles: Not dead, not dead! I wanted to leap and shout.

Then my mouth went dry. "Lucius," I heard myself say. Lucius knows.

Harry was swift on the uptake. "Fuck!" he said again, then, after a pause, "I have to go."

"Harry--"

"No time." Harry tried to push my hand away. "Accio Hat!" The Sorting Hat rose from the debris, flipped end over end and came to rest atop Harry's head, where it briefly shook itself like a wet dog. "Fuck-all knows what Malfoy has told the Wizengamot by now. I need to--"

There was no time for subtlety; I would not have all my plans come to naught. I would not have Harry cross that line. "No. You do not need to kill him, Harry." I said, tightening my grip. I shook him slightly. "Do you understand me? Do not kill him."

He met my eyes without flinching. "We all have our tasks to complete, Severus. Don't forget that."

I sneered. "I have forgotten nothing!"

"Prove it to me then!" he snapped. After a tense moment, he gave my hand a squeeze and then pulled free. "Ward the doors and hold on until I get back. The castle will give hell to anyone who tries to break into Dumbledore's rooms. I'll use the Floo one floor down. Oh," he said, as an afterthought, "I'll send Dobby up to help out, too."

I watched him turn and walk past Flitwick's corpse, towards the ruined door, dusty, tattered robe flapping behind him.

He paused on the threshold. "And Severus," he said, looking over his shoulder. "Don't do anything stupid in the meanwhile. I will be back. I refuse to let either Voldemort or Malfoy win."

I took a deep breath. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

His laugh sounded rusty. "Have a little faith, then. And do what you need to do."

I snorted and said, "Yes, Headmaster."

Harry's lips quirked in a dark smile, then he was gone.

The room suddenly felt cold and small.

*

"Severus!" Poppy said sharply. "Get over here now and help me lift him! Potter was right; there is nothing more to be done for Filius."

I shook myself back to the present and moved quickly to Albus's supine body. She grabbed my arm before I could cast Mobilicorpus.

"No, no magic! Heaven knows what complications that might cause in his state. Potter made a right mess of him, inside and out. We've got to do this the old-fashioned way."

"The what way?" I said, not liking the sound of it. I watched, aghast, as a contraction rippled across his belly beneath the straining fabric of his robe.

"You heard me. Now hurry it up, there's no time to waste!"

I bent down and carefully hefted Albus in my arms. Despite his disgusting parasite, he weighed far too little.

As I picked my way across the demolished room, I almost tripped over the gibbering house elf that popped up practically under my feet.

"Dobby, get out of the way," Poppy said. She shooed the babbling creature away and she cleared a path through the debris to the door to Albus's chambers.

Partway to the door, I felt something wet splash over my boots.

I looked down at the fluid and blanched: his water had broken.

Black had the right idea: 'Holy fucking hell,' indeed.

*

For such a much-vaunted every-day miracle, a birth is a messy, disgusting spectacle.

As a child, I'd witnessed the birth of countless award-winning crups; I could have hardly escaped exposure to the phenomena, given my mother's vocation.

However.

There was a vast--and appalling--difference between a crup bitch pushing out a litter of wet, mewling pups and this:

The Great Albus Dumbledore, splay-limbed upon his bed, robe rucked up and baring the monstrous, hairy mound of his belly, his withered genitals, and those parts--those bizarre pink, gaping, and dripping parts that no man should have!

"Severus Snape," Poppy snapped, "Quit gawking and make yourself useful!" She swept around the end of the bed and thrust a pan of gleaming metal instruments in my hands. "Here, sterilise these."

My jaw dropped open. "Surely, you jest."

Her eyes narrowed. "I said 'no magic' and I meant exactly that. If Albus can't deliver the child naturally, or if--Merlin forbid--there are any complications, then I shall have to perform surgery." Despite her grim tone, her mouth twitched at my horrified expression. "Yes, with actual sutures. Now, go. Sterilise those instruments then get me the rack of glassware at the back of the cold box." She cast scourgify perfectus on her hands then gave me a look. "Some time today, if you please." She turned back to Albus, moved her hands between his legs and said, "I'll just see how far he's dilated."

Dilated!

I hastened to the kitchen to do her bidding. If for no other reason than to distract myself from thoughts of all that had gone before: Filius--squeaky and annoying as he was, I'd never wished him dead--Lucius, Harry...and of what greater horrors might yet come.

When I returned, Albus was sitting up, propped against some bolsters. He was conscious, although not especially lucid, covered with a sheet and moaning softly when contraction seized him. Sweat gleamed on his forehead.

The soiled bed-linens had been replaced and the entire room had been stripped down to bare essentials: bed, two long tables, two chairs, several tall metal stands, a cradle, and a motley collection of wizarding lamps. To my surprise, a dishevelled and miserable-looking Fawkes was perched on the footboard. Beside the bed itself, Dobby was wringing his hands and watching as Poppy fussed with an odd contraption of clear tubes and wires hanging from one of the racks--something I'd only ever seen in books.

I set my arm-load down on the nearest table. "I brought along some morphine, too."

Poppy was fussing with something on Albus's arm. She shook her head but didn't look up from her task. "No painkillers. Not right now. They could affect the foetal heart rate and--"

I crossed my arms and winced. Though I had healed Fawkes's claw marks and cleaned my hands, my sleeve was still stiff, and stuck to my arm, with dried blood. "Still trying to save the life of the bloody parasite, I see."

Poppy looked up at me, fury in her eyes. "I'm trying to say his life, you fool! Opiates could suppress the foetal heart rate as well as depress Albus's respiration, as any brewer worth his credentials should know! He's had a stubborn case of magic-resistant pneumonia for the past week."

I ignored the weak taunt, but the knots in my guts tightened regardless: a week! "And I was supposed to know that, how, exactly?"

"Perhaps if you'd spent more time here, with Albus, rather than hiding out in the library, leaving me to deal with this mess, then I might have told you that he'd--"

"Do not blame me for the inevitable consequences of your self-righteous indulgence in supposed ethical superiority!"

"Well, at least one of us has a fully functioning moral compass!" Poppy broke off her tirade to plunk the crook of Albus's elbow with her finger. "Damn it all, his veins are virtually non-existent," she said, jabbing him with a long sliver needle; she ignored both his groan and Dobby's squeal of dismay. "Now quit saying 'I told you so,' no matter how creatively, and bring me the bottles marked--"

"--Saline and blood plasma. Yes, I'd guessed as much," I said, depositing them on the mattress by her side. I walked round the end of the bed and took the chair closest to Albus, well out of her way. When I reached out and took Albus's hand, the skin felt so thin, papery, and his pulse against my fingertips was ominously fast and weak.

"Good to know that you, unlike Harry, at least glanced at the literature on Muggle obstetrics I gave you to read."

"Never let it be said that I am deliberately ill-informed," I retorted, then moistened a flannel and gently wiped the sweat from Albus's brow. His moaning ceased and his eyes opened a bit. I could tell that, even through the haze of pain and spell-damage, he knew I was with him. "I gather that you've been expecting this."

"Line's in, finally," Poppy said. She straightened up and, assisted by Dobby, upended the two bottles and suspended them from one of the metal stands. Several quick motions of her wrists and the clear tubes were connected to the bottles. I had no idea that she was so well-versed in alternative medicine. "Neither you, nor I, nor Harry share Albus's blood type or Magicalus-factor," she continued, "and I am not willing to risk using one of your blood replacement potions. I've been storing his blood against this possibility for weeks."

"That wasn't what I meant." I did not quite intend for my voice to have such an edge.

She glanced over the bed at me, exasperated. "What would you have me say, Severus? It isn't as though you and Harry haven't kept your own secrets since this all began. Besides," she continued more softly, "I've known for certain since Potter first cast that banishing spell on the night that you..." her voice quavered for a moment, then steadied, "...that night. Using Legilimency and that damned glamour were dangerous enough. Every subsequent bit of magic affected his biorhythms, not to mention those of the foetus. After all, one cannot separate a wizard from his magic."

Nor could magic solve every problem.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed.

It was a tragic fact that had bedevilled those of us in the magical sciences and healing arts for thousands of years. No matter how Dark, desperate, or carefully crafted a spell or potion, natural law would always trump all.

Albus squeezed my fingers weakly. His lips moved a bit, as if to shape my name and, perhaps, the word 'please.' Please, what? Though I guess. But when I leaned forward, all I could hear was the wet rattle of his exhalation. His breath was warm and faint against my cheek. "Surely fighting the pain, along with everything else, can't be helping him, Poppy," I said.

"He'll feel a bit better once he's more hydrated," she said, attaching several buttons, each trailing a wire, to his chest and his belly. Lights on a small black box connected to the wires began to flicker on and off, and numbers scrolled across its surface, in pairs and triplets. Muggle heartbeat and blood pressure monitors altered to work without electricity--Granger's handiwork, no doubt. "Once his vital signs are stronger, I'll add something very mild for the pain. Then we'll see."

Albus's eyes closed with that pronouncement. A few moments later, his fingers tightened over mine as another contraction swept across his belly. "You cannot postpone labour now, can you?" I said, squeezing back as hard as I dared.

Poppy stepped away from the bed and leaned against the table. Her hair had partially escaped its bun and straggled around her bruised face. Her grim, exhausted professionalism hid neither her worry nor her fear. "No," she said. "That time is long past. This child will be born. It's only a matter of 'when' and 'how'." She glanced at the gleaming array of instruments on the try and her mouth tightened. "And the way things have been going, I'm afraid that 'when' will be soon and the 'how' will not be very pleasant."

"How soon?" I asked, though by the sinking feeling in my guts, I already knew the answer.

She simply shook her head and said, "Far too soon, for all of us. But I will do my best."

Her words made my eyes itch with tears.

When she turned back to catheterise Albus, Fawkes fluttered over to sit on my knee. Together, we sat silently as Poppy and Dobby worked, listening to the creak of the settling castle, watching the rise and fall of his chest, counting each heartbeat in the throb beneath my fingertips and the lights on the black box.

It was if there were no world beyond these four walls.

But I knew that elsewhere, a battle was being fought. Lupin and Black--the faithful, if care-worn retainers--and my Harry against Lucius Malfoy. Harry was a war hero. Young, photogenic. Ominously powerful. But Lucius had nearly thirty years more practice in deceit and power-mongering, not to mention a veritable cavern all his own in the bowels of Gringotts.

Harry had asked me to have faith.

But I was too well aware that the outcome of their battle was in as much doubt as the one that Poppy and Albus now waged against the inexorable forces of nature and fate.

I no longer had a true place in either fight.

Instead, I held Albus's hand and waited for the moment--my Moment, that had been rushing towards me since that bright morning last November--to arrive.

*

I did not have long to wait.

*

Ten minutes crept by, then twenty.

During that time, Albus was never more than semiconscious and babbling. He argued theory with Sinistra and Filius. He clashed with Dippet, Phineas Nigellus, and Fudge over fine points of Hogwarts and Ministry policy. He chuckled over Hagrid's mishaps with man-eating beasts, and he held long, far-too-initmate conversations with Minerva.

Through it all, Poppy soothed him with the detached compassion of a professional who'd spent decades comforting injured, frightened children.

I kept silent.

The young always believe that there is more time. That there will always be another day during which to voice those uncomfortable, yet heart-felt words, the words that matter to the people in our lives who matter most.

Minerva must have scoffed a thousand times when I'd described myself--with a self-deprecating sneer, of course--as old and bitter. Now, with Harry gone and Albus nearly so, with so many words left unspoken between us, I had never so dearly wished that she'd been mistaken.

Albus had consumed two bottles of saline solution and one bottle of plasma but still the numbers on Granger's monitors, like Poppy's expression, and Fawkes's own demeanour, grew steadily more grim.

After examining him again, she covered him with the sheet at met my eyes. "It is as I feared. The child is transverse."

I felt as if the floor had dropped out from under my feet. "Can you turn it?"

Poppy wiped her forehead with the back of her sleeve and shook her head. "No. Riddle's secondary spell, the one responsible for transforming Albus's gender, did not sufficiently widen his pelvis, nor give enough elasticity to his vagina and cervix. There is no room for me to manoeuvre." She eyed my hands critically. "And your hands are even larger than mine. Damn. I have no choice but to perform the Caesarean."

Albus's face was pale and sweaty and, even to my untutored eye, the numbers on the monitors had taken a turn for the worst. "Is that wise, given his condition?"

"Wise or not, it's necessary," she snapped. "Now, I need you to clean your hands, apply a protective charm, and then set up a morphine-drip according to the tables described in Longnecker's Principles and Practice of Anesthesiology. Dobby will show you how."

My stomach clenched. "Poppy. I am not an anaesthesiologist."

"And I am not an obstetrician. We each do what we must."

I took a deep breath. "And if I fail to dose him properly?" Obtaining a brewer's license required extensive knowledge of human physiology. Unfortunately, hermaphroditic transformations had been relegated to the rare footnote. Seven-and-a-half months of cramming theory was no substitute for years of practical application.

"I suppose that you will just have to make certain that you do," she said.

Which was, of course, no comfort at all.

I rapidly flipped through the text in question, found the relevant tables, and conjured several phials from my private stores. Then, I allowed Dobby--a bloody house elf, for Merlin's sake!--to demonstrate the Muggle means for administering the bupivacaine and fentanyl--not morphine, damn it!--that I'd nicked from the Queen Mary's School of Medicine. If I couldn't risk applying a magical nerve block to his lower spine, I sure as hell wouldn't court respiratory failure and cardiac arrest by using so blunt a weapon as morphine.

When I glanced over to Poppy, she was methodically shaving Albus's belly with a straight razor. Something wet glittered on her cheeks. When offered her a handkerchief, she waved my hand away, claiming that it was nothing, just a bit of sweat, that the room was too damned hot.

I didn't reply; I thought it looked a lot like tears.

*

The photos in the obstetrics journals did not do justice to the horror of a live human birth. Especially one involving primitive surgical techniques and performed on a fragile, geriatric hermaphrodite.

"Careful, careful. You're making the cut too deep! You'll nick his bladder, or his intestines."

"Do you want to wield this scalpel, Severus, or shall I just get on with it, then?" The sterile mask covering her nose and mouth did little to blunt either the edge of her sarcasm, or her fear.

I am no fool; I let her get on with it sans interference: every swift, appalling slice into Albus's tender pink innards, executed with a tool only slightly more sophisticated than a butter knife.

"Blast it, Dobby. I don't care if you don't 'wants to be hurting the Headmaster!' Clamp that damned artery, now, before he bleeds to death!"

"But Madam Pomfrey--"

"But nothing. Either do your task or get the hell out. I don't have time your hysterics!"

Their discussion faded into the distance. My world narrowed to a stream of numbers: blood pressure, heart rate, breaths taken, milligrams of anaesthetic administered, litres of fluids lost and replaced.

I tinkered with the dosages, conjured a few more stolen drugs, boldly added them to the mix, watched the numbers briefly surge and, for that single potent moment, I had faith: I believed that our actions could affect a different outcome. That our optimism and hubris--and yes, our skills--might see Albus safely through.

But reality was red and wet.

It was all too evident in the ominous gaps between Albus's inhalations and the unsteady trip of his heart.

"We're losing him, Poppy."

"Shut it, Severus, I've had enough of your negativity! Now snip this damned cord and left me get to these sutures."

I snipped once and Poppy placed the slimy, blood-drenched maggot into Dobby's waiting hands. My own hands trembled with the need to hex it into oblivion.

"Focus, damn you," she yelled. "This isn't over yet. Give me some suction here, so I can see what I'm doing!"

There can be no doubt that we did our best.

Our arms were red to the elbows. Sweat dripped from our foreheads and our clothing was soaked through.

Fawkes offered us his song and his tears.

Phoenix tears and Poppy's neat, picket-fence sutures had closed the wounds we'd inflicted upon him. His blood volume should have been adequate. The drug-haze should have receded somewhat, he should have been, at the very least, able to squeeze my hand.

But the spring sunlight of Albus's magic had grown cold and dim.

Poppy felt its absence, as did I. It sent her into a frenzy of spell-casting. I did what little I could to aid her. Fawkes settled upon my shoulder and continued to sing. All of it was to no avail. Albus's chest rose, then fell, and did not rise again. The heart monitor stuttered into darkness, its lights winking out one by one, and the numbers on the other machines rolled backwards to zero.

Ennervate, and nine other similar spells failed, again and again. She pounded on his chest and I exhaled into his mouth.

When the clock chimed the half-hour, she finally conceded defeat. Fawkes's song ceased and he crouched on my shoulder, crooning in misery, wetting my hair with his tears. The sick-room reeked like an abattoir.

Poppy and I stared at one another across the bed, over his body and the bloodied sheets. Tears streamed openly down her face.

"He was the only one willing to give me a chance," she said hoarsely. "After I'd been a medic in Grindelwald's service."

I said nothing.

"After I'd done such terrible, horrible things in the camps, Severus, all in the name of science and inquiry."

The chaos of my thoughts swirled away into oblivion.

"Albus Dumbledore took me in. He gave me the chance to atone for all the evil deeds I'd done. As if that were even possible."

I was a void, the dark between the stars.

"He's a breathing, Madam Pomfrey!" Dobby cried suddenly, hopping up and down beside the cradle at the foot of the bed. "The Headmaster's baby be breathing on his own!"

"What?!" Poppy yelled.

I felt nothing save the pressure of the Moment upon me.

She moved towards the cradle, but I was faster. Too many weeks premature and against the odds, Riddle was, indeed, still alive: I would know the foul, hell-stench of his magic anywhere. Even now, I could feel the shadow of his magic as it reached with hungry, grasping phantom fingers outward, through the barrier of his immature flesh.

I snatched up the swaddled, mewling, little turd before she could stop me.

"Severus, no!"

"Poppy. Yes."

She drew her wand with shaking fingers. "No, absolutely not!" she said, outraged. Fawkes hopped to the end of the cradle and squawked, flinging out his wings, as if to protect me. "I didn't go through this year of hell just to watch you destroy all that we have left of him! This is his son, Severus, Albus Dumbledore's own son!"

I stared her down. "You knew it would come to this all along. You had your chance to put things right early enough, but you were too much a slave to your precious ethics and your damned conveniently recovered moral compass to consider it. Too willing to let me do the dirty work. Too much of a bloody coward!"

"Put him down, Severus." Her wand arm shook, Her face was blotchy and red, and her words were barely understandable through the thickness of her tears.

My hands tightened around the it, hard enough that it began to choke. "No. This child will die today, Poppy. Either by my hand or yours. Which shall it be?"

Tears streamed down her face. "Severus, please. Albus may have been right. With the right up-bringing, love, a family, good influences, it could turn out well. He's still just a baby."

I looked down at the infant and, counter to all that I'd read about premature newborns, it promptly opened its eyes and stared right back. Its dark blue glare held a half-century of rage and hate and malevolence.

'Just' a baby, my arse.

"No," I said, shaking my head, "no more delay. You've killed by proxy often enough in Grindelwald's service, even if you're damned squeamish about it now. You know what must be done. Choose."

Choking back a sob, she looked over to Dumbledore's corpse and then back to Riddle, who lay, squirming, fists clenched, in my arms. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks but her chin firmed. Deliberately, turned her back on me. I could see her shoulders shake.

I looked over to Fawkes. He met my eyes for a long moment, then tucked his head beneath one wing.

The house elf seemed upset but said nothing; Potter had apparently coached him well.

I looked down at Riddle and smiled. "Well, Tom," I said, "I do believe we have a consensus."

*

For months, I had considered the action I would take in this moment.

There are, after all, thousands of ways to kill someone. From poison, to mundane weapons, to spells of all sorts, Light and Dark. Some more painful or swift than others.

Crimes of passion tend to involve weapons of opportunity. A candlestick, a goodly sized rock, a pot or pan snatched from the stove. Acts of revenge often involve a degree of irony: an unfaithful spouse is found dead, in bed, strangled by his mistress's lacy underthings. Acts of true malice tend towards the deeply personal: a knife blade drawn slowly across the jugular, a boot heel pressed firmly over the throat--all the better to watch, with satisfaction, as life drains away.

In my forty-six years on this earth, I have committed many despicable acts.

I have cast unconscionable spells. I have brewed and dispensed horrific poisons. I have watched as others dealt death with passion, with vengeance, and with naked malevolence.

Is it any wonder then, that, with the moment upon me--

staring down at the trollish, chubby, fluid-streaked, and squalling misbegotten host for a madman who'd cost us--who'd cost me nearly everything

--I decided that my bare and bloodied hands would more than suffice.

*

Magical infants have innate defences. They tend to bounce if you drop them, for instance, or bob to the surface rather than drown in the bath.

But this vessel was far too immature, its brain too unformed for Riddle to muster much resistance to my intentions. My hands stung from the lash of his outrage, but nevertheless:

One quick twist, a wet pop, and it was done.

The room was silent, save for the ticking of the clock. Poppy had ceased crying and now stood beside the bed, shoulders slumped. She watched as I lay Riddle's cooling body beside that of Albus.

Father and son.

Despite the dried blood and fluids on their skin, they both looked at peace, as if merely asleep.

I was not fooled.

I drew my wand and stepped back a pace. Dobby wisely cowered beneath a table.

Poppy said, "What?" but I shoved her behind me to try shield her from what I knew would come next.

One breath, two...

A mysterious draft crept into the room, as if a door to elsewhere had been opened. It lifted our hair and ruffled the hems of our robes. Though the midday sun beamed through the leaded glass windows, the wizarding lamps guttered, failed, and the room grew dark.

On the bed, green-white phosphorescence traced the surface Riddle's soft, newborn limbs. The light flared briefly, then rose up, coalescing into a knot of brightness that hovered just above his body.

"Sweet Merlin!" Poppy said, gripping my left arm hard enough to bruise.

The spectre expanded rapidly until it loomed over the both of us, radiating menace. It wavered in the strange, supernatural breeze, as if deciding which of the two of us would make the more receptive host.

Quickly, before it could choose, I pushed Poppy away, angled my wand upwards, and shouted, "Exsiliphasma Totalis!"

The spell struck home and the spectre recoiled. Its ectoplasm fluttered briefly. It thinned around the edges, but it did not dissipate.

Bloody hell.

I suppose I should have expected nothing less than failure. After all, I was short one outraged father-figure and one wronged innocent. An ill-used weapon could hardly be expected to do the trick.

Without warning, the light breeze became a whirlwind, ripping the window drapes from their rods and scattering Poppy's notes and pages torn from the medical texts to the far corners of the room. The spirit whirled around itself, twisting, elongating upwards until it was a towering column of light and malevolence.

It laughed, a hair-raising, high-pitched sound that scraped against my raw nerves and made me want to vomit.

It will take much more than that, dear Ssev-er-us! But, by all means, let us play.

My ears rang with the force of the sending. I was too close to heed its warning; before I could react, a lash of bright green energy spun off from its glowing core and struck with deadly accuracy at my head.

Poppy screamed.

I felt strangely calm: though I had failed, perhaps my death would be much quicker than I deserved.

But before the spell could strike, I heard a screech of outrage. A blur of red and gold swept between us.

Fawkes!

The bolt struck him in the chest, stripping him of his magnificent plumage. He fell to the floor in a shower of ash, a shivering ball of wet, grey feathers.

Meddlesome pet! Let us see if you can perform the same trick twice.

I stood for the barest moment, stunned. Fawkes had wasted one of his own lives for me, why?

You should have known, Severus, that I would not be banished like some common ghost.

There was no time to ponder the significance. The revenant was a-whirl once more, a tongue of green-white energy building at its centre. I didn't fancy a repeat performance of the last curse.

I am Lord Voldemort, the undying, I shall live forever!

That might have been the end. No common spirit, indeed, Riddle had enough cohesion and will and magic to possess or destroy either Poppy or me, given opportunity.

But I had had nearly eight months to prepare for what might follow my act of homicide, and I had had access to one of the greatest, most comprehensive magical libraries in the wizarding world.

With Albus gone, with Harry beyond my help, I also had nothing left to to lose.

"All things have their season, Tom," I whispered. "Even the stars and the universe will someday turn to dust, and so shall you."

I took a single deep breath and began the Calling.

I closed my eyes, vividly bringing to mind the many people I had loved and admired over the years, no matter how distantly, wizards and witches who had fallen to Riddle's ambition.

Ruthlessly, I tapped into that dark, secret cache of rage and grief to which I had never given full voice: Maximillian. Lily. Xiomara. Rebeus. Minerva. Granger. Filius. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

The names scrolled on and on in my mind, an agonising litany. But still I called them forth, even as I summoned every scrap of my power up from my toes, from the pit of my belly, from the ends of my hair, from the tips of my blood-crusted fingernails, and thrust that power, burning, down the length of my wand: "FACIO PORTAM PRO ANIMIS!"

The spell detonated soundlessly, blindingly bright.

I may have screamed; I know that Poppy did.

The room convulsed. Books fell from the shelves. Chunks of ornamental plaster broke off from the walls and ceiling. And somewhere, as if from a long, long way off, it seemed as if a giant bell had been struck. Absolute silence reigned for one moment, and then, I heard the creak and squeal and protracted groan as the Gates to the Netherworld, rusted shut for millennia, finally unlatched and swung wide.

The green lash drew back, swiftly, and the column of brightness contracted. Fool! it said. What have you done?

Wetness dripped from my ears; I could scarcely hear my own voice. Nevertheless, I spoke each word of the spell with desperate clarity, both a benediction and a call to action, to those who had fallen: "EVOCO VICTIMAS ANIMAS!

A mighty CRACK of displaced air toppled the cradle, upended the tables and chairs, flung the metal stands hither and yon, and threw me to my knees beside the bed.

"Dear Lord, Severus. I do believe you have killed us," I heard Poppy say, and then I had no time left to wonder as space and time split asunder.

The limits of the room wavered, disappeared, and from the burning fissure in the world of Now, luminous figures streamed forth speaking with voices that resonated beyond words:

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE. WE, THE VENGEFUL DEAD, CALL YOU TO ACCOUNT. WE, THE DEAD, SUMMON YOU HOME!

I thought I saw faces--Lily, Minerva, Xiomara, many I didn't recognise--such beautiful faces in the luminous mist. On and on they came, men, women, and children. Their voices were so very sweet, had they but asked, I would have followed them into that abyss.

The column of light shuddered, pulsed--

That which was once Riddle wailed: Noooo, a sound ripped straight from the roots of the world

--then ripped asunder and streamed away, fibre by glowing fibre, to be swallowed up by the maelstrom beyond the Gates.

In the resounding silence that followed, I found myself on the floor, exhausted, nearly senseless, ears and nose bleeding, clutching a wand that was naught but a blackened nub.

Someone said, "No, get back! Stay away from him!"

Then I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder.

I lifted my head and struggled to focus my eyes.

Maximillian's shade stood before me, the slight, dark-haired, hook-nosed nephew I'd never truly known.

I wanted to cringe. To apologise, to plead, to place the span of my pitiful existence into his hands, to do with it what he willed, for good or for ill.

He smiled as if he knew my thoughts and shook his head. No, Uncle, he said. It is not yet time for you. Rest awhile. You still have much to do.

He raised his hand. A potent, unseen force swept through my body, and for the first time in my life, I knew the meaning of peace.

Then the sensation withdrew.

I blinked stupidly as the glowing spirits streamed, one by one, back through the rusty, majestic gates. At the last, two figures, one young and one old, paused before the portal, looked back at me, then were swallowed up by the darkness beyond.

Somewhere, the great bell was struck again. Without fanfare, the fissure between the worlds re-sealed itself, leaving naught but the four grey stone walls and the two freshly dead corpses upon the bed.

"Dear heavens, Severus," Poppy exclaimed from somewhere far away. "Are you all right?"

A spider crept past my nose, struggling through the pile of the carpet as if it were scaling the Himalayas. Exhaustion dragged at my limbs as I tried to sit up; I felt an unexpected kinship with that determined arachnid.

"Can you sit up? Can you even hear me, you absurd, annoying, brave man!"

My hands were tacky with dried blood; I could still feel the vibration in my palms, the crack of his immature vertebra as I wrung his neck; I could still feel the faltering heat of Riddle's breath against my fingers, my cheek; I could still see the fading light in his dark blue eyes be swallowed up by death. But, with the moment now past, I could also feel the mantel of grief and dismay settle heavily upon my shoulders.

Albus was dead. My past debts were extinguished, my task, at last, was complete.

Of what use was a tool that had outlived its usefulness?

Dimly, I thought I could hear a steady thud.

A heartbeat?

Something rubbed against my fingers. I looked down to see Fawkes rubbed his damp, downy cheek over and over against my hand.

"Fawkes? Poppy?" I heard myself say. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what? Lie still, Severus, you're in shock."

The steady thudding continued. "That sound," I said. "Can you hear it?"

"Hear what?" Poppy said, striking a listening pose. Then she said, "Oh hell."

The remaining wizarding lights flickered and suddenly, the door to Albus's chamber burst open; the wards had fallen.

Beside me, Fawkes released a weak, startled squawk.

Lucius Malfoy, dishevelled but triumphant, smiled at me from the shattered doorway to Albus's rooms. He was flanked by five grim-faced, red-robed Aurors.

"Arrest them," Lucius said, pointing his finger at them, "for the murder of Albus Dumbledore and his newborn child!"

Voldemort was gone. Albus was dead. And Harry had failed. I could do naught but lie still and stare.

Poppy stood and faced them, arms akimbo. "What is the meaning of this intrusion, Luicus? These are the Headmaster's private rooms!"

A burst of red from one of the Auror's wands caught her in the chest. She staggered and managed to fire off a stunning hex before being hit by two more curses. Her wand slipped from her hand and she toppled backwards, soundlessly, collapsing across my legs.

"You three, go have your men secure the castle," Lucius said. "I want control of all the wards before nightfall."

Three of the Aurors departed. The remaining two advanced towards me, wands raised.

My own wand was burnt to ash. I struggled, but couldn't seem to move. What was left to do except to make ready to die: Maximillian had said that it wasn't my time, but I suppose there is no good reason to believe that the dead are infallible.

Then Lucius spoke, words that chilled me to the bone. "Don't hurt him too terribly," he drawled to the Aurors. "I still have a use for him."

I shivered despite myself, remembering far too well the use to which Lucius had put some of his other tools. "Where is he?" I managed to gasp out. "What has happened to Harry?"

Lucius knelt down beside me. He stroked one finger over my check and smiled. "Oh, don't worry so, Severus. He's quite fine, for the moment. You see, I have a use for him, too."

My mind went white.

Do you understand me, Harry? I had told him, Do not kill him! Do not become a murderer. Do not become a man like me.

And he had not, Lucius lived; I had completed all my tasks far too well. A perfect tool, indeed.

"It seems such a shame to reward you thus. After all, you've done the Wizarding world a great service by ridding us of Voldemort. But, as you well know, Severus, necessary things are rarely ever pleasant."

No! I wanted to scream. Nononono!

But Lucius had lightly touched his wand to my temple. The world slipped sideways into darkness.

The room is in perpetual twilight, never bright and never fully dark.

It is twelve paces long and eight paces wide.

I know this because during the hours that I am conscious, I traverse its area step-by-step, until I am too tired to do so. Then I rest for a while and begin again.

There are no books, so while I walk, I recite spells, to distract myself. Or potion recipes. Or bits of history or poetry or conversations I can remember. Sometimes I recite multiplication tables or conjugate Latin and Greek verbs.

The room is not well-heated, so the activity also keeps me warm.

It contains one cot--with rough sheets, a thin blanket, and a pillow--one toilet, a small sink, an unbreakable mirror fastened to the wall, and, at present, one bedraggled phoenix on the cusp of his Burning Day.

There is no shower or tub, but sometimes, when I awaken, my face has been shaved, or my hair and nails are trimmed, or my pyjamas are crisp and unwrinkled.

There is no obvious door but Fawkes manages to come and goes as he pleases. Perhaps through the mirror that the Watchers use.

I am not certain why he comes. I only know that when the walls seem to close in, when the verbs fly out of my head, when my heart pounds loudly enough to drown out the voices in my head, why then I will find Fawkes nestled upon my pillow. He'll sing to me and I will sit and listen, and for a time, I won't need to fill the silence with my own voice.

My Watchers must tire of my routine. Myself, I learned long-ago not to count the repetitions; not-knowing makes the doing possible.

For a short while, I had another visitor besides Fawkes.

Lucius.

Sometimes with his brace of Aurors, sometimes alone. Not frequently. Never regularly. I would startle awake to find him looming beside the bed. He would yank me upright by my shirt-front and say, "Good day, old friend. Did you sleep well?"

Depending on his mood, he would douse me with Veritaserum or bind me to the bed and 'strongly suggest' that I co-operate, with the aid of a hex or two. Then, he would ask me questions. Some prurient, some pointed, and some mystifying. Isolated pieces in a puzzle that my weakening mind would struggle to solve during his absences.

"How long were you and Potter fucking?" "How did Dumbledore petition the castle for access to the masterstones?" "How are you able to summon the phoenix?" And so on.

But Veritaserum has its limits, when used on a wizard who trained to resist it. As does torture. And a few blatant truths tossed in with a passle of outright lies, half-truths, and useless supposition are well-hidden, indeed.

A tool can be unruly in the wrong master's hand.

The punishment for my impertinence--a short burst of the Cruciatus, a long span without food--was always swift.

Eventually his questions became questions less subtle and his demeanour more strained.

"Tell me the Apparation co-ordinates for the masterstones!" "Tell me the proper invocation for revealing the cornerstones!" "Tell me who is the true Headmaster of Hogwarts!"

Though I was bound to the bed and weak from lack of food, I still had a bit of defiance left. "What happened, Lucius? Did Potter take a stroll through your unbreakable wards one morning, never to return?"

He grabbed me by the throat and squeezed until I blacked out.

Since that time, my only visitor has been Fawkes.

It has been a long, long time.

The Watchers have not forgotten me, however.

Every so often, a slot opens in the wall and a tray is passed through. Sometimes, the tray holds a bit of food, all of which must be eaten without utensils, and sometimes a cup of water. Occasionally, it also holds a tiny vial of...something else. Poisons, all.

I may have lost my sanity to this waiting, but my intellect remains intact. They are common-place, house-hold poisons, like lye or naphthalene. Unexceptional, and in most cases, crude or poorly made. Only once, at the very beginning, did the vial contain something complex, skilfully brewed, and fast-acting.

I immediately pour all such 'small mercies' down the sink.

Sometimes, I hate myself afterwards.

Hope and faith are such fickle, horrid things.

"Wouldn't you agree, Fawkes?" My voice is hollow, scarcely more than a whisper.

But Fawkes hears. He squawks and stirs a bit on my pillow; he looks miserable and weak.

Not for the first time, I wonder if there is a limit to the magic of the phoenix. Is it truly possible to be reborn again and again and again ad infinitum? At some point, shouldn't the magic wear thin?

I think it does.

I think that this time, Fawkes came to die for good.

He returned to me just after the Watchers began to poison my food. It was subtle what they did, but though my magic is deadened by the wards, my senses have always been keen. It was an unfamiliar poison, but I know the symptoms well. Tingling of the tongue and extremities, a tightness in the chest, cloudiness of mental processes. Cumulative effects, slow poison.

I suppose that the Watchers finally got tired of watching. I don't blame them especially; I, too, am tired of waiting.

So the next time the tray arrived, I drank the water, picked at the stale bread, and flushed the rest away. Then I walked and walked.

Fawkes arrived suddenly one day-night-afternoon. He ate the meals that came through the slot and looked at me strangely, as if to say, "See? It's fine. You can eat it."

But a phoenix is an inherently magical creature. Who knows what poisons Fawkes might safely ingest that a broken wizard may not?

So I shared the water, but left the rest of the meals to him. And I walked. As time passed, Fawkes' plumage grew more ragged and I needed to take more frequent rests.

Finally, as the accumulated poison took hold--or perhaps they'd also laced the water--when my joints ached, my belly burned, and my tongue swelled thick, I was forced to crawl and to conjugate the verbs in my head.

Now, I cannot even do that.

So I sit on the cot beside Fawkes, wrapped in my blanket, with my back against the wall beneath the mirror, and I await his final immolation.

And for the poison to finish its work.

What else is there to do for a tool that has outlived its usefulness?

*

Footsteps.

It is dark, so I must be dreaming. Or perhaps I am dead.

"Take me to his cell."

"It's down on the right, my lord. This door, here."

But I hear strange voices--stranger than usual, I should say--and feel pain in my chest and throat, so perhaps I am not. Not dead anyway.

"Well, open it, damn you. Now!"

"As you say, m'lord...I mean, yes Headmaster, sir, immediately."

I squint when the wall slides open and the darkness parts; not asleep either, then. I try, but fail, to raise my hand against the blinding light.

Someone moves into the room. "What have you fucking bastards done to him?"

"Nothing, sir, I swear it! He just stopped eating one day. No reason at all."

"And you didn't think to help him, get him to hospital."

I think I smell ozone.

"But, sir, the Minister had orders--"

"The Minister is dead, you fool. Now get the hell out of my way. Finite incantatum!"

The anti-magic wards lift and suddenly it is midnight and moonlightand daybreak and all the seasons at once! Sensation crackles through my joints, pierces my bones with the memory of ice and fire.

I can not help but cry out.

"Merlin's balls, he's like a wraith! Poor bastard."

I should know that voice, I think. It stirs up something old and red and...resentful. It makes me itch to throw a hex.

"Sirius, dim the light. It's blinding him."

"Nox" someone says, and suddenly, I can see...a man kneeling before me. His voice and shape are so familiar...if I could just remember, if I could just discern his features in the gloom.

"Severus, can you hear me? Ennervate!"

My body jerks. The mist before my eyes thins out, and oh!

All at once, my heart thumps painfully.

I know the face, yes, with its zigzag scar, but moreover, I know his hands. I know the fingertips that stroke my cheek and brush the hair away from my face. I know the wind and rain and lightning of his magic as it calls to mine.

"I thought I told you not to do anything stupid," he says.

And I thought I told you not to kill him, I try to say, but my throat is too dry to speak.

He reads my retort from the shape of my lips anyway. "I did what I had to do, Severus," he says softly. "Now come on, quit laying about. It's time to go home."

I cannot walk, so Lupin and Black carry me from the room on a conjured stretcher. Medics and guards bustle about, doing their best not to incur their new lord's wrath. I feel a sharp pang when I realise that Poppy is not among them.

But Fawkes, resplendent in his fiery colours once again, rides beside me, on my pillow. He churrs sadly and rubs his cheek against mine.

He is crying.

After a moment, I realise that I am too: I have failed; that which was precious has been irretrievably lost.

Albus once told me that the acts that make us great are often not the ones we would have expected. That sometimes, they are not even ones we would willingly make, had we any other choice.

He was a wise man, by all accounts. But I am a most certainly a fool. I never thought to ask him how one could tell beforehand which were the acts that would matter.

Then again, perhaps there is no sure way to know.

Perhaps this is the truth that Centaurs know and are so reluctant, or unable, to share:

That always, we do what we must, and the future writes itself--and us--accordingly.

Thus, although I am grateful to, once again, be of use, although I want to shout, He's alive! He came for me!, I cannot help but wonder--and worry--at the price we will all pay for this choice Harry has made.

Finis

---

Summary: After the Final Battle, Albus is pregnant (!) and Lord Voldemort is almost-dead yet again.

Warnings: MPREG, horror, violence, melodrama, florid prose. A/U (totally Jossed by OotP) though I've borrowed some OotP bits here and there. Some readers may find the subject matter and my treatment of it quite offensive.

Notes: This story was written for Chowderhead, as part of McTabby's, "Blame It On..." challenge. I highly doubt this is the story that she had in mind when she asked for Pregnant!Dumbledore, but I hope she likes it anyway. :-) It was supposed to be short, but it got completely out of hand. This is a horror story. If you have a weak stomach and/or hate experimental fiction, then flee now. I mean it, folks. No fluffy, third-person, limited POV bunnies here!

Infinite thanks to Josan for betaing (all remaining errors are my fault!), to Nym and MusIgneus for the Latin help, and to the lovely rabble on LJ and AIM who kept me going with their encouragement.