A Necessary Evil

by kai

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

Ink Stained Fingers Archive

A Necessary Evil