Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy, and all these other people are characters belonging to J.K. Rowling. I claim no rights to them, their surroundings, or their situations. Much to my sorrow.

--- 26 Snape: Dreams of War, Dreams of Liars

You unutterable sodding idiot! Have you gone completely mad at last, or have you simply loathed yourself for so long that you've finally developed a taste for it?

It was in this frame of mind, as well as dangerously close to frostbite, that Severus threw open the door to Malfoy Manor and nearly fell inside--kept upright mostly by virtue of the fact that Hermione was leaning on the doorframe, and still had her arm locked around his waist. In the twenty minutes it had taken them to make their way back, it had begun to sleet, cutting through the feeble warming charms they'd managed to put up as though they weren't even there, and both were thoroughly caked with slushy ice.

Righting himself with great difficulty, he locked his knees, shaking violently with the cold, and drew her inside, shutting the door behind them. "All r-right?" he managed to wheeze before lapsing into yet another coughing fit.

It was his third or so since they'd started back, and he was growing heartily tired of them. Particularly since they gave the girl a perfect excuse to keep close to him; and that was the last thing either of them needed just now. The thought lacked conviction, however. He really wanted nothing more than to curl up close to her and pick up where they'd left off back at the cemetery plot (after they'd thawed out, of course...)

"F-f-fine," Hermione was saying, though her teeth were chattering and her lips had gone slightly blue. "Just n-need to...warm up a b-bit..."

He nodded, and contemplated Apparating them both to a spot directly before the roaring fire in the other room; but what with one thing and another, he wasn't sure he trusted his own ability with a wand sufficiently at that point.

Hermione settled the issue, after a fashion, by abruptly sagging toward the floor, dragging him down with her. "S-sorry!" she gasped as they landed in a tangled heap, almost cracking their heads together, "Spot of dizziness there. I think--I am--about done in."

"Know the feeling," he said automatically, though just at that moment he was far more acutely aware of their close proximity. She was looking at him again with that unaccustomed softness in her sweet brown eyes, and it was bringing thoughts to mind that...well, that he couldn't have acted upon in his current state, even if he'd had the right. Which he didn't. But he wanted to...

This just wouldn't do at all. He shoved away from her and rolled onto his back, shutting his eyes with a heartfelt groan. Every part of him ached (except in the extremities, which had gone quite numb.) He felt exhausted, and ravenously hungry--and in spite of himself, grieved for Lucius and Narcissa; as well as for Draco, and for young Gregory Goyle...whose worst crimes, after all, had been being born too stupid and into the wrong family.

His thoughts grew hazy as he lay there, gratefully soaking up the warmth of the stately old house. The boy hadn't believed he'd do it. Right up until the very end, Goyle had not understood that his teacher would kill him...it had been so clear in his eyes...war, it was hell, yes, but the old should never be required to take the life of the young. There was something fundamentally wrong with that...

He heard Hermione move, sensed her coming close to him; and a small cold hand touched his face, carefully clearing away stiff locks of hair that had frozen to his skin. And in the midst of all this misery, you have the piss-poor judgement to go and fall in love with another Gryffindor girl. Yes, clod, you may as well admit it, that's where this is headed. AK yourself now, why don't you, and just spare Minerva the trouble...

He ought to have rebuffed her; too much damage had been done already; but he had neither the heart nor the strength. Her touch felt good, evoking a dim memory of fears assuaged, a peace he'd so rarely known...

He hadn't realised he was drifting off, until he was dragged back to awareness by a tremulous, high-pitched voice, just familiar enough not to set off any alarms. "Sir?...Miss?"

"Nockly," he muttered, not opening his eyes. "Just the elf I was hoping for. Is there anything hot to be had in this place? Soup, mulled wine, anything?" His stomach growled loudly, and Hermione unexpectedly giggled. Impertinent wench.

"Indeed yes, Sir, Nockly and Birble was commanded to cook a feast. Is Sir and Miss hungry?"

"Sir and Miss are famished, and frozen. Bring whatever you've got out here, would you?"

"Certainly, Sir!" A soft popping sound indicated the House Elf's departure.

Hermione heaved a deep sigh, and he opened one eye to see her struggling wearily to her feet. "Hermione." (When, exactly, had she ceased to be 'Miss Granger'?) "What are you doing?"

"I should go and help them." She looked around, as though at a loss. "Only I don't know where the kitchens are here..."

Powers preserve us. She can't still be on about liberating the bloody elves? "Sit down, child, you'd never make it that far. And if you did, you'd only offend them."

"I am not a child," she retorted, flushing indignantly. Recalling their heated encounter of a half-hour before, he was privately forced to agree, but put that thought firmly out of his mind before it led whither he must not go.

"Then I entreat you, my dear, to put aside the childish notion that House-Elves wish or require any assistance that you could offer, and sit down before you fall over." His Teaching Voice was as sadly broken down as the rest of him, he noted with some irritation.

For a moment, he thought she was going to flounce off in search of the kitchen anyway, out of sheer stubbornness. But common sense or fatigue won out, and she slowly settled back to the floor, folding her legs under her and frowning at him rather petulantly. "I will never understand why they seem so eager to enslave themselves to humans that way," she complained. "Or why everyone just seems to accept it."

"Have you ever asked one?" he inquired, smiling slightly. He would bet a month's salary that she'd been so busy trying to convince the creatures to throw off the shackles of oppression, she'd never bothered to find out how they came to serve in the first place. The silence that met his question seemed to confirm that assumption.

He let his eyes drift shut again, using the conversation to keep himself awake as they waited. "Well. You're an avid student of history, I believe...would it interest you to know that it was the House-Elves who initiated this 'enslavement', as you call it, many generations before the time of Merlin? Or that they could be free of it at any time, but for the constraints of a peculiar moral code entirely of their own invention?"

"...I'm not sure I follow you, Professor. As I understand it, each House-Elf is bound to a particular family, or sometimes to an institution like Hogwarts, and can only be freed if presented with clothing by a member of the family or whatever figure holds authority..."

"Quite right, but it's not a curse or a binding that enforces the rule, it's the House-Elves themselves." He turned slowly onto his side with a grimace, propping his head on his hand. He'd rarely had a chance to talk with Hermione outside the classroom, and without her two insufferable knights-errant in attendance. Now that they seemed to have arrived at a truce--if that was the correct word--it was a distinct pleasure to share a complicated idea with her, free of distraction, knowing the information would be soaked up as water by a dry sponge.

"You see, Hermione, we humans as a species have not always been so terribly effective at the business of survival," he explained. "There was a time when we were so at the mercy of the seasons, and so vulnerable to disease, predators and natural disaster, that entire populations could be wiped out within a very short span of time. This did not allow our ancestors much opportunity for advancement. It was only when the House-Elves began to take an interest in the affairs of humanity that our existence became secure enough to allow us to develop a civilization of our own."

She cocked her head slightly, something of that voracious Granger curiosity creeping into her gaze. "All right...so how did their helping us thousands of years ago lead to their serving us today?"

"Do you remember how that pitiful creature attached to the Crouch household kept going on about how much her master needed her, long after she'd been dismissed?" She nodded, though her eyes narrowed slightly at his choice of words. Well, no help for it; he was a cranky old bastard, and that wasn't likely to change in the foreseeable future.

"Calling humans by respectful titles is the House-Elves' way of humouring us, Hermione. That custom evolved about the time our culture developed to the point that we were able to live autonomous from them. The truth is, they view us affectionately as something between children and pets."

Taken aback, she crossed her arms and lifted her chin obstinately. "Now I think you're just making things up. If that's the case, then why on earth would they allow themselves to be abused the way Dobby was?"

At this point, the air around them at floor level began to shimmer and congeal into a regular smorgasbord of steaming serving dishes, jugs, platters and goblets. Lucius and his guests had been planning quite a celebration, it seemed. Hermione eyed the feast with a slightly nauseated expression, but sighed resolutely, picked up a steaming jug and filled two goblets from it, handing one to him.

He nodded his thanks and took a long swallow of the hot wine, wrapping his hands around the goblet to warm them as the heat of the draught worked its way slowly outward, driving away the lingering chill. "I assure you, I'm quite serious. Among the House-Elves, to walk away from one's wizard family is condemned in much the same way that we would view child or animal abandonment. The Malfoys are an example of what happens when the relationship goes horribly wrong, but most House-Elves would put up with nearly any sort of treatment before they'd break ranks and stand up for themselves. Dobby is highly unusual, in placing his own welfare ahead of the social pressure to conform."

"What about the clothing clause?" Hermione had picked up a plate and begun filling it from the various dishes.

"Bit like an angry teenager turning in the house key...by giving an item of necessity to the elf, rather than the other way around, the wizard is saying, in effect, that he is self-sufficient and that the House-Elf's care is no longer needed or wanted. It's viewed as ingratitude, but the onus is on the House-Elf for not being a better...well, parent, I suppose."

At this point he also turned his attention to the food, and between the two of them, they made a substantial dent in a meal that had been intended for seven or eight people. The silence wasn't precisely comfortable, but it was tolerable...as though, by unspoken agreement, they were putting off the inevitable 'Where do we go from here?' discussion for a time when they both stood a fighting chance of surviving the encounter.

He broke the quiet at last, as they were working their way through a positively immoral variety of desserts (rather, as Hermione did so and he watched bemusedly over a modest piece of pie--how did she keep her figure, eating like that?) to put to rest a small misconception she had brought to light. Ordinarily he didn't bother, but now he found that he wanted her to understand, if no one else did.

"You know, I think I really ought to set the record straight about something you said earlier," he ventured. Mouth full, she looked up from her half-demolished chocolate mousse and nodded agreeably. The meal had done her good, he saw, and was pleased to have thought of it.

Back on topic, Professor, if you please... "I don't, in the strictest sense of the word, hate Harry."

He hadn't known it was possible to choke on chocolate mousse, but Hermione made a fair job of it. "W-what?" she sputtered, hastily grabbing a serviette before she spit the stuff all over her robes. "Now really, Professor, I'll buy your story about the House-Elves, but you're stretching your credibility just a bit with that one!"

"No, I mean it," he insisted, telling himself that she had every good reason to doubt his claim. "I hate the fact of Harry; certain things that others have done because of him, and the way he's been idolised as a result." No, he wasn't going to allow his feelings to be bruised by any skepticism on her part. He was a former Death Eater and undercover agent, for the love of Merlin. "I hate that so much depends on him, far too much for any one boy to be expected to cope with." And he certainly wasn't going to babble on about it at length, trying to convince her.

"I hate that I can't look at him without seeing his father, no matter how I try," he went on, setting down his plate and folding his hands in his lap, which gave him something to stare at besides Hermione. "It reminds me what a pathetic creature I really am, my entire life shaped by a childhood grudge that should have been left behind more than sixteen years ago, and I hate that."

He paused, struggling to put into words a thought that he had studiously avoided expressing even in his own mind, up until now. "But most of all, I think...I hate the fact that he is James Potter's son, and not mine."

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her slowly take another spoonful of mousse, looking very thoughtful. It really wasn't a good sign, he thought ruefully, to find one's self nursing homicidally jealous thoughts toward an eating utensil.

"I think," she said finally, setting the dish down, "that you are right about the grudge, but not about being pathetic." She got up, brushing crumbs off her robes--he hid a smirk, thinking that no amount of crumb-brushing would render her less a disaster, at the moment--and picked her way through the dishes toward him, extending her hand to help him up. "But I really think it's Harry you should be telling about all that, not me."

He took her hand--and where the conversation might have gone from there they would never know, because in that same instant he gasped and clutched reflexively at his inner left forearm. The Morsmordre--which never quite ceased to trouble him, since Voldemort had returned--burned suddenly and fiercely with the Dark Lord's summons.

"Professor?" Hermione was thrown off-balance as he heaved himself upright. He pulled her into motion before she was quite steady, heading toward the great fireplace as fast as bone-deep weariness would allow.

"We've lingered here too long," he said tersely, and winced as the summons intensified, as it only did when Voldemort was feeling impatient or angry.

She found her stride at last, and glanced down at his right hand, still clamped to his opposite forearm against the burn. "The Death Eaters?"

"He's summoning them. Urgently." He brought them to an abrupt halt before the fireplace and shoved the Floo Powder at her, and she scooped out a handful so hastily that a puff of the stuff flew out of the jar and coated her face and hair, making her sneeze.

Tossing it into the fire, she scrambled in after. "We're leaving Crabbe and--"

"No choice. Be away with you, girl! They could Apparate in at any time!"

She called out her destination and vanished in a roar of green. He followed the instant she was clear, almost singeing himself in his haste, and could have sworn he heard the distinct pop of an Apparation as he was swept into the Floo network, and then out into the fireplace in the Safe House sitting room.

Even as he stepped out, to find Hermione waiting anxiously and Remus Lupin watching with her, he felt the first furious assault at the gates of his mind, and knew that he had not yet escaped the Dark Lord's wrath.

"Lupin--seal the Floo," he heard himself say, and thrust his wand into Hermione's hands without a word of explanation. He'd be far less dangerous to his companions without it. Then he turned his attention inward, shoring up the crumbling wall of his resolve against Voldemort's brutal onslaught.

Time and space matter in magic...Eye contact is often essential to Legilimancy...only Muggles talk of 'mind-reading.' So he had told Harry Potter, and all of it was true.

But it wasn't the whole truth. In somewhat the same manner as Potter's scar, the Morsmordre--the Dark Mark--went a long way toward bridging the chasm of distance. In a very real sense, every Death Eater stood perpetually in the presence of the Dark Lord; the fact that Severus had defected, then openly repudiated his allegiance, had not exempted him from that. Quite the opposite.

Part of his dislike for the old Auror, Moody, stemmed from the fact that the old nutter went around bellowing "Constant vigilance!" as though he really understood the meaning of the phrase. Severus had been guarding his own thoughts by necessity, even in his sleep, for sixteen years.

Now the Morsmordre seared his wrist like a branding iron, and the pain of it was an intolerable distraction. He was peripherally aware of the others speaking, of sinking gracelessly toward the floor--too little strength left to fight this inner battle and stay upright...of Hermione getting her arms around him, preventing him cracking his head on the tile...

Voldemort's frustration hammered at his temples, hurting him fiercely, then slid away into the seductive siren call that had lured him into the Death Eaters' fold at the beginning. He would rather deal with the assault. So much more difficult to fight off, these insidious promises of forgiveness, peace, belonging, rest...that was all he really wanted, all he had wanted for such a long time now, to rest...

"Severus?" He opened his eyes, not remembering that he'd shut them, and Albus was there, kneeling next to him, his kindly old face filled with gravest concern. He realised his head was cradled in Hermione's lap, and resolutely blocked her from his awareness, for both their protection.

"Headmaster. He's calling me. I don't know how long..." The sinister whisper receded momentarily into the background, but it was still there, still probing for a way in, and if he dropped his guard even for an instant...

Albus nodded, and put something into his hand...a small vial. "Dreamless Sleep," he said quietly. "Even Voldemort's sending cannot penetrate the oblivion it brings."

He stared at the vial for a moment. Albus was correct, it offered refuge of a sort, once it had taken effect. But there would be a few moments of drowsiness, and that would leave him horribly vulnerable. Voldemort could do tremendous damage in that few moments' time.

"Keep me talking." He unstopped the vial, noting with clinical detachment that his hands were trembling slightly. "I mustn't lose my focus too soon, or I'll be wide open to him."

Dumbledore nodded as he downed the potion in one swallow. "Why don't you tell us what happened at the Manor, after the boys returned to us?"

"There's little enough to tell...I had a few words with Vincent Crabbe. That boy has no business being a Death Eater; he fought because his father and their friends fought. He has no clue what it's really all about."

"Crabbe, Severus?" Albus prompted gently.

"Crabbe, yes." He blinked, picking up the thread and forging on. "And now his friend Goyle is dead. I doubt he'll last a fortnight with neither that one nor Draco around. At any rate," he yawned, "Miss Granger damn near put me into cardiac arrest, wandering about the Manor House unannounced...but she was a great help. I'd not have got the burials finished in time without her," he admitted groggily. Cool fingers brushed lightly across his forehead, and he smiled slightly, losing track of the conversation as the magically-induced fog rose up around him, promising a rare peaceful repose. Even the fiery throbbing of the Mark was blunted, fading out of awareness moment by moment. If only that damned voice would shut up...

"Oh, sod off...bloody fucking liar...'m not going anywhere," he murmured, turning to nestle comfortably into his pillow as someone dropped a heavy quilt over him. Blackness was closing in, and he gave into it with a grateful sigh. "'m already..."

He woke to a touch at his shoulder and a familiar voice speaking his name, sensing that some time had passed, though his head was still fuzzy, and aching slightly--just like the rest of him.

"I'm sorry to wake you," Minerva was saying softly, "but Albus felt he couldn't put this off much longer..."

He bestirred himself to look around, and saw with a vague sense of disappointment that he'd been moved to a cot in Poppy's small infirmary space; he seemed to be the only inmate, at the moment. It was unsettling to think that he'd slept so heavily as to never notice someone was carting him around.

Grumbling something suitably acidic, he sat up and rubbed at his eyes, noting with displeasure that he was in dire need of a shower, a shave and a toothbrush, not necessarily in that order. "All right, I'm awake..." He coughed huskily. Bugger it all, isn't this lung problem ever going to clear up?

"I feel like I've gone three rounds with a Blast-Ended Skrewt," he groaned. "What's so urgent he can't spare me a few more hours? Is he expecting an attack?"

"He doesn't seem to be. And I don't believe anyone can find us here. If I had to guess, I'd say he's excited about something. But he asked me to wake you a bit early, so you'd have time to collect yourself...there's coffee here, and some sandwiches, if you want them."

He picked up the steaming mug with a sigh. "You're a good woman, Minerva. But if you tell anyone I said that, I shall categorically deny it."

"Hmm? Did you say something, Severus?" She smiled slyly.

"Hearing things again, are you? Haven't I said you should get your ears checked?" He glanced around again, as a new thought intruded. "Have you seen Draco? I'd have thought Poppy would have him incarcerated..."

"She did. He was in quite a state, when he arrived back, but he pulled himself together and went off on some business of his own. Much to Poppy's disapproval. Molly Weasley might know where he is--"

"Molly?" He raised his eyebrows incredulously, wondering what those two could possibly have to say to one another.

"Yes, she spent some time with him. So did Harry, and Hagrid, and Tonks--"

Severus frowned thoughtfully. "It seems I've missed quite a bit."

Minerva paused, and bit her lip. This was never, in Snape's experience, a good sign. "Yes, I'm afraid you have...but Draco is the least of it." She drew up a chair and settled herself in it. "Do you want the bad news now, or after you've repaired yourself?"

"Tell me now. If it's bad enough I may just go back to bed, and let Albus keep his surprise." He was half inclined to do exactly that, bad news or no.

Minerva licked her lips, and--oh, this must be very bad indeed--dithered for a moment. "Welll...I'm not quite sure where to begin..."

"Begin at the beginning," he suggested dryly, "go all the way through, and when you get to the end, stop." Still she hesitated. "Should I perhaps procure a bottle of firewhisky first?" he asked uneasily, grouchiness giving way to the beginnings of real alarm.

She winced. "Possibly. It's just this, Severus...Albus is planning to build a new school--"

"A perfectly sensible idea, given that the old school is currently a heap of toxic slag..."

"Well, yes, but he may have chosen a rather poor time to bring it up. Certain...parties took advantage of your absence to put forth some rather radical ideas..."

She trailed off, not meeting his gaze. Most un-Gryffindor-like. He felt his Potions Master mask dropping into place, quite involuntarily, but didn't try to resist the reflex. "Go on," he said ominously.

Now she did look up, and pursed her lips slightly. "Honestly, you may want to find that firewhisky first..." He narrowed his eyes, and she shook her head resignedly. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."

As McGonagall described the events of the past thirty-six hours or so, he felt his temper rising to a simmer, and then to a full-on boil. She named no names, but she hardly needed to. Any simpleton could have guessed who was behind it.

"Thank you, Minerva. I appreciate your bringing this to my attention," he said flatly when she had finished. It took a good deal of effort, but he had far too much respect for his Gryffindor counterpart to lash out at her for the actions of a mangy, drooling, flea-bitten cur like Black.

Instead, he stood up slowly, every muscle and joint complaining. It prevented him storming out forthwith, as he would ordinarily do after such a revelation. Gods, but he wanted a hot shower.

McGonagall also rose, clearly troubled, and watched as he stretched his limbs carefully. "Severus," she began hesitantly.

"Yes?" He tried very hard to sound friendly--she had after all just saved him from walking into a very nasty situation unawares--but as he was still seething inwardly, feeling filthy, and in pain to boot (never mind an assortment of less immediate issues,) it came across more as irritable.

She clasped her hands together a bit nervously. "I...you know that I wouldn't presume to interfere in your personal affairs. --You do know that, don't you?"

He sighed, dropping his arms to his sides with a grimace. "If you're about to deliver the obligatory Deputy Headmistress don't-do-anything-rash speech, you needn't bother. I'll have to deal with the situation eventually, but right now I'm in no condition, and Albus apparently has something else up his sleeve--"

"I'm not talking about the Slytherin situation," she said softly, pulling his wand out of her sleeve and handing it over. "I'm talking about Hermione Granger."

He froze in place, and then nodded once in resignation, carefully not looking at her as he took his wand. He ought to have guessed, after the scene by the fireplace, that word would have got around. Weasley and Potter would no doubt be foaming at the mouth on Hermione's behalf, ready to festoon the rafters with his entrails; what a joyous meeting that would be. "So, then it's to be the Gryffindor Head stay-the-hell-away-from-my-student speech."

Minerva folded her arms. "If you were practically anyone else, you're bloody well right it would be." She walked around to stand in front of him and tilted her head, bending slightly to look him in the face. "But it's so rare that you open up to anyone, Severus, I'd feel a bit criminal trying to interfere. I like to think that if you were some sort of--predator, after sixteen years of working with you I would have got an inkling of that fact."

"Oh? And just what other word would you use to describe a Death Eater?" he asked pointedly. Actually quite a few words came to mind, but predator was perfectly apropos.

She frowned slightly, with a disapproving little shake of her head. "Ex-Death Eater. Do please stop trying to convince me you're an incorrigible villain, Severus. However you may enjoy terrorizing the students, you know I don't believe a word of it."

This was all wrong. He was trying to confess to inappropriate fraternization with a student, a Gryffindor student, and here was Minerva excusing him, perhaps even...approving? Come to that, Albus had been right there, and couldn't possibly have missed the signs. Why hadn't he wakened with a pink slip spellotaped to his forehead? And what had Hermione said--what had been said to her--after he'd passed out there, curled up cozily in her lap?

McGonagall just stood there looking at him, and he spread his hands, at a loss for what he was supposed to say. "Well if you don't intend to castrate me on the spot--which by the way is what you probably should do, Godric Gryffindor must be turning over in his grave--then why exactly did you bring it up?" He put his hands in his pockets and paced a few turns. That could all too easily become a habit, if he wasn't careful.

"Godric Gryffindor would have come up with something far more imaginative. I only wanted to ask you to be very careful, Severus."

He stopped and looked at her soberly, all too well aware of the potential for disaster inherent in the situation. "I'm in a very awkward position, Minerva. The girl seems determined to pursue this--association, and I won't deny that I am tempted." He stopped to clear his throat, a self-conscious half-smile briefly crossing his face as the memory of their stolen kiss played itself over in his mind. "Sorely tempted. But believe me, I am well aware--"

McGonagall shook her head, raising a hand to forestall any further exposition.

"Perhaps I haven't made myself plain. However you choose to proceed, you do not need to justify yourself to me," she said calmly. "I'm prepared to look the other way, is what I am getting at. And in any case, frankly, I'm not much worried about Miss Granger."

"Oh, really?" He cocked one eyebrow skeptically. "Surely you don't mean to suggest, Professor, that I have anything to fear from the misplaced affection of a seventeen-year-old-girl?"

The reality, of course, was that the seventeen-year-old girl in question had the potential to utterly destroy him. Why or how she had developed such a fascination with him was a complete mystery--he labored under no delusions concerning his own appeal, or lack thereof. But he was only human, and in the twenty-five years or so since he had first begun to take serious notice of the female of the species, no woman had ever paid him that sort of flattering attention. At least, no woman whose ulterior motives were anything but pathetically transparent.

It would be too easy to go along with it, to become lost in the sweetness of it; but to do so would be to surrender the defensive wall of reticence that he had so painstakingly built. The thought of intentionally embracing such vulnerability was more than unnerving--it induced something amazingly like a panic attack.

His self-assurance was completely feigned, and Minerva knew it; she smiled in a way that reminded him annoyingly of Albus as she made her way to the opening in the curtains. "Take it however you like, Professor. But I, for one, would find it terribly disheartening to have to watch you skulk about in misery for another sixteen years."

"Presuming we have sixteen more years," he amended grimly.

"Hmph. Don't get your hopes up, young man, I intend to be around to plague you for a good bit longer than that."

With that tart remark, McGonagall pulled aside the curtain. "The meeting is in half an hour in Albus's study. I'll see you there." She walked out, the heavy fabric swaying gently in her wake.

---

Severus arrived a few minutes early for the meeting, slightly pink-skinned from a scalding-hot shower, but more alert and somewhat less achy and out-of-sorts than before. The gods knew he could have done with another long nap, but at least he ought to make it through this business--whatever it was--without keeling over or tearing anyone's head off. He even managed, after checking quickly on the well-being of his Slytherins, to avoid running into any of the people he preferred not to deal with at the moment--a list which included most of the occupants of the Safe House, for a variety of reasons.

Flitwick was already there, and greeted him with courtesy as always. He returned the salutation absently, pulling up one of five comfortable wingback chairs now placed around a good-sized round table in the middle of the room, to wait for the others. Flitwick's chair had much longer legs than the other four, allowing him to see over the table comfortably, and Severus wondered (not for the first time) whether his small colleague was some breed of half-human, or merely the victim of some long-ago miscast shrinking charm.

"Wonderful to see you back on your feet, Severus. Eventful couple of days it's been, hasn't it?" Filius inquired.

"To put it mildly," he agreed. He couldn't say he liked the little Charms instructor, precisely. Flitwick was altogether too cheerful, and prone to excessive displays of emotion at times; but their professional relationship had always been comfortably neutral, which was more than he could say about a good many other people he was obliged to work with. He waited a moment to see whether his Ravenclaw counterpart would inquire about the events at Malfoy Manor, but either Flitwick had heard the details elsewhere or he was tactful enough to leave it alone.

They had been waiting only a few moments when Minerva came in, accompanied by Pomona Sprout. Minerva seated herself gracefully at the table, greeting him and Flitwick with her usual aplomb.

Sprout plunked down gracelessly in her chair and heaved a great sigh. "Filius, Severus." Always on the move, and an extremely straightforward woman, Pomona; Severus occasionally found her demeanor irritating, but his respect for her encyclopedic knowledge of Herbology and its applications in potion-making was immense.

"So," Filius said cheerfully after a moment, "it's just the four of us, then? Anyone know what Albus has in mind?"

Sprout shook her head. "All he told me was to show up."

"From the way he was acting when he spoke to me about it, you'd think it was a Christmas party he was planning." Minerva smiled. "Whatever it is, I think it will be well worth our time."

Snape had a distinct impression she'd thrown that last comment out for his benefit. He was sitting with his chin propped in his hand, unable to muster any real enthusiasm, but trying at least for resignation. "It had better be," he grumbled. "One of Albus's meetings is a very poor trade for a blissful sojourn in the arms of Morpheus."

"Dear me, Severus, I had no idea you and Morpheus were even on speaking terms, let alone canoodling," Sprout said with a chuckle.

He glared at her balefully. "You possess no sense of the poetic whatsoever, do you?"

"Oh, I do. It's about as healthy as your sense of humour," she said, grinning wickedly.

"Let the poor man be, Pomona," Minerva chided her gently. "He's had the kind of day I wouldn't wish on a Dementor."

Flitwick nodded sympathetically. "Yes, quite. Dreadful business. I really don't know how you managed, Severus...holding off seven Death Eaters alone, and then an almighty free-for-all..."

Snape, who had just put his head down in his arms and resolved to ignore the others until Albus arrived, looked up in surprise. "Who told you that? Draco?" He coughed a bit, scarcely noticing.

"Why, no. I haven't heard a word out of the boy since he was brought back. Potter gave the story to Albus, at first, and he told the rest of us," Filius explained. "It's made the rounds since, of course..."

"Harry Potter said I did that?" He frowned, rubbing at his forehead.

"He did." Minerva sounded puzzled. "Why, Severus, is that not how it happened?"

"In a manner of speaking," he said slowly. "There were seven Death Eaters there, yes, but only four of them were actually fighting with me when Potter and his cohorts arrived."

"Oh, is that all." Sprout chuckled again. "Well, whatever the numbers add up to, I should say you mightily impressed those boys. You ought to have seen Ron Weasley's face when one of your Slytherins asked him about it...he looked like someone trying to give a play-by-play of a World Quidditch Cup match while suffering from severe indigestion. Did you actually throw a giant python at Gregory Goyle?"

Severus shook his head slightly, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Anaconda," he clarified. Potter and Weasley had spoken well of him? To his own House?

Before he could process that singularly astounding piece of information, the door opened and Albus strolled into the room, carrying a large shoebox under his arm. "Good afternoon, everyone," he said almost jovially, sketching them a slight bow. "So sorry if I've kept you waiting..." He turned around to seal and ward the door....rather elaborately.

The Heads of House exchanged mystified looks. Whatever the Headmaster had called them together for, it must be significant indeed, to merit the kind of protection he was placing on the room. The four of them working together would have had a rough job trying to break through those wards.

Dumbledore walked to the table and set the shoebox down carefully, as though its contents were very precious. "I do apologise for dragging you from a well-deserved rest, Severus. But I have a feeling we will need to move ahead very soon with this, and now that I have the four of you here together, I want you all acquainted with the particulars of the task ahead..."

Severus lost the thread of what the Headmaster was saying at this point. His attention was being drawn irresistibly toward the shoebox. Glancing around at his fellow House Heads, he noted that they were having the same reaction; there was something immensely powerful inside that box, emitting a subliminal siren's song that was impossible to ignore. Yet at the same time, something about it was subtly repelling. He'd never felt anything like it before.

"What have you got there, Albus?" Minerva asked slowly, her eyes fixed on the box with mixed curiosity and apprehension.

The old wizard placed both hands gently on top of the box and looked thoughtfully down his beard at it. "This?" He smiled slightly, and Severus thought that he had never seen those canny old eyes so brightly lit.

"This, my dear, is the end product of a search I began shortly after I accepted the position of Headmaster at Hogwarts. I'd nearly given up hope that it would end successfully...but the final pieces fell into place just within the past fortnight..." He removed the lid of the box with exaggerated care. "And now...I would like to present each of you with a gift."

He reached into the shoebox and lifted out a small plain case, about sixteen inches long and perhaps three wide, made of deeply polished mahogany. Dumbledore handled it with the tender care one would show to an ancient family heirloom, though it was impossible to say how old it might actually be; the finish was as bright and flawless as though it had just been made.

"Minerva, this is for you," the old man murmured, leaning across the table to pass it to her with both hands.

Mystified, the Gryffindor accepted the case with similar care. She gasped slightly as her fingers closed around the beautiful object and caressed its surface reverently, her eyes widening as though in shock. "Albus--what in heaven's name--"

Severus fought down an impulse to lean back in his chair, certain that this was the source of his slight discomfiture. Curiously, it seemed to be having the opposite effect on Minerva. He would almost have said (well out of her hearing) that she was behaving as though--aroused, and anything that could disrupt Minerva McGonagall's composure to that degree--

He bit the inside of his lip to stop himself demanding that she get on with it, desperately curious as to what was inside, and what Albus still had in that shoebox.

"Go ahead...open it," the Headmaster whispered, his anticipation hanging tangibly in the air.

McGonagall swallowed audibly, and slid her fingers along the side of the case, finding the seam and lifting the lid without further ado.

An instant later the case nearly tumbled from her hands, and Severus and Pomona both threw themselves reflexively across the table to prevent it shattering on the hard surface. But Minerva caught it with two fingers at the last possible moment, apparently by sheer instinct. Her attention was focused entirely on the slender fourteen-inch length of oak clutched in her other hand.

Sprawled halfway across the table, Severus had an excellent view of the thing; and although its proximity made him distinctly uncomfortable, he stayed where he was, staring at it in disbelief. He'd seen that wand before, but only in old portraits and illustrations...very, very old...

"Albus, this can't be what I think it is," Minerva breathed. Severus glanced up at her face, and could have sworn her eyes had literally illuminated from within. She must have been a very pretty woman at one time, he caught himself thinking, and then wished he hadn't, as that thought conjured images in his mind of other pretty eyes...bright green, soft brown...which he regretfully filed away for a more appropriate time.

Since he was right there, he carefully took the mahogany case out of her nerveless fingers--she never noticed--and set it down on the table, then settled back into his chair and looked wordlessly to Albus for an explanation.

Albus merely smiled enigmatically and lifted a second wooden case out of the shoebox (this one slightly smaller, and dyed a deep royal blue) and handed it to Flitwick.

The miniature Professor accepted it eagerly, his beard quivering, and opened it at once. He made a small inarticulate sound of joy as he drew out an elegant willow wand, and his eyes filled with tears. "Oh my heavens. It is. The wand of Rowena Ravenclaw--Albus, how could this have survived--? Where did you find it--!?"

Severus didn't actually see Pomona get her gift, though her shriek of incredulous delight left his ears ringing for some time afterward. His eyes were fixed immovably on the shoebox. He can't. He can't possibly have found it--Salazar Slytherin disappeared without a trace--no one ever learned what happened to him--he must have something else for me, any minute now he's going to launch into some long-winded explanation and--

--and then Albus was putting a wand case of pure jet, polished to a mirror finish, into his hands, and an ecstatic jolt of energy ran up both his arms and down his spine at the contact.

"Severus, you have no idea," the Headmaster said softly (and Snape knew the old man's eyes must be gleaming like star sapphires, though he couldn't tear his own from the glossy black box,) "the lengths to which I went to find this..."

He fumbled with the lid for a moment, realised he had it turned round the wrong way, flipped it over, and opened it with shaking hands.

Inside, nestled in a bed of crumbling green velvet, lay a beautiful wand of fine ashwood, nearly fifteen inches long. It was intricately carved with runes and sigils of fortune and prosperity, its handle engraved with the familiar twining serpents of Slytherin House, highlighted in gleaming silver. He knew without asking that the heartstring of an ancient dragon--a Peruvian Vipertooth, to be precise--lay at its core.

He ran his fingers across the surface of the wood, and felt something deep inside him resonate in perfect accord with the subtle harmonics that flowed from the artifact. "Albus, this isn't possible..."

"Hmm, quite. It has been some time since I accomplished the impossible; I felt it high time you lot were reminded of my nigh-infallibility." Albus chuckled softly, clasping his shoulder for a moment before returning to his own chair.

Minerva held the wand of Godric Gryffindor close to her breast with both hands, as though afraid it might sprout wings and fly away like a rogue Snitch. "However did you manage it, Albus? I would have thought it unlikely that even one of them still existed--but to find all four, intact, particularly Salazar's--!"

"I don't care how he did it!" Filius was all but weeping, and looked perilously close to snogging Ravenclaw's wand. "I honestly didn't think we would be up to it, to building the new school, but with these--"

"They built Hogwarts," Pomona breathed, turning the wand of Hufflepuff over and over in her hands, drinking in every detail of the darkly stained holly wood. "They cast the Foundation Spell...can you imagine? There have never been any other wands like these, anywhere, ever."

Severus carefully disengaged Slytherin's wand from its velvet bed and examined it closely. Though every bit as amazed as the others, he couldn't quite allow himself to be carried away with excitement. "It truly pains me to be the one to squelch all this euphoria," he murmured, "but surely you all must realise that the wands, powerful as they are, are incidental to the task."

He ignored the resentful looks the other three Heads of House cast his way. "In fact, we can't really be sure they'll serve us as well as our own wands. Without the spell itself, we're scarcely any further ahead than we were before..."

Dumbledore nodded, a little too readily, Severus thought. "Yes, well said, Severus. Quite correct. The Foundation Spell is unique in the annals of wizardry. History tells us that no written record was ever made, and without one, the only options open to us are to reconstruct the spell, or devise an entirely new one, a task that could take months..."

"If not years," Snape amended smoothly, certain the old man was not yet through with his surprises.

"True. Happily, however, history is an inexact science, subject to constant revision..." Albus reached into the very bottom of the shoebox, "...as new evidence is brought to light."

He drew forth a small, battered leather book, its yellowed pages crackling and crumbling with age, and opened it carefully, charming several brittle pages to prevent them disintegrating entirely. The Heads of House gathered closely around to read the faded brown text, written in an elegant, flourishing hand which Snape recognised at once.

"Albus. Where did you find this?" He clasped his hands firmly behind his back so that they wouldn't snatch the antique book up without his leave. "As Head of Slytherin House, I would have thought I would be made aware--"

"So you would have, Severus, if I had been aware of its existence prior to a few days ago," Dumbledore said mildly. "I found it in the same place as the wand, and I must ask you not to inquire any further into the matter." Severus started to object, but Albus overrode him. "I feel badly to have disturbed the place as far as I already have, and I really would prefer that it remain undisclosed. This book, of course, will become part of the Slytherin archives once we have finished with it."

"Oh, very well," Severus muttered, turning his attention back to the faded script, reading over Minerva's shoulder. A moment later he forgot all about the book's place of origin as he realised what he was looking at. "Great shades of Merlin."

McGonagall made a very Scottish noise as she scanned the text. "I can't believe it...the Foundation Spell."

Sprout was bent so close to the page her nose almost touched the parchment. "I think we can do this," she said with quiet wonder. "It's an esoteric form, and it looks very complicated, but I recognise everything and I don't see any reason why we couldn't...only the gender correspondences are a trifle off..."

"Yes, but that's not such an impediment, we can compensate for that. Our overall balance is correct." Filius was practically jumping up and down on his chair.

Minerva shook her head bemusedly. "Trust Salazar Slytherin to have written it down after they all agreed not to."

"He had to," Snape said softly, reading a bit further ahead. "Look here...he was planning to do it again. He needed an accurate record."

Filius tugged thoughtfully at his beard. "But that makes no sense...why would he abandon one school just to go and build another one? Hogwarts was more than adequate to educate the entire Wizarding population of the British Isles...or...oh, of course." He looked a trifle sheepish. "He must have wanted a school just for the purebloods."

Severus and Minerva arrived at the same clause simultaneously. "No, he didn't," they said in unison, and looked up at each other with identical expressions of shock.

Albus smiled serenely. "I think we shall make a copy of the spell for each of you to study," he suggested. "Certain adjustments will have to be made, of course. We'll reconvene tomorrow to discuss the matter in greater depth. And Severus, I suspect that this journal may provide you with admirable solutions to certain other...challenges."

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