Chapter Two

Chapter Two: In which Severus Snape receives an unexpected and unwanted tribute.

~o0o~

The lifeless body had been placed at the exact center of the desk. No more than a scant handful in size, the vole's winter coat matched the color of the aged wood upon which it lay, but the tips of its fur glowed an iridescent greenish light, a result of the charm placed by the security-conscious Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Rigor mortis would set in before the creature's discovery. In the meantime, the security spell's warning radiated outward, finding the imperfect seal along the frame of the door and leaking into the Defense classroom beyond, announcing to any who entered that Professor Snape's office had been breached.

Snape returned to the castle shortly before curfew. He adjusted the set of his cloak and ran his fingers through his windblown hair, combing it roughly into shape. The Muggle stylist had known what to do with baby fine, oily hair and it layered neatly enough these days. As he entered the castle, he met the head of Ravenclaw as planned, and, without comment, the two wizards began their nightly circuit, speeding students to their common rooms before the docking of house points began.

"Rumor has it you received a Howler this afternoon." Filius Flitwick introduced the topic when the swinging staircase joined the second floor landing. For all his diminutive size, the Charms master had little trouble keeping up with his taller colleague.

"A less frequent bounty this year than last," Snape responded. "Brocklehurst has taken offense at his recent marks. His mother thought it best to inform me her son is a dear, sweet boy, and I must have been mistaken in my judgment." Snape's tone was as dry as a winter wind skimming the Sahara desert. "She suggested, in the warmest terms imaginable, that I should reconsider."

Flitwick's indelicate snort emerged as something like a squeak. He cleared his throat and fingered his Ravenclaw-blue braces before speaking. "I expect to be next on her list then."

"You," said the Defense master, "are an optimist."

"Perhaps," his companion replied, taking two steps for every one of Snape's as they traversed the upper halls. "Brocklehurst isn't living up to expectations, not the least of those being his parents'. Do you think he's your prankster?"

Before Snape answered, he turned into the corridor leading to his classroom and the office he had spurned a decade before; there would be no more dungeons for him. His eyes narrowed, his stride lengthened, and he drew his wand when he saw the telltale sign of the security breach leaking from beneath the door. When he reached his classroom, green light shone off the toe of his highly polished boot. "Brocklehurst hasn't the native intelligence for this."

Flitwick reached his side, his own wand in his hand, just in case. "Student?" he asked.

"Most likely, and considering the perpetrator's cleverness, I suspect a Ravenclaw," Snape said blandly as, with a twist and a nonverbal spell, the door silently swung open. "Aperio!"

Fluorescent blue light shot from the end of his wand and zipped into the room, rocketing from corner-to-corner and floor-to-ceiling at an ever quickening pace until it spun around the wrought iron chandelier at a dizzying rate before fizzling out of existence.

"It's empty," Flitwick commented needlessly, then deflected his colleague's scorn by stepping into the room first, his wand held in the Cockburn dueling position. Snape entered behind him, and both wizards' eyes were drawn to the lurid outline surrounding the office door. "None of the students in my house would do such a thing." Snape merely stared at Flitwick until he flushed and said defensively, "Pendergast left last year."

The Defense master snapped, "There will always be those eager to demonstrate their willful ignorance." Closing his eyes, Snape took a deep, cleansing breath as he had been taught while recovering in the Black Forest. "My apologies. I meant no offense."

"None taken, Severus."

"It was foolish to believe my return wouldn't engender some form of entrenched protest; however, outright intrusion is a more serious matter. Shall we see what has been done to my office?"

Flitwick stepped past Snape, coattails flaring as he moved, and he snapped his wrist with such force the tip of his wand vibrated in his hand. A small, noiseless explosion flared against the closed office door, golden sparks shooting in all directions. "There's nothing harmful within, other than the boggart, the Cornish pixie, and the hinkypunk." Flitwick glanced at his friend. "It might have been wishful thinking, but I did hope for a lessening of the Snape-baiting this year."

Snape sighed deeply even as he took the circular stairs leading to his office two-at-a-time. "They're children, Filius. They reflect the opinions of their parents and their peers. Some have as little inclination for independent thought as lemmings while others will learn tolerance as they mature. On rare occasions, I seem to be the privileged recipient of a seventh-year epiphany."

He pressed his wand to the doorknob and the door silently swung open upon his nonverbal command. The green light was bright and Snape squinted against its glare. Nothing save the desk had been touched. Swiftly crossing the room, he stared at the dead rodent.

Flitwick moved to the other side of the desk. "I don't expect this is the result of a broader world view."

Snape snorted. "Unlikely." Then, with a lithe series of wand movements, he successively canceled the security spell, lit the room, and levitated the specimen into the air for a better look.

His colleague cast a diagnostic charm on the rodent. A verdant mist in a different hue than Snape's security spell settled over the small, furry creature, but instantly turned red and then black. Flitwick frowned and cast the spell again. "How extraordinary."

Snape gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles appearing as bloodless as the dead vole. "This is more than a mere prank."

"So it would seem."

Conjuring a clear bag, Snape held it open for Flitwick to save the evidence for future examination. Next, Flitwick cast a preservative charm on the rodent before adding a series of similar charms on the bag to protect its contents from decontamination and decay.

"It seems someone has learned the truth," Snape said heavily.

"How is that possible, Severus? None of us would ever–"

Flitwick flinched under the weight of Snape's cold stare. "Someone knows, Filius."

"You might have had reason to doubt in the past, but use Legilimency." His tone raced up the octave. "Right here, right now. I want you to know! I would never do this to you! Never!" The excitable wizard was so upset sparks flew from his wand.

Surprisingly, Flitwick's loss of control calmed Snape; he laid his hand on the smaller wizard's shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. "I believe you."

"Minerva wouldn't either! You know she wouldn't." When Snape said nothing, Flitwick pivoted on his highly polished boots and raised his wand. "Expecto patronum!" A fully articulated, silver seal gamboled out of the office and down the stairs. "Just wait," Flitwick said. "They'll be here as quickly as they can. I know none of us did this. Nor have they said anything."

Disappointment hid in the timbre of his voice as Snape said, "Before this evening, I would have agreed with you."

"I want to know how this was accomplished. There is no transom window above the door and the Floo access has been restricted in all offices since that hag Umbridge was here." Flitwick accompanied chatter with action, his wand moving so fast it was a blur. Trails of light – red, blue, yellow – left retinal traces as he cast spell after spell in an attempt to determine who, what, when and how the prankster had broken through the pre-existing layers of protection.

Snape didn't reply, but he returned to the small buttress at the top of the stairs outside his office. From that position he was able to cast a similar set of revealing spells. However, his choices dipped into a Darker range of magic; magic never fully eradicated once embraced. The colors crisscrossing the classroom were orchid, persimmon, and the virulent green he'd used when he had been a Death Eater.

Ghost images of students, staff members and magical creatures appeared as a result of the detection spells, some sitting, some standing, and others – like the revenant of the Cornish pixie – flying. Regrettably, none were engaged in anything other than everyday activities.

Returning to his office, Snape shook his head in response to his friend's query, and the two settled uneasily into the guest chairs. "I don't know whether to resign and offer my position to whoever has evaded my security, or make use of more questionable methods to keep them out."

It was a testament to Flitwick's frustration that he didn't chastise Snape for suggesting the use of quasi-ethical magic. The sudden SNAP of his braces smacking against his starched shirt was so unexpected and loud that Snape aborted a defensive hex. He glared at his colleague for succumbing to his unusual nervous habit of plucking and releasing the elastic material securing his trousers. Instead, Snape settled back into his chair without comment on Flitwick's rigorous conformity to a style of dress which would have suited a Muggle dandy of the eighteen hundreds.

Providentially, they hadn't long to wait as the first of those summoned raced through the door.

Minerva McGonagall appeared in the doorway, clad in a tartan dressing gown while her hair streamed down her back, but her wand was held firmly in one hand even as the other pressed to her chest when she caught her breath. "What – what's happened?"

Flitwick would have explained, but Snape cut him off. "Let's wait for the others to arrive. That way we can tell the story once."

She glared at Flitwick. "I thought it was an emergency! You could have let me put up my hair. What if a student saw?"

"I'm sorry, Minerva," Flitwick replied in a small voice. "There is some degree of urgency, but ..."

At that moment Irma Pince entered the office, Argus Filch following immediately behind her. "What – Severus?" She, too, was breathing fast. "Is everything all right?"

Filch was the first to notice the bagged vole hovering above Snape's desk. "A new addition to your collection?"

It only took Snape seven short sentences to explain the situation.

Filch blurted, "Bloodless?"

"You can't think–" McGonagall spoke over Hogwarts' caretaker before pinching her mouth shut. Her eyes blazed with wounded fury. "Of course you can. How could you not?"

Madam Pince simply asked, "What will ease your mind, Severus?"

He leaned back in his chair, elbows resting on its wooden arms, and then steepled his hands. His bleak expression was more expressive than if he'd delivered a monograph on the subject.

After a worrisome beat, McGonagall stepped in front of him, drawing his attention to her careworn but honest face. "Wait here. I won't be longer than ten minutes."

For the first two minutes a superficial calm descended on those remaining in the office. Then Snape moved. He stood to offer his chair to the librarian which she accepted gracefully. Unlike McGonagall, she still wore her day robes, the black material did nothing for her complexion, washing all the color from her pale skin. Her movements were sharp and adrenaline-fueled, and she breathed deeply to regain her composure.

Filch, dressed, as usual, in his sturdy, worn clothes, leaned over the desk, inspecting the vole. His arthritic hands curled into fists, their knuckles swollen and red. He broke the quiet to ask, "How was it done?"

"Puncture wound directly over the heart," Snape replied dispassionately.

Pince gasped, covered her mouth with one hand, and gripped the chair as if to keep from falling out of it. She looked at Snape fearfully.

"Someone knows something they ought not," he said ominously.

Filch moved to stand behind the librarian as if protecting her.

They heard McGonagall's return before they saw her. She stopped in the classroom to close, lock, and ward the outer door. When she entered Snape's office she performed the same ritual with the inner door, adding a Muffliato for good measure. When she turned to face the others, she noticed Snape's surprise. "Did you think Potter the only one who could take advantage of a clever idea? I've been using that spell for years now."

During her absence, she had hastily changed into everyday robes and managed to twist her long hair into a haphazard bun, and when she pulled her left hand from the deep pocket of her robes, it held a small, dark vial. "Veritaserum."

Filch gurgled and swallowed hard. As a Squib, Veritaserum would affect him much as an entire bottle of Firewhisky.

"I'm sorry, Argus," McGonagall said sincerely. "I'll find someone to take your duties tomorrow, but Severus' peace of mind is worth a hangover, don't you think?" Without asking permission, she transfigured four small glasses – the size Muggle pubs used to serve shots of spirits – from the student essays piled on the side of Snape's desk. There was enough red ink on the parchment to tint the glasses pink. Then, with a nonverbal Aguamenti, she filled each glass half full before opening the small phial she'd pilfered from Horace Slughorn's private stores.

"Stop!" Snape reached for her hand. "You don't have to do this, Minerva."

Her tired blue eyes were guileless behind the clear lenses of her spectacles and her expression was solemn. "Yes, Severus, I think we do. I want you to know I haven't betrayed you. I think you need to know that none of us has."

"No," he replied, but she laid her hand on his arm.

"Give it up, man," Flitwick said, stepping to McGonagall's side and removing the dark blue vial from her fingers. He carefully measured three drops of the controlled substance into one of the shot glasses and then set the Veritaserum on the desk. Before Snape could articulate a rebuttal, Flitwick downed the potion in one swallow.

"Flitwick! Have you lost your mind?" Snape goggled at his colleague and friend. "It's unnecessary."

"I beg to differ." Irma Pince took her turn, carefully measuring three drops of Veritaserum and then taking her own drink of the potion-tainted water. "If it will ease your mind, Severus, there is every necessity to do this."

"I trust you," Snape protested, his dark eyes surprisingly vulnerable for a man who had been betrayed and wronged so frequently in his life.

When Filch held his shot glass to his mouth, McGonagall said, "And now you will have something more than faith to base that trust on."

Filch shuddered when he swallowed. The potion's effects were immediate: he became loose-limbed and his pale eyes fogged over; within seconds his mouth grew slack. Pince helped him to the teacher's chair behind the desk. Squibs and Muggles had been known to suffer memory loss after the truth serum's application.

Snape gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. On one hand, he was deeply moved by his friends' willingness to take this step for him, and on the other, he was livid the circumstances called for it.

"I'll start as I have the most to atone for." McGonagall swallowed her dose in a single mouthful. "I could cheerfully send Albus Dumbledore to his death all over again for putting me in this position – although I would have to push past Hermione Granger to do so." She turned to face Snape. "Let me assure you that I have spoken to no one other than those of us in this room about your condition, nor did I have anything to do with bringing that vermin into your office."

Snape nodded, and she smiled before wobbling over to a chair to sit down.

Flitwick had barely waited for her to stop speaking before he said, "I wouldn't and haven't betrayed your trust, Severus."

Again Snape nodded, but his eyes were bright. He turned to his remaining confidantes. Filch's head lolled against the back of the desk chair while Pince managed to keep him from sliding to the floor. Pulling his wand, Snape transfigured the chair into something more conformable. Once the caretaker was secured, Snape asked, "Well, Argus?"

"Wha-?"

Had Filch overindulged in Firewhisky he would have been a laughingstock; however, he'd volunteered to prove a point and no one smiled at his intoxicated state. Snape asked patiently, maybe enunciating a little too precisely, "Did you have anything to do with putting the dead rodent in my office?"

Filch wiped his wispy hair over his balding pate. "No, but when I catch the sorry little sod who did, I'll have a set of thumbscrews ready."

A smile tugged at the corner of Snape's mouth. He faced the last person in the room, his chest was tight. "And?" he asked.

The librarian remained in her position at Filch's side. "No, Severus, I would never endanger you."

Snape's relief softened his mouth and smoothed the tension around his eyes; amusement colored his comment. "Now the quota of melodrama has been met...." His hands had been busy while he'd spoken, and before any of the others could intervene, he tipped his head back and dripped three truth-coercing drops of liquid into his open mouth.

"Severus!" The exclamation came simultaneously from three mouths, while the fourth snored in a dissonant counterpoint.

"For too long I was forced to exploit others' benevolence. I'll be buggered if I put myself in a position to lord it over any of you. We remain equals."

Flitwick conjured a chair perfectly proportioned for him, then sat – sweeping his coattails to the side in a manner not seen in Muggle England since the Regency era and more recently in any number of pureblood enclaves – as if he hadn't been as startled as the others by Snape's gesture. "Now we've sorted the minor detail of our mutual loyalty and trustworthiness, we need to discuss our next steps." He pointed his wand at the dead vole, setting the clear bag into a slow spin.

"First we need to determine who is threatening to implicate Severus as a Sanguinarian," McGonagall stated in a take-no-prisoners manner.

"Forgive me for asking, Severus –" Flitwick replaced his wand in its sheath, "–but is it possible you left it yourself without being aware?"

"As possible as you forgetting to Charm the height of your chair at the high table," Snape replied with a bite in his words. "I will, however, concede your right to ask. As you recall, when I first required additional nourishment I was less fastidious about carcass disposal, but I haven't lost control in some time. Certainly not since I left Germany, and after my return to teaching I have been exceedingly careful."

McGonagall leaned toward Flitwick. "While he's driven by innate imperative he is not without his mental faculties. Severus wouldn't leave evidence behind."

"Not to mention," Snape added, pointing at the dead rodent hovering above his desk, "the security spells wouldn't have been tripped if it had been me leaving the tribute."

Flitwick flushed in embarrassment. "Ah. I hadn't considered that aspect of the evening's entertainment."

Filch snorted, sat upright and stared wildly around the room for approximately three seconds before his pale eyes rolled back in their sockets and he sagged against the chair. The others hid their sympathetic amusement, but Pince transfigured a blanket from another student essay and draped it over his lean frame. "Poor Argus. I think he might have to take the headmistress up on her offer of retirement next year. He's no longer young, and the students grow more rambunctious each year, particularly since the war has ended. Not," she added with emphasis, "that I wish for a return to those wretched days."

Snape asked, "What will he do? What will you do?"

"We've already made plans. I'll continue here for another few years and Argus will work with Aberforth at the Hogs Head. It's a sty, and we've considered buying it from him outright, but for a couple of years, at least, Argus wants to learn the business."

"I had no idea," Snape said, sitting heavily in the chair McGonagall had recently vacated.

"You've had other, more pressing, matters to contend with."

Flitwick cleared his throat, recalling them to one of those more pressing matters. "Someone has violated your office, Severus. I'm inclined to still think it a student prank." He held up his hand when Snape opened his mouth. "With your leave, I shall explain. You've been the recipient of a number of practical jokes since your return to teaching, some of which have been crude, a few of which have been clever. All have been based on fallacious information."

"Not all, Filius. I was a Death Eater and I did murder Dumbledore."

"Assisted suicide is not murder!" Flitwick stated crisply. "We've discussed this point before."

"No doubt there are idylls in the Black Forest still echoing with your indignation," Snape retorted. "You were moderately eloquent on that, and other, occasions."

"And he was quite correct," Pince asserted. "There are medical professionals who euthanize their patients at the request of those patients. It's considered an act of mercy, Severus."

"Filius has a point," McGonagall spoke up, harkening back to the original topic. "How many toy bats have been left for you at the high table, and didn't you receive a stuffed one in your classroom last year? What was the name of that boy?"

"Pendergast," Snape supplied, shooting a sly glance in Flitwick's direction. "It was an animated, tabletop diorama depicting a bat, complete with billowing cape, flying over Hogwarts."

"Yes!" she said, the light from the nearest lamp glinting off her spectacles. "You gave him a month's worth of detentions and a clandestine fifty house points. He was one of yours, Filius, but that's neither here nor there. What is pertinent, Severus, is that you've been called the bat of the dungeons for years, and jokesters make use of these sorts of things. In this case–" she took her turn pointing at the bagged carcass, "–while a grisly sort of prank, it goes hand-in-hand with the rumors of your being a vampire." When Snape's head jerked sharply in her direction, she said quietly, "Those rumors have been around just as long as the others. By reacting to this now, you would lend them credence."

Snape hands clenched, but he spoke evenly. "Especially as there is now some foundation to those rumors."

"But not entirely," Pince demurred. "Not entirely."

"Aside from our notoriously close-mouthed Minister," Flitwick said, "we are the only ones who know."

"All right." Snape pinched the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a particularly determined migraine. "I will treat this as if it were a higher level prank, along the lines of something the Weasley twins might have pulled when they were still at school ... and both alive."

After a reflective moment during which Flitwick cancelled the levitation and rotation spells on the vole, he said softly, "I still pass their vestigial swamp several times a week, but I think the floral tributes have begun to diminish this year. This term I can see the water through the flowers."

"I've noticed the same phenomenon at Dumbledore's tomb," Pince said. "The tributes have been tapering off over the past couple of years."

Flitwick straightened his robes. "Speaking of Dumbledore ... Minerva, what did you mean by saying you'd have to push Hermione Granger out of the way?"

"Oh, that." McGonagall smirked. "As you know, she was here yesterday."

"No!" Flitwick exclaimed. "Why didn't she come see me?"

"Perhaps she hadn't the time. She interviewed with the headmistress about the Arithmancy post."

The Charms master smiled happily. "She would be an excellent addition to the staff, although I heard she was doing well in her position at the Ministry."

"She is." As she spoke, McGonagall transfigured one of the ink pots on Snape's desk into a rocking chair and took a seat. "It seems she and Ron Weasley have reached a parting of the ways. Hermione is exploring her career options."

Pince crossed her legs and then folded her hands in her lap. "I always liked the girl. Even though she sneaked into the library too often, she was respectful and diligent in her studies."

Snape snorted. "She was an attention-seeking over-achiever."

"She was a misfit," the librarian refuted sharply. "The girl did everything she could to be accepted."

McGonagall added, "She reminded me of you that first year, Severus."

"She was nothing like me." He sneered. "Potter and Weasley followed her like imprinted Horntails. She was a golden Gryffindor. Her place was –"

"Precarious," Pince interrupted. "Those boys were her only real friends, and their friendship carried a price. Every time they had a row, Potter and Weasley ostracized her. Sometimes, when she'd been crying, I let her stay after hours and I'd give her tea." Seeing the expressions on the others' faces, she asked, "What?"

"You ... she ... you gave her tea?" Snape spluttered.

McGonagall bristled like a cat whose fur had been back-brushed. "How many times did this happen, and why didn't I know about this, Irma?"

"I handled it," Pince replied. "They were boys, Minerva. It happened every year, but Weasley was the worst. He could be downright cruel. Insecurity, I imagine."

"It's a good thing they've called it off." McGonagall fingered a loosened strand of hair and then patted it into place. It was a gesture the others had seen her make hundreds of times over the years. "They didn't suit."

"Now that you mention it," Flitwick said, absorbed by the idea, "Hermione did remind me of Severus that first year."

"I'll thank you not to compare me to an overeager know-it-all," Snape said, sounding more like a sulky teenager than an erudite man in his forties, "and I'll thank you to refrain from talking about me as if I'm not present."

His colleagues shared a knowing look, although none intended to speak.

"She was intelligent and isolated and bullied," McGonagall said finally, goaded into honesty by the waning Veritaserum in her body.

"She hid in the library–" Pince leaned forward for emphasis, "–and poured her unhappiness into her work. Had she been raised with magic, Severus, she might have turned to creating her own spells as you once did. Instead, she was handicapped by being Muggle-born, and she spent much of her time compensating for it."

Discomfited by such a comparison, Snape strode to the wall of books which was his personalizing touch to the office. Once, the walls had worn pink and had been decorated with an assortment of china plates adorned with saccharine kittens, but Snape had made several changes since those days. Even with Filch's snoring form lying in a transfigured desk-chair there was room for Snape to pace. He was so agitated he absently trailed his fingers along the spines of his favorite books.

Unwilling to think further about the exsanguinated rodent and unable to merge his mental image of Hermione Granger as a schoolgirl with the one Pince and McGonagall remembered, or even with his more recent impressions of her as a woman, he searched for a safer topic. "What about Dumbledore?"

"Dumbledore?" Pince asked, bewildered by the apparent non sequitur. "What about him?"

"Minerva, you said Granger would have shoved you out of the way to get to Dumbledore."

"Ah. Yes, she told me when she gave me Ubasti's memoirs. Did you still wish to borrow the book? I read it through last night. It's an excellent first-person account of an Animagus in hiding."

He made an impatient gesture with his hand. "I wish to hear how the sainted Miss Granger wanted to kill the even saintlier Albus Dumbledore."

The head of Gryffindor snorted, and rocked gently in her transfigured chair. "Hermione isn't saintly, as well you know, and Dumbledore even less so."

"Minerva!" he growled.

"Go on, Minerva," Flitwick urged. "I, too, am interested."

"Very well," she said primly. "Shortly after the war ended, probably concurrently with Severus' leaving St Mungo's to stay with you, Filius, Hermione and Potter lived at Grimmauld Place. Irma, that was the house Potter inherited from his godfather, Sirius Black. It was also the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix."

"If you're going to give a history lesson, perhaps we should invite Binns to join us," Snape said impatiently.

She ignored his interruption. "They spent those early weeks recovering from their ordeal. And keep a civil tongue in your head, Severus. No matter how dreadful that year was for us, it was abysmal for them. They were isolated, half-trained, and they practically starved. It's a testament to their friendship and Hermione's ingenuity they managed as well as they did."

"Yes, yes, she is a paragon among witches," he said sarcastically.

McGonagall narrowed her eyes until they were slits. "She is indeed, and if she decides to accept Vector's offer you will be civil to her."

"My behavior has been above reproach."

"You're well aware it was the first time she had seen you," McGonagall chided.

Stung, he replied defensively, "She stared as if I were a dementor sucking all the joy from her world!"

McGonagall leapt to her feet, her chair rocking in a counterpoint to her emotion. "She had a flashback to that horrible night! Severus, you're being unfair."

"Am I?" He leaned against one of the bookcases, the wood biting into his back. "I'll have you know I allowed her to apologize and walked her toward Hogsmeade when she left yesterday."

Madam Pince pounced on his statement. "You did?"

"I was even civil. Now, Minerva, will you tell me what I wish to know?"

"Very well." McGonagall resumed her seat and her tale. "She and Potter spent much of their time sleeping, eating, and filling in the blanks. It was then Potter told Hermione what happened with you, how he saw his parents again, and about his afterlife experience. He met and talked to Dumbledore and demanded answers, some of which he received. During their conversation Albus asked Harry's forgiveness –"

"I wish he'd asked mine," Snape growled.

"As do I." She glared at him. "Don't interrupt. One of the things Potter told Hermione was that Dumbledore had counted on her to slow Harry's quest down."

"That bastard!" Filch cried, rising in his chair. Pince swept to his side and patted his cheek soothingly. His hand clasped hers, mumbled, "Love you, ol' girl," and settled to sleep once more.

Flitwick had covered his mouth to contain his mirth at Filch's untimely but appropriate interruption, but chirps of laughter escaped through his fingers.

Snape, however, barely registered the interruption. "Dumbledore deliberately impeded their progress?"

"I'm afraid so," McGonagall replied, "and Hermione has rather strong feelings about it even after all these years."

"It is never easy to learn you've been manipulated." Snape resumed pacing.

"No, Severus, it isn't. I know I loathed it and I'm a woman grown. They were children. I realize they were nearly of age, and Hermione already eighteen that last year, but they were used from their first year here, and Potter long before then." Her expression hardened. "It's a wonder they didn't repudiate us altogether and return to the Muggle world."

As was his wont, Flitwick calmed the waters before they came to a boil. "But it's in the past. Granted much of it has been tragic, but we have survived. How lucky we are to have become friends after everything that has happened."

"As I have said before, Filius, you are an optimist," Snape remarked, but the tension eased from his shoulders and there was an affectionate undertone to his statement. "Irma, would you like me to assist you back to your quarters?"

"I would prefer a drink, if you don't mind. That Veritaserum leaves a dreadful aftertaste. Argus is comfortable enough for now."

"Tea would be lovely," McGonagall agreed. "Severus?"

"If we must," he replied, but he dismantled his security spells while she cancelled her warding on the office and classroom doors. Flitwick summoned the night duty house-elf, ordering tea and an assortment of whatever cakes were available, and Snape then Accio'd the Port and Firewhisky. McGonagall Scourgified the four shot glasses, and transfigured additional student essays into appropriate stemware – wine glasses and snifters – while Pince ascertained that Filch was as comfortable as could be expected.

Then the librarian cleaned Snape's desk before producing a small purple sack from her pocket. When she placed it on the desktop Snape moaned. "Not Gobstones. We're having drinks and nibbles, not playing that infernal game."

"Now, Severus," Flitwick said as he maneuvered his chair closer to the desk, "you're just narked because you and Minerva lost last time."

"Narked?" Snape said, entering into the familiar banter of many a convivial evening. "You cheated!"

"We did not!" squeaked Flitwick.

"Did so." McGonagall added fuel to the good-natured raillery.

Fortunately two house-elves popped into the room, laden with a tea service and two trays of edibles. Squabbling was foregone for three fingers of Port, a shot of Firewhisky, tea and a taste of fresh scones with a dollop of clotted cream and a dab of strawberry jam.

By the time the last morsel was eaten, everyone was willing to play a round of Gobstones, save Filch who snored softly in his chair.

It was past midnight when Snape escorted Pince and Filch to their quarters, a snug apartment hidden behind the Restricted Section. Fortunately, it was Saturday and they could all have a lie in next morning.

Unfortunately, Snape was too disturbed to settle.

He returned to his formerly inviolate office. Using his wand, he tapped a sequence of specially placed books on the middle shelf of the farthest bookcase. When activated, the set of books formed a false front, swinging open to reveal a small space in the wall behind them, undetectable and hidden from most. Snape doubted Lockhart or Umbridge had ever discovered it, and he knew Carrow had not. Inside the abditory was a small Pensieve, hand-carved from a single block of marble, with protective and activating runes cut into the bowl's rim. Additionally, in a neatly labeled row, stood a series of bottles, all pilfered from the Potions store room, all filled with the viscous silvery stuff of memory. His memories.

Snape scowled. Some of his private memories had been put on public display, both during Voldemort's fall and later, during the trial which had exonerated him from his crimes. However, there were other moments contained in the collection before him. Several of those would be damning if taken out of context, and for the first time since his return to England, Snape felt insecure.

The five bottles labeled in blue represented those memories he had given to Potter when he lay dying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, but they accounted for less than a third of the total. Another five bore black labels; they represented the worst of his Death Eater days and revealed depredations he would as soon commit to the flames of Tartarus than place permanently back into his mind.

None of the memories were safe in his office now. Only McGonagall and Flitwick knew of the hiding place, but with the break-in and his inability to take more effective measures to keep the culprit out, Snape had to deal with his cache.

He stared at the row of bottles before plucking one from amongst its brethren. Remembering his first day at the Muggle rest cure facility, he smiled fleetingly. The initial meeting with the senior therapist, Frieda Holmes, who had reminded him strongly of Hogwarts' mediwitch, had been unsettling. Holmes had informed him that in addition to his physical recuperation she was committed to healing his emotional trauma. Snape had scoffed and delivered a suitably scathing set-down.

He would never forget her reaction.

"Mr. Snape," she had said calmly, "I do not believe in soft-pedaling a patient's diagnosis, and I will be blunt. In addition to your physical injuries, you are suffering the untreated effects of Survivor's Guilt, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Combat Stress Reaction, all of which have taken a heavy toll upon you." He had merely curled his lip, but she had continued as if his reaction were commonplace. "They are all treatable. And the success of that treatment depends on you."

Despite his initial resistance, Snape had ultimately participated in his recovery, but he had cheated. He had used magical methods to accelerate a positive outcome by the removal of carefully selected memory strands. He had been cautious not to remove too many, as he had done in the Shrieking Shack when believed it was his final opportunity to give Lily Potter's son the information he would need to defeat Voldemort.

The simultaneous loss of so many significant memories had left Snape befuddled for more than two weeks when he fought for his life in St. Mungo's following Nagini's attack. Healer Nightingale, an authority on memory depletion, had been most helpful but had also offered a caution. "Removal of too many memories negatively impacts socialization, and if they remain discrete for too long the brain compensates and there is no room to replace them. You would lose your recollections permanently. Yes, a shadow image of the events remain, but there is no immediacy, no emotion attached to the information. For example, you might know that you caught the Snitch in a Quidditch match, but you wouldn't remember how it felt or the specific details of the victory."

At the time Snape rebuffed Nightingale's suggestion; however, later, when he'd gone to the Muggle world for treatment, he had remembered the conversation and used the information judiciously.

As a result of trial and error, Snape had learned that he could bear the re-integration of up to three memories without succumbing to soul-shriveling guilt. He cycled through all of them, not wanting to lose sight of what had brought him to his current circumstances, but he never left the memories in place.

It had taken several years, but he had regained his health and found some measure of peace. He wasn't willing to compromise either. Among the long-term results of that peace was the fact he no longer loathed Harry Potter for having lived when Lily had died and the hope that one day he might forgive Albus Dumbledore.

Now, however, his hard-won peace and security had been threatened. Snape couldn't afford to leave his memories in an office which had proved so easily accessible, and yet, he was not ready to destroy them outright. Having the decision forced upon him was discomposing.

With sharp but precise movements, Snape pulled the Pensieve and labeled bottles from the hole in the wall, packing them in a specimen crate he kept in his office. Then, he levitated it back to his private rooms. The castle was quiet, but he heard the occasional muffled snore from a portrait, or a soft murmur of voices from those portraits on duty. Unexpectedly, the omnipresent noise soothed his fraught nerves.

He entered his quarters in the South Tower, a chamber as different from his previous, tenured quarters as he could achieve with institutional furnishings. The accommodations had been designed for short-term visitors rather than staff members, being smaller and not conveniently located to the rest of the school. However, Snape had chosen them and no one gainsaid his right. The small sitting room housed a narrow desk and ladder-backed chair – something one might have found in a lady's parlor during the Victorian era – two overstuffed chairs with a low round table between them, haphazardly piled with books. The comfortable chairs faced a large fireplace situated between two windows – complete with cushion-strewn window seats – where a well-tended fire crackled merrily in welcome.

There was barely room for the single, floor-to-ceiling bookcase; however, a set of tall French doors led to the rooms' saving grace: a balcony. It was as large as the adjacent inner room, and Snape had spent weeks perfecting its privacy. The balcony and windows were the recipients of numerous Disillusionment and security spells, not to mention additional layers of questionable protection, some of which were capable of repelling a small invasion. He had spent many a night since his return to Hogwarts reclining on the single chaise he'd placed in one corner.

His accomodations had one additional, unacknowledged, benefit. They were the only rooms available which didn't have a window facing the Astronomy Tower.

Snape removed his heavy outer robe even as he directed the crate to pass through the open door leading to his bedchamber and settle at the foot of his wide, double bed. He absently noted that the house-elves had turned his bedding down for the night before he hung his outer robe on a hook of the coat-rack which had waddled from its corner to claim its prize. Snape then crossed the sitting room in three strides.

Seen through the glass panes of the French doors, the moon was obscured behind thick cloud cover, but enough of its radiance shone through, like pale fingers laid in a benediction over the Forbidden Forest. Opening the double doors, he closed his eyes against the chill caress of early winter and drew a deep, cleansing breath. The fresh, loamy scent of nearby forest was something he'd taken for granted in his early years, and it was one Snape had missed sorely while he'd lain in a small white room in St. Mungo's, and then later, at Flitwick's summer home in London.

During the war, he'd lived on sheer nerve and anxiety. He had eaten poorly and slept rarely. As far as he was concerned, Voldemort's teaching him to fly had been the only benefit to that last, hellacious year of the war, and he had taken to the air as often as possible.

When he had gone to Germany for his long-term convalescence, Snape had found the Black Forest, with its secrets and virgin depths, incredibly enticing. There had been sufficient space for him to come to terms with his evolved state, and he had learned to control his flight during many a late night excursion.

Since his return to Hogwarts, Snape had fewer opportunities to fly, especially during term time, but it was sufficiently late, or early depending on one's perspective, and he shouldn't be seen. Slipping off his frock coat, he draped it over the back of one chair before stepping into the night.

He was airborne before reaching the end of the balcony, a natural downdraft carrying him a full floor-length before he righted his angle of ascent. His heart rate accelerated and the sheer sportiveness of being airborne allowed him to shed his disordered emotions as easily as he had his coat.

As he stretched to the full extent of his limbs, Snape's keen eyes picked out the differences between human habitation, animal habitat, and the half-civilized cluster of centaur lodgings.

Here in the crisp night air, he refused to think about his students' opinions, his Death Eater days, that nerve-wracking year he spent as headmaster or the succeeding fight for his physical and mental health. Instead, he focused on the exhilarating feel of the air and the quietude of the surrounding countryside. It was a balm for his weary soul.

As he soared over the groundskeeper's hut, however, Snape couldn't quell the memory of eager brown eyes and a sincere apology. He had been dismissive of Hermione Granger when Pince and McGonagall had defended her, but in the privacy of his own thoughts, it wasn't as easy to ignore their meeting in McGonagall's office, or how ridiculously transparent her eyes had been when she remembered the horror of watching him die. He had other memories of her from that long ago day, but he'd shunted them aside as immaterial, not even important enough to add to the collection of bottles in the crate in his bedroom. Nonetheless, the sincerity of her apology buoyed him unaccountably.

Movement on the forest floor drew his attention and bloodlust dried his mouth. Hermione Granger was forgotten in an instant of genetic imperative, and with a fierce cry, Severus plunged through the canopy to close in upon his prey – a small creature with a stubby tail and a beating heart.

One quick grab and the furry thing was clutched within his grasp.

Allowing his craven side its due, Snape settled on a broad branch of an ancient tree and stabbed the squirming creature in the chest, directly into the heart. The vole's lifeblood flooded his mouth, quenching his thirst.

When he drained the small carcass, Snape leapt into the air, flapping awkwardly to gain height, keeping the dead rodent firmly in his mouth. He knew better than to leave evidence behind, especially now, and if for this one thing alone, he was grateful to Hagrid. The thriving community of acromantulae was always hungry for a fresh kill.

Bloodlust satisfied, Snape returned to his rooms.

~o0o~