Banes and Beginnings

Time. He was losing time. Days seemed to blur into one confused mess of activities, duties, monitoring wards and all other matters pertaining to an Auror's responsibilities. Only at home did time seem to follow some expected semblance of passing as it should. And his head ached intolerably. For weeks now, he'd been taking various potions and concoctions...even the Muggle thing called aspirin...but nothing seemed to oust the constant heavy pressure behind his eyes.

Perhaps having himself seen by a Healer would help shed some light on his predicament, but professional pride stopped him; after all, what sort of a medically-trained Auror was he if a simple headache was causing him grief?! But the pain was getting worse, and he knew it was affecting in him other ways... this sense of dislocation for one.

Just after his transfer to Auror Cross' department...Retrospective Investigation Department (RID)...he'd started to experience discreet episodes of disconnection. He'd find himself in a corridor and unsure as to how he got there, or in a room and not immediately clear on what was going on. His signature would be scrawled on documents without him having a clue as to what he'd signed. So far, these concerns had not developed into indiscretions or worse, but he felt a dread festering in his skull that soon, he'd make a very serious mistake.

It was at night that this suppurating fear did its greatest damage. Nightmares stalked his sleep, and he'd wake, screaming nonsensical pleas into the darkness. His sheets would be drenched and he'd struggle to the bathroom to purge himself. These nightly terrors had the same devastating theme: his disgust and angst as he participated in the torture of some poor, hapless, mindless creature and then terror as the torturers turned on him! He'd feel his mind pulled out, stretched into a Pensieve, where he'd witness his memories, his very sense of self, evaporating into terrifying nothingness.

And so it was that at three in the morning, he sat nursing a headache and a mug of warm milk, numb to his own mind and the chill of the room as the dregs of his most recent nightmare battled expulsion. In this stillness, where exhaustion was softening the terror, he could see the stark expression on the victim's face: white skin, wide black eyes and an open maw emitting a long, thin rattle of a scream through a curse-ravaged throat. He knew the face... recognised the stridor cry: Severus Snape.

Peters sighed shakily and downed the last few sips of his milk. This was beyond him. Whilst some portion of his fracturing mind knew it was all stress and dark fantasy, another part was adamant these disjointed and terrifying images were actual memories striving to be pulled back into consciousness. Even as he scoffed at his folly, he was inwardly planning how to redeem and free himself. The training he'd received pursuant to being selected for his new Ministerial role had given him certain tools, and he now planned to use them to determine just what was going on.

The sharp peal of the alarm dragged him back from his musings, and he began the typical and reassuring ritual of preparing for work. From his pre-dawn planning, he knew what he needed to do to start examining his plight in a more critical manner.

oOo

She paced the space between chair and desk, her eyes directed at the pattern in the rug but her attention fixed firmly on her movements over the last month. Behind the desk, Minerva sat straight-backed, restraining both her temper and alarm.

"I've tried... tried and tried to recall everything," she muttered frantically. "I've even done a Pensieve, but I...I just don't know where I had it last."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, sit down!" snapped out Minerva, her nerves wearing as thin as the rug under Pomona's feet. "I've discretely spoken to Argus, and he hasn't found or confiscated such a phial from the students, and as it hasn't returned to you via Summoning, then it must be simply stuck somewhere." She drummed her fingernails on the desk and scowled. "And we can't simply rummage around or openly admit to its loss."

Pomona let out a sniffle and whipped out a hanky, uttering thickly, "I am so sorry."

Minerva waved her hand sharply in an attempt to oust her frustration and bat away an unnecessary apology. "Filius is on the stairs; he'll have some answers," she added just before a sharp rap on the door echoed in the office.

The door swung open, and the small wizard hurtled in, his cheeks flushed and his hair slightly askew. "I came as soon as I could," he declared breathlessly.

Minerva nodded and Transfigured a chair for the Charms master. "Thank you, Filius. Please, sit down. Coffee?"

"No, thank you, Minerva," he answered haltingly, seeing the tension on his companions' faces. "Good gracious! What's happened?"

"I've lost the needle phial!" Pomona blurted.

Filius blinked and adjusted his pince-nez. "Have you tried Summoning?"

"Yes."

"Has it been handed in?"

"No."

"Most unusual," he mumbled. "Most unusual, indeed."

"Unusual, perhaps," Minerva interrupted sharply, "but it is most inconvenient! Can you recover it without alerting suspicion?"

"Under normal circumstances, it would be here by now. As Summoning can generally circumvent most difficulties, unless you managed to plant it under the Whomping Willow, then it should have responded to your summons."

Minerva blinked and inhaled slowly, forcing down her rising ire. "But it didn't."

"Yes," agreed Filius. "Which is quite reassuring... in a way," he added, seeing Minerva's eyes narrow. "I placed a variety of charms on the phial in case it should become lost. If a student or visitor found it, it would... errm... encourage the finder to hand it in whilst appearing to be something quite insignificant. And if it were found by someone who recognised its importance, then we wouldn't need this meeting at all, so... uhmm... a third scenario must have been triggered."

"Which is?" demanded Pomona and Minerva.

"Well, I did consider it being found by someone who was unable to return it for some reason. In that case, it would encourage protective instincts until we could locate it."

"And?" the two witches hissed, their fingernails biting into the furniture.

"Well... then we'd use a Locater Charm."He glanced between them and blushed. "Didn't I mention you could do that?"

He coughed in the heat of their glares and pulled out his wand. "I'll just have a go, shall I?"

"Please do," answered Minerva with brittle generosity.

Filius flourished his wand, and from the softly glowing tip, a tiny, flickering, lilac bubble emerged. It was about the size of a Snitch and seemed to contain a swirling mist as it bobbed serenely near his head. He moved to whisper to it after which it gave a tiny shudder and seemingly blinked out of existence.

"It'll do a search and return momentarily."

Minerva arched an eyebrow. "An interestingly specific charm, Filius," she said with undisguised admiration. "You must teach it to me someday."

He smiled at the compliment and bowed his head appreciatively. "Before I designed it, I spent far too much time looking for my glasses."

While waiting for the little magical ball to sniff out the phial, they idly chatted and drank tea to help disperse the building tension. Pomona was silently berating herself for losing it in the first place, Minerva was inwardly fretting about the security of the project, and Filius was reflecting thoughtfully upon the charms he'd applied and why they had seemingly failed.

After twenty minutes, the pale purple ball flashed back into being, and while the witches leant forward expectantly, Filius sat back with a disappointed cry.

"It hasn't found it," he uttered dejectedly.

Minerva groaned and collapsed back in the chair, cupping her forehead and feeling waves of despair stirring up a dark sense of futility.

"Then where it is?" Pomona asked fretfully.

"Interesting question," he responded thoughtfully. "All charms should have worked for its return to us, and I can't see any reason for it not to be."

"Is it going to appear any time soon?" Minerva asked crisply.

The small wizard seemed to shrink even further under Minerva's glare, and she was struck at how unsure and frail he suddenly looked. A chill stole across her skin, tightening her spine and making her scalp tingle. Filius was not prone to bouts of uncertainty, and she was sure the apparent failure of his charms had churned his mind and guts into a barely concealed panicked frenzy.

"I may have caused this to happen," he admitted quietly. "But... if I'm correct, then the phial is safe."

"How can you be so sure?" asked Pomona tentatively.

Here, the Charms professor frowned and paused to clean his glasses. "Charms are quite clever little things, especially those that respond to or affect people...Confundus Charms, for example. The more complex the magical arrangement or the more layers, then the greater the likelihood of... ermm... competing objectives." He paused again and seemed to ponder something which left him looking perplexed. "I applied a fair few spells to that phial...given its importance...and I may," he halted and a flicker of pain crossed his face, "have enhanced certain elements through my own concerns and anxiety."

Emotion gripped his throat, and the words dried up. He stopped talking and inhaled shakily, looking up at the arched ceiling to which he seemed to whisper. After a few moments, he lowered his head and stared at his knees.

"I... feel that I owe so much to Severus. He protected me when he... when he Stupefied me that day. For years I'd despised him...thought him a traitor and a murderer...yet he did so much deserving of respect, admiration and love. I cannot begin to think of a way to repay him." He found it difficult to continue, but when he glanced up, he saw tears in the women's eyes and knew they understood, and that shared understanding bolstered him. "I knew that particular phial was the most precious we'd been able to gather, so I put everything into those Charms. I believe I may have inadvertently directed the phial to find its own sanctuary."

Minerva frowned and eased forward, hugging herself to contain the panic coursing through her. "What exactly do you mean, Filius, because it sounds a bit like...." she drifted off, her heart clenching and her throat tightening at the implications.

"I wanted to protect the phial... wanted to preserve its quality and grace at all costs."

"But it ended as more than that," whispered Minerva, her voice breaking.

A sob burst past Filius' lips, and tears fell down his cheeks, reflecting the amber glow from the setting sun. He hesitated and squirmed in the seat, his lips twitching as they struggled to form the words he had to relay. He'd never discussed much of what pained him pertaining to that terrible time before, during and after the Battle of Hogwarts, and over the years, he'd allowed certain memories to drift away from his waking moments, but some things could never be forgotten, forgiven or fulfilled. And one of those unfulfilled things was his ability to convey his true feelings and thoughts to Severus, to remove the intangible wall between them. Sometimes, he wondered if it would have been more honest of him to still believe in the Slytherin's guilt...he'd never had any difficulty in expressing his fury and sentiments then!

Minerva had told him of her fears regarding Severus' trips to the Ministry just over five months ago: of their dubious activities. Whilst nothing could be proven, they knew they were losing Severus. With each Ministry visit and subsequent partial recovery, Filius had felt his heart fracturing. His every spare waking moment had been diverted to his task of securing Snape's memories and protecting the unique Pensieve, but as Snape had become more haggard and gaunt, more pained and haunted, Filius' subconscious had demanded a better outcome than a mere existence. The loss of the needle phial and its reluctance to be found crystallised his vague thoughts into a solid conclusion. With the witches waiting on his explanation, he felt raw and vulnerable... and a little proud of himself.

"I wanted it to be cherished just as I cherished it...perhaps more so. There is a power you derive when blessed by love. A strength and beauty which otherwise remains cold in shadows without love shining upon it; you can see it in the eyes or hear it in the voice of people in its embrace, and you can bask and feel content even in this glow from others."

Filius was openly weeping now, his voice a mere whisper as it battled against the emotion stealing his strength and almost paralysing his throat. Pomona slipped from her chair to fall on her knees by his side, and she wrapped her arms around his quaking shoulders.

"At its most glorious and terrifying," he continued in a strained whisper, "it can nullify the most powerful of dark curses. It makes you invincible and whole. It heals."

As his words fell upon her ears, Minerva's hand cupped her mouth to hold back the torrent of moans that threatened to breach what control she had left. They both knew what Filius was suggesting, what unconscious goal he had applied to the needle phial. Indeed, the phial may have intentionally 'lost' itself with a pure purpose.

"When I cast those charms... after I'd seen him return from his Ministry appointment," he muttered, disgust thick in his voice," I knew... knew here," he declared hotly, thumping his chest, "that just preserving Severus would never and could never be enough, but I didn't know... couldn't begin to fathom... what I could do." His voice gave way, and he fell into Pomona's embrace.

"So you thought of love," Pomona finished for him.

"Yes," he mumbled. "I was so furious. I'd only caught snippets and hints of what they were doing to him from Minerva. It wasn't until he collapsed after the last day of school that I saw the true extent of his... torture. It was horrific. Voldemort couldn't have done better!" he snarled out viciously. "I felt powerless, and I must have prayed for something greater than myself to come to his aid."

Minerva sagged in her seat, her forehead almost touching the desk as the weight of the ramifications bore down on her. It was almost too much to bear. Memories of Dougal stirred in her chest, squeezing out air and exciting her heart to beat painfully against her ribs. Through her pain, she could see what grand error had been committed and why Filius was weeping and murmuring his regrets against Pomona. Such love as he had experienced and gloried in was rare. She knew this because no one would complete her as Dougal had. She would never feel that immense and glorious passion again, just a warm reflection of it. As such, the phial was currently lost to them. She straightened and ousted the dismay; from Filius' explanation, it wasn't all doom and gloom.

"Oh, Filius, I could... box your ears!" she snapped out.

"I know," wailed the small wizard. "But... it's not impossible for someone outside of our circle to care for him," he added petulantly.

"Well, what is done is done," Minerva continued more gently. "How potent do you think you made the charms?"

Filius sniffled and lifted himself out of the soft warmth of Pomona's embrace and faced Minerva. "I doubt they're on par with the Cinderella epic," he muttered thickly.

"Thank heavens for small mercies," Minerva countered wryly. "So, as we don't have the phial, then we can assume that it is safe... but unavailable to us," she finished lamely.

Pomona frowned and felt a blush creep up her throat to her cheeks as she realised she couldn't quite grasp what was being discussed. "But... why have the charms failed? Why can't we find it?"

Filius coughed gently. "I can only surmise that it has been found by someone who cares for Severus but isn't in our little, conspiratorial group."

Pomona suddenly stiffened, and she sighed at her moment of horrific revelation. "Ah... let me see if I have this. The phial has been found by someone it considers to be an ally because they care for Severus, so it won't encourage them to either hand it in or return it, but they can't return it anyway because they know nothing about us. And to cap it all off, the person who has it has been charmed to protect it at all costs."

"In a nutshell, yes," he squeaked.

Pomona looked ready to throttle Filius, but she calmed herself and stomped back to her chair to merely glower at him.

"I didn't do this intentionally," he said defensively.

"We know," Minerva offered generously. "But you know what this means, don't you?"she added with dark humour.

They looked at her blankly and waited for her to continue.

"We have Prince Charming, and all we need now is Cinderella to find the missing glass phial."

oOo

The secretary blinked, frowned, opened her mouth to query the strange request, stopped and then pulled her spectacles down her nose to peer at the young man standing before her desk. "You want all your requests and recommendations from the last two months?"

Peters flashed what he hoped was a charming smile. "Yes, Maud."

Maud inhaled slowly, as if combating some unpleasant shift in reality, and then righted the world by pushing her glasses back up her nose and tugging her navy blue cashmere shawl tightly around her shoulders. Her age-wrinkled lips pursed and rather dainty liver-spotted hands gathered up a piece of parchment and quill. Her slightly rheumy eyes fixed Peters with a startlingly piercing gaze and she poised herself to make notes.

"May I have something specific, or shall I trawl through the entire record?"

Peters paused and sucked thoughtfully on his teeth. He'd hoped she wouldn't ask for details. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"I'm completing the dossier on Severus Snape, and I require all records pertaining to him whilst under the care of the department. "

The quill lowered and the piece of parchment was slid back to rest atop its brethren. "I see," she retorted crisply, waving a hand as if batting away her previous doubts.

For one terrible moment, Peters felt as though he'd just placed his neck on the chopping block; he half expected Aurors to come leaping out of the shadows, but Maud merely glanced to her left, eased back with a grimace in the rickety-looking chair and tapped the tip of the quill thoughtfully against her palm.

"Auror Cross informed me that he was personally overseeing the case, but given his workload, I think he could do with some assistance," she finally offered. "I'll have the relevant information floo-ed to your office by this afternoon, and I ask that you return them before Sunday evening."

Peters smothered his grin and hoped he didn't look as relieved and giddy as he felt. "Thank you, Maud."

Maud watched the slim form of the young Auror slip through the door of her small office, her mind running circles over his request and a recent correspondence from an old friend. A few weeks earlier, she may have dismissed Peters with a curt refusal and a short, sharp lecture on the proper order of things in the department, but Minerva's letter had been foremost in her thoughts since its arrival. Personally, she didn't know much about Severus Snape, but Minerva's affection practically burst from the page. The slyly concealed plea for help had also left its mark. They'd known each other through some very dark times, and Maud knew Minerva would not ask unless the need was great.

The sound of heels clicking on the marble floor brought her back to the present, and she hastily banished the wandless privacy charm she'd erected around her desk. Cross had transferred all Snape's files to his personal office some time ago, and although that wasn't particularly ominous, Maud had been a personal secretary to quite a number of ministers and officials over the years and as such had developed a sense when someone was being... too careful.

The owner of the heels flashed her a polite smile as they passed by her open door, and Maud listened for the soft click of a closing door. Rising up out of her almost torturous chair, she eased her joints into something approaching mobility and hobbled out. The corridor was clean and crisp with alternating black and white tiles and dark wood panelling, and when she'd first arrived here nearly forty years ago, she'd been overwhelmed by the sheer grandeur and luxury afforded the secretaries of the powerful. After several Ministers of Magic, various reshuffles, dismissals and scandals, she'd realised that it was nothing more than cosmetics. The whole place reeked of putrefying good intentions and desiccated high ideals. But... every once in a while, there were breaths of fresh air: a person who had the capacity to precipitate a well-needed deep clean.

There were others who felt as she did, who saw past the glamour and charm and worked, plotted, for the benefit of the Ministry as a whole: those who had in the past provided secret snippets, or let slip a confidential sentiment, or lost a sensitive file just when the time was ripe for change. It was to these people that Maud shuffled and limped. She smiled mirthlessly: one should always be either wary of or deeply appreciative of a damned good secretary.

"Hello, Maud," called out a cardigan-clad lady in slippers.

Maud smiled and hobbled over to the speaker and the tea urn, casting a quick glance around the small canteen.

"Hello, Agnes," she replied with a genuine soft smile. "I haven't seen you in here for a while."

"Me knee started to give me some gip, so I had a bit o' time off."

"Oh, dear. I heard that Norbert is away with his back."

"It were his other trouble: had awful time with it." Agnes let out a dark chuckle. "We've told security in the main foyer that if they see, they should send him home before he has a turn and the paint starts peeling off the walls." She handed Maud a cup of good, strong tea. "But you're not here to discuss the ravages of old age, eh?"

"No," she agreed softly. "I need some... information."

oOo

"Severus isn't due for another fortnight at the earliest," Cross said softly.

"Listen 'ere, Cross," Burke hissed, looming over the desk towards the seated Auror, "the only reason you can do your bit of... research is 'cos I say that the slimy bastard still has useful info. All I got to do is tell the man that Snape is no use to us, and you can't get at him. Got it?"

He eased back, not because he knew he'd conveyed his point, but because there was something utterly and inexplicably disturbing about Cross' complete blankness of expression. The man was seemingly unreachable when he wanted to be. This bothered Burke, as he overcame challenge through intimidation or manipulation...mainly the former...so Cross was a frustrating obstacle he couldn't begin to manage.

"I understand your frustration, Burke, I really do," Cross replied, his voice reflecting the same eerie calmness, "but we simply cannot arrange matters for Severus to come here on your whim. It will arouse suspicion, will it not, for him to require the potion more frequently than the others?" He sat back in the leather wing-back and interlaced his fingers. "Although, I admit your recent interaction with him in Wales was most rewarding," he concluded with a cold smile.

"Even so," Burke continued, "I want his secrets and him broken, just like the others."

"Now, now," Cross uttered smoothly while his blue gaze hardened. "You forget that I know why you want Severus; do not think me as easily fooled as Peters or the 'man'. Where I would be pleased to consider that some noble sense of retribution fuels your interest, it simple isn't the case. Is it?" he asked venomously.

Burke felt an unfamiliar sensation crawling up from his roiling guts to chill his spine and torment his gullet: unease, fear, dread. With that simple observation, he felt like he'd walked out to the centre of a frozen pond only to hear a terrible crack. He'd been a fool to let the old man become so cognisant of his plans and wants. He swallowed and subtly backed away. His next few steps had to be careful ones.

"I know ye ain't daft, Cross," he started smoothly, "but you must realise that we can't drag this out for much longer."

Cross sighed and nodded slowly. "I quite agree with you, but the memories you seek are buried beneath decades of repression. They cannot be easily excavated."

"You get the memories you want easily enough," Burke groused.

Cross snorted wryly. "Severus is, for some reason, eager to part with them. He fears the memories you seek."

"Look," Burke muttered with a hint of desperation, "we have a month, maybe two, before we lose our claim on Snape. I 'eard the boss going on about the results no longer justifying the means."

"He is concerned about funding," Cross interrupted sharply. "Since the potion is now easier to brew, it has become more cost effective to simply give it away, " he sneered, "rather than generate the costs involved in bringing them in for questioning...not that they'd need any incentive to come banging on the door for their fix."

"Fix," Burke repeated.

"A Muggle term," the old Auror explained. He paused and studied Burke for a moment before relaxing and continuing; Burke would probably guess the answer soon enough without his input. "A particularly clever addition to the potion makes it highly addictive."

A sly grin split Burke's square and unpleasant face. "So...," he breathed, "this little venture of ours may still be worthwhile."

"Oh yes, Burke," Cross added with the merest hint of reproach. "I'm sure an alternative source of the potion outside the Ministry would be of interest to them, but additional encouragement in this instance will not yield a faster harvest."

"Now don't be getting all 'igh an' mighty with me, Auror Cross," Burke snarled back. "You're up way past your neck in all o' this, ain't ya!" Some of his earlier smugness returned with the realisation that Cross had far more to lose if the endeavour became public. "If I see some additional benefit to this malarkey, then I'd be stupid to pass up on it, wouldn't I?"

Cross blinked and then looked away in disgust. "Profit, of course! How could I have been so foolish to think you wanted to merely expedite collecting Severus' memories."

The scold rankled Burke, and he latched onto a reasonable target. "Stop callin' him Severus! He's a monster... filth. He's less than a cockroach, and you say his name as though he deserves to be considered a person. He don't deserve a name. The only things of value are his memories of those curses what Voldemort taught him, got it?"

oOo

He'd had the files for four days...Maud had even let him take them home...but he couldn't see any pattern or red flag for concern. It all tallied quite well with what he recalled and what followed procedure... and tomorrow, he'd have to return them. It was frustrating him! He knew that something was going on; he just had no clue what it was.

Requests for the Interrogation room and the Healers were in order, as was the clean-up staff following the sessions. Timings all matched, as did equipment returns, and he could dimly summon up memories from all the interrogations. There didn't appear to be any holes or errors in procedure; there was nothing at all to suggest that anything untoward was going on. But he knew there was... there had to be.

He sighed and pushed the papers away from him, watching them rise like petulant mountain ranges before collapsing with a peeved susurrus. Perhaps a distraction would help shift his thinking. Food and a drink sounded pleasant, so he padded to his small kitchen and pottered around making cheese on toast and a coffee. The percolator gurgled softly and the grill pinged while melting cheese bubbled and popped. He settled into these reassuring sounds and let the tension flow out of his shoulders.

Pressure had always been an incentive to him before, a great motivator and source of energy, but now it felt uncomfortably heavy. He knew why he felt so compelled to act; he'd found some pattern to his... episodes, and they seemed to involve Snape in some way. This was of course pure conjecture, but it was a good a starting point as any. He just hoped it led somewhere and soon, as he doubted he could cope with the strain of investigating and the dread that he was simply losing his mind.

He rescued the cheese on toast and poured a strong cup of black coffee. Leaning back against the worktop, he looked through the kitchen window. His flat was on the fourth floor of a block of rather dilapidated flats in North London, and from his vantage point, he could see the silvery grey rooftops, towering flats, glowing industrial units and the glimmering sleek office blocks of Muggle urban sprawl. Brooding, bruised clouds hung heavily over the cityscape, snuffing out the weak autumnal sunlight, and swirling black swathes of chattering starlings and sparrows hurtled past. In a few minutes, the sky would darken and the myriad lights would sparkle into a celestial parody.

Returning to his table with a full stomach and a hot coffee, he felt surprisingly little enthusiasm for his task, and he idly plucked up the closest leaf of paper. Perhaps his eye had landed on it purposefully, as it was a darker shade of cream than the others. Flicking it over revealed it to be some minor complaints made against the department, and the merest flicker of annoyance flashed through his guts that in amongst his search for something specific he'd been handed something so superfluous and almost frivolous. He was about to cast it aside when a date and complaint from St Mungo's caught his eye.

Dear Sir,

I feel it my duty to mention yet again the cleaning of the Pensieves. Due to the processes involved in preparing the Pensieves for new patients, the Aurors using them have been asked not to use spells on them directly due to imbalances this causes in later performance. The current advice is to merely return the memories to the donor and leave the cleaning to the Healers.

Many Thanks,

Sidney Blakely

Peters stared at the comment, his mouth slightly agape and his chest tight; could this be a clue to what was happening? He'd been trained to only ever scoop the liquid memory back; using spells on the Pensieve had been expressly forbidden. He plonked his cup down and held the cream page as though it held the answer to the meaning of life.

It is clear in the handbook that all patients must be supervised by at least two Aurors. This is hardly possible if two Aurors are seen leaving the interrogation room and walking down the corridor to the canteen!

To avoid tripping the internal alarm, could all Aurors please inform Security as soon as possible when they realise the interrogation will pass the designated one hour slot, thank you.

Whilst we accept that some patients may become agitated and violent, we strongly urge any damage to furniture to be reported as soon as possible to the caretaker. Today, we had a report of a chair in room 15 being unfit for purpose.

And so the complaints went on...minor incidences that had only created the smallest amount of annoyance and thus remained off the radar, as it were. After a few minutes of intense scrutiny, he Summoned a pen and a clean sheet of paper and began to construct a timeline consisting of Snape's visits, Cross' requests, the complaints and his own bouts of mental aberration. As he carefully jotted down and cross-referenced and refined his work, he pondered which comfy chair to buy for Maud.

oOo

Winter was sneaking up on autumn, and on her way home, it seemed to have pulled a fast one. An icy wind tugged at her coat and hat, and what felt like sleet hit her numb cheeks. A deep ache resonated in her joints at the sudden change in weather, and Maud wished she'd taken the Knight Bus instead of floo-ing out. Usually, the five-minute walk from the floo-hub to home was quite invigorating, but today, it was a test of willpower. Glancing ruefully at the steel-grey clouds, she bent slightly into the wind and followed the bridle path to her cottage. She could have Disapparated, but she didn't risk it as much these days; she worried that she'd subconsciously leave her dodgy hip behind.

The door opened invitingly as she marched determinedly down the path, and she could see the hall lights flicker warmly and welcoming. Within moments, she was ensconced in her cottage, unwrapping her coat and slipping her feet into snug slippers: bliss. A wave of her hand had the hob flare under the waiting copper kettle and a cup and saucer flutter down from a cupboard in readiness. The stew slow-roasting in the oven smelt lovely, and already the fire in the parlour was warming the old stones. Time had softened the loneliness, but she could still hear her husband calling from the kitchen, asking if she'd had a good day, and could still see his work boots left haphazardly in the hallway. And from the garden, she'd hear her son, Sam, whooping as he chased crows on his broomstick. Such memories no longer hurt, but they still tugged a fraction on her sense of longing. These melancholic thoughts dispersed as something grey and sleek darted around her ankles and meowed.

"You could have caught your own dinner," Maud scolded good-humouredly. "The mice have been at the rug again."

The silver tabby cocked its head to the side and gave a short hiss before winking and leaping. As it flew through the air, the body elongated and seemingly twisted upon itself, the fur altering texture and colour until a green-robed witch stood in the hallway.

"I stopped chasing mice years ago," Minerva clipped. "Besides, the stew smells far too good to pass up on for the sake of a few crunchy mice."

Maud chuckled and shuffled past her into the kitchen. "Best get the cutlery, then, while I dish it out."

They ate in companionable silence, save for the odd bit of polite conversation about work and some general chit-chat. Only when the dishes were away and they sat with a piece of sponge cake and a cup of tea did they discuss things of greater importance.

"Your letter said that someone had been making enquiries about Severus," Minerva declared, with the merest hint of eagerness.

"Yes, a young man by the name of Callum Peters." Maud took a sip and settled back in her plush, comfy chair. "He's one of those new Aurors what have been trained to study memories. He came by my office earlier in the week, asking about paperwork with regards to your young man, and I...well, I peeked, didn't I! Couldn't help myself, really." She sighed happily and grinned. "It's been such a long time since I had to do something like that; I felt all young again."

Minerva allowed her friend and confidante a few moments to revel in her high spirits, but her patience soon wore thin. "And?"

"His mind is a mess... an utter mess!" she continued crossly. "I've been through enough dodgy administrations to recognise when someone is being got at, and that poor boy has more holes in his head than Swiss cheese!"

"Who do you suspect is doing it?" Minerva asked fretfully.

"I have an idea, but it's not worth sharing just yet. I spoke with Agnes and met up with Norbert, and they've seen and heard some odd things. They got a list together of such oddities, which I passed on to Peters." She seemed about to offer something else, but thought better of it.

"You're not running any risks, are you?" Minerva demanded, concern making her tone harsh.

"Oh no, dearie," Maud soothed. "They always expect the hammer to fall from above, don't they? They forget the small people, the minor figures in the scheme of things; they think of such people as like house-elves, if they think about them at all, and as such consider them to be mindless and harmless." She smiled mirthlessly. "If you want to know what's going on anywhere, you don't speak to the management; no, you speak to the lowest of the low, to the invisibles who work in silence with their eyes and ears open to everything. Management only knows what those below it tell 'em, and so on down the ladder. It's those who clean up the messes that know the truth of things." Maud nodded firmly and leant closer to Minerva. "It's like that everywhere...it happens because that's how it works...and I'll remind you of it, as it's a kind of intelligence-wrought naivety to rely solely upon those you put in charge." She winked and grinned impishly. "But I know you know this because you were once a Prefect."

Minerva blushed and hid behind a sip of tea, politely ignoring Maud's deep chuckle.

"Yes," Maud continued, feeling all the better for recent, stimulating events. "I'll help your young man, Minerva, and I'll help this new young man of mine. It's about time that certain bad ideas got put to rest."

The fire crackled, sending out gentle, sweet wafts of cherry wood smoke, and a small ornamental clock on the dark mantelpiece chimed out the quarter hour. Minerva glanced across and noted the time, but it meant little; the TimeTurner against her chest granted her all the time she needed. And it had been too long since she'd last talked, face to face, with her friend.

"What's this 'young man' like?" Minerva queried gently, her mind conjuring up images of Severus.

Maud shifted in her seat and looked down into her tea. "Nothing like Sam, if that's what you're getting at, dear." When Minerva inhaled sharply, Maud looked up and smiled. "I know you meant no harm by your question. I remember a time when I was in a terrible state, knowing I'd lost both of them, but life and time march on: inseparable and uncaring when they choose to be, and sweet and glorious when they want. I know my little boy is gone and no one can or should replace him," she sighed sadly. "But I can tuck someone under my wing and put 'em on the right path, nudge 'em to their destiny, can't I?"

Minerva laughed and saluted the old woman with her cup; after all, she had no leg to stand on if she argued. "Of course, you can. But what I meant was...." She drifted off, not entirely sure what she wanted this potential saviour to do.

"From what I see and from what I know," Maud began, relieving Minerva from her moment of doubt, "RID is only surviving because it has a fairly powerful patron...not sure who he is, yet. Left to others, it would have been disbanded months ago."

"Rid?"

"Retrospective Interrogation Department," Maud clarified.

The cup rattled in its saucer, and Minerva inhaled slowly to control her trembling hand. "They're going to close it down?"

"There's been rumours for a few months now. Oddly, they started not long after it was created."

"Why is that odd?"

Maud idly tapped a fingernail against her cup and seemed to stare off into space, and in this sort of daze, she answered. "You know RID started a few weeks before that Death Eater's potion was refined...," and there, she drifted off.

"Is that relevant?" snapped the younger witch, her heart beginning to pound uncomfortably. For her part, Maud was seemingly off with the fairies, so Minerva did some quick thinking.

Her head soon started to thump in time with her heart. There'd been an article in The Daily Prophet at the time, trying to incite some public wrath about the surviving Death Eaters getting quicker access to their free life-saving potion whilst so many of their crimes remained unreported and unsolved. In the same brazenly biased document, the new department had been mentioned as a force of vengeance for the victims, trawling through the hidden memories of the criminals and their victims, seeking the truth. Before RID, Severus and the others had only endured what had been laughably called voluntary verbal interrogations which, though exhausting and distressing, had never been toxic. Minerva had to give up; there just wasn't enough for her to formulate a motive, a reason for all of it.

"What exactly is the purpose of RID?"

Maud sucked thoughtfully on her front teeth. "The one doled out to the public is that they use memories to identify possible criminals and determine the use of, if it was used, the Imperius Curse." She gently shook her head. "It was bad last time when no one could trust anybody...the number of people wrongfully Kissed and the just cases that were thrown out because they claimed they were under that curse!" she finished despairingly.

"And the less official one?"

"This is where it gets a little tricky," Maud answered with a frown. "No one is quite sure what they're after, but they're not just after memorised conversations with Death Eaters and unwitting, cursed allies to help track down traitors or prove innocence." She took another deep sip.

"You can be sure of this?"

The old lady tutted in frustration and slumped in her cushions. "Can't be sure of anything, can we? And I'm not completely sure of what Norbert saw down in the unused offices, and he's not sure what he saw, either."

"You're not making sense, Maud!"

Maud seemed to slowly gather her thoughts from some dim and distant place, her eyes sharpened and her lips writhed over each other as though checking the ripeness of her words. Finally, she decided that bitter or not, they were ready to be tasted.

"Norbert says that down in the unused sections, there were several phials containing black memories." Maud grimaced and shook her head. "He can't be sure, though, because when he went down there the next day, there was no sign of them or of anything."

"Black memories...," Minerva mumbled. "Oh...!" She looked across at her perplexed host and felt equally as confounded. "I was under the impression they were a myth."

"Yes, well," stated Maud exasperatedly before turning her perplexed gaze upon Minerva, "that's why none of us are sure."

Minerva shuddered and wrapped her fingers tightly around her cup, stealing the warmth from it to oust the sudden chill. "Albus spoke of dark terrors from ages past that we had mercifully forgotten: terrors that Voldemort was trying to unearth."

Maud kept quiet and silently charmed the cups to refill. Things sometimes seemed less dark and burdensome when there was a good, hot cup of tea nearby. Besides, there was nothing she could add or say that Minerva wasn't already contemplating.

For her part, Minerva felt smothered and ashamed. She'd left Severus to the Ministry, thinking that the fairly recent war had cleansed the halls, but it had only revealed a new layer of filth. Somehow, she'd held onto the belief that it would somehow come good at the end. Maud's news that the department was facing closure struck a painful nerve, and her body echoed its violent strum. She knew all too well what people could do when pushed... when desperate, and Maud had said they were after something. A sob lodged in her throat as she came to the same conclusion she had months ago: she could do nothing directly to stop Severus' torture. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, trying to lock her distress inside where she could better battle it.

There was a pain in this hopelessness; it crushed her heart. She wondered how Severus endured it day in and day out. And then it hit her. Her arrogance...innocent and unintentional...had created her dilemma. Minerva McGonagall may not be able to do anything, but Severus Snape had spent decades refining such arts. Her eyes snapped open, and a sly grin parted her lips. If all she could do to aid Severus was provide resources and opportunity, then that is what she would do... and damn the consequences!

"I should have done this months ago!" Minerva snapped out harshly before turning to her ally. "I need a few more... favours, Maud."

"Anything, dear."

"Firstly, I need some Ministry permission slips; secondly, I would appreciate more 'unofficial' information on this department; and lastly, please send the recipe for that sponge cake to the kitchens at Hogwarts."

oOo

"How do I look?"

Neville wiped a hand over his cowlick and straightened his collar while Randal appraised him. This was their first staff meeting, and he wanted it to go smoothly.

"Ravishing," Randal offered playfully before spinning on his heel and marching away towards the door. "Now hurry up," he snapped over his shoulder. "We don't want to be late, do we?"

Neville smiled and tutted before catching up and following his friend into the corridor and on towards the staff room. It sometimes struck him as strange that after a very awkward start to their relationship, they had become such firm friends... and in a surprisingly short amount of time... but when he pondered deeper, he knew they were too similar to be anything other than companionable. Some trials in life created connections... an almost undeniable attraction.

Randal had also never made him feel uncomfortable about any deeper feelings, and Neville hoped that the redhead was as comfortable with him. He hoped so, as he valued their friendship. In a way, it was perhaps not that dissimilar to him harbouring feelings for Ginny: he hoped that she would have seen past his affection and maintained the friendship rather than let it wither due to some discomfort. Not that it truly mattered now; it all seemed so very long ago.

He brought himself back with a small shudder. Time was being duplicitous: years seemed like decades and weeks felt like days. It was half-term next week...although it was more a study break than a holiday...and Neville felt a paradoxical mix of growing anxiety and burgeoning confidence. With every positive comment from Pomona and critical review from Snape he felt as though he were home, and yet a terrible looming... something settled unnervingly upon his shoulders, as if his luck were running out.

They'd had five mentor sessions...albeit one with Professor Flitwick and another individually at the very start...and they'd used the time with Snape to share and refine ideas and compare experiences and build up their teaching repertoire. It still galled Neville that he just couldn't bring himself to say 'Severus' while Randal rattled it off as though he'd known the man since Nursery school. Their last weekly mentor session would be next week, and after that, they'd be having them fortnightly... and individually.

He'd also been rather grudgingly amazed that the workload and the thrill he was facing had almost ousted his initial desire for joining the staff at Hogwarts, but the raging fire that had burnt through him a mere month ago had now settled down to warming coals. His experience had tempered his patience, and in a way, he was deeply grateful; the almost consuming desperation and passion had become more of a companion than a taskmaster.

When they reached the staff room door, Randal fidgeted with his cuffs...a sure sign of nerves...and Neville felt a flicker of embattled camaraderie as they prepared to enter unknown territory. The meeting wasn't about them, per se, but he was sure their efforts would be focused upon as the others discussed student progress and reaching targets. At the thought, his stomach rolled, but it was too late to back down now.

They'd expected papers, documents, desks, pomp and severity, but the teachers were sitting in small groups, drinking tea and munching on finger sandwiches. A fire roared merrily in the grate and laughter rose up from the contented muttering in happy bubbles. The only thing to highlight that a meeting was going on was a slight rearrangement of chairs so they faced the chairs and desk that had been placed along the back wall. Oh, and the sherry glasses.

Neville and Randal shared a bemused look and then walked in, skirting past clusters of chairs and stepping over outstretched legs until they reached the far corner and the waiting comfort of the two remaining easy chairs. A few fellow professors muttered a greeting, but the general focus seemed to be on supper and gossip.

They sank into the chairs, only to be accosted by a silver tray zooming in at eye height. Two cups clattered in their saucers, and white sandwich triangles slid dangerously close to falling in their laps, but after a threatening wobble, it settled down. Randal relaxed from his defensive pose and plucked up a cup and sandwich.

Neville did the same and whispered into his empty cup, "White, sweet coffee."

Randal pulled a face at his earlier unnecessary panic and muttered into his own cup before nibbling on the roast beef sandwich. "This doesn't seem that bad," he said softly, using the remains of his crust to highlight the serene scene before him.

Neville nodded and gulped down his mouthful of coffee. "I had expected...well, I'm not sure, to be honest: hot coals, dribbly candles... screams."

"Not as bad as the mentor sessions, at any rate, eh, Neville?" Randal whispered with a smirk and a wink.

"Oh, I don't find them as bad as I did."

"Really?" Randal replied with genuine surprise.

The remark caught him unawares, and Neville turned to face the redhead to protest, only to be caught in a gaze of such intense scrutiny that he squirmed in his seat as though his soul were being evaluated.

"What?" he retorted defensively.

Those deep emerald eyes narrowed minutely before a flicker of mirth lit them, and Randal eased back with a snicker. "My mistake," he replied soothingly.

Despite his tone, Neville felt discomforted. He'd considered himself to be gaining confidence, but now it seemed he still looked like a bumbling novice. And if Randal thought he was still struggling, then what did Snape think? Inwardly, he groaned before slouching down and hoping the floor would open up.

He didn't have long to stew before the door opened and Minerva and Snape swept in, snuffing out the idle chatter. He could feel Snape's burning gaze on him as he stalked to the waiting desk, but Neville didn't dare lift his own above the man's black-swathed knees. Next to him, Randal sighed softly, then leant closer.

"Cheer up, Nev," Randal mumbled into his ear. "You're doing excellently... given the challenge."

There was that playful smugness again, the hint of some superiority that had grated on his nerves and precipitated his current sense of doom. Neville snorted and folded his arms across his chest.

"Oh, and from all accounts, you're doing incredibly well with the whole teaching thing, too."

Puzzled, Neville glanced across at his friend and opened his mouth to question Randal, but Minerva interrupted by chiming a small bell, and the room settled down to business.

oOo

It hadn't turned out to be that bad an evening; there was even an air of jollity as they'd ribbed new policies from the examining board, scoffed at relayed suggestions from the governors, and shared the antics of their charges. It was perhaps the single most encouraging experience of his stay, and Neville felt more a professor within the tight huddle of chatting staff than he had since his first lesson. He was a part of the staff... a member of the faculty; they had laughed with him and shared in their own trials and triumphs and Neville had felt utterly welcomed. He was so wrapped up in the comfort of belonging that he quite forgot Randal's perplexing comments and was thus left a little bemused at his friend's quiet and unobserved departure at some point during the meeting.

For his part, Snape had seen Randal leave. He'd felt the young man's eyes alight upon him throughout the evening, and although there had been no malice in the almost inconspicuous glances, Snape had felt a growing and undefined tension. After the bulk of the meeting was done and conversation had returned to gentle banter, he'd watched Randal slip away from Neville towards Sinastra and Pomona, where he'd charmingly entertained them. This hardly demanded concern or dark musings, but an equal number of piercing glances had struck Neville from between the laughing women. One particularly penetrating stare at Neville had prompted the young redhead to beg his leave, and Snape had watched him go.

He thought back upon the mentor sessions and could divine no reason for any bad feeling from their interactions, nor had he caught wind of any issues from the other teachers: Randal and Neville were close friends. The shift in behaviour was intriguing, and Snape wondered if his Legilimency was still as sharp as it had been. He idly tapped a finger against his lips and plotted. What would he find swirling in the Arithmancer's consciousness? The thought teased him, and he felt his lips quirk in a rare, mischievous smile.

"You're doing it again, Severus."

Minerva's voice disturbed his machinating and, he languidly turned to her, clearing his face and mind of his intentions. He could see humour and irritation flickering in the verdant depths of her eye. It was impossible to determine which emotion had the upper hand, and for safety, he assumed she was more cross than amused.

"Sorry, Minerva," he murmured gently. "What did you say?"

"No you're not," she scolded exasperatedly. "And you heard me well enough."

He grinned, catlike, and settled back into the rather uncomfortable chair. "I was merely reflecting upon the joys of mentoring."

"Well, try to look less... predatory," she muttered past twitching lips.

"I shall try," he responded with fake humility. "But... they have nothing to worry about... from me," he continued with more sincerity. "I may even... ask them to increase... the workload... given their success thus far."

He'd said it...inferred it. He'd planted the seed. At this point, this fulcrum, he could let his decision swing either way: towards sequestering Neville's time for 'professional reasons' and work on the potion, or abandon his campaign against the Ministry and leave Neville to his teaching and seeking his own answers.

On this cusp, held in Minerva's speculative gaze, he could enjoy a few more breaths free from the duties and obligations of making a choice. It was almost intoxicating; he could feel himself sinking into some inexplicable stupor as he came to realise what had only been pure fancy before. He almost laughed out at the unexpected euphoria creeping under his skin and delighting his senses. He'd never experienced such freedom... the capacity to actually choose.

"I'm sure that time could be allocated," Minerva said softly. "If you should decide to do so," she added sotto voce, while slipping something white and cool into his palm.

Surprised but too well trained to react to the impromptu gift, he flashed a smile and watched her leave the staffroom. With the closing of the door, he glanced down into his cupped hand and saw what she'd so carefully deposited. It was a collection of miniaturised documents, all bearing her seal as headmistress. He knew what they were, even as diminutive as they were. He'd suffered enough of them over the years. In his now subtly trembling hand was a collection of Ministry permission slips. In the past, he'd been forced to beg for these so he could take leaves of absence from the school or acquire certain pieces of equipment or ingredients for personal use in the fulfilment of his duties as Potions master.

And that was that! He knew without doubt he had the support of a dear friend and staunch ally. No matter what he decided, he would not be abandoned. True hope fluttered in his chest, blinking its eyes and stretching from its long sleep. Before, he'd only dared to consider the success and failure of a task as a statistical exercise, learning to cope with the outcome rather than build hope beforehand. Now, with his fingers closing around his precious gift, he could feel it burgeoning within his chest and seeping down his limbs. It was glorious... it was terrifying.

Neville had watched the discussion between Snape and Minerva and now wondered why the witch was watching him with something like amusement dancing across her features. When Minerva realised that Neville had caught her gaze, she smiled and stood, smoothing down her skirts before leaving the staffroom. His eyes darted back to Snape, who was seemingly fascinated by something in his hand. However, there was a strangely empty expression on his face. Neville fancied he knew that look. He'd adopted it often enough when he'd visited his mother and father and spoken with the Healers. It was self-preservation. It was hard learnt experience of shattered hopes keeping new ideas and new hopes under check so to limit the pain. It was the dangerous place of having hope.

The realisation perplexed Neville, and he squirmed in his seat as his recollections and recent interactions squabbled in his head. Where was the terrifying demon that had taught him potions? Who was this man who seemed so... powerful yet vulnerable? Why did his lips now quirk in amusement at Snape's comments rather than his teeth biting his tongue to keep his fear in check? It was confusing. And then there were these odd feelings of understanding and connection. It was unfathomable, but Neville actually felt comfortable with Snape.

Suddenly, the quiet chatter became too loud and the room too stuffy, and as Randal had already departed, Neville rose to his feet and moved to say goodnight to Pomona and Sinastra. They smiled at him and wished him the same, before returning to their gossiping. At least some things remained constant, Neville mused good-naturedly.

The cool of the corridor was a welcome relief, and he slowly walked back towards his room. He idly thought about checking on Randal but thought better of it; they had already planned to meet up in Hogsmeade in the morning for supplies. A small flicker of irritation flared, and he wondered why Randal had sneaked away. And what had he been hinting at. He snorted and shook his head, ousting the petulance. It had been a pleasant evening, and he wanted to preserve that sense of belonging; it wasn't as if Randal should be required to tell him his every move. Inhaling softly, he relaxed and rolled his shoulders, allowing a wonderfully lulling drowsiness to seep through him; it had been a while since he'd had a good night's sleep, and he was looking forward to slipping under the linen sheets.

Lost in his thoughts, he nearly screamed when a hand landed on his shoulder. He whirled around, his hand automatically moving to his wand, which he resisted withdrawing with a monumental effort. His expression must have been as effective as a drawn wand, because Snape drew back with a wary look and his lips pulled back.

"Oh, I am so sorry," Neville wheezed out between hasty breaths.

"I should apologise," Snape muttered. "I had called out, but my voice..." he drifted off and waved a languid hand towards his throat.

"No... it's...don't worry," he responded clumsily.

Neville steadied himself and waited for Snape to continue, but the man seemed oddly reluctant. That same almost blank expression had settled upon the pale face, and Neville felt that peculiar mix of wariness and delight he experienced whenever he tried to decipher Severus Snape. However, as the pause lengthened minutely, his delight waned and another deeper, more primal emotion bloomed. There was something hard and greedy in Snape's eyes. Neville thought upon the purposefully empty expression on his mentor's face and felt his guts swirl. Was it time?

Perhaps Snape sensed his thinking, because he inhaled softly and spoke. "Minerva has given her approval for your timetable... to be extended." The older man straightened as though some weight had been lifted and continued. "You will be expected to attend... additional mentor meetings. You know where we will meet. See me tomorrow evening at eight, Longbottom."

With that, he swept past Neville and marched down the corridor until he was swallowed up by distant shadows. Neville grunted, and his lips twitched. The man's footfalls had made no sound upon the stone floor; the cunning bastard silenced his steps. A laugh bubbled out and exploded. And it had taken him until now to realise how Snape had always loomed up on him without warning. Another, softer laugh followed and he smiled fondly; he'd definitely have to remember to use the spell...sneaking up on his students would be a worthwhile skill to have in his arsenal.

The closer he got to his room, the greater his excitement grew. Not only did he have a secure life within Hogwarts, surrounded by friends and work, he also had his chance to do what he'd promised his parents over twenty years ago: rescue them from their madness. There was still no guarantee of success, but for some reason, he utterly believed in Snape. He frowned as he slipped under the warm covers. It wasn't as if he had absolute faith Snape could make the potion work, it was just that... he could only believe in his dream's hopelessness if Snape said it was so. Despite the thrill running through him, his eyelids felt heavy and began to close. His last thoughts were of Snape's silent steps and his warm hand upon his shoulder.

Author's Notes: Many thanks to my wonderful beta; and a special thank you to the reader who gave me a big constructive prod.