Chapter Four: In Sanctuary

Chapter Four: In Sanctuary

Minerva had not wept.

Holding death at bay on a blood-soaked floor... placing a faltering life into the Healer's keeping... she had not wept. Sitting in midnight vigil beside her wounded children... parting a curtain of distant memory for a young wizard-hero... she had not wept. Presiding over rain-blessed rites of somber passing... still, she had not wept. Through all the fragile questioning farewells, through a headlong and eternal seven days, no tears had come. Those had stayed well-hidden, a fiercely guarded treasure unlocked to none.

When war had flung its bloody cloak across the Castle grounds, she had summoned a cold fury, a sweeping tide of rage that drove her to offer her life, if so decreed, to the Dark Lord's defeat. She had kept nothing in reserve when she'd stood against him, driving him back with the strength of her heart and the force of her magic. There had been no hesitation when she'd raised her wand, the primal joy of righteous battle surging through her with every hex she'd cast.

When she had seen Riddle's husk devoured by dragon fire, the flame of her anger had been banked into lingering embers. She had allowed her heart to settle onto a fulcrum of purpose, resolving into a place of balance. She would do all that was necessary to move beyond the ruins of war... and she would remain faithful to her solemn secret, so long as there was need. Her world would heal, her heart would heal... and if mercy was more than a brief nod from whimsical gods, the wizard she'd brought to sanctuary... he would heal as well.

Yet even now, she had not wept.

This seventh dawn had centered on her need to know, her right to demand the explanations that had gone unspoken. She had posed her questions... and the answers had been given.

"If he survives... if he wakes... he will be blind."

Tom Riddle's specter had risen with malicious satisfaction to stand before her, framed in Albus' revelations. The brutal truth of war... crystallized into a handful of words, affirming that the Dark Lord's vicious mark would forever scar the Wizarding world.

Sinking to the floor beneath the portrait, her unbound hair the mourning veil which hid her face, she had at last released her cloistered tears in lamentation of her dead and wounded... a naked grief which pleaded for the return of all that had been taken from her.

It was Minerva, woman of compassionate and loving heart, who wept wrenching sobs of loss and exhaustion, but it was Minerva McGonagall, fierce and powerful witch, who rose to her feet, straightening her robes and twisting up her hair, crossing to the chair behind the great polished desk to take her rightful place as Headmistress of Hogwarts.

When she spoke again, no tremor edged her voice, and it was clear her mourning had given way to an armored intention that would tolerate no argument.

"Albus, the stewardship of this school and its inhabitants--all of them--are my responsibility, whether they're present within these walls or not. I refuse to lose even one more of our own to Tom Riddle, and I don't intend to allow him this last victory. It's time I went to Se-to see the other quarters now to make sure they are in order and safely warded. That will give me time to think and begin to shape a plan of action. You will excuse me?"

Dumbledore simply nodded.

"Of course, Minerva. When you are ready, we will talk again."

As she was rising from her chair to leave, she heard Albus' voice once more, but only in the corridors of thought.

"Minerva, will you tell me the name you have given him? I would be comforted to know what you will call him."

Wordlessly she offered him the memory of Gareth and the naming he had made, and as she left the room, she was faintly comforted as well to see him smile.

--///--

Anyone who had ever been the recipient of Minerva's ire would have maintained a most respectful distance, had they seen her striding with deliberate purpose through the halls of Hogwarts Castle, marching like a conquering army of one, ramrod straight, head high and proud, robes sweeping behind her like the wake of a great warship. Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, Highland witch of the ancient clans, was furious.

She paused in front of the battered suit of armor behind which Severus had taken cover when she had hurled a barrage of blades deep into its metal breast.

"Things might have gone very differently if you'd not been so skilled at dueling," she muttered. "Your secrets would have died with you... and I would have been your murderer..."

It was close to twenty minutes before she reached her destination--a remote tower at the end of a long and frigid corridor, culminating in narrow stone steps. Both corridor and steps were blanketed by a layer of dust marred only by the repeated passage of one man. The staircase ascended in a tight spiral, in stark contrast to that which led to the quarters deep below the lake, the abode of Slytherin House.

Upon his return as Headmaster, Severus had, of course, no longer taught. It was known that he had taken private quarters in the most secluded reaches of the castle, far from the Headmaster's Tower, farther still from the dungeons of his House. The staff knew the location, but none presumed or desired to approach, nor were they summoned there. The students whispered about the terrible chamber of the betrayer, the despised murderer. Even the most arrogant among the Slytherins spoke his name with hushed voices.

It was assumed that any who ventured near him unbidden would suffer a merciless punishment. His foreboding presence was pervasive, his edicts and decrees received in grim acceptance of his power. Though he was seen only rarely, and was never masked, most who glimpsed him agreed that his appearance was that of the true Death Eater. Cloaked in the billowing robes of an eternal night, he was the dreaded herald of the coming of his Lord.

Advancing cautiously up the long spiral, Minerva paused, several steps below the small landing, peering up at a ponderous door of thickset oak, bound with iron. How many times, she wondered, had he left his solitary footprints on these steps, exhausted from constant surveillance, body and spirit sundered by the fickle accolades and unrestrained cruelty of Riddle's madness, bearing the agony of his own self-inflicted torments.

She was furious that her own judgments had been so distorted, and she was furious with him--recognizing now with stark clarity the horrors to which he'd subjected himself. Furious he had chosen to bear this burden alone; that he held so little regard for his own life, furious that despite all his cunning, his brilliance and keen perceptions, he had refused to acknowledge a fundamental truth.

As much as he denied comradeship with them, he was one of Hogwarts' own. Student, Professor, Head of House, Order Member, Headmaster--in all these aspects, he had been theirs, not Riddle's. She would use that now to call him back, kicking and cursing if need be, or she would find the way to release him into a peaceful death if that was the will of the Fates--but she would not lose him to Tom Riddle. Not again.

'Merlin's Heart, Severus," she silently fumed, not daring to speak his name aloud, afraid to plunge him still deeper into his Abandonment, "all that misery and secrecy... never enough to satisfy you.'

"ENOUGH!"

The word was her battle cry, rebounding from the looming walls, back along the echoing corridor.

It was her instinct that had kept her standing well below the landing. The massive door swung suddenly outward, smashing against the wall with a deafening crash, meant to strike terror into the heart of any would-be intruder. They would surely have lost their footing and hurtled backwards down the twisting steps, to land in a bloodied, broken heap at the bottom. A favored tactic of his--to viciously hurl the door of his classroom against the dungeon wall, terrifying the first-years, as he swept like some demon of Death into their midst, eyes cold as an adder's.

She had often accused him of petty cruelty, challenging him to address his reasoning for terrifying children. His acerbic response was generally the same.

"A dose of fear may shut them up long enough for them to hear what I attempt to teach them. Some of them may have the sense to use it... Most will not. So be it."

"And do you honestly believe your penchant for making them hate you will shield you somehow... that you will never be vulnerable to any of them?" she had once retaliated, soon after Albus had sent him back to Riddle's side. "For the love of heaven, Severus, this behavior is shameful... It's unworthy of you."

"ENOUGH!"

His eyes had flamed in a fever of rage, and he had seized a vial of potion, hurling it to the floor at her feet with such violence she had drawn her wand, preparing to defend herself. His face draining of the raw emotion that had flared so suddenly, he had apologized at once, claiming he was weary and unwell, but there had been tension between them for many days after.

"Enough."

Why had he chosen that single word as the ward to protect his quarters? Because this solitary retreat was the only refuge left to him?

"Enough."

Or had he finally given voice to his wretched hope to be released from his allegiances and promises?

"Enough."

Cautiously and respectfully, as if entering a sepulcher, Minerva crossed the threshold to stand in his sanctuary. Her first realization was that there were no window coverings, none of the heavy black drapery he had always favored in his offices and classrooms. Instead the room was flooded with sunlight that poured in from the large windows opposite the doorway. Was this some harbinger of hope, that he had allowed the light to enter?

She understood his reason far too quickly when she saw what was clearly visible from those windows--always in his line of sight whenever he entered the rooms or moved anywhere within them. Standing as a constant sentinel, there rose the Astronomy Tower, the place where he had cast the most Unforgivable of curses... Avada Kedavra, the Killing Curse.

No matter that it was delivered as an act of mercy, the agreed-upon conclusion to an Unbreakable Vow. As clearly as though his shadow still fell across the floor, she knew. He had not allowed that wound to close, but had kept it bleeding. He had surely stood brooding at those windows, looking at that Tower, every cursed day, every haunted night... a reminder always that his hands... his wand... had ended the life of Albus Dumbledore.

"... those whom I could not save..."

Turning from the window, Minerva cast her eyes around the first large room. She was unsure what she had expected to find in these new quarters. Though their offices were open to one another, in all their years of service to the school, she could not recall that either had visited the other's personal apartments. There were certain time-honored rules of tradition to be followed and sufficient neutral spaces within the Castle where staff and Heads of House could meet comfortably for professional or private matters. Somehow, it had always been a forgone conclusion that neither would intrude upon the other's privacy.

She was struck by the subdued character of the space--sparingly furnished, with items that appeared to have been chosen with considerable appreciation for beauty and workmanship. A useful deception--to be surrounded with certain trappings of the luxury and power that service to Riddle could provide. Or were these careful acquisitions driven by a far deeper need--an effort to eradicate the ugliness of his life?

An enchanted Persian carpet covered the oiled plank floor, its exquisite design shifting in an ever-changing play of light and color, reminiscent of deep-flowing water dappled by the shadow of leaves. The pattern stirred a memory from the Pensieve that Harry had shared with her the night of their mourning vigil--a poignant remembrance of two children huddled close together on a riverbank, whispering of magic, dreaming of Hogwarts.

A leather Morris chair, its arms of aged ironwood, stood close to a blackened stone fireplace that was flanked by two wrought-iron candle stands rising from the floor in the guise of gnarled and barren trees. The house-elves must have been permitted here, as the hearth was clean and a fire made ready. A board and pieces for Wizard chess, carved from the blackest Kilkenny and the purest white Sivec marble, stood ready for a game. The mantle held a pair of antique porcelain apothecary urns; thin as eggshell, painted with images of Japanese dragons, heads erect in proud disdain, claws extended in rampant fighting posture.

Beside the well-worn chair stood a mahogany table piled with books, bearing a substantial pewter candlestick, the wick of the beeswax pillar precisely trimmed. A basket of woven papyrus containing rolls of blank parchment, an assortment of snowy-owl quills and bottles of crimson and ebony inks, were all close at hand, with even more books heaped on the floor, sheets of parchment filled with scrawled notations tucked haphazardly between the pages.

Against one wall loomed an enormous sideboard, also of mahogany, carved with crouching gargoyles, and other mythical and Magical creatures--foreboding, yet strangely beautiful--graced with a Slytherin-crested copper tray holding two cut-crystal decanters, one of dryad-made brandy, the other of firewhisky--the brandy scarcely touched, the firewhisky nearly finished. A single snifter sat beside the decanters--one glass only, for in the year past, he had welcomed no one to share the gentle warmth of the brandy or the searing flame of the firewhisky. This momentary comfort, this fleeting oblivion, he had kept for himself alone.

An inlaid ebony tea chest, containing the pungent smoky Lapsang Souchong he preferred, sat beside an antique Russian samovar, one plain teacup at the ready. Minerva remembered arguing with him about tea. She could never abide the dank tarry aroma of his, and he disdained her fragrant Scottish blend.

Their first discord over tea had been on a raw and rainy November afternoon. It was Severus' second term at Hogwarts as a professor, and he had only now begun to come into the staff room, other than for morning meetings or to check his box for notices, generally at times she knew he expected to find no one else there.

She had conjured a peat fire to warm her as she tackled the crossword of the Sunday Prophet, and her pot of tea was at her elbow. Knowing even a simple acknowledgment would likely send him out of the room, she'd kept her attention firmly on the puzzle, not looking up as he settled his thin frame into the adjacent armchair. The only sound was the slight thump of another teapot being placed on the table and the tiny chortle of tea being poured into a cup.

Silence had ensued--until the pine-smoke scent of his tea began to permeate the room. She had lowered her paper with a snap and wrinkled her nose in disgust, thinking to herself how vile the smell was, but saying nothing. It was not her business what he chose to drink.

A short while later, she'd finished the puzzle and was left feeling somewhat dozy. Since she had essays to mark, she'd decided to clear the cobwebs away with a bit more tea. Glancing over at Severus as she poured, she'd noticed he was deeply absorbed in his reading and his cup was empty. On impulse she had reached across to re-fill it with tea from her own pot, not wishing to disturb him.

Raising his eyes from the page with a glower of annoyance, he had vanished the tea immediately and made a surly comment that he'd sooner traipse through Diagon Alley dressed in Gryffindor crimson than drink such an insipid brew. Minerva usually ignored the bite of his temper, but she had only meant to be sociable and there was no excuse for being so ill-mannered to a colleague, particularly one who was considerably his senior, in both years and office.

"You might have simply said, 'No, thank you', Severus." She'd intentionally not called him Professor. "Not everything a Gryffindor does is meant as a direct attack on your Slytherin sensibilities." Her own temper was up now, and she'd half hoped he'd rise to the bait.

Without a word, he had deliberately filled his cup from his own teapot, adding a measure of brandy from the communal silver flask on the table between them. From behind her paper, she'd watched him over the rim of her spectacles, and had seen his hand hover over her cup as well, as if he were considering whether to add a drop there also... as a draught of peace for having left a sting... until he looked up and saw that he was being observed. Stony-faced, he'd set down the flask, replaced the stopper, and returned to his book. There had been no olive branch that day.

And yet, that Christmas, a small box had appeared in her quarters, wrapped in tissue of the deepest red, tied with gold cord and tagged with a single letter "S" in silver. Inside was a perfect bone-china teacup, delicate and translucent as a lotus flower, both cup and saucer fairy-painted with the crest of her House, charmed so that any tea poured into the cup would remain steaming, just the way she liked it. There was no card, but she knew at once who had sent it. When she had attempted to thank him at dinner in the Great Hall, he had nodded stiffly and abruptly left the room.

Over the years, their individual preferences over the matter of tea had evolved into an odd little ceremony. Whoever reached the staff room first would prepare both pots, to be ready and waiting when the other arrived.

"Vile," she would scowl, handing over his pot.

"Insipid," he would smirk, as he reciprocated with hers.

She had not touched the charmed cup since Albus' death, but it had seemed pointless for something so beautiful to be destroyed. It sat in its place in the staff room even now, filmed with dust.

Opening the doors at the front of the sideboard, she saw the collection of vials, flasks, bottles, and boxes--his rarest and most personal stores. Which of these shimmering vessels contained the terrible potions with which he had been dosing? For a moment, she considered smashing all of them, though she knew that would be foolish. He would have mocked her and demanded to know why a witch of her years and stature would behave like a petulant child.

Perhaps there were potions here that the Healer might use to ease him through his suffering. Still, she slammed the doors shut sharply, needing to release her anger. Had she known, she could have... she would have... done what? Albus had not prevented his spy's descent into the abyss of potion dependency, though in truth he had scarcely made the attempt. But given Severus' grim determination to arm himself against the unforeseen, how might she have fared any better?

Every other space in the vast room was lined, floor to ceiling, with bookcases, laden with volumes of every conceivable type. The musky scent of leather bindings and ancient paper permeated the room--hanging in the air like an incense of knowledge. Glancing along the shelves, she saw that all subjects were covered--potions, spells, hexes, charms, curses, tomes on the Darkest Arts contrasting with those extolling the most transcendent of the White, all things Magical--but also numerous books of history, medicine, philosophy and logic, religion and art, poetry and literature... all from the Muggle world.

She had always considered that to be a saving grace for Severus--his constant yearning for information and knowledge. She respected that trait of his profoundly, but often feared where such a passionate quest might lead him. Had he been Ravenclaw, she would have been less concerned, but knowing how deeply Slytherin he was, she understood his temptations were great.

It had been books that forged the first trust between them.

When he was still a first-year in her Transfiguration class, she'd found herself puzzled by him. Although never one to wave his hand in anxious anticipation of being called upon, he always answered correctly when she posed a question directly to him. His assignments were submitted exactly on time, written in a hand that she found overly precise for an eleven-year-old boy. While others in class tended to break focus if distracted by a sound in the corridors or the siren song of Quidditch practice wafting in from the playing fields, he never seemed diverted by such things. When his classmates were frantically copying down every word she said, he would lean forward, hugging his elbows, watching her intently with eyes far too old for a child, and when he practiced his transfigurations, she was pleased with the grace and restraint of his wand work.

From what she'd observed, he had no friends to speak of, other than Lily Evans--an odd pairing--but after all they were from the same district of Manchester. His Slytherin housemates seemed to tolerate him, although perhaps they did so only because he was intelligent and they might gain some help with difficult homework. She'd determined within the first month that he already knew far more than he should about magical theory, but when she'd mentioned that to Albus, he'd simply smiled and said perhaps they'd best keep a closer eye on him. Horace was already boasting in the staff room that he might have a Potions genius on his hands.

It was quite by accident that she'd discovered him one evening in her classroom. On her way back to her quarters from the library, she'd remembered there was a supplementary essay one of her more advanced sixth-years had promised to leave on the corner of her teaching desk. Deciding she'd rather not leave marking a deserving student's work until the next day, she'd slipped into her classroom with the glow of a waxing moon allowing her to move across the flagstone floor without lighting her wand.

It was the whisper of a page turning that gave him away. Otherwise, she might have missed him, hunched cross-legged on the floor in the darkest corner with a large book cradled in his lap, the tiny light of his illuminated wand shrouded by the shabby robe he'd tented over his head and shoulders.

"Mr. Snape, explain yourself, if you please."

The average student, caught off-guard by a professor, much less a Head of House, would have scrambled to their feet, stammering excuses. But not this boy. He carefully closed the book, shrugged his robes back into their proper place, and slowly rose to his feet to face her, his wand extinguished. The flint of moonlight sparking in his black eyes, he stood silent, so pale she almost believed she could see straight through him.

"Your reason, Mr. Snape, for your presence here after curfew when you should be studying in the common room of your House?" Her stern demeanor was generally enough to make even older students lower their eyes, regretting the error of their ways. But not this boy.

Looking straight at her, he had squared his thin shoulders and extended his skinny arms, the book heavy in his hands.

"I was reading, Professor McGonagall."

Watching carefully, in case he decided to bolt after all, Minerva scanned the book's cover and saw it was the new publication she'd ordered earlier in the week from Flourish and Blotts and left on the bookcase behind her teaching desk.

"Transfiguration Within the Constraints of Time Manipulation: An Esoteric Analysis of Varied Applications", authored by Phillipa Mobilus.

"Mr. Snape," she had said, frowning, "this book is hardly of a level or topic appropriate to a first-year student. You've made two grave mistakes... sneaking into my classroom after hours and presuming to take my personal property without permission. You will serve detention with me for the next two Fridays, and I will be making a report to your Head of House. You are to go at once back where you belong."

Securing the book under her arm, she'd firmly motioned him to leave the room ahead of her, but he'd remained motionless, his boy's face set with a man's fierce determination.

"I'm not a sneak... I wasn't doing anything but reading..." Wounded pride, and a certain willful anger, could be heard in his voice.

"I'd advise you not to make matters worse, Severus Snape, with a show of temper. Just what is it that you think you've read in this book?"

She'd been amazed he'd actually be so bold as to challenge her. He had always been respectful of his professors and seemed to prefer structure and discipline, distancing himself from any of the childish antics of his fellows.

"Page eighty-seven, half way down... She says the dark wizards in Egypt could do it easily, whenever they wanted to... transfigure into hawks and jackals... and huge poisonous snakes... and they could bend time any way they wanted to curse the pharaohs' enemies. That's what the obelisks were really all about... to focus the magic. I know you think I don't understand it and I'm lying... but it's in your book... I read it."

Disturbed by the unrestrained awe and passion in his voice, she'd touched his shoulder to maneuver him to sit down and felt the muscles of his scrawny frame seize, ready for the blow. He'd already braced himself, feet apart, hands clenched, jaw set... prepared. The realization that he was anticipating physical punishment for his offense was dreadful to her.

"Child, I've no intention of hurting you. I do want you to sit down over there, however."

The easiest solution of course would have been to simply open the book to the page he'd cited and confirm his claim. He'd still be required to serve detention with her for breaking the after-hours rule and touching a professor's personal property, but at least she'd know the truth.

He'd sat unflinching under her scrutiny... hands open and wandless in his lap, with no schoolboy's tic of nervous energy. Quite still... except for those black eyes... appraising, watchful, guarded... Too deep... too intense... a world of shadows already living there. But somewhere in their deepest recesses, a boy still peeped out... remorseful for offending his teacher... hoping not to be labeled deceitful and sent away... Wanting her to trust him... Needing her to believe him.

For a moment, as she considered what to do, it was as if he'd somehow slipped inside her head and hidden there... It was a tiny sensation, like a mouse scurrying past her in the dark.

"I'm sorry... I wasn't going to steal it... I just wanted to read it."

She did not open the book.

"Mr. Snape... Severus... You do understand you've broken several important rules, and I will call you to detention. However, I believe we will restrict my report to your Head of House to simply say I found you roaming the corridors after curfew. Agreed?"

An almost imperceptible nod. "Yes, Professor McGonagall."

"It appears you have an interest beyond your years for subjects you're not yet versed in and are not ready to study."

A flush of anger had swept across his face, and she'd quelled that sharply.

"I remind you, Mr. Snape, that you are indeed a child... an exceptionally bright child, certainly... but still you are a boy, without the experiences of magic to appropriately study advanced theory. Nevertheless, I will speak with the Headmaster privately and make my recommendation that you have supervised access to various texts not generally available to first-years." She smiled in spite of herself. "In fact, there may be some of them not readily available to many of the seventh-years."

She could almost see the calculations going on behind his dark eyes.

"There will most assuredly not be books provided to you from the Restricted Section, and if I am ever led to believe you are attempting to access those, I will revoke this privilege immediately. Are we quite clear?"

Another nod, more eager this time. "Yes, Professor McGonagall."

"Until the Imbolc holidays, I will expect you to report to me here on Friday evenings after supper, and we will discuss what you've been reading. You will maintain your other studies with due diligence, and should your regular work fall below standards, we will re-address this consideration. If your housemates have questions, you can simply tell them I've given you detention and additional essay work as punishment for being out of bounds. I imagine that Mr. Malfoy as your Prefect will be most sympathetic that you're being forced to spend so much time with me."

Standing now in Severus' fortress of books, Minerva remembered the brief smile that had darted across his thin face. He'd been almost as pleased with the conspiracy as with her offer, and she'd come to look forward to those Friday evenings, which did not cease after the holidays.

For the next three years, she had provided him with books, and he had quietly sought her out, under the pretense of Transfiguration tutoring, to discuss the things he'd read--until he'd turned fourteen, and a new transfiguration begin--from an intelligent and questing boy into an angry and sullen young man. By the time he was fifteen, he had stopped coming. By the time he was seventeen, they had lost him.

Sighing, Minerva shook her head. "You devoured books faster than I could approve them, didn't you? Something of a challenge, keeping Madam Pince in the dark... but we did manage always to give her the slip. I always suspected you were actually having a bit of fun in those days. Old Horace figured it out rather quickly, you know, but didn't care as long as you remained his prize pupil."

Other than the empty portrait frame positioned where Albus could survey the entire suite of rooms if so desired, there was no artwork on the walls--certainly none of the hideous images Severus had displayed so openly in his classroom, once he attained the post of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. She had confronted him about those horrible images, and he had replied, with that maddening irrefutable logic of his, that students should be shown in exacting detail what they would encounter... they must understand fully both the seduction and the repugnance within those Arts.

They had often sat late into the night in the staff room, debating magical beliefs and philosophies. Though she understood the premise, Minerva could not tolerate the argument that the Dark Arts might be used selectively in ways that would not lead to a soul's destruction. Severus compared them to an alluring narcotic, a potion that subtly coursed through the veins, softly calling and enticing... seeking the ones apart from friends and loved ones, feeding their desperate hungers, promising that if they used the power well, they would achieve great things... until too late the users learned... If they wished to be served by the Dark Arts, they must also serve.

Surely she realized he'd been exposed to the addiction when he was still a child? With eyes wide open, he had allowed the Dark Arts to shape him, and though he sought balance and control, they ensnared and bewitched him still--he was entranced by them. How else might the Dark Lord have drawn him to his side so readily?

She had threatened to go to Dumbledore, to demand that he forbid those awful images in any Hogwarts classroom and withdraw the offer of this dangerous teaching position, but Severus had simply observed her with a mirthless smile, his eyes glinting with the bitter irony of his circumstances.

"Minerva, the Headmaster knows full well what I am... That is what makes me so useful in this War. Who else might coil so comfortably at the Dark Lord's side? Not a lion of Gryffindor, certainly. I am the one he needs... a serpent from the nest of Slytherin."

Emotion surging through her like one of his simmering potions, Minerva crossed the room and opened the inner door, entering the bed chamber. There was the standard four-poster used by the students, covered with the simplest linens and one dense gray woolen blanket, one pillow, thin and hard. The heavy velvet bed curtains, meant to keep out the chill, had been removed--nothing must confine him should an enemy approach. He had never revealed whether he was celibate, but surely such a lonely bed had never been filled with the warm fragrance of a woman, nor seen him wake at first light, wrapped in a lover's sweet embrace.

The looming mahogany wardrobe opposite revealed the clothing of a Hogwarts professor, several pairs of leather boots lined up below coats, trousers, and cloaks in his accustomed dense black wool, contrasting with high necked shirts of stark white broadcloth. The solitary set of dress robes, threads of green and silver interwoven at the edges, stirred another memory.

The year she had been named Deputy Headmistress, Albus had been ill with a cold and had begged off at the last moment from attending the Yule Ball. She had resigned herself to beginning the first waltz with someone else--a difficult prospect since she loved to dance and most of the faculty and staff were not so accomplished. Still, she had donned her most festive tartan robes and proceeded to the Great Hall. The Hall was ablaze when she entered--truly wonderful. All eyes were turned to her, waiting expectantly. The musicians stood poised, ready to strike the first notes. Perhaps she should simply refrain and allow someone else to step off first.

He had appeared in front of her as silently as a conjured shadow, dressed in those somber dress robes--black as midnight, with the hint of verdant green and moonlit silver touching the edges--bowing slightly with elegant grace, as he would have done before a duel, extending his pale, slender hand.

"Madam, it would be my honor, and that of my House."

One waltz, gracefully and perfectly executed, swiftly ended. Another restrained bow, and then gone. There had been no pointless affectations or mundane pleasantries, simply a tradition honored, a courtesy observed, respect shown. His hooded eyes and unsmiling marble face clearly conveyed that this would never be spoken of again between them. But she had not forgotten.

Shaking her head at the memory, Minerva continued assessing the contents of the wardrobe. There were a few Muggle pieces--sweaters, trousers and such, always in black, gray, or starkest white. Though they were few, every garment, magical or Muggle, was impeccably tailored, of excellent fabric. A taste acquired through long years of association with Lucius Malfoy, or a small vanity to negate the memory of the hideous clothing forced upon him as a child? The rich scent of amber filled the wardrobe, perhaps to balance the acrid odor of potions that had always clung to him.

It felt somehow too personal, too intimate, to search his bureau, so she made only a brief inspection--sleeping robes, under garments, and socks--no color, no expensive quality here--except for one pair of socks in flaming chartreuse cashmere, a birthday gift from Albus years ago--certainly never worn, but respectfully kept, all the same.

Minerva glanced into the bath, noting the absence of any indulgence--coarse white towels and plain soaps. The entire school, students and faculty alike, had always scoffed behind his back at the deplorable condition of his hair and the wretched appearance of his skin--nothing seemed to lift the oily residue of potion fumes from those straggling raven locks and that spectral face. She did recall, however, how scrupulously he maintained his hands. There had been a deadly beauty to those hands--capable of soothing or torturing, healing or killing, with equal skill.

Neither bed chamber nor bath contained a mirror. His sweeping black cloak, his bloodless face and bottomless eyes, his stealthy nocturnal habits, had perpetuated the rumor that he carried the curse of vampire blood. This absence of mirrors would have lent credence to the myth of "the Bat of Hogwarts." Had he considered himself so ugly that the use of a mirror would be an absurd vanity, or was this something more profound? Had he shunned looking into his own eyes or scrutinizing his own face, dreading what they would reveal?

Adjacent to the austere bed stood a large well-worn trunk, which Minerva believed was the same one he had brought to Hogwarts as a scrawny, brittle child. Kneeling gingerly beside it, lest some dangerous hex protected it, she carefully raised the lid, amazed that no ward had been placed. Perhaps he simply surmised that no one who valued their life would dare venture this far into his domain.

Inside she found more books, mostly his student texts. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for one small box--a battered biscuit tin--the treasure box of a boy from the streets, a child of Spinner's End--buried beneath a stack of old potions essays, marked with glowing comments from Slughorn. Again, no wards. She removed the lid, and her heart sank as she investigated the contents.

A polished river rock, painted with two tiny red hearts, and a child's lopsided lettering.

"To Sev my best friend always. Happy Christmas from Lily."

A girl's red mitten, the red of Gryffindor House.

Strands of gold and silver ribbon, twisted into a forever knot, promising loyalty and devotion.

And a sheet of paper--bearing several lines from the last page of a letter--signed with Lily Potter's love, wrapped around a torn photograph of her beautiful, bright face--laughing, glowing with joy, full of love and life.

Minerva gently replaced the childhood tokens of eternal friendship, the letter and the photograph of the woman grown, and tucked the little tin into a pocket in her robes. Albus had said to place familiar objects into his hands. Perhaps these simple things, so treasured, would call to him in his forsaken wandering between the Worlds.

She saw no other evidence of Lily anywhere in the rooms. She had not expected to find a memorial to his heart's deepest regret. Nothing so blatant, Minerva knew, would have been permitted. Displays of emotion or affection left him naked to the eyes of those around him, a situation he refused to tolerate. His shrine to Lily had been internal--his memories serving as the acolyte--his tattered soul as the daily offering.

Seeing that the shadows on the floor were lengthening, Minerva centered her attentions. It would be several more days before her preparations were complete, and she'd best make a start.

Moving through the rooms again, she hesitated in front of the student trunk. A familiar object, she reasoned--one that could be easily filled with other familiar objects. Having made her decision, she emptied the trunk of most of the books and papers, placing those carefully in the wardrobe. She kept one first-year student text, and one fifth-year potions essay. Moving the trunk into the middle of the floor in the larger room, she began to direct her wand toward various objects, speaking the incantations "Mobiliarbus" and "Accio".

Begin to call him back, Albus had said, with sounds, textures, scents, and familiar objects.

Scents and tastes? A fragrant piece of amber from the wardrobe. The scent of one's own clothing was often the most familiar. A bar of soap from the bath. That dreadful tea, surely, along with his cup. And of course both the brandy and the firewhisky decanters must be placed in the trunk, after being sealed securely with a charm.

Textures? Several of the owl quills and pieces of pristine parchment went into the trunk, along with the inks. The Queens, both black and white, from the chessboard. The dense gray blanket was fetched, but not the unforgiving pillow. Various items of clothing, both Muggle and magical were added, including the traveling cloak she knew he favored most whenever the weather was chill and damp. She hesitated for an instant, before adding the atrocious green socks to the pile, with a wolfish little smile. It would serve him right, if she forced him to wear them every blessed day until he was well. A single tear sprang to her eye, as she silently prayed she might someday see him realize exactly what they were, and scowl at her in absolute disgust at being subjected to such an indignity.

Sounds? The rhythm and cadence of forgotten voices, reading from books long treasured, and committed to memory, could only help and could not harm. Minerva moved past each shelf, pulling volumes she had seen him reading often. She chose carefully, selecting only those which would fill his mind with logic and intelligence, beauty, wisdom, and hope--from both Worlds, magical and Muggle. It would require the strength and knowledge of both to bring him back. She would not permit the blight of Darkness to approach him, only the blessings of the Light.

Aversion etched into her face, she approached the sideboard, opening the doors to gather the potion stores within. Conjuring a small chest, she placed all inside, sealing the chest with the most profound charms of protection, reducing its size before placing it deep inside the trunk. No one but she would be able to open it, and she would do so only to ease his agonies, or enable him to return from the Abandonment.

The twilight was fast approaching by the time she had completed her task. Raising her voice, she spoke with the authority of her Office.

"House-elves are needed here."

Barely had she spoken than they appeared--the four trusted house-elves who had long attended the Heads of House.

The eldest bowed respectfully before stepping closer to the Morris chair where she now sat, his rheumy brown eyes full of concern.

"What is the Headmistress requiring? Mistress has spent too many hours in this sad place. It is not good for her to remain here. This Master is dead. He was always full of terrible pain. Mistress can never be happy here."

Minerva shook her head, wishing she could tell him this Master was not dead, that he still lived--or at least she prayed it was so. But she could only rise to her feet, and issue her instructions.

"This trunk contains personal items I wish kept. Please carry it carefully to Hagrid's home. He will store it for me until such time as I request it. I do not wish this discussed with anyone else, nor will you speak this Master's name aloud. This is of great importance to me. You understand?"

The elder elf nodded. It was his honor to serve the castle of Hogwarts. He had been treated with respect here and would always repay that kindness with devotion.

"The Headmistress is not to worry. We will do what is needed, and never speak about it. This Master always threatened terrible things, but he did no harm to any of us. The house-elves of Hogwarts will never speak badly of him. We will keep his name in silence if that is what Mistress is wishing of us."

Quick as thought, the house-elves hoisted the trunk and moved to the doorway, disappearing in an instant.

The moon was rising now, its radiance flooding the room like a benediction. Minerva crossed once more to the window, to watch the shadow of the Astronomy Tower creep across the silent grounds below.

'You are not to leave us, Severus,' she silently ordered, summoning his face in her mind, wishing she could shout his name aloud, challenging him to live. "You are not forsaken. Wait for us.'

Having swung the massive door closed, Minerva turned on the staircase, her wand raised. What ward should be placed to seal and protect this lonely place of sanctuary? The voice of the Healer sounded in her heart, and she spoke her ward aloud...

"Maldwyn."