The welcoming feast at Hogwarts, at the start of term the year that Voldemort overtook the rule of the magical community of Britain, was a sordid affair. Even a pureblood like Draco Malfoy seemed dismayed at the number of empty seats at the tables in the Great Hall. At least a quarter of last year’s pupils did not feel welcome or feared the sitting regime enough to voluntarily suspend themselves from Hogwarts prominent school of Witchcraft and Wizardry - a school that, for centuries back, had seen every family with magical members aspire to have their children accepted to. 

The absence of Harry Potter and his friends was conspicuous, of course. Several of the students nonetheless sought the Gryffindor table out, in a naive reflex, just to make sure he was not there. Harry Potter had been a pupil of their school for six years and they had been curious about him, admired him, envied him, pitied him, doubted him and hated him, in turns, but it still was not until they actually realised that he was gone - probably out there somewhere, preparing to fight You-know-who - that they realised, with a mixture of disbelief and dread, the chilling reality of things. They were at war. Some people, many of them Slytherins, accepted and acclaimed the new regime - more or less embracing, more or less reluctant. Others only cautiously played along and others still were out there resisting the new order. Some of the young had, until today, naively thought that, maybe, things would not have to change, but the welcoming feast taught them differently.

There were no laughs, very few smiles on the pupils’ faces and even the house ghosts kept their mouths shut. The new headmaster, Severus Snape, made an inauguration speech where he emphasised that he would tolerate no pranks, no chit-chat, no foolishness at all. He stated that the school of Hogwarts would from now on be a model of discipline in honour of the Dark Lord. 

”Our new leader aspires to a pure and successful magical society and it is only up to you to obey his orders if you want to belong to that illustrious community,” said the headmaster. The black-clad professor was as pale as an inferus and as stiff as an effigy made of ice.

The youngest Weasley was seated at the Gryffindor table. The red-headed, alert girl had a serious expression on her face and whispered to a tall, dark-headed boy. It was Neville Longbottom that had grown into a round-shouldered and heavy-looking young man. The two Gryffindors had deliberately left three empty seats next to them, located at the table where Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley used to sit when they attended Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall noticed and ignored their trick, but when the new headmaster discovered their attempt of silent protest, he glared warningly at the young couple, spoke a few harsh words to Gryffindor’s head of house, almost without parting his thin, blood-less lips, and made her fill the empty seats with newly sorted first-years. The loathing in Professor McGonagall’s eyes could not be hidden as she ushered the first years forth to their new places, with jerky gestures .

When it was time for the pupils to regain their houses, in neat, silent lines, Draco Malfoy, Prefect of Slytherin, had a minor altercation with a fifth year boy from his house. Since his attempted murder on Albus Dumbledore the previous spring, the young Malfoy’s aristocratic, self-important manners were tinged with an ever so slight amount of irresolution and he hesitated a fraction of a second before he reprimanded the fretting adolescent.

The exchange drew the attention of one of the newly appointed teachers, Amycus Carrow, who Draco knew as a Death Eater from the meetings at Malfoy Manor. Before anyone knew what had happened, the coarse man had drawn his wand and the insubordinate fifteen year old was wriggling and howling on the floor under a Cruciatus curse. Draco let out a yelp and took a stumbling step back. The headmaster took a step forward, but arrested himself when Carrow lifted his curse. The pupils in the hall had frozen in their movements and held a collective breath. 

”The headmaster called for obedience,” Amycus Carrow bellowed. ”You should all submit to your prefects’ orders and you…” He pointed at the terror-struck Draco, ”…should not hesitate to punish the offenders. There should be no weakness! You prefects are the elongated arm of the authority at Hogwarts and you should learn to put yourself in respect! It is time you make your father proud, Mr Malfoy. I’ll be happy to give you some private tutoring.” Draco gaped at the teacher. His limbs were trembling. A couple of pupils had raised the cruciated boy up and supported him. He looked shaken, but not seriously harmed. The headmaster advanced.

”Take your fellow pupils down to your house, Mr Malfoy,” Snape said in a tight, but controlled voice. He continued, louder, addressing the other prefects. ”Leave to your dormitories, all of you. In proper order. Now!” As he turned around, Snape whispered in Amycus Carrow’s ear: ”A word in my office, Mr Carrow.” 

Severus Snape experienced the welcoming feast as if lived inside a crystal ball, hazy and with extreme clarity at the same time. Not one detail escaped him and some of them were magnified with terrifying significance. Firstly, the three screamingly empty seats at the Gryffindor table. Secondly, the painful sight of Minerva McGonagall carefully putting her fork and knife down on her plate with trembling hands, as Alecto Carrow, Amycus Carrow’s sister, detailed her plans for the Muggle studies subject, at the teacher’s table of honour. Snape’s heightened awareness told him that his elderly colleague was near breaking point. And finally, the appalling sight of a half-grown adolescent's body in excruciating pain. The images etched into Snape’s brain like burning flames and yet they did not once elicit a response in his inscrutable face. 

One might think that Severus Snape had dosed himself with some or other of his own potions, but that was not the case. Snape was surprisingly reluctant to use potions on himself. He preferred the state of his mind, body and magic as innate and unaltered by external influences as possible. His present state of extreme perceptibility and extreme numbness, at the same time, was instead the result of the merciless usage of Occlumency. At this particular moment, it was not about preventing the invasion of another mind, but about checking his own emotions. And this night he was particularly brutal towards himself. He approached the fine line between self-control and self-disintegration. Occlumency as hardly applied as this, was susceptible to shut down your vital functions if pushed only slightly too much. 

Snape, naturally, was used to the practice of concealing his emotions during endless meetings with the Dark Lord. His Occlumency skills were extremely well developed. Although, he found that here, on the familiar grounds of Hogwarts, where his new position placed him at the centre of attention, it was infinitely more difficult to subdue the swirling sensations deep inside him. Thence the ruthless treatment of himself. He had not come this far, not made such sacrifices, only to be overthrown at this moment by his own weakness.

When Snape turned to lead the way up to the headmaster’s office, followed by Amycus Carrow, Occlumency and Legilimency merged for a second in his mind and the overwhelming impact of the thoughts of hundreds of people hit Snape’s brain: ”Death Eaters. Murderers,” they said. The pupils and his colleagues alike: ”Death Eaters. Murderers.” Minerva McGonagall: ”Death Eater. Traitor. Butcher. Murderer.” The words echoed in his head and threatened for a moment to black him out, before Occlumency gained control over Legilimency again. 

Yes, Death Eaters and murderers, he and Amycus Carrow alike, that was the part he played, after all. That was his goal. Why should the words plague him? 

Snape steeled himself further and made a gesture for Alecto Carrow and Minerva McGonagall to follow.

Inside the headmaster’s office, it seemed to Minerva McGonagall that Severus Snape made himself blind to the surroundings to focus only on the three teachers in front of him. He did not throw a single glance at the portraits of the old headmasters, nor did he deign look at Albus’ collection of magical silver instruments, or the perch where Dumbledore’s Phoenix, Fawks, used to sit. But surely the callous traitor was merely indifferent to the significance of those objects? The cold-hearted assassin had no reason to be affected by the interior of this room that still bore the distinct mark of the late headmaster, the Gryffindor head of house thought bitterly.

The office had been shut and sealed since Dumbledore’s death, until the official announcement of Severus Snape’s appointment as headmaster only a few days ago. McGonagall realised that Snape had only had limited time since his arrival at Hogwarts to move his things from the dungeons and imprint his own mark on the office, but there still were surprisingly few changes since Albus’ time. She was sure that would change over the coming weeks, however. 

Minerva McGonagall wondered why Snape had brought them to his office - Dumbledore’s office, she corrected herself grimly - at all. He had not even invited them to sit down. It occurred to her that Snape could just as well have told them what he wanted to say at a corner of the Great Hall or in the teacher’s common room. McGonagall had longed to see Albus’ things one more time, though, and therefore she did not complain. There had been so many good moments in this office, so many lively and sophisticated discussions on Transfiguration and hairsplitting arguments on magical theory between Albus and herself, that she could hardly remember them all.

The familiar room soothed her feelings and caused her pain at the same time. It had all happened so fast, last spring. She had woken up to the fact that Albus Dumbledore was dead. She had run out of the castle as soon as she had been informed of the events and had been stunned by the sight of Harry Potter sitting by the corpse’s side, unaware of his surroundings, inconsolable and finally, when Hagrid managed to get through to him, so bravely struggling to accept the cruel reality, so precociously resigned and determined at the same time. 

The tightness in Minerva McGonagall’s chest threatened to make it explode. Harry had told her what had passed in this tower - he had told her, in a quiet voice almost devoid of emotion, but with the green eyes burning with hatred, who the slayer of her dearest friend had been. She had refused to believe it at first. Albus had so adamantly defended the young Potions master. It was beyond comprehension that the powerful wizard had let himself be duped. It was equally inconceivable that the traitor had the nerve to come back and usurp his victim’s position. But here she was, facing Albus’ assassin, bound to be his subordinate for the next term. Her hurt eyes darted between Snape and all the dear objects in the room that reminded her of Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of modern time.

In her agitated state of mind, she could hardly take in what Snape was saying. He was making an elaborate speech on the subject of disciplinary actions, lauding the Carrows for their zeal to maintain order. She could have cried out aloud. Her eyes fastened on a piece of cloth that draped a frame on the wall, slightly to the right behind the huge desk. It must be… Surely, it could only be…? She longed to pull that draping tissue away. If only she could speak to him again… 

She must have taken an unsteady step forward, because suddenly she was arrested by a strong hand that gripped her right elbow and prevented her from moving on. She tried to disengage but the fingers clawed into the tissue of her sleeve and did not let go. She felt slightly dizzy and drained of forces. It prevented her from fighting the grip, even if she wanted to, letting the hand, to her own dismay, support her instead.

”Professor McGonagall here,” said Snape unperturbed, ”who is one of our most experienced professors, will testify that the pupils, daft as they usually are, need their entire mental faculty intact to profit from classes. And we do expect outstanding results this year, in honour of our Dark Lord. Therefore, I must declare that the Cruciatus curse is not the punishment of choice in this school. In so young individuals, it might cause damage to the nervous system if used frequently. I must ask you to refrain from using…” said Snape before he was interrupted by a sardonic snort coming from Amycus Carrow. 

”Never heard of such rubbish! Pain is the best way to instigate fear and fear is the best incentive to obedience. If you even think of interfering with what I teach in my classes of Dark Arts and Defence, I will make sure to speak to our Lord,” the Death Eater said threateningly. 

”I will not meddle with your teaching, Amycus,” Snape said smoothly. ”But as to disciplinary actions, I must insist that you leave them to me. I am your headmaster. You will find that detention spent with our keeper in the Forbidden Forest inspire just as much fear and discipline as any amount of Cruciating that, as I said, will only weaken the pupils…” 

Snape’s voice faded out again as Minerva glanced back at the hidden portrait with longing. She felt confused. Did Snape really mean that he considered detention with Hagrid a serious punishment? In Albus’ days, they used it on first years already and she knew several pupils who considered the prospect of spending time in the forest under Hagrid’s guidance more an exciting adventure than a terrifying punishment. Her grieving eyes tinged with disconcertment were directed back at Snape.

”Do I make myself clear, Professor Carrow?” Snape’s voice came back into focus, sharper this time. ”I will not tolerate lengthy Cruciating on the pupils. Otherwise I will have a word with the Dark Lord about your perception of your own rang at this school.” Amycus Carrow looked slyly at him.

”No lengthy Cruciating,” he conceded and added with contempt. ”You are soft, Severus Snape. I cannot imagine what the Dark Lord sees in you.”

”Intellectual assets are, perhaps, beyond your comprehension, Amycus,” Snape retorted haughtily.

”The Dark Lord has a great mind of his own and it’s enough for us all. He needs strong wizards of action. You are not one of them, as I see it. Not once, since the Dark Lord returned have you participated in our raids. Not once have I seen you use an Avada Kedavra,” Carrow said accusingly. There was a flash in Snape’s eyes.

”I did, in this very room, use an Avada…” said Snape. 

There, Minerva McGonagall thought, going all faint, it is voiced, he has confessed, as if I ever doubted the fact. But the throbbing of her heart told her that she was still shocked by the crude truth coming from her former colleague’s mouth. Snape continued to speak to the Carrow brother in a waspish voice. 

”Ask our Lord if my Avada wasn’t of more use to him than all your raids put together. I choose my time for action, Amycus, carefully, but when I do decide to act, there is no indecision, no flaws in my plans and no waver in my wand.” It was Snape’s turn to sound threatening and the black figure was impressive. Finally, Amycus Carrow inclined his head in sign of acceptance of Snape’s words. The Carrow sister stepped forward and opened her mouth for the first time to offer a truce.

”We are, of course, loyal to our Dark Lord, my brother and I, as well as to his appointed lieutenants. We will obey your orders,” she said. 

No lengthy Crutiating, thought Minerva McGonagall. It was a meagre victory as it was a matter of subjective judgement which standard of time limit you should go by. Snape gestured at the door, exchanged a few more polite words with the Carrows before he saw them off. 

Minerva McGonagall realised that the headmaster still held her by the elbow and disengaged herself with a jerk. She viewed Snape with weary apprehension. Had he always been so thin? And so ghastly pale in his face? Maybe it was merely his length and his predilection for black clothing that made such a ghostly impression. What did he want from her?

”A word of caution, Minerva. I’ve always admired your skills and powers and you were always a suitably strict head of house,” he began. McGonagall narrowed her eyes.

He will get nowhere with flattery, she thought, waiting silently for him to continue. 

”You did, however, always have a foible for bravery and foolish actions under pretext of what you perceived as a righteous cause. Now, my advice to you, after having met our new teachers and understood their conception of teaching, is to keep your Griffindors at close hand. No attempts of resistance. No rule-breaking. In particular, keep an eye on Miss Weasley and Mr Longbottom - they have the spirit to try something and I’ll tell you, Minerva, it’s not worth it,” said Snape. There was a slight note of pleading to his warning, McGonagall noticed. 

Some of us will never give up the fight against Voldemort, thought McGonagall, we’ll rather die. Aloud, she said stiffly:

”I’d prefer if you addressed me by my surname, Headmaster.”

Snape flinched and pressed his thin lips together. 

”I’m speaking for the sake of the pupils,” he emphasised.

”I’m sure we have a common goal in keeping the damage to a minimum,” she conceded. ”I’ll do my best.”

”And you must exert more self-control, Mi… Professor McGonagall. Your behaviour tonight for instance, makes you vulnerable, exposes you… I understand that you’re under the impact of grief, but, please do try…” Snape was not allowed to finish his sentence as Minerva McGonagall had sorted her wand in a fit of fury.

”Do. Not. Speak to me. About my grief. You… You…” she whispered hoarsely pointing the tip of her  wand at his still impassive face. Snape made no attempt to reach for his wand.

Minerva McGonagall possessed enough hatred to kill Severus Snape at that very moment, but the short interview she had overheard earlier with Amycus Carrow made her realise that Snape, despite everything, would be the less evil alternative on the post as headmaster under the prevailing circumstances. Snape’s sixteen year long history at Hogwarts seemed somehow to play to their advantage, she thought. He was apparently not entirely indifferent to the pupils’ safety. She lowered her wand.

”Traitor,” she said. Snape battered his eyelids. The tall, thin man was swaying slightly, McGonagall realised.

”Assassin!” she hissed and he inclined his head so that a curtain of lifeless black hair hid his face.

”It is time for you to go now, Professor McGonagall,” Snape articulated in a perfectly neutral voice.

The door closed behind Professor McGonagall and locked itself magically with a loud click. Snape took a staggering step backwards. He lifted a slightly trembling wand and performed a silencing spell at the door. He proceeded with disillusionment charms at the windows, although the headmaster’s office was located at the top of one of the castle’s towers. He cast more protection shields around the room, barricading himself thoroughly behind layer after layer of magic. 

The former headmasters in the portraits watched him silently. They had witnessed everything that had passed in this room, they had heard everything, seen everything, not only tonight, but a year ago, a decade ago and for some of them, centuries ago. They knew. Some of them had their eyebrows knitted, some looked desolate. No one looked condemning. 

Snape fixed the cloth-covered frame on the wall with eyes that had lost their coldness. Slowly, apprehensively, he took a couple of steps forward. After a slight hesitation he gripped the soft tissue at the lower corner and, with a gentle pull, made the curtain soundlessly glide to the floor. 

The piercing blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore met Snape’s black ones. Dumbledore was painted sitting in a magnificent armchair, although at the moment he seemed to have moved forward almost to the edge of the seat and to be leaning out of the frame with intent attention. 

Snape recoiled. He looked at his former headmaster, confined inside that frame, reduced to one in a row of paintings and drew his breath. His chest did not seem inclined to let out any air in return, so he gasped a second time, and a third. Snape’s until now so perfectly schooled features suddenly took on an expression of pain and, under the increasingly concerned gaze of the old wizard, Snape’s face crumpled up. He fell to his knees and sank his head into his hands, finally exhaling with a stifled wail.

”Severus,” said Dumbledore.

Snape’s breathing was ragged and he let out a muffled sound as if he attempted to answer the address.

”That bad, is it?” Dumbledore said sadly. ”Don’t worry my boy, take your time.” 

Snape lifted a hand, as if to signal that he only needed a minute, but his shoulders were shaking violently and his head was abashedly turned away. Dumbledore watched him patiently. After a while, Snape seemed to calm down, but still avoided looking up. The still kneeling wizard repeatedly brought the cuff of his sleeve under his hook-shaped nose.

”There, there… We haven’t seen each other for a while. It must be the start of term. I gathered that much from the conversation I overheard earlier. You must tell me everything, Severus. Are those two the only Death Eaters you’ve been saddled with or are there more on the staff?” asked Dumbledore.

Snape shook his head.

”They’ll give you enough trouble, I guess, but it could be worse,” said Dumbledore.

An eye surrounded by wet black lashes glared darkly at him between entangled strands of hair. Snape directed his wand at himself, performing a spell that seemed to dry up what needed to be dried up, before he rose to his feet.

”I apologise, Headmaster, for this appalling display of emotions,” Snape said stiffly.

”Don’t worry my boy. The tension was severe, I understand. And I’m glad to see that you are only human. You’re not alone, my friend. I’m here to support you and to guide you,” said Dumbledore.

”With all your respect, Headmaster, you are a portrait… It’s not as if you could actually do…anything!” croaked Snape, close to be overtaken once again by the emotions he appeared to despise.

”Now, now… We made the most of my death, just as I had planned. I hold you in great esteem for what you did, Severus. There is nothing to be ashamed about,” said Dumbledore.

Snape snorted and shook his head.

”I’m a murderer,” he said curtly. ”Minerva’s right.”

”No, you’re not, Severus, don’t speak nonsense!” Dumbledore said sharply. ”And Minerva is in mourning, it’s perfectly understandable…”

”Of course it is understandable! I did kill you, after all! Although presently the Prophet tries to make out it was Harry Potter who did it. But no one believes that! Minerva is in her full right to speak those harsh words,” spat Snape.

”Come, Severus, you might be my executioner, if you want to put it crudely, but I begged you to do it. You know very well there was nothing else to do - and why it had to be done. And what is ahead of us,” added Dumbledore calmly.

”Not the full extent of it, no I don’t,” Snape said simply, meeting the old wizard’s gaze challengingly. 

”You don’t know everything, no, that’s correct. And I’m afraid it has to stay that way. I cannot now, speak to you about subjects that we did not already breach during my living time. I may only take in what you say to me, reason with you and guide you. I might be able to confirm things that you find out for yourself, but I cannot introduce new topics of conversation with you from this side.” Dumbledore made an exculpating gesture. 

”Don’t pretend to be sorry, old man - already when you were alive you delighted in keeping secrets from people. Potter’s mission, for instance… I still don’t have a clue what that’s about. How do you expect me to protect the boy, if…?” There was anger and anguish in Snape’s voice.

”But I don’t expect you to protect him, Severus, not any longer. You must concentrate on ruling Hogwarts to your best ability and to the least cost in terms of damage to the students. And you need still keep your cover. Harry is grown up. He will take care of himself. He has his friends at hand. There might be some small things we can do to facilitate things for him, but you must not approach him, not until…” Here Dumbledore was interrupted by a stifled wail coming from Snape who started to shake his head vehemently.

”No! No, Albus! I’ve been thinking about it the past months. I don’t want to be the one who brings Potter his death sentence. I cannot do it. I wronged Lily all those years ago, by reporting that prophesy to Voldemort which indirectly caused her death. I cannot do the same to her child, to condemn him to death by the very same evil wizard’s hand. It is too hard! You cannot ask that of me! I understand the necessity of the act, if it is true that the boy has been tainted by the Dark Lord, but please, think of another way of conveying the message to him than through me,” pleaded Snape. Dumbledore said nothing for a while.

”Harry is Lily’s son to you now, is he?” Dumbledore said finally in a soft tone. 

”Of course he is… Lily’s son,” said Snape in a stifled voice. He met Dumbledore’s gaze. ”Don’t you see? I needed to hate him. You don’t know how many times I have convinced Voldemort of my loyalty by showing him my humiliation over James’ wrongdoings, my hunger for revenge and my hatred for his son. I nurtured that feeling, clung to the memories of James,  preserved them to use them when most necessary. And I truly… I confess… did not like… that man… He took something… that might have been mine… My jealousy of the father coloured my view on the son, there is no denying it… But Harry still is… Lily’s son…” Snape spoke with difficulty. Dumbledore sighed.

”This complicates things, Severus. I must confess that I relied on your… callousness towards the boy… to be able to bring him those news…”

”We don’t even know where he is!” Snape cried out with anguish. ”If he’s even alive. He survived the escape from his relatives this summer, but no one has seen him since Voldemort’s take-over at the Ministry. He was last seen at the oldest Weasley son’s wedding. How can we possibly help him if we don’t even know where he is?” 

”I might bring some insight as to that insolent young man’s whereabouts.” A drawling voice was suddenly heard from the right on the wall. Snape swirled around. 

”Professor Phineas Nigellus!” exclaimed Snape with a frown. ”Pray describe your insight in more detail.” 

”Well, perhaps insight is much said,” chuckled the old Slytherin headmaster, ”because there was not much to be seen, actually. I sensed a disturbance in one of my housings and on instinct, I departed to check on my portrait in the Black family’s residence at Grimmauld Place. I haven’t been there for months - it is just an empty shell of a house. But this time, I was just in time to see that mudblood girl, who’s a friend of Potter’s…”

”Don’t use such language,” reprimanded Snape and Dumbledore in chorus. Phineas Nigellus smirked.

”…Miss Granger I believe her name is. She had lifted my portrait down and was just about to put it in… a sack!” The indignation of the old headmaster was unmistakable. ”So right now, I cannot see a damned thing back there, but I heard Potter’s voice and the young Mr Weasley’s as well. They are all three at Grimmauld Place,” stated Phineas Nigellus triumphantly. Snape let out a long, relieved breath.

”They are… reasonably safe… there…” he said slowly. ”I forbid you to tell anyone else about this!” continued Snape, addressing Phineas Nigellus. ”Especially none of your fellow portraits at Malfoy Manor, do you hear? You are bound by loyalty to me now. I am the new headmaster.” Snape spoke in a stronger, imperative voice. Phineas Nigellus inclined his head.

”Congratulations to your new title, Severus Snape,” he said. ”It makes me proud to finally see a Slytherin on the post. I will be glad to be of service to you.”

”Then return to that sack at regular intervals and try to make out what happens, what they are up to and where they go,” said Snape with a defiant glance at Dumbledore’s portrait. 

”You do as you judge best to do, my boy,” said Dumbledore with an amused glint in his eye. ”You’re in charge now. I could not keep you from doing what you have in mind even if I wanted to.” 

Snape glared at him. 

”And now,” continued Dumbledore, unperturbed, ”I think you are fit to sit down and tell me everything in due order. What worries you the most?” Snape positioned an armchair so that he could face Dumbledore in a comfortable tête-à-tête. 

”Well, there is the Carrows and their Cruciatings, of course… And then there is Draco Malfoy… And Minerva…” Snape said grumpily.

”Let’s take one thing at a time. We’ll sort it out, dear boy, we’ll sort it out,” said Dumbledore.