At around twenty past two in the morning, Severus hears the alarm he'd set begin to ring, and he looks up from his book. The book, a gift that Christmas from Lucius, is all about alternative trends in brewing. The chapter Severus had been reading is about a new American school of thought that utilizes a cauldron made into a sort of square, with four connecting troughs, with the potion moving around the square's four corners on a current. It all strikes Severus as rather modern, but the actual implications of such simple changes to the existing constructs are interesting ones, even if other chapters within the book are nothing more than nonsense.

Severus flicks to the front of the book: the cover page is full of signatures, with all of the major contributors having signed the page at Lucius' request, and Severus turns over the page, examining the inscription on the page Lucius had inserted into the book.

Dear Severus,

I know all those little autographs will strike you as rather tawdry, but rest assured in some years this book will be worth rather something, particularly as Mr Diamond has died in the months between his signing this and my Christmas gift to you.

Take from it what you can, and if it offers you nothing, sell it on.

With all my love,

Lucius

The vast majority of the books that Lucius has bought Severus over the past few years have been near-perfect purchases, and Severus knows if he looks through each of them, the letter within will advise him to sell on the book if it isn't to his tastes, expensive as so many of them are...

But Severus doesn't.

He never does.

Standing, he sets the book upon his table and summons his socks and boots, pulling each on once more. From the counter, Severus’ cat watches him with a hard stare, as if to express objection to his leaving his quarters so late at night. Fantôme lets out a sudden, sharp sound that sounds less like a miaow and more like a feline curse word, and Severus ignores it, picking up his cloak and sweeping from the room.

Fantôme will occasionally follow him as he makes his rounds of the castle at night, particularly during the summer time, and she follows him now: in stark comparison to Severus himself, who is a line of black except for the whiteness of his face and hands and collar, Fantôme is a cloud of thick white fur, with only a black nose and black socks seeming to form around her paws.

Another gift from Lucius. Fantôme is nearly nine now, but Kneazles can easily live for thirty or forty years.

Severus begins to make his way up the spiral staircase that leads into the upper halls of the school, and Fantôme falls away from him; she prefers to linger in the dark corridors of the dungeons or out in the grounds, finding the occasional rat or mouse. She is positively mythical among the children, as she refuses to allow any of them to touch her, and it never occurs to any of them that the staff may have pets.

Severus’ favourite of the Slytherin theories is that Fantôme is, in fact, the Animagus form of Albus Dumbledore. It rather upsets the old man that any of the children could believe him so unpleasant.

The walk up to the Headmaster’s office puts no strain at all on Severus, so used as he is to roaming the halls of Hogwarts at any hour, and he ascends yet another staircase into the corridor the Headmaster’s office joins onto: the movements of the main staircases make Severus feel uncertain and slightly dizzy, no matter how much he studies their regular schedules, and he prefers to use the narrower, lesser used stairwells in the corners of shadowed halls.

Albus often says, with a chuckle, that it adds to Severus’ mystique: Severus resents this commentary too much to respond to it with anything more than an arched eyebrow.

As he steps into the hallway, he sees that Albus is not alone, and even from here he feels the shimmer of magic that makes up a muffling charm on the air. Politely, he turns his back on Albus and Potter, taking some steps down the corridor and facing the other direction. He can read lips well enough, and he shouldn’t like some accusation from Albus that he is being less than fair. He hears through the haze of magic the sound of the boy speaking, and then Albus, but what the words are, he cannot make out.

There’s a lingering buzzing in his ears, and he presses his thin lips together: there is a certain irony in Albus using Severus’ own spells against him.

“Severus, how kind of you to visit,” Albus says, and Severus turns to walk closer, meeting the older man’s gaze before looking to Potter. There’s some redness around his eyes, mostly faded, and Severus is certain his “meeting” did not go well. A Muggle – what did the boy expect? “The three of us will just go into my office.” Severus gives an inclination of his head, opening his mouth to speak, but—

“May I use your Floo, Albus?” Severus feels his head shift rapidly to the side, leaving him staring at Potter. He feels the surprise obvious on his face, in the wideness of his eyes, and he soon schools his expression back to neutrality, but it is too late. He looks at the back of Albus’ head as he walks toward the statute, and Severus feels himself fall into step beside Potter.

“Of course, of course,” he says. “Blackjacks.” Severus stands beside Potter on the stair, feeling the stone grind as they each rise toward the Headmaster’s office, and Severus cannot resist examining the boy when his face is turned away. Potter looks to have lost some weight over the course of the summer, but he is not alone. Draco is looking thinner by the day, despite exercising with a certain furious passion, and the only children retaining their usual appetites are the Weasleys.

“It’s good to see you, Professor,” Potter says, as if they hadn’t passed each other in the hall not a few hours ago, and Severus frowns at him. “How are you feeling?”

“I am quite well, Potter,” Severus responds, wondering what could be wrong with the boy now, to prompt such a strange and pointed question. As they enter the office, Albus calls something vague over his shoulder and disappears through the door into his quarters, leaving Severus and Potter alone: this only prompts more suspicion on Severus’ part.

“Someone was pruning the garden,” Potter says. Ah. “I cleaned up the trimmings, but I assume…?”

“Yes,” Severus says.

“The bushes were singing earlier, when the moon came out. They seemed quite relieved.” Ought it touch him, Severus wonders, to hear the boy speak thus? Is he merely saying what he believes Severus wishes to hear, or making small-talk? Potter has a great many notions about him, and it is often difficult to predict what his motivations may be, as simple a boy as he often seems.

Potter walks away from him slightly, standing in the path of the fire, and as he looks around the room, Severus is surprised to feel an unfamiliar emotion in his chest: a twinge of fear. There is a greater change in the boy’s face, it seems to him, than a loss of weight: there are more lines, more definitions in the bone, than Severus has ever seen in the boy. Potter looks like a man, older and wiser, somehow, than he has seemed to Severus in times past. He is barely fifteen, and yet looks ready to command greater magics…

The fear is strange to him.

Potter does not resemble the Death Eater youth Severus had admired at the boy’s age: even looking back, Severus knows those boys has never seemed older to him, but only more mature, more powerful. Potter seems to abruptly be all three, and Severus feels the fear mingle with anger in his belly.

What right has Albus, after all, to craft this child into a weapon of war, older beyond his years?

“You and the Headmaster have been arguing?” Potter’s green gaze turns to Severus. His mother had never looked that old, not in all the years she lived.

“How did you know?”

“He offers himself as Albus to his genuine critics,” Severus says, his tone airy to distract from the fact that he is sharing a secret of sorts. “Whether it is a manipulation or a genuine measure of respect, I could not tell you.” Fawkes, that bastard bird, lets out a disapproving caw, but Severus ignores it, flicking his hair from his eyes.

Potter is giving Severus an appraising look, as if he has never heard an adult criticize Albus Dumbledore before – which, of course, is quite ridiculous. In all his life, Severus has never known a man to criticize Albus more than Lucius Malfoy had.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Potter murmurs quietly, a slight smile appearing on his face. He stands up straight, his hands in his pockets, and the glass of his spectacles glint in the light of the fire. “Yes, we were. Just about, you know… Ethics, war. Teleology.”

“Do you know what teleology is, Potter?”

“Yes, thank you,” Potter replies mildly, but he grins, showing his teeth: it is plain to Severus that his question has neither offended nor hit a weak spot. Potter is not as prideful as his father, not anywhere close. “Teleology: the idea that stuff should be looked at by like, the purpose it serves. Instead of, for example, what caused it to happen.”

Not the cleanest of definitions, but it is comprehensible enough, and Severus gives a small inclination of his head.

Potter seems to be hesitating for a moment, and then he says, “Lucius, he said to me once that Hogwarts used to have literature on its syllabus.”

“Yes,” Severus answers.

There’s a pause between them, until Potter asks, “Why did you stop teaching that?”

“Many of the non-practical courses were felt to be a waste of time, in the lead up to the First War,” Severus answers delicately. It is strange, to speak of such things outside of the Hogwarts staff room, and with so astute a listener. “I studied English Literature in my first and second years, on Saturday mornings, with Professor Desmond Hastings.”

“He retired?”

“He was murdered in the summer of my third year.” Potter stares at him, his lips parted, and Severus adds, “He had been petitioning the Board of Governors to allow the addition of Muggle literature to the syllabus. Wilde, Woolf, Dickens and Shelley, to name but a few of the Muggle authors he admired, despite being a Pureblood himself. Hogwarts has a great variety in its schooling through the epochs, of course: Albus has OWLs in Philosophy and in Musical Theory, not to mention a NEWT in Ancient Greek.”

“Severus has an OWL in German,” Albus says proudly from the corner of the room. Severus purses his lips.

“Yes,” Severus says, reluctantly. Potter has a faraway look in his eyes, as if an entirely new world has been opened up to him.

“Your German teacher… He was murdered too?”

“Frau Heinrich? She, to my awareness, has a retirement home in the Swiss Alps,” Severus replies, and Harry laughs.

“How come you didn’t replace the teachers in subjects like that? Literature and German or, uh, Musical Theory?”

“It has been tried,” Albus murmurs. “We have been planning a revitalization for several years now, returning more non-practical options to our syllabus, but in recent years, priorities have changed. Perhaps when the war is through, we will return to our plans.”

“Perhaps,” Severus echoes, with little faith. Potter takes a little Floo Power from the embellished pot upon the mantel, and he yells an address on Argyle Street before disappearing into the green flames. Severus turns to Albus, who is leaning on his desk, his hands neatly clasped before him. “What was he here for?” Severus asks, arching an eyebrow at the older man. “I had grasped you were in disagreement.”

“We were speaking on the subject of spies,” Albus says mildly. “He was concerned for you, actually.” Severus feels some of the blood drain from his features, and he stares at Albus, positively astonished and with alarm ringing through his shaking voice.

“You didn’t—”

“No, my boy, of course I didn’t,” Albus interrupts him, raising a hand. “You must have trust in me.”

“Must I?”

“He worries that if you or another of the staff is lost in some mission for the Order of the Phoenix, the children will feel less safe within these walls.” Severus steps toward the fire, feeling its warmth in the room, even as his brow slightly furrows.

“The children?” he repeats, tasting the oddity of the phrasing on his tongue. Albus has a tendency to paraphrase or even quote those he speaks with, and Severus doesn’t imagine he would have designed this sentence without Potter’s own words in mind. “He doesn’t think of himself as one of them?”

“It would seem not,” Albus says. The old man looks more and more tired, as each day passes them by. A part of Severus that he hates, that he is ashamed of, feels sympathy. The rest of him feels only a vague satisfaction. “I confess, Severus, I worry for him, and yet…”

“And yet?” Severus asks, slowly. Albus’ gaze is faraway, his eyes full of thought, and he slowly shakes his head, his long hair shifting behind his shoulders, his left hand slowly stroking the thick whiteness of his beard.

“He seems strong,” Albus murmurs. “Even with his falling at the hands of Lord Voldemort—” Severus prevents himself from flinching, but his distaste must show, as a knowing look shows on Albus face, “he seems to be unerring. He was asking that I display more feeling in my actions.”

“Really? The great Albus Dumbledore, show more sympathy? I had no idea such things were possible.”

“Sarcasm suits you ill, Severus,” Albus says, his tone cold and his gaze stern.

“A pity nothing suits me better, then.” He has learned to stand his ground when Albus attempts to scold at him, stupid as it seems, and he feels the urge to pace the room come swiftly to him. He looks into the fire and forces himself to stay still in his place. “The Wizengamot were called to vote this evening, it seems.”

“The vote passed some minutes ago,” Albus says. He slowly makes his way around his desk, settling himself into his chair with an exaggerated difficulty, and Severus feels powerless, as he always does in this office.

“The Dark Lord called us to meet,” Severus says quietly. “We were interrupted by young Maxie Caine, who of course saw his family members called to the Wizengamot chamber.” Albus is examining the papers scattered on his desk, looking over the various papers Severus is certain he has no interest in, and Severus sets his jaw. “Albus.” The old man looks up at Severus over the half-moon of his glasses, and Severus says, “It has gone too far. You must do something.”

“What do you suggest I do, Severus?” Albus asks quietly, and he is watching Severus in that appraising way Severus hates most, as if Albus is seeing Severus portray emotions for the very first time, and it is a fascination for him. “Would you have me whisk the boy away, and against his will?” Severus clenches his fists as his sides, his lips pressed tightly together: he often shows his true emotions with Albus, in a way he could never with the artifice of himself he keeps to hand when he is in the presence of the Dark Lord.

“He is nothing but a toy at the Dark Lord’s hand,” Severus says. He can see it before him now, see Caine thrown between each of the Dark Lord’s servants at the barest step out of place, see him laid over the Dark Lord’s lap as little more than an ill-kept dog. “He thinks he might be permitted a Dark Mark, be permitted to truly serve him, but he shall not, Albus! He can hardly be convinced to… If the Order were to capture him, allow him to listen to reason—”

“Why should we capture him, Severus? As you say, he is not a true servant. He is not even permitted to attend the meetings of the Inner Circle, is he?” Albus can be so shrewd, when it suits him

“What does that matter?” Severus demands, wheeling on the headmaster and staring him in the face. “This is for the boy’s safety, Albus, not for the information he might offer.”

“Then he should come to me,” Albus says. “And ask for my help.”

“Ask for your—” Severus stops himself, stares into the ether. “What could he ask you for? The boy’s a Squib, Albus!” He spits the word, spits it and hates himself for doing it. “What could be hope for? An apprenticeship beneath Filch?”

“You seem attached to the boy.”

“I’m not attached to the boy!” He feels his rage in his belly and in the back of his throat, burning inside him like some fire desperate to be unleashed, and he says, desperately, feverishly, “Albus, how can you believe it is anything but our fault? Each year we let him return, each year, we let him sit in classes he had no hope of learning from, and here he is so desperate for acknowledgement that he has fallen at the foot of the Dark Lord himself. There is no place for him in the world of magic, but he has spent so long here he couldn’t function outside it – no other Squib would have him! Don’t you feel responsible?” It is the most Severus has spoken uninterrupted in months, and he feels the weight of Albus’ gaze upon him like a heavy winter cloak.

Severus waits for two long moments, and then says softly, “You saved me, Albus.” He hates to admit it. The knowledge is like a bitter weight in his lungs and on his conscience: Albus saved Severus, and Severus never asked for it, never. He asked that Albus save Lily – and Albus hadn’t. But save him?

Severus Snape has never desired to be saved.

“There is too much at risk, Severus,” Albus says softly. “He does not leave Malfoy Manor except to return to his family home, and I fear that may change too, soon enough. He seems to visit his family less and less.”

“Why should he?” Severus asks. “Even the Dark Lord’s cruelties are peppered with the occasional affectionate word. He hardly receives such kindness among his family. Great wizards and witches, every one of them.”

“If you can take Maxie Caine away from Voldemort’s influence, Severus, I might help you find him lodgings. But there is a limit—” Severus stops listening. He stops listening to Albus’ well-reasoned excuses and kindly corrections, is numb to it all, and he turns away from Albus. It all washes over him, Albus’ quiet words, until Albus says, “And what of Malfoy Junior?”

“What of him?” Severus asks. “He grieves for his father. In recent weeks, he seems to have improved on that front: he has returned to his gymnastics, and he seems to be completing his schoolwork.” There it is, then: Maxie Caine has already been left by the wayside. What does a boy like that matter to Albus Dumbledore?

“You don’t think he may follow in his father’s footsteps?” Albus asks, and Severus watches him for a long few moments.

“What criticisms did Potter lay at your doorstep, Albus?” Severus’ tone is soft and cold and stiff. “Has he yet realized the kind of man you are?”

“Is that all, Severus?” Albus asks, and Severus says nothing more: he sweeps from the room, going quickly down the stairs from the man’s office and out into the hall. His footfalls make absolutely no sound at all on the stone floor, and he almost resents the silence of it, despite its being a result of his own charms.

It is nearly three in the morning, now, and Severus knows he will not sleep the night through.

“Severus!” Arm-in-arm-in-arm, Severus is met with Poppy, Minerva and Pomona. Pomona is red in the face, Minerva is giggling every few seconds, and between them, Poppy is swaying with a grin on her face. “What’s wrong?” Pomona asks immediately, and she stumbles forwards, reaching for his hand. Pomona’s hands are clean, but her fingernails are filthy, and yet Severus doesn’t whip his hand back away from her.

“You were in Albus’ office, hmm?” Minerva asks. She nods her head very sagely, squinting slightly. Her glasses are askew.

“The Three Broomsticks closed,” Poppy says miserably. “Rozzie walked us up to the castle.We’re going to the staff room.”

“The staff room?” Severus repeats. Minerva stumbles forwards and puts her hand on Severus’ shoulder, looking down into his eyes. It hardly seems fair that she gets to be both taller and drunker than him, does it?

“We have six bottles of firewhiskey stashed behind the loose brick under the noticeboard,” Poppy whispers, and then makes shushing movements with her fingers. “Come get drunk with us!” Severus looks between Pomona, clutching hold of Severus’ hand as if it is one of her plant leaves, and to Minerva, who is leaning heavily on his shoulder.

He really should say no. The three of them are more than drunk enough, and it is doubtless that Severus ought be the responsible adult here and put the three of them to bed.

“Very well,” he says mildly, and he lets them lead him to the staff room like a black-clad horse to water.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

There is a pain in his head. The pulsing is deep and painful, vibrating through his body and making his head ache whenever it pulses, and it takes Severus some long seconds to realize that slow, rhythmic pain as the sound of his own pounding heart.

“Hangover cure,” he says, and he feels like he has spent the last night gargling pieces of broken glass.

“Sleep,” Poppy replies, her voice muffled against the soft armchair she is tightly hugging. A groan comes from the corner of the room, and Severus blearily looks through half-closed eyes to see Minerva sprawled over Pomona’s belly, the two of them still completely unconscious.

“Fair,” Severus grinds out, and he closes his eyes tightly, tips his head back, and ignores the dryness in his mouth. This, he muses, was extremely irresponsible of him… But what does it matter?

He hears the door of the staff room open, hears the soft, “Oh my,” of Filius Flitwick, and then hears the door close.

Despite the aching pain in his head, Severus manages a smile.