PART THREE: SEVERUS 

 The security gong that detonated within the hallways of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the early hours of the night of May 27th, 1997, woke everyone up at once—staff and students alike.

Severus Snape, who’d been having a particularly disturbing dream that was a mix of several twisted interwoven memories, was out of bed in an instant. Wand in hand, he spelled his usual clothes on without uttering so much as a word. He was out of his chambers and rushing through the dungeon’s dark corridors in minutes.

School etiquette dictated that his first action should be to see to his snakes, to stop by the Slytherin dorms to check in with the prefects and dispense instructions and a modicum of reassurance. But he turned on his heel and stormed up the corridor until he’d reached the stairs that he started climbing, three steps at a time. His were Slytherins; they didn’t need their Head of House to hold their hands in a crisis. Besides, Professor Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff, would be nearby, and his students knew to go to her as a last resort. As it was, the Potions Master had more pressing matters to attend.

As he rushed to get to the ground floor, Severus only had one goal, one thought that drove his entire focus, one word repeating itself in a loop in his head. Draco. Somehow this involved Draco, and whatever it was that the boy did in the Room of Requirement, night after night. He couldn’t tell how he knew, but he just did. His godson was in trouble, and he was Severus’ responsibility. So, he would damn well be there for him.

An image of the last time he’d seen Lucius and Narcissa, the boy’s parents, flashed in his mind, and he pushed it back out with a snarl. If they’d been alone that day, if he’d had his hands to himself—he’d have hexed them into next week. As it was, the Dark Lord had been at their backs, and he’d had a handful of hurting, crying, frightened child in his arms. His godson—his Draco.

That night had been high on Severus’ list of worsts. Standing by and watching without intervening had been as excruciating as if he’d been put through the curse himself—worse, possibly. But the true pain came afterwards, later that night, in the privacy of his bedroom. During the long hours he’d spent watching Draco’s lithe frame shake with the aftereffects of his ill-advised decisions, the embodiment of Severus’ failure at protecting him. Each tremor bit at his heart as he watched, unable to do more, unable to take the pain away.

He’d tried to caution Draco away from the Dark Lord’s luring promises—the same promises he had once fallen prey to. He’d tried to subtly show him another path, all the while knowing how it would turn out in the end. With the Malfoy patriarch pulling at the ropes behind the scenes, it wasn’t so much a matter of if but when. Severus had only hoped he could have had more time.

Though he’d known Draco was working under orders from the Dark Lord, he’d hoped he’d refrain from inflicting the Dark Mark on his skin until he was of age. One more year—he was supposed to have had one more year. Three-hundred and sixty-five days to impart a few more words of his biased wisdom—to teach the boy a couple more tricks that would help in navigating these murky waters. It had come too soon—and Draco had been ill-prepared. Not nearly ready to face the Dark Lord’s inquiring mind, much less his wrath.

Severus had kept his distance from Draco these past years, relinquishing his role of godfather to step into that of teacher and mentor. While it was what had been expected of him, his decision had solely been motivated by his wanting not to influence the boy’s ultimate decision. The last thing he needed was for Draco to want to emulate his wrong choices, to willingly tie a noose around his neck the way Severus had all those years ago.

But Lucius had been pulling a different set of strings in the background, manoeuvring in the shadows to complete his dark designs. Severus had lost the game to his old rival, and he prayed his failure wouldn’t cost the boy his life.

Reaching the Grand Hall, he noted that it was empty. His next stop would be the Room of Requirement. He turned on his heel and went to the Grand Staircase. Mid-way through, he stumbled on a worried-looking Professor McGonagall, who’d clearly left the comfort of her own bed with more haste than he had. Her dark-grey hair was uncharacteristically untied, and she wore her black teaching robes over a long dark-green nightgown.

“What’s going on?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

“Death Eaters, Severus.” She forced the words out between panting breaths. “Death Eaters in the castle.”

The words slammed into his chest like an attacker, and now, he was the one left panting. “What—how?”

McGonagall gave him no answer. She was running again, going down the stairs as quickly as she could. Torn between his need to find Draco and his thirst for more information, Severus turned on the step where he stood and followed.

“Minerva,” he asked, his voice slightly louder, “do you know who activated the alarm?” He needed to know, needed all the information he could get.

“Wasn’t me,” she answered between two breaths. “Caught two of them scurrying away, though.”

“Which way?” he asked.

“Down,” she replied, her tone indicated that it had been a stupid question. “Why else would I be running down the stairs?”

But he hadn’t run into them. Either they had quite the head start, or they’d gone to another floor. Or they knew of some of the secret passageways within the castle that allowed one to move about with a modicum of discretion.

But a more pressing question nagged at his quick-firing brain. Only the headmaster or a Head of House could have been responsible for activating the antiquated alarm system. It hadn’t been the Transfiguration professor, and he knew it hadn’t been him. That left only three possibilities. He doubted it could have been Sprout, for he hadn’t seen any disturbance in the lower levels. That left Flitwick and Dumbledore—and Severus surmised that the Headmaster’s Tower was their next stop.

They needn’t have bothered. Albus Dumbledore was on his way to them, his long pointy beard flung over his shoulder and his periwinkle robe creased and rumpled. He’d forgone hiding his cursed hand in a glove, and his dark skin melted with the darkness of the castle’s entrance. He looked tense and tightly gripped his wand in his uninjured hand while the other stood limp at his side.

“Sweet Merlin, Albus,” McGonagall said, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Minerva,” he replied, his voice sounding strained and impossibly old. “An uncoordinated attack if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Who attacked you?” she asked. “I barely had the time to catch a glimpse of them as they hurried down. I followed as fast as I could.”

Searching around for possible threats, Severus realised the front doors were open. They hadn’t been when he’d walked by before. He felt a chill course down the back of his neck. Had it been used for a hasty exit or the alternative?

“Only Fenrir Greyback made it close to my tower. I believe the other two were the Carrow siblings,” Dumbledore said. Then, indicating the open doors, he added, “They’ve gone now.”

“No one else?” Severus asked, doubtful that the Dark Lord would have sanctioned such a critical mission to be led by the werewolf, of all people. Someone else ought to have been in charge­­—someone within the inner circle.

Their discussion was cut short by the near-simultaneous arrival of Professors Sprout and Nine, the two witches coming in from opposite ends of the same corridor. Severus felt his right eyebrow twitch at that and fought to keep it from rising in question—Leen Nine had come from outside.

Dumbledore asked the question in his stead, turning to face the young foreigner with an enquiring look. “Anything, my dear?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. They’ve gone, sir.” A pause, then she added. “But the doors to the Astronomy Tower were open.”

“Is that how they got in?” McGonagall asked. “They ought to have locked automatically after curfew. How could this be?”

Their discussion was once more interrupted by the arrival of both Professor Vectra and Hagrid—who’d also come from outside. They assaulted them with questions, and Severus had half a mind to shout for order.

“What’s going on?” Vectra asked, twisting her hands together nervously.

Her words were dwarfed by Hagrid’s loud. “Who banged the gong?”

A sideways glance at Sprout from McGonagall caused her to blurt out, “It wasn’t me.”

Two curious heads turned Severus’ way, and it was the Head of Hufflepuff that asked him if he’d been responsible. He shook his head, not wanting to add his voice to the downpour of “Who, then?” and “Has anyone seen Filius?” and “So, what’s going on?”

To everyone’s surprise, it was Professor Nine that called for silence. Her soft-spoken, “Quiet!” barely broke through the cacophony of worried voices. But the dissonance in magic that accompanied it had everyone close their gob and turn their heads to look at her—including him.

It had been a carefully controlled discharge of power, born not from anger but from an intent to surprise—power measured with a precision that most wizards could never attempt to master. It had shifted the very air in the corridor, catching even Severus’ heavy black locks of hair in its current.

Nine was dressed as she always was: a bland mix more Muggle than magical but comfortable and practical, nonetheless. She wore her habitual accessories, from her formal square glasses to her oddly out-of-place earrings and bracelet. Though it was the middle of the night, she looked ready to go to class. No, Severus corrected himself; she wasn’t quite the same as usual. Something—something was different about her, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. It wasn’t anything his eyes could see, but it was there, nonetheless. Just out of sight—an incessant tugging at the back of his mind, like a tiny voice screaming at him from within that something was off. That he ought to beware, that he was—somehow—being deceived.

“Our colleague’s right,” Dumbledore said. “We all need to calm down. The threat has passed. Professor Vectra, Hagrid—can you see to the students? Make sure they all stay in their dorms.” Both teachers nodded in agreement before departing. “Everyone else—my office, if you please.”

Severus half-expected Professor Nine to be given a secondary task. But the fact that she wordlessly followed suit made it clear to everyone that she’d be coming with them.

They were halfway to the stairs when Professor Flitwick’s squeaky voice stopped them cold. The half-goblin was coming at them as fast as his short legs allowed. His face was red with exertion, and his wand shook in his trembling hand.

“The children—” he said, panting as if he’d been forced to run a mile and then some “—they took the children.”

As he approached them, Severus noticed a fine trail of blood running down the length of his temple. There was a long, bleeding cut on his left arm, close to his elbow. The Charms teacher had been in a fight recently, and that titbit of knowledge made it clear who had sounded the alarm.

“Which ones?” Dumbledore asked in a tone that betrayed his concern. It seemed as everyone else shared in his worry, for they collectively held their breaths.

Severus felt his stomach turn to lead as he waited anxiously for the familiar name he was sure was to come. The one that would cement his failure, prove without a doubt that he’d let his godson down and that once again, his misguided actions had led someone he cared about to their death.

“Harry Potter—and—” Flitwick wheezed the words out between laboured pants, “Draco Malfoy.”