Severus let Poppy’s words wash over him, mainly because if he actually paid attention to what she was saying he’d probably end up strangling her. Not that he actually objected to the idea of strangling her, but it wasn’t the sort of thing one wanted to do in front of witnesses. The witnesses in this case being the little lunatics who’d been at the Department of Mysteries last night; she’d decided to keep them all for ‘observation’ since they had been in a battle and was currently refusing to release any of them until tomorrow morning. Harry was a part of the group since Albus had apparently sent him down after their little chat, and Minerva had brought the youngest Weasley boy back at some point as well. He still looked a bit confused, but Severus wasn’t inclined to blame that on either the brain or whatever spell he’d been hit with.

At first Severus had been irritated that she’d kept them out of their classes today, his included—first of all he’d had to be there, and second of all it was difficult to shout at someone who wasn’t present—but having them all trapped in one place did make it much more convenient for a group telling-off after dinner. And he could always corner Harry and finish his private tongue-lashing later. Judging by the way the brat had tried to avoid Severus’ eye from the moment he entered the room, Harry knew damn well what he had coming. He bloody well should, anyway.

Unfortunately Poppy had interrupted Severus three words into his tirade, insisting that the children not be subjected to any ‘additional stress’ for the time being. Which, to her way of thinking, meant no shouting, scolding, or anything else directed at them except bright, cheery smiles. He didn’t do bright, cheery smiles even when in a good mood.

He gritted his teeth. And if that wasn’t enough, after forbidding him to yell at the little dunderheads, she’d proceeded to haul him into her office and was now expounding—at great length—upon the virtues of group counseling and ‘sharing one’s pain with those of similar experiences.’

“Poppy, just how many crippled ex-spies do you think there are floating about Wizarding England?” he demanded when she finally paused for breath.

“Now, Severus, I think you’re being far too narrow-minded about this. After all, there have been other wizards who have lost limbs…there are all manner of dangerous occupations, certain diseases…. Magic can’t repair everything, you know.”

“Of course, someone who’s contracted Gazbaken’s Disease—” of which there hasn’t been a case of in England for something like 500 years, if I recall correctly, and frankly I think the Healer who reported the last one had spent a bit too much time dipping into the potions’ stores to be considered entirely credible—“and had his legs suddenly detach will have no difficulty understanding an ex-Deatheater.”

“I think that if you would just consider the—”

“No, thank you!” He must have been a bit louder than he intended, because through the viewing window from her office into the infirmary he saw Harry and the Weasley twins’ heads snap around for a sharp look in his direction. They’d been attempting covert glances all along, of course, but…. “If you will excuse me, most of my classes were brewing today, and I have a great deal of grading to do.” He’d only managed to terrorize two second year Hufflepuffs into spilling their Hair-Raising potions, and without Longbottom in the fifth year Gryffindor-Slytherin class to distract the other students they’d all managed to bottle something that looked vaguely like what they’d been attempting. His third years had managed to get off with merely a lecture, which was probably just as well for both himself and them.

He escaped while she was mustering yet another argument, taking himself back to the dungeons as quickly as one possibly could while trying not to limp. Unfortunately he did have grading to do, but at least he could take out his annoyance at not being able to shout at Harry and his little friends on the rest of the idiots he had to teach. He picked up the vial on the front of the tray and checked the label. Thomas, Dean. Hm. Five points for excessive letter size and a crooked stopper.

He’d finished with the fifth year class’s work, and most of those from his second year’s as well, when he caught himself yawning and decided that he might as well turn in. It was early, but seeing as he’d managed all of about two and a half hours last night….

///////////

Severus awoke with a gasp, heart pounding and unable to control his breathing. This damn petrification curse wouldn’t let him move, and Lucius would be coming for him soon—he knew that bastard was coming—and then he’d be in the Dark Lord’s hands and— The muscles in his arms and legs spasmed, trying to break the Petrificus Totalus, and then suddenly his whole body jerked and he was free.

It wasn’t until his hand closed on his wand—which he always kept on the edge of the bedside table while he was asleep—that Severus was able to remember where he was, and even then he was left trembling and gasping for breath for a solid five minutes after the dream was over. Dream. Nightmare. Whatever that was. He snorted to himself. Bad, that’s what it had been, and there was no way that he was going to be able to go to sleep again with that memory foremost in his mind. Which meant…he glanced at the clock and groaned aloud. Joy, a four hour night. What an improvement. If he couldn’t get at least a little more rest, his classes tomorrow would have to have quizzes in lieu of brewing because he was going to be in no shape for supervising. Or for lecturing for that matter. Not that not brewing is necessarily a bad thing in some of their cases, I’ll grant, and Merlin knows they never listen when I’m talking to them anyway, but still… He slammed his left arm, clamp and all, down on the mattress. I just quizzed the sixth years the other day, damn it.

Muttering a few choice curses, he stood and shrugged on a robe over his nightclothes, pushing his feet into the slippers beside the bed before heading into his sitting room. This wasn’t precisely the first time that something like this had happened, and he already knew that if he remained lying in bed he would spend the next several hours doing nothing but staring up at the ceiling and trying not to shake. If I’m going to give more quizzes tomorrow, I’d best get everything they’ve already turned in graded. At least the sixth years wouldn’t be expecting a quiz—and he did he rather enjoy giving his students unpleasant surprises so if he had to do so it wouldn’t be the end of the world—but it grated on his nerves that there was a very good chance that he was going to be forced into that course of action by his own bloody weakness.

He took the tray of second-year potions into his sitting room and sank down on the couch to finish the grading. Hair-Raising Potion—even badly made Hair-Raising Potion—didn’t have many particularly dangerous properties. Unfortunately he found it very difficult to concentrate, and after the third time the snap of a log in the fire had him halfway to his feet with his wand in his hand, he slammed his current victim back onto the tray and headed for the door, grabbing the worn black cloak that hung on a hook beside the panel on his way out. It was late enough that there shouldn’t be any students sneaking about—especially since Harry and his cohorts were confined to the infirmary—but he needed to walk off some of this ridiculous nervousness.

He swept the corridors outside the entrances to the four houses automatically and then forwent his usual trip up to the Astronomy tower—his leg was still sore, damn Alastor; it had taken more out of him than he cared to admit just to reach the base of Gryffindor tower—in favor of a quick pass through the hospital wing where a pack of brats lay slumbering peacefully. Seventy points from Gryffindor for general irritation. He thought for a moment. And ten from Ravenclaw too. The way things were going, Slytherin’s only major competitor for house cup this year was going to be Hufflepuff.

He took the staircase at the end of the hall down to the Ground Floor and was headed for the final staircase that would take him back to the dungeons when flickering light from under the door of the staff room caught his attention. It was rather cold up on the Astronomy Tower for the students to be using it for their pathetic attempts at romance, granted, but still, the staff room? Well, at least he’d get to shout at someone. He stalked towards it, flinging the heavy door inwards in one smooth motion, and only reflexes honed by years in the service of the Dark Lord got him to the floor before a stunning spell could hit him in the chest. As it was he could feel the wake of it blowing his hair back. “What in—?”

“Severus?” Alastor’s muttered oath was about as pleasant as Severus’ was when he realized just who had attacked him. “Damn it, boy, what in Merlin’s name are you doing haunting the halls at two in the bloody morning?!”

“Oh, and you’re one to talk,” Severus snapped as he pushed himself back to his feet, biting back a groan as the muscles in his thigh twinged. So help me, if f I just pulled something, Alastor is getting itching powder in his bloody cereal. “What, doxies in your rooms again?”

Alastor made a decidedly rude gesture in Severus’ direction before turning and sinking back into a chair by the fire. “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.” He was silent for a few seconds. “On second thought, do; I could use a laugh.”

Severus didn’t particularly want company right now, but he didn’t feel like immediately returning to his rooms either. Wandering about the castle hadn’t really been as calming as he’d hoped. Nor do I plan to encourage this lunatic to keep ordering me about. And since the room was warmer than the corridor…. With another muted curse he stamped in and shut the door firmly before sinking into one of the unoccupied chairs.

Aside from noise of disgust, Alastor didn’t acknowledge his continued presence. At least not verbally…a few minutes later something flew towards Severus, and he caught it reflexively. And then stared at Alastor’s flask. “Alastor, are you drunk?”

There was a snort from the other chair. “Constant vigilance.”

“That’s not actually an answer, you realize.” He’d seen Alastor drink before—all of the Order was known to partake, on occasion, himself included—but seeing the older man actually drunk would be new. And quite possibly very amusing. He considered for a moment. Or very dangerous.

Another snort, and then, “No, lad, I’m not drunk. It’d take a fair bit more than that to do me any harm, and I’m certainly not minded to end up in lousy shape for a fight two nights in a row.” He turned slightly. “So you even try and put anything in there and I’ll hex you bloody.”

Since Severus would have been surprised if Alastor hadn’t made the threat, all things considered, he didn’t bother paying it any attention. Being allowed a chance at the flask at all was a shock in itself. He stared at the shabby container for a long moment and then juggled it enough to pop the stopper out so he could take a swallow. What can it hurt?

The liquid burned down his throat, and then the taste registered suddenly and his eye began to water. It was only by great force of will that he refrained from spitting it right back out. “Bloody hell, Alastor!” he managed as he finally forced it down. “That’s vile!” He stoppered the flask again and tossed it back with a bit more force than necessary. “How can you drink that?”

Alastor caught it easily. “Youngsters today. Can’t handle the good stuff.”

Severus ignored the term ‘youngster’...in comparison to most of his colleagues he was, unfortunately, and considering some of the things Alastor had called him on previous occasions it was almost tolerable. “I suppose if your definition of ‘good stuff’ includes paint thinner…Merlin!” He snapped his fingers and received a glass of butterbeer a moment later. It wasn’t precisely his favorite beverage, but with any luck it would wash out the taste of whatever Alastor was carrying. If that rubbish had any redeeming value it was probably that it was a good ten percent more alcohol by volume than Ogden’s strongest firewhisky, but even if Severus hadn’t known that getting truly drunk tonight would be a very bad idea, he highly doubted that he’d have been able to overlook the taste.

“Did hear once that losing your sense of smell can damage your sense of taste as well,” Alastor said after a moment. He shrugged and re-opened the flask for a quick mouthful. “Never thought much about it though.”

“I’d take it as given if I were you.” Severus swished a bit of butterbeer around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “I’ve had skel-e-grow that tasted better than that.”

“Suppose you’d be the one to know.”

Severus considered the glass of butterbeer for a moment before setting it on the small table beside his chair. “Drinking to anything in particular?”

Alastor was silent long enough that Severus almost stopped expecting an answer—not that he’d been entirely sure that he would get one in the first place—and then, “Friendships that were.”

Severus tensed. “Miss Tonks?” Granted the junior Auror wasn’t precisely his favorite person in the world, but she wasn’t by no means his least favorite either. Certainly not the first Order member he’d prefer to do away with. And the deaths of his students—even his ex-students—were never easy to deal with. Surely Albus would have said something if she hadn’t survived…he would have heard, wouldn’t he?

“Hm?” Alastor gave him a startled look and then shook his head. “No, no, the lass’ll be just fine. Woke up a bit after lunch today and started giving the healers trouble right off. They say she’ll be out and back to work in a day or two.”

Fletcher, then. “I didn’t realize Fletcher was a friend of yours,” Severus said on the heels of the thought. And then wondered just how much alcohol there had been in that mouthful he’d taken, because observations like that were most definitely not supposed to pop out of his mouth without serious consideration by his brain first. It was the logical conclusion to draw, obviously, since he very much doubted that Alastor had ever kept confidences with any of the Deatheaters who’d been there, but….

“It was a good bit before your time.” There was nothing in Alastor’s tone to indicate any surprise that Severus had made the connection. Or any particular annoyance. “Back when we were in school.”

Severus kept his teeth locked together, not planning to let anything else slip out without his express permission.

Alastor was quiet for several moments, and then, “Taking the scenic route to the loo?”

His nightmares were not a subject that Severus wanted to get into, but unfortunately whatever his other faults might be—and Merlin knows they’re practically legion—Alastor wasn’t an idiot and no doubt already had a fairly good idea why Severus was awake at this hour. Personally Severus would just as soon forget it had ever happened so he simply returned a smirk. “No, it’s just always been a life goal of mine to be cursed by an insane insomniac.”

There was a snort. “I’ve heard better than that out of you half-dead from Cruciatus.”

Severus glared. So it hadn’t been his best rejoinder—it was two in the morning for Merlin’s sake!

Another few minutes of silence passed, and then Alastor glanced over again. “Bad one, I take it?”

“Puppies and kittens,” Severus growled. Bloody lunatic just can’t take a hint. Or won’t.

“Puppies and kittens have you stalking through halls at all hours of the night and you’re a bit more twisted than I’d realized. And that’s saying something.”

“That you have a very limited imagination?”

“I find it amazing that no one has slapped a sealing spell over that mouth of yours yet.”

“Yes, well, I find it amazing that a grown man allows himself to be referred to as ‘Mad-Eye’ on a regular basis—and to his face, no less—so I suppose we’ll both just have to live with the incredulity.”

“It beats ‘Vampire’ behind my back, I’d say. Although ‘Vampire’ rather fits you, now that I think about it…you know, I can’t recall ever seeing you out in the sunlight.”

Weasley must die. “Yes, well, I suppose at your age one’s memory isn’t what it used to be.” Insulting and being insulted by Alastor was familiar territory, at least.

Alastor snorted. “As tempting as it is to beat you for that, I daresay it’ll be much more fun to pass it on to Minerva and see what she has to say about it.”

Severus opened his mouth to respond, but considering what Minerva was likely to do to him if she ever heard he’d said anything of that sort—especially if it turned out that she was actually older than Alastor—it was probably better that he just let it go. Discretion being the better part of valor…please. Better part of survival, more like. “Lucius,” he finally admitted after a few more minutes of silence. “Right before it happened. He was the one that hauled me into the meeting.” No need to define what ‘it’ was. At least Alastor wouldn’t offer any “there-there’s” or pointless platitudes even if he was too bloody nosey for his own good. He’d already hauled off and smacked Severus once for pitying himself too much, and Severus very much doubted that he’d hesitate to repeat the action if he thought it was deserved. Knowing him, he’d probably do it regardless if he thought he could get away with it. The Dark Lord hadn’t paid the least bit of attention to Severus back at the Ministry, something for which he was more grateful than he cared to admit, but dealing with Deatheaters for the first time since the incident had been…stressful. Especially now that he’d had time to think back on the events of last night and consider in just how many ways it could have gone wrong. Hence the nightmare, I suppose. Damn it.

“Ah.” Alastor twisted enough to focus his good eye on Severus. “You compose an appropriate opera about it for that mindhealer yet? Or were you planning to work with the little girl?”

Severus looked about for something to throw, but aside from the glass of butterbeer—which probably would get him hexed—there wasn’t anything readily available. He settled for a dismissive flick of his fingers. “No, now Poppy’s moved on to the idea of group therapy.”

“And just where does she plan to find the rest of the group? Merlin forbid there’s any more of you wandering about. Suddenly death seems a bit more appealing.”

“Yes, and multiples of you are a much better option. Think of it; you could station yourself on street corners and shout at people on the hour.” He shrugged. “And your guess is as good as mine. She did say something about dangerous professions, I believe.”

“Great. Couple dragon-workers and you. Have the poor bastards traumatized beyond recovery within a week.”

That was pretty much Severus’ take on the situation as well so he didn’t bother responding. The paint thinner landed in his lap a moment later. “What?”

“Hold your nose—try anyway; I’ll grant there’s a bit much of it to manage with that little clamp you’ve got—and see if it gets any better.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m curious.”

Severus rolled his eye. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an arse?”

“It’s been mentioned a time or two.” He didn’t seem in the least concerned. “Go on, then.”

Severus decided that his nightmare must have addled his mind more than he’d realized because he found himself pouring a bit more of that vile liquid down his throat. Without the clamp on his nose—he wasn’t that addled—but did do his best not to breathe until it was down. It didn’t help. “No, I think we can safely say you simply have no taste whatsoever. Though personally, I can’t really say that that comes as a shock.”

“Which of us lives in a dungeon and bears a striking resemblance to a bat, again?”

Weasley must die painfully. “Better that than a jigsaw puzzle with a few pieces missing.”

“What would you call the gaps where your eye and arm should be, then?”

Severus didn’t actually have a response to that, instead turning his attention to the fire. Watching the flames was a good way to lose oneself, at least for awhile.

There was some rustling from the seat next to him as Alastor shifted the leg he had propped up on the footstool around a bit. “From what the Potter boy said you put up a hell of a fight.”

Severus snorted. “Considering I was disarmed within five minutes of my arrival and spent the majority of the rest of my time that night either petrified or trapped in a spell circle being cursed at, I’m not sure quite what you’re basing that on.”

“For one, you damn near took off Rowle’s head with that cutting curse you like so much; haven’t seen or heard anything about him since so he might well be dead.”

Severus hadn’t heard that…then again, he hadn’t been in any shape to hear much of anything right after it had happened. He turned his head slightly

“Not to mention that Voldemort—for Merlin’s sake don’t flinch, lad, he isn’t even here—wasn’t real pleased with Selwynn for letting you get your hands on his wand in the first place. Potter didn’t see much beyond the first set of Crucios, but he was found dead in his family’s shop a few days later.”

“Are you serious?” For the followers who didn’t displease him the Dark Lord was a…tolerable…master; for those who did…well, torture wasn’t entirely uncommon. As Severus was well aware. But it was rare for him to kill his followers outright. Or even to have them killed. New recruits weren’t necessarily easy to find, after all. There had been Ashcroft, back when he and Harry had been in the Amazon—assuming it had actually been her and she was actually dead; he only had Harry’s word and his own tentative identification after all—and the younger Horace girl, and now….

“Don’t generally joke about dead Deatheaters,” Alastor returned. “Much prefer the real thing. Of course, it would have been better if it was Malfoy or one of the Lestranges that wound up dead, but….” He flicked his fingers. “I suppose it was a tolerable enough effort for one night’s work.”

“My apologies for not taking requests before the torture began.”

“Now you know for next time. Constant vigilance!”

“You’re the sort who goes about breaking mirrors on a regular basis just to make certain that you’re going to be around for another seven years, aren’t you?”

“At least I have a few mirrors about…with no reflection I don’t suppose you’ve a reason to keep them. Though I suppose the lack of a mirror would explain a few things.”

And then I’ll resurrect him and kill him again. The Weasleys have plenty of children; surely they won’t miss one. Severus rolled his eye and held out his good arm. “Give me the paint thinner.”

“Best not to get drunk, lad,” Alastor warned as he put his flask in the outstretched hand. “Bit won’t hurt you, but truth be told, it’s a bad way to handle a sleepless night.”

“Yes, thank you, I do know that.” Whatever Alastor might refer to him as, he wasn’t a child after all. He uncapped it and took another swallow. Still absolutely vile, but at least it wasn’t quite bad enough to spit out any more. Either that or my mouth is simply going numb, anyway. “Rather grows on you. Of course, so does fungus, but….”

Alastor summoned the flask back with a flick of his fingers and a bark that might have been laughter. “Nightmares be damned; only thing wrong with you is that your da didn’t spend half as much time beating manners through your backside as he should have. Ought to hex you just on principle.”

Considering that he hadn’t moved from his reclining position, Severus wasn’t overly worried. “What is than pinwheeling fire curse you keep using, anyway?”

///////////

Severus yawned and sat up slowly, glaring at the alarm. If he shut it off now and skipped breakfast he could get another half-an-hour, maybe forty-five minutes, of sleep. Of course then he’d be hungry all morning and they’d no doubt be serving something he absolutely detested for lunch, but…. He groaned and rolled out of bed. Half-an-hour wouldn’t make that much of a difference anyway. He picked up his wand and aimed it at the fireplace. “Incendia Phasmatis.” A—small—pinwheel of fire lit it up, and he smirked. Alastor wasn’t actually a poor teacher, at least if you didn’t mind being asked how many years it took you to learn to breathe when you weren’t able to reproduce his spell by the second attempt, but then Severus hadn’t been any more polite when he’d traded Sectumsempra in return.

He heard the student chime on the outer door and shrugged into his robes quickly. What anyone would be doing here before breakfast…well, maybe Harry had been let out of the infirmary. Hard to believe he’d come looking for a tongue-lashing, but then Gryffindors aren’t known for their logic. They’d probably consider it noble or something equally ridiculous. He headed into the outer room and called to his visitor to enter.

“Professor?”

“Draco?” The boy looked like he’d slept even less than Severus, and considering that he’d only managed only about an hour more after his conversation with Alastor that was saying something. “Is something—?”

“I have to go.”

“What? Go where?”

Draco thrust a note in Severus’ direction, and he took it and tried to smooth the crumpled parchment. It was from Narcissa…fairly opaque, but obviously an outline of a plan to leave England.

“I…Father is in Azkaban, and Mum says we have to go now.”

Severus dipped his head sharply. ‘Now’ was putting it mildly…it hadn’t occurred to him before—probably because things had only come to a head in the last forty-eight hours—but with Lucius in prison the Dark Lord would be looking to secure his ties to the Malfoy family through either Narcissa or Draco. Narcissa had resisted thus far, making Draco the obvious choice. Doubly obvious since he had the potential to be a potions master and thus replace Severus. “Come along.” Hopefully the boy had whichever of his belongings that he wanted in his pack, because Severus wasn’t going to risk a trip into the Slytherin rooms to get them. Nor did he plan to allow Draco to do so—there were students who were loyal to the Dark Lord there who would know what the creature was likely to be planning, and the way Draco looked right now…well, better not to give them any opportunities.

“Where are we going?”

Well, Severus would prefer the floo in Albus’ office, but since as far as he knew that was still under surveillance…. “You’re to meet your mother at the Perth Floo Terminal, correct?” Narcissa hadn’t given any specific meeting location in her note, but while there were other floos with international connections in Great Britain none of them besides the London Terminal had more than four out-of-country destinations. London was too obvious, and as for the smaller stations…well, Narcissa was too canny to allow them to be tracked so easily. Unfortunately, if he realized that, others would too. I suppose she could be planning to apparate to the Continent first, but I don’t think she could make it, especially with a side-along unless they were in souther—

Draco nodded jerkily, interrupting his train of thought. “That’s where her family used to leave for their vacations from.”

Which apparently meant something to him, although it didn’t to Severus. Still, now wasn’t the time for second-guessing. “All right, come along. Has anyone else seen this note?”

“The owl arrived last night…I don’t think anyone else was awake.”

He doesn’t think…brilliant. Draco was normally much more collected than that, but considering the circumstances…well, Severus hoped that Albus was willing to make one more illicit portkey. In theory he could make one himself, any competent wizard who knew the Portus spell could, but it wasn’t something he had ever done and now was not the time for experimentation. He didn’t really feel like doing a side-along apparition right now; with as little sleep as he’d managed to get, he wasn’t entirely certain that they’d both come out in one piece. Or rather, he was afraid that they would come out in one piece—one single piece, with no idea which part was Severus and which was Draco. What I wouldn’t give for a peaceful day.