-Severus-

How do you answer a question like that? After all, he didn't really know the answer, though he could get there by process of elimination and some educated guesswork. Which missing Death Eater was he?

Severus had first read Harry's letter Monday night. Defense class had been fairly uneventful that day. A week past the event and everyone was still talking about Crabbe's apparition decapitation. Crabbe, who miraculously looked no worse for the wear, was enjoying his near celebrity status. Goyle, not used to his other half getting more attention than himself, was planning his own splinching and elicited groans from all the boys when he announced, in a stage whisper, that he hoped he could splinch his own "bits." "I'd like to see McGonagall and Sprout have to deal with that one!" Severus knew that neither Minerva nor Pamona would blink an eye at having to "deal" with such an event and it would be the talk of the faculty lounge for weeks to come. He almost wished Goyle would splinch himself like that. However, he'd never seen something like that happen. Boys were usually very keen on keeping their bits with them and in the determination phase might lose a limb, or even a nose, but never their bits.

He scanned the letter again, not able to suppress a grin at the description of the Valentine's Day cupids. Those songs! They were horrid even when they were new—some of them during his time at Hogwarts. But if the Gryffindors ever broke out in song during his class—or even in his presence—he'd have to come up with a suitable detention.

He'd have to come up with something non-academic to do with Harry during the Easter mid-term holiday. He couldn't leave the castle for too long—his summons had been far too frequent to risk leaving Harry in a hotel or on a London street. He sighed and turned to face the clock on his desk. He shook his head and sighed as he read Harry's status—"In Trouble." A glance at the regular clock above the mantle showed the time to be 10:10 p.m.—past curfew.

A knock on his door at precisely that moment made him jump. He opened it to see one of the Slytherin prefects.

"Malfoy's out past curfew again, Sir," said the boy.

"I'll deal with it. Thank you, Carson." Severus gave a backward, troubled glance at the clock as he closed the door behind him.

/

18 February, 1997

Tuesday

Dear Harry:

I am awake for later on a Tuesday night than I should be, as it is nearly midnight and my first class begins in a mere eight and a half hours. I had envisioned myself turning in rather early tonight, perhaps no later than 10:30. However, at slightly after 10 p.m., I was alerted by one of my prefects that one of my students was not in his dormitory. I was alerted at almost the same time—this time by a very informative clock I keep on my desk—that you were also likely not in your dormitory, unless you were getting into trouble in your own common room.

As I had to locate my own missing student, I alerted Minerva of the situation and we both set watch on the entrances to our respective houses. At 11:30, I apprehended my errant Slytherin. I received Minerva's patronus at 11:35 alerting me that you, too, had returned to your common room, under cover of your invisibility cloak. Coincidence? I think not.

I will no longer beat around the bush about this, Harry. You are beginning to try my nerves. In one breath you assure me that you are controlling this fixation you have regarding Mr. Malfoy. In the next I find you are out of bed, out of your common room and wandering about the castle after curfew.

While Minerva has assured me that she will deal with you appropriately, I have asked her to go one step further. You are dealing with an uncontrollable compulsion, or daresay I…an obsession. If you are found out after curfew again, or at any time if in any part of the castle in which you do not belong, you will lose your Quidditch privileges for the remainder of the year. Minerva has agreed to these terms as well, detrimental as they would be to her own house, and will likely impose them without telling you who suggested them. I want you to know, however, that I suggest them in an effort to force you to comply rather than to punish you for non-compliance. Be upset, throw things, call me an unfair git, but please, please keep your mind focused on matters that—well—matter. Your school work, your lessons with the Headmaster, your mission with Professor Slughorn, even your pursuit of young Miss Weasley. Trust me with Mr. Malfoy, Harry.

I will put this behind me now, and assume you have taken the matter to heart.

Speaking of hearts…

Yes, I did get a rather ostentatious valentine from Professor Trelawney. Apparently, her inner eye told her that we are destined to be together. Since I simply do not have the energy to continue to fight, I let her into my quarters and allowed her to serenade me with the most gyrating rendition of "All You Need is Love" that I have ever heard. After that, I was lost. How did Sybil know of my adoration of the Beatles? Indeed, it must be destiny, as she so claims. I have resigned myself to a life of marital bliss, Harry. I hope you don't mind that Professor Trelawney (soon to be Professor Trelawney-Snape) will be joining us on future excursions. Perhaps she will be useful in wrangling the giant squid over half-term break.

I suppose, since we are in the winter doldrums and there is only so much one can write about splinching vital body parts and the amorous attention—unwanted or not—of the opposite sex during Valentine's season, that I should tackle the difficult question you posed. However, I do want to comment first that I find it intriguing that even as a small Muggle child, your desire to enforce law and order prevailed. I think there is much that could be said about this desire, and why it is so strong in your heart, but you are old enough to put those pieces together yourself now. If a career as an Auror is still what you want when this war is finished, Harry, and I am still on this earth and have my wits about me (which I decidedly will not if there is a Mrs. Trelawney-Snape in the picture), I will support your decision and help you make it through the academy. I am relatively certain you will need some assistance passing your potions practicals (despite the glowing reports I daily hear from Horace of your brilliance in his classroom) so do consider my offer.

Now, to your question.

First, let me state that the Dark Lord keeps his friends close, and his enemies even closer. He knows each and each has a precise place in the circle, as you unfortunately witnessed two years ago. With this method, he can easily determine who is missing, who is late, who steps out of line during a meeting.

From your description of the three dead and the three missing all in one gap of the circle, I believe that indeed was my appointed spot. In fact, I stood with Karkaroff and Crouch, and beside us were three that were killed just after the Dark Lord disappeared. So, if the Dark Lord was going in order, after the three who are now dead stood Igor Karkaroff. I stood next to him, and beside me, Barty Crouch Jr

Which would make me the one who he believed had left him forever.

How wrong he was…yet how very right.

I suppose I should end with a question for you, as has become our tradition.

This one is hypothetical—like our island. I'm making late-night rounds and find you lurking outside the Slytherin common room, hiding under your invisibility cloak. I sense your presence and seize the cloak. You can try to convince me to drop my promised punishment…in exactly five words.

So Harry—what do you say to me?

Regards,

Severus

/

Severus smirked as he finished the letter, then rolled up the assignment on which it was written. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly twelve thirty now and he was more than ready for his bed.

As he prepared for bed—brushing his teeth rather obsessively for three minutes while standing on one leg (he changed the leg each night—the exercise was excellent for improving one's balance and strengthening calf muscles)—he mused on the question he had set for Harry.

Explain yourself in five words.

Talk yourself out of punishment in five words.

If this assignment bore fruit (and he imagined it would—Harry was always up to a challenge, it seemed), he would give him a similar assignment in a future letter. Ernest Hemingway (he'd have to turn Harry on to him in a year or two), was once asked to write a story using only six words. He had written "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." He thought he'd ask Harry to write his own autobiography, or memoir, using only six words.

Of course, thinking along these lines caused Severus to think about his own six-word memoir.

"I chose poorly; life's a Riddle."

He scoffed, spit in the sink and rinsed then looked up at his reflection. Would he be standing here in his dungeon rooms at Hogwarts, looking at his sallow face and tired eyes, if he hadn't chosen poorly? Would he, instead, see a bedroom reflected behind him, with a woman's robe hung on the bedpost, a crib beside the bed?

There was no choice, no life beyond his current role, for Severus Snape. He composed another memoir.

"Been redeeming myself for 15 years."

-Harry-

Harry sat on the hard wooden chair in front of his guardian's desk on Thursday evening. Minerva was sitting behind the desk looking at him patiently, waiting for an answer to the question she had posed. She took a drink of tea from the steaming cup before her, blowing on it slightly to cool it. Harry shifted uncomfortably.

"OK, I suppose I've learned my lesson," he huffed out at last. "But you don't understand…"

"Oh no, Mr. Potter. You are quite wrong about that. I do understand. I understand that you broke curfew intentionally and that you specifically ignored Severus' advice to leave the matter of Mr. Malfoy up to Mr. Malfoy's Head of House."

"But he isn't doing anything about it!" protested Harry. "Malfoy's up to something and…"

"Harry, you must let this go! You must trust Severus to handle this. I know it is difficult for you but he is the best one—no, the only one—that can handle this. You know the difficult line he must walk. He cannot have his attention split between his duty and protecting you from yourself. It is hard enough protecting you from others."

Harry had been about to protest again but he shut his mouth abruptly and sunk back bonelessly onto his chair.

"I didn't think…"

Minerva smiled. "No, you didn't. However, being Gryffindor myself, I do understand. Now, tell me about your detention with Hagrid…"

Harry grimaced. The detention, served jointly with Malfoy, was one of the most disturbing experiences of his life.

"Never mind," said Minerva with a wave. "But Hagrid says that if you enjoyed your experience with the feral boars, you'll really love working with the thestrals next time."

/

20 February, 1997

Thursday

Dear Severus:

I don't know whose idea it was but if it was yours, you've made your point.

When Minerva gave me detention with Hagrid, I thought I had it made. I couldn't imagine how a detention with him would be bad, even with Malfoy right there with me. In fact, I was pretty sure that Malfoy would cry like a girl if he took us into the Forbidden Forest.

So when Hagrid met us in front of his hut and we set out for the forest, I had a Severus-worthy smirk on my face. Malfoy tried to look cool and uninterested, but I could tell he was nervous by the way his mouth kept twitching. Hagrid took us about a mile into the forest—at least that's what it felt like—and then we stopped inside a pretty big clearing that looked like it had been destroyed by looters. The plants were in shambles and the dirt was all dug up and rutted. I asked him what happened. I will NEVER forget his answer, not as long as I live.

"Feral boars," he said, "and we're going to castrate them."

So, on the very off chance that you don't already know this and aren't laughing your arse half off with Minerva in her office while you drink your oh-so-innocent "coffee," Hagrid decided to solve the problem of the feral hog population by castrating all the males! Not by capturing them and turning them into…say…BACON…but by capturing them, having Malfoy hold them down and having me wrap this REALLY TIGHT RUBBER BAND around their BITS! OR…when that got boring, having ME hold them down while Malfoy did the dirty deed.

Hagrid had no problem luring the dirty buggers into the clearing. He had some sort of slop that he spread on the ground—it smelled like troll piss if you ask me—and they'd just appear out of nowhere. Of course, the boars were the mean-looking ones with the long tusks. As soon as one of them was slurping away at the slop, he had Malfoy tackle it from behind and wrestle it to its side while I had to grab its…its BALLS and force them through this tiny tight rubber band. When we let it go it squealed like it was dying as it ran back into the forest. I swear we could hear it yowling for five minutes. All I wanted to do that whole time was crouch down with my hands over my groin. I could FEEL its pain. You'd think that after that first one made all that noise no others would dare come close but Hagrid poured out some more slop and within five minutes another one was there.

I swear we castrated twenty hogs. I was so sore when we were done that I could hardly stand up. I almost even felt sorry for Malfoy. He looked worse than I felt, which means he looked practically dead. Hagrid sent both of us up to the infirmary when we were done. I had cuts on both arms and at least one puncture wound on my leg. Malfoy's face was all bruised up and his nose was broken. Madam Pomfrey looked at Hagrid like he was Atilla the Hun (umm…Muggle reference…) but he just smiled and said he had the "Heads o' Houses' blessin'."

When I was finally up in my bed last night I realized that Hagrid could have taken you with him, or Minerva, or any of the other professors and done the whole thing with magic.

But I had the last laugh—I just transformed into Lightfoot and the aches and pains faded away. I curled up and had a great night's sleep.

Did I learn a lesson? I think I did.

OK, I've worked this all out of my system and can devote the rest of the letter to the serious parts of your letter. Like the potential new Mrs. Trelawney-Snape. I'm not sure what I think about this union. She is a bit older than you, isn't she? Can she still produce little Snapelets? Since witches and wizards live longer than Muggles, I assume witches are fertile longer too, so I hope it's not out of the question. I think you need at least three children, but you'd better ask Sybs about it, since she has the inner eye and obviously already knows how many children are in your shared future. If you aren't eager to reproduce, Hagrid probably has some extra rubber bands…

Sigh. Hard to change the tone of this letter. But thanks for answering my question. I suppose that when you got to the meeting that night—way late, I know—you had to prove to Tom that your true loyalties were with him. I just hope that someday soon you don't have to pretend anymore. There are a lot of reasons for me to get rid of him, but none better than ending your spying days and giving you the freedom to get on with your life.

Guess all I've got left is your question—five words to convince you to drop your threatened punishment when you find me lurking outside the Slytherin Common room under my invisibility cloak (after curfew, I assume).

"Huh? I must be sleep-walking!"

So here's your question: Did you ever think about having children? Under what conditions might you consider having some in the future?

Regards,

Harry

/

Harry smiled smugly as he completed his letter, vanished the ink with the now very familiar spell and placed the parchment carefully in his book. He looked across the library table at Ron, who, instead of working on his Herbology assignment as they had planned, was gazing across the room with a lovelorn look in his eyes. Harry turned, knowing who he would find when he looked. As he expected, Hermione was sitting at a small table, a frown on her face as she read from a book that was approximately the size of a small Muggle automobile. She looked up to see him staring at her and gave a small wave, ignoring Ron altogether. Harry turned back to face Ron.

"You know, she likes you too," he whispered.

Ron frowned.

"I don't like her," he hissed.

"You do too like her," replied Harry, obviously too loudly, as Ron hissed at him.

"Quiet! She'll hear you!"

Harry shook his head slowly and dropped it into his hands. "You're impossible, Ron," he whispered. He looked up at his friend again and leaned forward. "Why don't you just apologize and get it over with? Tell her you're sorry for being such a prat and snogging Lavender like you were giving her a tonsillectomy with your tongue."

Ron glanced over at Hermione again, then back at Harry, but didn't say anything else. He dropped his eyes down to his book and pretended to read.

Harry sighed and opened his Defense book. He silently vowed that if Ron and Hermione had not made up by March 1st, he'd personally lock them up in a classroom, give them their wands and let them kill each other. It had to be better than this months-long stand-off.