Him Again (CHPT 31!)

[Apocalypticat]

CHAPTER 25: Into the Crystal Cave

The fog descended on Thursday, swathing the grounds from view, so that Hogwarts seemed to hang in a white vacuum. The dawn came late, and when it did, both the North Tower and the head teacher’s tower were lost in a strange, thin brightness, and sounds were oddly smothered. A descendant of Fang barked, and then whined as the noise failed to penetrate the gamekeeper’s hut.

Rolanda knew about the fog before she looked out and saw it; the increased chill bit to the bone and woke her early. The air was damp, and her first thought was that the broomsticks in the shed would be sodden. Another time, she would have hurried down, servicing kit in hand, but her limbs felt numbed. Mechanically, she forced herself up across the room to the window, and placed her hand against the sopping glass. The fog swirled like the contents of a Pensieve.

Minerva.

Smiling, laughing, talking, joking. Eyes dancing. Immune to the sleet, or the frosty atmosphere in the staff room… Slughorn and Pomona snapping at each other. Sybil predicting doom so vehemently that even Filius began to get irritated. Professor Brady talking morbidly of resigning. Poppy and her ‘seasonal affective disorder.’ And there was hardly a glimpse to be had of Martha Read, these days. But Minerva was cheerful, light-hearted - everything she had wanted her to be, for so long…

The bones creaked in her freezing hand, and she withdrew it from the window. She stayed there, though, Rolanda Hooch, Minerva McGonagall’s best friend…

The temperature was appalling, yet Minerva did not seem to feel it. She wondered if Aberforth felt it - whether he was lying beneath a ragged blanket, still without a wand, unable to warm himself. Had he burnt the dress robes, in the end? Thinking of robes made her remember his undershirt, reddening with blood - and his white face looking back at her, despairing-

Minerva.

Why?

The fog was inscrutable.

She summoned a house-elf for breakfast, and got dressed hurriedly, trying not to expose herself to the cold for longer than was strictly necessary. She started towards the door, but stopped, feeling ill at the idea of breakfast in the Great Hall. Minerva would be beaming, acting as the carrier of every conversation… And Pomona would be watching her narrowly, and Slughorn would have a mask instead of a face, an artificial geniality-

Rolanda Hooch, cheerful, brimming with enthusiasm, and Minerva McGonagall’s best friend…Perhaps there was something to be said for Poppy’s ‘seasonal affective disorder.’

The sound of a knock at her office door flooded her with relief.

“Come in!”

Poppy burst in like a tornado, eyes blazing, waving an open magazine in the air. A vessel throbbed in her temple and her face was blotched with anger. Rolanda opened her mouth in welcome, and closed it again. The Healer thrust the magazine at her.

“Read it.”

The headline was a wanton scarlet that left everything else in the room bleached of colour. It hit her like a slap in the face.

Scandal Scoop: Head of Heartbreak.

The photo, lurid and obscene, had her sinking into the nearest chair. A weeping Minerva shuddered and choked as Aberforth stumbled backwards, eyes large and hurt, seeming to personally accuse her. Underneath, a pink caption read: September this year: The Headmistress breaks a heart. Two other photos transfixed her, cruelly juxtaposed - Minerva, smiling at the Halloween Feast, (One month later: Without a care) and below, a red-eyed Aberforth, slumped on the ground and putting a Firewhisky to his drooping mouth (Despairing: the jilted lover). A lump clogged her throat. For a moment, she forgot the article, and felt the weary, haggard face being branded into her. A bolt of fury shot through her; who had dared stand and take a picture…?

Poppy’s pacing was like an itch. She struggled to focus.

Witch Weekly’s Scandal Scoop: Head of Heartbreak

September saw apparent heartbreak for Hogwarts Headmistress, the aging Minerva McGonagall. Yet only a month later, smiles can be seen. Love not lost? Witch Weekly investigates…

Subscribers may remember the drama of this September, when Minerva McGonagall treated staff, students and outsiders alike to a spectacular ball, which ended with the public refusal of a proposal from a lover. Aberforth Dumbledore, aged 170, was humiliatingly rejected in front of the entire school, sparking criticism that the line between professional and private life was shockingly blurred. Students and faculty expressed both horror and sympathy.

“It was really horrible,” said Third Year Emily Smith. “I felt really awful for her.”

Yet did Professor McGonagall deserve such understanding? Over the last fortnight, there has been a marked contrast to the events of September. A source who did not wish to be named commented:

“She has been laughing and smiling as if it had never happened. Her lover’s roses were ignominiously discarded. I know for a fact that Aberforth is still suffering, but she couldn’t seem to care less.”

Whilst observers at the school spoke movingly of the Headmistress’s apparent reaction to the unsuccessful proposal, and how she failed to attend meals, questions remain. In the words of one bewildered Fifth Year:

“If she was going to refuse him, why make the ball so public?”

Another unnamed source identified War veteran Alastor Moody as being displeased over Mr Dumbledore’s condition and treatment. Whilst Witch Weekly was unable to arrange an interview with the respected Ex-Auror, regulars to the Hog’s Head were to be heard complaining that the pub has been closed since that fateful night. Rumours that Mr Dumbledore attempted suicide following his rejection have been abound, but are as yet unconfirmed. Groundskeeper Rubeus Hagrid spoke to Witch Weekly:

“Err well he’s gone downhill. Been drinking a lot. He wouldn’t see me when I called.”

Yet can the Headmistress really be so cold-hearted as to leave her lover in despair? Eleanor Reeves, close friend and confidante of Professor McGonagall, was defensive:

“I would ask outsiders not to be judgemental when the matter is more complicated than it seems. Minerva is entitled to her privacy, and no one is entitled to comment on her personal life unless she asks for it. I have nothing else to say, other than that both Minerva and Aberforth were deeply in love, and that what happened was a tragedy for both parties.”

However, Divination Professor Sybil Trelawney, descendant of the legendary Seer Cassandra, granted Witch Weekly an hour long interview which appears to suggest a degree of disrespect and carelessness unexpected in so public a figure as the Hogwarts Headmistress. Professor Trelawney, ‘single and looking,’ described Professor McGonagall’s long-term abusive behaviour towards colleagues.

“For years, she would not deign to speak to one of us properly. She shut herself up and once she would not attend a birthday party organised for her by staff. I recall that Flying lessons were delayed one year because she would not stoop to renew the lease on the brooms. When on urgent school business, I was blatantly shunted aside in preference of her lover, whom she encouraged to insult us.”

As for Aberforth?

“He was obviously sincerely in love with her - of course, I can’t understand it. She has never been very attractive. She has been quite callous over the whole affair. There was never any explanation given. What‘s more, she has obviously set her sights on new horizons; only a month after she discarded Aberforth she has been receiving mysterious gifts of forget-me-nots.”

Cold and rude to staff, forgetful of her students - but can Minerva McGonagall’s cruelty extend to romance? Witch Weekly leaves the readers to decide.

“Sybil! Sybil Trelawney!” shouted Poppy, seemingly unable to restrain herself. “‘Single and looking!’ By Merlin, I’m hoping this is a firing offence!”

Rolanda said nothing. Photographic blue eyes stared painfully.

“‘Sparking criticism…’ This is the first I’ve heard of it! ‘Professor McGonagall’s long-term abusive behaviour towards colleagues…’ What rubbish!”

The pictured Minerva beamed. There was never any explanation given…

“And you know what I heard Sybil say at breakfast? That Minerva’s behaviour was ‘obscene!’”

Rolanda Hooch…

“You’ve heard the rest of them as well, over the last few days! Slughorn and his grave little speeches - ‘the need for modesty in one’s affairs.’ And Pomona and her blasted subscription! When they saw this, they all scuttled round!”

…Minerva McGonagall’s…

“Honestly, Rolanda! You would have thought that Minerva didn’t deserve to be happy at all! They all spend years and years complaining about how depressed she is, and then the moment she perks up, then goodness, isn’t it ‘obscene!’”

…Best friend…

She heard Poppy’s pacing stop, heard her own silence.

“Rolanda?”

The fog had taken her over, and she felt was beginning to sense something behind it - something bitter, which needed to be hid-

“Don’t tell me you agree with anything said in that article.”

The Healer’s voice cracked like a whip. Silence, yet it was as if something had been said. She didn’t look up, even when she heard the other witch sit down suddenly.

“Minerva would never… Surely you don’t believe Sybil over Minerva?”

“No. Of course not.” Her own voice sounded curt. One finger traced Aberforth’s face, and the words poured out of her, even as another fogless Rolanda clapped invisible hands over her mouth. “Forget-me-nots. I’ve noticed that… and it’s true - so strange… how happy she suddenly seems-”

“Rolanda-”

An imaginary wizard desperately downed an absinthe. “What will Aberforth think when he reads this?”

“Minerva-”

“What do I think?”

She heard a sharp intake of breath. The room fizzed with anger.

“I don’t know,” said Poppy shortly. “I no longer know what you think. I thought we were both Minerva’s friends, and I thought that as we both have more than half a brain, we would know that nothingthe Witch Weekly prints-”

Rolanda’s cheeks burned. She flung the magazine aside and looked into Poppy‘s furious face, just as the sickness inside her reached a crescendo-

“It’s nothing to do with the article! I’m not blind! I see what I see! I know what I know! I see Aberforth… like he is, and realise that I don’t know why! I see Minerva acting as though it’s her birthday every day, and see those forget-me-nots, and think that what she told us about it all being about Albus is a lie!”

Her jaw clamped shut. The words seemed to freeze in mid-air. Poppy’s wide eyes flung a memory at her, of three girls swearing a solemn vow of friendship - three girls washed away as the brown depths flooded-

“You don’t believe that.”

“I wish I didn’t. Aberforth-”

“Has he been saying things about her?”

Another flash of anger. “No. He would never-”

“If Aberforth is suffering, it’s not Minerva’s fault! Who can find fault with someone else’s emotions?”

She felt at a loss for words. She wanted to stand up and thrust the photo of Aberforth in Poppy’s face, and say something about how no one cared about Aberforth, about how Minerva’s explanation was no explanation, about how the pictures only spelt out what was undeniable; that Minerva was blooming with life whilst the old wizard dragged himself to death…

His cheek had felt rough and cold. Wild was the word - like the heath where the goats wandered. She didn’t know why she’d kissed him, really. But she’d loved the heath.

Poppy was crimson with anger, and she felt the guilt bite. Poppy was everything a friend should be, blindly defensive - and in spite of Mad-Eye’s views-

“I don’t believe you.”

She flinched. “You’ve got to admit-”

“No! I don’t! And neither should you! Have you forgotten the last twenty years? Have you forgotten everything?”

Rolanda grit her teeth. “I just don’t understand why she’s suddenly different. And neither do you,” she shot at Poppy. “She hasn’t told you either. And those forget-me-nots - you’ve seen that crystal one on her desk - it really does seem as if September never happened, and someone else is now-”

She cut herself off. Poppy’s face was ashen.

“I’m sure Mad-Eye agrees with me.”

“Don’t drag him into it!”

There was a pause. The Healer rose abruptly, and snatched up the magazine.

“Madam Hooch.”

The air crystallised.

“Good day.”

She wanted to shout something at Poppy’s retreating back, but her throat was blocked. Madam Hooch watched, incapable of moving, as Rolanda, Minerva McGonagall’s best friend, climbed out of the window and leapt, away into the fog.

---

After the funeral, Aberforth found him sitting on one of their old swings, cradling Fawkes in his lap, something inside him throbbing like an old wound. The drizzle was hitting his glasses, blocking out the ground with spots. He sensed Aberforth halt, and remain standing. The swing creaked, and the seat beside him gaped. Their father’s blue eyes stared at him.

He expected Aberforth to say something, but the silence stretched. The muted sound of a child laughing came between them, and stretched it further. Had his brother ever laughed like that?

“The manor,” he said flatly, looking up.

The younger version of Ulfin Dumbledore glared at him. The same lank brown hair framed the same angular face. The same furious blue eyes he possessed disdained him in the same way. You died still disappointed in me.

“Yes.”

It was as if Aberforth was answering the thought, and not what he had said. He sat up.

“It’s yours. Aurors have no need of a permanent home.”

The last sentence was superfluous; Dumbledore Manor had always been Aberforth’s right from the start. Its heavy Victorian face was made to fit him - or was it the other way around? His brother was a Victorian, or everything a Victorian wizard should be, and he had never been a Victorian. No, he had been a round peg his parents and teachers had endlessly forced into a square hole. Indeed, they would not have thought of themselves as Victorian; the idea of them recognising a Muggle royalty was absurd. Hogwarts had been a long succession of scowling, disapproving faces, all lambasting him for doing something as miniscule as wearing a Muggle top hat. Somewhere, in the old records, even four years after Hogwarts, there would be neat handwriting recording his misdemeanours:

Albus Dumbledore, 13; 2 hours; improper behaviour.

Albus Dumbledore, 15; 3 hours; pertness and disobedience.

Albus Dumbledore, 16; 3 ½ hours; lack of seemly decorum.

He could definitely recall that one. Even at the time, the question had to be asked:

“‘Lack of seemly decorum?’ Does that even have a meaning?”

A smile ghosted his face. Aberforth twitched; he felt his fury fly through the air.

“You have it.”

“But it is yours.”

“Will you not stand up and speak properly? Stop crouching on that swing like a child.”

He had the bizarre urge to say that he was a child, a child who had just lost a father who had never loved him. Instead, he stood, transferring Fawkes to his shoulder. Weariness kept his head bowed. In spite of what Aberforth had said, there was no speech.

“You have the manor.”

Submissively, he nodded, the argument drained out of him. He watched as his brother, the younger Ulfin, summoned a thestral coach and sped away. He watched without understanding; Dumbledore Manor was Ulfin, the proud pureblood aristocracy, and all that Aberforth had aspired to… But the lank brown hair was gone for five years, and his father was of a dying breed.

Later on, sitting in the cavernous living room, he understood the cruelty.

[Apocalypticat]

Walking up the drive, avoiding the ancient ruts left by the carriages, and looking at and not seeing the ruined statues, but rather their remembered images, he again felt that sense of trespass, of wrongful invasion. Aberforth had inherited the manor after his death, and the notion that he was adding insult to injury by using his brother’s house as a wooing venue would not leave him alone. That, and the memories, were the greatest challenges.

Transport, armed with Fawkes, was simple enough, and it had been a matter of ease to walk straight past the Herbology greenhouses and leave Eric confusedly looking for Brian in the Charms classrooms. The idea of Dumbledore Manor had come to him in Potions, blocking out Slughorn’s babble. At the time, it had seemed a supreme stroke of inspiration, even when considering how dilapidated it was, and it had spelt an end to the sleepless nights spent struggling to think of a location. The mere fact of identity made a simple outing impossible; dead wizards did not gallivant around London any more than they strolled down to Hogsmeade. Aberforth had taken Minerva to Paris, but posthumous fame prevented any such thing. Dumbledore Manor, as ill-suited as it was to his peace of mind, being isolated and forgotten, was a splendid solution.

He reached the main doors, and eased them open. The hall was vast and cold, hung with decaying tapestries and cobwebs. A wave of a wand restored everything to its former brilliance, and he stopped, pondering as to his choice of rooms. Not any of Father’s. Like the boy his mind inhabited, he followed the scent of his mother.

Memory guided him first to the room which had been specifically Maria’s, not Ulfin’s - the library, now bereft of bookcases or furniture. The chill made him draw his cloak more tightly around himself. He cast a heating spell, and then lit the candles leading from the main doors to the chosen room. After transfiguring the moth-eaten rug into a mirror, he glanced at Brian’s watch.

Four o’clock, and five o’clock was the time. He dropped to his knees, held his wand like a pen, and let his mind wander.

Minerva.

His lips burned with the memory. Brian’s bent body tingled with remembered movement. He tried to focus on the sigils and circles, but nerves made him careless. He was a child again, in a Victorian house.

Albus looked up into the mirror and blushed faintly.

However ridiculous it was, the age had not left him unmarked. Archaic traditions still held sway. In those days, one could only officially express interest if a lady deliberately dropped her handkerchief in one’s path, and even then, holding hands in public was enough to raise eyebrows. Romance was a deeply hesitant, awkward affair. One had to behave with propriety. One had to conduct oneself with due modesty. One most certainly never went so far as to straddle a lady in the first days of courtship.

Straddle was not a Victorian word. Straddling was something working rural folk did with horses.

Such pompous perceptions could certainly be dispensed with, but there remained the worrying idea that Minerva thought him forward, or even rude. Of course, she had not seemed to object. Frowning, he withdrew a vial from his pocket, and then eyed the reflected blush thoughtfully. Fawkes crooned the answer in the background.

“Yes, that’s the problem…”

He ran a finger along the proud crest. Had he spent so long pretending the introvert that he had forgotten that he was one? Did the urge to slow down arise from the age he had grown up in, a loving desire to spin out the ecstasy, or from simple shyness?

The Headmaster of another lifetime had been desperately lonely. He had been enclosed in a tower, metaphorically as well as physically; immured in stone which melted whenever a hand dared warm it-

“He accused me of being ‘Dumbledore’s man through and through.’”

“How very rude of him.”

“I told him I was.”

Poor Harry! What boy expected their professor to come close to tears at such a statement? He could still remember the tousled black head bent embarrassedly towards a pair of knobbly knees.

“I am very touched, Harry.”

He could not imagine anything clumsier, or more insincere-sounding. He had never known what to do or say whenever trust was expressed towards him. There had never been any greater enigma than Hagrid’s adoring face, or Harry’s steady emerald eyes, or the way Severus had prostrated-

His stomach clenched. Severus, please. The thought was shoved away; now was not the time to be unhappy, for what was trust next to love?

“I love you.”

A delicious shiver swept down him. Intensity made the boy in the mirror stiffen, first with emotion, and then with doubt. The room around seemed laughable in its emptiness, and the ability to fill it with his love felt beyond reach. The blank walls and bare floorboards were inscrutable - and they were not worth Minerva - nor was the entire manor; not even the grandest house was fit-

Swallowing, he tapped the mirror and drew his wand in a circle. The mirror followed, expanding to fill the walls, so that the reflection of Brian multiplied itself. Lost in my image. Anticipation scorched him; he flung off his robes gleefully and drained the vial in one gulp.

---

Come into the crystal cave.

Five o’clock.

On the reverse side of the parchment there was a small ink drawing of what looked like Merlin, asleep in a cave, with the Lady Vivien standing over him.

Minerva McGonagall set the note down and finished weaving gold thread into her hair, shaking her head at the enigma that was Albus Dumbledore. He was like a child, she thought. So secretive, and apparently wanting to turn even their first official date into a riddle! She pulled a face of mock-severity, and then let her lips curve upwards. The lightness of self she felt was such that there was no longer any need for a stick. A different woman looked out at her from the mirror, eyes half-lidded and sparkling, and lines so relaxed as to be non-existent. The sight made her chuckle; Merlin knew what the staff thought about the change! Perhaps some of them disapproved.

She had given in to the desire to wear red. Red, after all, was the colour of passion. Walking around the castle in it gave her the pleasant notion that she was giving out a visual message decipherable only by one person. Several times she had been unable to resist aiming a wink over at the Gryffindor table, and there had been one dangerous moment when Brian Potter and the Headmistress happened to be going down the same corridor in opposite directions. The delight of it all had seemingly transferred itself to Poppy, who had stunned all present in the Hospital Wing by declaring that Minerva McGonagall was in perfect health.

Another desire was also suddenly unsuppressed. She had walked into the Great Hall minus the usual bun, making even the effusive Slughorn speechless, and spurring Poppy to greater heights of amazement:

“I never thought I’d see the day when I wouldn’t have to tell you to let your hair down!”

“Neither did I,” she confided to the mirror.

When the phoenix appeared, she grabbed his tail, and imagined the feathers to be a beard.

---

The first thing she saw was a pair of vast wooden doors, stern and imposing, and completely unlike Albus. The second thing was a line of narrow, watchful windows, set into a manor, the heights of which were shrouded in darkness. The gable was heavy, old-fashioned. The evening air around her was crisp, but she caught a musty smell, as if the manor before her was of another time. Fawkes flew in front of her, lighting the way like a brazier, and she followed him in confusion. Was this Albus’s house?

Only when she reached the doors did she spot the mark spreading across them, tarred on in what looked like blood. One line sloped down to the left, and, at its end, another sloped down to the right, making up a corner, or part of a cross. Her memory twitched, but nothing came to her except nervousness. The doors fell open.

The ceiling was aglow with stars, and hung with shafts of light, white veils like spangled gossamer. The candlelit walls danced with vibrancy in one vast moving tapestry, rich with mythical figures and mottos, so real that she could scarcely tell where reality ended and the walls began. An auburn-haired Leander swam for Hero, and a green-eyed Eve offered up an apple to a bearded mouth. A phoenix cupped a pair of lovers in its wings. Words streamed over them, wreathing their painted faces; she caught “she walks in beauty, like the night” and “lovely eyes which have so wounded me.” The candles leapt and flamed, and she noticed shining arrows beneath her feet, enticing her down a corridor.

The veils caressed and enveloped her as she passed through them; wispy, delicate fingers stroked her cheek and made her halt, for the touch was Albus’s, as was the breath on the back of her neck-

Was he there, invisible in the curtained opulence? The arrows sped her on, to the threshold of a room crowned with flowers - plants which Pomona would have died for, emitting a heady scent that triggered the imagination; a blue-eyed Orpheus sang sorrowfully of Eurydice, and she noticed the delicate strumming of music in the distance… Her disbelieving hand brushed sopping petals. The door magnetised her; she pushed it open-

-The flowers bowed down, and wove themselves into carpet. A young man was painting, but the vision was the painting. A woman sat nearby, fingers darting over the strings of a harp, and the sound was a physical embrace. The painter looked barely old enough to be out of Hogwarts, but there was a mature familiarity in his long nose and raven hair. On second glance, the woman seemed a girl, and her face was like the man’s, but her locks were russet and her eyes a piercing green - and Minerva froze, for the eyes were her eyes, but the hair was his-

A shadow seemed to propel her outwards, back into the corridor. Invisible lips brushed hers. The smell of sherbet lemons hung in the air, leading her onwards, as if in a dream…

The next door was an ominous black. She opened it breathlessly, filled with longing-

Herself. At one and the same time she was a few feet away, separate, a girl with a deathly pallor and her hair a sable floor over the ground, and actually lying down, eighteen again, and covered in blood… Memory and present time crashed together with frightening immediacy; she had discovered Grindelwald’s secret, and the Horcrux, a cast-iron swastika, was clutched in her arms even as her life leaked away… Albus was descending towards her in horror, and the air was blackening with his despair-

“Never again,” a voice - his voice - whispered in her ear.

The vision changed, and now she was looking at a grown, aging woman in a hospital bed, curled around her chest in pain. Albus’s beard was silver now, but he was bent over her, worry lines cutting deeply-

“Never again.”

Her recent self languished in another hospital bed. This was after the Dark attack in the Forbidden Forest, she realised. The pain, both internal and external, reached a crescendo as a boy, Brian Potter, white and thin, trembled outside on a chair-

“NEVER AGAIN.”

She surfaced from the room as if from water, gasping. The Orpheus vision swept her up, and she ran to the sound of the shout of Eurydice - but the word woven around it was Minerva-

“Albus!”

The horror of losing her was all around her, and she felt as if the manor was neither a manor nor a crystal cave, but a beating heart-

The third door confronted her and forced her inside. At first, nothing was visible except for a blinding light which made her screw up her eyes. Gradually, Brian appeared, standing listless and still, a grotesque forced smile on his face even as the blue eyes spilled over. An older hand materialised, resting on his shoulder. Albus - the old Albus - stood behind him, weighted with care, shadowed eyes dull. Both pairs were turned in the same direction, and all at once a bridal procession was approaching. Poppy and Rolanda emerged from the light, dressed as bridesmaids and grinning, and afterwards came herself and Aberforth, laughing, hands linked and raised to show the glinting rings-

“No,” she whispered.

Albus had let go of Brian, and was twisting his fingers in mid-air, as though he was a puppeteer. Brian’s limbs jerked, and he skipped merrily over to Aberforth, hand extended and ready to shake-

She needed no propulsion; she turned and fled, breath hitching in her throat. Behind her, Rolanda squealed as the bouquet was thrown-

Out in the corridor, the lips caught her again, soothing her. Invisible hands teased at her hair. The phoenix closed his wings around the lovers more firmly, and the feathers of the vision brushed her skin. The arrows nudged her on, and Fawkes was singing…

The fourth door was identical to that of her office, complete with a griffin knocker. Minerva paused, pressure building in her chest. Having no idea what to expect, she hesitated.

“Enter,” Albus’s voice commanded.

She burst in. The office was warm, and sunlight was shining through the tall windows. Outside, she could see the castle grounds and the lake, peaceful and undisturbed. The office was a little more disorganised than in her own day, and the forget-me-nots were absent. Albus was sitting at the desk, silver beard draped over the document he was signing. The phoenix medallion was absent from his neck, and the lines of his face were less deeply gouged. This was before the War, she realised.

He looked up. “Ah, Minerva.”

Confused, she started forward, but a younger version of herself walked through her as though she was a ghost. The younger Minerva was vigorous and spry, seeming to glow with an energy that she no longer had.

“Albus, you wished to see me?”

The Headmaster surveyed her other self over interlocked fingers. “Indeed.”

“If this is about the incident with young Mr Black-”

“Alas, if there had been but only one ‘incident with young Mr Black.’ But no, that is not why I asked to speak to you. Have a seat.”

The younger Minerva sat and shifted in expectation, but Albus merely lowered his fingers and gazed at her.

“Albus?”

“I do enjoy our talks on Transfiguration. You are a most engaging opponent in an argument, my dear.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It is a shame that there are not enough hours in the day to debate with you.”

The witch looked at her superior with an expression of bewilderment. The reason for her puzzlement was obvious; Albus never summoned her without a point in mind, and there had been a very slight inflection on the word ‘debate’ that contradicted her employer’s placid expression.

“There are few things more pleasant than an intellectual conversation over good food.”

“Oh?”

“Should you be free this Saturday, I would appreciate such an opportunity.” The blue eyes twinkled. “That is, if you would care to join me.”

The younger Minerva stiffened. “Dinner?”

The Headmaster rose, and drifted around the desk. “Yes, my dear. After all, even a fine meal is a little dull without good conversation to go with it.”

Something passed over his face - only a flash, but it was enough to know it for what it was - something powerful that filled his eyes as they fixed on her lips-

His hand brushed the witch’s cheek almost casually, and the watching Headmistress felt the touch on her own-

“I’ll think about it,” her other self said briskly, standing up. She knew by the tightening of the red lips that the other Minerva was startled and more than a little panicked. “I must return to my marking, in the meantime. Thank you very much for the invitation. I will consider it. Good day.”

Albus dropped back into his chair and stared at the closing door with a distant expression. She knew, without questioning how, that she would return, and that they would have dinner. The serenity of it all allowed a brief spark of logic to permeate her; she was calm enough to appreciate the realism of the illusion. The younger Minerva McGonagall would have been flustered and stunned at such attentions, and would have been alarmed, to boot. She exited the room quietly, determined to find the man at the centre of it all.

The fifth door was ebony, with a hermaphrodite inscribed in silver. White roses dazed her with scent, and the harp from the first room could be heard again, each note an endearment. There was a twinge in her chest - the harpist’s fingers were playing other strings… A mouth that tasted of chocolate and sherbet lemons held hers, and then nibbled on her ear… The door crashed open-

The tomb reared before her, crystalline white and deathly. Her old grief halted her; his funeral filled her skull. The music and scent scorned her - and he was gone again, lost just as she began to express her feelings… She fell against the tomb, and it seemed larger than she remembered, and her hands reached for the lid without any conscious intervention from her brain-

The stone ground aside, and seemed to dissolve as she moved it. The sepulchre had become a bed with satin sheets, in which two naked bodies tumbled and embraced…

Blood rushed to her face, but she allowed herself to stare, savouring the intimacy. The beauty of it was primal, sweat-soaked, panting; heat emanating outwards and filling her. The tomb was a bed, and his death was living, and was life. When at last the couple collapsed into sleep, she lingered over the scene, excited. The warmth of her cheeks had become a glow, and the sleeping Albus’s contented smile was mesmerising. Only when the lid of the tomb rebuilt itself did she remember the corridor, and the real Albus…

The corridor was reaching its conclusion, for there was only one door left, right at the end. She ran, and the animated beasts and figures ran with her. The veils grabbed and brushed her, but she thrust them aside, every muscle infused with fire. The door was a clear portal, like water, and she could see herself running towards herself-

Six Albus Dumbledores reclined on a scarlet couch, dressed in robes that seemed the essence of lightning. The sapphire both pierced and drew, and the whites smouldered, and everywhere, there was a whirlwind of magic, the crackling purple of the core chamber, dancing and leaping in a fantastic maelstrom. Circles and sigils sizzled beneath her feet, and his hands were pulling in the violet tendrils, as though hooking a fish. The stars above had blurred to become a kaleidoscope, brilliant enough to blind…

The sight paralysed her; for a moment reality and illusion were one and the same thing, and he was not her Albus but something else, something descended from the storm-

Magic sputtered and sparked, and the violet began to fade, leaving the transparency of a mirror. The real Albus at the centre eyed her somewhat nervously, and heat rose up in her face. Her stomach curdled with embarrassment. There was no stopping the memory of the tomb that was a bed. There was no stopping her feet, either, which recovered themselves and began to march their owner over to their destination. The man on the couch sat up, beard still fizzing, blue eyes wide with anxiety, and gestured next to him. His closeness elicited a shiver of weakness. She sat.

“Albus,” she said hoarsely.

His expression was worried. “I hope I did not overdo it.”

She gaped at him. “You hope you did not overdo it? I - I…” Words failed her.

“I meant to surprise you.”

The Headmistress dragged her eyes away. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Minerva?”

“Yes?” Blood continued to burn; she took a few deep, calming breaths.

“Did I succeed in my aim?”

“Well that depends on what your aim was.”

The crooked nose invaded her sight. He was craning round, biting his lip. Power and vulnerability sat together, waiting for her response. She laid a hand on the side of his face.

“Well? What was your aim, Albus Dumbledore?”

He gripped her hand. “I am no longer entirely sure.”

“The sign on the front doors,” she prompted. “What was it?”

“Kenaz. The rune of passion, among other things.”

“Did you have to draw it in blood?”

“Yes.” The blue eyes flamed, and she swallowed.

“The third room. What did you mean by that?”

“That was to show you how I feel, my dear.”

“Forgive me, but I’m not seeing a connection between your emotions and an impossible wedding between your brother and me.”

He kissed the tip of one finger. “Ah, but it was possible. I think perhaps I was a little obscure in conveying what I meant. I meant that I would have been happy if you were happy, and that love is selfless-”

Her voice came out thick. “You talk far too much philosophy. And it was horrible. You could have been a little less realistic with that illusion.”

He laid back, and eased her down with him. Real teeth nibbled where magical ones had done so previously. The tension fled out of her.

“Do all the rooms have equally complicated explanations?”

“I think not. Though I do hope they resonated.”

She hid her blush in his beard.

“The first room was an impossible dream. The second was my fears. The fourth was what should have been.”

“That was very realistic.”

There was a pause, and she dared look upwards. The spectacles had become misty.

“The fifth room was also a dream… only a different kind of dream.”

The words burst out. “A possible dream.”

He stiffened. “That was… wrong of me.”

“Why?”

Craftily, she moved the beard aside and kissed his neck. He said nothing, but a spasm passed down his body.

“So, a date with Albus Dumbledore requires knowledge of Fourth Year Ancient Runes, Muggle theology, and alchemy! Knowing your liking for symbolism, I’m surprised there are not seven rooms.”

“I intended us to enter the seventh room together.”

Her stomach bunched. Shocked, she looked into the evasive blue eyes, and felt the fear paralyse her. The image of the sleeping Albus returned in force, and she went limp. Of course. Of course. She had been totally wrong in thinking he would be tentative. She had not been expecting it, but Rolanda had always called her a prude - and who could expect anything of Albus? Her chest fluttered. Yes. Yes, that was the answer. The excitement balled and exploded. She leapt off the couch.

“Then let us do so.”

“If you are tired-”

“No!”

His eyes twinkled. “The seventh room does not require us to move.”

Baffled, she stared at him. He pulled her back onto the couch, and one hand tilted her chin upwards. There was nothing but sapphire, and a pair of spectacles.

“Do you trust me?”

She blinked. “Of course.”

The pupils expanded, and drew her in.

[Apocalypticat]

CHAPTER 28: Violence

PART 1

Space.

He guided her into it, teasing at her mind until it came loose. At first the void was filled with only with embarrassment, and quivering boldness - his own emotions, his own appalling daring. Then, with a rush, came her fear, and disjointed images. A cloaked wizard raised a wand threateningly, a Ministry official launched a Stunner, a house roof was bathed in the light of the Dark Mark above it-

Panic, fear. Confusion.

Where where where-

Trying to sooth her, he focussed, flashing another image up: the memory of themselves, sitting on the couch together. Even as the hesitation surrounded them, he made his thoughts warm, reassuring - but the images continued, pictures of fear and horror. Her mind thrashed, searching to explain. He was expanded, wordless, but she was like water still caught in the shape of the glass it had come out of, demanding language and answers… He translated himself back into words.

Minerva, don’t fight. It’s all right.

Where where where-

Me.

Albus felt the impact on her, as if a pebble had dropped into a pond-

You?

The fear halted. He embraced her, running mental hands over the lines of her mind, feeling the logic of it, the strength… Distance was hard to maintain, and her emotions were bleeding over; the desire to merge was like a physical itch.

Leglimency?

Of a sort.

He released his love, and it flashed in the void. For a moment, her structure wobbled, half-collapsed-

Albus!

Then he felt it - something which shot out and enveloped him, something warm and glowing, and pasted with pictures of himself, and there was a keening need… Love. He poured, without being able to stop it - himself, making the illusion in the tomb - Minerva, walking down the corridor in scarlet robes - dreams, fantasies, ideas, raw and uncut-

All at once, she caught the first burning image, and her memory of the illusion reared up. The abyss rang with embarrassment and delight - he felt his fear meet hers and rebound off and back again. A memory - her memory - was forced into him, that of himself, speaking:

“I intended us to enter the seventh room together.”

-Shocked, she looked into the evasive blue eyes, and felt the fear paralyse her. The image of the sleeping Albus returned in force, and she went limp. Of course. Of course. She had been totally wrong in thinking he would be tentative-
Merlin! She had thought..?

In disbelief, he looked at the memory again; felt her little jolt of fear in horror. What had he expected? Why, he had already been unforgivably forward, and certainly not tentative in even contemplating the last illusion. Now again he had frightened her by thrusting her into something she had not asked for or expected… There were no excuses, but an explanation to be bared to her-

He wanted it, all of it. If they walked through the castle together hand in hand, they would still be separated by blood and flesh and sinew, and if they spoke, they would still not be really knowing the other; they would still be people rather than feelings, and if they became one, they would not truly be one…The world they made would be merely theoretical. Walking up the corridor, and seeing Minerva coming down it in the opposite direction - was that not painful? Embracing, they would still be separated, only trying to meld by touch, and no demonstration would ever be sufficient…

Surrender. Essence upon essence. Intimacy, the purest, deepest intimacy… That was what he desired. Did Minerva desire it as well?

Her mind fired-

Yes!

Then let go.

But he blew her away, swept away the structure and the lines, poured her into himself and vice versa. The void disappeared, filled with themselves. Albus and Minerva… Who were they? A landscape was there be explored. Her desires, his devotion. Her fear, his doubts. She found the reasons for the illusions, and prodded them, inflaming him with her own curiosity. A gallery of memories flashed by; he savoured a younger Minerva being interviewed by himself for a job, a small girl being led across a Muggle road by her mother, a mature woman helping a struggling student - and the present-day Minerva pressing her lips against his. She seemed to stand before him, unveiled in all her brilliance - this was the essence of Minerva McGonagall, quick and fiery, blazing like a phoenix, and allowing him so close… Could there be any greater bliss? Perhaps, back on the couch, he chuckled-

There was a sudden twinge of pain. Something raw and weeping passed him, a dark mass - and he saw it - a bloody weal at the core-

-A banshee screamed in a mirror-

Shock had him reeling away, and, for a moment, the void returned, ringing with grief, her grief for him-

An emotion welled up from her, cringing and miserable. Shame? Why was she ashamed? The image of a stern, dignified Professor McGonagall was thrust at him. He beat it down, half-angrily. Never be ashamed. The pain of it continued to burn; the weal was a well of impossible depths. She had suffered that much… for him? Yes, of course she had, and he tried to sooth it away, but it could never disappear; it was too much, too intense.

For an interminable amount of time, they clung to each other. The pictures of a bowed Minerva dressed in black haunted his mind, ghosting the image of a white tomb. Grief was like a wound, throbbing with a heart-beat. He looked at her through the years, really looked at her - really saw the Headmistress sitting at the Victory party, wasted to a skeleton and utterly alone-

You silly woman - bloodshot eyes reflected in a mirror - what would He think of you?

He burst out into words, shouting mentally, flooded with violence-

HE WOULD LOVE HER!

The connection was smashed. The void sped past and then the couch, and the rest of reality, crashed back rudely. A pair of green eyes were inches from his, wide and stunned.

Eyes which had wept for him.

Albus closed his own, and felt the water leak out.

“Don’t.”

He shook his head, unable to speak, winded. The image of a grief-stricken, miserable Minerva staggered through his mind. He could not understand, he never would…

“You should not have-” he began weakly.

“Loved?” Her breath fluttered on his face as she moved closer. “Don’t you dare say that.”

There was a pause. He dared open his eyes a fraction to see a pair of arched brows twisted in anger. An imaginary Sorting Hat spoke to him-

You were wrong.

Yes, he admitted. I have done nothing but make her miserable.

The past aside, had she thought it too much as well? No warning had been given; she had not been prepared for him to delve into her innermost thoughts. A weight settled in his chest.

“Minerva, I’m-”

“Sorry,” she snapped.

“I did not intend to make you unhappy,” he said, hoarsely. “Ever.”

She said nothing, and simply gazed at him, expression unreadable. What did it matter what he had intended,when what he had done was literally sitting before him? He closed his eyes again, trying to block out the gaunt skull-face that kept on superimposing itself over the present Minerva. Bile - at himself - crawled up his throat.

“Why did you do that?”

The thickness of her voice made his eyes snap open. Her face was slack, and the emerald was flooded.

“I…”

“Why?”

But he had already answered the why, inside, in the ‘seventh room;’ the question was how dare. The answer was gone from him.

“Why would anyone do that?”

“Idiocy, perhaps,” he said, brutally, his own eyes watery again. “The greatest of idiocy. Minerva, forgive me - you were not ready - to invade your privacy-”

Her lips cut him off. Suddenly he was submerged in Minerva again, in a different way - her hands were raking through his hair, and there was nothing but warmth and the smell of shampoo and perfume, passionflower and jasmine-

When she drew back, he could only gape at her.

“Albus,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. “I’m not crying because you invaded my privacy; I’m crying because you let me invade yours - you let me see…”

The emerald danced.

“…Something beautiful.”

Before he could respond, she raised a finger, and frowned.

“Well… Perhaps ‘beautiful’ is the wrong word. Magnificent.”

Something swelled inside him, leaving him speechless. Minerva’s creamy skin was blooming as a blush crept up her throat, and some of her hair had come loose from the golden thread. Her hand sat on the couch, fingers spread self-consciously. He snatched it up, and daubed his mouth down the white arm. Her body responded and curved into him, catlike in its grace, and the phoenix shook on her breastbone; his attentions moved to her neck… Her ear invited a whisper.

“Nothing so magnificent as Professor McGonagall.”

“Who, pray tell, is ‘Professor McGonagall?’”

His mouth traced her jaw-line. “My other lover.”

“Describe her.”

“I could not do her justice.”

There was a pause as he reached her mouth.

“I have a confession to make: I am seeing a Professor Dumbledore.”

“Goodness! I must duel with him.”

She laughed, and there was another pause. At last, he cleared his throat. “My dear, I believe it is time for dinner.”

“Anything of actual nutritional value?” She leant against him again, hair tickling his chin. “I know how you love your sweets.”

“Ah, now that is a tall order, but I shall endeavour to bring you any delicacy you should wish.”

She said nothing, but kissed him.

---

Gone to Hogsmeade for supplies.

Madam Hooch

Rolanda pinned the note to the door of her office, and smiled weakly. The heaviness that had arrived with the fog had not left her, and there was nowhere to walk in the castle that would not somehow lead to Minerva.

Minerva.

She could almost see straight through the modest door to where the note sat crumpled on her desk, shoved to one side in hopeless denial. A neat script pasted itself before her eyes:

Rolanda,

You have always been my greatest friend, and if I have offended you in any way…

Of course she had noticed. Who could fail to notice that something was wrong, when the exuberant Madam Hooch stopped stiff as a board in the middle of a corridor, and pointedly walked in the opposite direction? For the sight of Minerva walking towards her, eyes glowing and lips turned upwards, evidently intent on a homely chat… Unbearable? Infuriating? No, painful. Painful, even when she had gotten what some perverse part of her had longed for, to see that smile wiped off-

Unconsciously, her hand clenched around her wand as she walked down to the main doors. My greatest friend… No, only the most despicable.

Gone to Hogsmeade for supplies.

Another lie. She was most certainly not going to Hogsmeade for supplies. Was she going so that she did not have to encounter Minerva? No, not that either. Her feet again possessed her, and again they would walk the route to Aberforth’s, to where a lonely, damaged person continued to damage himself. Why? The thought was the only clear thing, the only thing which could accelerate her on down through the wet darkness to Hogsmeade…

As the lights of the village grew nearer, she tried to imagine the heath - and it came to her; a vague impression of tangled gorse and briars, only sharpening with the vision of an old wizard, long nose proud against a grey sky. She knew she thought of the heath because it was a place of natural significance - and of course she would remember Aberforth most clearly because she had always been a ‘people person,’ recalling faces over places-

-White, despairing faces-

The gate creaked as she pushed it open. Stumbling, she found the door and rapped on it, before common sense asked her what she was doing…

The wind howled, and once again she wondered if he was cold, inside an alcoholic tomb… His wand sat heavily in her pocket, weighing her down. She knocked again, more urgently, and she found herself pressing an ear against the rough wood, listening, listening for a mumbled curse and unsteady footsteps-

Had he seen the Witch Weeklyarticle?

Another knock, and again there was no response-

Her hand acted before the alarm could even properly ignite her mind; her wand was out, and her mouth was opening to cast Reducto, blasting the battered door off its hinges-

“Aberforth!”

Her voice sounded alien, and far too desperate. She barrelled up the stairs, and into a room which was as dark and frozen as a grave-

“Aberforth!”

The sofa was a dim outline, and there was something huddled on it, horribly still - and a cry burst out of her even as her fingers raked it and found it to be cushions-

“I’m here!”

Suddenly, a black shape was beside her, and bony fingers were closed around her wrists, heaving her up from where her knees had given way…

“I’m here,” Aberforth said again, and only then did she have the sense to light the room.

The old wizard’s face was inches from her own, and he was startlingly alive, blue eyes wide and less bloodshot than usual. His expression was one of astonishment. Her own face burned, and she bowed her head, just as his breath hit her face, oddly without the scent of absinthe. His grip on her wrists did not loosen.

“What’s going on here?”

The words dragged her chin upwards. Her voice came out unnaturally high.

“I - I was afraid… you didn’t - I was knocking…”

She couldn’t finish. Something passed over Aberforth’s face.

“I was in Hogmeade, getting some supplies,” he said, blankly.

Rolanda let out a giggle that sent the old wizard’s eyebrows soaring into his hair, and the sight made her giggle more. Aberforth’s hold on her wrists was suddenly the only thing preventing her from sinking down again, this time from laughter. Her knees buckled. Some detached part of her observed that the laughter was completely inappropriate, and that nothing sufficiently hilarious had happened to induce such amusement, but it did not matter anyway; she had never laughed so much before…

Aberforth was looking inexplicably alarmed. “Stop it!”

She tried to say that she couldn’t, but instead rocked backwards, pulling him with her. Her giggles reached deeper, into her stomach, into horror. The terror of the huddled heap seemed to come to her again anew, and the laughter was gone, replaced with tears-

Aberforth opened his mouth and shut it again. He let go, so that she sank down onto the sofa, which had strangely moved to place itself behind her. Then he stood and watched her, with an expression she had never seen before, as though a wall of crag had given way-

“You’re not drunk,” she commented, after she had finished weeping.

“No,” he agreed. Hesitantly, he sat down on the sofa beside her.

“It’s cold in here.”

“Yes.”

“Can you manage - at night and all?”

He shrugged, awkwardly. “I get by.”

“If I give you back your wand, you won‘t kill yourself?”

A whine had entered her voice. Aberforth gnawed his lip and the blue eyes darted from her face to the wall, to the ceiling, to the floor, and back again. Something opened up; there was a glimpse of hurt vulnerability…

“No,” he whispered. “That moment is past.”

She reached into her robes and held out the wand to him. She expected him to snatch it, but instead he took it gently, caressing it with his fingertips. The effect was mesmerising; his hands were both rough and delicate at the same time-

“You needn’t have worried.”

“But I did.”

He looked up at her, from beneath his brows. “I know.”

There seemed to be nothing else to say, so she remained silent. Heat was moving up into her face, the heat of embarrassment. Rolanda Hooch, hysterical! For no apparent reason! Goodness, she could remember Sybil being hysterical once, and she could even more clearly remember the sting of her hands as she delivered several ringing slaps; she had never been one to be overwrought, and now here she was… The previous minutes now seemed utterly bizarre.

With a jolt, she realised that Aberforth was still looking at her narrowly, as though expecting her to go to pieces any second. Drawing herself up, she addressed the opposite wall.

“I’m very sorry about all this. I’ll repair the door on my way out. I’m sorry for bursting in here and disturbing everything. Perhaps it’s the weather; Poppy’s always going on about her Seasonal Affection Disorder. I’ll-”

She moved to stand up, but a grip like a vice pulled her back down. Another calloused hand cupped her face and forced her to look into a pair of blazing sapphires. The blood in her face seemed to spread from his touch.

“Affection?”

Her spine prickled. “Uh, well, it might be something else; I wasn’t sure, I’m not very good at listening-”

Warm breath wafted over her cheeks. “Is this why you came?”

“I-”

“Is it?”

“Er-”

His hand removed itself from her wrist, but the thought of moving was absurd. One bony finger jabbed at his chest.

“Is this why?”

He was inches away now, and the hard lines of his face had dissolved. The conversation was no longer about the weather, but about something else, and she felt the heat coil downwards into her ribcage, and the weight of some unknown suppression was gone - gone with the pain of a blade being sharpened against a stone-

“I’m not Minerva,” she said.

She would never be Minerva, with her stately beauty and ready wit. She would never be Minerva, standing next to Aberforth as his lips grazed her neck-

“Who said anything of the sort?”

“You love her,” she whispered.

“She was not mine to love.” His finger caught the tear as it escaped. “You’re not a woman who cries.”

She opened her mouth to contradict him, and point out that the old wizard had had been treated to nothing but tears throughout all her visits, but his hand fell from her face. He was surging upwards, and walking stiffly across the room. When he next spoke, he sounded bitter.

“You’re a good woman, and you deserve more than a sod. Get out.”

The words lanced her. “Sorry?”

“Get out. Don’t trouble yourself to come here any more. I prefer my own company.”

Her fists clenched. “Liar!”

“Excuse me?”

“Liar!”

His eyes had turned to flint, but Rolanda no longer cared; fury launched her off the sofa and at him, ramming him against the wall. The hard bones of his body pressed into her as she shouted into his face - Merlin knew what about - perhaps about being immature and ridiculous, but between each word she knew she was kissing him, savagely, almost as ridiculously, so that their teeth knocked together, and his clawing hands became embraces…

Outside, the rain stopped.

[Apocalypticat]

The first dribble of snow came several weeks later, and the Gryffindors woke one morning to discover the Common Room hung with Christmas decorations. Tinsel drooped over picture frames, causing the portraits to alternately giggle and complain, and a Christmas tree stood in the corner, hung with replenishing chocolates. Midnight feasts began to take place in the dormitories, and a Fourth Year, Joshua Spence, snuck in both Butterbeer and Fire-Whisky, to the delight of the older years and the pleasant horror of the lower. In all the commotion of a dozen parties and excited gatherings, Brian Potter’s weekly disappearances went entirely unnoticed - except perhaps by Eric, who worried over how Brian always returned from his detentions “red in the face and worn out.”

“What does she make you do in them?”

“Oh, just write lines and clean cauldrons. Things like that. Just the usual.”

“And you always come back so late! I’m in bed sometimes, when you get back!”

“She loses track of time. I don’t like to say anything.”

He had to suppress a smile at that. The meetings - dates, he thought happily - were never the same, and always sublime, even though they had somewhat calmed down following the first. He had treated Minerva to a picnic and a visit to a remote Muggle restaurant. She, in turn, had invited him to a pleasant meal in her rooms, attended by floating candles. More than doing, they spoke, and simply experienced, enjoying the touch of the other. He was surprised at how tactile he was; he could not sit near her without brushing her hair, or stroking a cheek. Occasionally they touched more deeply, with minds rather than fingers.

Little else mattered other than the beautiful succession of Saturdays. The time between was to be spent preparing for the next…

“Mr Potter?”

Martha Read loomed over him, and he realised that it was not Saturday, but Thursday morning, and Brian was meant to have been transfiguring a hamster into a box.

“Sorry, Professor.”

Brian’s wand flicked, and the escaping hamster expanded into a jewelled chest. Perfect. Inwardly sighing, he let his mouth hang open, as if shocked at his success.

“Blimey,” Eric whispered from the next table.

“Your comments were not invited, Mr Weasley,” snapped Martha, a slight drawl in her voice. “And Mr Potter, you would do better not to look so gormless.”

Albus shut his mouth, and frowned. Eric sank down in his seat, shaggy red hair flopping into his eyes. This term’s Transfiguration had undoubtedly been different; the weakly sniping Professor Read had gone on her leave both petulant and incompetent, only to return efficient and strangely silent. Her air was verging on the brusque, and there were times when a snap crept into her voice. She rarely approached Brian’s desk, but when she did, it was always with a kind of glaring suspicion.

Yet, as Minerva had said, this was the same person who had demanded extra Defence lessons for Brian out of concern for his safety. Of course, one could be concerned about a student without necessarily liking them…

Severus.

That same old clench.

He reversed the spell with a violent wave. Did everything come back to that? There was no point in brooding over the past when the present was so satisfying. The hamster scurried along the table-top, and began to nibble at Brian’s textbook. The professor narrowed her eyes and glared at him. Staring blankly back, he reached to catch it-

-A cold, familiar touch-

-Invisible fingers-

-Gasping, he Occluded himself, shoving the intruder out-

Martha Read was ashen, and a sheen of sweat decorated her forehead. She was stepping backwards, fists clenched, brown eyes still locked on his, wide and terrified, and she seemed to shrink, rigidity collapsing into trembling…

She knows!

Appalled, he stared back, fingers digging into the desk. His wand clattered on to the floor, but he paid it no attention; his thoughts accelerated wildly, and bile crept up his throat - all the pretence had come to nothing, for she knew - she had reached in, and he had not been prepared-

“Professor?”

Eric’s voice was an irrelevant buzzing. Martha was swaying, eyes half-lidded; he could see she was close to fainting, and no wonder - who expected to find the mind of the historic dead in the place of a boy’s? Helplessly, Albus cursed himself. Martha had already proved herself to be an Occlumens, and there had been every reason to assume that she was a Leglimens as well. The secret was out-

Obliviate!

He surged downwards for his wand, but suddenly the professor was diving down with him, knocking his hand out of the way, face still white but eyes glittering-

“No,” she said, so quietly that nobody else heard.

‘No’ to Obliviation? Or was it a ‘no’ of disbelief? The colour was rushing back into her cheeks, blotchily, in spots. The shock was deepening into something else; the lips twisted, and previously invisible lines cut into the brow. A moment passed before he identified the emotion.

Despair.

She drew up, and held his wand up for a few seconds, before slowly holding it out to him. There was a mute appeal in those brown eyes. Speechlessly, he took his wand back, and pocketed it. She turned abruptly and marched away, shoulders hunched.

“What on earth?”

Eric gave him a wink, and circled a finger around his temple. Disguise destroyed, Albus gaped at him. Eric’s tentative grin faded.

“Are you all right? You look really ill.”

“I…”

What was the point of inventing an excuse? What was the point of anything, now that someone knew? Martha would tell someone, of course she would - perhaps she would report it to the Ministry, or announce it before the school , or perhaps - his stomach turned to ice - she would write directly to Harry and Ginny? Perhaps he would be due for a distressed letter from Ginny over the next few days, with the news that Harry had suffered a collapse?

“Peace, peace, please Merlin, peace! No more!”

His throat clogged. How would Harry ever have peace again? How would he feel, knowing that he had been deceived for twelve years? How would anyone feel, to discover that their old Headmaster was their son? The Potters would never be left alone again, and - a selfish thought - he would be carted round as a curiosity, forever separated from Minerva in years of frantic research. The future was frighteningly clear - he could already see a headline in the Daily Prophet - DUMBLEDORE: BACK FROM THE DEAD - accompanied with a photo of a weeping Ginny and a subheading - Man-Who-Lived Suffers Mental Breakdown-

The brown eyes seemed to hang in the air. Obliviation, the one hope of containing the secret, sacrificed for a pair of brown eyes-

Merlin, did he never learn? Self-loathing crept through him, scalding him to the bone. Minutes before the disaster had happened, he had been thinking about Snape, and yet still he did not learn-! Just a look - that was all it took for his resolve to wilt-

Old fool, he thought, savagely. You blind old fool.

“Mate?”

But what would she write to his ‘parents?’ Dear Mr and Mrs Potter… His mind blanked. No proof. Suddenly, he was teetering at the edge of a cliff, saved by an unexpected hand. Martha had no proof at all! The situation had always been nonsensical, and time had not made it any less absurd. Who would believe it? Who would doubt it even to the extent of even thinking of checking with Veritaserum? Martha Read was nothing but a lone voice, raving about one ridiculous idea in a choir of hundreds. If the Daily Prophet picked up the story, then it would only be to pour scorn on it-

“Brian?”

Heart-beat slowing, he looked up, and pulled his face into a grin. “Hmm? Nothing’s wrong; I was just thinking.”

Eric was frowning at him, but his eyes were dragged to Martha, who was sat back at the teacher’s desk, staring blindly at an abandoned quill. Wincing, he forced himself to look back at his ‘friend,’ who was looking more and more perturbed by the second.

“I’m all right. Honestly.”

The lesson continued, uneasily. Martha remained seated and silent, and did not respond even when the bell went. The class paused and waited for homework which never came, and for a voice which never spoke. Eventually, they left, murmuring and raising their eyebrows at each other. Looking back, Albus saw a head sink into a pair of trembling hands.

---

David, the wizarding press soon noted, was not like Brian.
Such a likeness! His father’s face! His father’s nose! His father’s hair! By Merlin, there was no doubting the paternity of this one. The lurking photographers gleefully snapped up pictures for the celebrity magazines. Old photos of Lily and James were dug out. James Reborn, said Witch Weekly authoritatively. Yet, such a likeness was suspicious, was it not, in that Brian was even more obviously the black sheep? The rumour mills churned away…

For Harry, however, the most immediately important thing about David was that he was going to be Difficult.

“Difficult?” he had asked, when Ginny had voiced the view.

“Yes. According to my mother, anyway - and she should know.”

David, unlike Brian, never slept the night through. David, unlike Brian, screamed until he went red in the face. David, unlike Brian, saw the point of nappies - or, rather, needed them. The more David shrieked and vomited and ‘dumped,’ the more Brian seemed like a child prodigy. How, Harry wondered, could two siblings be so utterly different?

Months had passed, but neither the press nor the extended family had lost interest. Molly knitted numerous jumpers that seemed to deliver themselves hourly, and Fred and George were swept from the house after offering up a bag of ‘harmless’ sweets. Parcels were delivered from Romania, containing stuffed toy dragons. ‘Tante Gabrielle’ arrived on the doorstep one morning, determined to wave Parisian mementoes over David’s head and reminisce, at length, about the Triwizard Tournament until Ginny’s smile became rather fixed. An ancient Weasley aunt mistakenly sent dresses and dolls. Relatives aside, Moody turned up to nod approvingly at David’s black tuft of hair before departing.

When the doorbell rang, one Sunday morning, Harry expected a Weasley. The post came with one more letter than usual, Harry could not help but suspect that it was another imperious demand for updates on David’s ‘progress’ from Fleur.

“Odd,” commented Ginny, passing the envelope over the breakfast table. “No address.”

“Phlegm,” he muttered, ripping it open.

Newspaper-cut letters stared up at him.

Hogwarts is in danger. Aloysius Dolohov.

Harry froze at the breakfast table, and read the newspaper-cut letters again, more slowly. The black owl which had delivered the note soared off as Ginny sat down.

“Harry?”

He passed the note over without speaking, and watched the brown eyes widen.

“Brian-”

“-Received notes like that.”

He got up, and began to pace the kitchen, ignoring the weight of Ginny’s gaze. Aloysius Dolohov… The sender or the subject? Yet of course, it made no sense to bother making the note anonymous and then add the name of the sender to it… His footsteps eased into the Auror’s prowl.

“One note,” said Ginny softly. “And no proof.”

“Not one,” he corrected.

“Brian’s-”

“No. The Auror Department have received a few as well. And I know for a fact that the Minister received one the other day.”

“All saying the same thing.”

“Yes and no.” He stopped, and put his hands in his pockets. “There was another about Hogwarts being in danger. That was sent to the Department as a whole. Shacklebolt got one saying something about old forces rising. And the Minister came rushing in panicked by one saying that a new Dark Lord was rising. He’s understandably jittery.”

Ginny frowned. “I haven’t been a housewife for so long that I’ve forgotten what it was like to be an Auror. Notes like that-”

“Well, yes. You’re always going to get the crackpot convinced that the end is coming, bombarding us with letters. We still get letters from the old lady in Somerset who says that Voldemort is living in her orchard.”

He flopped down into the chair. Ginny took a sip of tea.

“So why worry?”

“Assuming that the person sending these is the same person who sent notes to Brian… well, they were right about Jonathan Blaine, weren’t they?”

Her eyebrows rose just as the doorbell rang. Harry sprang up, half-relieved by the excuse to release the tension which had building ever since the note’s arrival. Being Chief Auror had its advantages, in that one could never be unoccupied for long.

“A call, I expect.”

Ginny nodded, and kept her eyes on him. Her thoughts were transparent: don’t do anything stupid.

He sighed, and reached for his cloak. Half-stumbling down the hallway, he fumbled with the clasp. Shacklebolt or Tonks? Or some faceless official from the Ministry? Neither?

The man standing on the doorstep was lean and pale, and somewhat rough in his appearance; stubble purpled his chin, and his pointed face was traced with scars. His hair was so blond that it was almost white, and dishevelled, as if he had not brushed it in days. The travel cloak he wore was worn, and patched. The blue eyes were shockingly bright in comparison to everything else, almost lurid in their hue, and they stared at him sharply, sweeping him up and down.

Harry opened his mouth, but shut it again. There was something familiar in the way the stranger was standing, something distinctive in the shrewd gaze…

“Malfoy?”

One blond eyebrow rose. “Of course. I’m assuming you’re Potter? May I come in?”

Stunned, Harry stepped aside. Malfoy entered - entered with the balanced step of a wizard trained in defence - and passed the hooks without discarding the worn travel cloak he wore.

“Pardon the rudeness; sadly I’m not here for a chat.”

Yes, thought Harry. The words had been spoken in the same mocking tone, and the blond man was looking at him with same strange deference; a mixture of sarcasm and sincerity. He could not suppress a grin, and Malfoy shot a sardonic one back.

“Are you sure? I haven’t seen you since the War. Or, indeed, heard anything about you.”

“How disastrous. I must endeavour to be embroiled in a series of scandals.”

The Chief Auror waved him into the living room, where the other wizard promptly sat and proceeded to sprawl himself in an armchair. Sitting down himself, Harry lit the fire, then studied the man before him anew, eyeing the tousled hair with a smirk.

“Are we still cultivating the debauched image?”

“Certainly. My father was always very neat in his appearance. It was always faintly sinister.”

“Indeed. So, is there now a Malfoy brood? Will I ever be introduced to a miniature Draco?”

Malfoy chuckled. “Unlikely. I’m hoping this is not an offer to introduce me to your sproglet; he’s been all over the papers and I’m sick of him already. No, I’m afraid I come on business.” One hand produced a wad of paper, which was flung carelessly in Harry’s direction. “I have been receiving some disturbing letters. I’ll save the best till last, but, suffice it to say, it seems that the Dark propaganda machine is not dead.”

“Oh?” The odd scrawling sprang out at him - ravings against the Light… “Have you become their poster boy?”

“Of course. I’m ‘Lord Snape’s Acolyte.’”

Harry winced. “That’s bad.”

“It’s not my favourite title, no.”

“What’s this last and best then?”

Malfoy shrugged, and passed another letter over. “I can summarise; it’s not particularly multi-layered. This is from one of my little friends, whom I asked to research Aloysius Dolohov - his name comes up a few times in the other rubbish.”

“Odd. I received what seems to be an anonymous warning about him this morning.”

“Ah. Well, he seems to be setting himself up as the next Dark Lord. Apart from the rather interesting history he possesses - he apparently grew up in an orphanage; funny thing about you orphans, isn’t it? Apart from that, he seems to have been inciting hatred against a number of symbolic targets. I just thought you should be aware that one of them is yourself.”

“Obviously.”

“And that the other is your son.”

---

Breakfast in the Great Hall was subdued, with half of the staff absent, having seemingly been unable to remove themselves from their beds. Whilst the student tables were alive with pre-Christmas gossip, the nearest companion the Headmistress had was Sybil, who was neither willing nor welcome to do much more than sniff disdainfully over her meal. Martha’s empty chair gaped threateningly; to look at it made her feel strained and nervous, yet the gap where Rolanda usually sat was even more troubling - no reply to her letter had yet come. No, the only possible source of smiles or of any distraction at all was Albus, in his guise as Brian, whose ready grins in her direction were almost enough to balance it all out.

Rolanda.

The thought weakened her returning smile, and Brian’s pale brow creased in a frown. Watching to make sure that none of the Gryffindors were watching the silent exchange, she flicked her eyes towards Rolanda’s seat. Albus seemed to attempt a small gesture of sympathy, but the Weasley boy that moment turned and spoke to him. Minerva watched and sighed.

Ever since Martha’s discovery, a ridiculous possessiveness had crept through her - as though Albus was about to be snatched away by a ruthless media. Absurd when, as he had said, there was no proof that Martha could produce. Nevertheless, the fact had set on her edge, and the idea of Albus having to return to the Potters for Christmas was enough to make her feel ill.

He felt the same; he had written to Harry begging to stay, with the excuse of a large Christmas party. Yet Harry, usually frightened of restricting Brian’s abilities to socialise, had been resolute. Daniel’s first Christmas required his elder brother. Minerva found herself wishing fervently that Daniel had never been born.

WHAM.

The Headmistress looked up in time to see the main doors of the Hall ricochet backwards off the walls they had slammed against. Martha Read was half-running down between the House tables, seemingly careless of the stares of the students. Her dark eyes were scanning the ceiling, and even from a distance it was clear that her skin was sallow, as if the colour had been drained from it.

Minerva’s stomach clenched. She risked a glance at Albus, who was surveying Martha over his spectacles, looking thoughtful. Now the professor was climbing into her chair, stare still fixed upwards. One hand clipped a goblet, and the other jerked out compulsively to stop it from falling.

“Good morning, Martha,” the Headmistress said loudly.

The other witch did not respond, and simply continued to stare at the ceiling, face twitching with agitation. The thought came to her observer: perhaps the discovery of Albus had unhinged her a little? She tried to return to her toast, but it was then that the post arrived - and Martha gave a jerk which sent a fork clattering to the floor.

The owls streamed in, sending a wind through the Hall and weighed down by parcels and letters. The talk in at the House tables rose in anticipation, and all seemed normal, and to utterly confirm the idea of possible insanity; there was a peace in the flutter of wings and gentle hooting-

Then a pall seemed to spread over the room; a silence that spread - and then she saw it, the black owl bearing a purple Ministry envelope, heading straight for the Hufflepuff table-

Death.

The owl landed beside a girl with long golden plaits, who stared at the letter as though it was the figment of a dream-

Next to her, Martha’s Daily Prophetwas dropped into her outstretched hand. Unfolding it, she stared at the front page - and then went rigid. A twinge of horror shot down Minerva’s spine, and she prised the paper from Martha’s fingers. The headline, set above a picture in which a skull leered over a burning house, a snake drooling from its jaw, seared itself into her brain, just as the girl at the Hufflepuff table began to sob.

THE DARK MARK SHINES AGAIN

Family wiped out by Dark wizards

Numbly, she looked up, towards the Gryffindor table. Some distance away, a thin boy with a shock of auburn hair was staring back at her, a copy of the Daily Prophethanging limply in his hands.

[Apocalypticat]

CHAPTER 27: The Serpent Unveiled

PART 1

Platform Nine and Three Quarters was quieter than usual.

The comparative silence hit Albus as soon as he and Eric were disgorged from the Hogwarts Express, hit him with all the sharpness of the winter air. Pale faces lurched towards him. Out of the corner of his eye, Cal was be glimpsed flushing with embarrassment as his mother’s arms enveloped him, and beyond, form made indistinct by the steam, a burly Sixth Year could be seen attempting to extricate himself from the same hazard. A Third Year girl was half-pulled out the train by her father, and people were hugging through the layers of warm clothes made necessary by the weather. Families made clumps, luggage forgotten and strewn on the ground. The sight sent a quiver through him; it was too familiar…

“Eric! Eric! Lucien, s'accélérer! Francois, sortir de cette dévergondée! Eric!”

Fleur emerged from the haze, followed by two young men who could only be Eric’s older brothers; one red-haired and freckled and the other pale and blond, with something of a Veela about him as he leered at a gaping Fifth Year. Albus stood aside awkwardly as Brian’s friend ducked his head and responded to his mother’s deluge of rapid French with reluctance. Fleur’s arms eventually followed the trend and wrapped themselves around her son. Eric grimaced at Brian, but Albus could only lower his eyes.

Who could blame them, he thought, wearily.

Fleur began to drag her sons away, leaving Brian abandoned on the platform, but her voice started up again only a few feet away.

“Ah, le sauveur de ma soeur! Harry! Your son, he iz all alone and unprotected!”

His ‘father’s’ reply sounded slightly disgruntled. “I don’t think Platform Nine and Three Quarters is very dangerous.”

“Ah, what can you know, theze days? Everyone here, zey could all be Dark as ze night!”

“I honestly don’t think so, Fleur. You shouldn’t worry.”

Moments later, Harry’s head rose above the crowd, expression irritated. Albus began to force Brian’s body through the gaps between the huddled groups, trying not to think of Minerva as he passed a young witch with sable locks. Harry’s emerald eyes flashed in his direction, and the crowd parted, to reveal both of Brian’s parents.

Ginny patted his shoulder in an exaggeratedly casual way.

“Had a good journey?”

“Fine, Mum. Have Eric and his brothers gone?”

“Yes, thank goodness,” Ginny replied, rolling her eyes at Harry. “Fleur seems to be convinced that this Christmas will be her last. I think it will be, if she keeps on going around accusing everyone of being Dark.”

The Chief Auror sighed. “Unfortunately she’s not the only one.”

“Honestly, people are being ridiculous. As soon as we got onto the platform, some stranger shook your father’s hand and told him that he had ‘every confidence in his ability to get to the root of it’ and this old witch whom I’d never seen before in my life had the cheek to say that he was a ‘beacon of hope.’ The way people are behaving, you would think Voldemort was back. Just one attack!”

She nodded at a mother draped around her Seventh Year son.

Albus looked over. The witch’s face was white and twisted, and her fingers were clawed into her son’s robes. A succession of memories seemed to superimpose themselves over the image, in an endless reflection of similar desperate mothers… Perhaps even his own mother - his real mother - had once been that worried, and perhaps, like the red-faced youth, he had not understood… A heaviness bent his head.

“They’re frightened. Evil like that of Voldemort leaves its mark on a society for decades, and it only ever fades just before the next evil comes along. When people remember what they can lose, then they find they need to love as much as they can.”

Harry looked strangely at his son. “You think there will be another Voldemort?”

“Certainly. Like Voldemort is another Grindelwald, and Grindelwald is another Fortescue.”

“Fortescue? He’s an ice-cream seller.”

“He’s a descendent of one of the old Dark Lords. Voldemort was by no means the first ‘You-Know-Who.’ When-”

Albus cut himself off, realising that Brian’s mask had slipped. Ginny’s mouth was slightly open and his ‘father’ was a shade paler than usual, his face grave but his eyes gleaming. The way Brian then bit his lip did not need to be faked; emotion dredged up from over a century before had made him careless, and the words could not be easily retracted. The green orbs above him held a quiet astonishment. There was a silence.

At last, Harry shook his head, and gave Brian a small smile. “You’re probably right - about everything. People are frightened. The letters I keep getting make it obvious.”

The Potters moved towards the barrier. Ginny’s arms were suddenly noticeably empty; Albus looked up again at Harry.

“Where’s David?”

“With your gran. Molly’s been begging for a day with him since he was born, and we were thinking of having dinner out tonight anyway, before taking you home. There’s a Muggle restaurant a couple of streets away.”

Restaurant… Minerva.He imagined Minerva sitting opposite him, eyes glittering in the red halo formed by a lighted candle, red lips closing round a spoon. Her distance struck him anew, like a physical blow. The last Saturday before the Hogwarts Express parted them had been one of silent sadness; their intimacy had been all the more intense in anticipation of its end, if only temporary - for if it was agony for Minerva to walk down a corridor in the opposite direction, then what would lines of ink on parchment be? The memory was enough to render Brian speechless for the journey to the restaurant; he came to only when a menu was thrust at him at their table-

“Pepper steak?”

Albus blinked and sat up, but Harry was speaking to Ginny, not to Brian. Sighing, he glanced around.

The restaurant was a moderately expensive one, by Muggle standards. The chair he sat in was heavily padded, and the piano music in the background came not from one of the small black boxes hung in the corners but from a living musician on a dais some distance away. Beneath the tinkling of the piano, the sound of a water gushing was audible, as if from a fountain. The tables were shielded by plants and fish-tanks; the Potters were enclosed in a circle of privacy, and the talk from other groups was muffled.

A family restaurant - and he was the cuckoo in the nest. The same old awkwardness of deceit… He positioned his menu so as to block out the faces of his ‘parents.’

“Orders, sir?”

The waiter’s appearance made him jump. Harry grinned and began ordering. Albus picked the first thing on the menu, staring fixedly at the waiter. Ginny leaned forward.

“How has school been?”

“Fine.” Perhaps it would be best to make Brian monosyllabic? No, awkwardness aside, there was information to be extracted. “What was the name of the family to be attacked?”

Harry’s beam disappeared so quickly that Albus felt a pang of guilt. The Chief Auror leant back in his chair and directed a frown at the ceiling.

“Jones.”

“Hestia,” muttered Albus softly. The pink-cheeked witch’s face seemed to hover before him, still laughing at a joke Dung had made at one of the last Order meetings. For a moment, time was immaterial; he had been at the meeting only the day before… A sickness eased into his stomach. The speculation had been right; the target of the Dark wizards had not been random - no, even after his death he was still paying for the founding of the Order with the blood of its members. Harry’s reply crystallised in his memory, stored with similar news, similar faces-

“The McKinnons-” “Dorcas - she’s been-” “-Killed Gideon and Fabian-” “Frank and Alice - they’ve been-” “James… Lily…”

“Brian?”

“Fine,” he said, before Harry could say anything further, pulling his face back into shape. “I’m fine.”

“About Hestia-”

“I read it somewhere.” He looked away, deliberately, in covert reference to the book Brian had supposedly read. The bait worked; his parents exchanged a glance. Underneath the table, his fist clenched: stupid fool.

“Well, you’ve got your head screwed on,” said Harry, nodding sadly at him. “Hestia Jones was in the Order. She and her daughter’s family were murdered because of it - to make a point. By the time the Aurors were alerted, we were too late. We caught nobody. We arrived in time to see one Disapparate, but all anyone could say about him is that he was wearing a Death Eater mask and was dressed in black - a description which could be applied to any of these Neo-Dark idiots.”

Albus raised his eyebrows. “So you think it’s just a one-off copy-cat murder?”

Harry shrugged. “Who can know?”

All three were silent as the waiter returned, bearing drinks and plates, but the Chief Auror kept his eyes firmly on his son, whose hand was stroking a strangely beardless chin. The encounters with Ozzy and Jonathan Blaine, plus the contents of Harry’s previous letters, were providing much food for thought. Heavily, he noted how familiar the speculation was - how often similar ideas had flitted through his brain during the last years of his previous life… The roasted chicken landing before him earned a grin that was entirely mirthless; his words to Harry seemed irrefutably confirmed - the Neo-Dark was no more new than his mind was young.

He was back in the hushed Wizengamot courtroom, and Jonathan Blaine was speaking, grey with dismay, repeating his letters to-

Lord Snape.

Albus closed his eyes. Severus, please…

Was that the future, he wondered darkly. Would there now be a battle against ‘Lord Snape?’ Lord Fortescue, the ‘Dark King’ Grindelwald, Lord Voldemort… Lord Snape- an infinite succession of evil…

“It is reasonable to assume that they will attack other Order families,” he heard himself saying, a good deal more calmly than his thoughts. “If it was not intended to be a single incident, the symbolism of it will probably be enforced through further attacks.”

He opened his eyes, and focussed them on Harry’s.

“It’s probably also safe to assume that you’re a target. If Snape is their inspiration as Voldemort’s follower, then Voldemort’s killer is hardly their friend. And I’m probably a target as well, as your son, as demonstrated by Blaine-”

Ginny’s glass of wine tumbled over, knocked by a convulsively reaching hand. The man beside her stiffened, and his knuckles whitened around the neck of his own. The wine spread over the white table-cloth, the scarlet blossoming like blood. Dispassionately, Albus watched, suppressing a frown. He felt a bizarre mixture of detachment and involvement; the wine was his blood, but it had already been spilt, and there was little to be done about it. Perhaps he had been too eloquent in his expression for a twelve-year-old, and a stutter or two would not have been out of place, but a twelve-year-old Harry would have surely realised the same thing? Had not the adult Harry realised it yet himself?

“It’s true,” he said, injecting some defiance.

The Chief Auror swallowed, and stared as if mesmerised at the crimson, suddenly ghastly against the white. Slowly the green orbs came upwards, holding an anguished intensity.

The stare sent a cold bolt through him - he was back on the platform, watching mothers and children embrace, watching others failing to understand, only to neglect that understanding himself… Brian Sirius Potter. A boy, a child… a son.

Harry drew in a shaky breath, and ran a hand through his hair. “We… did not expect you to know. But - well - you’re intelligent. What you’ve just said proves that.”

“Brian…”

Ginny’s eyes were wide. Her husband gave another painful glance at the wine-stain before vanishing it with a wave of his wand. Some calm part of Albus observed that Brian’s desire to reassure his parents and the Ex-Headmaster’s to comfort his protégé were, for once, one and the same.

“I’m fine. I’m not frightened. Professor Brady gave me extra lessons and I’m good at Defence anyway; I can look after myself. Anyway, Mum, you yourself said that to panic over one attack is ridiculous.”

“Ah, but there are hundreds of them,” said Harry wearily. “We can’t take any chances.”

Albus resisted the urge to get up and pace, and instead spoke into the candle-flame. “In times of darkness, chances must be taken, and choices must be made - between what is right and what is easy, what is necessary and what is not. To every path there are many forks. But once evil shows its face, we must go forward to meet it.”

There was a pause, a silence broken only by the the distant tinkle of cutlery. The father looked at his son without speaking, mentally tracing the solemn visage. They left the restaurant only a few minutes later. The Knight Bus journey home took place in an awkward hush, the boy evading the father's stare. Brian retired to his room immediately on reaching the Potter residence, armed with a book and the phoenix. The evening was not mentioned again. Harry's words, weighted with pride and amazement, were enough.

“I think Ollivander was right about you. You’re like him. Like Dumbledore.”

---

Christmas Day came suddenly, without much fanfare. Drizzle blew half-heartedly against window panes, misting the dreary sky from view. The chill of previous weeks lessened in its intensity; no pleasurable shudder of contrast could be gained by curling the toes in a rug or remaining cocooned in a quilt. Not that the Headmistress was at liberty to do anything of the kind, Minerva thought dully. Christmas was nothing more than a desert of endless irritations, with no Albus to sooth them away.
The festivities had come to Hogwarts with somewhat less than their usual cheer; the Daily Prophet continued to make grim predictions whilst at the same time publishing countless articles from esteemed unknowns on how the attack was meaningless - the sheer volume of which serving the make all reassurances even less convincing than they were before. Sybil managed to dominate the staff-room simply by staring into a tea-cup and nodding portentously, and the few students who remained at the castle were to be found huddled in corners, whispering. In the glow of several hundred fairy-lit lamps and strands of magical tinsel, the Headmistress found herself aware of a darkness behind them, as though all the celebrations were a glittering mask raised to conceal a deep, blank certainty.

Perhaps it was this awareness that made the celebrations all the more raucous, she reflected. The Ravenclaw Christmas party, usually so demure, had been rousing enough to summon a furious Filius to the scene, and the House-Elves outdid themselves, heaving every available surface with food, and warming duvets and blankets to the extent that Pomona complained of burns. Hagrid brought a bottle of eggnog up to Minerva’s office as a present and refused to leave, and was then joined by Poppy, who, in spite of all protests, assessed the Headmistress’s health as being “in need of some pudding.”

“It’s Christmas! You shouldn’t be sitting in your office, staring into space! You should be enjoying yourself!”

“Easier said than done,” she had replied.

For one thing, ‘staring into space’ was preferable to being stared at. For the first time, with the dizzying influence of Albus out of the castle, she became conscious of a tension in the air that seemed to come with her entry into the staff-room, an offended gravity in each ensuing silence. Slughorn’s amiability suddenly seemed both exaggerated and false, and whilst there was no surprise to be had in Sybil’s behaviour, the narrow-eyed glances of Pomona gave her an unpleasant jolt every time she noticed them. How long had she been the subject of such looks? Had Serena Sinistra always been so curt with her? A veil had lifted; she could no longer sit comfortably at the High Table without noticing that Poppy, Filius and Hagrid appeared to be the only people willing to engage in conversation. Fewer presents addressed to ‘Minerva McGonagall’ arrived beneath the staff-room Christmas tree, and there was suddenly no way of telling whether or not those which had been given had been so out of any sincerity.

Yet her temper could not rise – not when there was justification for such behaviour. After all, she thought, a Headmistress who did not speak for years was offensive enough; the only cause for astonishment was that it had not happened earlier.

“That’s not the reason,” Poppy had assured her one breakfast. “Everyone was very upset when you were miserable. We were all very worried about you.”

“But what other reason is there?”

“Well…” The Healer had shifted in her seat, and the brown eyes roved over the Hall, as if tracking a running man-

Aberforth.

Of course that was it. The eyes of the world only saw a public refusal and then a happiness that could only have seemed callous; nothing was seen of the soul behind Brian’s face, nor the turmoil between Aberforth and a dead man. A stream of mysterious gifts and forget-me-nots had certainly not helped. Anger made her just as sharp, just as curt. If she had been devastated for six months and then dared smile, would that have been acceptable? Or perhaps a marriage of unequal love? Aberforth’s accusing eyes seemed to follow her around the school, pained and watery. Yes, yes she had hurt him, had ‘led him on’ if unintentionally, had humiliated him, had perhaps broken him-

“The Hog’s Head? Oh, that’s been closed since September-”

A snippet of a student’s conversation, and she had halted so suddenly in the corridor that Hagrid behind had almost walked into her. The guilt knifed down her chest. For a moment, her fury flung itself against Poppy and Rolanda for failing to tell her – failing to say what must have been known… No, she corrected herself, as she leant against the wall, closing her eyes and trying to block out the old wizard’s face; this was the pain they had tried to save her from.

Christmas Day, and her mood, had been brightened only by the appearance of a garishly wrapped package, accompanied by a letter:

Dear Minerva,

A Merry Christmas to you, with as much love as my heart can give before it breaks.

You asked about my research. I’m afraid I have not done as much as my conscience demands (though there is only so much one can do without being able to use magic), but I have at least made a break-through. My notes on the Transmutation Matrix and alchemy appeared to have an overarching theme to them. I think I’ve said before that alchemy, transfiguration and aging all seem very much the same in their processes, but it has struck me recently that all transfiguration spells seem to involve pushing particles beyond the natural point they aspire to, and that this point appears seems very similar to the Philosopher’s Stone - not the sort that Nicholas and I produced, but a more ‘internal’ one.

Are the staff planning anything for Christmas? Brian’s ‘parents’ intend on taking him and brother David to stay a few days round the Burrow. I also heard tell of some sort of Order reunion; is this true? I hope so, and I hope Brian is invited. Every moment away from you is unbearable, my goddess.

Ginny has taken up knitting, as have I - a much-neglected art on my part, I fear. On my honour, I promise to eventually produce a pair of socks for you. In the meantime, I enclose my present (be sure not to open it before it is time, my dear!).

Once again, a Merry Christmas!

Eternally yours,

Albus

[Apocalypticat]

PART 2

The Order reunion, initiated by the Weasleys, came quickly, the day after Boxing Day.

When Minerva arrived, Twelve Grimmauld Place was already crowded, the dim living room bursting with people. Various branches of the Weasley family were scattered around, ranging from Arthur in the middle of a description of a work incident involving enchanted ‘compooters’ to the four-year-old Hannah burbling on Hermione’s lap. A disgruntled-looking Fleur sat on the sofa next to Hagrid, who was busy speaking with Tonks. From the way he was gesturing, Minerva guessed that the conversation was about dragons. Bill and Arthur appeared to be having a heated discussion about the attack on Hestia, and those surrounding them looked rather subdued. Eric was talking to Charlie’s son Michael, raving about the newly released Thunderfly racing broom. Moving further into the room, Remus could be seen standing by the chair Aberforth had once occupied-

She pushed the thought away. Moody was present, talking to Abigail Lupin, and the magical eye revolved contemptuously in her direction, but she deliberately looked away, over at Harry and Ginny. The sight of them made her halt, and search for auburn.

“Professor McGonagall!”

Hermione had spotted her. A wine glass was thrust into her hands. Minerva moved forward again, and said something, but that something was lost in the glimpse of a set of characteristic purple and gold robes. Her gaze drifted away from Hermione, over to the other side of the room.

Brian - no, Albus - was sitting in an armchair. The blue eyes met hers, with all the strength of the man behind the boy.

She felt a sudden flush of attraction brighten her face and move beneath her robes. She smiled, and forced herself to look away, at the young Alanna Weasley perched on her mother’s knee. As Hermione chattered, talking about everything from the Department of Mysteries to her daughter’s first go on a bike, her eyes kept moving back to the armchair, as if drawn by a magnet. A wink, and the heat in her cheeks increased.

“Are you feeling all right, Professor?” asked Ginny, expression one of concern. “You look a little feverish.”

“I’m quite well. Just a little hot,” she said quickly. “Perhaps I should sit down.”

Space was hastily made for her on the crowded sofa. Moody glared, but said nothing. A feeling of satisfaction flared in her; the same excitement as wearing red for the benefit of one disguised observer was present in the pretence of indifference in the exchange of glances. In simply looking they were engaging in some small secret interaction, invisible to all others in the room. Hermione opened her mouth, about to launch into a more thorough outline of the elections taking place within S.P.E.W, but Molly’s head appeared around the side of the door.

“Dinner’s ready!”

There was a collective mumble of appreciation. Minerva deliberately seized a book lying on the coffee table and rifled through it. The excuse was enough; nobody asked why she wasn’t yet following the others to dinner. Across the room, the auburn-haired boy remained seated. The room was suddenly empty, and they were alone.

Albus sprang to his feet as soon as the door closed. He stepped towards her, and then stood stock-still, as if holding in a barely-restrained passion.

“Minerva…”

“I’ve missed you,” she said softly. His Adam's apple bobbed.

“And I you. Christmas was..." He waved a hand, as though dismissing it from mind.

She looked at him, wanting the auburn locks to be longer so she could wind her fingers in them. The barrier of form once again stifled them, oppressed them with convention. The ache inside her seemed to speak by itself:

“I wish…”

What exactly she wished was neither clear nor possible - perhaps it did not even matter. Albus rushed to her chair, and stood beside it trembling, as though physically tugged towards her. Brian’s young hand clutched hers, but for once the youth did not strike her, only the force in the sapphire above-

“Mate? Are you coming?”

Eric’s puzzled countenance hovered at the side of the door. The Headmistress and her student, holding hands and staring intensely into one another’s eyes-

Albus dropped her hand as if it had stung him, and immediately made his face worried and alarmed. “Professor, are you sure you don’t need my help getting up?”

The acting was superb. A second passed before she was able to respond, and press a hand to her temple. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Potter! I merely have a headache! I will move when it passes, and not before!”

Eric’s disquietened expression eased slightly. “Oh - uh - sorry Professor, I just came to get Brian…”

The meal was splendid, a wonder of chicken and potatoes garnished with onions. Molly was complimented multiple times, and the judicious hand of Moody prevented Hagrid from drinking too much wine. At a look from Harry, the depressing conversation about Hestia was halted and never restarted. So it was that the Order reunion passed with considerable enjoyment, though a careful observer would have noted that one young Weasley looked from his Headmistress to his friend and back again, brow furrowed.

---

The morning of January the 6th dawned reluctantly, as if in anticipation of the new term. Albus watched Eric’s face as they took the unsteady journey by Knight Bus to the station, and several times caught a troubled expression that flickered uneasily over the freckled features. The look was more confused than suspicious; the idea of Brian being in any way involved with his Headmistress was not one which would break readily into the other boy’s consciousness. Eric behaved perfectly normally, chattering away about Quidditch results and speculating as to whether Gryffindor or Ravenclaw would win the House cup, and the knot in Albus’s stomach, the dead weight of which had woken him, began to loosen into nothingness. After all, he reminded himself, all Eric had seen was a look and a pair of clasped hands.
The crowds on the platform were somewhat calmer than they had been when the Christmas holidays had begun; although a number of offspring were to be found trapped in a desperate embrace, the silence of the rumoured Dark Lord appeared to have alleviated most fears, and students were dispatched to the Hogwarts Express with a wave. The two Gryffindors soon found themselves caught in an inexorable stream of people struggling for choice compartments.

“Oof!” Eric grunted as an older year barrelled past him. “Shall we go up the end? I can see Daniel!”

Not bothering to respond, Albus waded through a mass of First-Years, keeping his eyes fixed on the red head bobbing in front of him. The Weasley boy rounded the curve of a large Sixth-Year, only to halt so abruptly that his ‘friend’ crashed into him.

“What’s the matter?”

“Why’s she here?”

Albus followed his gaze. Martha Read was on the platform, only marginally visible over the heads of the crowd. Her hawk-like stare swept towards them; Eric ducked, but Albus stared back, and allowed the confusion to become naked. Why on earth was Martha on the platform? Her expression stiffened, and the eyes dropped. He watched her, but the crowd engulfed them, sweeping them away.

There was no time to speak until they had entered a compartment – one already occupied by Mark, Daniel and Cal , the first of whom sneered as Brian entered. Ignoring him, he sat down and peered out of the window, but the professor nowhere in sight. Trying to quell the niggling feeling at the edge of his mind, he turned his attention back to the group of boys, just in time to hear Mark say:

“Yes, looked like she was looking for someone, didn’t she? Asked her why she was there and she said it was none of my business! Bet you she was waiting for a boyfriend.”

Daniel made a face, and opened his mouth, but at that moment Cal let out a whimper. Albus looked at him, nonplussed, until he realised that the startled eyes were aimed at something behind him-

He turned in time to glimpse a white face pressed against the window in the compartment door, threaded through with purple collapsed veins, fiery orbs widening with crazed delight-

There was a jolt as the train started to move, and the face vanished. The wall of the corridor outside stared innocently back at them. For a moment, the boys did nothing but stare back, stunned into silence. Cal was pressed back into his seat, knuckles whitening over the handle of his lunch-bag.

“What the hell-”

“Everyone saw it, right?” said Daniel shakily. “It wasn’t just me-”

Albus rose, heart-beat throbbing in time to the chug of the train, and withdrew his wand. Keeping his arm outstretched, he wrenched open the door and looked both ways down the corridor. Emptiness looked back. He turned back to the door, and peered at the window-pane. Mist clung to the outside; the face had been real, and breathing. Carefully, he stepped out of view of the door, and pointed his wand down the corridor.

Vita aperio.

Nothing happened; if the owner of the face was invisible, than he was invisible by means other than magic. Balancing the wand on a finger, he concentrated on Dark magic specifically. The wand hummed and spun; someone who had at least once dabbled in Dark magic had shortly walked past the door. An older student perhaps? Or… He let himself back into the compartment and met the scared eyes of the other Gryffindors.

“Someone was there. Their breath was on the window, but they’re not anywhere nearby.”

Mark slumped down. “Took your time, didn’t you? We thought you’d been-”

“It was probably just someone from the older years,” said Eric quickly. “Right, Brian?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly? Well, who else could it have been?” demanded Mark half-angrily. “It must have been.”

“Yeah,” squeaked Cal . “Yeah, I thought that too!”

Nothing more was said on the subject, though the door attracted nervous glances for the next twenty minutes. The train moved off, a steady thrum reverberating up through the floor. Buildings flashed by in a blur, receding slowly away to trees. Albus tried to participate in the conversation, but the image of the face came back to trouble him, pressing against the glass of his mind, making all realistic pretence impossible. There was something familiar about the fiery eyes, the stretched jeering lips, the narrow protuberant nose… On the other hand, Dark magic did not necessarily mean a fully-fledged Dark wizard, and a touch of familiarity in a face was surely inevitable – as Headmaster he had seen generations of students passing through, to be succeeded by their children, and their children’s children-

Like Potter.

William, Matthias, Timothy, Charlus, James, Harry… Brian. A collection of appealing irises, from grey to brown to green, attracting empathy until he had crept behind them.

Stubbornly, he forced Minerva’s face to the fore. What else mattered? Nothing at all, not even the darkest of ironies.

The hours passed by. The witch with her trolley came round, and her appearance at the door made the other boys pause, and then laugh nervously. Daniel and Mark played Exploding Snap, letting out loud hoots at every miniature detonation. Eric once again chattered away about Quidditch, and the Thunderfly was brandished for Daniel’s awed inspection. Brian was availed upon to talk about what Mark called his Christmas ‘haul;’ Albus sank into his role and provided descriptions and anecdotes. As evening drew nearer, his lids became heavy. His gaze turned towards the passing woods and fields, grey in the failing light. Brian‘s reflection looked back at him, circled eyes wearing the young face like a mask, set into an expression of endless bewilderment…

[Apocalypticat]

PART 3

He woke in mid-air.

For a few seconds, the world was a silent one, filled with the compartment wall and Daniel’s frightened features, both heading towards him-

Then the screech of brakes broke in, followed by Eric’s shriek, and the wall rushed forwards and punched him on the nose-

An almighty crashing sound-

Someone’s elbow dug into his ribs; he tried to pull backwards but the pressure was too great, he was squashed against the wall, gushing blood-

The lights died. Someone’s breath fluttered over his face. The bony lump beneath him gave a heave; he fell off, the pain in his nose making his eyes water. He tried to speak, but the blood crept into his mouth and choked him. Reaction was impossible; the pain had taken place of thought. There was a rustle as someone moved.

“What-” Mark’s voice began, but there was another crash as the compartment door was flung open.

“Lumos!”

A white face hung in the air, a pale circle around a wand. He recognised the bloodshot eyes and his hand dived into his pocket-

“Petrificus Totalus!”

-Too slow to block, too slow to think-

-His arms snapped to his sides; he was frozen, helpless-

Cal let out a scream and ran forwards, but the wand was lifting to and turning in his direction-

“Avada Kedavra!”

Green light seared into his revolving eyeballs; the boy’s death came as a sting, and a sudden blinding-

The thump of a body paralysed him more completely than the Body Bind. From the corridor outside came the muffled sounds of a struggle. Daniel gave a murmur, and then a cry as the raised wand swung upwards, pointing to the clouds beyond the compartment ceiling. A grin curled itself over the wizard’s lips.

“MOSMORDRE!”

Another, less lethal burst of green, before the spell passed outside. There was a distant roar, a collective shout of horror-

The grinning visage sped towards him. He sensed Eric lunge, wondered how many more Weasleys would shed blood on his behalf-

My boy, my foolish boy-

Yet Avada Kedavra was replaced with Crucio; Eric’s shrieks were evidence of the blood still frothing in his veins, the breath that gave him voice. A Levitation charm was uttered; Brian’s stiff body lifted into the air, the wand dropping ineffectually out of his pocket. He was moving out into the bristling corridor, and turning-

-Impact-

-Oblivion.

---

The darkness moved, and became a dream. He was in a field, watching the wind form a current through the grass. Clouds eased lazily over an azure sky. An old, haggard figure was sitting propped up against the tree, a book perched on his lap. A long beard shone silver in the light of a midday sun, and a pair of half-moon spectacles glinted. The lines of the stranger were well-known to him; perhaps there had been a point when they had confronted him in a mirror..? It did not matter. The old face twitched in a smile. One gnarled hand reached inside his magnificent robes and drew out something with glittered and glowed, its bloody hue bleaching all other colour away...

---

“… Idiot Mulciber! Killing the brat-”

“-Tired of running round like flippin’ rabbits-”

Albus’s head pounded. He let out a groan; something was digging into his back…

“-Get the boy, get out - that was the plan-”

“And didn’t I? Would you have done it better, Mortimer? Blasted kid just ran at me-”

Awareness was coming back to him, along with multiple aches. The voices were louder, more distinct. Mulciber… An image came to him, that of a sharp-faced teenager spitting defiance at a Wizengamot court, and then of a photograph on the Wanted Fugitive page of the Daily Prophet. He opened his eyes.

A graveyard sprang into focus. Lichen-grown granite slabs stuck out of the black earth like broken teeth, and a wizened yew tree stood away to the left, seeming bent under the weight of its few remaining leaves. The sight of the church beyond made Albus stiffen against the cold surface behind him - this was a place he had never been, but had only been told about, told by a youth with a scar branded on his forehead, who, like Brian, had just seen the death of a friend-

Little Hangleton.

Tom Riddle.

The connection was such that the cut of the ropes binding him to the gravestone was almost expected. He moved his eyes away from the graveyard itself and onto the figures who prowled it.

Mulciber stood only a few feet away from him. The twilight was enough to match the remembered image with the veined jowls, though in truth the ex-Death Eater was barely recognisable, his features ruined by drink. He was talking to two younger men, both dressed in black robes, who every now and then ducked their heads towards the yew. Yards from them gathered seven other robed figures, men and women, all masked and flicking their eyes from the gravestone to the tree and back again.

The man standing beneath the tree naturally drew the eye; the impression gained was one of lazily restrained power. His grey orbs and sculpted face again triggered a vague feeling of familiarity, but before Albus could think of any names, the wizard looked towards him. He spoke, voice thrumming with nuances, the tones of a pretended intellectual.

“Quiet. I think our little friend has awoken.”

The gathered witches and wizards tensed, and Mulciber stopped talking, but Albus felt an odd relief pass through him. The Body Bind was gone, and ropes could restrain a genuine twelve-year-old, but not a false one. Shoving the thought of Cal away, he directed a smile at the leader, whose own wavered in response.

“A rude awakening, I believe.”

Mulciber let out a hiss. The other man frowned slightly.

“Is this the Potter bravado I’ve heard of?”

Albus shrugged. The watching crowd trembled, as though a wind had passed through them. Their leader, he was vaguely impressed to note, although disconcerted, raised an eyebrow coolly.

“We can’t be having that. Crucio!”

The pain took his breath away and made him press against his bonds, but he kept his jaw clamped. Eleven identical leers could be seen, even as the tendrils of returning oblivion crept across his cortex, unseen grasp in time with the stabbling of invisible needles. Afterwards, he looked up and smiled again. A spark of anger lit in the grey eyes.

“Bravado, or mere insolence?”

“Perhaps. But then, you are being impolite. We have not been introduced.”

A sudden, violent movement brought the wizard next to him, and the wand to his throat. “Heard of Lord Snape?”

“Yes. You’re not him,” Albus said agreeably.

“I report to him.”

“Goodness.” The Tower flashed before him. “But you are?”

“Aloysius Dolohov.”

“Ah. Yes, you have your father’s eyes. And personally I’ve always found the Dolohov nose to be rather identifiable.”

Mulciber gave another hiss, and the gathered figures shuffled their feet. Dolohov’s face remained like stone, but the pupils contracted. The wand-tip pressed into Brian’s throat until the pulse beat against it.

“Crucio!”

This time the agony was all-engulfing, sending his body bucking out of control. The vessel in his nose burst again, sending scarlet dribbling over Brian’s robes. White heat enclosed him, leaving only a pair of satisfied grey eyes visible. His limbs trembled, even when the spell ended.

“Are we still feeling smart, Potter? My father died in Azkaban before you were born. But I’m sure the Dark Lord will enjoy your chatter. You see, your death will open a new epoch, along with that of your precious father - appropriate, as he helped the old Lord rise before, yes? I view this as a… continuation. A balancing out, so to speak. The Death Eaters have returned. The old Lord inspired considerable loyalty, as now does his second-in-command.”

“Loyalty born out of fear, Dolohov,” Albus gasped. “And that is no loyalty at all.”

The words meant nothing; the pain in his chest continued beyond the Cruciatus. Severus. If Voldemort had not inspired true loyalty, then neither had he.

Dolohov smirked. “We’ll see. Enough prattle. Mulciber, has the message been dispatched to Potter senior?”

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

“Splendid,” the wizard said languidly. “That should bring our guest running. Now-”

He cut himself off, and looked up. An owl was pelting towards the group, a scrap of parchment held in its beak. An unnatural stillness came over the crowd, along with an intolerable silence. Albus felt a dreadful anticipation rise within him as Dolohov caught the parchment and flicked his eyes over it. The Death Eater stiffened. Then he threw back his head and gave a barking laugh.

“Word from our Lord!”

No.

The thought could not be checked, and was so strong that Albus’s lips moved, echoing it. Merlin, no…

The assembled witches and wizards started. Dolohov laughed again, and turned the parchment so it was facing the crowd. Lines of spidery, cramped script ran over the parchment. The name on the bottom was irrelevant to the ex-Headmaster; numbness spread through him as he watched the Death Eater brandish a page of the writing which had once adorned the essays of pupils, school forms, letters… That signature. Severus Snape, Professor S. Snape, S.S, Hogwarts Potions Master… Your Lord.

His eyes watered. The graveyard spun away from him, into another dimension. There was nothing but the flat resounding resonance of horror.

Severus, please.

What belief was it that he still clung to? Would there always be a part of him that could not accept, would never accept the betrayal? The foolishness that had led into death still endured; at his core Severus remained to him a man-child, a vulnerable boy hiding under a cold exterior. The pain in his chest increased, sharply. He too was like a child – unable to accept the breaking of his trust, and unable to believe in the brutality of the truth. There was no reconciling the ruthless traitor Snape with the youngster whom he had once found blinking back tears in the Slytherin Common Room. Severus Snape, but a prequel to Harry Potter.

My boy.

Yes, he had called Severus that, on more than one occasion-

Had it been his fault? Perhaps he had not paid him proper attention, perhaps the use of a spy had been manipulative, perhaps he had not punished the Marauders adequately-

No, it was absurd; the last years of their relationship had not been defined in terms of events or even behaviour. He had believed in something deeper. What else could he think, when Severus had so prostrated himself upon the first fall of Voldemort? He had trusted – he had put faith in the hopeless love for Lily and the wells of impossible remorse… No. He had not merely believed, but dared to love-

He writhed on the headstone. Brian’s death meant nothing, the will to struggle was tapped and gone. Dolohov’s laughter was in his ears, in his soul-

“Crucio!”

He let out a cry then, a wordless lament that had nothing to do with the fire in his nerves but with a lost son-

“He comes to us! He comes to us! He will meet us face to face!”

The Death Eaters roared with fervour. Cackles of delight echoed around the graveyard. Dolohov’s features were twisted out of their natural serenity into a madness. Albus realised dimly that a lost son had become a returning father; their triumph was in the idea of a first meeting, face to face-

Crack!

“STUPEFY!”

One of the Death Eaters near Mulciber toppled over, and Dolohov’s laughter cut off mid-peal. For a second surprise kept them all, Albus included, stunned and staring at the fallen body-

“STUPEFY!”

The voice suddenly became both identifiable and entirely inexplicable; Martha Read was racing between the headstones towards them, wand out, alone and desperate. Albus stared at the tangled brown curls in astonishment. The discovery of the mind behind Brian’s face had indeed unhinged her – she was running, outnumbered ten to one-

Dolohov surged forwards, grin restored. Mulciber, dodging the Stunner, whipped out his wand-

Now was the moment. Wand or no, ropes were no match for pure mezrel. He drew his core outwards, felt the headstone crack, the ropes slacken-

“CRUCIO!” shrieked Dolohov.

Martha leapt aside, but continued heading straight for them, though the other Death Eaters were moving round, trapping her with superior numbers-

Albus jumped at the nearest Death Eater, a plump man with his back to him. There was a grunt of surprise – then the Death Eater was on the floor, the pain between his legs loosening his grip on his wand-

“STUPEFY!”

“IMPEDIMENTA!”

“CRUCIO!”

Martha responded before the spells were cast, threw up a shield before they opened their mouths. Leglimency, thought Albus, running with the stolen wand thrumming uneasily in his hand. Mulciber was moving in the direction of the yew tree; he pointed the wand at it, and the tree wrapped a branch around him-

“The boy!” Dolohov bellowed.

“Ira Tempestas!”

The air flooded with electricity, brushing slickly at his cheeks. He ran at Martha, shouting for her to get out of the way-

The lightning broke out, sizzling and jumping across the graveyard. There had been no time to ensure any precision; the storm raged all around, drowning out the screams of those who tried to avoid it. The youth Mortimer yelped as a bolt shot past his nose, and a female Death Eater’s shriek was cut short as another wasted her to a skeleton. The others stood back, mouths open, gaping at the boy who had just cast a Wizengamot level spell-

He looked round, but Martha was alive, and was mere feet away-

“Sectumsempra!”

The professor sidestepped the spell with a smile that did not reach her eyes-

“Idiots! Idiots!” Dolohov was screaming, fury blotching his white face. “A boy and a teacher! Fools! Letum Forca!"

The earth gave a heave, sending Albus staggering sideways. A maw opened in the mud under Martha’s feet; one foot sank out of sight, whilst the other kicked the air. The ground reached upwards, sucking the free foot into the morass. The Death Eaters circled and surged-

Albus raised the wand, but a sudden disturbance passed over Martha’s skin, like a ripple moving across water. Her blank face was distorting, bending out of shape - her spine was lengthening, the shoulders broadening- The spell? His mind raced. No, no known incantation… The realisation froze him where he was. Polyjuice. Unforeseen! The Read who had gone on leave was not the same one who had returned. The situation suddenly seemed blindingly obvious; her behaviour had been both out of character and erratic…

The Death Eaters halted. Dolohov narrowed his eyes, and even Mulciber stilled in the grip of the yew. Martha’s melting jaw clamped. Her voice slurred as it came out.

“Immpressive. It’s nice to shee you’re up to speed.”

The words made no sense, but Albus was too mesmerised by the changing features to care. The small, upturned nose was becoming hooked and more prominent. The skin paled, and then tightened over a skull which was altering to become sharper. Lines cut more deeply. The eyes blackened, hooded by thickening lids, and the brown curls were also darkened, becoming grey-streaked black locks which hung lankly past the owner's ears...

Brian’s knees buckled. His callow face seemed to collapse with his body.

Severus Snape watched.

Finally up to date!

[Aurinko]

NOOO!!! You can't just LEAVE it there!?! Cruel, cruel, cruel author! But generous, for posting new chapters in the first place. (And fantastic ones, at that!) Snape! Such a brilliant twist. Can't wait to see where you take this, and how you get Albus out of this one. I have to admit that I was a little disturbed by the idea initially, but I love the way you've written the story and remain in eager anticipation, your fan, Aurinko.

[Apocalypticat]

A/N: Thank you, Aurinko! Glad to know you're enjoying it!

CHAPTER 28: His Boy

PART 1

Numbness flooded him.

Disbelieving, he ran his eyes over the hooked nose and arched brows, saw the black gaze turn towards him, saw the features twitch—

Severus.

He was different, he realised, distantly. The revelation brought up an image of the warped visage of Tom Riddle, drenched in evil, but the difference was not that, at least outwardly. The face was thinner, the flesh stretched over the bones, and lines gathered under the eyes. Grey was shot through the sable locks. How many years had it been? Nearly twenty; the man before him was in his fifties, gaunt and worn. He had a sudden mental image of himself in his office, meeting this Severus, being distressed by the unhealthy pallor—

There was a thump as Dolohov fell to his knees, and then an echo as others followed suit.

“Lord!”

The word winded him, sent vomit crawling up his throat. Another Albus was pitching off another Astronomy Tower, and a younger Snape was lit green by a hovering Dark Mark, only the man was now a Lord—

—Who was staring at him, transfixed by the life he had ended—

He knew!

“Lord!” Dolohov was pale with excitement. “Lord, finally you have blessed us! May I ask—?”

Snape blinked, and looked haughtily at his Lieutenant, before dispelling the earth from his legs. Albus closed his eyes; in a second the voice would come, the voice that had once reported to him or snapped or dripped with sarcasm, his boy’s voice—

“Why I appeared as I did? I would have expected any numbskull to work it out, Dolohov. I felt a test was in order—one which you responded adequately to. But there are less present here than I had been given reason to believe.”

The Death Eaters shuddered. Their leader performed an odd slithering movement to Snape’s feet, as though wanting to kiss the hem of his robes. “Lord, we felt our few numbers would be better able to penetrate the Hogwarts Express. The greater part of our number are massing in the South—”

“And yet they are tardy in attending my return. Idiots! But you have done well. I see you have the boy.”

Albus flinched. Snape’s eyes bored into him, and a brief disturbance rippled their depths. He wondered vaguely if Brian’s death would be because of Voldemort’s, or if this was the final retribution against James, or whether it was because of he, the old man, who had not truly died in the first attempt, whose secret had been penetrated—

“Potter.”

The name was spat, like a curse. He could not meet the gaze of his murderer; instead he looked down, whilst the cold voice continued.

“How unspeakably tedious are the memories that come to mind. Your father was just as arrogant, and his fame was just as undeserved. But doubtless you have your own little wretched mythology about him, our as-yet absent celebrity guest tonight. Doubtless you have ridiculous notions about good and evil, the ideas of Muggle-lovers and impostors. Are you aware of why you are here, Potter?”

The earth blurred beneath him, and he made no answer. Snape’s words were irrelevant and nonsensical; he knew, and yet had given no sign. Why? Albus’s heart thumped. The rant wasn’t about Brian, or even about Harry, but about James—and that made no sense at all; Snape as Martha had seen that his mind wasn’t a Potter’s—

“I shall tell you, as I do not think too highly of the Potter grey matter. Your precious father could barely string two words together when he was at school, but now he’s the darling of the nation—fame isn’t everything. You are here because I find it symbolically appropriate to have you here. Here is where your witless predecessor helped the old Dark Lord return to full strength, and here is where your own impaired existence will end as a fitting vengeance for his fall. Our celebrity will join us in time for his own richly deserved death. It is a shame there are so few here to witness this historic moment.”

Albus sensed the Death Eaters bustle awkwardly. A prickle of fear for Harry penetrated the numbness. Richly deserved death… Something balled inside him, and there came a memory—

Harry was glaring at him, eyes blazing, voice shaking with badly suppressed rage. “Professor… how can you be sure that Snape’s on our side?“

He barely heard the words; he only saw the prejudice that shaped them. Would Harry never grow beyond the views of James? Perhaps if he spoke of Severus’s feelings for Lily…? No, it was hardly appropriate. Instead, he let the iron-clad certainty speak for him.

“I am sure. I trust Severus Snape completely.”

He looked up as though through a red haze. Snape was still talking, but the words had passed from the irrelevant into the incomprehensible; they reached his ears as disjointed syllables. A body was still falling, a Dark Mark stained the sky, Godric’s Hollow was a blast of emerald death—the white face smirked—this, this was the abomination he had protected… The pain exploded.

“Merlin forgive me…”

Snape stopped, mid-speech. The thin lips twisted. Another spasm—

—He felt himself lose control, felt the force inside him boil and erupt, and did not care—

“…For ever trusting you!”

His agony rushed outwards, engulfing the men; he saw them stagger, as if from a great distance. The yew burst into flames, and the sky was purpled, bruised with his anger, a white, exploding nucleus. A gravestone went flying, torn out of the earth. For a second his muscles locked, stiffened with magic, his body a channel for something primal and uncontrollable. The ground ruptured; something white and cold went shooting into the air. The trapped Mulciber was shrieking, but he was up, pointing his wand, trembling, and Snape was frozen, narrow face stiff and surprised—the fury was above language; he spluttered, could only express one word to convey it all—

“LILY!”

Snape’s head snapped back, as though a blow had been struck. Mulciber’s screams reached a peak, and the gravestones were cracking—

Dolohov pitched himself forward. “Avada Keda—”

“STUPEFY!”

Snape’s Lieutenant collapsed, but it was Snape who was standing over him. There was one paralysed second in which nothing made any sense; the Death Eaters looked at their Lord, aghast—

The ex-Potions Master whirled and cast another Stunner. One wizard fell to the ground, and then another. The Death Eaters roared in confusion; one ran at Albus, wand outstretched, grin stretched into madness—

“Crucio!”

He was on the ground, whimpering, but nothing mattered. Severus, Severus, Severus… Severus or Snape? He could not decide; the man-child had killed him and then put out a hand—but that was another life. Brian Potter, killed for Harry, killed for James, killed for Lily…

“Petrificus Totalus!”

The pain ended, abruptly. A pair of concerned black eyes were sinking towards him.

“Severus…” The name escaped him with a gasp. Snape twisted his head away and then was pulling him up, long fingers curled around Brian’s arm—

“Avada Kedavra!”

There was a green flash, and another Death Eater was keeling over, wand still held to his temple in a broken ecstasy. One of the others had turned back and was trying to free the burning Mulciber from the tree, but there was no more time to look; Snape was dragging him into the shadows, towards the crumbled wall of the graveyard. He ran mechanically, hating and loving the spidery hand clasped round his flesh. The shouts of the Death Eaters were fading. He was vaulting over the wall, surrounded by tangled branches…

They ran for what seemed an interminable amount of time. Snape was limping slightly, but moved like an animal returned to its natural habitat, narrow gaze sweeping from right to left and back again. Albus noticed the landscape in brief snapshots, as if in a dream: the dark fingers of the trees scraping the sky, the cold circle of a raindrop. Why were they running? From Voldemort, perhaps?

Perhaps Snape wanted to kill him alone, not as Brian but as the ex-Headmaster…

The thought had him halting, wrenching himself out of Snape’s grasp. His guts seemed to bubble with lava; the fury was back, inhabiting him, flaming up to the pores—

Something in his expression had shown it; his former spy was frozen again, face pale and slack. Traitor. Fire shot through him. Abomination. He raised his wand, but Snape was already kneeling, and the mask was dropped; the man at his feet had covered his eyes with his hands—

Avada Kedavra.

Was that what he wanted?

His wand was at Snape’s throat. His boy’s heartbeat could be felt along the wood—but his pseudo-son had died, or had never existed in the first place. Richly deserved death… His hand shook.

“Why?”

The question was like a child’s. His man-child moaned and rocked on his knees, and the mouth between the clawed hands was open, also like a child’s—

“Why?!”

The wand fell from his hand; it was inadequate, unable to convey anything of the torment of the previous two decades. The vision of Minerva hit him, frail and impotent, standing at a white tomb, tears scouring the lines. Suddenly he was lashing out, not with magic or with words, but with his fists, pounding into the hooked nose, and falling against his boy, thumping the slumped shoulders impotently—

“Headmaster!”

Snape’s voice came from very far away. He was still punching, all the time resting against the bony ribcage, feeling another heart race. Snape needed to know, needed to feel what he had felt, needed to experience some portion of it all—needed to tell him what he had done with Severus, and why… He had opened the door, the door of that immortal room…

A sob burst out of him. His whole weight was against the body before him now, and a voice was saying something, over and over again, and it didn’t sound like the voice of a smug Potions Master but of someone else… Darkness began to close about him, but it wasn’t oblivion, but some vast mountain of knowledge, the blackness of love—

“My boy,” he wept. “I forgive you, I forgive you…”

They fell down together, into the leaves.

---

This Dark Lord trembled, and looked at him with an agonised expression, bloodied nose dripping unrestrainedly onto his robes. The obsidian eyes were pits, brimmed with pain. Murderer and murdered held each other, speechless in a united grief. The man lay limply, with a sense of inexpressible weariness, as though the marring of his face had continued beyond the physical surface. The boy stared intensely, tears unnoticed, glasses askew, look one of empathetic distress, his dislodged medallion providing an object for the man’s gaze. The only force between them was that of their clasping hands.

---

“HARRY!”

Tonks’s bellow had him bursting from his office, wand out, Daily Prophet floating irreverently to the floor. Outside the Chief’s office, the Auror cubicles were a sea of heads, poking out in wariness and curiosity. The comparative stillness of the surroundings made Tonks’s movement along the aisle all the more alarming; she was tearing along the aisle, a note crumpled in one fist.

“Harry—it’s the Hogwarts Express! It’s been attacked!”

The blood drained from him, so that the Auror Headquarters spun. Brian. An image came to him, of Brian’s serious face lit by a candle-flame, blue eyes glittering as he spoke beyond his years. Brian, his son, his little Dumbledore. He heard himself giving orders and wondered how he was even speaking, and why he was doing so instead of moving—

“Someone contact the Minister! I want everyone except reserve forces out with me—any idea of numbers?”

They were moving at last, and the shock had become fear; his stride was growing longer, leaving the others behind. Higgins was barrelling from his cubicle, knocking things over, and Tonks was running, a piece of parchment in hand—

“Any from five to fifteen—we were alerted by the students, who gave conflicting numbers depending on where they were—”

They were out of Headquarters, heading down excruciating corridors, a flurry of robes and extended wands. “Where are they?”

“The Scottish border. Exact whereabouts vague—”

“Where’s the nearest outpost?”

“Tweed Valley, along a river—I suggest that we Floo there rather than Apparate; we don’t want to end up in the middle of them—”

The ability to speak left him; he was crowding into the lift, breathless. A mental Brian had already died in the time it had taken to leave Headquarters. Tonks smiled tensely at him, but his own face seemed to be made of lead. Higgins looked frightened, but there was no encouragement he could give other than to stand rigidly, blind eyes fixed on a flock of purple memos.

Ginny.

He blinked, and in that blink saw a weeping mother, cradling her remaining son. He swallowed. Should he tell Ginny, somehow get word…? No, he would know whatever there was to know first, without worrying her—

They were in the Atrium, racing past the irritating statue of himself, heading towards the outgoing Floo fires. For once he did not care about the sickening sensation of the Floo; he was going towards his son—

The Auror outpost was nothing more than a shack, and a single sleeping wizard, Firewhiskey in hand, slumped over a desk. Shacklebolt made at face but Harry was past the slumbering guard and outside, into an icy blackness. The wind cut his face. The dark shapes of rolling hills confronted him; the Hogwarts Express was nowhere in sight. His heart squeezed, and he turned towards the crowd of alarmed faces. Fear made him bark.

“Split up! I want Shacklebolt heading ten to the East, and Tonks taking ten to the West. I’ll take the rest North. Wands out, detecting Muggle-Repelling Charms! If one group finds the train then they are to get messages to the others via Patronus! Understand? Right! Higgins, you’re with me! Yaxley, Ireland, Queensby…”

The night was all around them, and there was no sound except the swish of cloaks. The Aurors flicked their eyes back and forth, from each other to their stiff-legged Chief and back again. He sped ahead, walking awkwardly, as though restraining the urge to run. Beside him, invisible to the other Aurors, staggered an auburn-haired boy, half-moon spectacles spotted with his own blood, limbs jerking to the grotesque dance of the Cruciatus Curse, and phoenix nowhere in sight.

---

He had never believed the ridiculous Sybil Trelawney’s claptrap about dreams, particularly recurring ones. Yet the past twenty years—

The ramparts were lit green from the Dark Mark. He had arrived just in time to hear Alecto, features twisted with rage, shout something at a figure standing paralysed next to a snarling Fenrir. Malfoy. He saw it all, in a matter of seconds, the ravening Death Eaters, the grey-faced Malfoy, and emptiness where Potter should have been—but most of all he saw the Headmaster slumped against the wall, shocking in his weakness, blue eyes lit suddenly with hope—

“We’ve got a problem, Snape,” Amycus was saying. “The boy doesn’t seem able—”

“Severus…”

Dumbledore’s voice was soft. The sapphire gaze lanced him; he pushed the Malfoy boy out of the way. Somewhere far away, his other self was watching, shouting at him, horrified beyond belief, but he was mechanical, invulnerable…

“Severus… please…”

The words were branded into him. All at once his distant self and the Severus on the Tower were one; he was running past Dumbledore, dropping his wand.

The wind made his robes billow as he leapt over the battlements.

[Apocalypticat]

The search continued.

Perhaps an hour had passed, perhaps five; Harry no longer knew. The world was a nightmare of hills and gullies, a pointless monument to some abstract force of nature that cared nothing for Brian nor the cold that knifed easily through their robes, seeping to the bone. His wand-hand had gone numb, and there was a detached quality to his movements; he was not there, traversing endless valleys, weary eyes sweeping the landscape, but submerged in Brian—Brian the baby, Brian the toddler, Brian the child. He had a sudden vision of his son’s knobbly knees. How many other sons were on the train? He cared only for one; this was the selfishness of anguished fatherhood. The other Aurors were without personalities or emotions of their own—instead they were reduced to mere presences, unhelpful in that none of them were Brian.

There was a hiss, and one of the shapes beside him halted.

“Chief,” came Higgins’s voice.

There was no need to say anything; his wand was also thrumming. Coming back to himself, he nodded and pressed onwards. For a few minutes nothing happened. Then there was a clonk.

He stopped. The lit wand hovered near Higgins’s mud-stained boot, revealing a bar of iron. They had found the railway, but still there was no train. He stood, mesmerised by the play of light over a point…

“Sir,” said someone, quietly.

“I know,” he croaked. “The railway.”

“Sir…” the voice said again. He looked up, and realised that the silence had deepened. The Aurors were standing, stock-still, heads aimed in one direction. Slowly, he rose his gaze above the horizon.

The Dark Mark hung like an emerald star, the only bright point in an ebony sky. Even from the distance—perhaps of about six miles—the snake writhed visibly, hissing and spitting from its deathly lair. Harry felt nothing; the cold simply bit deeper. He could feel the gaze of the other Aurors on him, and was about to say something suitably commanding, when something shining and silver came flying out of the nearby copse.

He half expected it to be Brian’s ghost, come to accuse him of being too late, but it was soon apparent that the apparition was a Patronus, in the form of a fox. The creature circled them and then pointed its brush in the direction of the Dark Mark, before vanishing. The absurdity of it brought him back slightly; he snorted.

“Bloody useful, after we’ve seen that. Come on.”

They moved forwards with greater speed, and purpose. The consciousness of an invisible clock ticking was intolerable, and Harry broke into a sprint as the red jet of a Stunner shot up beneath the Dark Mark. He did not, could not think about Brian or any other unimaginable dead child; there was only the creak of frozen joints and the cut of his breath in his throat. The ground tilted upwards, and they reached the crest of a hill.

The Hogwarts Express sat still upon its tracks, gleaming darkly in the light of the symbol above. A black figure by its front Disapparated with a sharp crack, and the Chief Auror noticed that the front of the train was crumpled, as though it had hit an invisible wall. Several bodies were heaped on the earth beside the tracks, and beyond a huge crowd of students could be seen, gathered in clumps and surrounded by several prowling Aurors. The fight, if there had been one, was over.

Tonks was visible by train’s front, wand aimed at the pile of bodies. Harry headed towards her, throat tight.

“Harry! It’s over—there were only six of them, and two Disapparated, but we caught three and killed one—”

He halted by the bodies, and looked down. The Death Eaters had been stripped of their masks, and two of them were instantly recognisable as having been on search warrants by the Ministry. It didn’t matter. He managed a cursory nod before heading in the direction of the students, away from the nonsensical shouts of Tonks—

Brian.

Meaningless, frightened faces turned towards him. He was wading through people, all of them irrelevant—

A flash of red caught his eyes. He turned hopefully, but it was Eric Weasley, not Brian. Yet surely Eric would know where he was? He pushed past a shrinking group of Fourth-Years, noticing vaguely that Eric was slumped down on the ground, back against a tree. Better still, Auror Macmillan was standing right beside him, patting the boy on the shoulder, and if he was in charge of the students then surely…

He reached the tree in time to see Macmillan bite his lip and Eric surge upwards, tear-stained, the colour of sour milk, eyes bloodshot, staggering to retch emptily into the grass—

Harry swayed. A thousand sons revolved around him, shooting upwards into the stars. My boy. Tonk’s hand fell on his shoulder, and she was speaking, but he could hear nothing but Brian’s laughter at Eric’s face as he opened his present at the Burrow…

“Harry, Harry!” Her hair was grey, and curling. “Stop it, he could still be alive—”

He looked blankly at her. Over her shoulder he could see Higgins, looking miserable and confused, and beyond that Macmillan, mouth a warped line of sympathy… He hated them, all of them. He was still swaying like a drunk, unable to understand.

“Harry, he wasn’t killed, he was taken! Eric saw him being taken away in the full Body Bind, but he was alive! Of course he’s mucked up over that but it was another classmate who was slain! Harry, please—”

“There’s a letter for you,” Macmillan broke in, holding up a sealed parchment. “It arrived at headquarters about a quarter of an hour ago—Richards forwarded it, but his owl could not find you… We didn’t open it… We were worried…”

…So let the father read the worrying news for himself, then? He let out a snort of laughter, but Tonks’s grip tightened and she looked more alarmed than ever. He almost fell over when taking the parchment from the Auror, and he ripped it open with fingers that were utterly numb… Lines of cramped script stared up at him. He had to blink; the parchment was beginning to blur, and it was all ridiculous, for he was still Chief Auror, still acting as though he had not lost a son…

Potter,

We have your son in our hands. Unless you arrive alone to Little Hangleton graveyard by midnight, he will be killed. Should you attempt to bring a force of Aurors, he will be killed.

In the name of Lord Snape.

Beneath the last sentence was a dark red spot. Blood.

Harry’s fingers crumpled the parchment. Hatred, such as he had never known before, coursed through him. He could see it now—a laughing Snape, wand digging into Brian’s neck… Was that his son’s blood? Hope and horror warred equally inside him; Brian was alive, but for how long? Purple spots flew in front of his eyes. In the name of Lord Snape.

“What time is it?” he cried wildly.

“Half past eleven,” said Tonks, snatching the letter and flicking her eyes over it. She looked up, shocked. “You’re not going alone, are you?”

“It’s a trap.” He clenched his fists. “He was taken to lure me to them.”

“They don’t seriously expect you to go alone!”

“Professor!”

Higgins was blinking at a robed figure darting through the crowd. The Hogwarts Headmistress was half running towards them, stick held impatiently off the ground, as though she had only grabbed it out of habit. Her sharp eyes were darting from Harry to the crowd and back again, as though she was looking for someone. Her strained face pointed itself at Harry.

“Mr Potter, what precisely—”

Tonks thrust the letter at her without protest. She read it, and then looked up, ashen. To Harry’s vague, anxious surprise, her hand went immediately to her heart, as though Brian’s capture had hurt her personally.

“Right. I’m coming with you.”

Harry exploded. “There’s no time! Tonks, I’ll take my group, but some back-up will be useful—”

“Mr Potter—”

“No,” he said roughly. “If Shacklebolt—”

“I believe I have a duty towards my students, Mr Potter.”

“And I have a duty to ensure your safety! You are not coming with us; your duty to your students is to arrange transport—”

The nostrils flared. “Already arranged! The thestral carriages are on their way! And I do not appreciate being lectured on my duty by a former student!”

Harry looked at her, incensed. Time was running out. Brian was quite possibly being tortured whilst they stood and talked. He would be another Amos Diggery, collapsed over a fallen body. The Headmistress looked set to argue herself blue in the face; it would save time to give in.

“Very well! Just make sure you remain with the Aurors. Now—”

He paused, momentarily crippled by a dark, ripping feeling of despair, and then threw himself into organisation. Brian’s corpse skittered away, into the gorse. The students looked on as the Aurors began to run to and fro, shouting urgently. Brian! Eric’s head was in his hands, but the image was blocked, scrubbed out by the need for plans and strategies. Several hundred uncaring people were standing back. Shacklebolt was gesturing ferociously, and Higgins was like a string drawn taut between two hands. He was everywhere, seeing Brian out of the corners of his vision.

He did not notice the Headmistress fall back, and fumble for a handkerchief as her eyes overflowed.

---

They did not speak for a long time. A new lump was constricting Albus’s breathing, and Severus’s eyes were distant, unfocussed, as though looking at something beyond the dark clearing. His thinness struck the ex-Headmaster anew; the man beneath him had a body that was insubstantial except for several sharp points, and the black robes swamped him, hanging limply off the curled, trembling limbs. The winter air had at last penetrated Brian’s school-robes, but concepts such as temperature and frostbite seemed very far away and immaterial. At last, Severus shifted slightly, and spoke in a hoarse whisper, eyes avoiding his.

“Why have you not summoned the Aurors?”

He had to swallow several times before he could reply. “Would you like me to?”

His man-child looked pensively up at him. “Perhaps it would be best.” The black gaze sharpened. “I murdered you.”

There was a pause. “Yes. But I have forgiven you.” Because I need to. Because I love you.

“I expected you to kill me,” he said softly.

Albus sighed. “Severus, do you really know so little about me?”

“Yes. You should have realised that some shadows are too dark to comprehend the light.”

He cupped the pointed chin and tilted the eyes up towards him. “Severus, why?”

The ex-Potions Master gave a twisted smile, gruesome in its distortion. “I was a Slytherin. I felt side-lined and power-hungry. I placed too high a value on my own wretched life. I did something which will damn me forever. I have no excuses, nothing that could possibly justify my actions. You should—”

Albus placed a finger over his lips, and stared into the stricken features, heart distended. My poor lost boy. The sadness remained, stabbing like a distant malicious needle, but the anger was entirely gone. A picture of the man before him flashed in his mind’s eye, but well-fed, happy, guiltless. Could he remember a time when Severus had smiled sincerely? The reality of the Tower was like a nightmare, one that faded as the day drew on.

“My boy,” he said aloud.

Severus’s face gave another uncontrollable twitch. “You’re insane.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps we fools who love are all insane.”

The heavy lids fell. The silence returned, and Albus found himself wishing there would never be any need to break it, but it was unlikely that the Aurors would be ignorant for long. He seized Severus’s cold fingers.

“What have you done with the original Martha Read?”

Eyes still closed, his ex-Potions Master shrugged. “I was looking for a guise to penetrate Hogwarts with, and it was a matter of ease to shadow her on her leave. It soon became apparent that she planned not to return, and I simply intercepted her resignation. I believe she is currently in Switzerland.”

“Why did you need to penetrate Hogwarts?”

He did not want to ask, did not want to hear the Lord again, but he had forgiven him already; whatever the reason, it was forgivable—

“To guard you. Or Mr Potter, at least.”

His grip on Severus’s fingers eased. “Why?”

“You had not followed my instructions to alert your father.”

Albus sat up. “You sent those notes? About Jonathan Blaine?”

“Yes. The wretched brat had announced his plans to attack you by a message sent by the Slytherin ghost. At the time I was concealed in the Forbidden Forest, so the ghost reached me easily. I have also sent multiple warnings to the Aurors and to your body’s father. The Baron also gave me my first suspicion as to your true identity—though it was in the library when the first hint was given. You looked into my mind, and I felt as though your touch was familiar…”

Albus’s mind was racing. Yes, the mind of Martha Read had felt known to him, as though he had explored it before. He remembered the Slytherin ghost’s promise distractedly, with some alarm: did the Baron disregard his promise and go around announcing to all who seemed interested? His thoughts whirled. Lord Snape was in the graveyard again, talking about putting Harry to death. Yet this was the same man who had sent letters warning Harry and his son of danger…

“Two things, Severus. Firstly, you have not yet answered my initial question, as to why you felt the need to guard my persona at all. Secondly, I admit to finding it difficult to reconcile Brian’s guardian angel with the Lord who threatened me before.”

His companion’s eyes snapped open, agonised. “I was your spy! I fooled even you! Did you not think, Headmaster, that I could act? I was forced to stand there and bluster as my plan to rescue you had already gone wrong. I had had several vague letters from Dolohov suggesting that something was happening, so I kept watch on the platform—but I saw nothing. As soon as I worked out what had happened, I Apparated to the graveyard and attacked. Obviously, I failed, and had to invent some nonsense about testing their abilities! As for why I felt the need to defend you…” He stopped, as though unable to continue.

“Repentence?” Albus said softly.

Severus nodded, stiffly. The ex-Headmaster gave him a small smile, and squeezed his hand.

“It is much appreciated.”

He received a sardonic chuckle in reply. It was entirely mirthless, and grated on his ears unpleasantly, but he suddenly felt an inner buoyancy, a beatific bliss. His words tumbled over one another.

“So Lord Snape never existed?”

“No, Headmaster. And I promise you he never will exist. A promise from me is worth less than the muck on your shoes, but perhaps an Unbreakable Vow—”

“No. I will rely on my trust.”

The final word had Severus looking at him wildly, and surging upwards, wand in hand. An odd noise sounded, halfway between a snigger and a groan. The wood spun, and rested against the holder’s neck. Albus lurched to his feet in horror, but Severus was backing away, obsidian orbs blazing—

“IF YOU WILL NOT DO IT THEN I WILL DO IT MYSELF! IF THE ONE HAND THAT COULD SET ME FREE FAILS TO STRIKE—!”

He was roaring, spit flying from his mouth, lank hair dishevelled. The wand quivered on its target, waiting to deal its second death. Albus stood, feeling the storm rock him, terror drying his throat, but the desperate father was not needed now—it was the calm Headmaster, who would stand and dissuade—

His voice came out remarkably serene. “You are in pain, and we all do rash things when we are in pain. But there can be no solution if we flee from it. Severus, if you are guilty of an evil crime then you are also guilty of a number of good deeds since—”

One of Severus’s eyelids twitched. “YOU THINK THAT’S ENOUGH?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I do. I recall a time when you would not have done anything for Harry that was not required by the War effort, and yet here you are, having rescued his son and guarded him personally for a number of months. That son’s identity is irrelevant; what matters is that fact that you have done this, that you have put aside your hatred…”

“Only for you,” the man before him mumbled, still shuddering. “Justice—”

“Ah, justice. And who decides what justice is, hm? Is it not the victims of crimes? Which would mean more, Severus? For a court to judge you and condemn you to life in Azkaban? Your own appalled sense of guilt to condemn you to death? Or for me to forgive you, for what was done to me?”

The wand pressed more deeply. “I broke—”

“—An old man’s heart. I do not deny it. You broke my trust as well. You forgot Lily. These things are unfortunately true. Yet are our lives to be defined by single acts? If we see them for what they truly are, and then actively repent… Perhaps that argument does not satisfy you? What of this then, that the punishment has already been inflicted—you have been an outcast, persecuted by your own memory?”

“I DON’T—I don’t want to remember!”

No great mental leap was needed to make the connection with Harry in his office, raving and throwing ornaments. Hadn’t the Boy-Who-Lived stood similarly, trembling on the brink, trying to deny the undeniable? That had been his fault then, and he felt obscurely that it was his fault now. He took a step towards his former spy.

“Severus—”

The man leapt backwards. He seemed beyond speech now, eyes blank and staring. Somewhere, another Severus had already made the dive off the precipice. Perhaps it had even happened twenty years before, and the world they inhabited now was a delayed reflection, a slow echo. He took another step.

“Avada—”

The arguments before had been wasted; he let the two predetermined words slide out of him—

“Severus, please.”

Silence. Then a dissolving, an unexpected crumpling, as though a bar of metal was buckling.

The wand fell to the ground. He kept the calm expression pasted on, even as the man-child sank down after it, winded. Some part of him was the mask, serene and utterly unruffled, even a twig snapped nearby. Another part was down on the ground with Severus, locked in empathy. His love was a bubble, trapped in his throat. Severus and Minerva: both had suffered for him, all circumstances aside. He saw the blood down Severus’s front with a quick tightening of his windpipe. He was still and calm, even as a sudden crash sounded in the undergrowth—

“STUPEFY!”

The red bolt lifted his boy off the ground, stick limbs jerking like a dying spider’s. Still frozen, he went sailing with him into the nettles—

Minerva.

He saw her first of all, careering him towards him out of the trees, lips parted. The green eyes locked on his, gaze sharp and worried. He tried to express something just by looking, but Harry moved between them, a flurry of robes and extended hands, which seized him and crushed him against the Auror’s seal—

“Brian!”

Tonks had barrelled out of the bushes behind them, followed by a host of other Aurors, wands all trained on the limp body at his feet. Harry’s robes had enclosed him like a bat’s wings, and the trembling frame beneath them smelt of sweat, and the thick tang of blood—

The scarred forehead next to him was streaked with scarlet. “Dad!”

“You’re all right?” Harry’s face was like a ghost’s. “You’re not hurt—”

He touched the blood across the scar with the tip of one finger. Hands were running down him and through his hair, tapping and savouring. Over his ‘father’s’ shoulder, he could see Minerva, rigid and staring at the black form below him—

“Snape didn’t hurt you?” The bolting eyes rolled downwards. The trembling became violent, a paroxysm of rage. Albus felt it numbly, torn between the blood and Severus.

“Dad—”

“Azkaban,” snarled the Chief Auror. “At last, where he deserves—”

The other Aurors were circling the body. Shacklebolt aimed a kick that sent the man-child rolling over, to bare the battered nose—

“Stop—he’s changed, he mustn’t go to Azkaban—”

Minerva gave him a look of disbelief. Why was he arguing? He went on, fired with urgency, twelve-year-old words against twenty-year-old memories.

“He’s good now—”

Harry was ignoring him, still holding him to his chest with one hand. The other pointed a wand, and gave a quick, commanding gesture. Severus was yanked off the ground, a puppet controlled by a furious master. His nose dripped blood down the front of his robes. Harry gave a savage grin, and with it, a small exhalation that smelt of terror.

“Evinxi!”

There was a silver glimmer, and then manacles materialised about the ex-Potions Master’s wrists. Albus found himself struggling free of Harry’s grip, thumping at another set of shoulders, even though some detached corner of his mind knew that none of Brian’s words would make the slightest bit of difference. Harry’s fear was tainting the air—

“Dad, he mustn’t go Azkaban, he saved me, he rescued me from the Death Eaters—and he’s been sending me notes, warning me of everything—Jonathan Blaine—”

Harry’s eyes looked blindly at him. “He’s a traitor.”

A spasm passed down the Chief Auror’s body. He held onto Brian as though he was about to be ripped out of his arms. Albus’s eyes pricked.

“Harry, please.”

The other Aurors were watching, transfixed between the prisoner and the boy. Minerva had lowered her gaze to the ground, as if stricken by some sudden realisation.

“He killed Dumbledore,” said Harry, blood trickling down his face.

He killed Dumbledore. He had not had the time to formulate any ideas about what Harry might say, but he would not have expected that. Perhaps he betrayed the Light, or he was a Death-Eater. Not that. My poor boy. For a moment he could not speak.

“Dumbledore would want you to show mercy,” he said at last.

Harry bowed his head. “Dumbledore was wrong about Snape. And he was killed before you were born.” He swallowed, and looked up, searching Brian’s face. “He’s been talking to you, hasn’t he? Brian, he can make people believe what he wants—”

“He sent those notes! He got me away from Dolohov!”

Harry gave a sharp jerk of the head. “We can’t know how his mind works!”

Albus opened his mouth to say more, but one look at the face above him made him close it again. There was nothing more to be said. The Chief Auror began to bark more orders, and his subordinates gathered themselves into formation. Harry made no sign that he was to let go of Brian, and he allowed himself to be half-carried through the trees, with Severus hovering along after them. They moved briskly, back in the direction of the graveyard.

The ex-Headmaster laid his chin on Harry’s shoulder, and felt the accompanying heartbeat reverberate through him. Slowly, he met Minerva’s eyes. He looked away, unable to meet the emotion he saw in them.

Pity.

The Astronomy Tower was gone.

[Apocalypticat]

CHAPTER 29: The Third War

PART 1

“You are certain that that was what happened?”

“Yes.”

The Chief Auror’s hands clenched beneath the desk. The interrogator, a grey-eyed official whose nose was as sharp as his manner, flicked a glance towards him. Harry schooled his features into neutrality and shared a look with Shacklebolt, who was standing in a corner, face just visible in the dimness. Brian’s own small hands were folded in his lap, and his gaze was solidly on the official, who blinked, as though used to the evasive rather than the direct. The interrogation chamber was darkness focussed around a single floating light, which lent a grey intensity to the man and the boy sitting either side of the desk, profiled faces pointing towards each other in quiet opposition.

Harry swallowed, holding in his anger with the grip of his jaw. This was not like the first interview, which had been in a warm, comfortable room with Tonks’s encouraging face hovering over an unobtrusive notepad. Merlin knew that that had been enough for any boy to bear, and normally that would have been enough. Yet that was not enough for the Ministry. Nor was it sufficient for the ministries of other countries, who knew and cared nothing about Brian—but because Snape was involved, of course he was essential…

He leant to left slightly, in order to see his son’s face, and felt a quick, swelling burst of pride. Not a trace of fear could be seen in the boy’s expression, only a solid, resigned certainty. He was calm, coherent, grave and immovable behind his spectacles, as if the interrogation was no more than an essay or some sort of oral exam. Harry saw again the vision of Brian sat behind a table, talking about justice. What had he thought, when the news had come? His little Dumbledore. A baffled kind of admiration swept over him; the impression was not a one-off but a sustained one, continued throughout the aftermath of it all. His son had narrated Cal’s death in the same way the Headmaster had spoken about Cedric’s.

“He looks at me just as how old Dumbledore used to do so too… I’m not surprised the phoenix chose to stay with him. You watch him, keep him close.”

The more he looked, the more Ollivander seemed justified. Dumbledore’s expressions were suddenly apparent in younger features: the quirk of any eyebrow here, a smile there. Perhaps he only saw it because Ollivander had mentioned it, but the similarity was startling.

As for keeping Brian close, that was easier said than done.

Brian’s testimony would have to be regurgitated in front of a dozen different people before it would be accepted. He had problems accepting it himself; when he had heard Brian’s words he had not absorbed them—the idea that Snape had sent warnings was beyond ludicrous, it was almost offensive. As for the claim that Snape had moved into Hogwarts to protect his son… Stupid. Ridiculous.

Two weeks passed, a mess of interviews and parental concern. The third Auror interview was endured by Harry with bad grace, and the first approach by the Daily Prophet was rebuffed sharply. Fifteen-year-old Harry in a courtroom had been bad enough; twelve-year-old Brian being set for the courtroom as well as the attentions of interrogators and reporters was unacceptable. Harry watched his son, and held him. All attempts to resist ruffling Brian’s hair and wandering into his room failed, and luckily Brian seemed to submit to the extra attention without much objection.

More worrying was the strange glint that came into Brian’s eyes whenever Snape was mentioned. The change in his son was hard to formulate even in his mind; to all appearances the experience had simply made Brian even quieter, more contemplative—an effect that could be expected in any twelve-year-old who had been captured by a suspected Dark Lord and watched a friend perish in front of his eyes. Yet there was more than that, for whilst Brian predictably turned pale at the name of the ex-Potions Master, there was also new softness about him, an odd ‘deep’ expression that played around his mouth. This was another of Brian’s ‘adult expressions,’ though what it conveyed was a mystery.

Harry had seen it before, during his son’s startling request to see the Headmistress in hospital: a strange, painful look of… affection? He had dismissed the thought then and dismissed it now. Yet… “Stop—he’s changed, he mustn’t go to Azkaban…” He had spoken with him, he had been alone with him, he had believed something about him… The Chief Auror’s stomach rolled. But Brian did not have the mad faith of the imprisoned Blaine, the rolling eyes of fanaticism—

“Harry, please.”

Harry… That bothered him. He was ‘Dad,’ not Harry.

He suddenly found himself frightened of Brian’s solitude. He had never been bothered before by the fact that his son spent more time with heavy books than with his family—after all; there was that dash of brilliance about him, one which would naturally be fed by books. Now that same dash of brilliance abruptly seemed a danger, fuelling the obscure sense of Brian being wrenched out of his hands by unknown forces. He did not want him reading books, especially ones which he seemed to want to hide whenever Harry entered the room. He did not want him staring into space, seeing through him with that strange expression. He did not want him going back to Hogwarts; he did not want to lose him so soon after he had almost been lost.

“Dad, I’m fine. Eric, Mark and Dan were all in the compartment with me and they’re all back at school.”

There was no arguing with that. He remembered being furious when Mrs Weasley stifled him at the beginning of his fifth year, and he had been less coddled than Brian. He tried to find arguments nonetheless, but both Ginny and Brian’s faces told him he was being unreasonable. He talked on about the Dark movement, the slow reports of how the Lieutenant’s support was not broken, how his desire for revenge had solidified…

“And there’s no place safer than at Hogwarts,” Ginny pointed out.

There really were no arguments there, and no room to invent any. So it was that the Chief Auror, burdened by disturbing correspondence and suddenly speaking to a deaf Ministry, waved goodbye to his son, who disappeared on Hagrid’s motorbike without a second look.

---

Minerva dipped her head into her hands and shoved the parchment away. The harrowing task of writing a letter to the Smiths was proving nothing short of insurmountable; what possible words could be said? Her mind wandered between the past and the future, rather than remaining in the present, frustrating her, grating rudely against words she wrote about a dead boy. She could not make herself think about Cal; a living man, due to arrive within mere minutes, intruded.

Albus.

No, Albus and Snape.

For a second the former’s young mask of a face seemed to hover above her desk, blood-shot eyes like a wounded animal’s. The sight still came to her as a shock; ‘vulnerable’ was not a word she assigned to the ex-Headmaster, any more than ‘reform’ was synonymous with Snape – and now even the latter was being claimed again. No. She frowned, inwardly scolding herself. Albus was ‘vulnerable’ when it came to those he loved; he had been afraid he had hurt her, still constantly found it hard to believe she could love him, and the first impact of the scene in the woods with Snape had not been the ex-Potions Master himself but the expression of the disguised man beside him. Still more vivid was the image of Albus pleading with Harry. There was no more there than what she had already suspected on the night of his death: that, to Albus, Snape—Severus—was simply a Harry gone wrong.

She knuckled her hands in her eyes. That was the problem. What had she felt, on that night? Grief… and stunned disbelief. That had been the twist of the knife, that had been what had rendered the Order almost directionless after his death. Albus was wrong. They had sat and toasted Sirius for dying still fighting the enemy, but after Albus there had just been flatness, misery too deep to be spoken, a hard corner their minds shrank from. He had not died ‘fighting the enemy’ but at the mercy of someone whom he had trusted, and he had not been killed but been murdered. He was wrong.

No, that was wrong too. They hadn’t even been able to think that. There had just been a question:

Why?

Then the moment in which she had read the name ‘Lord Snape’—the same pain condensed into two words. She had thought immediately of Albus and his feelings, rather than anything practical. She had imagined a smirking Dark Lord tormenting him, as Albus Dumbledore, having at the time not realised that Snape knew the truth.

And again, the sight of Snape on the ground: a confusion of memories, of both a colleague and a traitor. How he had detested mint sauce, and how she had teased him about it being a ‘nice Slytherin green.’ How Harry had broken the news that he had murdered the Headmaster. How he had moodily handed over the House Cup at the beginning of 1991. A strange enough mix without Albus’s incomprehensible arguments—

“He’s changed, he mustn’t go to Azkaban—”

Oh Albus, she thought. You said that once before.

She instantly felt guilty for thinking it. Upset. He had not returned to her after almost two black decades just so they could disagree. A sigh caught in her throat.

“Albus,” she said aloud.

“My dear.”

He was suddenly standing in the doorway, auburn hair bright against sky-blue robes. Her breath caught again; the absence had been brutal by itself. The Headmistress was out of her seat and halfway across the room before she saw that the sapphire eyes were uncharacteristically avoiding hers. The disagreement was expected, she realised.

“Minerva, about—”

She laid one finger across his worried lips. Closer to, the hurt was even more apparent; the lines in his brow had deepened, and yet at the same time the boy in him was once again plainly visible, staring out of enlarged, sad eyes. Her affection throbbed, and she removed her finger to make room for her mouth. For a moment he remained stiff and withdrawn, but as she deepened the kiss, a hand moved around her back. They remained, buried in each other, hearts beating together through their robes, until the Headmistress forced herself to draw back.

“I’ve missed you.”

The eyes had recovered their twinkle. “Surely not as much I did you.”

She swallowed and cupped the weary face before her in her hands, not wanting to bring the issue between them up again. Only the sudden, fleeting mental picture of the old, white-haired Albus flying from a tower made her speak.

“Are you sure?”

He looked desperately at her. “Minerva, I know what you are thinking—but believe me when I say that Severus has been protecting Brian—”

“I’ve read the papers. He sent the notes, the warnings?”

He nodded, and closed his hands gently round her wrists. “He has reformed—”

A lump formed in her throat. “So you said before.”

He looked stung, and let go, turning his head out of her grasp. In spite of the auburn hair, age seemed to fall on him, forcing his gaze to the floor. Pity made her silent. She wanted to fling her arms round him, swamp him in comfort—but what good would that do, if he was wrong? To lose him again…

“I was in error then… but I do not believe I am now. Minerva, he tried to kill himself for what he had done!”

The scepticism swept over her face before she could stop it; a suicidal Snape was like a malicious Weasley, a complete contradiction of the self-interest of his House… He looked at her sharply, and stared into her eyes, asking permission—

—A greasy-haired man pointing a wand at his own neck—

The office returned, to show Albus peering at her pleadingly. She felt a bolt of something like anger shoot through her, something that was remarkably indistinguishable from love—

“His acting was such that he fooled you the last time! He made you believe that he loved Lily too much to serve Voldemort, and now he’s making you believe—”

He seized her shoulders. “Do you trust me?”

The sapphire appealed to her, but she wrenched herself out of his hands. “I trust you not to be so blind!”

“Minerva—”

“He’s duping you, Albus Dumbledore, just as he did before!”

“Severus—”

“—Is not Harry Potter!”

The force of her anger and desperation shocked them both. His face was white and stunned, as though she had just hit him in the face. The Headmistress’s mind was burning; she could remember herself standing before a white tomb, crying hysterically, with years of grief watching from behind—did that mean nothing at all? Had he returned to make the same wretched mistake again?

“He is not Harry Potter, he is not some abused surrogate son who…”

Too far. She bit her lip before turning her back, not wanting to see the hurt she had caused. The silence rested like a lead-weight on her shoulder-blades—or was that his stare bowing her down? The fury had coiled into a pain in her chest, a pain that urged her to bury her face in his beard.

Footsteps, and the creak of a seat, as though he had dropped into it suddenly. Her stiffness became a prison. She expected—no, wanted him to say something, but the silence merely deepened. They were both trapped and blind, still in the room that they shared, nailed by the very love they shared, and her body seemed to thrum with the unnatural state it was in: turned away from him, apart from him, cold and alone. How had they moved from open affection to this? The lump in her throat grew until speech was impossible.

The thrumming became unbearable; it was a spasm that passed up her spine, forcing her to turn her head—

He was sitting in the chair across her desk, gaze cast down to his lap, whole body slumped and miserable. The eyes behind the half-moons were over-bright.

She could observe no more; she was bent down next to him, pressing her cheek against his, breathing in the smell of sherbet lemons. One long-fingered hand was cupping her closer to him, stroking through her hair. Her own eyes were pricking, and one large blue iris was all that could be seen, understanding in its vastness. Water leaked and fell against her own face.

“Oh, Minerva…”

There was no need to say anything; she knew he knew.

“You will not lose me again.”

[Apocalypticat]

PART 2

There had been another change.

Of course, Rolanda thought, sitting on the sofa next to Aberforth, people were still reeling from the superficial aspect of the first—the mere fact of his presence on the street in new robes, the return of his usual scowl, the groomed appearance of his hair. Passers-by could be heard commenting on the renewed fence and the tamed garden. If nothing else mattered but the external, she had a special privilege in being able to see the changes in the living room.

For one thing, the bottles were gone. She had not had to say anything; they simply vanished along with his need. For another, the cobwebs had been banished, and didn’t seem likely to return. Surfaces gleamed, a ruined rug was notable only by its absence, and the goats had been expelled to the garden. If a scowl was how everyone else viewed a ‘normal’ Aberforth, then she was able to see the happier one, whose face would split suddenly into a grin, who would be found not slumped into nothingness but hunched over a book, brow furrowed as he spelled out the more complicated words. Sullenness was replaced with laughter, and more. This was the true first change—the change that was just for her.

“…I almost wish I’d known someone like that.”

She had said that to Minerva when talking about Albus. Aberforth was not the same, but his personality fit hers like a glove. She could not imagine the old Headmaster cracking rude jokes, or making obscene hand gestures. When an unfortunately shaped parsnip had been found in one the old sacks in the stairwell, Aberforth had roared along with her, whilst his brother would probably have stood and ‘twinkled,’ as she thought of it. Even Minerva and Poppy—when things had been less awkward—would have scolded her for being immature. With Aberforth, however, underneath the growling exterior was someone who was utterly accepting and as immature as her. In some strange way, he was the heath, and she was free to gambol in it as she pleased.

Yet now there was another change. If she hadn’t been observant with Minerva, then she was at least ‘on the ball’ with the old wizard. She had noticed the change straight after the attack on the Hogwarts Express. Had it been anybody else she would have thought the event had aroused some troubling memory of the war, but Aberforth had always given the distinct impression of having trudged through without viewing it as any particularly traumatic episode. No. She wasn’t sure what it was; there was only the feeling that once again he had withdrawn slightly—not from her, but from any expression of his thoughts.

She could see it now, in the distant look in his eyes. His fingers were crooked in his lap and nothing had been said throughout her recital of the headlines of the Daily Prophet—odd in itself as Aberforth was prone to making scathing comments about various celebrities and scoffing at the Ministry. The only indication that he had even been listening was the twitch one hand gave at the headline ‘Ministry Plays Down Potter Kidnap.’ That slotted in with what she had thought before about the impact of the incident, but his stillness was disconcerting. Perhaps she should ask?

You’re always so impulsive, Rolanda, Poppy’s voice sounded in her brain.

Mentally, she poked out her tongue. She could imagine Poppy’s face adopting an expression of mock outrage, even a conversation—

Pooh to that!

I think you’ve spent too much time whizzing around on a broomstick, Rolanda Hooch. You’ve got a brain like a Bludger!

Too many sick teenagers, Pops. You’re getting boring.

Don’t call me Pops!

Her mouth twisted unconsciously in a smile before she remembered that Poppy was angry with her. The reality caught her by surprise; she was suddenly cold, swamped with memories of Minerva’s wry smile and Poppy’s sensible sighs—

“Can you read it to me?”

Rolanda blinked, and struggled back to the present. Aberforth was still looking away, brow furrowed. When she gave no response his eyes flicked towards her.

“The article.”

“Oh—right. Ministry Plays Down Potter Kidnap.

“Ministers yesterday refused to comment on the capture of Brian Potter by followers of the now imprisoned dark wizard Severus Snape, accusing the media of contradicting concerns for national security. Alberta Scrogg, representative of the Minister’s Public Liaison Committee, reacted strongly against suggestions of a growing Dark threat.

“‘There is absolutely no evidence of this,’ he told Daily Prophet reporter Jennifer Elk. ‘The kidnap of Brian Potter ended with the capture of Snape, the only potential Dark leader. Reports of swelling Dark forces are unsupported by research by the Aurors, and are alarmist and unhelpful to public order.’

“The trial of Severus Snape continues.”

“That it?” Aberforth asked after she had finished.

“Yep. A very boring article, really. I mean, Snape still sends a shiver down my spine, but then he always did that sitting next to me at the High Table anyway.”

Aberforth did not answer. For a moment she wondered if he wanted another article read, but then he lurched upwards, so suddenly that the sofa moved. As though she was not there, he began to pace up and down the small room, gaze fixed on an invisible point. Bewildered, Rolanda stared at him.

“Aberforth—”

“Research by the Aurors…” He stopped and curled a finger in his beard. “Potter’s not been saying that.”

“Eh?”

“Potter’s been saying the opposite. That there are Dark wizards about.” He paced again, and stopped. “They did this before the war, you know. Said nothing was happening when Voldemort was rising, and said nothing when he rose again.”

She felt her eyebrows quirk. “Well the Ministry have always made a mess of things. And don’t you think it’s a bit extreme to compare now to the war?”

The old wizard shrugged and shifted from one foot to the other. “Who knows? Something’s afoot. I’m not going to sit by this time and watch them all screw it up again, woman!”

The Flying instructor struggled to quell a smile. Aberforth only ever applied the term ‘woman’ when, as Moody might have said, ‘riled up;’ the contrast between the indignant man across the room and the drooping depressive was even more obvious. The blue eyes suddenly seemed to hold his brother’s twinkle; she wondered if he was thinking the same thing. The moment passed, and his mouth became a tense line, opening reluctantly.

“I was thinking—thinking of writing a letter.”

Rolanda gave him a blank look.

“To the paper.”

She found herself staring at his hands, which were twisting and kneading.

“Only… I’m not a man of letters.”

His cheeks were pink behind his beard, as if the idea of writing a letter was an embarrassing one. Rolanda opened her mouth to say that she would be glad to help and even dictate if necessary, and to ask what he wanted to write about, but more was coming, words which tumbled out as if each was a guilty secret—

“And I want to be interviewed. About the war. To get some publicity.”

His head was now turned away from her, and his shoulders were hunched slightly, as if expecting her to explode into violent criticism. Completely baffled, the witch gaped at him. Aberforth wanting to do interviews? Wanting publicity?

“To… you know… become a bit more prominent.”

Astonishment finally fired her mouth. “W-what? Why would you want to become more prominent? Or give interviews? Or—or anything?”

The old wizard gave an odd, jerking shrug.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, someone got to do something, haven’t they? I mean, what with Dark wizards about… a funny feeling in my gut. Someone’s got to—and I’m, I’m his brother—”

Some remaining, unsurprised part of the Flying instructor remarked that a ‘funny feeling in the gut’ was best treated by Poppy Pomfrey, but on the main, the feeling of stumbling into an alternate reality increased. The mention of the old Headmaster was virtually taboo between them, and yet here was Aberforth not only acknowledging the connection but almost seeming bound by it—

“Why does the fact that you’re his brother—?”

“For Merlin’s sake, woman! He was a bloody saint; any brother of his might be listened to over some idiot of an official!”

The final realisation of what he was saying made the blood flee; her face buzzed.

“You’re that sure that trouble’s coming?” she said quietly. “So sure that you’re going to—going to take up his… mantle?”

The shoulders hunched higher and the voice became gruff. “Well… he was a genius and I can’t even write a letter… and I don’t know whether I could inspire people or make them listen to me… I don’t know whether the Order would listen to me… Being a weirdo obsessed with goats and all…”

Silently, she rose from the sofa. She stared at the defensive back, and moved quietly round, to see the down-turned, abstracted face, and the eyes glowing like a pair of cut jewels. In spite of the faltering words, in spite of the slight expression of shame… there was something in him, something of the phoenix his brother had so often blazed with. The impact of that knowledge seemed to curl within her. For the first time, she felt herself looking with more than affection, but with admiration.

He sensed her, and looked up, caught her expression. He turned away, cheeks pink under the beard.

“It’ll probably come to nothing.”

“Yes, but the fact that you want—”

He shook his head and stomped out of the room, down the stairs. Outside, his voice carried to her as it called for the goat in the garden.

---

Jonathan Blaine stirred faintly from his sleep. The guards were walking up and down again, stamping in their heavy, hobnailed boots. Another time he would have sat up in his cold cell and roared at the filthy Mudbloods and blood-traitors to be quiet, to show some respect. Now he was exhausted, the passion within him dimmed. What did it matter, now that his hero was a traitor, whimpering to the Aurors and the Ministry, turning on his own followers? If he opened one eye, a shameful picture of Snape being led in chains would be seen on the front of the Daily Prophet, ripped in half in his fury.

He had refused to believe it, at first. He had bellowed through the barred windows at the guards that the Lord had not been captured, could never be captured, that the Daily Prophet was the Order’s rag, that they were pretending—

Then the photos became undeniable. Worse still was Snape’s flat voice on the guards’ radio, an excerpt from an interrogation, denying that he had ever written any part of the The Dark Manifesto, that he had been helping the brat Brian Potter…

Dust and ashes, that was the Dark now! Dust and ashes, betrayed and broken…

The wind whistled in the corridors. His hatred was sunk within him, no longer burning but a weight he had to drag around, at the mercy of half-breeds and Mudbloods…

A tapping.

He opened his eyes, and raised his head off the hard bed to press an ear against the masonry. Rabastan Lestrange, banging some unknown code through the wall.

A sneer curled his lips. Brother-in-law to the great Bellatrix the old Death Eater may have been, but how many incomprehensible codes would he have to suffer before the fool rolled over and died? Barely a glimpse of a broomstick in the sky, and the idiot would be off again, eventually ending up raving that they were all going to be rescued, that Voldemort was back to break them out—

No. His eyes closed and his chin sunk onto his thin chest. They were never going to be rescued.

BOOM.

His eyes snapped open, and the bed shook beneath him. For one wild moment he imagined Lestrange somehow exploding something in his cell—

BOOM.

He was flung off the bed, ribs banging against the stone—

—Down the corridor, a scream sounded. Hobnailed boots were pounding past his door, and through the tiny barred window came a flash of green—

“The Lieutenant!” Lestrange bellowed.

“Lord now, you nincompoop!” came an unfamiliar voice. “Come on—out to kill these Mudbloods—”

Blaine rose, the laughter swelling up and out of him. The fire inside, his passion for the Dark, was blazing back, and he was bloodying his fists against the door, yelling encouragement to the cloaked figures, closing his eyes against exploding masonry—

The rising dust rushed, and formed a halo. A tall, dark figure radiating power stepped through, began to stalk up the corridor—

“GLORY TO THE DARK! LONG LIVE THE NEW LORD! Ever have I served the one true night!”

He raised one bloody hand through the bars, and saw the cruel, sculpted countenance turn towards him, lips curved in a mocking smile.

“Ever? And so young—ever is nothing—”

“Ever is how I shall serve you, my Lord!”

The lips curved wider. “Oh, it’s dear young Blaine! Why, he must be set free immediately!”

He only had time to leap back before the door shattered, barred window buckling and ripping. The force of it threw him back into the opposite wall, but he flung himself forward onto his knees—

Aloysius Dolohov stood above him, proffering a wand.

“Ready to spread the Dark again?”

---

AZKABAN BROKEN OPEN: CHILLING ECHO OF THE WAR

TWO MORE FAMILIES ATTACKED

“NO NEW DARK LORD,” SAYS MINISTER

The Daily Prophet headlines fell on Hogwarts like a sudden blizzard. The Great Hall echoed with dozens of shouts of horror, gasps of fear. Students read the papers under their desks in lessons, and asked the alarmed Binns about the war. Rumours flew up and down the corridors; an old atmosphere had settled in the castle again, the heaviness of collective fear. Those who believed the Ministry shrugged a little too carelessly, spoke a little too loudly of how lucky it was that Snape hadn’t been held in Azkaban at the time… Those who read the Quibbler waved back-issues containing an irate Harry warning of a rising Dark. Young eyes turned on the professors, the grim old professors who had seen it all before…

Minerva McGonagall stared unseeingly at her lunch. The pang of rage she felt against the ever-denying Ministry was an automatic one; all she chiefly registered was the deadness of absolute certainty. Soon the Daily Prophet would be reporting nothing at all, unless its editors were less open to bribes than they had been previously. Albus, in the guise of Brian, had not yet arrived for lunch, and there was no solid point to hold onto. Filius’s squeaky voice seemed to stab through her skull.

“—And do you know, Aberforth sent them a letter warning that there might be an attack before it happened! Look, they’ve printed it here—”

She closed her ears and looked up at the cloudy, enchanted sky.

The third war, whether Snape was a part of it or not, had begun.

[Apocalypticat]

CHAPTER 30: The Phoenix Reborn

PART 1

“I would advise that the Order is reformed.”

Brian’s young face was acting as a mask again, barely concealing the man the Headmistress knew. The morning, before the Daily Prophet had arrived, had seen Albus’s twinkling eyes transcending his immature features; now, late at night, when Brian should have been in bed, came words which contradicted apparent innocence. Still, the incongruity between the boy and her relationship with the man kept her half turned away, staring into the fire.

The urgency had been too much for Ageing Potion; they had lost months in the first war when days had been essential. Brian—Albus—had burst in so suddenly, so late at night that Minerva first realised he was there by the sound of the portraits being turned over. There had been no place for affection, even if their bodies had allowed them; time had somehow reversed, sending her back into the position of Deputy, and Albus back as the leader of the Order. They had moved into her private chambers without speaking, possibly to keep the sound of the boyish voice to a minimum.

How much she wanted the man now! How she wanted to curl her fingers in the auburn locks, and drag her lips across his neck! She did not want the past to return; to sink back to the position of a person to allocate tasks to. The stupid, recurring thought would not leave. She had almost lost track of what he had said.

“I…”

The old x-ray stare pierced her. “Why the hesitation? You were my second-in-command; they will listen to you. If you don’t feel yourself capable, my dear, then all I can say is that that is absurd. You have the head for strategy, as shown by my endless defeats in our chess-matches.”

A barrage of words, none of them expressive of what she wanted. Minerva watched the flames flicker before answering. “What about Potter? He’s more than capable, and I’d be surprised if he hadn’t summoned the Order already. Or Moody? He has my experience as well as that of an ex-Auror.”

The small mouth opened to speak, but she felt the appeal burst out her, the part that wanted love and not war—

“Do you really believe that it is all starting again?”

He chewed his lip. “I don’t pretend to be a Seer, Minerva. But Aloysius Dolohov reminds me worryingly of a young Tom Riddle.”

A heavy sigh rushed out of her. “How many more wars must there be?”

“As long as there are those who wish to dominate, I fear. As I was saying, the Order must be reformed; I foresee the Ministry being just as unreasonable as before. We must work out where Dolohov intends to strike next—have the names of the families been released?”

“No, but I suspect that…”

Their eyes met, and she looked away again. Families related to those who fought in the war, no doubt. Did he still feel responsible?

Albus gave a grim nod, as though she had spoken. “Also… Hogwarts has always been a target. The Ward security should be upped.”

“That’s a problem. The experts who dealt with the core told me that only minimum security should be—”

The flames suddenly surged and glowed green. They had time to stare at each other before the blaze began to concentrate, lick around a form. Albus gave her an odd look of reassurance and then darted out of the chair. Startled, she stood up just as the silver cloak swished over him and a head appeared in the flames.

An unpleasant jolt of recognition went through her. The scarred face of Alastor Moody glared up, both normal and magical eyes fixed in one direction. Like a burst of cold water she remembered the letter he had sent some while after Aberforth had fled the Great Hall; the sharp scrawl that had echoed everything she had thought—

“Identify yourself!” he said roughly.

For one moment the Headmistress wondered whether his hatred was to the extent that she was no longer recognised as a human being; then she remembered such things as security. She drew herself up, resisting the urge to look at the spot where Albus had disappeared.

“Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts.”

“And what did you claim when you broke Aberforth Dumbledore’s heart at the ball?”

The question was like a cold, silver knife dug between her ribs. The blood leapt to her cheeks. How dare…?

“Alastor, that question is completely—”

“What did you claim?”

The gash of a mouth was twisted in disgust. Painfully feeling the presence of Albus behind her, her temper roared.

“How, pray tell, is that a secure question? It was at a ball—”

Moody sniffed. “What did you say at the first Order meeting after Albus Dumbledore’s death?”

“That we must be inspired by his memory.” All her muscles had locked with anger. “And now you can cease this ridiculous behaviour!”

The eyes seemed to stare straight through her. “Headquarters is the same as before. I’m Secret-Keeper; when the first meeting is arranged someone will give you a note. Any questions?”

“You are in charge of the Order?”

He threw her a look of poison. “I’m second-in-command. Aberforth is leading.”

The surprise was like a punch in the chest. A montage of Aberforths appeared to approach: one showering her with roses, one tearing out of the Great Hall in despair and another slumped on the cobbles, clutching a bottle. The ghostly concept of another, spreading his gnarled hands as he addressed a rapt Order, was bizarre; every attempt to imagine it made her think of Albus. A weight settled in her stomach—how, after all that had happened, could she sit opposite Aberforth and discuss Order plans?

“He recalled us straight after the morning papers were delivered.” Moody’s tone was accusatory. “A damn sight quicker than how others of us have responded—”

“I was under the impression that Potter—”

“Faster even than him. And if you had opened the Daily Prophet and read his letter—”

How could she explain the exhaustion that had stopped her, the fear of seeing words that he had written? There was no way; she could only shake her head, helpless. An invisible hand touched her shoulder as Moody’s head gave a disparaging shake and departed. For a second another head seemed to hang in the flames—Aberforth’s, set with familiar blue eyes that hated her…

There was a swish as the invisibility cloak was removed. Brian’s small body was trembling, and his cheeks were pink.

“By Merlin, Minerva, if the situation were different then I would have been tempted to curse that eye out of his head!”

Those blue eyes were soft and embarrassed when they looked at her. She felt a painful wish for his old form, a desire to draw him into an embrace. Her own cheeks flushed; the memory of a sweat-soaked pair of bodies curled around each other in a tomb had arrived out of nowhere. What did a war matter? What she wanted…

“His behaviour is completely inexcusable—”

“—You know he’s simply concerned about Aberforth,” she said distractedly, fury gone, the key of her mood changed. Moody was now far away and meaningless. “And when you think of his point of view—”

…Could she, though? Could she make that surrender? Somewhere, a little girl existed, frightened of adulthood, of relationships, of everything—a little girl she had crushed each time, but who had been petrified each time…

“Of course, but he has no right to judge—”

… All her experiences in that realm had been frightening, all of them underlining the idea that choice was rare, that she was a vessel for their frustrations to be put into…Yet the illusion—what Albus wanted—had been different…

“—And to treat you in that manner—”

“Albus.”

Her tone did not fit the conversation. He stopped pacing, and peered worriedly over the half-moons.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

Her fingers fumbled; the heat that enclosed her thoughts had extended outside her skin. “I was thinking… of that night… with those illusions…”

The pink spots in his cheeks turned to red. Was he thinking of the same thing? Yes, he was—his mind was stepping round it as an obstacle…

“Yes?”

“I don’t know… I would rather not…”

Unconsciously, she was leant forward, grasping his hands and mentally adding the age to them, trying to look at the eyes instead of the flesh around them—

“Albus, would you still love me even if I could not—even if we were not able to—make love?”

The small Adam’s Apple bobbed. His look was one of raw intensity, and he was sinking to the floor to kiss the back of one hand—

“Minerva… I love you as you are, I’d love us to continue as we are. I love you, what you want, what you are comfortable with. All we do is an expression of what we feel—and I would feel no less if I found myself forbidden to ever touch even your hand, for I love the woman inside, not only her body. Why were you worried, my dearest?”

She could do nothing but clutch his hand as tightly as possible, so that the bones creaked. The pulse in her flesh deepened, became indistinguishable from her emotion. They remained still: the boy, kneeling, staring keenly upwards, and the woman, seated, almost afraid to meet his gaze.

[Apocalypticat]

PART 2

“The Department of Mysteries,” the cool, female voice said.

The grille opened and disgorged the Chief Auror, who strode with a closed face past a wandering official. Of course, Harry corrected himself, people did not simply ‘wander’ in the Department of Mysteries, unless they were himself: present without reason, without authorisation, and against his better instincts. The last time he had been so had resulted in the death of his godfather. A vision of the Veil. The back of his throat dried as he moved up the black, still corridor.

The explanation for it—the only one that sounded vaguely logical or believable—was that he was idle, dangerously idle at the moment. The whole Auror department was in stasis, waiting for the disappearances and deaths, bound by absurd red-tape. He was forced to sit as his desk, twiddling his thumbs, watching Tonks relieve tension through pacing, or Higgins hum tunelessly—forced to wait as an invisible storm drew ever closer. The Azkaban breakout had resulted in a predictable flurry with little concrete achievement; the escaped Death Eaters were gone without a trace, and suddenly the Ministry was inventing paperwork instead of useful measures. They had nothing to play with except the depressing names of the families killed, predictable in their links: Doge and Diggle. The previous afternoon had seen him hissing swear-words in Parseltongue, remembering another year of denial and waste. He loathed being inactive more than anything.

Yes, the Order had been recalled, but the meeting was yet to take place. He wondered who would miss the silver-haired Doge or the excitable Diggle. He could and would, if need be, take the lead, but he wanted to trust in blue eyes… At the moment, nothing was happening.

Yet something was being done, down here where he was not allowed. For almost twenty years he had hated the man being interrogated down here, kept in the most secure place in the Ministry. Nobody had had to tell him to keep away; he could not predict his own behaviour if left alone with the prisoner. He had sat and watched the Aurors parade out of the department to return hours later, shaking their heads, wordless.

Now impatience had conquered him—he was in the revolving dark room, watching the signs for one particular door. How could he keep away, when what he had heard was so surprising? The mechanism ground, like the memories in his head.

“Blocked again, and again, and again until you learn to keep your mouth shut and your mind closed, Potter!”

“Tut, tut—fame clearly isn’t everything.”

“There are many things in the Department of Mysteries, Potter, few of which you would understand and none of which concern you. Do I make myself clear?”

Harry felt his lips twist in a grim smile. He doubted that the Potions Master had ever guessed that he would one day be among those ‘many things’ and that he would certainly be among the Chief Auror’s concerns.

As for understanding, however…

He was passing down another obsidian passage, counting the number of doors along. His face was tingling with anticipation. Two… Three… Brian’s confusing testimony crowded his mind. Five…Six…

He stopped, and looked through the window set into the sixth door. Nothing was beyond but a small black room, empty except for a battered table. His wand drew a cross over the glass.

“Verum exsisto ostendo.”

The battered table leapt sideways and morphed, spilling upwards like mist. The mist curved to form a sphere, and then cleared, revealing a watery ball, inside which a cloaked form curled, twisted into position. Greasy locks swirled inside the floating prison, shockingly visible against the obsidian walls. Across the room stood two Aurors, the frowning Macmillan and the pale Davis, one of the few females in the department. Both had their wands trained firmly on the prisoner and both were staring intensely into the black eyes.

Harry felt his own gaze sharpen and seemingly burn through the window and the hovering prison. Snape. Murderer, coward… saviour? The haggard head, with its large hooked nose, seemed resigned.

Macmillan’s mouth moved. The cell was Imperturbed; he could hear nothing. Snape gave a savage nod, and Macmillan flicked his wand, crying something. Davis appeared to hesitate, and then did the same. Snape’s back went rigid. Yes, this was it, this was the surprising moment he had arrived in time to see—

“The prisoner has said that he will surrender his mind to any Leglimens,” Shacklebolt’s deep voice repeated in his ears.

Snape’s face was twitching and crumpling, the arched brows descending in pain—they were being rough with him as he had once been with Harry, digging down into his soul like a Muggle drill penetrating into concrete. The Chief Auror leaned until his nose was touching the glass, wondering if they were seeing everything, seeing the Avada Kedavra cast at a helpless Dumbledore, seeing Potions lessons in which his father’s name was dirtied, seeing the same man sending notes to Brian—

The Aurors had lowered their wands and were exchanging significant looks. Snape was sinking backwards, skin grey, lids drooping. He was still flat against the glass, wanting to know…

Davis’s head turned; her eyes widened. Harry drew back as her wand danced in the air, unravelling the protective enchantments. The door was opened, releasing the smell of sweat. He swept in. Macmillan raised one eyebrow, but the Chief Auror’s stare was latched onto the prone Snape.

“What did you find out?”

At the sound of his voice, Snape’s eyes snapped open. He writhed up in his prison, the ashen hue of his flesh fading to a yellowish white. Harry felt a distant tremble of rage shoot down him, as if affecting someone else.

“It appears that the prisoner’s testimony and the evidence of Brian Potter has been confirmed,” said Macmillan, expression neutral.

He tore his gaze off of Snape. “What?”

“I said… it appears to have been confirmed.”

Davis next to him gave an emphatic nod. The distant rage turned into a near swell of confusion.

“He’s a skilled Occlumens. He could have constructed memories for you to see.”

Macmillan looked vaguely sceptical. “Of course, only Veritaserum could confirm anything. And at the moment that’s being limited to court use.”

“When is the trial?” asked Harry, meeting Snape’s eyes with a stiff jaw.

“A few day’s time.”

The unpleasant concept of facing his son across a courtroom on two opposite sides of a case intruded; he shoved it away. He felt a hardening of fury against Snape for making it possible.

“He showed you everything?”

“Everything,” Davis whispered. “And… his mind felt—”

“We can’t be subjective about this,” Macmillan interrupted, but his expression was unreadable.

“You two will have to give testimony of what you saw at the trial.”

Both Aurors nodded. “We’ll sit down and write a report now, sir.”

They moved to leave. He could not leave; he was still transfixed by the loathsome enigma presented to him in the floating ball: the man who had killed his mentor and saved his son. Snape was looking down and away from him, sable locks concealing his eyes. He considered speaking, but his tongue was like a leaden lump against his teeth. Macmillan and Davis were waiting, the former’s face knotted into anxiety.

He cast one more look of hate and confusion at his ex-professor, and left the room.

---

The dream eased its way into him, along the path it had already taken. He was in the same whispering field, standing in the middle of a stretch of grass that swayed with a soft wind. The venerable stranger against the tree still held the same book, and greeted him with the same knowing smile. Only the colour of the sky—no longer azure, but livid from a setting sun—had changed.

He was walking towards the tree, intensely aware of the stretch and pull of his sinews, the milky strength of his bones, the undisturbed clarity of his skin… the bloom of youth. The air around him seemed curiously substantial, as if silk was flapping over his limbs. Out of the corner of one eye he glimpsed a rippling, maternal vision, a surreal mixture of two mothers, two breasts he had suckled at. Two voices wove nursery rhymes into the wind.

The stranger had blue eyes which twinkled with secrets. The crooked nose was pointed at the book, but the secrets were visible, directed at him. The effect was infuriating, but as he neared the tree, the age of the old man became ever more apparent: the gouged lines marring the brow, the hoary pallor of the beard. In spite of the secrets, he knew there to be scars under the robes, left by an ancient German mage. Had he ever existed in such a shell?

He was about to stop, but noticed something odd about the book, something sitting in the fold of the pages. The cerulean orbs flicked down from him to it and back again. He stepped closer, and bent down to see.

The stone that sat in the pages was a violent red that outshone the sky, shocking with the intensity of blood. He looked sharply at the old wizard, remembering…

The stranger who was not a stranger caught and held his gaze. The twinkle flamed brighter. Long, gnarled fingers turned up the book, so that a worn leather cover was revealed. He knelt, and read in fading, gold letters—

The Last Quest, Nicholas Flamel.

[Apocalypticat]

PART 3

Twelve, Grimmauld Place was, in spite of its dingy location, unexpectedly large. After being bellowed at by an unreasonable Black ancestor, tripping over an oddly placed umbrella stand and for the hundredth time entering a room that appeared to contain an ancient family tree instead of living Order members, Rolanda Hooch was resisting the urge to scream with frustration. The novelty of being inside the secret Order headquarters was fast wearing off, and a strange, desperate need to find Aberforth had seized her. Half an hour she had been trapped with Molly Weasley down in the kitchen, being bored out of her brains by sugar-coated musings over various Weasley descendents! No, she needed to find someone who would not be offended at the suggestive positioning of a pair of tomatoes and a carrot.

More to the point, she needed to fling her arms round someone and kiss them into senselessness! A grin curled her mouth as she climbed another flight of stairs.

Two more black, monotonous doors opened before her before she found her goal: Aberforth, alone in a cluttered junk-room. His grizzled hair was tumbling down his back, which was turned towards her; he appeared rapt amongst disturbed dust-motes, staring down into the deserted Muggle street. Her beam grew wider, almost out of her control. The sight had dissipated all her irritation. Oh, what a heath she had to frolic in!

She was dashing across the room and wrapping her arms around him—

“Aberforth!”

Her arms met unyielding stiffness. The muscles in his white face were taut beneath a sheen of sweat.

“What—?”

“What am I doing?” One of his hands was tearing at his beard. “What am I doing?”

Her voice came out with a strange, forced lightness. “Standing in the middle of a room, from the looks of it.”

All thoughts of tonsil Quidditch now seemed rather inappropriate. Rolanda tried to wrap her body round the old wizard’s, but the skeletal form was immovable, all the force inside it locked and bent away from her. She shifted until their bones slotted into each other, until she could feel the rapidly beating heart. Pressing her hand to it, she looked up and tried to catch the distant gaze.

“What’s the matter?”

“The matter is that I’m a bloody fool.” One long, trembling finger pointed backwards through the doorway. “They’ll all be here soon! And I’m supposed to say something to them, inspire them! Produce some genius plan!”

“No one’s expecting you to come up with one on the spot,” Rolanda pointed out. “I bet old Dumbledore discussed things before producing anything.”

“Old Dumbledore…” he breathed. The eyes seemed to find her, and the hand moved from his beard to the back of her head. “Exactly. I’m not him, and I shouldn’t have tried to be him. I’m not… not clever enough for this. I shouldn’t have stepped forward, offered myself up when I have no experience, no way of… Merlin’s beard, I’m going to screw everything up and get people killed all for the sake of a silly whim!”

“You won’t,” she said softly, nibbling at his ear. “You always underrate yourself. You can do this; I know it. And you shouldn’t argue with a woman.”

An old spasm of self-loathing crept across his features. “Oh yes, and I can do this just like I did that interview?”

“Honestly, you make it sound like a complete disaster!”

“Well it was! That blasted reporter spent ten minutes just trying to get me to talk. I had no idea what to say to her!”

The beam invaded again. “And then you came out with a speech. A jolly good one. They’ve printed it about three times already!”

The irises dodged hers, and the beam stayed in place as she watched the pink suffusion emerge. You silly man. Silly, yet splendid. She had been in the room at the time, had sat up as the ‘erms’ and ‘ahs’ and gruff responses to irrelevant questions about Minerva had been swept away, replaced by a stream of verbal fire accompanied by hand gestures and glazed eyes. The shrewd, critical reporter had rocked back as if engulfed by a storm, and her Quick-Quotes Quill had sped across the parchment as if possessed. Aberforth had seemingly forgotten he was speaking to her; he had spoken as though addressing a panicking crowd, leaping out of his chair to pace, voice strident in the poky room.

“…Together, we must stand and fight and fling down those who would take all from us we hold dear! What were the last two wars fought for, if not that we should be able to live without the fear of Darkness? For months Harry Potter, the Man-Who-Defeated-Him, has been warning us…”

Had the phoenix inside him been dormant until the need of it? Or had it always been there, but hidden away whilst his brother took the lead? Perhaps there had always been the possibility of two Order leaders—one wise and calm and saintly, counselling mercy, and one fierce and animated, sounding as though he would take a wand to every Death Eater himself. Had it surprised her, really? No, not ever since she had seen the heath: all he was, contained in a few acres of ground—lonely and violent, yet majestic and strong, like one of Arthur Weasley’s ‘springs’ bowed into the potential for action.

“You can do this,” she was saying again, quietly. “Look at me, Aberforth. Do you honestly think, after making a speech like that, that you can’t inspire anybody?”

One calloused hand cupped her chin. “I can’t plan or organise. I’m not Albus.”

“No one is expecting another Albus. And perhaps he wouldn’t be what is needed this time, anyway. If you’re still worried, I think that Mad-Eye—”

“Minerva expected another Albus.”

His eyes were suspiciously watery. Rolanda pressed her hand into his chest until his heartbeat reverberated along her fingers. Minerva. She felt a pang, but kissed the corner of his mouth.

“She was wrong to think like that.”

“We were wrong for each other. And now I’ve found the right woman.”

She sucked gently on his lower lip. “You hold onto that.”

He sighed; a shudder that rippled down his body, echoing onto hers. “She’ll be here tonight.”

There was nothing to say to that, so she said nothing. A shaft, almost like a breach between two sides of her, lanced down her chest. Two images came: Aberforth slicing himself open with his wand, and Minerva slumped into tears in a chair. She had soothed one pain, and abandoned another, and did not know how to restore the balance.

“Ah, well…”

The mouth next to hers was pushing back. For a few minutes all was lost in the melding of their forms, in the tonsil Quidditch she had searched for earlier. Aberforth’s hand was running down her spine when the door opened.

She didn’t care, but his natural embarrassment tore his mouth from hers. Reluctantly, she looked up.

Poppy Pomfrey stood in the doorway, mouth agape.

“Madam Hooch—well—I’m sorry—I’ll be going—”

“Poppy—”

The Healer stopped and half-turned, halfway out the room. Rolanda felt a surge of warmth behind her eyes; she could no longer bear to leave things as they were, to be estranged. Madam Hooch. It was like a slap to the face! When had they ever called each other by their titles? No, she could not remember such a time! And all over Minerva, and something neither of knew anything about! Over forget-me-nots and mysterious smiles! What did it matter any more?

Her skin was burning under the awkward scrutiny, but she wanted… Merlin, what did she want? The old conversations, the old days, the old little teasing. The ability to link arms with Poppy and made her blush with crude humour. The right to bore her with brooms. She wanted… understanding. You saw. You know. This is the reason for everything.

None of the ideas would reach her tongue. Poppy was silent, unreadable, a myriad of barely expressed emotions…

“I’ll be off downstairs,” grunted Aberforth. His hand gripped hers quickly as he passed, and then the door swung shut.

All at once, they were alone. Poppy was inscrutable. Rolanda was terrified.

“How long?”

She tried to convey everything with a look. “Well… ever since… really, ever since…”

“And Minerva…?”

She shrugged, looked down. “I… it was just… he was so very hurt.”

“And Minerva wasn’t?”

The urge to scream was powerful once again. “No—I mean, yes—but I—well I just couldn’t—Aberforth was just so…”

“You believed all those articles about her.”

The memory of their last conversation brought tears to her eyes. That infernal Witch Weekly!

“Can you blame me? Minerva didn’t tell either of us—and you must admit, it seemed—”

She cut herself off, wishing the words could be retracted. The conversation was going wrong; the fog that had dragged her away from her friends was back, cloaking and alienating them..

“Like she had met someone else,” the other witch finished. “And so soon after she refused Aberforth.”

Rolanda nodded, feeling her expression become pleading. “Listen to me, Poppy—I didn’t mean to be so—I just couldn’t—it was like I was torn…”

Poppy’s face was utterly blank.

“I was just… blind,” she whispered. “Poppy, I couldn’t bear to see him as he was! I was angry on his behalf, I was angry at everyone and everything on his behalf! I cared about him so much and I couldn’t understand why Minerva had…done what she had! I…”

Her voice trailed off. All was hopeless; what was beautiful had been lost, and could not be regained. She addressed the floor.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything else to say. I would like it if you and Minerva spoke to me again, but I don’t know how to make things right. Goodbye.”

She made to walk out of the room, but a hand closed on her wrist like a vice. Wet brown eyes stared at her. Suddenly she was being hugged too tightly to breath, pressed into the plump body so that all else was invisible. Poppy’s sobs sounded in her ear, and her own tears were overflowing onto a robed shoulder. Someone was groaning as if in grief; she suspected that it was herself. The progression from cold conversation to embracing made no sense to her, but what did it matter? The old and valuable had returned, even though Poppy hadn’t said anything; it was as if a secret was being confided, wrenched from one aching breast and shared onto another.

“You idiot, Rolanda!”

“You always knew I was one!”

The Healer’s sopping face returned to view. “Why on earth didn’t you say something, tell me at least?”

Childish as always, her hands were to her tears. “I didn’t know myself for a while… and by then it was too late. But… you do understand?”

“Yes, yes, yes I do! And congratulations!”

“Do you forgive me!”

“Of course! I confess I even found myself thinking in the same way! And if it had been Alastor…”

Her sobs turned to hiccupping chuckles. “Oh… I don’t know how I could ever tell Minerva.”

“I think she’d be happy for both you. And if you’re worried about how Aberforth would act… well, he couldn’t possibly be any worse than Alastor!”

They were laughing now; all forgiven, all lost into irrelevance. The vision of three girls embracing beside an oak tree was half real again. Rolanda grinned, arms still wrapped around the form of her friend.

“We’ll have to go on a double date now!”

“Rolanda—!”

“Oh please, Pops, you know I’ve always liked the idea of a double date—and there shouldn’t be a problem; your Mad-Eye practically worships Aberforth—”

“Honestly… you never change!”

“Would you want me to?” asked Rolanda, half-serious.

“Of course not! Now come downstairs; Alastor’s starting to get the jitters!”

---

He opened his eyes.

The top of the four-poster bed looked serenely down at him, completely alien to his thumping heart. The red bed-hangings and curtains were drawn, enclosing Brian in a dark ruby box, trapping his racing, bounding thoughts—as though he were inside the stone of the dream—

“The Last Quest,” he breathed.

His whole body was trembling with the enormity of it, clenched with one flash of unexpected revelation—

The Philosopher’s Stone.

Impossible, impossible, he was by no means… His mind was encased in the box, racing around, trying to find a way out, an alternative mode of thinking, another explanation—

He sat up, and ran his hands through Brian’s shaggy auburn hair, feeling the sweat on his forehead. He could not believe it—certainly not until he had read—

He jumped out of bed, tearing through the curtains, heedless to the noise. The other occupants of the Gryffindor dormitory were all irrelevant, standing outside the ruby box, the bloody stone. He seized his wand and rammed on Brian’s half-moons before wrenching the lid off his trunk. Eric Weasley gave a loud snore just as he flung socks and textbooks aside to reveal the secret stash of tomes Minerva had sent him from the old Headmaster’s private chambers, shrunk to fit. Wordlessly, he expanded them to their original size.

Where was it?

—There, a signed copy of The Last Quest, by Nicholas Flamel. He thumbed desperately through ancient parchment—

—And stopped.

The phrase ‘the Philosopher’s Stone’ is said to refer to two very different versions of the stone. Most commonly recognised is its identification with the physical Philosopher’s Stone, a rock of blood-red colour which grants the user the Elixir of Life and thus immortality. This book will deal primarily with this definition. However, hermetical experts regard such as Stone as only symbolic or representative of the one true Philosopher’s Stone, which is a spiritual rather than magical achievement. Those who have achieved the spiritual Philosopher’s Stone are said to have attained great wisdom and to have been chosen by the rare mystical bird, the phoenix, which has long been used as a symbol of the Stone. The precise conditions for the achievement of the spiritual Philosopher’s Stone are unknown, but it is said that those successful in the quest are granted the chance of resurrection and regeneration, much like the bird which represents it.

Next to the passage was a woodcut of a phoenix, crest erect as it sat on the shoulder of an old man cradling a baby. The phoenix, Albus thought distractedly, looked rather like Fawkes.

The book dropped from his hands. He lay back, panting, feeling as though he had run several miles—

…Resurrection and regeneration…

Could it be? He could think of no other explanation—only titbits of information to confirm it—things he had read about the Stone making itself known in dreams, about how the recognition of love was purportedly the final condition—

—Yet he had not recognised his love! He had not dared to before he died, and even for years after—

The memory of himself plunging from the tower forced itself into his head. Yes, he was soaring up and then down, feeling his soul rip away as the rag-doll he had inhabited dropped away—

Then what? He had thought of Harry and Minerva. Did that count as recognition? Had he known and recognised in that one, agonising moment? His glasses had fallen off; he was rubbing his hands into his face—

“You all right, mate?”

He looked up, and saw the orange blur that was Eric sitting up in bed. He smiled, astonished at his ability to do so, amazed that reality itself was not spinning out of all sense. Some corner of him was even calm enough to ponder how many more times Eric would have to ask that question. He closed the book.

“I’m fine. I just wanted to check something up.”

“Now? I know it’s only eleven, but... I can understand you not being tired, but Herbology really wore me out! Go to bed!”

“Good night, then!”

He climbed back into the four-poster, closing the curtains behind him. Brian was back in the red box the old man inside of him had, for some inexplicable reason, been granted. The young body lay like a gift given by a complete stranger. An explanation that was no explanation! The spiritual Philosopher’s Stone… a thing of myth and fantasy. Was it true? …Chosen by the rare mystical bird, the phoenix… Had it been decided then? Had he been selected to have another life the second Fawkes had landed in his five-year-old self’s lap?

There was a flutter on the bed. A feather brushed his nose, and he caught a flash of avian eyes as the crested head nuzzled into his neck. It was as if Fawkes had known what he was thinking.

The phoenix chirruped, and stepped over, to burrow into his chest. They lay together, two reborn creatures. His heartbeat deepened into sleep.

---

They were assembled.

Tonks, Remus, Shacklebolt, Ron, Hermione, Molly, Arthur, Bill, Fleur, Ginny, Charlie, Fred, George, Poppy—an audience sat rapt around the table, stare fixed on him, tense from all too near memories of the past. A collection of faces, determined and fearful and stolid. Perhaps they remembered another pair of blue eyes? Yes. He could see the memory in their faces, in the hope that made them listen, in the fact that they were silent instead of pointing out that he was nothing but a barman.

To his right, both standing, were the Chief Auror and Alastor Moody. His feelings about both were ambivalent; the latter had pried where he had no right to pry, and was making the situation worse by glaring at the witch who sat at the far end of the table, furthest from him when they had once been so close. Yet here he was, ardent in his support, filling in the gaps whenever his clumsy tongue refused to obey—a mind that could strategise and plan, a personality who should have led the Order. He had voiced the idea, but the magical eye had pierced him, had bored into his own non-magical pair as its owner disagreed.

The same problem as with Potter, as with everybody else! The cloaked, powerful figure to his right could also be depended upon for both a keen mind and experience, and seemed a little less blind in his support than blasted Mad-Eye (after all, he was another natural successor whom he was usurping) but would still stare stupidly into his eyes, as if a boy sat before his headmaster! They were all the same! From a distance they looked askance at the shabby barman; nearer to they were hypnotised, swept away by a glimpse of his irises! As if a man’s eyes could suggest his abilities!

Merlin, he had found another reason to detest his brother—for the expectations he bred. As if the witch sitting so far away from him, whose warmth he had once captured in his arms and whose lips he had once kissed, was not enough—

Some buried part of him was still writhing in pain. The last time he had seen the physical reality of that thin face had been at the ball, and the last time he had focussed on those lips had been when they had mortally wounded him. He could still feel the ghost of her refusal, the impact of the words like a spear through his gut… Even as he had screamed at her he had known that he was broken, that he was going to go back to the prison she had broken him from and drink everything that was nearby…

Her eyes were the only pair not looking at him. Perhaps she found the sight of him as agonising as he found the sight of her. He would avoid speaking to her; he would tell Moody or Potter…

Hate. Love. There was no longer any difference—

A hand rested warmly on his. Rolanda, to his left, gave a small smile.

A smile that contained everything.

His voice grew stronger; without knowing, he had launched into a speech. Mad-Eye was giving a nod at every word, and the Chief Auror was struck, rigid, apparently impressed. Before him, the Order was silent and trusting, spying another phoenix, watching invisible, spreading wings. He was not sure of those wings, but it no longer mattered. Next to him was a woman who could take over a hundred years’ of sorrow and unspoken wrath, sooth it away, and rise, flying, to meet it.

A/N: I honestly don't think anyone is reading over here, but just in case ff.net dies suddenly!

[Aurinko]

Hm...the new Aberforth is surprising. I am reading over here, though I'm usually reading more over there...I'm not sure how I feel about Aberforth becoming Albus, but I guess I'm glad he's doing a good job at it? Rolanda's all mixed up, though, and Alastor's a big jerk. hmpf. ;-) More, please!

[silvertabby]

I love it! OMG! you're better than JK. Continue please

[Sparrabether]

I just discovered this story - LOVE IT!!!! I don't usually read stuff in the angst section, but your story rocks!

[Apocalypticat]

A/N: ... Er. "She WHAT? She vanished for TWO YEARS and abandoned her wonderful, amazing, supportive reviewers?!" She did, and is VERY sorry. She returns to the world of fanfiction hoping to finish Him Again for the sake of those incredible people (Skite and Marielle particularly...) who have kept watching and waiting—and offers this strange hybrid chapter, started in 07 and finished in 09!

---

CHAPTER 31: A Circle

PART 1

Je ne craignais pas de mourir, mais de mourir sans etre illumine.

(I was not afraid to die, but to die without having been enlightened)

—Comte de Saint-Germain, La Tres Sainte Trinisophie

---

"Minerva, we do not have to do anything you don't want to."

She was naked, standing in front of his desk. The office was different—not in appearance, for in her time she had retained everything of His, when His name was unmentionable—in that the air held a different presence, one which overrode her own. Somehow she knew, without analysing the situation, or even looking at the date of the calendar on the wall, that she had never been Headmistress and never would have to be. There would always be a headmaster sat in the chair, twinkling eyes roving over her form.

"But I want to."

The handsome face in front of her split into a grin. Long fingers enticed her forwards.

The scene changed: they were in a bed which was a tomb, red satin sheets in sharp contrast to the cold white marble without. The sky above them was dark, speckled with stars like diamonds, centred around a nude, shameless moon. Her own nakedness had changed; it was no longer the stark presentation of the office, but both secret and glowing, luminance emphasised by shadow. His own body was almost melded to hers, a warmth which burned against the cool of the night—but still clothed, so that only a delicate stretch of fabric separated them. She thought that this was strange, and that it something to do with her, but could think no further, because Aberforth was suddenly standing over the tomb with his wand raised...

Now she was a memory, a presence of the pastand bleeding; the satin sheets had become a pool of her life, leaking away into the dead earth. Albus had turned into the cast-iron swastika which had been Grindelwalds Horcrux, and it was lying heavily on her chest, pulsing with hatred, forcing the blood out—

"Minerva, can you hear me? Minerva!"

An auburn beard was above her, its owner as leeched of blood as she was. She tried to speak, but the sound wouldnt come... Such a child...

"You must tell me how this was done!"

She was trying to tell him about the transfigured eagle with its cruel beak, but her voice emerged to tell something different, something which hadn't happened—

"Someone put a wand up me, Professor, someone put a wand—"

Minerva McGonagall awoke suddenly, gasping, the weight still on her chest and something red engulfing her vision—

Fawkes chirped and cocked his head as if concerned, his almost-human expression marred only by the parchment in his mouth. The morning was blazing all around her, an unseasonable sun grinning through the window, and the curtains were stirring with a calming whisper. Still shaken, she glared up at the phoenix.

"Do you usually land on peoples' chests?"

Fawkes gave an odd, squawking cackle, like laughter. Shooting the bird the look she usually reserved for hung-over Seventh-Years, she ripped the parchment from his beak and sat up. The phoenix squawked again and vanished in a flash of flame. Heart still beating unreasonably fast, the Headmistress had to read the letter twice before she could make any sense of it.

If the Goddess could be ready at twelve, then she might find a temple waiting for her.

Yours eternally,

Albus

"That man."

She smiled, and then frowned. The word 'eternally' was indented deeply into the parchment, and was preceded by a blot, as though the writer had paused before continuing. Surely he didnt doubt...?

She lay back and tried to clear her mind. The dream was still washing over her, the image of a pool of blood seared onto her eyelids. The sigh came almost involuntarily.

She did not need Sybil Trelawney or any of her absurd books to interpret that dream. No great mental effort was needed to account for the presence of Aberforth, as the Order meeting had only been the day before, and had not passed without the predictable distress of sitting across from the man she had refused. Several times his voice had faltered as he looked at her, and she had kept her gaze solidly away, chest tight with awkwardness. They had not greeted each other, or indeed performed any other sign of official recognition that the other was there, even as the air seemed crowded with unspoken recrimination. The moment she had arrived had been the worst; the rest of the Order had become suddenly intent on discussing the weather, staring through her with fixed grins. 'Professor McGonagall' had had her hand shaken as though she was a fictional character, a wraith who had come to disturb them.

Well, she corrected herself, that wasn't completely true. Whilst Arthur had fumbled with his fingers and talked loudly about plugs, Poppy had embraced her with a secret, encouraging pat on the back. Whilst Molly had laughed for longer than was necessary, the Healer had carefully asked her how she was, and seen past the meaningless response. Whilst Harry had stared with the baffled expression of someone who had been victim to violence with a heavy object, the other witch had steered her away from Aberforth into another room. Most of all, whilst the rest of the Order were determinedly rapt on Aberforths speech, her best friend had held her hand under the table, fingers compact in trusting support.

Poppy had also, she remembered, kept nodding and smiling at Rolanda, and looking from her, to Minerva, to Aberforth, as if trying to communicate some secret. She had been too tense and worried to really pay attention, and she had not lingered after the meeting, nor arrived early.

Rolanda!

Her former friend had returned Poppy's smiles with a strained one of her own, and then directed a strange, frightened look at the Headmistress. She could not understand its meaning, and had simply avoided her eyes until she looked away. Aberforth alone was upsetting enough without Rolanda—though she had wondered why Rolanda was there... After all, Poppy's presence was because of Alastor, but... She shook her head; it didn't matter.

The rest of the dream was more disturbing, and also needed no spark of genius to interpret. No focus was needed to return an eight-year-old Minerva sobbing to her mother—

"Louisa... Louisa said..."

Her mother had never actually learnt what Louisa—now only the blurred memory of a blonde girl with pigtails—had said, as the younger Minerva had found it too alarming even to repeat.

"Wizards stick wands up witches to make babies... and it hurts a lot."

There had been more than that, of course. Louisa, the morbidly-obsessed daughter of a neighbour, had always been drawn to the grotesque, a natural tendency fed by a mother who told bizarre tales. When the child had overheard what she shouldnt, it had been an automatic response to fictionalise it, and illustrate her theory with ghastly pictures. The adult Minerva understood this, but the girl Minerva had taken it as gospel, and had suffered recurring nightmares involving wands and Louisa's scrawled stick-figures. The terror had only ended four years later, when her mother had gone through the Facts of Life more delicately. The nightmare fear had vanished along with Louisa, the latter through an epidemic.

Now she was alarmed by it again—not what had been said, but the context the fear of a child had emerged in, immediately after intimacy with a nonsensically clothed Albus. The whole thing had been wrong—why had she been naked in his office, and he robed? Why had the fantasy of the tomb-bed held the same inequality?

She was not frightened by the idea of a naked Albus—the very concept was absurd, the nervousness of a sheltered child instead of an experienced adult. No, the idea was an exciting one, one to anticipate.

"Would you still love me even if I could not—even if we were not able to—make love?"

The Headmistress sat up.

That was wrong too, ridiculous, childish—completely inexpressive of what she had felt. Albus's love was a sure thing, a ground she could stand on in a world of endless sky. Physical intimacy was one healthy dimension that would not compromise the emotions of either of them; too tightly were they bound together, too much had they shared... How she could doubt what she had seen in his mind? She snorted. Merlin knew what he thought of her, after saying something so ridiculous!

As for vocalising what was the issue, the words were hard to choose even in her own mind. Her relationships from before Albus, from before she was even Deputy Headmistress—pale, transitory shadows—had always either moved inevitably from the emotional to the physical without retention, or had been marred as soon as that dimension developed, focussed around unspoken problems for which she served as a receptacle. Yet she could not fear the same with Albus; their love was stronger, and he selfless rather than selfish. Logically, the worry that all could be ruined made no sense. She could not even tell why the thought had grown on her so recently, or why she had chosen to voice it shortly after Moody's appearance. Was it because Moody reminded her of Aberforth and a failed relationship with blue eyes? Or had the new war unsettled her, made their situation losable and therefore confrontational? Was everything she thought a side-stepping of the real issue?

Whatever it was, Minerva McGonagall was emphatically not a woman who found problems unconquerable.

With this idea in mind, she rose to begin selecting robes, still stinging from the concept of Albus thinking her childish. She drew out a green set with gold embroidery Too professor-like, too conservative. Back it went, as did a dozen other robes.

---

Midday came slowly. Her personal chambers became a cage in which she paced, glancing at the tapestry entrance every now and then. Recent meetings between them had always been arranged so that Albus entered her chambers whilst Disillusioned or under the invisibility cloak, so as to stop the portraits muttering about the amount of times they had been made to face the wall. She had pointed out that a mysteriously opening tapestry was even more suspicious, but he had argued that a movement could be dismissed as the result of the wind, whilst overturned portraits were more intrinsically secretive. The change irritated her, in that there was yet another room to be crossed whilst she waited.

The clock struck twelve. She moved towards the tapestry just as it flapped opento divulge apparent nothingness. Her lips curved upwards of their own accord as a chuckle sounded in the air.

"Albus Dumbledore! Come out from under that cloak at once!"

The chuckle grew louder. Sherbet lemon-scented breath blew suddenly over her ear. She turned around, but her assailant was still invisible. The laughter of relief, after so many days of tension, was welling up inside her. Something brushed her arm.

She turned around again, and suddenly a warm body was up against her—

—Gone again, with a chuckle. The Headmistress glared at thin air and shook her head.

"Albus, you are such a—"

A long finger caressed her jaw—

"—Child!"

Her breath hitched as the invisible hand stroked downwards, setting her skin tingling. Cloth and flesh mingled around her, touching, teasing, laughing. Lips pressed suddenly on her own just as unseen arms wrapped around her, reminding her of the dream—

Albus Dumbledore's head emerged in the air a foot away, blue eyes holding a mischievous twinkle.

"A little flustered, Headmistress?"

She drew herself up and arranged her face into an expression of mock-severity, trying to will the blood from her cheeks.

"A little immature, Mr Potter?"

Albus closed his eyes and winced, drawing the cloak off. "Touché, my dear."

Now that the teasing cloak was off, she could survey him properly. The auburn locks were even brighter than she recalled from their last meeting, rendered the essence of fire by the black over-robes he wore: fine silk traced over with a phoenix embroidered in gold. Under the over-robes were white ones, tied around with a golden beltthe overall effect was surreal, as if he was a figure from an oil painting. His face appeared smooth, a tad less lined around the eyes which swept down her, seeming to hold a strange tension—or perhaps she had imagined it.

"Have you had a little less Ageing Potion this time?"

"Oh, perhaps." One reddish eyebrow arched. "And may I say that the Goddess looks particularly beautiful today?"

"You may." She twisted one finger in the long beard. "And I thought the Goddess was going to be led to her temple?"

"Mhm."

Their mouths were together again, exploring. She deepened it deliberately, wanting to prove something unspeakable, something beyond what she could voice. Sucking on his lower lip, she moved her hands into his hair, just as his own dropped to her waist. What did the war or dark wizards matter, when the centre of the world was now? His hands were moving up to her back, massaging the tension away, whilst his own mysteriously remained...

He drew back, so that the sapphire filled her vision.

"I'm sorry about the last few days."

His voice was unexpectedly serious, even as his hands continued their work. She stilled and watched him, waiting as his face creased in anxiety.

"I did not intend for what we share to be buried under either another war or Severus. There is no point in defending what is beautiful, only to forget to cultivate that beauty. Forgive me."

Mentally, she rolled her eyes, crushing the small part of her that protested he was right. "Albus, don't be absurd. There's nothing to forgive. You've spent your entire life fighting dark wizards, and you can hardly be expected to sit back and ignore everything when people start being killed! What we share has to come second—"

"No," he said shortly, gaze piercing to x-ray intensity. "And I think you know I'm right in saying that I've neglected you."

"You've seen me every week except for when Harry kept you away from the school. As for Severus, you are doing what you believe, and nobody can ask for more than that."

The name fell unpleasantly off her tongue; they still disagreed, and it was a point of tension, the shadow of a tower. Most frustrating was her ability to understand both sides of it! Of course Albus would want to protect the boy he had loved, and of course she would loath the man who had killed him...

"My dear, rather than debating it with me, how about you let me have the opportunity to correct the balance?"

"This 'temple'?"

"Certainly."

For a second he seemed suppressed, biting back words, but the twinkle had returned, illuminating his entire face as he reached inside the black over-robe. After some fumbling, he produced a rock, holding it out to her like a piece of cake. Minerva raised her eyebrow.

"I'm unimpressed, Albus."

The half-moons flashed amusement. "A Portkey!"

As he pressed into her hands, the force of it took hold of her, latching behind her pelvis and dissolving the world into a kaleidoscopic whirl of colour, through which she and Albus sped, alone in a wind-borne dance. Sapphire stood out, reduced the other hues to nothing. The moment seemed to solidify; they were not moving, but standing rapt around a rock, both hands kept on it but gazes locked elsewhere, sharing a secret—

Her feet hit the ground, and the illusion was goneto give way to what at first seemed another.

They were standing on a hill overlooking a vast lake, a shimmering blue teardrop which held a mirror to the sky. Dark trees bowed down below the hill, encircling the lake and forming a guard of honour. A thin mist hung over the view like a window wet with condensation; the hill was an island above it, a step above the surreal world they were to descend into. Careful peering revealed another island at the centre of the lake, a pupil at the centre of a wise eye, crowned by a spreading oak. Something white sat in its shadows, something gleaming and sacred... She looked round at Albus, stunned.

He smiled wanly, and, without a word, began to descend into the mist. She took a step forward to follow him, and then heard it.

A melodious cry was going up around the hill, echoing down to the water. A song was beginning, a rapture of sweet, avian notes that reached in and squeezed the heart...

"Albus, what is—?"

There was no need to complete the question; she realised she had heard something of it before, but only one voice where now there were hundreds, all intent on a hymn of their own, yet weaving their sounds to make one glorious tapestry. Speechless, she followed him down the hill, feeling the mist bathe her face. The symphony was growing louder, piercing to the bone, intensifying until tears inexplicably filled her eyes. They were among the trees now, wet with dew, and looking up she glimpsed a long, golden tail feather...

"Minerva?"

The lake was before them: a strange, visual representation of what the song had produced. A small boat was gliding over the water without oars, pointing a crudely carved figurehead at them in silent invitation. She seized Albuss hand as he stepped in, wondering if he was feeling the same, made desperate by the eternal vocalisation around them. The blue eyes looked at her reassuringly, and she was stepping into the boat, the wood moving in a delicate sway.

He tapped the figurehead with his wand, and they moved off. His arms were around her, a cup around her inward swelling—a swelling of sadness and hope, a realisation of ignorance. The whole of life was there in that song, she thought, pressing her head into his shoulder, the whole of the world, an unending cycle of loving generations. Her logic was gone, swept away by a surrounding scream of grief and adoration, a fall from a tower and a proclamation of love, a little girl and her boy-professor... She hid her face and let the tears come.

There was no way of knowing how long she cried into him, or how long the boat moved across the lake. There was simply Albus, an enclosing warmth, an inexplicable strength in the midst of surrender. One hand massaged her back, trailing up and down her spine, as her mind played memories: the white nucleus of power rising from the trees as a German mage fell, a green serpent as another dark rose, a stern professor watching students go out into a recurring night, the sympathetic face of a counsellor, and sad sapphire...

...Sad sapphire, and a boy with the same eyes...

When she lifted her head up, he was looking past her towards the trees, hand still moving automatically. The lake was spread out around them, the distant shores swathed in mist, and the boat was still swaying, a gentle lilt in the collective voice, which rose suddenly to an aching, unbearable crescendo—

The trees spat fire.

No, not fire, but hundreds of pairs of wings, lifting up in formation—

A soaring column of phoenixes rose into the air, blinding and fiery against the blue, curling and dancing in a blazing arrow. In the lead was a familiar shape, a crested head which ducked proudly towards its master.

Her gasp of amazement finally left her, and Albus looked down, expression as if torn from something unpleasant. Confusion. One long finger traced her cheek, wiping away the tears, but her attention was on the arrowhead above, wonder holding her mesmerised, ignoring the mixed messages from the man. The arrow was shooting towards them, skimming low over the water in a flash of gold. A thousand wing-beats echoed across the lake, and suddenly the whisper of feathers was all around them, covering them in heat, wrapping them in the song—

Then they were past, soaring again upwards to give a final, triumphant cry. The arrow broke above the trees, dissolving into the mist. The spell was suddenly broken; she could speak.

"A-Albus—how and what—?"

His lips turned upwards, and he pressed a finger on hers. "In a moment. We're here."

The calmness of his action shook her: was he entirely unaffected by the phoenix song? A closer look made her regret the thought; his eyes were distant, one with the mist, and he was paler than usual, as if the blood had balled within him. The boat had come to a sudden halt, but neither of them got out for a few minutes, the silence after the music still ringing.

She tried again. "The phoenixes—why—?"

He shook his head, and leapt onto the shore like a deer. Wordlessly, he extended a hand, and helped her out onto the island that had been visible before. The gleaming, white something was now immediately obviousand it was a joke, it was absurd, for surely he had not actually meant...?

The mist had parted, sparing the island from its hypnotic blanket, to reveal tall columns rearing on top of marble steps, blindingly bright in the midday sun. The temple itself was illuminated in spite of the shade of the oak, revealing carved phoenixes, diving and rolling in marble air, stretched around pillars, gathered round nests, flying in formation over vast, white walls. An ancient, glowing table stood outside, covered with less than ancient crumbs which were being pecked at by creatures born in previous centuries. The oak above was weighted with phoenixes; brown eyes stared from all directions as the Headmistress took several, faltering steps along a short, overgrown path. Her eyes were drawn to the front of the temple's roof, where a larger phoenix than the rest spread its wings, carved beak open in a soundless call. Feeling for Albus's hand, she walked up the steps and inwards.

The room inside was small and darkened, reddish in the light of several candles. A scarlet loveseat reposed in a corner, next to a varnished wooden table with clawed feet. Sweet scent wafted from a magical incense-burner, and the floor was coated with soft, purple petals. The only thing which looked in line with the temple's function was the dusty altar at the back.

"The Goddess's temple!" Albus declared, with an unnecessary sweeping motion. "I hope you find it satisfactory."

Minerva gaped at him. Stupefied, she looked around the room again before back at the enigmatic, frustrating and endearing man beside her, who was grinning madly from ear to ear. Trembling slightly, she sank down on the loveseat, turning so that the light from outside formed an auburn halo around his head. The wild thought that he had somehow created the lake, the island and the temple all in one night forced her mouth to open.

"Did you do all this?"

Albus laughed. "Merlin no! All I have done is what you see in this room."

Numbly, she looked down at the petals. "Where are we?"

"Ireland. To be more specific, Amhran Loch, otherwise known as Myrrdin's Tear."

The information meant nothing. His grin and the tears she had shed at the song now seemed incongruous.

"About the phoenixes... and that song..."

Thin hands cupped her face and the sapphire was serious. "Forgive me, I should have warned you of that. I had forgotten how much it can affect one the first time."

"Why are they here? How did you find this place? And the temple—"

"One question at a time, my dear! Why they are here... I do not think humans can know that. I certainly don't pretend to know. I found this place because Fawkes showed me it; I doubt I would have discovered it otherwise. The Muggle villages nearby have old tales of the lake, but they have not been able to find it for generations. As for the temple I think wizards did once know of it and came here to worship, in the times before a phoenix was just a composite of spell and wand ingredients. And I'm afraid that's all I can guess."

"You've been here many times?"

He nodded, darkened face nostalgic. "Yes—ever since I was fifteen, when Fawkes first showed me. It became my haven during difficult times. I used to sit here and read or paint."

A twinge of alarm shuddered down her spine. "Are you sure it's appropriate for me to be here? It sounds to me as though people are invited here or not at all—Fawkes showed you, but I wasnt invited—"

"Yes you were," he said brightly, running his hand down her back to still the quiver. "There I was, sitting in the Gryffindor dormitory and out of ideas, when Fawkes suggested the idea to me. He transported me here and flew around the temple twice, and I've interpreted that to mean that we're both perfectly welcome. I didn't hear any squawks of protest on the way here, did you?"

The memory of the song and her tears made her look away. The plan of coming across as a mature, capable woman seemed to have gone awry.

"Albus," she began hesitantly. "About the crying—"

He drew her into his arms. Limp in his grasp, she felt his voice tickle her ear:

"Minerva, I did say I should have warned you. Nobody passes under that spell unaffected. I have some resistance to it as I've been here many times before, albeit before my r-rebirth."

She caught the stutter, and wondered at it, before mentally pushing it to one side. "Is it a spell, then?"

"More than, I would say. It possesses greater power than any spell we are able to cast."

...Sapphire...

Wrong, she thought. The spell they had cast together had simply strengthened.

The man beside her moved slightly, so that the light from outside was cut off. The candlelight seemed to cast the planes of his face into red intensity, reducing his eyes to blue sparks in black wells; he was suddenly nameless, the essence of a man.

A surge of affection made her turn to kiss his neck. His hands pressed her closer, and she gave a mischievous push, forcing him down onto the loveseat. The move from discussion to a simpler form of expression seemed to take him by surprise; he was limp beneath her, pinkness visible under the beard even in the dimness.

"I think that cloak of yours merits some revenge."

The half-moons misted. Heat was pulsing in her chest; the song had scoured the doubt away. Her tongue was moving down his neck, and her fingers were undoing the collar of his robes...

"My dear, you mustn't be cruel."

Her hands struggled with a clasp. "You shouldn't have been cruel to me, Albus."

The blue eyes were wide. "Ah, but I was not as forceful."

A pause, as her lips rested on his collarbone.

"They say that men mellow when they get older."

"Oh really?" One of his hands was on the clasp of her own robes, kneading tentatively.

Heart risen to her throat, she watched the sides of his robe fall, revealing a lean, pale chest. Attention barely on the hesitant movements at the top of her robes, she traced his sternum with a finger, following the movement of his sigh with a hand. As the clasp at her breast gave a click, her tongue echoed her finger, running down the centre of his body and eliciting a spasm. A hand suddenly lifted her head up, directing her gaze into that of the sapphire.

He would do nothing without her permission.

With another surge, she nodded and moved her tongue back up to his neck, before rolling to confront the dark ceiling of the temple. Albus's hands, luridly coloured in the candlelight, were drawing back her own robe, halting at the waist. She lay still as his touch moved upwards, beaming at the contrast between the staid professor and the woman in the temple, gloriously exposed in the half-light.

The hands massaged slowly, forcing the tension out. Tingles were sweeping through her skin, softening and warming. The grey-haired witch closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the sensation, and for an interminable amount of time they lay, undisturbed, male and female in a primal darkness. Outside, the song of the firebirds began again, entering the temple like a scent, weaving another eternity...

There was a sudden rumble. She gave a wild look around, expecting thunder, but the stomach beneath her gave another churn.

The enchantment was over; she was laughing, and the face next to hers was mildly embarrassed.

"It is past lunchtime, my dear!"

"And a wizard's stomach cannot wait?"

The laughter continued, making them human, individuals once more—relaxed after an unspoken intensity. Minerva rolled gently off him, and they fastened their robes in the darkness, still laughing, the confusion of the morning now seeming ridiculous and incomprehensible.

But perhaps those doubts weren't the real ones, came a whisper of pessimism.

[Apocalypticat]

PART 2

The thought cut the laughter off. Albus's chuckle sounded alone for a few minutes, rising over the rustle of robes. Her skin was still burning, and the previous minutes seemed all too short, leaving invisible hands still caressing her body. She shivered suddenly, without knowing why, following him outside into the sunlight.

"Time for lunch, my dear!"

He was next to the crumb-speckled table, raising his hands into the air. He snapped his fingers, and the crumbs vanished, replaced by a white tablecloth and gold-edged cutlery.

"You've forgotten the food."

Something about her tone of voice made him look up, grin fading, but a smile restored the twinkle. He turned back to the table, fingers at the ready.

"I thought I'd consult the Goddess beforehand, though I've taken the liberty of ordering wine. I was thinking of lasagne, personally."

"The same."

He made a flourishing motion, and then sat in one of the ornate chairs. The wine and two glasses appeared as she joined him. For a few minutes she sat and watched him pour and absent-mindedly swat away the lake's mayflies, still wrapped in sensation. Now the words had to start, and eventually they would hold the Order meeting of the day before. Not that. A single phoenix flitted by the table, offering something other than dark wizards to talk about.

"So am I to assume that Fawkes approves of me then?"

A soft smile. "He and I are of one mind."

"You say he brought you here when you were fifteen. Is that when you first met him?"

"No. I was five years old, and in my family's garden at the time. He flew down and landed in my lap."

She expected him to elaborate, but he reached for the bottle and held it up exaggeratedly to the light.

"Are you detecting 'sensual dimensions of vanilla'? I'd say that they're rather overpowered by the berry, if there at all—"

"I would query whether vanilla could be sensual. You were saying about Fawkes? I hear that the bond a phoenix has—"

"Hm?" His brows had knotted, as though fighting off the same discomfort as he'd displayed in the boat.

"Are you all right?"

"I hear that the Ministry wish to rework the castle wards—"

"Albus!"

The words 'I'm fine' appeared on his lips. Minerva allowed herself a snort. He put down the bottle and nodded as though she had spoken. She braced herself; it had been foolish to think that twin spectres of Aberforth and the Order could be set aside.

"I had a dream."

The Headmistress felt her eyebrows rise towards her hair. "Isn't this more Sybil's province?"

Albus laughed. "And there was me expecting a Martin Luther King quip. He was a Muggle who... ah... yes. Perhaps not now. It was a dream which started me towards a discovery. I dreamt of meeting my older self reading a book under a tree. Nicolas Flamel's The Last Quest."

"...Yes?"

He gave a great sigh, as if hefting an unseen weight. "I seem to remember telling you about a possible relationship between the Transmutation Matrix, alchemy and ageing—and how the first two seem to involve putting particles beyond their natural point. You've seen my notes on how the three stages of transfiguration—Destruction, Revitalisation and Reassembly—correspond with the black, white and red stages of alchemy—"

"Albus, I have not even looked at alchemy in decades. I'm afraid you're going to have to explain as if to a First-Year."

"My apologies. Well to simplify, both physical and spiritual alchemy—for there are two types, originally linked—involve the three stages of Nigredo, Albedo and Rubedo: blackening, whitening and reddening. My father, who dabbled in alchemy quite a bit, named me for the second stage, oddly enough. Nigredo means destruction, Albedo means enlightenment and the union of opposites, and the Rubedo, the realisation of the self, ends with the Philosopher's Stone. Given those explanations, the link to the Matrix appears relatively obvious."

She nodded, making the connections. "True, but I would not have made it alone."

"Well, alchemy is hardly a mainstream branch of magic. Anyway, my studies of alchemy with regards to death, birth and ageing were mainly a distraction, just an area of idle fascination... until yesterday. Following the dream, I turned to Nicolas's book and then my notes—and the revelation hit me like one of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts. All my findings suggested that death is the equivalent point which particles in both transfiguration and physical alchemy must aspire past. All things ultimately aspire towards their own destruction—which is why the Reassembly stage of the Matrix is the hardest for an inexperienced student. A theoretical foot past that point is birth. The links between the human life cycle, the Matrix and alchemy were perfect... and bar the need of the last two for someone to set them in motion, all are ultimately about transfiguration! Are you following me, my dear?"

"Not quite, Albus."

"When you transfigure an object, you are either repeating or reversing the Matrix, either pushing or pulling it past that point of destruction. In spiritual alchemy the soul is pushed beyond that point... allowing rebirth..."

He had gone pale, white with a discovery that only now just hit her. A strange, half-formed hope; a young couple sitting at the same table—

"But... that would imply... that would imply that life is like the Matrix... you could reverse it..."

He rose abruptly, and paced, refusing to meet her gaze.

"Not quite. No transfiguration spell has ever brought back a soul, and only the Stone Harry destroyed isolated the ageing process and prevented its passage towards death."

A jolt like lightning went through her. The Headmistress found herself gripping the table. Was that what he was working towards— was he going to try—? All the intellectual rambling: did it offer an open door, a way out?

"The Philosopher's Stone, the physical one!"

Why had they not seen it before? In his research, how could he have not— ?

"You were able to study it—"

Back to her, he bowed his head. The iciness of guilt. Did he think her no better than Voldemort? A pleading note entered her voice.

"Not forever..."

Forever. The robed shoulders hunched.

"I do not know how to make it. Nicolas allowed me to study its workings, and that first suggested the connection between the Matrix and alchemy— for that was what its Elixir did to the body. It destroyed the cells temporarily, brought them together again and restored them. It was a kind of catalyst."

"I-If you know that much..."

"It took him seventy years. It was a lifetime's process."

Time they did not have. She closed her eyes. Whatever had taken flight during the previous seconds seemed to dash its wings on the rocks below. She buried the corpse, quickly, trying to focus.

"But your soul returned. Your was body was reborn, not just some cells."

He gave a shudder. "And that would suggest that I have achieved the spiritual Stone. Or else produced a Horcrux—"

"No."

An irrational wave of fury. How could he suggest it of himself? It had been for her to violate the moral boundaries, not him. The direction of the conversation now seemed cruel and unnecessary.

"Then I have achieved the Stone."

He stopped as he spoke; all the movement seemed to rush to his face in a flurry of expressions. The one which resolved itself to look at her made no sense— surely the Stone was a cause for triumph, not defeat?

"But why, Minerva? All I could find in Nicolas's book was a sentence about one of its conditions: love. The same force which saved Harry saved me. All I could find about spiritual alchemy was that the recognition of its presence constitutes a form of Albedo. In realising, so briefly as I did, that I loved you, I glimpsed something from beyond the compass of my life until then. I did not realise completely, however. I died halfway between Albedo, the recognition of my true opposite, my other self, and Rubedo, the full admission of it. Yet why me, and no one of many others who have had similar last-minute revelations?

"The answer was right before me. A phoenix." He spread his hands. "A creature that reincarnates, that demonstrated my findings before I had even begun my research. A living Matrix, a creature which can transfigure itself! In a rush, I gathered the ashes from Fawkes's last rebirth... Minerva, I analysed them... and then I analysed my own skin. Fawkes may have been a willing Horcrux for me at one point, but he need no longer be. We are the same—"

"Albus—"

"The phoenix was the precondition, but our love enabled it—"

"Albus, what—"

"Lily died for Harry--and he survived because the power of her love protected what was already alive—"

"What are you trying—"

"And so was I! Part of me was still there in Fawkes! Love called me back—or past—that point of death. And now..."

The sigh, even heavier than the first, prevented her from speaking. He sank back into the chair and looked up, sadly.

"That point has been removed for me. It's a circle, Minerva. I will be reborn, again and again and again..."

---

Disappointment. That was the first emotion he had acknowledged, even as something more profound curdled his stomach and sent him sinking to the floor. Did the spiritual Stone do so little more than the physical one? Could it be that there was no 'next great adventure'? That no one had reached higher than Voldemort, that the forces which he had unknowingly activated had their crescendo in nothing more than an endless repetition of life?

Harry's boyish face had swum before him, looking astonished.

"But that means he and his wife will die, won't they?"

"To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible—"

How confident he had been back then...

"—But to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day... You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all—the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things which are worst for them."

Crouched on the floor of an empty Gryffindor dormitory, still surrounded by the books he had spent hours pouring over, he felt like shaking the smug old man of yesteryears. He had believed himself above Voldemort, above the young Harry, even above Flamel. How had his understanding of death been any deeper than theirs, when the art hed studied for so long led down the same path?

"I didn't choose," he said aloud.

And the dormitory pressed back soundlessly, so that there had been no option but to let the thought, lurking beneath the others, rise with the enveloping quality of a shroud:

That this second chance would become a third, a fourth, a tenth, none of which would involve Minerva.

---

A breath of wind passed through the oak above, so the leaves whispered. Avian eyes regarded them; the odd crooning noise emerged from a feathered throat. It was as if, in the interval, the actors had remembered the audience.

Minerva turned her head away and looked towards the lake without seeing it. So. What she had thought to be merely the fear of being touched, some inexplicably querulous approach to intensity, had resolved itself in this. A tang of bitterness. He had not chosen—no, it was irrational to blame him, to blame at all. Fawkes, if anyone, had chosen. A magic which neither of them understood— and yet it felt like conspiracy: immortal eyes watching her age from every direction. Years of sorrow and whatever they expressed burnt up in a blink.

"My dear—"

"I'm sorry," she said, hearing it emerge in the tones of an attack.

"You're angry. Why is that?"

Because of selfishness. He sounded surprised, wrong-footed.

"I can give you everything, and it will not be enough," she replied, shortly.

A pause.

"Do you honestly think you will be just a fleeting episode for me?"

She looked: he was sat rigidly in his chair, hands gripping the arms as though in a ship at sea.

"I didn't want this—"

"I know. I know." That will be. "But... I have... one life. And everything is just once for me." Her voice shook. "Everything I feel, everything that happens... You will see me get old and die, and perhaps you will grieve as I did for you, but you can go on. There will always be a time ahead, no years to regret—"

"I didn't want—"

"—Nothing to be afraid of. You can go on and change what others cannot. You can forgive the man who killed you. I'm a mortal woman, fixed in time and place. My eternity is now and here, with you... and I am frightened..."

And my feelings for you have been part of a grander plan.

But that aside, was that not what she had always feared or wanted? In all relationships, a denial of reality, an eternal moment—

All the lines in his skin had deepened. A twisting sensation arrived in her chest, but she couldn't retract it. How could she grasp such loneliness? Why was there this insatiable urge to possess and understand? They would always be encroached upon, trying to traverse a terrain dotted by obstacles, whether it was the war or Snape or a Dark Lord or Aberforth— and then there was the looming mountain of their circumstances. I am frightened.She had never said those words before.

Would you still love me even if I could not... Had her earlier, childish words been a way of pretending that time was under her control?

"Minerva."

The half-moons were deposited on the table.

"Who would crave an eternity of being a-alone? If I could take all my time..."

"You can't," she said gently, reaching for one hand.

"I cannot, cannot lose you."

The other went to its owner's face.

From the branches of the oak-tree the phoenixes hummed, watching the mayflies dance over the water.

---

A/N:... Yes, I know. I was tempted to call this strange, introspective/info-dumpy chapter 'Incoherence'. This is partly why I disappeared. All I can say is that I was trying to lay foundations three quarters of the way up a spire! Stayed tuned. A half-promise.

[Lady of the Night]

I just read from the beginning all the way to your last post, and I have to say you are doing a marvelous job! It is very captivating and very original! I hope you do not wait another two years to post the next part. I am intrigued about what will happen if Minerva dies. I have so many questions that need to be answered still.

[McGonagallsGirl]

Glad you've updated Carry on.

--MG