Chapter 5
"The Requirement"
The rest of the summer passed quietly. Severus should have known that finding the brat wouldn’t help his situation a lick, and had hopelessly set himself up for a good night’s rest and peace of mind, for once.
He got neither. Truth be told, he wasn’t surprised.
He didn’t see Harry again during the weeks leading up to the start of term, but honestly, he was so busy testing a personal theory on the Word Lines that he barely had any time to do anything.
He inquired to Minerva where Potter had been put up, one evening over kidney pie.
"He’s in Remus’ old rooms, so he can use the Room of Requirement for his clocks," she had said in her no-nonsense manner, lowering her voice. "I also thought I’d mention that your title has been taken from under you, Severus."
"Title?"
"Surliest Professor, twenty two years running."
Something with which he most whole heartedly agreed. The boy apparently had the personality of a prickly toad, and though Severus was no morning glory, he was at least a bastard by nature.
He stayed out of Harry's way until the afternoon before the Welcoming Feast, when he was forced to go looking for him. He had Lupin’s will with him, a thick packet he’d found sitting on his desk mere hours after Lupin’s death. The man had known he was dying and like the ever-proud Gryffindor he was, didn’t say a word to anyone. So like Lupin had been–he’d died as he’d lived, a whisper in the wind.
After running into Peeves and giving him a thorough insult, which of course made the portly little pest call him filthy names all the way to the east wing, Severus kept his cool and his temper under a strong check. He didn’t want to arrive at Potter’s rooms with a bad attitude, especially since he was not welcome there to begin with.
He was not very familiar with the hallway when he finally reached it, but he was fairly sure that the faint operetta music, being sung by a young, talented voice, wasn’t the norm even in a castle of eccentricities. In the lulls of music he heard the brief scratching of someone sanding wood down.
Swallowing his pride down to the center of his chest where it belonged, Severus stopped in the doorway and looked in. Once he realized what he was seeing, he struggled to keep his stoic mask in place.
It was a clock shop.
Hundreds of clocks littered every available space, the very same sort Severus had seen in the shop in France. An enormous worktable bearing hundreds of tools, unfinished projects, and pieces of parchment stood in the middle of the room. Harry was propped up on a stool, hunched over the mahogany clock Severus had seen him working on twice before. The drawing he’d done in France was laying over the wood, painted now and pinned to it exactly where Harry wanted it. Harry tapped his wand twice to the image and when he unpinned the parchment and lifted it, the picture had been copied onto the clock’s face perfectly.
Hedwig perched right alongside Harry’s work table. Six years time had turned her from a lovely owl to a handsome one. Her plumage was a deeper shade of gray now and she had the look of a mother who had nested, produced offspring, and was pleased with the world.
Her expressive ebony eyes sized him up for her master. Severus wondered if Potter knew that St. Hedwig was the patron saint of orphans, but decided this was most certainly not the time to ask.
Mostly because standing beside Hedwig, hip on the table, was Madame Clooney.
She was an attractive witch of about thirty, with soft blond hair and large eyes, and though she looked to be a warm hearted individual, Severus had thus far avoided her like the plague. She had the appearance of a first year who, at any given moment, would burst into tears over spilt potion. He’d have rather died a hundred deaths by crucio than endure socializing with a woman of such a nature.
Especially when she was obviously close to Harry. His Harry.
Severus’ eyes narrowed, and he didn’t realize he’d been staring until Harry lifted his head and looked straight at him. "Excuse me; I didn’t think that an open door meant you could wander in whenever you chose."
Damn. Damn. "I’m sorry to bother you."
"I’m sure you are." Harry hunched back over his clock with an air of concentrating on what he was doing.
Clooney, for her part, took the message. She walked past Severus with a shyly murmured, "Good day, Professor," before skittering out.
Severus glared at her all the way out before looking back at Harry, who’s back was still hunched and his eyes still trained on what he was doing.
"What do you want?"
Business. Right. "Lupin left several things for you and he asked in his will that they be passed on to you when you came back." Not if. When. It said so, specifically. "I was one of his executors."
"Good for you."
Severus grit his teeth and walked in to stand opposite him at the table. He set the wooden box and the file of paperwork down in front of Harry, ignoring the fact that the insolent boy didn’t even look at it. "Here are the guidelines he used for the younger years. When you want to do a certain lesson of his, tap the pages twice and you’ll have all the paperwork and homework assignments that go with it, including slides and where to find the magical creatures in the lecture."
Silence.
Fine. Fine! Fine. "Inside of the box are the things he left you. His wand. Photographs. It’s all accounted for, I checked myself."
"That’s peachy. Why don’t you account for the door, and check yourself out?"
Severus bit his tongue before snapping back. He wouldn’t. Potter was expecting it. "I will be on my way shortly. It is my duty to insure that you understand everything in his will," he talked over Harry’s indignant snort, "including the house that he left you."
"House?"
Severus did not let his eyes waver. "Grimmauld Place."
He had the deep, uncontrolled delight of seeing Harry’s eyes widen. Potter’s face, still haloed with the blond hair he seemed unwilling to give up, paled. "I’m sorry?"
"Black gave Lupin the estate for the Order and now, in death, Lupin has given it to you as their heir. Neither of them had children, though I’m sure Black has a bastard pack running around the English countryside somewhere, and both wanted the house and its contents given to you."
Harry glared.
"You just have to sign all of this and the deeds will be given to you. As you are aware, the Order centers all of their activities in the house, but if you find that unacceptable, I’m sure you can speak with Dumbledore." Unbloody likely, that.
Harry took the sheets, and read over them. Slowly. Very, very slowly. Severus, whose patience had long worn thin, tightened his lips. "You just have to sign them."
"The last thing I signed without fully understanding, Professor Snape, put me in a contract where my well being was not at the forefront of the contractor’s mind and I’m afraid I won’t do it again. If you prefer, I will read these over and give them to you before the Welcoming Feast."
It stung worse than if Harry had slapped him across the face. Merlin knew he’d had it coming but it still bloody hurt. "Very well." Severus’ heart was lodged somewhere in his throat. "Good day to you."
Harry’s departing, "Good day," was the last thing he heard before he fled to his dungeons.
- = - = -
The evening all the brats got to the castle was more chaotic than it had been in quite a while. Perhaps it was because a tried and true hero was sitting in their midst, perhaps it was because this term’s batch of first years were more annoying than usual, but it took longer than what was normal for Dumbledore to calm them down enough to get a word in edge wise. Peeves was flying about, his portly little hat falling every time he did a flip, singing atrociously vulgar lyrics that had the Bloody Baron snarling after five minutes of his behavior.
For his part, Potter didn’t even seem to realize the excitement going on around him was centered on his presence. He handed over the paperwork Severus had left him to sign without a backward glance and snapped at everyone who came within a foot of him.
The first years got Sorted–the ones new to Severus’ own house seemed to be up to snuff, though a bit smaller than in years past. There was a little girl, the smallest of the bunch, who was sitting at a spot right by the teacher’s table with enormous crocodile tears sliding down her cocoa butter cheeks.
There was always one.
Sighing and looking away, Severus didn’t even bother paying attention to the Headmaster as the man gave the beginning of year notices and before he knew it, kidney pie had turned to treacle tart, and tart to leading the children of his House brusquely down into the fathomless dungeons. He had a bit of housekeeping to take care of before he went to the Order meeting later that evening, and that was how he found himself standing in front of seventy Slytherins, fourteen cats, several toads (back in style this year) and the little sobbing girl.
His rag tag bunch of miscreant misfits watched him owlishly, some rolling their eyes, other looking fearful. He straightened up to his full height, towering over them and hopefully looking as imposing as he felt. After all, it was his job to terrify them into behaving; if he didn’t he knew his little snakes would run rampant and free. They needed a...healthy respect for him, and by Merlin he’d have it.
"Welcome to the Slytherin common room. I am your Head of House, Professor Snape." He glared down harshly at the new children, babies really, staring up at him in terror as if they couldn’t believe an overgrown bat was going to be the professor appointed to supervising them. The older students, who had heard this speech time and time again, watched the younger ones and snickered. "As many of you will find out, most likely in a very painful fashion, Slytherin house is very unpopular. You have just been sorted into the House which has seen horrors–the Malfoy family, the Lestranges, and yes, even the dear Dark Lord himself."
He was reducing the first years to trembles. If he wasn’t having so much fun, and wasn’t trying to impress the severity of what had happened to them tonight upon them, he would have stopped. ...All right, no he wouldn’t have. "However. Despite the reputation of this House, despite the fact that we are hated, despite the many times you will be judged simply by the crest on your robes, you have been sorted into one of the most fiercely loyal Houses at Hogwarts. We stick together. What does that mean for you?"
Severus cast an eagle eye down at the younger years. "Simply this. You will always take the side of your house mates, no matter the situation. You will look after one another. You will do anything and everything you can to make sure no points are lost from Slytherin, and as many as possible are taken from the other Houses. You will not bring your petty squabbles to me, for I have no time and less patience for sniveling little dunderheads." A pointed look at the sobbing girl, who, he could tell, wanted to hang onto his robes and would have if he weren’t such a mean bastard.
"You will come to find that I am not strict and will let you do as you please." He glared. "However. I have a few rules that I expect followed in return for this freedom, and I will make your lives...very difficult if you chose not to abide by them."
He paused for a moment. "My rules are simply thus. No hexing, cursing, or transfiguring is to be used in any pranks after seven p.m., though any hexed, cursed, or transfigured items are still permitted. No Bat Bogey hexes, and no Jelly Legs curses, for both have caused significant damage to my property." He glared at Stevens, a second year, and the boy had the good sense to blush as his classmates sniggered. The boy had rammed himself repeatedly into an antique writing desk after he’d been cursed with only Merlin knew what at the end of the last term. "Half of the things I find acceptable are on Mr. Filch’s Forbidden List. If you are caught doing or using any of the things on Mr. Filch’s list, the defense that your Head of House allowed it will not be tolerated. I will not intercede on your behalf. My only advice to you is to not get caught.
"All items from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes are permitted from Friday evening at six until Monday morning at eight, and from Tuesday night at six until Wednesday morning at eight. Do not come to me if someone has used one of these things on you–I simply suggest payback, including the sophisticated insults I expect all of you to be learning and using.
"I want you to sharpen your minds and sink your verbal claws into as many unsuspecting people as possible. We will be holding the weekly insult contest again, though this year all entries will be submitted to Head Girl, Ms. Webbons," Severus pointed the girl out, and she waved a hand, "by no later than Thursday evening of every week. First years, please consult Ms. Webbons and she will give you the list of rules." He took a breath. "Parties will be brought down to a limit of two a week during the school year, and three after a Slytherin Quidditch win. No Canary Creams will be permitted this year," a chorus of groans, "but I have lifted the ban on Heaving Hats and Snapping Streamers."
He took another breath as his more thoughtful Slytherin 7th years traded smirks. There were snickers all around, and Ms. Webbons whispered, "Score!"
Severus glared. "Do not come to me unless you are broken, bleeding, or dying. Do not come to me if you have had an argument with your friend–do not come to me if you are fighting with your significant other. You are Slytherins, and I expect each of you to be self sufficient."
A moment. "However, do come to me if you feel the need to talk to me–I am your Head of House, and was once in Slytherin myself. I will do all I can to help you, but I don’t expect you all to hang off of my robes and cry into my shoulder over petty things. I ask you to come to me if you are being harassed and cannot get out of the situation by yourself or with the help of your classmates. Come to me if you are being hurt in any physical way by anyone in another house."
At that, he cast his eyes over the girls of Slytherin–many of them had been harassed by Gryffindor boys over the years and had been too frightened to say anything until he’d witnessed it himself. "Come to me if you need someone to speak to–I do not claim to be a psychiatrist, but as I said before, I was a Slytherin myself. My office hours are posted on the door of the common room and my office is on the other side of the potions classroom." His glare turned positively glacial. "If any of you so much as dare as do something to my office or to me, may Merlin have mercy on your souls, because I surely will not."
And with that he took the sobbing girl’s hand, turned, and stalked out of the common room.
The very small hand wrapped around his, tiny fingers holding tight, as he led her out of the dormitory and into his office. She plunked down into the chair beside his desk, her wide, shiny eyes peering at her surroundings in stunned shock. And why not? His office was filled with potions ingredients floating in handsome jars, three of which were already missing for whatever his snakes were planning on doing for the first major common room prank of the year, he noted.
He retrieved a small glass of water from the pitcher behind his desk which he set on the desk lest she slop it all down her front. He retrieved one of the many Chocolate Frogs he had in his drawer and waited until her pitiful sobs eased. "Quite done now?"
She sniffled, nodding, her mussed curls hanging down into her enormous, tear filled brown eyes. Something in him, the part of him that waxed sentimental, thought the poor child piteous.
Thank Merlin he came to his senses. "Why are you crying?" he demanded, handing her the frog. "Is Slytherin such a bad place to be?"
That just brought on another sob, then another, and she clasped the chocolate as if it were a lifeline. "M...y...daddy..would..be...sad!"
"Your father." Ah hah. "What’s your name?"
"Emily."
"Emily what?"
"Shacklebolt."
Severus felt a cold, dark despair he hadn’t felt in quite some time travel down the length of his chest, as if he’d just been drinking an icy scotch. The burn lay along the back of his throat, searing all the way down.
Kingsley Shacklebolt’s daughter. Severus had known she was starting Hogwarts this year, but never did he imagine this little girl to be in Slytherin. The Shacklebolts, one of the oldest Wizarding families there were, had been in Ravenclaw for centuries. However they, like the Weasleys, were what Severus called the new breed of pure blood wizards–for whom their children’s happiness meant more to them than the blood line. It was a trait Severus deeply admired, as he had not been so lucky–his father would have rather had pride and family honor than worry about such trivialities as Severus’ well being.
"Well, Ms. Shacklebolt, I can assure you your father would not be sad. I knew him–he was one of my--" Your what, Severus? Fellow Order members? "–associates, and he would never be upset that you were put into Slytherin."
"He was Ravenclaw...and now I’m not and I’m the last one," the little girl said pitifully, and broke down into sobs that seemed to be wrenching from her soul. "And he’ll never know!"
Those brown eyes, swimming with pain no little girl should ever feel, overflowed, and tears trickled down her cheeks even harder as her shoulders caved in on themselves. She sagged, crying into her hands and now something in Severus’ cold, dead heart did crack at the sight.
Like so many children before her she had come to Hogwarts minus a parent, and there was nothing in the world that could ease that pain.
Rage replaced the despair, and like he had always done, Severus schooled his face to show a calm detachment that would call to the Slytherin in the young ladies heart. She had been placed in his House for a reason–Slytherins did not like to be patronized in any sort of capacity. "Ms. Shacklebolt, do you honestly believe your father, the good man that he was, would be angry that you were sorted into a different, but no less loyal, House?" He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Where your Head of House was friends with your father?"
Those enormous brown eyes, shiny with tears, widened. She gulped up at him, suspicous and unconvinced. "You were friends?"
"Yes, we were. Very good friends. I used to help him with his work." She arched a eyebrow and he arched one right back at her. "If I remember correctly, he bought you an enormous bear for Christmas last year, with black button eyes and a tuft of hair in the most wretched shade of pink imaginable."
The little girl seemed to understand, because her eyes, though still badly red, had stopped leaking. "Her name is Lola. My bear. Mummy said I couldn’t bring her, though."
"Quite right. We don’t allow those types of things at Hogwarts," Severus said with a frown. "You are a young lady now."
"I know." She sniffled. "Thank you, Professor."
Above them thunder roared and the rain that had been threatening all week finally broke through the heavy clouds. The sound of water hitting the stones echoed pleasantly through his office. The little girl sitting before him seemed to have calmed enough to stop crying, and Severus peered at her from above his impressive nose. "No more weeping, unless you are trying to sway whomever is in front of you to your point of view, are we clear?"
She sniffled, hard. "Yes, sir."
He nodded curtly. "Your house mates are waiting for you."
As soon as he’d lead Ms. Shacklebolt out of his office and back across the hall to the dorms, Severus whisked to his personal rooms, a bit further down the hall and half hidden in an alcove. He changed into much more comfortable attire–broken in robes and boots, threw his traveling cloak over his shoulders, and whisked out of the dungeons as soon as he was sure all of his little snakes were getting ready for bed.
Severus rose out of his comfortable dragon’s den like a bat taking to the night, his robes brusquely snapping around the ankles of his heavy boots. Rather than taking the normal way up out of the dungeons, Severus sidestepped into a narrow, hidden path that led straight from Slytherin country, which only the Prefects and Severus knew about.
He surfaced up right in front of the front doors, pressed past Peeves without bothering to speak to him, and came up into the hallway leading out to the enormous, majestic front doors.
The rain was absolutely pouring. It came down in buckets, in torrents and the runoff had already started to flood the grassy slopes of the front lawn. Hagrid’s hut looked like it was floating and the Whomping Willow was furiously trying to stop the thunder from rolling across the sky as if she, for Severus regarded the infernal tree female, had all the powers of the universe at her disposal.
Severus would have normally found amusement at the expression on Minerva’s face, a startling impersonation of the currently furious Willow, but couldn’t quite manage it. "Professor McGonagall," he said instead, looking past her out onto the grounds he’d rather have stabbed himself in the eye before going out into. He was going to be positively drenched before they arrived in London, he was sure of it.
"Good evening, Severus. I suppose we should just get on with it." She heaved a heavy sigh and tucked her tartan hat and thick green cloak more firmly around her. "The gates, then?"
"Closer than the Forest, unless you want to conjure a boat. If that’s the case, I’m much too refined for paddling."
Her lips twitched though she fought to firm them, and whisked out down the steps to the enormous grounds. Severus, after a moment’s consideration, tucked his own cloak up over his head and, as quickly as possible, went after her. The familiar wool of his cloak was strange but comfortable–the last time he’d worn it had been months ago, on an ingredient hunting expedition.
And the time before that, Harry Potter had been gazing at him with gentle adoration.
Instead of dwelling on the bitter sweet memory, Severus caught up with the much older woman and offered his elbow. She took it and together the two of them Apparated as soon as they’d stepped out of the ward lines surrounding Hogwarts.
Grimmauld Place was crammed with at least thirty wizards trying to keep quiet as they tiptoed around the sleeping, silent portraits. After a wary glare at Mrs. Black’s covered portrait Severus, with Minerva in tow, walked down the long flight of steps to the basement kitchen.
As expected, Dumbledore was sitting in his usual spot at the head of the table, drinking tea from a small cup and wearing robes in bright sunshine orange and blue.
What Severus hadn’t expected was to see Potter, sitting next to him.
Years later Minerva would tell him that the look of shocked horror that crossed over his face had been priceless. Right at the moment, Severus could have cared less, because he was shocked, and he was horrified, and now that he thought of it, it probably was priceless. He’d been expecting Dumbledore to do something like this of course, but so soon? No. Not this soon.
Severus took his seat beside Dumbledore to the left, directly facing Harry. "Headmaster."
"Hello, Severus." Albus smiled cheerfully, but even Severus noticed that the once mirthful gleam in his eye had dimmed. He appeared to be distracted by something, but Severus had long since accepted that he would never understand the way the Headmaster’s mind worked, let alone what could be bothering him. "Have you prepared for tonight?"
Severus nodded. He had his notes tucked into the pocket of his robes, right beside his wand. "Yes, Headmaster."
"Wonderful. Harry, Professor Snape is still a spy for us," Dumbledore explained, as if the little snot nosed hooligan was listening to anything the Headmaster was saying, rather than glaring murderously at Severus like he was less than vermin. "He’ll be giving a report tonight."
"There are only a few things to report, Headmaster," Severus interrupted at once, so the old coot didn’t get it in his head that he’d found anything too important out.
Which he hadn’t. The Dark Mark had stayed cool and dormant against his arm–a constant ache, surely, but the mind numbing, screaming pain of Morsmordre, the call of Voldemort’s followers, had been strangely absent for many weeks now.
Not something he liked, in any regard. In Voldemort’s case, no news was rarely good news--no news meant someone was dead.
Or worse.
Severus was sure he could have continued along with that thought it he weren’t selfishly wondering how the taut skin under a lock of silky blond hair on Potter’s infernally infuriating head tasted, or why the dark scar on all of that flawless flesh looked so vivid and ugly now that it was visible again. He was sure that if he really thought about it, he’d find those thought’s hadn’t given him a moment’s peace in the last few weeks but had only intensified, painfully in some instances, with the need to explain.
Every time he tried, Harry’s young face, once so full of warmth and vitality and now broken in shards, would echo in his mind and all of his impulses would quiet. Severus tried to tell himself that it was for some other reason, because he hated the insufferable little brat, but if there was one person Severus could not lie to, it was himself. It was his unfathomable guilt that kept him from trying to make amends. There was absolutely nothing he could do to even begin repaying Harry for what had been done to him.
And the damning thing was, Severus knew it.
As the last of the Order crammed themselves into the tiny kitchen, Severus took the opportunity to closely examine Harry. His heart, long dead with the horrors he’d seen, warmed like stone in the sun. Here, even after Harry had endured so much pain, more pain then Severus could imagine, he had come back to this place where his life had fallen apart, where his people had demanded the ultimate sacrifice before turning their back on him. To leave him with nothing but the frozen winter rain in his haunted eyes.
This boy, this young thing of barely twenty four, destroyed by the people he loved so much, all but radiated strength. Severus tried to label it as half-wit stupidity to the best of his ability, but something in those sharp blue eyes told him otherwise, those same blue eyes that looked at him with daggers of hate and something more. Pain, maybe? Grief, reflected like shining phoenix tears, certainly.
A boy who had died, and from his ashes another man was born, this blond, blue eyed, beautiful fey creature who looked at him as if he’d never known his touch, never known his kiss; a man whom Severus could hardly believe had once whispered to his fallen companions, who had nearly given his life for his people. A gentle, graceful child who had grown into this hard man, whose slender lips would never again carry a smile of innocent pleasure.
That had been Dumbledore’s plan though, hadn’t it?
Stupid, foolish, arrogant, beautiful, tragic child.
Severus felt a sharp, biting sting in his throat and the lump of guilt that rose in it nearly choked him. In that moment he was sure he would have embarrassed himself beyond comprehension if Dumbledore hadn’t intervened, as if sensing Severus’ distress, and called the meeting to order.
There was the usual note taking, minutes called, unfinished business to be taken care of that didn’t particularly pertain to Severus–he didn’t attend Order meetings unless he was giving information, for his own safety. If Voldemort were ever to find out about Severus’ spy status and torture him into giving up everything he knew, it could put a great deal of lives in danger. Severus did not know what was going on by personal choice–a choice Dumbledore agreed with him on.
Potter hadn’t turned around, and many people eyed his back curiously. Those who weren’t professors themselves didn’t seem to realize Harry Potter was again in their midst, but without the dark, unruly hair and round black glasses, and the masculine height and shoulder width, it didn’t really look like him at all. A shadow, an echo, a different Harry from a different time.
Before he knew it, without another moment to think that line of thought through, all eyes fell on him in the magically expanded kitchen, from the mass of wizards sitting in spare, conjured chairs to the ones standing against the walls. He caught sight of several red heads, as well as Madame Clooney, and realized at some point Potter must have too, because he was staring at his hands.
Lovely.
Severus cleared his throat, and stood. "The headmaster has asked me to give a report on the findings for the past month, and I am sorry to say–there aren’t any." A slew of complaints met him, and his personal pride kicked up to make him glare, fiercely. Those who had taken him in school fell silent, while still others did on knowledge of his reputation. "As I was saying, there is nothing of substance to report aside from the lack of substance. Voldemort has not called his brethren for many weeks. However, I noticed something which is glaringly obvious to anyone who cares to notice. The Word Lines are in use again."
There was a flurry of movement and quiet whispers, which Severus spoke over. "The Word Line Manifesto from 1815, signed by the fourteen countries that once used them, clearly states that as Owls are the preferred method of communication, Word Lines would be kept only for a dire state of emergency. They have been charmed to be used only in time of great need, and have only been used twice in the proceeding two hundred years–once during Grindelwald's reign of terror, and again the night the Potters were murdered."
"Then how can you be sure they’re in use at all, Professor Snape?" Granger asked from beside Ron Weasley, her eyebrows furrowed tightly and trying, he noticed, not to look at the back of Harry’s blond head. "Maybe it’s something else?"
"I considered it, but after speaking with Filius," he nodded to Flitwick, who squeaked his approval, "I was able to charm the wards surrounding Hogwarts to catalogue all of the Line activity. I believe all of you will agree in my assessment." He looked down at the pamphlet and duplicated it with a murmured word into a nice stack, then handed it to Minerva to circulate the room.
"There is also the matter of the Alchemists," Severus said, and Dumbledore nodded from his periphreal vision. "They are being hunted down. While I was in France earlier this past month, I saw several of them on the run. Literally. It seems that when they saw me they grew frightened." Severus ignored the titters from the gathered wizards and witches. "It was not my sunny disposition that made them flee, but rather the mark on my arm. I found out through a reliable source of mine that it would be in our best interests to keep in mind that it is very likely the Dark Lord is hunting down Alchemists and Potions Masters. Many have turned up missing in the community. I will not be able to confirm it until the next summoning, but it is very likely."
"Does it have anything to do with Kingsleys murder?" Minerva asked quietly.
"Shacklebolt was involved in the hunt of an Azkaban escapee before his death, a man by the name of Flannery Higgins--an expert in occult charms. Mr. Higgins spent most of his life working side by side with Alchemists and Potions Masters, casting complex charms on complex potions for those Potions Masters who are not skilled with setting charms. He worked for the Ministry for quite a while before turning away from the law, and has long since been at large. If I’m not mistaken, Shacklebolt had no choice but to tell his superiors that the Dark Lord had risen."
"Why so?" Minerva asked again, as if she’d rather not hear what he had to say.
"Because I’m certain Higgins is working for the Dark Lord."
There was a torrent of activity, cries of outrage and horror. The glint in Dumbledore’s eyes had hardened and the anger in the sparkling blue almost made Snape shiver. Not anger directed at him, of course–but the faceless, mindless evil that spurred such atrocities in their world. Dumbledore glanced over the crowd of wizards and witches, his eyes hardened and his mouth set. "Something is happening here that we have yet to understand. Voldemort is moving, though whatever his plan may be has yet to be seen."
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Moody roared from deeper in the crowd, and it seemed to break some of the tension in the room, because nearly everyone laughed. It was a hollow laugh, full of the awareness that Voldemort was closing in, that another mystery was infolding, that their number was down one more. Another innocent man had died, simply because he was a good, honest person.
In that moment, Severus didn’t know if he mourned the man, or was jealous of him.
Dumbledore lifted his cup. "To Kingsley Shacklebolt, one of the most inspirational members of the Order of the Phoenix. May he be commended for his selfless acts of courage."
There was a murmur of conjured glasses and cups of all sort, and every single one of them, even Severus, even Potter, raised a toast to him.
When it was all said and done, and Severus had once again taken his seat, Dumbledore remained on his feet beside Harry, who was doing his best to not look up. Severus empathized, despite the current situation, for the young man. He knew what it was like to be pinned by the headmaster’s attentive eyes all too well. "And now, though one of us has once again been taken from our midst, I would like to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and newly initiated member of the Order, Mr. Harry Potter."
Harry stood up from his chair, the blond hair tumbling over his neck, and looked across the room in such a way that even Severus could see it was the hardest thing he’d had ever had to do.
The reaction from the crowd was as Severus had expected. Many didn’t look surprised--Fleur Delacour, Bill Weasley, Granger, and Ron Weasley most noticeably, but several others looked shocked, appalled, captivated, and Severus savored every single one of them while guilt pierced his heart like a fine edged knife. The other Order members knew what Severus had done, the why’s and how’s, and though he knew many hadn’t agreed, all had understood that it had been for the best. Ignorance was bliss, after all. Though it was doubtful Harry felt any more blissful than Severus did about the matter.
Merlin, he needed a drink.
OR
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