The Emerald Mark

The Emerald Mark

Chapter Three

* * *

"Are you all right, Minerva?" Filius Flitwick sounded concerned. "You look exhausted."

Minerva turned from the staffroom counter, a cup of hot, black, and very strong coffee in hand. She smiled wanly, feeling utterly wretched. She was exhausted, and conscious of the effects of last night's whisky, as well.

"I'm fine, thank you. Just a bit tired. The storm kept me awake last night."

"I see," he murmured, looking up at her worriedly. "Well, thank goodness it's Friday, I suppose. And you have only one more class this afternoon, don't you?"

Minerva crossed to one of the room's several chairs, sat, and then took a drink of her coffee, willing the hot beverage to wash away some of the fog blanketing her brain. "Yes. Just the seventh-year Gryffindors." She smiled again. "And then sleep."

Filius chuckled as he levitated the pot of tea--located on the counter, out of his reach--and caused it to pour into a waiting teacup. He lowered his wand, settling the pot back onto its magical warmer, and then gently floated the cup down into his free hand. "Well, I wish you a relaxing weekend," he replied before taking a sip. His homely face lit up. "Mmm! Oolong. My favourite."

It was only after he'd left the room that Minerva allowed her shoulders to sag. She sank back into the chair and briefly considered a short nap. After all, she had fifteen minutes before her next class began. Plenty of time for a rest, and it would give the coffee time to work...

She had scarcely closed her eyes when the staffroom door opened again. Minerva stiffened, poised to sit up and pretend she was wide-awake, when the newcomer spoke.

"Long night, my dear?"

She smiled, not bothering to open her eyes. "Of course. You weren't there," she replied fondly.

Albus chuckled, and his whiskers tickled against her forehead as he planted a quick kiss. Minerva opened her eyes, only to see him regarding her with a more serious expression than she'd anticipated. She sat up hastily.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, no. I was just going to inquire about our young charge."

Minerva nodded, relieved. "He's still in my apartments. I told him to rest, but when I checked in at lunch, he was poring over my latest issue of Transfiguration Today."

"An excellent choice." Albus was obviously amused.

"Well, he ought to have been sleeping," Minerva retorted, cross. "I certainly would be, if I could."

Albus smiled behind his beard as he reached up to stroke her hair. "I gather you didn't get your catnap today, Kitten?"

"No." She glared and swatted his hand away.

Albus nodded, gentle mock-consternation written on his face. "Poor kitty."

Minerva smiled in spite of herself. "Off with you," she said, trying to sound stern and failing miserably. "I've a class to teach, and you're distracting me from my preparation."

He bent again to kiss her cheek. "All right. But before I go... I came here to ask if you would please bring our young black sheep down to the interrogation room at seven o'clock."

She nodded, feeling both curious and confused. "Of course. But why?"

Albus straightened, suddenly looking grave. "I'll wait and tell you both at once."

"All right." Her curiosity was definitely piqued, but Minerva found she was too tired to protest.

"Until tonight, then," he said, departing in a sweep of violet robes.

As the door closed softly behind Albus, Minerva checked her watch and was dismayed to see that her class was to commence in four minutes. "Damn it," she murmured before gulping the rest of her coffee. Rest would just have to wait.

Afterwards, Minerva was amazed she'd made it through the lesson without doing serious bodily harm to any students. As it was Friday, and the students were a particularly rowdy bunch of Gryffindors, perhaps it had been foolish to suggest they each transfigure all the desks in the classroom into barnyard animals. Perhaps it had been particularly stupid not to specify that the animals should be small, like chickens, goats, and piglets. But still. Had she not the right to expect a bit of common sense from her own House? Minerva smoothed her hair before opening the door to her apartments. At least she'd had her Head Boy, William Weasley, to help transfigure the herd of Thoroughbreds back into desks before they'd stampeded down the corridor.

Snape looked up when she entered. He was sitting in an armchair with one of her favourite chess sets--the beautifully carved wooden one Alastor had made for her-- on the coffee table in front of him. Minerva saw at a glance that black was trouncing white.

"You play?" she inquired, coming closer to better study the board.

He raised an eloquent eyebrow. "Obviously."

Minerva sighed, took a seat on the davenport, and rubbed the back of her neck, trying to ease knotted muscles. "No, I mean: do you play often, or were you merely bored?"

He shot a glare at the board but then turned to her, wearing a small smile. "I play often. Or I used to. Though I'm not as much of a fanatic as you apparently are."

Minerva laughed. "A fanatic?"

"I counted fourteen chess sets in your cupboard. What would you call it?"

"Well-prepared."

"I see."

She smiled mischievously. "What would you say if I told you that I actually own seventy-two?"

He gaped. "You're joking."

"Why would I?" She shook her head. "I collect them. I have for many years, and many people know it. I've received at least one set every Christmas since I was twelve. The fourteen in the cupboard are simply my favourites."

Snape nodded. "And the others?"

Minerva shrugged. "Many of them are plain. Those are primarily from students and acquaintances. Some have themes; I've a lovely 'King Arthur and his court' set, as well as 'Alice in Wonderland,' but I prefer not to play those. The pieces aren't standard, you know. And several sets are very fine antiques. I don't play those, either."

He nodded again, looking interested. "What about the fourteen?"

She smiled, her exhaustion fading rapidly as she discussed one of her favourite subjects. "Those are the most special."

"Why, if you don't mind my asking?"

For a moment, she considered telling him. She could've told him that the set made of rosy coral and gold had been a gift from Albus, the night he proposed. That the white and black marble one had been her father's, and they'd played together just a week before he had died. The particularly gorgeous set in lavender and green had been a gift from Heloise Sprout; it was made from dozens of crushed Scotch thistles--leaves and flowers--magically set in glass. The wooden set Snape was playing had been carved by Alastor out of bits of Minerva's old Beater's clubs.

Minerva shook her head slightly, unwilling, for some reason, to share such personal details. "They were mostly gifts from the people I love most." She swallowed hard, thinking of one set in particular, before adding quietly, "Or loved."

Snape's eyebrows rose. "You mean...?"

She nodded. "I'm sure you saw it, if you looked in the cupboard. It's made of jade and silver."

"I did."

She smiled softly. "He made it himself. Gave me the board and the jade queen at Christmas, and then one piece every day for a month thereafter." Her smile deepened. "It was only later that I found he'd been nicking a saltcellar a day at breakfast to transfigure the pieces." He'd finished with the silver king, but Snape didn't need to know that.

Snape chuckled but then sobered quickly. "Why do you keep it?"

Minerva met his searching gaze across the board, feeling as though her queen had just been crushed by a pawn's unexpected move. She looked down quickly, as her exhaustion returned to weigh upon her thin shoulders once again. "Because..." She sighed. "Because it's less difficult for me if I believe that I loved a boy named Tom Riddle, a good boy, who died long ago."

When she dared look up again, she found Snape nodding. "I understand. It's simpler for me to believe that the man I served is wholly evil, that he was never the boy you knew." He sighed. "It makes betrayal easier."

Minerva smiled sadly. "It's never truly easy, is it?"

Rather than answering, Snape picked up the black king and rolled it slowly between his palms. "I..." He looked at her with desperation. "Professor?"

She frowned, mildly alarmed at his abrupt change of mood. "Yes?"

"There's something I must confess. Before we--before last night--" a blush warmed his sallow cheeks as he stumbled, "he was the only person with whom I'd ever shared a bed."

Minerva swallowed a gasp, knowing that the Dark Lord had done far more than slept with Snape. "Oh, laddie."

Snape bowed his head, holding the black king prisoner in a clenched fist. His hair fell forward to hide his face, and he looked about fourteen. "What I mean to say is, in a small and horrible way, I loved him, too."

Something knifed painfully in Minerva's heart, but she was unsure whether it was pity or jealousy. Regardless, she was at a loss. She was therefore very thankful when the clock chimed seven.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed. "We're supposed to meet with Albus!"

Snape stiffened visibly, and he raised a pale, entirely unprepared face. "Now?"

She nodded, pitying herself as well as him. Last night had been wretched, today exhausting, and the good Lord only knew what Albus had planned. "I'm sorry, Sn--Severus. He mentioned it earlier, but I'd completely forgotten, until now." Minerva's brows knit as something occurred to her. "Have you eaten today? Are you hungry? I could find something for you, if you'd like."

Snape shook his head. "No, thank you."

She stood and looked sharply over her spectacles at his angular form. "You look as though a few good meals wouldn't go amiss, lad."

He gave her a twisted smile as he rose. "First you criticise my sleeping patterns, and now my eating habits. Next will you remind me to wear my wellies when I go out?"

She laughed, startled that he'd dared tease her. "Wait until the next time it rains, and you'll see."

Snape surprised her again a moment later by opening the door for her on their way out. He beckoned her through with a polite--if awkward--nod, and Minerva caught another glimpse of the youth he might've been, had bitterness not caused him to shut himself away from the world.

Minerva quickly led the way to the interrogation room, located in the deepest dungeons. She purposefully chose back stairways and unused corridors and was relieved when they didn't meet anyone.

Albus was waiting when they arrived. And as soon as the door had closed behind them, Snape looked about. "What is this place?" he asked, sounding apprehensive.

He might well have been worried, for the room looked precisely like what it was: a prison cell. The walls were rough stone, unadorned save for a few torches. A chamber pot, a wooden chair, and a rude bed were the only furnishings.

"This is the interrogation room," said Albus quietly, from the chair. "It is where we hold Dark witches and wizards we apprehend, until one of two things happens."

"And those things are?"

"One is that they agree to join our side, and we have assured ourselves that they are not lying. And the other... We learn all we can from them, and then release them to the Ministry."

Snape frowned. "But--"

"Honestly, laddie!" interjected Minerva, exasperated. "Did you think we simply offered them tea and biscuits and gave them a slap on the wrist? We're at war!"

His frown deepened. "No, I meant... Why not release them to the Ministry at once? Isn't it the Aurors' duty to question them?"

Minerva shot a quick glance at Albus, wondering how much he meant to tell the boy. But Albus simply gave Snape the blank, serene smile that meant he chose not to hear part of the question. "Why, yes. So it is."

Her lips twitched when she saw Snape scowl. "Fine," Snape said, sounding surly. "Do you mean to keep me here, then, until you've ascertained that I am, in fact, on your side?"

"Oh, no, my boy." Albus smiled gently. "We're already quite convinced."

"Then why...?"

Minerva raised an eyebrow at Albus as she perched on the foot of the bed, wondering precisely the same thing.

"This particular room has the benefits of being both little known and heavily warded," replied the headmaster, looking grave. "Given what I've planned, interruptions would be most unwelcome."

Snape, still standing beside the bed, folded his arms stiffly in front of his chest. "What are you going to do to me?" he asked. Though he obviously tried to suppress it, Minerva nevertheless heard the note of fear in his voice.

The webwork of lines on Albus' forehead suddenly seemed to deepen as his expression became graver still. "My dear child," he said softly. "Please have a seat, and I shall tell you."

Snape lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, looking as though he expected it--or himself--to explode at any moment. Minerva was tempted to touch him somehow, perhaps a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder, but she doubted he'd allow it. And so she clasped her hands tightly in her lap, keeping her eyes on Albus' face as he continued.

"Severus, are you familiar with the branches of magic known as Occlumency and Legilimency?"

Snape nodded jerkily. "Vaguely. Sir."

Minerva wondered if this suddenly academic question had reminded Snape of his schoolboy manners, and her lips twitched again in a suppressed smile.

"Very good," Albus replied, obviously pleased. "Would you please tell me what you know?"

"Only that Legilimency is the art of reading people's thoughts. Occlumency is the practice of guarding one's thoughts against such an intrusion."

Albus nodded. "Excellent." He leant forward in the chair, watching Snape's face closely. "Now, what would you say if I told you that Lord Voldemort is a master Legilimens?"

Snape frowned for a moment, but then his eyes widened, and he looked from Minerva to Albus as if hoping his answer were wrong. "I--He'd know immediately if there was a traitor among his followers." He paled. "I can't return to him soon! As I understand it, Occlumency is extremely difficult to master. He'd kill me in an instant!"

Minerva reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose, suddenly realising with horrible, frigid certainty what Albus intended. "Not necessarily, laddie," she murmured, closing her eyes and feeling ill.

"I'm afraid Professor McGonagall is correct, Severus," said Albus quietly. "There is a way--one way--for our plan to succeed."

Minerva opened her eyes only to see Severus go even whiter than before. "What is it?" he asked.

Albus sighed. "As you pointed out, mastery of Occlumency is very difficult. And it takes quite some time, even for the brightest of wizards." He gave Severus a small smile, including him in this category. "Were I a most skilled Legilimens--which, incidentally, I am--I could tear through any defences you or Professor McGonagall or all but a tiny handful of master Occlumens could raise. And I regret to say that Lord Voldemort could do the same."

Snape glared down at his lap. "Then I don't have a chance."

"Ah, but we do." Albus raised a finger to still Snape's protests. "You see, my boy, the human mind has many levels. And a Legilimens looking for information will usually only go as deep as he must to obtain it. To go further is pointless and wastes both his energy and his time." He fixed his piercing gaze on Snape's face before continuing. "Like all leaders, Voldemort wants his followers to be loyal. He may be suspicious of them, but he hopes not to find traitors among them. And, if he easily discovered that a Death Eater was loyal, it is quite likely that he would look no further. Do you understand?"

Lank hair swayed slightly as Snape nodded. "I think I do. But how would that be possible?"

"Well, my boy--"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Albus! Stop beating about the bush!" Minerva interjected, unable to bear it any longer.

She sighed and looked at Snape, trying not to sound as nauseated as she felt. "What he means is, whatever you want the Dark Lord to believe has to be the truth. If it is, and if he is satisfied with it, the tiniest bit of Occlumency will protect the rest." She swallowed hard, feeling even worse when she saw horror flicker across Snape's features. "Therefore, we'll need to make it true that you were tortured and questioned."

Albus steepled his fingers, still looking at Snape. "Unfortunately, that is correct, Severus. Will you consent?"

To Minerva's surprise, Snape barked a laugh. "Do I have a choice?"

"Of course, my child," replied Albus. "It is our choices that define us."

Snape was silent for a long moment, and Minerva, looking anxiously, saw that his fists were clenched so tightly their knuckles jutted out like marbles. At last, he looked up at Albus with an unreadable expression. "Yes," Snape said simply.

Albus closed his eyes, though whether in gratitude or pain Minerva could not tell. "Very well."

Snape took an audible breath. "May I ask what sort of torture you intend?"

But Minerva knew, with the sickening clarity of intuition that came unasked-for and always unexpectedly with her cursed Gift. "I'd like to speak with you privately, Albus," she said, keeping her voice steady by sheer force of will.

"Excuse us, Severus," said Albus, drawing his wand. He flicked it wordlessly, first at Minerva and then at himself, rendering their conversation inaudible to Snape. Then he turned to Minerva. "Yes, my dear?"

She was near tears, but she kept her face blank as she spoke, knowing that Snape could see her even if he couldn't hear her. "Why that curse? Of all things, Albus, why that one?"

He closed his eyes again. "It has been authorised by the Ministry, Minerva. I may not like it, but it will lend credence to Severus' story. It is what he will expect."

Minerva knew Albus' reasoning was sound. She knew he was capable of the task; she'd seen him do it before. But she could not bear the thought--much less the reality--of him doing it to this boy. Not here. Not now. Not him.

"Please..." she whispered, not entirely knowing what she was requesting.

Albus met her gaze steadily, his face set against her resistance. "I must, Kitten. For his sake."

Minerva snapped, suddenly and inexplicably furious at his use of the endearment. "Jesus, Albus!" she cried, feeling her face turning red and not caring if the whole castle could see or hear her. "How can you do it? How could you cast the Cruciatus on an innocent lad? He's a good boy! He doesn't deserve that for his service! And if you do insist upon this madness, don't expect me to sit here and watch it!"

Her husband remained infuriatingly calm, and he spoke with a final preciseness. "Minerva. I am going to do it. And I don't want you to watch. I'd like you to hold his hand, if you would. Comfort him afterwards; he'll need it. Mother him." A sad half-smile touched his lips. "You seem to be doing that already."

She dug her fingernails into her palms in order to keep from drawing her wand and hexing him on the spot. "You're going to cast an Unforgivable on the child, and you'd like me to hold his bloody hand?!"

Albus' face went white, and his eyes became steely, as they always did when he was truly furious. "I am going to do what I swore to do years ago, Minerva," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "By any means necessary. I'd give my own life for the Cause in a heartbeat, were it required. And I'll be damned if I spare this boy a moment's pain, only to send him to his death. Do you understand me?"

Minerva choked back a ragged sob. "I'm sorry," she whispered, wanting to cling to him but restraining herself due to Snape's presence. "I just--"

Albus nodded as if he knew all the things she couldn't say. "I know, Kitten. I know." He gave her a bittersweet smile before adding quietly, "And, had it been possible, you would've been a wonderful mother."

She closed her eyes to hold back tears and nodded, unable to speak. Albus cleared his throat. "We shouldn't keep him waiting."

When Albus released the spell, Snape simply looked at them for a moment, wide-eyed, as though shocked that they'd had a row. At last, he swallowed hard. "I, ah, couldn't help seeing your lips. The Cruciatus?"

Albus bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Severus. It is the only way."

Snape tried to smile and failed miserably. "I understand. And I've experienced it before."

"Well, I don't think congratulations are in order," replied Minerva brusquely, after surreptitiously wiping her eyes. "Are you ready to begin?"

She'd expected a raised brow, perhaps a snide comment, but Snape surprised her by merely nodding his assent. Minerva looked at Albus, helpless, as he stood and stepped away from the chair.

"Take his hand, Minerva," Albus commanded, in a quiet tone that brooked no argument.

Tentatively, she reached out and took Snape's long, pale hand in her own. He flinched at her touch but bore it; she ignored his withdrawal and clasped his cold fingers firmly. She dared not look at his face, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw him square his shoulders as though preparing for a blow.

"I will cast the curse on you for short periods of time, Severus," said Albus. "In between, I will ask you questions. I suggest you do not answer. At the very least, do not answer truthfully. Voldemort will doubtless wish to know whether or not you gave the requested information. If he were to discover that you did, your life would be in more danger than it already is."

"Yes, sir." Snape's whispered answer was almost inaudible.

"Very well," sighed Albus. He straightened stooped shoulders and pointed his wand at Snape.

Minerva longed to run screaming from the room, but she kept a tight grip on Snape's hand to prevent her own hand from shaking, and she kept her gaze resolutely on Albus.

In a heartbeat, like some horrific Transfiguration, his face changed. The lines became etched in stone, his mouth stern, his blue eyes hard and impenetrable. She drew in a deep breath, frightened of the great, terrible, unfathomable god her gentle husband had become.

"Crucio!"

And all thoughts of Albus were banished from Minerva's mind as Snape began to scream. He squeezed her hand so tightly she felt her bones pop and grind together. Her skin burned where he twisted it in his agony. She risked a glance at him and wished she hadn't, when she saw his head thrown back so far it seemed as though his neck would break at any second. Sweat bathed his bruised, sallow skin, and his eyes were closed tightly against a horror Minerva couldn't begin to understand.

He sagged forward when Albus released the curse, though he didn't release Minerva's hand.

"Who are the members of the Inner Cadre?" Albus demanded, his voice deep and menacing, echoing in the tiny chamber.

"I--I don't--know," Snape panted. His eyes darted to and fro like a wild animal's, seeking escape.

"Tell me!"

"I don't know!"

"Crucio!"

And the nightmare began again. Snape screamed so violently that he gagged and choked, and he was sobbing so that tears as well as sweat now coated his cheeks. Minerva feared her hand was broken, and she bit her lips hard enough to taste blood in order not to cry out.

"Where is Voldemort's stronghold?"

"I...It's...in Belgium!"

"Liar! Crucio!"

And again.

"Crucio!"

And--

"Crucio!"

It was only a few moments, the curse cast for mere seconds, but Minerva felt as though she were trapped, out of time. It seemed like she'd been in the squalid room forever, in a hellish world of pain and blood and tortured, tearful screams.

She was scarcely aware when the cycle ended. She realised it only because the pattern broke; the rhythm was off. She came back to herself slowly, pushing through the crimson fog of pain.

Sounds first. Snape still wept, though his breaths were regular, now, and ragged. Robes rustled as Albus returned his wand to his sleeve. His booted footsteps approached the bed.

Her vision cleared, and she raised her eyes to see Albus standing before her. The stone god had crumbled; his face had fallen into an ashen ruin of lines that hadn't been there before. His lips were set firmly, but his over-bright eyes spoke volumes.

Minerva looked away, unable to forgive him just yet. She swallowed hard, shuddering at the salty taste of blood from the stinging cuts on her lips, and looked at Snape. He sat with his head bowed, face curtained by his hair, and his hunched shoulders were wracked with sobs. He still gripped her hand hard with cold, clammy fingers. Minerva's own fingers were ominously numb.

With infinite care, she reached over with her other hand and laid it lightly on his wrist. "Severus?" she whispered.

Snape raised his head and turned to her, though his wet black eyes seemed to look past her, or deep within themselves. Before he could speak, however, robes rustled again as Albus knelt before him.

"Forgive me, my child," he whispered hoarsely. "Forgive me."

Through a sudden blurring of tears, Minerva saw Snape's single, jerky nod. He then reached out as if desperate and grasped Albus' hand. Partly out of a desire to free her own abused hand, she shifted closer to Snape and pulled him close. "Come here, laddie."

He turned to Minerva with a grateful look and thankfully released her hand in order to put his arms about her. He clung like a child, resting his head upon her shoulder. She held him tightly, stroking his hair with painfully tingling fingers. Over Snape's head, she nodded for Albus to join them; she knew he'd suffered more than she had, and possibly even more than Snape.

Albus took a seat on the bed and began to gently rub Snape's back, murmuring soft words of comfort as only he knew how. Slowly, between them, the boy began to relax.

And soon, perhaps it was an after-effect of the shock or merely because he was comfortable, but Minerva happened to notice that Snape seemed...not to be relaxed any longer. In fact, one part of his anatomy was decidedly not relaxed, as it was currently swelling near her thigh. Snape still had his face burrowed into her shoulder, so Minerva took the opportunity to shoot a significant glance at Albus. He merely smiled benignly and shrugged, continuing to stroke the boy's shoulders.

Minerva exhaled through her nose in worried exasperation, not knowing how to deal with the situation. Finally, as the problematic appendage grew too large to ignore, she gave Snape a soft tap on the shoulder. "Ahem. Severus? I couldn't help noticing your...erm."

Snape looked up at her, stricken, and a blush turned his cheeks deep fuchsia. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, averting his eyes.

"No, laddie, it's all right," she faltered, not certain if it was or not. "Would you like--"

He looked back at her with an expression so desperately hopeful that her reservations crumbled on the spot.

"Bloody hell," Minerva murmured, damning herself, and she leant close to press her lips to his.

Snape's lips parted beneath hers, and he kissed back hungrily, exploring her mouth with his tongue. And before she knew it, his hands touched her breasts through the fabric of her robes, squeezing gently as though to make up for the pain he'd caused her earlier.

She touched him as well, reaching up to stroke his hair and neck. Her hands met Albus' somewhere near Snape's shoulders, and she caressed his wrinkled skin with one hand even as she touched Snape with the other.

And soon she lay back on the bed, robes parted, with Snape above her and between her thighs. Torchlight threw his face into shadow; she saw only raven hair and pale, pale skin.

"Minerva," he breathed as he entered; the first time he'd called her by name. She closed her eyes and sighed, but dared not respond for fear of conjuring the name on her tongue.

But Snape brought him, too. At one point he panted, "Please. Please drive him away," as he rolled over with Minerva, onto their sides. And he wasn't speaking to her, for a moment later Albus' arm encircled Snape from behind, his hand coming to rest on Minerva's side.

And then it didn't matter whose hands touched her, whose leg brushed against hers, whose hair ticked her cheek. She had Albus and a boy who was student, child, lover, ghost... All those things and more, and it didn't matter as long as they loved him.

And they did.

And they did.

And--

Snape curled against her, resting his head upon her shoulder. Albus lay with his eyes closed, breathing deeply, though Minerva was uncertain whether he slept or not. She smiled softly, stroking Snape as she would a cat, trying to lull him to sleep.

She paused as he stirred beneath her touch, nestling closer. "Mother," he murmured, sounding content.

Minerva's breath hitched, and she stared at the ceiling, lost, torn between laughter and tears.

She settled for neither, but merely resumed touching him, doing the only thing she knew to be right.

She loved him.

And then, at long last, she slept.