The Upper Hand

Cold be hand and heart and bone,

And cold be sleep under stone:

Never more to wake on stony bed,

Never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead.

In the black wind the stars shall die,

And still on gold here let them lie,

Till the dark lord lifts his hand

Over dead sea and withered land.

~The Fellowship of the Ring: Fog on the Barrow Downs~

***

Five years had passed. First of his friends to join, Severus watched for five years as, one by one, his friends stooped before the Dark Lord and accepted their new lives. For five years Severus had made his way slowly through the ranks, always a step ahead of his friends, always given a wide berth by the other Death Eaters. They suspected what they were forbidden to suggest of Severus. The rumors of his past were hushed, denied, and evaded. The others knew that these events of loss and gain had not simply occurred by chance, but they dared not question the judgment of their Master. Still, they were not blind to the mercy that this foolish young man was being given. Neither were they numb to it. Members from the older generation distrusted Severus; they did not speak to him unnecessarily, and they watched with narrowed eyes as he rose to their stature in the Dark Lord's eyes. Those of the second generation shrugged at their parents' cold shoulders and remained on friendly terms with Severus, although those terms seemed motivated by an ambition beneath the surface rather than fondness, and the warmth in their manners turned to cold envy behind his back, and behind their hands.

Severus smiled at their jealousy, and at their fear. He smiled at the inked Mark on his inner forearm, which he had borne for five years, screaming prideful acceptance to him. He held his head high, bore his torture with grace, and never begged. He was quiet during their meetings, standing as a silent shadow in his place among them, a hint of a smile lurking beneath the flickering shadows of his hood. He had everything.

At home, a little girl waited for him, asleep in her bed. She did not mind the cold, dry air of the Snape Manor, just as she didn't mind her cold, dry brother Severus. He had taken care of her just as he'd sworn to, though her presence proved less a punishment and more a privilege as time went on. She accepted Severus as her caretaker without question, and he was infinitely grateful to her for that. She never asked too many questions of Severus, aside from the occasional 'why did you leave last night?' She didn't ask about her parents, and Severus didn't tell her, fighting a gnawing instinct that told him she deserved to know.

He just didn't want to deal with it.

She had been a smart baby; she watched everything around her, absorbing every sight and sound that passed her by. He had given her the best care that a seventeen-year-old boy could; completely naïve at first, he had learned quickly what to expect in the responsibilities of surrogate fatherhood. Diapers, sleepless nights, and feeding so often he began to wonder if it was customary for a child to eat that much, or if little Charity was some twisted transfiguration of a garbage disposal. She taught him easily more than he felt he could ever teach her, even as quick to learn as she was. He wondered what he should teach her, given the chance. Some lessons did not come easily or painlessly, and he groped for an opportunity to teach them in just that way. It tormented him when he could not. Still, whether he was doing all he could for her or not, she had grown. She had walked early, and spoken late.

In fact, Severus had been beginning to worry she would never speak at all, until he had awoken one morning to find her tugging on his blankets and saying, quite plainly and calmly: "I would like my breakfast now." Which had caused him to gape open-mouthed at the three-year-old Charity, wondering if he was having a sleep-induced hallucination. To which she had crossed her little arms impatiently, quirking her tiny red mouth in a scowl, and saying: "What is wrong with you?" He had laughed and swung her up into his arms, taking her down to the dining hall, and demanding that the elves give her whatever she wanted for breakfast. Her face had lit up in a smile, and she had told Severus happily that she wanted his slippers for breakfast.

She was also a very stubborn child, for when Severus had asked her if maybe she'd rather have pancakes instead, she had considerately poured her milk onto his lap. Luckily, one of the older elves of the Snape Manor, who had been something of a nanny to Severus in his early childhood, had chimed in to aid him. She was cleverer than most house elves, and she had smiled knowingly at Severus, squeaking: "Never you mind, Master Severus! Never you mind Miss Charity. Seraphine will get her breakfast slippers for her!" Severus had been about to snap at Seraphine, when she winked and rushed off to the kitchen. When she came back, she held a tray of what looked exactly like Severus's black slippers, drizzled with syrup. Seraphine had used her own, house-elfish brand of transfiguration on some pancakes. It wasn't all for the best, however, because from then on Charity demanded her slipper-pancakes every morning.

Now she was five years old and speaking fluently, with a vocabulary to rival any student at Hogwarts. She seemed to enjoy Severus's wry humor, and she laughed often, tossing her ebony curls back and grinning so that all of her teeth showed; her pale cheeks would squeeze her big brown eyes into merry little slits in her oval face. She said unexpected things at times, like most children that age, but she said them with an air of wisdom, no matter how ludicrous her statements might be.

She slept in a little room that was once one of Senan's lesser chambers. It was just off to the side of the main bedroom, where Severus slept. He wanted to keep her close by, as she sometimes woke in the night sobbing to herself. This had started to happen when she was about four, and it became a weekly occurrence. Severus would hear her scream, wake with a start, and stumble to her bed. Then he would sit and hold her, shushing her and stroking her hair, until she fell asleep again. Once, he had made the mistake of asking her what she dreamed about.

"Blood and cold hands on my face and blood!" she had stammered, curling herself into a tight little ball on Severus's lap. He had gone pale, his arms going limp about her, his eyes widening unseeingly as she quietly mumbled herself to sleep: "Blood...cold...screaming..." He had very nearly reconsidered killing himself that night, and he never asked her about it again.

It was this event coupled with a familiar sear of pain in his left arm that woke Severus at two in the morning on what would later turn out to be a very stormy Thursday. He shot out of bed too fast for himself, lurching in the direction of Charity's chamber out of habit. He stumbled and leaned against the wall for half an instant, blinking as blood made its frantic way back up to his brain and the black spots disappeared from in front of his eyes. Faint, expectant crying noises could be heard through the door that led into Charity's room, which was left cracked open at night.

Severus regained his composure and stood, starting toward the all too familiar sobs. Then another swell of pain flared up on his arm, and he grabbed it convulsively, cursing the horrible timing of the universe. Anxiously torn between two obligations, Severus grabbed his shimmering black cloak from a chair beside the door and threw it over his shoulders, and then he walked quickly into Charity's room.

He could just see the top of her curly black head, her brown eyes filled with tears and just peeping out above her blankets, which she held firmly over the rest of her face with tight little fists. She was looking right at Severus, waiting for him to come over and comfort her. Then her eyes flickered down to the dark material that looked like nothing but shifting shadows that he was swathed in, and she fell silent.

Severus walked over and knelt by her bed, smiling through another more urgent jolt of pain through his arm as he pulled down her blankets.

"You're leaving again," she said accusingly, pushing out her quivering bottom lip and wrenching her blankets away from him.

"Yes," sighed Severus quietly.

"I had a bad dream," she said in the same accusing tone, blinking a few silent tears down her cheeks. "Stay!"

"I can't," said Severus quickly as the pain in his arm intensified still. She started to cry again. "Shh! Shh! I'll be back soon, I won't be gone long!" He said, having no idea how long it would actually last.

"I don't want you to go!" she protested. "I don't like you when you come back! You act funny and you smell funny and I don't like it!"

"Well there's nothing I can do about it," snapped Severus, suddenly angry, although he wasn't sure why. He took a deep breath and softened his voice. "I'll be back soon," he said again over her sobs. He stood up and tried to reach down and touch her hair, but she threw the covers over her head again and sobbed louder.

He clenched his jaw in frustration as more pain hit him. Curse it all! He had hesitated to comfort her, he would most likely be punished for it in the end, and she wouldn't even look at him. He tried to reason with himself as he stormed back into his own bedroom. She was just a child; children did this; she couldn't understand... Unfortunately, Severus wasn't an easy person to be reasoned with, not even by himself, and he Apparated late, missing his place in the circle by several feet in his foul mood.

It was a special kind of Apparation; he could only picture the circle and his place in it, but he had to allow the power of the Mark to draw him to the right location. Often, Death Eaters could go through a meeting and leave it never quite knowing where they had been. This was, of course, intended. If by some bitter twist of fate a Death Eater was caught by an Auror and questioned with Veritaserum, he could say in all honesty that he didn't know where he'd been the night before. There were ways of twisting truth even through a potion so powerful as Veritaserum; no one can be entirely forced to tell the whole truth. It is always the teller's choice, in the end, just how much to reveal.

Now, as Severus fell with an unusual lack of grace onto none other than Deucalion himself, he registered that the meeting was being held outdoors somewhere. The space between Death Eaters was slightly larger than usual owing to the allotted space. Deucalion hastily shoved him into the center of the circle, as if Severus himself was too hot to touch. He stumbled forward onto his knees and pressed his lips to the hem of the cloak that trailed the ground before him, and then scrambled to his feet. He paused for a moment, slightly disoriented, as he searched for his place among them. He was confronted before he had the chance to slip in.

"You are late."

Severus cringed inwardly at the slight malice in the Dark Lord's tone.

"Yes," he said apprehensively, turning to face his Master. "I apologize, Lord. I was--detained."

He was deliberately vague, not wishing to discuss the trials and tribulation of childcare with an impatient Master and thirty Death Eaters. Most would have feared to test the Dark Lord with such elusiveness, but Severus did not worry too much for his reaction. Vagueness was, after all, his trademark, and the Dark Lord seemed to respect him for it. Or at least, expected it of him and wasn't infuriated by it. Most of the time.

"And your...detainment...is so important that it hinders you from responding promptly to my Call?" Said Voldemort in honeyed tones, his lips twisted in a grim smile. "Tsk, tsk, Severus. Perhaps I should help you sort your priorities properly, hmm? Remind you of your more important responsibilities?"

Severus bowed his head and said nothing. He stared at the glossy grass beneath his feet, barely perceivable through the thick black night. He would not beg, and his punishment would surely be less for it. Suddenly a harsh, short laugh drove him to look back up.

"You await punishment as a guilty child awaits chastisement! I see that you recognize your err, Severus. Good. Consider yourself lucky tonight, as I have not the time nor patience to deal with such meager grievances. We have more pressing matters to attend to. Take your place in the circle, and waste no more of my time."

Nothing was said as Severus gratefully accepted the Dark Lord's mercy and moved to stand quietly between Deucalion and Lucius, but Severus could feel a rising hostility toward him as several pairs of older Death Eater's eyes flickered to him. None of them would have received such a courtesy.

Voldemort paced slowly round the inside of the circle, peering directly into every Death Eater's hood as he did so. A slow, intimidated shiver passed from Servant to Servant through the circle alongside him. It was his menacing form of greeting. When he had finished, he smiled to himself and walked back to the center of the circle.

"My friends," he rasped softly, opening his arms to them. "Followers. Brethren. Here you are again.

"You have responded faithfully and promptly--most of you--" His red eyes flared in Severus's direction, full of disdain, for an instant before he continued. "To my Call, as you have each done since your Dark baptism. I have guided you, taught you graciously, punished you when necessary, and molded you all into worthy members of this society since then. Many of you may think that you have seen the greatest, most terrible acts of our kind performed in the past ten years, and feel honored and proud that you had a hand in them." He smiled wryly again, his lips twisting sardonically. Many of the older Death Eaters had stood up straighter at his mention, raising their hooded faces proudly, and flickers of light illuminating the self-satisfied expressions within them.

Their hopes of recognition and honor were soon dashed, however.

"Do not delude yourselves." He let a sullen silence capture the next couple of moments. "As of yet, your hand in my work has been small, almost meaningless. You have yet to service me truly, and such service will prove a test of your loyalty and endurance that perhaps you have not taken into account. Our exertions so far have been merely preparations for the future. My future. Our future. The wizarding world's future. But now, my friends, the hour is upon us. We have the Ministry obliviously under our sway, with infiltration to any inside information we could desire to know. They are fools, the lot of them, and they do not realize the depth of their own deception. Persuasion of Azkaban's guard is currently underway, and as soon as everything falls into place, we shall have the Ministry's captives once more at our side, as well as an alliance with the power of the Dementors. Our conquest is complete in all aspects, complete and yet still hidden. None in the wizarding world fully understand their insecurity. We shall use this to our advantage. The time is come, and yet still I am thwarted--detained, as Severus Snape might so eloquently put it. You all know of what I speak: Hogwarts. The school is still a haven to the imprudent followers of Albus Dumbledore. It is as of yet impenetrable to me. Alas, I have spent my energy in a futile search, seeking a way to invade Hogwarts. No way comes without its risks: of failure, discovery, death... And yet how am I to overcome the lock without the key? The key, my brethren..." Voldemort stopped here, allowing a dramatic, tense pause as the circle held its breath. He began to circle again, eyeing them beneath their hoods, measuring them. "The key," he said in a soft, alluring voice "is one of you."

He continued circling as a soft mutter echoed through his followers. He reached Lucius, narrowing his eyes at the straight-nosed, glinting-eyed silhouette behind the hood, before taking another step. His eyes fell on Severus's shadowed face: curved nose, thin lips, dark eyes framed by tilted black eyebrows, all features set in an impassive expression. The Dark Lord's stare lingered on this Death Eater, who stared levelly back into his red eyes. If any emotion at all, were it fear, anticipation, or excitement lurked within the lean, straight-backed form of Severus Snape, none present could discern it. Not even Lord Voldemort himself.

"'Detained,' you said," said the Dark Lord in a whisper near the level of inarticulateness. Severus felt a shiver beckoning his spine, but he banished it. He sensed that Voldemort was speaking more to himself than to his follower. "'Detained' from responding to your Master, from whom you have no right to be held back. Premeditated ambiguity, with enough taste to earn you a painless evening. You cannot deceive me, who knows you better than you could comprehend. But what of another, whose empathy often serves to drive him blind?"

Though he kept his face unreadable, Severus blanched, thankful for the shadows and natural paleness that helped to disguise it. He couldn't mean...

"Severus Snape," Voldemort said in a commentating voice. He stepped back from Severus, back into the center of the circle. "Step forward."

Reluctantly, Severus broke the circle and strode forward, amidst the distrustful whisperings of his colleagues. The pale moonlight briefly broke through the heavy blackness of the clouds overhead for a moment, unfettering a silver luminosity, which doused the edges of Severus's gleaming cloak and crept within his hood, striking his black eyes unmercifully and making him blink.

"You have had little opportunity to appease my whims, Snape, since you were accepted into my fellowship. You have been of little use to me, and yet I kept you, and looked after you for this long, because I knew that someday I would use you well. I once told you that a loss could be compensated for, if not wholly replaced." There was yet another murmur within the ranks, though of suspicion this time. Straight words of accusation were not spoken aloud. Voldemort leaned forward, speaking softly, treacherously, as he stated his next few sentences. "I have taken you under my protection, but you have yet to earn your redemption. Recall that I also once told you of your fate sans this redemption. I now give you a chance to purchase it.... what would you say?"

Severus stared numbly for a moment, the shifting moonlight pouring over him and hiding his minute trembling. The faint, hoarse whispering of those surrounding him tickled the edges of his consciousness, distracting proper thought. He knew, he knew what he was being asked. He knew, but did not want to accept it, or understand it, and so he feigned ignorance with a soft voice. "What do you ask of me?"

Lord Voldemort's eyes flared glowing scarlet with intimidation, and he spoke even softer, so that even the Death Eaters lurking behind, straining to hear his words could not. "I told you, boy, that you had a harsh compensation to pay. Did you expect my mercy as a free compliment? Every moment you spend under my care must be recompensed. You have five years and a lost life on your neck. Will you turn away seeking the easier road? Let me tell you now, and you would be wise to accept my advice: you will not find it. You have knives at your back with every turn you make, Severus, and they will only twist in deeper if you try to fight them. I offer to arm you and guard you, which is far more than you deserve. I offer this in turn for your oath to me, which you have sworn to fulfill all your days. Turn away now, and you will have worse than knives upon your unprotected hide."

His face was now inches from Severus's, just outside the edges of his deep hood. They stared each into the other's eyes for a moment, one pair of a predator, one of the prey. Then the moment passed, and Voldemort drew back smiling.

"Yes," tumbled from Severus's mouth before he could reconsider. "I will do as you say."

"Good man," said Voldemort, his voice slick with triumph. "You act wisely.

"I will Call you all again on Sunday evening," continued Voldemort briskly. "In that time, Severus, you will contact Albus Dumbledore--Conveniently enough for you, there is a position as Potions Master available at Hogwarts. You will persuade the Headmaster that you are competent for the job, which you most certainly are. Dumbledore has had a hard time in the past filling that position. He will be hard pressed. You will get the position, Severus. It is crucial, and failure on your part will not bode well for you. You will then report back to me on Sunday evening for further instruction.

"As for the rest of you, each will have his own role to play in this game before all is completed. I will speak with each of you individually. Severus," he turned back to face Severus, who stood still awkwardly within the circle. "You have been dealt the most imperative task of all. Plan well and cleverly, and do not disappoint me." The trademark cynical smile was back. "I dismiss you early, for you have been contended with. I suggest you return to your nursery and deal with your 'detainment'."

Severus said nothing, bowing low, though a flicker of indignity sparked within him as the Death Eaters around them chortled.

"I thank you, My Lord," he said, and Disapparated.

He Apparated, stumbling slightly, into his bedroom. He threw off his cloak, and it fell artistically as a drapery of shining shadows across the armchair by Charity's bedroom door. He untied his boots, pulling them off and tossing them on the chair along with his cloak.

"Eurgh," Severus said, with veal, as he plopped down on the edge of his bed. He sighed, leaning forward so that the heels of hands met his tired eyes. He was just contemplating how in the name of Circe he always found himself in binds like this when his mattress shifted. Partially lifting his head, he peered listlessly through his fingers to see an angry, shadowy face positioned above two pale arms crossed sternly over the chest of a little girl clad in one of his own discarded nightshirts. She sat on the opposite corner of his bed, her voluminous sleeves drooping over the intersection of her arms, her legs also crossed, right foot swinging irritably.

"It's three in the morning," he stated in a useless croak. She regarded him somberly for a moment.

"Sound funny too," she concluded. He glared at her, before allowing himself to fall backwards onto his bed. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustrated thought, resting his left arm across his stomach. How the hell was he going to pull this off? A spy; he could do that. Just a simple matter of convincing Albus Dumbledore, a man Severus had hoped never to meet again, and also the very person who had every reason not to trust him, that he was the perfect man for the position of Potions Master. That it suited his personality enough to disregard the fact that his merely existing under the name Snape supplied him with a salary higher than eighty years of teaching could. That he was, perhaps, seeking refreshment from the solitude of his manor, so that he would be surrounded by students and teachers to socialize with, and spread his gift of potion making to the wizarding children of Great Britain.

Ha.

Even the likes of Sirius Black would see through that in an instant. Such an approach was no use... Dumbledore was easily as clever as Voldemort himself. But there had to be something...his Master wouldn't have suggested unless... what had he said? 'You cannot deceive me, who knows you better than you could comprehend. But what of another, whose empathy often serves to drive him blind?'

Empathy...? No, not empathy. Empathy certainly wasn't--

Oomph.

His thoughts were disrupted as his left arm was lifted, and something very heavy and warm fell across him, burrowing against him. His eyes flew open as the wind was knocked from him, and he lifted his head uncomfortably, letting his arm hang suspended in the air for a moment after she let it go.

"Charity..." he groaned in exasperation.

"Mmh emooph nngh!" She whined into his chest.

Despite himself, he felt a small smile creeping across his face.

"So I'm allowed to touch you again?" He asked wryly.

She said nothing, curling comfortably on top of him and sighing. He echoed her sigh, gathering her up in his arms and pushing himself back against the pillows of his bed. He awkwardly and slowly tugged the blankets out from under his legs and up over both of them, settling in the most comfortable position he could with knobby little girl knees poking him in the side. As soon as this was accomplished, Charity tipped her face up, resting her chin on his chest, and probing him with her large eyes.

"In the morning," she mumbled sleepily. Severus allowed one corner of his mouth to tug upward, before she buried her face in his shirt again. The other corner followed. Though he hadn't the faintest idea what she had meant by that, Severus had to agree with her in his own contexts. In the morning, he thought, resting his hand upon the curly black head. His fingers stretched far enough almost to cover it, and he let her soft curls twine themselves naturally around them. He closed his eyes, relaxing into the rhythm of Charity's deepening breaths, until he matched it with his own.

***

Tick... tick... tick... tick...

A rosy light filled the room, blushing against the paler surfaces and causing the dark wooden desk's edges to shine with a deep radiance. Shadows lingered beneath the glow, slowly but surely curling their fingers around the subdued light to announce dusk. The room was achingly silent, with only the soft and deafening tick-tocking of the clock on the wall to relieve the solitude. No breeze entered through the half-open window.

The cage in the corner glinted ambiguously, and within it sat a fiery bird. Two shining eyes stared out between the bars, assessing the situation. Had it been human, the bird would have sighed. It was silent and still, watching his master, his comrade, suffer in his own thoughts.

The old man removed his spectacles, setting them down on the desk before him, which was overflowing with a whopping two job applications. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, sighing dismally. The last of the day's rays glimmered briefly in nostalgia of its noontime glory on his dormant, golden spectacles, before winking out and skulking back into the dark corners of the room. He did not see it, choosing instead to focus on the throbbing of his temples against the nagging obligations lying before him.

"No experience, no references, no qualifications," he muttered to himself. "Useless."

He cursed his own role in encouraging Jason Duvall to retire last term, assuring the man that they would 'have no problem filling the position, surely.'

Twelve years ago, that would have been the case. Back when a job at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was considered great and honorable, and hard to come by. Back when teachers at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry weren't entailed to work under the tense and wary atmosphere of being under constant threat. Back when the children were safe, the school a haven, and not a single soul doubted that it was the best place to be in times of chaos. No more.

The decrease of student population at Hogwarts had been accelerating rapidly over the past few years. Families were moving into safer territory, sending their children to Beauxbatons...even Durmstrang was being considered a safe alternative to Hogwarts. It all depended what side of the spectrum the parents looked from. Parents who moved to Beauxbatons wanted their children to continue schooling in a carefree atmosphere, oblivious to the terror and destruction that was sweeping over Britain. He couldn't blame them, of course, but he wished he could make them see; make them understand. Beauxbatons...France...would be safe for a time. But a time only. Britain was the stronghold; Britain was the foremost and biggest hurdle to the Dark Lord; it was the locked door behind which lay a clear path to steady conquest of the wizarding world.

And the parents who sent their children to Durmstrang... They were the people behind the masks. Getting their children out of the way, out of the danger that they themselves thrust upon Britain. They wanted their children trained for the day they could join their parents in the struggle for domination. They wanted to twist innocent minds, nurture the seed of dark ambition within every child's heart, to cultivate corruption in the very souls of their own flesh and blood. The thought made him sick, and angry. In his younger years, he had been told that he was condemnatory, but he now disregarded that thought. He was experienced. He had seen the horrors that lost souls could commit, and he had no doubt that redemption was beyond them. The fire of Hell burned in their eyes, and there it would fester until the body was nothing but a temple to the black ruins of the heart within.

Albus Dumbledore very rarely allowed himself to hate, but in this, this travesty of humanity, he would let his odium rest.

A sharp note rent the air, and Albus snapped from his deep contemplations. Fawkes rustled his bejeweled feathers in agitation, unable to bear the palpable frustration hovering in the room. Albus did not smile.

"My friend, my friend," he lamented, standing to reach a long finger within the cage and stroke the majestic bird's beak. "It is ineffectual to moan and weep and wish for better times," he said sadly, as the bird closed its eyes luxuriously and nuzzled against his finger. "Though sometimes I wish I was blessed with such a part to play in all of this, and to let others take the responsibility." He withdrew his finger from the cage, sighing. "I am so very tired."

"Prof...Albus?"

He did not turn around, and he actually almost smiled, as he recognized the voice that spoke his name. The voice hadn't changed since the man's school days...well, physically, of course, it had.... but it still held the same note of innocence, of rambunctious mischief. He yearned to turn around and see the light of youth in his brown eyes, but he knew that that youth was slipping away all too quickly.

When he did turn around, he found the eyes that stared back at him filled with concern. The man stood unsurely, his center of gravity shifted somewhere to the side, one hand in his pocket and the other running through the dark, boisterous hair atop his head. Beneath the glasses a lilting half-smile greeted him.

"Very good," said Albus distantly. "You have learned the art of using my first name, however haltingly. You are welcome to it, James."

"I'm sorry to bother you," said James, moving his hand from his head to his remaining pocket and slumping a little more. "Poppy--"

"Sent you up here to make sure I hadn't fainted or gone mad? Well, as you can see, I am fully conscious, so you needn't worry."

James hesitated, licking his lips. "And the second?" he inquired softly. "A--Albus. I know you're under a lot of stress, I understand why, with all of this...mess...but you can't just lock yourself away in here. Term starts in only a couple of weeks, and we need you to--"

The young man's courage, which usually heartened Albus in this hour of grief, suddenly annoyed him.

"Need me to what, James? To act as if everything should be running as usual? To make polite conversation with the staff about decorations and curriculums, while out in the world is a stifling apprehension of the strike we know will come? To feign cheerfulness and plan to teach the children simple charms and...potions," he spat out that word, glancing darkly at the resumes on his desk. "What if there aren't any children this year? We await the destruction of this refuge, this asylum, with baited breath, but can't you see it happening before your eyes? The dreams of our future fall to pieces around us as we militarize ourselves against attack. What use is a haven when there is no one left for it to protect?"

James stared at him, his brown eyes wide with a struggle between confusion, fear, and anger. Albus could read the boy's thoughts as if they were written across his forehead. He's gone mad. Somewhere beneath his frustration, Albus felt a twinge of pity for James. He took a deep breath.

This isn't your place, he told himself. They need you to offer comfort, resilience, stability. Not anger and hopelessness--they have quite enough of that without your help. He forced himself to smile, and to interject as James started to argue back, trying to squirm into a role that didn't suit him.

"You aren't yourself, Albus! You can't--"

"No, my boy, I can't. I apologize for my outburst. Perhaps you're right. Best to keep on as usual, to give all we have to the students we have left."

James' expression softened, and he visibly relaxed. Albus sighed, watching his former student. As time went on, James would have to learn to be less transparent. It would take away the last of his youth, and it pained Albus to take such a gift from him. He hadn't addressed it yet, and he chose not to address it now.

"Have you eaten?" Albus asked James after a moment of awkward silence.

"No, not yet," James responded, looking hopeful.

"Neither have I. In quite some time, actually. Why don't we head down to the Great Hall for dinner?"

***

Fawkes the Phoenix watched as the two men left the room; one he loved, and one he pitied. Fawkes was a bird of wisdom, and had foreshadowing knowledge that humans would do well not to posses. He sensed events of great magnitude ahead.

A few moments later, a cool breeze ruffled his feathers from behind, the first movement of the stagnant air through the window all day as of yet. He turned his beady eye, always watchful, and observed as a black owl swooped in, past his cage, and dropped a letter bearing a wax seal upon Albus Dumbledore's desk. Then the owl swooped out again, not halting once in its smooth movement; dipping down to drop its burden, and looping back up. It screeched at Fawkes as it departed.

Fawkes the Phoenix sensed events of great magnitude ahead, as he watched the letter sitting upon his master's desk. Had he been human, he would have destroyed the letter, or warned someone about it. But he was a phoenix, a bird, a watcher. He wished to aid his master, but he resigned himself to waiting and watching impassively as his ages passed him by.

For such is the life of a phoenix.