Pretty Good Year

3.

That the solution to their problem proves ridiculously simple does not irritate Snape so much as the fact that it is Luna who discovers it.

After leaving her with the tea, and giving the portrait of Phineas Nigellus a message for Dumbledore, he had put his mind to the challenge of getting away from Grimmauld Place and back to Hogwarts unseen. Having neither hippogriffs nor brooms at their disposal, the difficulty had seemed a substantial one.

He was debating the merits of Apparating to the edge of the Forbidden Forest then Disillusioning them both to escape the notice of the centaurs (and wondering whether there was a charm that would prevent other predators from smelling or otherwise sensing their presence) when he happened to glance in at the girl in the sitting room.

He had paused, blinked, then pushed the door open, whereupon he took to staring.

"Miss Lovegood. I understand that the stress of the last few hours has been considerable for you, but do you really find that enchanting household objects will lessen your grief?"

She had smiled, which was startling enough in itself, and with a flick of her wand the large Oriental rug had floated to where he stood. The table bearing their tea things was perfectly balanced on top, and when the rug settled to the floor at his feet, the table came to rest without so much as rattling the china.

"I think this will do."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The rug will carry us to Hogwarts. We'll want to make quite a few stops of course, just to bolster the charms, but we should be all right."

His left eyebrow shot dramatically to his hairline. "You wish us to make the journey to Scotland on a flying carpet?"

"It will be quite cold of course, but no more so than a broom, although we haven't got any of those, have we, or the house wouldn't be such a mess. Daddy and I were practicing on the door mat at home. Daddy knew a Gorgon in Greece he thought might help us fight the Death Eaters, but the Portkeys and the Floo network are monitored these days and Daddy wasn't much good on a broom. But I'm quite good with Charms, you know," she had added, off-handedly.

He had turned his back on her then, but an hour later he had conceded the lack of acceptable alternatives. The carpet had provided a surprisingly stable ride, though it was slower than a broomstick, and lacked any controls for steering; the best they had managed was tugging on tassels to turn left or right. The tension of being perpetually in danger of sliding off the surface kept them alert, and though Snape had insisted on stopping every hour to reinforce the charms, they were over the castle grounds by dawn.

Once inside the Great Hall he had taken leave of her with an abruptness matching his discomfort with the intimacy that had been required between them. "I trust you can find your way to Ravenclaw Tower from here. The password will be the same as when you left at the end of last term."

He had turned in the opposite direction and made his way to Dumbledore's office without another word of guidance or explanation.

Certain members of the Order, himself among them, had been called to meet the Headmaster at dawn.

*

He knows he hasn't missed the meeting—he's never that lucky, and it's not yet sunrise anyway—but he is still disconcerted by the small crowd of people leaking from Dumbledore's office. Another meeting must have preceded his, testament to the fact that no one seems to sleep anymore.

Hestia Jones and Emmeline Vance nod to him as they pass. Arthur Weasley, his normally plump and ruddy face gone thin and shadowed under the eyes, does not. His two oldest sons walk like guards on either side of him.

He hears muffled voices from behind the door of the office, one of which can only belong to Minerva McGonagall. He knocks, and enters without waiting for a response, certain that he is expected.

McGonagall is facing Dumbledore, who is seated at his desk. She seems either not to notice or not to care that Snape has entered. Dumbledore nods to him slightly, then meets McGonagall's eyes again, waiting.

"Molly Weasley died two weeks ago," she says. "Why did you not acknowledge it when you told everyone about Elphias Doge and Leopold Lovegood? Surely we should have observed a moment of silence for her as well."

"I would certainly have done so, Minerva, were there not several excellent reasons to do otherwise. If you must know, Bill and Charlie Weasley asked me not to mention it. They believed the reminder would make their father's task more difficult."

"I see." Her back is rigid and her tone somewhat higher than normal. "And what were the others?"

"The other reasons? I considered their request reason enough, but one might also say that everyone knew of Molly's death already, whereas Leopold and Elphias were lost to us so recently that few within the Order had heard." Though his tone was anything but strident to begin with, it gentles perceptibly as he continues to gaze up at her. "Does it matter to you so very much?"

"You know it does."

Snape begins to inch backward toward the door. He has developed an infallible instinct for escaping incipient emotional scenes, and one is clearly developing now. Dumbledore, however, catches his eye, and before he returns his gaze to McGonagall Snape has detected the unmistakable glimmer of command: he is to stay put.

"You must not blame yourself, Minerva. You are not responsible for what happened to her."

She makes a sound which in a less dignified person would be called a snort, but Dumbledore does not acknowledge it. "You exercised your best judgment. It is irrational to believe you could have prevented the consequences."

"Rabastan Lestrange was one of my students," she says, thickly. "The responsibility goes deeper than you know."

Snape flinches, as though from the threat of a physical blow.

"Do you hold me responsible for Voldemort's actions, because I once chanced to teach him Transfiguration?"

"Of course not," she retorts. "But you did not sit on information that might have saved Lily and James Potter from their deaths because of some vague idea of....of expediency...." She bursts into tears and turns away from Dumbledore and Snape both.

Snape is on the edge of firmly, insistently, excusing himself at this point, when footsteps become audible in the hall outside.

He turns to see Remus Lupin entering the office, his pose so casual that Snape is certain he must know, at least in part, what he is interrupting. He feels a surge of simultaneous relief and annoyance, which is more and more frequently his reaction whenever Lupin walks into a room.

Minerva, turning aside, discreetly dries her eyes with the sleeve of her robe.

"Good morning, Headmaster," Lupin says, a little too loudly. "Severus, Minerva. Sorry if we're late."

He has taken no more than two steps into the small room before he is followed by Alastor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks, Bill Weasley, Aurelia Vector, Filius Flitwick, Honoria Sprout, and—his eyes narrow, more from habit than reason of any present annoyance—Hermione Granger.

"Ah," Dumbledore says, his voice cheerful. "Good, you're all here. We can begin."

Snape takes his seat in the corner of the room farthest from Dumbledore's desk. The others follow suit, though all the seats nearest Snape remain empty.

"Any news from the general meeting, Headmaster?" Sprout mirrors Dumbledore's lighthearted tone, putting her feet up on a long sofa Snape doesn't remember being there during previous visits to the office.

"Nothing substantial, I'm afraid, Honoria. Arthur is having some difficulties resettling the families of our Muggle-born students in protected areas. Molly was responsible for most of the finer details of that operation, and Arthur naturally finds it painful to fill the gaps her death has created."

Sprout opens her mouth, but closes it without saying anything, and from the corner of his eye Snape sees McGonagall lower herself slowly into a seat near Flitwick.

"Severus." Snape lifts his head at the sound of his name, immediately anticipating an unpleasant request. "I was wondering if I might ask you to relate your business of this evening. Only Minerva and I have heard the outcome, and I am sure we are all anxious for the details."

From his corner, he can see everyone turning in their seats to face him. Lupin, sitting nearest to him, is wearing an expression of interest and mild concern, that same politic mixture of restraint and emotion which never seems to betray him, no matter how deep the hollows under his eyes have become. Hermione Granger, beside Lupin, frowns delicately at Snape over the back of her chair. She and Lupin are sitting quite close to each other; when she turns her head, strands of her hair fall over his shoulder. Snape quells the urge to clear his throat. He speaks softly, and keeps his seat.

"Late last night I received notice that a party of Death Eaters intended to visit the home of Leopold and Luna Lovegood in Ottery St. Catchpole, Sussex."

Granger gasps, and other such noises are heard across the room. Filius Flitwick, head of Ravenclaw House, murmurs to himself and shakes his head.

"The Lovegoods chose to live apart from a protective enclave, so there was no way of warning them ahead of time. I made arrangements to join the party, in hopes of conducting the Lovegoods to some place of safety during the confusion, but I was...too late to save Leopold."

He breathes deeply in hopes of loosening the restriction in his chest. He despises this, and does not understand why Dumbledore is requiring him to confess himself before a crowd. Leopold Lovegood is not the first man he has ever abandoned to his death, but these failures have always belonged to the world outside the castle. The rules are different there. Sacrifices are necessary.

He continues. "Miss Lovegood and I Apparated to Grimmauld Place, and made our way back to the school from there." He is in no mood to tell them about the flying carpet. "She is unharmed."

"Where is she now?" Granger's eyes are wide. "You said she's in the school?"

Snape has a brief mental flash of Luna Lovegood, quiet and pale in her long white dress, standing just inside the castle doors. Where he had washed his hands of her, and gladly. "She is in Ravenclaw Tower. She seemed to prefer solitude, and I thought she needed to sleep."

"But how did you get away, with all those Death Eaters nearby? They—they must know you've betrayed them by now, they'll know you've been a spy." Granger's questions come with a rapidity and insistence that cause him to drive his fingernails into the palm of his hand.

"You are correct, Miss Granger," he replies, keeping most of the impatience from his voice. "I was obliged to hex Marius Mulciber in order to clear the way for our escape. I do not believe I will be able to make my excuses this time. My behavior can only seal the doubt of me which has, I believe, been growing in the Dark Lord's mind of late."

Quiet whispers answer this statement, but no one seems to know how to react until Dumbledore speaks.

"You have done much for us, Severus. If the price of Miss Lovegood's life was the forfeiture of your position in Voldemort's ranks, I for one will not say the price was too high."

Another murmur across the room, this time of assent. The tension of the moment fades, and business continues.

But Snape, staring at the Headmaster from the back of the room, is not listening to Bill Weasley when Dumbledore asks him to report on his conversation with a cult of hedge-witches in Brittany who are sympathetic to their struggle. He does not listen as Aurelia Vector or Alastor Moody stand and speak a moment later of their intelligence contacts from within the Ministry.

He is too busy wondering what can possibly make Luna Lovegood any less acceptable a sacrifice than the dozens of others he has turned his back on for the sake of his mask.

He does not force his attention back to the world outside himself again until a sudden and complete stillness fills the room, signaling that Dumbledore has risen to speak. Snape has no choice but to shelve his anger and listen, then, because this is the reason he consents to be part of these meetings.

This is the reason the Order stays on its feet: Dumbledore's perpetual air of assurance has charmed them all into believing, in some superstitious corner of their souls, that as long as he is with them, they will never be pitted against enemies beyond their strength to overcome.

Individually they may stand or fall. But no one—Snape included—believes Dumbledore can be defeated.

"I have received new intelligence," he begins, "that will shape the course of our final resistance in this struggle."

As dramatic opening lines go, it is quite effective. The ambient level of tension in the room increases instantly to nearly palpable levels.

Dumbledore continues, his tone reminiscent of what his Transfiguration lectures must once have been. Alastor Moody could tell them.

"There are no records now, and no wizards living, who have memory of a time when we as a society have not placed our trust in those creatures we call dementors. I fear that our relationship with them is as old as the human inclination to be blinded by fear. That is to say, timeless."

He pauses to look at them with darkening eyes. "It is well known that dementors are sustained by feeding on the best and purest emotions and impulses of their victims. What may be less well known to you is that this self-same process, drawn to its logical conclusion, results in the creation of more of their kind. Dementors are only able to reproduce themselves by feeding deeply of numerous victims. New dementors attain shape and substance by piecing themselves together from the dregs of human souls."

Snape looks to the row of seats before him at Lupin, who appears calm. Beside him, however, Hermione Granger is staring in open-mouthed horror, and the faces of those around her are similarly grim. Evidently Snape is not the only person receiving an education in this matter. Lupin alone seems unsurprised; but then, Dark creatures are his speciality. Snape, on the other hand, has spent most of his life determinedly avoiding the very thought of dementors.

Dumbledore continues, apparently unconcerned by the effect of his words upon his audience. "It was due to their natural sympathy with Voldemort that the dementors abandoned the guard of Azkaban three years ago. They remain loyal to him still, for he provides them with unprecedented scope for their hunger. Soon—very soon, I believe—he will deploy them in legions, and they will cover the length and breadth of wizarding Britain. He will drain witches and wizards everywhere of the will or ability to resist him, using, when necessary, the Imperius curse, to which the dementors will have made the populace weak."

Dumbledore eyes remain grave over a small smile. "You see the genius of it. The widespread presence of dementors will engender such despair that hundreds of new dementors will arise. Their coming will, in turn, create still more despair. Eventually the magical community will simply collapse upon itself, allowing Voldemort to assume the reins of power with minimal resistance. I imagine, in fact, that many people will welcome him when he presents himself, for once he has employed his cruelest tactics to gain power, he will be able to rule with hints of mercy.

"Our present advantage in this matter lies in the fact that we have channels of information to which he is not yet wise. Our ability to resist him will depend on our continued ability to surprise him."

"But how?" Hermione Granger speaks hoarsely into the near minute of dead silence that follows. "How can we resist them? We can all produce a satisfactory Patronus, but that won't be nearly enough..."

Granger is wrong. Snape has never in his life produced a Patronus of sufficient strength to drive off a pogrebin or a lethifold, let alone a dementor. But he does not contradict her.

"You are quite right, Miss Granger. The combined strength of every Patronus in the Order will not be sufficient to combat them."

"How then?"

Dumbledore walks slowly back to his seat behind the desk, and when he speaks again, a hint of cheer has been restored to his voice. "Remus, if you would be so kind?"

Snape arches an eyebrow at Lupin, as he stands and plunges his hands into the sagging pockets of his shabby jumper. Granger is looking up at him in surprise.

Lupin clears his throat and gives a small smile.

"Let me tell you about a room in the Department of Mysteries, which is always kept locked."

*

An hour later, Snape's head is spinning, and not merely with exhaustion. He has not taken his eyes from Lupin once in the last forty minutes.

He is the first to leave the office, but he stops when he hears his name called from behind him.

"Professor Snape." Filius Flitwick is motioning to him from the door of Dumbledore's office. He pauses for a moment, irritation flickering: he does not wish to walk back through the small surge of people behind him. But he does, excusing himself as he steps in between Alastor Moody and Nymphadora Tonks.

"Severus, you said Miss Lovegood was in Ravenclaw Tower?" Sprout hails him as he passes. He nods, and she walks off in that direction.

Flitwick's small, weathered face is carefully non-expressive. He retreats from the doorway, so that Snape has no choice but to follow him inside the office, where Dumbledore is perched on the corner of his desk and watching them both.

He begins to scent an ambush.

"Professor Snape, might I inquire after your arm?" Flitwick says, tipping the door shut behind them.

Snape stares at him a moment in honest bewilderment. "My arm, Flitwick?"

"Mmm-hmm." Flitwick gives a small nod, then taps the back of his own arm at a spot some four inches up from the top of his wrist.

Snape's hand moves automatically to the same spot beneath his sleeve, where the Dark Mark lies, cool and dormant. "Ah. I see. Thus far, Flitwick, I am untroubled."

"Thus far," Flitwick repeats, nodding. "I realize it is an imposition, but may I...?" he gestures.

Snape has exposed this portion of his arm precisely three times in the twenty years that have passed since taking the Mark. But Dumbledore catches his eye, nodding minutely, and Snape begins to understand Flitwick's interest. Slowly, he draws the sleeve of his robes to the elbow, revealing the thin, sinewy arm and the black scoring of the tattoo beneath.

"Hmmph." Flitwick contemplates the Mark without touching it or his arm. He removes his wand, and mutters a spell under his breath that Snape does not quite hear. The air immediately over the Mark seems to waver and grow thick for a moment.

"When the Mark, er, activates, what does it feel like?"

Snape allows his sleeve to fall back into place. "Burning. In the immediate vicinity. Left...untended...it intensifies."

"That is an extremely potent variation on the Protean Charm. I have never seen one like it. Does you think—that is...." Flitwick clears his throat. "I am afraid that the Dark Lord's ability to cause you suffering may be...prodigious."

"That thought has also crossed my mind." Snape glances from Flitwick to Dumbledore. "I don't imagine there is any remedy. Save the final one." Death, Snape does not say aloud, because there are two deaths to whom it might refer. Three.

Flitwick nods. "That is possible, but I wouldn't want to give up all hope just yet. Give me some time, Severus, and I will see what I can do. There may be ways of ameliorating its effects, if not blocking them entirely." He pats Snape on the arm, well above the place where the Mark lies. "Give me time."

"I...thank you, Filius." Flitwick nods again to Snape, then to Dumbledore, and leaves.

Snape wishes to follow him, but he too looks to the Headmaster. Not quite for permission, but for an acknowledgment of intent. It is his habit from of old.

"You seem dissatisfied."

So many potential objects of dissatisfaction have arisen in the last several hours that Snape does not know how to respond, except to feel that Dumbledore's comment is an inadequate response to all of them. "How so?"

"You were present when I spoke to Minerva earlier, so I will not repeat my observations on holding oneself responsible for matters past control."

Snape is unable to restrain a small laugh. "Do not concern yourself, Dumbledore. I hold myself no more than...realistically accountable for Leopold Lovegood's death. Mulciber hexed him, not I."

"I see." And he waits—clearly expecting Snape to offer an alternative explanation for whatever agitation he imagines he has perceived.

There is much that Snape would have been inclined to say to him an hour ago. The passage of time, however, and intervening revelations of the greatest magnitude, have conspired to make his complaints seem...petty.

But Dumbledore is waiting, and he does not lie to Dumbledore. So he voices them anyway.

"I only wonder...if, twenty years ago, you had told me that the price of your forgiveness would be the life of one slightly ridiculous eighteen year old girl, I would have acted any differently."

And there it is, squirming in the open between them, a pathetic thing. But he cannot take it back.

Dumbledore's eyes widen slightly, which makes Snape more uncomfortable than the childishness of his words. He does not like to believe Dumbledore can be surprised.

"Severus," Dumbledore says, lightly, gently, killingly. "My dear boy. Have you truly believed, all this time, that you had to earn my forgiveness? You had that the moment you came to me, a broken child, twenty years ago."

Snape freezes, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. "What, then," he says, controlling his voice to prevent the creeping hoarseness in his throat from sounding in his speech. "What have I been working for, if not for you to forgive me?"

"For you, I believe, to forgive yourself."

Snape closes his eyes. A moment later there is a knock on the door, and he gathers himself together, before the intruder can see him or speak.

"Headmaster, is—ah. Sorry to interrupt. I can't find Luna Lovegood, Severus. Are you quite certain she was in Ravenclaw Tower?"

Snape turns around to face Honoria Sprout, no trembling in his hands or voice. "To the best of my knowledge."

"Well, we need to find her. Help us take a look around?"

"Of course," he says, striding from Dumbledore's office without another word or glance in the Headmaster's direction.