Taking Care of Business

When I first hear the insistent pounding, I feel nothing more than vague irritation. Nothing and no one has had the audacity to breach my subterranean sanctuary in years, save for Dumbledore's occasional surprise visits (usually to tell me I am once again denied the position I so desire - "overqualified" as he kindly puts it). However, I know it is not Albus, for the concept of knocking typically evades him.

I assume it is young Mr. Malfoy come to tell me of some nefarious Gryffindor plot or other. He is the only one beside Dumbledore to venture this far down into the bowels of the school, though if it weren't for the fact that his petty snitching more often than not results in a multitude of points taken from Gryffindor, as well as a good month of detention for some unlucky sod, I would forbid him too from visiting.

As it is, I am in no fit mood to entertain, not even under the guise of counseling the son of my "dearest friend." I mutter, "Go away," in the general direction of the door, though I know no one - except with the aid of those damnable ear contraptions the Weasely boys persist in distributing throughout the school - would be able to hear through the thick layers of stone that surround my haven. Perhaps my lack of response will deter the intruding little whelp.

The knocking, if anything, becomes more persistent. If I strain, I think I can make out a voice, though I cannot understand the words. Not Draco. Has something happened to him? That is the only catastrophe that would send one of his cowardly little sycophants in search of their grumpy head of house. In my chest I feel an odd little twinge, and I realize I do still have concern for the students in my care. This should be reassuring, but instead it is only mildly unsettling.

I walk quickly but calmly to the door, not wishing to overreact if it is something truly unworthy of my time - a student's lovers' quarrel or some other such nonsense. But as I near the door, I hear the voice cry out again, and recognition nearly stops me cold.

Potter. But why? I wasn't aware he knew where to find my private chambers, though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised - the boy has an uncanny knowledge of the castle, and has always been prone to turning up in unexpected places, rather like a certain headmaster I know. But why on earth would he come to me being so upset? Perhaps that mangy werewolf told him some vile rumor about his mother and I, and he's come for vengeance.

But no. The cries of anguish are real, and - I'll stake my official death eater decoder ring on it - born of fear rather than anger. As I anxiously undo the wards on the door, I am able to decipher his shouts.

"Professor! Professor, please! Hurry! Please!"

Feeling a knot of fear uncoil in my stomach like a terrible serpent, I concentrate on freezing my face into the indifferent mask I've worked so hard to perfect. I swing the door open, thinking perhaps I ought to try on a glare for good measure.

The thought shrivels up and dies the instant I see the boy's face.

"What is is?" I manage to ask with some semblance of the usual rancor in my voice.

"Professor!" he gasps, clutching his chest as though he's just run a marathon. "Hurry! The headmaster... now... hurry!"

I open my mouth to command him to speak more coherently, but then I see the urgency flickering like green fire in his eyes, and all I manage is a brief nod. He takes this as some sort of consent and grabs my hand, tugging me out the door with a strength far beyond that of a normal skinny 17-year-old.

But Harry-bleeding-Potter has never been much for normalcy, has he?

I don't have a chance to ponder this, as he is dragging me through the halls at breakneck speed, twisting and turning until even I am disoriented. Some minutes later I recognize the familiar gargoyle, and I wonder why the headmaster didn't call for me himself. A sense of foreboding fills me when I hear the quaver in Potter's voice as he utters the password.

"Cadbury."

I shoot him a sharp glance, but he pays me no heed, though he still hasn't bothered to release my hand. Contact - any, in general, and his, in particular - makes me uncomfortable, but I haven't the breath to inform him of this fact. I tell myself that in his emotional state, he doesn't realize he is molesting his most-hated professor, but this fact does little to improve my spirits. I yearn to pull away from his sweaty, clammy palm, and I roll my eyes in disgust. Teenage boys. Ugh.

We have at this point reached the door to Dumbledore's office, and Potter stops, as though dreading to go inside. Is he in trouble then? Perhaps he'll be expelled. How kind of him to think of inviting me - I can imagine nothing more satisfying than being an audience to that.

He pauses, one hand on the door, the other still firmly gripping mine, and turns to face me. His expression is rife with fear and my sneer withers under the intensity.

"Professor... it's bad," he whispers, looking at me with eyes wide as saucers.

"Well don't just stand there," I snap, irritated by his hesitation and - though I am loathe to admit it - worried by his behavior.

He nods then, and pushes the door open, pulling me inside. My heart - cold, heavy stone that it is - drops somewhere in the region of my feet. The headmaster is sprawled on the floor, skin grey and lifeless, breathing shallow. A crumpled Muggle sweatshirt has been shoved under his head to prop it up, and a school robe has been thrown haphazardly across his frail figure.

"I thought he was in shock," I hear the boy muttering behind me. "He was so cold..."

I am at his side immediately, gently slapping the marble-cold face.

"Albus!" I hiss, prying one eyelid open and flinching when the pupil does not contract. "Damn you, Albus, wake up!"

Potter is hovering around my head like an annoying fly, wringing his hands uselessly, and I fight the impulse to swat him away.

"Do something useful, boy! Call Madame Pomfrey!"

I hear him stumble to the floo, and hear the roar of flames as he tosses in a handful of powder. He is screaming raggedly for Pomfrey, who takes her damn sweet time in answering him.

"The headmaster's office... now!" he shouts, and I almost smirk. Seven years it's taken him to stop his incessant rambling and learn how to speak succinctly. The humor is lost though, in the direness of the situation. I put my hand on Dumbledore's damp forehead, and notice that it's trembling. Blast. Damn the man for forcing me to feel. I quell any lingering emotional response and turn my best glare on Potter.

"What in hell is going on here?" I growl. "Why didn't you call Pomfrey first? What's happened to him? Were you here when he collapsed?"

He seems overwhelmed by my rapid-fire questions, and I can almost see the gears turning in his pathetically underused brain.

"I was here," he said finally, staring at the headmaster with glassy eyes. "I came for our... for a meeting. He seemed ill when I came in, and I asked if he was feeling all right. He said he was fine, and got up to pour the tea. That's when he... when he collapsed. His face was red, so I propped it up. That's what you're supposed to do, right? If the face is red... if it's pale, you prop up the feet. I think. I took first aid with Pomfrey, but..."

"Get on with it, Potter!"

"Right. Well, he was freezing, so I threw my robe over him. He wasn't saying anything at first, but I kept shaking him, asking him what was the matter." Potter stops and swallows with some difficulty. I know I shouldn't be angry with him, but I curse his weak constitution, and the way he wears his bloody heart on his bloody sleeve.

"Finally he opened his eyes and looked at me," he continues, tugging at the hem of his tatty undershirt. I realize he must have taken off his sweatshirt at some point to cushion Albus's head. I raise an eyebrow to signal him to go on.

"He said... he said he wanted me to fetch you. Not to call Madame Pomfrey, at least not until you got here. I think he wanted to tell you something."

Wanted to tell me something. Well. I take a deep breath, not wanting to admit how very ominous that sounds. Was it to be a deathbed confession from my mentor and friend then? How very like him.

"You melodramatic old coot," I whisper, leaning over him. His eyelids flutter briefly, and I suck in a breath. "Albus? Albus, it's Severus. I... I'm here." I hate letting my guard down in front of that wretched boy, but contrary to what most people believe, I am only human. Unfortunately.

I brush those thoughts aside and concentrate on the old man's face, willing him to look at me, to see me. His eyes open again and stay open this time.

"Sever... usss..." he rasps, and I feel his hand against my knee, fumbling for my own. I grit my teeth and put my hand in his, squeezing in what I hope is a reassuring manner. As I've never made a similar gesture, I don't know.

"Albus, I'm here. What is it? What's wrong?" Well that much should be obvious, you imbecile, I curse myself.

"Heart..." he says weakly, using every ounce of strength to bring his other hand up to his chest. "Failing for... some time now. Didn't want to... worry... anyone."

My throat burns, and I tell myself it is merely from anger. "You fool," I choke. "You should have said..."

"I'm... sorry," he says, thin grey lips twisting into a wry grin. If I look hard enough, I can almost see a hint of the old twinkle in his cloudy blue eyes. "But, Severus... need to... talk.... to you."

"Alright," I say, bending down until my ear is an inch or so above his mouth. "What do you need to tell me?"

"I know... you think I'm... foolish. Sentimental... old man. But I have... always... thought of you... as a... son."

"Shut up," I hiss, cringing as the burn moves from my throat to behind my eyelids. "You are a sentimental old man. You don't need to say any of this."

He holds up his hand, silencing me. "Not... done..."

I press my lips together. I know the Potter brat is behind me, hanging on every word, and the thought makes me shudder. "Go on," I say, telling myself I shouldn't care.

"I know you... Severus..." he says. This frightens me more than anything else, because I know it's true. "I know... your heart." I had forgotten that, but his words bring back a flood of memories, and I remember how awful it is - the possession of a heart.

"You are... good." I want to snort derisively at this, but I just can't summon the sarcasm.

"Albus," I say, shaking my head. "I'm..." What am I? Do I even know? I left the side of the dark many years ago, but does that make me good? I very seriously doubt it, but I cannot tell him this.

"You are... what you choose to be," he says, and I feel a mirthless laugh bubble up inside me. Ever the wise old codger, even to the very end. He's sounded like a goddamned fortune cookie ever since I first met him, and I realize with a pang that I will miss that. Miss him.

"One thing... Severus," he wheezes, and I notice his breath is coming in quick, sharp pants. Where is that blasted Pomfrey anyway?

"Yes, Albus?"

"Don't... kill me..."

"Ha. Ha. Very funny, Albus," I say dryly, wondering that the man can still have a sense of humor.

He gathers his breath and opens his eyes wider, meeting my gaze directly.

"Take care of him."

The words resound through my head, bouncing around my brain and echoing like a coin dropped in a ballroom.

Take care of him.

Well, there's really no need to ask who 'him' is, is there? I turn around and glance at the brat, who has distanced himself from us. He's standing by the door, as though ready for flight, chewing his nails nervously and staring at the ground. I hate him. Despise him and his bloody scar, his Gryffindor sensibilities, his ability to persevere. He will persevere through this, I am sure. While the rest of us wallow and mourn and gnash our teeth over the passing of our beloved headmaster, he will smile and tell us all is not lost, that Dumbledore would not want us to be sad, and the little twits who hang on his every word will take comfort in it.

And yet.

"I will," I whisper, looking the headmaster in the eyes, knowing now I won't be able to take it back, no matter how much I may want to.

Pomfrey, with the timing and tact of a fruit bat, chooses that moment to burst through the door, brandishing her bag of tricks like a shield. "What's happened?" she yells, looking about wildly. "What's the matter?"

It would be almost comical if it weren't so... well... not.

"The headmaster, you witless quack," I say, and even Potter's eyebrows shoot up at that. Good. Best not to let him see me vulnerable for too long.

Pomfrey bustles about, taking pulses, temperatures, doing scans, and I am left to stare helplessly as the life fades from the only human being who has ever given a damn about me. After a very brief moment, she looks up, grief as plain on her face as the stethoscope hanging limply from her neck, and just as ridiculous.

"He's gone," she says, and I'm not quite sure I hear her over the sudden buzzing in my ears. I wonder briefly if there's a bumblebee humming about, and I look around, trying to spot it. Not finding anything, I turn my impossibly dry gaze back to Pomfrey, who is sniveling like a first year who's lost her teddy. I look then to Potter, who I'm surprised to see is also dry-eyed. The thought is somehow comforting, and when our gazes meet, I give him a small nod.

Take care of him.

But who will take care of me, now you're gone, Albus?

Pomfrey bustles out, saying she is going to inform Minerva and then the Ministry. She will send one of the Ministry coroners up for the body. The body. Nearly a hundred and fifty years of vibrance and life, all reduced to a lump of cooling, stiffening flesh in the space of five minutes. How could I have ever found death fascinating? It disgusts me. Makes me want to retch. I would consider doing so now, if Potter wasn't still staring at me like a lost puppy.

I growl menacingly and turn back to the headmaster, or should I say, the headmaster's body. My hand is still clutched in his, and I cannot bring myself to let go. I hear Potter shuffling around, and I pray to whatever deities might be listening that he will not try to comfort me.

It never crosses my mind that he might be the one needing comfort.

He does approach, but makes no move to touch me. Instead, he sits slightly in front of me, at Albus's head, and strokes the cold cheek. I think perhaps I ought to give him a minute alone, but I find myself quite unable to move. He doesn't seem to mind though, and so I let him be.

We sit there for many long moments, neither moving, neither speaking. His body is less than an inch from my own, and I feel warmth radiating from him. I shiver, reminded of how cold this room is, how cold the headmaster is, but I find myself moving nearer anyway, drawn like the proverbial moth.

I think perhaps I am imagining it, but he seems to move backward a fraction, until his back is pressed ever-so-lightly against my chest. He is so warm, and I feel something long frozen inside me begin to melt.

I still hate him, though my befuddled brain can't recall the precise reasons why at the moment, but he understands. Understands what it is to love Albus Dumbledore. Oh, I know every Tom, Dick, and... Merlin in the wizarding world will moan and cry and say they loved him, but no one else but Potter and myself knew what it meant to really love him - not the wizard, not the professor, but the man. I have truly loved but one person my entire life, and it was him. Though I am not entirely sure, I feel that perhaps Potter would say the same. I've no doubt he cares a great deal for his friends, for the wolf, and for the mutt he called godfather, but I'm certain none of that could compare with what he felt for the headmaster.

I stop to wonder for a moment how it is that I'm so sure what the boy's feeling, and I chalk my sudden onslaught of emotion up to an overload of stress. I remind myself that whether I know or not, I do not care what he feels. Somehow, that doesn't give me the satisfaction it should.

We sit like that for some time, until the Ministry rep comes in and begins with his "official" proceedings. I cannot bear to see them pull the sheet over Albus's head, and so I rise abruptly. Potter falls backward in the absence of my physical presence, and looks up as though surprised to find me gone.

I am halfway out the door when I look back at him. The headmaster's words ring through my head.

Take care of him.

He says nothing and his face, I'm pleased to note, remains expressionless, but those damned eyes blaze with some emotion I can't place. Most likely because I've never felt it. I feel like I ought to say something, to offer some words of encouragement or sympathy, but I can't bring myself to do it, and I know he would think them empty phrases anyway. And they would be. Meaningless. My silence is the truest thing I can offer him right now, and somehow I think he knows that.

I exit without a backward glance and quickly make my way back to the dungeons before the weeping and wailing can begin. I meet no one on the way, and for that I am grateful.

Twenty minutes later, I am ensconced in my favorite armchair, a drink in my hand, so strong its mere odor could knock out a house elf, and the memory of blue eyes haunting me. The blue slowly fades to green, and I wonder if I can pretend the burning inside me is merely indigestion.

No, most likely not.

I don't know what time it is when I finally fall asleep (pass out), but I am woken by an urgent voice whispering in my ear.

Take care of him.

Goddammit, Albus. You didn't tell me how.