Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, composing yet another letter to the headmistress of D.A.I.M.S. regarding the acquisition of the house elf, Dinks. The matter was proving to be stickier than expected. Madam Donnelly was reluctant to part with "a valuable commodity like Dinks." Polite insinuations of "a spirit of goodwill and cooperation" had been ignored. A proposal to exchange one elf for another was likewise dismissed as "untenable." Something about the time and expense required to properly train a house elf for specialized care.

That last was a diplomatic way of saying that she couldn't be bothered to make the necessary arrangements, especially not without financial compensation. House elves were bright creatures that could be easily trained for highly specialized tasks. They served as orderlies and patient caregivers at St. Mungo's. Winky, bless her little soul, had cared for Rebecca Stanhope in spectacular fashion, with nary a misstep.

Well, her duties at the Crouch estate may have had a hand in that.

They may have, indeed. Winky had been absolutely mum on her precise job description with the Crouches. The only thing she would offer on the subject was that Mr. Barty needed her to take care of him. For years, they had thought that "Mr. Barty" referred to Bartemius Crouch, Sr., but after the Triwizard Tournament, it was clear that her "Barty" had been Bartemius Crouch, Jr., convicted Death Eater. He and others had pressed her for details constantly, but to no avail. She simply stopped her ears, barricaded herself in the kitchen pantries, and drowned in butterbeer.

So he would make one last try for Dinks. As much as he hated to do it, he would offer to buy him. Money often opened pathways diplomacy by itself could not. Though he wasn't certain how much to offer. Placing value on life was not his custom, and thinking of a house elf in terms of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts was difficult. They were an indispensable part of his staff, and their cheerful dispositions never failed to buoy his spirits. No price could be assigned to that. Or to the affection a young girl placed on her companion.

He had never had to purchase a house elf before. Those currently living at Hogwarts had either been there when he took the Headmaster's position or come of their own volition since. Even in his youth, his family never ran short of them. They were exceptionally long-lived and twice as fecund, though measures had been taken to control population growth. The Pureblood families usually sterilized all but a handful of their servants. A pregnant house elf was a useless house elf as far as they were concerned.

The entire process made him uneasy, but that was neither here nor there. House elf civil rights was the cause of Miss Granger and wholly irrelevant to the task at hand. Namely procuring Dinks on behalf of Miss Stanhope. He mulled over several possible offers, rejecting them as either too high or too low. Finally he settled on one hundred Galleons. He scribbled the figure on the parchment embossed with the Hogwarts crest, signed his name in immaculate, flowing script, and put down his quill. He was just reaching for the wax with which to seal it when there came a sharp rap upon his door.

"Come in," he called.

The door swung open to reveal the grave, smug figure of Cornelius Fudge, and his stomach lurched. He knew the man would be coming sooner or later, but he had hoped he wouldn't arrive until after dinner. He needed more time to prepare, marshal his forces. He had no doubt Fudge would make things as miserable as possible. Since their bitter parting of the ways at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, Fudge had quietly been doing everything he could to discredit him, undermine his influence with the integral governing bodies. Just before the start of term, the members of the Wizengamot had voted him out as Chief Warlock, a post he had held for twenty-five years. Though the official reason for the ouster had been that the other members felt he had enough duties to perform here at the school, the real motives weren't hard to decipher.

Fudge was quite comfortable in his job as Minister and fond of all the prestige and power afforded by it. It was his crowning glory, the one deed that held him above the mundane insignificance of his shabbily aristocratic family, and he was ever convinced that someone was trying the wrest the golden scepter from his hands. Someone craftier, more skulduggerous, richer, or more ruthless than he. Fears of inadequacy riddled him like contagion, and he used every means at his disposal to ensure that no one usurped him.

In truth, he was not an extraordinarily adept leader. He was too busy assuring his continued dominion to truly tend to the world in his care. The inveterate cunning instrumental in winning him power dissipated when confronted by unforgiving reality. He was a creature of boardrooms and flattering press conferences, not the battlefield. What he could not conquer, he ignored, mopping his perpetually florid brow and praying it would go away.

Voldemort was a case in point. In his heart, the heart unencumbered by political machinations, he knew the truth, but it was a truth too daunting for him to bear, and so he did as he had always done when faced with a problem that could not be absolved or beaten down by a memo or surreptitious reparation. He denied it, decried it as loudly as he could, hoping, by sheer stridency, to ward off the inevitable. He would hold that fool's course until the end, until everything was smoldering ash and bitter lamentation.

For reasons he had never understood, Fudge was certain he was after his position, that he was using Hogwarts as a stronghold of covert resistance and inculcating its students with subversive desires to topple the Fudge regime. All pretty poppycock. The Minister of Magic was the one title he had no desire to hold. He loved his children, loved the freedom the venerable old school offered him to be as cracked as he pleased. He wanted nothing more than to spend his remaining years in quiet serenity, pondering matters no more pressing than how many geese to order for the Boxing Day Feast.

Political ambitions were for the young and spry, not those sailing into winter twilight. He was too old to shoulder any more burdens. He wasn't even sure he could handle those with which he was already entrusted. He certainly hadn't handled Harry as he should have. The mere thought of the nightmare that boy's life had become through his gross mishandling made him ill with regret. He shuddered to think of the inadvertent damage he could inflict on an entire society.

Selling yourself short, Albus? There are many who would say you've done more than well by this world.

Yes, well, they've not seen what I've cost Harry.

It wasn't your fault.

Yes, it was. I should have known, should have insisted on being the Secret Keeper. If I had, none of this would have been necessary.

You don't know that. Voldemort might still have found them in the end. James was as brash and impetuous as Harry is. He would've gone to the fight eventually. The fire burned too brightly in him. The past is done. What matters now is finding out what really happened here and making sure an innocent man doesn't hang.

"Ah, Minister, how good to see you, though I must confess your visit comes as a bit of a surprise," he said, rising from his chair.

"Good afternoon, Albus," Fudge answered, and though he was smiling, it was not pleasant. It was humorless and predatory. "May I sit?"

"Of course." He gestured to the chair before his desk.

"I'm afraid this isn't a social call," Fudge said, settling himself into the chair.

"Oh?" Dumbledore arched an eyebrow and pushed his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose.

"I received a letter this morning from a parent who had been told by their child of an incident in Potions," he said gravely, steepling his pudgy fingers over his mouth and nose.

"Would you like a drink, Minster Fudge?" The Headmaster gestured to the assortment of decanters behind him.

"What? Oh, erm, yes, thank you," Fudge muttered. He had clearly anticipated a much stronger reaction to the news he bore.

"Splendid. I prefer scotch. And your vice?"

"Cognac if you have it." Fudge flapped his hand impatiently.

"Excellent," Dumbledore said placidly, reaching for the tumblers beside the liquor. "This incident-what does it involve?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well what and who Fudge meant.

"You mean you don't know?" He gave an incredulous snort. "I thought you might have guessed."

"There are any number of incidents during a school day-inter-House skirmishes, flying mishaps, romantic liaisons in the broom cupboards-Filch reported three cases of the latter in just the past two days. Most are resolved by the Heads of House of the interested parties, but they do get passed on eventually." He passed the cognac to Fudge and took a thoughtful sip of his scotch.

Fudge was staring at him in numb incredulity. He took a long swallow of cognac, and then said, "Stop playing games. You know very well what I'm talking about. There was an incident in Potions with Harry Potter five days ago."

"Ah, yes. That one." He took another sip of scotch. "I assure you everything is being done to investigate the matter."

"Is it? I wonder," Fudge said softly, circling his forefinger around the smooth rim of the glass. "Where is Potter now?"

"In the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey has been working diligently to bring him around."

"Any progress?"

"Regrettably, no. His condition remains absolutely unchanged." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before his thumb and forefinger.

Though he had been working hard to maintain a composed façade in front of Fudge, his sorrow was genuine. He had gone to visit Harry every evening after dinner, hoping to see signs of improvement, but his prayers had gone unanswered. He was as lifeless as ever, the scant bloom of health with which he'd started the term withering into a wintry pallor. Madam Pomfrey poured nutritive potions down his unresisting throat three times a day, but despite her efforts, Harry grew thinner. His cheeks, always thin, were hollow, and his shoulder blades jutted painfully from beneath the thin fabric of his robes. Harry was wasting away.

Part of him wanted to stay away from the infirmary and the small, lost boy swallowed up by crisp linens. Seeing Harry that way was nearly too much. He never stayed long, and he never touched him. He was afraid that if he did, his tremulous fingers would scrape waxy skin away to reveal his own long-hidden guilts and failures etched into the boy's sinew. But he always went. It had been his responsibility to protect Harry, and now that he had so spectacularly failed in that, he owed it to him to visit him each night, if only to bear witness to what his laxity had caused.

He often wondered if Harry was quietly taking inventory of the wounds inflicted by his guardians. How would things look in the end, when the blood-scented smoke cleared and the last foe was vanquished? Would he deem all the horrendous sacrifice worth the cost? When the ledger was balanced, what would Harry find? Would he forgive a tired old man his blunders? He didn't see how Harry could. Some were beyond salvaging.

"Any idea as to what caused this?" Fudge asked, polishing off the cognac.

"Professor Snape examined the phial shards this morning and detected cyanide. A subsequent search and accounting of his stores revealed that a lethal amount of the substance was missing."

The Minister's eyes gleamed with sudden interest, and he sat forward in his chair. "I was under the impression that such dangerous chemicals were segregated from the rest, kept in a secure cabinet."

"They are."

"Then how did this happen?" The malevolent smile had returned.

"We're not yet certain," Dumbledore said calmly.

Fudge leaned back in his chair. "I want to see Professor Snape."

"Of course."

"At once."

"Alas, I'm afraid that will not be possible." Dumbledore sipped his scotch.

"And why is that?" Fudge, who had been lazily rolling the empty glass between his hands, froze, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"Because Professor Snape is in the middle of afternoon lessons," the Headmaster responded cheerfully.

Fudge sputtered in inarticulate fury, slamming the empty tumbler onto the desk. Dumbledore plucked it from the desktop and returned it to where it belonged. Then he Conjured a cloth and dabbed at the wet ring it had left behind.

"There now," he murmured absently, inspecting his handiwork.

"A student in your care, the student in your care lies in the Hospital Wing, and all you can say is, 'there now'?" Fudge had gone an ugly red.

"One must pay attention to the details before he can grapple with the larger problem at hand." Dumbledore was smiling, but there was no amusement in his voice.

"I don't know what you're driving at," Fudge hissed, "but I'll have you know that I am well aware of how to confront a crisis."

"Oh, indeed. You've handled Voldemort most admirably," he offered drily.

"Handled Vol-there is nothing to handle. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone, Albus. He was destroyed fifteen years ago," he snarled, but Dumbledore thought he detected a hint of plea in the statement.

"His body was destroyed, yes, but his essence survived, and last year Harry saw him live again." The Headmaster's voice was soothing and matter-of-fact.

"Balderdash," snapped Fudge. "He saw Cedric Diggory die before his very eyes in a terrible accident, and the trauma made him hysterical. He saw what he wanted to see."

"I have no doubt that it was distressing for Harry to witness his classmate's death, but I have known him a very long time, and he has never been hysterical."

"People have their limits."

"Of course, but Harry had no reason to lie about what he saw. He's faced Voldemort three times before. I'm certain he can recognize him."

"Stop saying that name!" Fudge bellowed.

"Why? If he is truly gone, surely no harm can come of it," Dumbledore said mildly.

"Has it ever occurred to you, Albus, that your Golden Child might have killed Diggory himself and invented the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named story to absolve himself?"

"Absolutely not. I trust Harry implicitly."

"Why? Because of his name?"

"Because he has never given me reason not to."

"I am telling you, Albus, He is not back. I don't give a fig what fairy tale that boy has told you." He punctuated his words by pounding his meaty fist on the corner of the desk.

"Do you truly believe that, Cornelius?" Dumbledore asked softly.

Fudge flinched as though struck. His mouth worked soundlessly, and after several fruitless moments of trying to forge coherent syllables from shocked disbelief, he closed it with a snap.

Dumbledore sat in his chair and waited and watched. Fudge's answer would determine the course of things hereafter. He prayed for miraculous reason, for Fudge to admit what he surely must know in the places where the creature known as Politician could not yet reach, in his bones and in his heart. He had been a decent boy in his youth, ambitious but earnest. Perhaps a remnant of the child who could and would accept the truth when it came to him, no matter how unpalatable, lingered inside the necessary skeptic he had become.

Fudge sat with his face cradled in his hands for a very long time, his elbows propped upon his knees. Dumbledore sipped his scotch, listening to the faint sounds of his breath behind his hands and Fawkes' brilliant, dry feathers rustling as he preened. Then Fudge raised his eyes, and for a single moment, he thought he saw acceptance in them, but when he blinked, the expression cleared, replaced by the terrible, familiar anger and suspicion.

"You think I'll fall for those mind games, do you?" Fudge jabbed an accusatory finger at him. "Well, I won't!" His mouth twisted in a vicious, unbalanced leer. "I'm not some impressionable boy to whom you can feed your codswallop."

Dumbledore closed his eyes for the briefest instant, the unconscious breath he had been holding escaping through his nose, and when he opened them again, Fudge was still gazing at him with manic intensity.

"Then I cannot help you, Cornelius." His voice was mournful, heavy with undesired knowledge.

"I don't want your help. I want to speak to Professor Snape." He spat the name and the title that preceded it, his tongue black with scorn.

"As I have told you, Professor Snape is in the middle of his afternoon lessons," Dumbledore answered patiently.

"I don't care if he's in the middle of his blasted wedding; I want to see him now. I'm the Minister of Magic!"

"As you so often remind me," Dumbledore said blandly. "Be that as it may, I am Headmaster of Hogwarts until such time as the Board of Governors sees fit to remove me, and I will not disrupt my pupils' education without reason."

"That can certainly be arranged," Fudge said softly.

Dumbledore arched a bushy eyebrow, its snowy arc peeking above his half-moon spectacles. "Perhaps. You were most persuasive with the Wizengamot."

Fudge inclined his head as though accepting a compliment. "Indeed."

"However," Dumbledore continued, "I'm afraid you may find the school governors an entirely different matter. Particularly now that Lucius Malfoy has been dismissed."

Fudge suddenly colored an alarming puce. "Mr. Malfoy is an upstanding member of society and a generous supporter of various charitable causes."

"Including your campaign fund," Dumbledore agreed.

"What of it?" Fudge snapped.

"Nothing. Though I'm sure your constituents would be quite interested in exactly how much time Mr. Malfoy spends in the Minister's office."

"He has a fine mind."

"And deep pockets. Lucre from his days as a Death Eater?"

"He wasn't in possession of his faculties; he was under the Imperius Curse. Court records are there for the taking if you don't believe me."

"Oh, I remember perfectly well. I was at his trial, if you recall. Most riveting testimony."

"What has any of this got to do with the Wizengamot?" Fudge demanded.

"Not a whit, likely," Dumbledore conceded. "Though I found it quite interesting that soon after my removal from the Wizengamot, numerous members were blessed with donations of support to their favorite causes. Gifts from the Malfoy estate."

"Malfoy is a generous man." Fudge's eyes darted around the room, and he was tugging impulsively on the midriff of his robes.

"Indeed. Unfortunately, after his rancorous departure from the Board of Governors, I daresay his magnanimity will be most unimpressive as far as they are concerned."

Comprehension dawned on Fudge's face. "I don't know what you're playing at, but I'd have a care." His voice was quivering with barely suppressed anger.

"I've lived a very long time, Cornelius; I'd say prudence is one of my few virtues."

"Good," Fudge replied shortly. "No more delays. I want to see Professor Snape."

"I believe we've already discussed this."

A nasty smile crept across Fudge's face, a furtive, knowing smirk that made the skin on the nape of Dumbledore neck prickle. Fudge was possessed of stupid cunning, and if he was wearing such a pleased expression, it meant that he had a plan that could come to no good in the end. He took a sip of scotch to fortify himself and waited.

"I'd rather hoped you would cooperate," Fudge muttered sorrowfully, clucking and shaking his head. He sighed heavily, and then the unpleasant smile resurfaced. "However, since you refuse to see things my way, you leave me no choice. If you won't summon him, I'm afraid I'll have to fetch him."

"Oh?" The Headmaster's face was serene, but his mind was racing. "I'm not certain Professor Snape will welcome your intrusion."

"Doubtless not, but I never said anything about intruding. I'll leave that to them." He sounded almost merry as he pointed to the doorway.

Dumbledore followed his finger and saw two Aurors and a squat, toady woman standing there. One of the Aurors, he noted with relief, was Kingsley Shacklebolt. The other was a wan, thin-lipped fellow named Dawlish, a staunch Ministry man who would follow orders to the last, logic and decency be damned. He felt the crème fresh he'd dolloped on his griddle cakes this morning curdle in his stomach. He remembered the woman from Wizengamot meetings, but he couldn't recall what she had done there. She hadn't been a magistrate.

"Bit drastic, don't you think?" Dumbledore asked, adjusting his spectacles.

"You brought things to this."

"You're being rash. School mishaps are generally handled internally."

"School mishap?" Fudge sputtered, the triumphant smile fading. "Is that what you call this? The boy collapsed in the care of a former Death Eater after taking a potion left in his trust."

"A reformed Death Eater," Dumbledore corrected mildly.

"There is no such thing," Fudge snapped.

"Then perhaps you should send Aurors for Lucius Malfoy, as I believe he confessed."

"He's an exception."

"Naturally."

"Enough. Take me to him, or they fetch him." He jabbed a finger at the waiting Aurors.

"Very well, Cornelius." When Fudge puffed out his chest like a bandy rooster, his mouth once more regaining its supercilious grin, Dumbledore held up his hand. "However, I would like to finish my scotch, if you don't mind."

A suspicious cough sounded from Kingsley, who discreetly covered his mouth with his loosely fisted hand.

"Finish your-," Fudge began, but trailed off in consternation.

"The dungeons are frightfully cold and damp, especially at this time of year. I find a nip keeps the frost at bay."

"Yes, yes, just finish the ruddy thing," Fudge ordered, throwing up his hands and plopping into his seat in disgust.

"As quickly as I can," Dumbledore assured him, and then he proceeded to take a dainty sip from the still half-full tumbler, prompting another alarming snuffle from Kingsley.

"What the devil is the matter with you?" Fudge snapped, rounding on his subordinate.

"My apologies, Minister, I'm allergic to bird dander," Kingsley replied smoothly, drawing a long ebony finger beneath his nose.

"Ah, well, then." Fudge tugged at his robes and seemed to consider something. "Be quiet about it."

"Yes, Minister."

He turned to the Headmaster again, and his eyes narrowed when he saw that no appreciable progress had been made on the contents of the tumbler.

Seeing the direction of his scrutiny, Dumbledore took another sip. "I'm long past the age of quaffing. Goes to my head, and we wouldn't want an accident on the stairs."

Fudge nodded in agreement, but he was nearly apoplectic with ill-concealed impatience. He eyes bulged from their sockets, and his fingers were clasped so tightly behind his back that they shook. Over his shoulder, Dumbledore caught sight of Kingsley biting surreptitiously on the inside of his cheek.

Kingsley may have found his tacit hedging comical, but he was doing it to prevent disaster. Severus, for all his outward dignity and stoicism, was very sensitive, fragile in the face of imminent degradation. Should Fudge and the Aurors go barging unannounced and uninvited into his classroom and his haven, things could sour in a moment. He clung to his soiled honor with both hands and every ounce of his will, and he would never let himself be arrested in front of his pupils. He had his limits.

He took another nip of the smooth, burning liquid, unconsciously savoring the warmth that bloomed in his chest. He was suddenly keenly aware of the brittleness of his bones. He thought he could feel his ribs shudder each time his heart beat. His shoulders and knees were stiff and frozen with age and unexpected worry, and the dull throb of arthritis sank its teeth into his wrists. He quietly flexed the fingers of his free hand, careful to conceal it in the abetting folds of his robes. In his agitated state, Cornelius was apt to interpret the slightest move as illicit subterfuge.

This was a fine mess. Fudge was boorish and blustering, and he would be wholly unconcerned with his Potions Master's temperament; even if he were attuned to it, it was unlikely he would care. He was interested only in how his grand entrance would make him look, the awe it would inspire in the students. He would have it known that he was indisputably the Minister of Magic. He would strut and preen, each step and smirk a blow to the oft-scalded pride of Severus, and there would be no sympathy in his eyes when he crushed the last vestiges of his dignity beneath his pompous heel.

He never mentioned it to Severus-or anyone else-but he suspected that Severus' sanity was perched on a very precarious fulcrum, directly tied to his perception of himself and his surety of place in Hogwarts and the world at large. If what little he had earned and made for himself were torn from him, the darkness against which he was constantly struggling would gobble him up and leave nothing behind. His eventual pardon by trial would be irrelevant. A shell bearing his face would walk and breathe and void, but Severus Snape, the part that he had been trying for seventeen years to save, would die.

He watched the other occupants of his office over the rim of his tumbler. Fudge was pacing to and fro, casting frequent, black looks in his direction. Dawlish was rooted uncomfortably beside Fawkes' golden perch, his hand throttling his beechnut wand. Large, greasy beads of sweat trickled down his mottled forehead. On the other side of the perch was Kingsley. He alone seemed at ease, his hands clasped loosely in front of him as he admired the hundred of portraits of former Headmasters that lined the walls.

The squat woman, too, was looking around, but there was an avarice in her eyes that unsettled him. It was as though she were cataloging every picture, book and gadget and assigning a value, calculating its worth to the last Knut. She lingered over the bronze astrolabe, letting her puffy fingers crawl over it like the legs of a malingering spider. Her eyes roved longingly over the priceless volumes that lined his bookshelves.

"Such a lovely office," she crooned, bringing a doughy, ring-encrusted hand to her neck in what was obviously intended as a gesture of innocent admiration.

"I quite agree," Dumbledore replied. "I'm most fond of it."

"I'm sure you are," grunted Fudge, who was clearly far from enamored with it.

Dumbledore said nothing, excusing his silence with yet another sip of scotch. Anything he said now would only antagonize him further, and he wanted to buy Severus as much time as possible. The hourglass on the edge of his desk told him the afternoon Potions lesson still had fifteen minutes to go. The scotch might win him another five. After that, he'd have to rely on his creativity to milk the other ten. With any luck, they'd reach the Potions classroom just as the students were dismissed, and there wouldn't be a curious audience to witness the sordid spectacle.

The scotch disappeared all too soon, and the instant he set the empty tumbler on his desk, Fudge straightened and clapped his hands together authoritatively.

"Excellent! Let's be off, then." He started toward the door without waiting for acknowledgement.

Resigning himself to the fact that there could be no further delay, the Headmaster followed in his wake, casting a surreptitious glance at Kingsley as he went. He saw apprehension in the other man's face, tight lines of worry that winnowed beneath his eyes, making his dark flesh look like dry, baked earth. Though the younger man did not turn his head, his dark brown eyes slid to the right, quietly marking his location and appraisal. The corner of his mouth flickered in a wry smile.

He hadn't uttered a single word, but Dumbledore knew exactly what he meant. Trouble on the horizon, old friend. He was right about that. He had never seen Fudge so single-minded, so bound to a purpose. He meant to have his quarry, come what may.

He found himself in the unfamiliar territory of absolute uncertainty. In the official records, Hogwarts fell under the encompassing umbrella of Ministerial authority, but in practice, it had long ago ceased operating within official parameters. Former Ministers, and indeed, Fudge, had been more than happy to bestow upon him carte blanche in the administration of the school. Its international accolades as a paragon of academic instruction had assured that. They were glad to take credit for the success and leave him alone and unremarked.

Since the disastrous Triwizard Tournament, the winds had shifted. Humiliated by the revelation that a mad Voldemort loyalist had managed to escape Azkaban, murder his father-who had been hiding him for fourteen years, infiltrate the most secure institution in wizarding Britain, and fool the most brilliant mind in modern history, and stung by the unexplained death of one of their own, the bloom had quickly withered from the proverbial rose.

Complicating the matter was the fact that the Diggorys were contemplating civil action against the Ministry for wrongful death. It would be dismissed, of course; Cedric had been informed of the risk he was undertaking and consented it its burden when he submitted his name. In the meantime, though, it was a terrible blow to a government already maligned for allowing mass murderer Sirius Black to escape, and it was frothing to re-establish its dominance.

He could cross wands with Fudge if it came to it. Even at twice his age, Dumbledore was in far superior shape. Fudge labored in an aristocratic politician's body, and for as long as he had known him, he had never seen the man refuse a platter. He was soft-bodied and hard-headed, and the last time he'd used a wand for anything other than mundane magic, Dumbledore's hair had still been auburn. The fight would end before it started. It was the aftermath that troubled him.

Unless he chose to go into exile, the repercussions would be immediate and severe. He would be arrested and charged with treason, and no jury in the world would be able to render any other verdict than "guilty." A new Headmaster would be appointed, one which most assuredly did not share his view. A Ministry puppet to the last letter. Which, naturally, precluded Deputy Headmistress McGonagall. She was fiery and independent, and she would eat her wand with a side of kippers before she bowed and scraped to Cornelius Fudge.

Worst of all, Severus would be left unprotected, and all the torture and humiliation he had endured for the past fifteen years would be for naught. He would have to find another way. His mind raced, searching for the thinnest strand of hope, some kernel of buried knowledge that would salvage this situation from the jaws of defeat.

There is one thing, his mind whispered.

Not unless I have to. That is a double-edged sword I would prefer to leave alone.

Afraid your sterling reputation will be tarnished? After all Severus has suffered in your name, he deserves better than that. Or has the Gryffindor in you begun to fade?

My reputation is irrelevant. Wizarding debts are not lightly recalled, and I want to be sure I have no other choice.

Recollections undimmed by more than fifty years tried to crowd his mind, but he shoved them away. If he started thinking of that, he would need to return to his office for more scotch, more in fact, than was currently available, and then he would be of no use to anyone. He kept his eyes fixed on back of Fudge's head and counted the stairs as they descended.

Fudge was taking them two at a time in his haste, and behind him, Dumbledore could hear the wheezing, ragged breath of the woman as she struggled to keep up.

"All right, madam?" he called over his shoulder.

"Er...yes, I'm...I'm very well," she panted.

"Perhaps we should stop and give you a moment to compose yourself?" he suggested.

Whatever response she had wanted to offer was interrupted by Fudge. "Nonsense. Ms. Umbridge will be fine," he snapped.

"Quite," Umbridge concurred, though to Dumbledore's discerning ear, she sounded anything but.

"Very well."

Despite his vociferous stall tactics, they reached the Potions classroom with five minutes to spare. Fudge strode to the door and grasped the handle, but Dumbledore laid a restraining hand upon his arm.

"Cornelius, I understand your eagerness to resolve this most regrettable situation, but it might be best if I were the one to interrupt. Severus can be...abrupt," he finished mildly.

There was another suspect splutter from Kingsley, which earned him an inquisitive eyebrow from Dawlish. Umbridge, leaning against the wall and snuffling like a mortally wounded Snorkack, said nothing, but her gimlet eyes were fixed on him and her superior with bleary intensity.

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Fudge stepped away from the door.

"Excellent."

He stepped up to the heavy wooden door, praying he appeared more sedate than he felt. Once this door opened, events would very likely spiral irrevocably beyond his control. Severus, for all his self-recrimination, was a proud man, as was Fudge, and neither was going to give any ground. He doubted Severus would be rash enough to endanger his pupils, even if it meant his own debasement, but he wasn't convinced Fudge or Dawlish would exercise the same restraint. Not now, when they were so close to victory.

He didn't want to knock. It seemed a betrayal of his Potions Master's tenuous trust to even humor Fudge's blustering.

Trust in me, Severus. That's what you told him seventeen years ago when he stumbled into your office white as curdled cream and covered in someone else's blood, right down to his teeth. Trust. Against his every instinct, he did, and from the moment he started down the long road to Damascus, he put every ounce of his failing faith in you. Knock on that door, let them in, and you shatter him. All the good you've done, undone in a single moment.

What choice did he have? Stand here waffling much longer, and Fudge would order them to enter without invitation and seize him by force. It was better that he be the one to deliver the terrible news, rather than a grinning politician who had wished for years to watch him die beneath the clammy, greedy lips of a Dementor.

He won't see it that way.

Likely not.

Fudge was stamping his feet and scowling, so he muttered a breathless prayer for forgiveness and gave the door a smart rap.

Silence, the scraping of a chair, and then, "Enter."

He opened the door halfway, blocking his unwanted retinue from view. "Professor Snape, I wonder if I might have a word?"

Just as he had known he would, Severus glanced at the hourglass on his desk, his quill poised over a hapless parchment. "The lesson will be finished in two minutes; give me until then. I cannot leave these incompetents unsupervised. Particularly Mr. Longbottom." His thin lips curled in a disgusted sneer.

Before Dumbledore could respond, Fudge pushed past him and threw the door wide open.

"Professor Severus Snape, by order of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, you are to accompany myself and the waiting Aurors forthwith. Failure to comply immediately will result in forcible removal," he proclaimed, striding into the room and narrowly missing Rebecca Stanhope's outstretched foot. He came to a stop in front of Severus' desk and faced him, hands clasped behind his back and feet wide apart.

Oh, Severus, I'm sorry, Dumbledore thought, and hurried inside.

Severus Snape, who, before this unforgivable intrusion, had been attempting to teach the perpetual inepts in his charge the proper distillation of Doxy pheromones and mark parchments, eyed the pudgy figure in front of him in ill-tempered incredulity. He had been expecting a response from the Ministry, but this was not what he had envisioned. His eyes shifted to the Headmaster, searching for some indication that this was Fudge's idea of a put-on, but the Headmaster was grave and silent as a shadow. No chance of a joke, then.

You didn't expect it to be. This concerns Potter, after all. Who else would come?

He set his quill down with deliberate care and brought his hands up to knead his temples. "Minister Fudge, how good to see you."

Fudge blinked at him, evidently perplexed at his marked lack of haste to obey Ministerial edict. Plump fingers tugged at expensive purple robes.

"Perhaps you didn't hear me, Professor Snape," Fudge said coolly.

Snape dropped his hands and stared at him. "Of course I heard you," he snapped, barely suppressing the words you twit before they escaped. "As did they." He gestured at the wall of disbelieving faces behind Fudge.

His pupils were watching the unfolding drama with avid, morbid interest, some of them craning forward in their seats in hopes of a better view. Weasley looked absolutely radiant with the hope that some great, divine justice was about to befall him. On the opposite side of the room, perched in his eyrie, Draco was watching the proceedings with a closed, calculating expression. The rest of the Slytherins, save Crabbe and Goyle, who seemed not to notice anything amiss, bore countenances of profound unease. Pansy Parkinson was sucking compulsively on the tips of her hair.

The realization that there were others in the room besides the evildoer and the harbingers of justice sent to bring him low bloomed on Fudge's face, the ugly red weal of a sudden bruise. He wheeled to look upon the class and cleared his throat.

"Class is dismissed. Please move along to the next lesson if you have one, and if not, return to your Common Room," he ordered, trying to sound ingratiating and authoritative all at once and failing miserably.

The students filed out, shuffling their feet and shifting their bags to prolong their exit until the last possible moment. Only Stanhope remained where she was, hand resting on her guidance control, and eyes fixed on the wall in front of her.

Fudge cleared his throat again and bent at the waist. "The lesson is over, young lady," he said, speaking very loudly and wearing a vapid smile he apparently thought would convey kindness and reassurance. It made him look positively gormless.

A truer expression by far than any he's worn today.

Stanhope's eyes shifted from the grey stone wall to the pudgy, florid face in front of her, but she said nothing.

"She is well aware of that," Snape murmured, rolling his eyes at the Minister's stupidity. "Why are you still here, Miss Stanhope?" he asked, tearing his eyes away from Fudge.

She turned her gaze at the sound of his voice. "I'm afraid my chair is broken, sir." She appeared unruffled by such a catastrophic development.

"Broken?"

"Yes, sir."

He saw her eyes dart to the hourglass, and comprehension dawned. It was Madam Pomfrey all over again. There was still one minute of sand in the upper chamber, and she was not going to leave until it was empty.

Audacious, mind-bendingly presumptuous chit, he thought incredulously. The rational side of his temperament realized that this was her way of expressing silent support for him, but it could not override his reflexive disdain for all things Gryffindor, the secret suppurating suspicion that their honor was mockery. Irritation flared in his chest, and he sneered contemptuously at her.

"I suggest you fix it. Immediately," he murmured, eyes flashing.

Surprise flickered across her face for the briefest instant, a momentary widening of the eyes that passed even as it appeared, and then that odd detachment settled over her sharp, bloodless features. The brightness of her eyes faded as she closed herself, and he saw her as she had been before the scalding, before the strange epiphanies and visions had bound them together in ways he could not explain. Eyes flat and unreadable as covered mirrors, and lips sealed against any intercourse, save that which protocol deemed necessary.

"Yes, sir." Polite and clipped. Her head bent to the side of the guidance box.

He smothered a sardonic sniff. What else did she expect of him? Undying gratitude and a brave proclamation of appreciation? Clearly she was not immune to the Gryffindor affliction of entitlement. She was also severely deluded if she thought he needed her help. He had dealt with far worse on his own, and even if assistance were necessary, he doubted she was either experienced or ruthless enough to render it.

After a few experimental clicks of the small silver switch protruding from the guidance stick's base, she straightened. "I'm sorry, sir, but the extended Levitating Charm appears to have worn off. Professor Blosker said it might." Her face was scrupulously blank, but he was sure he detected a trace of challenge in her eyes.

He bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a string of unbecoming oaths. "Fix it."

"I can't, sir."

"Why not?" he asked through clenched teeth. The vein in his temple began to throb.

"Foolish wand-waving and silly incantations are forbidden in this class, sir."

She sat in front of him, cool as you please, her face a picture of innocence, hands resting limply on her armrests, and he was so flummoxed by her response that the breath stopped in his throat. He stared at her, furious at her impudence.

That one was almost worthy of you.

Yes, well, he was damned if he was going to acknowledge her bon mot. He forced his jaw to relax and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead with practiced indifference.

"While your friends may appreciate your sparkling wit, I am unimpressed," he said quietly. "Thirty points for insolence, and if you do not get that infernal machine of yours out of my sight in ten seconds, it will be forty."

Her eyes darted to the edge of his desk again, and he saw her shoulders relax.

"Yes, sir."

She plunged her right hand into her robes, and after several moments of stiff, jerky contortions, it emerged again clutching her wand. Pushing herself into a more presentable position, she exhaled shortly, brushed her fringe out of her eyes, and pointed her wand at the control stick. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

"Semper Wingardium leviosa!"

Her chair was enveloped in a shimmering blue haze, and it lifted from the floor with a grating scrape of dust and wheels. The color faded, lingering as an afterimage against his eyes even when all trace of it was gone. She hovered half an inch above the floor, and when she turned the control stick, the wheels pivoted dreamily against the nothingness.

She tucked her wand into her robes again, grimacing as her errant fingers snagged on the fabric. Then she looked up at him.

"I'll be off now, sir," she said.

"See that you are," he snarled.

"Will you be expecting me for detention?" Her eyes darted to Fudge, then back to him.

"Most unlikely. More pressing matters than your idiocy require my attention."

Fudge uttered and indignant tut, but said nothing, shuffling his feet and rubbing his hands together in his impatience. The Headmaster watched him from over the rims of his spectacles, his expression grave and gently disapproving, but he did not intervene.

Come to think of it, Albus hadn't stepped in at all, and that struck him as strange. Though maddeningly lackadaisical in the day-to-day operation of the school, the man was a brilliant leader in times of crisis. Every instinct should have told him to send Stanhope from the room as quickly as possible so that her inquisitive ears and sentinel eyes couldn't spirit away any nuggets of illicit gossip, but nearly three minutes after Fudge's pompous braying, she was still here, and the Headmaster seemed wholly unperturbed.

She's buying time. Unintentionally, but he'll take it where he can. That's why he won't intervene.

The fact that Albus needed the precious seconds and minutes bought by Stanhope's bumbling sent a chill into the pit of his stomach. It meant that things were going very badly. Badly enough to send him to Azkaban. And if he went there this time, there would be no reprieve.

The thought of dank walls crawling with spongy grey moss and stinking of lifetimes of rot soured his mouth, and he swallowed to repress a gag. Once had been enough. More than enough.

Stanhope was still sitting in front of him, and he looked down at her expectantly. "Yes, Miss Stanhope?"

Her mouth opened, then closed, and she swallowed with an audible click. Thin lips grew thinner still, twitching with the need to speak. Then she bowed her head in acquiescence.

"Yes, sir."

He turned away from her and heard the click and grind of her gears as she finally moved, then a pause. He turned in time to see her cast a terrified glance at Dumbledore, and then she was gone, the petulant growl of her chair fading in the distance.

"Interesting child," Fudge murmured thoughtfully.

Dumbledore closed the classroom door with a gentle click. "Oh, indeed. Most enlightening."

"Of that I'm certain, but that is hardly why we're here. No, I'm afraid nastier business is afoot." Fudge glowed with gleeful malevolence.

Snape snorted and returned to his seat, straightening his robes before he sat. "Potter is always a disagreeable business," he muttered.

"Your...dislike of Potter is well known, Severus. May I call you Severus?" Fudge flashed him a disingenuous smile that did not reach his eyes. "Which is why the circumstances of his illness are so mysterious."

"Professor Snape, Minister," Snape purred. "And as for Potter's accident, there is nothing mysterious about his blatant stupidity."

"Severus," the Headmaster chided.

Snape knew he should be more discreet in his discourse with the Minister of Magic, but he didn't see the point. Fudge had been after him since he was twenty years old, and if he could use the mishap with Potter to ensnare him, then he would. All the supercilious decorum in the world wouldn't spare him. Frankly, he wished Fudge would just spit out the accusation lurking behind his gilded innuendo. He wished anybody would, for that matter. He was tired of the perverse delicacy with which his colleagues treated him, the sidelong glances and the sussurating chatter that ceased abruptly whenever he drew near.

"You don't seem terribly concerned about what's happened," Fudge pointed out, looming over his desk.

"Potter has an entire retinue of wailing teeth-gnashers at his call. I won't be missed."

"Well, we'll soon find out about that. I'm placing you under arrest on suspicion of attempted murder."

"On what grounds?" Dumbledore stepped forward, his wand materializing from the interior of his robes.

"He is a Potions Master. The boy was poisoned with a toxin found only in his locked stores. What other proof do I need?" Fudge hissed triumphantly.

"His past has no bearing, then?" Dumbledore was thoughtful, turning his wand end over end in his hand.

"Of course it does. I doubt I'll find it necessary to disclose such a thing, though. Unless the Wizengamot needs...persuasion."

"I see."

"Shacklebolt, Dawlish," Fudge called.

The handle drew downward, but before the door could open, the Headmaster brought up his wand.

"Ceritas!" The tumbler turned in the lock with a silky click.

"What are you doing?" Fudge snapped, eyes flickering from the tip of Dumbledore's wand to the locked door. His face had gone an ugly plum.

"I'm afraid I cannot allow you to take him."

"Allow me?" Fudge sputtered. "This is not a choice. I'm the Minister of Magic, and my authority far exceeds yours." He jabbed a shaking finger at Dumbledore's bland face.

"Oh, indeed you are," Dumbledore agreed, "and indeed it does, but I believe we have unfinished business of our own."

"What business?" Fudge snarled.

"Don't you remember, Cornelius?" The Headmaster seemed surprised, even a trifle disappointed. "I've not forgotten it; not in fifty years."

Fudge, who had been progressing from plum to asphyxsia black, paled, the explosive retort he'd been about to release dying on his lips. He swayed and raised and hand to cover his mouth, and even in the rapidly growing darkness, Snape saw that it was trembling.

"You owe me a life debt, Cornelius. It's time you repaid it."

Snape watched the confrontation between the two men in stupefied silence. The stale, damp air of the dungeon rippled with electricity and tension, making the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle. Whatever was happening here was older than the days of his life and bitter as tannin. A thousand unspoken words hummed in the air like low frequency signals from the Wizarding Wireless, inaudible but present, an insistent pressure against his eardrums.

Fifty years ago? Calling in an old debt on my behalf? How utterly ridiculous!

Much as he dreaded incarceration in Azkaban, he refused to allow Albus to do something so patently ludicrous. Wizarding life debts were sacred contracts, and they should be used for better purposes than the undeserved salvation of a former Death Eater. Besides, though he loved the man as much as his crippled, anesthetized heart could love anyone, it remained that he was a Gryffindor, and Snape would rather taste the decaying lips of a Dementor than indenture himself once more to their nauseating nobility.

"Headmaster," he began, and rose with the intention of putting a stop to the brewing histrionics on his account.

"Sit down, Severus." It was not a request, and Dumbledore's voice was so sharp that he obeyed without thinking. His blue eyes never left Fudge's ashen face.

"It is my right as holder of the debt to decide its payment. Under magical law, you cannot refuse."

"And you would waste it on him?" Fudge spared Snape a contemptuous, disinterested glance, and despite thinking the very same thing only seconds before, Snape bristled.

Incompetent sod, he thought.

"I consider it a worthy exchange."

Fudge snorted, wearing an expression that said he thought Dumbledore completely mad, and though Snape privately agreed, he longed to hex his sneering face into far-reaching eternity. He was more than happy to damn himself; he didn't need outside confirmation of his unsalvageability.

"Do you accept?" the Headmaster prodded when Fudge did not answer.

"What do you want?" Beneath the Ministerial bravado was weary resignation.

"Severus stays here until the investigation is complete. If it is found that he was responsible, I will deliver him to Azkaban myself."

Fudge was silent for a very long time, and when at last he spoke, his voice was dripping with rage and humiliation. "All right," he hissed, his eyes little more than puffy slits in his outraged face, "but I have conditions of my own."

Dumbledore waited, hands clasped behind his back, his wand dangling between his fingers.

"He doesn't leave his chambers," he said, jerking his head toward Snape. "Not for meals, not to teach lessons, not even to stretch his legs. No contact with the students. I can't have him tampering with witnesses or evidence." Fudge began to pace as he spoke.

"Secondly, I insist that the Ministry be involved in the investigation. Aurors will assist in searches and interrogations. I will remain here to ensure that things go smoothly. Of course, lessons and preparation for O.W.L.S. and N.E.W.T.S. will be disrupted as little as possible."

"Of course. Refreshing to see that the Ministry holds education in such high regards," Dumbledore said drily.

Fudge gave Dumbledore a dubious, appraising glance. Then, "Accept these terms, or I take him to Azkaban, life debt or not." Scoured ice.

"Very well." Dumbledore somberly extended his hand. He did not smile when Fudge took it. He broke the handshake more quickly than Snape had ever seen him, and when Fudge turned away, he wiped his hand on the side of his robe, as though to cleanse it of something foul. "I'll take his teaching duties for the time being." He started toward the door.

"I said no contact with the pupils," Fudge said softly, looking at Snape with undisguised glee.

Dumbledore stopped. "And he has been relieved of his duties."

"Not all of them."

The Headmaster's brow knitted in confusion, and he looked at Snape in quiet consternation. "I don't-oh, I see," he murmured. "I don't see any reason-,"

"No contact. Refuse, and I take him now." Fudge's hand twitched, longing to grasp his wand.

Snape saw the Headmaster's shoulders, the shoulders that had so often borne the weight of the world slump, and he realized something unpleasant was going to happen, but it wasn't until Dumbledore approached him and reached for the collar of his robes that he understood exactly what. His heart cramped in his chest, and he took an involuntary step back.

"Severus, please." Mournful and imploring.

The Head of House pin affixed to his collar was a serpent of silver and jade. The very hands that were now reaching for it had given it to him when he was twenty-two. The youngest teacher and Head of House in Hogwarts' history. He had received it with the same pride with which he had once received the Dark Mark, and to this day, it was his greatest achievement. He had earned it. It was his, and no one, not even the sniveling brats who thought themselves his betters, could take it from him.

Now, Potter, the child he reviled above all the rest, was going to strip it from him, tear from him the dignity he'd fought so hard for and leave him exposed and vulnerable, just as his preening father and his cohorts had done all those years ago. Comatose in his bed, the boy was still destroying him. It wasn't fair. For fifteen years, he'd endured the unendurable, shrieking lies beneath unending waves of torture and tasting bile in his throat, and for his belief in the Light, this was his reward.

Dumbledore stretched forth his fingers, and this time they found their mark. He stood in silence, quivering with humiliation and impotent rage as the pin was plucked from its nest of black cotton, and for the first time in his adult life, he felt no love when he looked into his mentor's face.

"Severus-,"

"No platitudes, Headmaster," he choked savagely. "If that will be all."

Before Dumbledore could reply, he stalked to the door, whipped out his wand, unlocked it, and jerked it open. Behind him, Fudge started to call out, but his words were cut off in mid-sentence. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He had merely traded one death and one prison for another.

Inside Hogwarts and out, the darkness descended.