Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Thirty-Two

Later that evening, Minerva McGonagall and the other professors sat in the Headmaster's office and told themselves that there was nothing extraordinary about this meeting, that it was no different than the thousands before it, but the uncomfortable tension in the air belied the carefully constructed façade. That and the presence of Kingsley Shacklebolt, seated by the door and armed with a sleek purple Dicta-Quill.

He was here on Fudge's orders, of course, the well-heeled Ministry eyes and ears. Fudge had wanted to come himself, but Albus had insisted that, as much of what would be discussed tonight pertained wholly to the running of the school and not to the investigation of Severus, his presence would be more hindrance than help. All bollocks, and Fudge well knew it, but, eager as he was to dispense late-coming judgment upon his rival's most vigorous reclamation project, he had not yet gathered enough temerity or support to challenge Albus, and the presence of Shacklebolt at the staff meeting was the compromise.

It was also an undisputed pain in the arse. One couldn't be expected to freely discuss the problems of their various charges with Ministry officials eavesdropping in the name of "security." The fact that Maggie Weldon, one of her first-years, was still having an intermittent problem with bedwetting was no business of the Ministry's and certainly had nothing to do with national security.

I wouldn't be so sure of that. That boob, Fudge, is convinced Albus and the rest of us are secreted in this impregnable ivory tower and plotting the overthrow of Wizarding government. No doubt Miss Weldon's sporadic bedwetting is a cleverly concocted scheme to poison unwanted intruders by slipping it into the water supply. Never mind that the poor child's been wetting the bed since beginning of term. That just means that Trelawney foresaw the calamitous happenings and subsequent invasion by heavy-handed officials, and we've taken pre-emptive measures. Merlin in a garter.

She shifted in her seat and pinched the bridge of her nose. The entire day had been sheer madness. Her lesson plan had been lost amid a sea of anxious questions, questions to which she had no answers. Why? How? What? Forthright and justified and terrifying. Nothing in her life or the vast pool of her knowledge had prepared her for anything like this, not even the war against Grindewald.

Then, there had been an enemy to whom she could point in righteous surety, a dark and terrible bogey upon which she could lay blame. He was the reason homes were surveiled and people were detained indefinitely. He was the reason innocent fathers were sundered from bewildered, weeping sons and wives. His menace and pervading evil had necessitated these things. And when his mutilated corpse was dragged through the cobbled street of Diagon Alley by a jubilant mob delirious with relief and renewed hope, all the misguided wrongs were righted with an official apology and a tidy sum from the Department of the Exchequer. Life had gone on.

But what did she tell them now? What could she tell them? Where was the bloodthirsty, inhuman ghoul upon whom she could prop her infallible justification, the ominous villain who would serve as validation of these unwarranted upheavals? Even if Severus had tried to kill Harry-and he probably had, despite Albus' unspoken doubts-it couldn't possibly justify the wholesale trampling of their rights.

For years, she and the other teachers had been prating about the rights of man and of common decency, of justice and nobility and purity of law. They had been told ever since they were old enough to listen that if they believed in order, paid their taxes, and accepted the rule of law, the slavering, needle-toothed creature that protected them from the creeping evil outside their walls would never round on them. A drop of blood to save a pint. Justice was blind, she had told them, and despite all the evidence to the contrary she had seen, she had made herself believe it. She had persuaded herself that the illegal seizures and incarcerations of Grindewald's time were an aberration. Deep down, she had known better, and now, so did her students.

What happened to Hagrid should have removed all doubt as to the question of the law's blindness.

Her gaze shifted to where Hagrid sat, his enormous bulk stuffed into one of Albus' ornate chairs. He was too big for it; the legs creaked and groaned beneath his weight, and in his moleskin coat, he reminded her of an overstuffed laundry bag. He smiled when he saw her.

"Evenin', Professor McGonagall," he boomed, and he brought his fingers up to touch the brim of a non-existent hat.

"Good evening, Hagrid." She tried to smile, but it soured into a grimace, and she gave it up.

He shifted uneasily in his seat, his own smile faltering, and the chair emitted an alarming crack. He flushed. "Think I'm a tetch big for this chair," he muttered.

Flitwick, seated to her left, pulled out his wand. "Engorgio!" he squeaked absently, and the chair in which Hagrid sat doubled in size with a jubilant pop.

Hagrid sprawled with a grateful sigh. "Thank ye. Much obliged, Professor."

Flitwick stowed his wand and flapped his hand in nonchalant dismissal. His normally serene, joyful face was subdued and pinched, as though he were plagued by too many thoughts. McGonagall knew how he felt. Her own skull throbbed in the throes of a monstrous headache whose hardy, tenacious seeds had been sown when a whey-faced third-year had raised her hand and asked, in a quavering, solemn whisper, if the Aurors would be using Unforgivables or other Curses during the course of their interrogation. She hadn't known whether to swoon or curse, and though she had told the girl that no such thing would happen, she still felt ambushed and off-center.

Much as she had tried to reassure her charges with a stern façade and noble platitudes, she was no longer certain of the ground beneath her feet. She was too aware of politics and paranoia and the strange, perverse bedfellows they made. Logic told her that the students had nothing to fear from the Ministry, that as vain and pompous and stupid as Fudge was, as ruthlessly protective of his power, he would never harm them, if for no other reason than it would alienate his voting constituents. But she had a sinking feeling that logic had no place in this, that truth and justice and the punishment of sin were only empty avatars waved for the sake of appearances.

Severus deserved everything that was coming to him and more for his multitudinous unnamed sins, of which poisoning Harry was not the least, but the children of Hogwarts were suffering on his account, and that she could not abide. If she could not protect them, then she had failed them as a teacher. The memory of the third-year's bulging eyes and frightened moon face loomed in her mind's eye, and she pushed it away with a pained tut.

Wouldn't be the first time, would it? Peter Pettigrew's pudgy, sullen face replaced the third-year. She tore off her spectacles and let them fall to her lap. The sudden movement caused the relentless pain in her head to flare, and behind her closed eyelids, a blue sun supernovaed. She pressed her cold fingertips to her aching temples and kneaded them with short, impatient strokes.

"Minerva?" Albus said, his voice little more than a whisper. "Is something the matter?'

"What isn't the matter, Albus?" she snapped incredulously, her eyes flying open. "Aurors in the corridor! Listening Charms in the Common Rooms! Interrogations, for Merlin's sake! What in the blazes do I tell my students?"

Albus held up a placatory hand. "They're only questioning the students. Nothing more."

Minerva wasn't soothed. "Spare me the useless semantics. I'm not a goggle-eyed first-year," she fumed. "You know very well what is happening here. This is insanity. Fudge wanted to put Listening Charms in the dormitories. As if the students were doing anything but snoring and snogging. Rumors are already flying. Half the school is convinced they're to be tortured. How am I supposed to teach them anything with worries like that floating about their heads?" She stopped, hands fisted in her lap, chest heaving.

Albus made no reply. He turned around, opened the decanter of brandy, poured three fingers into a tumbler, and handed it to her.

"Perhaps you would like a drink?" His tone was light, but his eyes were grave.

She gaped at him in speechless surprise for an instant, then took the proffered glass. "Yes, I think I would." She hesitated, looked at the contents of the tumbler, and took a generous swallow.

A voice from beside her. "If you don't mind, Headmaster, I wonder if I might have a nip?"

She nearly dropped her glass. She had known Filius Flitwick for thirty-five years, and she had never seen him indulge in spirits, not even an obligatory sip to ring in the new year. Indeed, his unwavering sobriety usually landed him the unenviable task of overseeing the end-of-term staff party-confiscating the wands of those too intoxicated to wield magic safely, placing Anti-Apparating Charms on the more exuberant revelers, and ascertaining that everyone had safely returned to their chambers once the evening had drawn to a close. If he was breaking his long-held vow of abstention, then she was clearly not alone in her concerns.

Albus smiled, but she could see a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Of course, Filius." He reached for another tumbler.

"I believe I'll partake as well, Headmaster." That was Vector, hunched in his chair as if his stomach pained him, and maybe it did. He'd battled a bleeding ulcer for years.

"I can't imagine the alcohol will be good for your stomach, Faustus," she warned, taking another sip from the tumbler in her hand.

"Maybe not," he grunted, "but right now I don't give a damn." He looked at her, and she was shocked to see that black rings of exhaustion raccooned bleak, irritated eyes.

"Anyone else?" Albus asked.

In the end, everyone save Moody accepted a glass. As was his wont, he slouched in his chair and nipped from his silver hip flask. McGonagall felt an inexplicable surge of pity for Hagrid's glass, small and fragile in his clumsy, engulfing hand.

Ten to one it ends up pretty kaleidoscopic dust, she mused, and a dry, mirthless chuff escaped her.

Albus poured himself a glass. "Anything for you, Kingsley?" His hand hovered over an empty tumbler.

The Auror gave a listless grin and shook his head. "Thank you, Headmaster, but I'm afraid that wouldn't be wise."

"No, I suppose not," Albus murmured ruefully, and returned his hand to his desktop. He pushed his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose and sipped his brandy.

No one spoke. They studied the rapidly disappearing brandy in their tumblers and waited for someone else to pick up the sword. Vector grimaced and kneaded his stomach. Sprout tugged compulsively on the hem of her robes, her eyes fastened on the square toes of her boots. Hagrid raised his empty tumbler to his lips, trying to coax the last drops from the bottom.

"This is a fine mess, Albus," Moody growled. His magical eye fixed on Dumbledore, and he took another pull from his flask.

"A third-year Slytherin who lost her mother to the Aurors in a case of mistaken identity went to pieces in the morning lesson," Vector said dully. "She stood up and told everyone that they were going to start with Snape and work their way down until there wasn't a Slytherin left. 'The Mudbloods were taking over.' Then she burst into tears and retreated into a corner. Took twenty minutes to coax her out. One of her Housemates took her to the Hospital Wing." He finished his brandy with a gulp and set the tumbler on the floor by his feet. "Merlin in a chamberpot."

Albus reached for his quill. "What was her name?"

Vector ran a hand through his graying brown hair. "Sarah...Sarah Ogleby."

Albus wrote it down. "I'll see her in the morning." He sounded drained.

"You'll have problems with the lot of them," Moody warned. He sat up and gripped his walking staff. "That House brings naught but trouble. They'll make trouble if they can, especially young Mr. Malfoy. I'd keep an eye on him."

McGonagall groaned. Moody was right. Malfoy would make trouble. The pampered little miscreant was a master at creating discord and strife. He had been baiting Harry since the beginning, and now Stanhope was a favorite target. With his choice nemesis indisposed and his Head of House accused of the crime about which he himself had fantasized, there was no limit to the havoc he could wreak. The sooner he was muzzled, the better.

Be thankful he isn't his father.

There was that. Draco Malfoy was an arrogant, snide, bullying prat with neither foresight nor discipline. Lucius Malfoy had both in excess, and it made him dangerous. She had watched him grow from a privileged, self-assured young man into an urbane, polished, savvy man of influence and prestige in the wizarding world. If the son could foment temporary unrest with insouciant, juvenile rumors and impotent grandstanding, then the father could launch a sustained attack on the Headmaster and the school.

The elder Malfoy might have been removed from his public role on the Board of Governors, but she would wager every Galleon, Sickle, and Knut she had ever earned and ever would that he was still very much involved in school politics thanks to his deep pockets and generous "charitable donations." She wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that the very governors that had so publicly lambasted him for his craven and despicable threats against their families during the Chamber of Secrets fiasco were happily partaking of his lavish hospitality at Malfoy Manor. In exchange for being kept abreast of the happenings at Hogwarts, naturally.

He would get wind of this, if he hadn't already. There wasn't a student in the school who hadn't sent a frantic owl to their parents with all the lurid details of the scandal. The day after Harry's collapse, the skies over Hogwarts had been black with departing owls, and though it was likely Fudge would impose restrictions on the correspondence entering or leaving the castle, it was a foregone conclusion that the Slytherins and some of the more intrepid Ravenclaws had anticipated such bothersome bureaucracy and sent owls out before dawn. Draco had probably led the charge, so sure that his father's wealth and influence would solve everything.

So far, he's been right.

She sniffed. The accursed Malfoy luck. Anyone else accused of threatening the families of governors with Dark Curses would have been censured, barred from public office, and possibly sentenced to a term in Azkaban, but there had been no penalty for Lucius. He was still welcome at the Ministry, still a regular visitor to Fudge's posh office. The Daily Prophet had published a meaningless drabble in the News and Notices section announcing that he had been fined an undisclosed sum. That was all.

Undisclosed. Fifty Galleons and dinner at Le Rouge Petit. Fudge never met a meal not to his liking, and Lucius' generosity allows him to live well beyond his means. Most inconvenient to have your benefactor in Azkaban.

It was useless to hope he would ignore the situation. The name Potter was both anathema and aphrodisiac to the clan Malfoy. They could no more resist him than a moth could resist the deadly siren song of the candle flame. As servants of the Dark Lord, they were bound by the noisome chains of twisted fealty to apprise themselves of the Boy Who Lived's every move, and the fact that he was currently not moving, was still as a corpse, in fact, would prove irresistible. He would have to see it with his own eyes, and as the concerned parent of a Hogwarts pupil, he was well within his rights to enter the school.

She shuddered at the thought. Lucius could complicate things immeasurably. He had long coveted the Headmaster position, but Albus' popularity and renown had thwarted his ambitions. For a time during the Chamber of Secrets crisis, it appeared the prize was at last within his grasp. Albus had been removed, and nervous parents had questioned her untested ability to lead. Unsurprisingly, Lucius had graciously offered his services, citing his political experience and long-cultivated connections within the Ministry power structure.

He had no doubt cut an impressive figure in his exquisite, tailored robes and spit-polished boots. His flowing platinum locks and delicately sculpted features radiated dignity and ancient bloodlines, and his days as Voldemort's henchman were long forgotten. Had it come to a vote, there would have been only one outcome; her salt-of-the-earth pragmatism and prim Scottish looks were no match for a well-bred, monied archangel with a serpent's tongue and an even blacker heart. But then Ginny Weasley had been taken, a Pureblood, and in a panic, the governors had rescinded Albus' suspension. Victory had been snatched from Lucius' eager grasp.

He had neither forgiven nor forgotten. Malfoys never forgot. Grudges and hatreds that should have died with ancestors long forgotten lived on in their rarefied blood, potent as the day they were wrought. They waited generations, sometimes centuries, for vengeance. Three years had done nothing to dilute his seething, well-hidden rage, and since the catastrophic events following the Tri-Wizard Tournament, he had stepped up efforts to discredit his foe. It had all been to little effect, but once the world got wind of Potter's collapse, Lucius' faltering campaign would gather renewed strength.

Indeed. Imagine how things would go if people realized we were housing a suspected attempted murderer in the dungeons instead of Azkaban, where he rightfully belongs?

She quashed a groan. That would be the end of his tenure. Even if Severus were later cleared, the simple fact that he allowed a man who could have committed such a monstrous deed to remain on the school grounds would be a lethal indictment against his judgment. There were too many what-ifs, too many crawling shadows of unpleasant possibility. The unsettling prospect of what might have been had cost Remus Lupin, the gentlest soul she had ever known, his job, and if the Headmaster continued on his present course, Albus would follow in his footsteps.

The man has no sense when it comes to Severus. He never has. He refuses to see what the rest of us see, feel what the rest of us feel. He's so bent on proving that that which was lost to the Darkness can be saved. There is no truth save his truth, and by the time he realizes that Severus is the child of his master, it will be too late.

Maybe Lucius was right.

She cursed herself for such a treacherous thought. Albus Dumbledore might be a trifle dotty and far too trusting for his own good, but he was still the greatest wizard upon whom she had ever clapped eyes and the best Headmaster Hogwarts would ever know. If the job ever came to her, she could only hope to carry the office with as much dignity and wisdom as he had. She would dig her own grave with her bare hands before she would see Lucius Malfoy in that chair.

Stop dithering about Malfoy and focus on a problem that you can solve, she chided herself, and squared her shoulders in unconscious resolution.

Albus tilted his half-empty tumbler in an indolent circle, his eyes fastened on the slowly swirling contents. "Are there any other incidents about which I should know?" he asked.

"Mebbe, Headmaster, sir." Hagrid sat forward in his seat, his elbows propped on his mammoth knees and his hands dangling between them, the empty tumbler glistening between the fingers of the left. "I had an incident with young Rebecca this mornin'."

"An incident?" McGonagall repeated shrilly. "What sort of incident?" Visions of frothing fits danced in her muddled head like rancid sugarplums.

"Don't alarm yerself, Professor," Hagrid soothed, empty hand coming to his chest in a conciliatory gesture. "It wasn't nothin' dangerous. It was jes'-," he paused, the empty hand traveling to the matted nest of his hair to scratch thoughtfully (should be thoughtfully)at an unseen nit, "odd."

"What do you mean, 'odd'?" she demanded.

"I've never heard a lass weep like that," he said. "Loud, warblin' keenin' fit to rouse the dead. Like summat inside her was dyin' or bein' torn out wi' hot pincers. Didn't last but five minutes, then it was like nothin' happened. Like she flipped a switch an' turned it off. Seamus and the rest of the fifth-years started comin' from the castle, an' that was it. 'Cept for red eyes accourse."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" McGonagall's eyes blazed, and her lips were drawn in a tight, bloodless line.

Hagrid stared at her, bushy eyebrows knitted in guileless consternation. "What for? She looked a bit peaky, but she wasn' sick. I asked her if she wanted to go to see Pomfrey, but she said no, and by then, she was all right, more or less."

"Still, you should have used more sense. She needs careful handling," she snapped.

An incredulous huff escaped Hagrid's enormous chest. "Honestly, Professor, it was nobbut a spell of temperament-a bad one, for all that, but no more. In all the years I've been 'ere, I've seen more cryin' girls than can be counted on a thousand hands, an' I've never sent 'em to the Hospital Wing." He cast a beseeching glance at the Headmaster, who had watched the confrontation in silence, long fingers stroking the white down of his beard.

She forced herself to take a deep breath and waited until the pounding tide of blood in her temples ebbed. "You're right, Hagrid. I'm sorry," she muttered. "I know I'm being a beast. I'm just worried about her. About all of them."

"We all are, Minerva," Flitwick reassured her, and gave her hand a gentle pat. "We all are."

"You dear man," she murmured, and folded her trembling hands beneath her chin. She was gripped by the absurd and utterly impractical desire to weep.

Look at you. Falling apart in a crisis. You did better the first time around.

She had been fifty-five years younger then, and blessedly naïve. It had never occurred to her, in the midst of tense strategizing and fierce, blood-soaked battles, that the fate of the wizarding world might rest on her shoulders. She had been too wrapped up in the objective du jour to ponder what failure might mean. It was only afterward, in the fever-dream months that followed Grindewald's defeat, that she had begun to understand.

While everyone else reveled in the newly liberated streets, she sat in her neglected flat, haunted by the stench of blood and charred earth, and grappled with the enormity of the changes she had helped to bring. It was a piecemeal assimilation. Had she been aware of what she was truly fighting for, and of the sacrifices that would be required to meet those ends, she would have lost her mind.

She had no such luxury anymore. Whatever willful blindness she had managed to salvage from the smoldering wreckage of her youth had been torn from her during the Dark Lord's first reign of terror. Even her formidable Scottish will could not sustain it in the face of the glazed, lifeless eyes of former pupils whose stiffening bodies she had left on scorched and blasted battlefields. Their mangled, profaned corpses had dislodged the scales from her eyes and made her see the truth.

She was on her third voyage on this terrible carousel, and she prayed it would be her last. She was too old for this, had seen too much. They all had. She and Albus and Alastor were privy to the unspeakable stakes of this wretched game, and she was no longer sure the old guard was up to the challenge. Their minds were as astute as ever, but their steps were slower. Bones and tendons groaned with the weight of age and cares. The battles to come would be waged by the young; they would act as armchair generals and send their sons and daughters to die in their stead.

"Have there been any further incidents?" Dumbledore took another sip of brandy.

When none were forthcoming, he folded his hands on his desk. "Then that leaves us to decide how to handle the most pressing problem, namely who will take Severus' lessons until this matter is settled."

There was an uneasy and vaguely shamed silence. None of them were adept at Potions. They had no need to be, what with a Potions Master on the premises. They had all been busy with their own curriculums, and the thought that bright minds might one day depend on their outdated knowledge had never crossed their minds. Truth be told, Madames Sprout and Pomfrey were the only ones required to familiarize themselves with current Potions, and only insofar as it pertained to their jobs. They gaps in their knowledge were vast and crippling when it came to teaching O.W.L. and N.E.W.T.-level studies.

"I can try," Professor Sprout offered uncertainly.

"Alas, Professor, though I admire your willingness to help, I'm afraid it won't do. Your Herbology students need your expertise."

"You're right, Headmaster," Sprout sighed, but McGonagall spotted the surreptitious, guilty relief in her eyes.

"What can we do? She and Severus are the only ones remotely qualified to teach the subject, and I doubt that fool, Fudge, is going to relent and let him teach," McGonagall said.

"Indeed not. Severus would be more likely to receive an invitation to the Gryffindor Common Room." Lurking beneath the levity of Dumbledore's words was a hint of the nerve-wracking strain that plagued them all. He offered a wan smile. "Have you forgotten, Minerva, that I have been known to dabble in Potions now and again? My work with Nicholas Flamel necessitated it."

An embarrassed flush bloomed in her cheeks. She had forgotten. "Of course not. I simply assumed you would be far too busy as Headmaster and liaison to the Ministry to consider taking on the position."

"Perhaps so, but the pupils need an instructor, and I must confess that prospect of lecturing on a topic other than moribund rules and regulations that haven't changed in ten centuries is most appealing."

"A week of marking parchments will set you to rights," Sinistra muttered drily, and appreciative laughter rippled through the room.

"I have no doubt you are correct, Professor. However, I see little alternative."

"What you see aside, are you certain that's wise?" McGonagall interjected. "Brilliant as you are, you're not as young as you once were. It seems far too much for you to shoulder, Albus."

Privately, she thought he looked unwell. The flesh of his face was thin, pale, and drawn, delicate as crepe over his bones. Exhaustion and concern smudged beneath his eyes like soot, as though the Fates had marked his thread for cutting. She shivered at the thought. They would be lost without his decisive hand, blind men groping for smoke and shadows, and the Ministry would waste no time in appointing a mindless puppet in his place. If Cornelius Fudge were their leader in the war against Voldemort, then He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's victory was already assured.

"Albus," she said, before professional decorum could override a wave of concern, "let someone else take his place. If something should happen to you-" She stopped abruptly, and her narrowed eyes darted to Shacklebolt.

"If something should happen to me, the world will stand and wizardry as we know it will continue," he said matter-of-factly. "As for the school, I am certain it would be left in more than capable hands."

He smiled at her, saying in a simple, fleeting upturning of the lips what a thousand flowery words could never have expressed so succinctly, so eloquently. She was overwhelmed with a flood of love for the man, so powerful it made her chest throb. She couldn't imagine her life without him, and though she knew it was an impossible wish, she hoped she would never have to face it.

Bless you and damn you, you stubborn, foolish, beautiful man, she thought fiercely. "Yes, it will, Headmaster. Or I'm not worthy of my House," she managed, and swallowed with an audible click.

"Then I have no reason to fear," he said calmly. His gaze shifted to Shacklebolt. "Everything all right, Kingsley?"

Shacklebolt uncrossed his legs and readjusted his robes. "Quite, Headmaster. I was simply admiring your exquisite portraits."

"They are magnificent," Dumbledore agreed. "I find that one to be of particularly excellent quality." He pointed to the gilded portrait of a dour, sallow, thin man with eyes hard and piercing as polished flint. The picture drew its shoulders back and sneered at them.

Shacklebolt leaned forward and peered at the polished pewter nameplate beneath the ornately gilded piece. "Phineas Nigellus, Headmaster of Hogwarts 1820-32, and Master of the Dark Arts and House Slytherin." He sat back with a low whistle. "He was a pompous one, I'll wager." The portrait snarled and flounced beyond the borders of the frame.

"The only Slytherin Headmaster in Hogwarts' history, if I'm not mistaken." Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles. "Though I have hopes that we might one day see another."

If you mean Severus, Headmaster, I fear you're very much mistaken, McGonagall thought.

Sometimes she pitied Albus for his interminable, unconquerable optimism. He hoped for the impossible and the unattainable and never regretted it, never questioned. What confounded her more was the inexplicable and miraculous fact that the things for which he wished came to pass more often than not. Unfortunately for him, his dream of Severus becoming Headmaster was not going to be one of them. Even if some small chance had existed before-and it had not-the eternal stain of this blasphemous accusation had crushed it.

Deep in his heart, he knows the truth, but he has his dreams and his secret regrets, and who am I to trample them into dust and flaunt them? Merlin knows I have more than my share of both when the lights go out.

She preferred not to think of that just now. That was for the darkness and the cold silence and the bottle of Glenfiddich stashed in her armoire, not the bright, warm Headmaster's office.

It'll come for you tonight, won't it? It hasn't in a very long time. You've managed to avoid it, but not tonight. You'll sit on your sofa, drink your Glenfiddich, and see it all in your mind's eye. That delicious fantasy that has haunted you for fifteen years. It will be so close that you can feel it, taste it on your tongue like the honeyed aftertaste of a lolly. And you'll damn yourself for the hundredth time for returning that Time Turner to the Ministry instead of using it to take back that awful, bloody night.

Don't be absurd. There was nothing I could have done. And even if there had been, there is no guarantee that the new present would be better than this one.

That's what you tell yourself now, bathed in the soothing light of rationality and professional necessity, but tonight, when that cherished professorial robe has been hung in the wardrobe, and you have that chilled tumbler clutched in one numb and shaking hand, rationality will lose its potency to the darkness that breeds hopeless fantasy. You'll take a drink, and while the liquid burns a path to your stomach, you will close your eyes and wish for that Time Turner, wish for the chance to see what you missed the first time and make it right. You'll wish for the chance to save them, to give Harry what you cost him, and you, a Gryffindor to the very marrow, will curse the law, and when you go to sleep, you'll dream of that tiny magical hourglass, the one you let slip through your fingers.

She shoved the thought away, furious that her demons had the temerity to find her here. She cleared her throat. "It's decided, then?" she asked more sharply than she had intended.

"I should think so. The students have already lost a day's lessons," Dumbledore answered.

"That still leaves the issue of who will be interim Head of House," Sinistra pointed out.

"Under school bylaws, only one-," McGonagall, began, but Dumbledore silenced her with an uplifted hand.

"Regardless of the bylaws, I would prefer that someone else accept the position. I'm afraid the Slytherins will not accede to new leadership as readily as the other Houses."

There was a derisive snort from Moody.

McGonagall's lips thinned. Bollocks. What you say is absolutely true, but it has nothing whatsoever to do with your decision. "Albus, please. You can cover it up however you like, but the truth is you can't stand to see anyone else wearing that pin." She jabbed a finger at the silver serpent pin lying atop a stack of parchment. "It's his own fault. He should have to suffer the consequences."

An incredulous, anguished silence blanketed the room. Even Fawkes spared a moment from his preening. Flitwick cleared his throat and examined the clasp of his cloak. Sprout resumed her detailed study of the toes of her boots and muttered under her breath. Moody unscrewed his flask and took a long draught. Hagrid eyed it with an expression of covert longing.

"Oh, stop it," she snapped. "This has gone far enough. Albus, I know you think there is a chance for Severus, but it isn't so. He's as evil as the Lord he followed, and he's proven it time and again. Not a shred of decency in him, not one. We all sense it; even the students feel it. You can't save him, Albus. Surely you must know that?" she beseeched him, palms upturned in a mute plea for the return of reason.

The Headmaster made no reply, but she knew she had scored a deep and painful hit. His eyes had dimmed, and his hand had frozen in mid-stroke of his voluminous beard.

Merlin knows I never wanted to cause you hurt, but it has to be said. Forgive me. "Let the Aurors take him to Azkaban," she pleaded. "They'll leave Hogwarts and its pupils in peace, and justice will be served in the end, whatever it may be." There was a muffled grunt from Moody, and she scowled at him.

"I cannot allow them to take an innocent man to Azkaban, Minerva," he said quietly.

"You let them take Hagrid well enough," she retorted, and instantly regretted it when she caught a glimpse of the giant's wounded countenance. Fine way to make your case, by dragging innocent bystanders into the fray.

"They weren't going to summarily throw Hagrid to the Dementors. I doubt they could have thrown him anywhere he did not wish to go."

"And they'll not throw Severus to them, either. Not until they're certain one way or the other."

"Wouldn't wager on that," Moody growled. "Plenty of Aurors lost loved ones to his lot, and none of them would look askance at letting a Dementor 'slip' its tether for a few minutes." He shifted in his seat and propped his walking stick between his knees.

She stared at him, horrified. "They wouldn't!"

"Not everyone is a Gryffindor," was his only response.

That put things in an entirely new perspective. As eager as she was to see Severus get his overdue comeuppance, that was not the way to go about it. He deserved the chance to offer up whatever feeble defense he could muster, an opportunity to make his peace with the Fates before all thought and emotion and vitality was wrenched from his mind by the putrid, hungry lips of a creature that never should have existed.

Why? His victims never had that courtesy. They died in their beds or begging on their knees. Harry never knew what happened. He merits no better.

Because if I stoop to that level, if I allow the Ministry to sink so low, then I will be no better than those I despise. The line dividing Light from Dark will cease to be, and the Dark Lord will have his victory, no matter what the battles and trials to come may say.

"If there are no further grievances, let us move to other matters," Dumbledore said. Discussion on the vacant Head of Houseship was clearly closed, and without resolution.

"What about the students? What should we tell them? They're anxious and curious," Sinistra ventured.

"Let them know that all teachers will be available to address any fears they may have. I am scheduling a Hogsmeade outing for this Saturday. A day in the sunshine without Aurors breathing down their necks will do them good. As for their curiosity, I'm afraid that will go largely unsatisfied for the time being." A rueful smile flickered on his face, and then he grew somber once more.

The rest of the meeting was spent in the discussion of supply reorders and unruly pupils, the anesthetizing minutiae of boarding school education. She could almost forget that there was anything amiss, and more than once, she found herself wondering when Pomona Sprout was going to stop bemoaning the woeful mandrake seedling shortages or the need for more dragon-hide gloves. But then her wandering eyes would fall upon the attentive, dignified figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt, and the tension would return, turning her thin shoulders to sculptures of unyielding stone.

The meeting was adjourned at half-past ten, and though her colleagues filed out, talking dispiritedly amongst themselves, she remained where she was, her shoulders slumped and her eyes burning with exhaustion. She and Dumbledore regarded one another in the silent room, and from his perch, Fawkes gave a mournful trill. She kneaded the swollen, throbbing knuckles of her left hand with the thumb of her right.

"Another round, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked, and gestured at the decanter of brandy on the edge of his desk.

She opened her mouth to refuse, then reached down, picked up her tumbler, and held it out. "Why not?" she said wearily.

"Why not, indeed," he muttered, and filled her tumbler and then his own.

She took a sip of the tart liquid and wilted in her chair. "Do you suppose Shacklebolt will give Fudge a blow-by-blow account of our sordid plot?" she murmured wryly.

"Oh, I expect Kingsley will perform his duty admirably," Dumbledore replied, and the tinge of bemusement in his voice made her pause in mid-sip.

She raised an inquiring eyebrow at him. "Don't tell me-he's a member of the Order."

He beamed at her. "Naturally."

"I should have guessed. How many others are there?"

He tapped his chin with his forefinger. "Ten, though Nymphadora is only in the auxiliary reserves. She is on the day shift that guards Severus. Kingsley and Dawlish are on the night watch. But that isn't what you wanted to discuss, is it?"

Her eyes fell on the silver and jade serpent lying atop the parchment stack. "No," she admitted.

He followed her gaze and picked it up, turning it delicately between his fingers. "You're right, you know," he said quietly. "I don't want to see this on anyone else."

Her heart broke at the doleful timbre of his voice, and she reached out to cover his hands with her own. "Oh, Albus." She couldn't think of anything else to say.

"You truly think him guilty, don't you Minerva?" Though it was phrased as such, it wasn't really a question.

For once in her life, she wished she were a better liar, or that she could make herself believe differently than she did, but she couldn't, so she said, "Yes, I do." Seeing his crestfallen expression, she plunged onward. "What else am I supposed to believe? He was a Death Eater. Not maybe, not almost. Was, Albus. You told me yourself that the night he came to you, he was drenched in someone's blood. Good people don't lurch into their former Headmaster's office spattered in their victim's blood."

"Everyone makes mistakes, Minerva."

"Burning the toast is a mistake, Albus; breaking a vase is a mistake; sleeping through a meeting is a mistake. What he did was a sin. A filthy, vile, unpardonable sin. He took a person's life for no other reason than he could. Merlin knows what else he's done." She fell silent and mentally implored him to understand.

"How many people did you kill in the First and Second Wars?"

She blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question. "I-I don't know. Thirty, maybe forty."

"And how many were you indirectly responsible for?" He looked at her with unsettling solemnity.

"What? I don't see what this has got to do with anything," she protested.

"Humor an old man," he insisted.

"Heaven knows," she conceded. "Hundreds, perhaps." She swallowed against a sudden wave of nausea.

"I'm responsible for thousands. Thousands upon thousands. I led sons and daughters to their deaths and ordered those who survived to kill still more. My wife died because of me." His voice caught in his throat.

"Albus-,"

"I've watched two generations of our finest tear themselves to ribbons in the name of ideas, and now I stand on the cusp of watching a third suffer the same fate. I cannot help but wonder-what if I am wrong?"

"Wrong about what? You can't possibly think the Dark Lord is right?" she demanded, frightened at his hopeless, strengthless demeanor.

"Absolutely not, but what if I am no better? What would be awaiting us when we stood before the Fates? What if I am also the destroyer of countless innocent lives? Would there be mercy or only retribution? I pray for the former; if there is only the latter, there isn't enough fire in Hades to atone for what I have done."

She goggled at him and sputtered in inarticulate horror. "You-," she croaked when she found her voice, "you're not God, Albus. You can't grant him absolution. You can't protect him."

His eyes grew distant and melancholy. "Protect him," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "Sometimes I fear I didn't protect him enough." He shook his head and rose slowly from his chair. "I'm going to bed. I'm very tired." He offered her a thin smile and patted her on one narrow shoulder. "I'll see you in the morning." Sleep well, Minerva."

Not bloody likely. I'll see the dawn, and so will you," she thought as she watched him climb the staircase with careful gravity, his steps frail and ginger, the steps of a man clinging to the last wisps of his lifethread. She watched until his heavy chamber door snicked closed behind him, and when she was certain no one would see, she fled the office at a near-run and went to lose herself in the sparse and painful comfort of the Glenfiddich in her armoire.