The Decoding of the Heart

All the chapter titles are from John Bunyan’s "The Pilgrim’s Progress (from this world to the next)". Vanity Fair is where the pilgrims Christian and Faithful are arrested (and Faithful executed) for refusing to buy anything or admire the people and things on show.

Much credit to Lilith Morgana for help with Latin spell; to J.L. Matthews for tips on storytelling, on exploiting the Ministry's setting I chose, and for turning up some amazing stuff about Chartres that certainly wasn't in my guide book, and which I'm gradually working in; to the film "The Craft". (Yes – I can do Popular Culture!) for one idea.

Sirius and Remus fans - please fetch yourselves a Calming Down potion, because you won't like what I've done with them.

* * * * *

Why tell you me of moderation?

The grief is fine, full, perfect that I taste,

And violenteth in a sense as strong

As that which causeth it.

 

It was Honours day at the Ministry, and the speech was getting long.

Voldemort being dead, his Death Eaters (mostly) executed, all that remained for ever-surviving Fudge was to congratulate his Ministry (and those working outside of, but effectively for, said Ministry) on all their hard work and a triumphant Victory.

The largest hall of the building was packed. Its robust, institutional air charms did little, though, to mask the sweaty odour of bored bodies, nor the slow-released breaths of the angry.

But it was Honours Day at the Ministry, and people must behave, and Cornelius was in his element. Posthumous awards came first. With impeccable political correctness, the Minister read verses by a Muggle for the elegy :

"Fear no more the heat of the sun,

Nor the furious Winter's rages.

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages."

Harry, Hermione and Sirius, stationed in the front row, remembered Remus.

" ..... come to dust."

Victory is too expensive. You pay up anyway, but no First Class Orders of Merlin in the world can make you believe you got a bargain.

"Fear no more the frown o' the great, thou art past the tyrant's stroke."

Fudge vocally underscored these lines. Sitting many rows back, Severus Snape thought well he might. It was not the aptest choice of poem, what with the golden lads, lovers and chimney sweepers.

"Fear not slander, censure rash..."

Some chance.

You couldn't argue with a quiet consummation and renownéd grave, though...and certain lines of the verse would stay with him over the next months. First an echo, then a voice :

Thou thy worldly task hast done.

Now like his own, now like one's long dead, it would sound from within, cleaving one section of his brain from another.

"...consign to thee and come to dust". Consign to me and come to dust.

He always did obey orders. Fudge began to read the names. Whenever Snape had imagined a victory like this, a day like this, he had always imagined he would not be there, except in name, on a list like this.

At least he'd settled things with Lupin : there was an almost-friend who ought to be here. He’d transformed the man at the moment of death so that he wouldn't be buried as a wolf. Not many could have pulled that one off. Lupin's grateful gaze stayed with him, but - it should have been you: an undeniable settling of debt. No credit, but account paid. The proper full stop to his life's sentence.

It took a long time to read the list. Many were surprised, towards the end of the alphabet, not to hear "Weasley". It was one of the unexpected, miraculous instances of joy in dark days that not one Weasley was dead. There they all sat, in persistent, red-haired glory.

Except they were very near the back - which rather clouded Hermione's pleasure in being at the front.

She was furious - on Ron's behalf especially. Of course, you couldn't measure friendship, or that stout humour that had kept Harry going, but there were recognisable, rewardable deeds. It was Ron who, when the siege broke, had confused key Death Eaters by taking on Harry's guise. Don't think about all that. What should it matter if Fudge punished popular Arthur Weasley through his family? We're alive, we won. It's only a sodding medal.

And she'd always cared about medals.

Next to her, Harry fidgetted. So many words, and his speech would have to cap them all because he was the Grand Finale. Sirius, sensing his anxiety, gave his arm an avuncular squeeze. Harry relaxed and grinned. His godfather Sirius - handsome, sparkling, vindicated Sirius - could walk in truth at last.

Albus Dumbledore, up for his third First Class Order of Merlin, was not in the front rows. He had chosen to sit with Severus. The Minute's Silence done, he murmured :

" I reminded him not to call you up. He said he wouldn't. "

" Thank you. I appreciate it. "

The honours would be given in reverse order. Severus felt himself drift off towards the end of the Commendations. Some alumni from his own House - not as many as there could be - nor in those posthumously honoured. Their deaths were doubtful. When Aurors blasted a Slytherin family of Death Eaters, how could they tell who was on the right side, who on the wrong ? Of necessity, one fought the good fight under cover of Darkness; and Death Eaters finding a 'traitor' would slander their relative not to Voldemort, but to the Ministry. It kept them free from suspicion on both sides.

Who will account for the Slytherin dead ?

If he named names, how many would believe him ?

Perhaps beyond Death all truths are known, and Recognition comes to stare in the eyes of the blind. Don't be so bloody sentimental. The Bad ended memorably, the Good ended unmemorably: that is what 'Slytherin' means...

" Severus Snape."

" Damn the man - I'm sorry, Severus. "

" No matter."

With dozens of eyes needling his back, Severus stepped up to receive his lesser honours.

" For your services in Intelligence, for invaluable inside information.. "

Fudge's eyes flickered along his arm. Say something, say anything.

" Well, this rather blows my cover. "

Dumbledore gave a supportive little chuckle. (As would others, had Snape signalled his irony with the subtlety of a whacked Bludger.)

" Let us hope you won't need to honour me with the same job, again, Minister. "

Fudge's reddened, but only slightly.

" It is a wonderful thing, " (tone entirely flat) " a very - wonderful thing - to know that you won't. That Voldemort is never coming back ; not tomorrow, nor the next day…nor the day after that...nor for any years... like those in which we waited for him to rise again and terrorise us...to come."

He ground to a halt.

Hermione eyed him, surprised. She'd never heard the Potions master say anything inconsequential. She adjusted her spectacles - a less innocent gesture than it looked. It made the lenses zoom into close-up without anyone's realising. (Ron had teased her that she only wore glasses to look Seriously Intellectual - but shut up when she showed him what they could do).

Quote something, anything.

" However...however, we cannot be complacent. Voldemort embodied an evil that could rise again without him... As - as Camus said, the plague bacillus never dies. It lurks, waiting to destroy our - our happy cities. It kills the rats first, and no-one takes heed because... they don't care for rats. So then it comes for us all. "

Harry and Sirius glanced at Hermione, who, not having read La Peste, shrugged. Sirius shook his head at her with mock disapproval and a wink.

She returned to scrutinizing Snape. His hands were shaking slightly, and he had broken out in an unpleasant-looking sweat. Well, if you're stupid enough to wear black in heat like this...His eyes did not connect to his audience, but stared as if down a very long, very straight road.

Tomorrow, the next day, the day after that. Consign to me....

" Our task... "

- but not for you...

" ... must now be to prevent the conditions...the inhumanity...that allow the plague to spread. "

" Rich coming from him, " whispered Sirius.

" Ssh. "

Too late. Severus had caught Sirius' eye and taken in its glint of mockery. It said: the war is over - and so's the truce.

" But... Headmaster Dumbledore can explain all that more eloquently than I...I…I want to acknowledge the people whose information helped me, who worked...in the same way, but are not - saved - to tell the tale. I knew them ...a little. "

He intoned half-a-dozen names. John Warrington, Albertina Nott, Vivian Flint, Leon Rosier, Catriona McNair... Fudge pinned the medal on him briskly before he could say any more, and Snape stepped down.

When he reached his seat, he found Albus half risen.

" Out - now. Come on. "

" Don't be ridiculous. "

" You're about to faint. Don't fuss. "

The word was well-chosen. Severus, refusing Dumbledore's escort, stumbled out of a side-door with a quip that he'd miss Potter's big moment.

Fudge started on the Second Class Honours, by far the biggest group. Hermione, her glasses readjusted, stared down at her - fists. Perhaps it was the heat that made you slide off into all sorts of memories, for she found herself thinking of all times in the last three years that had made her despise Fudge. If he'd only listened - or rather, not denied what he'd heard - the war could have been won within a year. Six months - six damn months - before he fully mobilised the Ministry.

It kills the rats first, but no-body takes heed because they don't care for the rats.

Whom did Professor Snape mean by 'rats' ? Cedric Diggory aside, Voldemort had targetted only pure Muggles the first months. The Wizarding Press had either not reported the deaths or attributed them (relying on most sorcerers' sublime haziness about ceasefires and Peace talks) to the IRA. Hermione made a mental note to rectify the disgraceful matter of Camus. Didn't he write after the Second World War ? The unheeded rats must have symbolised the Jews. She tried to remember Muggle History lessons, but they'd only just beheaded Charles the 1st by the time she got her Hogwart's Letter. Concentrate. Was it the sudden freedom of not having to focus on the battle that had her mind wandering all over the place ?

Fudge quickened the pace a little. He wanted to get to Harry before lunchtime.

Now that she thought about it, the first time Hermione saw through Fudge had been after the Triwizard Tournament, when Professor Snape had thrust his exposed Mark right under the idiot's nose, and it hadn't convinced him. The wasted gesture had surprised her. There had been calls for Fudge's resignation, but he resisted them long enough to rise to the Emergency and keep his post. He would undoubtedly go in the next election, but that was eighteen months away.

Maybe Snape was ill. 'Absent' many times during the war, on each return he'd seemed more bleached out than ever, yet continued as if nothing had happened. Whatever he'd got up to must have caught up with him now, like the migraine you hold off until Exams are over. Ron always joked that Voldemort brought out the best in Snape. Crisis, real, serious crisis, sucked up the spiteful energy that made any dealings with him a torture. Drained to neutrality, he'd manifested a relentless, reassuring efficiency during the long siege. (New students, bemoaning his lack of personality, were told to count themselves lucky never to have known the one lost.) None regretted the change, least of all the three of them, the only students, she imagined, who knew his secret. They had grudgingly admired the games-playing and surreptitious riddling with which Snape got certain students to mistake his loyalties and betray themselves. Malfoy, before he vanished, must have been thoroughly taken in.

The Potions master deserved better. And those people he named too, probably. She twiddled her locket. Ron deserved better.

This is not fair.

Outside the hall, in a cramped area that turned out not to be the main lobby, Severus was trying to find an exit. The only one on offer was down that blasted corridor of Mirrors. Mock Versailles, as it was dubbed. He braced himself.

" The side-parting's definitely a mistake... "

" Haven't you tried the Natural Magic range, dear ? Works wonders... "

" Nice Robes - Shame about the Face !"

A few of the Designer Mirrors, being into retro-chic, picked up the tune. If he hadn't been in the Ministry, he'd have smashed them. Not that he shouldn't be grateful to Mirrors. He'd learnt how to sneer from them, after all.

" Why does he always wear black. "

" Does he ? "

" Yeah - saw him here years ago. "

"Never left off his school uniform..."

" So why do you always wear black ?"

I'm in mourning for my life.

The tinkles of laughter cut off, though he didn't think he’d spoken out loud. He emerged into the Ministry Courtyard, found a prim little bench to slump on, and put his head between his knees to get the blood back.

His departure had not gone not unnoticed. Cramped beside an exit, without a seat, Rita Skeeter had turned a fresh page in her notebook. "Lies, Spies and Sacrifice" marked the Quick-Quotes Quill. Severus Snape ... no longer Classified Information. She should go after him, but could she trust her Quill to note Harry's intonation and expression all by itself? Who but she could do The Boy Who Won justice ? Later, later – corner Snape at the Buffet. Dumbledore won't let him scive off the celebrations.

"Caroline Vector" called Fudge.

Professor Vector (last call for Second Class Honours) garnered a mixture of envious and lustful looks as she swept towards Fudge. She had dark blue eyes and molten-bronze hair that poured to her waist. She grinned at Hermione when she turned to the audience.

She really doesn't mind that I got more of the credit.

"I hope this means that funding for Arithmancy Reseach will improve, Minister..."

It was thanks to Professor Vector that Hermione had developed her complex Arithmantical enchantment - "Mione's Love-trap" to her friends - that had conquered the Dementors. She had the inspiration from the binary principle of Muggle computing, where everything is either a One or a Nought : if the Dementors were absolute Negation, how could they be reversed, switched, into absolute Affirmation ? With a warped leap of the imagination, of which none had ever thought her capapable, Hermione landed on the idea of making the Dementors fall in love with - and Kiss - each other. It had obsessed her for the whole of her fifth and sixth years. Indeed, the memory she used to cast a Patronus was the staff meeting she'd asked Dumbledore to call for her, where her explanation of her brainwave and request for help had made everyone's mouths drop open (even Professor Snape's - who'd stubbornly maintained until then that Granger was less than the sum of all her reading). They considered each professor's branch of magic in turn. It had boiled down to stoppering Lust in a bottle whose contents, in the manner of Mustard Gas, would evaporate on contact with air; or an enchantment that could be pre-set using Arithmantical formulae. To Hermione's relief, the Gas idea was found to have too many uncertainties, and to be too reliant on the Aurors' throwing the vials at the right moment (and distance). She far preferred working with endlessly generous Vector, who helped her calculate the connection between the absolute noughts of the Dementors and the infinity signs in the preliminary spell that activated the enchantment.

It had worked like the proverbial clockwork : Voldemort's plan to destroy untold-of amounts of Benign energy by having his Dementors infiltrate Europe's greatest Cathedrals, was uncovered. Traps were duly laid at York, Canterbury, Vatican, Rouen and Chartres. The Dementors were stable in number, for they neither died nor reproduced - and fortunately, their numbers were even. Turning to each other in a rush of desire, the Dementor couples sucked and exchanged each others' collection of souls, until the stronger of the two simply absorbed their lover completely. Then the victor would seek out another mate. The encounters continued until only one pair remained, who were evenly matched.

Somewhere in the bowels of Azkaban, sealed in a crystal cell, the last of the Dementors were locked forever in an embrace of manic joy.

The mesmerised guards had already reported a change in their appearance. Intense happiness from their accumulated souls, endlessly given and taken, nourished their foul bodies. They were starting to look human. Half a century on, visitors to the Azkaban Museum would marvel at those exquisite creatures (christened, though genderless, Adam and Eve) who beggared anyone’s belief that they had once been the foulest beings to walk the Earth.

None could deny it: young Hermione Granger fully deserved her First Class Order of Merlin.

As Vector stepped down, Sirius Black stepped up. The looks of lust and envy swapped places too.

Rita sighed. Let the younger journalists get their quills into Sirius. To do her justice, it was a sigh as melancholy as it was impatient, for her only son was on the list of the dead. To do her justice, she sighed because she, too, was disgusted with the Ministry, and with herself for the inter-war articles that had earned her money to support the dead son, but likewise sold off her seriousness as a journalist. She had been a serious journalist, hadn't she ? She'd covered the trials of '82, and been respected - but not paid much - for it. Vulgarity pays. Oh yes, it pays. Perhaps she owed the Dementor-girl a favour for forcing her return to Proper Reporting - but it had been too late. When, with Granger's permission, she published the real story of Cedric Diggory's death and Voldemort's resurrection, no-one believed her. She'd done a tad too much Human Interest by then, and her style was too recognisable to use a pseudonym.

Frankly, she wasn't sure what she'd do now. Never get trapped between genres. She didn't bother with Dumbledore, but took a few notes on doughty old Arabella Figg. What she needed was a long, serious profile.

"Hermione Granger ".

The Weasleys craned their necks to see their future wife/sister-cum-daughter-in-law receive her Honours.

No-one walked up to the platform.

"Hermione Granger ?"

The Dementor-girl had slipped out, presumably to the lavatory, just before Arabella Figg had been called. She had not come back. Harry and Sirius shook their heads at Fudge's look of inquiry. She was called again.

"Ahem. Chantal Johnson."

Trusting an infallible journalistic hunch, Rita crept out at the back. Everyone would write about Potter! The Granger girl, with all her (maddening) priggishness, could prove a much more heavyweight (and novel) subject...

* * * * *

There was dust in the unmoving air, and the courtyard offered little shade, but Severus decided he was not going to be sick. He was going to get up, drink some water, and go back to hear Harry Potter speak. The headmaster, for all his concern, would approve.

It was alarming how rapidly the euphoria of victory had worn off. This was worse than '82. There would be no more chances to prove himself - he had personally made sure of that. He stuffed the medal in his pocket. That's it. That's your lot. Be thankful it wasn't less.

Get up. Go down that bloody corridor. Go into that hall and sit still like a Good Boy.

His resolution was interrupted by running footsteps and whistles from the Mirrors. A youth in red robes was hurtling down Mock Versailles towards him, but turned off left before reaching the glass doors. He got to his feet, wondering whether to investigate, when the last person he wanted to see came puffing up to him.

Come back Voldemort - you missed one.

" Did you happen to see anyone come that way just now, Professor Snape ? "

He wondered why she was being so deferent.

"No."

He wouldn’t deliver anyone into the clutches of Skeeter . Rita, narrow-eyed, parked herself on the bench."As a matter of fact, I was hoping I might run into you. That was a very interesting speech. Quite a subtext, you might say... "

"I'm sure you might say anything, Skeeter, but right now I'm going back to hear Harry Potter's big number. "

Rita laughed.

"I think his actions are more eloquent than his words - don't you? "

" No comment ".

"The words " no comment " are a very powerful spell where my Quill's concerned. A powerful multi-purpose spell... "

Severus seethed.

"Tell me, Professor Snape, do you feel insulted by our Revered Minister for Magic ? After all the risks you took - your great personal risks - if I remember Dumbledore's words..."

She must have eighteen years' history in her bloody Notepad.

"How does it feel to have the Minister-who-messed-up belittle your careful orchestration of certain events ? "

"Better than snogging a Dementor."

He made for the glass doors. She trotted after. It occured to him that the Mirrors might give her very juicy copy.

"I couldn't swear to it, but I'm sure I heard someone rush past the courtyard exit. Why don't you try the river ? It's where most people escape for some air."

The Thames was indeed just beyond the Ministry gates, and Rita, reckoning that one Snape soundbite was all she'd get in a day, went and melted her way through them.

Mock Versailles had no turnings off to left or right. Looking curiously about him, Severus began to walk the gauntlet again. Half the mirrors took up the 'Nice Robes' chant and asked how he animated his cloak. Almost half the others were the kind of mirrors that flatter you.

" Ahh, leave him alone - he's in mourning for his life... "

Almost half. He stopped before a silent Mirror on the left. The kindly Mirror facing it murmured sympathies to his back, and for a few moments he saw his own reflection, horribly and infinitely repeated.

"You can come out now - she's gone."

His reflection became translucent as another solidified, merged with his and replaced it - the red-robed youth, who wore spectacles and smiled slightly.

" Thanks awfully for covering up for me, Professor Snape. "

Those, unmistakably, were the prissy accents of Hermione Granger.

"No need for thanks. I didn't recognise you."

Hermione and yesterday's Haircut stepped out of the mirror.

" Well, you still got rid of her. Was she bugging you too ? "

" Only in the vaguest sense. You should have squashed her when you had the chance. "

" How did you know -? "

" All the staff knew - and agreed with me. Except the Headmaster. He thinks Skeeta has her uses. "

" Then he understands a lot of things we mere mortals don't. "

It seemed a little odd to Severus that the Girl-Who-Redeemed-the-Dementors should think of herself as a mere mortal, but the thought did not register on his face. It also seemed a little odd to be in conspiracy with the Gryffindor Prig.

" You should get back into the hall, Granger. Fudge'll be calling you up any second."

" He already has. I decided not to - oh no!"

She retreated into the mirror - and Severus, no more willing to encounter a frustrated Rita Skeeter returning from the smelly Thames, did likewise.

It was too good an opportunity to miss.

" Decided to age gracefully have we ? You should wear navy more often - it really suits you ". Hermione stole her Mirror's flat Lewisham purr.

Severus was landed with South Yorkshire Camp.

" You were right to get rid of those curls, duck. It's the natural look that's in. I'd lose the bottled brass too, if I was you. " (He couldn't help wincing at the 'was').

They waited a good half-minute for the click of Rita's heels to disappear into the main hall before emerging, slightly unnerved by the experience of looking into a mirror and seeing nothing but an endless corridor of empty planes. It was for a few moments only that Hermione Granger and Severus Snape caught their reflections - superimposed and infinitely repeated - in the Ministry's Mirrors.

Which, it mercifully turned out, went silent when people were engaged in conversation.

" Did you say you walked out on Fudge ? "

(Neither were of a giggly enough temperament to acknowledge the joke they'd just played.)

" Not exactly walked out, but I kind of absented myself before I was called."

" Why ? "

" Because any award from him is meaningless. And there wouldn't be so many posthumous ones if he’d listened or resigned. He should give everyone a commendation, or make the distinctions fair. He didn't even acknowledge Arthur Weasley - "

" Or his sons?"

Hermione blushed.

" Or them, yes. " Hermione thought of adding or you, properly, but decided it would be tactless. "He's pathetic. And dangerous because he's pathetic."

"So what did you hope to achieve by this - gesture ? "

Snape might be getting his personality back. Don't ask if he's feeling ok.

" I didn't plan it. I just got angry sitting there listening to that list. I-I want to register a protest. Just not say Yes. Maybe humiliate him. "

" And you’re in a perfect position to do so... Though it might have been more spectacular coming from Potter. "

" I don't think Harry's in a state to do anything tactical. He still can't believe he's alive. And at least Fudge got it right where he's concerned. "

It was as near as she dared go in offering her condolences. She guessed, rightly, that he preferred to be acknowledged according to general principles. Severus, unwilling to accept sympathy, picked up the most convenient cue.

" Speaking of Potter, I suppose we'd better get back in - especially if he needs you to prompt him.

" How did you know I -"

Professor Snape gave her one his crumble-to-dust looks. Lapsing into silence, they crept back into the hall as Fudge, with more of a flourish than ever, announced -

" Harry Potter ".

Harry, bless him, did not need prompting; and Hermione found herself pondering the whispers of the Mirrors she'd heard just before Professor Snape had told her the coast was clear.

He's in mourning for his life.

* * * * *

No-one could fault the Ministry on the Honours Day Buffet. There is nothing quite so appeasing as a continual supply of first-rate canapés, serious cakes and quality wine. It looked as if Fudge might just pull it off.

It was held in an enormous hangar-like space that no-one had seen before, with a sloping floor at one end. To Wizarding eyes it looked very new - indeed half-finished.

"The Muggles are turning it into a display hall for Significant Cultural Artefacts." Percy Weasley was explaining to a bunch of eager little Ministry clerks. "Of course, we've occupied this site for years - most Muggles thought there was nothing here but one of their defunct Energy Stations, so my father got the shock of his life when their Minister of Culture told him we'd have to move. Bit of creepy guy if you ask me. Anyway, they tried to get us to move underneath this enormous pink construction in Elephant and Castle, but Fudge wouldn't have it. The underground access is really decrepit, and we reckoned that even magic couldn't clean up the stench."

"So where will the Ministry go?" asked a particularly sycophantic clerk.

"Oh, we're staying here" said Percy airily, "It wasn't exactly a convenient time to negotiate, but we're nesting half the Ministry within the new building, and wrapping the other half round it. Very advanced Spatial Transfiguration, you know - separates us off from their electricity completely. If there are any slip ups, Mr Serota - that's the Significant Artefacts fellow (nice chap, though he does look a bit like You-know-Who) says they can explain it away - Rebecca Horne's hammers playing up, a Bill Viola lightwork gone wrong...."

Percy had found that a little knowledge of Muggle Culture took you a long way in the New British Ministry of Magic.

The other Weasleys, meanwhile, had descended on Hermione, who found herself having to explain her behaviour to the concerned clan. Arthur Weasley was touched, Molly Weasley worried (by the hair as well as the gesture) Ginny and the Twins pronounced her cool, the eldest two brave. Ron said nothing.

"But you haven't actually refused it yet, dear." Molly said. "It really isn't necessary. Fudge will go, and you never know - there might be a job for you there in the not so distant future."

Hermione was certain that Arthur would be promoted, and equally certain that they were both above pulling strings. If anything she was determined to avoid the Ministry and nepotism.

"I've made my decision, Mrs Weasley. If Fudge comes to me with the medal, I'm turning it down."

Right on cue, Hermione heard her name, amplified, calling her to the central table. She made her way through the crowds and the floating platters (invisible House Elves, she noted with indignation, as if not seeing them made people more comfortable) with Ron in tow.

"'Mione - just cool down, the war’s over. It might not be the best thing..."

He bumped into a tray of wine, with very wet results, and saw her absorbed into a little crowd of dignitaries.

Severus was skulking by a peculiar-looking channel destined to hold an escalator. He surveyed the crowds. No Malfoys, father or son. They were lying low. Narcissa was dead, sacrificed to Voldemort for some unique property in her heart. That, and considerable foresight, had made Lucius alter his allegiances at a convenient moment. In a parody of Snape's own career, the widower provided Fudge, not with information, which would have given away too much, but invaluable resources. Enough of the right people were fooled enough of the time to leave Malfoy an unresolved case. It looked as if he was heading for a quiet life. Draco, on the other hand, was heading for a breakdown. The Headmaster had better handle -

He suddenly found himself facing an ever-so-slightly-not-sober Sirius.

"Not wearing your badge, Snape? We are in a sulk."

"Sober and grow up, Black."

Sirius nabbed two glasses of wine.

"Not when the Ministry's Best is available. Come on Snape - let's drink to three years' false civilities and the end of a working relationship".

Serverus took the glass, clinked it, but didn't drink.

"Of course..." Sirius muttered. "Of course...you're still in mourning for him. The devotion never goes entirely, does it? Someone like that - they win you forever. Even those Muggle generals who turned against Hitler wept when he died...did you know that?"

(He did.)

"Poor old Snape....You seem to have dropped your glass."

Severus held Black's gaze for a second, then slid his glance over the man's shoulder.

"The Headmaster wants me - if you would stand aside."

Sirius gave a mock bow as his old enemy brushed past. He leaned against the concrete pillar, and casually finished his wine. He was full of pleasant thoughts. The dinner he would take Harry to tonight, the house he'd bought for them to live in...and that chat with the charming young journalist had gone rather well.

Dumbledore was with a knot of Hogwarts' professors near the centre of the room. Severus had to weave his way around clusters of people ever more oblivious to the paths of others, and hovering cones of glacéd strawberries. He caught the sounds of a suppressed quarrel as he advanced.

"I just can't believe you did that, Mione. Think about your career..."

Dear Ron. Once he'd twigged, he was so - stouthearted - in supporting her.

"I'm thinking about all our careers Ron...and Percy's isn't the only kind. "

"I know, but -"

"Look - it won't harm me Ron. I can do anything I want! I've got clout - that's why it had to be me."

"It's got to your head, hasn't it."

"I wasn't showing off. I wasn't calculating...I - I did it for you Ron."

"You think I'm that petty..."

"Ron..."

Severus could never understand why powerful witches wore their confidence out on wizards like the Weasleys.

"There you are!" exclaimed Dumbledore. "I thought we'd lost you. Now listen, I need your consent for the student headships. Minerva and Frederick here have given theirs."

"Now?"

"Absolutely now. I thought I'd announce it here. There's a certain still-serviceable journalist who would be most interested in writing about the future running of our school."

"This wouldn't be connected to a certain absence this morning?"

Dumbledore merrily scoffed a chocolate.

"Got it in one." said Minerva."Do you know," Dumbledore continued, "I never thought there could be so much pleasure " - another truffle disappeared - "in petty vengeance".

"Then you haven't lived, Headmaster".

"Albus, please - the students are out of earshot."

"Albus - you have my consent. Yes to Zabini, yes to Granger."

"Excellent, excellent - care for some fudge?"

"Only if it's chopped into very small pieces."

Albus twinkled at him and produced two miniature scrolls from under his hat. He tapped them with his wand, and they whizzed off to find the future Head Girl and Boy. Then he went off on the remarkable mission of tracking down Rita Skeeta.

McGonagall and Flitwick joined forces.

"Thanks for that Severus".

"We know Granger wasn't your first choice"."She hasn’t the common touch, but she deserves it, Minerva. And we do have Zabini."

"For a post-war year" mused Flitwick, "I think a Slytherin and Gryffindor are a very good idea."

They determined to the keep the conversation going - the Head of Slytherin was looking decidedly fragile.

"I sent the owls for next year's intake last week. I've already had twenty black borders back…I’m glad we annulled last years NEWTs. Keeping the Seventh years’ll make the school less empty."

A long silence. Severus realised it was his turn.

"I've started on the rewrite of Potions NEWTs".

"The students won't thank you for taking away the year's advantage."

"Of course they won't thank me - it's good for them."

Mc Gonagall smiled at him. If there was one thing they agreed on, it was academic matters.

"You should take a break though. I heard you were still clearing things up round Chartres".

"No rest for the wicked."

"Then you should be on holiday," said Albus, who had reappeared with a round-up of Hermione, Blaise, several ministers (including Cornelius Fudge and Arthur Weasley) and a very happy Rita Skeeta.

The announcement had the desired effect. Fudge gravely congratulated the young people, and before receding, forced himself into apologies and small talk with Severus.

"An oversight, but all things considered, better than people thinking we’d forgotten you."

"Understood, Minister."

"I’ m not sure everyone got the reference to this Camus fellow. I’m amazed you’ve found time for so much Muggle literature."

"It’s the scandalously long holidays we teachers have, Minister. You’d be very popular if you did something about them."

Even Fudge got that one.

"And, er, what are you reading now? ""Bunyan. The Pilgrim’s Progress." "Ah yes, a great classic, isn’t it?" "No. The legacy’s more powerful than the original."

Severus had a high worthiness-threshold when it came to literature, but even he hadn’t travelled far from the City of Destruction. He was stuck in paragraph two of the Slough of Despond.

Albus turned to Rita once Fudge had escaped further condescension.

"We'll leave the rest to you and Miss Granger."

Severus shot a look at the Dementor-Girl, who had clearly come to an understanding about the uses of Rita Skeeta.

"Now you can trust me, Hermione - you'll see the proofs before we print. This isn't just about the next election, it's about getting the right people and the right politics in place beforehand... nothing frivalous about your looks, I promise...now, let me make sure I've got this binary thing clear.. .

Hermione was bustled off. Severus turned to Blaise.

"Congratulations Zabini - on the headship and the Commendation."

"Thank-you, sir. I won't let you down."

" You never have".

"I wish I had longer. Give me two years, and no one will recognise Slytherin House."

"One problem at a time. Speaking of which, let’s go somewhere a little less crowded, I need to talk to you about Draco…"

As people finally ate and drank their fill, the crowds started to thin out. Professor Vector noticed Hermione sitting alone on the floor of sloping entrance.

"Hermione? Are you all right? It's been quite a morning for you."

"I'm fine - just a bit dazed".

Professor Vector, never one for formality, was already cross-legged on the floor next to her.

"You know what you should read over the summer?"

Hermione's face acquired her ‘gimme-bibliography’ expression.

"Nothing! Nothing but yourself, and the world around you."

Hermione was silent.

"It'll be a heavy year for you. You can't afford to be confused, or not know what you want."

"I shouldn't have accepted Head Girl. I don't want to jeopardize my NEWTS." (or give Ron the hassle of suppressing his jealously).

"I'm sure you can do both very creditably Hermione - but only if you focus, and are sure it's what you want."

"Quite. Granger has the clout to do anything she wants."

It was Professor Snape on his way out, looking rather tall from their vantage-point. They stood up.

"Don't listen to him – he just wants to hold his NEWT's record, and you're the first person to threaten it."

Hermione looked awfully impressed.

"Do you really hold the NEWT's record? What did you get?"

"That would be giving too much away."

"Broke McGonagall's - isn't that right Severus?"

"Not quite. I broke Maureen O'Reilly's, who scraped half a point more - that's Molly Weasley to you." he added, for Hermione's benefit.

Hermione could not believe her ears. Mrs Weasley! Getting NEWT's higher than McGonagall's? Mrs Weasely, with her homely advice and comforting practicality, her Witch Weekly recipes and Witch Weekly credulity...her neurotic obsession with her sons' grades...

Hermione totally failed to hide her dismay. Professor Snape wore the faintest trace of a sneer:

"Let that be a lesson to you, Granger, on what a lifetime's domestic bliss and eight children can do."

"It's seven, actually," she said, icy as possible.

"I was including Arthur Weasley".

It was one of those moments when you are forced to recognise what you’ve been trying not to see; and Hermione knew that Snape knew this. Vector swerved the conversation right off the road.

"Your hair's very striking Hermione - where did you get it done?"

"Toby's, Coldharbour Lane. It’s a Muggle place. I asked for 'zero maintenance', and he did this."

"It's terrific - don't you think so Severus?"

Severus had started to retreat in the face of female frivolity, and glared at Vector's mischievous smile with intense loathing. (Vector had dealt with her initial terror of her colleague by establishing a tradition of teasing him. She was able to keep it up because of a slightly guilty sense that he was, at some level, in awe of her beauty.)

"I'm not the person to ask."

"Oh I don't know - you owe every Gryffindor so many compliments."

"Is that so?"

"Assuming just one insult per lesson over seven years - that's" (she barely paused) "five hundred and thirty-two compliments owed - if you got insults into exam week too."

Severus could see no way out. He was perfectly aware that someone with his looks refusing to pay a compliment would look pathetic. He was equally aware that someone with his looks giving a compliment could make the recipient queasy.

"I need to see the whole thing".

Hermione turned full circle. Vector, she thought, was always rather good for her. She pushed her intellectually and relaxed her socially in equal amounts.

Toby the hairdresser had worked with, rather than against, what remained of Hermione's wiry locks. The cropped ends came together in precise, overlapping lozenges that stayed in firmly in geometric place, with no support but their own structural design.

"It's…ingenious." The voice circled her quietly. "Like a painting by Popova - my great-aunt collected her. Very practical, very logical...and therefore.. " he paused (enjoying their mortified ignorance of Popova) "a more accurate reflection of Granger than whatever she had before."

Now can I go? I’ ve done my bit. Dismiss me.

No, he could not go.

"Why Severus, you are in a good mood," remarked Flitwick.

"I’d say that leaves only five hundred and thirty compliments owed, wouldn’t you Hermione? Can I have one too?" Vector made the request with a mock pout.

Severus’ answer came through clenched teeth.

"You are relentlessly beautiful, Professor Vector. With your colouring, it is remarkable that you haven’t been shrunk for the Ravenclaw mascot."

Vector gave a peal of laughter.

"Now that, Hermione, is how to call someone a bimbo."

Hermione was by this time as red as her robes. McGonagall came to her rescue.

"How did you get on with Rita Skeeta?""It was all right! The quill wrote me down verbatim. She was totally straightforward – really trying to be serious."

Flitwick rubbed is hands together. "Well, well, first the Dementors, now Rita Skeeter. Who will you redeem next?"

"I think it had just better be me for the moment. I’m don’t know how I’ll manage next year, Professor. Could I hand in the extended Charms essay draft in the Long Vac? That way I’d be ahead."

"Of course you can my dear. And you know that Hogwarts’ will be open to you throughout the summer. We won’t all be there most of the time, but Madam Pince has a replacement for when she’s away, with the Library needing so much re-organising and repairing."

"Er - Professor Snape?"Severus had the distinct idea that the Fates were embroidering him into Life's cloth with maliciously deft stitches.

Consign to me and come to dust. Tear the threads.

"W-would it be possible to use the laboratory in August? I'd could get on with the Potions Project. I'm always very careful with the equipment."

"I’m not back ‘til the ninth. Just don’t expect endless tutorials. You can have whatever would have been assigned to you in the school year."

Deciding he could now make a reasonable exit, he nodded to everyone, and walked away.

"I always think he’ll click his heels when he does that," said Vector.

It was agreed, though, that Professor Snape’s manner had been almost human.

"Don’t hesitate to contact me, Hermione," offered Minverva "but make sure you have a proper holiday first, and get some time with friends and family."

The Weasleys were approaching en usual masse, full of congratulations. The Professors vanished (actually, not as if, by magic). Ron gave Hermione a big hug.

"It's brilliant, Hermione, I’m really pleased for you, honest. You were right as usual," he whispered.

Transfiguring their clothes to Summer Muggle, they went out to the river, stopping to look (in Arthur’s case, rave over) the semi-constructed Millenium Bridge. A symbol of hope, Mr Weasley said, to reconcile the prosperous North and deprived South of London. The Muggles were trying to discourage cars by building many footbridges over the Thames. Poor things, Arthur was saying, getting choked by their own cleverness in the form of petrol fumes.

Hermione stared at the half-formed bridge, then down towards Greenwhich, which was shrouded in a dirty white haze. For the first time in seven years, and with great deliberation, she began to read the world.

On the other side of the scaffolding, wearing black clothes whose plainness had required minimal modification, someone else was looking at the bridge. It was, he thought, very beautiful; like the skeleton of a mechanical snake. A beheaded one. It was here, and now, that the echoes of the morning materialised into a voice. The whisper came up from the mucky water.

Join us, join us…

The Thames must hold many despairing souls. Why, it was a community of abruptly ended lives. Perhaps there was a one-ness there. He forgot about the last time he’d succumbed to the words join us. The skimpy path of the bridge looked as if it could not reach its destination. And neither can I. Not yet, not here. Just a few petty tasks to finish. Make a list. He leaned against the blessedly cool scaffolding bars, closed his eyes, and listened to the river.

"Harry! Harry! Over here!"

Oh gods.

He would just stay still and wait for them all to go.

Chat chat chat. Who’s going where, what time, with whom, loud goodbyes and see-you-laters. Big dinner next week at the Burrow, bring Cho if she’s back, behave yourselves ‘til then. Chat chat chat. Harry and Ron and Sirius and Hermione are going to the Zoo! Why must we go to the Zoo? Look, it’s a nostalgia thing, his very first outing. He let a snake out to go to Brazil. It’s Harry’s day, and if he wants to go to the Zoo, that's where we’re going. Such nice weather, let’s get a river-boat to Westminster and apparate from there. Got any Muggle cash…

Go, then just go!

They had twenty minutes to wait for the boat from London Bridge. An invisibility spell must ensure an unnoticed getaway.

"So are you taking the DADA job Sirius?"

I dont believe it. I dont fucking believe it!

"Nope!"

Dismayed choruses of "why?"

"For one thing, I'm not his first choice. I overheard Dumbledore say he had two possibilities in mind. Secondly, I can't stand the idea of having to work anywhere near Snape."

"Honestly Sirius! I thought you two managed to get along."

"Only for the war's sake. Now that's over, I don't have to be polite to him, and I don't have to work with him."

The inner glow from Professor Snape's safely cerebral compliment had not entirely faded for Hermione, who'd already gleaned from Percy that Popova had been a revolutionary female artist of the Soviet Avant-Garde. (This brought Snape's compliments debt down to five hundred and twenty-nine, she reckoned.)

"He's not that bad."

Everyone groaned. Hermione was being Reasonable again.

"He did do his bit to finish off Voldemort."

"He also did his bit to bring him to power."

"That was years ago. Voldemort would have risen without him, but he would he have been defeated without him? Snape's the only spy who infiltrated at a high level without getting caught. And I bet you anything he was behind killing Voldemort's Clone in the Labyrinth."

"Would you bet your Square-cut?" teased Ron, who was lamenting the loss of long curls to run his fingers through.

"Be serious Ron."

"Of course Snape's very good at not getting caught," said Sirius "and no-one's denying the cunning bastard wasn't useful. But how do we know he wasn't just a cleverer opportunist than Lucius Malfoy? He just realised sooner which side it paid to be on, and he had a cushier time out of it than I did."

"It wasn't his fault you were in Azkaban."

"No - unless you count failing to use those brilliant spying skills to detect Pettigrew."

Harry intervened rather uncomfortably.

"Actually, he couldn't. He was detained by the Ministry when the attack on my parents was planned - Dumbledore told me, when he was trying to make me trust Snape and - well, not interfere with what he was doing even if it looked dodgy."

"Fair enough," Sirius conceded, " but it still doesn't mean I have to like him. Everything he does is a sneaky manipulation - even the semi-apology he gave me for trying to feed me to the Dementors."

"And did he get a semi-apology from you for nearly feeding him to Remus?"

"I admitted it was - thoughtless."

"Hmm."

"Take an unsentimental look at it, Hermione. What if Moony had finished him off when he was sixteen? Whose lives would have been the poorer? Whom has he made happy? The tragedy would have been Moony’s, not Snape's. What has he actually done with all his brains? Created vermin and eradicated vermin. Nothing more. Why do you defend him?"

"Because she's more detatched than you."

Their insides hollowed out. The pale man, expressionless, appeared black and white as the judgement.

"And don’t tell me, Black, that it serves me right for sneaking. I merely had the misfortune to be enjoying a quiet moment by the river when you all came along. I was about to sneak off when you started insulting me."

"Don't think I'll take any of it back."

"I'm not (Accio) asking you to."

Three wands whipped into his grasp.

"Well - come and get them then."

He was suddenly by the mass of boards surrounding the Muggle Gallery's construction site. They had no choice but to run over to him.

A board caved away with a tap of his wand, then he called from within, from across the deserted Sunday rubble.

"Over here."

They approached.

"Please, please - Professor Snape…"

"You can keep your hair on, Granger – you win the bet on the Clone."

"Oh come on Snape. I’m not in the mood for a fight."

"But you’re so much more eloquent with your fists."

"Just give us the wands and we’ll go."

"Not until we’ve dealt with some unfinished business."

Silence and stillness. Sirius lunged suddenly at the wands. They disappeared down Snape’s sleeve.

"Not in front of the children."

Harry, Hermione and Ron leapt back as a great cloud of dust was suddenly thrown up. It settled into a glassy dome. They could see nothing but their faint, miniaturised reflections and swirls of grey dust. It reminded Harry and Hermione, bizarrely, of those water-filled souvenirs with snow scenes that you shake up and leave to rest.

"Get someone from the Ministry."

"We can’t get in without our wands. And it’ll be closed by now. Everyone’s gone."

"Can we break this thing with our minds if we really concentrate?"

"We don’t know what it’ll do – we’ve no idea what it is!"

They paced around the glass, helpless, with nothing to do but stand back and wait. The city of reconstruction, against a cotton-wool-cloud blue sky, made a ghostly panorama on the dome’s impenetrable surface.

In the miry half-light, Sirius and Severus faced each other’s sillouettes, both swallowing the urge to choke. Severus waited until all the dust had cleared towards the dome’s walls. The three wands shot up out of reach and disappeared in the fog.

"You’re right, Black. I do owe you twelve years of unmerited freedom. And you know how I hate to be in debt."

"I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t want to play."

"I’m going to bring out..the worst…in you."

"Be reasonable Snape, for Merlin’s -"

"Twelve blows. One blow for every year you had to rot in Azkaban. I won’t lift a finger."

The heat was concentrated, and what air there was seemed ten times more pressurized than that outside.

"You’re out of your mind".

"You’re in with your chance… Come on…Twelve blows for twelve years. Natural or magical – take your pick. We all know what you can do without a wand…"

The other man said nothing, but his imagination started to work on it.

"I want this settled. Then we can say goodbye."

Sirius backed away. Severus pointed his wand.

"Levo moderatio."

Then he let his wand float up to join the others.

And with that, the ritual began.

 

NOTES:

-"I’m in mourning for my life" is Masha’s first line in The Seagull by Chekov.

-Paragraph two of "the Slough of Despond" is captioned "It is not enough to be Pliable". In the character of Pliable, who pulls himself (but not Christian) out of the Slough, Bunyan criticises the kind of people who change their morals to suit the moment.

-The Ministry of Magic is of course right in the former Turbine Hall of the "Tate Modern" Gallery. At time of writing, the Millenium Bridge is still too wobbly for Muggles to use. Greenwhich is the site for the less-than- successful "Millenium Dome". Most people would agree with Percy’s opinion that Peter Mandelsen is a creep. Nicolas Serota DOES look very, very spooky. The Labour Party Headquarters are in Walworth Road, next to the Elephant and Castle junction. This has a large, naff, bright pink shopping centre that you access via horrible urinated subways - it is due for reconstruction…)

-The Rebecca Horne installation referred to consists of automated hammers that tap dozens of very large mirrors that face each other. It sounds like woodpeckers. I gather she showed it in a psychiatric hospital before it went to the Tate. No doubt it kept some of the inmates there longer than anticipated. A brilliant work of art, actually.

-Bill Viola’s light installations are quasi-religious, redemptive thingies.

-The spell "Levo Moderatio" means ‘Lift restraint/moderation’.