A Good Man Goes to War
Demons run when a good man goes to war.
Night will fall and drown the sun
When a good man goes to war.
Frienship dies and true love lies.
Night will fall and the dark will rise
When a good man goes to war. ~ Steven Moffat
"Albus? Has there been any word?"
"None." Albus sits at his desk, having moved only once to set about making tea since he first came into his office. That was over an hour ago and the forgotten cup near his right elbow has since turned cold and stale. "As yet."
"It's been hours." Minerva steps more fully into the room, shutting the door firmly behind her as she comes to stand rigidly in front of his desk. Dumbledore regards her calmly over the top of his half-moon spectacles, displeased to note that she looks as pale and as grave as she had the first time she'd come to check on the evening's progress. He isn't surprised that Diggory's death – such a hideous waste of a young life – has deeply affected her. "Surely he's not still there."
"I'm sure they have much to discuss," he says grimly, his hands folded neatly on his desk. If not for bleakness of his eyes or the sombre set to his jaw, McGonagall might have accused him of being positively indifferent about the situation. "After such a long absence. Even now, Severus is likely offering Voldemort further information about the Order. He'll know that, already, we're preparing to move against him."
Thoughts of Severus and where he is and what he is enduring have plagued him relentlessly for the last few hours, like something cold and hard that has settled in the pit of his stomach. He's not certain how much longer he can stand to sit idle. "How is Harry?"
"Poppy's seen to him. He was asleep the last time I checked. Dreamless, are per your suggestion."
"Yes, good. After tonight's events, the poor boy deserves at least some measure of peace." He glances at Minerva then, offering her a thin smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Go to bed, Minerva. There's little sense in the both of us being exhausted come morning."
For a moment, he thinks that she might argue with him but, with great reluctance, she nods her head and moves back towards the door. Albus suspects that she'll be back within the hour. And, for once, she doesn't bid him a goodnight.
A night like this one could never be such a thing.
Two hours later, Albus has neither seen nor heard from anyone and has since moved to stand beside the bay window that looks out onto the grounds of Hogwarts and, if he very nearly presses his crooked nose to the glass, the bank of the lake as it emerges from behind a crop of trees. The sky is already starting to turn a hazy purple, an exceptionally different day threatening to break over the horizon.
Albus doesn't turn to look when, without so much a knock to announce his presence, someone stumbles into the office. He doesn't need to. There is only one person who would dare to intrude on his privacy so bluntly and if he has managed to drag himself this far then he can't have been too badly harmed.
"You know," Albus beings offhandedly, "I'm not sure why the founders decided to make this the office of their Headmasters. There's a much better view from Gryffindor Tower."
Long robes whisper across carpet and something boneless and heavy collapses onto the sofa tucked against the opposite wall, as far away from Dumbledore as possible. And still, he doesn't turn around. "How was it?"
He receives only an oppressive silence in reply and, for just a moment, he's tempted to turn and look towards his Potions Master. "Severus?"
"… Familiar," is the eventual answer, spoken as though the word itself were onerous and difficult to say. "Too familiar."
Albus only nods his head in understanding, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he continues to stare out over the grounds. "I'd hoped we were past all of this."
"We both knew this day was coming. It was only a matter of time," Albus says gravely, his shoulders slumping beneath the weight of the admission. This morning, he feels every one of his many years. War. It's strange how instantly it changes everything. "He was angry."
It isn't a question.
"Furious."
And, finally, Dumbledore turns slowly towards his reappointed spy.
"Oh, my boy."
Severus has sank deep into the cushions of Dumbledore's red sofa, his eyes tightly closed and fingers worrying incessantly at his temple. Even from this distance, Dumbledore can see the way they tremble. He steps forward, intent upon saying more but before he has the chance Severus opens his eyes and shoots a scathing look his way.
"Don't you dare." And, for the first time since Harry returned from within the maze, Albus' smile, small though it may be, is genuine. He knows how much Severus loathes pity, in all of its many guises.
"Of course not, Severus. I wouldn't dream of it." Of course, that doesn't stop him bridging the gap between them and settling on the sofa at his side. "Now, tell me everything."
"Crouch, it seems, was a sacrifice, one the Dark Lord was prepared to make. He was… expendable. His focus is on Potter. He wants the boy dead more than he wants to defeat you, Albus. Especially now, after yet another miraculous escape." Severus' voice is low as he relates the information, his dark eyes downcast, barely open as he continues to massage his temple. Dumbledore moves to take his hand, gripping it tightly in his to stop his restless movements. His blue eyes, piercing in their austerity, search Snape as though trying to glean further information from him. Albus supposes that he is, in his way.
"And what of you r position?" Severus' hand briefly tightens around his.
"Secure. For the time being. He was pleased with the information I was able to provide." Severus finally opens his eyes to look at Albus properly, the skin beneath them seemingly bruised against the whiteness of his skin and the pale light of dawn slowly creeping into the office. "I suspect it was the only thing that calmed his rage."
"I'm sure. Tom always did have something of an insufferable temper." To put it mildly, Albus thinks, running surprisingly firm fingers across the back of Severus' hand, as though the simple movement alone could soothe the fine tremor running through them. He isn't surprised that Severus doesn't wrench his arm away from even that small gesture of comfort. He's had as much of a shock as the rest of them tonight.
They sit silently together, finding solace in each other's company, lost in thought and, however reluctantly, bracing themselves for a new day and, with it, a new battle. It isn't until Dumbledore looks up from his lap to glance at Severus' face from behind the twin curtains of his black hair does he realize that his eyes are closed and that, improbably, he seems to be dozing.
He gives his hand a firm squeeze. "Severus? Time for bed, my boy. Unless you'd prefer to sleep here. I'm certain Fawkes won't mind the company."
Blinking his eyes open, Severus pushes his hair back from his face and straightens to stand, disentangling his hand from Dumbledore's. With the way he looks at him, it's as though he's suddenly remembered that he's supposed to be uncomfortable. Albus pretends to ignore it.
"No, I must –"
"Voldemort," He steadfastly ignores Severus' violent flinch, "isn't marching on the Hogwarts gates this very moment. There'll be plenty of time to worry later, I promise you."
Albus moves to stand in front of him, briefly clasping his shoulders. "Thank you, my boy. For being so terribly brave."
And he had. Few would have been so willing, so wordless in their loyalty to him that, without argument of complaint, as to surrender themselves to the will and mercy of a madman.
Severus, usually so eloquent, doesn't know how to respond for a moment and settles on simply nodding his head, neither accepting or rejecting the praise. Even as boy, he'd been uncomfortable whenever compliments or applause were gracious enough to brush by him. At least in some things, he hasn't changed, though Albus can't say whether or not it's for the better.
Finally, Albus steps away from him. "Go and rest. We'll talk more later."
Tomorrow, they have a war to fight.
[A/N: You made it to the end! Unbeta'd and unbelievably rusty, I know, but I just needed to get some of the HP-fandom that's clogging up my brain out into the open. Not sure where I was going with this, really, just suited my mood. Written in about a six hour period, stretched out over two days. I had a little trouble with the ending and Snape's not as vulnerable as I'd intended – but maybe it's better that way? – but I plan to build up into some serious angst the next time. It's what I consider myself to be best at :3. Thanks for reading!]