Chapter 1

Are these times contagious?
I've never been this bored before
Is this the prize I've waited for?
Run - by Collective Soul

Minerva McGonagall started out of her seat with such violence that she disturbed Filius Flitwick, who had been having a bit of an after-dinner kip at her side upon the staffroom sofa. 'Sybill!' Minerva cried.

In spite of the heat of the late August night, the Divination teacher was wrapped in shawls and scarves. Just now, she sat bolt upright in her armchair near the fire, staring with unseeing eyes into the middle distance, her delicate blue china teacup smashed upon the stone floor at her feet.

Filius crossed the room and placed a comforting hand upon Professor Trelawney's arm. 'Sybill?' he said tentatively. 'Sybill, are you all right?'

Minerva darted to the hearth with surprising agility in a witch of her age. Snatching powder from the box upon the mantelpiece, she threw it into the fire, and when the flames flared green, she spoke the name of Albus Dumbledore.

When his head appeared amongst the flames, Minerva began to speak over the harsh, loud voice of Professor Trelawney. 'Headmaster!' she said urgently, 'Come quickly! Sybill is prophesying!'


Lucius Malfoy was dead.

Severus Snape stared at the newspaper, noting as if watching the hands of a stranger how the long fingers trembled upon the newsprint.

Malfoy, head of the well-known Wiltshire family, was serving a ten year sentence in Azkaban for war crimes. He is the ninth Death Eater to die of an unknown quick-acting illness in the last three days. Authorities are puzzled as to the origin of the disease, which has yet to be identified and which fails to respond to standard Healing Spells.

'We are taking the matter very seriously,' a senior Ministry official said, when contacted for comment. 'There is no sign of poisoning. Death Investigators are searching diligently for an answer to this mystery.'

When asked if the remaining six incarcerated Death Eaters were at risk for contracting this illness, the Ministry official declined to speculate.

The newspaper now bore damp spots and some of the type had smeared from the sweat of his palms. Severus let it fall to the tabletop and scrubbed at his hands with a serviette and then shoved the sleeve of his robes up and stared at the Mark on his left forearm.

'Stupid git,' he muttered to himself. The Mark had been the cause of virtually every ill to befall him in his adult life, up to and including his current confinement.

Why? Why had he been so stupid?

Lurching into the downstairs lavatory, he splashed water on his face then stared into the mirror over the sink, water dripping from his chin. His stringy black hair hung limply past his shoulders—why bother with even the most basic attempts at tidiness when he went nowhere and was seen by no one? —and his hooked nose jutted above thin lips bracketed by lines of grim frustration. His black eyes stared out of a sallow face, made all the more unhealthy looking by three long months of virtual incarceration.

Resentment burned through him, bringing a teeth-baring snarl to his face. With a muttered curse, he strode back to sit at the rickety table, lifting a quickly cooling cup of tea to his lips. It had been three months since the fall of the Dark Lord, and still Severus lurked in Secret-Kept Spinner's End, awaiting the resolution of his fate, which remained, as always, in hands other than his own. Dumbledore worked tirelessly on his behalf—or so he claimed—yet the Wizengamot were steadfast in their refusal to grant a complete pardon to a 'known Death Eater' without first questioning him. The temptation to flee, to leave behind, one and for all, the memories of a life that had been wholly unsatisfactory practically since the moment of his birth, was with him constantly. Only Dumbledore's insistence that he remain to witness his own justification—the sweet victory that promised, over all the nay-sayers and detractors who had disparaged and demeaned him—held him hostage to his own desire to be vindicated. He knew, intellectually, it was weakness to want validation, but he craved it. Let his enemies live to regret their treatment of him—to behold him elevated to the rank of hero and awarded an Order of Merlin for his years of service—it would be sweetness beyond imagining to witness their teeth-gnashing mortification.

The wards on the Floo in the sitting room fluttered like fingers upon his skin, and seconds later, he heard the voice.

'Severus?'

Abandoning his uneaten toast, Severus hastened into the sitting room, where Albus Dumbledore stood, magically removing Floo soot from his deep purple robes.

'What's happening?' Severus demanded.

Ignoring Severus' question, Dumbledore said, 'Do you have Polyjuice Potion?'

Severus sneered. 'Yes,' he said bitterly. 'It's the only safe way for me to get the marketing done.'

Dumbledore did not miss this snide reference to Severus' near house-arrest. 'Then you will enjoy the outing,' he said, pulling two corked phials from his pocket. 'You can use a hair from either Filius or Remus.'

Severus received the phials with an expression of loathing. 'Such options? I am to choose between a dwarf and a werewolf?'

'Be quick about it,' Dumbledore said tersely. 'We have an appointment at Azkaban to examine the bodies of the deceased Death Eaters, Severus—don't you want to know why they're dying?'

His nostrils flared, and he glowered at his former employer. 'I'm dying to know why they're dying,' he muttered, and without further ado, Severus strode into the kitchen and fetched the phial of Polyjuice Potion.


The morgue at Azkaban was, if anything, more dank and dreary than the prisoners' cells. Four slabs held the undraped bodies of Severus' former fellow Death Eaters, whilst five other draped forms on magical gurneys were hovering against the far wall. The slab nearest the doorway held the nude body of Lucius Malfoy, his cold skin nearly the colour of the marble upon which he lay.

Severus looked upon Lucius, and his chest felt suddenly tight with grief. Lucius had accepted him—Lucius had welcomed him—Lucius had introduced him to the Dark Lord. Damn you, Malfoy. With whom else on the planet can I ever again simply be myself? he thought, holding his hands tightly fisted at his sides, his lips pressed firmly together. He sighed, wishing he could rid himself of these unwelcome, chaotic emotions as easily as he expelled the burst of air from his nose.

Thankfully, there was work to be done.

Severus set about his task with detached efficiency, examining his deceased friend's body minutely, looking for any sign of irregularity or blemish. He had chosen Lupin's hair for the Polyjuice Potion, and though the werewolf's body was very close to his in height, Lupin's hands were, in comparison to his own, thick-fingered and clumsy. He gritted his teeth over the indignity of his diminution in status from Dumbledore's right-hand man to that of the secret skulker who was forced to concede his favoured position to the likes of a werewolf, but there was no time now to indulge his dislike for Remus Lupin; there was work to be done.

He carried on.

In matters of Dark magic, Dumbledore almost always deferred to Severus' superior knowledge and experience. The Headmaster stood at his shoulder, asking occasional questions, but otherwise maintaining a respectful silence. Severus levitated Lucius' body to turn it over, and he noted with silent appreciation that Dumbledore gently adjusted Lucius' head to one side, so that the corpse lay arse-up but not nose-down.

'What were the symptoms of the illness that killed them?' Severus asked after a time, his brow furrowed. He had examined the body from the toenails to the top of the blond head, both front and back, and the only blemish he had found was the Dark Mark. He began to cast spells for the detection of Dark magic or other Dark agents whilst the Headmaster answered.

'Sudden onset of high fever that did not respond to Fever Reduction Spells or Anti-Viral Spells; there was no detectible bacterial infection.' Dumbledore frowned and turned to look at the collection of bodies crowding the room. 'The Healers were flummoxed; they tried every measure, including some experimental Muggle procedures, but to no avail. Within twenty-four hours, the body systems closed down one by one until the victims were dead.'

Severus scowled. The only Darkness in Lucius' body was an echo, contained in the Dark Mark. 'Do they have any … current cases?'

Dumbledore glanced at him sharply. 'Victims who have not yet died?' he clarified.

Severus nodded once, his lips clamped and contorted with dread.


The Hospital Wing of Azkaban, although somewhat warmer than the morgue, was nevertheless a grim room with three beds, all of which were occupied. The Healer-in-Charge, a dodgy-looking character who had a faint smell of drink about him, insisted upon casting an Infection-Resistance Charm upon Severus and Dumbledore before allowing them into the room with the sick wizards. Severus approached the bed holding Walden Macnair, who appeared to be unaware of the presence of visitors. Macnair's eyes were closed, and his head tossed about on his pillow, sweat gleaming on his face.

Severus raised his wand and cast a series of Dark Detection Spells. Turning from Macnair, he repeated the process on Yaxley and again on Rowle. As the last spell dissipated, Dumbledore stepped forward and lifted Rowle's left arm.

'Do I interpret these spells correctly?' he asked sotto voce. 'Is the curse concentrated in their Dark Marks?'

Severus felt an icy, sick fear in the pit of his stomach. 'Yes,' he said. 'And from my memory of the sequence of events, it would appear that they are sickening—and dying—in chronological order from the time they received their Dark Marks.' He stared into the old man's face with unconcealed panic. 'Walden Macnair was four years ahead of me in school, and Yaxley and Rowle were a year behind him. I …' he began, but could not continue. Instead, he turned abruptly, striding out of the room and down the corridor, his only desire to walk out into the fresh air and enjoy what was sure to be his last day on earth.


Severus Apparated into his sitting room, feeling the disquiet in his flesh that was the sign that the Polyjuice Potion was wearing off. Shuddering with thankfulness to be rid of the werewolf's body, he strode to the drinks tray, pouring Firewhisky into a glass and downing it in one go.

Dumbledore Apparated in an instant later.

'If you were the friend you purport yourself to be, you'd use the Killing Curse on me now,' Severus ground out.

'No, I am not going to kill you,' the old man responded, sounding slightly amused.

'Why not?' Severus asked querulously. 'I'd do it for you, if you asked me.'

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, damn him. 'Then let us be thankful I never asked you to do so,' he said gravely.

'Go away,' Severus snarled, turning to refill his glass. 'I cannot abide your accursed cheerfulness!'

'Severus,' Dumbledore chided, 'I have only your best interests at heart.'

With a sudden loss of energy, like a balloon swiftly losing air, Severus collapsed into a shabby armchair and stared at his knees, the mind-numbing terror buffeting him relentlessly. 'Go away, Albus,' he repeated, dread transmuting seamlessly from heart-pounding fear to stomach-roiling nausea. 'I would prefer to be alone.'

The Headmaster conjured a comfortable chair and sat down, his knobby knees nearly touching Severus'. 'Listen to me,' he said. Hearing the change in Dumbledore's tone, Severus looked up into the kind old face. 'Have you ever known me not to have a plan?'

Severus felt a moment of hope. 'Do you know how to counter the curse?'

Dumbledore shook his head. 'No. If I could remove the Mark from your arm, you would not be affected by the curse, but in all the years we have researched it together, we have never been able to devise a way to remove your Dark Mark.'

Hope plummeted again. 'We don't have time for research,' Severus said quietly. 'I shall die within the day, I would think.' He passed a rather shaky hand over his eyes. 'Do you still have my will in your possession?'

Disregarding the question, Dumbledore said, 'Refresh my memory—how old were you when you took the Dark Mark?'

'I was eighteen,' Severus responded, considering the potions he had available, here at Spinner's End. He had brewed Dreamless Sleep, though he had been too stubborn to use it, preferring to suffer through the embittered, lonely nights awake. Perhaps the sleep potion would be just the thing to speed things up …

'… should take care of the immediate problem, wouldn't you agree?'

Severus dragged his attention back to the Headmaster. 'There is nothing to be done,' he said.

'You're paying less attention than a firstie in History of Magic!' Dumbledore chided him gently. 'All we have to do is make you seventeen again, Severus—that will give us time to look for a different, long-term solution.'

Severus stared at the old man, his face twisted into an ugly sneer. 'You're raving. There is no spell to make me seventeen again! If there were, every witch in the world would be using it constantly!'

Dumbledore settled back into his chair, as if satisfied to have engaged Severus' attention. 'I am not referring to a spell in common use,' he responded. 'It is, I admit, a spell of my own devising …'

Severus regarded him suspiciously. 'You woke up this morning and whipped up a spell to make me seventeen again?'

Dumbledore sighed. 'The theory behind the spell has been dancing around in the back of my mind for some time,' he admitted. 'Let us say, rather, that a prophecy was made at the castle last night, and the morning paper was delivered by owl post this morning, and then I created a spell to make you seventeen again.'

Reenergised by sheer irritation, Severus pushed himself up and began to pace, firing comments and questions like offensive hexes. 'Do you realise that you make less sense with every word you utter?' he demanded. 'Who made a prophecy? That deranged Trelawney woman? Have you gone mad?'

'Yes, the prophecy was made by Sibyll,' Dumbledore said, 'and it was indubitably about you, Severus—but I didn't realise the full import of it until I had read the paper this morning.'

'Well?' Severus said, stopping to glare down at his former employer. 'What did the prophecy say?'

'It said that your life will be in danger and that the means to save your life is at Hogwarts,' Dumbledore told him, keeping his eyes upon the hands in his lap. 'The method of the salvation is not clear, at this point, so I thought it would be best to have a way to remove you from this body and put you into one without a Dark Mark.' He slanted a look beneath shaggy silver eyebrows. 'You'll retain your knowledge, your memories—everything will remain exactly as it is, except you will be physically as you were at seventeen.'

Severus gave his head a shake, wishing now that he had not ingested the whisky on an empty stomach. He had climbed out of bed this morning, expecting another annoying day of hiding out in his dreary old house, waiting for the Ministry to determine whether they would pardon him or force him to make a run for it—and instead of that tedium, he had discovered that everyone bearing the Dark Mark was dying of an inexplicable illness and that he could expect to be dead within the next twenty-four hours. Now, before he'd even had a chance to accustom himself to the notion of impending death, Dumbledore was babbling about making him a whinging adolescent. Was that truly preferable to agonising death?

He couldn't decide.

The nausea leached into a vague internal disquiet, no doubt ramping up to launch into a full anxiety attack. 'How long would I have to remain seventeen?' he asked. Then, before Dumbledore could answer him, another thought occurred to him. 'You do have a counter-spell, do you not?'

'Of course I have a counter-spell,' Dumbledore assured him. 'And it would only be necessary for you to remain seventeen until we find a way to counter the Dark Mark curse.'

Severus sat in his chair again. 'And you're confident that a counter-curse can be found?'

Dumbledore nodded. 'I am confident that a resolution can be found,' he said firmly. 'I will perform the spell, you will nip out to Diagon Alley to obtain the supplies you will need for school, and you will join the seventh-years on Monday for the new school term.'

'What?' Severus yelped, sounding rather like a dog whose tail has been slammed in a door.

'We must work together to find a way to disable the Dark Mark, Severus, and I will be at Hogwarts,' Dumbledore explained patiently. 'The best way to account for your presence there is for you to pose as a student. You'll have to assume a different name, of course, to keep the Ministry from attempting to interfere with our plans…'

'You expect me to live in a dormitory and go to classes?' Severus snarled in disbelief.

'It will be necessary, if you do not wish to draw attention to yourself,' Dumbledore stated, commendably maintaining his serenity. 'We will have a small influx of older students as a result of the closing of Durmstrang, plus a few who had been privately tutored, whose education has been disrupted by the war. Consider it a refresher course. You'll blend in admirably.'

Severus snorted. 'I have never blended in anywhere in my entire life, old man,' he informed him. 'I don't know why you imagine I will begin to do so now.'

Dumbledore cast him a measuring look. 'Severus, it will be necessary for you to make some … significant changes in your usual routines and habits, if we are to make a success of this plan.'

Severus narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 'What sorts of changes?'

'You'll cut your hair, you'll wear clothing in colours other than black, and you will curb your unpleasantness to the best of your ability—otherwise, we have no hope of effectively hiding your rather singular identity.'

Severus' lips thinned and his nostrils flared. 'Do you have any other words of wisdom to impart?' he asked waspishly.

'I'm sure other things will occur to me,' the old man assured him blithely, ignoring Severus' biting tone. 'I'll just drop a word in your ear as they do.'

'What was the exact wording of this prophecy?' Severus asked, circling back around to argue through the reasoning again. Surely there was a way to accomplish this without him suffering the indignity of being placed in the body of his adolescent self!

Dumbledore began to recite.

'The servant who played the Dark Lord false is poised upon the brink of eternal night. Alone and lonely, he awaits the coming of the daughter of Menelaus. Born upon the cusp of autumn's equinox, the child of Muggles bears within herself salvation for he who is marked and scarred by Darkness, within, without.

The servant who played the Dark Lord false is poised upon the brink of eternal night.'

Severus gaped at Dumbledore. 'Who the hell is supposed to be Menelaus' daughter?' he demanded with deep foreboding.

Dumbledore gave him a placid smile. 'Why, Hermione Granger, of course.'