It was not long before Snape confirmed the changes that the Golden Trio had claimed. Watching his colleague, whom he had largely ignored in favour of keeping an eye on the less well-known staff members, he realised something: she was deathly afraid. The gifted Transfigurations professor, veteran of two wars, kept up a reasonable façade in public that broke down the moment she was alone.
The sword was with her wherever she went: resting on her desk in her classroom or office, or installed into a charmed sheath that revealed only the hilt when she was elsewhere. She gripped it often, as if to reassure herself of its presence. Her gaze would drift to the deep shadows in Hogwart's corridors or the recessed doorways, as if she expected to find something there looking back at her. It was her activity atop the Astronomy tower that was the most worrisome. While Snape noted that it did decrease the number of students who used it for clandestine meetings, consequently increasing the number he found while patrolling the hallways, it did not escape his notice that she looked out over Hogwarts as if she were a guard watching for an enemy. One solitary tower guard, standing on alert over the Forbidden Forest. But Hagrid, with his jovial nature and desire for effusive chatter with all, even the discouraging and grim Potions Master, had not mentioned any strange happenings in the Forest. It was quiet, or as quiet as it could ever get.
A day came when Snape woke to find McGonagall more strained – and, oddly, resigned – than even the last few weeks had warranted. It was this last that concerned him, for it seemed to him that she had been hoping that something would not come to pass, and that it had. When she did not appear for her seventh year class, he decided to approach her again. It was the complaints of his Slytherins that spurred him on, though he did not fail to notice the concern and pleading glances of the Gryffindor trio when no one else was watching.
The door to her quarters was unlocked. Frowning, Snape stepped inside and looked around. Nothing had changed since the last time he had entered McGonagall's rooms, years ago though that had been. The professor herself stood beside an oak desk, stern and proper as was her habit. She seemed not to have noticed him. Her face was in profile to Snape; he followed her gaze to the claymore resting on the large desk.
"Professor McGonagall."
She did not respond. Snape studied her expression with suspicion.
"Minerva. You have been carrying that sword with you all week, even to your classes. You are beginning to frighten your precious Gryffindors." There was a bite in his words, just enough to catch her attention. Rare was the day that McGonagall could not rouse herself to defend her House.
She turned slowly to face him. "I am tired, Severus. Don't bait me." And indeed, her eyes were lined with dark shadows. Her voice had lost the iron that held her students to discipline. She had not slept in days. Snape was familiar enough with that state in himself to recognize it in her. "I never told you the history of that sword."
The usual sarcastic response came to his lips and left unspoken. He did not like how old she sounded, as if she were a frail Muggle with all her years and their reduced tolerance for the passing of time. "No."
Her gaze was focussed inward, far away from his reach; she spoke slowly, without the crispness he was accustomed to. "It was forged by my ancestor long ago. The times were turbulent; there was much strife between the Highland clans. They were Muggle folk, for the most part, superstitious and without any real understanding of magic. They told many stories – folk stories and ghost stories to frighten their audience – some true and others not. There is one tale that touches on the McGonagalls in particular, though it was not ours to begin."
McGonagall was silent for a moment. Telling the story seemed to bolster her, and her voice became firm. "The MacLeods and the Frasiers, two strong Highland clans, were bitter rivals, fighting over land and cattle." She ignored the open disgust and contempt in Snape's expression. "There was a battle one day, over a cattle raid as I recall, neither unusual nor noteworthy, save for one thing. A MacLeod boy was killed. Just a boy, eighteen years old, if that, in his very first battle. The next day he rose and walked the streets of his village as if nothing had happened. There was not a mark on him, not even the wound that had ended his life, and he smiled and talked exactly as the boy had, but the boy was dead. A Demon had taken over the body.
"The MacLeods drove the Demon from the village, but it was not the end of it. The Demon haunted the moors, stealing food, chasing travellers. Word spread, and it was hunted by clan war parties, though it was rarely seen."
"Demons, Minerva?" Snape's voice was uncharacteristically gentle.
She seemed not to notice his tone. "A mere Muggle story, perhaps," McGonagall replied, "save that it was caught and killed with a sword thrust through the heart. The next day the body rose and ran away from the camp. It was seen to fall from a great cliff and break every bone in its body, only to rise again whole. It was burned with fire, and ignored it. In short, the Demon could not be killed. The hunting parties lost interest after a time as it learned to hide from them in the rugged moors. The Demon dwindled into folktale, until it resurfaced again almost fifty years later. This time, however, the hunters started dying. The Demon attacked all that sought it with a vengeful brutality.
"My ancestor forged that sword to find and defeat the Demon of the MacLeods. He died trying to wield it, as did his son and his grandson and many more of his heirs. It is not enough simply to use this sword; the Demon is powerful, and only the best swordsmen had a hope of defeating it. Even magic was not much of an aid. The claymore is a family heirloom. With it comes an oath to finish what my ancestor started."
Snape regarded the sword for a moment in silence. "How is that relevant now?"
McGonagall seemed to cave in on herself. She sat at her table, leaning against the chair's backrest for support. "The pommel stone is clouded. The sword pulls me to the Forest. The Demon is here," she said. "Now. Somewhere near Hogwarts. It has come to find me."
Watching her closely, Snape moved to a cupboard behind her and took out a decanter of firewhiskey. He poured a generous serving into a crystal cup and placed it on the desk in front of her. "Is it a danger to the school?"
"I don't know." McGonagall picked up the cup and turned it from side to side, watching the refraction of light on its faceted surface. "The Demon has been traced to many of the worst Muggle battles over the years. It is no stranger to bloodshed. Perhaps, yes, but more likely it has come only for me. Certainly it has been fatal to any McGonagall that has seen it."
"Then," Snape said very deliberately, "we must make certain you do not see it."
McGonagall looked up at him and smiled. A glint of humour returned to her eyes. "I didn't know you cared, Severus."
"Really, Minerva," said Snape disgustedly. "Blatant favouritism to your Gryffindors is one thing. A Demon bent on killing you is quite another. Have you told Albus?"
She sighed. "No, and I don't want you to, either. This is a personal family matter. Albus shouldn't be involved. He has so much to deal with right now, with young Mr Potter and the Ministry."
"Ah, yes. The Golden Boy." Snape was heartened to see McGonagall's frown. He smirked at her as he picked up the claymore and cradled it in his arms. "Very well. I will leave the esteemed Headmaster out of this."
A trace of alarm entered her eyes. "Severus, what are you planning?"
"I will find your Demon, of course. Perhaps a little persuasion will convince it that Hogwarts is dangerous even for one such as it."
"No, Severus. The Demon will kill you if you cross it."
"And that is different from what may happen to me every day?" Snape waved his hand and said airily, "You need not worry on my account. Sleep, Minerva. I will inform you of my progress." He gave a shallow bow and swept out of her rooms.
Despite his agreement to keep the matter discrete, Snape was not at all surprised when the Headmaster approached him before embarking on his necessary, but altogether taxing, mission to the Ministry.
"I will be gone the whole week, if not longer," said Dumbledore gravely. "You are sure there is nothing that requires my attention?"
Snape met his gaze. "Nothing," he replied in all seriousness. "We will survive in your absence."
"I do hope so," murmured Dumbledore, running a piece of string through his hands with uncustomary worry. "What is he doing?"
There was no need for Snape to ask who - he already knew. "Researching Salazar Slytherin's history," he replied with the barest of shrugs. "It occupies much of his time these days; if there is more, I am not privy to the knowledge. I do not know what will come of it."
Dumbledore nodded absentmindedly. The information was not new to him. "If it were not for Fudge–"
"Yes, Albus. You know we will contact you should the need arise."
"Of course, of course." The return of the twinkle to his eyes was just enough warning for Snape. "And do try to keep young Mr Potter out of trouble."
"Don't I always?" Snape said in disgust.
Dumbledore chuckled. "Indeed you do. And, Severus–" he looked hard at the younger man, "you will take care of Minerva?"
Snape nodded, hardly surprised at the Headmaster's perception, and Dumbledore seemed satisfied, for he turned and activated the portkey, leaving the Potions Master alone in the cluttered office.
The three inseparable Gryffindors had commandeered a table outside and sat nursing butterbeers. Harry and Ron picked through the selection of sweets they had bought, while Hermione sorted through a small stack of books. She ignored the chatter that switched from Quidditch to sweets and back again with a speed to dizzy the idle listener. It was only when the boys fell silent that she looked up, wondering what had caught their attention. She followed their gazes.
A man was walking through Hogsmeade, black Muggle coat flaring around him with each long stride. Black jeans and an oversized sweater completed an image that was wholly Muggle. Hermione blinked. It was a sight so unexpected that it took her a moment to process; she had never before seen an adult wizard in Hogsmeade who could have fit so perfectly into Muggle London. Even so, he had a manner about him that was entirely unremarkable; there was little to draw the attention of anyone other than three students who had grown – justifiably – paranoid of even the slightest oddities.
The man faltered as he came closer. He glanced about quickly. Hermione had the impression of green-gold eyes beneath short dark hair before the dispassionate gaze swept beyond her. Seeming to find what he was looking for, he slowly moved forward until he was standing near their table, close enough that Hermione could have reached out and touched the black-dyed wool. His gaze never left that of the man who approached from the other direction, tugging on the slipknot that kept the dirty beige trench coat closed. Worn sneakers made no sound at all on the cobblestones as he came to a halt a few metres away.
Hermione exchanged glances with Harry and Ron. Two wizards who not only attempted to look like Muggles, but actually achieved it, in Hogsmeade? Harry's eyes were wary as he gripped his wand beneath the table. Too many attempts on his life made him suspicious of anything unusual. Constant vigilance had become more than just the creed of an old Auror. Both boys seemed intensely interested in Honeyduke's finest; Hermione focussed her eyes on the book in front of her, daring only to glance at the two men standing close by out of the corner of her eyes.
The two Muggle-dressed men looked at each other in silence, faces unreadable. The unshaven, unkempt one with shaggy blond hair and piercing storm-scudded eyes had his hand in his coat, as if holding a wand not yet drawn from its holster. The other had his hands very deliberately down and slightly away from his body.
The dark-haired one spoke first. "Well, this is a surprise. I didn't expect to see you here, Highlander." His voice was congenial, with an undercurrent of caution.
The blond grunted.
Trying again, the dark-haired one that Hermione was beginning to think looked quite familiar said, "I was about to get a drink. Care to join me? No Glenmorangie, I'm afraid, but they do a great firewhiskey."
The blond's eyes narrowed at the offer. "I only drink with friends." His voice was startling, light and husky with suspicion, a mixture of accents Hermione couldn't even begin to identify.
"Ah." Rebuffed, the friendly dark-clothed man appeared to think a great deal before cautiously putting forward his next question. "Are you . . . looking for someone?"
"Yes."
He stiffened at that, his expression shuttering. "Me?"
"What if I am?"
He sighed, sharply. "Look, MacLeod, I don't have a problem with you. I don't want a problem with you." He was beginning to sound a little anxious. "Duncan wouldn't be too pleased with me either way it went. Besides, Ramirez was a friend of mine."
The other growled. "Stay away from my kinsman, old man."
"That's up to Duncan, isn't it?" The man, who really did not look any older than the blond, hesitated, and then shook his head wearily. "I don't want to fight you, MacLeod. Just tell me your business isn't with me and I'll get out of your way."
The silence was so long and fraught with tension that Hermione found herself holding her breath. She forced herself to suck in air and let it out, breathing normally, afraid that the two men would notice the eavesdropping table. Not that they could help eavesdropping, as close as they were. They stared at each other, motionless, evaluating – what, Hermione did not know.
"My business isn't with you," the blond said at last. "Stay out of my way." He took a few steps back, then turned and walked away.
The dark-haired man stared after him with a worried expression, paler beneath his already pale skin. Muttering something that sounded like a particularly vicious curse, he started back towards Hogwarts.
"Merlin!" Ron breathed as soon as the two were out of sight. "What was that about? Looked like they were going to duel right here in the street."
"I don't know," Harry said slowly. "And who were they? That first bloke looked familiar."
"He's the Muggle Studies professor," Hermione said suddenly, realizing where she had seen his face before, though it had been dark and somewhat obscured by the invisibility cloak. "Adam Green. I've never seen the other one before, though."
"Think it has anything to do with You-know-who?" Ron asked.
Harry chewed contemplatively on the leg of a chocolate frog.
"Really, Ron. Not everything has to do with dark wizards." Exasperated, Hermione closed her book and organised them into a neat pile.
"No, but everything around Harry usually does," Ron pointed out.
There wasn't anything Hermione could say to that. A few minutes later they finished their butterbeers and headed back to Hogwarts, still discussing the strange meeting they had witnessed. They met only one person on the way, going towards Hogsmeade, and they took no notice of him until he abruptly turned around and stared at them.
"Did you say MacLeod?" Snape hissed.
The Gryffindors exchanged startled glances. "Yes, professor?" Hermione hazarded.
Hooded black eyes regarded them with the intensity of a bird of prey. "Mr Potter. Detention, my office, 7pm."
"What!" exclaimed Harry. "But I haven't done anything!"
Ron and Hermione both protested loudly. "Sir, it's Hogsmeade weekend. You can't give detention! What's Harry done?"
Snape's gaze flickered, watching something approach from behind. He glared at them. "Ten points for arguing. Do I need to give you detention as well, Miss Granger, Mr Weasley?"
"No, sir," Ron said smartly. He glared at Snape, his face nearly as red as his freckles. "We'll just be going now, sir." He waited until they had nearly passed out of earshot before muttering, "Greasy git."
Snape stiffened, but did not turn, instead heading further down the hill to greet a small group of his Slytherins.
"It's alright, Ron," Harry said quietly. Hurt lingered in his eyes.
"No, it isn't," Hermione rebuked him. "What's happened to set him off? He hasn't done anything like that since fifth year."
Harry squared his shoulders. "I'll find out tonight, won't I?"
"Yeah, mate. We're not letting you go to the greasy git alone, though." Ron looked at him with sympathy. Hermione nodded her agreement.
"You don't have to," Harry said, but his expression was filled with gratitude.
And so it was that three Gryffindors knocked on the Potions Master's door. He opened it abruptly as was his standard procedure, gazed at them for a moment, and muttered, "I might have known. Very well, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger, you may both join Mr Potter in his detention." He turned, heavy black robes swirling around him, and preceded them into his office.
The students jumped when the door slammed shut behind them, the lock clicking and the brief haze of Silencing wards covering it. They turned to face their professor.
Harry cleared his throat. "Sir? May I ask what I've done to earn a detention?"
The forbidding professor looked at their drawn wands with affront and thinly veiled amusement. "Idiot children." There was a slight twitch at the corners of his mouth that might have become a smile on another man. Flushing a little, the three students pocketed their wands, though Ron did so with clear reluctance. "Mr Potter, you were discussing a man named MacLeod. Tell me the circumstances of your meeting."
Puzzled, but willing nonetheless, Harry complied. Snape looked deep in thought after he had done. His black eyes were fully lidded and he said nothing for a long time. His students shifted, but knew better than to speak.
"I need to see your memories," Snape said at last.
Hermione gasped and Ron frowned.
The dark Potions Master scowled at them. "You know how to Occlude," he told Harry. "Push the memories of your meeting to the front of your mind." He drew his wand and looked at Harry expectantly.
"Can't Harry just use a pensieve?" Hermione objected, adding a belated, "sir."
"He could," Snape said agreeably enough, "If I had the time and the resources required. I do not."
The dark haired boy stared at him, memories of his fifth year rushing through his thoughts. He had applied himself to his studies ferociously after that, after Sirius had fallen due to Harry's negligence. He knew it was not his fault, that Sirius himself had had a large part to do with his failure to see through Voldemort's manipulations, but the pain was still there. Harry knew how to Occlude now and did it so often that it was almost as natural as breathing. But it took a level of trust to let Snape anywhere near his mind again.
A level of trust he never thought to have for the dark Potions Master.
Oddly enough, Snape seemed to know what he was thinking. The man simply waited, neither forcing Harry nor goading him with biting words. Harry had the feeling that this was his way of asking for permission. This, more than his curiosity, more than his concern about why Snape wanted to know more about a chance-met stranger, decided him.
"Alright," Harry said. Taking a deep breath, he raised his eyes to meet Snape's.
"Legilimens."
The pressure of the spell against his mind was almost gentle compared to what his lessons had been like. Snape did not push or probe, accepting just the memories that Harry chose to present. When he withdrew, he spent a moment in quiet contemplation. Harry let out a heavy breath that contained equal parts of relief and surprise that it had not been more painful. Then he looked at Snape semi-apologetically.
His friends looked at him with concern, but when he waved them off, they turned to the older man. "Professor," Hermione began tentatively, "Do you know any spells that might conceal a person's name?"
His head snapped up, lank black locks hanging in front of his eyes. "Why do you ask?" he questioned sharply.
Hermione frowned, looking like she regretted saying anything at all. "Well, say we were trying to figure out someone's name, and the spell works on everyone else, even if they're polyjuiced, but on one person it comes up blank every time–"
"Show me the Map," Snape ordered, cutting her off.
The three exchanged alarmed looks. "What map?" Ron asked, screwing up his face in a parody of innocence.
"Idiot children." This time Snape sounded exasperated. He hissed, "Do you think I do not know of its existence? I have known for far longer than you." He sighed, and faint regret creased his brow. "Mr Potter, I assure you I do not intend to confiscate it. The item belonged to your father, and you have few enough of those." He paused, and his voice turned cool. "However frivolous the purpose for which it was made, it has proven useful in the past. Now that you are using it responsibly and not for the express purpose of breaking school rules I have no objection to you keeping it."
Harry stared at him wide-eyed. That was the closest to an apology he had ever heard from Snape, a white flag, olive branch and handshake all rolled into one. Snape was a Slytherin to his core; he never did anything so bluntly, and Harry recognised the signs of an alliance offered, no doubt much more obvious than was Snape's usual actions in order to accommodate Gryffindor sensibilities. Gone was the resentment that Snape had shown him from the very first moment his name was announced to the Sorting Hat; gone was the attitude of a man who held him accountable for his father's sins. Snape looked at him, and though the black gaze was impervious to Harry's study, it offered a degree of respect that Harry had never before seen there – or in the eyes of any adult, for that matter. Snape did not look at him as if he were a child.
Filled with a strange anticipation, hoping desperately that he was not about to be proven wrong in his regard for the Death Eater turned spy, Harry pulled the Map out of his pocket.
He tapped the parchment with his wand. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." His friends looked doubtful, but they kept quiet, and he was grateful that they trusted his judgement enough for this.
Snape's lip curled at the spoken key, but he refrained from comment as he took the Map from Harry. Thorough and careful, he scanned the parchment, quickly finding the representative dot Hermione had circumspectly been referring to. He passed his wand over the parchment, muttering several spells in succession. None changed the curious blank area where a name should have appeared. He scowled. "You are certain that is Professor Green?"
"Yes, sir," Harry replied, somehow not at all surprised that Snape knew exactly who should be in that office. "We checked."
"Curious." He handed the Map back to Harry. The boy had to stop himself from snatching it, despite the level of trust he had shown in handing it over in the first place, and Snape glanced at him with impatience. "Miss Granger, there is no such spell as you describe. The identity and locality spells placed on the Map are tied into Hogwart's enchantments. It would take a powerful force to disrupt those, and the Headmaster would certainly have noticed."
"Then what does it mean? How can Professor Green not have a name?" asked Hermione.
"Two things, Miss Granger. First, he may have no true name that he recognises – it is theoretically possible, albeit very unlikely, that such a circumstance might occur. Simple memory loss is not sufficient to break the bonds between a soul and its self identity to such a degree that that identity is masked from Hogwarts. The other possibility is that he is not even remotely human."
"Not human?" Ron echoed. "But he's the Muggle Studies professor! You can't get more ordinary than that here!"
Snape looked disgusted. Harry thought some of it was aimed at himself, for Snape had plainly never looked twice at Green. He said softly, "Misdirection and misinformation, Mr Weasley. Those are the ingredients of any deceit. A Slytherin learns that quickly."
"I wish the Headmaster was here," Hermione said plaintively. "Do you know when he'll be back, professor?"
"Not for some time, I believe. He is caught up in London." He straightened. "Go back to your tower now. Avoid Green. If you see MacLeod again, leave. Tell me immediately, or Professor McGonagall. No one else."
The three students stared at him wide-eyed.
"If you have never paid attention in my classes, pay attention to this: do not approach MacLeod or Green."
"Does this have to do with Voldemort?" Harry asked.
Snape did not wince at the name. His expression was intent. "Not to my knowledge. It is quite possibly worse. But – rare as it is – it has nothing to do with you, Mr Potter. Keep it that way, or you will find yourself set against an enemy far deadlier than the Dark Lord."
"What's this about, professor?" Hermione dared to ask.
"Scottish folktales, Miss Granger. Highland demons and ghost stories." Snape's eyes hooded; they knew they would get no further information. "Go back to your tower."
"Uh, sir? What about Harry's detention?" Ron's face was screwed up with confusion.
Snape sighed. Harry caught a hint of words under his breath, involving Gryffindors and Slytherin. "Idiot child. Go."
They left.
