Her living room was not vast, so Minerva had extended it to hold Snape's cot and the many boxes of books and records she'd rescued from Spinner's End. Now Snape sat on the end of the cot, leaning against one of the piles of boxes.

"It was easy enough to retrieve," Minerva said. She sat in her favourite armchair, across the room from the little display case filled with gifts from studens. "You left everything but the house to the school, so no one objected when I took the lot to sort it out. As far as the school records are concerned I sold your collection to a thrift shop for fifty pounds."

"It's worth more." There was no offence or bitterness or sarcasm in his voice, nothing Snape. Only the flat observation. "Perhaps... a thousand times that."

"Well I didn't really sell it, so there's no loss. As for the magical works, two of your more interesting books I donated to Saint Mungo's. The rest are part of the Hogwarts collection now."

"So."

Minerva made an expression of polite interest, hoping to draw more words out from him. Snape said nothing. "So what's next for you? Do you have plans now?"

"I did not... expect. No." Snape had always seemed careful in his choice of words. Now they seemed to Minerva to be not so much chosen as dragged out from him. "No plans."

"There's no rush," Minerva said. Except that the few days she'd been able to take away from the repairs at Hogwarts and planning for the new school year would soon be over. "You need to gather your strength. Are you hungry?"

"I suppose."

~0~0~0~0~

She brought food in for him, and he ate enough for two without seeming to notice it. Certainly his body was recovering, but the man himself seemed absent from anything he did.

Perhaps something had gone wrong in the healing. Or perhaps the man simply had nothing left to fight, live, or care, for.

~0~0~0~0~

"We buried your wand with the false corpse," Minerva said. He still didn't react. He had been quiet the past two days, most un-Snapelike, and it worried Minerva. "It died after I transfigured you in the Shrieking Shack. So I brought those," Minerva pointed to the small flat case she'd laid on the cot earlier. "See if there's a replacement in there for you."

He did as he was told, flipping open the little case and unfolding it into a display that covered half the cot. Over the centuries Hogwarts had built up a collection wands that had either been gifted to the school or had simply outlived their bearers. Most of the wands in the case pre-dated Ollivander's self-proclaimed 'Supreme Cores', and many were made from rare or even extinct magical woods.

He barely glanced at them. He settled back against the boxes. "I doubt I'll need one. It's better to lie low. Quiet. Let people think I'm dead."

Laddy, I think you're dead. "Have you thought more about your plans, then?"

"I have... an identity. An escape route. I prepared it years ago. When I first thought about hiding from... him. Riddle." He brushed a strand of hair back from his face, then let his hand fall back to his lap. "Foolish idea, obviously. Setting it up was a waste of time. Dumbledore's plan was all we had. Riddle would have killed... everyone. And then found me." His hands twitched in his lap. "Stupid."

A little more venom in his self-loathing would have reassured her. "So you'll use it now?"

"I suppose" His gaze drifted back to the wands, and his hand followed. He brushed his fingertips against a few of them. His hand started to grip one, then moved on. Finally his grasp settled over one pale, slightly crooked wand. "It will do, I suppose."

Minerva had inspected the wands before packing them. The one he now held in his lap was an old one, made from the cane of a rose bush polished with beeswax and linseed oil. She had not recognized the core at all, except that it was something patient and quiet and very clever. "So now you have a wand, you have your books and records, you have your escape route. What will you do?"

"Use it? Run." His thumb rubbed against the wand. "Hide again. Hide my... who I... why bother? Hide again. Or just turn myself in. Get it over with. No more..."

He was slouched against the boxes now, sagging down as though he'd run a marathon. "I'm tired."

Dead tired, I should imagine. "It's late," Minerva told him. It was barely eight o'clock. Sleep on it, and in the morning we can talk more about it if you'd like."

"Yes."