In the dream that haunts too often her too-few hours of sleep, Minerva is running, running. The dark stone halls are lined with faces; if she moves fast enough she will not have to recognise them. And so she keeps running, running; but it is never fast enough.
One blessed dreamless night she is woken by Severus' patronus, its silvery form lighting the room like the most terrifying moon she has ever seen. All it speaks is her name. Swifter than thought, fear hammering through her, she is out of bed; running, running. The floors bite her bare feet. The dark stone halls are lined with sleeping portraits. There is only one face in her mind.
The doe leads her down, down, down, to the dungeons. Severus' chambers are unwarded, unlocked. With a will of iron Minerva makes herself stop on the threshold to cast lumos, revelio, cursing the delay, but she has been trapped in just this manner once before, rushing too hastily to what she thought was rescue. The spells reveal nothing, save a crumpled heap of shadows on the floor.
Swifter than thought, forcing herself to lock away fear, she is on her knees beside him. The signs of cruciatus are written clearly through his face, his shaking limbs, his shallow breath; she has seen them before, too many times. There is little to be done: only to wait.
Gently, gently, Minerva transfers Severus to the bed. She sits vigil by his side in silence as the night wears away and he sinks at last into genuine sleep. When he opens his eyes – and they are clear, sane, she sees with relief – she conjures tea for them both.
He accepts the steaming cup, folds his long fingers around it. 'Thank you.' Minerva understands that he means more than just the tea.
'A bad summons, then,' she says. Severus inclines his head, sips his tea, says nothing. 'Was there any particular reason?'
'None but the Dark Lord's usual caprice.' A grimace spasms across his face and is gone. 'Last night I was the chosen whipping boy – that is all.'
Minerva inclines her head, sips her tea, reins in the words she would speak if she thought they might be of any comfort, any use – but they are not, even to herself.
With some effort Severus rises from the bed, dismissing her offered hand with a curt gesture. Slow but unaided he makes his way to the bathroom. Water runs. Minerva pours herself another cup of tea, as hot and strong as she can bear to drink it; the scalding liquid warms and strengthens her. She folds the blanket she wrapped about herself in the night, wonders what time it is; nothing of the summer's heat or light finds its way so deep within the Castle's bones.
Her hand is on the door handle when she hears him say, 'Stay.' She turns. His hair is still wet, hanging in long dark strands around his face; there is a black robe about his shoulders but it conceals nothing. He crosses the room to her as he did that night, weeks or months ago – she cannot remember – and pulls her into his arms, but there is a different purpose in him now.
And she does stay, because Severus is not the only one stretched and breaking with fear and responsibility, and just for today Minerva too will stop running and take her comfort where she can.