A/N: Back into the swing of things. I was floundering a bit without an outline, and I could tell: my writing had taken a serious nose dive, and the original reason for writing the story (an excercise in writing longer fiction, with a focus on description) sort of got tossed by the wayside. Now that I have a new outline that I'm working from, I'm a much happiercamper, and definitely able to focus more on the descriptions and flavor.

As always, I appreciate reviews, comments and critiques (especially the last).

Chapter 9

It was evening, and the infirmary was dark except for the glowing lamps and the light of a bright gibbous moon shining through the high windows. Pomfrey and McGonagall sat in comfortable wingback chairs, transfigured from some of the beds. A third sat empty, waiting for Dumbledore. Normally Madam Pomfrey would have balked at such a change, but with summer in full swing, the likelihood of needing those beds immediately was somewhat slim.

Dumbledore finally emerged from the private sick chamber, exhausted and sweating. He leaned against the door frame and Madam Pomfrey jumped up from her seat to guide him to an opposite chair. McGonagall summoned a house elf for tea. After he'd had a chance to sit for a bit, McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

Dumbledore took a deep breath before beginning and rubbed his hands over his face, lifting his half-moon lens glasses in the process. "It's worse than I thought. I'm still not certain what Voldemort did, precisely, but I can certainly see the results.

"To start with, he has no defense against minds prying into his own. Even the basic defenses we teach all young ones are gone, destroyed utterly. I can't even fathom what it took Voldemort to completely demolish his defenses - Severus was one of the foremost experts in Occlumency. It's probably the reason that the night-haunt showed up. He had no way to defend against it." He paused, and let that sink in. The very idea that someone who had such a great control over his mind now had so little was almost sickening.

"He is... divided, almost literally. His mindscape is ugly and scarred. There is a part of him that is a child - innocent and lonely. The other part of him believes completely and utterly, that he is completely without value - that he has deserved the tortures that he and Voldemort devised.

"Voldemort essentially took every good memory Severus had and shattered it. His only whole memories are the ones that Voldemort gave him - and in truth, Voldemort truly didn't even give him most of those memories - he fed on Severus' own imagination." Dumbledore's eyes glistened with tears as he thought about the visions of his betrayal of Severus.

Madam Pomfrey spoke first: "What do we do, then?"

Dumbledore took a moment before speaking. When he did, it was hesitant. "To be honest, I'm not certain. There are several directions we can go from here. I found pieces of some of his good memories, and given enough time, I think I could even reconstruct them, but he'll always be changed. Many of them he would have to rediscover and rebuild on his own. Or, we could wait and see if he recovers anything himself, but I think that is unlikely given the extent of the damage done. Alternatively, I could wipe everything, give him a clean slate, but if I know Severus, he would not forgive me for that. I'm not sure if I see any other options now."

McGonagall clasped her hands in front of her face, steepling her fingers in thought, "The first option; what would that entail?"

"To begin with, I would have to enter his mind, much like I did now. I would probably start with memories I've been involved in, so I can be sure of getting something fairly close to his true memories. Once I have all the pieces, I suppose it would be a giant puzzle, although I'm confident that I would be able to keep them together once I had them." He paused and took a deep breath. "Unfortunately, there is only so much that I can do. He would have to do most of it himself - and the biggest part would be rejoining the two parts of himself. I'm not even certain that I would be able to do much to help him - it's something that I think he would have to do on his own. I might be able to facilitate a meeting between the halves... but maybe not."

Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat. "When he's been conscious, I've seen no evidence of this-"

"I doubt that he is consciously aware of it himself. In fact, I would be surprised if he knew it was happening. He might have dreams of what happened today, but I doubt it. Eventually, he will have to become aware of it, but for now, I think it is in our best interests to not tell him - let him discover on his own what is happening."

McGonagall frowned. "I'm not certain I agree. You are proposing to recreate his memories without his consent. After, I might add, that you argued stringently against even entering his mind. If he discovers what you are doing, he might have a violently poor reaction to it."

Dumbledore shrugged eloquently to the two witches. Volumes could be read into that single gesture, of thought and defeat. "Perhaps. But now that I've seen what has been done, I'm not certain that there is a better option, or that we can afford to wait."

Pomfrey, who had been curiously silent during this, merely copied Dumbledore's shrug. "If it means returning him to some semblance of normal - or at least functional - I don't see that we have a choice if the other option is what he is currently doing."

McGonagall pursed her lips. "I don't like it. But I also don't think we really have another option. When do you propose we start?"

The Headmaster raised an eyebrow at his deputy. "We?"

"We're in this together. Whatever has happened has because of the decisions we made. If we're going to go to Hell, we might as well have good company." Her eyes were grave, but the wry twist of her lips made it a dry joke shared between friends.

Dumbledore snorted softly. "Only you, Minerva, I swear. We'll start tomorrow, then, after everyone has slept. Who is staying up with him tonight?"

"I am," McGonagall said.

"No, Minerva. Let me stay up with him." Madam Pomfrey was firm. "If you and Albus are planning to start his mental healing tomorrow, you should get a good night's rest."

"No, Poppy. I'd like to be with him tonight if you don't mind." McGonagall's eyes brooked no argument, but it was obvious Poppy wasn't pleased.

Both women looked at Dumbledore, as if expecting him to make a decision. McGonagall turned the same steely stare to him and he sighed. "Minerva, if you wish to stay with him tonight, I'll not argue with you."

"Good. I'll see you both in the morning." McGonagall adjourned to the private chamber without another word, leaving Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore to their own devices.

The remaining two simply looked at each other, Pomfrey's lips compressed in a thin line, but Dumbledore's weary eyes twinkled with amusement. "There's no arguing with her when she's like that. Best to let her do as she sees fit."

"I don't have to agree with it."

"And no one is requiring that you do, just that you be understanding. I didn't realize how difficult this would be for her."

Madam Pomfrey smiled a touch bitterly. "That seems to be a rather common refrain just now: 'We didn't realize' so much that now we're left to pick up what's left. So many dead, Albus." Her eyes glistened with tears that even she hadn't yet shed.

So many dead. So many tears, he reflected.

"It's enough to want to give up, isn't it?" she asked.

He nodded soberly. "Sometimes. But we can't, you know. Then there wouldn't be anyone left."

There wouldn't be anyone left.

He shook himself of those thoughts. "Enough, then. Let's find ourselves a cup of tea, and a sticky bun, shall we?"

No one at all left.