Once safely in the old, familiar darkness of his dungeon rooms, Severus turned and spelled the door shut behind him. Lighting a fire in the hearth, he dragged his armchair closer and threw himself into it.

Damned Gryffindors.

He craved nicotine all of a sudden, Muggle cigarettes, something to hold in his restless fingers, something to still his thoughts, which was peculiar as he had never smoked more than one in his life; presumably this was yet another prodigious talent he had acquired from Pucey. Firewhiskey had once been a reliable nuller for him, but when he tried some last week he had discovered he could no longer stand the taste.

Now flying appeared a vice too; he'd barely been off a broom half an hour, his muscles were aching, but already he itched to fly again.

As intelligent as he was, he had certainly not considered human flesh to be capable of holding memories; because he'd always assumed – like most people no doubt – that all memories lived within the soul. The subconscious and the conscious all rolled into one complete personality that could move unheeded.

Not so.

Severus rested his throbbing head on an arm and winced. His body operated on an animal level, sensations, reactions, learned responses; like most animals it was a creature of habit. He'd been reasoning and tussling with its desires silently these past months, but today there was no question which was winning.

He let out a growl; Fuck it. He grabbed hold of a nearby book; one swipe of a wand later and it was transfigured into a cigarette.

"Incendio."

Taking a long drag, he closed his eyes and blew smoke slowly out through his nostrils.

He savoured it right down to the filter tip, watching the smoke curl and twist in the air, gradually filling the room with its grey-blue haze. The smell lead him reluctantly back to his childhood; awakening memories of Coketown's working men's clubs and pubs, places his father, and indeed uncle and grandfather had spent so much time in.

The Black Bull at the end of their street had been his father's favourite pub; Severus had only been in there a few times when his mother had sent him out to find him and tell him tea was ready. The local men who frequented there had mostly been miners, toiling long hours. A crowded, Victorian place of dark wood and yellowed gloss paint, he recalled the sight of pit-stained faces, and the raucous laughter ringing out in response to some dirty joke.

He'd hated and misunderstood these men as a child, but looking back as an adult... he realised he'd hated them more because he was different, for better or worse, this was a world he could never be part of; even if his father had been a decent, magic-tolerating soul...

The mine his uncle, father, and grandfather before him had worked down was closed by the government in 1984, when Snape was 24 years old, because 'coal was no longer profitable.' His father and uncle had spent their whole lives working underground in darkness, they knew nothing else. Once the pit closed they had no choice but to join the dole queue along with hundreds of other townsfolk. Magic had saved Severus Snape from the chaos of the picket lines, protests and poverty, but it had also cost him friends, and certainly hadn't saved him from himself.

Snape flicked the stub into the fire and sighed wearily; His body had stilled, but his mind most definitely had not.

Hogwarts new school term rolled another day closer. Hermione and Harry returned once again the next morning to broach their plan to Madame Pomfrey. When they arrived however, they were told that the Mediwitch, unfortunately, had been called away to a consultation at St Mungos.

"Well, that's my morning wasted," muttered Hermione as they headed away from the Hospital Wing.

"Not really; we still need to talk to Snape; reckon he'll like the idea?"

The witch gave her friend a weary look. "I shouldn't be too optimistic."

As they stepped into the Entrance Hall a large portrait on their right gave a cough. The Gryffindors came to an abrupt stop when they turned to see the painted form of their old Headmaster peering down over his spectacles at them. He was wearing robes of pale blue, and appeared a little younger than the time they had last seen him alive; the artist had been sympathetic with the brush strokes.

Sir Wemys, the original inhabitant of the frame was nowhere to be seen, but then this wasn't an unusual occurrence in magical paintings.

Hermione quivered, stiffened and said nothing. Beside her Harry gave a curt nod. "Good morning, Sir."

"Good morning Harry," responded Dumbledore politely. "Business with Hogwarts again, I see?"

"Er, yes."

The portrait of Dumbledore fixed him with a steady gaze, which, despite coming from an oil painting still pierced like it was practising Legilimency. "Indeed..."

"The man deserves a break, you know," responded Harry uneasily, feeling the need to defend himself.

Dumbledore took a sweet from his pocket and began to unwrap it. "I am no longer part of your life, Harry, so by turn expect to have no more say in it. However, if I must make one observation and one observation only regarding the whole debacle... do not forget that a bird with a broken wing requires a great deal of care if it is to fly again."

"We do care; unlike you!" glared Hermione.

Dumbledore's expression grew sad. "Alas, but I did. Too much, I fear. War forces us to make decisions, Miss Granger, and some of them will inevitably be terrible."

Harry pulled at his friend's shoulder. "Come on, let's go; we're achieving nothing here."

As they walked away, across the hall to the dungeon steps, the portrait called after them.

"Some books are better left unopened, some pages best left unturned, Harry Potter. But if you wish to turn them and read their words, take great care not to lose yourself."

As Harry paused on the dungeon steps a chill passed down the back of his neck; when he glanced back Dumbledore had vanished from the frame.

Severus Snape was remarkably slow at answering his door. When he did finally open it, it was only a little way. Half a face appeared in the chink, unshaved and somewhat sullen looking.

"Granger and Potter grace me with their presence, once again," he drawled. "To think, in the not so distant past, the only reason Gryffindors ventured this far down these dark tunnels was to serve a detention..."

"May we come in?" enquired Hermione politely.

His one visible eye narrowed. "No, Granger, you may not. These are my private rooms and I do not wish to be disturbed." With this remark he snapped the door shut in their faces.

"But-I have a plan!"

"As fundamentally flawed as your last one, Granger? Spare me, do..." came the muffled reply.

Hermione puffed her cheeks out in annoyance, hands on hips. "I've said I am sorry for that many times, you know I have! This plan will give you a lot more freedom, if you could spare just five minutes? Please?"

There was a short pause before the door was wrenched open again. Drawing himself to his full, intimidating height, Snape stepped close to Hermione and looked her full in the eye, his face a mask of barely concealed temper.

"Fine: You now have four minutes and fifty seconds."

Hermione took a breath, and began to explain.

"Well, that went amazingly well," remarked Harry sarcastically as they crossed the school grounds a short time later.

"As much as I still deeply disagree with Dumbledore's wartime methods, he did have a point about birds with broken wings," replied his friend with a weary sigh.

Back in the dungeons, Snape transfigured another book. He stood there in the dim candlelight holding the cigarette between his fingers, but not lighting it.

If he were honest, Granger's plan wasn't all that horrendous...workable even. She had just knocked on his door at the wrong time...

However, every time had been the wrong time, lately; he just wasn't feeling that social.

Snape brought his hand up to place the white stick in his mouth. As he moved to light it he paused, took the cigarette out again and examined it more closely.

Players No. 6: his father's old brand.

Snape's mouth twisted ruefully.