ChapterTen: Holiday Plans

Minerva didn't see Severus again for more than a month. She wasn't sure where he was; he might have been at Hogwarts most of the time, or somewhere else entirely. In general, nobody saw the Headmaster anyway. He allowed the Carrows to tend to disciplinary matters among the students, and the other staff and faculty more or less ran themselves. The Carrows had been slightly less enthusiastic about punishing the students lately, as most of them were still cowed by the sudden appearance of Voldemort and what had happened to Professor McGonagall in the Great Hall weeks ago, so there was far less mischief about.

The general atmosphere, at Hogwarts and in the wizarding world at large, was one of watchful waiting and apprehension. It simply felt as if everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Minerva certainly felt so. Since the night she and Snape had started their intrigue, she had been waiting for another summons, or at least a word from him, but there had been nothing so far. She wasn't sure what she expected, but it wasn't this silence.

After concluding the business of their last encounter, Severus had poured Minerva the drink she had requested, conjuring an additional glass for himself, and they sat drinking in awkward silence in the Headmaster's office. She had been just about to take her leave when a noise startled them both. It turned out to be Phineas Nigellus Black, returned from his other portrait—one hour to the minute from when he had been forced to leave the one on the Headmaster's wall—harrumphing and making a general fuss about having been Disillusioned.

"I say, Headmaster Snape, this is highly irregular. I have been pummelled about in the dark for the past hour at your request, and I return at the appointed time only to be blurred out of recognition. Now kindly put me to rights, young man," the portrait tutted.

Severus looked at Minerva, who cocked a small, amused smile at him and nodded. Severus pointed his wand at the painting, which immediately came into focus to reveal a scowling, dark-haired and bearded man in green robes and a green, peaked hat.

"Thank you," the portrait said, sounding not at all grateful.

Severus released the Disillusionment Spells on the remaining portraits, pausing for a moment to look at Minerva before pointing his wand at Albus Dumbledore's. She gave a small nod, and he broke the charm on the portrait.

One by one, the portraits refilled their frames. Dumbledore's was last, and as his familiar figure reappeared, he said, "Minerva."

"Hello, Albus," she said pleasantly, then turned to go. "Thank you for the drink, Severus," she said to the current Headmaster. He nodded curtly and opened the door for her. She disappeared down the staircase, her footfalls echoing slightly in the stairwell.

She hadn't thought about the encounter much since it had occurred, mostly through force of will. Whenever it threatened to intrude, unwelcome, into her thoughts, she pushed it away and paged through the vast library she kept in her mind. Aristotle, Paracelsus, Agrippa, Milton, Shakespeare: these and many others had been her comfort and company since her youth, and she turned to them now.

/***/

It was two days before Christmas, and most of the students and staff had left immediately at the end of term. Poppy, Pomona, and Rolanda had each tried to convince Minerva to come home with them for the holidays, but she assured them that she preferred to remain at Hogwarts, which was true enough.

"This is my home, Poppy. I've lived here for forty-one years and I'll be hanged if I can be chased out by the likes of Severus Snape and a few Death Eaters," Minerva snapped the third time the mediwitch invited her to spend the holidays.

"Yes, I know, Minerva. It isn't so much Snape I'm worried about. I doubt he'll show his ugly face around here during the holidays in any event. Anyway, you can handle him well enough when he's not surrounded by that bunch of thugs," Poppy said soothingly. She put her hand on Minerva's arm and added gently, "I just think maybe you shouldn't spend your first Christmas without Albus alone."

Tears suddenly stung Minerva's eyes, and she blinked them back forcefully. "You're a good friend, Poppy," she said. "But I want to be here, where he was. We spent almost all the Christmases we were married here in this castle, and it wouldn't feel right to be anywhere else." She felt the traitorous tears wet her cheeks and swallowed the sound that had been threatening to erupt with them.

Poppy watched her friend's struggle, and it ached her deep in her solar plexus. She had known Minerva since their school days—or more accurately, known of her—when Poppy had been a doe-eyed first-year, in awe of the Quidditch captain, duelling champion, Head Girl, and possessor of Merlin knew what other accomplishments. They had briefly been in Hogwarts' wizard chess club together before Minerva had given it up after Christmas in her seventh year.

The two witches had become fast friends when Poppy had reappeared at Hogwarts years later with her mediwitch license in her hand and eight years' experience in the Artefact Accident and Spell Damage Wards at St Mungo's under her belt. Over the years that followed, she had come to know Minerva better than had anyone except Albus; each knew the other's secrets and follies, and that was saying a lot, because Minerva was an intensely private person not given to confidences. Each had provided a uniquely female brand of love and support to the other during the darkest hours of their lives.

Minerva had held her tongue when she met Poppy's husband, thinking him an arrogant, overbearing git with very little to back up his bluster, but she provided a soft shoulder to cry on whenever her friend discovered one or another of the wretched man's serial infidelities. It had been Minerva who picked up the pieces without an "I-told-you-so" when Poppy's troubled marriage had finally given way under the strain of her job and her roving husband's utter inability to accept his wife's power and independence.

For her part, Poppy almost never said anything when she thought Albus Dumbledore was taking Minerva too much for granted, but she provided a sympathetic ear whenever Minerva had had enough and needed to blow off steam about same. She had been Minerva's strong tonic, at turns professionally detached and gently maternal, in the long months during which the older witch was grieving the loss of her baby.

It was this shared history that made Poppy know without thinking about it that her friend didn't want sympathy or soft comfort at the moment. As much as the professional mediwitch knew that her patient needed to cry over her husband's death and all that had followed it, Poppy knew that her dear friend couldn't afford the luxury of anger and grief just now, when everything was coming down around them. The world was a cold, hard place at the moment, and Minerva would do everything in her not-inconsiderable power to shelter the children in her care. That did not include crying over what was beyond healing. So Poppy would swallow her own rage over everything she had seen her friend sacrifice and endure; Minerva didn't need it.

"In any event, I won't be alone; we have twenty-two students on the list to remain at school for the holidays," Minerva said, briskly wiping her handkerchief across her cheeks as if brushing away an errant fly. She didn't have to add that this near-record number of stragglers was due to the disappearances and interrogations that had steadily increased in number since the fall of the Ministry. Many parents thought their children would be safer at Hogwarts. A few had simply vanished, leaving their children with no other place to go for the holidays.

"All right, Minerva," Poppy replied, "if you're sure. But you know my door is always open if you should change your mind—no notice necessary."

"I do, thank you," Minerva said, squeezing her friend's hand warmly.

Poppy charmed her valise to float along behind her as she turned to trudge down the path to the gate and the Apparition point beyond.

When Minerva returned to her quarters that evening, she found a note bearing the familiar seal lying on her desk. It gave her a shock; she had forgotten about Snape and their arrangement—almost.

She opened the note:

Professor McGonagall,

Please see me in my office tomorrow afternoon at 5:00.

S. Snape, Headmaster

Typical Severus, she thought. No indication of whether this was about their arrangement, or if it was some other kind of summons. She wondered if she should wear her knickers.

She had just tossed the note into her fireplace when she realised that tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

It would have been her fortieth wedding anniversary.

Anyone listening would have been hard-pressed to say whether the sound that bubbled up from the Deputy Headmistress' throat was laughter or sobbing.