CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

Searching Under Rubble

This is my open letter,

This is something to remember.

I won't be buried before my time,

I'm not searching for forever...

I've been searching under rubble from the past,

Just looking for a reason to make your life last.

-The Amity Affliction

She lied about her age.

She told him she was twenty-one. She told him she'd just been interviewed for a teaching position at Beauxbatons. She told him she'd gotten married at eighteen and divorced at twenty. She told him she'd grown up moving between England, where her mother was from, and her father's native France, and that neither of her parents were Muggle-born, and that she'd traveled all over Europe in her year of liberation post-divorce.

She told him her name was Gabriella Bardot.

Every damn thing she told him was a lie.

But it shouldn't have mattered. They spent one night together, one marvelous night, said farewell shortly after sunrise, and went their separate ways. She never expected to see him again.

She certainly did not expect to see him sitting at the Head Table on the first day of her Seventh Year, to the right of Headmaster Dippet, who introduced the man she'd lied to as newly appointed Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore.

"Merlin's beard," she whispered. Her hand went to her midsection, which was already started to expand under her flowing black uniform robe. She hadn't told her parents where she'd gone the night she ran away after that row they'd had while on holiday in Paris, nor did she intend to tell them what she'd accidentally brought back home to Scotland with her, though she knew eventually she wouldn't be able to hide it anymore.

She managed to avoid him for the first four days at school, but Transfiguration on Thursday meant she had to sit in his classroom, listening to directions, completing the assignment, marking down the homework, and pretending she hadn't seen the tall, slender, auburn-haired professor naked five months earlier.

"Miss McGonagall," he said, stopping by her seat while checking over students' work. "Could you stay after class a moment?"

"Certainly, Professor."

She spent the rest of class feeling sick to her stomach, and not the same sick to her stomach that had been plaguing her for the last several months.

Once everyone else had gone, he waved his hand, closing and locking the door, leaned against his desk, and regarded her with a stony glare. She stared at the blackboard behind him from her seat, her hands neatly folded on the table, and tried to keep her breathing steady.

"Mademoiselle Bardot," he began after a painstaking pause. "Imagine my surprise to find you not teaching at Beauxbatons, but here, in my classroom. Does your ex-husband know of the details of your double-life?"

"Please don't be cruel, Professor." She forced herself to meet his eye, to sit up straighter, and not to cry. "I made a mistake."

"As, apparently, did I." He glanced briefly down at her midsection. "How far along are you?"

"It's yours, if that's what you're asking. I've never been with anyone else, not ever, so it has to be yours."

The corner of his eye twitched as the realization he'd not only knocked up a teenager, but a virgin at that. This was his punishment for reacting to the dissolution of his long-term same-sex relationship by experimenting with a woman he met in a bar.

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"How could I?" She stifled a sniffle. "You lied to me, too. You told me your name was Wulfric Percival and that you were a philosopher, not a Transfiguration professor."

"I would have told you I'd been hired as a professor had I known you were still a student."

"I would have told you I was still a student if you'd told me you'd been hired as a professor."

"I could get fired for this." He said this calmly, matter-of-fact, but she felt guilty all the same.

"Why? You didn't know. I lied to you."

"It was all a lie, then? Everything you told me?"

"Yes."

"What was your intention? To get back at a cheating boyfriend?"

(She'd told him her divorce had been on account of her husband's infidelity.)

"No..." She nibbled her lip. "No, sir. I... I've never had a boyfriend. I'm not permitted to date. My parents are... they're very strict."

"They must be furious about this, then."

"I haven't told them."

"They didn't notice?"

"They spent the months of July and August traveling for my father's work. I was with..." Her cheeks reddened with humiliation. "I was with my governess."

He swore, turning away from her, and held the desk as if for dear life. "Governess? How old are you?"

"I'm seventeen! I'm of age! But they don't trust me to stay home alone! They treat me like a child!"

He turned back. "I can't imagine why, Miss McGonagall, when you've clearly exhibited such sound judgment and unmistakable maturity." She sniffled again and he sighed, softening. "There's an orphanage in London where another magical child currently resides. I recently met the matron there. I could arrange..."

"I'm not sending my baby to an orphanage, Professor!" She stood suddenly, knocking back her chair, and faced him with a look of defiance on her face. "Out of the question!"

"Oh?" He lifted his auburn eyebrows quizzically. "You haven't even told your parents. What's your plan? Going to hide the infant in your dormitory until June then sneak it home in your trunk?"

"I don't have a plan."

"It's too late to abort it." He said this matter-of-factly too, as if the suggestion shouldn't sting. She winced, her hand going to her abdomen, wondering if the baby could hear conversations outside the womb and be forever damaged by this reaction from its father. "The orphanage is the ideal solution. You can continue at Hogwarts until you're no longer able to hide it. Then we shall say you're sick and you can go to a Muggle convent until the child is born, returning to Hogwart around February to finish your education, if you so desire – I've looked through your files. You're an excellent student, Quidditch player, former Prefect, candidate for Head Girl..."

"I asked to be dropped from the consideration for Head Girl, that's why it went to Maisie."

"Yes, I read that. You told Headmaster Dippet you were worried the added responsibilities would detract from your studies. I suppose that was another lie? You're a capable liar, Miss McGonagall, though I daresay had you been wearing your hair in braids like that when we met, I never would have believed you were twenty-one. In this lighting, with that attire, you barely look sixteen."

"I told you, I'm seventeen."

"How can I believe that? Everything you've told me in the past was a lie."

"Give me detention, then!" Her voice trembled; she sounded on the verge of tears. "Deduct House Points. Send me to the Headmaster. Make me write lines. Have me expelled. Do whatever you wish, but I'm telling you now, sir, with all due respect, I have every intention of keeping and raising this baby. I don't care how preferable you think life in a London orphanage would be! It's my baby and I'll say what happens to it! It's not any of your business!"

"Not any of my business?" For the first time since the start of their conversation, he looked angry. "You lied to me. You propositioned me. You became pregnant by me. And, for the next ten months, you expect to be taught Transfiguration by me, but what happens in the future regarding the baby you've made with me is not any of my business? If your parents are as strict as you claim, why were you in that Parisian bar all alone in the middle of the night?"

"I'd run away."

"You'd run away." He echoed her gently but that didn't make the memory sting less.

"Because they were treating me like a child! They were going out that night and they'd hired an old woman to come sit with me. They even gave her a schedule that said what I could eat for dessert and when to send me to bed. It was ridiculous! I'm seventeen!"

"So you thought you'd run away..."

"And live like an adult, for one night, yes!"

"Interesting." He sat on the edge of his desk, regarding her with a mix of concern, compassion, confusion, and a touch of continued anger. "And how do you think your foray into adulthood went, overall?"

She glared truculently back him, showing him, for the first time, her fiery personality and headstrong nature, as his cool demeanor and thinly veiled attack on her maturity made a dormant anger rise within her. Snottily, she answered him.

"Honestly? I would rate it a six of ten, Professor. The wine was good but the sex was sub-par, and though the looks on my parents' faces the next morning were gratifying, all in all, I wouldn't say the experience was worth the aftermath."

And at her cheek, Albus, unable to help himself, had laughed.

-0-0-0-

Minerva McGonagall sat on the couch in the sitting room adjacent to her office, facing a crackling fire and stroking the silver hair of a sleeping Eileen Pax Prince, age six. It was late on Sunday evening. The girl and her father, Severus, had arrived in the middle of the night Friday. He was in a state of desperation. The girl had been convulsing and crying and acting as though she might be possessed and he was at a loss.

"You shouldn't have traveled with her like this!" Minerva had scolded in a loud whisper, hurrying him into her personal chambers, glad he was adept enough with disillusionment charms that no one had seen them enter the castle.

"What else could I do? I don't want her to..." He'd let the sentence hang in the air unfinished.

"I understand." Minerva had said sympathetically. "Come in. Set her down on the couch. You must be exhausted."

Now two days had passed and though it had been rejuvenating for Severus to have gotten his first good night's sleep in months the night before, thanks to Minerva's offer to stay up with Eileen, he was disappointed by her inability to offer him much more than moral support. He refilled his gillywater from the decanter on the mantle then held it up, offering more to her, but she shook her head. He returned to the arm chair diagonal from them, to the right of the fireplace.

"She's getting worse, Minerva."

"I know."

"You saw her. You were with her all last night. What do you think?"

"I think she needs help."

"I'm trying to help her. That's why I brought her to you."

"I think she needs help from people who know better than you or I do. I am teaching you the techniques I learned with my son over sixty years ago. They've made advances in the field of long-term magical maladies since then, surely."

"Have they? The Longbottoms' condition has not changed at all in the two and a half decades since they were Crucioed into insanity by Eileen's mother. The last expert in Obscurials to publish a paper was Newt Scamander, and that was in 1954."

"I know." She gazed down at the peacefully sleeping child, wishing she could simply wave her wand and relieve her of her ailments, as she failed to do for her son. "He specifically studied my Caelus when we feared his magical suppression might turn into..." She shook her head. Even after all these decades, it pained her to think about her sick little boy. "We had hope, since he'd made it to eleven, but a year later... The only decent thing Albus ever did for us was introducing us to Newt, but even he couldn't change Caelus' course."

"I resent that!" called Albus from his portrait in the next room. "I also provided for you financially."

"I'll not have this fight with you tonight!" she called back. She waved her hand and the door slammed shut, though Severus could make out the man's muffled protests through the wood.

"How did you do it?" asked Severus quietly. "How did you work with him for all those years without resenting every moment? How could you consider him a friend?"

"I had no reason to expect more than friendship from him. He didn't want to be a father."

"I didn't want to be a father."

"I know," she said for the third time in under ten minutes. "But I'm proud of the job you're doing. Though I wish you'd let her be seen by someone at St. Mungo's. You wouldn't have to take her. I could. I could do it tomorrow. You stay here, where it's safe."

"And who will you say she is? She isn't exactly nondescript. If the Malfoys hear that a nonverbal silver-haired six-year-old girl has been admitted to the hospital, they'll know immediately that it's her. And if she's with you, they'll know where to find me. We can't risk it. It's too dangerous."

"Severus, dear? I don't wish to frighten you, but it may be too dangerous not to risk it."

-0-0-0-

On Tuesday morning, Hermione finally received a response owl from Molly Weasley.

Hermione,

Lovely to hear from you, dear! I hope you're learning all you hoped to and having experiences you'll not soon forget, but we miss you here, Ron especially.

Your question threw me, I'll be honest, as I haven't thought about Minerva's child in many, many years, but I will share with you what I know.

He was born around 1937 or 1938 to Minerva McGonagall, father unknown. It was quite the scandal at the time, apparently she kept the pregnancy a secret, then birthed the baby several weeks early in the Hogwarts hospital wing with the help of the school nurse and Poppy Pomfrey, then a fellow student. By the time I was at Hogwarts it had been long forgotten, however. In fact, the only reason I know about the boy at all was because I became pregnant with Bill during my seventh year. Minerva was my Head of House, as I'm sure you know. I went to her sobbing and scared once I suspected my condition. I hadn't even told Arthur yet. I expected her to reprimand me, but on the contrary, she offered me ginger biscuits, explaining that she'd developed a taste for them when experiencing morning sickness herself many years prior. I was shocked, as I hadn't known she'd ever been married. That was when she told me in confidence that she, too, had been with child at age seventeen. She even came to my home over the Easter holiday to help Arthur and me tell my brothers, as my parents had passed on a few years before, leaving Gideon and Fabien to raise me. This was in 1971.

Arthur, obviously, had the intention of marrying me, but Minerva convinced us to wait until the school year was concluded, as she did not wish to see me fail to finish my education as she'd failed to finish hers. This, I must say, was the greatest shock, at least as far as seventeen-year-old me was concerned. To think that she'd had to drop out of school and yet still became a professor impressed me very much at the time, even though I'd known since I was a little girl my life's ambition was to be a wife and mother. I finished school in June, we married in July, and Bill was born at the end of November.

I remember asking her during a discussion between the two of us alone in her office whether she'd left school to get married and if so, where her husband was now, but she said the boy's father had no interest in her. She then explained that her son – Caelus, I think his name was – was given her maiden name, and that's when she showed me an old Prophet article detailing the scandal. She claimed it no longer bothered her but I never believed that, as she kept the clipped article right there in the top left drawer of her desk, which told me she wasn't as past it as she pretended to be.

I asked her then, "What he was doing now?" figuring he'd be in his early thirties, and that's when she explained that he'd passed away at age twelve. I was horrified, of course, not only because it's a horrible thing for a child to die, but because I immediately worried my own offspring wouldn't make it to see thirteen either. She assured me that her son's condition, which she did not name or really explain, was an incredibly rare one, one that had to be passed down by both sides, but could lay dormant for generations. She said I should not worry over it because it was rare for more than one child to be born with that particular condition in the UK more than once a century, and since her son had it, that meant the rest of us were safe. I realized later she was likely just trying to comfort me, but I never did discover what that rare ailment was.

And that's all I know. I hope this helps you in your research, though I find it puzzling that it came up at all, as I assume most of our world, if they knew about the boy at all, has forgotten by now – save, of course, for Minerva herself, who, as far as I know, still spends his birthday each year by the sea. It was his favorite place.

Speaking of favorite places, six months and you'll be back with us! I hope you and Ron will come for dinner at the Burrow as soon as you've settled in. Harry and Ginny are here as I'm writing this, and though I haven't told them of your inquiry, I did mention I was sending you a letter – they both say hello.

-Molly

"Curiouser and curiouser," mused Hermione aloud. It was difficult for her to picture formidable Professor McGonagall seventeen and pregnant, forced to drop out of school, mired in public scandal, with a newborn in her arms. To know that this condition might be genetic was a good clue, though, a place to start. Did the mystery ailment run in both the Black and Snape families? Surely not the Snapes, as he was Muggle-born and this seemed to be a decidedly magical affliction. So she needed to look into the Blacks and Princes then, and whatever Bellatrix Lestrange's mother's maiden name was.

Hermione screwed up her face, trying to picture the Black family tapestry. It had listed the Black sisters' mother's maiden name, she was sure of it. Started with a P. No, an R. Rose... Rosee... Rosier... Rosier, that was it!

Hermione summoned over parchment, a quill, and an inkwell. She began to list.

Rosier

Prince

Black

McGonagall

McGonagall's mother's maiden name (unknown)

Then, as an afterthought for which she almost felt guilty, she added:

Gaunt

Slytherin

-0-0-0-

Severus had been hiding out at Hogwarts for several days and was growing tired of it. He wanted to return to Rome, but Eileen continued to get worse and worse. She was now so weak during the days from being up, screaming and thrashing at night, to do much more than emit whiny sounds and slurp down soup. She spoke less and less, and finally, by the one-week anniversary of their arrival, she passed through an entire day without uttering a single word.

Minerva, being Headmistress, thankfully had no classes to teach, thus she could afford to spend time with Severus and the child, but she felt it was not enough, and she was beginning to lose her patience. Not with the girl, but with Snape. The child needed help, more than Minerva could provide, and she was not going to allow the girl to die simply because Severus was afraid to be discovered.

"You don't understand!" he argued that Friday night after a particularly draining night terror. "Even if I avoid Azkaban, the Wizengamot will take her away from me!"

"You don't know that!"

"You know what I did to them!"

"But they deserved it!"

He laughed scornfully. "You think that matters? You think the Wizengamot will care? And even if, by some miracle, they do side with me and forgo punishment for my actions, I could lose her to Narcissa..."

"Narcissa does not want her."

"Or to... to someone else! They... Remember what they did to Caelus? How they insisted upon studying him, how they took him away from you for – how long did you say it was? – three months?"

"Four." Minerva settled on the settee in her office and cradled the little girl in her arms like a baby while she watched Severus pace anxiously back and forth in front of her. "Four months, one week, and two days. He was stolen right out of my arms on his eighth birthday, when they declared me 'unfit on account of age and resources,' but I was twenty-five then. I had a job, a decent flat, I didn't get into trouble. I knew the truth - they took him because they wanted to experiment on him. I wasn't even allowed to see him."

"And you needed the great Albus Dumbledore, the just-returned war hero, to appeal on your behalf to get him back, didn't you? But what would I have?"

"You're a war hero in your own right."

"Some bloody war hero. A traitor to both sides, that's the way they still see me! A slithering snake, an overgrown bat, a man thought to be dead, one who deserved to have died."

"You're too hard on yourse-"

"Bloody hell, Minerva, I can't even be sure I'm her father!"

"Of course you're her father." Minerva kissed Eileen's pale forehead, on which a large bruise was forming. The girl had run herself into the corner of the desk during her fit before either of the adults could stop her. "That monster didn't have enough human left in him to create life, Severus. You know that and I know that and I'd be willing to bet the Sword of Gryffindor Bellatrix knew that too. She had a reason to lie to her sister. Why would she have lied to you?"

"I... I don't know!" He let loose a growl of frustration. "But her hair, Minerva! She looks like a fucking unicorn. Know anyone who's consumed the blood of a unicorn? I sure as hell haven't."

"My son's hair was white, Severus," she reminded him. "White. Completely without pigmentation. His hair was white and one of his eyes was red and he was most definitely not the offspring of any Dark Lord. Odd coloring comes with the condition. Be grateful she has your eyes and not..." Minerva inhaled sharply. She had loved her son and thought him beautiful, but having him in public was difficult, as strangers felt the need to offer their unsolicited opinions regarding his appearance. More than once he'd been accused of being a demon, which hurt her worse than it did him, as he didn't seem to pay other people any mind.

"I could have been a Dark Lord," Albus piped up from his picture frame.

"You're not helpful," snapped Minerva.

"Fine," said Severus. He plopped down in her hard-backed wooden chair and put his head in his hands, his elbows propped up on her desk. "Take her. Keep her. Admit her to St. Mungo's. Tell them I left her to you in my suicide note. Tell them..."

"I'll do no such thing. But what I will do – if you'll allow it – is contact Newt Scamander by owl tomorrow and ask him to come straight here. He's always traveling but rarely more than a week away. And in the interim, please, please let me draw Poppy into our confidences. You can count on her to keep your secrets, Severus. She and I have been friends since we shared a dormitory. I would trust her with my life."

"Very well," he said, head still buried, feeling utterly defeated. Across the room, in Minerva's arms, Eileen began to stir. She stiffened, her head flopped back, and she let out a terrible scream.

"It's starting again," said Minerva unnecessarily.

"I'm ready," sighed Severus.

Eileen's eyes opened and rolled back until only the whites showed.

"My Lord!" the child whispered harshly, in a voice not entirely her own. "I'd like to volunteer for the task. I want to kill the boy!"

-0-0-0-

Hermione had to leave Rome. She wasn't going to find the answers to any of her questions here. But she couldn't leave for long, obviously, not if Severus was going to return in a fortnight. She couldn't explain it, but she felt she simply had to be there when they returned.

It was silly, since she'd only recently started getting to know him as a person, but she missed him like they'd been friends all her life. She was worried about him and worried about Eileen. She had fired off a letter to Andromeda Tonks shortly after she'd finished reading Molly's response. She wanted to know if the woman could send her a copy of the Black family tree as on the tapestry, but with all the 'blood traitors' singed off, that might not be as helpful as she was hoping it would be. In the same letter, she asked Andromeda if she had any information about the Rosiers, saying it was imperative for her research, and promising she would explain more fully upon her return. She hoped the fact that she'd babysat for little Teddy several dozen times in the last couple of years would compel the woman to work with her, as she did not want to even imagine trying to extract the same information from Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione also sent away for a book about Slytherin's male line, printed in 1901. She hoped it would reveal how the Gaunts came to be. Obviously a witch from the founder's family must have married into that presumably pureblood family, hopefully prior to the tome's publication.

But she had no idea where to begin with the Princes, McGonagalls, and Rosiers.

And she also had no idea whether this was even worth her time. Madness was prevalent in many a pureblood family, and though she did not think Eileen qualified in the same way Merope Gaunt's brother did, it was possible that someone with her particular difficulties would have been scrubbed from the family tree or labeled insane and locked away, especially a century ago or more.

She sent another letter, this one to Luna, who had met a man named Rolf Scamander a few weeks before Hermione took off on her trip. She wondered if they were still in contact. Assuming his grandfather was still alive, Hermione was hoping she might be able to forge a connection with him, as he'd once been a leader in the field of Obscurial study, at a time when most thought it wasn't worth studying (it seemed to be even less studied now, as there had been no documented Obscurials anywhere in the world more recently than the early 1960s, and none in the UK for far longer). That she knew from prior, unrelated research.

Though she felt a smidgen guilty over it, as if she was using the girl, this quest to unpack the puzzle of Eileen's condition had Hermione feeling more useful and productive and academic and alive than she had in years. It was even more invigorating than trying to solve the mystery of the Ancient Runes, which she'd get around to eventually, she reckoned.

And though she also felt guilty over it, she continued to think inappropriate thoughts about Severus Snape – no, Prince – before bed each night, not to mention several other times throughout the day. Her attraction to him was almost narcissistic. He was her equal in wits and intelligence, capable of challenging and teaching her while also learning from her, and he was what she'd wanted to be leading up to her departure – aloof, independent, mysterious, dark... and far, far, far from wholesome.

A/N:

So... lots of background info and set-up in this (long) chapter. Hope you don't mind! Some smut coming up soon, so maybe that'll off-set the lack of lemons here - lol. Thanks as always for reading and reviewing! To answer Qs, or, more accurately, not to answer them yet, I promise you'll find out what Snape did to the Rowles and why in a subsequent chapter. Note that I subtracted twenty years from Albus' age and also subtracted about 5 from Molly's. Thx again!

-AL