A/N: For those who have decided to follow the events from Harry's point of view, too, the second installment of Metamorphosis has been updated!
Read, enjoy, review!

Brynn

x

Pinkerton Men

x

"Headmaster, where is Potter?"

Dumbledore feigns surprise at seeing me, while the portraits of his predecessors look at me as though I still was an errant student.

I do not dwell on how much I hate this place and the way the old man interlaces his fingers and gazes at me over the top of his spectacles.

"Now, now, Severus. It has taken Harry a lot of courage to put his life into danger on our behalf. I must admit that it is quite likely that without his contribution, the outcome of yesterday's battle might have been quite different…"

The old bastard is stalling! My fingers flex, twitching to squeeze the wrinkled neck hidden behind the beard.

"Headmaster…" I growl.

"Certainly, Severus, you can forgive whatever the boy has done now."

"He is missing!" That finally shuts the geezer up. In any other situation I would probably be gratified, maybe even amused by how perplexed he looks. I ignore the sniggering paintings, banish the thought about how it was once Death Eaters who laughed when someone was in danger. Are all people the same, all like this? Is this what Potter sees when asked to save the wizardkind? No wonder then that he would run away… if that is what he has done.

I shake my head and muster enough ire to cover up my concern for the boy.

"I want to know where he is and if you were aware of his departure."

Dumbledore sighs and exchanges tacit glances with several of the former Headmasters and Headmistresses. The outcome of these silent communication is exactly nothing.

"I shall send Minerva to ask the perimeter guards.

x

It is more than an hour later when any substantial information is generated. Sir Nicholas after merciless interrogation admits to have promised to Potter to not speak of his appearance when the boy met him in the secret passage leading to the Shrieking Shack, which the ghost was supposedly guarding. The situation illustrates clearly that age does not mean wisdom and Gryffindors come in various shapes, colours and sizes, but with unified level of intelligence.

Potter is an exception in that he has random strikes of brilliance.

The Headmaster, predictably, decides there is nothing to worry about at all. Having cognisance of the other perspective now, I can overlook his tolerance of Potter's escapades (it would be banal to punish the boy for breaking curfew, when he did so to destroy a couple of antagonistic blood-sucking monsters and save a number of lives – including mine), but his ignorance of the brat's state of mind is inexcusable.

As I have no resources at my disposal and my appeals go unheard, I take it upon myself to find the boy. The four members of his Inner Circle catch on to his disappearance by this time and the only way I am able to make them remain within the castle is to threaten them with informing Minerva of their intentions and promising them alert to any news.

First when I step out of the front gates I realise that the weather has changed dramatically since yesterday. The rain is so thick that I cannot see the lake from the steps. Before I reach the Whomping Willow, I am covered in mud up to my knees despite the Impervius Charm.

In Hogsmeade no one has seen Potter wherefore, since the place is still sealed hermetically by Moody, I am inclined to believe he has not been there. Moody instructs his people to be on the outlook for the boy, but it is fairly obvious that they are much too busy to go searching for one child, no matter who that child is. There are whole families waiting to return to their houses, merchandise to restart and loss of interests to make up for.

Disillusioned a little more than I was in the morning, I return to the Shack and walk up the road in the opposite direction. The sludge is escaping from under my soles and making simple step a hazardous feat. Potter could not have gotten too far in conditions like these, but he might have hours of a head start…

Thankfully… or not… I barely get out of sight of the supposedly haunted building when I sense an immense magical disruption. Potter, true to himself, has undoubtedly gotten into some sort of trouble again. At least I know I am going in the right direction, although it is not much of a consolation.

Not five minutes later I happen upon a wide patch of withered grass. The road winds through its centre, which is a suspiciously bright triangle. The reason why I am out in these inhumane conditions is not in sight, but I recognise the magic as his, inherently Dark and, with only a little doubt, not Malicious. Leastways not towards myself. I curse Potter for reducing me to such a fool and enter the perimeter.

The triangle is composed of five candles elevated from the ground on candlesticks, charmed to repel the rain. There is a broken leftover of a pattern drawn into the soil, the channels filled with murky water. Four of the candles are set on four apices of a star inscribed in a circle, whereas the fifth one is set at the third vertex of the triangle. There is another candlestick and another candle, both drowned in two separate puddles, a if knocked aside by great force.

Albeit delayed, horror grips me. Could Potter have known… Of course he could. He had been reading an inordinate amount of books, always concealed, wrapped in the front page of a current Daily Prophet issue… he could have easily found out about blood-rituals and how to perform them. He could have felt desperate enough to resort to such measures…

I feel like I failed. There was one, only one thing that I have expected of myself, and I could not do it.

I shake my head in denial and investigate the site more closely. It is apparent that the ritual was not finished. Potter does not get cold feet, so it is logical to assume that someone would have interrupted him… but the knowledge of refocusing flux of energy to weaken the load stress is very rare, not to speak about the magical resistance required to survive getting into the way of a built-up Dark spell…

Weasleys. Potter has been found by Weasleys. The older one is a curse-breaker – he might have known what to do. But the power… there is indubitably much more to those two men than I ever suspected. It does not fully quench my worry, but it lessens it greatly. Would they have taken the boy to a safe place away from this madness? And, by the time he comes back – for he surely must come back – will he have healed?

x

I give my, heavily edited, report on the three missing wizards to the congregated half of the Order of the Phoenix (those members whose injuries do not prevent them from attending). I do not mention the ritual at all – I have destroyed all evidence of it, for it is better for them to wonder if Potter is disturbed or scared than to know him to be using Dark magic.

Ah, would that screw with their heads…

I flee from the room as soon as possible and for the first time it does not bother me that Moody is practically stepping on my heels in the haste to not let me get out of sight.

"Do you not have some work in the village?" I ask him caustically, still alert from the meeting. Dumbledore and his bootlickers did not think to ask for details of how I found out that the Weasleys have taken Potter Merlin knows where, but the old Auror is wont to spot the discrepancy at a mile's distance.

"All wrapped up an' finished. Not much work, anyway, just taking out trash an' securing the location. Still got soggy… good thing, mind, 's that the bodies were gone by the time it started comin' down."

For doing it all so quickly and to singularly high standards, Moody does not look nearly smug enough. His sodden overcoat might be a reason for that, though I fail to understand how it happened to him.

"You did the rebuilding remarkably quickly."

He shrugs and gestures for me to continue on my way, falling in step next to me, as much as it is possible for someone who limps as bad as he does.

"Not much to rebuild," he mutters. "A bad hole in an old harpy's livin' room, and a fallen porch that buried lil' squeaky man, but other than that just scrapes…"

I banish the picture of how I think Flitwick would react after being referred to as 'little squeaky man'. It is but a provocation from Moody, anyway – I am well aware that he is on amicable terms with the Charms Professor, due to an exchange of useful tips and warrior bonding or something like that. I do not pretend to understand it.

"I distinctly remember fire," I say, not tempering the sarcasm. Moody pins me with a look that I used to use on Longbottom when he melted a cauldron.

"Enchanted Fire, 'course," he says as if it was the most obvious thing in the world… which it is. Curse Potter, for withering my brain with hope and concerns and other inanities. "Woudna want to burn the people's roofs, would we? By the way, that's Potter's idea. Just like the snipers – Muggles, if you'd believe it."

I do. It is not easy, but I have seen the results of that ingeniousness before. The Muggles worked well.

"Y'know, Snape… I haven't seen Potter use a sword before, but I coulda sworn he had one and did a lot of damage with it…"

I nod in acknowledgement to his statement, but do not offer any further information. Moody seems to have expected that, so he gives me a sinister crooked (and here and there even disjointed) grin and prattles on, never once mentioning the missing details from my report.

x

On Saturday morning I set out on my usual early round of the castle. No students are out of bounds, scared stiff in their fancy four-posters while their Saviour is stuck in unknown condition and dealing with either the loss of limbs or with severe damage to his nervous system. I stop at the ramparts for a short while of reminiscence, thinking back to the 31st of July when I was so certain that I was going to die. But there is, thankfully, no excitable metamorphmagus here to bug me today.

On the other hand, there is a tall red-haired person standing on the wet grass and casting a spell on a barn owl that has flown out of the Headmaster's office window. A quick check of all the Weasleys and Prewetts leaves me with two possibilities as to the perpetrator: Arthur or Percival. Neither option is reassuring – one means that there are still ways to infiltrate Hogwarts, the other that there are more dissidents (I hesitate to point at someone and call 'traitor') than just Potter and myself among the Order. Although, after William and Charles acted disregarding Dumbledore's instructions (and made the old coot quite cross with themselves) it should not come as such a surprise.

I relocate to the Entrance Hall and meet him just as he pushes a wing of the gate shut.

"Arthur."

He looks at me with confusion until he puts two and two together.

"Severus."

He is nervous yet determined. His hands do not shake and he does not sweat – I am trained to notice such details – he honestly believes that whatever it was he just did was right, even if it was against orders. I privately applaud such conduct, even if I cannot endorse it to his face.

He falters under my gaze after a while and leans against the wall, reminding me quite ostensibly of William – I feel I know the young man better than I know his father, having taught him for seven years, but it is now obvious that Arthur had resembled him quite a lot in his time. William inherited the Prewett beauty, but the grace and spontaneity clearly came from the Weasley side. I watch analytically as he chafes his hands together and lifts one in a half-forgotten movement designed most likely to keep errant strands of hair (which has been cropped short years ago) out of his face; I recognise it only from having observed his sons.

"It wasn't fair, Severus," he says. Whatever drives him to explain himself to me, I am not the kind of man to stop him. I am not likely to alert anyone to his actions either. Besides, I agree with him wholeheartedly. A pair of deep blue eyes measures me with a hint of surprise, likely caused by my lack of reaction. "Diana will reach the boys with or without a Tracking Charm. Should they need help, they can ask for it, but I doubt they require anything but time off. They deserve the vacation, Harry more than anyone else."

Strange how, suddenly, when it suits them, people grow a sense of fairness. I suppose this is not fair to Arthur – he was always patient and treated everyone (me included) equally. I have become so unused to this almost-friendly rapport that I do not know how to react to it. I yearned for such companionship in past… but there was no one to offer it. I appreciate it, but in the end the only one I allow myself to care for is Potter.

But this wizard believes I would understand… Perhaps I have underestimated Arthur. After all, he managed to raise at least four outstanding men. I think in this instant both of us realise just why there never was any animosity between us, why we were always willing to give each other a chance. I have great respect for him (even if not real friendship), and it seems that it is not one-sided.

"Both of us have broken the rules, Arthur, and we shall do so again, when the situation calls for it."

He absently tugs on the collar of his navy blue shirt and purses his lips. The comment was not as complicated as to warrant so much contemplation, but I do not hold it against him when he treats me with caution. I have been known to harm my offenders.

"I don't ask forbearance."

"I know. I cannot offer you any, either way." Even if he had anything to apologise for, which I doubt he does. He is one of those untarnished Light creatures, like Lupin, like Molly Weasley (who lies in the hospital wing), like Hestia Jones and a number of others, but he is the only one of them who tries to understand Darkness and treats it as an unwanted experience rather than a flaw of character.

"I saw you with Harry."

Oh, that. I do my best to keep any public interaction involving Potter and me properly antagonistic and rely on the self-assuredness of our acquaintances to not spot the minute divergence. Perhaps it is unnecessarily overdone. I steel myself for a lecture on how I ought to be giving the boy a moment of rest (which is, in the current situation, rather redundant). Therefore it comes as a surprise when he shows no sign of anger, not even annoyance, and speaks of the Gryffindor rather than chastises myself.

"That is one young man whose fate makes my heart bleed. He is like my own, but there are obstructions between us that prevent me to act on those sentiments."

Even if his attempt to make me sympathise with Potter fails, I commiserate with Arthur. Albus Dumbledore, the war, the Ministry and a multitude of other obstacles keep the Boy Who Lived separated from the Weasley pleiad. They keep him separated from everyone, and it once already drove him to the edge of insanity. I cannot act as the world's safety forever… But I do not know how to change anything.

Arthur sighs when I scowl, but still does not give me a lecture, nor twinkles like costume jewellery; rather he looks at me with gratefulness which I have stopped expecting from anyone years ago. Were it not for the recent training Potter gave me, it might have scared me into escaping this little encounter.

"I cannot help you there, either," I say nervelessly. He actually smiles.

"No… no, you can't help me. But you can, obviously, help Harry."

My self-control keeps my jaw from falling, but he apparently sees my shock written in my face. He was not supposed to know about that… I thought he was trying to get me to back off of Potter…

"If it is even a little, I urge you to do so, Severus. From what I see – and I see a lot more than people around me realise-" Yes, I noticed. Rather belatedly, though, "-you are the only one still able to reach him. I do not want to bury any of my children."

I glimpse a very much unwanted picture in front of my mind's eye – Potter, lying spread-eagled on green grass, Avada Kedavra eyes staring blankly at the sky…

I rapidly shake my head, trying to drive it away. No, he cannot die. He just cannot. I recall our latest clash… his hands. His words, and the impossibility of his suggestion. I know I am trying to balance on the edge of a knife, giving him all of myself spiritually and mentally, but refusing him the physical aspect. But there is no other way!

"He asks more than I can provide," I whisper, sneering at the shadows.

"Severus…" Arthur presses, keeping his kind demeanour even while increasing the urgency of his demands. "I am aware of the irony of you being told this, but… this is an instance, when the result is worth a lot more than you giving up your morals." I gape at him openly this time. He cannot know… if he tells anybody… it is none of his business…

He reaches out, briefly clasps my shoulder, and quickly retracts his hand. It does help calm me down, though I still cannot grasp how he can ask of me what he asks. He attempts another smile, but it is wan and slips away far too rapidly, showing his uncertainty.

"I would not be strong enough to follow this advice, and that makes me glad that it is you – you, who I can trust…" His eyes implore me to listen, to try and save the Gryffindor Golden Boy… even though there is little Gryffindor and little Golden in the boy left. "Harry has already locked away his conscience and you brought him back to us when he was on the verge of abandoning his humanity."

So I was not the only one to see Potter's decline… I was the only one to do something about it. If I had not, would Arthur have…? Or would he have kept on watching and bear a silent witness to the death of our hope? It is truth, though, that he could never give himself over to the task the way I have – he has a wife and seven children. I have but Potter.

"I…" …do not know what to say. I cannot deny him, especially since I live on a single purpose now, too, and that is Potter. I cannot promise him anything, either. It is wrong.

This entire fucking world is wrong.

"Whatever you decide to do," Arthur says when it is apparent that I do not have an answer for him, "you have my support. Even if it backfires, even if members of my family turn on you, you have my support." Arthur was never good at Occlumency; he is a projecting kind of person. While I do not often abuse my skills, it is hard to ignore the eldest Weasley's thoughts when they saturate the atmosphere. Sometimes I almost think he does it on purpose… Right now I get from him an overwhelming desire to help and sadness (which is also clearly visible in his eyes). There is nothing he can offer Potter or me except for that abstract support.

He risks clasping my shoulder again, and I feel a startling lack of crossness at the invasion of my personal space. I give him an empty nod and walk away, safe in the knowledge that Potter is going to be left alone wherever he is, but also in doubts about my decisions regarding the boy.

When the door to my quarters is reliably locked behind me, I finally allow myself to relax. I shrug off my cloak and my robe, pretending not to notice when the latter slips off the rack and crumples on the floor, and sink onto the sofa. I pour myself a glass of mineral water from the bottle on the desk (it was not worth the trouble to call a house elf to take it away yesterday), and let my mind wander.

I wonder how many people truly realise what a unique man Arthur Weasley is. He is so quiet, so inconspicuous in a Pinkerton way, so odd with so many little quirks that people tend to think of him as harmless, a comic relief. But behind those blue eyes, there is a keen mind, a kind, accepting personality and a character with strength paralleled by few…

x

Days pass and members of the Order of the Phoenix are running around in panic, oftentimes ignoring the real issues in favour of hyperventilating over Potter's absence. The two eldest Weasley sons have yet to resurface as well, which calms down one half and further agitates the other.

I, once again, find myself in a rather singular position. William and Charles are good men, but I do not feel any kind of attachment to either of them past them being my former students, which means… more or less nothing. Potter, on the other hand, has left behind a black hole constantly present in the room. For months he has been the centre my life revolved around and now he is… not there. I feel like I am floating, somehow suspended in mid-air, absently watching the life go on around me but not affect me.

Dumbledore does not deign to give me a task in all this madness; Minerva avoids me; Lupin has lost his head and everyone else is sinking in a sea of things to do when they do not contemplate Potter's fate. Pondering the Boy Who Lived suddenly takes a lot of time for some people. How quaint – especially considering that as long as he actually was here, no one bothered to cast a second glance his way.

Such is the life of heroes – and the boy knew it long before I have realised it for myself. I wish now I could have seen through the glamour earlier. Perhaps… perhaps he would not have run… fled… he would have fought on, not decided to bargain…

These feelings of guilt are nothing new, but the sobriety while I am trying to deal with them is. I know now how he is going to feel when (if) he kills the dark Lord. He will be suspended… separated from everyone by an invisible wall of indifference…

What if he does not come back? We are going to need… I do not know. Are we going to have a chance, or is hope going to die with him, as if he was some kind of mystical anchor? Are the wizards and witches going to be as stupid as to give up if news reach them that the Boy Who Lived, the Golden Child, the scrawny underfed depressive twisted tragic creature is not there to shield them with his twelve pairs of pathetically protruding ribs?

I alternately feel like crying and screaming and destroying fragile objects. I do not, of course, but there is the irrational tiny urge… I need to find something to occupy myself with.