"Depulso!" Even wordless, the spell had been powerful enough to bounce the werewolf off the roof before continuing its rolling, scabbling trajectory down tunnel.

Snape glanced at his arm. While he felt no pain, he had been bitten. "Accio infectious materials!" .

The resultant pink mist, given present company, was unhelpful. "Evanesco!" got rid of it but now his arm was bleeding freely enough to be a challenge even without the hairy problem that he could hear righting itself around a bend in the tunnel. The growling sounded most put out.

Possible cursed wound, he thought. Magic applied directly to the body risked feeding it. Muggle methods then, magically applied. "Brachiabindo!" At the last moment he had to divert the spell. Lupin thumped to the ground, glaring cross-eyedly at his now tightly bound maw. Razor clawed paws came up to free it. Damned fool will take his face off, thought Snape, exasperated, as he reapplied the bandaging spell.

Lupin then tried to use his rear paws.

When all that could be seen of the creature was its nose, the tip of one ear and a tufted tail, Snape got to his feet. Breathing and heart rate slowing, he addressed the lacerations to his arm. While much the worse for the removal of saliva, blood and flesh caused by summoning charm, they should no longer be infected. On the ground, Lupin emitted an aggrieved whine. Wrapped claws padded ineffectually at his muzzle. On consideration, Snape decided that the wolf was considerably larger than the boy: reversion at moonset wouldn't be a problem. Snape leviosad him back into the shack and shut the door. He'd reached the tunnel entrance below the tree before it occurred to him to wonder why he had not given his childhood nemesis a good kicking and then answered that question: because he's a student. He stopped dead. In the light from the tunnel entrance he took in his own threadbare, mended and too small school uniform and realised he'd seen no Dark Mark. Fingers reached up to probe his woundless throat. He'd been bitten by Nagini, hadn't he?

He had answered the Dark Lord's summons only to find the dream team, in the very same room, hiding behind crates. He could only ascribe his being aware of them while his "Master" was not to his position as Headmaster of Hogwarts as well as the mage sight that had only become stronger as his physical health had burned up in the last dreadful year. That and the other's swiftly mounting insanity. And so, knowing the brat's insatiable curiosity would keep him until the Dark Lord had gone, he had pleaded to be allowed to look for Potter. When, finally, He had departed, Snape had been able to pass on his fatal message before himself feigning death.

Thirteen different antivenins, a cornucopia of antidotes, explosives and poisons (minus the four or five he had administered to Nagini via a healer's spell, which would, if nothing else, slow her down): even if his wandwork was compromised by injury, he was well equipped and determined to protect the school and the children in his charge. Of those who had boarded the train, he hadn't lost one yet. Because Narcissa had owed him a favour even Miss Lovegood, if not comfortable, had been fairly well treated. He was stagger-creeping along the tunnel when Minerva had reached for the wards.

Even against all four Heads of House he could have held onto them. Hogwarts still favoured him but, with battle in prospect, the defenders should not be second guessing themselves. And so, he had relinquished his hold only to find himself trapped in them, unable to advance or retreat, blood and magic bleeding out in darkness.

'Deal with what's in front of you,' he reminded himself. Jabbing the heel of his wand into the knot in the Whomping Willow, he climbed out of the hole. Stars blazed above. Dew sparkled on grass. Great swathes of light from the castle were too bright to look at. He cancelled the 'Bright Eyes' spell. Mundane if exceptional night vision setting in, he headed back towards the castle.

Perhaps, he mused, he was dreaming.

Perhaps he was dead and dreaming, his animated corpse lurching across the Hogwarts lawns, mindless and entirely too ready to take a piece out of anything it encountered. There was a reason that, in many parts of the world, former potioneers were burned (very carefully,) rather than buried.

He decided not to think about that.

Avoiding the usual entrances, he slid ghostlike among the greenhouses, through the wicket gate and down the hill into the shadow of a buttress. With or without the password, the old sally port wouldn't open to just anyone. His face resting against the cold stone he thought: 'I am here. Let me in,' and waited until there was a shift and a narrow door opened before him.

A strong smell of onions and earthy potatoes greeted him. The passage opened onto the landing of hidden staircase in a part of Hogwarts generally overseen by elves. Opposite, on this level, were mostly storerooms. Stairs led upward to the kitchens. He chose down, descending quietly to a platform overlooking a natural hollow, the aftermath of volcanic events that had shaped the landscape eons ago. Below, in the torch lit gloom of the cavern, the Hogwarts baggage train slept on its narrow-gauge tracks. Beyond the train, the tunnel to the terminus at Hogsmeade stretched down into its long catenary far beneath the ground. Magic and Saint Elmo's fire crawled along and across the cavern's walls, flaring off at times like lightening to the echoing sound of thunder: the extreme degree of Hogwarts's disturbance made manifest.

Something big was coming, something critical. And yet, as he watched, energy levels were dropping away which argued that, despite the castle and grounds seeming entirely normal from the outside, that something had already happened. Warily, he made his way down the many steps to the ground.

With his back against the wall and thoughts cleared, he waited for inspiration: to know where he was supposed to go or, perhaps, not to be. The instinct had grown with his mage sight but now, amidst this violent magical confusion, nothing was coming to him. Stubbornly, he forced himself upright. Black's whole story had probably been lies. Or, perhaps, only a part of it.

To one side, openings held contraptions more glorified dumb waiter than lift. Stumbling into one of them, he braced himself against bruised woodwork and said: 'Gryffindor Common. Take it up.' There was an odd, grinding noise as the lift was swallowed, mainly upwards, by a sort of stony peristalsis. Light and sound broke from above him and he found himself in a niche off the Gryffindor common room. Unobserved due to a spell similar to that hiding platform nine and three quarters, he looked around.

She was over by the window. Laughing. Sprawling comfortably, surrounded by brightness, books and friends.

Safe.

For now.

He became aware of the silence.

Somehow, only the table with its burden of homework stood between them. She looked up but he didn't need Legilimancy to read those thoughts. 'Oh no. What dreadfully embarrassing thing is he doing now?' was written clearly upon her face, mixed with concern. Because they were still friends. He opened his mouth and closed it. Somewhere there were words.

'Severus?'

Under miles of blue-green ice was a desire to cry that had nothing at all to do with him. He swallowed. 'I just wanted to know that you were safe,' he told her.

'And why shouldn't she be safe?'

Slowly, wary of his own momentum, he turned to look at a girl sitting just along the table: Mary McDonald.

'Because James Potter has Amortensia?' he said.

'Don't be so bloody daft. Don't you think we might notice something like that?'

'Are you with her every minute of every day? He asked. 'It wouldn't have to be for long.'

'Look,' came from beside him. 'Those boys might be toe rags but even they wouldn't do something like what you appear to be suggesting. Just what are you saying, Snape?' Again, he turned, this time to face a Gryffindor Prefect: all shiny badge and reminding him more than a little of Percy Weasley.

'Lèse-majesté,' he explained. 'She disrespected them. Punishment would be in order.' A pertinent detail surfaced from his capacious memory. 'Halliday, what do you think happened to your project?'

'What?'

'Little copper and brass spotty cat thing? Charmed to hunt down whatever you'd mislaid? I think Pettigrew had it.'

The prefect stormed off in the direction of the boys' dorms. As screaming began to be heard from the stairwell, he found himself smiling. Lily looked as though she didn't know what to think. She had been such a beautiful child.

She still was a beautiful child and he was sworn to protect children. 'Oi, Snape. You're bleeding.' He turned. 'Your arm, man. You're bleeding.'

He raised his left arm. Sodden cloth flapped down to reveal that he had bled right through the bandaging some time ago. 'Oh,' he said. 'Red.' And then: 'Whoever would have guessed?'

For his cheek, the table came up and slapped him.

Despite all the racket going on overhead, it was peaceful down on the floor. His eyes closed.