A/N: Remember, Harry = Hadrian and Hermione = Helena
As promised, I am continuing with this story. Thank you for continuing with it, too. As always, I appreciate your feedback. Many parts of the last scene in this chapter are likely to sound familiar, as they come from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, chapter 33. Sections taken from DH are marked with an *.
Late on Friday night, Snape appeared before the gates of Hogwarts and began walking—or more accurately, staggering—towards the castle. It was his first return to the castle since his departure on Wednesday afternoon, and while he had not by any means felt cheerful on that occasion, his current mood was immeasurably more somber. He had just come from a meeting with the Dark Lord, and he urgently needed to see Dumbledore.
Snape was shaking badly by the time he reached the headmaster's office, and he did not wait for an invitation before collapsing into the armchair in front of the desk. He had one small shred of luck: despite the late hour, it was apparent that Dumbledore had not yet retired for the night, so there was no need to wake him.
"Severus? Are you all right, dear boy? Does he suspect you?" Dumbledore questioned as he approached, noting the man's unusual pallor as well as the tell-tale shaking of his limbs, and particularly worried to see Severus return from a meeting notably damaged so soon after the last time.
"He was… displeased that I could not offer him definite information on where you are hiding the boy," Snape replied to the last question, ignoring the others. "I told him that you seemed worried that the boy will soon grow restless, as we agreed—showed him the conversation we had for that purpose—but it was not enough to satisfy him. I will need to give him something tangible soon."
Dumbledore frowned and would have spoken, but Severus forestalled him.
"I have far graver news than that, I'm afraid. He has decided that his greatest obstacle to success—and to defeating the boy—is you."
At this Dumbledore smiled slightly, though his eyes remained somber.
"To that end…" Severus swallowed, and when he continued his voice shook—something the headmaster could only remember having heard on three previous occasions, all of them many years in the past. "To that end the Dark Lord has ordered your murder." He looked up, eyes bleak, fear and sorrow evident on his face in a rare moment of openness.
"I see." While serious, Dumbledore's voice was calm, and his slight smile remained. It steadied Snape very slightly. "Has he yet assigned anyone to the task?"
Snape bowed his head, pain evident in his voice as he whispered, "Draco Malfoy."
The headmaster raised his eyebrows. "Surely he does not expect the boy to be successful?"
"No. He is angry at Lucius for his failure at the Ministry, and seeks to extract vengeance on the son—though I doubt Draco will see that. The boy is so eager to prove himself…" Snape drifted off, wondering if there was anything he could have done to save the boy, and fearing that it was far too late. Yet another failure to chalk up to his account.
Snape closed his eyes, attempting unsuccessfully to compose himself.
"Severus?" Dumbledore questioned, his concern rising. "Severus, truly you seem quite unwell. How long did he hold you under the Cruciatus?"
"A minute, perhaps two."
"Have you taken a potion?"
"Of course. But we were discussing your murder, not my health."
Dumbledore smiled lightly. "I do, of course, appreciate the information. But I must think on how to proceed, as I'm sure you realize. At the moment, it is your health that most immediately concerns me."
"I do not require coddling, Albus," came the stiff response.
"Will you at least rest in the castle overnight, so that I may satisfy myself as to your continued good health come morning?"
"I'm afraid I can't," Severus responded, realizing with embarrassment that he must be more rattled than he thought to have failed to report this last bit of information. "The Dark Lord has assigned Wormtail as my 'assistant' for the summer, to stay with me on Spinner's End. He's to arrive in the morning, and I must be there when he arrives."
Dumbledore frowned at this. Snape inwardly winced, realizing that this omission was likely to
trouble the headmaster as much for what it implied revealed about Severus's health and state of mind, that he had not remembered to report this earlier, as for what it implied about Voldemort's distrust of him.
His face still troubled, Dumbledore crossed to a cupboard and rummaged within, emerging with a pair of matched paperweights carved from what appeared to be onyx. Upon returning, Dumbledore placed them on the desk and frowned down at Severus once more.
"If you would do me the favor of remaining in that chair for a few minutes longer, Severus, it would be most helpful."
Snape nodded and closed his eyes, grateful for the momentary respite. Dumbledore brandished his wand and began chanting, his gestures encompassing both Snape and the two paperweights. Snape drifted into unfocused abstraction, aware of the headmaster's spell-casting without absorbing the sense of it, his normal alertness momentarily overpowered by trust and exhaustion.
Some minutes later Dumbledore finished. Snape opened his eyes at the cessation of sound to find the headmaster smiling down at him. Still smiling, Dumbledore handed him one of the paperweights.
In response to Snape's unspoken question, Dumbledore explained. "If Pettigrew is to reside with you, we will need to know when it is safe to communicate. The paperweights are linked, as I'm sure you must realize. They appear to carry standard privacy and anti-scrying wards, as indeed they do, but the important part is a secondary ward I've created. They will both be hot to the touch if there is any entity within hearing or sight range of you capable of comprehending or passing on anything you say, and cool to the touch otherwise."
Snape sighed softly, questioning how tired and shaken he must be to have failed to consider this particular difficulty. Not for the first time, he found himself torn between wondering when Dumbledore had designed such a spell and simple gratitude for his foresight.
"I realized two years ago that animagi are capable of exploiting significant weaknesses in standard protective wards and alarm spells," Dumbledore explained. "The difficulty, of course, is that we wouldn't want most wards to be set off by insects, birds, or ordinary small mammals—but that can be solved by tying the ward to comprehension, rather than humanoid life or the capability of speech. Rather ingenious, if I do say so myself. Though I didn't design it alone… Minerva was most helpful with testing and refining the incantations." Impossibly, his eyes gleamed with something approaching their usual twinkle.
Severus merely nodded, his long fingers closing over the smooth stone.
# # #
If Hadrian and Helena had not been told that Madam O'Malley—now called "mam," reminding them irresistibly of Seamus—had been in Ravenclaw, they would have guessed it upon seeing the ground floor of the cottage. The large sitting room had been furnished as a library, with bookshelves lining the walls, armchairs in the most comfortable corners for reading, a large oak desk, and an even larger oak work table, the last of which had been given over to them for their studies. Helena was frankly enchanted, and only her fondness and concern for Hadrian allowed him to successfully drag her outside for a few hours each afternoon.
The room that ought to have been the dining room was furnished as a small sitting room, with a loveseat and a couple of armchairs grouped around a coffee table. There was no television, but neither of them cared for that—Helena because she would rather read, anyway, and Hadrian because it was one more way in which this house was different from the Dursleys'.
The kitchen was Hadrian's favorite room in the house. It was cheerful and cozy, clean without the sterility of Aunt Petunia's kitchen. They ate their meals at a table tucked against one wall of the kitchen, in view of the white porcelain farmhouse sink and the yellow and white checkered curtains. While far less chaotic than the kitchen at the Burrow, the room gave Hadrian the same feelings of warmth and security.
Their days quickly settled into a rhythm.
Madam O'Malley retired early and slept late, in deference to her ill health, so the teens were left to themselves in the mornings. They quickly settled into a routine, with Hadrian making breakfast for them each morning while Helena planned out their study goals for the day. (She had, of course, drawn up color-coded time tables for both of them on the first morning after they arrived.) Hadrian enjoyed cooking breakfasts that he could eat and share with his newly-adopted sister and dear friend, particularly since she was so obviously impressed by his cooking. It was everything that cooking for the Dursleys had not been, and he was somewhat surprised to realize that he really liked cooking when away from the Dursleys.
They spent the mornings studying at the work table in the library, an hour each on two rotating subjects before lunch. Helena's only concessions to it being the summer holiday were to start work an hour later than was usual for Hogwarts classes and to finish an hour earlier—and she insisted that they study on weekend mornings, as well.
Hadrian groaned a little, but the force of five years of habit ensured his compliance, especially without Ron's counterbalancing resistance. On the occasions when he was tempted to slack off, Helena reminded him that learning these things was essential to maintaining their cover and thus aiding the war effort. Hadrian did reflect with wry amusement that it was just like her to contribute to the war effort with a color-coded study schedule, but he studied with almost the same intensity he had given to his OWLs.
Madam O'Malley cooked lunch for them each day, which they all three ate together. After lunch she tutored them both in the basics of warding—her professional specialty and the one subject in which she tutored them—and then Helena helped Hadrian with Ancient Runes for another hour, since he was finding it difficult to grasp on his own, while their mam retired to her room to rest.
After this came Hadrian's favorite part of the day: the hours they spent outside. On some days they rambled through the woods and over the rolling hills, exploring the countryside near their new home. On alternate days they took their broomsticks to a small valley hidden in the hills, 15 minutes uphill walk from the house and warded for the purpose.
Helena clearly preferred the walking days to the flying days, but she grimly kept to the schedule, both because it was important and because she knew how much it meant to Hadrian. Hadrian enjoyed their afternoons spent wandering around the countryside, but particularly prized the hours spent flying around the enclosed valley. His Comet 290 didn't give him the visceral pleasure of his Firebolt or even his Nimbus 2000, but it was still far superior to the school brooms, and above all else he loved the freedom of being in the air.
They returned home each evening for an early supper, after which the three of them would move to the sitting room and talk for an hour or two, depending on Madam O'Malley's energy. Some nights she would get into esoteric discussions of warding, arithmancy, and charms with Helena, which Hadrian could barely follow. But many nights she told them about her family, or her years at Hogwarts, or her friends from the Order of the Phoenix. Both children loved these stories, and Hadrian especially treasured the stories about Lily. Madam O'Malley seemed to enjoy these evenings as well, as if it eased her to share her stories after so many years of silence, or perhaps there was a comfort in knowing that the people she had loved so much would not be entirely forgotten.
Beneath all the cosmetic changes, each teen knew the other and the other's rhythms so well that they slipped into the pattern of their new life with relative ease. Their changed bodies and identities seemed much less strange when everything around them was equally unknown, and they were quickly becoming accustomed (though they each resented the necessity of washing their hair every day). By the time they had been in Ireland a week, both Hadrian and Helena felt like they'd been there much longer.
# # #
By that Wednesday, Snape was grudgingly beginning to accustom to himself to Wormtail's presence at Spinner's End. He had found that the rat was fond of skulking outside the door to whatever room he happened to inhabit, judging by the constant heat of Dumbledore's paperweight when Snape installed himself in the living room, the kitchen, or the small study at the back of the house. His wards would have registered any spells being used for eavesdropping, but they generally remained quiescent, suggesting that Pettigrew was using his animagus form to spy on him.
Snape had few visitors, and with Dumbledore's paperweight it was a small matter to safeguard his communications with the Order, but the surveillance by the skittering, bootlicking Gryffindor was a source of unending irritation. It was almost enough to make him look forward to the impending arrival of the two brats, and his most pleasant hours those first few days were spent scheming how precisely to use their arrival as an excuse to evict Pettigrew from his home.
With its thick stone walls and unusually heavy wards, Snape's basement potions lab was his one remaining refuge at Spinner's End. As a consequence, he took to spending every possible moment in the converted basement lab, even begging a worn armchair from the Hogwarts house elves (who were delighted to oblige) and installing it in a corner for reading. Unfortunately, the Muggle-built basement was not nearly so well ventilated as the Hogwarts dungeon, and while his spells kept the room brightly lit, the brightness came at the cost of an unnatural glare. Long hours in the basement lab often left him with a nagging headache, but in his considered opinion this was far preferable to the crawling feeling he got from the knowledge that Pettigrew was listening to his every word and movement in other parts of the house.
He had spent most of Wednesday experimenting with variations on the post-Cruciatus nerve-restorative potion, and had settled for the evening with back issues of Potions Weekly that he had not found time to read during the spring term. Around half-past nine, just as Snape was finishing the second issue from March, he was interrupted by the headmaster's patronus.
The silvery phoenix materialized before him, immediately commanding Snape's full attention. As always it spoke in Albus's voice, though now it was so soft and twisted by pain that he hardly recognized it. "Severus—Come quickly—my office—hurt—curse…"
Snape was out of the chair and halfway up the stairs before he knew he was moving, wand gripped tightly in his hand as he ran through the back of the house, out into the garden, and apparated to Hogwarts' gates, which opened as they recognized him and then closed silently behind him as he sprinted uphill towards the castle.
When he reached the headmaster's office, Snape found Dumbledore sagging sideways in the thronelike chair behind the desk, apparently semiconscious. His right hand dangled over the side, blackened and burned.* From the cloak thrown carelessly on the floor and the traces of drying mud and cobwebs near the hem of his robes, it was apparent that Dumbledore had managed to return to the castle after being hurt, incapacitated as he was.
A stream of curses running through his mind, Snape cast a series of diagnostic charms, his face paling as he saw the results.
The cause of Dumbledore's incapacitation was obvious: the gold ring lying atop the desk in front of the headmaster, beside the sword of Gryffindor. It was a large ring by modern standards, heavy gold inset with a black stone, with a chip on one side that looked new. To Severus' eyes the ring looked old; the style of craftsmanship dating to no later than the fifteenth century, and very probably earlier. But even more obvious than its age was the malevolent magic that radiated from it: powerful, dark, and hungry.
Severus was far more familiar with dark magic than most wizards, and had seen a far greater share of dark artifacts than any of his Hogwarts colleagues—with the sole exception of Albus. Such experience had honed his magical sense of such objects, developing his ability to sense nuances and hidden traps. But there was nothing subtle about the ring now, newly sundered from the headmaster's hand. Denied the completion of its domination and destruction, the ring's magic sang with rage fueled by denial and the astringency of unslaked hunger.
Quiescent, he knew, the dark malevolence of the ring would have been far subtler, even enticing to a naïve wizard. But Dumbledore was far from naïve, for all that he loved to play the bumbling fool. Severus did not believe for an instant that Dumbledore had not known of the danger posed by the ring, no matter the wards or illusions placed upon it. No one—not even the Dark Lord—had a more intuitive sense of magic than the headmaster, in Severus' opinion, and such powerful dark magic as the ring contained was nearly impossible to mask completely.
Yet the fact remained that Dumbledore had put on the ring, and while he had escaped its clutches, its curse had clearly taken root. Arriving only now, after the curse had established itself, the appropriate question was almost certainly how much time he would be able to buy the headmaster, as it would be impossible to eradicate.
Recalling himself from his study of the ring and Albus's hand, Snape realized suddenly that he was shaking. He paused a moment to take a steadying breath, hating himself for his weakness, before rushing to the fire and flooing to his dungeon lab.
The headmaster's best hope was an Elixir of Emancipation, a thick golden potion designed to free the body of corrupting external influences, by its nature a counter to dark magics. He had all of its ingredients on hand—even the moonflower blossoms and phoenix crest feathers, thank Merlin—but it could not be stored for longer than a day before losing its potency, so he would have to brew it fresh.
#
When Snape returned to the headmaster's office nearly an hour later with a goblet of the elixir in hand, Dumbledore appeared not to have moved at all, though the blackness had crept further up his right hand. Severus cursed softly under his breath, knowing that moments now might mean days for Albus. Hurrying over to the headmaster, Snape pointed his wand at the man's wrist, incanting powerful spells for slowing and containing dark magics. With his left hand, Snape poured the thick golden potion down the headmaster's throat as he chanted. Powerful as his incantations might be—and Snape was a strong wizard—he knew that without the reinforcement provided by the potion they would be useless. Even with the Elixir of Emancipation he knew the curse could not be undone; but he hoped to contain it, at least for a time.
After a moment or two, Dumbledore's eyelids fluttered and opened.*
"Why," said Snape, without preamble, "why did you put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you realized that. Why even touch it?"*
Dumbledore grimaced.*
"I… was a fool. Sorely tempted…"*
"Tempted by what?"*
Dumbledore did not answer,* and from the set of his lips Snape knew that he would not.
"It is a miracle you managed to return here!"* The stress and terror of the last hour suddenly boiled over into fury, and Snape did not attempt to restrain his ire. "That ring carried a curse of extraordinary power, to contain it is all we can hope for; I have trapped the curse in one hand for the time being—"*
Dumbledore raised his blackened, useless hand, and examined it with the expression of one being shown an interesting curio.*
"You have done very well, Severus. How long do you think I have?"*
Snape struggled with himself, fighting the impulse to press Dumbledore for an explanation of his stupidity. Two things restrained him: the knowledge that he had never once induced Albus to divulge anything he had decided not to divulge; and respect for how much it must be costing the headmaster to speak in such a light, conversational tone.
Finally he responded, "I cannot tell. Maybe a year. There is no halting such a spell forever. It will spread eventually, it is the sort of curse that strengthens over time."*
At this Dumbledore smiled, strained but genuine. "I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you, Severus."*
"If you had only summoned me a little earlier, I might have been able to do more, buy you more time! Did you think that breaking the ring would break the curse?" said Snape furiously. He looked down at the broken ring and the sword.*
Snape did not add, "It was safe to contact me hours ago, and you had the means to be certain of that." He did not ask, "Why did you not summon me before you returned here? Do you not trust me enough?" The words hung in the air between them, unsaid. Yet both men heard them, and moreover each knew that the other heard.
"Something like that… I was delirious, no doubt…" said Dumbledore.* It was a weak apology, and not enough, but Snape heard it and accepted it in silence, knowing it was all the apology he would receive.
With an effort Dumbledore straightened himself in his chair. "Well, really, this makes matters much more straightforward."*
Snape frowned, perplexed. Had the curse affected the old man's mind? Albus would be drained and weak, his stamina reduced, even with regular doses of elixir. And surely he did not think the Dark Lord could be defeated within the year?
Albus smiled again, clearly amused by his perplexity. A certain wry humor subtly colored the headmaster's response, as if he found Severus unusually slow on the uptake. "I refer to the plan Lord Voldemort is revolving around me. His plan to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me."*
Severus sat down heavily in the chair in front of the desk, facing Albus. Logically, he supposed, it was rather obvious—at least once one allowed for the possibility of such a calamity. Which he hadn't. He still didn't want to, for that matter, though tonight's events transformed it from a possibility to an eventuality. Once again his rage at Albus' foolishness this evening boiled over, and he fought to master himself. He could do nothing to change what had happened tonight, and here, perhaps, was an opportunity to plead for Draco.
"The Dark Lord does not expect Draco to succeed. This is merely punishment for Lucius's recent failures. Slow torture for Draco's parents, while they watch him fail and pay the price."*
"In short, the boy has had a death sentence pronounced upon him as surely as I have"* responded Dumbledore, unfazed. "Now, I should have thought the natural successor to the job, once Draco fails, is yourself?"*
So Albus recognized the boy's plight, but had no plans to intervene. Draco might be an object of pity for the headmaster, but not a candidate for rescue or redemption. Silencing the voice in his head (which sounded suspiciously like Albus) observing that Draco seemed utterly uninterested in either rescue or redemption at present, Snape lifted his chin slightly and responded.
"That, I think, is the Dark Lord's plan."*
"Lord Voldemort foresees a moment in the near future when he will not need a spy at Hogwarts?"* Albus pressed him.
"He believes the school will soon be in his grasp, yes."* Trust Albus to have seen all the implications of the Dark Lord's change of target without having them spelled out.
"And if it does fall into his grasp, I have your word that you will do all in you power to protect the students of Hogwarts?"* Albus spoke casually, as if he weren't demanding a promise as all-encompassing as the one Severus had made on that wretched night all those years ago.
Snape gave a stiff nod.* It was a heavy promise, but no less than what he would have done anyway, and far less distasteful than many of the other things Albus had asked of him over the years.
"Good. Now then.* You will have two priorities. The first will be to support and protect your adopted children. You will be well placed to keep them safe and assist them with their role in the war—one of my original reasons for this arrangement, of course—but their cover will be more essential than ever, and you will need to keep Harry from doing anything rash, particularly after I'm gone."
Snape grunted in frustration. "Potter has gone from one appallingly rash escapade to another these past five years, and nothing I've said or done has curbed his foolish risk-taking. Besides, you know well that they only agreed to this arrangement out of trust in you—how can you think I will continue to have any influence over them from the moment you are gone?"
"You must gain their trust, of course." Dumbledore's voice was almost unbearably patient. "By the time I'm gone they must trust you as implicitly as they now trust me. But it was always imperative that you gain their trust for this arrangement to work. In that, this changes nothing, except perhaps your understanding." He did not add and so much to the better, but Severus heard the words nonetheless.
"Now." Dumbledore continued, obviously wishing to forestall further objections. "Your second priority will be to discover what Draco is up to. A frightened teenage boy is a danger to others as well as to himself. Offer him help and guidance, he ought to accept, he likes you—"*
"—much less since his father has lost favor. Draco blames me, he thinks I have usurped Lucius's position."*
"All the same, try. I am concerned less for myself than for accidental victims of whatever schemes might occur to the boy. Ultimately, of course, there is only one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord Voldemort's wrath."*
Snape raised his eyebrows and his tone was sardonic as he asked, "Are you intending to let him kill you?"*
"Certainly not. You must kill me."*
Severus stared, face motionless but inwardly appalled. Albus was, if not a close friend, at least the closest thing he had to one at this point. To watch him deteriorate and die would be painful enough. But to kill him? If not for the intensity of self-loathing and guilt he had carried for so many years, he would not have been able to identify the awful heaviness churning in his gut. Unable to give voice to such feelings, he answered in the only way he knew how.
"Would you like me to do it now?" asked Snape, his voice heavy with irony. "Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?"*
"Oh, not quite yet," said Dumbledore, smiling. "I daresay the moment will present itself in due course. Given what has happened tonight," he indicated his withered hand, "we can be sure that it will happen within a year."*
"If you don't mind dying," said Snape roughly, "why not let Draco do it?"* Let Draco do it, spare Severus this task, please. Not to mention the herculean feat of building enough trust with Potter and Granger to withstand his murdering the headmaster, piling impossibility on top of agony.
"That boy's soul is not yet so damaged," said Dumbledore. "I would not have it ripped apart on my account."*
"And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?"* Was his soul so broken and irredeemable as to not be worth counting? Was the cost to him never to be counted? Was Albus' regard for him still so little, even after so long?
"You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation," said Dumbledore. "I ask this great favor of you, Severus, because death is coming for me as surely as the Chudley Cannons will finish bottom of this year's league. I confess I should prefer a quick, painless exit to the protracted and messy affair it will be if, for instance, Greyback is involved—I hear Voldemort has recruited him? Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to play with her food before she eats it."*
His tone was light,* even gentle to Severus' ears. As much an apology as a plea for mercy, his blue eyes piercing Snape's dark ones in unspoken appeal, as if both seeing his soul and willing him to understand. Severus felt something prickle behind his eyes, and gave another curt nod.*
Dumbledore seemed satisfied.*
"Thank you, Severus…"*
They sat looking at each other for several moments, neither wishing to speak further. Finally, Severus rose, circled the desk to where the headmaster sat, helped the older wizard to stand, and supported him across the office and upstairs to his bed.
