They were working the students and themselves even more mercilessly, realizing that they were headed for a clash with the Dark Lord himself, and its prospect was not comfortably distant in the future. Poppy had him constantly brewing Dreamless Sleep, Lionheart, and Calming Potions. It was now Valentine's Day and every seventh year had been in the infirmary at least once since New Year for some treatment or another for breaking under the strain of the burden placed upon them, and the knowledge that they would be in the thick of the war in just a few short months. Never before had there been such a horrific expectation placed upon such young shoulders: not even during Voldemort's first rise.
Their somewhat guerilla-like tactics had accounted for four more Death Eaters this year so far, though they were all merely in the ranks of Death Eaters. Draco and Ron were furiously at work on the Lestranges and Lucius, and Percy Weasley had begun to take a role similar to Draco's with Mad-Eye Moody to snare Voldemort's top man, Wormtail. "Since," he had said with an ironic tone, "I know him, in a way. I owned the man as Scabbers, after all."
However, word of their resistance had apparently reached Logan Gwalch's ears at the Ministry. He had positively demanded that Dumbledore come and account for the actions of those at Hogwarts. He wasn't too worried--Dumbledore, for all his being Sorted into Gryffindor, had developed quite a devious streak over the years and could quite easily confound the Ministry.
He and Hermione were at work in the staff room on some new Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons based upon observations from their spying forays. She looked at him, bleary smudges of exhaustion obvious under her eyes, and he knew he looked the same. They all did. At this pace, they might not have to worry about Voldemort. They'd kill themselves with exhaustion and stress.
"Not a very romantic Valentine's, is it?" she asked calmly, looking up from furiously scribbling notes, giving him a ghost of a smile. "I seem to recall back in the day when you'd catch couples sneaking kisses in the corridors and alcoves and take points left and right on this day."
He gave her a slight smile. "I seem to recall you referring to it as a 'damned wretched holiday' once." He remembered finding her huddled by the suit of armor all too well. So long ago, it seemed. They had all changed so much since then.
"You actually remember that?" she groaned. "You never did tell me why you covered for me. I always did wonder." Why a dark-hearted bastard would help you? Of course you'd wonder.
"Because," he said shortly, "Sirius Black did the same to me when I was at school."
She looked at him without pity, which he would have resented anyhow. But there was the beauty of empathy and understanding in her eyes, which had a sweetness that still amazed him. "I see." With that, she left it as was, which was the wisest thing she could have done.
"It's so strange," she spoke a few minutes later. "It's so different from even just a few years ago, Severus. Last week at the Quidditch game nobody seemed to care, not even the players. Nobody cared about the holidays, or house points. I--I know things like that are trivial in the face of what's out there, but for God's sake. They're children, and we're forcing the burden of an adult and more on them, even the youngest ones."
"I haven't had to take points in three weeks," he said quietly. "They're all so frightened that it doesn't even occur to them to misbehave, and they treat every answer in class as though it could be the key to saving their life and are all too eager to learn it."
"It could save their lives," she agreed, "but…this may sound a little mawkish, I know. The heart's still beating, but it's like the very soul of Hogwarts has fled, and we're just a mere shade of what we're meant to be. You see nothing of what should be here. There's none of the games, the laughter, the scuffles, the thinking that a romantic breakup is the end of the world. There's life to us: we're breathing, Severus, we're still moving, thinking, speaking. But are we really alive right now, or just existing?"
"That," he said wearily, "answers itself quite neatly. I believe that's why one of the Yanks had a general who said that war is hell."
"Sherman," she replied. "How do you know Muggle history?" she inquired, glancing up at him, brown eyes guileless.
As usual, when she inquired about his past, he neatly diverted the conversation. He wasn't quite ready to tell her about his entire past. He was sure she, of all people, wouldn't hold his nationality or his Muggle birth against him, but he still wasn't sure if he wanted to reveal how he had sold himself, everything he was, in fruitless attempts to try to fit in. Changed his name and history to fit into Slytherin, changed his attitude and beliefs to become a Death Eater. His entire history had been that of a chameleon, always altering his colors, and to a Gryffindor such as her, to whom truth to one's self was paramount; he was still a little too shy of ruining her regard for him by revealing all. "Oh, I learn things here and there," he shrugged.
He found his eyes lingering upon her, wondering if perhaps given the chance, she would have said at Christmas that she did care for him. He knew deep in his heart that he had no right to love her, to have her love him in return, in a time such as this when either of them could die so easily and leave the other bereft. It was the opening of a much bigger vulnerability than the trust of love itself, and one he was not willing to subject her to right now. He cared far too much for her to have her run that risk. Before the Weasley attacks, it had been different: the crisis of the war had still seemed quite far away.
Anyhow, he had taken the first step and asked. The next step, if ever there was to be one, had to made by her. He was almost certain that she had been ready that night to say, "Yes". But now there was nothing to be done by him pushing the issue; it was worse than worthless if it wasn't her desire. But the most foolish seed of hope had crept into his heart and taken root there; he dared dream of a possible future for them after the war.
Minerva came in just about then and sat down on the sofa, looking exhausted, Murdoch jumping up beside her and laying his muzzle on her knee. Dinnae fash, lass, he said consolingly. Ye've done a fine job this year with them. Come what may, ye can be proud. He smiled a little in spite of himself.
They heard her faintly murmur, "Thank you," and idly pet him. She still didn't know about their Animagus abilities or spying--Dumbledore intended to inform her himself soon, as she was his right hand in the resistance and thus needed to be privy to such things in case of the worst.
Hermione resumed work on the next week's lesson plan, the teachers having completely abandoned their planned syllabi since the events of Christmas and making up their lessons to fit the new situation. He turned himself to pondering whether it was of more use to teach them the Wound Healing Potion or the Draig Galon next week.
Draco came in, teeth chattering and cheeks reddened from caring for the animals outdoors in the stable, and gratefully drinking a hot mug of coffee. He handed his dripping cloak and Slytherin scarf to the coat stand that had shuffled over towards him and extended wooden limbs to take the proffered items. It them shuffled back towards the fire and stayed there to let his things dry.
The Weasleys and Harry had applied themselves to helping out however they could at Hogwarts, often adding help by helping see to the multitude of students' well-being while the teachers were wracking their brains trying to cram every bit of helpful information into a lesson plan. Snape could sense Harry's embarrassment that it was Hermione and not his own self that was teaching in Defense Against the Dark Arts. The truth was, though, that Harry hadn't encountered the Dark since his days at school, and she had, and with much greater regularity than he had as well. Still, it was a bit uncomfortable that their principle warrior, as it were, was in the backseat. Harry accepted it with grace, though, which surprised him a little.
As evening shadows began to fall, they heard a commotion outside by the front doors of Hogwarts, a shouting and pounding on the doors. Minerva looked puzzled and went to the window overlooking the entrance and leaned down.
"Who is that?" she called. He couldn't make out the reply, but obviously he was approved, for she sent Draco to show him up to the staff room.
"Who was it?" Hermione asked, rising to her feet. Minerva shook her head, seeming unable to speak. He remembered that look on a thousand other faces and dreaded what he sensed was coming.
It was only a minute before Draco came back, and on his heels was a young man that he recognized as former Hufflepuff Jacob Rhys, who had graduated a year ahead of Hermione. He was dressed in the official white robes of the Ministry, and stood before the fire dripping. He muttered a Drying Charm and turned to them, eyes wide and frightened. "I've come from London. I…I'm afraid I have bad news. Headmaster Dumbledore has been killed."