Disclaimer: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Albus Dumbledore, and all related characters, ideas, and materials belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

Author's Notes: This story is connected—if loosely—to my fanfic "Warmth of Crimson, Chill of Emerald." It's the first in a planned series of related stories in what I think of as a "fic web" or story arc. They will all be connected in some way, but won't necessarily all be set in the same universe, and won't all be sequels or prequels of one another, if that makes sense. A timeline in my author profile (updated with each fic addition) shows how the stories line up with one another chronologically.

Like other stories in the fic web, "The Emerald Mark" can connect with the rest of the web in a number of ways. You could consider it an AU sequel to the flashback events in "Warmth of Crimson, Chill of Emerald" (and assume "Pride of Lions" and other stories set after "The Emerald Mark" just don't have the backstory set out in this fic). Alternatively, you can consider "The Emerald Mark" a true sequel to the events in "Warmth of Crimson, Chill of Emerald," and a true prequel to any (or all) subsequent stories. That's the point of the fic web: I'll write the stories, and you, the readers, can pick and choose which ones you'd like to line up. It's like a "choose your own adventure" story, only you're choosing Minerva's. ;)

Regardless, I hope you enjoy reading. If you do—or even if you don't—feedback is more than welcome.

[July 9, 2003: Please note that chapter one has been edited in order to be consistent with new details revealed in "Order of the Phoenix."]

The Emerald Mark

Chapter One

* * *

An insistent knocking upon Minerva McGonagall's door woke her from a sound sleep. She sighed as she climbed out of bed, put on her spectacles, and pulled her tartan robe about her hastily. Times being what they were, late-night callers were never bearers of good news. Cold tentacles of fear snaked their way outwards from her stomach as she crossed the front room of her apartment and pulled open the door. Her hand flew to her throat in trepidation when she saw Albus Dumbledore standing there in his grey woollen night-shirt and violet cloak, looking grave. Minerva did not waste time on pleasantries. After all, she knew why he was here and what was the matter; she simply lacked the specific details of this particular visit.

Albus also did not bother with polite conversation. "I have need of you, Minerva," he said quietly, sounding tired.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Minerva breathed, reaching automatically to her sleeve for her wand, though it was currently in its customary nighttime place under her pillow. "Is someone hurt? Are we under attack? What can I do?"

He raised a wrinkled hand to stop her questions. "It's nothing so serious as an attack, my dear."

"Oh, thank heavens," she whispered, willing her heart to stop pounding so loudly in her ears. Concerned again, she looked at him over her spectacles. "What is it, then?"

Albus frowned behind his beard. "I have a wounded wildcat in my office," he replied slowly, his eyes regaining a bit of their customary sparkle.

"A wildcat." Minerva arched an eyebrow. "Why on earth did you not take it to Poppy, or Kettleburn, or even Hagrid?"

"Well…" The headmaster gave her a piercing look. "You've been a cat. You'll understand him better than anyone else."

Minerva shook her head in confusion, causing her hairnet to waggle back and forth behind her. "Him?"

Albus smiled. "You see, it's--"

The knocking resumed, and Minerva glared at the door over Albus' shoulder for daring to interrupt him. She blinked, for suddenly the headmaster was gone. She peered about, perplexed, but the room was empty save for herself and the steady "rap, rap, rap-rap-rap-rap!" upon the door.

Rap-rap-rap-rap! Minerva awoke with a gasp and sat bolt upright in bed. She wished she hadn't immediately as her head started to pound a counterpoint to the infernal knocking. Her hand went up to cradle her forehead, and Minerva sighed.

"Fucking Sibyll," she whispered, knowing full well the gaudy fraud in the north tower wouldn't recognise a true dream if it kicked her on the arse. It wasn't Trelawney's fault Minerva had the Sight, of course, but in the middle of a dark, stormy night with the aftermath of the dream making Minerva feel as though a parade of hippogriffs were stampeding through her skull, it was easy—and oddly satisfying—to blame her.

Minerva sighed again as she fumbled for her spectacles on the bedside table and put them on. Perhaps it wasn't a true dream at all, she thought, standing and pulling on her tartan robe. More likely it was just a combination of the rain tapping loudly against the windowpanes and the thunder booming that sounded like knocking. As for the disturbing dream and the headache, well, she knew better than to have a third glass of Ogden's Old Firewhisky before bed. She had just chosen to ignore that knowledge tonight after hearing about the Bones family. Regardless, a cup of tea before the fire would help, since sleep was apparently out of the question for the time being.

Rap! Rap-rap-rap! There it was again! Minerva paused on her way to the kitchen, a feeling of foreboding causing gooseflesh to prickle along her arms. She gave the door her sternest glare over the top of her spectacles, willing her dream not to be true. It couldn't be good news this time of night. Pressing her lips together tightly, she strode to the door and pulled it open, mid-knock.

"What is it, Albus?" she asked crossly. "I—oh, Jesus!"

He stood in her doorway, not Albus at all, but a thin, dirty, and thoroughly soaked young man glaring at her behind a curtain of limp, wet hair. He lowered his hand, still poised to knock. "Jesus?" He gave a sardonic smile and gestured to himself. "I think not. Perhaps Judas or even Satan, but certainly not the good Lord himself."

Minerva resisted a strong urge to shut the door in his face. Severus Snape had never been her favourite student, and appearing at her door in the wee hours of the morning was not a good way to curry favour. In fact, she briefly considered taking points from Slytherin even though he had finished at Hogwarts nearly three years ago.

"Snape." She wanted to tell him to go away, but curiosity won out. "What on earth are you doing here?"

He pointedly looked past her shoulder into the living room rather than answering. Minerva sighed and stepped aside. "Yes, come in."

Snape gave a mocking half-bow and swept into the room, though the grandness of the gesture was somewhat diminished by the fact that his muddy boots squelched with every step. Minerva winced to see large clumps of dirt, bits of vegetation, and puddles of filthy water tracked onto her antique rugs. "Make yourself comfortable," she said, resigned to casting at least forty cleansing charms tomorrow. "Tea?"

"Ah…no," he replied, looking surprised. "Thank you." It was clearly an afterthought.

Minerva shrugged and headed for the kitchen anyway. "Suit yourself," she called over her shoulder. "I refuse to even contemplate why you are here before I have a cup."

She returned moments later with a tray bearing a small green teapot painted with thistles, two matching cups and saucers, and a bottle of Ogden's best. Snape, having apparently dried himself somewhat either with a charm or by the fire, was seated in her armchair, staring at the floor. He looked up as she took a seat on the davenport and set the tray on the coffee table. "I said I did not want tea."

Minerva poured both cups and added a generous dollop of whisky to each. After looking closely at him, she added a bit more. "You're having tea."

"I'm not." He glared.

Minerva set her jaw, peered over her spectacles, and gave him the look she usually reserved for misbehaving students as she extended the cup. "Yes. You. Are."

Snape's eyes widened, and he hastily reached out a pale hand to take the proffered cup and saucer. Minerva smirked and took a long swig of her own.

"Your tea things are hideous," he said, sounding amused.

"They're Scottish."

"I see."

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping and giving one another sidelong glances. Looking at Snape closely, Minerva saw he was not only filthy, but also injured. He had a bruise splashing violet along one pale cheekbone, dried blood below his rather enormous nose, and what looked like the beginnings of a black eye. He was quite clearly in bad shape, and his hands shook so violently his teacup rattled against the saucer. He caught Minerva looking and clenched the porcelain more tightly.

At last, Minerva set her cup and saucer on the table. "All right," she said sternly, raising an eyebrow. "Would you care to tell me, Mister Snape, why you have come calling at--" she sneaked a glance at the grandfather clock, "--half-past three in the morning?"

Snape peered at her through locks of greasy hair and shrugged insolently. "I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I said I merely wanted to visit a favourite professor?"

Minerva snorted. "I should think not." The young whippersnapper had made no secret of the fact that he loathed her—along with every other Gryffindor at Hogwarts, the headmaster himself included—during his last few years at school.

He shrugged again. "Very well." Raising his head, he looked straight at Minerva, his black eyes flat and dead and empty. "I…" he took a deep breath. "I've come to surrender myself."

She blinked, trying to ignore the terrible suspicion coiling like a dark snake in the back of her mind. "Surrender yourself?" she repeated carefully. "Whatever for?"

Snape's mouth twisted in a warped, bitter smile. "You have no idea, Professor? What crime could possibly be so terrible that a former student comes to turn himself in?" He set his cup and saucer on the table, leant forward, and yanked up the left sleeve of his black robes. He shoved his bared left forearm towards her, the familiar skull-and-serpent burning ebony against his sallow skin.

Minerva looked, nodded curtly, and reached for her teacup to take a sip.

Snape withdrew his arm and slumped back in his chair, folding his arms tightly across his chest. "I am a Death Eater," he said tonelessly. "Go tell the headmaster and have me taken to Azkaban. I'll wait here."

After setting her cup back down, Minerva looked curiously at him. "Why didn't you tell the headmaster yourself? If you were already here, you could've gone to his quarters as easily as mine."

Snape arched an eyebrow as if the answer should be obvious. "Because the headmaster would care. You…don't."

Minerva frowned, stung. "What do you mean, I don't care? You're a former student, how could I not?"

His mouth twisted again. "A former student, yes, but not a Gryffindor. It would be horribly disappointing if one of Hogwarts' golden children turned out to be a Death Eater. But a lowly, slimy, sneaky Slytherin? It's only to be expected." He spat the last word out as if it were poison and then withdrew into himself again, hugging his arms to his chest as though he feared he would shatter.

Minerva's heart wrenched painfully as she looked at him, heard him, but did not see him. Instead of the ugly, awkward young man before her, she saw and heard a handsome boy, equally dark of hair and eye. Forty years before he had sat with her on a rainy night by firelight.

"Gryffindors have it so simple," he'd said. "Dippet favours you, Dumbledore favours you…Even the Ministry favours the Gryffindors! You get extra points, and any act of bravery, no matter how imbecilic, is rewarded. You're Hogwarts' golden house. Everyone wants to be in Gryffindor, but everyone hates Slytherin. The slimy ones are in Slytherin. The weak cowards. The sneaky ones no one else wants."

She pulled herself back to the present with an effort and took a long, slow, calming sip of tea, relishing the biting heat of the whisky at the back of her throat. "Sna—Severus," she said at last, quietly. "I do care. Very much."

He snorted—an impressive noise, coming from a nose that size. His voice was sharp, laced with disbelief. "Why? Because it's required for noble Gryffindors to take pity on the wretched?"

"Because…" Minerva took a deep breath and set down her cup, knowing the time for her penance had come. "Because I understand." She forced herself to lift her chin and look directly at him as she spoke.

Snape stared at her for a moment and then barked a mirthless laugh. "You…understand." A black brow quirked at her as he continued sarcastically. "Professor Minerva McGonagall, Gryffindor to the core, understands one Severus Snape, lowly Slytherin and Death Eater." He laughed again and hunched further into himself. "Don't patronise me, Professor. How could you possibly understand what it is to be a Slytherin, let alone a Death Eater?"

In answer, Minerva rolled up the left sleeve of her robe, baring her pale wrist and forearm. She then slowly extended her arm over the table, arching her wrist backward to best display the mark upon her skin.

Snape gasped, and one long hand snaked out and grasped her wrist as he leaned down for a closer inspection. Minerva winced at his chill touch, but bore his scrutiny in silence.

He looked up at last and raised an eyebrow, though disbelief and dawning comprehension warred for dominance in his eyes. "You have…a tattoo…of the Dark Mark." There was a note of questioning in his voice, though he clearly strove to quell it.

Minerva smiled blandly, feigning indifference. "What makes you say that?" She knew, of course. But then, she was a master at chess and knew also this game had to be spun out play by excruciating play.

"It's green." His black eyes searched her face desperately. "The Mark is black. It's always black. Except…"

"Except for the Dark Lord's own. Yes." Minerva gently withdrew her arm from his grasp and pulled it to her chest, cradling it beneath her breasts as she repeatedly ran the fingers of her right hand over the mark.

"Tell me, Severus," she murmured after a moment, tracing the crest of the skull as the threads of silence stretched taught between them, "what do you know about the history of the Death Eaters?"

He took a drink of his tea before replying, the movement causing the cup to rattle loudly above the incessant patter of raindrops against the window. "He started gathering followers at school." Snape's answer was whispered, shaky. "His name was Tom Riddle, but to them, he was—" he cleared his throat, "—Lord Voldemort."

Minerva looked up when no more information was forthcoming, and Snape shrugged a thin shoulder. "That's all I know, other than that he's been seducing—or coercing—people to his side, ever since." He raised an eyebrow. "I assume you know what his beliefs are, or would you like me to explain those, as well?"

Minerva shook her head, setting her hairnet waggling again. She tore her gaze from the verdant mark upon her arm in order to meet his eyes.

"He was a boy named Tom Marvolo Riddle. Re-arranged, the letters spell the words 'I am Lord Voldemort,'" she said quietly. "It started out as a joke, of sorts. He hated Muggles, hated his Muggle father—Tom Riddle—most of all. And he hated the Marvolos, his mother's side, almost as much for abandoning him. And so…" she shrugged. "He created a new name for himself."

Snape raised an eyebrow again, the corner of his mouth twisting in what might have been bitter amusement. "I should say he did."

Minerva continued as if she hadn't heard him. "He was a charming, handsome boy. Always tall for his age, and thin, with dark eyes and beautiful pianist's hands… Much like yours, as a matter of fact."

Snape's hands balled into fists against his thighs at that. Unable to watch him any longer, Minerva turned and looked into the flame, conjuring his face in the ephemeral play of light and shadow. "He was brilliant, too. One of the brightest and most powerful wizards ever to attend Hogwarts. He was Head Boy, you know."

She shifted and re-crossed her legs, never once taking her eyes from the memory of Tom's face. She turned quickly, however, when Snape spoke.

"Did you teach him?" His voice, for once, lacked its customary edge.

Minerva was tempted to laugh, but she gave him a stern look over the rim of her spectacles instead. "Precisely how old do you think I am, Snape?" She shook her head, not wanting to give him a chance to answer. "Would it mean anything to you if I told you I attended Hogwarts in the nineteen-forties?"

He stared. "You—Gods! You were at Hogwarts with him."

She smiled, feeling her lips shake at the corners. "In his year, in fact. Head Girl to his Head Boy."

Ignoring his sharp intake of breath, she continued in a whisper. "It was in his—our—fifth year, when he first started calling himself Lord Voldemort to his closest friends. His goal, as he put it then, was to ensure the Muggle and magical worlds would never interact with one another. We needed to be more secret, he said. Wizards and Muggles simply couldn't marry, because such relationships threatened the secrecy of the magical world and made us vulnerable. He said that, no matter how much anyone might wish it to be different, no magical person could ever be accepted in the Muggle world, and no Muggle-born could be truly accepted in the magical world. He said purity of blood was necessary."

Minerva realised she was clutching the Mark tightly and released her arm with an effort. "He made it seem logical. Right, even. As I said, he was persuasive. And so his friends agreed with him. Agreed, some time later, to form a society of like-minded individuals. At Tom's suggestion, they tattooed themselves one night in the Muggle way, but the ink was laced with spells, so that if any of them was in danger, the others' Marks would burn black and they could Apparate instantly to their companion's aid. They tattooed a skull, to remind themselves of the wizards and witches who would be killed if zealous Muggles found out about us, and a serpent in honour of Salazar Slytherin, who realised so very long ago the importance of secrecy and purity of blood."

She stopped and drew a deep, shaking breath. "They tattooed themselves in green ink, to represent the goal of continued life and growth of the wizarding world. Five marked themselves; the original Death Eaters, though they had no such name, then. Tom Marvolo Riddle, called Lord Voldemort that night. Anastasia Lestrange, Frederick Ollivander, and Thomas Wilkes, Slytherins all."

"And Minerva McGonagall, Riddle's Gryffindor girlfriend." Snape's voice severed her reverie like a blade. Minerva nodded, not the least bit surprised. After all, Snape always had been too bright and perceptive for his own good.

"Anastasia married and died giving birth to her son Rodolphus, and Wilkes was killed by Aurors shortly after the fall of Grindelwald," she added. "That's why you've never seen a green Mark before."

"And Ollivander?"

Minerva frowned slightly. "He left the fold before it ever really was a fold. Sometime seventh year, he lost interest in the cause—mostly because he fell in love with a Muggle-born Ravenclaw. Tom decided, since Frederick was heir to the only wand-making business in Britain, he couldn't very well kill him. And so he removed the spells on the Mark, nearly killed Frederick in the process, and let him go."

"But not you." There was a note of question in Snape's tone, tentative, as if he feared to move into the next stage of the game.

"No." Minerva started stroking the Mark again with a fingertip as she spoke. "We quarrelled near the end of our seventh year, when I realised his true goal was not secrecy, but total annihilation of the Muggle world as we know it. He would have them as slaves, research subjects, playthings for pure-blooded wizards. Muggle-born wizards, halfbloods, and Squibs would be treated hardly better." Her blunt fingernails dug deep into her wrist, and she continued with bitterest vehemence. "I had been blinded by his words. By his lies. By him. And so…our friendship ended."

She picked up her cup with surprising steadiness, sipped, and then cradled the cup in her hands as if the faint warmth of the porcelain could remedy the cold, cold betrayal within. Silence fell again as Minerva looked into the cup and saw memories swirling in the liquid like an amber-coloured pensieve.

Tom's face, tilted up towards the sun, his teeth shining white in a smile. A black serpent lying between the tawny paws of an enormous lion. Tom's face again, flushed and wicked as he rested his cheek against her bare thigh. His midnight eyes sparkling with mirth from across the holly-strewn Great Hall as she went to him in robes of deepest green. The serpent rearing up to strike the lion, and Tom's bittersweet, brittle smile when she left his room for the last time…

A light, awkward touch upon Minerva's shoulder made her jump, causing the tea to slosh dangerously. She looked up, blinking away the foolish tears blurring her vision, to see Snape standing beside her.

"You have more right than I," he said in a near-whisper.

Minerva made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "More right to curse myself for my youthful folly? Indeed I do."

He shook his head and folded his tall, gangly frame gingerly onto the davenport beside her. Minerva noted absently, and with some surprise, that his hand still rested tentatively on her shoulder.

Snape cleared his throat, apparently realising where his hand was, and hastily withdrew it. "More right to wear it."

Minerva turned to him sharply, and he raised an eyebrow. "Not that wearing it is good. It's just…" he sighed, looking helpless. "I joined for the wrong reasons."

Minerva wanted to laugh, but she only choked back a sob again. "Oh, indeed, Snape," she said sarcastically, "becoming a Death Eater because one's boyfriend is the Dark Lord is splendid reason."

He shook his head again. "You loved him." It wasn't a question.

She opened her mouth to chastise him for his presumption, but she was too tired, too vulnerable, to protest. Let him take another step across the board. "How did you know?"

Snape looked surprised—perhaps he'd been expecting a denial. He recovered quickly, however, and raised an eyebrow again. "You may understand Slytherins, Professor, but you aren't one. The characteristic subtlety escapes you—you've been caressing the Dark Mark like it's precious."

Minerva flushed, opened her mouth to deny it, and clasped her hands tighter around the teacup. Snape smirked.

"Secondly, I've wondered for years why you always dress in Slytherin green. It seemed an odd choice for the Head of Gryffindor. Now I know."

She briefly considered telling him the truth about that, but decided against it. After all, she was still honouring a forty-year-old wager made with her onetime love. And honour alone wasn't making her keep her word, either. So Minerva simply shrugged, willing her voice not to shake and betray her.

"Yes, I loved him. What of it?" It wasn't as if Tom had ever returned her love, after all.

Displaying an Albus-like sensitivity to her thoughts, Snape reached out and touched her shoulder again. "He must have loved you, too. He let you live." He took his hand back quickly and then shrugged. "Love is a better reason to join the Death Eaters than joining a cause you don't believe in because you're angry."

Minerva nodded, neither trusting her voice nor knowing what to say. She took a long sip of tea to compose herself and then looked at him over her spectacles. "How is it you're still alive, Snape?"

A blush climbed his sallow, bruised cheeks as he clasped his hands in his lap. "He doesn't know I'm gone. Yet. …And I can draw my wand faster than Bellatrix Lestrange."

Lestrange. Albus had said earlier tonight, when he'd told her about the Boneses, that the Lestranges were the primary suspects. And, she realised with a jolt that sloshed her tea again, Snape.

He had hunched into himself again and sat perfectly still, hugging his arms to his chest and watching her warily. Minerva set her teacup on the table and turned to face him. "Tell me about it," she said softly, in the same tone she had once used as Prefect and Head Girl, sitting on first-years' beds and comforting them after nightmares.

Snape swallowed audibly. "No."

Minerva simply raised an eyebrow, and the words began to tumble from his lips.

"Tonight. It was just another mission. I've been a Death Eater for three years, now, and I didn't expect anything but the norm. We were summoned at half-past nine." Snape spoke haltingly, staring into his lap as if the black fabric of his robes held answers to unasked questions.

"The Dark Lord told us what we were to do. He never tells us about the missions in advance; only the Inner Cadre. Of which I am not a member. I've participated in countless Muggle killings. I've brewed poisons and potions for him. I've tortured and raped and beaten Muggles." His breath hitched. "I'm sorry."

Minerva sat woodenly, her fingernails digging into her wrist again. This felt like a confession, but oh, God, she was not a priest. She couldn't offer benediction or blessing or forgiveness. She could only listen.

"Go on," she said tonelessly.

He continued as if he hadn't heard her. "Tonight we were to kill Justinius and Claudia Bones. They are—were—senior Aurors, and they had found some evidence against several important Death Eaters. It—it was my first time on a mission against other wizards." He drew a deep, shuddering breath and started rocking back and forth as he sat.

"Wilkes and Karkaroff had captured them this afternoon and brought them to a field tonight. I don't know where it was; the Dark Lord was there and had summoned the rest of us. He wanted to—to watch them suffer, first. Everyone cast the Cruciatus on them. In turn and together." Snape sighed. "I did, too. I cast an Unforgivable on Justinius Bones. He was friends with my father. I saw his face contorting in agony, and I still cast it."

"And then…" He closed his eyes and started shaking violently. "He—the Dark Lord—made us stop. He said he had a special punishment for Aurors. He pulled a black snake out of his robes. He called her Nagini. Some Death Eaters revived Mrs Bones and tied her with her wrists above her head. Two others tore her robes off and yanked her legs apart. And…"

Snape gagged, weeping now, still rocking as though the motion could comfort him. "…And the Dark Lord hissed at Nagini. He spoke to her, and I knew what he wanted her to do. I don't know how—I'm not a Parselmouth—but I knew. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. He had asked me to revive Justinius and hold him up so he could watch. And I did. I had to. And Nagini slithered in the dirt up to Mrs Bones and—oh, Gods—up her leg like it was a tree branch, and she was screaming and crying, and Justinius was screaming and fighting and begging us to kill her first, and Nagini went…inside…" he broke off and buried his face in his hands, sobbing in loud, ugly gasps.

Minerva sat utterly still throughout his speech, barely aware of the blood that trickled from the deep half-moon gouges in her wrist. She looked at the thin, dark man before her and saw instead a beautiful brunette girl being sorted into Ravenclaw, over forty years ago—Claudia Ackerley, only three years younger than Minerva herself. She had known Justinius, as well. He had been a year older than she, a Hufflepuff, and had received more NEWTs than anyone else in his year.

Until today, the Bones family had been a model wizarding family. Thirty years ago, Claudia and Justinius could often be seen taking their small son Edgar and his older sister, Amelia, for walks in Diagon Alley, treating them to ice cream at Florean's. More recently, until today, they could often be seen taking those same walks with Edgar, his wife, and their baby granddaughter. That wee lassie would never know her grandparents, Minerva realised.

She turned to Snape, who had quieted a bit but still sobbed into his hands. "What happened next?" she asked quietly, wanting to comfort him and curse him all at once.

He looked up as if surprised to see her still there. His nose was running, and tears shone wetly on his bruised and battered face.

"I--" he sniffled loudly, took a deep shuddering breath, and looked down at his lap again. "Nagini…must have been enchanted," he continued, still shivering but making a visible effort to calm himself. "I think. She travelled up Mrs Bones' body on the inside. I could see her sometimes, under the skin. Mrs Bones kept screaming and contorting, and Justinius kept screaming—he knocked his head back against my face several times. Finally…"

Snape gagged, but took a sip of tea, closed his eyes, and went on. "I could see something undulating under the skin of Mrs Bones' neck. She had stopped screaming by then and was jerking and moaning as if she were about to die. And—and then her mouth opened, and Nagini slithered out, covered in blood and fluids…" Snape gagged again, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

"The Dark Lord left before she died. He said we were to wait for her to die, kill Justinius, play with them as we liked, and then incinerate the bodies. He took Nagini and the Inner Cadre with him and left only a few of us to do the job. As soon as he'd gone, I looked at Mrs Bones. I was still holding Justinius, and knew I had to leave. I couldn't stay. And so I let go of him, shoved him away. Bellatrix Lestrange saw me, but I cast Obliviate on her. I Apparated to Hogsmeade. I think I lost consciousness, because after I Apparated, I found myself lying on the ground, soaking wet. It hadn't been raining when I left the field."

Minerva nodded. "Why did you come?"

Snape turned to her and shrugged helplessly, looking very young. His lips shook with suppressed tears as he spoke. "It's too late for me. I can't change what I did. I was wrong, and I wanted to confess before I turned myself in to the Ministry."

Again, Minerva looked past him into the fire. And again, she did not see Snape. This time, she saw a young woman with her black hair pulled back tightly, shaking with fear and guilt. The girl's face was buried in the crimson feathers of a phoenix as she sobbed a confession to her Head of House, who sat beside her, sucking a toffee and stroking his long auburn beard.

Minerva straightened and looked at Snape over her spectacles, wishing she had Albus' gift for radiating kindness and compassion. She did not and knew it, so echoing his words was the best she could do.

"Severus," she said quietly, allowing the almost-forgotten burr of her accent to seep back into her voice, gentling it. "I know you aren't evil at heart. And you're right, you can't change what you did. But…would you like a chance to redeem yourself?"

The quick flash of hope in his eyes almost broke her heart, but then he scowled and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "What could I do?" he asked warily.

"I'm afraid that's for the headmaster to decide."

She already had an idea, of course. The Dark Lord truly might not know Snape was gone, yet. Even if he did, Snape said he had cast Obliviate on Mrs Lestrange. Perhaps no one else had seen what had happened. If so, Snape could go back into the fold as a spy. Lord knew the Light was in desperate need of them! But, of course, Albus would know what was best.

Snape swallowed audibly. "Very well," he whispered, looking as if Minerva had just informed him she would be personally escorting him to Azkaban.

Minerva reached over and laid her hand lightly on his shoulder, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of tenderness. "He will be disappointed, laddie," she said quietly, "but he'll forgive you."

"I know," Snape whispered, nodding. He reached up tentatively and squeezed her hand. "But…I'm scared."

Her heart constricted painfully at that. He was only twenty, twenty-one at most. So very, very young.

Given that, Minerva was most surprised to find herself moving forward and pressing her lips against his. Perhaps it was the whisky, the late—or very early—hour, or an effect of the shock. Maybe a combination of the three. Regardless, it was incredibly wrong. But…when his cold lips parted beneath hers, Minerva kissed him long and hard, willing some of her golden Gryffindor warmth and courage to flow into him.

Snape kissed back hungrily, wrapping his arms around her and clinging tightly, as if desperate and adrift.

They pulled back, breathless, after a moment that seemed to last an hour. Minerva smiled shakily, feeling herself blushing.

"For luck," she whispered.

Snape smiled back, the first warm, genuine smile she'd seen on him since he was a child. "Thank you."

Minerva smiled again and stood, resigning herself to the fact that she would be teaching her classes today on only a few hours of sleep. She turned to Snape and arched an eyebrow again as he rose. "If you're prepared?"

He nodded wordlessly, and together they walked to the headmaster's office.

Minerva smiled softly, sneaking a glance at him as they rode together on the spiralling staircase.

He would heal.