To describe Hogwarts at night, in the least words possible, one could easily settle on "eerie".

An hour and a half after curfew, the torches aligning the corridors were extinguished. Enchanted portraits had retired, and their snores could be heard faintly, echoing off the ancient stone. Shadows of the architecture stretched along the carpet, and tapestries were bathed in the moonlight from the windows, giving them a ghostly appearance.

Another light, one strong in comparison, came from the corridor leading to Dumbledore's office, and was splayed upon the wall adjacent. Sounds of a crowd could be heard from beyond the revolving doorway.

A nervous house-elf stood at the foot of the gargoyle, evidently waiting for guests. Clutched tightly in his gnarly hand was a scroll of names. The invitation list.

Albus Dumbledore rounded the dark corner beyond the window, at the end of the hall. Humming to himself, he carried in one arm, three bottles of wine, and in the other, a half-eaten chicken leg. It was apparent that he had made a stop in the kitchens before returning for the meeting. Drawing closer to the attentive house-elf, he paused in his slow stroll to venture a question.

"Blinky, I believe all of our guests have arrived?" He bent to look more closely at the tiny elf, chicken bone vanishing as he did.

"Yessus, Headmaster, Sir," the little elf replied. He was proudly displaying the names of the Order on the scroll clutched in his hand, and gave it to Dumbledore.

"Very good, you may return to your quarters now, Blinky."

"Blinky thanks you, Sir." The house-elf disappeared with a quick snap of his fingers.

Dumbledore gently muttered the pass-phrase and the gargoyle slid to reveal the winding staircase that lead to his office. The opening of the barrier had intensified the sounds coming from inside.

Lazily, jazz music was playing. People were drinking with no hurry. Someone was singing with a soft intensity.

As the tall, old wizard entered his sitting room, a giddy "hoorah!" burst collectively from the happy company. Nearly everybody turned to raise his or her glass to the headmaster.

"Welcome, friends." he grinned through his thick gray beard. Setting the Port on the hors d'oeuvres table, he winked at Charlie Weasley, who had quickly shifted toward the clinking noise of the bottles. Dumbledore then began moving through the mass of guests towards the door of his office.

Before entering, he turned, thoughtfully, and surveyed the party.

What he saw was the Order of the Phoenix. All of them joking and laughing, telling stories about what had gone on since they last met. Hagrid, Lupin, the Weasleys, Diggle, Moody, Tonks- they were all there. They were all enjoying themselves. They were, together, what he could easily call his closest friends. They were his trustworthy army that served him like a father.

To see them this happy was what kept him alive in his old age. And he couldn't help letting his heart swell with the memories the long-lived crowd brought to him.

Someone had opened the windows along the walls of the circular room. The cloudy sky yielded to a soft September breeze, and the scent of the newly bloomed moonflowers from the balcony wafted past the velvet curtains.

Hagrid had created various fondues in discarded cauldrons that had been sitting at the foot of the bookshelves, and added their steaming contents to the piles of hors d'oeuvres that covered the extended table.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had brought his saxophone, and was playing a crooning melody to the jazz beat of Bill Weasley's bongo drums.

The lovely Emmeline Vance, who stayed a little removed from the celebration was pouring champagne. Charlie seemed to be encouraging her to sit with him on one of the sofas near Hagrid, who was tipsily guffawing at Mad-Eye Moody. The wild-eyed wizard, who was laughing merrily, slapped his knee as his enlarged eyeball rolled towards the ceiling.

With a last purveyance of the festivities, Dumbledore smiled and then turned again to enter his office. He was surprised to discover Minerva in one of his red wing-backed armchairs, sipping tea.

The room was dark, with only the oil lamp at his desk dimly lit. Minerva sat, looking like she always did these past years, though her face was veiled in shadow. Tracks of tears were faintly shining in the dark.

"Minerva?" Dumbledore moved gently into his large office. He was immediately unsettled by her apparent sorrow.

She looked up from the steaming cup, raising her right hand to hide the evidence of her crying. But all for naught, she was sure that he had seen.

"Why are you not enjoying yourself, my dear?" He came to sit in the chair opposite her. A flick of his wand, and the fire danced with renewed life.

The flames flickered against the wallpaper and radiated to warm them both. It was a while until either of them said anything. Dumbledore was content to sit with her like this. He would have continued to comfort her all night if not for the matters needing to be discussed with the lively, if not rowdy crew beyond the door.

"Albus," she spoke quietly. Turning her face to him and smoothing the tears from her cheeks with the napkin on her saucer. She gave a feeble smile.

Wordless communication passed between them. The draft from the French doors of the upper level balcony confirmed his suspicions of the situation. Giving Minerva a questioning look, he leaned and gazed beyond the railing above their heads.

The small staircase yielded to a sliver of evening light. The familiar scent of moonflower was also present. His assumptions were explained.

"What did he say, Minerva?" he asked, turning back to her. His eyes shined in the firelight, and his expression remained concerned.

She was not surprised in the least at how quickly he had determined the cause of her distress. And so she tried her very best to explain.

"Only these… ideas he has expressed lately, Albus." Her voice quivered in an exasperated tone. Turning her face again to her hands, she sighed mournfully and continued. "He… has reminded me of the war."

Dumbledore placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I see," he said. His eyes never lost their concern.

"Albus, he's terrifying me." She set her tea on the coffee table and made an effort to hold as much of his attention as possible.

"All of this talk of death." She paused. "He doesn't even realize how much we need him here…"

Dumbledore nodded as she sighed again, craning her head to where he had looked before.

"I have always found him to be a friend." She smiled, speaking more to the hearth than him. "But he does not see me anymore… He doesn't seem to care to live anymore."

At this, she fought the urge to weep again. Dumbledore took her hand in his. Looking into the fire, he formulated words that he knew would do her no good at the moment. In the meantime, he conjured his own cup of tea and the silence served to soothe her.

"Albus?" she asked quietly. A few crackles and pops from the fire disturbed the silence.

"Yes?" …A whisper, as if his throat had caught on a sigh.

"Do you remember that night, a few summers ago, when the three of us and Remus set up camp on the parapet?"

Slowly, the old wizard grinned. "Of course I do! I'm not old enough to forget such memorable things quite yet!" He laughed quietly. "Although now, I may be too old to sleep outside on a stone wall…" He gave her a goofy look. "I seem to remember how much we had to drink that night."

"We drank through the night, as I recall… I think we even played charades!" She cackled.

Dumbledore joined her then in laughter and they sprawled along their individual seats, shaking uncontrollably, uncaring that at their age such behavior would be considered unseemly.

"What in Merlin's name has made the two of you so playful?" An amused Remus Lupin was standing shaded in the doorway between them and the sitting room.

Minerva was the first to relax and regain composure.

"We're simply making light of things," she said.

"Well, what was so funny?" the ex-werewolf inquired.

"That time you, Albus, Severus, and I camped out on the parapet with an array of spirits from the kitchen…"

His eyes were immediately filled with merriment. "Ha ha! Yes! And the interesting games that followed… I clearly remember Severus' impersonation of Hagrid was enough to cause near dangerous hysterics."

At the sudden thought of the simple joy they shared once, Albus' eyes became sad with the knowledge that those happier days seem to have slipped away from them.

The realization gave way to an awkward pause.

"Do you believe that we will ever see that Severus again?" Minerva ventured softly.

Her gaze traveled beyond the windowpane to the sky that faded into black. Her mind recounted the memories of better times. She continued...

"In years past, he was able to separate his classroom persona from that which he allowed us to see, but recently… he's taken himself somewhere dark… where I don't think we can ever find him again if we don't soon."

Unbeknownst to Minerva, the same thought lay close to everyone's hearts.

Remus replied slowly, "Sometimes, I wonder which Severus is real..." He paced a little. "And even then, I find the real Severus is locked inside the dark mantle he wears."

Kingsley's saxophone softly interrupted the quiescence.

"Perhaps not so much 'locked' as 'lost'," Albus mused as he watched the leaves of the forbidden forest sway in the breeze.

Remus glanced once to the French doors above them, then to the door of the party.

"Speaking of all things lost, Minerva, I was sent to seek you out by the party outside." In an attempt to lighten the mood, he smiled. "Rumors are swirling that you do an incredible rendition of 'Black Velvet', and Kingsley would be only too happy to oblige the accompaniment." Lupin innocently swayed forward and backward on his heels, dancing the challenge in front of Minerva. Truthfully, he was trying to leave Dumbledore to deal with Severus. He felt that Minerva understood. "Tonks has an electric guitar..."

Instantly, Minerva was on her feet. As she strode across the office, she placed her teacup gently on Dumbledore's desk with a lingering look. Without another word, Professors Lupin and McGonagall left the Headmaster to himself.

The door swinging shut and coming to rest in the frame blotted out the shadows of the lively party. Dumbledore spared his cool tea one last disparaging look, in the futile hope that it would somehow do the work that still lie in front of him this evening. When the tea didn't stir to his rescue, he pointed his wand at the china, and watched it float toward the table where Blinky would undoubtedly collect it.

Resolutely, he extinguished the hearth and collected some newly inked scrolls from the corner of his desk—the reason he had retreated to his office in the first place.

He found himself unconsciously walking towards the patio. It was time to take care of things.

Or, at the very least, try.


The Potions Master of Hogwarts had removed his frock coat and draped it against the stone railing, leaving him propped up on the granite outer wall in his shirtsleeves. He sat on the railing with his black leather boots pressed against the boxes that encased the silver flowers.

His black hair fanned against the cool stone and his eyes were lost somewhere between the sway of the forbidden forest and the stardust caressing the fog of the night.

Dumbledore found him that way.

As though he had no company, the headmaster moved to stand at the railing. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his long celestial robe, he breathed the air and sighed.

"What now?" Severus' tone was harsh and cold as he fixed his eyes on the back of the old wizard.

He spoke softly. "Nothing, Severus. I was simply stepping out for a breath of fresh air… Checking up on the flowers…" He focused his suspicious gaze upon a petal close to his nose, and prepared for a response by admiring the magical flora.

"Oh please, Albus. Spare me." He snorted. "Was I too hard on the old woman?… Is that it?"

"Minerva is fine. In fact, I believe she is entertaining our party at the moment." He smirked. "I was, however, more concerned for you." Following the comment came an astute look above the brim of half-moon spectacles, and the downward nod of his bearded chin.

"As always." Snape pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his white linen shirt. He spoke with it between his lips. "I was hoping this was something important." He took a drag as it lit automatically. Smoke lifted into the night as he breathed. "I suppose it is highly unlikely that the activities inside have died down?… and that we can get to business?"

"Why, you're not interested in joining us?" The corners of the headmaster's mouth twitched. "I was hoping you could provide us some accompaniment… a little music background would be wonderful. Perhaps that beautiful sonata you've been work—"

"Not another word, old man!" Severus had abruptly leaned forward and wrapped his arm around his bent knee. Ashes crumbled from the cigarette in his fingertips, and his eyes blazed black with anger.

"Severus, you are an excellent pianist…" He trailed off and decided the direction things were going was not wise at the moment. "I hope you know that."

Severus landed loudly on his feet as he moved to stand. Taking a deep drag from his cigarette he threw what remained of it off the balcony, glanced over the edge to watch it fall, then jerked his head back to Dumbledore. Intense displeasure was glued to his face. But he did not speak.

"You are excellent at many things… Most importantly, keeping the lot of us safe from harm most of the time." Dumbledore met him eye to eye. He expected a reply.

"I have managed to survive. That's all that matters," he snapped.

"You have managed more than that, boy… You have managed to remain loyal to me." Stepping closer to the younger man, Dumbledore placed a hand on his shoulder. "You are like my son, Severus. And it pains me to see you this way."

For a moment, neither man moved. The only activity was the temporary flash of an emotion long forgotten in the coal depths of Snape's eyes. For a moment, even breathing was forgotten, and Dumbledore hoped that the words to come were not so much the truth as the loss.

"Spare your pain for a time when it is needed, Albus. It is wasted on me."

He pushed away from the headmaster and started towards the door again.

"Please, Severus." The pleading words of the old man allowed the younger to stop in his tracks, though he did not turn around. "Anything… to make you happy again."

Without turning, Severus replied to the dark room before him, the orange glow of the fireplace below, and the sliver of light that lead to the party.

If the headmaster assured himself that his hearing was not failing, he could have sworn he detected a slight crack in the bitter man's voice.

"Happiness, Albus… It's a gift." A pause. "A gift for those with good hearts, and thoughts free of evil. It is a gift reserved for those who deserve it." He turned his head then, slightly, so that his profile was visible. "I do not deserve it anymore."

And then, without another breath, he swept into the darkness, leaving Dumbledore alone again with his forgotten cloak.


It was one in the morning. Several candles still flickered in the seventh-year boys' dormitory. Packets of nearly empty Ice Mice and Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans were scattered on the floor.

Ron Weasley munched on a handful of Cheese Twisties, while lounging on his four poster, and flicking through a copy of The Evening Prophet.

"Hey, Harry, they've just come out with a new broom." Harry turned his head slightly to the right.

"Oh yeah?" he said. He was sprawled sideways on his back with his feet dangling over the side of his bed. He twirled a deactivated Snitch in his fingers with his hands outstretched above him.

"Oh yeah is right! Bloody twice as fast as the Firebolt." He sat up Indian style and replaced a Twistie that had fallen out of his mouth in excitement. "But they want a whopping 850 galleons for the thing… The Nimbus Flash 3000…"

"Bet ferret boy'll have one next week," Harry chuckled.

"Ah forget about it. Malfoy could have twenty of 'em and we'd still beat his slimy arse to bits first match."

"And we will."

"You know it."

Harry stood and walked to his trunk and retrieved his Transfiguration homework. Tossing the scroll on his bed, he lit a candle with his wand.

"I still haven't come up with an answer to number four." Puzzled, Harry stared at the blank space between his scribbled number three and number five.

"Can't help you there. I haven't even looked at it," Ron replied.

Harry sighed. Ron removed his nose from the paper and stared at him. "Why don't you just wait and ask Hermione."

"Cause that's what I always do, Ron," Harry said.

"Well it works, doesn't it? The girl's a walking encyclopedia." He resumed his reading. "What do you reckon has gotten into her anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"Awe come on, Harry, she's acting like she's lost her mind. I mean, I never thought of her doing something like she did yesterday."

"I've never seen her talk to anyone like that, let alone Snape." Harry cringed a little at the mention of the name.

"That greasy bat."

Harry sighed again. "I just hope he's not too hard on her."

"Are you kidding?"

"Shhhh!" A stirring from a nearby bed told them they had disturbed one of their roommates.

"Ron, it's nearly two. I'm going to bed."

"Sounds like a plan."


Crookshanks was curled into a ball of fluff on the gold Persian rug at the foot of the Head Girl's bed.

But the bed did not contain the Head Girl.

Clad in a severely short, blood-red satin nightgown, she meticulously selected a brush from her assortment. Humming to herself, she returned to the bay window area and the easel that contained her work.

The painting before her was nearly finished, and the sweat on her brow showed that she had been working for hours.

"Only the final touches now…" she said to no one.

She was quite a sight. Her hair, still a little slick from an earlier bath, was sticking to her neck and back. Her lips were rosy from chewing them as she worked.

Her skin, dewy from sweat, glistened in the dim light of the stubby candles and the hearth. The stringy lace straps of her nightgown had slipped below her shoulders and so, from a calculated angle, and the placement of the canvas, one could swear she was completely nude.

What she was painting seemed to give her great excitement. And she mumbled to herself every so often in amazement.

The tips of her fingers were spotted with paint and a bruised color was smudged on her collarbone, as if she had scratched her neck with a wet thumb.

Her breathing was deep and heavy and she even felt herself closing her eyes at times, while her hands still moved with the brushes.

So close she stood to her canvas, that an onlooker would not be able to understand how she achieved such perfect detail. Yet, it was as though she was making love to her creation.

"So erotic…" she whispered. "And all from memory…"

Selecting a long, thin brush, she smudged a bit of black paint on the tip. Crouching low, so that the gown she wore rose between her thighs and her bare legs touched the thick carpet, she moved to where she could reach the lower portions of the painting. In a loopy scrawl, near the bottom left hand corner, she signed two words.

Hermione Granger.