A/N: Luna is back and catching up on the story. A sober twirl of the quill to Ferporcel, Indigofeathers, and most especially Anastasia, for providing Magnetic North. The title of this chapter translates to "Into Memory." Wishing all U.S. readers a perfect Memorial Day...
In Memoriam
It was already past tea-time in England, of course, but time mattered differently to Mr. Ollivander. It was one minute past noon on the outskirts of Havana, and he felt like taking a nap.
"Good morning, Minerva," Dumbledore said placidly as he saw her begin to stir.
The haze outside the windows held the early gold promise of sunrise.
The smallest change to her expression, which he knew meant, "Don't speak to me until I've had my tea."
Dumbledore feigned sleep as, with the uncanny instinct of house-elves everywhere, Dobby appeared at Minerva's elbow with a pot of tea. He waited until Dobby had winked out, then opened his eyes.
After she'd taken a few sips of tea, Minerva's posture resumed its usual strictness. "I am awake, Albus, and I still insist on a satisfying explanation."
"No unpleasant side effects to the potion, I hope?" he queried.
Her lips pinched in irritation. "Of course not." She gestured vaguely, as if by doing so to indicate the potion's maker, then stopped herself, dropping her hand into her lap. "Explain yourself, Albus."
"Good, good - up to his usual excellent standards, of course, and why not?" Dumbledore's words were anything but innocuous. "Why not?"
She shot him a piercing look. "Albus, don't think for one minute that wordplay will-"
But as though she had not spoken, Dumbledore continued quietly, "When he had a choice, he always held himself and everyone around him to the strictest, highest standards. Himself most of all, certainly – and me. I tried not to disappoint him, but, at last, well… yes. I did. A foolish mistake - I ought to have thought more - it did seem a rather elegant solution. It wasn't, of course." He sighed, and the book on his lap nestled more comfortably under his hand, the ink spots from Harry and Hermione's flashing exchange smudging under Dumbledore's absent stroking, smudging ever nearer the blood-red thumbprint on its cover. The ink should have been dry, of course. "I was blinded by my own ego." He paused for a moment, and his tone changed. "I ought to have consulted Severus, Minerva. He would have seen the flaw in my thinking. I ought to have, and I did not. An old man's mistake."
Regret? Minerva stayed silent.
"I had thought to keep one worry from him – from all of you. Instead, I added to his share. Immeasurably. He kept me alive, Minerva. For a year. For Harry. For him - although I do not believe he knew that. He may know, now…"
"Albus… are you saying that… that he brewed the potion that kept you alive?"
Albus inclined his head. "I am surprised you did not discern that sooner, Minerva."
"That you were already dying?"
Another nod.
"And you didn't see fit to share that information?"
"What could you have done? I judged it best that you not assume the mantle of responsibility too early, in an effort to spare me, with no thought to the toll on your own resources."
She shot him a thoroughly deadly glare. "You thought that little of my capabilities?"
"No, Minerva, I thought that highly of your heart. It was best for you, and-" he sighed "-and, more importantly, for Harry that the break be sharp. I would not have had either of you weakened by worry."
She bristled, then stopped, considering him for a moment. Then her eyes took on an echo of the sparkling girl he remembered, etched with the fine distinctions of experience, and she pursed her lips in a small, dry, and, to Albus, extremely worrisome smile. "And did it once enter your mind, Albus, as you were busy 'protecting' me, that by making me Headmistress before any final confrontation, you guaranteed that I will spend eternity on that wall with you?" She arched her eyebrows in mock innocence at him, a promise to spend at least a decade making him very aware of the wisdom in deciding to protect the Head of Gryffindor.
He smiled. "Yes, well, that was… that was part of my thinking, yes." He looked at her very seriously, but somehow softly. "Whenever it happens, however it happens, Minerva, I shall be right here."
"Oh, Albus." Her tone was arid, but it was belied by a sudden brightness in her eyes. She moved to stand near his portrait.
Her hand rose to the canvas, and his reached down to meet it.
The book lay very still.
Albus' hand reached to smooth her hair, but of course he could not, and she finished the gesture for him, smiling sadly.
The book ruffled its pages under his hand.
A little too briskly, Minerva noted, "It seems you have a new friend."
Albus' hand fell again to rest on the book cover. "She has a part to play, I think, before all is resolved."
Minerva's eyebrows raised slightly at the pronoun. "She?"
He smiled enigmatically. He shook his head, as if to clear it, but Minerva's eyes narrowed. He continued to smile.
Minerva appeared to consider her options for a moment, and decided to leave the matter of the book for later. "You have yet to explain Miss Granger's current… hm… situation, Albus." Her piercing stare was back.
/x/
Hermione's situation was, at that moment, one that she would not have cared to explain to anyone save the man lying next to her.
And he, of course, required no such explanation.
"Severus," she said quietly.
"Mm?"
She just smiled at him.
And he knew, in that moment, that the look on her face as she smiled at him, with eyes clear, unclouded, and calm, would be the last of his memories to leave him.
/x/
Albus regarded Minerva calmly.
Minerva sat, exasperated. "Albus, really. You heard our conversations. That I thought it was Malfoy, for an awful moment… I had hoped it would be young Mr. Malfoy. And that perhaps they would – a spontaneous Patronus? Albus, you know that hardly ever happens…"
"I believe such moments may rightly be described as 'real,'" he agreed.
"For hers to appear – Albus, is he… is he there with her?"
He nodded.
"The whole time?"
"He has actually been at Grimmauld Place far longer than you realize, Minerva. I keyed a warning for him into a small device – with Fawkes' assistance, of course. We placed it directly over his heart; it warms whenever an Order member Apparates to Headquarters; he has time to Disapparate, and avoid discovery."
Minerva's gaze was unwavering. "Phineas Nigellus," she said flatly.
Dumbledore confirmed his source with a nod before continuing, "Miss Granger appeared on the day he found Salazar Slytherin's locket among the souvenirs Kreacher had squirreled away. Severus had, I believe, already elected to remain to deliver it to whichever Order member next appeared."
Minerva snorted. "It would have been interesting had it been Alastor."
Dumbledore nodded gravely. "It was a calculated risk, Minerva. Severus has ever been a master at calculating odds."
She looked at him, speculating. "Potter's birthday."
"Indeed. Insofar as I can reconstruct his probable logic, most of the members on duty, and all of the Weasleys, along with Miss Granger, would be with Harry that evening – and thus anyone Apparating on that day would have a secret purpose for doing so. Of all of the Order, Minerva, who would be the most likely to take advantage of the distractions of a birthday dinner at the Burrow, using it as cover to slip away to do some quiet work? Or who, understanding what the house meant to Harry, might wish to slip away quietly to test a theory, perhaps one involving the belongings of that most unfortunate house-elf?"
In spite of the well-banked fire of tension and anger that Minerva was still working to control, the corner of her mouth twitched as she remembered S.P.E.W. "Miss Granger."
Dumbledore smiled slightly.
"A complex series of odds to calculate," she said, pensively.
"He has had relatively little to do until very recently," Dumbledore said placidly. "I suspect he occupied himself with calculating several such possibilities. Assessing probable variants based on few known facts was ever one of his most valuable talents, and not only as a Potions master."
Minerva couldn't deny it. In earlier, more peaceful years at Hogwarts, watching the man in mock duels had been awe-inspiring – and he had been a formidable opponent, anticipating his challenger's moves with decidedly eerie prescience. Many had believed his success at dueling was the result of some unrelinquished Dark work, of some moral lapse he held close to him, concealed. Some few – herself, Dumbledore, Flitwick, certainly, Bill Weasley, probably – had realized that his apparently uncanny skill was merely, mundanely cerebral – a strategic ability similar to the youngest Mr. Weasley's rogue talent for chess – only blindingly, infinitely faster.
Coming out of her reverie, Minerva shook her head. "The poor girl must have been terrified."
A barely discernable pause before his reply. "No doubt she was."
"Still," Minerva mused, "once she recovered from the initial shock-" She glanced at him, sharply. "Very well, Albus. I will accept your implicit explanation, that his – that Severus'… actions… on the tower -" she had to force herself to continue, "… were in accordance with your wishes… ?"
She glanced at him, and he nodded.
"Even that they were on your orders… ?"
Another glance; another nod.
Minerva shifted slightly in her chair, and, after only a brief hesitation, nodded once, stiffly, then continued, "And that you provided him with access to Headquarters, and that he was able – somehow – to gain Miss Granger's trust and provide the Order with valuable information. Oh," she sat back, startled, as another piece fell into place in her mind. "The trapping spell. That was the product of his research, I presume?"
"I believe so, yes. Some texts do not react well to Muggle-borns."
Her eyes widening slightly, Minerva nodded once, sharply, in understanding. "Quite. But Albus - that does not explain Miss Granger's Patronus." She sat straighter in her chair, poised to spring. "Please, Albus." Her tone held all of the determination of one who had once failed. "She is so young, and-"
"And by her own calculations, calculations which have passed the exacting scrutiny of yourself and the inestimable Bill Weasley – Minerva, before you leap to protect her, do remember that she has for several days believed this week to be her last. And that, barring an unforeseen impossibility, she is quite correct in believing so." His gaze was compassionate; his tone gentler than a phoenix tear. "You remember what war can be."
The eyes that met his own were suddenly very old, and his heart tightened. "Too well," she whispered. "If only-"
Dumbledore shook his head. "We had this discussion long ago, Minerva. What happened happened. It balanced, in the end, did it not?"
"Yes…" She paused, clearing her throat. "Yes," she finished, turning her gaze to the window, to the pitch, whose bright pennants she could make out in the growing light.
Dumbledore did not interrupt her memories; he knew them almost as well as he knew his own. He merely waited, rubbing his thumb pensively on the frayed corner of the book.
Finally, still looking out the window, Minerva spoke again, her voice somehow an echo of itself. "Albus, does he–" She couldn't seem to finish.
"Love her?" he asked gently.
Her voice sounded strangled. "Does he?"
Dumbledore's eyes clouded slightly, and Minerva turned in time to see it.
"I do not think that he believes he can, Minerva."
"If her Patronus appeared, Albus, his must have. And surely he must know…"
Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "For so long he has been the exception to every usual answer, every apparently logical explanation. He has seemed so many things to so many so successfully that one wonders if he can truly be, even to himself."
Minerva nodded slowly. "I see that, but – but the phoenix? She looks to one of them. Which?"
"Both, I believe."
"But Albus! That's impossible!"
"Indeed, Minerva, so it is; nonetheless, I believe it to be true."
She shook her head, amazed. "And even with such evidence, he doesn't believe himself capable of love?"
"He has reason, Minerva. And perhaps it is best, for him, that he continue to believe those reasons... for now…" Dumbledore's voice was serene, but there was a note in it that Minerva found profoundly unsettling. Off, somehow.
Her brow furrowed, and her voice dropped dangerously. "What do you mean?" she asked carefully. She knew instinctively that she did not want to know the answer, and she reached slowly for the arms of her chair.
In the same off tone, "Minerva, do you honestly believe he would let anyone harm Miss Granger?"
"No, of course not." Then a possibility alighted in her mind. It changed almost instantly to certainty.
A sudden, resounding crash as the ornate chair that had for centuries belonged to the Head of Hogwarts hit the floor.
Minerva was on her feet, clutching the edge of her desk for support, her nails digging small dents in its surface. "He means to do it himself. Doesn't he? Doesn't he? Answer me, Albus Dumbledore." Her eyes were blazing.
"If it must be done, he believes it were best done by his own hand."
The dents in the desk became gouges as Minerva valiantly fought a dreadful urge to scream.
Ultimately, she failed. Minerva's wild eyes bored into Dumbledore's own. "And the damned fool still doesn't believe he loves her?"
Dumbledore had no answer.
The ink-spattered, blood-stained book on his lap nudged Dumbledore's hand until, after a long stillness, his thumb began again to worry at its frayed corner.
/x/
For as long as there was a Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and as long as there was a someone at its head, no amount of rubbing - from pensive fingers, worried palms, or industrious house-elves - would ever remove the gouges Minerva had made in the ancient desktop.
Because some scars are permanent. Especially those borne of love.
