The Nomination

It was late afternoon when Snape got back to the gates of Hogwarts, even so the sun was still high in the sky and would remain so until after nine at night. Birds were still singing, butterflies rested on towering clumps of crowning thistle, and patches of purple, lilac and bronze heather flanked the path up to the castle, and when crushed underfoot, scented the air. Snape tried to shield his eyes from the sun's glare, the pulsating migraine dazzle in his vision making his passage part guesswork. Halfway up the hill he'd been joined by a silent, solemn Fisk, with his tail swinging steadily at half-mast, who walked him the remainder of the way to the oaken door like a shadow, and then stood sentry-like in the courtyard as Snape went to enter. Although Snape was sick with the pain of his migraine, he paused, looked back and said, "Thank you."

The cool, dark interior of the castle was a blessing. The builders had left for the day and all was tranquil. He went directly to his quarters, stepping carefully around traffic cones placed along the length of the dungeon corridor, and once admitted, sought out the bottle of Diaphne's potion in his bathroom cupboard before anything else.

Still dressed and booted, a few minutes of lying prone and unmoving on his bed was enough for the migraine to recede so that he could at least open his eyes fully. A full thirty minutes later and he was able to stand and feel relatively normal. Relatively. Something towards the back of his brain - around, he supposed, where the temporal lobe was - felt like it physically shifted as he became upright. That wasn't good; that wasn't meant to happen. He actually placed his hand to the back of his head, instinctively trying to feel for a displacement, but of course there was nothing.

Turning himself deliberately to other matters, Snape removed from his coat pocket the reducio'd copy of Servius's birth certificate. He restored it to normal size, then removed the certificate from the envelope and once more perused it, reading again and again his own name and Charity's. Father. Mother. It seemed incredible, extraordinary. He wondered what Charity would have made of his conduct today, whether she would have approved of his parenting ability. He strongly doubted it. He'd used his wand on Servius twice and told him he didn't want him to come to Hogwarts. He'd said nothing to reassure him, nothing to give him confidence, no form of hope. He'd even contemplated taking his mothers' wand. The boy was going to develop a stronger relationship with an owl than with him.

In shame and desperation, he cast about in his mind for what he should have done differently, how he should have played it, but the day had felt like a roller-coaster ride, it was too sudden, too quick, he'd just recover from one loop to be plunged down another. And despite years of teaching, Snape had no positive role-modelling to draw on as a father. He didn't have a partner to share with, to take advice from, no parenting classes, not so much as a book. Thrown in at the deep end, he'd taken refuge in his teaching persona, reducing the entire encounter to an exercise in discipline and goal setting.

Deeply disheartened, he put the birth certificate in the drawer of his bedside table, and decided he'd better make his whereabouts known to McGonagall – he was, after all, on work time now. Locking his quarters behind him, he began the trek towards the Headmasters tower (as it was still referred to), hoping she would be in her office.

As it happened, he bumped into her exiting the door that led down to the kitchens. Her face was dark with anger, lips thinned, and she lifted her skirts before her with one hand and in the other carried her wand like a switch.

"Ma'am?" he said in surprise.

"Oh Severus, thank Merlin," she all but gasped. "I've just been to the kitchen. The elves are refusing to work. They had their rally yesterday and -," she halted, seeming to notice him, then her eyes widened.

"Today was your meeting with your laddie!"

He nodded, a bit taken aback by the abrupt change in pace.

"Have you just got back? Well how did it go?"

Snape's mouth opened but as four or five different responses flooded his brain at once, no words came out. Finally, he settled on a rather downcast: "Variable. Mostly…unpromising."

The half-smile she'd arranged on her face in anticipation of a glowing report, fell. "Unpromising? What – he is unpromising? What do you mean? No, wait, let's go to the Head's office, I need a stiff drink and a chair, and by the sounds of it, so do you."

Ten minutes later they were seated in the armchairs with a glass each, portrait Dumbledore in listening proximity, and the tall, beautiful windows thrown open to make the most of the warm, fragrant summer eve. Over the last few years, McGonagall had arranged for climbing roses, jasmine and honeysuckle to be planted at the base of each castle tower, and along with the ivy, the flowering creepers now scrambled up the stonework releasing their scent into the still, balmy air. In what would appear to be some form of display, Thestrals were occasionally spied rising above the tree-tops of the forest like equine nightingales, their great wings flapping slowly as they descended.

"Well. Here's to parenting in all its forms," said McGonagall briskly in a toast, raising her whisky, and Snape did likewise. "I'm told that teachers have it easier than parents."

"Different," replied Snape. "Based on my solid six hours of experience."

"Severus," said Dumbledore, "you've been thrown into the fray more times than I care to count. But all those scrapes pale in comparison to the responsibility you've now taken on. Children are like a picture we paint on a canvas; most parents get the pleasure of deciding first to get one, and then nine months of lead-in before they dip the brush into the paint. You've had a weeks' notice, and then had a half-finished picture hurtled at you like a bludger across a pitch, and no one to beat it to. If I could shake your hand I surely would."

"Sir," acknowledged Snape, swallowing hard. The perspicacity of the old headmaster, even in portrait form, never failed him. He raised his glass and took a long gulp.

"So," said McGonagall. "Tell me what happened."

Over the space of one and a half more tumblers, Snape divulged everything, including the birth certificate naming Servius as a Snape and not Burbage, the boy's insistence that he did not want to attend Hogwarts, Ollivander's rather obtuse assessment [Dumbledore's snippy opinion was that Ollivander was old and over-indulged, prone to believing his own press], and finishing with his own evaluation that Charity would have been disappointed.

To this, McGonagall said, "Charity would never wanted to have a child with you if she believed you would be a bad father. She had better insight into who you are and what you can do than any of us."

Dumbledore said, "You had nothing but your bare wits about you today, Severus; I can't point to a man – and I use that word advisedly – who would have fared any better in the same situation. Remember, when Servius starts at Hogwarts, you will have the help of a village to raise him."

Frankly, and particularly with a fifth of a bottle of whisky in him, Snape could have happily wept and hugged them both for their non-judgmental review of the situation. But he simply cleared his throat and nodded mutely.

"I mean," said McGonagall. "Compare Tom Riddle in the same situation. You do know he procreated?"

Dumbledore snorted laughter, but Snape frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"Yes," said McGonagall, her eyebrows nudging her hairline. She took a sip. "He fathered a daughter, don't you know."

"What?"

"With that dreadful Lestrange woman."

"Bellatrix?!"

"I doubt he would have taken his daughter for her first uniform."

"How is it even possible? I mean…how…can he…?"

Dumbledore laughed outright. "I expect the old-fashioned way."

"But he's…not made the old-fashioned way."

Dumbledore, chuckling, said, "One must presume, Severus, that certain things remained useful. Nose notwithstanding."

"I'm sure you know better than anyone, Severus, that snakes can produce offspring," said McGonagall.

Snape shook his head, dumbfounded. "I had no idea he even…he was just so…focused."

"I've always said," McGonagall was shaking her own head, trying to suppress a smile, "never assume anything about other people's relationships."

"How old is the daughter? Oh Merlin – she's not coming to Hogwarts?" Snape's expression filled with dread.

McGonagall's right eyebrow arched. "Well of course, Severus. She was top of our list. Her letter was addressed to Delphini Riddle, Cell Nine, Azkaban. I'm just joking, she's not imprisoned, obviously. Not yet."

"That is a fiendish combination of genes," proffered Snape, reflecting on some of Bellatrix's madder, brilliant moments.

"All part of the plan, I shouldn't wonder."

Snape knocked back his whisky. "Well she'll be one for the next generation to deal with. I intend to be retired on a remote island somewhere. What's happened with the kitchen elves?"

"The elves are refusing to work past 5pm unless they are paid at a higher rate," explained McGonagall with a great deal of poorly concealed impatience. She swirled her whisky in its glass in agitation. "So dinner and any meals between 5pm and 7:30am. Which means we either introduce a roster system or reduce the number of elves working those hours or start paying more."

"This to do with the Elvish Freedom and Employment decree? It was enacted while I was away," said Snape. "It's quite a reversal in position for them."

"You'll remember Hermione Granger started the whole thing while she was here? Well this is her first Act through and you mark my words, that girl will be Minister one day, if not Prime Minister of Britain, especially once Elves get the vote. But I don't mind telling you, she's upset a great many households." McGonagall looked like she was biting back words, then a little calmer she said, "Severus, I'm giving this to you to deal with. I've got a bit on my plate with the staff coming back next week. Are you happy to handle it?"

"I'll get on to it," he replied, rising from his chair and placing his glass back on the tray.

"Just before you go," said McGonagall, pausing him, "I need you about on Monday. We've visitors."

"Who?"

She smiled at him and glanced at Dumbledore. "The Minister is dropping in, and he's bringing with him Harry Potter and Sir Byron. They all want to see you."

Even though such meetings had been hinted at since Snape first contacted Hogwarts, it was still a surprise to be the subject of interest after eight years of anonymity. After a moment or two to digest what the Headmistress had said, Snape tilted his head slightly and looked uncomfortable, but nodded. "Ah. I see. Well, I shall be at your convenience on Monday."

"You seem…a little indifferent…it's Shacklebolt, Severus. And Harry. They specifically wanted an audience with you."

"I'm honoured."

He actually didn't really know how he felt. There had been a turning in the tide of opinion about Snape that had occurred while he was in the Wicce's hospital, when the extent of his services, his loyalty, had slowly come to light after the war, when the best of him had finally been unveiled – he'd read about it in the Prophet with a literal and metaphorical remoteness, feeling as distant from the dead man he read about as if he were someone else entirely. He was like a Japanese soldier on the last outpost, still hardwired for duty, feeling his soul couldn't rest while escaped Death Eaters still walked, sure that Dumbledore would have instructed him to hunt them down.

He couldn't ever quite believe that Voldemort was gone, but he had been able to put to rest any vestiges of divided loyalty. He was almost grateful for the attempt on his life, the cruel, calculated act helped to finally relinquish those lingering hopes for a shred of approval from the Dark Lord that, he only realised after, he'd come to depend on. It was the hypnotic, magnetic, charismatic appeal of Tom Riddle that he made men and women so desperate for his approval, for recognition that they barely knew their own minds. It had shocked him, that his death had been decided and arranged. Even though death had been a constant companion during the war, he hadn't expected it to come about at the hand of Voldemort himself. He hadn't been immune to punishment from the Dark Lord, but he'd flattered himself that Voldemort had depended on him, and that he'd become indispensable. But, it transpired, the Lord had no great plans or rewards for his best general.

Seeing as no more was to be forthcoming, McGonagall arched her brows, smiled and nodded and Snape was free to leave.

When Snape entered the kitchen, the heat of it blasting him like an opened furnace due to the roaring blaze in the fireplace, all the elves present paused at whatever task they were occupied with to look at him. Not one seemed friendly or welcoming, and an ill-disposed hush had descended – whether this was directed to him in particular or was just the prevailing mood after McGonagall's meeting, Snape was uncertain.

The first thing different he noticed was that every single elf was dressed in the same outfit, but it was no longer a tea-towel or sack, rather a fitted top, like a long t-shirt, the hem of which reached their knees, and on the front was the face of an elf. The face was familiar, but Snape had never paid much more than cursory attention to the elves and knew few of them by name. For years he had just called to them, "Elf," or "You there, Elf" or "Fetch an elf and hurry." So while the face was recognisable, and clearly of significance, he'd just have to park the name for now until a clue presented itself.

"I would like to speak to you all, or to one elf who is happy to represent you," he announced to the sea of outsized eyes.

The elves immediately broke into a muted mumbling amongst themselves and their attention turned towards the back of the kitchen, and from there came forward the elf they had obviously decided was to speak on behalf of them all. This elf, an older male with a rather ornery expression, wearing not only the t-shirt and with a belt, but a wildly anachronistic bowler hat which Snape assumed must have originally belonged to a toy, walked towards him and said, "I am Mr Gadkey, sir. I can talk with you."

Mister Gadkey? "Thank you," said Snape. "I wish to discuss your position on extra payment for evening meals."

"I will not discuss anything with a human who is standing. It is a form of oppression. If you want to discuss matters, then you must sit first."

Snape was relieved that Gadkey spoke good English – this was probably why he'd been nominated, along with his self-aggrandising attitude – but stood where he was for a minute, staring coolly at the elf, hands behind his back. Then, with an intentionally loud sigh, he slowly pulled forth a wooden chair from where a row had been pushed back against the kitchen wall, and, stiffly, sat.

He and Gadkey were now eye to eye. This, Snape discovered, was deeply disconcerting.

"We have decided that we want a change in our employment conditions," commended Mr Gadkey in imperious tones. "We don't want to stay in the kitchen all night, we want to go home. Sometimes we are in the kitchen all night for nothing. If Hogwarts wants us to stay in the kitchen all night, then you must pay us more."

"But you are doing things at night…cleaning the dorms and common rooms -,"

"That is the house elves!" retorted Gadkey, heatedly. "We are kitchen elves, we are trained with food, much more skilled. We have our own conditions."

"I see. I'm sorry, I didn't realise -,"

"Of course you didn't. You haven't paid attention. House elves prefer to work at night."

"I take your point. And your definition of night begins…?"

"From 5pm. The same as humans when they finish work."

"But this is a boarding school. We don't have normal working hours."

"It is of no concern to us how Hogwarts wants to run itself. Perhaps you should close at 5pm."

The flagrant, impertinent nonsense of the statement made Snape's eyelids lower and his teeth grit, but he took a breath and said, "And if all the kitchen elves went home at 5pm, the children would have no dinner."

"We are making progress, sir! Perhaps the teachers should come all the way down to the kitchen and make them scrambled eggs."

Snape thought he detected a smirk on Gadkey's face. This was confirmed when a titter ran throughout the room and a saucepan was gonged by someone.

"But you would get no pay at all after 5pm. Even if you do nothing now, you receive money for being here."

"This is true. But we have decided we would rather have no money because it is not enough, and be home with our families, than be here during the night for no reason."

Snape was seeing the negotiation terms on the table. The elves had become Unionised. They had done a sharp one-eighty from their refusal on pay and holidays, to more money or strike action. Snape had harboured private hopes his return to Hogwarts was to an enclave away from the troubles and strife he'd seen out there in the world, but here he was, talking to it.

"What if you implement a roster? Some elves work during the day and go home at night, and some work during the night and go home in the morning. Then you can all swap around."

A fever of muttering rose around the room, audible even above the roar of the fire, and Gadkey momentarily looked back at his members, but obviously felt prepared to represent them. "Sir, there are one hundred and five elves employed in the kitchen, and almost three-hundred students starting at Hogwarts. We can barely meet the needs of two hundred and fifty students with all of us working. How do you propose we cook for and serve them all with only fifty elves working?"

Egads. Snape had been through a long, difficult, migraine-impaired day. He wasn't up to this. The three glasses of whisky on a mostly empty stomach wasn't helping. He lifted fingers to his head and massaged his brow for perhaps ten seconds, then considered Gadkey again. "We are going to have to meet formally about this. You raise some valid points, but I am not prepared. Until we have had a chance to meet, negotiate and think on your proposal properly, and with some notice, then your current conditions still apply. Mister Gadkey, can we meet next week?"

Gadkey appraised him, then returned to his members in a huddle, with whom he discussed things for several minutes in Elvish. Duly, he returned to Snape, who was now sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, and said, "Yes. I am prepared to do that. I say Monday. The kitchen elves are prepared to work until then. Did you want some dinner?"

"I would love some dinner."

"Then please tell the Headmistress we will cook tonight."

The weekend passed relatively incident free. Snape had no migraines and thoroughly enjoyed numerous hours to himself attending to his office, stores, supplies and quarters. He had two meetings with McGonagall and Dumbledore discussing matters on her list and took on further projects on her behalf. Towards the end of one meeting, she reached across The Desk to touch his arm, pausing him before he left her office, and said, "I really can't tell you how glad I am you're back. Don't do that again."

Slughorn's house purchase had been successful and he had been preoccupied with settling himself in. He invited Snape and McGonagall to visit on Sunday evening, to warm it, with a wee dram. The occasion ended up lasting six hours, and considerably more dram. McGonagall, wisely and pleading tiredness, excused herself after dinner and returned to Hogwarts, but Snape stayed on, the fine Scotch having loosened his tongue and, with the practised urging of Slughorn, talked about his exploits with the Dark Arts in Europe. By the end, they were arguing drunkenly about whether the so-called Invisibility Potion actually worked or whether it was a mock-potion, and whether it would be more effective than a cloak, or the Disillusionment charm, and who was going to make some anyway and try it out.

"What we need," said Slughorn breathily in the light of only a few candles left burning, "is all three to sample-test, you know."

"I have to go," grunted Snape, extricating himself with difficulty from Slughorn's remarkably plump sofa.

"So we can try the potion first, then the cloak, then the charm. And see what we can get away with."

"No, you see, there is no such thing as an invisi, invisis – there is no potion."

"There is I tell you!"

"I have to go. There's people want to see me tomorrow."

Snape, having made it to his feet, staggered his way down the hall of Slughorn's new home to the front door, followed by the host. Despite the hellish decorations, he approved of the house. And said so.

"Now all I need is a young lass to warm the bed," agreed Slughorn, with a slightly sad smile and bleary eyes.

Snape swayed a little, looking at him. "Don't we all," he replied. "That was a fine drop, Sluggers, thank you kindly."

With that, he opened the door to the night outside and started his way down the garden path.

"Severus?'

He turned back to Slughorn, still standing in his doorway.

"Your lad. He'll be sorted into Slytherin and you can mark my words – I'll look out for him."

Snape checked he had his wand, which he did, got his bearings in the dark, and then started to walk at a pace he thought was brisk, making his way back through the close streets of Hogsmeade towards Hogwarts.

With his wand lit, even though it was barely necessary as the moon was large and bright, he had reached the junction of the path which separated, one in the direction of Hogwarts, the other to the Shrieking Shack. A quick glance towards the shack earned a double-take: there was a light on, glowing in the downstairs window.

It took Snape – inebriated Snape – less than a second to decide. He headed directly to the cause for curiosity.

He decided to enter via the front door, which had been left unboarded since Voldemort's last stand. Much of the rest of the shack, however, enjoyed something of a renaissance. It had never been busier than since the war. Having been devoid of werewolf activity for years, and revived with legend about the Dark Lord and Nagini and Harry Potter, the Hogsmeade residents had been in and out of the Shack on a routine basis ever since. Young children loved it as a hangout, defying their parents' instructions and warnings, and many rooms were re-invented as forts and hideouts. Teenagers revered it as the place to go when nowhere else was available, on a first-in first-served basis, which involved hanging a dried wreath on the front door if "in use". And the coven made regular use of it, the aura of the place being redolent with mystique, romance and danger. All three groups had been making inadvertent improvements to it, and when Snape entered, he was surprised to find the hallway swept, dusted and the walls slapped with a primer coat of paint.

The light was coming from the front room, and he made his way towards it, only to be suddenly knocked off his feet and out black before he realised what had happened.

"Professor? Professor?"

Snape roused an indeterminate time later, groggily, finding himself lying on the cold, wooden floorboards of the Shack, aching, woozy, and above him, shaking him –

"Diaphne?"

"Sir? I'm sorry."

For it was the young witch, in her day clothes of summer skirt and fitted blouse, hair loose, sandals and woollen shawl. She had evidently been out enjoying the sunshine during the day, as her skin had a rosy glow, the tips of her hair shone and she had a wildgrass fragrance about her, like a meadow. She was leaning over him, placing her hands on his face, his wrists.

"Why does this keep happening?"

"Sir?"

"What happened?"

"I stupefied you sir, I'm sorry, I didn't know it was you."

Snape struggled upright and onto his feet, using the walls for support even though Diaphne was valiantly trying.

"What are you doing in here? Are you alone?" he asked.

"Yes – I – yes, I am alone. I certainly wasn't expecting anyone, if that's what you mean."

"Why? Why are you in here by yourself?"

Diaphne looked about her, seemingly surprised by the question. Then she turned back to him and said, "I…collect…things for Aunt. Don't tell anyone, but this place has a lot of werewolf blood which is very valuable. I find it and keep it for Aunt."

He gazed at her large grey eyes, which appeared completely sincere, but he said, "It's almost the middle of the night. Why this hour?"

"I like to be out at night," she said, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

His eyes wandered over her clean, guileless face: the sun-kissed skin, the long lashes, full, soft lips. Once, he had known them, and his mind went there now, remembering, and his eyes darkened, and heartbeat rose.

She said, "You have been drinking, Professor."

"One or two."

"And why are you here? Shouldn't you be in your bed, sleeping off the whisky?"

She was slightly coquettish and didn't shy away from his intense gaze. But her question broke his reverie, he looked behind her into the front room and he said, "I saw the light on. I had thought for some time about coming back. It seemed…important."

Sensing the pilgrimatic nature of his visit, she took his hand and led him into the room in which she had lit several candles. Like the hall, the floors had been cleared of dust and debris and there were chairs in here, the table Voldemort had once sat at now the place of several candlesticks, the ceilings free of cobwebs. Diaphne lit her wand and pointed it at a section of bare floorboards on which there was a large, dark stain.

"That is your blood, Professor. Here is where you almost died."

The information was abrupt, and he was taken aback, but couldn't tear his eyes away from the extent of the stain. "A lot…" he muttered, mostly to himself.

"Remember I told you? The artery had been temporarily bound by your cravat, but it was torn and with the venom you had but minutes. Had you not taken time to talk to Harry Potter, I might have been able to preserve more of your own blood."

"I had to talk to Potter. That was more important than my own life. I did not expect to live."

"What did you have to tell him?"

"I had to tell him what to do."

"Then thank Merlin he was here!"

His eyes lifted to hers. "Thank Merlin you were. I haven't forgotten that I owe you my life, although for a long time I no longer placed much value on it. To die here would have been a natural conclusion, I think. Surviving it filled me with anger and a kind of…pointlessness."

Diaphne looked hurt and disheartened to hear his choice of words. "I am not ungrateful, don't construe that. I meant…I had come to believe that my only purpose in life was to fulfil my duty in the war. I had nothing else."

"But you did, Professor," she objected, frowning at him. "You had a love, someone who loved you, someone who was waiting for you."

He scrutinised her. "Who do you mean? Do you mean Charity?"

Realising her slip, she glanced away.

He took her chin and turned her eyes back to his. "How do you know about her? How did you know about me? I was no stranger to you, Diaphne, when you found me here we had met before. Where?"

She swallowed nervously and made to move away, but he took a grip on her upper arm. "Did you talk to the Wicce about my migraines? What does she know about them?"

Diaphne pulled and tried to free her arm but he did not relent. Caught and cornered, she became resistant. "I will call the coven if you don't release me," she said quietly.

"Then answer me. If you care for me, you will tell me."

And she did care for him. He could read it in her eyes when he'd said it. He removed his hand and waited, never taking his eyes off her. "If there are secrets, they are safe with me. You have my word," he said.

"The Wicce will see you on Thursday about your migraines, day after the full moon. You will need to go to her. I will come with you. You can ask her about the ritual."

"Ritual?"

"Your memories of Charity, Professor," murmured Diaphne, and her face became a kaleidoscope of emotions – amazement, envy and remorse blending in and out. "They are lifted; they are preserved in a Witch's Bottle. It was your own request."

The following day, in his office, Snape was hailed by McGonagall at 11am. She used the Floo network and said, "Severus, come at once. Our visitors are here."

He had predicted the meeting would be mid-morning, and had taken a generous dose of Restoration Remedy for his pounding hangover with a coffee so dense it was possible to stand a spoon upright in it. Not only was the whisky wreaking its revenge, he'd had almost no sleep trying to think where the Witch's Bottle of memories would be, even getting up from his bed a couple of times to try hidey-holes in his office and storeroom. He had a persistent fear that he'd destroyed the bottle for some reason, it wasn't behaviour completely unlike him, he'd believe himself capable of something like that. He just couldn't think why and wound himself into a frenzy about it.

He'd had no breakfast for it was the Scottish Bank Holiday and the kitchen elves were not working. They claimed they were entitled to overtime rates for working a public holiday and so McGonagall had told them the staff would fend for themselves. He had not yet broached the idea of food.

One decent positive of the holiday was that there were also no builders working, and the castle was free from the all-pervading hammering, banging, shouting, scraping and crashing that otherwise designated supposed repair work.

There was no sign of Slughorn either, as Snape had moved up and down the dungeon corridors. As Emeritus, Slughorn had been allocated an office at the other end of the corridor from the Potion's Office. On the front of the dark oak door he'd had a bronze nameplate mounted, and the words Professor Emeritus beneath that. What he intended to do with this incumbency, as yet, Snape had no idea.

At the call from McGonagall, Snape experienced some jitters and he took a deep, shaky breath before rising and leaving the office, donning his new academic robe. He noticed his fingers trembled a little as he used his wand to lock the office door. The nerves, he supposed, were due to the strain of a tri-fold examination he assumed he was about to be subjected to. The purpose of the visit from Shacklebolt, Potter and Byron might be positive in its intent, but there was nonetheless a degree of invasiveness about it that unsettled him. Snape had never sought attention.

When he entered the Headmaster's Office, all three were standing in a semi-circle near the fireplace. McGonagall was in fine, formal robes and her pointed hat, Slughorn stood beside her looking – he noted – absolutely fine, and Dumbledore watched on from his portrait. There was also an unknown man carrying a large camera. Large as the Headmaster's Office was, it felt crowded, and the weight of seven pairs of eyes on him made Snape's skin prickle.

As soon as he'd shut the door behind him, he heard his name from multiple persons, and Shacklebolt stepped towards him, hand extended. He had a big, wide smile, the whiteness emphasised against his dark skin and even darker three-piece suit. "As I live and breathe, it is Severus Snape in the flesh. Welcome back, Professor." When Snape accepted his hand to shake it, Shacklebolt held it with both hands and pumped it heartily.

The man with the camera hurried forward and took photos, requesting a repeat of the greeting and a posed photo or two. Snape felt his skin at his neck and cheeks start to heat.

Potter came next. Snape had mere moments to register the maturity in Potter's features, although the iconic hair, glasses and scar were all still present. The boy, as he still thought of him, would now be twenty-six, it was hard for Snape to believe. He thought he saw a similar sort of revision in Potter's green eyes, adjusting his memory of his loathed Potions Master into the man he saw before him. What he said was: "Professor. You look exactly the same. Have you discovered the secret of immortality while you've been away?"

For a terrifying moment, Snape thought Potter was going to embrace him, but he merely stuck his hand out and when Snape shook it, he felt a man's hand, not a child. It was jarring, but in a good way. Something akin to a smile rose to his lips.

Lastly Sir Byron jostled his way forward. Memories of the audit came back to Snape, the visit to him in the Ministry. Bryon had grown a thin moustache, and presented as robust and smooth as ever, but Snape saw a lot of worry lines had furrowed his brow and the corners of his eyes. "Professor, thank Merlin you're alive, and congratulations on your appointment to Deputy. I am delighted to have you back on the faculty. Hogwarts will be all the better for your experience and expertise."

Snape made appropriate noises, but his eyes kept travelling back to Potter. He wasn't sure why. Being in a room with McGonagall, Dumbledore, Slughorn and Potter felt weirdly like time travel, he felt younger. He felt at home.

More photos were taken, several different arrangements of photos with different groups of people. There was one of Potter and Snape alone, several before Dumbledore's portrait and the photographer wanted one of Snape by himself but he refused. When the photos were done, the photographer Floo'd back to his offices at The Prophet, and everyone else accepted seats offered by McGonagall. She apologised profusely that she couldn't offer refreshment and explained about the elves and it being a holiday in Scotland, and Potter muttered something about Hermione, and Shacklebolt said that it was unnecessary anyway as he was due to head back soon.

Snape said to Potter, "I hear you are in the Auror Office now?"

"That's right. I'm Manager, actually."

His lack of NEWTS passed silently between them, and Potter said, "It was felt I had qualified through practical service." Snape smiled and Potter's eyes widened, then he smiled back.

"He would have passed anyway," said McGonagall. "Something like eighty percent of Aurors are Gryffindors."

"And that portrait?" said Snape, indicating the one of himself that was still hanging. "I understand that it is thanks to you?"

Dumbledore was heard chortling behind them as Potter turned to look at it. "Ah yes, well…I felt, since you had been Headmaster…and you protected the students while you were Head…"

"Not really," said Snape. "But it was a kind gesture."

"Sir, Professor," said Potter suddenly, "I didn't know you were still alive – in the Shrieking Shack -,"

Snape waved a hand. "You couldn't have known -,"

"I wouldn't have gone if I had -,"

"Potter, there was a mission. It was more important than me."

"All the memories coming out? I assumed that was because you were, you were -,"

Conscious of several pairs of ears listening in intently, Snape said, "You did what you needed to do. For once in your life, you followed my instructions. [a round of laughter]. It worked out."

"How did you survive, Severus?" asked Shacklebolt. "Who saved you?"

"I can't say," said Snape with a small shake of his head. "You'll have to kill me first." Another round of laughter.

"And was it you?" Potter asked, "That brought Rowle and Mulciber Jnr to me? And the other Death Eaters?"

"I'm afraid it was. It wasn't my intention to upstage you, Potter, I knew you'd do what was necessary."

For the next half hour there was general chat amongst the group, there was so much to catch up on that barely a sentence had been finished before another was started. The heat Snape had felt drained away, and before long he'd almost started to enjoy himself. The subject of Servius never came up; it hadn't felt relevant. The subject of Lily never came up either.

Just before noon, Shacklebolt made noises about regrettably having to go for another appointment, and as he stood, so did the others. Then Shacklebolt said to Snape, "There was another reason for us gathering today. We not only had to see you with our own eyes, but I have official business. It is my pleasure to inform you, Professor Snape, that owing to your services to the Wizarding World, your dedication to your duty under incredible odds, your sacrifice, and your outstanding contribution to the Order of the Phoenix, let alone individuals within it, you have been nominated for an Order of Merlin Award. Congratulations. I'm just sorry it's so late!"

A ripple of laughter, and a round of applause. Snape coloured deeply, a fact that embarrassed him even further. But he shook Shacklebolt's hand again and said self-effacing things and then joked it was about time.

"The award ceremony is in April as you know. Various people will be in touch about it. But I'm afraid I must leave. Thank you again, Severus, and I know I say this on behalf of a lot of people: we're glad you came back."

As Shacklebolt Floo'd back to his office in London, Potter came up to Snape, and again shook his hand. He caught Snape's eyes and said quietly, "Professor, there are things I need to talk to you about. Today wasn't the day. Can we meet again? When are you in London next?"

"Uh, tomorrow in fact," said Snape, frowning, caught off guard. "I'm at Diagon Alley."

"I'll buy lunch," said Potter. "I'll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron." And with that, he too Floo'd back to the Ministry.

Sir Byron left next, after an extended chat with McGonagall and Dumbledore. Then he approached Snape and spoke in confidential tones. "I didn't want to mention it earlier, but – and I know this is very late – but my heartfelt condolences about Charity. I can't tell you what a gap it left in my own life when I heard she'd died. She was an outstanding thinker, such potential. A huge loss. That wee lad of hers, bright little thing, was all you, he looked like you even when he was just a toddler. I know he must bring you comfort now. Anyway, there were some bits and pieces at the Ministry that belonged to Charity, just personal effects, you know. I brought them with me, just in case you'd like them? If not, no harm, I'll just take them back with me."

Sir Byron had a satchel hung by a strap over his shoulder, and when Snape nodded dumbly, he reached inside, withdrew a shrunken storage box which he restored to size with his wand and handed to Snape.

Listening to him, Snape's heart had began to swell. He held the box before him, and simply nodded, stunned, as if he held precious treasure. A flash of insight into Servius as a small child – bright, looked like him – his heart brimmed.

Snape was still dwelling on it as Byron entered the fireplace and vanished in a swirl of green. He turned back to McGonagall, Slughorn and Dumbledore.

"Congratulations, Severus," said McGonagall immediately. "You are quite deserving."

"Hear, hear," said Dumbledore. "I am very disappointed I will miss the ceremony."

"Thank you," said Snape. "I'm uncomfortable with these sorts of events, as you know. But it was good to see them again. Potter is quite the grown man."

"He finally stopped growing taller," remarked Dumbledore. "And put some muscle on. The only one lankier than him were the Weasleys."

"Head of the Auror Office at twenty-six is quite an achievement."

"For a boy who never even got his NEWTS – I'll say."

"Neither of you saw him take on Voldemort," said McGonagall emphatically, and Slughorn humphed in agreement. "He was spectacular. There are plenty of books on it if you're interested, in the library. There's even a painting about it on seventh floor corridor. NEWTS seemed a little…trivial…by comparison."

A pause, and then Snape glanced at his box. "Ma'am. Unless you need me further, I have much to do."

McGonagall cocked her head at him, then smiled. "Of course, Severus. We'll talk again later."

And with a swirl of his cloak, Snape left the office.

The box had some weight; its contents inside shifted minutely as he walked. He hurried back through the castle to his office, and put the box down on his desk. Then he took off his cloak and hung it on its hook, and then locked his office door before standing at his desk, the best angle with which to view inside the box.

Everything in the world dimmed or disappeared as he focused entirely on carefully removing the lid and looking inside. The first thing he saw was a compact umbrella, the type designed to fit in a carry bag, no doubt something she'd carried with her frequently in and out of London. Knowing Charity's somewhat care-free approach to her wand, he didn't doubt that she'd owned several of just these types of umbrellas. He lifted it out and placed it on his desk.

There were some quills and ballpoint pens. They were good quality ones, no doubt the reason Sir Byron or his employees had thought fit to keep them. Snape decided he would keep the quills and give the pens to Servius.

There was a type of wallet made of leather, and when opened, held photographs – still ones, taken with a Muggle camera. The pictures were almost exclusively of Holly and Servius. He had no recollection of Holly, he knew about her from Candace and from the things the Burbage's had said at lunch, but he flicked past them. All of the pictures of Servius were three-years old or younger, and he stared and stared at them, thinking that Sir Byron had been right – the resemblance to himself was obvious. It was like ghost-features superimposed, because naturally Servius had the soft, rounded, undeveloped features of a baby and toddler – and yet, yet: around the eyes, the shape of the lips, the eyebrows – he was there. There was a beautiful boy he'd not known. This was the child who'd been abandoned after the night at Malfoy Manor.

The last photo he lingered on even longer. This was a photo of Charity kissing baby Servius on the cheek. Snape's breath stopped when he saw it. The blurry mental images he had of her at staff meetings exploded and it was as if he'd seen Charity yesterday, and known her his whole life. His eyes had sudden and total recall. Of course! his eyes seemed to say. That is her! That's how she looked! And there was a kind of relief in it, a relief to have a visual fit this aching hole that should have been her imprint, and when he saw the picture of her, and remembered, he also remembered how much he had stared at her, drunk in every little detail of her, adored the very sight of her. Even though her face was partially turned towards Servius, she was half-smiling, almost a sort of wink to the camera, and he gazed at her warm, brown eyes, the freckles, the smooth skin; he remembered the faint birthmark behind her left ear, the laugh lines at the corners of her mouth, the tousled ponytail…

Barely conscious of what he was doing, he sat down in his chair and drew a long, hitching breath, never removing his gaze from the photo. She was so beautiful to him, he couldn't tell objectively anymore whether she was to anyone else. But the sensation was strange, of seeing someone who felt so unutterably familiar, and yet having no memories of her – his mind kept frantically searching through files and boxes in his head trying to connect the image to the memories it belonged to, and having nothing, nothing – it couldn't close the circuit. This was going to hurt him powerfully later.

He put the photos carefully away in his desk drawer and returned to the box. There were notebooks and manila folders full of her research and writing, a folded page from the Daily Prophet of her published article, and a handful of letters and scrolls from what appeared to be researchers and scholars in Europe commenting on her theories and publications. Snape didn't go into these in detail, he wanted to explore the entire contents of the box before his migraine started.

The last item in the box was another rolled up piece of parchment, which he almost ignored except it was tied with Hogwarts ribbon. This was something he himself often did before sending a letter with an owl. He untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment, surprised to find it blank. Why would she tie up a blank piece of parchment? Particularly one that looked as if it had been folded and creased numerous times.

The last suspiciously valuable blank piece of parchment he'd come across was the Marauders Map. He withdrew his wand and tapped the paper: "Revelio." Words materialised…

Severus?

- Here, my love.

Why didn't you write?

- I feel tired. Disconsolate.

Tonight we summoned some local fairies. I wish you could have seen the joy they brought. It was because of you, the things you do, the difference you make in the world. You are remarkable, incredible, and I can't really describe how delirious you've made me. Severus, please, stay with me, you are on my mind constantly and your letters are my only way to stay sane.

- Only two more days. Then come quickly.

The memory of the letters tumbled forth, as if they were released captives pushed from their hold, they'd been bound and stashed because they had no meaning until he read this, until he connected the puzzle pieces. He remembered being alone in a virtually empty castle – this enchanted parchment had been their means of communication while she was away. He'd had his own twin that he wrote on to her, and her response appeared on the page. Where was his half?

He read the correspondence again and again, becoming angry with himself for sounding so surly and unresponsive. Her worry was clear, she'd tried to coax him, and he'd all but cut her off. In fact, he hadn't written at all until she prompted him. What was wrong with him? Had Charity grown sick of his behaviour and split up with him, was that why his memories of her had been erased?

He tried Revelio again, in case more correspondence would materialise, but clearly the charm only retained the last exchange for none did.

He remained seated in his chair, drained, feeling like he'd been washed up on a beach after a storm at sea, this deserted island almost worse than drowning. The remnants of Charity were scattered through his mind, mere shreds of things, but they were all he had and his heart wanted every last one. The birth certificate, the wand, the photo, the letter – if he couldn't find his memories, wherever the bottle was, he had these.

These; and she was in there, somewhere, if he could find her. In Servius.