The Wrath of Longbottom

Friday dawned fair. The storm left behind a world as sweet and fresh as a newborn, the earth was softened having drunk deeply, the air cleansed of haze, the birds glorying in their survival. Their song was lost to Snape in his dungeon rooms, but he woke not long after their chorus, not refreshed, however, like his feathery counterparts, but in dread over two matters.

He had lost his photo of Charity and Servius. It had fallen out of his pocket and he had covered a lot of ground yesterday. It was his only picture of her.

He was going to have to sort things out with Diaphne.

The evening before, in her cottage, he'd dressed to leave somewhat haphazardly, still feeling a little weak in the knees and dazed. She had been contrastingly chatty, clearly delighted with the turn of events, and had gone pottering about in her kitchen dressed in a sort of kimono, asking questions about Servius and offering to cook him a meal… but he made excuses. He had thanked her, extremely awkwardly, not sure if thanking was appropriate since, after all, it wasn't as if she'd provided a service. And yet it would be worse to say nothing. So he worded his farewell as if he'd been a house guest, and apologised for the mess he'd made (the bed, he supposed) and pleaded work, which wasn't untrue: McGonagall had expected him back three hours earlier.

She had looked rather bewildered as she'd seen him to the door, and waved unsurely as he'd strode away down the main street of Hogsmeade in the drizzle, before turning a corner and Disapparating to Hogwarts. He had been in a hurry to get back.

And now, he realised, as he arose stiffly from his bed that was adorned with Slughorn's riotously patterned and tasselled eiderdown, he was going to have to unpick the stitching where he'd unwittingly woven himself and Diaphne together, and it would be a tough, cruel job. A part of him knew she probably deserved better. Between her, Charity, Potter and Servius, he was going for the record as some kind of category five cyclone to relationships.

But he wasn't done, it seemed. The walking interpersonal catastrophe he had evolved into had far-reaching consequences at the periphery, that had caused damage he wasn't even aware of, couldn't begin to imagine.

In the Great Hall, a moderate breakfast had been prepared for the staff who were residing. When he entered, McGonagall was up at the table in Dumbledore's old seat, hidden behind a newspaper, an enormous teapot steaming before her. Hagrid was seated to the right and along from McGonagall, next to Snape's usual chair, mounding the carefully rationed sausages onto his plate. Pomfrey and Filch were eating silently at their respective places, and Madam Pince, it transpired, had arrived during the storm the previous day and completed the tableau. She eyed Snape beadily as he took the steps up to the High Table. He smiled formally and nodded his head at her, but she continued to stare at him over her cats-eye glasses, apparently wholly unconvinced as to his reality.

Hagrid was in the throes of a hearty welcome and about to regale Snape with an itemisation of storm-induced damage to his hut and gardens, when McGonagall announced with a flourish of newspaper: "Severus! Where were you yesterday? The Astronomy Tower was in a foot of water! Trelawney's quarters are practically uninhabitable. Well, comparatively. I had to call Horace in from Hogsmeade."

"I am sorry, Ma'am. My appointment was…unexpectedly long."

He eyed the last sausage on the serving platter, but decided to invest his energy into making amends with the Headmistress and duly opted to take a seat at the empty chair beside hers.

She looked at him a touch reproachfully. "Are we still dealing with the last traces of wanderlust?"

"Ma'am?"

"Finding it hard to fit back into a work routine?"

"No," he cleared his throat, conscious he was about to lie. "I was seeking advice on a cure for my migraines. I'm sorry it took longer than planned." Then he added with a deflecting lift to his tone: "How can I help today since I wasn't here yesterday?"

"There are in fact several matters," said McGonagall, busying herself with folding the newspaper. "I would like to you take an inventory of the castle with the builder and Filch to get it ready for habitation. We have almost three-hundred children starting school soon, not to mention the teachers returning on Monday, and after yesterday's storm I'm apprehensive about the state of the place. For years we've been waiting to get full access since the repairs have been on, and now have about two-thirds allegedly accessible but yesterday revealed that the assessment is unreliable. To my mind, it's a recipe for disaster. I don't want crushed or injured children on my watch."

"Absolutely, Ma'am."

"Secondly, you and I need to sit down and go through the list of faculty members and confirm all licenses, registrations and employment records are up to date. I still haven't got a DADA license for Professor Hellmann and Agatha said the Ministry want an -,"

"Agatha? Sorry, who?"

"Agatha Froggenhall," said McGonagall, and then looked a little alarmed. "She's the Transfiguration Professor; she has been for the past five years." She looked at him with the same expression she'd worn when she realised he hadn't known about Dobby. "Oh dear, we have a bit of catching up for you to do before they all arrive on Monday."

"Transfiguration? I just assumed…" said Snape and McGonagall shook her head.

"No, I can't teach as well as be Head, it's too much. But I do miss the classroom, that I'll be honest about. Anyway, Agatha says that the Ministry are after an employer affidavit since she's become an Animagi."

"Her Animagus isn't a frog is it?"

"Yes, in fact," and McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. "However did you know that?"

The Headmistress topped up her tea and took a moment to rub her eyes tiredly. Sleep remained elusive for her. "And lastly, it would seem I need to recruit a new Herbology professor." She handed Snape a folded letter from beside her teacup, which had, presumably, arrived by owl earlier that morning.

Snape opened it and read:

"Dear Headmistress McGonagall

I hereby tender my resignation, effective immediately this date 10th August 2006. I apologise for the short notice, it wasn't my intention to resign, however I feel I have no other recourse. I'm sure you'll not be surprised to learn that I can't in good conscience work alongside, or in any capacity with, Professor Severus Snape, whom, I have recently discovered, has been offered the position of Deputy.

Eight years is not long enough for my memory to fade, I'm sorry.

I wish you, and all at Hogwarts, the very best.

Most faithfully

Neville Longbottom."

"Oh," said Snape inadequately, his heart sinking. "I didn't know he was working here either. Last I heard he was an Auror."

"He was an Auror. He started here about three years ago. Much better suited to teaching."

"Yes, I…can imagine that."

"When Pomona left."

"I see."

McGonagall stared at him, a single eyebrow arched.

"You'd like me to talk to him?"

"Aye," a considered slurp of tea. "I'd like you to find out if there's any possibility at all of convincing him that you are no longer his Boggart. I don't want to start recruiting, not now, and not when he was showing so much promise. He's exceptionally popular with the children."

"Ma'am, I don't believe I've been his Boggart since he was about fourteen -,"

"I'm speaking metaphorically. He's clearly referring to your time here as Headmaster."

Snape knew that, of course he did. Longbottom, in his own, unique way, had been unyielding during the occupation of Hogwarts, provoking a series of tense, dicey standoffs for Snape to manage with the Carrows, who were on orders for total suppression. Snape had been equally aghast and impressed at the amount of punishment the boy had been prepared to take. Though their encounters during that time had been infrequent, Snape saw that Longbottom was variously covered in bruises, welts and cuts, his uniform becoming filthier and rattier. The more the Carrows punished him, the more resilient he seemed to become, only inspired further by his grandmother's resistance. There was something unpredictably tough about the Longbottoms.

Post war, when many had finally learned the truth about what Snape had been navigating, Longbottom evidently held an immovable line. How Snape – how any Headmaster – could stand by and allow students to be repeatedly subjected to Unforgivables was a moral and ethical test that Longbottom concluded Snape had failed, and failed miserably. Where had he been, their supposed protector? It wasn't even a question of what he could have done, but rather should have done. Shades of grey and complex allegiances were not in Longbottom's ideology.

"As I'm sure you know, Severus, the Neville Longbottom of today is not the toad-wielding, Mimbulus-cultivating boy that schooled here. He was invited by Voldemort to join the Death Eaters."

Snape almost laughed out loud, trying to imagine the plump Longbottom getting a Dark Mark and wearing a mask. It was hard to change a frame of reference sometimes. It was equally hard to imagine Voldemort extending the invitation.

"To thank Voldemort for his kind offer, Longbottom killed Nagini with the Sword. And rather spectacularly," McGonagall placed her tea cup down and reached for the pot handle. "You really did miss all the best bits of the battle."

"So it appears. Rather had my own dramas going on. I knew that he had killed the snake…I was anxious to find out..that particular bit of news."

"All I'm saying," said McGonagall in hushed tones, "is be ready to reprise your opinion of him. You may want to have some answers ready."

"Ma'am?"

"About why you felt it necessary to make his days here quite so torturous – oh my, bad choice of words. Needless to say, your conduct towards him resulted in several awkward letters between myself and his grandmother."

Snape scanned back over some sketchy, never-since-consulted memories of Longbottom in his classes. "Perhaps it was because of my…conduct…that he grew up to be a snake-massacring Auror cum Herbology Professor," he suggested mildly, becoming aware that he was due for another accountability exam from an ex-student.

"Well I doubt this will improve matters between you," replied McGonagall, picking up the paper and placing it before him. On the front page was the lead article picture of him and Harry Potter shaking hands in the Headmaster's office in front of Dumbledore's portrait, with the headline: Mysterious Hero Back from the Dead!

"I never gave an interview," said Snape, scanning the puff-piece, which was a journalistic potboiler allowing the paper to re-hash very tired but popular anecdotes about the war.

"Oh the Prophet never let facts get in the way of a story, Severus, you know that. Nice photo of you, by the way."

Later that morning, Snape, Argus Filch and Amulius Fetherington walked, climbed and scaled Hogwarts Castle from top to bottom in a spontaneous inventory. Snape was introduced to parts he'd never seen before, as there had been no immediate need, in fact even now these far-flung, undiscovered islands of fortress were either so specialised or so antiquated that they had become unserviceable centuries ago. He inspected them partly as a formality, and partly to uncover any risk: what could happen to any wayward students if they entered this bastion or turret? What could fall down, above or below?

Fetherington did not waste the opportunity to impress upon Snape the scope and breadth of his knowledge and expertise, labouring exhaustively throughout the excursion about his work and the magnitude of his efforts from one end of the castle to the other. According to Fetherington, every block of stone had been lovingly laid by him personally, the mortar mixed by his own hand. It delighted him to show Snape parts of the castle he didn't know, afforded him no end of self-important mocking at the ignorance of the castle's own owners and staff, that he, a mere builder, had acquired this intelligence. "Potions can't help you now, eh, Professor?" guffawed Fetherington, guiding him towards an exit in a distant drum tower, having been defeated by an internal baffle. Snape and Filch exchanged long-suffering looks.

Of far more interest to Snape was just how much of the structure was safe, habitable and useable. He revised McGonagall's previous estimate of a rough two-thirds, to a more accurate three-fifths, and having prioritised drainage repair in the Astronomy Tower, released that for general purpose use. He rearranged repair work on the far east wing to the roofs and gables, with instruction to preserve lead tiling where possible, but otherwise clay or slate, and ordered a comprehensive review of guttering and drainage throughout.

But the main conundrum on the whole expedition had come right at the end, as they inspected the dungeons. Slughorn had joined the party at this point, and they walked the corridor where the traffic cones and danger tape had been erected, while Fetherington explained that the bearing walls were insufficiently reinforced and that erosion of the lake bed was causing the castle foundations on the west side to contract and settle, with cracks widening along the bases of the walls.

Having missed the earlier three hours and been stupefied into silence as Snape and Filch were, Slughorn made all kinds of interested and concerned noises, only encouraging Fetherington to elaborate in ever more technical detail.

At last, they entered the Slytherin Common Room, which had been Fetherington's objective for bringing them to the dungeon. This was only the second time Snape had forayed into the room since returning to Hogwarts and was shocked to discover a skein of scaffolding and struts bracing the submerged lancet windows to the lake, decorated with more danger tape and floating, revolving warning signs.

Snape, Filch and Slughorn stopped and stared, the Emeritus murmuring a stunned "Merlin's beard!" while Fetherington confirmed it with a sort of bumptious nodding of his head: "Ayuh, ayuh, you see what I've had to do? I know. Couldn't believe it when we came across it. Probably saved a hundred lives, am I right?"

"What's wrong with them?" asked Snape, although he already had strong suspicions.

"On the verge of imminent collapse, it is," said Fetherington. "Got like a million cubic meters of water pressure on 'em plus foundation erosion. The battle damage didn't help."

"A million?"

"Well I'm not no mathematician, Professor, but put it this way – wouldn't want to be in here if that bloody great squid decides to put a sucker on the window."

"Can they be fixed?" asked Slughorn, eyes wide, and Filch went up towards the scaffolding for a closer look.

"It's not the glass so much," replied Fetherington, "That's good magic, that is. It's the mouldings and some of the tracery on the top windows, it's all eroded, just worn away. These'd be hundreds and hundreds of years old, under water the whole time – I mean, mortar can only do so much. Any more pressure on them: kaboom. Whole lot'll come crashing in and you'd wanna hope the lads and lasses can swim."

Snape stared at him momentarily, then swore voluminously. "So where have you scheduled the repair of this relative to everything else?"

"Sir – I've only got so many men -,"

"I do understand that. But there are the dormitories and living quarters in the dungeon. Offices. Classrooms. If these windows give way, all these areas could collapse, deluged. You must make this your first and only concern!"

"Hear, hear," murmured Slughorn, forehead deeply furrowed.

In his mind's eye, Snape saw Servius in the Common Room, sitting with friends when an ear-splitting crack gave just enough time for the students to turn to the sound of the noise, then the greenish windows imploding, a shower of glass and stone before the tsunami of freezing lake water obliterated everything.

He shuddered.

"The students arrive in just over a week. And Horace and I are already using rooms regularly along the corridor."

Fetherington started to take offence and put his hands on his hips. "Now hang on Professor, you just told me the roofs and gables were the most important thing."

"They're not life threatening! That's how I prioritise things, I don't know about you."

"Oi, that's not fair, who d'you think ordered this bracing?"

"Pull all your men onto this job. How long will it take to fix the mouldings and the walls?"

"I dunno – probably weeks! And I'm not keen about putting my workers in here, if I'm honest. What if it collapses while they're in 'ere?"

"Flitwick might be able to charm some form of reinforcement…" said Slughorn tentatively. "Just while the work is getting done."

"You'll have to keep the students out of here until its safe," said Filch, rather pointing out the obvious. "Where are you going to put them?"

"I'll worry about that later," muttered Snape. "I agree, Horace, Flitwick can put up some form of blockading magic that will hold for now. Fetherington, commence immediately please. I'll need to talk to McGonagall."

The Headmistress, he learnt, was in the basement laundry and linen rooms. Adjoining these rooms was the reinforced brick boiler room which housed three gargantuan wrought-iron boilers that provided hot water for cooking, cleaning and the Hospital Wing sanitation and heating. McGonagall was standing by while a mechanic in overalls conducted a routine inspection of these mammoth vessels.

When Snape explained the predicament to newly shocked and unhappy McGonagall, she offered to try the Barricadus charm herself rather than wait for Flitwick. They went together back to the dungeon, and when McGonagall sized up the situation she drew out her wand and immediately incanted the fortification charm, which was visible as a faint translucent veil across the area.

"Where are we going to put the Slytherins, Severus?" she asked, patting her hair which had frizzed slightly as a result of the superheated boiler rooms. Her eyes glanced about her, taking in the dark, sage tones, the gothic décor and serpent adornments, the waterweed floating past the windows.

"I don't know Ma'am. Could we split them up to share with the other House dorms?"

She paused, clearly finding the prospect unpalatable, perhaps put off by the prospect of young Slytherins redecorating the castle. "Well…let's put our thinking caps on before we resort to that. We need a large, relatively unused space that's not too far out of the way, but safe to enter – we could join a few classrooms together, I expect - ,"

Realisation dawned on Snape's features. "I know just the place, Headmistress. The archive."

"Expecto Patronus!"

In the Middle Courtyard, the doe leapt forth from Snape's wand, and landed on the shady grass beneath the maple tree. He hadn't needed his Patronus in years, not since he'd been at the infirmary, and so didn't try his luck with a non-verbal incantation. For a while, during the war, it had felt as if he'd drawn on the doe almost daily, but then she was put away, too recognisable to wizards in Britain (thanks to Potter explaining to the press how he'd found the Sword of Gryffindor), and not recognisable at all to wizards abroad.

The sight of his Patronus made Snape's heart suddenly clench. His thoughts turned to Lily, and for a moment he missed her violently. His friend. He'd never replaced her, never had another friend so close, for so long, and the hollow she'd left still echoed with longing when his mind drifted past it. The absence of Potter in his life had been both a blessing and curse, for he'd only latently realised that seeing her eyes so often had, in a manner, kept her close. Twenty-five years later, he struggled to remember.

The doe's ears twitched as she stood silvery and glowing, patiently waiting, and Snape stared at it, thinking that the doe may well be his Patronus forever now and he thought, he suspected, somehow… somehow…Lily had something to do with that.

"To Neville Longbottom," he informed the Patronus, telegram-style. "Received your resignation, but wish to discuss. May we meet? Would you Floo to Hogwarts? From Professor Snape."

Snape was reasonably certain that Longbottom would know his doe and recognise his voice, but didn't think being presumptuous was the correct tone, so signed off by name. And with that, he sent the doe forth, wondering if and how he might receive word on Longbottom's response. He didn't know what Longbottom's corporeal Patronus was, but if he'd been an Auror surely he'd have one. Or maybe he'd just Floo in directly.

"I thought I saw your Patronus," called a voice, just as he was turning to go inside. Looking back, he saw Diaphne coming up the courtyard steps, dressed in her nurses' robes, her hair drawn back in a tidy knot and evidently starting a late shift. She was smiling and, seeing her pleased countenance, his heart sank. Why couldn't she have been angry at him, indignant, scorned?

"Good morning," he said stiffly.

"It's afternoon now. Are you having lunch? We could eat out here – it's a beautiful day."

"It is beautiful, but unfortunately I am very busy and wasn't intending to stop for lunch."

She picked up instantly the formal tenor to his voice, his words, the rejection, and her smile faded.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I'm sorry? I'm not sure what you mean."

"Why are you talking like that? Did I do something wrong yesterday?" She had closed the distance between them and stood before him, looking up, a slight frown between her brows. She was holding a small carry bag, and she held this with both hands in front of her.

"Wrong? No…of course not. Yesterday was…w-wonderful."

She didn't reply. Her mouth set, she sized him up and down, reading his distant expression, the hands clasped behind his back, the wall of formality. Then her frown cleared and cool awareness registered in her eyes.

"I see, Professor. Well…I'm glad yesterday I was able to…help. I know you've always been happy to seek me out when you need help. Never shy to ask for my assistance."

"Diaphne -,"

"I'm not sure I'll always be able to help," she said abruptly, her gaze becoming intense. "And I expect you'll be needing some migraine potion?"

Snape saw the walls of the net closing in. A pincer-grip manoeuvre. No longer feigning innocence, which would just be further insult, he said quietly, "Uh, yes…more potion will be required."

"Fine," she looked into the middle distance. "Well at least I know which kind of help you value the most."

"Diaphne -,"

"I'll just make use of the Brewing Room shall I?" she said, meeting his eyes again. "Or would you prefer I check with you first? I know how busy you are Professor."

"Please, I know -,"

"Fortunately not so busy you can't ask me for…help." Her voice had risen to a slightly shrill pitch by now and Snape stared at the ground.

"Oh. And you left this at my place," she said sharply, and she opened the top of the bag she was holding and pulled something out, which she handed to him and as he reached out to take it, she let fall to the ground. It was the photo of Charity and Servius.

As he stooped to retrieve it, she said, "You took off in such a damned hurry you must have missed it. Maybe you'd forgotten about it. You certainly didn't think about showing it to me before you asked for my…help!"

And with that she gave him one, last, furious stare that just about stripped his skin off, before turning on her heel and stalking away. There was that temper. She looked radiant.

Slughorn was no cook. He'd been dining at the Three Broomsticks so often they were starting to prepare his favourite menu choice in advance, and he had his own entry in the pub's General Ledger. So when Snape suggested he join the staff for dinner at Hogwarts, he leapt at the chance, even though the kitchen was down to five elves who cooked the same sausages they'd had for breakfast, except this time with mash potato instead of mushrooms.

There had been no reply from Longbottom, Diaphne had disappeared for the remainder of the day, and Snape had spent a dull afternoon with McGonagall working through faculty personnel files. So when Slughorn turned up for bangers and mash, along with Hagrid, Snape was prepared to order a glass of wine with his meal and settle back.

Hagrid and Slughorn together were a joy to watch.

As they descended benignly into intemperance, a gentle banter sprang up between them, the subject, on this occasion, being the likely outcome if Slytherin students were required to hostel in other House dorms. Snape had subtly fed the theme to them, like a trainer releasing a bait to coursing hounds, and sat back to watch the games ensue.

An hour and half later, quite inebriated and chuckling at his companions, Snape felt some of his cares lift away, and said to Slughorn and Hagrid: "If you want to know where the Slytherins are actually going to be sleeping, follow me. I would appreciate your ideas on how we might set up the room."

"I say, jolly mysterious," said Slughorn with alacrity, as they arose from their seats, watched rather disapprovingly by McGonagall, or maybe he misread her expression and it was in fact enviously, since she was tied down by Madam Pince, and Snape led them from the Great Hall and through the shadowy lengths of Ground Floor to the far east wing, and then down the sconce-lit, spiral stone stairs to the great oak door of the archive.

As Snape opened the door, Hagrid remembered the last time he had been there. "Your Miss Charity had that license forged, d'yer remember, Severus?" said Hagrid. "Papus preserve us, we got into some awful trouble from Dumbledore over that."

Snape didn't recall the incident at all but knew that it must be true – Hagrid would have taken a disciplining from Dumbledore very badly. Why had Charity been forging something? Rather than probe deeper and trigger a barrage of counter-questions from Hagrid and Slughorn, he nodded and said demurely, "…indeed."

When they entered the archive, Hagrid squeezing himself through the door, they were required to light their wands as no scones, candles or gas lamps were alight, and the fireplace was barren and cold. Irrespective of the mild day outside, all three shivered a little as they took steps into the cavernous space which, despite being located on a similar level to the dungeons, did not have the protection of earth or water to insulate it. The room was largely ignored by most people and had a still, undisturbed air about it.

Slughorn used his wand to activate the lamps and candles so they could better inspect the dimensions, and said with some forced positivity: "Oh yes, yes, I can see that this would more than suffice as a Common Room if we were to make a few adjustments; superficial of course, only needs to be temporary."

"Think another fireplace might be a good place to start," remarked Hagrid, checking above him for headroom. "Did the boats from the lake used to come in 'ere?"

Slughorn and Hagrid continued their appraisal, but Snape had wandered off slightly. He was in the grip of memories over a decade old, of working in the archive on the Ministry audit, but they were scant, flimsy. He noticed a painting on the wall that was back to front and, curious, thinking perhaps it was a Headmaster portrait, went over to it and took it down. It was an ugly depiction of a witch being hanged, the poor lady in question swinging slightly from her noose. Instantly he recalled the afternoon he'd turned it around, he'd been expecting Charity, he'd been excited, full of anticipation at having time alone with her, and had made some rushed improvements to the decor before she'd arrived. But any memories of her in the room with him were gone. His brain went round and round in a loop, like a data download glitch. Being in the archive was like a permanent sense of déjà vu, memories seemed to occur as he was experiencing them, or his experience had the feeling of a memory – he was unsure which.

His casual investigation took him to the west end of the room where there was a wooden panelled section of wall with cupboard doors. One door stood slightly ajar, and idly he opened it, thinking it might be storage space for a converted Common Room, and discovered the cupboards housed row upon row of black metal boxes, roughly the size of shoe boxes. They had name plates at the end facing outwards, and he moved up closer to read them. They were named for staff members, many of them long since left.

"What've you got there, Severus?" asked Slughorn, nonchalantly making his way over. "You really should look over some of those artefacts in that corner. Fascinating."

"Storage boxes," replied Snape, opening more cupboards to reveal more rows of black metal. "For staff. Hagrid, here's one with your name on it."

Snape took out the metal box and handed it to Hagrid, who'd ambled over to join them.

"How'd yer open it?" Hagrid asked, turning the box over and around in his hands.

"What are they for?" asked Slughorn, peering at Hagrid's box over his reading spectacles.

Snape had returned to the cupboard, realising the boxes were arranged in alphabetical order, and tracked them through to the letter S. "Here's yours Horace," he said, finding the named box and he withdrew it and handed it over to a mystified Slughorn. A few boxes along and he found his own.

"There's no keyhole, no lid. Is there anything in them?" Slughorn continued, and weighed his up and down in his hand, then examined it more closely with his wand lit.

"Mine has," said Snape, and contents could be heard shifting about in the case when he shook it.

A Witch's Bottle? inquired his mind immediately. A perfect storage receptacle.

"Mine's empty," said Hagrid, and so was Slughorn's. "I never even knew about these."

"If mine has something in it, then clearly it can be opened," said Snape, feeling his excitement mount, thinking surely, surely this is where he would store a bottle of memories. So secure, so perfectly preserved. Then why couldn't he remember putting them in here? Had he still been under the influence of the Memoriam Delens?

"So you don't know what's in your box?" observed Slughorn, watching as Snape wriggled his right arm to free his wand from its sleeve. "Then it wasn't you who put something in it? Who did?"

"I don't know," murmured Snape. "It's possible I don't remember."

"Fair enough," said Hagrid, nodding his shaggy head. "I'm always puttin' things away so safely I can't remember where I put them." Slughorn, however, looked less convinced.

With wand in hand, Snape incanted "Alohomora" and waved it over the box. Nothing happened.

"You don't think this is rather like a very tight security system for the Headmaster to keep things about his staff?" asked Slughorn. "Maybe only the Head knows how to open them."

"Possible," said a rather vexed Snape. "But I've just been through all the staff personnel files and there's some highly personal stuff in those, so I don't know why there'd be a back-up system. And if it is that, then what in Merlin's beard is in my box?"

"What's in my personnel file?" asked Slughorn, slightly blasé.

"An' mine?" asked Hagrid.

Snape looked at them both in disbelief. "Did you honestly think I would tell you?"

He waved his wand over the box again. "Aberto."

Again, nothing happened.

"Try Appare Vestigium," said Slughorn, and used his own wand.

As they watched, a faint golden glow appeared around the box and they saw the edge of a lid appear around the top. Snape immediately tried to prise it open, but it was merely a visual, a reincarnation of what had once occurred. Tantalisingly they could see that a lid of the box manifested, and then opened, and then the trace disappeared. He still had no idea what was inside.

"So it's definitely a spell that opens it," said Snape.

"Ah think Sluggy's right," said Hagrid. "I think maybe Ms McGonagall will know how it opens. An' your Miss Charity. What'n a bastard that she aren't here no more."

Snape glanced at him askance, but Hagrid was already turning away, his attention span run out. "Well then, I think this place is the proper job for the Common Room," Hagrid said, "but I's all dried out mesel'. Izzee up for a wee dram?" He put his black box onto a nearby shelf.

"Thought you'd never ask," commented Slughorn, handing his box back to Snape to put away. "Coming, Severus?"

"Ah…" Snape felt the contents in his black box shift a little, and felt a burn to get his hands on the bottle inside. "No. I'm going to try a couple more things. Enjoy your evening."

Before long, Snape was left alone in the archive, and something about the room seemed to settle in and relax around him. It was as if his central nervous system had its own form of memory, for its associations with the great, mahogany table, the fireplace, the dusty armchairs, the ceiling to floor shelves was sanguine, affirming. He had liked being down here.

His eyes came to rest on the table and the chairs pushed up against it. Without remembering it, he knew that Charity had worked there, he could almost sense her. He scoured his memory and was rewarded with a sudden sharp pain in his temple that seared straight through and made him wince and clasp the bridge between his brows.

A migraine was on its way.

Turning back to his box, a little pressing now, he swept his wand. "Emancipare," he incanted, but nothing. Not that he expected it.

Suddenly, the archive door burst open again and Snape jumped, almost dropping his box. Hagrid stuck his head through.

"Hagrid!" breathed Snape, slowing his heart.

"I tellee what," Hagrid said. "Wass that spell that Tom Riddle used on my box that had Aragog in it? P'raps that's the spell you want." Hagrid smiled broadly, then his head disappeared again and the door was once more closed.

Of course Snape hadn't been around at the time when Tom Riddle had released Aragog from his sealed chest, but Snape knew the story well, as did anyone who spent enough time in Hagrid's hut. The gamekeeper might well be right, perhaps that was the difference: a spell to open a sealed container as opposed to undoing a lock – after all, the box had no lock.

White lights were starting to shimmer behind Snape's eyes, but he raised his wand once more and waved it over the box. "Cistem Aperio." It felt correct…something clicked in his mind…but the box didn't open.

"Damn you," Snape hissed, "Cistem Aperio!" And then with timing that might have been heaven sent, a knife of hot pain soared up the back of his skull and he pitched forward slightly, causing his wand to tap the box.

When he could open his eyes again, he saw the rim of the box's lid appear, ready to be opened. An involuntary laugh escaped him, "Cistem Aperio and a tap," he muttered to himself, and another half-formed laugh rolled out on top of his sigh of relief.

Holding his breath, he lifted the lid and looked inside. He'd had all sorts of imaginings about what the Witch's Bottle might look like. He knew they were often engraved or marked, often made of clay, and he knew from Diaphne that his was stoppered and sealed with wax.

But nothing like that was in his lock box.

All that was in there were two dragon-hide note books. The gold inscribed dates on the front indicated they were diaries.

He stared at them for a second, recognising them, seeing the emptiness of the remainder of the box, and then a stream of vehement cursing erupted. He dropped the box to the flagstone floor with a loud clang and strode about the archive swearing his frustration, kicking chairs. Until his head contracted with pain and he paused to double-over, holding his forehead in his hands. Without warning, subterranean magic spilled over, and caused all the wooden cupboard doors to bang open and shut, open and shut.

"Where?! Where are you?" he hollered, and then "Aaargh!" as a vice squeezed his skull and he thought surely blood must be coming from his ears.

Then he stopped, heart hammering. He stood still because he couldn't see, couldn't see a thing. It was as if his eyes had black blinds drawn over them. Apart from some retinal sparks, he was utterly blind. The black eyes of Snape were as dark within as they were without.

He waited. He waited to see if it would pass.

He began to think, what if I am blind now? What if I can never see again?

And the consequences were so huge, so monumental as to be almost unfathomable. Minutes passed and his panic began to slowly mount, and he groped around behind him where he remembered the table was, and the chairs and then he almost fell over a chair he had kicked down. By feel, he righted it, then sat and tried to think, tried above all else, to see, he tried to see through the black, and the pain, the pain in his head was cataclysmic.

His wand. It was always there, in his hand. He muttered "Expecto Patronum" and sensed that his doe had sprung forth. "Fetch Diaphne," he said aloud, to the black. "I am in the archive. Come quickly, I need…I need help."

A minute later, when his Patronus had already dashed away, he thought she might interpret his message wrongly. He had meant it so genuinely, her euphemism of earlier had slipped his mind. Merlin, she might not come now, she might think he was trying to insult her.

Not knowing what else to do, he lifted his wand again and pointed it generally towards himself and attempted a healing charm, a variation on the Vulnera family of spells used for repairing or reversing damage to the human body. He could feel the magic enter his system and search for the injury, and when it reached his brain there was an easing, a lifting of the agony, but he still could not see.

Fear arose. He knew, if necessary, he could make his way out of the archive, and that he could be sent to St Mungos and things could be done there, but would his eyesight ever be the same? What if things had happened in his brain that were beyond repair? The fact that his Vulnera charm had done nothing alarmed him greatly. What would become of his life if he were partially or totally blinded?

There were very few things those in the Wizarding world were unable to fix, and a degree of arrogance about this made them intolerant of imperfection, or gradual improvement, or broken, unresolvable problems. Muggles had learnt that sometimes, not often, but sometimes, fate was cruel and indifferent and people suffered, and that some broken things could never be fixed. And their ability to adapt had always been the secret of their success. On the whole, Muggles did not abandon their disabled or stricken. Wizards, however, were unused to being denied. Broken bones healed overnight in the Wizarding world, afflictions cured with a mere spoonful of potion. Were Snape to learn his eyesight was lost forever, he had no guarantees about care or aid. In fact, he might even be advised to turn to the Muggle fraternity to learn how to adjust. He thought of the wailing madmen in the Wicce's infirmary, avoided and isolated. A stain on the limitations of magic, the unfixables were discarded.

Through the roaring of pain in his head, he heard the archive door open, the heavy oak scraping across the stone floor, and footsteps. "Professor?"

"Diaphne! Thank Merlin. My head - migraine…I – I can't see."

She was by his side in mere seconds and placed her hands on either side of his face.

"The potion – have you made more?" he demanded. "And Oculus, perhaps in Pomfrey's store?"

"Can't you see me? Look at me!"

His eyes, which for the past quarter of an hour had scanned continuously almost of their own accord, as if the source of blackness was external and that searching would eventually detect light or an image, tried to locate where he thought her face would be.

He heard her gasp. "How long have you been like this? Why are you down here?"

"The migraine…was bad…and then my sight was lost, suddenly, completely. Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes? I am in agony, Diaphne, I must have some potion."

There was a pause. "I haven't made any more potion, Professor. I have been…busy."

After a moment of stunned silence while her answer sunk in, he groaned in utter despair. He could tell by her voice that it had been a deliberate decision. "You let vengeance get in the way of your professionalism," he muttered, clutching his head. "I asked you to make more."

"Come. Up to the Hospital Wing. You are lucky I am here at all. If I had been at home I wouldn't have come. Your Patronus said you needed help and I thought you were mocking me."

She helped him to his feet and began guiding him to the door. "While you are recuperating in the ward, I will Disapparate to the infirmary. I can consult the Wicce about your sight and bring back some potion. Professor, you must find those memories."

The following morning found Snape resting peacefully in one of the beds in the Hospital Wing. Diaphne had found some Oculus potion – rather dated – in Madam Pomfrey's Hospital store which she administered immediately, and then putting Snape to bed, had Disapparated to the Infirmary from where she brought back emergency supplies of the pain inhibitor potion, but Snape had endured the migraine from hell for two and a half hours, certain his brain case was swelling and that death was imminent. When she came to his bedside with a bottle, he had felt it in her hands and snatched it from her, pulling free the cork stopper and downing the entire contents in three gulps. As the pain receded over the next hour, so did his sight begin to restore, and by three in the morning, he could read short passages from a book before succumbing to intense fatigue.

Diaphne was not rostered to work on Sunday, but she was at his bedside by eight in the morning, knowing the Hospital Wing was closed and Snape would be alone. She checked all his vital signs, made him perform an eyesight test, examined his eyes with the strange optical tool that the Wicce had used, gave him a hearty dose of Restoration Remedy and brought him tea and toast in bed. She did all this with a rather unique combination of loving aloofness, like a mother with a naughty child, whose devotion overrides all transgressions, but who, at the same time, can't quite forgive.

When Snape was well enough, and settled enough, to rise, she helped him put on his boots, then his coat, and did up all the buttons and then dusted off imaginary marks, before lifting her gaze to his.

"Your eyes seem almost back to normal," she said quietly.

"They feel, they feel better for looking at you."

Uncertainty flitted across her features. "Professor? You confuse me. Perhaps you're right that we are best as…we should just be colleagues."

"That would be simpler. But you…you do so much…"

She reached up and kissed him once, softly. She confused him, too. He wanted to return it, but she pulled away. And then, as she turned to attend to her trolley of nurses things, she heard his boots on the stone floor, striding away, the door to the Wing open and shut behind him.

Slightly unsteadily, he was crossing the Entrance Hall intending for his quarters, noticing how quiet and deserted the castle felt and glad of it, when a huge Patronus came hurtling through the Renaissance windows and thundered up to the space before him. Snape had stopped abruptly, for the Patronus was life-sized and was significantly bigger than him, and even though comprised of harmless silvery magic, the beast before him looked anything but innocuous. It was a splay-horned, broad-shouldered ox, and it lowered its powerful head menacingly at Snape as the message was delivered.

I am here. I am at the Gates. Meet me.

Longbottom. Snape had presumed that the corporeal Patronus of the uncoordinated, incompetent lad would be something like a duck or a donkey, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised what McGonagall had been trying to warn him. Bulls were determined, stubborn, loyal, staunch and prepared to fight. Being hapless was merely a condition of the time in Longbottom's life, not his personality or character. The ox represented the person he'd grown into, the person Snape had started to witness towards the end.

So he was at the Gates. They were no longer locked, why didn't Longbottom make his way up to the Entrance? But Snape exhaled deeply as the ox drifted away, and prepared himself to go down the hill. He owed it to McGonagall to salvage what was possible.

The morning was warming up as he stepped outside, feeling terrible. His body was debilitated after the migraine, and his nerves had taken a thrashing over the temporary blindness. More than ever he realised that he was on a path to some kind of permanent, life-compromising damage if he didn't find the Witch's Bottle, and it had become a race now. He kept his eyes to the ground as he walked, not just for steadiness, but also to avoid the bright sunlight that kept glaring out from behind drifting clouds. They felt sensitive and sore.

The Forbidden Forest seemed eerily quiet, he observed, glancing at it as he walked. It seemed as if all the birds had disappeared. As he got nearer the Gates, he saw they were standing open, and standing squarely between them was Longbottom. Dressed in black jeans and an oilskin windcheater, his legs were shoulder-width apart and his hands hung by his side, wand in hand, but he had a poised look about him, an attitude of resolve, and he stared hard and unsmilingly at Snape as the latter approached.

Longbottom had grown to a good six-feet since reaching adulthood, and along with his height, he had become lean and strongly set, like his ox. He and his eleven-year-old counterpart could not have been more obverse.

"Snape!" he called. The choice of name was deliberate, and Snape halted in his tracks. No greeting, no attempt at courtesy. Snape slipped his wand out of his sleeve and into his hand on instinct.

"Professor," replied Snape, his voice discordant in the silence of the hillside. "I received your Patronus, obviously. Why do you not come up to the Castle?"

Longbottom raised his wand, pointed it at Snape and shouted "Expelliarmus!"

The aim of the wand had been directly at Snape's chest and a huge jolt of energy across a short distance sent him up off his feet and crashing down metres away, his wand snatched from his hand and flying to the ground between them. Longbottom stepped forward and picked up the wand, shoving it in his jacket pocket.

"You should have been stripped of this years ago, Snape!" shouted Longbottom. "You're not fit to have a wand."

Shocked, his breath knocked out of him, Snape struggled upright. "What the -?"

"Everte Statum!"

Snape was lifted and thrown backwards again, hitting the stony ground hard.

It took a moment; he was stunned, but Snape again attempted to rise. "Immobulus!" shouted Longbottom, and once more green light shot from his wand and hit Snape, this time rendering him motionless on the ground.

Longbottom wandered up, almost casually, and stood over him with his wand at the ready. His face was dark, furious and his eyes blazed. "I ought to Cruciatus you, Snape."

"That's an Unforgivable, Longbottom," Snape muttered through clenched teeth.

"Exactly. I think you're pretty deserving. What you did was unforgivable."

Snape swallowed. He thought of several replies, but all of them would have inflamed the situation. He elected to stay quiet and see what would happen.

"Levicorpus!" announced Longbottom suddenly, stepping back with a flick of his wand, and Snape was hoisted into the air by his ankles.

"This is for Harry, you bastard!" shouted Longbottom. "Yes, I dare use your own spells against you! You're lucky I don't use Sectumsempra."

Blood rushed to Snape's head, putting intense pressure on his tender orbital cavities and almost blacking him out. It was only a coincidence, but Longbottom couldn't have picked a more effective jinx if he'd tried. Snape gasped and said, "I will duel with you, Longbottom, if you want. But this is unbecoming of you as an Auror. I am unarmed." He was starting to appreciate what Voldemort had seen in him.

"Like we were unarmed!" hollered Longbottom into his face. "We were kids! You were supposed to be working for The Order! Protecting us, remember?"

Snape's eyes began to flash red and black. He lifted his hands to his face and pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes, moaning.

"Liberacorpus!" spat Longbottom, and Snape crashed to the ground again, landing heavily on his left shoulder. Pain erupted along his scapula.

Astonishingly, Longbottom then kicked him, a heavy booted kick to the centre of his back. "That's for Dumbledore!"

"Stop!" shouted Snape, although finding breath to do so wasn't easy. "You've made your point."

"Have I?" screamed Longbottom, mere inches from Snape's cowed head. "But I couldn't say that to you, could I, in all those potion classes? When I was eleven!" Another kick, this time in the kidneys. "If I'd said that to you, I would have had a month of detentions, wouldn't I? Except that would have been too boring. Much more fun to humiliate me in front of the whole class!?"

Longbottom pointed his wand again. "Conbure!" he incanted, and Snape's skin began to burn, all over, hotter and hotter.

"You should burn in hell, Snape. You were supposed to be dead. Why did you come back here? Why?"

The burning was worse than all the other spells and punishments put together. Snape began to sweat profusely and started to grapple with his coat buttons. He'd stopped listening to Longbottom now, he was fighting for his life.

Longbottom stood over Snape, the adrenalin causing him to breath heavily, a wild expression on his face. He saw his loathed Potions Master writhing in pain, the agonised gasps were chilling to hear in the silent, morning air, as he scrabbled to undo the buttons on his coat.

And then there was a thunderous shouting: "Oi! Wha' is goin' on?" and Hagrid came down the path like a man-mountain, all but throwing boulders out of his way. Longbottom stood straight and calmly awaited him.

"Sev'rus?" said Hagrid, stopping, brows furrowing. "Mygar! Whassa ma'er withee?" Hagrid demanded, looking at Longbottom. "Neville – have yer hexed him?"

"Finite Incantatum," said Longbottom coolly, pointing his wand at Snape. When Snape lay panting and otherwise still, Longbottom threw his wand at him. It clattered on the pebbly ground beside him.

"What've yer done?" said Hagrid, stepping to Snape's side and kneeling down. "Why Neville?"

"He's a traitor," answered Longbottom with a cold factualness that Tom Riddle would aspire to. "And a bully. I've waited decades to do that. You can tell the Headmistress I'll be here on Monday."

And with that, Longbottom dusted off his coat, pocketed his wand and strode back down the path, out of the gates.