The Pensieve

The Witch's Bottle, brimming as it did with its priceless riches, was to be held by hand. Snape would not entrust it to any other form of transport or hold. At the appointed time, he stood outside the gates of Hogwarts, bearing it in two hands as though one of the Three Wise Men about to bestow gifts upon the holy infant, squinting up the path to Hogsmeade in the short-shadowed light of a monochromatic sky.

She was late.

It was not as if it had been easy for him to be here. His delayed emergence from his rooms gave rise to an assault course of chores, tasks and obstacles to be managed before he was at liberty to take leave, and so it was with a fresh resolve that he had greeted the most important matter requiring his undivided attention since meeting Servius. Today he got his memories back. And he was going to the infirmary with or without Diaphne.

He did not strictly need her as chaperone, but there was protocol and etiquette to be considered. The Wicce had been decent to him, he didn't want to snub the sorceress's favourite niece right before extending along yet more obscure branches of dark magic. Even if her favourite niece had done some snubbing of her own.

A lone raven in the canopy at the edge of the Forest cawed piercingly, which Snape took to be a sign. The Wicce's Patronus was a raven. He had brought forth the image of the infirmary's front entrance to mind, preparing to Disapparate with deliberation, when he spied the figure of Diaphne hurrying along the path from Hogsmeade.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she panted, coming to his side. "The Coven – detained – sorry."

She was in her day clothes, her weekend attire of a bodice-top and skirts, her auburn hair loose. She attempted an apologetic smile and wiped a hand across her forehead. Snape did not return the smile. "Sidealong?" he inquired his cool voice that often induced an entire classroom to hush.

Her smile faltered and she nodded, putting a hand lightly on his arm.

Moments later they arrived at the lighthouse infirmary. Here, the clouds were distant and the sky was deep blue, the air redolent with brine, the roar of the ocean crashing against the rocks shot through with the cries of drifting seagulls. It was altogether too bright and blinding for Snape; he hastened inside to the gloom leaving Diaphne outside to breathe in the sea air.

"Professor," he heard immediately. The Wicce, no-nonsense, was waiting in the parlour. She wore a black scarf around her iron-grey hair, and strange, primitive markings had been daubed onto her forehead, slightly crinkled by the lines there. "Is Diaphne outside?"

"Yes."

"Is she qualified as a Healer yet?"

He shook his head slightly, wondering if the Wicce had ever attended a conventional school herself and decided it was unlikely. "No, Wicce, she won't be finished her education until July next year."

The Wicce snorted her derision. "She won't need that long. She knows what she needs to know."

"You may well be right."

"She can join us when she's ready. Come with me. There is the Bottle – you have it; good. I have a relaxant for you."

They walked through the halls of the infirmary, passing members of the Wicce's nursing staff who were busy attending to the handful of patients. They smiled and nodded at Snape as they walked by – some he remembered, most were strangers to him.

The faint wails and howls of the madmen could be heard in their cloistered, wayward rooms and Snape felt a chill, a lurking fate that followed him with its eyes like a Grim. He hugged the Witch's Bottle to him.

Following her hulking form, Snape took the creaky stairs to the Wicce's consultation rooms, his nostrils filled with the peculiar and yet familiar smells of potions brewing, of ingredients preserving and linen being poached with herbs. The upper landing of the infirmary was almost devoid of windows, and the primary source of light came from candle sconces along the walls. They went into her rooms and she shut the door, then she turned to him and held out her hand.

"May I have the bottle, Professor." It wasn't a question. He tentatively passed it to her.

"The young lady, the teacher at your ritual – Diaphne told me she had put it away for you?"

"Yes. It was perfectly safe the whole time. I just didn't know where."

She looked the bottle over, inspected the wax seal. "Despite all my cautions and advice to the people who request the Memoriam Delens, none have ever returned to me asking for the memories to be restored. So you are my first, Professor Snape. I have been practising witchcraft for eighty-four years, and today I learn something new."

Snape's mind flashed to the madmen. "I see. Are you…quite certain…?"

"That I know what I'm doing?" she gave him a scathing look that was softened with some humour. "You are a mere pup, Professor. Insolent."

He stilled his tongue. It had only been anxiety that had prompted the question, he'd seen enough of the Wicce's art to know she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Dumbledore and Voldemort. Just in the shadows.

"Sit. In this chair."

He took one of the leather consultation chairs while she placed the bottle on her desk, and then she brought him another. This was one of brown glass, and a small, tin cup was sitting over the bottle's neck. "This is a relaxant. Please consume the entire amount. I will fetch the Pensieve."

Snape had no recollection of consuming this same potion twelve years ago in the dingy room of the Hog's Head Inn. And yet – as he performed the same exact series of tests on the potion out of professional intrigue – there was a hint of familiarity, as though his senses could remember what his memory could not.

And once again, as he waited and the relaxant snuck through his veins taking a blithe, calming hold, he was impressed with the potion, until, after a short while, he was too drugged to care.

Then the Wicce returned, using the Mobiliarbus charm to levitate the Pensieve into her consultation room. It was testament to the strength of her magic as the Pensieve was a stone vessel on a pedestal that must have stood three foot, and was roughly hewn out of a sole, solid piece of green marble. It was not decorated like the Hogwarts Pensieve, and neither was it basin shaped, but was reminiscent of an enormous goblet, perhaps emancipated from a mountain by a giant as a single stone. The floor shuddered when she placed it down.

A quick glance at Snape told the Wicce he was under the effects of her potion, the rather inane smile being distinctly out of character for him. She withdrew some spectacles from inside her robe and put them on.

"Professor, I need you to follow my instructions so please nod if you understand me. Have you used a Pensieve before?"

Snape nodded.

"So the disorientation will be familiar. However this one works slightly differently. You are going to enter the Pensieve. You will be in there alone. I will deposit memories from the bottle into the Pensieve and the memories will materialise before you. You will re-live the memory, not observe it, and so as it is occurring it will be as if it is happening for the first time. Are you following?"

Snape nodded.

"The events will unfold as they did in your memory when we extracted them. But you cannot change them, your brain's memory pathways and synapses will repeat themselves exactly – it will be as if I am running water through a straw – there will be only one direction the memory can travel."

Snape nodded, desperately holding onto the information in his insouciant mind.

"I will deposit the memories as much as possible in chronological order – my only guide to the age of each memory is in the hue – and so it may be approximate. But that will make no lasting difference to your ability to retrieve them."

The Wicce had taken up a candle from her desk and now applied the naked flame to the wax around the neck of his Witch's Bottle. The melted wax began to drip onto a saucer.

"Time distorts in the Pensieve, Professor, I believe all Pensieve's are the same in that regard. This will indeed take several hours in real time, but for you – it may feel like you have re-lived entire days. You will feel very tired when you emerge. No doubt you will feel emotional as well."

A faint, aromatic smoke filled the room. "This wax is enchanted, Professor. When it melts, it sends a message to the memories they are about to be freed. I must say, I am full of anticipation. How do you feel?"

"I'm…I'm fine, I too am ready."

"I am led to believe that the re-laying of the memories can cause some discomfort for a few days, you are exercising the brain in an unaccustomed fashion. But the migraines you had – they should stop."

Snape nodded.

"Are you ready to enter, Professor? Come to the side of the Pensieve."

Snape stood, gathered his bearings for a moment, and then with a thumping heart followed her instruction. As he stood before the stone goblet which reached his waist, he placed a hand on the lip and peered inside.

No memories were yet in the Pensieve and yet the cloudy gas-like substance on which the memories were conveyed shimmered within.

"There," announced the Wicce, and put the candle back down on her desk. With a flick of magic from her fingers, the cork stopper in the bottle rotated and then freed, floating above the neck. She picked up her Mandrake wand and hovered it above the opening and Snape watched as the wisp of a memory rose to the tip of her wand like a sliver of ghost.

"Look Professor –," she murmured, so low it was akin to a whisper. "This memory, there is a slight golden glow to it? It is a more recent memory. I don't want to use this one yet. It goes into a phial…"

On the desk was a carved cabinet with a gold clasp, and suspended in rows within the box were slim, crystal phials about the dimensions of a little finger. She took a phial from the box and dangled the memory above it until it slipped inside. The memory seemed to enhance, enlarge inside its new, clear prison. "That memory will sit there happily until it is the right time. I will keep drawing these out and ordering them. Professor, it is time for you to enter."

Snape's mouth went dry, but he was not afraid, not even apprehensive. It was simply the culmination of twelve years of being apart from a life that had been his, the moment when he would be granted access to a mystery, a mystery of his own making. He wanted to see what he had done. He wanted to see Charity.

He turned and faced the Pensieve, fixed his eyes on the swirling, roiling substance within and tipped himself towards it….

The falling sensation he knew, the disorientation he expected now that he was in nothing but white, no up, no down, nothing solid. He held his breath and waited.

Moments later, all around him, colour, form, structure washed into the space he found himself standing, his eyes registered objects, he was conscious of being alive and existing, but as if he'd just woken up. He was standing before the door of the Hogwarts archive. He was holding his diaries in one hand and his documents for archiving in the other. He shifted everything into one arm and with the other hand banged on the large, black-iron knocker.

"Yes? Who is it?" came a voice from within that he recognised as Charity Burbage.

"Professor Snape. I was hoping I might consult you."

After a pause, the hasp lifted and the door swung inward. Burbage peeked through the gap.

"Oh it is you," she uttered, looking surprised and a little annoyed. But then she smiled. "Did you want to come in?"

"Please. I should only take a minute."

He was in a state of complete altered consciousness. Hour upon hour, the Wicce drew forth memories from the Witch's Bottle, placed them in a phial, and then starting with those that were palest through to those almost pure gold in colour, she placed with her wand into the Pensieve one at a time.

Part-way through, Diaphne entered the room. She discussed events with her Aunt, gave the Wicce a short break, re-lit sconces and candles that had gone out, took messages to staff and later, brought tea and food for the Wicce.

The Wicce, for her part, was very satisfied with the procedure thus far. When a new memory had been dropped into the Pensieve, and she watched it swirl away into a world in the head of Severus Snape, she would pick up her quill and make short notes in a journal. She was particularly interested in what she described as the 'quality' of the memory, some were definably more vivid, more lustrous, and while she had assumed this was a measure of the memory's recency, she started to speculate whether it was also, or rather, a measure of the memory's potency. If only she had been able to tell, from her position of spectator, what was going on.

What was going on for Snape was, without a doubt, intense. He wasn't experiencing the memories as if in a back-to-back sequence – unless events had actually played out that way – but the effect was as if his brain were being rewired, or more accurately, re-edited. He only re-lived the parts that had been excised, and the restored sections re-joined – beginning and end – to memories he already had, as though tracks were being repaired in damaged sections and a train were allowed to travel to the farthest extent it could until new sections were replaced. But he didn't need to exist again for the unremoved sections of his memory, he simply seemed to skim over those parts in preference to the memories the Wicce deposited into the Pensieve.

To him, he was alive in 1993. He was alive amongst the students of Hogwarts, coordinating an audit in the archive with Charity. On the barest periphery were the likes of Dumbledore, Sinistra, Lupin and the auditors. In his eyes, in his mind, in his heart, blossoming, like a desert flower, was his love for her. It all re-opened. He saw it, he heard it, he felt it like the first time. It made him giddy, the touch, the taste – she was all he could look at. And throughout, tiny whispered messages said to him: remember this, try to remember this, store this away…and even though he knew the failings of human memory - it was so imperfect, so flawed, so rudimentary - he would attempt the mental equivalent of a photograph to pack away in his vaults, to try and fix his hands around a moment in time, to make the transcendent a tangible thing.

At around five pm, Diaphne returned to the Wicce's rooms and found her Aunt in the same position, slightly slumped in her chair, her eyes tired and strained.

"Aunt…it has been almost five hours. Do you think there is much longer to go?"

"Three memories left," said the Wicce, indicating the near-gold memories in their phials that were suspended in the cabinet. "They are both recent and, I think, powerful. He needs these memories so I am committed to the end."

"What can I do?" Diaphne asked. "The infirmary is all quiet at the moment."

"There is not much you can do here," said the Wicce, glancing around her as if qualifying this. "I want to be here when it is time for him to emerge."

"Then…" Diaphne looked a little hesitant, "might you consider releasing me? I have things…I need to get back to…"

The Wicce looked a touch confused. "But what about the Professor?"

"Do you think he needs me?"

"Needs you? No it is not that so much…no it is that I rather expected you to want to see him afterward. You've been so attentive to him in the past."

Diaphne sighed and turned her eyes to the floor. "The Professor has made it plain to me that there will be no future for us. I am trying to move on. He will emerge from the Pensieve freshly renewed in his love for Charity and that is not something I particularly look forward to. I am taking his own advice and conditioning myself to view him only in a professional light."

The Wicce listened to this and studied Diaphne with an air of dubiousness. Then after a moment of thought, she said, "Well…it is true that he will likely feel invigorated in his feelings towards the lady, but it doesn't change the outcome. She remains lost to him. However if it pains you to see him love another, then perhaps your reasoning has a fair basis. And if he has as much told you that your affections won't be reciprocated then…"

She paused when she saw Diaphne was blinking rapidly and turned slightly away before touching her fingers lightly to her cheeks.

"Yes…go, Diaphne, you're released. I'll see to the Professor when he emerges."

"Thank you Aunt," mumbled Diaphne, and immediately departed.

"Broken hearts," muttered the Wicce, partly to herself, partly to the glowing Pensieve, and shook her head. "Professor, if you can't have what you love, then love what you have."

The last memory was finally slipped into the ether of the Pensieve and the Wicce sat back heavily in her chair, hands dropped in her lap, depleted. The last memory had been almost glossy in appearance, and as it rejoiced in its escape amongst the mist of the Pensieve's innards, slipping along the tendrils, lighting up the stone with its glow, she thought she saw a glimpse of what the memory contained: a house, a Muggle street, a lawn – and then it was gone.

Inside the Pensieve, Snape transitioned through a blank spot and came to, outside a Muggle primary school. He was searching for Charity. He sent his doe to find her and followed it through the suburban streets and gardens of the town where she lived. When he discovered her, it was the moment he realised that Charity was pregnant, and as he secretly watched from a distance, her bump visible as she stood on the lawn outside the house of her ex-husband, he made a choice – a choice to walk away, a choice based on an assumption, the wrong assumption – which, as the memory faded towards black again – he realised the moment two bits of train-track were connected. He hadn't known, before he went into the Pensieve, that an entirely different history for him had been possible, available, if only he'd spoken to her, if only he'd stepped forward and allowed her to see him, that a destiny had been rent asunder within the space of a second when he let the door shut behind her.

He was almost flung from the Pensieve back onto the floor of the Wicce's room. He gripped the edge of the stone to steady himself and breathed deeply while adjusting to his whereabouts and reality in time and space, the crashing presence of which felt like a metaphysical wrecking ball. He saw the Wicce had gone to her padded chair behind her desk and sat, quietly observing, and Snape shakily sought the relative stability of one of the visitor chairs.

"Take your time Professor," said the Wicce, steepling her fingers and watching him. "Get your bearings."

He gazed around at her, slightly wild-eyed.

"Do you know what year it is?" she asked gently.

"Two-thousand…Merlin…it's two thousand and six. I've been in 1993…"

"It felt real?"

"Felt? It was real. It was real."

"Yes. It was real."

"I arranged for that…I arranged for that ritual. I remember it all now. I don't remember the ritual itself - ,"

"No, that was an Obliviation, not part of the Memoriam Delens. I can't remove a memory while it's being made."

"But I was wrong!"

Snape swayed on his seat and then suddenly his internal thermostat soared and he broke out in a sweat, then just as suddenly plummeted, and he began to shiver. "I was wrong about the baby! It was mine – he was mine. It could have been different – I could have changed everything – she might be alive now! I could have watched Servius grow up…"

"Professor, regrets are just memories we wish we didn't have – they are idle."

"She told me! She sent a Patronus and told me about Servius, but I – I…"

"It was too late."

"I erased her! I fucking erased her!"

"You told me you'd said goodbye."

"I hadn't! I didn't!" he took a long, shuddery breath. "I just didn't want to hurt anymore…"

"Let the past bury its dead," she murmured.

He wasn't listening, fixated on the stinging, flayed wounds of remorse. "I should have gone to her. I should have carried her away."

"Professor, you don't know what fate had in store for her…you may not have been able to prevent the inevitable, however noble -."

"Fate? You sound like Trelawney. We forge our own histories. We make decisions every minute, every hour, and sometimes those decisions meet with an event that we agree was good, and sometimes…sometimes we make wrong decisions, wrong, badly wrong decisions that we may never overcome. And there is our life. And I…I have a library of regrets. Have I learnt nothing?!"

He stood abruptly and toppled, then blacked out, falling to the floor of the Wicce's room.

The Wicce tended to him overnight on the ward, dosing him with various potions to restore his equilibrium a little, and though he was exhausted, he kept waking from horrendous nightmares and his racing heart. And like a throbbing tooth he couldn't leave alone, were his new memories of Charity; his mind fretted on them. The sounds of the other patients attempting to sleep kept him still in his bed, but he longed to rise and walk outside, to see the stars, to feel the balming night around him, because he felt, somehow, that might bring him closer to her.

It had shocked him, how fervently he had felt for her. There had been nothing tentative about his heart, only small, intellectual reservations about impropriety, and loyalty to Lily. But he had proposed to her, he had wanted to spend his life with her, they had planned a home and family together – they might have had that now, he might have had a cottage in Hogsmeade, like Slughorn, with Charity and Servius, perhaps even another child. At the time had accepted her rejection as outright, but she had not said no, he understood too late, she'd said not now. Even Dumbledore had warned him – give it time.

He had time now. He had the rest of his life without her.

And just as a train can take you on, so too can they bring you back. And along the newly laid tracks in his head, he returned to the same place where he had been at the time of his original decision: the knowing was almost too awful to bear. It would have been better not to have the memories at all. Was it a kind of galling irony, then, that the consequence of erasing her memory was eventual blindness?

You should not be spared knowing, Sinistra had said. How you took the coward's way out.

Which act had been the most cowardly? he wondered, cringing over his selection. Assuming the worst about her? Erasing her memory? Letting her die?

And all the while, his mind hovered on his memories of her, coveted them, obsessed on them slavishly like a dragon hoarding its gold. As dawn drew on, they had settled somewhat and he allowed himself to dwell more on the memories that brought him pleasure, because, as was the nature of recollections, the worst grew darker and more bitter with time, but the best grew fairer and sweeter, and was succour to his stricken conscience, enough that eventually he was able to fall asleep.

Back at Hogwarts much later that morning, Snape used a hidden passage to make his way to his rooms unseen, the dungeon untroubled by builders or Slughorn on the weekend. Once safely in the privacy of his quarters, he ran a bath and soaked in the tub for at least an hour and thought to himself that he'd arrived at a mountaintop, he'd completed a journey that had preoccupied him for weeks, but now he was here, he didn't know what was expected of him. He was changed, he was whole, but was bereft of both a love and a purpose.

After his bath he went to bed after taking the last dose of the potion the Wicce had given him, and he tried to relay his memories again and again, but he couldn't resist the weariness that quickly claimed him and he slept soundly for several hours, awoken in the early evening by hunger and with a clear mind. But with an ache in his chest where he missed her.

For the remaining week before term started, Snape went about his affairs in something of a daze. He continued to be accosted by flashbacks as his neural pathways were habituated and sometimes he would carry on regardless, abstracted but unable to indulge it, and sometimes he would pause in his activity and allow himself to be transported to a time and a place that hitherto had been denied him. His small retinue of photos of Charity and Servius were viewed frequently.

On Friday, in the evening, was Horace Slughorn's party. The occasion marked his official retirement from teaching but was, frankly, a poorly disguised incentive to organise a gathering – it was any excuse for Slughorn.

The Three Broomsticks had been given over to the function as Slughorn had invited all the teachers and support staff, ghosts and goblins as well as a smattering of personal friends and acquaintances Apparating to Scotland. Madam Rosmerta had done a fine job of decorating the venue and creating an atmosphere fit for a bit of revelry, with plenty of food and an open tab afforded by Slughorn's bachelor lifestyle.

When Snape entered the Broomsticks an hour later than the designated start time, literally forcing himself to make the journey from an otherwise blissfully deserted castle, the party was in full swing. Music was playing, the ceiling was obscured by a fug of pipe smoke and oil lamps, the sound of laughter and talking was almost deafening. Hagrid's booming guffaw could be heard above everything else at frequent intervals, and it was standing room only, with every seat resolutely guarded by the occupier. Snape had to hang his traveling cloak with a charm since every cloakroom hook had been employed several times over, and he almost knocked over a tray of butterbeers precariously balanced by a serving lady (almost certainly one of the Hogsmeade Coven earning some extra cash) who edged past him at the entrance. It was the stuff of Snape's nightmares.

Scowling, he made his way up to the bar, deciding that this would require two or three stiff whisky's to become bearable. There were several assorted teachers propping it up who welcomed him and a few other people he didn't recognise. Madam Rosmerta, behind the bar, was working hard, utilising a range of specialised serving charms and spells to keep up with multiple orders and requests. She gave Snape a scant smile as she prepared his Firewhisky.

Tumbler in hand he turned back to the crowd and was immediately hailed by McGonagall, sitting at a bench seat with three aside, who waved him over. He stood beside the table and the conversation was held in half-shouts. "Severus!" she said breathlessly. The wine she was drinking, on top of her fatigue, was making her appear a little manic. "I've hardly seen you all week. Are you coming to see me on Monday?"

"Of course Ma'am."

"Ma'am? For Merlin's sake get that liquor down you – this is a party!"

"Indeed."

"Is everything alright?"

"I've been a little…distracted. But please do not concern yourself, everything is on track for term."

She nodded. "Severus, on Monday, I want to talk about you taking office for a week – I'll need to be going to London for a while – I can't be Apparating back and forth. Will you be able to manage?"

"Yes Ma'am."

"But there's another thing – if Professor Binns isn't going to be back in time for term, can you hold the History class until I arrange a substitute?"

"History?" repeated Snape, a subject he ranked alongside Ancient Runes and Divination (and, for quite a long time, Muggle Studies) as Least Useful and Practical Subjects Ever.

"Well according to you, he should be back from holidays soon, so I imagine it will only be for a couple of days. I'll rejig the schedule so History and Potions don't clash."

This had been the news he'd received from the Bloody Baron who'd finally reported back his intelligence on the whereabouts of Professor Binns. Apparently the History teacher had decided he was owed holidays, and had last been seen exiting through the south wall of the castle bound for exotic, summer shores. Snape couldn't believe that ghosts needed or wanted holidays - his mind would have boggled had it not already been at saturation point. While the Baron could not confirm when these holidays might conclude, Snape had made a wild assumption based on Binn's previous life as a Professor, and therefore fully conversant with the significance of a new school year.

"Um, I suppose I could manage a few…"

"Oh thank you. You really have been such a life-saver since you came back. Now, as far as Horace's speeches are concerned, this is the running sheet. You are to go first, followed by Harry, then me, and then of course Horace himself. I think we should start reasonably soon while there's a semblance of sobriety, what do you think?"

"Harry? Potter?"

"Yes Harry. Potter. He's over there." She pointed to a table further within the room, not far from the substantial fireplace.

Snape straightened and looked over. Potter was indeed seated at the table, surrounded by a small knot of teachers and friends including Slughorn himself, and sharing the table with him was Pomfrey, Longbottom and Diaphne. She was looking flushed, smiling and laughing at some exchange between Potter and Longbottom.

Snape was newly reminded why he hated these things. Not only did Potter, dressed in casual clothes, look even more like his father, the camaraderie between him and Longbottom was exactly the sort of carry-on he used to observe between James and his bloody awful Marauders. And that starry-eyed, adoring look worn by Diaphne was how Lily used to look towards the end, all her sensible scorn emptied out and replace with adulation. All that was missing was a snitch hovering about.

"I see," said Snape grimly, his mouth set. McGonagall raised a brow as Snape knocked back the last of his whisky.

"So you are agreed? I'll leave you to get the ball rolling," said the Headmistress, and turned back to her companions at the table.

Snape trudged back the bar, seething. Diaphne had come with Longbottom after all, despite his warning. Hadn't stayed at the infirmary for him, Disapparated back to Hogwarts as soon as her little dragon-hide slippers could manage it, into the waiting arms of Neville, obviously. No wonder the man hadn't come to see him all week – he was clearly none the wiser.

He ordered a second whisky – a double – and slightly more fortified, started his passage to the Potter table.

"Professor Snape!" declared Potter as he approached and rose to extend his hand. Snape shook it quickly, downed his whisky and plonked it on a passing empty tray, shook Slughorn's hand and then cast his eyes over the remaining members of the group at the table.

Longbottom was regarding him with mirthless contempt, Diaphne examined a knot-hole in the table top, only Pomfrey raised her glass cheerily.

"Seems you've had a good turn out," Snape said to Slughorn, who responded with a confused "What?" and nodded vaguely. Standard conversation was out of the question.

"I was just getting a few ideas for my speech," Potter said loudly to Snape; he appeared in good spirits and was holding the dregs of a pint of Butterbeer. "So many brilliant stories about Sluggy!"

Slughorn raised his glass containing the detritus of an extravagant cocktail and grinned and nodded benignly.

"Yes. I've just been asked by the Headmistress to get the speeches underway. Yours will follow mine, if that suits you?"

"Yeah, that's fine, I can't stay late – Ginny's ready to pop and I promised her I'd be home this week."

"Ginny – pardon?"

"Ginny! The baby! She's due this week."

Snape digested this news while he stared at Potter, thinking of Draco's due soon and absently wondering if all his Gryffindor Slytherin alumni of '91 were breeding like rabbits. "Well that's wonderful," he muttered, but of course Potter didn't hear him.

"Have you been thinking about names?" Pomfrey asked Potter.

"Well…if it's a boy…I was thinking of Albus."

"Ah nice," said Pomfrey.

"And maybe Remus for a second name," added Potter, and Longbottom raised his glass approvingly. Potter looked at Snape and winked. "Keeps with my theme of remembering the fallen."

"And if it's a girl, then obviously Lily," said Longbottom.

Slughorn raised his own, mostly empty glass. "To the next generation – may they keep the peace."

Everyone around the table lifted their glasses and Snape merely nodded his head, then made his way through the throngs towards the fireplace, from where he would make his speech as Madam Rosmerta had thoughtfully arranged a podium. He didn't know what the wink had meant, and he didn't know if Longbottom had mentioned Lily intentionally, he didn't know what Longbottom knew about him. He just knew he felt like an outsider as he stood there, that he had become slightly nauseated hearing those names again and again; even in death their little clique seemed destined to persecute him. James, Remus, Lily. The name Albus now amongst their ranks signified the lines of allegiance, however impartial the Headmaster had tried to present himself. Dumbledore was satisfied that Snape had been best used as an instrument rather than part of the inner sanctum. "I sometimes think we sort too soon," Dumbledore had said to him, as if he almost thought Snape worthy of something better, as if, on certain days or after certain deeds, Dumbledore saw enough value in Snape that might have justified a slightly better outlook or treatment, if for instance, he'd been placed in Gryffindor. But then, quickly, without the follow-through that would have led to an unpopular commitment, Dumbledore would remember that Snape was better use to him where he was. Bleakly, Snape pushed the thoughts away and turned his attention to the task at hand.

He didn't like amplifying his voice so Hagrid did the job of calling everyone's attention and demanding silence, then, slightly warm under the expectant gaze of everyone in the pub, Snape got to work acknowledging Slughorn's contribution and the more serious content of citing Slughorn's professional accolades since being a Potions Master. He had done his research during the week in the library and personnel files, and much of his speech was drawn on his own experiences studying under Slughorn and having him as his Head of House. He finished by remarking how it worked in Slughorn's favour to retire twice, since the second led to the unusual achievement of Slughorn having obtained Emeritus, something that hadn't been granted a Hogwarts Professor in decades, and that everyone was waiting with baited-breath to see what this would beget. He closed by inviting everyone to join him in a round of applause and when he looked at Slughorn, the Professor had turned purple.

Potter got to do the funny speech. Stories about the Slug Club, transfiguring himself into an armchair, curing Ron of the love potion, the Felix Felicis competition, singing shanties with Hagrid and fighting Voldemort in his emerald-green pyjamas. He of course tactfully left out any mention of Slughorn inadvertently encouraging Tom Riddle or altering his own memories – a rare and overlooked skill because Snape didn't know for the life of him how someone could do that, and he was becoming quite well read on the subject of memory manipulation. The speech had taken quite a long time to complete because the audience had been laughing so much – in fact, probably more than the subject actually warranted and Snape perceived a fair proportion of it was more to do with hero worship – Potter had to keep pausing until there was quiet enough to continue. Finally when he'd finished, the pub erupted into cheers and applause, everyone agreeing that the Famous Harry Potter was just fabulous and it was such a good idea of Slughorn's to invite him. Snape rolled his eyes.

McGonagall's speech was mercifully brief and to the point: the gifting of a mantlepiece-appropriate gold Mortar Board and a framed service certificate from the Board of Governors, a self-replenishing bottle of Slughorn's favourite Firewhisky, a formal issue of thanks and her personal pleasure of having worked alongside the Head of House who made Slytherin easy to beat. Slughorn was beetroot and adoring every second and once more, his guests applauded riotously.

"Speech! Speech!" they demanded until Slughorn took to the podium himself and did a very adequate job of appearing bashful and surprised and as if he'd barely had time to think of anything to say. His "impromptu" speech took thirty minutes and everyone was starting to get hungry and thirsty by the end of it, and Snape eyed Potter glancing at his watch repeatedly.

At last the formalities of the occasion were over and everybody got stuck into the business of enjoying themselves – literally at Slughorn's expense. Snape, still tired, now thoroughly riled to boot, and fantasizing about his bed, a book and his memories of Charity, approached Slughorn to make his farewells.

The Emeritus was getting quite ruddy-cheeked by this point, and on seeing Snape, clasped his hand with both of his and shook it heartily. "Bloody lovely speech, old chap," he bellowed. "Didn't know I'd done all that! Might get a copy if you've written it down?"

"Uh, certainly. Horace, I'm making my departure -,"

"What? No - !"

"I've got things I need -,"

"Now, Severus, there's something I need to talk to you about before you go. Alright? Now all this retirement palaver's over, I've some plans to travel I'm finally acting on. I've had friends hounding me for years to join them on their Canal Boat in Toulouse. So I'm going to head off for a bit, and I was wondering if you could take over the Slytherins for me?"

"What? When? Does McGonagall know?"

"It's alright, not for a couple of weeks, I'll get the first years settled and then they'll as good as look after themselves, won't they?"

Potions Master, acting Headmaster, Head of House opposite Longbottom, acting History teacher and his own recalcitrant child starting Hogwarts – why hadn't he stayed away?

Slughorn took Snape's stunned silence as a positive and slapped him on the back. "You're worth your weight, old boy. Just champion."

Snape needed air. He discreetly made his exit after fetching his cloak and with huge relief stepped out into the cool of the evening, letting the door of the pub bang shut behind him. It was deliciously quiet and still on the main street of Hogsmeade. Only a few stars were out, it was still a while off proper night, and while it was the first day of September, it was yet three weeks until the Autumn Equinox. Nobody had told the trees. They were as green and fulsome as the first day of summer, but Snape knew that the fall would not be far away, a time he associated with mothball-smelling school jumpers, early Quidditch matches and endless pumpkin juice. Even after eight years away.

He was looking forward to his walk back to Hogwarts and had started off briskly when he heard the door bang again and then: "Severus?!"

A woman's voice. He steeled, expecting Diaphne, but when he turned he saw Aurora Sinistra hurrying after him and putting on her cloak at the same time.

He waited, perplexed, until she caught him up. She was smiling, bright-eyed and his own narrowed. "Something I can help you with, Aurora?"

"Aren't you staying, Severus? This is very early to be heading off."

"I – it -,"

"It's not your thing. I know. You actually gave me a great excuse to make my own getaway. Can I join you?" she indicated the road heading to Hogwarts.

"Very well. Although I should warn you I don't intend to tarry."

"I can keep up with you."

They set off, and even though Snape had declared his intention to make his usual pace, he did in fact check it as a courtesy to her, conscious that her boots were heeled.

From behind a distant hill of tall Scots pines, the waxing moon revealed itself in spectacular glory, every mare, mountain and crater was visible, the edge seemed to glow. It was impossible not to look at, and presently Sinistra commented: "Not full for almost another week."

"Harvest moon?"

"Supermoon and the harvest moon I think. Either way, special. She's beautiful."

"Yes," said Snape, unthinkingly. "She's beautiful."

"Can you feel her pull?"

Snape's heart suddenly skipped a beat, and he glanced at Sinistra but her eyes were fixed on the moon. "Yes," he murmured.

They stepped on in silence for a little, Snape reflecting on her words.

"I thought your speech was great," she then said. "You had the hard one. The one that took effort."

"Yes, but…well, it is his retirement."

"Funny stories are entertaining, but they can be anyone. You took the trouble to bring a full-stop to his career. The end of the sentence – ha ha – get it?"

He glanced at her again, an unsure smile on his face. On they walked, their feet crunching on the dirt track. Presently Sinistra stopped and put a steadying hand on Snape's arm. He paused, frowning but she put a finger to her lips, her eyes trained on something and then pointed. Across a section of heath, towards a backdrop of dark forest, was a handsome red deer stag. He was a dull red in colour, his mane thick and shaggy ready for fighting, his antlers like pale tree branches, recently cleared of velvet. The stag was absorbed in thrashing at a bush, the reason why they'd come across it without it fleeing.

"Look at him," Sinistra whispered. "Prime of his life. He's going to fight for his girls soon. That's all he'll care about. It'll be blood and battle and the right to reign."

Snape turned his attention from the deer to Sinistra again, wondering where this poetic streak had come from with her. "Do you…know…much about wildlife?"

"Around these parts I do. There's always something, have you noticed? Unicorns, deer, badgers, thestrals. Always something."

They recommenced their walk as the deer melted into the shrub.

"Did you know the giant squid appears to have…bred? Spawned? There's more, at any rate."

"Really? Huh. Can it do that? Sometimes it feels as if everyone's just popping out babies."

The slightly caustic tone to her comment divulged an inner mindset on the subject. It echoed his thoughts from earlier and, unexpectedly, brought a smile to his lips.

"An eternal Spring?"

"Spring, summer, autumn – those babies just keep coming."

He didn't comment further, but focussed on the path before him, sensing her bristling beside him.

"Actually, Severus," she said after a while, moderated. "On the subject of children, I have my first present for Servius."

"A present?"

"Yes! Godmothers get to spoil their godchildren. I have something I always wanted to give a child of my own, but it will be perfect for him. Charity would love it."

"What is it?"

"A blanket. I had it as a little girl. It's charmed and I've never seen another like it, that's why I hung onto it. When you lay it over yourself, it snuggles into you and it has stars and moons all over it which glow when you say an incantation. Honestly, Severus, he'll love it."

Snape was touched. "Thank you," he said, privately rather uncertain whether Servius would like it being eleven going on twenty-one, but he understood this was more about Sinistra than his son.

"Did you see the Wicce?" she asked in hushed tones although they were quite alone.

Snape nodded.

She looked up at him sharply and stared. "You've had the memories restored?"

He nodded again, his thoughts immediately flying to Charity.

They crossed a short, stone bridge and the brook below was gurgling, the immersed, rounded river-rocks were green with moss. But she continued to stare at him. "Merlin, Severus – are you okay?"

He opened his mouth, but no words were quite right and so he shut it again.

"I can't believe it! You remember everything about Charity again? All those beautiful memories?"

He nodded, and his eyes lifted to look at the moon, and she was silent.

Suddenly her face lit up with an ear to ear grin, and she paused him to say: "Do you remember the Staff party? And the Faerie Call? I never got to see it, but she told me all about it!"

"Yes. All of it," he said.

"That time like just now, in the Broomsticks? I spent an hour getting her ready. You should have seen your face when you saw her."

He smiled. "I remember it."

"The Bewitchers Ribbon? That was me."

"Yes. I know. We talked about it."

She studied him, her own expression clearly displaying the procession of memories in her own head. "The Wicce thought you should have broken it sooner."

"The way I feel now it might not have made any difference."

"And the Druid's Night?" she added, smile reinstated.

He nodded. "I don't know what was the matter with her…she was angry at me that night."

"Ah, women are complicated," said Sinistra, vision inward. Then her grin contorted, and she turned her face and said in choked voice, "Papus save us, Severus, she was so in love with you."

After a moment he said, "I was so in love with her."

And Sinistra hesitantly took Snape's hand and gave it a squeeze. A second later, he squeezed it back. "And now there's Servius," she said. "We three will never forget her."