CHAPTER TWENTY ONE – THE ENCOUNTER

A settled week had passed. Autumn arrived and with it a profusion of seasonal clichés to hurl about wantonly in case anyone thought summer might linger. The Whomping Willow dumped its leaves, geese started flying about in V-formations, honking instructions and encouragement to each other. Mushrooms sprouted up in little clusters and rings, funny little spindly ones between the paving stones, giant, white puffball ones in the middle of the lawns like teaser footballs. There was a permanent haze in the air – when it wasn't mists or fogs, it was the smoke of burning logfires, or Scottish gamekeepers smouldering hillside sections of woody heather to promote green, fresh tips for their grouse. A wanderer about the grounds might be eerily escorted by a far-off whistling wailing - which was not a distressed ghost but a red stag announcing his virile intentions - and even more oddly, by a depressed singing, which was the Mer-people gathering for the lean season. The kitchen elves stocked up abundantly in orchard fruit, pumpkins and potatoes, and took salad greens and strawberries off the menu.

Quidditch season had launched with much fanfare in the Daily Prophet, and an excitable Mayor of Hogsmeade was in touch with McGonagall to invite the students of Hogwarts to the opening of the village's new state-of-the-art Quidditch pitch, which, between matches, would host the Puddlemere United team, now vice-Captained by Oliver Wood. McGonagall, Slughorn and of course, Rolanda Hooch chaperoned the seniors and prefects to the opening ceremony and inaugural match, and, due to the subsequent indignance and despair from the juniors at this, frankly, flagrant injustice, the juniors were appeased by a second invitation – this one offered by Oliver Wood himself, no less - to a practice and coaching session with the Puddles a few days later. When winning-team vice-Captain Wood had attended a special feast in the Great Hall in his honour and made the announcement up at McGonagall's lectern, the tables erupted with excitement and there then ensued a food-fight and slanging match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, the Gryffindors claiming Oliver as their own, and Ben McGregor, who was a first cousin of Oliver Wood, claiming Slytherin had "git th' bloodlines."

Two days later, the first and second years, (sans five students on detention as a result of the brawl), made their way to Hogsmeade's Quidditch pitch after lunch for a free pass to sit in the stands and watch the Puddles practice, and then participate in group activities involving flying and ball-handling skills, coached by members of the team. Since Hogwarts was still outstanding for its consignment of school brooms thanks to the product recall earlier in the year, this opportunity was to be the first for a handful of lucky first-years to ride a broom.

Snape had been asked to supervise the juniors along with Hellmann, Hooch and Froggonmore, which he agreed to with great resignation since he found the only thing more boring than watching a Quidditch match was watching Quidditch practice, and arranged for Slughorn to cover his potions classes for the two hours. As he, Hellmann and Froggonmore organised the over-excited juniors into the school carriages bound for Hogsmeade, he thought, as a minor compensation, he might get to watch Servius's first attempt on a broom. He'd always been average at it himself, and he was interested to discover whether the skills were simply learnt or something for which having a native talent would help.

The new Quidditch pitch was perfectly serviceable as far as Snape was concerned, with good angled terraces and weather protection for the crowds. The juniors were instructed to take seats in the front two rows closest to the pitch entrance, but it was impossible to contain their energy and enthusiasm and the students gathered in the walkway before the pitch wall, as close as they were allowed to all the action.

Snape sat with the other teachers a little further up, except Hooch, who stood importantly next to the access gate, hands on her hips, waving at the Puddles players as they occasionally zoomed by. Then she would turn to the group of students and point out various things that the player was doing, attempting some instruction.

Snape had brought coursework with him, and after fifteen minutes of watching desultory Quidditch players beat a bludger about, his interest waned and he lifted a pile of papers out of his bag and onto his knees, ready to start marking them.

"Keineswegs!" exclaimed Hellmann, who was sitting not far from him. "You're doing marking? Why aren't you watching the Quidditch?"

"Not interested," answered Snape bluntly, focusing on the papers in front of him.

"You don't like Quidditch?"

"It's barely tolerable."

"Not even the Vorld Cup?"

"Not even that."

"What if England is winning the Vorld Cup?'

"Then I would be interested from the point of view of a mass Imperious Curse being deployed."

Hellmann laughed. "On this subject, did you know there is an improved Imperious Curse now? The rumours have been confirmed with two cases – one in Croatia, a wizard found in the woods, and the other in Azkaban. That one, apparently the wizard has been under the curse for over five years."

Snape did not look up from his papers. "Yes. I had heard about it. Did the curse-breakers discover it?"

"Ja, ja. It's harder to break than the old Imperious Curse. Mein theory is that they didn't break the curse at all, but that the curse – the word? – relinquished its hold rather than is broken."

Snape glanced up at this. "Why do you have that theory?"

"These two wizards – they are no longer useful, okay? The person who cast the curse does not use them so now – they are …dispensable, the curse is more valuable than the wizard now. When the curse senses it is being broken, it can let go, ja? Protect the curse, protect the Sorcerer. But this Ministry does not want the public to know that it still can't break the curse."

Snape didn't comment but ruminated on Hellmann's theory.

"We have been trying to do this for years in Durmstrang," Hellmann added, his eyes on the players. "I think somebody out there has cracked it. Vorsicht!"

Two Quidditch players crashed into each other, spilling the riders to the pitch. The students cheered and jumped up and down in excitement. The players stood stiffly and dusted sand off themselves while the brooms came to the ground before them.

"Can the Curse hold indefinitely?"

Hellmann shrugged. "Ich weiß es nicht. The curse-breakers realised the wizards were under the curse before they tried to break it. But it took many years. Must be very sophisticated, I am thinking."

They sat in silence for a minute, Snape marking, Hellmann watching the Quidditch. Then Hellmann said: "The Austrian curse-breakers think they know where the Voynich Manuscript is coming from. Like we all know, it is a witch's book, but not the malevolent witch. They actually think it comes from Ireland!"

"Gaelic?"

"Ja. The language is made up to keep the witchcraft secret from the Normans."

Snape grunted, only marginally interested. He was more troubled by why Hellmann kept talking to him. He shuffled papers around, trying to imply he was busy. Did the man want to be friends?

"Look – the first years are getting their brooms."

Snape glanced up and saw that indeed, a Puddlemere support staffer had gone on to an end section of pitch and was bringing behind her approximately a dozen brooms under a controlled hover charm. Hooch was supervising a group of first-years and they were walking in a single file towards the learning space. A moment later, a Puddlemere player zoomed up and landed before the hovering brooms, bearing a big sportsman grin for the students who grouped up before him, with Hooch in the rear. The students were busy putting on crash helmets.

"How much longer here?" Snape asked Hellmann with a heavy sigh, looking back at his work.

"About…forty-five minuten. Can Servius ride the broom?'

"No. Never done it."

"So! Then you will see him for the first time today?"

"It appears so."

"Ah, I remember Amelie's first time. She was loving it. See! – he is on the broom…"

Snape raised his gaze and saw that Servius had clearly mastered lifting the broom to his hand for he now sat astride it, feet still on the ground, copying the lean-forward position the Puddlemere player was demonstrating. Hooch was going from student to student, making minor corrections with their posture.

"I have a Cerberus Minor myself. She's not bad, but over a year old now. I am thinking of the Major as a Christmas present to myself - ha ha."

"I don't own a broom."

"Nein!" exclaimed Hellmann, staring at him over the top of his spectacles as if he were a great oddity. "You don't miss the speed?"

"I don't miss broomsticks," replied Snape quietly, not looking at him, his eyes on Servius as the Puddlemere player showed the group how to kick-off.

One by one, the students headed into the air. Some had clearly ridden before, and their launch was smooth and controlled. The newbies were obvious with their wonky and haphazard progress, clutching the brooms so tightly and fearfully they were like blocks of stone precariously balanced in their saddles.

"There is Servius. He looks…alright...I think…" remarked Hellmann, his voice laden with doubt. Frowns marked the brows of both men watching Servius wobble alarmingly as he gained altitude.

"Lean back a bit…" muttered Snape, the advice an unconscious desire to help when it became apparent Servius was not in full command of his broom. It continued to get higher, and Hooch started to yell things up at him.

"Where is he going?" asked Hellmann pointlessly as Servius cleared the top of the Stadium. Snape grasped his papers and then stood to continue watching, since the roof now obscured his view.

The Puddlemere player hopped on to his own broom at that point and took off after Servius. The boy and his broom had begun a lazy spiral into the sky as if caught in an up-draught, and the Puddlemere player pulled up alongside and attempted to coach.

"He has gone sehr high," Hellmann pointed out in concerned tones and Snape clenched his fist, thinking the next ridiculous comment deserved a punch. The students and Hooch on the ground all watched and pointed, shielding their eyes from the sun.

Froggonmore loped up. "What are you all looking at?" she asked. "I've been napping."

"It's Servius – he is escaping perhaps!" said Hellmann, only a touch cheerfully, pointing to the speck that had become the boy.

Snape swore under his breath, one hand now holding his wand in case an Arresto Momentum was going to be required.

But the speck became larger as it began its descent back towards the stadium. They were coming down. Gradually it took shape, and by the time they were level with the roof, Snape could see that Servius was no longer on his own broom, but riding behind the Puddlemere player, arms wrapped around his waist, the abandoned broom being held alongside by a charm.

When they came to land in the stadium to a cheering and clapping group of students, and now an assembly of Puddlemere United players as well, Snape watched Servius alight on wavering legs, take two steps forward, then bend over and throw up into the sand.

So Servius had inherited the Snape talent for riding.

Two days later was History of Magic class for the first-year Gryffindor and Slytherin group, and the first of the junior classes that Snape was to teach. He had hoped and hoped that Binns would make a reappearance and had checked the history classroom almost on the hour the previous day in case the old ghost had begun haunting again, but it remained resolutely empty of anything living or dead…or in between. And so with scarcely more than three lines in the way of a lesson plan, he headed for classroom 4F, on first floor, not far from Charity's old quarters.

The twenty or so students were waiting for him outside when he showed up, larking about. He opened the door from a distance as he approached and barked: "Go in. Go in. Shush!"

As the students jostled about for seats, Snape went to Binns's desk and put down his own belongings. Before he'd even turned to face them, someone bawled: "My Hog Doss says Professor Binns teaches this class, not you!"

He glared towards the desks where the students were now seated. He noticed Servius and Wait for William seated next to each other amongst the other Slytherins, but it hadn't been either of them, he didn't know the voice. But given the current snickering amongst the Gryffindors he presumed the source.

"Since we know you can apparently read," he said icily to the boy in question, " – or is it in fact that your Dossier can now speak, given how you described your fountain of knowledge – you can be first to read from Chapter One. Your name?"

"Prott, sir," said the Gryffindor sulkily. A likely looking lad with shaved hair except for a lanky fringe and a heavy-set brow.

Snape consulted his student list. "Topper Prott?"

"Yes sir."

Snape's eyebrow arched slightly at the name. He also now remembered the boy had been accomplished on the broom and had given Servius quite the ribbing.

"Chapter One, everyone – as in, open to! Your texts: History of Magic, by Bathilda Bagshot, renowned historian. She has, appropriately, started at the beginning, as shall we. Page seven…quickly. Prott – we await your limpid tones…"

Prott began to read, leadenly. "'The history of magic begins as do all histories, with an event in the past long before humans were around to record it. Magic began before people, before animals, before any living things. It began when the earth was still young and irritable, when atmospheres were being formed, when lands were being created and when the seas held the keys to all existence.'"

He was torturing it. Snape said, "Thank you. You there…no you, take it up please."

Another Gryffindor began to read. "'We don't know exactly how long ago, but somewhere between three and four billion years ago, a star crashed into the earth -,'"

"A star, sir?" interrupted a Slytherin: Iona MacGhee, Irish. "How could a star crash into earth? Stars are bigger than earth, sir, and made of plasma and gas."

Snape cleared his throat. "Correct as far as we know. Perhaps she meant a meteorite. Carry on."

"'Historians have a theory that the star hit the earth around the place we know today as the Mediter…Medituh –,'"

"Mediterranean," said Snape.

"'There are abounding theories that the centre of the star grew cold and hard and lodged deep beneath the earth in this region. It is known as the Origin Stone.'"

"Note that please. Origin Stone."

Farihah Nandwani, who was reading, had an endurable reading voice and was permitted to continue. "'The dying star, now buried in a formative earth, released its matter into the seas around it. The seas grew hot, and, owing to the crucible of volatile forces throughout, life in its most elemental form was born.'"

"This is not so different from Muggle theory," said Snape. "Take over reading, please Murphy."

Flavius Murphy in Gryffindor had to take the book from his neighbor since he didn't have a copy. "'Life evolved over millions of years, and magic from the star was fun..da..men..tal to the building matter of life itself. In all its mi…mirad -,'"

"Myriad."

"'…myriad of forms, magic was present and was integral to the proto-type of all life we know today.'" Murphy looked up hopeful that this was enough.

"Carry on."

"'As the earth took the shape we now recognize, and the continents materialized, the region we call the Mediterranean continued to show signs of concentrated magic. From here sprung the place historically known as the Garden of Eden. It was a place -,'"

"Sir! Sir – in my old school, the Garden of Eden is in Religious Studies!" Muggle-born Abigail Lawson, with her hand up.

"Thank you Ms Lawson. This is history, not Religious Studies."

"But…but that's not history, sir. That's…religion."

"They sometimes overlap. Murphy - carry on."

Murphy sighed, perhaps hoping that had been his moment of release. "'This was a place of great beauty, contentment and needless to say, magic.'"

"What kind of magical beings might have been present in the Garden of Eden? Hands, please!"

"Unicorns, sir!"

"Correct; yes?"

"Abominable snowmen?"

"Uh, possibly. Yes?"

"Centaurs!" Abigail again, having joyously abandoned her misgivings.

"Thank you. Small – pick up please. Nice, clear voice."

Slytherin Samuel Small – in name and physique - began to read. "'Included of course, amongst the brilliance of life, was man -,'"

"Men and women, sir."

"Yes, men and women. This is "man" used in its collective noun form, as in, mankind. Continue."

"'Man was as magical as his animal and plant brethren, the separation occurred when he grew a fierce and independent intelligence, and with that, a curiosity. Man travelled far and wide across the earth, sometimes after the animals that he ate, and sometimes to find new places to settle. Very early on in the history of man, we know from ancient records, an orphan boy called Alexon in the country now known as Greece, fell into a crevasse in a mountain. This was a region described as very seismically unstable and prone to frequent earthquakes. In this crevasse, it is believed he discovered the Origin Stone, which enabled him to survive. Being of great intelligence, Alexon understood innately that he possessed something of unimaginable power, but kept it hidden while he grew and studied under great Mages until he had the wisdom to use the Stone for a greater good. One of the Mages learnt he had the Stone and stole it. The Mage was immediately transformed into Typhon, a mean and spiteful demi-god, and, fearful that the boy might try and steal the Origin Stone back again, decided to kill him. But the Mage had raised the boy like his own son, and at the moment he was to strike him down permanently, he faltered and became enraged at his own weakness that we know to be love.

"'Love became the only means of defeating powerful dark magic. But the Mage could not let Alexon know that and risk losing the Origin Stone. So he cast a curse on the boy which removed him of all magical ability: his eyes could no longer see magic and he was forced to resolve all his problems and struggles using only his rational intelligence.

"'He was banished from his homeland by Typhon and set off into the world as the first Muggle. From him, all Muggles can be traced back – humans who had once been magical but had this power robbed from them.

"'As Alexon ultimately bore children from a witch, the curse was tested a great deal. For centuries the Muggles not only struggled with their own inexplicable encounters with the magical world, but also their own genes which wanted to thrive. Some Muggles to this day carry the gene from the mother witch, and other Muggles have inherited two dormant genes.

"'With each successive generation of Muggles, their own brain completed the work of the curse, and the more science could be used to explain magical phenomena, and technology triumph over hardship and shortcomings, the more removed from their own magical origins the Muggles became.

"'This of course delighted the immortal Typhon, but he educated his followers that Muggles must never be trusted, must be scorned and must be kept apart. The great magical civilisations such as Egypt, Rome, Greece, Inca, Mayan and Chinese rose and fell until about the time the Muggles call the Middle Ages and the Age of Enlightenment, during which the Muggles decided they wanted to dominate the earth, trust in science and that magical beings were an abomination. We will be studying these periods in history through this book.'"

"Excellent reading, thank you Samuel," said Snape, with a quick glance at the clock on the wall. "Now – the Origin Stone is one of a Triad of Magical Stones in mythology and legend. Who can name the other two?"

"Runestones?" shouted Ulfat Milani.

"No…no..not runestones although it could be argued they have magical properties. Yes, Edwin?"

"The Philosopher's Stone?"

"Good, that's the second. Who else?"

"What's a Triad, sir?"

"A group of three. I'm looking for the name of the third stone."

"Gobstones, sir!" yelled Ackley Shrew.

Snape turned to him scornfully. "It is bad enough that you had the completely wrong answer, Shrew, without shouting it. How on earth could gobstones be a third in a triad? Stop guessing."

Ackley Shrew slumped in his seat.

There was a length of silence while the students pondered the question or stared out of the window waiting for the class to end.

"Have you not heard of the Deathly Hallows?" prompted Snape.

"Oh!" exclaimed Iona MacGhee, her penny dropping almost audibly. "The Resurrection Stone!"

"Yes, well done, got there in the end. The Origin Stone, the Philosopher's Stone and the Resurrection Stone – the Stone Triad as they're known collectively, although it is not believed that there are any connections between the stones."

"Sir," said Amelie Hellmann from her lone seat at the back of the class. "Do any of these stones actually exist? Or any of this history? This class is just stories."

"A fair observation, Miss Hellmann. Would anyone care to answer her?"

"Me mam says they're real!" said Winona Joseph, incensed enough to turn in her seat to direct this at Amelie.

"And what evidence is there?" Amelie responded. "Has anybody seen the stones?"

Snape couldn't truthfully say that he had, not even The Philosophers Stone, but he hadn't thought to doubt Dumbledore. And though the supposed Elder Wand had cost him dearly and he'd certainly had his run-ins with Potter's invisibility cloak, he didn't think that hand on his heart he'd encountered the Resurrection Stone. He didn't believe it was possible, Dumbledore had always insisted not even magic could bring back the dead. He was also certain that if the Resurrection Stone existed, Voldemort would have been after it. As for the Origin Stone, he was particularly certain that that was merely legend.

He allowed the class to sit in silence for two minutes so that Amelie got her answer, then he said to her, "If treasures such as those were common and accessible, they wouldn't have garnered the myth and mystery they have, would they Miss Hellmann? And until their existence is indisputably proved, perhaps they will remain merely fables. But that doesn't mean these stories don't have a place in history. Since nobody was there to prove otherwise, all history is theory until evidence can confirm or deny it."

He hadn't expected it, but a casual glance about the room was caught by Servius, who held it for a moment, the trace of a smile on his lips. Something he'd said clearly earned his approval.

The bell for the end of class rang out, and Snape said loudly over the ruckus of decamping students: "Wait – homework! I don't want Professor Binns to think I haven't been teaching you anything. Read the remainder of Chapter One and write one roll of parchment on why Ancient Greece was considered a pilgrimage for generations of wizards. I will send the assignment to your Dossiers. Stop scraping that chair, Prott!"

At lunch the same day, Snape and then Slughorn were visited in turn by Filch, who imparted with solemnity that the repair work on the Slytherin Common Room had been completed. They, along with McGonagall, were invited to see the end results and agree on the denouement of the whole business – preferably involving payment and the Slytherins resuming residence.

With only minutes before lunch was due to conclude and lessons resume, Snape, Slughorn and McGonagall made quick steps to the dungeon corridor where they were hailed by Fetherington, who was standing outside the front of the Slytherin Common Room looking pleased with himself.

"We've finished!" he declared. "The windows are done." He was joined by Jacob and a handful of other builders who silently stood behind him holding tool bags.

"Merlin's Beard!" stated Slughorn happily. "Does that mean the Slytherins can return?"

"Ayuh, I don't see why not. Want to have a look?"

"Well naturally!" said Slughorn, and he, Snape and McGonagall followed Fetherington into the room. There were the submerged lancet windows restored to all their former glory, beyond, the drifting detritus of the lake could be seen. All the building accoutrements and scaffolding had been removed and tidied away and the white drop sheets that had been laid about were gone; so too were the blinding spotlights that had been directed on the tracery, and which had cast the dungeon room in such an unnatural and perverse glare that being in it had felt like being interrupted in the middle of something illicit. Now, the comforting shadows and dim corners were back, the closeness had returned, and – being Slytherin – so too the secrets.

"Oh, that's wonderful," said Slughorn, and though Snape didn't feel the need to elaborate, he nodded.

McGonagall was nodding, but also frowning. She maintained a steady focus on the windows, all the greenish, serpentine décor a little antipathetic for her Gryffindor sensibilities. "The windows are safe?" she inquired, rather needlessly, but it would have been negligent of her not to ask. "The walls are sound? Can I remove the Barricadus?"

"Certainly, Mrs McGonagall – she's safe as houses," replied Fetherington. Then added less confidently: "Well, for a while anyway. 'Less there's a tidal wave or summat. I must make myself totally clear that it's still bits of stone stuck together at the end of the day and it's not meant to be underwater."

McGonagall smiled serenely and with a silent sweep of her wand, the shimmery Barricadus disappeared. "Gentlemen," she murmured. "You can bring your serpents home."

That evening, while the students were in their dorms and the staff were occupied, Snape returned to the Common Room to inspect it in private. Alone in the room, he approached the windows to examine the repair work closely, to see for himself how cracks had been sealed and joints secured, to find reassurance in the new strength and reinforcements. The water of the lake was black at night, and as he held a lantern up close to the stone, his reflection was mirrored in the glass, mimicking his movements in a manner he found slightly unnerving. The black of his coat and robe merging into the pitch of the lake water had sometimes the effect of disembodying his head, and the lantern appeared to carry itself. He had paused to consider this eerie aspect when suddenly a monstrous silvery eye loomed out of the darkness on the other side of the glass right before him, and he cried out and stumbled backwards, heart hammering, his hand scrambling for his wand. But the huge eye had swerved away again, disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived, the only clue as to its terrifying owner being a trailing tentacle lined with suckers.

Snape remained where he was until his heart had stopped thundering and he could breathe normally, then he straightened and dusted imaginary specks off the front of his robes, as though this would restore his dignity in front of any gargoyles or portraits. He had better warn Servius about those damned things, he thought. Bloody looming out of the dark like that – half the Muggleborns would have nightmares for weeks.

He left the Common Room and returned to his office, whereupon his first task was to check his enchanted parchment for a reply. He did this first whenever he entered the room. He had now checked it so often to no avail that the small act had the first signs of becoming perfunctory: enter room, check parchment, return to drawer and shut. Endure wave of disappointment. Resume life.

The disappointment had morphed slightly over the days from being dashed anticipation to a dwindling of hope that Charity was there and could be reached. He began to think he'd been fanciful all along, mistaken in what he'd seen and assumed, and that he'd over-indulged those re-awakened passions that no longer had an outlet. He held no special hope, therefore, when he opened his hidden drawer this time and withdrew the parchment, his expression impassive as he unrolled it.

Archive was the word written on it. Alone, exclusive, simply: Archive.

He stared; he flipped the parchment over, but nothing. Then without taking his eyes off it, he sat down in his desk chair and ran a hand over his face, mind racing. A surge of some rare emotion seemed to push up inside him, and he uttered a small, choked exclamation, unable to physically contain the joy. It was she. And the unmistakable inference of the word was that she could be found in the archive.

He didn't know how. He didn't know what otherworldly forces were at play and at that moment, he was less concerned by how than by what and when. This word had materialised in the past twenty-four hours or so – when dealing with an entity in a completely unfamiliar realm, did one presume to work on an earthly time? Had she intended the word as an instruction with immediate application? Was she – would she – appear like the Hogwarts ghosts? Could she be fetched?

It mattered not: he couldn't go to the archive now; it was full of pre-bed students and he had absolutely no intention of divulging his moves or his purpose to anyone, not the ghosts, not even Servius. If he were going mad with grief, he would discover it alone, in an empty archive, and suffer it equally so. For now, he would just have to bide his time and privately nurture this little, secret glow in his heart.

And so it was with great enthusiasm early on Saturday that he gave swift instruction to the House Elves to move all the belongings of the Slytherins from the temporary conversion back to the old dorms, and to replicate the bed and storage arrangements as much as possible.

The Slytherins were variously at breakfast, home or weekend clubs, and Slughorn had not yet appeared from Hogsmeade, so Snape was more than happy to oversee the relocation by standing squarely in the middle of the converted Common Room and commandeer the elves and elvish magic as bedding, trunks, clothes, suitcases and a great quantity of personal belongings were carted out of the door. In the few moments he had alone, he would look about him, but all he saw was the fabricated Slytherin Common Room, nothing noteworthy, nothing different. Once he said Charity's name aloud and felt foolish, but at the same time his heart leapt with the possibility and the curiously simple pleasure of feeling her name enunciated on his tongue.

Perhaps an hour later, as the elves began their final sweep of the dorms and Snape was anticipating time alone in the room, the heavy door was pushed open and Servius stumbled in. He was wearing his running clothes and judging by his pink cheeks and the way he rubbed his nose on his sleeve, it was another brisk morning outside. Behind him was the ever-present Wait for William.

"What's going on?" Servius asked immediately upon seeing Snape. "Are you moving stuff out already?"

The Slytherins had been informed of the relocation at dinner the previous evening. Evidently his son had been distracted during the details.

"Yes. And I asked for students to remain clear while it was happening. What are you doing here?"

"I need to get something."

"What? All your belongings will have been moved already."

"They…the thing I need to get…it isn't with my other stuff."

An elf carrying a tall, wicker laundry basket huffed as she tried to navigate her way around Servius and William to get to the door.

"Leave it, Servius, you're in the way there -,"

"It'll only take a sec; I know where it is." And without awaiting permission, Servius ducked away through the door into the dorms. Snape called after him crossly and was about to start barking orders when he had a sudden thought that Charity might somehow be observing. Reflecting on the exchange, he realised there hadn't been any greeting, not even a smile let alone the kind of affection that might normally be shown at seeing your own child for the first time that day. He pressed his lips together and waited impatiently.

William remained standing by the door, occasionally glancing at Snape with wide eyes and fidgeting a little. After a moment, he said, "Uh, I…uh, I laid my bet that you would beat Professor Hellmann in a duel."

Snape scowled at William. "I see."

William cuffed his shoe for a moment, then said, "I really liked the History class the other day."

"Mmhm."

"Do you think I might get an extension for the homework, sir? It's just that -,"

"No."

"Okay." Contrite silence. Then: "So…do you think the Headmistress might let us have a football club?"

Snape merely glared at him.

At that moment Servius emerged. Whatever he'd gone to retrieve fitted beneath his sweater as there was a small bulge there where he carried it. Snape looked stern, wondering what it could be that it was so secret he had to conceal it.

"Got them," said Servius. "Okay, I'm good, thanks sir." And then in mere moments, he and William had escaped through the door and disappeared. For half a second Snape wondered if the loot had been naughty magazines – he'd confiscated plenty in his time – but then remembered Servius was only eleven and surely, surely that was still too young to be interested in that? Still, if his son had normal red-blooded hormones coursing through him, he'd be more relieved than angry.

It was exactly the sort of thing mothers and fathers talked about. He desperately wanted to know if Charity was there. He stalked through the dorms and bathrooms and checked for elves. Empty. "Anyone here?" he called out in a business-like tone, the irony not lost on him, but no one answered. This time, he was relieved.

He made his way back to the Common Room, the place and position he remembered the massive, mahogany table to reside when it had been the archive, and stood there, still, listening to the silence.

He imagined dust settling. It was so quiet he could hear his own heart, his own breathing, almost feel the stone walls around him exhale. His nerves prickled with apprehension. Then he closed his eyes.

Charity. The memories of her flooded into his mind, and while he could pick out her features, see her face, it wasn't what his memory wanted to give him. It wasn't a picture of her – it was the presence of her that had captured him, the sense of being completed, the fit of her jigsaw piece into his, the laughing, the intimacy, feeling understood, feeling connected. That's what he had loved about her. That she had been wrapped up in something pretty was simply a bonus, after a while he hadn't really seen her features anymore – something, he realised, that had never happened with Lily, he'd always been struck anew by her looks – but with Charity he'd dived to such greater depth that the drug he craved from her surpassed a physical attraction – it was her companionship that he missed, longed for…and remembered now.

"Charity…? Are you here?" he murmured.

A warmth enveloped him; it was pleasant, as if he were wrapped in a blanket that had been toasting by the fire. His breath held when he realised that this sensation was not accidental, not environmental, but a communication – she was expressing her presence in a way that would not frighten him.

But while the warmth lingered, his feelings began to change. Where they had been hopeful and longing, they became increasingly dispirited, with such rapidity and so detached from any thoughts of his own, he knew that this temperament was not his, but that he was channelling hers. Within a few minutes he experienced a terrible, awful sadness, his chest felt heavy with aching grief but…she was perturbed as well, confused, as if blinded by her own demoralisation.

The weight on him made it hard for him to breathe; his chest began to rise and fall, and his heart started to beat ponderously. "Charity…you are sad…I understand…" And even though he had no reason, a tear slipped down his cheek, a physical mechanism that accompanied the misery. Was she crying or was that him? "Please don't be sad…" he said, feeling utterly helpless, wanting this dreadful feeling to leave him but wanting to burden it as well. "I – I don't know what to do."

The feeling dissipated, as if draining away. "Don't go – don't go!" he said to the room, glancing about. "Show yourself…let me see you…"

There was nothing to see, however, at least no manifestation of her that his eyes would acknowledge.

And then he felt the most peculiar thing: the sensation of invisible fingers touching his arm, a slight, gentle pressure. Then the invisible fingers touched his cheek – they were slightly cool at the touch, exactly as if she'd laid the tips of her fingers there, his skin could define the pads of individual fingertips. It was so real-feeling he involuntarily raised his own hand to try and grasp it, but he closed around air.

The ghostly fingers moved to his brow and then gently lowered the lids of his eyes to close them and held for a moment. He waited, heart pounding now, eyes shut. The mild, tender way she touched seemed to want to comfort him and reassure him, but he couldn't help a tendril of fear – the whole encounter was so strange and he felt vulnerable.

And then - unmistakable, as if she were right there - her lips on his. Warm, soft and sweet: a single, light kiss – so unexpected, so brief he had no time to respond. Her lips pressed on his and were gone. She had closed his eyes so that only his skin, his lips, would experience her the way they had when she was alive. She shut his eyes to hide the truth, but his touch memory knew no different.

He wanted to see her. His undisciplined lids flew open and searched the space before him where she should have been; his hands felt the air, trying to touch her embodiment. Wild frustration seized him. "Charity! I know you're there! Show yourself!"

But there was nothing. Had an observer been able to watch the scene, watched Snape try to grasp the air, shout into an empty room, they would have questioned his sanity. But Snape didn't. Twelve years had passed since he'd last kissed Charity, outside Dumbledore's cottage in the frost and ice, and then her lips had tasted salty from the tears. But to him, with those memories just returned to him, so fresh and perfectly preserved in the witch's bottle all that time, it felt like it had been merely weeks since he'd known the sensation of her mouth on his. He knew how it felt to be kissed by Charity. It wasn't madness that made him try to touch her, in whatever form she now manifested. It was love and heartbreak.

For ten more minutes he stood in the empty Common Room, but somehow he knew she wouldn't return. He didn't speak again. Head down, he gathered his robe about him and left the room.

For the remainder of the day he was like a ghost himself, caught in limbo, unable to go back to the man he'd been now he had felt her, sensed her and experienced her sorrow. But there was no way forward either – he did not know what to do to change it, to help her or to normalise this situation.

He took to his office and locked the door, then in his chair sat brooding over her picture, liberating the repository of memories in his head, closing his eyes to view them better, wallowing. And another part of his brain, almost in his subconscious, started to run a line of enquiry into everything he knew about ghosts. There were different types, that much was self-evident: she was warm, not cold; invisible; she could touch him, but not the reverse. But her reason for haunting seemed consistent with what he knew about all demised beings unable to rest: she wasn't at peace. The confusion, the pain, the desolation he'd experienced – a consequence of her violent and fearful murder, her soul hadn't submitted…somehow, somehow to appease it, her sadness must be lifted.

And then she would be gone. She was always going. Her constant departures had marked their entire relationship – it almost raised a smile. To help her would be to free her…and then lose her again.

But the alternative could not be countenanced. She could not be left to suffer, to risk abhumanity if deserted to her own unremitting woe.

But how? How could he give her peace? What did he have to do?

On Sunday afternoon, Snape made his way to the Head's office against a backdrop of choir practice emanating from the Great Hall. The castle was calm – students weekending at home weren't due back until dinner, and the remainder were busy with free time. Being an unseasonably warm end of September, the outdoors still enticed the majority of students, the senior years were practicing for Quidditch try-outs which commenced in a week, and Servius's unapproved football club were gathered at the largest area of flat land they could find, which was down by the lake, and so meant that with predictable frequency the football would be kicked out into the water and retrieved with much shouting of levitation and Accio spells before it floated out of reach.

When Snape entered the office, averting his eyes from his portrait which remained hanging, McGonagall had been in deep conversation with Dumbledore, but they stopped abruptly at his arrival.

"Ma'am?" he said. "You wanted to see me?" He had stopped guessing now at the possible reasons for a summoning. As Deputy, he had a list of tasks as long as Filch's face, and McGonagall wanted random updates all the time. But he had an idea of the purpose for this meeting.

"Thank you for coming Severus. I wanted to brief you on things before I leave."

Ah yes, as he'd assumed. McGonagall was leaving for Board of Governors meetings in London on Monday and he was to act as Head.

"Here's everything I've been progressing in various stages -,"

On The Desk before her was an orbuculum she'd created, containing a series of extractions from her memory as a kind of visual diary of her various movements, meetings and tasks. When she ran her hand past the orb, the scene would change and run anew. In the scene currently playing, she was at a table with Agatha Froggonmore and they were discussing Ravenclaw related issues.

"Dumbledore knows everything as well," she advised. To the portrait she said: "You'd be happy to visit a painting at the Ministry if necessary, isn't that right Albus?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Everard's. Just say the word."

"So you're not abandoned."

"That impression never crossed my mind, Ma'am."

"You've been looking a bit gloomy."

Snape raised a brow. "While of course your absence will be keenly felt, that was not the reason for my…mood."

She studied him closely for a moment and instinctively he shut everything down, hands clasping behind his back.

"Severus," she said softly, obviously not intending Dumbledore to hear. "If you and I are to work together with the same trust you and Albus had, I need you to talk to me more. I can see you just occluded me. I'm no Legilimens, I'm an old friend. We may have had our differences, but…I need you on side with me."

"Ma'am, there is no question -,"

"I know," she looked away, she had expected his response. "I know." She lifted a delicate, china cup painted with rosebuds and sipped her tea. "The Slytherin's are home?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Did Hagrid manage to capture all the Billywigs? Did he check the dorms as well?"

"We think so Ma'am. I expect we'll discover tonight if any are left."

"I know the Slytherins think it's Gryffindors that released them, but until there's proof they should curb their comments. I don't want any retribution or revenge."

Dumbledore chuckled but Snape didn't commit to anything. Hellmann had been adamant he'd seen scarlet-lined hoods sneaking down the dungeon stairs. How they'd discovered entry into the Common Room was anyone's guess, but passwords were duly changed.

"No sign of Professor Binns?"

"I'm afraid not. Shall I enquire about a substitute?"

"Perhaps start recruiting as well. It's highly irregular, isn't it Albus? For a ghost just to disappear?"

"In my experience that only happens when they pass over," concurred Dumbledore. "Mind you, we never did find out what caused him to haunt."

"It would have been nice to say goodbye," said McGonagall absently.

"Have you known that to happen?" asked Snape, surprising himself with this question. "Have you known ghosts that have…passed over?"

"One or two," said Dumbledore. "It's nice when it happens."

"I as well," said McGonagall, and she smiled a rare smile and her eyes became distant. "Only one." Dumbledore seemed to know to whom she referred, and he smiled as well, but did not comment.

Snape nodded. "I see. Well, I shall try to arrange something while you're away."

"Are you bringing up young Servius to see me?" asked Dumbledore suddenly. "I've yet to make his acquaintance."

"I can do so. In fact, I was hoping to make use of the Pensieve if there is no objection? I have mentioned memories I have of…his mother."

"Good idea," said Dumbledore. "Uncanny similarity to Harry isn't it? You carrying around these memories of mothers in your head."

Snape felt a flush of heat up the back of his neck. He had learned from various post-war accounts that Potter had viewed his memories in the Hogwarts Pensieve but still wasn't entirely sure what Potter had witnessed. He felt vaguely tomb-raided, but could stake no further claim, he had offered them freely. His most private memories were now Potter's – an unplanned gifting of Lily to her son he had nurtured for nearly two decades; the way Snape had looked at Lily, so intently, so absorbingly, it must have felt to Potter as though he was standing beside her, every detail etched fine, every hair on her head had been recorded in Snape's mind. Treasure indeed.

"Did you know, Albus, that Severus gave Servius detention?"

Dumbledore chortled. "Merlin's beard, Severus, I think you must secretly enjoy them."

"I make a point of not treating him any differently -,"

"Well if he takes after you I imagine he'll spend more time in detention than even Potter."

As Head of House, Slughorn had ended up enduring so many hours of detention with Snape during the worst of the Marauder years that they'd agreed to convene in the library so that Slughorn could get work done and Snape could research. Then Snape had gotten better at keeping his misdemeanours secret.

"From what I can tell of Servius, he'll learn faster than I."

"Ho ho! High praise indeed. I look forward to meeting him."

McGonagall clinked down her cup. "Look after them all, won't you Severus, while I'm gone."

"It's only a week, Ma'am -?"

"I hope so," she said quietly, and waved a hand over the orbuculum. It turned misty and dark.