Chapter 22 – The Unanswerables

Of the many traditions that marked way-points in the teaching year at Hogwarts, few are met with as much enthusiasm by the students as those two that arise in October: the commencement of try-outs for House Quidditch teams (Senior and Junior), and the formation of the All Hallows Week Committee, who organise events for both Halloween itself at the end of October, and Oidhche Draoidh on 5th November, and if they were particularly adroit, classroom related activities during the intervening days.

At breakfast on his first morning as acting Head, Snape made these announcements to the students while they clattered their spoons about in steaming bowls of porridge as if practicing some ancient voodoo drumming, and directed any enquiries about Quidditch to Hooch, and the second to Oosthuizen. Energised chatter immediately followed, and returning to his seat, he watched the student body looking bright and engaged with happy distractions. Stark contrast to his previous turn as Headmaster, when they would sit glum and afraid at their tables, the empty seats ever-more numerous, the whispering and undertones only emphasising the bleak atmosphere.

Post owls arrived. The owl carrying mail for McGonagall had to be persuaded by Hagrid to release its consignment for Snape, who carefully set aside anything personal or private for her eyes only. And when he casually glanced up as he thumbed-open seals, he noticed that Täne had flown in and dropped a letter for Servius, whose excitable appreciation at this novelty proved a nuisance to his pureblood tablemates. Snape watched discreetly as Servius opened and read his letter, which appeared to be good news, and Snape presumed that his friend and team in Trowbridge had performed well in their football. The lateness of the reply also informed him that Täne had visited Master Mathieson several nights in a row until a return letter was forthcoming. He was a good owl.

He was distracted by movement behind him. He turned to find Sinistra had sat down in the empty chair next to his. "Headmaster," she said, but her grin was wide and ironic. "Since you're in charge, is now a good time to ask for my planetarium?"

"You have picked a good time," he said, the corners of his mouth upturned. "But I fear not for a planetarium. What else does your heart desire?"

In reply, her look became meaningful, brow arched, a flirty smile holding steady. Then she said, "You never came to see me again about that letter from Charity."

His light-hearted expression immediately closed over, and he looked away. "I…I'm sorry I forgot. Another time, I'm sorry." He pushed his chair back abruptly and stood, forgetting that this signalled the end of breakfast. Students still eating their toast gazed up at him, bewildered.

"Carry on…carry on…" he muttered with a raised hand, then hurriedly left the table and exited the Hall, his departure watched by an exasperated Sinistra.

Servius ran. It was lucky he had his trainers on. During the move to the Slytherin Common Room, the elves had put his school shoes away somewhere as yet undiscovered, so after showers and dressing for breakfast that morning, he simply put his trainers on. He'd gotten some grief from the Prefects for it, however now – making the dash from the owlery to the greenhouses after realising he was going to be late for Herbology again – he was glad of the extra sprinting speed.

It wasn't enough. Once again the class had already started when Servius launched through the greenhouse number 2 door. And once again, Professor Longbottom decided this was an excellent opportunity to roast him in front of everyone. He had been potting a plant at the front trestle table, and when Servius entered with a garble of apology, he stopped his instruction to stick his trowel into the dirt and rubbed his gloved hands down his apron. "Papus be praised, Master Snape, you really need to find a way to get around quicker. I can see you're trying based on those fine, white Muggle shoes you're wearing, but evidently, they're Not. Fast. Enough. Have you tried a broomstick?"

Uproarious laughter from the Gryffindors. Longbottom glanced at them, a wide grin on his face, and then back at Servius, whose face was flaming. Of course his first flying attempt had been the laugh-of-the-week, with charmed paper aeroplanes spiralling upwards to the ceiling in every class he'd been in. Wait for William had shot them down with his wand when teachers weren't looking, but the damage was done by then.

"Five points off Slytherin for your disrespect to my class, Snape," snapped Longbottom, smile gone now. "That's three times you've been late. Just because Daddy is Headmaster doesn't entitle you to any special privileges with me. Get to your table."

More smirks and titters from the Gryffindors while his fellow Slytherins glared at him murderously. Whether it was the deducted points or the shame he brought on the House, Servius wasn't sure – probably both. He took his place next to a mortified William feeling like his head might explode.

That morning's lesson involved re-potting a Witherwort plant in order to give it more growing room, but also for the purposes of harvesting the small, slightly furry tubers that grew on the plant's roots. While William prepared the correct ingredients for the potting mix, Servius gingerly attempted to pull free the plant from its pot. If stressed, the plant shed its leaves, and combined with being uprooted, it would be killed. It was the last thing Servius wanted given Longbottom's mood.

"I'll swap with you," he muttered to William. "Let me make the potting mix. I can't afford to fuck this up."

"No way," hissed back William. "I'll kill it for sure."

"If I kill this plant, Lamebottom will go apeshit about it in front of the Gryffindors and everything. You know he will, Will."

"You shoulda got here on time," grumbled William. "You didn't need to take your owl back."

"Come on, do me a solid – this guy's totally riding me."

There was a moment of hesitation, then with a huge sigh William moved to swap places with Servius. They continued with their task busily while Longbottom walked past their table, then when he had moved off again, Servius muttered to a pale, anxious-looking William, "You know those diaries I was telling you about? Well last night I was reading this bit about this big fight between the Slytherins and the Gryffindors with all this crazy hexing and jinxing going on. Man, sounded like so much more fun when they were here."

"Shh," responded William, placing cautious fingers around the stem of the frail plant which trembled – or it could have been William himself.

"This kid who wrote the diary, right – him and his buddy Slytherins hid in some part of the castle in an ambush, and when this gang of Gryffindors showed up, they jumped up and got every single one of them! And you know what the hex was - ?!"

"Quiet!" shouted Longbottom from the other end of the greenhouse. "Concentrate on your task!"

"Shut up, Sev!" whispered William through clenched teeth, and with tiny inching pulls, the plant was jerked free of the soil. Both boys stared at it for a moment, and then William glanced at Servius with amazed glee. "I did it!"

And then, promptly, the plant collapsed, so thoroughly the stems wilted all over William's hand and the small tubers dropped off onto the table. William's eyes were shocked and huge and his mouth dropped open.

"Oh shit," uttered Servius, causing the other Slytherins at his table to look over. As soon as Iona MacGhee and Samuel Small clocked eyes on the dead plant, they looked up with terror at Servius. "Longbottom is going to slay you!"

Iona checked that Longbottom was out of sight, then with brisk, calculated movements she grabbed the dead plant out of William's hand and shoved it under the table into the off-cuts tray. Then she took a spare plant and with precision, dusted the soil away from the roots before leveraging the plant free, which she handed to William with great care. "Plant it. Quickly," she ordered, returning to her own task with Samuel.

"Why'd you do that?" asked Samuel.

"I don't want any more points off Slytherin," she retorted. "It's just a stupid plant."

Servius and William stared at Iona. "Make up for it in Potions," she said with a small smile.

They didn't need to be told twice: carefully they harvested the tubers and re-potted it.

"You should be finishing up by now," called Longbottom, strolling back up the aisle towards the front of the greenhouse. "Leave your re-potted Witherwort and the tubers you've harvested on the table at your stations – I will be marking them later. Stay where you are please – I have your assignments from last week to hand back."

From a satchel he'd positioned by the door, he withdrew a sheaf of parchment papers and then moved about the greenhouse handing the marked assignments back to each student. When he got to Servius, he said, "Deplorable effort. I think you may have been working on an entirely wrong tree…or, perhaps not. Funny, I heard you were supposed to be quite smart." He handed Servius the paper with red ink and scrawled comments all over it before moving along.

Servius looked at the marking and scoring, discovered he had failed by a considerable margin, and swore under his breath before scrunching up the paper. "What tree did he send to your Hog Doss?" he asked William? "He sent a Crotton Maple to me – was I doing the wrong tree?"

"He's totally targeting you," whispered William. "You should tell your Dad."

"No way."

"What about Sluggy then?"

"He'll just tell my father."

"Sev, you'll fail Herbology in your first year if you let him carry on like this!"

Servius shrugged. "Nah, I've got a better idea. I'll get Iona to help me." At the sound of her name, Iona glanced over and Servius flashed her a huge grin, one that made her drop her eyes and cheeks flag with colour.

It wasn't until much later that day that Longbottom discovered their Witherwort plant stone dead. They had forgotten to water it.

Meanwhile, Servius's father was also late. He was marching across the Entrance Hall towards the marble staircase, a portfolio of papers under his arm, on his way to take second-year History of Magic. Trailing him were Flitwick, Slughorn and Oosthuizen.

"Do I need to put my leave in on an application form?" Slughorn was asking him, hurrying to keep up. "Minerva said since I was retired, I don't formally have to apply for leave now."

"You're paid a gratuity for the hours you work, Horace. If we stop paying you for two weeks then I need some kind of evidence for the Accountant to explain why. Just fill out a leave form and I'll take care of it. When were you going?"

"Next week!"

"No, you can't take next week – I have the portrait painter coming from Godric's Hollow -,"

"But the Canal Boat is all booked!"

"He's a portrait painter, Horace, I can't just re-schedule him – he's the only one in the country."

Ooshuizen said, "Are you going on a canal boat, Horace?"

"Doesn't look like it," replied Slughorn in morose tones. "I thought I was retired."

They had reached the bottom of the stairs and Snape turned to him. "Let's talk about it again later – I just can't right now."

Flitwick jumped in. "Severus, only a second – did you want the archive converted back? Now that the Slytherin Common Room is in use again."

"Yes, good," said Snape, taking the stairs two at a time. "Please restore it."

"What if I only went for a week?" suggested Slughorn.

"You can't," said Flitwick to him. "The portrait painter is here next week."

"The week after that?"

"Can an artist do a whole portrait in a week?" asked Oosthuizen.

"Why does he need a portrait, Severus?" squeaked Flitwick. "If he's not Head?"

"McGonagall wanted it," answered Snape, reaching first floor and marching to room 4F. "Oosthuizen – why are you here?"

"I work on this floor, sir," said Oosthuizen. "But I did want to talk to you about something."

"Yes? Quickly."

"One of the first-years, sir. His father is going to America with his gene-theory."

"Yes? So?"

"His father is not a wizard, sir. He's a Muggle."

They had reached 4F, but no students awaited him. Snape paused in his tracks and looked at her. "What do you mean, his gene-theory?"

Flitwick and Slughorn listened with interest.

Oosthuizen took a couple of deep breaths having rushed up the stairs after Snape. "He said his father had discovered the magic gene and was taking it to America to become famous. I thought that was a bit worrying."

Snape frowned. "Which first-year?"

"His name is William Huan. Slytherin? I think you might know him?"

Snape's prickle of alarm instantly dissipated. "Oh. No, don't worry about him. He's harmless."

Oosthuizen did not look convinced, however. "Can we meet in my classroom sir?" she asked. "Oh, and by the way – some students are asking: is a football club allowed?"

"I have history right now," said Snape dismissively. "We'll discuss it later," and he pushed open the classroom door expecting to hear complete chaos.

But all was calm in the History classroom. Snape, Slughorn, Flitwick and Oosthuizen stopped in the doorway and stared. A roomful of students sitting quietly at their desks looked back at them, and at the front of the classroom, holding a textbook and looking rather cross at the interruption, was Professor Binns.

"Did you know Charity Burbage?"

Oosthuizen, wearing a canary-yellow cardigan that could only be fastened by its top button, was walking before Snape, up between the empty desks to the teacher's dais, unaware that behind her, Snape's heart was somersaulting.

The Muggle Studies classroom. He hadn't been in it since he'd returned to Hogwarts. Reasons to were few and far between anyway, but when they had come up, he'd found excuses. This room was full of memories, redolent with Charity, her space, her domain, the only place in the castle after the archive that made his heart beat faster. Here she'd been queen, seated at her desk with the sun behind her and he, like a long-lost knight come home, had dropped to his knees and bowed his head before her.

"Yes," he replied quietly. "I did know her." Presumably, then, Servius hadn't mentioned in class that it was his mother that had authored their current textbook.

"Her book is a joy to work with," said Oosthuizen, mounting the few steps towards her desk. "So current, so relevant. And you don't get many textbooks with humour in it! The kids and I can have a real laugh sometimes."

Humour in Muggle-studies…indeed, why not? Charity had been nothing if not irreverent.

She stood before him, not far from the cabinet that used to house Charity's microscope. He could see it no longer resided there; hadn't for many years.

"So my concerns, sir, are about the things the Huan boy was saying. We were discussing some of the genealogy themes in the text and after the class, William comes up to me. And he tells me his father is a geneticist. Well, he doesn't use that word, he's only eleven, but he knew about the Human Genome Project, and said that his father was a scientist and had discovered the magic gene had was going to America to work on the project."

Oosthuizen was looking at him extremely earnestly. She had clearly decided this was a matter of some significance and wasn't about to be palmed off.

Snape was thinking about Dr Ditton. An odd coincidence or somehow related? He turned his attention back to Oosthuizen and nodded and frowned to show his concern. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I'm not sure what it means, but perhaps it might be wise to alert the Ministry. I know someone who might be interested."

Oosthuizen looked immediately relieved. "Yes. The Ministry. Good idea. I agree with you, I think the boy himself is benign, but why would his scientist Muggle father claim to have found the magic gene?"

"If he had, would he send his son to this school to tell everyone? I'm sure there's nothing in it."

"Sir, with respect, I don't think we should dismiss this out of hand -,"

"He's eleven. He's seen something on the television at home and got himself confused."

"I don't think so, sir. He said his father has been working on this for some time. In fact, sir, he even said that his father called him Pinocchio -,"

Snape lapsed into a perplexed silence.

"Because he made him come to life, he said. He wished for a magic boy and made him come to life."

Snape shook his head slightly, but the words were strange and slightly ominous.

"I know Charity Burbage would have taken it very seriously," said Oosthuizen, not dropping her gaze. "She seemed to think we were in a race against time."

Having a spare fifteen minutes up his sleeve he hadn't anticipated, Snape made his way to the Head's office with nothing more planned than paperwork. On the way, he bumped into Sybil Trelawney, and they exchanged the normal cursory greetings, but as Snape continued his passage, he heard her call after him. When he stopped and turned, she was gazing at him with a grave concern that hadn't been there ten seconds earlier.

"Professor?" he enquired. "Something the matter?"

"I – I don't wish to speak out of turn -," she said, coming right up to him in that disconcerting manner she had. He took a step backwards. She stared at him without blinking, frowned, and for a moment he was certain she was going to say something about Charity. But she said in a pronounced whisper: "Have you noticed anything strange about Professor Longbottom?"

He certainly had, but he wasn't about to collude with her. "Such as?"

"He's searching for something."

Yes, Diaphne's knickers, was Snape's immediate thought, but he said, "Like what? What do you mean?" All of his conversations with Trelawney seemed constructed this way.

"He asks for my help. He thinks I might be able to help him. He asks me if I know how to find missing things."

Snape frowned, partly confused, partly irritated. "Has he lost something?"

"He won't tell me what it is, so of course I can't help him, but he's…strange – don't you think? He behaves strangely."

Snape raised a brow and remained pointedly quiet as Trelawney gazed somewhere inner, waving her arm about so that all her bangles clattered.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Snape asked. "There's not much I can do about Longbottom's mysterious lost item."

She glanced up and shook her head. "I mentioned it to Minerva, but she won't listen. She says Longbottom is right as rain as she puts it." She then added with open condescension: "Minerva has no second sight."

Snape cleared his throat. "Well…I'm afraid in that case we'll just have to leave it there. If you think he's bothering you let me know."

Trelawney gave him a dissatisfied look but didn't speak again while he turned and resumed his determined walk to the Heads office. But he was reflecting on her words, her observation, like his, that Longbottom wasn't...Longbottom.

When he walked into the Head's office, Dumbledore was awake and didn't shy from observing Snape's deep sigh and noticeable dumping of papers onto The Desk.

"Morning Severus!" he said. "How has it been so far?"

"Baffling and administrative. Binns is back."

"Tremendous! So he hasn't crossed over, that's great luck. For us, of course."

"Slughorn wants to take holidays while the portrait painter is here. I've had to tell him he can't. Oosthuizen seems to think Muggle scientists are about to expose us. Trelawney thinks there's something wrong with Neville Longbottom – well I tried to tell everyone that fifteen years ago – and sir, can you answer this question: why does Hogwarts not permit football?"

"Doesn't it?"

"Has there ever been a football team at the school since you've been here?"

"Never!" said Phineus Nigellus. "That's a Muggle sport!"

"So that is the reason," muttered Snape. "How am I supposed to explain that to the Muggleborns?"

"Do the children want to play football?" asked Dumbledore.

"They're attempting to start a club. I've shut it down but…they're not taking no for an answer."

"What's wrong with Quidditch?" demanded Nigellus.

"It's not instead of Quidditch…it's a choice."

"But if they're all tied up with football, how can they be good Quidditch players?"

Snape thought of Servius on his broom. "Not everyone will have a talent for Quidditch."

"Definitely not if they're busy kicking a ball around instead of beating a bludger. There's no magic in football – literally or metaphorically," Nigellus harrumphed, and Dumbledore chuckled.

"They are here to learn magic," Dumbledore stated to Snape. "All the clubs add to their learning. They learn nothing about our world by bringing their Muggle activities to Hogwarts."

"They're arguing a demonstrable prejudice against Muggleborns by not allowing it."

"Let them kick a ball about after class," said Dumbledore calmly. "But do not endorse an organised club. If they get football, then next it will be pinball machines and those dreadful Muggle shoes with wheels on the bottom."

"Roller-skates?"

"We have to draw a line and stand by it Severus."

"Hear, hear," said Nigellus. "You're getting soft, Snape."

It was late in the evening, the dorms were closed, the corridors shrouded in shadow, only a few torches and sconces left to light the way. Snape's nailed boots seemed to ring out as he crossed the Entrance Hall and he glanced quickly around him to see if his outing was noticed. But he was alone, not even the portraits roused. As he entered the corridors to the east wing of the castle, he lit his wand, moving his scroll and quill to his left hand in order to hold it aloft. At the top of the Archive stairs, he scanned quickly about him once more, then descended.

Flitwick and Froggonmore had done their job. When he pushed open the heavy oak door, he was greeted by the room he knew, restored to its exact shape and proportions, all the shelves and cupboards and items back in their rightful places, the mahogany table once more dominating the space. Snape felt fluttering in his chest as he lit the fire and the sconces in the room with his wand, bringing warm, ochre glow to the walls, a cheerful crackling. A mouse scuttled along the skirting and he instantly obliterated it – a direct hit – and he felt as if ten years had suddenly dropped away. Unable to keep a faint smile from his face, he looked into open space and said, "Charity? Are you here?"

He waited a moment, but when nothing changed, he went to the table and laid down upon it his scroll and quill. An inkpot that resided on the table he brought forward, then dipping his quill, he opened the scroll and began to write.

Charity – can you talk to me?

And there came the warmth – her - the warmth enveloped him, intensifying gradually. He closed his eyes and absorbed it. He'd thought about little else for days.

"I have the parchment," he said in a low voice, smoothing it with his fingers. "Can you write to me?"

He watched as words materialised on the paper. Severus I am here, but what am I?

He read the words several times, unease nudging its way through the contented warmth. "Can you hear my voice, Charity?"

New words replaced the old: Yes. I can hear you, I can feel you, I can see you. Can you see me?

"No. I can feel you but that is all. My love, I have missed you so much."

Am I dead Severus?

Snape swallowed. He had not expected this, the Hogwarts ghosts all seemed to know exactly who and what they were. He remained still and felt her warmth for a moment, then said thickly: "My love, you…you did not survive…all those years ago…I don't know what you remember…"

A long, empty, lull and then: I was hanging over the table.

His feelings were being altered, controlled, as she inhabited him. The warmth drained away to be replaced with a chill, and dread stole over him, his breathe became shallow.

"Yes," he whispered. "You were at Malfoy Manor."

Visions opened up before his eyes. They were not his, the Archive had vanished: he was seeing the scene at the Manor as she did, upside down, the faces of Death Eaters looking up at her, drifting out her field of vision as she rotated. The dread: every nerve felt like ice, the overwhelming fear was suffocating, he couldn't get air into his lungs.

"Charity," he gasped. "Let go…"

Severus…please…

As the faces, the room turned, he realised with abject horror that her gaze was searching for him. Through her eyes, he saw himself come into view, sitting next to Voldemort, hands laced before him on the table. To his own eyes he looked sinister: only a kind of madness could make a man so emotionless, indifferent, callous. Amongst the fear, he felt her tendril of hope and he choked.

"My love, please, release me…"

Why don't you look at me Severus?

Tears. Hot and strong, they filled his eyes and burned, then poured down his cheeks. He didn't know whose they were, but Charity had cried tears into her hair while she hung. He stumbled against the heavy chairs at the mahogany table, trying to free himself from the hold she had, rubbing at his eyes, but the vision wouldn't go away, the tears kept pouring.

Voldemort was talking, but Snape couldn't make out what he said. Through the blur of tears, the faces watched and sneered and spun slowly away.

I won't die, though, Severus. You will save me. Protecting is at the heart of you.

"STOP, stop Charity, let go -,"

And when the vision returned to where he was sitting, he saw himself look up, but his eyes were dead, his expression unchanged, he was as coldblooded as Nagini now residing on Voldemort's shoulder. "Ah, yes."

He felt her hope dwindling.

I'm afraid, Severus. My children, our child – what will become of Servius?

"Charity – my love – I didn't know about Servius!" cried Snape, his heart now beating so hard he felt sure it must pound though his chest, finally break apart.

Despair replaced the fear, like a kaleidoscope, her view dragged from him and turned to the walls around her as she started to succumb to the inevitable.

You are not going to save me…I am not to be saved…I am so sorry Holly, I am so sorry Servius…I will watch over you my darlings… And there was Servius, a toddler, a cheeky smile, reaching out a chubby fingered hand.

Blindly Snape sank down, and now his throat was heaving, great wrenching, painful, shuddering sobs consumed his world, and these were his scalding tears, he knew now, and when he saw his own stone-like face around the table as she spun, the pain in his chest intensified – he cried for her, he cried for the children, the future, the life he'd been robbed of… and…he cried for himself.

He wept for that person he'd had to become, who he'd been turned into, the man he'd never wanted to be. What had happened to the boy who'd been born on the 9th January forty-five years earlier? He'd been an innocent, promising child like any other, like Servius: but where had his love been? Why hadn't he been cherished? Why hadn't he been adored and wanted and helped and supported? Who had cast him out into the world and let that happen to him?

Why hadn't anyone cared enough to be his saviour?

I am not to be saved…

He couldn't tell who said the words, but he was confused – he couldn't tell apart his own feelings from hers, his own words from hers, his tears from hers.

Doubled-over on his knees, he heaved for air and rubbed his eyes on the sleeve of his coat like a child, pushing back the damp, lank hair about his face. His head ached, his throat burned, he was as weak and helpless as if he'd been hit by the Hogwarts Express. But he was alone now in the archive, save for the mice who scurried and the fire that cackled. He staggered to his feet.

Her fear and despair had gone, he knew that she had disappeared again and a small part of him was glad that the assault was over for now. It had been horrendous. He had re-lived many times the night in the Shrieking Shack with Voldemort, and he was conscious that many parts of him, many places physically and emotionally would never function again properly as a result of it. Slytherin or no: he could never be in a room with a live snake again, the skin on his neck was permanently dead – and the fear, he remembered it, he remembered it through Charity: the liquefaction inside, the head-spinning rush of adrenalin, the sickness, the nerve-ends fraying, exploding.

But hers had been immeasurably worse. He rested against the table, waiting for the trembling to stop and the bile to subside. The attempt on his life had been only minutes in the making – but hers…she had been in the cellar for days. Voldemort had made a gloating little speech while she hung above the table, revolving. She had time to realise she was going to die, time to comprehend that those she had loved no longer cared.

In his memory now, he had the entire scene from both points of view. His own, and hers. She had taught him empathy at a whole new level, and somehow, through that prism, he had mourned for himself as well. But Snape hadn't the mental makeup to be a victim, he was too much of a fighter. He dominated, that was his father in him, Servius was the same. He couldn't stand waiting around while others decided what to do, he strove forwards whether others followed or not.

And it was this part of him that finally drew out a chair from the table and sat down, then with shaking fingers unrolled the piece of parchment, lifted his quill and wrote:

I am sorry from the bottom of my heart.

He saw it fade and disappear. The words were wholly inadequate, and he would come back, he would finish this, he would explain himself. She wanted to understand, he needed to tell her. But tonight, things inside him had burned to the ground. He felt like a shell.

Minutes later he left the archive and returned to his rooms.

The Duelling Club met on Wednesdays at three-thirty in the afternoon. Their headquarters were a disused classroom on the 6th floor that Hellmann had decorated to both educate and entice. This was primarily done with images of all types, size and age depicting wizards and witches engaged in the ancient art of the duel.

Over time, Wizards fought valiantly for their right to duel, but as deaths and disfigurement mounted, families were destroyed and Muggles got caught in the crossfire, Wizarding ministries across the world combined to create rules and regulations that not only controlled the use of wands and forms of magic, but enhanced the duel as a sporting practice by enforcing some constraints. The Unforgivables were named and strictly prohibited, and the International Codes and Regulations for the Sport and Art of Duelling were published in 1856.

Professor Benedict Hellmann was intimately acquainted with these guidelines, and in the past had frequented Club Committees in Europe that argued passionately about the Code, the group usually divided between those protecting and defending the original rules, and those wishing to modify, update and amend. It often ended in a stalemate, and many an evening he'd returned home from such meetings and complained bitterly to his bored, weary wife as if she somehow counted and he'd get the final word in the end.

While he himself had been a champion duellist, the epitome of his sporting career had been coaching Niels Brockhaus, and he wasn't above framing and hanging the letters he received from his antagonists across the Club Committee table who were forced to praise his deployment of the art. He discovered the joys were far richer in acting rather than talking. After the third year of seeing seventeen-year-old Brockhaus take the number one podium and accept the Crossed Wands to hollering crowds, Hellmann recognised a natural conclusion to his achievements in Germany. As his long-suffering wife was also keen to explore life abroad, he scented the allure of fresh pastures in Scotland, an untapped well of potential in the uncultured Gaelic stock, and a chance to train his own daughter out of the public eye – she might be brilliant, but equally, she might be terrible, and if it were to be the latter, he would rather keep that off his public profile.

So it afforded him great pleasure to transform the old, dusty classroom into something of a shrine to the sport, and while a great number of pictures showed the old duellists, he wasn't averse to hanging recent posters of Brockhaus displaying some of his greatest moves and award-winning form.

As the Club members turned up for their first meet, Hellmann took a low-key position at the front of the classroom (not up on the dais, he was not above them) and affected to be sorting out handbooks while the students milled about waiting for the meeting to start, admiring wands on special stands, practice dummies, portraits, books, armour and awards. They sat in seats that had been arranged in a circle, and when finally all twenty-four had arrived, Amelie, Servius and Wait for William amongst them, only then did Hellmann speak.

"Welcome to Duelling," he said, leaning back against the dais, his hands holding the edge on either side of him. "Here you will learn how to become a Warlock. A Warlock, for those who don't know, is a male or female who uses magic against others, usually in some form of professional combat. Warlocks are not like Muggle soldiers, they fight alone, they fight for a cause of their own choosing and they are guided by their own moral compass." He paused to let this sink in, casting from child to child, noting their earnest, attentive faces.

"The art practiced by a Warlock is known as duelling. There are two types: combat and true duelling. Combat duelling involves fighting with magic, usually through some kind of obstacle course, using a wide variety of spells, jinxes and hexes. True duelling is when the magic from two wands meet as equals and then one must overpower the other. Combat duelling is a test of your ingenuity and speed. True duelling is a test of your power and your resilience. Any questions so far?"

There were smiles all round but no questions. To Servius, Duelling sounded like heaven. He'd already been impressed with the room, and this version of Professor Hellmann was very different from the strict, rather theoretically-heavy DADA teacher he'd taken a few classes with. This Hellmann seemed to sit tight on a simmering excitement, much like Servius himself, and his clipped, Teutonic accent only added to the mystique of the skill and discipline he described. Servius couldn't wait to go home at Christmas and tell all his Trowbridge mates he was a Warlock now.

"In our club meetings, I will show you techniques and you will practice in our shoot house in ze room next door. I call it a shoot house because it is like what Muggles use to practice using their guns. Sometimes you will use targets, and sometimes you will be permitted to duel with each other. At the end of the year, there will be a Duelling contest – one each for Juniors, Middles and Seniors – and for those with true promise, I will be coaching a team to enter the Duelling Championships next year."

While the students murmured amongst themselves with excitement at this pronouncement, Hellmann reached over to a nearby table where he picked up his printed Handbooks. "Hand these out please Amelie," he said, for she sat nearest him, and she duly went to each student and gave them a copy. When she reached Servius, she dropped the Handbook and he quickly caught it, but she simply stared at him coolly. "Oops," she said.

As she moved off, Servius exchanged looks with William, who looked dumbfounded. "She hates you, man," he said under his breath. "I wouldn't get into a duel with her."

"Actually, that's exactly what I'm gonna do," muttered Servius. "I'm gonna thrash her."

"I think that's what she wants…" said William uncertainly.

"This Handbook you have," said Hellmann, waving one beside him, "Is the rules. And there are many rules! The rules keep you safe, and keep the sport legal. If I catch you on purpose breaking the rules, you are banned from this club. Verboten! Verstehen Sie?"

"Yes, sir," said the students as a group.

"Before you even lift your wand, you must take an oath. It is at the beginning of the Handbook. You will copy the Oath into your Dossier and next club meeting you will take your Oath over your wand. If you break your oath, your Dossier will tell me. If you want to become Warlocks, you live by your oath. Dein Eid macht dich zum Hexenmeister."

He spoke the German loudly, enough that the students jumped a little in their seats. He stared at them all piercingly for a minute, his cool blue eyes darting swiftly from face to face, then he smiled. "Sehr gut. I think we are all going to have a fine time. For schoolwork, you will need to practice Charms from Professor Flitwick, as casting spells quickly and effectively is essential to Duelling. And before next meeting, you must copy and practice your Oath, and read all the rules in the Handbook. Any questions?"

A few students had questions, but most of the others immediately turned to chatter and flick through the Handbook. As well as the solemn Warlock's Oath at the front, the Handbook was filled with minute script in numbered columns, multiple colour plates and diagrams of Warlocks in various postures and stances, and a long list of approved spells and hexes used in the sport.

"This. Is so. Cool!" said William. "I say we aim for Chief Warlocks and roam the world like Ninjas, fighting evil magic and stealing their dosh. Waddaya think?"

"That would be sick and epic," agreed Servius, unable to tear his eyes away from an image of a cloaked warlock brandishing his wand mightily through the air. "And wear kickass cloaks with masks!"

"Cor, look at this list of hexes! OMG. This is better than Final Fantasy and The Elder Scrolls put together!"

"C'mon," said Servius, grabbing William by his hood. "Let's go practice the Oath right now."

And Benedict Hellmann watched as William and Servius ran out of the classroom, a small smile of recognition on his face.

It was Friday evening, and Snape was exhausted. He hadn't slept for two nights – every time he shut his eyes the visions would return, and they were more than memories, they were clearer, high-definition, they were graphic and they were a kind of haunting he hadn't known existed let alone anticipated. They were intended to send him slightly mad, he was sure of it. Nothing changed, the visions would simply repeat themselves, and he fretted that he was supposed to do something, that it was a kind of test; that the visions were on a loop while he took his time realising the challenge he'd been set.

As Headmaster, however, the work wouldn't hold. He laboured steadfastly through the list of chores that McGonagall had left behind. He drew on that automated version of himself to keep the school running, and he started to understand the terrible weight his Headmistress was under, including the lack of sleep: he began to foster an inkling of what she'd been wearing. Dumbledore was precisely no help at all. This surprised him, he'd always valued his position as right-hand man to Dumbledore, and always held Dumbledore in high regard. But as Portrait, he was mostly asleep, and when he was awake, he was more of an interference than a help. However Snape wouldn't dream of telling Dumbledore that, he just understood with even greater clarity why McGonagall had sought a deputy.

And by Friday, he discovered lurking beneath his jumbled, slightly disassociated feelings, that he missed Servius. It was so faint he almost overlooked it. He found his attention at dinner turned to the Slytherins, searching for his son amongst their number, and felt the flex of his heartstring when he saw Servius seated where he should, grinning, and using his spoon to flick mash potato at the back of a Gryffindor head.

The aim was true, but the ire was wasted – when the Gryffindor's turned in retaliation, all the Slytherins were innocently eating and talking amongst themselves as if discussing a particularly interesting social studies news item they'd read. Snape himself ducked his head and focussed on his meal, suppressing a smile. It was the only highlight of two days.

After dinner, Snape went to the Slytherin Common Room and sought Servius. He found him with William in a corner not far from the fire, both lying on their stomachs with their black-haired heads almost touching, drawing costumes for when they would become "ninja-warlocks", the Handbook open and to one side. Watching their designs take shape were Samuel Small and Ackley Shrew.

"Servius," said Snape softly. "You are required."

"What?" said Servius rolling over.

"I need you to come with me, please."

Servius rolled his eyes. "Why? I'm busy."

Small and Shrew listened to this exchange with open-mouthed disbelief – Snape was Headmaster! What Servius actually proved in his conduct – probably unwittingly – was that he did recognise Snape as his father, over and above his position as Headmaster, and back-chatted him accordingly. Servius viewed him as his father first, and the private realisation of it made Snape smile.

"Nonetheless I would like you to come with me now."

Servius sighed extravagantly, made a few comments to the other boys, and then got to his feet with much bone-weary reluctance.

On their way out, Snape paused to say to Slughorn: "I shall return him before lights out. A personal matter." Slughorn nodded.

Without speaking, Snape was followed by Servius to the Headmaster's Tower. The boy had been in the Gargoyle corridor before, but had never seen the doors open or been up the spiral stone staircase to the Head's Office. He stared with amazement as Snape instructed entry, and followed hesitantly as the stairs began to grind their way upwards.

The wide eyes continued into the Office proper. Snape was perfunctory in admitting him access and lighting the fire, and as he did, he said, "Professor Dumbledore – I would like to introduce you to Servius Snape – first year Slytherin."

Servius looked at him confused about who he was talking to, but when he heard the Portrait behind the ornate, claw-footed Desk say "Ah, welcome to Hogwarts master Snape. Step forward – let's have a look at you," he gazed at Dumbledore with all pretence at pre-teen attitude dropped completely. He stepped forward and watched as Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moons.

"Mother of Merlin, you are a chip off the old block aren't you?" said Dumbledore in amiable tones. "Are you like your father in all things?"

Servius's face darkened and Dumbledore laughed delightedly. "Thank you for that succinct response!" Snape smiled.

"Handsome lad," came the voice of Nigellus, and there were mutters from the other portraits.

"Servius, Professor Dumbledore is the Headmaster I was schooled under and worked for. He is a very accomplished Wizard. All the people in these portraits are previous Heads of Hogwarts."

Servius glanced about him and as soon as his eyes came to Snape's portrait, he paused. "That's you."

"Yes," mumbled Snape tensely. "That is me. And I am not going to explain it, we don't have time tonight. Sir, may I make use of the Pensieve?"

This question was directed to Dumbledore, who with false modesty declined having any say in the matter, but received the hint that some privacy would be preferred. Dumbledore told the portraits to have a nap and when it seemed that were ostensibly alone, Snape put his hands on his hips and looked at Servius.

"I told you it was possible for you to see my memories of your mother. It is an…unusual experience, but I am willing to share them if you wish."

"How?"

Snape opened the cabinet that contained the Pensieve and drew it out for Servius to see. "It is a Pensieve. It allows one to re-experience memories as though an observer and others to view them as well. I will place memories into it, and we can enter to watch them."

Servius stared at Snape with a mixture of incredulity and puzzlement and Snape was forced to acknowledge how improbable it sounded. "Perhaps just permit me to show you."

Withdrawing his wand, Snape placed the tip to his temple and used it to draw forth a shimmering memory. He was very selective: he had previously decided that the evening of the Staff Christmas Party would be poignant since Charity had been wearing the blue dress that Servius now owned. He had to be careful, however, to ensure the memory didn't go too late into the evening as it became decidedly inappropriate back in his quarters. He took this glistening memory and it was sucked into the Pensieve, all the while watched by Servius, who had now added incomprehension to his expression. Then for good measure, Snape withdrew two more favourites: the evening of the Faerie Call and the walk along Diagon Alley.

"Now come to my side," Snape said, "we are going to enter. You'll feel disoriented at first, but no harm can come to you. And I will be with you. Just watch me and follow exactly."

Together they tipped forward into the glowing basin.

It was an extraordinary experience. Snape knew the scenes almost inside out, and derived as much if not more pleasure from watching Servius see it all for the first time. As they stood behind the memory of Snape and Charity, watching her emerge from her rooms in the blue dress and Bewitchers ribbon, Snape tore his eyes from her to Servius and saw his son seeming to drink her in, scanning every inch of her, reverential. "Doesn't she look beautiful?" murmured Snape. "She's wearing the gown you mentioned."

"Yeah…" said Servius, his voice struggling to find any strength. "Yeah, she's really pretty."

Snape and Servius followed the memory through the party, Servius not saying much, and then on to the balcony with the shining snow. When Snape kissed Charity, Servius harrumphed comically and said, "You look like you're trying to eat her face off!"

Snape chuckled. "I assure you, she's kissing me back."

"Urgh! Nah, yuck!"

This memory transitioned to the other two, and though shorter in duration, they seemed somehow to connect with Servius more. His eyes shone and an unconscious smile was in place as he watched the fairies fly about her, and he laughed involuntarily with Charity as she enjoyed the Christmassy Diagon Alley. "That's the same shops we went to," he commented, recognised Madam Malkins and Flourish & Blotts, grasping at any place, any moment that he could share with her. Once or twice he attempted to speak to his mother, and touch her, and Snape had to gently remind him that she was an image, almost a simulacrum, an untouchable effigy.

As the memories concluded, Snape brought Servius up with him and out of the Pensieve, and gave him several minutes to collect himself once he realised they were back in the Head's Office. Servius appeared profoundly disconcerted, and Snape could see the boy's chest rising and falling with the intensity of emotion coursing through him. With wild eyes, he beheld Snape, and then glanced away again in a manner Snape could only construe as a crashing disappointment.

"You have those memories now," said Snape.

"They're your memories!"

"True. But she was your mother and I don't have much else."

"I don't have any of my own!" yelled Servius suddenly, and Snape was aware of some of the Portraits grunting awake. He didn't respond to Servius but withdrew his memories from the Pensieve and then put it back in in its cabinet. "Come," he said, and beckoned Servius to follow him. "Time to go back to your dorm."

In their usual manner, Snape led the way through the darkened castle with long, brisk strides and Servius followed behind. He was expecting the typical silence, but halfway along the corridor, Servius said loudly, "She wasn't my mum when she was here with you."

Servius stopped in his tracks, waiting as Snape turned and faced him. Despite the darkness, Snape could see the light flashing in his son's eyes.

"She was the same person, Servius. You're not the only one who loved her. She's mine as well." How many times had Snape felt like saying the very same to Potter: Lily was mine first; mine!

"Then why did you leave her?"

Stung, Snape hesitated with his answer, confused about how Servius could have got it so wrong. For months, Snape was ill with longing and heartbreak over Charity...but then, when he saw her, he had walked away. Servius was right: he did leave her. "I've explained that," he said inadequately. "She wanted it that way -,"

"You should have kept her safe! I don't have my own memories because I was too little when she died - I don't remember her! And now I've got yours in my head, but she wasn't my mum then…how – how can you have things like that Pensieve and magic and wands but… you let my mum get killed?"

Snape's head throbbed. His fatigue was blood-sucking, life-sapping – the week had drained almost every ounce of reserve. He stood and looked at Servius blankly, like an astronaut marooned on Mars, there was nothing, nothing he could say that could possibly satisfy as a response. Like a reflex, his palms lifted slightly, the mildest gesture of appeasement, but it was at the same time an admission: I have no answer.

Servius was trembling now and Snape took a step towards him, but Servius stepped back. "Where were you? Were you there when she died? Why didn't you come and get me?"

Snape thought: what if I tell him the truth now? What would happen if I told him the truth? Yes, Servius, I was there, I was right there when she died and I watched it all and didn't move a muscle. It wasn't my actions that killed her, but my inaction. I who had loved her more than life itself, sat through a meeting while she was consumed on the floor behind me. I remember it all so well because I have been re-living it in excruciating detail for days now. Do you want to know if a man can go mad with regret and grief and remorse? I think it's possible. And do you want to know why I don't throw myself off the Astronomy Tower? Because of you. And because death itself would be too easy a way out. I didn't save her then…perhaps I can now.

Not a sound passed his lips, however, and seeing his father mute, Servius shook his head and looked away in disgust. Snape didn't think eleven-year-olds were capable of expressing such a thing: Servius was here to tell him he knew nothing. Then Servius stormed past him and started running along the corridor. "Leave me alone!" he shouted as he ran. "Just…leave me alone."

Servius returned to the dungeon corridor, determined to go to his dorm before Snape showed up to his quarters, but he paced up and down outside the Slytherin Common Room for a moment trying to force his tears to stop falling and rubbing them roughly on his sleeve, sniffing and panting. When he felt he was composed enough that he could sneak straight through to his bed, he murmured the password and entered.

No-one paid much attention, and he slipped up the stairs, barely remembering to kick his shoes off before diving under the quilt on his bed fully dressed. He made a tent for his head out of Sinistra's starry blanket, then grabbed the diary he was in the middle of reading from under his pillow and lit his wand.

The diary – he riffled through to the right page, still sniffing absently, ignoring the image of his father's face in his mind, the memories of his mother dancing, of fairies in her hair. The diaries had somehow become a source of great comfort to him, for some reason he found the struggles and hardships of HBP a great solace. He felt sure the kid who'd written the diaries would get it, this disorientation, this loneliness. The writing was difficult to read, and HBP only used one or two initials for all the people he wrote about. He mentioned an L a lot, a girl, Servius had deduced, and thinking about the only girl he knew of who started with L, he imagined her to be a Linda. Then there was a group of kids that HBP referred to as 'the Ms', that Servius decided sounded like proper wankers, and then another group described only as the DEs. It got seriously confusing in places and Servius often skipped bits. But he was compelled, because sometimes…weirdly… it felt like HBP was the closest thing he had to a true friend at Hogwarts, the only person who'd understand.