The Pilgrimage

a/n: this is my favourite chapter, in both Repair and Orbit. I hope you enjoy. Thanks again to Rannaro, for the fox, and to all of you for reading this. Not far to go.

Snow was falling the day Snape was due in London. He left mid-morning, during recess, after saying goodbye to Servius in the courtyard where the students were throwing snowballs and building forts. Servius was not among them. He stood alone in a corner against the castle wall, his scarf covering half his face, his hands shoved deep into his armpits, watching the others through black, distant eyes.

"Servius, I'm leaving now," Snape said to him, as snowflakes settled in their hair. "I'll send you a Patronus while I'm gone."

Servius flicked his eyes at him and shrugged.

"Do you need new trainers? What size are you? And I'll get you socks. You need a haircut."

Servius shrugged again.

Snape took a deep breath, the icy air helping to clear his senses. "Very well. Let Professor Slughorn or Professor Sinistra know if you need me."

Muffled, through his scarf, Servius said: "Let me come with you. Please."

"We've discussed this. I can't." Then at length, "I'm sorry." And Snape turned and went inside before Servius looked at him and before he caved. There was too much at stake. The conversations he needed to have, the thinking he needed to do – he couldn't afford to be influenced or distracted.

He was due at the Leaky Cauldron and was intending to Disapparate there from his office fireplace. With his hold-all slung over his shoulder, he walked briskly in the direction of the dungeon, but heard a voice behind him calling his name.

He turned to see Sinistra descending the Astronomy Tower stairs.

"Aurora," he said, looking for further signs of illness as she approached him. She still looked pale and drawn. "How are you feeling?"

"It varies," she replied. "Some days better than others. Severus, we need to talk."

"Urgent? I'm about to leave -,"

"You're leaving today?" Her eyes registered the hold-all. "Right now?"

"Yes. As I mentioned. I've told Servius to come to you if he…if he needs help. Send a Patronus if necessary."

She was suddenly extremely irritated. "I can't do a Patronus, Severus. But don't worry, I'll figure something out. When are you back?"

"By the end of the week. Can the matter wait till then?"

"It'll have to," she said through a frustrated sigh. Then she rubbed her eyes. "Sorry to snap. I'm tired and…I've a bit on my mind."

He wasn't sure what to say and stood silently waiting. After a moment, she fixed a smile that didn't reach her eyes and said, "Well safe trip. I'll look out for Servius. Come back soon."

They were an odd choice of words; he could see that something was weighing heavily on her, but now was not the time. Still, he hesitated and then smiled ineptly in return. Her eyes widened a little, as if this were significant, something she grasped at a little desperately, then she turned and hastened away.

It would have to be something else he added to his list of matters to resolve he decided as he headed for his office. Where did he stand with Sinistra? Why didn't his head, his heart and…other parts of him…seem to agree on it?

There was no snow in London, just a dispiriting, bone-soaking drizzle and a dreary, post-Christmas, New Year back-to-the-grindstone chill, and the faces of the patrons in the Leaky Cauldron were as pinched and joyless as the weather that had driven them in. Snape chose a table not far from the fireplace and waited for his first appointment: Lucius Malfoy.

But two figures entered the front door, shaking off their umbrellas and drying their finely-tailored coats with a quick sweep of their wands. Draco accompanied his father. While Malfoy hailed Snape cheerily enough on his way to the table, Draco seemed reserved, and reached across to shake Snape's hand with a deprecating nod of his head before sitting.

"This calls for a whisky," said Malfoy immediately, summoning Tom. He then glanced about the pub, a reconnaissance: who to avoid or seek, friends or enemies, winners or losers. "Hope you don't mind that I brought Draco," he added, once satisfied. "We've just come from the National Gallery with the Greengrass's. Didn't think it would be such a walk, but well, we're here now. Colder than a Goblins' heart. Yes, three singles neat please Tom."

"How are Astoria and the baby?" asked Snape politely.

"Fine," said Draco. "Fine-ish. Astoria wants her mother to spend more time with us, says she'll be helpful."

"We'll talk about all that in a minute," said Malfoy, and when the whiskies arrived he saluted his glass quickly before taking a long sip. "Ah, that's the ticket. Drusilla Greengrass is a touch trying. I said to her, didn't I Draco, if she wants to see more wizards represented, she'd be better off at the Gallery in Falmouth. Still, family now so must try to rub along. How is Servius? I got your letter after New Year's, but I must admit that Cissy and I have spent many an evening worried for the poor boy. Terrible shock, terrible."

"He's…processing…"

"I can't believe he worked it all out -" said Draco.

There was an awkward silence around the table. The words that came into Snape's head were not ones he was prepared to say out loud, some were confessions and some were accusations – neither appropriate in his present company.

"You wanted to see me?" Malfoy prompted, putting his glass down delicately and rolling his lips. "I suspect I know what this is about."

Snape swirled the contents of his tumbler. "I need to know about Rabastan Lestrange."

"Mmm hm. You want to know where he is."

"Yes."

"I don't know."

"Then where did he come from?"

"Why would you assume he'd divulge any of that to me, Severus? You heard him; he has little enough respect for me."

"There must be something he said, something that's a clue. Is he hiding? Disguised? Protected?"

"He said his girlfriend was from northern climes," offered Draco. "Which really could be anywhere from Leeds to the Shetlands."

"Why restrict it to the Kingdom?" Malfoy said. "She could be Scandinavian. Inuit, I don't know. There's nothing stopping him Portkeying in from anywhere. Would you believe me if I said, Severus, that the first I heard from him was Christmas Eve?"

Snape kept his eyes trained on the table-top a moment before lifting them to Malfoy's and saying, "If I'm honest – no. I think you've been in touch with him for years. That's how you knew he was still at large." He glanced from Malfoy to Draco and back again. "I don't think he'd go far. He wouldn't want to risk his Dark Mark missing a message. He's busy setting up somewhere local, getting ready for the others to be released. The other…loyals."

"Well he doesn't count me among their number," said Malfoy, feigning offense.

"Perhaps," said Snape quietly, "he hopes for bankrolling? He certainly didn't appear to be living rough."

Malfoy looked uncomfortable suddenly and took a quick sip of his whisky. "I can honestly say," he then said, with a flinty look to his blue eyes, "that I have never given him a single Knut. Not so much as a Muggle farthing."

"Narcissa?"

"Snape, I don't like your line of questioning -,"

"It's harbouring, Lucius. Perverting the course of justice."

"I've served my time. I gave them all the information I had -,"

Snape noticed that Malfoy's hand had begun to quiver. Draco saw it too, and he frowned. "Dad -?"

"I'm alright, Dray-Dray," he swallowed hard. "Memories, that's all. Just the memories."

Snape understood that. He sat back in his chair to give time to the ruffled feathers. The memories for himself had been at their worst on Christmas Day; he'd been sick to his stomach all through lunch, beads of sweat had even trickled down his spine.

"Lucius," he said after several minutes of sitting in silence, "you told me you gave some of the escapees Polyjuice Potion. And money, to make them go away. Remember? You didn't want them at the Manor. Lucius, was Rabastan one of those?"

"I haven't had Polyjuice in the house for years!"

"Where did you get it? The Polyjuice? Could he have stolen an identity, a missing person?"

Draco looked confused for a moment, then said, "He'd have to impersonate as another Death Eater otherwise he'd lose his Dark Mark. You said he wouldn't risk being out of contact."

"Does it work that way?" Malfoy asked Draco. "I've never used Polyjuice in my life. Won't touch the stuff. It's bad for your liver."

"Lucius," pressed Snape. "Was Rabastan one of the escaped Death Eaters who came to the Manor? Did you give him Polyjuice?"

Malfoy rubbed a weary hand over his chin and then crossed his arms, refusing to make eye contact. "Oh I expect so."

"And where was the Potion from?"

"Probably somewhere on Knockturn, I don't know. Narcissa took care of all that."

"It's not that hard to get," said Draco. "Can be a bit risky, but you can get it through networks."

"So if you didn't give him money, where is his income from? The person he's impersonating?"

"I don't know anything about that," said Malfoy, a stubborn aspect to his expression. "It could be the others in Azkaban are financing him. The Lestranges. Maybe even the Blacks although Cissy hasn't told me that."

At that point Tom came to the table with a tea towel slung over his forearm and a notepad. "Now gen'lemen will you be eatin' in today? Will you be wantin' a menu?"

Malfoy glanced up at the chalkboard of specials placed before the bar. "Have you any vegetarian meals?"

"Aaahm. We could knock up a salad for yer…"

All three shook their heads and Tom cleared the glasses with a poorly disguised click of his tongue.

"We should be leaving soon," said Malfoy. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you further with your inquiries Severus. But I do have an item of business of my own. I, and Draco."

"Indeed?"

Malfoy laced his fingers together and rested them before him on the table. "I came across an excellent quote the other day. In a Muggle newspaper. It said that it was easier to build strong children than to repair broken men. It was in the context of parenting so I don't know the origins of the quote, but it did stop and make me think. I now consider myself a broken man, and it is never more apparent to me than when I hold Scorpius. I wonder what kind of world will be here for him when he's older, what I will have left to hand down to Draco, and he in turn to his son. The Manor, the family fortune, all that, handed down since the eleventh century. I feel, personally, that I have let down my predecessors, my ancestors, that our stronghold has never felt so precarious as in these last decades. I thought that growing Draco in my image was a means of strengthening and preserving it but…," a resonating sigh saw his shoulders heave. "That was a mistake. I have decided now that it is time to redirect investment into the next generation. I wish to build strong children and grandchildren."

Draco stared at the tabletop and appeared hangdog, as if struggling with the shame, the disgrace of this pronouncement. Or perhaps it was more towards his own role in it. Snape reflected that every last trinket the Malfoy's owned wouldn't cover the cost of this destroyed pride. What he was hearing wouldn't have passed the lips of generations of Malfoys – a family that would fling profanities as their final words when the guillotine blade was dropped.

"I see," he said carefully.

"What will it cost us, Severus, for Draco to acquire his NEWTs?"

Snape's eyebrows shot up. "Is that all? Well the hourly rate of a tutor is -,"

"No. No tutors. Draco is to return to school."

Snape glanced at Draco, who hung his head even further, refusing to look up.

"It will be a condition of his inheritance," continued Malfoy. "He will obtain his qualifications and earn an honest living. I should like him to teach. You have shown us how a man of character is made and I think you set an excellent example – I do remember how you applied yourself as a student, Severus, I think Draco is badly in want of those kinds of principles."

"Um…" Snape was genuinely at a loss. "Do you think that's strictly necessary? Quite a few students never got to sit their NEWTs that year - ,"

"You misunderstand. Draco turned up for seventh year, but he didn't apply himself and he didn't care. Even if he'd had the opportunity to sit for NEWTs I don't believe he would have scraped one down. Perhaps Dark Arts. Perhaps Charms; I shudder to think how close it would have got."

"Dad -," said Draco, at last raising his head. "You yourself told me I was better staying at school because of the proximity to Dumbledore. To Potter, in case he turned up. The protection from Professor Snape. But I wasn't there to learn, you told me the school couldn't teach me anything, remember?"

"NOTHING serves you better in this world than a decent education!" said Malfoy hotly, and his raised voice caused a few heads to turn in their direction. "I can tell you now, I'm still learning. You need to examine your scruples, Dray-Dray. You're a father now, you need to stand up and be counted, you need to -,"

Draco rolled his eyes and slumped in his chair like a teenager.

"Perhaps," said Snape, interrupting Malfoy's speech that had now continued at least half a minute, "we can arrange something…off site? I'm not sure Draco will find it particularly edifying sitting in a classroom with seventeen year olds -,"

"On the contrary, humility is good for the soul. Believe me, he'll be paying attention in those classes."

"Dad, I'm not going to sit in a classroom with a bunch of kids -,"

"Quiet son, you'll do what's good for you. Snape, answer me this. I'm prepared to make this worth Hogwarts' while. Would a handsome donation to the Trust Fund buy him a desk in next year's seventh year?"

"Astoria needs me at home! I can't board at Hogwarts!"

"You don't need to board. Apparate home. Take a room in Hogsmeade."

Snape was thinking about the roof repairs. "I can talk to the Headmistress but if Draco attends classes, he's going to have to think differently about his opportunity…"

"Mark my words, he'll have a whole new head on by the time September first rolls round."

Snape frowned and his eyes slipped between Malfoy and Draco. "I'm not going to promise anything, but I'll talk to McGonagall," he murmured and shook his head slightly.

"Good man," said Malfoy, and then slapped Draco on the shoulder. "Who knows? Maybe I'll sit for re-election on the Board. Now. Lunch."

In the afternoon the drizzle cleared, and on Diagon Alley Snape did some shopping in both Apothecaries, bought several pairs of new socks for Servius, attended to some business at Gringotts and then visited Obscurus Books. At dusk, as shopkeeps lit their display windows, closed their doors for trade and streetlamps began to glow, the rain-brassy lanes gradually emptied of shoppers and Snape's thoughts finally acknowledged his rumbling stomach. On a whim, he strolled to a quieter part of the precinct and searched his memory for the whereabouts of a place he'd visited for the first and last time over twelve years ago. He didn't hold high hopes, but it was the only place he could think of suddenly, the only place he wanted to be.

And then turning a corner, he saw it. It looked as it had then – it would for another fifty years or more – and it still bore the same name: Pippin Brimbles. The candles in their glass jars shone invitingly through the slightly crooked, mullioned windows, and Snape went directly up the stone steps and through the ancient oak door. Improbably, the table before the front window was free, and the proprietor, who still wore his pince-nez and striped apron, took his coat and showed him his seat and brought the menu before offering to discern his preferences. Snape smiled and shook his head, then handed back the menu without opening it. "The brasato, with a glass of Barbera, thank you."

Alone once more, to the background murmur of the few other diners deep in conversation, a faint melodic tune from nowhere, Snape laid his wand on the table and looked out the window at the last shoppers still wandering the lanes with their packages, and his mind had evaporated all the intervening years, all the lapsed time, the pointless activity, the wasted energy. His eyes turned to the chair on the other side of the table and there was Charity, smiling at him. She placed her hand over his. She looked as she had then, in a witch's gown and her hair in a loose French braid, her eyes bright but slightly perplexed as she studied him. He couldn't tell if it was something he hadn't noticed at the time, or mere fancy, but she had a glow, a vivacity about her, she looked lit from within, and he recalled she'd said that this day had been one of the happiest of her life.

He held the vision of her in his eyes and was overwhelmed by a wave of regret. This moment, he'd discovered too late, on that evening all those years ago, had been a fork in the road. He would never had known it at the time – everything then had felt so fresh and new, it would have been impossible to predict that destiny played its hand so soon.

I want to change the course of our history, he said to her. Nothing good came from the choices we made. Other than Servius, we turned fate against us. I want to change that.

Charity understood. Her smile warmed a little.

Pretend all we have is today, this moment, here. Be my wife, Charity; marry me and stay with me come what may. Don't leave again.

He didn't even dare blink. He stared at her as he waited her reply but she said nothing, and somebody in the restaurant laughed and like a popped bubble, she was gone, simply gone. She'd never been there, but now he stared at an empty chair and felt foolish and he lowered his gaze, and his fingers closed around his wand and he sat still until his throat opened and he could breathe again.

He overnighted at The Leaky Cauldron, casting several protective charms around the room once he'd shut the door for the night, and the next day, around mid-morning, he used the establishment's Floo to transit to the Ministry. After the usual checking in procedures, he was informed by the helpful persons at reception that he was welcome to take the lift to level 2, the Auror headquarters where Harry Potter had his office.

It took Snape almost fifteen minutes and several missed lifts before an empty one became available and he forced himself into it. He closed his eyes for the duration of the ride and when the doors opened and he was able to charge out, his heart was beating hard and Potter was waiting outside looking consternated.

"Professor, hi, good to see you again. I was told you'd arrived -,"

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he barked.

"Um…no problem, this way." Potter led him down a tiled corridor past the cubicled area of be-desked and busily occupied Aurors, administrators and clerks until they reached a door at the far end with Potter's name on it, which he opened to them both. The private office seemed no less chaotic than the open plan they'd just walked through, with presumably contraband and evidence stored on almost every flat surface, randomly adhered notes, photos and maps on the walls, several crayoned children's drawings behind the desk, a couple of bundled windcheaters and a pair of trainers in a corner, the plastic bags bearing the name of nearby Muggle takeaways, still containing their boxes, sat atop the opened-drawer filing cabinet, and the trays on the desk itself overflowed with scrolls, files and bits of stationery. Potter cleared detritus from the visitor's chair, which he held uncertainly for a moment, before depositing on the floor nearby. "Here, sorry about the mess – we probably should have met in one of the meeting rooms!"

The office was unusually warm – a boiler heating system obviously in operation – and Snape removed his coat and, finding no coathooks, slung it over the back of the chair before seating, waiting for Potter to organise himself. "Um – tea?" Potter asked. "Coffee?" Several memos suddenly alit from his desktop and fluttered about the room, and he attempted to grab them as they came within range.

"No, thank you," murmured Snape, taking out his wand and casually waving it at the memos. They dropped to the floor.

Potter nudged his glasses up his nose and sat on the edge of his own chair, then regarded Snape with a mixture of apprehension and, it appeared, misgiving. "So this is, um, a bit of a surprise."

"Sorry for the short notice," Snape said, before narrowing his eyes. "Did you really not expect to see me again?"

"Maybe not so soon."

"I have more than one matter to discuss. Shall I start at the beginning?"

"Makes sense."

Snape cleared his throat. "I have recently encountered Rabastan Lestrange. He's alive and well and, I think, living somewhere north. And furthermore, I don't believe he's…accepted defeat."

Potter's eyes widened. "Rabastan?! Really? When you say 'encountered' -,"

"I conversed with him, yes. There was no chance of a mistaken identity."

Potter hesitated a moment, scratched his head, then said: "Then why didn't you – you know – nab him? He's still wanted."

"An amnesty was in place."

"But…he's a murderer at large -," said Potter, sounding uncertain. "They're not entitled to amnesties."

"I don't know where you're going with this Potter, are you suggesting I aided and abetted? I'm not an Auror, I'm a Potions Professor and I'm here reporting to the authorities what I know. Are you interested in this information or not?"

Potter frowned furiously and rubbed his forehead. "Yes of course!" He found a notebook and scrabbled around his desk drawer for a pen, then flicked around for a clean page. "Right. So tell me everything."

"There are other parties involved," said Snape. "I want your word that they are to be given leniency, preferably exemption. They are cooperating."

Potter nodded, unsurprised, and raised a brow. "The Malfoys."

Carefully and deliberately Snape described the events of Christmas Day, and then added his new knowledge from the previous days meeting. He was judicious in excluding anything not strictly pertinent.

When Snape had finished, Potter tapped his pen against his mouth, then said, "Why now? Why's he invited himself for Christmas now? Was it you, your presence there? Did you lure him in? Couldn't he resist?"

Snape raised a single brow. "As aware as I am of my magnetic appeal, I'm not certain I was his only reason for being there. If he had plans he intended to share, he never got the opportunity. The day went…awry. He Disapparated promptly my back was turned."

Deep in thought, Potter got up from his chair and went to a nearby filing cabinet, and, at length, drew forth a folder that Snape assumed contained Rabastan's file. Plonking it back on his desk, Potter began to sort through it. "Those things he said. It sounded like he plans on getting the band back together, doesn't it?"

"Band?"

"Muggle expression. Unless something dramatic happens, the release date for those Death Eaters in Azkaban is July two thousand and eight. As far as I know, they've all cooperated through the rehabilitation programme. But if he's some kind of mastermind behind the Dark Mark, he may have been communicating with them the whole time - ,"

Just then a Patronus materialised through the office door and took the form of horse as it trotted up to Potter. "Oh, uh, it's Ginny -," Potter said to Snape. "Sorry, might be an emergency – just a tick…"

Snape looked discreetly at his hands but it was impossible to not overhear as the Patronus delivered its message.

"Are you coming home on time tonight? Because James has been throwing up and now Albus has a temperature but Mum can't stay much after six. And we're out of catfood, can you bring home some catfood? But get some from the place in Diagon, not the supermarket, the cat hates that tinned stuff. And I talked to Mum about what you said last night and -,"

Snape didn't hear the next bit because Potter talked rapidly over the top of it. "Okay, well then that's a good use of Patronus isn't it? I told her they're strictly for emergencies. It's funny how the definition of an emergency changes when you're at home all day, ha ha."

When Snape looked up again the horse was wisping apart and Potter was waving his hand about in the middle of it as if trying to extinguish it.

"We're, uh, trying to get a nanny elf," continued Potter, picking up his ballpoint pen and clicking the button repeatedly. "Ginny will be much happier if she can get out and about a bit, I think."

"Mmm. I understand nanny elves are in high demand."

"Good ones are, yeah," said Potter, nodding distractedly. "Right, so where were we?"

"Lestrange. My suggestion is that you send some of your agents to Knockturn undercover and see who's supplying Polyjuice -,"

"Oh yes. That reminds me – if he's been impersonating someone all this time, will his Dark Mark still work -?"

There was a rapid knocking on the door of the office. Snape and Potter both glanced up and Potter said, "Come in?"

Two Aurors entered, a man and a woman, but they weren't familiar to Snape. They both wore intense and purposeful expressions and carried files. "Sir, sorry to interrupt," said the man to Potter, "but we intercepted this, and I think you should take a look at it. The case has been cold for a while."

He handed his file to Potter who took it with an apologetic glance at Snape. "Sorry, Professor, I'll just take a quick look…"

The Aurors seemed to notice Snape for the first time and offered quick smiles, and Snape realised, judging by their ages, that these were likely students at Hogwarts while he'd been away.

Potter was busy reading and the female Auror said to him in an undertone, "Huan's still at Stanford but this was published here – he seems to want to build an audience in Britain, or maybe this was the only journal that would run with the piece…"

"Huan?" said Snape, frowning. "Did you say Huan?"

Three sets of eyes looked at him. "Yes. Tao Huan. Have you heard of him?" asked Potter.

"Actually I have. The geneticist?"

"Yes! He's publishing in scientific journals that -,"

"He's discovered the magic gene?"

Potter nodded in surprise. "He calls it the M-Chromosome, or MC – how did you know? Have you seen his papers?"

"No…but I'm familiar with his…work."

The male Auror spoke. "We're concerned about a new tack he's taking. He's spearheading the designer babies idea. He's implying that, for a price, Muggles can buy superpowers for their baby. We're not exactly sure how he proposes to do it, or whether he'll even be allowed."

"There's a lot of resistance to designer babies in the Muggle medical fraternity. It's considered unethical," said Potter. "But that's in the Western world. Huan's Chinese; I'm not sure the Asian community takes a similar position."

"Have you alerted the Inter-Aurors?"

"Yes, but they don't seem to be having much success."

"Huan will be impervious to standard obliviation."

Potter held Snape's eyes. When he evidently perceived the sincerity there, he nodded once and said, "What do you know, Professor?"

"He was the research assistant of a Doctor Ditton. Ditton managed to get one step ahead of us, and the breakthrough he's passed on to Huan."

"Ah. That would explain Ditton Ingenietics Ltd in this article then. Professor, would you be willing to come and brief a number of aurors who've been working on this case?"

Snape smiled. "Not today, Potter. I'm on…a holiday."

"You have to go?"

"I do, I'm afraid."

Potter turned to the two Aurors who'd remained standing and staring closely at Snape. "Only five percent of what we see published by Huan will be in these journals. Take Wolters to that Internet café on Caxton Street and have him search for Huan, Ditton, Ingenietics and…I don't know…designer babies. Bring back everything you find out." He caught Snape's eye. "Wolters' Muggle-raised," he explained. "He's a whizz on the computer."

"Handy on the team."

The pair of Aurors left without another word, and when the door snicked shut, Potter raised a tired smile of his own. "I'm sorry your visit's been so interrupted – I just sent them off to get them out of the office. It's a bit like that here. I never get five minutes."

"Sounds like it's busy at home, too."

"Honestly, sometimes I feel like jumping on my broom and just flying the hell away. Don't get me wrong, I know I have so much to be grateful for but…it never lets up. I think I'm going to need a padded cell!"

Snape nodded. "You took a lot on."

"Well thanks for bringing me the information about Rabastan. If you see him again -,"

"I will…nab him."

Potter smiled, more naturally this time.

"There's a couple more things," said Snape, standing and gathering his coat. "Longbottom."

Potter's expression became suddenly guarded. "Oh."

"He doesn't seem…himself…these days. You might like to check in on him. I think he has stone fever."

"Stone fever?"

"The Resurrection Stone," said Snape in droll tones.

"I told you - I don't know anything about that."

"Regardless, you might like to call on your old chum and let him know that, apropos of nothing, such futile errands will only end in misery. He spent Christmas at Hogwarts this year. Perhaps you could extend an invitation to him every now and then."

"We did! He declined! We think."

"Doesn't that seem…odd to you?"

"We don't speak as much now…" Potter was agitated and rotated his pen between his fingers. "I haven't seen him in…months." He looked up again, troubled. "So you think, do you think he's found it? The Resurrection Stone?"

Snape was all feigned innocence. "I'm like you. I wouldn't know anything about it."

Potter frowned hard and colour rose in his cheeks. "I'll try. I'll get in touch. I'll see what he's doing."

"Advisable." Snape went to the door and placed one hand on the door handle but lingered and Potter glanced up again.

"There was something else?"

"Yes. As I mentioned, I am…on a short break. I am planning to go to Godric's Hollow as it happens. I thought…I thought I might -,"

"You want to visit Mum."

Snape glanced down, then back again. "If there's no objection."

"You didn't even need to mention that. I wouldn't have known. Why did you ask?"

In truth, Snape wanted to visit the graveyard with a straight back and head high, as a man who had a right to be there, the way he wanted Lily to see him. His days of lurking in the shadows, kicked like a pariah dog were over. He had sworn to do anything to save her, he had saved her son numerous times and he had carried her in his heart for decades. Irrespective of their ending, in the beginning, in the glorious beginning, she had been his friend. "It seemed polite."

Potter understood it was so much more than that. He searched Snape's face for the evidence, but it was shuttered. He offered a slightly bewildered smile, swallowed hard and barely inclined his head. "Of course. They're – sorry, she – she's about three rows along from the path. There's a marble headstone -,"

"Thank you, I'll find it. Oh – and Potter?"

"Sir?"

"Don't forget the catfood."

Snape Disapparated to Godric's Hollow from Diagon Alley after lunch, having settled the bill at The Leaky Cauldron and purchased a small wreath of hellebores, ivy and tiny white roses. He carried this in his hand, since it was delicate, and he also had an immediately obvious explanation as to his purpose if he were spotted by a Muggle appearing suddenly outside St Jerome's Church.

It being a weekday, with grey, heavy cloud threatening rain, there was hardly a living soul at the church or its adjoining cemetery, and Snape's arrival beneath the hulking yew tree at the lych gate went completely unnoticed. He quickly scanned his surrounds, glad that he had remembered it accurately enough for apparition, since it had been over twenty-five years since he'd last been in the Hollow. On that visit he had come to see the ruins of the Potters' cottage for himself, alone and in secret, but had left again immediately after almost faint with grief and regret, vowing never to return.

Today he took his time. The churchyard was cold but serene; the redwings and blackbirds were calling, a robin followed him a few steps along the mown, damp grass between the rows of stones. It was a pleasant churchyard, obviously lovingly tended, and even though it was now midwinter stark, the thoughtful placement of a benchseat here, a birdbath there, a row of cherry trees -were clues to the haven in its design. The view from the graveyard was of Devonshire rolling hills, overwintering fields bordered by hedgerow and low walls, sheep picking over some drops of hay. There were worse places to rest. In no hurry, Snape strolled along the rows, reading the names, recognising a few and occasionally dwelling on the inscriptions. The headstone of boy of twelve years, lost too soon, forever loved and remembered, made him pause. Died in 1847. He stared at it for a long moment, occupied with an image a boy bearing a striking similarity to Servius. Snape was no longer seduced by the intrinsic romance of pre-pubescents, so many years of teaching had beaten out of him any predilection to bias or glorification. But he knew now something he hadn't before – to lose one, to lose your own, was quite simply intolerable, and a sliver of sympathy was issued to those parents who must have stood in this same spot, so many years before.

It took an hour to find the white gravestone of James and Lily Potter, in an unremarkable spot, in a nondescript row. He read it several times, but there was no confusing it. The stone was clean and the plot cared for and some flowers had been left but had now faded – probably from Christmas. As he placed his small wreath carefully in place on Lily's side, he stared at the stone and waited to feel something, but his only sensation was that he felt like an imposter and this awareness surprised him greatly. He expected the feelings of loss and remorse and regret to well up once more, but they didn't. He felt only sad. She had lost her life so young, too soon, on the eve of her greatest adventure and had been utterly innocent. And even for a man who courted ambivalence, on this occasion Snape's compass was steadfast. What happened was wrong: the reasons, the circumstances, the manner, the means – all of it plain wrong. And he was sorry.

The contrast between the charming and picturesque Godric's Hollow and Spinners End was only heightened by a succession of noisy lorries bearing indefinable loads, that now passed up the top end of his street every ten minutes. It was five in the evening, and the light only seemed to wilt, for no stars were visible to prepare a person for the arrival of night. Snape walked the street to his home and counted the times he heard a heavy diesel engine noisily change gears as the lorry approached the cross-street, and noticed that some neighbours even now were still warming their homes with coal, and dark smoke belched from their chimneys.

He let himself in his dormant abode, immediately assaulted by the smell of rat droppings and moulding carpet, and pushed back the heap of advertising flyers and householder letters that ever accumulated behind his front door. The place was dank and shadowed, a dripping tap could be heard between the gnashing of truck engines, and another, ranker smell reached his nostrils from further within. Sometimes a starling or pigeon got trapped in the eves and died.

He shut the door and walked slowly from room to room. It was colourless; in his black he was a detached section of shadow infecting each room with a deeper gloom. His mind turned to Malfoy Manor, Briggsend, Dumbledore's cottage even Slughorn's place in Hogsmeade and he wondered what this house meant about him. What would Servius think if he brought him to this, his inheritance?

He took out his wand and lit the gaslamps and candles, deciding, as usual, not to bother with turning on the power at the fuse box, and kept his coat on for warmth. The thought of Servius reminded him to send a Patronus, and where he was in the front room, he swept his wand already half-composing a message as he did so. What sprung forth, however, rendered him mute and wide eyed for several moments. A fox had materialised, and was now sitting with its brush wrapped around its feet, ears twitching. "Merlin's beard!" said Snape. "Where did you come from? Where's the doe?"

The fox cocked its head and an involuntary smile came to Snape's lips. This was his Patronus before Lily had died. Dumbledore had always said he thought it a bad fit, but Snape disagreed. The fox never failed to remind him of his better attributes – clever, cunning, and resourceful; a survivor, and often a masterful trickster, one step ahead, the fox outwitted its enemies.

"Well if you're back to do my bidding, send a message to Servius and Aurora – I am at Spinners End, returning tomorrow, trip successful." Servius had never seen his Patronus but would recognise his voice. For some reason he was glad to be able to send a fox and not a doe – to both of them. It had been a sore point between him and Charity.

He watched the fox slip away, sure-footed on the empty air, and felt immeasurably cheered. It seemed a very good omen.

The rain held off but the bruised, dirty clouds were oppressive and sucked dimension out of all objects. It was the last morning of his trip and Snape was sitting on a bench in the playground not far from his house. His coat and scarf barely kept a chill breeze at bay, and he kept his hands deep in his pockets. The steel swing set creaked, but the roundabout and the seesaw were dead, only the red of their faded graffiti affording any brightness to the amusements.

Presently a large, black bird landed on the top of the monkey bars and cawed. As Snape watched, it stepped deliberately along its length, one clawed foot after another, and when it reached the end it flapped casually down to the ground before Snape and cast its head to look at him.

"Wicce?" he enquired.

The bird at once transformed into the old sorceress, in her usual damask cloak and gloves but this time the ensemble was topped with a somewhat droopy velvet Gainsborough in matching claret. She was far less conspicuous as a raven, however she sat beside Snape on the bench and stretched out her legs with a satisfied groan. "Ah, that's better. Papus be praised, Professor, I haven't travelled this far south in some time." She glanced about. "Doesn't appear that I'm missing anything. Look, it's almost half past ten and not a single bairn on the playground. Watching those televisions, I expect." She nodded sagaciously. "Oh yes, I've heard about those."

"Not exactly the weather for playgrounds," said Snape.

"Well it's to my advantage today. I have been stoned before by Muggle children. So tell me Professor, why here?"

"I am on something of a pilgrimage, Wicce. These are my humble origins."

"Humble's the word," she muttered, looking about again. "Poor, were you?"

"In several senses. Discovering I was a wizard made up for a lot."

"And why are you on a pilgrimage? Not that I disapprove. Here you are, on your birthday, not getting any younger. It behoves the soul to travel back."

It was indeed his forty-seventh birthday and when Snape glanced at her in surprise, she winked. He then turned his gaze to the toes of his boots and finally said, "I've been…invited to decide whether Hogwarts is the right place for me and for Servius. You see, I had tried travelling back…and sometimes you can't."

"If not Hogwarts, then where? Here?"

Snape cleared his throat. "I had thought of…of letting Servius return to his grandparents. He was happier as a Muggle. And I thought that perhaps you could make use of me at the infirmary? We worked well together in the past. It seems busier each time I'm there."

He felt her eyes on his face and heard her chortle. "Ah Professor. You do remember you literally flew away?"

"Yes, however, my feet no longer itch and…I still have years -,"

"You don't like all the sunshine on my island," the Wicce said stoutly.

Snape smiled gently. "I'm not going to put you in an awkward position, Wicce. I understand."

"Oh I'd have you at a moment's notice lad. I merely have trouble believing your Headmistress genuinely feels as you think. She is cross with you, as she is often wont, and when you frighten her she sends you away. She's hurt that you don't confide in her. She's hurt that you don't regard her as you did Dumbledore."

Snape stared at the Wicce. "How do you know that?"

"I just read it."

"Read it? Where?"

The Wicce raised her brows and tapped her forehead.

"That wasn't a Legilimens!"

"There's another reason to stay at Hogwarts. You have much to learn. How is Diaphne?"

Snape was quiet, uncertain what to say, carefully Occluding in case the Wicce decided to find her own answer again.

"I see. You two really have had a falling out. Imogen says they haven't spoken in weeks – those two used to be thick as thieves. I'll be candid, Professor, I'm concerned about Diaphne, she's susceptible."

"She's concentrating hard on her studies. Seventh year is trying enough without the burden of working as well."

"Then I'll trouble you to keep an eye on her. I may visit – as my raven. Did you know, Professor, that ravens grow smarter as they grow older?"

"Uh…no: I'm presuming that's why it's your animagus?"

"Possibly. I certainly feel as lucid as I ever did. My bones – rubbish, my joints – useless. But my brain? Better than ever. Not prone to senility, ravens, and they live to a good age."

"Not prone to senility -," murmured Snape.

"Good lad," smiled the Wicce, her silver tooth glinting. "Find a cure and bring it to the Infirmary. I have any number of crones biding there."

Snape nodded dumbly, and watched as the Wicce rose to her feet. "That's an ill wind, I'll be honest," she said, wrapping her cloak again. "I'll be making my way. But I have one last thing for you Professor, you can think of it as a birthday present. A new name appeared in the Chronica de Magus et Magia. A name to keep an eye on."

"Whose?"

"Snape," she replied, and watched him closely. "James Servius Snape. He's the youngest in some time."

Snape also stood, frowning. The wind was blowing harder and he hunched his shoulders. "What does it mean – if he appears in your book?"

"Greatness," she replied archly. "Great good, or great bad, it's too soon to say."

But she was smiling.

Against the nothingness of a white sky, the deciduous trees of the Forbidden Forest appeared skeletal, the fine black bones of a thousand giant hands reaching upwards, thrust out of the soil at Hogwarts. Servius shook his head to shake the image and whistled for Tāne. He was at the foot of the Owlery, having used the secret tunnel from the dungeon to avoid being in the Common Room.

As it was Thursday, Wait for William and Amelie would be in Duelling, and through his burning resentment, Servius would remember his hex on the troll – for all their stupid Duelling practice, he was the only one who'd actually done any and he was the one paying for it!

Tāne flew directly to him, appearing out of nowhere, and landed on the leather band on his outstretched wrist. "Hey mate! Here's a treat." The owl nibbled at the bit of sausage Servius had brought in his pocket, and then consented to some tickling on the back of his neck. Tāne hadn't had any work to do in weeks and Servius pondered on whether to send a letter to his grandparents just to keep Tāne's training intact, but he didn't know what to say. Should he reveal that he knew they'd gone to Spain without him, that he knew they'd converted his room to install a treadmill? He felt deeply betrayed and abandoned by them and didn't feel inclined to protect them by writing a letter full of good news. And what good news anyway? "Hi – just checking in to let you know I hate it here, I have no friends, I'm bullied by the Herbology Professor, my father's an aresehole and I just spent a week in hospital. All good! Hope you're well."

Servius kissed the top of Tāne's head and launched him into the sky once more. The owl's flight took him towards the Forbidden Forest, and Servius' eye was attracted to movement just before the outer edge of trees. Professor Longbottom, once again in long cloak with the hood up, only the height and wellington boots being the giveaway since Servius could only see the back of him.

Just like the other time, Longbottom moved quickly and was soon swallowed into the gloom of the forest. Servius impulsively ran towards the spot he'd seen the Professor enter and then he paused, knowing this would lead to trouble but…so? It couldn't get any worse…how could anything possibly get any worse?

And with his heart in his mouth he zipped his jacket up under his chin, and plunged into the wall of trees.