Sleep Departed From Mine Eyes

Genesis 31:40

November 23rd, 2000

Harry jolted awake. He blinked, staring straight ahead to get his bearings. He had been in the middle of a very strange, very real dream. As his mind tried to print it on his memory, the images slipped and melted away. It left him with a heavy led feeling in the pit of his stomach and a strange grogginess, like waking up in an unrecognized place. Frowning, Harry reached out towards the bedside table, groping for his glasses, before placing them on his nose and blinking everything into focus.

The young man willed away the lingering sense wrongness. As a teenager, he had never put much stock into Divination. Dreams that meant something were clear and precise, with people you knew and usually bad things happening. They had corridors with locked doors or green light or graveyards. All this left was a tune that played over and over in Harry's mind, but he was sure he'd never heard it before.

He distracted himself by looking around his small, untidy room in the London apartment he had bought two months ago. Most things were still in boxes, or spilling out of draws, the rest lay splayed out across any available flat surface. There was no one to make him tidy up, or to care that it was messy, and Harry was still reveling in that feeling. He made sure the kitchen and living room, anywhere Hermione might look when visiting, were habitable – but his bedroom was just for him.

Harry let out his breath in a long puff of air and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Getting up he reached for his dressing gown, shrugging it on as he walked out of the room towards the tiny kitchen in search of caffeine.

It was a long and winding road that had finally brought Harry to owning his Edgware flat. With Lord Voldemort dead and incinerated two and a half years previous, and a triplicate inheritance from his parents, his Godfather and his mentor, Albus Dumbledore, Harry was one of the wealthiest bachelors in the wizarding world. He had briefly considered buying a mansion and a lamborghini, but Hermione had very quickly squashed this idea.

"What you need is an occupation. Something to do – anything, really," she told him over the Weasley breakfast table. Harry had lived with the family for several months after the final battle.

"He's fine, Hermione. Harry can spend his own money."

"With plans like that? He'll turn out like his cousin. Or worse, like Malfoy!"

That had been enough for Harry to seriously consider her words. Find a job? Fine.

As if by magic, a fat and highly obsequious letter from the Ministry of Magic: Auror Department landed on the Weasleys' doorstep. It had seemed a grand idea at fifteen, before he had seen enough curses – experienced enough curses – to make the idea of another day of hurling hexes seem a day too long.

He spent a week or so looking through the job pages that came with the Weasleys' Daily Prophet, not seeing anything much that took his fancy. Then one morning, as though it were another person controlling him, Harry asked, "Mr. Weasley? What else is in the Department of Mysteries?"

"You know better than me, Harry. I've never been down there."

Harry shrugged and nodded. The brains, the time room, the veil, the prophecies. None of that interested Harry. There was no point thinking about it any more.

But he did think about it. It lodged itself in his head and refused to go away, like a song that you didn't like very much but still found yourself humming for weeks after you've heard it. Eventually he wrote to the Ministry of Magic, asking for details on job vacancies in the Department of Mysteries and the qualifications that would be required.

Unspeakables seemed to be slightly more specialist – or slightly less easy to please. His answer was six months at Hogwarts to complete his education. He took twice as many NEWT classes as anybody else so he could take his exams early, the idea of a particular brand of Unspeakable motivating him to a level of excellence his younger self would never have believed. One O, four E's and an A later, Harry found himself once again walking down the long corridor into the department of mysteries, and knowing exactly which door to choose.

The same feeling of certainty had drawn him to his flat, on the top floor of a large Victorian house just off the Edgware Road. Living in Muggle London was never cheap, but that wasn't exactly something Harry had to worry about. It was light and airy and his. That was all that mattered.

Harry's electric kettle clicked off as the water boiled and Harry poured the steaming liquid into his cup. Stirring it slowly, he looked out the window as the winter sun rose over London, diffused softly, almost prettily, through the smog. He saw a small tawny owl flutter over the rows of endless rooftops and chimneys towards his window. He dropped the teaspoon the counter and leant forward to open the window.

The small owl flew in and landed on the kitchen work surface. Harry hunted around for a few minutes for some coins, before depositing them in the leather pouch tied to the owl's leg. In return, the owl left a rolled up broadsheet newspaper on the counter beside Harry's coffee. Harry ignored the delivery owl as it hopped back onto the windowsill and took off once more. He poured milk and two heaped sugars into his coffee, and dropped the teaspoon into his cup to magically stir itself while he flattened out the Daily Prophet. Harry dimly noted a Dementor's hooded head float across the center of the paper, denoting a new Death Eater arrest. Still bleary eyed, he sipped at his coffee before turning his attention to the headline.

The mug smashed on the floor. Harry swore loudly, jumping back from the steaming coffee that soaked the bottoms of his pajamas. He rushed away to change, his sleepy Sunday suddenly looking a lot busier.

The newspaper lay forgotten on the counter, pages curling at the edges but too heavy to spring back into a roll. The headline, beginning to fold, was big enough that it could still be clearly read: 'Hogwarts Professor on Trial for Death Eater Atrocities'.

"Harry, please. Try to calm down…" Hermione puffed as she doubled her pace to keep up with her old school friend.

"Calm down? Calm down? Those morons have gone and arrested the man who saved my life, who fought his arse off beside both of us in the final battle. No, Hermione, I will not calm down." Harry's pace didn't falter as they swept through the familiar corridors of Hogwarts towards the Headmistress' office.

"You really are annoyingly like him, you know!" Hermione reached out and grabbed his arm, spinning him to face her. "Just stop for a moment, alright? You're no use to anyone in this state."

Harry glared at Hermione, now Professor Granger, but she held his gaze until he looked away, down at the floor. "Fine. Sorry," he mumbled and started off again at a slower pace. "But really, Hermione, it's ridiculous. They'll be arresting Ron next."

"Well it's not quite the same thing, is it? Severus did kill Dumbledore. There are extenuating circumstances, but not everyone knows about that. I mean, it's still murder. I'm surprised they took so long, to be frank. You can't honestly say you thought there were going to be no questions asked?"

"Well, maybe not, but chucking him straight into Azkaban? It's as though they've already decided."

"They haven't decided anything, Potter." The two friends stopped and turned, looking the way they had just come. Professor McGonagall was walking briskly to catch them up, her black teaching robes billowing around her. A deep frown wrinkled her forehead and her face was pale and angry. "I had a feeling you might come. Well, better come upstairs then, both of you." Without stopping, she led the way in silence to the stone gargoyle sentinel and spiral staircase to the head's office.

Harry had seldom had cause to visit the headmistress' office when he returned as a student to Hogwarts, but whenever he had it was the small changes that surprised him most. Professor McGonagall had brought a sense of order to the large circular room that had finally come to overrule Dumbledore's more chaotic stamp on the place. Her desk generally held a tray of shortbread rather than sherbet lemons or licorice allsorts; the large chair behind her desk hid its years of ware beneath the McGonagall family tartan. As ever, Harry's eyes went immediately to the newest portrait, and he was mildly comforted by the sight of Dumbledore's oddly solemn face and twinkling blue eyes.

Professor McGonagall gestured for them both to sit. "Cup of tea?" she asked, conjuring a large red teapot from thin air.

Harry didn't answer. He dropped Hermione's copy of the morning's Daily Prophet onto the desk with a loud slap. He had left his flat before actually reading the article, but ever prepared, Hermione had been ready to hand him her copy of the paper to glance over.

"You've read that, I suppose?" Harry asked. The question was fairly pointless, but he felt it should be asked anyway.

"Briefly, yes." She looked awkward for a moment. "I knew before the newspapers, of course."

Harry leaned forwards over the desk to quote part of the article. "'Teachers and Governors alike were shocked yesterday evening when Professor Severus Snape was taken into the custody of the Dementors of Azkaban. Professor Snape has been Potions Master and Head of House at Hogwarts for nineteen years, excluding a one-year "sabbatical", and was at the school at the time of his arrest. He is charged with being an active Death Eater during You-Know-Who's Second Coming and illegal use of the Unforgivable curses. Professor Snape is not a newcomer to Azkaban, having been imprisoned there during the trial period after You-Know-Who's first downfall under similar charges. However, he was acquitted after testimony for his actions, given by Professor Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, Golden Phoenix for death in line of duty). Dumbledore's tragic death, however, is one item on the long list of charges facing Professor Snape, raising the question of whether the Potions Master will be vouched for again.' And so on, and so forth. They don't really think we'll just sit back and let him rot, do they?"

"I think they're hopeful, yes." Professor McGonagall folded her arms primly and her mouth hardened into a sharp line. "There's more though, Potter."

Harry slouched back into his seat. "What more could there possibly be?"

"They could sentence him to death," Hermione said quietly. She looked slowly up at her friend and colleague's matching scowls. "Sorry. Just trying to be helpful."

"The Ministry seems determined to see Severus has a 'fair trial'. They have changed normal proceedings in his honour. Only an objective party may plead for the defendant – no colleagues, no family members."

"They don't want a biased defence. How's that for perverse?" Hermione managed somehow to look bemused and angry at the same time.

"Perverse or not, it is the way things must be done. I cannot speak on his behalf, and neither can you, Professor Granger. Severus has very few friends left to speak of, and no one with any credibility in the Ministry's eyes."

"Remus?" Hermione asked hopefully.

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "The trial is decided by a jury. A werewolf defence council will hinder him more than help."

"One of the Weasleys, maybe?"

"I'm not entirely certain they've forgiven him yet. I could speak to Arthur, but I wouldn't lay any bets on him."

"You won't need to," Harry spoke up, suddenly animated.

Professor McGonagall's eyebrows raised slightly but she didn't seem surprised. "Go on."

"I'll do it," Harry said, as though the answer was obvious. "I'm in the perfect position – good reputation in the Ministry, access to all the past case files, I can get over to Azkaban without any raised eyebrows. Most of the Wizengamot will lick my hand if I offer it!"

"But you don't know the first thing about legal cases, Harry!" Hermione half laughed and shook her head. The very thought of it was ridiculous.

Harry's smile was a cross between sweet and evil. "Which is why you're going to help me, Hermione – the ministry need never know."

"I can't, it's ridiculous," Hermione said in a shrill voice. She crossed her arms, trying not to look at the pleading expression she knew must be on Harry's face. She was surprised when instead she heard him chuckle. "What?" she demanded.

"Just the thought of you not interfering," He chuckled.

Hermione had had two years of teaching to perfect the icy glower she used on Harry. Alas, he had known her too long and seen her in too many embarrassing situations for it to be truly effective. "Oh, come on, Hermione. You might as well give in now."

"He's quite right, Professor Granger," Professor McGonagall added, a bemused expression on her face.

"But Headmistress," Hermione tried to protest.

"It won't do you any good," Harry grinned, enjoying himself. "Resistance is futile. You might as well be a willing accomplice."

Hermione thought briefly about arguing the point further, but she knew already that Harry was right.

Much later, long after the sun had sunk beneath the stark mountains beyond Hogwart's West Tower, Hermione candlelight illuminated the tower's highest window. Hermione resolutely worked on, regardless of the time of day. She had put aside the lesson plans and text books that governed her teaching work and moved on to The Daily Prophet's 'Published Accounts of Death Eater Trials, 1977'. They weren't the most thrilling read in the world – although the budding talent of Rita Skeeter tried its best to colour some otherwise bland foregone conclusions – but, as Hermione regularly reminded herself, it was in a good cause. Severus' trial was actually one of the more interesting accounts. Many believed his would be a life sentence in Azkaban simply because he had not claimed to act under the Imperius curse. His inherent charm and public reputation had certainly done nothing to help win his freedom. It was Dumbledore's position and persuasion that had worked wonders.

She sighed and closed the well-thumbed paperback, moving toward the window. The lake was still and black like a giant pool of spilled ink. The mountains were only shadows across the dark indigo sky. Hermione's eyes stung from the strain of reading in the flickering, dim candlelight, and the cool dark soothed them.

"Time for bed, Zebedee," she said softly to herself, as though afraid of waking the castle that slept around her.

When Hermione crawled between the cool, crisp sheets of her bed and closed her eyes, she saw the face of her colleague – former colleague – stamped on the dark red of her eyelids. It had been strange at first, learning to work with a man she had once feared, to try and think of herself as his equal. It had, in fact, been one of the hardest things. She wouldn't say he had made it particularly easy for her -- he'd certainly never given her a fatherly smile or asked her round for a nightcap and a game of chess or anything. But she remembered clearly the first time, when berating a student for dueling in the halls, that he had referred to her as 'Professor Granger'. He said it naturally, as though the words passed his lips every day (as they may, indeed, have done). There was no sneer, no snide look. Only simplicity, and it had surprised her. Without even realizing it, she had underestimated him.

Prejudice was always something she herself had had to battle against in the wizarding world, as a Muggle-born witch. Despite this, or because of it, she had always thought herself fairly objective. More so, at least, than Harry and Ron.

Now Harry was rushing to defend a man he'd always hated (hadn't he?) And Hermione had unfairly judged someone who had shown her respect (hadn't he?)

Before darkness overtook and Hermione succumbed to sleep's seduction, she couldn't help thinking how topsy-turvy everything had become.

Not like when we were at Hogwarts…

On the other side of the castle, the circular tower room was dark. Moonlight streamed through the windows, pooling on the threadbare carpet. It shone on the pale-skinned, silver-haired headmasters and mistresses, who snored lightly, slept soundly. Only one illuminated figure sat erect in his chair, gazing down at the current headmistress of Hogwarts.

"I still don't understand, Albus," Minerva McGonagall said, for perhaps the third time. She drew a hand across her eyes, trying to rub the tiredness from them.

"I don't suppose you do. But you might, in time. As long as it is done, that's what matters."

Professor McGonagall nodded absently. "You know, I had hoped that your death would at least mean no more cryptic orders."

"Death wouldn't stop my compulsion to interfere. You should know that better than anybody."

"Poor Severus," she said solemnly. "He hates interference, yet you seem to plague him the most."

"I'm like a cat. I'm happiest where I'm least wanted," Dumbledore replied, a satisfied smile on his face.

"I'm going to bed. I've a lot of work to do now I'm headmistress." She glared at the painted picture of her old friend, as though the blame fell solely on his shoulder.

"It was never a problem in my day," he said placatingly.

"That's because I used to do most of it for you."

"Well, yes, that would certainly explain it." He smiled brightly. "Off to bed, then. I shall plot quietly to myself."

Professor McGonagall said her goodnights, and slipped silently up the staircase to her rooms above the office. The old man in the portrait watched her go, no more than a dark shadow in the silvery moonlight. Were he a person he might have felt a swelling of his heart, a lump in his throat, a lead balloon in his stomach. She was, aside from his brother and Alastor, the oldest and dearest of his friends. He had seen the longing look she gave him – his painted self – as though wishing he would step out and help, as he always had in the past.

But the portrait Dumbledore could not feel. He could only watch, with eyes that twinkled periwinkle blue mischief down on all who saw him, and conjure memories for the living that helped them live that little bit better.