a/n: good gracious. This thing keeps getting longer and longer. At least, it's far longer than I originally intended. Oh well.

These next two chapters might be a bit hairy, so buckle down and bear up. I was originally trying to get the entire story finished before I started school next week, and have been working on it religiously; alas, I think by forcing myself to write I've put myself in something of a writer's block. Fortunately, the next chapter will be the last (and then there will be an epilogue) and it is already half-way written. Have patience

One final note: after reviewing my subject matter in previous chapters and the ones to come, I've changed the rating to a mild M, just to be safe. This chapter briefly mentions necrophilia.


Part VIII: Crescent

As Severus expected, Luna was positively overjoyed to have a visit from Draco – if her nearly toppling out of bed was anything to go by.

"Draco!" she exclaimed, righting herself (quickly enough to miss Severus nearly startling forward in a would-be futile attempt to catch her; Draco, however, gave him an odd glance). "Hi!"

She beamed with all of the intensity of the sun at Draco, who grinned back at her sheepishly. After a questioning look at Severus, who merely nodded, he crossed the space between them, coming around one side of the bed to pull her into a hug.

"Hello, Luna," he returned somewhat solemnly, pulling back a bit to look at her. Luna smiled a bit, and Severus got the feeling he'd been more or less forgotten.

Ignoring the pang of . . . whatever bloody emotion it was, he schooled his features into something that could be called impassive, and intoned, just loud enough for them to hear, "I'll leave you two alone, then."

If they acknowledged him, he didn't hear it. He simply pivoted on his heel and tried not to stalk out of the room.

Once the private ward's door was shut firmly behind him, he leaned his back against the wall beside it, letting a dry sigh escape him. He brought a hand to the bridge of his nose and pinched, as if to alleviate a headache. He supposed he could liken his situation to a headache: a constant, nagging plague, ebbing and surging at odd times.

He sighed again, letting himself sink into almost a full slump against the wall. This was becoming rather ridiculous, this feeling. If he closed his eyes, he could see Draco and Luna again, their heartfelt embrace; so sweet, so caring. He should have felt gratified, pleased to know that he'd managed to bring it about, and he did – but that didn't dissuade the minor niggling of anger that circled the perimeter of his conscious, dangling at the edge of his tongue.

He was doing his very best not to think about what Draco and Luna might be talking about (or doing) when he heard the approach of footsteps.

Thinking it Poppy, his mouth set itself in a hard line—but said line almost automatically smoothed out when he saw the genial face of Dr. Melrough.

"Mr. Snape," he greeted, tucking a thick manila folder under his arm.

Severus gave him a cursory once-over, suddenly feeling very tired. "Dr. Melrough."

The doctor smiled, though his gaze as he took in Severus' countenance was observant and sharply analytical. His eyes took in Severus' telling posture, moving to his pale, haggard face, to the hand that was (unknowingly) slightly clenched at his side. He then looked to the closed door; he nodded to it, gesticulating.

"Is Mr. Malfoy in there?"

Wordlessly, Severus nodded.

In all honesty, Severus did not feel like talking to the young doctor at the moment, or to anyone at all really. But he would have preferred speech of any sort to the sound that suddenly began coming from the room, muffled though it was.

Sobbing.

Severus stared down at the stone-work floor, the timid sound freezing his mind. He had not heard Draco sob often (only five instances that he could remember, in all his years of knowing the young man), but the sound of it was unmistakable.

He and the doctor stood awkwardly in the not-quite silence, listening to the almost inaudible sounds of the young, blonde-haired Slytherin weeping.

Finally, Melrough re-hitched the papers under his arm and murmured, "I was going back in to have Luna answer a few more questions . . . but I suppose it can wait. It sounds as though they need some time alone."

Severus nodded dumbly.

Seeing that his message was not coming across, Dr. Melrough made the addendum, "I need to run some tests before we convene this afternoon, and I've been given permission to use the student laboratories. Would you mind showing me where they are?"

Severus looked at him, then at the door beside him. "I . . . I do not think Madame Pomfrey would approve if I were to leave them totally unsupervised."

Dr. Melrough shrugged one blue-clad shoulder. "Madame Pomfrey is out of office today. As far as I am concerned, neither of them are in any danger. The attacks are specifically nocturnal occurrences. Also, the nurses' aid—Maggie? — is flitting about somewhere, and she knows how to contact me. I've been given temporary Apparition permission, so I can be present at a moment's notice if needed."

He continued to stare at the doctor; oddly, he found himself very unwilling to move from the spot. "Out of office?" he echoed.

"As I understand it, she's in a staff conference; Headmistress McGonagall just got back this morning, and I am assuming that she's assembled the faculty for updates."

He felt something slide around in his stomach uneasily. He noticed, in a vague sort of way, that the sobbing was growing fainter and fainter.

Dr. Melrough watched him, his expression having softened. "They will be fine, Mr. Snape," he murmured.

Severus did not look at him; he merely continued to stare at the ground for another long minute. Then, lips thinning out into a resigned line, he straightened and pushed away from the wall, an authoritative set to his shoulders. He brushed past Dr. Melrough slightly more brusquely than he intended, and muttered in passing, "This way, then."

Smiling once more, Dr. Melrough turned and fell in step behind Severus, his long strides carefully matched a pace behind the Potions Master's. As they neared the other end of the infirmary, he noted mildly:—

"It was good of you to bring him to see her. From what I can see, he's a nice young man. It's good that she has him."

Severus said nothing. His stomach clenched.


After taking Dr. Melrough to the student labs and bidding him adieu until later, Severus spent another good hour walking around the school. It seemed that this ritualistic pacing was becoming a habit of his when his mind was in turmoil. Which was all good in dandy during the night-time, when there were no students unlucky enough to be in his presence; but day-time wandering was a different matter. Even though it was Sunday and most students were either at Hogsmeade or relaxing or studying in their dorms, he still managed to come across and thoroughly spook a couple of students coming back from the library before returning to the infirmary.

Just as he came to be fifteen feet away from the single door to the private ward, it opened, and Draco Malfoy slipped out, looking down and shoving a slip of paper into his pocket.

Though he did not stop his gait completely, Severus slowed his stride, and used the lengthened period between him and Draco to study the younger man.

Draco's eyes were downcast and now dry, though the redness rimming the edges of his silver orbs evidenced the recent crying, as did his slightly flushed cheeks. His shoulders were hunched uncharacteristically, and, if Severus peered closely enough at him, he thought he could detect a slight tremor in Draco's lean form.

When Severus was a foot away from him, Draco looked up. He gave Severus something that was probably supposed to be a smile but failed epically in that regard; the boy looked positively miserable.

The distress he saw in his godson twisted something inside him; sometimes, it was easy to forget that he and Lovegood weren't the only people in his periphery. That there was indeed a person or two whose suffering he did still care about.

Before Severus could even articulate how to break the silence, Draco's faux-bright expression spluttered, shriveled and died, the not-smile slipping off his face painfully. The pale column of his throat bobbed with a heavy swallow.

"I could have – I could have stopped—"

And before either man knew what was happening, Draco's quicksilver eyes were shining, and tears sprang forth anew. And, as Severus put an arm around Draco and held the boy tightly, he was unable to see how he could begrudge his godson anything.


It had taken the better part of an hour to calm Draco down and talk some sense back into him. It had taken two cups of tea, and (when Severus could think of nothing else) a tumbler of something amber and bittersweet to put an end to the morbid anxiety that had overtaken him. It had taken a blazing fire in his private quarters; it had taken opposite ends of his forest-green sofa, and then just one end; it had taken Severus remembering how to be a godfather, how to be a mentor and friend, had taken holding Draco as he hadn't done since he was five. It had taken patience. Attentiveness. And, in the end, severity and sternness.

"You are not responsible for your father's actions," he said slowly and quietly, holding Draco at arm's-length, inky black irises boring into misty silver.

"He only gave her to them because of me and Mother," Draco spat. His words were rank with bitterness, but Severus knew it was not directed at him. Or even Lucius, really.

Severus steeled himself. He breathed deeply, in and out. Inhale. Exhale. He'd survived nearly two decades of screaming, hormonal teenagers; after that, this was a cakewalk. Theoretically.

"Lucius . . . your father's only interest was to put you and your mother out of harm's way. He did the only thing it was in his power to do in order to protect you."

This time, Draco did shoot him a look from beneath his furrowed blonde brow: rage, mixed with desperation and anguish. "How can you even say that?! How can you look at it so—so—clinically and justify what happ—"

"I justify nothing of the sort!"

The shock on Draco's pale face flung his own words back in his face, like a visual echo. Damn it. He was supposed to be the even-tempered adult here; in control.

But Draco, in all his blind turmoil, was treading on dangerous ground. And it was Severus' turn to react.

"What was done to her was monstrous," he snarled, watching emotions flicker across Draco's fair face. "There is no justifying that. All I am trying to tell you is that Lucius did the only bloody thing he could." He paused. Inhale.

Draco took his fleeting silence as permission to speak.

"He all but handed her to death. She looked—" Draco swallowed. He looked down at his hands, slowly curling and uncurling his pale fingers.

"They would be down with her for hours," he whispered, voice barely audible above the crackle of the fire. "I never heard anything—no screaming. But I knew. Deatheaters would come and stay at the Manor like it was a half-way house, and Father . . . he just let them down into the cellar. . .

"And then one day—the day before the Order came—a group of five of them went down into the cellar, and four came right back up. They said—" a strangled sob, "—that she wasn't breathing. That she was no fun anymore. Only Macnair—he—he stayed and—" Draco shuddered and screwed his eyes shut. "She was nothing more than a stringy mass of b-bones and blood when the Order brought her up from the cellar. She—I didn't believe it at first, that she was alive. She was so—just completely disfigured. And my dad just let happen."

Severus felt his eyes fluttered closed, and he cursed himself silently. No. open your eyes damn it. Look him in the face when you tell him this. He has known so few adults that can do as much, you owe it to him.

When Severus forced his eyes back open, Draco was still staring at him with that lost, rueful look.

"He did it because he loves you, Draco. He is not a kind man, or a merciful man. But he does love you. If he had any qualms before about handing her over, then their threatening you and your mother eradicated them cleanly from his conscious. I imagine . . ." he swallowed. "I imagine he would have sacrificed anything and everything before he let them touch either of you. To him . . . one girl was a small price."

Draco frowned deeply, staring into his half-empty tumbler. "Thanks, sir. That makes me feel loads better—"

"I am pas the point of trying to make you feel better. I am telling you as one adult to another, this is the way things are. Accept them. Make the best of them. Move on. You cannot help her by wallowing in misdirected guilt. Your father is serving a sentence and atoning for his crimes. Even Miss Lovegood is wise enough not to begrudge him."

Draco sniffed, and scoffed, "Luna? She couldn't hold a grudge if her life depended on it." The young boy shook his head; his blonde hair had gotten longer, and was currently falling into his eyes, obstructing them from view.

"She's so . . . so different," he murmured, and Severus thought he detected something reverential in his voice. "So serene and unconcerned and just okay with the way things are. It's unnatural. I mean . . .even before I . . . stopped obeying my aunt and You Know Who's orders, she treated me just like everyone else. From day one, no matter how mean or nasty I was, or how often I convinced Goyle to steal her shoes. . . ." He hung his head further. "Merlin. I feel like such an arse."

"Arse or no, she likes you regardless. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Draco."

Draco heaved a sigh, but said nothing. They sat in silence for a long while after that, Severus watched his godson whilst Draco stared into the cheery fire in the grate, occasionally sipping on his drink. Once most of his drink was gone, he set his tumbler down on the adjacent table, and slowly stood. He looked at Severus, as if unsure what to say.

"I, erm . . . well, thank you, sir—"

Severus rose with him, and placed one firm hand reassuringly on his shoulder. He gazed at Draco with all seriousness and familiarity.

"Of course, Draco." And then: "Anytime."

Draco nodded. Severus turned, and Draco followed him to the door of his chambers. Whilst Severus waved a hand over the doorway, willing it to open, Draco commented from behind:

"I'm glad . . . glad that you didn't die, sir. I'm not sure what I'd do."

As the door opened, Severus turned, black eyes moving to Draco once more. His lips curled faintly upwards, the ghost of a sardonic smile.

"I am beginning to be glad of it as well."


The next day, Severus' trek to the infirmary took almost twice as long as usual. He took no detours and made no stops; it was simply that his customary formidable stride had been subliminally abandoned for a much slower, contemplative pace.

Which, given all accounts, was fairly unsurprising. He had a great deal to think about.

His meeting with Dr. Melrough the other day had been a number of things: frustrating, curious, informative, befuddling, entertaining. Dr. Melrough was an engaging man, Severus came to find, with a wonderfully inquisitive mind (a drastic about-face from the ignoramuses he normally engaged with). He had spent the first hour listening to Severus explain to him how the Potions Master himself had approached the problem, and the subsequent difficulties and failures with each possible solution. Melrough took notes, had only stopped his presentation twice for questions, and (to Severus' immense relief) was enough of a potions buff to understand most of the finer points of the problems Severus had run into.

For the next half-hour, Dr. Melrough had explained the basics of trauma, its effects on the body and mind, and gave a brief outline of the theory and history of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He shared the notes and analysis of Luna Lovegood's mental, physical, and magical state via the tests he and his team had run.

"At first," the doctor explained, "we were sure that Miss Lovegood was suffering from nothing more than PTSD, as I've described to you. Some of the symptoms we initially observed were congruent with past studies of the disorder: her fits, the loss of magical control. But the rest of her behavior . . . it's not as consistent. Most of the time, she exhibits very few psychological symptoms of trauma. Other than being constantly fatigued, she behaves like an ordinary, chipper young girl."

"So, you do not believe that this PTSD encompasses the entirety of her problem," Severus supplied.

Dr. Melrough nodded. "Exactly. Unfortunately – or perhaps, fortunately—I cannot conclude anything else, since I have never witnessed a major episode, only the minor ones she's been having lately." He paused, blonde brow furrowing. "Actually, that brings me to another point I find odd. Though her ordeal at Malfoy Manor occurred about a month or more ago, I did not find record of any other incidents on file."

Severus shook his head. "There weren't any, from what I . . ."

. . . and mine was singing back.

Dr. Melrough was observing him curiously. "What?"

Severus tapped the book that was laid out before him with a forefinger. "I found her out of bed one night, after curfew. It would have been about three or four weeks after Malfoy Manor. At one point, when I was speaking to her, she . . ."

"What?"

"It is difficult to explain. But she was not herself. It was almost as if some other being were in possession of her. But," he folded his arms, "it only lasted for a moment."

The look Doctor Melrough was giving him now was one of intrigue. As if Severus were a new, fascinating breed of insect.

"I read the file, you know—her report," Dr. Melrough said, keeping that same interested gaze. "Her list. Starved. Raped. Stabbed. Head trauma. Crucioed. Subjected to a number of other unpleasant hexes and curses. She had lacerations up and down her legs. Words carved into her stomach and back. Some of her hair had been ripped from her skull. Have you seen the images?"

Severus shook his head slowly, but Draco's words echoed in his mind. His mouth had abruptly gone very dry.

Pulling out his briefcase, Dr. Melrough rummaged through the tabs of a built-in binder until he managed to produce a handful of stationary photos. He placed neatly before Severus.

Noting the miniscule, split-second of a tremor in his hands, Severus reached for them. . . .

And he thanked Salazar, Merlin, and Godric-fucking-Gryffindor that the images were not animated. He had seen his fair share of blood and gore; but looking at that mangled mass and thinking that it was Luna . . . he might have been sick.

Because there was no way, almost no bloody way that bloody tangle of limbs and blood-bleached hair should have been a living person.

As he flipped through the images—four in total, one full-body and a few of specific injury sites—he could feel the intensity of Melrough's trained gaze.

"That medi-witch, Pomfrey," he said softly, "She's a miracle-worker if I ever saw one. I examined Miss Lovegood while she was sedated; she bears almost no scarring, or any trace of the wounds in those pictures. According to her medical record, she was back on her feet and running around in five days' time. The scars healed up within a few weeks. Now, the only noticeable physicality is her missing earlobe."

"She lost that after," he heard himself say. "During the final battle at Hogwarts. She was dueling with Bellatrix. She refused to have it regrown."

"Hm. Interesting." Melrough took back the photos when Severus shoved them across the table, stuffing them back into his case. "I was told that you also suffered from some post-traumatic stress symptoms."

Involuntarily, Severus felt himself stiffen. "I did."

"But you seem to be functioning well enough now."

Severus fixed him with an icy stare.

"I am far more acclimatized to violence and torture than a sixteen-year-old girl."


After that, there hadn't been much else to discuss. Severus concluded that he was going to be conducting more research on any calming methods, and Dr. Melrough affirmed that he needed to do more research of his own. So the two men gathered their materials and parted with the intent of meeting at the same time and place next day.

Trudging lugubriously up a flight of stairs, Severus pursed his lips. The research that he'd managed to do after that meeting had proved more or less fruitless. It was so much more maddening to think that trauma was no the be-all end-all of the problem; it gave a viable solution even more variability. On the whole, it was quite maddening.

Not to mention exhausting.

As much as Severus hated to admit it, this ordeal was taking something of a toll on him. He felt nearly as tired as he had been those first few days recovering in the hospital wing.

Once he was within sight of the infirmary, it seemed to take forever for him to close the distance. He was no more than seven feet from the main doors when a pinched, familiar face poked itself out.

"Ah, Severus," Poppy addressed him, emerging fully from the hospital wing. A grave look was set about her face. "I am afraid I cannot admit you today."

Severus jerked to a halt in his tracks, eyes widening. "And why not?"

"Because I need to speak with you."

It was not every day that someone managed to sneak up on Severus Snape. He was—had been—a spy, after all. He was accustomed to taking in the minute details of his surroundings automatically, able to ascertain the exact positions and potential of every being in a room in a matter of seconds. Nevertheless, he could not deny that he was startled to hear Minerva's voice; quickly, he whipped around in the direction it was coming from.

She approached them in a fluster of green and black robes, hat tipped just-so atop her regal head. Her steps were brisk, and her green eyes were narrowed and dark with tension. Her facial features were tight, more drawn than usual, and her mouth quivered with something akin to worry or anger.

He tried to ignore the impending sense of foreboding as she closed the space between them. he dipped his head respectfully. "Minerva."

She did not bother with niceties or a prelude, but merely said, "My office, please, Severus. Now."

He had already opened his mouth to argue (rather irately and loudly, one might add)—but something in the locution of "now" made him stop. Closing his mouth, he reconsidered her, eyes sloping up and down her form, now detecting a degree of tension that he had initially brushed off. She had sounded angry, but not at him; in the past, she had never withheld the extent of her irritation or dissatisfaction with him, but she was obviously holding herself back now. And beyond the exasperation, he thought he detected vague pungent undertones of anxiety and worry.

So he merely nodded at her, gesticulating for her to lead the way. As he fell into step behind her though, he could not stop the slow sinking feeling that settled in his stomach.


And, as it turned out, this sense of foreboding was not for nothing.

When they arrived at her office, Minerva had sat him down in a chair opposite her desk, though declining to sit herself. She instead busied herself calling for tea and pacing until the little house-elf arrived with the tray. She stood to pour them both tea, standing to one side of her desk and shifting from foot to foot in a fashion one might have called nervous.

Her fidgeting was beginning to drive him nuts.

"Perhaps this would be easier if you had a seat," he suggested lightly in a tone that contained less "please" and more "for Merlin's sake, woman, sit down".

As if it pained her to do so, she nodded ruefully and slowly took a seat behind her desk. She stared into her cup of tea ponderingly; Severus was tempted to speak up, but withheld, thinking it better to wait.

A solid minute passed in silence before he grew impatient.

"Assuming that you did not call me here simply to have tea, may I ask what this is about?" He set his tea on the edge of her desk, and folded his arms across his chest. "Is there a particular reason why you had to speak to me so urgently as to keep me from visiting Ms. Lovegood?"

He almost felt embarrassed, admitting his purpose for going to the infirm, but he shook the feeling aside. It was not as if his visiting Luna were any great secret; no doubt Poppy had filled her in on everything—

That thought made him pause. Fuck. Poppy. What had the woman done? Had she said something incriminating? That little—

His quickly growing-murderous internal rant was cut short by the sound of a long, slightly stifled sigh from across the desk. He looked to Minerva who, while still staring into her tea, was now frowning visibly.

"I suppose it goes without saying that, in light of recent events, Hogwarts has become a hallmark source for media attention."

He nearly snorted. That was a severe understatement.

"I have been at the Ministry for the past two weeks filing formal reports, making claims, filing paperwork, talking to the Board of Governors. And, despite being swamped with said work, I was unable, at almost any moment, to escape overhearing or reading gossip and news concerning this school. I suppose you might have noticed, but the Daily Prophet has had a spread devoted to us at least every other day since . . . well, since you became acting headmaster."

She gave a pause, a window of opportunity for Severus to say something, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. He was not going to incriminate himself by saying something out of turn without knowing whether or not he was actually being accused.

Seeing that he had nothing to add, she swallowed and continued—though this time with much less confidence. "Lately, there has been— well, yesterday, actually . . . not that I really think . . . oh blast, let me just show you," and here she leant down and produced a satchel that had, apparently, been resting beside her desk; undoing its ties, she produced from it a red folder, with several papers sticking out of it. Unceremoniously, and with a little venom, she slapped it down on her desk.

"I assume you are aware that certain students have been featuring prominently in the paper lately. I did not think it very concerning, for the most part. The articles about Potter and Malfoy appeared to be tawdry speculation, and the articles about Ms. Lovegood had not mentioned her name. . . but this. . . ."

Whilst she was speaking, Severus had reached over and slid the folder towards him. Splaying it open, he found himself staring in utter shock at the contents.

The page sitting directly on top looked like news article—it even bore the Prophet's emblem in the upper left corner, and was in the typical type-set the Prophet used. But there was no title to the spread, only the words, and, in the middle of the columns of type, a moving picture of a tall, black-clad figure sweeping down rows of beds to enter a single door at the end of the rows. The private ward.

It was only then, recognizing the door into which he watched himself repeatedly disappear, that he began scanning the language surrounding the picture. It was mostly garbled to him, but the bits and phrases that jumped out were enough to turn his stomach.

"What—what is this?"

Minerva, who had been gauging his reaction across the desk, pursed her lips. "This is a news spread that was going to feature in today's Prophet," she answered. I was on my way out of the Ministry yesterday when I was stopped by Minister Kingsley. He has an insider working at the Prophet who managed to snag this before it was set and printed. So, despite the efforts that have been made to dispel all media presence, we appear to have a leak inside the school. The writer of the article keeps mentioning an 'unnamed source'; I would like to believe that this is not a student, but. . . ."

Still gaping at the article, Severus was trying to listen to Minerva's explanation, but the words kept slipping away from him, sliding over each other, as hot, sticky, dizzying anger began to well up inside him.

". . . I am inclined not to believe what the article is suggesting about you and Miss Lovegood."

An involuntary spike of panic followed those words, and he jerked his head up to look at Minerva; but her face was carefully calm and platitudinal, her eyes dutifully looking down and not at him. There was nothing accusatory in her; actually, her countenance reminded him remarkably of Dumbledore's adopted ignorance when he did not wish to press a delicate matter. She continued, quietly and with all manner of propriety:

"From what Poppy has told me, it seems highly unlikely that the situation is as . . . 'unwholesome' as the article wants readers to believe." A grimace here, that he shared inwardly. "I do not seek any kind of admission or oath from you; I trust your judgment and governance over your own actions. I do not need an explanation—actually, I don't really want one, to be honest. But you see how damaging it could be—not only to you, but to Ms. Lovegood and the school."

Rules of conversation dictated that it was his turn to speak up and say something; he got only a little further than opening his mouth, rage and incredulity pulsing too vibrantly through his bloodstream to formulate any proper words. "I. . . ."

"My other concern is for your godson, Mr. Malfoy. Those pictures of him and Potter that were printed previously were fairly innocent. But if you'll turn the page . . ."

She waited perhaps half a second for him to do so, and when he did not (he could not seem to make himself do anything but grind his teeth) she reached across and did so for him. on the next page was another potential news item, this one also without a title and also accompanied by a moving picture.

"Well," Minerva cleared her throat. "That is— there are only so many things they could be doing, standing that close."

"Both—" he swallowed thickly the hot emotion at the back of his throat, noting thankfully that his anger was beginning to recede somewhat. "Both of these photographs were taken from inside the school."

It was not quite a question, but she answered it as if it were. "Yes. As I said, I do not want to think a student would be responsible for this, but I cannot rule out any possibilities yet. Though my bet is on Skeeter. The articles have a certain familiar lewdness to them."

"Skeeter is not on the prophet staff any longer."

Minerva shook her head in affirmation. "No, not officially. But, if you are a prominent newspaper, you don't just let go of a staff member like Skeeter. Actually, not being an official member of staff must make undercover work all the more facile for her, though she probably is missing the limelight desperately—but that isn't the point. The point is that while this—" she gestured awkwardly, "—while this leak remains at large and unidentified, I cannot allow you to make your visits to the infirmary. The situation is easy to manipulate from their standpoint, and it would be the height of any reporter's career to be able to make a scoundrel out of you now that you are a public hero. I am sorry, Severus."

He said nothing, choosing to glare moodily at the open folder, burning two holes into the picture of Harry and Draco doing—well, doing whatever it was that young, healthy, nubile boys did whilst standing that closely.

"Of course, that will not stop you from your research." At these words, his head snapped up to look at her once again; she leveled with his gaze, noting the tint of surprise in those ebony eyes. "Dr. Melrough told me about the collaboration between the two of you. I approve mightily, so carry on. And since you are still making potions for Poppy on a regular basis, I see no reason you cannot confer with her about the patient's well-being. But for now, I must insist upon no contact. "

For a moment, he thought she was going to repeat the sentiment of "I am sorry", but thankfully she held herself back, saying nothing. In fact, nearly a full minute passed by in silence before he realized that she was waiting for him to make some sort of move, a closing maneuver perhaps that she was unsure how to make herself.

Taking in a deep, calming breath, he slowly pushed himself up from his seat. Reaching down, he collected the folder and its contents, tucking them firmly at his side. "I will be taking this," he stated, curling a lip in a half-snarl, "I think it might look attractive in my fireplace. If you have nothing further to add . . . ?"

Minerva stood as well, nodding and smoothing out her dark green robes. "Yes, tha—what is it?" she inquired suddenly, noting the strange, almost expectant way he was looking at her.

"That is all? No riddle or words of advice from the resident Headmistress?"

She stared at him somewhat blankly for a second before realization dawned on her tired features. "I did not read that in the job description," she replied dryly, granting him a soft smile.

"Read the fine print; I am sure you will find it. It is a binding clause, I'm afraid."

For the first time since he had seen her after Dumbledore's death, Minerva laughed—snorted actually, and incredulously at that. "Oh really? And what kind of wise and deeply spiritual advice did you give, pray tell?"

"My advice was always more practical than spiritual."

"Such as?"

"Don't piss of the Carrows."


Severus was pleased.

No scratch that—he was still absolutely furious. But he was rather proud of himself for the way he handled the impromptu meeting with Minerva. It could have easily been very ugly; his former self would have taken the news badly, probably would have ended up screaming at the overworked, overstressed woman that he could, in a certain sense, once again call a friend. The old Severus might have seen the meeting in and of itself as an attack on his person, on his integrity, would have blamed Minerva outright even though she was only being sensible.

And that, he thought as he marched along the quiet, darkened corridor, was the truth of it. Minerva was nothing if not sensible; one could never accuse her of over-reacting or blowing a situation out of proportion. It was one of those distinctly non-Gryffindor attributes of hers: she could assess a situation objectively and decide what needed to be done based on facts and probable outcomes without interjecting personal bias. She was completely right. He would be doing no good by Luna if his presence caused any sort of scandal; it wasn't as though she needed any further detriment to recovery. It was all perfectly reasonable.

But, plausible or no, prudent or no, it still did not stop him from having more anger than he knew what to rightly do with.

And since preoccupying vexation was not generally conducive to fruitful study, this evening found him wandering the halls instead of cooped up in his rooms, where his search for answers was turning stale.

So, he paced along down the hallways with an irritated gait, eyes taking in everything and nothing, most of his attention consumed by the thoughts swirling around in his head.

Knowing better than to keep for long in the company of others, he had kept his meeting with Melrough rather short. The doctor, of course, had been informed on the situation, and though Severus was relieved to see that the man seemed to be of the same opinion as Minerva (he had detected no suspicion in either his manners or clinical gaze), he could not help but be short and curt when talking with him.

But Melrough seemed not to take offense; on the contrary, he didn't seem to take in the irritability that Severus had dished out on him, instead seeming very preoccupied, often staring over Severus' shoulder at nothing or fixating on the long rows of buttons on Severus' robes.

"St. Mungo's is expecting a diagnosis from me within the week," Melrough had stated rather gravely. "The only way she can be pronounced sane—or, at least, not to be committed—is to a) identify her condition as treatable, and b) have two persons of authority vouch for her. This makes the predicament all the more complex. I am not yet sure what her affliction is, so I cannot confirm it treatable. And, though I can vouch for Ms. Lovegood, you will not be considered a reliable second-voucher, because your authority is under a certain amount of suspicion. She has no surviving family, is that right? No guardian or relative?"

He shook his head and swallowed the tirade of sarcasm and venom that threatened to spill forth, while Melrough stewed quietly in his own thoughts.

"I think . . . I may have a theory," he had admitted finally. He brought his gaze from where it had settled on a particular button about half-way down Severus' chest up to his face. For the first time, the doctor looked genuinely tired—and slightly wary. "I mean, statistically, realistically speaking, the possibility is almost completely improbable . . . I need to run some more tests, do more research, and there is no way to be completely positive . . . the condition is so rare. . . ."

A strange sensation bubbled in Severus' chest, something like anticipation, momentarily displacing his anger. "What is it?" he pried.

But the doctor only shook his head, blonde eyebrows furrowing together ruefully. "I—I don't want to say just yet. I need to contact a colleague of mine and confer with her . . . I'll get back to you on it as soon as I find anything substantial."

And, despite his curiosity, Severus nodded and pressed no further, instead saying, "Is L— does Miss Lovegood—?"

"She's been informed of the situation," Melrough assured, "and she understands."

Taking a corner sharply, Severus' scoffed to himself. She understands. Did she now? Did Luna Lovegood really understand? What was the extent of her insight to the situation? Did she know what the pseudo-article actually said about them? Or did she simply know that the matter was "potentially scandalous"?

A small part of him cringed inwardly. He had felt relieved when Minerva said she did not doubt him—but it also made his blood curdle, the way she placed such implicit trust in this presumed integrity of his. How she had declined to needing a confession or explanation. Had his "acts of heroism" as they were so-called granted him such impunity? Was he really that much nobler of a person now?

No, he thought to himself. Not by a longshot.

It was not long before he found himself wandering along a familiar colonnade, the chilly air whipping in through various archways. Moonlight, dim and pale, spilled through small cracks and windows, lighting his path towards one courtyard in particular.

He often found himself coming back to Luna's memorial during his late-night, insomnia-ridden wanderings. Despite the eerie desolation it held, he also found it strangely comforting, almost as if he could feel her fey-presence there. He would stand in the silence, wander about the lonely courtyard for a bit, and then retreat back into the castle.

He had some vague notion of completing this ritual tonight—however, as he approached the small gothic archway, the sight that he glimpsed through the portal gave him pause.

Two small figures were crouched down in the dirt, a jar full of glowing white stones and a lantern between them. They were both swathed in unidentifying black robes, but the moonlight and their lantern lent enough light for him to distinguish two very different hues of hair: one platinum blonde, one messy black.

He thought about opening his mouth to make his presence verbally known, but thought better of it. Instead, he silently leaned in the archway, watching them with curious black eyes.

The boys worked diligently, mostly in silence, though he could hear a faint murmuring every once in a while. He studied the way they brushed hands whilst trading tools, the way Draco turned to talk to Potter, unabashed at how close their faces were, and how their bodies leaned into one another during lulls in the off-and-on conversation.

He surmised he could have watched them for hours without their noticing, so wrapped up they were in their task and each other.

But, some five minutes in, there was a sharp crack, like a twig snapping or ice cracking; and though the sound came from elsewhere, probably on the other side of the stone wall (and decidedly not from Severus who had been standing still as a statue), the boys both took that moment to tense-up and look around wildly.

Potter was the first to look behind them and spot the shadow in the archway.

"Holy shi—" the muggle phrase toppled out of the teenager's mouth as he jumped and gracelessly fell backwards onto the hard earth, green eyes staring startled and wide.

It was almost comical, seeing The Harry Potter startle so; to watch a boy that had faced down a distillation of evil have such a normal reaction was so absurd it was almost funny. Perhaps if he had been in a better mood, he would have snorted. But he made no sound.

Draco spun around as well, drawing his wand and leveling it to where Potter was staring, silver eyes narrowed and pale face drawn tightly.

"Who's there?" he demanded, raising his wand higher. "I am not afraid to hex you—"

Severus, having seen quite enough, took this moment to step forward, out of the shadows of the archway and into the pale light shed by the crescent moon overhead. Almost immediately, familiarity registered in Draco's eyes and he lowered his wand.

"I would rather avoid a scuffle, if it is all the same to you. I am under enough scrutiny as is," he intoned dryly.

Seeing that he and his companion were no longer threatened, Draco stuffed his wand back into his robes; Potter, for his part, continued to stare, still slightly startled.

Ignoring the brat's unapologetic gaping, Severus breezed towards them, moving languidly and taking in the site of their work. In addition to the jar of moonstones (which he had recognized immediately), he also saw two small gardening shovels and several pinprick mounds of recently overturned dirt.

"Did Lovegood put you to this?" he murmured, stopping to the left of Draco.

Draco rose to his feet, and lent a hand down to pull Potter up from his ridiculous squat. "Yes, sir," the blonde replied. "She gave me a list of names and instructions when you took me to visit her in the infirm."

Severus vaguely recalled to mind the image of a pink-faced Draco shoving a slip of paper out of sight. "I see," he heard himself say. A small stab of some idiotic emotion bit him sharply in the side of his skull. Why did she not entrust me with this?

As if reading his thoughts, Draco supplied further. "She was going to ask you to finish it, but she said she figured you had a lot on your plate already, sir. She said her doctor—at least, I think it was her doctor, she called him 'Bryan' — told her that you and he were doing research together. For her, that is."

Only slightly comforted, Severus said nothing, continuing to let his eyes rove over the dark, pocked earth.

"I tried to visit her today," Draco mentioned quietly. "But Madam Pomfrey said she wasn't allowed to have anymore visitors. She said even you were banned."

He could imagine the way she said it too, eyes disapproving, voice authoritarian. Even you. It was not fair, really; Draco had only been permitted to see Luna once, and already the privilege had been revoked.

And it was Severus' fault.

Then, Potter—the damned boy he'd been avoiding for weeks and weeks, who had been teetering on the edge of interjecting words of his own for the past few moments but had been mercifully silent until now—spoke up in the most innocently insolent way the daft boy could possibly manage:

"Why?"

Severus did not feel at all guilty about the mutinous glare he shot Potter, standing behind Draco and looking curiously at him. No, not at all guilty, and actually found it satisfying to see the boy blush suddenly and looked down, abashed by his own blunt, uncouth (and most likely unintentional) impertinence.

"It . . . the Headmistress thought it best, given the media speculation surrounding Ms. Lovegood's condition," he managed to growl.

Choosing diplomatically to ignore the exchange between Harry and Severus, Draco tilted his head, frowning. "Media speculation?"

Taking a slow, deep breath, Severus closed his eyes briefly and attempted to reign in his emotions. "I see you haven't been paying attention to the Prophet, lately."

Both boys shook their heads.

Ah well. Perhaps it was for the best. "Hogwarts has—inevitably, I suppose—been attracting quite a bit of attention. According to Professor McGonagall, there is a leak inside the school. Since it cannot be identified and apprehended, she thinks it best to draw as little attention to Lovegood as possible."

He could see the boys each taking in this information, trying to process and grapple with it, and he sternly told himself not to grimace. He did not feel inclined to divulge the full reason he himself was banned from the infirmary; it was bad enough that some cheap media-whore had drummed up the idea in an article that didn't even exist (anymore).

Again, it was Potter who spoke up.

"What's wrong with her?" he piped up curiously, the color having died from his cheeks, his voice a little more self-assure now. Even though he was no longer being a twit (it really was an honest question) Severus still grate his teeth at the sound of the boy's voice. His desire to be rid of Potter's presence was so strong that he was tempted to just turn heel and leave.

"Dr. Melrough and I cannot reach a conclusion," he admitted tightly.

Potter said nothing more, just continued to regard him steadily from where he stood behind Draco. In his periphery, Severus noted that he and Draco were still inconspicuously clutching each other's hands, having not let go when Draco hauled Potter to his feet.

Draco too said nothing for a moment, assessing him as Potter was. Then, seeming to reach an internal conclusion, he nodded, and gestured at the ground.

"Since you are here . . . would you like to help, Professor?"

He pursed his lips, giving Potter another grudging look. Then nodded.


The three of them worked, as the two boys had before, more or less in silence. Luna, as it happened, had prepared a large batch of Named moonstones prior to being put in the infirmary; and Draco, with Harry's help, had produced a batch just about as big. In all, there were about sixty-five moonstones to plant that night, so Severus helped the boys with the fifty or so that were left.

By the time they were finished, it was nearly one in the morning. And Severus, being none-too keen to talk to Potter (who had adopted a pained expression, as of someone wanting to make a confession but lacking the courage), made motions to leave, keeping Draco between him and the other young man.

And since Draco hovered constantly by Potter's side, brushing against him every so often, it wasn't a hard thing to do. Severus was mildly surprised, actually: he'd never seen Draco so protective of another person his age, nor so chummy—although, according to that rather incriminating picture, "chummy" wasn't exactly the right word. . . .

"Draco. A word."

The blonde, who had been fixing Potter's robes (as if the blasted boy couldn't fasten the clasps himself), stayed his hands and looked to Severus, who was lingering near the exit. The young man approached tentatively.

"Sir?"

Severus gathered his cloak and wrapped it more firmly around himself, the before unnoticed chill finally seeping into his body. Over Draco's fair head, he leveled his gaze briefly at Potter, who was watching them curiously.

In a lowered voice, Severus commented, "I am guessing that this is not an exercise in social climbing." He jerked his chin at Potter.

Draco frowned, his demeanor a bit defensive. "No," he mumbled.

"I am not trying to chide you," Severus clarified, raising a brow. "But I would caution you against any . . . brash behavior."

"What?"

Severus sighed. "Let it simply be said that there is much speculation about you and Mr. Potter. The Daily Prophet especially seems to be insistent on the notion that the two of you are more than just compeers. No doubt Witch Weekly will be hot on their heels."

Draco blushed, but raised his chin defiantly. "And? If we are?"

Severus shrugged, turning heel. "Then I would be more careful about standing too closely in shadowed hallways."


That night, for the first time in weeks, Severus dreamed.

Not a nightmare by definition. A macabre swirl of colors and images and echoes of sounds, all blending together and dividing into impossible shapes. Tributaries upon tributaries branched off from one another, stretching upwards like skeletal arms from the deafening black well that featured foremost, like a black hole, both producing everything and sucking it back in.

He was not sure how long the dream lasted. Not long enough for him to make any sense of it. It ended rather abruptly, in a swell of green and gold and black. Tinkling bell around a long corner. The sound of his name.

Severus . . . Severus! . . .

Hallowed quiet.

. . .

"SE—!"

But when he awoke, jolting straight up from the couch by the hearth, where he had fallen asleep, there was no one there. Even when he went to investigate the door, he found no trace of anyone outside his chambers.

All he could rightly discern was that the scream he had heard in the dream was still resounding in his ears—and that something was very seriously, intrinsically wrong.

He was not a superstitious man, particularly at 4 in the morning. But it took little more than a ringing sense of dread to make him pull on his robes, his boots, and stalk out of his chambers.

He wasn't even in sight of the infirmary when he broke out into a run.