Entry tags:

2009_fic, fic4:fanficforensics, snape/slughorn

fic for fanficforensics 'Subtlety Personified' Snape/Slughorn

Fic for: fanficforensics
Title: Subtlety Personified
Author: therealsnape


Pairing: Snape/Slughorn
Rating: PG
Warnings/Content Info: highlight between brackets if you prefer story warnings:
[None]
Summary: Horace Slughorn has quite looked forward to the Special Christmas Edition of the Daily Prophet. And it doesn't disappoint: a two-page spread on what really happened at Hogwarts' the year Snape was Headmaster.
Disclaimer: The world of HP and its characters belongs to Rowling. The author of this fic has borrowed them for the purposes of storytelling. No profit was or will be made.
Word count: ~5,360
Author Notes: My marvelous beta kelly_chambliss explained in one of her fics why Ms Lovegood had her brief career as Quidditch commentator.

Obviously, all newspaper articles quoted in this story are the property of the Daily Prophet and Ms. Rita Skeeter.

fanficforensics You asked for Snape is Headmaster. Horace Slughorn figures out which side he's on and manages to provide some form of invaluable assistance. (Another staff member would also be nice. More Hogwarts staff fic, more!) A dream of a prompt. I hope I did it justice. Have a lovely, snapely Christmas!

Subtlety Personified

Hogwarts, Christmas 1998, Professor Slughorn’s rooms

Most people don’t know the meaning of the word “leisure”. Most people don’t know the meaning of the word “work”, either, come to that. They define “work” as rushing about like demented ants, busy, busy, busy; they need to be seen doing things with and for a set of people who will never get very far in the first place. And then it’s leisure time, and they need to be seen rushing around again, engaging in all sorts of useless activities. Just with a different set of people who will not go far. And in some sad cases, not even a different set.

About work. Now, I’ve done quite a few things in my time. Quite a few. In fact, I used to open the Daily Prophet just to see the results. But I don’t rush about. I sit in my study and write owls. I invite visitors and have talks. I’m not busy, I’m effective.

That’s another thing, effectiveness. Most busy people conduct conversations while they sit behind a desk, in a chair they choose to impress people rather than to be comfortable in, and they talk to people who sit on hard, upright chairs facing them. They’re businesslike. And then they’re surprised at the lack of result. Well, of course there’s no result. People say “yes” to everything, just to escape from the dratted chair and the bleak office. Afterwards they look back on all the discomfort and try to get out of whatever it is. And the busy people complain that hours of drudgery got them nothing.

What you should do is sit with your visitor in two nice, supremely comfortable chairs in front of a fireplace. You must have soft lightning, drawn curtains, the reflection of the fire in silver and gleaming wood. Have side-tables with refreshments ready. Tea and rich fruit cake. A good sherry or mead. Salted nuts, or some elegant canapés. The kind of food that’s both delicious and easy to eat; you don’t want your visitors struggling with complicated things like scones that need to be cut, spread with cream and jam, and eaten without the jam dripping down their front. You want your visitors to feel at ease. Have crystal, silver, opulence, coziness. Then they will surpass themselves trying to please you. When they leave, they’ll work for you like Muggles, just to get invited again. And you’ve had hours of comfort that got you more than you even asked for.

I know about leisure, too. You won’t find me running around in a Hogwarts Christmas Hunt. Oh, I quite agree with Hagrid that children who lack a pleasant home to go to over the holidays must feel lonely. But, unlike Hagrid, I’m a realist. “Dear boy,” I said -- well, he is one of my old pupils -- “dear boy, the children who are left behind at Hogwarts usually also lack the social skills that’ll get them invited to other pleasant homes. They’ll feel lonely quite often in their lives, and then there will be no Hogwarts staff that’ll create a make-believe social occasion.”

So, instead of running about in that delusional party, I’m going to spend a truly leisurely afternoon with the Daily Prophet. I’ve avoided that paper for the last few months. Too depressing. The Death Eater trials are necessary, of course. We went through that sort of thing after the First Voldemort War; I know it’s inevitable. And Shacklebolt is fair, scrupulously fair. He’ll see to it that no-one gets condemned who isn’t proven guilty. He’s even seen to it that the Prophet doesn’t publish pictures of the accused. This time, if they are acquitted, they have a chance of returning to a normal life.

Thing is, I don’t need the Prophet to see pictures. Last week, for instance. Goyle condemned to Azkaban. Death Eater. Pie eater, I thought at once. Did you know Goyle once ate a whole Treacle Tart, on top of his normal dinner? Well, normal for Goyle; you and I would burst. But he did manage the whole tart, just for a bet. I never even noticed it at the time. There’s only so much you can see at the High Table. Didn’t realise what happened until one of his roommates came to fetch me. In the middle of the night, it was, and there was quite a mess. You seldom see ‘Scourgify Spells’ listed among the Head of House requirements, but I can assure you they’re exceedingly useful. The dear boy felt ghastly, of course, but he was plucky enough not to cry.

You see, that’s why I find the Prophet so depressing right now. I know that conviction was justified; Shacklebolt is a fair man. I know I shouldn’t want to take out my wand, Scourgify the whole mess away, wipe Goyle’s clammy brow and tell him “you’ll be all right in the morning, dear boy.” I know I shouldn’t want that. But part of me still does.

And then the cases where I must send sympathy notes to the parents. What’s there to say? I’m glad I’m a bachelor. Yes, of course I’ve felt the occasional regret. Every major choice you make will give you an occasional regret. Some weeks ago I was in the Three Broomsticks. Saw this father and son, having a quiet drink together. Just that, you know. A drink and a chat. Then they left, the father clamped his son’s shoulder, and the son gave a sort of almost-hug with one arm. Silent togetherness. Made me feel wistful, that did.

Yet I’ve no great regrets. Very uncomfortable, children. You never know what they’ll do, what will happen. Now, if you could hand-pick them … but it’s too much of a lottery for me.

But this Special Christmas Edition of the Prophet is all about happy, optimistic things. They promised us that for most of last week. So let’s see what we’ve got. An interview with Warbling Warbeck. Thank Merlin they haven’t invented sound with pictures yet. Still, the girl has made a nice career for herself. I was right to point her towards that Banshee background group. And towards that spotty would-be poet. A cauldron full of hot, strong love, who would think of it?

And the Chudley Cannons Seeker discusses his “hopes for next year”? That’s a triumph of optimism over reality.

And … good heavens. A two-page spread on “The Resistance at Hogwarts: What Happened before the Battle.” By Miss Skeeter, no less. Now, that should make interesting reading. Just let me put an extra log on the fire; there, mead, glass, footstool, all ready. A little nibble … the crystallized pineapple Miss Skeeter sent me. That’s fitting. As well as delicious; the dear girl has impeccable taste in sweetmeats.

///////

Longbottom Remembers

“I wouldn’t say that I started it,” smiles Neville Longbottom, a close and trusted friend of Harry Potter. “There were several of us. We had done things together before, with Harry. Actually, it was Hermione Granger …”

But I tell Mr. Longbottom, who is far too modest for his own good, that neither our readers nor I want to hear about Ms Granger; she obviously did nothing in the Hogwarts Resistance, since she wasn’t even there. “What really, really happened during your seventh year?” I ask him.

“At first, we just talked. And wrote things on the walls. But saying things does help, you know. Words can change people.”

I hasten to agree with Mr. Longbottom on the power and the effect of words. But the famous Hogwarts Resistance was about more than that. The well-known attempt to steal Gryffindor’s Sword springs to mind. Was that an order from Harry Potter himself?

“Oh no,” Mr. Longbottom quickly denies – just a little bit too quickly. “Shortly before Christmas, we wanted to steal the Sword, that’s true. Well, not ‘steal’ it, really; just get it to Harry. Dumbledore had left it to him, so it was his, and we felt he needed it. Ginny Weasley’s idea, it was. But there was no contact with Harry until the Battle of Hogwarts.

“But still, you know, the Sword - that really was the moment it all changed. We failed, but afterwards … it was as if, slowly, over the weeks, all of Hogwarts started to help us. The teachers, the building, even. The tide had turned, that’s how it felt.”

Well, dear readers, if you have followed my revelations over the past week (see “The Chosen Redhead”, “True Love At Last”, and today’s “A Ring for Christmas?”) you’ll know as well as I do that Potter must have been in close, very close contact with the ringleaders of the Resistance – no healthy teenager with his hormones in the right place could manage to stay away from Gorgeous Ginny for long!

///////

Clever boy, you know, Longbottom. In his own way. Not academically clever, but … how shall I put it? He has a feeling for groups. For people. Mind, it won’t get him far. Too modest, Skeeter’s right about that. Not the right social skills. No elegance. Wouldn’t recognise a useful relation if it was handed to him on a silver plate. But a feeling for groups he has, most definitely. For their moods. Their momentum.

And Longbottom was right. The Sword. That’s when it all changed. Oh, yes, I remember it well. It was the week before Christmas, in that final year.

Severus was sitting behind his desk in the Headmaster’s office, pretending to work. Quill in hand, all that. But his writing wasn’t real notes, just doodles. Too disorganised, it was: Severus was always meticulous in his work. He had said “yes” to my knocking, a very curt and unwelcoming “yes”: he only let me in because I was a Head of House; because I might be there on genuine Hogwarts business; because kicking me out would prove conclusively that I was right about him, whereas so far he had managed to avoid my presence on most occasions and my eyes at all times.

“We must talk, my boy,” I told him. He has a stony, utterly disdainful look sometimes. If he were the kind of man who dines out, he could tell his hostess, with that one look, that there’s a hair in his soup, that he’s too polite to mention it, and that it’s just what he expects in her household.

He didn’t impress me.

“Dumbledore’s Army is up to quite some action,” I informed him.

“Let me remind you …” he started.

“Nonsense,” I said. “You’re no Death Eater. I know you, my boy. And you didn’t kill Albus, either. An extremely talented wizard you may be, and one I’m proud to have had in my house, but you’re not i>that</i> good. Please credit me with recognising a Dark Curse when I see one. What was it, that ring? I thought so, when I first saw Albus’s hand. No, whatever happened to him, he let it happen. Or made it happen.”

“Why would he do that?” Severus drawled. “Tired of life, you think? In the middle of a war?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said, taking him seriously. “We’ll probably never quite know – unless he told you?” But from the look of him I could tell that Albus hadn’t. Impressive. I mean, I never thought Albus would want to tell things, but he obviously asked Severus to treat that curse, and he must have asked him to … well … at the end, you know … You’d think Severus would have refused unless he got some information, some reason … As I say, quite impressive, the loyalty and devotion that devious old bugger managed to inspire.

Anyhow, I told Severus that, in my opinion, that curse had happened either because Albus wanted something desperately enough to risk it, or because he saw it as the necessary next step in the Giant Wizards’ Chess that was life to him. And I can’t think of anything that Albus could want that badly. I mean, at our age - well, I’m a good bit younger … but surely – you’re past that kind of desire. So it must have seemed the right move to him. Sacrifice the King – only that wouldn’t work, and besides, Potter was the King in this game. Oh, all right, I’ll make the dreadful pun: sacrifice the old Queen.

“So,” I told Severus, “let’s disregard the whole ritual dance and just get to business.” I had already looked for the padded chairs Albus used to have (Albus knew how to have talks, all right), but, as I half-expected, they were gone. So I took the god-awful chair near the desk and returned to business. Quite unlike my usual routine, you say? Absolutely. But Severus … he understood comfort the way You-Know-Who understood floral chintz patterns. He’s always been like that, from the very first day I met him. He never understood leisure, either. Or coziness. Or warmth… or friendship.

But he did know about work. That was the only way you could reach him. Extra lessons. Private tutorials. Working together. Stretching his knowledge and –towards the end of his time at Hogwarts – stretching mine. He was that brilliant. That eager. That sharp. You’re lucky to get a student like that once in your life. Unforgettable. Ah, well. Forgive a poor, worn-out, and lonely man his fond memories.

So I sat down to work. Discussed what I had overheard: the plans to steal Gryffindor’s Sword. I knew that Sword was important; I suspected that Potter would need it before the end. And I saw Albus’s fine, Italian hand in all of it. Reluctantly, Severus admitted that I was right. Together, we worked out a plan. Severus would ‘surprise’ the young thieves; he would make a great display of anger and outrage. Dreadful punishment – an excursion to the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid. An out-of-doors Christmas Hunt, really, the only danger being asked to tea. But Poppy Pomfrey does some excellent dental work.

“Let’s have a post-mortem,” I suggested before I left. “And see what else needs to be done.”

“Oh, all right,” Severus said peevishly, “New Year’s Eve suits you?”

It suited me. More than. You see, that’s as close as Severus could get to admitting that … that he needed a … a friend. Asking me for New Year’s Eve. For company, though he would rather die than admit it.

And the result of that evening … oh, enough of all that! I was going to enjoy myself with the Prophet.

/////

Rolanda Recall

“It was so damn plucky of them!” Rolanda Hooch, former star player of the Holyhead Harpies, has lost none of the old fire. “Things were pretty grim, that year. What with the Carrows and Snape – well, we know better now, of course, but at the time … Severus was damn convincing, that’s all I can say. And yes, we helped the students.”

Was that because of the attempted theft, or did they get instructions from Harry? We all know that Harry bonded with some of the teachers. The more – how shall I put it? – genetically-challenged teachers, especially. Remus Lupin, Rubeus Hagrid. So very understandable in one whose often tragic fate has been to stand out from all others. As scarred on the inside as he is on the outside. A lonely boy with a mission. Did he involve the teachers?

“Definitely not,” Professor Hooch asserts, with a somewhat overdone show of insistence. “We didn’t hear of Harry till the day of the Battle. No, after the theft we were talking about it – among ourselves. Let’s see, who was there? Filius Flitwick, Horace Slughorn, Poppy Pomfrey, and myself.

“I don’t know how the conversation went or who said what. Someone said it was too dangerous, and that made me just so angry. So I said we had to help them, and over the following weeks we found more and more ways of doing just that. Poppy made potions and cures for them. Murtlap. Sleeping draughts. Painkillers. Filius secretly gave them dueling lessons. Professor McGonagall taught them Occlumency and helped with the dueling. And she gathered vital information about the Carrows’ plans, and even Snape’s, occasionally.

“I worked quite closely with Peeves and with the Ghosts. The ghosts were good sources of information too, and Peeves … well, you know him. He has his uses.

“In the end, Filius was more or less the leader of our group. You should talk to him, really.”

Of course my readers will find the interview with Professor Flitwick a fascinating read. Is it a coincidence that the leader of the Teachers’ Resistance is rumoured to have Goblin blood? If Harry Potter was in touch with his former teachers – and officially, this is denied – wouldn’t he stay true to his well-known preferences?

/////

“I don’t know how the conversation went or who said what.” Well, I did a good job, then. That was exactly how we planned it. Severus and I, I mean.

New Year’s Eve. That’s when we set it all up. I went to see him, as we had agreed, shortly after dinner. He sat in that bleak office of his. That should be an inaccurate description, because quite a lot of Albus’s artifacts were still around. And all of the paintings. The desk. The books. He had just changed the red curtains. Gryffindor-red, it was supposed to be. Gryffindor, my foot! Albus understood coziness, that’s why he had those warm, velvety, soft furnishings. Severus had a pale grey with some green and silver accents. Very understated accents, it was mostly pale grey. As chosen by the most stylish of funeral parlours. And yet, with only those few changes, the office exuded bleakness. Or its then occupant did.

You’ll understand that I came prepared. I brought two decent, soft leather chairs. Two side tables. A bottle of mead and one of Firewhiskey. Some nibbles. Some cheese. And a small cauldron of spicy, sherry-laced pumpkin soup. His one weakness. Even as a small boy, he would … well … pig out, there’s no other word for it, when that was on the menu.

He just stared as I unpacked and Enlarged each of these items. “You wouldn’t deny a poor old man his few comforts?” I whined. “On New Year’s Eve? I’ve so little left as it is…”

“So little left?” he queried. “Have you decided to give up comforts by way of a New Year’s Resolution? How admirable. I’ll help you. That special time-table that gives you Friday afternoons off, I’ll be glad to change that. And if you want to do the thing properly, I’ll oblige you to set each class a written essay at least once a month, instead of once a term, as you do now. You’ll enjoy the marking. By the time it’s Lent …”

“By that time,” I interrupted him, “I’ll do what I always do for Lent: I give up my New Year’s resolutions.”

To my surprise, he laughed out loud at that. And sat down in one of the chairs. He Accio’ed two glasses – I knew I had forgotten something – and poured a generous measure of mead for both of us. The whole Sword-business had worked admirably. “Did you manage to make it difficult for Potter?” I asked, for that had been Albus’s instruction. Potter had to work hard – for something that had to be offered on a plate, in a totally safe manner. Typically Albus.

“Oh, rather,” Severus said, smiling that special little smile of his – the one that makes you think about Shield Charms. “At first," he continued, still smiling, “I thought about the top of a tree. However, given Potter’s various Quidditch Catastrophes, anything off the ground seemed … injudicious, in view of the safety requirements. Then I thought about a beast – but any beast close to the Chosen one suffers death or worse. He is not, I think, an animal-lover.”

I raised a questioning eyebrow – no rumours had ever reached me, and that’s saying something.

Severus readily explained. “They either seem to get too drowsy to function, like Cerberus – you know about the Philosopher’s stone? Or they get speared on Godric’s Sword, like that Basilisk; sentenced to death, like the Hippogriff; or, worse of all, a perfectly innocent-looking rat turns out to be Pettigrew and I get stuck with him. And believe me, he is vermin. Even the Flobberworms looked decidedly peaky when Potter had to look after them.

“So I decided against animals – I’m not a cruel man, I should hope. I put the Sword at the bottom of a nearly frozen lake. Clearly visible, close to the shore, nothing more vulnerable than frogs living there. All he had to do was strip … and dip.”

Well, Potter seemed to have done just that, amidst much wailing and chattering of teeth, as Severus claimed. I doubt the wailing a bit – but there was no point in telling Severus. He’d made up his mind about Potter a long time ago.

Then, well, after several more glasses of mead, and when the cauldron of pumpkin soup was quite empty, he said could he ask me a favour. I said of course he could -- with some trepidation. He’s as hard on others as he is on himself. But it turned out to be a feasible, even an entertaining task.

He wanted a puppet-player. Someone to pull the strings, to make things happen. Well, that was right up my street.

“First,” he said, “I’ll need to control that so-called ‘Army’ somewhat. I need to know what they’re up to, I need to make sure that the other teachers assist them and help them hide, if necessary – there’s only so much even I can do about the Carrows.”

And then he said something completely outrageous – at least, that’s what I thought then.

“This can be accomplished through Rolanda Hooch.”

Well, you could have knocked me down with a quill. Hooch! Great player in her day, of course, and quite good as a flying instructor, but in conspiracies … she has this reputation for impishness … loving a party … having a bit too much on occasions … you know …a bit of a wild child … not the person to trust with a secret.

“Yes, Hooch,” Severus stated firmly. “You’ll start a conversation on the theft of the Sword, with several teachers present, but Rolanda must be there. She’s just impetuous enough to flare up and to forget who started it. You’ll claim that nothing can be done – that it’s too dangerous. Rolanda will want to do things. But she won’t start at once – she’s not as foolish as that. She’ll think about the possible risks – for all concerned.

“And then she’ll discuss the whole thing with Minerva. And Minerva, because she is a Gryffindor, because it’s Rolanda who asks, will get involved. She’ll set up a decent system. She’ll have Poppy rustle up some proper treatment for the children. She’ll get Filius involved. Filius is vital, he and Minerva are the most experienced duelists we have – and the one thing you can’t teach on your own or with a student as example, is what a duel really is about.

“Remind me to tell you about that time I kindly assisted Lockhart with a dueling lesson – it’s quite a funny story. Potter helped, too, but that time it only cost us a snake.”

I nearly choked on my mead, I can tell you. True, if Rolanda would involve Minerva -- most unlikely, I thought, since Minerva is rather prim and proper, and Rolanda is … erm … not -- and if Minerva, on the strength of that talk, would turn into the Hogwarts Resistance leader, things might well work out as Severus thought. Exceedingly competent, is Minerva. But there were quite a few ifs .

“What makes you think,” I tried carefully, “that Rolanda would choose Minerva McGonagall as her confidante?”

His answer took my breath away. “They’re lovers,” he said. “And Minerva can’t refuse Rolanda anything. It’s why we had the loopiest commentator in the history of Quidditch, during last year’s final match. It’s why we lost a rather valuable crystal chandelier during the Umbridge period.”

He saw my surprised stare and explained, or thought he explained, but it’s still a mystery to me: “On his own, Peeves would never have found out that the chandelier unscrewed the other way. Minerva would do anything to make Rolanda smile - believe me. “

And, crazy as it sounds, everything happened exactly as Severus foretold. Well, you’ve just read that, haven’t you? Now, I wonder, what did Miss Skeeter get from Filius? Let’s see.

///////

“Oh, I wasn’t the leader, merely the … logistics coordinator.” Professor Filius Flitwick, long-term Charms Professor at Hogwarts, is as modest as always. But when you see the list of ‘logistics’ he arranged, you‘ll be as impressed as I was.

“At some point – the kidnapping of Luna Lovegood really brought that home – the students needed a … well, a ‘safe house’. They already knew about the Room of Requirement – any Hogwarts student worth his salt finds out about that, sooner or later. I just suggested long-term stay to some of them. And put up quite a few protective Shield Charms around it. Also, I made sure they found out about the connection to Aberforth’s place. That’s something most students don’t know.

“So, as the students used the Room of Requirement, I enlisted Aberforth as a helper. He provided them with food – Gamp’s Law, you know. We – the teachers, I mean – all chipped in to pay for it, since towards the end there were quite a lot of students in that room. Aberforth has been marvelous, but he’s not a rich man.

“Did the idea to involve Albus Dumbledore’s brother come from Harry Potter himself?” I ask Professor Flitwick.

“Certainly not, I don’t think they even knew each other before the battle. I mean, obviously Harry knew the publican of the Hog’s Head – but he didn’t realise who that really was.”

It seems most unlikely that the Chosen One wouldn’t know such an important feature as the Room of Requirement. After all, at Hogwarts he fought with a Basilisk, chased the notorious Sirius Black, participated in the Triwizard Tournament, and is rumoured to have played a vital part in the extraordinary circumstances surrounding the resignation of Dolores Umbridge. If Potter didn’t know about Aberforth and the connection to the Room, who would? But it would be impolite to contradict such an eminent war veteran as Filius Flitwick, who shows us once again that one should judge a wizard by his deeds, not by an – unproven – stain in his bloodline!

///////

Filius – Good God, yes. We were both stunned, Severus and I. Speechless. Well, in my case, that takes some doing. I mean, here we were, as secretive as they make them, never meet on the same days of the week or at the same time. Only ever speak in the Headmaster’s Office, which is one of the best- protected places in all of Hogwarts – and who found out about our collaboration but Filius?

I went to Severus at the appointed time, we were just pouring ourselves a glass of mead, and Filius, calm as anything, appears in our midst and asks for a sherry. Had used a Disillusionment Charm – the most perfect one I’ve seen since Albus … well … And, as Filius said himself, he’s easy to overlook in the first place. That’s Filius, you know, wicked sense of humour. At his own cost, too.

He had realised what we were doing, and he came with the Aberforth connection. Said that hidden access to the castle and Aberforth’s help would both be invaluable. Well, he was right, of course. Aberforth’s food kept those dear boys and girls alive. And it was a safe means of evacuation. And quite a lot of our side joined the fight through that very door.

Now, there’s actually an interesting fact Miss Skeeter didn’t find out. You know, I always thought that that corridor must have been like the Black Hole of Calcutta during the fight – hundreds of students being evacuated, all of the Order and many others coming in – such a narrow space, teeming with people.

I once said as much to Minerva – and she told me that that exit was created by a Hogwarts student – and in such a way that it was exactly as wide as it needed to be for any given group. “Built-in Transfiguration to allow for size?” I said. “That’s powerful spellwork, very powerful. Must have been some student, then. Impressive.” And you know what she said? “Thank you.” Just that. And I could have sworn that she winked.

Good heavens, Miss Skeeter even managed an interview with Harry Potter himself. That’s quite a feat.

///

“I’ve heard from various reliable sources that you’ve been in close contact with Hogwarts during the final year of You-Know-Who. Who has been most helpful, would you say?” I ask Harry Potter, during a heart-to-heart in Diagon Alley.

“There was no contact, no contact at all!” A fierce denial, so convincing that it does credit to his recently-started Auror traineeship. But his bright, green eyes tell a different story altogether. I suggest that Professor McGonagall – it’s widely known how upset she was when The Chosen One was believed dead – must have been his main support.

“That’s Headmistress McGonagall to you,” Harry snaps, “and no, she wasn’t. There was no contact until the day of the Battle.”

I ask Harry about another well-known event – the duel between Snape and McGonagall. How does Headmistress McGonagall feel about that now – does it keep her awake at night – can she live with the regret of having so utterly misjudged a colleague and a former student?

“None of your business!” Harry growls. Any doubt readers might have about the bond between Harry and his former Head of House would be gone if they could have seen his fierce look – you’d almost think he’d like to use a Crucio. Not that I would stretch my readers’ credulity by asking them to believe that Harry Potter ever would do that. It’s a well-known fact that he didn’t even use an Unforgivable on the Dark Lord, so no-one can believe he would use one to defend Minerva McGonagall – however close they clearly are.

//////

Well, I can tell you how Minerva felt about that duel: she was quite comfortable with it. It’s what they had agreed before – towards the last weeks of that crazy year Minerva had realised that Severus was on the side of the angels, after all. Of course she had. The simple fact that no members of the Order, or of the Staff, for that matter, had died at his hands, said quite enough.

Severus just needed a way out of Hogwarts that would keep his cover intact. Minerva provided it – in a rather flamboyant manner. That was the last time I saw my boy.

We didn’t speak then – he’d come to see me, just before Harry arrived. To say goodbye. Said that he expected things to come to a head, that very day. That he’d leave the castle – and that Minerva would get him out. Said that he had things to do.

I … I wanted to say … quite a lot. No time for it, of course. Useless, too. What could I say? “Be careful”? But risk control is not exactly part of a plan that involves fighting You-Know-Who. “Come back safely”? His face told me he would not, even if the words remained unspoken.

In the end I just said, for the last time, “My boy.”

Yes, I think he understood what I meant by that. He was subtlety personified, you know. He knew why I called each and every one of them “dear boy” and him alone “my boy”.

Then I clamped his shoulder, and he gave a sort of almost-hug with one arm. Silent togetherness.

Then he left.

Curse the Daily Prophet and their ideas on Yuletide Cheer.

I need something stronger than mead now.





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