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A Matter of Trust: First Things First
by Josan and kai
Chapter 1.
Severus paused on the threshold and inhaled deeply, steeling himself. He identified himself to the wards then turned the doorknob and stepped into the dank hallway.
As usual, the moment he entered, Madam Black set up an unholy din, "Vile, filthy, blood traitor! You dishonor the venerable name of Snape! You should be torn limb from limb! You should be strung up by your entrails! You should be - "
He turned swiftly and pointed his wand between the old hag's beady eyes. "They say, Madam Black, that a portrait captures the smallest portion of a wizard's soul. Would you care to join the rest of your putrid, demon-gnawed essence in hell?"
The bitch paused in her tirade and narrowed her eyes. "You wouldn't."
Having endured four days in the company of Voldemort, a nauseatingly unctuous Lucius Malfoy and an alternately simpering or whining Peter Pettigrew - not to mention the rest of his Dark Brethren - Severus had no compunction whatsoever about destroying private property. Especially any belonging to Sirius Black.
He tilted his wand just-so in the angle most favorable to channeling Dark energies. "Try me," he said.
They glared at one another for a moment, then with a scornful, "Hmph!" Madam Black turned her back on him.
His tentative calm shattered, Severus sheathed his wand and stalked down the hall towards the meeting room, seething. Why would no one listen to him that, Fidelius Charm or no, these goddamned portraits were an unacceptable security risk? Not to mention that Black's harpy of a mother was a mortal offense to anyone not blind, deaf, or currently sucking the Dark Lord's prick.
At the end of the hall, he sighed and reached for the door handle. Upon further reflection, it wouldn't have done a bit of good to hex the portrait anyway. He'd already determined that, theological arguments to the contrary, hell had no fixed location. It varied, from time-to-time and person-to-person. For him, it was currently located in the unsavory kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
***
Kingsley recognized him, of course. That nose was unforgettable. And the tight, dour expression on his face.
Severus Snape. The Slytherin that Lily's boyfriend, Potter, and his fellow Golden Gryffindors had so enjoyed bullying. He'd asked her once, when they'd been studying together, why she went out with a jerk like Potter. She sent him one of her rare glares that made the recipient feel like a right idiot and reminded him to keep his mind on Transfiguration.
That had been during fifth year exams. That summer, concerned about the rising influence of Lord Voldemort, his parents had sent him to his mother's family in France and thus to Beauxbatons. And now, after all these years, he was once more dealing with these people.
The meeting was tense. Well, he could understand: what they were doing could be construed as treason. Dumbledore, hero of the last war against a Dark Lord, had assembled around him a core group of people he trusted. They were calling themselves "The Order of the Phoenix."
The people around the table believed, he supposed, as Dumbledore did, that Voldemort had indeed come back and was a greater threat now than he had been before his original encounter with Harry Potter.
He hadn't been surprised to find Arthur Weasley at the table. After all, Arthur had been the one to approach him, on the recommendation of Madame la Directrice, Olympia Maxime. One of his cousins was her secretary and the de Beauforts were not afraid to take sides or chances. It had been pure fluke that he had vented to his cousin, Gaspard, just that Yule, about his frustrations and disappointments with the Department of Aurors, Cornelius Fudge, and signs that they all seemed to be too blind to notice.
Gaspard was aware that Madame Maxime was in correspondence with Albus Dumbledore and so he had casually let her know of Kingsley's displeasure with his Department. The next time he'd visited, Gaspard had sounded him out as to his opinions a little more deeply. So, when Arthur began hanging around the Auror offices, casually shooting the bull with him, finally getting around to inviting him to his home for supper one night, he hadn't been all that surprised to find Albus Dumbledore there as well.
Kingsley had somewhat fond memories of his one-time headmaster and was more than willing to listen to his proposal.
Which was why he was here, in this house that felt cursed.
Next to Arthur was his wife, Molly, doing her best to hide her worry about the situation, but with a resolve that impressed him. She'd seemed a bit of a scatter-brain the first time he'd met her. There was Remus Lupin, of the infamous Golden Gryffindors, now known to be a werewolf. He looked tired and edgy. Probably due to the man sitting next to him. Sirius Black. Irony of ironies. The Department had an all points bulletin out on the man. And here he was, calm as you please...well, relatively calm.
As he'd taken his place, the others had arrived. Mungundus Fletcher. Merlin help them! Alastor Moody. Still not fully recovered from his imprisonment at Barty Couch Junior's hands. And hadn't that death been so very convenient for Minister Fudge!
By the time Dumbledore looked ready to call the meeting to order, they'd been joined by Emmeline Vance, Sturgis Podmore, Hestia Jones, Elphias Doge and Dedalus Diggle, none of whom really surprised him. They were of his or Dumbledore's generations, well remembering the deaths under the rise of Dark Lords, especially Voldemort's first attempt to take over their world.
Nymphadora Tonks was a surprise. As his presence was to her: she blushed when she saw him. He'd recently had to chastise her about her lack of attention while out on an investigation. He'd have to keep an eye on her. She was enthusiastic but accident-prone. Her taking the place right next to Black and giving him a quick peck on the cheek was explained when Black growled at him, "Cousins."
And then the last of them had arrived: Severus Snape. To a variety of reactions, from slight surprise to barely contained anger. But the ones that interested Kingsley the most were those of Lupin and Black. Black definitely showed his teeth. Yes, indeed, they would be well worth watching.
Kingsley Shacklebolt sat back in his chair and waited for the fur to fly.
***
Severus strode into the room but didn't bother removing his cloak before he took his seat. With luck, he'd be able to give his report and then get the hell out. He'd come directly from the Dark Lord's current hide-out and already his hastily quaffed anti-pain potion was wearing thin. Soon, the post-hex tremors would begin. To be followed shortly thereafter by spasms of the large muscle groups, then the smaller ones governing fine motor control, whereupon the blinding pain would commence, and eventually...He shook his head and looked around the table, carefully avoiding Dumbledore's eyes. The last thing he needed was the meddling old bastard to take the opportunity to rifle through his thoughts - his mental control was in tatters at the moment.
Along with the familiar - and in Black's case, repulsively ugly - faces, there were several surprises. Nymphadora Tonks, for one. One of the most terrifying students to ever set foot in his laboratory. The woman had brains to spare, but Sweet Merlin! The sheer amount of glassware she'd destroyed through her clumsiness was enough to max out his supply budget seven years running.
The other newcomer, sitting between Mundungus Fletcher and Alastor Moody, was perhaps the most gorgeous man he'd seen in a long while. The man's face and skull were clean-shaven. He was lean, obviously very fit - possibly an Auror or Hit Wizard - with skin the color of hot chocolate with cream, and would be quite tall when he stood. He regarded Severus steadily, his eyes dark and curiously blank. His face was also vaguely familiar.
But before Severus could scavenge his memories to identify him, Dumbledore called the meeting to order.
"Well, it seems that we're all here," Dumbledore said. "Shall we begin?"
Murmurs of assent went round the table.
"I've invited two new members to join us tonight," Dumbledore said. "Allow me to introduce Aurors Nymphadora Tonks, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, both of whom will be of invaluable assistance to us. Mr. Shacklebolt, in fact, will be in charge of seeing to it that our friend, Sirius Black, is never found."
Severus started. That's why the man seemed familiar. Shacklebolt had gone to Hogwarts, had been in Severus's same year in fact. Ravenclaw. A brilliant student, who could always be found at the top of the class. He and Shacklebolt had spoken quite a few times in the library about Dark Creatures, magical ethics, and the Dark Arts. Shacklebolt had been just another smart, gangly teenager then, athletic, an excellent Quidditch player, but not especially graceful about it. Then, he'd left school right after taking his O.W.L.s. Concern over the rise of Voldemort, or some such. Severus hardly recognized him without the enormous afro he'd sported as a student, not to mention with the addition of a single gold earring. The intervening years had certainly been kind to the man!
Tonks and Shacklebolt both inclined their heads as a short spate of conversation and a sickening display of fellowship, good cheer, and welcoming words followed Dumbledore's introduction.
He could feel the pain advancing along his nerves and rather than clench his teeth, he scowled. "Some of us have important things to do tonight. If we might set aside these unnecessary pleasantries so I may furnish my report?"
Molly, Moody, and Shacklebolt frowned at him and Black muttered something insulting under his breath. Dumbledore merely raised his hand to quell the chatter and smiled. "But of course, Severus," he said mildly. "Please do."
Without another glance towards Shacklebolt, Severus warded his mind then hid his shaking hands in his sleeves and began his report. He was pleased that his voice, at least, was steady.
"As many of you know," he began softly, "I have been in the company of the Dark Lord and a number of Death Eaters for the past four days. And before you ask, Moody," Severus scowled at the Auror to forestall the inevitable demand, "No, I do not know where his current headquarters are located, though it is most definitely not the old Riddle mansion. We were Summoned directly via the Dark Mark. From the position of the stars, my best guess would be somewhere substantially south and east of here.
"In those four days, I learned several things of significance to this gathering. Please allow me to enumerate them all before asking questions or commenting," he continued, without much hope that his request would be granted. Especially not by Moody or Black.
"As I suspected from Potter's description of the resurrection ritual, the Recidivus Restituo potion was used. Unfortunately for us, it is perhaps the only successful potion that Pettigrew has ever brewed. The Dark Lord is entirely corporeal. He is physically and mentally hale and his magical abilities are wholly intact."
Severus gazed carefully at the table as hostile murmurs swept around the room. Given that he had originally discovered Recidivus Restituo in a collection of ancient manuscripts some sixteen years earlier, there would be no shortage of accusatory looks cast his way. Merlin help him if they ever discovered that he'd been spared the brunt of Voldemort's displeasure solely because of the success of the potion.
As if to punish him, nonetheless, a sudden pain arched from his tailbone straight up his spine. His tremors grew stronger. He clenched his hands into fists inside his sleeves.
"Also, the Dark Lord's short-term agenda has become clear. He has identified four immediate goals. First, he wants the contents of the entire prophecy and has set Malfoy the task of obtaining it. Malfoy has been given unspecified manpower to accomplish this."
Out of the corner of his eye, Severus noticed a flash of puzzlement cross Shacklebolt's face followed by an answering look of confusion from Tonks. He ignored them. Dumbledore could fill both of them in later, if he chose. "He is aware that Trelawney cannot consciously recall any of her true prophecies, and is wary of tangling with Potter again without a full understanding of the prophecy. Therefore he has decided to go after the prophecy directly. Which, given that his two Seers are still in Azkaban, I take to mean that he plans to somehow remove the orb itself from the Department of Mysteries."
As expected, Moody immediately cut in. "How the hell does he think to get past the insanity wards placed on those orbs?" he demanded. "Does he plan to just waltz into the Ministry and pick it up himself?"
Severus fought not to grit his teeth, certain it wouldn't help his headache any. "I don't know. Lucius claims to have a plan. Or several plans. Whatever they are, I doubt that the Dark Lord will go to the Ministry directly. He fully intends to capitalize on Fudge's refusal to acknowledge his return."
Dumbledore looked at him directly for the first time and Severus felt the brush of a mind against his. Irritated, he blocked his thoughts and looked away from the man.
"Incidentally, he has also mentioned plans to discredit both Potter and Dumbledore. I don't yet know how he intends to do this - " he stubbornly ignored Black's muttered comment of, "You don't know much of use, do you?" and continued, " - but, given both Malfoy and Macnair's connections to the Ministry and Malfoy's financial stake in The Prophet, I suspect that he intends to wage a campaign of rumor and innuendo and perhaps some obstructionist bureaucracy, leaving the public's fear of the Dark Lord and love of sensationalism to accomplish the rest."
The tremors were widespread now, affecting even his voice. Severus was very pleased to be sitting down, at least; he doubted that his knees would hold him upright at this point.
"There is also the matter of Dark Creatures and non-human magical folk," he continued, deliberately not looking at the Order's pet werewolf, for whom he would have to give up more precious hours of his week to prepare the Wolfsbane. "As we suspected, the Dark Lord will send envoys to the giants. But there is something new as well, a very subtle strategy that might just work.
"In the last war," Severus said, struggling to steady his voice, "he actively recruited Dark Creatures and other non-human sentients. Given the political climate at the time and his well-known bias towards pure-bloods, he wasn't especially successful. He intends to use a more indirect approach this time.
"In addition to making overtures to the centaurs and goblins - groups notably displeased with the current state of affairs - Macnair has been set the task of agitating within the Ministry itself for increased restrictions on the registration and liberties of Dark Creatures, including werewolves and vampires." Severus took a deep breath and willed the pain to abate, if just long enough for him to conclude his report. "He claims to have some Ministry bureaucrat named Umbridge in his pocket. Apparently, she's already pushed through some anti-werewolf legislation. With a bit more of Macnair's money to back it, she plans to wrangle enough votes to go further. Voldemort believes that if he limits the legitimate options open to these...individuals they will be forced to turn to him for relief."
Severus felt another brush against his mind and fought the urge to lash back at the intruder. After everything that he'd done for the Order, did Dumbledore still not trust him?
"And finally," he said hoarsely, unable to disguise his frayed state any longer, "also as we expected, he plans to extract the remaining Death Eaters from Azkaban. And no, Moody, I do not know when or how he intends to accomplish that either."
His vision had grayed at the edges and random colorful sparks floated before his eyes, but with a grimness and tenacity born of years of spying and enduring hexes thrown by Voldemort, Severus maintained his grip on consciousness and rationality. "Are there any questions?" he asked wearily, wishing that for once they'd just accept his report as is, without endless nitpicking and suspicion. He nearly snorted aloud. And while he was fantasizing, why not just imagine the Dark Lord's head on a plate, right next to Sirius Black's.
***
There was something wrong.
Not with Snape's report. That was delivered in a staccato voice that dared anyone to interrupt.
No, there was something wrong with the man himself. A slight tremor that he couldn't prevent. The way his voice was growing sharper, more surly. Quicker, as though he wanted to get through with his report before something happened.
And there was something going on with the way the others were ignoring him.
Well, not Black, whose grin was growing more feral as the report went on. He knew what the hell was going on and he was getting a lot of pleasure out of it.
Molly, who had hovered over everyone as they had arrived, including himself, was now looking at her hands, clasped tightly in front of her on the table top.
Kingsley frowned as he watched Dumbledore listening, but only once looking at the man who was still speaking. The Headmaster was keeping a more frequent eye on Black, a very headmasterish eye. It almost made Kingsley smirk aloud to think of the Order as mere students under the watch of a tried-and-true instructor, who had learnt to ignore all small classroom transgressions for the sake of his sanity while being alert for far more serious ones. He wondered if Black would dare cross that line.
Tonks caught his eye and raised her eyebrows, inquiring. He shrugged and she settled. They were the newcomers here. Kingsley wondered if all meetings were like this. Snape was their spy in the Dark Lord's inner circle and they were all reacting as though they couldn't wait for him to finish and...what? Leave?
The man's tremors were beginning to affect his voice.
Kingsley turned so that he was facing Snape, the only one at the table actually looking at him. He allowed his mind to wander from the report and to focus on the man holding himself stiff, not successfully controlling his body's reaction. Was there something physically wrong with Snape? A palsy or something of that sort? He hadn't heard, but then he was new to the Order.
Curiosity fed on the responses of the others and he decided to see just what was going on. He carefully approached Snape's mind, not all that surprised to find barriers up. He didn't push his way in, he wasn't into violations of that most personal of spaces. But he waited, knowing that at some point, Snape's hold on himself had to weaken as it demanded more and more of him to remain sitting as Dumbledore finally began asking questions, seeking clarification on several points.
And there it was: a scent rather than an image. Hex. Snape had absorbed a fair number of hexes over the last few days. Four. That's what he'd told them all. He'd been in Voldemort's presence for the last four days.
He hadn't mentioned the hexes and, suddenly, Kingsley knew that he didn't have to. These people probably all had a pretty good idea of what Snape had undergone. What was it? They were embarrassed? Definitely uncomfortable. Except for Black who was now sitting back in his chair, eyes dancing with delight. He caught sight of Kingsley looking at him and he grinned, as though inviting Kingsley to share in his enjoyment of the situation.
Fuck! So the Golden Boy was still as big a shit as he'd always been. You'd've thought that twelve years in Azkaban might have taught him differently.
Kingsley glared back, causing the delight to falter. Black shrugged, dismissing him, and turned his focus back onto Snape.
With a feeling of disdain for his fellow conspirators, Kingsley looked over to the counter, to the teapot with the steam rising out of it. With a surreptitious wave of his wand, he had it fill one of the mugs that stood nearby. He glanced over at Snape, once more, then added several teaspoons of sugar and a healthy dose of milk.
Lupin was asking a question, not of Snape, but of Dumbledore, who in turn related the inquiry to Snape. Whose jaw was so tightly clenched that Kingsley wondered his teeth weren't breaking.
He waved the mug on its way behind everyone, around Snape and settled it in front of him.
Snape stared at it as though it were something he'd never seen. He looked around, his actions jerky, sending the lanky hair flapping, his glare accusing. Kingsley caught his eyes and nodded slightly. Yes, he was the guilty one, the one who'd dared notice that Snape was not doing well. He allowed his eyebrow to rise, offering his own silent dare in turn. Would Snape take it up?
Kingsley wisely kept his smile to himself when one of the man's trembling hands slipped out of a sleeve and went to the mug. He was thankful that he'd added a lot of milk as the hand was less than able to control the spillage: Snape would surely have scalded himself. Kingsley noticed that everyone, other than himself and Black, suddenly found other things to look at, other than the man struggling to bring the mug of liquid to his mouth. Not bothering to hide his involvement, he brought his hand up and, using some of the wandless magic he wasn't supposed to have, he steadied the mug so that Snape could bring it up to his lips. Not that the man looked thankful, but Kingsley allowed himself to link, just the slightest bit, with the man as he gulped the first mouthful and felt his relief as the liquid warmed him.
He unlinked yet continued holding the mug steady until he felt the heat and sugar of the liquid begin working their own magic. Snape's slowly closing eyes were the only thanks he got.
The mug was empty by the time Moody finished challenging everything Snape had reported. The man set the mug down on the table, hand a little more steady than it had been. Rising to his feet, a little wobbly - he had to hold onto the table to stabilize his legs - Snape pulled his cloak more tightly around himself.
"Believe what you want, Moody. You always do." He nodded to Dumbledore. "It would seem, Headmaster, that I have wasted the last four days. Pray excuse me as I have important work awaiting me back in my lab."
"Developing a shampoo that will deal with that greasy hair of yours, Snape?"
Why was Kingsley not surprised that Black had had to get in a dig?
Snape turned and managed, all things considered, a very effective sneer. "Not at all, Black. Just some Wolfsbane for our other canine 'friend.' Unless you would prefer to make it yourself? No? I thought not. It might mean you were doing something productive."
Lupin was the one who stood up, getting between Black and Snape. "Thank you, Severus. I'm certain that none of us here would want to delay your departure, as the full moon is not that far distant."
With a final sneer, Snape left the room, his gait uneven, slamming the door to the hallway behind him.
Tonks literally wriggled her eyebrows and rolled her eyes. "Nice to see that some things haven't changed."
Kingsley cocked his head. "In what way, Tonks?"
She shrugged. "The Professor was a prick in the classroom, too."
Molly stood up and said, in a falsely cheery voice, "Well, that's that. Now then, if you'll help, I can serve you all some supper before you leave."
Tonks's cheerfulness was not put on. "Shall I help you serve, Molly?"
Molly worried her lip for a moment and Kingsley swallowed his laughter: only if they all wanted to be wearing their meal.
He stood up. "I'm afraid that I shall have to offer my excuses, Molly. I have a report that's due tomorrow for the Minister, on the whereabouts of that dangerous fugitive, Sirius Black." The smile he sent Black's way was one that he knew would not make the Animagus feel very confident.
"And where has Black been seen, Kingsley?"
Dumbledore was using his Headmaster's voice. Kingsley noted that the younger members of the Order responded to it by growing very still. He turned and smiled: two years of Madame Maxime far outweighed Dumbledore's influence. He made them all wait until he'd dragged on his cloak and walked over to the door. "I think," he tossed over his shoulder, "Plymouth. It's the port the Muggles left from in the seventeenth century to avoid persecution. Or do you think that will be too subtle for Fudge?"
To the sound of nervous titters, he closed the door behind him.
Chapter 2.
Kingsley knocked on the door to the broom cupboard that housed the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts.
"Ah, Weasley. I understand that you're off this morning to investigate some bewitched doorbells? Seems they're ringing and no one is there, or some such idiocy?"
Arthur Weasley smiled a little absentmindedly at Kingsley, dressed in his scarlet Auror's robe, as he shoved some memos into his satchel. "Morning, Shacklebolt. Yes, been a spate of complaints from the villages in the Dartmoor region. Probably just a bunch of crazy Muggle kids with nothing better to do, but it's also affected some magical folk in the area, so the MLA feels someone should go down and investigate."
"Mind if I come along? There have been reports of Black in that area and I'd like to question a few of the locals."
Arthur's grin reflected genuine pleasure. "I'm always glad of the company."
They Apparated just outside of Grimspound. Arthur unrolled a small scroll and nodded to himself. "Cecilia Cecil is on the list. She's quite reasonable, all things considered. You might like to talk to her."
Kingsley smiled, pointing to a bench at what looked to be a bus stop. "I'll talk to her, but later. Right now I'd like some conversation, if that's all right with you, Arthur."
Arthur shoved the list into his pocket and nodded. "I thought there was more to this." He propped his battered satchel beside the bench, sat and made himself comfortable. "What's bothering you, Kingsley?"
"Just need a few matters cleared up about last night's meeting."
Arthur looked as though he might be about to pretend he had no idea what Kingsley was leading up to, but he must have thought better of it. With a sigh, he plunged immediately into the matter. "You mean about Snape's being a Death Eater and our spy."
Kingsley settled back, stretched his legs out and crossed an ankle over the other. "Dumbledore told me that he had an ear and eye inside the Voldemort camp. But maybe someone should explain to me just how Severus Snape came by the job."
Arthur found a tree down the roadway very interesting. "Well, let me see. You know that the Order was organized the last time He Who Must Not be Named was acquiring power." He glanced over at Kingsley. "You weren't around then, off somewhere in France getting your Aurors training, weren't you?"
Kingsley nodded. Among other things: not that it was something Weasley or any other needed to know about.
"Well, there were quite a few wizards and witches who had gone over to He Who..." Arthur sighed. "Sorry, Voldemort." He shrugged. "It upsets Molly when I say the name. We weren't doing all that well when, one night, Albus suddenly announces that we have gained an advantage. That he's been approached by a Death Eater, someone deep within the Circle, close to Voldemort, and that wizard has offered to spy for us.
"There was the usual uproar. Moody was around and..." Arthur wriggled a little, as though uncomfortable. "Well, Moody was even more of a doubter then than he is now."
Kingsley allowed some surprise to show: Moody had challenged everything Snape had reported, including the amount of time that he'd spent with the Dark Lord, to the ever-obvious pleasure of Sirius Black.
Arthur shrugged slightly and looked down at his hands, which had found a button that was beginning to be loose. As if of their own volition, his fingers began to play with it.
From long experience with interviewing often unfriendly witnesses, Kingsley shifted so that he was at a slight angle from which he had no trouble watching Arthur's face and gestures as he spoke.
"Albus wouldn't tell us who the man was, only that he'd linked with him to make certain that the offer was a valid one, not a trick of Voldemort's." Arthur looked up from the button, sheepishly acknowledging, "And we got some very good information from our spy." He sighed and his fingers took up abusing the button. "Including that the Potters were in danger, which is why they set up a Secret-Keeper." Arthur shook his head sadly. "And you know what happened then."
Kingsley nudged a little. "Was that when Snape became Potions instructor?"
Arthur's hands stilled as he thought about that. "Yes. About the same time as Albus's announcement of our having a mole. Of course," he shrugged, "we never put two and two together."
Kingsley noticed that he suddenly became aware of what he'd been doing to the button. He pulled his hands back and slouched enough so that he could slip them into his robe's pockets.
"It was only at Snape's trial - he'd been pulled in by the Aurors..." Arthur frowned. "By Moody, in fact. Well, when Dumbledore spoke up for him, we finally did the maths. Of course," he sighed, "all those of us present were then sworn to secrecy.
"There were," he met Kingsley's eyes as though wanting to see his reaction, "those around who thought that the only good Death Eater was a dead one..."
"Or one imprisoned in Azkaban," concluded Kingsley, voice even, letting nothing of his personal opinion out on the matter..
Arthur nodded as he pulled his hands out of his pockets and folded them on his stomach. "And it was sort of understood that Snape would remain under Albus's authority."
"At Hogwarts."
Arthur folded his arms over his chest. "Bill had him for Potions his last year there, Snape's first." His voice suddenly warmed with suppressed laughter. "He made them do all the work they should have done under Humphries and hadn't. By the time they sat their N.E.W.T.s, they would have been delighted to wear his guts for garters. And he hasn't mellowed since then."
Kingsley smiled. "Tonks didn't like him, in spite of the fact that she always got the highest mark in Potions for her year." He grinned at Arthur's raised eyebrow. "I checked her file this morning."
"He's a right bastard at the best of times."
"And these aren't the best of times."
Arthur sighed as he straightened and propped his hands to either side, on the bench. "Voldemort has returned and he's after the Boy Who Lived. And for some reason, in spite of the fact that he seems to hate the boy, Snape has, according to Hermione and Ron, come to Harry's aid several times."
"Any idea as to the reason for the antipathy between Snape and Black?"
Arthur pulled out his watch and checked the time. "You would have more of an opinion on that. You were at school with them, weren't you?"
"Only till O.W.L.s. They hit sparks off each other from the very first day. Snape, Black and Potter. James, that is."
"Yes, it was that way often, even with our crowd. Scholarship students are never fully accepted except maybe by Hufflepuff." He slipped his watch back into his pocket.
Ah, that was something Kingsley hadn't known. Mind, it explained some of the bullying he'd witnessed. Potter was the only child of a rather comfortable family, if he remembered well. "But last night was more than sparks, it was bone-deep hatred."
Arthur nodded and got to his feet. "Well, whatever the reason, I'd guess that both Lupin and Dumbledore know the whys and wherefores. And neither of them is saying."
"One more question, if I may? Last night Snape was obviously the worse for wear. Why did no one..."
"Sympathise? Offer to help?" Arthur's laugh was almost sad. "Maybe because Severus does not take kindly to offers of help. And his personality is such that... Those of the Order not in the know about his role in the...shall we call it the First Round?...found out at the very first meeting, the one in which recruitment was discussed. The fact that Voldemort had reactivated Snape's Dark Mark and already called him to a meeting did not sit well with some members. Even if Albus maintains that Snape is once more spying on our behalf, there are some who don't trust him."
"Let me guess: Moody and Black."
Arthur looked slightly embarrassed. "Doesn't sit well with Molly either. She's decided that Harry belongs to us Weasleys and she doesn't totally trust Snape with Harry." He stooped and picked up the satchel from beside the bench leg. "Well, I'm off to see Madam Cecil. Are you coming or was this just a ruse to get information out of me?"
Kingsley laughed. "I'm coming. I need to pretend to be doing my work and besides, is that the same Cecilia Cecil who claimed that she saw Loch Ness Nessie sunning herself in her back yard?"
"On her begonias," laughed Arthur. "As if Nessie cared for begonias! Now, mind you, if she had said gladioli..."
***
With the sun newly risen, the sky slowly lightened from amethyst to clouded opal. Mist steamed off the tall grasses and the surface of the lake, shrouding the hillside and the forest in a wet grey blanket. Though the early morning was still cool, a softness in the air hinted at warmer temperatures to come later in the day. Summer had come to Hogwarts.
The mist parted lazily before Severus as he ran. It brushed wetly over his face and hands, like grasping fingers. The long grasses slashed at his sweat pants, as if to begrudge him passage. In a short while, the sun would clear the tree tops and burn away the fog. But in the meantime, he ran nearly blind, trusting the cadence of his stride and two decades of familiarity with the trails around Hogwarts to guide his feet.
The students had left for break two weeks ago and the early hour made it unlikely that he'd be bothered by any of the few staff remaining at the school over the holidays. Or by Voldemort. And so for a brief time, he could run wild through the hills around the school and experience something very like freedom.
As a boy, he'd worn through his boot soles countless times on runs such as this one; he had the whip scars to remember them by. Whenever possible - when things got to be too much, when he felt trapped, when he had a knotty problem to solve - he'd sneak out and sprint away as fast as he could. Once he was far enough, either from home or from the castle, he would settle into a ground-devouring stride and run free. He would return home, many miles and sometimes hours later, problem solved or drained of anger, but always filled with a sense of wild exaltation that no beating, detention, or loss of house points could diminish. He would carry those feelings close, throughout the days, cradled at the bottom of his heart, like a charm against the world - against the ridicule he endured for his threadbare clothes, for the rags stuffed in his boots to patch the holes, against the ache of a hex or a beating he'd been too slow to dodge.
These days, he didn't have to sneak. He merely exited the dungeons just before dawn and tore off across the castle grounds. And rather than worn out boots, he wore expensive Muggle running shoes, with generous padding to support his woefully fallen arches. Instead of threadbare robes, he wore long sleeved shirts and sweat pants, and had tied back his hair with an old leather thong.
His reasons for running, however, had remained constant over the years. Today, he ran to rid himself of anger: at himself for being trapped yet again by the poor choices made in his youth; at Dumbledore, for 'requesting' that he return to Voldemort; and to gnaw on a perplexing question, that of Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt.
What the hell had that incident with the teacup been about?
Tonks's indifferent attitude towards his status of spy hadn't been too much of a surprise; Moody's influence notwithstanding, she was simply too young to truly remember the horrors that accompanied Voldemort's first rise - and to blame Severus for them.
But Shacklebolt was his contemporary. By all rights, the man should be nearly as hostile as Moody. As Aurors, they'd seen the worst of the Death Eater excesses, both within Britain and abroad. And yet...Shacklebolt had poured Severus some tea. And had used a fancy bit of wandless magic to disguise the shaking of Severus's hands. Even Molly Weasley, Earth Mother to the Multitudes, probably wouldn't bring herself to spit on him if he were on fire. Why would Shacklebolt bother with any of it?
In his experience, people only offered help if they wanted something in return. What was Shacklebolt's angle?
The terrain roughened as he turned away from Hogwarts and set out towards the hills behind the school. Severus set aside thoughts of Shacklebolt in favour of pounding out his confusion on the rocky trail.
By the time he reached the top of the hill, the sun had crested the trees and most of the fog had burned away. He paused, panting. He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve then put his hands on his knees and looked down upon the Hogwarts school grounds - the place he'd reluctantly come to call his home for the past fourteen years - spread out below him.
As a boy, he never could quite decide if he loved or hated the place. Or both simultaneously, in some gut-twisting way. Everything good - the books, the opportunities to learn, the chance to escape his father's abuse - was balanced, nauseatingly, against the guilt of abandoning his mother and the constant humiliations, large and small, that he suffered at the hands of his fellow students and, quite frequently, his teachers.
All he was certain of in those days was of his passionate hatred of everyone, including himself. He was never quick enough with his wand, never quite smart enough to anticipate the hexes and the double-crosses, or to avoid the humiliations outright. He was certainly never wise enough to stop wanting the things that other children had in abundance: money, status, recognition...friends. In all those years, he could never quite get it through his thick head that he was simply the wrong sort to ever merit any of that.
As a man, Severus knew Hogwarts for what it was, both a prison and a sanctuary, in so many and varied ways.
After he'd been tried - and secretly convicted - during the first war, he'd been sent to serve out his parole at Hogwarts. To be fair, Albus and Minerva had done their best to welcome him. He'd made a good friend in Xiomara Hooch - the youngest child in a family of nine elder brothers - who had an even more acid tongue than he did. And another in Hagrid, whom he suspected thought of him as another of his snarly and temperamental 'interesting creatures.'
His pay packet was sufficient for his needs - books, clothing, the occasional exotic potion ingredient. His intelligence and skills were valued. His colleagues respected him for the most part, though they didn't much approve of his teaching methods or his surly personality.
But a prison - bars or no - was ever always that. His movements outside of Hogwarts were monitored and sometimes constrained. His quarters, his research notes, even his purchases were subject to search at any time. His wand was subject to examination by Priori Incantatum every month, though Dumbledore rarely insisted upon it.
Because of his past deeds as a Dark wizard, he knew that Dumbledore would never grant him the Defence position, the one subject that might have made teaching dim-witted, disinterested adolescents a bearable penance. The Headmaster had even refused his requests to resurrect the duelling club, until Lockhart arrived on the scene. Because of his foolish, childish belief that in Voldemort's cause he had found the means to achieve recognition and financial comfort for his mother, to satisfy his intellectual hunger, that he'd found a place to belong, he was now trapped at Hogwarts. Forced, year after year, to drill learning into ignorant and indifferent idiots rather than to create, to innovate! And now, he was back in Voldemort's circle, a double agent yet again, walking a desperately fine line between evil and the semblance of evil, all too aware that a protracted and very messy death awaited him at the hands of either side if he took one wrong step.
Severus shook his head violently - enough of that train of thought! - then jogged across the crest of the hill and pelted down the trail on the other side in a shower of loose stones and clumps of dirt.
On his way back down, he gnawed on the problem of Shacklebolt a bit more. By the time he reached the bottom, he'd decided that, considerate gesture or no, he would be wary of the man. Better to assume the worst than to be fooled by appearances. How different things would have been if he'd made that assumption about Potter and Black - hell, even about Malfoy! - when he was a student.
Forty minutes later, the clouds had burned away, and against the blue of the sky he could see smoke rising from the many chimneys of Hogwarts; the castle was awake. With a clear mind and that wild feeling in his chest, Severus finally descended out of hills and put on a burst of speed as he ran along the edge of the Forest and back towards the castle.
As he rounded the back end of the Quidditch pitch, a flash of black and white in the sky caught his eye. He looked up to see Xiomara, robes fluttering in the wind, racing after a practice Snitch that glittered in the sun.
He slowed and then stopped to watch as she executed a daring spinning roll, hung upside down for a moment, then flung herself sideways, then captured the Snitch. She looked down and he waved at her. A moment later she floated down to hover beside him.
"I was wondering if you'd crawl up out of that gloomy dungeon lair of yours to take advantage of the good weather," she said breathlessly. Her cheeks were flushed, hair was completely wild, and her yellow eyes sparkled with excitement.
Severus smiled in return; she looked exactly like he felt. "How could I resist?" he said. "Now that the little monsters are gone, I can run when I like without worrying that the dungeons will go up in flames in my absence."
She laughed and began to fly slowly towards the castle. He trotted along beside her. "They're just children, Severus," she called out. "You were a child once yourself. If Hogwarts could survive seven years of you, Sirius Black, and James Potter, not to mention the Weasley twins, then I'd say that the castle can manage without your intervention at least a few hours per week so you can take a run."
"Black and Potter," he said with disgust, scowling at her. "You always know how to ruin a perfectly good morning, don't you."
Xiomara reached over and ruffled his sweat-damp hair, something that she knew irritated him. "Not at all, Severus," she said, snickering. "I just know exactly how to wind you up."
He swatted at her but she darted up a few feet and out of his reach. She eyed him critically over her shoulder. "Personally, I think you've been hiding out in the dungeon because you're getting old and slow. You were looking rather peaky on that last hill. Can't get those old bones moving like you used to, eh?"
"That's rich, coming from you!" he said; Xiomara was at least ten years his senior. "If your arse gets any wider, you're going to need two brooms to get off the ground rather than one."
"I have it on good authority that my arse is just fine, thank you very much. As if you will ever be a connoisseur of fine female arses," she yelled back. "And anyway, I will always be able to fly rings around you, for all you're built like a bloody great bat!" As if to prove her point, she swooped up and away, circling him twice before darting in and snatching the tie out of his hair. Then she flew towards the castle, dangling it between her fingers.
"Give that back, you obnoxious wench!" he yelled, and raced after her. But she accelerated, always keeping just ahead of his grasping fingers. After a while, he stopped yelling and just ran as fast as he could, hair streaming away in the wind, his every worry forgotten for a time.
That feeling carried him all the way back to the castle and through his cool down regimen and his shower. It didn't wane throughout breakfast - during which Xiomara returned his hair tie, transfigured into a filly pink ribbon - nor during two hours of brewing healing potions for Poppy.
He suspected that it might have carried him right through tea if, immediately before lunch, the Mark hadn't turned black on his arm, Summoning him back to Voldemort.
***
London that night was hot, crowded, and dirty. Pedestrians rushed by, jostling against him on the pavement, and the honking of horns and loud thump-thump of car stereos seemed to drive a white-hot spike through his brain. To compound his misery, rain sheeted down from the sky, drenching his clothes and plastering his hair to his head. The only benefit was that it hid any blood that might have seeped onto his clothes. Voldemort hadn't been much pleased with his report and Severus didn't expect a better reception from the members of the Order.
He paused on the front steps of 12 Grimmauld Place and tried to recapture the wild exultation, the sense of freedom and possibility he'd experienced a scant fifteen hours earlier. Instead, he felt hollow, exhausted, and could only dredge up his usual ration of hopelessness and rage. Would he ever experience another meeting with Voldemort from which he didn't return battered, bruised, and debased?
Once through the wards and the door, he limped slowly down the hall towards the kitchen, hoping to find a snack before the meeting began. He was too exhausted to bother with a drying spell and took perverse delight in how well his sodden, uncomfortable state reflected his mood, not to mention the damage he did by dripping all over Black's hardwood floors. Madam Black glared down at him but bit back her usual invective when Severus countered with a far more malevolent glare of his own.
To his extreme misfortune, the kitchen wasn't empty: Lupin, Black, and Bill and Molly Weasley were at the table studying a map. All four of them looked up when Severus entered.
"Well, well," Black said. "Look what washed up in the storm drain."
Molly gave Black a look. "Sirius."
Bill's lips twitched, and as usual, Lupin said nothing at all. With effort, Severus ignored them both and went straight to the cold box.
"I'd planned to serve supper after the meeting," Molly said somewhat primly.
Severus ignored her too - as if he'd ever dine in their company - and rummaged around until he found an apple in one of the drawers.
"Besides," Black added, "We're fresh out of blood and new-born babes."
Severus counted to ten then straightened up slowly. He closed the cold box door and placed the apple on the counter. "In that case," he said evenly, turning to face Black, "Mrs. Weasley might want to add a few more items to her shopping list. Perhaps a large bag of kibble, for you, and a slab of raw meat for the werewolf."
"Severus!" Molly said. Black immediately pushed back his chair and stood up. Lupin and Bill grabbed at his arm but Black jerked away.
"I want your scrawny carcass out of my house, Snivellus!" he shouted, rounding the corner of the table and drawing his wand.
In a split second, Severus had drawn his own wand and sighted down its length at Black. "I'd be more than happy to oblige you, Black, except that my presence here actually serves an important purpose. Would that we could say the same for your worthless, flea-bitten hide."
"You sanctimonious prick!" Black yelled. "How dare you!"
"The truth hurts, doesn't it," Severus countered flatly.
The two of them squared off across the kitchen floor, circling slowly. Severus angled his wand and prepared to throw a hex at a moment's notice. His head throbbed, every muscle ached, and his spine felt like a molten metal bar, but he was damned if he was going to let Black get the drop on him this time.
"No," Black countered, "I'm just surprised that a vindictive, back-stabbing bastard like you can even spell the word 'truth.' Your Death Eater friends, like Malfoy, sure as hell can't." Black's expression turned malicious. "Speaking of Malfoy...Tell me, Snape, are you still sniffing after him after all these years? Does he give you a bit of a taste, for old times' sake, when Narcissa isn't around?"
Severus saw red. "Is a twenty year old rumour the best you can do, Black? I need only state the barefaced truth: that you will ever be a useless and pathetic excuse for a so-called friend, whose arrogance and stupidity killed two people and orphaned a third. I'm rather surprised that Potter can bear the sight of you, let alone willingly call you godfather."
Molly gasped. "Severus, that's enough!"
"You fucker," Black hissed. His pupils contracted to pin-points and Severus knew enough to duck. Black's stinging-nettle jinx whizzed over his head to rip large splinters out of the door frame.
"Severus, Sirius, stop this at once!" Molly said shrilly, as if the two of them were unruly children. As if their enmity didn't run murderously blood and bone deep. "Remus, don't just stand there," she snapped. "Do something!"
But before Lupin could act, Severus felt a sudden movement from the door behind him. He spun on his heel and moved off at an angle, keeping both Black and the new threat in sight.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stood in the doorway wearing a very mild expression. "Albus has arrived," he said in that slow, deliciously deep voice of his. His gaze flickered lazily over Severus and Black and took in their drawn wands and the splinters on the floor. "Why don't we all join him in the other room."
Severus was not fool enough to drop his guard but his own body conspired against him. A sudden cramp in his stomach nearly doubled him over with the sharp pain. Then, to add insult to injury, a post-Cruciatus tremor seized his arm in its teeth and shook it hard; light skittered over the polished surface of his wand as his hand trembled. Desperate not to reveal his weakness, Severus sheathed his wand abruptly, as if he'd planned to all along, and turned his back on Black.
"An excellent suggestion, Shacklebolt," he said, and stalked to the door rapidly, to disguise his limp. "I've wasted enough of my time on this useless mongrel as it is."
He thought that Shacklebolt might say something in return, but the man merely nodded at him then stepped aside to let him pass.
***
Not a hex this time. Something stronger. A curse. An Unforgivable? Were it anyone else, Kingsley would have thought it unlikely, but then the rules and regulations of the normal wizard world were not matters that would much concern Voldemort.
Kingsley waited until Snape had settled in an armchair to pick one for himself from which he could keep an eye on the man. He was soaking wet and, as last time, no one had bothered to see to him. Probably too busy watching to see just who was going to kill whom in the kitchen.
He took advantage of Tonks tripping over Moody's wooden leg and upsetting a chair to spell Snape dry. At least he wouldn't look like some half-drowned rat that the house 'dog' was waiting to deal with.
Snape's head turned immediately to him, scowling, black eyes still glaring with residual adrenaline from his near duel with Black. Kingsley caught a flash of a question in those bottomless pits before Snape's face tightened and he closed his eyes. He took a shallow breath, to control a flare-up of pain, Kingsley guessed, and let it out slowly. The control the man had over his own body was interesting. Not something Kingsley had seen much of, not even in his line of work. That was the product of years of self-control.
As was the control the man kept on his mind. Kingsley approached it, wondering just how strong Snape's blocking ability would be in these circumstances and was not all that surprised to find it firmly in place. That too was the product of years' work and training.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Same as last time, Dumbledore called the meeting to order and immediately asked Snape for his report.
"The Dark Lord is not pleased," Snape began. "Malfoy reported that his preliminary investigations into the location of the orb have met with resistance. Seems that Fudge will require more greasing before he feels that his good friend Malfoy can be trusted with the details of the security that surrounds the orb. Lucius wondered if it might not just be easier to replace Fudge, but, for some reason, Voldemort was rather displeased with that suggestion."
"Ties between Voldemort and Fudge? Has anyone investigated that aspect?" Podmore looked at Dumbledore. "Shall I?"
"If I may be allowed to continue?" Snape snarled.
"Fuck you," murmured Black, still wired and ready to continue the fight begun in the kitchen.
Dumbledore deigned to send a glare Black's way - probably more for the language itself than to whom it was being addressed - before he appealed to Lupin with a disapproving raised eyebrow. With a slight nod of acknowledgement for his role, Lupin reached over and grasped Black's arm. The Headmaster seemed to assume that nothing there would again require his attention as he turned back to Snape.
Kingsley watched the small battle that ensued between Black and Lupin with interest, but it was only when Black abruptly gave in that Kingsley finally remembered a more-than-rumour from his last year at Hogwarts. So the lovers from school were back together again, were they? He pressed his lips together to stop a chuckle from escaping: and the wolf topped, did he? He blinked to rid himself of the image of wolf humping the large black dog, and brought his attention back to Snape, who was scowling.
"They know about Hagrid's assignment with the giants."
Dumbledore didn't seem too surprised about that.
"Macnair has been sent to deal with that."
That was a surprise.
"Someone should try and get word to Hagrid to be on his alert. Macnair has never failed the Master yet."
"Your Master," sneered Black, but only in a low voice so that everyone could pretend they hadn't heard. Apart from a slight tightening of his mouth, Dumbledore certainly did.
"And as you have already gathered if you bother to read that rag, The Daily Prophet, the campaign to discredit you," Snape glared at Dumbledore, "and the infamous Boy Who Lived..."
Here Molly's head snapped to attention with Arthur quickly reaching over to take her hand in his and pat it calmly.
"...has begun. You may want to warn the Boy Wonder that his mental stability is to be called into question. As for the campaign for the hearts of the Dark Creatures, no one reported on that, nor on any ideas on the rescue of his people from Azkaban."
"And that's it?" snapped Moody. "That's all you've brought us? Not much worth calling a meeting for, was it?"
Kingsley was slow to anger but now he felt it come to life in him. What the hell was wrong with these people? He could understand most of them not comprehending just how at risk Snape was as a man spying in a nest of vipers, but Moody? The Auror should and had to know better. Just as he had to know that Snape's control was hanging by a thread right now.
And why was Dumbledore allowing this? Ah, he wasn't. He turned to Snape. "And what did Voldemort wish to know from you this time, Severus?"
Snape grew very still. "He wanted to know what you were up to. He knows you know that he's back, from Potter's little adventure, and he was...displeased that I had no information on how you intend to handle the situation."
"I see." Spoken calmly and dismissively, as if the Headmaster were dealing with an insignificant matter. "Arthur, perhaps you would care to report your..."
"Not in front of the git." All eyes turned to Black. "The less he knows of Order business, the better."
In the sudden silence, Kingsley stretched his legs out and smiled at Black. So the man had finally had enough of being ignored, had he? "Yes, and that will do our spy so much good. Much easier for him to walk into a trap this way."
"Need to know basis," growled Moody.
Aware that Dumbledore was silently watching him with more interest than he'd shown until now, Kingsley nodded. "True. Wasn't that the excuse they gave you when you walked into the trap that cost you an eye and half a face? If you'd known more than what someone else had determined you needed to know, you might have been better prepared."
Face white - whether from pain or from the insinuation that he couldn't be trusted, Kingsley couldn't tell - Snape got to his feet, holding onto the arms of the chair until he could stand without weaving. "I've told you all I know. Excuse me," he sneered, "while you all toy with my life. Do let me know what you decide I should tell Voldemort the next time I'm Summoned. Because I will need something or you'll have to find yourselves another spy."
And with that, he limped out stiffly.
"Bloody coward," Black said. "Runs at the first hint of trouble."
Kingsley stood up. He allowed his opinion of Black to colour his voice. "He won't be running, you arsehole," he snapped. "He'll be dead." He looked around the room, his glare and voice as cold as he could make them. "I was under the impression that this was a group of mutually minded persons, all working together to defeat the Dark Lord. I seem to have been misled."
His eyebrow rose in disdain for them all. "Dumbledore, do let me know when you've got things under hand and have decided whether you all are truly interested in dealing with Voldemort or, for whatever reasons you may have, just in arranging the execution of Severus Snape."
And, grabbing his cloak, he left them, mouths agape.
He closed the door quietly behind him, though he really would have preferred to slam it shut, releasing some of his anger. Were their petty differences more important to them than...
He would have slammed the outer door but it wouldn't let him. He stood at the top of the steps and glared into the night. Did these idiots not realise that if he could see them, Voldemort would be laughing his head off at their behaviour? That all this mistrust of the man, the only ears and eyes they had in among Voldemort's inner circle, would lead them to defeat? What the hell was the matter with them? If this blew up in their faces, it was Azkaban for them all, including himself.
He drew his dark-coloured cloak around him, raised the hood for protection again the rain and went down the stairs to the Apparation point beyond the wards, trying to decide if he was heading for home or the local pub, when he tripped. He staggered and found his balance as he pulled out his wand. There was a soaking wet mound of black lying on the ground.
Kingsley crouched next to it and determined which end was which. He reached over and pulled the sodden material from a face that was lined with pain. Kingsley felt for the pulse at the neck and found it, slightly erratic and not as strong as he would have liked. He turned to call and then didn't as a shudder shook the man lying on the wet ground. With a shake of his head at the situation, Kingsley leaned over and carefully scooped the unconscious man into his arms. As an Auror, he was in top shape, but it required a lot less effort than he'd expected to get to his feet. Under the voluminous robes, the man must be skin and bone.
Stepping beyond the wards, holding the wizard close to him, Kingsley activated his emergency Portkey to home.
Chapter 3.
First things first.
Kingsley cast a drying spell on both of them and stepped out of the small puddle that had quickly appeared at his feet in the hallway of his London flat. Next priority, as he carried Snape to his bedroom, was to see just how extensive the damage was. The trembling was growing greater as he laid Snape carefully down onto his bed. He was mentally going through the contents of his medical chest when something on the sleeve of his brown robe caught his attention.
A reddish mark.
He fingered the dried stain and suddenly realised: blood.
Merde!
He used his wand to spell the robe off Snape, tossing it off the bed and onto the floor as he quickly scanned Snape's body, looking for the source of the bleeding.
Under the robe, Snape's clothing had been torn nearly to shreds.
"Lumière forte!" And the lights in the room grew brighter.
Snape was built on long, lean lines, with musculature that was wiry rather than developed, as were Aurors from their training. The legs, especially the calves, were more muscular than the rest of the body. So, a runner. There was blood on those legs, streaking pink. Carefully, Kingsley checked Snape's rib cage on the far side for broken bones and, finding none, slipped a hand under a boney shoulder and painstakingly turned him onto that side.
"Fuck!" The man's back was ridged with old scars and welts, some still oozing, probably from his having lifted and carried Snape.
"Par Toutatis!" What the hell was the matter with the man? He'd come to a meeting, his back and hips slashed, nearly duelled with Black, given his report, all the time pretending he wasn't in pain. All the others pretending he wasn't. This had to stop!
He gingerly checked what other damage he could find. It didn't take Auror training to recognise boot prints in the small of his back, on his hip and his stomach. A quick once-over with his wand revealed the most severe bruising was around the kidneys. Medi-spells for these kinds of injuries were part and parcel of Auror training. Kingsley chanted the spells quickly, knowing that they could repair only to a certain extent. Snape would also need some healing potions.
And the shivers and shudders had to be dealt with as well. Definitely the after-effects of Cruciatus. Merde! So Voldemort's displeasure had been an understatement. Double checking that Snape was not also suffering from some head injury, Kingsley muttered, "Tête de pioche," not knowing if he were referring to the hardness of Snape's head or his sheer stubbornness!
He was in the bathroom, rummaging through the medicine chest when Snape regained consciousness. Not knowing where he was, Snape tried to leave the bed. He only stopped when Kingsley finally got his attention by grabbing his shoulders. The action startled him long enough for Kingsley to take advantage, holding a glass to his mouth. "Swallow, Severus."
He didn't know whether it was the fact that Snape recognised him or that he'd called him by his first name, but Snape opened his mouth and Kingsley tipped the contents in. The effect of the approved meds mixed in with some of his grand'mère's remedies was immediate: Snape's eyes rolled back and he was asleep before Kingsley had time to guide his head to the pillow. He turned Snape onto his stomach and began anointing the welts and cuts with a salve from his grand'mère's side of the chest. Covering him lightly with a sheet, Kingsley spelled the room warmer.
There, that should be it for a few hours at least. Not certain that it was necessary, but nevertheless feeling that someone might wonder at Snape's not having returned to Hogwarts, Kingsley wrote a short, almost malicious note to the headmaster.
'I have him. I'll send him back when his injuries are healed.'
He signed it with his last name and sent an official owl off with the message. Then he prepared a "potage" according to one of Grand'mère's recipes and made himself a light meal. He had reports to work on and correspondence of his own to deal with. Snape should wake eventually and would need nourishment. Damn, the man was skinny. He needed building up.
Kingsley suddenly chuckled to himself. He had a feeling that Snape wouldn't make an easy patient. Pity that Grand'mère was dead: she'd have been a good one to deal with Snape.
***
Severus came awake all at once and froze, eyes still closed, and every sense on alert. His last memory was that of exiting 12 Grimmauld Place and starting down the stairs, still seething over his treatment by members of the Order. Now, inexplicably, he was naked and lying on something soft in a darkened room. He was used to the dark, but the nakedness...that bothered him a great deal.
He'd also been drugged. The greatly diminished pain in his back and stomach, coupled with the aftertaste of willow and valerian on his tongue, hinted at a pain-killer - laced with a muscle relaxant if the slackness in his limbs was any indication. Given his level of thirst and the pressure in his bladder, quite a lot of time had passed.
Had he failed to cover his tracks back to London? Had Lucius, or one of the other Death Eaters, followed him somehow? His residual anger evaporated, leaving him chilled. He lay quite still, thinking: he was positive he'd spelled his clothing and body free of any tracking charms...
Mindful of potential observers, he rolled casually to his side, as if still asleep, then slid his hand under his pillow. His fingers encountered the smooth, familiar handle of his wand.
Interesting. Was this a friend then, or merely the opening move in an elaborate game?
He slitted open his eyes and examined the room through the cover of his lashes. He was in an unfamiliar, but distinctly masculine room, occupying a wide, exceedingly comfortable bed. A large armoire stood against the wall facing him and a dimly lit wizard lamp glowed on the night stand, casting a circle of light on the lush oriental carpet on the floor. A chair had been pulled up next to the bed. A colourful quilt lay over one arm and a closed paperback book entitled "Bonsai and the Art of the Zen Garden" lay on the leather seat cushion. An assortment of wizards and witches waved or peered at him, puzzled, from the few framed wizarding photos on the bed-table and a shelf of the bookcase. None of the unfamiliar faces offered any insight into the room's owner, although several of them looked a bit like...
Footsteps sounded just outside the closed door. Severus sat up quickly. He ignored the weakness in his muscles and the sparkles that danced before his eyes and brandished his wand.
The door opened and a wedge of yellow light from outside cast the figure into silhouette. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway holding an armload of books and papers. "Ah," the man drawled. "I wondered if you might be awake by now." The man waved his hand at the lamp and the room grew brighter.
Kingsley Shacklebolt.
Lately, everywhere he turned, Shacklebolt seemed to be tangled up in his life somehow!
Severus tightened his grip on his wand. He'd had enough unpleasant experiences with Aurors to be fooled by the man's benign smile. "Where am I?" he demanded. "And why have you brought me here?"
Shacklebolt seemed to be as unperturbed by Severus's tone of voice as he was by the wand pointed at his head. "You are in my flat in London," he said, then entered the bedroom and placed the books on a chest at the foot of the bed. "You're here because I brought you here. And because I thought you would prefer not to explain how you acquired those wounds to a healer at St. Mungo's."
"Why, has Moody decided that I need yet another keeper?" Severus didn't lower his wand or bother to hide his bitterness. It would be just like Moody to play 'divide and conquer' with the Order's outcast spy. Set up the pretence of an argument with Shacklebolt to lure Severus into believing that the man could be relied upon as an ally. He was too old to fall for that trick again.
The Auror stood at the foot of the bed. He crossed his arms and sighed. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said that it was because you needed help."
If his sides hadn't still hurt so much, Severus might have laughed. "I lost my naivetè long ago, Shacklebolt. Try again."
"Par Belénos, you're even more paranoid than Moody!"
Severus narrowed his eyes, and waited. His wand hand was not especially steady, but he did at least have the drop on the man.
Shacklebolt rubbed one hand over his bare scalp then snorted and shook his head. His gold earring flashed in the light. "Moody had nothing to do with it, Severus." He shaped his mouth around Severus's name as if he found it particularly savoury; Severus shivered. "I found you passed out at the foot of the stairs," Shacklebolt continued. "What should I have done, left you for dead?"
That at least would have been far more consistent with Severus's experience of people in general and Aurors specifically.
When he didn't reply, Shacklebolt sighed. "Well then," he said, "would you believe that I believe that keeping you alive is the most efficient way to collect intelligence about Voldemort's latest plans?"
That explanation seemed far more likely. Severus lowered his wand but didn't set it aside. "Where are my clothes?"
"Your outer robe is in the laundry. The rest of your clothing is in the rubbish bin. What wasn't blood-stained was completely shredded. You may borrow some of my things when you're ready to leave."
"Fine. Give them to me now."
Shacklebolt's good-natured expression faded and his mouth firmed. "No," he said.
So, the man had showed his hand at last. It cost him to raise his arm and level his wand at him again, but Severus did so. "Yes," he said, fighting against a sudden flare of pain and rising panic. "Give them to me now, or I will hex you." Cursing an Auror in his own home was a monumentally bad idea - Merlin knew what kinds of wards and alarms were set up around the place - but he would not be imprisoned again. He would not give them another opportunity to force him to 'prove' his loyalty. Not this time.
For whatever reason, Shacklebolt was unimpressed by Severus's threats. He stood at the foot of the bed with the serene implacability of a mountain. "I know you are willing to curse me, Severus," he said, "but I don't believe that you want to."
"You have no idea what I want."
"That may be. But I do know that you are not yet recovered enough to leave and I would prefer not to drag your unconscious body up another flight of stairs tonight." Shacklebolt smiled and moved slowly and deliberately, around the end of the bed.
His hand shook but nonetheless Severus raised the wand and tracked Shacklebolt's movement.
"Severus. I am not acting on Moody's behalf."
What the bloody hell was it about the man that inspired trust? Why did Severus believe him? He was far too old to be taken in by a handsome face, a benign demeanour, and a voice that stroked over his raw nerves like a caress - especially when those attributes belonged to an Auror, and yet... "So you say," he sneered.
Shacklebolt paused beside the chair presenting a perfect target, if only Severus had the bollocks to act.
But his vision wavered and then the moment was lost: Shacklebolt had moved. A large hand closed over the length of Severus's wand and pressed it down. "That is enough," Shacklebolt said firmly. "You will eat, then you will rest. And when I am satisfied that you are well enough not to crack your stubborn skull open on my front stairs, then you may leave."
Severus leaned back against the pillow and glared resentfully. "I have had quite enough of your 'hospitality.'"
There was a brief tug-o-war and then Shacklebolt succeeded in prying his wand from his fingers. "That is unfortunate," the Auror said with a slight smile, "because I have not yet finished with you. Now, let us dispense with the hostilities long enough for me to see to your wounds. And for you to eat something. When was your last meal? You're nothing but skin and bones." Shacklebolt placed Severus's wand on the night table and then reached out as if to touch his shoulder.
"My injuries are healing just fine," Severus snapped, flinching away. He felt uncomfortably vulnerable, naked and without his wand. "And they do not require your intervention. Just bring me some clothes and I promise that I won't bleed on your bed linens any more than necessary."
Shacklebolt stepped back and gave him a long, considering look. "Very well," he said, then turned to the armoire and removed some clothing. He put the clothes on the foot of the bed and then walked to the door. "Your boots and socks are beside the door. After you've dressed, join me in the kitchen for supper," he said in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.
Supper? That caught his attention. The meeting at 12 Grimmauld Place had been after nine. Merlin's balls, how long had he been unconscious, an entire day?
Severus waited until the man had left before he climbed out of the bed and began to dress. He stared with dismay at the pants Shacklebolt had left him - not much more than a brightly colored scrap of fabric - and decided to do without. With shaking fingers, he managed to pull on the trousers, that were too long, and the shirt, that Shacklebolt's wide shoulders would likely have filled out nicely, but that hung ridiculously loose on him. The shirt chafed against the still-sensitive welts on his back and his head spun a bit when he finally stood up. But, all-in-all, he felt greatly improved. Unknown agenda aside, Shacklebolt was nothing if not an excellent field medic. No doubt most of his lingering weakness was due to his lengthy run in the morning followed up by a lack of lunch and supper - and apparently a second breakfast and lunch as well.
He sat on the chest at the end of the bed, laced up his boots, and took the opportunity to peruse Shacklebolt's choice of reading materials. The man was far too shrewd not to have left them deliberately unattended.
Several of the books were histories, including two books on the war with Grindelwald, and one on the first rise of Voldemort. He raised his eyebrows at a recently published Muggle book on global terrorism included in the stack. Less surprising were the Ministry documents: executive summaries of legislation pertaining to Dark Creatures, and intelligence dossiers on Black, Lupin, Lucius Malfoy, Dumbledore, and several members of the Hogwarts staff - including a non-classified version of his own Ministry file.
Shacklebolt certainly believed in doing his research. Did he dare hope that the man might come to something other than the obvious conclusions about the content of Severus's own dossier? The fact that the titles were readable was, in itself, significant - each was protected by a pass-code spell. Shacklebolt had obviously unspelled the documents then left them in plain sight. But why?
Severus sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He grimaced at the greasy, gritty feel; his chin and cheeks bristled with stubble. Whatever the reason, and any overly positive interpretations of his pathetic life story aside, he doubted that he'd made anything other than a very poor impression on Shacklebolt so far. It annoyed him that he cared.
He stood abruptly, wavering for a moment until he caught his balance, then shoved his wand into the waistband of his trousers, took a deep breath and exited the room.
The room opened onto a short hallway that led past another bedroom, a lavatory and into a large living room. After a brief detour into the bathroom to relieve himself and splash water over his face, he walked down the hallway and into the living room. His over-robe lay over the back of an old wooden rocking chair that was most incongruous considering the modernity of the other furnishings.
He quickly donned the robe then walked the short way to the adjacent kitchen. Shacklebolt stood at a stove tending several pots. The savoury aromas made Severus's mouth water.
"Thank you for your assistance," he said through gritted teeth. "I will be leaving now."
Shacklebolt didn't even look up. "Sit down, Severus. Supper will be ready in a moment."
Severus paused. Too many years of past experience counselled him, in no uncertain terms, to make his escape while he could. Delay would only lead to unwanted questions, then to conclusions he had no desire to watch Shacklebolt make. But still, there was something about the man - about his memories of long, pleasant evenings in the Hogwarts' library, spent arguing politics and magical theory with Shacklebolt -- that whispered at him to take the chance.
Shacklebolt turned off the stove and began to empty the various pots into serving bowls. Severus's belly cramped with hunger.
"Sit there," Shacklebolt said indicating a place setting with one elbow. "You've missed too many meals in the past 20 hours."
Reluctantly, Severus sat. Although he was thirsty, he ignored the glass of water beside his plate. Instead, he watched as Shacklebolt first poured soup into his bowl and then spooned rice onto his plate, followed by a very generous helping of something else. Something that smelled wonderful.
Shacklebolt looked amused. "It's just a nice potage - a soup, Severus, and some ratatouille. Zucchini, eggplant, peppers, onions, tomato, and spices. I assure you that it is not poisoned. Now eat."
He sipped at the soup, then took a forkful of peppers from his plate, then another, and somehow a short while later, his plate and bowl were clean. Before he could push it away, another helping landed on his plate - Shacklebolt scowled at him when he made to as to protest - and a small glass of something purple and lightly smoking appeared near his hand.
"Drink it," Shacklebolt said. "It will help with the remaining pain that you are, no doubt, too proud to admit that you feel. And no, it does not contain any Veritaserum. Nor does the water in your glass."
Severus would have glared at Shacklebolt again but the man seemed to be immune to the effect. He finished the rest of his meal, downed the water, then sniffed at the purple stuff. From the ingredients he could identify, it was probably safe. Whatever the hell it was, he felt immediately better after having quaffed it.
They sat in silence for a little while. Eventually, Severus became irritated with Shacklebolt's steady perusal.
"So," he snapped, "I've rested and eaten and drunk your potion. Now tell me what price I must pay for accepting your help."
Shacklebolt leaned back in his chair. "Does Dumbledore know?"
He felt suddenly cold. The delicious meal lay like a rock in his bruised stomach. "What?"
"Do not pretend to misunderstand me," Shacklebolt said, and for once appeared to be genuinely annoyed. "Does Dumbledore know what you suffer whenever you attend Voldemort's meetings?"
"It's not every time," he temporised. At least Shacklebolt had told the truth: neither potion nor water had been laced with Veritaserum.
Shacklebolt said nothing. Then again, his implacable expression got the point across quite well.
Severus sighed and passed a hand over his face. He remembered the numerous evenings he and Dumbledore had spent analysing his memories of recent Death Eater gatherings as viewed inside Dumbledore's Pensieve. "Yes," he said tiredly, "he knows."
That admission was apparently not sufficient. "And what did you do - or not do - this evening to merit not only a whipping and a application of the Cruciatus, but also a beating that left you with bruised ribs and a bruised kidney?"
There was no way he would discuss his humiliation at the hands of the Dark Lord's new pet, Pettigrew, with Shacklebolt; having his 'punishment' be administered by Pettigrew had been worse than the beating itself.
Severus approached the subject obliquely instead. "Since his...resurrection, the Dark Lord has been more quickly roused to anger, more likely to...chastise us for any perceived failures. He has been very displeased with all of us who were not sent to Azkaban. He requires that we prove our loyalty to him, beyond the shadow of a doubt." When Shacklebolt said nothing, he added irritably, "Have I satisfied your curiosity yet?"
He tried, and failed, to read the maddeningly neutral expression on Shacklebolt's handsome face. Damn the man, he was harder to read than Dumbledore! He was also much more pleasant to look at. Severus decided it would be best not to focus on that fact.
"Your wounds were partially healed," Shacklebolt said finally. "It is difficult to cast a healing spell when you cannot see the injury. Who cast the spell, Severus?"
Puzzled, Severus answered honestly. "Malfoy. He didn't have the time or privacy to do a thorough job, he did what he could. He prefers not to see me hurt." Unless he inflicted the pain himself, a nasty little mental voice reminded him.
Shacklebolt frowned but said nothing. Severus felt an irrational anger rise up and seize his tongue. He pushed his chair back and stood, tossing his napkin onto the table. "What does any of it matter," he sneered, "if it leads to the Dark Lord's demise?"
"Oh, it matters, Severus, and make no mistake," Shacklebolt said, uncoiling from his chair, until he loomed over the table at full height.
"Why? What difference can it make?" Severus reached for the bravado and self-satisfaction he felt when needling Black about his non-contribution to the cause of late. But now, all he felt was bleak exhaustion and the only thing he could see were endless months ahead of fear, anxiety, and pain. "I am the only one who can do this," he said fiercely, "and it must be done."
"You are ruthless with yourself."
Exactly what could he say to that? "I must go now," he replied, "before I am missed." Severus turned quickly and walked to the front door.
Shacklebolt followed him, moving silently for such a big man. "Dumbledore knows where you are. I've already sent him word," he said, placing one hand on Severus's shoulder.
He tensed at the unexpected physical contact. Ah yes, of course. From either his research, or directly from Dumbledore himself, Shacklebolt no doubt knew enough to inform Severus's keeper of his whereabouts.
The large hand on his shoulder squeezed gently then released him. "You are not expected back immediately, Severus. Surely you have time to join me for a cordial before you leave?"
Severus closed his eyes and struggled to likewise close his heart against the tone of welcome he thought he heard in Shacklebolt's voice. "Do you have any further questions for me, Auror Shacklebolt, or have my answers provided sufficient return on your investment?"
"It's Kingsley, Severus. And it was supper, not attempted bribery. But yes, I do have one other question."
Feeling cornered, Severus waited, hand on the door knob. He expected more questions about Voldemort - why did he join the Dark Lord, why did he finally turn spy and leave? Perhaps even a question about his confrontation with Black in the kitchen.
But Shacklebolt surprised him again.
"From what I recall, Potter was a complete arsehole to you in school," Shacklebolt said, cocking his head slightly. "Why have you taken such great pains to ensure that his son is kept safe?"
Potter. It always came down to that brat, didn't?
"Ask Sirius Black, I'm sure he would be happy to give you the details. Suffice it to say that James Potter saved my life," Severus spat. "I may be filthy, cowardly, Death Eater scum, but I always pay my debts."
He jerked open the door and quickly strode down the hallway. He paused on the landing. "I will return your clothing, cleaned and pressed tomorrow morning. Thank you and good evening." With that, he rapidly descended the short flight of stairs and made his escape through the outside door before Shacklebolt could all to successfully pick at his sore spots any further.
Chapter 4.
Kingsley Apparated at the extent of the wards near Hogwarts. He took his time strolling towards the castle, looking to see if his memories of the school were right, what had changed, what hadn't.
It had been over twenty years since he'd last seen the place and it satisfied a part of him that he couldn't find all that many changes. The Whomping Willow Tree was larger - well, that was only to be expected - but the grounds were still as well maintained, as peaceful looking as they had been in his day. Funny how that belied all the little dramas and tragedies that occurred behind those stone walls. It pleased him that he recognised the shrubbery where he and Coriander Jones had snogged, that the Quidditch changing rooms where he'd lost his virginity to Berrington Felongue were still standing. He chuckled to himself, remembering the vitality and energy of those years, moving from shag to shag as he did these days through reports. It seemed that during fifth year, they were in a state of perpetual horniness, some of them more successful at satisfying that need than others.
The halls were as he remembered them, though he was certain that he had never noticed the smell that, after a thousand years, must permeate the stones themselves. Even with the outer hall doors open, allowing in a lovely draft of fresh air, the odours of wet wool, perspiration, nervousness, anger, and testosterone dominated. Unlike Beauxbatons, there were no vases of cut flowers decorating the hallways, the perfume of the blossoms covering up any other scent. And there were no tapestries like the ones at Beauxbatons, which were cleaned annually with some very old, very delicate magic by Madame la Directrice herself. Beauxbatons was far less austere than Hogwarts, supporting the French philosophy that the senses needed educating as much as the brain. He doubted very much that the Board of Governors would find a wine-tasting class to be obligatory at Hogwarts.
His split education had appealed to his multi-cultural background. Hogwarts was for his father's family. The Shacklebolts had a long, excellent history in the diplomatic service. As did the de Beauforts. Which was how his parents had met. His mother, Venise de Beaufort, was herself the product of another diplomatic union, that of France and Haiti. His maternal grand-père had been a member of the French wizardry diplomatic service, who was sent into French territory to deal with "petits problèmes" before they became "gros problèmes". Haiti had been the site of one of his rare failures, but then Haiti, with its Vaudou - among other - cults, had a totally different philosophy of witchcraft.
Still, Thèophile de Beaufort had returned from that diplomatic assignment with Grand'mère, a Vaudou priestess-witch who had somehow fallen into disfavour with the local establishment. Kingsley never knew what the problem had exactly been - he doubted that even his mother knew - as Plaisir de Beaufort would only roll her eyes and change the subject whenever he had tried to broach the subject. Grand-père was no better: he would just chuckle to himself and ignore Kingsley until his grandson changed the subject. The mystery followed both of them to their graves. All Kingsley knew for certain was that his grandfather had never again accepted a mission to that part of the world.
Minerva McGonagall was waiting for him at the Gargoyle. He'd been told someone would meet him there and conduct him up to Dumbledore's office.
"Madame McGonagall," he said, pronouncing his former Transfiguration instructor's name with a French accent. Then he raised her hand to his lips and bowed, just enough to indicate respect to someone of her status.
She didn't blush but it was close. "Kingsley Shacklebolt. You're looking well."
"So are you, Professor. I doubt that you've aged a minute since I last saw you."
Now she did blush. A little pink tinge that coloured her cheeks and did indeed make her look younger. She claimed her hand back and tried to look sternly as him. Kingsley smiled his most charming smile at her and she lost most of her frostiness. Grand'père used to say that Venise and Kingsley had both inherited Plaisir's smile and that they used it with the same effectiveness as his much loved wife did. Plaisir's smile had been Thèophile's secret weapon whenever he'd had to deal with frayed diplomatic tempers.
"Does the Headmaster still use Sherbet Lemon as a password?"
McGonagall gave a small shake of her head as though she'd long given up dealing with Dumbledore's foibles. "It's chocolate truffles this week," she said, suddenly looking embarrassed as though she were only now noticing Kingsley's colouration.
As the Gargoyle began moving, Kingsley laughed aloud, easing her consternation. Dumbledore knew that this meeting was not going to be an easy one and he was doing everything he could to indicate that he had the upper hand. Not that any of this made any difference to Kingsley: he had also inherited Plaisir's single-mindedness, a handy trait when it suited him.
The office was just as he remembered it. Not that he'd seen it often during the five years he'd been a student, but enough to remember the feeling of stuffiness, of being watched as several of the former headmasters and headmistresses awoke to stare at this intruder. Now he nodded and bowed politely, noting that Dumbledore was not to be seen. Another little tactic to put Kingsley in his place.
Instead, with a smile, Kingsley began inspecting the books on the shelves, making his way over to the phoenix who was pretending to be sleeping, his head under a wing. The open eye never once blinked as he strolled over to the fire-bird and gently stroked the side of its neck with the tip of a finger and then back again to that little spot on Fawkes's throat that had him humming happily.
As Fawkes's head rose high, allowing Kingsley better access to that spot that no phoenix itself could reach, as his humming grew louder, his eyes began tearing with happiness.
"Grand'mère," whispered Kingsley to Fawkes, "always said that it didn't matter why a phoenix was crying, that tears were tears." Blatantly, Kingsley withdrew a small vial from a pocket and quickly scooped up the tears. Phoenix tears belonged to whomever harvested them.
"Amusing yourself with my phoenix?"
Kingsley took the time to gather the last tear before slipping the vial into his pocket. "I was under the impression that phoenixes belonged only to themselves." He gave Fawkes a last little stroke and turned to face Albus Dumbledore. "Headmaster. You asked to see me?"
Dumbledore sat down before indicating a chair for his visitor, a wooden armless chair that sat trembling nervously directly in front of the Headmaster's desk. Kingsley pretended not to notice as he walked around the room, looking at the Sorting Hat, which waved its rim at him. Kingsley reached up with a finger and stroked the material. His action startled the Hat, but it gave a soft "Ah," and allowed the liberty.
Kingsley chuckled, then went and took the overstuffed armchair that sat to a side. His back was to the sunlight that streamed into the office from a high window. Now Dumbledore was the one who was seated awkwardly, having to blink into the sunlight. Kingsley sat back, crossed a leg over his knee and waited for Dumbledore to remember that he wasn't a student, nor an employee, but an Auror of a rank that demanded at least a minimum of respect. Even from the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
"Tea?" offered the Headmaster, already pouring.
"Actually, I have never been much fond of that potion. Coffee, but only if it's not a problem."
So, he'd slipped in the reason for this meeting: a certain Potions instructor.
Dumbledore waved his hand and the light in the room dimmed. A cup rose into the air and landed cautiously on the padded arm of the chair. A cup bearing coffee, not tea.
Kingsley noticed that he wasn't offered any of the biscuits so he waved one over to sit on the edge of his saucer.
Dumbledore sat back in his chair, tea cup and saucer in hands, and narrowed his eyes. "I have," he finally said, "spoken to the members of the organisation. It has been decided that, for his own safety, Severus should attend only those meetings that concern him personally. Such as when he has a proper report to give. Auror Moody will determine what information he should be given."
Kingsley placed the cup down then got to his feet. "Then we have no further business, Headmaster. I wish the Order all the best."
"You would leave over this? Perhaps betray us?"
Kingsley sat back down. "Not at all, Headmaster. I still believe that Voldemort is a danger to us all. However, it is obvious that your organisation is not the means by which I will be involved in his downfall. I swear on my oath as an Auror that I have no intention of mentioning the Order, its membership, its location to anyone. As I said, I wish you all well."
"Why are you doing this, Shacklebolt?"
Kingsley put on his most innocent expression. "This, Headmaster?"
"You know what I mean. Refusing to work with us on defeating Voldemort."
Kingsley smiled. "I am not against defeating Voldemort, Headmaster: I just can't support the way you're going about it."
Dumbledore sat back in his chair, rested his elbows on its arms and tapped his bearded chin with steepled fingers. "Why is the way we treat Severus so important to you that you are willing to leave the Order?"
Kingsley leaned forward, just enough to make his point. "Because, Headmaster, you have an unfortunate tendency to be overtly prejudiced in favour of your Gryffindors. You are willing to close your Gryffindor eyes to anything Gryffindors do that is beyond the pale, yet at the same time, you hold others to a higher level of expectation and a lower level of tolerance."
Dumbledore opened his mouth to protest, but Kingsley raised an hand and stopped him. Putting on what he called his stern Auror face, he continued challenging Dumbledore, careful to keep his voice calm and respectful. "Tell me, Headmaster, if Snape were a Gryffindor spy, would he be kept out of the know? Would the Order ignore his condition on his return from Voldemort? Would Molly Weasley not be all over him, Pomfreying him to the extreme? Would he not be given the courtesy of a thank you for the fact that he's putting his life on the line every time he answers a Summons from Voldemort? A life that would meet a very slow and painful death should one of the Order conveniently forget and mismention something that should not be discussed away from Order meetings?"
He stood up, shaking his head sadly. "You must decide, Headmaster, whether the Order is composed only of Gryffindors and their supporters or of anyone, regardless of House, who hates Voldemort and wishes to help in the dispatch of this threat to all our lives. Not just Gryffindor lives. Unless, of course, in your mind, all non-Gryffindors are expendable."
He was at the door to the office when he heard a chair scrape across the floor. "What exactly is it that you want, Shacklebolt?"
Kingsley hesitated at the door as if he were thinking about the
Headmaster's offer. He turned and leaned a shoulder against the
door-frame. "Let's begin with respect for Snape and what he's doing
for us all. You want him to have a handler, and so I will handle him
for the Order. Not Moody. There's too much bad blood between the
two. Moody was the one who arrested Snape at the end of the First
Uprising, who oversaw his 'interrogation.' Snape was the one who saw
Moody at his worst in that layered trunk of his. He'll never forgive
Snape that."
"Anything else?" Dumbledore's voice was as cold as his eyes.
Kingsley pretended to think a moment. A victory needed to be balanced. It was time to give Dumbledore and the Order one. "I sensed that Moody is not the only one in the Order who wishes Snape wouldn't come to meetings. As his handler, I would see to it that he would attend only if he had something of vital importance to report. I shall attend as many as I can and will decide what information can be passed on through Snape to Voldemort. You will have to trust that I have our goals in mind at all times and will do nothing to endanger any of us or our plans."
Dumbledore drew out what Kingsley knew to have been an immediate decision. Still he was not about to deny the Headmaster his little power trip after he'd had his. "All right. On behalf of the Order, I agree to this."
"One more little thing, Headmaster. When Snape returns from a Summons, I will decide if he is physically fit to return to Hogwarts. At the moment this is not a problem, but should this occur during the school year, someone will need to be available to take over his classes."
"So he truly was with you that night."
Kingsley nodded. He made no mention of Snape's injuries: he doubted the man would appreciate it.
"And it was necessary for him to be away for a full twenty-four hours?" The question was asked casually, as though merely checking on an incidental bit of information.
"Actually, should he ever again be in a similar condition, you will not see him for several days."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose high. "Ah," he said, in a manner that had always made Kingsley want to laugh. His grand-père had spoken in that same tone whenever he had wanted to confuse the situation. It always had the undercurrent of 'I know what you're hiding.'
Kingsley allowed a hint of steel into his voice. "And if I tell the Order that Snape is to be pulled out of his role as our spy, I expect your full support. I," he stressed the word lightly, "do not allow any of my people to be seen as expendable. No matter what Snape did in the past, he has paid the price. I think we would both agree that we need him alive and well...and sane in order to win."
Dumbledore's only response was another cold look, which didn't impress Kingsley very much. He merely nodded and pushed off the frame to leave.
"You are wrong in one thing, Shacklebolt: I may have favoured Gryffindor when it was my House, but as Headmaster..."
Kingsley shook his head, laughing. "Headmaster! We used to take bets on who would get what kind of punishment if a group were caught and sent to you. Let's say Gryffindors were given one detention, then usually Hufflepuff got one, too. Ravenclaw got three and Slytherin got five. Ask around, Headmaster, and then tell me you haven't got favourites."
Dumbledore looked as though he were going to protest but only stiffened his spine. "There is one bit of information that you need to know, Shacklebolt. Since you left the last meeting so early, you weren't present to know that Arthur and Molly Weasley will be moving into Headquarters..."
Headquarters, thought Kingsley. No longer Black's house.
"...along with their four youngest. We have determined that it might be best for someone...responsible...to be in the house at all times."
And it would seem that Black had already lost any usefulness he may have had. Kingsley almost felt sorry for the man, but only almost. He was still Ravenclaw enough not to be a fan of Dumbledore's Golden Gryffindors.
With a nod, Kingsley closed the door behind him and went off to find Snape.
***
Kingsley remembered his way down to the dungeons. The material he'd read on Snape had indicated that he had his classroom, private lab and quarters down in that part of the castle. Unfortunately, the dossier had not been quite complete: there'd been no mention of the wards on the door that led to Snape's personal rooms. Layers upon layers of wards. It would take hours to work one's way through them. Kingsley wondered if anyone had ever tried.
"He's not in."
Kingsley turned to find a woman glaring at him. She was leaning, a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. Tonks would have classified her as a lean, mean, Quidditch machine.
"Xiomara Hooch."
She indicated that he was correct with the merest blink of her cold, yellowish eyes.
"I had the honour and great pleasure of seeing you play in a match against the Sumbawanga Sunrays when the British Quidditch World Cup Team toured Africa after their victory. We even met afterwards, though I seriously doubt that you remember. My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt. My father was Ambassador to the Eastern Region at that time."
She squinted at him, face almost grimacing in thought. "We were doing an exhibition tour. One of those idiotic round robin tournaments. If I remember well, your mother cheered for the Tchamba Charmers."
Kingsley laughed. "Yes, Maman is very partial to any team even remotely allied with France. If I remember well, she lost a fairly hefty wager to Father when your team trounced her favourites. Father was quite pleased."
She didn't smile at him, but her stance relaxed.
"I played Quidditch while I was a student here," he added, hoping it would help him get on her good side. He understood quickly that his charming smile might not go far with Madam Hooch. "Keeper. For Ravenclaw."
She frowned at him. "I don't remember seeing your name on the final roster?"
He shrugged. "I left after fifth year. My parents sent me to Beauxbatons."
She scoffed and rolled her eyes.
He laughed again. "Yes, I agree. Not much of a team. But it did allow me to keep my hand in, so to speak. I still play Keeper on the Aurors Team in the Inter-Ministerial League."
She nodded slightly. Kingsley wondered if his 'credentials' were acceptable. "What do you want with him?"
"Just a few minutes' speech. Do you know where he is?"
She led him outside via a small door at the top of a narrow staircase. This part of Hogwarts was not one that he was familiar with, as there was a high hedge that sequestered it from the rest of the property. Over to one side there was a park bench and Madam Hooch went to sit on it, her arse on the top of the back, her booted feet on the seat. There she pulled out a small case and from it a thin cigar. With a small bow, Kingsley refused her offer but flicked a finger, offering her some flame for her smoke. She thanked him with a nod, taking a deep inhale of the cigarillo, then used the black stick to point to the hills in the distance.
"He's running. He should be back in about fifteen, twenty minutes."
Kingsley caught his mouth before it dropped open. Three days ago the man had barely been able to stagger upright out of his flat. Now he was running, cross-country if he understood Hooch correctly.
"Yes, I know what you mean," she rested her elbows on her knees. "He doesn't take very good care of himself. I've tried nagging, and let me tell you, being the youngest with nine brothers, I am an expert nagger, but it goes in one ear and out the other. Are you the reason he was really away for a day and not just hiding out, licking his wounds?"
Kingsley joined her on the bench, eyes scanning the hills for Snape.
"I'm not an idiot, you know. People assume because I played professional Quidditch I took a few too many Bludgers to the head. In actual fact, I was one of the least damaged of Beaters the British league has had in the last two hundred years. I retired not because of injuries, but because I knew I was getting to be too old for the game. Still, I was old for a Beater when I did go."
She exhaled a series of smoke rings. Kingsley watched them form a bull's- eye and waited until her next plume, an arrow shape, pierced dead centre.
"How much do you know?"
She snorted. "I'm supposed to trust you, just like that, all because you saw me play in Africa?"
He grinned at her. "No. No, you're supposed to trust me because, like you, I worry about Severus Snape."
She cocked her head as she examined him. "Going to take him to your bed?"
He didn't bother to hold back his incredulity that she would pose such a question. In response, she rolled her eyes and puffed on her cigarillo.
Kingsley sighed. "I am an only child," he explained.
She shook her head. "Tell me something I hadn't guessed." Then she smiled at him, not a large smile, but one that indicated that she'd decided to take a chance on him. "So, let me see, what do I know? I know about the Order. Past and present incarnations. I haven't been asked to be an active member, though after the final of the Triwizard Tournament, Albus held a meeting with the entire staff. Severus, by the way, was not present for that. He was off..." her smile was less warm, "...somewhere. He came back from that somewhere not in great shape. Poppy banged at his door and finally gave up. He still looked like shit when he let me in two days later. He rubs his left arm. Not all the time. But when he does, he's not to be found."
Kingsley stared at his hands. "You are trusting me with a lot of dangerous information, Madam Hooch."
She grunted. "Just Hooch. Madam is for the kiddies." She shifted so that she was looking at him directly. "Albus is pissed off with you."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Minerva was worried about that meeting you two had earlier on. You should know that after that post-tournament meeting, Minerva and I had a little private one of our own. Albus is her concern; Severus, mine. I'm one of the few people on staff Severus considers a friend as well as a colleague. If Minerva had decided that you were an enemy, we wouldn't be here, shooting the breeze. I picked up that expression on an American tour."
Kingsley shook his head. "Is there nothing secret in this school?"
Hooch laughed. "I'll assume that's a rhetorical question. Is there any secret at all in any school like this one?" Then she got serious again. "Where was I? Oh, yes. The Dark Mark. Severus has done his best to hide it from view. One reason why he wears those long shirts of his, even in this weather. But it's almost impossible to hide anything from staff room gossip. I assume that he's spying for us. I also understand it wouldn't be the first time."
Kingsley shook his head. "Does Dumbledore know that Snape's secrets are common knowledge?"
Hooch laughed. "Albus is like any other male of his generation. He likes to think that witches, equal though he knows them to be, are here to be protected. He'd probably have a heart attack if he knew just how much we do know. He likes to think that the Order is separate from his Hogwarts life. In fact, they overlap. Even if he refuses to think so."
"Madame McGonagall and you would do well with the de Beaufort women. It's a good thing for us males that you care so kindly for our sensitive male egos."
Hooch snorted, guffawing. "So now my turn to ask questions. Just what is it that you want with Severus?"
He turned his head to meet her eyes. "I want him not only to continue spying for us, but I want him to live to enjoy a victory lap."
Hooch straightened and tossed her stub away into the hedge after putting it out on the back of the bench. "He's coming down the trail. You'll see to it that I have a means of contacting you, Auror Shacklebolt." She jumped off. "I'll leave you alone to deal with His Stubbornness. Just remember, Kingsley, I'll deal with you personally if anything happens to him."
Kingsley nodded, knowing that was not an idle threat.
***
Never once had a good hard run failed to work its subtle magic on his body and mind. Never once had it failed to calm his seething emotions, to clear his head, to nudge his thoughts into more productive or creative directions. Never once had it failed to protect him, even if for just a short while, against life's many indignities.
Until today.
There was, Severus thought bitterly, a first time for everything.
Earlier in the day, immediately following an especially infuriating meeting with Dumbledore, he'd left the castle to pound out his fury on the roughest and most hilly of his training routes. Now, three and a half hours later, the small, private space of peace and tranquility that running had always granted him remained stubbornly elusive.
Perhaps he was still not fully recovered from his latest 'chastisement' at Pettigrew's infernal magical hand. He certainly hadn't been unable to run as fast and far as usual today. Perhaps the number of rest-breaks he'd taken, for water, to ease his aching back and legs, had nullified the magic of running.
And perhaps the magic simply had its limits, especially when set against the Headmaster's skills: the man was a virtuoso when it came to inflicting pain. With just a few gently phrased words he could strip away a man's dignity and leave him prostrate and bleeding. Macnair, sadistic bastard that he was, could still take lessons from Albus Dumbledore.
Even so, and despite his complaining knees and the pains that jolted his body with every step, Severus didn't much want the run to end. He had several stultifying hours of potion-making to look forward to, and to remind him of the mess that he'd made of his life.
When the trail finally turned back towards Hogwarts and the castle came into view, he discovered an additional reason to ignore his body's demands for a halt. On a bench just outside the door up from the dungeons, two people sat and watched his approach. The bluish cloud of smoke around the smaller figure bespoke of Xiomara getting her usual nicotine fix. The afternoon sun gleamed off the bare, bronzed skull of the other watcher; Severus's stomach roiled uneasily.
Kingsley Shacklebolt.
As if his earlier session with Dumbledore hadn't shredded his dignity enough, Shacklebolt had to come along and bear witness, once again, to his pitiful attempts to hide the tattered remains.
When he was within a few hundred paces, Hooch - the traitor! - flicked the stub of her cigarillo into the grass and departed for the dungeons, leaving Severus to face the perplexing, interfering Auror alone.
He slowed to a jog and finally a brisk walk. Better to get whatever it was over with so that he could get on with what was left of his day.
Shacklebolt reached under the bench, retrieved Severus's knapsack, then stood and held it out to him. "You're moving rather well for a man who was nearly beaten to death a few days ago," Shacklebolt said with a good-natured smile.
Severus took the pack, released its wards, then pulled out a towel and mopped at his face. "Why are you stalking me, Shacklebolt?" he said after a moment. "I thought that by answering your questions the other night, I was quit of the debt between us."
"There never was any debt between us, Severus," the man said, rolling his tongue around Severus's name in that positively indecent way of his. "The debt was your own invention, not mine. At the moment, I merely wish to speak to you. I promise I won't take up very much of your time."
"As you can see, now is quite inconvenient for me. Perhaps later," Severus said, stuffing the towel in his pack and heading for the door.
Shacklebolt laughed and followed him. "When hell freezes over, you mean? I confess that I'd rather we speak a bit sooner than that. I am quite willing to wait while you cool down and shower."
Minerva, wearing a rather stern expression, chose that moment to open the door and step through. "I'm afraid that your conversation will have to wait a bit longer than that, Kingsley. Severus, Albus wishes to see you immediately."
Despite the heat of the day, the sweat froze on his skin. "Certainly, Deputy Headmistress," he said, keeping his voice even with effort. "Allow me to shower and change, then I will see him promptly."
But she shook her head; he could read the apology in her eyes. "Right now, Severus," she said. "He insisted."
A lump of ice settled in his belly. "But - "
"Kingsley, you may wait in Severus's office," she interrupted, gesturing them to follow her into the dungeons.
He and Shacklebolt both accompanied her silently, though out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Shacklebolt's expression was nothing short of thunderous. Severus could empathise.
At his office door, Minerva paused. "Severus?"
With poor grace, he snatched his wand from its sheath on his forearm and said, "Alohomora."
The locks released and Minerva held the door open. "Kingsley?" she said, arching one eyebrow.
Shacklebolt gave her an unreadable look but stepped inside without comment. She nearly closed the door in his face.
"Minerva, at least let me wash up," Severus said, "If nothing else, I have no wish to drip sweat all over the Headmaster's furniture."
"No time," she said. "Here, allow me." She touched her wand to his chest.
The powerful cleaning charm swept over his clothing, his skin, and through his hair. He could feel at least one layer of skin cells rip free of his body and dissolve into nothingnessess. He scowled through the tangled mass of his hair.
"Hm," she said then tapped the top of his head. His hair writhed for a moment then settled limply onto his shoulders. "Better," she mused, eyeing him critically. She touched her wand to his sweatshirt, and his running clothes transfigured themselves into a standard set of black robes and boots. "That should hold for a long enough."
"Minerva - "
She plucked imaginary pieces of lint off his sleeves. "Step carefully. He's very upset."
"What's wrong now? What happened? Did I - "
But she cut short his questions and pushed him towards the stairs. "Go on, Severus. I'll keep Shacklebolt occupied, but you have to go. Right now!"
With equal amounts of trepidation and annoyance, Severus ignored the ache in his calves and lower back and hurried up the stairs towards Dumbledore's tower.
***
When he entered Dumbledore's office, the Headmaster was standing at the window with his back to the room. Fawkes trilled a welcome from his perch but Severus wasn't in a congenial mood.
"Headmaster. You asked to see me."
Dumbledore turned to face him. "Severus, thank you for being so prompt. Please, have a seat," he said, indicating a plush armchair in front of his desk.
Severus wasn't fooled by the chair or Dumbledore's benign expression. At rare times during their association, Dumbledore was simply 'Albus.' But at this moment, he was most definitely 'Headmaster' and this was to be an interrogation, no mistake. Severus took a deep breath and tried to let the anger drain harmlessly from his fingertips. "I'd much rather not," he replied.
"I'm sure you'd be more comfortable..."
"I have just run for several hours and your Deputy Headmistress accosted me before I could either cool down or stretch. My muscles and ligaments most assuredly would not be more comfortable if I sat down. And before you ask, no I wouldn't like any tea or a biscuit. Minerva implied that you had urgent business. If we could get to the point?" He stood behind the proffered chair and rested his hands on its back.
"Well then," Dumbledore said, taking his own seat behind his desk. "It seems that you have acquired a champion."
Severus frowned and replayed that statement in his mind. It made no more sense than it had the first time. "I beg your pardon?"
Dumbledore's level gaze gave nothing away. "A rather unlikely one, in fact," he continued. "I must say, Severus, you do seem to have made quite the impression."
Severus clung to both patience and politeness, tooth and nail. "I assure you, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about," he replied, although he was beginning to suspect that Shacklebolt's presence in the castle had something to do with...whatever it was.
The Headmaster raised his eyebrow. "Don't you?"
The muscles in his thighs quivered and he had to lock his knees to avoid collapsing to the floor. Suddenly, he was exhausted and enraged all at once. Why did he bother? What exactly was the point? Year after year he did his best to prove to this man - his reluctant benefactor - that he'd been 'successfully rehabilitated.' And yet, it always came back to questions like this. "Why don't you just examine my thoughts if my word alone is no longer sufficient for you?"
Dumbledore looked at him for a long time, then leaned back in his chair. "That won't be necessary," he said, although the words 'At this time' hung in the air between them, unspoken. "I wanted to let you know that there has been a slight change of plans."
"What change?" he asked, wary of yet another twist to the loop of rope already coiled around his neck.
"This morning, you and I discussed that, from now on, you would be shielded from some of the contents of the Order meetings. For your own protection, of course."
"Of course," Severus echoed with a disgusted curl to his lip. Even had his run provided its usual buffering charm against worldly aggravation, Dumbledore's reminder of what had prompted the run would have dispelled it on the spot.
'By limiting your exposure to sensitive information,' Dumbledore had told him, 'Voldemort cannot torture you to gain access to Order plans.' As if Voldemort ever needed an excuse to curse, hex, or otherwise make his life a living hell! As if these new 'security measures' meant anything other than: 'By all means, die for us, Severus, but don't for a moment believe that we trust you.'
Furious, Severus dragged his attention back to the present. "What does any of that have to do with my so-called champion?"
Dumbledore steepled his fingers and looked at him over the rims of his glasses. "Kingsley Shacklebolt was most insistent that he, and not Alastor, be your main point of contact for the Order."
That brought him up short, no doubt as Dumbledore had anticipated that it would. "What? Why?"
"Shacklebolt was quite disturbed by the rather...fractious interpersonal dynamics he observed during the last few meetings."
"So Black and I don't get along. This is hardly news to anyone, even Shacklebolt. After all, we attended school together."
"Yes, however his primary concern was not about Sirius. Rather, he was most concerned about your relationship with Alastor."
His 'relationship' with Moody, ha! Severus couldn't decide if he most wanted to laugh or to curse. As well anyone should be concerned about Mad-Eye Moody, a rogue ex-Auror who had tacitly condoned torture and rape under the guise of 'aggressive interrogation.' At least Voldemort had never cloaked his acts of personal brutality in oh-so-pure euphemistic terms.
After a brief internal struggle, Severus compromised and gritted his teeth instead. "I assume that you told him to keep his nose out of Order business."
"Actually, I did not."
Severus blinked once then clenched his teeth against the pain as the true import of Dumbledore's words slammed home, like a fist to the gut.
After all the blood he'd bled for them, all the humiliations he'd endured; after risking his life to bring the Order word in time to save the Potters and their unborn child - an act that Sirius Black's arrogance and stupidity had nullified; after allowing himself to be beaten by that cowardly prick, Pettigrew, because 'the Master' and Dumbledore willed it; after faithfully serving out the terms of his parole, avoiding the Dark Arts, attempting to pound knowledge into ignorant and uninterested minds. After all of that! And still: Shacklebolt, a man Dumbledore knew only vaguely, who'd been vouched for by Arthur Weasley, a newcomer to the Order, a goddamned bloody Auror was somehow more worthy of trust, more worthy than... After everything, Moody and Dumbledore had decided that he needed a keeper after all.
Severus thrust his hands into the sleeves of his transfigured robes in an effort to hide their shaking.
"You must admit, Severus, that his idea has some merit," Dumbledore was saying in that maddeningly reasonable voice of his. "If you and Sirius are oil and water, then I daresay that you and Alastor are fire and lamp oil. An incendiary mix under any circumstances but in this case, well, I have no wish for the consequences of your interaction to turn...deadly."
Dumbledore paused and appeared to be expecting some response from him. "No, of course not, Headmaster," Severus managed to choke out.
"So then, it's settled," Dumbledore said, smiling. He rose from his seat and came to stand beside Severus's chair. "You will, of course, still report to me before and after each meeting. Including any additional meetings you should have with Shacklebolt."
Dumbledore's words were barely audible above the roaring in his ears.
"And I would prefer that you return to Hogwarts for medical treatment. Poppy was quite concerned about you this last time, Severus."
"As you say, Headmaster," he said through lips gone strangely numb. "If that is all?" He didn't wait for an answer, whether Dumbledore was finished or not, Severus simply could not endure any more. He turned and walked to the door as quickly as his stiff, protesting muscles would allow.
But before he could escape, a warm hand clasped his shoulder. It took every bit of will-power he could muster to remain calm and unmoving under that insincere touch.
"Severus, as I explained this morning," Dumbledore looked at him intensely, with obvious concern, no doubt attempting to reprise his occasional role as the Kindly and Benevolent Albus. "Please understand that this decision is no reflection on your skills and your commitment to the cause."
Severus squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden wave of pain; Dumbledore certainly knew how best to twist the knife.
When he opened them again, Dumbledore's mouth was still moving but Severus couldn't hear the words. He desperately pulled away from Dumbledore's counterfeit compassion and, for the second time that day, fled down the spiral case to retreat to the dungeons to lick his wounds in privacy and peace.
***
By the time Severus had reached the dungeons, his muscles had warmed up enough that he was able to manage an approximation of his usual fluid, ground-eating stride. He nearly paused at the door to his office but reconsidered and stalked past on his way to his private chambers.
To hell with Shacklebolt! He and Minerva could cool their heels in his office indefinitely, for all he cared.
Once at the door to his residence, he dismantled the wards, strode into his sitting room, then slammed the door behind him. He was half-way across the room, on his way to his liquor cabinet when he realised that he was not alone.
He whirled around and pointed his wand directly at Kingsley Shacklebolt's heart. "Get the hell out of my home," he spat.
The Auror rose slowly from his seat on the couch and held out his empty hands, palms out. "Minerva let me in. She thought you wouldn't mind."
Damn Minerva and her blasted administrative over-rides!
Severus narrowed his eyes. "I don't care how you got in and I don't care what Minerva said. I want you out. Now."
"I would prefer to stay and talk to you about your work for the Order," Shacklebolt said in a calm, reasonable tone, one that was all too reminiscent of Albus bloody Dumbledore.
Red mist filmed over his vision and the dull roaring in his ears increased in intensity. "Oh, I see," he replied, coating each word with venom. "'Talk' is such an interesting euphemism for 'declaim.' Please, let us speak plainly. You are here to inform me of your new status as my keeper. Too late," he sneered. "Dumbledore has already shared that valuable tidbit with me."
"Severus, I - "
"But, since you have deemed my working relationship with other members of the Order to be inadequate, no doubt you now wish to instruct me on the proper, most effective use of my time and abilities. Tell me, Auror Shacklebolt, do you prefer that I preserve the illusion of familiarity and equality and call you 'Kingsley'? Or shall I just be done with it and call you 'Master'? Do you prefer a discreet obeisance, a simple nod, or a deferential lowering of my eyes, perhaps? Or shall I kneel and kiss the hem of your robe, and while I'm down there, suck your cock as well?"
"What? Par Belénos. Severus! I - "
Severus bit back the hex that had leapt instantly to his tongue. His control was in tatters and he needed the man gone more than he needed an outlet, no matter how deserving, for his frustrated rage. "I have no interest in whatever you came to say, Shacklebolt," he snarled, holding his wand steady. "I repeat: get out of my home now."
They stared at one another for a long, tense moment. Then, wonder upon wonders, Shacklebolt actually took the not-so-subtle hint.
"Very well," the Auror said, then donned his lightweight outer robe and went to the door. Severus tracked his progress with the point of this wand. Shacklebolt paused part-way out of the door. "You do realise, however, that we must speak before the next meeting."
Severus concentrated on saying nothing.
Eventually, Shacklebolt left.
Shortly thereafter, Severus's transfigured robes reverted to their original state.
Somehow, he managed to close and ward the door before his legs gave out. He slid down the wall and rested the side of his head against the smooth wood. The ache in his legs was eclipsed by the tightness in his chest and throat and the burning in his eyes.
***
So the Headmaster thought the match was over. Checkmate, and Kingsley would go back to his office, tail between his legs, reminded of his position in the scheme of things.
Merde! Mer...de! FOUTRE!
He should have remembered how the Headmaster had never liked losing the upper hand. You could pull any stunt on any teacher and, sure, you got detention for it, weeks' worth, but Dumbledore always gave the impression that students would be students and that, of course, professors were fair game. The only time someone had been expelled in Kingsley's memory was when Dumbledore had been the butt of the joke. It was just youthful exuberance when you stuck a pail of bat gizzards over the entrance of a classroom and some teacher stood there splattered in the gore, but when it had been done to the Headmaster, coming into the student-packed Great Hall that had rippled with titters and guffaws, well, that had been quite another thing.
As he strode, his anger barely contained, through the hallways, Kingsley wondered whatever had happened to the poor little Hufflepuff who had dared.
Xiomara Hooch jumped when the door to her office slammed open. One look at Kingsley and her wand was in her hand, pointing at him.
"Put that damn thing down," he snarled, "or I'll blow it to smithereens! I've had enough wands pointed in my direction and the day's not even half over."
"What on earth..."
Kingsley placed both hands flat on her desk and leaned over so that he spoke almost directly in her face. "The Headmaster," he almost spat the word out, "didn't like the fact that I got involved in what he seems to consider to be his own private little game. Severus now thinks that I'm no better than Moody, that I don't trust him and he..."
Hooch sighed and held up her hand. "All right. I don't need to hear any more. I get the picture. Severus is very upset and lost his temper."
Kingsley pushed away from the desk and took a quick turn around the small office. "I wanted to tell him he could trust me. Now bloody Dumbledore..."
Hooch's chair scraped the floor as she pushed it back. "I'll go and see to Severus and calm him down. Then I'll have a little talk with Minerva. Until then, get out of here. The last thing Severus needs is to think that I'm joining the enemy. And if he even thinks that for a m |
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