Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Not far from the Whomping Willow, Remus stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked up at the sky, his eyebrows pulled low and tight as he took in the day.

Nearing the late afternoon, the sky was bright and blue and the breeze was warm and sweet. Soft, round clouds drifted across the horizon. The colours around him were crisp and vivid: the grass was greener, the sky was bluer, and the flowers were brighter reds, yellows and purples. Around him, it was as if the world wanted to remind him that it was alive, that he was alive.

He turned his head and gazed across the field, where the bodies had lain. Surprisingly few had died, comparatively speaking, although a great number had been injured, now either recuperating in the infirmary or shipped to St. Mungo's for more intensive treatments. The injured Death Eaters were there, under heavy supervision by the aurors, none of whom were likely to indulge in compassionate treatment of their charges, as both Mad-eye Moody and Maeve O’Byrne had died in the fighting. They had charged into the south field to intercept an ambush and had single-handedly held back nearly twenty-five Death Eaters and supporters until additional forces were able to join them.

It had been too late, of course, but the Order forces rushing to save Mad-eye and Maeve had been enough to save the third and fourth year volunteers, who had been positioned to watch the south fields, from being slaughtered as the Death Eaters crept up behind them.

Mad-Eye would have appreciated his death, Remus thought. Death in battle. Death in duty. It was fitting. Perhaps less so for the Irish auror, who had only recently joined them in this battle, but she was a fighter as well and a death in battle, saving children no less, was heroic. She would be remembered for that, and for her capture of Bellatrix. She would be remembered.

Remus shivered despite the warmth of the sun and he wrapped his arms about himself. It was important to be remembered, he thought. When you forgot those who had left, that was when they were truly lost to you.

He glanced back at the Willow and his frown deepened. The tree stretched tall, branches waving in the breeze, leaves standing on edge to catch the sun. It looked quite satisfied with its existence, as if everything was right in the world. And perhaps it was for the tree, and perhaps it should be for them as well. Voldemort was dead. Harry was alive. It was over. What more could one ask for?

Motion in his peripheral vision captured his attention and he turned his head to watch as Snape appeared around the west wing of the castle. The man stomped over the grass, his robes as dark as his expression. He stopped short as he noticed Remus and eyed him cautiously, and, after a moment, Remus offered him a small nod. Now was not the time for old animosities. He didn’t need the blue sky and the soft breeze to tell him that.

Snape’s eyes narrowed momentarily, and Remus was sure he would keep walking, ignoring him as much as possible, but Snape surprised him by coming closer.

“You’re up and about,” Remus remarked and then winced at the obviousness of his statement.

“Clearly.”

“Is Harry –?”

Snape grimaced and turned his face away, looking toward the Whomping Willow.

“Is he still unconscious? Is there no sign of improvement at all?” Remus felt his heart thudding in his chest. He had been so sure Harry would awaken. “I should go see him.”

“Calm yourself, werewolf,” Snape glared at him. “He’s awake. He seems to suffer no ill effects – no physical ramifications, anyway. He is, as you say, up and about. We have only now seen to the disposal of the Dark Lord’s body,” he finished and nodded his head in the direction from where he had come.

“How?”

Snape shook his head. “Not important. It is over. There are no remains.”

“Well, I suppose that’s for the best, although you might have thought to consult the rest of us in the decision process. We were all involved in this as well.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of your involvement,” Snape turned his head towards him and fixed Remus with his dark eyes. “Well aware. I am unlikely to forget your involvement. You would, perhaps, do well to remember how aware I am of your involvement and how unfortunate it would be should Mr. Potter become aware of precisely how involved you were.”

Remus felt himself pale and he shifted uneasily on his feet. “I didn’t know. Not in the beginning. Not everything.”

Snape took a small step toward him, staring down the length of his nose. “I have spoken to the others in your secretive little group and I have learned that, unlike them, Dumbledore held little over you that was not otherwise widely known. While your canid nature has not, thus far, graced the pages of the Daily Prophet, it is hardly the secret it once was. Or was there something more that kept you under Albus’s thumb?”

“I –” Remus began, when a small pop sounded at his side and he glanced down to find a house elf pulling agitatedly at its ears as its eyes darted between him and Snape.

“I is sorry to interrupt, but Professor McGonagall is asking for you, sir, in the Headmaster’s office.”

Snape let out a low growl and demanded, “Why? What does she want with me?”

“Not you, sir, but is Mr. Lupin, sir, who is being wanted.”

With a short glance at Snape, Remus nodded. “I, yes, yes. I’ll come immediately.”

The house elf pulled at its ears and disappeared with another soft pop, and Remus shifted again, unsure what he should say, or if he should say anything at all.

“I –”

“I think we understand one another,” Snape interrupted, although he did not meet Remus’s eyes again, staring instead toward the Whomping Willow which stretched itself wide under the warm sun. “I do not believe you are worth causing Mr. Potter any distress additional to that which he has already endured over this past summer, which has been considerable, as you would do well to remember.”

Snape turned his gaze on him again and Remus felt the wolf in him bristle against the coldness of it.

“Penance, I am to understand, is good for the soul, should you still have one.”

Snape turned and walked away, his dark robes billowing in the breeze, and he disappeared shortly into the darkness of the castle.

Remus shuddered.

His entire body felt as though he had just emerged from a cold river, and he came to the realisation that Snape was no longer the soft target that James had once judged him to be. He could remember when they were all children, when James and Sirius had poked at the quiet, oily, unkempt boy for fun. Not his idea of fun, but he didn’t want to rock the boat. James had already thought he was more of a killjoy than strictly necessary, and it was by the grace of Sirius alone that he was allowed to be a Marauder.

Sirius, who, for a lark, had almost caused Remus to kill someone – his recurring nightmare since he had been bitten, and near to the moon, a nightly torment.

Remus had let him have it and that had nearly been the end of it all. Sirius had begged for forgiveness. He was an idiot, he’d said. He’d do better. Remus had tentatively forgiven him and Sirius had really seemed to put effort into changing, doing his utmost to prove to Remus that he could be trusted again. But Snape was always his worst temptation and he backslid several times, and eventually, even James had tried to distance himself from the worst of Sirius’s pranks. There were heated arguments. There was a week where Sirius slept above the local pub and he never really apologized that time.

And then, James and Lily. What else could he have concluded?

He looked over to the Whomping Willow a final time. Its branches were spread wide, leaves turned up like fingers to the sun.

The castle had a hushed feeling to it, although vastly different than the tense waiting of the previous night. It was the uncomfortable hush found at the scene of an accident or an emotional breakdown, too quiet and strained, full of halted movements and uncertainty. Many had left, returning to their own homes, those who had not been sent to St. Mungo's, and so the castle was emptier than it had been, and perhaps that was all it was. Remus thought there should be more jubilation, but perhaps that would come later.

The gargoyle by the Headmaster’s door did not ask for a password, which startled him more than he cared to admit. He had never seen it so still, and he felt rather ill when he realised that it waited to be reassigned. He had never seen Hogwarts without Albus Dumbledore.

“Ah, Remus, thank you for coming so quickly,” McGonagall looked up at him as he came into the room. She looked tired. To her left stood Cornelius Fudge, hat in hand, wearing a suit of unseasonable tweed. He felt as if he had interrupted an argument, although neither appeared to have been speaking as he walked in.

“Of course,” Remus began, but was immediately interrupted by Fudge.

“Oh thank goodness, an adult. Really, this is absurd.” Fudge gestured wildly with his hat. “Harry is listed as his next of kin – that is why I tried, I tried, to bring this to him first, but if he cannot be reasonable, well, I’m unsure precisely what can be expected of me.”

Remus opened his mouth to ask what the minister was saying, but was again interrupted.

“You, you are still his emergency contact – he has no other family – honestly, what more am I supposed to do? This is completely without precedent.”

“Cornelius, calm yourself,” McGonagall glared at him and pulled out a chair. “Sit down. If you are intending to deliver a clear message, you’re failing drastically.”

Fudge sank into the chair and tugged at his waistcoat as it bunched across his belly. He set his hat on his knees and took in a deep breath, letting it out in a long huff.

“Of course, of course. You’re right, of course. I am not articulating myself well at all. But you’ll come, of course,” this was directed at Remus, who opened his mouth soundlessly and glanced at McGonagall in the hopes that someone in the room might be able to tell him why he was there.

“Come where?”

“The Ministry, of course! Where else would – Oh, I haven’t told you yet what – I am in a kerfuffle. My goodness.” Fudge rubbed his forehead and then looked Remus in the eye, and before Fudge could speak a word, Remus knew. “Sirius Black has emerged from the Veil. Alive. Whole. Or, we assume it to be Sirius Black and not some clever imposter. He’s being held by the Department of Mysteries. They have questioned him and, well, they claim he is as he says he is, although no one has ever emerged from the Veil. No one.”

Remus stared at him as the words washed over him. His heart beat painfully in his chest, as though a sparrow was trapped within his rib cage, desperate for freedom. His hand clenched into a fist.

“What did you say?”

Fudge waved his hat. “We had to question him! He could have been anyone! Anything! Nothing has ever emerged from the Veil. Nothing! This is – what we were supposed to do? Let him walk free? Unsupervised?”

“Sirius is…” Remus couldn’t say the word. His throat was as dry as toast.

“Yes, yes. Alive. So it would seem. We need to you to come to the Ministry to claim him. The Department of Mysteries has waivers you will need to sign. Secrecy and all that. But he will be remanded into your care and responsibility. It’s unlikely he is not who he claims to be, as far as I understand it, but… anything is possible these days, is it not? Strange days we live in.”

Remus looked to McGonagall and she offered him a short nod, her eyes kind.

“Sirius Black is alive,” she confirmed, “and, I believe, he is waiting for you.”

Time seemed to shift around him, and he must have agreed, must have left Hogwarts, as he found himself being led through a lightless, soundless room. It was so disorienting that, in his current state of bewilderment, he was momentarily certain that it had all been a ruse and that, in bringing him to Sirius, they had instead led him straight into the Veil itself.

But no, he emerged from the dark, still room into a new, smaller room, so white and stark, he was nearly blinded by the contrast. As he blinked into the sudden light, a dark shape moved toward him from his right, and he was engulfed in a tight embrace before he had identified the shape, before he could even formulate a reaction, but he knew the scent of this person, knew it as he knew his own name, and he felt his heart leap furiously in his chest as he clutched onto Sirius tightly, sinking his face into his neck and hair, breathing him in.

The thick smell of ozone clung to him, like the prelude to a storm, but the odd, acrid smell of Azkaban, sweet like rotting fruit, that had clung to Sirius in the years after his escape, was gone, as though it were never there.

Remus pushed Sirius away, far enough to see him, and his heart lodged in his throat at the sight of him.

Gone were the haunted eyes, the dark circles, the pale skin. He glanced down and Sirius’s hands were unmarred, his nails healthy and all present, none torn from the bed from the times when he had raked his hands down the stone walls of his cell, digging at the mortar in the high window from which spilled cold, salty sea air. This Sirius could not have spent years in a prison, could not have lived on the run. This was the Sirius from Hogwarts, from their youth, with bright, mischievous eyes and an easy smile. This was the Sirius who had been sent to Azkaban, but not the one who had emerged.

Remus stared at him, unable to formulate a question. Sirius didn’t seem to notice.

“Merlin’s balls, what did they do to you, Moony?” Sirius laughed and traced his fingers against Remus’s cheeks, down over the scars at his throat. “This one is new, and this one. All of these ones. How many more are there? Is there no one looking after you?”

He asked the question with a grin, as though that question was not as sharp and precise as a hunting knife.

“Where have you been?” Remus managed finally and Sirius lifted one shoulder in a careless and unbothered gesture.

“Somewhere. They tell me it’s called the Boundaries, but I don’t know. They say I was in there for over a year, but things are…” Sirius glanced around the white, featureless room and then came back to Remus and again, traced his hand against a jagged scar near Remus’s collarbone.

Remus shivered. Sirius’s hands were soft, uncalloused.

“Things are different,” Sirius continued with a small frown. “Too different. The girl, Hermione, she says Harry is seventeen now? The first war was won? Voldemort, the barmy bastard, was dead and then back again, and there’s a whole new war? James… James and Lily? And Peter? And you were a professor? That’s far more than a year, there. A bit more, I’d say.”

“Hermione Granger? I –?”

He was interrupted when the door opened and a woman entered the room. Her robes were extremely dark, as though they absorbed all light, and hooded, and the face below the hood was odd – shifting and unstable, as though Remus’s eyes weren’t able to focus properly on her features.

She held a thick bundle of parchment, which she began unrolling wordlessly until it touched the floor and spilled down toward his feet. She handed him a quill and set the topmost edge of the parchment against the narrow table in the middle of the room, securing it with a round stone as dark as her robes.

“You are to read every point in sequence. Initial in the provided space after each point is read and understood. A full signature is required at every two foot marker. Should you refuse to read and initial each point or to provide a full signature, you will be subjected to Obliviate and dropped in a central location and left to your own devices. Every effort will then be made to find another sponsor for your companion. If none are deemed available, he will be held until such time as we deem necessary, and will then be subjected to a full Obliviate and dropped in a central location and left to his own devices. Is this understood?”

“I… yes, yes. I understand.”

“Very good. I will bear witness to your signatures. Proceed.”

Remus clutched the quill and glanced up at Sirius, who had rolled his eyes and spun one of the two metal chairs, plain and utilitarian, and straddled it, resting his crossed arms over the back with a resigned air. Remus turned back to the table and the long parchment. He breathed out one long, steadying breath, pulled the second chair closer, and began reading.

Harry stood over the grave of Hedwig. She was surrounded by rose bushes, which were no longer blooming but instead covered in bright red rose hips and the odd, stubborn petal. It was an ideal spot – sheltered against Hagrid’s hut and away from any foot traffic. Even through the battle, it had remained undisturbed. The rose bushes sported no broken branches or fire damage.

Snape had fashioned a grave marker for her. It was clearly a small piece of the castle’s ravaged parapets, with two jagged edges and the rest smoothed through time and weather. On the face of it, Snape had magically carved two outstretched wings and below had written:

Hedwig. An excellent companion.

Harry stood over the grave and a deep, painful feeling swelled in his chest, echoing about in the hollowness he felt inside. He felt empty and bottomless, like a sinkhole leading down into darkness. A person could drop a stone into him and there would be no sound.

There was a tickle at his cheek and he lifted his hand to brush it away, surprised that he might be crying when he felt so utterly devoid of emotion, but he startled when his fingers connected to something small, moving, and very much alive. He jerked away and the insect flew away from his face, landing on a nearby windowpane. He peered at it and then scowled as he recognized the bright green beetle, with the clear marking of spectacles.

The beetle scurried in a tight circle against the glass and then crawled in through the small opening of the window, and a moment later, the door opened and Rita Skeeter emerged, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear. Her outfit was oddly sedate for her – charcoal grey tweed, fitted sleekly to her form, lined with merlot coloured fur at the collar and sleeves. Her shoes were as sharp and red as her nails and the quill she slid from her handbag matched the fur trim of her outfit.

She smiled at him with a glint of gold teeth and waggled her quill in the air.

“Have a quote for me, Harry?”

“Are you – No! You – you vermin! How did you get past the wards this time?”

Rita tilted her head and flipped her notepad open with one hand. “I’ve been here on assignment for a while now.” She gave a small shrug and added, “Freelance.”

“So no one knows you’re here. Did Dumbledore know you were here?”

“If he did, he didn’t let on, and he never hesitated to let on before. I imagine he was slightly distracted by the comings and goings, not to mention all his little intrigues. I’ve been here for months, since you ‘disappeared’, as they called it. I’ve a few sources, you know, and when I heard that, well… I knew there would be a story in it, something to put my name back in the headlines.” She dabbed her tongue against the end of her quill and put it to paper, “So, any official reaction to the way Albus Dumbledore and his Inner Order sold you to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named like so much chattel?”

Harry shot toward her and she teetered backward on her heels and slammed back against the side of the hut, her eyes wide but her quill still poised. His wand was at her throat.

“What do you know about the Inner Order?”

“Ah, to be a fly on that wall, right?” She smiled again and flipped pages back in her notepad, seemingly immune to the wand poised at her throat. “Some of us were and some of us took notes. I would be all too happy to compare mine with yours, if you answer a few of my questions. With something substantial. No comment does not count.”

Harry glared at her and pressed his wand firmly against the softness of her throat. She swallowed heavily but otherwise didn’t flinch from the open threat.

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“Not even in trade? Not even for the names of those who knew where you were the entire summer, but did nothing?”

“Dumbledore was cursed. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Oh yes, he was cursed, allegedly, but the others, not so much. You’re not a little curious to know who sold you out?”

Harry sighed and dropped his wand hand to his side. “I know it was Dumbledore. I know Draco Malfoy was part of it. Maybe Lupin? I’m not sure how much he knew or if he was just a pawn in all of this. But it doesn’t matter. It’s over. It’s done. As long as S – as long as someone particular wasn’t involved, and I know he wasn’t, it doesn’t matter.”

Her smile widened as though she had been offered a particularly attractive treat. “Come now. You and he haven’t played coy since your return. You needn’t start now. If I had had a camera at my disposal, I’d have had many the opportunity for a plum shot of the two of you, in flagrante delicto. You’ll thank me for not being that sort of reporter. But no matter. What would you say if I told you Severus Snape was, in fact, involved?”

“He wasn’t.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Why would I believe anything you say anyway? You’ve been out to get me since the beginning.”

“Oh, Harry,” she said with a crooked smile. “You must know that you have always been my very favourite story. The plucky young boy who came from nothing and was given everything, including the heavy weight of saving the wizarding world? You’re excellent copy. People will always want to read about you, whether you succeed or fail, and I want to be the one to write it. Now, reporting a downward spiral would sell copies, and haven’t you just – but, between the two of us, I’m actually rooting for you.”

She gave a small laugh and tucked a curl behind her ear again. “Just between us, mind. But this is why I’m offering you what I know – for a fair exchange, of course. I’m still a business woman and this world isn't free.”

Harry opened his mouth, but he couldn’t make sense of what she was saying, what she was offering. Was this a trap? He closed his mouth again and shifted back on his heels as he stared at her.

“What sort of information do you want from me?”

She smiled widely and set her quill back against the notepad again. “How did you prepare to take down the Dark Lord? Who helped you? What spells did you use? What was he like in his last moments? What are your plans for the future?”

Harry sucked in a deep breath. “And what do you offer in return?”

“I can tell you everyone who was in the Inner Order and I can tell you what part they played. Several of them were people you consider friends. I can tell you that Dumbledore gave you that medallion specifically so that you would be the one to drop the wards and let in the Death Eaters. I can tell you other things Dumbledore told no one. Did you know he kept a pensieve? It was easy enough to access if you happen to be small enough to wiggle in through a crack in the mortar.”

“What about Severus?”

Rita tilted her head and she set the tip of her tongue against one gold canine. “He attended several of the meetings of the Inner Order. He sat next to Dumbledore. He attended them while you were sleeping – in his bed, I’d imagine.”

“Why?”

“Now, that I don’t know. He’s not one to blab his innermost thoughts about, but I can tell you that he knew the Dark Lord was in your head the whole time and he knew why and how.”

“Call him Voldemort. He’s dead. He isn’t a fucking lord of anything anymore. Call him Voldemort. ”

She shuddered and swallowed thickly. “If you insist. Now, I’ve given you something for free. It’s your turn.”

Harry glanced down at Hedwig’s grave again. The hollowness in his chest felt overwhelming, and Severus has already walked away from him, had told Harry he didn’t want to indulge him anymore, and it was clear what that meant. Severus didn’t want him anymore, not the way he was, not broken and twisted and damaged. And useless. It wasn’t as if Harry had any sort of purpose now that Voldemort was dead.

Ron had Hermione back, so they could look after one another. Hogwarts needed to be rebuilt, but Harry wasn’t a builder, and they had McGonagall to take that on. There were still some Death Eaters who had escaped, but there were aurors to handle that. Harry was a soldier, but the war was over. And Severus didn’t need him. Severus was nothing if not self-sufficient and didn’t need Harry moping about.

“Tell me who the members of the Inner Order were, and you can ask me anything.”

“Anything?”

He nodded slowly and leaned back against the wall, far too tired to hold himself up any further.

“Dumbledore. Mad-Eye Moody. Remus Lupin. Draco Malfoy. Neville Longbottom. Rubeus Hagrid. And Severus Snape.”

“Hagrid.”

Rita nodded. “From what I understand, he was told to befriend you, right from the beginning.”

A heavy, inescapable weight settled on Harry’s chest. “Right. Right. I… right. Okay. Well… what do you want to know?”

“I’m signing my parents out,” Neville told MacOenus as the five of them emerged from the hospital room.

He held his father’s arm and, behind him, Draco supported his mother. They were both physically weak, despite their show of defence inside the room, and neither could support their own weight for very long. Ginny held the few personal belongings that Neville’s parents had had in the room – a family photo from when Neville was an infant; another of Neville and his Gran on platform 9¾, with the Hogwarts Express behind them; and a journal in which his mother had scribbled nearly two decades’ worth of nonsense.

“Ah, oh! That… doesn’t seem like a good idea, now does it?” MacOenus slid over to them, hands raised placatingly. “Your parents have had quite the day, wouldn’t you say? They require the very best care, and we can provide them with that, I assure you.”

“Healer MacOenus,” Draco said and shifted Alice Longbottom over to Ginny, who juggled her few items to her left hand as she took Alice’s thin arm.

“Ah, yes?”

“You’ve truly provided excellent care for the Longbottoms. I am very impressed.” Draco touched the healer’s arm with two pale fingers. The Healer looks down at Draco’s fingers and his eyes widened as he seemed to realise, in that moment, the sort of money that was addressing him. “As I’m sure you’re aware, I am now the likely inheritor of the Malfoy estate, due to my father’s… unfortunate disappearance. St. Mungo’s Hospital is an excellent institution, and, particularly due to today’s tragic events, I have it in mind to make a sizable donation. I wonder if, perhaps, you might be inclined to lend your name toward a new ward?”

“Oh,” the Healer’s eyes opened nearly impossibly wider. His mouth worked soundlessly for a short moment before he stammered, “I… how generous!”

“There will be, no doubt, many suffering lasting damage from the battle at Hogwarts, and I see no reason why they couldn’t receive their treatments in the MacOenus Ward for Continuing Care. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Draco turned the healer toward himself with the gentle press of his two fingers and led the man away, motioning to the ceiling and walls as though illustrating what could be. The Healer followed him, clearly entranced by the prospects suggested to him.

Neville suppressed his smile, and he and Ginny surreptitiously led his parents out of the ward and down the stairs to the exit, where, once free of the wards, they Apparated quickly back to Hogsmeade.

“What a posh idiot,” Ginny laughed and Neville grinned at her.

“Which one?”

“I think I need to sit down,” his mother said and swayed on her feet. She looked very pale in the bright sunlight.

Neville took out his wand and, balancing his father on one arm, hastily transfigured a length of wooden fencing into a rough bench, and Ginny lowered Alice onto it. Neville helped his father sit down as well, as he could feel the faint trembling in Frank’s thin arms.

His parents breathed twin sighs of relief as they sank down into the bench, and Frank turned up his head and look at the sky. A breeze swept over them, bringing with it the sweet smell of nearby honeysuckle, and Alice turned her face into the breeze, her eyes falling shut.

Neville couldn’t help but stare at them. They were awake, they were sane, they were… free. But they looked so worn, aged well beyond their years. Their arms and legs were thin and seemed to lack any sort of musculature whatsoever. Their hair and skin was thin and colourless – he could almost count every vein in their thin hands. Had he not known their age, he might have guessed they were in their late seventies, or perhaps even older. They did not look like people in their mid forties.

The breeze swept over them again, and he saw his mother shiver in the chill of it.

“We should get you inside. Do you think you can walk to Hogwarts?”

His mother opened her eyes and she gave him a smile that was simultaneously tired and awestruck. She held out her hand and Neville took it, noting how easily her could feel her delicate bones. She was one firm handshake away from a shattered hand.

"Neville, my sweet little fighter. Look what you’ve become. I’m so proud of you.”

His throat clenched down around a sudden burst of emotion that threatened to pull him under. His eyes prickled again.

“Thank you, mum,” he rasped and he felt as Ginny squeezed his shoulder with a firm hand.

“I think if we go slow, we should be able to get us all to Hogwarts safely. Perhaps if I…”

She gave a quick glance about the area before her eyes located two long, slender branches, which had fallen from a nearby tree, and she transfigured them into two rather decent looking canes, which she handed over to each of the elder Longbottoms.

Frank turned it over in his hand and gave Ginny a sheepish smile. “Thank you. I wish… well, I suppose this is necessary now, with… everything.” He looked down at his hand, wrapped about the cane, and then levered himself up to his feet. He braced himself on the cane and held up his other hand into the sunlight. He curled his hand into a fist and gave a small laugh as he let it drop.

Alice stood as well, although she let Ginny help her to her feet and she grimaced as she swayed regardless.

“Well, on our way, then.”

“Are you sure?” Neville asked her. “We could… transfigure a cart or something?”

“I’ve never sat in a cart in my life and don’t intend to start now.”

She took a shaky step away from Ginny and then another and another, and Neville heard his father gave a small chuckle and turned in time to see Frank start after his wife with a fond grin, his own cane slightly steadier than Alice’s, but not by a significant margin.

As Frank passed him, he called back, “She won't let up anytime soon, so you might want to catch up with her before she gets too far ahead.”

Ginny laughed and, when she saw the befuddled look on Neville’s face, she laughed harder. She grabbed his arm and tugged him after his parents, who were making a slow, but very steady getaway.

His mother ended up accepting his arm and together, the four of them managed to make it up to the castle without any false steps or tumbles. He took his parents into the Great Hall and they both sank gratefully onto the closest of the long benches, which were not known for their comfort, but were clearly better than standing when you’d been extremely insane for nearly two decades and your body had not taken well to it.

There were a few people milling about in the Great Hall and they had passed a few people in the Entrance Hall and out on the grounds, but it wasn’t what it had been in the last few weeks. His parents didn’t know that though, as they glanced around curiously.

“New tables,” his father noted, knocking his new cane lightly against the edge, and his mother nodded tiredly, leaning heavily onto it.

“I’ll go… get Pomfrey?” Ginny asked, worrying a lock of her hair between her fingers as she kept her eyes trained on the Longbottoms.

Neville nodded, looking at her, and he reached out and stroked his first two fingers against hers before he took her hand in his and gave it a light squeeze. She gave a small startle and met his eyes as she gripped his hand as well, a pleased smile blooming over her face, and he swallowed thickly as her eyes sparkled back at him. He glanced down at the plush curve of her lips and wondered if it would be too much to kiss her in front of his parents – he had only just met them, after all – but it had been hours since he’d kissed her. He wanted to do it again.

Her lips turned up in a wide, knowing grin and she said to his parents, “I’ll go find Madam Pomfrey.”

Alice shook her head and pushed herself back up to her feet, stubbornly. “No, we’ll walk up with you,” she said. Frank smirked as he stood up as well, his cane pressing firmly into the stone floor, and Alice gave him a long look, which only widened his smile.

They walked up the staircase and around to the hospital wing, and as they approached, they could hear a man proclaiming in a loud voice that he didn’t need to be there – he was just fine, thank you – and Neville frowned as he recognized Remus in the responding voice, too hushed to pick out individual words.

When they pushed through the door, Remus glanced over in their direction, mouth open in mid-response to whoever was hidden by the partially drawn curtain, but then he did a double-take and his mouth fell open soundlessly.

“Alice?” He stuttered, his face going pale.

“Frank? What – ?”

A face peered around the curtain and Neville was surprised to see Sirius Black, looking entirely healthier and younger than when they had last seen him fall backward into death. He stood and pushed his way around the curtain, sending the thing clattering out of place, and his face brightened in a wide, toothy grin.

“You made it out too!” He dashed over to the elder Longbottoms and grabbed Frank by his shoulder, far too roughly for the man’s frail condition although Frank didn’t give any indication he minded. “But look at the both of you! What happened?”

“Looks like we don’t have your luck,” Frank replied as he looked Sirius over. He stood taller, his face was bright, his hair was shiny and full, but he looked strangely young – his jawline not as square as Neville remembered it being, his cheeks softer, although he did sport a neat mustache, the ends curled upward.

“You look like an infant,” Alice added with a raised eyebrow. “I’m surprised you can even grow that mustache.”

Sirius laughed and stroked two fingers along the mustache in question. “But what happened to you two? My own grandparents likely look better than you, rest their dark, twisted souls.”

“Their bodies were still here and have been for the last seventeen years,” Remus came up to them quietly, his voice hushed. “And insanity is not easy on a body. I’m sorry,” he added with a tilt of his chin toward the Longbottoms.

Frank shrugged his thin shoulders. “It is what it is. I’m glad to be free of that place, although I had no idea so much time could have passed. It didn’t feel… Well, it didn’t feel like nearly so long as it has been. But if this,” he tapped his cane against the floor, “is the price for our lives, I’ll take it. We have our son back, our lives.”

“You might bounce back!” Sirius slapped Frank’s shoulder again and, this time, Frank winced slightly under the assault. “You never know! Good food, sunshine, some rest, a decent bed, you never know. Or maybe you can try some blood magic if nothing else works,” he laughed.

“Don’t joke about that,” Remus snapped and Sirius rolled his eyes at him.

“Oh, no one does blood magic anymore. I wasn’t serious.” He then grinned and added, “I’m Sirius, but never serious.”

“Voldemort did blood magic,” Neville told him in a quiet voice. “He killed over a hundred children, magic and muggle alike, to regain his strength so quickly. It’s a… It’s a poorly timed joke.”

Sirius waved that away. “Well, I didn’t know that. You’re all so sombre. Cheer up.”

“People died. A lot of people!” Ginny snapped at him. “Keep your jokes to yourself until you get up-to-date. You’re being crass.”

Sirius threw up his hands and made a low sound of annoyance. “Fine! I didn’t mean it! I just came back from the dead and I haven’t had the time to pick up a Prophet yet, pardon me.” He stalked away a few feet, muttering to himself.

“I don’t suppose we still have a house,” Alice cut in as she gazed up through the windows thoughtfully.

Neville bit his lip. “No, it… Gran sold it. There’s an elderly lesbian couple living in it now. They’re really nice. They grow lemons.”

“Ah well,” she glanced at her husband. “I suppose we’ll have to impose on Augusta’s good graces.”

“Do you imagine she found some in the intervening years?”

“You can have my cottage,” came a voice behind them and Neville’s heart leapt as he recognized Draco’s voice.

They all turned to find him standing just within the door to the infirmary. He had loosened his tie and rolled up the cuffs of his ice blue button down, and he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it adorably. Neville glanced over at Ginny, who glanced back at him and they shared a mutual look of keen appreciation. She had a small smile dancing in the corners of her mouth and she pinched her lip between her teeth to bite back a wider grin.

“Cottage?” Neville asked.

“Hmm, yes. There’s an old caretaker cottage on the grounds of the Manor. It's been empty for years now. Certainly as long as I've been alive. It's in good condition, though," he cut in, as though someone might think otherwise. "By a nice stream and close to the orchards. Quite private. Never been home to any dark activity as far as I'm aware, which is more than I can say for the Manor itself. You’re welcome to it, if you’d like.”

“You'd give us a house?” Frank’s voice had a slight, hesitant catch to it. “You don’t even know us.”

Draco smiled. “I know your son though, and – not to speak out of turn – but I have a rather vested interest in seeing him disgustingly happy, which this, you'll see,” he said, gesturing toward Neville’s face, which was, in fact, stretched by a wide smile, “accomplishes spectacularly.”

“You idiot,” Ginny said fondly and Draco shot her a quick smile.

Alice looked from Neville to Draco and back. “Are you two…?”

Neville couldn’t help the grin on his face. He reached out his hand and Draco took it and allowed himself to be pulled in by Neville.

“We are, and also,” he held out his other hand to Ginny, who accepted it rather shyly, nibbling her bottom lip, and he pulled her toward them as well. “We are also. We all are.”

“Oh,” Alice shot her husband a startled look, but Frank just stood still, with a small smile on his face.

“It’s nice to meet you both,” he said and then chuckled lightly. “It’s nice to meet all three of you.”

Minerva sat in the windowed alcove of Dumbledore’s office and gazed out across the view the man had treasured. It was a lovely view of the grounds. From this vantage and angle, one could look out towards the lake and the train platform, could look out towards the Forbidden Forest, could, if one craned to the left, look out toward the Quidditch pitch, and could look out toward the ruins and Hagrid’s hut. The gardens and greenhouses might be the only part of the grounds that escaped this view completely, but the headmaster hadn’t overlooked it. McGonagall had only to turn her head and gaze across the room, and she could see the distant edge of the furthest gardens out a large window directly across from the alcove. He had planned his office down to the smallest detail, she thought to herself.

She looked back to where the Longbottoms sat huddled around one another by the fire. Draco and Ginny stood beside one of the wingback chairs, the one in which Neville sat, and the whole circle of them looked peaceful and content. Perhaps not the most usual family portrait, but well-suited in any case.

She shook her head and smiled helplessly. He had seen it all, hadn’t he? His all-seeing eyes, he had known the unfolding of this tale long before anyone had envisioned the beginning. She remembered him the night the Longbottoms had been found. He had stood in the room of St. Mungo’s where Frank and Alice had been placed and he held the infant Neville in his arms. The baby had been avidly interested in Albus’ nose, and the man had smiled widely at the child and waggled his eyebrows to make young Neville stop and stare in wide-eyed wonder.

She’d moved into the room, a hand against her throat, holding back tears or screams, and he had raised his eyes and looked at her.

“My dear girl,” he’d said, no matter that she was an adult thrice over, “you’d best prepare yourself.” His lips had turned up, quirking in amusement at something only he knew, and he’d looked down at the child again. “One day, this young man is going to ask you to support the bending of a certain rule, and in the interests of happily-ever-after, I suggest you do just that.”

Minerva reined in her smile and mentally tallied Albus a retroactive point. Looking at the three young lovers, she couldn’t help it. When they married, she would stand up and speak, and she would tell them what Albus had known. He would have been glad of that. The crazy, romantic, manipulative old coot.

She adjusted a fold in her robes and sighed. Headmistress. It was a title she had never sought for herself. She enjoyed teaching. She enjoyed shaping minds and instilling thought and expanding horizons. She enjoyed seeing a student from first year to seventh, to see a student fail to transfigure a rock into a vase, and to see that same student make crystal from mud. She did not want to deal with the Ministry and least of all their efforts to sink their claws into this school. She did not want to deal with the parents who thought that enrolment of their own child meant say over others’. Administration was not her strong suit. She preferred action. Albus commanded and she acted. It was as it had been for decades. Damn him for changing the rules at this late hour.

She didn’t have his vision. She couldn’t look at one student and see the path they would take. She couldn’t look at that student and know the decisions they would face, know the effect those decisions would have on those around them, and know how best to guide them through to reach the ideal destination. She could teach them how to make jewels from nothing. She could teach them how to turn a teapot into a toad or an octopus or a blast-ended skrewt, but she couldn’t shape them.

Minerva snorted and looked down at her hands, lined and wrinkled as they were with years and work. She followed orders, and so she would.

“My dear girl, there will come a day when I am gone. One moment, child, let me speak. When this day comes, it will be you who will succeed me. Remember that well.” His eyes had twinkled. “So you’d best study hard and learn your lessons well. If you don’t pass your O.W.L.S, it will make it quite difficult for you to be instated as my replacement.”

She had been fifteen and he had been her professor. She had thought, at the time, that he had been insinuating that she angle herself toward becoming a Hogwarts professor, so as to replace him when he was appointed Headmaster, as they had all known he would be. Study hard, dear child, he had told her, and she had. She had idolized that man. If he had told her to quit school, shave her head, and join a Muggle circus in Pakistan, she wouldn’t have thought twice. Damn him. She remembered the order well. She would succeed him, but she would never replace him.

“I think you’d all best move your reunion to the quarters I have assigned you,” her voice carried across the near silent room, over their hushed whispers. They turned to look at her. Frank and Alice, alive and well. Minerva smiled and then tamped it down, drawing deeply on her self-discipline to maintain her outward control. If she was to be Headmistress, she would need to keep the appearance of control more than ever before. They would all be looking to her for answers, looking to her for leadership and guidance. But she was happy to see them again. They had never been friends, not close friends, but she had known them well, fought alongside them. She was glad they could have this, a second chance.

“Is there something wrong, Minerva?” Alice asked, but Ginny shook her head, the corner of her lips turning up.

“Professor Snape is on his way up,” the girl explained. “And what Professor McGonagall needs to tell him, it’ll be better if there weren’t an audience.” She looked down at Neville, who turned his head up to smile at her. “The Headmaster left some goodbyes for him.”

Minerva tilted her head as she eyed the girl, and she felt Albus prod her with a distant finger. She smiled to herself. Yes, yes, old man. She could see this one for herself. The head of Hogwarts always needed a successor.

She watched as they trailed out from the office and then she stood from her seat and smoothed out her robes, in time for Snape to stride into the room. His trousers were caked in mud and his hands bore evidence of dirty work, with mud dug beneath his fingernails.

She wished Albus had left her instructions, for she was absolutely lost when it came to emotional support and care. She had always rather been of the opinion that people either lived or died, and that anything fancier than that was not her business. She imagined herself plying Severus Snape with tea and drawing the dark angst from the man with lemon sherbets and intimate conversation, and then promptly shook the image off. Snape would never take her seriously at that.

“Minerva,” Snape said, walking into the room.

“Severus,” she replied and held out a hand, letting him choose a seat for himself before taking another. She hadn’t yet managed to seat herself behind the desk. She might have to invest in a new desk and a new chair, but at the same time, she thought perhaps she shouldn’t. Who knew what hidden secrets that desk might hold? Albus had had a wide circle of influential and important friendships, some of which had ties all the way back to Merlin himself. He had objects and texts and miscellanea which had previously belonged to wizards and witches of grand power, although if anyone knew where these objects were, they were lucky indeed.

“I was wondering when you might come by.”

Snape turned his head toward her, and she shuddered to see his eyes so dark and bleak. “I have had a rather eventful morning.”

Minerva nodded. “I assume we all have, although I don’t doubt that yours has been particularly so.” She paused and then nodded toward the windowed alcove. “I trust you have adequately disposed of the body?”

“Quite,” his voice was a hard line, unbreakable. “The Dark Lord is no longer. At least until the next arises.”

“Is that bound to happen soon?”

He moved in what was almost a shrug, but subtle, as though he could not commit to the gesture. “That isn’t for me to know, I’m afraid. I have disconnected myself from anyone who might rise to take up the title.”

She nodded again, disturbed by his tone of voice and the set of his shoulders. She hadn’t seen Snape so self-contained and rigid since Voldemort had been reborn, and before that, since the former dark lord’s death.

“The Ministry will not be pleased to lose their prize.”

“The Ministry is rarely pleased by anything save themselves.”

She frowned at him. “Has something happened, Severus?”

He looked at her as if she might be mad, which was a not wholly new expression for him to direct at her. “Why yes. I thought certainly you’d have noticed. There was a war, one which has yet to be completely resolved as I doubt all the Death Eaters were captured. There was a battle on the grounds of Hogwarts. Albus died. Voldemort died. And Harry Potter killed him.”

She sighed and said, “I meant something less obvious, Severus.”

“Less obvious? Something… surprising, then? Something previously unknown to most?”

“Something to you, my friend. You are upset.”

His mouth quirked upward in the corner and he tucked his hands into his sleeves. “It is nothing that I should not have foreseen,” he replied and then, she assumed, changed the subject. “The body of Lucius Malfoy has not been located. I believe we can assume he survived and has likely gone into hiding. Hagrid is also still missing, as I’m sure you’re aware. And the eldest Weasley boy and the metamorph have yet to return from their supposed mission. I don’t suppose Albus left some record of where he might have sent them?”

“Funny you should ask,” she said and nodded toward a small recess where Albus had kept his pensieve. “He left instruction that you, and you alone, were to have full possession and access to his memories. He left nothing else, from what I have seen, no other messages, no other instructions. If you could glean some information from what he has left…”

Snape sighed and said dryly, “A parting gift. I am touched beyond measure.”

“I’m quite certain you are. I’ll leave you to it. I’m due shortly at the Ministry to take part in a press conference.” She stood and collected her hat, running her fingers along the brim. “Send an owl if anything pertinent emerges.”

She left Snape behind, unaccountably amused by the glare he directed toward the inert pensieve.

It was dusk before Harry found the strength to consider returning to the castle. Lights flickered from the windows as he returned, just as they always had, though there were fewer lights now – fewer windows also.

He cast his eyes up to the profile of the castle, standing out against the twilight sky. The North tower was in ruins, with sections of nearby roof collapsed under the weight of the toppled stone walls. Several other sections of wall lay scattered across the ground like discarded building blocks. The Gryffindor tower had seen better days. Much of the roof had caught fire and the flames and soot had stained the upper section of the tower black. Half the greenhouses were in ruin. The Quidditch grounds were a churned mess of mud, ash and blood. It was not quite the dilapidated ruin glamour the Muggles saw, but it was not what it once was. It looked slumped and beaten.

Inside, people talked of rebuilding and of new beginnings and brighter futures. The Death Eaters were beaten. Voldemort was dead. Everything was going to be just fine now, they said.

Harry had once thought Hogwarts was the safest, most wonderful place on earth. It had been his home, more than anything else had ever been home to him, and its people had been his family. He had never fully considered a life in which he was apart from it. At the beginning, he had been too young to look that far ahead, and then, it had seemed futile to anticipate something that would be unattainable for him. He was supposed to die. He had never had the chance to imagine a future away from Hogwarts.

Who was Harry Potter without Hogwarts?

He had died. But once again, he lived. And now his entire future stretched out before him, a blank, empty canvas, waiting for him to complete. He had no idea what to do with it. He hadn’t made any plans. He had no home. No family. No job, no plans, no ideas – he didn’t even know what he might be good at, what he might enjoy doing, what skills he had that could be employable.

He could kill. But that wasn’t a job. It shouldn’t be. He didn’t want to kill anyone ever again.

He had once been able to fly fairly well, but he hadn’t been on his broom in over a year – he couldn’t just step into Quidditch in his rusty state.

Harry stared up at the castle and thought a moment. He could talk to snakes. He could become a snake charmer or he could help people get unwanted snakes out of their houses – places like Florida or India or… other places that had snakes… the Amazon. Maybe he could meet his friend from the zoo again.

He sighed and took off his glasses to rub at his eyes.

He wasn’t fooling himself. He’d never fool anyone else. He didn’t want to go back inside the castle. He didn’t want to eat food in the main hall. He didn't want to commiserate, or celebrate, with those who had survived. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He didn’t want to make nice, pretend to be happy, talk about plans for Hogwarts, plans for himself.

Severus didn’t want him, not anymore. And the Gryffindor tower had been damaged by fire, so he didn’t even have anywhere to sleep anymore. He couldn’t go back to Severus to collect his things and what did he have anyways? Dudley’s old clothes? Notebooks to classes he no longer took? His invisibility cloak and his broom, perhaps, but he could let Ron have both. He didn’t need them anymore.

Severus was done with him. Hedwig was dead. Ron and Hermione were moving on. Remus had betrayed him. Hagrid had betrayed him. Neville, Dumbledore. They had all sold him out, sent him away to get tortured and… and hurt and…

And Hogwarts didn’t need him. There would be others to help rebuild.

He lifted his hand to clutch at the medallion about his neck.

He could leave. He could go anywhere. Soon, the Ministry would step in and name him a hero twice over. The Boy Who Lived and Died and Lived Again. They’d want to give him a medal for killing Voldemort and the very thought of it made him feel ill.

Hermione and Ron would get married. They’d want him to be best man. He’d have to smile and plan a bachelor party and give his best friend away. People would ask him his own plans. They’d want him to settle down and get his picture taken in the Prophet with someone on his arm. They’d want him to be happy.

Even if Severus reconsidered, would he want to settle down in that way? Marry? Adopt children and buy a house and go to charity events or whatever else they all expected Harry to do? Severus would never want children. Would never want to make nice at charity events or have his picture in the paper. He didn’t want the attention and being with Harry would only ever mean attention. Harry knew he wasn’t special enough, worthy enough, to make Severus consider compromising on such big impositions.

And did it even matter? Severus had once told him he had loved him, had said the words, and Harry had yelled at him and rejected it, because it couldn’t be real. People didn’t love him. Not really. But, then again, maybe Severus had loved him. And maybe he had loved Severus back – or as close to love as he could get anymore. He couldn’t feel it at the moment, but he couldn’t feel anything at the moment. He knew the potential must still be in him, unless it had died when he had died, when he had killed Tom. Maybe his feelings and his own heart were crushed as he had crushed Tom’s.

Maybe they had loved each other and he had ruined it.

The moon rose over the north wing of the castle, cresting the roof and highlighting the sections of broken roof and the ashy destruction. The light fell over him and he suddenly felt chilled to the bone.

This was no longer his home.

Harry squeezed the medallion. The bones in his fingers creaked.

He was not meant to survive. He was not meant to return here. This was not where he was meant to be.

The medallion scalded his palm as Hogwarts disappeared and the slumped pillars of Gringotts appeared in its place. Diagon Alley was dark, but goblins didn’t care for sleep, he knew. He gripped the medallion and gave it a sharp yank and the chain snapped from his neck. He pushed through the large doors and into the quiet bank.

The fireplace made a loud crack and Snape roused himself from his tangle of thoughts. He glanced around his study. The light from the high slitted windows had gone and, if not for the crackling fire in his study’s fireplace, it would have been very dark in the candleless room. He’d clearly missed evening meal and would have to request something from the elves.

He hadn’t seen Harry, he realised, since he’d left him by what had been of Voldemort’s corpse. The idiot boy must have come in at some point. He wasn’t still out in the cold mud.

Snape extinguished the fire and left to his rooms. He was exhausted but fully expected a tiresome evening with Harry. Tom Riddle was a hard man to escape, he knew, but he wanted nothing more for Harry than for him to shake off Voldemort’s hold on him. It was possible. He had done it himself. Granted, it had taken him the better part of 10 years, but Harry was stronger than he was, more resilient. Harry had to be capable of seeing how absurd it was to give such weight to someone who could never deserve it. Tom was not and had never been a good man. He was not worthy of any sort of devotion. Harry would have to see that sooner rather than later.

The rooms were cold and dark when he arrived and he lit the fire with a glance as he entered. Clearly, Harry had not been here either, but he had to be somewhere. Should he look for him? Where could he be? How long was he required to suffer Harry’s sulks?

He turned at soft pop sound to his left and found one of the house elves, clutching at her long ear with one hand. She had a length of purple ribbon tied about her neck in a makeshift bow tie.

“Yes?”

“Sir, a letter for you sir. By owl.” She held out a white parchment envelope and he took it and identified it as Gringotts paper. It was weighted to one side, as though it held a loose coin, sliding about within the paper.

“Thank you,” he told the elf, who nodded and disappeared, and he puzzled at the envelope. It was addressed by official goblin hand, but he couldn’t fathom what it might contain. His affairs were as in order as the meagre amount required.

He slid his thumb beneath the seal and pulled the letter from the envelope. A gold coin fell from between the folds of the paper and he caught it by the chain before it hit the floor. The medallion was at first cold to the touch, but immediately warmed between his fingers and crackled with energy against his skin. He knew this medallion, of course. It had quite recently hung around his lover’s neck.

He swallowed painfully, as if around glass shards, and he turned his attention to the letter.

Dear Mister Severus Snape (Prof.; Mtr of Potions):
The enclosed has been accorded to you as per the wishes of the estate of Mister Harry Potter.
Further contact in this matter is neither necessary nor expected.
Dunolrad the Efficient
Vault Assets and Distribution
Gringotts Wizarding Bank

He went cold and the medallion slipped from his numb fingers to hit the stone floor with a sharp sound and it pinged off into the shadows of the room.

He read the letter again, turned the page over and glanced into the envelope again for good measure, but there was no new information to be found.

Further contact in this matter is neither necessary nor expected.

That was clear, wasn’t it.

He crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it toward the fire. It bounced from the mantle and flew off, following the medallion into the shadows of the room.

Severus glanced at the twin chairs by the fire. They had made love in one of them, so recently, it felt as if he might still have their sweat on his body. He looked at the door to his rooms, where they had slept, and loved, and then at the other door, which still held all of Harry’s things.

A curl of nausea threatened him, but he swallowed down around it.

He pulled out his wand and flicked it at Harry’s door. The lock clicked and then the door itself vanished into the stone. He then vanished the two chairs.

One of his books fell to the ground as the chair disappeared. He bent to pick it up automatically. It was one of his newer manuscripts, sent to him, and written, by an acquaintance of his from a monastery in western China. The inscription on the inside cover read:

Severus, Should you ever find yourself in my corner of the world, you will find my door open to you and the kettle warm. Wu Niàn Zhēn

He traced his thumb over the inscription thoughtfully and then closed the book with a snap. The room was glaringly empty without the chairs. He waved his wand and his books piled themselves into neat rows on his small table. He summoned a parchment and quill and sketched a quick note for Minerva. She could be entrusted with their preservation.

Severus tucked the inscripted book under his arm and slid his wand back into his sleeve. There was nothing else he needed that he couldn’t replace.

He bent and picked up the medallion from where it had fallen, hidden beneath his small table. Its magic prickled against his palm and he curled his fingers around it.

He felt the tug in his midriff as he Apparated to the Ministry, where he ignored everyone and found his way to the Department of Magical Transportation, International Portkey Division. It was staffed, even at such an hour, and a young witch, one he recognized from several years past, sat up and before she could open her mouth, he said, “One portkey for the Lhasa region. One-way. Immediately.”

“I… yes,” she stuttered, shuffling papers, and she set one down in front of him. “An international portkey is normally 75 Galleons, but for such short notice, I’m afraid I will have to add a 25 Galleon surcharge, bringing us to a total of 100. Your signature please, Professor.”

That was a sizeable chunk of his savings. He would not be able to afford a return trip, not for some time, not without finding employment.

He took up the offered quill and signed the parchment, and the witch (was her name Tabitha?) reached into a nearby filing cabinet and emerged with a fist-sized rubber duck with large blue eyes and a toothy grin. She set it down on her desk and tapped it with her wand as she cast the Portus spell to transform it into a portkey. Once completed, she gave the duck a sharp nod.

“It’s ready. Pleasant trip, sir.”

He nodded to the witch and looked down at the portkey. It stared back at him with its wide eyes, and he sucked in a deep, painful breath, took hold of it and disappeared.