Fic: Time Remembered
Title: Time Remembered
Rating: none
Word Count: 8500
Characters and/or Pairings: Filius Flitwick and his fellow Heads of House
Summary: Now that Severus is Headmaster and the Carrows prowl around, is there any seasonal cheer to be had? Filius, for one, has no intention of cancelling Christmas.
Warnings: I’ve nicked a few ideas from Pottermore. And from Swinburne. And from Filius’s diary. But in between, there is a line or two of my own.
Disclaimer: JKR owns Harry Potter. And she’s welcome to Pottermore, too.
Author's Notes: Written for this year's hoggywartyxmas. I completely forgot to repost it, but here it is. With my heartfelt thanks to my wonderful betas, tetleythesecond and kellychambliss.
For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
-Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909),
Filius Flitwick woke up with the nasty shock of a man who realizes he has seriously overslept. The room was full of daylight, bright daylight, even. It could only mean he was hours behind with his work, had missed breakfast, perhaps even lunch.
He blinked at the brightness of his room. It was uncanny for a bleak, Scottish winter day. Everything seemed filled with light.
Of course! Smiling, he sank back into the cushions. Snow. That explained the luminosity and that special silence where sound wasn’t gone, merely very muted. He put on his glasses and checked his alarm. Nearly seven o’clock; it would go off any minute. He turned it off, got out of bed, and walked to the window.
Hogwarts looked beautiful. Rather, Filius mused, the way it must have looked when the Founders started it. At this early hour there were no reminders of the twentieth century: no streamlined brooms, no students with their too-modern haircuts. No Carrows.
This, then, was more or less what Helga, Godric, Rowena, and Salazar had seen when they had looked out of their windows at the first snow of the year. He had been thinking of the Founders a lot, lately. About their ideals. And their falling-out. But today he wanted to remember the way they must have collaborated. The joy they must have felt, bringing it all together.
Strange how snow still had the power to make him all happy and excited. Whenever he woke to the first snow of the season, he felt optimism and that childish joy that is made up of sleigh-rides, slides, and snowmen. Would this be good snowman snow?
Silly thought for a grown man. Surely at his age it should just mean the annoyance of endless melting charms without which he couldn’t walk in deep snow and the bother of overly-boisterous students? Why would one think of a pure, new world? Beautiful as it might look right now, he had realized long ago that the only thing as pure as the driven snow was, in fact, the driven snow. Everything man-made was in various shades of grey. Even now, when no man was outside to spoil the purity, there was a greyish-blue rectangle on the spotless white. The shadow of the Astronomy Tower. How fitting. The Astronomy Tower had thrown the darkest of shadows on all of their lives after the sickening thud that had broken Albus’s bones and their little group.
After Potter’s unbelievable revelation, Pomona and he had joined Minerva in Dumbledore’s office. Minerva had taken control, as they knew she would. They had looked at her for directions, and that was when they had had the first, ghastly intimation of the truth. For Minerva had hesitated, had been indecisive. Minerva, then, didn’t know what to do either? That could only mean one thing - but surely, either Albus or Severus had confided in her? Surely she, of all people, knew which step to take next?
Finally, Pomona had said that the school should remain open for as long as there was a single student who wanted lessons. Filius had exhorted her to let the Board decide - this wasn’t the time to make a snap decision they would regret later.
And afterwards, when the three of them were finally left alone, Filius had suggested that for some reason - that hand of Albus’s, that darkest of curses - Albus had planned his own death. Had asked Severus … the idea that Albus would ask that much of Severus was almost preposterous, but not as bad as the idea that Severus had actually murdered Albus. Murder would mean Severus’s true allegiance had been with the Dark Lord all along, and that was unthinkable. It couldn’t - it mustn’t be true.
“I am convinced that you are right,” Minerva had said, carefully enunciating every word. Back ramrod-straight, eyes dry, hands still. Knuckles white from clutching those hands in a desperate bid for self-control. She had taken a deep breath, as if she wanted to say more, but had turned around and hurried away instead.
“Convinced…” Pomona had whispered. Filius had swallowed several times. It was one of the most heart-breaking statements he had ever heard. Minerva didn’t know, then. Neither Albus nor Severus had confided in her. Half a century of friendship between her and Albus. More than friendship, so much more, between her and Severus. No wonder Minerva had been indecisive. Her whole world had been shattered.
When Severus had been appointed Headmaster, it had taken all of Filius’s courage to look at Minerva. Her face had told him all. She still knew nothing more. Snape had simply severed all ties and now went his own, ice-cold way. It was the only time Filius had thought of him as Snape. On all other occasions he forced himself to call him Severus, in his thoughts at least. In public, with the Carrows prowling around, he stuck with Headmaster.
The light that loses, the night that wins…
The night would not win. He had looked for light wherever he could. The fact that all Order members were still alive, that Severus hadn’t betrayed any of them, that was light. For months that had been the only light in a world where students were tortured, were forced to torture each other, where the Headmaster didn’t interfere. Where Severus did not contact any of them, gave no sign, no message, no look even that spoke of their friendship. He truly had severed all ties, in the manner of a man who didn’t plan to return.
Ever since You-Know-Who’s return, Severus had been a double agent. Which meant that You-Know-Who had to be as convinced of Severus’s allegiance to him as Filius was of his allegiance to Albus. And that was the whole problem in a nutshell. Severus had been, was still a perfect actor. He was that good he had convinced the Dark Lord. Or was he that good he had convinced Albus? Which part was acted? As the weeks went by, Filius had begun to despair - had they then, truly, had a Death Eater in their midst for years?
But when Christmas drew nearer, he had made his way to Severus’s office. “Surely, you don’t plan to cancel Christmas, Headmaster?” he had asked. And for one fleeting moment, Severus’s face had softened. They had shared a happy memory, even if no words were spoken.
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
Filius went to his desk, removed the wards from the bottom drawer, unlocked it, and took out last year’s diary. He would remember the good times. That’s why he kept a diary, after all. Time remembered is grief forgotten
*~*~*~*~*~*
December 18th, 1996
Ridiculous notion of the Board, that a ‘small, subdued festivity’ is more suitable in the current, grim situation. True, the Ministry is fairly short of money, what with the repairs after the fight in the Hall of Prophecy and the Atrium. But that’s no reason to deprive the children of some much-needed Yuletide cheer.
Scrimgeour has clearly instructed Thicknesse to aim for minimum expenditure. I also strongly suspect that he called Albus away on urgent Ministry business just to give Thicknesse a better chance of succeeding. And Thicknesse did his best. Not that his best is anywhere near good enough, when faced with the four of us.
”We need every Knut we can save for the reconstruction, and besides, the Minister strongly feels that in these grim times we can’t celebrate Christmas as if nothing were happening. Already there are various Hogwarts students who have lost Beloved Ones. It’s a mark of respect for them to restrict festivities,” said Thicknesse in a voice that aimed for mellifluous but didn’t get beyond maudlin.
“That’s nonsense.” Pomona’s briskness shattered the mood effectively. “There’s no point in wallowing in despair. We will not celebrate Christmas as if nothing has happened; we all miss and remember the victims, our own student Cedric Diggory among them. But we’ll celebrate nonetheless.”
“Besides,” I added, “Christmas is the season of peace and goodwill - it won’t hurt our students to be reminded of goodwill to each other, regardless of their House or their ancestry.”
“Furthermore,” said Severus, and paused briefly. Thicknesse, who had clearly expected some support, since Christmas Jollifications and Professor Snape can hardly be put in the same phrase without smiling, looked crestfallen at that ominous ‘furthermore’.
“Furthermore, it might send out the wrong message if we were to inform the students and their parents that the Ministry sees fit to cancel Christmas.”
But Thicknesse is not one who gives up easily. “We’re merely trying to limit an excessive gaiety and merry-making which, according to the Ministry, is not in keeping with the losses our community has suffered already. Surely our Beloved Ones would want to be remembered in a manner befitting … I mean, a manner …”
Making eye contact with Minerva McGonagall when you’re talking balderdash is never a good idea. The poor chap was fighting a lost battle and he knew it. That was the second time he trotted out ‘our Beloved Ones’. I quite looked forward to Minerva finishing him off.
“I fully agree with my esteemed colleagues,” the Deputy Headmistress said, “and I’d like to add that the opinion of the dead, even if they were capable of expressing it, is immaterial.” She paused and looked briefly at the Chairman.
Writers often mention meaningful looks, but can a look actually say, “Put that in your pipe and smoke it?” Since this afternoon’s meeting, I’m inclined to think it can.
“Life is for the living,” Minerva continued, “and the living will celebrate Christmas at Hogwarts. In a manner befitting the situation.”
A small gesture to save his face, but Thicknesse accepted it eagerly. It’s a wise man who knows when he’s beaten. “That’s what I meant,” he said. “The celebrations should befit the occasion. I’m glad you all agree with me.” He then invited us to a small - a very small - Christmas drink at the Ministry, and praised us loudly when we all declined on the grounds of not leaving Hogwarts and the students. So audible was his relief that I almost have second thoughts on that party; the Ministry clearly has no intention of joining the economy-drive it seeks to impose, and the food and drink promise to be top notch.
“Such dedicated people,” Thicknesse babbled on, “and all working so admirably together in the best interests of the children and staff members. You must be quite like a family to each other, after all these years.”
Pomona nodded, with an uncharacteristically thin smile. She’s kind enough to appreciate the effort that was made, if not the actual comparison.
Minerva cleared her throat and said, “Quite.”
Thicknesse looked that anxious I took pity on him and gave him a real smile.
Finally, Severus raised his goblet. “I am so pleased to hear you say that,” he said, suavely and with an expression that was as close to a benevolent smile as he can get. Thicknesse beamed. He will use this to turn the evening into a success story when he gets home. “My little speech at High Table went down very well,” he will tell his wife, “and when I compared them to a little family they were visibly touched. Professor Snape even said …” Moments like that are a litmus test for a good marriage. Will his wife smile back and call it a marvellous success, or will she tell him to try pulling the other leg - it’s as uncharacteristic as possible, and did he test the Snape-lookalike for Polyjuice Potion?
*~*~*~*~*
Filius closed his diary with a smile. Family, indeed. Worst idea the poor chap could have had. When asked, his colleagues would say they hated it because it was a cliché. But that wasn’t the real reason why they disliked the notion so much, even though there was some truth in it. Each and every year, notably around Christmas, some condescending Ministry official trotted it out. Bets were made on its being mentioned. At the time, Filius had known that Minerva and Severus had had a bet on the poor chap making the familiar remark again. But even in his diary he had refused to speculate on how the winner had been paid. There was such a thing as too much information. During the meeting it had been difficult not to grin, though, when Severus had made that uncharacteristic “I’m so glad” remark. More difficult even when Filius had seen Minerva’s glare.
Slowly, he got up from behind his desk. There was work to do. Breakfast first, then a brief round among those of his Ravenclaws who spent Christmas at school. He’d send them out to play - he did hope the snow was snowman-quality. It would do them a world of good. Then he’d check on the decorations and he’d wrap his gifts. At least there were decorations, he thought as he donned his robes and laced up his boots, and they would celebrate Christmas in spite of everything. The trees and garlands were already in place, but some refreshment charms would be in order. And he’d have to replace some of the mistletoe.
After breakfast, Filius did a brisk round of refreshment spells and mistletoe-work. Replacing it where it had gone missing, retrieving the missing mistletoe from where it shouldn’t be. There was an official rule at Hogwarts that mistletoe was only appropriate in proper, public places. As with many official rules it merely created more work, since students had their own definition of proper. It included, but was not limited to, the canopies of their four-poster beds.
This year, Filch’s mop cupboard had been rather an original place; he had to give them that. It was also a fairly safe spot, and he had been that glad of the irrepressible spirit of his students that he had just cast a refreshment charm on the little sprig and a some strong protective charms on the whole cupboard - the students could have a good time, with the Carrows none the wiser.
Back in his rooms, as Filius set out everything he needed for gift wrapping, his thoughts went back to the notion of colleagues as second family. Pomona, Minerva, and Severus all had their own excellent reasons for disliking the idea. Filius himself might have made the comparison, cliché or not, for in his case it held much truth. But Filius had been singularly blessed with his real family.
His sister Philippa had always welcomed him and had given him opportunities to take his little niece and nephews on outings and bond with them. She had been proud when he was made Head of Ravenclaw. And when he had Owled her to say that this meant he could no longer join them on Christmas Day, since he needed to be there for his students, he had received an Owl back telling him that, if he could make it on Boxing Day, the full turkey-and-cranberry-sauce lunch would take place then. He had protested, of course, on behalf of the children. They deserved a proper Christmas.
Philippa had Floo-ed over to tell him that on Christmas Day the young ones would get their presents and would be allowed to choose what they’d eat for lunch. And that they might be young, but they were old enough to learn what Christmas really was about. She had had her way, of course, and on one memorable occasion Christmas Day lunch had consisted of chips, peanut butter sauce, and treacle tart.
Filius grinned as he wrapped his presents for the little devils. A book each - they all loved reading, thank Merlin. A toy and what he called ‘the little extra’. Philippa would say he was buying Wonderfully Wicked Uncle status. And if he was, so what? This year would be great. In the past, Zonko had always delivered perfectly satisfactory things, but a few months ago he had discovered the Owl Order catalogue of Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes. The inspired, innovative ideas of those two wonderful boys would raise Filius’s reputation to the stars. He almost regretted the detentions he had handed those geniuses in the past. Almost.
The Decoy Detonators were brilliant. But he would act as a responsible adult, yes, he would. He would carefully point out how very wrong it would be to set them off at Madam Trevelyan’s utterly boring annual Turkey Curry Party. He’d make sure the little rascals would fully grasp the amount of upheaval that could be caused. In fact, he might ask his colleagues to cover for him for an extra hour or so and go himself. To see how those things … to see what the kids … that is, to attend the neighbourly gathering kind Madam Trevelyan organized. And to take his share of the blame - he owed the children that much.
That was family: a shared history, shared jokes, and, above all, real support. He was lucky, indeed.
But take Pomona, Filius thought, wrapping the full-colour picture book of the Boboli Gardens that had struck him as the perfect Christmas gift for his Herbology colleague when he had visited Florence that summer. Wouldn’t it be awful if Pomona thought her colleagues were like her family?
Pomona’s dreadful sister and selfish brother always expected her on Boxing Day, too - to visit their elderly parents. Both siblings claimed it was too stressful to organise a full Christmas family lunch - they had families, small children, they were rushed of their feet already. “It’s understandable,” Pomona said, unfailingly loyal, “they both want to spend Christmas just with their own family, and I’m glad to do my bit.”
It meant that she hardly ever saw her nieces and nephews. She did show their colleagues pictures, occasionally, but those were usually years old, “for those selfish sods can’t even be bothered to send her a recent photograph,” Minerva would mutter angrily. Pomona spent the whole of Boxing Day listening to her parents’ complaints and doing odd jobs about the house, “since everything is always done for you at Hogwarts, so it must be quite nice to be useful for a change, and besides, it’s not as if you have any other plans for Christmas” as her sister would point out.
The same argument was used for every holiday and free weekend Pomona had. “They have their families to look after, and I’m fancy-free, as they call it,” Pomona always said as she set off for yet another round of what her brother called ‘a daughter’s duties’. They all felt sorry for her, and Minerva, her close friend since their shared student days, often raged to Filius about “that ghastly lot. But there’s nothing to be done about it; Pomona is too loyal by half.”
But a few years ago things had changed. When Cedric Diggory had been killed, Pomona’s sister had told her that they had plans to go skiing for Christmas, and Pomona could look after the old folks, as it was quite likely there would be changes after the dramatic events at Hogwarts, wasn’t it? Most unfortunate that a student in Pomona’s care had died, and far be it from her to suggest Pomona was in any way responsible, but the Hogwarts Board … Pomona’s position as Head of House …
Pomona had told her colleagues, not out of any genuine concern for her job, but simply because it had hurt her so much she couldn't ignore it.
“That’s it,” Minerva had said. “That’s bloody it. I’m going to take action here and now.” Pomona had smiled - they had all smiled. There was nothing Minerva could do, of course, but the support was like a warm blanket to Pomona. And it was the first time after Cedric’s death that Minerva had been in full Lion of Gryffindor mode - they had all been relieved to see it.
No-one had given Minerva’s statement a second thought. Minerva herself had never mentioned again. It had taken Filius a long time before he had seen the cunning plan.
Step one: hiring a replacement for Hagrid, and selecting pleasant, helpful, cheerful Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank. Who just happened to be delightfully butch, too. And very capable - trust Minerva not to make concessions on quality.
Step two: introducing Wilhelmina to her colleagues and asking Pomona “to show Willa the ropes, take her under your wing a bit, until she’s familiar with the place.”
Step three: the most difficult of all. Doing absolutely nothing and allowing things to happen either naturally or not at all.
Step four: agreeing wholeheartedly to a request from Pomona - on their Monthly Meeting after Hagrid’s sudden return - that her chimney be made Floo-accessible. Minerva hadn’t even asked her for a reason. Filius had been surprised at that unusual lack of interest. Then he’d started thinking, and only then had he realized that this was, in fact, step four of a plan.
Step five had happened a few weeks later, when they discussed Christmas arrangements. Pomona had asked whether they would all think it very self-centred of her if she wouldn’t visit her parents on Boxing Day. “Not selfish at all,” Minerva had said with a warm smile, “you deserve a bit of fun, my dear, and just for once your family can lump it. You’ve given them much more than they ever gave back. Spend Boxing Day wherever and with whomever you like. And give Willa a hug for me, will you?”
It was exactly the kind of tactful and clever thing Philippa would have done. And in terms of age Minerva could have been Pomona’s older sister. By a few years, a source of perpetual entertainment during the Monthly Meetings.
“You will remember, Pomona, that I am older and, arguably, wiser than you …”
“Oh, I do remember, my dear. And yet such a youthful look about you - if I ever reach your age, I hope you’ll tell me your secret …”
Ah, those Monthly Meetings. That too, Filius thought, was part of being a family. Having a language of your own. Monthly Meeting of the Heads of House meant a quick round of coffee and current affairs, and then several hours of drinks and the vigorous exchange of useful information that the uninitiated might call ‘gossip’ - hence the term “uninitiated”.
And, the next morning at breakfast, Severus’s polite “Pumpkin juice, Filius? Pomona? Minerva?” and a generous measure of an orange liquid, from a little pitcher brought and brewed by the Potions Master himself. Pumpkin Juice had become such a fixed expression that Filius had once frowned at a first-year who had entered the Great Hall clamouring for it - surely, at that age, one shouldn’t have hangovers yet? “I think my little badgerkin actually meant ‘pumpkin juice’. You know, made from those big, round, orange things?” Pomona had grinned.
Filius smiled and picked up a fresh sheet of wrapping paper and Minerva’s gift.
Minerva and Severus - now there were two people who had excellent reasons to be grateful that they weren’t, in fact, family. For years they had sparred together, betted together, and exchanged sardonic smiles. The sexual tension between them had been palpable on occasions, and had Severus not been such an intensely private man, Filius would have asked him a polite variation of “Why don’t you just shag her senseless - you know you both want to.” Although, in the case of his dear Ravendor, senseless might be beyond the skills of even a man like Severus.
And then, Filius rather thought it was at the start of the Quirrell year, the four of them had met in Minerva’s rooms for their first Monthly Meeting of the term. After the coffee and official business, she had risen to fetch a bottle of Firewhisky. And, without being asked, Severus had risen, too, and had opened a cupboard and fetched glasses with the ease of a man who was totally at home. Minerva had poured, Severus had fetched nibbles, and Pomona and Filius had looked at each other and smiled.
Later that year, when they had had their annual discussion of who took which day off around Christmas, Minerva had asked whether it would be very inconvenient if she and Severus had the same day - any day after the twenty-sixth would be fine, she had added, they knew Pomona and Filius would want Boxing Day. Pomona had hastened to assure her that it was perfectly all right, “whatever day is convenient for the two of you, my dear.” Minerva had thanked them with an adorable half-smile, and “We are most grateful,” Severus had added, with an almost imperceptible stress on we. Pomona and Filius had raised their glasses in a toast, silently, but with watermelon grins.
Minerva would appreciate the book he’d bought for her. She loved poetry, and this edition of Swinburne’s work was an exquisite one. On the card that went with it, Filius had copied out the Time Remembered poem that was so much on his mind lately. He had adorned it with an elaborate border of swirls and curly lines - in red and green. If Minerva wanted to, she could take it as a fitting, Christmassy decoration. But Filius knew that his Ravendor would see beyond, would see the intricate pattern in Gryffindor red and Slytherin green, each colour a necessary part of the design, each bringing out what was best and brightest in the other, two halves of a whole. And she would realize why he had chosen that particular poem.
No, they were not a second family. There was nothing ‘second best’ about what they shared. They weren’t even a second set of Founders. True, Pomona was everything Hufflepuff stood for. Loyal, warm, dedicated, hard-working. Minerva was as courageous a Knight as Godric himself - and she would make a fine Rowena, too. He himself had a lot of Ravenclaw qualities. And he had been called a Gryffinclaw often enough to convince him that the Sorting Hat might have had a reason to hesitate.
And Severus? Cunning, yes. Ambitious. Highly intelligent. But, while no-one in their right mind would give Severus the Teacher’s Award for Fairness, prejudiced against Muggleborns he was not - against Gryffindors, sometimes; against dunderheads, most assuredly. As a result, Gryffindor’s less talented students tended to drop Potions as soon as they could. Filius smiled wryly as he realised how Severus would smirk at that remark. “It is because they drop potions that I want them to drop Potions, before they have to brew something truly dangerous that would burn away the floor,” he would say.
But Filius had never seen Salazar’s infamous preference for Purebloods in Severus. He hadn’t seen it during this dreadful year either. That, too, said something of a man’s innermost convictions - it was another spot of light. He would hold on to that thought.
For if he was quite honest with himself, his current feelings towards Severus were not completely unlike Minerva’s. He, too, had been deeply hurt that Severus hadn’t confided in him. Less than Minerva, of course. The bond between Severus and himself most assuredly wasn’t a bond between lovers. It was … it was why he, too, now resented the notion of second family. For he had long thought of Severus as a brother.
Filius had never had a brother, so he hadn’t really known how that bond was supposed to feel. Not all brothers were like the Weasley Twins, of course. They were a freak of nature, a one-time occurrence. They had to be - no teacher should have to deal with pranks on that scale twice in his career.
But lately he had been thinking of brothers like Regulus and Sirius, snarling at each other like angry dogs, and like Aberforth and Albus, who had lived in the same village for decades but never even mentioned each other except to make a churlish remark. When Albus had told Hagrid to do as his brother had done, which was to ignore malicious articles in the Daily Prophet, Filius had been pleasantly surprised, but, “actually, I’m not sure it’s meritorious, for I doubt Aberforth can read,” Albus had continued. Filius had cleared his throat in a pointed manner, and Albus had assured him it was just a very old joke between them - something he often said. But it didn’t sound like a joke, although Filius was willing to believe that Albus often said it.
The bond he had had with Severus, however - if there were brothers who felt like that, he congratulated them. During his first years of teaching at Hogwarts, Filius hadn’t had any close male friends. He got along fine with Binns, in the vague way of ghostly contacts. And he really liked Hagrid. A mutual feeling, he thought, but Hagrid was an outdoorsy man, and Filius emphatically was not. Also, through no fault of either, a lengthy conversation with Hagrid gave him a sore neck.
And then Severus had arrived. A silent, withdrawn young man. Immensely talented. Wasted on our students, Filius had sometimes thought; this chap should be at a University.
In a few years, Severus had settled into the routine of Hogwarts and teaching. When Albus made him Head of House, no-one could deny it was a well-deserved promotion. The three of them had been anxious, however, Pomona, Minerva, and himself. They got along just fine, and Severus was still very much an unknown quantity. And the only part that was public knowledge was his Death Eater past.
“He has worked hard, true, and Albus does trust him completely. But to make him Head of House?” Filius had wondered to Minerva. Usually, such a mild hint was enough to make the Deputy Headmistress take action. On this occasion, however, Minerva had hesitated. And then she had asked …
Filius returned to his desk, and took out another volume of his diaries. Not an entry he checked often, this one. Not a happy memory. But today of all days was a time to read it again.
*~*~*~*~*~*
May 16th, 1987
I want to write down exactly what I’ve heard today. Just Severus’s story, as verbatim as I can manage. It’s a story that needs to be written somewhere. It’s a story that needs to be thought about, but right now I can’t think properly. I can write it down, however, and that’s what I’ll do.
“So you want to know about my Death Eater past?” Severus said simply when I had mumbled and stuttered through my awkward questions. How do you ask a man whether he’s so much of a war criminal he shouldn’t be a Head of House?
“I can understand that. Yes, I do see your point. Can I ask you, though, to keep this information to yourself?”
I blushed and began to speak, but he interrupted me. “And Professor McGonagall, of course. I see why she wouldn’t ask herself. Did she tell you?”
Minerva had told me. At the time, all I had heard was that there had been a prank. An injudicious one; an inappropriate one. The perpetrators - Potter, Black, and Lupin - had received a suitable punishment. Business as usual, with those three. But when Minerva asked me to speak with Severus, she told me the full story. How Black had nearly set werewolf-Lupin loose on Severus. How Potter had stopped him - Snape, that is - just in time. How the whole thing was hushed up at the time, to save Lupin. In a way, that made sense. Lupin’s condition wasn’t his fault; he would have been a victim as much as Severus. What hadn’t made sense was the complete hush-up - the lack of acknowledgement of Severus’s position. And Minerva told me that she had realised later, much later, that this had been just one incident in years of relentless bullying. Minerva could still barely talk about it, except in terms of bitter self-accusation. And she had asked me to speak to Severus, “for if he says he joined the Death Eaters because of the bullying at Hogwarts, what could I possibly say? It’s my fault - I should have realised what was happening.”
“I wouldn’t use it as an excuse,” Severus continued, as if he had read my thoughts. “There is no excuse. It was, however, one of the reasons. Here’s what happened.
“For various reasons that aren’t pertinent to this story, I was a bit at a loose end after finishing Hogwarts. I had entertained some notions about a possible future; they had come to naught. And one day, about two years after I left school, I happened to meet Regulus Black. He had been in Slytherin, too, a year below me. We exchanged a few polite words, and suddenly Regulus invited me for a drink. As I had nothing better to do, I accepted. I found him a clever and pleasant companion. At some point he began to tell about You-Know-Who. How much he admired him and his ideas.
“Well, I hadn’t really paid much attention to politics. I remembered that Potter, Black, and Lupin were very much against him. If anything, that was a recommendation. Now Regulus, who turned out quite likeable, favoured him.
“Regulus told me that You-Know-Who was against the Statute of Secrecy, because it stopped wizards from reaching their full potential. “He is right,” Regulus said, with glowing eyes, “we wizards could do so much more - good things, that would benefit us and Muggles alike - if we could live openly.”
“At the time, I felt there was much truth in that. I still think wizards might do useful things were it not for the Secrecy laws, but by now I realise that peaceful cohabitation is a utopia. But then I was more naïve and optimistic.
“Regulus asked me to go with him to a meeting that would take place that afternoon. I agreed. I had no other plans, and by then I was sufficiently intrigued to want to examine these new ideas myself.
“I was welcomed most warmly by You-Know-Who. This was, for me, a pleasant and unusual sensation. I did realise, however, that a man trying to build up a large following would welcome people warmly. It was seducing, but I like to think I was not quite seduced.
“Well, I slowly began to share Regulus’s enthusiasm for a world in which we didn’t have to hide. I went to meetings. I made friends and acquaintances. People began to greet me in the street; I was invited for drinks in a pub, to people’s houses, even. I had friends. I had also found a purpose to my life. In due course, I became a marked Death Eater.”
Severus paused, and I gathered my courage. “How … did you feel about You-Know-Who’s … about the Pureblood thing?” I finally asked.
“There was talk of that, but hardly in our group. You see, by then there was quite a large following. There was a group that was mostly about muscles and mass. They fell for the “Only Pureblood” thing. And there was our group. The … dare I say more intellectual ones? There, You-Know-Who focussed on the better world he wanted to create, first for wizards, but ultimately for everyone.
“I believed that. We all did, but at the time I felt rather smug for my reasons to believe. You see, the others were mesmerized by his words, his charisma. I prided myself on judging acts, not words. On comparing leaders objectively.
“The way I saw it then, Dumbledore spoke a lot about Muggles and Muggle-borns. But when a young Halfblood boy was nearly killed by a Pureblood, what he did was protect the Pureblood. He barely acknowledged the wrong that was done to me. Now, of course, I have a better understanding of Dumbledore’s positon - I see his motives for acting the way he did. But at the time, that’s how I saw it.
“The Dark Lord, however, spoke about limiting Muggleborn’s rights, but what he actually did was welcome a Halfblood boy and make him a trusted ally - I was seen, by everyone, as a high-flyer. A much-valued member of the group.
“For a while I truly believed in that better world. Then I began to hesitate, and I used these facts to convince myself. Then came the time when I knew it was wrong. But I refused to accept that knowledge. I was afraid. Not for my life, not at all. But of losing the only group of friends I had ever had. I knew what loneliness and despair felt like. I had been there. I was afraid to return.
“Then, one day, Regulus came to see me. He was dreadfully upset. It turned out that he, too, had had doubts. He, too, had stayed for the friendship - and for his Pureblood mother. But now he was convinced of the wrongness of it all. He wouldn’t tell me what had changed him. It would be dangerous, he said. He needed my help, needed to get away to do something of vital importance. The way he said ‘vital’ made me realise, suddenly, that there is ‘vita’ in that word. It was about life. And death, as it turned out.
“I did what he asked, and he got away. He never returned; I can only hope he achieved what he wanted to do before he died. After that, I should have left.
“I didn’t.
“I told myself I could do more good from inside, could protect people better from inside.
“I was wrong.
“The second time I tried to influence things, I failed miserably. If I had left sooner, sought help sooner …
“I was a coward. And a Death Eater, yes. I don’t blame myself for joining. I truly believed, in my heart of hearts, that I acted for the greater good. But I do blame myself, daily, for staying. I was a coward. I valued friendship, warmth, comfort, above what I knew was right.”
That is Severus’s story, exactly as he told me. I can’t give an opinion now.
*~*~*~*~*~*
In fact, it had taken Filius a long time to form an opinion. And he wasn’t quite sure he’d ever reached one - an opinion one could formulate clearly, that is. But he had seen how things had happened. Where Severus had done the right thing, and where he had been abysmally wrong. He had seen the reasons. They weren’t excuses - there were no excuses, Severus was right about that. But reasons, yes.
Slowly, Filius re-read the last part of his entry. I was a coward. I valued friendship, warmth, comfort, above what I knew was right.
He had forgotten that Severus had said those precise words. Was there a message in them now? An explanation?
For slowly, friendship had grown between them. And warmth. And comfort. And friendship had grown between Severus and the other Heads, too. How had that begun?
The Monthly Meetings. Yes.
When Filius told Severus about the Monthly Meetings (it had been agreed that he would be the one to help the new Head find his way - come to think of it, that, too, had been a plan of Minerva) Severus had been horrified. No-one had told him socializing was part of the job, he had protested, and he doubted his presence would be required after the business part.
But in spite of his mutterings he had come to their first meeting of the year. And had stayed, mostly silently, occasionally sipping the one glass of Firewhisky that lasted him an evening. And the next morning, he had produced the pitcher of pumpkin juice for the first time. “He’ll do very well,” Pomona had nodded, and then she had winced. Severus was truly a wizard with hangover potions, but even he couldn’t do miracles. The nod had been injudicious.
Severus and he had often spent evenings together. Sometimes they shared the pain of marking. Sometimes they played chess. Sometimes they just sat and talked, of books, of potions and charms, of their travels. Never of personal things. Filius wouldn’t have minded, but Severus, after that one talk about his past, carefully avoided the topics and Filius respected his desire for privacy. Had he been right to think of Severus as a younger brother, knowing so little of his private life?
Yes, Filius thought. Severus and he could be quiet together, an underrated gift. They could laugh together and plot together, too. They had even played a prank together, on one memorable occasion. Or that was what Minerva had called it. Severus and Filius preferred to think of it as ‘working for the greater good’.
It had happened during the Lockhart year. They had got into the habit of distinguishing the years by the resident DADA teacher. A habit that had worried him when Severus had been appointed. He had feared the jinx. Would they call it The Severus Year, he had thought, and what could happen to Severus that would stop him teaching?
Filius felt an icy trickle down his spine. Not in his wildest imaginations had he ever thought that … He didn’t want to think of it, not now while he was wrapping gifts on this beautiful snowy morning. Better to remember the Lockhart Year Prank. Time remembered is grief forgotten..
How had it started?
When Gilderoy had announced his Valentine plans for the students, Filius had hidden his face in his hands. Severus had looked stonily at his plate. A muscle in Minerva’s jaw had spoken volumes, and Pomona had lifted her eyes to the enchanted ceiling, from whence had come a bleak February sun, but no help.
As soon as the students had started babbling - like a band of baboons, as Minerva was wont to say - Gilderoy had looked at his stricken colleagues. “And for you good people I have a very special treat, too!” he had beamed. “Just wait and see - after dinner I’ll reveal all! You’re going to LOVE this!”
Irma had shuddered, Aurora had taken a too-large gulp of hot tea, Minerva had straightened her back even further, Pomona had gasped. And Severus and Filius had looked at each other and exchanged a curt nod. This had to be stopped, and they would be the ones to stop it. The situation demanded clear, decisive, manly action. My office, Filius had mouthed wordlessly, and Severus had nodded again.
Once in the privacy of his office, they had made a plan. Taking into account every contingency. Ensuring a back-up scenario. Leaving room for last-minute improvisation, for every good plan caters for the unforeseen. Then they had executed it, with their usual competence, Filius liked to think. The last detail had been informing Minerva that Gilderoy wouldn’t come down to dinner, as he was slightly indisposed. “A mild throat problem; nothing serious,” Filius had said. “He just croaks a bit. He’ll be as right as rain in the morning. I think we’d better ignore it - attention will only make him show off more. This is truly a case of ‘least said, soonest mended’.”
It had been a careful mixture: a goblet of reassurance, a morsel of sound psychological insight that Minerva could only agree upon, and a dash of truth. Severus, Potions Master and Slytherin, had added the dash of truth. The one thing they hadn’t foreseen was Minerva’s exaggerated sense of duty, which had made her check on Gilderoy even though she agreed he was a first-class drama queen who shouldn’t be encouraged.
When Severus and Filius had received Minerva’s casual little note inviting them to a pre-dinner drink in her rooms, they had gone unsuspectingly. Pomona was already there, grinning behind Minerva’s back. And Minerva only had to speak their names to make them realize things had gone pear-shaped.
With a smile, Filius picked up his diary again. What exactly had Minerva said?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
February 14th, 1993
“Slightly indisposed, is Gilderoy?” Minerva asked. “Croaking a little? The man can’t speak at all - worse, he has the wide mouth and vocal sacs that enable frogs to make those highly distinctive sounds. If Witch Weekly would want to publish a picture of his current smile, they’d need a two-page spread. Not that he is in the mood for smiling. Now, what can have caused that, you think?”
I can recognize a rhetorical question when I see one. Severus has always been a firm believer in saying nothing for as long as possible.
“What, indeed?” Pomona grinned. “I’ve never heard of such a spell. Must be a very powerful one.”
“It is, indeed. The Anura Charm is highly advanced magic, and only few wizards and witches ever managed it,” lectured Minerva, in full Professor-mode. “The most famous case was in Germany, in Westphalia, in 1809. A German wizard cast the Charm on his Muggle neighbour with whom he had a quarrel. The German Wizarding authorities repaired the damage and cast Obliviates, but they were not thorough enough, and as a result there is a Muggle tale, written by one of the witnesses, of a frog who was Transfigured into a prince.”
I couldn’t help beaming. When I first learned that the Sorting Hat had nearly Sorted Minerva into Ravenclaw, I had been highly amused - I am a borderline-Gryffindor myself. Over the years I may have sometimes doubted my own Gryffindorness, but never Minerva’s Ravenclaw mind.
“Spoken like the Ravendor you are,” I smiled. “Truly Outstanding.”
“I couldn’t do that Charm myself,” Minerva admitted, “It takes a lifelong dedication to Charms. I can only think of one wizard expert enough to manage such perfection.”
She let the silence drop.
No-one can let a silence drop like Minerva; I have often admired the technique when she interrogates students. Being on the receiving end is different. I knew what I had to do. I swallowed, made eye contact, and said, taking care neither to blink nor to look away, “I cast it.”
“Spoken like a true Gryffinclaw,” Minerva said. There was a hint of a smile around her lips and the beginning of laughter in her eyes.
“But there is more,” she continued. Pomona rubbed her hands gleefully; the show wasn’t over yet.
At some point, Severus and I will get Pomona for this.
“The spell will only work properly if the wizard’s wand is held at a 90 degree angle to the larynx of the intended victim,” Minerva lectured. I didn’t know whether to be surprised at her encyclopaedic knowledge or dismayed at what would come next.
“Now, I knew at once which wizard is brilliant enough to cast it, but that 90 degree angle does puzzle me.” Minerva looked from Severus to me and from me to Severus.
Severus bowed slightly, to Minerva and to the inevitable. “I lifted him,” he admitted.
“Oh, golly,” grinned Pomona. “And with all that coming at him Gilderoy didn’t manage a single defensive spell?”
Severus and I sighed simultaneously. Trust Pomona to draw attention to the missing part of our crimes and misdemeanours.
“You can’t blame him for that,” started Severus.
“He was more or less …” I tried.
“That is to say, one might call him …” Severus offered.
“Perhaps a teensy weensy bit Petrified.” Someone had to say it.
“Petrified?” asked Minerva. If I remember correctly, and I usually do, there is no Rule explicitly forbidding teachers to Petrify each other. I would have used that knowledge in our defence, even though Minerva would have argued that there is no such Rule because the idea is anathema to every well-thinking person. But it wasn’t necessary.
In the end, Minerva smiled. “I can see how the sight of the two of you doing a Weasley Twin cross-talk act might inspire sufficient dread in a man to give him all the symptoms of Petrification. It will be unfortunate for Lockhart if the world ever finds out, though. What with his impressive résumé and his numerous books.”
We both grasped the life-line with both hands. “Most unfortunate,” Severus assured her, and, “By all means, let’s never mention it to anyone,” I suggested.
Pomona started pouring port and sherry, and Severus explained how we wanted to save our colleagues from Lockhart’s worst excesses. Not because we expected gratitude; we weren’t as foolishly optimistic as that. But because it was The Right Thing to Do. I agreed. I even mentioned the regrettable lack of appreciation of modern Damsels in Distress - I am, after all, borderline Gryffindor and have my fair share of recklessness.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Slowly, Filius closed his diary and put it back in his desk. He set the wards again, cursing the Carrows’ presence that made a man cautious even in his very own rooms. Cursing Severus for not putting a stop to them.
But to be annoyed with the man was one thing; to lose faith was something else entirely. He would believe, firmly, that Severus was acting on Albus’s instructions, and that there were good reasons not to confide in anyone. And when doubt set in, in the darkest hours of the night, he would convince himself that Albus had insisted on the secrecy, and that Severus hated it as much as they did. But that he, like Albus, felt that utter secrecy was vital to their plans - to whatever plan they had hatched between them.
And once all of this was over - and it would pass; Potter was still free, still out there, doing whatever Albus had told him to do, and the dark would not win - the four of them would start the long job of rebuilding. The four of them would get the school back to normal. They might even try and get it better, this time. There had to be an alternative to Sorting eleven-year-olds, or, at the very least, to fostering enmity between the Houses with House Cups and Quidditch Cups.
Not that Minerva and Severus would take kindly to a change in the Quidditch competition. Their bets on their own Houses were legendary. Actually, for that very reason, suggesting changing the Competition might not be a bad notion. There’s nothing like bonding over a mutual enemy, and if Filius were to propose to abolish Quidditch, surely that would get Minerva and Severus on speaking terms and on the same side of an argument? This was an idea worth pondering.
Grinning, Filius reached for the last package. A book stand in ebony inlaid with the palest of woods, in a design of elegant, feather-like curls. Severus was notoriously sober in his personal expenses. Generous in his gifts to others, he seldom bothered to buy anything for himself. Yet he had a keen eye for beauty, and over the years Filius had solved the problem of Christmas gifts by replacing the standard Hogwarts quill holder, ink well, and various other desk items by beautifully-crafted ones. This book stand had been a real find. It was Charmed, so that it would turn the pages of the book on voice command - on Severus’s voice alone. He had added that final protective Charm himself. It would be a useful gift for a man who wanted to check a Potions recipe while his hands were dirty from cutting ingredients.
When the war was over, he would tell Severus a thing or two about trusting your nearest and dearest. He would make sure that Severus would climb down from his frosty ivory tower and explain things, apologize, even. Severus might resist, but if all else failed, Filius would use the prerogative of an Older Brother and kick the pup in the backside till stars would spark from his ears. He’d conjure up a footstool if necessary, but by Merlin, he’d make him see sense.
If they all survived. There was only so much even a Ravenclaw going on Gryffindor might do about that - there was no counter-curse to an Avada Kedavra. But one could take into account every contingency. Ensure a back-up scenario. Leaving room for last-minute improvisation, for every good plan caters for the unforeseen.
And one could prepare, too.
Filius looked at his gift. There was a potions book to go with it. And a bookmark, representing the Slytherin Snake on a green background. He consulted the index, carefully selected a chapter, and inserted the thin card. He briefly looked at the chapter title.
Serpentis Antidota.
For now, that would do.
Rating: none
Word Count: 8500
Characters and/or Pairings: Filius Flitwick and his fellow Heads of House
Summary: Now that Severus is Headmaster and the Carrows prowl around, is there any seasonal cheer to be had? Filius, for one, has no intention of cancelling Christmas.
Warnings: I’ve nicked a few ideas from Pottermore. And from Swinburne. And from Filius’s diary. But in between, there is a line or two of my own.
Disclaimer: JKR owns Harry Potter. And she’s welcome to Pottermore, too.
Author's Notes: Written for this year's hoggywartyxmas. I completely forgot to repost it, but here it is. With my heartfelt thanks to my wonderful betas, tetleythesecond and kellychambliss.
For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
-Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909),
Filius Flitwick woke up with the nasty shock of a man who realizes he has seriously overslept. The room was full of daylight, bright daylight, even. It could only mean he was hours behind with his work, had missed breakfast, perhaps even lunch.
He blinked at the brightness of his room. It was uncanny for a bleak, Scottish winter day. Everything seemed filled with light.
Of course! Smiling, he sank back into the cushions. Snow. That explained the luminosity and that special silence where sound wasn’t gone, merely very muted. He put on his glasses and checked his alarm. Nearly seven o’clock; it would go off any minute. He turned it off, got out of bed, and walked to the window.
Hogwarts looked beautiful. Rather, Filius mused, the way it must have looked when the Founders started it. At this early hour there were no reminders of the twentieth century: no streamlined brooms, no students with their too-modern haircuts. No Carrows.
This, then, was more or less what Helga, Godric, Rowena, and Salazar had seen when they had looked out of their windows at the first snow of the year. He had been thinking of the Founders a lot, lately. About their ideals. And their falling-out. But today he wanted to remember the way they must have collaborated. The joy they must have felt, bringing it all together.
Strange how snow still had the power to make him all happy and excited. Whenever he woke to the first snow of the season, he felt optimism and that childish joy that is made up of sleigh-rides, slides, and snowmen. Would this be good snowman snow?
Silly thought for a grown man. Surely at his age it should just mean the annoyance of endless melting charms without which he couldn’t walk in deep snow and the bother of overly-boisterous students? Why would one think of a pure, new world? Beautiful as it might look right now, he had realized long ago that the only thing as pure as the driven snow was, in fact, the driven snow. Everything man-made was in various shades of grey. Even now, when no man was outside to spoil the purity, there was a greyish-blue rectangle on the spotless white. The shadow of the Astronomy Tower. How fitting. The Astronomy Tower had thrown the darkest of shadows on all of their lives after the sickening thud that had broken Albus’s bones and their little group.
After Potter’s unbelievable revelation, Pomona and he had joined Minerva in Dumbledore’s office. Minerva had taken control, as they knew she would. They had looked at her for directions, and that was when they had had the first, ghastly intimation of the truth. For Minerva had hesitated, had been indecisive. Minerva, then, didn’t know what to do either? That could only mean one thing - but surely, either Albus or Severus had confided in her? Surely she, of all people, knew which step to take next?
Finally, Pomona had said that the school should remain open for as long as there was a single student who wanted lessons. Filius had exhorted her to let the Board decide - this wasn’t the time to make a snap decision they would regret later.
And afterwards, when the three of them were finally left alone, Filius had suggested that for some reason - that hand of Albus’s, that darkest of curses - Albus had planned his own death. Had asked Severus … the idea that Albus would ask that much of Severus was almost preposterous, but not as bad as the idea that Severus had actually murdered Albus. Murder would mean Severus’s true allegiance had been with the Dark Lord all along, and that was unthinkable. It couldn’t - it mustn’t be true.
“I am convinced that you are right,” Minerva had said, carefully enunciating every word. Back ramrod-straight, eyes dry, hands still. Knuckles white from clutching those hands in a desperate bid for self-control. She had taken a deep breath, as if she wanted to say more, but had turned around and hurried away instead.
“Convinced…” Pomona had whispered. Filius had swallowed several times. It was one of the most heart-breaking statements he had ever heard. Minerva didn’t know, then. Neither Albus nor Severus had confided in her. Half a century of friendship between her and Albus. More than friendship, so much more, between her and Severus. No wonder Minerva had been indecisive. Her whole world had been shattered.
When Severus had been appointed Headmaster, it had taken all of Filius’s courage to look at Minerva. Her face had told him all. She still knew nothing more. Snape had simply severed all ties and now went his own, ice-cold way. It was the only time Filius had thought of him as Snape. On all other occasions he forced himself to call him Severus, in his thoughts at least. In public, with the Carrows prowling around, he stuck with Headmaster.
The light that loses, the night that wins…
The night would not win. He had looked for light wherever he could. The fact that all Order members were still alive, that Severus hadn’t betrayed any of them, that was light. For months that had been the only light in a world where students were tortured, were forced to torture each other, where the Headmaster didn’t interfere. Where Severus did not contact any of them, gave no sign, no message, no look even that spoke of their friendship. He truly had severed all ties, in the manner of a man who didn’t plan to return.
Ever since You-Know-Who’s return, Severus had been a double agent. Which meant that You-Know-Who had to be as convinced of Severus’s allegiance to him as Filius was of his allegiance to Albus. And that was the whole problem in a nutshell. Severus had been, was still a perfect actor. He was that good he had convinced the Dark Lord. Or was he that good he had convinced Albus? Which part was acted? As the weeks went by, Filius had begun to despair - had they then, truly, had a Death Eater in their midst for years?
But when Christmas drew nearer, he had made his way to Severus’s office. “Surely, you don’t plan to cancel Christmas, Headmaster?” he had asked. And for one fleeting moment, Severus’s face had softened. They had shared a happy memory, even if no words were spoken.
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
Filius went to his desk, removed the wards from the bottom drawer, unlocked it, and took out last year’s diary. He would remember the good times. That’s why he kept a diary, after all. Time remembered is grief forgotten
*~*~*~*~*~*
December 18th, 1996
Ridiculous notion of the Board, that a ‘small, subdued festivity’ is more suitable in the current, grim situation. True, the Ministry is fairly short of money, what with the repairs after the fight in the Hall of Prophecy and the Atrium. But that’s no reason to deprive the children of some much-needed Yuletide cheer.
Scrimgeour has clearly instructed Thicknesse to aim for minimum expenditure. I also strongly suspect that he called Albus away on urgent Ministry business just to give Thicknesse a better chance of succeeding. And Thicknesse did his best. Not that his best is anywhere near good enough, when faced with the four of us.
”We need every Knut we can save for the reconstruction, and besides, the Minister strongly feels that in these grim times we can’t celebrate Christmas as if nothing were happening. Already there are various Hogwarts students who have lost Beloved Ones. It’s a mark of respect for them to restrict festivities,” said Thicknesse in a voice that aimed for mellifluous but didn’t get beyond maudlin.
“That’s nonsense.” Pomona’s briskness shattered the mood effectively. “There’s no point in wallowing in despair. We will not celebrate Christmas as if nothing has happened; we all miss and remember the victims, our own student Cedric Diggory among them. But we’ll celebrate nonetheless.”
“Besides,” I added, “Christmas is the season of peace and goodwill - it won’t hurt our students to be reminded of goodwill to each other, regardless of their House or their ancestry.”
“Furthermore,” said Severus, and paused briefly. Thicknesse, who had clearly expected some support, since Christmas Jollifications and Professor Snape can hardly be put in the same phrase without smiling, looked crestfallen at that ominous ‘furthermore’.
“Furthermore, it might send out the wrong message if we were to inform the students and their parents that the Ministry sees fit to cancel Christmas.”
But Thicknesse is not one who gives up easily. “We’re merely trying to limit an excessive gaiety and merry-making which, according to the Ministry, is not in keeping with the losses our community has suffered already. Surely our Beloved Ones would want to be remembered in a manner befitting … I mean, a manner …”
Making eye contact with Minerva McGonagall when you’re talking balderdash is never a good idea. The poor chap was fighting a lost battle and he knew it. That was the second time he trotted out ‘our Beloved Ones’. I quite looked forward to Minerva finishing him off.
“I fully agree with my esteemed colleagues,” the Deputy Headmistress said, “and I’d like to add that the opinion of the dead, even if they were capable of expressing it, is immaterial.” She paused and looked briefly at the Chairman.
Writers often mention meaningful looks, but can a look actually say, “Put that in your pipe and smoke it?” Since this afternoon’s meeting, I’m inclined to think it can.
“Life is for the living,” Minerva continued, “and the living will celebrate Christmas at Hogwarts. In a manner befitting the situation.”
A small gesture to save his face, but Thicknesse accepted it eagerly. It’s a wise man who knows when he’s beaten. “That’s what I meant,” he said. “The celebrations should befit the occasion. I’m glad you all agree with me.” He then invited us to a small - a very small - Christmas drink at the Ministry, and praised us loudly when we all declined on the grounds of not leaving Hogwarts and the students. So audible was his relief that I almost have second thoughts on that party; the Ministry clearly has no intention of joining the economy-drive it seeks to impose, and the food and drink promise to be top notch.
“Such dedicated people,” Thicknesse babbled on, “and all working so admirably together in the best interests of the children and staff members. You must be quite like a family to each other, after all these years.”
Pomona nodded, with an uncharacteristically thin smile. She’s kind enough to appreciate the effort that was made, if not the actual comparison.
Minerva cleared her throat and said, “Quite.”
Thicknesse looked that anxious I took pity on him and gave him a real smile.
Finally, Severus raised his goblet. “I am so pleased to hear you say that,” he said, suavely and with an expression that was as close to a benevolent smile as he can get. Thicknesse beamed. He will use this to turn the evening into a success story when he gets home. “My little speech at High Table went down very well,” he will tell his wife, “and when I compared them to a little family they were visibly touched. Professor Snape even said …” Moments like that are a litmus test for a good marriage. Will his wife smile back and call it a marvellous success, or will she tell him to try pulling the other leg - it’s as uncharacteristic as possible, and did he test the Snape-lookalike for Polyjuice Potion?
*~*~*~*~*
Filius closed his diary with a smile. Family, indeed. Worst idea the poor chap could have had. When asked, his colleagues would say they hated it because it was a cliché. But that wasn’t the real reason why they disliked the notion so much, even though there was some truth in it. Each and every year, notably around Christmas, some condescending Ministry official trotted it out. Bets were made on its being mentioned. At the time, Filius had known that Minerva and Severus had had a bet on the poor chap making the familiar remark again. But even in his diary he had refused to speculate on how the winner had been paid. There was such a thing as too much information. During the meeting it had been difficult not to grin, though, when Severus had made that uncharacteristic “I’m so glad” remark. More difficult even when Filius had seen Minerva’s glare.
Slowly, he got up from behind his desk. There was work to do. Breakfast first, then a brief round among those of his Ravenclaws who spent Christmas at school. He’d send them out to play - he did hope the snow was snowman-quality. It would do them a world of good. Then he’d check on the decorations and he’d wrap his gifts. At least there were decorations, he thought as he donned his robes and laced up his boots, and they would celebrate Christmas in spite of everything. The trees and garlands were already in place, but some refreshment charms would be in order. And he’d have to replace some of the mistletoe.
After breakfast, Filius did a brisk round of refreshment spells and mistletoe-work. Replacing it where it had gone missing, retrieving the missing mistletoe from where it shouldn’t be. There was an official rule at Hogwarts that mistletoe was only appropriate in proper, public places. As with many official rules it merely created more work, since students had their own definition of proper. It included, but was not limited to, the canopies of their four-poster beds.
This year, Filch’s mop cupboard had been rather an original place; he had to give them that. It was also a fairly safe spot, and he had been that glad of the irrepressible spirit of his students that he had just cast a refreshment charm on the little sprig and a some strong protective charms on the whole cupboard - the students could have a good time, with the Carrows none the wiser.
Back in his rooms, as Filius set out everything he needed for gift wrapping, his thoughts went back to the notion of colleagues as second family. Pomona, Minerva, and Severus all had their own excellent reasons for disliking the idea. Filius himself might have made the comparison, cliché or not, for in his case it held much truth. But Filius had been singularly blessed with his real family.
His sister Philippa had always welcomed him and had given him opportunities to take his little niece and nephews on outings and bond with them. She had been proud when he was made Head of Ravenclaw. And when he had Owled her to say that this meant he could no longer join them on Christmas Day, since he needed to be there for his students, he had received an Owl back telling him that, if he could make it on Boxing Day, the full turkey-and-cranberry-sauce lunch would take place then. He had protested, of course, on behalf of the children. They deserved a proper Christmas.
Philippa had Floo-ed over to tell him that on Christmas Day the young ones would get their presents and would be allowed to choose what they’d eat for lunch. And that they might be young, but they were old enough to learn what Christmas really was about. She had had her way, of course, and on one memorable occasion Christmas Day lunch had consisted of chips, peanut butter sauce, and treacle tart.
Filius grinned as he wrapped his presents for the little devils. A book each - they all loved reading, thank Merlin. A toy and what he called ‘the little extra’. Philippa would say he was buying Wonderfully Wicked Uncle status. And if he was, so what? This year would be great. In the past, Zonko had always delivered perfectly satisfactory things, but a few months ago he had discovered the Owl Order catalogue of Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes. The inspired, innovative ideas of those two wonderful boys would raise Filius’s reputation to the stars. He almost regretted the detentions he had handed those geniuses in the past. Almost.
The Decoy Detonators were brilliant. But he would act as a responsible adult, yes, he would. He would carefully point out how very wrong it would be to set them off at Madam Trevelyan’s utterly boring annual Turkey Curry Party. He’d make sure the little rascals would fully grasp the amount of upheaval that could be caused. In fact, he might ask his colleagues to cover for him for an extra hour or so and go himself. To see how those things … to see what the kids … that is, to attend the neighbourly gathering kind Madam Trevelyan organized. And to take his share of the blame - he owed the children that much.
That was family: a shared history, shared jokes, and, above all, real support. He was lucky, indeed.
But take Pomona, Filius thought, wrapping the full-colour picture book of the Boboli Gardens that had struck him as the perfect Christmas gift for his Herbology colleague when he had visited Florence that summer. Wouldn’t it be awful if Pomona thought her colleagues were like her family?
Pomona’s dreadful sister and selfish brother always expected her on Boxing Day, too - to visit their elderly parents. Both siblings claimed it was too stressful to organise a full Christmas family lunch - they had families, small children, they were rushed of their feet already. “It’s understandable,” Pomona said, unfailingly loyal, “they both want to spend Christmas just with their own family, and I’m glad to do my bit.”
It meant that she hardly ever saw her nieces and nephews. She did show their colleagues pictures, occasionally, but those were usually years old, “for those selfish sods can’t even be bothered to send her a recent photograph,” Minerva would mutter angrily. Pomona spent the whole of Boxing Day listening to her parents’ complaints and doing odd jobs about the house, “since everything is always done for you at Hogwarts, so it must be quite nice to be useful for a change, and besides, it’s not as if you have any other plans for Christmas” as her sister would point out.
The same argument was used for every holiday and free weekend Pomona had. “They have their families to look after, and I’m fancy-free, as they call it,” Pomona always said as she set off for yet another round of what her brother called ‘a daughter’s duties’. They all felt sorry for her, and Minerva, her close friend since their shared student days, often raged to Filius about “that ghastly lot. But there’s nothing to be done about it; Pomona is too loyal by half.”
But a few years ago things had changed. When Cedric Diggory had been killed, Pomona’s sister had told her that they had plans to go skiing for Christmas, and Pomona could look after the old folks, as it was quite likely there would be changes after the dramatic events at Hogwarts, wasn’t it? Most unfortunate that a student in Pomona’s care had died, and far be it from her to suggest Pomona was in any way responsible, but the Hogwarts Board … Pomona’s position as Head of House …
Pomona had told her colleagues, not out of any genuine concern for her job, but simply because it had hurt her so much she couldn't ignore it.
“That’s it,” Minerva had said. “That’s bloody it. I’m going to take action here and now.” Pomona had smiled - they had all smiled. There was nothing Minerva could do, of course, but the support was like a warm blanket to Pomona. And it was the first time after Cedric’s death that Minerva had been in full Lion of Gryffindor mode - they had all been relieved to see it.
No-one had given Minerva’s statement a second thought. Minerva herself had never mentioned again. It had taken Filius a long time before he had seen the cunning plan.
Step one: hiring a replacement for Hagrid, and selecting pleasant, helpful, cheerful Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank. Who just happened to be delightfully butch, too. And very capable - trust Minerva not to make concessions on quality.
Step two: introducing Wilhelmina to her colleagues and asking Pomona “to show Willa the ropes, take her under your wing a bit, until she’s familiar with the place.”
Step three: the most difficult of all. Doing absolutely nothing and allowing things to happen either naturally or not at all.
Step four: agreeing wholeheartedly to a request from Pomona - on their Monthly Meeting after Hagrid’s sudden return - that her chimney be made Floo-accessible. Minerva hadn’t even asked her for a reason. Filius had been surprised at that unusual lack of interest. Then he’d started thinking, and only then had he realized that this was, in fact, step four of a plan.
Step five had happened a few weeks later, when they discussed Christmas arrangements. Pomona had asked whether they would all think it very self-centred of her if she wouldn’t visit her parents on Boxing Day. “Not selfish at all,” Minerva had said with a warm smile, “you deserve a bit of fun, my dear, and just for once your family can lump it. You’ve given them much more than they ever gave back. Spend Boxing Day wherever and with whomever you like. And give Willa a hug for me, will you?”
It was exactly the kind of tactful and clever thing Philippa would have done. And in terms of age Minerva could have been Pomona’s older sister. By a few years, a source of perpetual entertainment during the Monthly Meetings.
“You will remember, Pomona, that I am older and, arguably, wiser than you …”
“Oh, I do remember, my dear. And yet such a youthful look about you - if I ever reach your age, I hope you’ll tell me your secret …”
Ah, those Monthly Meetings. That too, Filius thought, was part of being a family. Having a language of your own. Monthly Meeting of the Heads of House meant a quick round of coffee and current affairs, and then several hours of drinks and the vigorous exchange of useful information that the uninitiated might call ‘gossip’ - hence the term “uninitiated”.
And, the next morning at breakfast, Severus’s polite “Pumpkin juice, Filius? Pomona? Minerva?” and a generous measure of an orange liquid, from a little pitcher brought and brewed by the Potions Master himself. Pumpkin Juice had become such a fixed expression that Filius had once frowned at a first-year who had entered the Great Hall clamouring for it - surely, at that age, one shouldn’t have hangovers yet? “I think my little badgerkin actually meant ‘pumpkin juice’. You know, made from those big, round, orange things?” Pomona had grinned.
Filius smiled and picked up a fresh sheet of wrapping paper and Minerva’s gift.
Minerva and Severus - now there were two people who had excellent reasons to be grateful that they weren’t, in fact, family. For years they had sparred together, betted together, and exchanged sardonic smiles. The sexual tension between them had been palpable on occasions, and had Severus not been such an intensely private man, Filius would have asked him a polite variation of “Why don’t you just shag her senseless - you know you both want to.” Although, in the case of his dear Ravendor, senseless might be beyond the skills of even a man like Severus.
And then, Filius rather thought it was at the start of the Quirrell year, the four of them had met in Minerva’s rooms for their first Monthly Meeting of the term. After the coffee and official business, she had risen to fetch a bottle of Firewhisky. And, without being asked, Severus had risen, too, and had opened a cupboard and fetched glasses with the ease of a man who was totally at home. Minerva had poured, Severus had fetched nibbles, and Pomona and Filius had looked at each other and smiled.
Later that year, when they had had their annual discussion of who took which day off around Christmas, Minerva had asked whether it would be very inconvenient if she and Severus had the same day - any day after the twenty-sixth would be fine, she had added, they knew Pomona and Filius would want Boxing Day. Pomona had hastened to assure her that it was perfectly all right, “whatever day is convenient for the two of you, my dear.” Minerva had thanked them with an adorable half-smile, and “We are most grateful,” Severus had added, with an almost imperceptible stress on we. Pomona and Filius had raised their glasses in a toast, silently, but with watermelon grins.
Minerva would appreciate the book he’d bought for her. She loved poetry, and this edition of Swinburne’s work was an exquisite one. On the card that went with it, Filius had copied out the Time Remembered poem that was so much on his mind lately. He had adorned it with an elaborate border of swirls and curly lines - in red and green. If Minerva wanted to, she could take it as a fitting, Christmassy decoration. But Filius knew that his Ravendor would see beyond, would see the intricate pattern in Gryffindor red and Slytherin green, each colour a necessary part of the design, each bringing out what was best and brightest in the other, two halves of a whole. And she would realize why he had chosen that particular poem.
No, they were not a second family. There was nothing ‘second best’ about what they shared. They weren’t even a second set of Founders. True, Pomona was everything Hufflepuff stood for. Loyal, warm, dedicated, hard-working. Minerva was as courageous a Knight as Godric himself - and she would make a fine Rowena, too. He himself had a lot of Ravenclaw qualities. And he had been called a Gryffinclaw often enough to convince him that the Sorting Hat might have had a reason to hesitate.
And Severus? Cunning, yes. Ambitious. Highly intelligent. But, while no-one in their right mind would give Severus the Teacher’s Award for Fairness, prejudiced against Muggleborns he was not - against Gryffindors, sometimes; against dunderheads, most assuredly. As a result, Gryffindor’s less talented students tended to drop Potions as soon as they could. Filius smiled wryly as he realised how Severus would smirk at that remark. “It is because they drop potions that I want them to drop Potions, before they have to brew something truly dangerous that would burn away the floor,” he would say.
But Filius had never seen Salazar’s infamous preference for Purebloods in Severus. He hadn’t seen it during this dreadful year either. That, too, said something of a man’s innermost convictions - it was another spot of light. He would hold on to that thought.
For if he was quite honest with himself, his current feelings towards Severus were not completely unlike Minerva’s. He, too, had been deeply hurt that Severus hadn’t confided in him. Less than Minerva, of course. The bond between Severus and himself most assuredly wasn’t a bond between lovers. It was … it was why he, too, now resented the notion of second family. For he had long thought of Severus as a brother.
Filius had never had a brother, so he hadn’t really known how that bond was supposed to feel. Not all brothers were like the Weasley Twins, of course. They were a freak of nature, a one-time occurrence. They had to be - no teacher should have to deal with pranks on that scale twice in his career.
But lately he had been thinking of brothers like Regulus and Sirius, snarling at each other like angry dogs, and like Aberforth and Albus, who had lived in the same village for decades but never even mentioned each other except to make a churlish remark. When Albus had told Hagrid to do as his brother had done, which was to ignore malicious articles in the Daily Prophet, Filius had been pleasantly surprised, but, “actually, I’m not sure it’s meritorious, for I doubt Aberforth can read,” Albus had continued. Filius had cleared his throat in a pointed manner, and Albus had assured him it was just a very old joke between them - something he often said. But it didn’t sound like a joke, although Filius was willing to believe that Albus often said it.
The bond he had had with Severus, however - if there were brothers who felt like that, he congratulated them. During his first years of teaching at Hogwarts, Filius hadn’t had any close male friends. He got along fine with Binns, in the vague way of ghostly contacts. And he really liked Hagrid. A mutual feeling, he thought, but Hagrid was an outdoorsy man, and Filius emphatically was not. Also, through no fault of either, a lengthy conversation with Hagrid gave him a sore neck.
And then Severus had arrived. A silent, withdrawn young man. Immensely talented. Wasted on our students, Filius had sometimes thought; this chap should be at a University.
In a few years, Severus had settled into the routine of Hogwarts and teaching. When Albus made him Head of House, no-one could deny it was a well-deserved promotion. The three of them had been anxious, however, Pomona, Minerva, and himself. They got along just fine, and Severus was still very much an unknown quantity. And the only part that was public knowledge was his Death Eater past.
“He has worked hard, true, and Albus does trust him completely. But to make him Head of House?” Filius had wondered to Minerva. Usually, such a mild hint was enough to make the Deputy Headmistress take action. On this occasion, however, Minerva had hesitated. And then she had asked …
Filius returned to his desk, and took out another volume of his diaries. Not an entry he checked often, this one. Not a happy memory. But today of all days was a time to read it again.
*~*~*~*~*~*
May 16th, 1987
I want to write down exactly what I’ve heard today. Just Severus’s story, as verbatim as I can manage. It’s a story that needs to be written somewhere. It’s a story that needs to be thought about, but right now I can’t think properly. I can write it down, however, and that’s what I’ll do.
“So you want to know about my Death Eater past?” Severus said simply when I had mumbled and stuttered through my awkward questions. How do you ask a man whether he’s so much of a war criminal he shouldn’t be a Head of House?
“I can understand that. Yes, I do see your point. Can I ask you, though, to keep this information to yourself?”
I blushed and began to speak, but he interrupted me. “And Professor McGonagall, of course. I see why she wouldn’t ask herself. Did she tell you?”
Minerva had told me. At the time, all I had heard was that there had been a prank. An injudicious one; an inappropriate one. The perpetrators - Potter, Black, and Lupin - had received a suitable punishment. Business as usual, with those three. But when Minerva asked me to speak with Severus, she told me the full story. How Black had nearly set werewolf-Lupin loose on Severus. How Potter had stopped him - Snape, that is - just in time. How the whole thing was hushed up at the time, to save Lupin. In a way, that made sense. Lupin’s condition wasn’t his fault; he would have been a victim as much as Severus. What hadn’t made sense was the complete hush-up - the lack of acknowledgement of Severus’s position. And Minerva told me that she had realised later, much later, that this had been just one incident in years of relentless bullying. Minerva could still barely talk about it, except in terms of bitter self-accusation. And she had asked me to speak to Severus, “for if he says he joined the Death Eaters because of the bullying at Hogwarts, what could I possibly say? It’s my fault - I should have realised what was happening.”
“I wouldn’t use it as an excuse,” Severus continued, as if he had read my thoughts. “There is no excuse. It was, however, one of the reasons. Here’s what happened.
“For various reasons that aren’t pertinent to this story, I was a bit at a loose end after finishing Hogwarts. I had entertained some notions about a possible future; they had come to naught. And one day, about two years after I left school, I happened to meet Regulus Black. He had been in Slytherin, too, a year below me. We exchanged a few polite words, and suddenly Regulus invited me for a drink. As I had nothing better to do, I accepted. I found him a clever and pleasant companion. At some point he began to tell about You-Know-Who. How much he admired him and his ideas.
“Well, I hadn’t really paid much attention to politics. I remembered that Potter, Black, and Lupin were very much against him. If anything, that was a recommendation. Now Regulus, who turned out quite likeable, favoured him.
“Regulus told me that You-Know-Who was against the Statute of Secrecy, because it stopped wizards from reaching their full potential. “He is right,” Regulus said, with glowing eyes, “we wizards could do so much more - good things, that would benefit us and Muggles alike - if we could live openly.”
“At the time, I felt there was much truth in that. I still think wizards might do useful things were it not for the Secrecy laws, but by now I realise that peaceful cohabitation is a utopia. But then I was more naïve and optimistic.
“Regulus asked me to go with him to a meeting that would take place that afternoon. I agreed. I had no other plans, and by then I was sufficiently intrigued to want to examine these new ideas myself.
“I was welcomed most warmly by You-Know-Who. This was, for me, a pleasant and unusual sensation. I did realise, however, that a man trying to build up a large following would welcome people warmly. It was seducing, but I like to think I was not quite seduced.
“Well, I slowly began to share Regulus’s enthusiasm for a world in which we didn’t have to hide. I went to meetings. I made friends and acquaintances. People began to greet me in the street; I was invited for drinks in a pub, to people’s houses, even. I had friends. I had also found a purpose to my life. In due course, I became a marked Death Eater.”
Severus paused, and I gathered my courage. “How … did you feel about You-Know-Who’s … about the Pureblood thing?” I finally asked.
“There was talk of that, but hardly in our group. You see, by then there was quite a large following. There was a group that was mostly about muscles and mass. They fell for the “Only Pureblood” thing. And there was our group. The … dare I say more intellectual ones? There, You-Know-Who focussed on the better world he wanted to create, first for wizards, but ultimately for everyone.
“I believed that. We all did, but at the time I felt rather smug for my reasons to believe. You see, the others were mesmerized by his words, his charisma. I prided myself on judging acts, not words. On comparing leaders objectively.
“The way I saw it then, Dumbledore spoke a lot about Muggles and Muggle-borns. But when a young Halfblood boy was nearly killed by a Pureblood, what he did was protect the Pureblood. He barely acknowledged the wrong that was done to me. Now, of course, I have a better understanding of Dumbledore’s positon - I see his motives for acting the way he did. But at the time, that’s how I saw it.
“The Dark Lord, however, spoke about limiting Muggleborn’s rights, but what he actually did was welcome a Halfblood boy and make him a trusted ally - I was seen, by everyone, as a high-flyer. A much-valued member of the group.
“For a while I truly believed in that better world. Then I began to hesitate, and I used these facts to convince myself. Then came the time when I knew it was wrong. But I refused to accept that knowledge. I was afraid. Not for my life, not at all. But of losing the only group of friends I had ever had. I knew what loneliness and despair felt like. I had been there. I was afraid to return.
“Then, one day, Regulus came to see me. He was dreadfully upset. It turned out that he, too, had had doubts. He, too, had stayed for the friendship - and for his Pureblood mother. But now he was convinced of the wrongness of it all. He wouldn’t tell me what had changed him. It would be dangerous, he said. He needed my help, needed to get away to do something of vital importance. The way he said ‘vital’ made me realise, suddenly, that there is ‘vita’ in that word. It was about life. And death, as it turned out.
“I did what he asked, and he got away. He never returned; I can only hope he achieved what he wanted to do before he died. After that, I should have left.
“I didn’t.
“I told myself I could do more good from inside, could protect people better from inside.
“I was wrong.
“The second time I tried to influence things, I failed miserably. If I had left sooner, sought help sooner …
“I was a coward. And a Death Eater, yes. I don’t blame myself for joining. I truly believed, in my heart of hearts, that I acted for the greater good. But I do blame myself, daily, for staying. I was a coward. I valued friendship, warmth, comfort, above what I knew was right.”
That is Severus’s story, exactly as he told me. I can’t give an opinion now.
*~*~*~*~*~*
In fact, it had taken Filius a long time to form an opinion. And he wasn’t quite sure he’d ever reached one - an opinion one could formulate clearly, that is. But he had seen how things had happened. Where Severus had done the right thing, and where he had been abysmally wrong. He had seen the reasons. They weren’t excuses - there were no excuses, Severus was right about that. But reasons, yes.
Slowly, Filius re-read the last part of his entry. I was a coward. I valued friendship, warmth, comfort, above what I knew was right.
He had forgotten that Severus had said those precise words. Was there a message in them now? An explanation?
For slowly, friendship had grown between them. And warmth. And comfort. And friendship had grown between Severus and the other Heads, too. How had that begun?
The Monthly Meetings. Yes.
When Filius told Severus about the Monthly Meetings (it had been agreed that he would be the one to help the new Head find his way - come to think of it, that, too, had been a plan of Minerva) Severus had been horrified. No-one had told him socializing was part of the job, he had protested, and he doubted his presence would be required after the business part.
But in spite of his mutterings he had come to their first meeting of the year. And had stayed, mostly silently, occasionally sipping the one glass of Firewhisky that lasted him an evening. And the next morning, he had produced the pitcher of pumpkin juice for the first time. “He’ll do very well,” Pomona had nodded, and then she had winced. Severus was truly a wizard with hangover potions, but even he couldn’t do miracles. The nod had been injudicious.
Severus and he had often spent evenings together. Sometimes they shared the pain of marking. Sometimes they played chess. Sometimes they just sat and talked, of books, of potions and charms, of their travels. Never of personal things. Filius wouldn’t have minded, but Severus, after that one talk about his past, carefully avoided the topics and Filius respected his desire for privacy. Had he been right to think of Severus as a younger brother, knowing so little of his private life?
Yes, Filius thought. Severus and he could be quiet together, an underrated gift. They could laugh together and plot together, too. They had even played a prank together, on one memorable occasion. Or that was what Minerva had called it. Severus and Filius preferred to think of it as ‘working for the greater good’.
It had happened during the Lockhart year. They had got into the habit of distinguishing the years by the resident DADA teacher. A habit that had worried him when Severus had been appointed. He had feared the jinx. Would they call it The Severus Year, he had thought, and what could happen to Severus that would stop him teaching?
Filius felt an icy trickle down his spine. Not in his wildest imaginations had he ever thought that … He didn’t want to think of it, not now while he was wrapping gifts on this beautiful snowy morning. Better to remember the Lockhart Year Prank. Time remembered is grief forgotten..
How had it started?
When Gilderoy had announced his Valentine plans for the students, Filius had hidden his face in his hands. Severus had looked stonily at his plate. A muscle in Minerva’s jaw had spoken volumes, and Pomona had lifted her eyes to the enchanted ceiling, from whence had come a bleak February sun, but no help.
As soon as the students had started babbling - like a band of baboons, as Minerva was wont to say - Gilderoy had looked at his stricken colleagues. “And for you good people I have a very special treat, too!” he had beamed. “Just wait and see - after dinner I’ll reveal all! You’re going to LOVE this!”
Irma had shuddered, Aurora had taken a too-large gulp of hot tea, Minerva had straightened her back even further, Pomona had gasped. And Severus and Filius had looked at each other and exchanged a curt nod. This had to be stopped, and they would be the ones to stop it. The situation demanded clear, decisive, manly action. My office, Filius had mouthed wordlessly, and Severus had nodded again.
Once in the privacy of his office, they had made a plan. Taking into account every contingency. Ensuring a back-up scenario. Leaving room for last-minute improvisation, for every good plan caters for the unforeseen. Then they had executed it, with their usual competence, Filius liked to think. The last detail had been informing Minerva that Gilderoy wouldn’t come down to dinner, as he was slightly indisposed. “A mild throat problem; nothing serious,” Filius had said. “He just croaks a bit. He’ll be as right as rain in the morning. I think we’d better ignore it - attention will only make him show off more. This is truly a case of ‘least said, soonest mended’.”
It had been a careful mixture: a goblet of reassurance, a morsel of sound psychological insight that Minerva could only agree upon, and a dash of truth. Severus, Potions Master and Slytherin, had added the dash of truth. The one thing they hadn’t foreseen was Minerva’s exaggerated sense of duty, which had made her check on Gilderoy even though she agreed he was a first-class drama queen who shouldn’t be encouraged.
When Severus and Filius had received Minerva’s casual little note inviting them to a pre-dinner drink in her rooms, they had gone unsuspectingly. Pomona was already there, grinning behind Minerva’s back. And Minerva only had to speak their names to make them realize things had gone pear-shaped.
With a smile, Filius picked up his diary again. What exactly had Minerva said?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
February 14th, 1993
“Slightly indisposed, is Gilderoy?” Minerva asked. “Croaking a little? The man can’t speak at all - worse, he has the wide mouth and vocal sacs that enable frogs to make those highly distinctive sounds. If Witch Weekly would want to publish a picture of his current smile, they’d need a two-page spread. Not that he is in the mood for smiling. Now, what can have caused that, you think?”
I can recognize a rhetorical question when I see one. Severus has always been a firm believer in saying nothing for as long as possible.
“What, indeed?” Pomona grinned. “I’ve never heard of such a spell. Must be a very powerful one.”
“It is, indeed. The Anura Charm is highly advanced magic, and only few wizards and witches ever managed it,” lectured Minerva, in full Professor-mode. “The most famous case was in Germany, in Westphalia, in 1809. A German wizard cast the Charm on his Muggle neighbour with whom he had a quarrel. The German Wizarding authorities repaired the damage and cast Obliviates, but they were not thorough enough, and as a result there is a Muggle tale, written by one of the witnesses, of a frog who was Transfigured into a prince.”
I couldn’t help beaming. When I first learned that the Sorting Hat had nearly Sorted Minerva into Ravenclaw, I had been highly amused - I am a borderline-Gryffindor myself. Over the years I may have sometimes doubted my own Gryffindorness, but never Minerva’s Ravenclaw mind.
“Spoken like the Ravendor you are,” I smiled. “Truly Outstanding.”
“I couldn’t do that Charm myself,” Minerva admitted, “It takes a lifelong dedication to Charms. I can only think of one wizard expert enough to manage such perfection.”
She let the silence drop.
No-one can let a silence drop like Minerva; I have often admired the technique when she interrogates students. Being on the receiving end is different. I knew what I had to do. I swallowed, made eye contact, and said, taking care neither to blink nor to look away, “I cast it.”
“Spoken like a true Gryffinclaw,” Minerva said. There was a hint of a smile around her lips and the beginning of laughter in her eyes.
“But there is more,” she continued. Pomona rubbed her hands gleefully; the show wasn’t over yet.
At some point, Severus and I will get Pomona for this.
“The spell will only work properly if the wizard’s wand is held at a 90 degree angle to the larynx of the intended victim,” Minerva lectured. I didn’t know whether to be surprised at her encyclopaedic knowledge or dismayed at what would come next.
“Now, I knew at once which wizard is brilliant enough to cast it, but that 90 degree angle does puzzle me.” Minerva looked from Severus to me and from me to Severus.
Severus bowed slightly, to Minerva and to the inevitable. “I lifted him,” he admitted.
“Oh, golly,” grinned Pomona. “And with all that coming at him Gilderoy didn’t manage a single defensive spell?”
Severus and I sighed simultaneously. Trust Pomona to draw attention to the missing part of our crimes and misdemeanours.
“You can’t blame him for that,” started Severus.
“He was more or less …” I tried.
“That is to say, one might call him …” Severus offered.
“Perhaps a teensy weensy bit Petrified.” Someone had to say it.
“Petrified?” asked Minerva. If I remember correctly, and I usually do, there is no Rule explicitly forbidding teachers to Petrify each other. I would have used that knowledge in our defence, even though Minerva would have argued that there is no such Rule because the idea is anathema to every well-thinking person. But it wasn’t necessary.
In the end, Minerva smiled. “I can see how the sight of the two of you doing a Weasley Twin cross-talk act might inspire sufficient dread in a man to give him all the symptoms of Petrification. It will be unfortunate for Lockhart if the world ever finds out, though. What with his impressive résumé and his numerous books.”
We both grasped the life-line with both hands. “Most unfortunate,” Severus assured her, and, “By all means, let’s never mention it to anyone,” I suggested.
Pomona started pouring port and sherry, and Severus explained how we wanted to save our colleagues from Lockhart’s worst excesses. Not because we expected gratitude; we weren’t as foolishly optimistic as that. But because it was The Right Thing to Do. I agreed. I even mentioned the regrettable lack of appreciation of modern Damsels in Distress - I am, after all, borderline Gryffindor and have my fair share of recklessness.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Slowly, Filius closed his diary and put it back in his desk. He set the wards again, cursing the Carrows’ presence that made a man cautious even in his very own rooms. Cursing Severus for not putting a stop to them.
But to be annoyed with the man was one thing; to lose faith was something else entirely. He would believe, firmly, that Severus was acting on Albus’s instructions, and that there were good reasons not to confide in anyone. And when doubt set in, in the darkest hours of the night, he would convince himself that Albus had insisted on the secrecy, and that Severus hated it as much as they did. But that he, like Albus, felt that utter secrecy was vital to their plans - to whatever plan they had hatched between them.
And once all of this was over - and it would pass; Potter was still free, still out there, doing whatever Albus had told him to do, and the dark would not win - the four of them would start the long job of rebuilding. The four of them would get the school back to normal. They might even try and get it better, this time. There had to be an alternative to Sorting eleven-year-olds, or, at the very least, to fostering enmity between the Houses with House Cups and Quidditch Cups.
Not that Minerva and Severus would take kindly to a change in the Quidditch competition. Their bets on their own Houses were legendary. Actually, for that very reason, suggesting changing the Competition might not be a bad notion. There’s nothing like bonding over a mutual enemy, and if Filius were to propose to abolish Quidditch, surely that would get Minerva and Severus on speaking terms and on the same side of an argument? This was an idea worth pondering.
Grinning, Filius reached for the last package. A book stand in ebony inlaid with the palest of woods, in a design of elegant, feather-like curls. Severus was notoriously sober in his personal expenses. Generous in his gifts to others, he seldom bothered to buy anything for himself. Yet he had a keen eye for beauty, and over the years Filius had solved the problem of Christmas gifts by replacing the standard Hogwarts quill holder, ink well, and various other desk items by beautifully-crafted ones. This book stand had been a real find. It was Charmed, so that it would turn the pages of the book on voice command - on Severus’s voice alone. He had added that final protective Charm himself. It would be a useful gift for a man who wanted to check a Potions recipe while his hands were dirty from cutting ingredients.
When the war was over, he would tell Severus a thing or two about trusting your nearest and dearest. He would make sure that Severus would climb down from his frosty ivory tower and explain things, apologize, even. Severus might resist, but if all else failed, Filius would use the prerogative of an Older Brother and kick the pup in the backside till stars would spark from his ears. He’d conjure up a footstool if necessary, but by Merlin, he’d make him see sense.
If they all survived. There was only so much even a Ravenclaw going on Gryffindor might do about that - there was no counter-curse to an Avada Kedavra. But one could take into account every contingency. Ensure a back-up scenario. Leaving room for last-minute improvisation, for every good plan caters for the unforeseen.
And one could prepare, too.
Filius looked at his gift. There was a potions book to go with it. And a bookmark, representing the Slytherin Snake on a green background. He consulted the index, carefully selected a chapter, and inserted the thin card. He briefly looked at the chapter title.
Serpentis Antidota.
For now, that would do.