FIC: Candles Lit Against the Dark (PG)

[iulia_linnea]

Title: Candles Lit Against the Dark
Type: Fic
Age-Range Category: Five
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Severus, Minerva/Wilhelmina, assorted others
Author: perverse_idyll
Rating: PG
Summary: It's been a few months since Minerva's retirement, and she'd promised Wil a dinner out. Before she knows it, friends start turning up on her doorstep and then at the pub, not least among them a certain spy who came in from the cold.



"Ready?"

Wil had exchanged her dungarees for a country-squire brocade waistcoat, so Minerva hastened to finish lacing up her winter boots. She'd retired as headmistress several months prior, and this would be her first excursion into Hogsmeade since. There had been no farewell party, and she'd kept a low profile to avoid being ambushed by her former staff. They were welcome to visit, but no fuss allowed.

"Just a quiet night out," Wil assured her again when Minerva glanced longingly at the unfinished novel sitting bookmarked on her chair. "No 'hero of the war stuff' or - "

The rest of that sentence was lost to a blue streak as a Cornish pixie zigzagged into the room, announcing in a piping, pompous voice, "Oi! Witches! Invasion! Beware!" It zipped out clutching a liquorice allsort Wil kept on hand for the pixie family she'd nursed through a Chizpurfle infestation.

A moment later, there was a sharp rap at the door. Invasion! Beware!

"Reckon you'd better get that," Wil said comfortably.

"Had I now." Minerva narrowed her eyes at her partner's finicking with her pipe and rather self-satisfied rocking from heel to toe. "Butter wouldn't melt, I see." She tidied her skirts down over her silk stockings and went to discover who was horning in on their evening.

A second rap before she reached the entrance hall dropped a pretty big hint.

"Why, Severus," she said even before the door was entirely open, intending to add something in the vein of, "Fancy the Knight Bus ejecting you onto my front step," although of course the bus line didn't make stops this far up the mountain. Instead, she settled, rather generously she thought, on, "The neighbours will believe I'm taking in vagrants."

"You have no neighbours," Severus pointed out in his whispery growl. Minerva could barely recall his quiet, insinuating style of speech before the war and a monstrous set of fangs had made spaghetti of his vocal cords. "And if you did, they would assume I'm your fancy piece and you're paying me for favours."

Freezing tendrils of bitter winter wandered into the entryway. It was tempting to blame them on Severus, who went everywhere accompanied by ghosts of the past. Fitful sunlight escaped the slow, grey heave of stormcloud and lit his head, while in the background the snowy slopes burned in streaks of white amidst whitened shadows.

Minerva stood aside to let him in. "You give that outfit too much credit. It barely rates a snog, and I certainly wouldn't pay for it."

Severus twitched her an eyebrow suggesting he'd take that snog if it were on offer and not charge her a Knut. He stayed where he was, gloved hands in the pockets of his disreputable bomber jacket, the hood hanging off the back and full of his long hair, which was only about fifty percent as greasy as it used to be during his academic career. It was also, now that he was well into his sixties, streaked with white, which of course had earned him the nickname 'old Skunk.' Under the zipped-up jacket was a roll-neck cable-knit jumper, and under that, she had no doubt, a black t-shirt with some sort of logo on it.

No one but the post owls knew where Severus actually lived, but among those who still kept in touch, there was a consensus that he'd turned - the word Minerva preferred was 'eccentric,' but tabloid gossip printed things like 'barmy.' His latest hobby, not a sign of mental instability as the Daily Prophet would have it, was playing the stinging Billiwig. Potions journals, letters columns, Ministry policymakers: they were all skewered on the point of Severus' quill. By Minerva's count, he wrote under no fewer than five pseudonyms at any given time, discarding each when his epistolary darts started coming back by return owl unopened. He'd promptly invent a new alias and resume his campaign, starting mild and reasonable and building back up to full-scale deconstructions and critiques of potions developments and governmental policy, with a tear-the-mask-off savagery that had earned him something of a fan club.

"Scoundrel. Scallawag," she complained as Wil stepped up beside her. "You could have warned me."

"Aren't you ready yet? Who knew retirement would go to your head so quickly." Severus nodded at Wil. "Plank."

"Hmph. I suspect I've been sold a cat for a Kneazle," Minerva said, getting Severus off her doorstep by descending to the front path and making him give way before her. "'A simple dinner out,' my foot. No, Merlin's foot. Merlin's sneaky and scheming and entirely too pleased with itself foot. I would expect that of Severus, but you, my dear?" She winked over the top of her spectacles as Wil charmed the locks shut. "You sly dog."

"Mews the cat," muttered Severus, who apparently didn't take her remarks in good part.

He was so bloody touchy. Well, so many losses still lay heavy on his soul - even Harry's, although death (and Dumbledore) had sent Harry back with a "get to it, lad" slap on the bum.

Minerva had tried to talk to Severus about his crushing guilt - once. Five years after the Battle of Hogwarts, she'd taken him on a summer tour of the cottage and met Wil on the hillside, surrounded by the coal-black, skeletal sires and dams of their now-flourishing dynasty.

Severus' stride had slowed, then stopped. He'd been clothed that day in wizarding robes with the hood drawn forward, as he'd often done then to hide his scars and his notorious face.

A face from which the colour had drained.

He'd watched the Thestrals nibbling raw flesh and taking flight, his lips thinned to a pale slash. To Minerva's worried eye, he'd suggested a Kissed soul halfway to becoming a Dementor, skull-faced, sunken-eyed, his robes undulating around him, black against the serene blue sky. Or more charitably, like the ghost of himself who'd risen from his infirmary bed after weeks of struggling to survive, shrugged into the robes still hanging in a closet of the headmaster's suite, and gone under escort to face the Wizengamot. The fresh, cool wind had blown his hood back and left his hair lashing like a Dementor's shredded rags, while the sun struck a face contorted by grief.

"They're all dead," Minerva had heard him say, and then, "Don't. Don't ask this of me," no less begging for being spat into the open air. He'd spun on his heel and Disapparated mere moments before Wil reached them.

Minerva preferred to tackle difficulties without delay, before the festering had a chance to go too deep. She should have remembered that festering was a Snape specialty. He'd cut off contact for almost a year. The next time she saw him, the first streak of white had appeared in his hair.

Gradually, at Wil's invitation, he'd started dropping by to help, bound and determined to master his nerves. They often worked side by side in silence, competent and at ease with each other, letting slip an occasional gruff or grouchy aside. He had good hands, Wil told Minerva, and Merlin knew he was thorough. But the Thestrals were high-strung creatures much like Severus himself, mettlesome and skittish in judging who handled them and how they were treated. Wil reckoned that whatever agonised reflex took Severus by the throat and shook him until he saw skulls and snakes, it would do him good to have care of the living creatures he saw as a reminder of the dead and dying. After years of tending these embodiments of his grief, he'd recently asked Wil for a newborn Thestral to train as his own.

"You're on my left," Minerva informed him sternly. She squeezed his elbow through the leather jacket and offered her right arm to Wil. "I'm in for it now, aren't I?"

In a voice like a heel grinding into gravel, Severus growled, "Shall we?"

"Make an entrance? Yes, I rather think we shall," Minerva said, and Wil leaned around her to say, "The reins are in your hands, Headmistress. And Snape, don't argue. Dinner's on me."

Minerva turned them as neatly as Wil might turn a skeletal yearling on a lead, and they Disapparated without a hitch.

They landed precisely where she wished to put them, all in a row, in a small sheltered field sculpted in curves of new-fallen, dazzling white. It was just off the snow-covered Hogsmeade road, its edges marked by a muddy trim of bootprints. It would have been amusing to appear at the entrance to the Three Broomsticks like a roguish and debonair ménage à trois, her strict figure at the centre. But Minerva was against flaunting on general principles. Besides, she didn't want anyone getting foolish ideas about Severus' presence in their lives. Not to mention the risk of accidentally Splinching whoever happened to be in their way.

So they strolled into town far less dramatically, with her arm threaded through Wil's and Severus walking with his hands in his pockets. Wil and Minerva's boots crunched in rhythm, but Severus was as silent as the snowfall itself, courtesy of a Featherlight charm. Behind him, the marks of his passage vanished with every step, the snow's surface purer than before he'd sunk his foot in it. Once, Minerva would have rolled her eyes at his pretension, but it was part of the need he apparently felt to eliminate all traces of his presence.

A blend of mist and chimney smoke filtered the setting sun, lingering on snow-capped rooftops and rusty weathervanes as they wandered through Hogsmeade. Minerva smelled cinnamon and hot cider, wool robes fragrant with melted snowflakes, and the wood-charred musk of log fires. Lamps were blossoming in windows, and the Three Broomsticks' inviting glow and snow-dusted sign provoked a sweet pang in Minerva's breast. Seeing the familiar timbers of the inn, she knew where she was, and that she was home.

As they entered the pub, loud boots clumping on the floorboards, robes steaming slightly, Severus dropped behind like a bodyguard. Wil raised a hand in greeting, and Minerva was delighted to see Rosmerta herself tending bar instead of Hannah or one of the younger staff.

"Good evening, Headmistress," Rosmerta called with a cheeky grin, flicking a bar rag toward the back. "Your table's ready for you."

Wil said, "Kind of you, lass," and guided Minerva toward a discreetly lit table adorned with a red amaryllis and holly berry bouquet. Severus prowled in their wake, and Minerva heard Rosmerta remark, "Still consorting with the devil, I see," in a tone that made it clear to any possible eavesdroppers the likes of Snape wouldn't normally be allowed to darken her door. Minerva didn't stop to argue. Severus had his various nervous conditions; Rosmerta had an abiding fear of anyone who'd once given themselves to the Dark Mark.

They settled on their cushioned seats, Minerva in the middle. Even before she had a chance to shift around and find the best accommodation for the touch of rheumatism in her hips, Severus set a small glass vial beside her plate.

"Much appreciated," she said quietly. She'd been taking this mixture for so long he'd stopped lecturing her on how often and in combination with which food types. Wil was stocked up on an anti-vertigo brew to counteract the bouts of dizziness following a minor cardiac episode several years back. If either of them forgot to owl for replenishments, Severus would arrive on their doorstep in a fiercely sarcastic mood with fresh batches in hand.

On one extremely rude occasion, Minerva had been driven to rant, "Did you hear what he called me? A walking monument to unnecessary hubris. Fossilised. Impractical. Too hidebound to ask for help when I need it - "

Wil had set aside her pipe and the book she'd been reading and beckoned Minerva over to sit on her lap. When Minerva stopped fuming long enough to throw up her hands and comply, Wil arranged them with a wiggle so Minerva could lean against the back of the easy chair. She pointed out, "You couldn't do this without the old Skunk's concoctions."

"Of course not," Minerva said, ready to sit up straight and defend herself, although the maple smoke of pipeweed in Wil's hair and the supportive arm around her middle tempted her to sacrifice her snit for sheer comfort. "I know that."

"He's afraid, lass. You know that, too, don't you?"

"Rubbish."

"He's afraid he's going to lose us," Wil chided gently. "Especially you."

"He has a funny way of showing it."

"Oh, I wager the inside of Severus' head looks like a Runespoor in a squabbling match. Instead of one critic, he's got three, all snapping up a storm and trying to decapitate each other."

"Except when they join forces to eviscerate old friends who object to being called irascible Harpies."

Wil smiled. "When he doesn't hear from us - not socially, but in respect of our various ailments - he starts, as he puts it, to see Thestrals."

Sighing, Minerva rested her cheek against Wil's white hair. Perhaps this was her way of not handling things well. She found it hard sometimes to acknowledge the cracks in the façade of Severus' soul. Or perhaps just his sanity. She would have put it down to the foibles of aging, except Severus wasn't that old and he was actually less neurotic than he used to be.

"That's what he calls it, does he?"

Wil patted her thigh. "Well, it's also fair to say he was trying out a few choice insults on you before polishing them up and popping them into one of his Ministry screeds."

Minerva had raised her head to laugh. "Merlin's warts, I think you've got it. Practising the art of literary broadsides certainly hasn't sweetened his temper."

"A sweet-tempered Snape? Perish the thought. That's an offence against Nature in my book."

Minerva suppressed a smile at the memory as she picked up her menu. They waited for Severus to stop scowling as if nothing he saw appealed, then tapped their choices. The menus vanished, and glasses of wine appeared at their table with a card inscribed Compliments of the house!

Minerva started to raise her glass in a toast, then sighed inwardly and waited for Severus to pour a drop of something silver from another small bottle into his wine. "Don't let Rosmerta see you doing that," she said, but he merely flicked a dismissive eyebrow at her and continued watching until mauve steam rose from the glass. Examination concluded, he relaxed and tilted the poison-revealing bottle in offer.

"Thank you, but I can think of no reason Rosmerta's kitchen would want to poison me," she said drily.

"You'd be surprised," Severus murmured. Minerva decided to take it as a slantwise compliment.

They clinked their glasses together, and Wil produced a short speech about the satisfactions of a career that had changed lives for the better and the pleasure of being able to walk away with a headstrong spirit and a bit of kick in your heels.

"Maybe I ought to be taking notes."

At these resonant words, Minerva looked up into a broad, barely wrinkled face toughened by too much exposure to human nature, warmed now by the sight of her with her monocled lover and loyal, if notoriously batshit, retainer. "Compliments of the season, Headmistress," said Kingsley. "And congratulations on escaping Hogwarts with all your wits and limbs intact."

"Why, thank you, Minister," Minerva said, refraining from glaring at Wil as the suspicion there might be duplicity at work crystalised before the walking, talking proof. "The transition was made easier knowing that if I ever missed the students, I need only walk up to visit Wil's thundering herd of flighty Thestrals, and if I missed the wrangling at staff meetings I could always owl a line or two to Severus soliciting his opinion on just about anything."

Severus smirked at her, then turned that smirk on Kingsley. He appeared entirely at ease, sitting back with his hands in his pockets, confirming Minerva's guess that he'd been in on the scheme. Otherwise, he would have tensed up the moment the Minister approached their table.

"I appreciate that you've ceased referring to me as 'that pillar of unimpeachable integrity,' Severus. It was becoming quite the load of bollocks to live up to."

"I've no idea what you're crediting me with, Shacklebolt," Severus said, hunching forward over his wineglass and sounding almost like a dog growling over a bone. "I could have sworn I came across a reference to you recently as 'a burning brand of reformist zeal.'" He sat back again, unrepentant in his stylised Muggle-isms, with a curled lip and a mean, glittering squint. "Or was it 'a burnt branch of lapsed ideals'? It was somewhere in the Prophet."

"Just because we disagree on the subject of tax brackets and restrictions on research into certain classes of mind magic doesn't mean I've become a crusty old petitioner hiding behind the privileges of office."

Severus' sharp, unflinching attention didn't relent, and Kingsley smiled with an indulgence that made Minerva wonder.

"Well, call me names all you like, you greasy dungeon bat. You look better than I've ever seen you, probably due to the company of these other pillars of unimpeachable integrity. Although why they put up with you is a mystery I'm sure would baffle even the great Merlin himself." He adjusted his smile to include them, with less insinuation and more general benevolence. "A pleasure to see you out and about, Wil. And Minerva, I miss your trenchant voice at meetings of the Board."

A few more remarks of this kind, and Kingsley sauntered off to the bar to, as Severus said, 'impress the locals.' Minerva conceded, "That wasn't so bad. No fulsome speeches or sentimentality." She turned to Severus and raised her eyebrows as high as they would go. "The Minister, Severus? Really?"

"Be more specific, old cat."

"No, no," Minerva said archly. "I've no desire to pry. I'm just pleased to see you've acquired admirers in high places."

"Appreciation for a worthy adversary shouldn't be mistaken for something it's not," Severus huffed into his wine glass.

Minerva lowered one eyebrow, leaving the other to refrain from comment on the sly twitch of his lips.

Wil caught her eye and smiled. "Some of us enjoy the shared spark and mutual devotion, but I fancy you're still sowing those wild oats, eh? Don't trouble yourself, laddie. You've time."

Severus engaged Wil in a staring contest for a few mortally offended seconds, but that ended in a draw when their dinners turned up on the table, fragrant reminders that they were here to eat, not get stuck in tiffs and teasing.

"Minerva's rubbed off on you, Plank. I am not," Severus said darkly, "a laddie."

"Well, you're certainly not a lass," Wil countered, while Minerva, a heavenly forkful of buttered mash already in her mouth, merely rolled her eyes.

"There's always Polyjuice," Severus remarked in the tone of one who knows whereof he speaks, apparently believing (silly bugger) he was turning their expectations arse over tit.

To throw her scruples out the window and pry as if her life depended on it would not only do Rosmerta's kitchen a disservice; it simply wasn't the sort of conversation one could conduct in public without risking some garbled version ending up in the gossip mags.

Minerva did, however, store up the mental image of a Polyjuiced Severus to ponder later.

Wil sliced a morsel of chicken breast and chewed contentedly. Having failed to get a rise, Severus studied his dinner and picked up his fork.

Instantly, a house elf appeared at their table with an irritable pop. "You is stopping right there, Master Snape."

He glared down at her, fork held at an angle implying he wouldn't rule out impalement. "Good evening, Filomena. If you don't bloody mind, I'm trying to have a pleasant dinner out with friends. I'm perfectly capable of taking my own precautions."

"Master Snape is not infallible," the elf snapped back, and it took immense self-control for Minerva not to spit out her mouthful. From the corner of her eye, she saw Wil raise her monocle to peer at the elf, then nod and give her a thumbs-up.

A fingersnap, and Severus' platter of food swarmed with discreet blue sparkles that died down too quickly for anyone else in the pub to notice. The game hen, Minerva was relieved to see, looked no less appetising than before, despite Severus' ruffled temper.

"You may eat now, sir," Filomena declared, hands on hips, with not the least whiff of subservience.

"Next time, trust me to take care of it myself, blast you," Severus growled, and in nearly the same breath added, "Permit me to introduce you to my friends. Minerva McGonagall, retired Hogwarts headmistress, and her partner in domestic crime - "

"You is encouraging Master Severus' bad habits?" the elf demanded, aghast. "He is not allowed to get himself sent to Azkaban again."

Minerva and Wil exchanged alarmed glances, but Severus cut through the sputtering with an impatient, "Yes, well spotted, I misspoke. I should have said her partner in domestic stagnation - "

"Careful there, laddie."

" - Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, wrangler of Thestrals and other reputedly unholy beasts." Severus stabbed the roasted bird with his knife and scrutinised the juices running from its golden-brown skin as if calculating time of death, percentage of fat, and edibility of fluids. Minerva nearly jinxed his plate, but he ceased being ghoulish and said, suddenly brisk, "This is my elf-of-all-trades, Filomena, who assists me in my research and should know better than to fuss over me like an old biddy."

"Oh, you mean the way you fuss over us?" Minerva inquired.

"Master Severus," the elf cried, exasperated, "please to remember what I is told you about using names in public. You is not to call me Filomena outside of home. My service name is Fippy, sir. An elf's personal name is personal, and we is deciding who knows it."

Severus waited out this scolding with a thin-lipped scowl. "I meant it as a sign of respectful address. But if you prefer to be called by the ridiculous name of Fippy, far be it from me to argue."

"In a pig's eye," Minerva remarked, sharing a long-suffering grimace with Fippy. "If you ever fail to make your opinions known at every turn, I shall have you hauled off and tested for Polyjuice." She sipped her wine and added, "Sev," with a pointed smile.

"Jolly kind of you to share your family name with this ungrateful bugger, lass," Wil chimed in, tilting her cup toward Fippy in a mini-toast.

"Speaking of unholy beasts," Severus interrupted, applying his knife to the game hen with a surgical fury undoubtedly inspired by their united front, "didn't you recently give your son a kitten?"

"No," Fippy said, her enormous ears lifting smartly. "You did."

Severus waved his knife as if wanding that indiscretion away. "I don't like wasting resources. None of the potions on my current roster require the fresh entrails of a young feline." He ignored Minerva's quelling look and Fippy's gasp of horror. "But if the creature ever contracts mange or picks up parasites or other feline disorders, this is the witch to ask. She has bottomless patience with intransigent and monstrous mongrels of all sorts, no matter how damaged, and better sense than Hagrid."

"Well, there's a cracking recommendation," Minerva murmured to her beloved.

Severus levelled his knife in Wil's direction. "Plank, I hope you don't mind being elected to the office of all-sorts veterinarian."

"Of course not," Wil said, patting her lips clean. "I'm a known cat-fancier, after all."

Minerva watched her, wondering which collective noun describing the creases at the corners of Wil's eyes she preferred, 'a delight of wrinkles' or 'an incandescence of crow's-feet.' She returned Wil's amused smile with an even more wicked one of her own.

"Stop doting," Severus complained. "My appetite's dodgy enough as it is."

"My party, my public demonstrations of affection," Minerva started to say, but Fippy overrode her with the command, "Eat, Master Severus. You is underweight, and it's safe. I has made sure." Severus hadn't touched a single bite yet, although he'd reduced his game hen to a bony carcass and a neat pile of glistening white shreds. "I is needing to get back to my boy," Fippy added, "and the latest batch of Skele-gro."

"Then why are you still here?"

"Making sure you is having a good time," Fippy shot back, then tossed her ears, bowed to Minerva, and vanished.

"Shame such a hardworking elf has to look after you and a child," Minerva teased.

Severus shrugged. "She's saved me from dying of poison at least twice."

Silence fell, and Minerva swallowed hard. "Please, for the love of Merlin, eat. Put some food in your gob, and if you dare try arguing with your mouth full, I will hex you."

Severus speared a forkful as if doing her a favour, but he also smiled keenly with his eyes, appearing, despite his uncontrollable habit of scanning the room every five seconds, more relaxed than he usually permitted himself in public.

When, instead of putting the food in his mouth, he laid down his fork and sat up straight, alert but not alarmed, Minerva followed his gaze and resigned herself to further interruptions.

"I heard you might be here," said Neville Longbottom. He'd arrived unobtrusively at their table, his round, amiable face rosy with the flush of exposure to the frosty evening. His robes were tastefully tweedy and smelled of wet heather and wishknot sap. He made a very solid and comforting picture, with his fair hair and gentle aura of patience, and Minerva took tremendous pleasure in exclaiming, "How very lovely to see you, Headmaster." She was rewarded by the jolly outdoor blush shining redder with joy.

No need for him to know that she kept one foot ready under the table to deliver a smart blow to Severus' instep if he relapsed into his prior habits of predator toward prey.

Neville didn't ask to sit down, merely gazed with approval upon the winter bouquet and their aging, candlelit faces. "Look at the dark circles under my eyes and congratulate yourself on the fact that you're no longer the one dealing with Hogwarts at Christmas hols."

Minerva raised her glass in a pantomime of 'I'll drink to that.' "I suppose they're all running sugar-mad?"

"I can only assume your presence used to hold them in better check."

"Do you feel you're getting the hang of it?" Despite a sympathetic twinge, she rather relished the reminder that she was no longer charged with keeping students safe, their spirits up, and their rampages only as destructive as the school could decently accommodate. "Not that one is ever entirely in control. But at some point you'll have encountered every single preposterous occurrence or kerfuffle or banshee-level emergency possible to a castle teeming with juvenile mischief-makers."

She smiled her thanks when Neville hefted the bottle, peered at the fluid level - one would think they hadn't poured a single serving yet - and topped off her glass with impeccable manners.

"I do sometimes wonder if after the job of headmaster I could step directly into the slapshoes of a circus ringleader," he said. "We're expected to be bureaucrats, counsellors, disciplinarians, and favourite uncles - "

" - or aunts," said Wil.

" - all rolled into one."

"You forgot animal trainer and sideshow barker," Severus chipped in, mostly, Minerva would guess, to make Neville acknowledge his presence.

"Your experience wasn't really representative, sir," Neville said with a slight levelling of tone that spelled either caution or dislike. "Just as I and most of my year couldn't really be said to represent typical students."

He tucked his hands in his robe pockets, offering Severus an opening for a snide remark about his failure as a student in any year.

Severus disdained this obvious charity. "However you saw yourselves, Longbottom, you were still students in my care. I actually had in mind a few of the unqualified staff - "

"Stop right there," Minerva said. "We are not going to rehash the war like doddering old pensioners comparing battle scars. I'd prefer to enjoy my dinner entirely in the present moment, thank you."

Neville ceased observing Severus with the calm, complicated expression that was the sign he tolerated Snape for their sakes. He hadn't softened toward Severus the way Harry had. He possessed as personal an understanding of Severus' faults as Harry did but not as forgiving a sense of his virtues.

The coolness fading from his kind face, Neville ducked his head to Minerva with a shy formality that still surfaced between them from time to time despite the years they'd worked together.

"I never got a chance to thank you for everything you taught me," he said. "You were there one day and gone the next. And I don't just mean thank you for training me up while I was deputy headmaster. My schooldays were - well, you know. Often rough." He hesitated, and Minerva joined him in resisting the overpowering urge to glare at Severus. "But I never felt I was less a Gryffindor than anyone else. And - you remember my Gran. She was strict, like you. But you were fair, Minerva, and it was a novelty to look up to someone who didn't look down on me. You and Pomona. You helped balance the scales. I don't think you know how much that meant to me."

Memory of Pomona always brought a pang to Minerva's breast, as by rights she ought to have been sitting at the table with them, enjoying the fruits of retirement. She, more than any of them, had treated Neville with the encouragement he deserved. Minerva's eyes threatened to mist over, not merely in remembrance, but precisely because she recalled more accurately than Neville - or less gratefully, perhaps - that she hadn't always been fair.

Yet here he stood, a young man of consequence, and apparently she'd been important to him learning his own worth. In the end, she hadn't failed as a teacher, and that had to count for something.

"Shove over," she said, tapping Severus' arm. He eyed her, gauging her reasons, then eeled out of his chair and pulled it aside like the gentleman he wasn't. Minerva edged awkwardly out from behind the table and even more awkwardly reached around Neville to clasp him in a hug.

Embarrassment radiated through his robes - Merlin, this was why she didn't generally accost people with open arms - but when she let go, his face was cherubic with delight.

"I'm so pleased," she said firmly, squeezing his hand. "Thank you so much. Consider yourself a shining example of why it's all worth it, the tedium of endless marking and maintenance, parental interference and board meetings, all the classroom shenanigans and lacklustre students, the underqualified teachers, the never-ending demands on your time - "

She paused in the middle of her rant. Behind her, Wil chuckled, and she could detect Severus' smirk without turning to look.

"You are the reason," she said to Neville. "You and all the rest of us who have passed through Hogwarts' doors and brought a measure of sense and decency into the world."

A disgruntled Nundu huff behind her provided a useful diversion, and she took the opportunity to kiss Neville on the cheek and return to her chair, telling Severus as she passed, "Behave, or I'll send you home without supper." Seated (without a single rheumatic twinge, bless the man), she scooped up her glass and held it aloft. "From one head of Hogwarts to another: I'm proud to have been your teacher, Mr. Longbottom. I don't think of myself as having left a legacy, but possibly I'm mistaken. You are it."

From across the room came Kingsley's deep, "Hear, hear," and Rosmerta's cheery, "There's a pint on the bar with your name on it, Nev."

Care and loss and long work days had matured Neville, but when he smiled like that, his boyish shyness burst into flower.

"If you ever get bored with resting on your laurels, owl me, and you're hired," he said. "Transfiguration, Muggle Studies, it doesn't matter." Was that a twinkle of mischief in his eye? Dear Merlin, Albus' legacy lived on. "Or if the Care of Magical Creatures position ever opens up, perhaps Wil?"

Minerva refrained from being tetchy and pointing out that one reason she'd retired was Wil's heart condition and subsequent fall from a Thestral. Besides, Wil didn't need a Hogwarts curriculum to keep her busy. She had her hands full with the magical creatures she tended at home.

One of those creatures was presently cocking a jaundiced eye at Neville, the corner of his mouth crooked up in a contemplative sneer. "Should I feel snubbed, Longbottom? You're not going to offer me the DADA position?"

Neville had clearly been expecting something of the sort. "Sorry, Professor. I'd only end up sacking you once reports came back of how miserable the students were." He turned his wand over in his hands, studying it as if to avoid Severus' gaze. "And as much as I'd like to believe I'd enjoy doing that," he glanced up, and Minerva saw the dogged determination, the bedrock to Neville's amiable demeanour, "I suspect I'd hate it."

"Pity. I was looking forward to refusing your offer and watching you pretend you're not relieved."

Neville gave up on gentle mockery and sighed. "Then there's that. I can't force you to respect me, Snape. I'm no Dumbledore."

"Thank Merlin for small mercies." Severus took a long sip, still watching Neville over the rim. Minerva prepared herself to restore order.

Then Severus set his glass aside and stood up from his chair. Neville's posture stiffened as if bracing for a duel. "Never mind, Longbottom," Severus said drily. "The last thing Hogwarts needs is another Dumbledore."

Then he held out his hand.

For the barest moment, Neville stared down at the bony, potions-and-ink-stained peace offering as if he expected it to turn into a snake and lunge for his throat. The look he gave Severus was hard, as close to inscrutable as such an earnest and open face ever got. He didn't want to make this concession, Minerva saw, and her throat bobbed as she swallowed disappointment.

But this was Neville, and Neville was nothing if not scrupulous. He took Severus' hand and held it firmly, as if detaining him rather than meeting him halfway.

"I testified to keep you out of Azkaban," he said, "only because Harry convinced me it was the right thing to do. So you can thank him for that. It doesn't mean you're off the hook. I still visit my parents every week, so I'm not likely to forget." He released hold of Severus, adding, "Harry's convinced I'll forgive you someday, but I don't really see it happening."

"I've no forgiveness in my soul, Longbottom. Why would I expect it of you? But," Severus bared his teeth, "you decapitated that fucking snake. After twenty years of never being in the same room together, that's worth a ten-second handshake and an 'exceeds expectations.'"

He sat back down, his expression a disquieting masterpiece of malevolent calm. Minerva heard Wil's resigned sigh at the hollows reappearing in Severus' face, deeper than the lines of age, the imprint of melancholy Wil had worked, on the hillside with her flesh-eating horses, to heal.

"If it's any consolation," Severus threw out, his rasp more throat-scraping than usual, "after twenty years I still have nightmares about it."

He turned away and downed his last mouthful of wine, paying Neville no further attention. Under the table, Minerva laid a reassuring hand on his knee. Severus ignored it. She left it there and smiled at the current headmaster of Britain's foremost magical academy.

"You have my word to drop by in the coming months, but only for personal visits and to provide moral support. The distilled-spirits kind, if that suits. But my days of chivvying students toward knowledge of proper magical usage and mastery of their wands are over." She tipped her spectacles down with a suggestive lift of the eyebrows, just to pique Wil's interest. "I have a few choice plans in mind for my leisure years. Astoundingly, they don't involve children."

Watching Neville make his dazed way to the bar, where Rosmerta was ready with a pint and some cheery remarks about Hannah, she murmured,"You wouldn't happen to have a spare handkerchief, would you?" Wil smuggled her a folded square under the table. Minerva used it to dab her eyes. "Where on earth did this rush of sentiment come from?"

"Longbottom has enough bottle to measure up to anyone we know," said Wil. "Worth sighing over, in my book. Like a unicorn among Thestrals. Rarer still, he knows how to be happy."

"Unlike Harry, you mean?" Minerva said quietly, not wanting to rouse the Slytherin ire of the very dear but very touchy friend on her other side.

"We don't know that, lass." Wil removed her monocle, breathed on it, buffed it, and slipped it in her breast pocket.

Really, she should have known the parade of well-wishers hadn't ended yet. Minerva watched the next pilgrim to the McGonagall shrine thread her way between tables with a brisk confidence in manoeuvres. Shame on Wil - and Severus, too, if he was in on it - for digging up old history.

Rolanda fetched up in front of their table, flashed each of them a grin in turn, then concentrated the full glow of her attention on Minerva.

"Hello, loves. It's been an age, and you're a sight for sore eyes." She reached out and whapped Severus on the shoulder with jaunty and not quite bone-jarring force. "Well, a sight, anyway. How's life treating you, old Skunk?" Not waiting for an answer, she brought a chair skidding over from a nearby table. "Mind if I sit?"

Ro plunked down and rested her folded arms on the table's edge, grinning straight into Minerva's eyes. A wave of sweet, crisp chill and a faint odour of broom polish wafted across. Under the table, Wil squeezed Minerva's leg.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Severus said with dry tolerance. Despite having nothing in common, he and Ro had always got on, even if getting on mostly meant staying out of each other's way.

"So you finally did it," Ro said.

Wil signalled the bar, and another wine glass appeared at the table. The bottle having refilled in the meantime, Severus did the honours, then drained half of his in one swallow. He'd barely made a dent in his dinner and had apparently given up. Annoying man. He knew Minerva would be too emotionally compromised - sorry, too distracted to scold.

"You finally got out from under that bloody great weight of responsibility," Ro prodded, still not able to leave well enough alone.

Knowing how long she could continue in this vein, Minerva said firmly, "I want to say you're looking well, but if you're simply going to stir up fusty old arguments, I'm not sure you deserve a compliment from me."

Ro laughed and picked up her glass. She looked bloody fantastic, her skin as ruddy brown and polished as a chestnut, the gleam of her yellow eyes as hawkish as in her glory days, not the least bit dull. The weatherbeaten texture bestowed by high winds, sunny skies, and constant broom travel suited her, accentuating her toothy smiles, her frank stare, and the occasional intensity of the hunter that gripped her when she was playing to win.

Thankfully, she wasn't here to pit herself against Wil, and why would she? She and Ro had had their day, and a rather tempestuous day it had been, too. A day that had ended with Minerva needing to hire a new Quidditch coach. Sexual compatibility did not, alone, a happy relationship make, but the memory of it still had the power to stir her body in ways she would much rather reserve for Wil.

The fact was that Ro, when left to her naturally buoyant devices, had always emitted a star quality, and Minerva, while harbouring no regrets, was not immune.

She stretched out her hand and was pleased when Ro grasped it. Oh, those lovely, callused hands. Wil's were similarly work-roughened, and Minerva loved to apply lotions to them and then let them wander tender on her body, softened but surfaced with evidence of strength.

Aware her colour was high - the wine, it was the wine - she said, "All right, I'll concede you have some reason to act as though your slowest Seeker has finally caught the Snitch. But I did what I set out to do, and I retired in my own time, when all was in readiness." She smiled at Wil. "It was worth the wait."

Ro let go of her hand, possibly miffed by the slight sting in those words. She'd coaxed and badgered Minerva too often, and she hadn't been willing to wait. That was her look-out, and Minerva wasn't sorry to be spending the rest of her life with Wil.

"If it gives you pleasure, I'm all for it." Elbows on the table, Ro quaffed her wine, still radiating competitive sexual energy. Minerva resisted the impulse to scoot her chair over and put her arm around Wil, knowing Rolanda would consider defensive behaviour a tactical win. She'd often tested Minerva the same way when they were together while denying it to the day they parted.

Ro licked her lips. "Good stuff, this. Rosie must have raided her secret stash for you." She was briefly diverted by Severus' long, yellowish fingers reaching in front of her to hoist the bottle and refresh his glass. "Oi, you great skinny gargoyle, that vintage may be better than we deserve, but it's not going to put meat on your bones. You might want to take in some solid food so these two long-suffering ladies don't have to Apparate your drunken carcass home to their spare bedroom."

Without even looking at her, Severus extracted from his jacket pocket a small jar shaped like a whisky flask and branded with a commercial label. He set it upright on the table. Making eye contact with no one, he sat back with an air of detachment and sipped his wine.

"Store-bought sobriety?" Ro teased. "I keep one of these in the medicine chest myself, but I'd never expect you to settle for what's on the market."

Minerva, who'd been watching the placement of Severus' fingers adjust themselves to a new rude configuration every time he picked up his glass, left it to Wil to suggest Ro look more closely at the label.

Ro was grinning something devilish at Severus' sign language, as good a sport in a game as ever, even the unofficial game of insult. She tilted the flask back and forth, squinting.

"Bless me," she said, impressed. "Having it both ways, eh? Must be making a mint off this stuff. Salvation to the magical lush. I'd wager your de-souser is a staple of most Wizarding households. I know Hogwarts stocks it. And I bet this splendid and socially responsible establishment keeps a job lot on hand." She twirled the little jar in mid-air and shook the contents. "Does Rosie know it's you?"

"Hush, you garrulous baggage," Minerva said, at the same time as Wil remarked, "Fun is fun, but I'd think twice about jeopardising someone's livelihood, lass." She held out her glass, and Severus snatched up the bottle before Ro could lay a hand on it and poured a generous amount. "Especially," Wil said, holding the wine to let it breathe, "someone who knows how to brew twenty varieties of poison in a day."

"Forty-three," Severus rasped, "and counting." There was only the slightest touch of inebriation detectable in his voice and heavy eyelids, but the fact one could perceive it at all was concerning.

"No fear," Ro said. "I'm not after hurting anyone's feelings or robbing the goblin's bank. It's purely the irony of the transaction that got me blurting it out." Unrepentant, she patted Severus' arm. "That's right, old Skunk. You stay out of it and make sure to keep our glasses topped up."

He sneered at her, but it was a comfortable, languid sort of sneer, only somewhat belied by a fleeting pinpoint scrutiny and a swift, hostile scanning of the entrances, exits, and nearby faces.

Clearly troubled by Severus' paranoia, Ro kept silent and gently squeezed the arm she'd given such a condescending pat.

Then she stood up, knocked back her wine, and leaned over to give Minerva a kiss. As Minerva sat back, slightly flushed, she caught the slouched, territorial glower from Severus' side of the table. Ridiculous.

"Invite me by the cottage," Ro said, dropping the swagger for a moment. Minerva had always found her underlying earnestness endearing and difficult to resist. "I promise to behave."

To Minerva's relief, Wil took the lead. "Now that Min's had a few months' rest, we might be up for company again." She tilted her thumb in Severus' direction. "And you could hardly be more unruly than this one on his bloodiest days."

"What, that's not every day?" Pushing her luck, Ro tugged on a ribbon of Severus' hair. "Washed this in the last week, have you? I hope Minerva feels properly honoured."

Switchblade edges replaced the slouch and glower. "Do you value your fingers, Hooch?"

Ro pretended to think. "Well, I suppose there're other ways to please the ladies, but I do have a reputation for fancy fingerwork to keep up." She waggled her hand at him, undaunted. "Thinking of biting one off, old Skunk?"

Minerva sat alert, ninety percent certain he wouldn't take the bait but wary of the ten percent that had grown unpredictable over the years. He'd compressed a lifetime of bitterness into a bottomless fuel source, the sort of boiled-down darkness that, had he been younger, might have metastasised into an Obscurus and destroyed him.

Fearless, Ro touched his cheek. "Maybe this lovely old married couple can have me for tea some time when you're visiting." The candlelight wavered on her broom leathers and laced-up woollen robes, flattering her handsome figure and gilding her brusque edges. The golden flicker lit her eyes with rare wistfulness. "I miss you all. We go back a long way, and I'd be sorry to lose you." She nodded. "Don't haunt my dreams and then be gone when I wake up, all right?"

Perhaps the rumours about Severus' high-strung instability had reached her. He said nothing, merely brushed her hand away from his face.

Minerva's chest ached. Dear Merlin, she did love these two, these brazen survivors from the hardest parts of her life.

Wil stroked the inside of her thigh, and Minerva pressed her legs together to hold the tips of her fingers there. She watched, relieved, as Rolanda strode for the door, tossing Rosmerta a jaunty compliment, pinching Neville's cheek, and giving Kingsley the same shoulder wallop she'd dealt Severus.

"Well," she said once the ripples from Ro's departure had subsided. "That's more than enough emotion for one evening, I think. Severus, for Merlin's sake, do me a favour and eat something, or I'll report you to Fippy."

"Bugger off. If I needed another house elf, I'd advertise in the papers."

Wil interrupted, "Almost time for pudding," and repacked her pipe with a feigned nonchalance that had Minerva laying down her fork in resigned expectation.

Right on cue, there was a crash from the vicinity of the Floo. Severus dropped his own fork, not that he was actually doing more than playing noughts and crosses with his food. His wand flew point-forward. Minerva reached over to stop him, and Wil ordered, "Wand down, laddie."

It was Harry of all people, knocking against the fire irons as he stumbled out of the Floo.

He spotted them at once, almost as if he'd been informed beforehand. Minerva dug her elbow into Wil's side as Harry came to stand, tired and smiling, beside their table.

"You would think I'd have mastered Floo travel by now," he said. "Sorry to barge in, but someone mentioned there'd been a rare McGonagall sighting at the Broomsticks, and I popped over to say hi."

He continued smiling, looking like a decent month's sleep would do him a world of good. Even in semi-seclusion, Minerva had got wind of the fact that the Potters were separating. No matter how amicable the split, it had to be rough going.

Severus said drily, "Still can't enter a room without making yourself the centre of attention, can you, Potter?"

From the curious lightening of Harry's careworn face, and the hint of anticipation in the keen way he turned to regard Severus, he'd been looking forward to locking horns. "Hello, Professor. Long time no see."

Severus had also turned partway in his seat to study Harry, and Minerva couldn't for the life of her interpret the look on his face. "That's the best you've got? I expected at least a hearty 'rot in hell.'" Minerva squinted at Wil to see whether a smackdown was in order, but Wil's boot tapped her ankle and she held her tongue.

Harry seemed almost pleased by the insult. "How about 'what the fuck are you doing here, Professor?' Better?"

"More interesting, perhaps. But use my name, Potter. Severus, or Snape if you object to being on a first-name basis. Being called 'Professor' is physically painful."

"Whatever you say, Severus," Harry humoured him. The dim lighting streaked his unshaven cheeks with stubble shadow, as if he'd landed face-first in the fireplace soot. Minerva couldn't tell if he intended growing a beard or was simply neglecting himself. Another glass appeared on the table, and Severus picked it up, reaching for the wine without taking his eyes off Harry. Minerva wondered if she should be perturbed that he knew exactly where the bottle was without looking at it.

"I don't want to intrude," Harry protested even as he accepted the glass. He raised it to Minerva. "Anyway, congratulations."

"Thank you," she said, smiling. "I've served my time, and now I'm free." Harry blinked, as if her wry platitude had struck a nerve. "From this point forward, it's up to Neville to shape the course of future generations."

"Better Nev than me," Harry snorted. Severus echoed the snort, drawing Harry's attention back to him. "Speaking of," he added, still with that cautious teasing note, "I enjoyed that editorial you wrote lambasting the board of governors for tabling your proposal on magical primary schools."

"My proposal? That was Algernon Bostwick's, Potter. And the editorial, assuming we mean the same one, was signed by a Barnaby Sefton." Severus sipped his wine and stared at Harry without blinking. Perhaps he meant to bluff his way out of this, but the longer the staring contest went on, the more it began to feel like something else.

"I keep track of your aliases," Harry said suddenly. Was that a blush, or merely the effects of warmth and wine on a cold cheek? "I haven't identified them all, but I do enjoy the game of spot-the-Snape. Your rants, your critiques - they're bloody smart, and - you'd be surprised how often I agree with them. That recent letter ripping the DMLE a new one for its policy of Obliviating Muggles when a wizard fucks up? - erm, sorry, Minerva."

"Och, Harry. Please. Do go the fuck on."

Harry's startled laugh sloshed some wine onto his fingers. Severus, being used to the fact that Minerva was not, and never had been, a Victorian ninnie, ignored her. His eyes were - oh dear - fastened on the sight of Harry licking his fingers clean.

"So how should magical breaches be handled? Or should Muggles be left to get even more paranoid over outbreaks of mass hallucination?"

This seemed rather heavy stuff to spring on a cosy dinner. Severus, just to be bloody-minded, looked keen. "Are those your personal opinions, Potter?"

"Well," Harry said, pausing long enough to chug a mouthful of wine, "strictly speaking, they're something Diogenes Chandler might say." He was definitely blushing now.

Severus actually turned his chair sideways and leaned forward, alert and intrigued in a way Minerva hadn't seen in many a long month. "What a coincidence, Mr. Chandler," he said, and if that wasn't Severus purring at Harry, Minerva didn't want to know what was. "Ever since you started appearing in the Prophet, I wondered who might be nipping at my heels. I certainly never expected Harry Potter to have anything scatheing to say about Auror policies." He picked up his nearly empty glass, clearly less interested in drinking than in having a prop to play with. "A pity Frogmorton's reply was binned. Or so I assume. He may already have worn out his welcome."

Frogmorton was a pseudonym Minerva hadn't encountered before. It was tricky keeping abreast of Severus' fictional mouthpieces.

"You wrote back?" Harry said, perking up. "Erm, I mean, can you send me a copy of Frogmorton's reply?"

"Why the sudden interest in enforcement policies?"

Harry had inched over until he was standing knee to knee with Severus. "You'd be surprised. I've developed an interest in a lot of things I never thought I would."

Severus sat up slowly. He hadn't checked the exits once in the last ten minutes. "How well do you fare with Thestrals, Potter?"

While an understandably confused Harry fumbled his way into accepting an invitation, Minerva said softly in Wil's ear, "And how do you feel about Severus volunteering your services?"

Wil wasn't a smirker, but it was a near thing. "Not that our dear old Skunk isn't capable of riding a bucking broom into the nearest cloud all on his own, but I did put the wind up his bristles. The therapeutic effects of working with the herd get raised now and then when we're out on the hillside and Severus is in a receptive mood. Harry being one of our lad's personal Boggarts - not that that's ever been a secret - I thought it worth mentioning his recent distress. Divorce and all. Gave my opinion that somebody ought to nudge the lad into beneficial activity."

"You, my dear? Stirring the pot?" A gravy boat full of homemade cranberry sauce appeared on the table, a bit late in the meal. "What did Severus say to that?"

"'Beneficial to whom?' Came over all contemptuous, you know the look. I expected nothing better from him in the moment. So I just told him he already knew the answer." Under cover of taking a ladleful of tart stewed ruby jelly, Wil winked toward the flushed cheeks of the two men on Minerva's right. "Remember my idea about a side venture in elderly creature care?"

"Mercy, Wil. Don't let Severus hear you calling him elderly."

Wil snorted and valiantly held in her mouthful of cranberries, waiting until the danger had passed to say reproachfully, "If I'd swallowed that wrong, I'd have been wheezing for the rest of the evening, and our homecoming would be a bit less lively." Contrite, Minerva leaned over to kiss her reddened cheek, suddenly distracted by thoughts of other things they could be doing. "I had in mind more the company of docile old beasts," Wil murmured. "Something to soothe the emotional scars that make life such a bugger."

Minerva tapped her lips, feigning thought. "Meditations with Meat-Eating Horses? Old Cats, Old Skunks, and Potters of a Certain Age?" Wil cupped her pipe and pretended to clean the bowl to cover for the fact that she was staring with clear intent at Minerva's lips. "Or," Minerva said innocently, "how about 'Wilhelmina's Harem for the Strictly Unsociable, Uncuddly, and Unable to Outgrow the Past? Blue pixies optional.'"

Wil leaned closer. "You do get saucy when you've had a few."

Beside them, Severus was saying, "I'll send it on. The printed version usually gets pruned by the semi-literate gatekeepers of the letters columns."

"I want the whole thing," Harry confirmed. "How it's said is as important as what it says."

Severus eyed him up and down. "I did notice Diogenes indulges in more colourful language than I'd associate with the squeaky-clean Mr. Potter."

Harry laughed, a bit sour. "Try being an Auror for twenty years."

"I'd sooner cut myself into pieces and feed them to Nicothoe." Harry waited, and Severus stretched his shoulders in a way that made the leather creak. "I keep a peregrine falcon rather than a post owl. They're faster, harder to follow, and vicious when intercepted. No owl treats. Raw meat or she won't deliver your reply."

"Raw meat, got it." The way Harry's voice dropped, you'd think he and Severus were alone.

This time when farewells were exchanged, Minerva refused to get up. She'd dispensed enough hugs and kisses for one evening. As Harry started for the Floo, Severus rasped, "Well, I know what I want for Christmas." He twiddled his fork and stabbed absentmindedly at his plate, which had been replaced by Rosmerta's specialty bread pudding. Severus scowled at the lump of cinnamon, raisins, bread, and rum sauce, then took it slowly into his mouth. Harry, glancing back over his shoulder, nearly walked into the fire irons again.

"Stop that," Minerva hissed. "If there's anything that will harrow Rosmerta's nerves and get you banned permanently from the premises, it's eating lasciviously in Harry's direction."

Luckily, the Floo whooshed, spiriting temptation away. Severus settled down over his pudding with an unsubtle cat-got-the-cream look while Minerva and Wil split a bowl between them.

Thankfully, Harry was the last of the well-wisher's parade, and they rose to go. Severus went to stand outside in a misplaced gesture of either courtesy or disdain while Wil sent their compliments to the kitchen and Rosmerta stuffed chocolates in Minerva's pockets.

Then it was out into the darkness and snow, the bonnet of sky a cold deep field salted with stars, and down below, the lamplit bustle of snow-speckled villagers running their final errands of the day. Minerva turned her face upward as they walked arm in arm, crushing snow underfoot. Points and blurs of light pricked the growing blackness.

"I'll see you to your door," Severus said when the road finally merged with the night and they either had to cast Lumos or Apparate.

"I'll take us," Wil said, and Minerva dragged Severus closer. Gripping her beloved's arm, she endured being squeezed and turned inside-out (always a tedious experience, doubly so on a full stomach) and was relieved when her boots smacked down on the flagstone path outside their cottage door. Her companions bumped up against her as they all found their footing in the garden, with the peak winds shrilling overhead.

Distantly, a Thestral whinnied.

"Coming in?" she said as Wil unlocked the door and the foyer chandelier cast glittering crystal-refracted patterns on the icy steps.

Severus shook his head. "Aren't you feeling sufficiently fawned upon and debauched for one night?"

"If that's debauchery, then I know several maiden aunts who would have you calling for your fainting couch." Minerva leaned up to kiss his cheek, and he stiffened slightly. Sometimes it was worth cornering Severus into accepting the tiniest sips of affection. "It was lovely, thank you. Perhaps we should make a monthly tradition of it."

Severus merely clasped her gloved hands, then stepped back, glancing up at the doorway to include Wil. "I'll be on my way so you can get busy making up for the shortage of debauchery. Enjoy your aperitifs."

Instead of Disapparating, he pivoted toward the garden gate.

"Good night!" Minerva called before hurrying inside, shutting the door with a shiver. She smiled when Wil caught her hand, then forgot whatever sentiment or innuendo she'd meant to impart as Wil tugged her into the dark parlour, barely warmed by the banked embers.

"We've only got a few seconds," Wil whispered. "Don't go for the lights, lass. Just look out the window, and I wager he'll let us see."

"See what?" Minerva said as Wil spelled the curtains to glide open a few inches.

"Shhh." One arm encircling her waist, Wil manoeuvred her into position.

Intrigued by the mystery of it all, Minerva pressed closer to the comforting hearth of Wil's body and peered out. At first, the world outside the window was impenetrable. As her eyes adjusted, she glimpsed Severus, jacket gleaming here and there with reflected crescents of moonlight, his hair swirling enough in a gust of wind that she could tell it was hair and not a flurry of dead leaves. He didn't acknowledge them, just kept on walking.

Toward the drop.

"What does that bloody man think he's doing?" she said sharply. Their cottage was set safely back, but a few metres beyond the garden gate, a steep plunge gave way to ocean-deep darkness. Severus, an opaque movement against the snow, was heading right for it.

"He'll be fine, lass. Watch."

Yes, of course. She'd only seen him fly once, that horrible night when he'd crashed through a window and flown off to have his throat torn out. But even so. This high up, the winds were cutting and fierce enough to knock anyone into a tailspin.

With the night so absolute, it was hard to tell exactly what happened next. A greater darkness seemed to ripple, unfurl around Severus. If he'd been wearing robes she would have assumed they were flapping, a sleek dark windblown turbulence billowing upward. Blackness rose to embrace the winter air. A boot - no, hoof - struck sparks from the stones beneath the crust of snow.

Then he was over the edge and -

Wait. Moonlight slanted off the serrated leather of wide, frightening wings and stippled the slats of protruding ribs. Gaunt and nightmarish - an equine caricature of how most of the world saw Severus - the skeletal shape soared in a semi-circle over nothingness, swooped low into the frozen garden, and touched ground, cantering over frostbitten shrubs, close enough that one white eyeball flashed as it passed.

"My God," Minerva breathed as Severus surged upward again with a sudden undulation and buffet of batlike wings. Flapping higher and higher until he caught a draught, he spiralled slowly over the surface of the unknown beyond the mountainside, finally disappearing as the ice-glazed emptiness erased him from view.

For some reason, Minerva's eyes were watering.

"He's been hiding that for years," Wil said, her voice still pitched low. She gestured with her free arm, and flames sprang up in the grate, bringing instant cheer to the room. "Don't know if he's registered. Not planning to ask."

Minerva stared a moment longer, but a glimpse was all she'd get tonight. She closed the spell-insulated curtains and let Wil lead her to the sofa. They sat pressed together, sharing warmth. "Does he ever join the herd?" she said at last, once the weaving patterns of firelight had wreathed her in hypnotic calm.

"Hard to say." Wil took her hand and rubbed it warm. "At first he considered it a judgement on his warped soul or what have you. A sign he'd never shake off being a Death Eater. 'Course, you'd have to break through ten layers of Occlumency to drag that out of him."

Minerva blinked the fire from her eyes. "And now - ?"

"It's the herd, I'd wager. The caretaking. Getting to know them and their ways. Living with 'em when he's tired of being who he is and everything the name Snape stands for." Wil ran fingers over her scalp and yawned. "Being everybody's idea of ugly and scary doesn't have to mean unlovable, though. He's learning." She patted Minerva's bun, loosening its coil. "And he trusts you."

"Not very much if he can't even - "

"He was ashamed," Wil said quietly before Minerva could get very far into her sore feelings.

"Hmph." She sat frowning at the fire, knowing it was easy for her to say. Easy to assume her forgiveness was plain. She hadn't been the one to kill Albus. "Will you trust him to show Harry the ropes?"

"I might. If he behaves himself."

"I think," Minerva said drily, "after watching them together, Harry doesn't actually want Severus to behave himself."

"Funny sort of love letters, though, eh?" Wil stroked Minerva's silver hair as it cascaded down. "Poison pens and reformist zeal. Not very romantic."

"Not romance, my dear. Passion."

"Well, we both know the old Skunk's never stopped obsessing over the Boy Who Lived. I reckon this will give them a chance to work out their differences."

Minerva groaned and put a hand over her eyes as though to shield herself from the sight. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Smiling, she turned sideways and started unbuttoning Wil's waistcoat. Still no twinges; Severus deserved every bloody knut he charged. "And here I thought once I'd retired from being head of school, I wouldn't have to put up with these sorts of shenanigans any longer."

She twitched her skirts up, revealing her silk stockings, and hooked an ankle over Wil's.

"There's my girl," Wil said, smoothing a hand up her calf. "With Severus off scaring the neighbours, what do you say to a spot of debauchery and a little domestic stagnation?"

"Something tells me he'll be busy with Diogenes Chandler for a good long while. And now you mention it, I could do with a bit less tight-lacing." Minerva stretched demurely and opened her arms. "Care to help me with my corset?"