If I had to choose the three idiots I hate the most, it would be the three who are currently invading my office. Actually, number one on my Hate List at the moment is the senseless genius who invited in the intruders in the first place! There is nothing I can do about this abysmal circumstance, however, because he, being the headmaster, can do anything he likes, and I, not being the headmaster, must accept it.

My eyes scan over Potter, who is sitting awkwardly in his chair, clearly ill at ease, though he portrays apprehension and hidden panic that I am too skilled to miss. Next to him, Granger takes in everything with interest, her back straight, commanding respect. Weasley is slouched, looking bored and annoyed, as well as tremendously worried—it is easy enough to read his emotions. The Weasleys do have a habit of announcing their feelings through facial expressions.

“Harry I need you to recount the dream to the best of your ability,” the winner of the Most-Hated-By-Severus-Snape Contest says. His voice is solemn, with attempted calm, and the famous twinkle is no longer mocking me with its presence. I decide that he probably isn’t upset for the same reason I am—damn those imposing children!

“It…it was Voldemort and Pettigrew,” Potter speaks, and it is the voice of a man. He has the eyes of a man, as well, if I allow myself to peer at them long enough to notice. Despite any evidence to the contrary, this sixteen-year-old is Harry Potter, and is therefore a child…an idiot child. “They were discussing something, a plan,” he continues. “Voldemort is taking full advantage of the fact that he has an animagus among the Death Eaters. There was a lot of Crucio-ing… He said it was Pettigrew’s job to get someone; hold them captive. Sort of a way to get me indirectly…like last year.”

“We must be sure the entire student body is protected, then, Albus,” McGonagall puts in, unable to refrain from speaking her mind for more than five minutes at a time.

“Of course,” Dumbledore agrees. “Everything must be under excruciatingly tight security.”

“It is also prudent, Headmaster, that no student be allowed to house a pet rat,” I say. After all, it is my duty to break the hearts of young children, and separating them from rats is a very efficient way of doing so. At least it was, when people still carried those things around.

“Excellent point, Severus,” Albus concedes.

“Are you kidding?” Weasley interrupts. “We obviously know that no one is carrying Pettigrew around as a pet!”

“Oh, because what an unlikely situation that is, Weasley,” I say with pointed sarcasm.

“Well, not anymore.”

“Has it occurred to you that there are very few people who even know the man is alive, let alone can identify him? He can easily take the place of an unsuspecting student’s rat, and before we know it, he is successful. Does that sound like a good time to you?” I demand.

“No,” he grudgingly admits. “You don’t have to get so defensive about it…” he is muttering, mostly to himself, now, and I pay him no more heed.

“Is there anything else of importance?” Albus asks Potter, as though he is eligible to judge what is important and what isn’t.

“Ron’s family,” he says without hesitation, “they need to be protected, too…all the Weasleys.”

“Ah,” is the only sound we hear from the headmaster for a few moments. “Perhaps they will be able to board here, at the school,” he is still considering his options; I can see it in those un-twinkling eyes of his. His gaze shifts to his present staff, namely Minerva and me, as though awaiting our input.

Of course, Minerva makes sure to get the first say. Gryffindor foolishness. I am suddenly overwhelmingly aware that I am the only person in the room not from that House…Merlin help us all.

“The school will need the utmost protection, and no one may ever be in isolation. I’ll go inform the rest of the faculty?” she says. Dumbledore tells her to inform the students as well, and she is off.

“Severus,” the man turns to me, “get any information you can, in any way you must. I’m going to get the Order together to begin placing the protective wards.” He stands and glides out of the room; I am left facing three gag-inspiring teenagers.

“Come with me, Potter,” I order, feeling myself smirking. “You two are to remain here,” I inform his cronies. “Do not leave this room.”

Potter follows me through the door that leads from my office to my classroom, obviously restraining from voicing his confusion. “I am going to perform Legilimency on you, Potter, and retrieve the memory. Prepare yourself, but do not retaliate.”

“Hold on!” he objects, as I raise my wand. “You want me to just allow you to sift through my mind? Who gave you that right?”

“The Headmaster, you stupid boy, just minutes ago. You were present, I believe. Yes, some ‘sifting’ will take place, but I will stop at the memory I am looking for.”

“And what memory is that?” His tone is far too rude for my liking.

“I will not tolerate your disrespect, Potter. I thought it would be obvious, but your minuscule Gryffindor brain clearly lacks the ability to surmise for itself.”

“Get to the point, Snape.”

“Respect, Potter!”

“Get to the point, Sir!” he spat, though the correction was so sarcastic, that I almost preferred his blatant contempt.

“I need to view this ‘dream’ for myself, seeing as I can interpret the Dark Lord far more skillfully than you can! Now I have given you fair warning, and do not retaliate—not that your Occlusion is in any way a hindrance,” I add with an amused sneer.

He glares at me, but I am unperturbed. My wand is raised, and his mind is invaded. My vision is subject to a storm of thunder and lightning, rain pouring like boulders from a black sky. At first, I believe it to be a memory, hopefully that of the ‘dream.’ The picture, however, doesn’t alter. To my complete shock, not to mention horror, I understand what it is: Potter has built a shield. I have never seen such a thing used as a method of Occlusion, as it is generally a cement wall, or a screen of fire, that keeps intruders from the mind.

But Potter has chosen a method that perplexes me.

He has combined the purities of fire and water, to create a scene compiled into darkness. I am unable to break his defense, and am forced to retreat.

“Wipe that grin off you face, Potter. I told you not to retaliate!”

“And if you had left it at that, I probably would have listened.”

“Unlikely. I did not teach you this.”

“You didn’t teach me much of anything, did you? I learned on my own.”

“Well it is imperative that you cease being a child, and comply! I’m going to enter your mind a second time; don’t…don’t do that again.”

I assault his mind, and this time he does nothing to stop me. Imprudent Gryffindors, and their need to prove themselves…

I go through the memories quickly, not wanting to waste time: Potter being thrown into a cupboard, being slapped by his uncle, cleaning the living room floor, cooking breakfast, but not for himself, being belittled, ducking as his aunt aims a frying pan at his head, feeling the stone fall into his pocket, pulling a basilisk fang out of his flesh, learning he has a godfather, watching the rat escape…the rat escape. At once, the memories shift to the one he was looking for, as though triggered by Pettigrew’s presence.

“You will do as I say, Wormtail!”

“But, My Lord—”

“Crucio!”

He allows Pettigrew to writhe, before lifting the spell.

“Take anyone he’s close to—I’m not particular—and he will follow.”

“H-how am I to capture them, My Lord?”

“You’re a rat! Find a way! Crucio!”

“Are we clear, now, Wormtail?’ he asks with menace, as his servant stands.

“Y-yes, My Lord.”

“Good. Oh, and Wormtail?”

“Yes, My Lord?”

“Crucio!”

The dream closes, and I exit Potter’s mind. He is kneeling on the hard floor, beads of sweat glistening on his heated cheeks. He does not look up for a time, but when he lifts his emerald eyes to mine, glare in place, the man behind is more lucid than ever.

“Satisfied, Professor?” he hisses.

“Yes.” I force my gaze from his, surprised at how difficult it was to do, and retrieve a potion from the cabinet beneath my desk. “Drink this,” I say, offering it to him.

“What is it?” he scathingly inquires.

“It’s a Calming Draught, if you must know; or does re-witnessing that scene not upset your great endurance at all?” He doesn’t reply, and I continue. “Drink it, and return to my office.”

He has no more complaints, and does as he’s told. I watch him leave the room, and am for some unexplainable reason unable to remove my eyes from the door he’s departed from. Finally, I collapse in a nearby chair, and, an elbow on my knee, pinch the bridge of my nose.

IiIiIiIiIiIiI

Daylight is shining through the windows of my office now, though Weasley and Granger look as though they can fall asleep at any moment. Potter is wide awake, however…wide awake and watching. His eyes are on the door, though they occasionally shift to the window, and he is waiting. What he is waiting for, exactly, I cannot read.

But he is most definitely waiting.

Dumbledore chooses then to reenter the room, securing the door behind him. He explains that he has placed strict protection around the castle, but it is strongest in my quarters.

“I must ask you three to remain here,” he says. “Severus, if you’ll come with me; I’m afraid we have a…situation.”

“A situation?” Potter is immediately on his feet. “What does that mean?”

Albus does not answer right away. “I don’t know how, after every ward we placed…but Peter Pettigrew is in the castle.”

Potter heads for the door without hesitation. “I’m not staying here, Professor,” he states with unquestionable sincerity.

“I’m sorry, Harry, but I will not—”

“No. I’m not staying here,” he repeats.

“Harry—” Granger persists.

“You two stay here,” Potter orders. “He wants you, remember? Not me.”

Albus holds the door open slightly, as I make my way across the room. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he begins, but Potter has already ducked under his outstretched arm, and is no longer in the room. The door slams shut so quickly, I have to blink a number of times to be sure it happened.

Then, as realization dawns on me, I lunge for the door handle. It doesn’t budge.

“Alohamora.” Nothing.

Shit.

IiIiIiIiIiIiI

I can hear Potter’s voice as it drifts into the room. It is harsh and defiant, and I can deduce quite easily whom it is he’s speaking to. To say it is unsettling would be a vast understatement.

“Let her go,” his voice rings. “I’ll come with you—just let her go. It’s me you want, anyway. I’ll make it easier for you.”

“No!” Granger dives for the door, pounding on it with vicious fists. Weasley is trying to comfort her, but at the same time desperately pummeling the door himself.

I can hear nothing else, for all sounds are drowned by the hysterical cries of what sounds like a crowd of people. The clamors eventually quiet, and there is nothing left for me to do but wait. I do so furiously.

IiIiIiIiIiIiI

It seems like hours later, and I have no doubt that it is. The racket has again risen, and it grows as the door to my office (part time jail cell, apparently) opens. Albus stands there, and not only is the twinkle completely absent, it is replaced by tears and grief.

“Voldemort is dead,” he informs us. Granger and Weasley take a moment to process this news, before demanding to see Potter.

We are led to the Hospital Wing, for Dumbledore insists that I go as well. The pure white sheets of the bed are pulled up to his shoulders. His face is pale, and Poppy pushes aside his fringe, revealing a vibrant scar.

“It took so much out of him to repel the curse,” she speaks in a hoarse whisper, not looking up from her patient.

Granger and Weasley are instantly at his side, searching for his hands under the sheets. They grasp him, sobbing. And all at once, I comprehend the scene before me.

The Dark Lord is dead.

But so is Harry Potter.

And I can understand why they grieve.

—fin—