Minerva McGonagall came through the door at something between a stride and a run, black robes snapping behind her, pointed hat slightly crooked.
She saw the trio on the floor first and went straight to them. A quick check: conscious, no serious damage. She let out a breath, then turned toward Severus, already forming the words of the reprimand, and stopped. The colour had gone out of him entirely. The words dried up.
"Professor McGonagall, thank goodness you're here! Those three broke in and attacked Snape without any warning!" Myrtle rushed forward, reading the displeasure on McGonagall's face and trying to head it off.
"She's lying! I saw exactly what happened: the sni... Mr. Snape attacked James and the others first. They only came to apologise!" This from a heavyset boy who'd appeared in the doorway, red-faced and out of breath. "I ran for you to stop him before he went further!"
"He's lying!"
"I'll determine that myself!" McGonagall said, each word cut short and precise, and raised her wand over each student in turn.
"What on earth is going on in here? Where did all this water come from?" Horace Slughorn appeared in the doorway, smiling in the vague way of someone who expected to be mildly amused. He'd been on his way to the Headmaster with the OWL results. The moment he saw Severus on the floor, the papers went everywhere. He crossed the room in three strides, drew his wand, and pressed it to Severus's temple. Then he rounded on McGonagall. "Professor McGonagall! Would you care to explain yourself?!" The pleasant expression was entirely gone. "I understand you have no great affection for my house, but have you genuinely stood here and watched a student in this state without doing a thing about it?! How am I supposed to interpret that? I recommended you for the Head of House position myself. If this is what those prejudices of yours amount to, it appears I was wrong to do so. I will be speaking to Dumbledore today, and I will be asking him to relieve you of the post!" With that he gathered Severus up, limp and pale, and carried him out of the bathroom toward the hospital wing.
Minerva stood very still. In all her years no one had spoken to her like that, and the fact that it was Horace, of all people, made it considerably worse.
"Miss Myrtle." She pulled in a slow breath, steadied herself, and turned to the ghost, studiously not looking at the three white-faced boys on the floor. "Tell me what happened."
"Of course. Snape and I were talking when—"
Meanwhile, at the hospital wing, a woman in a bonnet and a white apron over a red dress came briskly into the ward.
"Poppy, how is he?" Slughorn asked, not managing to keep the worry out of it.
"Nothing to panic about. He pushed a higher-level spell past what this body could handle and lost the grip on it. He'll sleep it off."
"What a relief. Can I sit with him?"
"Let him rest. He'll be fit to leave by this evening."
"Of course. I won't disturb him, then."
Slughorn thanked her with a smile and headed back to collect the OWL papers he'd scattered across the bathroom floor.
Poppy Pomfrey watched the Slytherin Head of House go, her expression thoughtful in a way she couldn't quite account for.
Overexertion. That's the obvious explanation. And yet. She frowned, then set it aside. Her job was to make sure the boy healed, not to pull at loose threads. She went back to her office, took a book with a green cover from the shelf, and settled into reading.
In the ward, Severus opened his eyes.
Annoying, he thought, staring up at the ceiling. Still, it's worth thinking about how they found me. I was careful. Some kind of tracking artefact seems most likely. He filed it away. Those three won't leave off easily, and in some ways that suits me. Next time I'll want somewhere quieter. I'm not performing another collapse. And that bathroom: if Myrtle was right, and she was, the central pillar is most likely the entrance to whatever Salazar was keeping down there. A pillar that wide is exactly right for something of that size. Unless I'm wrong, which I don't think I am. If anything, the access point being that confined is useful. Easier to manage without an audience. He exhaled slowly, and his lips curved a little. After the fifth-year banquet I'll start working on this body. It's too fragile, and the power in the core only just covered something at that level. He felt his face tighten involuntarily, and something cold moved through him. I'll never entirely stop thinking about old man Amon. That peculiar, aggravating, irreplaceable man. Though whether I actually want to see him again is another question.
Amon Ihiros: an Archmage, and widely regarded as a fool by the people who'd never had cause to cross him. He'd spent his life developing his physical body rather than his magical core, taking it to a degree that made the greatest warriors nervous. Great Archmages gave him a wide berth. He was simply their natural opposite.
Amon had been the one to take Severus in. He'd raised him, healed him, rebuilt what had been broken, and taught him everything he knew. Severus had never understood why. He'd been grateful without ever saying so, and his only real regret from his former life was that there'd been no chance to say goodbye. It was only near the end that he'd understood what Amon had actually been to him. Not just a teacher.
Maybe he's made Great Archmage by now. It'd suit him. He shuddered at the memory of the training, the specific, relentless, almost cheerful brutality of it. Or maybe it's just as well we can't meet again.
The Headmaster's office. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, widely held to be the most powerful wizard of his generation.
At that same moment, in a circular office full of tall windows and the quietly watching portraits of Hogwarts' former Headmasters, surrounded by delicate silver instruments on every surface and books on every wall, three people stood facing one another.
The oldest of the three had long silver hair and a beard to match. There was tiredness in his face, but it sat beside something else: eyes of a very particular blue behind half-moon glasses, entirely alive, carrying the accumulated weight of a long life spent paying attention. He wore a long frock coat, a purple robe, and buckled boots without any pretension to grandeur.
Opposite him stood the two Heads of House. Slughorn, and Minerva McGonagall, who had not yet managed to meet Dumbledore's eyes.
"I can't remove Minerva from the Gryffindor headship. She made a mistake, but we all do. And I don't believe she'll repeat it. Am I right?"
"Headmaster, I..." McGonagall pressed her lips together, then lifted her chin. "I agree with my colleague's assessment. I allowed my own assumptions to affect my judgement, and as a result I failed a student who needed my protection. Mr. Snape was innocent and injured, and I stood there and did nothing. My role as Head of House requires that I set an example: fairness, consistency, no exceptions. I failed that standard entirely, and I accept it."
"That's enough." Dumbledore shook his head, and the tired smile came back. That she could admit it this cleanly made things considerably simpler. He turned to Slughorn. "The Head of House position isn't one you can fill overnight. I understand your anger, Horace, I do. But what I can offer is my word that this will not happen again. Will you give Minerva that second chance?"
"As you wish." Slughorn had seen this coming. He knew better than most how Dumbledore felt about his Gryffindors. The man had been one himself, and old affections die hard. "In that case I want those four given a proper punishment, not the usual noises about boys being boys. This isn't the first incident, and what they do isn't remotely what I'd call a prank. Shall I remind you about Miss Jordi? Unknown potion slipped into her food, nearly a month in the hospital wing with a dangerous fever? Children and pranks. I've had enough of hearing those words. Take the appropriate action, or I hand in my notice tomorrow." He moved toward the door.
"Slughorn, wait. Can we—"
"I've said what I came to say. If I'm not satisfied with their punishment, I'll be gone by morning, and you'll be looking for a new Potions master and a new Head of Slytherin."
The door shut.
Dumbledore let out a long, slow sigh and lowered himself into his chair.
"Headmaster..."
"It's all right. He may well be right."
"You're too generous with them." McGonagall tried to say it gently. She knew what this period cost him: the dark wizards growing bolder, the attacks on Muggle-born families, all of it pressing down on him as though it were personally his fault. And the school's troubles never stopped.
Dumbledore was quiet for a moment, eyes closed.
"Fifty points from Gryffindor. James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin are suspended from classes for three months, beginning at the start of next year. When that ends, three further months of nightly detention with Filch. I'll speak with Walburga and Fleamont separately." A pause. "That's my decision."
"Yes, Headmaster."
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