The ancient castle, a witness to a thousand years of history, retained its mantle of mystery even as the snow fell in heavy, silent drifts. During the Christmas break, Hogwarts was far quieter than usual. Within the cavernous stone halls, the only sounds were the low murmurs of portraits shifting in their frames, the rhythmic clink-clink of enchanted suits of armor, and the occasional, piercing screech of Peeves the Poltergeist echoing through the gloom.
Severus Snape moved with a predatory grace, his pace so swift that his black robes billowed behind him like the wings of a giant bat. The sallow cast of his skin and the thin, white line of his compressed lips made it clear: he was in a foul mood.
"Sherbet Lemon."
The gargoyle, sensing the wizard's irritation, leaped aside with uncharacteristic haste, as if eager to stay out of his path.
Snape strode through the gap in the wall. The moment he stepped into the circular office hidden behind the stones, his temper soured another degree.
Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of the age, was leaning back in his high-backed chair. Behind half-moon spectacles, his brilliant blue eyes—eyes of unfathomable depth—were fixed on the vaulted ceiling. His long, slender fingers were interlaced, resting atop a spindly-legged desk cluttered with silver instruments and stacks of unanswered correspondence.
"Where have you been?" Snape asked, his gaze lingering on the purple traveling cloak Dumbledore had yet to remove. His tone was blunt, bordering on accusatory.
"Merely a walk, Severus," Dumbledore replied, withdrawing his gaze and offering a gentle smile. "As you know, for an old man of my years, a bit of regular exercise is essential."
"Indeed," Snape drawled, a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A 'walk' that lasted several days?"
Dumbledore ignored the sarcasm. "How is Miss Granger?"
"Stable. Pomfrey handled the matter correctly. A few weeks of rest and she will be back to her usual self." Snape's voice remained harsh, but he answered truthfully. However, seeing the look of relief on Dumbledore's face, his anger finally boiled over.
"I assume you are fully aware of what those self-important, glory-seeking Gryffindors have been up to? They have been brewing Polyjuice Potion in secret and had the audacity to break into my office to steal ingredients. Dumbledore, since when did this school become so permissive? Are blatant rule-breaking and the theft of a professor's private property now encouraged?"
"Dishonorable conduct is never encouraged, Severus." Dumbledore sighed, looking every bit the weary traveler. He removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But we must look past the action to the intent. We judge the heart by why it beats. I find it difficult to call the desire to uncover the truth behind these attacks 'dishonorable,' even if Harry, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger were... overzealous."
"So you intend to let it continue? Even if 'he' wanders into a danger he is too reckless to handle?"
In the amber glow of the firelight, Snape's face went strangely pale. He didn't name the boy, but he didn't have to; Dumbledore understood perfectly.
Silence fell over the office, broken only by the soft snoring of past Headmasters in their frames and the melodious, faint trill of Fawkes the phoenix.
"It is not permission, Severus. It is observation," Dumbledore said eventually, his usual boundless confidence tempered by a rare note of uncertainty. "The line between courage and foolhardiness is often blurred. But with the young, we must offer a measure of grace, lest we stifle the very virtues that make them remarkable."
"Grace?" Snape's mouth twisted. An unwanted, uncontrollable memory of his own years at this school clawed at his mind. "Don't flatter yourself, Headmaster. You have always been 'gracious' toward the students you favor."
Snape's loathing for James Potter and his unrequited devotion to Lily Evans had fused into a jagged, contradictory complex regarding Harry. He was bound to protect the son of the woman he loved, yet forced to endure the sight of a boy who looked—and acted—so much like the man he hated.
"Let us move on from this topic, Severus," Dumbledore said. Since Harry Potter had entered the school, this argument had played out a dozen times. Even Dumbledore was reaching his limit. "Would you be so kind as to meet a guest at the gates for me?"
Dumbledore stood, indicating his travel-worn robes. "I'm in no state to receive company just yet. I would have asked Minerva, but she accepted an invitation from the Transfiguration Today board for a New Year's reception. A rare moment of leisure for her; I'd prefer not to interrupt it."
Snape had no interest in Dumbledore's private appointments. He turned to leave, his face even more shadowed than when he arrived. But just before crossing the threshold, he stopped and looked back at Dumbledore, who was busy using his wand to vanish the mud from his hem.
"Who is it?" Snape asked suspiciously.
"Ah—I had intended to let it be a surprise at the gates. But since you ask..." Dumbledore smiled, that unreadable spark returning to his eyes. "Amossta Blaine. I believe he was the student you admired most in all your years here."
December 31, 7:40 PM.
Amossta stepped off the Hogwarts Express at Hogsmeade Station. After wading through a long, snow-choked path, he arrived punctually at the towering iron gates.
The winged boar statues flanking the entrance stood as they had for a millennium, sentinels of the great school. Amossta's gaze drifted through the bars, sweeping across the Quidditch pitch with its six high hoops, over the dark silhouette of the castle perched on the cliffside, and finally disappearing into the vast, obsidian expanse of the Forbidden Forest.
He had to admit: being back felt better than he expected.
"I suspected as much when I boarded the train," Amossta called out as a dark shape approached through the gloom. "That it would be you sent to greet me, Professor."
The rusted gates groaned open with a heavy, metallic rasp. Amossta stepped through, meeting the approaching shadow. As the faint light caught the sharp lines of Severus Snape's impassive face, Amossta set his briefcase down and opened his arms with a genuine, boyish grin.