Minerva McGonagall paced the Headmaster's -- her -- office. The students and most of her staff were home for the holidays and had left her without the usual distractions from her thoughts. Most of the paintings on the wall were asleep, and she wasn't in the mood to talk to Phineas Nigellus Black, the only insomniac of the lot. Someday her own portrait would join the others on this wall, and the next night-owl Headmaster or Headmistress would have her to speak with in the darker hours.

She still had no idea why this was her office now. She had not expected to take it for another decade at least, if in fact she had expected to occupy it at all. Dumbledore had always seemed eternal. Attempting to puzzle out the situation led only to a blank disbelief and lasting shock. Not even Dumbledore's portrait could help her with the conundrum, or perhaps he merely would not. If he felt something needed to be worked out in a particular way, he could be most evasive in his answers. She would have to speak with someone else, but she had no knowledge of where to find him, or how he would react if she did.

Of course, she did have records of the home addresses of every student and staff member – she had known her subject as both -- since Hogwarts had been founded, if she were willing to search them. Any address she did find might well fail to be current, but she could at least waste a bit of time ruling out the half-dozen or so places in the records.

To her surprise, there were only two, and one was temporary, long since abandoned. Perhaps this had not been such a farfetched idea, and if the person she sought happened not to be there, she would have lost nothing by checking.

And if he answered her knock, for Heaven's sakes then what?

She put away his files in the appropriate drawers and sighed. He had been a difficult person at the best of times, and now was certainly not the best of times by anyone's reckoning. He would probably be less than delighted to see her, but she had always managed him tolerably well. She only needed to be reasonably kind while keeping him slightly off-balance. With a small smile, Minerva returned to her office to fetch a small and useful item and her travelling cloak.

Apparate? Use a Portkey? There would be a tidy bit of walking in either, but no more than she was putting in by pacing her office. The Ministry could be awfully picky about unauthorized Portkeys when they had so many other things worth worrying about, so she might as well pace her way to Hogsmeade and go if she were going. Was she? She marched out of her office and down the stairs.

Should she have left a note? She did not trust the man she was travelling to see, but she did trust to one thing: if she did not return, it would not be because she wanted rescuing. She would return, or she would die tidily. If the latter, a note would only prove she had also died a fool. Her portrait would establish she was not coming back, if such proved the case.

Hagrid and his brother were having a relatively quiet little New Year's celebration in the groundskeeper's expanded hut. If the population there grew further -- Madame Maxime, say, or Hagrid's "lady friend" for Grawp -- the hut would need to be the size of a manor house. Minerva elected not to disturb them, letting herself out and locking the gates behind her.

Hogsmeade's revelries were also unusually restrained. It seemed nobody wanted to let down their guard enough to become properly roaring drunk. Minerva wondered how long it would be before the next outrageous party occurred in the Wizarding world, then whether there would ever be another.

Of course there would. Humans were resilient creatures, wizards doubly so. Somehow jollity would move the magical world again. Unnoticed and unremarked, Minerva passed through the village to the quiet spot by the Shrieking Shack, then Apparated.

On a hill overlooking the small town, Minerva shivered, and not just for the biting wind. A huge old house with a few faint lights gleaming in its windows sprawled across the top of the next ridge, forbidding in the darkness. It overlooked a dismal industrial town gradually dying of outmoded neglect, a sluggish river glinting in the feeble moonlight, and a few shabby little farms. Somewhere in that squalorous jumble below her, her target had once dwelt.

She studied the town for another moment, trying to imagine it twenty years ago, then twenty-five. Some small towns suggested by their appearance that caring, loving people could be found there in abundance. This was not one, and looked as though it never had been. With a mental shrug, she squared her shoulders and strode down to find one particular address in the tangled streets. Litter blew in the chilly air.

Drunken revellers did occasionally spill into the streets here, Muggles all. They seemed to find little joy in their ale, and even the sloppiest of louts steered clear of Minerva's best Headmistress glare. If she could imagine them as toddlers in soiled nappies, and put that into her expression, most people minded their manners.

Of course, some caused even her imagination to fail. For the wizard she sought, she had to settle for an image of a nervous and undernourished boy glancing from the Sorting Hat to a few faces already seated in the Great Hall, one thought plain on his face: not Gryffindor. The memory hurt her more than it cowed him, but usually served its purpose all the same. For her, he would usually attempt politeness. If he killed her, he would do it politely.

She had reached the house, a dilapidated two-story affair with peeling paint and no noticeable yard. A light inched a few feeble rays past drawn curtains. Minerva tried to guess the age of both paint and drapes, decided on a minimum of four decades and shook her head, then knocked.

The door was opened by quite literally the last person she would have expected. "Professor?" squeaked Peter Pettigrew. He grabbed for his wand, looked exceptionally startled for an instant, and crumpled like a burlap sack.

The wizard behind him, still seated comfortably by a tiny fire, left his wand raised. "Thank you, Minerva," he said dryly. "I had wanted an excuse to do that for six months. Do come in, and leave the wind out."

She did, quelling an uncharacteristic urge to kick Pettigrew as she passed. The wand was not altogether pointed at her, but was not altogether pointed elsewhere. "Happy New Year, Severus."

He snorted softly. "And to you, Headmistress. Or are you here as an Order member?" His hand moved then, the wand reversing to present its handle to her on his flattened palm. He waited, his eyes meeting hers squarely.

Severus Snape, offering her his wand? Willingly surrendering? Minerva flattered herself that she knew him moderately well, and this fit no image of him. "How many ways could you attack me from that position?"

He tensed momentarily, then allowed the ghost of a smile. "Four. Rather fewer than the previous position, you must admit."

Four? She would keep herself awake nights trying to find more than one. "I did not come here to arrest you, Severus."

The wand moved and disappeared; she could not say for certain whether it had gone into his pocket or up his sleeve. The latter trick had enabled him, in his student days, to effect all sorts of mischief while innocently empty-handed. Her attention returned to his face almost too late to catch a brief glimpse of annoyance. "In that case, what are you doing here?"

"I brought my chessboard," she said, and had the small pleasure of startling him. "I had missed our games, and finally remembered it was your turn to host, and mine to provide refreshments." He would naturally assume she had more in mind than a simple game, but in the larger one she was at a loss for the next move.

"Do sit down, then. You may find my game somewhat different. Wormtail and I have had precious little else to do for the last six months."

The use of Pettigrew’s nickname in Gryffindor House so long ago seemed odd, but not worth questioning. Minerva withdrew the box from her handbag, unfolded it to release the chessmen, and locked it flat to form the board. "Is he any good?"

"Surprisingly, yes. It seems he and James Potter used to play."

"Red or white?" The pieces were accustomed to taking directions from both of them, and awaited his choice in a colourful muddle.

"Red."

As the pieces organized themselves on the board, Minerva drew her wand to produce a largish plate of sandwiches on the remainder of the table, along with two steaming mugs: mint tea for her, black sweet coffee for him. "Or would you prefer decaffeinated?"

"It matters little."

After years of his suicidal routine of essay assignments, it might not. "Immune to caffeine?"

"Immune to sleep."

Well. "Would it hurt your pride if I enhanced the fire a bit?"

He met her eyes for a long moment, expressionless. "I would appreciate that more than you could possibly imagine."

She did it, wondering that Severus could apparently manage a Stunner for her preservation, but not a fire -- formerly a strong point -- for his own. "Aren't you Slytherins supposed to like the cold and damp?"

"By that measure I was always a terrible Slytherin. This serpent would prefer to sun himself on a rock. I believe the board is ready," he added, tapping his finger reproachfully beside a gossiping bishop, then wrapping both hands around the mug she had conjured. He breathed the steam deeply, then eyed her over the rim. “If you were anyone else, I would mistrust the smell of almonds.�

“And cinnamon? I did remember.�

They played the game in silence aside from the crackling of the fire and the clashes of the chessmen. Minerva refilled the plate of sandwiches and mugs when it became necessary, getting a grudging nod that equalled lavish gratitude from anyone else. It seemed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did not see to his assassins' keeping particularly well.

Severus had indeed changed his game. She would guess Pettigrew played a weaker queen than she did; hers took several pieces that seemed casually placed, the plays earning her more than one glare from across the board. She lost plenty of other pieces, of course -- Severus was still quite a formidable opponent, even if --

Minerva gave herself a few mental kicks. She had not had a real opponent in months, and had also somehow forgotten two crucial things about Severus. One was that his game was rarely what it seemed. The other was that his glare was the closest thing he had to a friendly expression, and that if he truly minded losing pieces he would have sneered. Her king was pinned by two rooks and his queen, and the position required her to sacrifice her queen to escape.

She ordered the piece forward to take one rook. She might get his queen with her knight in a few more moves. Severus grinned, showing an unexpected flash of his seventeen-year-old self, and stood from the game, facing the fire. "Consider that an answer to your question, Minerva."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You did not come here to play chess."

She had not, but it was a strange sort of answer even for her subtle former colleague. She had merely sacrificed the queen to protect the king...

This was the wrong layer of meaning. She had sacrificed the most powerful piece on the board to protect the most important. "Did you know, then, that Potter was also on the Astronomy Tower?"

"I knew that Dumbledore had an unseen companion, though his foes seemed not to realize this. I knew that an Order member would have been allowed to defend him. And I knew of only one Invisibility Cloak about, in the possession of Harry Potter. That was part of what forced that move, along with all of my previous actions."

That wasn't quite a yes, but it was also not an unreasonable explanation. "And who wins the game, if we go on?"

"White." He continued to stare into the fire. "There's precious little I can do about it from here, however."

"I had expected you to be enjoying a bit more status."

His back stiffened as if he expected her to strike him, or as if she had. "I took on someone else's clearly assigned task, one which I was not supposed to know. I directly countermanded an order from the Dark Lord himself by calling off his servants before they had killed every Order member present and every available child in the castle. I departed without scooping up a shockingly incautious Potter and delivering him as a neatly packaged gift. Status?"

Minerva took a deep unsteady breath. "I see."

"For your sake, and the sake of your soul, I profoundly hope not."

Minerva quelled her active imagination and reconsidered the Severus she knew, trapped in this house she suspected held only horrible memories, with a companion she knew full well he hated, waiting for the unspeakable. "Perhaps I should arrest you after all."

Surprisingly, he laughed, a low dark chuckle. "That would be most unfair of you, Minerva, after giving me a crumb of hope."

Bells outside chimed midnight, and there were rowdy cheers muffled by distance. "Hope?"

He turned to face her, his eyes glittering with pain and anger. "Hope -- that when the Dark Lord at last faces his enemy, I will again be worthy to stand by his side. And that my master -- " He snarled the word. " -- will find it difficult to focus his attention with a potion-maker's silver knife between his ribs."

For Severus to show this much rage and hurt, the true emotions had to contain terrible force. That fury also restored him to the dangerous wizard she had known, instead of the man who had meekly surrendered to her at her arrival. "Is there anything I can do, Severus?"

He glared. "Nothing that would not look suspicious afterward. You have always been kind to me, Minerva." He returned to the table and ordered the chess pieces to put themselves away, ignoring their protests that the game was not done. "You were very lucky tonight. And you should not return here."

She shivered despite the heat of the fire. "And what of him?" she asked, with a nod to the heap of Pettigrew by the door.

"I toss him in the kitchen, perform a nice little Memory Charm, and wake him up. He believes himself to have committed yet another act of stupefying clumsiness."

Minerva shook her head. “Is he truly that hopeless?�

Severus gave her a very faint smile that suggested he had not changed utterly. “Almost.�

Minerva collected her chessboard and put it back in her bag.

“No detention, Professor McGonagall?� Severus folded his arms.

Minerva snorted. “You may drown him in the river for all of me. Why would I protect the Potter’s Secret-Keeper?�

Severus went quite still, his eyes narrowing slightly. “He?�

“You did not know?�

He shook his head. “You have just explained several mysteries.�

That piece of information would indeed fit into several puzzles, if he had not known it before. “Do nothing unwise.�

“I?� The inert form heaved up from the floor, floated into the back of the house and out of sight, and was deposited somewhere with a quite audible thump. Severus did indeed have his wand handily up his sleeve, it seemed. “There are larger concerns.�

Minerva considered her next words carefully, and avoided hazardous names as best she could. “Someone once told me that our white king saved Pettigrew’s life once, and that should create a bond between them.�

Severus curled his lip slightly. “If such a bond existed, Potter and I should now be not merely bonded, but conjoined – which would suit neither of us.�

“I see your sense of humour is returning.�

“Such as it is. Good night, Minerva, and a good new year to you.� He offered his hand as though for a handshake, but took hers and kissed it.

She quelled her astonishment. “Good night, Severus. May the new year bring you what you desire.�

His expression was blank. “It cannot. I would settle for vengeance.�

His hand was still in hers, and she squeezed lightly, knowing he would accept no more demonstrative comfort, then released him and departed. Around her, Muggles stumbled to their homes, the air thick with the sour stink of those drunk at cheap pubs. This was no place for the Severus she knew, and probably never had been. She sadly wished him an improved status, with the opportunity he craved, and doubted she would see him alive again.