Postal

Five

"Liquorice Whips," he sighed at the gargoyle. The stone figure sprang aside and before long, he found himself staring at the carved oak doors of Dumbledore's office and private quarters. Severus raised his hand. Then paused with some trepidation. Then lowered his hand and half-turned, drawing his robes around himself. Perhaps he could just return to explain about her in the morning-

"Come in, Professor Snape." The Headmaster's voice stopped his train of thought. Without so much as a creak, the doors had slid open, a rosy strip of firelight cutting across the shadowy landing. Fawkes, the Headmaster's phoenix, nodded sleepily on his perch by the threshold. Severus found Dumbledore waiting for him in one of the leather claw-footed club chairs in front of the hearth. The Headmaster's long white beard fell across the strangest sleeping robes Severus had ever seen, sky-blue and peppered with dancing truffles and macaroons, with a pointed bobbled sleeping cap to match.

Dumbledore stifled a yawn. "You must excuse me, Severus. I am afraid that insomnia is still unknown to me, even at my age." He gestured for the Potions Master to sit down. "Hot toddy, Severus?"

Snape's eyebrows flew up in alarm. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Here, I took the liberty of making one for you as well," he said, indicating two steaming mugs on the tiny tea table. "Warm milk, honey and a touch of Laphraoig-just the thing before going to bed. It also happens to be a well-known, if old-fashioned, Muggle anaesthetic for a sore throat."

"Oh," said Snape, visibly disconcerted. "No... thank you, sir."

Dumbledore peered at him through his half-moon glasses and sighed. "Then I think you had better get on with telling me what you have to say."

Severus had never kept anything from the Headmaster who he knew possessed an uncanny omniscience about all goings-on at Hogwarts. At heart, and in principle, he felt he couldn't. Dumbledore was his closest ally. If he couldn't confide in Dumbledore, to whom could he turn?

He proceeded reluctantly. "It's about... Esmerelda."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Esmerelda Plofufnik."

"Yes, sir," continued Severus, although he knew it hadn't been a question. "She's... here, sir. With me."

Dumbledore reflected silently. He tilted the warm mug into his beard for a moment. "I understand... Well, your absence has not gone unnoticed at meals, Severus. Although, I trust that the house-elves have provided adequate nourishment for you and Ms. Plofufnik?"

"Oh... yes, sir. Quite," he replied in surprise. "Thank you."

Dumbledore's face suddenly assumed a grave expression. To Severus, it looked almost like a reprimand. "But you of all people, Severus, you must understand that your bringing her back-her mere presence here-endangers her life... and yours as well. If she were to be spotted by someone-"

"I-I know, sir," he explained. "But I didn't bring her back." He shook his head, staring at his hands clasped anxiously on his lap. "I'm... not even quite sure... how she got here." Snape recounted events since her mysterious and unexpected appearance in his chambers the day before. It was a selectively truncated version. The Headmaster may have been able to divine the details, but Severus couldn't bring himself to recount every... event. He found himself uncharacteristically flushing now at the very memory of some of them.

"Nevertheless, I hope," continued Dumbledore, apparently oblivious to his colleague's emotional tempests, "that you have some plan to get her back, or in any event, away from here as soon as possible. Before it is too late."

Severus shrugged despondently. "I was rather expecting that you had summoned me here to suggest such a plan."

"In fact, I don't really-" Dumbledore's eyes flickered up suddenly. "Did you say I summoned you? I had sensed you on your way, but I assure you, Severus, I did not summon you this evening."

"But... I received-" Severus started, as the oak doors flew open with a bang.

There was the Potter boy, pushing up his glasses, and his red-headed shadow Weasley at the threshold, both in their pajamas and, it seemed, out of breath from running. Snape caught sight of a familiar-looking piece of dilapidated parchment in Potter's hand.

"I'm-I'm sorry to interrupt, Professor Dumbledore," Potter began breathlessly. "But this is important. Professor Snape, there's someone in your rooms."

The Potions Master's expression went from surprised to livid. That meddling little son-of-a-

"Not Esmerelda Plofufnik," continued Harry urgently. "I mean, not just her, sir." He squinted at something on the parchment. "Callum Rosier, Alphonso Wilkes and Lucius Malfoy."

The Potions Master's blood ran cold. Without a single word, he sprang to his feet, tearing past the two boys through the doors, nearly unseating Fawkes.

He ran and ran and ran. Snape's lungs felt on fire. His quarters seemed to get farther and farther away, the corridors stretching endlessly before him like in some wild nightmare, until at last he stumbled down the stairs and into the familiar darkness of the dungeons.