A Chance

Sarah Mitchell – the best St Mungo's could spare – was an unlikely-looking Healer. To begin with, her robes were so over-sized that it looked as though they'd been poured over her from above and allowed to pool around her ankles. She also had glasses, freckles, and the kind of bright, chipper, overly-familiar manner that would make any injured person wince. Severus suspected she was one of those healers who would make up cutesy names for your intimate areas, and tell you you didn't have anything she hadn't seen before, as though that was your concern.  

Still, the sight of her seemed to delight Lily, because she followed the girl around the Hospital Wing, peering over her shoulder with avid eyes, and even steadying her when she threatened to trip over her oversized robes. While Sarah Mitchell bustled about, taking pulses and embarrassing Professor Caladrius by asking him about his bowel movements, Lily asked her wide-eyed questions about St. Mungo's.

Were the Senior Healers still tying their heartbeats to the candles that burned on their wards? How did they deal with curse-victims? Who worked on the counter-curses? Was there a library? Surely there must be a library. Did they have safety measures in place for using energy transfusion charms?

Sarah Mitchell answered these questions without appearing to think they were strange. Sometimes, Lily would hit upon something she obviously felt strongly about, because she would pause in the act of spooning some acrid potion into Professor Caladrius's mouth, and babble on about the wonderful properties of Moonwort, or the bubbling pool in the Hospital's basement, which contained an entire year's supply of Sleeping Draught, and which they had taken to calling the River Lethe. The Mitchell girl was obviously used to working in unappreciated obscurity, because she was basking in Lily's interest, and even answering her questions in an extra-loud voice, in case anybody else was feeling curious.

Just watching those two was exhausting. Everyone else – even the sprightly, twinkling, mad, mercurial Dumbledore – was slumped listlessly over their cocoa, longing for sleep. But Lily and Sarah Mitchell were chattering like a couple of magpies who hadn't seen each other in years. Perhaps healers were fuelled by other people's exhaustion. The sight of a dejected friend was probably like a shot of pure adrenaline to a healer, because it meant they had to step up and take care of people.

Extra torches had been lit in the Hospital Wing, at the Mitchell girl's insistence. She said you shouldn't have any shadows to lurk in when you'd just had a brush with dark magic. The little tombstones of moonlight on the tiled floor were barely visible now, but Severus still knew they were there. Death was constantly underneath his feet, and he had to concentrate every second of the day to keep those tombstones from opening up and claiming his loved ones.

He had once told Lily that being a muggle-born was like being the Red Queen. The world kept moving along without you, and, if you wanted to actually get anywhere – make any actual progress – you had to run twice as fast. Now, that was his life too; one of constant, unregarded concentration. And, weirdly enough, it wasn't an unpleasant thought, because there were moments – not exactly restful periods, but moments where his heart speeded up in a different way – where joy and energy and desire reared up over the exhaustion and made his footfalls blur beneath him. There were moments when Lily would smile at him and the exhaustion would crumble away like plaster.

He could live for that. He just wished he could get his heart to slow down for five god-damn seconds so that he could make some plans.

The other occupants of the Hospital Wing were quiet. As soon as she'd come in, Professor McGonagall had dragged Dumbledore into a quiet corner, where she was proceeding to explain – in clipped, disapproving tones – how Potter and Caladrius had ended up in the Hospital Wing. Severus had chosen a chair which was just close enough to overhear their conversation, while still – and this was important – allowing him to keep an eye out for any potential interactions between Lily and Potter. The bastard was presumably still asleep, because he hadn't yet jumped out of bed and boasted about his broken arm and the heroic forbearance with which he was enduring it. But that couldn't last.

And Madam Pomfrey was sitting up in bed, with her hands curled around a mug of cocoa. She had brought the mug very close to her face – perhaps to obscure her expression – but she wasn't drinking it; just letting the steam bathe her closed eyelids as it rose up from the surface of the cocoa. Severus could only guess what she was staring at behind those eyelids. She hadn't spoken yet, but there had been a hint of a smile – or at least, of a willingness to smile, if her grief-frozen features had permitted it – when Lily had leant over, nodded in Potter's direction, and whispered. "Look, Poppy, he's managed to break another bone!"

Perhaps she was cursed. To have led a life like hers… well, you'd think a curse would have had to be involved somewhere. And yet she didn't lash out – not even at the people who most deserved it. She had thrown her whole life behind the resurrection of her worst enemy. How did you even begin to fathom the mind of the sort of person who would do that?

Severus had curled up in his chair and let the babble of conversation wash over him. His heart-rate hadn't slowed down, although it was difficult to work out what he was still waiting for. Arguments? Awkward conversations? Orders from Dumbledore? He felt as though everything was up in the air, and he was waiting to see where the pieces would fall – and, in some cases, whether or not they would squash him – before he relaxed.

And yet he was strangely – cautiously – happy. The tableau in the Hospital Wing was almost a picture of peace. It missed in several crucial respects, of course. They were teetering on the brink of war; Voldemort wouldn't forget who had brought Dumbledore into the dream-world; and Madam Pomfrey was staring blankly into the steam that was rising from the surface of her cocoa. They had no guarantee that she would get better – or even speak again. Sarah Mitchell was no oil-painting, and no scene could be completely pleasant if a portion of it was made up by James Potter. And yet, Severus felt oddly serene. There would be a few moments now – days, if he was really lucky – where nobody would try to kill him, and he would have the mental space to come up with a plan. There had been a wall of impending disaster pressing up against his eyeballs for so long that he'd forgotten about the beauty of perspective.

He leaned back in his chair and tried to listen to Professor McGonagall. Her voice was not exactly soothing – and nor was the topic of conversation – but Severus was one of those people who couldn't relax until he knew everything - and long experience had taught him that, if you didn't know what Potter was up to at any given moment, you were going to get hexed.

"They still haven't given a satisfactory explanation as to why they were out of their beds in the middle of the night," Professor McGonagall muttered, "but – by design or sheer, dumb luck – they happened across Professor Caladrius at the top of the Astronomy Tower. He-" Professor McGonagall paused, cast a suspicious look at Severus, and then lowered her voice. "Apparently, he was about to throw himself off the battlements. I should say that Professor Caladrius has hardly been in a fit state to corroborate this story-"

Dumbledore raised a pacifying hand. "Go on, Minerva."

"Well, Potter and Black say they tried to talk him down. Potter got up onto the battlements to try and steady him, and they both fell – for seven floors, I understand. Potter was able to grab onto Caladrius's robes with one hand and a window-ledge with the other. The shock of suddenly taking the Professor's weight snapped every bone in his arm, of course, but he was able to hold on long enough for Black to levitate them both to safety. Then Filius – who'd had his bedroom window smashed by Professor Caladrius's foot – went out to see what was going on, and managed to get this story out of them. Apparently, Potter – with all his injuries – was making a great deal more sense than Professor Caladrius. That's when Filius asked me to wake you and I discovered that you'd fallen into a coma." She pursed her lips and gave Dumbledore a long look. "I suppose an explanation is too much to ask for?"

Dumbledore gave her one of his charming, twinkling smiles – the kind that made Severus want to bang his head repeatedly against the wall – and said: "All in good time, Minerva."

There was silence after that, apart from the chirpy stream of questions and answers flowing between Lily and Sarah Mitchell. Severus sighed dismally and leaned back in his chair.

The rules hadn't changed. Potter still got to be the bloody hero. Dumbledore would probably give him an award for Special Services to the School, if only to divert everyone's attention from the Phoenix Curse fiasco.

And, underneath everything else – even under the nervous thumping of his heartbeat – there was the constant, dragging sorrow of the Boggart-Lily's death. It had all happened, somewhere. She had lived Lily's life – suffered and died in Lily's skin – and that horrible fact wouldn't go away, no matter how many new hopes for the future he clutched to his chest. It was a constantly sobering thought. Severus felt as though his heart had been fitted with its own anchor, which not only weighed it down, but also scraped painfully along the bottom of his stomach, leaving tracks that would last a lifetime.

At some point, he would have to tell Lily what the Boggart had told him – about their daughter, and his horribly considerate suicide. Would she run out of the room, disgusted, before he had a chance to emphasize the fact – alright, the hope – that it wouldn't have to happen that way this time? And was he really sure it wouldn't? He looked over at Lily – jewel-bright in the torchlight, and flitting about the Hospital Wing like a dragonfly. He felt different, but that wasn't enough to risk her life on. He would have to make contingency plans – and she was unlikely to approve if they included the murder of James Potter. But he was good at planning. He didn't need prophecies, or granted wishes, or Potter-style luck. He just needed a chance.



Lily felt as though she was at the world's greatest sleep-over. There was hot cocoa; there was someone to answer her questions about healing magic; Dumbledore was wearing star-patterned pyjamas, and – last but definitely not least – Severus was watching her with that expression of fuming fondness he always wore – the one which suggested he wanted to shout, roll his eyes, stroke her hair, and rip her clothes off, all in one tender, furious, exasperated motion. She could already feel the blood rising to the surface of her skin, as though it was being sucked up by the pressure of his gaze.

And she knew she shouldn't be feeling this happy when they had all come so close to death and the future had very possibly been wiped out forever, but… but she couldn't help it. She couldn't tell her heartbeat to slow down. The scene in the Hospital Wing seemed to be made up of disjointed images, and she was gliding from one to the other without conscious thought, but with so much energy and skill that it made her think consciousness had been profoundly overrated.

There was something underneath the exhaustion ready to take control – ready to steer her in the right direction – whenever she faltered. She had felt it before. In fact, she had often been annoyed by it. No matter how tired or desolate she felt, there was always colour in her cheeks – always a kind of warm fizzing in her muscles, signaling their readiness to spring into action.

She hadn't trusted herself to give in to it before. She hadn't wanted to let it lead, because she had been afraid of where it would take her. But it was suddenly alright. She was home – truly home – for the first time in weeks. She was in the Hospital Wing, with its ubiquitous smells of Dittany and rice pudding. The room was full of flickering, dancing lights, and Severus had forgiven her for making his life a misery.

And she was surrounded by loved ones – people who were delighting her even with their flaws. Sarah Mitchell was a little bit blunt – and she could have been more courteous to Severus when she came in – but Lily was already melting with admiration for her skills and her cheerful attitude.

Nobody was safe – and nobody was guiltless – but everyone was charming – absolutely charming – in that instant.

And that was it. She didn't know what it meant, or what to make of it, but she felt it with every fibre of her being. Her life – her friends – her situation – was perfect and imperfect at the same time. It was perfect because it was imperfect.

She followed Sarah Mitchell around, handing her potions and asking questions, until everybody seemed to be taken care of. Then Sarah grabbed her elbow and drew her away from the others, nodding darkly in the direction of Madam Pomfrey. "I can't do much for 'er," she said. "Maybe the shakes'll go, or maybe they won't. There's nothing physically wrong with 'er, s'far's I can tell, but she needs time."

Lily tried to assure her that Madam Pomfrey was tougher than she realized, but Sarah seemed determined to be grim.

"Shell-shock's the most common illness on the wards these days," she continued. "I can set the bones and re-seal the skin, but they need time and peace to get over the shock, and I can't give 'em that. Gotta get them cleared out of the place as fast as I can, these days."

"Not enough beds?" Lily asked.

Sarah Mitchell contemplated her for a few moments. "I 'eard you was a Death Eater's girlfriend," she said slowly.

Lily's smile faded and then returned – bright, civil and steely. "You heard wrong."

Sarah cast a dubious look over her shoulder at Severus. "'E 'angs around with Lucius Malfoy."

"He also hangs around with me."

Sarah gave a gloomy shrug, and then lowered her voice. "If you must know, St. Mungo's 'as been compromised. He's got someone in there. Either that, or 'e's put the Imperius Curse on one of the Senior staff. Patients keep dyin' in the night. Looks like natural causes – and that's what I thought it was, till I compared the victims' medical records and realized they was all muggle-born. I been patrolling the wards at night. Can't ask for no 'elp – don't know 'oo to trust, and anyway, there's 'ardly anyone left these days. Most o' my old bosses are now my patients. And, believe me, the Healers who're still workin' need their sleep. I don't see anything out of the ordinary. I don't see anyone come or go. I'll swear, I don't leave any o' the wards unattended for longer'n ten minutes, but the muggle-born patients are still dead by morning. These days, I try and patch 'em up as best I can and send 'em home before nightfall. I told a man with second degree burns to take an aspirin and get an early night, and 'e'd be right as rain."

She glanced over her shoulder again, and went on: "I aint tellin' you this 'cause I trust you – and I certainly aint tellin' you 'cause I trust him – ," she nodded disdainfully in Severus's direction. "I'm tellin' you this 'cause, when I saw you healin' the muggles in Trafalgar Square, I asked Madam Potter 'oo you were, and she said you was the most promising young healer in the country, and you'd be my boss someday. And, insulting as it was, I didn't hate the idea. 'Cause you was doin' a good job. I'd rather 'ave a partner than a boss, of course, but I need 'elp, and I aint particularly bothered if it comes from someone 'oo 'as to lord it over me and bark out orders all the time. I need some other place to heal the muggle-borns."   

"You'll get it," said Lily firmly. "I'll talk to Dumbledore. We can-,

"No," said Sarah, putting an urgent hand on Lily's forearm. "No Dumbledore. No 'Ogwarts. S'too obvious, and I don't trust 'im anyway. I remember 'im from school. If you aint good-looking or Gryffindor, 'e doesn't give you the time o'day."

"You know," said Lily, with a lop-sided smile. "You'd get on very well with Severus."  

"I asked for your 'elp, not 'is," Sarah Mitchell went on, her glasses gleaming hellishly in the torchlight. "Us Healers've got to stick together."

On a different night, Lily might have gone on trying to convince her. But, tonight, everything was understandable, and the differences between her and other people were something to be cherished, not wiped out.

"Why did Madam Potter expect me to be your boss?" she asked, anxious to get off the subject of Dumbledore's trustworthiness.

Sarah Mitchell gave her a humourless smile. "I s'pect she 'eard a few glowing accounts of you from 'er son. But it aint just that. You're Pomfrey's student. You might not know it, but she's got a reputation as a bit of a brilliant recluse. She don't normally take students. If she's decided to put away 'er antisocial tendencies in order to teach you, that means you're good. And I 'ope you learned a lot from 'er while you could, 'cause she don't look like she'll be in a condition to teach anyone anything now."

"She'll get better," said Lily, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. A lack of faith in Dumbledore was one thing, but a lack of faith in Madam Pomfrey? Even with all the empathy in the world, she would never be able to understand that. "Anyway, why isn't Madam Potter doing something about this? It's her Hospital."  

Sarah Mitchell gave her a pitying smile. "Walked out, dint she? You can do that if you're rich and you don't really care what 'appens in your absence. I aint got nowhere to go, and I aint leaving my patients to get murdered in the middle of the night, even if that's what's 'appening to them anyway!"

"We'll fix it," said Lily, reaching out to pat Sarah Mitchell's hand, and then thinking better of it. She didn't seem like the kind of girl who would take kindly to being touched. Like Severus, she might mistake it for being pitied or patronized. Lily wasn't even really sure whether the girl liked her, but she supposed that was an irrelevant question for a healer. You found something to like about everyone when you needed to - and, for the rest of the time, you just put the matter out of your head.  

"I know we'll fix it," said Sarah Mitchell. "I aint one of those people 'oo thinks you've got to be special to make a difference. And that's where You-Know-'oo is goin' to fail. 'E thinks you've got to be a child or prophecy, or the heir to some famous wizarding dynasty to bring 'im down. And that suits me fine, 'cause, while 'e's thinkin' that, 'e's ignoring me. I'm gonna unravel 'is curses one by one, till 'e aint got no weapons left. And, when 'e aint got no weapons left, I'm gonner smash 'is face in."  



Severus was summoned to Dumbledore's office and made to go through the whole story. It was  a relief to get it all straightened out in his head – and more than a relief to put off the moment when he would have to tell the same story to Madam Pomfrey. Dumbledore paced up and down behind his desk as Severus spoke, occasionally contributing the odd muttered exclamation, like "Fascinating," "Fiendish" and, once – mysteriously – "Far out."

He only stopped Severus twice – once to ask him to repeat the part about Madam Pomfrey summoning up half the North Sea into one giant, destructive wrecking-ball, and once to enquire what happened to Madam Pomfrey's parents.

Severus heaved his aching shoulders into a shrug. "I left them in the garden of thorns. It was the only safe place."

"Are they still there?"

"I don't know, but-,"

"Check for me."

Severus sighed. It was bad enough that he had to tell Dumbledore about the garden of thorns, let alone show him. He was sure the Lily that was in there – imaginary or not – wouldn't be safe from Dumbledore's machinations once he'd seen her.

He stood up, slashed his wand through the air, and watched Dumbledore's office peel apart to reveal the symbolic landscape of his subconscious.

It was gently smoking, but most of the larger fires seemed to have been put out. A few flames lingered in the thicker patches of briar, but they managed to look cosy rather than threatening.

In fact, the whole scene looked cosy. Lily was sitting at the trellis-table with Mr. and Mrs. Pomfrey, pouring tea. She looked as though she was speaking to them very slowly, and with dwindling reserves of patience. The Foe Fire mare was grazing on some charred thorns beside them, apparently content.

"They're still there," he said, over his shoulder. "But they're not real, are they? It's not actually like saving Madam Pomfrey's parents, because these two were just created by the Phoenix Curse."  

"That's what makes it so fascinating," said Dumbledore. "You have managed to amputate two pieces of the Phoenix Curse and preserve them from death when the rest of the curse met its end."

Severus was still staring into the forest of thorns. Lily had sunk her face into her hands. "What do you want to do with them?"

"For the moment, I see no harm in leaving them where they are. After all, Lily has managed to live quite happily with Foe Fire creatures roaming about in the world which symbolizes her subconscious. I see no reason why you couldn't do the same with remnants of the Phoenix Curse."

"Don't you?" said Snape, still staring in at the tea-table.

"Close the portal, will you, Severus? It's getting rather smoky in here."

Snape sighed and slashed his wand through the air, watching as Dumbledore's office re-sealed itself over the bizarre domestic scene in the forest of thorns. He supposed, if anyone could get Mr. and Mrs. Pomfrey to stop fighting, it was Lily. She was practically the personification of patience and understanding. He just couldn't shake the feeling that she was now trapped in there with five furies, instead of three.

Dumbledore let him continue with the story. Needless to say, Severus didn't linger on the descriptions of the Boggart-Lily's death. And, when he got to the part where Slytherin was explaining about the nature of the Phoenix Curse, he couldn't help glancing accusingly at Fawkes, as though the whole thing was somehow his fault.

When he'd finished, Dumbledore steepled his fingers and remained infuriatingly silent. Severus had to prod him with questions to get a reaction.

"Had you heard about the Phoenix Curse?"

"Alas, no," said Dumbledore, still staring gravely down at his hands. "But I wrote a paper in which I hypothesized its existence. That was when I was studying Fawkes for the Magical Zoological Institute, and realizing for the first time what an extraordinary weapon – almost a cheat – Phoenix tears were in the arsenal of healing magic. I predicted that the mechanisms of Dark Magic would respond to this almost unfair advantage. I even suggested that the resultant curse might have a life-cycle somewhat reminiscent of the Phoenix's. I'm almost sorry that, the instant we have proof of its existence, the curse has been destroyed."

"Yeah," said Snape. "Heart-breaking."

Dumbledore chuckled – which was his customary response to being insulted – and went on: "The Boggart-Slytherin, however, was an evil whose existence I didn't have to hypothesize. Whenever I hear his name mentioned, I'm always struck by lucky I was not to have known him."

Severus thought of pointing out that Slytherin's crazed, good-humoured, practical monologue had reminded him of one of Dumbledore's, but thought better of it. He wanted the manipulative old git on his side tonight. There were moments when he knew he just wasn't strong enough to do without him.

"He was the master of necessity," Dumbledore went on, looking as though the word had left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Like you, sir."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Severus, your lack of faith in me is distressing."

"But not unwarranted."

"Oh, certainly not unwarranted," said Dumbledore, with a breezy smile. "I sympathize with you perfectly. I have treated you appallingly.  And yet I take comfort in the fact that you – if you had my priorities – would have done the same. I also rather fancy that I did it for your own good, but I understand completely if you're not inclined to agree with me on this point."

Severus didn't bother responding to that one. He couldn't say anything that wouldn't make the old man chuckle, and he didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

Dawn-light crept had crept over the windowsill while they'd been speaking. It was pale and sickly, as though it knew exactly what was coming in the next few days – and how easily avoided it could be, if people weren't so incurably stupid. That kind of thing made you pale with awe for the power of stupidity. It really did rule the world.

There was a silence, and then Dumbledore went on, in a much gentler tone: "Do you believe it was the Boggart-Lily's plan all along to ensure that you drank the Purifire?"

Severus cleared his throat wretchedly. "I don't know about all along. I don't know when she started believing-" He stopped, because his throat was seizing up in protest. He couldn't finish that sentence. But, for once, Dumbledore wasn't cruel enough to make him.

"And do you believe the curse has really lifted?"

Severus returned his gaze blankly. What could he say? That he felt different? That was hardly a scientific argument. But he had time to make plans now - a few precious seconds of breathing space. Even if he was still cursed, he was going into this with his eyes open.

Dumbledore seemed to accept his lack of answer. Either that, or he was much more interested in the answer to the next question, because he went on: "And do you think the fact that you drank the Purifire has anything to do with Professor Caladrius's mysterious lack of visions?"

Severus shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "Well, I don't see how - ,"

"Just because you don't see how doesn't mean you don't see if."

Severus rolled his eyes. "Alright, yes. I think so."

Dumbledore clapped his hands together in apparent delight. "Severus, I think we're making tremendous progress."

"What are you going to do about Greyback?" said Snape suddenly, unable to bite it back any longer. "That Mitchell girl says every Ministry employee has been ordered to attend the execution on pane of losing their jobs. There are going to be hundreds of people in that crowd. It'll be a bloody massacre!"

Dumbledore just gave him a grave look, which presumably signified agreement. Merlin knew, he would never say it if he agreed with a Slytherin.

"Have you tried reasoning with the Minister?"

"That is always my first recourse, Severus."

"Hah!" said Snape. But he didn't elaborate. He needed Dumbledore's help tonight. He said contradictory things and made everything uncertain but, somehow, he had a steadying influence on Severus's nerves.

Dumbledore gave a heavy sigh. "The Minister is inclined to think that a strong, public statement is needed, to show the Death Eaters that we will not tolerate them."

"Tolerate them? He's employing half of them! He's got no idea what he's up against!"

Dumbledore inclined his head, which could have meant anything. "We may have to see to it that the execution does not take place."

"You mean, kill Greyback before he gets to the scaffold?"

"My plans did not include killing him, Severus. That would not be fair."

"Fair?" Severus repeated derisively. "Fair? The world isn't a school, Dumbledore! Besides, when did he ever care about fair? Do you think he gave his victims a head-start? Do you think there were oranges at half-time?"

"I meant it would not be fair on the people called upon to kill him. Greyback is not worth killing for."

"OK," said Severus slowly, "but you know what I think is worth killing for? The prospect of a future where Greyback isn't sneaking into playgrounds and ripping out the little kiddies' intestines."

Dumbledore gave him a strange smile. "You're quite a romantic really, aren't you?"

Snape groaned. "Look, I'm not saying do it; just don't pretend it doesn't make sense."

"Is that what you're worried about?" said Dumbledore pleasantly. "That I can't see your logic? I assure you, Severus, I see it, and I admire it; I just think it has been artfully constructed to lead you astray."

Severus rubbed his aching temples. "So let me get this straight," he said. "You want to bust him out of Azkaban and imprison him somewhere else? Hogwarts, maybe? That way, he could have as many soft, chewy kiddies as he likes."

"There are other places," said Dumbledore shortly.

"You know, you can't control him – you can't reason with him-"

"Not my intention."

Severus stared at him almost plaintively, looking for some kind of clue. He knew the old man wasn't stupid, so what the hell was he thinking? He was probably insane – in a very specialized kind of way – but it was insanity of a sort that only his enemies ever found inconvenient. There had to be something else going on here.

"Oh, that reminds me," said Dumbledore mildly. "Would you send James up here on your way back?"

For a few seconds, Severus just stood there, with horrible suspicions forming in his mind, being dismissed as ridiculous, and then re-forming when he remembered just how ridiculous Dumbledore could be. "That reminds you?" he asked weakly.  

Dumbledore must have assumed that question was rhetorical, because he just picked up a quill and turned back to the paperwork on his desk.

"But…" Severus went on wretchedly. "But you can't really be thinking about… I mean, you can't trust him."

Dumbledore looked up. "I am very proud of what you've done tonight, you know."

"But you're not going to listen when I tell you that Potter can't be trusted," said Snape flatly.

Dumbledore smiled. "I think you both have a bit of a blind spot where the other is concerned. Not that I don't value your advice on other matters, of course."  

Severus didn't answer. He was almost swaying on the spot. The idea that Dumbledore might rely on Potter – after everything that had happened tonight – made the weight of exhaustion redouble on him.

Dumbledore continued to smile, as though Snape's exasperation was exactly how things should be. "Will you want anything in return for what you've done tonight? I know you will say that the actual curse-breaking was done by Madam Pomfrey, but you deceived Voldemort quite brilliantly, and saved Poppy's parents from a horrible death. Another horrible death." He held up his hand to forestall any protests, and went on: "I realize that they were only products of the dream, but I do believe your heroism in that respect will have unintended consequences. You helped to save my matron from a terrible fate, and I feel as though I owe you a favour."

"Just one?" said Snape bitterly. But, for once, the bitterness didn't hold back his thoughts. Dumbledore had mentioned a reward, and an idea had been turning slowly in his head for almost an hour now, revealing all its angles and intricacies. It was a thing of beauty. And it was going to take a long time to talk everybody round, so he might as well broach the subject now.

"Have you ever faked someone's death?" he said.

Dumbledore – contrary to all expectations – gave this some serious thought. "I've colluded in the faking of a person's death," he admitted. "But I have never been, as it were, the chief administrator."

"Oh, you wouldn't be the chief administrator of this one either," said Snape. "It's much too important. But I would appreciate your assistance."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "You have a plan, do you?"

"Always," said Snape.