The enforced gaiety grated on her nerves, and by the time the twenty-fifth rolled around, she was nearly ready to bite the heads off anyone who dared wish her a "Happy Christmas." Albus's charmed mistletoe was a particular hazard; surely he knew that the very last thing she wanted was to kiss Hagrid or Filius or Filch, even on the cheek.
Humbug indeed.
She pulled the blanket more snugly around herself and scooted her chair closer to the fire. Her head ached and her muscles felt almost as bad as if she were back in the dungeons in Darmstadt. At least she could speak in a normal tone of voice again. Who ever heard of a fifty-six-year-old witch contracting Mumblemumps?
At least it was an excuse to skip Pomona and Will's bloody party this year and instead spend Christmas night in her quarters with memories for good company. Although it was harder to keep the dark ones away these days.
She sighed when she heard a knock at her door. It was Albus, no doubt, coming to fuss over her again. He could be worse than an old mother hen. She almost wished he had another war to go fight. Preferably in another hemisphere.
After opening the door with a flick of her wrist and a wordless spell, she picked up her cup of tea, warming her hands on it.
And nearly dropped it when she saw Severus Snape standing in the doorway.
"Forgive me for disturbing you."
Turning her face back to the fire, she said, "In or out, but don't just stand there in the door letting all the heat escape.
She heard the door click shut and forced herself to turn back to look at him. "What do you need?"
"I've brought you a potion. For the muscle aches."
He stepped closer, wary, as if approaching a wild animal, and held out the bottle for her inspection.
She read the label, squinting without her glasses: "'Number Four'? What is that?"
"It's something of my own devising. I find it works better for muscle pain than the standard elixirs and salves."
"And why would you be bringing this to me?" she asked.
"I had Mumblemumps three summers ago. I remember how painful it was."
"So you came up with a potion."
He ignored her mocking tone.
"I devised the potion to treat aches from a different cause, but I have no reason to believe it will not be equally effective for those caused by illness."
If that was supposed to make her feel sorry for him, he was slithering up the wrong tree.
She let him stand there with his arm awkwardly outstretched for another few seconds before taking the bottle.
"Thank you," she said, setting it on the tea table. Much as she loathed this young man, courtesy was so deeply ingrained in her that she could not simply drop it like a cloak that didn't fit the situation.
He said, "You should take two teaspoons every eight hours, but no more than that. I find it sits better if you have something bland to eat with it."
"I'll do that."
"Well, if there's nothing else you need, I'll leave you in peace."
She suddenly realised that this was the first time she'd ever been alone with Snape, and she had an urge to watch him to see if he would betray any discomfort sitting there with her. To see if there was anything under that damnable impassive demeanour. Anything like remorse . . .
"Sit down, Mr Snape."
He took the seat opposite her, alighting stiffly on the chair, his back straight and several inches from the cushion. He was perspiring heavily, but that was likely because of the heat of the room. And his heavy clothes didn't help. Why did he always wear a full set of heavy wool and muslin robes? Most wizards his age would be in dungarees and a jumper when off duty. Then again, his former colleagues likely had frowned on such Muggle-esque attire.
"Why are you here?"
"The Headmaster said you were still feeling ill. I thought the potion might help."
"No, I mean here at Hogwarts. I can't imagine teaching holds much appeal for a man like you."
"You mean a Death Eater?" He didn't even have the good grace to look ashamed when he said the name.
"Former Death Eater. Or so I'm told," she said.
"But you don't believe it."
"I believe what I can see."
"I thought Transfiguration was about unseen potential," he said.
Clever little cat, he was!
She said, "You're the expert on Transfiguration now, are you? And what do you think you've become?"
"Time will tell, Professor."
The fire gave a sudden crack, and he jumped.
"Not to worry, Mr Snape. No one can Apparate into or out of Hogwarts. Not even a Death Eater. You're quite safe. From your former colleagues, at any rate.
He was silent, but made no move to leave.
She said, "You didn't answer my first question."
""Forgive me. What was it?"
"Why you are here."
"I need a job. And I need looking after, according to the Wizengamot. The Headmaster offered both."
"You need Albus."
"Yes."
"To stay out of Azkaban."
"Yes."
She peered at him for a few moments, mostly to see if he would wilt under the heat of the fire and of her gaze, but he didn't.
Then he said, "I didn't know about it."
"What?"
"The McKinnons."
Minerva's lips pursed of their own accord, and she shivered again.
He said, "If I had heard about it ahead of time, I would have warned the Headmaster."
Her eyes narrowed. "That was in July."
"Yes."
"You were working for Albus in July?"
He said nothing, but again, his eyes didn't leave her face.
"Why should I believe you?" she asked.
"I can't think of a single reason."
Drawing the blanket around herself again and turning away from him to gaze into the fire. "I'm tired, Mr Snape."
She didn't turn back until she heard the door close.
Picking up the potion bottle, she regarded it for a moment before conjuring a teaspoon and pouring some of the viscous, green liquid into its bowl. She swallowed it quickly, grimacing at the taste, and waited. When she didn't collapse or break out in painful boils, she downed a second teaspoonful, and several minutes later, the pain in her muscles was blessedly gone.
"Thank you, Mr Snape," she said just as she began to doze off in front of the fire.
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