Soul Searching

The next morning, we head off to the Ministry for our formal debriefing Soul Searching By Quillusion   Chapter 26   Morning rolls around so quickly when one wants to sleep in. I'm up by seven o'clock the next morning, cleaned up and dressed in somber robes that are the closest thing the wizarding world has to a business suit. At eight o'clock sharp, we are to set off to the Ministry for our Formal Debriefing. I can't help but think thae phe phrase is simply a polite way of saying they're going to strip us down to our skins and scrutinize us; given the voraciousness of the Ministry wizard who replied to the owl that Severus sent announcing our readiness to meet, I expect little less.   At least I'll have company for the remaining hour left to us all before our grilling; I spent last night in guest quarters in Gryffindor tower. I didn't feel up to returning to my dorm at SCAI last night- not after hearing Madam Pomfrey's account of Rita Skeeter's attempts to gain entry to the castle to interview us. Ron and Harry stayed over as well, in rooms not far from mine; in a nostalgic return to our school years, I hammered on their doors to drag them out of bed this morning, waiting patiently in the hall while they scrabbled together clothing and toothbrushes.   Now we're sitting at the Gryffindor table once more, Ron and Harry on either side of me, just like old times- and it's what I need to steady me right now. It's just like when I was a fifth year worried about an exam and Harry and Ron would give me pep talks about how they were going to fail because I'd break the curve so badly. Only this time, we're all pepping each other up, cracking jokes about Veritaserum and Gryffindors being terrible liars, just to hide our nervousness. Gryffindors really aren't very good liars, and even though we're not actually going to lie outright, we are planning on omitting some of the truth. I hope my time with Severus has left me with a little Slytherin cunning.   Eight o'clock finds the nine of us standing in front of the gates, just as we had stood the morning of that battle.   "Hwe gwe go again," says Harry with a sigh, shaking his arms out as if he's about to kick off for a Quidditch match. "I was less nervous last time."   We arrange ourselves into a loose circle, and one by one we Disapparate.   Apparition into the Ministry must, in actuality, be done into the courtyard in front of the Ministry, because the security wards keep one from Apparating directly in. I arrive last, and the sudden cacophony of noise as my ears finish materializing nearly deafens me.   The reason for the noise becomes apparent almost immediately, as cameras begin to flash by the dozen and reporters begin shrilling questions like a flock of seagulls. It's nearly impossible to hear over the din, and the press of bodies around us is unpleasant indeed. Harry and Ron look annoyed, and even Lupin's cheerful countenance looks strained. With quick glances at one another, we close ranks behind the Headmaster.   Albus Dumbledore has always had an aura of power about him that commands respect, and I've never been more grateful for it. The reporters fall back before him instinctively, and he and Minerva set off toward the main doors of the Ministry, breaking a path for us through the sea of wizards and witches waving Dict-O-Quills and parchment scrolls. Dumbledore's stride is firm and purposeful, Minerva's as crisp as it always is. Cas cas click madly as Albus takes the lead, standing out from the crowd for the first time, and I'm glad the Headmaster looks so vital. Given the henge's effects, I shouldn't wonder if he feels even better now than he did when he left Hogwarts the morning of the battle. There is nothing about him to suggest weakness or vulnerability, and just the feeling that Albus is as strong as I always believed him to be when I was a schoolgirl is enough to bolster my courage.   Harry, Ron, and Neville are bringing up the rear of our little procession, which puts me beside Severus just behind Remus and Sirius. These masses of reporters are intimidating, and having the Head of Slytherin beside me- swathed again in his black robes, and scowling dreadfully- is incredibly reassuring. I suspect that he intimidates the reportfar far more than they intimidate me. Several of them, I think suddenly, are his former students. That thought brings a delicious smile to my face.   We are nearly to the building's steps by now, and I smile when I see a double line of fat velvet-covered ropes laid out to keep the rterrters from totally blocking access to the doors of the Ministry. Just like the bank my parents use, I think. I don't ever recall seeing ropes like that at Gringott's; of course, my family's bank doesn't have goblins to keep order. Albus starts up the stairs, followed by the three teachers ahead of me. I have just lifted the hem of my robes to follow them up, when a reporter lunges suddenly forward, pushing into the ropes. To my immense surprise, he is aiming for me, and not Harry. "Miss Granger! Miss Granger! Finally you're in the spotlight- what do you have to say about all of this?"   I step back from the ropes against which he is straining, and Severus frowns at him darkly. But the man won't give up. He presses forward again, ducking under the rope this time, and because of the narrow confines of the roped-off walkway, I cannot back up any further. Now he's got hold of the front of my robes. I can see the name "Portsmouth Observer" written on the press pass hanging about his neck. He looks rather manic, his eyes wide and rolling, and I contemplate the wisdom of grabbing the cord of his press pass and strangling him with it, versus the foolishness of getting closer to him in order to do so. But then I smell it- and the reek of alcohol about him deters me from moving anywhere but away from him. Someone has clearly been celebrating too hard, and I tell him so in cool tones.   He frowns and leans in far too close to me, muttering something in garbled drunkenese. I can't understand most of what he's saying, but I do catch the words 'bloody miracle' and 'offer a toast'. By now I'm virtually holding him upright as he leans on me for support. I can feel Harry and Ron pulling him off me. Neville and Severus are prying the reporter's hands off my robes, but the man is fighting to get hold of me again. It's not so much frightening as it is disgusting; I'd hex the man, but he's so drunk that it almost doesn't seem fair.   "Are you mad? Let go of her!" Neville snaps as he pushes the aggressive newsman away from me with a determined shove.   The reporter doesn't seem to take the hint. He grabs for me again, and when Severus stops him, the man pulls out his wand and aims it rather drunkenly at me. So much for fairness.   "That was a mistake," Severus snarl a l a low voiced wid without further ado punches the man squarely in the face.   It's a quick, accurate, and powerfully delivered blow. Stunned, the reporter falls down. By now his colleagues have scrambled over to his side, frantically calling his name and apologizing to myself and Professor Snape. "Terribly sorry-" "Too much caffeine-" "Working long hours-" "St. Mungo's-"   "Get him out of my sight." The Potions master is scowling down at the reporter, whose blanched face is splotched with blood from his clearly broken nose.   The man's friends flounder a bit more than Snape can stand, and at last Severus irritably whips out his wand and aims it at the reporter, who cringes away visibly.   "Os Reparo", Severus snaps, and the man's nose rights itself with another crunch. He whimpers with mingled pain and relief, and Snape narrows his eyes dangerously at him, leaning in to speak in the man's ear.   "Get out," he says in a menacing murmur. "Before I break it for you again and give you eye sockets to match."   "Leaving now," says the reporter's frantic friend, and bodily hauls his comrade to his feet.   And then they're gone, leaving me open-mouthed and Severus absently shaking his hand out.   "That hurt," he comments thoughtfully.   Well, I think to myself as I shake my robes back into some semblance of order. That answers any lingering questions about whether or not Voldemort's death will magically release Severus Snape's hitherto hidden sweet temperament. I couldn't say why, but I'm inordinately pleased at his outburst of ill temper. Not least because it was on my behalf.   Ron moves up beside us, checking my face for signs of alarm. Finding none, he smiles at Severus and claps him on the shoulder in what is clearly a male gesture of approval. He doesn't say anything as he moves past us, shouldering open a new path to let us move ahead. Neville gives the Potions master a wide berth and an even wider-eyed look as he follows to help Ron.   Severus snorts at Ron's behavior, as if to mock it. But to my well-trained eye, he looks just the slightest bit pleased.   "You're not hurt, are you?" I ask, inspecting his knuckles as we walk. They're a little reddened, but otherwise fine.   "No," he replies. "He had a well-padded nose."   I can't quite hold back a chuckle. "I never knew you could hit like that, Severus. Ron was impressed- and despite what you may think, that's no small feat."   The old, familiar smirk flickers across the worn features before he replies. "There are very few times when a fist is more effective than a wand. This was not one of them- but the fist sounded far more satisfying."   We mount the steps to the doors, and I turn my head so the minor functionaries on the stairs cannot overhear my words.   "Ah, aggression. The mark of a true red-blooded male."   The smile he sends my way is not entirely well-mannered, but he holds the door for me with perfect gentlemanly grace. As I walk past him, he bends slightly to murmur his reply in my ear.   "I'm glad you noticed."     The Ministry is huge, and formal, and everything I always thought it would be. It's decorated in somber shades of blue and gold and red, and there are suits of armor everywhere. It's like Hogwarts, only dusty.   Arthur Weasley is there to meet us; I'm glad to see a friendly face.   "Relax," he tells us all as he leads us to the moving Chaircase. "This isn't going to be nearly as uptight as the reception would lead you to think. Fudge is just grateful that Voldemort is gone. Judging from his behavior this past week, if you take the right tone with him, he'll give you whatever you want. He's certainly not about to insist on knowing everything or putting his spin on it or anything of that sort. The public wants answers, and if they are good answers that will make them happy with the Ministry, then Fudge will be happy."   The Chaircase is an interesting invention. It's similar in design to the circular escalator that leads to the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, only instead of stairs, the Chaircase has chairs. They face outward on the escalator, and provide a lovely view of the Ministry's offices as they rise through the atrium, which of course is all open.   I can hear Neville swallowing from ten feet away.   Albus settles comfortably into a large winged leather armchair, placidly gazing out at the marble floor as it falls away from him. He winks at Neville, and then looks upward.   Minerva and Sirius go next in a matching pair of Chippendales, and Remus follows on a tufted ottoman. Severus grasps Neville by the shoulder and firmly steers him into a large, deep horsehair chair whose prickly cushions look like the wizarding answer to Velcro.   "Oh, honestly, Longbottom, the chair's charmed- you won't fall off," he says as he parks Neville on the seat. "Just give your robes a good yank before you get off at the other end."   He seats me in a brocaded overstuffed chair, then settles himself into a lovely carved wooden antique. Arthur takes a Shaker rocking chair- what's the point of a rocking chair on a Chaircase?- and Harry and Ron share a damask sofa behind us, chatting amiably as we rise to the upper floor, where Fudge and Company await us.   When we reach the top of the Chaircase, the décor has taken a further turn upward. All is velvet and gold and marble, and I sincerely hope it's done with glamours rather than real material. I don't have the time to find out, however, because we're being ushered into a room with a long mahogany table and dozens of chairs along the sides. The table has a high shine on it, and reflected in its center is the massive crystal chandelier than dangles from the ceiling twelve feet above us.   We file in, like students going to class, and settle into chairs at the far end of the table. Cornelius Fudge sits at the head of the table, with several other ministers I don't recognize alongside him. Arthur Weasley comes from the back of our group to stand behind the other ministers.   Albus makes the first move. "Cornelius, he says affably. "Good to see you."   "Oh, it's good to see you, Albus," says the Minister fervently, reaching over to pump the Headmaster's hand. "I'd begun to think your Potions master and your Transfiguration mistress were holding you captive."   Albus shoots me a knowing glance, and I bite my cheek to keep from smiling. "Not in the slightest," he says calmly. "They were kind enough to take on my duties to allow me time to recover."   Fudge glances over the Headmaster's form with narrowed eyes. "Recover? Albus, you look more than recovered. You look like you've had a week's holiday!"   "A week in one's rooms can seem so, if one has the right sort of rooms," Albus replies with a smile.   Fudge frowns a little- he may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knows when he's being teased. "Well. Be that as it may, I believe we have a few things to discuss this morning."   Albus inclines his head, and Fudge swells slightly with importance.   "I am given to understand that, a week ago, He Who-" he pauses, swallows, gathers his courage- "I mean, Lord… V… Voldemort met his end at the hands of the assembled party. I would appreciate an accounting of the events of that confrontation."   "Certainly," says Albus calmly. "From whom would you like the tale?"   This is, I realize, an interesting question. Its answer will tell Albus a great deal about whom Fudge trusts, and by whom his attention has been caught. It's good money Severus won't be his choice.   "Well, let me think. I believe I've already heard Harry's side of things- as much as he would tell me, at least- and I know I'll get your version eventually, Albus. I think, for now, I would prefer to hear… Mr. Weasley's version."   Arthur stiffens slightly, and I swallow as quietly as possible. Of the three of us- me, Ron, and Harry- Ron is by far the worst liar. And Fudge's association with Arthur and Percy at the Ministry has likely taught him about their propensity for blushing when they hedge the truth or are under any kind of pressure. The Minister might be a cowardly git with no leadership skills, but he has a surfeit of the politician's best weapon: a grasp of human nature. He's betting that the awkward young man he remembers takes more after his father and Percy than after Fred and George, who could lie to St. Peter about his own birthday and have him doubting his birth certificate.   Apparently, Fudge doesn't really trust any of us. Which is fine, because Circe knows we don’t trust him.   Ron leans forward slightl his his chair, nodding acquiescence.   "Certainly, Minister," he says, and the calmness of his speech catches my attention.   He's not blushing. His ears are a normal color.   Good God, I've underestimated Ron even further than I had thought. Being the youngest of six boys in the family must have taught him something that the eldest boys never had to learn: Deviousness.   Who would have thought?   "Well, Minister, I am assuming you are aware of the role that Professor Snaps pls played over the last decade?"   Fudge nods impatiently, and Ron continues.   "He was summoned last week to a meeting of Death Eaters. At that meeting, his refusal to comply with a directive Voldemort gave him resulted in what was intended to be his death." Fudge flinches at the ease with which the young man says the Dark Lord's name.   Ron, however, is paying no heed to Fudge. Instead, he flicks an apologetic glance at Snape, regretting that he must leave out the true horror of what he endured- and what should receive an Order of Merlin- in order to prevent suspicions from arising as to how he survived. Ron had argued strongly against editing this part of the story out, but had been outvoted. My friend, who has lived so long in the shadows of others' achievements, is not happy that the same should happen to anyone else, even if it is his former Potions teacher and Least Favorite Faculty Member.   Snape does not move, but there is something in his eyes which must give Ron absolution, because he continues.   "During the… attempted murder," he says uneasily- good for you, Ron, Fudge would never believe it if you were too smooth, your story too pat- "Professor Snape managed to dose Voldemort with a- a reversal agent for his restorative potions. It created a window of time which we could use to our advantage."   "But why now? Why attack now? He Who- I mean, he was quiet. Things were going well." Fudge must be having his own internal reactio the the things he is hearing; he sounds frantic at the notion of facing the Dark Lord, even though the deed is done.   "Because," Severus breaks in with a measured patience I would never have expected from him. The only concession to his considerable irritation is the icy cold tone of his voice. "Things were not going well. It was the calm before the storm, Minister. I had learned of several plans in motion which suggested that, if Voldemort were not stopped, we would be at open war within a week. By today, as it happens. I had every reason that night to believe that it was the only opportunity I would ever have to use the reversal agent. If not for the events that followed the next day, and the arrests made subsequently, we would almost certainly be at war now. And the odds are good that we would not be winning."   His eyes are flintlike as he makes this recitation, and I silently applaud his self-control. One look at the clenched fists concealed beneath the tabletop tells me that he wants to ridicule the Minister for his lack of understanding and his cowardice. Frankly, I'd like to see him do it. But we don't have the luxury today; we'll have to mock him in private later.   The starkness of Snape's information is effective. Fudge subsides, his face pale.   "I see. Do go on, Mr. Weasley."   "Professor Snape had also managed to ascertain the location of Voldemort's stronghold. Dumbledore assembled a group of wizards and witches willing to face the Dark Lord, and we went to find him."   Fudge's glance slides over to me.   "I understand that Miss Granger was not among those who initially went to fight the Dark Lord. I cannmagimagine she was pleased that you went without her."   "I was ill," I reply. "I had assisted in healing Professor Snape, and I fear I overextended myself. I was a liability to the cause and I knew it, so I reluctantly agreed to stay behind."   Fudge grunts, and turns his eyes back to Ron.   "We approached castcastle, only to find it largely deserted. Voldemort was feeling the effects of Snape's potion, and had apparently suspected one of his Death Eaters of poisoning him. So he had sent them all away. We confronted him in his own throne room, where he was trying to brew a potion to eradicate all magic but his own. It didn't go well- Neville Longbottom managed to explode the cauldron before the brew was completed."   Fudge does laugh at this; Neville's lack of Potions ability has reached legendary proportions among the Ministry because his status as a virtual orphan has generated more than a little interest in his well-being. Neville squirms in his seat, suddenly embarrassed by unaccustomed positive attention.   "That's it, my boy, make use of your strengths," says Fudge with a chuckle. Even Snape has to smile a little; after all, that's why he asked Albus to send Neville toward the cauldron. Just one more in a long line of ideas for which Severus Snape will likely never get the credit he is due.   "But how did Miss Granger come to be involved?" Fudge prompts.   Ron continues. "Hermione was accidentally transported to the scene of the battle when she inadvertently opened a Klocket. Voldemort used her as a hostage, but Professor Snape managed to provoke him into letting her go and fighting him instead.   "The duel was impressive, Minister, it really was- far better than anything you see at the Games. It turns out that Voldemort was conscripting ancient magic to power his hexes. My brother Bill found the ancient wards when he was breaking his way in past Voldemort's spells; he left the old ones standing, which turns out to have been a good thing, I think. But even with the old magic,Voldemort couldn't beat Snape. It was something of a draw, only we knew it couldn't go on forever. Finally, we decided to try to stir up that old magic to work against Voldemort.   "Our attempt was successful, and that's why the castle is half-destroyed. Those old wards were what finally protected us against Voldemort's power. That was the magic that rose up and destroyed him, and the castle with him."   "How was Albus injured?" asked Fudge.   "By Voldemort," replies Albus. "The ancient magic is not of our making, and it is not something we can really control, any more than you or I could control Harry's magic or Minerva's. Voldemort somehow channeled it into himself, however, and used it to wound me rather badly. If not for all of my friends here, I likely would not have survived. As it was, they sustained me with charms until I could be brought back to Hogwarts and treated."   Fudge takes the time to carefully question each of us in turn about our hand in the matter, which conversation takes up nearly another hour. His questions sound more politically motivated than anything else, and I lose patience with them rapidly. I'm yawning surreptitiously by the time the Minister of Magic sits back, considering.   "It sounds," he says calmly, "as if you are all equally heroes."   "Not quite, Minister," says Harry firmly. "Severus was the one who got the inftiontion we needed, and provided the break we needed as well- and at considerable personal risk and cost. None of this could have happened without him."   I smile inwardly. The fact that I was the one who finally did the Dark Lord in- even if I didn't realize it at the time- will pass uwn iwn into the mists of history, mostly because it would distract from the greater sacrifice made by the quiet man beside me. I don't care; it's far more important to me to see Severus Snape get just one jot of the recognition he deserves for two decades of suffering.   "You are, of course, correct." The Minister studies us for a long moment. "Is there any way to verify any of the things you have said tonight?"   "Severus can provide a sample of the reversal agent, if need be," says Albus. "As for the rest, I fear there is little to be given up as proof, save the word of the nine who were there. And the mute testimony of a petrified skull."   How appropriate it is, in hindsight, that I shouetrietrify the very man who sent a Basilisk to do the same to me in my second year. That's a thought to warm me on a winter's night.   Fudge is rising now, and the rest of the Ministers with him.   "I will have a statement prepared for release; Albus, if it's all right with you, I'll just have you approve it before it goes out?"   The Headmaster inclines his head in agreement, and thenge ige is bustling out, shaking our hands as he goes.   "Terribly sorry about what you've been through, old man," he says to Severus, and I can see my friend's mouth tighten faintly in distaste. Not least because he is at least forty years Fudge's junior. "I suspect there will be a few awards to go round, eh? More on that later. Much to be done- good day, all-"   And then he's gone.   "Well," says Lupin. "That was better than I expected."   Severus is on his feet already.   "Shall we?" he asks flatly. Sirius is standing beside him, and I'm not even out of my chair yet.   "In a rush?" asks Arthur Weasley.   hur,hur," says Snape in a voice as dry as week-old toast, "the last time I left this building I was headed for Azkaban prison. I am not at all enjoying my stay."   One glance at Sirius's ashen expression is all it takes for Harry to realize that his godfather is in the exact same position.   Arthur looks mortified. "I'm so sorry," he says contritely. "It's been ages since- I just didn't think."   "Everyone join in on the chorus," Ron mutters under his breath, and I can see the faintest shadow of a smile on Severus's lips.   We follow Arthur Weasley along the same hallways through which we entered, but instead of returning to the Chaircase, we enter a small room with an open doorway at the end. Through the doorway, there is nothing but darkness, but there is a definite sense of air movement in the room that suggests a wide open space not far off.   "This is the slide," says Arthur. "Quickest way out." He nods at Severus and Sirius. "I know that you two gentlemen most likely took the Drop last time- I have no doubt that this will be a better experience. Ron, you go first."   It looks like Ron's been to work with his father before, because he steps up to the doorway and drops gracefully to the floor. "Main gates," he hollers, and Harry turns green.   "This isn't a Floo network, is it?" he asks, just as Ron shoots forward into the doorway with a loud whooshing noise.   "No, it's just a slide. You simply tell it where in the building to send you. No fireplaces, Harry- nothing to worry about. It's an internal Ministry system only." Arthur smiles at his son's friend, remembering Harry's unexpected trip to Knockturn Alley.   Sirius nex next, barking "Main Gates!" in a hoarse voice, then whooping as the slide sucks him in and picks up speed. His voice echoes eerily back up the tunnel, and I shiver. He sounds like he's having a blast.   Neville sits down, his voice quavering, and he manages to get "Main gates!" out normally- but the slide sucks him down backwards. The shriek he lets out follows him for a good fifteen seconds, when he has to stop to breathe. After that, he's too far away to hear.   Remus goes next. He laughs hysterically just after vanishing, and Albus steps up next.   Harry goes after Albus, then Minerva gestures to Severus.   "You next," she says. "I think you'll like this better than the Drop. There's no freefall involved."   I gulp audibly, and Severus sends me a quelling look as he drops easily to the floor.   "Main gates," he says almost diffidently, and then he's gone, a single bark of delighted laughter the only thing he leaves in his wake.   I go next, and once the darkness closes around me, I realize that this is very much like a Muggle water slide. The first drop sends my stomach up to kiss my scalp, and I giggle uncontrollably at the ticklish sensation. No wonder they all made such noise!   I turn my attention to the walls, and realize that as I descend through the twists and turns of the slide, I can see something of the offices I'm passing. At one point I even look into a men's restroom, which fact sets me off giggling again. There's a library, and a cafeteria, and a lovely solarium, and at last the main gates loom ahead, faint light increasing rapidly to blazing brightness.   I skid to a halt on the grass outside, opening my eyes hesitantly to see Lupin offering me a hand.   "All right, Hermione?" he asks, and I nod, brushing bits of green grass from my robes. It's odd to see green grass at this time of year- but magic is, after all, what this place is all about.   "Everyone else?" I ask, as Minerva rolls neatly to her feet as the slide shoots her out behind me.   "Except Neville," says Lupin with a sigh. "Another broken wrist. Poor lad."   Minerva takes care of Neville's wrist, and before long the entire party is ready to leave. I move over to stand between Ron and Harry, but Albus interrupts us.   "Miss Granger, if you don't mind, I believe we have one more call we need to make."   Startled, I glance up at the Headmaster's face. He looks pleased with himself.   "All right," I acquiesce. Dumbledore looks over my head at my friends.   "She will meet you back at Hogwarts," he says, and Harry nods.   "See you," they say, and Disapparate with a faint popping sound.   Wh tur turn around, I am surprised to see only Albus, Severus, and Minerva remaining.   "Where are we going?"   "You," says Minerva with the slightest emphasis on the pronoun, "are going with Albus and Severus. I will be going to to Hogwarts- but not until I Transfigure all of your robes. I know better than to trust Albus Dumbledore with his choice of Muggle clothing."   Her wand is already moving, and even as I hold out my arms to make her job easier, I am asking, "Muggle clothing?"   "We are going into Muggle London," says Albus, almost gleefully, and I am distracted enough by the thought of Dumbledore and Snape loosed on unsuspecting Muggles to miss what Minerva does to his clothing as he says this.   A moment later, Minerva McGonagall is standing in witch's robes beside three respectable looking Muggles.   "I do wish you'd let me wear the knickerbockers," says Albus sadly.   "You know perfectly well that Muggles do not wear outdated golfing attire to work," she replies sternly. "And the Argyle sweater is no better. Please, Albus- be sensible for once!"   He sighs, and I come to adjust the tie at his neck. "Now, Albus," I say coaxingly. "You look marvelous in tweed. Even if your beard is a lot shorter than I can ever recall seeing it." His long silver beard is trimmed neatly into the sort of thing a… well… professor would wear. In the Muggle world, that is. His tweed suit fits well, and he looks the part of a retired Muggle academic. All he's missing is the leather patches on the elbows of his coat.   He reaches out and dusts something imaginary off my own lapel, whiauseauses me to look down.   Blue skirt, matching tailored jacket. Sensible shoes. My God, I'm a stockbroker. But the suit has a flattering retro look to it- very 1940s glamor. Just then, my brain makes the leap from Albus's clothes, to mine, to Snape's.   Oh, my. What did she do with Severus?   My gaze drifts slowly over to him, and my heart stops beating altogether for a long moment before it skips into overdrive at the sight of Severus Snape, draped in the elegant lines of a black wool suit.   The shirt is not white- it's dark red, which is startling at first, but which, when combined with the subtle pattern of his tie, lends a deliciously dark style to the ensemble that is entirely in keeping with the Severus I know. Even if I've never seen him in anything but black, white, and grey. Not even the green of his House. The trousers fall to break slightly over very expensive-looking leather shoes, and it's clear that he likes the changes. The smug expression on his face leaves no doubt of that.   "And to think I've wasted all these years wearing plain robes," he says to Minerva by way of thanks.   "Oh, come off it, Severus. You've always known just how to produce an effect with clothing. You might ell ell start broadening your repertoire now."   And with another pop, she's gone.   "Well," I say, my mouth dry. Severus looks at me, gauging my reaction, and I can tell he's pleased at the effect he's having.   Male, indeed.   The three of us fall into step, passing carefully through the barrier that separates the Ministry from Muggle London.   "Where exactly are we going?" I ask.   Albus chuckles. "Another debriefing," he says. "At a Ministry building hidden in plain sight in Muggle Lon whe where wizards would never think to look for it and Muggles would never question it. It shares space with Inland Revenue. Consequently, Muggles try to avoid it as much as possible."   "Clever," I say with a smile. "After you, sir."   Albus hails a cab, and we pile into the back seat. I'm intensely aware of my hip pressed into Severus's thigh for the entire trip. When we finally step out of the vehicle at our destination, the cabbie drives off as quickly as he can, clearly eager to be rid of his suspiciously auditor-like passengers.   We take the lift to the top floor, and as we approach the last stop, Albus draws out his wand.   "Don't get out of the car when the doors open," he says, and whispers a spell I can't hear.   The doors open to reveal a throng of Muggles waiting for an empty car. They continue to stand and wait, ignoring us altogether, and I belatedly realize ttheythey can see neither us nor our car. As soon as the light for our floor has gone out, Albus waves his wagaingain, the doors slide closed, and the car continues upward.   A whole new set of buttons appears oe coe control panel, and he selects one of them. They're not numbered; instead they have words on them. One says Curse Reversal, and another says Don't Ask. There is one button whose label reads Sticky Wickets; its neighbor says Missing Socks. Several have words blurred by concealment spells. The one Albus has pressed says Surprise!   That makes me a little nervous. Still, at least there isn't a button labeled Elvis. Not one I can see, anyway.   When the lift doors open again, we step out into a shadowy foyer lit with candles in much the same way as the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The walls are lined with painting frames, all of which are empty.   Something brushes my ankles as I step out of the car, and a quick gl dow down confirms that something has undone McGonagall's transfiguration of our clothes. We stand in our own robes again; the second we stepped off the lift, the wards on this place stripped all of our charms and glamours away, to reveal only ourselves underneath. Thank God I'm not wearing the robes I transfigured out of Madam Pomfrey's hospital gown.   "Welcome to the Department of Mysteries," says Albus with a smile.     A/N: The Chaircase is my own little creation. I hope you enjoyed it. The slide is also mine; the idea for it came long ago when I was trudging down the stairs in a building that was under construction. The giant garbage chute the construction workers had temporarily installed out one of the windows was carrying the debris out faster than I could climb, and I thought how nice it would be if we could just slide down to the ground level. Just like we did on the playground when we were little. I know there aren't many Muggle buildings like that, but it seemed the sort of thing one could put into any respectable wizarding establishment. Besides, isn't it fun to imagine Minister Fudge sliding down there? Anyway, I doubt the idea will ever take off in real buildings- but it would be al ofl of a lot more effective as an emergency exit, don't you think? Shoop! Out you go!