Snape had called for him the Wednesday following the World Cup, which Cael had expected, and had called him in precisely the form Cael had expected; a small grey card on the Potions bench, with only the following words inscribed in green upon it: *Wednesday.
8.* Cael went to Snape at eight sharp.
He took his notebook.
He took, also, with him the version of the story he had prepared to tell Snape — the cast, the boy, the masked figure, the ethical dimension hinted at, but not forced.
And he took with him in his pocket a small bag of mint humbugs, the kind he bought in December.
He had kept them in his trunk all summer, with the patient intention that he would, in due course, discover a Tuesday on which to leave them on Snape’s desk.
Such Tuesdays had proven elusive thus far.
He suspected that this was not such a Tuesday.
Yet he brought the bag anyway.
The leather chair was still where he had left it last Christmas.
The tea kettle was already boiling on Snape’s desk, and Snape, sitting behind it, had a brown file open before him, with the distinctive red line down the side of it denoting *Ministry — Auror Office*.
Snape was not even attempting to feign disinterest in its contents.
“Sit, Mourne.” Cael sat.
“You utilized a reversed Crucio during the Cup.” “Indeed.” “On a Death Eater.” “On a target.
The target was the child who was being cursed by the Death Eater.
The curse was reversed into the target.
The Death Eater was not my target.” “Hm.” Snape closed the file, but did not put it away.
He left it between himself and Cael, on his desk, red line clearly visible.
As if he were presenting evidence to a witness.
“The Auror report—” “Was filed by an officer named Wexley.
The officer spoke to an eight-year-old girl who claimed that her brother had been cursed by a Death Eater and *a boy* had performed magic to reverse the curse.
The girl stated the boy was a boy with dark hair, carrying a small notebook and speaking quietly and calmly.
The boy had issued instructions concerning the medic and left to go into the woods.” “That sounds accurate.” “Mourne.” “Yes, sir.” “Have you considered that, as of right now, you appear in a Ministry dossier.” “I figured as much.” “Yes.
Your dossier appears for now as *Minor Witness, Cup Riot*.
That dossier will eventually be cross-referenced by the Auror Office with the existing dossiers on you.
The cross-referencing process will generate a larger dossier.
You can expect that larger dossier will eventually draw significant attention.” “Yes, sir.” “And you don’t see fit to ask me what I think you should do about it?” “I suppose if you had wanted to advise me, you would have done so.” Snape’s lips made the smallest gesture towards a smile.
But he did not smile.
He seemed to be, gradually, a man who had never really mastered smiling, and at some point in his forties had simply stopped trying.
“My advice, Mourne.” Snape paused.
“Is that you continue.
The cast you made was operationally correct.
The ethical dilemma—yes, Mourne, do not look at me as though I have lost my mind, I am well aware that one exists—the ethical dilemma is, however, not the question that is pertinent to you at this time.
*The boy’s nervous system was about to go up in flames.* It was not possible for you to engage in a lengthy discussion.
You created a cast, as a fourteen-year-old boy, that nobody else in the world could create.
Your cast saved a life.
Me and you will discuss ethics separately, on a different evening, when there is no other witness present.
Not tonight.” “As you wish.” “I would like you to walk me through the cast, then.
The wand-form, the intent, the cadence.
Everything.” Cael walked Snape through the cast.
Snape listened, with his hands steepled in front of his face and his eyes almost completely closed, the listening posture of a man capable of absorbing a forty-minute lesson without taking notes, and repeating it two months later word-for-word.
When Cael finished, Snape opened his eyes.
“There are two things, Mourne.” “Yes, sir.” “One.
You cast this spell on instinct.
You did not have a wand-form prepared specifically for the inverted Crucio.
The fact that the wand answered your command suggests that your wand and your magic operate on a level beyond your conscious deliberations at this point.
Now, Mourne, usually that does not happen until about age thirty-five, in accomplished wizards.
But you are fourteen, and you have already gotten past that particular hurdle.
You will need to keep a close eye on this.
Your wand will, in due course, *outpace your judgement*.
You will catch yourself casting spells that you have not considered, or prepared.
You will need to be capable of *interrupting yourself*.
There is nothing I can do to teach you this.
I can only suggest that you will have to.” “All right.” “Second.
The particular spell you cast is currently recorded in an official ministry dossier, as it was used in a case of public crisis.
The Auror office will send its findings to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, who send their findings to the Improper Use of Magic office, who sends their findings to the Wizengamot.
What this means, Mourne, is that *over the next several years*, your magic will become subject to scrutiny in a way it never was before.
You will need to cultivate, along with the magic, the necessary *political cover*.” “Political cover.” “You cannot have magic this powerful without the Ministry knowing about you.
You will need to arrange for it so that when the Ministry takes notice, you are *too well-connected* by reputable establishments for the Ministry to take legal action against you.” “And how do I do this.” “You develop.
I can help you, and I am sure that Granger can, and Lupin too, in his own quiet way.
You have already started, so continue doing so.
*Carefully, and quickly.*” The phrase landed on Cael like the precise click of a key slotting into its proper place.
He looked at Snape, who looked back.
“Carefully, and quickly,” “Yes.” “It is—” “The operational agreement, Mourne.
Yes.” Snape did not say it warmly.
Snape said nothing with warmth.
Snape never wasted words.
Every word that Snape said was a thought-out word.
The operational agreement, as delivered from Snape in a flat, clipped tone, carried greater force than it would have if Snape had uttered those words in a less hard-edged manner.
“You should expect,” Snape continued, “to be called in for additional evening lessons over the course of this term.
These lessons are tactical in nature.
We will be focusing on combat training.
You are—” “I know.” “—not yet at a stage where you should be.” “I know.” “Have you considered against whom you should be ready.” “Yes.” “Then say.” “Voldemort,” Cael said, matter-of-factly.
“Ultimately.
Though not in the immediate future.
Certainly soon enough that I shouldn’t be wasting my time this year.” There was silence in the room for a moment while Snape exhaled, deeply and slowly.
Cael had stated the name plainly, without fanfare.
Cael had neither hinted nor hinted to Snape that he was preparing to do so.
Snape had not flinched when faced with the name.
It was Snape’s lack of reaction, somehow, that Cael felt prompted to test the room’s ability to contain.
It could.
“Yes.” Snape spoke slowly, carefully.
“Eventually.
But not soon.
Eventually soon enough that you shouldn’t be wasting your time this year.
We are in agreement on this.” “Yes, sir.” “Get some sleep, Mourne.
Combat lessons will commence next week.” “Yes, sir.” He made to rise from his chair and leave.
Before leaving, though, he reached into his pocket and extracted the small paper bag with the mint humbugs.
With no comment, he deposited the bag onto the edge of Snape’s desk.
He left.
He was halfway down the dungeon corridor before he heard, faintly, behind him, the delicate sound of a paper bag being torn open.
Cael did not pause, and did not look back.
He did not need to.
He rode the spiraling stairs of the dungeons up to the Tower, with the clean and final satisfaction of a man who had, finally, found the right Tuesday at long last.
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