Lupin, wonder of wonders, was actually sober and not looking like he’d spent the past three nights lying in a damp ditch alongside some remote country lane. He sat calmly in his chair, legs extended out in front of him with one ankle crossed over the other, and watched Dumbledore without the remotest inkling of impatience. That was very much Lupin’s attitude: if things took time to eventuate, he’d just sit on his scrawny backside and wait for it. The man was about as proactive as a tree stump.

Snape just wished Dumbledore would hurry up and get on with it. Sitting here in silence was making him drowsy, and it wouldn’t be much longer before his head was lolling about like a bladder on a stick. Not only was he painfully exhausted from barely sleeping the past week, but he had a stack of third-year assignments to mark that he’d already put off dealing with for three days. Probably the only thing that would make his mood even worse would be if Goyle set fire to his own hair for the fourth time this week. Snape made a mental note to question the Headmaster about the wisdom in teaching the Incendio spell to children.

“I’m starting to think it’s possible that there may have been someone sneaking around Alastor’s home,” Dumbledore stated, without any preamble.

Lupin shifted slightly in his chair. “I thought Mad-Eye had admitted it was probably nothing… just a cat prowling around in the night.”

Dumbledore put down the quill with a level of care not warranted by its appalling condition. “Yes, he has said that, and on more than one occasion,” he admitted somewhat reluctantly.

“You think he’s lying?”

The Headmaster gave Lupin’s question a considerable amount of thought before answering. “I find his response… odd.”

Lupin chortled and sat up slightly in his chair. “Forgive me, Albus, but a lot of Mad-Eye’s responses are odd. What makes this one especially notable?”

“That he changed his mind,” Dumbledore replied simply, running his finger lightly across his bottom lip. “I’ve known Alastor for a long time, and I’ve never known him to adopt a more reasonable stance once his mind was set.”

“Perhaps age has brought him some wisdom and temperance,” said Snape wryly.

“It hasn’t for you,” Lupin muttered, folding his arms and hunching his shoulders.

“You’re one to talk about temperance, you wine-soaked flea-bag,” Snape hissed back snottily under his breath.

“Enough!” Dumbledore announced sternly. “I didn’t ask you both here so you could take nasty pot-shots at each other.”

Lupin dropped his eyes to his shoes to avoid Dumbledore’s reprimanding gaze and twiddled his thumbs. Snape just stared about two feet over the Headmaster’s head with a slight scowl.

“Alastor only changed his mind after I had offered to look into the matter for him,” Dumbledore continued. “That, by itself, is slightly unusual. However, once I told him that one of the neighbours had reporting seeing an intruder lurking about in the area to the local police, he seemed agitated and repeated his dismissal of the whole incident.”

Lupin sat up and leant forward. “You think he’s hiding something?”

Dumbledore seemed uncomfortable at the question. “I think there’s a distinct possibility.” He sighed. “But as to why, and about what…” He shrugged.

“What should we do?” asked Lupin, his concern furrowing his brow.

“Is it possible to determine if there was actually an intruder?” inquired Snape shrewdly.

Lupin flicked his gaze to Snape briefly before looking back at Dumbledore. “I thought you had said—”

“That was a lie,” Dumbledore admitted simply.

Snape could almost hear the gears grinding in Lupin’s head.

“To what end?” the werewolf asked.

“A test,” Snape provided for him with a slight sneer for the man’s obtuseness. “To see Moody’s reaction.”

“I don’t see how we could tell if there actually had been someone snooping about,” said Lupin. “It’s been some months since the whole thing happened, and who knows how many people from the MLE have traipsed in and out of the location.” He shook his head slightly and sat back in his seat. “I could ask Chara, but I’m not sure she’d have much luck. Have the Muggles in the surrounding houses been questioned?”

“Yes, and to no avail,” Dumbledore replied. “The neighbourhood is rather, ah, how shall I phrase this… insular and uncommunicative. It seems that no-one looks very closely at what their neighbour is doing.”

Snape snorted. “Perfect location for Moody, then.”

“Well, I’ll see what we can do,” offered Lupin, doubt at success plainly evident in the tone of his voice.

“There’s something else,” Dumbledore added. “Kingsley says he thinks that Macnair is up to something, although he can’t tell what—at least, not without Macnair noticing. Apparently he’s been in and out of the Ministry more than usual and causing his colleagues in his department no small amount of irritation at his frequent absences. His movements don’t appear to correlate to anything that the Committee for the Disposal of Magical Creatures is currently involved in. Severus, when was the last time you spoke with Macnair?”

“Not for at least three years,” said Snape. “There hasn’t been cause to.” He pointedly ignored Lupin’s light huff of disbelief to his right.

“I’m afraid there is cause now,” said Dumbledore. “I need you to find out what Macnair’s up to.”

“Perhaps he has a mistress,” Snape dismissed lazily. “It wouldn’t be his first.”

“No, it’s something more than that,” interjected Lupin quietly, inspecting his fingernail rather intently.

“Remus thinks he may have seen Macnair in Albania,” Dumbledore explained.

Snape blinked. “From the state Lupin was in, I’m surprised he didn’t see flying pigs that night,” he said snippily.

Lupin started to chew on his fingernail rather enthusiastically in order to stop himself from making a nasty retort in Snape’s direction.

“There is a Ministry function tomorrow evening to celebrate the announcement of the revised Statute of European Trade and Negotiations,” Dumbledore continued, “which ministers from all the departments are expected to attend, not just those from the Department of International Magical Co-operation. Severus, I need you to try and find out from Macnair what he’s up to.”

Snape jiggled his leg briefly and exhaled heavily. “A Ministry function. How riveting.”

“Severus, if you think you can get the information from Macnair some other way, then by all means spare yourself the agony,” said Dumbledore reasonably. “I only wish I could excuse myself from attending. Kingsley can provide a cover for you, if you require it.”

Snape hitched his shoulders slightly. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll need to speak to him outside the Ministry. He won’t let anything slip whilst he’s there, no matter how much he drinks,” he added, looking askance at Lupin with a slight sneer. Lupin pretended not to notice, but the quirked eyebrow gave him away.

---

“—disappeared right up his backside.”

Snape blinked at Lupin. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

Lupin shook his head wearily. “Severus, I can’t understand how you can get through life with such a complete lack of humour. You’re the only person I’ve told this joke to who hasn’t laughed.”

“Perhaps it’s because my sense of humour isn’t attuned to puerility,” Snape responded with a crotchety tone and pushed the door to the storeroom open.

Lupin slouched against the doorjamb and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well, that’s what I get for trying to cheer you up, I suppose.”

Snape squinted at the bottles on the shelves in front of him and pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “You always were exceptionally slow to learn, Lupin.” He slid some jars aside to get to the item he was looking for and thrust the amber glass flask at Lupin. “Kindly keep in mind that this isn’t one of your bottles of rot-gut. You don’t need to down half the contents in one gulp.”

Lupin took the flask from him. “Solicitous, as always,” he said with a smile.

Snape squinted at him. “Considering how much you rely on this, I would’ve thought it prudent to stuff the sarcasm where the sun doesn’t shine. You could upset me enough to cause me to forget to brew it properly.”

Lupin laughed. “That’s not your style, Severus,” he dismissed, pocketing the flask carefully. “You’d never go for something that obvious... or easy.”

“No doubt the reason why I wasn’t sorted into Gryffindor,” Snape shot back and turned away from Lupin. He stared at the shelves for a few moments and frowned. Something didn’t look right.

“Are you not sleeping? You look terrible.”

“Actually, in comparison to you, I look sensational.” Snape pushed a jar aside with one finger. “You’ve got your Wolfsbane Potion. Any chance you might go away now?”

Lupin folded his arms and stared at Snape’s back. “It’s a serious question, Severus.”

Snape’s head tilted to one side and he sighed. “So was mine, Lupin. I’m not in the mood for your banal chit-chat.” He picked up a jar and shook it. The contents were less than he remembered. “Isn’t there a gutter awaiting your illustrious arrival?”

“Alas, not tonight,” Lupin replied, not in the least bit annoyed at the dig. “I never fly when drunk.”

Snape put the scrutinised jar back on the shelf and turned to face him. “Any reason for the shockingly out-of-character behaviour?” He peered at Lupin. Sober. Clean-shaven. A moderately unrumpled shirt. “Merlin, who’s the unfortunate female? Or male?”

Lupin ignored the question. “I realise that this will fall on deaf ears, Severus, but I am grateful for the Wolfsbane Potion.” Snape just grimaced at him. “Don’t forget to iron your party dress for tomorrow night.” He had to jump back to avoid getting his face squashed by the slamming door.

---

Macnair lay, alone now, staring at the ceiling, and came to the conclusion that it was a rather good end to what had previously been shaping up to being an excruciatingly tedious evening. He was very much the sort of person that believed he should be rewarded in the same quantity as the amount of effort he had to expend in order to discharge his responsibilities. It was true that there were significant benefits to being a Ministry-appointed executioner, but there was also the bureaucratic nonsense that went with it. Macnair was, by nature, a ‘hands on’ man. He smiled briefly at that thought and scratched at his moustache with a blunt finger. Yes, this evening had turned out to be particularly pleasurable.

He sat up, swung his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the wooden floor, his mind already having moved on to more permanent matters. He picked his clothes up from beside the bed and began to dress automatically, turning over the discussions he’d had earlier at the Ministry function.

Macnair had become a Death Eater as a part of a natural progression. He was a man with simple, often brutal tastes in just about all aspects of his day-to-day life. Working at the Ministry had, by necessity, forced a veneer of taciturn civility on him, but anyone who really knew him was fully aware of just how very thin that veneer was. Fortunately, very few people did know him. His colleagues in his department considered him almost preternaturally suited to his role, and as long as he continued to carry out the tasks assigned to him, they delved no further into his character than absolutely necessary. If they had, Macnair would have been resolutely turned out from the Ministry and possibly marched straight into Azkaban itself. However, it was easier… safer… not to ask the sort of questions that would unearth skeletons.

He never had a second thought about the decisions he made. Every action, every word was delivered with cold exactitude and clarity of purpose. Vacillation and regret were foreign concepts to him. This didn’t mean that he was oblivious to the subtle current changes that flowed around him, but he was usually the boulder that dictated how the streams coursed—his position never changed. He simply channelled the events around him to suit his purpose.

The itch between his shoulder blades warned him. He spun around, his wand clamped firmly in his fist and at least three different hexes ready to fly from his thin, bitter lips.

“Now, now, Walden. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were unhappy to see me.”

“How the hell did you get in here?” Macnair snapped.

Snape raised his eyebrows incrementally. “The way I normally get into a room,” he replied with a quirk to his mouth.

Macnair failed to lower his wand—a fact that wasn’t lost on Snape.

“Relax, Walden. If I’d wanted you dead, you’d have been on the floor before you’d even turned around.”

Macnair bared his brown teeth. “How long have you been standing there?” Snape just stared impassively at him, arms folded, one shoulder against the gaudy mantel. “Get an eyeful, did you?”

“You flatter yourself if you think your perverse nocturnal activities are of any interest to me,” was the amused response.

“What do you want, Snape?” Macnair growled, finally lowering his wand, but still keeping it in his left hand. He wasn’t prepared to take the snake at his word. He trusted Snape about as much as he trusted anyone. Probably even less so.

“Just a friendly chat, Walden—a light conversation between friends.”

Macnair’s laugh held not one iota of humour in it. “Spare me, Snape. I’ve heard enough bullshit for one evening already.” He jammed his foot roughly into his shoe. “Say what you’ve some to say, then fuck off.”

Snape tutted. “You never used to be this rude, Walden.”

Macnair wedged his other foot into its matching shoe and glared at him with undisguised contempt. Whilst some seemed not to have progressed noticeably in their social standing, Macnair had worked methodically and ruthlessly to secure himself a more prestigious place in wizarding society. Being a Ministry executioner opened up an amazing array of opportunities that had previously been resolutely closed to him. Amazing how the power of death persuaded others that you were someone not only to know, but be in the favour of as well. Naturally, Macnair exploited this mercilessly, mostly for his own personal gain. There were few luxuries he couldn’t afford now, and he made sure that it was known to others. His clothes were well-tailored and expensive, his amusements selective and elitist, and his appetites more than adequately indulged. Snape, by contrast, seemed to have spat on the very notion of social standing. Very little about him had changed. He still wore the same attire—that ridiculously restrictive straightjacket of an outfit as black as his eyes and only a little blacker than his disposition—its monotony broken only by the accents of white at cuffs and collar. He eschewed the company of others and sneered at purebloods and Mudbloods alike, and judging from his cantankerous, sallow mien and greasy hair, there were several appetites going unsated. Cold disdain ran up Macnair’s spine and seeped from his mouth with brazen satisfaction. “Circumstances are rather different these days. I’m not required to kowtow to you anymore.”

Snape actually surprised him by laughing at that. “Afraid I’ll step on that gossamer thin neck of yours, are you?”

“No, just thinking of ways to wring yours!” Macnair snarled, wiggling his foot to settle it cleanly into its shoe.

“Dream on, Walden,” Snape spat back, switching from amusement to tetchiness in the blink of an eye. “I doubt you have the imagination for anything that would truly surprise me.”

They stared at each other venomously for a number of drawn out seconds, sizing each other up. Frustratingly for Macnair, Snape managed to tip the balance in his own favour by smiling nastily at the Ministry’s executioner. Although he would’ve been the last to admit it, it was a dangerous sign if Snape ever smiled. Wise people became nervous. Even wiser individuals turned and ran as quickly as possible. The intervening years since he’d last come into contact with Snape had done nothing to lessen that automatic and visceral reaction in Macnair, despite the obvious social and influential superiority he’d gained over the tall git.

“You’ve gotten sloppy,” Snape pointed out, tilting his head to one side so that the light in the room ran along the length of his oily hair. “I really don’t appreciate having to make excuses on your behalf to someone like Karkaroff, and if he knows you’re up to something, then you must have been making absolutely no effort to conceal your activities,” said Snape, staring fixedly at the stocky man opposite him.

Macnair’s eyes narrowed to thin lines. Karkaroff knew? No, that wasn’t what Snape had said. Karkaroff just knew that something was going on—something without him being involved, which was no doubt driving the stupid man berserk.

“If you and Brachoveitch can’t avoid drawing attention to yourselves, you’ll be on the end of a rather eloquent reminder that the Dark Lord dislikes having his followers threaten his position by blundering about like buffoons.”

Macnair’s mouth pursed into a small, white sphincter. Karkaroff didn’t know, but did Snape? If he did, it would be decidedly inconvenient. Was it also possible that Snape was in contact with the Dark Lord? That would be even worse than if he knew the details of the plan. All the Death Eaters knew that Snape stood very high in the Dark Lord’s favour, perhaps even higher than Lucius Malfoy. They also knew that the Dark Lord was a very jealous person. No-one made the mistake of allying themselves with another except with his express permission. Macnair could feel his sinuses starting to flare up—a common indicator of agitation for him. There was an ominous sensation of a precipice located somewhere just in front of him.

“The next time I have to cover your hairy backside, Walden, I will come back and hack it off with a blunt instrument,” Snape rolled on in a tone sharper than a razor. “Or perhaps I’ll arrange for you to be placed somewhere in the vicinity of Remus Lupin the next full moon. He was asking after you, and it wasn’t about providing a recommendation for accommodation in Albania, I can assure you.”

Fuck! He knew.

“Yes, I know, despite your patently-wanting abilities at subterfuge.” That nasty, crooked-toothed smile was back.

Macnair had to fight the urge to back away in the direction of the door and away from the precipice. He was going to strap Brachoveitch for this. There was no doubt in his mind that was where the fault lay. Greyback would eat their intestines straight from their bodies if the plan unravelled. He briefly considered the option of removing Snape from the whole equation—that way he could still get the result he was working towards, with a few additional benefits thrown in for good measure. Macnair had been waiting for years to strike that slippery bastard down.

“Don’t even think about it, Walden,” came the warning statement, made even more dangerous by the calm way it was delivered. “It could have nasty consequences that haven’t even danced fleetingly across that shallow mind of yours.”

Macnair’s sinuses throbbed in concert with the burn of indigestion that scoured the inside of his stomach. No, now was not the time. Not now. Not yet.

Snape frowned at Macnair momentarily and then drifted towards the door, pushing his hair out of his eyes with one hand. “Next time, you won’t get the courtesy of conversation. I’ll slice your legs out from under you before you even realise you’ve annoyed me.” He stopped and turned his head. “I would also appreciate it if you could tell Levitin to be more careful in whom he leaks information to. Hogwarts is my jurisdiction, and I don’t like Levitin stamping on my toes.” The end of the one-sided conversation was punctuated by the sharp slam of the door behind Snape.

---

Snape Apparated as soon as the door closed behind him. He’d seen Macnair raise his left hand slightly and decided not to leave it to chance that the man wouldn’t strike him down whilst his back was turned. Macnair was not the least bit influenced by notions of honour or ethics—he was an executioner, after all, and a Death Eater to boot.

Snape tried to shake off the crawling sensation between his shoulder blades. He hated being anywhere near Macnair and always felt soiled whenever he had to speak to the amoral cur.

Macnair had definitely become bolder and more inflexible in the past five years. Snape supposed that operating under the protection of the Ministry had something to do with it.

The alleyway he had Apparated into was deserted, which was not surprising considering the late hour and the fact the garbage strewn all over the cobbles absolutely reeked. It was powerful enough to check Snape’s hunger, although it was a close fight. The putrid stench succeeded in turning appetite into a roiling queasiness. Snape slipped into the main street and headed towards the safe house.

He had chosen his timing very carefully in order to catch Macnair as off-guard as possible. The man was slow to adapt to sudden changes, and rattling him straight after he had spent himself on some unfortunate whore was the best way to shake information loose. Macnair was normally very adept at physically radiating an impenetrable front, but he’d never learned to match the ability mentally. This made him susceptible to Legilimency, and he rarely picked up when it was being used on him. However, his thoughts had been somewhat hard to follow, so perhaps he’d been working on ways to avoid being clearly read.

One thing was very clear, though: Macnair was involved in something that he didn’t want the Dark Lord to know about. Obviously, Brachoveitch was also mired in it. Snape didn’t know much about Brachoveitch, who was something of a fringe-dweller when it came to the Death Eaters—not brave (or stupid) enough to step fully into that circle, but courageous enough to flirt with it provided he could easily dance back without losing anything.

Mentioning Levitin had been something of a gamble. It wasn’t conclusive that Macnair and Levitin were more than passing acquaintances. Levitin certainly wasn’t a Death Eater. He was meddlesome, susceptible to bribery, and considered shady in business dealings, but that was the extent of it. If Snape hadn’t spotted Macnair talking to Levitin for a considerable amount of time outside of the Ministry, he wouldn’t have taken the risk in mentioning Levitin’s name at all. There was some connection there, but the exact nature of it would have to be determined, and soon.

What was most surprising was the reaction from Macnair at the mention of Lupin’s name. There had been a confusing blur of images mirrored by a distinct sensation of alarm. Most of the figures in those thoughts were unfamiliar to Snape, but the hulking, grim face of Fenrir Greyback was not one of them. That psychopath would scare most people, but Macnair seemed especially concerned about him. Another possible connection that would need to be verified and examined, but Snape had few connections to that particular group. Werewolves were edgy at the best of times and extremely mistrustful of outsiders. Perhaps Lupin would be better suited to handling that, although knowing Lupin’s overwhelming fear of Greyback, there’d be no guarantees the man would put himself in a position useful enough to glean any important information.

Snape reached the block where the safe house was located just as he summed up his thoughts on his visit to Macnair. Firstly, the man had been in Albania. There had been a faint squeeze of recognition in his thoughts when the country had been named. Second, he was involved in some plot that he didn’t want anyone else knowing about, especially Voldemort, which therefore meant that thirdly, he was not in contact with Voldemort. Had he been, there was no possible way Macnair would have been able to keep the plot from the Dark Lord, who raked through people’s minds like a rabid bear’s claws as a matter of routine. Also certain was that Fenrir Greyback was involved in the plot, but as to whether he was one of the orchestrators or a target was unclear.

It raised more questions than it answered. However, one thing was evident: Macnair was going to strain his fat guts into a knot to find a way to kill Snape.