The Lost Prince

Chapter 1

Minerva McGonagall seated herself wearily behind the desk of the Headmaster's office, removing her spectacles to rub the bridge of her nose. She could practically feel the stress building behind her eyes like a volcano billowing smoke. Soon, if things continued the way they had been, it would be too much for her to handle and she would do one of two things—melt down or blow up.

Hogwarts couldn't afford to have a Headmistress who was unable to cope with her own emotions; not now. It had been just three months since the fall of the Dark Lord Voldemort, and most families were still in various stages of outrage and grief. Loads of Howlers came in every day, and the incessant sobbing and screaming of parents combined with the expectant Ministry of Magic looming over her shoulder and the job of rebuilding the half-destroyed castle while trying to organize class schedules for the upcoming school year was enough to make her want to give up and throw herself off the Astronomy Tower.

"Long day?" a kindly voice interrupted Minerva's silent despair. Looking up, the Animagus witch met the twinkling eyes of Albus Dumbledore, where he gazed down from his portrait on the wall.

"To say the least," she huffed, swiveling to face him. "How in Merlin's name did you manage to cope with all of this?"

The old Headmaster smiled—a genuine smile. "I found that it was wisest to tackle one challenge at a time," he advised. "It improves focus and eases the burden."

Good advice, per usual. Minerva was extremely grateful to have the portraits around, though sometimes Dumbledore's constant lighthearted chatter grated on her already dangerously frayed nerves. It was a great alleviation to have such wise company when she needed it most.

Shifting her focus from Dumbledore's portrait, Minerva's sharp hazel eyes settled on the second one next to it. A plain ebony wood frame hung there, the small bronze plaque affixed to the bottom reading: Headmaster Severus Snape.

But instead of a beautifully painted portrait, the frame held a blank canvas. Everyone at Hogwarts knew that once a Headmaster or –mistress died, their living portrait magically appeared in the office. It held the deceased person's essence, so it was slightly akin to a sort of reincarnation; they could think, converse with those still living and move from their own frame to any of the others in the castle if they so desired. Dumbledore (having been slain by none other than Severus Snape himself) was now the occupant of a new portrait, but Snape was not—there wasn't even a background on his. It was as if the magical force had sensed his life ebbing away and begun to form the picture, but had somehow been stalled.

"He died, though," McGonagall heard herself mutter. "Potter, Granger and Weasley all told me they watched him die in the Shrieking Shack…there's no way he couldn't have a portrait!" She paused, the little cogs of her mind whirring. "Unless the Ministry didn't see fit to give him one, on account of his involvement with the Death Eaters."

"Minerva, Potter allowed you to view Severus's Pensieve memories, did he not?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes," Minerva affirmed absently.

"Then you know that Severus' true loyalty was with me—with the Order. He was my spy even before Lily and James were killed; once he became disillusioned with Voldemort's enslavement, he realized his folly and committed his life to unraveling the Darkness from the inside. After Harry's parents died, obviously, he spent a majority of his waking hours protecting him within these castle walls."

The Scottish witch clasped her hands behind her back and began to pace. "I know that now, Albus. What is your point?"

"I informed Cornelius Fudge and the Wizangamot of Severus's role as a double agent," Dumbledore explained patiently. "They awarded him the Order of Merlin for his heroic sacrifice. Also, as he was a properly acknowledged Headmaster voted in by the Ministry, there is no reason they would not allow him a portrait."

Minerva bit her lip. "That Order of Merlin was awarded posthumously," she mused. "But…honestly, Albus, I have a difficult time believing Severus is dead!" She threw up her hands. "I mean, why else would his portrait be missing? There are hundreds of Headmaster's portraits throughout this castle—can you honestly expect me to believe that every single one of them died either in this castle or within the grounds?"

"If memory serves, Severus fled after a little duel you two had together," Dumbledore said. "He abandoned his post as Headmaster."

"But that alone is not an automatic dismissal of position!" exclaimed McGonagall stubbornly, shaking her head. "An approved Headmaster of Hogwarts must stand trial and be ceremonially discharged by the Ministry of Magic before their name is erased from the ledger! Severus was never formally discharged; he simply left the grounds, which is something Headmasters do all the time."

The white-bearded wizard was silent, and finally he blinked as if he had just come across a major revelation. "You argue an excellent point, Minerva," he admitted. "But I cannot advise you to make any great assumptions about this. Magic is a complex and finicky thing, as you well know; it could simply be a little hiccup."

"Magic doesn't hiccup, Albus," Minerva insisted with narrowed eyes. "Severus Snape is alive, and I know it."

"Then why hasn't he returned?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it's because of the entire student body's hatred for him, or the bad memories of his childhood here or maybe just because he'd prefer to be somewhere else besides a drafty old castle in Scotland?" she spat sarcastically, folding her arms. "I know if I had a choice, I'd much rather be sitting on the beach suntanning in Bermuda."

Dumbledore smirked. "If he is alive, I don't think he'd be in Bermuda—or any tropical place, for that matter. You remember how badly he burns, don't you?"

The two shared a bout of jolly laughter as they both recalled the plight of the fair-skinned Snape, who had had to wear sleeves even in the hottest months because exposure to direct sunlight for more than ten minutes would render his flesh pink and tender. In his first year of teaching, poor Snape had sat through a two-hour Quidditch match and come back in afterwards with burns verging on second-degree from the scorching August sun; Poppy Pomfrey had slathered him in aloe and given him a sun-protection tonic, but he rarely went out after that little incident.

Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, the Headmistress chuckled. "I suppose you're right. Bermuda would not be a fit match for Severus. Anyhow, where do you suspect he would have gotten to…and how would he have survived Voldemort's snake?"

"The question of the hour," responded Dumbledore, wrinkles fanning at the corners of his eyes. "You could ask him once—if—you find him."

"No, not if," Minerva said. "When."

And with that, she turned primly on her heel and marched purposefully out of the office.