Many thanks to Annie Talbot for her encouragement, enthusiasm, and passion for really good grammar!
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January 1999, Continued
"Earl Gray Tea," said Hermione at the doorway to the Headmistress' office. The doorway opened and she stepped onto the stairway, revolving to the top. She was deposited in the small anteroom and stepped into the office.
The room was very different from what it had been eighteen months ago. Then, it was Albus Dumbledore's office. It had been cluttered, almost every surface covered with little magical devices, whirring and swishing, ticking and tocking, flashing colours and bits of light. The colours on the walls and furniture were brighter and rather mismatched then. The furniture was more of a jumble and the stacks of parchment on the desk usually disordered.
In the brief period of time that Hermione had visited the office in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, it had looked quite barren. Apparently, Headmaster Snape's taste in interior décor leaned towards a much more Spartan look. Or, perhaps he had chosen to leave no hint of his personality in the space at all.
Now, the room was comfortable and subdued. There were books on the tables and the Headmistress' collection of antique teapots was displayed on the shelves near the fireplace. The colours were still reds, blues, and greens, but muted and more harmonious than the old Dumbledore discordance. The room was less garish and more organised. But then, so was Minerva McGonagall compared to Albus Dumbledore.
The Headmistress sat behind her desk, a monster of a desk previously occupied by at least a half-dozen of her predecessors. She was busy with correspondence, the nib of her quill scratching on the parchment. Minerva sat straight in the great chair, her spine barely touching the cushioned back. She looked up and over her spectacles in a manner reminiscent of Dumbledore, minus the twinkle.
"How is he, Hermione?" she asked. Minerva held out her hand, wordlessly indicating that Hermione should take one of the two chairs set at angles facing the desk.
"Pretty much as you saw him at the trial. He's very thin. But at least he looks like he's gotten some sleep," she replied.
"The man lived on strong tea, vitamin potions, and Pepper-Up potion for years," commented Minerva. "I doubt he was well fed during the months he was in Azkaban. He certainly showed little appetite during the time he was Voldemort's puppet headmaster."
"At least the Dementors are gone from Azkaban."
"One blessing, at least." Minerva stood and walked over to a tea service, sitting on a small round table underneath the window. She poured two cups and added sugar to her own, none for Hermione. She carried the cups over and placed one before Hermione and then walked behind the desk and sat. "I take it he accepted?"
"He accepted the sanctuary, but not the letter," she replied.
"I suppose that is to be expected," answered a male voice up above the two women. Albus Dumbledore, sitting on a chair in his portrait, had wakened.
"He is a proud man, Albus," said Minerva, looking wistfully at the portrait.
"He has built up a lot of anger," observed Hermione. "I think he's going to need time and space to work through it."
"It is largely my fault for that," said Dumbledore, shaking his head regretfully.
"He didn't destroy the letter," said Hermione wearily, "and he allowed me to keep it. Perhaps in a year or two, he'll be ready."
"You are probably right, Hermione," said Minerva. "Give him time." She leaned back in the chair and sighed. "I am very glad you went tonight. I should have done it and spared you, but I am not ready to face him yet." She looked up at the portrait. "It was difficult enough to look at him during the trial. I know why he did all of it, but I am having a very hard time forgiving him for it."
"My dear Minerva," said Dumbledore reassuringly, "I am the one who needs your forgiveness and does not deserve it. He did the terrible things I asked of him and, in doing so, ultimately saved all of you."
"I understand it at an intellectual level," replied Minerva, shaking her head in regret. "At an emotional level, I cannot get past the image in my mind of Severus casting the Killing Curse. I saw your remains after you fell from Astronomy Tower. It has been poor comfort knowing you were dead before you hit the ground."
"From this perspective and vantage point, such things seem so unimportant," observed Dumbledore. "From everything Hermione has told me of what Harry told her, I was near death before he cast the curse. He spared me a good deal of suffering and kept young Malfoy from turning to the Dark."
"Harry didn't understand what it meant at the time because he always looked at Professor Snape through the eyes of his prejudice. I understand now why you did it, but I sincerely wish there had been another way."
"As do I," said the Headmaster.
"With your permission, Minerva, I think I would like to retire," said Hermione. "It has been an emotionally exhausting day. If it is of any comfort, he didn't seem angry tonight. He seemed terribly weary of it all. I think he was grateful to have a way out where he could be more in control of his own life."
"Merlin knows, he had very little control over his life for better than twenty years," said Dumbledore. "He had two masters to serve and neither of us showed him any mercy for it."
"We each testified for him in our own way," said Hermione, nodding at Albus. "The statement you left behind explained so much of what happened during your last year. Snape was trapped by that Unbreakable Vow and his promises to you." She looked at Minerva. "You described his actions as Headmaster and that he protected the students as best he could from what the Carrows wanted to do to them.
"Between all of us, we kept him from being convicted," she continued. "Albus, your bequest has given him some measure of freedom and privacy. He knows it is from you and accepted it. Perhaps that is the first step towards healing."
"I hope you are right, Hermione," said Minerva wearily. "There is need for healing on all sides." She straightened up again and adjusted her spectacles. "Meanwhile, we have a school to run. How are things going with your classes?"
"Very well," replied Hermione, grateful for the change of subject. "The first and second years never knew me as a student here and aren't a problem. The third years give me a bit of grief now and then, especially the Gryffindors. Even Bill has taken away some points from his own House when they've been snotty."
"Too many of the children of my old House have taken it upon themselves to lord it over the other houses that Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger were Gryffindors," said Minerva.
"I don't know that there's anything to be done about the hero worship thing," frowned Hermione. "It's embarrassing. They've forgotten that we were just teenagers like they are. Sometimes I feel like pointing out that Ron would eat with his mouth open, Harry tried to copy my homework when he thought he could get away with it, and that I nicked potions ingredients from the storeroom. We could be as nasty and petty as anybody. I wouldn't even be here in an apprenticeship this year if the Ministry hadn't given me a dispensation to take my N.E.W.T.s without a seventh year."
"No one is ready to hear ill of the honoured dead, Hermione," said the Headmaster, "At least not yet."
"There is another someday, Hermione," said Minerva over her teacup. "Someday the world will be ready to believe that Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley were regular boys, that Albus Dumbledore was fallible, and Hermione Granger isn't the Lady of the Lake reborn. Perhaps, then, they will understand that Severus Snape is in some manner a hero."
"Tomorrow would be good for me," smiled Hermione, weary of the fuss.
"A little after tomorrow," encouraged the Headmistress. "Tomorrow you have the first year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, second year Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, who are all eager to learn Transfiguration, and a paper to submit to me on the analysis of the Third Principle of Gaseous Transfiguration."
"Sounds like a full day, Headmistress," replied Hermione, finishing her tea. "I'd better get some sleep."
"I shall see you at breakfast, then."
"Perhaps you should get some sleep, too," said Hermione archly.
"I shall certainly endeavour to do so. Goodnight, my dear," said Minerva affectionately.
"Good night, Hermione," said the portrait of Albus Dumbledore.
Hermione rose and headed down the winding staircase. She was physically and emotionally exhausted, grateful to be heading to bed. She walked down the corridors, aware that the Bloody Baron was providing her with an escort at a distance. When she reached her rooms in the tower housing the teachers and apprentices, she turned and invited the Baron in. He followed her and gave her a chance to get the fireplace going before he stepped into the sitting room.
"Professor Snape is safely out of Britain, Baron." Hermione sat down next to the fireplace, absorbing the heat and staying out of the cold exuded by the ghostly Baron.
"I am much relieved to hear it, Miss Granger," replied the Baron as he hovered by the doorway. "How are his spirits?"
"He is bitter, but he has good reason to be," she replied. "He did take the option offered by Headmaster Dumbledore, so he will have a good deal more freedom than he would if he were sequestered in a safe house somewhere in the English countryside for the next five years."
"Will he allow you to see him?"
"In a month. I shall be happy to take him a message from you, if you wish."
"I shall prepare something, if you do not mind taking dictation on my behalf."
"I will be more than pleased to, Baron," replied Hermione with a jaw-cracking yawn. "My apologies, Baron. It has been a long day."
"I shall not keep you up any longer," replied the Baron, removing his feathered hat and giving her a sweeping bow. "I thank you for aiding him, my lady."
Hermione smiled at the courtly gesture. "You're welcome, Baron."
The Baron disappeared through the wall and Hermione was left alone. Not entirely alone. The room was filled with memories. There were wizarding photos of Harry and Ron on the mantle above the fireplace. On the table were other photos of Ginny and the Weasleys alongside non-wizarding photos of her parents. She smiled at Harry and Ron, who waved at her. The photo was from their sixth year, after they had won the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Quidditch game. They'd been happy.
Hermione had a lock of hair each from Harry and Ron, snipped from haircuts she gave them a few weeks before it all ended. Some day, she would have a portrait painted of each of them. Then they could talk again. It was too soon, only seven months since that last horrible day after the war. For now, she settled for memories.
Hermione got up and walked to the bedroom, the lights extinguishing themselves behind her. There were no photos in here. No reminders to keep her awake, to remind her to grieve. Her robes and undergarments went into the hamper, her shoes into the wardrobe, and her hairpins onto the chest of drawers. She pulled on a simple flannel nightgown.
Opening the top drawer of the bureau, she placed the envelope inside. She sighed as she pushed the drawer closed, turned around and rested her back against the tall chest. The four-poster bed with the soft blue curtains looked inviting. She climbed in and pulled the covers up over her shoulders. A ginger cat with a squashed face came out from under the bed and jumped up on top of the quilt. Hermione turned over on her side and stared into the darkness.
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Thank you to my reviewers: Amsev, Me, Duj, Phantom's Allure, Toostupidforyou, Heidi191976, Farmer Liz, Mooncat4, and Whitehound