Hermione has a plan.
"And that haunted past will follow you like a lost dog on the beach
Nipping at your trail until you've drifted out of reach."
– Josh Woodward, 'Fight The Sea.'
When she walked in, Harry and Ginny looked at her in surprise; she didn't have time to waste on lengthy explanations and her attitude was all business as she came to stand in front of them. "Well, I know what's going on now," she told them quietly. "We've got a lot to do."
"Why, what did he say?"
"He told me why he came back. I can't tell you his reasons; I promised I wouldn't say anything. To anyone," she added repressively when Harry looked ready to argue. "All I can tell you is that he needs access to a decent lab again to do some research, and he wants my help – our help – to make sure he can work without people trying to arrest him or kill him."
"Easier said than done," Harry muttered, looking a little shell-shocked by the swiftness of this development. "Are you sure about this, Hermione?"
"Yes. We owe him this, Harry. It's important, I promise."
"All right, I know that look; you've already got a plan. Let's hear it."
She told them. They both stared at her as if she was completely insane; but she was used to that, and waited patiently. Finally Ginny said faintly, "Hermione, that's impossible, you know that. Nobody's going to agree."
"There will be arguments," Hermione agreed calmly. "But he's qualified, we know that. And there's nobody else. The position has been advertised for years. Nobody else wants it."
"Does he?" Harry asked pointedly; this was one of the major potential flaws in her plan, admittedly.
"I haven't asked him," she admitted breezily. "If we present it as a fait accompli, I think I can persuade him to agree," she added optimistically, "but let's get everyone else on board first. If they don't like it, they're welcome to try and find someone else."
"Wouldn't it be easier to just set him up in one of our homes and get him whatever he needs?"
"Yes, but the truth will come out eventually; it might as well be now. And it's not fair to him to have to hide away still. He has the right to live a normal life again. Besides, do you really think he wants to spend any time with any of us, after everything that happened and everything we know about him now?"
"You're crazy," Harry said with feeling, "but all right. Where do we start?"
"Minerva."
"No." That was Ginny. "First, we tell Ron."
"Ron? Why?"
"So that if this insane plan comes to anything, we won't have to deal with his hurt feelings when he counts up how many people knew before he did."
"All right, Ron, then Minerva; then Kingsley and the rest of the Order; then the board members. Then I'll talk to Severus..."
"Severus?" Ginny echoed.
Hermione shrugged. "I can hardly call him Professor any more, can I? And Mr. Snape sounds stupid, and it's a bit rude to just call him Snape."
"I suppose."
"Anyway, that's more than enough to get on with, if this is going to work. Let's just hope that nobody can say no to the Chosen One."
It took almost a fortnight of nonstop arguments. During the days of fighting, Hermione found herself remembering Snape's dryly accurate assessment of what would happen once the news of his survival spread; she was dreading what would happen when the Prophet ran the story. Kingsley was the highest placed Order member in the Ministry and had embargoed it for as long as he could, but after that he would be fair game. Despite that, she was feeling cautiously optimistic; everyone had utterly hated the idea, but really, there was nobody else, which was the only reason she had got away with it.
Now all she had to do was convince Snape. Telling herself firmly that it wasn't really cowardice, she picked up the phone and dialled the number he had given her. Really, she should have expected the voicemail; he was anti-social enough to screen his calls. The message was simple; his drawling voice stated his phone number – but not his name – and instructed callers to leave a message after the tone, adding, "If I don't contact you, assume that I didn't want to talk to you in the first place." The attitude was so typically Snape that it made her laugh, and she barely managed to leave her message.
"It's Hermione. We have a working plan. Nobody's happy, but it went better than I thought. I'll be there soon to tell you what happened."
For all his apparent unconcern at their last meeting, Snape was clearly feeling anxious; he answered the door almost as soon as she touched it, his whole demeanour tense and edgy. "Well?" he asked. "What foolishness have you got me involved with now?"
"Hello to you, too," she told him tartly, walking past him and into the living room, sitting down. Looking up, she frowned at him. "You should sit. This is going to be a long conversation."
"Wonderful," he drawled, making no move to sit down. She watched him critically and wondered if his leg was bothering him, but even if it was, he would never admit it.
"At this moment, several high-level officials in both the Order and the Ministry know that you are alive. Nobody knows where, save me. I suppose that makes me some sort of unofficial liaison. The Prophet knows, but the story has been embargoed for a while to give us time to finalise the arrangements; there's a lot to sort out. After that, it's going to break, and the general public will learn."
"I had hoped for something less public," he muttered, his very lack of expression somehow managing to convey unhappiness.
"I know, but there was no way to keep something like this a secret, not now that so many people already know. Besides, this way, maybe we can control the reactions to some extent."
"I doubt it."
"Do you want to hear what's going to happen, or not?" she demanded. He eyed her for a long moment before nodding grudgingly and leaning against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering at her. Hermione took a deep breath; he wasn't going to be happy. "There is a certain job vacancy that is yours if you want it. Nobody's happy about it, I'm afraid, but you're qualified and nobody else wants it."
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What job?" he asked slowly. She avoided his eyes; the last thing she wanted was for him to read it from her mind.
"One you've done before, for many years."
The tension level in the room skyrocketed. His eyes went from suspicious to blazing fury, and she actually shrank back a little in her chair as he stormed across to loom over her and stood glaring down at her, his hands knotted into fists as the sheer force of his personality and his magic filled the small space. "What the hell have you done?" he spat. "Hogwarts? You propose that I return to Hogwarts? Have you completely lost your mind?"
"No," she started, and had to stop to take a deep breath and stop her voice shaking. "No, I haven't," she continued more strongly. "It's logical. You'd have your lab, and all the potions ingredients you could possibly want. And it's safe. In addition, it gives you a place in the wizarding world again. What's the problem?"
"What's the – Was I wrong about you? Are you in fact as stupid as you look? My former colleagues are even now polishing their wands and preparing curses especially for me. Have you somehow forgotten the myriad and justified reasons why everyone within Hogwarts utterly despises me?"
Snape was a very tightly controlled man, and he was usually at his most dangerous when his voice was very quiet. But right now he was shouting, the raised volume unfortunately emphasising the damage to his throat; he was forced to break off, coughing raggedly, the fury in his eyes undiminished as he glared at her.
"No, I haven't forgotten," she replied in a small voice, scared by the violence of his reaction. "Nor has anyone else. But they know the real story now; they know why you did what you did. You had no choice. Even Minerva admits that. If you go back..." She trailed off, his expression indicating quite clearly that if he could stop coughing long enough to articulate a spell he would hex her unless she stopped talking right now. She suspected she should be grateful he probably couldn't concentrate enough for a non-verbal spell while he was choking.
Once he regained his breath, he stalked into the kitchen without saying anything, filling a glass with water from the tap and sipping it slowly, staring out of the window at the caravan site beyond. She stood up, not wanting to be cornered in the chair if he truly lost his temper, but stayed where she was, letting him think it through.
Finally he moved once more, pacing slowly over to stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame and glaring at her. The anger in his eyes hadn't faded, but his expression was colder now, more controlled. "Explain," he ordered curtly.
"Horace Slughorn is still the current Potions teacher and Head of Slytherin. He's a very old man now and he is desperate to retire. Minerva has been looking for a replacement for several years. No qualified Slytherin is interested, and no non-Slytherin would be willing to take over as Head of House even if we thought that was a good idea."
"'We'?" he snapped. His expression changed. "Miss Granger, please tell me that you are not on the faculty."
"Only part time; I teach Muggle Studies," she admitted quietly.
He muttered something under his breath; judging by the look on his face, she was positive that she didn't want to hear what he'd said. Running his fingers through his hair, he closed his eyes for a moment before glaring at her once more. "Continue."
"There isn't much more to say. The job's open. You've done it before. You're more than qualified. Even those most opposed to this had to admit that you're a good teacher. There is nobody else. And it would get you everything you need – everything you asked me for," she added pointedly.
His jaw tightened; evidently the subtle reminder was not appreciated. Looking away, he scowled at nothing as he thought it over. "Everyone agreed?"
"Minerva agreed on behalf of all the staff. Kingsley agreed on behalf of the rest of the Order, and helped convince the Ministry. The board of governors agreed... eventually."
"This is a bad idea," he muttered.
"I disagree."
"You're not the one who will have to face them all." His tone of voice made her pause; he didn't sound angry any more. Frowning, she studied his face, expressionless as always, and the realisation hit her; he's scared. She didn't think she had ever seen Severus Snape afraid of anything before.
"What are you afraid of?" she asked softly. He glared at her again, but the expression had no real venom behind it, at least when compared to the way he had looked at her earlier.
"I killed perhaps the greatest Headmaster that Hogwarts has ever seen," he said quietly. "The following year, I took his place on the orders of the most evil wizard the world has ever known, and in his service I knowingly tortured and terrified the students I was supposed to protect. And now you want me to return, with so much blood on my hands..."
Hermione felt her throat close for a moment, her heart aching for him as she once again confronted just what he had been forced to do for the sake of all of them. "I know, Severus. I'm sorry. But this was the best I could do to help you. And... You're needed. Horace is a very old man. He's starting to fail. The students need..."
"Horace Slughorn is an arrogant, narrow-minded buffoon," he muttered, although his heart obviously wasn't in it. "As Head of House he was about as effective as a straw effigy would have been."
"All the more reason for you to take over, then?" she suggested hopefully.
"A pitiful attempt, Miss Granger," he replied with a shadow of his usual sneer. "Surely you of all people must realise how effective emotional blackmail is."
"Yes, I believe I do," she answered slowly and deliberately, meeting his eyes. It was Snape who looked away first, subtly backing down, his whole stance becoming less aggressive.
"I need time to think," he said finally, avoiding her eyes. She nodded.
"Contact me when you've decided."
When Hermione came home from a late-night grocery run a couple of days later, she found an extremely short message on her answering machine, two words in a very familiar voice. "You win."
She went to the site immediately, despite the hour, and wasn't particularly surprised to find him still awake. He didn't seem surprised to see her, either. This was important and needed to be sorted as quickly as possible. Settling into the armchair again and gratefully accepting a cup of coffee, she looked at him. "What happens now?"
He shifted on the sofa, adjusting the angle of his bad leg, and sipped his own coffee before answering. "I need to meet with McGonagall in the next few days. Not here; I would prefer nobody learn of this address. And not Hogwarts; I will not set foot on the grounds until everything is arranged. Somewhere neutral." He hesitated, staring into the mug he was cradling in long fingers as though seeking answers, before adding awkwardly, "If you could be present for the meeting, it might perhaps be advisable."
It took her a moment to translate that and realise that he was asking her to be there to try and keep things civil, that he was afraid of how Minerva would react. It probably wasn't a bad idea. During that final year, she had been one of his most vehement opponents, and they had never really been more than reluctant allies as far as she had been able to tell. "I think I can arrange that," Hermione replied diplomatically. "What will the meeting be about?"
"My contract," he answered quietly. "I want something in writing assuring me that nobody's going to try and kill me on sight; I want the terms of my employment made extremely clear. And if possible I want some flexibility in my role as Head of House. If I'm going to do this, I might as well do it right this time."
"I don't understand."
"Imagine my surprise," he drawled, shaking his head. "I don't expect you to. You've never been Head of House, although no doubt you will be at some point." Was that a compliment? He continued, "More specifically, you have never been Head of the House that everyone else hates. Slytherin needs more than the other three. Especially if they've really had Slughorn since Dumbledore... died."
"There's nothing wrong with Horace..."
"His attitude towards his house is the same as his attitude towards all his students. If you are from a famous, powerful and influential family, or if you have the potential to become famous, powerful and influential, he will at least attempt to help. Everyone else is beneath his notice."
"You sound... bitter," she said carefully, suspecting that he might be right.
"He was my Head of House too."
"I would have thought you would be one of his favourites, with your skill at Potions," she said, surprised. He shook his head.
"No. I argued with him, I deviated from his instructions in every lesson and usually produced better results than he did. He called me reckless and dangerous. In addition, my constant conflicts with Gryffindor caused him a great deal of inconvenience, and he blamed me for that. I was part of his stupid club, just on the off-chance that I might achieve something, but he never particularly liked me." He sounded even more bitter. Hermione would have liked to ask for more details, but his gaze sharpened as soon as she opened her mouth, and she changed her mind about what she was going to say.
"Is unfairly favouring your own house much better?"
"Now who's bitter?" he asked mockingly. "Every Head of House favours their own. As for unfairly, well, who else would favour Slytherin, especially under a Gryffindor Headmaster or Headmistress?"
"That's not fair," she protested indignantly.
"You speak of what you do not understand," he snapped. "You have no idea how difficult things were for my House under Dumbledore, particularly once you and your little friends started." He took a breath and spoke again before she could respond to the accusation. "An example; in your first year, when your actions regarding the Philosopher's Stone earned you the House Cup, do you remember how he awarded you those points at the end of year feast?"
"What about it?"
"The Great Hall had been decorated for Slytherin. As far as everyone was concerned, Slytherin had won the cup. Dumbledore told nobody of his plans, certainly not me. He announced the House standings, and I was preparing to celebrate with my House. Then at the last possible moment, he took that away from them and gave it to Gryffindor. He gave me no warning. He publicly humiliated my House without a word of apology or explanation. Had he told me in advance, I could have tried to soften that blow; as it was..." He shook his head and sighed. "No doubt you spent that night celebrating. I spent it trying to explain to Slytherin that the Headmaster didn't hate them, without telling them the truth – which was that he simply didn't care."
The silence that followed, broken only by the ever-present radio, was hot and angry and tense. Truthfully, Hermione had never stopped to consider how the Slytherins must have felt about that. "It wasn't that he didn't care..." she started weakly, and he snorted angrily.
"Yes, it was. It never occurred to him that his actions would hurt my house. Slytherin's feelings weren't important enough to register with him. When I had finished trying – and failing – to comfort some very upset and angry students, I confronted him about it. And he laughed. He twinkled at me, and he told me to stop being so sensitive, that Slytherin had won the cup for the past few years and it was about time someone else had a turn."
His black eyes glittered with anger and he put his coffee mug down. She could think of nothing to say. After a long moment he shook his head and sighed, the anger draining away and leaving him looking weary and resigned once more. "At this moment in time, Slytherin House is the smallest of the four, with the highest incidence of students who leave before the full seven years are complete. They have the highest statistics of failing exams, of illness and of visits to the Hospital Wing. They also have the highest number of detentions and have finished in fourth place every year since Hogwarts reopened."
She stared at him. "How do you know all that?" she asked, and saw from the bitter triumph on his face that he hadn't known at all, that he had guessed. The confirmation didn't seem to make him happy.
"I was right, then. It didn't take a genius to work it out, Miss Granger. There is no other way things could possibly turn out. If there is a single person on the staff or in any of the other three houses who has not found themselves automatically thinking of Slytherin as Death Eaters at least once since the war ended, I will cut off my hand and eat it."
She opened her mouth to protest that she hadn't, but the words died unsaid and she looked away guiltily, knowing better than to try and lie to him. It was true. He nodded, entirely unsurprised. "And that, Miss Granger, is why no other Slytherin will ever willingly return to teach at Hogwarts. That is why you could find nobody to replace Slughorn. From the moment a student enters that school, they are given the impression that Slytherin is less than the other Houses."
"I don't think that's true..." she said weakly, still unable to meet his eyes. She was starting to wonder how long this had been festering with him; years, obviously, if not decades. Perhaps even since his own schooldays.
"Don't you? I don't know how things work now, but think back to when you were at school. First years were met by the Head of Gryffindor, not by a neutral staff member, and told about the four Houses. Slytherin was always mentioned last and never in a neutral tone. The Sorting Hat sang its stupid little song; again, Slytherin was usually mentioned last and usually in an unflattering manner. Everyone applauded most students when they were sorted; Slytherin were the only ones who applauded new Slytherins. The Slytherin quarters were below ground, practically in the dungeons; I assure you that was not because we liked the dark and the damp. These are small things by themselves, but they still leave a subconscious impression; consider Potter, so determined not to be Sorted into Slytherin even though he'd only heard of us half an hour before – something Dumbledore praised him for, incidentally. Every Slytherin first year learned by the end of their first day that the rest of the school dislikes them; every day they spent at Hogwarts from that point on only underscored that lesson. Our legendary arrogance was an attempt at compensation, nothing more."
There was really nothing she could say in response to that, because it was all true. "I never thought about it like that before."
"Naturally not. You were in golden Gryffindor; all Slytherin ever meant to you was Draco and his minions. I doubt you could name a single Slytherin from your school days who wasn't part of that group. But now you are on the staff, and you are supposed to be neutral; don't you think you should?"
Hermione accepted the rebuke, reluctantly. "Do you intend saying any of this to Minerva?"
"I won't waste my breath. She has less love for Slytherin than anyone. Mostly because of me, I suspect; I was a constant thorn in her side during my schooldays."
"So what will you be asking her?"
"If the Slytherin quarters are still in the dungeons, I want them moved. I asked Dumbledore every year and every year he refused."
"They have been moved. Each House has its own tower at one corner of the castle now, with the Astronomy Tower in the centre."
"Well, that's a start. I would prefer it had been done for reasons of equality rather than aesthetics, but I will take what I can get." He drummed his long fingers on his thigh, his eyes pensive. "I will need access to whatever pitiful records Slughorn bothered to keep in the past years. I will need access to the medical records. Mostly I simply require the freedom to manage my House without interference, and to teach as I see fit. If she mentions probation or trial even once, I'm walking away and even you won't find me."
"Within reasonable limits, I'm sure I can sell that," she replied carefully. "We can discuss the specifics with Minerva when we meet, and I'll make sure I have Horace's paperwork for you."
He nodded and cracked his knuckles. "Speaking of trials... Am I likely to be visited by Ministry officials at some point?" he asked warily.
"No. You won't be charged with anything. I think the Ministry have adopted a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy where you're concerned. Nobody wants to open that can of worms – I mean, nobody wants to explore just what you did for our side, because they don't want to know."
"I understood the Muggle slang," he replied mildly, seeming faintly amused. "And you're right. You don't want to know."
"Anyway, members of the Order testified that everything you did as a Death Eater was in your role as a spy on Dumbledore's instructions, including his death, and that without you Voldemort would have won."
He visibly flinched, reflexively touching his left arm, and she stared at him. He looked away from her, his whole body tense. "I would prefer it if you did not use that name," he muttered.
"After all this time?"
"It isn't because of Death Eater fanaticism that we didn't use the name. Not for most of us, anyway. Bella and the other more deluded members convinced themselves that it was blasphemy; the rest of us were more honest. It hurts."
"What?"
"It hurts," he repeated flatly. "Something to do with the Dark Mark; hearing his name hurts my arm, and I am incapable of saying it, even now."
"I had no idea..." she whispered.
He shrugged. "No reason you would. I didn't tell anyone. But now... I am older, and I am tired of pain, and... I would prefer it if you did not use the Dark Lord's name in front of me. Please."
"Of course," she assured him hastily. He nodded, still not looking at her, and for a moment her throat ached with pity. He had suffered so much. After a moment she said quietly, "I would have thought the Mark would have faded. Healed."
"No. Why would it? It's a curse scar. Potter's scar hasn't faded entirely, has it? Just because the one who inflicted it is dead does not automatically mean that the wound will heal." He slowly rolled his left sleeve up to the elbow and extended his arm, allowing her to see the snake and skull clearly; it wasn't black any longer but an almost purplish grey, and looked like a tattoo that had faded through years of exposure to the sun, or an extremely oddly shaped bruise.
Repeating her thought, Hermione said quietly, "It looks like a tattoo."
"More like a cattle brand," he replied softly, staring down at it, slowly tracing the outline with a finger.
"Did it... Does it hurt?" she asked uncertainly. She didn't think he would answer, and for a few minutes he didn't.
"When I was first branded with it, the pain was worse than anything I have felt before or since. The pain faded within perhaps six months. After that Halloween when he... vanished, or fell, or whatever you want to call it, the Mark itself faded until it was almost invisible and I was able to forget it was there. In your fourth year, it began to tingle and itch, and grew darker. When he returned, it hurt a lot. During the war it hurt severely only when I was summoned or when he wished to punish me from a distance; the minor pains such as that incurred on hearing his name are built in to the Mark itself and have not stopped since he died. His death hurt more than his return, more than anything except first receiving the Mark. Since then, no, it does not hurt."
"Well, that's something, at least," she muttered. He withdrew his arm sharply, and she realised she had unthinkingly reached out to touch the Mark; she gave him an apologetic glance as he rolled his sleeve down over it once more.
"It just feels like skin," he said quietly, avoiding her eyes. He attempted some sarcasm. "You won't burst into flames on touching it, you can't feel dark magic seeping out of it, and it doesn't smell of sulphur and brimstone. It just feels like skin." He had never appeared to like casual touch, she remembered.
Looking around for inspiration, she caught sight of the clock and blinked. "God, it's after midnight. You should have said something; I've been here for hours."
Snape shrugged indifferently. "I don't keep regular hours any more. I have always had trouble sleeping; since the last war, I seldom sleep for more than an hour or two at a time. I assumed that if you were tired you would make your excuses and leave. I should have guessed you would rather ask questions than sleep," he added sardonically.
She couldn't help but smile, since it was true. His voice always conveyed sarcasm extremely efficiently, with considerable nuances, and that hadn't changed. He didn't truly object to her questions, or he would have refused to answer them. "Truthfully, I don't sleep that well either sometimes," she admitted quietly, "although your nightmares must be worse than mine."
She'd expected him to deny having nightmares; when he didn't reply, she looked up and found him watching her thoughtfully with the penetrating expression that meant he saw far more than she had ever planned to reveal. Hastily she looked away from him, and after a moment he sighed.
"If I used Legilimency on you, you would know it. I am not skilled enough to do so undetected; my talents are as an Occlumens. And I would not use Legilimency without consent. Avoiding eye contact would not save you in any case." Despite what he had said about his sleeping patterns, he sounded tired.
"Sorry. It's just... you always seem to know what people are thinking. It's... unnerving," she admitted, looking up in time to catch a fleeting half-smile.
"It's not Legilimency. I was a spy, and a good one. I am good at reading faces and body language, at hearing unspoken words. And you are still very much a Gryffindor, with all your feelings on the surface."
"I should probably work on that, if we're going to be working together," she commented ruefully.
He snorted. "We shall hardly be working together. Potions and Muggle Studies are entirely separate disciplines. And I do not intend interacting with my fellow staff members unless forced to do so."
Why am I not surprised? "You know what I meant."
"Yes, but do you?"
"It is definitely too late for riddles. I should go." Now that she had noticed the time, she was feeling tired. He stood as she did. "I'll arrange a meeting with Minerva as soon as I can."
He nodded. "If you wish, I can make some Dreamless Sleep for you," he offered awkwardly; she suspected the offer was instead of thanking her.
"You don't have some already?"
"It's addictive if taken too often. I can't use it any more."
That one brief sentence told her more than she wanted to know. Firmly squashing down any trace of pity, she nodded. "I see. Thank you for the offer, but I'll be all right. I'll leave a message with the meeting details. Good night, Severus, and thank you for talking to me."
"Good night," he answered softly. She could feel him watching her as she let herself out.
Next chapter on Sunday, to celebrate Snape's birthday.
