I lied; this story will be complete in a few more chapters than anticipated. Thank you for your patience and kind reviews. Congrats to duj for accurately predicting the next twist in my story! There's no getting past you lovely reviewers! Now for a Severus-heavy chapter!
The scene at the Burrow is pure chaos.
"Severus," Arthur gasps, wild-eyed and grasping the headmaster's arm. "Precisely the wizard we need!"
"What's wrong, Arthur?"
A throng of Weasleys looks in their direction upon hearing the distinctive sounds of the headmaster's smooth baritone. En masse, they move aside, revealing the supine, deathly pale figure of Ginny Weasley, deep red blood dripping onto the clean white snow underneath her.
"She's dying!" Molly wails, stroking her daughter's gleaming red mane of hair. "My only daughter!"
Horrified by this Shakespearean tableau, the Muggle Studies professor glances at the man whose arm she is still clutching. He has been rendered as pale as Ginny currently is, not to mention equally immobile. She jumps into action. "For Circe's sake, Prince, go to her. She's not dead, merely splinched. You must have some Dittany on hand, and if you don't, then I'll find some in my bag. We must hurry her to St. Mungo's. I'll take care of Molly."
Her words seem to jostle the stunned crowd of Weasleys into being useful. As the headmaster strides forward and carefully lifts Ginny into his arms, Fleur rushes into the Burrow to floo Madam Pomfrey for assistance. Ron follows her, intending to go to Ginny's old room to pack some clothes and toiletries. Arthur and George begin arguing about who will pay the exorbitant hospital fees.
The headmaster uncorks a slim vial of transparent, viscous liquid and tips it onto the gashes that the splinching has invested into Ginny's otherwise unblemished skin. He rubs the unusual ointment gently into the weeping wounds, his deliberate movements reminiscent of Ginny's earlier attempt to soothe him in Malfoy Manor.
"Madam Pomfrey has ze 'eeppogriff pox," Fleur reports, returning to the scene of the accident. "She will not be coming here." The headmaster nods briefly, his eyes meeting those of his ex-fiancée. Suddenly, he is jolted by a memory, a favorite.
"You're hurt," he says flatly, only his stormy eyes betraying his concern.
"It's merely a war relic," she murmurs, stroking the angry slash across her chest that Dolohov's curse bestowed upon her years before. "It reopens every now and then. Madam Pomfrey hasn't been able to figure out what spell Dolohov hit me with. She's visiting her sister this weekend, so I'll take care of it myself this time."
"Allow me."
At his bidding, she slides into his lap, her back against his chest. She nuzzles her curls into his chest, directly above his heart. He cannot believe how trusting she is, how free with her thoughts and smiles and body. He is only just beginning to learn to trust in his unexpected good fortune.
He unsheathes his wand and lightly places the tip against the crest of the livid wound. He murmurs ancient words of magic in his gruff singing voice, dragging the slim stick of ebony in time with the almost-song's beat. And lo! she experiences the healing in a place deeper than her heart, deeper than her soul. His power seems to knit together the very core of her magic.
"How did you do that?" she marvels, turning sideways in his lap for better access to his jaw, which she caresses with her fingertips.
His mouth twists into a half-grimace. "I recognized Dolohov's handiwork. Sectumsempra: my own invention, although he and his comrades transformed it into an even more despicable form."
She watches him for a minute, her fingers never pausing in their exploration of the angles of his face. "I understand why you felt the need to invent such a spell," she says. "One neglected boy against four Marauders. A headmaster who was blind where his Gryffindors were concerned. It was dreadfully unfair, wasn't it?"
"Don't make me out to be a victim," he mutters, grabbing her wrists. Her fingers falter.
"Victim? A victim wouldn't have been so ingenious as to come up with such a fiendishly effective spell."
"You shouldn't admire me for it."
"I don't admire you for that, although your magical prowess is remarkable. What I admire is that you never turned that spell on any of those awful bullies, despite endless provocation. And I especially appreciate that you showed remorse for Sectumsempra's creation."
"Oh? How's that?"
"You created a spell to reverse it, didn't you? And what a lovely spell it is. I've never felt so complete."
"You see the bright side of everything, don't you, witch?" He squeezes her waist.
"Certainly not. But I can't seem to help seeing the bright side of you."
Something in his poor tired heart lifts at the remembrance of her love, the way it cleansed and put a shiny finish on everything it lit upon. She is so changed now, he thinks, and yet look at how she has prodded Draco, the Weasleys, even me into renewed vigor. Look at how she gets us to be our best selves without our even realizing it.
Molly, nearly incoherent with gratitude for his—really, the Muggle Studies professor's—quick thinking, prattles away about how Ginny hasn't stopped gushing about him in her weekly letters, and a terrible truth attacks him with all the ferocity of a Crucio to the gut. He looks down at the usually radiant young lady in his arms.
They think she's in love with me, he realizes. He suddenly recalls a thousand instances of casual touches on Ginny's part. In fact, just a few hours earlier at the Malfoys' home, hadn't she given him some kind of arm massage? He had been too lost in his own usually Occluded misery to pay much attention, but now his rather extreme sense of justice kicks into full gear. She's in love with me, and I have been leading her on. She is ill on my watch, and she won't be able to countenance a rejection. I will have to be hers if she tells me she wants me.
His gaze returns to follow his ex-fiancée as she bustles from Weasley to Weasley, assigning tasks and bringing each one up to speed on the plan to get Ginny, once stabilized, to the hospital. For all of Ginny's attempts to woo the headmaster with her physicality, the moments that have gotten his heart racing this term have solely featured his princess of old. Hermione, curled up half-asleep in the library's Restricted Section with a mug larger than her face. Hermione, dressed as a Muggle flapper at the Halloween ball and kissing the fancy dress competition winner's cheek (the little girl in the winning pantomime cat costume blushed happily, and the headmaster was unreasonably, unaccountably envious). Hermione, reciting the most beautiful poetry in the snow. Hermione, her cheeks rosy and eyes bright with exertion while climbing the rocks in Lyme. Hermione, reining in the Weasleys just now (it was about time that somebody did). Hermione.
She rejoins him, feet padding softly in her aged trainers. "I was thinking that we could ask Draco to meet us at the hospital. His training and contacts at the hospital could come in handy."
"Yes, I'll send him a Patronus immediately," he replies automatically, mentally reeling and nervous, so nervous.
"Don't worry; your hands are full. I just wanted to make sure the plan met with your approval." She whips out her wand, summoning her tumbling little otter. The silvery animal leaps up to him, giving him a good once-over. He cannot help but smile at the inquisitive creature, a glorious manifestation of her boundless magic.
"He's missed you," she says quietly, the otter butting its insubstantial head into the headmaster's shoulder before leaving for its destination. Her voice is tender. He does not trust himself to speak, so he stands, arms and mind burdened with Ginny, to search for the Weasleys' Floo.
/
Draco meets the group in the hospital lobby. The Muggle Studies professor has managed to winnow the Weasley contingent down to the essentials: Molly, Arthur (who has settled via an impromptu Gobstones match with George to pick up the tab at the hospital), Ron (who has nothing better to do), and Ginny, of course. And then there is the dark, unhappy headmaster, whose emotion seems to roll off of him in almost tangible waves. It has been many years since she has read his aura, but if she were to put a finger on the sentiments emanating from him, it would land on loneliness. Impatience. Regret.
"Follow me." Draco beckons to them, and they follow him as obediently as ducklings. "I've gone ahead and set up a room, and I've asked to be put on call for the next few days so that I can keep an eye on Weasley."
"Thank you," Molly and Arthur murmur, but Ron asks belligerently, "Why should we trust you?"
Draco gazes at Ron evenly. "I made an Unbreakable Vow to do no harm before I entered this profession. Your sister is safe with me."
"Why can't we get another healer?" Ron asks angrily.
"Feel free to sit with your precious sister's comatose body in the waiting area all night if you can't handle the idea of me touching her," Draco sneers, "but you'll have Professor Weasley after you once she learns that you are the one responsible for the delay in her care."
Ron deflates, much to everyone's relief, though he seems determined to play bodyguard to Ginny during her convalescence. The group bypasses the waiting area in the "Splinches, Potion Splutters, and Wand-induced Splinters" ward. Casting diagnostic spell after diagnostic spell, cocooning Ginny's body in lights of many colors, Draco and an attending healer perform a full workup in a rather dreary little room.
"A mild head injury, and she may never regrow the third nail on her right toe," Draco explains at last, "but we'll sort her out, and she'll be completely normal in a few days."
"Oh, thank Merlin," Molly breathes, but the Muggle Studies professor is watching the headmaster's reaction. Tension flows out of every line of his body, and he sags, unwittingly, into her. She grabs him around his waist to prevent a fall. Time seems to stutter to a stop. He is so tall, she thinks wistfully. He is not mine.
When she knows he is steady on his feet, when she is finally brave enough to meet his gaze, his eyes sear into hers. A searching, an assessing. Slowly, he takes an unsteady step backwards, out of the loop of her arms. "Thank you, Hermione. You've saved Professor Weasley's life."
"It was a team effort," she responds. He lifts his hand like a benediction, and she does not know what he intends. Does he mean to slap her? Pat her on the back for a jolly good job well done? Lay his palm against her heart, where Dolohov's scar once coursed?
"Hermione," Ron says, breaking the spell between them. "Can we talk? Outside?"
She casts a final look at Ginny. "Certainly."
Their footsteps are unnaturally loud on the floors of the quiet ward. Ron's lips are pressed into a thin line, and she wishes she could have fallen in love with him as had been expected of her. War has a way of throwing a wrench in the best-laid plans.
They sit in a quiet corner of the hospital canteen. He looks down at his hands and says, "He's right, you know."
"What?"
"Snape. Your quick thinking—that's what saved Ginny, not anyone else. You always save everyone."
"Professor Prince, not Snape," she corrects. "What's bothering you, Ron?"
"Him!" he bursts out. "Snape, Prince, whatever. You still love him; it's obvious to anyone who knows about the two of you. And Ginny! She's obsessed, too."
"Don't," she chokes. "I'm moving on. I'm leaving Hogwarts at the end of the school year." She determinedly looks up at a painting of a bowl of fruit, which looks like it could have been painted by the same artist responsible for the painting that guards the Hogwarts kitchens. She will cry in a minute, she thinks, and it will make everything even worse.
"You're not going to believe me, but I was happy that you'd be coming to the New Year's party," Ron says, placing a large hand over hers. "I know you didn't want to visit, but I'm glad you did, and not just for Ginny's sake." He gulps, looking as though he might cry, too. "I've missed my best friend."
She does cry then, throwing her arms around the first boy she'd ever felt anything for. Absolution.
"Happy new year, Hermione," he whispers into her curls. Unbeknownst to them, the headmaster watches from the doorway, having gone in search of the Muggle Studies professor to escort her back to Hogwarts. Happy new year, indeed.
/
The headmaster is not present at breakfast on the first day of the new term, and she frets in spite of herself, imagining all kinds of dire visitations that could have detained him. Neville lopes in, officially the Herbology professor now but not behaving like it, and slides into the seat next to her.
"How was your break?" she somehow manages to glean from the gibberish spewing from Neville's mouth full of potatoes and egg.
She sighs. "Wretched and marvelous. I'll tell you about it later."
He chuckles. "Interesting combination of adjectives. I look forward to the gossip."
"Gossip? I hope you don't mean to leave me out of it!" A spry-looking older woman places a hand on Neville's shoulder.
"Minerva!" the Muggle Studies professor gasps. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm still considered headmistress, in case you've forgotten," the older woman chides mildly. "Severus has been spending a few hours each day at Professor Weasley's bedside, so I've offered to do his morning duties until she recovers."
Neville cocks his head to the side in astonishment. "What's wrong with Ginny?"
Sighing, the Muggle Studies professor explains the entire series of New Year's Eve's unfortunate events, leaving out her outburst at Malfoy Manor. Somehow, she doesn't think Minerva would like to hear about her ingratitude for her Unspeakable position.
"It does seem like Severus has made Professor Weasley his priority," Minerva says at last, a frown creasing her venerable brow. "And to that end, Hermione, I have been working since Halloween to find some alternate employment options for you."
Neville looks alarmed. "But Hermione can't leave! At least not yet."
"Minerva, I would like to finish the year, if I may." She thinks of the stoic headmaster, leaning against her for support in Ginny's hospital room. Someone has to look out for him now most of all, when he is hurting.
"My dear," Minerva replies hesitantly, casting a Muffliato so that Neville cannot hear. "I saw firsthand how painful your interaction with Severus was at Halloween, especially in the presence of Professor Weasley. I don't think it's wise for you to be confronted every day by a man who spurned you so coldheartedly in the past. Not when it is clear that you still have feelings for him."
"We have reached a point of friendly acquaintance," she protests. "He has been very kind. It does not hurt so very much; it hurts less every day."
Minerva suddenly looks very old. "I cannot bear it. How can he transfer his affections so readily, and to someone comparatively less worthy?"
"Lily Potter was a talented and beautiful witch," the Muggle Studies professor begins stiffly. "Ginny is—"
"Lily has nothing to do with this, you silly girl!" the older woman exclaims. "What I mean is, how can he pick Ginevra Weasley over you?"
/
A few afternoons later, the headmaster rifles through the stacks of parchment on his desk, feeling thoroughly overwhelmed. His mornings at the hospital with Ginny are draining him. He cannot bring himself to converse easily with the young professor who might think he is in love with her, but he feels beholden to behave himself. After Lily trampled over his own feelings so many years ago, he vowed never to do the same to anyone who might justifiably feel that way towards him. So they sit in restless silence, with Draco bustling about in the background and doing Merlin knows what.
"Everything looks to be in order," he says at last to the headmistress, who is folded neatly into a cozy armchair by the fire in his office. "Thank you for stepping in these last few mornings."
"That's it? You have no questions for me?"
"What do you want me to say?" he asks sharply, hating Minerva McGonagall's gift for making him feel like an errant schoolboy. His stance, his words take him back to a memory.
His heart is thudding in his chest. Hermione has left, her face small and crumpled, her finger graced with the ring of the Unspeakables. He suspects that she has left him forever. He did the right thing, didn't he? But if he did, then why does he feel like his soul, his very magic, has been rent asunder?
A tapping at the door. "Enter," he says wearily.
The door flies open, and Minerva marches in, settling into an armchair without invitation.
"Severus Snape," she scolds. "How dare you take advantage of Hermione Granger?"
He recoils, as if being attacked by yet another obscenely large snake. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I haven't taken advantage of anyone."
She stares. "Severus, you are like a son to me, and Hermione is like a daughter. Don't lie about something like this, especially when it pertains to the girl."
"What do you want me to say?" he asks angrily, his pent-up sorrow finally finding a release. "We did nothing wrong. I was happy, truly happy, for the first time in this entire farce of a life. Look!"
A quick upsweep of his wand fills the circular office with an ethereal mist, which coalesces to form a snow-white creature of regal bearing. Half eagle, half lion. The griffon Patronus pads confidently towards Minerva, whose eyes are unexpectedly tear-filled.
"It's beautiful," she whispers. "It's the Patronus you were always meant to have."
"Who cares?" he replies ruthlessly. "It's over."
"What did you do?"
"What did I do? Ask that beloved Gryffindor of yours what she did. She went and got a job with the Unspeakables, of all things. You know as well as I do that it's forbidden to get married or even have a relationship in the first seven years of their training. She probably always wanted the job, and who could blame her? It's what I might have wanted at her age. All that knowledge at your fingertips!" He shifts restlessly in the chair into which he has sunk. "Who am I to stand in her way? I released her from our … arrangement."
Minerva looks thoroughly shaken. The matter of the Patronus, along with the man's un-Occluded despair, has altered in her some irrevocable way. "She didn't put up a protest?" she asks.
"She asked me if I love Lily more than I love her." He laughs incredulously. "Foolish girl. But it allowed me to hand her the job she wanted in a way that wouldn't make her feel guilty."
"Guilty, no, but heartbroken, certainly," Minerva mutters. "So you don't prefer Lily to her?"
"That is none of your business," he says stiffly, "but use your brain, Minerva. Hermione has come first in all her subjects since her first year, hasn't she? Is it any wonder that she should come first with me?" His mouth twists. "Do you know what I call her? My princess. Everything I do is to serve her, do you understand me?"
"Severus," Minerva starts, then stops. "You're a good man. You did the right thing to let her go."
Here in the present, he finds that his collar, rubbing against his scars, is too tight; he cannot breathe. Three years ago, after his ex-fiancée's training was complete, he had contemplated sending her an owl. But the muckraking journalists at Daily Prophet, to which he had a subscription even in Austria, had started to photograph the reclusive war heroine on dates with various wizards, each one less worthy than the one before him. She is young; she has forgotten, he had thought miserably. If his brief months with her hadn't counted among his most cherished memories, he would have gladly Obliviated himself. When he returned to England, his own foolish pride had fancied her no longer worthy of his attentions, had prevented him from speaking. And look where it had gotten him! In a pseudo-relationship with the wrong woman.
"You can ask me about how Professor Longbottom is handling being a full-time professor."
"All right, then. How is Professor Longbottom surviving full-time drudgery?"
"Very funny. He's doing an excellent job. As we speak, his enthusiasm is inspiring a new generation of budding Herbologists."
"Just what we need in this world: more Herbologists."
"I will pretend that wasn't sarcasm, young man. In any case," Minerva halts briefly. "I do have one more update for you."
"Do enlighten me." He crosses his arms and leans back in Dumbledore's old swivel chair. High above him in a portrait, the old headmaster who had facilitated the current headmaster's wartime courtship leans forward expectantly.
"It's about Hermione."
"And?" he drawls, hoping Minerva cannot tell that his heart is suddenly racing. "Has Professor Granger filed a complaint regarding her replacement as most popular teacher by Professor Longbottom?"
"She needs to take a few days off next week. We will have to find a substitute for a few days. Perhaps Justin Finch-Fletchley would be willing to—"
"Where is she going? Is she ill?"
"No, not ill," Minerva hastens to assure him. "Understandably, Professor Granger doesn't wish to work here beyond June. She hopes to return to the Ministry in some capacity, although I understand that she refuses to hole herself away any longer in the Department of Mysteries. She has lined up a few interviews for next week."
"Professor Granger has been receiving rave reviews from the students, and the faculty, by and large, is fond of her," he says slowly. "Please explain to me why it is 'understandable' for her to wish to leave everything she has cultivated here."
"Yes, Minerva," the old headmaster says tartly from his frame near the eaves. "Please tell Severus what it has taken the past decade for you to confess."
To the headmaster's shock, there are tears rolling down Minerva's cheeks.
"Oh, Severus, I know Kingsley told you that I helped Hermione decide on a career. But I was much more involved than that. My dear boy, I did something awful …"
/
She steels her nerves and pays a visit to St. Mungo's that evening. Neville kindly agrees to accompany her. While he busies himself with arranging the flowers he has brought from the school greenhouses, she sits in the chair next to Ginny's bed. This is where the headmaster sits every morning, she thinks wistfully.
"Granger, how are you?" Draco asks, entering the room and dropping the sports section of the Evening Prophet onto Ginny's duvet.
"I'm doing well enough," she answers, reflecting that the Malfoy heir looks much happier in the confines of the wizarding hospital than in his parents' home. He's in love with his work, she muses.
"Everyone tells me that you are the one whom I must thank for saving me," Ginny says, clasping Hermione's hand.
"Don't mention it," she replies uncomfortably. "The headmaster did the most. I just ordered everyone around, like old times. Now, you must do your part; hurry up and get well so that you can teach. The students miss you."
"I miss them, too," Ginny smiles, then sighs. "I don't know what any of us would have done without you in the war."
"How is the headmaster?" Neville interjects suddenly. "We've seen so little of him since the accident."
Ginny looks startled. "He's well, I suppose. He isn't very talkative when he's here."
The Muggle Studies professor tries desperately not to imagine the headmaster must be doing with Ginny instead of talking. Perhaps sensing her train of thought, Neville continues hurriedly, "Have you had any other visitors?"
"My family, of course. And Harry left about an hour before you arrived."
Draco snorts and says with feeling, "Potter is an unmitigated ass."
In response to this uncharitable remark, the three professors make noises of protest, but Draco insists, "He is! I've heard the whole story of his treatment of Weaselette here, and it shouldn't have been allowed." He casts an accusing glare at Harry's best friend.
She deflates. "Harry really did treat Ginny horribly, but it was probably for the best, wasn't it?"
"How can you say such a thing?" Ginny cries, indignant.
"Think about it. Ginny, you loved the idea of Harry, not Harry for himself. And Harry loved you as some kind of lookalike stand-in for his mother. That isn't exactly healthy. It's a good thing that Harry figured it out for himself. "
Ginny is quiet for a moment, clearly struggling with something. "What about you and Prince? Did he see you as another Lily? Is that why he left you?"
The Muggle Studies professor looks sideways at Draco. His jaw is nearly level with the floor. "No, he didn't. I think that's why he left."
"I hate Lily!" Ginny says with sudden vehemence. "Everyone compares me to her, don't they? We aren't alike at all!"
"If it helps," Draco drawls, "I don't know anything about the sainted Lily Potter. So my dislike for you was formed entirely on your own merit."
"We should leave, Hermione," Neville says, his tone upset. He glares at Draco. "I hope to see you back at Hogwarts soon, Gin."
"Thanks for visiting, you two," Ginny murmurs softly. She seems to be mulling over the conversation. As the Herbology and Muggle Studies professors head out of the room, they hear Draco say to Ginny, "Never a dull moment with you lot, is there?"