Disclaimer: Everything here belongs to Rowling and Gato Azul.

26. The Glorious Vortex

It wasn't easy, but your "plan of reintegration to the community" helped us to finally get him out of his hole. Of course, professor Snape said everything about this reeked of Dumbledore and you, but he still had to come with me to the Auror's training; apparently, he preferred that over working in a lab at St. Mungo. As you already know, we've been here for a bit over a month; you asked me to tell you how has the professor been doing and that's why I'm writing this letter. He was actually transferred to the main ranks; the instructor he was assigned to said he has little to learn. That doesn't surprise me; he made the rookies suffer during training, I could almost say he was a bit satisfied for making us bite the dust.

The preparation is not easy, they only let us leave the Auror's camp on the weekends, which is good in Snape's case, who probably uses his free time to get drunk and grieve in his house. On Mondays he comes back pale and really quiet; he gets a bit better as the week passes, he turns back to his natural, haughty state, and I'm not trying to criticise him.

Training is normally in an open field in the middle of rain or snow. Many have left, but nothing seems to affect the professor; actually, it doesn't affects me either, the Horrocrux's hunt was worse than this. I won't see him much from now on, at least until they transfer me to the main ranks. I think he can manage on his own; he doesn't look very happy, but he hasn't actually ever looked happy. He's practically all week locked here so I don't think there's anything to worry about. Has he answered any of your letters?

Without anything else to say for the moment, goodbye, professor.

H. P.

Harry soaked his bread in his milk, watched it dissolve in the white, warm liquid, and put it in his mouth hurriedly as some fat, wet crumbs slid on his cheek. Snape made a disgusted grimace, the boy cleaned himself with shame and they kept on eating in silence.

Around them the other recruits filled their mouths and talked, a dull murmur bouncing on the walls. Snape avoided the green gaze and concentrated on splitting his bun and putting in inside his soup. Harry looked at him, stubbornly.

"And how have you been?"

"I have to see you every day, how do you think I am, Potter?"

The boy lowered his eyes to his milk cup and cleaned the table with a hand. Next to him, a skinny, redhead instructor shivered, wrapped in a worn cloak. He met the wizard's awkward gaze for a few seconds and then he turned once more to Snape. The man shook his food reluctantly; the yellow light made him seem even more sallow.

"And Granger?"

Harry trembled in his chair. He knew Snape had held that question for long weeks; it had been like a spark, a small bolt between them.

"In Australia, her parents are there."

Snape's hand kept drawing soft circles in his plate, his eyes soured.

"When did she leave?"

"Soon after your trial, Snape."

"Mr. to you, Potter."

Harry, uneasy by the thorny silence, let himself be absorbed by a half-dead fly that crossed the table. A few minutes later, when there was no more milk in his cup, the half-blood spoke again.

"Is she planning on coming back?"

"I don't know, she says her parents are angry with her and they don't want to let her go."

Prince sipped the last spoon of his soup and stood, leaving without saying goodbye. Harry looked at his long frame and funeral's clothes disappear in the middle of the morning hustle.

The thin master supported his weight against the cold wall of his small room. The whole building had a smell of decay, of rancid times, penetrating everything, every furniture, every mattress. Outside, some kids sang gibberish about Merlin's knickers. Stupid, vulgar brats. Whatever, he told himself as he laid down on the austere bed. At least in the main ranks they would give him a better room, away from all these idiotic boys and those nosy gazes that chased him since the day of his trial. Thanks to Potter. It was all thanks to Potter; he didn't have the slightest doubt that this reintegration to society sentence had been created by that boy, by Minerva and by Albus' painting, who seemed unable to accept that the essence of being dead was precisely not interfering anymore in the world.

What was the reason why he still woke up to live a life he wasn't interested in anymore, not even he knew it; he let himself be dragged wherever like a golem, all his life he had done what Albus or the Dark Lord had asked of him. It was probably just a habit. To be an Auror wasn't so disadvantageous: any day now someone would throw an Avada at him and that'd be really convenient; besides, he could also return the favour to those Death Eaters that had cut his face. Even, at some point, he thought that being close to Potter meant he'd manage to see Granger again.

But no.

…. My instructor says he'll promote me son, the hexes we learnt at the war have been really useful. Changing the subject, Hermione, there's something I want to tell you, I hope you won't get mad, it's about Snape. He's asking about you, he's still in the house arrest, I heard rumours that he bought it. Doesn't that seem weird to you? I think (you'll hate me for this) he misses you and that he regrets what he did, you get me? He doesn't say it, but one can guess. I know I shouldn't be speaking for him, but after everything he has done for me and my mother, it's the least I can do. Why don't you let him explain himself? Maybe he had a reason. Please, Hermione.

Please, Hermione.

H.P.

Hermione stood from the kitchen chair; her parents were in the living room, sitting on the same sofa, cuddling against one another. They were whispering, and she feared they'd be talking about her. Her mum turned with a loving expression on her face.

"'Mione, come here and sit. Mail's here, Harry and Ron wrote to you."

She sat next to Jean; the woman caressed her arm, David was still silent, but he smiled weakly. He was trying to extinguish the hate he still felt.

"Who is Severus Snape? One of your classmates?"

"A former professor," the girl answered, uncomfortable. "How did you know his name?"

"He also wrote to you."

They gave her the yellowish envelope and Hermione recognized the half-blood's tight, cursive handwriting. And yet she didn't open the letter; her parents seemed to want her to do it, maybe moved by curiosity and by the implicit mistrust they had fely towards her, as if they thought she could escape through the window and never come back again.

Monk's life, soldier's life, monastery's life.

Snape was used to the rigour in the military service to Voldemort or Dumbledore. His father had taught him that since he was very small, to walk straight and in steady, long, regular strides, with an austere, serious expression.

Nothing was new to him in the Auror's camp, the alleged instructors yelled a lot and got drunk on the weekends. He got drunk too, but in a very different way, alone, hidden in his cave, whispering poems to Lily, hearing Granger's cassettes. Then he swallowed the whole bottle and went to sleep.

He went back to the field on Mondays, to seclusion and long walks in the tundra, between snow and grass half-burnt by the cold. Potter, even if he considered him useless, was, in fact, one of the most prepared rookies; he had good reflexes and was quick with his wand too. The war, after all, had left a mark on him too. When they praised him for his merits the boy smiled softly, almost as if he was embarrassed, and said it was no big deal. Then Snape detected a hole in his illusion and thought that, in some small things, Potter junior wasn't exactly like his father.

He was soon ascended to the certified Auror ranks; Potter, probably for his fame, was ascended a few weeks after him. Those long days of confinement and bunk beds ended, just to be replaced by long lines in the Ministry and boring meetings where everyone talked around a map, presenting their strategies. In the beginning, Potter got very close to him, as if he was scared by those exalted yelling and their theories about what would be the best thing to do. With time he got closer to the debating circle and soon he was in the middle, talking with a strong voice and the others, the rest of the Aurors, listened carefully, delighted of having him with them. Snape watched them from a corner, arms crossed, apathetic and sullen. Sometimes they asked for his opinion and a bunch of faces turned towards him; he just said anything half growling and they soon left him alone.

The previous leader of the Aurors had died, like many others, during the war. To choose another one was something they had to do, soon. Many of them thought immediately of Harry Potter, nevermind his youth. On the day of the meeting they choose him immediately, unanimously. He had saved them, his lightning scar marked him, his beautiful, lively gaze turned him into a leader that was easy to appreciate.

But Potter didn't accept the job; he refused kindly, irrevocably, voice and stance firm. And then he said, before silence covered them all, that he thought the best candidate was Severus Snape. No one talked; for several minutes the only noise present was the bustle outside the small room.

The boy kept talking, he said they couldn't waste such useful knowledge about the Death Eater's inner organization. Snape knew how they thought, how they behaved, how they moved after having been so close to them for so many years…

Many doubted that choice, but Potter's insistence and their compulsion for pleasing him took them to the point of accepting, even despite Snape's stunned and annoyed face. They agreed he'd be the temporary leader of that position as everything went back to normal and took in more rookies. The voting was unanimously again, and Snape's face appeared in the morning papers.

Hermione opened Harry's letter; the boy had sent her a snippet from The Prophet, where a picture of Snape between many men appeared, raising his hand with a frown, as if taking an oath as his lips moved. 'Severus Snape named temporal Head Auror. Deserved Honour Or Insane Imprudence?'. She looked for the editor's name and wasn't surprised when she found out it was Rita Skeeter. She looked at the photo again, and remembered those same distant eyes fixed on her. And she felt as if nothing had happened between them, as if she had never known him. Sometimes, as in that exact moment, she couldn't sustain her anger, and those hard features, that vague, sad look managed to soften her, but she didn't open the letter the Potion Master had sent weeks ago. It'd be like betraying Ron and betraying herself.

She read Harry's lines. She could feel his emotion, even across ink and kilometres. He was spending his weekends with the Weasleys and he seemed he'd burst with so much joy, being close to Ginny and Mrs Weasley and Arthur. He said that in the Burrow there was always this orange light and everything was warm and smelled of hot biscuits and clean sheets. And yet, Harry wasn't someone used to absolute happiness, and he got depressed sometimes; Hermione noticed it in some words, in some small details.

And then he'd finally insist again. She would've gotten mad if he wasn't precisely him, her best friend.

Hermione, you know, Snape...? Well, you know, right? He misses you, he doesn't show it, but I see he hasn't removed those flower paintings you once told me about from the house, I think they remind him of you. He doesn't like me. When he comes to me almost civilized is to ask me if you're coming back, he masks it, wanting to speak of something else. He's Snape, after all.

Hermione, I'm sorry, for you and Ron, but I'm worried about Snape. I promised I'd keep an eye on him and you're one of the few people he had shown some interest in. I don't want you to get mad at me, but if you think you can forgive him, please listen to him, write a letter to him, if only to complain and insult.

Please.

H. P.

The girl frowned a she looked at the black and white picture of a dark-haired man. She wanted to destroy it or put pins on it, maybe paint some horns on it, but she put it in her drawer and got mad at herself for it.

At the beginning, he had been really angry at Potter's interventions in his life, but the 'Head' position of the Auror Squad had ended up being quite beneficial for him.

He didn't have time for almost anything else; afternoons of drunkenness and self-pity were less and less possible in his timetable, and to keep himself busy was a good antidote for anguish and emptiness. He'd told himself he wanted to be alone, and yet he was stuck inside the big, noisy Ministry building almost every day, with an endless come and go of formal suits and high heels. He filled lots of parchments and wrote detailed explanations of everything someone did there. He trained, organized mock battles and pushed around the subordinates who made any mistakes, that was his favourite part. There he could yell with impunity, at least more than in Hogwarts.

There was so much work, so tiring was the training, that when the day finished and he got home, he fell on the bed and got asleep immediately. But when it wasn't like that, when for some reason he didn't end up exhausted during the day, insomnia bit him the whole night, licked his hand. He hated insomnia.

He hated thinking about her, about how he had driven them away, about how he had ended up digging a hole that separated them from him. He had done it, it was his fault and he had to see that. When Lily married James Potter, when she stopped answering him, he hated her, for a long time he told himself Lily Evans was an ungrateful fool and that someday, when he was strong and humiliated Potter, she would come back and ask for forgiveness. But that never happened. Lily's life ended, he ended in a way. After that, he never believed again in anything he had thought, none of his ideals of superiority. He was shite, that simple, she had been right all this time when she asked him to leave those friends, she had been right to abandon him. Sometimes he hated her a bit, sometimes he got a bit mad at her, but that feeling dissipated soon and made him feel even more miserable.

With Granger it wasn't so different, he was too old to lie to himself; he knew those things had happened because of him. The girl hadn't answered his letter, he supposed she'd never do it in the future.

Harry Potter was in front of the crowd; his rebellious hair was pulled back and he was also wearing a somewhat old suit from the Weasleys that they'd lent him, one he hadn't had the heart to reject. Everyone was there, to his surprise he even distinguished in the sea of redhead the one of Ronald Weasley, then a small seed of hope bloomed in him. They were called one by one, putting a small, round golden medal on them. Neville Longbottom, a war hero, the snake's killer. The shy boy walked to the podium, almost tripping in the process.

Snape snorted, the audience covered in fancy clothes and made-up smiles clapped. The meeting would've been insufferably fake for him if it hadn't been for the presence of those few Gryffindor boys and some Hogwarts' professors. The Ministry was like that, since the beginning of times. Rita Skeeter shifted on a chair, carrying a pair of gigantic fake eyelashes that managed to disgust him. She watched him for a few seconds with her fake eyelash and a look of gossipy scrutiny. Snape turned his head as if he had smelled dung. He wouldn't have gone to such a stupid reunion if his new job didn't require it, it was important he went to the audiences and post-war award ceremonies and faced the press.

He looked at the red blob that was the Weasleys; they were carrying their best suits, Molly's dress seemed almost wore down, but her round, cheery face dimmed its shortcomings. She was clutching her husband's arm, who was clapping enthusiastically as his younger sons stepped forward and got bestowed. Suddenly Molly's face was wet. Snape, without knowing why, experienced a sudden feeling of both pride and envy at seeing both redheads bow lightly at the audience. Then he wondered if Weasley would go and knock his teeth off after the party. He didn't like the idea, Molly seemed way too moved for such a ridiculous scene. He rose his head to see better; his crooked nose stood among the crowd, which made him seem like a crow stirring the air with its beak. He didn't see her, not with the redhead bunch, nor with Longbottom, nor with the professors. They called Minerva; the old witch walked as always, calm and solemn. They put the medal on her robe's flap. With small, wet eyes she seemed to look for someone among so many faces and she watched him as she put her long hand over her heart. Her cheeks were getting wet, a camera emitted a flash, lighting up Minerva's hard, damp face. The Potion Master went suddenly cold as the woman turned her head back to the audience and bowed slightly, holding her pointy hat. He couldn't hate her, nor could he pretend he still did anymore. He clapped grudgingly as she stood again and went back to her seat. Then her dark eyes went back to him and, when she noticed he was clapping too, they got even wetter, he could almost hear her saying his name among the crowd, drawing him with her lips, and then she got lost in the collage of heads, leaving a warm, painful trail in his chest, between his hands that were still clapping.

Minerva, the cornerstone, the loyal one, almost one with Hogwarts.

"Hermione Jean Granger!" the host yelled, and the Legilimens looked around, expecting her to suddenly appear out of nowhere, from a glorious vortex, with her bushy hair and bronze smile.

"Hermione Granger!"

Someone moved in the tumult and he sharpened his gaze, seized by throbbing anticipation. A redhead paved a way to disappointment, when Ginny Weasley went to the podium to receive the award in her friend's name. Snape slumped on his seat and closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing with difficulty. Someone next to him asked if he was okay and he told them to mind their own business.

What a pity, a sour taste of loss, an invisible stab. He wanted to leave in that exact moment, and he did when they called Potter. Skeeter's photographer chased him to take a picture while he hurriedly left the event; from the seats, Ronald Weasley glared at him with his blue eyes, for a moment he believed he'd get up and chase him. Given his rage, he felt quite cheerful at the thought of a night of pounding Muggle-style, mixed punches and bloody noses. To hell with Molly's crying face. But Weasley looked around and held himself back. He left then, like smoke. He didn't have anything to wait for, he had already been warned he wouldn't be awarded anything, because some sceptical part of the community could be dissatisfied with him not only absolved, but also rewarded.

N.T.: "Any day now someone would throw an Avada at him and that'd be really convenient" is the second funniest line in this story, I relate so hard. I can't wait for you to read the first.