Disclaimer: Gato Azul owns the plot and Rowling everything else.

N.T.: The reunion is so close!

28: The City of Witches

He's there, right in front of you, and he has changed in so many ways you barely recognized him. He is the same scrawny kid you put the hat on, do you still remember it? Yeah, you do, you're still looking at his pale face and that slightly scared glint you no longer find in the blackness of his adulthood, in his years of life, that had turned him into that thing you have in front of you.

And you know you have to say it, you already feel half-drunk and there won't be another moment; you're a Gryffindor, you are the Head of Gryffindor! Minerva, sit up straight and raise your head and stop hiding your eyes with your hat. You were indeed horribly mistaken, but it's also true that you've paid for it, the bags under your eyes attest to it. Enough, Minerva, the clock continues ticking, speak now, he's waiting for you, one can notice in his delicately extended silence, in the way he takes his cup to his lips and looks at you from the corner of his eye. It's the same kid, Minerva, under everything, under time and his blank face and his wrinkles. It's the same kid that told you his name in the middle of a hallway when you picked him up because somebody had beaten him up. He told you the name you never forgot after hearing it and which you thought ugly and uncommon, the name you have whispered in your agony and your guilt.

Say it, Minerva, he's waiting.

You speak. Your voice, always firm, sounds odd and hesitant to you. He looks at you and you shiver, you're cold, a frozen hand extends on your naked back. Do you remember what you said, that day in the hallway twenty-seven years ago? Twenty-seven, Merlin, time flies. You want to remember it and repeat it to go back to that moment where you were the teacher, the adult, the authority, and you could cheer him up and talk without him looking at you like he's doing now. To go back to that kind of fraternal bubble where you could put your hand on his shoulder and say anything.

How has the world changed, Minerva; you're turning old and that bothers you a bit.

He stays silent and takes a sip of his cup. He's not watching you anymore, that relieves and asphyxiates you at the same time.

What you can do is remember every single word you threw at him in the Great Hall, and you have in your memory each of his expressions as you attacked him. Your hands went numb and you want to erase forever that instant where his eyebrows scrunched upwards, as if begging, and you lashed out again and his arm hesitated before pointing at you.

If you had known…

But you didn't, and there he is in front of you, and he is quiet and not begging anymore and he doesn't care about you anymore.

"Severus, I need your forgiveness more than I need any honour."

And you remove your badge, you don't want it, Merlin's Order is worthless if he doesn't come back to you, if he doesn't become your pupil again. You failed, and no honour on your robes will soften your mistake.

"I need you to forgive me, to talk to me like you did before."

He raises his head, and again his eyes are like a rope tightening around your neck, his eyes so slow and so dark. Is there nothing else in him for you?

He's still silent, and his eyes trace your face and your pupils and you think you've suddenly shrunk and he has grown more than he should and he is, deep down, older than you.

"I beg you to forgive me."

And that's the moment. You, Minerva, kneel, just like that; your old bones complain, but it doesn't matter. You catch his hand, it's cold and callous. Suddenly he seems like that child again and he shows fear, just like before. He's your child in the hallway, your kid with an odd name, your apprentice. And you know at that moment he's going to forgive you, that he has already done it. He sits back on his chair and fights because he doesn't know if he should kneel or run away from you.

"Forgive me, Severus."

And you watch again that strange plea of his eyebrows that rise, shaken.

"You don't have to do this, Minerva. Stand up."

How deep is his voice, but it doesn't scare you. His hand goes to a pocket of his black coat.

"I don't have anything to forgive you for, you did what you must."

"I should have known; I should have felt it."

You made a mistake because his expression darkens and his face asks, you never felt it?

"I refused, I refused to believe it, but in the end, I could not find any other explanation."

You fingers brush his arm, slightly, barely there. You don't put your hand on his shoulder, you can't do it anymore. Again his gaze raises to meet yours, and for a second it's like a day hasn't passed since you pulled his robes to help him stand up when those Gryffindor kids were leaving and you saw his nose was too big and you were outraged by that bruise on his cheek. But this time you were the one that hurt him and you can't stand that truth.

"I am sorry it turned out this way, I am sorry for every insult I yelled at you, believe me, I am so sorry."

He lowers his lids; he's as pale as that first time you saw him under the Great Hall's candles.

"I know, Minerva." He doesn't open his eyes, but his rough hand travels to yours and he takes it. His thumb brushes for a second over it in a fleeting, small caress. He purses his lips and seems annoyed for a moment, but then his hand kindly slides a bit more inside yours, and then he lets go.

You know there will be a gap between you and him, like an invisible abyss. That instant of hesitation. You know they'll try to cover it with small talk and Sunday meetings. Will it work, Minerva? You don't know.

Forgive me.

That was all the letter said, a whole page and just two words in the centre.

Tell me what is this.

Tell me, why.

Why?

Your picture is still in my drawer, it's a small wound. You keep moving around in the world as if nothing had happened and everything is alright for you. And me? Do you know what you did to me? Do I deserve this?

You say I don't. You say you're sorry. I want to believe that deep down you don't hate me, that what you did wasn't out of hate. I want to know that it hurts you, I want to know that you're feeling the same pressure in the chest, the same gap opening inside you.

I need to forgive you or hate you. Here I'm torn, you know? It's hard being like this.

I know I have to see you because you have to hear me, but I'm afraid to meet your cold face, your undying indifference, and to realize everything is in vain and that you never actually cared for me. Did you think that, if you made me unhappy, you would get better?

I don't get it, I simply don't get it.

Professor Snape, if I see you and I tell you that there were moments where I loved your long eyes, where I loved your hands moving in the air, would things change? Would my good intentions made you regret it? Or am I just too annoying for you?

You always told me I'm conceited and a know-it-all. Even if I care for you, won't you ever stop despising me?

I need you to hear me; it's hard to hate you, deep down I don't want to.

Is everything futile, Professor Snape?

You hurt me and I can't completely erase our days together, I can't erase what I saw about you in your trial's session. But it's all useless because you'll take my esteem and you will crush it with your beautiful hands and squeeze it like a worthless rag.

Tell me you won't do it, tell me you won't betray me again, that you won't tear my desire of caring for you in pieces.

I'm weak, because I'm still afraid of being hurt, because you can still hurt me. And you do it, with your small letters.

He's there, in your classrooms, in the castle under your influence and Albus' and every former headmaster. He walks between the lines, you could almost swear he's a ghost, that a day hasn't gone by since the three of you were together, Albus, him and you. He raises his eyes, looking at you for a few seconds, and you think that everything is where it should be, that it is good to have him back again, even for a few hours. The students lower their heads when he gets close to them, they seem to fear him even more than before. How many generations have passed in your hands and his?

The test ends and Severus says goodbye. It's good that he sometimes lends you a bit of his time, you and his old home. He asks for your permission to go to the dungeons for a moment; you follow him down the spiral staircases; his hands caress the rail and his touch seems to know every centimetre of the way. His office is intact but dusty, it looks like a phantom city. He wanders his black eyes with a melancholic, severe air. You think about all those times when he found himself alone inside this cave, you think that he might have cried, you think that he cursed them all, you think that he wanted to run away, and yet he never did.

Of course, he had to come back to Hogwarts, even if just to visit. Hogwarts is his world, his home, his life's scenery, his creator. In this castle he grew up, loved, found a safe place. Of course he had to come back.

"Everything is just like you left it; you'll always be able to come back here, Severus."

He shakes his head slowly, without looking at you.

"That'd be moving backwards. I can't go back."

David Granger looked at his daughter, who was holding a bunch of letters as if they were the most precious things she'd ever held in her hands, and he wondered why did Hermione had to change so much, why was she so far away from them and so close to others, those wizards. Just one line and they managed to make her travel an entire continent, while they were almost eradicated from her life.

"What's so urgent, Hermione?"

He watched her swallow and buckle her belt, eyes hesitant and weak. He asked again, raising his voice with noticeable anger.

"I need to talk to someone. Besides, I have to go back to Hogwarts to finish the school year; it's the last one, then I can look for a job."

"I don't trust those people, Hermione. They almost erased your family, I wish you never had to see them again."

"It's not their fault."

"Then whose?" David lashed out, suddenly furious.

"Mine."

The girl was supporting her head against the plane's window, wishing to be somewhere else.

"Who do you need to talk to?"

"With Ron, and an old teacher."

"Albus Dumbledore? God, even their names are weird," he shifted his coat brusquely, snorting.

"Albus Dumbledore died. I'm going to see my Potion professor," she whispered so no one else could hear them. That irritated her father even more.

"Why?"

"We have unfinished business."

"Wasn't he the bloke that humiliated you in classes, or was that Slughorn?"

The flight attendant stood in front of the seats, her perfume flooded everything around her frame. A passenger in another row was trying to fasten his belt, shivering, close to a panic attack; soon the rest of the flight attendants formed a circle of mixed perfumes.

"The first one, professor Snape."

"Snape," mumbled David, as if someone had stuck a sour orange in his mouth. "That tosser; it's unethical and unprofessional to bully students, even worse if they're kids."

Hermione nodded in silence. Mr Granger had crossed his arms and was caressing his unshaven chin as he glanced at her.

"Don't avoid me, Hermione. You know that I love you, it's just that, everything that has happened with you, what you have done…" he watched her shrink on her seat and grimace; he wanted to yell at her and hug her so no one could take her away from them again, but deep down he sensed that she was already beyond them, that nothing would be like it was before. They were magic-less people, second-class. "What is it that you have to talk to him about?"

"Academic business, dad."

"Right, you and your academic business. You're always holding everything, you don't trust us, and it's because of them."

His daughter's eyes met his, they were shiny and dark, stuck between reproach and guilt. David shifted in his seat and lowered his lids, trying to pretend he was asleep, but he felt her whimper next to him, touching his hand.

"I tried to protect you, why don't you get it?"

He opened his eyes and found her bent over him, holding his fingers tightly and soaking them with her tears. He hugged her, feeling like a dickhead; he hugged her tight and her bushy hair got stuck in his nose. He put his mouth close to her ear to whisper. A man in jeans watched them from afar, curious and invasive; Granger hid his face in his daughter's hair, half annoyed and half embarrassed.

"And you have to understand I'd rather face any danger than to forget you, Hermione."

The girl felt David's arms crush her against his chest, his shaky voice moistened her ear.

"Don't ever do something like that to us again; we have the right to choose, you can't violate that right."

Then he let her go slowly and they stayed together in a lazy, conciliatory hug. They slept almost the whole flight; Hermione looked through the window, David read a new orthodontics book, they talked a bit about anything that came to their minds. They got a bit closer during those hours, mending a part of the hole that stood between them.

Their old house in London seemed to be waiting for them. Hermione sat on the floor that had been her room since she was little, unfolding her clothes. Some fear still clung to her; to go back to Hogwarts was necessary, but it was something she feared.

Snape's letter was in her hands and whispered: I'm sorry.

It was hard to decide what she felt when she heard him apologize, it wasn't normal, it seemed almost incredible.

Downstairs David was doing some ruckus with the cooking pans. He had insisted in accompanying her; she didn't know how far he could go in the magic community, but she assumed he could at least come with her to Hogsmeade. Both would live together for a while and then her mother would catch up with them when she sold the whole office's equipment they had in Australia.

And she wondered what she would say when she had her professor in front of her, what would his indifferent, disdainful face tell her. When she thought about him, she felt fear and anger and a strange ache.

She had clung to David's arm, watching him raise his head curiously, surprised, as if searching the air. Those pointy hats were trending, and even if she found them quite normal, they left her father in a mixture of confusion, amazement and good humour, because he found them ridiculous.

The dentist peeked through every window shop like a child, watching the cauldrons carefully, the potions, the strange frog sweets that jumped in their packages.

He walked with her for hours, drinking butterbeer. David seemed enthusiastic, wandering from one street to the other, almost running; his case hit his back by the movement of his sudden walks. He seemed to be trying to be reconciled with that world, the one he'd said so many times he felt resentful towards, for having taken her away. Suddenly he stopped under a street lamp, almost breathless.

"I understand why you love this place so much, Hermione."

He turned around, a yellowish light illuminating his face.

"If I'd been you, I'd have never wanted to go back."

Jean took his hand and they walked back together to muggle London; the next day she had to go back to school.