BLURB
McGonagall looked up at him and her eyes scanned Snape's face. She would find it aged, which was not just the result of time. While a wrinkle or two betrayed his forty-fifth year, and he was discovering an increasingly steady arrival of grey in his temples and whiskers, it showed mostly in his eyes. They had seen far, far too much. But what she said was, "By the goodness of Merlin: here you are, back from the dead, and you don't look a bit different."
In the Battle of Hogwarts, Snape is left to die in the Shrieking Shack – only to be rescued by a mystery woman from his past who knows a secret about him that even he does not. In her life-saving care at a hidden destination, Snape recovers… but the world he left behind has assumed he's dead, including the son he knows nothing about.
For eight years Snape recovers incognito, then in 2006 when the position of Potions Master becomes vacant at Hogwarts, he decides to come out of hiding. Snape is ready to rule the dungeon again.
What he doesn't know is that his eleven-year old son (to murdered Charity Burbage and raised as a Muggle), has just been invited to Hogwarts to become a wizard.
And his son has questions of his own.
Where have you been?
And what happened to my mother?
Just when Snape thought life might go back to normal, he is thrown into a post-war Hogwarts in turmoil: with a headstrong, rebellious son, Slytherins run amok, derailed Malfoys, a vengeful Neville Longbottom, a closure-seeking Harry Potter, Unionised elves and even a ghostly love from his past that isn't ready to rest.
Can our broken, Half Blood Prince possibly come out on top?
COMPLETE
Longfic; Chapters average 8K words.
Sequel to The Uneven Orbit. While reading that story first will provide better context for the events in this story, it is not essential.
Pro-Snape; Snape POV; Snape not idealised; Slytherin-centric
Mystery; adventure; drama; romance
Canon-respectful; canon-divergent; curative. Some OC's necessary. High quality production.
Please check out my reviews – but caution, may contain spoilers.
THE REPAIR OF BROKEN MEN
Tuesday 25th July, 2006
It was close to midnight, and most bodies in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – alive or otherwise - were sleeping. There weren't many by normal standards, it being the middle of the summer holidays: the dorms were dark and empty, the beds stripped back of bedding, cupboard doors standing open, the odd left-behind shoe thrown into the lost property box. Classrooms were eerie in the moonlight, so dark and silent compared to their normal hive of activity with empty desks standing in rows, blackboards blank, displays gathering dust. The Great Hall was shadowy, the long tables sullenly monochrome without the glory of a thousand floating candles to light them, the corridors down to infrequent, flickering sconce-light, the main staircase flattened to grey but for long window rectangles of silvery moonlight making the marble glow. A solitary owl decamped from the arched pigeonhole of the owlery – in summer, the pickings were easy in the long grass and around Hagrid's midnight gardens, they filled their bird-sized stomachs early.
There was a yellow light, however, shining from the magnificent, tall, mullioned windows in a castle tower that overlooked the best angle of the lake. Minerva McGonagall stood before one of the windows now, one framed by hand-hewn stone arch and glass, still robed, lifting a tea cup to her lips mechanically as she contemplated the grounds below her. She should have been in bed by now, she knew, but all she would do was lie awake, hoping tonight would be different and sleep would steal her away in spite of herself, perhaps override her fear of letting go, so convinced that everything would fall apart if she did. Her panicky control was all that prevented disaster.
The lake was peaceful, she saw; little stirred. Beyond, just visible in the distance, the moonlight picked out twisted metal and pale, broken stone from the rubble heap where unrecoverable damage from the battle had been deposited while rebuilding was underway. The rubble pile had grown continuously for four years, volcano-shaped, and then it stabilised. Now, things were trying to grow in it: stubby shrubs, weeds, foxes raised their kits amongst the ruined bits of timber, stonework, masonry and iron. How long since the protective barriers had been tested, she wondered, around the precarious, depressing mountain of debris? Yet another task to add to the list.
The list. It grew and grew, bottomless, terrifying in its capacity to engorge with chores and tasks and duties. She felt the destabilising weight of it constantly, and at first, when she became Headmistress, she had enslaved herself to it, thinking this was the way to lead, this was how Heads achieved greatness – somehow they fought and defeated the list, much as Longbottom had done with Nagini – it had a head, somewhere, more likely near the end, and if you sheared it off then – well, then...and she had no answer. She didn't know. She had never found the bottom of the list.
Her cup clinked on the saucer as she finished her eleventh cup of tea for the day – she was cutting back, which was something. Then with a heavy, fatigue-filled sigh she returned to The Chair at the desk. It wasn't her seat, or her desk – as long as she lived they would be Dumbledore's – but one small concession she'd made to the Headmaster's Office while she occupied it was to install a gramophone, and now she turned it on, with a minute flick of her wand, and let the room fill with the hollow company of music.
Placing her cup and saucer carefully to the side of the desk, and bringing closer the candelabrum, she secured her spectacles with her left hand as she picked up the pile of mail with her right. The letters had been delivered this morning by owl, but she had deposited them in her office for opening later. It was a habit she'd gotten into: reading her mail late at night, which was a foolish thing to do, she understood that, the practice invariably stressed her as it always brought more things to do, more things to worry about, problems she wasn't sure how to resolve. Trying to go to bed and sleep after reading the mail was an act of utter madness; the alternative was to lie awake wondering what was in it.
She flicked her finger under the seal of the first letter and opened it. A bill. Of course. The fresh sand for the Quidditch pitch. Fine. Hooch had insisted it necessary or…or what? No Quidditch? There was little enough for the children to enjoy right now, Quidditch was good for morale.
The second letter was a notice that the Hogwarts Elves would be called away for up to three hours in a weeks' time to attend freedom rallies. These would be held in Edinburgh. The Elves who were currently receiving a wage would need to be paid even while they attended the rally, consistent with the Decree for Elvish Freedom and Employment. McGonagall raised a brow but didn't allow herself to respond, determined not to let her feelings enter the fray. Tonight she was determined to sleep.
For a moment, she shut her eyes and let the music capture her attention, let it carry her away on a cloud of memories of times she had danced to this particular tune, and an involuntary smile came to her lips, remembering her love, her handsome man, who had waltzed with her in the rose garden, who used to call her Minnie when no one was about, and who had said, "This will be the song for the first dance at our wedding."
How long ago? She almost didn't want to do the math, the last time she'd worked it out it had been over thirty years. But she could remember it so clearly, her mind was as good as a Pensieve with that memory.
When the tune had finished, she rubbed her eyes beneath her glasses, sighed again and picked up the next letter, a folded and sealed piece of parchment, good old-fashioned stuff, nice and stiff. She noticed it had been addressed to her personally, handwritten and somehow…familiar. She flipped it over to release the seal and examined the wax first to see if revealed any clue, but it was plain. Then she unfolded the letter, began to read and her eyes widened; her mouth fell open in shock.
To the Headmistress:
Dear Minerva
It has been unforgivably long, but if I am honest I hadn't any plans to write at all. However, I have encountered reliable news that Horace Slughorn has confirmed his intention to retire. After much reflection, I am compelled to send you my expression of interest in returning to Hogwarts and resuming my post as Potions Master.
I would be honoured if you gave me occasion to meet with you and, if the position is indeed vacant, discuss how I can offer my services. I am entirely open to any preferences or strictures you may have on fulfilling this post since you have assumed Head of the school, and since Slughorn has been Master of the subject.
Should you already have arrangements, or do not wish to meet, I would appreciate communications accordingly. However I do hope that you can afford me a brief interview, naturally at a time and place of your convenience. I am at my residence in Cokeworth if you care to return an owl.
Yours most sincerely
Severus Snape
McGonagall dropped the letter on the desk, sat back in Dumbledore's chair and with trembling fingers, took off her spectacles. Then she snatched up the letter and read it a second time, before remembering to replace her specs and then reading it a third time. She flicked the parchment over and examined it, as if she might find Severus Snape himself hiding there, and then she shook her head slightly in disbelief.
"How is it possible?" she said beneath her breath. And then she did the only thing she could think of.
"Albus! Wake up! Albus!"
The temptation to shake Dumbledore's portrait frame was overwhelming; instead she tapped it with her wand.
Dumbledore roused slowly. So did a few other portraits, including, she noticed, Nigellus, who was incorrigible. Next to Nigellus's portrait was Snape's, the two Slytherin's side by side. But Snape's portrait was motionless and mute, just an ordinary painting. Still, it was a faithful rendering, copied from the photograph for the Prophet.
Dumbledore said, "Minerva? I thought it was night."
She turned back to her advisor, mentor and sage. "It is night. What do you care?"
"I was asleep!"
"Why do you need to sleep?"
He paused to consider her. "If this is because you're having trouble again -,"
"No. No I have news. Important news."
He blinked, looking, for all the world, like someone who has just been jolted out of a slumber. The portraits still mystified her. "I see. And it is...?"
She took up the letter and shook it in front of Dumbledore. "It's Severus Snape! He has written! He's alive, and I recognise his handwriting, it's actually him!"
Dumbledore's portrait was suddenly very awake. He stared, his eyes flicking between McGonagall's triumphant expression and the letter she held aloft.
"What does it say?" he asked. "Read it aloud. Nigellus!"
"I'm listening."
McGonagall obligingly read the letter from beginning to end. "He wants to come back!" she summarised unnecessarily, more for her own benefit.
Dumbledore shook his head slowly, a faint smile on his lips. "Not a word about where he's been."
"Out of the blue," McGonagall agreed.
"Are you sure it's him?" asked Nigellus, squinting to see the letter. "Could be a prank."
"That's his handwriting isn't it Albus?" said McGonagall, holding up the letter close to Dumbledore's portrait. Dumbledore assessed it and then nodded.
"He had a very distinctive style."
"Small. Untidy," observed McGonagall, reviewing it again. "Always tried to squeeze too much in."
"Why hasn't he been in touch before now?" demanded Nigellus. "He neglected his duty! If he was alive the whole time he should have been back long ago. He was Headmaster!"
McGonagall and Dumbledore exchanged looks.
"We really don't know that much - ," McGonagall began.
"His appointment as Headmaster was a strategic necessity -," said Dumbledore.
"It was more a tactical maneouver than something he sought."
"The last I heard was that he was dead. Voldemort said -,"
"Harry too! Harry said he died in the Shrieking Shack," said Dumbledore.
"If he survived…then he must…," McGonagall faltered. "Who saved him?"
Dumbledore shook his head, bewildered, baffled. "You know, something I've always wondered – that mystery person who found all those missing Death Eaters…"
"You never said you thought it was Severus!"
Nigellus then said, with eyes piercing McGonagall, "He didn't want to come back after the way you evicted him."
McGonagall fell silent, and Dumbledore turned to look at Nigellus, not easy from where he was positioned. "Phineas, that was uncalled for. Minerva thought she was doing the right thing for the school. She acted on her principles, which is what we expect of all our Heads."
"She wasn't Head! I heard him ask her to listen! He wanted to explain! And then…"
"It was a war!" said Dumbledore with a raised, no-nonsense voice. "She was saving the students. The…the undercover work was trying for Severus, he was…he was getting tired, maybe the lines had been blurred a little…"
"He was trying to stay alive," retorted Nigellus shortly. "He was playing a long game," Nigellus looked directly at McGonagall. "And you slung him out."
McGonagall pursed her lips but didn't reply. She looked away and her shoulders slumped. "At the time…" she began but raised resigned brows. "He was just too convincing. I took him to be the enemy."
"I daresay even Severus forgot which side he was on from time to time," said Dumbledore, with a sympathetic frown.
"Never!" said Nigellus stoutly. "You just couldn't comprehend the complexity of what he was doing. Brilliant young man. Bring him back immediately."
McGonagall looked from Nigellus to Dumbledore, and a faint smile rose to her lips. "On that," she said, with a deep breath, "we happen to agree."