The Professor Emeritus

McGonagall took a long time to nod off, but when it finally visited her, she slept hard and long, and despite a summer sun shouting through the office window at dawn, in the seclusion of the Head's quarters, she was undisturbed until nine-thirty am.

The sleep alone made her jubilant. Between rest, and the prospect of Snape returning, she was in good spirits. She reflected on this; age and wisdom making her question many of her own instinctive responses to things. With Snape's letter carefully propped on The Desk against a framed photo of her nieces and nephews, she finished her pile of mail (supplemented by a fresh arrival that morning), mindlessly ate a lean breakfast and pondered why she felt so relieved.

It wasn't just gladness that he hadn't died, it was much more selfish than that. She realised, with unexpected and yet nonetheless positive, surprise, that she viewed him as a friend. A friend and collaborator. Not the kind of friend she could go to about personal or private matters, but someone who might be aware of personal or private matters and make room for it and be conscious of it. The kind of friend who would make arrangements to take a class on your behalf without telling anyone, for instance, or who would pass on a sterling reference without mentioning it, who would wade in to defend you when you weren't there.

She also realised, with shame and deep regret, that she had let Snape down in ways that he hadn't with her. Even as she'd attacked him with spell upon spell, that fateful night of his sacking, he'd never struck back. He'd asked for Potter, she'd panicked, she was in her nightclothes for Papus's sake, the school had looked to her even when he was supposedly in charge and there she was, unexpectedly taking on Death Eaters and Potter relying on her with only a moment's notice…in truth, she hadn't expected to win the stand-off. If Flitwick and Slughorn hadn't shown up, she doubted he would have fled. She'd huffed and puffed and feigned bravado, but if she were honest…her actions had been a reaction. Despite everything – be it allegiances, Houses, Quidditch, a war – she'd grown fond of Gryffindor's worst enemy, and her righteous indignation was actually a serious case of alarm and disappointment that he'd had to become so many shades of grey. She hadn't liked losing him. She'd fretted that he'd lost his way and wanted to punish him for succumbing to easy temptations. And killing Dumbledore – how did you come back from that?

She took a contemplative sip of tea and once again read his rather formally worded letter. It – he – hadn't wanted to presume anything, he clearly wasn't sure where he stood with her. He didn't know that she, and several others, had viewed his memories in the Pensieve – they had counted as an artefact of war, critical evidence in the Death Eater war crime trials of 1999. The more personal ones had been edited out, after all the Ministry didn't need a recitation on Snape's feelings on Lily Evans, but his acts to protect Potter, his deeds as a spy, his attempts to save Dumbledore, watch over Draco, his preparedness to safeguard Hogwarts even as he ran out of time with Voldemort – these, and the assertions from Dumbledore's portrait (which, with the limitations that go with being a portrait, meant he was little more than a mechanism for relating events) – were enough to vindicate him. That, and Harry Potter's testimony that Snape, personal feelings aside, had been committed to his duty, remained loyal, stood by his word and did everything in his power – however indirect - for the greater good.

All this had been broadcast at the time through The Prophet and other standard wizarding media channels; the idea that Snape, wherever he'd been hiding, hadn't seen it for himself would be incredible. Hogwarts itself had held a Remembrance Service for all those who had died in the battle, or in the service of the cause, and Snape had been included among the remembered. As there was no body to bury, a plaque with his name on it had been built into the Remembrance Wall in the castle, and there had been speeches and eulogies, and Potter had said many stalwart things to a silent, heavy-hearted crowd about all those who'd died, including Snape, and had imparted that sometimes the ones you least suspected – nay, the ones you hated most – could be the ones who made the most difference in your life.

All this; it had all happened eight years ago, and if Snape had been aware of it, he didn't come forward. His body, it was presumed, had been disappeared by Death Eaters, and the Death Eaters presumed it had been recovered by the School or the Order. Neither laid claim, and neither confessed. On what both sides agreed was that he was dead. His posthumous portrait was duly mounted.

"Albus?" said McGonagall, rising from The Chair and waggling Snape's letter at the large painting behind the desk. "The more I think about it, the more trouble I'm having believing that this letter can possibly be real. The wax seal was blind. Surely he'd have a personalised seal?"

Dumbledore raised a brow. "Is it that you can't believe, or are you scared to believe?"

"Why would he have stayed away so long?"

They both looked at Snape's portrait, as if it may answer, but of course it did no such thing.

"Men do strange things when they're badly hurt," said Dumbledore after a pause. "Clearly he had to heal physical wounds, but maybe the emotional ones took longer. I recall him being terribly, terribly fraught towards the end. His sense of duty compelled him to do things far outside his nature. And we have no idea what he suffered at the hands of Voldemort. Or it could be much simpler – perhaps he was captive. But I think that less likely. I think he wanted to be hidden."

"Do you think he knows that we know? The truth, I mean. Do you think he read the news that he was pardoned?"

"I'm certain of it. I think, furthermore, he carried on his duty as a means of absolving himself. I am quite sure it was he that rounded up those stray operatives."

McGonagall nodded thoughtfully. "Should I tell Shacklebolt?"

"Let us meet with him first," said Dumbledore. "Let us understand what kind of man he's become. It is his life, now, after all. He returns freely."

McGonagall considered his words, then turned briskly to use her wand to levitate her teapot and refresh her cup. "I agree. Then there are but two things left to do. One, I need to talk to Horace. And two – I need to write back to Severus. But first, a cup of tea."

Slughorn invited McGonagall to join him. He was going to Hogsmeade, there was a house for sale that he was thinking about buying and he was going for a viewing. "Wouldn't mind a second opinion, actually," he said, as he tied up the laces of his stout walking boots in the Great Hall. "Are you up for a walk?" Along with his boots, he wore long woollen socks, tweeds and brandished a walking stick with a carved rabbit head.

"Erm.."

"Nothing like it!" declared Slughorn, patting his sides. "Did you know I've lost thirty pounds now since I started walking! Just weighed myself this morning."

"It has been remarkable," conceded McGonagall with a rapid nod. He certainly seemed better for it and he'd maintained it now for over a year. Unfortunately his drinking and smoking was no better.

"Come along, come along, I'm keen to hear this news," said Slughorn opening the front door and striding away.

McGonagall's slim, heeled boots would have to do. Fortunately it was a warm day and there was no need for a cloak. McGonagall opened the Flying Hogs Gates with her wand as they approached, and as they commenced along the stony path to Hogsmeade at a good clip, thanks to Slughorn's insistence that they get their heart rate up, McGonagall's long tartan skirts swished up with each kick of her boots. Birds trilled in the trees as they walked, and the long grass of the verges were dotted with wildflowers and bumblebees. In the hills in the distance, swathes were already starting to turn purple and yellow with gorse and heather.

"You see, it's not considered aerobic unless your heart rate is elevated," explained Slughorn, his cheeks now ruddy, peering over his glasses at her as McGonagall focussed on keeping alongside him. "I've noticed that the more I've walked, the more I have to walk to keep a good burn going."

"I see," said McGonagall. "You're obviously taking this all quite seriously. Have you considered that perhaps the tobacco might be hindering your progress?"

"Ah ha, yes, but, ah, no. I'm retiring Minerva, I need a few vices for company."

McGonagall refrained from comment for a few minutes as they both started to breathe a little faster with the exertion. The crisp, clean mountain air was almost scalding in her lungs.

"Speaking of your retirement," she said momentarily between puffs, "Thank you for confirming it with me. I know it can take some time to…make the actual decision."

"Ah well, I'd been telling people long enough. Friends kept saying to me: Sluggy! When are you going to put your feet up?! You've been closeted away in that dank castle long enough. Come to London! Come to France! But I can never get away, Minerva. I always have that rotten House to think about."

"You love Slytherin, Horace."

"Indeed I do. But I think we've all had quite enough of each other."

"I was thinking…and this is mere speculation mind, so don't answer just yet…but I was thinking of offering you an Emeritus. Merlin knows, you've paid admirable service to Hogwarts."

Slughorn stopped so abruptly that McGonagall bypassed him and came to a halt a few feet away. When she looked back in surprise, he was gazing at her earnestly. "An Emeritus?"

"Well…yes, that was my thinking."

"Potions?"

"Of course. Naturally."

He pushed his glasses up his nose and allowed his gaze to wander over the hedgerow, the sky, the distant pines. Then back to her. "I'm truly honoured," he said with a small, uncertain smile. "I don't know what to say."

McGonagall balked for a moment, questioning herself, thinking she should have run it past Dumbledore first. But then – she straightened - no, she was Head now. It was her decision alone. And Slughorn had done great things for Potions. Riddle notwithstanding.

"There – well there are administrative things I need to put in place. But if we take the date of your resignation as writ, then your Emeritus will commence thereafter. If you buy this place in Hogsmeade, you can have offices in Hogwarts and live in the village."

Slughorn stepped towards her and took her hand in both of his. "Thankyou Minerva. I'm honoured."

While she was flustered by the gesture, she had enough composure to simply raise her brows and gently withdraw her hand after a moment. "It is my pleasure, Horace, you're quite deserving. Shall we get on? Don't want someone to buy this house from underneath you."

The pair walked further, disturbing a few partridges where they were feeding on clover, and rounded into the village of Hogsmeade. It was bustling with activity. Saturday was market day and the streets were lined with stalls, witches and wizards in a frenzy with the piles of sweet, fresh produce, bread, fruit and flowers of summer abundance. McGonagall produced a handkerchief from inside her sleeve and patted her brow, touching at her hair, conscious that she was known as the Headmistress of Hogwarts.

Several villagers smiled and nodded in their direction as she and Slughorn wove their way through the throng. Slughorn paused at a stand run by two youngsters to buy chilled lemonade for them both, then they had emerged at the other end of the main street and Slughorn stopped to get his bearings.

"There is another matter," said McGonagall, sipping her paper cup of rather watery, unsweetened lemon juice. "It's about the vacancy you'll be creating."

"Potions Master, yes," acknowledged Slughorn, producing a piece of paper from a jacket pocket and consulting it. The picture of a house on it suggested to McGonagall that he was looking for directions.

"Well it's the rather unexpected news I mentioned earlier."

Slughorn looked at her directly, but in an untroubled way. "Oh? A prospective applicant?"

"Yes, quite," she said. He was pointing towards a side-street and she looked to where they were headed. It was a street that sloped gently upwards towards a wooded bank, and so formed a cul-de-sac. The cottages were pretty and modest, with gardens and steep thatched rooves. He gestured forwards and she fell into step.

"You'll never guess who's expressed interest."

"Enlighten me, Minerva."

"Well, it's Severus Snape in fact."

Once more, Slughorn stopped short. "Have I heard you correctly? Did you just say Severus Snape?"

She raised her brows at his confounded expression. "The very same, Horace. He has written to me. I received it just last night."

His mouth was agape and she couldn't help but smile.

"But he's dead!"

"Or so we thought."

"He's been alive all this time?"

She took a deep, reserved breath. "I haven't replied. We haven't spoken in person. But…Horace, it looks exactly like his writing. His signature."

"He wants to come back to Hogwarts?" Slughorn was still astonished and was shaking his head in disbelief.

"He expressed interest in your vacancy specifically."

Slughorn put his hands on his hips and continued to shake his head, dumbfounded. After a minute, when he looked at her again, he was smiling. "Well I for one can't think of anyone better."

McGonagall smiled broadly. "I wanted your blessing."

"As far as I'm concerned, you'd be mad not to."

They continued their walk up the street, Slughorn looking for the house of interest. He spied it, up near the wood and set off in earnest. "Merlin's slippers – it looks better than the picture."

"So you won't mind if I invite Severus for an interview?" puffed McGonagall, hastening after Slughorn, who had stormed off towards the house.

"Of course not! It would be a delight to work with Severus again."

They approached the house for sale at a more moderate pace, and Slughorn admitted himself through the gate reverentially. McGonagall followed. The cottage had a pale blue door, a paved pathway, and a small orchard of apple and cherry trees was visible from the garden. Before he could raise the knocker, the door opened and a woman stepped out. She was young, with shoulder length, straight red hair, and an abundance of freckles on her smooth, open face. On her hip was a baby, and she was followed to the front step by a boy of seven or eight who hung on the door frame and watched and listened.

Slughorn stopped and stared for a moment as the woman assessed him, half knowing why he might be visiting, but half cautious anyway.

"Good morning – sorry! Afternoon," said Slughorn, extending his hand and shaking hers. "Professor Slughorn - I sent an owl about a viewing?"

"Hello," said the redhead, "Nice to meet you. I'm Imogen. Please come through. Sorry about the mess…"

She turned and went inside, but before Slughorn followed her he turned back to McGonagall and uttered under his breath, "Is it just me, or is she Lily Evans incarnate?"

McGonagall didn't disagree and was thinking to herself that already, there seemed to be signs everywhere.

Later that afternoon, she took a seat at The Desk and took forth her pheasant tail quill, dipped it in the ink and prepared herself to write a reply to Snape. It was difficult to know where to begin, and several sentences had formed in her head, only to be dismissed before the nib was set to parchment. Then when she finally started, the correspondence flowed with ease.

My Dear Severus

What a joyous shock it was to receive your letter. We are all quite beside ourselves with wonder that you are not only alive, but willing to return to Hogwarts. We are still quite of the opinion that this is, as ever, your home.

We should be delighted to meet with you. Albus and I will be seeing to some formalities by means of a discussion about the position, we still require some prerequisites in the way of registration and licenses, but of course you'll be familiar with those after the audit. Informally, however, we look forward to seeing you and hearing of your adventures during these last, long years.

I do hope you don't mind that I have had occasion to talk to Horace about your letter and he is as supportive as we in considering your application. And, I have forewarned Hagrid of your impending arrival as it would not do to surprise him – I err on the side of caution where he is concerned.

As this is the summer holidays, we are quite at your disposal regarding a date and time. To save on owls, I propose Monday, 31st July at 11am. I shall meet you at the front gate. However if this does not suit, please contact me by Floo and we can make alternative arrangements.

Very truly yours

Minerva

She read it several times over, vaguely disappointed that it didn't convey as richly as she'd hoped the level of feeling she actually felt on the matter, it came across rather official. The proposed date of 31st of July being Potter's birthday was only slightly coincidental – she felt it would be a good omen. But eight years had passed, she'd had but a day to take out the mental file marked "Snape" and shake it out, realising everything it had contained had been false or misguided. The file was now largely empty. Her official tone belied the guardedness she felt about being caught out, she was reserved and a bit wary, a fair amount of trust had been called upon based on a single letter.

Before she lost her bottle completely, she folded the parchment and sealed it, then addressed it to Spinner's End. She summoned an elf and asked him to post it using a school owl.

When the elf left the room, she turned and stood unsurely, thinking It was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do.

"Minerva?" queried Dumbledore, his head tilted back, surveying her. "I recognise that posture of yours. Are you uncertain about it?"

"No...," she answered, very uncertainly. Then apropos of nothing: "I have offered Horace an Emeritus, and tenure, and he is extremely happy about it. Do you think that was wise?"

"I think that very honourable of you, Minerva."

"Oh good." She returned to sit at The Chair and crossed her legs, placing her wand on the desktop. "I think Horace and Severus will work alongside each other very well. Horace can retain his Head of House, I feel. And Severus can assist Benedict Hellmann find his feet with Dark Arts."

"Ah. Yes. Hmmm…," said Dumbledore and Minerva glanced up.

"No? You don't think?"

"Professor Hellmann is likely to think his own skill in Dark Arts far superior to even Severus…coming from Durmstrang," replied Dumbledore with a slight frown. "And being German…I expect there won't be much assistance needed in finding any feet."

"Oh, yes, I see what you mean. I was just pondering on how best to occupy Severus…I believe we all agree he is at his best when kept busy."

"True enough certainly. But again, let us meet him first. We don't know what changes he's undergone. Perhaps he is now married with children!"

McGonagall's eyes widened, the possibility clearly never having crossed her mind, and yet realising she had absolutely no grounds for refuting it.

There was silence in the office for a minute or two as imaginations tried to construct a mental version of Snape packing lunchboxes and wiping noses. "No. Surely not," muttered McGonagall eventually. "I'm having a lot of trouble seeing it."

"I as well," agreed Dumbledore. "Portrait imaginations aren't very good I'm told. But there was one thing you told me – since we are on the subject of familiam – did you not say the second child of the Burbage woman was starting this term?"

"The Burbage woman!" echoed McGonagall, incensed. "You mean Charity Burbage, Professor? Author of our own Muggle Studies textbook? That Burbage woman?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied in a chastened voice. "Yes, Professor Burbage."

"The same Burbage woman named on our Remembrance Wall?"

"I apologise for my coarseness."

"Well yes, since you ask. A son…James Servius Burbage…," McGonagall picked up and checked the Master Enrolment document which she'd been working on just the day before. The letters were almost due to be sent. "Half-brother of Holly Chadwick who graduated just last year."

"It might be prudent of you to mention that when we meet with Severus. It was around eleven or twelve years ago when he and the Bur – Charity Burbage – had a bit of a…well, they became close, as I daresay, you recall."

Once again McGonagall's brows lifted, this time in vague surprise. "Actually yes, now you mention it…it was just before she went to work at the Ministry."

Dumbledore looked at her and waited patiently. McGonagall processed the information for a moment, then her mouth fell open. She looked back at Dumbledore in amazement. "You aren't implying…?"

"He never said a word."

"…the young Burbage boy…?!"

"I think it would be salutary to get a good look at him before you start adding two and two, Minerva."

"Does he know? I mean, when she was killed – there was no sign from him -!"

Dumbledore nodded with some gravity, but he was keen as well. "I honestly don't believe he knows. We are making assumptions on top of guesswork atop scandal now. I think we should just step back and see for ourselves."

"Hear, hear," said Nigellus peremptorily. "Let the poor man through the door before you start saddling him with diaper duty and the front page of Hogwarts Hot Gossip. And even if the young lad is Snape's, I think your energies would be far better invested in the child than the father. Merlin only knows what kind of confluence of genes we'll discover."

McGonagall consulted her enrolment list again and said, "Candace Peacock from the Ministry is nominated as his guardian as apparently he's being raised by his Muggle grandparents. They'll be au courants since Charity I suppose. Still, if Candace wants to remain involved well that's nice for young James Servius, at least there's a connection maintained between his Muggle upbringing and the wizarding world."

"Depending on how the meeting goes on Monday," said Dumbledore, "we may need Madam Peacock's assistance in breaking the news. On both fronts. Don't forget, young James will think he's an orphan."

McGonagall looked at her list with a glazed expression. There were close to three-hundred students enrolled for the 2006 – 2007 school year, the numbers mounted steadily each intake reflecting both the population and growing confidence in Hogwarts after the war. The Ministry was growing too, as efforts to maintain the Statute of Secrecy generated the need for ever more extreme and intelligent solutions. Shacklebolt as Minister was working hard, and for the time being had maintained strong and confident relations with the Muggle Prime Minister which helped enormously. And having Potter, Granger and Weasley working there had certainly done wonders from a public relations point of view.

"I think it's going to be a busy year, Albus," she sighed.