The Offer

It was a dazed walk for Snape from the Headmaster's Tower to the Hospital Wing, requiring the navigation of moving staircases which, in the throes of a – literally – blinding migraine, slowed him down considerably. Eventually he pushed open the heavy wooden door to the ward with nothing more complex on his mind than to find a semi-comfortable place on which to lie prone and shut his eyes.

The Wing seemed deserted on entry, the vaulted ceilings and empty, steel-framed beds adding to a welcome sense of seclusion. The warm day flooded through the arched windows and, with his wand, Snape slammed the shutters on them all and then with a groan, lay down on the nearest cot and placed a spare pillow over his head. Seeing as Madam Pomfrey was clearly away, he would get up again in a little while and raid her cabinets for something.

It felt like he'd had respite for no more than two minutes when he heard the door to Pomfrey's office bang open and footsteps hurry along the stone floor towards him. So she was here after all.

"Poppy – I'm sorry I didn't -," he began, eyes still covered by a pillow.

"Who are you?" demanded a voice towards the end of his bed, which he recognized at the same time the voice exclaimed, "Professor?"

He took the pillow away and squinted in the direction of the voice. "Madam -?"

It wasn't Madam Pomfrey. The person who was standing there, looking as dumbfounded as he felt, was Diaphne, of the Hogsmeade coven, his Healer, and she was dressed in a robes similar to the lime-green ones at St Mungo's.

"Diaphne?!"

"Professor Snape!"

They stared at each other. His brain was hurting so much he simply couldn't do anything else.

"You have one of your migraines?" she asked with concern, recovering her composure. He nodded dumbly; she had tended dozens of them when he was in the infirmary. He distractedly noted she looked older – well she would, it must have been six or seven years since he'd last seen her, she wasn't a girl anymore. Or perhaps it was that her slightly wild auburn hair was neatly pinned up and she was carrying a clipboard.

"I'll get the Headache Helper," she said decisively, moving to go. "And some Dreamless Sleep."

"No…no, where is that potion you used at the…at the infirmary…I want some of that."

She hesitated, her eyes wide. "I'm sorry Professor Snape, that isn't an approved potion, I can't use that here."

"But it worked!" he gasped and lay flat again before everything inside threatened to come back out.

"Diaphne, who is it?" came Madam Pomfrey's voice from the end of the wing where her office was.

"It's Professor Snape!" called back Diaphne. "With a migraine."

A pause and then: "What?!" said Pomfrey loudly, sounding utterly incredulous. "That's impossible!"

"Poppy…" groaned Snape, half in hopes of abbreviating the routine of shocked recognition and obvious questions. "It is indeed I. I though the hospital was empty."

Madam Pomfrey hurried just shy of a run and stopped alongside Diaphne, staring at him.

"You're alive!" Her eyes popped and she covered her mouth with a hand.

"Technically."

"But…how?"

The irony of the moment was not lost on him, despite the pounding pain in his head. His life-saver stood right next to Pomfrey, Diaphne knew better than he did how it had come to pass that he was still alive, wishing he could die again. Because his eyes were covered by the pillow, he couldn't see Diaphne's face, but he noticed she didn't say a word. Evidently she worked here now, as some kind of nursing assistant.

Rather than answer Pomfrey, he held up a limp hand and shook it slightly, the equivalent of a headshake.

"Migraine, did you say?" Pomfrey asked Diaphne.

"Yes, there's swelling – I – I mean, he described it as feeling like a swelling…"

"Why didn't McGonagall tell me he was here?" Pomfrey said suddenly and with no small amount of indignation. "Did she bring him down?"

"No Madam, he found his own way here I think."

"My head," moaned Snape, reminding them.

"Right. Well let's fix him up, he sounds terrible. Headache Helper. And maybe some of that Muggle Ibuprofen."

"Doesn't work," muttered Snape. He longed for Diaphne's potion.

"Maybe some Dreamless Sleep?" suggested Diaphne. "He's always better -," He heard her check herself with a frustrated sigh. "Migraines are usually much better after a sleep," she corrected.

"Yes, fine. Might as well make him comfortable. Remove his shoes and put blankets on him…he could be here for a few hours. I'll contact Minerva. I'm assuming she knows he's in the Castle at least."

Pomfrey hurried away to her stores, and he was left alone with Diaphne who set about pulling off his boots. She'd done that dozens of times as well. She used to give his feet and calves a quick massage, but she didn't do that today and he felt a slight pang.

"Are you comfortable?" she asked in a low voice as she placed a blanket over him then laid a cool palm on his forehead. There was a moment while she waited until she knew they were completely alone, then she said, "Have you come back to work here?"

He was able to nod his head slightly. Then he asked through a clenched jaw, "And do you work here now?"

"Yes. Madam Pomfrey was hiring for a nursing aide and I applied immediately. It meant I could return to Hogsmeade. The Coven need a new Priestess and I have acquired enough study from the Wicce now."

"You're supposed to have a NEWT in several subjects to be a Healer, Diaphne. Does Madam Pomfrey know who you apprenticed with?"

"Of course not! And you promised never to tell either."

"I will not," said Snape, enjoying the cool touch of her palm. The popping lights behind his eyes seemed to dull a little.

Madam Pomfrey returned, her heels clipping on the stone floor, starched robes rustling. She came to the side of the bed looking down at him, and Diaphne stepped aside to give her room. "I can hardly believe it. Where on earth have you been, Professor?"

"Another time, Poppy," suggested Snape.

"Here. Take this, and this. Two of these," she handed two small vials and two capsules with a glass of water to Snape, who downed the lot quickly and lay back down. "Diaphne and I will be in the office. Diaphne is working here for the time being – excellent skills. We have almost three-hundred on the roll this year and it's too much for me on my own." She stopped to watch him a little, but as he lay unmoving or speaking, she said, "Now to sleep. We'll check on you presently."

The two Healers walked back to the Hospital Office; he heard the door shut behind them, and Snape was alone.

Behind the roaring pain was the terrible shock of earlier, a shock he couldn't even put words to yet, but he had swiftly and firmly bolted it down in the strongest mental safe he could find. It was like having an angry Erumpent loose in his head – approaching it again would need to be planned very carefully. For now, it was becalmed, and he backed away from it as quietly and inconspicuously as he could, then he allowed himself to walk into the black of dreamless sleep. He would worry about it – worry about everything – later.

Later seemed like barely minutes. "Professor Snape, wake up now." Madam Pomfrey's voice, and there was a gentle but persistent shaking of his shoulder.

He roused.

"I remember he had them once or twice when the Order was reconvened. I assumed stress was the cause," said a voice with a soft Scottish brogue at the foot of the bed. McGonagall.

"Yes, I remember as well," said Madam Pomfrey. "But not as bad as this one. His speech was slurred and he couldn't open his eyes."

The migraine under discussion had, mercifully, receded to garden-variety headache proportions and he sat up in the bed.

"How are you Severus?" asked McGonagall quickly with a stern teacher's eye. "You've been asleep three hours, we thought we better wake you in case…in case there was somewhere you needed to be."

He glanced about looking for Diaphne, but she was nowhere. It was almost as if he'd imagined it, like a pain-induced vision. "Thank you," he said, with a heavy sigh. "Three hours? I apologise, I didn't mean to encroach -,"

"Not at all. We are not in the slightest inconvenienced – only concerned. These migraines, Severus – are they getting worse?"

He gave the slightest shrug. "Not in frequency but perhaps…perhaps in intensity. I didn't know my speech was slurred."

Pomfrey looked at him keenly. "Professor – have you had a blow to the head at some point? I wonder if you shouldn't get this looked at by a Healer at St Mungos?"

He thought about the constant Legilimens invasions by Voldemort, the cruciatus curses he'd been subjected to, the hundreds of experimental potions he'd tried. Could have been anything that started it.

"Thank you, Poppy, I'll consider that." Snape swung his legs off the bed and commenced putting on his boots. "Minerva, I apologise, you must have things you need to do. I'll return home now and trust that I'll hear from you?"

"Uh…" McGonagall cleared her throat and blinked several times indicating indecisiveness and said, "I – I was thinking of dining in Hogsmeade tonight and, well, there is much to discuss and, well, if you're not otherwise engaged..?"

He looked at her steadily. It sounded like she was asking him on a dinner date, but he knew her too well for that. It was company she sought, not romance. The Head position was a lonely one, this he knew all too well: Dumbledore had mastered the art of staying firmly in charge even while he maneuvered his staff around to his personal gain, keeping proximity enough just to keep isolation at bay without crossing that sacred threshold. McGonagall was both trying to duplicate the strategy and genuinely fill a hole that Dumbledore had left. She felt lonely. He offered a smile and nodded. "I am not otherwise engaged, it would be a pleasure to dine tonight."

Awkwardness over, she became matronly again, she was standing in front of Pomfrey after all. "Very good. It's just coming up to four pm now. Shall we convene at six? I'll meet you at the front entrance."

"I look forward to it."

There was still the position to secure. She and Dumbledore had made all the right noises, but there hadn't officially or formally been an offer made. He would continue to put his best foot forward.

McGonagall made a little bow of her head and then swept away out of the Hospital Wing, permitting him to finish putting his boots on, then stand and straighten his jacket. Madam Pomfrey made a show of stripping back the sheets of the bed.

"Professor Snape," she said, and when he turned to face her she stood straight and looked at him very gravely. "Your sudden and unexpected arrival has…has flummoxed me greatly. Obviously it is a good thing you are not, in fact, deceased. Yet, I was so resigned to the idea of…well, seeing you has upset the order of things somewhat. As you know, I am a great stickler for order. I take it that your presence here at Hogwarts indicates an intention to return. I assume from what the Headmistress was saying…?"

"My hope is that I will be able to resume my post as Potions Master," said Snape, as clearly and unambiguously as he could muster.

"Well then. For all that, I sincerely hope she gives it to you. As you can see, from the appointment of Diaphne, your absence gave rise to more support for me."

So Diaphne hadn't been an apparition. "I don't think they'll take Diaphne from you just because I'm back. That young lady can run rings around me anyway."

"What do you mean?" Pomfrey said sharply, pausing from removing sheets to look at him. "Do you know her?"

He only just realized what he'd said. "I, uh, simply meant that I would be hard-placed to offer the same sort of support that I imagine Diaphne will be able to give you, being a permanently appointed assistant."

She cocked her head slightly, too astute to be satisfied with a concocted answer. But she let it lie. "Her skills are exceptional, but she didn't study here. She said she worked at a remote hospital."

"Hm. Is that so?"

"Do you think it's necessary for her to have qualifications? She has none."

Straight, with his hands behind his back, Snape replied: "I would answer that it depends. If you'll have her do little other than administer sleeping potion and change bedding, then no – she doesn't need formal qualifications. But if she aspires to become a true Healer, then yes, she'll need to acquire a number of NEWTS."

Personally he thought Diaphne had every skill a Healer with letters after his or her name had, and it was unlikely that Hogwarts would teach her anything new. But if she was interested in going down the mainstream path of Healing, it would be fascinating to watch what she would make of Potions, Herbology and Charms.

Poppy Pomfrey held him in her gaze for a moment, and her eyes softened, the corner of her mouth tilted up. "It is truly wonderful that you are home, Professor."

He gave a small smile in return.

Snape used his two hours to wander the castle. Doing so brought home to him ever more clearly the condition of it, and the extent of the damage. His focus, during the battle when he'd been allowed to fight, had been on people, on beings – not bricks and mortar. His ears had been filled with the sounds of a castle toppling all around him, but it had become background noise to the screams of pain that seemed to be everywhere. And so many of them students – an appalling, tragic circumstance – how had this occurred, that mere students were brandishing wands and swords, aged seventeen if that, many dying; it was chilling. At the time he'd been in a self-constructed survival shell, a protection that allowed him to traverse that dreadful tightrope between The Order and the Death Eaters so that neither could really see who or where he was. It meant nothing got examined too closely. But the price on his nerves had started to show: he had become an insomniac during those years – between the shell, the migraines and the exhaustion, his life had become a mere series of movements and decisions that compelled him from second to second, minute to minute and then at some point they became hours. He had become truly indifferent to his own fate, because he was barely living anyway.

On one level he identified with the broken castle. For every wall that had crumbled, another had stood intact and protected someone behind it, the castle had fought bravely as they all had: castles were built for battle after all. But putting it back together, this old, retired ruin, that would be a labour of love. And the cordoned off corridors, the small piles of fractured stone, twisted metal and rotten wood he encountered wherever he walked reminded him that some things, even in the Wizarding world, couldn't be magicked. Some things just took effort. Will and dedication. The castle now relied on them.

His autopilot took him to the Ground Floor and from there the Great Hall. Whether it had fared better during the battle, or whether it had been prioritised for repair, he wasn't sure, but he was relieved to see it comparatively intact. He surmised that the House tables had been extended, for the walkway between the entrance door and the ends of the tables was narrower, and that they'd obviously received a spruce up at the same time, for they seemed to have a honeyed glow under the sunlight pouring into the room. A walk along the Slytherin table, however, revealed that an eye towards tradition had ensured that years of graffiti hadn't been erased from the wood – decade upon decade of rudimentary scarring and carving pitted the surface so that it was barely possible to find any blank smoothness. He ran his fingers along the table as he slowly approached the High Table.

The Head's chair was still ornate and central, and the mahogany table at which he'd sat innumerable times also had a low, polished sheen. He mounted the steps to the dais and then turned, remembering the grim assemblies here when he was Headmaster, the leadenness he'd felt. He hadn't slept more than a few hours in several weeks, he'd also had a stomach ulcer, Diaphne had discovered. He'd been in a bad way. But right now he found being here a relief. Blessedly quiet.

From the Great Hall his feet, with a will of their own, took him to Slughorn's Stairs. The pull to the Dungeon's was magnetic. He descended the smooth, stone steps lightly into the Dungeon corridor, then came to an abrupt halt. Part of the corridor was segregated by yellow and black striped rope, and great sheets of burlap and timber bracing – mounted with magic nails – protected sections of the corridor wall.

Cautiously he was edging along the pedestrian access towards his old office when he heard voices. From around the corner at the end of the corridor came two men. He recognised them both, but struggled to recall their names. He could tell from their attire: heavy, blue cotton shirts, workman boots and khaki dungarees, as well as thick gloves, that they were builders, and they walked up their end of the corridor talking to each other until they spotted him. Then they too stopped.

Snape raised an awkward hand in greeting. "Hello, uh, I was just making my way to the Potions Office -,"

"Professor Snape!" said the younger of the two men. He was no more than in his early twenties and had a shock of dusty, straw-coloured hair and sideburns. The face – the face was familiar, but who..?

"That's right!" said the older man, who resembled the younger enough for Snape to deduce they were related. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"Uh…lucky escape…" Snape replied lightly. "Can I get to the Office from here?"

"So are you going to be teaching here again?" asked the older man, who approached and stuck out his hand. Snape shook it, and his face clearly revealing a slightly desperate file search for the man's name, he was told: "Amulius Fetherington. We met a while ago – ooh, must've been 93 or 94 – about young Jacob here."

Jacob Fetherington. His first – and so far, only – expulsion. Seeing the memory dawn on Snape's features, Jacob's eyes narrowed slightly and studied him.

"Merlin," said Snape. "You've quite grown. How time flies."

"Jacob's youngest brother is in seventh year this year. That's the lot of them," said Fetherington senior. "None of the others got expelled, I'm happy to say."

No smile or jokiness accompanied this comment and Snape realised that the expulsion had not in any way been forgotten, let alone forgiven.

"All Slytherins, the whole lot," added the father. "Professor Slughorn did a fine job."

"Delighted to hear it," said Snape. "I take it you've been working on the rebuild?"

"Ayuh. Been working on it for six years now – practically one of the staff!"

A forced laugh. "I see. Clearly there's still a lot to do." Snape waved vaguely towards the zoned off section.

"I work for me Dad now," said Jacob, his blond eyebrows drawn together as he stared at Snape. "Haven't used Muggle Studies once the whole time."

The comment – the decision to refer to Muggle Studies – was obviously pointed, but Snape didn't know for the life of him what he meant. But he assumed it was no coincidence – the blank spot in his memory was plainly missing a piece that somehow pertained to Charity Burbage. For some reason, something to do with Burbage and Muggle Studies, Snape had expelled Jacob Fetherington.

"Eh now," muttered the father, and nudged Jacob. "That's long in the past." Then to Snape: "You'll remember Jasper? He was here in 96?"

One of the many Fetherington brothers. Snape did vaguely recall him but he's attentions had been very distracted from teaching by then. Same sort of thatch-like hair if he remembered.

"He wanted to fight in the Battle," continued Amulius. "But was forced to leave with the others into Hogsmeade. I told him to come home, I didn't want him fightin' with Voldemort. Looks like I made the right call."

"A sensible one, I don't doubt. The casualties were atrocious."

"Ayuh, got all me sons back. We was told you were one!"

"A different kind of casualty."

"Ah well, good news I suppose, one less of the departed. So you'll be picking up where Professor Slughorn's leaving off, then?"

"I very much hope to," said Snape, and carefully imbued a tone of finality into his statement. Fetherington picked up on it and waved his hand towards the upper corrido

"In that case you'll remember where your old office is then. Just don't cross the rope – this wall ain't reinforced."

Snape, with relief, nodded his thanks and with a thin-lipped smile at Jacob, turned in the direction of his office. The two builders watched him go for a moment, then turned up the stairs.

The office did not open to his wand. Slughorn, understandably, had changed the locking charm. Slightly frustrated but undeterred, he carried on to the entrance of the Slytherin Common room, and then realised he didn't have the password. The stone wall entrance remained resolutely shut. He sighed heavily and returned the way he'd come.

He was going back up the stairs when he encountered none other than Horace Slughorn coming down them. "Severus!" said Slughorn. "Dear, dear boy!" and he promptly hugged Snape with much backslapping, which was rather precarious on the narrow, winding steps.

"You are unchanged!" declared Slughorn, standing back a little to survey him through his glasses.

"You too – except you have lost a lot of weight!" Snape couldn't help the note of amazement – or rather disbelief - in his voice.

Slughorn slapped his still ample stomach but was clearly delighted with the compliment. "Just met Fetherington in the Main Entrance – he said you were down here. Having a bit of a trip down the ole memory, eh Severus?"

"I couldn't get far, between the rebuilding work and all the locks and passwords changed."

"Come along, I can let you in," said Slughorn, passing and inviting Snape to follow. Snape observed that, along with a flat cap, Slughorn was in boots and carried a walking stick. "You're looking extremely countrified, Horace. I took you more for the urban, south of the border type."

"Oh, I am quite converted, dear boy, I've just put down a deposit in the village. I am quite determined to become a Squire. That Mayor of Hogsmeade must retire eventually, I hear he's a hundred and eight."

It didn't surprise Snape in the slightest. Politics would be perfect for Slughorn.

Together they returned to the Potions Office and Slughorn admitted him. It was largely as he remembered it, perhaps a little dusty. When he rubbed some dirt off a display case, Slughorn shrugged and looked apologetic. "Oh dear, between the masonry work and the Elvish Decree, I'm afraid the dust has quite overtaken us."

"It is exactly as I remember it," said Snape politely.

"I must say, Severus, when Minerva told me the news, I was delighted, I mean that sincerely, you were unsurpassed in your command of the subject."

Snape accepted the commendation with the barest of nods and let his eyes wander the room, both nostalgia and déjà vu preoccupying him.

"And we shall be working alongside one another!"

Snape looked at him sharply.

"Oh, Minerva didn't mention it? She's offered me Emeritus. And I'll keep on as Head of House for the time being."

"Oh -," Snape's brows rose and he tried to look positive. He didn't mind Slughorn, he really didn't, and Emeritus was glamorous in name only. But Head of House….well, he'd just assumed. "Congratulations."

"Don't worry!" said Slughorn jovially, cheeks reddening. "I won't get in your way. You're quite welcome to the post, mark my words. My retirement was confirmed."

"I'm not at all concerned," Snape said to him, a twitch of a smile. "I will greatly appreciate having you around while I find my feet. And I speak presumptuously – Minerva has not yet offered me the position."

"Oh she will, of course, I'm surprised you're being so formal about it. She asked for my blessing."

"Then it sounds as if I have much to thank you for."

Slughorn became suddenly sombre. "On the contrary, Severus – it became clear, perhaps a little too late - what you did for us. It is I who should be doing the thanking."

Snape shook his head a little, dismissively. "The time, Horace?"

"Oh! Uh, ten to six."

"I am due to meet the Headmistress. Thank you for…thank you."

Slughorn merely snorted and smiled and stepped aside to let Snape pass.

There was only a few minutes to wait by the staircase until McGonagall showed. Snape's headache now completely gone, he acknowledged the mildest pangs of hunger and began to welcome the idea of a meal in Hogsmeade. It was one town he'd given a wide berth during his abscondment and he was ready to see it again.

The front entrance door stood open from where Slughorn had left it. Evening light – still strong this time of year - beat down a heavy heat outside. Dandelion seeds drifted past like a battalion of tiny parachutists. Snape removed his coat and undid his cravat. There had been wizarding places in Europe which recognised the impact of daylight savings on wizards and witches and had set up secret habitats in dark caves. During summer, the local community would flock to the welcome relief of darkness and spend twilight hours there until the moon rose for its meagre allotment.

"Ah, Severus, sorry to keep you," said McGonagall appearing at the top of the stairs. "Do you have any preferences about where we should eat?"

She'd turned business-like to hide her slight embarrassment about the perception of a dinner date. And yet she'd changed for the occasion into something uncharacteristically floaty and matched it with a broad-rimmed sunhat - it took years off her. He decided not to mention it, however, for fear of drawing attention.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Is it much changed? What do you recommend, since I haven't been there in years?"

"Well," she smiled. "I'm sure you're keen to reminisce about the Three Broomsticks. Plus, it's a bit darker."

"Darker is good."

They set off and made a brisk walk of it, McGonagall regretting – halfway – her floaty-appropriate sandals instead of boots and they apparated the remainder. At the early hour, the Broomsticks was largely empty, and Snape had only moments to cast a quick look around the main street of Hogsmeade before McGonagall had gone through the front door of the Inn and called for Madam Rosmerta.

There was the usual exclamations of surprise and disconcertment from Rosmerta at Snape's arrival, and then they were seated at a table well away from the window, each with a whisky, Snape's coat hung on a nearby hook. A few minutes of perusing the menu and giving their orders to a still flustered Rosmerta, then McGonagall took a quick gulp of her drink and said, "Severus, I know you won't be surprised when I tell you that Dumbledore and I have discussed it, and we think you'll be perfect for Potions Master. It almost seems silly to mention it. But – well, I am bound by certain procedures and admin, I can't escape it. So please, excuse my ridiculous formality by asking you whether you'd care to accept?"

Surprisingly, Snape felt a weight lift. It had appeared in the bag, but it was still a relief to have it confirmed. "Of course I accept, Ma'am. Thank you."

"Ma'am?"

"You are Headmistress. I felt better calling Dumbledore sir."

"In what century were you born, Severus? It's 2006."

"I prefer it," he replied stubbornly.

She laughed, the whisky was quick on her, she was so slight. "As you wish. You see, I have reason for the scepticism."

He raised a brow.

"I've thought long and hard about this. When I say that, I mean about an hour. I want you to be Deputy."

Both brows were raised.

"You have the capacity. Slughorn retains Head of House and…well frankly I have no Deputy and your experience is…well you're overqualified if I'm perfectly honest but…I urgently need a 2IC, Severus."

He modestly considered his whisky. "This is unexpected -,"

"Oh you don't need to do any of that false thing. Severus, I need us to work as a team, I need you to know everything and I need to trust you with everything. I know Dumbledore did. I want the same. The offer is twofold, and it's my final offer."

He smiled at her. The only person he could see himself getting along with as well as he did Dumbledore would be McGonagall. "In that case, if you insist."

"I do. And now, raise in toast please: to the new Potions Master and Deputy of Hogwarts – Slainte mhath. And to all who sail in her." After the requisite sip, McGonagall said, "I will send the paperwork to you by owl."

Snape raised his tumbler and toasted, and then they were joined by Madam Rosmerta who brought them their first course, which was garlic mussels and bread.

After eating a bit, Snape's rumbling stomach starting to appease, McGonagall said, "I must say, you seem very composed given your news earlier. Migraine much better?"

"Yes, fully recovered. But as for the news, it's simply too hard."

"Too hard?"

"I don't know how to process it. I simply can't fathom it. I – I've put it away."

"Put it away where?" asked McGonagall in genuine surprise, her eyebrows skyward.

"Somewhere safe. For now."

"Well I hope you haven't thrown away the key, for I have been in touch with Candace Peacock, who is guardian of the young Burbage, and who is due to get in touch with him in mere days. He'll have received his letter by now."

"Candace Peacock?" Snape echoed, thinking hard. "Isn't she with the Ministry?"

"Aye, the Accidents and Catastrophes Department, she was Department Manager for a while but stepped down. She took on Charity Burbage's case, which is why she voluntarily looks out for the boy."

"Charity Burbage had a case?"

McGonagall looked openly at him for several seconds and shook her head slightly. "We really must find out what happened to your memory."

"If something did. I'm still not convinced about that. You'd think I'd know if something happened to my memory."

"Not necessarily at all," said McGonagall as if it were quite simple.

Snape busied himself dipping his fingers and wiping his hands on a serviette. "Alright then. So what did you tell Ms Peacock?"

"Madam to you, young whippersnapper. I told her you were alive and – mostly – well and coming back to work. And then there was a strange ruckus at her fireplace because, presumably, she hit the floor in a dead faint. When she came back to the Floo, we agreed on next steps. I of course explained the difficulty of the situation, that being your complete lack of memory and latent denial."

"Good. And next steps?"

"She is going to break the news to the laddie – (he goes by Servius by the way, we were at cross purposes for a while because I kept referring to him as James) - and to his grandparents. Then we agreed it would be best if you two made your acquaintance before school starts."

Snape pondered on this rather cynically, glad at least that insult wouldn't be added to injury in having a son named James, while Rosmerta – who kept looking at Snape as if he were a zombie – cleared their mussels and brought them a bottle of wine.

"Made our acquaintance? And how do you expect that to go? Rushing into each other's arms?"

McGonagall swirled her wine around in her glass. "Well you can be as acerbic as you like, Severus. He will remain your son. Perhaps you should try and make the best of it."

"I hope someone from their party will be bringing some kind of evidence."

"Funny you should say that. Candace did propose a Muggle solution which is paternity testing. I said perhaps we should start at the beginning and have a good hard look at him. I'm sure if there's a resemblance to be had, it will be obvious by now."

There was a strange shimmy in Snape's insides at the prospect of meeting someone who might resemble him. "Well Papus save him if he does."

McGonagall cast him an admonishing look.

Their meals arrived and they ate in companionable silence. Around them, patrons were arriving, the regulars taking their usual places and starting on their first tankards of Butterbeer. The evening light now almost horizontal, Rosmerta was going from window to window and shuttering them, and blasting trapped bluebottles and bumblebees with her wand. "Hot one today, eh lads?" she asked and there was a raucous response of agreement up at the bar. One regular, who'd just arrived, sidled up and thrust a posy of wildflowers at her, which she accepted with a coy flourish and pinched his cheek as if he were Sleepy of the Seven Dwarves.

"At any rate," said McGonagall, dabbing her mouth, "Candace will be in touch with you to set up a time and date. I thought it should be somewhere neutral and she said she had planned on taking Servius to Diagon Alley for his school books and robes. Severus, I think it would be a wonderful bonding opportunity for you to help him purchase his school supplies."

"Seriously? My first meeting and I'm to be financially beholden to him?"

"We're talking a few books, Severus. You know you like bookshops. It would be nice for you both."

Snape rolled his eyes and thinned his lips, feeling hopelessly confused about this runaway news that torpedoed into his world at around eleven that morning. How could it be that he woken this morning single and childless, and now, less than twelve hours later, had apparently fathered a son as a result of an allegedly intense relationship with a woman he barely knew.

Taking some metaphorical steps back, as if to retrace them and validate that they did in fact lead to this place, he said: "Ma'am – I mean, Minerva – please explain how it is that this news has come to the fore now, and not at the time when Charity Burbage died? I mean, this Servius, is eleven. Therefore he was born in 1994. I was around, she was around. Why didn't she tell me? Why didn't anyone else know then?"

"She did tell you," said McGonagall bluntly. "She sent you the Patronus. And I'm assuming, since you had no idea who it was from, that you didn't reply. She must have surmised you wanted nothing to do with the child and decided to raise the bairn herself. I understand, from what Dumbledore has told me, she left Hogwarts because she knew that your role as double agent would make a relationship with a Muggle-born untenable. She had to go into virtual hiding herself."

"She was Muggle-born?" Snape repeated in disbelief. "The whole things sounds so unlike me. Then when she died, that was 1998. Again, I was still around. Why didn't Candace Peacock come to me then?"

McGonagall waved a fork, and as soon as she'd finished her mouthful, replied "The height of the war, Severus. She probably thought, given you'd murdered Dumbledore, you were a Death Eater. Would you hand a three-year old over to a violent Death Eater?"

That was a good point.

"And then of course, quite simply, everyone thought you'd died. And now the time is right – well the news has broken in the space of six hours. Nobody was trying to keep this news from you Severus, not even Charity. Servius has grown up in the belief he's an orphan. Perhaps you should stop thinking about your own grievance so much." She cocked a supercilious brow at him.

Snape was smarting a little. And it didn't seem to help that no angle he took on the matter provided any way out of it. When it became apparent to McGonagall that he had descended into brooding, his eyes shadowed in the half-light of the cavern and his food being shoved around his plate, she moderated her tone a little and said, "I can understand the news being a shock. But Severus, why are you so resistant to the idea? Why aren't you happy to learn you're a father?"

"I don't like surprises," he answered gruffly.

"Not even good ones?"

"Why are you so sure this is a good surprise?"

She tilted her head reflectively. "Well…the widely accepted view is that being able to bear healthy children with someone you love is a good thing."

"I don't love Charity Burbage – I didn't even know her. And now this is dumped on me."

"Well…there must have been some agreement to the idea at the time, even if you don't remember it. I mean, she wasn't the reckless type, I'm assuming there was some level of parental planning involved!"

Snape sat back in his chair and swigged his wine. He all but folded his arms obstinately. "Then she didn't try very hard to tell me if this child was planned. One Patronus?"

"Och. True."

A pause in the conversation, while Snape's anger and resentment began to morph into something much closer to the truth of the matter, at a much more primal level.

"What if he's horrible? What if I hate him?" he asked sullenly and took a long gulp of wine, welcoming the dulling of his nerves, the capsizing of his care.

"You mean like Harry?"

"Yes. Well, I mean, there won't be any James Potter in him, but one thing I have learnt about myself is that I am well and truly capable of loathing a child."

"But Servius is your own flesh and blood! There will be instincts that kick in -,"

Snape's eyes finally lifted and he looked at her. "You think it's different with your own?"

McGonagall could see that Snape wasn't purposefully and deliberately intent on disliking or rejecting Servius, but that he was badly afraid.

"I don't have children, Severus, but from years and years as a teacher, I've learnt a lot about what parents go through. As have you. And though many of them really struggle with their kids, for the vast majority their instinct won't let them abandon them. Yes, I think it's different with your own."

McGonagall reached across the table and patted his hand as he succumbed to the yawning chasm he'd been skirting around since the beginning.

"I don't know how to be a father."