The Time For Silence
Characters and main events leading to this story belong to JK Rowling.
ooo
2.
"I have an announcement."
Professor McGonagall stood straight as a wand at the Headmistress' place at the staff table. She was speaking in the huge purple megaphone she used when she was too emotional to cast a Sonorus.
Huddled together at their usual place at the farthest corner of the table, the Slytherin eighth years, those who had been obligated to repeat their year by Ministry decree, showed no interest. What could old McG have to say that would interest them?
Soon after Professor Snape's funeral, the rules had been relaxed and the Slytherin students had been allowed out of the dungeon and onto the grounds. Milly said it was thanks to Professor Grubbly-Plank, but even Tracey was skeptical: Professor Grubbly-Plank had only made a brief appearance for Professor Snape's funeral, just as she had for Dumbledore's. She hadn't been seen since.
Whatever the reason, the Slytherins' life had become slightly easier. They had been employed to help rebuilding the castle and not even Pansy had complained.
Then school had started. A large number of the previous seventh years of all houses had returned to complete their studies. The Slytherin students never mixed with the other houses.
"You'd think we have the Dark Plague," Milly had muttered once.
"You mean the Black Plague", Tracey had corrected her.
"Whatever."
The Slytherins were following Professor Slughorn's advice of keeping a low profile and studying hard. Even Greg took his studies seriously this year. To everyone's surprise, his marks had shot upwards. It was too bad Professor Snape was not there to see it.
Professor McGonagall's voice was definitely not as crisp as usual as she pronounced the next words in the purple megaphone.
"The portrait of Professor Snape has been installed in the Headmistress' office, among the portraits of Hogwarts' previous Headmasters and Headmistresses."
Whispers rustled around the Hall. Only the Slytherins sat in silence. Professor Snape was theirs, despite the fact that he was a war hero, said their resentful faces.
Professor McGonagall stood for a few more minutes, then sat down again, as if she couldn't think of anything to add.
The whispering turned into humming.
The Slytherins exchanged disgusted glances and got up to leave.
"Slytherins, Slytherins!"
Unprecedented occurrence, Professor Slughorn had abandoned his uneaten pudding to hurry over to their table.
"I need to talk to you in the common room."
The prefects bustled around, shepherding the younger students to make sure the whole house of Slytherin gathered in the common room. None of the eighth year Slytherins had been made a prefect. They were not considered valid role models. As usual, they huddled together in a corner, slightly apart from the rest.
Draco didn't occupy the best armchair any more. It stayed empty for Professor Slughorn.
"Professor Snape has a special message for the Slytherins," said Slughorn, looking around at them paternalistically. "He has requested from the Headmistress that all Slytherin students should be allowed to speak to him whenever they wish. Professor Snape cared a lot about you," he added, quite unnecessarily.
"Appointments need to be scheduled, though, as I am sure many of you will wish to take advantage of this special favour."
A few students got up, followed by more, until a long line had formed in front of Professor Slughorn.
Only the eighth years remained seated.
When all the younger students had fixed an appointment with Professor Snape, Professor Slughorn got up from his comfortable armchair and came over to them.
First he leaves his pudding, then the best armchair, thought Blaise. He really is taking this to heart.
Tracey broke the silence.
"I would like to speak to him."
Her voice trembled slightly.
"Good," said Slughorn, adding her name to the list.
"What about you? Malfoy?"
Draco glared. But his glares had lost a lot of venom since the end of the war.
"I have nothing to say to him."
"Perhaps he has something to say to you."
"I don't want to hear it. He should have told me before..." Draco's voice broke. He got up and left.
"Goyle?" said Slughorn, as Greg's eyes followed Draco's retreat.
"What would I say to him?"
"He might have something to say to you."
The man was persistent, you could give him that.
"He wants to talk to me?" said Greg, looking incredulous.
"I think he does." Slughorn had never spoken to Greg in such a gentle voice. In fact, he had never spoken to Greg at all.
Greg shrugged.
"If he wants."
"I'll put your name down then. Theodore?'
"Yes, I'll talk to him."
"Blaise?"
Slughorn waited patiently, as Blaise hesitated.
"I haven't finished the essay," he blurted out finally.
"The essay?" repeated Slughorn. "What essay?"
Pansy giggled mirthlessly. Daphne glared at her.
"He gave me an essay. It's not finished."
"When did he give you an essay?"
"When he was alive."
The words seemed to freeze in the cold dungeon air. Nobody was looking at anyone else. Checkmate cuddled up to Milly who hid her face in the cat's fur.
"Are you going to finish it?"
"Yes. Then I'll bring it to him."
ooo
'Your business, Zabini, is to stop being destructive and begin to use your potential," Professor Snape had said.
Blaise could still hear that cold voice. He could also hear Snape's last words to the little group of seventh years on the night of the battle.
"Just stay out of the way, then."
Was that advice for life?
But there was still the essay.
The others were all in their beds, the curtains drawn. Theo and Greg had taken an appointment with Professor Snape. Draco hadn't.
Yet Professor Snape 's presence, in everyone's mind, was almost palpable.
Blaise pulled out the old smudgy parchment, full of scribbles and cross-outs.
"What I think needs to be changed in the wizarding world
Everything (crossed out)
The world shouldn't be ruled by Gryffindors, because Gryffindors are always making everything worse. And because they hate Slytherins. And because their blood is polluted, which pollutes their brain."
Blaise had been sure Professor Snape would agree with that. He had been one of the few second years to listen to Professor Snape's talk about the Chamber of Secrets and his explanations about Salazar Slytherin's reasons for being opposed to Muggle-borns studying at Hogwarts, or at least, being accepted in Slytherin. But he had been a second year student, then, and not too worried about Muggle-borns, which meant that much of it had escaped his attention.
Professor Snape had said something very strange, though. He had said that Muggle-born's souls were too fragile to approach Dark magic. Then he had embarked in his "ever-changing and eternal" stuff and the absurdity of the Ministry's classification of what was considered Dark magic, to the sniggers of part of the audience.
"It's not the spells themselves, but the intention behind them. Most spells have a dark potential."
"So Muggle-borns should be kept away from most spells?" someone had said.
It was strange to remember Snape's speech about Muggle-borns, now that the Daily Prophet had widely expanded on his unrequited love for Potter's mother, of all people. The Slytherins preferred to dismiss the rumour as one more of Rita Skeeter's sensationalist lucubrations that had very little to do with truth.
No one would ever have the courage to mention it to Professor Snape, even in portrait form.
Could Blaise still talk of blood pollution? It wasn't politically correct any more, but did Blaise care about politically correct?
What did Blaise care about? Truth? There wasn't enough of that around and the little there was tended to be ugly.
How else did the world need to be changed?
Blaise still had no idea. Unlike the Dark Arts, the world was 'never changing and eternal'.
Did Blaise want Muggle-borns out of the school? That Granger, for example. She had her use, as a scape-goat, as the incarnation of what was to hate. Blaise tried to imagine the school without Muggle-borns. Only Slytherins and self-righeous bloodtraitors would be left.
"The world shouldn't be ruled by Gryffindors."
Should it be ruled by Slytherins? House allegiance demanded that he answer yes.
The world had nearly been ruled by the Dark Lord, who was a Slytherin. Would that have been better?
Blaise had tried to write the essay many times. He had tried during his fifth year, his sixth and his seventh. He had tried after hearing of Professor Snape's death, and after the funeral. Each time, he had ended up throwing the parchment away in frustration. Professor Snape was dead. What was the use? Did his portrait care about the essay he had once given to one Blaise Zabini? Do portraits care about things?
Madam Zabini kept her portraits in the attic, where they bothered no one. One day, when his mother had been busy with her latest suitor (Blaise couldn't remember which one it was), little Blaise had crept up to see them. He had found a bunch of grumpy old men and women with red noses, who couldn't stop sneezing because of the dust. In the end, one of them, a beautiful woman whose nose was slightly less red, had ordered him to get the house-elves to clean the attic. Blaise didn't know if they had. He hadn't gone back.
Portraits were grouchy, sneezy, not very interesting things, he had decided. They served only to prove that his blood was pure.
Professor Snape's portrait, on the other hand, would not be covered in dust. The school elves probably cleaned the Headmistress' office several times a day, now that it was McGonagall.
If it weren't for the bloody essay, would Blaise want to consult Professor Snape?
The truth, that thing he disliked, hit him like a Bludger: he would.
Once more, he crumpled his parchment and pushed it under his pillow. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. And if he finally did, it would only be to dream of all the men who had walked into his life and then out, the last of them being Professor Snape.
As quietly as possible, Blaise pulled the curtain open. If his dorm mates heard him, they didn't acknowledge it. Each was busy fighting his own ghosts.
Blaise reached for slippers and night gown and tiptoed out of the room, up the cold stone stairs to the common room.
He had to speak to Professor Snape. He needed it so badly his stomach twisted like an agonising Basilisk.
How could he get to the Headmistress' office in the middle of the night without humiliating himself by calling Professor Slughorn?
"I'm coming with you."
Blaise turned around, surprised that Draco's pale complexion didn't glow in the dark.
"Where?" he asked stupidly.
"Where you're going, of course," said Draco in an irritated tone.
"Where am I going?"
"Speak lower or we'll have the stupid prefects on our case. You don't need me to tell you where you're going."
They glared at each other in the dark. It was good to have someone to glare at.
They crept out of the common room, up the stone steps and into the Entrance Hall.
"Where's the bloody HM's office?" muttered Blaise.
"Norris," whispered Draco.
"What?"
Mrs Norris peered at them, her eyes gleaming in the dark. Filch would be there in a second. Perhaps if they mentioned Professor Snape, it would help. Professor Snape had always been good to Filch, even though he was a Squib.
But instead of Filch, another gleaming-eyed cat joined Mrs Norris.
"We could hex these cats," began Blaise doubtfully, "but if Filch finds out..."
'You had better not," said Professor McGonagall.
Not only did they have another Gryffindor headmistress, but she was an Animagus.
"I am glad to see you," continued Professor McGonagall. "This vigil was getting tedious. Professor Snape said I should be expecting you. Follow me."
Were they going to be punished? Or just brought to Snape's portrait?
It seemed as if Professor McGonagall had meant the latter, but the only thing you could be sure about with her was that she hated Slytherin.
And perhaps even that was not true.