FRIDAY, 14 AUGUST
Minerva sat at the desk in the Headmaster's office. Her desk in the Headmistress 's office, she reminded herself.
She flipped through stacks of applications for the Muggle Studies, Potions and DADA positions for the umpteenth time. She'd more or less settled on her choice for Muggle Studies, and would only have to interview maybe two or three other promising candidates, she thought, to be absolutely certain. It was not a subject she wanted neglected, in light of recent events. She'd never paid much attention to it before, but after everything that had happened, she thought a bit more understanding and bit less overall chauvinism in Magical community could do none of them any great harm.
She'd have to start winnowing the other two stacks down and contacting some for interviewing soon, by the middle of the next week at the absolute latest, or the Board of Governors would start asking questions she did not care to answer. She had delayed as long as she possibly could. She'd truly thought he'd eventually see reason. Why could he not at least consider it?
She'd heard Severus's detailed protestations about upsetting parents with his checkered past at least three times now, but he's hardly the most dubious instructor Hogwarts has seen, not by a long shot. At least he had never deliberately put his students in the way of serious harm, which could not be said for many of the rest of them.
Minerva herself had occasionally been guilty of allowing the more arrogant of her pupils to learn their error the hard way, but only the truly foolish believed magic could be learned in absolute safety, anyway. Perhaps it was the Gryffindor in her coming out, but she had never considered Hogwarts a place for the timid or weak of heart.
What was he even doing, all this time? She thought of what she'd seen of his home in Cokeworth and its surroundings and her heart ached. She could not imagine a more oppressive place. He'd grown up in that house, she knew. He never spoke of his childhood, never sat over a drink in the staffroom reminiscing over childhood anecdotes like some of them did. Of course, she'd overheard plenty over the years, in the hallways whispered between students, and repeated in the staffroom with even less propriety, both when he was a student and after he'd returned to teach.
There had been rumors of an alcoholic Muggle father and a pureblood mother who seemed to have all but forgotten she was ever a witch, gleefully passed around among her young Gryffindors, particularly the friends of James Potter and Sirius Black, who had found their peer's struggles at home a source of levity. How they had even heard such things, Minerva was unsure, although perhaps in some moment of annoyance or poor judgment, Lily Evans had let slip a few details in the common room.
She drained her teacup, thinking now that she should have said something to them, all those years ago. She had never been one to get wrapped up in the adolescent dramas of her charges, preferring to let them sort through their social difficulties amongst themselves. It was hard at her age to admit an old error, but she could not deny that she had failed him, and probably many other equally vulnerable students besides. She'd do well to pay better attention, she thought, as Headmistress.
She picked up the stack of Potions master applicants again, scanning over each CV one by one. None of them really stuck out at her. They all met the minimum qualification for experience, coming mostly from apothecary backgrounds; one had brewed healing potions for St Mungo's for nearly a decade, but that did not necessarily indicate an aptitude for passing on that knowledge effectively, or for any broader understanding of the subject as a whole.
Minerva had known enough workaday, lab-bench brewers over the years to think poorly of them as a category and knew that Severus had a special contempt for them bordering on outright scorn. They tended to hold fast to official methods and were often hidebound and uncreative, rarely willing to experiment or improve upon old formulations. Most were proficient in the process and were able to remember the steps to a wide variety of potions by rote, but often had an incomplete grasp of the conceptual side of the art.
She thought of Severus spending his days doing the same in some back room in Cokeworth, supplying the usual clients with the usual formulations again and again, maybe occasionally dabbling in his own formulations only to find them rejected outright by the uneducated and skeptical who baulked at the notion of changing anything like they were allergic, despite any greater efficacy or diminished side effects.
The DADA applicants were only marginally better, but perhaps the reputation of the post still discouraged many. She did not think the position would be jinxed any longer, now that Voldemort was officially as dead as fencepost, and good riddance. One retired professional curse-breaker might be suitable, Minerva thought, but the woman was asking for rather more than the standard salary for her trouble and the school governors were unlikely to concede to the demand if she were unwilling to compromise.
Minerva stood and made her way around to the staircase and up to the private quarters she'd finally finished moving her things into. Digging through a cardboard box she hadn't yet had time to unpack, she found a half-empty bottle of firewhisky and poured herself a glass.
SATURDAY, 16 AUGUST
Severus had not left his house other than a few brief trips to the small Muggle grocery a few blocks away since the day he'd left his ailing son in the care of others at St. Mungos on the boy's birthday. What use could Harry possibly have for a man like him? Arthur Weasley was a better choice by far in every respect if he still desired a father figure in his life.
Severus had seen the parchment the boy had been waving about, the Ministry seal at the top and the boy's ecstasy telling him all he needed to know. The Ministry of Magic had foolishly waived the requirement for N.E.W.T.s results and an entire year of education, no doubt. He thought of a whole batch of unqualified Aurors mucking about all over the country in a couple of years, Harry at the front of the pack. Harry should be made to go back to Hogwarts and finish properly, but knew it was impossible to sway the impatience of youth when a shortcut was offered.
He knew the seventh year potions curriculum like the back of his own hand, he could teach the boy himself in less than half the usual time if— Severus shook his head, wondering where the absurd idea had entered. They could hardly stand to be in same room together for any length of time. Well, it had been that way, until...
Severus had spent the prior evening and half the morning sifting through every cabinet and drawer and untidy stack of ingredients he had, looking for more powdered bicorn horn. He could have sworn he'd had another full jar some place, but it was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it had been smashed when that Otterburn woman had dropped in for her friendly little visit.
There was nothing for it, though. He would have to go into Diagon Alley. There were a few other things he needed to pick up, anyway. He was unwilling to keep an owl in a Muggle town and could not order by post, and so he had no other choice.
Harry sat with Ron, Hermione and Ginny inside Fortescue's, eating melting sundaes in the August heat. Hermione and Ginny had several shopping bags each, full of supplies for their seventh year at Hogwarts.
"I don't know why you won't go back, Harry. Even if the Ministry is going to offer extra tutoring, that's not the same as a real Hogwarts education, and you know it. And that goes for you too, Ron."
Ron shrugged and shoved another spoonful of dripping ice cream and chocolate sauce into his mouth, clearly tired of this argument. There was no denying that Hermione was serious about school, always had been, but Harry was fed up and done with it and ready for something else, and that was the end of it for him. The defeat of Voldemort had, indeed, drawn a deep line across his life, and returning felt like going backwards. He wasn't sure he could stand walking the same halls where so many had died every day for months, either.
"Yeah, I do know, Hermione. But I've already sent everything in. I'm even getting my Apparition license finally, they know I've made the appointment. I'll know for sure by next week if they've let me in or not, but Mr Weasley already told me they'd all but admitted to him that they were ready to accept me before I even filled out the application.
"I mean, I did finish off Voldemort, and that's got to count for something. I've wanted this for a really long time, Hermione. I'm not putting it off another year. There's more important things than exams."
Hermione signed, pushing the mostly liquid remnants of her treat over to Ron, who picked it up and drank the melted ice cream straight from the bowl while Ginny rolled her eyes at his lack of table manners.
"Yea, I know that, too, I really do these days. But they're not unimportant either. I just don't want the two of you out there unprepared, you know? Voldemort might be dead and most of his Death Eaters with him, but that doesn't mean there aren't dangerous wizards and witches still out there. Or will be, sooner or later. I mean, look what happened to your father! And Mrs Otterburn wasn't really even a dark witch, just a desperate one. What if you get hurt because you didn't know something you could have learned?"
Harry pulled a bright red cherry out of its swimming pool in the bottom of his bowl and plucked the fruit off the stem between his teeth, enjoying the tangy sweetness before replying.
"I guess we'll just have to get you to fill us in, then. We can meet up and compare notes, if you want. If you don't think the tutors are giving us what we need, I'm sure you'll let them know." And Merlin help them if they earn your wrath, he added in his own head.
Hermione leaned back in her seat, apparently giving in, at least for the moment. "I suppose we can do that, on Hogsmeade weekends and holidays, anyway. Well, Ginny and I need to head over to Flourish and Blotts if you want to split up, I can't imagine you have much interest in hanging about in book shops anymore. We can meet up again at George's later?"
Harry nodded, feeling vaguely insulted at the bookshop remark but letting it go. Ginny and Hermione gathered up their shopping and headed toward the door. After a moment's hesitation Ron got up to join them.
"You mind if go with the girls? I haven't been able to spend much time with Hermione this summer and..."
Harry smiled at his friend. "Yea, go on. I'll see you at Wheezes later. I'm thinking it's time for a new broomstick, anyway."
"Can't wait to see what you pick up, then. See you later."
Harry watched Ron join Ginny and Hermione and disappear through the door. He played with the remnants of his sundae for a moment and then stepped back out into the sweltering furnace of the summer afternoon on his own.
Harry shouldered his new Firebolt, an updated version of his old model that cost a bloody fortune (but he'd not been able to resist), and started the walk back to Wheezes to meet up with his friends. The newest Nimbus racing brooms were a better design on the whole, but he felt somewhat sentimental about his old broom, wishing he had not lost it on that final, catastrophic exodus from his Aunt and Uncle's home. It was silly to get attached to possessions, he knew, but he still thought about Sirius. He no longer felt utterly suffocated by guilt and regret, but there was still an ache there, like an old wound troubling him in bad weather.
"Figures you couldn't go too long without another one of those."
Harry turned at the familiar dour baritone. In the past, the endless sarcasm that spilled from the man's mouth like an uncontrollable reflex would have instantly had his dander up, but he was surprised at how little it effected him now.
Instead, he merely spared him half a smile, provoking that subtle quirk of an eyebrow he'd recently realized indicated mild confusion as often as genuine derision.
"Sir?"
Snape stood blinking at him, reminding Harry of the barn owl he still regrettably owed a proper name to, something other than "ruddy bird" at those times she insisted on mouthing at his hair with her beak in some sort of grooming gesture.
Harry shifted the broom to prop it against the cobblestone street when it began to slide from his shoulder, meeting his gaze without demand or ire. He shrugged slightly, trying to be casual about it. After all, the man might be his father, but he was no longer his teacher. He noted the parcel that Snape had gripped in one hand and recognized it from the potions supplier on the other end of the alley. Probably headed down to Knockturn for more specialized ingredients, Harry surmised.
"I suppose you're stocking up before you go back to Hogwarts?"
"I'm not returning."
Harry was slightly taken aback. It had never occurred to him that Snape might leave Hogwarts entirely, however much he did not wish to be Headmaster.
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
Ah, now he's back to normal , Harry thought. Somehow he was bothered less by Snape in the mood for snarking than he was by Snape standing there looking like he'd taken a surprise hit from a bludger.
"Where're you working, then? I mean, if you don't mind telling me."
Snape's gaze drifted impatiently toward the direction of Knockturn Alley, confirming Harry's earlier guess.
"That remains to be seen. I will find something. It is certainly nothing for you to concern yourself over."
"Oh, uh... right. Who told you that you couldn't go back to Hogwarts, though? The Board of Governors? I know Professor McGonagall wouldn't... and I can't imagine that the Ministry—"
Snape had that queer expression again, the one he'd had back at St. Mungos sitting in that chair on across the room on Harry's birthday. Harry had expected him to interrupt his scattered rambling immediately, but Snape had let him talk.
"Are you alright, sir?"
"I'm perfectly fine, Potter. And nobody ordered me to leave, I resigned my post."
Harry stood for a moment, trying to wrap his head around the problem that stood before him, wrapped in entirely too much black cloth for the heat of the season.
"I'm sure Professor McGonagall would give you the Defense position back. Or potions, if you'd rather. You should go back."
Harry watched the Snape's lip curl, but the cutting reply he expected did not follow the familiar gesture. Harry shifted on his feet, an odd sensation washing over him. He realized he could almost feel the man's discomfiture, despite his outer aloofness.
Sympathetic magic , Watkins had called it. Not quite a horcrux lodged in his head this time, but there was a connection there, now, nonetheless, at least if they were standing close enough. He spent half a moment considering the phenomenon and decided he didn't really mind it. A few months ago he would have been absolutely howling at the idea.
Harry tried for a reassuring feeling, mentally pushing it at Snape, although he had no idea whether it could work that way or not. It wasn't quite Legilimency, after all. No, it was something rather more fundamental than that, he thought. He mentally nosed at the connection, trying to feel out its limits. It was a bizarre feeling, like a sixth sense, and not entirely a comfortable one. The primary feedback he received from the thread between them, now that he could sense it, was a bone-deep tiredness coupled with a long-rooted and hopeless feeling of isolation.
He's lonely .
Snape shifted his parcel from one hand to the other, apparently tiring of the weight of it. There must be something sensitive inside it, or he'd have shrunk it into a pocket, Harry thought. He took a gamble and reached out for the package, grabbing it before Snape's shock wore off and, shouldering his broom on the opposite arm, started walking toward Knockturn Alley, pausing after a few steps to look back at the stunned figure behind him.
"You were headed this way, right?"
Severus felt like he'd suddenly stepped into someone else's life, or perhaps a fever dream. He wanted to shout at the boy, push him aside like the annoyance he is, but his mind suddenly felt like it was surrounded by...
He couldn't get his brain to string together the words, the retort, the cutting sarcasm that would send him off in a tiff to go find his friends and complain, wherever they were. Instead, he stood there holding Severus's package by the twine tied around the box, that absurdly expensive new racing broom slung over that bony shoulder, looking at him with a slightly bemused smile.
An odd, soft warmth that had nothing to do with the blaring heat of the day had settled over him, lessening in intensity as Harry had strode away. Severus took an exploratory step forward, then another. By the time he stood next to the boy, he was beginning to understand.
He should resent it, this wretched, unwanted connection that had been forged between them. He tried to empty his mind, to throw up every mental block and misdirection of Occlumency that had formerly kept him alive at Voldemort's right hand. Absolutely nothing changed. It was simply not that type of connection, at all. Why? Because it isn't Legilimency, you fool. It isn't an attack, and therefore, logically, it simply follows that it cannot be defended against, not like that.
The boy had no right to any part of his life, accidental shared blood or no, but the feeling now filling him up like the clean light of day was exhuming every old childhood memory of Lily Evans he had thought he'd buried completely.
Not the arguments and complicated feelings that had taken over after they'd arrived at Hogwarts and were torn apart first by the Sorting Hat and then by everything else in the world, but rather the innocence of those early days, two children laying side by side watching the shadows of leaves moving with the wind and the clouds glimpsed between them rolling by, sharing a dream of magic and escape, nestled in a sanctuary under an old bent oak tree by a river of no account in a forgotten town.
Take the box back and leave him. Forget the bloody box and leave him with all haste, now . Apparate away and forget all of it forever.
Harry turned slowly away from him and began walking again. Severus betrayed himself and followed, head bowed, trailing obediently behind the smaller form of his son as something within him steadfastly refused to let go of the boy's presence.
He was undone, and he knew it, as surely as he knew his own name.
Harry felt Snape following him, the man's emotions churning confusingly. Harry walked slowly across the cobbles of the street, turning into the gap where Knockturn Alley began, the close, overhanging eaves and crooked buildings lending welcome shade.
He felt Snape suddenly receding behind him and stopped, turning.
Snape was leaning into a corner where two buildings met unevenly, his eyes tightly closed.
"Sir?"
Snape raised a hand toward him as if to ward him off, but Harry ignored it and rushed back to him. As he came close, the man began to slide down the wall, falling in a sort of slow motion until he was hunched in the shade.
His inner pain washed over Harry like the crest of wave, catching somewhere in the region of his heart. He propped the broom against the wall and gently set the parcel down on the cobbles before lowering himself against the wall beside Snape. He sat silently next to his father with his arms propped on his knees, staring down at the bit of street between his shoes.
He knew, intuitively, or perhaps informed by the connection between them, that to say anything at all or attempt some gesture of comfort, would only throw more fuel on whatever fire burned within him.
But, oh, he knew what Snape was feeling, at least in some part. He'd felt it before himself, many times, though perhaps he had grown more accustomed to it, somehow.
They all just cared so much. So much, in fact, that it almost burned, sometimes, in a way, like standing too close to a furnace, or trying to look into the sun. And then there were those times he felt like he was burning from the inside, because he cared so much too, and the heat of his own heart ate him up like a fire within.
Snape, however, seemed utterly defenseless against it. Harry risked a glance at the man and was alarmed to see the track of a tear, now glistening at the edge of the man's jaw, then trailing down to his chin before falling.
Harry glanced around their surroundings, grateful that the place was currently otherwise unoccupied. Unlike Diagon Alley which had returned to life, most of the shops on this ill-reputed street were still boarded up and empty. A few had re-opened, mostly the more innocuous traders, but with few people currently willing to admit an interest in anything that could be considered Dark Arts in the aftermath of Voldemort's defeat, there wasn't a lot of demand for most of their wares.
Harry watched Snape from the corner of his eye patiently. He felt helpless, more than anything else, but remained rooted to the hard cobblestones where he sat by the knowledge that to abandon him now might possibly be the last betrayal this man would ever experience, that he'd shut himself off thoroughly from the world, if not eventually resorting to something even more drastic and final.
Harry watched the dividing line between shadow and sunlight moving slowly up the opposite wall as the afternoon wore on. His father might have fallen asleep, still and silent as he was, but Harry knew better.
Harry looked up, movement catching his eye. Down at the far end of the alley stood Ron, Ginny and Hermione, looking at the two of them seated on the ground. It must be an alarming sight, he thought.
He caught their eyes in succession and lifted a finger to his lips to head off speech. He shook his head and waved them away, silently mouthing his message: I will find you later. Hermione and Ginny backed away into Diagon Alley immediately and turned the corner. Ron stared at Harry and Snape a moment longer, then shrugged and followed them.
Harry sat back against the wall and waited.