Snape straightened his notes carefully. It had been a late night, and he keenly felt the lack of sleep in his eyes.

He and McGonagall hadn't spoken much. But she had a way of silently conveying her support and empathy. And Snape had, surprisingly, felt extremely comforted by her presence, despite the vulnerable state he'd been in.

Because it had not been as if she'd been judging him. Rather, it had felt like a rare moment of openness. She had worn her sorrow on her sleeve as she sipped her tea, tears rimming her own eyes and misting their spectacles. The few words they had exchanged had been mostly anecdotes about Dumbledore, whose portrait-self had mused good-naturedly along with them about some of the highlights of his life.

It had been past three by the time he'd returned to his bed, and that with a class at nine sharp. McGonagall had suggested he simply cancel and get his rest, but he wasn't prepared to set a standard of leniency for his students.

He glanced at the clock on the wall again. The second hand passed the twelve. It was time.

He strode into the classroom, taking in the rows of students from the corner of his eye. They all went rigid as soon as he entered in, and most of them turned away, afraid to meet his eyes. Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. He couldn't help but appreciate the reverent hush that fell over the class as he made his way to the podium.

Snape took a moment to survey them all. He saw, far in the back corner, a small boy with dirty blond hair lean over to his friend, attempting to point subtly at Snape. He appeared to whisper something, which caused his friend to turn on him, alarm in his wide eyes.

Snape could almost guess. There was some strange rumor going around that he was actually a vampire, something that had given him a certain level of glamor and prestige amongst the Dark Lord's followers. He'd already heard rumors, most passed to him by his Slytherin students.

He cleared his throat loudly. The two boys fell silent.

"Before we begin your second year of Defense Against the Dark Arts," he began, "there are a few matters of… housekeeping… that we need to address." He watched as a few of the students in the front row quailed. "Firstly, jinxes, hexes, and curses taught or discussed in this class are not to be used against fellow students. Disciplinary action concerning improper use of these techniques will be reported directly to me, and in addition to whatever punishment you receive, failure to follow this rule will be reflected in your final grade. Three offenses is an automatic fail, no exceptions."

Snape paced slowly from the podium down through the rows of desks, his eyes roving over his students. Most had their heads down, parchment out, and were faithfully copying down class policy.

"Secondly, unlike your first year course, your second year will contain a strong practical element. Mastery of basic defensive and offensive spells will be critical to your success, and as such there will be mandatory practicum twice a week in the evening—"

A ripple of discontented murmurings went through the class at this announcement.

"Failure to attend will result in an incomplete for the course."

A haughty-looking, fine-boned Gryffindor girl with black pigtails raised her hand high in the air.

"Miss…?"

"Wasselkraus," she provided. She sounded extremely self-assured, almost to the point of arrogance. "Professor, two sessions a week seems highly excessive, especially for students with extracurricular activities."

Snape fixed her with a withering glare, but he didn't stop her. All eyes were on her, most of them wide and mortified at her boldness.

"Perhaps…." Her confidence seemed to be faltering. "Perhaps you could consider making exceptions for students who are extremely busy?"

"Miss Wasselkraus. Students in years past have been forced to self-organize supplemental Defense Against the Dark Arts instruction, even to the point of having to gather under the cover of darkness and without knowledge of the administration, due to substandard teaching and trying circumstances. And now you are telling me that the privilege of practicing extensively each week, so that you might be vigilant and prepared to defend yourself, your family, and the wizarding community, is a burden?"

The Wasselkraus girl was at a loss for words. She tried to force something out, but she couldn't seem to find her voice.

"Not only are you questioning the utility of a privilege for which students in years past have risked their lives," Snape continued coldly, "you are choosing to directly challenge a professor concerning the workload and methodology of instruction? Is that correct?"

The room was dead silent as Wasselkraus continued to flounder. "I only meant—"

"Your meaning was clear, Ms. Wasselkraus. Five points from Gryffindor for your hubris. Practicum will be run in four sessions. You will be allowed to register for two, with a third as your alternative choice. Sign-ups will be posted after class on my office door. Failure to sign up will result in random assignation." Snape turned to the board and waved his wand at the chalk, which began scrawling out the syllabus for the year.

"Finally," he continued, turning back to his students, surveying them carefully, "I wanted to address certain… rumors." He watched as several heads snapped up, their eyes wide. "Yes, they are true."

The two boys who had been talking before class stared at him, open-mouthed.

"I am a very demanding professor, and I set high standards for this class. You will not find it easy, and I will not be coddling you, as some of your other professors are wont to do. However, if you apply yourselves and make an effort, even the more dim-witted amongst you should be able to scrape an Acceptable."

The chalk had, by then, finished outlining the topics Snape would be covering for the first semester.

Weeks One and Two

Defensive and Disarming spells

Weeks Three and Four

Disabling Jinxes and Hexes

Weeks Five and Six

Stunning Jinxes and Hexes

Weeks Seven and Eight

Counter-jinxes and Hexes

Weeks Nine and Ten

Effective Combinations

Snape spent the rest of the class teaching the basic Shield Charm, lecturing on the proper wand motion and pronunciation of the incantation. He could not help but feel a little pleased to see that each of his students was, without exception, paying exceptionally close attention, and making a genuine effort to perfect the wand motion. He moved through the class as they practiced, making corrections as he noted errors.

"You won't be blocking anything if you wave your wand above your head like that." "There is no need to stab your wand, Mr. Thomson. It is not a sword." "Adding the extra flourishes will not make your spell any more effective, Ms. Silverhand, only give your opponent an opportunity to get around your defenses."

Even more surprising to Snape than his students' good behavior was the general deference they showed him. After remarking—perhaps a bit snidely—that one of the Ravenclaw boys, Eric Birch, had somehow managed to completely reverse the simple wand movement.

The boy had blushed furiously and demanded, very nervously, in a trembling voice, if Snape would help him learn the correct movement. So Snape had spent a minute or two guiding the boy through the motion, until at last Snape informed him that the pattern was passable.

And the boy had beamed at him, blushing again, as if he'd been paid a very high compliment.

"A correct pattern is a far cry from an effective shield," Snape had told him coolly, expecting to see the boy's face fall.

But the boy continued to glow, though his grin fell into a determined line. "I'll practice very hard, sir," he promised.

Snape merely nodded and moved on.

At the end of the period, Snape rapped sharply on his desk to draw his students' attention. It was astonishing to him to see how quickly they settled down. Those who had not heard him were quickly silenced by their friends.

"For homework, you will be reading the first chapter of your text The Dark Forces, as well as reviewing the Shield Charm in A Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two. In addition, I would like an essay on the advantages and disadvantages of the Shield Charm on my desk by Monday. Two rolls of parchment."

No one looked particularly pleased about their assignment, but there was no audible grumbling, which was highly unusual. His first years had been much more typical—though he supposed they had no memory of his tenure as Headmaster, and therefore likely did not fear crossing him as much as the others.

When class ended and most of the students had filed out, Snape found that a group of three lingered by his desk—two girls, one blond, one with short dark hair, and a tiny boy whose shaggy golden hair hung messily around his face.

Snape wiped the blackboard with a wave of his wand before pacing over to them, a brow raised. "Yes?" he demanded, looking them over.

"Sorry, sir, but I was just wondering if—if you had any recommended readings for the essay," the blond girl mumbled, speaking to her shoes. She clutched her notebook close to her chest.

"Did you think to perhaps speak to Madame Pince?" Snape inquired, a sardonic edge to his words. "I am given to understand that, being a librarian, she is thoroughly familiar with our collection of works here."

The girl bit her lip hard and turned away, looking to be on the verge of tears.

"What Emily means to ask," the short-haired girl cut in, "is if you could give us a list of—of suggested readings. If you don't mind, that is."

"We were hoping to be aurors," the small boy chimed in. "And so—well, we want to do very well in your course—"

"To be prepared for our O.W.L.s," the short-haired girl finished for him.

Snape arched his brow even higher and tilted his head. "You are aware," he said very slowly, "that you will not sit for your O.W.L.s until your fifth year?"

"Of course!" the blond girl, Emily, burst out. "But it's cumulative, and we want to be certain that we are well-prepared. And—"

The short-haired girl suddenly elbowed Emily in the ribs, shooting her a dirty look.

"And?" Snape pressed, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper.

"And we want to learn all we can from you while you're here," Emily blurted out.

"While I'm here?" Snape repeated dubiously. "You think I'm going on holiday? Or are there rumors that I am on my deathbed?"

The short-haired girl glared fiercely at Emily, who was shaking her head vehemently, looking extremely flustered.

"We just heard that—that you were reluctant to come back, and that you might not stay for more than a year, and—and…. My parents work at the ministry, sir, and they said that you would be one of the best Defense teachers to have filled this post in ages. We just want to learn as much as we can from you."

Snape did not know what to think. Three young Gryffindors were standing before him, asking for his wisdom. Their parents had recommended they pay close attention to him. He was inclined to disbelieve his own eyes and ears.

"Your names?"

"Emily Tintwistle," the blond girl introduced herself shyly, her eyes still on her shoes.

The short-haired girl was at least confident enough to meet Snape's gaze. "Amphora Lofthouse. And this is Nathan Flume."

"Tintwistle, Lofthouse, Flume," Snape muttered to himself, scrutinizing their faces. He drew out a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped a quill in ink, and scrawled out the names of a few titles. The Dark Arts Outsmarted. Defensive Magical Theory. A bit advanced, he thought, but they could simply choose to not read them. After a moment of thought, he added, A Compendium of Dark Creatures, though currently the curriculum covered identification and eradication of evil creatures primarily during the third year. Still, having a basic awareness early on would do them good.

Snape passed the parchment to them. "Those titles will do for a start, if you are serious about making an effort in this course. Though I warn you that most of the subject matter will be quite advanced for you…."

The three crowded around the list, looking over the titles eagerly.

"You'd best hurry," Snape advised them, "or you'll be late for your next class."

"Potions!" Emily cried, looking panicked. "Ooh, Professor Slughorn will be cross!" She snared her friends' wrists and started hauling them out of the classroom. "Thank you, professor!" she called.

Amphora was trying to free her wrist, looking rather resentful of being dragged along. "Emily, stop—"

"We're going to be late!" Emily hissed, her voice pitched high. "The dungeons is all the way downstairs—I forgot—"

Snape could not believe what he was about to do. But, he reasoned, they had only lingered to get a reading list from him. He would write them a note. Even if they were Gryffindors….

"Hold it," he called impatiently.

The three spun around, looking concerned.

Snape quickly penned a brief note to Slughorn explaining their tardiness. "Take this along," he commanded, holding out the parchment. "And next time make an appointment to see me in my office, so that you are not running late and disrupting my colleagues' classes."

"Yes, sir," Emily agreed, a grateful smile on her face as she accepted the note. "And thank you again—"

"Go on," Snape growled.

At last the three disappeared out into the hallway.

Snape sighed and began rearranging his notes. He would have a little time to prepare for his next course, which was not until just before lunch. And then in the evening….

His last class of the day would be his seventh year class, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. Meaning he would have to face Potter again.

He was not ready for that, not by far. Especially after the words of comfort the boy had tried to offer him, and his response. Guilt needled him when he thought about his outburst.

He'd asked the boy to leave, he reasoned. He'd been upset. Potter should have respected that, should have left him alone, not pressed on. He certainly should not have spoken about her. Even if he had only meant to comfort him, to reassure him.

Snape found himself pulling her photo out again to stare at those kind eyes. She had always been that way—generous, warm. She had always asked after him, how his classes were going, how things at home were. Through the worst of it, her voice had been firm, insistent that it was not his fault, that there was nothing he could do to mend his parents' broken marriage or to stop his rampaging father. How often had he taken that for granted? How often had he assumed that she would always be there to prop him up?

He held the ripped photo to his chest again, as he so often had over the last year. There had been nothing but her face and the shred of the letter he'd pilfered from 12 Grimmauld Place to pull him through those darkest days, and so many times it had nearly not been enough.

He could not help but think back on Dumbledore's words. After all he had done… but what had he done, really? Treated her son with contempt, continued to wallow in the pettiness of his grudge against her husband. Continued to cling to her memory—because that, in the end, had been the only thing strong enough for him to form any kind of conviction.

If it had not been for Dumbledore's request that night she had died, he had no doubt that he would not have lasted the week. It had been hard enough, even after making his promise, to trudge on. Twice he'd begun brewing poisons that would have granted him a swift, nearly painless death, only to stop halfway through, fighting to remember his vow to protect the boy.

And now he was plagued by that same suffocating sense of hopelessness. He did not want to admit it, even to himself, but it was growing more powerful with each day that passed. Not for the first time, he thought of how much easier it would have been if he had simply died during the Battle of Hogwarts, if Fawkes had never reappeared. He had outlived his time, and now… now there was nothing to drive him, no sense of purpose, no feeling of urgency.

Teaching had never been a great passion for him. It had been a necessary chore, part and parcel of playing Dumbledore's faithful servant. His own Slytherin students had loved him, but that was a superficial love, he knew, born out of his blatant favoritism. He told himself that his bias was a part of his duty, that he needed to maintain a friendly relationship with the children of former Death Eaters in order to keep Dumbledore adequately apprised, but he knew the truth: he enjoyed it. He enjoyed their attention, their sense of loyalty, the way they would flock to him at the slightest perceived injustice. And in the end, their respect had been built on nothing more than his own weakness and prejudices.

It was good, he thought, that he was no longer Head of House. Let Slughorn deal with them. It would give him more time to himself, and perhaps less incentive to slip back into his old habits.

And it was one less duty tying him down. He thought back to the Gryffindor students' words about him not remaining for long. Perhaps they had been right—premonitory, even. Perhaps it had been wrong of him to return at all.

There were others, after all, who would gladly take his place here, especially now that the Dark Lord had truly been defeated. Minerva had told him that she was fighting off inquiries about the open Dark Arts post when she'd offered him the job. She would have no trouble finding a qualified instructor.

Snape shook his head to clear away the thoughts. Pathetic of him, he thought, to wallow in self-pity like this. So Potter no longer needed to be looked after. So he would no longer have to run to Dumbledore every other day, waiting for new instructions, giving his reports. Certainly he was not so wretched as to have no other purpose in his life. He would finish out the year. And from there he would reevaluate and see what paths were available to him.

He glanced down one more time at Lily's face. And, yet again, he could not help but feel the same overwhelming sense of inadequacy. Yes, Dumbledore was right. Lily would not have wanted him to suffer. She had always had pity for even the most revolting of creatures.

But what if the end of this suffering was not something that could be achieved while he still lived? a small, dark part of him whispered.

Snape stored the picture back in his desk. He would finish the term, miserable or not. He had signed on for this post, and he would hold it for at least the rest of the academic year.

Beyond that…. Snape closed his eyes lightly. There were many ways to slip away quietly, he knew, to make the transition comfortable. If it was truly that bad….

Snape once again forced himself to pull his thoughts from that dark and dangerous path. He had a class to prepare. Slytherin and Ravenclaw fourth-years, with curriculum designed around classification and theory of the Dark Arts, also with a strong practical component. He'd prepared an introductory lecture on the differences between jinxes, hexes, and curses, but knew that it was best to review it to make certain that he hadn't left out essential information. He'd been slightly distracted while writing it and did not trust that it was up to par with what he usually taught.

So he summoned his reference books and buried himself in the nuances of the evolution of the classification system and its relation to wizarding legislation, trying to distance himself from the creeping despair with the distraction of legal tedium.

XXXXX

"So. I think we should all visit Professor Snape." Harry looked pointedly at Ron and Hermione, anxiously waiting to see how they would react. It was early evening, and the three of them were clustered in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, not too far from the roaring fire.

"You're kidding," Ron said at last. "You saw how Snape was in class this evening. He wouldn't look at any of us, and he docked Neville five points for trying to ask him about the essay after class—"

"Well, he did say that he needed everyone out of the classroom so he could lock it up," Hermione said defensively, which earned her a dirty look from Ron. "Not that he couldn't have spared a few minutes, but still…."

"I tried to talk to him after the feast, but he wasn't… well…."

"You what?" Ron cried. "You actually went—look, Harry, I know he lied to You-Know-Who and got us the sword and risked his life and all, but really, mate, he's still downright scary. And I don't think he likes you very much. Wasn't really pretending about that, I don't think."

Harry ran a hand through his messy black hair. "It's complicated. I didn't tell you half of what I saw in his memories. And it's just—I mean, can you imagine what it must have been like, hanging around with Voldemort and all those Death Eaters, pretending the whole time that he was glad that the world was going to hell? He hated Pettigrew as much as me. More than me, I'd reckon, since Pettigrew was the reason that my mum died. And he had to just sit there and not say anything…."

"What happened when you went to see him, Harry?" Hermione asked.

Harry heaved a sigh, and told them both all about the encounter, and how he'd tried to make Snape see that he'd atoned for his mistakes. He was actually proud of how he'd tried to handle it.

But Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "You didn't."

"Well, what would you have done?" Harry demanded defensively. "I—"

"You just don't have that close of a relationship with him!" Hermione told him, exasperated. "Honestly, you can be so—so dense! It's clearly a painful subject, and he has clearly been projecting his pain and loathing for your father onto you—"

"Anyone could've told you that," Ron muttered.

"He doesn't want to hear from you that he's made amends," Hermione continued, ignoring Ron. "He doesn't care what you think. He associates you with your father, his enemy. So you trying to comfort him is likely in his eyes the height of arrogance."

"But I wasn't trying to be arrogant!" Harry snapped. "I was just trying to make him see—and he opened up a little, you should have heard him. It wasn't like I was trying to forgive him, not at all. I was trying to tell him how much we appreciated what he'd done, and then he started going on about how it was nothing, it was his fault in the first place, and that no matter what he did it couldn't undo the past. And I tried to tell him it was all rubbish and that he'd done more than enough, but he wouldn't listen."

Hermione listened quietly. Ron seemed taken aback.

"Snape feels… bad?" Ron forced out at last. "Still?"

Hermione rolled her eyes again. "Obviously. He was the one who overheard the prophecy. If he hadn't gone to Voldemort—"

"But that's just it," Harry interrupted. "It wasn't just Snape. Pettigrew was the spy; he went to Voldemort and gave my parents up. Snape at least tried to protect them by going to Dumbledore. And Sirius blamed himself because he suggested the switch. He felt so bad that he went to Azkaban without putting up a real fight. But it was Voldemort who chose to murder them, Voldemort who started all this."

"Of course, Harry," Hermione murmured. "I wasn't suggesting that it was Snape's fault. But that's how he sees it—"

"And it's wrong. Besides, there's no use…." Harry turned away. "Listen, I've been thinking a lot over the summer, especially with all I know now. The way my dad and Sirius were… they were real gits. Not that the people Snape was hanging around were much better, but the way they treated him was just wrong."

"But that's not your fault," Ron grumbled. "It's not like you could've changed it—"

"I could've at least acknowledged it. I mean, I don't think even Dumbledore tried to help. And Sirius almost got Snape killed once." Harry shook his head to himself. "I keep thinking about my mum. What she would want me to do. Because they were friends once, you know. Really good friends."

"So you've been trying to reach out because of her," Hermione said. "For her. You think she would have forgiven him—"

"I know she would have. I can feel it."

Ron pushed himself to his feet. "Well, that's all well and good, but I don't see why we have to get involved—"

"Ron, we wouldn't be here without him!" Hermione hissed, turning her fierce gaze onto him. "You realize that, don't you? We never would have even gotten through the first Horcrux!"

"Yeah, well—"

"He was at Voldemort's side that whole time! If Voldemort had known, if one little thing had gone wrong, you know how he would have died? You know what he did to Neville's parents! Imagine what he would do to his own servant—"

"Fine!" Ron snapped. "So what, we bring him sweets and a card that says, 'Thanks for being a Death Eater for us'?"

Hermione stood up and punched Ron in the arm. "This is serious!"

"I am being serious! He jinxed Harry right out of his office. Whadya think he's going to do to us?"

Harry stood too. "I don't know how we should go about it. But I'll think of something. I just don't want to go alone again. Ron's right; he's still not very fond of me. And Hermione too. We're definitely not close. But I just can't ignore him. You know?"

Ron shook his head to himself. "But maybe we should just—I don't know, mention this to McGonagall, let her take care of it—"

"I have," Harry said. "And I don't think that's enough."

Hermione glanced down at her watch. "Ugh, I told a couple of third-years that I would help them with their Arithmancy homework… listen, Harry, I'm happy to do whatever I can. And Ron too."

"Speak for yourself—"

Hermione elbowed Ron in the stomach, shutting him up.

"Yeah, right. I'll have mum bake him some cookies," Ron said sarcastically.

"See you at breakfast tomorrow?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded. "Night!" She darted out of the common room, likely toward the library.

"Dad was telling me that there's this muggle expression," Ron said to Harry once Hermoine was out of earshot. "Don't poke the bear. Is that right?"

"Yeah," Harry confirmed.

"Snape's the bear, Harry, and you're running up to him with a big, sharp stick. Look, you tried to help, but he doesn't want it. Just let him sort things out on his own."

"I'm just going to try to talk to him again. If he still doesn't want to speak to me, I'll give up. Happy?"

Ron slumped down onto the common room sofa. "No. 'Course not. But I know I'm going to get dragged into this, one way or another. Always am."

Harry slumped down next to him. "At least this time there won't be any giant spiders," Harry said cheerfully.

Ron shuddered. "Better not be. Because if there are, I'm out."

"Deal," Harry said.