Snape sat across from McGonagall, his hands clasped tightly over his lap. Idly, he wondered how long ago it had been since they'd been in this room together, their positions reversed. A year? No, less than that. She'd been in often.
Ah, he thought, those had been such pleasant meetings. Her with her jaw clenched so tightly it was a miracle it didn't shatter from the pressure, her eyes filled with an unspeakable, icy loathing, as she'd made mild suggestions concerning the Carrow siblings' teaching and disciplinary methods. Him, sitting stiffly in the headmaster's chair, fighting the urge to agree with her and blast the pair to hell himself, Dumbledore's plan be damned. All the energy it had taken for him to carefully assert that she was to maintain discipline and report any unruly students directly to him, hoping that if he seemed callous enough it would serve to bolster her convictions to defy him.
That, in the end, had been just a part of the delicate balancing act. Provoke her just enough that she remained fierce and vigilant and full of purpose, ready to subvert him and the Carrows at every opportunity.
It was strange to be back here, Dumbledore's portrait dozing in the background, waiting for the stern witch to finish up her latest letter to the temporary minister. There would be a dedication for a monument to lives lost in the latest conflict soon, and she was in the midst of making arrangement for students whose parents or siblings would be honored to make it to the ceremony in London, which, as he understood it, was a logistical nightmare.
At last McGonagall laid her quill down and rubbed her eyes behind her spectacles for a moment, undoubtedly trying to blot out a headache.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Severus," she sighed. "I've been swamped…."
"No need to apologize," Snape reassured her quietly. "I remember the strain of the position well."
McGonagall removed her hands from her eyes and cast him a pained look. "I should dare say you were under a great deal more strain than I," she murmured, her normally clear voice unnaturally husky.
Snape clenched his hands more tightly, fighting the small flood of emotion that rose so easily in him. Now was not the time to mire himself in those unpleasant memories, he chided himself.
"Has Shacklebolt set a date yet?" Snape asked, consciously choosing to change the subject.
McGonagall seemed to regain herself a little. "Sometime before the holidays, he says. But I'm certain you'll receive an owl with further details…."
Snape snorted quietly to himself, softly enough that McGonagall didn't notice. He was certain that he would not be going, and he'd told Kingsley as much the first time the man had mentioned it. An invitation would be a waste of parchment.
"Of course." Snape flexed his thin fingers against his lap, smoothing the dark fabric of his robe. "Have you made any progress on identifying Miss Parkinson's attacker?"
"No. But I've instructed the Heads of House to hold meetings specifically to discuss the incident, and I've half a mind to call the school together to address the matter myself. It is entirely unacceptable… she could have been killed…." McGonagall stood up. Her severe agitation was apparent in every line of her face. She paced around the desk, still muttering to herself. "Attacking a fellow student. I will find the culprit, Severus, that I promise, and when I do, he or she will be expelled and out of the school in the next hour, even if I have to escort them out myself—"
"Minerva," Snape cut her off, endeavoring to keep his tone utterly placid. The woman was close to a breaking point. He half expected steam to start pouring out of her ears. "I agree the culprit should be thoroughly punished, but expulsion may not necessarily be the appropriate consequence."
"You're joking!" McGonagall cried, turning to face him with her needling gaze. "Of all the… of anyone, I thought that you would be the one calling loudest for the student's head! Especially since…." McGonagall trailed off, seeming to reconsider her last statement.
"Since it was a Slytherin student who was attacked?" Snape finished for her. "That is precisely my point, Minerva. The political climate is very delicate right now, and—"
"All the more reason to send a strong message! I will not tolerate this barbarism, not from any student—"
"Many of the children at Hogwarts have lost relatives and friends," Snape cut her off, keeping his low and even. "And we cannot be ignorant of the fact that many of the students in Slytherin house were either directly or indirectly involved in those deaths, or have family members who were involved. I am not condoning any actions against Slytherin students, especially not an attack like this. However, we have to bear in mind that this is not an ordinary year by any stretch of the imagination."
Not that there was ever an "ordinary" year at Hogwarts anymore.
Minerva looked as if she was about to start off on another rant. She opened her mouth, a finger raised, but closed it abruptly, and instead heaved a massive sigh.
"Many are still grieving, reeling from massive losses. And they see their classmates—particularly Slytherin classmates—as guilty parties who have escaped punishment. Allowances must be made."
McGonagall did not speak. She seemed to be considering his words, weighing them against her deep convictions about the unequivocal nature of justice.
"We must set an example," Snape continued, speaking a little more forcefully, "of transgression and reparation. It is the only way to keep from deepening this rift, to show students that there is a way forward from past wrongs. If not, the scars sustained over these last years will be carried down for generations."
McGonagall still did not speak. She stood rather stiffly, her lips pressed into an impossibly thin line, as she turned the words over in her head. At last she seemed to reach a conclusion. Her body relaxed slightly, and her lips loosened enough that the color returned to them.
"I never thought I would see the day," McGonagall muttered, returning to her seat. "Severus Snape, arguing for leniency, and not even for a Slytherin. "
Snape shook his head, fighting back a smirk. This was, after all, a very grave matter. "I never said leniency. I suggested that expulsion be taken off the table. I can certainly think of punishments worse than expulsion." Snape thought a minute, then added under his breath, "Except, perhaps, for Granger…."
McGonagall must have heard, or guessed at his comment, because her lips quirked up in a small smile. "I will take it into consideration. But the first step is to find out who is actually behind this…. Perhaps once Miss Parkinson has recovered, she will be able to tell us a bit more."
"Her ability to tell us is not the problem," Snape muttered. "Rather, her willingness."
"You'll speak to her again?"
"Oh, I plan on it," Snape said darkly. "We'll have an answer out of her, one way or another."
McGonagall made a disapproving sound at the back of her throat. "Very well, but remember that Miss Parkinson is the victim, not the perpetrator—"
Snape lifted a brow at the headmistress. "Of course. I simply meant that I intend to exercise all of my persuasive powers to convince Miss Parkinson to cooperate fully."
"Certainly." McGonagall did not sound convinced. She drew herself back up to her desk and smoothed a nervous hand over the front of her robes.
Snape sensed the subject change before she even opened her mouth.
"I actually did not call you up here to discuss Miss Parkinson, Severus," McGonagall began, a note of hesitation in her voice. "I wanted to speak of something else. I have not wanted to overburden you with responsibilities, especially since you were not so keen on returning in the first place—which, I assure you, I fully understand…."
Snape's mouth tightened at those words. He doubted that she did. But he chose not to voice that opinion.
"However," McGonagall continued, "I find myself relying quite heavily on you already…. Filius and Pomona have been filling in as deputy headmaster and headmistress, as I'm sure you know, but neither really has the… the aptitude for the job. And while I value their advice and aid, I personally feel…."
Snape could see where this was going, even if McGonagall had chosen a ridiculously circuitous route to get there.
"Severus, would it be too much to ask you to take on the role of deputy headmaster?"
Snape did not respond right away. This had not even been a possibility on his radar—though, in retrospect, he was a fool for not thinking about it. He and Minerva had spoken frequently ever since he'd arrived back at Hogwarts, and only rarely about anything but the school itself and the safety of students. He'd thought nothing of it, especially given the fact that his personal relationships with most of the staff, Minerva included, were still mending.
Did he have the capacity, he wondered, to perform that duty? And was it wise to take it on?
He allowed his gaze to return to Minerva so that he could try to read her motives. Certainly she'd heard the rumors. If her students doubted that he would be around long, she was doubtless up to speed as well. The woman rarely missed a beat. So perhaps she was offering him this position not because she felt he was the best one to fill it, but because she thought it would be a sure way to keep him around.
Perhaps Dumbledore's meddling had rubbed off on her as well.
Snape's gaze drifted to the portrait, where the man himself still dozed peacefully—or, rather, pretended to doze. Snape could not be certain. Perhaps this was not a plot hatched by McGonagall alone….
"If you need time to consider," McGonagall added after a few silent moments, "by all means…."
Snape swallowed. "I'll give you my answer by the end of the week."
McGonagall nodded once stiffly. "The other request I had… I'm afraid I have to be more insistent. I know I'm asking a great deal already, but in light of recent events—namely, the attack on Miss Parkinson—I was wondering if you would be willing to resume your duties as head of Slytherin house."
This Snape had not expected in the least. It took him several seconds to shake himself out of his state of shock so he could answer. "I fail to see what my being head of house has to do with the attack on Miss Parkinson—"
"Oh, I think you know very well, Severus." McGonagall's eyes flashed reprovingly from behind her spectacles. "Horace is able to perform duties adequately under normal circumstances, but as you've said, these are not normal circumstances. And you are in a unique position to understand many of the students of Slytherin, and to guide them during this period of upset. Besides, you've counselled them for most of their careers at Hogwarts. You know them, and they know you. They will trust you more than any other, Horace included."
Snape drummed his fingers against his kneecap, trying to force himself to think. It was not as if he actually missed the added headaches, but if McGonagall thought it would be worthwhile….
And here he was, he thought bitterly to himself, pretending he had a choice in the matter. He knew what McGonagall's "insistence" would amount to. If she wanted him to take the position, she would not drop the matter, not if it meant she had to start a petition in his own house or the like.
Not that his students were particularly fond of him. He'd never been warm, exactly, to any of them. There had been more days than not where he'd wished that he had never taken up a post that required him to deal with so many jabbering, obnoxious adolescents.
"I know we've had our differences, but Albus always insisted that you were an exemplary—"
"I do not think he used the word 'exemplary'," Snape cut in sharply, irritated. Minerva had never been one to puff or embellish, and he did not understand why she thought a touch of syrupy flattery would do the trick now. He pushed himself up from his chair and strode over to the astrolabe that stood against the right wall.
He had been an asset as a spy, nothing more. Perhaps a bodyguard to the Potter boy, though that was an impossible task, given the boy's insistence on rushing headlong into danger at every turn.
Snape was not a good teacher; he was not a mentor. He was impatient, exacting, unwilling to curb his sharp tongue to spare his students' feelings. And how many times had he abused his position as a professor? He'd had nothing but contempt for his students, even his Slytherins. His post as the potions master had been one of convenience, allowing him proximity to Dumbledore and, later, positioning him to fulfill his promise to Lily.
And that was saying nothing of the way he'd hounded Potter over the years.
So it was absurd now that Minerva McGonagall, who had no use of him as a spy and likely saw no reason for him to keep an eye on Potter, would be insisting that he take on any more duties than the Dark Arts post. Which he'd gotten, he reminded himself, because of the whirlwind of interest generated by a string of sensational articles on Dumbledore's mysterious "right hand man".
Snape smoothed a hand over the surface of the astrolabe, trying to calm his thoughts.
He'd said it himself, he thought. He was one of the few who understood what it meant to end up on the wrong side of a war. He alone was capable of empathizing with the children of former Death Eaters. And maybe that was a good enough reason to return to his position, if temporarily.
And perhaps he would have to stress the "temporary" nature of it.
"I am willing to serve as head of house for this academic year," he said at last, turning back to McGonagall. "I am unwilling to commit to anything beyond that."
McGonagall's eyes were suddenly soft, almost… wounded. It was a strange look to see in her.
"Of course." Her words were soft, gentle, full of understanding. "I shall make the necessary arrangements. You'll take up your old quarters adjacent to the dormitories?"
Snape gave a slight affirmative nod. Her departure from her usual brisk, business-like tone was making him extremely uncomfortable, and he was on the verge of making up some excuse to cut the meeting short.
"Severus, if… if you wish to talk…."
Snape winced. This again? He'd already made a blubbering fool of himself in front of her once. He had no interest in repeating the experience.
It had been good, a small part of him argued. Cathartic. Was it so unbearable for her to see him broken down as he'd been? Better her than anyone else.
"I appreciate the offer," he mumbled woodenly. "I'm afraid I have notes to prepare for my class this evening. If there was nothing else…."
"No," McGonagall replied, her voice regaining some semblance of professionalism. "No, that was all. But the door is always open."
Severus made a small bow, though what possessed him to do that he had no idea. He was nearly to the door when a small, familiar "ahem" stopped him.
Of course. Of course the man had heard everything and now wanted to offer his two cents.
He was a painting, Snape reminded himself. There was nothing he could do to make Snape stay. Snape could simply keep walking, pretend that he hadn't heard the man. After all, how many years had he spent at the man's beck and call? Did he not deserve to be free now that the decrepit bastard was dead and buried?
Curling his hands into balls, Snape forced himself to take a deep, audible breath. He exhaled.
And he turned.
"Severus, I was wondering… might you be free tonight to listen to the ramblings of an old man?"
He should have said no, that he had better things to do than make the trek up to this office just so he could sit and talk to a bloody painting. He should have ignored the words and moved on with his life.
But he didn't. He never quite could.
"Midnight?" Snape demanded through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the pitying look McGonagall was giving him.
XXXXX
Harry rubbed his eyes, which had begun to burn. He was starting to suspect that Snape had purposely given him an indecipherable text so that he could not possibly approach him with a helpful insight. He'd been tackling the same passage for the last hour now, and if anything, he felt like he somehow understood it less now than when he'd begun.
Considering Lexicali's work on language-origin theory of counter-curse creation, certain etymological rules must be observed when correlating the incantation of the curse with an incantation intended to undo—or, to extend the lock-key metaphor, unlock—the effects of said curse. If the original incantation is multilingual in origin, all languages involved must be parsed and adequately explored so that attempts at creation of a counter-curse correspond with the original grammatical components used in the curse.
He might as well have been reading a text in Hungarian.
He sighed and pushed the book aside, wondering yet again if he should just go to Snape and ask the professor if he could help explain.
Harry wrinkled his nose at the thought. Snape had been less condescending and acerbic than usual, but Harry had little doubt that the man's sneering and abusive comments would return in a heartbeat if he went to him asking for explanations. And as determined as Harry was to repair his relationship with Snape, he had no interest in sitting through even a few minutes of the man's taunting.
Maybe Hermione would have a spare moment this weekend, he thought.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Ron hadn't wanted to go to the library with him, insisting that he had better ways to spend his evening (namely, wiping the floor with a couple of fifth-years in wizard's chess). Hermione was with McGonagall again, doing who knew what. Neville was working on an independent project with Professor Sprout, as he did most evenings now. And Luna had invited him down to Hagrid's, which he'd graciously declined.
He had enough essays, he figured, that he should start on. Especially Snape's. He wasn't so sure that the professor wouldn't grade him especially harshly—more so than usual—just to give him a failing grade as an excuse to call off their arrangement.
Harry slid the Evolution of Dark Arts Theory out of his way and drew his official Dark Arts textbook toward him. Advanced Defensive Theory. From what little he'd read of it, the book was no less dense than the Ramkin text. He flipped to the section on the theoretical distinction between benign and Dark magical objects.
The world has long debated over the nature of Light and Dark, and in this century we are no closer to drawing an absolute distinction between objects created to harm and help and their classification. The Self-Tightening Noose, for example (outlawed since the 16th century in all respectable magical communities) would be classified inarguably by most as a Dark object. Yet when one makes the observation that, were it to be tightened around the neck of a murderer, we find ourselves facing the conundrum that instruments intend to kill unscrupulously can also serve the purpose of meting out justice, of ending Dark Wizards who would do more harm. And thus, the crux of this problem is not one of classification, but essentially philosophical….
But the Defense Against the Dark Arts wasn't a bloody philosophy class, Harry thought angrily. What good was it going to do him to think about the philosophy behind Dark artifacts? It wasn't going to help him identify them, or disable them, or anything useful.
Harry allowed himself a small smirk. He could write an essay on that, he thought. How stupid and pointless it was to sit and debate that kind of thing when they could be learning something useful. Snape would give him a zero for certain, and likely a detention for good measure.
At this rate, a detention was the only way that Snape would voluntarily spend time with Harry.
"…stupid Slytherin girl…"
Harry heard the voices from behind the bookshelf. And he could guess well enough what they were discussing. Very carefully, doing his best to make no noise, he reached into his bag and slipped out his Invisibility Cloak. He'd made a habit of keeping it with him at all times, just in case of instances like this. In one fluid motion he'd unfolded it and slipped it over his body.
Harry murmured a silencing charm for his feet and, moving swiftly, trailed after the voices.
A pair of Ravenclaws, a girl and a boy, he saw. They looked to be third or fourth years. They were leaning against the shelf, the girl clutching a thick volume to her chest, her face pinched in a scowl.
"Probably one of theirs," the girl muttered softly. "That's what Sarah was saying. Said that she probably cursed herself or had one of her friends do it just to get the other houses in trouble."
The boy snorted. "Wouldn't surprise me. And it worked, didn't it? Even Potter feels bad."
"Well, either way, she got what was coming to her," the girl hissed, crushing her book harder to her breast. "I mean, if I ran into her in a dark corridor…."
"Lacey!" the boy snapped. "You remember what Professor Flitwick said. Automatic expulsion! Even if your curse doesn't hit, automatic—"
"Which is totally unfair," the girl huffed. She glared at the bookshelf, running her hand along the titles. "McGonagall's off her nut. Slytherins should be fair game, I say. Give them a taste of their own medicine. It's not as if we got any leniency last year."
"Well, that's not going to happen," the boy grumbled. "Oh, here it is, right? Transfiguration Simplified."
Harry had heard enough. Still just as carefully, he slipped out of the row and back to his table. Making sure that no one was around to see him suddenly reemerge, he slipped the cloak off and folded it tightly before storing it back in his bag.
And then he just sat there, his chest rising and falling, his head throbbing. He stared at the pattern of the woodgrain, trying to think, trying to work out a way to fix this.
Everything was supposed to be fine now. Voldemort was gone. The worst of the Death Eaters were in Azkaban. Hogwarts had been rebuilt, funerals had been planned, Kingsley had assumed temporary control of the ministry…. Everyone was supposed to be safe now.
So why did he have the awful feeling that they were on the precipice of some fresh awful conflict?