Harry ended up in the Owlery instead. He was pretty sure that Pansy had been released anyway, especially since Snape had taken care of the worst of her injuries. That, and Harry generally detested the Hospital Wing, given all the time he'd spent there over the years.

He figured it was about time to pay his owl a visit anyway. So he'd found the large brown barn owl—another gift from Hagrid, which Harry had thought was only too appropriate. Though it did increase the longing pangs he sometimes felt when he'd look at the bird and imagine it instead as a white, snowy owl.

Harry absently stroked the bird's head. "Have a good week, Dobby?" he inquired absently, glancing over at the bird's large, kind eyes. He felt another pang course through him. He'd originally thought to name his owl after the house elf as a kind of tribute, but he'd found out rather quickly that the bird's large eyes reminded him a little too much of Dobby's. Not that he minded too much. The resulting ache in his heart was bittersweet, full of love and appreciation for the little elf.

The owl nibbled affectionately at Harry's fingers, then cocked its head inquisitively at Harry's pockets.

Harry chortled a little. "Sorry, boy," he murmured. "Didn't bring you any treats. I know, terrible of me, right?"

Harry heard footsteps on the stairs. He turned slightly just in time to catch sight of a blond head of hair bobbing up the spiral staircase. Malfoy.

Instinctively, Harry reached for his wand.

Malfoy froze at the top of the stairs, his nervous eyes flickering to Harry's grip on his wand handle.

Harry forced himself to relax. This wasn't like previous years, he reminded himself. "Malfoy," he greeted the boy coolly.

"Potter," the boy returned. He strode over to a small greyish owl and drew a letter out of his pocket. The owl gripped the parchment firmly in its claws and, with a little hop toward the open window, pushed itself off and into the great blue yonder.

"So," Harry began, not sure why he was bothering to make small talk. But part of him felt like it was vital. It was like with Snape, he realized. He had to force these awkward interactions in order to normalize their relationships… if normalcy was even a remote possibility. "Letter home?"

Malfoy nodded, not meeting his eyes.

"Er… everything going all right?" Harry cleared his throat a little. "I mean—after everything…. I hear that you've—well, I mean, I can't imagine it's been easy—"

Malfoy's lips curled into a sneer, though Harry noted that no emotion reached his eyes. "Can't be easy being ostracized and poor and under investigation? No, doesn't seem like that would be very pleasant, does it?"

Harry took a deep breath, fighting back a biting retort. Though he was about sick of always being the one to keep things civil. "I just wanted to say that I was sorry to hear about it, is all. Can't imagine that it's easy to come back with all that going on—"

"You want to say it serves me right, is what you mean," Malfoy hissed. "Go on, go ahead. I've already heard it. And it may surprise you to know that I've thought it too, because, yes, I know I did some awful things, and I should be in a cell in Azkaban—"

"I wasn't going to say any of that!" Harry spat, losing his calm. "What, you think I want to gloat? You think I'm so petty that I'd actually enjoy seeing you suffer like this? We've had our moments, Malfoy, and there've been a number of times when I probably would have loved to see you get your just deserts. But you know what? People deserve second chances. And I know it's going to be hard for you to get a real one. But what should you care what Harry Bloody Potter thinks?"

Harry was ready to leave then. He was pretty certain he didn't want to hear another word of what Malfoy was going to say.

"Wait," Malfoy began in what Harry thought was a rather haughty, imperious tone.

Harry felt a hand on his arm. His whole body tensed for a fight. His automatic reaction was to spin around, draw his wand from his pocket, and cast the first spell that came to his mind—a Severing Charm.

The spell caught Malfoy on the shoulder, slicing through fabric and skin and leaving a large gash across his arm and breast. Malfoy stumbled back, a hand going to his wound, his face contorting in agony. "Shit," he hissed, his hand clutching the cut so tightly that it went even more white than usual. "I wasn't going to attack—"

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, staring numbly at his handiwork. "I didn't mean to—I just—Merlin, let's just get you down to the Hospital Wing. I'm really sorry, honest, I just thought… well, you sounded…." Harry groaned and muttered an incantation to create bandages, wishing not for the first time that he'd bothered to practice more healing spells. At least Madam Pomfrey would know what to do.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated as he helped Malfoy bind up the wound. "It was just instinct—"

"Just drop it, Potter," Malfoy said through gritted teeth. "I know, all right?" He sucked in a ragged breath. "Merlin's balls, you just spent a year being hunted down. I should have realized you'd be a bit jumpy."

Harry was too proud to say it out loud, but he was relieved that Malfoy wasn't holding a grudge like he normally would have. Maybe it was just because Malfoy thought he was Famous Harry Potter who could do no wrong, especially now that he was some kind of war hero. Still, it was refreshing to be able to have a mishap like this with Malfoy and not have it turn into a duel.

Because Harry really did want to keep the peace, especially now.

Malfoy took a moment to adjust the bandages. His silver eyes darted up to meet Harry's for a moment. "I know where the Hospital Wing is, you know," he drawled, though his voice was still a little shaky. "You don't have to escort me."

Harry shoved his wand back into his pocket. "I—I know, I just want to make sure they know what happened. Just in case, you know…." I get in trouble.

Malfoy shrugged, though the motion appeared to agitate his injury, causing him to wince. "Well, I've had worse," he said with a significant glance over at Harry.

Harry blushed a little. "I uh… I never really said sorry—"

"By Merlin, Potter, I'd almost killed a girl and I tried to cast a curse at you! I can own up to my mistakes, all right? I'm trying. I didn't mean it like that, I just was… oh, never mind."

That sounded almost like an apology, Harry thought. It was too strange, especially coming from Malfoy. But then, he supposed, a lot had changed. It had been a long, dark year, and war had a way of putting things into perspective.

"Well, it didn't make what I did right," Harry mumbled. "You might've bled out if it hadn't been for Professor Snape. It's not like I've been perfect—"

"Give it a rest, Potter," Malfoy grumbled. "I get it, all right? You're good incarnate, magnanimous and generous and humble." The boy rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't have lasted a day in Slytherin."

"Good thing I talked the hat out of putting me there," Harry muttered under his breath.

Malfoy's eyes widened at that, but he said nothing. Instead, he strode past Harry, making his way down the spiral steps. Harry followed closely behind him, still feeling more than a little guilty.

The implications of this were starting to hit him. If word got around that he'd attacked Malfoy… he shuddered. No, he was definitely going to have to step up and take responsibility for this mishap, and make sure that his remorse was readily apparent. Though even that might not be enough to stop the rumors.

At least they didn't cross anyone else in the halls. Which meant that, if the Hospital Wing was mostly empty, there might be a hope of things not getting out of hand.

It didn't take long for Madam Pomfrey to make her way over to them once they'd entered the Infirmary. "Gracious, not another," she muttered. "Over here, Mr. Malfoy, if you will—and off with the robes and shirt. I'll contact your Head of House—"

"That's not necessary," Malfoy grunted, his hand still clenched over his wound. "It's just a little nick—"

"Nonsense! That is another attack on a student, and I've already had words with both the headmistress and Professor Snape. We will be getting to the bottom of this. Stay right there."

"Actually, Madam Pomfrey…," Harry began, but it was no use. The witch was already gone, headed, without a doubt, to use the private Floo in her office.

Malfoy sighed dramatically and settled himself onto the cot Pomfrey had indicated, then began undoing the clasp of his robes. "I'll explain," he said. "You don't have to mill about, Potter."

"Actually, I'd better—"

"I'm not going to lie to them!" Malfoy snapped angrily, his eyes flashing as if he were offended. "I'll tell them that I startled you and that it was just a reflex. All right? I'm not going to say you tried to hex me from the shadows or something—"

"I didn't think you were!" Harry protested. "I just wanted to make sure that no one thinks I'm getting away with something—"

"They won't! No one cares! You could strangle me in my sleep and they'd give you an Order of Merlin, all right? So just go on."

"I want to be held responsible, you prat!" Harry hissed. "Don't you get it? If I slip off now and anyone realizes I attacked you, they might start to think that it's okay to hunt down Slytherins—which some of them already do, and we hardly need to make that worse! Oh, and don't even go off about how I'm famous Harry Potter, I'm so important, I influence everyone—because as much as I hate it, it's true—"

"Gentlemen."

Harry felt the color drain from his face at that single cold word. McGonagall. And she sounded extremely displeased.

Harry whipped around to find the headmistress glowering at him, her arms folded over her chest. She was far more imposing than Dumbledore had ever been. And now here he was, standing before her with a wounded Malfoy—which in and of itself dredged up bad memories from sixth year.

As if that wasn't bad enough, she was flanked by Snape, who looked grim and unpleasant as ever in his long dark robes, with the corners of his mouth turned down in a sour expression. His black eyes were impassive for the moment, but Harry had a feeling that they were about to be filled with a great deal of scorn and ire, all directed at him.

"If you could desist from squabbling, we have some questions."

Madam Pomfrey came bustling back to them, a few vials in her hands. "I'll just take care of Mr. Malfoy," she murmured.

"Please, Poppy," McGonagall agreed, her gaze softening for a moment when it touched on the wounded boy. Her eyes were fierce when they moved back to Harry, though. "Mr. Potter."

Harry swallowed thickly. He knew that tone.

"I cannot begin to express how disappointed I am in you. I'd thought that we'd addressed this issue quite thoroughly some years ago. I believe it was Professor Snape himself who took it upon himself to discipline you for attacking another student—the very same student sitting before me today!" McGonagall's tone rose with her anger until it was shrill and tremulous, just short of a yell.

Harry hung his head, knowing better than to try to contradict her. Not when she was in this mood.

"I want to make one thing very clear, Mr. Potter. You have done a great many things over the years, last year especially, and we all owe you a debt for that. But that in no way—I repeat, no way—gives you a carte blanche to attack students indiscriminately! You should be absolutely ashamed of this behavior, whatever your past may be with Mr. Malfoy. I will not tolerate this sort of foolishness at Hogwarts, and mark my words, you will be dealt with severely—"

"Professor," Malfoy chimed in, to Harry's astonishment. When had Malfoy ever wanted to stop McGonagall from chewing Harry out, especially when he had a front row seat? "It wasn't like that—"

"Mr. Malfoy, I will hear from you in a moment, I assure you. But you should feel no compulsion to defend Mr. Potter's actions, whatever your shared history. He has no right to exact justice like this, and I will not stand for it—"

"Minerva." Snape spoke quietly, respectfully. "We've yet to hear what has occurred. Perhaps we could let either Mr. Potter or Mr. Malfoy explain the circumstances of this altercation?"

Snape's very reasonable suggestion seemed to completely derail the headmistress. Perhaps, thought Harry, because it had come from Snape.

She blinked, her mouth still slightly ajar, before gathering herself and retorting a touch huffily, "I think it is very clear what occurred here, Severus, as Mr. Malfoy bears a significant wound while Mr. Potter remains entirely untouched. As I said, we've seen this exact situation before, and I made myself very clear of what would happen if we were to see a repeat of this. I will, of course, wait to hear Professor Babbling's take on the matter. She is indisposed, and it is her right to discipline Mr. Potter as Head of House… but I will be making certain that the punishment fits the crime—"

"Headmistress, I've no doubt of your good intentions," Snape interrupted, his voice calm, almost placating. "But perhaps we could withhold judgment until the facts are made plain. Your inferences may be correct, but let us wait for confirmation before jumping to… drastic conclusions."

Harry could feel his gut clench. This sounded too similar in his mind to the advice Snape had offered to Dumbledore during their second year, when they'd been found alone with a petrified Mrs. Norris. His smooth suggestion that they might be victims of circumstances had just been a prelude to a scathing delivery of his suspicions.

McGonagall pursed her lips so tightly that they nearly disappeared. She continued to glower at Harry, but she conceded, "Very well. Mr. Potter, an account of this altercation, if you would."

Harry cast a nervous glance at Snape, whose face was still remarkably blank. Harry had expected a triumphant sneer to emerge already, especially after McGonagall's verbal evisceration. "I—I did attack Malfoy. With a Severing Charm. But it was an accident—"

"Infliction of this kind of wound is rarely an 'accident'," McGonagall bit out sharply, her eyes flashing, "especially not when performed by a capable seventh year who has already attained his majority."

"It was, Professor," Harry protested, his voice hoarse. "It was a reaction. We were in the Owlery, and our conversation got—well, it was a bit heated—and I turned to leave. Malfoy grabbed my arm, and I just kind of… well, I didn't know what he was going to do, so instinct took over, and the next thing I knew I'd cast a diffindo—"

"A likely story," McGonagall growled. "As I recall, the last time was in self-defense as well, was it not? Yet you managed to escape unscathed, while Mr. Malfoy was covered in deep cuts that Professor Snape was fortunately able to close before Mr. Malfoy bled out. You must exhibit greater restraint, Potter—"

"Professor, it's true," Malfoy broke in, sounding almost pleading. "I—I was getting testy, so Potter started to leave. But I didn't want to end things on that note, so I made to stop him, and he just sort of reacted—a reflex. And he apologized right after and walked me down here. He wanted to take responsibility."

Harry could feel Snape's eyes on him, studying him closely. It wasn't a comfortable feeling.

McGonagall seemed to calm a bit at Malfoy's words, at least. Her eyes were less hard, and her lips had certainly relaxed enough that they were no longer quite so pale. "Well," she murmured. "Poppy, what is the diagnosis?"

"A shallow cut," Madam Pomfrey announced as she dabbed a blue solution over Malfoy's rent flesh. "Nothing that won't mend immediately. I'll have him patched up within the hour."

"You both agree it was an accident, then?" McGonagall asked more quietly, her tone more professorial than harsh now.

Harry merely nodded along with Malfoy.

"I'm surprised you agree on anything, given the vehement argument we walked in on." McGonagall let the unspoken question hang in the air, her stern gaze flickering between the two boys.

Again, it was Malfoy who spoke up. "I was telling Potter to run along, since this is hardly a scratch. He insisted on staying. Nothing important."

Harry was surprised—and grateful—for Malfoy's succinct and honest summary. He had a feeling McGonagall wouldn't believe the same explanation from his lips for some reason.

McGonagall certainly seemed discomfited now. "Well," she repeated. She cleared her throat lightly. "I… suppose I owe you something of an apology, Potter, for—ah—getting ahead of myself. But this still speaks of a lack of impulse control, and I would advise you to work on it. Poor restraint is a quality ill-suited to an Auror, and Magical Law Enforcement will be far less forgiving than your classmates of mishaps such as this. Is that understood?"

Harry felt a lump tight in his throat. He did not like the feeling that he'd disappointed McGonagall, and even less her implications that he was not yet ready to be an Auror. Maybe she had a point though. He could have seriously injured Malfoy.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied faintly. He could still feel Snape's eyes on him. What he would have given to Disapparate on the spot, or better, to Obliviate himself and forget that the professor had ever witnessed this lecture. It had been bad enough the first time he'd had to endure it.

McGonagall nodded stiffly. "Since the offense is not so grievous, I won't involve myself. Professor Snape, as it was your student who was injured, I'll leave you to determine appropriate consequences."

Harry tried to decide which was worse, having McGonagall punish him or having her hand the reins over to Snape. Because however well he and the potions master were getting on these days, it certainly didn't mean that the man would go easy on him. Especially not after Harry had attacked his favorite student. Again.

"Very well, Minerva," Snape replied smoothly. "I'd like a word this evening, if you will. Perhaps we could dine together?"

Understanding lit up in McGonagall's eyes. "Ah, have you come to a decision?"

"I have," Snape replied evenly.

"And?"

Snape heaved a sigh. "We can discuss it this evening."

"So yes, then."

Snape inclined his head slightly, his features still schooled into a mask.

"Excellent," she murmured. "I'll expect you at seven, then, my office." McGonagall turned back to Harry once more, her expression softening further. "Potter… I really do regret having jumped to conclusions. I should not have spoken so harshly."

Harry winced. "It's fine, Professor. I understand."

McGonagall opened her mouth as if she wished to say more, but then closed it abruptly. She gave a brisk nod of farewell to everyone present before striding off, her gait as purposeful as ever.

Harry tensed then, waiting for the barrage of insults to start. Because there would be no painless announcement of a detention or a point deduction, he knew. There would be needling and sneering first. Didn't learn your lesson the first time? My, but the Chosen One has a violent streak….

"Potter, I believe you've acted appropriately here, the headmistress' chastisements aside. You're dismissed."

Harry couldn't help but stare at Snape, flabbergasted. He had to swallow a few times before he could even get his tongue to work. "Sir?" he finally managed to force out. "But—aren't you going to take points, or give me a detention—"

"Tell me, Potter, how do you understand the phrase acted appropriately? Have the words taken on new meaning without my knowledge?"

There was the sarcasm, Harry thought. But it still wasn't right. Harry just stared at Snape, who still showed nothing outwardly. Even the frown that had creased his lips was gone. "I—I attacked Malfoy," he stammered. "I—"

"Yes," Snape growled impatiently, "and given your elucidation of the circumstances, it seems apparent that it was, indeed, a regrettable accident meriting no disciplinary action. Now, I would like a word with Draco, if I may, so if you would kindly remove yourself from the Infirmary, as I've no intention of writing you a pass for my own class…."

Harry took the hint then. "Sorry, Malfoy," he mumbled again, just for good measure, then added, "thanks, Professor. See you soon." And on that note, he hurried out into the hall before things could become even more confusing.

XXXXX

Snape tapped a finger lightly against his saucer. It was a nervous tic, he knew, one that under normal circumstances he would have taken pains to curtail. He was not, after all, in the habit of wearing his emotions on his sleeve. But he supposed that with Minerva it didn't matter as much. She wasn't in the habit of reading into ever small gesture and extrapolating upon it, he reasoned.

They'd passed a pleasant dinner together that evening, filled mostly with empty talk on unimportant subjects. The final repairs being made to the castle, the rare plants recently acquired for the greenhouse.

But they'd moved onto tea now. And that meant it was also time to move on to serious matters.

"So," McGonagall sighed at last, "am I to understand that you will be accepting the position of deputy headmaster?"

"On a provisional basis, yes," Snape replied coolly.

"Meaning?"

Snape sipped his tea, using the moment to gather his thoughts. "Meaning that this, like my position as Head of House, will be for a single year only with no expectation of renewal."

"Of course, Severus," McGonagall murmured. "I cannot tell you how appreciative I am. And if you've ever a need of a break, know that we can arrange for something for your classes. I'm certain someone—Filius, perhaps—could take over for you—"

Snape snorted lightly and shook his head. "I've no doubt he's capable, but I assure you, I've no need of a break. And after six years of abysmal instruction, it seems that the students could do with a consistent instructor and a rigorous course."

"And which year, Severus, was not 'abysmal' in your books?" McGonagall inquired, a hint of amusement in her eyes.

"Certainly not the werewo—Lupin's," he caught himself. But he immediately regretted the words that had once slipped out so easily past his lips. The man had died in battle. He'd given his life for the cause.

A shadow seemed to pass over them for a moment, dampening the atmosphere.

Snape cast his eyes to the side and mumbled, "He deserved better." Perhaps the kindest words he'd ever uttered on the subject of Remus Lupin.

McGonagall said nothing, but the solemnity of her expression in that moment spoke volumes. Many had deserved better, not that what they'd deserved had made any difference in he end.

"There is a small pay raise with the position," McGonagall said suddenly. Not the smoothest of transitions, but it did enough to drag both of them away from the dark events of the past year. "Slightly more substantial than that for Head of House—"

"You know that doesn't concern me in the least," Snape muttered impatiently.

"Even so, you should know. Your quarters will also be available to you year-round, of course, and there will be a great deal more summer work than normal. Speaking from experience, it is generally easier to remain in residence and plan holidays than move out completely at the end of term… but that is, of course, only a bit of friendly advice."

Snape had to suppress a small smile. If he never had to return to his home at Spinner's End, he thought, he might die a happy man after all. He had half a mind to torch the place, as impractical as that might be.

"I will keep that in mind. I suppose you have some paperwork for me?"

A few moments later, Snape was poring over the pages of a binding magical contract, occasionally glancing over at a copy of the Hogwarts Charter that Minerva had kindly provided for reference. He preferred to thoroughly read through agreements before signing, and this was proving to be an entertaining exercise, since there were more subtleties to the role he was assuming than he'd originally suspected.

"Mm, I didn't realize that I could overturn your decisions as long as I am supported by a simple majority of the staff. Fascinating."

"Do you plan on opposing me at every step?" McGonagall demanded, a lilt of challenge in in her words.

"Oh, certainly not, Minerva. Still, it is useful to know that I have the option. Especially if you ever decide to verbally flay one of my students as you did Potter this afternoon."

Snape caught a bit of red coloring McGonagall's cheeks. "Well, it was highly irresponsible of the boy… and besides, what was I to think? After that dreadful incident his sixth year… you said yourself, Mr. Malfoy could easily have died there on the bathroom floor! I thought the boy had learned his lesson—"

"Minerva, Potter only acted in self-defense that time," Snape sighed heavily. "And before you accuse me of partisanship, I'll have you remember that I was balancing a very delicate role at the time, trying to convince Mr. Malfoy to confide in me and keep Potter alive and maintain my cover as a loyal Death Eater. Potter shouldn't have used an untested spell, that was utterly reckless, but Draco attempted a Cruciatus curse. Potter was trying to save himself, not hunt down and kill a rival."

McGonagall made a startled, strangling noise in response.

Severus barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "I think Saturday detentions were an appropriate consequence for trifling with untested spells. Amongst other things," he added under his breath, thinking of his old textbook that Potter had refused to produce.

"Severus, I was beside myself—how could you let me think that he'd attacked—unprovoked—" McGonagall seemed so discomfited that she could hardly string together a coherent sentence.

Snape met McGonagall's bewildered gaze squarely. "Draco needed to believe that I would protect him at all costs. I believe we have different opinions when it comes to the ends justifying the means, Minerva, and I was not ready to chance letting you know that a student had attempted an Unforgivable against one of your own. In your place, I would have fought to the death to have the student expelled; I expected nothing less from you. But at the time… that was not in our best interests, and certainly not in Draco's."

McGonagall had to draw several calming breaths before she finally managed to speak again. "I think… no, I certainly understand. Expulsion would have been a death sentence for Mr. Malfoy."

"Even suspension, or supervision within the castle, might have been enough for the Dark Lord to decide that the boy had failed his task. I was not prepared to see him die for an attempted Cruciatus."

McGonagall nodded once, her face grim. "I suppose that makes two rather excessive lectures that Mr. Potter has endured from me on the subject. Goodness, and the first time I rather expected the boy to dissolve before my eyes. He was mortified…. I only hope that you were not too harsh with him today, Severus."

"No favoritism for the famous Harry Potter," Snape mused, unable to keep himself from imagining the boy kowtowed before his Head of House.

Perhaps it was wrong to derive such a perverse pleasure from the scene in his mind…. He'd always thought that his colleague had a particular weakness for her resident celebrity. But after the scene this afternoon, he wondered if instead she'd held him to higher standards. And Minerva's standards were already rather exacting.

"I never would have imagined. Poor Mr. Potter…. But don't fret; I think your tongue-lashing this afternoon was punishment enough."

McGonagall scoffed. "You expect me to believe that you let Potter off with a warning? You? After I gave you my blessing—"

"Of course not," Snape cut her off, keeping his face absolutely deadpan. Her utter disbelief was more entertaining than he could have imagined. "I told the boy he'd acted appropriately, and that I disagreed with your sentiments."

McGonagall was unconvinced. "Lines? Detention? Or should I go check the counters—"

"Not a single point was taken from your precious Gryffindor for this incident, I assure you. But if you feel that I've been remiss…." Snape smiled wickedly at her. "Of course, our esteemed headmistress would not be the least bit partisan, so I suppose fifty points—"

"Oh, enough," McGonagall growled, her tone still stiff with astonishment. "Very well, you acted fairly. I suppose you'd like a medal?"

"For fairness?" Snape demanded, pretending to be appalled. "I'd be forced to resign my position as Head of Slytherin. No, rest assured, I have my own motivations. I'll continue to torment Potter if and when it suits me." But then, dropping all levity, Snape continued, "I did want to discuss something, though, concerning this afternoon's confrontation."

"I have been in close conference with all the staff," McGonagall reassured him, "and I promise you, we will get to the bottom of this animosity—"

"Minerva, please," Snape sighed wearily. "This is precisely my point. I… appreciate your vehement defense of my house and your willingness to protect my students, but I can't help but feel that your zeal in this matter stems from something other than your strict sense of justice and order."

"What do you mean?" McGonagall sniffed, bristling a bit. "My concern is the safety of my students, all of them, and—"

"My point precisely. Did you know that when I visited Miss Parkinson in the Hospital Wing, there were three other students under Poppy's care who'd also been attacked by fellow students? The result of a heated discussion, I believe, about quidditch, of all things…. Yet you've not launched an inquisition as to the cause of their injuries."

"Because we very well know that they were not targeted because of their house—"

"Ah, but we do not know that about Miss Parkinson, either, regardless of the discontented whisperings circulating. For all we know, one of my own students attacked her in an attempt to garner sympathy, or get another student into trouble. Unlikely, but the possibility remains."

Snape took a moment to choose his next words, since the subject was rather delicate and he was uncertain of how to approach it. "I believe," he said after a short pause, his voice low and as gentle as he could make it, "that this is a subconscious effort on your part to compensate for the distrust and hatred you had for me for the entirety of the last year."

"Severus, no—"

Snape held up a hand to her. "You sent me a poisoned flask of wine for Christmas."

At that McGonagall turned the brightest shade of red he'd ever seen on her. "I—we—I thought you didn't—"

"A clever ploy and a worthy attempt on my life," Snape praised her, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Very carefully done… I assume you all collaborated to make certain that no detail was overlooked? And that you were rather disappointed that I didn't bother to enjoy such a fine vintage from Lucius' reserves? Or that I did not serve it to the Carrows, at the very least?"

"Severus," Minerva croaked, her voice harsh, "if we'd only known—"

"For Merlin's sake, I'm not trying to blame you for attempting to poison me! I would have done the same in your place. I'm grateful you didn't succeed, of course, and perhaps a touch insulted that you thought so little of my talents as a potions master. There are few poisons that slip by me. But my point is that you surely must feel some needless, pent-up guilt concerning the level of animosity between us this past year. Another Gryffindor affliction, if I'm not mistaken."

Minerva pressed her lips together into a thin white line. Her eyes were filled with a terrible sadness, one that Snape could not understand. Shame or guilt, perhaps, would have been reasonable, but that was not all that was there. She seemed genuinely upset by something, though he could not begin to fathom what.

"My point," Snape huffed, "is that you're channeling this guilt into an unreasonable crusade for justice for my Slytherins. And while I do appreciate the sentiment, and the intention behind it, I have to insist that you tone it down. Because your next victim might not take an undeserved tirade as well as Potter, you understand, and we are already a little too close to an inter-house war for my comfort. The situation requires a delicate touch."

The conversation died for a moment. Snape tried to distract himself by continuing to read his contract, but the tension in the room kept him from truly concentrating.

McGonagall, for her part, laced her fingers tightly together and sat very stiffly, though Snape could make out, from the corner of his eye, a slight tremor in her arms.

The crackle of flames in the hearth and the ticking of a magical clock were the only sounds to fill the pregnant silence stretching between them.

Snape watched McGonagall swallow once. Twice. At last she spoke.

"I will try to be more aware," she murmured faintly. "Severus… I cannot tell you how glad I am to have you here. And I am ashamed to admit that I never, in all the years I have known you, thought I would feel so grateful to have you on the staff."

The sincerity of her words settled uncomfortably in Snape's stomach. He had the sudden urge to sign his name hastily and excuse himself. But it was as if he were fixed with a Sticking Charm in his seat, unable to even push himself to his feet.

Thankfully McGonagall had not finished, because the potions master was honestly at a loss for words.

"I regret that I did not see you for who you are much sooner."

Snape cleared his throat uncomfortably, unable to meet the headmistress' eyes. "I'm no hero," he muttered, "and I've no wish to be held up as one. There are dark stains on my soul—"

"You have walked a hard path, Severus, and alone. You clawed your way out of the darkness. Hero or no, that took great strength and conviction, and it makes you all the more admirable."

Snape felt his discomfort grow tenfold. He hastily gathered up the pages of his contract in one fell swoop. "I need to be on my way," he excused himself, and turned to leave. He called over his shoulder, "I'll be certain to owl this to you once I've finished reviewing it."

"You never fled from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but honest praise scares you silly?" McGonagall called, her tone suddenly filled with challenge and amusement.

Snape had no clever response for her, so he pretended that he hadn't heard, instead making his way down the moving spiral staircase post-haste.

Really, he couldn't deny that he would gladly choose the Cruciatus curse over a personal conversation any day.

AN: Thanks again for all the reviews and favorites and such! I love hearing from you guys, and thanks so much for reading. If you have thoughts on things you'd like to see, I'm more than happy to hear your ideas! I have a general plot idea here (no spoilers, sorry), but I'm more than happy to make fluffy little detours.