FOUR: The Duel

As promised, Granger did not seek Severus out at all.

Oh, she'd smile or nod if they passed in the corridors and she happened to catch his eye, but otherwise, he might have forgotten she was in the castle at all. During meals, she sat at the opposite end of the High Table; during the weekly staff meeting, she kept her comments brief; and during their single shared evening of patrols, she offered nothing but a "good evening" in greeting and a "good night" as they parted ways.

He should not have been surprised—she had not gone out of her way to speak to him when they'd last shared the castle, either—but her question last week had tricked him into old paranoia. Surely, now that he'd offered her an inch, she'd take an ell, but the week wore on, and he only had to endure the company of her cat, which thankfully had not learned to talk.

It didn't track with what his recollection of Granger at all. There had never been a morsel of information she didn't chase. Her hand had always been waving in the air, hadn't it? She'd been so determined to ask, to give or receive answers, hadn't she?

She had grown up, that was all, and he reminded himself of that every time he found himself straining to pick out her conversation with Minerva or Longbottom at meals. Found a little maturity, a little delicacy. This paranoia of his was an adjustment period as he grew accustomed to a new moving piece in a life that had not changed in years. There was nothing wrong with her. He admitted that he was a cynical man, but to assume that she was ill just because she had developed some respect for another's boundaries at last was very cynical indeed.

He was bored, he convinced himself, and that was all.

As his fourth-year Defence students left the classroom, some still displaying the after-effects of a poorly-fought Imperius curse, Minerva entered. He was pleased, as always, that the students gave her just as wide a berth as they gave him. Even his Slytherins didn't come within striking distance anymore; they were uncertain of him, of themselves, of their place in their world, since the Dark Lord had fallen and the old truths of their House dissolved. A Muggle-born had been sorted into their midst this year, and he'd heard not a peep against the addition; truly, wonders never ceased.

"Haven't found any future Aurors, I presume?" Minerva asked, interrupting his thoughts.

An automatic sneer curled his lip. "None of them have the skill," he dismissed. "Nor the raw talent. Some may become adequate additions to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement one day—no more."

She accepted this with a nod. He knew, before she fixed him with that beady stare, that the upcoming conversation would be unpleasant.

"I owe you an apology," she said, no hint of reluctance in her tone.

"For…?"

"I should not have sprung Professor Granger on you. You deserved notice, at least, that she would be returning to the castle."

He waved this off. "Professor Granger and I have made our peace. No harm was done." The title felt very strange in his mouth—yet more evidence that his suspicion was unwarranted.

Strange, that he had never before though of Minerva as old, but in the evening light streaming through the classroom windows, the lines on her face seemed to deepen. The war had chewed up younger wizards—wizards like him—and spat them back out to recover, to bounce back, but she was approaching seventy now, and he wondered if she would.

"Harm is not the issue at hand any longer," she said at last, "but courtesy."

"I will survive without it, I'm sure." He hoped his tone would encourage her to desist with this conversation.

"That is all you are doing, isn't it?" There was a sad note in her voice now; something about the look she was giving him made him feel like a troublesome teenager again, in trouble for what is it this time, what is it ever—

"I don't see the issue."

Her head tipped, just slightly, to the side. "You wouldn't, I suppose."

Irked, he pressed on. "I have my work, my freedom, my life. It is enough. I am not unhappy."

Her shoulders rose and fell, but the sigh was too quiet for him to hear. "I shouldn't presume to know what's best for you. I only hoped for something…more. We could not have won the war without you, after all. You are a hero."

A grimace twisted his lips. "I would have seemed more heroic to all involved had I been allowed to die."

Her impatient tsk swept this aside. "You're still a young man, Severus. You have the right to a full life…a happy one…now that your strings have been cut."

That was the odd thing about strings, he wanted to tell her: they persisted however they could, noticeable if only by their absence.

"Consider it," she said. "If there is anything you wish to do besides endure students for the rest of your days, I would be happy to help."

He only nodded, and she—accepting, perhaps, the distinct improbability that he would ever ask another person for help ever again—turned to go. He had no sooner turned his back on the door than it swung open again; biting down a growl of impatience, he whirled back to face it.

"I want a word about some points you docked yesterday," Granger said, one hand on her hip, a scowl on her face.

"Take it up with Minerva," he snapped. "If you run, you might still catch her."

The hard line of her brow softened; she blinked, as though he'd wounded her. "I'd rather not," she retorted. "I could hardly get the full story from Miss Boivin, the way she was sobbing. I want to hear your version of events." Infuriatingly, she pushed herself up to sit on a desk in the front row, legs swinging.

He was not in the mood to discuss this with her, but he searched yesterday's memories all the same. Yes, Miss Boivin—she'd spoken twice out of turn, not to answer questions, but to ask them, to contradict him. It had been her tone that had spurned him to action: imperious, arrogant, interrupting—

"She spoke out of turn, contradicted me. I warned her to desist the first time, but she continued. Ten points, and she was silent for the rest of the period." He raised an eyebrow. "Does that not track with the story you heard?"

Her lips pursed. "Yes. I can't figure why it upset her so much, though. She went through three handkerchiefs while she was in my office. You didn't…" She hesitated, then shook her head. "Never mind."

"Didn't what?"

If she was alarmed by the irritation in his voice, she didn't show it. "It's not always the points, but the way they're docked," she ventured. "You weren't…erm…unnecessarily cruel, were you?"

"No," he returned icily. "I was not."

She gave him a hard, appraising stare, and then slid down from the desk. "Well, that's settled, then. Perhaps she isn't used to losing points, that's all. She seems very bright."

"She is," he admitted grudgingly. "Will you get out of my classroom, now?"

Her frown deepened. "Is everything alright?"

"If you don't leave—"

"—will you hex me?" she asked, and to his consternation, her lips twitched at the corner as though fighting off a smile. "Frankly, I could use the practice."

They stood there, ten feet apart, her eyebrows raised, his scowl deepening—and then, on impulse, he pulled his wand from his sleeve and cast.

His spell was quick, but she was ready; her shield held it off, and it bounced harmlessly back against the wall, where it hit a patch of stone and died.

The next curse destroyed her shield, but she dodged out of the way and fired back one of her own without a second thought. There was no time to think; he was fast, a volley of light streaming from his wand, and it was hard to get a spell in edgewise against the barrage. She danced out of the way and didn't bother to cast another shield charm. If there was one good thing she'd learned in that war, it was that dodging saved time and shields wasted energy. As she jerked to the side, she let loose another spell, hoping to simply freeze him.

He was ferocious in battle, and for a moment, that was what this was: a battle, the classroom a war zone, the enemies they two. He had a disturbing sort of grace; he whirled away from her spells, as insubstantial as air. She felt a sickening thrill as she spun out of the way, throwing another curse in tandem with her movement.

It had been a long time since she'd felt so very alive.

Her heartbeat pounded, her blood sang in her ears, and every little bit of her revolved around the heat of the battle, giving her an effortless grace, a disturbing sense of oneness with herself. Hadn't it been that way, always, her own mortality more alive for her when she faced the loss of it? She certainly couldn't hope to win this particular fight, but it was satisfying, even with that knowledge. She didn't believe she'd ever faced a wizard as competent as Snape.

It did not last nearly long enough; she might have guessed five minutes, at most, when his Impediment Jinx hit her square in the chest. She found herself flat on her back as though tied down, gasping for breath, and listened to the slow cadence of his footsteps crossing the room toward her.

By the time he reached her, the jinx had started to wear off; she was able to struggle against it just enough to sit up. He stopped a few feet from her, one hand half-outstretched, as though about to help her up.

"As I suspected," she said, and got a hand on a nearby desk to drag herself upright, "I'm out of practice."

This was clearly not the response he was expecting; she thought she might have seen his lips tighten over a startled laugh. That would be something, she mused. Snape laughing.

"I didn't expect you to go for it," she added, leaning back against the desk with a low sigh.

If she wasn't mistaken, he seemed a little abashed. "I'm…sorry." It sounded as if pulling teeth might have been easier than apologizing, but still, he said the words, and her eyebrows rose. "I thought I could merely expel you from my classroom. I did not expect you to react."

"Instinct," she said lightly. "As you might imagine, I've had a fair few people curse me unexpectedly."

A shadow of discomfort crossed his features.

"Minerva exhaust your patience, did she?" she went on, trying to sound understanding.

"Yes." He clearly did not want to admit it, but there it was.

"Would you like help cleaning up?" she asked, eyeing the considerable damage. Ink splattered everywhere, desks on their sides, glass broken apart on the floor; they had given no regard to the more fragile objects in the room.

He held up a hand, and she only then noticed he was bleeding. "No. Kindly remove yourself to the Great Hall. I've had enough of meddling Gryffindors today." He examined his own flesh; she thought the tightening around his eyes might be pain, but it was a small thing.

"At least let me heal you," she said, approaching him. "You know it's bad for you to do it yourself."

He didn't back away. She thought that surprising it itself, that he didn't fight her—didn't even flinch when she took his hand and pulled it gently toward her, moving aside the torn fabric that covered his left forearm. There was glass in the long cut; it was shallow, but bleeding profusely, up the inside of his forearm.

She glanced up. "A spell hit the chandelier?" It was missing a considerable amount of glass and crystal.

"Yes," he said, and it was resentful. "You dodged, it rebounded, and my reflexes are hardly what they were."

If his reflexes were hardly what they were, they must have been terrifying seven years prior.

She didn't bother speaking the incantation; it was frivolous and Latin, anyway, and her pronunciation was better without her tongue tripping her up. The glass gently disengaged itself from the wound, dancing up and then falling into the small bowl she'd conjured. The tip of her wand then traced the wound, cleaning and sewing it shut with a thin line of golden magic.

It cut right through the centre of an old, silvered tattoo, and she tried not to look at it too closely.

His entire body stiffened as her wand traced over the cut and the skull and the serpent; even the hand she gently cradled suddenly felt like a taut rope. She released him without comment as the wound finished knitting itself together.

"You know," she began, but he interrupted her.

"Whatever idea has occurred to you, kindly keep it to yourself." He examined the closed wound and repaired his sleeve, obscuring the tattoo from view.

"Look, obviously we're both suffering from a bit of a short fuse," she reasoned. "Could help to let off a bit of steam." He seemed caught off guard by her admission of her temper; his eyes narrowed down at her, but he didn't interrupt. Heartened, she went on. "A duel once in a while might do us both good."

He didn't snort, exactly, but he did make some kind of dismissive noise deep in his enormous nose. "That was hardly a duel."

"I'm out of practice," she muttered, stung. "I'm sure I'd be a better opponent after a bit of preparation."

He scoffed, but said nothing further.

"You can't tell me you aren't tempted," she tried. "I mean, at the very least, you'd get to hex me on a regular basis without fear of repercussion. Wouldn't you enjoy that?" She made herself smile.

His eyes narrowed. "Would you?"

"Enjoy might be a strong word, but I'd be glad to stay sharp."

He did not seem mollified by this. "What of your promise to leave me be?"

She pretended to think, tapping her wand against her thigh. "I don't think I promised, specifically. I offered, maybe, but nothing was set in stone. And the offer is still on the table, of course," she added. "But this might be more…fun? No, I can see that's the wrong word to persuade you."

But she had been sure, for a second, that his thin lips had hitched up at one corner, as if he'd been about to smirk or maybe even smile.

"You are not, historically, persuasive," he reminded her.

It was almost like he was telling her a joke; dry, hardly discernible, but she smiled all the same. "I'm not," she said, and pushed away from the desk. "Well, if you won't let me help clean up, I'll be on my way."

She took her time crossing the room, and she'd only begun to reach for the doorknob when he spoke again. "Miss—Professor. Granger." He cleared his throat. "I will consider your offer."

She turned back. "What, the one to leave you be?"

His scowl was back, deeper and darker than ever. "No. To practice dueling. I have not had a reliable opponent for some time, and it would be…a change."

She did not smile. She wanted to, but she did not smile. She nodded, very solemnly, and said, "Well. You know where to find me."