Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Do I own any of this? Oh, honey. Don't be silly.

* * * * * * *

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

... Much Ado About Nothing 3.1

'Ibiza?'

'Yes. Ibiza.'

'But Ibiza is so, so...'

'Sunny? Spanish? Don't twist up your face like that, my dear; it's really quite unpleasant to look at.'

She had been about to say Vulgar; Ibiza is so vulgar. 'Um, far. It's so far. Ibiza is.' The teacup she hurries towards her mouth crashes into her teeth and spills half its contents down her shirt. 'Oh, hell!'

'Tergeo. That's the point, isn't it? For me to go away during my sabbatical? I don't think it would work otherwise. Besides. Ibiza is where a friend of a friend has a villa where I may stay. It is an ideal arrangement.'

Hermione blushes. 'Yes...oh, yes, of course. I just... I do apologise; it just feels so sudden.'

Minerva snorts. 'I can assure you it is anything but sudden. I have been wanting to take this time for, well, for nearly thirty years. There was always some reason I couldn't.'

'Mostly some reason named Voldemort, I imagine.'

'Just so. Now that the war is safely in the past and the school is rebuilt and my staff is mostly stable, I propose to go.' She reaches for a biscuit and snaps it in half. 'Before someone, somewhere, somehow comes up with a reason why I can't.'

'Oh. Um.'

'Thirty years, Hermione. Thirty.'

'Yes.'

'Longer than you've drawn breath.'

She just nods. The dozen or so reasons why Headmistress Minerva McGonagall cannot, ought not, must not take a year-long leave of absence are clanging in Hermione Granger's throat. She drowns them with more tea.

'But that's not all I want to talk to you about. And this next subject should be a bit more congenial.' Minerva rises and walks to the fireplace. Pinching and flinging Floo power, she says, 'Kingsley Shacklebolt's Office.'

'Minerva. Miss Granger.' The Minister of Magic's Floo-face ripples and bulges in the fire.

'We're ready for you, Kingsley,' says Minerva, and steps back from the grate to let the man through.

* * *

'Why her?'

Minerva's expression evokes a dagger, or a pike...some fell and stabby thing.

Severus is nearly undaunted.

'That the reasons are obvious is a fact too obvious to state. But if you must be thick: she is to take up the Muggle Studies post this autumn. She has attended Hogwarts and a Muggle university, both with great success. She has the energy, intelligence, and organisational ability to pull it off. It is an inspired choice.'

'She is, in my experience, a crusading, prating, grating, superior, interfering know-it-all who will rub the rest of the staff raw before the year is half over. She'll cause a rebellion that you'll have to quell. She's trouble.'

'You'd prefer an outside Ministry appointment then?'

'I might prefer it to certain doom, yes.'

Minerva rolls her eyes. 'When, Severus, did you become such an old woman? Certain doom, indeed.' She leans forward over the desk. 'Professor Granger has Ministry backing in this. Furthermore, she is my chosen candidate.'

And she leans back in her chair, glass in hand. 'Is it the concept of interhouse comity you dislike so much? Or of coordination across subjects? I can assure you both have long been needed at Hogwarts.'

He cannot will his shoulders to unknot. 'I am accustomed to being in control in my own classroom.'

'I'm not asking you to give that up. By no means. And I don't plan on introducing any curriculum reforms for another two or three years. This year is for beginning to reconsider the lines we all draw between houses and academic subjects. And between students of different blood status. The next war will not be bred at Hogwarts, if I can help it.'

She swirls her whiskey and sips. 'You know, I never thought I'd learn to appreciate Irish whiskey. I've always been a single-malt girl, me. But this will do.'

Severus mutters under his breath something he might half want her to hear. It might be 'Umbridge.'

Minerva won't be drawn. 'Indeed, Severus, you'll find that this year's arrangements will represent a promotion in your authority. What I am asking...no, what I am demanding...is that you accept and support Hermione in this new role. It needn't be a trial. It could be... rather amusing. More?'

He holds out his glass and waits for her to start making sense.

'There is another...a related...topic I want to discuss with you today.' Her face softens along its smile lines.

'Have you ever been... to Ibiza?'

* * *

'Why him?'

'Nev, it's obvious. He's the Deputy Headmaster. With Minerva on sabbatical, it's only natural that he stand in. I mean...who else?'

'Pomona could do it.' Neville looks so young when he's in this mood.

'Darling. You know you love Pomona too much to want her to drop everything and come back to Hogwarts. She's ridiculously happy with her research and with... oh, what's his name?'

Neville frowns. 'Toshiro.' And he mutters something else.

Hermione shouts with laughter. 'Do you really think he's a gigolo, or do you just envy Pomona? He's yummy.'

'Yes, well, yummy boys don't much fancy me, do they?' From anyone else this might sound bitter. Neville's just stating the facts as he sees them.

'Oh, Nev.' She feels a surge of tenderness for him and tries to hold it back. He's easily embarrassed by displays of affection. 'I found mine, didn't I? You'll find yours, and he will be of the very yummiest.'

'Yeah, you found yours at a university with thousands of men. I, however, am a teacher at a school in rural Scotland. The circumstances and my character don't exactly lead to hot and cold running men in my rooms.' He smiles. 'Now I'm thinking of what that would look like. Hot men, and cold ones. Running in my rooms.'

Ah, the feint to absurdism. Time to change the subject. 'I have one more piece of this to tell you. Guess who is taking Transfiguration while Minerva is away?'

'No idea.'

'Someone we were at school with.'

'Umm. Penelope Clearwater?'

'No.'

'Let's see. Theo Nott?'

'Much closer!'

'Hermione, just tell me, please.'

She opens her eyes wide and pauses before rolling out the improbable words, 'Draco. Malfoy.'

* * *

'I still don't understand, Severus. The point is... what is the point again?'

'Unity. Cooperation. Reconciliation.' He makes the words sound like the load of horseshit they are.

'Huh. Those are not very pointy points. Those are some squishy, um, points. No wonder you're being such an blesh, um, blish, erm, blister.' Draco's not holding his drink well.

He's nervous, of course. He'll be setting foot in Hogwarts for the first time since the day after the last battle...six years ago in June.

'Regretting your decision?'

'Yes!' groans Draco. 'What the ffffuck was I thinking? I was doing fine in Munich. Everything was just normal and fine.'

This is not how Narcissa tells it. The gambling and drinking were bad enough. But when those gave way to unrelenting black moods, social isolation, poor hygiene, and the Ignoring of Owls from One's Mother, Draco's mum, guided by her charlatan 'personal growth' guru, went into action. Hogwarts, the scene of Draco's injury, would be his cure.

Severus knows the scheme, because last year he was the victim. A flock of old colleagues had appeared at the door of Spinners End, politely ignoring the squalor and talking of gratitude and trust and new beginnings. A moment of weakness...a flash of not-yet-dead hope...and he'd agreed to return.

Now Draco, for his own reasons, has done the same. More fool he, he thinks, and sips his firewhisky.

'Bugger. Great bloody bollocksy buggering bugger.' Draco has gone white and is sliding, cursing, all the way down the settle so that his body is half under the table and only his wild eyes and tufting pale hair are visible.

Severus turns. Three people have just entered the Leaky Cauldron, two men and a woman. Longbottom. Some brown-haired Mugglish bloke. And Granger.

It's the first time Severus has seen her since the last day of his trial, four and a half years ago. She and Potter and Weasley (correction: Weasleys, the whole fucking tribe) had fought for and won his release and exoneration. It was, in his opinion, their success: balm to their self-image, another tick mark in their column entitled 'good triumphs over evil.'

He didn't give a monkey's. Went to Spinners End with his Ministry honorarium, fenced himself in with wards so thick they sent any mortal owl away choking, and began a discourse with his books, his music, and the contents of his tiny potions lab.

The Muggle-type pulls out a chair for Granger, then leans down and kisses the side of her neck. So she's not with Weasley anymore. The realisation gives his gut an odd twist, and he narrows his eyes.

There's a sort of glow around her he remembers from the months of pretrial preparation. And he's suddenly very angry that he still imagines it's there. A halo of self-righteousness, is what it is.

She may be coming in to Hogwarts with a Ministry mandate to spread peace, love, and understanding. But he's the Headmaster this year, and the bushy-haired know-it-all tyro isn't going to have things her way. Not by a long shot.

* * *

'No, really...it's for flying.'

'You're joking, aren't you? Next you'll tell me you all have animal familiars and wear pointy black hats and sit around stirring cauldrons.'

Hermione looks around to see if anyone's heard David. This is not going very well.

Neville says mildly, 'Well, it's interesting. They're not familiars in the old sense; it's more tradition than anything else, these days. The hats, too...they're part of formal or ceremonial dress. And we stand.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Sorry. Making potions...stirring the cauldrons. We stand, we don't sit. It's like, well, like cooking.'

Hermione squeezes David's hand. 'I know it all seems odd, sweetheart. But really, there are a lot of similarities. Um...'

Again she looks around. At the thick cobwebs draped artfully over the back bar. At the cloth polishing a glass in midair. At the neighbouring table and its occupants: an owl standing astride its own droppings, and a very hairy wizard with a tattooed pattern of stars spinning and winking on his forehead. At the paintings of pub rooms whose various occupants are brawling, singing, vomiting, sleeping. At the carved-wood booth in the shadows, one of whose occupants is half under the table while the other is...

It's him! Professor Snape...Headmaster Snape. He's looking right at her. And... is that Malfoy listing into the corner?

'Neville! Look. It's Professor Snape, and Malfoy. No, over there.' She smiles and waves, feeling like an idiot, but one must do something other than point.

Snape curls his lip. She turns hot and red and looks down at her hands. Like a godsend, their drinks arrive.

David's looking at the booth. 'Those are colleagues of yours?'

Hermione glances at Neville, who is staring devoutly at his glass. 'Yes. The dark one is Professor Snape. He's acting Headmaster this year. The other is Draco Malfoy. He was at school with us...with me and Neville...and he'll be teaching Transfiguration this year.'

Because he's about to ask, she says, 'It's the art of transforming objects into other objects. Like I showed you the other day, with the doily and the bag of crisps?'

'Ah. Right. Yes.' David takes a sip of his butterbeer and grimaces. 'And what does Professor...what's his name? The one who looks like he'd like to pick his teeth with our finger bones?'

'Snape.'

'Snape. What does he teach?'

'Potions, actually. Cauldron stirring and all that. Or...no, what am I thinking? He's DADA now...Defense Against the Dark Arts. It's just, when Neville and I started at Hogwarts, he was the Potions master. I suppose I'll always associate him with Potions.'

Neville shudders. 'Me too. Merlin, he was a bastard.'

'Was?'

'Was. Is. Ever will be. He more or less despises me, though now we're colleagues it comes out more like the very coldest indifference.'

'He's not so fond of me, either,' she says. 'I wish... but he's not. He's... ah, it's so complicated.' She spreads her hands. 'You must understand, he's absolutely brilliant.'

'Brave, too,' says Neville.

She nods fervently. 'So incredibly brave. It's... he's a famous war hero. He's like...' She searches for Muggle equivalents to offer David. 'He's like Count von Stauffenberg.'

David raises his eyebrows. 'Really? The bloke who tried to assassinate Hitler?'

'Yes, well, sort of like that. He took on someone that bad, and from the inside. But Professor Snape survived. He prevailed.' She looks towards the booth, where Snape is leaning across the table saying something to Malfoy. She lets her gaze rest on his beaky profile and lank, greasy hair. The sight makes her glad.

Out of the war's horrors and the muddle that 'normal life' has proven to be, she holds on to a few purely good things, and this is one: that Severus Snape is healed, free, and covered with honour.

* * *

She plops back down in her chair and buries her head in her folded arms on the table.

'That bad?'

She looks up at him. 'Well, you saw it. This is really hard for him. It's hard for both of us. I only told him a month ago, when I decided to accept the Hogwarts job. I've been trying to ease him into it since then. Two days ago I got Ministry clearance to bring him here. I don't know... maybe I should have chosen somewhere less... colourful.'

She leans her forehead on her fist. She's very tired, suddenly. 'It's so odd. On one hand, I'm so relieved that I've finally told him. I feel like he can really see me now. On the other hand, I hate how this has commandeered the entire relationship. It's all we talk about. Well, I mean, even when we're not talking about it, we're talking about it, if that makes any sense.'

Neville nods.

'I thought maybe I could take him into Diagon Alley today, show him Weasleys' and Flourish and Blotts and Fortescue's and every place that I love. But he was right to go home now, I think. That would have been too much.'

'Well, it was a start,' says Neville.

'Yes. And now maybe I can go and have a word with...wait, where did they go?'

He shrugs. 'I went to the loo and when I came back they were gone. Diagon Alley, I'm guessing. Or just straight to Hogwarts.'

Now she feels thoroughly deflated. She's ready to jump in and start building something new and hopeful at Hogwarts; she wants to share her plans with Professor Snape and start working out the details.

'Oh. Oh well. Maybe it's for the best. We couldn't really have talked business here, especially... well, Malfoy was clearly two sheets and rising. He looked bad, Neville.'

Neville is silent for a minute or two, staring at the shreds of his paper cocktail napkin. When he looks up, his hazel eyes, usually so soft, so quietly observing, are hard and glittering...on the edge of tears, or of a fight, or something dire.

'Yeah, no. He doesn't ever actually look bad. That's the problem, in a nutshell.'

She gapes at him. 'Neville? What...? What?'