Two

As it happened, Severus gave Minerva no chance to woman the barricades. He arrived four days after The Mistake came to light, full of plans for the curriculum, the labs, the stores, the undoing of Horace's depredations – all ideas he had worked on during the many solitary leisure hours the last few years had offered him – to be confronted with this. If nothing else, Minerva's confession provided an opportunity for a tantrum of epic proportions and a mutual screaming fit which, though nothing was actually said about his year as Head, cleared the air considerably of much built-up resentment and guilt on both sides.

By the time weariness forced them both to draw breath, Severus acknowledged wryly to himself that so far, his re-induction onto the Hogwarts staff had been remarkably therapeutic.

He swooshed up and down the office a couple of times while he prepared the next installment of his tirade. Turning to face the Headmistress again, he found her standing with her hands on her hips and her head bowed, an attitude he hoped presaged the concession of defeat. She blew out a long sigh and raised serious eyes to his.

"Severus ..."

He braced himself. "Severus, please," seemed in the offing, and it was unlikely to win the utterer any house points, even less, cooperation. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dumbledore's portrait nodding benignly, the old git.

"Severus, for Merlin's sake, just pack it in, you silly boy!" snapped Minerva. She folded her arms firmly across her chest. "I'm not going to apologise any more. It's only a year, you'll be well paid, and who knows? You might even learn something. I remember you used to rather enjoy that."

Bravado left him like the air from a whoopee cushion.

"You'll owe me, Minerva," was the best he could manage under the circumstances, though the snarled delivery wasn't too shabby.

She rolled her eyes. "Hagrid has left his keys under a flower pot by his door, and I believe his lesson plans are on the table. He says he doesn't mind if his replacement wants to live in the house, but I imagine you will prefer to stay in the castle. You can choose whichever set of rooms you like – as long as they are unoccupied," she added hastily in response to the evil grin he didn't try to suppress. "Now I suggest you go and start acquainting yourself with your new duties, Professor. I am sure you will muddle through. If you have any questions of import, you may make an appointment for tomorrow."

She waved her wand to open the door and sat at her desk, resolutely pulling some paperwork towards her. After a moment, she looked over the tops of her glasses at him. "Shoo."

On the way back down the stairs, Severus felt oddly reassured by the dismissal. It was almost delightful to be wanted but have no moral pressure exerted, no false praise of his unparalleled abilities, no promises of future greatness, no threats – simply the assumption that he would do as he was told. Still, Care of Magical Creatures? As far as he was concerned, the best place for most creatures was broken down into component parts swimming in jars or – depending on species and cut – on his plate, swimming in gravy. Voluble complaint was required, and in any case, he very much wanted to see the only person in the castle to whom he had ever been able to grumble like one perfectly reasonable, put-upon, ill-used human being to another.

It was a trifle unexpected to enter Filch's office and be confronted with the spectacle of his old companion, bum perched on the desk, knuckles white from clenching, head thrown back, while, just visible past his arm, a woman knelt before him, apparently busying herself with the front of his trousers.

"Nnngggghhh!" groaned the caretaker. "Nnnggggghhhhhhaaaaaarrrrrrrgggghhhh!" Abruptly, he relaxed.

Severus was backing silently out, not wishing to begrudge any man his pleasures, when a voice he remembered all too well asked brightly, "There you go, Mr Filch! Does that feel better?" and none other than Hermione Granger, prissy know-it-all swot and sidekick of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Tolerated, scrambled to her feet and looked assessingly into Filch's face.

Tectonic upheavals in world-view seemed to be the order of the day, thought Severus, gamely attempting to stop his paradigms falling right off the frame by running away.

"Oh! Hello, Professor Snape!"

Curses. Too late.

Filch hitched his trousers, pulled his jacket closed, and turned round with what seemed an unusually relaxed expression.

Severus closed his eyes and clutched at the door handle. Clearly, whatever malign influence had led him into the job catastrophe had also left him completely deranged.

"Severus! Good to see you, boy!" rumbled Filch. "Thanks, Professor Granger. I'll let you know how it goes, then, shall I?"

By the scaly left tit of the Gorgon – was Granger to be his colleague? He had a vision of endless, friendly requests for help and offers of 'assistance'.

"Yes, please, Mr Filch. We may need to do this again in a few days."

Granger walked towards the doorway with a jaunty step and a disgustingly sunny smile. Severus became uncomfortably aware that both his eyes and his mouth were now hanging unbecomingly open. He brought his teeth together with a clack and turned his gape into a glare. Granger seemed undaunted.

"Have you seen the Headmistress yet?" she asked.

"Yes!" he snarled. "Not that it's any of your business."

Her smile became a little fixed.

"Oh. I was hoping to accompany you up there."

"I don't need my hand ... or anything else ... held by you, Miss Granger," he said rudely.

She looked him up and down.

"Really?"

The door closed gently behind her.

"You'd never have known it when she was just some uppity brat running round the school," said Filch, "but that Professor Granger's a fine woman!"

"Argus, stop raving and make some proper tea. Tea that'd corrode a southerner from the inside out. Tea you can stand a spoon up in. A man cannot survive a day like this on the dishwater Minerva serves. Next thing I know, someone's going to tell me Potter's on the staff as well."

Filch busied himself with the kettle.

"You want a flapjack with that?"

*

Even the knowledge of what Granger had really been doing in the region of Filch's groin – Severus flinched: Argus might be his friend, but there were certain words which could never be placed in conjunction without creating some sort of backlash – did little to recover Snape's feeling of equanimity. Neither did the pulled shoulder earned in shifting what Hagrid considered a 'flower pot' and any right-thinking person would call a stone horse trough in order to find the key to a door that was, as it turned out, unlocked. Neither did the tardy realisation that a spot of wand-waving would have been both less foolish and less painful. Neither did the lesson 'plans', written out carefully in slightly childish writing on lined paper and laid out meticulously on the table. "First Years: autumn term – pets and familiars" was all that was written on the first sheet. Snape turned it over, looking for the rest, and even tried a Revelio in case the page had received some pink umbrella treatment – but no. That was it. Third years onwards earned, at least, lists of animals, and though the logic of what was chosen was baffling, it was nothing to the order in which they were studied. Lastly, a note for him.

"Dear Professor _________,

Here are my plans. Nothing's particularly dangerous (Oh, really, thought Severus, eyeing the fourth-years' schedule, which apparently included being fed to a Manticore), but it's all really interesting (A good job I'm an expert in defensive magic, with all this 'interest' on offer) so the kids should enjoy their lessons (Not if I can help it). The beasts you can't find in the Forest you can get from Rotezahn and Kralle in Basingstoke on short loan. (How convenient.) If you want handlers, you'll have to talk to the Headmistress about extra budget. (And trolls might fly.)

Have a good year.

R. Hagrid.

P.S. You're allowed an owl for your own use. Go to the owlery and one of them will choose you."

Ooh goody, a perk, Snape thought sourly as he rolled up the 'plans' and shoved them in his pocket. The paper was nice and absorbent and would be good for ... something, though certainly not the purpose that Hagrid had intended. Locking and warding the door behind him – for who could underestimate the creativity of a schoolful of adventurous brats armed with bottles of Hagrid's infamous liniment? – Severus trudged back up to the school. With a bit of luck, the library would have a record of Grubbly-Plank's plans, or even old Whatsisface who used to teach before Dumbledore went completely potty. He certainly wasn't going to write his own if he could help it.

*

Dust motes danced lazily in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the library windows. Other than that, nothing stirred. The Hogwarts elves had been busy with their polish, undoing the effects of a year's hard use, and the tables gleamed. Beeswax scented the air. Severus recalled that he had always liked Hogwarts in the summer.

He made his way towards the cupboards where Madam Pince stored copies of the curricula and lesson plans – a requirement of the school Board, though rarely checked – only to find it, unlike Hagrid's hut, severely locked and warded. He experienced some surprise that the wards resisted his attempts to break them, but, instead of expending any real effort on burglary and earning himself the librarian's wrath, he thought he'd go for a pleasant wander among the shelves in search of the witch in question and maybe leaf through a couple of texts for inspiration.

By the time Severus reached the cast-iron gate to the Restricted Section, he had sent nine volumes whizzing to pile themselves neatly on the librarian's desk. A tenth, A Guide To Your New Familiar by Cray Pode and Schwette Katzenjammer, complete with glossy illustrations, "jolly little quizlets" and "tricks to teach your toad", would save him putting any thought at all into the forty minutes a week he would have to endure the first years. He made a mental note to have it added to the reading list. The gate was unlocked, and as staff, he was permitted access with a mere tingle as he passed through. He paced slowly past the shelves of restless books, looking down each aisle, searching for Madam Pince. There was no sign of her, and he was beginning to wonder if she was on a loo break when a muffled snigger reached his ear.

Let it be noted that there is no sound that sets off a long-time teacher's warning bells as swiftly and surely as a snigger.

Settling into a stealthy prowl and casting a subtle Disillusionment charm on himself, Severus followed the suspicious thread of sound. It led him unerringly to the Restricted Section reading room.

This chamber, uncharted territory to the student body, was a remarkably pleasant space. A large circular chamber lined with bookshelves and lit by many windows above the shelves, it harboured no dark corners in which something untoward might lurk. The desks and lecterns occupied the centre of the room, at a safe distance from even the most determined tomes, and widely-spaced from each other as well, in order that readers' choices might not attack, infect, or interbreed with one another to deleterious effect. All the woodwork gleamed with polish and the patina of protective charms. Each study space claimed a single comfortable chair, except for the one currently occupied – quite against the rules – by two witches, one mature, bony and graying, one young, curvaceous and bushy-haired, both shaking with laughter over what seemed to be ... He looked more closely. Yes, judging by the slime puddling on the desk and the occasional tentacle making a bid for freedom, it was The Lays of Shoggoth, one of the most infamous texts in the history of wizardry, and certainly no laughing matter. It must be a case of hysteria and madness brought on by contact, decided Severus, readying himself to be heroic.

"Look at this one!" said Granger. She made a big effort to control her giggles and began to read, spitting out the guttural sounds with surprising fluency.

"Khrath'de nog Bel-tramin kha Zradji,

Wgh'flerch muh tre Phreithen an Schta-bri.

Q'l Bracht in Zha Xjinn

He ghoeb ak en kKzijn,

Llan drwb en-Schtul mrawdyg tra ghra'Di!"

The two witches howled with laughter and clutched at each other. The book tried to join in, but Granger casually pushed the tentacles away, tossing them what seemed to be – if Snape could believe his eyes – a handful of chocolate buttons. She let the book absorb its treat before snapping it shut.

"Oh, thank you, Irma! That made my day," said the younger witch, when she had mastered herself once more. "I – oh! Hello, Professor Snape! Again."

Drat. The incantation seemed to have undone his Disillusionment.

"Was that what it sounded like?" To be honest, he couldn't keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"And what did it sound like, young man?" enquired Madam Pince, rosy-faced from laughing, but still able to make him feel like a scabby schoolboy.

"It sounded like ... I can't believe I'm saying this. It sounded like a five thousand year old dirty limerick."

"That's exactly what it was!" said Granger, a little muffled as she was currently engaged in wrestling the Lays back into their warded glass display case. "Behave, you! Or there won't be any more chocolate!" The tentacles withdrew and the book lay oozing innocence as well as ... ooze. Granger chucked in another handful of buttons and set about doing up the rune-embossed bolts and chains that kept the evil thing confined. "I just love the way the Ancients wrote down anything that crossed their minds, without any attempt at editing. The seventh-years are going to love that one." She shook her head, smiling. "Right, I'm off, as you clearly have business with Madam Pince, Professor. See you later, Irma!"

She scampered off with a cheerful wave.

Severus became aware that he was gaping again.

"So, Professor Snape, how may I assist you?" enquired the librarian. "Oh, and you might want to see to your clothing – that particular verse has a deft way with one's fastenings if one doesn't take appropriate precautions."

Voluminous outer robes had their uses, thought Severus as he felt his trousers begin to slither earthwards.

*

With a gloomy feeling of inevitability, he inserted himself into the last remaining seat at the Hog's Head, which happened to be the one next to Granger at the bar. She was taking up far more than her fair share of the space, what with her pint, the patterns she was idly drawing in a puddle of beer, the book she was holding up in front of her face, and, of course, her elbows. Matters weren't helped by the backgammon board laid out before her. She seemed to be waiting for her opponent to take his turn.

She glanced away from her book to take in her new companion.

"Oh, hello, Professor Snape!"

"Must you say that every time?"

"What would you rather I said? Oy, Snape, you look grumpy?"

"I imagine it would be closer to the truth than your feigned pleasure at seeing me."

"You never know – it might not be feigned."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

She gave it a moment's thought, long enough to take a pull at her beer.

"Well, I might have been harbouring a terrible crush on you all these years!"

He harrumphed.

"Unlikely, I grant you. Well, let's see," she mused. "I might be genuinely pleased that you've emerged from your totally unnecessary self-imposed exile ..."

"Granger."

"Or it might just be that I have good manners."

They looked at each other for a moment.

"What happens if I pick the first?" he enquired.

"Well, then I spend the next few months following you around and sighing gusty sighs of adoration, hoping that you will one day recognise your true feelings for me."

"And the second?"

"Ah – for that one, I get to lecture you a lot and set about improving you and making you recognise that people actually do value you."

"I think I'll pick the third. Are you always this ... up front?"

"Only after a pint and a half of Aberforth's home-brew."

"Are you actually reading that book?"

"Nope. Just maintaining my carefully cultivated persona. The print's gone a bit wibbly, to be honest."

Severus pulled round the backgammon board and took Aberforth's turn for him.

"Does Aberforth still make the world's best chip butties?" he asked.

Granger closed her book and stuck it in the pocket of the jacket she had slung over the back of her chair.

"Yep. I'm waiting for one now. Bad day, huh?" She shook the dice and threw a double six.

"You have no idea. I just found out I have to design the whole curriculum from scratch. Hagrid took all the old lesson plans down to his hut to read and that damn dog of his ate them." He paused. "No bright and perky offers of help?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Get stuffed. I'm having to do the same thing for Runes. After four decades of Prof Babbling doing the same bloody thing every year, I've got a curriculum of my own to design, not to mention ..."

Aberforth suddenly set down a plate bearing a mountain of chips unstably bracketed top and bottom by two thick slices of buttered white bread. He plonked salt, vinegar and ketchup bottles down in the puddle of beer.

"I love you, Aberforth," declared Granger. "It is a deep and abiding love which nothing can destroy." She lifted the top of the sandwich and drenched the chips with vinegar. "Professor Snape will no doubt evince the same passion if you bring him a pint and a butty as well."

"Be quick about it, would you Aberforth?" said Snape, eyeing the girl's assault on her supper. "It looks as though I have some catching up to do." He threw the dice and took Aberforth's turn again while the old man slouched off back to the taps. Granger continued to plough her way steadily through her food and her pint in silence. Her eyelids drooped. Aberforth returned and she ordered another half. Severus found himself fascinated by the dedication she was bringing to her task.

"You're not going to drink more of that, are you, Granger? You can barely sit upright as it is."

"Of course I am. It's a tradition."

"Tradition?" One long pull at his beer and Severus' fingertips were already tingling.

"Once a month without fail. Helps me sleep."

"Why would you have trouble sleeping, Granger?"

"It's so noisy up at the school," she mumbled.

"It's the summer holidays. There's nobody there to make a noise."

She gave him a scathing look and slipped off her chair, catching herself as her knees wobbled.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Stop being martyred and spit it out, woman!"

"It's the castle," she stage-whispered. "It talks to me. All. The bloody. Time."