One: Christmastide 2004

Anti-Litigation Charm: Nothing you recognize belongs to me. All characters are property of JK Rowling. If they did belong to me, Severus Snape would be alive and well and sipping cocoa in his nightshirt right now, reading his favourite book and enjoying the Christmas holidays.

This story is dedicated to Sempraseverus, and the real Black-eyed Angel...

Christmastide, 2004

It was during the winter holidays that Hermione returned to Hogwarts. It was snowing, and Hogwarts was beautiful and grand in the dim, December light on the day she came for her interview. Hermione had been so nervous, when she Apparated onto the grounds she could still feel the nasty pins-and-needles tingle in her wrist – the hallmark of a near-splinch.

Walking toward the steps, she'd been greeted by Hagrid in a bear hug so tight, Hermione was left feeling like a Muggle toothpaste tube, squashed in the middle and bunched up at both ends. She wasn't totally sure he'd not rearranged her internal organs, but the sincerity and warmth of his greeting had been heartfelt and appreciated. She admonished herself not to mind if her liver was now where her spleen had been.

In truth, she was terrified of coming face to face with the Headmaster. The last time she had seen him was almost exactly six years before, during his trial, and although he had been as aloof and taciturn as always, he had been quietly courteous to her. During her testimony, he'd watched her carefully, as if listening to an interesting lecture, and afterwards, when the charges had been dropped (she'd never doubted they would be – the man was a bloody hero and if they thought she and her friends would take anything less, they didn't really know Hermione Granger all that well), Professor Snape had approached her quietly. Harry had been standing beside her, greeting people, when the tall figure of their former Professor loomed into view.

He held out his hand first to Harry. "I would like to thank you for your testimony, Mr. Potter," he said, formally. "I think it is no exaggeration to say without it the outcome would have been much different."

There was none of his usual contempt, and although his voice was still rather gruff from Nagini's wound, he sounded no more or less than the man they'd always known. A little more remote, perhaps; less emotional. "No doubt I would be looking forward to a long, healthy life in Azkaban had you not come to my defence."

Harry had grasped the hand gratefully, still the idealistic boy he'd been when he'd fought against Snape. "Thank you, sir!" He'd all but wept, still visibly moved by the memory of the Professor and his undying love for Harry's mother. "It would have been unpardonable for anything other than a not-guilty verdict."

"Perhaps," Snape had confessed, pursing his lips thoughtfully. He turned his attention to Hermione. "I also owe you my thanks, Miss Granger." A delicate eyebrow rose. "I had, of course, prior knowledge of your zeal for defending the undefendable."

Hermione had writhed through a blush. She still felt house-elves were not given their due respect, but her S.P.E.W. days were long behind her, She was still teased mercilessly about it. It seemed that even Professor Snape wasn't above a little dig.

Deciding to take the high road, Hermione took the offered hand. "I'm just glad the Wizengamot saw reason, sir." She ducked her head shyly. She hoped he would take her comment at face value, so added, "After all you've been through, you deserve a little happiness, Professor."

She was hard-wired by this time to expect a sneering, caustic retort, and had instinctively steeled herself for it. Instead, Professor Snape had regarded her pensively for several seconds. In a soft voice, he replied, "It is very kind of you to think so, Miss Granger. Now, if you will excuse me."

Then he was ushered into a room for a press conference. Hermione later heard his reinstatement as Headmaster of Hogwarts had been met with controversy, but it had soon died down as returning students found their new Headmaster quiet, fair minded and only a little dour. His former students were stunned. Where was the Severus Snape who had terrorized Hogwarts for the better part of twenty years?

As Hermione approached the castle, Professor McGonagall was waiting on the steps, a broad smile on her weathered face. "Welcome, Hermione!" she cried, embracing the younger woman. "It's been such a long time since I've seen you! What has it been, four, five years?" The older woman beamed.

"Actually, more like six, Professor," Hermione smiled. "I've spent the last four at the Wizarding University at Cambridge, then the previous two in Australia with my parents." The sunny smile faded slightly as Hermione thought of her parents, still struggling against the impact of the war. The re-integration of their memories had not gone smoothly, and left them both with great patches of blank spots. Hermione's guilt over this was always in the back of her mind. Like the promise of clouds on the sunniest days, her failure to fully restore their memories always threatened even the best mood.

Professor McGonagall knew all about the Grangers. At the time, she and the Headmaster had offered to place the services of the school at the young woman's disposal. Hermione had thanked them, but stubbornly declined any outside help. She wanted to do this herself. She had gotten them into this mess, she would get them out. Eventually.

Desperate to change the subject, Hermione interjected, "I must confess, I'm absolutely cringing with nerves about this interview."

McGonagall looked surprised. "Whatever for, dear? You're the most qualified teacher to come out of university in years. Surely you aren't unsure of your abilities?" McGonagall favoured her with a smile. "You never were afraid to display them as a student!"

"Oh, you! Don't remind me!" Hermione laughed. "I know, I know. I was a horrible swot in school!" The women laughed together, then Hermione sobered. "That's why I'm terrified. I wasn't exactly Professor Snape's favourite student."

Professor McGonagall tilted her head quizzically. She narrowed her eyes and looked at Hermione pointedly. "Yes, I remember." Her expression softened. "But he's changed, Hermione. Merlin, we all have." McGonagall smiled at her one-time favourite. "I think you might be surprised at our Headmaster now."

Armed with this rather puzzling statement, Hermione followed the Deputy Headmistress to the Headmaster's Office and waited politely while Professor McGonagall muttered the password ("Boscobel") and the stone steps began their march upward. Hermione dutifully stepped on the rising steps, leaving Professor McGonagall below.

"Good luck, dear," the older lady called upward, and Hermione smiled down her thanks.

She'd only been in this room once or twice when Albus Dumbledore was Headmaster, and Hermione found a certain comfort in the fact that the new Headmaster had changed the room very little. The walls were still lined with the portraits of the former Headmasters and mistresses, and every surface seemed to be cluttered with mysterious, whirring, spinning and humming thingamy doodahs. Hermione suppressed a grin. Perhaps the very tenure of becoming Headmaster of Hogwarts imbued one with a love of magical gadgetry.

His back was toward her as she stepped into the room. He had obviously been conversing with the former Heads, and Hermione cleared her throat tactfully to announce her arrival. She needn't have bothered. The unctuous, familiar voice of Phineas Nigellus Black, the Headmaster whose portrait she had hauled around Britain during her mind-blowing seventeenth year, recognized her immediately.

"Well, here's a familiar face, Headmaster. Come closer and let us have a look at you, girl. Hmmph. At least you don't look like a scarecrow anymore."

"Charming to the last, Headmaster Black."

Hermione's heartbeat quickened at the familiar, unmistakable voice of Severus Snape, and, as if on cue, he turned to look at her.

Hermione thought she could be a hundred years old, residing on Mars, and still recognize Severus Snape. He had changed little, and he had changed completely. He was still the same tall, whip-cord thin man with long, blue-black hair and a large hooked nose. He wore his hair longer now, fastened at the nape of his neck with a silver clasp.

He still moved with the same gliding smoothness, but whereas she remembered him as eternally menacing, he was merely quietly graceful. He was still strangely, uniquely homely, yet there was something within him she discovered to be profoundly, austerely beautiful. His dignity, his bearing, his presence, were as arresting as if he were the handsomest man alive.

His deep brown, almost black eyes, instead of snapping with anger and cruelty, were softer, less tense around the edges. Only the twisting, thin scar on the side of his neck, the remnants of that terrible last night of the war, served as a true reminder of the past.

He stepped forward and extended his hand, in much the same way he'd done at his trial, and when her small hand disappeared in his right hand, his left closed over them both. It was such a unexpected, personal gesture, that Hermione faltered, her 'thank you for seeing me' speech dying on her lips.

If he noticed any change, the Headmaster overlooked it. Instead, he looked down at her and from his mouth rolled that voice, the one that had mesmerized her during his opening speech to her first year class, the voice that had made DADA class so seductively enthralling during her sixth year. It was as deep, as silky, and as hypnotic as she remembered and she felt like a student again.

"Hello, Miss Granger. Welcome back to Hogwarts. You had a pleasant journey, I trust. I seem to remember you weren't a fan of Apparition."

And that was it. The moment Hermione remembered. The moment he teased her about for years afterward. In that one moment, taking in his grace, his serenity, his incredible presence, she found she could only manage, "What? Oh. Yes, I did. I do. I mean," she gasped, blushing to the roots of her hair. She took a deep breath and drew the tattered remains of dignity around her. "Thank you, Headmaster. It's lovely to be back."

His lips quirked minutely, and with her hand still captured between his, he leaned forward conspiratorially and said, "Well saved, Miss Granger."

Hermione, stunned, looked up into the face of the man she'd once sworn off as a bad lot, and saw an unmistakable glint of humour in his eyes. She suddenly laughed.

"It was, wasn't it? And to think, I had a lovely speech prepared and all." He gave her a little smile and a reassuring squeeze of her hand, then released it. Hermione felt a slight disappointment at the loss of his touch. His hands were incredibly warm and, well, safe.

"Indeed? Well, perhaps over tea you can give me an encore. Come. Sit," he said, indicating a chair.

To hide her expression, Hermione made a production of unbuttoning her cloak and draping it over the back of the proffered chair.

"Speaking of tea - Winky!"

The little house-elf Hermione remembered from her school days appeared with a sharp 'pop!' She bowed to the Headmaster, and squeaked, "Winky is here, Sir. Is the Headmaster ready for his tea?" The elf looked at Hermione rather nervously, twisting her fingers in her immaculate Hogwarts tea towel. "Is the Headmaster having guests?"

"Yes, please, Winky. Tea and refreshments for myself and Miss Granger, please." The small elf bowed and disappeared with another pop.

"Actually, I say 'Miss Granger'; did I commit a faux pas? Is it now 'Mrs. Weasley'?" he asked, diffidently.

Hermione blanched, and before she could catch herself, she muttered, "Oh please. That was an ex-parrot years ago."

The Headmaster nodded. His expression was unreadable. "Ah. My condolences. Or congratulations, as the case may be."

Hermione laughed. Her expression became wistful. "A bit of both, I suppose, Headmaster." When he tilted his head as a silent request for elaboration, she continued, "I suppose you could say we woke up one day and came to our senses, even though it took us years. We finally realized we were better off as just friends. We didn't want the same things from life, and to be honest, we never did.

"Ron wanted a marriage like his parents'. I don't blame him," she added quickly, lest the Professor think she was sitting in judgment over Molly and Arthur Weasley. "But I just couldn't see myself punching out a load of kids. Not that I don't want children, because I do, but just...not...all...at...once." She blushed again as her impassioned speech ran out of steam. She was babbling again.

"I see." Hermione got the distinct impression the Headmaster saw all too clearly, but as to what he saw, she was at a loss.

For a moment they regarded each other. The Headmaster sat down in his large chair, his long legs stretching out informally, and before she could stop herself, Hermione realized she'd been practically crawling over him with her eyes. The bemusement in his eyes was enough to make her chew on her bottom lip in trepidation.

"I can see the wheels turning from here, Miss Granger. You have questions. You were never one for holding back." His gaze softened somewhat, and his voice became, if possible, even more silkily beguiling. "Why is the most inquisitive student to ever grace our hallowed halls so reticent now?"

Hermione felt her cheeks grow hot. She felt very much under scrutiny. "I-I'm just trying to reconcile the Professor Snape of my youth to the Headmaster I'm speaking with now," she blurted, her Gryffindor bluntness in such contrast to his Slytherin guile he actually laughed. Hermione shook her head.

"See that's what I mean!" She pointed at him for emphasis. "I've known you since I was eleven years old, and this is the first time I've ever heard you laugh!" She sighed, and before she could stop herself, she murmured, "And it's such a nice laugh."

She blanched, and thought, Oh, that's just great, Hermione. You're flirting with your prospective employer. Why don't you just do a strip tease on the tea table and promise him a blow job? She then thought he might be reading her thoughts. Then she thought of giving him said blow job and blushed even harder.

He shifted restlessly in his chair, and sobered, but his eyes were still bright. "Yes, well, laughter is not something that comes terribly easy to me even now. You should be flattered."

Severus Snape observed this bright, inquisitive little witch with a smirk playing on his lips. What on earth she was going on about? Strip teases? Blow jobs? He hadn't even really intended to intrude into her mind, but she was so open and trusting, her thoughts had all but barged into his mind and starting playing the tambourine. Still, the idea of those sweet little lips on his-

"Oh I am, sir!" she chirped, desperately trying to claw some dignity back into her interview. "Very flattered. I mean, when I think of all you went through..." She faltered. What could she say that hadn't already been said? What could she possibly say that wouldn't stir painful memories for him?

The Headmaster sighed. "Perhaps I didn't have very much to laugh about then, Miss Granger. Being the pawn in a very deadly chess game between two demanding masters didn't give me too much reason for mirth."

"I know, sir. I'm sorry," Hermione said gently, her heart brimming with genuine regret. "It doesn't make me feel any better that we thwarted you at every turn."

She felt that old, familiar shame bloom in her chest, and it felt good to finally say, "I'm so sorry for everything-"

"Stop, Miss Granger. Stop that now." His voice was so emphatic, yet still so soft Hermione looked at him in surprise. He held up a large, slender hand as if to physically halt her. "Those were terrible times and we all of us had to do some hideous things to survive. If those days taught me anything, it is that when we survive we have to learn to move on."

Oh, yes. Those days. He knew all too well the danger of drowning in the sins of the past. He said a silent blessing to the gods that he'd taken Minerva's advice after the war and sought counseling. It had been gruesomely hard, at first, trawling through the painful memories, bringing them to the surface, purging the shame and regret and bitterness from his psyche like a surgeon scapeling away gangrenous flesh. He still felt a twinge of conscience that he'd had to Obliviate the earnest older man who'd helped him learn to deal with his own past, but it had been worth it...

He looked at her with eyes that still held the dark shadows of those years. A small voice in his head told him that she could be trusted, that now was the time to purge that last piece of sin from his system. "Shall l tell you a little secret, Miss Granger-"

With a sharp pop Winky reappeared with the tea, and Hermione, still feeling the sharp pang of mentioning the past, immediately rushed to be 'mother'. As she filled the cups and passed one to the Headmaster, he thanked her and took an appreciative sip of tea.

He sniffed. "I hope you don't mind rooibos, Miss Granger. It's a South African tea I've had Winky mix with lemon, ginger and eucalyptus. I have a bit of a cold in my nose, and," he grimaced, as if loath to say it but compelled to, "with this nose, a cold is quite an event."

Hermione gave him a faint chiding look, as if to chastise him for his self-deprecation. Instead of scolding him she decided to put the ball back into his court. "So, what exactly is your secret, Headmaster?" She meant to sound merely interested, but realized she came across as incredibly flirtatious. He cast his dark eyes toward her challengingly.

"Ah yes, my little secret," he purred, almost teasingly. He took another sip of tea, then relaxed back in his chair, his legs stretching toward the fire. He gave her another sideways glance, and for a moment Hermione saw her old professor, his eyebrow on the rise, wry, rueful.

"Actually, as much as I am enjoying this banter, I believe there is the matter of the interview I'm supposed to be conducting," he said, and smoothly guided her into the intricacies of life at Hogwarts and teaching schedules, Hogsmeade weekends and classroom rules. Then their talk seamlessly shifted into other subjects, ranging from an article she'd read in the latest Potions Journal to a concert of classical music they realized they'd both attended two years before.

They talked easily. She was bright, charming and so intelligent he felt his own mind reaching for the whetting stone, sharpening his wits to match hers. There was the delicate thrust and parry of two erudite, learned individuals who took pleasure in being clever. There was a bit of verbal sparring, some comparisons, some showing off. Each enjoyed the other.

Hermione shared a story about Professor Sprout that made him laugh and by the time they'd steered conversation to the controversy of new Transfiguring teaching techniques in the States, Severus knew he would inform all applicants that the Transfiguration teaching post had been filled.

He had not really planned on making his decision so quickly, but the little witch and her open, trusting heart spoke to him. For the first time in a very long time, he found himself enjoying the simple pleasure of engaging in stimulating conversation about subjects that interested him.

All too soon, Severus heard the clock chime, indicating the end of the hour. He rose smoothly. "As much as I have enjoyed our exchange, Miss Granger, I fear my next appointment has arrived and I must take my leave."

"Oh," she said, rising to her feet, brushing crumbs and smoothing her robes. She favoured him with a smile that he felt deep in his chest. It was, he told himself, the smile she gave every prospective employer, but his heart knew differently. She's looking that way because she enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed hers, his treacherous heart whispered.

"Thank you for a most enjoyable afternoon, Headmaster." She held out her hand, hoping for it to be engulfed again in the large, warm embrace of his. She was not disappointed. She felt a heat in the pit of her stomach, and warned herself, Oh great, Hermione. Now you're lusting after a man who might become your boss. You really need to get laid very, very soon.

As she drew her cloak over her shoulders, he moved closer and his hands pulled the top halves of the garment together. With dexterous fingers, he buttoned her cloak. She watched him slip the button into the hole slowly, almost sensuously, his hands lingering for a moment longer than strictly necessary. It was as inexplicably an intimate gesture as if he'd started to undress her. She could smell his cologne, and the heat in her stomach moved decidedly south. It felt alarmingly like desire, and it scared the daylights out of her. His next words didn't help to calm her treacherous thoughts.

"The pleasure has been mine, Miss Granger. I've enjoyed our talk very much." His expression was almost... wistful. "In fact, this afternoon's conversation is probably the best Christmas present I'll receive this year."

Hermione's heart clipped into double time. Was he flirting with her? For some reason, Hermione thought he might be telling the truth, not just mouthing the right words for the occasion. Well, I've just discovered the answer to the age-old question - What do you give to the wizard who has everything? A good conversation. Merlin, I need to get laid before New Years.

"I enjoyed it very much as well, Headmaster. I hope it will be the first of many." There. That sounds complimentary without being too pushy, she thought.

Apparently the Headmaster felt the same. He nodded, "I'm sure we'll be in touch soon. Please give my regards to Messrs. Potter and Weasley."

It took all of Hermione's will not to harrumph. Harry and Ginny were married, with a child and one on the way, in true Weasley fashion. Ron was too busy playing the field and shagging anything with a pulse. For once, could even Severus Snape not remind her that she was no longer part of their lives?

"If I see them, I promise I will," she managed with a somewhat sour, inwardly-turned smile. For a split second, the glow of the afternoon faded, then she remembered herself and smiled back up at him. This smile was genuine. "Good day, Headmaster, and Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, Miss Granger."

He watched her leave, her back straight, her walk graceful, determined. He had lied. He had no other interview that afternoon. He merely realized he was becoming too relaxed, too unguarded, too familiar with her, and if he did actually hire the girl, that wouldn't do. No, that wouldn't do at all. In short, he was enjoying her too much.

It didn't help that he found her physically attractive as well. Before she had arrived he still held the mental picture of her as the gawky, awkward teenaged swot with the unspeakable hair and permanently waving hand in the air. The poised, mature young woman who'd graced his afternoon so pleasantly bore little resemblance to that child.

Hermione had, indeed, blossomed into a lush, curvaceous rose. A rather sexy one at that, he thought with a smile, remembering her somewhat polluted stream of consciousness. Later he would chastise himself for being a perverted, dirty old man, reading her perverted, dirty thoughts. Surely he could be forgiven even for that – surely he could forgive himself for it.

He looked down at his tea cup. There were dregs in the bottom in a strange configuration, and as he squinted and tilted his head the shape absurdly reminded him of the head of a chicken. He snorted and rolled his eyes. Cockerels meant new beginnings, or so Sybill Trelawney insisted. He privately thought all dregs in teacups meant you should bloody well clean your teacups.

New beginnings.

There was never any doubt after that point to hire her. Any hesitation before seemed irrelevant. Her enthusiasm, her energy and intelligence were well suited to the job, and her natural bossiness meant she would be able to tackle the rigours of teaching. But she was so young. Too young for you, you old lech, he thought. She was, after all, only a few years older than he himself had been when Dumbledore guilted him into taking the Potions position.

And then there was that sad, lonely little smile when he mentioned Potter and Weasley. Severus had done a little spying on his own and found out they'd all but cut her out of their lives. With her parents still struggling, and her only real friends estranged, Hermione needed Hogwarts. It never occurred to Severus to admit he also hired her in the hopes of more juicy, intellectual conversations like the one they'd shared. The fact that so many of her random thoughts centred on her need to have sex had, after all, no bearing in the matter at all.

Minerva was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps when he descended. "How did it go?" she asked, pleasantly, her tone indicating she would only accept one answer. Being the Slytherin he would always be, Severus couldn't resist tormenting her a bit.

He sighed. "It was..." he shrugged slightly, "satisfactory."

McGonagall's eyes narrowed and she huffed indignantly. He laughed shortly. "Honestly, woman, you've known me all my life and you still can't tell when I'm baiting you? You Gryffindors have no bloody sense of humour."

Minerva snorted. "Insult my House all you want, Severus, but you can't deny she's the perfect witch for the job." She crossed her arms imperiously, challenging him to refute her.

Severus sighed. For some reason he didn't feel like sparring with his Deputy today. Too much. "Of course she's the most qualified." He gave her a hard stare, and for some reason McGonagall felt as if she must have done something to feel guilty for.

Severus rolled his eyes. "Minerva, I didn't ride in on the Hogwarts Express this morning. Don't for one moment think you fooled me with that old, 'Oh, Severus, I'm just getting too old for all these responsibilities. You must arrange for a replacement for the Transfigurations teacher position this January. Perhaps then this old, decrepit witch will be able to perform her more important duties to your impeccable standards'." McGonagall's eyes narrowed at his high-pitched imitation of her voice, Scottish accent and all.

Smirking, he continued, "I did a little digging and found out Miss Granger was graduating this December. That was just all too terribly convenient to be coincidence, my dear Deputy." Severus stepped back and crossed his arms, waiting for the explosion. Honestly, until he returned as Headmaster he never realized Minerva could be so much fun to wind up. He did it on a daily basis and it never failed to delight him.

She spluttered, and huffed, then glared at him, her hands on her hips. "I never called myself 'decrepit', you, you, little scrote!" He was smirking now, and unwillingly, she started laughing, deep belly laughs that dropped the years from her face and reminded him of the Minerva he met when he first arrived at Hogwarts. Except for the horrible time during the war, they had always been friends.

She had all but gone down on her knees to beg forgiveness when she learned the truth. Severus, knowing he needed allies more than enemies, had only been too glad to forgive her. If near-death (not to mention his poor Obliviated counselor) had taught him anything, it was to be grateful for what he had, not what he'd lost. That had been the most important, and most difficult lesson. The second most difficult was to forgive himself. The third was to grow up and stop blaming everyone around him for his misfortune. That had taken the longest, but accepting it had brought a serenity to his life that, until now, he'd never felt he'd truly deserved.

He looked around his world. He was alive and healthy. He was respected more than he was feared, and that pleased him. He had friends, and allies. He had just had a lovely conversation with a pretty witch and hadn't made a complete berk of himself. He'd also just wound up Minerva McGonagall with minimum effort and was now laughing with her. It felt good. It all felt good.

Minerva was still laughing. "And never imitate me again, you incorrigible, impertinent Jesse! Your Scottish accent is terrible." She quieted. "So does this mean you'll hire her? You'd do a lot worse, you know, Severus."

"We'll see," he smirked, and moved on, heading toward the Great Hall. Minerva made a sound of aggravation, but there was no real bite to it. She simply stood for a moment, watching the Headmaster of Hogwarts gracefully striding down the hall. If she wasn't mistaken, there was a bit of a spring in his step. Minerva smiled to herself. "We'll see, eh? Satisfactory, indeed. You don't fool me either, Severus."