4: The Gryffindors Must Be Crazy

Disclaimer: By golly, if they were mine, I'd feel right sorry for them just this minute. Since they aren't... eh. Oh, and I apologize in advance for the title of this chapter, since I imagine SOMEONE in fandom must have used it before me. It's too tempting to pass up.

Warning: Everyone uses bad language in this chapter. And I do mean EVERYONE. Oh, and there are more phones. But they don't say anything. Ring tones don't count.

Neither Harry nor Ron could remember the original reason for calling Ginny. That reason was unimportant now. The only important thing now was...

The Plan.

Ever since they had discovered Hermione's relationship with Snape, they had agreed it was doomed. Although even Harry finally conceded that Hermione was simply going through one of her more 'mental' phases, rather than being under the Imperius Curse or some other form of duress. Regardless, they had both remained as certain that he would eventually hurt her as if they had access to a nice little bubble in the Department of Mysteries prophesying to that effect.

Thus, they had devised The Plan.

Would that the lads had been so methodical in their efforts to search for Horcruxes.

Harry ended the Silencing Charm. If he forgot and left it in place, Molly would be asking pointed questions in the morning...of Ron, who would break like a wand in a Hippogriff's beak. It wasn't just the 'Mother Effect,' either. That witch could give Aurors lessons in interrogation.

They regarded each other gravely across the Weasley kitchen table, speaking in low voices to avoid waking Molly and Arthur. "All right, Ron, it's finally happened. You remember what to do, right?"

"We don't offer to track him down and hex him. We don't call him names. We don't offer to introduce her to anyone else just yet. We definitely, under no circumstances, say, 'We told you so,'" Ron recited dutifully.

"Okay, that's what we don't do. I'm asking if you're clear on what we do," Harry reiterated.

"I'm taking them in order. It's easier to remember that way," Ron answered patiently. He had made an important discovery about both Harry and Hermione during the course of their mutual friendship. Arguing with either of them was like trying to argue with Mum...if you were fool enough, you could yell yourself hoarse and still end up where you started, if not behind. Quiet inertia worked much better. Eventually they either gave up, or gave in and met you halfway.

Harry glowered at him and began to review the pertinent portion of the plan. "We are going to remind her that we have always been her friends and always will be. We will remind her that she is intelligent, beautiful, and one of the most eligible witches alive. We are going to let her cry on our shoulders if necessary, either separately or collectively, until she gets it all out of her system. The key word is supportive."

"Right," Ron replied, swallowing hard. He had a bad feeling this would end in hexes and other modes of disturbing the peace, but he was nothing if not a loyal friend. Plus he hadn't any better ideas, aside from leaving Ginny to clear it up; and the only way to successfully suggest that to Harry would be to hit him with a full Body-Bind first.

"Let's go," Harry said, with all the seriousness of someone preparing to lead a raid on a nest of fugitive Death Eaters.

Which, if they did this badly, might not be such an inept comparison.

Harry and Ron walked briskly from the Apparition point. The lateness of the hour made for sparsely populated streets. Still, there was no use taking the risk of being seen popping into sight right on Hermione's doorstep, nor in being rude and doing so in her living room.

When they got to the door, Harry took point and knocked softly. "Hermione?" he called gently, in the sort of tone one uses on distraught children and injured animals. "It's Harry and Ron. Please let us in."

Hermione put her head in her hands, feeling the tears try to leak out of her eyes again. Harry's 'sweet' voice reminded her of being comforted by her Mum, which reminded her of approximately sixty-five percent of the bad things that had happened in her life thus far. Not a good recipe for holding back the floodgates.

Ginny, whose vocabulary for the last ten minutes had been reduced to sotto voce iterations of 'crap,' almost dragged her feet as she went to answer the door.

"Hi, Ginny," Harry said perfunctorily as he hurried over to the couch, where Hermione was trying to rein in her trepidation. Ron glanced at his sister and shrugged apologetically as he moved to take his place on the other side of Hermione. Ginny rolled her eyes at him and nodded. It was universal Friend-of-Harry-Speak for 'He's probably going to be checking up on us at least once daily for the rest of our natural lives, and we'd best just learn to avoid cringing every time he upgrades the mobiles.'

Ginny retreated behind the tiled counter separating the sitting/dining area from the kitchenette. Not only was there insufficient space on the laughable excuse for a sofa for all four of them, but she also thought it might be prudent to place the bar between herself and any hexes Harry and Ron might elicit from a distraught Hermione.

Being Gryffindor did not equal being suicidally foolish. At least, not for this Weasley. Ginny had spent a lifetime watching her dear but interfering mother and her dear but interfering friend Hermione collect stray Kneazles and causes the way some people collected Chocolate Frog Cards. Based upon their experiences she had decided that sometimes, the best way to help someone was to simply let them make their own mistakes, learn from them, and have sufficient tact to refrain from saying, 'I told you so,' as you handed over your last clean handkerchief.

Really, behind the counter was the most strategic position. Handkerchief: check. Chocolate: check. Wine: check. Wand in hand, ready to cast Shield Charms repeatedly in the event Ron or Harry 'comforted' Hermione to the point where she lost it completely: double check.

Harry clasped Hermione's hand, looking at her with his sorrowful green eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked solemnly, still using the 'addressing an injured bird voice.'

Ron decided echoing Harry was a pretty safe strategy for the moment. "Yes, what...what happened?" He had almost asked, 'What did that miserable git do to you?' but stopped himself just in time. Okay, Ron... keep your gob shut. Pat her shoulder, there's a lad... Harry can handle the verbal bit. He's the sensitive one.

Oh, God... Harry's being so... sweet. I'm going to cry so hard I'll asphyxiate on my own tears, Hermione thought desperately. How do I counteract it?

"Oh, Ron," she sobbed, turning away from Harry slightly and leaning on the tall redhead.

Harry was feeling just a bit put out. Aren't I the sensitive one? he thought plaintively as he was relegated to patting her knee.

For Ron's part, his desire to cling to Hermione like a human Devil's Snare had diminished rapidly once he realized an engagement ring did nothing to stem the flow of roughly eight years of nagging. Not that he didn't appreciate her invaluable assistance editing...okay, rewriting...most of his school essays... Or that she had saved him from academic disaster on numerous occasions by forcing him to study (at wand-point, if necessary)... Or the nice, if a little plump, figure that accompanied her extraordinary brain. But he'd already endured six years of bossing, ordering, and occasional bullying from her by the time they officially became an item. Which basically made him feel as if they'd already been married, thanks very much, and the honeymoon was definitely over. Being 'just friends' suited him.

"It's okay, Hermione," he said awkwardly. "I mean, whatever happened... was it really so bad?"

"I'd really rather not talk about it," she sniffed.

Ron sighed. "You know that no matter what, Harry and I are here for you," he whispered.

"I know," Hermione said between sniffs.

"It's terribly unfair, isn't it?" he asked tentatively, rubbing her back. One didn't need an 'Outstanding' in Arithmancy to figure out that, under the circumstances, one could work back from 'crying Hermione' and discover 'Snape-plus-unfair.'

"Why does it always end so badly?" she asked mournfully.

Wow, Harry and Ginny both thought, from their respective sides of the counter. Ron was... managing.

"You poor thing," he soothed, thinking of Mum. That seemed to be one of her favorite expressions. "You deserve so much better."

Wait a minute... Was he... feeling sorry for her? "I DON'T WANT OR NEED YOUR PITY!" Hermione shrieked, pulling back suddenly.

If I could change directions that fast on a broom, they'd name a Quidditch Play after me, Ron thought, dazed. "What? No! I..."

Hermione, in no mood for explanations, whipped out her wand and directed some very irate birds Ron's way.

"Shite! What is it with you and canaries?" he yelped, jerking back and scrambling away from the chirping onslaught as he fumbled for his wand. This is why I'm not an Auror, he thought grimly. Bloody nuisance, always having to be ready to duel at a moment's notice. "Merlin's hairy arse, HELP!"

Harry deftly banished the canaries, noting their ominous black color. He would have to proceed very, very cautiously... Which was difficult, considering the distracting squeaking sound from behind the kitchen counter. Either Hermione had a malfunctioning charmed teakettle, or Ginny was having an unhelpful attack of the giggles back there. You're being supportive, Harry. No yelling...at anyone, he reminded himself.

"Ron," Harry said wearily, "you are the best friend a fellow could ask for. There is no doubt in my mind or anyone else's that you're trying to help. But there's absolutely nothing for it. You get within ten feet of Hermione when she's feeling overwrought, and you instantly develop a terminal case of foot-in-mouth."

"I think I've noticed," said Ron. "How 'bout I keep my mouth shut and make tea?" Without waiting for an answer, he dashed behind the counter and started summoning the necessary utensils from Hermione's cupboards.

Amazing, Ginny thought, as she watched him bustle about in a manner that would have done Mum proud. He's learning. It only took half a lifetime and...five? six?...different occasions of being attacked by irate little birdies before he worked out that his best shot at being a comfort is getting the tea.

Ron sat down beside Ginny, taking advantage of cover while the kettle simmered and Harry, with his most soothing voice, tried to convince Hermione to do otherwise.

"Glad to see someone's having fun here," he grumbled as a residual giggle escaped her.

Gin spared him a disgruntled look. "Oh, loads," she snorted. "After a long day at Gringotts, I thought to myself, 'Eh, that shower can wait until tomorrow. What I really need right now is a rousing evening of watching Hermione pitch the bitch all over most of the wizards she's...'" Ginny broke off, deciding that 'Hermione,' 'Ron,' 'Harry,' 'Snape,' and 'shag,' were NOT concepts she was emotionally ready to link in a single sentence. Besides, she really wasn't sure about what might have happened with Harry. "Give over, you prat. I'm here for the same reason you are...Hufflepuffs don't have the market cornered on loyalty."

"We could use a few good Hufflepuffs right now," Ron said. "They always seem to be better at this sort of thing."

"Yes, well, Hermione's friend Flora isn't available," Ginny sighed.

Ron smiled a little dreamily. "I like Flora... She's pretty, sweet, quiet..."

"Five years older than you, and a thousand times more mature," Ginny interjected.

"Nobody's perfect," Ron said philosophically.

On the other side of the counter, Harry was trying his best to take up where Ron had left off...when he'd been doing well, that is. To be honest, he was beginning to wish there were a few good Hufflepuffs at hand. Neville would do. Offhand, Harry couldn't think of a single Gryffindor who exceeded Neville Longbottom at being understanding, loyal, and kind. Although no one would ever think of him as soft anymore; not with the peg leg, pretty wife (who'd been his adoring nurse) and Order of Merlin, First Class to remind everyone just who had been the hero during that surprise raid on St. Mungo's.

He would have rung Luna for help. She was at least distracting, if not specifically comforting; but she refused to use telephones of any description, which drove him to distraction, considering she held the top spot in his affections. Specifically, she insisted that mobile phones were part of a conspiracy involving the Ministry of Magic, foreign Muggle businessmen, and inculcating people everywhere with mindless devotion to the Pygmy Puff Lord. Harry was beginning to suspect she didn't believe every one of her own wild stories, but with Luna's perpetually pleasant, placid, earnest expression, it was quite impossible to tell.

"Hermione, please try to calm down. It was a row, all c-couples have them now and again," Harry said softly, for what felt like the hundredth time. He thought he was doing admirably, not stumbling more over the word 'couples.' What the hell had Ron and Ginny been doing in the kitchen all this time? It didn't take that bloody long to make tea.

At this point, he would have settled for being able to convince her to re-sheath her wand.

"Are you trying to tell me this is nothing? Leave it, and it will all blow over?"

"I'm telling you that we're here for you no matter what. Are you sure you wouldn't rather discuss this in more..."

"He yelled at me and brought up embarrassing things that should have stayed in the bedroom, completely misunderstood what I was thinking and feeling, and stormed out of here in a massive temper tantrum! Is that enough detail for you?" Hermione hissed.

"Hermione, honey... this is Snape we're talking about," Harry said, as if explaining something to a very small child. "Forgive me, but...is that really terribly unusual for him?"

Hermione's eyes clouded dangerously. "Harry James Potter, do you HONESTLY think I'd stay with him if he were a nasty, insulting bastard to me?" she asked, voice low and cold.

Harry wasn't quite at the end of his rope, but he could definitely feel himself sliding. Hearing one's full name, in that tone of voice, enhances gravity more than grip. "Hermione, listen to me for half a second, will you? I'm not impugning your judgment, but did you really expect that the grea..."

Harry stopped cold. He swallowed hard. His every muscle tensed for action, and he renewed his grip on his wand because he wasn't certain if stopping himself before letting all of that hateful epithet out of his mouth (after he and Ron had sworn between them not to even think it) would cut the mustard with a Hermione on the verge of catastrophic meltdown.

There was some excuse for him, really. They were having an emotionally charged discussion. It was late, and they were both tired and stressed. Harry had been using that unfortunate appellation for Snape for over a decade. He had been doing well to catch himself before letting it slip out entirely.

Unfortunately, that was worth about as much as being the guest at a Malfoy dinner party who managed to right their glass of red wine after having spilled 'only' half of it on Narcissa's best Acromantula silk heirloom tablecloth. The effects were eerily similar. All talking in the room stopped with a collective hiss of indrawn breath, leaving the offender facing a very angry witch into whose good graces he would not be restored any time soon.

Hermione gave no warning. She simply whipped her wand around and flung a Stinging Hex at him.

Fortunately, between recreational Quidditch and Auror training, Harry had the reflexes of a serval. He popped over the arm of the couch and took cover, the burst of energy winging his left arm. This sucess was countered, however, when he dropped his wand and it rolled inconveniently away.

Ginny scrambled to grab her wand, cursing her carelessness at chatting with her brother to the detriment of monitoring the Harry/Hermione situation for danger signs.

"Why the hell aren't you two doing something?" Harry yelled, rolling again as he reached for his backup wand. Hexes and jinxes were flying south for the winter in flocks, and Harry felt as if he were right in the middle of their migration route.

"Look, mate, I tried...but you're the one who forgot the 'don'ts' list," Ron replied, feeling a little exasperated as he cast Protego from the safety of the other side of the counter.

Ginny popped up and hit Hermione with Expelliarmus...not very hard, but from behind, which bothered the hell out of her conscience...and deftly caught the flying wand.

"Ron, Harry, OUT NOW!" Ginny yelled, knowing she couldn't prevent Hermione from Summoning her wand for more than a few seconds once she regained her balance.

"We love you, 'Mione," Harry called as he spotted his primary wand and dived for it.

"No matter what," Ron added, and they both Apparated the hell out of there, as any good friends would who wished to live to offer sympathy another day.

Ginny hurried around the counter and shoved another glass of wine and another square of chocolate into Hermione's hands before she could object. "Bite," she ordered.

Hermione would have argued (Calories! Calories! some anal-retentive region of her cerebral cortex screamed), but the pull of dark chocolate was becoming hard to resist. Ooh. High octane Dominican stuff, this time. The goblins must be paying Ginny a fair salary.

"Drink," she continued and set Hermione's wand on the table. "This is getting ridiculous. That friend of yours who is supposed to be able to find Snape plainly isn't having any luck. I think I'm just going to have to fight back my disgust and do what I should have done to begin with." The kettle wanted attention, so she dug for her mobile as she filled the pot, which Ron had set out during his burst of usefulness.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked, trying to swallow her agitation along with the Merlot.

Gin frowned over the display, fiddling with infinitesimal blips as she tried to access directory assistance. Bless Harry for getting top-of-the-line mobile service. At least he got that much right. Ah, there it was. "Calling the only other wizard I know of who both knows Snape and has a mobile," Ginny replied grimly.

The Jarvey was unpleasantly surprised when she found herself and her victim standing outside the grounds of Hogwarts. Fuck hag's tits, Reggie thought furiously. I always heard the oil-based version of Dumbledore spent Friday nights in that painting of Animagi playing poker at the Ministry of Magic, second floor break room. This is going to be even more bloody difficult. Drinking in the line of duty, kidnapping, inaccurately estimating where to 'poof'... she'd be taken off probation, all right...by being busted back down to Journeywoman.

Snape blanched. The last time he had seen those gates was one of the numerous incidents in his life he would dearly love to forget. "What good will it do to come here? It's not as if it's really A-Albus," he said, shaking his hair over his haggard features.

"Close enough for government work," Reggie retorted, deciding to pretend she'd meant to come here all along. "Now shift your arse!" Before he could decide to Apparate away, she gave a flick of her tail and warned him, "I've just turned your hair shocking pink, hombron...and I'm not fixing it until we're in the Headmistress' office, so unless you want to go home looking like your Animagus form is a flamingo..."

"Oh, let's get this fucking well over with already," he huffed, stomping through the gate.

"Now you're talking my language, amigo," Reggie said, approvingly. She ran ahead, deciding it would be sensible to make sure that the headmistress was away from her chambers and office during this little mission. The Jarvey had listened to her interactions with Snape before. Well meaning, yes; Fairy Godmother material, no way in hell. Time for a modest little diversion...

She made herself invisible and scampered silently into the hall. Security was lax again, with peace firmly in place. Now all she needed was one pesky poltergeist. Ah, perfect... Peeves, near the stairs, tormenting a rusty suit of armor. Almost too easy...

Reggie sent a little of her trademark magic their way, and suddenly, the suit of armor became highly energetic, crashing off down the hall and yelling for reinforcements. Peeves, delighted as a cat whose half-dead mouse suddenly finds a final burst of adrenaline, cackled gleefully and began chasing it avidly down the hall, flinging ink, leftover porridge, and other less savory materials at the retreating knight. As the sound receded, Reg noted to her delight that other suits of armor were, indeed, heeding the battle cry and clanking out of their alcoves.

"Five... Four... Three... Two... One," Reggie whispered, and right on cue, Argus Filch came lumbering down the hallway at an amazingly fast clip, Mrs. Norris streaking ahead of him as he yelled, "Headmistress!" The Jarvey held her hostage back until Minerva was racing and grumbling after Filch, a vision in a flowing tartan dressing gown with matching nightcap and slippers.

With immeasurable trepidation, Severus followed Reggie down familiar corridors and up the steps to the headmistress' office.

"You're lucky she didn't ward it behind her," he grumbled.

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Reggie retorted, sparing him a flick of her tail to put his hair to rights. "I've told you, you don't know shite about what I can do."

She barged into the office and clambered up to the top of the desk, clearing her throat meaningfully at the assembled portraits. "Look, I'm sort of sorry for the interruption, but not enough to start blubbing about it. There, that was the apology, and a damned nice one for me. Now, listen up, all you old educational-types. This is an emergency, as constituted under the Emotional Crises section of the Code of Conduct for the International Society of Fairy Godmothers and Related Do-Gooding Beings. As such, we need a private confab with the Candy Man," Reggie announced.

Never had the office been filled with so many wide, incredulous eyes. In fact, it was beginning to look a bit like Eeylops Owl Emporium in there. In the newest of the portraits, Albus Dumbledore's beard twitched with a hidden smile. "I see you have a passing familiarity with me...or at least with my history and reputation. Might I presume to ask your name?"

"Regina Fletcher, Master Fairy God-Jarvey... provisionally," she muttered the last bit. She scampered up the wainscoting and precariously planted her paws on the gilded frame. "But call me Reggie. Listen Abuelito, unlike you, I'm not some sugar-fueled oracle. Why you ever had to hire a Divination professor is beyond me, when you have the well-deserved reputation for knowing every fucking thing."

The painted Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm afraid that reputation is completely undeserved, but I will do my best, Miss Fletcher...ah, Reggie," he promised. "Could we have a moment alone, ladies and gentlemen?" he asked the occupants of the other portraits. He glanced meaningfully over his shoulder at the background of his portrait.

Apparently this signified something to the other painted headmasters. They exchanged glances of varying degrees of amusement, consternation, and resignation as they began moving as if inclined to leave their frames.

"This is highly irregular," Phineas Nigellus grumbled.

"Judging by your attitude, so are you," Reggie snapped. "Go find a picture of prunes and give us a half hour or so here!"

Phineas reached for his wand, cursed vehemently when he realized it wouldn't do a damned bit of good, then went purple and cleared out of his frame in one of the worst moods he'd had in about a century.

Dilys Derwent giggled hysterically. "Oh, Loki's socks! I wish I'd thought of that one myself. Go ahead and have your half hour, you droll little thing." She wandered off into the portrait system, still chuckling.

With the rest of the former headmasters and headmistresses absented from their frames (with varying degrees of good grace at the temporary eviction), the Jarvey wasted no time in getting down to business. "Sugar Daddy, I need some help...and seeing as you know this stubborn arse best, you're the man to go to. I can't convince The Grouch What Ate Hogwarts to go back to his witch and make nice. I could kidnap him to her place, but he'd probably either sit there sulking or start hexing people. I think part of the bee in his bonnet has something to do with the manner in which you parted company, seeing as how he's been periodically attempting to replace his hemoglobin with hooch ever since."

Addressing Severus very gently, Albus said, "Come here, my boy."

Slowly, Snape approached the portrait, in a room now empty of every living thing but himself and the Jarvey, and even of other painted entities. Still, he could not raise his head to look at the man who had been like a father to him. To whom he had proved his loyalty... by killing him.

Albus' portrait nodded to Reggie, who assumed her perch on Snape's shoulder, discreetly flicking a tear from his cheek with her tail. A handkerchief would be more efficacious, but she knew better than to press her luck by offering one. Never mind that the audience for his grief consisted of an animate painting and an overly-clever animal. She snuggled into his shoulder, realizing that she was standing in for Albus' comforting hand and awaiting her next cue from the man in the portrait.

"How is Draco these days? Minerva chats a good bit about her Gryffindors, but I haven't heard much news of him."

Severus cleared his throat. "Well enough," he muttered softly. "He has been trying to rebuild the Malfoy fortune to the point where he can support Narcissa in the style to which she had become accustomed."

"I wish him luck," Albus said, laughing. "I would say that goal is unattainable with anything short of Slytherin ambition." In a soft, coaxing, voice, he asked, "It was not what you expected, was it?"

Severus dashed the back of his sleeve resentfully across his eyes. "When I made those promises, I...I don't know what I was thinking," he growled hoarsely.

"Perhaps you were thinking that you might prevent a child from having to suffer what you did, and make the mistakes you made," he stated simply, as if discussing a particularly nice stretch of weather. "Severus, look at me," he urged, sighing when he got no response. "You know that I had to die. You had agreed to provide your assistance, if needed."

Snape refused to reply. Albus' voice was gentle, the sort of tone one uses on wounded animals and unhappy children. "You pictured me confined to a bed in the infirmary, or perhaps in my own quarters, too weak and in too much pain to even help myself, when I would call on you to keep your promise," he stated softly. "Perhaps you imagined a quiet scene with Minerva holding my hand as you helped me tip a vial of something painlessly lethal down my throat, to end my suffering."

"Stupid of me, wasn't it?" he snarled, his voice verging on hysterics. "Why should it have been that painless... that simple?"

"Do you think it would have been painless to help me pass from life that way?" Albus asked, nothing evident in his voice but honest curiosity.

"For you, at least," Severus answered, still plainly on edge.

"No. It would have been less painful for you, and that is the sole reason I so deeply regret it. I feared you would suffer greatly before this latest war was over. I had hoped that I would not contribute excessively to that suffering, but I unfortunately I did."

Albus looked at the Jarvey, smiling in approval at her sympathetic snuggling, and was seized with a brain-wave. "Your karma is crap when it comes to Gryffindors, isn't it dear boy?" he queried innocently.

The eleven-year-old deeply buried in Severus' psyche squealed Headmaster Dumbledore said, 'Crap!', startling a choked giggle from him. He was so caught off-guard that he actually looked up to meet his mentor's eyes. They were very true to life, and gazed at him with particular gentleness. It was agonizing. He tried to tell himself it was only a painting, but that only made it worse. Self-loathing was grinding his head downward, but hunger for the sight of those eyes was stronger. He couldn't bring himself to look away now. "The negative influence of this animate dust rag aside, I would say that qualifies as the understatement of the year, Albus," he managed, hoarsely.

Reggie's tail was soaked. She preferred not to call attention to the fact that she had been serving as a handkerchief for the last five minutes, but she needed to dry her tail and the silence was driving her nutters.

"Good move, Sugar Daddy," she said approvingly. She cocked her head at the man in the portrait and surreptitiously banished the salt water soaking her skinny tail. "You know, I see why Madam Mab would have given her right wing to recruit you."

"I had heard rumors to that effect," he replied, his voice tinged with amusement. "I must say, if the whole teaching thing hadn't worked out, being a Fairy Godfather would have been rather entertaining."

"Well, you have the perfect opportunity to amuse yourself here tonight. I'm officially deputizing you as a Fairy Godfather 'cause I need all the help I can get with Mr. 'Nobody-Likes-Me-And-If-They-Do-I-Don't-Deserve-It-Guess-I'll-Go-Eat-Flobberworms,'" Reggie said in disgust. "Do you know Hermione was crying her eyes out when I found her, all because of this stubborn wanker?"

"She hasn't even told her parents she's seeing me," Severus protested, realizing that he sounded sulky, even to himself. "Maybe I shouldn't blame her. After all, it's a bit hard to explain you're seeing a barely exonerated murderer who's nearly two decades your senior and used to be your teacher." He sighed morosely. "It's like asking someone to believe in a Fairy God-Jarvey."

"See what I mean?" Reggie huffed.

Albus shook his head. "Do try to lighten up a bit, Severus. Suspension of disbelief now and again would do you a world of good. You really should go and have a good talk with Hermione and sort all this out. Bear in mind that the dear girl hasn't had much better luck with love than you have. I quite imagine that she's been worried about many of the same things you have been, and no doubt behaved as she did in large part out of fear of being hurt."

"You know, you're really good at this," Reggie commented.

"Thank you, Reggie dear," Albus said. "I do try."

"If by that you mean you're good at interfering in people's lives as a hobby..." Snape muttered.

"Benevolently interfering, you tosser," Reggie corrected.

"Quite," said Albus, beaming.

"What am I supposed to say to her if I go back, Albus? I was... rather caustic when we parted," Severus said hesitantly.

Reggie started laughing.

"Sweet Merlin...now who's the master of understatement?" Albus said, tsk-ing. "I can only imagine..."

"Well, she got in a few good hits as well," he grumbled.

"I certainly hope so; she'd hardly be a match for you if she couldn't," Dumbledore retorted, blowing on his glasses and giving them a bit of a polish with the tail of his beard. "Quit trying to make everything so complicated. I know a hammer tends to see all problems as nails, but a Slytherin needn't to see everything as an elaborate plot or a way to get around someone. With witches, I think you'll find that a simple, sincere 'I love you' covers a multitude of sins. When was the last time you told her that?"

The silence stretched... and stretched... and Albus sighed. "Now I see the problem."

Snape was feeling intractable again. "Love doesn't fix everything, Albus."

"Enough that the exceptions hardly bear mentioning," he replied firmly. "Tell me, how many wizards do you know of with a phoenix as a familiar?"

The apparent change of topic caught him off guard. "I have never heard of another, save you. Perhaps in the past, but certainly not now," he finally managed.

"A wizard cannot choose a phoenix as his familiar; it is the phoenix who chooses the wizard. It is a grave responsibility, for implicit in the gift of its company is access to truly ancient and wonderful magic. It also carries the burden of knowing when to lay that gift aside...through death...that it might continue through others. My death made it available to everyone who would fight against darkness. And now, it is the responsibility of everyone who shared in that power to begin building it up and nurturing it again, through love, compassion, and courage, until a phoenix finds another worthy companion," Dumbledore's portrait-self finished.

Severus made no reply. "You were part of the struggle," Albus said. "You have a share in this responsibility. Many died selflessly and released their share; others nurture it by teaching the next generation of wizards and witches. You were given...I gave you...many of the most thankless and difficult tasks of the war. You were the only one with the courage and skill to do them; by their nature, you can never be rewarded as others were for their roles, though without your deeds, the rest might well have been impossible. I see in the very fact that you are still here that you have one more role to play... just as important, and for a change, rewarding in itself. It appears to me that you and Hermione will be joining the ranks of those producing that next generation."

"I haven't even gotten around to proposing yet," Severus protested.

The painted headmaster chuckled again. "Perhaps I'd best warn you, the majority of married witches do develop the strong inclination to have a child at some point...something you must be open to if you are going to get married."

Severus would have argued, but Narcissa suddenly came to mind. If ever there had been a witch unlikely to succumb to the instinct for motherhood... The way he'd heard it, Draco was an only child only because Lucius wanted it that way. And Hermione was much warmer than Narcissa. The possibilities rather boggled the mind.

"Come now...it's always different when the children are your own, so I've heard. I imagine you'll much prefer it to teaching them," Dumbledore said encouragingly.

Snape's expression twisted with a different sort of pain. "Do you honestly believe engendering dunderheads to be an improvement on attempting to train them?" he asked.

Albus laughed fit to burst. "Severus, if you and Hermione produce anything less than geniuses together, I shall fall out of my frame," he said, wiping mirth-moisture from his glasses. "Hmm, perhaps I was a little too loud," he said, absently. The sound of running footsteps approaching prompted him to resume his pose of snoozing against the gilt edge, a smile tugging at the corners of his beard.

Reggie's Spanish Vocabulary

Amigo: friend (masculine)

Abuelito: Grandaddy (affectionate diminutive of Abuelo: Grandfather)

Author's Note:

Just so this is quite clear, I rather like Ron. I don't think he's an idiot. He reminds me of the boys I grew up with, who just took a lot longer to grow up than I did. (A lot longer.) I think he is a fundamentally uncomplicated soul, and one of those entirely decent people possessed of an incredible talent for saying the wrong thing, particularly when his intentions are entirely right. Admit it. You know someone like that. We all do. And they're wonderful folks. But as a shoulder to cry on, they can be about as helpful as a remote control without the batteries.

I have nothing against Harry, either. He's just...overprotective...of his loved ones. Painfully so. Perhaps pathologically so. Shocking, no?

Let's see... who would presumably be able to find Severus, and might just possibly bring himself to use a phone? Yeah, too easy, I know... See you in the next chapter!

I have no way to repay you for your amazing efforts, LariLee. But Reggie has offered to turn your hair pink, if you like.