Chapter Twenty-Four

A/N: Anything you recognize is the property of the formidable Ms. Rowling. All else is mine. Thank you to Shellsnapeluver, without whom there would be no story.

Hermione stood, quivering, in the inky darkness of the upstairs hallway. Half her mind was trained on the boys downstairs. They were both sleeping soundly; neither had stirred when she'd crept from the room and up the stairs, and she had cast Muffliato on herself, but still, she strained for the sounds of movement on the lower floor. The rest of her was focused intently on an empty frame. Phineas Nigellus Black had just assured her that he was entering his frame at Hogwarts to tell Snape that she was waiting. It would be the first time she'd been able to communicate with him since their brief exchange on the night that they moved Harry, and she was nearly desperate to speak to him.

There was nothing she needed to communicate in particular, no plan to relate, no information to pass, but she needed to hear from him, needed reassurance that she had not invented it all somehow in her mind. Snape was still out there somewhere, wasn't he? She was not drifting alone in this new and horrible world?

There was a small explosion in her heart when she heard his familiar voice coming through the frame. Why could she hear him? Shouldn't it be Headmaster Black, come to give her his message? For a moment, she was terribly afraid that he had died, that all that she had left were daubs of paint in a magical frame, until she realized that that was completely illogical. Snape could not inhabit Phineas Nigellus's portrait, and besides, he wouldn't have had time to have a Headmaster's portrait painted. No, somehow, it was Snape himself who was calling, rather insistently now, through the blackness.

"Miss Granger? Miss Granger? I thought you said that she--"

"She did! Unless she's run off again. Young people are so very flighty, you know," Black muttered.

At the sound of Headmaster Black's voice, Hermione nearly began to laugh with relief, but she knew that if she began, she would very likely be unable to stop. Snape was alive. Unaccountably, they were both still alive, and her husband, her brilliant husband, had found a way to speak to her across the distance between them.

"I--I'm sorry. I'm here. I just didn't realize that it would be you I would hear!"

"Yes, a surprise for all of us," Snape said formally. "Dumbledore informed me earlier this evening that he had uncovered this secret of portraiture. Headmaster Black has been good enough to agree to temporarily inhabit both of his frames."

Both of his frames? she thought, but then she saw a disembodied hand waggling its fingers at her in the left corner of the portrait. So, he was creating some kind of magical connection... Then suddenly, it dawned on her. Dumbledore. We're being watched.

"Thank you, Headmaster Black," Hermione said automatically. Phineas Nigellus sniffed. Had she said anything that could be construed as too familiar? She thought frantically back through her words.

"So, you have arrived in Grimmauld Place. I trust the enchantments have held?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Potter? Is he well?"

Hermione thought of her parents briefly--her mind glanced over them almost as if it had been she who had been Obliviated, it stung so to think of them--and a conversation in which they had seemed to be discussing Harry.

"He is well, sir."

"He escaped the battle unscathed?"

"Yes, sir. Thanks to you."

Snape snorted. "Does he need for anything? I can't imagine how he and Weasley must be whinging on already, accustomed as they are to Molly Weasley's ministrations."

Hermione smiled into the darkness. "He has been well prepared, sir."

"Fine."

"And you, sir?"

"Pardon?"

"Are you, that is, congratulations on your appointment. Is all well at Hogwarts?"

"Rather impertinent, isn't she? As if the running of Hogwarts is any of her concern," Phineas Nigellus said querulously.

"Things are, as you say, well at Hogwarts, Miss Granger. And if there is nothing else?"

She strained to think of anything she could say that would hold him there, anything that could be twisted, changed. Surely, this could not be it. "No. Nothing, sir."

"Very well. Do keep the portrait on hand, Miss Granger."

"I will, Professor."

"Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight. Thank you again, Headmaster Black."

Phineas Nigellus accepted her thanks, and his hand retreated from the portrait. She stood there, unmoving, for what seemed to be hours, hoping against reason that he would suddenly return, that Dumbledore would absent himself, and Snape's voice would come back to her and whisper whatever words would soothe her heart. But no one came; even Phineas Nigellus seemed to have no interest in residing any longer in his portrait in Grimmauld Place. Finally, she turned and crept back down the stairs. She stepped carefully between Harry and Ron and resumed her place on the sofa in the parlor. She would have to find a reason to get that portrait into her bag. She would have to find a reason to speak to him again.

***

Classes would begin in a few short days. Snape glanced through the names on the roster before him. Hogwarts' enrollment was down from the previous year--no surprise after the events of last term and the recent announcement by the Ministry that Snape himself had been appointed as Headmaster. Though he understood their decisions, he feared for the families who had kept their children home--dissonance of any kind would earn them the Dark Lord's attentions. And then there was the lack of Muggle-borns. Very few of Muggle parentage would be admitted to Hogwarts this year. Hermione would not have been permitted to finish her studies even if she had not chosen to accompany Potter on this fool's errand. He had seen her name on the Daily Prophet's list. The Muggle-borns were being required to register themselves, and slowly, the Ministry held 'inquiries' and relieved them of their wands.

He could not deny that he feared for her. He knew that she had been warned about the Ministry; he could only hope that she did not run afoul of it.

It was time to hold the start-of-term meeting of the faculty. The knowledge of what was to come had been lurking at the back of his mind for weeks. Snape had not spent much time in residence at Hogwarts; he had been summoned by Lord Voldemort for endless meetings and debriefings. Privately, Snape thought that the Dark Lord was becoming even more unhinged, if such a thing were possible. He had become obsessed with wand lore, convinced, Snape assumed, that it was the problem of the twin cores that prevented him from vanquishing Harry Potter. By day, the madman traveled the world in search of the wandmaker Gregorovitch, and at night, he returned to Malfoy Manor, calling his followers to him to hear their tedious reports from various outposts of the Ministry, their rumour-mongering and toadying.

The rest of his time he spent sequestered at Spinner's End, though there was nothing there to occupy him but the well-traveled paths of his mind. It was preferable, however, to slinking about Hogwarts, taking meals surrounded by those who wished him dead.

He did, however, return to the Headmaster's office each day to stare at Phineas Nigellus Black's portrait, hoping and fearing, in equal measure, that he would have news from Hermione. He longed to hear her voice, even if it were in pleasantries and platitudes, though he knew that a message from her would likely bring ill tidings.

But now, school would begin and he could hide no longer. He was holding the meeting in the Headmaster's Office, in the hopes that the trappings of authority combined with his domineering presence would be enough to quail the uprising of his former colleagues. And then there were those to be introduced--Amycus and Alecto Carrow. Why the Dark Lord had sent him such bumbling idiots was beyond his ability to comprehend.

And, of course, there was the portrait, and Dumbledore, no doubt, would choose to make himself available for the occasion. Snape knew it could work in his favor, that a visible reminder of who had defeated whom might be the thing that rendered them silent, if not compliant. But it made him sick to think of it, of Dumbledore staring placidly--peacefully, goddammit--at the lot of them as he, Snape, postured and sneered for them, as he debased himself completely before their eyes. McGonagall's eyes. He dreaded to see Minerva. The disappointment he would see in her face, as if he were second-year again, and in need of stern correction.

***

They arrived at ten, as per his summons, just after breakfast, his staff. His staff. He had dreamt of this once, back before Voldemort, before Lily had twisted his heart into something dark and bitter, before everything. He had so enjoyed potions back then, and Slughorn had suggested teaching. He had returned to his dormitory that night and dared to imagine a life in which he stayed at Hogwarts year round, in which he never had to return to Spinner's End again, in which he might find a true home. And because he had been young and given yet to flights of fancy, he had imagined himself the Headmaster, the first Slytherin Headmaster since the famed and hated Headmaster Black. He had imagined himself revered, in charge of the formidable school, of raising Hogwarts to some vaunted new height. He had, and it shamed him now, imagined himself beloved.

Flitwick entered first, followed closely by Sprout. Sinestra, Hooch, Hagrid, and Trelawney. Vector, Binns, the Carrows. Slughorn, Pince, Pomfrey, and Filch. And lastly, a minute behind the others, as if she had considered not coming at all, McGonagall. They arranged themselves uncomfortably into chairs of their own creation. He could have cast an Extension Charm on the room, could have filled it with chairs, lit the fire... but he did not. He meant to make them feel unwelcome, to make them understand that it would be his whims they catered to. He did not meet their eyes, though he felt them upon him. A quick glance behind him, masked with a flourish of his robes, told him that Dumbledore had indeed joined them. The old bastard had the gall to wink at him.

Flitwick, Sprout and McGonagall were sitting, clustered together, at the far end of the office. They were silent, but there was something about the way their heads were inclined that gave him the impression that they had just been whispering to one another. He was suddenly reminded forcefully of the Gryffindor trio, and when he opened his mouth, he nearly snapped, "Silence!" as he would have done before his potions class.

Instead, he simply sneered and said, "So."

No one moved.

"Another year begins. And with it a few changes in... staffing. I trust you all have met the new members of the faculty? Amycus Carrow joins us, taking on Defense Against the Dark Arts, and his sister, Alecto, teaching Muggle Studies. I hope you will welcome them into the fold, as it were."

Amycus and Alecto beamed at him, though the rest of the teachers continued to stare at him stonily.

"Syllabi are to be handed in to me by three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. I will notify you of any changes before your first class on Monday."

"You intend to review my syllabus?" McGonagall said.

"I intend to review the syllabi of all my staff," Snape replied. "Circumstances at Hogwarts have changed, Minerva. I think it best that Hogwarts' curriculum reflect those changes."

McGonagall nodded, but looked as if she wished she could hex him then and there.

"Horace, are you prepared to take over the Slytherin house?"

Slughorn looked surprised and then vaguely gratified. "Certainly."

"Fine. See me after the meeting, and I will brief you concerning the wards."

Filch slowly raised his hand.

"Argus?"

"I wondered if we might review your disciplinary policies?"

Several of the teachers leaned forward slightly.

"All disciplinary action will be issued through this office, with the exception, of course, of house points. Should you find it necessary to grant a detention, submit your request in writing, and I will be happy to make... appropriate arrangements," Snape replied.

"Again, Headmaster, I must ask if that is necessary. I am the Gryffindor head of house. Surely, I should be the one to assign detentions to my students. How would it look if it appeared that I lacked the authority--"

"I am not concerned with how things appear to the students. I assure you, there will be interest in your actions from those much better connected than a group of first years."

"Is that so? And will you report to him directly, Snape, or should we expect--"

"Enough! I will not tolerate insubordination. You can stay here with your students and follow my rules, or you can be turned out into the street. There are many who would like your job, Minerva, and far be it from me to deny them. I shudder to think how long you would last on the outside."

"Are you threatening me, Severus Snape?"

"You can take my words as you will, Minerva, as I'm sure you always have. My policies will not be questioned."

"I see."

"I pray that you do," he said icily. He picked up a sheaf of parchment from the desk and sent the pages soaring through the air with a lazy flick of his wand. "I have your rosters here. They will, of course, be updated after the sorting on Sunday night. Are there any further questions?"

Pomona Sprout surprised him by speaking. "Will we be given the opportunity to speak to Albus?"

Almost involuntarily, Snape glanced over his shoulder at the portrait of the former Headmaster. He was sitting, exactly as Snape had imagined him, in his chair, hands tented beneath his chin. Dumbledore made no effort to interject.

"I think it's clear that he has nothing to say to you."

McGonagall broke in angrily once more. "Perhaps he has nothing he wishes to say in front of you."

Snape breathed in deeply through his nose and gambled it all. "Professor Dumbledore, do you wish to speak to any of these people in private?"

Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "I'm sure I have nothing to add. You seem to be doing quite well on your own, Severus," he said serenely.

Professor Sprout sucked in sharply through her teeth and clutched her handkerchief. Hagrid let out a tortured sound. Minerva's hand strayed to her wand, but then she clearly thought better of it.

"Nothing further, then?" Snape asked with chilling politeness.

She snorted and rose from her chair, vanishing it and exiting the room with a flourish he himself would have been proud of. He felt a crushing weight descend on his chest as she left, so real he nearly wondered if she had managed to hex him after all. He had hoped... so deeply that he had never admitted it to himself, but hoped nonetheless that she might have figured it out. He thought that perhaps the right words might trigger--but, no. Things were as they had always been. The rest of the staff followed Minerva's lead, all excepting Slughorn who stayed to review the needs of the Slytherin house. Snape sighed as he handed Slughorn the roster of the previously enrolled Slytherins and a list of the various passwords and secrets of the dungeons.

"Time is short," he barked when Slughorn opened his mouth. "I'm sure this covers everything. You may Floo me with anything further." And with that, he ushered the rotund wizard from his office, warding the door behind him.

He sank into the chair behind Albus's--his--desk. "You did well, Severus," Dumbledore said from his portrait. "Do not be too disheartened. Minerva will come to see--"

"As if I would waste my time worrying what that senile old bat thinks of me!"

Dumbledore continued smiling serenely. "Of course not."

***

The train came as it always did, and the school flooded with students once more. There was an odd sense of normalcy around Hogwarts--classes and meals followed their usual schedule, and if there were a few less Gryffindors here or there, well, it was difficult to notice any real difference, as those that remained were up to their usual hijinks. His new disciplinary policy had been tested from the first, when he'd discovered Longbottom and the Weasley girl creeping out of his office with the sword of Gryffindor. Fools. Had it been the real sword of Gryffindor, he might have let them get away with it, as it would have been one less thing for him to worry about. Unfortunately, however, the real one was hidden, as Dumbledore had suggested, behind the portrait, and all that the idiots had managed to steal was the replica he'd made for the Ministry. He'd had to make rather a production out of catching them and delivering them to Hagrid for detention in the Forbidden Forest.

Oddly, he missed teaching. He spent too much time in his office, answering owl post and coping with the barrage of detention notices coming in at all hours--the faculty, it seemed, had decided to test his mettle by assigning detention to every student who so much as breathed without a by-your-leave. But these duties, though as vexing as they were intended to be, did not occupy his mind, and he began to long for his classroom and the ever-changing faces who passed through it. That, at least, had never been boring.

Phineas Nigellus had been silent now for nearly two whole weeks. Snape glanced up at the frame--it was empty, currently--and wondered what on earth Hermione and her little friends were doing. Had Dumbledore intended all along that they would end up at Grimmauld Place, and if so, why had he spent the winter months teaching her to survive? Surely, that twisted old house elf was cooking for them. They were warm; they were together...

The mark began to burn, startling him from his thoughts. It was mid-afternoon. The Dark Lord did not usually summon him until the evening hours. This sent alarm coursing through his veins. He stood abruptly.

"I know you aren't sleeping, Albus, and I have no idea why you feel the need to pretend that you are." Panic made him feel short and irritable. "I'm being summoned, and if the time of day is any indicator, something is amiss. If I do not return, I hope you will make the appropriate inquiries." Before Dumbledore could reply, Snape dropped the anti-Apparition wards around his office, one of the few benefits of this otherwise thankless job, and spun.

When he arrived in Malfoy Manor, he was greeted with the sight and sound of dozens of other witches and wizards popping into being in the entrance hall. Since the fall of the Ministry, Voldemort had become sure enough again to allow them to Apparate directly into the Manor.

"What's happening?" Avery whispered as they joined the throng of wizards moving toward the ballroom.

Snape shook his head. "We'll soon see," he said.

The ballroom was cacophonous with whispering, but the mood was quite different than the last time they had been gathered together in this room. Who had failed? How seriously would they be punished? Their numbers had grown since Narcissa's ball, as well, though even Snape found it difficult to determine who had joined and who had been Imperiused.

But Yaxley, Runcorn and Rookwood stood nervously by the Dark Lord's side, leading Snape to believe that whatever fiasco had taken place, it had been in the Ministry.

Voldemort rose from his seat and the figures in the room tumbled to their knees in a wave of black fabric.

"Potter and his friends paid us a visit at the Ministry today," he hissed.

Snape dropped his head, allowing his hair to fall around his face. He bit his lip nearly hard enough to bleed. Stay focused. Think.

No one spoke.

"It seems he'd got his hands on some Polyjuice Potion and decided to join us for a little round of free-the-Mudbloods."

Murmurs swept the crowd. What the fuck? Snape thought. What the fuck had she been thinking?

"What puzzles me," he said, his voice dropping dangerously, "is how he has managed to slip through my hands once again. The boy entered the Ministry of Magic. My Ministry. Entered and left again, as neat as you please."

Snape hardly heard the stammering pleas of those who had been involved, those who had failed once again to deliver Potter. Frankly, he could not care less what happened to the men quaking beside Voldemort. He could not think of anything but Hermione. Why on earth would she have gone to the Ministry? Bravery was one thing, but this was sheer asinine defiance! What did they think they would accomplish beyond taunting and enraging the Dark Lord? So they'd saved a few wands. How many lives would be lost if Potter were captured?

He waited, his frustration building as Voldemort exacted his revenge on Yaxley. That girl was going to wish the Dark Lord had captured her by the time he was through with her. He'd thought she'd understood what was at stake here, thought she knew what she was sacrificing--not for him, but for Potter. Hadn't they agreed, all those months ago, that this was all for Potter's chance? She had his potion for Merlin's sake! How could he trust her with such a key piece of the plan if she could not restrain herself from pointless heroics?

When they were dismissed, it was after nightfall, and he Apparated directly back into the Headmaster's Office and replaced the wards. He slammed his wand into his fist with unnecessary force. Portrait! he sent through his ring, and marched over to Phineas Nigellus's frame to wait.

Phineas Nigellus seemed only too delighted to stick a foot into Grimmauld Place. Snape assumed that he was quite looking forward to hearing the 'Mudblood' get her comeuppance, as it was clear that Snape was in high temper and prepared to unleash the full extent of his wrath.

"Professor?" her voice said tentatively.

"Miss Granger, what the bloody hell did you think you were doing?"