Salt and Pepper Fest: Severus Snape and the Unbelievable Postwar Outcome

[hpgoldenage_mod]

Title: Severus Snape and the Unbelievable Postwar Outcome
Author: Squibstress
Characters/Pairings: Minerva/Severus, assorted Hogwarts staff and students
Rating: light R/M
Word Count: 11,000
Content/Warning(s): Naughty language, naughty professors, authorial intrusion
Summary/Prompt: Severus reluctantly returns to Hogwarts. He finds much has changed, not least himself.
A/N: T. S. Eliot famously said, "Good writers borrow. Great writers steal."

Except he never said that. Or at least, we have no evidence he did.

Read on AO3 or below:


What he did say, was:

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.

I am neither a good poet nor a great one, but I am a mature one, and I’ve been around long enough to know to steal from the best, as I have done here. I can't claim to have made of any of my pilferings something better, but I do hope it is something different.

Here's my official confession:

This story's title is shamelessly stolen from a chapter heading of the most wonderful babyfic ever written, Circumstances of a Small and Accidental Nature by the immensely talented dueltastic. If you haven't read it, go do so now. I'll wait.

The "Shed-Stop Potion" and the idea that Severus used it as a defence against Polyjuice is admiringly filched from MMADfan, who introduced it in her fic, Death's Dominion, which is the most remarkable and brilliant Deathly Hallows corrective I think I've ever encountered. I won't wait for you to read it now (because it's quite long and deserves your undivided attention), but I'll come and find you if you don't at least give it a glance at some point. You'll thank me later.

Many thanks to the mod for throwing a bangin' fest, and to the anonymous prompter for "Here I go again / I hear the trumpets blow again / All aglow again / Taking a chance on love" at age 50+.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Life is most delightful when it is on the downward slope, but has not yet reached the abrupt decline.

Seneca


And then I saw her face.
Now I'm a believer.

The Monkees
~~~

NB: This is a love story. It is like every other love story you've ever read, with some minor variations that don't affect the outcome one whit.

It has nothing whatsoever to recommend it.

But if you insist on charging ahead despite this, well … you've been warned.

That said, here's the story of Severus Snape and the Unbelievable Postwar Outcome.

~~~

Severus Snape didn't fall in love.

It was one of the salient facts about him.

All right, he'd done it once before, and though it helped save the Wizarding World, it had been something of a personal disaster for him. And for the object of his affection.

Which was why he was utterly gobsmacked to recognise, in the year of no Dark Lord 2010, that he had, in fact, done just that.

This startling event happened twelve years after he'd left Hogwarts for good, or so he'd believed. Twelve years of (relative) peace and quiet; twelve years of respite from teenaged dunderheads (there remained plenty of the older variety in his life, he was sorry to say); twelve years of living blissfully (or what passed for bliss in Snape's world) alone.

It all started one day — well, really it had started long before, but all that backstory would make this tale far too long — it all started one day when he was sitting in the lab at the back of his Walthamstow flat (you didn't think he'd gone back to Spinner's End, did you?) He was considering whether he should finish the batch of Wideye Potion he'd been brewing or put it under a Stasis Charm and hit the local for a pint and a bacon butty.

Fuck it, he'd go down the pub. His customer could wait another few hours for her potion. Her internship at St Mungo's wouldn't even start for another two days, and, Severus told himself, she ought to get a head start on some sleep in the meantime.

Severus had just doused the flame and set the charm when a post owl pecked at the tiny back window.

The bird hooted in annoyance when it couldn't fit all the way in and had to settle for exchanging its parcel for an owl treat though the small opening.

What kind of moron uses an enormous snowy owl to send a letter-sized parcel, anyway? Severus thought as he broke the envelope's seal.

(His correspondent was no kind of a moron at all. You needed a robust sort of owl to fly all the way from that northern hellhole, as Severus tended to think of Hogwarts, to London in February weather.)

He glanced down at the signature and slightly revised his estimation of its sender.

Severus sighed. He supposed he'd actually have to read the letter. It would be bad form to ignore a communiqué from the headmistress of Hogwarts, even if he had nothing to do with the place anymore. (Not that good form was anything he cared much about. But still.)

He had to scan the thing twice to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

Unbefuckinglievable.

She was actually asking him to come and teach.

I wouldn't ask it of you if I weren't desperate. Professor Bunbury has come down with a potion-resistant case of Scrotofungulus and will be on leave for the remainder of term to focus on regrowing his bits. (And no, the DADA curse hasn't struck again. Professor B has held the position for eight solid years without a mishap, I'll have you know.)

There aren't many people available at short notice who are qualified to teach Defence at N.E.W.T. level. Unfortunately for you, you are one of them. Unfortunately for me, the other is Ronald Weasley. Much as I admire Mr Weasley's work with the Aurors, I'm afraid his more recent employment in his brother's shop would be a definite liability for the school.

Please, Severus, say you'll do it.

His first inclination, naturally, was to decline, but Severus Snape hadn't survived two wars and more than a decade teaching magical adolescents by being hasty.

On the one hand, Hogwarts.

On the other hand, Galleons.

He was loath to admit it, but the prospect of regular wages, even for a few months, would be welcome. Most good freelance potioneers lived hand-to-mouth those days, what with the increasing cost of ingredients and competition from the less scrupulous practitioners who didn't know their Flitterby from their Fluxweed but could undercut their betters by using sub-par ingredients and dubious methodological shortcuts.

Living on his current income and the wages he'd managed to save from his teaching days was proving more and more challenging. He sometimes wished he hadn't donated the proceeds from his Order of Merlin award to the War Orphans Fund, but the taint of that money — gained from an act of repentance that others mistook for heroism — had been too much for Severus to deal with in his post-Nagini funk.

Minerva's offer was generous, more than twice what he'd made in his previous teaching gig, even allowing for inflation. She must really be desperate, he thought, not without a bit of the old glee.

Now, you must understand that Severus Snape bore Minerva McGonagall no ill will. They'd each done what they had to in order to successfully prosecute the last war, and neither was one to hold a grudge: she by her nature, he by the fact that one more might put him over the limit of grudges a single psyche could support while retaining its sanity.

In fact, Minerva had been one of the few bright spots in his otherwise dismal life at Hogwarts, being temperamentally similar in some ways and quite different in other, complementary, ways. And they were well matched intellectually. Though Severus's barbed comments about students or Dumbledore were meant more seriously than were Minerva's, they nevertheless amused her. And hers did the same for him. Quidditch rivalries and chess games fed their competitive natures and provided each with enough wins and losses to keep their respective egos (one healthy, one less so) fed and in check.

Their pseudo-friendship had, surprisingly to Severus, at least, continued after the war, both parties having decided to overlook the whole unfortunate business of the 1997–1998 school year. This was an unspoken mutual agreement, which only reinforced the fact that the pair of them were of a similar mind when it came to awkward situations.

Minerva always met him for a drink or tea when she came down to London. Their visits were pleasant and retained enough of the old spark to secure her in the "positives" column in the ledger of Severus's life.

He rummaged around his worktable for a minimally stained bit of parchment and grabbed the nearest quill.

Dear Headmistress,

Never let it be said that I neglected my duty to Hogwarts. (In the interest of expediency, I shall refrain from pointing out that many estimable witches and wizards consider my previous services to have been over and beyond what was strictly required of a teacher, and any putative duty thereby discharged.)

Your plight has me weeping in my tea. (The begging was a nice bonus. I always suspected you had it in you; I am pleased to have been proved right.)

You may expect me tomorrow by dinner.

One thing: As I am no longer tethered to Slytherin House — the questionable bonds of sentiment notwithstanding — I will require rooms in one of the towers. The size is unimportant, provided there is a view and ample bookshelves.

Your ob't servant,

Snape, OM1°

~~~

The Great Hall went quiet when Severus billowed his way up to the staff table. It gratified him that he could still silence a room simply by walking into it.

He took the only seat open, one near the right end of the table, and glared down at the Gryffindors out of habit.

Flitwick leaned around a blank-faced Bathsheda Babbling to say, "Severus! Welcome back. I was delighted to hear you'd agreed to take over Defence." Hagrid, on the other side of Filius, added, "Good ter see you, Professor. Like the beard. Makes you look distinguished." Severus couldn't find it in him to aim a sarcastic retort at either of them. Clearly, he was out of practice. Minerva caught his eye and gave him a half-lipped smile. The rest of the staff acknowledged him with stiff nods, some no doubt remembering his tenure as headmaster, others, who hadn't been there, reacting to his reputation.

Dinner shimmered into being on the tables and broke the students' stunned silence. Severus pretended not to notice any staring and helped himself to a hearty portion of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. He grudgingly added a small helping of glazed carrots. The Hogwarts fare was better than he remembered. Or maybe his appetite was. Either way, he had two helpings of meat.

Once the pudding — which was as revolting as Severus remembered Hogwarts puddings to be — had been consumed, Minerva rose and cleared her throat.

Shit.

"No doubt you've all noticed that Professor Bunbury is not with us this evening. I am sorry to report that he has been taken ill and will be on leave for the remainder of term. I am pleased to announce, however, that Professor Emeritus Severus Snape has joined us as interim Defence teacher, and I am certain you will all benefit greatly from his well-documented knowledge in this area. Please join me in welcoming him back to Hogwarts."

The glint in her eye when she looked over at him told him she knew exactly what she was doing. As the anaemic applause started — led by Minerva, Filius, Hagrid, and the Slytherin table — he gritted his teeth and stood to acknowledge it.

He glared at Minerva as he retook his seat. Her beatific smile back at him reminded him uncomfortably of Dumbledore.

That evening, she knocked at his door. He'd given himself fifty–fifty odds she would, and he had a bottle of Balvenie DoubleWood 12 and two glasses at the ready.

"I see you're settling in," she said, looking around at his sitting room. He'd already arranged his books in the shelves lining two walls, and Transfigured the sofa from a velvet camelback horror to a sleek, square-armed modern piece in rich black leather. The grey Demiguise-hair rug he'd brought from his flat gave the room a hint of cosiness, while the teak panel he'd charmed to one wall added to its elegance.

"I'm not 'settling in', Minerva, I've unpacked. I'm not staying beyond what my contract stipulates."

He hadn't meant it to come out quite so antagonistic, but he needed to make clear to her that any attempt to rope him into staying past June would be met with his utmost resistance.

She ignored his tone. "This looks quite comfortable," she said approvingly. "I trust the view is satisfactory?"

It was. It was, in fact, spectacular, looking out over the Black Lake and the mountains beyond.

"The view is adequate to my requirements," he said.

He didn't mention his suspicion that she'd given him rooms in Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw Tower out of sheer orneriness.

"I'll have one of those, if you're offering," she said, quirking her chin at the liquor.

He poured them each a dram while she made herself at home on his sofa.

"Slainté," she said, clinking her glass against his when he'd given her the drink and joined her in front of the fire.

His fear that she'd ask him how it felt to be back at Hogwarts or some such rot proved unfounded, as he should have known it would. Her dislike of idle chit-chat was always one of her best qualities.

Instead, she gave him a brief overview of the classes he'd be taking over, telling him that he was free to organise his own lesson plans rather than following Professor Bunbury's, which, coincidentally, was exactly what he planned to do.

"Far be it from me to interfere with your teaching methods," she said, "but I must ask you to try not to make any of the Ravenclaws cry on your first day. Hufflepuffs, if you must, but only if you must. We are trying to employ less terror-based pedagogy these days."

Her gaze challenged him to object, either to her implied criticism or her not-so-subtle reference to his final year on the Hogwarts staff, but he wasn't about to rise to her bait. If she wanted to spar, she'd have to work harder than that.

"If your students have become accustomed to lax standards, I shall use whatever methods I find necessary to motivate my classes to exceed them." he said.

"Motivate away, but I do hope your repertoire has expanded from scowling and speaking exceedingly slowly since you were last in a classroom. After that book about you came out, I'm afraid they'll rather be expecting it."

"If I recall correctly, there was a — I hesitate to call anything excreted from the Skeeter woman's Quick-Quotes Quill a book — but I understand the portrayal of you was somewhat unflattering."

Minerva waved a dismissive hand. "Rumours and innuendo. Having been a witch in a position of some authority for many years, I daresay I'm accustomed to it."

"The speculation about you and Dumbledore didn't bother you?"

Her laugh was more of a bark. "You read the thing, did you?"

"Of course not. The excerpts in the Prophet were nauseating enough."

"Yes, well, given that Rita had made a meal of his sexual orientation in her previous tome, I can't imagine who'd believe Albus and I carried on a clandestine affair in Hogwarts's corridors for years."

"Some people will believe anything sordid."

"True. Perhaps I should be flattered that anyone might think my charms enough to entice him to change teams in his hundredth decade."

"Perhaps you underestimate your charms."

He wondered where that had come from. Severus Snape was not in the habit of disbursing compliments, no matter how subtle.

Minerva raised an eyebrow at him, which he ignored by poking at the fire.

The opening salvos having been dispatched, they proceeded to a comfortable discussion of the changes at Hogwarts, moving swiftly on to a lively conversation about new theories of potions-aided human-to-animal transfiguration.

They talked long enough that Severus poured them each a second drink. Minerva had divested herself of her shoes and curled her legs up under her, making him think of the feline form that lurked beneath her upright carriage.

During a lull in the conversation, she gazed at him with the air of a satisfied cat.

"You look well," she said.

He snorted.

"Hagrid is right, the beard suits you," she continued. "And, of course, the clean hair."

This dig at his former hygiene failed to land. He knew that she knew perfectly well that his greasy hair had been the result of copious amounts of Shed-Stop. During those dangerous times, one never knew when someone would snatch a stray hair for use in a Polyjuice Potion. He'd won a bet about it off Minerva during Potter et al.'s second year.

His current coif, shoulder-length and tied back with a leather thong, showed off the true lustre of his black hair, now streaked with a few silver strands.

He cleared his throat. "And you look as well as can be expected."

 "I see your sense of chivalry hasn't improved any."

"Merlin forfend."

She laughed. A comfortable silence ensued while they both continued to sip their whisky. He broke it by asking after various common acquaintances, in none of whom he had the slightest interest, but he wanted to hear her talk. He'd missed her mild burr and the lilt of her accent.

Her cheeks were slightly reddened, either from the fire or the whisky or both, and she appeared more relaxed than he had ever seen her. No wonder, given that their previous time together had either been spent under the threat of war, during actual war, or in noisy restaurants or pubs, where anyone might recognise the venerated headmistress of Hogwarts and the despised Death-Eater-Cum-War-Hero. Now they were at peace, and she was at the helm of a school that was comfortably her own.

As a matter of fact, he realised, he was more relaxed than he'd been in ages. Despite all everything that had happened during the year he'd been headmaster, Minerva made him feel an ease, with her and with himself, that he'd rarely experienced.

All too soon for Severus (though he'd never have admitted it), Minerva stood and said, "As pleasant as this has been, I fear tomorrow is another work day. I have to face a budget meeting, and you have to face a double session of Gryffindor–Slytherin second-years."

As he lay in the ridiculously luxurious bed that night, Severus thought sleepily that his return to Hogwarts could have gone much worse.

~~~

Classes proved a challenge.

On his first day, Severus found to his dismay that the students' silence the previous night had been less shock and awe than it had been the surprise of having a genuine celebrity show up at their school. (The fact that most of their other teachers, from Longbottom to Minerva herself, also had entries in the history books and Orders of Merlin to match had been lost on them, it seemed.)

He'd swept in, slamming the door behind him with wandless magic, and stalked to the front of the classroom to find twelve pairs of eyes looking up at him. So far, so good. He had their attention, but it soon became clear that those eyes followed him so avidly not out of terror but out of curiosity. Under their collective gaze, he felt more like a peculiar specimen they were going to dissect than a teacher about to provide instruction.

Before he'd even begun to speak, several hands went up.

"Sir," one of them said, waving his hand in the air, "please, sir."

What were these creatures? No student he'd ever taught before would have dared speak in his classroom without being called on.

"Yes?" he hissed.

"I'd just like to say …" The boy glanced around at his classmates. "We'd all like to say, thank you for coming back to teach us. We're very happy you're here."

Huh. Whatever he'd expected, it wasn't this.

"Thank you, Mr …"

"Lupin, sir. Teddy Lupin."

Of course.

Just Severus's luck that his first student was the spawn of the werewolf who'd tried to kill him.

Snape stared at the child. The shock of confronting his erstwhile adversary's son was nearly eclipsed by the surprise of seeing a green-and-silver tie around his neck.

Teddy Lupin. Child of two of the Gryffindorkiest Gryffindors ever to have walked Hogwarts's hallowed halls, was a Slytherin.

 "You may take your seat, Mr Lupin."

Severus turned to wand an assignment on the board, smirking to himself. He wondered if the werewolf had spun in his grave when the Sorting Hat had placed his son in the House of Snakes. An unwelcome pang cut the thought off at the knees, as Severus experienced a sudden vision of Teddy's parents lying dead on the very grounds of the school he now attended. Severus clenched his teeth and ignored it. These things happened occasionally, sudden flashes of memory — or imagined memory — from the war, often when he least expected it. They were the price of having survived, he supposed. Or one of many.

He made it through that first class, and the rest of the day played out in a similar vein, his students disconcertingly uncowed and disgustingly enthusiastic. Severus found that by adjusting his teaching methods — not because Minerva had advised it, mind you — the lessons went rather well, with the students making more progress than he'd ever experienced in either his Potions classes or his previous year as Defence master. There were no accidents, no scuffles, and no tears. Not even from the Hufflepuffs.

The end of the first week found Minerva and Severus sharing another dram in his quarters. (Her quarters, which he tried to forget had been his during that desolate year as headmaster, were off limits by mute agreement.)

"They're different," Severus said when Minerva asked about his students.

"Yes, they are," she said. "They grew up during the war. Your evil-bat-of-the-dungeons act doesn't scare children who saw family members murdered or spent every day looking at their parents' curse scars. I wasn't just taking the piss when I said you'd need to find a different way to teach them."

"Mmm." Severus swirled his drink in the glass and took a sip.

"War changes everything," she continued. "We're all different."

"I'm not."

"Of course you are. Your appearance is only the outward sign. The Severus Snape who lives in London and does as he chooses is quite a different man from the one who had to dance to the tunes of two unrelenting masters."

"And how would you know?"

"Because I have eyes, and I flatter myself that I'm not a dunderhead, as you might put it."

Severus grunted his assent, the only concession he'd make to her non-dunderheadedness.

"The man I asked to come teach here—"

"Begged. You begged me."

"The man I invited to come teach is, if still a bit childish at times" — she glared pointedly at him — "a man real wisdom to share with students rather than browbeating them with his cleverness."

He gave a scoffing snort. "And that's the change you perceive in me?"

"Among others, yes."

Discomfort prickled at him like a Stinging Jinx cast by the most diffident 'Puff. He stood and carried his drink over to the window.

Her voice followed him. "I am a different woman, too."

He turned back to her and made a point of looking her up and down.

"You don't seem much different."

"My appearance may not have changed quite so drastically as yours, but believe me, I am not the Minerva McGonagall who was so certain of what was Light and what was Dark."

His eyes narrowed at her.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Severus, that that year, that impossible year, changed me, just as it did you. I suspected — no, I knew — your true allegiance, even as I hated you for what you allowed to happen at Hogwarts."

"I thought you might have guessed," Severus said. "But I wasn't certain."

"It didn't matter. We each had our roles to play, things we had to do. It made me realise that no one is either good or bad — not you, not me, not Albus."

Severus almost spit out his drink. "The sainted Albus Dumbledore?"

"The Albus Dumbledore whose admirable ends were not entirely justified by his questionable means," she corrected. "He never saw any other way of doing things but the way he'd determined was right. We argued about it often enough, but he was in charge, so I supported his decisions, if only in public. I never believed him infallible, but when I found out what he'd made you do …" She shook her head. "Anyway, it's all over and done with, and here we are."

"And now you're in charge," he said, raising his glass to her.

"Yes," she said. "And it's difficult enough during peacetime. Whenever I get furious with Albus — which is whenever his portrait speaks to me, I'm afraid — I remember what he had to contend with. It's allowed me to forgive him, more or less."

She took a sip of her drink while eyeing Severus above the rim of her glass.

"What about you?" she asked.

"What about me?"

"Have you forgiven him?"

Severus shrugged, feeling like a small child. "He didn't kill me when I first came to him after joining Riddle. He kept me out of Azkaban, gave me a job. Furnished a purpose for my life."

"That isn't an answer."

"I don't know the answer," he snapped, his unease with the conversation building to a familiar anger. "Why do you care? And don't tell me I have to forgive him for myself, to move on, because that's a load of Thestral shit."

"I agree."

"Then why ask me about it?"

"Curiosity, Severus. I do occasionally take the form of a mammal known for it."

"Remember how that ended for the cat."

"Satisfaction, aside from its reputation as an excellent restorative, is reward in itself." She set her drink down on the side table. "But I don't mean to pry into things you don't wish to discuss. Come, sit back down and we'll talk about something else."

Although he wanted to do as she asked, he still felt the old Severus trying to claw his way out, cataloguing every tiny hurt for later tending. Storming out was an option, but they were in his quarters, and he would look foolish if he were to leave them in a huff. He stood there, pulled between the old version of himself, the one who could never tolerate any personal incursions, and Severus 2.0, who was enjoying Minerva's company for its own sake, even if it came with uncomfortable moments.

"Would you like to hear the story of Professor Longbottom's first week teaching solo?" she asked. "It involves a prank with a Fanged Geranium and a great deal of Hippogriff dung."

He sat.

~~~

Term droned on, and Severus discovered that teaching children who were not terrified of him was … not intolerable. They still gave ridiculous excuses about missing homework, turned in sloppy assignments, and made stupid mistakes, but they also listened to him and occasionally asked good questions. A few of them were decent spellcasters, and one or two could put three words together without making him want to Obliviate himself.

His colleagues were reasonably pleasant, once the shock of the Return of the Headmaster Voted Most Likely to Murder His Staff had worn off. Minerva and Filius were friendly, of course, but the others stopped behaving as if he were about to whip out his wand for a round or two of recreational Cruciatus. Those who had been on staff during Severus's inauspicious headship began to treat him with the wary but respectful distance they'd kept when he'd been a teacher on the same staff.

Newer staff seemed to shrug off the presence of the former Death-Eater-in-residence, with the exception of Justin Finch-Fletchley, who taught Muggle Studies (now a mandatory course through third year) and was the head of Hufflepuff. Finch-Fletchley, Severus found, was the same toffee-nosed prat he'd been as a student, with the irritating addition of an affected sort of bonhomie, treating Severus as if they'd been the best of friends back in the day.

Severus strove to be collegial but avoided excessive conversation with his co-workers, with a few notable exceptions. He would never have said so to anyone else, of course, but Longbottom — oh, all right, Professor Longbottom — made for decent company in the staff room.

A week or so after Severus had arrived, the Herbology teacher approached him as one might a recalcitrant Hippogriff, to ask if he'd be interested in a new cultivar of the Sopophorus Plant.

"The beans contain much less thebaine, which might make it safer for use in sleeping draughts." Longbottom gave a nervous chuckle. "Of course, that's your area of expertise, not mine. But I remember you telling us that most of the commercially available products carry a risk of respiratory depression in susceptible witches and wizards." He grinned. "Or was that just to keep us from getting dependent on sleeping potions?"

Severus considered saying something cutting about Longbottom's performance in Potions class, but he remembered that he was trying not to alienate his colleagues now. Besides, Longbottom was a friend of Minerva's, and Severus thought it best not to antagonise him.

"I would be interested in running some experiments with the new cultivar," he said. "Did you create it?"

"I built on some work Pomona did. I call the cultivar Phaseoulus sopophorus pomoniae in her honour."

"Appropriate," Severus said.

Longbottom nodded soberly.

"I saw you at the funeral," he said. "She would have been touched you came."

"We were colleagues for a long time. She was an admirable witch."

They observed a moment of silence for the late Pomona Sprout, then Longbottom stood.

"I'm going to grab a cuppa. Can I refill yours?" he asked.

Severus only hesitated a moment before handing his cup over. "No milk or sugar."

Longbottom returned with the tea, and when the Automagical candles lit up in their sconces, Severus was surprised to realise he'd spent more than half an hour in conversation with him. He was more than knowledgeable about Herbology as it pertained to potion-making, and he'd lost that annoying wide-eyed nervousness that had practically begged Severus to tweak it.

They parted, with Longbottom's promise to provide Severus with several good samples of his new and supposedly improved Sopophorus Plant within the week.

~~~

It was halfway through March before Severus had the startling thought that he was … happy. The thought didn't entirely thrill him.

One Friday morning as he was shaving, working carefully around the trim beard and moustache he'd cultivated for some years past, a strange sound echoed through the bathroom.

He paused in mid-swipe of his razor, listening carefully. Nothing more happened, so he resumed his ablutions. A minute later, the sound arose again, and he realised with horror that it was him. Humming.

Not only that, but the song he was humming was some cloyingly cheerful bit of fluff he'd overheard when looking in on the Ravenclaw common room the previous Saturday — a favour to Filius, who'd taken the weekend off to visit his niece in Cornwall. The tune had been lilting, sung by a youthful-sounding American accent accompanied by a ukulele, for its sins.

Severus shook the foam off his razor and tossed it in the sink in disgust. He didn't hum. He was not a hummer. Perhaps he was under some sort of enchantment.

After towelling off his face, he snatched his wand from the pocket of the dressing gown hanging on the hook beside the sink. It took eight separate curse-detecting spells before he conceded that he might (might!) have been humming without the benefit of illicit magical intervention.

The fact was, he was looking forward to the day.

His classes had performed well in the week's assignments, so he was planning a bit of a surprise for them. Instead of the usual lecture–practicum format he'd employed thus far, he would have them pair up for a mini-duelling tournament. The winners of each bout would face off until the ultimate victor emerged. The top student would then be excused from homework for the weekend and have the honour of leading the following week's first class (under Snape's strict supervision).

It was Friday, and in addition to the coming freedom from teaching duties, it would bring Minerva to his quarters for what had become their habitual Friday night drink. As it happened, she also frequently joined him for a cup of tea in his office during weekdays after classes ended, but Friday nights were, well … special.

The prospect of something stronger than Assam was welcome, of course, but even more so was the feeling that an entire evening enjoying her company stretched before him with little chance of interruption. For a man who liked his solitude as much as Severus did, the prospect of spending several hours with another person shouldn't have been so appealing. But somehow it was.

Minerva was unique among the people he'd known in that, while she could certainly annoy him, the annoyance was almost always underlaid with amusement. And she never bored him, even when they talked about things in which he thought he had no interest.

Hell, it was she who had first spurred his interest in Quidditch. As a student, he'd avoided the pitch like the Dragonpox, peopled as it was with James Potter types, all swagger and sweat and little in the way of intelligence. But in Severus's first year of teaching — no, his first month — she'd practically forced him to pay attention to the game when she'd opined in his hearing that Slytherin had no chance against the superior Gryffindor team.

As the newly minted head of Slytherin, he couldn't let that go unchallenged, so he'd offered her a wager and she'd accepted. It had been the first time he'd felt more like a colleague on equal standing — well, almost equal — than an overgrown student. He'd won that bet, but she'd kept at it, casting aspersions on his house team's prowess whenever they were scheduled to face hers on the pitch. He'd quickly turned his keen eye and absorbent mind to the strategies of Quidditch play, and before long, he'd started providing commentary and (ahem) critique to the Slytherin team captain.

Only years later had he realised that this had been Minerva's strategy to get him integrated into the Hogwarts community. More integrated than he'd been as a student, anyway. The other staff were always keen to know how the competition was going; it had given him something to talk about with them that was neither too personal nor too volatile.

That Quidditch banter had set the tone for his relationship with Minerva throughout his early years on faculty; later, it had become a richer sort of quasi-friendship, full of competition, yes, but also some real understanding and, dare he say, appreciation of one another's better points. (The knowledge that he had some had, by the way, also been a product of his conversations with her.)

Yes, reconnecting more fully with Minerva McGonagall had been one of the bonuses of his reluctant return to Hogwarts.

And tonight was Friday.

Damn it all, he was humming again.

~~~

Severus should have known.

He should have known he couldn't come back to the scene of many of his crimes without Fate sicking up in his face.

The first bloody Saturday after Easter hols, disaster befell the school.

A rather large gap at the Gryffindor table at breakfast alerted the staff (or rather, Professor Longbottom) that something was amiss.

It turned out that an entire gaggle of the older Gryffindors had vanished. (Not Vanished, thankfully. At least, not as far as anyone yet knew.) They were just … not there. Not a single person, neither staff nor student, had seen them since the end of dinner the previous day. Why none of the other Gryffindors had seen fit to notice and inform their head of house of their housemates' absence, Severus couldn't fathom. Then again, who could fathom the mind of a Gryffindor?

But there it was, and the remaining students had to be questioned and the school and grounds searched. Minerva insisted they search in pairs in case any Dark mischief was afoot. When Finch-Fletchley moved towards Severus, Snape said, without thinking about it, "Professor Longbottom, you're with me. We'll do the so-called secret passages and tunnels."

"Right-o."

Severus suppressed a smirk when Sybill Trelawney grasped Justin's arm, saying, "Professor Finch-Fletchley, the Inner Eye tells me you and I will find the missing children near the kitchens."

It took Neville and Severus almost two hours to search all the passageways running to, from, and under the castle.

They emerged from the tunnel leading from the Shrieking Shack, Severus feeling like an idiot when he was nearly taken out by a branch from the Whomping Willow. The whoosh of it passed just over his head as he threw himself to the ground.

"There, now, Willow. No call for that. It's just me, Neville, and a friend."

Severus looked up, and to his astonishment, the tree had calmed, its branches now rustling softly in the breeze rather than swashing about with lethal force.

"What," he said, picking himself up and dusting the soil from his trousers, "was that?"

Neville gave a sheepish shrug. "The Willow and I are sort of friends."

"How can you be friends with a tree?"

"We understand one another, like. She doesn't whomp people, and I prune her and keep the Bundimums under control. I bring her a Quaffle to bat around once in a while, for exercise. Right now she's a little agitated, though, so …"

They moved out of the Willow's range to confer.

Neville turned a furrowed brow to Severus.

"Not a sign of them. Nothing. Nada. Niente. Where could they have got to? They wouldn't have left the grounds without permission."

"In my experience," Severus said, "Gryffindors are of the 'ask for forgiveness instead of permission' bent." His tone was milder than was his wont, in keeping with the concerning situation.

Neville smiled. "True enough. But we've got smarter since you were last on staff. Minerva had Filius set Alarums on all of the passages students could use to get off the grounds. They haven't been triggered."

"About time," Severus said. He looked up at the castle. "We'd best tell the headmistress we've come up empty.".

"On it." Neville pulled his wand. "Expecto Patronum!"

From his wand-tip leapt a silver beast with a squat, seal-like body, short legs with webbed feet, and a broad, flat bill. It shot off and disappeared through the wall.

Despite the dire circumstances of being short a baker's dozen of students in their care, Snape couldn't help laughing.

"A platypus?"

"It's highly corporeal," Neville said defensively. Then he laughed too.

"Very effective," Severus said when they'd gathered themselves.

A minute later, a silvery cat returned to tell them in Minerva's voice to report to the head's office.

A frisson of unease settled over Severus upon entering the office he'd last been in on the night of the battle. He glanced up at Dumbledore's portrait but looked away before it could say anything to him.

The others filed in two-by-two and offered their equally dismal reports: No sign of the missing Gryffindors had been found.

"I even asked Firenze," Hagrid said. "The centaurs haven't seen hide nor hair of 'em."

"I hate to raise the possibility, but has anyone thought of the Black Lake?" Filius asked.

"A whole group of them?" Finch-Fletchley said. "A single student might drown, sure, but …"

Minerva was almost as pale as the night she'd duelled Severus and drove him from the castle. She nodded soberly. "I'll see if I can speak to the Merchieftainess."

"I'll accompany you," Severus said.

They took a boat, propelled by a spell from Severus's wand, to the end of the lake. Minerva withdrew the large clamshell she'd brought and opened it. Severus covered his ears as she screeched a few words of what he assumed was Mermish into it, then thrust it under the water.

A few minutes later, a Mermaid with kelp-green hair and bare breasts broke the water's surface and spoke to Minerva in scratchy English.

"Why calls the headmistress of Hogwarts?"

"Thank you for answering, Merchieftainess. We seem to be missing some students. I wondered if you've heard anything of them around the lake?"

"Merfolk bother not the students of Hogwarts."

"Of course not, but I'd hoped you might help us make sure they are not … er … in the water anywhere."

"Search we will, if so wishes the headmistress."

"Please. We will wait here for any news."

The Merchieftainess slid back underneath the water.

It was a long half hour, and the late afternoon air was cold and damp. Tendrils of fog hovered over the glassy surface of the lake, and the croaking of frogs cracked the stillness. When Minerva started to shiver, Severus cast a wordless Warming Charm and scooted closer to her on the bench.

She grasped his hand and squeezed it. "Oh, Severus, I do hope they're all right. If they're in the lake—"

"Highly doubtful. They're Gryffindors. They're probably off on some addle-pated adventure. But we need to be able to say we've looked everywhere before we get the parents involved."

Minerva shuddered again at the thought. Awkwardly, Severus patted her hand.

A gentle splash announced the Merchieftainess.

"Looked we have," she said in that queer, gravelly voice. "Nowhere in the lake the students are."

Minerva and Severus heaved tandem sighs of relief.

"Thank you," Minerva said.

It was a grim-looking group that met again in Minerva's office. The pot of tea a house-elf brought at her request revived their energy, if not their mood.

Septima Vector said, "I could do some reductions to see if anything comes up, but they'd be very iffy."

"Has anyone looked in the Room of Requirement?" Neville asked.

Blank faces all around.

They all headed to the seventh floor and waited as Minerva called forth the door to the Room.

It was completely empty.

"Damn." Minerva gave a deflated sigh. "I truly hoped we'd find them here."

"If they're not in the castle or on the grounds, where could they be?" Vector said. "They can't simply have vanished into the floorboards or something."

A thought came over Severus like a freezing shroud.

No. Oh, no. It can't be.

"Headmistress …" His voice sounded strangled.

"Yes?"

He cleared his throat. "I believe it may be a charm."

At that, Filius perked up. "A charm, you say?"

"It is likely nothing you're familiar with," Severus told him. Before Flitwick could take offence, Severus added, "It was something Dumbledore told me about. Something … something Grindelwald had invented."

Worried murmurs burbled through the group. Severus ignored them.

"He called it the Invertere."

"What does it do?" Minerva asked.

"I …" Severus hesitated, eyes darting around at his puzzled colleagues.

Minerva peered at him for a moment, then said, "Would you all please excuse us? Perhaps the heads could go inform the prefects that dinner will be served in the house common rooms this evening. The rest of you may have dinner in the staff room or your quarters, as you prefer. Don't wait for Severus or me. We'll reconvene at nine in my office to assess any developments."

Once the rest of the staff had gone, Minerva waved her wand, and a pair of straight-backed chairs appeared. She gestured for Severus to sit.

"Now tell me," she said, taking the seat across from him.

"The Invertere creates a sort of inverted dimension. It mirrors this one, but the only people in it are the ones upon whom the charm is cast. What happens there doesn't affect this dimension. It's a liminal space. I have reason to believe the students may have been affected by this charm."

She stayed quiet, looking at him. He couldn't read her face, and he forced himself to continue.

"On the night of the battle, I cast the charm on the Room of Requirement. The spell would only activate if two circumstances arose. One, someone with a Dark Mark would have to enter the Room. Two, an Unforgivable Curse would need to be cast."

"Why? Why would you do this?"

"It was a last attempt at protecting at least some of the students should Riddle's forces overrun Hogwarts. I hoped Longbottom and the others would think to seek shelter here. If a Death Eater somehow managed to enter the Room and attack, the charm would activate, effectively sequestering anyone in the Room from the rest of the castle. Of course, it would leave the problem of the Death Eater, but I hoped there would be enough students to take care of him or her in the liminal space."

"But how could it have activated now?"

"I overheard Higgs talking about the Room as a place to practice Quidditch drills, since Ravenclaw had the pitch booked for the day before the match. It made me wonder if it might be a suitable space for a duelling club to meet — perhaps it could provide a bit of extra safety over an ordinary classroom. So a few days ago, I went in to test it out. I … I must have triggered the charm's first condition."

He put a hand over his left forearm, his shame burning as painfully as the Mark itself ever had.

"I see. And you cast an Unforgivable."

He jumped out of the chair, knocking it over.

"No! I will never cast another Unforgivable!"

"Severus, I—"

"I would die first."

He couldn't bear the idea that Minerva might think he was covertly practising Dark magic or reliving the decidedly non-glory days when Unforgivables were on the menu of things that might be required of him.

The room vibrated with quiet tension as they stared at one another. She was calm, however, regarding him without any sign of rancour or recrimination. Slowly, Severus leaned over and righted the chair. After another moment, he sat.

He looked down at his sleeve, grabbing it once again, covering the ugly evidence of wickedness etched on his flesh, faded now, but still there to remind him of what he had been.

Minerva's gentle hand on top of his surprised him, and he looked up to meet her gaze.

"I'm sorry, Severus. I didn't mean to imply anything. I'm just trying to figure out what might have happened."

Severus swallowed.

"It is possible the students were using this Room," he said. "Longbottom mentioned he had broken up a somewhat raucous party last weekend and warned the students that he'd put a watch on the Gryffindor common room to make sure there were no repeats. We know from Higgs that the Gryffindors knew about the Room."

The gears in Minerva's mind were clearly whirling. "You think they came to the Room for an illicit party?"

"It's possible, yes."

"But the Unforgivable? I don't think—"

"Because they're Gryffindors?"

"Don't be stupid. It's just that I hate to think of any of our students casting something like that. After we've tried so hard to foster more kindness at Hogwarts." She sighed. "But I must admit, it's possible. We've had incidents."

Sitting back in her chair, she asked, "What made you think of the charm now?"

"What Septima said about vanishing into the floorboards. It triggered something in my memory. It sounds daft, but I'd forgotten about it until just then. Gods!" he said, standing again and whipping to and fro on legs that felt like rubber. "How could I have been so bloody stupid!"

Minerva stood but let him pace out his agitation.

"It's understandable," she said. "That night, everything happened so quickly, and Merlin knows you had enough else to worry about."

"Maybe, but afterwards? How could I have forgotten to remove the charm?"

Severus had long ago resigned himself to being ugly, vicious, spiteful, and foolish, but careless? Stupid, even? He sank back down in the chair and put his head in his hands.

"I seem to recall there was a bit of a do with a giant snake almost ripping out your throat," Minerva said. "It was several weeks before you regained full consciousness. It's hardly surprising if you didn't remember much of that night."

He looked at her, incredulous. "You … you're not angry?"

"Of course not. You were doing your best to protect the students at an impossible time and under incredible constraints."

She dropped back into her chair with a weary sigh. "But Severus, please tell me there's a way to reverse the charm and get them back."

"Of course there is. I set the counter-charm to trigger one year after my death."

Minerva blanched. "You don't mean you have to die for them to be released?"

"No such luck, Headmistress," he said, feeling the first smile cross his lips in hours. "That was just a failsafe in the highly likely event that Potter failed to do his job. I thought after a year, no one would be looking for anyone who might be hidden here, and they might have at least a slim chance to escape unnoticed."

"Assuming you weren't around to release them."

"That was a given. It isn't my fault some interfering witches wouldn't let dead Death Eaters lie."

This was the first reference either of them had made to the fact that Minerva, led by Know-It-All Granger, had been the one to look for his body in the Shrieking Shack. She'd been surprised to find not a corpse at all but a former headmaster in the process of bleeding out. Some quick wand work, not to mention several phials of the antivenin made from Arthur Weasley's blood Madam Pomfrey had been wise enough to stock in the Hogwarts infirmary, had saved Severus's life, such as it was.

"So, how do we get them back?" Minerva asked.

Severus stood, pulling his wand from its holster.

"Like this."

He closed his eyes and chanted the incantation Dumbledore had taught him.

No fewer than thirteen gauzy-looking Gryffindors floated up through the floor, feet first, robes hanging comically around their heads, then slowly righted themselves as they melted into more corporeal being.

They stood around blinking in confusion before Spencer Higgs said, "Bloody hell!"

His rather apt exclamation set the rest of them off, and they babbled incoherently amongst themselves until someone noticed the headmistress and Professor Snape standing there watching with similar amused smiles on their faces.

"Welcome back," Minerva said.

"Wha—" a petite girl with only one shoe said.

"We didn't go anywhere," Higgs said. "We've been here in this Room for hours."

"Almost twenty-four hours, to be precise," Minerva said.

"We tried and tried to get out, but the Room wouldn't let us," said a dishevelled-looking girl Severus recognised as the sixth-year Gryffindor prefect.

"Which leads us to the question of what you were doing in the Room of Requirement in the first place." Minerva said.

"Um … we …" Jeremy Bekins, a seventh-year, was stalling while he tried to come up with a plausible lie. The boy wisely shut up when he realised he was holding a nearly empty bottle of Ogden's cheapest Firewhisky in his left hand.

Several of the others fidgeted uncomfortably, a few trying to refasten their ties or tuck in rumpled blouses.

"As I thought," Minerva said crisply. "Did the Room feed you?"

"Yes, Headmistress," the prefect said.

"Very well. If no one is injured or unwell, you may go to your dormitories. I will see you all in my office at nine tomorrow morning to discuss your … adventure and its consequences."

After the students had shuffled out, Minerva cocked an eyebrow at Severus.

"Well, they seem none the worse for wear," she said.

"Indeed."

"Shall we go? It isn't Friday, but I'm inviting myself to your quarters for a dram of that twelve-year Balvenie. After the day we've had, we deserve it."

"What about the day the rest of the staff have had?"

"I'll send a message to the staff room to let them know the children are safe and accounted for. After that, the staff can get their own bloody whisky."

~~~

The ended up in bed together.

Let's get that out of the way right off the bat. (That is what you've been dying to read about, isn't it?)

Here's how it happened:

After the charmed-but-not-charming Gryffindors' reappearance, Severus and Minerva did indeed repair to his rooms for a drink. The drink turned into two.

They sat in front of his fireplace, the anxiety of the day draining away with the whisky. Minerva's eyes were closed. She wasn't quite sleeping, Severus knew, just basking in the fire's warmth and the contentment of a job, if not exactly well done, then at least done.

Her feline alter-ego was in clear view that evening, and Severus had the momentary urge to reach over and pet her. Instead, he took the opportunity to observe her.

He'd seen pictures and knew that she never had been a great beauty, but age and experience had honed her into a woman worth observing. Not that Severus divided women into categories based on their appearances — that would have been highly hypocritical of him — but he found he did enjoy looking at Minerva McGonagall.

Shallow lines pleated her forehead, signs of the care she'd borne over decades of teaching school and, not incidentally, fighting two wars. Crinkles framed her eyes, but a smattering of russet freckles dusted her nose, hinting at the girl she once had been, no doubt an outdoorsy type, clambering around the hills of her girlhood Caithness. Scotland's weather, congenial to the skin if not the spirit, had protected her complexion, which was pale and fine despite the wrinkles that spidered it. Salt and pepper contended equally in her hair, which looked soft and shone in the flickering firelight.

An urge moved through him to reach over and release that hair from its tight bun, let it flow in waves through his fingers.

He shook his head to clear it, and her eyes opened.

"Sorry," she said. "I must have nodded off."

"It's all right. It's been a long day."

"It has. I suppose I'd best be off to my bed."

"Or you could come to mine."

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't really meant to think it, but suddenly, it was there. Must have been there all along. Fuck. Well. Yes. That was just it. He wanted to fuck Minerva McGonagall.

Now, in case you were wondering, Severus had not been celibate during the years after his indentured servitude had ended. There had been women — witches and a few Muggles — but never more than a few gos with any one of them. He'd been surprised to find he had a healthy libido, once he'd recovered from Nagini's bite and all that had preceded it. But that libido had not been matched by an appetite for what others tended to think of as "relationships", so he'd kept things casual and occasional.

He'd now passed his fiftieth birthday, and his libido had waned somewhat, a natural development, he thought, if a bit unfair. His youth hadn't been of a type to allow for much — or, let's be honest, any — partnered sexual exploration, and he felt cheated. He'd only had a few years of putting it about before the effort had started seeming greater than the payoff, and he'd begun to settle for a bi-weekly wank rather than going to the downscale pubs at which he used to meet the likeliest women. Which was to say witches who were excited at the prospect of pulling a certified (former) bad boy with a safe pardon from the MoM, or, if he were weary of them, Muggles attracted by his blasé attitude and seemingly bottomless supply of high-end fags.

And now Minerva.

After all this bloody time, he wanted — he fucking desired — this witch he'd known nearly all his life. This witch who was old enough to be his mother. This witch who knew almost every awful thing about him and still seemed to like him. To actually enjoy his company.

This witch who …

You get the picture.

But enough about Severus' sexual history and state of mind. Back to the scene at hand.

After Severus's unfortunate slip of the tongue, Minerva sat there blinking at him.

Finally, she said, "That is a very interesting proposition."

Severus's brain stalled out.

"I … you … what?"

"That's one of the many things I like about you, Severus, your way with words."

He closed his mouth, which he suspected had been gawping open like a dim-witted troll's.

She waited patiently for him to gather what was left of his wits. "Were you serious?" she asked.

"Yes, actually." He tried not to sound too fussed about it one way or the other.

"Good. I only ask because I want to be sure before I do this." She shifted over on the sofa, took his face in her hands, and kissed him.

It took him a moment to convince himself it was really happening before he kissed back.

Her lips parted slightly under his, and he slipped his tongue between them. (That was what he was supposed to do, right? His mind wasn't quite working up to its usual high standard.)

She did him one better and ran her tongue across the inside of his lower lip, reminding him that she had years more experience than he did and had likely been kissing and fucking assorted lucky sods since before he was born.

He was gasping for air — or maybe just gasping — when she broke the kiss and sat back.

"This is probably a bad idea in many respects," she said, "not least of which is that I am, at least temporarily, your boss. So if you want to drop this, please know that there will be no hard feelings. We can chalk it up to a very bad day and some very good liquor and say no more about it, if you prefer."

Did he prefer? he asked himself. Did he want to get out of this evening with his questionable dignity intact, or did he want to risk everything he was enjoying about this weird sojourn in his former stomping (and cursing) grounds by taking the Erumpent by the horn and … er … plunging in?

Fuck it all.

He lunged forward and put his arms around her properly this time, kissing her for all he was worth, which wasn't much, truth to tell, but she didn't seem to care. She made a satisfied humming noise as they kissed, and stroked the back of his head.

Again, though, she was the one who broke away. "And also know that I won't expect anything more than this," she said, slightly breathless.

"Minerva?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up and come into the bedroom."

For once, she did as she was told.

~~~

Reader, if you want the gory details, you're not going to get them here.

Not many of them anyway.

I will tell you this: the sex was good. Not great, not earth-changing, but as good as any first-time sex between two middle-aged secondary-school teachers was likely to be.

Severus's cock got hard enough, and Minerva got wet enough, eventually, and an enjoyable time was had by all. Paunches and sags were duly ignored, and skin sallow and skin pale was stroked and appreciated. It took him almost ten minutes to come, and he had to use his fingers to finish her off, but each was of an age to be realistic enough about sex to know that it rarely is like it is in romance novels. It was messy, and occasionally embarrassing, and altogether intoxicating, as it should be.

And the aftermath, you ask?

It was fine.

Better than fine, in fact.

If you were expecting some big expression of undying love or, more likely, with Snape involved, a big dramatic blowup born of self-loathing, you will be disappointed.

They kept sleeping with one another, and getting better at it, until the end of term.

Severus did get antsy and snappish as the summer holidays approached, and it was not all down to preparing his students for N.E.W.T.s. He feared the end of his teaching contract would mean the end of shagging Minerva McGonagall, and he was not prepared to give it up without a fight.

On the final day of exams, he marched into Minerva's office and slapped a parchment down on her desk.

"What is this?" she asked, ignoring his lack of social or professional niceties.

"This," he said, "is a proposal."

At her raised eyebrow, he said, "No, not that kind of proposal. It's an educational proposal."

She looked at him warily, then put her glasses on to read the document.

When she'd finished, she looked back up at him. "You want to continue teaching," she said.

"I do." Really, if Minerva was going to turn slow-witted on him, he might have to reconsider this whole thing, he thought.

"You are proposing a class in the ethics of magic," she said, not reassuring him of the state of her previously estimable wits.

"Yes. Past time, I say," he said.

"And you are the person to teach it?"

"Obviously. I'm the only one on staff who's actually used magic unethically and experienced the repercussions, so I know what I'm talking about."

"You have me there." She removed her glasses. "As it happens, Severus, I did want to speak to you. I hesitated to say anything, as I didn't want you to think I was presuming on our personal arrangement, but I'm in a position to offer you the Defence position on a permanent basis."

His small heart grew three sizes. (Or was that the Grinch's heart? Well, Severus bore no small resemblance to that magnificent Suessian creature. Anyway, Snape's heart did something of note at Minerva's words.)

"Oh?" he said.

"Professor Bunbury has discovered the joys of not carrying a full teaching load and wrangling a group of magical adolescents in a draughty, ghost-and-poltergeist infested castle in the Scottish Highlands and has tendered his resignation."

"And you want me to take his place."

"I will admit, I hoped you would." Her lips curved in a sly smile. "If begging would sweeten the proposition, I'll consider it."

Severus refrained from smirking.

"Is that sexual innuendo?" he asked.

"Merlin, no. Would you like it to be?"

"We can discuss it later." He tapped the parchment on her desk with his index finger. "What about my proposal?"

"The ethics of magic."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"We could weave it into the Defence curriculum."

"Trying to get me to teach two courses for the price of one?"

"Not at all. I think we could drop the Defence class unit on magical pests in favour of ethics. If the students can't learn to use a can of doxycide without explicit instruction by the time they leave Hogwarts, I fear we have more to worry about than the rise of a new Dark Lord."

~~~

And that is the story of how Severus Snape returned to Hogwarts, rescued a bunch of drunken Gryffindors from his own charm, shagged Minerva McGonagall, and rejoined the permanent staff.

The Board of Governors was informed (of their professional arrangement, not their personal one), the contract signed, and thus, a new generation of students was primed to enjoy the benefits of Professor Snape's tutelage. (Minerva, of course, enjoyed an entirely separate set of benefits.)

Oh, and love?

I'd have thought you'd figured it out by now. Severus had been in love with Minerva almost since the first week he'd moved back into the castle.

Although, to be fair, Severus didn't have his big revelation until midway through the summer holidays, which he, Minerva, Filius, and Neville spent reinforcing the protective charms that had begun to fail more than a decade after the war. The Dark magic that had infested the castle during the Riddle year was more lingering than anyone thought. Severus wondered how no one else had noticed it, but then again, he supposed, he had more practical experience of Dark magic than anyone else on staff.

Minerva had been clearing some of the residual curse magic from one of the staircases when a piece of mortar fell and hit her squarely on the head.

The week Severus had spent by her bedside in the hospital wing was the most anxious he'd experienced since he'd learned Riddle had targeted Lily Potter and her family.

When Minerva finally woke, he looked at her, with her partially shaved head and the ghastly purple bruising down one side of her cheek, and realised this was the face he wanted to look at for the rest of his life.

Or at least, for as long as human biology would allow.

In the natural course of things, he would have to live some time without her, a fact which she, in her admirably pragmatic way, brought up when he told her of his desire to dwell all his days in her company. (Yes, Reader, in a fit of relief at her newly regained consciousness, he had actually used the phrase "all my days".)

"I am twenty-five years older than you, Severus. 'All your days' might be stretching it."

"Given the things I did to my body when I was younger and even more foolish than I am now, it's likely to be close enough. Now, when are you going to take some Hair-Grow?"

They didn't marry, they made no announcements — being, in the main clever clogs, the staff twigged to things soon enough (that's another story), though the students remained blissfully oblivious — and Severus didn't move into the head's apartments with her. They simply carried on their partnerships, professional and personal. It went on for quite a few years, teaching dunderheads (him), running the school (her), and enjoying their love affair (both) and avoiding further wars (ibid.)

They laughed, they cried, they fought, they fucked, they aged. Together, mostly, until, as Minerva had predicted, she died. He mourned and lived another fifteen years until he, too, passed away. Whether they met again beyond the Veil is not for me to tell.

And so, Gentle Reader, I now draw a curtain across the tale of Severus Snape and the Unbelievable Postwar Outcome. As you've seen, it was a perfectly normal love story about two perfectly normal people, except that they were also mages and teachers who fought in a couple of wars and who also had tried to kill one another some years previously.

As I told you at the start, a tale with nothing whatever to recommend it. You were warned.