Severus Snape would certainly admit -- willingly, even -- that he greatly admired Albus Dumbledore, current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He would even say he respected him, if he was pressed to. But if the inquirer believed that the Potions Master was only saying these words to save his own skin, they would be sorely mistaken. Severus Snape never resorted to such petty measures to wriggle his way out of an uncomfortable mess. He’d be the person who would look his accusers in the eye and force his way, unharmed, out of the mess.
Snape had never quite met a man like Dumbledore before in his life. Of course, not many people could say they ever had met a man like Dumbledore in their lives, for few men resembled him in any aspect. Snape remembered attending Hogwarts as a student himself, and remembered the classes he had taken with the old Transfiguration Master. Transfiguration had been one of his weaker subjects, but Dumbledore had never given up on him, instead constantly encouraging him to do well in the few parts of the subject he generally enjoyed. Snape had been genuinely astonished that he had passed his exams in the subject at all, even now, when he was a teacher there himself.
Of course, he hadn’t been prepared at all for Dumbledore to ask him to fulfil a certain task he wished him to do, a task that had affected him for the rest of his years as a person. He had been six months into his position as Potions Master (admittedly, not the subject he would have chosen to teach), when Dumbledore had called him to his office. Snape, young and completely unaware of what was to be asked of him, obediently went quickly to the office.
He had stiffened when he had seen the serious light in Dumbledore’s eyes and the grave expression on his face, and had instantly known something very important was to be discussed. Pressing his lips together tightly, Snape had sat down, refused the offer of tea and awaited whatever task was to be presented before him.
To say he was surprised at Dumbledore’s following words was a severe understatement, as good as calling a hurricane a breeze. He had known that the majority of his old friends had gone on to become Death Eaters, but for some reason Snape had completely bypassed that offer concerning himself, perhaps by Dumbledore practically snatching him up for teaching the moment he had graduated from Hogworts. Even now, he suspected that had been done deliberately and was secretly glad.
He knew himself that it would have been incredibly easy for him to blend back into the Old Crowd and become a Death Eater, while all the time being a spy for Dumbledore. He knew he was a good actor when he put his mind to it, but was he could enough to lie against the Dark Lord? That was Dumbledore’s main worry, but Snape had also known that the Headmaster wouldn’t have even broached the idea with him unless he had been sure he would have been able to pull it off.
At that moment Snape’s respect for Dumbledore had been at its highest and perhaps it had been that and his loyalty for the man, that had let him agree to the task. Of course, at that time neither of them had known the masquerade would go on for so long... but both had known that Snape would be found out eventually. Which had finally happened at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, over eight years ago now.
They had been frightfully aware that Snape could have been killed at anytime now that Voldemort had discovered him as the traitor he always had been.
Neither of them had expected to be wrong.
Somehow Snape had lived, survived the war and was still the goddamn Potions Master. How Dumbledore had come up with the vast amount of Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers to keep him where he was, Snape would never know. Just because he respected Dumbledore, didn’t mean he didn’t loath him at times as well.
Every time he stepped into Dumbledore’s office, Snape was reminded of two major events that had happened here, one of which happened quite regularly. The first had been when Dumbledore had asked him to become his spy, quite a long time ago now, but such a vivid memory had left its mark in his mind. The other event, however, was remembered only for its unpleasantness and its regularity.
Every summer, Dumbledore called him into his office and every summer it was the same conversation, over and over again, which mainly consisted of Dumbledore gently explaining why he had missed out on the Defence Against the Dark Arts job again and Snape, usually speechless with bitterness and rage, and usually having the beginnings of a hatred against whoever had beaten him to the job.
Snape was not in a good mood when he opened the door of Dumbledore’s office in late June, already certain of why he was here. Once again, he had lost his desired teaching position and once again, he would hate whoever had beaten him to it. He wondered to himself why he still kept applying for it, when he was always refused. Stubbornness, perhaps. At least Dumbledore hadn’t demanded he stop applying. Yet.
Dumbledore looked up as he softly shut the door behind him, his half-moon glasses reflecting the candlelight with a soft glow. “Ah, Severus,” he greeted the younger man. “Good of you to join me. Sit down.” He indicated the chair before his desk, which Snape obediently sank into. “Tea?” the Headmaster offered, already expecting the Potions teacher to decline, as he always did. But Snape, perhaps to break tradition for once, nodded silently. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow slightly, but nevertheless poured him a cup, which Snape accepted with a quick word of thanks.
They sat in silence for several passing moments, both sipping their tea politely with Dumbledore slyly regarding Snape over the rim of his teacup. It was Snape who broke the silence, balancing his cup on his lap, looking Dumbledore straight in the eye and saying bluntly, “I imagine I am here for our usual conversation?” Dumbledore nodded in reply, his eyes never leaving Snape’s tightened face.
Snape pressed his lips together, and began the motions to rise. “In that case, Headmaster, I do not wish to know any more. I will learn our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher’s name along with the rest of the staff.” He made to quickly drain the rest of his cup, to be polite, but stopped when Dumbledore raised a hand, his face solemn.
“Severus, I ask of you, as a friend to a friend, please sit down and let me speak. For our conversation this year is to be different, due to the fact that it indirectly concerns you.” Snape, his eyebrows near the top of his brow, froze and sank back into his seat, confusion spread across his pale face. “I would advise you to add in sugar to that tea,” Dumbledore added, glancing at his cup. “You may need it when we are finished.” Severus’ confusion proceeded to increase.
“Who is the teacher this year?” Severus asked, carefully, aware that there was a chance he probably didn’t want to know. His grip unconsciously tightened on the handle of his teacup.
Dumbledore’s expression grew unusually grave, and for a moment Snape allowed himself to fear that Gilderoy Lockhart was returning, although the idea was clearly preposterous. The man still had a quarter of his memory to find, even after losing it ten years ago. But his fears were only partially eased when Dumbledore answered quietly, “A past student.”
There were hundreds of past students and that was the problem, Snape thought irritably. How was he to narrow it to one? Hermione Granger was the most obvious choice, she certainly had the mind for it, but Snape inwardly pitied the students if it was her. She’d run them to the ground.
However, now that he thought about it, there was one more obvious choice... a very obvious choice and he inwardly kicked himself for not realising it sooner. There was one past student who had quite an extensive knowledge of Defence Against the Dark Arts and who would be the perfect choice. But his throat grew dry at the prospect of having to have, at least, a civil working relationship with him, and Snape absently gulped down half of the cup, scalding his tongue and throat in the process and not even noticing, watching Dumbledore with eyes that begged to be proved wrong.
Dumbledore slowly shook his head and Snape felt an uneasy shiver crawl down his spine.
“No,” he croaked hoarsely, shaking his head slightly and repeatedly, his hair swinging along with the motion. “It can’t be, it can’t possibly be Potter.” But Dumbledore nodded his head and Snape felt his throat tighten and gulped hard, thinking, Oh no.
“I am sorry Severus,” Dumbledore said, his eyes piercing into the man’s shuddering form. “But the other staff, and I, think it would be a chance for us to keep an eye on him, since the war. He didn’t exactly get through it unscathed --”
“No one did!” Snape growled quietly, his obsidian eyes sparking with inward fury. “And you know perfectly well that Potter is more than capable of looking after himself! He needs no watching, he isn’t a boy anymore!” God, I know that very well... damn you, Dumbledore, how can you do this to me?!
“Severus,” Dumbledore told him sternly and Snape fell silently at the warning tones in the man’s voice, but his lips were taunt. “All I ask is that you keep a courteous relationship of colleagues with him and do not succumb to any deep desires to do something to him.” The ambiguous statement took a few moments to fully sink into Snape.
The Potions Master grumbled, finished his tea and placed the cup back onto the tray before the full implications of Dumbledore’s words struck him. He choked, gripped his chair in white-knuckled hands and gawked at his superior, completely and utterly flabbergasted. Dumbledore serenely took a sip of tea, but his eyes were piercing through the man as he struggled to regain composure and finally gave up on it.
“You knew!” Snape gasped at him, now shaking in earnest, his composure in pieces. There were few times Snape ever fell to pieces like this and those few times had only ever been witnessed Dumbledore, who never commented on them afterwards. “You knew all this time, didn’t you?!” Dumbledore nodded in a frank reply. Snape was unable to answer, instead emitting strangled sounds from his throat.
“Why... why didn’t you ever... intervene?” Snape managed to croak out after a few minutes.
Dumbledore, as calm as ever, replied, “And what could I do? Neither of you would have probably taken any advice or orders I would have given and I had no particular desire to expel him or sack you.”
Snape burrowed his face in his hands and muttered, his voice muffled, “Who else knows?”
“No one else.” Snape breathed a sigh of relief, slowly raising his face. Dumbledore gave no reaction to the two crimson spots of colour on Snape’s usually white cheeks. “But what are you to do now, Severus?”
The younger man shrugged in response. “What can I do? Harry and I haven’t been in contact since the war ended. I doubt we’ve ever even met. Our... we could be completely finished for all I know.” He noted that Dumbledore made no response to this, but the Headmaster’s lips twisted into a frown that could have meant anything. Snape cleared his throat, hurriedly composing himself once more and said, “What would you wish me to do now ?”
“For the time being?” Snape nodded. “Simply try and refrain from strangling him, Severus,” was the dry reply. “Among other things.”
Dumbledore was surprised inwardly when a grim smile twisted Snape’s lips, making him appear older than he was. “That is one thing I can do, Headmaster. Of course... it would appear I have no choice in the matter anyway.”
He abruptly rose from the chair, their discussion finished, turned and exited the office without another word.
* * *
I sighed, my eyes opening seemingly of their own accord. My awakening was not the panicked jerk that came from the experience of nightmares, nor was it the gradual, annoying waking from dreams. One moment I was in the darkness of sleep, the next my eyes were open, peering at the shadows lurking in my bedroom. It happened hardly in the blink of an eye, but it did not surprise me. The war had changed my sleeping habits so that I had been able to become fully awake in mere seconds.
A repercussion of this was that I hadn’t got a good night’s sleep in years. The war was over now, Voldemort was finally, truly dead, but the deep-set habits were hard to change. Even now, lying in my bed, staring up at the ceiling with emotionless eyes, dark from the skulking shadows, I fully expected to hear the urgent whispers, the low hisses, hurried footsteps and the muttering from people arousing themselves from unnatural sleep...
...and faintly, so faintly, I also expected to hear the sounds from above ground, where the war raged continually, night and day. The screams and shrieks of people as they were instantly killed. The agonising moans of those tortured to death. The explosions, the mirthless laughter bordering on hysteria, the insane joy. The decay. The blood. The death.
I could still see it in my mind. Every last image. And I could still hear it in my mind. Every final sound. Everything. It haunted me, for every second, of every day, of every year that still passed by.
Maybe there was another reason I couldn’t sleep peacefully. I blamed myself for every innocent death that had resulted from that terrible, horrible war. I hated the nightmares. What a laugh. Twenty-two and still having nightmares.
But no one was laughing.
There had been severe casualties in the war, both good and bad. People I had gone to school with lay in their graves now, hell, even one of my teachers from Hogworts was dead. It was hard, remembering faces and knowing I would never see them again or talk to them again.
I was lost in memories, going through all those I had known and were now gone, when I finally heard the persistent tapping against my window. Sitting up cautiously, putting on my glasses as I went, I peered at the window and, relief flooding through me, could see the shape of an owl against the darkened glass. Hurrying out of bed, I crossed to the window and quickly opened it.
I recognised the tawny owl immediately; it belonged to Hogwarts. I frowned, my fingers untying the knots nimbly and quickly, wondering why my old school was contacting me now, five years after my graduation. I looked down at the envelope, realising the curving script as the one that had greeted me on envelopes every August. My frown deepened as I unfolded the parchment with calm fingers, the direct opposite of my rapidly-beating heart. The war had made me an expert at hiding my emotions, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. I scanned the parchment rapidly, the words flying through my mind.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are glad to inform you of our decision to contact you, offering...
It took three times for the words to finally sink into my mind and their meaning to hammer into me, and I gasped, the parchment falling from my fingers to flutter to the floor. Fine tremors running through my body, I felt myself slide to the floor to lean against the cold wall, staring blankly at the opposite one, unable to believe what I had just read and how it could be true. It just couldn’t be true. They couldn’t have lost their minds that much... could they?
Impatient sounds from the school owl managed to get through my astonished thoughts and I suddenly realised what he wanted. Absently waving my hand in the general direction of Hedwig’s cage, I didn’t even notice as the owl fluttered over to the cage and helped himself to water. My thoughts began to shift to what I was supposed to do now. Could I really accept that? Could I really go back there, but not as a student anymore? I bit my lip and winced at the sudden pain. That wasn’t helping my thoughts in the least.
The arrival of a second owl almost unnerved me, but I gathered my wits at the last moment, thinking it was Hedwig. It wasn’t. It took me a few moments to recognise Ron’s owl, a fawn coloured one that he used when he sent letters from work. Pig was used entirely for home-written letters. He liked the whole point of it, I suppose. I still only used Hedwig and only her.
I hurriedly untied the letter from her leg and directed her to Hedwig’s cage, realising, with a grimace, that my owl was going to be furious when she discovered the unknown intrusion to her food and water. Although, this would teach her to be off hunting for so long in the future in the long run. Opening the envelope, I chuckled softly when I read the letter.
Harry!
I just found out from Dad that Dumbledore’s offered you the teaching position! Dad told me around the same time Dumbledore sent off the owl, so I started writing this straight away. Work can wait. I was hoping this would reach you before the school owl, but nothing seems to be able to beat them. Although, now that I think about it, maybe it’s better you got the school owl first. You’d probably think I was leading you on, or something.Are you going to take it? I bet you’re really hesitant about it, aren’t you? Going back to school and everything... you know, it’s only now I’m realising it must have been hard for all those people like Lupin, or, God forbid, even Snape, to teach at the place they went to school. It’d be completely different from being a student there.
Don’t tell anyone I said this (according to Dad it’s confidential information, or so he says), but Dumbledore’s really hard-pressed to find someone for the Defence Against the Dark Arts position. Apparently no one wants to take it after the war. Everyone just wants to forget about the Dark Arts now that You-Know-W -- I mean, Voldemort, can’t get used to saying his name now -- is finally defeated. Everyone’s forgetting that not all Dark Wizards were in league with him. They’re still out there and they’re probably learning from Voldemort’s mess. Just thought I should let you know... yeah, that was a hint by the way.
I better stop this now; it’s way longer than I thought it’d be and the boss is starting to give me the Evil-Eye. He does it even better than Snape did, if that’s even possible! You better send me an owl and tell me what you decide to do!
-- Ron
Ron’s words both cheered me up and yet unsettled me. It was good to hear from him again; now that Ron, Hermione and I were working at our respective careers, we found time to meet up less and less, but frequently sent owls to each other -- a letter had, as of yet, not failed to have been delivered. But what he told me about Dumbeldore’s difficulty in finding a teacher for the Defence Against the Dart Arts... it didn’t surprise me.
The belief about it being jinxed had disappeared after one teacher had survived it for a year and half, but it was blatantly obvious no one would want it after the war. It also didn’t surprise me that everyone wanted to forget there were any Dark Arts at all -- everyone just wanted to be safe finally. But Ron was right; there were other Dark Wizards and Witches out there, that hadn’t been in league with Voldemort. And they had most likely learned from his many mistakes.
And those kids needed someone to teach them the same defence I had learned against everything that had come my way. And really, who better to teach them then me?
With a resigned sigh, I rummaged for a quill, parchment and ink. I had three letters to write and very little time to write them. One to Hogwarts telling them my decision to their query; the other two to my friends telling them my answers to that decision. There was a lot to do.
As I wrote the replies, I suddenly wondered how Snape had reacted to the news that I had been offered the job he had sought for years. I imagined that Snape hadn’t been very pleased any year he had learned someone else had yet again succeeded where he had failed... but to learn one of his own recent students, in particular, a student he had heavily disliked, had succeeded in beating him to the teaching position, would probably be stinging salt rubbed viciously into a raw wound. Snape would be positively vicious to me when I reached Hogwarts.
I turned to get dressed, knowing sleep would most definitely not be coming to me tonight, and tried to ignore the sharp pang in my chest now that Snape had entered my thoughts.
