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“Really, Professor-”
“I’m no longer your professor, girl.”
“And I’m no longer a girl.”
“The alternative forms of address would be seen as insulting, no? To insult a great war heroine…”
“...Granger is fine.”
“Hmph.”
“And what shall I call you?”
“‘Goodbye.’”
“I’m entitled to half an hour of your time, Professor, before the guards outside the door cart you back to your cell. I know you don’t want to speak with me, and I am sorry, but I’m also trying to make this…relatively painless.”
“Just…call me Snape.”
“Thank you, Snape. And what did you mean when you responded to the Wizengamot - and I quote - “I have no intention of participating in the bumbling farce of a trial you’ve scheduled?””
“I should think it would be obvious.”
“Pr…Snape. Surely you didn’t think they would accept such an answer.”
“It hardly matters, does it? My crimes are widely known. The Wizengamot, in its great…wisdom, stuck me in Azkaban, after all. I’ve no desire to be dragged out, paraded about, made a mockery of, and shoved back in here - repeatedly - for the purposes of condemning me to a sentence that’s already been decided. …Granger, what is this?”
“It’s a written agreement from the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Lead Auror in charge of your case. If you agree to cooperate, you will be remanded to my custody until your trial.”
“And why in Merlin’s name would I want that?”
“My home has heat and whisky. My cooking is not the best, but I have a kitchen-”
“Hand me the bloody paper, Granger. And a quill, unless I’m expected to prick my finger and sign in blood. There. On your head be this farce. And I expect full custody of that whisky.”
“It has your name on it, Snape.”
Granger hadn’t been joking. Sitting in the centre of the kitchen table in her painfully middle-class home was an unopened bottle of Muggle whisky. A small square of some kind of adhesive paper stuck to one side, with Snape written in her prim hand.
“I’ll get you a glass, Snape,” Granger said, putting a hand on his back to move him out of the doorway so she could squeeze past. It was only years of Occlumency that kept him from flinching.
She brought out two glasses, but denied him the rant he’d been crafting by pouring some cheap wine into her own and ignoring his whiskey.
“To freedom,” she said, tapping the rim of her glass against his before taking a sip.
Severus drank his liquor in silence.
“Hermione? Hermione - over here, my girl!”
“There you are, Professor.”
“Tsk.”
“...Minerva. Sorry.”
“Ach, come along. Filius can keep an eye on these ruffians. Now. What did you want to talk about?”
“It’s about Snape, actually.”
“Mmm…yes, I heard you had custody of him until his trial.”
“That’s correct.”
“And he’s been treating you well?”
“As well as can be expected. He’s grouchy, but he’s still recovering.”
“I see. And how can I help you?”
“I have two questions, really. First, would it be possible to collect some things for him? He was sent right from St. Mungo’s to Azkaban, and from there to my place. He hasn’t got his wand, and he gets all snippy when I have to transfigure underthings for him.”
“Hah! I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Severus is still the headmaster, as far as the castle is concerned; no one can access his office or his quarters.”
“The headmaster? But I thought you and the other teachers threw him out?”
“We attacked him, yes, but he retreated of his own accord.”
“…Like Professor Dumbledore did, during the mess with Umbridge.”
“Quite. There is little to be done…unless he wishes to return himself.”
“Would that be safe?”
“Well. I will not lie to you, Hermione, it would be difficult for many of us. The things the Carrows did…the things he allowed…I am aware that it could have been so much worse, but last year he became the face of evil. Many of the students were more afraid of him than of Riddle himself: after all, Severus was the one enforcing Tom’s will here.”
“Was he? I heard-”
“Yes, yes, he was advocating for us behind our backs, running damage control on the Carrows. I’ve heard the same. I certainly didn’t see any of that.”
“I’m sorry, Minerva. I wasn’t around last year, and I don’t mean to make light of what happened here…what he did.”
“Yes…well. Time will heal, I’m sure. I am glad he’s staying with you, dear; I doubt he would get a very warm reception anywhere else. Now, about his office. Would you be able to bring him ‘round on Wednesday evening? The restoration teams will be kipping off early - some sort of celebration at the Hog’s Head.”
“Of course.”
“And what was the other item you wished to address with me?”
“Well…Snape’s got his trial coming up, you see. It’s probably rather impolitic for me to ask, but do you know anyone who would be willing to testify on his behalf?”
“…Bring him by on Wednesday and we shall see.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
Severus stood at the bottom of the spiral staircase, trying to will his feet to move. Memories overlapped somewhere behind his eyeballs.
He was a student, being called to the Headmaster’s Office for fighting in the halls again.
He was a new teacher, waiting to be scolded for being too harsh with the pupils.
He was Dumbledore’s thrall, reporting the events of yet another Death Eater soiree.
He was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, ready to cast yet more charms on Dumbledore’s hand, trying to buy them just a little more time.
He was Voldemort’s puppet Headmaster, returning to the one place where someone knew his true loyalties.
So many times he’d approached this room. Dread gripped him, twisted his stomach. He should never have agreed to come.
“Snape?”
Severus turned to look at Granger, wringing her hands at his elbow. “What?”
“Are you…alright?”
What could he say? He wasn’t, but he couldn't tell her that. Still, her intervention dispelled his lingering ghosts…for a time. “Let’s get this done, Granger.”
“Of course. After you.”
“Do you want to take this?”
“For the fifth time, Granger, keep your hands to yourself and leave the packing to me.”
“What is it?”
“That is…oh, hmm. Yes, go ahead and touch that.”
“...Well now I’m suspicious.”
“Lovely. Now you listen to me.”
“Dare I ask…?”
“It’s an ornithopter.”
“An ornith…a flying machine? How fascinating! I assume it works on magic, considering that you have it here, but there’s no wings! Is that what those little…hey!”
“Granger, are you trying to get yourself killed? That’s cursed, you foolish girl! Now go sit over there and keep your hands to yourself. It would serve you right, touching something like that.”
“…Fine. Oh, by the way, Minerva is going to meet us in her office later for tea. Oh, careful, you nearly bumped into the cursed ornithopter.”
“You’re telling me this now?”
“Better hurry. There’s a lot to pack, especially without a wand. We wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.”
“…Fine. You may assist…but you will do exactly as I say.”
“Really, Snape, you taught me for six years. You know I’m competent.”
“Why yes, I did teach you for six years - six very, very long years. That’s why I’m hesitant to let you anywhere near, for example, my cloaks. Or my private potions stores. Hmm? Cat got your tongue? Didn’t realise I knew about your little adventures? Merlin, girl; you’re not half as sneaky as you think you are. Besides, who do you think cured you of your…furry little problem?”
“…You knew? All along?”
“Of course I knew. That there - put it in this crate. No; I’ll wrap it, you work on the books on that shelf. There are few students willing and able to light me on fire, and your bluebell flames are distinctive. And Polyjuice? I have taught in this school for decades. Polyjuice is on my syllabus. I have seen every gruesome mistransformation imaginable. Incidentally, you should have added two further counterclockwise stirs at the end of the second and third brewing phases to counteract the freshness of the knotgrass.”
“...I was a second year student.”
“Who flattered her way into the Restricted Section and elected to brew a potion far beyond her abilities. You could have turned the Chosen One inside out, do you realise that?”
“I…”
“Never mind. It’s just as well you didn’t account for the variables; it made the end result easier to counteract.”
“...How did you know Harry drank my Polyjuice Potion?”
“Hah. Not even Crabbe and Goyle would have stuffed themselves into a broom cupboard, and even if they had, they would not have been seen in their common room at the same time. Your little…addition to events simply made it clear how it happened.”
“...Ah…”
“In the end, of course, Dumbledore decided not to punish his precious favourites for theft and assault. You had, after all, the very best of intentions, sneaking into a forbidden common room on suspicion that your innocent classmates were engaging in a reign of terror. If you’re going to stare stupidly at me, at least levitate those jars down - carefully, girl! - yes, there. Oh, what now?”
“For what it’s worth…I’m sorry.”
“...What?”
“I’m sorry. Yes, it was stupid to believe that you were hexing Harry back in our first year; you’ve never liked him, but that didn’t mean you wanted to kill him. Just like Malfoy calling me a mudblood-”
“Don’t use that word!”
“-didn’t mean he and Crabbe and Goyle were actually going to hurt us. Not then, at least. …It all seems rather silly, looking back on it, especially since Harry really could have died down in the Chamber of Secrets.”
“Yes. It would have thrown the plan off entirely. We would’ve been stuck with… Longbottom.”
“Hah! Well, I’m…goodness, is that Minerva on the stairs?”
“Pack faster, Granger.”
Severus tugged at his cravat. He hadn’t worn one since the end of the war - since the attack that nearly ended his life - and he hadn’t realised how constricting it would be on his scarred throat.
Granger had insisted that he look his best for his sentencing.
Granger, he’d found, was even more of a menace as a housemate than as a student.
Severus hated everything about this situation. He hated that his life was going to be put on display. He hated that he had little to look forward to but Azkaban. He hated that he owed Granger for this brief window of freedom before he was locked away for life, that she had gone out of her way to make him as comfortable as she could manage, that she had no reason to do any of this. He hated that he had no way of balancing this debt he felt he owed her.
“Alright there, Snape?” Granger asked, emerging from her suspiciously pink bedroom (her childhood bedroom, she’d said, face almost as pink as her walls) in a pair of robes that made her look much less like a schoolgirl.
“...Bloody autumn,” he responded.
“Yes, yes, you’ve said. I’m sorry I can’t change the seasons for you, but we’ll make the best of it.”
Make the best of it? Perhaps. The trees around Granger’s home were…aesthetically pleasing, he supposed. The riot of fiery Gryffindor colours, the stillness of her quiet little neighbourhood, the cascade of leaves falling in the gentle breeze…he would almost miss them when winter came and he was locked back up in Azkaban.
“State your name for the record.”
“Harry Potter.”
“What is your relationship to the defendant?”
“I was his student.”
“And what is your opinion of him?”
“He is the bravest man I ever knew.”
“Elaborate, please, Mr. Potter.”
“Of course. I met Severus Snape on my first day at Hogwarts…”
“You did it!”
Severus bore Granger’s enthusiasm with stoic dignity. He hadn’t done much. He had simply sat in his chair, chained up like the Death Eater he was, letting others speak on his behalf. Letting Potter speak on his behalf.
It was…humbling, just how many of his colleagues and students had testified to his actions and his…character. He’d expected some of it, after that tortuously awkward tea with Minerva that day he’d packed up his things at Hogwarts, but this…outpouring of support?
Even Kingsley had helped, intentionally or no. Before the trials for the previous administration, the Wizengamot had passed a law: no one bearing the Dark Mark was allowed to testify in any trial. Severus had been terrified when he’d heard, not on his own behalf, but on Draco’s. Draco had been a boy. A reasonably clever one, but his grades hadn’t even been the highest in Slytherin, let alone the school. Against the forces of family, society, and the most powerful Dark Wizard of recent memory? Of course the boy had fallen.
Granger had barely hesitated a moment before agreeing to rally troops on Draco’s behalf. Potter’s testimony had been crucial then, as well: Potter had seen the events surrounding Albus’ death, had benefited from Draco’s refusal to identify him at Malfoy Manor. And yes, despite wavering dangerously, Potter had confirmed that Draco and his family had defected in the final hours of the Battle of Hogwarts.
It had been Potter’s word against…schoolchildren. None of the senior Death Eaters could testify; they all wore the Mark, and for better or for worse would go unheard. Potter hadn’t contradicted his year-mates’ claims that Draco was a bigoted, self-centred little shit - had confirmed it, in fact - but self-centred little shits didn’t merit Azkaban.
Perhaps Draco could have wriggled out of a sentence without the support of Potter and his friends. The Malfoys always had excellent survival instincts, had long been seen as pillars of the community, and were making a show of being penitent.
Perhaps Draco would have survived. Severus most certainly would not.
No - his acquittal was entirely due to the goodwill of others, a debt he had no idea how to repay.
“Come on,” Granger was babbling. Severus had likely missed a good portion of what she’d been saying, but over the past few months he’d developed a keen sense for what did and didn’t merit storage in his long-term memory. “Harry’s got a party set up at Grimmauld Place.”
“A…party?”
She was trying to look disapproving at his tone, but the glint of humour in her eyes ruined the effect. “A lot of people came out here today to make sure you can walk free; the least you can do is show off that ability.”
“Payment for services rendered? I must appeal the value assigned to my presence.”
Her mouth twitched into a grin. “You’re the guest of honour - you’re not getting away.”
“Oh? And how do you intend to ensure my compliance?”
Instead of responding, Granger smiled at someone standing behind him. She reached past him, offered a chipper “Thank you,” and drew her hand back.
Holding his wand.
No matter how his fingers ached to hold it again, it…wouldn’t look good to snatch it from her.
Something in her eyes softened as she looked at him. “Your word,” she said. “Your word, please, that you will come to Grimmauld Place and stay for at least an hour.”
“An hour?”
“It’s bound to go for at least two, but if you’ll stay for an hour without complaint I’ll help you make an escape. It’s been a long day, and I imagine you want to get home.”
It said something fairly depressing about his life that his first thought of ‘home’ was of Granger’s too-bright, middle-class little house. He tried to shrug it off. Of course she’d want him gone-
“Sorry,” she said, glancing away. “I meant my place. If you want to. Unless you’d rather go to your house? I don’t know where it is, but I’m happy to help you move-”
“I will impose on your hospitality a little longer,” he said, heading off the tsunami of anxiety. “Perhaps…tomorrow, or in a few days, if you would not mind…I have no idea what condition my home is in, currently.”
“Oh! Of course! I’d be happy to help!”
“And…I shall play nice with the Potterites for an hour.”
She grinned widely and handed over his wand.
For a moment they were both holding the long piece of magical wood - him, the handle; her, the tip - and it felt like an electric circuit had been closed. The magic in him flowed through the wand like it had so many years ago in Olivander’s. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find that he was glowing.
Granger was staring at him, wide-eyed. She let go of the end of his wand slowly, carefully…reluctantly.
“Well,” she said, smiling at him again. “Let’s go pretend to be surprised.”
“Oh, it’s a surprise party?”
“I’m not sure how Harry thought that would work, but yes.”
“He does remember that I have my wand back?”
Granger laughed.
Severus, in his first moments as a free man in…as long as he could remember, decided that he would very much like to hear that sound more often.