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Silence reigned over the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. Only three of the castle’s inhabitants should have been awake: the elderly caretaker and his cat, and the insomniac Potions Master. They passed each other in the halls with only silent nods of acknowledgement, then continued on their way…
Until a crash interrupted the peace of the evening.
“Peeves,” growled Filch to his companions. “I oughta…”
Severus Snape, returning Potions Master and former Headmaster, had a bit more information. “It’s not Peeves; or, rather, not only him. I can handle this.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Headmaster-”
“I haven’t been Headmaster for months, Argus.”
“Professor, then. I’m the caretaker. It’s my job.” He glanced at the tall, dour man out of the corner of his eye. “Though…Mrs. Norris ‘n I’d appreciate the help.”
“Of course.”
They made their way carefully through the corridors, seeking the source of the kerfuffle.
What they found…
“Argus,” Snape said, eyeing the scene before him, “Call Minerva.”
For once, the caretaker obeyed without argument.
George Weasley was having a bad day. Another bad day, rather. The sun was up, which meant he had to add another tally to his list.
Bitterness flooded through him as he pulled himself upright, feeling as though his limbs were weighed down. (What a fun idea for a- but no, he hadn’t invented anything in so, so long.) Why him? Why had he survived the war? Why had Percy and Snape and…and hell, Harry had died and come back to life. Why were they all puttering around when…
Fred’s loss hit him again with a fierce, physical ache that bent him in half. He would’ve given all four limbs to have his brother, his best friend, his other half back. He would have let Snape hack off his other ear if it meant spending one more moment…
It was pure foolishness, of course. George understood that, just like he understood why Harry had refused to go find the Resurrection Stone. To see Fred again would have been wonderful, of course, but to have Fred be a mere shadow of his former self? That, he knew, would have driven him mad.
Assuming he wasn’t mad already. It felt like he spent half his time in pure, raw agony and the other half in a hazy fog: if that wasn’t madness, what was?
It wasn’t in George’s nature to think too long about death and madness and…and other boring stuff, but he didn’t know how to stop. Even during the darkest days of the war, Fred had been right there with him. They’d kept each other from succumbing to worry - over their father, trapped in the Ministry; over Ginny, locked up in Hogwarts; over Ron and Percy, who were lost to them for different reasons.
There was a bustle downstairs, but George couldn’t bring himself to care. What was the point, when he had lost the one person he could make mischief with?
“George!”
He blinked, slowly. Perhaps he really was mad.
“George!”
Feeling like he was swimming through extra-thick water (what a fun idea-), George stood and turned towards the door. The pain had receded; the foggy, numb haze was back.
His mother, who had been calling his name, opened it before he could reach out. Not even a knock.
“Oh,” she said. “George, dear. You’re awake.”
He nodded.
“Hurry and dress and come downstairs; there’s been a…well, we need you to look over something.”
Something about Fred, then. Whenever his family looked for him, it was always about Fred, anymore.
Dressing himself through the numbness made everything feel fuzzy, like a cotton wool ball. He couldn’t tell if his clothing was appropriate for the weather, or if it was itchy against his skin, or even if it made fashion sense; that was Fred’s area of expertise. George simply dressed himself, ignored the questions that threatened to suffocate him, and retreated downstairs.
Professor McGonagall was there, looking older than ever. “Hello,” George said, then he turned and greeted his family as well, because he hadn’t actually seen most of them in…days, possibly.
“Mr. Weasley,” the professor said, which…wasn’t terribly helpful in a pack of Weasleys, “I am here to ask you to help us with what appears to be a…sensitive matter.”
“Alright,” he said, not sure where this was going and not really caring.
McGonagall’s lips pursed. “Last night, we became aware of a…a possible spirit on the grounds. We are not as yet sure if this is truly a ghost or simply a cruel prank-”
“You think it’s Fred.”
Of course they thought it was Fred. These days, it was always about Fred.
“We believe it is…possible.”
“I’ll go.”
His parents’ cries of protest fell on deaf ears. If there was a chance - one single, solitary chance - that he could have his Fred back…even as a ghost…
He’d always been taught, growing up, that becoming a ghost was a fate worse than death. It meant losing touch with the living world while still being a part of it, watching loved ones grow old and die and not being able to follow. It meant slowly losing humanity, constantly searching for something - anything - to fill in the gaps-
But Fred? Would Fred have wanted that for himself? For them - for Forge? The Resurrection Stone was one thing - everyone knew that would be awful - but a ghost? The real Fred?
George couldn’t fight against the tiny flicker of hope somewhere deep in his funnybone.
Severus shifted uncomfortably and pretended that he didn’t feel Minerva’s retaliatory pinch to his elbow. There were altogether too many Gryffindors in the corridor for him to feel remotely at ease, and Minerva would just have to deal with his silent protests.
This would be the third night since the…apparition first appeared. Once was a coincidence; it could have been Peeves. It could have been anything. Twice was a concern.
Three times? Three times was far more trouble than they needed.
The gathering was halfway between a birthday and a funeral: half-expectant, half-grieving, and altogether too emotional for him. But no; for his sins, he had been the first one to come across the possible-spirit, and he was now required to act as a tour guide to an entire pride of Gryffindors.
That most of them hadn’t been in his classroom for years didn’t make the situation better.
Over half of them were Weasleys, which was understandable under the circumstances. A bedraggled Lee Jordan and a somewhat less bedraggled Angelina Johnson flanked one of the boys, each with a hand on his arm; it had to be George, Severus still felt a twinge of guilt over the ear. Oliver Wood, in his Puddlemere United robes, hovered nearby. Potter had snuck in somehow, an arm wrapped around the youngest Weasley, and it appeared that Granger had been dragged out of bed as well.
Severus doubted that he could get away with giving detention to Weasley the Seventh and Granger. They were students out after curfew, yes, but apparently with the approval of the headmistress. Favouritism at its finest.
The chime of Minerva’s pocket watch striking midnight made him flinch, and he tensed for a second pinch that never came.
All eyes had been drawn to the white wisps filtering upwards from the floor. The flame in the wall sconce flickered once, twice, then turned a pale, sickly blue. The wisps coalesced into a cloud, then a humanoid form, then the unmistakable replica of a Weasley. By process of elimination, Fred Weasley.
It was not a Fred Weasley any of the assembled Gryffindors - nor, indeed, Severus - would have wished to see. This was no simple ghost, no mere restless spirit. The boy’s eyes were wide, white and pupil-less, and his mouth was gaping wide. Moments after his manifestation a thin, wailing cry rent the air, morphing slowly - horrifically - into a full-blown scream.
Severus wished he could be anywhere else. He had heard too many children scream for one lifetime.
“Fred!” One of the Weasleys - ah, George, of course - was reaching for his brother’s incorporeal presence. “Fred-”
The spirit went silent and jolted like he’d been struck, and Severus instantly realised what the problem was.
“He’s untethered,” he murmured.
Instantly, all the Gryffindors turned to face him, even the dead one.
“You know what’s wrong with Fred, sir?” Granger asked, as if this was some bloody classroom lesson.
“When a spirit returns, it requires a tether,” he pointed out. It said something awful about the state of education in the UK that none of them had picked up on this, really. “This one is incomplete.”
George pulled away from his friends and stood, wild-eyed and twitching, in front of his former professors. “Please, Snape,” he gasped. “If you know anything…I’ll do anything to help him…”
“I may need to hold you to that. A moment.” Severus swished his wand over the spirit, then over the living Weasley in front of him. Ah. That was it, then. “Your brother returned, but he has a strong connection to more than one place. Under normal circumstances - that is, places with less magic - his tether would simply have torn apart, letting him pass into the Beyond. The magic of Hogwarts has allowed him to remain as he is.”
Severus cleared his throat. He realised abruptly that he’d devolved into his lecturing tone, and his audience was watching him with a combination of confusion and attention (except Granger, whose awe was almost embarrassingly apparent; and Minerva, who was radiating amusement).
“Can you help him?” Granger asked. “Is there a way to resolve the conflict? The phenomenon is recorded in Most Macabre Monstrosities, but there wasn’t any information on how to help someone in this position.”
“That, Miss Granger, is because most magical folk care little for the plight of the undead. Luckily, you have an expert on the subject. Weasley?”
Every redhead in the room stood at attention.
“The dead one.”
Fred drifted closer, causing his still-living twin to shiver. His mouth opened and closed a few times but no further sound emitted, just a pale twist of something smoke-like.
“I am going to give you a choice. Can you hold up fingers? Yes, thank you for your helpful commentary; you’re lucky you can’t have house points deducted anymore. I can bind you to a location. You will be able to travel elsewhere, but you need a place to return to. One…finger for Hogwarts, two for the Burrow. If you have an alternative location, make…I don’t know, some less scandalous gesture.”
The spirit gave him a two-fingered salute.
“Glorious. I’ll have Filch retrieve his Peeves-bottle.”
Transporting a willing Weasley back home turned out to be an easier process than attempting to contain an unwilling poltergeist. For the first time in memory (according to Hogwarts: A History), the aptly-named Peeves-bottle actually did what it was intended to do: contain a spirit for relocation.
It was unfortunate that the Burrow was so terribly far from Hogwarts, and that the Peeves-bottle lost its effectiveness during Apparition. That led to a collection of Weasleys and Weasley-adjacents - plus one Slytherin - flying cross-country for several hours.
Hermione would have rather robbed Gringotts again.
Snape, it appeared, had been tasked with making sure she and Ginny were safe while away from the school. Hermione had argued that this would be better accomplished by having them Apparate directly to the Burrow to await Fred and his honour guard, but no: Ginny was excited to fly and was engaging Harry in various stunts that made Hermione dizzy just by looking at them. That meant Snape was effectively babysitting her and her fear of heights.
He, of course, knew it, the smug bastard. She’d thought they were friends - or, at least, becoming friendly. Snape was noticeably less tense after the war and his trial, more open to academic discussion with his students. In class, sometimes. The first time it had happened she’d gotten a bit carried away, leaving the rest of the class to watch, bewildered, as she and Snape debated the efficacy of various ingredients in Felix Felicis based on a new Arithmantic model that had been published in the latest Potions Monthly. Snape had realised their error before she did, asking her to see him during office hours to continue their discussion.
That had led to her monopolising his office hours; and while he was never a teacher who had queues outside his office, he was Head of Slytherin House. He was, for the time being, one of the few teachers willing to give Slytherin a fair shake. He needed to be available to them.
Hermione understood. She’d also been (secretly) thrilled when Snape blocked out a standing appointment for them on Wednesday evenings after supper, when they could debate anything and everything to their hearts’ contents. Snape was, to no one’s surprise, a well-read and enthusiastic arguer - arguer, not debater; he was a bare-knuckle fighter of an academic - and thus far had seemed content to indulge her.
He, of course, insisted that it was nothing more than his duty. Class and office hours were for the benefit of all students, not just a single bushy-haired know-it-all; assigning her her own time slot was the logical conclusion. Lending her his books kept things interesting. Giving her a pass to the Restricted Section (“Do not make me regret this, Granger…”) kept her from bothering him about books she could obtain on her own.
Perhaps he had gotten bored of her. Perhaps he’d just been biding his time. That would explain why he was hovering next to her, a little smirk on his face, as she slowly lost her mind.
“Look straight ahead, Granger. Looking down isn’t going to help.”
Hermione bit her lip - she had nothing nice to say to that - and focused on…Harry and Ginny were still doing acrobatics, and they’d pulled Wood in with them, but…ah. George was flying slowly and carefully, unwilling to take any chances with his beloved brother. She focused on George’s back and not on the fact that she was untold metres above the ground, so high up that her warming charms couldn’t keep her breath from fogging.
It…helped. A little. She still felt like her stomach was doing somersaults every time they caught a rogue gust, but at least with George as a focal point and Snape beside her she had some warning.
“Relax,” Snape murmured. “Loosen your elbows and knees. Ride the broom; don’t let it yank you about.”
Hermione wasn’t entirely sure what that meant - or why she’d started blushing - but she tried relaxing her joints. It might have helped, a little - she could hardly tell - but at the very least it was another distraction from the distance between her feet and the ground.
Enough of a distraction, in fact, that she was surprised to see the Burrow below them, the rest of the Weasley family already waiting for them on the lawn. She followed George as he began his downwards spiral-
A sudden chill hit her with the force of a Dementor’s presence, and she pulled back up in a panic. What…?
Snape was hovering above her, not following them down. In his absence, the wind lashed at her ferociously. Why wouldn’t he…
The wards. Of course. The Weasleys had (reluctantly) accepted that he had been on their side, but he was neither family nor a frequent visitor after the war. Of course he wouldn’t be included in the reworked wards.
Hermione wasn’t sure what to do. She was allowed through - she’d spent part of her summer helping the Weasleys move back in - but she wasn’t sure what the protocol was for letting former enemies into homes.
“Ginny!”
Ginny was at her side in an instant, before even Harry could react. “What? Are you alright?”
“Professor Snape can’t get through.”
“Oh - right, the Death Eater wards. You can head down, I’ll go get Bill.”
Hermione looked over her shoulder at Snape, but he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking at much of anything.
She was a Gryffindor. She waved off a concerned Harry and turned back, stopping when she was…almost level with Snape. “Sorry, Professor,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “Bill should be here in a moment.”
He raised an eyebrow at her but made no reply.
The silence between them was a little awkward - she wasn’t sure what to say - but she also refused to explain herself.
This was, Severus mused, probably the closest to Dark Magic the Weasley family had ever come. He’d engaged Arthur, George and Granger with assistance in the ritual - Arthur for his hereditary ties to the land and property, George as the closest biological relative, and Granger because she could be trusted with complicated magics - but the bulk of the work was his.
He tried not to think about that moment when he’d recognized the area where the Burrow should have been. The protective wards only extended so far, after all, and he could see the various fliers disappear beyond them. It was solid, if unsubtle, protection.
It was also clear: he was not invited.
He’d considered turning around and leaving the Weasleys to their mess. If they didn’t want him, who was he to intervene?
But they, bright and shiny as they were, wouldn’t have the knowledge to bind a spirit. It wasn’t Dark, per se, but it was close enough that none of the honoured Gryffindors had likely ever tripped across even the theory of what he’d wanted to attempt. Even Granger…
And as if the thought had summoned her, she’d returned. She’d stubbornly hovered next to him until Bill returned and - sheepishly, as if a Death Eater being blocked by the family wards was somehow an embarrassment - allowed him through.
Granger was…certainly something.
“Done, Professor,” she said, glancing up at him, all bright and bushy like she hadn’t spent most of the night clinging to a broomstick.
“Excellent.”
He’d meant it more as a general commentary on the situation than on her work specifically, but the flounce in her step as she returned to her friends proved that she’d assumed the latter.
Gryffindors.
The spell to bind the lost Weasley to his home wasn’t terribly complicated, when the right conditions were met, but it gave the onlookers quite a show. Fred’s spirit billowed out of the Peeves-jar in a cloud of chilly white mist and he rose, slowly and ponderously, through the cloud, arms extended…
And promptly…flatulated.
Loudly.
Severus sighed at the spirit in front of him. “Am I to believe this was successful, then, Weasley?”
The spirit made a show of thinking hard about this. “I think so-ack!” He stumbled back, grabbing his chest. “Oh, be still my heart-”
“Fred!” The boy’s mother called. “Cease your theatrics and answer the professor!”
“You…you know my name! George, she knows who I am!”
"'Course she knows. With you gone, I've had to be the ear-responsible one around here."
"I suppose that was a dead giveaway, yes."
The boy was fine, Severus figured.
There was an entirely too-sappy reunion as the lost Weasley was bundled - as much as his incorporeal form would allow - back into the warm embrace of his family. Even the family ghoul Severus remembered from those long-ago Order meetings joined in, the two spirits making rude noises back and forth as some form of primitive communication.
“Professor?”
He looked down to see Granger at his elbow, her breath fogging in the early morning chill. He cast a brief warming charm over her and felt a twinge of something like satisfaction when her shoulders relaxed. “Yes, Granger?”
“Thank you for helping us. And sorry about earlier.”
Us, she’d said. It had been a long time since he'd been part of an 'us.' “Think nothing of it. If it will keep the corridors quiet, it’s worth the effort.”
Despite the professor’s best efforts, the corridors were not quiet. Fred spent the entire weekend at the Burrow before reappearing suddenly one afternoon in the middle of History of Magic, nearly giving his sister a heart attack.
Hermione had just sighed. She’d expected nothing less.
Once he’d gotten the hang of being dead, Fred split his time between the Burrow, Hogwarts, and Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes. His lack of corporeal form didn’t make him any less of a salesman; on the contrary, he willingly offered himself up as a target for younger customers who needed to practise their aim. There was, Hermione noticed, a disturbing trend in students accurately being able to throw noisemakers and dungbombs following Fred’s reappearance.
“It’s maddening,” she complained to Snape over tea one Wednesday evening. “I love all the Weasleys - I really do - but the twins have always been a menace. Threatening to tell their mother used to keep them from experimenting on the younger years, but I don’t think that will work on a ghost, really.”
Snape hummed. “I don’t know - if anyone can intimidate a ghost into compliance, it would be Molly Weasley.”
“I agree,” said Fred. “She’s downright scary.”
Hermione nearly choked.
“You were not invited to tea,” Snape said in a tone every student knew. It was the voice of a man whose very last nerve was being trampled on. “Shall we test your mother’s fearsome reputation? Or perhaps we could have a discussion with the headmistress about banning you from private quarters?”
Fred cocked his head to the side. Hermione hated it when he did that. Ordinarily Fred showed few signs of the wounds that had killed him, but one of the falling rocks had left a small dent on his left temple that showed off gruesomely when he tilted his head just so. She was fairly sure he did it on purpose. “I think,” he said finally, “that your office is a terrible place for a date, but it suits the two of you. I’ll leave you to it.”
Hermione was so utterly mortified that she didn’t bother watching him leave. Snape snarled a curse that tingled the tips of her ears, but didn’t appear to have any other effect.
Despite not appearing affected, it took Snape a moment before he offered, “I apologise for any appearance of impropriety. I hope it has not caused trouble…”
“What? No! I enjoy our discussions. It’s been…” she sighed, searching for the words, “...difficult, going back to school after last year, with most of my classmates being a year younger.”
“You have borne many things you never should have.”
She shrugged. “‘Should’ doesn’t have much weight in the face of all that’s happened, does it?” Snape should have been better served during his school years. His bullies should have drawn the line at attempted murder. His childhood friend should have forgiven him. He should have stayed away from Voldemort. Dumbledore should have sought professional help after his encounter with Gaunt’s Ring.
None of those, of course, she felt comfortable saying aloud, burgeoning friendship or no.
“I can…relate, a little,” he said, “though it has largely been a problem of my own making. After serving as headmaster last year…”
Hermione knew. She knew very well how people looked at him - at all the Slytherins - in the halls, and not without reason. It was no wonder Slughorn had tendered his resignation hours after the Final Battle, abandoning Hogwarts and his House to their fates.
Not many would have stepped up to take charge of the House now infamous for their overwhelming support for a mass-murderer. But then…Snape had always been singular.
She wasn’t quite brave enough to say it, but she hoped Slytherin House knew how lucky they were to have him. Snape had walked into the darkness with his head high, and he had walked right back out again. If anyone was equipped to rehabilitate the students who had supported Voldemort and the reputation of their House, it was the man before her.
Fred’s words echoed in her mind. No, this was not a date - far from it - but…she wouldn’t be a student forever. In time, perhaps, they could be…well, she hardly dared think it.
She caught herself. Memories of Fred reminded her that life was uncertain, that nothing was ever guaranteed.
Right. Perhaps, in time, she and Snape could form an…an attachment. Of a romantic inclination. One that involved long, dark nights and stirring and buttons…
Mmm…
“Granger? Are you quite well?”
“Oh, quite, sir. You were explaining your views on the proper collection of lacewing flies last week; does the article from Monday’s Potions Monthly about invertebrates change your mind?”
Buttons…
Fred was quite enjoying his death. His family did their best to make him feel at home, despite the…obvious challenges. If he’d gotten through the war without a limb instead of without an entire body, he imagined their treatment of him wouldn’t be much different.
He didn’t remember a whole lot before waking up in the Burrow, thankfully. According to the Hogwarts ghosts (the few he’d spoken to) this was normal: he hadn’t actually passed on to the afterlife, and he hadn’t had a body, so there hadn’t been anything for him to remember.
That was half the problem. He’d been…away…for months. He’d abandoned George for months. That left a deep scar he could see in his twin: silent and unacknowledged, but present in every interaction between them.
Fred wasn’t really sure how to fix a problem like that. He dealt in explosions and chaos not…not feelings. So he consulted the one entity (besides George) who’d always seemed to understand him on a deep, intrinsic level:
Peeves.
The existence of a poltergeist was simple. There was no regret, no consequences: just a life of mischief. Perhaps, Fred thought as he followed his old friend around the castle, rattling suits of armour and flapping tapestries, someday he could live such a life.
Someday…but not quite yet. He had, obviously, unfinished business. He had George, and a (transparent) head full of pranks and product ideas to smooth the way back into his twin’s good graces. He had his friends, who visited regularly and treated him (almost) like they always had.
And there was one other thing.
Fred had never really liked ol’ Snapey: the man was unnecessarily harsh, disliked Gryffindors, and - worst of all - had no discernable sense of humour. And that was before all the horrors of the last year of the war.
Forgiveness was nearly impossible for a ghost. That, Fred had learned, was normal: he was like a picture taken at the moment of his death. Change would only come slowly, if at all. He had an advantage as a naturally change-y person, but ‘moving on’ wasn’t really something ghosts did.
The problem was that Fred owed a debt. Without Snapey, he wouldn't have been around to visit his brother or prank students or teach little firsties how to properly throw a dungbomb. He just had no idea how to go about paying that debt.
Snape was smart; anyone could admit that the man was smart. Smart enough that Fred and George had needed a magical map and the assistance of every ghost and portrait they could recruit to evade him. It was, perhaps, no surprise that Snape and Granger were making awkward, bookwormy eyes at each other: they were both intelligent, and both allergic to a good joke…
“Hey Peeves,” he called.
His friend paused in a rather rude (and hilarious) rhyme directed at a pair of Slytherin girls. “Yeeeeeees, Fredsy?”
“If you know two people who are friendly with each other, but are pretending not to be, what do you do?”
Peeves grinned with far too many teeth. “Well, Fredsy my Fred, let me show you…”
There was some level of satisfaction to be found in watching students scatter at his approach, Severus found. He’d been careful, of course, since the beginning of the year: he’d been as soft-spoken as any Hufflepuff and had even, on two occasions, awarded points to Gryffindor.
(Two. He’d awarded two points, total. Both to Miss Granger, who had averted disaster via one of her classmates' melting cauldron, and had known the answer to a question he’d been sure would stump the class.)
In short, he’d done very little to bring down the ire of wary parents and the hawk-eyed headmistress. As the months since his rather public trial passed, that became easier: students learned that he was neither the monster he’d pretended to be nor the romantic pansy of some of the more lurid articles written about him, and settled into a sort of…equilibrium.
Fame and power were things he’d sought his entire life. He had joined the Death Eaters, had delivered the prophecy to the Dark Lord, had applied as Potions Master at Hogwarts, all for a chance at recognition. He’d cultivated friendships with powerful people, had perfected his craft, had flattered and served…and for what? The reality was actually rather horrible. His life was being torn to pieces and gossipped over by the entire population of Wizarding Britain and very probably beyond.
Exactly one person didn’t dodge out of his way. Granger, book bag tucked under her arm and a gaggle of little ducklings in Ravenclaw ties in line behind her, simply stepped to the side to let him pass.
“Professor Snape,” she said clearly, offering him both a nod and a smile.
He returned the nod, though not the smile, not even when her entourage echoed her greeting in timid little voices.
A moment later, a horrific crash echoed through the corridor, causing him to whirl around and everyone else to jump. A cacophony of screams and cries assaulted his ears, and he was back, back in the castle that night, and there were students being injured - students dying - and he couldn’t do anything about it because Potter, Potter was the one who was important, the lynchpin of the war, but students were hurt and it was all his fault-
“Enough! Professor Snape and I will take care of Peeves. Everyone else, to class.”
Severus blinked down at the angry little woman who was directing traffic around him, hands on her hips and a little scowl on her face. Right. Right. It was over. He wasn’t…wasn’t there.
Once the hallway cleared out, Granger turned to look up at him. “Professor Snape, are you alright?”
He nodded. “My…gratitude, Granger.”
“Of course! It sounded like Peeves went down that way-”
“Take a left, Granger. Sound echoes strangely in this hallway, but there’s no armour down the other way.”
“Oh, right! Thank you.”
Sure enough, one of the two suits of armour that should have been flanking the old wooden door lay dismantled on the floor. Severus reassembled it with a wave of his wand, trying to ignore the subtle shaking of his hand.
The door rattled.
“Professor, what…is that?”
“Nothing, really. An old store room.”
Granger nodded and pushed it open. There really wasn’t much to see - it was about the size of the Potions store room, but half-full of old furniture and picture frames - and there was even less to see when Severus found himself roughly pushed forward into Granger. A moment later, the doors slammed closed behind them.
Severus straightened as much as he could in the enclosed space, appreciating the anonymity of the darkness. “My…apologies. Are you alright?”
“Just a scratch, I think.”
She lit her wand and he examined her arm. There was indeed a scratch and a bruise from one of the picture frames, but no blood, and a brief healing spell took care of the worst of the damage.
A few spells revealed that they had been barricaded in crudely, but effectively. The door was not locked, but rather, trapped; they were free to open the door, but doing so would release whatever was in the payload on the other end of the trigger. Dungbombs, probably, given the culprit.
“We’re not barricaded in,” he announced, “merely…waylaid.”
Granger groaned. “I’ll bet Fred had a hand in this.”
“Fred…Weasley?”
“He’s been taking lessons from Peeves on ‘how to be a ghost.’”
“Poltergeists and ghosts are both spirits, but hardly the same.”
“Tell that to Fred and Peeves.”
“I intend to. At length. Foreign entities at Hogwarts are still bound by certain regulations.”
“Do you really think Fred Weasley or Peeves would abide by any rules?”
Likely not, though there were certainly spells that worked on ghosts and he intended to learn them all. He’d been considering branching out beyond the walls of Hogwarts, once things settled down; professional exorcist sounded like a fine and profitable career.
“We should send a message to the headmistress.” It took a moment - as it always did - to centre himself. “Expecto Patronum”
He nearly dropped his wand.
“That’s not a doe,” he heard Granger whisper.
And it was not.
How…very odd.
The unfortunate thing about fame and fortune - and the accompanying public vivisection - was that he knew Granger was familiar with his Patronus. Hell - she’d been in the Forest of Dean; perhaps she’d seen it that night, about a year ago, when he’d used it to lure Potter to his near-death.
He didn’t know what to say. The doe had been a part of his life since his fifth year. Lily had been a part of his life for far longer. Loss…the feeling was inevitable, even if it came with an opportunity to build something new.
He felt Granger’s hand on his arm, silent support, just as the store room door burst open to reveal an exceptionally stern and Scottish Minerva McGonagall.
“That was fast,” he said before she could begin chewing on them.
“Yes, well, I was advised that a student and a teacher were engaged in activities that required my attention, so I was already on my way. Would either of you care to explain what is going on here?”
“I would be happy to,” Severus said, “but I believe Miss Granger and I have roughly two minutes to reach our next classes…unless you would prefer we miss them to answer your questions?”
Minerva pursed her lips at them. “The moment your last class wraps up, Severus, I expect you in my office. Miss Granger, I shall speak with you after supper. And I hope you both appreciate the trust I am placing in both of you.”
He had to nearly run to his next class, but thankfully, the stairs cooperated. The afterimage of the sleek fox, impossibly bright in the darkness of the store room, felt like it was burned into his retinas. Granger’s awe was burned even deeper.
“Are you Fred?”
Fred floated down to look at the little girl. She was tiny - clearly a first-year - who hadn’t even gotten a chance to put on her brand new Slytherin tie.
In his years as a ghost, he’d seen a dozen classes of first-years. Much as he enjoyed his time at the Burrow and watching George and Angelina’s children grow up, there was something magical about the Welcoming Feast at Hogwarts. Watching the awe on their little faces…it never got old.
It was rare that someone recognised him, but it did happen every once in a while. “Sure, I’m Fred Weasley,” he said, giving an elaborate bow to his giggling audience. “And you are?”
The girl smiled and shook her head, sending black curls bouncing everywhere. “My mum said to thank you. She said you helped her and daddy get together.”
“And your daddy is…?”
“He said not to talk to obnoxious people with no sense of self-respect or personal space.” Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. “But I won’t tell him I talked to you.”
Fred blinked (quite unnecessarily, but old habits died hard) as the girl flounced away to join her new house-mates on their way down to the dungeons.
Who had he introduced? The girl looked familiar…
Oh, hell. The girl looked like Hermione Granger.
And those eyes…and she’d been sorted into Slytherin…
“Snapey, you old dog,” Fred muttered, his mouth twitching into a grin. He decided to count his debt as paid.
It looked like Snape and Hermione's daughter (their daughter; how had he missed that?) had a sense of humour. There was a lot he could do with a sense of humour.
“Hey Peeves,” he called. “I think we have a new friend!”