Desperate Measures

“Tell me!” Hermione begged, leaning forward eagerly.

“Guess,” Irma Pince teased, her eyes twinkling over her delicate teacup.

“One of my old teachers, you say?”

“Mmm hmmm.” Rosa Sprout reached for another biscuit and pointed it at her. “One of your favourites, I believe.” She popped the biscuit in her mouth.

“And Albus? Well the grapevine always said…” Hermione cut her eyes toward Minerva McGonagall.

“Certainly not,” Minerva answered primly. “Really, Irma, whatever did you bring this up for?”

“I didn’t bring it up; Hermione did. Don’t be such an old stick-in-the-mud Minerva. That’s supposed to be the province of librarians.”

“It certainly is. I do wish you’d give it a try.”

“I wear that hat all week; I certainly don’t intend to wear it on the weekends, amongst friends. And besides, you’re stuffy enough for all of us.” She turned her attention back to Hermione. “Go on, Hermione, guess again.”

“It’s none of you, then?” Hermione glanced at the three older women taking tea in Minerva McGonagall’s comfortable sitting room.

“Well, I certainly never have,” Rosa insisted. “And if Irma has, she’s not telling. But there was that time they went together to Rome to look at some rare books…”

“And that’s all we did,” Irma said firmly. “Really, Rosie, as if I hadn’t told you a thousand times…”

“Terribly romantic city, Rome,” Rosa said, ignoring her friend and gesturing widely with a plump little hand. “People get all sorts of notions in their heads while they’re there.”

“The only notions I got were to do with books. Really, I couldn’t even consider…all that hair, you know? I’d imagine it would be terribly uncomfortable.”

Hermione dissolved in a fit of giggles, which increased to outright laughter when she saw the look of stern disapproval on Minerva’s face.

“Perhaps he tosses the beard over his shoulder,” Rosa said thoughtfully.

It was very nearly a tea-through-the-nose moment, but Hermione swallowed just in time and then collapsed against Irma, gasping for breath. “Stop – you’re killing me,” she begged, wiping tears.

“Oh, really, Rosa!” Minerva snapped. “A new subject, if you please.”

“Oh, no!” Hermione said. “Not until I find out who it was.”

“Augusta Vector!” Irma declared triumphantly.

“Really!” Hermione exclaimed. “Are you sure?”

“No question about it. Everybody knew – well, not the students, of course, but all of the staff. Brilliant woman, Augusta, but she’d drop those knickers in a minute if she thought there was anything to be gained by it. She was after Minerva’s job as Deputy Headmistress, if you ask me.”

“Or perhaps they simply liked one another,” Minerva said pointedly.

“What happened?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, she got that job offer from Beauxbatons and moved on.” Minerva gave a dismissive wave. “There was no great drama that I know anything about. Albus is a man and human, Hermione, no matter how much the students might believe otherwise.”

“I suppose, but it’s a bit like thinking of one’s parents, isn’t it? I mean, intellectually you know they must have, but actually picturing it…” She pulled a face, and her friends all laughed.

“I do know what you mean, my dear. After this conversation, none of us will be able to look Albus in the eye for a week,” Rosa agreed.

“Well, I certainly will,” Minerva said, taking a sip of her tea. “My only sin is in associating with a bunch of old gossips - and one young one - like yourselves.”

“Well, would you listen to that?” Irma rolled her eyes. “And who was it that told us all about Severus and that witch from the apothecary’s, hmm? You’re not above a bit of gossip, Minerva McGonagall.”

“Well, that was different,” Minerva huffed. “In the first place, Severus is not the Headmaster, and in the second place, I had high hopes that a little romance would do that boy some good. When I saw him with that girl, I hoped that maybe…well, no matter, I suppose. She married someone else over a year ago, I believe.”

“It’ll take more than a little snogging to sweeten our Severus, I fear,” Irma said, shaking her head. “I had high hopes that after the war he’d…well, I don’t know - mellow, I suppose.”

Hermione snorted. “Haven’t seen any sign of that.”

“Nor have I, more’s the pity,” Minerva said seriously. “He wasn’t a bad boy, you know. Quiet and a bit shy - awkward, you know, like so many boys that age. But there wasn’t any harm in him until…well, no sense going into all that again.” She sighed.

“He shot up all at once one summer and was all arms and legs there for a while, remember?” Rosa said, and hearing the almost fond tone, Hermione looked at her in surprise.

“Before my time, I’m afraid,” Irma reminded them. “He and I joined the staff the same year. He actually has mellowed a bit since those days. Back then, you could hardly get a word out of him.”

“For my money, that would be an improvement,” Hermione said tartly. “I’m certainly not going to hold my breath waiting for him to mellow.”

“I’ve just about given up on that myself,” Minerva said, but there was a real sadness at the edge of her voice that put paid to further laughter at Snape’s expense. “And now, if you all wouldn’t mind a change of subject, I’m going to give you a new bit of gossip to spread about.” She gave her friends a tight smile. “It concerns me, so I’m perfectly at liberty to share it.”

“What is it, Minnie? A new beau?” Rosa teased.

“Nothing so salacious, I’m afraid. I, er, spoke to Albus two days ago…I let him know that I’m retiring at the end of this term.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, but no sound emerged. Irma Pince and Rosa Sprout were similarly stunned and glanced at each other before staring at their friend.

“Now, really,” Minerva said, her teacup rattling a bit as she set it down. “It’s not as if I told you I’m dying. We’ll still see one another.”

“But…you can’t,” Hermione said illogically, glancing at the others for their support. “You just can’t.”

Minerva reached over and patted her young friend’s hand. “Fifty years is a long time to stay in one place, my dear. I’ve done all I can at Hogwarts. It’s time to let the school pass into younger hands - hands like yours and Charlie’s.”

Rosa gave her friend an understanding smile. “What will you do, Minnie?”

“I’ll probably stay with my sister in Edinburgh for a while, and then…who knows? I’d like to travel, I think, to see more of the world. Can I talk you into coming with me?”

“Don’t you dare!” Hermione said vehemently. “You can’t all abandon me at once. I’d have never survived this last year without you.”

“Rubbish,” Rosa said firmly.

“Absolutely,” Minerva agreed. “You’re a fine teacher, Hermione, and getting better all the time.”

Hermione shrugged. She had gained a tremendous amount of confidence since her first year of teaching, but that had been largely through the counsel and friendship of the women with whom she was now taking tea. She was a late addition to their little circle, but she felt that she fit in with these aging spinsters better than she had ever fit in with her friends in London. They had all thought her mad for chucking a successful career at the Ministry and accepting the Charms position at Hogwarts when it was offered to her. Ron had spoken quite colourfully on the subject, railing against her decision regularly and calling her a barking lunatic right up until the day she left. Ginny had tried to be supportive, but she’d gotten a tell-tale furrow in her freckled brow every time they spoke of it. She hadn’t come right out and asked if Hermione had gone crazy, but the look on her face made the question quite plain. Harry had just shaken his head and asked her repeatedly, “Are you sure?

And the odd thing was that she had been sure. Her confidence in her decision had no basis in rational thought, but instead came from some deeply emotional part of her that recognized that her life in London wasn’t making her happy in the way that Hogwarts once had. That happiness had ended cataclysmically at the end of her seventh year, the day that Voldemort and his Death Eaters had broken through the wards and invaded the grounds, fouling the beautiful place with their vile presence and cutting a swath of destruction as they advanced on the castle. By the end of the day, the hallowed grounds were soaked in blood and parts of the castle had been destroyed, but Voldemort was gone, destroyed by a complex spell she had helped to devise, and she and her closest friends had survived. Amid such carnage, there could be no celebration, and so they had simply kept moving, healing those who could be healed and collecting the remains of those who could not until finally there was nothing left to be done and they had collapsed in a near daze. The battle and its aftermath were now a montage of disjointed memories. She could still picture Harry, the titular saviour of the wizarding world, sweat streaking his filthy face as he carried Seamus Finnegan off the Quidditch field. She saw Sirius Black, always so strong, weeping over the body of Remus Lupin until Minerva gently led him away. Ron, it seemed, worked hardest of all…worked until Poppy Pomfrey forced him to stop and ingest a sleep potion. He had collapsed in the infirmary then, his robes still stiff with his classmates' blood. The prevailing memory of that day, however, was of Albus Dumbledore slowly moving among them, offering help and reassurance to all. Only the bleak emptiness in his milky blue eyes betrayed his devastation, betrayed the fact that true victory wasn’t possible when so many had been lost.

Those memories were too deeply engrained to be eradicated or replaced, but she still had felt some need to return to Hogwarts, to layer fresh memories over the old and let the new memories form a mental cushion against the horrific ones from her seventh year. It had worked, too, and while that day would never be forgotten, Hogwarts felt like home again in a way that her flat in London never had.

But if Hogwarts was home, Minerva McGonagall was her mother, and since her return she and Minerva had shared the closest of friendships. They had tea together every weekend - often with Rosa Sprout and Irma Pince rounding out the group - and frequently got together after the evening meal in the Great Hall to play chess or talk. The first year of teaching is always a challenge, and Hermione had leaned heavily on her former Head of House, going to her frequently for advice and counsel. Even now, with nearly two years of teaching experience, she still sought Minerva out almost weekly with some quandary or another, counting on the older woman to help her sort things out.

So how could it be other than a blow when her friend and mentor told her she was leaving? She simply couldn’t imagine Hogwarts without Minerva. It didn’t seem possible. “But…you’ve never said a word,” she spluttered. “When did you decide to do this?”

Minerva looked at her thoughtfully. “I suppose I’ve been thinking of it ever since Filius retired two years ago. I suspect that Albus will retire too one day in the not-too-distant future, and to be perfectly frank, I have no desire to succeed him. I’d prefer to go first.”

Hermione felt selfish tears prick her eyes. "I’m sorry," she sniffed, wiping first one side then the other. "I’m really happy for you. I am. It’s just…"

Minerva reached out and squeezed her hand. "I understand, my dear. I’d be a bit hurt if you weren’t upset, to own the truth. It’s nice to know I’ll be missed.” The older witch got a devilish look in her eye. “And just to be sure you keep out of trouble, I’ve recommended to Albus that he make you Head of Gryffindor.”

"Head of Gryffindor! Minerva! Are you sure I’m up to that? What about Charlie?"

"Charlie has a family and doesn’t want to live at the castle. And besides, as good a teacher as he is, I think you’re the best one for the job. I wouldn’t have recommended you otherwise. We’ll begin working immediately to make the transition, and by next year the Gryffindors will be as used to you as they are to me."

“You’ll be wonderful, Hermione,” Rosa assured her, giving her arm a pat. “The children adore you, and after a while, you’ll come to think of them as your own.”

That was an odd thought, and one that Hermione wasn’t entirely comfortable with. She enjoyed teaching and genuinely liked most of her students, but she certainly had never entertained maternal feelings toward them - even toward the youngest group. It was difficult to picture herself as the matriarch of Gryffindor, which was how she’d always envisioned Minerva. She couldn’t imagine mastering the blend of sternness and fondness that Minerva McGonagall used to such great effect.

Her uncertainty must have shown on her face because Minerva gave her another reassuring smile. “I’ll be here the rest of this term to help you find your way. By the time I leave, you’ll be perfectly ready to take over.”

Hermione nodded with more confidence than she actually felt and then grinned weakly. “I’m not sure if I should thank you or hex you.”

“You know, I still say that about my predecessor, fifty years later,” Minerva said, laughing.

“As do I,” Rosa agreed. “Depends on when you ask me. I know it’ll be hard to let go, though, when it’s my turn to leave.” She gave Minerva a knowing look.

“Indeed it will,” Minerva said with a sad smile. “Indeed it will.”

§§§§

“Tell me, Severus…how is the situation with Stuart McFerren?” Dumbledore asked as he poured his fourth cup of tea.

“He spent the better part of February as Filch’s indentured servant and has given no further trouble that I know of. Why? Have you heard something I haven’t?” Snape stretched and tried to sneak a look at his watch.

“No, not at all, not at all. I just realized I hadn’t asked you about him lately. You know I thought that under the circumstances your approach was rather…”

“The boy didn’t need coddling, Albus.”

“His mother died just four months ago.”

“Really? I’d forgotten,” Snape said blandly.

“Severus.” The Headmaster peered at Snape over his half-moon glasses.

“The death of his mother, while unfortunate, is no excuse for setting fire to the Slytherin common room.”

“Perhaps he needed a bit of extra attention.”

“He got it.” Snape sipped his tea and met the Headmaster’s gaze calmly.

Dumbledore sighed and relinquished that subject for a new one. “I have a bit of unwelcome news, Severus.”

“Ah, to the point at last.” Snape set teacup down on the table beside him and looked at Dumbledore expectantly.

“Minerva has told me that she intends to retire as of the end of this term,” Dumbledore watched carefully for signs of his news making an impact. Though older than Hermione, Snape was still young enough that he couldn’t remember Hogwarts without Minerva McGonagall. Only the departure of Dumbledore himself would be more of a shock.

Years of practice at hiding his emotions stood him in good stead, however, and Snape merely drawled, “And of course, you want me to plan the going-away party.”

“Well, I hadn’t considered that, but if you’re volunteering…”

“Certainly. Who better?”

“Hmm. Perhaps it would be in Minerva’s best interest if we gave that question further consideration. In the meantime, I had something else I wanted to discuss with you.”

“I’m panting with curiosity.”

“Minerva’s departure will create several vacancies here. We’re losing our Transfigurations instructor, Gryffindor’s Head of House, and our Deputy Headmistress all in one go.”

“No, Albus. Absolutely not.”

Dumbledore smiled benignly in the face of Snape’s thunderous glare. “I haven’t asked you anything yet.”

“No, you haven’t, but as I’ve long since forgotten how to change a turtle into a teapot and you wouldn’t dream of trusting me with your precious Gryffindors, I can only assume that you mean to saddle me with a mountain of administrative minutia. And the answer is no.”

“I need someone I can trust, Severus.”

“There is no instructor here less trustworthy than I,” Snape insisted. “I’m a proud Slytherin. We’re the sneakiest lot around. We lie, cheat, and steal. You know you can’t trust any of us.”

Dumbledore laughed. “I would trust you with my life, Severus, and have, on many occasions.”

“And it’s a wonder you’re here to tell the tale. What about Moody? The students are even more terrified of him than they are of me - and don’t think I’m not jealous of the senile old…”

“Severus…”

“At any rate, you’d have no more discipline problems. Moody would be perfect.”

 “Alastor is still conducting Auror training in what little spare time he has. It wouldn’t be right to add to his duties just now.”

“Oh, but it’s fine to add to mine!” Snape said bitterly. “I’m doing research in what little spare time I have, in case you’ve forgotten. What about Sprout?”

“I doubt that Rosa would be interested.”

“Perhaps you’ve suddenly grown hard of hearing. I’m not interested.”

“And besides,” Dumbledore went on, as if he hadn’t heard, “Rosa isn’t far from retirement herself. Minerva said she thought it was time for her duties to pass into younger hands. I find myself agreeing with her.”

“Well if it’s youth you want, what about Weasley? Or Granger? She’s practically larval.”

“I will be asking Hermione to take over as Head of Gryffindor, and I think that’s all she should attempt just now, as such a new instructor. Charlie has said that he’s not interested in living here at the castle. I think Elspeth prefers Hogsmeade. No, Severus, you’re the one I want.”

Snape stood up and started pacing the room, his robes billowing around him.

“I’m curious, Severus…why are you still here?”

“What?” Snape paused and glared at the Headmaster. “Where else should I be?” He resumed his energetic circuit of the office.

“Oh, do sit down,” Dumbledore said irritably, waving him back to his chair. “It’s difficult to talk with you when you’re flapping about the room.”

Snape hurled himself back into his seat and crossed his arms. “Fine.”

“Now, to my question. Why are you still here at Hogwarts?”

“And to repeat my question, where else should I be? I was under the impression that I had a job to do here.”

“Surely you don’t think you’re the only one qualified to teach Potions classes? You’re overqualified, and we both know it. You could easily support yourself as a potions brewer.”

“Fine, then. I’ll just go pack, shall I?”

Dumbledore smiled. “I’d rather you didn’t. The truth is that I had hoped, after the war, that you would…make some changes in your life.”

“Pity that’s not your decision.”

Dumbledore made a sound of exasperation. “You’re not a spy anymore, my friend. You’re a decorated hero. And yet you continue to skulk in shadows and behave like a dragon with a toothache. You’re too young to live the way you do.”

“How I live is my own business, Albus,” Snape answered stiffly. “Unless you have some complaint about the way I perform my duties here, I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Well, I’m not terribly good at keeping my opinions to myself when I see someone I care about forgetting to live.”

“Oh for the love of…”

“Hear me out,” Dumbledore said firmly. “You’re either here because you’re hiding from the world or because you actually care about the students and the school - or perhaps it’s some combination of both. Whatever, I won’t permit you to hide in the dungeons any longer. If you intend to stay at Hogwarts - and I sincerely hope you do - then it’s time for you to step forward and take what I believe is your rightful place in the school’s future.”

“And if I refuse…?”

“Try it for a year. That’s all I ask.”

Snape glared fiercely at the Headmaster and then reached for his cup of tea, now cold, and raised it in mock salute. “To your very good health, Albus - for at least the next year. After that I won’t much care.”

Dumbledore returned the gesture and chuckled. “I’m touched, Severus.”

“You certainly are.”

§§§§
 

“It’s not what you think, Professor Granger. Sean borrowed my notes and left them in the library. I was just going to get them – that’s it, I swear.”

Hermione gave her student a look of blatant disbelief. “I went to school here, too, Miss Sterling, and I’ve made the trip from Gryffindor Tower to the library more times than I can count. Never once did it occur to me to get there by way of the Astronomy Tower. Try again.”

“Well, er…the staircase shifted – you know how they’re always doing that – and I got turned around.”

“Uh huh.” Hermione sighed. “I believe Professor Snape already deducted points, so I’m giving you three days of detention. The first is for being out after curfew, the second is for letting Professor Snape catch you, and the third is for insulting my intelligence.” She ticked each offence off on her fingers as she spoke and tried not to smile at the girl’s sulky look. “And do tell Mr. Whitworth that it wasn’t terribly chivalrous of him to allow you to take all the blame.”

The girl’s mouth fell open, and then she caught herself and closed it quickly.

Gotcha, Hermione thought, and this time she couldn’t hide her smile. Aloud she said, “I’m not blind, and I was your age once too.”

“Did you ever get caught out after curfew?” Fiona Sterling ventured.

“Oh, yes,” Hermione admitted with a grin. “And by Professor Snape, too.”

“Really? Wow - he’s been here forever then.”

“Thanks loads, Fiona,” Hermione said dryly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Professor – I didn’t mean…”

“Better quit while you’re ahead,” Hermione advised. “Come on – we can walk out together. I assume you’re going to the match.”

“Yes, Professor.”

Hermione stood up and gestured the fifth-year student out ahead of her. In the week since Dumbledore had announced that she would be taking over as Gryffindor’s new Head of House, she had learned that the new position was one headache after another. Both Dumbledore and Minerva favoured immersion as the best method for learning, and immediately they began referring the majority of Gryffindor’s problems to Professor Granger. She heard grievances and dried tears and administered detentions as her normal marking piled up, and she frequently caught Minerva smirking at her in the most irritating way imaginable. The bad thing about good friends is that they know your weaknesses, and Minerva had known that Hermione would never back down from the new challenge.

The day’s Quidditch match was a fresh source of anxiety. It was Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, and the rivalry between those two Houses had changed little since her days as a student. She had always enjoyed watching Gryffindor play before, but her new responsibilities made the prospect of such an emotionally charged match seem more nerve-wracking than pleasant. Minerva had given her strict instructions as to how any unsporting behaviour was to be disciplined, and as she climbed into the staff box, nodding and speaking pleasantly to her co-workers, she hoped fervently that Fiona Sterling’s detention was the last one she would assign that day.

Unfortunately, nothing Minerva could have said would have prepared her for the melee that followed when, after an unusually high number of fouls on both sides, Gryffindor’s beater "accidentally" clubbed one of the Slytherin players in the head, knocking her unconscious in mid-flight. She dropped from the sky, and only the quick levitation charm cast by Madam Hooch kept her from certain death. There was a roar of outrage, and then a brawl broke out in midair, with players firing hexes at one another and falling from the air quicker than the staff could catch them. Poppy Pomfrey had the presence of mind to cast a pillowing charm on the ground, guaranteeing safer landings, but the outrage was such that the acrimony spread to the stands, and the spectators began fighting too.

For a few moments, Hermione heard the screaming and the cries of pain and anger but was helpless to do anything to stop them. She stood frozen in the stands, the Quidditch pitch reminding her of that last battle against Voldemort, held on the Hogwarts grounds five years before. There were no flashes of green light on this day, thank fortune, but she recognized that the children were playing at war, using charms and hexes that she had taught them, and the sight sickened her. She suddenly remember the agonized look on Professor Flitwick's face that terrible day, and she understood it, just as she understood why he retired so soon afterwards. She glanced at Albus Dumbledore and thought that perhaps he was reminded of the final battle, too, because he was more furious than she’d ever seen him off of the battlefield. He pointed his wand skyward, and there was a deafening explosion and a blinding flash of pure white light. It was more than enough, and the students froze where they were, lowered their wands, and looked at him, horrified as the realization of what they had done overtook them. Many of the younger girls were crying, and Hermione automatically moved toward a group of first and second years to comfort them. The Headmaster stopped her with a firm hand.

"This match is over," he said, his magically amplified voice rumbling across the pitch, awesome in its authority. He looked to his left and right, taking in the disaster and making sure that everyone could read his profound disappointment. Hermione saw seventh year boys - young men - cringe and hang their heads. "I will be giving some thought to whether Gryffindor and Slytherin will be allowed to participate in Quidditch matches in future. In the meantime, Professors Snape and Granger will assign appropriate punishments." He turned to the Professors in question, his voice no longer magnified. "Professors, I'll expect the two of you to work together to make sure this is dealt with in a way that will guarantee it won't happen again. You will report to me on Wednesday to let me know what you've decided."

"Yes, Headmaster," Hermione mumbled, feeling unaccountably guilty for something she didn't do and couldn't control. Snape seemed not to suffer in the same way, and she was not surprised, since guilt requires actual feelings, and those had never been Snape's particular burden as far as she could tell. He just gave Albus a quick nod, his mouth a tense line of fury, and swept away to start sorting through the students, sending some to the Hospital wing and others to their dormitories. The rest of the staff followed his lead, and soon students were limping off the field, some belching slugs and frogs, others with smoke pouring from their ears, and one unfortunate Slytherin boy stripped to his underwear by a denuding charm. Hermione was surprised at that; she didn’t even teach that charm, so some enterprising Gryffindor must have been sneaking into the Restricted Section. It reminded her of something she, Harry, and Ron would have done during their own school years, and she was secretly amused. Very secretly.

The rest of that day was devoted to putting students back together. Since her healing charms were better than average, Hermione spent the afternoon in the infirmary with Poppy, handling the lighter cases and administering pepper-up and analgesic potions with a liberal hand. Minerva McGonagall and Rosa Sprout consoled the younger students, who mostly hadn't participated in the fracas. They were nearly finished in the hospital wing when Snape swept in with a fresh quantity of several of the potions they were using.

"Thank you, Professor." Snape was the only one of her colleagues that Hermione couldn’t bring herself to address by his first name. Everyone else, even crotchety Alastor Moody, had invited her to do so, but Snape never had. In her mind, he was still just "Snape," and she suspected he was content to remain as such. She knew it worked for her.

She reached for the analgesic and poured out the proper dose for the battered Gryffindor on the cot before her. Snape looked at the student with an unpleasant sneer, which Hermione would admit was deserved so long as he didn’t spare his equally guilty Slytherins the same response.

He didn’t bother to say "you’re welcome." Instead, he said, "My last class ends at two o'clock on Monday. Meet me in my office then and we'll discuss the punishments."

Hermione nodded automatically, and then it occurred to her that she was no longer his student and that what he had just said should have been phrased as a question. She wanted to call him on it but didn’t, partly because it would be inappropriate in front of a student and partly because she was still intimidated by him, though she wouldn’t have admitted it under threat of torture.

To save face, she said, "I think that will be convenient for me. If something else comes up, I'll let you know."

He smirked, making it obvious that he knew that they were under official mandate and that after the disaster on the Quidditch pitch that day, nothing would come up that was more important than meeting with him. "Thank you, Professor Granger, for working me into your busy schedule."

If there was anything worse than no courtesy, it was false courtesy, and despite the presence of the student who was hanging on their every word, Hermione glared at Snape, wishing she had a sarcastic comeback and the courage to actually use it, the former being moot without the latter. She had neither, however, and he knew it...damn him. He gave her a mock bow and put the rest of the potions down on the table beside her before sweeping out.

§ § § §
 

 She spent most of Monday dreading the meeting. Snape had been recognized as a war hero after the final battle with Voldemort during Hermione’s seventh year, and there had been great hope amongst his acquaintances that the hard-earned commendations would result in some improvement in the man’s disposition. He soon quashed that hope; he had remained as surly and unpleasant as a hero as ever he had been as a spy. Heretofore, Hermione had dealt with him by not dealing with him at all. They sat at opposite ends of the High Table at meals, and other than that, she seldom even saw him. One of the more disagreeable aspects of becoming Head of Gryffindor was that this policy of Snape-avoidance would no longer be possible. Not only was he a fellow Head of House, but he would also be the Deputy Headmaster, at least for an interim period. There was no question but that she would have to put up with a certain amount of interaction with the disagreeable man, so she mentally girded herself for the unpleasant duty and arrived at Snape’s dungeon office at the appointed time. When a knock at the door brought no response, she hesitantly turned the knob, surprised when the door actually opened. She poked her head in, found it empty, and decided to wait inside rather than standing in the hall. It was just as she remembered it from her school days. Dark, damp, and thoroughly unpleasant, with assorted repulsive things bobbing in the jars that lined the many shelves. She took the liberty of lighting two additional torches but found that they did little to cut the gloom of the room.

How did the man stand it down here, day in and day out? She shuddered as her eyes lit on a jar of…well, eyes, species indeterminable - to her at least. She looked away and wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chill of the room. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she turned up the fire a bit? She pointed her wand at the smouldering coals, and soon a fire was blazing. She took herself closer to it and basked in its warmth, wondering about the odd man who would willingly choose such conditions.
 
A knock at the door surprised her, but, expecting it to be a student, she called "come in" and was further surprised when a wizened House-Elf entered, awkwardly bearing what appeared to be a picnic basket.

"Hello miss," he said, nodding deferentially. "I is looking for Mr. Severus." The Elf shifted from one foot to the next, and his eyes shifted around the room nervously.

"I’m sorry. Professor Snape isn’t here just at the moment. I do expect him soon, however. Would you care to wait?"

"Oh, no, miss. I must leave. I must leave now. If I can ask, miss, is you a friend of Mr. Severus?"

Hermione tried not to laugh at that. "Professor Snape and I are colleagues," she answered, hoping that would satisfy the Elf. "May I give him a message for you?"

"Oh yes, miss. That is just what I is asking you to do! Would you give him this, please?" He set the basket down on the floor. "It belongs to Mr. Severus…and I is returning it. You will tell him, miss?"

"Certainly, I will," she said, smiling at the Elf kindly. "I’ll be happy to."

"Thank you, miss. I is thanking you very much!" The elf practically danced with relief and then disappeared with a pop, a confused Hermione smiling and shaking her head after him. She was positive that she wouldnever understand House Elves.

She returned to the fire, still trying to keep warm in the frigid room, when Snape suddenly flung open the door and swooped in.

"Professor Granger," he said coldly from just inside the doorway. "I see you’ve made yourself at home, despite not actually having been invited in."

"I lit the torches and stoked the fire, Professor, and the latter, at least, seemed necessary to sustain life in this ice box you call an office. Had you been on time for our meeting, I certainly wouldn’t have taken such liberties."

"My duties as a Head of House take precedence over my appointments - a fact which you will no doubt discover first-hand in the near future."

He crossed the room, nearly tripping over the basket the Elf had left behind. "What, pray, is this, and why have you left it in the middle of my floor?"

"I’ve no idea what it is, and I didn’t leave it there. A House Elf just delivered it. He said it was something of yours, and he was just returning it."

Snape glared at the basket. "It sounds like some student’s idea of a prank." He gave the basket a nudge with his foot. "You didn’t think to ask who sent him, I suppose."

"I really didn’t consider it my business, Professor," she answered frostily.

"I should just throw it away." He pointed his wand at the basket, and something made Hermione speak up.

"The Elf really didn’t seem to be joking," she said quickly. "Perhaps you should just take a peek."

"Be my guest," he said. "This should be amusing."

He folded his arms and looked a challenge at her. She nodded and took a deep breath, raising one end of the basket and seeing nothing but soft white flannel. She put a cautious hand in and felt the warmth of the form within, and then she knew, and with a stunned look at Snape she hurried to open the other side.

The baby was tiny, newly born by her estimation, with a shock of spiky black hair against its forehead. It was so tightly swaddled that only its face and one miniature fist were visible, and it began to squirm slightly as the blast of cold air hit it.

"Er, Professor…"

"What is that?"

"I believe its called a baby. The Elf said quite clearly that it was yours." At the utterly horrified look on his face, she couldn’t help making the most of the moment. "Care to tell us what you did on your summer vacation, Professor Snape?" she teased.

"That is not my child, Professor Granger," he answered coldly. "I don’t care what some bloody Elf said."

"Looks something like you," she noted. "It has your colouring."

"Oh, well that settles it. Of course. All the dark-haired babies in the world must belong to me."

"Could it be yours?" she asked, a little awkwardly.

"It could not," he insisted, stone-faced. "Not that it’s any of your business, but I did research over the summer, most of it right here in this very dungeon. I am well-acquainted with the facts of life, Professor Granger, and I can tell you without equivocation that that is not my child."

She was about to ask another question when the baby’s squirming increased and began to be accompanied by sound - a whimper at first, and then a cry, and then a full-blown wail that echoed against the stone walls and seemed to accost them from every direction.

Hermione and Snape glanced at the baby, then at one another, and then back at the baby again, but all of that looking around did absolutely nothing to right what the baby clearly felt were serious wrongs.

"Can’t you do something about that?" Snape said, gesturing in the direction of the basket.

"It was left for you, Professor," she answered, raising her voice to be heard over the baby’s cries. "You do something about it."

"Fine," he snapped, drawing his wand.

"Not that!" she cried, stepping between the wand and the child. "Have you lost your mind?"

"You little fool!” he shouted. “You should know better than to step in front of a wand. I was just going to cast a silencing charm - something from which that creature would obviously benefit."

Their shouting at one another did nothing to soothe the baby, whose shrieks actually escalated just when Hermione had been sure they couldn’t get any louder. It was a most nerve-wracking sound, one that seemed to crawl up and down Hermione’s spine and rattle her brain and insist - insist - that she do something to make it stop.

The only "something" she could come up with, short of Snape’s silencing charm, was picking the baby up, and so she did. She hadn’t held many babies, and she’d never held one quite this new. She’d done some babysitting during the summers when she was a teenager, but those babies had been older, and holding them was nothing like picking up this tiny enraged being. In its fury, it had loosened the blanket that had swaddled it, and now the small hands were flailing and its entire body was quivering as it screamed, red-faced, in protest.

Only she wasn’t at all sure of what, exactly, the child was protesting. Had it been old enough to be aware that it had just been abandoned into the custody of Severus Snape, its rage would have been more than justified, in her opinion, but to simply wake out of a sound sleep and enter into such a tirade seemed - well, unreasonable. And Hermione Granger had never had much use for unreasonable people. Still, some instinct drove her to pull the child close, to attempt to still its shudders and wails with her own solid warmth. She took the bundle of blankets into her arms and pulled it near, drawing the dark head to her breast, and the baby’s cries immediately began to subside into something tolerable, more of a fussy whimper. She was relieved at first, and then she realized that the small face had turned to her breast, and the baby’s open mouth was searching for something she couldn’t possibly provide. The realization caused an immediate rush of mortification, but she hadn’t the heart to put the child down again when her presence was so obviously a comfort. She was an adult, damn it, and she was just as fully in possession of the facts of life as Snape. She refused to be embarrassed by something as simple as a nursing baby.

"It’s hungry," she said. "We need to get it something to eat."

"Fine. You do that. We can reschedule our meeting for tomorrow, if you like."

With the baby still rooting at her empty breast, she gaped at him. "I beg your pardon. You’re not dumping this on me!"

"Well I’m certainly not keeping it. What on earth would I do with an infant? Clearly it was left here by mistake."

"Possibly," she said, "but that doesn’t mean you’re absolved from all responsibility. It was left to you. This is your problem, Professor, not mine."

"It likes you," he said, and as he gestured toward her and the baby he seemed to realize for the first time what the baby was doing and how, exactly, Hermione had been so sure it was hungry.

He glanced away quickly but went on. "Surely you can take care of it until the proper authorities come to claim it. Or take it to Pomfrey. She’ll look after it."

He still wasn’t quite meeting her eyes. Instead, he was looking just over her shoulder. His face was arranged in its usual cold mask, and Hermione realized that she really couldn’t leave the baby with him. It didn’t matter that Snape was being a bastard and avoiding responsibility. What mattered was that he was completely disinterested in caring for the child in her arms. She would not sacrifice a helpless baby just to prove a point.

"Fine," she snapped, clutching the baby tighter as it began to vocalize its frustration. "I’ll take care of it. I certainly can’t leave it down here in this icebox with you."

Without bothering to gather up the basket, she fled the frigid room and its equally cold inhabitant and took the baby out of the dungeons and into the comparative warmth of the castle above. The baby was beginning to cry again, and she knew from the previous round that it was likely to get worse instead of better unless she addressed some of its more basic needs. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to go about doing that. She stood in the corridor for a moment and decided that perhaps Snape’s advice to go to Poppy Pomfrey had actually been sound. Surely the mediwitch would know what to do for a baby.

She braved a few curious stares on her way to the Hospital wing, but no one actually asked her any questions. By the time she arrived at the infirmary, the baby was wailing again, and Poppy Pomfrey met her at the door, a look of absolute wonder on her face. "Hermione! What on earth…"

"It was left in Professor Snape’s office," she said, holding the baby out slightly as if presenting exhibit A. "A House-Elf brought it and said it was his…that he was returning it."

"Severus? A baby?" Poppy’s astonishment, though profound, did not stop her from taking the baby with sure hands and peeling the blanket away, automatically beginning an examination.

"He says it can’t be his – wouldn’t have anything to do with it, actually. That’s why I brought it up here."

"Well, we’ll get to the bottom of all that later. First thing we need to do is get this little one taken care of." She had stripped the screaming baby down to a little undershirt and nappy. "See there…soaked through." She stripped the shirt off, and Hermione saw the blackened stub of the baby’s umbilical cord.

"Is that…normal?" she asked.

"For Muggle babies it is. This baby is either a Muggle or was born at a Muggle hospital. The cord is removed completely before babies are discharged from St. Mungo’s. I’ll deal with that in a minute. First…" She unpinned the nappy, and Hermione wrinkled her nose at the oily black mess therein, though there wasn’t actually much odour.

"Yuck."

Poppy chuckled. "Haven’t changed many nappies, have you?"

"A few," she said. "But not in a long time."

"Well, it’s been a while for me too, but I think I remember how. At any rate, now we know that this little one is a boy."

Hermione smiled slightly at that. "I was beginning to feel badly about calling him an ‘it.’"

"Well, now you don’t have to." Poppy held the soiled nappy up and performed a quick cleaning charm, and then wiped the baby’s skin carefully with a soft cloth. By now the baby was enraged again, arching his back against the table and flinging his arms wide as he shrieked his displeasure. "There we go," she said soothingly, fastening the nappy. "You’re all clean. Now we need to see about getting you something to eat." She didn’t bother with the undershirt but instead wrapped the baby in the blanket again, binding the flailing limbs tightly.

"Please, can’t you do something?" Hermione begged, as the crying began to take its toll on her nerves again.

"Well, there’s a problem," Poppy said, giving Hermione a worried look. "I can transfigure a bottle for him, but we’ve nothing suitable to put in it. The milk from the kitchens would upset his stomach terribly, and the only one capable of making a decent formula would be Severus, and that would take a while."

"I’ll run to Hogsmeade," Hermione offered desperately. "Surely they sell something there."

"They might at the apothecary’s, but I rather doubt it. You’d probably have to Apparate somewhere and buy Muggle formula. Most witches nurse their babies. There’s powerful magic in mother’s milk." Her brows drew together and she looked at Hermione thoughtfully. "There’s a charm…"

"Yes?"

"Would you be willing to feed him?"

Hermione looked at the mediwitch, astonished. "But I can’t…I’m not…"

"As I said, there’s a charm that can take care of that." Poppy jiggled the baby in an effort to calm him. "It requires a witch of child-bearing age, or I would do it myself. It’s completely painless, and it would probably only be for a day or so - just until we figure out what’s to be done with this little one."

Ultimately, Hermione’s decision was made by an instinct she hadn’t known she possessed - an instinct that was telling her to do anything she had to do calm the baby’s cries. Poppy set him aside and let him wail another minute whilst she touched the tip of her wand to each of Hermione’s breasts in turn. Hermione felt a flash of warmth followed by a feeling of unaccustomed fullness. Immediately Poppy drew the wand away, Hermione felt her nipples tingle and tighten in response to the baby’s cries, and there was an almost painful tug in her left breast followed by a feeling of wetness under her robes. "Oh…" she gasped.

"It must have worked then," Poppy said. "Let’s get you out of those robes." She began to unfasten Hermione’s teaching robes and then reached for the baby as Hermione unbuttoned the blouse beneath; the left side was already damp. Fortunately, her bra hooked in the front, so she was able to undo it without assistance, but she felt slightly embarrassed as she bared herself in front of the older witch. Poppy had given her physicals before, of course, but suddenly Hermione’s own body felt unfamiliar to her, and it seemed strange to be exposing it to someone else before she herself had had a chance to acquaint herself with the changes.

"I, er…I don’t know what to do."

"I’ll help you," Poppy said soothingly, "and I’ll be very much surprised if this wee one doesn’t show you just how it’s done. Here, hold him like this…"

Poppy positioned the baby at her breast and his cries subsided immediately into eager grunts of enthusiasm as he smelled the milk and moved, open-mouthed, toward its source. Hermione watched in awe and then gasped as the tiny lips clamped down with a vice grip on her tender flesh and his jaw began to move rhythmically as he suckled. He didn’t enjoy his meal in silence either, but instead emitted sharp gulping sounds with each inhalation until his initial hunger abated. Hermione’s amazement at the entire proceeding was so profound that she had to remind herself to breathe as she watched the baby’s greedy mouth at her breast, watched his tiny hands knead the rounded flesh. She reached down and inserted a finger into one of those small fists and felt his fingers close automatically around hers. Tears sprang to her eyes and she looked at Poppy in embarrassment and surprise.

"It’s the charm’s effect on your hormones, my dear. Nothing to be concerned about." Poppy smiled at her. "You’re doing wonderfully."

Hermione had never given the slightest bit of thought to nursing a baby because she hadn’t thought that she’d ever have a baby. She’d never particularly yearned for children, and the distinct absence of any man in her life had made all thoughts on the subject seem moot, but at that moment, with all those magically charged hormones coursing through her and those sweet lips at her breast, she realized that this was something she wanted to do again. She pulled the baby closer and stroked the soft hair with her free hand.

The baby’s jaw was moving more slowly now, and his eyes were closed tightly. "I think he’s going to sleep," she whispered.

"Probably so," Poppy agreed. "You’ll want to burp him now, and once he burps, try to get him to nurse on the other side. If you don’t, you’ll be uncomfortable later."

Hermione obediently tried to pull the baby away from her breast. "Ow! He won’t let go."

Poppy chuckled and inserted a finger into the corner of the baby’s mouth, breaking the suction.

"There you go. Now lift him to your shoulder and pat his back a bit." Poppy showed her the proper position, and soon the baby emitted a wet belch.

"Oops!" Poppy chuckled. "First rule with a baby is to brush up on your cleaning charms." She waved her wand and dried Hermione’s shoulder and then helped her position the child at the other breast. The burp seemed to have revived his interest in eating, and he began sucking with renewed enthusiasm. Once again, Hermione felt the painful tug in her breast.

"It hurts a bit," she said, "like something pulling at me."

"It’s the milk letting down. Perfectly normal, and it shouldn’t last more than a few seconds."

"No," Hermione agreed. "It’s gone already."

"Now your nipples might be a bit sore. Newborns nurse a lot, and no two ways about it." Poppy rose and began sifting through a nearby drawer. Finally, she emerged with a small vial. "Rub a bit of this oil on tonight before you go to sleep, and that should help with any tenderness."

"This is just…amazing. I never imagined it would be like this."

"Just wait’ll it’s your own, dear. You’ll feel all this and much, much more."

Hermione looked down at the babe in her arms and felt a brief flash of guilt. Perhaps she should have saved this experience for her own child, saved these memories for a baby she would see grow up rather than one she would almost certainly have to part with in a day or so. Then again, what if she never did have her own child? Wasn’t it wonderful that she was having this experience now?

It didn’t matter, of course, as the thing was already done. She could not have let the little boy continue to cry with hunger knowing that it was within her capabilities to stop it, and that was all there was to that. She sat quietly, holding the child in her arms as his jaw moved more and more slowly and finally stopped altogether for whole minutes at a time. Then, suddenly, he would seem to remember the nipple in his mouth and would suck vigorously for a few seconds before subsiding again.

"He’s sleeping now," Poppy said quietly. "You’ll want to burp him again."

Hermione detached the baby from her breast, and her reluctance to do so must have shown on her face because Poppy chuckled at her. "Trust me, my dear. If  we’re to keep him over night, you’ll get plenty of opportunities to do this again."

The comment cut through the romance of the situation and brought Hermione back to the harsh reality that faced the abandoned child in her arms. As she gently patted the sleeping baby’s back, she said, "I suppose I should go see the Headmaster next."

"Yes. I want to do a quick examination first, but then you should definitely take the little one to Albus. He’ll know the right thing to do."

With his appetite sated, the baby slept through Poppy’s examination, barely moving as she weighed him, tested his reflexes, listened to his heart and lungs, and then cast a quick spell to rid him of the rest of his umbilical cord. She dressed him again in the undershirt and swaddled him before handing him to Hermione and reaching for a stack of flannels. "Here," she said. "You and Minerva can have fun tonight transfiguring these into baby clothes. I’m afraid that’s rather out of my area of expertise. Make them warm, though, and make him some more undershirts. This draughty old castle is no place for a newborn."

"How old do you think he is?" Hermione arranged the flannels awkwardly under one arm as she held the baby tightly in the crook of the other.

"Not more than a day or two,” Poppy said. "Wherever this child’s mother is, I hope she parted from him willingly. If not, she’ll be out of her mind with worry by now."

Hermione shuddered at the thought of the baby’s mother frantically looking for him, mourning his loss. She already felt a protective surge of what could only be maternal feelings for the child. How much stronger would those feelings be if he were her own, carried within her body for months? The loss would simply be unbearable.
 

§§§§

 She took her little bundle up to the Headmaster’s office, and she couldn’t help wondering if, even under these bizarre circumstances, Albus would greet her with an all-knowing smile, as if he had spent the afternoon expecting Professor Granger to arrive with a newborn and had already conjured a cradle for that very purpose. Omniscience is very irritating when one is feeling overwhelmed, and she thought she just might lose her temper completely if that happened.

In fact it didn’t, and Albus looked upon the burden in her arms with raised eyebrows. He didn’t comment directly but instead ushered her in and guided her toward a chair before gently pushing the blankets aside and peeking at the baby’s face.

"I see you’ve brought a visitor," he said, and though he smiled as he said the words, the smile didn’t quite reach the hooded eyes, and Hermione knew he had some premonition that what she had to tell him wouldn’t make for pleasant hearing.

"Yes, sir," she said, arranging the baby more comfortably in her arms before taking a deep breath and beginning her tale. "I went down to the dungeons a couple of hours ago to meet with Professor Snape. We were going to discuss the problems at Saturday’s Quidditch match. He wasn’t in his office when I arrived, but I went in to wait, and while I was there, a House Elf arrived with a basket. He said…" she bit her lip as she tried to remember the exact words. "He asked for Professor Snape, and when I said the Professor wasn’t there yet, he told me he was in a hurry and needed to leave and asked me to give Professor Snape the basket he was carrying. He said it was something that belonged to the Professor and that he wanted to make sure it was returned. He put the basket down on the floor and disappeared."

"And what was Professor Snape’s response?"

"Well, at first he thought it was one of the students playing a prank. He didn’t even want to open the basket. So I did, and then when we saw what it was…well, we were both surprised, of course, but Professor Snape insisted it couldn’t be his child and wouldn’t have anything to do with him, even when he started to cry."

"So you took over from there."

"Well, yes, sir. I pretty much had to. It was obvious that Professor Snape wasn’t going to care for him. He tried to cast a silencing charm when the baby cried!" She pulled the baby close, instinctively protective in her outrage.

Dumbledore shook his head slightly but defended his Potions Master. "Severus has very little experience of babies, Hermione. I doubt he intended any harm to the child."

"Well he certainly wasn’t helping any. Anyway, I took the baby to Poppy, and she examined him and, er, showed me how to take care of him, at least until we figure out where he belongs."

"And are you willing to do that?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so. But I admit that I expected you to have some idea of what to do with him…I mean, I didn’t think I’d be keeping him very long."

"Possibly not," Dumbledore agreed. "And yet…there are aspects of this that intrigue me, and I find that I’m reluctant to contact the Ministry officials until I know a bit more. Tell me, Hermione, did the House-Elf give you his name?"

"Nooo," she said slowly. "Now that you mention it, he didn’t."

"Odd." Dumbledore commented. "House-Elves, as you know, make a habit of referring to themselves in the third person."

"You’re right," she agreed. "But this one didn’t. Not once."

"I will, of course, discuss this matter with Professor Snape privately, and at the first opportunity, but am I to understand that he is absolutely sure that he could not have fathered this child?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, determined not to blush. "I, er, teased him a bit, actually…asked him what he’d done on his summer vacation. He said he’d barely left the dungeon and that there was no way he could have fathered a child. He seemed quite certain on that point, and then he washed his hands of the matter."

"Hmmm." Dumbledore looked contemplatively into his teacup. "This is all quite strange. I believe we will keep the baby a bit longer. I can, of course, find someone else to look after him. His care is certain to be an inconvenience to you and well beyond your job description."

"Er…I don’t mind, sir…that is…" Hermione damned the blush that was rising to her cheeks, but she’d never expected to have to discuss such an intimate bodily function with Albus Dumbledore. Had it not been so sudden, so very new, perhaps it would have been easier. Most women had at least nine months to prepare to discuss these sorts of things with people. She’d had an hour, and it was insufficient. Dumbledore examined her sharply when he saw her embarrassment, but he didn’t immediately seem to grasp the cause of it.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"Poppy cast a charm on me, sir…you see, he was hungry, and we didn’t have anything to feed him..." Oh please let that be enough explanation, she thought, looking down at the sleeping child.

"I see," the Headmaster said softly. "And are you willing…?"

"Yes, sir." She looked up gratefully. "I may need some help during classes, but I’ll keep him with me otherwise. I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, of course, but I suppose I’ll figure it all out."

"I’ll assign Winky to assist you. She’ll be delighted, I suspect. And any other help you need, I’m sure Poppy can provide. Thank you, my dear. This is indeed above and beyond the call of duty. I have every hope that the situation will be resolved in a day or so and we can return the child to wherever it is that he belongs."

"I hope so, too, sir." She smiled at the Headmaster and then cast her eyes downward; the smile softened as she gazed on the sleeping child.

"You look very natural with a baby in your arms, Hermione. I suspect you’ll make a wonderful mother one day."

"Maybe," she answered simply. The thought didn’t seem as impossible as it once had.