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Observing the newest teacher gingerly lift the top parchment from her impressive pile and extract a piece of chewing gum glueing it to its neighbour, it occurred to Severus that very few newcomers to the Hogwarts staffroom ever were truly new to the school. There was always someone who had taught the newcomer, no matter how advanced their age (in this instance mid-thirties, which obviously was no age at all).
He did not count the home-educated wizard who had run away after three days, unable to deal with teenager hormones and anything louder than a carefully turned page.
As Poppy said, it did not do to get attached until the newcomers had settled in, which was understood to be had stayed past the first year; the short tenure of the Defence Against The Dark Arts teachers may take centuries of institutional memory to dissolve.
Not that Severus got attached, of course; he merely stopped using the adjective “new” when referring to someone and settled on a more suitable descriptor. “Annoying” or “barely literate”, for instance.
The former certainly applied to the witch who was struggling to dislodge another piece of chewing gum which had been cunningly hidden beneath the next roll of parchment and now had settled in her hair. To the accompaniment of muttered swearing (she must have picked up something from Ron Weasley during their long association), Severus watched her trying and failing to free herself.
He could offer to help, but knowing the students the way he did there was no end to the interesting substances he might expose himself to in the process. Better limit exposure to one person, so he could call for help in an emergency. Swearing didn't count as an emergency, obviously; Poppy would need to take up permanent residence in the staffroom if that were the case.
Loud, irritating, bossy and infuriating she may be, but Hermione Granger was not a new acquaintance to him even as an adult. She wasn't a stranger to the Hogwarts grounds, either – she had spent a few weeks every summer there ever since That Year.
Severus suspected the reason Minerva had decreed the annual gathering of the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore's Army and associated hangers-on took place at Hogwarts every year was so that he did not have a choice whether to attend or not, but she was far too crafty to ever let on.
He went, he drank a lot of Firewhisky and mostly observed the others. His fellow survivors, in the parlance of the American Squib psychologist Kingsley had dug up somewhere. Potter avoided her as well, he had noticed.
This year, Miss Granger had remained when the others decamped back to their own homes; her exit from the Ministry for Magic had been widely publicised, amidst the flurry of reactions to the house-elf liberation reforms. The general public was not quite as interested in her taking up the post as the teacher for Muggle Studies while Philip Pentworth went on paternity leave for a year; his former student Pansy Parkinson's reaction to the prospect of paying for household services was far more entertaining.
Minerva was delighted to have her protege back, of course; Severus had been pushed to concede that if he had to pick a Gryffindor teacher he would probably prefer Granger to Longbottom, and since the castle hadn't collapsed around the latter, they may yet pull through.
He was reserving his judgement, however; Longbottom was content to put his head down and observe his elders, but he had yet to see Granger choosing the path of least conflict.
Yet, here they were a few months into the school year and she had miraculously refrained from organising a teacher's union (as Deputy Headmaster Severus was reluctantly opposed to any industrial action; he knew just how strained their purse strings were) or mounted a campaign against the oppression of poltergeists. Perhaps she had learnt to pick her battles.
Or perhaps she was floundering under the mountain of work that engulfed any less experienced teacher; the scribbling and periodic sighing supported that hypothesis.
Severus leaned back to read the French treatise on antidotes Irma had ordered for him on loan from Beauxbatons with the ease of someone who has all their lessons for the year planned already.
Experience did come with a few perks.
Something caught fire over at Granger's desk, but she extinguished it before he got his wand out. Teaching was not for the unwary; he was glad she was learning the important lessons early in her career. Better scorched fingers now, than a fatal explosion later.
Courtesy of Nagini, Severus now sported a silver strand in the front section of his hair; silver hairs had started appearing elsewhere, too, but nothing like that band of light.
Everything had changed, and nothing; he was still a teacher at Hogwarts, his friends were still his friends despite the brief interlude during That Year, and he was still surrounded by dunderheaded students hellbent on killing themselves and everyone else in the castle at the slightest provocation.
One Thursday evening in November he laid claim to the most comfortable armchair in the staff room; Miss Doherty and Mr Khan had done something so harebrained to their asphodel puree that even Severus had not anticipated it was possible. After a full day of lessons following the incident, he had hardly had time to catch his breath. He needed to go over all the ways it had not turned into a disaster to be able to relax.
Preferably with a cup of tea in his hand, and if some whisky ended up there too, he wasn't going to complain.
The staff room was usually deserted at this time. Quiz night at the Three Broomsticks exerted a powerful attraction on his fellow teachers, at least the ones who remained on a nodding relationship with the rest of humanity – Sybil would probably remain in her tower until Christmas.
A loud snort disrupted the peace.
“I would hardly be bragging about it, you insufferable idiot!” came next, and Severus drew himself up to his full height.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, recognizing Granger's voice. Well, he had some choice words for her as well -
“Oh.” A head stuck up from over the frame of the couch in front of the fire. “I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. I was referring to Augustus Finchbottle-Flanagan, not you. Although perhaps he's a friend of yours?”
“I would say not,” Severus replied drily. “If it is the same Finchbottle-Flanagan, we had a difference of opinion at a conference last year.”
Her eyebrows climbed: “Really? Do you happen to have noticed the shoddy specification of which type of dragon blood he has used for his experiments?”
She held up her magazine, and Severus recognized Accounts of Potions Research.
“I may have pointed out that uncharitable observers may regard it as a tactic to avoid being challenged on the lack of replicable results. He did not agree,” he said.
“And this was last year? I would concur – not sure if you've seen it, but he's written an article complaining about the lack of wider application of his 'groundbreaking research'.” She fished around below his line of sight and emerged brandishing another copy of Accounts of Potions Research. “I went looking for the original article to see what all the fuss was about, and it quickly became obvious why he's the only person achieving those results.
“Well, he had to do something to rescue his research after the fallout with Robinson – did you see what she got up to?”
She rested her chin on her hands, facing him across the back of the couch, magazines forgotten. “No, what happened?”
Peace reigned at Hogwarts. The few students staying over the Christmas holidays did not seem to fancy spending Boxing Day with their teachers, so Severus had retired to the staff room to savour the peace.
He had brought his Christmas present from Hermione: Augustus Finchbottle-Flanagan's new book and a bottle of red ink to comment at will. As it turned out, Severus had got her the same book (minus the ink). Leafing through it briefly yesterday, he had caught several promising references to the experimental use of a staged brewing process (which Finchbottle-Flanagan had as much of a chance of getting right as Sybil had of winning the Muggle lotto).
He had just set down his cup of tea next to the couch in front of the fireplace and reached for the book when the fire turned green.
Severus had just enough time to wonder what merry hell this was (in his experience ailing relatives invariably died when Poppy was away, leaving him and Minerva to summon up whatever comforting words they could find) when Hermione stumbled out of the Floo, bleary-eyed and frayed around the edges.
“I didn't think you would be here!” The smile turned her eyes soft and golden. Severus did not even notice he moved aside to create space for her on the sofa until he was sitting on the right-hand side instead of in the middle.
“I may be on duty, but I do not consider it necessary to expend personal surveillance at all times. I would rather catch them red-handed.”
That made her laugh, as she sunk down next to him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Hermione was supposed to spend Christmas with Potter and his brood (and was that not a cheery prospect for Severus, with the eldest only five years from attending Hogwarts. Of course it had been too much to hope for a Squib).
“Oh, you know - “ She waved vaguely, and Severus glared at her. He knew enough about Hermione to know airy waves were entirely foreign to her – if she was waving, she was being evasive.
“I didn't sleep very well, and then there was so much noise, and - “ She looked down, and as he looked at her profile he saw her biting her lip. “It's a difficult time of the year. Both for me and Harry, and I can see him channelling everything into the kids and of course that works for him, but – It was just too much. My parents are there, enjoying themselves, I thought I could go home for a little bit.”
She blushed at that, as if she thought he would take offence at her calling Hogwarts home.
Severus wasn't going to complain: she had fought and bled for Hogwarts just like he had, and if that didn't mean they could lay claim to it, then what did?
He Summoned a blanket from the armchair next to the window, where Filius must have made his customary nest last night. It landed softly in Hermione's lap, and he didn't realise he was smiling at her until she smiled back.
“I'll just have a little rest, then. I'll be interested to hear what you think of chapter two,” she nodded towards his book and curled up on the other side of the couch, leaving him just enough space to sit.
Then the staffroom was silent again.
Severus was well into chapter three and had his quill poised to add some commentary, having made heavy inroads on his new ink bottle during the previous chapter, when he heard Hermione whimper.
Before he could blink he was standing up, wand in his hand, only to watch her turn her head from side to side on the armrest and stretch out her whole body in a tense arch.
“No!” she shouted. “No, not Harry, NO!”
For a moment Severus didn't know what to do. What could he do? If only Minerva had been there instead of at her dull brother's –
A wordless scream from Hermione cut his indecision short; he could not bear not to do anything, so he had to come up with something.
“You're OK,” he mumbled, a firm hand on her shoulder, “It's just a dream, it's fine.”
Most students didn't have nightmares anymore, but he'd handled plenty – it was no different, surely?
He shook her a little harder and felt her shudder.
“What's going on? Where's my wand – Oh. Severus – it's you, thank God.” She leaned against him, tension draining from her body as she sniffled into his shoulder. “I forgot, but then I saw your hair.”
No one had ever said that to him after waking up from a nightmare before.
“My hair?” he repeated stupidly.
“It's white, so that means it's safe. I'm safe here with you.” She leaned even closer, and Severus lifted his arms only to let them drop again. What in Merlin's name was one supposed to do with an armful of Hermione Granger?
Her hair smelled – nice. Severus took another surreptitious sniff, knowing he had no business smelling Hermione's hair no matter how many nightmares she had had, but he was hardly going to get another chance to figure out what it smelled of.
He must have said something, or maybe she just kept on talking regardless:
“I can't imagine anyone I'd feel safer with. Just waking up to you there -“ She drew a wavering breath, and he finally allowed his hands to settle on her back. “You know, it even makes a difference when I think about being on the run, knowing you were there in the Forest of Dean.”
They sat like that, frozen in the moment, Severus aware of every breath that filtered through her hair, until she finally drew apart mumbling about having to return to The Burrow.
Hermione reminded him of a lion in the sunshine, sprawling across the tartan blanket Minerva stashed near the secret courtyard as soon as spring arrived. No students were aware it existed, so the teachers could actually get some peace and quiet outside despite it being term time.
It was Saturday, so both Severus and Hermione had time to spare. An hour, at least, just lying there reading.
Of course, this was Hermione, so there was also talking.
“I don't think I told you why I decided to step away from the Ministry and politics, did I?”
“You did not.”
He had wondered, of course.
Most of all, he had wondered when she would say out loud she was leaving; she was stepping around the subject uncharacteristically, not speaking beyond the end of term yet making it sound like she would be at Hogwarts forever.
Severus knew better; of course, she wouldn't stay here. With him. That was not going to happen, so he had better not set his sights on it.
“I needed to make sure I'm not turning into someone who makes decisions for people because they think they know better than them,” she said, somewhat less eloquently than usual, but the meaning was clear.
He raised one eyebrow.
“Fine! 'Don't turn back into that person' might be a better way of expressing it.” She sighed. “I know I got it right with the house-elves in the end, at least, so I don't think I'm completely delusional.”
“What you really mean is that you don't want to turn into Dumbledore, isn't it?” Severus asked.
“Yes. I needed to clear my head, get away from things.”
And now she was leaving, but he would rather not talk about that.
“It doesn't matter so much right now, because I found out what I want to do in the meantime,” she continued.
“What is that? Do I need to strengthen the defences on my Potions stock?” he managed.
“Why would you need to do that?” she asked innocently. “In any case, I'm going to be conducting research in the library, so your Potions ingredients will be safe.”
“That sounds quite bland for a trailblazer for elf rights.” Was she going to stay?
“''Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it.' I'm going to work out how they were enslaved in the first place. If I find any other useful tidbits at the same time... well, I'll put them to good use in time.”
“Not rushing to get back to the cut and thrust of Ministry life, then?”
“No. I like it here.” She turned her gaze on him, disconcertingly direct, unwavering brown eyes looking at him with unexpected warmth. “Hogwarts comes with far superior company. I would miss you too much. Well, I'd miss most people, but you especially.”
Severus had no idea what to say to that.
“Hmph,” was the best he could manage. When she put her sun-warmed palm on his hand, hiding the myriad nicks and burns decades of brewing had racked up, he remained motionless – a statue of a Potions master decorating the bright green lawn.
She did not let go of his hand, not until they were safely through the door to his office in the dungeons.
Then, she gently pushed him against the door and stood on her toes to kiss him. Severus abruptly decided he could not be arsed with second-guessing what she was doing or trying to find out what her hidden agenda was; as long as it involved more of her hands in his hair and her hips pressing not-so-gently against him, he was along for the ride.
Much later, when he buried his long nose in her hair as she snored softly against his bare chest, he pondered his leap of faith.
It was hardly sensible to let a witch almost two decades younger than him – a past student, for Merlin's sake – do what she wanted with him. He should –
Hermione stirred against him, making a noise somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. Her soft breath gently brushed his skin, before she burrowed her nose into it and settled again.
Then again, when had he ever picked the best option when confronted with a personal decision? It couldn't hurt to see if the brightest witch of her generation would make a better stab at it.
The next Christmas, Hermione Apparated to Hogwarts after lunch on Boxing Day (Severus having refused to attend the Weasley/Potter/Granger gathering in any manner whatsoever), and promptly made her way to the staff room.
Severus was waiting on the couch already.
“What's this – You've decorated!” she exclaimed as soon as she entered the room and noticed the enchanted snow falling from the ceiling, only to evaporate as soon as it landed on something.
“Absolutely not. I cannot be held responsible for what the house-elves decide to do. Someone went ahead and liberated them, I think the culpable person should assume full accountability instead.”
Hermione didn't say anything else; she just raised her eyes meaningfully at the profusion of mistletoe above the couch before parking herself on his lap, demonstrating an admirable dedication to Christmas traditions.
As it happened, it was not Severus who had hung the mistletoe.
Filius had done the honours, hearing about his colleagues' Christmas plans and doing a very little reading between the lines.
In what Minerva did not tire of proclaiming as the great wonder of the ages, Severus had unbent sufficiently to suffer physical contact with Hermione in public; even initiating it, upon occasion. Not in front of students, of course, but amongst colleagues and the general populace, their relationship was no secret.
Filius had happened to sit near them at the Hog's Head when Severus had brought up the topic. Predictably he had complained, but Hermione had given him short shrift.
“Well, you’re mine, aren’t you? Or at least you keep saying that?”
Severus sounded slightly hoarse. “Yes.”
“Why wouldn’t I want people to know, then?” she asked brightly. “To deter competition, if nothing else?”
They had left right afterwards, two soft pops heralding their departure outside, and Filius had thought she really was very clever. Very clever, indeed.
A little mistletoe to wish them good luck and godspeed couldn't go amiss, even if there was no direct need for it.
He would just have to talk to Minerva about the eventuality that they decided to take over the Wizarding World or something similar, but he was confident Severus would rein Hermione in if she suddenly got delusional.
Quite confident, at least.
THE END