A/N: I am sorry for the typographical errors found in the earlier chapter… I have tried my best to spot them and correct them. As for this instalment… I am sorry for the long wait (not that many are waiting!), but this needed a bit of sprucing up before it was decent enough to be in public view. As it is it's really quite maudlin, but I tried to inject some of Snape's old sarcastic, self-deprecating humour into the final lines, if only to show that he is still who he is.

The title, as in chapter one, is again taken from an e. e. cummings poem. I found it very fitting. Enjoy.

C h a p t e r  t w o

Kumrads die because they're told

He should have known, he thought as he slammed his way into the Headmaster's office late that evening, spitting the silly password—"Mars Bars"—at the impassive gargoyle that guarded it.

Snape fought the urge to bang his head against the stone wall as he ascended the moving staircase. He had sat there, an open-mouthed idiot, ogling the new professor, as Ceres Sprout moved briskly towards Hermione Granger to relieve her of her coat and lead her out of a side door, as everyone sat down to the remainders of dinner and the beginning of chatter. The new professor.

Perhaps he should have paid more attention to the new teachers—or rather, the lack of them. Of course there was the requisite new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Arthur Quimble or some such name (Snape had pretended to be chagrined at the appointment of the position that he supposedly desired for his own, if only to keep up the image that the Potions Master had made for himself), but there had been no one to replace Minerva McGonagall's professorial seat, as the old Transfigurations Mistress had decided to devote her time to Albus and to her duties as Deputy Headmistress.

Obviously, the person that McGonagall chose to charge with the position she had held for decades would have to be someone that the old cat trusted very much.

And there were very few people that McGonagall trusted.

And even fewer, those who were competent at Transfiguration.

It was all a matter of simple deduction, really.

He could have spared himself a lot of pain, if he had known early. Or, no, perhaps not—there still would have been pain, as came with every single reminder of her, but it would have been his to suffer alone.

He blinked, and found himself standing before the door to the Headmaster's office.

'Come in, Severus,' came the old, old voice from within, and as he opened the door, Snape grimaced once again at the annoying presumptuousness that Albus seemed to take to new heights every year. He felt like a… like a doll, or a tin soldier, that a twinkly-eyed child manipulated as he chose. Dumbledore, the old bastard thought that he could simply arrange everyone's lives as he liked—

Dumbledore looked at him gravely from a small pile of paperwork that had been sitting on his desk. Snape found himself unable to read that expression, and for a moment, hesitated in his anger, feeling his hot resentment ebb away in front of the only man that he had ever trusted.

Without invitation Snape sank into the armchair that he had, through the years, come to think of as his own. He doubted that anyone else used it, for Minerva, the only other person who came regularly to the office, preferred the straight-backed chair near the fireplace. Snape's old and slightly tattered seat sat before one of the Headmaster's windows, faced partly away from the stern scrutiny of the portraits and towards the cool, impassive night sky. He couldn't meet Dumbledore's eyes.

'Why did you do this, Albus?' Even to his own ears, his voice sounded tired.

There came the familiar, scratching sound of Albus' sweet-jar twisting open, and the scent of lemons rose to Snape's sensitive nose. This delay usually meant that the older man was deliberating on what to say, or how to say it.

'Minerva needed someone to replace her,' he finally said, after a long silence. The flames in the hearth flickered. 'I apologise.'

'I can't stay. I can't,' Snape said to Dumbledore's reflection in the glass. 'Her presence makes everything… difficult.'

'I seem to remember you saying that she made everything easier. Smoother, you said.'

There was no reply. Dumbledore watched the younger man's reflection sink deeper into the armchair, his chin nearly resting on his chest as his nervous hands clasped and unclasped the sides of the chair. He wanted to ask how Snape found her, whether he was happy to have seen her again after so many years, but it would sound a silly question. Of course he found her beautiful, of course he was happy to see her, but what bothered Severus, Dumbledore knew, was that she might not be as happy to see him. Might not have even thought of him.

If Severus had any faults, it was pride. He might have loved her with his very life but he wouldn't put his heart on the line, would not lay bare his affections towards her if he thought for one second that she might not feel the same way—that he might embarrass her, make her uncomfortable.

And he had suffered in silence for so long.

And he, Albus, had been the one to tear open the old wounds.

It hit the headmaster for the first time since her arrival that maybe he had been wrong to call her in. Hermione Granger was a very smart, clever young woman, more than competent at the subject she was to teach, and possessing that confident authority that commands respect and makes a good teacher. The other professors approved of her and remembered her very well, both from her years as a student and from her contributions in the battle. All of the students—some Slytherins aside—appeared (from what Albus had seen of their reactions, earlier) to be impressed with her, and willing to learn from someone so famous, although her age was not so very far from theirs. Minerva was ecstatic to have her back; Hagrid was joyfully making treacle tart and awaiting a visit from her; and Madame Pince was eager to speak with her about her collection of old volumes (a past-time of hers that went unnoticed by many but that was envied by many British scholars). Everyone seemed glad to have her staying with them.

Except for only one person… and this had seemed, at the time of her appointment, to be too small a difficulty to be bothered with.

Albus Dumbledore was suddenly faced with the enormity of the decision he had made, at least for the younger man, and felt a sharp stab of regret.

He looked down at the lemon drops in front of him, suddenly blurred with the prickling of tears. "I am sorry, Severus."

Snape hung his head. "I know."

The headmaster cleared his throat and spoke gently, "But you know that the decision cannot be changed… and I would be very grieved to have you leave us, Severus. You would be more than qualified for an occupation elsewhere, but permit me to say that it would be very difficult to replace you, not only as a teacher or as the head of Slytherin, but… as a friend, a neighbour if you will. Please stay."

Silence.

"I will try my best to keep you from unnecessarily being in one another's way," Albus murmured into the void, "although…" Here he stopped and gave a crooked smile, "I am sure that she would be very glad to speak with you again."

A pause, and then… Albus rejoiced inwardly at the sharp, doubtful snort that followed the brief silence.

He had his old Potions Master back.