A/N: Happy Saturday... well, where I live, at least. Even though it's almost over, lol.

Chapter 28
Visitors

"Severus," Albus smiled at his spy, who had stormed into his office with a great flourish of his robes. Despite his determined gait, he looked worse for wear, of course—as if he had been battling with demons all night, "I had thought you would be preparing your students for departure—"

"I'll do it."

The ex-potions master was never one for pleasantries, anyways, but the headmaster did so enjoy annoying him with them. He rubbed his beard, "Do what, Severus?"

"Don't play stupid, Albus," Severus stepped forward and laid both of his palms on the headmaster's desk, his face drawn into a snarling expression of impatience. His eyes were red-rimmed and haunted, "I'll do it… on one condition."

The headmaster wondered if he'd been drinking, again, but decided berating him was likely not in his favor, "Which is…?"

"Minerva will take my place as headmaster, here at Hogwarts," dark eyes trailed across his, daring him to object, "She will serve as my liaison between the Order and the dark lord. I will teach her Occlumency, myself—"

Albus felt for the wizard. Of course, he would want to bargain. He very much wished he could allow Severus even that shred of dignity, but that wasn't how this was going to work.

"No."

The wizard growled and his fingers clenched into fists, one of which he slammed down into the wood. Albus felt his magic bubbling inside his narrow, vibrating frame, threatening to lash out. It was the trait of a wizard so powerful that sometimes his magic got away with him, like a child's. Hence, why he (and secretly, Minerva) had spent so much time in Severus' youth training him to control his emotions. He with Severus' mind and Minerva with his magic.

It was both troubling and somewhat heartwarming that Severus could become so undone at the thought of his death. He wished he could have appreciated the wizard more throughout the time they had had together, but the torch that he was preparing to pass needed to be tended, carefully.

There was much that he needed to accomplish before Severus killed him: uncovering Slughorn's memory of the horcrux, preparing for Harry's missions to hunt for the remaining fragments of Voldemort's soul. He was trying to find as many of them as he could before then, but his time was running short. Then there was the matter of his murder, and when that would happen. He needed time with Miss Granger to prepare for it, but that required that he knew when Malfoy was going to make his move.

"I apologize, Severus. You may have forgotten, but you have always been the one who wished to keep her at arm's length where it concerns your… duties, not me. Of course, you may assist Minerva in further mastering Occlumency, all you like; I admit, however, that I fear it will be a wasted effort… I have no more choice in the matter of who will be headmaster than you do," Severus seemed overwhelmed, but he could not relent, "Do you truly think you will be able to convince Tom to allow her to lead the school?"

Dark, penetrating eyes glared away from him, towards the wall. With the petulance of a child, he said, "There is no telling that the dark lord will gain control of ministry."

"Severus, you, especially, are not that optimistic."

The churlish wizard frowned, deeply, and his clenched hands trembled. He was quickly becoming undone.

Albus continued, despite that fact, "By all means, Severus, include Minerva as much as you like—I will not be there to stop you…" the wizard's expression darkened, "I admit, she could serve you as well as she has me as a Deputy if she were more informed, but I don't know how that helps this situation—only you can serve as my replacement. You are the only Death Eater who Tom can trust with the school, unless you would rather Governor Malfoy take the helm?"

The wizard's mouth curled, but then his posture became hunched. Severus then dropped his head, hiding his features behind dark curtains. He knew that allowing anyone else to lead the school would put everyone at risk, but he was afraid of the responsibility. The Slytherin head of house wasn't Albus; although, the headmaster admitted, he reminded him of himself in many ways, especially at his age. He'd been afraid of taking responsibility, too, of accepting power, especially after the disasters of his youth…

"The public will not allow it…"

"The public will not have a choice."

It wouldn't do to try and convince Severus that the public would hopefully one day come to understand, maybe laud him a hero, "Besides, this office suits you, don't you think?"

"You presume too much," Severus hissed.

"Perhaps," the headmaster admitted, "But if I didn't, who would?"

The shadow of a man broke away for a moment, drifting away. He paced, obviously torn. Albus knew his decision was already made, but he wanted to ensure that his mind would not change, "Even if you are not the one to kill me, Severus, do you really think you will be able to run from what is coming?"

As Severus floundered for an answer, the headmaster merely put his hands together in a steeple and rested his chin against his fingertips, "You must admit that the dark lord questions your loyalty."

"He will always question my loyalty," Severus said hatefully, spit flying from his mouth, "He questions everyone's loyalty."

"You know what I mean, Severus. The need for a spy at Hogwarts will die with me, whether or not that is by your hand or another's, by Draco's, by my own, by Death itself. We need to be one step ahead if we have any hope of surviving… any hope of protecting Harry and his friends. We need you at his right hand."

Severus could argue that Albus need not die, again, but the truth was that it needed to happen. There was no avoiding that this was a blessing in disguise for them both, for the Order, for the world.

There was no better way, and he knew that Severus agreed that that was true, had from the start—he just hadn't wanted to believe it. Of course, Albus appreciated the sentiment. It humbled him to realize that the man did, indeed, care for him, despite all his efforts to appear that it was the opposite.

But he was not a foolish, emotionally driven man, at least not outwardly. He was shrewd and cunning, and regardless of whether he killed him or not, he would need to begin to make arrangements for Potter. For Granger…

He hoped the man would realize what it was that he had in front of him, what it could mean for him. He prayed that he would not turn his back to her, especially not after what they planned for him. To push her away, even to protect her, would be a disservice to himself and to her.

"You have served me well, Severus. Very well. And I know I have asked much from you, and have given you very little in return… but I cannot ask if of anyone else."

Severus appeared as if emotions he so often held at bay were threatening to break free, and indeed, they were. For the first time in years, Albus was privy to them without using Legilimency. They rippled across his face: pain, grief, resentment, agony, sadness.

With a shaky jaw, he turned and braced himself against the stone wall with one, trembling hand. He bowed his head, face hidden in shadow, "I never really had a choice in the matter, did I?"

Albus' gaze seemed saddened, but grateful, that he had finally accepted the task, "You do have a choice, Severus. I have not ever desired to take that from you."

"As if that makes me feel any better," the man snapped, gaining some of his rigor back.

"It is no consolation, I know, but I believe you are making this decision nobly."

"The world will not see it that way."

"When have you ever cared about the world's opinions?"

If there was one thing Albus was worried about, it was this. Of course, he would put precautions in place. But for the first time in a century, he would not be around to ensure his influence in the rebuilding of their world. He could only hope that the right people found their way into power, and that those people would see Severus' actions as what they were: an act of love, not malice… an act of sacrifice, not sin.

"I will never forgive you for this," Severus said, his voice low and thick, "If it weren't Draco—"

Albus lifted a hand, "You will forgive me eventually, Severus."

The dark wizard snorted, but then he gazed up at Albus, uncertain, "How… how long do we—you have?"

Albus watched him with twinkling blue eyes… as much as Severus did not yet understand, he would, eventually. He was doing this for him, and for Harry—and, in a way, for Hermione Granger.

"That all depends on our young assassin."

"I see…" Severus said with a frown.

"I would appreciate it if he was delayed a while longer yet. I have unfinished business with Harry. And there are many things which I must share with you, all in—"

"Good time," his younger counterpart interrupted with a derisive snort, "Honestly, Albus, for a dying man, you would think you would be more forthcoming with such pertinent information."

"Contrary to what you might presume, Severus, I am not so eager to die, just yet."

"Could have fooled me."

"Yes, well… now that we are finally on the same page, perhaps we can come to a plan, of sorts—dependent upon Draco's, of course?"

"I will do what I can," Severus bemused with curved shoulders. Already, the headmaster could see him tucking his thoughts into their dark corners, quelling the emotions he'd let run away from him—putting his mask in place.

Albus knew what "doing what he could" would require of him. It wouldn't be much a holiday for the young spy, but it was a small sacrifice to pay to prepare for what was to come, "Be careful."

The dark wizard bowed, then turned to make his leave.

"Oh, and Severus?"

"Yes?"

He halted, turning his head to glance behind him, giving Albus a partial view of his profiled.

"I know it means little in the grand scheme of things, but… I am grateful for all you have done. I cannot fathom having been without you all these years… and if I could see a better option, I would have gladly taken it to spare you pain and guilt, two things I know you have not been without nearly your entire life."

Severus' profile wavered. Rather than give into the emotions, again, however, he turned his back to Albus.

As he left, the phoenix hummed a song for him, one that was sweet and hopeful and whole, and Albus watched as his entire body loosened. For Severus, the sound of hope was likely a familiar one: familiar and scented of lavender and vanilla.

When it ended, he seemed stronger, less burdened, and he left without another word, with the same determined gait he had worn when he entered.

"Ah, Fawkes, my old friend," he walked over to stroke the bird's plume of feathers, "You will look after him, when I am gone?"

The phoenix fixed him with a disapproving stare, and he knew what the answer would be. Even if he did, Fawkes' presence would be suspicious at Hogwarts, even at Minerva's side. Besides, the bird deserved freedom, after serving him for so long. As did Severus.

"All in good time, hm?"

·

Hermione leaned forward, pressing her forehead to the door. Just like the blanket tucked into her four-poster, the magic of Snape's ward warmed at her touch, caressing her like an old friend might—or a lover. Curious, she lifted her fingers and traced the seams between the wood and the castle. This door led to a place she had never been, and one she did not yet have access: Snape's quarters.

Eyes closed, she turned, despondent. One hand lingered on the door as she was pulled away by some unknown compulsion, only breaking contact when she absolutely could not touch it any longer. In the absence of its touch, she was cold.

It wasn't long before she realized where her feet were headed. The castle seemed to be leading her to its heart. She could feel the lanterns flickering in the direction of the seventh floor; stairs shifted and moved in front of her when they were needed… tapestries lifted to reveal passageways she'd never known were there.

Of course, she could hear so clearly… so, so clearly. The melody left her incensed, consumed, desperate to reach the music that grew louder and louder as she rose higher, as desperate as she had been to enter before. Naturally, there was no way she could be hearing the music so loudly through the strange magic that protected the room, but she did… she could hear it—in her soul, if not with her ears. And it was coming from within, she was sure of it.

She paced, once, twice… thrice, chanting over and over.

Please let me see him. Please let me see him. Please let me see him.

Hermione could feel the castle resisting, but not of its own accord. Snape did not want to be bothered, not today… but she couldn't help her curiosity. Driven by it, she grabbed the door handle and tugged, as hard as she could. Eventually, it submitted to her will, and she had slipped inside before it had even opened, squeezing her body through the crack.

Snape didn't realize her presence as quickly as she thought he would. For the first time in a long time, she found she'd caught him in a vulnerable state. She couldn't see him—no, everything was dark… so very dark. But she could hear: it was the same piano which she'd played her own Song. Behind it, there was a trio of strings instruments, and percussion, all which seemed to be following along with the melody in a symphony of notes.

The music—his Song—seemed so subdued, so… poised. But when she closed her eyes, and really listened, she could hear so much pain, so much sadness, that it made something inside of her choke.

There were many emotions strung throughout his soul, his magic, his heart, but the most prominent was a deep-seeded longing; it was so subtle, so ingrained in everything else, as if he had accepted long ago that it would never be satiated.

Tears gathered in her eyes at the sound of it, and she found that she was sinking to the ground, letting the sound wash over her like waves crashing against the sand. It felt good to become enveloped by them, and she wished very much that they would carry her away, to return her to the dark, open sea—a sea the color of his endless eyes, to be cast adrift and left to sink into the deep, forever surrounded.

And when it stopped, she felt the same longing that was the undercurrent of his Song, and opened her eyes. He was standing before her, but his were avoidant, refusing to look at her. His hands, although they did not move against the keys, seemed to tremble. Every inch of him was tense, as if he was holding back a thousand emotions. Of course, she wanted to tell him that he didn't have to hide, not from her, but she didn't know how he would react to such a thing, and so she chose the safer reply: silence.

Eventually, he stood and the instruments vanished, replaced with dueling equipment. She wondered if he intended for them to begin a lesson, but when he started without her, she realized he was releasing his emotions with magic. Did he remember that she was even here? Did he care? Or was she invisible to him once more?

When his actions grew violent, she found herself captivated. He moved with such… controlled purpose. Every jab, flick, and parry was poised, but vicious. Although she feared he would not go easy on her, she gathered her talismans and joined the fight. The specter he'd summoned appeared familiar, but its face was not fixed, as if he couldn't decide who he wanted to blast to smithereens. One moment, it was Harry, or someone who looked just like him, perhaps his father, the next it was a man who she thought shared Snape's nose, then it was Lucius Malfoy, and then—

"Severrussss, what a pleasant surprise."

Gasping, Hermione surged upwards through the dim light of a room that was both familiar and… not. It was strange enough to wake up at three in the afternoon in her childhood bed, especially after falling asleep only a few hours before. Stranger still to wake up sheened in sweat and gasping, stunned at the clear vision of Lord Voldemort before her, his expression anything but pleased.

Gods, was this how Harry felt?

He'd seemed so real. His eyes so red, like rubies, and his face inhuman: lipless, noseless, features smooth and sharply flat like a snake's.

She turned, burying her face in the herby scent of the woolen throw. It was funny that she hadn't unpacked anything else, except for it—not even books. Not even her homework.

Sighing, she sat up, and stretched, trying to blot the vision from her mind.

"Meow?"

"Don't get any ideas," she told Crookshanks as he hopped up onto the bed and curled over the blanket she'd mostly abandoned, "I'll be back."

Her fingers lingered on the wool, even as she stood. Eventually, she had to abandon its touch. She wrapped her arms around herself as she walked down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"Mum?"

"Hermione!" the Muggle turned, surprised to see her daughter, "What's wrong, love?"

"Could I, erm," Hermione blushed slightly, "I was wondering if there was still food—"

"Of course!" Jean seemed hardly ruffled, but added, "I think your father and I might have gone a little overboard. We'll have leftovers for a week, at least."

"That's fine with me," Hermione admitted.

She slid into the chair as her mother fetched the Tupperware, but admitted she felt slightly out of place here, among all of these Muggle appliances. Mostly, however, she felt guilty, for being a right prat. The young witch had spent the first hour at home walking on egg shells. It was ridiculous, of course, to think that just because she left the protection of the castle, that her magic would escape her. And, honestly, getting worked up about it was probably not helping.

Even still, it was as if nothing had changed between her family. Her mother and father were loving, doting, and they had sorely missed her. She came home to two bone-crushing hugs from each parent and a third between all three of them, and was then greeted to an abundance of her favorite foods. She, however, hadn't had an appetite, even at breakfast that morning, and instead picked at her plate, then disappeared to her room for a nap.

"Thanks, Mum," she smiled at her mother, who scrunched her nose at her playfully, "Where's Dad?"

"Oh, he went off to the grocer's. We forgot to get ice cream for tonight. Plain vanilla, with hot fudge and sprinkles."

Hermione felt a pang of guilt, again. Her parents abhorred sweets, but they indulged her for special occasions, "My favorite."

"Yes," her mother hid her grimace, then slid across from Hermione with a cup of tea, "So, darling, tell me everything there is to tell."

"There's not much to say," Hermione murmured.

"You haven't talked much about school in your letters, lately."

"What's there to talk about?"

Jean frowned at her.

Hermione tried to backtrack, "I'm very busy all the time, with… healing."

"I see. And does that make you happy?"

"It does…" she truly did enjoy it, "I'll likely join a healing apprenticeship at St. Mungo's when I graduate."

"Healing is like medical school, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Her mother looked concerned, "That must be very time consuming."

She looked into her mug, "It is."

"But the hospital—it's in London, isn't it?"

She nodded, unsurprised that she would remember such a minute fact from last Christmas.

"So you'll come back home, for a while? Live with us, maybe?"

Hermione considered it… if the war wasn't over by then, she didn't know if she would take the apprenticeship. Granted, she had no idea if her magic would fully recover. At this point, she had the capabilities of a thirteen-year old, but it was more than she could ever hope for. So far, her progress had not stunted.

And she would find some way of gaining it back fully by the end of term.

"Of course," she told her mother, although it made her extremely sad to realize that planning for a future was practically impossible in this day and age. Who was to say the wizarding world in Britain wouldn't collapse from the war, even if Voldemort was defeated?

"That will make us both very happy," her mother laid a hand over hers.

She looked down at seafood stew her mother had made just that morning, "I miss you all the time, you know. If I didn't have to be away—"

"Shh, I know… and I understand, and so does your dad. I am so proud of you, Hermione. We will never not be proud of you."

"I love you, Mum."

"I love you, too, Hermione," her mother leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, "I assume the boys are alright, as well?"

Hermione suddenly frowned, and glanced towards her tea.

"Hermione? They're…"

"Oh, they're fine," she admitted, waving a hand, "Great, actually. Well, Ron is great… I think."

"You think?"

"He's, er, dating someone."

"Oh?" Her mother waited, obviously curious, and, if Hermione could detect, hopeful. It was her own fault, for admitting to her mom (inadvertently), that she fancied the redhead… before.

"Lavender Brown."

"Lavender Brown?" Her mother frowned, "Oh, Hermione…"

"It's alright, really," Hermione actually laughed, "I mean, not really, but it's not what you think."

Her mother seemed unconvinced.

"Honestly, mum, it's not like that. I don't have feelings like that anymore," she urged her mother to see that she was telling the truth, "It's just… we had a fight and we aren't talking."

"But that has nothing to do with the fact that he's dating Lavender Brown?"

"No, it does," Hermione admitted, before she put her temples in her hands, "Oh, gods. Where do I start?"

Her mother laughed, "The beginning."

"Alright. Well, you know how I felt about him. But last term I—"

Hermione felt a strain, a tearing… not inside of her, but on the outside. She felt a tugging of magic and then a rip. Her heart flew into her chest and she reached for her wand, a spell on her lips. One hand reached for a talisman—

"Dobby?"

Unfortunately, the elf had tripped some sort of magical alarm, because the door was flung open.

"Wands up!"

She glanced at Dobby, then at her mother, then at the stony-faced auror who entered. It was a large, intimidating man, one she didn't recognize, and he was approaching her rapidly.

"WANDS UP!"

She lifted it up in the air, but made sure to keep the talisman wrapped in her fist, as well as the wand's handle. Her other hand was free and open. Her mother, beside her, was gaping.

"Hermione, what is the—"

"Dr. Granger, put your hands up."

"What is going on?"

"Elf," the wizard barked, "Arms up!"

Dobby trembled and lifted his arms.

"It's me," Hermione muttered, "I'm Hermione—"

"Prove it," the wizard demanded.

"I… I don't know who you are," she muttered, "I don't know what to—"

"Where is the Order safehouse located?"

"As if I would tell—" suddenly, the auror's hair turned color, signaling…

"Grimmauld Place," she blurted, "Number 12!"

The wizard's hair continued to grow and change color, and his face turned… feminine. She shrank in size and her proportions turned from straight to effeminate.

"Tonks, what in the world?" Hermione hissed, glancing worriedly at her mother.

"Someone tripped the wards," the witch admitted, "I've got to do a full sweep."

"It was Dobby," Hermione said with a huff, "He just came to visit me."

"Yes, well…" Tonks glanced at the elf, who was banging his fists against his forehead. Hermione dropped on her knees and grabbed his wrists gently, urging him to stop, "Rules are rules."

"Hermione—what…"

"Tonks?"

Someone else entered, with her father in tow. It was Bill Weasley, and he'd very obviously Confunded her father, as he was gazing around the corridor with a wonderstruck expression.

"Bill," she hissed at him, "What did you do?"

"He was calling the Muggle Authorities," the wizard admitted, "I… panicked."

"That's illegal, you know," Tonks told him with a roll of her eyes, "You could have just summoned the cell-phone. Or tackled him."

"Yes, well," Bill looked guilty enough and ushered her father to the couch, to check on his vitals.

"What did you do to my husband?" Her mother cried, rushing to his side.

Hermione looked at Dobby. The elf looked distressed enough, so she smiled at him, "Oh, Dobby… is everything alright?"

"No, Miss," the elf admitted, "Snapes has left."

"What?" Hermione frowned. It was the middle of the afternoon, and… well, it was nearly Christmas.

"Masters has left the castle…"

"Where has he gone, Dobby?"

"Dobby's old Masters'," the elf murmured to her, his eyes wide and sad. Hermione blinked at him, then leaned back on her haunches, stunned.

"Let me… let me know if—when he comes back."

"Dobby will wait for Masters with Miss, here. Dobby will know when Masters returns to the castle."

"Dobby—"

"Dobby will wait with Miss."

"But Dobby, your duties…"

"Dobby is a free elf. Dobby will wait with Dobby's friend," he told her, "Elder has given approval, and Headmaster Dumblydore knows where Dobby goes."

She frowned at him, but nodded, "You're always welcome in my home, Dobby. Please, relax—"

The elf nodded and set about "relaxing", which consisted of setting to work about deep-cleaning her mother's seemingly pristine kitchen. Hermione, meanwhile, sat kneeling on the floor, her wand and talisman clutched in one hand, her heart pounding in her chest. Of course, she felt powerless… what could she do?

She would have to get used to feeling like this. Snape was leaving her, for good, soon. She would have no way of helping him. No way to heal him or protect him. Unless...

Her eyes flew to the elf. They'd been in this together, from the beginning. And elfin magic was proving to be rather... unpredictably useful.

"Hermione, get your butt over here, right now!"

Wincing, she stood and shuffled towards her mother. The cat, it appeared, was out of the bag. Well, one of them was.