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jmscornerlibrary · 2 months

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Hogwarts Professors Shenanigans: Severus and Minerva.

So I got this idea after seeing a headcannon: McGonagall and Snape being sort-of friends in Hogwarts and getting up to all sorts (laughing at student assignments, house rivalry, severely judging Umbridge together, etc) (A.k.a: Minerva having enough of Severus' everybody's drama) and dabbled a bit in my spare time.

In this one, Severus is having a bad day (definitely not Harry's fault) and Minerva finding out why.

Disclaimer: this is not a pairing and there is no romance. It's just the Slytherin and Gryffindor Heads being chaos.

Enjoy!

***

It was evening, and the staff room was empty. Or, at least, of all visible feelings, for Minerva and Severus were sitting on opposite sides of the room, pretending that nothing was amiss as they sat almost buried in piles of scrolls, marking homework. It was dark; candles were lit on the chandeliers and were hovering over the two microclimates that the Gryffindor and Slytherin head of houses had unwittingly created with their silence and expressions.

Severus was epically stone-faced and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. The movements of his quill were quite irregular. The quill hovered in mid-air, then swooped down like a carrion bird and slashed viciously at the parchment, then went back to hovering, scratched slightly upon expressing something with more words than one, then hovered again.

Minerva’s quill was similar, though it was poised rather like an owl, and was similar in movement. It glided over parchment and never slashed, barely audible in the silence of the room, rounded in both experience and patience that the dark-haired and young were yet to learn.

Nobody would have thought any conversation would have sparked between them, for speech was never thought necessary to fill silence between this particular pair. They both possessed a tolerance of it, which stemmed rather from the long friendship between their own selves and absence of a counterpart to embark themselves on, than giving others a cold shoulder. Though perhaps it was a more familiar aspect for the younger of the two; Severus Snape.

But conversation did spark.

Minerva shot out a traceable sigh through her nose.

“Eighty-five.”

Severus placed three rather vicious dots on the essay without raising his head. They didn’t need to maintain eye-contact, for their minds were very specifically wired to detect through other senses first, rather than with vision, from situations both ordinary and perilous.

“Eighty-seven,” Severus murmured, bestowing an update on his older colleague.

Minerva’s brows crept together a few millimetres, but other than that, both their eyes remained on the tasks they were both immersed in. Silence sank between them for another few moments, broken only by the faint rustle of parchment and scratching of nib against paper, before Minerva spoke again.

“Ninety-two.”

The faintest smile crept over the Slytherin Head’s thin lips.

“Ninety-three.”

Minerva’s eyes left her parchment this time, and flicked over to her reserved colleague.

“Ninety-three,” she repeated, incredulity only-just detectable around its rims. “You’re bluffing.”

Severus picked up a scroll and embellished the action of dropping it onto his ‘completed’ pile without as much as raising his eyes, then pulled another from a much smaller pile and resumed the vehement task of taloning essays with red ink. Minerva sucked her teeth and turned her sharpened eyes back onto her own pile, skillfully hiding the mild interest and scrutiny behind the steely glint of her spectacles, as her quill began to glide up and down and her eyes stumbled over, currently, Seamus Finnegan’s Transfiguration essay.

Quite a few flickers of the candle flames later, the head of the Gryffindor house potted her quill and shifted, directing her eyes at her younger counterpart. She observed him, taking note out of habit of all the miniscule details which had not changed for the past ten years: Severus Snape still sat as though his spine was a brittle, iron rod, to which his neck was connected; his hair had not been cut since 1990 and was rather neglected; black was still the only colour he wore, as though he wished to dress himself in his silence and reservation; his thin build was skilfully hidden beneath the dark drapes he clad himself in, visible only through the small circumference of his fingers and wrists and in how sharply the bones in his face stuck out. Not much had changed, since Minerva had taught him at Hogwarts, when he was still an adolescent and capable of earnest laughter and smiles, except for the latter and that he had grown taller than her. Nowadays, Severus Snape could have been compared to a very dark, thick bog, which was very hard to navigate through without sinking into its sludge, and there was simply no use looking into the green webs of puddles for any glimmer of lingering light. She wouldn’t have put it past the Potion’s Master to have made it seem so on purpose, as a way of not being disturbed by the less observant.

Minerva didn’t react to these thoughts at this moment, for she had made this comparison many times over the course of her life, especially the last twenty years, quite a few times in different mindsets and circumstances of feeling. It wasn’t a pleasant thought to dwell on and pursue, and she had deemed her opinion on this particular man drawn up and asserted.

Yet, recently, on a day free from his vehement scowls, glares, displays of house-bias and downright snappish tones which seemed to be tailored to the Potions Master’s colour of clothing, when there had been less dark clouds and more light-hearted skies of sleet under his surface, Minerva had admitted to herself with pursed lips that she had actually grown fond of this strange, bat-like creature appointed as the guardian of the Slytherin house. They shared many qualities which prevented them from completely detesting one another or becoming intolerant to one another’s presence. For one, they were both too observant for their sanity’s own good; they were both accustomed to silence and coping alone, when need be; they both generally bestowed the crown of idiots onto more people than anybody else and for good reason, though Minerva was perhaps better with concealing her opinion; both knew very well when anything was amiss, whether that was a more complex plan of students drawn up to cause havoc or something of a greater degree, like the Ministry or any other conspiracy, and often shared silent glances upon sensing it. Also, both detested idiocy and stupidity.

Yes, Minerva thought, as she furrowed her brows and looked at Severus viciously slashing out the marks on his essays, we both detest idiocy and stupidity.

But other than these more outright comparisons which both were aware of, there was another which Minerva kept to herself: both had lost far too much to speak about and both knew very well what it was like to suffer. That their tolerance and even amiability towards silence didn’t stem completely from possessing introverted characters, but because of what life had made them endure.

Minerva sniffed those thoughts away and spoke, turning her eyes away from the dark, almost isolated figure on the opposite side of the classroom to the scrolls, which she began to organise with both hand and wand.

“One-hundred.”

Severus didn’t move, but kept scribbling on. Once he let go of the curling bottom of the parchment, he dipped his quill in his red inkpot and replied as Minerva had: without a glance from his current train of occupation.

“Ninety-three.”

Minerva paused, then directed her eyes at him, suspicious and incredulous behind her steel-rimmed spectacles. The candles seemed as surprised as she was, leaning over to look at Snape.

“Ninety-three?”

Severus didn’t pause, but neither did the small smile which flitted through his mask of stone, which Minerva, having eyes as keen as an owl’s when her glasses were on, caught, then rolled her eyes and pulled her eyebrows back down.

“Of course,” she said. “I should have known what tactics you would have resorted to. Still, perhaps next time, Severus.”

“Twenty points to Gryffindor,” he muttered dryly in reply.

“Oh, don’t be so sour,” she said, flicking the last of the scrolls into a neat stack. “Practise spurs on perfection.”

“And yet, I sensed your unrest, Minerva,” he said, looking up this time and watching her face carefully. “You thought I was going to beat you at your field of expertise, at long last.”

McGonagall sniffed. It had been eight years, and Severus was still to perfect the art of marking with both speed and accuracy.

“Perhaps I did.” She hid an eye-smile behind her spectacles. “I do hope it was worth the effort.”

“Ruffling the wise, Gryffindor matriarch’s feathers?” Severus smirked, then directed his gaze back to his marking. “It’s always worth the effort.”

“Don’t sit up too long.” Minerva bustled to the door. “We don’t wish for any proud, black feathers to be raggled in the morning. Snapping at the striplings is exhilarating.”

“You mean refreshing,” he replied, but that was mainly to himself, for Minerva had stopped at the door and after a ‘good night, Severus’ had apparated to wherever she wished to be. Severus looked at the candles still shivering over where she had sat, felt the cold of the room and the darkness lingering in the corners, then sighed without quite knowing he did so and returned to his marking.

“... by implementing these new tactics, retention of information will be increased and they will excel in their exams. We hope to bring up the scores in OWLs and NEWTs by at least ten percent next year.”

McGonagall was sitting with her eyes fixed on the board which Mr Piccadilly, the wizard responsible for informing teachers of programme changes and expectations, stood, retaining everything with ease and out of habit. She didn’t need to look at the speaker, but she did, for it was polite, though sometimes her eyes traversed around her colleague’s faces out of a curiosity that even her old age hadn’t managed to vanquish within her. Curiosity. What had Albus Dumbledore once told her?

‘My dear Minerva, if you were any less of a lioness, you would have been undoubtedly placed in the house of Ravenclaw.’

Perhaps the Headmaster was right, but McGonagall held a deep regard for her own house, even so. A feeling so deep and long-lasting that it was like it grew a vein within her, connected to her heart, and so anything which tried to shame or disregard what had grown this vein was firmly shunned and put into place, for it twanged it most aggravatingly.

Her eyes flicked around the room briefly. Filius Flitwick was reading the information leaflet Mr Piccadily had provided. Sybill didn’t quite look as though she was paying attention, her expression dreamy and her magnified eyes half-closed as they stopped being of use for the moment she was in her mind’s eye. Albus was present for this meeting, and was nodding at what Piccadily had said as though he really was taking his words into consideration, running his knobbly fingers over his long, white beard.

Minerva glanced at Severus Snape and repressed the urge to snap at him to pay attention in class and sit up straight. Some habits really do never go away, she thought as she studied him, regardless of whether they had been out of use for more than twenty years. Then, her eyes narrowed and her own attention was most disrespectfully averted away from the speaker and towards the dark smudges beneath Severus’ eyes and the way he looked most strangely pitiable this morning. At least from her perspective.

“Thank you, Mr Piccadily,” Dumbledore spoke, after the speaker had wrapped up the meeting. “We will be sure to adjust to this practical advice; it is good one. Though, I regret to say, the stubbornness of some students to avoid the chances of retaining information is, whilst even impressive, an obstacle that even these refined methods will have trouble overleaping.”

There were a few mutters of agreement, most were fond. Minerva gathered up the leaflets as the rest of her colleagues did, aligned them with a few taps upon the desk, then swept out to match a certain person’s steps and billowing of dark cloak.

“Good morning, Severus.”

Severus spared her a glance. He even sounded relatively polite when he replied, which could have been mistaken for a bout of better mood if anybody but Minerva McGonagall had been on the receiving end of it.

“Good morning, Minerva. I trust the meeting was to your benefit.”

His tone was sardonic. For once, Minerva agreed with him, though it was with reluctance.

“It was nothing new,” she said. “Many of us have been implementing those methods since 1972, or earlier. They simply resurfaced after gathering some dust.”

“Certainly,” came the quiet, scoffing reply. “Dressed up in brighter clothes and introduced as though to idiots. I suppose Piccadily thought he had made a breakthrough in teaching techniques.”

She didn’t comment, though she pursed her lips and took this moment to run her eyes over his form. Severus must have felt them.

“Why do you scour me?’ Minerva was never one for sugarcoating, unless absolutely necessary. She was too old to spin words and Severus too sardonic to appreciate doing so.

“You look awful today.”

“Ooh,” he scoffed. “Worse than usual?”

“Indeed.”

He chuckled darkly in reply, then snapped at some Gryffindors to keep a single file on the corridors, not even bothering to send her a glance at the obvious unruliness of her house. Though he did not answer and Minerva was intrigued as to the cause of such an impressively irritated and almost black expression, as to the sudden clenching and unclenching of his white fists, she did not press him. For one, it would be useless to do so as he would snap and skulk for the rest of the day and pretend his problems didn’t exist, secondly, she wouldn’t receive an answer anyway. So Minerva merely sniffed and acknowledged him when they parted at the second staircase - she went up, he went down to the dungeons for lessons to start.

For the purpose of convenience, Minerva kept the timetables of her colleagues stuck to the wall beside her desk. It came in useful multiple times, for classrooms were often changed and it came in useful when needing to find a co-worker during the school day. She swept into her second-year class, introduced the lesson, then in the brief pause in which they all stooped to fumble in their bags for their books, she glanced at Severus’ timetable.

Gryffindor and Slytherin, year one.

Oh boy, she thought, raising her eyebrows, then made a mental note to check the house point chart in the main corridor as soon as the lessons were over and break began. She was teaching Ravenclaw - a good lot, for most were too intrigued in the lesson to talk about anything which wasn’t related to the matter at hand; in this case, turning teapots into porcupines - so the double period was over fairly quickly and without ordeal.

The ordeal arrived when she passed Hermoine Granger on her way down to the main corridor. She paused, eyes flickering up and down the small figure with bushy, brown hair, then stepped forward and apprehended her.

“Miss Granger? Is everything well?”

Hermoine looked up at her from under her smoking fringe and regarded her with wide eyes and full attention.

“Yes, Professor McGonagall,” came the reply, though its usual eagerness was staunched as the black ends of bushy brown were fingered sadly. “Simply some debacle in potions… The cauldron exploded, it burnt a few desks…”

“Humph. I thought so.”

Minerva took out her wand, then twirled it and restored the chunks of missing hair, burnt robes and the admiring smile and light in Hermoine’s eyes.

“The potions can be quite hard to comprehend, at first. Better luck next time.” She was about to step away, then regarded her favourite student once more. “Many points were taken, I suppose.”

Hermoine dropped her eyes, then looked up at her again.

She sighed quietly. “Quite a lot, I’m afraid, Professor.”

Minerva almost rolled her eyes, but restrained herself, as she restrained herself from patting the glowing student on the head.

“Move along, Miss Granger,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll restore any losses in our glory in no time.”

McGonagall’s lip twitched as Hermoine flushed pink with pleasure and all but skipped off happily with a ‘thank you, Professor McGonagall, I’ll certainly try’, then paused in front of the point board. Usually, they were either up or down five, from different contributions and losses all across the school. Now, unless Minerva was much mistaken, they were down by no less than five and thirty.

She folded her arms as she studied it, then as she debated on the fors and againsts on going down to the dungeons and trying to wrangle out whatever poison was festering in the Potion Master’s chest that morning. If it was just after the incident and the classroom was still smoking, that wouldn’t be wise and, in fact, counter-productive. He would probably be steaming in no lesser magnitude than whatever concoction had been in the unfortunate cauldron before it had exploded. Not to mention that Argus Filch would most probably be overseeing detention that night and Minerva would have been inclined to bet ten galleons that a certain duo of a Potter and a Weasley would be on the receiving end of it. It was common knowledge - at least between her and Dumbledore and a couple of others - that Potter wasn’t exactly Severus’ favourite student. Reasons for why that was aside, it was fact, and so the against weighed more and Minerva directed her steps to the staff room instead.

She didn’t see the Potions Master until it had grown dark and it was an hour until student curfew at the hour of ten. Instead of resuming her marking in her office, she took up her fifth-years’ essays and waltzed off towards the staff room, in which she sensed she would find her sought object of interest, and when she pushed open the door and found nothing but darkness, she thought she was proved wrong.

Having gotten here, she didn’t quite feel the sense to go back, so she waved her wand and made her way over to the usual table she sat at to at least get through what she intended to. But when she lit the candles and the yellow, warm glow settled on the dark furniture and surroundings, she saw she was disproved again, this time in a way that she would have never liked to be.

She stopped, too surprised to even frown down her nose or furrow her brows. If she wasn’t Minerva, her voice would have perhaps gone for a moment, but this was Minerva, so instead it was present, full force.

“Severus?”

She placed the parchment to the side and took a few firm steps towards his form; he was sitting at the table, drooped over it, an empty glass in one hand and an empty bottle of Ogden’s by his head. She shot out a hand and grasped his shoulder.

“Severus Snape!”

“I am not dead, Minerva,” came his voice. It was quiet and rather rough, though still impressively bothered, given his state. “You can sit down and mark the essays. I’ll be just over here.”

She picked up the bottle of firewhisky and placed it back down with a thunk in reply. “Did you drink all of this?”

“As you can see.”

“By yourself?”

His voice had only one tone and it was drawling one. “Who in my right mind would I share it with? Filius?”

She made a sound which could have been frustration and put her hands on her hips as she stared down at him.

“Is this because of Potter?”

At this, she saw his eyes flash through the parting in his hair. He didn’t reply, but he shifted until he was almost in an upright position, and would have looked impressively in control if his hands weren’t taught and white in effort of keeping himself rigid.

“No, this is not because of Potter,” he spat, words slightly slurred. “Why are you even here? Yes, I took fifty points off your house. Fifty points. Should’ve taken more.”

Minerva looked at him, then went and removed all the glass items off his table before anything happened.

“Severus, go to your office.”

He snorted.

“There’s nothing I would love to do more. My office. My […] office.”

Minerva’s jaw tightened at the expletive. She didn’t move as he rose, watching him clutching at the table, two dark caverns in the place of his eyes.

“I hate this. I loathe it,” he breathed, swaying. “I wish I could burn it, this place, right down to the ground.”

Minerva felt her temper flare. Her voice was sharp and quite appalled as she cut him off.

“Severus, control yourself.”

He opened his mouth and forced out a laugh, his head hanging low, his hands slowly constricting with such force they almost left scratch-marks on the wood. It was an awful sound, this laugh, scraping like talons against iron. Devoid of light, hopeless; almost like sanity hanging by a thread. Minerva almost shivered.

“Control myself?” he whispered. “Yes. Control myself. That is what I have been doing for my whole life. I’ve perfected it in so many different ways. I have channelled all within me into one cold mass of iron and stone, and yet nothing I do… nothing I do will stop this hell I’ve walked right into. This hell which I have paved with my efforts and energy.”

Minerva listened, now that the initial shock had worn off. She looked at the man before her, remembering the dark, sparrow-like creature from twenty years back, looking up at her with wide eyes and a slight flush after a particular assignment had been written well and received top grades.

Good work, Snape, she had said with a nod, making herself smile at him, for she could tell from his nature, his malnourishment and the way he flinched at loud noises and skulked away from fights, from what background he had come from. Keep that work up, and you may just get to the places you want.

Yes, professor, he had said, smirking sheepishly, though he wouldn’t meet her eyes and tried to assume nonchalance. Thanks, professor.

Now, that sparrow was dead and this man stood before her, with his hands tainted black with murder, his head filled with memories which twisted his mood and his world a dark swamp which he could not navigate, his voice rough and splintered as he drowned in his faults and his silent tears.

She withheld her words and tears with effort, instead standing and listening, the best thing she could do for now.

“I teach little gargoyles the arts, like a fool,” Severus continued, unmoving though his shoulders moved as he steadied himself. “I teach them potions. People, my equals pretend in front of them that I’m one to look up to, a good representative of the Slytherin house, then frown and whisper behind my back. I hear them. Ha! Masks everywhere, and I’m sick of wearing them and drowning in their laughter and babble. I’m bloody sick.”

“You will be, if you keep this up,” she said, firmer than she ought to, but it was just a way of keeping her voice from wavering. “Sit down, Severus. Now.”

He swayed upright some more to make his point, then collapsed on his chair with a sigh heavy as a rock, burying his face in his bony hands. McGonagall drew out a chair and sat opposite him, waiting, her lips pursed.

“I always hear,” he muttered, his voice splintering. “It’s what I’ve been good at since I was a brat. I’ve been able to use information, retain it, piece it together, manipulate it…”

He took his hands away from his face and leaned heavily against the table. Minerva watched in silence as tears began leaking down his face and dripping into the collar of his robes. His face seemed indifferent, moulded into stone, yet his eyes and lips gave it away, as he sneered at himself and the world as tears stained his face thickly.

“I’ve passed it on… Oh, like a fool. And others listened to what I had to offer. They digested it, basked in it, then thanked me as I … As I passed it on.”

The last words were barely audible; his voice went. McGonagall watched as he bent his head and began to shake in silent sobs, miserable and pathetic, tears running down her own face and from underneath her glass as she watched him.

“It’s useless to move forward, Minerva,” he breathed, his head hanging limply. “It’s my fault. I should have died, instead of her... Damnation, I should have died instead of all those people. The pathetic wretch that I am.”

“Severus,” Minerva says, though where she gets this softness of voice from, she has no idea. Perhaps it's because of the idea of what could have been that they can both see, or perhaps both of them feel this sense of blame and twisted justice. Severus, after all, had served the Dark Lord freely. He had killed and tortured, and the Death Mark emblazoned on his left forearm is proof of all that. And yet, Minerva pushes it out of her mind as she looks at his crumpled form that she had only ever seen erect in its own way and storming or sweeping through the corridors like an evil force, black cape billowing and students scattering left and right. The students have no problem with choosing their antagonist, in their own little worlds where everything is still black and white. But this man wasn’t an antagonist; he was just as lost as the first-years, in a sense, that he was teaching.

She swallowed and regained herself.

“Severus. We all make wrong choices in life.”

He breathed out a strangled laugh and slapped the wet off his face, though it was everything but amused.

“Oh, yes. We certainly do. Though my existence is a torrid rift of spectacular failures, whereas what you are referring to is something as trivial as… choosing whether it is a good idea to have three coffees in a day instead of… one.”

He dropped his hands and wept on, voiceless, his torn breathing the only noise in the room. Minerva had no idea how to comfort him, this dubious character full of clashing opposites. A day ago, she would have believed that he still scorned all within his head and still pondered the acts which would have put him in Azkaban if Dumbledore hadn’t stepped up, but now, she didn’t think that was true. She did the only thing she knew: she insisted he go to bed.

“This won’t help, now, Severus,” she said, standing, and approaching him. “You cannot destroy yourself now.”

“Why not?” he whispered between silent sobs. “It won’t make a difference. It would do the world a favour. There is not a single benefit of me remaining alive.”

This, in turn, made old Minerva McGonagall very angry. She stood erect and clenched her fists, her nostrils flaring and eyes flashing in the glow of the candlelight.

“If I hear another foolish word out of your mouth, Snape, I’m going to take fifty points from Slytherin.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Minerva shook her head slowly and scowled in a way which only stern, elderly witches can.

“O, ho, ho!” she cried, planting her hands onto her hips. “I’ll take one-hundred points off Slytherin, if you say another word on that awful topic. Fear my wrath, Severus Snape! It will be a terrible one, for I simply cannot stomach such foolish nonsense.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered. “You can’t take points off me, I’m the head of house.”

“You watch me, young man,” she said, then shook her head and rested a firm hand on his shoulder. “Come, now. There’s going to be enough trouble when you’re hungover in the morning and have first-year classes to teach.” Severus slumped onto the table instead, his hair splayed over the surface, his form still shaking. Minerva pursed her lips, though her heart was softened. She mildly considered having a gillywater after this, too, for this was really too much. She had done her fair share of conquering and convincing and all she wanted was a quiet rest of her life amidst her tartan couches and shortbread biscuits, with an ample amount of malt tea and fiction at her elbow.

Instead, she stared down at Severus Snape’s disobedience and despair in the darkness of the staff room, at the empty bottle and glass at the side and pursed her lips so tightly that anyone watching would have marvelled at the way her mouth vanished. The candles certainly did.

“Are you listening to me?”

“I cannot help listening to you,” he muttered darkly. “You’re shouting right into my ears.”

“Then stand up.”

It took him a while. He raised his head off the table, first, stared down at its surface on which a puddle of his own tears glinted, slapped at it clumsily with a scowl, then got up. He tottered on his feet.

“Can you make it to the door?” she said doubtfully.

“Don’t be foolish, McGonagall. My legs still work.”

Thunk. Clank, bang, ba-dum.

She looked at the form on one knee holding onto the upturned furniture without a change in expression.

“Are you quite done?”

Severus groaned quietly in reply, then heaved himself upwards and clutched at the table. He paused, grasped at his left arm, looking stricken, then looked around in a daze.

“My wand.”

Minerva held the black instrument up for him to see. She had picked it up a few moments before, when it had slipped when he tried to swat at the chair to grab it.

“I have it.”

“Give it to me.”

She sniffed, looking at how dark his eyes were. “I don’t really don’t think so. You’ll receive it first thing in the morning.”

He scowled, then pushed himself upwards from the table, balanced himself, then stood there with his shoulders squared.

“Give me the wand, Minerva.”

“No.”

“You will not confiscate my wand.”

“I really just ought to use levicorpus on you,” she muttered under her nose, then directed her gaze into his eyes. “I told you what my conditions are. I’d be mad if I gave it to you in this state.”

He sneered. “I’m hardly in a state.”

“Now, really!” she cried, just about keeping herself from waving his wand around in exasperation. “Just now you have been talking about ridding the world of yourself! Seriously and with a straight face! Give you your wand? Absolutely not. Now, move, professor. It’s almost student curfew - there will be very few students about, and you are going back to your office.”

“Don’t make me curse, Minerva,” he hissed out through gritted teeth. “I’ve very little patience.”

“And so, quite frankly, do I!” she retorted, wagging her finger at him. “Don’t make me follow through on my word about points, young man, because I will do so!”

“Oh, you…” He snarled. “You’re a witch, McGonagall.”

They both looked at one another in incredulity. Snape looked rather baffled at what had just left his mouth.

“Yes, Severus, I believe I am, indeed, a witch,” she said with a twitch of her lips. “Now, let us go, before anybody else sees you in such a state.”

She moved forward as though to support him, but he lifted up a hand and scowled. The remnants of tears still glistened on his cheeks and on his lower eyelids.

“Spare it, Professor. I’ll manage perfectly well. Always have,” he said bitterly, walked a few steps, then stopped by another chair for support. “Always will.”

She watched him hobble off without a word, still holding his wand.

“Severus,” she called, when he was halfway through the room, then hesitated, but followed through thoroughly after that. “You are not completely lost. You are aware of your faults and do not deny them, and that’s always a first.”

He stopped by one of the couches, swaying. Minerva shook her head at him, then tried to lessen the force of her words.

“I can imagine what you are going through-”

“No.”

His voice was dark and scraped like stones being dragged across the floor.

“No, you cannot imagine what I am going through Minerva.”

“Do you think you are the only one who has suffered!” she cried, unable to keep herself together for longer. “Do you think you are the only one who has had people… who has had friends torn from you?”

Her voice wobbled at the end, and she clutched at the piece of wood in her hand, her whole frame rigid.

“You are not the only one who knows well and truly what it is like to be alone, Severus Snape! The war was hell for all of us. We’ve all seen parts of it. We’ve chosen to keep going regardless of what we have seen, because it’s the only sensible thing to do!”

Severus stood there long. Minerva could see his body as stiff as her own was, trembling, his fists clenched so hard into the material of the couch, it was a wonder the fabric hadn’t torn in their grasp. Then, he turned to look over his shoulder at her.

“You are not responsible for the death of your friends, professor.”

His voice was barely a whisper, though it was trembling like a creature caught in an iron grip.

“Your dreams aren’t full of reliving the death of the ones you had betrayed. You do not hold them lifeless in your grasp…”

He had to pause, for tears were running down his face in torrents, now.

“You do not relive the moments in which you could have made a decision to turn things your way, and instead did the opposite. The suffering of others was not your fault, and so many of you can live with yourselves, for it has been you that’s been wronged. I do not possess that luxury. I am the murderer in my story, the one to blame, the one to hate.”

His voice broke and he choked, then lifted a hand and furled it tight into the fabric of his robe, clutching at this chest. “You do not regret almost every word you have spoken, every thought which has crossed your mind, every step and motion which was entirely down to you and your mistakes. Your pettiness. Your pride-!”

He raised his voice, teeth bared in a snarl, tears running down into his collar in streams. Minerva was crying too, as she watched him, but her face was arranged carefully into something hard and unfeeling. Still, he saw her tears and scoffed.

“That’s right, Minerva. Cry for a wretch of a man. It’s an honour to be graced with the tears of a woman of stone-”

Another sob choked him and he hung his head, averting his eyes from hers. After a moment, he smiled, bitter and forced.

“As you can see, I am incapable of change. I’m my own torturer and my own prison. Azkaban…? Ha! What can Azkaban do to me, when I’m already in hell? The dementors would have a downright feast with all the happy emotions hidden inside me. Especially as I teach and look upon the son of the woman I betrayed. Damn all rivalries. James Potter I loathed, and, help me, I still do, though I saw him dead beside his wife and his living son. Merlin, I’m a wretch. Now you know this, Minerva. You can wrinkle your nose at me in disgust. I’m beyond the point of return… beyond the point of hoping for the better. I am scum… I am scum.”

He put a hand up to his temple, then dragged it down his face, moved awkwardly, half-crouched, then collapsed on the couch, bending inwardly, his thin arms pressed around himself, and wept, pressing his face into the couch, hiding it from the world.

“Don’t listen to me, I’m drunk,” he managed. “Is all,” then he broke down completely.

Minerva dearly wished she was in bed. She put her hands up to her temples and screwed her eyes shut. She was far too old for this. Far too old for all of this.

“Severus Snape.”

He sobbed in response. She dragged a hand down her face, then sighed and marched forward.

“That’s enough, Severus Snape,” she said, then did something she had never done before: she sat on the couch and pulled the man into a firm embrace.

He stiffened, this adult, this Slytherin head of house, this murderer, death eater, whatnot, then wilted and ducked his head, allowing his head to be covered in arm and shielded from the world as though he was back to being eleven.

“There,” she muttered with a sigh, patting his back, half a mind to make a cup of tea. “Stop that, now. None of this is your fault. Nobler than you have faced horrors which you have and turned down the dark path. But you turned from it of your own accord. You must remember.”

She placed her hand on his shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

“Do you hear me? You still have a road ahead of you. You can choose which path you walk. Stop this talk of ending yourself. You’re still young.”

He swallowed, pursed his lips, then nodded his head once. Minerva rose.

“Come, now. I will give you your wand, but you must keep its point far away from yourself, am I clear?”

He sighed, sniffed, then swallowed.

“Like a crystal.”

His sardonic nature returned. A good sign. McGonagall nodded.

“Fantastic. Can you stand?”

“Probably.”

He rose and made it halfway up, though Minerva had to grab his arm to pull him upright.

“I’d appreciate it if nobody knew about this,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stumbled. “Not even the headmaster.”

McGonagall snorted as he leaned on her for support. “Of course not. Who do you take me for?”

“A Gryffindor. The ones who always do the right thing.”

“At least your senses haven’t left you completely.”

“Fear not. They will, soon.”

They made it across the staff room, then upon checking whether the corridors were clear - Minerva’s beak-like nose poking out and her hawk eyes narrowing as they scanned the vicinity - they began their journey across two of them, towards Snape’s office.

“Be glad we don’t have to climb any staircases,” Minerva muttered, her brows pulled together sternly as she scanned for any students and frowned at the gawking and gossiping people in the paintings. “That would be a task and a half.”

Snape made a sound which sounded like half a scoff, half a sigh. His head was pounding and his throat was raw from crying. Pathetic.

“I could just apparate, if it’s any use suggesting it. I don’t want to be the reason for any rheumatisms acting up later, Professor.”

“Silence, or I’ll let go of you,” she snapped, driving a sharp elbow into his ribcage as they stumbled, probably on purpose. "Insolent boy. Arthritis. And I was heavier than you when I was your age. There are first-years heavier than you, you impervious skeleton frame. Rheumatisms acting up, indeed.”

His lips twitched at his colleague’s grumbling. “I do apologise.”

Minerva scoffed, her eyes sharp and hawk-like behind her glasses. “Of course you do. And no, you couldn’t just apparate. You’d split yourself into two in this state.”

“Right you are.”

They stumbled across a corridor, then Minerva sighed.

“I should keep you like this for a little longer. You’ve never willingly agreed with me, yet.”

“I already said, I’m far from sober. I’ll be back to my own charming self in the morning.”

“You better be. There are quizzes to mark and Quidditch matches to oversee.”

They reached his door just as he moaned. “Quidditch… How could I have forgotten?”

Within moments, he was sprawled on his bed, face-first. McGonagall placed her hands on her hips and scowled at him.

“Just leave me here,” he said, though it sounded barely decipherable due to his face being muffled in duvet. “I will manage.”

She didn’t have to speak; even the silence was severely doubtful.

“I will manage,” he repeated obstinately.

Severus twitched, rolled from side to side, only to come to a stop in the same position as he collapsed on the bed in the first place.

“... There we go,” he muttered weakly.

Her voice was as point-blank as it usually was, but Severus wasn’t fooled as he felt her eyes on his back, no doubt amused. “Be glad nobody but me can see this.”

He severely doubted that was a cause for relief, as much as he was sure that he wouldn’t be hearing the end of this, though perhaps in subtle insinuations rather than direct statements of ‘Severus Snape being so incredibly wasted he couldn’t even get himself into bed’.

He heaved himself up, sat back down, then bent over to unfasten his shoes. Then, he paused, remembered he had a wand and looked up at the stern, elderly woman watching him with a frown. Perhaps this is what it would have felt like to have a grandmother present in his life.

“My wand.”

She pursed her lips. He sighed.

“Please may I have my wand, ma’am?”

She stood there some more, then shook her head at him and withdrew it from her sleeve.

“You are by far the most difficult student in this castle, Severus Snape,” she said as she handed it to him. He took it and heaved out a sigh.

“I won’t argue.”

He undid his shoes, took off his cloak, then climbed into bed, leaving his wand on the bedside table. His candles were still glimmering after McGonagall had lit them, drilling holes into his brain. He had no energy to put them out, but he didn’t need to.

“That’s that,” Minerva said, blowing them all out but one, which she took with her. “End of today’s nonsense. I expect you to be up at the normal hour tomorrow, Severus, or I’m afraid there will be consequences for you to face.”

He muttered something rude, then bit his tongue and opened his eyes a sliver, just to see her form sweeping to the exit.

“Goodnight, Severus.”

He breathed out a sigh, then spoke.

“Thank you, Minerva.”

She paused, then turned from the door to him, frowning, as though he was being insolent; but he wasn’t.

“I’m being genuine,” he muttered, feeling his head slowly sinking into the softness of his covers. “I don’t really have anybody else in this castle to turn to. You’re quite a good ear to talk into.”

He didn’t quite manage to stay genuine and sarcasm bled into his tone. He expected to hear something witty back, but the elderly woman just sighed and spoke in a slightly softened voice:

“Don’t hesitate to speak to me, Severus,” she said. “These matters are nothing to joke about, and you cannot do this alone. Plus,” she added, “I do enjoy your futile attempts to brush up on your grading abilities. Maybe one day, you will surprise me, and that will be the day in which I shall, perhaps, finally retire.”

“Looking forward to it,” he managed to mumble, before sleep took him, and that was that, for that day.

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