A Matter of Honor
by Amy McWilliams (McAmy)

Book 2: Honor Bound

Chapter 7: A Return to Life

The true story of Voldemort's defeat never made it into The Daily Prophet. Most likely, even Cornelius Fudge didn't know the whole of it. It had taken Harry three weeks to remember it at all, and that was with the help of Albus Dumbledore. After a few days in Glasgow, Dumbledore had brought Harry back to Hogwarts. And a few days after that, with Death Eaters confessing as much as they could to avoid Azkaban, Sirius was cleared and Harry went to live with him in a house near Hogsmeade, still under the watchful eye of the Headmaster. Ron was staying with them as well, despite the protests of Mrs. Weasley, who wanted all of her children where she could see them.

Hermione had returned to Mywoods and her last semester of classes. It seemed…completely unimportant, but Minerva reminded her that there was still work to do, routing out what remained of Voldemort's forces and working to ensure that another Dark Lord would not rise to take his place. The next generation must be taught, she had written, and for Hermione to help in all of these tasks, she must finish her degree.

Hermione knew that the older woman was right, but studying seemed far removed from anything useful. She threw herself into her work on Cruciatus. Her article had been accepted, and would run in the fall issue. She had, with the help of her grant money, refined the potion for the treatment of the Curse and had been in contact with the Ministry concerning official tests and possible production. The potion to protect against Cruciatus was still eluding her, but she continued to make progress, however slowly.

At the end of January, she received a note from Sirius, inviting her to visit one weekend. She wrote immediately to say that she would be there on Friday; she hoped this meant that Harry had fully recovered, and had remembered his final battle with Voldemort. She had to admit she was curious.

Harry lay on the sofa, covered with a quilt, in their homey living room. (It was strange to think of "Sirius" and "homey" in the same sentence.) He still looked pale, and his scar was darker than before. Dumbledore had told him that, as it healed, it might fade away completely, but Harry wasn't sure that he wanted it to disappear. This time, he felt that he had earned his scar--that he had earned his fame, even if he still shied away from it.

After Sirius made certain that Hermione was comfortable, he left the two friends alone together. Ron had returned to his parents' home the week before, and would be back in London at the beginning of the month.

They sat gazing at each other for a minute, and then Hermione smiled. "I was worried, Harry. I'm so glad that you're all right."

He nodded. "Dumbledore says that within a week, I'll be as good as new," he told her.

"I'm glad," she said.

After a moment, she asked, "Was it awful, Harry?"

He frowned, and she quickly said, "You don't have to talk about it…" but he interrupted.

"No, I want to tell you. Ron and Sirius heard it in bits and pieces as Dumbledore helped me to remember. I want to tell it as a proper story…to get it straight in my head. To make it seem real."

He shifted a bit on the pillow, and then began. "I knew he was coming, Hermione. I knew, somehow, that Voldemort was coming for me. I just didn't know when, exactly. When we got the news that London had been hit again…then I was sure. As we prepared that night, I felt it…I felt him. It was like he was…calling me. I slipped out of the barracks, past the front gates, and Apparated…I knew that I would go right to him. I was outside the city, out in the open…the stars were so bright…. Then he was there, behind me. I turned, but couldn't see anything. He…he laughed…he taunted me, saying that this time, I would die."

Hermione was silent, listening intently, as Harry continued. "I knew what I was going to do. Knew what I had to do." He paused, a crease furrowing his brow. "Voldemort wouldn't make the same mistake again--wouldn't let me connect our wands. I expected him to curse me immediately with Avada Kadavra, but then, in the last moment, I realized that he would want to get my wand away from me first." Harry took a deep breath. "As he cried out, 'Expelliarmus,' I…I cursed him. He didn't expect me to be able to use the killing curse. He wouldn't have expected me to actually use it, even if he thought I could. I…I almost couldn't do it." He looked at Hermione. "He deserved to die…for everything…for my parents…and I almost couldn't do it." He faltered, tears forming in his eyes.

Hermione moved to kneel beside him, and took his hand in hers. "But you did," she said quietly.

Harry nodded. "I did. But it didn't kill him. He fell back, stunned, and when his spell hit me, my wand flew out of my hand. I thought of calling it back to me with Accio, but he was ready then…. I…I just knew…and I cursed him again. I shouted it, pointing at him. And this time, it…instead of my wand, it shot out of the scar on my forehead. There was a brilliant green light, a scream…and then blackness. That's all I remember. I still can't remember what happened next. I just remember waking up back in my bed with you and Ron there, and Sirius and Remus. And Sirius said that Voldemort was dead."

Hermione smiled, wiping the tears from his cheek. "You did it Harry. You did it." Harry looked away. She added, softly, "I'm proud of you Harry. But more than that, I'm grateful that you're alive." Harry nodded.

As Hermione returned to her seat, Sirius came in with a restorative tea for Harry and a cup for her as well. She looked up, a questioning look on her face. "It can't hurt, now, can it?" he said to her, placing a hand on her head.

"No," she smiled up at him, "it can't hurt."

When he returned to Hogwarts, Snape learned that he had missed Hermione's visit. It was just as well; he knew he was unfit for company, and had been since Voldemort's death. He retreated back into the dungeons, and the only time anybody saw him was when he surfaced to teach class. He hadn't eaten in the Great Hall since the beginning of the term, and the Slytherin Prefects were left, for the most part, to run the house on their own.

In class, he yelled less often than usual, choosing instead to quietly deduct points for the slightest offense. Students found his lessons more demanding, his lectures more taxing. They couldn't put their finger on exactly what was different, but Elise Renaldi, a fifth-year Gryffindor, told Professor McGonagall that it was as if his angry temper was gone and in its place was only coldness.

To the other professors, when they saw him, he seemed--not distracted, but as if he were focusing intently on something outside Hogwarts as he moved through his day. McGonagall knew that he was working within the Death Eaters, even now, to convince those who had been coerced into service to come to the Ministry for help and protection against those who were out to avenge the Dark Lord's death on those they perceived as traitors to the cause. Of course, Snape was just such a traitor, and every time he went out--whether it was to contact those who might be saved or to help trap those who would be punished--there was a chance that he would not return.

McGonagall spoke to Remus about him just after Valentine's Day. Snape had returned to meals in the Great Hall, at Dumbledore's insistence, and even the flurry of pink hadn't elicited a response from him.

"Remus, I'm worried about him. Is there nothing we can do?" she asked, as Professor Lupin handed her a mug of hot chocolate.

"He has to handle this in his own way, Minerva," Remus told her. "He's never wanted our help before, and I'm sure he doesn't want it now."

Minerva sighed. "Albus says the same thing. If it were only a matter of his moodiness, I might be able to let go of it. There's no real trouble with his classes, though the students don't quite know what to make of him. But it's the danger. He is in real danger, Remus, and with the Ministry trying to seal this up so neatly, telling everyone that it's all over, he's had less and less support--fewer people who understand the importance of what he's doing. No, I'm worried about him."

Remus nodded. "I try to keep an eye on him…watch for signs that…. He seems to be handling it, Minerva, even if it's not in the way we would wish for him, or even understand." He paused, then added, "Hermione still hears from him, if not very often; she wrote to me this week and mentioned his last letter. She wanted to know if he was all right."

"Well, at least that's something," Minerva replied. "At least he's saying something to somebody."

Hermione could only imagine what Snape must be faced with, now that Voldemort was gone. It probably didn't help that Harry's name was routinely emblazoned on the front page of the Prophet even now, three months after the fact.

She continued to write to him, sometimes receiving brief responses to her queries, but more often than not hearing nothing in return. She told him of her progress, about classes, about the novels that she was reading. She never mentioned her worries, her fear for him. She knew instinctively that if she did, he might not answer her again. She toyed with the idea of going to visit Hogwarts…but wasn't at all sure that he would want to see her.

She was at her desk one morning, going over some notes from her independent study in Potions (the department was letting her have some academic credit for her work on Cruciatus in her last semester), when Mordred flew in through the open window. Since her visit the past summer, the owl had been downright affectionate--or at least as affectionate as any owl belonging to Snape would be. This time, he even accepted the bit of toast she offered him.

When she turned her attention to the letter, she realized that it was longer than usual. Her eyes moved across the page.

Dear Miss Granger,

My apologies for being such a poor correspondent this term. I have been away from Hogwarts quite often, and, when I am here, my thoughts are distracted. I do not find that I have much to say that you would wish to hear, at any rate.

Thank you for worrying about me, as I know you do. Thanks also for not reminding me of that fact. Your letters have been a dose of a pleasant reality, for which I am grateful. I have especially enjoyed your descriptions of your leisure reading--though, despite your impassioned recommendation of Mrs. Gaskell's work, I'm quite sure she would not be to my tastes. My preferences run towards the Hardy end of the Nineteenth-Century spectrum, and not only in terms of chronology. And though I am not surprised that the Victorian novel suits you, I must admit that I prefer that century's poetry.

I can see the surprised look on your face now. Don't be shocked; I assure you my preference for verse has nothing to do with romantic notions of love and death, but comes instead out of a practical concern for time. Verse is, with the rare Wordsworthian exception, shorter. I have little time to read for pleasure, and prefer something I can carry with me in memory. Verse is also more difficult, and I find it somehow more unsettled than novels--the Victorian novelists were, after all, determined to have everything pinned down, even when they knew they couldn't succeed.

I say all of this because I have had fragments of a poem floating through my thoughts since…Christmas, and thought that you might have read widely enough to appreciate the reference. Though it would, perhaps, serve me better to ponder Tennyson's "Ulysses," I find myself drawn inexorably to Yeats:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

I suppose I cannot let go of it because I fear that, even now, some rough beast slouches towards Bethlehem to be born. Others may say that this thing is over, neatly ended with the success of your friend, Mr. Potter. They are wrong to think so.

You will forgive me, I think, for my lack of optimism, where others would not. So instead of tossing this message aside and writing you a short note in answer to your question about the asphodel/hibiscus mixture (you are correct in your assumption, by the way), I will send this.

Make of it--make of me--what you will, but know that I am well, in body and mind, if not in spirit.

Sincerely,
Severus Snape

Hermione read through it again. It was the longest thing he'd ever sent her, aside from his comments on the first draft of her article over a year ago. It was the most…personal thing that she'd ever received from him. She had noticed the change in his signature immediately.

She knew the references, though Yeats was early twentieth century, not Victorian (and she did have some quibbles with his characterization of the Victorian novelists--aside from wondering what he meant by his comment about their suitability to her character, given his later remark about their pinning things down in vain). Though he did not give any details, she knew well enough that he was worried about those the Dark Lord had left behind. She assumed that was what had kept him silent and occupied since Voldemort's defeat. She was worried about him--not because of his mood, or his choice of poems. She worried because his life might still be in danger.

She could not bear to lose him.

Snape sat in the semi-darkness of his office. He had been attempting to grade papers, but could not fix his attention on second-year narrations of the value of unicorn horn in basic potion making. He had extinguished the candles, and sat facing the glowing embers of his fading fire.

He did not hear Dumbledore enter, or take the chair opposite. He flinched at the Headmaster's first words, "Severus, I'm worried about you," but did not look at him.

Dumbledore waited. Finally, Snape turned to meet his gaze. "I am fine, Headmaster."

Dumbledore sighed. "You are not fine. You are losing yourself in this mess, Severus, and you have worked too long and hard to keep yourself to give up now." Snape shifted in his seat, looking back at the fire. Dumbledore continued, "I know that the work you must do is difficult, that it casts the entire world in shadows for you. You do it without reward or recognition from those who owe you more than they know."

Snape snorted derisively. "If you think that I am holed up in this dungeon waiting for recognition…" he began, but Dumbledore stopped him with a wave of his hand.

"Of course not. I know better than that. Though I suspect it bothers you more than you let on. Cornelius Fudge is an idiot." Snape raised an eyebrow at that.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Severus, I know that you don't want to hear this, but there are people that care about you. You are not alone, as much as you might feel that way. I will do anything that I can to help--you know that."

Snape sighed, uncomfortable. "Yes, Headmaster, of course. I am…sorry…for my attitude of late…I…"

"There is no need to apologize. I am not here to chide you for your bad manners or ask you to present a cheery face to the world," Dumbledore told him, a twinkle playing about his kindly eyes.

Snape looked up at him, his mouth curving into a wry smile. The two men regarded each other for a moment, and then Dumbledore moved towards the door.

"We will see you at dinner, I assume?" the Headmaster asked.

"Of course," replied Snape.

Dumbledore opened the door and paused, noting, "By the way, there's been a bit of news. Professor Vector will be leaving at the end of the term; she's going to work for the Ministry full time."

"Well, at least there will be one sane person there," snarled Snape.

"Yes, yes, quite right," chuckled Dumbledore. "Minerva has recommended that we ask Hermione Granger to come to Hogwarts as her replacement."

He shut the door behind him, not waiting to see the look of surprise on Snape's face, but knowing that it was there all the same.

By the end of the following week, Snape seemed more like himself than he had all term. His work--in and out of school--was going well. He was adjusting to the thought that Voldemort was finally gone. He'd even yelled at the Hufflepuff first years, causing one of them to run from the room in tears. And then he'd deducted five points for the boy's leaving class without permission. It felt good to be getting back to normal.

As the last class of the day emptied out into the hallway, Snape gathered the homework papers and prepared to move to his office. How he hated grading. His reprieve arrived in the form of a tawny barn owl, who swooped into the classroom and settled on his podium. He recognized it as Hazel Bedford's owl, and his chest tightened. He couldn't remember everything he'd written in his last letter to Miss Granger, composed late one night after several glasses of wine and a dose of asphodel and wormwood that was taking longer than expected to achieve the desired effect, but he knew there had been verse…. Gods, what must she think of him now?

Dear Professor,

I was glad to receive your last letter, and to hear that you are doing as well as can be expected in the face of…things I can only imagine.

I do recognize the Yeats (and the Tennyson, which I agree is not exactly what you were looking for), and though it seems suitable enough, I thought you might try the passage near the end of section 96 of Tennyson's In Memoriam, instead. (If you stick with Yeats, then you might find some solace in the thought that, perhaps, we are beginning a cycle upward, rather than another downward.) I know you will say that I am too optimistic by half, but Professor Harwood had mentioned the Tennyson to me at lunch last week, and it came to my mind as I read your letter.

You probably already know my biggest news--probably knew before I did. Prof. Dumbledore has written to ask me to come to Hogwarts as the new Arithmancy professor next year, and I have accepted. I'm to meet with the board in London in June, but Minerva assures me that it is merely a formality. I'm thrilled, of course, and more than a little nervous.

I would like it very much if you would consider working with me again, once I've arrived. I know you are busy, and will understand if you decline--for any reason. But I cannot seem to work out the final details of the--well, I will leave that for when I see you.

I look forward to seeing you this summer, if everything goes as expected,
Sincerely,
H.

Snape ran his hand across the page, smiled, and then stood and reached for a book that he had left on top of a cabinet a few days before. He flipped through the pages, and his eyes found what he was seeking. While he knew poem generally, he had not been certain as to the specific passage. As he glanced over the section she had named, he knew the stanzas she meant for him to read immediately.

Perplexed in faith, but pure in deeds,
At last he beat his music out.
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.

He fought his doubts and gathered strength,
He would not make his judgment blind,
He faced the specters of the mind
And laid them; thus he came at length

To find a stronger faith his own,
And Power was with him in the night,
Which makes the darkness and the light,
And dwells not in the light alone.

"Too optimistic by half, indeed," he said, with a gleam in his eye, and slipped her letter between the pages to mark his place before he closed the book and set it gently on his desk.

Finally, Mrs. (Elizabeth) Gaskell was the author of several novels in the mid-Victorian period, and wrote frequently for Dickens's publications. My favorite of her novels are North and South (no, not the American Civil War with Patrick Swayze), published in 1854-55 , and Wives and Daughters, published posthumously in 1866 (and recently made into a miniseries by the BBC). I discovered her in graduate school, having not heard of her during an undergraduate degree in English Literature; she is more widely read than she once was. She is, despite what Snape may think of her, the subject of the first chapter of my dissertation (joined in later chapters by Charles Dickens and the Brontës).

On to Book 3