characters are the creation and intellectual property of j. k. rowling. no profit is derived from this work of fan fiction.

PG-13
 
 

the unspeakable universe: not omnipotence
 

December 2007
 
 

Hogwarts was in his veins, under his skin, part of the very cells that made up his body.  If the Dark Mark had been a violation, then this was like a lover.  Hogwarts whispered around him, melding with him.

He had Hogwarts, and Hogwarts had him.

Snape sat in his office late at night, and he knew, he knew what was happening around him: the elves in the kitchens, the students in their dorms, teachers scattered throughout the school.

This wasn't omnipotence, but it was power; not the kind of power that could be sought and harnessed, but the kind that offered itself and created a symbiosis.

He'd been Headmaster for over a decade, and every passing year brought him closer to the school.

The Fat Friar was in the West Tower.

Peeves was in the Trophy Room.  He couldn't be sure, but he suspected that Filch was in the vicinity.

He didn't know exactly what was going on, but just as he could feel the muscles in his body, he could sense the school.

Poppy was in the hospital wing.

Neville was in his office.

Hermione...

Ah, he thought.  Hermione.

He left his office, making sure that the doors closed behind him.  He walked quickly through the school, his footsteps echoing over the tiles.  His skin prickled in the December air; any sensible person, he thought, would be in bed by now.

He passed Hermione near the Entrance Hall; she gave him a distracted nod and hurried off in the direction of the dungeons.

We're our own worst enemies, love, he thought, watching her go.

Technically, Hermione had an office in the dungeons, but her duties as Deputy Headmistress and head of Gryffindor, not to mention her myriad other projects, meant that she needed more space than the dungeons allowed.  With his approval, she'd taken over a disused classroom on the second floor eighteen months ago.  Reaching that door, Snape drew his wand and whispered, "Alohomora."

As he'd suspected, the room was brightly lit, dozens of floating candles illuminating the desk and groaning bookshelves.  She had millions of books, even old schoolbooks.  Flipping through an old Potions text once, he'd found a less than flattering caricature of himself, signed by Dean Thomas.  It had been an uncomfortable reminder of what he had been, and of what she had been.

She was sitting behind her desk, wearing Muggle jeans and a battered maroon jumper.  Her hair was loose, an enormous mass of wavy brown that spilled down her back.  She was sucking on a quill and glaring at a scroll.

Now he moved silently, knowing from long experience that she'd remain oblivious to his presence, until he leaned down, allowing her hair to brush his skin, and whispered, "Hermione."

She looked up in surprise.  "Severus?  Am I late?  No, I can't possibly -- didn't I see you in the Entrance Hall earlier?"

"About five minutes ago, yes."

She blushed, and he reached down to pull the Time Turner out from under her shirt.  His fingers brushed her skin as he picked up the thin chain.

"You're the last person I should have to lecture on the dangers of Time Turner burn-out, Hermione."

"I need more hours in the day, Severus."

He seated himself across from her and conjured up a tray bearing tea things.

"Drop a project.  I can't have my Deputy Headmistress collapsing from exhaustion."

She bit her lip.  "What would you have me abandon?  Classes?  The Wolfsbane research?  My independent research?"

"How's the book coming?"

She grimaced and shuffled the parchment on her desk.  "Nearly finished.  I just need to revise it one more time..."

"Can it wait?"

"It's hardly any work at all, really..."

"Which is, of course, why you're spending your nights working on it."  He prepared her tea, black with two sugars, and handed it to her.  She took a sip and offered him a grateful smile.  "My policy stands, Hermione."

He'd admired Dumbledore, had loved him like a father, but he couldn't follow in Albus' footsteps, for there were things he'd sworn he'd never do.  Play last minute games with the House Cup (he still remembered the burning anger he'd felt seventeen years ago, when Dumbledore had smilingly snatched the Cup away from Slytherin, not even acknowledging the insult).  Allow students to get away with allegedly amusing, highly dangerous pranks.  And allow the staff to use Time Turners to handle their grueling schedules.

He'd been flexible with Hermione, in recognition of her extensive duties, but her use had been heavier than usual of late, and he was worrying about her health.  There were fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and he suspected that if he looked at the Ministry's records, he'd find that she'd added at least another two years to her actual age.

"Look, Severus..."

"No.  I need you in peak condition, Hermione, not in a permanent state of exhaustion."

She stared into her teacup, biting her lip.  "I suppose I could put the book away for a few months.  Maybe the break would help."

"It was only yesterday that you were saying you could no longer tell the good passages from bad."  A very small smile tugged at his looks.  "Yesterday from my perspective, anyway.  Yours may differ."

She pulled a face at him, and for a second, he was uncomfortably reminded of Hermione-the-student.  He tried not to dwell on the twenty-year age difference -- rapidly becoming narrower, in defiance of the laws of nature and the Ministry -- but the fact remained that some of his contemporaries had children her age.

Irrelevant.  Unpleasant.  Uncomfortable.  He brushed those thoughts aside and stood up.

"Time to admit defeat, Hermione."

She gave him a rueful smile.  "Maybe the break will do me good."

"Try to sound convinced, love."

She sipped her tea, and he watched her in the candlelight.  Even exhausted and overworked, she was lovely.  Too lovely for him; he'd heard the whispers, seen the glares and suspicious looks from her friends and contemporaries.

There was a rift, one that would one day have to be dealt with.

But not today.

He shivered slightly as something pressed against his awareness, and she raised her eyebrows.

"It's nothing," he said, and held out his hand.  "Come to bed?"

"I really should finish preparing tomorrow's lesson … all right."  She stood, straightening her desk with a wave of her wand, and took his arm.

"I'll owl Gadling books tomorrow," she said, "let them know that I need more time."  Her voice echoed in the empty halls, and she lowered it to say, "maybe I should ask for more space as well; there are some very interesting—"

"Hermione."

She stopped, smiling slightly.

"Tomorrow," he told her.

"Right.  Tomorrow … Severus, why are we going this way?  Your rooms are—"

He touched his fingers to his lips, and after a moment, her ears registered what he'd already sensed.

"Gryffindors?" she asked.

"Hufflepuffs.  Four of them."

"You know, it's rather disconcerting when you do that."

"I'm very pleased to hear it."

She let go of his arm, straightening and, as he watched, adopting the air of authority that she used as deputy headmistress.  They moved in to deal with the wandering students together.

It wasn't omnipotence, this bond with the school, but it was just as good: a form of magic that tied the headmaster to Hogwarts, that allowed him to defend and protect it, and those within it.

As for his bond with his deputy headmistress …

That defied precise definition, and he found to his surprise that he preferred it that way.
 
 

end
 

Gadling Books: reference to Robert (Hob) Gadling, a recurring character in the  Sandman comics.  At one stage in his long life, he was a publisher.