The Changing of the Guard
by Snarkypants


The door closed behind the Minister, leaving Severus alone in the Headmaster's office.

How is it possible that he's gone?

He looked at the jumble of items. It was a fascinating display, a veritable treasure trove of magical devices and memorabilia. This office had looked the same ever since Severus had been a student; he had long suspected that the house elves didn't remove so much as groom the dust, leaving just the right amount to suggest extreme old age, without crossing the line into abject slovenliness.

He touched a shelf, dragging his finger through the dust. The old man certainly was a jackdaw, he thought with a wry grin, noticing a magenta rabbit's foot dangling by a chain from a battered astrolabe.

It was a picturesque mess, but certainly not to Severus' taste, which tended toward the ascetic in most things. Given his choice, he'd clean the lot out, leaving plenty of clear, blank meditative space.

He turned around to see the dead headmasters (for how else was he to think of them?) spiffed up and smiling at him from their frames. That was an odd thing, to be sure. Their manner towards him had always been aloof and rather forbidding.

"So, Snape," Phineas Nigellus began, after a phlegmy throat clearing. "Glad to see another Slytherin in the office. Been thinking we'd never see another."

"Quite so," added an elderly female in puce robes. The nameplate on her portrait frame read 'Cerise Bowbatten.' "You'd think that the Ministry would avoid one of us like the Plague, after all the kerfuffle with that jumped-up Riddle. 'Lord,' indeed." She sniffed. "As if a Slytherin needs such nonsense."

"Just remember you're a political appointment, Snape. The Minister is trying to make a point about Slytherins not being black as they're painted," a Ravenclaw Headmaster said.

"Somebody should have told Snape then," an unseen Dead Headmaster said, and some of them snickered, but not unkindly, he had to admit.

"And what's wrong with black? Eh? What?" one Headmaster, decked out in Victorian black, asked, his jaw stuck out pugnaciously. "It's a proper colour. Sober, and befitting the occasion."

"Nothing's wrong with black, Filbert," one of the Dead Headmistresses said soothingly, and she smiled and winked at Severus. "My great-great-great-great nephew looks quite splendid in it."

He started. "Madam?" He moved closer to the portrait. The nameplate read "Flora Augusta Snape l'Êtranger, Headmistress, 1623-1650." She wasn't an attractive woman; she had come by the name (and nose) of Snape honestly. But, for all that, her blue eyes twinkled happily at him, and her smile was warm and proud. He had to crane his neck to see her properly.

"I'm ever so glad that you did something about your hair, dear. I was despairing of ever seeing your eyes," she continued.

"Thank you," he said, and cleared his throat. "Thank you all. Your support is very much appreciated."

They all murmured in response, and then were silent.

He was silent.

They all looked at him expectantly.

He looked back.

"Well, haven't you got more to say than that? What the devil will you say to the governors, the faculty, or the students, if you've nothing more to say to us?" Phineas said, exasperated.

"I don't much care for giving speeches," Severus said.

This was met with groans and catcalls from the Dead Headmasters. He thought he saw Headmaster Everard making an obscene hand gesture, indicating doubt in Severus' veracity.

"Tell it to the garden gate, boy. You forget, I've held pride of place outside your classroom since before you were even thought of. The fellow never lived who more loved the sound of his own voice," Everard said loudly for the benefit of his colleagues, who roared appreciatively.

A knock rang out through the cavernous office.

"Don't worry, man, I'll send 'em away," Phineas said, and headed for the painting in the vestibule.

"Don't bother, sir." He took a deep breath. "Enter!"

The door opened magically, and his wife swept in, her arms laden with a box full of things from his old office. "Hermione," he chided, "I was going to do that."

"The incoming Potions Master wants his office sooner rather than later," she said, irony heavy in her voice. "Do you lot take 'Cantankerous Bastard' tests for your Mastery?"

"Just an occupational hazard, I think," he said. "Come and meet my many-times-removed great aunt." She set the box down, and followed him almost shyly, patting her hair into place and smoothing her robes.

"Madam l'Êtranger, may I present my wife, Professor Hermione Granger Snape?"

The ancient lady peered at Hermione. "Lovely, just lovely. I can see from where your son gets his good looks, Severus. Will your young Brian come so I can meet him properly as well?"

"He had to return to Beauxbatons after Albus’ funeral to take his OWLs, madam,” Hermione said. "Otherwise he would be here for this."

"Don't see why the boy couldn't go to Hogwarts," Headmaster Filbert grumped. "Been done before."

"It was the best solution for all of us," Severus said. "Fewer conflict of interest problems. Fewer classmates punishing him for his father's misdeeds."

"That, and the fact that he couldn't be Sorted a Gryffindor at Beauxbatons," Hermione added shrewdly.

"Merely a side benefit, my dear," Severus said with a smirk, and she swatted him. He took her hands, stilling them, and pulled her close. She resisted him at first, wearing a mock-sour expression, then relaxed in his embrace.

He kissed her forehead and rested his own forehead against her hair.

"You miss him," she said simply.

"Which 'him?'" he asked.

"Both of them, of course, although I was thinking of Albus just now."

He nodded, murmuring an affirmative into her hair.

"Oh! I was meaning to tell you; the artist has delivered Albus' portrait, fully charmed. It's in the Staff Room for now, but I told Mr. Filch you'd like it brought in here," she said.

"Thank you."

"Would you like me to leave you alone now?" Her palm was cool and soft against his cheek.

"Yes, for now. I need to..." he broke off, not sure exactly what he needed to do.

She smiled and gently kissed his mouth and smoothed his hair from his eyes. "I've got plenty of things to take care of before the ceremony; everyone seems to think that because we're married, I'm your unofficial deputy."

"Send them to Sinistra; you're not deputy headmistress."

"Oh, I’ve sent them, but she's snowed under." She snorted with laughter. "Rolanda asked me earlier how to 'get a raise out of the boss'."

"I hope you responded 'by getting a raise out of the boss'?"

"Of course; I wasn't about to let such an opportunity slip..."

"Hear, hear, keep it decent, you two!" Filbert protested from the wall. "My young 'uns are in this portrait with me."

"Sorry, sir," Hermione said, and bobbed a curtsy, flashing the mischievous grin that belied her age.

"You don't mind?" he asked.

"Mind?"

"That I didn't name you deputy. The governors would never have approved it, even though you would be splendid for the position."

"Severus, I don't care about position. As long as I'm free to do my research and write my books, I'm perfectly content. Head of Gryffindor is quite enough to be getting on with. We've always been so careful about conflicts of interest; I never expected less of you."

"You'd have far more opportunities for advancement if you weren't my wife; you could be headmistress at Beauxbatons someday, or at least deputy, and you'd see Brian every day."

"Oh, tosh. Brian is becoming his own man. As much as I miss him, I know how I would have chafed under so much parental supervision at his age." Severus wisely decided to let that pass without comment. She beamed suddenly. "The youngest Headmaster in over a century, Severus. I'm so proud of you!" She put her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. "You've shown them all," she murmured fiercely, and kissed him just as fiercely for the sake of the disaffected youth, the alienated man, he had been. "I'll see you later, my love," she said, and left the office.

Severus pulled items out of the box she had left behind. A framed magical photograph of his son, unsmiling and looking very serious and adult. The photograph had made Hermione weep sentimental tears when she first saw it. Brian looked like his father, if his father had been liquefied and strained through a Granger filter. The features that were sharp and harsh on the father filtered to strong and masculine on the son. True to Granger form, the son now had charm-perfect teeth. And, truth be told, a better fashion sense than both his parents put together; Severus blamed the French for that.

He was bright, if less so than his parents, and popular, a ringer at Quidditch. Severus often grumbled that if he would apply himself more diligently to his books, he could improve his marks, but most things had come easily to Brian, with the result that he was naturally somewhat indolent; the French hadn't helped much in that regard either.

Severus wondered how he might have reacted to his son had they been students together, but didn't want to look too far down that path. His son was as different from his own teenaged self as any two young men could be, and he couldn't find it in himself to resent Brian for that. More often than not, he was as charmed and exasperated by his peculiar offspring as Hagrid would have been by a heretofore-unknown species of deadly creature.

Another photograph, of Hermione, as he still saw her. This one was taken just after their marriage, before the subtle child-borne thickening of her figure, before those faint strands of silver had crept through her hair. She smiled happily up at him, laughing at some joke the photographer - Creves? Greevey?-had made.

He removed the shagreen box that contained his Order of Merlin, First Class, and put it into the far corner of a deep drawer. He didn't look at the medal; he didn't enjoy the memories of that time in his life. The medal was little more than ballast; too cumbersome to haul around, too valuable to toss on the tip.

He also retrieved a miniature painting of his mother that he placed carefully on his desk, next to the images of his wife and child. She smiled warily at him, taking care to cover her prominent teeth as she did so; his heart ached at her self-consciousness. "Be at peace, Mother," he said. "I'm well." She relaxed somewhat, and smiled in a more natural fashion. She never spoke; his father had been loath to spend the money for a fully-charmed portrait, and had chosen the smallest painting he could find.

He arranged the remainder of his Spartan possessions on and in the desk, and sighed. He was going to have to remove some of Albus' things. He didn't want to. Albus would have said, "Begin as you mean to go on." Which meant that he had to be Headmaster in his own right, not merely Albus' deputy and cat's paw. He had delayed moving into the office until a week after Albus' death, despite the ailing former Headmaster's express requests that he assume the benefits of the position along with the long-assumed duties.

Albus’ decline had begun soon after the death of Minerva McGonagall, nearly a year past. He was ready to die, he told Severus shortly before his death. “I don’t want to be here without her. You’re going to have to prepare yourself, Severus.”

“Nonsense, Albus. You’ll be here...” Severus had begun, only to be silenced by an abrupt motion from his mentor.

“It is my time, son. I’ve lived many, many lifetimes' worth. Seen valiant men and brave women die far too young. Watched children defeat the greatest evil of our time.” He smiled wanly. “I’ve even seen a good man redeemed.”

Severus dropped his head to hide an unexpected welling of tears.

“Severus...if ever I had a son...I could be no prouder of him than I am of you.”

He looked up, meeting Albus’ gaze. He didn’t trust his voice. Albus understood, and smiled again.

“I’ve left a few things to Brian; I know you’ll see he gets them. I’ve left things to you and Hermione as well, but those you’ll have to find.” His tired eyes twinkled. “It’s a secret.”

Severus tucked the blankets more securely around Albus, and cleared his throat. “Get your rest, sir,” he said briskly. He sought out Albus’ hand above the blankets, and squeezed gently, careful of the tender bones, the papery skin.

Seized by impulse, he bent and kissed his mentor’s forehead before he could stop himself. He blushed furiously. “Goodnight, Headmaster.”

Three days later, Albus Dumbledore was dead, and the job fell to Severus. The governors were pleased enough to have a trained Headmaster ready to assume the duties; Albus had laid his groundwork so skillfully that Snape’s checkered past and famously unpleasant nature were all but overlooked.

Severus paused in the act of emptying out one of Dumbledore’s ubiquitous dishes of sweets. Ought he to keep one dish, in his memory?

He looked around the room, and laughed at himself. No wonder the office resembled a packrat’s midden!

"So, Armando, what do you think of the new boy?" Phineas asked.

Headmaster Dippet squinted at Severus. "Oh. That one. Albus had no end of trouble with him." He shook a bony finger at Snape. "Shoe's on the other foot now, laddie. Not so easy to sit in that seat, is it?"

"I haven't actually sat in it yet," Severus admitted.

"Well? Go on, then, it won't bite," Dilys Derwent chided him.

The Dead Headmasters crowded into the corners of their frames to watch him; some shifting was necessary, as Phineas Nigellus was closest but possessed of the smallest frame.

Severus strode to the Headmaster's chair. The leather of the seat and back was worn quite thin, and looked as if it were held together with little more than magic. The desk was worn away at just the place Severus would put his own hands when rising from the seat, especially as he grew older.

He smoothed the back of the chair with his hand, trying to remember if he had ever imagined sitting here. He didn't think he had. This, like so many of the other significant changes in his life, was a seismic shock, unimagined and unexpected.

He sat on the chair.

From seemingly nowhere, emotion bubbled up in his chest.

Guilt...wretchedness...fear...awe...gratitude...horror...love...loss...hope.

He put his head in his hands and wept.

The mantle had been passed.

---

A/N: I loved writing this story, imagining a possible future where Severus is acknowledged a hero, if still a bit of an arse. But a loved arse, which I believe makes all the difference.

This particular little plot bunny struck during, of all things, the transition from the late Pope John Paul II to his possibly less charismatic, more controversial successor. The gravity, the responsibility, must be sufficient to change even the toughest individual...

...leading me to Severus. I wanted to show Severus' realization that the job was bigger than he was, and his being humbled by that knowledge.