The Reluctant Colleague

The Reluctant Colleague

"This does not appear to be the Headmaster's office."

Harry Potter had to suppress a snigger. Severus Snape sounded so exactly like himself, and his painted lip had curled into a sneer even before his portrait was fully dry.

"No, it isn't," said Harry evenly. "Kingsley let me borrow this one for the day. And you might want to thank me." He looked directly into the painted Snape's black eyes. "Having your portrait painted was my idea, you know. Cost the Ministry a fortune." Not to mention the number of dead bodies I had to step over--but Harry didn't say that out loud.

Despite his bravado, Harry found he was a bit nervous. His relationship with his former Potions master had always been difficult, and he was not at all sure that the plan he had in mind was going to work.

Of course, if things threatened to get out of hand, he could always stuff the portrait into a cupboard . . .

"I did not choose to be here," said the painted Snape. The portrait's setting was the Headmaster's office, though the high-backed chair behind the desk was upholstered in green and silver stripes. Instead of sitting in it, however, the painted Snape was pacing the painted floor, his black robes billowing behind him as much as they could in a confined space.

"True," Harry admitted. He himself was sitting at his borrowed desk with a pile of parchments in front of him. He was supposed to be still on holiday; the bruises he'd sustained during the final battle with Voldemort had scarcely had time to heal, and he badly needed a rest before returning to Hogwarts to study for his N.E.W.T. exams.

However, when Professor McGonagall called upon him for help, he could hardly say no. After all, she had been through a great deal herself during the past few years, and she wasn't getting any younger.

Harry watched the pacing figure of his old Potions professor before speaking again.

"As I said, the painting was my idea. You don't mind, I hope."

The painted Snape stopped pacing long enough to glare at Harry. Death did not seem to have softened his attitude toward his least favorite former student. "Then, Potter, kindly explain why I am not hanging among the other former headmasters."

"It's simple, really," said Harry. "As you know, Voldemort's death removed the curse on the Dark Arts position. Had you lived, you might well still be occupying the position.

"However," Harry went on, "by killing you, Voldemort left Professor McGonagall in the position of having to recruit another teacher for next year." Harry thought he detected a hint of surprise in the portrait's expression.

"Yes, of course you would have been hired back. Everyone knows now what you did for the Order, though not everyone believes you weren't a Death Eater in the end. I can't see McGonagall being intimidated by disgruntled parents, though, can you."

It gave Harry a perverse pleasure to tell Snape his vindication was incomplete. "I was convincing enough to get you a portrait, though." Harry enjoyed rubbing that in, too.

The painted Snape finally sat.

"What do you want, Potter?"

"Right, well, here's the thing," Harry continued. "Circumstances being what they are, Professor McGonagall needs to hire someone, and she's asked me to interview the candidates and make a recommendation. She has rather a lot on her plate right now, you can imagine. Of course, she'll have final approval, but I'll be interviewing today, and I thought, since your portrait's just finished--well, I thought you might want to sit in."

The last few words were mumbled--they sounded ridiculous even to Harry. He expected raised eyebrows at the very least, but the painted Snape merely stared. Harry was very familiar with that gimlet-eyed look.

"The sooner we get the job done, the sooner I can take your portrait to Hogwarts, where it belongs." If this sounded like a bribe, Harry meant it to.

The portrait remained silent.

"Right, then," Harry hastened on. He lifted an alabaster paperweight in the shape of an owl (a birthday gift from Hermione) from a stack of parchments. "I've narrowed the search down to two, and since you know them both, I thought we'd go over their resumes before they come in. Okay?"

The man inside the frame shot Harry a filthy look, but Snape was relieved to note that death had not robbed him of his intelligence. He did not wish to linger a moment longer than necessary in Harry Potter's company, and if his input would hurry things along, he had never objected to stating his opinion.

Harry picked up the top two parchment resumes, not that Snape would be able to read them from across the room.

"You know both candidates; they were members of the Order." He stopped a moment, suddenly overwhelmed by the realization, never far from his consciousness, that fully half the Order of the Phoenix had been wiped out during the last Wizarding War. His godfather, Sirius Black--Dumbledore--Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks--Mad-Eye Moody--and of course, Severus Snape himself.

"Why limit yourself to Order members, when there are so few left? Surely, there are other qualified wizards in the world." The painted Snape's tone implied that Potter was every bit as thick as when he was botching potion after potion.

For an uncomfortable moment, Harry wondered if the portrait of a dead person could practice Legilimency. He did not feel like sharing his thoughts aloud, much less by magical mind intrusion. Yes, he could have gone farther afield, even chosen a wizard from outside Britain as the new Defense teacher. There had been plenty of applicants, though the whole wizarding world knew the castle was still half in ruins and the coming year might be chaotic at best.

It was just that Harry desperately craved stability and security. He had spent so many years confronting the unknown, facing new mysteries and dangers around every corner. At least, membership in the Order implied a certain degree of trustworthiness (Mundungus aside.) McGonagall understood and supported Harry's position.

"I'm interviewing Hestia Jones and Sturgis Podmore," Harry said to Snape's image.

The painted Snape snorted. "Those were the best you could come up with?"

Harry sighed. He had anticipated difficulties, including Snape's probable objection to anyone Harry might suggest. "I suppose you would prefer Amycus Carrow?"

It was a low blow, and the painted Snape snapped back, "That was unworthy even of you, Potter."

"Sorry." And it was unfair. Until his death at Voldemort's hands, Snape had spent a horrible year trying to protect Hogwarts students against the Carrows while pretending to be on their side. Snape deserved a rest, too; unfortunately, his would be permanent.

Just then, there was a knock on Harry's office door, and a small, sandy-haired wizard poked his head around the corner. "Just wanted to let you know your interviewees have arrived, Mr. Potter."

"Oh, right, thank you, Pfish," said Harry. "Give us five minutes, and then I'll see Miss Jones." The little wizard nodded and disappeared.

"Fish?" snorted Snape's portrait. "Would that be cod or salmon, pray tell?"

Harry refused to take the bait, so to speak. "Marmaduke, actually," he said. "Now, in the time we have, do you know anything useful about these people, or not?"

If Snape's portrait did, however, it failed to get a word in before there was another knock and the small wizard ushered in Hestia Jones. Her black hair hung in a braid down her back, and her cheeks were even pinker than Harry remembered them. He had met her when she helped him get away from the Dursley house a few summers ago.

"Sorry, Harry--er, Mr. Potter--but I just couldn't wait!" she said, blushing furiously.

"Harry is just fine, Hestia. Please sit down, won't you?" Harry strove to sound grown up and businesslike. He very much wanted to avoid having Snape's portrait see him flustered.

Whatever Harry had expected from this interview, he soon discovered that Hestia Jones seemed to have only one thing on her mind, and it wasn't the teaching post at Hogwarts.

"Oh, Harry, I want to hear all about it!" she said. "I've been so out of touch, in Romania, you know, trying to keep the vampires in check, though I did see Charlie Weasley from time to time, you know him, of course . . . . But please, speaking of Dark Arts, how exactly did you defeat You-Know-Who? There are so many rumors, everyone's talking about it still . . ."

"I'm sure they are, but about the Dark Arts position--"

Hestia Jones looked startled for a moment. "Yes, yes, of course, the position, but oh, Harry, how are you feeling? Have you quite recovered from your ordeal? It must have been so horrible, I can't imagine . . ."

Caught in a rising tide of verbiage, Harry dared a glance at the painted Snape, whose look of utter contempt almost caused Harry to lose it. As soon as he decently could, he informed Miss Jones that he had all the information he needed and would be getting in touch with her shortly.

Before either Harry or Snape's portrait could say anything, the little wizard knocked again to admit Sturgis Podmore. Podmore had the gaunt, exhausted look that Harry had seen before in former prisoners of Azkaban. Both his face and his straw-colored hair were thinner than Harry remembered, and there was something else, something Harry couldn't quite put his finger on . . . Nevertheless, Podmore greeted Harry warmly, and the interview began smoothly enough, with a review of Podmore's background and experience. With his back to Snape's portrait, the gaunt wizard was unaware of a third presence in the room.

Podmore's resume was indeed impressive, and he and Harry were deep into a discussion of curriculum when a voice from the wall spoke, causing the wizard to whip around in search of its source.

"You present yourself as qualified to teach students self-defense. And yet, where were your own defenses when you got caught trying to sneak into the Department of Mysteries?" Snape's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"You!" Podmore exclaimed. He had leapt to his feet, his face red with fury. "Potter didn't tell me you'd be--sitting in. But yes, I got caught. And you," he hissed, "you're a fine one to talk. At least I'm still alive!. Couldn't do much against Voldemort in the end, could you?"

Harry's mouth hung open. Evidently Sturgis Podmore got along no better with his former Order colleague than Sirius Black had. He probably should have realized that before enlisting Snape's aid.

The wizard was shaking with anger, but that only seemed to egg Snape's portrait on. "And what were you doing at the end, Podmore? Getting drunk, I suppose."

"I was in prison, you fool!"

By now, Sturgis Podmore had his wand out and was brandishing it menacingly at the portrait, while Snape's image glared at him, stony-faced and unblinking. If he was worried that Podmore might destroy the portrait with a well-aimed spell, he didn't show it.

Podmore raised his wand above his head. "I should have--"

"Expelliarmus!" Harry sent Podmore's wand flying across the room; it ricocheted off the wall, and Harry caught it neatly.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, trying to smooth things over--but keeping the wand for the time being. "I can turn him to face the wall if that would help."

But it was too late. Podmore shook his fist in Snape's painted face and then at Harry before striding to the door.

"You should have told me," he said, in a voice trembling with outrage. "Good luck to you." And he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

As he left the office, Harry noticed that he seemed somewhat unsteady on his feet. And then he realized that the something-else he had noticed before was--

"Alcohol," said the portrait. "Podmore indulges to excess. That is why he was caught at the Ministry, no doubt."

Harry sank back in his chair and put his head in his hands. "Well done, Snape," he said, trying hard not to yell.

"Professor Snape to you," the portrait snapped.

"Not any more!" Harry was losing the battle with his temper. "Why did you do that? And why didn't you warn me?"

"I was provoked," said Snape smoothly. "And that silly Fish fellow gave me no time. Besides, if I had told you about his--problem, you would have disbelieved me on principle."

Much as Harry hated to admit it, Snape had a point. "So we're back at square one," he said, regarding the stack of rejected resumes on his desk with gloom. "Fresh out of candidates. Care to make any suggestions?"

He was only half-serious, not expecting any positive input from the man who had toyed sadistically with him all through his Hogwarts years.

"Victor Krum," said the portrait at once. "Though if you are going to insist on limiting your choice to members of the Order--"

Surprised, Harry looked at Snape's painted face. "Of course I thought of Krum," he said. "Unfortunately, he is in heavy training for the next Quidditch World Cup at the moment. When he retires, maybe. . . "

"Dedalus Diggle? Though I always thought he was a silly popinjay."

Harry grinned, though he liked Diggle personally. "McGonagall agrees with you on that. She's already nixed him."

"I'd have thought you would have lobbied for the position yourself, Potter." Snape's tone was silkily snide. "Professor McGonagall always favored you. Surely, the fact that you never finished school and are only eighteen would be no impediment in her eyes."

Harry fumed inwardly, but he kept his tone matter-of-fact. "No," he said, "I didn't lobby for it. Though I'm pretty sure McGonagall would have given it to me if I'd wanted it."

It was Snape's turn to fume, and Harry had to suppress a grin. His former Potions master had always wanted the Dark Arts position and had been denied it for years. Neither man nor picture spoke for a while; Harry shuffled through a small stack of resumes on his desk, making notes on Podmore's and Jones'. He was fresh out of ideas. Finally the portrait spoke again.

"Think, Potter. Or has your notoriety impaired what little mind you had to begin with?"

By now, Harry was sorely tempted to take out his wand and rip the portrait to shreds himself. It had been a trying day, and Snape's presence was making it more so. It was his own fault for thinking they could collaborate on anything.

He ignored the portrait and ran over in his mind the roster of remaining Order members. There was Kingsley Shacklebolt, of course, but he was heading up the Ministry now. Arabella Figg, a Squib, no. Elphias Doge, way too old. Hagrid, expelled from Hogwarts and forbidden a wand. Albus Dumbledore's brother Aberforth--loyal to the order, but impossible to imagine as a teacher. Professor McGonagall had way too much on her plate as it was. Bill Weasley was climbing up the ladder at Gringotts, and his wife Fleur disdained Hogwarts. Arthur Weasley had his Ministry job, and Charlie couldn't be pried away from his precious dragons . . .

Harry's head jerked up, and he stared at the portrait. "Mrs. Weasley?"

Snape's portrait smirked. "It took you long enough."

Now that Harry thought about it, it wasn't that crazy an idea. Not only was Molly Weasley an expert in dealing with Dark creatures--though boggarts, which reveal a person's deepest fears, tended to unnerve her--she had singlehandedly defeated Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the most powerful of Lord Voldemort's supporters.

Harry's green eyes met Snape's painted ones, which stared back at him with an expression Harry couldn't interpret. Slowly, a grin spread across Harry's face.

"Of course," he said. "Absolutely."

"Well, Potter," said the painted Snape. "If you like the idea so much, why are you still sitting here? Go ask her."

"I'm going," said Harry, rising to his feet. "but you're coming with me."

ooOoo

"Harry! I didn't expect you home so soon. Sit down and have a cup of tea. I've just made a cake."

At the Weasleys' insistence, Harry was spending most nights at the Burrow, though he occasionally stayed at Grimmauld Place just to give the house-elf Kreacher something to do. Harry suspected that with Fred gone, the Burrow felt far too empty to his parents, and he was glad if his presence gave them a little comfort.

Mrs. Weasley poured Harry's tea and cut him a slice of cake. "Go on, have some," she said. "It's a new recipe. You'll be the first to try it."

"I'm sure it's delicious," said Harry. "but first, look who I've brought with me." He removed the portrait from its velvet drawstring bag and propped it on a sideboard. Molly Weasley stared at it for a moment, not quite taking in what she was seeing.

"'Severus!" she gasped, whether with delight or with shock, Harry couldn't tell. "The portrait came out wonderfully lifelike, Harry. He looks quite--"

"I am right here, Molly," said Snape coolly. "No need to speak of me in the third person."

"Oh--sorry, Severus. It was just such a surprise to see you. But, Harry, what is he--what are the two of you doing here?"

"Would you like to tell her, Potter, or shall I?" said the painted Snape.

Harry sat down at the table and pulled his teacup toward him. "By all means, be my guest."

"Due to an unfortunate--accident--Hogwarts finds itself in need of a teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts. To make a long story short, Potter and I are for once in agreement. We believe the best candidate is--you."

If possible, Molly Weasley looked even more flustered and disheveled than she had when they arrived. She glanced back and forth between the living Harry and the portrait, then sank heavily into a seat across from Harry.

"It's not like either of you to joke like that," she said, automatically pushing the plate full of cake toward Harry, who automatically took another piece. He thought he might just allow the painted Snape to continue speaking for him. He hated the idea of arguing with Ron's mother.

And the painted Snape did not hesitate to press their case. "We are perfectly serious, Molly. There is no other candidate with your qualifications. You will have to overcome a tendency to become emotional under stress, of course--"

"Emotional?" Molly Weasley's eyes flashed with outrage. "You might be somewhat emotional yourself, Severus, if you had lost one of your children in a battle, and so many friends, and nearly lost another child, not to mention your husband--if you'd ever had children, that is. If you were actually capable of--" She broke off, clearly on the brink of tears.

This was bad. Harry had almost forgotten how his best friend's mother could be when she was riled. This was Podmore all over again, minus the booze. What had they been thinking? He glanced at the portrait, but Snape looked, if anything, amused.

"Going to duel me, Molly? Sorry, but I'm at something of a disadvantage."

Harry thought he had better step in. "We mean it, Mrs. Weasley. I know you can handle the job. You're great with kids, right? You were in the Order all those years, fighting for Dumbledore; Professor McGonagall would be thrilled to have you. So please, don't say no. Hogwarts needs you."

Molly Weasley's hand shook a little as she poured more tea for Harry and a cup for herself.

"Harry, dear, I know you mean well, but the idea is quite mad. I haven't actually been fighting all these years--mostly just cooking and cleaning, except at the very end."

For a moment, an expression of pride crossed her face, and Harry knew she was thinking of Bellatrix.

"You know I can't leave the Burrow! I'm married, for heaven's sake--I have children. What on earth would Arthur say? And Ginny, and Ron, and--"

Harry had thought of these objections, and he was ready to say that they would undoubtedly be very proud, and that Professor McGonagall would do everything she could to accommodate Molly's family responsibilities.

But before he could speak, the front door banged open, and a tall, red-haired young man bounced in. The door banged shut.

"Ron! How many times have I told you not to slam the door!" Molly Weasley's hair was now tumbling down in earnest, and her face was as red as one of her prize tomatoes.

Ron emerged from his mother's embraced, greeted Harry, and sat down at the table, happily accepting tea and cake. Just when his mouth was stuffed full, Harry said, "Look behind you."

Ron turned. "Urgh!" He choked when he saw the portrait on the sideboard, and Harry thumped him on the back.

Ron swallowed hastily. "Blimey, Harry! It looks just like him. Scary, huh?"

"I can hear every word, Weasley," said Snape's image. "Though perhaps I should develop the habit of pretending otherwise."

"Oh, right, sorry," said Ron. He turned to the others. "What's up?"

"Your turn, Potter," drawled the portrait. Harry took a breath and began, repeating all of his previous arguments, but before he could finish, Ron broke in.

"What are you going on about?" he said, reaching for another piece of cake. "I think it's genius. She doesn't have anything to do now, with all of us out of the house most of the time. It would keep her out of trouble."

Mrs. Weasley exchanged glances with Snape's image. Harry had the fleeting impression that she was suppressing a grin. "I'm standing right here, Ron. I can hear every word you say."

"Sorry, Mum. I'm serious, though--it's a great idea. Although you might have to practice boggarts a bit."

Mrs. Weasley looked stricken. "Oh, dear," she said. "If I fell to pieces the last time I tried to tackle a boggart, think what would happen in front of a class." Harry remembered how he had found her, collapsed on the floor and sobbing, when the boggart she was trying to eradicate showed itself in the form of all her loved ones in turn, dead on the floor. Now, Fred Weasley really was dead, and both Mr. Weasley and Bill had been seriously injured by Death Eaters, though both had recovered nicely.

Harry poured her another cup of tea and added plenty of sugar. "Don't worry," he said. "You have a whole month to practice. I'll help you, we all will. And I'm sure Professor Snape here will be happy to help as well. Right--Professor?" He turned to the painted Snape, who looked first startled and then annoyed.

"You promised, Potter, or have you forgotten? You were to deliver me to the Headmaster's office as soon as a candidate was selected." Harry noticed that the painted Snape had avoided using the word "we."

Harry considered this. "Well, yeah, I did say that, and I mean to keep my promise--though I don't really have to, do I?" He smiled at Snape's outraged expression. Of course, Harry did have to deliver the portrait to the headmaster's office or face awkward questions, but provoking Snape was such fun.

"Here's the thing. Hogwarts will be faced with an overload next year. Quite a few students want to repeat last year--you know, the year you were Headmaster and the kids were tortured by Death Eaters?--and a few of us missed it altogether." Harry was enjoying himself immensely.

"With all the extra students, the teachers are going to need help in the classroom. Here you are, with nothing to do but sit around with a bunch of dead headmasters. Wouldn't you enjoy the occasional change in venus and a chance to share your vast knowledge with impressionable young minds?"

This was over the top, but he guessed Snape might not be wholly immune to flattery. And he had another weapon in his pocket.

"I have to make up a few classes and study for my N.E.W.T.s in order to qualify for Auror training," Harry went on, "but I've agreed to assist our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher with--her--classes. Professor McGonagall has exempted me from actually taking the class--under the circumstances." The expression on Snape's painted face was priceless.

"So," said Harry, "here's my suggestion. You don't trust me any more than you'd trust a dementor. How pleased would you be, sitting up in the Headmaster's office, knowing I'm in charge of some of the kiddies? And I'm sure Mrs. Weasley would appreciate your expert guidance--even though you're a bit handicapped when it comes to doing actual magic.

"So I'm thinking," Harry went on, " you'll spend some days in the classroom and your nights in the office. You'll be welcome--as long as you keep your suggestions constructive, of course," Harry smirked. " Because if you don't . . ."

Ron, who had been looking at Harry with his mouth open, broke in--"He'll stow your portrait in the broom closet, right, Harry?"

"Something like that." Harry's face assumed a crocodilian smile. It was so much easier dealing with Snape's image than with the man himself. One sneer, one snide remark, and he could banish the portrait--even dump it into the lake, if he wanted to. The idea of Snape's finding a permanent home with the merpeople was positively heartwarming.

"But I'm sure Mrs. Weasley and I are both looking forward to having you for a colleague," Harry said to the painted Snape in tones as smooth and silky as Snape's had ever been. "As long as you behave yourself."

Molly Weasley was looking at Harry as though she had never seen him before. "Er--more cake, dear?" she said weakly, as Ron sniggered. Suddenly, her world seemed to be moving much too fast.

Harry shook his head. "No, thanks," he said. "I think I should go tell Professor McGonagall we've found her a teacher. She'll be on touch soon, I'm sure. I assume you'd like to come, Professor Snape?"

The portrait merely grunted, and Harry took that for assent. "See you later," he said to the Weasleys as he replaced the painting in its bag. As he went out with it into the garden to Disapparate, he wished he could stay until Arthur Weasley came home from the Ministry. When Ron and his mother told him the news, the expression on his face, too, would be priceless.

The End