Heart of the Guardian

9. Summer School

Late the next morning, Snape made his way toward McGonagall's – his – quarters in Gryffindor Tower. The train had left at eleven, bearing the remainder of the student body back to Platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross Station. Breakfast, like dinner the night before, had been an ordeal. His stomach was unused to accepting food – at least not without emptying itself immediately afterward. And his head was not used to the babble and scrape of the Great Hall, which had, in any case, been all but silent this past year. He was strangely unused to conversation. For the past year, nearly everyone had avoided him as if he had a particularly contagious case of spattergroit. The only faculty members who had talked with him, without him addressing them directly, were Voldemort's minions the Carrows, and occasionally Horace Slughorn. He simply was not used to being included... not used to being welcomed... and definitely not used to being... liked. He did not quite know how to handle it... did not quite know, yet, who he was anymore, he realized.

His discomfort was made worse by Potter's apparently still-stunned reaction to Snape being named Gryffindor Head of House. Snape had bent his head to respond to Flitwick's conversation, or leaned across to appear to listen to Firenze and Trelawney, but his eyes were repeatedly drawn to Potter's dark head, most often turned – pointedly, he was beginning to think – away from the head table.

As he was Head of her House, McGonagall had the right to Snape's assistance in getting the students organized for the ride home. Though she had offered to excuse him from that duty, in light of his continued recovery, he refused her offer to have Sprout stand in, and stood watch as the students left the castle and climbed into the Thestral-drawn carriages for the ride to the Hogwarts station, pondering the boy.

Somehow, he missed seeing Potter board the carriages. He supposed the boy would spend the summer with the Weasleys. He could not possibly have chosen to return to the hell he had lived in at Privet Drive. Or perhaps he had gone off to Grimmauld Place. But... that would be dangerous. Had the Order checked it for traps and curses? His stomach clenched, then he sighed and tried the relaxation exercise Poppy insisted he use. I'll mention it to Arthur... send an owl... or get Minerva to do it...

Potter's reaction to Snape's new position should not have mattered. The boy would turn eighteen this summer. Had he completed this term, he would have graduated with, no doubt, a respectable number of NEWTs to his record, and gone on to whatever career path his marks entitled him to pursue. As it was, he was under no obligation to complete any education beyond OWLs, two years prior, even were it not for the events of the past year.

Snape sighed. It should not matter. It did not matter.

If I say that often enough, I might even come to believe it.

As for himself, he had already decided not to return to Spinner's End. The thought of returning there – Peter Pettigrew's lack of hygiene... Narcissa's and Bella's perfume... the lies that had been told there... the lies he had lived there – turned his stomach sour. He could not go back... would not. There was nothing for him there but his books, and those could be replaced. He would send to a wizard solicitor in London, asking him to see to the disposal of his things and the sale of the house. It could burn, for all he cared. He would spend the summer at the school... see if he could wrap his mind around being Head of Gryffindor House.

He arrived at the door to his rooms, uttered a password, and entered. Nothing of McGonagall remained. She had packed her things up the day before, leaving the house elves to clean what was left after she tidied up, confident she would be able to corner him into accepting the post. She would have had to pack up anyway. The headmaster or headmistress needed to be in that particular space where they would have the constant advice and counsel of the former holders of that office. He shook his head. Not him. Not anymore. He'd never be in that room again, if he could help it.