Chapter Text
“That was extremely reckless,” said Headmaster Dumbledore, his voice mild but edged with disapproval. The other Heads of Houses stood at her flanks, each as silent as the walls. “Sera, I’m not entirely sure what you were thinking.”
“I’m sure you were,” she replied lightly. “You hired me because I was reckless, Headmaster.”
“No,” Dumbledore said firmly—and from the corner of her eye, she caught Snape’s smirk. “I hired you because you were experienced, and legally astute. I hired you, Seraphina, because I thought you were mature. I thought America had changed you.”
Dimittas felt her temper spark somewhere in her ribcage.
“I’m also to blame,” said Flitwick beside her, ever loyal. “We did this together, Sera and I.”
“You wouldn’t have done it on your own, Filius,” Snape said snidely. “Dimittas’ recklessness seems to be contagious.”
“Well, not as much as your scowl,” she said sweetly. “I think you passed it on to Umprick.”
“Umprick,” hummed Flitwick, amused. “Creative.”
“Isn’t it?” Her eyes lit up, mischief in every line of her face. “Not my best, but I’m workshopping it.”
“No, you won’t,” Snape snapped.
She turned to him with an infuriating calm. “Smile, Severus. Otherwise your face might stay like that.”
“Sera,” McGonagall said from her side, tone patient and warning, “serious time.”
“Right,” she murmured, turning away from Snape and the others, though her mirth still fizzed in the air like a rogue charm.
“You’re a nutter,” Snape muttered darkly. “Completely mental.”
“Severus,” sighed McGonagall, visibly done. “I’d rather not be here all night.”
“Sorry, Pomona,” Flitwick murmured to Sprout.
“They’re usually like this?” she asked, clearly entertained.
“Certainly are,” Dimittas deadpanned. “He’s amusing to everyone but himself. I think it’s the nose.”
“Seraphina,” said Dumbledore.
The room froze.
It was absurd, really. A room full of adults—every one of them over thirty, well-travelled, well-lived—and still, it only took one spark to devolve them into something between schoolchildren and a duelling club. And always, always, it was her.
She’d only been here four weeks. Four weeks—and she’d already stood in this office more times than most staff managed in a decade. Four weeks—and she’d spent more time inside Flitwick’s personal library than his students ever had. Four weeks—and somehow she’d become the staff’s legal expert by sheer force of personality.
What gave her the right?
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
And yet, here she was. Still standing.
“She’s trouble,” Snape grumbled. “All she’s done is antagonise the Ministry.”
“The Ministry was always going to grade us poorly,” Sprout said. “We were never going to win their favour.”
“What’s done is done,” McGonagall said crisply. “Now we prepare for the consequences. Sera, I don’t mean to be cruel, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you lose your post over this. Dolores won’t forget it.”
“A shame,” Dimittas said dryly. “I was really starting to feel a connection.”
Snape’s eyes blazed. “Has anyone ever told you how socially inept you are?”
“Coming from you? That’s rich.” She raised a brow. “Would you prefer I sulk instead?”
He sneered. “How excruciatingly witty.”
“It’s why I was in the smart house,” she said, “and you were in the... other one.”
Sprout groaned softly. “Can we not start with house stereotypes?”
“Little Sera,” Flitwick warned gently, “calm down.”
“I’m calm,” she said, pointing lazily at Snape. “He’s the one breathing fire.”
“Both of you,” said Dumbledore, rising from his desk, “enough.”
They clamped their mouths shut immediately. It was muscle memory at this point.
Dumbledore stepped forward, hands folded, gaze heavy. “We are far too busy to wage a war amongst ourselves. I said this seven weeks ago and I’ll say it again: whatever unfinished business you two have—bury it. You are professionals. Act like it.”
He turned to Snape. “Severus, I expected more from you.”
Snape looked wounded. “Headmaster, she’s done nothing but—”
“Sera,” Dumbledore interrupted, “while I appreciate your sarcasm on occasion, most times it is unwarranted.”
She was about to offer a sarcastic apology, then realised: that was exactly what he meant.
“Which is why,” he continued, “I see no better option than to partner you two up.”
It felt like someone had hexed her spine.
“You will patrol together. Brew together. Severus, you’ll assist Sera with her legal documentation. Filius, you may focus on your remedial charms lessons.”
“My remedial lessons?” Snape looked like he’d been personally insulted.
“Lucky for us,” Dumbledore said, “Sera taught Potions for twelve years before joining us.”
“My remedial lessons?” Dimittas echoed incredulously.
Snape cut her off with a sneer. “You don’t have remedial lessons, you dung-covered hippogriff!”
“I know,” she said cheerfully. “Just didn’t want to feel left out. Everyone else gets to hand out extra credit—thought I’d join the party.”
“Serious time,” McGonagall muttered again. Her patience was wearing dangerously thin.
Dimittas stood straighter. “Sir, any hallway we patrol together will turn to ash.”
Snape nodded grimly. “Any potion we brew together will explode.”
“Any document we read will combust spontaneously.”
“Well,” said Dumbledore, utterly unbothered, “that’s three things you agree on. A promising start.”
Snape looked murderous. “Albus—”
“Severus,” Dumbledore said with steel, “don’t argue.”
“This is ridiculous,” Snape snarled. “She and I—”
“Yeah,,” Dimittas waved flippantly, “I’ve got a tongue of my own, thanks.”
“How frighteningly clever.”
She blinked at him. “That’s not clever. Your standards must be tragic.”
“Sera,” said McGonagall again, this time with the bite of an order.
“Honestly, Professor, the words just fall out. I’m not responsible for them.”
Dumbledore rose to his full height, blue eyes gleaming, and it was enough to hush them both. “Minerva. Filius. Pomona. Please leave us. We’ll resume the Umbridge discussion tomorrow evening.”
The implication was clear: Dimittas would not be attending.
As the other Heads left, Dumbledore gestured to the remaining two. “Sit. Now.”
Snape refused. While Dimittas, she walked over calmly and sat herself flush in the closest seat. She crossed her legs, lifted her chin and met Dumbledore’s blue eyes. She sat on the wooden chair, sturdy and hard like it had been made for her, like only she could command it.
“This,” Dumbledore said slowly, “is unprofessional. You may keep your hostility from the students, but you will not bring it into this office again. Seraphina—”
“Sera,” she corrected quietly, still composed.
“Sera,” he repeated, less patiently. “This attitude is impermissible. There is a time for wit, and a time for work. If you wish to stay here, you’ll need to learn the difference.”
She tilted her head. “I’m here when you want me here. Gone when you don’t. A tool, really. Funny, isn’t it? You haven’t changed much.”
“Sera—”
“I’ll play by your rules,” she said, rising smoothly to her feet. “Like I always have.”
Her eyes were flint. His were fire.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Headmaster.”
That was her. No shield, no banter—just sharp steel wrapped in silk.
Dumbledore remained motionless. Still in his grand robes, still wearing that absurd little hat, still smiling like someone who could end the world with a flick of his wand. There was a sadness behind his eyes, though—a heaviness Dimittas hadn’t noticed in years.
She inclined her head to him in quiet respect, then turned on her heel and left the room. The door shut behind her with a whisper.
Dimittas had spent years reflecting on her choices, but America had given her the most time to think.
Joining the Order had been her greatest success—and her greatest failure. She’d been young then. Angry. Lonely. Brilliant and burning. Dumbledore had seen that spark, the heat of her grief and fury, and snatched it before the Dark Lord could. She’d thought it meant something.
And maybe it did.
But sometimes, when the castle quieted and the ghosts had gone to rest, she would catch the glint of her wedding ring in the torchlight—and realise how very young she’d been. A child-soldier. A woman barely grown. Choosing the Order over the Death Eaters had been the better path, yes. But it had still cost her.
A brother.
A husband.
Friends—
Her fingers brushed the plane of her lower stomach. Lightly. Unconsciously.
—many things.
And in her darker moments, in the unlit corridors and echoing silences, she wondered if perhaps… perhaps if she hadn’t joined Dumbledore’s little crew of loyal soldiers, she might still have something. Anything.
Not happiness, perhaps, but not this.
Not thirty-six years old, standing alone in a drafty Hogwarts corridor staring at the stars, aching for something that would never come.
Footsteps. Familiar. Measured.
She didn’t turn. She knew the sound of him like she knew the rhythm of her own pulse.
“Ironic, isn’t it,” she said into the stillness, her voice mild, “that he thinks he can fix us.”
Behind her, Snape made a low sound—something between a growl and a scoff. “It was a dimwitted move to provoke him,” he muttered. “You’ve grown stupider.”
“I’ve grown enough,” she said, finally turning to him. “Enough to realise I should live for myself. You, on the other hand, are still sprinting circles for masters you’ll never love.”
His face twisted, his pallor flushing with fury even in the dim light. His eyes dropped—not to her face, but to her hand.
“You murdered your husband,” he said flatly.
It wasn't an accusation. It wasn’t even malice.
Just a fact. Cold and bare and true.
Many couldn’t say the same.
Her eyes, silver and slow, flickered.
Then they softened. Emptied. She stepped past him with the grace of someone long practised in walking away from wounds.
“You’ve used that line before,” she said. “At least try to be original. You’re a teacher.”
Snape didn’t move. He stood locked in his loathing.
She glanced back over her shoulder, head tilted, as if vaguely amused by the sight of him.
Then gave a two-fingered salute. Crisp. Careless.
“See you tomorrow,” she said. “Bright and early. We’ve got brewing to do.”
She left without waiting for a reply.
And though her steps were steady, there was a hollowness in her chest she couldn’t quite shake. Because he was right.
She had killed her husband.
But she'd already burned through every drop of self-hate. Every fevered night of regret. Every desperate apology to a man buried too young.
Now there was only ash.
And sometimes, the nothingness was worse.
So she joked.
Because it was better than crying.
Dimittas was already sprawled in his office chair before the sun had even considered rising. It wasn’t a matter of insomnia—she rather enjoyed her eight hours, thank you very much—but she had plans to be at Amara’s by noon, and she wasn’t about to let Dumbledore’s latest little punishment—play nice with Severus—derail her schedule.
She lay there like she’d just finished a five-course meal and required immediate convalescence. When Snape stepped into the office and saw her draped across his chair like an entitled cat, the sound of his teeth grinding was practically seismic.
She turned her head and smiled lazily.
“Cherry morning, then?”
His glare sharpened like a scalpel. He didn’t respond—just let out a low, guttural hiss and spun on his heel, marching straight back out into the dungeons.
Dimittas sighed, rose with fluid ease, and followed. She shut the door behind her with a quiet click, then drifted after him down the winding stairwell like a shadow with no urgency.
Halfway down, he stopped. So did she.
Snape turned with a venomous look that might’ve melted pewter. “I can do it myself,” he snapped. “Leave.”
She raised a brow. “That wasn’t the deal. Just give me half the list of what you’re brewing, and I’ll do it in your classroom. The old man didn’t specify proximity.”
He squared his shoulders, looming like a vulture in an oil painting. Had she not known him since they were eleven, she might have found him imposing. Might.
“I don’t need your help.”
“Well, I don’t want to give it,” she replied breezily. “But here we are. Tragic little pawns in the grand game.”
His expression darkened. The shadows caught in his hair and clung to the angles of his face, enhancing the sourness of his scowl. He took a slow, deliberate step up the stair. Then another. And another. Until he was just taller than her, standing close enough for her to see the fractured blood vessels in his eyes.
“Leave,” he said, voice low and tightly coiled. “I can do it on my own.”
“I never doubted that,” she murmured, brushing past him like he was no more than mist. “But you don’t scare me, Severus. You never have. Not since we were children.”
She reached the bottom of the stairwell and paused, hands in her pockets, standing just shy of his door. “I’m rude,” she said over her shoulder, “but not rude enough to enter uninvited.”
He caught up fast, coat flaring behind him like a curse. “You’re permanently uninvited,” he snapped, wrenching the door open. “In case your memory’s as poor as your tact, the way out is up.”
She blocked the door with the tip of her boot before he could slam it in her face.
“I still need the list.”
“You’re not getting the list.”
“Right,” she said, unfazed, and withdrew her foot with a graceful shrug. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”
He looked like he wanted to hex her, the door, the entire concept of existence.
“Has anyone ever told you how insufferable you are?”
“Not quite so bluntly,” she said, thoughtful. “It’s refreshing.”
“Go away, Dimittas.”
And this time, he did slam the door.
She stared at the carved wood for a moment, then smiled.
Of course he wouldn’t hand over the list. He never played fair, not when he could play bitter.
But he hadn’t thought about the consequences either.
Still smirking, Dimittas turned on her heel and made her way toward Gryffindor Tower—light-footed, purposeful.
There was more than one way to fulfil a bargain. She made it to McGonagall’s chambers with a bated breath and closed her eyes.
She knocked.
“A moment,” came McGonagall’s voice, followed by a look of confusion when she opened the door to find Dimittas smiling sheepishly on the other side.
“Sera,” she said, surprised, “it’s untowardly early.”
“Untoward seems to be a forte of mine,” Dimittas said lightly, pleased when McGonagall stepped aside to let her into her private quarters. “You look like you’ve just rolled out of bed.”
McGonagall gave her a deadpan look. “It’s 5:30 on a Saturday morning. Yes, Sera, I’ve just rolled out of bed. The real question is, why haven’t you?”
“Let’s play a game,” Dimittas said as she made herself at home, waving her wand to set McGonagall’s kettle on the heat with a wry smile. “How many times can one say ‘rolled out of bed’ in five minutes?”
“Jokes aren’t funny at 5:30 in the morning.”
“Lighten up,” Dimittas grinned, pulling out two teacups. “With that look, people might think you’re old.”
“Sera,” McGonagall said seriously, “morning. Joke. Not funny. Explain presence, please.”
Dimittas was already dressed for the day—dark, billowing cloak, silver eyes sharp, platinum-blonde hair cleanly cut—while McGonagall was still in her sleeping gown, a loose plait barely containing her grey-black hair. Her eyes narrowed, lips twitching with vexation, which only made Dimittas more amused as she tended to the tea.
“Right,” she said, “just a quick inquiry—”
“—that couldn’t wait a couple of hours?”
“If it could,” Dimittas raised her brows, “I’d have come a couple hours later. Fate, alas, had other plans.”
“No,” McGonagall grumbled, accepting the offered teacup with a glum expression. “You had other plans. Fate was being kind to me—until you showed up.”
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Professor,” Dimittas grinned.
“Again, Sera. I’m not your professor anymore. Call me—”
She broke off with a wince so sharp, Dimittas had her wand drawn before the sentence ended.
“What is it? Are you alright?”
“I—” McGonagall coughed, her face twisting in disgust. “What is in that tea?!”
Dimittas lowered her wand, frowning. “Well… tea leaves and hot water?”
McGonagall stood abruptly, gulping down a glass of water. “Did you poison the tea leaves?”
“Erm… no?”
“That’s the sort of question that shouldn’t be answered with a question!”
“It was from your cupboard,” Dimittas said, entirely too casual. “Where do you shop?”
“When Pomona said you made horrible tea—”
“Ouch.”
“—I wasn’t expecting it to be this horrible.”
Dimittas sipped from her own cup and gave McGonagall a puzzled look. “Alright, it’s a bit bland. But it’s not scream-worthy.”
“Seraphina,” McGonagall said gravely, “what did America do to you?”
“Typically British,” Dimittas rolled her eyes, taking another sip. “All this fuss over hot leaf juice.”
“I can’t believe you’re English.”
“Maybe my French genes overpowered the English ones.”
“No,” McGonagall said after a beat, “the French have taste too. You’re just an oddity.”
“An untoward oddity,” Dimittas said brightly, echoing McGonagall’s earlier jab. The older woman gave a reluctant huff of amusement before remembering—again—that it was far too early for any of this.
“Why are you here?”
“Ah,” Dimittas set both her wand and teacup down, pulling a scroll of parchment from her cloak. “This,” she said lightly, “is my patrolling schedule. Thought I’d get it to you before Severus starts whispering poison into the Headmaster’s ear.”
“You don’t have a good track record of pulling random parchment from your cloak, dear,” McGonagall said as she poured the rest of her tea into the sink. “Forgive the apprehension.”
“You’re forgiven,” Dimittas chirped. “On the condition that you respect my wishes.”
McGonagall gave her a flat look but took the parchment anyway, squinting hard at it. Dimittas realised, a little belatedly, that she wasn’t wearing her glasses.
“It’s your patrolling schedule,” McGonagall said with an edge of irritation. “Unless you’ve gone dim-witted in the past twelve hours and need me to interpret it for you, I don’t see the urgency.”
Dimittas winced theatrically and slid into a kitchen chair like she’d done it a dozen times, not just twice.
“Are you always this grouchy at 5:30 in the morning?”
“Only with you. Elaborate, dear.”
“Well,” Dimittas said, sipping again, “since you’re the one who adjusts staff schedules, I assume the Headmaster’s left it to you to balance mine and Severus’. He wouldn’t trust us to sort it ourselves.”
McGonagall’s frown deepened.
“I’m not tailoring the changes to your preferences, Sera.”
“You’re such a charm,” Dimittas said with the grin of someone who had just heard the opposite. “Thank you so much for doing this.”
“Severus has the heavier schedule.”
“Your kindness is unmatched,” Dimittas said, drowning the last of her tea.
“He’s a Head of House.”
“Well, so am I,” she said cheerfully. “House Dimittas. Amara passed down the role two months ago.”
“Sera.”
“Professor.”
“No.”
Dimittas grinned cheekily, as if it were a yes, and stood. As she passed McGonagall, she gave her a light peck on the cheek before heading to the door.
“Very affectionate,” McGonagall grumbled. “How very American—”
“Have a good day,” Dimittas called sweetly. “I can always copy the schedule again if it sprouts legs and waddles into the fire. No pressure!”
“—rude, inconsiderate, it’s only 5:30 in the morning and—”
“Enjoy your day!”
And then she was gone.
Dimittas knew she was infuriating—eccentric, even—but McGonagall liked her enough to tolerate it. And that leniency, that buried softness beneath her iron robes, was something Dimittas often reflected on. She regretted not getting to know her more during her school years. Back then, she’d stayed in her bubble: close friends, Professor Flitwick, occasionally Slughorn. To some extent, she spent time with her brother and his friends as well. They were comely, and handsome, and clever to some degree, though she never fancied it much. Lucius was kind to share his friends back then, and they in turn were kind to share their time, but Dimittas looked back now and trace no meaningful connection.
Perhaps they’d always been too old. Too pureblood. Too everything she no longer wished to be.