The Errors of My Ways

AN: I have become a slow writer. I apologize and thank everyone for their patience and continued interest. Also, I have been crying inexplicably for 3 straight days so if any random flames could perhaps hold off a day or two, that would be lovely. Also, I don't really do ships. I read almost everything (and I do mean that literally). My characters always have a bit of their own minds and I tend to write each story from that perspective. That being said, some of my pairings are not always traditional, but I do try to make them work. The characters demand nothing less. :) Along those lines- Severus may seem a bit OC, but keep in mind he's had a rather traumatic experience or eight.

Disclaimer: I own nothin'. Literally. Okay, I own a toothless cat, but he's more trouble than he's worth.

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“Are you sure?”

Virginia Weasley felt a crooked smile tug at the corners of her lips as Draco wet his lips, still bruised and healing from the last battle, and looked worriedly at her. Some warm and suspiciously mushy feeling was filling her head with gentle breathy replies, but Ginny was still Ginny. “No,” she replied wryly, “I hadn't thought about losing my virginity. That's why I planned this little rendezvous out so meticulously so we could actually take our time and enjoy ourselves.”

Draco flushed in a way that was particularly endearing considering he was still without eyebrows. “Bloody hell, Gin. Way to make me feel like a git.”

She leaned up and kissed him gently, long enough, deeply enough that he relaxed again. It felt nice, to have him on top of her, to feel the weight of his lean body, his warmth. “You're only a git around my family and Harry,” she murmured when she felt like she had sufficiently relaxed him. Well, most of him.

He glowered at here, even as calloused hands carefully, reverently, brushed her copper hair away from her face. “They deserve it.”

She laughed and stretched languidly beneath him, felt him start to tense again and smiled up at him, the red haired cat who ate the browless canary. “Yes, they sometimes do.” She reached up, tugged on his white blonde locks and frowned at him with mock severity. “You're deflecting. Wanna tell me why?”

Draco sighed and buried his head in her collarbone. She giggled as he shook his head so that his nose tickled her. “No,” he replied petulantly.

She ran her hands up and down his back gently before murmuring, “You really are an only child, aren't you?”

He slowly raised his head and Ginny's heart skipped a beat at the haunted look in his steely eyes. “The last of my line.”

She snorted. “Only child and drama queen. In case you hadn't noticed I'm a breeder.” He started and she laughed at him again. “Don't worry I cast a contraception charm. I want you to myself for a while yet.” Draco stared at her for the longest while as she stared back, unflinching. “Its going to take more than a few well-deserved pity parties after your world has been turned upside down to get me out of your life.” Her fingers traced his hairless brow. “I'm here to stay Draco.”

He shuddered at her words and she saw something in him, something brittle and painful start to heal. It would leave a scar but they all had those. It wasn't just his world which had been turned upside down. “You're amazing, you know that?”

Ginny grinned up at him. “Oh, I've known for years, but it’s nice to be appreciated.”

And when he laughed at her response her heart ached because though it was a bit ragged it was real and suspiciously hopeful. It was sometime later, as he held her and tightened his hold as he jokingly asked if he could be the one to tell Ron, she knew for sure that he wasn't going anywhere either.

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“I never thought I would see the day.”

Professor Minerva McGonagall looked somewhat hesitantly at the slight woman at her side. The older woman had lived a full and at times highly dangerous life, but though Slayers were not unknown to the Wizarding world, it was somewhat unusual to be hosting to the whole Slayer clan in the castle courtyard. Not unappreciated in light of the Last Battle and Voldemort’s more than timely demise, but unusual. “Ah, how is that Ms. Summers?”

Buffy glanced up at her and Minerva felt herself start to smile as the younger woman quietly gestured to the scene that currently filled the courtyard. “Look at them!” Caught up in the Slayer’s enthusiasm, Minerva cast her gaze back to the chaos before them. The utterly wonderful chaos. The younger Slayers, still helping with occasional clean up squads for a few rogue Death Eaters while their fellows healed their injuries, had slowly been going stir crazy and in the days since the Final Battle had been near to taking the remaining inhabitants of Hogwarts with them. Inactive Slayers were somehow infinitely MORE frightening than the terrifying sight of Slayers in action.

That was until someone discovered that the innate magical nature of Slayers allowed them to interact with certain magic based objects. Like brooms. Minerva had a sinking suspicion that that someone was a certain Ronald Weasley. He was certainly in the midst of the chaos, but then, when was the young man NOT? There were over a dozen Slayers and nearly twice that many students from various houses, including what remained of Slytherin, all on brooms, all swooping and hollering, and bless them all, all laughing.

Together.

“Don’t they look happy?” Buffy Summers asked, voice filled with wonder, and Minerva swallowed as the knot that had existed in her heart for the last two years slowly began to unclench. Soften. Become something less harsh and more what she had been so afraid was broken forever by a madman’s plots to remake the world in his image.

“They do don’t they?” Minerva replied, wonder in her own voice. “I… I couldn’t have imagined that this was possible, even after Voldemort’s death.” She paused and collected herself from repeating that horrid name with the determination of one’s greatest fear overcome. “These children have spent the last several years in constant terror, of the world around them, of each other. Many of them have had to kill, both strangers and friends and family. I thought…” Minerva swallowed, “I thought it would take us a generation or more to even begin to rebuild. To have them trust themselves in each other’s company again...”

The younger woman’s gaze was much too perceptive as she looked at Minerva, a wry smile twisting her lips. “I have found that children are remarkable resilient to many circumstances that would forever scar adults. It doesn’t mean that they will remain children, but, well, it gives them days like today, when the latest disaster is all said and done.” Ms. Summers shrugged. “Granted, we didn’t have brooms back in the day, all Wills, Xan and I did after a particularly nasty apocalypse was watch Hindi soap operas on television and try to guess the plotlines.” She shook her head and clucked disapprovingly, “Kid heroes today are so spoiled.”

“Yo, B!” shouted the other older and infinitely less well spoken Slayer, Faith, as her broom careened overhead. Minerva looked up into the sunlight, the partially ruined walls of Hogwarts in the background, as Faith tossed a terrified looking broom to Buffy. If the older woman didn’t know better, she would have sworn that the broom was transfigured. It was rare for purely inanimate objects to contain so much visible abject terror, though, given the circumstances, she almost understood. “Catch!”

Ms. Summers caught the broom, gave a completely unapologetic whoop of delight as she glanced back over her shoulder. Minerva McGonagall would remember that look of unadulterated delight on the oldest Slayer in the world for the rest of her likely much longer life. “A little spoiling never hurt anyone!” The wind whipped by as Buffy climbed astride the broom and took off, laughter streaming behind her, as she set herself on the chase for Mr. Weasley, who was currently playing a dangerous game of keep away with the Hogwarts students running interference.

She stood and watched the children who were no longer just children, play as children for hours, until long after the sun had set.

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Severus could feel the eyes on him as he finally managed to claw himself back to consciousness. Long practice of waking from Voldemort’s tender mercies had given him the ability to wake without giving himself away. His breathing, movements, everything stayed the same. It gave him a few precious seconds to catalogue which world he had woken up to this time.

He started as he always did with a physical accounting of himself. It was with some surprise that he noted that many of his lingering injuries, from his years as an undercover agent who was subject to the Dark Lord’s often fancifully painful whims, seemed… improved? Surely he hadn’t been unconscious so long?

The overwhelming bitterness of one of Pomfrey’s most powerful sleeping draughts seemed to indicate otherwise and Severus slowly, carefully, let his mind free enough to backtrack to the events that had led to the infirmary bed he must be lying in. Severus recounted the trek through the Dark Forest, his fellow Death Eaters whispering in excitement and sure of their inevitable superiority. Flashed to the unexpected resistance they encountered as the Slayers made their powerful presence known. Had to work at keeping his hands from clenching the bed sheets as his mind recalled, with perfect horror, the look of sheer rage that had crossed Voldemort’s face as the Dark Lord had raised his head in the midst of the showdown with the Summers girl as he sniffed the air and found the son Severus had hidden away so long ago the night he had turned against He-Who-Was-No-Longer-Alive.

Alexander. Alexander Harris.

His son was here, alive, and had saved his life.

Severus allowed himself to swallow as he slowly opened his eyes. His face was sore from the movement and it was with only mild surprise that he noted the healing burns on his body as he attempted to sit up. He could still feel a cool stare on him but Severus, content that the likelihood of imminent death was relatively less of a concern than normal was content to slowly reach for the glass of water at his bedside. He didn’t have to attempt the charm to know that the healing he had finally managed to endure had drained much of his strength, including his magical reserves. He managed to slowly, if unsteadily, bring the cup of lukewarm water to his lips and take a slow sip.

Damn the woman. He’d told Pomfrey a thousand times that the bitterness in sleeping draughts could be neutralized with a ground mixture of peppermint and sweet basil.

It wasn’t until he slowly drank precisely half the glass and carefully returned it to the bedside table that he bothered to look at his guest. While Severus had woken up to many strange sights, seeing the most powerful Muggle-born witch in the history of mankind perched on the stool a foot from his bedside. Willow Rosenberg had her elbows propped up on her knees, her face cradled in her hands as she studied him with an intent, unblinking gaze.

“Ms…” Severus stopped, cleared his throat, and attempted speech again. “Ms. Rosenberg. What a… surprise.”

The gaze narrowed and while Severus was quite used to staring down both Albus, Voldemort, and dozens of students on a daily basis, he was surprised at how little it seemed to take to have the red haired witch attempting to fidget in the infirmary bed. Not that Severus would ever stoop so low as to fidget, but the desire to was unwelcome enough.

“I’m hardly the biggest surprise of the week,” she replied with calm precision.

He didn’t flinch, but almost felt like doing that too.

She straightened suddenly and shook her head, red hair falling like an impatient waterfall. “He looks like you.”

Severus couldn’t stop the reflexive swallow, feeling rather out of his considerable depth. The motion only highlighted how dry his throat was, despite the water. He really must have been unconscious for days. Perhaps a week even. And the words, the accursed response fell from cracked lips before he could stop them. “He looks like his mother.”

A pained look crossed Willow Rosenberg’s face that Severus tried to catalogue but was too tired already to. Unfocused. Such a lack of control would have gotten him killed in a heartbeat mere days ago. How funny that the world could be remade anew so quickly. What kind of world would it be this time?

“Is she…?” Ms. Rosenberg didn’t finish the question as Severus laid back against the pillow of the bed but he heard the words she wouldn’t say. Funny, considering how many of the Dark Lord’s followers she had incinerated with sheer force of will in the Last Battle.

“No,” he replied, voice clipped. Even in a new world shaped by his son and friends, Amelie was still dead. Alexander was still a stranger. And Severus Snape was and always would be that greasy git. A failed Death Eater and hero both.

“Oh.” The younger woman rose, but instead of leaving the room she walked to his bedside. Severus started to open his mouth to question her but abruptly snapped it shut as slim fingers reached out and pushed up the arm of the infirmary gown. Even with Voldemort’s demise, the Dark Mark writhed on his arm like a living thing, and in many ways it was, magic fed by generations of hate and rage. A permanent testament to his many errors. The fingers on his arm turned into a vice like grip as the most powerful witch in the world, a mudblood for all ironic intents and purposes, glared at him. Her free hand came up and covered the Dark Mark with a cool palm. Severus glared back.

“You will unhand me Ms. Rosenberg, is that understood?”

The fingers merely tightened. “I want you to understand one very important thing Severus Snape.” The younger women broke his gaze for an instant as she took a deep, hopefully controlling breath, before renewing the glare with added intensity. And though Severus could tell no blood was being spilled by her fingertips, there were already bruises. “YOU,” and the accusatory blame was evident, “have utterly lousy taste in parents.”

He blinked.

“If you hurt him again,” and the HIM was also glaringly apparent, “Buffy will remove your spine with an ice pick.”

He blinked again, and in the time that movement took Willow Rosenberg had released his arm and glided out of the private infirmary room. Severus swallowed dryly and glanced down at his forearm. There were five deeply bruised circles where the witch’s fingertips had pressed, and smooth unblemished skin where his Dark Mark had been.