Snape took a step closer to him.
It was not a large step, but it shortened the distance between them from the usual range for an "office conversation" to the dangerous threshold of "closing in."
"I learned from certain friends... about your little performance in Slughorn Garden." He paused, his gaze slowly traveling over the contours of Dumbledore's face as though reading a worn page.
"So," Snape's voice regained that silky tone, tipped with the finest edge of mockery, "should I thank you for thinking so highly of me?" The corner of his mouth shifted less than an inch to one side, too slight a curve to truly be called a smile.
"You didn't treat me as something expendable..." He drew out the last three words slightly, as if savoring something bitter. "I should be grateful that I mattered a little more... shouldn't I?"
The office was silent for a long time. Fawkes made no sound on his perch, and even the whirring of the silver instruments seemed to slow. Firelight danced across Snape's profile, dividing his sallow face into fragments of light and shadow.
Dumbledore looked into Snape's eyes. There was no anger in those black eyes, no resentment, not even accusation. That emptiness was harder to face than any emotion—it was the numbness of someone long accustomed to certain decisions.
"Severus," Dumbledore said, "under the present circumstances—"
"You don't need to explain." Snape cut him off.
The interruption was crisp and decisive. "I accept the appointment. Not because I believe your excuse about 'better infiltration,' but because I truly want to stand behind that podium."
He tilted his head slightly. Firelight flickered deep in his eyes. "Whatever your motives are. Whoever you intend to stuff into this position in the future. At least while I hold it, I'll