Disclaimer: Harry Potter, the characters from the books and the Harry Potter milieu are the creation of J.K. Rowling and owned by her and her publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement is intended. This story is written purely for my own personal pleasure, and no profit is being made from it.

Rating: My practice is to rate a story for its overall content, not for the content of individual parts. Therefore, this is rated NC-17 for the combination of violence, language, sexual situations and presence of OCs. If any of these disturb you please do not read on.

Notes: This is the sequel to The Other Side of Darkness, which explains how everybody got to the positions that they find themselves in at the beginning of this story. There are several references to previous events so I recommend that you read Darkness first. Thanks go to Anne (MetroVampire) and Clare009 for being sounding boards, betas and general listeners.

The OCs are all mine with the exception of Mme Duvallon who has popped in from Private Lives by Noel Coward and is dedicated to Clare and Anne.

Thanks also to everyone who took the time to tell me that they liked Darkness, thus encouraging me to keep going. You only have yourselves to blame!

The antiseptic tiled corridors of the secure psychiatric wing of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries were empty. Two o'clock in the morning saw little activity in this, the primary wizarding hospital. No midnight emergencies, no frantic scufflings and rushings as some obscure injury needed immediate treatment. The night staff were settled in the staff rooms, dozing in their chairs, flicking through wizarding magazines, or filling in observational charts - all non-activities designed to keep the body awake without overly engaging the mind. Occasionally a nurse would rise, forsaking the pseudo-home comforts of the common room, to stroll along his or her assigned stretch of building, casting a cursory glance every now and then into the rooms... more like cells... occupied by the permanent residents.

The routine was no different on this night that it was on any other night. Griselda Crumble, senior staff nurse RWMN (Registered Wizarding Mental Nurse) checked the time and reluctantly pulled herself away from her armchair, and her copy of Witch Weekly. It was more of a wrench than usual given that not only did the edition contain instructions for Giving a New Look to Old Robes for the coming season (Need A New Outfit in a Hurry? Look like A Thousand Galleons With Our Clever Make-Do-And-Mend Charms), but her favourite romantic serial had just reached the Important Bit, as her fellow staff nurse, Gracie Pluck would put it. Tonight she would discover if the suave-but-tormented hero Demetrius Buttlescrap, champion Quidditch player who had been crippled in a hideous but undisclosed catastrophe, would give in to his secret passion for his beautiful physical therapist Soroptima Silverwing. Gracie was convinced that this was the week for The Kiss, an event which was sure to be loaded with Searing Passion, Savage Tenderness and Duelling Tongues.

Griselda was frankly more interested in seeing whether or not Gracie was right than she was in the night round.

At this time of the night there was little to see. The patients - Griselda still couldn't quite get her mind round the current fashion for calling them clients - were mostly quiescent; naturally comatose or heavily sedated. Picturing the strong arms of Demetrius Buttlescrap around her waist, she didn't notice the faint shimmering the air of the corridor, like a distant heat haze.

As she would later recount to the Board of Enquiry, the secure psychiatric wing of St Mungo's was a place that people wanted to break out of, not into.

Oblivious to ethereal stirrings, she flicked open wickets at random as she worked her way down the corridor. Sometimes a patient would shift uneasily, disturbed at some sub-conscious level by the almost imperceptible sound of metal scraping against metal. One hunched figure cried out in his sleep - whether in supplication or protest she couldn't tell, and had no interest in determining. She shut the wicket again, not even bothering to utter words of meaningless comfort.

Two thirds of the way down the corridor, she reached a door, indistinguishable from any of the others, but still one that made her pause, hand in mid-air. Slowly, deliberately, she placed it on the latch securing the narrow flap, almost forcing herself to continue.

The one on the other side of the door was different from the others. There was something... unwholesome... about him. Which made you laugh, really, when you thought about what was contained within these fortress-like walls. He was no older than twenty-five or twenty-six. Hardly more than a boy. But this was the one that no one wanted to touch. The reason that you tried not to be on duty on Monday mornings on Ward 8C, when it was time for his bath.

Popular wisdom had it that all patients felt better after a nice bath, and a few charms to deal with hair and nails etc; even though the majority of the inmates were drugged into near catatonia, St Mungo's regarded the close proximity of sharp metal objects as unwise. Popular wisdom, however, had never had to deal with this particular client.

The emaciated figure with the dirty blonde hair and the dead grey eyes. The living skeleton with the slack jaw and the lustreless skin. The cold, clammy, lifeless feel of him.

Not so much washing him, they said, as laying out the dead once a week.

Griselda shuddered, and opened the wicket.

He was sitting on the bed, facing the door, eyes open, staring straight ahead. His hospital gown, stained with something brown, had ridden up into his lap, and she could see his legs, bony and angular and crossed in front of him. He seemed to be looking at Griselda, although the grey eyes betrayed no flicker of recognition as she stared into the dingy room. He didn't even blink.

She flinched as the sharp stench of human effluent hit her nostrils. She had read the chart in the office. The late staff had cleaned him up before they went off duty. The chart said that he had been given his Dreamless Sleep Potion. The chart said that he should be asleep, not sitting up on his bed staring fixedly into the mouth of hell.

As far as she could tell, he could well be asleep.

They had been given little or no explanation for his condition when he had been brought in. His notes read Victim of Dark Magic. That covered a lot of things in this place. She thought that it might have had something to do with the Auror who had suddenly regained consciousness, and the quiet, self-possessed young woman who had arrived one day with a mysterious potion.

The figure on the bed still hadn't moved.

She swallowed to moisten her dry throat.

"Are you awake?" she asked tentatively.

There was no response - not a twitch of muscle, not a change of breathing.

As long as he's quiet, I suppose it doesn't matter that he's not actually lying down.

Feeling that her duty to the healing profession was satisfied by the question, Griselda shut the wicket with a sense of relief, and completed her ward round, unconscious of the trembling column of air that drifted along in her wake.

As Nurse Crumble returned gratefully to the staff room, and the fate of her current favourite heroine, the shimmer in the corridor paused at the door to the room which contained the not-awake young man. Part of the shimmer resolved itself into a hand. It was a hand which looked as if it had been created by someone working from a description rather than a picture. It had a palm and five digits, one of which was clearly an opposable thumb. It seemed to have the right number of joints. But the whole thing looked crude and clumsy - a child's first attempts at playing with clay and animal hair.

The hand was holding a long piece of wood.

The wand was tapped once on the door and a gravelly voice muttered "Alohomora".

The door swung open. The figure on the bed moved not one inch.

It became clear that the hand was attached to an arm, which was attached to a body. Two invisibility cloaks dropped to reveal two men. They were both thickset and appeared at first glance to have been hired for their muscle rather then their mental agility.

The taller of the two stepped into the room, and stopped dead, his face twisted in disgust.

"Gods, it stinks in here."

"Never mind the smell, just get him and let's get out of here." His companion sounded irritated.

"I'm not touching that. It smells like he's rolled in shit."

"Do you want to tell our Master that we didn't get him because you got a bit squeamish?" The other man was openly sneering.

The first man looked mutinous, whilst the second addressed himself to the motionless figure.

"Get off the bed."

There was no response. The shorter man shrugged.

"We'll have to carry him then."

They both looked at the bed.

The taller one gingerly reached forward to grasp an unresisting shoulder, then jerked back as if he had been burned.

"It's like touching a fucking corpse." His face wrinkled.

"And you would be the expert on fucking corpses, Goyle," muttered the other one softly.

There was a nasty laugh.

"You've got to have a hobby, haven't you?"

"I don't think our Master would too impressed if you indulged in your recreational activities just at the moment," suggested the shorter man.

He seemed to get agreement on that point, and then the shorter of the two, the one holding the wand, pointed at the seated figure.

"Mobilicorpus,"he muttered.

The body went limp and then floated off the bed. Taking hold of as little as they possibly could, the two men solemnly counted to three and then apparated, taking their nerveless burden with them.

They reappeared in an incongruous setting.

They were in a wood panelled room. The floor was carpeted in a rich burgundy, and the walls were unbroken linen-fold oak panelling. A fire roared in a hearth that was almost tall enough for a grown man to stand upright in. In front of the fire were two leather Chesterfield sofas, facing each other, with a delicate polished walnut low table in between. A Steinway grand piano stood behind one sofa - the objets d'art set along the top suggesting that it saw little or no actual use. Behind the other sofa was a large, leather topped walnut desk, with a silver inkstand, and several freshly trimmed quills arranged neatly in front of a deep leather chair.

Upon the low table in front of the fire stood a lead crystal decanter and one, large balloon glass, both containing pale, golden liquid.

As the two men appeared, with their burden, a slender, pale arm reached forward, from the depths of one of the Chesterfields, to pick up the glass.

The filthy figure crumpled to the rich carpet, as the two henchmen released him as quickly as they could. The stained hospital gown and the unkempt appearance were even more out of place in this achingly elegant salon. There was no sign of movement or interest from the figure on the sofa.

The two thickset men were obviously at a loss.

"Erm... we've got him, sir," said one of them.

"Yes," came the considering, polished voice. "I can smell that." There was a pause. "Thank you Mr Crabbe, Mr Goyle. I believe that you may leave us now. Please close the door behind you."

Crabbe and Goyle almost fell over themselves in their haste to be out of the room, not even glancing at the dirty heap on the floor.

The sound of the closing door echoed away, and a sepulchral silence descended over the room, broken only by the occasional popping from the fire. Eventually, the same pale arm replaced the empty brandy glass on the walnut table, and a figure rose from the furniture.

He was tall, and his face was as pale as his arm. Slender, late forties, with immaculate, white-blonde hair swept back from his forehead. A narrow, patrician face and ice-grey eyes. He moved away from the fire, exquisitely cut midnight blue robes moving around his body, giving him the hypnotic grace of a cobra.

He stopped and stared down at the broken man defiling the perfection of the wine dark wool, considering the sight with almost clinical detachment. In a perfectly expressionless voice he said:

"Welcome home, Draco."

The figure before him stirred for the first time. The older man watched with interest as Draco Malfoy painfully lifted himself up on one elbow, and painfully turned his head to look up. His mouth worked, and he swallowed twice before he managed to utter the first word he had spoken for over seven months.

"Father."

**********

The morning of her twenty seventh birthday found Hermione Granger staring out of the windows of her rooms in Gryffindor Tower, and feeling rather like a dispossessed person.

The view was partially obscured by running water, trickling down the glass. It was not a gentle, soothing rain, but a cold, insistent downpour that saturated everything. The sky was grey and leaden, and it was clear that there would be no respite in the near future. Despite the fire burning in the grate, she felt chilled. With a flick of her wand she lit another lamp, in the hope that more light would somehow bring more warmth with it.

Below her, small figures, wrapped tightly in cloaks, were already dashing across the courtyard, no doubt trying to get to breakfast - or wherever it was they were going - without being soaked through. Although her rooms insulated her from the hustle and bustle of the school, she could imagine the sounds, the vocal complaints about the weather, the previous night's homework, the threefold injustices of detentions, loss of house points, and enforced flying practice in the wet - all the repetitive, comforting, familiar sounds of a school gearing itself up for another day.

Hermione was finally beginning to establish herself in her teaching role. She had just begun her second full term and her first proper school year. She had watched, feeling a little like a first year herself, as the new pupils were sorted, experiencing a stab of pride at each new face joining the Gryffindor table. She even felt an unexpected sense of vicarious pleasure when a new student joined the Slytherin table - knowing that Snape would be pleased, although she carefully avoided catching his eye at those moments.

Now, she was well into her stride - ground rules set with all of her classes, routine beginning to take over.

And she was feeling more unsettled, not less.

The circumstances of her arrival at Hogwarts as a teacher had been fairly dramatic to say the least. Almost a year ago, Harry Potter had approached her about a mysterious potion sample. Mystified, she had - very reluctantly - sought Snape's help. He had - equally reluctantly - given it. They had first ended up being abandoned together in some bizarre alternate reality where passions became tangible things. Returning to their own world had allowed something to pass through with them. That something had gone on to assume Snape's form. Accused of murder, and hunted by both the Ministry of Magic and Draco Malfoy, Snape had sought refuge with Hermione. When the creature from the other place had attacked her, they had both fled from London to the small village in the heart of the English countryside which held the key to their survival.

Even now, seven or eight months later, Hermione still shivered at the thought of the creature... the cold, dead, seeping evil of it... seeking her out... trying to seduce her into joining it. And as for her one foray into Dark Magic... she closed her eyes, suppressing the memory. If Snape hadn't been there, guiding her... holding her....

Severus.

Somewhere along the line the two enemies had learned to tolerate each other. Then to respect each other. Then to like each other. And finally, to love each other.

Sacked from her job at the Ministry for her part in the affair, Albus Dumbledore had offered her a job teaching potions. Snape, in turn, had been offered a job teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Once again, Hogwarts becomes a refuge for the misfits and the unemployable, she thought, with an unexpected bitterness.

She turned away from the window and looked at the cards perched on the mantelpiece. One from Dumbledore, attached to a parcel containing a thick scarf in Gryffindor colours. One from Hagrid, which had come with a brightly coloured tin containing his famous hand-made treacle toffee. She smiled briefly to herself, planning to keep the tin, hide the toffees and tell Hagrid that they had been delicious. In a month or so she would secretly dispose of the evidence. She didn't think that she was up to a personal and professional visit to her parents just yet.

There was, in fact, a card from her parents, although without an accompanying present. They appeared to accept that owl post, however intrinsically implausible it appeared to be, was effective to get letters and cards to her, but she had never been able to persuade them that it was worked equally well for parcels.

"But dear," they protested, "the owl is so small. What if it gets lost, or drops it?"

No doubt there would be the customary joint Christmas and Birthday present at the end of the year.

There was nothing from Snape.

She tried to not to feel put out by this. After all, she told herself reasonably, you didn't actually tell him it was your birthday. And he would have no reason to know otherwise. She wasn't entirely certain why she hadn't mentioned it. It wasn't as if she ever made that much of a fuss about it. She shied away from acknowledging that childish part of her that wanted to see if he could remember without being prompted.

And how exactly is he supposed to remember a piece of information that he doesn't know in the first place?

Despite her eminently rational outlook, however, there was unquestionably a part of Hermione Granger that was currently seven years old and sulking.

The thought of Snape made her feel off balance again.

It wasn't that she didn't love him. It wasn't even that she doubted how he felt about her. It was just... just... different from how she thought it would be, was the closest that she could get to it.

As a lover, Snape had turned out to be generous and passionate. His initial uncertainty had gradually disappeared over the summer, to be replaced with a deft skill and sensitivity that took her breath away. Regularly.

As a companion, he was generally undemanding and mostly civil. He spent time with her, but was not overly intrusive. They had rarely clashed since they had finally solved the mystery of the potion. The summer holidays had been spent getting to know each other, recovering from the stresses of the early part of the year and preparing for their new roles.

He professed absolute confidence in her ability to teach potions. She, in turn, reserved a part of her working area for his use, knowing that he would still want to keep his hand in from time to time.

To summarise, she had the job of her dreams and a gifted and intelligent lover, who made very little demands of her and allowed her to pursue her own way as she pleased. A perfect situation....

So why did she feel somehow uncomfortable with this perfection? What was the root of this lurking dissatisfaction?

She shook her head in annoyance at herself.

Typical, Granger. The world gives you everything you want and all you can do is question it.

She turned her attention back to her cards. There was nothing from Harry or Ron and she realised that she felt that absence keenly. It was the first birthday that had passed without hearing anything from them. She supposed that they still hadn't forgiven her relationship with Snape.

I expect they'll come round in time.

Brave and reassuring words said at the beginning of the summer term, when it was all new and she couldn't imagine that they could be angry with her for so long. Seven months later and she was beginning to wonder whether her decision had truly cost her her friends.

She felt a lump in her throat and an unexpected tear escaped to slide down her cheek. Horrified, she sniffed and abruptly pulled herself together.

You have classes to teach today, my girl. This is no time to stand about feeling maudlin.

Resolutely, she strode back into her bedroom, ignoring the cards over the fire. The big ginger cat curled on the bed made a half-hearted attempt to look up from where he was sleeping. From this angle he appeared to have two tails - one of bushy ginger fur, and one that was long, dark and rat-like. Sphinx - Snape's quaint little bald familiar - had clearly opted to spend the day with Crookshanks. She picked up her hairbrush and began to pull her hair into its customary pony tail.

At least our familiars seemed to have settled their sleeping arrangements satisfactorily, she thought wryly.

She was so busy fighting with her appearance that she almost missed the scratching at the window. It was only due to the persistence of the scratcher that the sound penetrated her preoccupation at all.

Wandering curiously back into the living area she peered at the window, at first not seeing what was there. Eventually, she opened the window to check outside and a small, soggy bundle of grey feathers fell onto a set of bookshelves. She blinked in surprise and not a little disbelief.

"Pigwidgeon?" she said in surprise.

The minute owl looked up at her with mournful, golden eyes. It dropped the letter that it had been carrying into a steadily increasing puddle of water. Hermione scooped up both owl and correspondence and placed them in front of the fire to dry off. The little bird stretched out its wings and fluffed up. Its eyes closed peacefully.

Retrieving the letter, she opened it carefully, hoping that the water hadn't smeared the writing too much. The note inside was unmistakeably in Ron Weasley's handwriting.

Hermione,

Happy Birthday.

Sorry there's no card but I don't think that Pig could manage a letter and a card. I'm in Hogsmeade today scouting out Zonko's for the dread twin brothers. For some reason they think that I'll be less conspicuous than them. Dream on! Anyway, any chance of meeting up this evening in The Three Broomsticks for a drink, catch up on old times, that sort of thing? I'm staying there, so I'll be there from about 7 onwards.

Hope to see you soon.

Best,

Ron

She smiled, feeling oddly cheered at this communication from the past. She had nothing pressing to do tonight and with any luck this would be the start of a reconciliation with her friends.

In a considerably better frame of mind, she left to begin her teaching day.

**********

Severus Snape was feeling deeply uncertain and it was not a feeling that he enjoyed.

He knew that today was Hermione's birthday. He had looked at her school records some time ago, just to be sure. So he would have known, even without Dumbledore's none too subtle hints.

The problem was that she hadn't said anything to him about it. Which meant that he didn't know if she had said nothing because she wanted him to ignore it. Or she had said nothing because she wanted to see if he would remember.

He sighed, looking blankly at the Dark Arts essay in front of him, abandoning all pretence of marking it. He had watched her carefully all the day, hoping to get some kind of clue as to how she expected him to behave. There had been nothing, except that she had seemed buoyant about something.

More buoyant than she has been for a few weeks, the voice in his head whispered, bringing with it that familiar clench of fear. Maybe seven months was long enough for the novelty value of sleeping with your ex-Death Eater, former potions teacher to wear off. Maybe she was beginning to realise that there were other... better, the voice in his head prompted... prospects out there.

On a shelf, across from the desk, rested her birthday present. He hadn't given it to her - unable to work out the appropriate time to do so. Life had presented him with little opportunity to learn the etiquette of gift giving. Or provide him with much practice in buying things for girlfriends.

Was she his girlfriend?

It seemed entirely too adolescent a term to apply to a woman in her late twenties, late alone a man in his late forties. It conjured up visions of holding hands in Hogsmeade and furtive groping behind the greenhouses. Not images that went comfortably with Hermione.

He had been making a conscious effort not to crowd her, not to be too demanding of her personal space and time, terrified that she might feel trapped by him in some way. Even though he still had to fight against the nearly overwhelming urge to hold on to her and never let her go. He was aware of the paradox this created in a man who still needed to set his own personal boundaries at a considerable distance.

He looked at the clock. Nearly six-thirty in the evening. There was a stack of unmarked essays on the desk in front of him and Hermione's present was sitting on the opposite side of the room like a bomb waiting to go off.

This is ridiculous. There's no chance of getting any work done until this is settled. How hard can it be to give someone a present?

He put his quill down, the red ink now dried on the point in any event. Collecting the neatly wrapped blue box, he left his rooms, heading for Hermione's.

The headmaster had given her rooms near Gryffindor tower. Close enough to the tower to feel at home but not so close that there was an endless procession of students trailing past. There was no one in the corridor as he paused and then, unusually for him, knocked on the door. Over the holidays they been accustomed to coming and going from each other's rooms at will. His caution now was partly due to the fact that he could be observed by passing pupils and partly left over from his earlier attack of panic.

"Come in," came the voice from inside.

He opened the door to see, in surprise, that she was wearing a casual set of robes and looked like she was on her way out. She, in turn, looked a little surprised to see him... and maybe there was something else... satisfaction maybe... he couldn't quite tell.

"Are you going out somewhere?" he asked, nervousness and insecurity unintentionally harshening his voice.

He cursed himself as her face darkened slightly. He hadn't intended it to sound like an interrogation. Before he could retrieve the situation, she had turned away from him.

"Yes," she said a little defensively. "I got an owl from Ron this morning. He's in Hogsmeade for a couple of days and asked if we could meet for a drink this evening. As I haven't seen him for over seven months I thought I would go down."

You mean he hasn't bothered to contact you for over seven months, he thought. Although he avoided the subject around Hermione, he had been angered by the way that Ron and Harry had behaved, well aware that their coldness had hurt her badly.

"Well, it's nice to know that Mr Weasley has not completely lost the power to express himself in writing." Annoyance made him sharp.

He saw her back stiffen at that. This was not going the way that he had hoped at all.

"Despite everything, Ron is my friend and I at least owe it to him to listen to what he has to say." She spoke slightly too slowly, enunciating the words as if she was trying not to lose her temper.

"Of course." The words and tone were neutral, but she seemed to hear a challenge in them.

"And," she added pointedly, "I had no other plans for this evening."

Irritation began to rise within him at that. It wasn't as if he hadn't tried. And he still wasn't clear what it was he was supposed to have done, or not done.

"Is that what this is about?" he snapped, genuinely angry now.

"What what is about?" she countered. "I'm going out to have a drink with an old friend on my birthday. I wasn't aware that I needed your permission to leave the grounds anymore."

"You know full well that you do not need my permission to do anything."

"Good," she spat.

"I merely find myself unable to identify in exactly what way you feel that I have offended you. I am aware that it is your birthday. You have given me no indication that you wished it to be recognised in any way. From this I tend to deduce that you do not wish it to be marked. If you actually intend to test out whether or not I know about it, then I am afraid you need to make that plain to me. I admit to a shocking inability to decipher such sub-textual meanings."

He could hear the words coming out of his mouth, icy and cutting, in a tone he hadn't used with her since before... well before it all started, he supposed. But he was driven by a powerful combination of fear and hurt and certainty of rejection and he couldn't stop himself.

Her eyes widened as if he had physically attacked her. Then her face closed.

"I absolutely refuse to have this conversation with you at the moment. I am going to Hogsmeade to have a drink with Ron. Please reset the wards when you leave. Good evening to you."

With a curt "Accio cloak", she stalked out past him, leaving him standing in the middle of her room, anger draining from him to leave a nauseous after taste. He wondered if he had finally managed to go too far with her.

Apparently disturbed by the slamming door, two cats strolled into the room from the bedroom. They both looked at him with serious expressions.

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently, "I know I made a mess of that." Shaking his head that he was reduced to discussing his problems with cats, he stuck his hands into the pockets of his robes. His right hand encountered the box, still wrapped. The cats looked at him, unblinking. He glared right back at them.

Eventually, he pulled out the gift. Picking up a quill and a scrap of parchment he scribbled a note for her. Leaving the box and the note in the centre of the table, he left her rooms to return to his marking.

**********

Fury carried Hermione nearly halfway to Hogsmeade before she realised that she could just have apparated once she was clear of the school grounds. However, the vigorous exercise was helping to take the edge off her anger, despite the persistent drizzle.

Just as well, she thought. Storming in like an enraged harpy would do nothing for any chances of a reconciliation with Ron. She firmly told herself to shelve the question of Severus for the time being, and concentrate on enjoying the rest of the evening.

She continued into Hogsmeade as a slightly slower pace, although it could still be described as brisk. By the time she reached The Three Broomsticks she had calmed considerably and was looking forward to seeing Ron again.

She glanced around the lounge bar as she entered. In the far corner she saw someone that looked vaguely familiar, but before she could identify who it was, her attention was caught by a waving hand, attached to an arm belonging to a stocky man, with a pleasant, open face and a shock of vivid red hair. Ron had spotted her. Forgetting the stranger in the corner, she went over to the table, a genuine smile of pleasure on her face.

"Ron!"

"'Mione!"

He stood up and caught her in a bear hug.

"What can I get you?" His inevitable first question.

She took her damp cloak off and settled herself at the table whilst Ron was at the bar getting another beer for himself, and a ginger wine for her. Her stomach was still feeling a little acidic from the earlier argument and she couldn't face either the sharpness of wine or the sweetness of butterbeer. She hoped that the ginger would warm and settle her.

A small glass of dark, chestnut coloured liquid appeared in front of her. She took a grateful sip as Ron resumed his place opposite.

He just looked at her and she realised that she was going to have to make an effort to get the conversation going.

"How have you been, Ron? How was the spying trip to Zonko's?"

He grinned.

"I've been well, thanks. And Zonko's was - well, interesting. Not as good as the stuff that Fred and George produce, but there's definitely someone out there copying our ideas and not doing them half so well...."

And with that he was off, regaling her with tales of his trip and the shameless rip-offs of quality Weasley merchandising that were apparently everywhere in the wizarding world. Hermione felt herself begin to relax and laugh genuinely at his outrageous story telling. He had always had a gift for humour and for a while she could pretend that nothing had ever happened and that things were the same between them as they ever had been.

However, even Ron's stock of amusing stories from the magical novelties industry was finite. Silence fell as both of them realised that the only subjects of conversation left were the painful ones. Hermione finally went for the one that seemed least emotionally charged.

"How's life at the Ministry?" she asked carefully.

He nodded, not really looking at her.

"It's OK." He shrugged. "Fudge is still an arse. Every once in a while I get visited by a group of Ministry worthies who want to know what I'm doing. Other than that I get left alone most of the time. I produce something concrete every now and then. It doesn't seem to matter whether or not it's useful as long as it goes bang. It seems to keep them satisfied. You know what bureaucracy is like."

"I do indeed." She noticed that Ron was looking a little uncomfortable. "You don't have to feel bad about the Ministry. I'm rather glad not to be working there any more. I've come to look on Fudge sacking me as a blessing. I would probably have carried on there out of some sense of duty and been utterly miserable."

A rather elliptical way of getting to the subject of exactly why she had left.

He was still avoiding her eyes.

"Um, yes, I suppose ... how is life at Hogwarts?"

"Life is good. Teaching is going quite well I think. I don't seem to have any Nevilles in any of my classes, thank heavens."

He grinned for the first time.

"Yes, I can just hear you shouting across that classroom 'No Longbottom, you fool, put the scarab shells in first. Ten points from Gryffindor'." She stifled a grin. His impersonation of Snape had been fairly accurate. "I bet you scare them as much as.... oh."

He tailed off as his mouth caught up with what his brain was telling him.

"As much as Snape," she finished for him gently. "He's not Voldemort you know, Ron. He won't appear in the room just because you say his name."

Not that there was any evidence that Voldemort had ever done that, of course.

Ron had the grace to look sheepish.

"I take that Harry told you about the two of us?" she continued. Might as well get it out into the open.

He nodded but said nothing, gazing intently at the table. Then he stood up abruptly.

"I'm going to get another drink," he announced. He waved enquiringly at her empty glass. She nodded. It might help to get her through this.

She had nasty feeling that this conversation was going to go much like the one with Harry at St Mungo's. Disbelief followed by anger followed swift departure. Except that he already knew. And he had contacted her. Place those facts on the positive side. On the negative side place the fact that Ron also did not seem to be able to bring himself to say Snape's name.

By now her second drink had arrived. Ron sat down again and took a sip from his glass. Then he said, awkwardly:

"I suppose the two of you are still together?"

"Yes, we are."

"Oh. I wondered if it might have been one of those things. The result of the stress and being thrown together, you know. Like a holiday romance."

Hermione was speechless. She thought back to the events which had brought her and Snape together. Pain, terror and life-threatening danger were her main memories. None of which would feature highly on her list of what would make an enjoyable holiday.

"Remind me never to go travelling with you," she muttered.

Although she supposed she knew what he was getting at - was it something that owed more to adrenaline and hormones than any real feeling for each other? More to the point, he was asking if it was likely to wear off in time. She didn't think so. Certainly not on her side.

"Ron, do you really think that either Severus or myself are the casual relationship sort?"

"You, no. I haven't really had to think about Snape's love life before now." He was quiet. Then he said, grudgingly, "I suppose he always was sort of ... intense... at school." Another pause. "So this is going to be a permanent thing then is it?"

"Yes. I think so."

"It's just that he's... well... old... and he was a Death Eater and...," he trailed off again.

"He's not a nice man," she finished for him again. "Yes, I know all of that Ron. But he suits me - we suit each other I think."

He looked at her then. He had always been easier to read than Harry's, his past much less shadowed. It had always been easier for him, being only the Best Friend of the Boy Who Lived. He had never been as guarded as Harry. Now, he was obviously troubled and struggling to come to terms with the reality of her decision. She wanted to help him in some way, but the hard part of her that had refused to yield to Harry in St Mungo's knew that he too had to resolve this in his own way.

"Are you happy?" he asked eventually.

"Yes," she said, then suddenly recalled her thoughts of the morning. "Well, as happy as anyone ever is, I suppose," she added honestly. His face clouded at that.

"'Mione, you are all right, aren't you? He's not hurting you... or anything? Because if he is I'll...."

She was absurdly irritated by his proprietorial tone, and interrupted him.

"I'm perfectly all right and of course he isn't hurting me. And I'm more than capable of dealing with Severus, thank you very much."

He flinched at her use of his given name this time, but didn't take the hint to stop the conversation.

"I mean... who knows what he's able to do... spells... curses... I mean, he's probably used the Unforgivables...."

The latent annoyance from her earlier encounter with Snape rekindled and flared again.

"For Gods' sake, Ron, I don't need rescuing. I haven't been drugged, I'm not under the influence of any curses, legal or otherwise and I'm completely in my right mind. I wish that you and Harry could at least manage to respect my choices, even if you can't bring yourselves to be happy for me."

"Well, we feel responsible for this happening."

"How the hell do you work that one out?" Her voice was rising and one or two people were looking curiously in their direction. Ron glared at her.

"If Harry hadn't brought the potion to you, if I hadn't suggested that you go and see Snape...," he spread his hands, deliberately keeping his voice down.

"Well, if it makes you feel better, I can assure you Severus is deeply annoyed that he has to be grateful to the two of you for anything," she spat back.

A look of disgust crossed Ron's face.

"You're even beginning to sound like him."

"Well, sometimes, I understand what he means about things."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She shook her head tiredly, not wanting this to go on any further.

"Oh, nothing, nothing. Look, let's just stop this right here."

"No. Let's not. I want to know what you meant about understanding what he means."

"Well, you really are determined to be martyrs about this aren't you? Both of you? I haven't lost a limb or the use of my brain. I have simply fallen in love with someone that you disapprove of and you are turning it into some absurd Victorian melodrama."

"A what?"

She had to bite her lip to keep from screaming in frustration.

"Did it ever occur to you," he continued, "that it might be more than just us disliking the greasy git? Did you think that we might be worried about you? That we don't want to see you get hurt? In any way."

"I... appreciate... that," she said, trying with difficulty to calm her voice. "but I'm not going to get hurt. Not by Severus."

"Hmm," was his only reply. "In that case, could you tell me why it's your birthday and you're sitting in a pub arguing with me? Where is he? Did he even give you a present?"

She couldn't answer that. He nodded once and then stood. He reached into a pocket, pulled out a package and placed in on the table in front of her.

"Happy Birthday, Hermione," he said. Without saying anything else he walked away towards the stairs that led upstairs to the bedrooms.

**********

Snape was sitting in an armchair, staring moodily at an empty grate and replaying the events of the evening in his mind. He was veering between despair at his own incompetence and annoyance at her stubbornness. He loved her beyond belief. That wasn't the problem.

The summer term had passed in a blur of new lessons and timetables. The holidays had been... something that surpassed his wildest hopes. Time spent with her, simply enjoying each other - in every way. He had been happier than he ever remembered being in his life before. They had spent nearly two months wrapped in each other's company, both content, neither desiring or seeking more.

So he had thought.

But with the new term and the new year something seemed to have changed and he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Apart from the change of teaching subject his life was not very much different on a practical level than it had been before. Teach, mark, attend meetings of various degrees of tedium. Yet there was something. Something different. A watchfulness in the way he was treated by the other staff, perhaps? A new pointedness in the glares that Minerva McGonagall shot in his direction? An unspoken sense that he should not have returned? Or, at least, should not have returned with her.

For she was now a part of his life. Whether anyone else liked it or not.

He snorted at his fanciful thoughts.. But it didn't distract from the very real fear hidden behind it. An instinct that she had subtly changed and he didn't understand how or why. He was trying once more to convince himself that if she had just told him about her birthday then nothing would ever have happened, when the knock came at his door.

"Come in," he said, without moving, hoping that it would be Hermione, knowing that it wasn't.

It wasn't.

Albus Dumbledore - the only other regular visitor to his private quarters - opened the door.

"Severus. I'm not disturbing anything am I?"

He made a theatrical gesture at the empty room.

"I expect that the crowds will part sufficiently for you to find a small space."

The headmaster entered, making a fairly pointed survey of the room as he did so. He looked hard at Snape until the other man pointed his wand at the empty hearth muttering "Incendio". Once the fire was blazing merrily, Dumbledore settled himself comfortably in the other chair.

"I confess that I was rather expecting Miss Granger to be here this evening."

"Miss Granger had another engagement. Mr Weasley is visiting so she has gone to The Three Broomsticks for the evening."

Dumbledore sighed.

"I gather from your tone of voice that this visit was a source of friction between you?"

There was a sulky shrug from the younger man.

"She is not my prisoner."

"But...?"

"But nothing. If she wishes to visit with Weasley I can hardly forbid it."

"But you would like to?"

"No. Yes. No. Not like that."

The older wizard said nothing. He simply closed his eyes, to all intents and purposes dozing peaceably. Snape was silent as well, turning over the headmaster's question with half of his mind. The other half of his mind was occupied with cursing the cunning old man, who doubtless knew that his tactic would elicit information far more effectively than close questioning. There was only the sound of the fire for a long time.

"I disliked Potter and Weasley when they were students," Snape said abruptly, "but they claimed to be Hermione's friends."

The headmaster gave no indication that he was even awake.

"She told Potter about the two of us on the day that she went to St Mungo's to cure that Auror - I forget his name. I do not know exactly what he said to her." That was true enough. On the day in question she had returned from St Mungo's, broken a few small pieces of china and then locked herself in her room alone, to cry. When she had emerged, pale, a few hours later she had simply repaired the damage and said that he had taken the news badly and she didn't want to discuss it any further. And they hadn't. She had never told him what Potter had said to affect her so badly. "Suffice to say," he continued, "that she was extremely distressed. Neither Potter nor Weasley have made the slightest attempt to contact her until today."

She had chosen to hide her tears from him. Had she thought that he would sneer at her for being upset? For caring what Potter and Weasley thought?

The sour taste of the memory returned, the aching helplessness as he realised that he desperately wanted to take her pain away and had absolutely no idea where or how to start. No concept of how to touch the woman who was so open to him in strength and so hidden from him in weakness.

He still didn't. Not in any meaningful sense.

"I consider that her friends have not behaved well in this." He stopped again.

"You don't want to see her hurt again?" suggested the headmaster without opening his eyes.

"No," he agreed simply. "I don't."

"Does she know that this is why you were less than happy about her meeting with Mr Weasley?"

"Yes, of course, she does."

Dumbledore opened his eyes and Snape was fixed with a piercing blue gaze.

"Severus, did you actually tell her that?"

"Well, not in so many words, I suppose. The gaze did not falter. "No. I didn't."

"Did she like her birthday present?"

"I don't know."

"You did get her one?"

"Yes. But she... left... before I could give it to her." He reviewed the events in his mind again. This time he came to a different conclusion. "I should just have given it to her, shouldn't I?"

He slumped lower into his chair. The sense of hopeless failure that had been haunting him all evening intensified.

"Albus," he said eventually, "I can't do this. I don't know how to. I have no experience in being part of..." he struggled to even articulate it, "... a couple. I should be on my own. It's better that way. She deserves better."

The headmaster sighed and closed his eyes again.

"Severus, do you really think that any of us know 'how to do this', as you put it?"

"Well, I always assumed...."

"... that it just happened? Just like that? That it was always perfect? That you would somehow instinctively know precisely what to do when the right person came along?"

Yes. That's exactly what I thought. That everyone else knew something that I didn't.

Dumbledore was still speaking.

"It's not like that. Being with someone else is the most joyful, fulfilling and beautiful experience that anyone can have. And I'm not just talking about the more... obvious... physical aspects. At the beginning it feels like you have been given the keys to paradise." The old wizard stopped, obviously remembering something from his past. Then he went on, "It is also difficult, maddening, intrusive, annoying, frustrating and unbelievably hard work. You can't have one without the other, I'm afraid."

Snape shifted in his chair.

"There is no how to," continued the kindly voice. "No book to follow. It's a matter of trial and error - guesswork in a lot of cases. You both make mistakes and then you try to repair them and somewhere along the line you both find out how to live with each other. You have to do it by yourselves. But that's when you find your true joy."

Hard work. Would she wait that long? Would she even want to begin?

"Miss Granger is an exceptional woman," commented Dumbledore, echoing his thought with his usual uncanny accuracy, "I have never yet known her embark on anything that she wasn't prepared to see through to the end. I could also say the same thing," he added, "about you."

Snape couldn't find a response to that.

"You will solve this between you. I have every confidence in you both," the elderly wizard concluded. He beamed suddenly. "Tea would be lovely, thank you, Severus."

Snape blinked. He hadn't offered... ah. His fabled hospitality at its best.

He waved his wand at the kettle perched by the fire. An instant later steam billowed cheerfully out of the spout, leading shortly after to the traditional combination of fragrant dried leaves with boiling water.

Dumbledore watched as Snape added the merest dash of milk to the bottom of one cup, then deftly poured in the golden liquid. The headmaster reached forward to claim his drink.

"Ahh," he said, sipping with evident enjoyment. "I do value the house-elves, but it takes a Potions Master to make a really good cup of tea."

Snape's lips twitched despite himself.

"Hermione says the same thing about my coffee," he remarked dryly. "It's comforting to know that, should you ever see fit to dispense with my services, I could always start a new career in catering."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled back.

"I'm glad to see that we haven't completely lost you to introspection."

Snape snorted.

"Was there any particular reason you called, headmaster. Other than to offer advice about my woeful inability to deal with my personal life." The hopeless feeling was beginning to recede. Dumbledore's words had encouraged him to feel that he might be able to sort this mess out with Hermione after all.

The headmaster's eyes became serious.

"Yes, there was. And it's why I was rather hoping that Miss Granger would be here as well, for it concerns you both."

Snape felt a sudden chill. He didn't think that was about their personal difficulties. Dumbledore hadn't looked this grave since... well, not since the Ministry had come for him all those months ago.

"What is it?" he said quietly.

"I received an owl today from Dr Affpuddle at St Mungo's."

He remember Dr Affpuddle. The medi-wizard who had been responsible for the treatment of that Auror, and who had kept up a sporadic correspondence with Hermione ever since.

"He tells me that two nights ago someone broke into the secure psychiatric wing of the hospital and released Draco Malfoy."

**********

END OF PART 1