For disclaimers, ratings, notes etc. please see Part 1.

A quiet Sunday afternoon found Dr Phineas Affpuddle pottering around his personal workroom, noting down the items that were running low and musing happily to himself. He enjoyed being at St Mungo's at this time of day - no ward rounds, no one demanding his attention or advice - just peace and time to catch up on his thoughts. Since the Malfoy boy had been taken the place was even more deserted. The Aurors stationed at the entrances saw to that. All it needed now was a few Dementors and it really would be a second Azkaban, he thought ironically.

Dr Phineas Affpuddle had long since resigned himself to the more custodial aspects of his work at St Mungo's.

Ayahuasca, powdered unicorn horn, nutmeg, dragon's tooth ... .

He rubbed a finger musingly across his gingery moustache as he mentally ticked off his supplies.

Valerian, skullcap, wormwood - can't have too much of any of those. Not in this place.

He picked up a blue glass bottle and shook it sharply. There was a faint rattling sound. He shook it again.

Hmm. Low on dried Boggart Cauls. Difficult to obtain. Not exactly the sort of things you can buy by the pound in Diagon Alley. How annoying. It meant that Ministry requisition forms would need to be filled in and sent off to the relevant Department, where the person dealing with the file would be on annual leave or long term sick leave or have been temporarily petrified by a Basilisk....

He snorted at his own humour. Absorbed in his contemplation of the practicalities of restocking his rarer ingredients and the shortcomings of paperwork happy bureaucrats, he did not, at first, notice the door swinging gently open.

When he did, his first reaction was one of irritation. Tutting to himself at the failures of the maintenance staff, he bustled over and firmly closed it. He reflected that no one truly appreciated what he was trying to do here, working against apathetic staff and shocking budgetary constraints. Satisfied that the door was not going to drift open again, he sank back once more into his comfortable feeling of brilliance misunderstood.

He began to hum.

The noise effectively covered the soft click and low murmur as the outer door was physically and magically sealed. Another soft whisper prevented any further noise reaching beyond the confines of the room. Behind the oblivious medi-wizard a random patch of air became a tall, slender distinguished looking man, wearing impeccably cut dark green robes.

"Good afternoon, Dr Affpuddle," he said in exquisitely cultivated tones.

The doctor's first reaction was blustering outrage.

"Who are you and what do you think you are doing in here? This part of the hospital is off limits to members of the general public. I demand that you leave immediately!"

The ice blonde man was totally unmoved at being peremptorily ordered out.

"But Doctor, we've come especially to see you." More air became two men who were equally unmoved and considerably less cultivated. "And we are hardly members of the general public." He said it as if it were some kind of disease. "These two gentlemen are Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle." He paused. "And I am Lucius Malfoy."

Malfoy. Of course.

The father of the pitiful Draco. Very dangerous, according to the Ministry.

"What do you want?" he said, in slightly more cautious tones, wondering if there was anyway he could contact the Ministry personnel.

Lucius smiled. It was a singularly unwarming thing, that smile. An arrangement of the muscles only. Not the slightest emotion. Or certainly no emotion that anyone would want to share.

"Just a small thing, Doctor. Practically nothing, really. There's absolutely no need to contact anyone to let them know that we are here. Of course, it would be pointless even if there was a need. This room is now far too heavily warded to let any communication through. And if I'm not mistaken the Aurors at the entrance to the hospital saw you leaving about a quarter of an hour ago. I believe you were going home to spend the rest of the day with your roses."

He languidly walked around the room. It was large enough to comfortably contain four men as well as a large workbench, desk and chair, some lab stools, bookshelves and several storage cabinets. However, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were making it seem unusually crowded. The medi-wizard watched Lucius carefully, identifying him as the most dangerous of the three. He tried to keep his breathing steady and even.

The blonde man was examining the contents of his store cupboards with interest.

"What an array of materials you do have here, Doctor. Quite fascinating. Draco, of course, was never really gifted with Potions." He sounded mildly regretful. "No doubt he would one day have found a niche for himself." His voice hardened. "If he hadn't had that... accident."

Dr Affpuddle found himself fixed with a gaze like grey chips of ice.

"You recall Draco, Doctor? Your patient? The one that for whom you had a treatment that you elected not to use." The voice was still cultivated but as unyielding as granite. "That Draco."

The medi-wizard swallowed, and tried to find his voice.

"The Ministry...," he began weakly.

"Ah, yes," Malfoy cut across him scornfully, "The Ministry. Withholding treatment from a sick person - a sick Malfoy - to ensure good behaviour from his father. Do you think that was acceptable Doctor? Ethical?"

Affpuddle didn't know what to say. The whole posture of the man spoke to him of one who delivering a prepared speech, all rehearsed vehemence, more concerned at the disrespect to the Malfoy name than with the person behind it. He noticed that his palms were sticky. This man was beginning to disturb him more than the most deranged patient. Fortunately, Malfoy didn't seem to require an answer.

"No matter." He waved a hand dismissively. "It simply brings us conveniently to what you can do for me." The smile-that-wasn't was back in place again. "As I said, it is a small thing. Just some medication. For my son. Just the potion that you used to cure that Auror."

Just the potion. Devised by the Granger woman and her companion. She'd left the bottle, but not the recipe. And they had used the last of it in treating the sick Auror.

He had a feeling that this was not going to be acceptable to Lucius Malfoy.

"Sir," he began carefully, his mouth dry. "I know the potion that you mean." The blonde man was still smiling serenely. "I'm afraid... that is... there is no more left of it."

The smile did not falter.

"Come now, Doctor," Lucius said very gently, "surely you don't expect me to believe that. That the Ministry would have retained no small supply to use as a bargaining counter."

The Ministry might have done. But Dr Affpuddle had none and no idea how to get any. The eyes of the man before him were impenetrable.

"I... I don't know," he said, trying not to sound desperate. "I have none, and I know of no other stock."

"Well," came the considering response, " perhaps I could let you make me some."

"I... I..." he cursed himself for stuttering, for allowing the other man to have such complete control over the situation. The other two men had barely moved. They just stood. Occupying space. He fought for some degree of self-possession. "I don't know how to. I didn't make the batch I used on the Auror."

One white blonde eyebrow arched delicately in surprise or derision.

"You didn't?" Exaggerated tones. "Why then, Doctor, who did?"

"I don't know." It was beginning to become painfully clear to the doctor that he was very unlikely to get out of this. Some deep seated instinct told him that there was no point in putting anyone else at risk.

"Really?" mused Lucius. "So this potion just arrived on your doorstep one day did it? Labelled Drink Me perhaps?" He laughed gently at his own joke. A moment later Crabbe and Goyle also laughed, as if alerted to the need to do so by their Master's response. Not actually understanding, but hoping to divert the man, Affpuddle tried a small laugh as well. Lucius regarded him almost fondly.

"Ah, doctor, doctor. You don't understand my little Mudblood joke but you humour me none the less? No matter. I prefer not to get all my information at once. It tends to dull the edge of the amusement."

He nodded at the other two men. They immediately flanked Affpuddle, moving with surprising speed. His upper arms were gripped by one, whilst the other cleared the surface of the workbench. Glass and metalware hit the floor with random sounds of clattering and breaking. His robes were stripped off him - manually, not magically - until he was wearing nothing but his long white undershirt. As he was bound to the workbench - this time by the use of magic - some part of him hoped that he could still survive this.

He lay, breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling. The perfect patrician face of Lucius Malfoy crossed his vision.

"I must say," it said cheerfully, "you do have a splendid collection in your cupboards, doctor."

He turned his neck painfully to see a selection of bottles and flasks. He recognised most of them by sight. The caustics. The acids. The irritants. The poisons.

He closed his eyes.

"Now," the crystalline voice said comfortably. "We're ready for our little chat. First things first though... Crucio."

Expecting, as he was, the application of one or other of the substances selected by Malfoy, there was a fleeting moment of something that was almost relief. Then the pain hit. Searing, burning, screaming agony, remorseless, ceaseless, infiltrating every nerve end, every synapse. Unable to even pass out, Affpuddle simply screamed.

And then it ended.

"So, doctor," came the voice, utterly unperturbed. "Tell me a little about your roses."

The medi-wizard thought for a moment that he had misheard. That the man who had just inflicted an Unforgivable on him could not possibly have asked him a question about gardening.

There was a sigh.

"Oh dear." Malfoy sounded quite resigned. "I know that Crucio is still supposed to be the curse of choice for these things, but it is such a blunt instrument when you want specific information. I think we may have to start again with something a little more refined. Crabbe, the left eye, if you will."

He felt thick hands grabbing at his face, pulling his left eye open. A finger held the eyelid up whilst a thumb dug roughly into his cheekbone, preventing the eye from reflexively closing. Unable to blink or look away, he focussed on a small eye dropper held in a flawless, pale and perfectly steady hand. The dropper was filled with a blue liquid. He struggled to prevent the professional side of his mind identifying it. The hand squeezed very gently and one beautiful, azure drop formed at the end of the delicate glass tube. It hung for a moment, pearlescent under the lights, surface tension holding it balanced.

Then it fell, to land with precision in the centre of the medi-wizard's left eyeball.

His back arched as fire knifed along his optic nerve and directly into his brain. Somewhere between the pain and his dying vision he could still hear Malfoy's voice, sounding for all the world like he was at a cocktail party.

"There's so many different varieties of rose available now. But I always feel that somehow in our quest for the perfect blossom we have lost some of that unique scent, don't you agree?"

And Phineas Affpuddle knew without doubt that he was a dead man facing a genuine clinical psychopath.

**********

Hermione hadn't moved from the table since Ron had walked out. She held the package, wrapped in red with a gold ribbon, Gryffindor colours inevitably, and slowly turned it over and over in her hands.

She wondered if it was an immutable law of nature that the less you intended something to happen the more certain it was. She definitely hadn't intended to have two blazing rows in the space of three hours. What she had wanted to happen was for Ron to at least try to understand how she felt about things and give some indication that he would be prepared to give it a chance - give Severus a chance.

What she had wanted to happen was for Severus to give her a birthday present... no, she amended, with sudden self-honesty. What she wanted was for Severus to do something to calm the unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach - to take her back to the summer when there was only him and she was so sure....

Once again, thanks to Snape, Hermione Granger was faced with a situation that she couldn't solve by looking in a book. One that she would have to deal with by guesswork. She liked it as little as she had when he had been lying, bleeding on her sofa in London.

And it was just as important to get it right this time as it had been the last.

Damn the man. Why couldn't anything be simple?

But she already knew the answer to that thought.

Because he was Severus.

Peter, her ex-boyfriend, had been simple. She hadn't loved him. Ron and Harry were, at heart, simple. They were her friends. Or, at least, they had been, and in any event would never have been more.

Hermione had never been drawn to simple things. Not truly.

Severus was not a simple man. And that was one of the reasons that she loved him.

They would find a way through this. They had to.

She was about to stand up and make her way back to Hogwarts to find Snape and try to make her peace, when her attention was caught by a voice behind her.

"Er... Hermione?" It was female, with a light French accent and it sounded a little hesitant. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt or anything, but I couldn't help noticing... um... are you all right?"

She looked up to see a young woman, about her own age or maybe a little older, standing at that indeterminate distance which suggested that she wanted to be noticed but was not confident enough to actually walk up and sit down.

She was a pleasant looking woman, a little taller than Hermione, medium build, with dark blonde hair, fair skin and hazel eyes. She had regular features, which were presently looking a little apprehensive. Hermione knew her.

Rose Brunarde, the new Charms teacher. The half familiar figure she had noticed earlier.

She had joined the school for the new school year following the retirement of Professor Flitwick. The tiny Charms professor from her schooldays had finally decided to leave from teaching to pursue some of his many other interests. She recalled the party at the end of the summer term - half tearful, half joyful. Even Severus had found it within himself to express regret at his leaving and to wish him luck for the future. The fight against Voldemort had forged some unlikely alliances. To put it mildly.

Rose, Hermione recalled, had been a pupil at Beauxbatons, the French school, and had spent some time teaching at Durmstrang. The recollection of Durmstrang brought her to Viktor Krum. Another less than successful personal relationship, she mused. The sound of shifting feet brought her back to the present and the realisation that she had all but ignored the other woman.

"Rose, hello." She tried to muster a genuine smile. It wasn't that she disliked her. On the contrary, she had been struck with how pleasant she seemed. She was just guiltily aware that her preoccupation with her new position and Severus had led her to make less effort with the new teacher than she would otherwise have done.

"I'm sorry, I was miles away for a moment." The other woman was still looking hesitant. Hermione waved at the chair recently vacated by Ron. "Do sit down. Please."

Rose didn't appear to be with anyone. As she sat, it crossed Hermione's mind to wonder why she was paying solitary midweek visits to The Three Broomsticks.

"As I said," Rose continued, a little diffidently, "I couldn't help noticing..." She trailed off expressively.

Well, if you will choose to have an argument in a public bar...

She shrugged, looking rueful.

"It was rather obvious, wasn't it?" She sighed.

"Are you all right?" asked the other woman a little tentatively.

"Oh, I'm fine," she said automatically. "Ron's just a little, well, volatile I suppose you could call it." Childish, idiotic and bloody minded would all cover it as well.

Rose nodded. She still seemed a little uncomfortable for some reason. There was a pause.

"How are you settling in?" asked Hermione eventually, uncomfortably aware that she should really have asked the question earlier. Several weeks earlier to be precise.

"Fine, fine. Everyone has been very friendly and welcoming. And Professor Dumbledore is very kind."

Hermione smiled.

"Oh yes. Albus is a father to most of the school and half the staff. He always has been. He was just like that when I was a pupil here."

A half-wistful look passed over the other woman's face for a moment.

"I can imagine," she said softly.

Hermione made a decision. Rose was here alone and so was she, now.

"Look," she said briskly, "I don't know if you have any plans for the rest of the evening, but it's my birthday and for some reason I feel like celebrating it, despite the rest of the world. If I get a bottle of something, will you share it with me?"

Rose's face took on a mischievous look.

"You ask this of a Frenchwoman?" she said, in tones of mock outrage. "I only ask that if you buy champagne, it is authentic and not some méthode champenoise." Her nose wrinkled in a manner which strongly reminded Hermione of Snape. If possessed of a little more surface charm.

Hermione grinned in response, feeling lighter already.

"Done," she said and headed to the bar to negotiate with Rosmerta.

Five minutes later she was back with a bottle of champagne, which Rose solemnly pronounced to be an acceptable vintage, and two champagne flutes. Settling down, they began to swap classroom stories.

An hour and a couple of glasses of champagne later, they were laughing like old friends at one of Neville Longbottom's more spectacular potions mishaps and one of Snape's more memorable responses.

"Ah," sighed Rose, "my Potions classes were never like that."

"Well, ours were a little nerve racking at times. Between Neville and Severus it was a toss up which one would get you first."

"Our Potions Mistress was Madame Duvallon. She was terribly absent minded. I recall that she had a flat in Paris that she used to live in during the holidays. There was a rumour that one day she went out for a loaf of bread and disappeared. People were frantic. She turned up three weeks later in Madagascar. She was apparently half way to the Boulangerie when she remembered she had run out of Madagascan Tree Frog glands. She couldn't understand what all the fuss was about."

Hermione snorted.

"Not something that I can quite see Severus doing, somehow."

"No, he does seem very... organised" agreed Rose. She was silent for a moment. Then she said, "it must be very nice for you, to be back in your old school."

Hermione was surprised at the comment.

"Yes, in some ways."

"Everyone's very friendly, but it's like you all belong together. You all know each other and there's obviously so much history. I envy that sometimes."

Was that why she was here alone? Feeling left out? Surely not. No one would do that to her.

"I suppose it does take some time to fit in to a new place," she replied carefully. She tried to give a tactful voice to her thought. She didn't want to provoke a third argument tonight. "I noticed that you were here on your own." She wasn't quite certain how to continue but the other woman rescued her.

"No, no, please don't think that I have been driven out of Hogwarts by anyone." She paused. "It is that... sometimes I like to get out of my rooms and I still feel a little... out of place... in the staff room - if that is the right word. I have yet to find my feet as they say. Here," she gestured at the room, "it is friendly and anonymous and the champagne is good," she looked impish again. "Please do not feel I am criticising anyone, time will solve all of this."

Hermione looked at her glass. She and Severus were the closest of the staff in age to Rose. And no one would describe Severus as the meet and greet sort. One more oversight. She needed to start to interact with her normal life again.

Her mouth twisted.

"Well, if I hadn't been quite so wrapped up in my own personal life I might actually have noticed something," she said, dryly.

The other woman regarded her shrewdly.

"This has something to do with the young man earlier?"

Hermione sighed again.

"Yes, but it's a long and very boring story, and I'm sure you would rather watch paint dry than listen to me go on about my love life."

Rose's eyes twinkled.

"You forget again that you are talking to a Frenchwoman. After good champagne we like nothing better than to listen to someone else's love life. Providing you wish to talk about it, of course."

Hermione suddenly aware of how tempting the offer was. It occurred to her that she was really bereft of a simple friend to talk to. Harry and Ron were not exactly receptive. She couldn't quite see herself talking to her parents, and as for the rest of the staff, it wasn't that they disapproved, exactly, but.... She felt a sudden wave of loneliness sweep over her.

Maybe talking about it to someone who didn't already have an opinion about her - or him - would at least help to clarify it in her own mind. But where the hell did she start?

"You know that I'm involved with Severus," she began.

The other woman nodded.

"I had thought so."

Hermione was surprised.

"No one actually told you?"

"No. And the two of you are very... discreet... about things. But sometimes there are looks, you know." She shrugged. "Anyway, you are involved, as you say."

"And you know that he was also my teacher at school."

Again, a movement of the head.

"Well, we didn't get on at school. Really didn't get on. My best friends were Harry Potter and Ron Weasley." She didn't get any further. The woman who had managed to calmly accept that she was seeing a former teacher had almost choked on her drink at The Name.

"I'm sorry," spluttered Rose, losing her composure for a moment, and wiping her lips. "You were best friends with Harry Potter? The Harry Potter?"

"Yes," said Hermione in resigned amusement. "The Harry Potter. I see they really haven't told you anything." She grinned suddenly. "I can assure you, you would see him in quite a different light if he'd been instrumental in getting you Petrified, half turned into a cat and into more detentions that you can count."

Rose seemed to have recovered a little and Hermione went on.

"That was Ron who I was meeting tonight. Anyway, when I was at school Severus hated us. I mean really hated us. Harry mostly - it's a long story to do with his father - Harry's, not Severus's. He was a bastard to us and we hated him right back." She shrugged a little and sipped her champagne. "So we left, and that was the last we thought we'd ever see of him. Ron and I went on to do research for the Ministry of Magic in London and Harry became an Auror - like they were ever going to let him do anything else. Voldemort was defeated - I guess everyone knows about that - and life went on."

She played with her glass before continuing.

"Well, about a year ago there was an incident involving some Aurors and a potion. And Harry brought me a sample of the potion and asked me to analyse it for him. A... private enterprise as it were." She was weighing up telling enough to make the story comprehensible and not actually going into too much detail. "I came to a brick wall and approached Snape for help."

"Even though you hated him?"

"Even though I hated him," Hermione agreed. "I remembered him as a foul tempered bastard but he is just about the best there is when it comes to Potions. I needed his help." She shut her eyes. "Well, it is a long story, but some things happened which made me reconsider my opinion of Severus."

"You fell in love with him." It was a statement not a question.

"I fell in love with him," she agreed again.

"And he with you." Another statement.

Hermione considered that.

"Yes," she said finally, "I really think he did."

"So far I do not see the problem."

The problem... oh, the problem....

"To begin with Harry and Ron still hate him. And they don't like that fact that he's older than me and...," she sought for a way to explain without actually doing so, "...he has a rather dark past," she settled for. "They seem to regard what I did as some kind of betrayal of their friendship."

The other woman's face suddenly cleared.

"And this is what you were arguing about earlier?"

"Yes. Ron still thinks that I'm under some kind of spell or that I'm liable to account to them for my decisions. Harry said much the same thing when I told him. Tonight is the first time I've seen or heard from either of them since February." Then it dawned on Hermione why Rose had been so awkward. "Gods, you didn't think that I was involved with Ron as well, did you?" She snorted. "If I wasn't so annoyed about it that would almost be funny."

Rose looked a little sheepish.

"He was behaving rather possessively."

"Wasn't he? I could have slapped him. Maybe I'll get him back downstairs again just so I can." She was only half joking. She lapsed into silence again.

"So your friends are not speaking to you?" prompted Rose after a moment.

"Hmm? Sorry." She collected her thoughts. "Yes, Harry and Ron aren't speaking to me. And whilst it is lovely being back at Hogwarts, it's also very odd. I was a student here, and part of me still wants to call them Professor this and Professor that. I can't quite adjust to being on equal terms with Minerva. I keep wanting to call her Professor McGonagall, because I'm used to her being that." She was almost unaware of Rose as she struggled to put words to her feelings. "I got on well with all my teachers - except Severus, of course - they all liked me, but they weren't my friends, they were my teachers - does that make any sense? They weren't the people that I would turn to for support, except maybe Hagrid. And I just don't feel comfortable discussing this with him."

Rose was quiet, just watching her. Hermione shot her a rueful grin.

"I guess I feel that it's not quite my world yet either. It's like I'm part of his world. I'm Miss Granger, the ex-pupil, former Head Girl. Or, maybe Hermione, Severus's girlfriend, partner, whatever... I don't think they disapprove as such, but I sometimes feel they're waiting for something to go wrong. Like Harry and Ron. Waiting for the other shoe to fall my father used to call it."

Oh dear gods, Granger, do stop whining....

"Sorry," she said softly. "You came out for a quiet drink and instead get me being maudlin at you."

"Don't apologise," said the other woman, gently. "Everyone needs someone to talk to sometimes. It seems to me that you're rather short of ears at the moment."

"Severus does listen, mostly," she said a little defensively.

"Yes, I'm sure he does, but sometimes you need another ear as well," Rose replied with a hint of humour. "You know," she went on, "I think that, like me, this may solve itself in time. I do not really know the people involved, which may be a good thing," she added wryly, "but there are many changes that you have to make. That you both have to make." She stopped, apparently considering her next words. "I do not know Professor Snape very well. He does not come across as very... accessible."

"No," confirmed Hermione. "I'm afraid he doesn't."

"And," continued the other woman carefully, "he also does not seem to be sort to ... play... at anything. I cannot imagine him doing anything unless he is serious about it."

"No. That's what I said to Ron," sighed Hermione.

"Maybe you should listen to yourself then," suggested the lilting French accent.

Hermione was about to respond when another voice cut across them.

"Time!" called Rosmerta.

"Heavens! We should get back before they send out search parties."

Hermione rose and collected her cloak, relieved to see that two glasses of ginger wine and three of champagne had not seriously impaired her ability to walk straight. She tucked Ron's present, still unopened, into a pocket and together the two women left the pub. They strolled back to the school, talking idly of nothing in particular. The drizzle had stopped, she was pleased to notice, and the walk did much to dispel the lingering heaviness of the alcohol so that by the time they reached the parting of the ways she was simply feeling pleasantly relaxed.

"Thank you for listening," she said, as they said goodnight. "Next time you're going out for a drink, knock on my door if you fancy some company. I promise not to talk about my love life the whole time."

The other woman laughed.

"It was nice to get to know you finally, Hermione. I shall certainly knock on your door, as you say. Bonne nuit."

Rose disappeared off to her rooms which were somewhere near the Hufflepuff part of the school. Hermione climbed to her rooms and disarmed the wards. It made her remember the earlier argument. Thank heavens Rose hadn't asked her why she was there with Ron not Severus. At least he had re-warded the room, she thought.

Once inside, she commanded light and hung up her cloak. She idly wondered about making a cup of tea before she went to bed. The evening had left her feeling more than a little drained, but some part of her felt that she should make an effort to rehydrate her system before sleep.

She was about to retrieve the kettle when her attention was captured by a determined little Meep.

She looked round to see Sphinx sitting on her big table, wrinkled face glaring at her, like a little angry parent.

"It's all right, Sphinx," she said, in amusement. "Ron and I argued and then I spent the rest of the evening with a woman. Satisfied?"

"Mrrp. Meep."

Didn't look like it.

She wandered over to the table to tickle the little cat on the head and saw the small blue box with something attached to it. Her heart missed a beat. She picked up the box and saw that the something was a note. Unfolding the parchment, she read.

Happy Birthday. I believe that a gift is customary on these occasions. I hope that this is acceptable. I have little experience in the purchase of such things. No doubt it can be exchanged if necessary.

S.

There was something about that note that brought a lump to her throat. It was so very... Severus. So much care and thoughtfulness and fear of displeasing her masked by the curt, cold words. Truly, not a man to play at anything, she thought. Carefully, she unwrapped the box, opened it and caught her breath.

It was a pendant. A simple, white gold belcher chain with an oval drop, roughly one inch along its longest axis. The setting was also simple - just a white gold rim. And inside was the most beautiful opal she had ever seen. Dark, almost black, on first sight; but when she held it up the colours danced fire deep inside like a living thing. Entranced, she watched the reds and blues and greens and turquoises flare and disappear as she moved it in the light of the lamps.

It made her want to laugh. It made her want to cry.

With exquisite care she replaced it in its box, and scooped up the little cat, whose smug expression turned abruptly to startled.

"Come along, bald fiend, its time you returned to your master."

Sphinx gave a strangled Meep, as Hermione shifted to get a firm grip. Woman and cat left the room heading for the dungeons.

Unsurprisingly, they encountered no one on their way there. Not even Filch, to Hermione's relief. To see the expression on his face when both she and Severus were welcomed back through the doors of Hogwarts had been an experience, but not one that she wished to repeat in a hurry.

They reached the door leading to Snape's private rooms. Adjusting the cat slightly, Hermione placed her hand on the door and whispered Dies Irae, day of anger, a curious choice of password, but somehow appropriate to the way she felt at the moment. The door swung open and she entered quietly.

The fire in the grate had burned low, but was still smouldering and giving off a little warmth. There was no other light. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness. She thought she could make out a shadowed form, wrapped in darkness, slumped in one of the armchairs. Sphinx scrabbled out of her arms and hit the floor with a chirrup. In a moment she was heading for the chair. Evidently, the cat's better eyes had seen him more clearly.

"Severus," she said quietly, "thank you. It's beautiful."

There was silence for a moment, then he said:

"I'm sorry."

She closed her eyes. She knew he was not apologising for the gift.

"I know," he continued stiffly, "that you were... upset by Potter and Weasley. Because they did not contact you. I simply did not wish to see one of them upset you again. I... did not intend to suggest that you should account to me for your movements."

Her vision adjusted, she walked over to the back of his chair and, standing behind it, placed her hands on either side of his neck. Gently, she began to rub his shoulders.

"It's OK, love. I'm sorry too. I know I've been behaving oddly this last little while." She felt him stiffen fractionally under her hands. "It's not because I have any regrets, never think that. It's just that this is all... a little harder to get used to than I thought it would be. Today, was... just one of those days, I think."

"Hermione." His voice was very quiet. "If..." He stopped. She heard the deep breath. "If you ever have doubts, you will tell me? Won't you? You shouldn't ever feel obliged...."

She moved to perch on the arm of his chair and laid a finger across his lips.

"Shh," she said softly. "I have no doubts. None at all. I'm having trouble adjusting to being here and not being a student and I don't quite know yet where I stand with the other staff and... ," she snorted into the darkness, "... some deeply childish part of me wants someone to step in and make it all all right for me, without me actually having to do anything about it myself. But, I'm not having trouble being with you and the rest of it I will sort out on my own in time."

She took her finger away and leant forward to place her mouth over his. As he opened his lips to her, she slid her tongue inside to taste him, exploring him deeply and slowly. He curled an arm around her, pulling her off the side of the chair and into his lap. Sphinx shot to the floor with an indignant Mrrp, narrowly escaping being sat on. They sat like that for a long time, simply kissing, savouring the feel and the taste and the smell of the other.

Eventually, they broke apart and he buried his head in her shoulder.

"I understand," he said finally, a little muffled. "Albus came to see me tonight. For one of his chats."

One of his chats. That could almost have capital letters, she thought. Albus's chats were usually comforting and frightening in roughly equal parts.

"He said," Snape continued, "that these things were never easy."

"No," agreed Hermione, slightly distracted by the gentle kisses being carefully placed in the curve of her neck. "That's about what we agreed as well." The kissing stopped.

"We?" Said a little sharply. "I gather you and Mr Weasley resolved your differences then."

Hermione sighed.

"Don't prickle, love, please." She felt the touch of lips to her neck again. She decided to treat that as an apology. "Actually, no we didn't. It was pretty much a repeat of the conversation with Harry. Although, he did have the grace to say it was because they were worried about me. But we argued and he stormed off. Just like school, all over again," she added trying for humour and not quite succeeding. "No," she continued, moving swiftly over the memory, trying to ignore the sting. "Rose Brunarde was also in there having a drink. After Ron left we got talking. In fact, I've been talking to her for most of the evening. She's nice."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. She's good company." Hermione stifled a laugh. "She only agreed to drink with me on condition that I ordered authentic French champagne and not méthode champenoise."

"She sounds like a sensible woman."

"I thought you'd approve." She paused then said, "Severus, please don't take this the wrong way, but it was so nice to be able to talk to someone who doesn't have an opinion on you... me... us... the whole thing - no baggage from school or the war. Someone neutral."

To her astonishment he didn't withdraw from her. She could swear that he was nodding against her.

"It has been a little... tense... just recently, hasn't it. I keep expecting Minerva to challenge me to a duel."

Hermione felt relief flood through her. At least it wasn't just her feeling it. She bent to kiss him again. Thoroughly. One of his hands buried itself in her hair to cup the back of her head. The other hand unclasped her robes just enough to slide inside and caress one breast. She sighed against him.

When they parted she breathed:

"We'll get through this. It will work. I love you too much for it not to."

"My dearest heart," he whispered.

His endearments were still rare, and all the more treasured for it. One thumb began to circle lazily around her left nipple. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the fire building inside her, fuelled directly by his deft movements.

"Severus," she whispered.

"Hmm?"

"I think I'd like to go to bed. Now."

**********

Lucius Malfoy stretched out his long, elegantly clad legs, leaned back into the corner of the Chesterfield and sipped his brandy meditatively. An excellent dinner, served with fine wines, followed by a mellow glass of a well aged spirit, was his preferred aid to problem solving. It rarely failed him - that sense of physical well-being engendered by possession of the finest things in life.

Lucius Malfoy was a man who set much store by the finest things in life.

Although he had been a faithful servant of Voldemort, he had embraced the power vacuum left by his death as if he had been born to it. Which, in a sense, he had. The Dark Lord's natural successor. Only without the tedious posturing, declaiming and grandiose gestures. Sometimes he wondered if Tom Riddle hadn't, in fact, been a closet Gryffindor. All those melodramatics.

Lucius had no desire to turn into some half human creature. He was more than satisfied with humanity and its many and varied pleasures - the more exotic the better. And if that involved pain then it could not be avoided. It was his gift to those lesser than himself. Pain was the thing that cleansed them, that purified them, that cauterised them. He sighed. So few truly appreciated that his motives sprang from the deepest altruism.

Lucius Malfoy sipped his brandy and performed a mental survey of his world. And he found that it was good.

But for one thing.

His son and heir.

A moment's darkness crossed the perfect features. How could he ever have been delivered of a creature of such weakness? He could only ascribe it to the influence of poor, fragile Narcissa. Narcissa, who had not survived Azkaban. Who must have tainted the Malfoy strength with some hidden flaw, so that it shattered at the moment stress was applied. Such a tragedy.

With distaste he called to mind the puling, snivelling creature that had once been his son. His son?. No. Her son. He would not, could not, be responsible for the creation of something like that. The very thought soured the taste of the brandy in his mouth. He placed the glass carefully on the table in front of him. Standing, he adjusted his robes, these ones a dark blood red, so that they fell just so. Satisfied with the effect, he swept out of the room.

The salon led out into an entrance hall, reaching up the full height of the house and floored in the finest marble. Gleaming whiteness was streaked with blacks and greys giving an uncanny sense of movement to the floor. First time visitors often stepped hesitantly, as if unsure of their balance.

Lucius Malfoy liked his visitors to feel off balance.

Confidently, he strode across the expanse, and climbed the stairs, wide enough for six people to walk abreast and yet not crowd each other. Two thirds of the way up the staircase split in two, both wings curving out to meet the gallery that ran round the first floor. Taking the left staircase, Lucius continued to the gallery, touching his hand briefly on the magnificent marble balustrade. Yes, definitely the finest things.

He swept by several portraits of family ancestors, all nodding their approval as he passed. Any that would have dared to frown at him had long since been disenchanted and burned. Wrapped in his own thoughts he entered a long corridor, then another and then a third. Finally he paused a dark, polished oak door. It was beautifully carved, depicting a woodland hunting scene. As he looked at it the leaves of the trees rustled gently in the breeze and a deer briefly glanced out from a thicket, freezing as it saw him. He was entranced by it. So very restful.

He placed his hand on the door and the deer shot back behind the bush. The door swung open to reveal a bedroom. It was large; a vast expanse of rich green carpet falling away to the sparkling French windows. Blinds were half lowered, giving the room a shaded feeling, but the paler green curtains were looped back, yards of satiny material draped over itself luxuriously. The furniture was aged walnut, light delicate pieces contributing to the airy feel of the room. The walls were covered in eau-de-nil silk wallpaper, and more woodland scenes unfolded in the paintings. A few well placed ornaments complemented the whole.

Lucius felt a certain satisfaction settle over him. It was an impeccably tasteful room.

Visitors, who had recovered from their encounter with the hallway, were often moved to remark on the understated elegance of Lucius Malfoy's home. It was the sort of question that made him shudder inwardly. The sort of question that would be asked by the likes of Rosier, Mulciber, Avery or the Lestranges - a dreadful couple, practically shopkeepers.

He closed his eyes at the memory. The Dark Lord had always valued blood over breeding, he recalled. Something that had contributed to his downfall in no small way, in Lucius' mind at least. Raised in that Muggle orphanage, how could he be expected to know that there were ways of doing things, certain expectations, a natural order that should be followed?

It was not enough simply to give power to anyone who could prove their bloodline back for three generations, like some kind of animal. Such people had no appreciation of their rightful place in things. Such people would decorate their houses with scenes of slaughter everywhere, utterly unmindful of the fact that one just did not put that sort of thing in, say, a bedroom, or a dining room. It displayed ill breeding. It was, to put it quite frankly, vulgar.

Lucius Malfoy prided himself that he was not, and never would be, vulgar.

No, such people got above themselves. They were dangerous. And things went wrong. This was not a mistake that Lucius would ever make.

Dismissing the Lestranges and their like with a small moue of distaste he turned his attention to the bed. Perfectly placed and draped in forest green, it was totally in harmony with its surroundings. The only thing to mar that perfection was the figure actually in the bed.

Curled up, whimpering occasionally, it was distinctly cleaner that when Crabbe and Goyle had dumped it on the carpet in the salon, but no more coherent. On the table next to the bed were a series of bottles and potions. A dapper little figure, no taller than about five feet six inches, with neatly trimmed black hair, oiled and slicked back, and a small black moustache, equally trimmed, oiled and slicked, was looking at the bed with a professional air. There was a collection of parchments scattered at his feet.

"Any change, Doctor Wilkes?"

The man looked at him, exuding professional reassurance tinged with wary caution.

"Not so far, sir. I've tried the potions that you brought back with you from St Mungo's, but none of them have any effect." He gestured rather nervously at the scrolls on the floor. "I've been looking through these, sir, but I'm not certain whether I can reproduce Allworthy's work. Not from this."

Which meant that the fat fool of a medi-wizard had probably been telling the truth

He nodded.

"Keep trying, doctor."

He turned on his heel and headed for the door, no longer able to take pleasure in the charm of the room. He noted the flash of relief on the doctor's face as he left. Fear was to be commended. He filed it away for future reference.

Once out of the room, he found that his irritation had risen to such a pitch that it would need to be soothed. His lips curved briefly. He knew what would work. Instead of heading back to the main hall, he took a side corridor which brought him, finally to a dead end and a door. This door was plain, although still highly polished. He placed his hand on it murmuring the password Serenity.

And entered the place where he could relax until his spirit was calmed.

Inside was another light, airy room, with a wide hearth and a polished wood floor. It contained two deep club armchairs and a simple rosewood table. The walls were ringed by shelves. More French windows gave out onto a balcony overlooking a formal garden laid out in the French style. It could have been a library, but for the fact that the shelves did not have books on them, but rows and rows of shallow stone basins, filled with whitish-silver liquid that swirled and eddied ceaselessly.

Lucius shook his wand down his sleeve, from the carefully designed concealed pocket which completely disguised the wand and did not interfere with the line of the robes. He pointed it at the fire, muttered "Incendio" and began to idly survey the shelves as the fire warmed the room.

His private collection of Pensieves. The place where he stored his favourite memories, the most delicate or memorable acts of pain and destruction. A shrine to the artistry of torture and degradation. A place where he came to relive those precious moments over and over again, confident that not one sob, not one scream, not one plea would be lost or forgotten. He wondered about saving his afternoon with Dr Affpuddle, but then decided against it. The years had given him some discrimination, he reflected. The stout medi-wizard had not been very interesting in himself. A boringly predictable succession of screams, threats, attempts to bargain, and then simple pleas. Nothing that he hadn't heard before.

He clicked his tongue in irritation. It appeared, however, that Affpuddle had been telling the truth, no matter how tediously. He did not have the potion. And he was certainly in no position to attempt to make it now, being somewhat dead. He had no faith in Wilkes either. A pale shadow of his brother. Just useful enough to stay on the right side of being alive. For now.

That only left the makers of the original sample.

Their identity was about the only interesting piece of information that the good Dr. Affpuddle had managed to impart. Such a pity that it had been with his dying breath. Or near enough. He wondered idly if the doctor had been a Gryffindor. It was certainly a very Gryffindor thing to try to protect others as long as possible.

Yes, he mused. The makers of the potion. One Miss Hermione Granger assisted by one Professor Severus Snape.

Add to that the interesting piece of information, filtered back from Hogwarts via the son of friend of a friend, that not only was the said former student teaching at Hogwarts herself but was intimately involved with the said professor. Lucius could barely bring himself to even think a word as vulgar as fucking.

Which led to some interesting possibilities for rekindling a... working relationship... with his old colleague.

Oh, Severus. It will be such a pleasure to meet up again. We have so much to discuss.

Calmer already, he selected a Pensieve from the shelf and carried it across the thick rug to an armchair. Settling himself down he bent over the bowl to gaze into its depths. He closed his eyes as the forward lurch and cold, falling sensation overtook him. Then it stopped. He opened his eyes to find himself in a familiar dungeon. This was an old favourite of his, a memory of elegant simplicity that was guaranteed to clear his mind. He would enjoy this and then maybe there would be time for a late evening stroll in the ornamental maze.

The door to the dungeon burst open in front of him. Two Death Eaters, clad in dark robes and masks, strode in dragging a young, Muggle woman between them. One of the Death Eaters pulled her arms behind her back as the other one ripped off her clothing. She struggled, naked and sobbing, as the Death Eater standing in front of her pulled out his wand and softly trailed it across her breasts and her belly.

Lucius Malfoy sighed in peaceful contentment as the woman in front of him began to scream.

**********

END OF PART 2