For disclaimers, ratings, notes etc. see Part 1

The walk into Hogsmeade gave Snape some physical exercise but did very little to settle his mind. Talking with Hermione on her birthday had gone some way to reassuring him, and to clearing the tension between them. Certainly their subsequent reconciliation had been fierce enough for his doubts to be dispelled, if only for a little while.

However, there was a world of difference between tentatively putting a name to the problem, and actually taking steps to solve it.

He paused for a moment, closing his eyes as he recalled her fingers lightly stroking the back of his neck as they lay together in the dark.

"Give it time, love," she had whispered. "It will be all right, I promise."

It will be all right. I promise.

There was a sudden flare of memory from too far back. From some darkened part of him that hadn't seen daylight for a long time indeed. How many times had he heard those words, he thought bitterly. Those, or some variation on them.

I promise.

Easy words. Quickly said. Quickly forgotten.

It will be all right.

Hollow reassurance.

He opened his eyes again and purposefully resumed his walk towards Hogsmeade. He deliberately lengthened his stride, seeking to banish the unwanted resonances with the physical activity. Those recollections did not belong to Hermione. They belonged to another woman. Someone he had banished from his life a long time ago. Hermione was not her. Hermione was different. Her promises held meaning. He was sure of that.

And yet....

Enough. What was it the Muggles said? Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof? In other words concentrate on the problems at hand.

And one of those was the disappearance of Draco Malfoy from St Mungo's. Snape remembered the state of the boy when he had last seen him. A broken wreck of a man. From Hermione's account he had been little better when she had last seen him.

He recalled her brief description of his condition - overshadowed as that trip was by her conversation with Harry Potter. Despite the fact the she bore no love whatsoever for the heir to the Malfoy estates, he could see that it had disturbed her that the Ministry were prepared to leave him like that indefinitely when they had the means to cure him.

Snape's lips twitched softly. Not at the fate of Draco Malfoy, but at his lover's horribly impartial Gryffindor sense of justice. There was no sense of insult in that thought now. Someone who knew him very well indeed would, in fact, have been able to discern the amused affection in his controlled face.

There was something of an irony in the fact that he, too, thought that the Ministry had been mistaken in failing to treat Draco. However, he had a more Slytherin reason than considerations of simple humanity.

He had known Lucius Malfoy for a long time. Too long. It did not cross his mind for an instant that anyone other than Lucius had been responsible for the removal of Draco from the hospital. Nor did it even begin to occur to him that his motivation was compassion and concern for his son's welfare. No, it was much more basic than that. The Ministry had something that belonged to Lucius, and he wanted it back.

It should have been obvious to anyone with half a brain, and more then five minutes experience in dealing with the current head of the Malfoy family, that Lucius would retrieve his son sooner rather than later. His face twisted sourly. However, when that particular decision had been made "taking advice from Severus Snape" not been at the top of the Ministry of Magic's To Do lists.

When he had told her about Draco - sometime after they had finished making love - Hermione had simply kissed him and told him that they would face whatever happened and deal with it then. Another Gryffindor reaction. He loved her for it, even as he sometimes despaired of it.

Don't leave me, he had almost said. Almost. But he couldn't demand that. He had not been able to bring himself to go further than to make her promise that she would be careful.

I promise.

Those words again.

Snape was once again faced with the unpleasant sensation that his control on his life was slipping. Scowling, he forced himself to mentally detail the supplies that he needed in Hogsmeade. Anything to distract him from the cocktail of apprehensions that were currently swirling around his head.

Later, he wondered whether, if he had not been trying quite so hard to suppress his unquiet thoughts, if he hadn't been quite so concerned to avoid touching the raw places of his mind, he might have reacted faster, somehow prevented what followed.

As it was, he reached the end of the Hogsmeade path, reminding himself that he needed all three of the various types of newts' eyes. Even though he now taught Defence Against the Dark Arts, he still had a genuine love for Potions. Hermione had understood that without him having to say anything; she had simply made part of her working space available to him whenever he wanted it.

One of the many reasons that he loved her.

The path now ran along by a stand of trees, a mixed cluster of evergreen and deciduous. The latter were now wore their full russet and gold autumn colours, streaking the otherwise dark foliage with seasonal fire. Fallen leaves had been scattered across the path by the winds, and pressed into a slippery mulch by a combination of the rain and passing feet. Maybe it was the fact that he was concentrating on keeping his footing that made him more inattentive than usual. Maybe it was because he was focussed on Hogsmeade and the errands that lay beyond the small iron gate with its simple, entirely unmagical latch, mere yards away at the end of the path. Or maybe it was the fact that, for very nearly the first time in his life, concern for the safety of someone else was occupying more of his thoughts than his own survival.

Whatever it was, he just didn't see them coming. Two of them he thought later, almost certainly a Crabbe and a Goyle. It made little practical difference which generation. A simple choice of charm really. Simple and effective.

As he was picking his way through the half rotten leaves on the path, he heard a rustle from within the trees. He had already half-turned when there was a muffled sound - a man's voice. A reflexive hand was reaching for his wand when the curse hit.

"Stupefy!"

Consciousness returned slowly and piecemeal. Whoever had done this obviously intended to let the effects wear off gradually rather than jerking him back to reality with a simple Enervate. He tried to keep his breathing even as, acting on a rather belatedly functioning survival instinct, he sought what information he could about his surroundings without opening his eyes.

He was warm. That was the first thing. And seated upright, more or less. He was unbound and seemed to be in some kind of armchair. As his senses began to function more accurately he realised that he could hear a fire. A large one by the sound of it. There was a mingled smell of burning pine logs, beeswax polish and warm leather. An all too familiar scent that triggered a rising physical nausea. The sensation of general opulence was finally defined by the gentle crystalline sound of glass meeting glass.

He knew where he was.

Slowly, he opened his eyes to look directly at the elegant white-blonde man in front of him. He was regarding Snape with an intent grey gaze. He was also proffering an exquisitely cut balloon glass with a splash of golden liquid at the bottom of it. There was a snowy white linen napkin folded across the top of the glass.

"You look like you could do with a brandy, old friend," he said solicitously.

"Hello, Lucius," replied Snape, not bothering to hide the distaste in his voice.

He pushed himself up to a more dignified sitting position. The Crabbe and the Goyle - he couldn't help thinking of them in generic terms - had obviously dumped him where he sat and then left. A surreptitious shift of position gave him the chance to confirm what he suspected - his wand had gone. He gave the room a quick look. He recognised it. The library. Floor to ceiling bookshelves only broken on one wall by the French windows framed by deep blue damask curtains. Thick pile carpet, this blue so dark that it was nearly black, muffled the sound. Graceful chandeliers, each individual crystal piece enchanted to bathe the room in shimmering light, providing clear, but somehow restful illumination. He was seated in a comfortable wing backed leather armchair facing the blazing fire. Behind him, he knew, was a large walnut desk, in all probability scattered with documents.

For Snape knew better than most that this was a working library. It housed, if not the most complete collection of works on the Dark Arts, uses and abuses of political power, torture, killing, war, sadism and cruelty, then certainly one of the top three. It was here, many years ago, that Snape had spent hours struggling with the arcane writings of Hester Allworthy. Here that he had regularly met with Lucius and Voldemort - one of the Dark Lord informal meetings - to update them on the progress of his researches. And it was on this splendid carpet that he had writhed under Crucio when the desired results had not been achieved swiftly enough.

He still recalled the look of horror on Lucius' face - not at the sight of someone in pain, of course not - but at the casual collateral damage that the use of the curse had inflicted on his impeccable furnishings.

Not a room with happy memories for him. Somehow, he didn't think that this meeting was going to change that.

Lucius was still holding out the glass of brandy. Stiffly, Snape reached forward and took it. It was gently warmed, as he had known it would be. He lifted the napkin slightly and the aroma of vintage cognac met his nose. Lucius, meanwhile, had taken a seat in the chair opposite and had picked up his own glass. Snape put the napkin on the arm of his chair and sipped the brandy. Excellent, he conceded grudgingly. Lucius still only selected the best.

But, there was no getting away from the fact that, however excellent the brandy, he had been stunned and dumped here against his will. He didn't have the inclination to play along with Lucius in the role of genial host. And part of him was desperately worried for Hermione. It was not at all beyond Malfoy to send his Crabbe and Goyle after her whilst he was here. She should be safe at Hogwarts. She should.

He put his glass down.

"What do you want?" he said abruptly.

"Can't a man have a drink with an old friend without being accused of wanting something, Severus?"

"No. Not when it's you."

"Gracious as ever, I see." Malfoy looked amused.

"As you say," he replied, as ungraciously as he could.

"You'll at least stay for dinner?"

Snape really didn't want to play these games. He fought to shake off the last effects of the hex. He dredged down inside him to reactivate the behaviours instilled in him from long years spying against Voldemort. Actions and reaction that had once been embedded into his personality; now appearing to be dangerously rusty from disuse. Observe. Reason. Think. He had already fallen victim to a simple attack laid by two of the wizarding world's less gifted assailants. He needed not to let that happen again. He looked directly at Malfoy, trying to read what might be lurking behind the man's madness.

I'm sitting in his library being offered vintage cognac and dinner. I'm not bound and I haven't been subjected to any of the Unforgivables. Would he have laced the brandy with Veritaserum?

Snape considered this for a moment. Lucius would probably consider it vulgar to use Veritaserum in the library. Not to mention that he would undoubtedly have served a less distinguished vintage.

Which means that I have something he wants. Badly. Otherwise I would be in the dungeons, strapped to a table, screaming my lungs out.

That might give him an advantage, he reflected. Well, he'd played Lucius Malfoy before. He'd just have to do it again.

He sighed in exaggerated boredom, and crossed his legs feigning an ease that he did not feel.

"Lucius, you know as well as I do that we aren't and never have been friends of any sort. So, I think I'll decline dinner. Pleasant as that would no doubt be. I suggest you tell me what it is you want from me, then I can tell you to fuck off, and we can all go home happy."

That was something of a calculated gamble, but it was close enough to the Snape that Malfoy had known as a Death Eater. Arrogant, slightly superior, underlining the fact that the Snape family had as much claim to lineage and antiquity as the Malfoys. If not the same riches.

Lucius' porcelain skin flushed very lightly, but his composure didn't slip.

"As you say, cousin."

Snape felt his teeth set on edge. He never enjoyed being reminded of that particular relationship. Never mind that it was extremely distant. Their eyes met and for a moment they stared at each other like two cats battling for superiority. After a moment it occurred to Snape that he was still a prisoner, albeit in very silken bonds. It might be politic to let Malfoy win this round. He blinked and looked away first. The slight change in Malfoy's body posture told him that it had been a good decision.

In a leisurely manner, Malfoy reached for the decanter by his elbow and poured another measure of spirit. He raised the glass to his mouth and sipped, deliberately prolonging the moment of triumph. Snape held himself still. He'd been party to the Malfoy posturing often enough to conceal his inward contempt. Finally, Lucius was ready to speak.

"It's about my son."

Snape carefully did not change his attitude by a hair's breadth. He simply raised an eyebrow.

"I thought it might be."

"You heard that he has been discharged from St Mungo's to my care."

Snape chose to let that particular revision of history pass without comment. If nothing else it confirmed that Draco was currently in the custody of his father. Whether or not it would count as care depended very strongly on your definition of that word.

"I heard that he was no longer at the hospital, certainly."

Lucius nodded, swirling the brandy around the bottom of his glass.

"His condition is - unchanged." Snape waited. "My personal physician has made little progress in treating his illness." There was another pause. "The situation troubles me."

Snape shrugged. His lack of concern over the fate of Draco Malfoy was only slightly exaggerated.

"I never had much confidence in Wilkes," he remarked indifferently. "You are still using him, I assume."

Lucius inclined his head.

"All very upsetting for you, I'm sure, but I fail to see where I can be of any assistance. Even if I so desired." Snape was still aiming for the high-handed approach. Lucius would perceive any hint of a character shift as weakness.

"Modesty, Severus?" The cultured voice was amused. "Not a quality I recall you possessing in any great quantity."

Snape didn't answer. Lucius stood, and walked easily towards one of the bookshelves, scanning along the titles with absent interest. After a while he spoke again.

"You and I have known each other a long time, cousin." Snape tried not to react to the word again. Malfoy turned to face him suddenly. "Yes, cousin. For how ever much you try to ignore it, you and I are of the same ilk."

"I think not." Snape couldn't let that one pass.

"No? Are we not both driven by duty? By our obligation to our blood to improve and purify?"

"My blood and I parted company some years ago. Any obligation on either side has long since ceased." He chose not to address any question of purification.

The blonde man simply smiled. "As you say, Severus." Snape was aware that his heart was beating faster. He needed to move this on.

"Get to the point, Lucius," he snapped.

"I am at the point, cousin. You despise me for what I have become in your eyes. I despise you for compromising your background to become Albus Dumbledore's pet project - the redeemed Death Eater. But the fact remains that we understand each other."

Snape didn't reply. Not least because there was some particle of truth in the other man's words. He had an uncomfortably clear understanding of Lucius Malfoy's motivation.

"So?" he said eventually.

"So," was the answer, "we come to Draco." Another reflective swirl of the brandy glass. "I won't insult your intelligence, or waste my time, with an impassioned plea from a grieving father. The boy has been a frank disappointment to me. Vicious enough I grant you, with commendable tastes and a surprising degree of imagination, but not really the sort of quality one would look for in an heir. This was even before his recent - mishap." He strolled casually back to the table and splashed some more of the gold liquid into the glass. "If I had another child, even a girl, I would simply euthanase the wretched child and be rid of him. Unfortunately, he is the only one, so that course of action is not open to me. You see my difficulty?"

Even Snape felt a slight sick sensation at the sound of Lucius calmly consigning his son to the category of failed genetic stock. He took a deep breath and sought to clear his voice of any emotion.

"Undesirable though it is, Draco is the only heir to the Malfoy line. And you would prefer that heir to be rather more compos mentis than he currently is?"

Lucius smiled happily.

"Precisely. You see, I knew you would understand."

"I understand." Snape's voice was filled with disdain. "But I fail to see how this concerns me." Which was not, strictly speaking, true. He was beginning to have a nasty insight into what it was that he was doing here. He once more pushed down his fear for Hermione. "Is there nothing else that can be done?" He shrugged again. "If the boy is simply an idiot, but otherwise fully functional...." He let the distasteful implication hang in mid-air. It felt rather like discussing the unfortunate performance of a prize bull.

Lucius was shaking his head sadly.

"It would be so convenient if we could simply have arranged for Draco to conceive an heir, and missed a generation. However, no form of stimulation - natural or artificial - has produced a response." He sighed. "Very disappointing. I think it must be his mother's blood." He interrupted his strolling to lean on the back of an armchair facing Snape. "Which brings me to you."

Snape waited again.

"I paid a visit to St Mungo's a week or ago, and had a nice long talk with Dr Affpuddle. Did you know he's very keen on roses?" Snape simply watched. They were getting to the crux of it now. "He was very informative about his roses, but less so about other things. He was particularly unhelpful as regards a cure for a certain Auror. An Auror who suffered from a similar complaint to poor dear Draco." Lucius smiled. There was no trace of the urbane gentleman. He radiated pure malice. Snape paid very close attention. "I'm sure you know what I am talking about."

Denial would serve no useful purpose.

"Yes," he said curtly.

Lucius strode over to Snape's chair, standing over him so that Snape had to lean back to see his face.

"I want that potion."

Snape sought to match Lucius' tone, despite his position of vulnerability, despite that fact that Malfoy was so close that he could barely breathe.

"Not possible."

Lucius straightened.

"That's not the right answer, cousin."

Snape tried to let his breath out evenly.

"Right or wrong, cousin, it's the only one I have for you. The potion that I made," - keep her out of it as long as possible - "for the Auror was the only batch. There is no more."

"Make some." Clear demand.

"Not possible," he repeated flatly.

"Cousin, you begin to try my patience."

Snape gritted his teeth.

"The potion contained a particular ingredient necessary for its operation. We have no more supply of it, and it cannot be obtained. I simply do not have it within my power to make more of it. And no amount of threatened, or even actual, torture will change that." He watched a muscle in Malfoy's face working. This was dangerous. Very dangerous. He knew that. Even that small indication showed that Lucius Malfoy was very, very angry. It was more than likely that actual torture would follow, just for the sheer joy of it. But if it kept Lucius away from Hermione, so much the better.

"I see." The voice was calm now, and the muscle almost still. "I can't say I expected anything else from you. I suppose that's it then really." Snape waited for the next move. "I wonder if I'll have any better luck with your girlfriend."

He fought not to react.

"Girlfriend?" He even managed to raise an eyebrow.

Lucius chuckled.

"Yes, girlfriend. What a sweet thought. Severus Snape in love. Who could have imagined it, eh?" Even, Severus. Keep your breathing even. Give him no indication how close to the mark he is. "I gather from the good doctor that it was she who brewed the potion in any event. Must have been a bit of blow to you, cousin. Being bested by a Mudblood." Even, keep it even. "Perhaps she can help me."

He forced himself to shrug, with as close to an approximation of nonchalance as possible.

"Perhaps, but I doubt it. She can no more replicate the missing ingredient that I can. And somehow, I doubt she'd be to your taste as a bed partner." Forgive me, dearest heart. I need to derail his train of thought.

Malfoy's nose wrinkled.

"Certainly, not twice," he conceded.

Not even once, I swear.

He carefully didn't react, just twitched a shoulder again. Malfoy looked at him consideringly and then pulled out his wand. Snape couldn't prevent a tiny flinch as he braced himself for a curse to hit him. Malfoy laughed again.

"Ah, Severus, no need to be so jumpy. I simply want to show you something."

He pointed at the library door and murmured the words that would release the wards. Then he gestured with his wand. Snape managed not to outwardly react this time. Instead he rose to his feet. His limbs felt heavy and stiff, but not actually painful. He was aware of wanting a glass of water but that could wait. Malfoy was already at the door, clearly expecting him to follow. With as unhurried a pace as he could muster, he headed for the exit.

The surroundings outside the library were familiar to Snape at first. He knew at least certain parts of Malfoy's family seat reasonably well. The public areas, some of the family areas, the library of course... and the dungeons - an elaborate complex of rooms where Malfoy conducted his other business. Once it would have been the business of Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Now it was whatever destructive, manipulative endeavour Lucius was currently engaged in to increase his power base. The corridors were impeccable, décor immaculate, curtains, carpets, pictures, all selected to enfold the visitor in a cocoon of utmost good taste. Snape could feel the portraits glaring at him, unspoken displeasure at his untidy hair and crumpled robes. He had a sense that only his bloodline was silencing an outcry at his presence, a black spot marring the perfection. A familiar feeling of oppression stole over him. He pushed it back, to crowd with all the other uncomfortable sensations that he had no time to deal with.

Malfoy led him up the main staircase and then, abruptly, took a turning that Snape didn't recall. Another turning had them heading towards a dead end and a plain polished wooden door. Lucius placed his hand on the door and murmured a word too quietly for Snape to hear. The door swung open.

This was a room that Snape had never been in before. It was light, airy and comfortable and for a brief moment he thought that it was another library. That he registered that the shelves lining the rooms did not have books on them, but stone bowls of varying sizes.

Pensieves

He was standing in a room full of Pensieves.

"Welcome to my favourite little hideaway." Lucius uttered the words with the air of a child sharing its den. "This is where I come to ease my mind and soothe my soul." He chuckled softly, as if at the extravagance of the image. Snape could feel tendrils of dread begin to weave themselves into his mind. Lucius lit the fire. It did nothing to alleviate his inner chill. Lucius turned to him, and there was no hint of laughter in his face or voice.

"I could, I suppose, bring your Mudblood here and have some fun with her." NO! "But, just at the moment, she's more use to me with her mind intact. And, regrettably, so are you. So this is what I have in mind. I am going to let you go back to Hogwarts. Wand in hand, and as - undamaged - as you currently are. Once you get back to Hogwarts, you are going to make me a cure for my son."

Snape opened his mouth, but Malfoy cut him off.

"Yes, yes, I know what you say about the secret ingredient. But that isn't really my concern is it? Find some more. Find a substitute. I don't really care. What I want is something that will cure Draco. How you achieve that is up to you."

Snape closed his mouth again. Maybe it was time to concentrate on getting out and then dealing with the rest later.

"All right," he said carefully.

Malfoy smiled thinly.

"I knew you'd see it my way, eventually. But your word isn't really good enough is it? Not under the circumstances. You have a history of betrayal, cousin. I think I need a guarantee of your good behaviour."

He knew he was scowling. He couldn't help it. He had experience of Lucius' idea of a guarantee.

"I'd like to be able to keep your Mudblood, but I suspect that you'll need her to make my cure." Snape tried to keep his relief hidden. He could deal with just about anything else. "No, I brought you here to show you these." Malfoy gestured at the shelves.

He walked over to one stack, surveying them in the same way that he had contemplated his books earlier. Finally, he selected one and carried it over to Snape.

"Do take a look," he invited.

Snape reluctantly leant over the bowl. As he looked the swirling liquid became clear and he had the sensation of viewing everything through a skylight. He was above a dungeon - one of Malfoy's he assumed. There was a man chained, naked to a wall. In the middle of the room was a table and a single chair. Next to the table were two trolleys. One had knives laid out on them, the other had a range of bottles. There were four men in the room that Snape could see. He realised, with a lurch, that one of the men was Lucius Malfoy. And one of them was himself. His mouth went dry. At a signal the other two men released the prisoner and dragged him to the table. They pulled him up on to the table, one securing his torso and the other his legs. The Lucius figure carefully selected a knife from the trolley. The Snape figure gestured at the figure on the table....

Abruptly, Snape pulled himself upright before he could fall into the memory any further. He remembered this incident. Vividly. Nausea flooded him and he swallowed the bile that had risen into his mouth.

He turned to glare at Malfoy. The other man returned his look with equanimity.

"One of my favourites," he said serenely. "I've always thought that you were inspired that night. I still remember it as a rare moment of utter perfection."

"Very... entertaining," Snape managed. "I still don't see what this has to do with me."

"No? Well, I was simply thinking about your little Mudblood. I'm sure she knows about your dark past - women seem to find that sort of thing terribly romantic for some reason. But I have to wonder how much of the actual details she knows." Snape was silent for a fraction too long. Lucius smiled in triumph. "I thought as much. You haven't told her anything have you? Or at least nothing that matters."

"Get to the point," Snape said again, trying for boredom in his tone.

Malfoy's smile was now unpleasantly feral.

"Good. Very good, cousin. I see how you managed to fool the Dark Lord all those years. But you don't fool me I'm afraid. Let me spell it out for you. You will find me a cure for my son. If you don't then your little Mudblood will be receiving some direct evidence of exactly what her beloved did in the war. Do you understand me?"

Unable to trust himself to speak, Snape simply nodded.

"Good," Malfoy said again. He gestured at the shelves. "And there are so many moments to choose from, aren't there?"

**********

Saturday afternoon found Hermione escaping her rooms to curl up with a book in front of Snape's fireplace. Despite the rather sparse furnishings, she found the environment peaceful. There was a calmness to the room that she enjoyed. Not to mention that she was only really likely to be disturbed by Dumbledore. The other staff were still skating nervously around the topic of her dramatically altered relationship with Snape. And she was fairly certain that none of her students would think to look for her down here.

It helped her forget the fact that she was still upset after her meeting with Ron Weasley the previous week. She knew, intellectually, that this was his problem, not hers. She told herself this repeatedly, just as she had after her argument with Harry. None of which helped her inner feeling that she was, in some way, being held responsible for the situation. That it was somehow down to her to sort it all out for them.

Just like school all over again.

It also helped to still her nagging unease at the thought of Draco Malfoy on the loose again. Snape had told her quietly and unemotionally, holding her close against him in the darkness, absently caressing her arm with the ball of his thumb; reassuring her that there was nothing to worry about, but that repetitive movement had betrayed his concern. She had kissed him then, slowly, searchingly, and whispered that they would face whatever it was together and deal with it. The caress had stopped then and his arms had tightened around her. And then his voice, shockingly intense, even for him, had made her promise to be careful, satisfied with nothing less than the words said explicitly.

For a moment, she had thought that he had been about to say something else.

Now, at least, she could take comfort from his place, if not his presence. She had lit the fire and found herself an article on the uses of bat's blood as a buffer substance, analysed by type of bat. She loved the chance to delve into his library uninterrupted by amused commentary from its owner. She also relished the opportunity to investigate his taste in music. Her first memory of their re-encounter was his immobile figure, seated behind his desk, an extension of the shadowed room surrounded by the lyrical purity of Johann Sebastian Bach.

As she got to know the man she thought how very much Bach suited him. So much fire contained within the precise structure. So much incredibly controlled passion. She closed her eyes briefly, letting the subtle complexities of the Brandenburg Concerti drift over her, stroking her nerves in all the right directions.

Somewhere within her robes a very happy Sphinx was nestling, purring loudly and leaving small, sweaty, dusty marks. Unusually, Crookshanks had deserted both feline and human companion. Hermione rather hoped that he was out victimising Mrs Norris. Filch was no more pleasant a person to her now than he had ever been. She was privately more than a little relieved that he could no longer give her detention.

The sound of the door opening intruded into her thoughts but she didn't open her eyes. There was no greeting. That didn't altogether surprise her either. She knew that he had been absent in Hogsmeade, and assumed that he had been expending some considerable effort in avoiding his students. His distaste for them did not seem to have appreciably lessened over the years, and she was rather anticipating a bad mood of some sort.

"Hello, Severus," she said without looking up. "Good trip?"

"What?" came the demand.

She blinked a little. She had been expecting him to be a little stressed, but she was startled to hear him sounding so edgy and defensive. She put down her book and twisted around so she could see him. He looked pale and drawn in a way that she hadn't seen for a while. It sparked a nasty flash of memory.

"Good trip?" she repeated. "Into Hogsmeade?"

He just looked at her. There was something in his eyes... an intensity overlain by fear. It reminded her of how he had looked at her in the very early stages of their relationship. When he was still convinced that she would just walk away from him without warning. Truly concerned now, she eased Sphinx off her lap and stood up. The little cat had also caught wind of something for she didn't protest as she would normally have done - just settled herself back onto the chair, ears alert.

"Are you all right," she asked when he didn't reply, concern beginning to show in her voice.

Abruptly, he moved and the look in his eyes vanished to be replaced by something equally intense.

"Yes, I'm all right," he answered with a smile. She tried to decide whether or not it was ever so slightly forced. In the meantime, he had walked past her to put his purchases on the large table. "Hogsmeade was crawling with third years enjoying their first taste of freedom. Naturally, the streets around Zonko's and Honeydukes were completely impassable."

Despite her lurking worry, Hermione felt her lips twitch in response.

"I remember."

"Not to mention the insufferable experience of thirteen year olds after their first taste of Butterbeer."

"I remember that as well. I liked it when I was thirteen."

"I am relieved that you had the good taste to grow out of it."

"Thank you." The riposte still seemed strained, almost automatic. Could this really be just the result of a close brush with over-exuberant pupils? He had his back to her, so she couldn't see his face. It felt deliberate. She moved up behind him, hoping to get a clearer sense of what was troubling him. "I seem to remember that I disliked you when I was thirteen." Gently teasing.

"And I disliked you when you were thirteen as well, so that makes us equal, I believe." That was better, more natural.

She laughed softly.

"Aren't you relieved that I had the good taste to grow out of that as well?"

"What? Being thirteen? Infinitely relieved, I assure you."

His fencing was almost back to normal. She placed her hand just above the small of his back as she looked round him at what he had bought. She noted, with a faint sense of unease, that he was tense. More than usual. Even now, even with her, Snape could not be truly described as a relaxed individual. Maybe it was just a fraught trip to Hogsmeade. If it was anything else, he didn't seem to be about to tell her about it any time soon. Deciding that this was not the time to press the point, she continued to tease him.

"So, did you get anything nice? Did you get me a present?"

He looked at her then and she could see nothing amiss in his face.

"Of course," he said with faint acid, nodding at the table. "You may take your pick. Would you like a set of eyes from the Crested Newt, the Red Spotted Newt or the Dwarf Two-Lined Salamander?"

She pretended to consider.

"Well, I expect I could do with extras of all of those for my classes."

"Then get Albus to authorise you to order some then," he said, gathering them up unsympathetically. "I have no intention of allowing you to deplete my personal supplies simply so that they can be cast into the intellectual wasteland of the average teenage mind."

She couldn't suppress a real laugh at the disgust in his tone. He turned to glare at her.

"Miss Granger, might I remind you that I am not to be regarded as a figure of fun in this school."

The gleam in his eye belied his frosty tone. She loved the way his eyes gave the lie to his voice. So few people ever really looked at him, she decided. Not even the ones who were supposed to know him. They simply saw the forbidding exterior and accepted it.

As Harry and Ron had.

She felt a pang again at the thought. Gently, she reached up to touch his cheek.

"Not a figure of fun, love. Never that." Serious, this time.

He caught her hand, and dropped a soft kiss into the palm.

"Let me put these away," he said quietly. "I didn't brave Hogsmeade on an exeat weekend simply to have them dissolve into jelly on the table." There was no sting behind the words. Letting her hand drop, he picked up the packages and disappeared towards the room that was still his private store, even though it was now within her domain.

She watched him leave, still feeling vaguely troubled. It was nothing that she could put her finger on specifically - just an instinct. His slight air of being off-balance. The strain that was momentarily visible on his face. Then again, maybe she was reading too much into something that was nothing more than a stressful trip to Hogsmeade. Shopping never was one of his favourite pastimes.

Perhaps it was just the newness of their situation, after all. That, and the current uncertainty surrounding Draco.

She returned to her chair by the fire, picking up her book and leafing idly through the tables at the end of the article. She noted that blood from the Pipistrelle Bat seemed to be one of the most effective, but difficult to obtain in the required quantities. Due to considerations of size, she assumed. A closing door told her that Snape had finished storing his ingredients, but she was absorbed in her reading again, the strains of Bach threading around the room.

She finished the article and looked up to find Snape, now cradling a mug of something in his hand, and watching her intently. She met his gaze without saying anything. His black eyes were unreadable and his face was impassive. Although he prowled his classroom like an angry panther, in private he was a still man. But there was something taut about this stillness. It reawakened her sense that something was not right.

A pot by the fire told her that he had made tea without her being aware of it.

"Is the tea still drinkable?" she asked inconsequentially. She doubted that a direct question would get any kind of information out of him.

"It depends if you like three quarter hour old tea," was the response. Fairly unremarkable for him. Yet it suggested that he had been watching her for forty-five minutes. She found that... far from distasteful... but disconcerting, nevertheless.

"I think I'll make some fresh," she murmured, putting down her book and gesturing at the teapot with her wand. Moments later, a fresh pot stood on the hearth. She uncurled herself from the chair to pour a mug. She raised an eyebrow at Snape, who held out his own mug to her. It was still two-thirds full of now cold liquid. It was definitely unlike him to let his tea go cold. She didn't comment, but simply charmed away the cold tea and refilled the mug. She was now convinced that there was something that he was not telling her.

She was not bothered that he might be keeping secrets from her in general. There was plenty about his life that she didn't know. But in the past, when Snape had failed to tell her things it has been because he was trying to protect her. If he was trying to protect her then it meant that he thought that she might be in danger. If she was in danger, then it was probably something that she needed to know about.

Settling herself back in the chair, she studied the top of her tea intently, as if she had developed a sudden interest in Divination. Perhaps an oblique approach would be the best.

"I assume you're going to be out tomorrow afternoon, supporting Slytherin?" The first Quidditch match of the season. Slytherin against Ravenclaw.

"Of course. I assume you won't be?"

She turned up to support Gryffindor, but otherwise she could take or leave Quidditch.

"I think not." Although Snape and Draco were uppermost in her thoughts at the moment, she was still feeling a raw from her encounter with Ron. Her birthday present from him had been a scarf, and Quidditch pennant. Both in Gryffindor colours. "Quidditch isn't really my favourite game at the moment."

The last sentence was said with more sharpness that she really intended. She bit her lip in annoyance. Perhaps Snape would be too preoccupied to notice anything.

"I presume that this has something to do with Mr Weasley?"

A vain hope, obviously. She sighed feeling tension begin to pull across the bridge of her nose.

"I always associate Quidditch with Ron and Harry. And Viktor." Now why had she added him? That was years ago. Get away from this subject now, Hermione my girl. "I think that maybe I should adopt the game as a symbol of how I manage to screw up my personal relationships." She tried for a humorous tone, lightly self-mocking, a joke at herself. She thought, on the whole, that she managed it quite well.

Snape, however, was silent for a long time.

"The fault," he said eventually, "does not lie with you. It lies with those who find it more convenient for you to be what they wish you to be, rather than who you truly are." Hermione felt her throat tighten. He continued, "It is one reason why I continue to dislike Messrs. Potter and Weasley."

A cutting remark, even in jest, would have firmed her up, enabled her to turn the whole thing off with a laugh. But the unexpected, unquestioning support prompted the barely buried pain to resurface.

"I just have this feeling that this is all my fault," she said rather helplessly. "That they blame me and that they expect me to be the one to do something to make it right again."

"You mentioned that Weasley said they were worried about you?" A soft enquiry.

This time his stillness and the music made it easier to talk than if he had embraced her. She struggled to put words to the irrationality that she knew she should be appreciative of Ron's concern, but instead it just made her furious.

"I know it sounds ungrateful, but I don't want them to be worried about me. It's as if... I feel...," she trailed off searching for the words. Snape was simply silent. "As if... it's an imposition on them. That they're annoyed with me for doing this because they now have to be worried about me. That it's my own fault that they're angry with me, because I was thoughtless enough to get involved with you. And that I owe it to them to end it, so they can stop being worried about me and get on with more important things."

She was uncomfortably aware that she was beginning to sound petulant. Snape, however, made no comment, just letting her speak.

"I really think," she whispered, "that they expect me to break this off, just because they don't like it."

That was it. That was the root of her annoyance. The expectation that she would go along with what was most convenient for Ron and Harry. At the expense of her own life. Not to mention happiness.

"I thought they were my friends. I thought that they would see that I was happy, and at least try to accept that." She bit her lip again, and rested her head on one hand, trying to control the tears that threatened, avoiding looking at Snape. She was well aware of his opinion of weeping females. He was expressive enough on the subject after classes. A part of her mind was aware of the rustle of robes; Snape standing up.

"I'm sorry," she said, making one last attempt at self-control. "I suppose I should go back to my own rooms if I'm going to have a fit of hysterics." She sniffed indecorously. "It's not really a spectator sport."

Then, she felt a weight settle on the arm of her chair. He had perched beside her, as she often did to him. To the extreme detriment of the furniture, as he usually told her. This time, however, he seemed unconcerned about the fate of his furniture. She felt his arm circle her shoulders, turning her, and pulling her towards the fabric of his robes.

"Stay," he said simply.

She was overwhelmed by the cypress and musk smell of the cloth. Like a child, she buried her head in his lap, her shoulders shaking.

It was more a release of tension than a true fit of hysterics. There were surprisingly few tears. She just realised how much she needed comfort. The warmth of his embrace and the rhythm of his hand softly stroking her hair gave her the space to regain her composure. That, and the knowledge that at least one other person didn't think that she was to blame for what had happened. She calmed fairly quickly, but lay in his arms for a long time, until well after all six of the Brandenburg Concerti had finished and the room was silent, apart from the noises of the fire. Eventually, she turned her head so that she could speak clearly.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "This must be your idea of hell. A trip to Hogsmeade with the third years, and then coming back for me to snivel all over you."

His hand tightened, where it had come to rest on her shoulder.

"If I recall correctly, you once lectured me about accepting help and support from others. You should consider taking your own advice." His voice was gentle. "Although I will concede," he added, "that a trip to Hogsmeade with the third years is certainly one element in my idea of hell."

Hermione felt a giggle surface, and her shoulders shook briefly again.

"Thank you," she said after a moment. "For being on my side."

"Why would I not be on your side?" He sounded genuinely puzzled.

"I don't know. I know you've never liked Harry and Ron. I suppose I thought that if I said anything to you, you would tell me that it was the consequence of my decision and I would just have to live with it and there was no point in being upset about it."

"Well," he said, sounding careful again, "it does seem to be the consequence of your decision, and you may well end up having to live with it. And, regrettably, your becoming upset does not seem to markedly increase the likelihood of Potter and Weasley behaving like reasonable human beings." He paused. "However, that does not mean to say that I wish to see you suffer pain because of it. Nor that I would not do anything within my power to lessen that pain. I... apologise... if my... less than comforting demeanour has given you cause to think otherwise."

The formality of the last words betrayed the depth of his feelings as clearly as any impassioned declaration. She reached up to catch one of his hands.

"I never thought you wanted to see me hurt," she murmured, "I just didn't want you to think that I was acting like a child."

"I stopped seeing you as a child some while ago, I'm happy to say."

There was a hint of acid back in his voice now. Hermione smiled and closed her eyes.

"So am I."

They sat in silence again for a long time. As she lay, cradled by him, she idly turned over the various thoughts in her mind. The pain of Harry and Ron having been soothed for the moment, she began to consider Draco, and Snape's behaviour that afternoon. Now completely calm, she decided that Snape was definitely keeping something from her. Without opening her eyes she spoke.

"Severus. Whatever it is that you're not telling me... it isn't something that I'm going to need to know about is it?"

He started under her head.

"I'm not...," he began and then stopped. "No," he said eventually. "It's nothing that you need to know about."

His voice sounded a little closed.

"You will tell me if I ever do need to know, won't you?"

"Yes."

That looked to be about the best she was going to get. At least he hadn't denied it.

"Good," she said softly, squeezing his hand.

**********

Sunday afternoon after the Quidditch match found Severus Snape trying to make sense of the recently rearranged Potions store cupboard. He resisted the temptation to swear out loud, contenting himself with simple dark mutterings under his breath. The fact that he was well aware that this was no longer his province, and that Hermione had a perfect right, if not obligation, to organise her work space as was most convenient for her - this knowledge did not do a single thing to alleviate his rising sense of frustration that he could no longer confidently, automatically, put his hand to any particular ingredient that he should desire.

There was nothing wrong with my system, he thought testily. She could easily have carried it on. She didn't appear to have any trouble with it when we were working on the cure for that Auror....

Stop it, Severus. You're behaving as badly as Potter and Weasley.

He stopped, stood upright and drew several deep breaths, running his hand through his hair.

He just had to face it. This was no longer his corner of the world. And, happy as he was to be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, he was finding it more than a little difficult to let go of his Potions. It wasn't that he was an intruder here - far from it. But this room had been his personal kingdom for so long that it felt... disconcerting... to be here as the guest of another. A welcome guest - but, nonetheless, a guest. The rearrangement of what had once been his storerooms simply reinforced the fact that Hermione had taken over here.

It was curious, he reflected. It was not altogether surprising that a man who had been alone for so long should find it hard to share his personal space with someone else. He had never thought that he would be so possessive about his professional space as well. And yet his new unfamiliarity with the Potions Room rankled. Not helped by the fact that he knew that his whole purpose for being there was a betrayal of her trust in him.

He bit back another curse, this time directed at himself. This was not about Hermione, or the organisation of the potions ingredients. He was well aware of that. It was about the fact that he was about to attempt to recreate Hester Allworthy's potion without telling her.

He had not precisely lied to her - he had just not told her everything. And he was well aware that, should she ever find out about it, she would be less than impressed. Yet, what he had said the previous afternoon had been right, Providing that he could somehow extricate himself from the Devil's bargain he had been forced to make with Lucius Malfoy - a fairly big providing - there was no need for her ever to know about this.

There was no way that he could contemplate telling her the full story. He remembered her words only too well.

You don't know what sort of a man I am. What I did....

No. I don't. Not fully. I don't imagine I ever will. But I know that you were a Death Eater, and I'm perfectly prepared to accept that you did things that I would consider repellent.

Did that extend to being perfectly prepared to receive direct evidence in the form of a Pensieve? There was a distinct difference between accepting it as a general proposition and watching him maim and torture specific innocent people? How would she be able to touch him again after seeing that? How would she be able to even look at him? He had a nasty suspicion that he knew what the answers to those questions would be.

Maybe, she would accept it. Maybe, she would just put her arms around him and tell him that it would be all right. And then again, maybe she would look at him in disgust and turn away. Maybe Potter and Weasley would get their wish in the end, courtesy of Lucius Malfoy.

And he knew, deep down, with sharp, contemptuous insight, that he would never bring himself to take the risk of telling her. That if she were, inevitably, going to leave him, then he would do anything to put that moment off for as long as possible. Even if that meant that he had to surreptitiously retrieve her old notes on the potion from her working papers without telling her. Even if it meant that he was now raiding her storecupboard, and preparing to recreate an elixir that had brought her nothing but pain.

You really haven't changed have you, Severus? Not in any way that truly matters.

The self-loathing had the same acrid taste in his mouth, and was too familiar to dissuade from his course of action. Finding the last of the ingredients, he headed into the work room to begin brewing the carrier potion.

It gave Snape an odd sense of déjà vu to find himself, once again, using the familiar actions of potion making to reconcile his conscience to his conduct. His mood recalled other times, nights, when he had given his hands and his mind an occupation to distract from the pain in his soul. Or what passed for his soul, at any rate. Immersed in the rhythm of his work, he did not look up when the door opened behind him. There were only two people who would walk into the room without knocking - Hermione and Dumbledore. He could afford to give neither any cause to suspect that this was anything other than a private project. It was just as well that the finished carrier was colourless - it could be disguised as any number of things.

The door closed and he was aware of footsteps. They halted, but there was no greeting. Usually Hermione or Albus would have said something by now. A cold chill prickled at the back of his neck.

Surely not so soon. It was barely twenty-four hours since he had left Malfoy.

Slowly, trying to appear unhurried, he turned to face his visitor.

It was not the person that he wanted to see least in the world at that moment. But it was certainly among the top five.

Standing a few feet inside the classroom, unruly black hair falling over his forehead, and exuding unconcealed hostility, was Harry Potter.

Instinctively, Snape pulled together his familiar professorial persona. He didn't bother to try to disguise the sneer that he could feel settling over his features.

"Mr Potter," he remarked acidly. "To what do I owe the privilege of your company." He didn't even have to work at the sarcasm. The memory of Hermione's shaking distress was still acute.

"I was looking for Professor Granger." The emphasis on her full title was, no doubt, deliberate.

"As will no doubt be obvious to one with the highly trained observational skills of an Auror, Hermione is not here." He didn't stress the use of her given name, but Harry's face darkened and his body tensed anyway.

"Where is she?" came the peremptory demand.

Snape raised an eyebrow delicately.

"I would imagine that she is in her rooms, preparing for tomorrow's lessons." He gestured at the empty classroom. "However, do please feel free to check the cupboards, if you fear she is locked away somewhere here."

The green eyes radiated contempt.

"I suppose you think that you're funny."

Snape shrugged.

"I've never really considered the matter. Now, if you have satisfied yourself that Professor Granger is not here, I suggest you take up your search elsewhere. I have work to do."

The assumption of his teaching persona seemed to lend itself to the mimicry of Harry's use of Hermione's full name. In fact, he fully expected Harry to leave at that point. However, it didn't appear that he was about to. The younger man crossed his arms and looked at his former potions teacher, and then rather deliberately looked around the classroom.

"I thought that you were teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts," he said nastily.

"I am."

"Then what are you doing here? Checking up on Hermione? Don't you trust her to do her job without your interference?"

Snape sighed. An afternoon with Lucius Malfoy, followed by a confrontation with Harry Potter. A perfect weekend. For a moment he was tempted just to tell the ill-mannered brat to get out. However, he doubted that that would assist any possible rapprochement between Harry and Hermione. For her sake, he bit off his first impulse and tried another tack.

"You may be surprised to learn, Mr Potter, that I actually possess a genuine interest in the subject of Potions. When I am not trying to drum it into the heads of the terminally stupid, that is. Insofar as it concerns you, this is a private project of my own, and has nothing whatsoever to do with Hermione's teaching."

Harry nodded, and strolled down the classroom. Snape noted that the boy was taller than he remembered, and more controlled. He had the air of someone who had seen and experienced enough to be dangerous. Harry was approaching him now, with studied nonchalance.

"So," he said quietly, "Defence Against the Dark Arts and a chance to keep your hand in with Potions. What a lucky thing for you."

Snape was suddenly tired of the fencing. If he had to have this argument with Harry Potter, so be it. He just wanted to get it over with.

"Mr Potter," he said sharply, "I assume that this pussyfooting around has something to do with my relationship with Hermione. If you have something specific to say, then say it. Otherwise, I have other things to do."

Any faint hope that a direct challenge would cause Harry to back off, was dashed when the other man simply nodded.

"Very well. Your relationship with Hermione is frankly disgusting. You're cruel and callous and old enough to be her father and you've done Hell knows what in the past. No doubt she felt sorry for whatever predicament you found yourself in, and took up your cause. She may be too kind-hearted to see you as you really are, but I'm certainly not. You don't fool me, Snape, and you never will."

Snape was torn between anger at the boy's dismissal of Hermione's feelings and his own hovering fear that much of what he said was true. Both parts made him icy.

"Do I gather that your penetrating insight is also shared by Mr Weasley?"

"Yes." Distaste clear in his tone.

"And do I also gather that neither of you allow for the possibility that Hermione might have opinions or judgement of her own?"

"Hermione is too honourable a person to back away from something once she's committed herself to it."

How odd. An opinion about Hermione that he would also agree with.

"So," Snape said musingly, "you and Weasley have concluded, that she simply felt sorry for me in my predicament, as you put it, and was... what... carried away in the moment? Now, we are back in reality, and she doesn't know how to extricate herself from my clutches, or is simply too nice to do so. Am I close?"

"That's about how we see it."

Snape began to feel genuine rising anger at the young man standing in front of him. An anger that had nothing to do with James Potter or the Shrieking Shack or even his conviction of his own invulnerability at school. This was an anger that had everything to do with a woman that he loved, crying because she thought her friends had deserted her, afraid of being thought a child, knowing the truth of what they had done and doubting her own perception of it.

He nodded.

"And, of course, if that were the case," he said very slowly, almost conversationally, "then failing to contact her for over seven months would be the obvious way for her friends to show her that they are there to support her in her plight."

Harry's face was thunderstruck.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, disbelievingly. "Are you suggesting that we had anything to do with this... this...."

"What I am suggesting, Mr Potter," he was aware of the anger creeping into his voice now, "is that, whilst you are enjoying the view from the moral high ground, you might consider the fact that if your theory is correct, then you have left someone that you claim to care for in a situation of deep unhappiness, and made no attempt whatsoever to offer help or support."

"Hermione made it perfectly clear that she neither wanted nor desired our ... help and support... as you put it." Harry's voice was cold.

"Really. You seem to respect Hermione's wishes on a very selective basis, Mr Potter. You find it inconceivable that she could choose to be with me, to the point of suggesting coercion. Yet you abandon her to that situation. A novel concept of friendship, if I may say so."

"How could she choose to be with you? You've always hated us. Even at school...."

His voice was almost plaintive. If the stakes weren't so high, Snape could have almost have laughed. As it was he was simply appalled.

"Gods, boy, do you think that I have done nothing in the eight years since you left, but think about you? I can promise that whatever is between Hermione and myself has absolutely nothing to do with you. Or anything that happened at school."

Somewhere along the line Snape had lost his professional façade. Somewhere about the time that he realised how self-absorbed the boy before him had become, and how little he or Weasley truly understood Hermione.

"Hermione is my friend," repeated Harry stubbornly. "I don't want to see her hurt."

"As you say, Mr Potter," he replied, evenly. "And neither do I."

"Given that you are persisting in this affair with her, I find that hard to believe."

Snape gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to punch the other man.

"Mr Potter," he said, carefully. "Hard as you may find this to believe, I care about Hermione"... he wasn't going to use the word love - not in front of this... idiot... "she has more depth, more... brilliance..." he paused, trying to order his thoughts, hating that he had to explain himself to... to.... "She is a far more extraordinary person than you or Weasley ever appreciated." He saw the sceptical look pass over Harry's face, and his fury spiked again. "Do you have any idea," he bit off suddenly, "just how upset she has been by the fact that you and Weasley have chosen to ignore her for over six months? Do you know how distressed she has been because she thought she had lost her friends?"

Harry was silent for a moment and he pressed on.

"I can tell you this. Whatever... dislike... I feel for you now, stems entirely from your recent unpardonable behaviour towards someone whom you are supposed to consider a friend."

For a moment he thought that the boy was actually going to consider his words. Then Harry's face closed again.

"What would you know about friendship, Snape? Get many Christmas cards from your ex-Death Eater chums, do you?"

Harry had his chin up aggressively, his stance suggesting that he was expecting to be hit. Snape was briefly tempted again, and then suddenly felt disgusted with the whole situation.

"Very well," he said resignedly, "have it your own way. If you wish to cast me as your pantomime villain then I suppose I cannot stop you. I imagine that it is easier to do that than to examine your own conduct." He turned away, back to the cauldron that was gently simmering, oblivious to the raging confrontation. "Feel free to leave whenever you wish."

"I'm not a student any more, Snape. You can't just dismiss me."

Snape shrugged.

"Then remain. As you will."

"I'm telling you this once, very clearly, Snape." Harry's voice was low and sincere and distinctly threatening. "Hermione is my friend, whatever you say, and if you hurt her in any way I will make you sorry you were ever born."

The anger that he had thought damped down returned full force, together with his memory of Hermione's voice.

Thank you for being on my side.

He turned abruptly to face Harry and within three strides was no more than six inches from Harry's face. He had the satisfaction of seeing the younger man flinch.

"And I'm telling you, Potter," he hissed, words driven home by cold fury, "that I care more deeply about Hermione than you can possibly imagine, and if you or Weasley hurt her again, I promise that I will make you suffer. And I might remind you that, thanks to many years spent at the side of Voldemort, I have extensive experience in making people suffer."

Harry went white. Any reply that he might have made was cut off by a shocked voice from the back of the room.

"What in the name of Hell is going on here? Severus? Harry? What are you doing here? And what is this?"

Snape froze, and saw Harry do the same. Hermione walked away from the door, closing it and warding it, he noted absently. She was as white as Harry, and looked genuinely stunned beyond anger.

He took two careful steps away from Harry. The other man also edged back, separating them even more. Hermione was obviously struggling for words.

"I would like," she finally said, "an explanation."

Snape looked at Harry, aware from Hermione's frown in his direction, that malice was evident on his face.

"Go ahead, Mr Potter," he said smoothly. "Don't let me..." interfere with your chance to rescue a damsel in distress, he was going to say. Consideration for Hermione's position halted him. "... stop you," he finished eventually.

Harry was silent.

"Well, I'd like someone to explain to me why you feel you can behave like two dogs fighting over a bone," Hermione snapped, shock evidently now giving way to anger. "If it helps either of you, I came in somewhere around the remark about the Christmas cards."

"Harry was just explaining to me how he feels about our affair, as he puts it," Snape offered.

"Really." Her voice was flat. She turned to Harry. "Do I assume, from the general atmosphere, that you didn't stop by to wish us both well for the future?"

Snape was gratified to see that Harry went rather red at that remark.

"I told you not to expect me to like it."

"And I told you that I expected you to respect my choices," she said sharply. "I did not say that I wished you and Ron to come up with some lurid theory that I was acting under the influence of some potion or curse."

"Well, what were we supposed to think?"

"Maybe that I'd fallen in love and was happy?" She shook her head. "I don't understand why this is so hard for you to accept."

Snape moved quietly into the background. Both of them seemed to have forgotten his presence, odd as that sounded, given that only moments before he had been on the verge of throttling Harry. Part of him felt that he should try to leave, and part of him was fascinated at the insight into this part of Hermione's life. A part that he had only experienced as a teacher, some eight years before.

In his reflection, he had missed Harry's response, but he guessed that it hadn't resolved anything. She had turned away. He couldn't see her face, but her body language spoke of hurt and resignation. He was about to intervene when she spoke again.

"Harry, was there any particular reason that you were here?"

The younger man straightened at this, almost visibly assuming a professional role.

"I've been sent by the Ministry."

"The Ministry?" Snape couldn't help that interjection. It sounded at the same time as Hermione's. "Now what do they want?" she added sourly.

"Harry was looking for you earlier," he said to Hermione. He glanced at Harry. "I can leave if you would prefer privacy," he said reluctantly, unwilling to see Hermione further upset.

Harry looked uncomfortable now.

"It concerns you both," he said awkwardly.

Snape picked up the fleeting look of concern on Hermione's face, hastily smoothed out. Their conversation of the day before, together with the cauldron simmering innocently away with the beginnings of Hester's potion in it, made him tense.

"Get to the point, Potter," he snapped.

Harry looked like he wanted to react, but just glared.

"Do you remember Dr Phineas Affpuddle?"

Snape began to feel queasy. Hermione was nodding.

"From St Mungo's, yes."

"Well, last Sunday Dr Affpuddle was found dead in his private workroom." Snape heard Hermione's indrawn breath. She and the doctor had carried on a small correspondence since the preceding Spring. "It looked," continued Harry, with a pointed glance at Snape, "like a Death Eater attack."

"Lucius Malfoy," Hermione said immediately, getting a startled look from Harry. Snape stifled a grin of triumph.

I told you that you didn't appreciate her.

"There's no evidence of that, Hermione," Harry began carefully, to be cut off by her waving hand.

"Who else would it be, Harry? Draco's gone from St Mungo's. Lucius must have gone after Phineas to get the cure." She visibly considered. Snape wondered uneasily whether she would make the next connection. "Phineas never had the cure. But he did know that we made it." She looked at both Snape and Harry. "Lucius will come after us next won't he?"

Yes, she would indeed make the next connection, thought Snape unhappily.

"That is what the Ministry fears," confirmed Harry.

She was pale, he noted, but calm. She looked at him briefly. It was an almost automatic gesture, seeking support. He nodded slightly. The closed look on Harry's face told him that he hadn't missed the small interaction. Hermione, meanwhile was speaking to Harry again.

"Thank you for letting us know. We'll talk to Dumbledore, and take extra precautions."

Snape was surprised by a small snort from Harry at that. Hermione broke off what she was saying.

"You already have extra precautions," he said ironically. "You're looking at them."

Snape felt his heart sink at the implication. He couldn't possibly mean.... Hermione was looking disbelieving.

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "The Ministry has assigned me to Hogwarts for the time being to protect the two of you."

**********

END OF PART 3