For disclaimers, rating, notes etc please see Part 1

The Parting took place at dawn.

The previous evening had passed much like the first; Hermione had effectively been prevented from having any meaningful contact with Snape. A politely social dinner with Amarina directing the conversation like a charming but implacable conductor, followed by an early night in their separate rooms. Never one to sleep deeply when she knew she had an early start and a stressful day ahead, she had spent the night tossing restlessly, worrying; about him, about what the consequences of all this were going to be, wondering whether he would be pulled back into this world, and - with a pang of guilt at her selfishness - what would happen to her if he was.

It had been still dark when the house elf had disturbed her; she didn't think she could say woken as she had barely been asleep. Still in a half doze, with a slightly sour taste in her mouth, despite cleaning her teeth, she had pulled on a robe, tucked her wand in her sleeve, and put on some stout shoes. The house elf had left a cup of tea and a roll on the dresser in her room, but she was too wound up to eat, and the tea was lukewarm, so she left it.

Leaving her room, she had made her way through the curiously deserted house, out of the front door, and across the fields to the cliff edge. Some spell had been cast which created enough light in order that she didn't break an ankle on the uneven ground. It was testament to the disquiet that she felt that she didn't even try to work out what it was. Her attention was all on the motionless figure by the pyre - his presence almost sensed more than seen in the thready illumination.

He was silent, rigid, wrapped in his thoughts and gazing out towards where the horizon would eventually be. There was nothing in his bearing that suggested that he would welcome physical contact, or even a verbal acknowledgement that there was anyone else there. She moved round him to stand close enough that he couldn't fail to be aware of her presence, but not so close as to call for any recognition. She wondered if he had been there all night.

He didn't move towards her. In silence they both waited.

Hermione pulled her cloak further round her against the chill of pre-dawn. Despite the fact that she knew that there were Muggle towns close by, the curve of the coast - or some deft enchantments - prevented the lights of the coastal resorts being visible and it only served to deepen her uneasy sense of isolation. It was plain that this world of protocol and obligation would not look kindly on her and her only ally, Snape, had too much baggage of his own to handle to deal with her insecurities. She huddled deeper into herself.

Get on with it, Hermione, my girl.

Light came, slowly bleeding into the sky. It gradually made separate things of sea and land, and, as her eyes adjusted, shadows developed edges, and then relief, and then became identifiable objects in their own right. As the dark lifted to grey, she could see more clearly the strain on Snape. His jaw was set, and the lines on his face were deep, making him look older than she had ever seen him. She longed to reach out to him, not certain whether it was to give or take comfort.

Had they stood there much longer, she might have given in to the urge, she thought, all intellectual knowledge swept away by her overwhelming need to try to relieve his pain. But she was distracted by a slight popping sound off to her left.

The unmistakable sound of apparition.

The sound plainly registered with Snape, who moved for the first time since she had got there. He turned to see who had arrived, and as he did so he briefly faced Hermione. She saw him pause fractionally as their eyes met. Something flickered across his face, abruptly stilled, and she knew that that was the most acknowledgement than he could give her, at least until this was over. She inclined her head, very slightly, in answer, and could have sworn that his hand twitched towards her and his face softened, just for an instant. It was gone so fast that even she, who had learned to read him well, couldn't be certain that it had happened. Then he was striding towards the newcomer, austere and forbidding, needing to get on with the business of the day.

The arrival was the first of the mourners, for want of a better term. As the sky lightened more people apparated in. It was only to be expected that they would wait for as much daylight as possible, she thought. With the pyre so close to the unstable cliff edge, a miscalculation could leave you hanging fifty feet above the ground. Snape was moving among the guests, face impassive, lips moving. People gathered in small knots, all pulling their cloaks round them. There appeared to be little conversation.

Hermione didn't recognise anyone there; not that she was expecting to. The only pureblood family that she knew well were the Weasleys, and she somehow couldn't see them moving in the Snape circle. She noticed some curious glances being cast in her direction, but fortunately no one seemed inclined to come over and investigate who she was. She actually didn't really want to talk. Her mouth felt dry and sour and her stomach was churning and she didn't feel up to polite chit-chat. And, as the number of arrivals increased, she became increasing more conscious of the fact that she was the only one standing on her own.

In an effort to find somewhere else to look she turned her attention out to the sea. The weather was dry, or at least it wasn't raining, but the water was still the colour of gunmetal. She could, however, just detect a noticeable line of brightness dividing water and sky. She knew that the ceremony began at dawn, and she had to admit that she had been wondering exactly how they would tell when that was.

Her reverie was broken by Snape's voice, calm, clear and commanding, sounding for all the world as if he was about to take a seventh year Potions class. She looked round, vaguely startled, to see Snape standing some considerable distance away. The Sonorus charm, her mind supplied, rather obviously.

"Good friends and companions and all who gather here to witness the Parting of Darius Patroclus Snape, I give you greeting this bright and blessed morning."

And with the formal welcome the ceremony began.

In Hermione's experience Muggle funerals tended to fall into two categories. The first were heavily ornate services with large black cars and a gleaming coffin and flowers and hymns and anthems and eulogies and a hallful of guests. The second were slightly apologetic twenty minute affairs, usually at the local crematorium, where the resident chaplain said all purpose words of farewell over the body of someone that he didn't know, in the presence of a bare handful of mourners, and always with one eye on the clock to make certain that everyone were finished and gone in good time for the next one.

The Parting was something completely different. Something simple, dignified and very fitting for the surroundings and the people, she thought.

Darius Snape's body was brought from the house on a plain wooden bier, covered in an unbleached linen shroud and levitated across the fields. The bier was followed by his widow, dressed completely in black. She looked pale, and imposing and impossibly elegant. She also appeared to be utterly impervious to the morning chill; probably some kind of warming charm, thought Hermione, a little uncharitably. The bier was levitated on to the top of the pyre. Amarina stopped very close to the foot of the wooden stack; so close that, for a moment, Hermione wondered if there was a wizarding tradition of widows burning themselves. Then, she took a few paces back and began to say words of farewell.

Hermione found herself caught up in the simple rhythm of the ceremony; the measured cadences of the words, the slow rituals of marking corners and points of the compass, of acknowledging Darius Snape, his life and his death, and his release and freedom to rejoin with the matter and spirit of nature.

She was aware that both Snape and Amarina conducted themselves with poise and control, both possessed of natural presence and an ability to manipulate their voices and posture to produce a remarkable effect on their listeners. She was struck by the similarity of technique in two very different people.

I suppose he had to have learned it somewhere.

She became aware of people moving back from the pyre. Doing likewise, she saw Snape move to one of the corners, wand in hand, and cast Incendio. He did the same thing at the other three corners.

That made sense, she thought. The wood wouldn't even burn without magic, let alone reach the temperature required to cremate human remains. Once the pyre was burning he stepped back, watching solemnly. Amarina then moved forward, holding her wand, and cast Incendio in the same way. Then, one by one, the other guests approached the bier, adding their spells to the blaze.

Hermione was reminded in a bizarre way of the Muggle custom of throwing flowers into the grave.

The heat intensified and the air was filled with the smell of damp, hot, salty wood and smoke, pluming upwards, making separate trails at first, then twisting and joining together as the seats of fire multiplied and intermingled in the shifting currents of sea air. From deep within came the echoes of cracks and shifts as the heart of the pyre caught and burned. Hermione could almost imagine herself at a Bonfire Party, remembered from her childhood, were it not for the fact that the autumnal smell was faintly overlaid with something else; an almost familiar, slightly sickly smell that caught in the back of her throat. The smell of charring meat.

Hermione instinctively moved backwards, and then realised that the last person in the group nearest to her had just added their contribution. She pulled out her wand, and feeling rather like an intruder, stepped back again to cast, as she had seen the others do. The heat was now intense enough to sting her eyeballs and make the skin of her face feel taut. Her hair moved around her face, driven by the convection currents set up by the fire against the natural wind. Pointing her wand at the fire, she muttered Incendio, wanting to get out of the cloying, sticky fragrance as soon as possible.

No longer cold, she sought a comfortable distance from the pyre, which was burning with an unnatural fierceness.

It must be confined somehow, she thought, almost physically bracing herself against the heat. Otherwise, this whole coppice would be ablaze, not to mention the field. Naturally there would some kind of concealment charm, if only to prevent the untimely arrival of the local Fire Brigade.

She lost track of how long they stood there watching the body of Darius Snape turn to ashes. Snape hadn't moved from where he had stopped after lighting the pyre, other than to retreat from the flames. Even now, he seemed to her to be uncomfortably close. His outline shimmered in the haze, but otherwise his features were as controlled and impassive as they had ever been. She wondered how long it would take him to open up again after this. Or if he ever would.

Finally, the pyre collapsed in on itself and the fire appeared to abate. The heat receded with an abruptness that made Hermione shiver. The flames almost folded in on themselves and all that was left was blackness. She could see no trace of the body from where she was standing.

Snape moved forward, towards the ashes and looked in. He gazed at the remnants of the pyre for a long time. Then he straightened and announced:

"Darius Patroclus Snape has Departed."

The release of tension was tangible. Amarina slumped for the first time since the body had been brought to the cliff edge, and turned towards Snape, half extending her arms. Hermione watched as she took a few steps towards her son, and then seemed to collapse against him. One of Snape's arms came round her, a little stiffly, Hermione thought, and then, with him supporting Amarina, they both turned their backs on the smouldering ashes and began to slowly walk towards the house.

He hadn't looked at her. She wasn't upset by that. No, she was frightened; frightened to the core.

The knots of mourners began to make their way after the widow and the new master of Snape Hall.

Alone, feeling sticky and dirty, and with a sour, heavy sickness lodged in her throat, Hermione followed.

**********

Many parts of Snape's life had passed with greater or lesser feelings of unreality, but he could recall few times where he had experienced quite this degree of dissociation. Parts of him were aware of sensations - the sounds, the heat, the smell. A voice which came from somewhere outside him greeted the mourners as was required, pronounced the prescribed phrases, commanded the ritual. His body performed the movements smoothly, with the calm confidence of the classroom.

And he was acutely aware of the two women - the one standing back and the one at the heart of the drama.

His mother had been magnificent, he had to concede that. Poised, elegant, striking just the right air of dignified grief. She had risen to the innate theatre of the ritual, taken the audience into her soul and made them her own. Every line was delivered with quiet conviction and intensity, every move perfectly judged even up to the moment where she let herself fall in exhaustion against him, claiming him in that very public act of appropriation.

She could have born for that moment when she Parted from Darius Snape.

And Hermione.

Hermione, who had stood aside, not interfering, not pushing, not asking anything of him. There had been no point since the dawn that he had not been aware of her presence; when she arrived, content to simply stand in silence; with him, yet apart. And during the process itself, still separate, still alone; on the periphery of his world, observing yet not participating. Not until the moment when she stepped forward with the rest to add her flames to the fire. There had been so many moments, as he stood back and watched the body of his dead, and largely unknown, father burn away, that he had wanted to move to her, touch her, take her hand, reassure himself that she was there. But he couldn't reveal his need and also play the role expected of him.

She seemed to understand that. That fleeting eye contact before sunrise, the only recognition of her that he had permitted himself, the only acknowledgement that he could bear, had been enough, he thought. He had seen a flicker of something and then she had nodded, barely perceptibly, giving him what he thought... hoped... was permission to do what he had to do.

And that gesture had meant more to him at that moment than any words of love.

It was that gesture that was allowing him to walk calmly towards a life that he did not care for, supporting a woman who was intent on ensuring her own survival at any cost.

As they made their way through the long grass, away from the furnace like heat of the pyre, he began to be aware of the chill, goosebumps prickling his skin under his robes. Amarina seemed to be oblivious to it all; part charm, part performance he suspected. He supposed that he could cast a warming charm himself, but somehow he needed the cold, needed the physical discomfort to ground himself, remind himself that he was still real.

Too soon, they reached the house. As they entered the main hall, house elves rushed to take their cloaks and to escort them through to the dining room. Amarina straightened a little, but did not release her hold on Snape's arm, so they entered together; a parody of master and mistress of the house.

One side of the room was taken up with long dressers. On these the house elves had prepared a lavish spread to warm those who had been standing for many hours in the cold and wet. The aromas of the hot food - bacon, sausages, chops - reminded him too much of the smoky, meaty smell of the pyre. Bile rose in his throat. He disengaged himself from Amarina and made his way down to the far end of the room to pour himself a cup a black coffee from one of the silver coffee pots.

Sipping, he watched his mother adjust her robes with an automatic gesture, just as the first of the guests began to file in. They were easier to recognise, divested of their outer garments. He struggled to identify most of them. Friends of the family he assumed. Names wandered through his head.

Wilkes, Rosier, Delacroix, Van Erden, Flint, Van den Berg, Aldeburgh, Walberswick....

Dark hair and dark features characteristic of the Snape line. A gaggle of blonde heads from the de Vriess side. Some local wizarding families. And some representatives from the older families whose more notorious cousins had openly declared allegiance to Voldemort.

Not that you would ever avoid that in a gathering like this, he thought sourly. The old families were so closely allied that you could probably trace them back to a set of common ancestors within six generations.

Which thought brought him back to Lucius. Snape had been half expecting him to turn up at the burning, but it appeared that even Malfoy drew the line at that. Nevertheless, Snape couldn't dismiss the conversation that he had had the previous day. He had to concede, however reluctantly, that Malfoy's twisted sense of the social graces would probably - probably - prevent him taking direct action against him at Snape Hall, if only out of courtesy to Amarina.

He was no longer so sure about Hermione's safety. He doubted that Lucius' sense of propriety extended as far as Muggle-borns. If he could cut her off from the crowd, if he could get to her without being seen... but then again if anything happened to her, Lucius would lose his control over Snape. If anything happened to her there was no way in hell that he would cure Draco, even if he suddenly found that he could. If anything happened to her....

He glanced over the room, trying to make it seem as if he was just idly looking at the guests, but in truth checking whether or not she had come in with the others. The relieved lurch of his heart when he saw her told him that he had been more worried that even he wanted to admit. She was standing on her own, sipping at a cup of something and staring absently into space. Clearly she was feeling no more like eating than he.

He made a note to talk to her, to warn her not to stray too far away from the main gathering. He was wondering whether he could get across the room to her at that moment, when his arm was taken, and a familiar perfume brushed across his nostrils.

"Severus, you're too morose standing here. Come and talk to people."

Amarina, tiny hand firmly tucked in the crook of his elbow, intently steered him towards a small group of Van den Berg cousins. And with this further act of possession he was pulled into a succession of vapid conversations; empty words of regret, equally meaningless acknowledgements and thanks. This person-that-was-not-him made his way around the room fulfilling the required functions of the occasion. Only once did he feel some real part of him stir; when their methodical progression brought them to where Hermione was standing. Close to, she looked pale and tired, dark smudges under her eyes. If she had ever been smeared with ash from the burning she had managed to clean it off, but she was still a little windswept.

Next to the immaculate Amarina she looked positively dishevelled.

"Hermione, my dear, it means so much to us that you could be here." His mother at her most charming. And proprietorial.

"I'm glad I could be." Her voice, so neutral, so guarded to his ears.

"I don't believe Muggles do this sort of thing do they. I was told that you bury people in the ground." Superficial interest.

"Well, sometimes they do. But most people are cremated."

He recalled a similar conversation with her in a graveyard. The sense of déjà vu was disconcerting. She had been on the defensive then as well, he recalled.

"Really?" As if Amarina couldn't quite believe it. Or was he hearing something in her voice that wasn't there?

"Yes. There are special furnaces now, though. To get the temperature high enough. People aren't burnt in the open air any more. Not in England at least." Hermione fell silent. That in itself showed that she was uneasy. It was most unlike her not to share any and all knowledge that she had on the subject.

"Yes, I suppose it is easier for us."

Us. You. Lines clearly drawn.

Hermione nodded, and then obviously felt that she needed to add something.

"It was certainly very different from anything that the Muggles do now," she offered. "It was very interesting."

Amarina reached forward to touch Hermione's hand, with a slight frown on her face. Snape nearly flinched for her, but Hermione gave no reaction.

"You're looking so tired, my dear. I do hope that we'll see you this evening at the Ball." Making it perfectly clear, under the air of concern, that Snape was hers for the rest of the day.

"Oh yes, I'll certainly be there. I thought I might have a lie down this afternoon." He had the impression that the unspoken challenge had, at some point, been accepted by the younger woman.

But even now, he couldn't meet her eyes; he thought that he might break if he did.

Then Amarina was guiding him away again, and the chance to speak further was lost.

Snape was correct in his assumption that his mother fully intended to monopolise his time for the rest of the day. He also quickly realised that she didn't actually have anything that she wanted him to do. He suspected that her motives had more to do with keeping him from close - or indeed any - contact with Hermione.

Currently, he was sitting on a wide sofa, upholstered in delicate creams and yellows, positioned on one side of the hearth in the airy drawing room that Amarina used as her base of operations from which to manage the household. The pale lemons, golds and creams of the room gave off the impression of light, despite the dullness of the day outside, and it was noticeable that this room, at least, had an adequate fire. Snape felt darker than usual, a stain of black against the sunlit background.

He sipped yet another cup of coffee reflectively. In many respects, with Hermione as safe as she was ever going to be around him - assuming that she was actually resting - Amarina's pretext for keeping him close to her provided him with the perfect opportunity to sit and catch up with the events of the last 24 hours.

It was clear that something significant had happened between the two women over the last day. He didn't think that it was something as unsubtle as an outright argument. Hermione was volatile enough, but was currently maintaining a careful distance, and direct confrontation was not his mother's style. At least not when she was sober, he thought bitterly. But some feminine gauntlet had been thrown down, and picked up. He barely restrained himself from snorting aloud at the whole prospect of two women prepared to fight over him, of all people.

Except that neither woman realised yet that there wouldn't be a fight. Or, at least, not one in which he wouldn't be an active participant.

The numbness that had descended on Halloween, that had intensified in the face of his family home and that had carried him through the ritual of burning his father - that numbness was wearing off, and gradually a measure of feeling was returning to his confused emotions. And just as returning circulation brought discomfort, he was now experiencing sharp needles of fatigue, resentment, and above all annoyance.

He was heart sick and bone weary. He wanted to be away from this. Back at Hogwarts in his own rooms, with Hermione curled up in a chair, reading, listening to Bach. He didn't want to be part of Amarina's plans, manoeuvred, manipulated, moulded back into her world.

He drained the last of the coffee from the cup, wincing at little at the bitter grounds at the bottom. Uncurling himself, he reached forward to pour himself another one. Amarina glanced up from where she was making notes on... he didn't really know what... menus, flower arrangements, musicians....

"Should you really be drinking that much coffee, Severus? You've barely had anything to eat today."

His hand automatically checked on the way to the coffee pot, and somehow that act of obedience brought his irritation to a fine point. He deliberately carried on to pour the coffee.

"I'm not hungry," he replied shortly, ignoring the remark about the coffee completely. "If I want anything the house elves can always make me up a tray."

She tutted under her breath.

"You don't eat properly."

"I eat perfectly well at Hogwarts. The current circumstances have apparently caused me to lose my appetite."

When he started speaking the words had only one meaning. But by the time he finished they had taken on more layers. He realised that at about the same time that Amarina did. She frowned.

"Perhaps you need some fresh air," she suggested.

"Perhaps," he agreed, without moving.

She sighed.

"The Ball starts at nine. I shall have to be ready at eight, to supervise the final preparations." There was a pause. "You will escort me in tonight?" There it was, he thought; so subtle that you could almost miss it. The gentle question, the hint of gratitude for the favour, the acknowledgement of the imposition, the shade of a muffled sob in the upturn of the voice and the implication that she couldn't be alone on the day of her own husband's Parting. Who could possibly deny her?

"Hermione is my guest," he pointed out softly, looking at the black liquid swirling against the bone white china. "Courtesy dictates that she not enter alone."

"I'm sure one of my cousins can be persuaded to walk in with her."

Strict protocol dictated that in this instance Snape, as the heir, should escort his mother, as the widow. Hermione, as Snape's guest, would be entitled to an escort from among the unmarried male attendees. The rank of the escort told the rest of the company of Hermione's relative importance. Escort from a close family member on the Snape side would clearly have indicated a serious interest in her on his part.

Amarina had proposed that one of her cousins walk in with Hermione. Which meant simply walk her in and then leave her to her own devices. It was not a breach of any accepted rule of behaviour. But it was tantamount to announcing whore to anyone in the room who cared about these things. Which was damned nearly everyone.

The knot of resentment grew within Snape. He could feel the old responses fighting within in; the desire to shout, storm, simply walk out. Actions which stretched the bonds but which did not break them. He closed his eyes, willing himself to respond as an adult, as a person in control. When he finally spoke, it was an effort to keep his voice even.

"Hermione is here at my invitation," he repeated levelly. "I will not allow her to be insulted in that way in my house." He winced inwardly at the phrase in my house.

"Severus, she doesn't understand these things as we do. As long she doesn't have to walk in on her own, I doubt she'll even notice. What does it matter who takes her in?" Reasonable, as though talking to a stubborn child.

"She may not notice, mother, but everyone else in the room will. And it will matter to me."

You have no idea now much.

This time he looked up. Amarina seemed a little off balance by his reply.

"Well... I understand that she amuses you...," she began. Snape cut her off.

"She does more than amuse me, mother. She is extremely important to me. And I wish her to be treated with respect." He would not speak of love to his mother any more than he would to Potter.

Amarina's face was mask like for a moment, as if she was trying to decide between tears and fury. In the end she settled for acquiescence, albeit qualified.

"Very well," she said. "I will speak to Marius."

Marius Van Erden. The oldest unmarried cousin on the de Vriess side. Acceptable. Just barely.

He supposed that that would have to do. He nodded curtly, and then glanced out of the window.

"I believe I will get some fresh air, after all," he said briefly, stood and left the room.

**********

If the Parting had been strange but dignified, the Ball was the most bizarre wake that Hermione had ever seen.

It had been abundantly clear from the possessive hand tucked through her son's arm that there would be little chance of her speaking to Snape alone that afternoon. And, despite Amarina's acid-laced remark, she had indeed been very tired. Escaping to her room as soon as she decently could, she had first drawn a long bath where she alternately soaked and scrubbed at the lingering odour of burning clinging to her skin and hair, and then crawled back into bed for another fitful sleep.

It was seven o'clock and dark again when the house elf shook her back to full consciousness with the urgent information that it was being time to be getting herself ready for the evening. Her head was heavy and her eyes felt gritty, as they always did if she slept in the afternoon. There was no shower, so she ran a shallow bath, hoping that splashing water on herself would wake her up. The water in the taps was not quite cold, but certainly not warm enough to be comfortable. She hauled herself out fairly quickly and towelled herself off vigorously. More alert, if not looking forward to the coming evening with any more enthusiasm, she pulled a bathrobe and then wandered to stand in the middle of the floral extravaganza that was her room, wondering whether to address the question of dress or hair first.

She had a nasty suspicion that however much time and trouble she put in, she would still feel scruffy next to the precision elegance of Amarina.

In the end she simply decided to go with what she knew. She selected a set of dress robes from her wardrobe - dark blue and simple - a colour and cut that she knew suited her. She then dried and brushed her hair, twisted it up and finally secured it with a couple of charms - admitting to herself that she was sufficiently vain not to want her hair to come unfastened in front of Snape's mother.

The effect might not have been the height of fashionable elegance, but it was neat, tidy, simple and quite attractive, she thought. There was no point in even thinking about trying to compete with Amarina, she reflected ruefully. Let it be her show tonight.

And hope that Severus comes home with me in the morning.

She quashed the thought.

All this had taken the time to just before half past eight. Just as she was wondering whether she would have to walk in on her own - it hadn't even crossed her mind that Amarina would permit Snape to escort her - there was a knock at the door again. It was a different house elf, telling her that she should be coming with him to the Receiving Room where she would be having sherry and Master Van Erden would be escorting her in to the Ball. Hermione didn't know who Master Van Erden was, but was grateful for the thought of company, even if it was only to go in.

Master Van Erden, turned out to be Marius Van Erden, a second cousin of some description on the de Vriess side of the family. He was only just taller than Hermione, broad, heavy set and blonde with a short cut beard. His face was square, although she suspected that the beard hid a weak jaw, and his eyes were a washed out blue. He had plainly been informed that he would be escorting her, and whilst she sensed no particular enthusiasm for the task, neither was he offensive about it.

He greeted her cordially enough, gave the back of her hand a perfunctory kiss, and was polite enough not to raise his eyebrows at the restrained nature of her robes. For the rest of the time, he divided his attention between polite, but largely disinterested, conversation with her, and exchanging glances with a dark haired young woman of about Hermione's age, who was standing on the other side of the room. She noted that most of the women had elected to wear highly elaborate outfits; something that sat ill with her notion of funerals. She was very grateful when another house elf announced that the guests were invited to move into the ballroom.

The ballroom itself would have done justice to Dumbledore. Sparkling crystal candle holders hung in the air, refracting the light into rainbows in so many directions that it was slightly disorientating. The sides of the room were decked with arrangements of white roses and trailing lilies, both filling the room with heavy fragrance. Long tables were draped with snowy linen cloths, clearly ready for food to appear upon them.

She found it breathtaking and faintly macabre. It was not joyful enough to be bridal and managed to be something beyond sterile. The perfume made her slightly nauseous and she almost wished for sunglasses against the glare.

Amarina, herself, was wearing robes which were as white as the rest of the décor. But even from a distance Hermione could see that they were exquisitely embroidered with gold threads. The light reflecting round the room caught the threads and gave the eerie impression that she was surrounded with a golden nimbus.

Next to her stood Snape, and she had to stifle a smile for the first time that day. If she looked at him carefully she could detect that he had exchanged his plain black everyday robes, for his plain black dress robes. The hint of silver detailing at the collar and cuffs gave it away. She thought that he might have brushed his hair as well, but otherwise he looked as if he had made as little effort as possible. His face was unreadable to her, but his posture spoke of a deep control - although what he was controlling, she didn't know. He was still and dark and brooding in the middle of the glittering show.

A faint pull at her arm from Marius Van Erden told her that she was staring, and she pulled her attention back to the Ballroom. On second glance, it looked tawdry and rather out of keeping with the dignity of the earlier ceremony. She was gracefully moved to the side, when the quiet voice of Amarina echoed through the room, amplified by magic.

"Friends, welcome to Snape Hall. Thank you for joining us for the Parting from Darius. I know that he would have been gratified to see so many of you here. And I know that he would not have wanted the Hall to be dark and empty and closed in grief. He would have wanted light and life and joy to ring through the halls, celebrating his Parting in laughter and fellowship. So, in the name of Darius, I bid you come and enjoy!"

The ringing acclamation was followed by a cheer from the guests. As the noise died away the tables filled with a selection of food and wine. The Parting Ball had begun.

By midnight, Hermione's feet hurt and she was hot and thirsty. What she wanted more than anything, was a long cool drink of water and to collapse in bed. Anything to get into blessed silence and darkness. She hadn't had the enjoyment of genuinely good company and neither had she had the peace of being ignored. Marius had escorted her for the first dance and had then dissolved away into company that he found more congenial. After that, she had been taken on to the dance floor by a procession of unknown people, who weren't really interested in who she was, but simply seemed to be fulfilling some kind of social duty. As a result she was tired and tense. The smell of the flowers was overpowering, and the bright light was beginning to make her think of interrogation chambers and laboratories inhabited by mad scientists. She threaded her way back to the tables, hoping against hope that there would be something to drink that didn't contain alcohol.

There wasn't. There was only the buckets filled with ice, keeping the wines cool. She wondered how ghastly a social faux pas it would be to fill a glass with ice cubes and let them melt. She supposed that she really shouldn't. Sighing, she turned away, and wondered if she could at least find a quiet place to sit down. The only reason that she hadn't tried to make a surreptitious exit earlier, was the thought that Snape would dance with her at least once that evening. If only for form's sake.

She had actually seen little of him since her first entry. Unsurprisingly, Amarina had kept him close to her all evening. Occasionally, she had caught glimpses of him on the dance floor, escorting, she assumed, suitable ladies of proper blood and breeding. More surprisingly, she noticed that for the first time since she had arrived Amarina was drinking the wine. Whenever Hermione caught sight of the golden cloud - and by now she was fairly convinced that the golden thread was magically enhanced in some way - she had a glass in her hand. And she was beginning to show the effects of it. Her gestures were a little too careful, too exaggerated. The perfection was flaking off her poise, just slightly. When she came close enough for Hermione to hear her voice, it was becoming a little too loud, too strident. Once or twice, she noticed that the golden figure was looking in her direction. Amarina glanced away fast enough, but not so fast that Hermione couldn't see the mask of charm faltering.

A voice at her side disturbed her.

"Madam, would you care to dance?"

No.

"I'd love to," she replied politely, and another unknown cousin led her on to the dance floor; a Snape one this time, she thought as he was dark, not fair.

Absently responding to the insincere enquiries on the part of her partner, she was concentrating on not treading on anyone, when a movement in the dancers brought her close enough to hear Amarina clearly.

"Of course, Severus will come back to the Hall. You don't imagine that little Mudblood will be enough to make him forget his obligation, do you?"

And then they were gone again. But the malice underscoring Amarina's voice struck at Hermione.

That little Mudblood.

The family view of her. And she knew better than most how deeply his sense of obligation ran. He had gone to Azkaban to protect her once. But did family ties run deeper?

The music ended and the Snape cousin politely handed her back to her seat. There was a swirl of movement on the dance floor and this time the couples parted, and she saw Snape, across the room, standing by two or three other people, not quite with them, but not quite apart from them either.

A moment before she would have been prepared to endure the evening for the chance to hold him, even in such a formal setting, and speak a few private words to him. Now, she didn't think that she could do that without crying.

Wrung out and exhausted and frightened, she moved back into the shadows and faded out of the room.

No one saw her go, or at least if they did no one cared sufficiently to challenge her. She encountered nobody on her way back to the room; not even the portraits made any comment as she passed. She tried to quell the irrational feeling that even the house hated her. Once safely in her room, she shot straight into the bathroom and took several long, cooling drinks of water, then poured herself another glass of water and took it back with her into the bedroom. She put it on the nightstand by the bed, kicked off her shoes, stripped off her robes and sat under the covers in her underwear, knees pulled up to her chin, hugging them to her.

She tried to tell herself that she was getting all this out of proportion; that she hadn't slept properly for three nights, that she had only had coffee and a half a cup of tea all day, that she was hot from the Ball, that no one thought rationally when they were exhausted and hungry and dehydrated. And still the surreal scene floated through her head, together with Amarina's casual, open dismissal of her as a little Mudblood, not even someone to be taken seriously.

She buried her head in her knees and tried not to hyperventilate.

And you thought that you could be some emotional support to him. Nice try Hermione, my girl.

In the end she didn't know whether or not she actually slept or just managed to still her mind enough to lose track of passing time, but she was brought back to alertness by a loud clatter in the corridor. Paying attention she was aware of voices, but muffled and distant. Drunken guests returning to bed, she supposed. The disturbance reminded her that she was still half dressed herself, and she stiffly edged out from under the covers fully intending to ignore whatever was going on and undress properly.

However, the voices outside became clearer - she couldn't tell whether they were closer or simply louder. Sighing, she opened the wardrobe to hang up her dress robes when a word clearly caught her attention.

".... Mudblood...."

She realised, with a lurch, that it was Amarina's voice. She swallowed and tried not to listen to the rest of it, when she heard the sound of a low male voice answering.

Any peace she had found abruptly fled. It was Snape's voice. And he sounded angry.

Almost without thought, her hand found an everyday robe and pulled it on, tucking her wand inside without really thinking about it. She knew that she shouldn't do this, but something small and scared within her had to know what his reaction was. Dressed now, but barefoot, she quietly opened the door into the corridor. There was no one there but the voices were clearer still. She edged along in their direction.

"But I don't understand." Amarina, almost wailing.

"There's nothing to understand, mother. You can stay here as long as you like. But tomorrow Hermione and I are returning to Hogwarts." Cold, forbidding, nearly the Snape she remembered from school.

"This is her doing, isn't it?" Accusing.

A pause.

"This is nothing to do with Hermione. Even if she didn't exist, I wouldn't be coming back here." Still cold, but resigned, as if he was repeating himself.

"You forget your obligation to your blood, Severus Antonius." A good attempt at command, rather spoilt by the slight slurring.

"As my blood forgot its obligation to me, as I recall."

By now, Hermione was close enough to see the shadowed figures. Amarina was still glowing, but rather incongruously leaning against a wall. A chair and a small dresser had been overturned. Pieces of a broken ewer were strewn across the carpet. That was obviously what had disturbed her. As she watched, the command leeched out of the woman to leave a small, old, pitiful creature, drunk and tearful. Hermione knew that she should turn away; leave this painfully personal scene. But she couldn't move.

"Please don't leave me, Severus, I can't live here on my own."

"You won't be on your own. The house elves will be here. And you will still entertain."

"It's not the same, you know that. Without Darius...." She let it hang.

"My father was never really here. You only think that there will be a difference." Not cold any more, just quiet.

"No. He never was." Sad admission. "Only you were ever here. Only you cared. You were all I ever wanted." Tears were running down Amarina's face now. One hand, the one not supporting her against the wall, reached for Snape. "I need you, Severus."

The naked need in the older woman's face was awful to see. Even Hermione wanted to move forward, to comfort her. Snape, however, didn't move.

"Marcus was all you ever wanted, mother. Not me. I was only ever second best." His voice was not vicious, but soft and infinitely sad. "If that."

"I need you," she repeated, letting the tears fall, making no effort to stop them.

"Maybe," Snape replied after a moment. "But giving you what you want would destroy me. Eventually. And I'm not prepared to let that happen."

Hermione held her breath.

"No," breathed Amarina. "No, it wouldn't. I know I've asked too much in the past, I know I've been a bad mother. But I won't do it again. I'll make it up to you this time, I promise. It will be different."

Snape was shaking his head slowly, as if it hurt him.

"It's too late. I've heard it too many times. I'm not going to let this happen again." He took a deep breath. "This is your home for as long as you want it to be. I assure you, you will never want for anything. But I'm leaving tomorrow. And I'm not coming back."

The tears had stopped, and Amarina was beginning to look resentful.

"I don't remember you being this selfish, Severus."

"Maybe I've just learned to face reality."

"Marcus gave his life for you. Don't you think you owe it to him to stay here with me?"

Another pause.

"I paid my debt to Marcus a long time ago."

Did he really mean that, thought Hermione. Was the stupid, stubborn man finally beginning to forgive himself?

Amarina was looking at the floor, swaying slightly. Finally, she spoke, the words coming out in a tight voice, as if each one caused her physical pain.

"If it's just a question of... Hermione," Hermione could hear what it cost the other woman to say her name, "there's no reason why you have to give her up. She could be... kept... here, discreetly." It made her sound like something illegal, she thought. "It's not unknown. Darius had... someone, under a similar arrangement, I believe."

Despite the offensiveness of the implication, Hermione had to feel a twinge of sympathy for a wife whose husband kept a mistress under the same roof. Snape, however, had gone rigid.

"Understand this well. There is absolutely no question of Hermione living here under that sort of an arrangement. She is not a pet or a piece of luggage. I would not insult her by even suggesting it." The unyielding coldness was back in his voice.

"Well, I hope you don't expect me to believe that even you would bring her back under this roof as your wife?" Amarina spat back, self-pity replaced by anger at a dizzying speed.

Snape was silent, and Amarina clearly took that as a point won.

"I wish you joy of your Mudblood, Severus. And I hope that when the novelty wears off you won't regret the loss of your family and your blood."

She raised her head sharply and pushed herself away from the wall. Whatever reply Snape was going to make was lost in the fact that the movement obviously triggered a wave of nausea within her. Hermione saw her diaphragm spasm twice and she clapped her hand over her mouth, mumbling something and lurching forward. Cursing, Snape caught her and roughly guided her through the doorway next to them. Moments after, the door swung shut and Hermione heard the sounds of muffled retching. She wondered whether or not they had made it as far as the bathroom.

There was no sound from the room, and Snape did not emerge, so she assumed that he was putting Amarina to bed. Part of her felt that she should be elated by what she had just heard; by the fact that Snape would be returning to Hogwarts with her in the morning. But the whole situation just left her feeling troubled. She let out a long breath. She badly needed to see him; to hold him at least, even if he wouldn't talk to her,

Making a decision, she carefully picked her way past the pieces of broken china, to the door of his room. Cautiously, she opened it, wondering if it would be warded. It either wasn't, or he'd keyed them to her, because the door opened easily. Now glad that she had brought her wand, she muttered Lumos. She blinked at the dark, oppressive room, wondering if it had been that way since his childhood as well. She padded over to the bed and slid herself under the covers to wait for him.

**********

Snape had forgotten that it didn't take that long to put a sick drunk to bed. Or, at least, if not forgotten, had had no recent need to remember that particular piece of information.

You simply made certain they weren't going to be sick again, you put a bucket by the bed just in case, you put them in the recovery position so they didn't choke to death, and then you let them pass out. A familiar childhood routine.

He remembered always being rather relieved when Amarina finally reached the sick stage. Messy, true, but the physical side effects of the alcohol were somehow easier to deal with than the emotional ones.

Now, she was sprawled across the bed, motionless, where he had unceremoniously dumped her after hauling her out of the bathroom; after holding her head over the toilet bowl whilst she emptied the remains of her evening's binge into the porcelain; after wiping her face and removing her robes, no longer shimmering with charmed gold but stained with splashes of vomit.

She hadn't in fact made it to the bathroom before beginning to throw up. He flicked his wand out of the sleeve of his robes, casting a cleaning spell over the carpet, thankful that, as an adult, he no longer had to use a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush. He had no illusions that house elves would be deceived, but some lingering pride or compassion - pride, he rather thought - meant that, even now, he couldn't quite bring himself to walk out and leave the filth for someone else to deal with.

Take the responsibility this one last time, Severus.

Even though the floor was now clean the sour smell of half-digested food and alcohol, mixed with stomach acid, still permeated the room. It no longer made him physically retch - exposure had hardened his stomach that much - but it filled him with a cloying sick disgust, and made him long for clean, fresh air.

Silently, he walked to the window and unlatched it, letting in a knife edged blast of November night. It hit his face like a blow; ice temporarily driving out the ugly smell. Leaving it open, he returned to the bed, checking the still body once more. Amarina was snoring. Her blonde hair was plastered to her face and a thin line of saliva trickled out of her mouth and onto her pillow. For the first time since he had arrived at the Hall, she looked her age. He adjusted her position again. Satisfied that she would not choke in her sleep at least, Snape covered her with the quilt and left the room.

The corridor was deserted; plainly no one had been disturbed by the breaking china or the heated conversation. The house seemed different to him now. As if he saw it through the eyes of a stranger, struck by its not-quite-ness. The too cold rooms, the almost shabby furnishings, the darkly jaded decor. All sacrificed to the glittering parties, the exquisite robes, the empty bottles.

For a moment, he entertained thoughts of going to Hermione's room; of quietly entering, slipping under the covers with her and just holding her, letting her presence and warmth soothe over the rawness of the evening. But to go to her after Amarina seemed somehow disrespectful; a use of her that he wasn't entitled to.

He needed to get out of this house; this place that was his and not his. Without bothering to collect a cloak, he strode through the corridors, out the front door and into the darkness.

He moved away from the house, moving instinctively in the night, feeling the ground under his feet almost subconsciously. He wondered, as he vaguely noticed the gravel under his feet turning to turf, exactly when it was that he had truly made the choice never to return here. The first sight of the Hall? Or the Parting? Or when he had seen Hermione look at him, suddenly stricken, and then leave the ballroom? Or was it earlier than that? When he had received word of his father's death? Or even as far back as New Year; when he had sat in his rooms, drinking red wine, and speaking of his childhood for the first time in years to a young woman with unruly brown hair and warm expressive eyes; whose brilliant mind and infuriating desire to know had pushed her into places well beyond where any sensible person would venture, taking him with her in the process?

But he had spoken the truth to his mother; returning here would destroy him. Once, he reflected, this would not have bothered him overly. Destruction was bound to come upon him sooner or later; this way was no better or worse than any other. But now... now he found that he wasn't quite ready for that to happen. He couldn't let go of Hermione to Lucius Malfoy; he certainly couldn't let go of her to his mother.

The sound of lapping water broke into his thoughts. His wanderings had taken him to the paddock lake and the boathouse. The rain had stopped, although the sky was still covered with broken cloud. The watery moon gave out a pale and intermittent light. That, and his night vision, was just enough to let him see outline of the building. He snorted out loud, provoking annoyed quacks from the ducks, disturbed by the sound.

How very circular, he thought, ironically. It all started here, figuratively speaking. And here is where it ends. Also, figuratively speaking. Even the ducks were still here.

Nice to see that mother's instinct for bad melodrama hasn't been completely eliminated from the genes.

Carefully, navigating by the shifting shadows at his feet, he made his way along the edge of the lake, closer to the structure. It didn't seem to have changed; not that he could really see a great deal in the darkness. He remembered it as a refuge; a place to hide from the world, and whatever particular form its torments were taking at the time. Now, it just looked to him like an old wooden shed, a blurry outline in the weak light, neglected and on the verge of collapse. The perceptual shift seemed in some way to signal the final death of his childhood. He felt a sudden wave of exhaustion; the strains of the past days had taken too much of a toll on him. Uncaring of the wet ground or the coldness of the night, he sank to the ground, drawing his legs up to his body and wrapping his arms around them. He rested his chin on his knees and stared, unseeing, at the boatshed, the silence only broken by the slap of water against wood, and the occasional quack of a duck.

He didn't hear her approach, but that could have been because he was lost in mental blankness. He only realised that she was there when he felt someone sit on the ground beside him, touching him with a tangible warmth. There was silence for a while. And then:

"I thought I'd find you here, when you didn't come back to your room." Simple statement, unchallenging, devoid of accusation.

He nodded in the darkness, wondering idly whether she was really here or whether he had begun to succumb to hypothermia. She, however, seemed to feel that he needed a further explanation.

"Um... you should know... I heard the," she hesitated, "conversation in the corridor. With your mother."

His gut clenched at the things Amarina had said.

"Oh," he managed to say.

"Yes." She sounded a little embarrassed. "I didn't mean to. It was just that... well the noise woke me, so I came out to see what had happened, and then I heard you... and well.. I just couldn't leave." She paused again. "I'm sorry," she said in a lower tone.

He wasn't quite certain why she was apologising.

"What for?" he asked, hearing the weariness in his tone. "The fact that you were listening? Or the fact that you heard? Or the fact that my mother is a bigoted alcoholic?" The last had some bite behind it.

There was another silence and then a small warm hand covered his clasped ones gently. He heard her hiss, and withdraw sharply.

"You're freezing," she muttered. There was anger in her voice, he noted. She shifted beside him and then a cloak fell over his shoulders. It was warm. She must have been wearing it, he thought. The warmth made him abruptly aware of how cold he had become. He felt her move closer to him, leaning against one side of him, and she took his hands again.

"I think I should be apologising to you," he said eventually. "I should never have asked you to come."

"Yes. Yes, you should," she contradicted softly, but firmly, and then hesitated. "I'm just sorry that I haven't been more help to you."

At that he moved one of his hands to catch hers, holding it tightly.

"Hermione...." There was so much that he wanted to say, but couldn't articulate any of it clearly.

"I think that all I've really managed to do is alienate your entire family and all their friends. I don't think they entirely approve of me." Her tone was light, but he could hear the fear and uncertainty underlaying it. He felt a stab of anger; she had been perfectly aware of the insult, but had just chosen not to react.

"Ignore them," he said finally, roughly. "They aren't worth the bother."

Silence fell between them again. Snape knew that there were things that he needed to say to her; he could form the words in his mind but couldn't bring himself to speak them. Once spoken, he could not take them back; could not pretend that he had never meant them. While he was struggling with his thoughts she spoke again.

"Is this the lake where Marcus drowned?" Again a simple question. He was obscurely grateful to her for avoiding euphemisms or evasions.

"Yes." It seemed to be all she needed.

"I saw it...," she seemed to be struggling for words, "The Playroom. It was... odd."

He let his breath out slowly. He sensed that odd was not what she really meant.

"It's been like that since he died," he said flatly. "Marcus was ... everything to her. I was never enough." He felt the soft brush of a thumb against the back of his hand. A tiny gesture of comfort, understanding. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it down.

"You never truly grieved for him, did you?" she said softly. It almost wasn't a question, more an expression of comprehension. "She never let you. They never let you."

The truth of it hit him like a blow, causing physical pain in his chest and the hard lump came back to his throat. He tensed against it, and felt her hand tighten on his in response. He fought for control, to ground himself, but he lacked the energy to still the trembling that threatened his cold and aching limbs. From far away, he felt her hand on his back, rubbing softly, and her voice murmuring words of reassurance. He half turned towards her with the vague idea that he would say something, but he couldn't. Instead, he found strong arms around him, arms that held and steadied him and he tried to find something to hold onto within himself but he couldn't feel the ground under him and he couldn't stop the shaking.

When he finally calmed, she was still holding him, still stroking his back gently, still speaking softly to him. Somehow, without him being fully conscious of how it had happened, he had wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her shoulder. He was now aware of her hair brushing his face, her scent invading his nostrils. He was also aware that he was twisted rather awkwardly, and that he was aching all over, but despite the discomfort of the position he couldn't bring himself to move.

"I'm sorry," he managed, after a while.

He felt her lips briefly touch his hair.

"Whatever for? Mourning the death of your brother? Don't ever apologise for that." Her arms tightened around him again, and she added, "are we truly going back to Hogwarts tomorrow?"

He felt his throat tighten once more. But this time it was because the mention of Hogwarts called up the spectre of Lucius Malfoy and potion. A bitter taste rose in his mouth at deceiving her, even as he was taking comfort from her.

You don't deserve her. You really don't.

She must have felt the reflexive stiffening, because she murmured a soft query.

"It's nothing," he replied, knowing it was a lie, hating himself for it.

She was quiet at that, so quiet that he was beginning to wonder if she had accepted his answer. When she spoke he knew that she had not.

"Severus," she said gently, "tell me what's going on with Lucius Malfoy."

He had had instinctively said "nothing" before he realised that his body had betrayed him, sitting rigidly upright, pushing away from her. The movement disturbed the cloak that she had pulled around them, and the cold night air bit into him.

"I saw the letter where he called you cousin, and spoke of 'the work'. I saw the potion in the classroom. I think we've got to the part where I need to know, don't you?" she pressed, calmly, insistently.

The sense of comfort ebbed away from him, to be replaced by the more familiar nagging fear. Fear that this would finally be the thing that she would not accept. That this would be the moment that she would actually walk away. Turning his face away from her, focussed once again on the gloomy outline of the boathouse, he told her. Everything from the fact that Lucius Malfoy was a distant relative of Amarina's through the rather convoluted wizarding lineage to the meeting on the cliff edge.

When he had finished she was silent again. He didn't dare look at her, didn't dare move, simply waited for the reaction. Time passed until he thought he could bear it no longer. Eventually she spoke.

"You know," she said almost conversationally, "for a brilliant man, you can be really breathtakingly stupid at times. Forget Harry and Ron. They don't even come close. What the Hell were you thinking of?" What her voice lacked in volume it made up for in intensity. He flinched.

"The contents of Lucius Malfoy's Pensieves are unlikely to make for pleasant viewing," he said stiffly.

The sigh was audible enough to disturb the ducks.

"Severus...," her voice was muffled and she sounded close to tears, he thought. He looked at her for the first time. She had her head in her hands, and she seemed to be fighting some strong emotion. He wouldn't have wanted to say whether it was anger or tears. He gritted his teeth and spoke with difficulty.

"I... appreciate that you are upset with me. But the decision seemed to be the appropriate one in the circumstances. There was no necessity for you to be informed." Damn, he hated the way he sounded so formal at moments like this. Why couldn't he just say what he was thinking?

I didn't want you to be involved. I didn't want you to have see that.

She raised her head and looked at him. Then she reached out a hand and placed it on his chest. She shook her head.

"Let him send his bloody Pensieve."

That was easy for her to say.

"You don't know what's in them."

"I don't care what's in them."

He wished he could believe that would be the same after she'd seen one. She seemed to pick up on the thought because she closed the distance between them again, so she could lightly touch his lips with hers.

"I don't care," she repeated more softly. "Don't you think I've considered this? That one day, someone is going to try and tell me all the gory details. Harry and Ron certainly would if they knew any, I can tell you that much. I don't want to know particularly, but I don't care if I find out." She raised her hand to stroke his face. "It doesn't make any difference to how I feel about you."

He had to look away from her at that. She caught his face and turned it back to her.

"I love you," she murmured, brushing her thumb across his mouth.

"Stay with me," he whispered, unable to help himself.

"Always," she responded, replacing her thumb with her mouth.

The kiss was sweet and gentle, her tongue softly tracing his mouth, before she placed a butterfly kiss at the corner and pulled away.

"However," she said seriously, "I think we need to get inside before you freeze to death. And tomorrow we'll go back to Hogwarts, and sit down and work out exactly what we're going to do about Lucius Malfoy."

It was so Hermione that he would have laughed aloud, if the situation hadn't been so serious.

But he was no longer facing Lucius Malfoy alone.

**********

END OF PART 6