For disclaimer, rating, notes etc see Part 1

She awoke and it was still black. Her throat was raw and her stomach cramped when she tried to move. The mint toothpaste had faded from her mouth leaving a sour taste. She moved her head slightly and winced at the pounding. She shut her eyes and lay very still, hoping that if she just stayed like this, everything would go away and leave her alone.

The physical sensations had dimmed a little, but in their place came the memories, not gone, simply waiting for the opportunity to recur.

She could have dealt more easily with scenes of uncontrolled brutality. Violence, rape, blood lust, acts carried out in the heat of the moment, in frenzy, under the influence of the mob. She would have been appalled, but somehow she would have been more able to bear watching him do that; could have told herself that it wasn't him. Could have told herself that she didn't recognise that person.

But she did recognise him.

She recognised the precision, the control, the exactitude. The focus on the work, the careful preparation, the methodical approach, the meticulous recording. Even the contempt for actions which went beyond his immediate sphere of interest.

Even his words.

Clear up this mess.

It could have been a potions class.

He could have been talking to Neville Longbottom.

She had watched a Severus Snape that she knew. The hands that had so carefully administered poisons and corrosives to the unknown victim, she had watched equally carefully make healing potions, make the cure for Seamus Finnegan, make Wolfsbane for Remus Lupin.

She screwed her eyes up more tightly, and forced herself to think further.

The hands that touched her with such care, such gentleness, such passion; that drew such pleasure from her.

The juxtaposition of memories made her feel nauseous again.

The man that she loved was capable of this thing.

Gods.

Eventually she slept again, although her rest, such as it was, was punctuated by fragmented dreams of blood and pain. She didn't feel appreciably better when she finally woke, but, deep within her mind, the part that was responsible for ensuring physical survival come what may had begun to function again.

It informed her that she could not stay here forever, and that she needed to get back out into the world. Food, it told her. Water. Bath. Slowly, painfully, wincing as the movement jarred aching muscles and head, she got herself out of bed.

Through the main room, not looking at the Pensieve, still squatting on the table reminding her of the reality of the situation. On the other end of the table, she noticed that someone had left a tray of food and a pitcher of something. House elves? Dumbledore? Rose? Snape?

The thought of food made her stomach lurch dangerously. Later, she thought, turning away and heading into the bathroom. Once in there, she scrubbed her teeth again, and drew a bath as hot as she could get out of the taps. Rummaging through her medicine cabinet she found a bottle of willowbark and valerian potion. She poured a dose into the glass by the sink and swallowed it neat, not bothering to dilute it with anything and almost choking on the bitter taste. Leaving the taste in her mouth in a kind of self punishment, she slid into the bath, watching her skin go red as the water only just stopped short of scalding her. She tried not to think of blood on her skin. Then, she took her back brush and began to work at herself, hoping that the pain would somehow cleanse the experience from her. Atone for having been present at the scene.

In the end she stopped before she drew blood.. Perhaps it was the fact that the willowbark and valerian compound had begun to ease her pounding headache. Or perhaps it was just the fact that she had never been one for long bouts of introspective self-pity. It simply occurred to her that she was laying in a bath filled with water that was too hot to stand, intent on inflicting pain on herself for the crime of witnessing events that had taken place in all likelihood before she was born.

Wincing, she pulled herself out, and began to dry herself off. Then, she rinsed the taste of the willowbark out of her mouth and cleaned her teeth for the third time. After that she poured herself several long glasses of water. She retrieved her clothes from the floor and determinedly walked out into the main room, past the table and back into the bedroom. A flick of the wand made the bed again, and she dumped all of her clothes out for the wash. Then, she dressed in clean robes and went to confront the Pensieve.

It was still there, as was the tray. She inspected the food; bread, cheese, cold meats and fruit, together with a pitcher of pumpkin juice. The sight of the stone bowl still did unpleasant things to her stomach. She glared at it and poured a glass of juice defiantly. She sipped, and the sweetness made her feel better. Still staring at the bowl, she picked up and apple and bit into it, the flavour tart in her mouth.

It was no good, she couldn't eat with that thing sitting there. She put down her half eaten apple and picked up the bowl. The dull silver interior swirled and moved under her eyes. On an impulse she tipped it up, wondering if it would just pour out. Unsurprisingly, it didn't. Sighing, she walked over to a cupboard. Opening one side, she cleared a space and pushed the Pensieve to the back of a shelf, shutting the door, and casting a locking charm on it for good measure.

After that, she returned to her meal. The immediate absence of the Pensieve and the food made her feel a little better. According to the clock it was half past four. According to the lights shining in the castle and the noises in the courtyard it was the afternoon. It had been Saturday afternoon when she had begun this; she hoped that she hadn't lost more than twenty-four hours.

She felt suddenly very drained and very old. She knew that she had to face the world again; face Snape again. But not yet. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

Tomorrow came all too quickly. She had considered the idea of a dreamless sleep potion, and then decided that she would try to manage without. In the end her night was not as restful as it might have been and not as disturbed as it could have been. She certainly didn't wake up feeling one hundred percent, but she definitely felt appreciably better than she had the previous day.

She decided to miss breakfast and simply head for her lessons, not even trying to tell herself that she had any other reason for doing so than avoiding him. Her actions had been anticipated, though, for she emerged from the bathroom, after a bath at a considerably more sensible temperature, to find another tray on her table; croissants, coffee, orange juice. Someone was clearly determined to look after her.

She managed to get to her lessons without seeing Snape, which was curious in one way given that her teaching rooms were very close to his own quarters. It occurred to her that he might be avoiding her as much as she was him. Lessons themselves went surprisingly well and surprisingly quickly. She decided to work through lunch, but she knew that she was simply putting off the inevitable.

Settling in her office after the end of classes, she pulled over a stack of papers to go through, but found herself unable to concentrate. Teaching had meant that her conscious mind had had no opportunity to relive the events of the weekend. Now, staring unseeing at the parchment in front of her, she rested her head on her hands and let her mind drift. When she came to from her mental wanderings, it was time for dinner.

She swallowed nervously. Best get on with it then.

He was already in his place when she entered the Great Hall, and she couldn't speak to him without making an obvious point of it. She brushed past him to get to her seat, thinking that he looked unrested and even more closed than usual. Uncomfortably, she sat down and forced herself to eat something approximating a proper meal, aware of the concerned looks from both Dumbledore and Rose, but thankful that they were both too far away to speak to. As she finished, her attention was drawn by Snape standing up. She looked towards him, fear and recollection suddenly fluttering in her stomach. She met his eyes briefly, but couldn't hold the contact. She cursed herself as she saw him stiffen slightly and then fractionally incline his head in acknowledgement of what he thought he read there. Then he turned, and swept out; the characteristic move sending resonances of memory through her again.

But the sight of him in person had managed to jolt her thoughts back into context. She had looked into Snape's past and seen the plain unvarnished truth of it. She had also seen and heard a little of what had driven him there in the first place. And she had seen his actions since leaving the Death Eaters and his work against Voldemort. He had never sought to lie to her or to minimise his actions; she had always been the one to cut that conversation off. If she had spent an evening trying to atone, he had spent years doing so, cutting himself off from the rest of the world, risking himself, accepting no personal recognition or credit.

Did what she had seen make a difference? When you factored out the immediate shock and horror of it, the answer was no. No, it didn't. She still loved him.

A double espresso appeared in front of her and she sipped at it, tasting the bitterness. As she did so the fear and the horror and the pain began to coalesce into something else.

Anger.

A cold, utterly calm, completely rational fury.

This stopped now.

She drained her cup, and stood up abruptly. Without responding to the startled enquiry from Professor Sprout on her left, she headed out of the Hall and back to her rooms.

Preoccupied as she was by her angry reflections, the knock on the door made her jump.

"Come in," she snapped.

The door was opened rather hesitantly, and Rose poked her head round.

"Hermione?" she said a little tentatively. "Are you all right?"

She blinked. It was such an ordinary question, and so incongruous against the background of recent events, that she couldn't really formulate an answer to it.

"Um," was all she said, conscious that Rose was not the target of her anger.

"I can go away again if you'd like," the other woman offered.

Hermione shook her head.

"No, no, stay. I'm sorry. It's been a bit of an odd few days really."

Rose nodded and then came in, carefully closing the door behind her. She stood on the edge of the room, though, as if she was not quite certain of her welcome.

"When I didn't see you over the weekend I was going to come up, but Albus said that you had something personal that you were taking care of, so I didn't."

Hermione was grateful for that; the experiences had been harrowing, but she wasn't certain that she would have wanted to share them with anyone.

"Yes," she said slowly, "I suppose you could put it that way."

"Hermione," Rose sounded hesitant, "I know it's none of my business, but is everything all right between you and Professor Snape?" Hermione was silent at the question, considering the answer. Rose misinterpreted the pause. "It's just that no one saw you all weekend, and Professor Snape has been prowling the corridors as if he's being chased by demons, and at dinner this evening...," she let the sentence hang and spread her hands expressively.

Chased by demons. Truer that you will know. For both of us.

"It's complicated," she said eventually, "and I'm not sure that it's my story to tell."

Rose shrugged.

"As I said, it's none of my business. But if there's anything I can do, or if you need an ear, you know where I am."

Hermione smiled.

"Thank you," she said sincerely. "I appreciate it. And I think that things will work themselves out. As I said, it's just been a bit... complicated... recently." She made a decision. "Look, I'm on my way to the dungeons now. Will you walk with me? That way you can tell me what I missed whilst I was off in my own little world. How did the Quidditch go?"

The trip to the dungeons passed in idle chatter which soothed Hermione no end after the rollercoaster of the last two days. It wasn't until the two women had gone their separate ways that the apprehension returned. She arrived at Snape's door, knocking before she could give herself time to think about it any further.

There was a terse acknowledgement as she let herself in.

He was seated in his usual chair staring into the unlit fire. At first glance, it looked as if he had grown a large ginger wig until the wig in question developed a large broad head and two glittering green eyes. She was absurdly cheered to realise that Crookshanks, infallible detector of all that was evil, was indicating that his loyalties still lay squarely with Snape. She felt unexpected tears pricking at her eyes.

"Love?" she said softly.

He stood slowly and turned to face her.

"You looked." It was not a question. His face was harsh and his eyes were tired.

"Yes."

She moved towards him. He seemed not to notice, he just nodded as if something had been confirmed for him. She was almost touching him, when he opened his mouth to speak. She cut across him, before he could begin.

"Hold me."

He closed his mouth and just looked at her. She saw something spark deep in his eyes.

"Please," she repeated, "we can talk later, but right now I need you to hold me."

His arms came round her fiercely, holding her so tightly that it was almost uncomfortable. She didn't care. She would risk cracked ribs just to feel him against her. They stayed like that for a long time, she with her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. Then, she felt his lips brush against her hair very softly.

"Dearest," she thought she heard him whisper.

She moved a little so that she could lift her face up to his. His eyes were shadowed and glittering. Gently, she placed her mouth at the corner of his, and then moved so that it covered it completely. She felt him shudder against her, and deepened the kiss. It was long and slow and languorous, tongues exploring, hands and arms simply holding, cradling whilst they each reassured themselves that the other was still there.

When they broke, she was trembling.

"I love you," she murmured shakily. "Don't let go of me."

**********

The impossible appeared to have happened. She had looked into the Pensieve, she had witnessed the contents, and she had returned to him. However that particular miracle had come about, it was also evident to him that she had not been unchanged by the experience.

He had expected questions, distress, recriminations. What he got was controlled, focussed and very precisely directed fury.

His lover was a very angry woman indeed.

And the target of that anger was not himself, as he might have anticipated, but Lucius Malfoy.

"I'm going to destroy it." She had been adamant, tone brooking no challenge. "Somehow, I'm going to find a way to do it. I'm not going to let him break you. I'm not going to let him break us."

He tried to remember if he had ever had someone standing at his side who was prepared to take up arms on his behalf in quite this way; someone who, of all extraordinary things, wanted to protect him.

Dumbledore had certainly vouched for him with the Ministry all those years ago. But he had made a bargain with the old man. That support had come with a price; one which he had willingly paid, but a price nonetheless.

Hermione asked for nothing of him that he could fathom, other than his company, his trust and his love. He still couldn't quite understand why she would want any of them, but she did, and as far as he was concerned they were hers without condition. And slowly, he was actually beginning to believe that when he reached out to her, she would be there.

Meanwhile, the woman herself had formed herself into a tight ball of determined energy, as she scoured every book in the Hogwarts' library to find information on Pensieves. Her ability to single-mindedly pursue a goal was one of the many things that he loved about her. But her intensity also worried him a little. He had more than a suspicion that much of her anger stemmed from the fact that she was still dealing with the reaction to what she had seen.

He was currently sitting, book open on his lap, bald cat tucked into his robes, not actually reading, just studying the intent features of the woman in the other chair. She was chewing her bottom lip as she always did when she was reasoning something out, unaware of his scrutiny. Her brow was slightly furrowed and her hair was falling over her face where it had escaped from its ponytail; assisted in that by the absent pullings of its owner. He wanted to reach over and tuck it back, but was reluctant to disturb her concentration.

Suddenly she let out an exasperated noise, and closed her own book with a bang.

"This is ridiculous," she declared, sounding profoundly irritated. "There's absolutely nothing in any of these that tells me anything helpful. There are enough instructions on how to get your own thoughts out of the Pensieve, but no one ever seems to have considered that you might want to get rid of someone else's thoughts."

She hunched into the chair, elbows on the book and chin in her hands.

"I wish I still had my Ministry privileges. I'm sure there must be something in the British Library about this. Or the Bodleian."

He carefully put down his unregarded book, and disentangled Sphinx. She chirruped indignantly, and Hermione looked round. It was, he thought wryly, impossible to move quietly with Sphinx acting as a warning system. However, ignoring the feline protest, he moved over to where Hermione was sitting and sat himself of the arm of her chair, placing his hand in the middle of her back, not knowing quite what to say to her but wanting to offer something.

"There has to be a way to destroy it," she said without moving.

"There's actually very little literature on the basic nature of Pensieves," he said carefully. "Most of it is descriptive, and largely deals with how to make them - the various charms and so forth, but I'm not aware of anything on how to remove information against the maker's will."

She nodded.

"You're saying it's not possible?"

Not possible was a dangerous concept to introduce around Hermione, he thought with a shot of humour. It tended to induce a strong desire to prove the opposite.

"I'm saying that I don't think you'll find the answer in a book." He hesitated and then went on. "And no, there may not be an answer at all."

"I need to find an answer," she said eventually. "I need to... do something. I can't just sit here waiting for Lucius Malfoy to send us his complete collection of Pensieves, one by one."

He rubbed at her back. If it was what she needed to do to cope with this then he would help her as far as he could.

"I've never made a study of the subject," he said consideringly, "but I understand that Pensieves don't really fall neatly into any category. The medium is not quite a potion, the trapping is not exactly done through charms, and the binding effect is not really mediated through Arithmancy."

"I think I'd worked that much out," she said resignedly. "It means going back to first principles, doesn't it?"

"Probably," he agreed, although it hadn't been much of a question.

She sighed and he felt her shoulders sag under his hand.

"I just love re-inventing the wheel."

It actually didn't seem as if they would get as far as a wheel.

It was the Christmas holidays. Hermione had managed to find some kind of explanation to give to her parents to justify her decision to remain at Hogwarts for the entire period. She hadn't given him any details, simply muttering something about wanting to get this sorted out before she had to face any more family visits. He hadn't enquired further. He knew that if he was going to marry their daughter, there would come a point in time when he would have to meet his future parents-in-law but, currently, the thought made him feel slightly sick. He somehow couldn't imagine being welcomed with open arms.

And there was absolutely no guarantee that, after the Malfoy situation had played itself out, she would still be willing to marry him. All in all, Christmas passed largely unmarked by the both of them, other than by a very private exchange of gifts. He rather preferred it that way.

So, now they had the advantage of a large block of uninterrupted time in which to devise a solution to the problem of the Pensieve. And the disadvantage of having nothing to take their minds off their near-total lack of progress.

He had managed to get hold of two ordinary Pensieves; neither of them, it appeared, had much desire to deal with Malfoy's one any more than was strictly necessary. They both fed a neutral memory into their separate bowls and then the other systematically tried to get rid of it.

They started with the obvious; Obliviate charms cast on the bowls, forgetfulness potions dropped into the silvery medium, cleansing solutions, releasing charms, as many variants on Finite Incantatem as either of them could devise.

Nothing worked. The memories stayed firmly in place.

Snape straightened up after their most recent attempt.

"I swear," he remarked, "that if I have to watch Gryffindor beat Slytherin to take the Quidditch Cup once more, I shall be admitted to St Mungo's." The sneer in his voice was exaggerated for effect but the weariness was not. "Was there any particular reason that you chose this memory?" he continued acerbically.

He was rewarded by a slight chuckle from the other side of the bench.

"I expect it was the same idea that made you think that I would enjoy repeatedly reliving Slytherin winning the House Cup," Hermione responded with her own twist of irony.

She had him there, no question. But he felt a certain satisfaction at having amused her with his choice.

"It is getting a little repetitive isn't it?"

She came round the bench to stand close to him, close enough that he could smell her fragrance. Close enough that she could run one finger lightly over the back of his hand.

"I could always remove it and replace it with something more... mutually enjoyable," she murmured, with a wicked edge to her tone.

His mouth went dry and he swallowed.

"I think I'd prefer to work with a memory that I'm actually motivated to erase," he managed wryly.

She laughed again and was about to say something, when there was a cough behind them. They both jumped and turned to see Rose Brunarde standing there, looking faintly embarrassed but also as if she was trying to hide a smile.

Hermione stepped back a little from him, smoothing at her robes although there was nothing out of place about them. She looked a little like a seventh year, caught out behind the greenhouses, he thought.

Despite that thought, he could feel his face creasing into a scowl. Although his feelings had become markedly less chaotic over the last months, he was still not comfortable with displaying them in front of others.

"Hello, Rose." That was Hermione. "What can we do for you."

That was tactful, he thought. It was extremely unlikely that the Charms teacher was seeking him out.

He didn't miss the quick look that the Frenchwoman shot in his direction. He was right. She was trying to stifling a smile. He could see the corners of her mouth twitching. Now he felt like a guilty student. His scowl deepened.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, but Hermione, I was wondering if you wanted to come out to the Three Broomsticks tonight." She paused, and then added. "Both of you."

He swore he could hear mischief in the woman's tone.

Hermione glanced at him.

No. I don't want you to go. It's not safe.

"It's up to you," he said, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Hermione was obviously thinking something through.

"I don't think I can tonight," she said regretfully.

He watched Rose's expression fail to conceal polite scepticism.

"I want to keep working on this," Hermione gestured vaguely at the benches behind her. "And there are some... other considerations."

Rose nodded thoughtfully.

"Your life is still... complicated, I take it."

That's putting it mildly.

"Yes, very," was Hermione's only response. Then she seemed to make some kind of internal decision. "Look, Rose, we have maybe another couple of hours to work on this. Why don't you come up to my rooms later and we can share a bottle of wine there. I know it's not quite the Three Broomsticks, but it'll be nice to chat anyway."

Rose nodded again.

"That sounds like a good idea." She paused and then said, in a rather more uncertain tone, "forgive me if this is none of my business, but this project." She gestured at the bench. "Does this have anything to do with the complications in your life."

He felt Hermione stiffen and he instinctively drew breath to speak.

"You are quite correct, Professor Brunarde, this is none of your business," he said coldly, just as Hermione touched his hand and said, "It's all right, Severus."

Rose had drawn back, whether at his face, or his tone, he didn't know, spreading her hands, already uttering words of apology. Hermione didn't draw her hand away. Instead he felt her fingers entwine with his.

"It's all right," she repeated. "Rose, stay please."

The other woman stopped, but still looked wary. Snape felt Hermione's thumb rub across the side of his hand very lightly. The touch calmed him, but he still didn't feel ready to have the problem laid out for strangers to see.

"The answer to your question is yes." Hermione was speaking. "We're trying to find a way of erasing memories from a Pensieve. Someone else's memories," she clarified. "Please don't ask why," she ended quietly. Snape felt Hermione's hand tighten on his very briefly, confirming his belief that the experience of Malfoy's Pensieve was still vivid to her.

Fortunately, the other woman seemed to accept that meagre explanation.

"Forgive me for intruding, Hermione," he noticed that Rose was not looking at him any more, "I have simply been concerned for you."

"I know. I'm sorry I can't tell you more."

The other woman shrugged.

"It is no matter." She was moving towards the door again. "Until later then."

She smiled briefly, and then left.

As she left, Snape felt his breathing begin to ease.

"Love?" She was still holding his hand. "Love, she's a friend. She was just concerned."

"I know," he said finally, "I'm sorry, I'm just not used to...." He trailed off.

Not used to having friends. Not used to people just being concerned.

"Rose is my friend," said Hermione firmly. "She's funny and intelligent and well read, and you'll like her."

"I wouldn't dare do otherwise," he said, trying to cover his uncertainty with humour.

She leant forward and her lips brushed his cheek lightly.

"She will like you as well. And you'll have a chance to get to know her this evening."

That startled him.

"This evening?" he said feeling confused.

"This evening," she confirmed. "You remember? My rooms. Later. Bottle of wine." She sighed. "Don't tell me you didn't think you were included."

He made a non-committal noise in his throat. It was precisely what he had thought.

"Love," she said, in a tone which fell somewhere between affection and exasperation, "I agreed to marry you. I don't think you get much more included that that."

He felt a sudden release of tension inside. He hadn't realised how much he'd been waiting to hear her confirm that she hadn't changed her mind. A lump formed in his throat and he caught her gaze for a long moment. Then his mouth twitched.

"Shall we get back to work then," he said, "if we're entertaining later?"

**********

'Later in the evening' found Hermione unaccountably nervous about Rose and Snape being in the same room. Despite her confident assertion that Rose would like him, she knew better than anyone that Snape could be completely inaccessible if the mood so took him. And she knew that he had been as badly upset as she by the events of the last couple of months.

All in all, the evening had the potential to go very badly wrong.

Edgily, she paced the room, shifting things from one place to another at random, and trying not to think of Malfoy's Pensieve, sitting in the locked cupboard.

I am going to destroy it, she told herself through gritted teeth. I am.

Once again she was so wrapped in her own thoughts that the knock at the door came as a surprise to her.

It was Rose, holding a bottle of red wine and looking slightly apprehensive.

"I wasn't sure what to bring," she said diffidently, holding up the bottle. "I didn't know what... I mean whether...."

Had she not been so tightly wound Hermione might have laughed.

"Red wine is fine," she said aiming for something like light cheerfulness. "I'd better open it though. I wouldn't recommend serving a Potions Master red wine that hasn't had a chance to breathe properly."

"Nor a Frenchwoman," reminded Rose. She hesitated a moment and then added, "so he is coming then?"

"So he told me earlier this evening," answered Hermione, with more confidence than she felt. Snape was not a social animal by choice. She tried to cover her uncertainty by making more fuss than she needed to about finding a corkscrew, considering that they were both highly competent witches. In the end she had to rather sheepishly give up and use her wand.

"Typical," she said with forced humour. "I can keep a lab immaculately tidy, but my living space always looks like a natural disaster. Harry and Ron used to tease me unmercifully about it...." She trailed off. She had almost forgotten Harry in the wake of the Pensieve.

"There's been no word from Harry since he left here, I take it?" Rose was busy locating three glasses from the depths of a dresser.

"Not so much as an owl feather," she muttered, grateful that Rose couldn't see her face at that moment. Another light tap at the door saved the need to make any further comment.

There was a movement of air, and Snape entered just as Rose straightened up with the glasses in her hand and turned to face him. There was a frozen moment; none of them quite certain how to react to the presence of the others, and then Rose, with Gallic poise and not a little courage, smiled broadly.

"Professor Snape, what perfect timing. I've just managed to find the glasses."

He gave a snort.

"Congratulations. I make it a point of principle never to risk looking in any of Hermione's cupboards."

Hermione stifled a smile, both at the remark, and at the slight double take and swiftly concealed startlement on Rose's face as it dawned on her that Snape had just made a joke.

Moving into the pause, she lifted the bottle.

"The good news is that we have red wine. The bad news is that it still has to breathe a little."

Snape just nodded and seated himself. "Pour it anyway," he recommended. "It can breathe in the glass as well as anywhere."

Hermione gave an encouraging smile to Rose, who was busy putting the glasses on the table. The Charms teacher lifted an eyebrow in response and poured out three glasses of wine. She picked one up and handed it to Snape.

"Professor," she said politely.

Snape simply looked at her for a moment before taking the glass from her outstretched hand.

"Severus," he said shortly.

Hermione registered another millisecond's pause before Rose realised what Snape was saying.

"Rose," she just said in response.

Despite Hermione's fears, it turned out to be a pleasant evening. Snape, by his standards, was obviously making an heroic effort to be friendly and Rose was clearly inclined to give him the benefit of several doubts. As they moved on to another bottle of wine that Hermione unearthed from another dubious cupboard, the conversation strayed away from safe, but boring, school chatter and the atmosphere became distinctly more relaxed.

Hermione, herself, actually found that she was enjoying listening to her lover - fiancé, she supposed, although that was an odd concept - and her friend debate French literature. Once again Snape surprised her with the breadth of his knowledge and the discussion ranged over Camus, Gide and Sartre, via Anouilh, Zola, to Descartes, Pascal and all points in between.

It was the excursion into the philosophers that sent her own thoughts heading back to the Pensieve. So engrossed was she in trying to come up with another, untried angle on the problem that she failed to register that Snape was speaking to her.

"Hermione, have you heard one word that's been said to you?"

She blinked and shook her head ruefully.

"I'm sorry, I was miles away."

"Curiously enough, that fact was not lost on us." His tone was mocking, but she knew there was no real bite behind it.

"Is that project still causing trouble?" asked Rose sympathetically.

Across the room, Hermione saw Snape stiffen very fractionally, but he didn't say anything.

"Yes," she said after a moment. "We've come up against a brick wall, and I can't see how to get round or over it." She looked at the ceiling, suddenly wanting to at least articulate the problem, as if reducing it to words would somehow render it soluble; or at least comprehensible. "The thing is," she said reflectively, "I know - or at least I think I know - how to make a Pensieve. I know the steps to follow, what materials and charms to use and so on, and I'm pretty confident that it would work when I'd finished. But what I don't understand is why it works. I know that it reduces thoughts and memories to something tangible, but I don't see how or why."

Both Snape and Rose were sitting up and watching her now, as she struggled to give words to the stumbling block.

"I think that if I could work out how you can trap a thought, then I could work out how to release it." She sighed. "But so far I've achieved nothing." She shrugged suddenly. "Other than maybe opening up a useful second career as a Pensieve-maker."

She was aware of Snape leaning back in his chair, and was momentarily distracted by the fall of his hair, and a sudden ache to curl up in his arms and pretend that none of this was happening.

"I may have something that would interest you." Rose's voice intruded on her thoughts. She was speaking carefully, as if she wasn't certain of Hermione's reaction.

"What?" Pulled away from thoughts of Snape, Hermione was intrigued.

"Well, it's a Muggle thing." She laughed, a little deprecatingly. "My besetting sin was always wanting to know why things worked as well. I got rather frustrated with 'because it does' as an explanation."

Hermione nodded in understanding, and tried not to glare too obviously as a muffled snort issued from the direction of the other armchair.

"Go on," she said.

"Are you familiar with Muggle Quantum Theory?"

Hermione thought. She'd read enough to know the general principles. From her recollection the mathematics of it was pretty brutal, even for her.

"Well, I wanted to understand how things worked at a fundamental level, so I took it as an elective, when I was studying charms, and I think I remember something in it that might help. I'd need to check back over the texts though."

"Wonderful," said Hermione, with feeling.

Rose looked oddly relieved.

"Are you sure?" she said, still sounding a little anxious. "I mean... I know a lot of wizards often dismiss Muggle ideas and I wasn't sure...."

"I can assure you," came a dry voice from the other chair, "dismissing Muggle ideas is not something that any sensible person does around Professor Granger."

Hermione grinned openly at that, whilst Rose looked a little disconcerted at Snape's sudden use of her full title.

"To be frank," she said wryly, "at this stage I'd ask Sybill Trelawney if I thought she could give me any help.

**********

It had been a week since their quiet evening in.

Two days after first mentioning that she might have something that would help, Rose had come into the Potions Room holding a book with a yellow cover with green dots on it. It looked fairly battered, as if it had seen some considerable use, if not abuse. She had opened it at a marked passage and she and Hermione had held a quiet and intense conversation, with Rose occasionally pointing things out on the page in front of her.

Snape hadn't been quite sure whether Rose talked only to Hermione in deference to the fact that he was occupied with something else and she didn't want to break into his concentration, or whether she was still slightly apprehensive in his presence. On the whole he rather hoped it was the latter. He had allowed Hermione past his defences. That didn't mean that he was ready to open up to all and sundry. He still preferred to keep some distance between himself and the outside world.

Hermione was... well... exceptional. She was Hermione.

Hermione had begun to nod, then. Slowly at first and then with more vigour. She had turned to him, with that familiar look, the one that told him that she had turned inward pursuing some line of thought within herself.

"Love," she had said absently, her use of the endearment in front of Rose a clear sign of her preoccupation, "I think I can see another angle in this. I need to sit down with Rose and work through it. I'll be back soon, I promise."

He had barely had a chance to nod in response before she was out the door, holding the book and asking Rose questions.

He spared a wry thought for the Charms teacher, on the receiving end of Hermione in full analytical mode.

"I'll be back soon" was, of course, a flexible concept. She had been gone for the next five days. They did manage to meet briefly at meal times; he was relieved to notice that Rose succeeded in dragging her to the Great Hall with welcome regularity. But other than that, and occasional nods exchanged in the corridor, she was totally wrapped in whatever line of research currently had her enthralled.

He was astonished to realise that he didn't mind. Well, perhaps didn't mind was putting it a bit highly. He would have liked her to share her progress with him. But he knew she would tell him when she was good and ready. And some very deep part of him was actually prepared to believe her promise to return; was not automatically reinterpreting a temporary preoccupation as rejection, betrayal and abandonment.

His teaching days were as frustrating as they ever were. The students failed to follow simple instructions, didn't pay attention in class and generally behaved as if they were on some kind of extended holiday. His temper wasn't sweeter. He still thought that the Ravenclaws were boring and the Hufflepuffs were stupid. The Slytherins relied too much on his perceived favouritism to come up with anything truly inventive in the way of guile. And the Gryffindors still mostly reminded him of overlarge untrained dogs that couldn't quite believe that not everybody found them intrinsically loveable. Detentions were given. House points were deducted.

Yet his nights were surprisingly peaceful; the fear of loss never wholly absent, but in abeyance for a time.

A week after he and she and Rose had shared the bottle of wine, she came back to him. She was holding a sheaf of parchment and she was slightly breathless with excitement, eyes shining in a way that immediately conjured up the image of her thirteen year old self before him. However, instead of irritating him, it made his breath catch in a way that would have appalled her thirteen year old self, and indeed, all right thinking people including himself.

"I've got the answer." So very typical of her. So very certain. "If you model the thought as a wave function and the Pensieve as a potential well, then all we have to do is find the energy state of the memory. From that we identify the charm that will cancel it out."

Snape blinked. She had spoken with the air of someone continuing a conversation already started, and she had missed out several stages of reasoning. He thought he understood the words, but he was struggling to follow the implications.

"That's all we have to do?" he asked, half teasing her.

"Yes." She bit her lip suddenly, looking oddly uncertain. "At least I think so. The analysis works on paper, and it makes sense."

Resisting the urge to tease her any further, he simply said, "Show me."

Obediently, she spread her calculations on the bench in front of him.

"What do you know about Quantum Mechanics?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"Like you, I've read around the subject."

It was, in a way, inevitable that he would have. Wizards, by and large, tended to fall into two schools of thought. Those that were content that magic worked and looked no for no further explanation than the ubiquitous "because it does", and those who wanted to know why. Clearly, magic worked at some fundamental, basic level. Any consideration of why tended to lead the inquisitive along the paths explored by the Muggle quantum scientists. After all, matter was matter, whether Muggle or magical, and Muggles, lacking convenient magical shortcuts, were forced to devise their own schemata of how their world operated. Some of these models were directly applicable to magical principles - Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions being the most obvious ones.

She nodded.

"OK. Well you know the idea that at the quantum level things like photons and electrons behave sometimes like a wave and sometimes like a particle?"

"Wave particle duality. Yes, I know."

She clicked her tongue in annoyance.

"I'm sorry. I want to make certain that I've got this right."

He nodded.

"Go on."

"Well, if you take something like an electron, say, you can model it as a wave, yes?" He nodded. "And if it's trapped, say by the forces from the nucleus of an atom, the wave can only take a certain form, depending on the energy of the wave."

He nodded again, this time remembering diagrams of ropes being shaken, and explanations of wavelengths.

"So," she continued, "put simply, if you confine a wave in some area - a box if you like - then it can only exist in certain states... forms."

He was beginning to see what she was getting at.

"So you're calling the memory the wave and the Pensieve the box?"

She was nodding enthusiastically.

"Yes. I was treating the thoughts as if they were some kind of physical thing, but doesn't it make more sense for them to be a kind of energy?"

It certainly did.

He turned the idea over in his mind.

"But even if that's right," he said slowly, "a memory is a truly complex thing. How do you identify the "wave" clearly?"

She looked a little uncertain again.

"Well, this is where it gets a bit speculative. But I'm sure it's right," she added a little defensively.

He spread his hands.

"Just explain," he said.

She took a deep breath.

"Well, obviously a thought isn't exactly like an electron. Suppose that a memory had a higher energy depending on how aroused the person remembering was? So that, say, putting on your shoes would be a low energy memory, but being angry or frightened or really happy was a high energy memory." He was nodding again. "Well, then if you could identify some low energy memory it would be a simple thought. You could take that thought and then work out what energy the rest of the memories had."

"Because if you accept the thought-wave analogy, once they're confined in the box, or in this case the Pensieve, the memories can only exist in certain given forms," he finished. "The forms of the memories are all related, so if you know the simple one you can work out the complex ones."

The complex memories would be a combination of simpler ones - taken from the perspective of emotional content rather than factual content.

"Yes."

Theoretically possible, but very, very difficult.

"And then?" He saw a couple of possibilities, but wondered which one she had chosen.

"If we have the 'wave function' then we could devise a charm which is its exact opposite. It would cancel the memory out."

Simple and elegant. However....

"Hermione," he said carefully, "how are you going to identify the simple thought?"

She looked suddenly very uncomfortable.

"Um," she said unhappily, "this is the bit that I really don't think that you're going to like."

He felt his heart begin to sink.

"The Pensieve was made by Lucius Malfoy," she went on. "It's the only sample of his thought that we have." She paused. "I think that I'm going to have to look into it again, to find some simple, low affect thought. And because you know him, you're going to have to come with me to point it out to me."

She was absolutely right. He didn't like it one bit. He also knew that it was their best shot at solving the problem.

He did, however, lay down one stipulation.

Before either of them went through the experience of the Pensieve, they would test the theory on some other, less emotionally charged, experience. Which meant, inevitably, they were back to their test memories.

However, this time Snape placed a very anodyne memory in the Pensieve whilst Hermione measured the data and recorded the information. It was, when all was said and done, a very easy process. Half an hour's work and Hermione had all the raw data that she needed for the calculations.

The calculations, on the other hand, proved to be a rather different story. It was another four days before Hermione and Rose, working together and cross checking each other's results, had a charm which they were confident enough to test.

It didn't work.

That night she came to him for the first time since she had begun with this line of research. She slid into bed beside him, curling herself against him, resting her cheek against his back so that he could feel her breath, warm against him.

"I'll solve it," she murmured, "he isn't going to win. I won't let him win."

The words vibrated against his bare skin, and he turned himself round in her grasp so that he was facing her.

"He's already lost," he said softly. "He told me that you were going to walk away from me, and," he took a deep breath, as if saying it out loud was somehow tempting fate, "you haven't."

She buried her head in his chest, and he moved a hand up to stroke her hair, softly soothing her. She lay there quietly, and then he felt her shudder against him; it could have been a sob or a laugh, he couldn't tell. He continued smoothing his hand gently over her hair, until her breathing deepened and he could tell that she had fallen asleep. Placing a light kiss on the top of her head, he cradled her to him, and drifted into sleep himself.

The following day she was gone when he woke, and he didn't see her for next three days, other than at meal times. There were dark circles under her eyes and he wondered if the night she had spent in his arms was the last time that she had slept. He knew that she was driving herself over the Pensieve, but he also knew his lover well enough to know that she needed to work through this. He simply watched her carefully.

He noticed that Rose Brunarde was looking pale and tired as well. He felt uncomfortable that this situation seemed to be drawing others in to it; sufficiently so for him to seek Rose out in her classroom.

The Charms teacher was clearing up after a third year class, when he entered, standing silently until she noticed him. When she did, it was clear that she was preoccupied enough to be startled by his presence.

"Professor... um," using his given name was obviously still not automatic yet, "what can I do for you? Hermione isn't here."

"I know." He paused. "Professor Brunarde" - he certainly wasn't comfortable with her given name yet - "this current situation is... complicated."

She almost smiled at that, he noticed.

"So Hermione keeps telling me," she replied.

He nodded briefly, searching for words in an unfamiliar situation for him; concern for others.

"There is a history to this matter," he said eventually. "Hermione drives herself sometimes. It is not something that I like, but it is something that she needs to do." He paused again. "Do not let her drive you as well."

He noticed that Rose looked a little startled, but he pulled his robes around himself and left the classroom before he could be drawn into further conversation.

That evening Hermione and Rose announced that they thought they had found the flaw in the first charm. They tried again.

This time it worked.

Which meant, he thought uncomfortably, that there were no more reasons not to confront Lucius Malfoy's gift. They chose their time carefully. A Friday, when there was no Quidditch match to attend the following day, no students to escort into Hogsmeade, no detentions to oversee. Nothing to distract them from their task. He hadn't wanted Rose to be there when they did this, and he was relieved to see that Hermione appeared to agree with him. It was not an experience that needed an audience.

They sat in her rooms, the Pensieve, with its tarnished silver contents, on the table between them. Between them both literally and metaphorically, he thought ironically. Although they had both gone to dinner, more for the look of it than anything else, neither of them had eaten very much and had escaped as soon as decently possible.

She was very pale, he noticed, jaw set, eyes determined. He tried to calm the roiling sensation in his guts, but was having little success. The silence in the room was oppressive; for his part he could think of nothing to say, but desperately wanted to put off the moment when he had to revisit his past in this manner.

Suddenly she moved, extending her hand to him, palm uppermost.

"It's not going to get any easier, love," she said ruefully, the tension obvious both in her voice and the muscles of her forearm.

Slowly he placed his hand on hers, clasping it tightly. She returned the grip.

"Shall we get on with it, then?" he said simply.

She nodded once and they both leant forward to look into the Pensieve.

He felt the usual sensation of falling into cold blackness, and then the scene around him resolved into one of sick familiarity.

He was back in one of Lucius Malfoy's dungeons.

Hermione was beside him, her hand still holding his. She was calm, but her whole body spoke of someone bracing themselves against an assault. He looked around, telling himself firmly that he was there to do a job; to obtain information.

He remembered the scene; the table, the trolleys, the implements. And the man chained to the wall, gradually regaining consciousness. Over the years, he had forced himself to recall to mind every detail of each of these occasions; every cut, every poison, every screaming face. Made himself face each and every action committed, enumerating every sin, allowing no evasion or excuse.

He remembered.

And yet he didn't remember.

Didn't remember the identity of the victim - if he had ever known it. Didn't know why this one and not some other. He heard his younger self in his mind, cold, detached.

They are experimental subjects, not pets. Would you expect to get attached to a lab rat?

His older self knew that for the rationalisation it was. The first step on the path to inhumanity; depersonalise the victim - reduce him to an object.

He watched as the ever-impeccable figure of Lucius Malfoy moved around the table, speaking to the prisoner. He watched himself preparing the potions, moving the trolley into position, cold and dark, face unreadable, even to himself.

"What is he thinking?" The soft voice reminded him of her presence. Somewhere along the line he had lost the sensation of her touch. He glanced down involuntarily. Her hand was still grasping his.

Concentrate, Severus. You're here for a reason.

He swallowed, and tried to take one step back from the dungeon; to view it from a neutral standpoint. To put himself in Malfoy's shoes. To identify - to empathise.

Lucius had never been one for overt displays of emotion. He would have thought them vulgar. Yet there was always a change in him when he entered the dungeons. He became... invigorated... in some way.

"Anticipation," he said eventually, voice sounding dry to his ears. "He enjoyed the anticipation and the ritual."

The easy banter of the torture chamber. The sexual touch of bare skin against raw flesh. The slippery sensual feel of blood under lingering fingers. Fair skin flushed, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted, the barest tip of tongue visible....

"It excited him. He liked to prolong the... preliminaries."

He almost said foreplay.

"So, he will be at his least excited at the beginning?"

The question was cool, detached, coming from a long way off, as if she was determined to be as scientific about it as she could.

"Maybe," was all he could manage. Once disturbed, the memories were returning with unpleasant ease. He struggled to keep his voice even, unemotional. "When he was cutting, he was always very calm. Almost serene."

He heard her draw in her breath beside him. In front of them, Lucius was complimenting someone on the arrangement of the surgical implements, and then he made a remark about roses.

His roses. It was always his roses.

The younger Snape snarled something in response and then the chained figure was being restrained on the table. He was dimly aware of Hermione removing her hand from his. For a sick moment he thought that she was pulling out of the Pensieve completely, but a another swift look told him that she was simply making notes.

Malfoy cut; the younger Snape wrote something down. And Hermione also wrote something down; grim parody of a lab practical.

Snape watched as that person that was and was not himself directed the actions, added the liquids, measured, timed and recorded the results. And forced himself to analyse the actions of Malfoy. The turn of the head, the line of the shoulders, the ease of balance and movement. He noted the developing rhythm, the flex and stretch of the wrist, the calm, intent expression on the face.

And as the screams reached their loudest, as the tortured body evacuated itself on to the table, as he watched his own face twist in disgust at the contamination of the experiment, Lucius Malfoy closed his eyes in a moment of utter stillness, completely at peace with himself.

"Now," he said harshly. "That's the calmest he gets. As the body fails, he gets... frustrated...."

The woman next to him made additional notes.

Sure enough, as the screams faded to sobs, and the thrashing weakened Malfoy appeared to be no longer oblivious to his environment. His nose twitched at the stench rising up from the body. His movements became more petulant, like a small child who had broken his favourite toy.

"I've seen enough." Hermione had tucked away her parchment. "I would like to leave now."

He could hear the fraying of her voice, the rough edges where she was fighting for control. She would certainly get no protest from him. He turned to take her hand again, but she was fading out of the scene, drawing away from him. He shut his eyes at the dual visions, willing himself back into her rooms.

When he opened his eyes again she was outlined in the warm glow of the firelight, sitting across the table, head in her hands. He could see the faint shaking of her shoulders, and the jerky rise of her chest as she tried to control her breathing.

He waited, aware that his own breathing was a little ragged. Finally, she looked at him. Her face was very pale but her eyes were dry. She took another couple of deep breaths.

"How?" she asked, eventually. He could hear the tremor in her voice that she was trying to suppress. "I've tried, but I just don't understand... why... how... you could do that to another person."

It sounded like it should have been an accusation, but her tone was calm, her gaze direct; a simple request for clarification.

He sought for the words to explain how he had come to the point of being able to treat a human being as a laboratory specimen.

"In the eyes of Voldemort they were less than human. Not really capable of true feeling." He paused. "I chose not to question that premise."

"Because Voldemort gave you what you wanted," she whispered, "Power. Control."

"Yes."

"They - we - are capable of feeling."

"I know."

He had always known, if he were honest with himself. He had certainly known that night his old Potions Master had been brought in. Professor Septimus Filby, his wife and two children; the first man who had made an effort with him. He had repaid that effort with pain and death - devised by him, if administered by others. But the act of recognition had stripped away the convenient façade of dehumanisation; had no longer allowed him to hide behind the mantra less than animals.

It had been the last self-deception that he had permitted himself.

"I know," he repeated, blankly.

A small, warm hand covered his, and the suddenness of the touch made him jump.

"It sickens me to think of you doing that," she said honestly.

"I gave up the right to be sickened by my actions some while ago," he said, hearing an old bitterness colour his voice. Her grip on his hand tightened.

"Maybe," she conceded, "but you aren't that man. Not now."

"Hermione...," he began and then trailed off, wondering how he was going to continue.

She stood up, still holding his hand. Softly, letting her hand shift its grip, but never losing contact, she moved round the table until she was standing behind his chair. With her free hand she began to rub at his shoulder, running the ball of her thumb over the nape of his neck under his hair. He felt a tingle begin to spread out across his shoulder blades.

"Love," she said quietly, "you asked me to look. So I did. We both knew that I wasn't going to like what I saw. And I hate the thought of you doing that, I really do. But," he heard her hesitate, but her thumb continued its gentle strokes, "I hate what drove you to it as well. If there was any way I could take it away, that I could make it not have happened - any of it - then I would. In an instant. But I can't. And it'll always be part of you. And I have to accept that and deal with it if I want to be with you." Another pause. "Which I do - more than anything."

He closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing, concentrating on pushing down the lump in his throat, concentrating on not breaking down in front of her again.

Whether she sensed it or not he couldn't say, but he felt the thumb pause, and then soft lips touched his skin.

"It's all right," she murmured, "it's really all right."

He turned at that, so that he could look at her. She was still pale, but her face was open, unguarded. He searched her eyes for the tell-tale signs of pity, mockery, disgust, deception - but found none of them. Her brown eyes were dark, very dark; almost as dark as his, he thought and sparking with something - an unspoken need that called him to reach out in answer.

Slowly, he lifted a hand to her face, knowing that he was trembling as he did so, and ran his fingers along the line of her cheekbone. As he cupped her jaw, she raised her own hand to trap his, holding it against her skin and then drawing it to her mouth. He felt her lips touch his palm, and then her mouth opened to let her tongue lap and circle in the hollow.

The earlier tingle in his shoulders became a heat spreading through him, filling him with an overwhelming need to touch her and hold her and love her. He opened his mouth, struggling to find the words to articulate how he felt, but she just stepped back from him, still holding his hand. He wanted to protest, but she was drawing him towards her bedroom.

"Please, love," she said, and he could hear the husk in her voice, "I need you."

No, a distant part of him thought, she shouldn't be asking of me like this; I should be asking of her.

But then they were in the bedroom, and they were both asking of the other, urgently craving and demanding release. Her mouth came up to his, hot and insistent, her hands pulling at his robes. Scrabbling and dragging, by the time they fell together onto the bed they were both naked and he was already hard. He willed himself to take as much time as she wanted, but she sought him fiercely, hands roaming over his body, her touch sending waves of sheer animal lust coursing through him. He swept his hands down her body, over her breasts, fingers seeking her nipples, rewarded by a soft guttural cry and an arch into his touch, pressing herself into him. He was kissing her hard now, tongue thrusting into her mouth, almost fighting her as she matched his passion, nipping and biting at him ferociously, all the time letting out small gasps of pleasure.

Her hands ran down his back to clasp his buttocks, pulling his hips against her, and he let out a sound of his own as his aching hardness pressed against the roughness of her pubic hair. She shifted under him, opening her legs so that he could slide between her thighs. He pushed himself back a little, struggling through his haze of need and desire, not to simply take her as she lay there.

He pulled his mouth away from hers, ignoring her whimper of protest, and bent his head to kiss one of her nipples. The whimper turned into a harsh cry, as she pushed herself into his mouth, hands coming up to bury themselves in his hair, massaging his scalp almost to the point of pain. He ran his tongue over the hard flesh, his turn to nip and bite, aware of her writhing under him as he licked at her.

He ran his hand along the top of her thigh delving into her hot folds, already wet and swollen. He heard her choke out his name as he stroked the slick flesh, finding the tiny, hard nub and circling it with his thumb. He slid one finger inside her, and felt a spasm run through the muscles making her buck against his hand. He slid a second finger inside, and was dimly surprised to feel one of her hands leave his head and catch hold of his hand.

"No... please... now...," she said incoherently, and then "I need you now. Please."

Never in his entire life had he thought that he would hear that from a woman. He closed his eyes, praying that he wouldn't come there and then.

Her hand curled around his length, and he heard a harsh sound come from the back of his own throat. He shifted over her, allowing her to guide him into her, the feel of her hand against his erection sending fire into his balls. He gritted his teeth, pushing himself onto his elbows and almost growling with the effort of holding back. With a single thrust, he was sheathed in her, hearing her cry out through the blood rushing in his ears, feeling her body arch and buck again, her nails digging into his back, the pain oddly reassuring; that and blind desire and overwhelming adoration telling him that he was still alive, that he could still feel, that she was still with him. Some primal instinct kept him moving his body against until there was another cry and teeth bit into his shoulder and he felt her inner muscles spasm and clamp around him, and with a harsh, choking sob of release he emptied himself into her. Again and again, he thrust into her until he was drained and she had stopped jerking against him.

He moved to roll off her, but she wrapped her arms around and pulled him close.

"No," she whispered, her voice ragged and shaken, "stay in me."

He let himself down, hooking one leg over hers, and rolling a little to one side, so that she wouldn't have to bear his entire weight, kissing her collarbone gently, as if to make up for his earlier roughness. He tasted the salt sweat of their frantic coupling, hot and sticky on her body. He knew that his wouldn't be much better. Already he could feel himself cooling and his back beginning to sting where her nails had broken the skin. She had her arms tightly around him and her head buried against him. He felt a tremor run through her, and then another one, and then he felt something hot against his skin.

Tears.

His heart contracted and his mouth went dry.

"Dearest," he whispered uncertainly, "what is it?" He paused, dreading the answer to the next question. "Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head against him, vigorously, causing her hair to rub against his chest.

"No, never think that."

"I wanted..." Gods, he found this difficult to say, "I wanted to... take more time... but...."

She looked at him then, and he could see the tears on her cheeks. She reached up to kiss him, and he could taste the salt on her mouth. It was long and gentle and as slow as he could ever have wanted. When she broke away, she rested her head against his chest again.

"It was incredibly intense. And wonderful." And then, in a little rush, "you always make me feel wonderful."

Another thing he never dreamed to hear someone say.

"It's mostly just release of tension, I think." She was still speaking. "And...." There was a small pause, and then there was another rush of words, "... I was so frightened. I thought I was going to lose you at your mother's and I didn't know how to stop it happening and then there was all of this...," she trailed off. "I'm sorry," she said a little sheepishly, "I know I'm being silly, but...."

Whatever else she might have said was cut off by another shiver.

Instinctively, he drew her closer to him.

"What is it?"

"I'm cold."

The relief that surged through him was so absurdly disproportionate to the prosaic statement, that he had to stifle a snort of laughter.

Tension release, indeed.

They managed to get themselves under the covers, Snape wrapping her in a combination of the quilt and himself.

For the first time in months, they both slept peacefully.

**********

After that it was down to the numbers.

Hermione had the raw information and she had the parameters of the Pensieve. All she had to do was perform the calculations accurately and it would be over. Of course, performing the calculations accurately took considerably more time to do than to say, more time even that the initial dummy run had taken.

That one had been a comparatively simple exercise compared to dealing with the bizarrely distorted perceptions of Lucius Malfoy. But eventually, after days of too little food and sleep, after piles of wasted parchment and at least one major outburst of frustrated temper - all threaded through with her usual teaching workload - Hermione stood in her rooms, facing Malfoy's Pensieve, flanked by Snape and Rose, and holding a three foot long scroll containing her first set of possible solutions.

Rose Brunarde was looking pale and drawn as well. Hermione had not told her the exact nature of the memories that they were dealing with, but the numbers alone had clearly told the charms teacher something. She had certainly not asked any questions after the first results had emerged.

Snape was more impassive than usual; an indication of the strength of his feelings. She was aware of his apprehension - since their last encounter with the grey bowl he had become noticeably less guarded with her, as if, having finally decided to commit to her, he knew no half measures.

She hoped again that she wouldn't disappoint him.

Now they were actually at this point, she was by no means as certain as she had been when they started. She needed this to work too much. She raised her wand with more confidence than she actually felt.

"There are a number of possible solutions," she said. "It may take more than one attempt."

Rose nodded, and Snape made an irritable noise.

She knew she had said this before, several times, but she needed to be clear for her own sake.

She poised her wand, ran over the movements of the charm devised by herself and Rose one more time, and cast.

The surface of the Pensieve glowed with a more intense silver, and then faded, nothing else happened. She let her wand arm drop.

Was it her imagination, or was the interior less dull than before?

She looked at Rose and Snape, Neither of them had altered expression. It must be her imagination then. However, there was only one way to check - a simple glance would suffice.

Don't get your hopes up. The chances of it having worked first time are vanishingly small.

She carefully put her wand down on the table, and bent over the Pensieve. She closed her eyes, letting the icy darkness take her. As the world stabilised, she willed herself to open her eyes. In front of her was a misty greyness, which slowly resolved into... into a plain greyness with fuzzy overtones. Not the blank grey of Malfoy's dungeon, but a formless limbo. In short, an empty Pensieve.

Oh Gods. Oh good Gods. It worked. It actually worked.

She was so shocked that it took the sensation of a disembodied hand on her shoulder to jerk her back to herself and out of the Pensieve.

Blinking, she looked round at her room, half unseeing. Rose was gazing at her with open worry on her face. Snape was largely expressionless, but there were more lines than usual around his eyes, and it was his hand that had got her attention. She realised, belatedly, that she was still muttering to herself. She took a breath to try and steady herself.

"It worked," she said simply. "It worked."

Snape's hand dropped to his side, and he opened his mouth as if to say something and then closed it again. Then he just shook his head, whether in joy or disbelief or something else she didn't know.

"Look," she insisted, fighting the silly grin she could feel forming.

He did. When he straightened up his face was unreadable.

"It worked," he confirmed.

Then she was caught in a warm hug that smelt faintly of gardenias.

"Hermione, that's wonderful. Congratulations." It was Rose.

She returned the hug.

"I couldn't have done it without you," said Hermione honestly. "I'd still be doing those calculations."

"Yes," came a quiet sincere voice, behind the two women. "Thank you, Rose."

"You're very welcome, Severus."

Hermione smiled. It was not quite a tearful embrace, but it was nonetheless genuine between the two of them. Which just left Harry and Ron....

Rose drew back a little.

"So this means that your complication is over, yes?"

Over. Was it?

She stood very still, thinking about that. With the success of the charm, Lucius Malfoy's power over them had been neutralised - or at the very least reduced to an inconvenience. She examined her feelings. They were free of him, for the time being. But, as Snape had pointed out, there was still a whole library of Pensieves at the Chateau, ready for use against them - or against others.

There was unfinished business here all round.

"No," she said slowly, "it's not over. Now, we take this home to Lucius Malfoy."

**********

END OF PART 8