Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Rating: NC-17 for consensual sex between adults.

Author’s Notes:

Hermione Granger was running down the corridors at Hogwarts, with an essay clutched in her hand, frantically trying to find the person that she had to give it to. She didn’t know  why, or what it was for, she just knew it was critically important that it was handed in or something dreadful would happen. She remembered that she needed to get to the dungeons. If she could just find them, then everything would be all right. But every time she found a familiar way, the stairs moved, and she was back where she started. And the stone around her dissolved into a thick grey fog that clung around her legs, and her arms, and threaded its way into her hair, until she couldn’t move, and the fog lightened and her body got heavier and heavier, and all she could think was that she hadn’t handed her essay in on time….

And then, she became aware of whiteness. A white ceiling, in particular. Odd, she thought. She could have sworn that the ceiling at the Rose and Crown had been much dirtier. She tried to focus and the brightness brought tears to her eyes. Instinctively, turning away from it, she realised that her head hurt. A lot.

A figure swam into her blurry vision. It didn’t look hostile, but it didn’t look right either. It was not tall enough, and the hair wasn’t dark enough, or long enough, and the serious expression behind the glasses (glasses?) didn’t look right either.

“Hermione… Hermione… can you hear me?” A voice from a long way off, familiar and not-right as well. Anxious, calling for help.

Help? Why did she need help?

Then another figure was at the bed. It seemed to be mostly white, like the room. Her forehead was felt, her skull was prodded, her wrist was held.

“She’s coming back to us, Mr Potter. Give her a chance, that was a nasty bang she took there.” Older voice. Competent, practical, with the hands of a professional carer. Recalling Madam Pomfrey, but not the Hogwarts matron. She remembered her dream. She still had to hand the essay in. She struggled to say something. Hands restrained her.

“It’s OK, Hermione, you’re safe now, it’s over, you’re going to be fine.” Evoking the memory of another voice, darker, richer, comforting her… it’s all right, you’re safe, you’re not alone….

She couldn’t hear him, she wanted to know where he was….

“Severus,” she tried to say, but couldn’t form the word. The not-right figure next to the bed heard something though.

“Snape?” it said, in a tone laden with contempt and disgust. “Don’t worry ‘Mione, he can’t hurt you any more.”

No, no, you don’t understand, she wanted to say, I need to know where he is, what happened, but the white was fading to grey, and the stone was solidifying under her feet again. The essay was in her hand once more, and the stairs were moving.

As she began to search again for the dungeons, a fleeting thought drifted away from her like dust.

He would never call me ‘Mione.

The next time she woke the throbbing in her head had eased considerably. She opened her eyes gingerly, blinking against the brightness. Movement beside the bed caught her attention. A round blob with a red halo resolved into the face of Ron Weasley. He was grinning inanely.

“Welcome back, ‘Mione.”

She smiled weakly, and looked around the room. It was obviously a hospital room, indistinguishable from just about any other hospital room. Mostly white. Very, very clean.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“St Mungo’s. You were apparated here after,” he paused, uncharacteristically for Ron, “after Harry found you.”

He looked uncomfortable. Hermione took in as much of her surroundings as she could from a prone position. A vase of flowers stood by one side of the bed, and a basket sat on the other side. Without needing to look she guessed that it contained - or at any rate had once contained - chocolate frogs, and supplies of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.

“Nice flowers,” she said, to fill the silence.

He grinned.

“Mum sent them. The basket was from me and Harry - it’s a traditional Weasley family remedy.”

“Have you eaten all of it,” she asked, in a feeble attempt at humour.

Ron pretended to be outraged.

“Course not,” he said virtuously. “But then again, these things do go off you know….”

She managed a small laugh at that, and shut her eyes again, trying to order her thoughts. Something that Ron had said, now registered.

“Ron,” she said, opening her eyes to look at him. “You said that Harry found me. How did he find me?”

Ron looked awkward again.

“Dunno the full details,” he said shifting slightly. “All I know is that he found you in some cottage in the middle of nowhere. You’ll have to ask Harry the rest.”

“Ask Harry the rest of what?” came the smiling voice from the doorway.

Ron jumped up in relief.

“’Mione was just asking about what happened. I said you were the one to ask.”

The smile on Harry’s face slipped a little, but he quickly recovered. She was beginning to feel a faint sense of unease stirring.

“Harry,” she said, seriously, “tell me what happened. The last thing I remember is falling and hitting my head. How did you find me?”

Harry’s face went closed.

“He made a mistake,” he said briefly.

He? Which he?

She sighed, with a trace of her usual manner asserting itself.

“Harry, just tell me what happened.”

Ron grinned again.

“Sounds like she’s feeling better. Tell you what, I’ll leave you to your chat, and go and send owls to everyone who wanted to be told, when you were awake.” With unusual tact, he slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Hermione pushed herself carefully up, until she was sitting upright. Harry moved to adjust the pillows until she was comfortable.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait for a while?”

“Absolutely.” She was now certain that something had happened. Something bad. “Tell me.”

Harry ran his hand through his unruly hair, a habit from boyhood that he had never managed to break.

“Well, you know that Snape disappeared, when we went to arrest him,” she nodded, and he grinned ruefully, “well, yeah, I suppose you would really wouldn’t you. We lost him, but the IUMO had a trace on him,” he frowned, “I told you that didn’t I?” She nodded again. “A lot has happened over the past three weeks.”

Three weeks? How long had she been here.

Harry continued.

“Well, about three days ago the IUMO magic alert was triggered, so we followed it up. We apparated to this cottage somewhere, and inside we found Draco Malfoy turned into a snivelling vegetable, and you with a fractured skull. He was…” he hesitated, “beside you, and your blood was all over his hands. He must have used your wand to cast a spell or something. I guess he thought that we wouldn’t be able to trace him, if he didn’t use his own wand. Anyway, we got you out to St Mungo’s.”

She went cold.

“And him?” Her voice was a whisper.

“Azkaban,” said Harry with grim satisfaction. “So, don’t worry about him, he’s safely locked up.”

She felt sick, and her vision blurred. She shut her eyes and leant her head back against the pillows, shaking her head.

Azkaban. Oh Gods.

Harry had his hand on her arm.

“It’s OK ‘Mione.”

No, it was most definitely NOT OK.

“Did he say anything?” she asked, faintly.

“No. Not a thing. I asked for an explanation, and he just smirked. I don’t think he’s said anything to any of the other Ministry people either.”

She fought to process this information. Why hadn’t he just told them what happened? She opened her eyes.

“Harry,” she said, “when the Ministry searched the cottage, did they find anything like an ornamental dagger, a bit battered, about eight inches long, with a capital M on it?”

Harry was shaking his head.

“No, nothing like that.”

“And Draco and Sev… Snape were the only other people in the cottage?”

“Yes.”

Which meant that he had probably managed to send the other back, unless…

“Was there anything… odd about S... Snape when you arrested him.”

Harry snorted.

“Nope, nothing at all. Same supercilious, miserable, git that he ever was.”

Hermione felt a paradoxical sense of relief at that statement. She rubbed her head, where it still ached a little. Harry looked sympathetic.

“You said I fractured my skull,” she said curiously.

“Yes. Quite badly, apparently. The medi-wizard said that if we hadn’t got there when we did you’d have died.”

She shut her eyes again. She remembered the thing hitting her away, stumbling backwards, catching her foot, falling, and then nothing. A fractured skull. If the Aurors hadn’t got there in time, she’d have died. He had cast some charm with her wand, knowing that the Ministry would arrive immediately. He’d said nothing about what had happened. If she, also, said nothing the matter would go no further - he would remain in Azkaban, she would carry on with her life as if nothing had happened.

I pay my debts, Miss Granger.

The man’s sense of honour was built on a quixotic streak wide enough to host the Quidditch World Cup. The idiot. The stupid idiot. The bloody, bloody, stupid, idiot man. How could he have begun to think that she would go along with this.

She felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes, and one escaped to fall down her cheek. Angrily, she rubbed it away. She opened her eyes again, to see Harry looking at her in alarm.

“Hermione,” he said anxiously, “you really are going to be all right, you know. He can’t hurt you now.”

She shook her head, sniffing a little.

“Harry, you don’t understand, you really don’t understand. He didn’t hurt me at all. Far from it…” she trailed off at his look of incomprehension.

“Listen,” she continued, in a firmer tone, “there’s something that you need to know. You’d better sit down because it’s going to take a while, and I don’t think that you’re going to like some parts of it.”

Eyeing her apprehensively, Harry seated himself by the bed. Hermione took a deep breath and began to explain. She told him nearly everything - the potion, the other reality, the other, the murders, Draco Malfoy, helping Snape, the attacks, the cottage, the talisman, and the final confrontation. She reduced the account of their personal dealings to the bare statement that he had been helpful and cooperative. Of Snape’s background history, she said nothing at all.

When she finished Harry put his head in his hands.

“Oh dear Gods, what a mess.”

“You can say that again,” she said miserably.

“I should never have involved you with the potion in the first place.”

Hermione felt a brief surge of irritation. Was she destined to be forever surrounded by men, determined to heap blame on themselves at every opportunity?

“I could have said no,” she pointed out, with asperity. “I didn’t have to continue looking after we got back from the other place. I could have summoned the Aurors when he turned up on my doorstep. I made my own choices in this, thank you very much.”

Harry looked a little hurt at her tone. She realised that she had become used to dealing with Snape, whose feelings were much less apt to be affected by lapses in superficial politeness. She consciously moderated her voice.

“Sorry, Harry, I’m just a little… off-balance… right now. I think what’s more important is working out what happens next.”

“Well, the Ministry will have to be told.” He glanced at her. “I don’t think they’re going to be very happy… with either of us.”

“Well, I expected that. Um… Harry, you know, I don’t have to say where I got the potion from. I can just say that it arrived in an anonymous package, with a letter or something,  and I was too curious to let it go.”

“Sure thing ‘Mione. And we could just shut up, and let Snape rot in Azkaban. But we both know that that isn’t going to happen.” His voice was carefully neutral, as if he hadn’t quite decided what to make of her revelation. “I think we’re just going to have to take it on the chin, as they say.”

She nodded, and rested back against the pillows. She closed her eyes, and wondered if Snape was all right.

**********

Severus Snape lay flat on his back, on the bed in his chambers at Hogwarts, and looked up at the ceiling. The room was cold, not even enlivened by the presence of Sphinx. He assumed that she was still hopping around Hermione’s balcony. He had not bothered to light a fire. Food sent down via the house-elves was sitting, untouched, on a tray.

It was three days since he had returned to the school, six since his arrest.

The intervening three days had been spent in Azkaban. Three days of questioning by the Aurors. Three nights of listening to the Dementors, schooling his thoughts to give them no reason to notice him. Three days of determined refusal to call her to voice or mind, guarding his feelings closely. Unpleasant, but then again he’d spent much of his life in close proximity to the likes of Voldemort. He had survived.

As soon as the bureaucrats had turned up in his cell, murmuring meaningless words of apology, indicating his imminent release, he knew that she had told the Ministry what had happened. Dumbledore received him back into the school, with a grave expression on his face. He returned immediately to his chambers. He made no attempt to contact the other staff, not they him. Poppy Pomfrey had once come down to check if he needed anything.

Nothing that she could supply.

He wasn’t even certain that the student body knew that he was back.

And Dumbledore’s only words to him had been to advise him not to contact Hermione until the Ministry had finished considering her case. He had only been able to nod agreement. The fact that, logically, she must be recovered from her injuries, if she had been able to recount the story, was scant comfort.

He missed her.

Her smile, her common sense, her quick intelligence. Her warm compassion, and her courage in trusting him so much, that, for a moment, he had begun to believe in himself again.

Alone in his rooms, no longer distracted by the simple need to survive, the feelings that he had begun to acknowledge in Hester’s cottage were making their presence felt. That act of recognition had in no sense been a catharsis. He was struggling with the upsurge of emotions long denied, or forgotten, and having little success in resolving any of them.

He wanted to talk to her, to take comfort from her presence, from her touch. He ached to  hold her again. Her absence only underscored just how isolated he had managed to become. He wondered if she would still want anything to do with him.

He wanted to do just about anything, rather than lie here, waiting for the headmaster and governors to decide his fate.

He wondered what the Ministry would do to her.

His bleak mood was interrupted by a scratching at the window. Reluctantly getting up, he opened the casement. One of the school owls flew in, and landed on his desk, looking at him reproachfully. Carefully, he untied the parchment from its leg, and broke off a morsel from his untouched lunch. The owl finished it off, and then disappeared through the window.

The letter was brief.

Severus,

I would be grateful if you could stop by my office when convenient. We have some matters to discuss.

Albus Dumbledore

The tone was friendly, and at least addressed him by his given name. It didn’t seem like a letter that heralded his dismissal. Dumbledore tended not to play those sorts of games with people. He tried to feel reassured. Tried not to worry about Hermione.

He might as well go now, he supposed, shrugging a little. It wasn’t as if he had a hectic social calendar, at the moment.

The school was quiet as he walked through it, the majority of pupils in their afternoon classes. The few that he did see kept a safe distance. Not that he could draw any inferences from that. Pupils always kept a safe distance from him. Reaching the familiar door, he raised his hand, and the door swung open.

How did he do that every time, he wondered irrelevantly.

Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, looking benign.

“Come in Severus, take a seat.”

Nervously, cursing himself for feeling like a child facing detention, he chose a chair opposite the headmaster. Dumbledore’s desk was clear of anything other than the usual knickknacks and trinkets that he usually kept to hand. Fawkes was perched on the headmaster’s shoulder. Snape glanced at the portraits, to see if he could gauge the mood from any of them. He sat stiffly, waiting for sentence to be pronounced.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers.

“I think the first thing to be said, is how very glad I am that you have been able to prove your innocence.” Snape waited for the rest. “However, it cannot be denied that your rather… unorthodox… methods have raised a few eyebrows. There are certainly some  who believe that, had you left matters in the hands of the Ministry, the truth would have been revealed in the end.”

Snape moved to say something at that. Dumbledore held his hand up to silence him.

“There are those, however, who accept that it is occasionally necessary to adopt a more … direct… approach.” The glint in his blue eyes told Snape exactly which view he held. “The governors appear to be prepared to accept my recommendations in this matter.”

Snape began to feel himself relax a little. But Dumbledore hadn’t finished.

“However, before I come to that, I confess that the connection of Miss Granger with this matter gives me cause for a moment’s thought.”

Snape stirred at that, and found his voice.

“Headmaster, I assure you I did nothing to coerce her….”

Again, Dumbledore waved him silent.

“Ah, Severus, I am quite sure that you did not. Miss Granger is an intelligent and resourceful young woman, possessed of a singular degree of determination. I have no doubt, that once she had decided to involve herself in the matter, she would have been next to impossible to dissuade.”

No argument from him there.

“No, what concerns me a little, are the more… personal… aspects.”

Snape sat up, startled.

“I have read the account that she gives, and I sense there are some… ah… omissions from the narrative.” He fixed Snape with a piercing gaze. “Severus, tell me honestly, I am aware that you and Miss Granger were not on best terms when she was a student. May I assume that any… differences… between the two of you have now been resolved?”

Not entirely certain of precisely what was being asked, Snape sought his words carefully. Not least, because he did not want to risk speaking for Hermione’s feelings.

“No, headmaster,” he said eventually, “There are no difficulties between us that I am aware of.”

“You understand,” pursued Dumbledore, “that I expect my staff to be restrained, courteous, and professional at all times,” Snape nodded cautiously, as the headmaster continued, “and, even if my expectations are occasionally unfulfilled, I still have them.”

Snape really had managed to lose Dumbledore’s meaning now, and said so.

The headmaster’s face broke into a beaming smile.

“Of course you don’t, dear boy, I was quite forgetting these.”

He reached into a drawer and pulled out two envelopes, made of thick, creamy, vellum, reminiscent of the letters that students still received at the beginning of each school year. He handed one to Snape.

It was addressed to him. He opened it. Inside was a letter, written on Hogwarts headed notepaper.

Dear Professor Snape,

Owing to the recent, unforeseen, departure of the current postholder, a vacancy has arisen in the field of Defence Against the Dark Arts. We are happy to offer this post to yourself, effective the beginning of the summer term. We would be grateful to receive your response as soon as possible,

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

For, and on behalf of, the Board of Governors, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

He had to read the letter twice.

“Defence Against the Dark Arts?” he said stupidly. “What happened to Professor.. um….” He supposed he should have learned the man’s name.

Dumbledore looked regretful for a moment

“Ah, poor Professor Waldstein. A nasty encounter with a kelpie I’m afraid. Hagrid seemed to think that it would be good idea to keep one in the school lake. They were trying to catch it, and the Professor managed to get a bridle on to it. Sadly, he was unlucky enough to sneeze during the Placement Charm. Fortunately, we managed to get him back, and he was only slightly nibbled, but he has been advised to take a long convalescence.” He brightened. “Well, do you accept?”

Snape nodded dumbly.

“Splendid!” said Dumbledore enthusiastically

Snape found his voice again.

“But, what about the potions syllabus.”

“You will have plenty of time to hand over to the new teacher.” Dumbledore was still holding the other letter, turning it over in his hands. Then, he handed it to Snape. “This one is not for you. I could send it by owl, I suppose, but I wondered if, as a favour to me, you might be willing to deliver it by hand.”

Snape took the envelope and turned it to look at the name on the front.

Miss Hermione Granger.

He looked at Dumbledore, and nodded again.

“If I might make another suggestion, although please feel free to ignore an old man.” Snape shot a suspicious glance at him. Albus Dumbledore was usually at his most deadly, when overcome by a fit of doddery old age. “If you aren’t busy, tonight might be a good time. I have reason to suspect that our Miss Granger will welcome a friendly face this evening.”

Snape stood to leave, and then paused.

“Thank you, Albus.”

Dumbledore waved his thanks away.

“Don’t thank me, Severus. I’m just glad to have you back in one piece.” He smiled. “And Severus, I wish you luck and happiness.”

**********

Hermione stood before the big walnut desk, smart in her well cut business suit, trying to keep her face impassive, as she listened to the sententious tones of the man in front of her. Cornelius Fudge had changed very little over the years. He still oozed wounded self-consequence whenever he felt a threat to the dignity of the Ministry, and hence to himself. He was currently embarked on a detailed enumeration of her failings, in the eyes of that august office. At his side, hovered a thin little witch called Euphemia Entwhistle. She was of indeterminate age, with iron grey hair, and a taste in clothes which reminded Hermione, forcibly, of a village production of an Agatha Christie play she had endured as a child. Her father’s receptionist had had a small part and had blackmailed friends and colleagues into buying tickets.

Miss Entwhistle was, in fact, Hermione’s immediate superior at the Ministry. From the reproachful glances that she was casting at her subordinate, Hermione suspected that she had recently been on the receiving end of a lecture from Fudge, about allowing junior staff too much latitude. She tried not to sigh, as Fudge droned on. She was fairly certain she knew what the outcome of the meeting would be. She wished that he would just get on with it, rather than forcing her to endure his disappointed, paternal, lecture.

She had heard nothing from, or about, Snape since she had been discharged from St Mungo’s, save a terse note from Harry, saying that he had been released from Azkaban. She had been told, in no uncertain terms, that she was not to get in touch with him in any way. She assumed that he had been told the same. She hoped that he was all right.

Fudge was now shuffling some papers, and she decided that maybe she should pay attention.

“In summary, Miss Granger, you have admitted to Possession of a Restricted Substance, Failure to Disclose the Whereabouts of said Restricted Substance, Attempting to Manufacture the same Restricted Substance, Theft of a Dark Magical Item, Assisting and Harbouring a Fugitive from the Ministry, Practice of a Dark Art,” Fudge shuddered dramatically at this, “and Creation of a Dark Magical Item - which I might add also involves the small matter of an additional offence against the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts legislation. I won’t even go into the question of misappropriation of Ministry equipment and supplies, and the appalling breach of the trust which we must be able to have in all Ministry employees. ”

He paused for effect.

“Not very impressive is it, Miss Granger?” he asked, rhetorically.

“No, sir,” she answered evenly.

Fudge glared at her. He leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

“There are those who feel that you should be subject to the severest penalties for your misconduct.” Another dramatic pause. “However, we take into account the fact that Professor Snape appears to be innocent in the matter of the recent… ah… deaths.”

Hermione tried not to bridle at his use of the phrase appears to be. But then, Fudge had never been comfortable with Snape’s role within the Death Eaters.

“We also take into account the fact that the Dark Items in question have been destroyed, and did not appear to have been used to harm any person, wizard or Muggle. Similarly, the potion, itself, appears to have been destroyed.  We also give you credit for the good work that you have done for the Ministry during your years here.”

He moved his chair back and regarded her gravely. Here it comes, she thought.

“Miss Entwhistle and I have discussed this at length,” another mournful glance from her superior, “and we have, regrettably, concluded that your position within the Ministry is no longer tenable. We cannot tolerate employees who disappear off on a frolic of their own, whenever the mood takes them, with no regard for proper protocols, or the responsibilities of their position. We, therefore, have no option but to terminate your employment with the Ministry, effective immediately. We would ask that you remove all personal items from the building, and return any items of Ministry property in your possession, by the end of the week. There will be no further disciplinary action taken against you. The Ministry will also strive to avoid unnecessary publicity over this…” he grimaced in distaste, “… sordid incident.”

He looked down at the papers in front of him. She stood there, not knowing whether he had finished or not. He glanced up again, appearing surprised to see her still there.

“You may go, Miss Granger.”

Without a word, she turned, and left the Minister’s office.

With a faint sense of unreality, she apparated from the Ministry, back to the anteroom that led to the laboratories under the British Library. Mrs Gumbelside regarded her with the same air of disappointment that had characterised her conversation with Fudge. She took the lift down to the lab, walking along the corridor with a curiously numb feeling. When she entered her own - soon to be former - lab, Cyrus gave her a half wave and an embarrassed smile. She sketched an acknowledgement, as she unlocked her office.

Her personal space was as cluttered as her home office, despite the order in the lab. Rummaging through, she found a box. Pulling out her wand, she began systematically to reduce items to a size that made them portable. Books, notes, her own personal supply of ingredients, all went in. Carefully sorting through the bottles and flasks on the shelves, she separated off the ones that rightfully belonged to the Ministry.

Her hand stilled on one bottle. About five inches high, made of dark green glass. The front of the flask was stamped with a capital M within a circle. The rune of the fetch. Hermione shuddered at the recollection, and tried to ignore the sudden pang as she thought of Snape.

The bottle that started it all, she thought sourly. The bottle that formerly contained the Said Restricted Substance, as Fudge had described it.  She wondered if it were technically Ministry property, or hers. Part of her mind also wondered if there was any of the potion left clinging to the sides. Something that could be used as the basis for a cure.

She looked at the bottle consideringly. She should hand it over to Fudge.

Oh, what the hell. What’s one more infraction to add to the list that that idiot already has.

She reduced it and dropped it into the box with the other things.

She completed the rest of the task with dispatch. She had no particular desire to spend any longer here than necessary. Now that it was no longer her place, she didn’t wish to prolong the goodbyes. She found no pleasure in the sidelong looks of awed disapproval that seemed to follow through the official corridors. Taking a last look round, she exited the office - no longer hers - and, out of sheer habit, locked and warded it. Then she paused. With a few sweeps of her wand, she disarmed the personal wards that she had put in place, and then looked at the bunch of keys resting heavy in her hand.

Cyrus was moving about at the far end of the lab, engaged in his habitual non-work as far as she could tell. He looked up, as she jangled the keys. He wore an expression of regret, tinged with faint respect. He shrugged a little, as she met his eye.

“Um… I guess you’re off now then, Miss Granger.”

“Pretty much. I’ve got to sort out the stuff that I have at home, but I think I’ll send that over. If Fudge thinks that I’ve kept anything back, he can always get someone to check.” She had a feeing that he wouldn’t do that. He didn’t want this to get any more public than it already was.

Cyrus was nodding.

“OK. Well… um …goodbye, and thanks for everything. Um… good luck. I hope you find something else.”

Hermione smiled.

“Oh I expect I’ll survive,” she said more confidently than she felt. On an impulse, she hefted the keys again. “Here Cyrus,” she said, lobbing the bunch in his direction, “catch.” He did so, with a surprised expression on his face. “Just lock up after yourself when you leave, will you. I don’t think that this is my problem any more.”

Nodding farewell, she picked up the box, and headed for the exit.

Mrs Gumbelside gave her a hard stare when she got to the antechamber for the last time. Finally, she seemed satisfied that Hermione was not making off with the Ministry silver, so to speak, and wished her a stiff “Goodbye and good luck.”

Instead of leaving through the front entrance of the British Library, she apparated directly to her flat. She was not in the mood for strolling through Muggle London at the moment.

Her flat was dark, and chilly. She found it hard to feel comfortable there now. When she had returned the rooms had felt… different… somehow. As if an unclean spirit had passed through. Objects had been moved, and she knew, on an instinctive level that Draco Malfoy and that thing had been here. There was no whisper of anything left, but she needed to do something to dispel the sense of oppression that lay over the place. That, or find somewhere else to live. A wave of her wand sent light and heat coursing through the apartment, but did little to improve the atmosphere. She dumped her box of stuff on the dining table, next to an envelope addressed to Beverly at the Rose and Crown in Downham St Cross. The envelope contained a cheque to cover their accommodation and food. Hermione, too, paid her debts, wherever possible. Hanging her suit jacket over a chair, she sank onto the sofa. She needed to sort out the things to go back, but didn’t have the energy right at the moment.

As she landed on the cushions, there was a stereo noise of protest - a deep meow, overlaid by a distinct meep. Crookshanks raised a big, ginger, head to look at her. From the depths of his coat, emerged the bald, wrinkled, face of Sphinx. Hermione’s first action, on discharge from hospital, had been to transfigure both birds back into their more usual shapes. Not knowing when, or even if, Snape would be released from Azkaban, she had, if not adopted, at least taken over the temporary care of, his familiar. She would have to get in touch with him, sooner or later, if only to give the little creature back. In the meantime, Sphinx seemed perfectly content to be nestled in Crookshanks’ fur by day, and snuggled under the bedcovers with Hermione at night.

She wondered why she felt so flat. It wasn’t as if Fudge’s decision had been a shock to her. She had had a pretty good idea of what the consequences would be, as soon as she told the story to Harry. Hell, she had had a pretty good idea of what the consequences would be, from the moment that she failed to tell the Ministry that Snape had arrived on her doorstep. The decision had, at least, left some options open to her. Private tuition, perhaps. She had some money saved up. She could even work abroad, if it came to it. In some ways she wasn’t even sad to have gone. Maybe it was time to stretch her wings a little.

She tried to look positively at the situation, but her vision was still clouded by the image of Snape. She reached out to pet Sphinx, and was rewarded by a chirrup and an enthusiastic purr. She chewed her lower lip absently, wondering, once more, if he were all right. It would be just like him to be sat in some dungeon somewhere, blaming himself. He needed someone to tell him to pull himself together.

She was missing him.

His bad temper, his brusque manner, his sharp tongue, his acerbic wit, his warmth and steadiness, his unexpected vulnerability, and his unsentimental compassion.

Sod the Ministry. Tomorrow, I’ll owl Dumbledore. I refuse to believe that he doesn’t know where Severus is.

She sat for a long time, lost in thought, until she was disturbed by the doorbell. Odd, she thought. Harry and Ron were being decidedly distant at the moment, and no one else knew the code for the downstairs lock. She was tempted to ignore it - she was not feeling in the mood for visitors, right now - but it rang again, insistently this time. Grumpily, she got up, and wandered to the door, pulling at her blouse, and straightening her skirt. Out of habit, she looked through the spyhole, and almost froze in shock. A tall figure, dressed in black robes, dark, unkempt, hair…

Him.

She opened the door, trying not to fumble the catch. Snape stood there.

“Good evening, Miss Granger,” he said with a twist of his old formality.

She just stood there, dumbly, looking at him. He was thinner, she thought. It didn’t suit him. He was paler than usual, as well, and there were tired lines and dark smudges around his eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. His expression was unreadable. Finally, he said:

“May I come in.”

With a start, she realised that they were both still in the doorway.

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, a little sheepishly. She stood back, so he could enter, feeling unaccountably nervous.

“It seemed rude to apparate directly into the room,” he offered by way of explanation.

“Ah. They re-instated your licence then,” cursing the stupid statement as soon as it left her lips.

“Demonstrably.” His voice was dry, but not cutting.

He walked into the living room, to be greeting by a furiously enthusiastic burst of meeps, mrrps, whirrs and other noises of Sphinxian welcome and approval. He looked slightly embarrassed, as the little creature tried determinedly to climb up his robes, onto his shoulder. Hermione couldn’t help smiling at the sight of such unashamed adoration. So much easier for cats, she thought.

“I assumed that she had moved in here, when she didn’t come back to Hogwarts.”

“Um… I transfigured her back, after I got out of hospital. You were… I mean… I didn’t know when you were going to be…” she trailed off, not quite knowing how to go on.

He carefully removed the ecstatic, bald, cat from his robes and put her down on the sofa. Then he turned, and moved closer to Hermione, close enough that she could touch him, if she only stretched out her arm. Close enough for her to catch the trace of his cypress and musk scent. The intensity of the expression in his eyes made her breath catch momentarily.

“Are you all right?” he said, very quietly.

She gave a half nod, half shrug.

“No lasting damage, I’m told.”

“And the Ministry?”

“Sacked me.” Flat, unemotional, statement.

He nodded, as if the news were not entirely unexpected..

“And you?” she asked, equally quietly. “Are you all right?”

His lips twitched a slightly crooked smile.

“Likewise, no lasting damage, I believe.”

She did reach out then, and placed her hand on his chest. She could feel a flicker of reaction, a tensing of the muscles, and his heartbeat, fast, under her open palm.

“Severus, why?” she asked simply. “Why didn’t you just tell them what happened?”

Her hand rose and fell, with the rhythm of his breathing.

 “I thought that, under the circumstances, you deserved the choice. As to how the facts were… presented… to the Ministry.”

Her fingers resonated to the deep vibrations of his voice.

“And did you, for a moment, seriously think that I would tell the Ministry anything other than the truth?”

“I suppose I should have expected that you would wreck my one attempt at a grand gesture,” he agreed with a hint of dry self-mockery. His tone became serious again. “But I am greatly in your debt, Hermione.”

“And you pay your debts. So you told me.”

He was still watching her intently, but warily, as if he were gauging her response. He hadn’t moved to return her touch at all, letting her determine their level of closeness.

Had he really expected her to return to her life, leaving him in Azkaban? That, after everything,  she would just walk away.

“Tell me,” she said very gently, very carefully, “do you factor being betrayed into all of your dealings with the world?”

She felt him flinch, sharply, under her hand, as if she had slapped him again, and, for a brief instant, unguarded pain flared in his eyes, causing her heart to contract. Then, he looked away, although she noticed that he did not break their contact. He opened his mouth and she could see him physically struggling to find words.

“Old habits die hard,” he said, in the end, with a quiet bitterness, that she suspected covered a much deeper hurt.

She took a step closer to him, moving inside the circle of his warmth, her body now just  brushing his.  His hand came up to cover hers, still resting on his chest. The feel of his skin sent a tingle running through her.

“Some habits need to be broken,” she said softly.

At that, he turned back to her, and she reached up to place her mouth on his, in a slow kiss. His mouth opened under hers, hesitantly, as if he still needed to be certain that she meant what she was doing. She slid her tongue inside his mouth to taste him, and his free arm abruptly came around her, to pull her into him. The kiss deepened, lips and tongues, exploring, searching, caressing. She embraced him now, hands running up his back, over his robes, into his hair. He was holding her fiercely to him -  she could feel the heat of him, the beat of his heart sensed through her skin. She moved her hips close into him, and felt, rather than heard, him gasp into her mouth. There was a hard pressure against her and a point of flame ignited, deep within, which began to spread through her blood, along her nervous system, and out into the very edges of her.

She pulled away from him, just enough to breathe, feeling an overwhelming need to get out of the clothes that constricted her, that chafed against her sensitised skin. His own breathing was ragged.

“Hermione,” he managed unsteadily, “there’s something you need to know before…”

She kissed him again. There was nothing that he had to say that was more important than this right now.

“Later,” she whispered, and pulled him towards her bedroom.

He didn’t resist.

Nor did he resist, when she began to slowly undo the buttons on his robes, releasing them one by one, until she could slide the heavy, black, material from his shoulders, to let it drop onto the floor. Still less did he resist, when she took his hand in hers and raised it to her mouth, brushing the tips of his fingers with her lips, taking them into her mouth, kissing the soft skin, exploring the callus where his quill had rested, tasting the myriad tiny scars and burns, legacy of a lifetime of acid and fire and hot metal. Cupping his hand around her cheek she bit lightly into his palm, lifting off the salt sweat of his arousal. As he watched her, she undid the buttons of her blouse, and once again placed his hand on her breast, holding it there, pressing her aching nipple into his fingers. He closed his eyes as he began to caress her, gently working the lace of her bra, the combination of hot touch over harsh fabric making her shiver with delight.

She now raised her hand to his chest, working at the buttons of his plain, black, shirt until it was open to the waist. She ran her hand over his exposed skin, feeling him shudder as she traced the contours of him, letting her fingers softly stroke his nipples. He was too thin, his ribcage painfully evident. A lump formed in her throat, and she slid her hands round his back, under the shirt, pulling it loose, and catching him to her in a sudden, impulsive, hug, almost at odds with the mood. He returned the embrace with equal strength.

“I would never have left you there,” she whispered, fiercely, against his skin.

His arms tightened almost painfully around her.

“I know,” came his voice, low, and so muffled in the embrace as to be almost inaudible. “Forgive me.”

She lifted her head to kiss the base of his throat, then trailed her lips up the line of his jaw. Placing her mouth next to his ear, she murmured:

“Make love to me, Severus.”

He moved his head to kiss her again, with a passion that sent shocks of response echoing through her body. He slid one hand around her waist, under her blouse, freeing it from her skirt. She pressed against him again, as he ran his fingers up her back, stroking her spine, and finally, deftly, undoing the catch of her bra. She released him, just long enough to shrug off both garments, as his hand moved round to cup one breast, rubbing his thumb over her painfully hard nipple. The fire within her flared at his touch, and she let out a sigh that was half way to being a sob.

That sound seemed to release something in both of them. Together they moved towards the bed, Hermione pulling him back on top of her, as the edge caught at the back of her knees. A wave of need and desire swept over her, and she fought out of the rest of her clothes, pulling at him to do the same. He matched her insistence, hands running urgently, almost roughly, over her, kneading at her breasts, sweeping down her stomach to linger at the top of her thighs. His mouth followed, exploring her breasts, taking one nipple and then the other between his lips, suckling her, making her cry out and arch her back, pushing herself into him. His hands had found the place between her legs now, and his fingers were teasing, delving, stroking, making her body shudder and jump. Incoherent noises of pleasure and desire escaped her lips, her focus entirely on the sensations coursing through her.

The hardness was pressing against her thigh again as well, a hardness that stirred wicked, delicious, images in her mind. Without dislodging his hand, she moved, so she could see his face. He sat back a little, watching her like a cat, eyes hooded and intense, clouded only by a faint trace of lingering uncertainty. Not taking her gaze from his, she ran her fingers lightly down his chest and over his abdomen until she reached the top of his legs. Without pausing, or breaking eye contact, she drew her hand along the length of him. The uncertainty vanished from his eyes, as his whole body shuddered, and he choked out her name. Slowly, she circled him, caressing him, sliding her thumb over the head, smearing the fluids there over her skin. Intently watching his expression she brought her hand back to her mouth and deliberately licked off the salty liquid, running her tongue openly over  her own skin.

She hadn’t thought it possible for black eyes to get any darker, but his somehow did. Or, maybe they took on another dimension of depth entirely.

“Gods, woman, do you have any idea what you do to me?” Voice, no longer silken, but harsh and ragged, and naked with hunger and need.

The fire burned blue-white within her, and all thoughts of teasing him any longer fled from her mind. She pulled him to her, but he was already moving, pushing her onto her back. She steadied him, as he positioned himself, reaching between his legs to stroke him,  guide him into her.  She threw back her head, his name on her lips, and arched again as he thrust into her, her own love and need for him filling her, matching his rhythm stroke for stroke, the pitch of sensation rising ever higher, until something inside her convulsed, the flame turned from blue to white, and she was falling over the edge into his voice, which was crying out her name.

When she could think again, she realised that he had rolled away from her and was lying on his back. She could see the rise and fall of his chest in the half light spilling in from the living room. Nervously, she pushed herself up. She had thought that they had resolved at least some of their issues. She reached out to touch him.

“Severus?” she said cautiously.

He turned back towards her, reaching a hand to stroke her face.

“I just didn’t want to have to explain how I’d injured you by collapsing on you.”

She smiled, the apprehension leaving her.

“Well, ordinarily I wouldn’t mind, but I’d rather not see the inside of St Mungo’s again for a bit.” She moved closer to him, and he tucked his arm around her. Happily, she curled into his embrace, and drifted into sleep.

When she woke again, he was propped up on one elbow, looking at her, his eyes unreadable in the dim light. She smiled at him, reaching up to lay her hand lightly on his chest.

 “Severus, what is it, love?”

She saw his eyes flicker at the endearment, and wondered at it for a moment. Wondered if she had pushed things a bit too far. Then he smiled. It was an oddly boyish, lopsided smile, that lifted the corners of his eyes, and took several years off his age. He placed his free hand over hers, and lifted it to his lips, kissing it, much as she had done to him earlier. She stroked his cheek, as his tongue traced patterns on her palm. Heat began to stir inside her again. From the sudden, intense, look in his eyes, she guessed that her body was signalling that fact clearly to him. She was about to pull him towards her, when he took her hand away from his mouth, and just held it tightly against him. He studied her again, as if he was trying to commit every detail of her to memory.

“What is it?” she repeated, half amused, half anxious.

“I’m trying to clarify something that appears to me to be inexplicable,” he said finally. “You have given me something most extraordinary, and, for the life of me, I cannot see why.”

She smiled at the shy question, tangled in the diffident statement.

“I love you,” she said softly. “Will that do as a reason?”

He caught her to him in a swift embrace.

“Dearest heart,” he murmured, turning to kiss her deeply. The combination of his touch and the endearment made her heart race.

“Was it really so unfathomable?” she teased gently, when they broke apart again. She was a little startled by his reaction.

“Hermione,” he said quietly, “I know what I am. Even after what happened between us, I couldn’t be certain that you would still want to.. me… once it was all over.”

She felt tears suddenly prick her eyes at the simple, matter-of-fact, statement. She pulled him to her briefly, fiercely. Then she moved her head to nibble gently at his earlobe.

“Be reassured on that point,” she murmured. “I want you.”

To emphasise the point, she ran one hand down his back, skimming over his hip, and dragged her fingertips lightly over his groin. He made a sound, almost like a growl, deep in his throat, and she felt him quiver and begin to tighten under her touch. He lay her down on the bed again, his mouth seeking hers. As she responded to his caresses, he stopped, and just looked at her, bewildered awe reflected in his eyes.

“I love you, Miss Granger,” he whispered, not even trying to disguise the raw emotion in his voice.

Heart filled with something inexpressible, she just pulled him back down to her.

Later, when she was lying, heavy and sated, curled closely against him, she remembered that he had been trying to tell her something.

“Severus?”

“Hmm?” Sleepy enquiry.

“You said you there was something you needed to tell me.”

“Was there?” He sounded muzzy and confused for a moment. Then, he started up beside her. “Of course. The letter. It got… pushed out of my head for a moment.”

He disengaged himself from her, rolled off the bed, and began to pick through their discarded clothes. She pushed herself up to watch him.

Who’d have thought that the Potions Master would turn out to be so damned sexy, she thought mischievously, enjoying the sight of him as he searched their garments. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and returned to the bed, holding an envelope. He handed it to her. He didn’t say anything, but he wore a slight smile, and she thought she saw amusement lurking in his eyes.

She looked at it suspiciously. It was heavy, cream, paper, luxurious to the touch, setting off familiar resonances within her. He was studying her again. Her skin prickled deliciously, and she wondered if she would ever get used to the sheer intensity with which he watched her. On the whole, she rather hoped not.

“What is it?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“I haven’t read it. Why don’t you open it and find out?”

She didn’t think he was lying about not having read it, but she did think that he had a fair idea of the contents. Eyeing him sceptically, she ran her finger under the flap of the envelope. She pulled out a single sheet of thick paper, folded in two. The letter was brief, and handwritten, words dancing under the familiar Hogwarts crest.

Dear Miss Granger,

An unexpected vacancy has arisen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for an instructor in the art and science of potion making. We are delighted to be able to offer you the post of Potions Mistress, effective the beginning of the summer term. We would be grateful to receive your response as soon as possible.

Yours sincerely

Albus Dumbledore

For, and on behalf of, the Board of Governors, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

She didn’t believe it. A bubble of happiness began to rise up inside her. To return to Hogwarts, to teach, was beyond anything she had hoped for. Then the effect of the letter hit her. She was being invited to teach Potions. His job. She looked at him. She could still see the sparkle of amusement in his eyes. She waved the letter at him.

“They’ve offered me a job at Hogwarts. Teaching Potions.”

He nodded.

“I thought that might be the case.”

“But what about…?”

The boyish smile had returned now.

“I appear to be destined to be the latest in the long line of Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers.”

Relief flooded her. She was grinning stupidly, she knew it. She couldn’t help it. She hugged him again.

“I just had this horrible thought…”

He hugged her back.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t been dismissed. Albus Dumbledore is a more forgiving superior that Cornelius Fudge, it appears.”

She laughed happily, resting against him, exulting in the thought that she would be with him. Then something struck her.

“Severus,” she said suddenly. “Does Dumbledore know? About what happened… us, I mean?”

“I didn’t tell him anything, if that’s what you’re asking. But he asked me if we had resolved our differences from the time you were a pupil, then he gave me an oblique lecture on appropriate conduct, and then he asked if I would hand deliver that letter to you as a favour to him. So I would say that he has a pretty good idea.”

“I’m glad he still knows everything,” she said, contentedly. “It would somehow shake the world if he had to be told things.”

There was a pause, and then Snape spoke, with an oddly serious tone to his voice

“Are you going to accept the offer?”

She struggled away to look at him again.

“Yes,” she said curiously.

He nodded, his eyes slightly shadowed.

“And… will you still want to continue… together… us?” Quiet, and slightly inarticulate, but the inference was clear.

“Of course, I will,” she said, touching his face. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Living and working in the same place can be… crowding. Awkward, sometimes. I want you to be sure.”

She kissed him again, lightly, just brushing his lips.

“I’m sure.” She placed a finger at the base of his neck, and began to trace light circles on his skin. “Something occurs to me, though.” He just looked at her. “You claimed to be in my debt. Well, I don’t start teaching until the beginning of the summer term. Help me find a cure for Seamus. I’ve still got the original bottle. There may be some traces left that can help us.”

His chest began to tremble under her lazy movements. She eyed him, and realised that he was actually trying not to chuckle.

“I’m serious,” she said.

He shook his head.

“I know,” he said, eyes glittering with laughter. “I was just thinking that that’s how we got into this in the first place.”

“So, will you help me?” she persisted, amusement edging her voice as well.

“Don’t you ever give up?”

“No. Will you help me?”

He caught her hand and brought it up to his mouth, to kiss the inside of her wrist.

“Of course, my dearest heart,” he whispered against her skin, the touch of his breath sending fresh shivers through her. “Anything you desire.”

“Anything?” Her lips curved wickedly.

“Anything.” His eyes were serious now, dark, and bottomless.

“Then, kiss me, Professor Snape.”

She lay back on the bed, as he bent to obey.

**********

Snape stood, glowering, as the last potions class of the day left the room, with an alacrity which only just stopped short of headlong flight. Despite repeated injunctions to tidy away, there was at least one bench that still showed signs of scattered ingredients, hastily concealed behind a set of scales. He sighed, tapping his wand on the table top, muttering under his breath. The remnants of scarab beetle and ginger root whisked themselves into the non-hazardous bin. Selina Hope and Bluebell Coleridge, he thought sourly. Two young ladies, who were far more concerned with attracting the attention of the Ravenclaw boys on the other side of the room, than they were in understanding the finer points of the Wit-Sharpening Potion that had been the subject of the day’s lesson. Which was a pity, because few of his pupils needed their wits sharpening more than Hope and Coleridge.

He stalked around to the area of the room that was reserved for his own personal projects. There were a number of potions in varying stages of preparation. Picking up a long handled spoon, he stirred one reflectively, instinctively assessing the thickness and texture by its resistance to motion. It would be ready for removal and filtration soon, he judged. Moving along, he came to a large bowl, in which a  liquid had been left to settle. A thick layer of sediment at the bottom told him that the viscous, colourless, top layer was now ready to be skimmed off, and used. The carrier mixture of Hester’s potion was ready. They could now attempt the creation of an antidote.

Thoughts of Hester’s potion led, naturally enough, to thoughts of Hermione. She had  now been at Hogwarts for just over a fortnight, having packed up herself and her familiar, with no obvious reluctance to leave her flat, or her former life. Dumbledore had gently suggested that she take rooms near to Gryffindor Tower, for the time being, and they had both agreed that this was a good idea. Their… relationship… was still in the fragile, early stages, and he, especially, had to get used to the presence of another, in a place where he had become accustomed to solitude.

Her presence was by turns delightful, and deeply unsettling, to him. Hogwarts had for so long been a refuge, a place to hide alone, barricaded against the world, that sharing that space was, occasionally, a matter of conscious effort. Much as he wanted to let her in, sometimes he could not suppress the reflexive urge to retreat back to simpler territory, almost wishing that nothing had ever happened, that he didn’t have to deal with all the conflicting, unfamiliar, feelings within him.

And then, the other times, when she was with him, holding him, touching him, he felt such a joy, that he wanted it never to end. He imagined just folding himself into her,  staying wrapped within her forever. Those were the times when he would wake suddenly  in the night, doubting that she could really be there, reaching out to her for reassurance.

She did not spend every night with him by any means, pointing out with a wicked smile, that it would do nothing for either of their reputations to be caught sneaking about the castle like guilty fifth-years.

Last night, she had spent in her rooms, telling him firmly that she had to master the potions syllabus at some point before the summer term started. And it had been one of those nights for him, when fear and self-doubt visited. Missing her at meal times, as she began to sort out administration with Minerva McGonagall, and irritable from lack of sleep, he had been more vicious than usual with his classes.

The sound of the door to the room disturbed his thoughts.

“Class finished ten minutes ago, and I am busy,” he said in an arctic tone, without looking round. “Either collect your property and leave, or make an appointment to see me later in the week.”

“And a good afternoon to you too, Severus,” came the amused response. “I take it that the fourth years were trying today.”

Hermione walked across the room to look at the liquid in the bowl.

“Trying is the natural state of a fourth year. Today they reached the dizzy heights of intolerable. Gods preserve me from rampant, female, hormones,” he said with feeling.

“Whatever you say, Professor,” murmured the woman beside him, blandly.

“Adolescent, female, hormones,” he qualified.

“Better,” she agreed, then, changing the subject, “is the carrier ready? It looks it.”

He nodded. She reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out the green flask with the M rune on it. He noted that she carefully placed on the bench, turning it so the design faced away from her.

“I don’t know how useful this is going to be. I decanted it pretty thoroughly.”

“It may not matter.”

She looked sharply at him.

“Why not.”

He went over to his desk, and opened a drawer, reaching his hand inside to touch the underside of the desktop. Attached to it, was a small roll of parchment, tightly bound and sealed. Something that he had kept secret, even from her, secured in the one place that he could be certain that she would not look. It had been something of a risk, hiding it in the classroom, but he had relied on the fact that her innate sense of honour would prevent her going through his private desk. He detached it, and brought it over to her, placing it beside the bottle, careful not to let it touch.

“What’s that?” Her voice was wary.

He broke the seal, dispelling the ward that he had placed on it. Carefully, he unrolled it, revealing several long, black, threads. She looked uncomfortable.

“What are they?” She shivered, and extended a cautious finger to touch one lightly. She jerked her hand back as if it had burnt her, crying out softly. Her hand went to her cheek. “These belong to that thing don’t they? I can feel it. Where the hell did they come from? Why didn’t you warn me?”

She was obviously shaken. He felt a pang of remorse, and reached out to put his hand on  her arm

“I didn’t realise that you would still be sensitive to it, or I would have prevented you touching it.”

She was still breathing a little fast but she was recovering. She put her other hand over his briefly, a quick reassurance.

“Where did they come from?” she repeated in a more controlled tone.

“The cottage,” he said briefly. “I didn’t think it was good idea to leave them lying around.”

“How do they help us?” was her next question.

He couldn’t help but admire the fact that, shock, or no shock, her first assumption was that he had had a purpose behind saving them.

“The creature’s essence was of that place, that shadow reality. You will recall that it carried the ability to perform the transfer within itself, which was how it could be sent back without the potion.”

She looked at him quizzically. A frown crossed her face.

“OK, forgive me for being very stupid here, but I don’t see how that helps us. We don’t want to transport anything. We want to awaken Seamus. He’s here, not there.” She bit her lower lip, as she thought. The temptation to explain died within him, lost in the sheer fascination of watching her work it out for herself. She began to pace as she reasoned aloud.

“The potion is necessary to transport us and not it. But the Death Eater, or whoever, in Yorkshire wasn’t trying to send Seamus anywhere, it was…” she stopped abruptly, her face twisted in distaste. “Oh Gods, it was feeding on him, wasn’t it - like that thing was from Malfoy?” She shuddered, hugging her arms around herself briefly at the memory, turning away.

“The potion both activates the transfer, and forms the bridge allowing ‘feeding’ to take place. The creature had no need of the potion for either.” He made the statement as dispassionately as possible, not taking his eyes off her.

“Therefore, if those threads contain the essence of the creature, which they do, then they should also form the bridge, as you put it. So, we now have an isolated sample of the active ingredient which initiates that process and we should be able to identify a counteragent,” she concluded for him, flatly, her back still to him.

“Yes.” There didn’t seem a lot else to say.

She was still for a long time. Unusually for him, he felt the need to break the silence first.

“Hermione…”

She turned at the sound of her name.

“Don’t,” she said, but her voice was gentle. She walked back to him, and put her arms round him. He returned the embrace, simply holding her. She rested there a moment, and then moved away. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “So much has happened over the last few weeks, that I suppose I had managed to push the memories away, make myself conveniently ignore what actually happened.” A smile touched her lips. “The bad parts, anyway. Seeing this, just brought it back.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but she placed her finger on his lips. He waited.

“Don’t,” she said again. “Don’t say you’re sorry, or tell me this is somehow down to you. It’s hardly your fault, if I choose to stick my head in the sand for while.”

He didn’t know how to reply to that. She had managed to take his breath away, yet again. In the end, he just held her hand, taking her finger away from his lips.

“So,” he said eventually, lacing his voice with irony, “do you want to see if we can solve this, or shall we just stand here until some lost and wandering first-years see us, and start spreading rumours around the school.”

That made her laugh. It still amazed him that he could do that, make her laugh. In fact, sometimes that surprised him more than… other things.

“OK,” she said briskly. “Let’s get on with it.”

They didn’t solve it that night. Or the next night. Or any night, in the couple of weeks left until the end of the spring term.

Hermione told him that there was just too much going on, and they’d be able to concentrate on it more during the holidays, but the truth was the problem steadfastly resisted solution. They couldn’t even get much further with the few dregs of the original potion sample.

Most of the work now fell on him. Although she hated to admit it, handling the fibres actually caused her physical pain, legacy of the attack in the alley. She insisted on pressing on, and he went along with it, but after having to hold her through nightmares for three nights in a row, he told her point blank that he would take over. She, predictably, was furious, and he got a fair taste of just what was likely to happen when they were at odds on a subject that they were both passionate about. She cared, deeply, about finding a cure, and he cared, deeply, about her. It had ended with him telling her, coldly, that as long as she couldn’t handle the materials confidently, she was at a serious disadvantage in the work. It was callous, and true, and he hated himself for using it against her. She had simply walked out on him, and disappeared for the rest of the day.

He had worked on, pushing down his irrational fear that he would never see her again. That evening she had returned, entered his rooms, walked up to him, and just put her arms around him.

“I know you’re right,” she said against his chest. “But I still hate it.”

“I understand,” he responded gently. “But I’m still going to insist on taking over the analysis.”

And he had done so, but to little effect.

On the second day of the Easter holidays, Hermione announced that she wanted to spend some time in the library. This, in itself, was nothing surprising. He had half expected her to ask for rooms adjoining it. She didn’t explain what she was doing, just vaguely muttered something, and disappeared. She didn’t explain herself that evening, either, just seemed distracted over supper. After they had finished eating, she kissed him deeply, searchingly, and then excused herself, saying that she had something that she wanted to work on, and didn’t want to distract him from sleep. Puzzled, and trying not to be unduly worried, he slept alone, albeit rather fitfully. The next day, she didn’t appear in the lab at all until mid-afternoon, when she arrived, dumped some books down, and hoisted herself up so she was sitting on the bench, crossing her legs, resting one foot on a tall stool. It was an action that would have earned any of the school pupils detention.

“Severus,” she said without preamble. “I’ve been thinking.”

He put down the small beaker he was holding.

“Go on,” he invited. Hermione’s thoughts tended to be worth paying attention to.

“I was reviewing some of the results, and something struck me, so I did some research.”

He settled to listen to her.

“You know that neurons in the brain transfer information via neurotransmitters.”

He nodded.

“Well, comparing the results of your analyses, and the results of these tests,” she opened one of the books at a place she had marked and shoved the page at him, “the active ingredient in the potion looks a lot like a neurotransmitter.”

He studied it. She had attached the two sets of results side by side. The profiles were very similar. She was still speaking.

“We already know that the hallucinogens in the potion enhance the telepathic receptivity of the drinker. So, what if the ingredient mimics the actions of the neurotransmitters -  making ‘ringers’, if you like? When the drinker makes physical contact with the victim, and uses enhanced psychic ability to connect with the victim’s brain, the ringers intercept the neurotransmitters between the neurons, setting up an alternate neural pathway, and causing the information, emotions, whatever the drinker is seeking, to be diverted from the victim to the attacker.”

He considered the question. If she was right, then he could begin to see a way to a solution. She continued.

“I did a projection based on that assumption last night.” She unrolled a scroll. “Now, neurotransmitters are normally self-regulating. The projection suggests that if a diversion of that sort took place, the victim would suffer a rapid and catastrophic depletion of their  own neurotransmitter supply, leading to catatonia, and death in extreme cases. Which is what we saw in Seamus, and Draco Malfoy. Harry interrupted the process for Seamus, and I can only assume that the thing was able to internally regulate the process sufficiently for the ‘feeding’ to be controlled, hence the fact that Malfoy survived for so long.”

He took the scroll from her and studied it. It must have taken her the best part of the night, he thought. It was a breathtaking piece of work. The logic was flawless, the reasoning closely argued. He glanced up from the scroll. She was watching him, her expression almost defensive, as if she expected to have to fight to justify her conclusions. He had a sudden memory of her, the first day in his class, hand in the air, knowing she had the right answer. She didn’t have her hand in the air any more, but the underlying conviction that she had the solution hadn’t changed.

He nodded slowly.

“The hypothesis certainly fits the facts,” he said. “Not only that, if correct, I believe that it carries within in the basis of the cure.”

“You think I’m right then?” A little cautious.

“Yes, I do.”

Her face relaxed into an expression of relief.

“I had an awful moment, when I was convinced that you would think that I was an idiot.”

Sometimes, he was so wrapped up in his own disbelief that she would choose him as a partner, that he forgot that his, outwardly confident, lover had her own, buried, insecurities. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would worry so much about his reaction. Oddly touched at the thought, and unsure how to express it, he took refuge in irony.

“Rest assured, Miss Granger, I have held many opinions about you, but idiot has never been one of them.”

She looked a little sheepish, and shrugged diffidently.

“You know, sometimes you see something really clearly, and then you wonder if you’ve missed the obvious.”

The prospect of her ever missing the obvious was so absurd that it made him smile. He caught an answering smile from her. He picked up her work again, and re-read it, turning and idea over in his mind, and refining it.

“If this is correct, and I have no doubt that it is, then if the victim’s brain can be  stimulated to begin producing neurotransmitters again, and the reuptake mechanism can be blocked for long enough to permit optimal levels to be re-established, that should effect a ‘cure’,” he stated.

She was nodding, as he worked through it. He stared at the two sets of profiles, side by side.

“I think,” he said, “that we aren’t looking for a counteragent at all. I think that if the structure of the ringer substance, as you call it, is altered, we can provoke necessary chemical response.”

She slid off the bench, and came to stand by him, very close, studying the information. She absently tucked her hair out of the way, as she considered his suggestion. He found her beautiful at the best of times, but there was something intoxicating about her when she was thinking. Something to do with the fact that she was almost completely unguarded, and he could see the essence of her, so very clearly.

“So where would you make the alterations?” she mused.

He pointed to the pages in front of them.

“There, and there, and there. Where the disparity between the profiles is greatest. The points where the ‘bridge’ will be the weakest.”

She was nodding again, more vigorously.

“Yes. Yes, I can see how it can be done.” She paused. “It will be a tricky charm, but it’s possible.” She turned to him with a blazing smile. “We did it!”

“We haven’t created the charm yet,” he pointed out, amused at her enthusiasm.

She waved him away, eyes sparkling.

“We will.”

He was lost in her eyes for a moment, fighting the desire to pull her to him. He wondered just how he had managed to get to a position where he was seriously contemplating kissing a woman, a guest of the school and future member of the teaching staff, in the middle of his classroom, where anyone could walk in, without warning and see them. He was even more intrigued to realise that a large part of him didn’t actually care.

**********

Hermione followed Harry Potter down the corridors of the secure psychiatric wing of St Mungo’s. The surroundings made her uncomfortable, and not just because they brought back memories of her own recent, brief, stay. This particular part of the hospital was only a short step from being a prison. Magical healing being what it was, the vast majority of ‘minor’ complaints were fairly easily treatable. People only tended to end up in St Mungo’s if they were a danger to themselves, or others, or, like Seamus, inhabiting the shadowy realms of the living dead.

The place smelt cold, disinfectant overlaid with the lingering odour of stale food, and other things, that no amount of cleaning could disperse. Chilly tendrils wound round Hermione’s nerves, bringing back unpleasant recollections of her encounters with the other. She shivered, more at the memory, than the temperature. The atmosphere did not encourage conversation, and their footsteps echoed on the tiled floor, bouncing back at them off the white walls.

The corridors were lined with doors, white also, fading into the stonework, the only distinguishing feature being handles, and the occasional heavy lock. Flaps in the bottom of the doors allowed food to be pushed to the most dangerous, she assumed. Were Neville Longbottom’s parents in one of these rooms? Was Seamus? Was Draco Malfoy? As if he caught her thought, Harry paused by one of the doors. There was a small rectangular slot at eye level, covered by a latched flap that dropped down. Unhooking it, he let it fall, and then stood back so that Hermione could see in.

“Malfoy,” he said quietly.

She peered in. The room had a metal framed bed, with a mattress covered by a sheet. Blankets were piled in a heap on the floor next to the bed. There was no other furniture in the room, save a bucket. By the light filtering through a frosted window, high in the wall, she could see Draco Malfoy lying on the bed, curled into a foetal position, wearing a standard hospital gown. Only the shock of white blonde hair betrayed the fact that it was him. She could hear a faint, whimpering, sound. Otherwise, there was no sign of life at all. An acrid smell drifted out of the room, making her stomach turn. She moved away, and latched up the wicket, feeling sick.

Harry nodded to her to follow him. He had been unusually uncommunicative since they had met at the entrance, She knew that the Ministry had disciplined him for his part in the events of January and February. She suspected that he had only held onto his job because Fudge did not want to face the adverse publicity that would result from the summary dismissal of Harry Potter. She was far from feeling resentful about it - she was perfectly content with the way things had turned out for her - but she sensed that Harry still felt some awkwardness about it.

Part of her also wished that Snape had come with her, but he had refused when she suggested it, pointing out that it would be unlikely to make for a smooth meeting with Harry. She had to acknowledge that he was right, but she still missed his caustic presence. The issue of Snape was one that she still had to broach with Harry.

Turning into a side corridor, Harry halted before another door. This one did not appear to be locked, or if it was, the locking wards were keyed to Harry, for the door swung easily open. This room was considerably more pleasant than Draco’s. It had a clear glass window with floral curtains. There was a table and a chair, and someone had arranged a vase of fresh flowers in an attempt to cheer it up. Seamus was lying on the bed, covered with a sheet, apparently unresponsive. Hermione felt her heart go out to him.

A movement behind her made her jump. A medi-wizard in a white coat bustled into the room. He was about Snape’s age she thought, shortish and stout, with gingery receding hair and a matching gingery moustache. He introduced himself to her as Dr Phineas Affpuddle. He seemed to know Harry. He listened to her explanation with an air of polite condescension,  and indicated that if she wished to try the potion, he had no objections.

She pulled the bottle out of her pocket, and unstoppered it. Both men watched her impassively, as she nervously approached the bed. Carefully, she tipped a dose of the potion into Seamus’ mouth. Then she closed his mouth, tipped his head back, and massaged his throat to activate the swallowing reflex. All that was left to do was wait. Neither she, nor Snape, had been able to predict how long the potion would take to work, and they had disagreed on the potential number of doses. She thought that the effect would be fairly rapid, given that they were using an altered version of the substance that had done the damage in the first place. He thought that progress would be slow and gradual, necessitating frequent doses to bring the chemical levels back to normal. If the issue hadn’t been a friend of hers, she would have taken more pleasure in the debate.

She began to count under her breath. Snape would expect her to give an account of the procedure. As she reached ninety, Seamus began to twitch. He heart gave a somersault of relief. Dr Affpuddle pushed past her, as the man on the bed began to mutter incoherently. The doctor passed his wand over Seamus a number of times, and turned back to Hermione. This time, his attitude held an air of cautious respect.

“Congratulations, Miss Granger, it seems that this potion of yours has had an effect.”

She nodded, trying to give the impression that she had never been in any doubt of it.

“I think that you may need to repeat the dosage at regular intervals until full consciousness returns.” She smiled inwardly. Call it a draw, then, Severus. She handed the bottle to the doctor. “Can I leave this with you?”

The doctor practically snatched the flask from her, assuring her that everything would be perfectly safe in his hands, and almost pushing her and Harry out of the room in his haste  to be alone with his patient.

Harry and Hermione sat just inside the doors of St Mungo’s. Someone had created an area with potted plants and soft seats, no doubt designed to reassure anxious visitors, and give them somewhere to wait. Every so often a thin little witch would bustle up and offer them pumpkin juice, or cauldron cakes, or chocolate frogs. It was a little like being back on the Hogwarts Express. Hermione contented herself with coffee. Harry refused a drink. The silence between them was still a little strained.

“Will they use the potion to cure Draco?” she asked, more by way of making conversation than out of real curiosity.

“I don’t know,” replied Harry reflectively. “I’m guessing not. Lucius Malfoy is becoming a big problem for the Ministry. I think they’re going to hold Draco as hostage to Papa Malfoy’s good behaviour.”

Hermione felt a vague distaste at the calculation of the plan. She remembered the firebolts embedded in Snape’s flesh. Sometime the Ministry was an ambiguous organisation.

“That potion was nice work, by the way” Harry said after a while. “The doctor said that it couldn’t be done.”

She sipped her coffee meditatively, considering the best way to phrase her response.

“Well, we managed to find some of the active ingredient, which helped a lot.”

Harry’s eyebrow raised.

“We?” he said questioningly.

“I worked on it with… Professor Snape.” A slight evasion, but she thought she’d better take this one step at a time.

It was a wise decision. Harry nearly choked.

“Snape!” he spluttered. “I would have thought that you’d seen enough of that bastard to last you a lifetime.”

She sighed. This was not going to be easy.

“Harry,” she said carefully, “I told you that we got on all right, didn’t I…?”

“Yes, but all the same,” he interrupted. “Did it have to be him? I mean, he’s the one that made it in the first place.”

She was a little irritated at the ‘older brother’ attitude. She tried approaching the subject from a different direction.

“You know I’ve been offered a job at Hogwarts?”

“There were some rumours in the Ministry.” He gave a sudden, mischievous, grin. “I gather that Fudge was furious. He was heard muttering about Dumbledore condoning abhorrent conduct.” He was serious again. “Are you going to take it?”

“Yes. I’ve already accepted. In fact I’ve been there for a couple of weeks.” She felt vaguely guilty that she hadn’t told him earlier. But she had had no communication from him since Snape had been released from Azkaban, and she had been ducking the question, with the excuse that she was working on the cure for Seamus.

“I admire your nerve. Working with him.” No need to ask who him was. “What will you teach?” he continued. “Arithmancy?”

“Potions,” she said simply.

Harry looked at her, startled.

“What about him?”

“He’s going to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“So, he finally got it. I bet he’s pleased.” Harry’s tone was scathing.

“Yes,” she said mildly. “He is.”

They weren’t going to get anywhere if he couldn’t even bring himself to say Snape’s name, she thought miserably.

Something in her lack of reaction got through to Harry.

“’Mione,” he said in a worried tone. “Is there something going on here? Are you sure you’re going to be all right working with him?”

There was no help for it. The indirect approach was just not working. She steeled herself.

“Harry,” she said quietly, “there’s something you need to know.” He opened his mouth to say something but she held up her hand to silence him. “Hear me out, please.” He shut his mouth again. “Whilst we were dealing with Malfoy and that thing, Professor Snape…” no, damn it, “… Severus and I became close.”

Harry had gone very still.

“Close?” he said carefully, experimentally. “You’re telling me that the two of you are friends?”

She sighed.

“No,” she said, still quiet, calm. “I’m telling you that we’re lovers.”

He was silent. She waited him out. There was absolutely no way that she intended to apologise, explain or justify herself.

“I see,” was all he said. Then, “did he tell you that I hit him?”

“Yes, he did.”

Harry nodded.

“I thought that he had hurt you.” He sounded betrayed.

“Well,” she said evenly, “I wasn’t in any position to tell you different, and Severus elected not to tell you anything at all. So, I don’t think you can be blamed for the conclusion. And I do appreciate that fact that you came after me, you know.”

He nodded to himself, not looking at her.

“Are you happy?” he asked finally.

“Yes. Yes I am,” she answered.

“Well, I suppose that’s all that counts really, isn’t it?” His tone was strained, bordering on sarcastic. “Just don’t expect me to like it ‘Mione.”

“I don’t. But I do expect you to respect my choices,” she said a little more sharply than she intended.

“Well, you always did do things your own way,” he said, and the hurt was apparent in his voice now.

She ran her hand over her hair. She  would almost have preferred him to shout and storm, rather than this quietly wounded air.

“Harry, I didn’t intend for this to happen. I was as surprised as anyone, believe me. I certainly didn’t intend to hurt anyone else in the process, and I really am sorry for that.”

“’Mione, he’s, what, twenty years older than you, he was a Death Eater, he’s ugly as sin and got the most vicious temper I’ve ever come across. I’m sorry, but he’s just not a nice man. Forgive me for not immediately being thrilled for you.”

She paused, struck by the fact that when she looked at Snape, when she thought of him, she no longer saw the age, the looks, the past. She saw the intelligence, the wit, the compassion, the strength, the infuriating sense of honour… she no longer saw the man  who had taught her potions so many years ago. She realised she was smiling.

“No,” she said reflectively, “I suppose he isn’t a nice man, in many ways.” She looked at Harry.  “I don’t expect you to believe this, but he is a good man.”

Harry let out a sour snort, and stood up.

“Maybe so, but it’s going to take me a little while to come to that conclusion for myself.” He ran his had through his hair. “I need to get back.”

Hermione nodded.

“Let me know what happens with Seamus.”

“Sure,” he said distractedly. He turned to look at her for the first time since she had dropped her bombshell. “’Mione, do me a favour. Let me tell Ron. About you and… about you.”

“Of course,” she nodded again. “You know where to owl me.”

“Yeah. Take care of yourself ’Mione.”

“And you.”

Without any further goodbye, he wandered off through the entrance and apparated.

Hermione just sat in the foyer staring into space. Whilst she hadn’t expected unbounded joy, the open hostility had shaken her. And angered her. Not so much on Snape’s behalf, but for the fact that Harry hadn’t trusted her judgement. That he wanted to break the news to Ron, as if she weren’t capable of it. Upset and annoyed, she stood, leaving the rest of her coffee undrunk. She walked out of the building, and apparated to the edge of Hogwarts, returning to the life she had chosen.

**********

It was the beginning of the summer term. Hermione had had one brief letter from Harry since their meeting at St Mungo’s. It told her that Seamus seemed to be making a full recovery. She already knew that, as Dr Affpuddle had owled her on several occasions asking advice on administration and dosage of the potion. He made no mention of Ron. Ron, himself, had made no attempt to contact her. Despite her anger with them, they were still her friends and their coldness hurt. Snape, with unusual tact, didn’t raise the topic at all.

Other than that, she felt that she was prepared to face the term. Snape had given her his syllabus for the rest of the year, with the sour comment that no doubt she would re-write it over the summer.

“Maybe some parts of it. Somehow I don’t think I can deliver that speech about foolish wand waving to quite the same effect.”

She heard the quiet chuckle behind her, as he came up and put his arms around her. She leant back into the embrace, letting his presence calm her nerves. A scratching at the half open window signalled the entrance of an owl. She looked round, half hoping to see Hedwig, or even Errol. It was an unfamiliar barn owl. She sighed. It landed and hopped over to her. She untied the message from its leg. It was addressed to her, and she unrolled it as the owl flew away. Snape hadn’t released his hold on her.

“Who is it from?” he asked, incuriously, over her shoulder.

“Dr Affpuddle. It seems that Seamus has been pronounced fit and well, and is being discharged today. Dr Affpuddle was so impressed with the potion, he wondered if I would care to consult with him regarding a number of other intractable cases under his care.”

“And would you?”

“Maybe. Who knows. I’d like to get through my first term’s teaching first.”

He hugged her more tightly.

“I foresee no difficulties.”

She suddenly needed to say something.

“Severus, I do love you, you know.”

His lips brushed her neck.

“As do I you, dearest heart.”

 He paused, and then went on in a serious voice.

“You are aware that I have no sentimental fondness for either Mr Potter, or Mr Weasley. However, I… regret… that your choice appears to have cost you your friendship with them.”

It was the first reference he had made to the split between her, Harry and Ron.

“I think they’re just a little… shocked… by the whole thing. I expect they’ll come round in time.”

He held her more tightly.

“I did warn you that this wasn’t going to be easy.”

She leant back into him again, hugging her arms over his.

“You did, indeed.” She tried not to think about the likely problems - Harry, Ron, her parents, other people’s reactions. All bridges that would need to be crossed in time. She just knew that she was certain of the man standing behind her. She tightened her grip on him.  “But somehow, I think that it’s going to be worth it.”

**********

END