Hermione put down a glass flask on the workbench with rather more vigour than she had intended. A weekend that had promised to be rather pleasant, all told, was turning into one long source of annoyance.

It had begun the previous day with the early morning encounter with Snape. It wasn't that he had done anything intrinsically out of character. Far from it. He had swept in, peered at her work with the air of someone confronting something both unstable and highly explosive, loomed a little and then rapidly excused himself when challenged to provide some constructive contribution to the exercise.

Absolutely no surprises there.

Except that he was the one who was so damned precious about the sanctity of his processes; you would think that he would take a little more interest in them. She wondered wearily why she had ever agreed to come here. Most of all she wondered what mental aberration had ever possessed her to think that Snape had an accessible or even helpful side to him.

A case in point was the proprietorial visit from Parvati Patil. Hermione had absolutely no doubt at all that Snape had diverted her down to the dungeons to avoid the necessity of dealing with her himself. Her ex-schoolmate - school-friend was fast becoming a massive overstatement - had arrived just as Hermione was finishing up for the day and looking forward to an afternoon catching up with her friends in The Three Broomsticks. Parvati had required detailed explanations and samples of the main proposed lines, together with an outline of the suggested male range, and refused to be deflected by the thought that Hermione might have wanted to spend her free time elsewhere.

"Oh you know the boys," she had said airily. "They'll just be spending the afternoon talking about tactics and game play and stuff. Much better that we leave them to it and get on with this."

Only the dinner bell halted the relentless questioning. Arriving in the Great Hall, Parvati fluttered over to Oliver Wood - "Ollie, darling..." - leaving Hermione nursing a sick headache and feeling only slightly less drained than she had after the Ministry de-briefings following the fall of Voldemort.

Snape had already been seated at the High Table. She pointedly ignored him and sat next to Peregrine Queroz, who, within minutes of her settling down, had commented that she was looking tired, she was obviously working too hard, she needed to take a break and she absolutely had to promise him that she would be at the Quidditch match the following day. If Snape was scowling at that, she made certain not to notice it.

So there she was on a crisp Sunday afternoon in December, wrapped up warmly and waiting for the match to begin. By common consent all the visitors were seated in the staff stands. It wasn't that they couldn't have all sat with their old houses, but the ten years between 18 and 28 were particularly long ones, especially for a generation that had fought a war in the meantime. She had only just arrived; the morning had been spent alternately working and fuming about the fact that "duties" had apparently once more prevented Snape from providing any useful input. His absence had meant, yet again, that she had been unable to do more than exchange brief hugs and hellos with Harry and Ron.

Of course, long experience told her that it was pointless to expect sensible conversation from any of her friends on the morning of a Quidditch match. That, however, was not going to stop her from blaming Snape for the situation.

As luck - or otherwise - would have it, the first person that she saw when she got to the top of the stands was the Potions Master himself, sitting in the row behind Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall. He was noticeable firstly for the fact that he was one of the few members of staff not actually playing and, secondly, for the fact that the only free space on the benches was immediately next to him. In fact, it appeared that the rest of the spectators were uncomfortably bunched up in an effort not to be within his personal ambit.

Sighing, she made her way forward. Glancing around she spotted the familiar red heads of Fred and George Weasley. Fred rolled his eyes in the direction of Snape and George made cheerful throat-cutting movements. Smiling back, she squeezed past another seated figure, dressed in a black cloak, but readily identifiable by the cerise fur collar trim and matching hat. One delicate hot pink clad hand was laid on her arm as she passed.

"Hermione, darling, how's the work going?" Are you sure you can spare the time to be here? came the clear subtext.

Her smile became forced.

"It's going fine, thank you." No thanks to you, she mentally directed at the back of Snape's head.

By the time she had settled herself next to him her acknowledgement was curt in the extreme. She set her gaze forward, determined to enjoy the match, and ignore Snape as far as possible. She felt a movement beside her, almost as if Snape were extending himself to speak to her, but if he had had anything to say, it was drowned out by the roar as the "Old Boys" team flew out of the dressing rooms.

The line up was, in some ways surprising. There had obviously been a concerted effort to be as even handed between the houses as possible. Oliver Wood and Ginny and Ron Weasley represented Gryffindor. She saw Cho Chang and Roger Davies from Ravenclaw and Jonas Summerby and Zacharias Smith from Hufflepuff. There were no Slytherins. Slytherin House had suffered the heaviest of the losses during the war; many of its better players were dead or, like Draco Malfoy, simply missing.

She wondered, briefly, how Snape felt about that. Beside her she felt another movement and then heard him mutter under his breath.

"A team of seekers. How inspired."

So we can rule out a sentimental outpouring of regret then.

It was true, though, that many of the players would not be retaking their old school positions. Ginny was Seeker and Oliver Keeper. Zacharias Smith remained a Chaser, but he was joined by Cho and Summerby. Ron had moved from Keeper to play Beater together with Roger Davis.

She was fighting an odd melancholy at the sight of her old schoolmates back out on the Quidditch pitch, when a second roar announced the staff side. The identities of the players had been kept a secret, and had, naturally, led to prolonged and, occasionally lurid, speculation. She was, in some ways, surprised that Snape wasn't playing; she knew that he was competent on a broom and was well versed in the rules. Perhaps his involvement stemmed more from house rivalry than from genuine interest. Or perhaps it was something to do with the lack of Slytherins on the opposing team.

The staff team were now doing a circuit of the ground. Hyacinth Hooch, to no one's surprise was leading the team and playing Beater. Hermione thought that she paused fractionally in front of the staff box, and wondered - smothering her first laugh of the day - whether Hooch was still trying to flirt with Snape; she fought the desire to look at Snape to gauge his reaction. Next to Hooch flew the other beater, Professor Vector, followed by the three Chasers, Professors Sinistra and Queroz and, much to Hermione's astonishment, Madam Pince, the librarian. Professor Sprout took up the position as Keeper and above them all zipped tiny Professor Flitwick, the staff seeker. As he passed the staff stands Peregrine Queroz caught her eye, and she could have sworn that he gave her a swift wink.

The noise dimmed a little and the voice of the commentator boomed out.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," - it was Lee Jordan, Hermione suddenly realised - "please put your hands together for our very special celebrity referee" - there was snort from her right at this - "Mr ... Harry ... Potter!"

The stands erupted as Harry flew out into the arena. He did, Hermione thought, have the grace to look somewhat embarrassed at both the introduction and the crowd reaction. If Snape made any further comment it was lost in the noise.

Harry flew to the centre of the ground, Quaffle in his hand. He spoke a few words to Madam Hooch and Oliver Wood, then he threw the Quaffle into the air and blew his whistle.

The game was, she reflected, almost as interesting for the personalities as for the play. She was used to the effect that the game had on the likes of Ron and Ginny, but it was bringing out a competitive edge in the staff that she hadn't seen before even allowing for her unusually close knowledge.

Madam Pince, for example, had an intent, almost predatory look on her face as she skilfully manoeuvered her broom, catching the Quaffle and passing it forwards to Sinstra or Queroz, evading the best effort of Cho or Jonas or Zacharias to stop her. Flitwick was moving nearly as fast as the Snitch itself and Hooch was playing Beater so hard that Hermione was beginning to suspect her of Slytherin tendencies. There was clearly no quarter asked or given.

But the star of the match, from Hermione's point of view, was Peregrine Queroz. Her eyes followed him around the field as he ducked and dived and passed, magnificent in his Quidditch robes, the hinted athleticism obvious now. A quick scan across the stands showed that she wasn't the only female admiring the scenery; many of the girls across the houses were watching him intently. For a moment, she forgot Parvati Patil, and the bad-tempered man by her side, and just enjoyed the simple pleasure of watching someone doing something really well. It didn't hurt that that someone was rather attractive and extremely charming either.

She found herself applauding wildly as Queroz scored for the fourth time, bringing the score to 80-40 to the staff.

Harry was now beginning to look as hot as the players as he followed the actions, calling foul on Hooch and Vector on more than one occasion. Above him, Ginny was clearly having her work cut out marking Professor Flitwick, who had the advantage of size and was using it for all it was worth. However, it was Ginny who saw the Snitch first, and simply went for it in her fastest flat out dive. Flitwick spotted it a fraction of a second later, but that fraction of a second was all that Ginny needed. That, and a shameless sideswipe to her old Charms professor, gave her the time she needed to wrap her hand around it, clinching the game for the "Old Boys" 190 to 80.

Deafening noise filled the ground once again, for although the students enjoyed a fierce game of Quidditch, what they really liked was to see their teachers lose.

In front of Hermione, Albus Dumbledore stood up. Immediately, the noise dropped. Hermione couldn't see whether it was due to a charm or pure force of presence. One enhanced by the other, she suspected. A wand touched to the heamaster's throat made his voice audible to everyone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, that was one of the finest matches this school has seen. There is only one thing that can follow such an event." He paused theatrically. "High tea in the Great Hall."

This time the cheer was accompanied by the sound of stampeding feet climbing over benches and thundering down the stairs back towards the school buildings.

Hermione had no very great desire to get caught in the crush - it wasn't as if there was any risk that the food would run out, after all - so she decided to wait until the worst of the rush was over. Dumbledore and McGonagall passed her - probably in order to impose some sort of control on the hordes, she thought - and the box went quiet. Had she given the matter any thought she would have assumed that Snape had also left, so she was startled when he stood up next to her.

"Professor," she said, to cover her surprise, "I thought you would have been down in the Great Hall by now."

"Really," he said shortly. "Given that I cannot apparate on school grounds and that you are in my way, I am at a loss as to how I could have managed that."

His tone rekindled her annoyance, not that it had ever really been extinguished.

"You could have climbed over the seats," she suggested tartly.

"I do not clamber over furniture like some kind of primate, Miss Granger," he returned.

That was all it took. She turned to face him, hands on her hips.

"How long is this going to go on?" she enquired.

"How long is what going to go on?"

"This." She gestured widely. "Let's see. Four days ago I was "Hermione". Now it's "Miss Granger" and "Professor Snape" like I was one of your pupils." She watched him blink at her tone. She carried on, driven by frustration and confusion. "And you were the one making such a fuss about your processes and what have you. When are you going to come and do something to actually help out rather than swan in and out and make sarcastic remarks? We have a tight deadline, if you recall, and the whole purpose of me being here is to make it easier for us," she stressed the word, "to meet it."

His face went rigid.

"The school term is not yet over. I have a house full of pupils for whom I am responsible. I have classes to teach and homework to mark. I have detentions to supervise, and other general school duties. Forgive me for failing to be at your beck and call in between times."

She took a deep breath and gritted her teeth. From somewhere in the recesses of her memory she recalled his habit of attacking, to distract her into temper and away from the point she was trying to make. Not this time, Severus, she thought

"OK, I see that you're busy. But that doesn't explain why you don't want to use my name." She tried a smile. It felt forced. "And it feels a little awkward to be calling you Professor Snape again after all these years."

She could detect no flicker of a response.

"I'm expected in the Great Hall." He brushed past her. "If you will excuse me."