Leisure was vastly overrated. One day of it, and Snape was already irritated with the world in general; he refused to consider that his irritation might have less to do with leisure and more to do with the fact that he hadn't seen Hermione in more than twenty-four hours, for the first time in weeks.

She was still at Hogwarts, of course. She had accepted Dumbledore's invitation, and she had looked at him, and he was still trying to work out what it was that she had meant by that look. Was she checking to see whether he minded? Whether he was remotely interested? Whether he was going to object?

It was these moments that reminded him that it had been ten years since he had known her as well as himself; ten years in which she had changed, grown up. He no longer knew exactly what was going through her mind at a glance. All of which made things more interesting and more complex. If he had still known her that well, perhaps all of this would have been moot. She would not have changed, would not have grown and would be infinitely less interesting. She wouldn't be Hermione.

All of which introspection achieved nothing and was frankly tedious; Snape was getting bored with himself and the constant refrain of moments circling in his mind. It was time to go and do something constructive.

He had spent the previous day in London, somewhat unexpectedly. He had gone wandering through the school corridors around mid-morning, having had coffee in his rooms from sheer perversity, and discovered eventually that Hermione had gone into Hogsmeade.

He first reaction was to follow her; he needed to get some Christmas presents, after all. It was not, perhaps, his favourite chore but he generally found something for Dumbledore and McGonagall at the least. A long time ago, he had found something for Hermione as well.

Then caution drew him back; if he went into Hogsmeade, he would almost certainly run into Hermione. Would she think that he was deliberately following her? More deliberations, more considerations, until he was halfway to the village and abruptly apparated to London.

London had, on reflection, not been one of the wiser choices of his life. The streets were crowded - Muggle and wizarding streets alike - with people rushing without obvious purpose and with a heightened note of hysteria in the air. In the end he had accomplished his shopping more by luck than by design and the results, wrapped in a paper shot with silver, sat on his desk at the moment.

Snape stared at the small pile of gifts, willing his mind to silence, to simply be. Coffee grew cold in the mug in his hands until he came to sip it and grimaced. He pulled himself out of his chair, trying to pull himself from frustration and irritation as well, wondering whether it was appropriate to see if Hermione was still in the castle, and settled for pouring himself another coffee.

He had just put the pot down on the stove again when a knock sounded at the door. He glanced at it, squashed the involuntary hope and put the mug down next to the stove. Crossing to the door, he opened it to find Hermione standing outside.

Startled, he simply looked at her for a moment until a strange expression crossed her face; mingled fear and resolve.

"May I come in?"

He nodded without words and stepped back to let her in.

"I thought I should knock this time - we're not working on the project any more and I wasn't sure whether you would be here and-"

She was nervous; that tic of rambling was one thing that hadn't changed. Snape lifted his mug and quirked an eyebrow at her, suddenly calmer in the face of her lack of composure. He had no idea why she was nervous but it was somehow comforting that she wasn't standing in his rooms in a state of bland assurance. Hermione stopped talking abruptly, apparently now aware of the words tumbling faster and faster.

"Coffee?"

She nodded and he poured another mug for her, passing it to her as they stood in front of the stove. Her fingers brushed the back of his as she took the mug; he had some difficulty controlling a shiver.

So, apparently, did Hermione - or was that wishful thinking?

Snape, for the first time in too many years, indulged in wishful thinking and turned to face Hermione. She looked up at him as he stood in front of her and he thought he could see the questions forming; the fear he had seen in her at the door was gone now.

"Would you like to go for a walk?"

That hadn't been the question he had intended asking; that had been rather more direct and to the point, but somewhere between intention and action the words had changed.

"Uh - yes. Yes, I'd like that." Hermione seemed as startled by he was by his own question. "Let me get my coat."

Suddenly it seemed imperative not to let her out of his sight for a moment, and Snape stopped Hermione as she turned to leave the room, his hand resting lightly on her arm. They both looked at his hand - long, pale fingers against the pristine black of her robes - and then at each other. He drew a breath, surprised again by the slight shudder in that breath.

"Let me ..." he said, then gestured with his free hand and a murmured "Accio". One of his cloaks flew to his hand; another murmur brought it down to Hermione's size and he settled it around her shoulders, fastening the black corded clasp at her neck before summoning another cloak for himself. He was acutely aware of Hermione's examination of his face throughout this, the shifting expression from confusion to tinged with hope - although the latter was perhaps wishful thinking again. Still, she had not pulled away from him, or his touch, and he had let his fingers brush the side of her jaw as he fastened the cloak. If he had nothing else, he would have this touch.

The snow was thick again now, in the depths of the Scottish winter, and they left a trail of shuffled footsteps behind them as they meandered around the school grounds. They stopped to pick herbs in the knot gardens behind the greenhouses, filling the air with the scent of the rosemary needed for medicinal potions - a task for after Christmas, but the herb would need to dry before it was used.

Somewhere in the gardens Snape had helped Hermione over a low wall; somehow, he forgot to let go of her hand once she was over. She didn't appear inclined to let it go either.

They met no-one on the walk, and heard nothing but winter - shivers of snow tumbling from trees, ice cracking and groaning on the lake - and the sound of their own voices, ringing slightly in the chill air, forming words in puffs of vapour. The talk was mostly academic, discussions of recent articles and dry sarcasm - from both - in criticism of some of the more outrageously under-researched material that had been published recently. Somewhere in the snow and the cold a decade-old rapport re-established itself quietly, rising through layers of uncertainty and dampened hope.

As dusk began to descend from the mountains ringing the school, setting the snow on fire with sun-gold, Snape and Hermione made their way back into the dungeons, to his rooms. The conversation had been enough for understanding - well, he hoped so, anyway. They were comfortable together, and it had been too long since he had felt comfort in anyone's presence - although this was not exactly comfort that he was feeling right now as they stood, dripping slightly, in front of the stove. The fire in the cast iron box had been fed recently, and the coffee pot on top of it cleaned out; the room was almost too warm after hours outside.

Snape shrugged out of his own cloak and stilled Hermione's hands as she moved to undo hers; he unfastened the cloak as carefully as he had fastened it. His hands brushed her face again; this time she leant into the touch, always watching him as she did so. He pushed the cloak off her shoulders, letting it pool to the ground behind her, and stood with his hands on her shoulders now. He couldn't quite bring himself to move, to break this spell. It wasn't real, even after all this. It couldn't quite be real.

The touch of Hermione's mouth on his proved him wrong; it was entirely real, a reality that was warm, tasting his lips - and his response was drawn from experience and fantasy, his arms drawing her in as he leant into the kiss.

Then ... then Snape was hard-pressed to recognise each individual moment as action and reaction blurred into pleasure until time slowed again and he found himself re-learning a body he'd once known as well as his own. Did this still ... oh yes, clearly it did still work. The twisted arching body beneath his own, the kiss-smoothed bite on his shoulder was proof enough of that thesis.

Did that - his experimentation came to an abrupt halt as Hermione took revenge and indulged in testing her own hypotheses; he rather thought that she was, as he had been, re-learning his body. Her old body. Somewhat more scarred, rather less changed than hers, though. Still just as ... oh, please ... capable of ...