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Chapter Text

Hermione Granger stood amid the shabby terraced houses with a determined set to her jaw, owl cage under one arm, blue tote bag hitched on her shoulder. She pulled out a notebook and checked it before stuffing it back in the bag. Then she tucked the ends of her bob behind her ears, approached the final door on the street and rang the doorbell.

There was no answer. A freezing gust of late-September wind sent litter spiralling along the empty street. Hermione shuffled her heels and eyed the dead windows. Wasn’t he in? Surely—

The door creaked and she jumped.

Severus Snape loomed in the dark entryway. He had changed little since he’d begrudgingly attended Molly and Arthur Weasley’s annual Victory Day celebration in May – or even since Hermione had endured his presence at school, more than a decade ago: billowing robes, hooked nose, menacing expression. Even his greasy hair was still a solid black. Compared to Hermione’s own premature greys… Well, his changelessness would have been annoying, if she wasn’t so nervous.

‘Yes?’ said Snape.

‘Can I come in?’

He surveyed her expressionlessly. For a moment, she was sure he would slam the door. Then he stepped aside, leaving it open.

She swallowed hard, and entered.

Although Harry had warned her not to expect too much, Snape’s house was a shock. The front door opened onto a tiny, dim-lit front room. The air was heavy with decay and the smell of unaired washing. The ceiling hung grey with cobwebs. As her eyes adjusted, she realised that what she’d taken for grimy black wall paint was actually floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with mouldering, leather-bound books. A sofa and an armchair squatted in opposite corners like they’d argued and were no longer on speaking terms. In the centre of the room, a rickety table lurked over a bruise-coloured rug, resembling a wounded Acromantula on its death bed.

Snape surveyed his uninvited guest. ‘Miss Granger. To what do I owe this… pleasure?’

He was going to hate this. But there was nothing for it. She held her head high and clutched her tote bag as if it might provide cover.

‘I’ve come to call in my debt.’

There was a bristling silence. She knew Snape hated reminders of the dreadful night she’d saved his life. He always refused to talk about the Battle of Hogwarts, despite the fact the scars of Nagini’s fangs still showed past the high collars he always wore. Hermione wasn’t sure which had been worse for him – the attack of the snake, or the humiliating fact she was the one who’d ensured he lived.

‘In what particular way do you believe I can assist you?’ he asked.

She went to fiddle with her engagement ring, then remembered it was no longer there. ‘I… need somewhere to stay.’

‘Really? And you immediately thought of here?’

‘I – I left Ron,’ she said in a rush. ‘A month ago. And Harry and Ginny – they were very kind but their house is rather… Baby Albus… I was sleeping on the sofa. And my parents – the memory spell – I don’t even know where they…’ She paused. ‘Luna just got married. And the Weasleys obviously won’t…’ She broke off, blinking. ‘You see, I… I don’t really have any other choice.’

‘Renting?’ suggested Snape. ‘A bed and breakfast? I heard you were an Auror. Even if they’ve cut down on the perks, the salary is supposed to be quite good.’

She looked at the carpet. ‘I don’t work for the Ministry any more.’

‘But you do have a job?’

‘Well, now, yes. But I’ve not been there very long. And the pay’s not…’ She trailed off again.

He regarded her with cold distain. ‘Savings?’

Angry colour flooded her face. ‘Gone. Paying for the wedding. Which won’t happen now, but it was non-refundable. And we bought a house, you see – a nice house. Then Ron re-mortgaged it and used the money to set up a business.’

‘Let me guess. The business failed.’

Hermione looked for a second as though she would argue, then her shoulders sagged. Her throat went tight. She nodded.

There was a long pause. ‘I do have a spare room,’ he said. ‘But you’ll have to sleep on a mattress on the floor. Unless there’s a camp bed in that bag of yours?’

Her mouth fell open. ‘It’s an undetectable extension charm! How could you…?’

His lip curled. ‘Deduction, Miss Granger. How long are you going to stay?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Wonderful.’ He pushed open a hidden door amid the shelves and turned to her. ‘Make yourself at home.’

She’d never heard anything less hospitable.

Chapter Text

The rest of Snape’s house turned out to be no better that the front room. Possibly it was worse. The kitchen was cramped and dismal, with an ancient gas cooker skulking in a corner and a lingering smell of boiled cabbage. The kitchen window squinted onto a dank, flagged yard, where potions plants straggled in cracked pots. Beyond the kitchen was a flat-roofed extension containing a mildewy corridor with looming Muggle white goods and a frigid bathroom. The bathroom had a bathtub, but no shower. There were spiders.

After wordlessly showing her these delights, Snape led her back into the front room, through another concealed door, and up a flight of narrow stairs. At the top, he pushed open the door on the right.

‘You may sleep here.’

Hermione swallowed and threaded her way into the bedroom’s dark interior. There was a strong smell of rats. She skirted a disproportionately large wardrobe, a splintered chair and a mattress beached like a dead whale on the floorboards. Reaching the window, she drew the threadbare curtains in order to see better, and regretted it. The light revealed the wardrobe was fronted with a speckled mirror and carved with misshapen forms, like people who'd been Splinched. She’d never seen anything more likely to induce nightmares – or be infested with Boggarts.

‘An heirloom,’ Snape informed her from the doorway. ‘Of great sentimental value to my late mother. I suggest you leave it be. A breakage would be… inadvisable.’

‘When was the last time anyone stayed here?’ Hermione asked, setting her owl cage and tote bag on the mattress. A set of house keys, scabbed with rust, lay on the broken chair. Glancing at Snape, she pocketed them.

‘Let me see.’ Snape thought, his long fingers tapping the door frame. ‘It was over a decade ago. Wormtail lodged here for a while.’

Hermione shuddered, and snatched her bag up again. ‘Right.’ No wonder everything smelled of rats.

‘If that is all, I shall leave you to unpack.’ Snape ghosted away. She heard the stairs creak.

Hermione heaved the sash window open to let in some air, then leaned on the windowsill and shut her eyes. A tear streaked down her face. She smeared it away.

She hadn’t expected Snape to be friendly – in fact, she’d expected him to refuse to let her in. But this place…

She saw the bright living room of the house she’d bought with Ron. The watercolour of Hogwarts - an engagement gift from Harry - hanging over the buttery leather sofa. The neat, blue-tiled mantelpiece. The soft, cream carpets. The French windows giving onto their lush garden full of birdsong, and the swings she’d imagined putting there for their children.

She stuffed her knuckles into her mouth.

No. She mustn’t do this to herself. It was silly. This room would be okay. She could… paint it. Why not? And get a rug. Cover the horrible wardrobe with a throw. Or Transfigure it, if that was allowed.

Snape would just have to be persuaded to throw away the mattress.

She opened her eyes again, and took in the view outside: the grey sky bisected by a scaffolding-shrouded chimney; the boarded-up rear of the opposite house; the felt roof of the extension below, cracked and sprouting weeds.

She wasn’t staying here. That was certain. As soon as she had enough money to put down a deposit on a flat, she’d be gone. This miserable, run-down house obviously suited Snape. She, however, hated it.

Chapter Text

Hermione checked the wardrobe for Boggarts and found it mercifully unoccupied. Then she cast Reducio on the smelly mattress, leaned it against the far wall, Scoured the mould from the floor where it had lain, and unpacked her tote bag. The comfy camp bed, her grandma’s cheerful patchwork quilt, throw pillows, and a pile of her favourite books did much to brighten the room, and she felt slightly better. Leaving the window cracked open (the atmosphere was still ratty, and besides she needed to let Cadmus, her owl, inside when he returned) she made her way downstairs.

Ginny had packed sandwiches and rock cakes for her. After Hermione worked out how to operate Snape’s hidden doors, she sat at the kitchen table to eat them.

She’d barely begun nibbling when she decided the dark wood of the kitchen table was, well, unhygienically sticky. Plus, she was thirsty. But the solitary glass she found on the draining board was cloudy with dust and grease.

Feeling annoyed, she searched the kitchen. A brief glance revealed a depressingly boring set of cupboard staples in the pantry, along with piles of hideous green-patterned crockery, lots more dusty glasses, and some ancient-looking wine, but nothing in the way of cleaning products. It explained a lot about the state of Snape’s house: the odd Scouring Charm might go some way towards cleanliness, but it was no match for specialised Muggle chemicals or spells. Eventually she unearthed a bag of rags behind the pantry door. Dampening one and squirting the last of Snape’s washing-up liquid on it – he used Muggle cleaning products, who’d have guessed? – she cleaned the glass. Then she realised the draining board was too filthy to put it on, scrubbed that, and finally scrubbed the table – which turned out to be not some mysterious dark wood, but oak that was just very dirty.

She made a noise of disgust.

Snape appeared in the doorway.

‘Everything to your satisfaction, Miss Granger?’

She jumped. ‘P-perfectly. Thank you.’

He eyed the table, now half freshly-scrubbed oak, half patinated filth. ‘Good. I assume you will be doing your own cooking?’

Hermione straightened, clutching the rag. ‘Um. Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘Then you won’t mind if I eat without you? I keep odd hours, you see. With my work.’

‘No, that’s fine.’

He made a noise in his throat and billowed over to the cooker. As Hermione stood there, awkwardly wondering whether she ought to continue cleaning, he filled a pan with water and set it on the hob, then got out his wand to light the gas. He peered over his shoulder.

‘Do carry on, if it makes you happy. I certainly won’t stop you.’

‘Oh! Right.’ Hermione resumed soaping the table, as Snape went to the pantry and got out a tin and a couple of paper bags. He peeled potatoes. Steam filled the kitchen.

‘You, um, you don’t use magic to cook?’ Hermione asked tentatively.

Snape gave her a narrow look. ‘Obviously. You don’t use magic to clean? I’d have thought it was well within your capacity. Perhaps I was… mistaken.’

Hermione bit her lip and carried on.

It was, oddly enough, reassuring that Snape wasn’t a wizardly cook. She had never got the hang of cooking magic herself; it was the same with cleaning spells, and one of her greatest magical frustrations. Molly Weasley had tried to teach her household magic, just after she’d left Hogwarts with the debacle of camping in the woods painfully fresh in her mind. But Hermione’s mum had always insisted Hermione not use magic for things she could do by hand, and it felt like cheating. The methods – magic and Muggle – played tug-of-war in her head, and the spells Molly taught her went wrong, as nothing ever had for her before. Harry was sure her failure was due to a psychological block – likely the fact she still hadn’t found her memory-altered parents – and told her it would work itself out eventually. But after one too many disasters, she stuck with Muggle methods, or avoided household chores entirely. When she’d lived with Ron, they’d hired a house elf a day a week to clean.

Hermione had been relieved when Ron decided meal provision was going to be the man’s job in their household. That way, if anyone came round, her secret wouldn’t be discovered. But perhaps she hadn’t needed to feel so ashamed.

Ron was probably at home cooking dinner right now, alone. Unless he’d already lost the house to the wizarding bailiffs.

She bent her head over the table and scrubbed furiously. By the time Snape sat down with his plate, she had finished. The table was sparkling and pale.

Snape said nothing.

She glanced at his plate to see what he’d cooked. Boiled potatoes, boiled cabbage, and some slices of corned beef lay in a sad grey mess on the hideous china, under a splattering of badly-mixed gravy.

She blinked. She’d thought it was mean of Snape not to share his food. Actually, she’d had a narrow escape.

She washed her hands and sat opposite him with her sandwiches.

The ticking of the kitchen clock felt uncomfortably loud.

Snape got up and put the kettle on.

‘Would you like tea?’ he asked, in a manner that suggested the asking had been painful.

Startled and with half a rock cake in her mouth, Hermione spluttered, ‘No – no thanks. Not for me. Too late in the evening.’

‘I have… decaffeinated?’

‘No.’ She took a breath around the crumbs. ‘Tea stops you absorbing the iron in food. You shouldn’t really have it with meals.’

He gave her a cold look. ‘I see. How… kind of you to inform me.’

Hermione went red. ‘S-sorry. I didn’t really think… Ron always says…’ She trailed off, blinking.

Snape ignored her.

The kettle whistled, and Snape got up. A few moments later, he returned to the table with a chipped green teapot.

The quiet became painful.

Snape poured. Snape sipped.

‘I was thinking of going to the Muggle supermarket,’ said Hermione. ‘Do you need anything?’

‘No.’

‘Do… do you know if it’s supposed to rain tomorrow?’

‘…No.’

The clock’s ticking grew deafening. Hermione took a sip of water.

‘Do you have a carbon monoxide detector or a Poison-Detecting Charm in here? That gas cooker looks—’

‘No.’

‘Is it okay if I—’

Snape held up a hand; she flinched. ‘Miss Granger, I am not sure why you believe I wish to listen to inane chatter at the table. Since you may be here for some time, let me correct your misconception: if I cannot have intelligent conversation, I would rather listen to nothing at all.’

There was a dead silence.

Hermione took a breath, then shut her mouth again.

‘Alas,’ said Snape, ‘I had thought you capable of cleverness. But then again, I have always suspected your intellectual capacities were overrated.’

Hermione scraped back her chair and left.

In the front room, she rested her head against the shelves and stared up at the smoke-grimed lamp on the ceiling.

Snape was insufferable. How had she imagined she could cope with him? Why had she thought he might be different, after all this time?

It was true that they’d hardly spoken since the terrible day she’d saved his life. She’d only seen him at Molly and Arthur’s yearly parties. But he’d been mostly polite, even if distant: turning up, making a few obligatory compliments about Molly’s cooking, enquiring after George’s health, and leaving before they started the fireworks. But his stiff movements and averted gaze always betrayed how painfully aware he was that she'd saved his life – even if he was just passing her the ladle for the punch bowl.

She shut her eyes and she was back at Hogwarts again, hemmed inside the Shrieking Shack, Snape’s blood welling under her fingers as she hit him with spell after spell, trying to slow the snake Nagini’s poison. Voldemort’s voice boomed nearby. Harry thrust the Invisibility Cloak at her – ‘You’ll need it, getting Snape out of here’ – and Harry disappeared down the tunnel with the flask of memories clutched in his fist.

‘Just leave him, Hermione,’ came Ron’s voice behind her. ‘It’s only Snape! He’s not worth it.’

‘He… needs to face… justice!’ she panted, splashing the last of her Blood Replenishing Potion into Snape’s mouth.

‘This is justice! He murdered Dumbledore, now he’s been murdered. Come on! Before You-Know-Who comes back! All my family are out there—’

‘I’m trying to do the right thing, Ronald! If you won’t help me, then go! Go and find them! But I’m not coming!’

And he’d gone.

And she’d had to Transfigure a smashed chair into a decoy bleeding corpse, magic she’d been forced to invent on the spot – all the time sure Voldemort was in the next room and would discover her before she could flee. She’d levitated Snape all the way down that narrow tunnel, scraping her knees raw as she crawled behind him, silent, silent and all alone, and bundled him under the Cloak to cross the eerie, battle-scarred grounds, knowing that at any moment the truce would break. When she’d reached the castle, it still wasn’t over. Madam Pomfrey was overwhelmed with patients. Hermione had hustled Snape into a side room so he wouldn’t be attacked by angry Hogwartians. A murderous Death Eater ex-headmaster wasn't anyone’s priority. So she’d had to stay with Snape, endlessly repeating unfamiliar new spells to stop the bleeding, to stop the poison, to keep his heart beating, every time she flicked her wand terrified she’d messed up. Endlessly calling for Essence of Dittany and Blood-Replenishing Potion, her throat hoarse, petrified no-one would answer.

Whatever she did, the bleeding wouldn’t stop.

She could still see Snape’s deathly pale face, those horrible wounds gaping raw at his neck, his purple lips. All the time she’d been saving his life, she’d hated him. Hated having to look at that sneering, hook-nosed face. She’d wanted to leave him and let him die. It would have been so easy to give up and walk away.

But she was Hermione Granger. She didn’t do easy things. She didn’t do giving up.

Harry had found her half an hour later, exhausted and tearful and broken. She’d been so ready to stop. She’d sobbed, ‘I can’t do it. I can’t carry on.’ But Harry had hugged her and told her that Snape had always been on their side, had been Dumbledore’s man to the end, that Dumbledore had asked Snape to kill him – he’d just seen it in the Pensieve – and in those memories, Snape had given him the last crucial information they needed to defeat Voldemort, forever. Harry had taken the Invisibility Cloak and left, telling her, ‘Stay with him. You mustn’t let him die. No matter what.’

So she’d stayed. And she hadn’t let Snape die. Even when Ron arrived, red-eyed and broken-voiced, begging her to come to the hall, telling her about Tonks and Lupin and Fred, how he needed her with him. Even then. Even when everyone yelled that Harry’d disappeared, and she realised she’d been the last person to see him alive. Even when Voldemort came and she knew this would probably be the last thing she ever did, she stayed. Saving Snape had been Harry’s final wish – how could she leave him?

Then finally, when all was won, and Mr Weasley’s owl to St Mungo’s had provided an antidote to Nagini’s venom, and Slughorn had brewed it, and Snape had woken up… he hadn’t even been grateful.

Why did she think he’d be grateful now?

She wiped her face and went upstairs to get her shopping bag.

She only had to stay here for a short while. Snape obviously wasn’t going to help her, or even be polite. She would just have to help herself.

Chapter Text

‘What… is this?’

Hermione straightened from where she’d been loading the Muggle washing machine in the spider-infested extension. Snape was examining a tub of houmous, his face lit yellow by the refrigerator light.

‘It’s houmous,’ she said. ‘You know, Greek food? Or maybe Middle-Eastern. There was a bit of a debate about that, actually—’

He gave her a sharp look, and she stuttered to a halt. ‘I didn’t ask for a pop quiz version of world history. I want to know why there are so many… things… in my fridge.’

‘It’s my food,’ said Hermione. ‘You told me I should cook for myself. This is what I like to eat.’

‘And all of it’s from Waitrose. No wonder you don’t have any money.’ He thrust the tub of houmous back into the fridge, removed the bottle of milk, and turned to go into the kitchen.

Hermione plucked up courage. ‘Um, that’s my milk? Semi-skimmed.’

He scowled over his shoulder. ‘Oh?’

‘With… with the green lid? Yours is the blue milk.’

He looked down at the bottle. ‘My mistake,’ he said silkily.

‘It’s okay. You can borrow some if you’ve run out.’

‘No thank you. I do not need to go on a diet.’ He replaced the bottle and stalked off. A few moments later, she heard the front door slam.

Hermione bit her lip. She knew she’d gained weight recently, but…

I am an adult. I will not let him make me cry.

It was her third day in Snape’s house. Hermione had just got back from work, and she was tired and hungry. She’d meant to eat straight away, but when she’d gone to the extension she’d checked the washing machine and discovered – finally – that Snape had emptied it, something she’d been hoping for since she’d arrived. The dryer above was now spinning with dark-tinted Snape-clothes, and the indoor washing line that obscured the extension window hung with damp robes. But she wasn’t lazy – she could use magic to dry her things. Washing them was the important part. She was fed up with arriving at work smelling of Harry and Ginny’s dog.

Now she thought that perhaps she ought to have let the washing wait, and eaten first. She got tearful and wobbly nowadays if she skipped meals. She’d been fine when she was younger, but during her time as an Auror, she’d needed to carry emergency chocolate bars. (Harry had always assumed they were for dealing with Dementors. She’d never had the heart to tell him it was just low blood sugar she was prepared for.)

All the same, she wanted a proper meal this evening. Something homely, and nourishing.

It was time to brave Snape’s gas oven.

Chapter Text

There was something wrong with the oven.

Hermione had put the Waitrose lasagne on the bottom-middle shelf like she did at home and waited the number of minutes it said on the packet, drumming her fingers. Opening the door and hoping to find a nice hot dinner, instead she’d discovered a frozen pasta brick.

Now, frustrated and hungry, she whacked the heat up as high as it would go and moved the lasagne to the top shelf. Then she went into Snape’s front room to find something to read while she waited.

It was already dark. The rows of books loomed at her menacingly. She couldn’t be bothered levitating flames to light Snape’s awkwardly-placed ceiling lantern, so she perused the spines by wandlight.

Charms for Harm and Self-Fulfilment… Curses Most Vile… Peeling Back the Hide: 1000 Years of Flaying Hexes…

Hermione snatched her hand away from the shelf. She was looking for light reading, not evidence of dark magic to report to her former employers at the Auror office. Snape must have normal books somewhere. She crossed to the far end of the room and shone her wand up and down. Tarnished silver lettering glimmered from leather bindings: Ensnare… Foul… Pestilent… Was that book bound in human skin? Blinking, she noticed a few titles in Ancient Runes and hurriedly translated them in her head: Dark Secrets of the Necromancers… Blood Rituals of Great Power and Potency… The Serpent’s Snare: Enhancing Your Magic through Snake Rituals…

The door banged behind her. She spun, brandishing her wand, heart hammering.

Snape eyed her blackly. He was carrying a Tesco bag. ‘Looking for a little bedtime reading, are we?’

Hermione opened her mouth to reply.

The Smoke-Detecting Charm she had installed the previous day went off. Loudly.

Snape frowned. ‘What is that… noise?’

‘Oh no!’ Hermione ran to the hidden kitchen door, tugged it open on the third try, and sped through.

Smoke was gushing from the oven. The ceiling was lost in haze. The Charm blared frantically. Coughing, she wrenched open the oven door. A tray of orange flames leapt at her. She fumbled with her wand, choking.

‘Aguamenti!’

Water streamed from her wand-tip and engulfed the oven. The fire roared and died in a cloud of steam.

Hermione knelt on the flags and stared at the sodden blackened mess inside the oven. She’d so been looking forward to a nice hot meal.

The Charm continued squealing.

Snape reached over her and turned off the gas. ‘Silencio,’ he said in a bored voice.

The Charm squeaked to a stop.

‘You know, I thought installing a Smoke-Detecting Charm in someone else’s home was overkill,’ he mused. ‘Now I know better. Might I suggest purchasing an oven timer?’

Hermione continued staring at her incinerated ready meal. ‘Ron always made really nice lasagne,’ she said faintly, and burst into tears.

Snape walked out. A moment later, there was the sound of the front door slamming again.

Hermione curled up on the cold stone flags and sobbed her heart out.

Chapter Text

Harry had warned Hermione that Snape hated displays of emotion. She knew she ought to get up and dry her eyes before he returned in a foul humour. But she couldn’t bring herself to move. It was like she was deep underwater, drowning, being crushed by the pressure of her memories, suffocated by Ron’s laugh, his silly jokes, the names they’d thought to call their children. The wedding dress she’d never wear. That last, stupid argument, where she’d called him a spineless imbecile and he’d called her an evil control freak.

When the front door creaked again, she was sobbing too hard to hear it.

‘Oh, do get up,’ snapped Snape. ‘Unless you’re aiming to flood my house as well as burn it down.’

She gasped, and found herself scrambling off the floor, hands shaking.

Snape was carrying a paper bag with Mister Wing’s emblazoned on it in big red letters. He regarded the tearstained mess of her face with a vaguely disgusted expression. When Hermione didn’t move, he left the bag on the table and took plates out of the cupboard. ‘Sit.’

Hermione, in too much of a state to protest, sat. Hunched at the table, she sniffed and wiped her swollen eyes on her sleeve. When she could see properly, there was a plate in front of her and Snape was taking the lids off foil takeaway containers.

‘Chicken chow mein? Or special fried rice?’ he asked in acid tones.

‘Chow mein,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’

He chopsticked some noodles onto her plate, then sat opposite and started eating.

Hermione stared limply at her dinner.

Ron liked Chinese food.

Snape looked up, exasperated. ‘Well, go on, eat. I promise I haven’t laced it with anything. Although I’m starting to rethink that idea.’

Hermione shuddered and picked up her chopsticks.

The noodles were surprisingly good, with that bouncy chewiness she’d always found impossible to create at home. She discovered she was starving, and ate three platefuls.

‘You said you’d left the Ministry,’ Snape said, somewhere towards the end of Hermione’s third plateful when she was wondering if there were fortune cookies. ‘Where are you working now? For your… job?’

‘Oh. Um, the Floo Network Authority. You know it was privatised? Percy Weasley got me a place there just before he left.’

‘The Floo Network Authority.’ Snape’s voice dripped distain.

‘It’s not that bad.’ Hermione stared at the congealing sauce on her plate. ‘It’s only part time, anyway.’

‘What do you do on your days off?’

‘Not much. Reading, mostly.’

There was a pregnant silence.

‘Miss Granger, I always had the impression you were going to do great things.’

Hermione’s head came up.

Snape was eyeing her coldly. ‘Evidently I was wrong.’

She took a deep breath, and anger flared hot in her chest. ‘I wasn’t… cut out to be an Auror! All right? Not everyone has the nerve to be attacked, day after day – always looking over my shoulder, just like—’ She broke off, swallowed, and spoke quietly into her food. ‘I never wanted it. I wanted to go back to Hogwarts and get my N.E.W.T.s, then work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.’

‘Then why didn’t you?’

She let out a long breath. The truth was, after the Battle of Hogwarts, things with Ron had been sort of… difficult. He’d been so upset about Fred. That was part of it. And there had been all that time she’d spent away looking for Horcruxes with Harry. Ron still felt left out, she could tell – he was insecure, needy. She’d felt guilty about it, especially after deserting him during the battle in order to save Snape. She’d put off going to find her parents in Australia, despite intending to do so straight away, because Ron had needed her at home. Then that summer, the Ministry had offered the three of them jobs for life as Aurors. When Hermione told Ron she wanted to turn the offer down, he hadn’t been able to cope. What do you want to go back to school for? Seriously, Hermione! I mean, I know you love books, but come on. We’ve got it made – Aurors!

She knew he’d break up with her if she went back to school. There was no way he’d cope with a long-distance relationship.

Then, right before the deadline for the Auror job, she went to Australia to search for her memory-spelled parents, and couldn’t find them. That had sealed the deal. The Weasleys were her wizarding family. The thought of being without them now – of being left completely alone in the world – was unbearable.

So she’d taken the Auror job.

She still regretted it.

‘I only wanted to join the Department to make a difference for… well, house elves,’ she admitted. ‘And centaurs. Werewolves. That sort of thing.’ She sighed. ‘Silly, wasn’t it? Now I’m older, I can see it was just a childish dream.’

Snape only glared.

‘Are there fortune cookies?’ Hermione asked.

‘No.’ He got up and put the plates in the sink, then threw the takeaway containers in the bin.

‘Those are foil,’ Hermione said. ‘You know you can recycle them?’

Snape paused in the doorway. ‘I will have clients visiting during the next few days. Their meetings with me are confidential. I strongly suggest you avoid intruding.’

He swept away.

Hermione let out a long breath and laid her head on her arms.

The Floo Network Authority wasn’t a bad place to work, whatever Snape thought. Not really. It just wasn’t very stimulating, that was all. Anyway, she’d needed a less exciting work environment. She couldn’t cope with more knife-edge stress.

And the soothing dullness of a routine job had helped relieve her anxiety a little. But although she knew no-one was likely to stage a grand takeover of her offices, she still searched out the exits every time she entered a room, and wasted precious energy considering the most likely vectors of attack and how to thwart them.

Once an Auror, always an Auror.

She should have broken up with Ron the summer they defeated Voldemort. It would have saved a lot of heartache.

Sniffing again, she picked the foil trays out of the rubbish, Vanished the greasy remains of the takeaway food inside them, and took them to the blue wheelie bin in the back yard. Rain was falling softly out of the night sky. She tilted her face to catch the droplets on her hot, tear-stained cheeks.

Wait.

Had Snape just bought her a takeaway?

She peered back at the house, wanting to verify Snape's existence and prove this wasn't just an extremely bizarre daydream. But the kitchen showed empty through the lit window and her bedroom, above it, was dark. Then she noticed the skylights in the roof. They were a dull orange, as though light was shining through thick blinds. She frowned. What was up there? She hadn’t even realised there was another floor to the house; Snape hadn’t mentioned it.

Frowning, she headed back inside. She saw the grimy plates in the sink, sighed, and decided to wash them.

As she ran hot water, she considered that it wasn’t her business, snooping around Snape’s house. But old habits die hard. Besides, this was her home, for the time being.

She would wait until Snape was occupied elsewhere, and investigate the attic.

Chapter Text

The next day was one of Hermione’s days off. She Apparated to a nearby garden centre (she believed in buying local – even if Apparition meant carbon neutral travel was possible everywhere, it was still important to support the Muggle economy in her local community) and spent the morning wandering the aisles with an oversized trolley, picking out things she hoped might not die in Snape’s barren north-facing yard. After eating lunch there alone, she came back and threw herself into garden design. She nailed a window box under the kitchen windowsill, and planted roses and lavender in it. A well-placed bamboo screen hid the wheelie bins. An apple tree perched optimistically in a terracotta pot beside the back door. She edged Snape’s potions plants into a circle and set up a pretty, white-painted wooden table and chairs inside the ring. A planter of thyme, rosemary and sage went on the table as a centrepiece.

She was examining her handiwork with pleasure, cheeks red with cold, and considering whether to find her camera and take a picture for Harry and Ginny, when Snape’s silhouette darkened the back door.

Hermione tensed.

‘I suppose you bought all this—’ Snape gestured laconically at the garden— ‘with a Muggle credit card?’

Hermione pressed her lips together. How could he know that?

‘It’s just a few little things,’ she stammered. ‘To make the place nicer. I’ll take them with me when I move out.’

‘Good.’ He turned to leave, then changed his mind. ‘Miss Granger, it may have escaped your logic, but the fewer pointless little trinkets you buy, the sooner you can afford to pay someone else rent, and the sooner that blissful removal day will arrive. Good afternoon.’

He billowed off into the house.

Hermione stood there trembling, hands in fists.

She was eating dinner in her room tonight. She could not stand another five seconds with Snape.

***

After a leisurely meal of houmous, vegetable sticks and toast eaten on her bed over the PG Wodehouse she’d borrowed from the Muggle library near Harry and Ginny's – wizarding books were all very well, but sometimes she wanted a proper comfort read – Hermione decided to have an early night. She was supposed to be going with Harry to see Ron and talk about cancelling the wedding the next day. She’d need all her energy for it.

She sighed, rolled over and stared at the grimy ceiling. It still felt too early to see Ron, but it needed doing. When she’d left, she’d told herself – and him – that it was only a break, for them to sort themselves out. But after a month at Harry and Ginny’s, she’d realised the truth. This was final. They were better off apart.

Her hair felt dirty after messing about in the garden. She didn’t want Ron to see her looking a state. She scratched her scalp and groaned. It was time to chance Snape’s bathtub.

Taking her washbag, pyjamas and dressing gown, she headed downstairs and through Snape’s tortuous hidden doors to the bathroom extension. Fortunately, Snape was nowhere to be seen – in fact, the house was quiet. Her heart lifted. He must have gone out.

She remembered the extra floor she’d meant to investigate, and hesitated just outside the bathroom. Perhaps—

But no, it would have to wait. She absolutely wasn’t risking poking around if there was any possibility of Snape discovering her doing so. Besides, she really did need to bathe.

Hermione creaked open the bathroom door. Grimacing, she cleared arachnids of varying sizes out of the bath and ran hot water, then got in, washed her hair and soaked. Through the steam, an abnormally large spider with a death's-head on its bulging abdomen spun a web in the far corner. Her thoughts drifted to nasty poison recipes, then Hogwarts’ Acromantula, and she decided bath time was over. Super-strength spider-repelling charms were a bare minimum if she was ever venturing in here again.

She dried off, shivering – why on earth was Snape’s house always so cold? – threw on her pyjamas and yellow dressing gown, and donned matching duck-foot slippers. Shaking out her damp hair, she felt gloriously restored. Perhaps she would even be able to sleep?

She was midway across the front room when Snape lurched out of the shadowed doorway to the stairs, making her recoil.

His dark eyes raked her, filled with open suspicion. Slowly, his features twisted. ‘What are you wearing?’

Hermione pulled the fluffy yellow dressing gown closer, Snape’s glare making her feel horribly under-dressed. The dressing gown’s diminutive canary-coloured wings flapped at her back.

‘It was a Christmas present from Luna. A reputable costumier sells her creations out of a boutique in Hogsmeade. People like her things – they’re fun, and… I mean, look…’

She pulled up the hood, which had a duck’s bill and googly eyes. The eyes swivelled to look at Snape, and the bill opened.

‘Quack!’ went the duck hood.

‘It’s fashionable,’ said Hermione, going pink.

Snape’s expression did not change. ‘You don’t say.’

‘I could get you one, if you like,’ she said, breathless, sick at her own daring but determined to assert herself. ‘When’s your birthday?’

Snape’s eyes narrowed.

There was a sound outside.

Hermione spun. Snape hadn’t shut the curtains in the front room yet, and the street lamps were lit. For a split-second she saw a pale face at the window. But whoever it was crossed to the front door and rang the bell before she could recognise them.

‘My client,’ said Snape, prowling to the window and twitching the curtains shut. ‘Good night, Miss Granger.’

Hermione scurried for the hidden door.

She was halfway up the stairs when the front door clicked open – and she heard a voice she recognised.

‘Oh! Professor Snape!’ went Lavender Brown’s familiar squeak. ‘Sorry I’m early!’

Hermione stopped dead. She ought not to eavesdrop. But why was Lavender visiting Snape?

‘No need to apologise,’ oozed Snape.

‘It’s just – well, I had some questions this month, and I’m in a bit of a rush. Is the Wolfsbane ready?’

‘Of course.’

Oh. Guilt at listening spread stickily through Hermione’s stomach.

She remembered Lavender lying twitching in the Infirmary after the battle, Madam Pomfrey giving furious attention to the wounds Fenrir Greyback had rent on her torso. Hermione had been hurrying back to Snape with armfuls of Blood Replenishment Potion, and had handed some to the matron. The floor had been slick, splattered with red.

Lavender was lucky she’d survived her fall, never mind Greyback. He’d been in his human form, so Lavender hadn’t become a full werewolf. But if Bill Weasley’s experience was anything to go by, she must still have unpleasant symptoms, particularly around the full moon. And Bill could get away with a hairy face. Of course Lavender needed Snape’s help; brewing the Wolfsbane Potion was beyond the skill of most witches or wizards. The only other place Hermione knew it was available was St Mungo’s, but the Lycanthropy ward was often picketed by anti-werewolf protestors. No wonder Lavender preferred Snape’s discreet services.

Vials clinked. Hermione decided to stop snooping and leave. She mounted the stairs with stealth, the oversized slippers muffling her footfalls. But Lavender and Snape continued to talk, and she couldn’t help overhearing.

‘You still don’t want me to pay?’ asked Lavender. ‘I heard the price of—’

‘No payment. Now – you had a question?’

‘Oh. Um. It’s just… Well, is the potion safe to use if you get pregnant? Just… theoretically?’

‘It has never been tested on pregnant women, that would be unethical. But all anecdotal evidence shows it is quite safe, yes. No reported ill effects on the child.’

‘And would the baby be… you know? Not… wolf-ish?’

‘If one were to take the Wolfsbane Potion faithfully every month, then yes, there would be no transmission. The potion prevents the active spread of Lycanthropy, as well as inhibiting the transformation. But the mother in question must be careful, even if not carrying the full disease. Every day in the week before the full moon. On time.’

Lavender gave a little sigh. ‘Thank you. That does put my mind at rest. I mean, not that I’m…’ She trailed off. ‘It was… I was just wondering. You know?’

Pity for Lavender made Hermione’s chest squeeze. She hadn’t kept up with Lavender after Hogwarts – they’d never got on, and Hermione couldn’t see the point of keeping up awkward correspondence – but she could imagine how hard it must be for Lavender, trying to start a family.

She wished she hadn’t listened.

‘Anything else?’ Snape asked.

‘Oh! Yes. You were asking me a while ago about a werewolf manifesto?’

‘Ah…’ Snape lowered his voice; Hermione didn’t catch the rest of what he said. She gained the top of the stairs and let out a breath. But as she reached her door, a sudden thought came to her.

Snape was busy. She could explore the rest of the house in peace.

Why not?

Before starting out, Hermione went into her room and got her wand. Just in case.

Chapter Text

The door opposite Hermione’s bedroom was locked, but Alohomora soon sorted that out. It gave onto a lightless corridor, cold and damp. Hermione lit her wand. There was a battered door immediately in front of her. She tried it. It wasn’t locked, but the room inside was obviously Snape’s bedroom: a bedframe loomed in the dark, and it smelled of old shoes. She had less than no desire to investigate further, so she hurriedly closed the door and continued onward to the end of the corridor – where the only other door led to stairs.

Bingo, she thought, and climbed them.

At the top, she opened yet another door (why did Snape have so many doors in his house? No wonder everything was stale and mouldy with so little airflow) and stepped into a large, open space. Darting the beam of her wand here and there, she examined Snape’s attic. It had obviously been magically expanded – either that or he’d stolen the space above next door’s house. The slant-roofed room was lined with labelled drawers and shelves in dark wood. Dead things floated, ghostly, in neatly labelled jars. Glass vials glowed in a rack. Snape’s cauldrons hung from pegs in size order. A hefty workbench stood in the centre of the room, looking astonishingly clean and polished after the rest of the house.

So this was where he worked. It was… She eyed the nearest floating dead thing with its bleached tentacles. Relatively sanitary, at least?

Hermione wandered past ranks of potions ingredients and a writing desk to peer at the shelves on the back wall. These were filled with books, shelved in alphabetical order by subject and then author. They covered every potions discipline she knew – and some she didn’t. Many were rare. The Dark potions section, however, was the largest – and the best-used, judging by the scuffed covers and bookmarks stuffed into the heavy volumes. Hermione frowned. She had never approved of the Half-Blood Prince’s penchant for defacing his texts with scribbles.

Feeling the tug of her Auror training, she turned aside to the writing desk and, ignoring the clutter on top for the time being, tried its drawers. They proved to be locked, but, for her, that was no obstacle.

The bottom drawer contained Snape’s Order of Merlin, First Class, and a smattering of professional and academic certificates. The middle drawer was stuffed with sheaves of – she frowned. Poetry? Goodness. She blinked and hurriedly shut it. But the top drawer was full of receipts, carefully sorted into piles and secured with snake-engraved bulldog clips. On top of them lay a black volume with Accounts stencilled across the cover.

It was too much to resist for an ex-Auror. Hermione flipped open the accounts book and ran her eyes down the columns.

She gasped.

The accounts were up-to-date, with the last entry today’s, the 30^th of September. Snape’s income was… Well. She whistled under her breath. He could afford a better house, put it that way. Maybe a better village.

But where was it all going? He certainly wasn’t spending his Galleons on caviar, cruises and Elf-made Champagne.

Frowning, she flipped pages. Snape appeared to be running some sort of bespoke potions consultancy. A lot of money was disappearing on potion ingredients. Illegal potion ingredients. She raised an eyebrow. And… what was this? Every month – every single month, without fail, as far back as the book went – there was an entry marked HDS. Vast sums were going there.

Her Auror alarm bells went off.

Who was HDS? A relative? And why were they taking so much of Snape’s money?

There was a noise downstairs. Hermione shoved the accounts book back into place, and re-locked the drawer with a rapidly-muttered spell.

That’s when she caught sight of what was on top of the desk.

The photo had obviously been ripped in half some time before it was put into the frame. But there she was: lovely, laughing, alive. Lily Potter.

Harry had told her everything about Snape and Lily, even before it got into the newspapers during Snape’s trial. He’d seemed to find the tale sad and romantic. But although she’d never said as much to Harry – it had felt cruel and pointless to do so – Hermione knew she saw it for what it was: an unhealthy obsession. The sight of that photo, of Lily still blithely smiling on Snape’s desk, ripped from whoever she’d smiled at and nearly three decades dead, gave Hermione the creeps.

‘Do you consider locked doors a thrilling invitation, or were you simply unable to control the impulse to snoop?’

Hermione spun in a swirl of fluffy yellow, brandishing her wand.

Snape marched towards her from the stairhead. His eyes burned black with cold fury.

‘Ah!’ Hermione stuttered, lowering her wand. ‘Um… I can explain!’

‘Really?’

‘Yes – I was…’

‘Don’t tell me. You were sleepwalking with your wand out.’

She backed up against the shelves as he approached. The duck head quacked.

‘I… I wanted a sleeping draught—’

‘And you just happened to think the best way of acquiring one was to break into the parts of my home that were obviously supposed to be private?’ Snape’s gaze flickered to the photograph of Lily then back to her. ‘Get. Out.’

‘I… I’m sorry!’ Hermione skipped past him and retreated towards the door. ‘I… I was outside yesterday and I saw a light on up here. I was really just curious. I mean, you didn’t show me—’

‘Didn’t show you, one of the nosiest witches in existence, around the laboratory where I work on confidential projects for my clients? I wonder why.’

Hermione gulped and fled.

She had divested herself of the yellow dressing gown and was combing her hair, heartrate still elevated, when there was a knock at her bedroom door.

Cadmus, her owl, hooted and shuffled on his perch.

Hermione clenched her fists. She really didn't want to face Snape again today. Taking a breath, she cracked open the door, anticipating another showdown. ‘Yes?’

Snape loomed in the dark hallway. ‘Your Sleeping Draught, Miss Granger.’ He held out a glass phial. ‘Not that I believe your story.’

‘Oh. Um.’ She took the phial and blinked at it. ‘Thank you?’

‘Do not enter my laboratory again or I will switch it for a Draught of Living Death to keep you out of my business.’

The door snapped shut.

Hermione went and lay on her bed, shivering. She considered not taking Snape’s Sleeping Draught. But when she examined the Draught, it looked genuine. And she really did need to sleep. She was too jumpy for slumber to come naturally, not that it often did, these days. She needed to be well-rested to face Ron tomorrow. Snape wouldn’t poison her, surely? Rita Skeeter would have a field day: Unstable Death Eater Poisons Lodger – Was Potter’s Testimony Ever Reliable? Snape wouldn’t want that kind of publicity – especially after what had happened during his trial.

She sighed, and downed the Draught.

Chapter Text

Hermione awoke the next morning feeling gloriously refreshed. She lay in bed for a while, listening to a robin singing outside.

Then she remembered what day it was. The 1^st of October. She was meant to meet Ron today.

Her stomach clenched and she felt sick.

Swinging her legs out of bed was harder than climbing a mountain.

She dressed carefully in clothes that were nice, but not so nice Ron would suspect the effort she’d given to choosing them, and put makeup on with difficulty in the horrible speckled mirror, then left the window cracked open and went downstairs.

Snape was at the dining table, reading the Daily Prophet. He always had the same thing for breakfast: plain cornflakes and toast with bitter marmalade, washed down by a mug of extra-strong tea. The table was littered with crumbs and his mug was empty. He’d evidently just finished.

Good.

Hermione went to the fridge, got her overnight oats, and sat down opposite Snape, hoping he would leave. More than half expecting a snide comment – Snape’s first words on seeing her oats in the fridge last week had been, ‘Why is there a bowl of cat vomit in my refrigerator?’ – she poured a cup of stewy tea from the pot on the table. To her relief, Snape continued reading as though she weren’t there. Her shoulders inched downwards as she worked through her breakfast.

To be honest, he was right that overnight oats were just a colder and less appetising variety of porridge.

‘Miss Granger,’ said Snape, over on the other side of the newspaper.

She flinched.

‘Can I have your full name and date of birth? I am thinking of drawing up a… housing contract.’

‘Oh. Um.’ What a relief. She’d been sure he’d want to talk about her intrusion into his lab last night. ‘Hermione Jean Granger. 19^th of September, 1979.’

There was a pause.

‘Miss Granger, why did you go into my laboratory yesterday?’

Oh no.

‘I’m sorry. I really am. I honestly was just being nosy.’

‘Who did you discuss moving into my house with?’

Hermione frowned and looked at the front page of the Daily Prophet. The large headline – MINISTRY CONSIDERS RE-TRIALS: VICTORY FOR PROPHET! – meant nothing to her. ‘Why? Is it in the paper or something?’

‘Who did you speak to?’ he repeated.

‘Well, nobody really. Only Harry, and Ginny.’

‘And was this all Mr Potter’s idea?’

‘No. He – he was rather against it. In fact, he said, “Are you sure, Hermione, you’re a bit fragile still and it might push you over the edge.”’

This felt like over-sharing, but she was… oddly relaxed about it. The sleep had done her good. Who cared what Snape thought?

Snape sat quietly behind his newspaper for a moment. ‘Where does the new Mrs Potter work – Ginevra?’

‘Nowhere, now. She retired from professional Quidditch when James was born. Harry wasn’t sure it would be best for her, being a full-time mum – I mean, she’s so talented and he was worried she’d be bored. But actually, she’s enjoying herself.’

‘Whose idea was it for you to move here?’

‘Mine. I thought I already said?’

‘Nobody… suggested it to you?’

‘Who would do that?’ Hermione stirred her gloopy oats. ‘Ginny thought I was crazy.’

‘What are you hoping to accomplish while you live in this house? Is it… working out?’

Hermione sighed. ‘I just wanted some space away from Ron to pull myself together. But honestly, it’s been horrible. Just horrible. You’re one of the most unpleasant people I’ve ever met. I think I’d only definitely peg Dolores Umbridge and Rita Skeeter as worse – and Voldemort, of course. And maybe Bellatrix Lestrange, on balance.’

‘On balance? I thought Bella tortured you?’

‘Well, yes – but although it was excruciating, it was quite brief. You, however, have made me the target of extensive, cruel verbal torment, and honestly I’m only fairly sure the physical kind is worst. I had a horrible time in Muggle primary school before I got to Hogwarts, you see. And an awful first year – the other Gryffindor girls taunted me so much I couldn’t sleep. And I’ve never forgotten that awful thing you said about my teeth. It was very scarring. Never mind the way you used to treat Neville. Or Harry – after how he was treated by the Dursleys, it was beyond cruel.’

Hermione suddenly wondered why she was telling Snape all this, but it seemed so natural, it almost didn’t matter. If she didn’t say these things to him, who would?

‘And,’ she went on, ‘you keep calling me “Miss Granger”, which is ridiculous when I’m thirty. Plus your house is filthy, and…’ she tried to stop her mouth but somehow it kept going, ‘your hair is so greasy it surely smells? My dad used to swear by Head and Shoulders; you should try it. And you should eat more fruit – your diet is terrible.’

Snape, still obscured behind his newspaper, was silent for a very long time.

‘Did anyone remind you recently of the debt I owe you?’ he asked, eventually.

Hermione thought. ‘I suppose I saw an advert for debt help services when I was in the Muggle library near Harry’s? Honestly, apart from that, I don’t think so.’

‘Did anything… anyone… bring that time, of the Battle of Hogwarts, into your remembrance within the last couple of months?’

Hermione frowned at her oats. ‘Umm… maybe the thing with Ron? It all seemed to stem from there.’ She sighed. ‘He didn’t want me to save your life, you know. And it meant I wasn’t there for him when Fred died. He sort of took it personally, and after that… Well, I felt bad, and he can be rather insecure. I ended up squashing myself into smaller and smaller boxes to make him happy, until I… I couldn’t do it any more without being crushed to death.’ She sniffed. ‘I’m so sad about it. I mean, I did love him. I still do, I suppose, just… not enough. I wish I didn’t have to see him today. I know I need to tell him it’s completely over and finished, but he’s going to take it so… so badly.’ She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘I should have broken up with him ages ago, but… somehow I just… kept hoping it would work out. Harry often says I have an unhealthy inability to admit defeat. He’s right, really, I always just keep on going at things when I shouldn’t.’

Still sniffing, she scraped up the last of her oats.

Then she frowned. Why was she telling Snape all this? It wasn’t… normal.

Her Auror training came back to her in a horrifying flash.

She gasped. ‘You – you put Veritaserum in my overnight oats! You gave me a Sleeping Draught last night because Veritaserum works better on people who are relaxed and unsuspecting! You even kept that paper in front of you so I wouldn’t think you were using Occlumency and get defensive! How – how could you!’

Snape folded down the Daily Prophet and looked at her. His eyes were like cold tunnels. ‘How eminently… plausible.’

‘But that’s illegal! Veritaserum is a controlled potion, under Statute—’

‘The Statute states that Veritaserum may be used under exceptional circumstances, including matters of national security. Right now, I am engaged in a highly sensitive project for the Ministry of Magic. You insinuated your way into my household and broke into my laboratory. And you have been listening at doors. I needed to find out why, and who sent you. I assumed Dark witches or wizards were involved, or else overzealous Aurors. But no. Everything was solely down to your intrusive, meddling self – your insatiable need to barge into places where you have no business, your insufferable wish to know things, hang the consequences, your inability to conceive that the thoughts of any person besides yourself might harbour one iota of sense or reason. I don’t know why I am surprised.’

Hermione was shaking. ‘But – but that’s…!’

Snape raised an eyebrow and slowly erected his newspaper between them once more. ‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Miss Granger? I thought you were meeting Weasley today. Or are your poor, trampled emotions not up to it?’

‘What… How… How can you… My name is Hermione!’

She scraped her chair back and stormed towards the extension. Snape was unbelievable!

She rounded on him in the doorway. ‘And don’t ever play that trick on me again!’

He sneered. ‘I sincerely hope, after this, that I will never need to.’

‘Ugh!’ Hermione slammed her way into the bathroom, splashed water on her face, and glared into the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes sparked with angry tears.

Snape was the worst. He was cruel, and bullying. She was glad she’d told him so.

This had to stop, right now. She wasn’t going to scuttle about in fear of him any longer. She was going to stand up to him. He’d pushed her – fine. She was jolly well going to push him back.

It was high time someone did.

Chapter Text

There was still half an hour left before Hermione needed to Apparate to London and meet Harry and Ron at the Leaky Cauldron. Determined not to cower in her bedroom, she took her PG Wodehouse novel downstairs to the front room, cracked open the window to let the mildewy air disperse, and settled onto Snape’s lumpy sofa.

She’d just begun to relax and was laughing at a funny bit when Snape strode in, robes billowing in the breeze. Her giggles died a sudden death.

Snape crossed to the towering shelves and began searching out titles, slipping them from their places with his long fingers. Soon a pile of books was stacked neatly on the rickety table. Hermione sneaked a wary look at them. The gilt lettering on the top volume read Curses Dark and Deadly: Savour the Gift of Everlasting Revenge!

Was this Snape’s idea of a hint? Her eyes widened, and she buried herself in PG Wodehouse again.

She’d read the same paragraph three times, taking nothing in but determined not to abandon her post, when bright light glittered and a shining silver stag trotted through the open window.

Snape stiffened, his hands curling around a narrow, black tome.

Hermione leaped up. ‘Harry! Is everything okay?’

The Patronus shook its gleaming antlers and spoke in Harry’s voice. ‘Yeah, everything’s fine – it’s just that something urgent’s come up at work. Do you mind if I rearrange you and Ron for a bit later? Say one o’clock? I’m really sorry to have to do this.’

‘No, that’s okay,’ said Hermione, heart sinking. ‘It doesn’t matter. I didn’t have plans for this afternoon anyway.’

‘Sorry, Hermione. I hate doing this to you.’

‘It’s all right. I’d start to worry if the head of the Auror Division never got urgent calls.’

Harry’s voice chuckled via the Patronus. ‘Thanks. Well, see you at one. Same place.’

‘See you. And – be careful with whatever it is, won’t you?’

‘I will. Bye!’

The stag galloped away, fading as it went.

Hermione stared after it. Sometimes she regretted the research she’d put into real-time Patronus communication. It had been so much harder for friends to cancel appointments at the last minute when everyone relied on owl post.

She really didn’t want to wait several more hours to have that conversation with Ron.

‘Mr Potter is busy, isn’t he?’ Snape sneered. ‘One might almost think he was too important to help with other people’s problems.’

Hermione scowled.

Snape’s attitude to Harry had always made her fume. Harry had done so much – far more than he ought – to help Snape. He’d sympathised with Snape, lauded Snape at his trial, even visited him while he was remanded in Azkaban, though Snape had been so awful to Harry it was the last thing he deserved. Harry had held out olive branch after olive branch, only to see them merrily burned in his face. He’d even named his second son after Snape and asked Snape to be Albus Severus’ godfather, of all the things. And this was what he got in return: a cold shoulder, and mockery. It was disgusting.

Hermione held her head high, and, clearing her throat, resumed her seat on the sofa. She retracted her legs and thrust up her PG Wodehouse like a barricade.

After a brief, laden pause, Snape continued locating books on curses. The pile on the table grew higher and higher.

The doorbell rang.

Snape set down a final, snakeskin-covered volume, and answered it.

‘Ah, Draco. How lovely to see you.’

‘Snape, same.’ Draco Malfoy stepped in, pulling a large black pram over the doorstep behind him. His pale hair was receding, and his chin pointier than ever. There were blue shadows under his eyes. He parked the pram so he could shut the door, then saw Hermione and stopped dead.

It had been a while since Hermione had encountered Draco Malfoy – the last time had been several years ago, when they’d bumped into each other in Flourish and Blotts and he’d awkwardly apologised for how he’d treated her at school. But if the rumours were true, he wasn’t the same obnoxious wizard she’d once known. Mind you, people did say the oddest things about him. Hermione suspected most – like his supposed penchant for leather trousers, or him starting a metal band named Fiendfyre – were untrue. But his reform from pureblood zealot to reasonable wizard seemed genuine. Such things ought to be encouraged. She was determined to be civil.

‘Hello Draco,’ she said brightly.

‘Oh. Uh, hi Granger.’ Draco looked at Snape, eyes widening in a silent question.

‘My new lodger.’ Snape shot Hermione a brief glare. ‘Don’t let it bother you.’

‘Right.’ Draco hauled the pram all the way into the room, and settled it carefully out of the draught from the window.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Snape asked. ‘Tea, perhaps?’

‘Coffee, please. Black. Unless it’s that awful instant stuff – then I’ll have it with milk.’

Snape disappeared into the kitchen.

Draco cast Hermione a doubtful look, and sat in Snape’s armchair.

Hermione resumed reading.

‘Been keeping busy then, Granger?’ Draco asked, as the silence stretched.

‘Oh… Not too bad.’ Hermione put her book down and indicated the pram. ‘Is that…?’

‘My son, Scorpius. Yeah. He’s asleep.’ Draco stood and went to the side of the pram. He regarded the baby, then stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Want to see him?’

‘Oh! Yes, that would be lovely!’ Hermione rose and came to Draco’s side.

Scorpius Malfoy was snoring softly. He had a tiny snub nose, dewy skin, a pointed chin and an adorable curl of blond hair over his forehead.

‘Oh, he’s beautiful!’ she exclaimed.

Draco’s face softened. ‘Yeah, I s’pose he is.’

They admired the baby, his chest rising and falling under his crocheted pearl-grey blanket. Hermione tried not to think about the babies she would no longer have with Ron.

‘How’s your wife doing?’ she asked. ‘Um… Astoria? When I stayed with Harry and Ginny, Albus never stopped crying. Ginny was run ragged.’

Draco shrugged, still watching Scorpius. ‘Some days are better than others.’

Scorpius shifted in his sleep and smacked his lips.

‘Oh, yeah, due for a feed. Almost forgot.’ Draco flipped open the baby bag hanging off the pram handles and got out a bottle with some powder in the bottom, then shot boiling water into it from his wand, and tipped it to mix. ‘Had to bottle feed the little devil. He seems to be doing okay on it, though. Got a good pair of lungs at least.’

Scorpius, still with his eyes shut, began to wail.

‘Told you.’ He muttered a Cooling Charm. ‘Won’t be long, Scorps.’

Scorpius wailed louder.

Hermione melted a little. ‘Do... do you want me to hold him while you do that?’

Draco gave her a surprised look. ‘Yeah, go on then.’

Hermione reached into the pram and slipped her arms around Scorpius. He was warm and floppy. Supporting his neck, she wrapped him in the blanket and cradled him, shushing. He sniffled to a stop. Enormous grey eyes popped open and regarded her with comical seriousness.

She smiled.

Snape reappeared. He cast Hermione and the baby a long, unfathomable look, then put a tray down on the only corner of the spindly table that wasn’t occupied by books.

There were only two mugs on the tray. Also, Hermione was sure those were her salt and vinegar crisps.

She narrowed her eyes.

‘You said you had matters to discuss with me, Draco?’ said Snape, turning bodily away from the apparently offensive sight of Hermione coddling an infant.

‘Yeah. Got to feed Scorpius first, but—’

‘Oh, I can do that,’ Hermione interjected. ‘That’s if you don’t mind. I’ve had loads of practise with Albus.’

Draco hesitated. ‘Um, well…’

‘Draco, if you wish for privacy—’ Snape darted Hermione a poisonous look which she pretended not to notice— ‘I’m sure it can be arranged.’

‘Well, I mean, it’s your home,’ said Draco. ‘I don’t want to put anyone out. Granger – you won’t tell anyone I came here, right? Or about, er, this conversation?’ He was feigning nonchalance, but his jaw was tight. ‘I know you’ve already seen me, but—’

‘I’ve always considered Memory Charms underrated,’ Snape murmured.

Hermione flushed. How could he talk about Memory Charms in front of her? Knowing what had happened to her parents? She cleared her throat. ‘Of course I won’t tell anyone, Draco, if you don’t want me to. I do know how to keep secrets.’

Draco glanced between her and Snape. ‘Well, go on then. Thanks, Granger.’ He handed Hermione the baby bottle.

She threw him a blithe smile. Snape couldn’t get rid of her now. Victory: Granger. And Scorpius really was very cute. Snape stewing like a badly-brewed potion at failing to remove her from his front room was certainly not the most satisfying part of this, not at all.

Scorpius saw the milk and made little mewling noises. Hermione settled in the sofa, propped him against her arm and offered him the bottle. He lay gulping contentedly and gazing at her, cheeks full, eyes mistily adoring. He smelled heavenly: a mixture of fresh cotton, caramel and baby shampoo. She smoothed the blond curl off his forehead and ordered herself not to grow utterly besotted.

Draco stretched out with his legs crossed at the ankles, picked up his coffee and gave it a sip, then grimaced and put the mug back on the table. ‘So, Snape. Want the good or the bad question first?’

Snape perched on the other end of the sofa from Hermione and Scorpius, leaving a painfully small no-man’s-land amid the cushions. ‘Bad,’ he said slowly.

‘Right. Well, I suppose you’ve already guessed, looking at the, er, reading materials you’ve selected.’ Draco fiddled with his signet ring. ‘I… want to know how long you think Astoria has left. The birth sort of… took its toll. I mean, we expected it, but she could have weeks, months. Or years. I don’t know. It’s hard not knowing. We want to plan. You know, for Scorpius.’

‘I’m afraid the development of blood maledictions is notoriously difficult to predict. They are also not really my area of expertise. But judging from the information in your last letter, she is likely to have at least another year. You can peruse the literature yourself if you wish.’

Draco visibly relaxed. ‘That’s something.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Yeah. She’ll be pleased with that.’

Hermione pressed her lips together and pretended not to hear.

She’d never expected to feel sorry for Draco Malfoy.

‘I am glad,’ said Snape.

‘I suppose that brings me to the second thing, really,’ said Draco. ‘We – Astoria and I – wanted to ask if you’d be Scorpius’ godfather.’

The atmosphere in the room abruptly froze. Scorpius came off the bottle and cried; Hermione set the milk down, put him over her shoulder and patted his back, making shushing noises.

‘Let me make sure I heard correctly,’ Snape said, his enunciation like daggers. ‘You wish that, in the eventuality of both you and Astoria being unable to care for Scorpius, I might… take over his upbringing?’

‘Yeah,’ said Draco. ‘That’s about it.’

‘Really? Have you no other options?’

‘No. Well, I mean, there are other people. But—’

‘Can you see me as a father, Draco? Of an orphaned child? Changing nappies and reading bedtime stories?’ Snape’s lip curled. ‘He’d be better off with your parents.’

‘I don’t think he would. Spending his formative years in deepest Russia isn’t my favourite plan for the little blighter, even if there was nothing else wrong with them. Anyway, I don’t know what you’re so worried about. Us Slytherins never had anything to complain about when you were looking after us.’

Snape frowned. ‘That was different. You were older.’

‘Plus, you always gave me good advice: “don’t call Muggleborns that word” – uh, apologies, Granger, no offence, I really am extremely sorry about all that – um, “Pansy Parkinson’s a witless leech and you can do better”. That sort of thing.’

‘I seem to recall you rarely listened to it.’

Draco picked at a loose thread on the armchair. ‘Look, I know you might not feel cut out for the role, but it has to be you. Anyone else, my parents’d get their claws into them the moment we were gone, and Scorpius’d end up infected with their rotten pureblood mania. But my parents respect you. They wouldn’t dare push you around.’ He looked at Snape. ‘Please say you’ll do it. I can’t let Scorpius be brought up like I was.’

Snape gave Draco a long, searching look.

On Hermione’s shoulder, Scorpius let out a deafening, fruity burp, so loud it made her jump.

Snape turned and examined the baby. His black eyes glittered. ‘Very well, Draco. I consent.’

Hermione’s stomach went acid. She wasn’t sure if she was more angry that Draco had been accepted where Harry had not, or horrified at the possibility that little Scorpius might be left with Snape as his guardian. Either way, it was appalling. She put Scorpius back on his bottle, hands shaking. People were free to do what they wanted, of course they were, but this…!

Draco gave a relieved smile. ‘Great. I appreciate that. A lot. I know it’s a big deal, but…’ He let out a breath. ‘Astoria’s going to be chuffed to bits when I tell her.’

Snape’s eyes narrowed. ‘At least someone will be pleased.’

Draco’s mouth tipped wryly. ‘Yeah well, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it. So. Say what you like, but you’re the right man for the job.’

Snape said nothing.

Scorpius fussed, and Draco came to take him off Hermione.

‘Come and say hello to your godfather,’ he cooed at the baby. He held Scorpius out so Snape could take him. ‘He’s still quite small, so watch his neck.’

Snape handled Scorpius as if he were an Erumpent horn certain to explode with the tiniest jolt. But as he looked down at the baby… His expression didn’t change, but Hermione thought she saw a shift in his eyes. For a moment, instead of cold, basilisk-like obsidian, they grew liquid and dark.

Scorpius wriggled and began to cry, and Snape handed him back. ‘Are you staying for lunch, Draco?’

Draco snorted. ‘With your cooking? No thanks, though I appreciate the invitation. Got to get back to Astoria anyway.’

Hermione suddenly noticed the time. She’d better get some lunch herself. She couldn’t face Ron on an empty stomach – and she couldn’t afford a meal at the Leaky Cauldron with her Gringotts vault cleared out.

‘I need to go as well,’ she said. ‘It was lovely to see you, Draco.’ She hesitated a moment, then held out her hand.

‘Ah… good to see you too, Granger,’ said Draco, surprised. He juggled Scorpius up onto his shoulder and gave Hermione’s hand a firm shake. ‘Catch you around. Although – you know, probably not any time soon. With Astoria…’ He trailed off. ‘Yeah. Don’t tell anyone you saw me, eh? While things develop, we’re sort of… keeping out of people’s way.’

‘I won’t. Mum’s the word.’ She gave him and Scorpius a sad smile and went into the kitchen.

As she buttered bread, she overheard Snape telling Draco that he could come round any time to read the curse books.

‘Unfortunately,’ Snape said, his voice muffled through the door, ‘I cannot lend them out.’

‘Probably just as well. Can’t have things like that at my house in case the DMLE turn up. Did you read the paper? All that rabble-rousing stuff about Death Eaters still walking free?’

Snape’s answer was covered by the rumble of pram wheels on the wooden floor, then Draco spoke again.

‘You, er, short of money, Snape – taking on a lodger? If you are, I can always chip in.’

‘No, Draco. I have no financial shortage at the present time. The only thing I am running out of with Miss Granger here is patience.’

Draco snorted. ‘Not changed, have you? She can’t be that bad. I’d have thought you might even get on, pair of eggheads like yourselves.’

Snape didn’t reply, but Hermione’s cheeks burned. Running out of patience, indeed! Snape was the one needling her!

And eggheads? What was that supposed to mean?

‘See you, Snape.’

‘Goodbye, Draco. Give Astoria my regards.’

The front door clicked shut.

Hermione steeled herself for Snape’s imminent arrival, but instead she heard the books being slotted back into the bookcases next door, and prowling feet mounting the stairs. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Even facing Ron couldn’t be worse than dealing with that awful man.

Chapter Text

Hermione arrived in good time for her meetup with Harry and Ron. Hannah Abbot, the Leaky Cauldron’s current landlady, showed her to the private room Harry had booked for them. It was a cosy nook with its own fireplace, a window that looked out onto Diagon Alley, and dented settles that flanked a scrubbed pine table scattered with beer mats. Hermione thanked Hannah and, taking a menu, told her she would order when Harry and Ron arrived. Hannah left, promising the specials on the blackboard downstairs were worth a look.

Hermione sunk onto the settle and got out her PG Wodehouse. She liked the changes Hannah had brought to the Leaky Cauldron, not least the fact there was better lighting installed and everything got a proper clean. This cosy fireside was the perfect place to enjoy her book – far more comfortable than anywhere in Snape’s house. But try as she might, she couldn’t concentrate on the antics of Jeeves and Wooster. Her heart hammered and her gut churned. She couldn’t stop imagining Ron’s face when she told him everything really was over. Glancing at her watch for the tenth time since arriving, she saw it was already one o’clock. Harry had better turn up soon.

The door banged and Hermione jumped.

Ron entered.

Everything about him was rumpled, as though he’d given up ironing his clothes. He was carrying the navy-blue coat she’d bought him last Christmas. His old Gryffindor scarf tangled about his neck. His ginger hair was sticking up where he’d removed his woolly Chudley Cannons hat, and his freckled face was red from the wind.

He froze when he saw her.

Her heart squeezed. ‘Hello Ron.’

‘Hi.’ He swallowed and perched on the other settle, not meeting her eyes.

The fire crackled.

‘H-how are you?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Fine. I s’pose.’

Hermione bit her lip, eyes burning.

How could she have split up with Ron? Why had she been so cruel to him? He was lost and broken. He needed her, it was obvious from the state of him. Just the smallest sign he wanted her back, and she would run to him. She’d left him in pieces; now she’d seen it, how could she not put him back together? She would go around the table. She would hug him the moment she could be sure it was what he wanted.

Ron refused to look at her.

Hermione’s chest ached. The other side of the room was a million miles away.

She drew a shuddering breath. ‘D-did – the business—’

‘George bought me out.’

‘Well… that’s good. George knows what he’s doing. You could—’

‘You’re going to start telling me what to do again, aren’t you? “I could” – I could do what?’ Ron’s bloodshot eyes met hers. ‘George knows what he’s doing. But I don’t. Is that right?’

‘I never said—’

‘You did! You literally just said that!’

‘But I didn’t mean—’ She looked out of the window, blinking.

Ron sucked in a breath and let it out again.

‘Is the house still there?’ Hermione whispered.

Ron didn’t answer.

‘Ron – the house—’

He sighed. ‘So, um. Who’ve you been seeing these days?’

‘Oh. Well…’ He didn’t want to talk about the house. Okay. That was okay. They could change the subject, make small talk. Perhaps Ron would want to discuss the house later. She ought to humour him, make things light, not start another argument. He was trying to calm down; she should do the same.

She tried to unknot her shoulders. ‘Well, I’ve only seen people at the Floo Network, really. Oh, and I bumped into Draco Malfoy— Um…’ She belatedly remembered Draco imploring her to avoid mentioning him, and backtracked. ‘I mean, just around. A while ago. He was surprisingly pleasant – you remember when he apologised to me in Flourish and Blott’s? At the time I wondered, but I really think it was genuine. He’s changed. It was such a pleasant surprise.’

Ron’s face contorted. ‘Malfoy? Changed?’

She pursed her lips. ‘People can change, you know.’

‘There’s no way Malfoy has! He’s raising Voldemort’s own son, everyone knows that.’

She blinked. ‘What? You don’t – you can’t mean Scorpius?’

Ron leaned forward, earnest. ‘He’s You-Know-Who’s son. Malfoy got married years ago, no kids, and his wife disappeared, no-one’s seen her for ages – now he’s suddenly got a baby? Yeah, right.’

The memory of that soft body snuggled up to her, warm and trusting, the fruity burp Scorpius had made with such impeccable comic timing, the blissful look in his grey eyes as he’d gulped milk, his curling blond hair and pointy little chin—

‘Ron, seriously! How could you think something so stupid!’

Ron’s face twisted. ‘There it is. Right there. The whole problem.’ He sat back in the settle. ‘That’s what you’ve always thought, isn’t it? Clever Hermione, stupid Ron. But I’m not as dim as you think. You told Harry and Ginny to keep where you were staying a secret from me. Didn’t you? I couldn’t even forward your post! When were you going to tell me you’d moved in with – with Snape?’

‘It wasn’t a secret! I just didn’t feel up to hearing from you until – until I’d worked out… I’m staying with Professor Snape because I have nowhere else to go!’ Hermione’s voice cracked. ‘What do you expect me to do? It’s not like I can just rent a flat! All my money has been—’

‘Our money! Our money, Hermione!’

‘My money, Ronald! Almost all of it was mine!’

Hermione suddenly realised how shrill her voice was. She took a long, shuddering breath and pressed her lips together.

Ron folded his arms and glared at the fire.

The door banged and Harry walked in, cloak flapping, glasses lopsided.

‘Guys, so sorry I’m late, it took a while to work out where all the Thestrals were coming from. A Muggle tried to tackle whoever was controlling the herd, using a truncheon of all things, it was really—’ He noticed Hermione’s tear-filled eyes and Ron’s mutinous silence. ‘Oh. Don’t tell me. You started without me.’

Hermione gave a wobbly smile but couldn’t speak.

‘It’s all right, Harry,’ said Ron. ‘Some things just needed saying. That’s all.’

Hermione bristled. Why had she thought she wanted to hug Ron just now? Ugh! Every single reason she had to stay away from him was so obvious, but she’d nearly crumbled the moment he walked in the room! Where was her spine?

‘Well,’ said Harry, grabbing a menu, ‘now that’s cleared up, shall we order?’

‘Not hungry,’ said Ron. ‘Though I wouldn’t mind a Firewhiskey. Or two.’

Hermione sighed. ‘I don’t want anything. I already ate.’

Harry frowned. When Hannah Abbot returned, he ordered himself a steak and kidney pie, got Ron’s Firewhiskeys, then asked for a slice of chocolate gateau, and salt and vinegar crinkle-cut crisps with a pot of tea.

‘Harry,’ admonished Hermione.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘What?’

She gave him a knowing look. He was a cheese and onion man, and so was Ron. The crisps were plainly for her. She had suspicions about the gateau, too.

‘So,’ said Ron. He looked at Harry, then finally at Hermione. ‘You had something to say to me, Hermione?’

She examined the table, pushed a beer mat straight with the edge of a fingernail. ‘Yes.’

Now was the moment. She couldn’t keep stringing Ron along. It wasn’t fair. She had to do this. They were finished, and this meeting had just made it even more obvious.

If only they hadn’t been such good friends. If only it didn’t hurt so much.

She took a breath.

‘Well?’ said Ron. ‘Go on then. I’m waiting.’

‘I’m… not coming back, Ron. This breakup is… the last. It’s final.’ She swallowed. ‘We have to cancel the wedding.’

Ron’s face went red, then white. ‘You – you can’t. We’ve already sent all the invitations. Everything’s booked.’ He took a breath. ‘I wasn’t seriously upset about the post thing. Can’t we just try—’

‘We’ve tried, and tried, and tried,’ she said, voice breaking. ‘I don’t want to give up – I never wanted to give up. But it – the two of us don’t work, Ron. How many y-years are we going to keep… tormenting each other?’

’I didn’t say tormenting,’ he said, lip wobbling. ‘I never said you—’

‘But we are,’ she whispered. ‘You know – I love you, but—’ She clenched her eyes shut, and put her fist to her mouth. ‘I just c-can’t d-do this any more. I’m s-sorry.’

With appalling timing, Hannah Abbot returned.

Hermione angled away from the door, surreptitiously wiping her face.

Hannah set the tray of food and drinks on the table with cheerful remarks that only Harry was able to respond to.

Hermione couldn’t look at Ron. She’d rather have stabbed him than this. A spell could fix a stab wound.

In the corner of her eye, Harry put a hand on Ron’s arm, and Hannah left.

Ron darted a look at Hermione, then turned to Harry, voice high and strained. ‘Did you know she was going to say this?’

‘No. I mean, I had an idea that…’ Harry trailed off. ‘Well, it did seem pretty serious when Hermione turned up at my house and wouldn’t stop crying for three days straight.’

Ron downed a Firewhiskey. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Hermione repeated.

Ron’s face crumpled. ‘I loved you, Hermione. I really did. I… I thought it was forever.’

She buried her face in her hands.

There was a horrible silence.

‘W-we’ll have to contact the chapel and explain,’ she sniffed, ‘g-get the money back if we can, tell everyone n-not to c-come—’

‘Is that really your priority?’ Ron’s voice was hurt, thin. ‘The money? Is that all you care about?’

‘No! Of course not!’ Everything was blurry through her tears. She couldn’t see Ron’s expression, couldn’t read him. ‘But we need to do it, and, logically, the sooner—’

‘Logically?’ he spat. ‘Logically?’

‘Ron, please don’t—’

‘You think logic can make this, what, all better? I’m not going along there tomorrow and asking for— We paid the deposit last year! Why are you making me—’

‘Making you? Making you?’ Her head snapped up. She flooded with fury. ‘This is what you always think! You always think I’m trying to push you about! But then why am I the one who has to deal with anything remotely demanding, while you procrastinate over the tiniest, simplest… Why can’t you unbook it? It’s just down the road for you!’

‘But it’s complicated, Hermione! And… and difficult!’

‘Oh, here we are again! You can’t possibly be expected to deal with anything complicated or difficult! You can’t possibly be expected to behave like an adult, for once! No, you’re Ronald Weasley – you have to remain a clueless child, forever, and everyone has to tiptoe around after you in case you get upset! I’m not your mother!’

‘Guys—’ Harry held up a hand.

Ron lurched out of his seat and pointed a finger at Hermione. ‘You know who you sound like? You sound like Snape!’

Her mouth dropped open.

Ron snatched up his hat. ‘Bye, Harry. Sorry I can’t stay.’

He barged out of the room. The door slammed.

Hermione burst into tears.

Chapter Text

‘Well that went well,’ said Harry a while later, as Hermione was sipping Ron’s abandoned second Firewhiskey.

‘Did you expect it to go better?’

‘Honestly? No.’

They stared at the fire.

‘I wish I could marry Ron,’ sniffed Hermione. ‘I hate doing this to him, after all this time. I mean, we were so close, we shared everything, I always liked him. But I… I can’t. It would be wrong. For both of us.’

‘I did work out there might be some problems. I mean, it took him almost a decade to propose.’

Hermione snorted. ‘You didn’t just put it down to procrastination?’

‘No. We do talk you know, me and Ron. He was scared you’d say no.’

‘Oh.’ A yawning pit opened in Hermione’s stomach as she turned the idea over. ‘I… suppose he was right. I mean… I never felt entirely sure. In the end, I only agreed to it because I was hoping that getting engaged would… would push me past the…’ She swallowed. ‘Ron accused me of being indecisive.’

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘You? Indecisive?’

She passed him the ghost of a smile.

‘The gateau’s yours, by the way,’ Harry said.

Hermione sighed and pulled the plate over. ‘Thank you, but you really shouldn’t have got me this. Even Snape is calling me fat.’

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Snape said that? What, in so many words?’

‘More or less.’

Harry whistled. ‘What did you do to him?’

‘Don’t blame me! You know he’s insufferable.’ She licked icing off her fork. ‘But honestly I’ve forgotten if it was before or after he caught me looking through his things. In his not-very-well-hidden secret lab. Which was full of Dark books and illegal potions ingredients.’

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you also forgotten you’ve stopped working as an Auror?’

She shrugged. ‘Old habits. But really, I’m in a bind. I’m not sure if I’m obliged to report him or not.’

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Snape probably has a licence or something. But if it’s bothering you I suppose I could look into it.’

‘And… do you know if he has any relatives whose names start with H?’

‘Hermione, what have you been—’

‘Okay, okay, I went snooping through his accounts, I admit it.’

‘You are a serious menace. I ought to arrest you.’

‘Harry… it looks like someone’s blackmailing him.’

Harry blanched. ‘Merlin…’

Hermione’s stomach twisted. It was bad that someone was blackmailing Snape. But it still bothered her that Harry cared. Snape was a vindictive bully, and his treatment of Harry had been shameful and disgusting. Professional duty was all Harry owed him, if that. Personally, Hermione was sure that if Snape was being blackmailed he had brought it on himself, and probably deserved it.

However, if a blackmailer was bold enough to target a notorious former Death Eater, they’d certainly be sponging off a raft of softer targets – vulnerable people who needed protecting. And it was illegal.

It had been her duty to tell Harry about this. She wouldn’t regret it now.

‘What makes you suspect it’s blackmail?’ Harry asked.

Hermione swallowed another forkful of cake, glad Harry was distracted enough to stop admonishing her for breaking and entering. ‘His accounts book is extremely well-kept. Each purchase of potion ingredients is listed down to the last quarter-ounce. He writes the full name of his clients when they pay him. When he buys food, he lists exactly what it was and how much he paid for every single item.’

‘Hermione, you do realise that information is supposed to be private and probably also confidential, right?’

She flapped a hand. ‘I know. Anyway, every month without fail, there’s this HDS listed. Just those initials. It’s very out-of-character. And that’s where almost all of Snape’s money is going. He only has a tiny amount left for food and so on. It’s no wonder his house is in such a state.’

‘That’s…’ Harry let out a breath. ‘Well, I feel terrible now. I always thought he just didn’t care about home décor.’

‘Also… well, Lavender Brown visited for a Wolfsbane Potion, and he wouldn’t let her pay.’

‘Hermione, seriously—’

‘But it’s odd, isn’t it? And then, Draco Malfoy offered to help him out financially. But Snape wouldn’t accept a knut from him, either.’

‘That does sound like Snape. He hates people helping him. And he probably wouldn’t let Lavender pay because he feels bad about not stopping Fenrir Greyback getting into Hogwarts or something.’

‘Doesn’t it rather indicate that if HDS found out Snape had more money, they’d take that too – that he’s worried about them getting to other people through him? Snape actually seems to get on with Malfoy, I don’t think he was just brushing him off.’

Harry rubbed a hand through his hair, making it stick up over the thinning patch on top. ‘The whole thing does ring a lot of alarm bells. But I wonder what Snape could want to hide so much he’d co-operate with a blackmailer? I know he’s private, but it’s not like he cares about his reputation.’

‘That’s what I thought. So I wondered – HDS – couldn’t the S stand for Snape? Perhaps it’s only a relative he’s supporting. Are his parents still alive? Does he have siblings – or children?’

Harry shook his head. ‘His parents died a while ago, and he’s an only child. I’d be surprised if he’s in touch with any of his relations – his wizarding relatives disowned his mum when she married a Muggle, so you can imagine what they were like. And he hated his dad. Plus he’s never married. I’d be pretty shocked if he’s supporting children.’

‘Really?’ Hermione frowned. ‘Perhaps he just got drunk at a party, and—’

Harry gave her an incredulous look. ‘This is Snape we’re talking about.’

‘Right.’ Hermione suppressed a shudder. ‘No, you’re… no.’

Suddenly desperate to change the subject, she thought about mentioning that Snape had laced her breakfast with Veritaserum, but decided against it. For one thing, it was embarrassing to admit she’d been incompetent enough to allow it to happen. For another, telling Harry that Snape was engaged in secret work for the Ministry after already admitting to going through his accounts and listening in on his private conversations would push Harry over the edge. Neither of them liked sneaks.

‘I’m sorry you had to work overtime today,’ she said instead. ‘It sounds like the Auror Office is as full-on as ever.’

A smile flitted across Harry’s face. ‘Yeah, well, it keeps me on my toes. Dark wizards here, werewolves there. We’ve got this unsolved Polyjuice case that the DMLE are leaning on us to drop because it’s taking too much of the budget, but I’m sure it’s solvable. And it was honestly quite fun corralling a herd of Thestrals on top of the Houses of Parliament this morning.’

‘What on earth were they doing there?’

‘No idea. Probably some Muggle-baiter’s idea of a joke – you know, scaring them with the noise and leaving unexplainable hoofprints on the roof. Hopefully I can get whoever did it on Statute of Secrecy grounds and put them away before they do something worse.’

Hermione shook her head. ‘I’m still glad I quit.’

He gave her a wry look. ‘So – what’s next? I assume the Floo Network isn’t your long term plan. Are you going to go back to Hogwarts and get your N.E.W.T.s?’

She sighed. ‘It’s tempting but… don’t you think it would be a bit weird? Sitting in class with a bunch of seventeen-year-olds?’

‘Are you seriously telling me you wouldn’t relish mentoring an entire N.E.W.T. cohort?’

She bit her lip and raked her fork through the crumbs on her plate. ‘To be honest, I’d love to go back, but… I keep imagining the look on Professor McGonagall’s face when she asks me what I’ve been doing for the last ten years – and I have to tell her I’m basically homeless and work somewhere Percy Weasley found uninspiring. She’ll be so disappointed.’

Harry frowned. ‘It’s a bit like your Boggart. Wait – you told Snape about your job, right? When you moved in?’

‘I suppose I did.’

‘And telling McGonagall’s worse because…?’

‘I get your point. But you see, I actually care what Professor McGonagall thinks of me.’

‘Ah well.’ Harry drained his cup of tea. ‘It’s your decision. Can’t blame me for trying, though.’

She smiled. ‘Do you want to go for a wander down Diagon Alley, for old times’ sake? I can’t buy anything, but it would be nice to take a stroll.’

Harry looked at his watch. ‘Sorry. That is a really good idea, but Ginny’s expecting me back. I can’t leave her with James and Albus all day, even if Kreacher is surprisingly good with babies.’

Hermione snorted. ‘All right then. I suppose I’d better release you.’

He stood to leave and tugged his cloak on. ‘You are all right aren’t you, Hermione? I mean, this… It’s a lot.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘Really.’

‘Right. Well, if you need help, you know where I am.’

He left quickly. When Hermione gathered up her things and followed him, she discovered he had Apparated after paying the bill – for the Firewhiskeys, his meal, and everything she’d eaten.

It set her off crying again. It was good to have a friend in Harry.

Chapter Text

Hermione Apparated a little distance from Spinner’s End, needing a walk to work off her tears before she arrived and had to encounter her nemesis of a landlord.

She had been expecting to feel miserable after breaking things off with Ron, but as she wandered through the mouldering terraces and past the rubble of the old mill, her heart lightened.

It was over. The pressure was off. The decision was made, for better or worse. After fourteen years of fighting and making up and frustration and self-doubt, she finally had closure. It was like being brought back to life – or like breaking the surface of the lake after the second task in the Triwizard tournament, or, perhaps, like getting exam results. The deed was done, everything was finished, and she was okay.

She’d thought she would feel horribly lonely, but she didn’t. It wasn’t terrible, being single. From now on, she could make her own decisions. She didn’t need Ron’s – or anyone’s – approval for anything she did, ever again.

She was free.

She found herself smiling, and chastised herself – she had broken Ron’s heart, she had ruined his life – but happiness welled inside her like an irrepressible fountain. She noticed pink flowers peeping starlike from the brick walls, and little green things thrusting tender leaves from cracks in the pavement. Even the murky river was beautiful, the low, wintery sun bright on the water.

The cell-like darkness of Snape’s front room did nothing to dampen her spirits. It was just a room – it could be fixed. Everything was possible.

Yes! That was what she would do for the rest of the afternoon – improve her lot. She would feel so much better about living in Snape’s house if it wasn’t such a dank prison.

She could hear Snape moving around upstairs, occupied in his potions work and unlikely to interrupt – what better time to seize the moment?

Humming a jaunty tune, she drew her wand and headed to the extension. Spider-Repelling Charms went all around the bathroom, sending multitudes of unwanted eight-legged visitors scurrying for the window. Scouring Charms went in the toilet, bath and sink, turning the enamel sparkling white – superficial perhaps without proper specialist magic, but infinitely better. Next, she headed to the vicinity of the washing machine and fridge-freezer. Charms blazed. The walls gleamed. Spiders fled.

She moved on to the kitchen and faltered, staring at the grease-stained ceiling, the peeling wallpaper.

Her bedroom’s issues were probably a better match for her energy levels.

As she shut the kitchen door, it felt oddly quiet in the house. She shrugged.

In her bedroom, she Vanished the smelly mattress with a sense of relief. She would buy a replacement if Snape insisted on it, but she wasn’t keeping that thing a moment longer. It was mouldy. The floorboards succumbed instantly to her Scouring Charm, releasing puffs of dust which gushed out of the open window. But the broken chair, which matched the two dining chairs downstairs – dented, dirt-ingrained oak with a threadbare burgundy seat – proved harder to fix. Reparo didn’t work. The chair appeared whole after the charm was cast, but when she experimentally sat on it, it snapped in a new place and ripped her best jeans. After casting Reparo three more times with the same result, she bundled the chair in Spellotape and decided it was cursed.

Then there was the wardrobe.

Today, there was a Boggart in it.

Hermione bit her lip and considered the rattling, mirrored door. Boggarts always took her the same way: they manifested her failing authority figures, earning their disappointment and fury. The Boggart she’d faced in her third year at Hogwarts had become Professor McGonagall telling her she’d failed her exams. When she’d been training as an Auror, Boggarts had become her mentor sacking her. Those had been easy to make ridiculous – the bearer of doom need only don a clownish outfit to be rendered a joke.

But what form would a Boggart take for her today? It wasn’t like she was scared of Cormac McLaggen, her new boss. He was ridiculous enough without a Boggart-Repelling Charm.

Ron’s tearstained face flashed across her mind’s eye, and she took a sharp breath.

It would be okay. She could cope. Hadn’t she just dealt with the real Ron? And she was in a far better frame of mind right now than she would be if she left the Boggart to fester. She definitely shouldn’t go to sleep with it still lurking in the wardrobe.

She propped her bedroom door open with Cadmus’ empty cage – it was never wise to face a Boggart in an enclosed space – and flicked her wand at the wardrobe.

The mirrored door creaked wide, and there was a rush of cold air.

The Boggart took shape before the door.

At first, Hermione couldn’t tell what it was. She had been expecting a person. Instead, a greyish oblong headed up a rectangle of weedy earth.

Was it a badly-dug garden with a thin wall at one end?

No… There were letters carved stark and black on the upright surface of the stone.

Wendell and Monica Wilkins. The date of death was five years ago.

She stopped breathing.

It was her parents’ grave.

They were dead.

That was why she couldn’t find them.

She stepped back.

The black letters were sharp teeth, the gravestone heavy and final.

Her parents had died before she could undo their memory spell. It was why she couldn’t find them.

They would never remember her.

Her breath was trapped in her chest. There was no way to soften this, no way to make it entertaining.

She’d failed them. She’d failed her parents. She’d failed them in the worst way possible.

‘Riddikulus!’ she gasped, but the spell only changed the names on the gravestone to her parents’ real ones.

The Boggart loomed nearer.

‘R-Riddikulus!’ she tried again, voice cracking.

She couldn’t look away. The inscription burned into her eyes. A sob tore from her mouth.

The Boggart was going to overcome her.

She backed towards the doorway – and into something warm and solid.

A hand gripped her shoulder and thrust her aside. There was a rush of dark robes – and Snape stood between her and the Boggart, with a furious sneer on his face.

The Boggart’s attention switched, breaking her thrall. It swirled and re-formed.

A broad-shouldered man stood before them. His brown workman’s trousers were held up with braces over a dirty vest. There were pouches under his blue eyes, and his rough-shaven face was bitter with anger. He removed a cigarette from between his thin lips. A stream of acrid smoke issued out of his hooked nose. The stench of stale alcohol-breath and smoke polluted the air.

‘You,’ said the Boggart in a tone of disgust. ‘You make me sick. Poncing about with your books. Snivelling in corners. No backbone to you, is there? You piece of dirt. Your filthy mother lied when she said that mess in the kitchen wasn’t your doing. I’m dealing with you first. Then I’ll make sure she never lies to me again.’ He approached, the cigarette menacing and bright in his fingers.

‘Riddikulus,’ hissed Snape.

The cigarette tumbled from the man’s fingers and onto his clothing. It lit a bright streak of flame down his vest and onto his crotch; he yelled and flapped, but the flames only burned brighter. His trousers caught fire with a roar. He screamed.

Snape let out a savage, ‘Ha!’

The Boggart dissolved with a crack and a blast of smoke.

For a heartbeat, Snape stood as if frozen. Then he strode across the room and threw open the window.

‘It’s a good job I happened to be here.’ His voice was cold and waspish, perfectly level, but where he gripped the windowsill, his knuckles were white. ‘I am beginning to understand why you are an ex-Auror. Even the most incompetent third year student can deal with a Boggart. But you—’

‘My parents are dead,’ whispered Hermione.

She was shaking all over. She’d hardly seen Snape’s Boggart. The gravestone consumed her vision, its blunt face bearing down, the carved letters telling her she was too late.

‘It was a Boggart,’ Snape spat. ‘Get a grip.’

‘But they m-must be! It’s why I can’t find them. I kn-knew it. They’re dead—’ She covered her mouth with her hands.

Snape let out an irritated sigh. ‘Do I really have to explain how Boggarts work? I know your Defence Against the Dark Arts education was disrupted and poorly-delivered, but—’

‘It doesn’t make it not true! Why can’t you understand? It’s been more than a decade, and I still don’t know where they are! I’ve never given up searching! The only reason – the only possible reason I can’t find them must be that they’re—’

But she couldn’t speak. She remembered her mum’s excitement when she’d got into Hogwarts, her dad’s pride. Her throat closed up. She tried to hold off the tears but they overwhelmed her as the memories flooded through – all the bottled-up things she’d stopped herself thinking about, as if deep down she’d known – strawberry-sponge birthdays and sun-flooded holidays in Spain, the dusty hush of museum outings and her first visit from the tooth fairy, a fifty pence piece shining under her pillow. Gone, all gone. She was the only person in the world who remembered the sound of her mother’s voice, her dad’s bad singing, the way they smiled at her like she was their whole world.

She was blind with tears, heaving with great wracking sobs. Her face ran with snot.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Snape. ‘Come upstairs and let me brew you a Draught of Peace before I have to redecorate.’

Hermione shook her head.

‘I won’t ask a second time.’

‘I’m n-not going up there s-so you c-can p-poison me!’

‘Don’t be stupid. I am not going to poison you. It would be very inconvenient.’

She snorted and covered her face.

How had he just made her laugh? She was completely hysterical.

Snape left the room, but paused outside. ‘I’m waiting, Miss Granger.’

Sniffing and gulping, she followed him out. She hated the fact Snape was right, but without a Draught of Peace she would never be able to calm down. She was too rattled to brew anything herself. Offering to make her a potion was undoubtedly Snape’s way of rubbing her nose in how pathetic she was, but, nevertheless, she would take advantage of it. She wasn’t stupid.

There was no way she was letting him give her anything she hadn’t personally watched him brew, though. Not after the Veritaserum incident.

When they reached the attic laboratory, Snape flicked his wand and the skylight blinds flew back, bathing the room in a rosy, early-evening glow. Hermione could see far better than she had when she’d explored by wandlight – there was a sofa and stove she’d missed, tucked away in a corner beside a reading lamp.

It was oddly homely. She stood there, blinking.

Snape took a caldron off a peg with an irritable jerk. ‘Sit down. Unless you intend to brew the potion yourself? You are in no fit state to use a knife, but accidental finger removal is your own loss.’

She settled begrudgingly onto the sofa – which, while lumpy, was newer than the one downstairs and significantly less mildewed – and exhaustion smothered her. Her head ached. She cast Snape a suspicious glare, but he wasn’t looking, so she tucked her feet up and laid her head on the armrest. Her eyes tried to close, but she forced them open. Whatever Snape had said, she absolutely did not trust him to brew the Draught without adding something untoward. (If she’d despised having someone in her house this much, she’d at least consider poison. Nothing with permanent consequences, and nothing hard to remedy, but still.)

Snape moved about the attic with unconcerned economy, robes billowing. He lit a fire and wedged a cauldron over it in one practised manoeuvre, while easing a chopping board alongside. Measuring, watching, weighing, stirring – he did everything without second guesses or doubts, no instructions needed. Hermione found it oddly soothing; it was rather like watching someone dance. Her heartrate steadied, and her diaphragm stopped spasming. She still tracked everything that went into the mixture, but in the manner of someone reading an interesting book, rather than a hunted animal eying an approaching predator.

When he was finished, Snape ladled the misty, blue-grey potion into phials, slotted them into a tray and sealed them with corks. He plunged the tray of phials into a water bath to cool. A few moments later, he plucked out two doses of potion and brought them to her.

Hermione scrambled upright.

He gave her a fathomless look and held out the phials. ‘You should drink one now. I’d advise taking the other before you sleep, but it’s entirely up to you. Some people relish nightmares.’

She shuffled in her seat and met his dark eyes. ‘Um… thank you. For this, and… the Boggart. If you hadn’t been watching out for me, I don’t know what would have happened.’ She sighed and looked at the floor. ‘And I’m really sorry I broke into your lab. I shouldn’t have done it. It was wrong of me to intrude, so… I apologise.’

She took the phials.

Their fingers brushed.

He snatched his hand away. When she looked up, his face was twisted with annoyance. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I came upstairs to enquire as to why you had thought fit to short out the electrics in my extension. It seems that as well as forgetting how to deal with Boggarts, you also failed to remember that electricity and magic do not mix. I’m starting to wonder if you took a Confundus Charm to the head. It would explain a great deal – your excursion into my laboratory very much included.’

Snape twitched over to the workbench and began clearing away his equipment.

Hermione put one phial in her pocket, and uncorked the other with shaking hands. Gosh, he was vile! She’d been trying to be nice!

Catching the reassuring floral scent of an early spring morning, she cast up a last hope that it wasn’t just incredibly well-disguised poison, and downed the Draught.

The result was immediate. Her stomach unclenched; her shoulders unknotted. Her mind cleared, like skies after rain.

She let out a long breath.

Goodness. These things could get addictive.

She shut her eyes and leaned into the sofa cushions.

‘Do you really believe your parents are dead?’ Snape asked quietly, some time later, over by the workbench.

Hermione sighed and dragged herself back from wherever she’d been floating. ‘Well… I don’t know. And I suppose that’s what’s worst. If I knew…’ She trailed off.

‘If I told you there was a way to find out one way or the other, would you take it?’

She opened her eyes and frowned. ‘Yes. Of course I would.’

‘If it involved what some might consider Dark magic?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’

He studied her a moment. ‘There is a potion which reveals whether a person is alive or dead: the Schrödinger Serum. It requires a number of ingredients, most of which I can supply. But not all. One ingredient is an object the person in question has previously owned. The other is the blood of the potion-maker – hence it is considered Dark magic, alongside the fact that, when used, it is an invasion of personal privacy.’ He paused. ‘If it helps, personally I do not consider use of the Serum Dark magic, only unethical in the wrong circumstances.’

Hermione let out a breath. ‘Does it take long to make?’

‘No. But it is fiendishly difficult. I doubt you will succeed without first experiencing many failures – if you succeed at all, which is unlikely. Do you still wish to attempt it?’

Failure. Hermione screwed her eyes shut. This was her worst nightmare.

She had a horrible vision of attempting to make this potion for hours, days, months, years, growing more and more desperate and depressed.

The gravestone-Boggart loomed at her.

Surely Snape’s intention in telling her about this potion was to bury her under a mountain of self-doubt. He was dangling this in front of her to make her feel useless. It was a punishment for her wanton nosiness, for daring to force herself into his house and demand he repay her for saving him.

She set her jaw. He plainly didn’t know her very well. She wasn’t going to give up on anything before she’d even started. She was Hermione Stubbornness Granger.

He would regret this. How hard could one potion be?

She gave Snape a fierce glare. ‘Of course I want to try it.’

Chapter Text

The Schrödinger Serum was not difficult. It was not even, as Snape had said, fiendishly difficult. It was impossible.

Hermione groaned as the mixture in the cauldron frothed up in a mass of ash-speckled bubbles yet again, and Vanished it with an angry flick of her wand.

Her bob had frizzed into a wild nest in the steam from the cauldron, and she had burned her arm when the mixture splashed up past the dragonhide gloves Snape lent her. This was her fifteenth attempt at the Serum, and after an initial flurry of progress, she was profoundly stuck.

She was starting to remember why she’d always preferred Ancient Runes to Potions.

‘The timing must be exact,’ Snape said, over on the other side of the bench. Theoretically, he was ignoring her and intent on his own work. In actuality, her every misstep caught his notice. ‘Try again, Miss Granger. Unless you want to stop?’

‘No. Not yet. I’m sure I’ve almost got it.’

‘Hmm.’ He sprinkled beetle eyes into his cauldron with a fluid, clockwise gesture. His potion turned a subtle shade of gold and emitted a glowing mist that smelled of saffron.

Hermione reminded herself that envious tantrums were not adult behaviour.

Scowling, she measured ingredients again. She was hungry and lightheaded, but she could do this. She was not giving up. She would certainly master the first few steps of the Serum before she allowed herself a break. How could any potion be that difficult to brew?

Four more failed attempts later, Snape had completed his work, packed up and disappeared downstairs. After another two mis-brewed concoctions (one of which caused a fire Hermione had to smother with a hastily-conjured jet of water) he returned, carrying a white plastic bag of greasy packages.

‘Cod or scampi?’ Snape raised an eyebrow at the newly-charred circle on his workbench. ‘Or are you having a barbeque?’

Hermione glared at him. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Suit yourself.’

He sat at the writing desk and ate, flicking through the Evening Prophet. Despite the barrier charm he’d cast to protect his food from fumes, the smell of vinegar wafted across the attic. Hermione noted with annoyance that he had taken the cod, which she’d secretly wanted.

Her stomach rumbled.

While she was distracted, her potion blew up again. Sizzling lava-like blobs spewed over the workbench. She jumped and snatched up her wand. A burning globule landed on her sleeve; she yelped and blasted it with water, but it left a hole.

She swore under her breath, Vanished the exploding mess, and went to grab the scales to start over, her arm stinging. But her shaking hands knocked the scales and sent them colliding into a jar of dried salamander tongues.

The jar skidded off the edge of the bench and smashed on the floor. The tongues flew everywhere, smoking.

She swore out loud this time.

Snape didn’t even look up. ‘Do you mind? Some of us are trying to eat.’

Breathless with indignation, she stomped about, hoovering up the dried tongues with her wand and whisking them into their hastily-repaired jar before they could set Snape’s lab ablaze. She thumped the jar onto the workbench and drew the measuring scales towards her once more.

This time she accidentally dropped in too much toad venom and melted a hole in the bottom of the cauldron. The mixture seeped out, releasing an overpowering stench of burning socks. She growled and cast a Vanishing Charm, but her hands were so unsteady she accidentally Vanished the cauldron as well.

She slammed her fists on the workbench. The bottles of ingredients jumped and clinked.

How was this so difficult? She only wanted to know if her parents were alive, why couldn’t she just—

‘Might I suggest,’ said Snape from over at the writing desk, ‘that setting my house on fire is an inefficient method of re-heating your dinner?’

Hermione spun to face him. ‘Will you shut up!’

His eyes narrowed. There was a cold silence. ‘Miss Granger, did I neglect to mention the difficulty of this potion?’

She gritted her teeth. ‘No.’

‘Did I fail to provide you with necessary ingredients or equipment? Were my instructions inadequate?’

‘No. But—’

He held up a finger and she shut her mouth, eyes burning.

‘You are tired,’ he said. ‘You are making careless mistakes. While you are free to disregard your own safety, I prefer having a roof over my head. If you wish to blow yourself up on another occasion, believe me, I shall not stand in your way. However, I would rather you discontinue your brewing this evening, before you destroy anything else that doesn’t belong to you.’

‘But—’

‘Your failure to brew an acceptable Serum is not my concern. The Essence of Murtlap is over there.’ He gestured in a bored manner at the ingredient shelves. ‘Don’t forget to wash your hands before eating. A poisoning at this time of night would be… tedious. You owe me one silver cauldron, size six, preferably by tomorrow afternoon. Do not forget.’

Hermione threw him a mutinous look, but he had turned back to his greasy box of chips and didn’t see it.

She let out a long breath. This was why brewing that potion was so difficult – Snape was here! How could she possibly be expected to concentrate with him watching and sniping at her?

All the same, her stomach growled, and the burns on her arm stung. She couldn’t carry on this evening. It was profoundly irritating, but she had to admit it: Snape was right. She should stop.

But she was not giving up. Not at all. This was merely a tactical pause.

She flung off the borrowed dragonhide gloves and went to find the Essence of Murtlap.

The burns on her arm were worse than she’d thought, already puffing into blisters. Muttering about Snape under her breath, she poured the healing ointment into a bowl and diluted it with freshly conjured ice-water. Noting that Snape had abandoned his desk for the workbench once more, she set the bowl of Murtlap Essence there next to the unopened box of scampi and chips, scrubbed her hands at the sink, then ate while skim-reading Snape’s Evening Prophet, resting her arm in the soothing potion. At least Murtlap Essence wasn’t poisonous.

It took a few moments for her to notice Lily’s photograph was gone – the desk held the food and the newspaper, but nothing else. She wondered where Snape had hidden it.

She tried to focus on an article written by a St Mungo’s Healer regarding magical beast-related injuries (‘Hippogriff breeding takes more skill than people realise, and even Thestrals need careful handling. Just ask professional trainer Kirsty MacBride, admitted today after a nasty kick…’) but her eye kept being drawn by the movement of Snape’s robes. He laid his equipment out with sublime neatness. He poured tiny, exact quantities into phials without needing to re-measure. He stirred without hitting the side of the cauldron. He was as calm and unruffled as a lake on a still day, and everything he did went perfectly on the first try, nothing spilled, nothing wasted.

Her chest burned; she felt lightheaded. Either she was so impressed she was breathless, or she was extremely close to hexing him senseless.

Fine. She couldn’t brew the Schrödinger Serum this evening. Even if she wasn’t certain she’d murder Snape if she stayed here much longer, it was nearly eleven at night, and she had work tomorrow.

Finishing the last of her chips and abandoning the Prophet, she licked her fingers, washed her hands at the sink, and turned to Snape.

‘Can I keep the bowl of Murtlap Essence?’

He blinked and looked down his hooked nose at her, as though she was so beneath his notice he’d forgotten she existed. ‘I suppose you may.’

She took the bowl and left without another word.

It was only once she was in bed with the lights off that she remembered the Boggart. Her parents’ grave had faded in her remembrance, like a nightmare after waking. She supposed getting on with the Schrödinger Serum had helped. But Snape’s foul-mouthed, cigarette-smoking man, whom she’d disregarded earlier, now seemed burned onto the insides of her eyelids.

She could have imagined any number of forms for Snape’s Boggart. Voldemort would have been the prime candidate, but a furious Lily Potter accusing him of murdering her and her family came a close second – or Nagini, rearing to strike. But instead, it was this man: badly-dressed, wandless, not someone she would have noticed if she’d passed him in the street.

Who had he been? And how could he be Snape’s greatest fear? Was he a Death Eater, perhaps – someone Snape knew was still loose, and might target him?

Puzzled, she replayed her memories of the Boggart: the man’s slurring voice, his words, his nose…

Her eyes flew open and she sat up in bed, heart hammering. Her gaze fell on the angular silhouette of the chair – one of a matching set of three, cursed so it splintered and stabbed whoever tried to sit on it, in this house where Snape had grown up and never changed the furniture. She remembered accidental magic she’d done as a child – the time she’d given Lauren Poplar-Lee explosive pimples after she’d laughed at her teeth – and she recalled the flames rippling over the Boggart-man’s clothing, and Snape’s harsh laughter – and Harry saying, ‘He hated his dad.’

She gasped and stuffed her hands in her mouth.

Your filthy mother lied.

Nausea curdled her stomach.

The Boggart had been Snape’s father. Snape’s father, long dead – who he still feared more than Voldemort.

She didn’t want to know why that was. She didn’t want to know why the foul-mouthed man had been brandishing a cigarette like a weapon. She wouldn’t let herself think of a small child, alone and un-cared-for in this horrible, dark house. Not when the child was Snape. She wouldn’t.

Hermione lay back down again with the covers over her head. She tried to think of happier things, memories of Hogwarts, dinners with Harry and Ginny. But she kept seeing the Boggart-man’s bitter face and angry fists – and Snape’s knuckles, white as he held the windowsill, his back to her, his voice perfectly level.

She would bet her and Ron’s beautiful, almost certainly repossessed house that Snape never told a soul what had happened to him at the hands of his father. And she’d just walked in and seen it. No wonder he had said such horrible things to her afterwards. She’d seen something he would never willingly show anyone – and that after she’d broken into his lab last night. It had been a second gross invasion of his privacy.

Would he ever forgive her?

She turned over and buried her face in her pillow.

Why did Snape stay here in this awful house, so full of bad memories? Why did he keep the nasty old chairs, the hideous wardrobe, the ugly sofa?

She detested Snape. He was vindictive and rude. She needed to stick up for herself around him. But even he shouldn’t have to live like this.

She thought of HDS again, and the money they were siphoning off Snape each month. If Snape had been able to keep that money, surely he would never live here? It was the choice of someone who had no choice.

Telling Harry about HDS had been the best thing to do – there was no point asking Snape about it, he’d loathe her for meddling. But any Auror investigation would be difficult, and take a while – particularly if Snape didn’t co-operate, and she was certain he wouldn’t. There must be something else she could do in the meantime. Perhaps she could make this place nicer – a welcoming home, rather than simply less of a hole? After all, she had to live here too.

Plus, she thought with a grim smile, sorting out Snape’s house was an excellent way to assert herself in this situation. It was perfect, a win-win solution.

She thought and thought. When she finally gulped down the second dose of Draught of Peace and fell asleep, her dreams were full of galloping sofa covers and paint samplers and vases of flowers. But in the middle of it all sat that cursed chair. And no matter what she did, at the back of it all, there was the sound of a frightened child, crying.

Chapter Text

Every day, after her stint at the Floo Network Authority and a hastily-constructed dinner, Hermione soldiered up to Snape’s lab and worked on the Schrödinger Serum.

It went much as her frustrating, abortive Sunday had done. She would start each session by practising the tricky stirring and adding motions necessary for the Serum in dummy runs with water. Only when she was confident of managing for real would she use actual ingredients. The initial steps would run smoothly until she came to some predictable bottleneck – like the moment she needed to add a single drop of Acromantula venom while on the three-and-a-quarterth anticlockwise stir after adding Oil of Newt. She would fail then, but feel encouraged she’d got so far, and sure she would master the finicky hand movements on her next attempt. But when she began again, she would fail at a different, much earlier point, one she knew she had mastered. Frustrated, she would start over, only to make another, completely different mistake. Then things would start exploding.

It was beyond maddening. She had never been bad at Potions. Why was this so difficult?

Snape took to keeping buckets of sand handy for her constant conflagrations, and working inside a Bubble-Head Charm. It distorted his face and made his nose look even bigger, but, Hermione reflected, at least he wasn’t choking on all the smoke and fumes like she was. By Wednesday, she’d decided there was such a thing as being too stubborn for her own good, and used a Bubble-Head Charm on herself.

Thursday that week was one of her days off from the Floo Network. She stayed in the lab all day, barring a quick break for lunch and another for a rapid, angry walk when she almost drew her wand on Snape after he’d sneeringly enquired as to whether she was going to deplete his entire ingredient store, and threatened to start charging her. (It would have been better if buying the replacement silver cauldron hadn’t taken most of her monthly salary from the Floo Network. She was never going to get out of his miserable house at this rate.)

Friday, another entire day spent in Snape’s lab, was no better. In fact, her progress moved in retrograde. Worn out and disheartened, she sat in the kitchen and cried for an hour. Then she went back upstairs and had at the Serum again until midnight, while Snape mixed up batch after batch of flawless Dragon Repelling Potion in a gigantic cauldron on the other end of the bench.

Still no luck.

Saturday and Sunday were the same, bar a quick break for lunch with Harry and Ginny. When Snape suggested she remove herself from his lab for an entire day instead of merely an hour, Hermione fumed at him for the rest of the weekend. She didn’t leave the lab until 1am, entirely out of spite.

At the Floo Network on the following Monday, she could barely concentrate, and caused a pile-up around Milngavie. The evening found her standing dead-eyed at Snape’s workbench, stirring and adding and measuring ingredients on autopilot, hardly caring any more. She failed again and again, but it felt so inevitable it was like it was happening to somebody else. She went to bed early, exhausted.

On Tuesday, she was late for work.

Cormac McLaggen called her into his office. Hermione entered reluctantly, passing him a tight smile and trying to ignore the way his lips pouted in paternalistic concern. Cormac was less of a lech than he’d been at school, but she still had an uncomfortable inkling he harboured intentions towards her. He grinned too much. He also constantly asked what she thought during meetings, and boasted about his Muggle girlfriends where she could overhear as if trying to provoke her to jealousy. She tried to avoid him as far as possible, but it wasn’t easy. His offer to show her the ropes when she’d arrived at the Floo Network had only been rebuffed by appealing to the higher power of Percy Weasley. (Percy hadn’t understood what was going on, but he’d been so overwhelmed with officious pleasure that Hermione valued his expertise she’d felt bad. His mind-bogglingly dull office tour had taken four mercifully McLaggen-free hours. She would forever be grateful. It was a shame he’d changed jobs.)

Hermione hadn’t breathed a word in the office about breaking up with Ron, and she never intended to. McLaggen needed to imagine she was unavailable for as long as possible.

‘So, Granger,’ smarmed McLaggen, swinging his chair. ‘How’s things? Glasgow re-routing project coming along okay?’

She straightened. ‘Fine. Glasgow is on target. Actually, we’re slightly ahead: the Dumbarton branch turned out to be constructed more efficiently than I’d expected.’

He leaned over the desk at her, heirloom cufflinks twinkling. ‘What about your personal life? You were late this morning. Everything all right at home?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Everything is perfectly okay, thank you for asking. My alarm didn’t go off, that’s all. It won’t happen again.’

McLaggen picked at his cleft chin, and she felt a stab of annoyance. He’d always be above her, but if she’d gone back to Hogwarts and finished her NEWTs, she could have been ordering him around…

‘It’s all right, Granger. I heard on the grapevine you’ve broken up with Weasley. No secrets here! Commiserations and all that.’ He licked his teeth and flashed her what was probably supposed to be a kind smile, but looked more like a smug grin. ‘Let me know if you need a day or two. I’m sure we can accommodate.’

Hermione fumed inwardly. For goodness’ sake! Who had told him? She tried to draw up a list of suspects and map their connections to McLaggen, but there were too many Weasleys involved.

She forced a smile. ‘Ron and I have been living apart for a couple of months now, actually. I’m quite over it.’

‘Well, don’t forget to ask if you need anything.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Oh, and I need to let HR know your new address.’ He drew out parchment, dipped his quill, and looked at her expectantly.

Hermione knew she could tell HR the address herself, and probably ought to insist on it. But she had a sudden idea. ‘Of course.’

She gave him Snape’s address in Spinner’s End.

‘Cokeworth?’ McLaggen stroked his lip with his quill. ‘That house isn’t connected to the Network, is it? Inconvenient for the office. Do you want it linked up?’ He waggled his eyebrows, and Hermione realised with disgust he was angling for an excuse to visit.

‘No.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I can’t get it linked up. You see, Severus likes his privacy.’

‘Severus?’ McLaggen’s brow furrowed, like he was sure he’d heard that name but couldn’t think where. ‘Severus, um…?’

‘Severus Snape. I’m living with him.’

McLaggen stared at her. She could almost see the thoughts crawling, caterpillar-like, across his brain. His eyes grew wider and wider.

Hermione pressed her lips together. She mustn’t laugh.

Unfortunately, her suppressed smile only appeared to confirm whatever McLaggen was imagining. He coughed awkwardly and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Um, right. Good. Well, uh, see you around then. Keep me updated on the… uh… Glasgow.’

‘I will.’

Hermione left as fast as she could. She felt bad, but reminded herself she hadn’t lied, only let McLaggen form a false impression. It wasn’t her fault he had a filthy mind. Besides, it had been in the name of self-preservation. Even he wouldn’t make a move on her if he thought she was – ugh, she couldn’t believe she’d done this – if he thought she was seeing Snape.

Sighing, she made her way to her desk. Her office at the Floo Network Authority had been fitted out with some of Arthur Weasley’s new Flashweasel brand hybrid magi-computers last year; her enormous German deskmate Hilda Sturm’s glum face was lit by a stuttering green screen.

Over in the glass-fronted side office, McLaggen was still blinking and looking shellshocked.

Hermione’s smugness at outwitting him evaporating, she settled at her Flashweasel and began monitoring Floo traffic around Glasgow. She forced herself to remember why she was working here. It was safe. She got paid. She wasn’t qualified for anything better. She needed something dull to take her mind off Auror-related stress.

Her colleagues whispered and giggled on the other side of the desk divider, and Hermione’s hackles rose. Beside her, Hilda muttered to herself and scratched away with a quill in the vast ledger that, along with a fancy Hippogriff calendar, took up the entirety of her desk.

It was going to be a long day.

As she spent hours watching Floo passengers zipping through the fireplace network, boredom settled over Hermione like a smothering weight. Was this her life, now? With the Aurors, she’d once saved so many Merpeople their Chieftainess gifted her twin pearls as a token of enduring friendship. Now she was shepherding blobs on a screen.

With a jolt, she remembered Snape’s sneering comment, shortly after she’d moved in: I always had the impression you were going to do great things. Hadn’t she also thought that about herself, not so long ago?

And yet, here she was. Personally and professionally stuck, and only just turned thirty.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes.

Overhead, the strip lights buzzed.

The impossible Schrödinger Serum instructions waiting for her up in Snape’s lab were just another blockage in the road. But at least they were a challenging blockage. Unlike this.

Chapter Text

Wonderfully, McLaggen left Hermione alone for the rest of the day. Then, even better, when she returned home to work on the Serum, Snape was elsewhere. Bliss. The lack of his presence was like the relief from a scratched itch. She meandered upstairs to the attic lab in a relaxed frame of mind. Setting up the equipment for the Schrödinger Serum had become so routine she hardly thought about it. She weighed and measured and set the fire going under her cauldron. Without needing to check the instructions, she added ingredients and stirred them in a half-aware trance, thinking of how wonderful it would be for McLaggen to finally give up on her. Toad venom, Fly Agaric spores, Newt Oil, Acromantula venom, crushed Devil’s Snare, then stewing time… The drop of blood… What came next? Oh yes, the pulverised Cordyceps, then the Snargaluff pods…

The potion seethed in the cauldron, a glowing purple.

What was the next step?

She found Snape’s instructions, taped to the bench with Spellotape and proofed against spillages with an Impermiability Charm, and ran her finger down the list.

She gasped.

The next ingredients were the final ones – objects her parents had owned.

She had done it.

‘Congratulations, Miss Granger,’ said Snape, right behind her.

She jumped and almost upset the cauldron.

He whipped out a dragonhide-clad hand and righted it. ‘Do be careful! Unless you wish to waste any more ingredients? I hope you have the test items ready. Or was this all just an expensive exercise in futility?’

‘Of course I have them,’ retorted Hermione, gesturing to the basin where the locket her mum had passed down to her when she turned sixteen, and the stuffed bear her dad had played with when he was a boy, sat together.

‘You recall that these items will be destroyed? And the Serum, if incorrectly brewed, will not work, despite that? And that you must be quick?’

‘Yes!’

‘You still wish to do this?’

‘Yes! Have you finished interrogating me?’

His eyes glittered coldly. ‘Do you require assistance?’

She let out a long breath. She didn’t want to ask for Snape’s help. However, it was going to be impossible for her to apply the Serum the way the instructions stated by herself – she didn’t have the finesse. If she wasted this batch, she would have to start all over again, and she would have destroyed two precious keepsakes of her missing parents for nothing.

‘All right, I need your help,’ she snapped. ‘Just… don’t talk while I’m working. If you don’t mind.’

His lips thinned. ‘Would you like me to pour the potion, or hold the objects?’

Hermione gritted her teeth, and decided to swallow her pride. It was important this worked. ‘You can pour.’

‘Very well.’

They were forced to stand uncomfortably close together. The test object had to be rotated clockwise while the Serum was poured on in a widening spiral to drip down into the basin.

Hermione felt itchy where Snape’s robes brushed against her. He smelled vaguely of dragonhide – a masculine, leathery smell with a hint of bitter spice, not unpleasant. But still. She didn’t want to have to smell him.

‘Are you ready?’ he snapped.

‘Yes.’

‘Begin, then, swiftly. Unless you wish to waste all your work.’

Grinding her teeth, Hermione fished the bear out of the basin and set it aside, then picked up the locket and rotated it in her gloved hands. Snape let the potion stream from the lip of the cauldron in a precise arc, starting at the centre of the necklace chain and spiralling outwards. It poured off and fell into the waiting basin.

‘Careful,’ he sniped, as their arms brushed and the stream of potion faltered.

‘I’m doing my best!’

The Serum reached the end of the locket, and Snape set the cauldron aside.

The last drops fell from Hermione’s gloves into the bowl she’d set out ready.

Nothing happened.

No. This wasn’t… This couldn’t be it.

‘It’s not working,’ she whispered.

She had spent so much time brewing this potion. The locket was unique. All of this had been for nothing. She had meant to pass the locket on to her own daughter one day, and now it would be gone – gone, like her parents—

‘Wait,’ said Snape. ‘Patience.’

The necklace glowed with a pulsing, green-gold light.

A bang, and her hands held nothing but ash.

Hermione flinched.

The ash drifted towards the bowl. As it hit the surface of the potion, there was a blinding flash of yellow light, bright as the sun.

She dusted off her gloves and scrambled for the instructions through the purple after-images. ‘Yellow light – what does it mean?’

‘It means the previous owner of the necklace is alive.’

She spun to face Snape, eyes wide.

Her heart felt like it would explode.

Alive. Her mum was alive. After all this time.

She couldn’t speak.

‘And the other?’ said Snape in a bored voice. ‘Do please recall that the Serum loses efficacy with every passing moment.’

‘Oh! Right!’ Hermione rinsed her gloves, swapped the dirty basin out for a fresh one and snatched the toy bear off the bench.

The bear’s name was Ted B. Her dad used to invent stories about him when she was younger. They’d been on countless adventures together.

Ted looked up from her gloves with sad resignation in his button eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered to the bear. ‘It’s for a good cause. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Just – be brave. It’ll be over before you know it.’

‘Rotate the item,’ said Snape, enunciation like daggers.

Hermione cleared her throat and began.

He leaned over her to pour the potion. She shuffled to create distance between them and trod on his foot.

‘Ouch. Do be careful, Miss Granger.’

‘It’s Hermione,’ she muttered through gritted teeth. She took a breath to calm herself, but all she could smell was dragonhide.

The potion streamed onto Ted B’s worn brown fur, turning him soggy and drowned-looking. His sewn mouth drooped. His eyes glistened. Hermione remembered her dad making him talk, and her chest squeezed. For some reason, this was so much worse than losing the necklace.

The last of the potion dripped from the bear’s foot.

They waited. Hermione could feel Snape breathing beside her ear.

She swallowed.

The bear pulsed green and flaked into ash, making her jump. She stood on Snape’s foot again, and he hissed.

The ash floated to the surface of the potion and settled there, like grey swansdown on a dark pond.

Nothing else happened.

Hermione drew a shuddering breath.

‘Is… does that mean he’s…’ Her throat closed.

‘Didn’t you read the instructions?’ Snape snapped. ‘Death is signified by a flash of blue light. All we have learned is that you waited too long. The Serum lost its efficacy. This test was wasted.’ He prowled away and began picking off his gloves. ‘You chose sentimental words over a useful outcome. Next time, hold your tongue.’

She closed her eyes as they prickled.

Why had she used the bear? It was gone forever, now. She’d destroyed it for nothing. It was like losing an old friend.

‘There won’t be a next time,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not going to repeat the test.’

He paused, glove half-off. ‘Because the process is too challenging?’

‘No.’ She looked at the floor. ‘It’s just… now I know my mum is definitely alive, I have to hope Dad is too. I won't give up searching for them - using the Muggle internet, you know - it's actually quite brilliant. When I can afford it, I'm going to visit Australia again. But if I can’t find them…’ She raised her head. ‘I can’t destroy anything else I have left to remember them by.’

He studied her a moment. Although his face didn’t change, she suddenly felt he understood. Then he turned away and laid his gloves on the end of the bench, and she wondered if she’d imagined it. Snape couldn’t possibly be sympathetic.

‘Miss Granger,’ he said carefully, ‘I… have been looking for an Assistant Potioneer for some time. Since you have successfully brewed the Serum, I wish to offer you the position. You can work here on your days off from the Floo Network. I will pay you, of course.’

She stared at him. ‘What?’

He gave her a deadpan look, and said slowly, as though her hearing might be the problem, ‘I am offering you a job.’

‘But… why?’

‘You succeeded in making the Schrödinger Serum. I did not imagine you could, especially so quickly. You apparently do not lack talent. More pressingly, I have become limited by the amount of work I can accomplish alone. Many projects demand my time, yet my time is limited, and I do not wish to turn clients away. Hence, my present situation is… inconvenient.’

‘You would pay me? To work for you?’ She blinked. ‘How is that possible?’

He sighed impatiently. ‘My clients are going to pay you, Miss Granger. Please don’t make me explain how commerce works.’

She looked at her hands, gripping the edge of the bench; the partly-healed burns on her arm caught her eye. Working with Snape? But… for money.

Was this a good idea? Or a terrible one?

She needed the money, she really did. And Snape’s projects were bound to be more intellectually stimulating than that awful rerouting business at the Floo Network.

But she hated Potions. And she would have to work with Snape. She wasn’t sure she could stand it. Living with him was bad enough.

‘Not that it factors into your decision,’ Snape said silkily, ‘but the more you earn, the sooner you can afford to move out.’

She flushed. It was like he’d read her mind.

Wait. He could read minds, couldn’t he? He was an expert in Legilimency. Did he also know what else she’d just thought? About how she couldn’t stand him? Her blush deepened. Surely he didn't pry into people's thoughts by default, did he?

She should avoid making eye contact the next time she insulted him in her head. Just to be on the safe side. 

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

‘W-what sort of projects are you working on?’ she stuttered.

‘I am afraid I cannot elaborate before you sign a contract. Most of my projects are highly confidential. Some are… secret.’ His eyes glittered. ‘I can assure you, however, that I only take on work I find rewarding. If that factors into your decision.’

And perhaps I’ll get more opportunities to see what’s going on with HDS.

‘I’ll do it,’ Hermione said. ‘I… um… Thank you.’

He gave a sharp nod. ‘Be here on Thursday. 9am on the dot. Arrive on time, or I shall be forced to use a Summoning Charm on you. You may find that… undesirable.’ He turned on his heel and went over to the bookshelves.

Hermione cleaned and packed up the equipment she’d been using. But when she was about to leave for the night, she paused.

‘Professor—’

He was sitting at the desk with his back to her, and did not turn around. ‘You may call me Severus. Since we shall be colleagues.’

‘Um.’ It felt beyond weird calling him by his first name. She’d maybe try it another time. Or never. ‘Well… have you ever brewed the Schrödinger Serum?’

He slotted a bookmark into the text he’d been scrutinising and looked straight across it, at the wall. ‘Yes.’

She’d been about to ask him how it had worked out, and how long it had taken him to get right, as a sort of comparison to see how badly she’d been messing up. But the words stuck in her throat. Surely he’d mock her for being insecure enough to ask?

She ought to leave.

He sighed. ‘I have brewed it several times. I invented it.’

‘You invented it? But why? What—’

‘If you must know, it was shortly after the end of the First Wizarding War. Albus Dumbledore wished to ascertain whether the Dark Lord was truly gone. It took me six months to discover that, most unfortunately, he was not.’ He paused. ‘As for what I imagine you really want to know: you could have brewed the Serum in far less time, if you hadn’t allowed yourself to become frustrated and impatient. The Serum requires emotional stability to brew correctly.’ He picked up the book again. ‘Good night.’

Hermione mumbled a reply and fled the attic.

Emotional stability? Hmph.

Downstairs, she made herself a cup of cocoa and watched the rain fall in the light from the curtainless kitchen window, bright speckles appearing and vanishing into the dark.

Out there somewhere, her mum was alive.

What was she doing right now? Hermione tried to conjure images of her mother reading, cooking, visiting a museum perhaps. But it had been too long, and the pictures fell apart. So many activities – hobbies, music, books – were things they’d done together, things the memory spell would have culled. Who had her mother become, without her?

Perhaps she’d left Australia to travel the world, and that was why Hermione couldn’t find her – or maybe Hermione had set off an avalanche of disasters by stealing those memories, and her parents had got divorced, and her mum had remarried and changed her name…

Still, she was alive.

Hermione sighed, and rested her head on her arms.

She couldn’t believe Snape had invented that impossible potion – just after the First Wizarding War, of all the times. She’d read about the War but it never felt quite real. She’d been oblivious, surrounded by Muggles, unaware of the danger. But Snape was the same age as Harry’s parents, wasn’t he? And they’d had Harry at twenty and died aged twenty-one, on the day Voldemort’s spell rebounded. She tried to imagine a twenty-one-year-old Snape, bereaved of his only love – admittedly Lily had been a creepy and obsessive fixation, but according to Harry’s evidence at his trial it wasn’t as if he’d ever had anyone else – toiling alone for months in the Hogwarts dungeons, ordered to brew an impossible potion for an impossible task. He’d been so young. Had Dumbledore helped Snape, or abandoned him to address more urgent matters? How had Snape felt as he stood there after the flash of yellow light, the first person to know for sure that Voldemort wasn’t dead? How had Snape managed to maintain the necessary emotional stability to get the job done?

It was a fascinating question – purely from a historical perspective, of course. She wished she had the courage to ask Snape about it, though probably he’d just sneer.

Ugh. She was not looking forward to spending more time with him.

Although, she was looking forward to those secret projects. And the income.

She allowed herself a grim smile. She could do this. Just for a little while. Just as long as it was necessary.

Chapter Text

Thursday rolled around. Hermione stepped smartly into the attic at five to nine, fiddling with the buttons on her cardigan and hoping she didn’t look as nervous as she felt.

Snape was already there, standing over something bubbling and popping at the far end of the workbench. The glowing potion lit his face with a green pallor, accentuating the dark rings under his eyes.

Hermione frowned. He always looked such a mess. How much sleep did he get? No matter how late she’d left the lab during the couple of weeks she’d been working on the Schrödinger Serum, he’d still been there. And he breakfasted early. Now she thought about it, she recalled Harry complaining about dodging Snape’s late-night patrols as a student, too. Did Snape suffer from insomnia, or just prefer the hours of darkness? She’d bet anything it was the second.

He looked up and fixed her with his cold, black stare. ‘Good morning.’

He made it sound like a prediction of doom, but Hermione was determined to be cheerful. This was her first day, after all.

‘Morning!’

Snape moved to the writing desk and she followed, her stomach giving anxious flips. There were two identical pieces of parchment lying on the desk.

‘Your contract.’ Snape handed her a quill. ‘It includes a non-disclosure clause. I would read it thoroughly before signing both copies, if I were you.’

She bent over the desk and studied the parchments. Her eyebrows rose. ‘Um, this says that if I ever reveal details of these projects to anyone who isn’t in the know and/or without your permission I will… develop incurable ingrown toenails and boils and be cursed to experience permanent friendlessness?’

Snape gave a half-shrug. ‘Your choice.’

‘Isn’t that a little… extreme?’

His lip curled. ‘Your friends would survive. Perhaps I should alter it to curse the word “SNEAK” across your face instead? At least I have warned you of the consequences in advance.’

It was a fair point. Besides, it wasn’t as if she was going to rat on Snape, whatever he was doing. She’d already told Harry as much about Snape’s books and ingredients as they could both stand.

Hermione re-read the parchment several times while Snape tapped his foot with increasing irritation, but the contract seemed above board. There was a termination clause, and allowance for paid leave. Snape would even take liability for any injuries she sustained in his lab while he was supervising her. She wished her Auror contract had been as generous.

Finally, when it looked like she was about to give Snape an aneurism, she scratched her signature onto both copies. ‘When do I start?’

‘Now. But you will begin with some of the less… sensitive projects. You must sign a Ministry contract before you can assist me with those.’

‘Okay.’

‘Are you familiar with the Pepperup Potion?’

‘For colds and flu? Yes. I make it most winters.’

‘How would you alter it to work on Muggles?’

Hermione’s eyes widened. ‘On Muggles? Doesn’t that breach the Statute of—’

‘Answer the question.’

‘W-well,’ she stuttered, ‘I suppose Goosegrass and lard…’

‘Brew it and show me. Take detailed notes. I want to know exactly what you try – the quantities, the results, the mistakes, everything.’ He thrust the parchment into her hands. ‘Your copy of the contract. Don’t lose it.’

Hermione nodded, then hesitated. She should be brave. Wasn’t she a Gryffindor? She needed to ask this now if she was ever going to be able to work in peace with Snape. ‘Um… Can I ask you something?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I believe you just have.’

‘Do you… do you ever use Legilimency on me?’

He gave her a look of such disgust she worried she might disintegrate. ‘No, Miss Granger. I do not invade the minds of other people to suit my whims. Unless it becomes unavoidable – for example, if you ever attempt to duel me – then I certainly shall do no such thing.’

‘Oh. Um… good.’

Yikes. As if she’d try and duel Snape.

He turned away, then paused. ‘Having said that, do try to avoid making your thoughts so obvious they are practically extruding themselves from your eyeballs. I have less than no desire to investigate that mind of yours, yet some things are impossible to unsee. Self-Obliviation has always struck me as a risky procedure. I would prefer I am not tempted to try it.’

She gulped. ‘Well, I’ll… do my best to keep my thoughts to myself.’

Wait. Did that mean Snape had seen her thoughts before now? She wasn’t always the subtlest of people, and she hadn’t been trying to guard her mind. What had he seen? When?

Maybe she ought to avoid eye contact as far as possible.

He gave her an unimpressed look. ‘Don’t you have work to do?’

‘Um, yes, of course.’ She scuttled to the storage shelves, and began her new job.

***

Modifying the Pepperup Potion required more ingenuity than Hermione expected. The new ingredients she’d proposed – Goosegrass and lard, common in multi-species potion preparations – turned out to react badly with the rest, rendering the brew useless. She tried adding them separately, then individually, then at different stages, then stewing the Goosegrass… And kept ending up with a sludgy, poisonous-looking mess. She faithfully detailed the results in her neat, round handwriting in the lab book Snape had given her, and sighed.

Was it a different ingredient she needed? She peered at the looming shelves, with their multitudes of bottles. A dead Flobberworm bobbed in a jar. Hundreds of varieties of beetle eyes glittered from tiny pots.

Trial and error wasn’t going to cut it.

She needed a book.

She headed past Snape’s end of the bench and searched his shelves for anything related to Muggles. The standard potions texts were useless. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi contained a footnote about the properties of Goosegrass, but that had already proved useless. She frowned and glanced at the ominous black spines of the Dark Potions books. She had put off examining them so far – the sight of their silver-stencilled titles made her skin crawl – but she was out of options.

She discovered what she needed at the end of a row of gruesome poison grimoires: Potions to Befuddle and Ensnare the Unmagical: A Thorough Guide by Cadaverous Nott. Hermione picked the book down and grimaced at the touch of its sticky binding.

She laid the book on the workbench and perched on a stool to read.

Cadaverous Nott’s interest in Muggles had been anything but innocent. However, the book was as thorough as the title promised. For a fiery concoction like the Pepperup Potion, it was almost certainly cat whiskers she needed. Who’d have guessed?

It took several more trials to discover the correct dosage and stage at which to add the whiskers, which sort of cat they should be from (a ginger Tom’s turned out to be most effective) and how finely to chop them, but by lunchtime Hermione had met success. The Pepperup Potion smoked out of a flask on the workbench. She took some in a dropper and added it to a vial of water, which steamed and gave off a powerful smell of menthol.

It was perfect.

Hermione grinned.

She was in her element again. It had been such a long time.

This was so much more satisfying than solving Floo blockages.

‘Finished?’ asked Snape.

She jumped. Why did he have to keep startling her? ‘Yes. I think I’ve done it.’

‘You think?’

‘I mean… I have. I have done it.’

‘Hm.’

He wafted some of the vapour from the smoking flask towards himself, and inhaled it. Then he lit his wand, picked up the flask and swirled it, peering through the potion at the wandlight. Finally, he put a small drop of the potion on his tongue, where it smoked convincingly.

‘What did you add?’ he asked.

‘Cat whiskers.’

‘Source?’

She indicated the book. ‘This horrible thing by Cadaverous Nott.’

He glanced at the book, then studied her a moment. ‘I was expecting this task to take you much longer.’ He paused. ‘You can have the afternoon off.’

‘Oh.’ Hermione felt oddly disappointed.

‘I haven’t prepared anything else for you to do. I was expecting this project to take you at least a week. You did… well.’ There was a note of slight surprise in his voice.

‘No, of course, I mean, that’s okay…’ She trailed off, face hot. Why did Snape complimenting her make her flustered? She didn’t care what he thought, surely? She cleared her throat. ‘Can I, um… can I ask why someone wants a potion that works on Muggles?’ She glanced at Nott’s book. ‘It’s… worrying. That’s all.’

Snape gave her a long look. ‘I suppose I can tell you.’ He tapped a finger on the bench. ‘Do you know that Squibs cannot brew potions, nor do they find them efficacious unless they are specially adjusted?’

‘I didn’t know that.’ Hermione had never given much thought to Squibs, and it suddenly felt like a massive oversight. ‘That’s… really sad.’

‘Mm. The Squib who engaged my services runs a Muggle care home in Lancashire, for dementia patients. She wanted something to help those under her care endure the effects of colds and flu in the winter season.’

‘So it is for Muggles.’

‘Muggles, a Squib. Yes.’

‘Isn’t that illegal?’

Snape gave her a sharp look. ‘You have signed a confidentiality agreement. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten the details. The contract will not excuse you from the penalty just because you are tattling to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.’

‘But it breaks the International Statute of Secrecy!’

‘Giving Muggles who can’t remember what they ate for breakfast a potion to cure their colds and telling them it’s cough mixture?’ His lip twisted. ‘What exactly about this scenario do you feel is likely to result in the mass exposure of our kind?’

She folded her arms. ‘It’s not okay to perform magic on Muggles. They can’t understand it. It’s unfair.’

‘Would you conjure a Patronus to defend a Muggle being attacked by a Dementor?’

‘Well, yes, but that’s an attack by a magical creature, so it makes sense to defend a Muggle in that situation. They’d be helpless otherwise. Colds and flu aren’t magical. It’s not the same thing at all!’

‘And if you discovered a Muggle who had been bitten by a werewolf, would you apply silver powder and Essence of Dittany to stop the bleeding?’

‘That’s another magical creature attack. I fail to see the connection with Pepperup Potion.’

Snape raised his eyebrows. ‘Are they not both life or death?’

‘Colds don’t kill people. Besides, you know the DMLE would certainly disagree with feeding Muggles potions.’

‘Well,’ he said, narrowing his eyes, ‘it is a good job you cannot tell them about it. Hand me your notes and clear the workbench. You are dismissed, until I find something suitable for you to work on.’

Huffing, she did as he asked and stomped off downstairs.

She made sandwiches in the rancid kitchen, and ate them staring at the wall.

She couldn’t tell why she was so annoyed. She didn’t want to stay cooped up in Snape’s lab with him all day, did she? It was a shame the work was so interesting, that was all. It had been unfair of Snape to make her stop. She had signed a contract.

The clock ticked. The afternoon stretched in front of her, featureless and drab. The novels waiting in her room no longer felt like a fulfilling use of her time.

A piece of wallpaper peeled off the wall with agonising slowness, and hung exposing the mouldy plasterwork.

Hermione remembered what she’d told herself the day of the Boggart – that she would make the house a nicer place to live in.

Yes. It was the perfect use of her unexpected free afternoon.

She peered around the kitchen again. But this time, instead of a miserable hole, it became a treasure trove – of possibilities.

Chapter Text

It was evening. Hermione rested from her labours with a new book (an exposé of nursing homes, written by a former care worker). There was food in the oven; a pleasant, garlicky smell suffused the air. She'd just finished a cup of tea. Steam curled against the pretty floral wallpaper she’d found in Homebase.

Snape appeared in the kitchen doorway and froze. ‘What have you done?’

Hermione looked up from where she sat on her white-painted and reupholstered dining chair, slipped a bookmark into the (somewhat grim) volume and laid it on the floral-patterned tablecloth. ‘Oh, to the kitchen? I’ve improved it.’

Snape’s hands curled into fists. His black eyes darted around the spritzed-up room as though assessing a vicious trap concocted by the worst of Dark wizards.

‘Don’t you like it?’

He rounded on her, white with fury. ‘Like it? Why would I—’

‘Well, let me see. It’s no longer a health hazard. The wallpaper is much nicer and it’s actually on the walls. The cobwebs are gone. It’s stopped raining dust into our food.’ She picked up her book again. ‘If you ask me, it’s a definite improvement.’

‘But—’ He twitched towards the floral tablecloth to rip it off, but stopped as if afraid touching such a disgusting item might be dangerous. ‘It’s…’

‘Prettier? Yes, it is. I’m making dinner tonight, by the way.’

She watched Snape’s reaction out of the corner of her eye while pretending to read.

It was highly instructive.

There was an aura about him like a vessel under so much pressure it would explode. She tensed, ready to leap for cover. Then he just… reined his fury in. It wasn’t gone. It remained, unaltered in its terrifying enormity; its menace prickled across her skin. But he’d pressed it down inside himself, forced it to contract into a cold, bitter core. When she found her courage again and met his eyes, she suddenly knew why’d they’d always made her think of black holes. The anger lurking there was weighty enough to set a galaxy spinning, compressed enough to fit on a pinhead. It sucked away all light and warmth, a propulsive black fire, always prickling. His entire soul spun around the erratic heft of it. It was a behemoth rattling the iron cage of his self-control.

It scared her. But at the same time, it was oddly thrilling. Surely not his anger – she ought not to find that compelling, surely she didn’t, she was too civilised, surely. But his restraint, well, that was… curiously impressive. That he could hold himself so tightly, when he was so unutterably furious.

He was so different to Ron. Ron’s anger was a small, sporadic thing, a little yapping dog desperately puffing itself up and trying to be a wolf, always about to give up and roll over in submission. Ron needed no restraint because he was so easily rebuffed. Every time she’d fought with him, she’d found herself hating how petty his anger was, how easily she could overwhelm him, how he needed to artificially inflate his ire to match hers. She’d needed every ounce of control not to wipe the floor with him, knowing he’d be too hurt to come back if she really laid it on. It had been exhausting. She’d felt squashed and constricted, never able to fully express her grievances. (Besides, Ron didn’t take those seriously no matter how many times she repeated herself.) That last time she’d walked out – well, she’d snapped. She’d had the presence of mind to leave before she destroyed him, but only just.

Snape’s anger was nothing like Ron’s. It was monstrous. If she provoked him past the point of return, his anger would overwhelm and consume her, burning her in cold fire.

She was… weirdly tempted to try it. To see how far he would go before he snapped.

Hang on.

That was a terrible idea.

And why was she comparing Snape with Ron?

She shifted uneasily.

Snape went over to the sink. ‘What ought I to expect in my house next,’ he spat, not looking at her, ‘a kitten done up in little pink bows?’

She licked her lips. She was being silly. She wouldn’t antagonise Snape further.

‘I don’t think either of us have time for a pet,’ she mumbled.

She had done up the kitchen to be kind, hadn’t she? She hadn’t angered Snape on purpose. He would be glad, in the end, that she had made his home fit to live in. Surely he would.

He poured himself a glass of water from the tap and drank it, staring out at the rain-lashed yard. The magic-nurtured roses in the window box bobbed in the wind. She could sense him despising them.

‘What are you cooking?’ he ground out.

‘Oh – just a sort of garlicky, cheesy pasta thing, with truffle oil. It has breadcrumbs on top. I found the recipe in Waitrose, so it should be quite nice.’

He let a long, slow breath out through his nose.

The Timer Charm Hermione had set on the oven pinged out a tune and whirled with bluebell-coloured light, making her jump. Beyond glad for the interruption, she slipped on her oven gloves (floral, matching the tablecloth – they’d come in a set) and took the food out of the oven. The dish bubbled invitingly, and the breadcrumbs were a perfect toasted colour. It smelled so good her stomach rumbled. Feeling pleased – finally, she’d cooked something appetising! – she set it on the new, periwinkle blue cast iron trivet on the table, and got out plates and cutlery.

‘How hungry are you?’ she asked Snape, retrieving a serving spoon from his shabby sideboard. (Which also begged repainting, but she had only had the one afternoon.)

He turned to face her, and that black fury glittered in the depths of his eyes.

She fought to keep her voice steady. ‘Just a small portion?’

He glared, but came and sat down. She realised she was holding her breath as though he was a wild animal she was trying to tame, not a fully grown adult man, and forced herself to relax.

She doled him out a portion of the pasta. ‘It might be a little hot.’

‘You don’t say.’

They ate in silence.

Hermione scraped her plate and served herself seconds. ‘Look,’ she said, licking a bit of melted cheese off her finger, ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.’

He ignored her.

‘About the Pepperup Potion,’ she continued. ‘On balance, I think it’s probably okay to give it to Muggles in that sort of situation. They’re elderly, and they could get pneumonia. Even if the DMLE would take a different view, we ought to help them.’

There was a long silence. Hermione continued scraping her plate and refused to be intimidated into spluttering out more words. Snape had been right - she had not. It happened sometimes. That was why she’d changed her mind: pure, disinterested logic, and research. She wouldn’t let Snape gloat, like it was some sort of personal victory.

He cast her book a glance. For a long moment he paused, examining her, before he said, ‘That is just as well. I have another project I wish to involve you in.’

She set her fork down. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. I told you: I am busy and I have put off finding an assistant for far too long. But you will need to sign a Ministry non-disclosure form - that is, another contract - before I tell you what it concerns.’

Hermione swallowed. Today had given her an inkling of what working with Snape would be like. She had half a mind to refuse him and invoke the clause that enabled her to resign. But all the same…

‘Is it interesting?’

There was the barest flicker in his eyes, like the scales of a black fish under water. ‘It is… important work. Difficult, time-consuming, essential. But I suppose that… yes, it is also interesting.’

She thought of the Floo re-routing project. She thought of her life trickling away, accomplishing nothing. Even re-decorating Snape’s kitchen, fun as it had been, hadn’t really involved her to the extent she’d hoped it would.

She thought of that challenging black fire in Snape’s eyes, then told herself she hadn’t.

She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll do it.’

Chapter Text

It was Friday morning. Up in Snape’s lab, Hermione perused the Ministry Non-Disclosure Form. It was a thick piece of parchment inked at the top in bright red with:

CLEARANCE LEVEL MANTICORE

TOP SECRET

MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Then there was a large, blank space that ended with SEVERE PENALTIES AWAIT THOSE BREAKING THIS AGREEMENT and a detailed and impressive list of security hexes. Apparently they were designed to silence and render immobile anyone who tried to pass on information tied to the project. The parchment also informed her that if she culpably broke the secrecy agreement, she would spend the rest of her life in Azkaban.

After that, was the ominous blank space for her to sign.

‘Culpably break the secrecy agreement?’ she asked weakly. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means you are not considered liable if, for example, you are discovered to have swallowed Veritaserum or were under the Imperius Curse when the breach occurred.’ Snape’s voice was like oiled velvet. ‘Of course, such circumstances are, unfortunately, quite difficult to prove.’

She nodded, stomach fluttering. ‘Right.’

‘You will discover they have reason for such caution when you sign the agreement.’ He crossed his arms and gave her a pointed glare. ‘In your own time, Miss Granger. I am waiting.’

Hermione hesitated, re-reading the agreement. She’d thought Snape’s contract was overly heavy on security, but ingrown toenails and boils were small fry compared to these Ministry hexes – and the threat of Azkaban. Yikes.

It would be better not to sign it.

Still, this was obviously important. Did she really want to pass up on contributing to a fascinating, essential research project? Snape wanted her help with it, and he wouldn’t give out opportunities like this willy-nilly.

She’d taken so many risks as an Auror, and in the war. Not that long ago, she’d tracked down a Dark wizard who’d cursed the Merpeople in Hogwarts’ lake, dodging spell-fire as black water closed over her head.

She couldn’t bear the idea of making flu remedies for the rest of her time with Snape, then being dismissed because he’d found someone less timid.

She leaned over the parchment, quill in hand.

'You did read the warning about Azkaban?' Snape drawled suddenly. 'And... the hexes?'

Ignoring him but gripping the quill rather hard, she wrote her signature and the date in a shaky hand.

In the corner of her eye, Snape's eyebrows rose a hair’s-width.

The parchment crackled. New words appeared.

She gasped.

Lycanthropy Cure Project

It has come to the attention of the Ministry of Magic that the time is ripe to develop a permanent cure for Lycanthropy. This project is classified at Manticore level, due to the threat from werewolf agitators. No part of this project can be divulged to external persons until it is officially declassified. The security hexes will activate immediately if secrecy is breached.

To get in touch with the Ministry, owl ONLY the official named below.

Your discretion in this important matter is much valued.

All resources are at your disposal, you have only to ask.

Named Ministry Contact: D. T. Lang.

Code word: Argent.

Underneath was Snape’s angular signature, and a December date from eight years ago.

Lycanthropy research! But… of course it was.

The entrenched, casual mistreatment of werewolves was one of the reasons Hermione had originally wanted to work for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures – before she’d decided not to go back and take her NEWTs. After the war with Voldemort, the Ministry, disorganised and reeling, had enacted a series of werewolf-related measures. Supposedly they were intended to keep the wizarding public safe, but in Hermione’s eyes they’d achieved the exact opposite.

Instead of overturning Umbridge’s werewolf legislation, the Ministry doubled down on it. They attempted to force werewolves to submit to location tracking spells. Werewolf support services moved from the Being division to the Beast division. When the few werewolves who weren’t in Azkaban protested about what was happening, the Daily Prophet ran a smear campaign, painting them as dirty, dangerous animals.

Witches and wizards who got bitten hid their Lycanthropy, or chose to refuse treatment with Dittany and powdered silver and bleed to death on the night of the bite, knowing the kind of life they would lead. Hermione imagined if she was ever infected she’d go into hiding as well. It had always been difficult for werewolves to hold down a job, but after Umbridge, werewolves weren’t even legally allowed to make binding agreements or start businesses. And the monthly transformations were said to be unpleasant, even with the Wolfsbane Potion.

Hermione wished the Ministry would see sense and change tack. However, recently, they seemed to be sinking to new lows. She’d even read something about a bill to make it illegal to obtain Wolfsbane Potion except through Ministry-approved outlets. Wolfsbane was already expensive because it used so many rare ingredients. Surely such a move would mean fewer werewolves took it, which would lead to more bites? She didn’t know what they were thinking.

It was hardly surprising the whole thing had driven werewolves underground and made some of them a little… desperate. She wasn’t sure how many of the Prophet’s stories about militant feral werewolf packs were true. However, attacks had been increasing. More than one employee in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had been bitten in the last couple of months.

Perhaps it was a good thing she’d just been sworn to secrecy about her involvement in a werewolf-related Ministry project.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I suppose all the security measures make sense now.’

Snape removed the Ministry contract and spirited it away. She watched him tap the end bookshelf with his wand. A secret compartment flew open, and he carefully stowed the parchment inside.

‘How far have you got with it?’ she asked, fiddling with the buttons on her cardigan. ‘The cure, I mean.’

He stilled midway through running his finger along the spine of a book. There was a significant pause. ‘Nowhere.’

‘Nowhere? But in eight years, haven’t you—’

He spun to face her, and that black fire prickled in his eyes. ‘I have tried thousands of magical ways of binding the Lycanthropy and removing it from the body. Most had never been proposed before. I have studied Muggle techniques – chemistry, biology, pharmacology. I have tracked down ancient remedies that were said to work and were thought lost, re-constructed them, and tested them.’ His lip twisted. ‘But everything I have tried so far has led nowhere – neither solely, nor in any combination I have yet devised. The work has taken me eight years.’ His eyes glittered. ‘It would have taken many other potioneers a great deal longer.’

Hermione looked down. ‘It wasn’t an accusation, I was only wondering—’

‘I do, however, have a new lead,’ he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘One that might work. One I require… help with.’

Hermione frowned. She’d always thought curing Lycanthropy had been proved impossible. People had been attempting to reverse the condition for centuries, to no avail. Still, it couldn’t hurt to try, and even if it didn’t bear fruit, the research would almost certainly be fascinating.

She thought of Lavender, Bill, poor Professor Lupin – and, with a shudder, Fenrir Greyback.

‘What help do you need, exactly?’ she asked.

Snape gave her a flickering look and pulled down a file – one of several near-identical ones in a series along the top shelf, dated and labelled with numbers. Cracking this newest file (57C) open, he came over and set it on the desk beside her. It was full of closely-written notes in cramped handwriting, which he flicked through until he found what he was looking for.

‘I am unable to personally devote as much time to the research as it requires. Here is a list of suggested routes to take next. Pick one without a tick. I anticipate I can trust you to pursue your selected avenue of research without much assistance.’

She surveyed the list. The first suggestion (Pharmacological study of Transfigured Silver Iodide combined with Leech Filtration as per Vol 14F.50.211) made no sense. She went on to the next option, but that was a whole paragraph of Snape’s crabbed hand, most of which was illegible but seemed to feature the words “termite mound model” several times. The third option was just the acronym VBH and the scribbled annotation “Springtails KA” – it was ticked. She tried to skim-read the rest of them (there were, altogether, fourteen numbered items on the page) but it was complete gobbledegook – actually, worse. She had studied Gobbledegook when she’d trained as an Auror; this made far less sense.

It was like one of her recurring exam nightmares, where she couldn’t understand any of the questions, hadn’t revised, and had five minutes remaining to hand the paper in.

‘Um—’

‘Pick. One.’

‘But I don’t understand what any—’

‘Of course you don’t.’ He was grinding his teeth. ‘Just pick one.’

She chose the first, the one with the Leech Filtration. At least she knew what leeches were.

He gave her an exasperated look and snapped the file shut. ‘I hope you aren’t going to display this much indecision every time I ask you to do something or you will waste so much time I would have been better off not hiring you.’

He prowled to the shelves and picked down Volume 14F of his files.

‘The end of chapter 50 details the Leech Filtration Technique. Spend the rest of today making sure you are able to perform it adequately, every time, no mistakes. Then we can move on.’

He thrust the heavy file into her arms.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

‘I shall continue investigating a different idea.’

‘Which one?’

‘Since you cannot possibly understand, is there any point me telling you? Nosiness is not an asset, Miss Granger. Get on with it.’

‘It’s Hermione,’ she muttered. Stalking to the workbench, she heaved open the file Snape had given her at the end of Chapter 50. Snape’s close-spaced notes stared up at her, angular and alien, like a swarm of ants that had been Petrified.

She read, and her stomach sank.

It wasn’t just that Snape’s handwriting was so atrocious she had to guess the meaning of every third word. This technique – which Snape had obviously developed himself – was advanced and complex. She wasn’t sure if she was a good enough potioneer to master it at all, never mind in an afternoon. She traced back and forth over the lines with a careful finger several more times, then, feeling nervous, went to take down a cauldron. Snape was now in his usual position at the other end of the bench, fire lit, cauldron bubbling, ingredients neatly laid-out, scribbling away. She peeped at his notes – he had written half a page already. At the top was Vampire Blood Hypothesis, test with Springtails as Key Antidote, [contind. 8].

She sighed. Snape had been right. Even if he’d told her what he was working on, she wouldn’t have had a clue. The exam nightmare feeling ambushed her again. Watching Snape was like seeing someone else speeding away on a test while she sat stuck, panicking.

He twitched around to glare at her. ‘Finished? Already?’

‘No, I’m just—’

‘And yet you somehow have time to indulge your curiosity with regards my progress?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘If I find you peering over my shoulder again I will assign you other tasks. I have a great burden of routine chores to manage as well as Ministry projects.’ He dipped his quill and began scrawling again. ‘Rat spleens don’t pickle themselves.’

Hermione’s stomach turned over. She scuttled off to get ingredients, suddenly filled with an appalling surety that signing the Ministry contract had been a terrible, terrible mistake.

Chapter Text

Hermione continued working to master the Leech Filtration Technique for the rest of the day. Come dinnertime, she still wasn’t convinced she’d got it right, so after eating (Snape ordered fish and chips again) she stayed on, labouring at her cauldron. It was around midnight when she finally felt satisfied. Twenty potion-dosed leeches glowed orange in the bottom of her cauldron and displayed their mouthparts to the air, just as the instructions said they should.

She smiled wearily. Her hair was a frightful mess (she could feel it expanding in a frizzy mushroom past her ears), her eyes itched, and her head was buzzing with tiredness. But she had finally mastered Leech Filtration.

Snape came and stood behind her, and for the first time she was pleased he was there.

‘Done?’ he asked.

She turned to him. ‘Yes. It was rather tricky – I mean, all those different stages – and that bit where you have to drip-feed the leeches the intermediate potion – they all wanted to really gulp it down, it was quite hard to stop them drinking too much. And the part with the—’

‘I didn’t ask for a tedious re-run of your day,’ he snapped. ‘Are you confident you can apply the Technique?’

‘Yes. Well, unless something goes unusually—’

His eyes were like boreholes. ‘Can you do it or not?’

She flinched. ‘Yes. Yes, I can do it.’

‘Good. Clear up. Leave the leeches in a jar of water so they don’t die; there is no point wasting them.’

Not wanting to talk in case it provoked more waspish comments, she nodded sharply and tidied up.

Snape returned to his end of the bench to stir his cauldron, where a potion was glowing purple. His scribbled notes were now a thick sheaf, with so much writing on the pages they were practically black. Hermione didn’t bother trying to read them – she’d had enough of Snape’s handwriting for one day – but found herself desperate to understand.

She sighed, and reminded herself this was only her second day. There was time. She couldn’t realistically expect to comprehend things so soon.

She washed her hands and was about to leave, but turned in the doorway. Snape was silhouetted in the glow from his cauldron. Fumes wafted mistily up to the open skylight. Curious, she watched him apply his wand to the inside of his wrist, muttering a charm. For a second, she didn’t understand – then brilliant red began to flow, stark in the gloomy attic.

‘Oh – goodness!’ she cried in horror, rushing over. ‘What are you doing?’

He didn’t bother looking up, only plucked a vial off the bench and held it to catch the blood. ‘I am surprised you ask, Miss Granger. Surely you have eyes.’

She stared, appalled. The presence of the vial was only slightly reassuring. Snape wasn’t actually slitting his wrists, and she had perhaps been silly to think so, but still… drawing blood?

The titles of his worst dark magic texts spun through her brain.

‘Why on earth do you need to do… that?’ she gasped.

He gave an irritated sigh. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Lycanthropy is a blood-borne condition. That is, once the saliva of the werewolf enters the bloodstream of the victim, there is transmission of Lycanthropy. I should have thought it self-evident human blood is required to develop a cure.’

‘But – but can’t you just— Human blood is a restricted ingredient! St Mungo’s has approved stores for potioneers, why can’t you—’

He scowled, watching the vial fill. ‘Talk sense. Anyone may use their own blood in potions. It is perfectly legal. Do you really believe I ought to bother our Ministry contact with repeated requests for an ingredient I possess in abundance – one that is self-replenishing? Even you must realise repeated owls about such a controversial topic – not to mention constant deliveries of blood to my house – would make secrecy difficult. Furthermore, approaching… other suppliers… would render me liable to… awkward questions.’

‘I see.’ Rita Skeeter was constantly accusing Snape of being a vampire.

Speaking of which, no wonder Snape was always so pale.

‘Do you take blood replenishment potions after, um, donating?’

He threw her a sneer. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Surely it would be good to—’

‘Blood replenishment potions are for the exsanguinated, Miss Granger. Not those who have lost mere tablespoonfuls. I try to be sensible.’

She drew herself up, trying to calm the squirming in her stomach.

She was overreacting. She had never been squeamish. Blood was just an ingredient. She had been using dragon’s blood for almost as long as she’d been making potions, and that never bothered her.

Snape really shouldn’t be doing this alone. It was obvious he was quietly giving himself an iron deficiency. Besides, this was her project now, too.

‘Do you… um… need more blood than you can provide by yourself?’

His eyes slowly met hers. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Well, if we’re working on this cure together, I can help. That is—’ she forced brightness into her tone— ‘as long as it’s not the ritually unspoilt blood of a beautiful virgin you require.’

Snape’s lip curled. ‘Fortunately, any blood will do. And my… limits… are somewhat hindering progress, but…’ He cast a healing charm on his wrist, then corked the full vial, sealed it with a stasis spell and inscribed it with the date. He turned away to set the vial in a rack on one of the shelves. ‘I am unsure whether it would be… wise, for you to assist me in this.’

‘I’ll be very careful,’ she pressed. ‘We’ll need to test whether any cure works on both sexes, won’t we? Surely it’s sensible to have a second donor. You can only volunteer so much.’

He hesitated, his back to her, then said, ‘I cannot argue with the logic of the suggestion. Fine. But if you must assist, take iron supplements, and brush up on your cutting charms before you begin. Those are my only stipulations. And do try not to become infected with any other blood-borne diseases, in the meantime. We don’t need additional complications.’

She let out a breath. ‘I can manage that.’

He gave a jerky nod, still facing away.

Swallowing, she turned to leave. ‘Um, will you want me here tomorrow?’

He looked at her over his shoulder and his face folded into a suspicious sneer. ‘Don’t you have better things to do on a Saturday?’

‘No, not really. I’m going to Harry and Ginny’s for lunch, but apart from that I don’t have any plans.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Unless you want me to redecorate the—’

‘Nine o’clock,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t be late.’

She nodded and escaped down the stairs.

Snape needed her assistance. It was good to help other people, wasn’t it? She really ought not to be feeling so flustered.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks ticked by in identical fashion. Hermione worked her first job at the Floo Network from Monday to Wednesday, and her job in Snape’s lab Thursday to Saturday: preparing potion ingredients, losing herself in avenues of research, donating her blood to the cause in dribs and drabs, and popping iron supplements. On Saturdays she ate lunch with Harry and Ginny at their house.

Harry kept her updated on things with the Aurors; however, it didn’t exactly entice her to return to her old job. Apparently an Obliviation mix-up meant the Muggle-baiter who’d unleashed Thestrals on the Houses of Parliament hadn’t been caught (which annoyed her, though it was typical Ministry bungling), his Polyjuice case was stalled yet again, and rogue vampires seemed to have developed a taste for Scousers. However, Harry gave her no updates on HDS. He was so busy Hermione didn’t feel it was fair to press him about it, though it worried her. What if Snape ran out of money? If he lost his house, she’d be homeless too. She wished she could approach Snape about the issue, but there was no way he’d confide in her about something so personal.

The weather worsened, shifting from blue skies to sullen gales. Hermione found her attitude to the Floo Network shifting with it. Every time she shut herself inside her office, it felt more and more like shutting herself into a prison cell.

In contrast, the lab work with Snape only became more fascinating. As she learned Snape’s techniques and methodology, her understanding finally bloomed. Undertaking research was like unearthing buried treasure, like recovering a long-lost part of herself. Snape’s methods were truly hideous in their difficulty, but the logic that underpinned them was subtle and clever. The notes she followed encompassed sudden leaps of inspiration, where Snape had scrawled at speed, fervently trying to hammer out some new concept. It was… unnerving to realise he experienced the same thrill of the chase she did when consumed by an idea. Other people had always found her so odd.

She had initially feared Snape would give her his most unpleasant jobs while looming over her shoulder to nit-pick, but he worked even harder than she did, and mostly let her choose her own direction. She’d also been anxious about coming to him with problems. However, when she finally plucked up the courage to tell him about issues she’d uncovered with the Silver Iodide Transfiguration, instead of flying off the handle, he’d held a thoughtful, hour-long meeting with her, even providing tea and biscuits.

To her surprise, she realised she was coming to appreciate Snape’s intelligence, his encyclopaedic knowledge of potion ingredients, and his quick wit.

Unfortunately, he was also impossible to work with.

If he wasn’t sniping at her for careless mistakes, he was criticising her for slowness and pouring scorn on her longwinded note-taking. Either that, or he’d insult her handwriting and sneer at the impreciseness of her results. He frequently got so annoyed with her perceived incompetence he banned her from project work and assigned her mind-numbingly dull and revolting tasks like disembowelling salamanders, sorting pufferfish eyes, or sifting kelpie dung.

He noticed everything.

One day, feeling under the weather, she’d accidentally overslept, set an old volume of notes on fire, then spilled an expensive phial of sea-snake venom, which burned through the lab bench before either of them noticed. In retaliation Snape had “accidentally” knocked her cauldron. Fortunately, the mixture which splashed up at her was a harmless combination of Flobberworm guts and Stinksap. However, it had taken her three hours to wash the gag-inducing smell out of her cardigan – time she spent contemplating untraceable contact poisons.

But although she constantly felt on the edge of murdering Snape, he had lost the power to make her cry. There were only so many times she could hear the words “dunderheaded” and “moronic” without them washing over her like so much bilgewater.

Usually Snape and Hermione worked apart, taking separate areas of the same research project, or even entirely different projects. This was by far the most agreeable and efficient path towards getting any work done.

Today, however (which was Hallowe’en, not that Hermione was attending any parties) the work would require the use of four hands.

Hermione had been dreading it for a week.

Snape apparently hadn’t slept well and was already in a bad mood – well, she corrected herself, a worse mood. He was never happy, although after a satisfying breakthrough he sometimes walked around with a tiny smirk on his face and forgot to chastise her for a couple of hours. But this morning he’d received an owl over breakfast that left him tight-lipped and fuming. An article in the Daily Prophet (which she hadn’t read – he’d burned it) had soured his mood still further. To make matters worse, when they’d gone up to the lab, something seemed to have gone wrong with the mixture he’d asked her to bottle and leave to mature overnight.

‘I told you to seal the jar when it was hot,’ he snapped. ‘Look at this useless mess!’

Hermione examined the mixture. It had congealed. When she opened the lid, the smell was enough to make her lightheaded.

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘Oh!’ he spat. ‘A whole day’s work wasted! I don’t know why I employ you! If you refuse to follow my instructions, what is the point?’ He snatched the jar off her and Vanished the potion inside.

Hermione was sure she had put the lid on when the mixture was hot, but she’d learned not to make excuses to Snape – it infuriated him. The potion must have gone cold faster than she’d realised: Snape left the lab skylights open for ventilation, making the lab so frigid she’d taken to wearing thermals under her thickest winter clothes.

Well, at least she’d know to adjust the cooling period next time.

She sighed. It was going to be a long day.

Snape twitched about on the other side of the bench, lighting a fire and getting a new cauldron ready, robes swirling. ‘Come here.’

She approached, twisting her hands.

‘Stop fiddling and listen,’ he said. ‘I need you to pour in the werewolf saliva – wear your gloves – with a vial of blood, while I add the test potion and stir. Don’t knock me.’

‘Right.’ She tugged on her dragonhide gloves and got the vials of saliva and blood ready, setting them in a test tube holder. She had used these ingredients several times previously and the use of bodily fluids only slightly unnerved her. But – this was the first time she would help check the efficacy of the latest Lycanthropy cure candidate potion.

She tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but knew she was deceiving herself. It was the first time Snape had trusted her with testing a cure. The timing of everything needed to be exact. She couldn’t mess up.

They arranged themselves around the cauldron, which Snape had put on a corner of the bench to ensure they did not hinder one another. After a precise amount of heating time, Hermione poured the vials’ contents into the cauldron; at the same moment, Snape tipped in a thin flask of the silvery-blond potion they were testing and a vial of clear Lycanthropy Indicator Potion. The silvery test potion dripped in strings, hissing when it met the sides of the cauldron. As Snape finished stirring and stepped away, she caught sight of his notes: Vampire Blood Hypothesis with Ferret Liver as Key Antidote.

Snape had eventually explained his Vampire Blood Hypothesis. All his methods were based on finding something to bind to the Lycanthropy in the victim’s blood and draw it out of the body. The Vampire Blood Hypothesis conjectured that the function of Vampirism that bound it to human blood might be modified, using poison theory, to bind to the active Lycanthropy curse instead. Snape was working through a set of key poison antidotes to pair it with. Ferret liver was the latest in a long, long list.

The colour of the potion, combined with the word “ferret”, suddenly made Hermione think of Draco Malfoy. She hadn’t seen him since the morning he’d asked Snape to be Scorpius’ godfather, although she often spotted his handwriting on the post Snape received. Recently, he’d sent a photograph of himself and Astoria holding a wriggling baby Scorpius; Snape had framed it and put it on his desk, replacing the gap left by laughing Lily. Hermione glanced idly over at the Malfoys’ photograph. Astoria looked frail. She wondered how long her blood curse would hold off.

Blood curses… She frowned at the swirling potion.

An idea came to her, like a slow and magnificent dawn.

‘How do blood curses work?’ she asked breathlessly.

Snape’s head jerked up from where he was examining the potion (which had neither changed in colour nor consistency, indicating the solution was useless), sending his black hair whipping off his face. ‘What?’

‘You know, like Astoria Malfoy has—’

Snape bared his teeth. ‘You really do have a pathological inability to let things go, don’t you? Why must I say this again? Her condition is none of your business.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ Hermione trembled with suppressed excitement. ‘I meant – have you tried them?’

‘Have I what?’ His face contorted. ‘Have I tried cursing people’s descendants with a permanent magical disfigurement? I’ll admit that, in your case, it is very tempting—’

She laughed. ‘No, I meant for the Lycanthropy cure! What do blood curses bind to? Could you use a blood curse to – you know, bind the Lycanthropy? As the first stage of the cure?’

Snape went completely still. His lips parted; he frowned at the bench, his eyes darting to and fro as he thought rapidly. Then he stood up and hurried to the bookshelves to heave down several volumes, and abruptly ran out and pounded downstairs.

Hermione’s heart hammered in time with his footsteps. She crossed to the bookshelves – she ought to start looking for reference materials, too – but discovered she was reading the titles without taking them in, her mind leaping elsewhere.

What if it worked? Her idea?

She shook her head a little to clear it. She was getting ahead of herself. Her knowledge of curses was rudimentary at best – she needed a primer, something to get her up to speed enough to understand how curses really worked. A gilt-stencilled volume caught her eye, and she plucked it off the shelf. Yes, this was helpful, and the one beside it…

Snape returned, carrying an enormous stack of advanced-looking curse books. He deposited them on the desk, and began riffling through them at speed.

Clutching her primers to her chest, Hermione drifted towards him, heels clicking on the floorboards, and peered over his shoulder.

He paused mid-way down a page with his long finger on a block of text. ‘There is something in it.’ There was a peculiar note in his voice. ‘Here.’ He tapped the page. ‘The reason the blood malediction is so intractable is that it forms a permanent bond to the bloodline…’ He flicked forward a few more pages. ‘Cannot be broken by means of potion or counter-curse…’ He looked up and his black eyes were full of a strange intensity she’d never seen before.

‘What a brilliant idea,’ he said softly. ‘Such a cure would be utterly permanent. It would reside in the body, never to be undone.’

Hermione felt herself blushing. ‘Oh, well – it still might not work…’

‘Perhaps, but… I’d never have thought of this. I’ve been trying potions-based techniques, and their Muggle counterparts. Temporary, medicinal things. Curses are a completely different discipline. It would have taken me years to consider them. Certainly, no-one else has.’ He was still staring at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘It’s an entirely new area of research. This… this might be it.’

Hermione swallowed. For some reason, the way he was staring at her was making not just her face, but all the rest of her, feel oddly hot.

She cleared her throat. ‘Well… we should… start researching it then.’

‘Yes, yes… Let me…’ He grabbed spare parchment from the shelves. ‘We need to examine the literature, narrow down exactly how this malediction’s blood-binding process works, how to reformulate it…’ He gathered a stack of volumes off the desk and dumped them in her arms, on top of her own books. ‘These are for you. Copy down anything relevant, with titles and page numbers. Neatly.’

‘Of course. Right.’

They paused. Snape’s hands were still on the books Hermione was holding. For a moment, he seemed about to say something else. Then he lifted his hands and turned away.

‘Carry on,’ he called, already scribbling notes.

She sat at the bench with the pile of books, and, heart thumping, began.

***

It appeared Snape’s books had some oddly… flowery ideas about curses.

‘… ye curse belikes someway to a twinning of flesh and soul, not aminable to ye casuall understandinge of uninitiated persones… … Songe is most efficacious for bindinge curses. To their remeddying it is likewise of use…’

The image of Snape singing at a curse to get it to go away filled Hermione’s brain and she snorted, hastily disguising it as a cough when Snape shot her a look. She bit her lip to stop herself smirking. Probably Snape only needed to glare at curses in order to banish them.

This book was most likely too out-of-date to be useful. Curses were hardly mystical and esoteric any more; when she’d cursed the parchment for Dumbledore’s Army, she’d followed a neat little formula she’d found in the library. Still, it was best to be thorough. She copied the line about flesh and soul twinning (or was it twining?) onto her parchment, along with the note about singing, and the page numbers, then set down her quill and yawned.

Rubbing her itching eyes, she peered at the clock. It was past 2am.

‘Oh! I’d better head off.’ The quiet had stretched so long her own voice startled her.

Snape, who was poring over an enormous snakeskin tome, froze with his quill mid-stroke. His eyes darted to the clock. ‘Yes. I… did not mean to keep you so late.’

She stifled another yawn. ‘That’s all right, I lost track of the time.’

He gave a jerky nod, and continued making notes.

‘Well, goodnight then,’ she said, ‘and happy Hallowe’en.’

Snape continued writing and didn’t reply, even as she crossed the lab and let herself out.

She tried to ignore the corresponding jolt in her stomach. Perhaps Snape hadn’t heard her – he’d been rather absorbed. Besides, not everybody celebrated Hallowe’en—

She stopped abruptly, one hand on the stair rail.

Hallowe’en. The anniversary of Voldemort’s disappearance – and James and Lily Potter’s deaths.

‘Oh,’ she whispered.

Snape’s all-day foul mood made sudden sense.

She gathered her cardigan tighter and began walking again.

Not that she felt sympathetic. Why should she? Snape shouldn’t be so obsessed with a long-dead woman he felt the need to snipe at one right in front of him. Lily had been someone else’s wife.

But… he obviously still missed Lily, and mourned her, and it was… sad, perhaps.

That was it. Sad.

Anyway, she and Snape were only colleagues. Why should she care how he felt about his three-decade-deceased love interest?

She resolved to stop thinking about Snape – or his reaction to her idea – or the way he’d looked as he wrote notes, so intense, so absorbed – and get to sleep.

It was more difficult than she’d imagined.

Chapter Text

It took the two of them weeks of work – Hermione joining in during the evenings, and smuggling texts into her day job when she thought she could get away with it – to discover how to reformulate a blood malediction to bind to the Lycanthropy in a bite victim’s blood.

It turned out Hermione’s note about singing to curses was, in fact, useful.

‘Curses are unlike spells in other branches of magic,’ Snape explained, stirring his cauldron while peering at Hermione’s notes. ‘The more complex they are, the more… anthropomorphised, one might say. True curses take on the personality of the caster. They are disinclined to respond to formulaic attempts to dispel them.’

‘You mean like how you can only counter the Imperius by refusing to listen to its instructions? Well, I suppose…’ She frowned. ‘But singing? Surely we aren’t going to need to do that? I’ve never heard of it before.’

‘It is only required for the most intractable of curses.’

‘Like blood maledictions?’

‘Unfortunately, blood maledictions are not curable, even with song. Luckily for us, we need only to cast a malediction, not cure one. The amount of singing required will be minimal.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’

He gave her a sidelong look.

As it turned out, Snape had rather a nice baritone. She’d never have guessed.

When they reached the initial testing stage (which was purely to see if Lycanthropy was successfully bound by the curse-potion) Hermione took a day off from the Floo Network. She didn’t want to miss anything.

It found Snape and Hermione staring tensely into the bottom of a cauldron one Tuesday at three o’clock in the morning. They’d already poured in the werewolf saliva and blood, along with the Lycanthropy Indicator Potion and the curse-potion-cure (which was how Hermione was thinking of it in her head, until they officially named it). The mixture would glow white if they’d succeeded in binding the Lycanthropy.

Hermione’s eyes itched with tiredness and fumes.

They waited.

Nothing happened.

Snape’s shoulders sagged. He let out a pent-up breath and turned away. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘It was a good idea. A brilliant idea. Unfortunately…’

Was that a hint of light?

‘Wait.’ Hermione grabbed his arm then let go as he twitched instinctively. ‘Look! Look!’

Snape spun in a swirl of robes.

The potion was glowing – faintly, so that if it hadn’t been dark they would have missed it. And then there was no mistaking – the surface lit up with fizzing silvery light. Shadows danced on the lab walls.

Snape stared at the glowing potion, his features flattened out by the brilliance.

He was completely speechless. For a moment, Hermione thought he might cry.

‘It worked!’ she said. ‘We did it! We did it!’

He turned wordlessly to her.

She laughed. ‘You look like a kneazle’s eaten your tongue!’

‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Well you’d better! It worked! Just look!’

‘I know. I…’ He trailed off. ‘It has.’ He clutched the edge of the bench, still staring at the mixture in the cauldron.

After some minutes, she said, ‘You know, I was sort of expecting you to be a bit happier about it.’

‘I… am happy.’ His voice was oddly distant. He turned to her. ‘I misjudged you, Hermione.’

She felt her face going hot. ‘Oh… Well… It was nothing—’

‘It was not nothing,’ he said, with a lick of his usual asperity. ‘It was the one idea in a million ideas that worked.’

‘Well, I suppose…’ Her mouth had gone dry. ‘But anyone might have thought of—’

‘They would not.’ He twitched away from her, checked the clock on the wall and began scrawling in his lab book. ‘It was a brilliant idea, and it was successful. I hand out compliments extremely rarely and you should take them without this false modesty.’

‘Um. I… okay.’ Her heart was racing. ‘Thank you.’

He gave a jerk of his head and continued writing.

She let out a long breath.

The mixture was still letting off that dazzling brilliance.

A huge smile split her face. Her insides felt as full of light as the cauldron.

It had worked. Her idea. The Floo Network had not completely dulled her mind. The stress of being an Auror had not broken her ability to persevere through a difficult problem. Living with Snape hadn’t cowed her. She wasn’t useless.

‘You should sleep,’ Snape said, his back still to her, quill scratching away. ‘It’s late.’

‘I don’t know if I can! I mean, this is just—’ She shook her head breathlessly.

He straightened and looked at her, the flickering light softening his expression. ‘Yes, well. This is only the first stage. We still need to find a way to draw the bound Lycanthropy out of the body without killing the patient. Don’t get too excited.’

‘Oh, there’s no need to be such a killjoy!’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘This is the happiest I’ve felt since…’ She trailed off, frowning.

His eyes glittered. He turned back to his notes. ‘Good night, Hermione.’

She gave a little huff. ‘Well, okay, goodnight. I suppose I do have work tomo— um, this morning.’

Hermione was all the way back to her room before she realised Snape had finally used her first name.

Chapter Text

Christmas approached for Hermione in a flurry of dull days grinding through project deadlines at the Floo Network, and argumentative (but satisfying) late hours in the lab.

Now Hermione and Snape had successfully bound Lycanthropy using the curse-potion, they focussed on researching the second component of the cure. This needed to encourage a patient’s body to metabolise and expel the remnants of the neutralised Lycanthropy infection. However, just when that also began to look successful, they got stuck.

No-one wanted to test their cure.

No matter how many owls Snape sent their Ministry contact, they couldn’t find anyone desperate enough to volunteer. Apparently not even newly-bitten werewolves fresh in St Mungo’s wanted to test an experimental Lycanthropy potion. Snape told Hermione he suspected it was because they were afraid the potion was not a cure, but poison. Apparently rumours the Ministry was developing werewolf-specific toxins had been floating around. Hermione was sure Rita Skeeter’s recent articles weren’t helping – she had quoted ‘anonymous Ministry insiders’ saying werewolves ought to be put down. The whole thing made Hermione’s blood boil.

Disheartened by their lack of progress on the cure, Hermione turned her attentions back to their living situation. Still grimly resolved to improve Snape’s dismal abode, she engaged a Free Elf Agency house elf once a week. The rotating elf staff did the cleaning and cooked things Hermione could store in the freezer and produce for dinner. (Takeaways were getting samey, and she had neither the time nor the inclination to delve into recipe books.)

Snape was not impressed with Hermione’s use of initiative (or the house elves). His snide remarks about wasting her money on servants were as expected as they were depressing. Despite this, Hermione surreptitiously invited friends around for New Year’s Eve. She promised herself she would ask Snape about her planned gathering when he was in a better mood.

But before Hermione could manage the approaching festivities – or get too excited about what would happen when St Mungo’s eventually found volunteers to test the Lycanthropy cure, or think too much about her first Christmas in twenty years without Ron – another obstacle loomed on the horizon: the Floo Network’s 400th anniversary charity ball.

At first, Hermione decided she wasn’t going. However, the more people asked her, the more churlish she felt refusing to attend. The proceeds were going to St Mungo’s. Everyone from her office would be there.

She bought a ticket in a spate of lunch hour goodwill, and immediately regretted it.

McLaggen wended his way to her desk, a smug look on his face.

‘So Granger, I heard you’ve finally decided to join us for the big 400th! Is, um,’ he lowered his voice, ‘is Severus coming?’

She threw him her best haughty glare. ‘Is that any of your business?’

A nervous laugh tittered out of him. ‘You know, you’re starting to sound like him. It’s… um… a bit creepy.’

She smiled a Snape-mode sarcastic smile. After the hours she’d spent cooped up in his lab, it was worryingly easy. ‘Is that so? I had no idea. Of course, I do spend so much time with Severus…’

McLaggen gulped and wandered off to talk to Hilda.

Hermione, watching him, frowned and chewed the inside of her lip.

Obfuscating like this might work at the office, but she had no idea how she was going to fend off McLaggen at the ball. If the worst came to the worst, she supposed she could just Apparate back to Snape’s house and have an early night. It would be a shame to waste her ticket, though – it hadn’t been cheap, and there was a rumour Celestina Warbeck might be singing.

She ran through her options for emergency friend-dates, and realised with a lurch that all the boys she knew well enough to ask had got married. That wouldn’t do.

Could… could she somehow get Snape to attend?

Not with her, of course. But his presence, even if on the far side of the room, would certainly deter McLaggen.

Yes. It was the only thing to do.

She’d have to go about this carefully, though. Snape would never accept it if she simply went ahead and bought him a ticket – he’d sneer and proclaim he had more important things to do (while pointedly implying she didn’t). Probably he’d shred the ticket in her face, smirking gleefully – or burn it, like he did unwanted post.

She needed him to want to be there, and think it had nothing to do with her. And she’d have to send the ticket via someone else. Someone he trusted…

Acquiring the Floo ball’s guest list turned out to be a simple matter. She swiped McLaggen’s password (B!G-broomWizzard … honestly) off the sticky note on his desk while he was at lunch, and logged into his account. It took her mere moments to find the guest list on the company intranet. Her eyes sped down the columns, searching for people Snape might want to meet, and alighted on the name Damocles Belby.

Aha. The reclusive inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion. Bingo.

She smiled (only slightly evilly), bought another ticket, and owled Draco Malfoy.

***

On the Saturday of the ball, she asked Snape for the afternoon off. She was expecting complaints, but instead he raised an eyebrow and told her that, officially, she was only contracted for Thursdays and Fridays, so he had no idea why she was bothering to ask. It was almost kind – so much so that she felt bad about her ball ticket subterfuge. However, it was too late to back out now.

Although Snape hadn’t said anything, she was pretty certain he was going to the ball. She’d been there when Draco Malfoy’s owl with the ticket arrived. Since Draco’s letter had escaped wand-fire, and had instead been treated to a surprised blink before finding itself secreted inside the mysterious pocketry of Snape’s robes, she assumed Snape approved of it.

Unless she was misreading Snape? Perhaps it had been an angry blink?

Feeling nervous, Hermione did her makeup with militant perfectionism and slathered her bushy, grown-out bob in Sleekeasy’s Hair Potion. Her hair was now down to her shoulders. She preferred it this length – she’d only got the bob in a fit of spite, knowing it would annoy Ron. With the premature greys she’d developed courtesy of being stressed out of her mind for the last few years, she’d looked stern with short hair, even old. Longer hair made her look… friendlier? Younger? She wasn’t sure, but she preferred it. She sat on the edge of her camp bed and curled her newly-smoothed locks with her wand.

The dress robes she’d purchased for Luna and Rolf’s wedding in the summer were a little tight. A couple of well-placed charms eased them out so she could breathe. The charms wouldn’t last forever, but she couldn’t afford new dress robes while she was saving up for a place of her own. And while things with Snape had improved after the success of her blood curse idea (he was really almost polite most of the time now, and had even been disembowelling his own toads) she was under no illusion as to how much he’d prefer being back on his own. She needed to save as much money as possible and move out – the sooner, the better. Hence, doctored robes.

She sighed.

The ball was supposed to be themed, but in typical Floo Network fashion the organising committee hadn’t been able to agree on how, so it had been billed as “Muggle Storybook Character Masquerade!”. The faux-Muggleborn-inclusivity aspect of it was particularly irksome; Hermione knew the majority of attendees would hash it up. She frowned at herself in the speckled mirror of the old wardrobe. Her dress robes were a cheerful yellow-gold – chosen to please Luna, and perfect for a summer wedding – but she had no idea which Muggle storybook character she could pretend to look like. She thought back to her childhood. A princess would do. Sleeping Beauty? No, everything was the wrong colour. Besides, she’d always found Sleeping Beauty insipid. Cinderella? She tugged out the skirts. They weren’t puffy enough – and she wasn’t going to magic her hair blonde, she’d look ridiculous. Belle. It would have to be Belle. She muttered under her breath and rummaged through her tote bag until she found some hair slides, which she transfigured into a tiara. She transfigured an old pair of sunglasses into a ball mask that matched her dress, then threw on a long pair of gloves, pausing to admire the effect in the mirror. Not too bad. Belle it was.

She hoped McLaggen hadn’t decided to come as the Beast. It would be just like him.

She tugged on matching gold heels, walked out onto the landing – she’d be Apparating to the venue in central London, so there was no need for a cloak – and stopped dead as Snape emerged from the other door at exactly the same moment.

She had never seen Snape in dress robes. They were black, and well-fitting. He looked…

She swallowed.

He looked different. Just different. That was all.

A ball mask was dangling from his hand.

She took a deep breath. Best to keep her cover. ‘A-are you going to the Floo ball?’ she stammered.

He gave her an inscrutable look. ‘Yes. Damocles Belby, the inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion, is supposed to be attending. I have always wished to meet him. A former Slytherin student gave me the ticket.’

‘Oh. How nice!’ She felt breathless. Ack. She mustn’t have got her dress-extension charms right.

There was an awkward pause.

‘Ladies first,’ said Snape, gesturing to the stairs. ‘Unless you’ve decided to stand here all evening in lieu of attending the… frivolities.’

‘Um, yes. Right.’ She turned to leave but trod on the front of her dress and stumbled; he grabbed her around the waist just in time to stop her plummeting down the stairs.

‘What are you playing at?’ he hissed, hastily letting go. ‘Hold the rail! If you tumble, you’ll break your neck!’

In the faltering light, his dark eyes bored into her. He smelled of dragonhide, and Head and Shoulders shampoo. He was far too close.

She took a breath. ‘I just trod on my—’

‘Let me go first, then.’ He brushed past, then turned. Suddenly his hand was on her wrist, tight and warm. He pulled her behind him as he descended the stairs, his steps abrupt and sharp. When they reached the bottom, he dropped her arm and shouldered his way through the bookcase-door into the front room.

She watched him hesitate before directing his wand at the ceiling lantern. In the sudden light he was pale.

What had that been about?

She discovered she was trembling.

It had felt so… strange, for him to hold onto her.

She unthinkingly rubbed her wrist, and his eyes flickered to the movement.

‘Did I hurt you?’ A crease appeared between his brows. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘No. No, you didn’t hurt me. Not at all. I’m fine.’

He scowled – did he think she was lying?

‘I’m fine,’ she repeated, firmer.

He hesitated, then blurted out, ‘There are precious few spells that… In the confused moment of a fall… That is, the stairs are steep. Dangerous. Only children perform accidental magic in such circumstances.’ He scowled harder. ‘Once one is trained, one must be alert.’

She looked at the stairs. They were, like he had said, precipitous, and menacing in the poor light.

With hideous clarity, she remembered the snarling, drunk Boggart-man, and went cold.

Someone had fallen down those stairs. She was sure of it. Had it been Snape? Or his mother?

Had they tripped – or been pushed?

When her worried gaze found Snape again, he was fastening his mask – plain black, like his dress robes. His expression lay hidden.

‘We should leave.’ He killed the lights, then opened the front door and stood waiting for her. ‘After you.’

In the doorway, she turned to him.

She was in heels, and Snape was not a tall man. There was only an inch difference in their heights. But even as they stood eye-to-eye, the darkness revealed nothing of his face.

She wished he was easier to read. No wonder she preferred books to people.

‘I’m sorry for what happened,’ she said softly. ‘I mean… for whoever fell, on the stairs.’

She was sure he would pretend he didn’t understand and make some snide comment. But after a horrible pause he said, ‘Don’t be. It was a long time ago. I shouldn’t have reacted so—’

‘It’s okay.’

He paused, and she sensed his assessing gaze. Then he walked out, and the door clicked shut behind them.

In the shadows furthest from the street lamps, they Apparated into London.

Chapter Text

The Floo Network ball was in a huge, Palladian-style building in yellowing Portland stone that had at various times been an observatory, a museum, and a hotel. It now belonged to Bellwether and Vale’s, a wizarding events company. In Hermione’s opinion, that was the best that could be said for it. She wasn’t sure why, after working at the Floo Network for so many months, she was surprised to find the ball badly organised. But she’d barely arrived before she grew annoyed enough to hex the organising committee.

‘Honestly!’ she huffed, as she and Snape navigated the frigid car park (it was starting to rain). ‘Imagine making the Apparition zone so tiny, and in the sightline of at least five different Muggle buildings! And so far from the doors! I suppose they’re expecting everyone to arrive by Floo, but this is ridiculous. We could have clashed with someone else. And if just one Muggle in that pub so much as glances over here…’

Snape gave her an inscrutable look.

‘And another thing,’ she continued, ‘the Apparition zone has obviously been moved to that corner to leave all this space by the entrance for cars. Why aren’t they encouraging everyone to Apparate instead? It’s so much better for the environment! I don’t know why the Ministry even uses cars any more – unless they’re all useless at Apparition. Are we supposed to trust people to govern the country who can’t get five miles down the road without Splinching themselves?’

Snape said nothing, but carried on walking with her towards the brilliantly-lit doors. She glanced at him sidelong and thought she saw a smirk, quickly concealed.

‘It’s not funny! If they get through the entire evening without needing to call the Obliviators they’ll be lucky. The company’s going to get fined – and they’re always complaining we don’t have enough funding! If they’d just thought about it a bit more—’

‘Perhaps they should have put you in charge,’ said Snape, as they started to climb the broad steps that led to the entrance.

‘Put me in charge?’ Hermione frowned. She was too difficult, too junior, too annoying, surely, to oversee a massive social event?

‘Or didn’t you deign to volunteer yourself?’

‘Well, I haven’t actually been working at the Floo Network long enough to be eligible. But why on earth would anyone want me in charge?’

His eyes glinted in the eyeholes of his mask. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t they?’

She was still taking this in, unsure whether it had been a compliment or an insult, when they arrived at the doors.

‘Tickets please,’ said a bored watch wizard in a black-and-white collared robe. He scanned their tickets with his wand, making them glow gold, then waved Hermione and Snape inside, yawning.

The marble-floored ballroom atrium opened up before them. It contained six enormous, tinsel-decked Christmas trees, and was lit by the glow of thousands of live fairies. In the centre of the room stood an ice sculpture of seven swans emerging flapping out of a ginormous book; fairies slid over the ice, giggling. On a mezzanine, under a huge oriel window, a charmed harp played Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Enchanted snow fell from the glass-domed ceiling.

‘Well, at least the decorations are good,’ said Hermione, somewhat mollified.

It was actually rather spectacular – or would have been, if it weren’t jammed full of total strangers and getting more crowded by the minute.

There was a constant, flickering green light as handsome marble fireplaces along the back wall disgorged guests from the Floo – all beautifully dressed and masked. Hired house elves stood by with clothes brushes, removing soot. There were golden flashes as watch witches and watch wizards checked the new arrivals’ tickets before they were allowed to meander off into the ball. Guests clustered to chat near icicle-spun tables laden with drinks, cakes and sandwiches. Jewels glittered. Polite laughter tinkled.

It was horribly obvious no-one else was wearing a tiara transfigured out of hair clips.

A few people peered at Hermione and Snape, hands covering mouths, then turned away. Hermione tried not to react. She glanced at Snape, seized with a sudden fear he would walk off and leave her. He was glaring at the nearest bunch of gigglers. She had a vision of him prowling off into the crowd, and herself wandering around alone, aggressively panic-snacking, dropping vol-au-vents down her dress, and spilling her drink over someone like the Minister of Magic or Cormac’s boss.

‘Gosh, I don’t know a single person here,’ she muttered. ‘I can’t see anyone from my office.’

‘I suspect Damocles Belby may be in the ballroom,’ Snape said slowly.

Hermione tried not to sound desperate. ‘We could go and see?’

‘I suppose,’ he replied, as though it was of no concern.

They angled through the crowd. A glamorously-sequinned witch dressed as Ursula from the Little Mermaid (replete with inky octopus arms) patted Snape on the back and drawled that she was glad to finally see him at a social event. She cast Hermione a curious look, obviously hoping to be introduced, but Snape continued walking.

‘Who was that?’ Hermione whispered.

‘Igor Karkaroff’s widow. Deputy head of Durmstrang. She’s been trying to recruit me for the last six years.’

‘No wonder you didn’t let her hook her tentacles onto you.’

‘But I so loved teaching.’

Hermione suppressed a smile, and caught a flicker of a smirk in return.

The arched entry corridor to the ballroom was bedecked with red roses, pine and holly. When they entered it, it was like walking through a scented, fairy-sprinkled tunnel of greenery, and strongly reminiscent of Harry and Ginny’s wedding venue.

‘Harry would have loved this,’ Hermione said, brushing her fingers over the blowsy face of a rose blossom. ‘These are the flowers he and Ginny chose for their wedding. I wish he’d been able to come tonight – I did offer to get him a ticket, but he had to work. On call, you know.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Snape’s lip curled. ‘How gratifying to see Potter remains an idiot.’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘Harry is not an idiot, he’s a wonderful person! He’s head of the Auror Office! There’s no need to be nasty about him every time I so much as mention—’

Snape gave her an incredulous look. ‘Really? You must know these—’ he gestured at the greenery— ’are the ingredients of a well-known potion for—’

‘They form the basis of several love potions, I do know that, of course I do! I thought it was sweet. They’d never actually use love potions!’

‘Miss Granger, you misunderstand me.’ He folded his arms. ‘Holly, red roses and pine are used to treat male… dysfunction.’ He gave her a sidelong look. ‘Why Potter might wish to advertise his personal difficulties to his wedding guests, one can only speculate. Perhaps the Weasleys expected more grandchildren than he felt capable of… supplying.’

Hermione frantically tried not to think too much about that. ‘Well! Honestly. I’m sure no-one noticed. Not everyone has your encyclopaedic knowledge of potions ingredients, you know.’ He stopped abruptly, and she just managed to avoid colliding with his back. ‘I wish you’d be nicer to Harry. It upsets him – he only ever says good things about you, you could at least—’

‘Don’t talk to me about Potter.’ He was suddenly very close, his voice deadly soft. ‘I do not wish to speak about Potter. Not now, and not ever.’

Hermione’s heart thundered in her ears, but she resolved to stand firm. ‘Why on earth not? What has Harry ever done to you?’

Snape only folded his arms tighter.

Trying to formulate arguments, she held his cold, black gaze. Then somehow she found herself fixated on the subtle curve of his parted lips, framed under the black of his mask. Her words evaporated.

‘Ah! Hermione!’ interrupted an obnoxiously familiar voice. ‘Thought I’d see you a bit earlier than—’

Snape twitched around to see who was speaking, and McLaggen gave a hastily-disguised squeak.

‘P-professor Snape!’ McLaggen yelped, his voice an octave higher. ‘So nice to see you again! It’s been years! I do hope I wasn’t, um, interrupting…’

Hermione’s stomach was doing the oddest things. She forced a sharp grin. ‘Cormac! Hello! Um… I suppose it’s about time I introduced you to Severus properly.’ She indicated Snape, then McLaggen. ‘S-Severus, this is my manager at the Floo Network, Cormac McLaggen.’

McLaggen held out his hand for Snape to shake. Snape merely stared at it until McLaggen withdrew the hand and slid it behind his back.

‘I recall you from Hogwarts,’ Snape said. It was just his normal unfriendly voice, but one look at McLaggen’s face told Hermione he’d interpreted it as an accusation.

‘Oh, well, er, yes – I was never great shakes at Potions, I’m afraid. Better at Charms. My mother always said it was because I was the charming type rather than the brooding sort – get it? Brewing? Brew-ding? Ah… ahaha…’

There was an excruciating silence. Snape’s expression didn’t change.

‘Just like your, er, partner,’ McLaggen continued, face fixed in an increasingly painful-looking rictus. ‘Hermione’s very, um, charming, isn’t she?’

Snape’s lips thinned. ‘I do not follow.’

‘Um… er…’ McLaggen looked between Hermione and Snape, gulped, then said, ‘So, fancy dress, eh?’ He indicated his outfit, an extravagant mix of green, red and brown silk that he’d accessorised with a jaunty green hat, a leaf-sewn mask and a quiver of arrows. ‘I’m Robin Hood! And I see, Professor Snape, you’ve decided to come dressed as a bat! No, I mean Batman—’

Snape’s eyes narrowed.

‘Ah, no, of – of course not! Ahaha. The Phantom of the Opera, aren’t you, how could I be mistaken—’

‘I am not—’

‘No, you’re the – the Sheriff of Nottingham—’

‘I am not in costume,’ Snape said, in a voice of velvet doom.

McLaggen whimpered. ‘Oh, oh, oh my! Of course! I mean, of course not! Oh… I c-can see m-my date over there! Coming, sweetie!’ He sped off.

Hermione hastily examined the scenery while bringing the urge to implode under control.

The ballroom was even more beautiful than the atrium. The ceiling sparkled with fairies. The more sedate and quiet varieties of the Weasleys’ enchanted fireworks swam lazily through the air, throwing down showers of golden confetti. Variegated ivy twined around a mezzanine and its supporting pillars, along with yet more red roses and holly. A full string orchestra swayed and sawed beautifically on the far side of the figure-strewn dance floor.

Somewhere in the middle, Hermione’s co-workers joggled in a laughing circle. McLaggen attempted to join them, but after a few moments of finding their dance impenetrable, he disappeared off towards the drinks table.

‘Please tell me that imbecile isn’t your boss,’ Snape murmured.

She drew a breath. ‘I’m afraid he actually is.’

‘What on earth was he talking about?’

She managed to resist looking at Snape. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Did he… call you my partner?’

Her heart pounded. ‘Research partner. Um, he knows we work together. On… on research.’ She swallowed. ‘That is, unless he… mistook my meaning.’

There was an awkward pause. Hermione counted her frantic heartbeats.

Snape sighed and unfolded his arms. ‘He must have so few braincells they get lonely. How have you avoided hexing that utter idiot into oblivion?’

Anger rolled hot through her, sudden and hot.

Was… was the only person Snape didn’t consider an idiot himself? How could he bracket Harry with McLaggen?

Why did he always have to be so harsh?

And McLaggen might be annoying, but he was her boss. Did she look like someone who worked for an idiot? Was he about to call her an idiot, too?

Would it have killed him to say something other than ‘I don’t follow’ when McLaggen called her charming?

She gathered herself up.

‘You know,’ she said brightly, ‘Cormac used to bother me. But then I started working with you…’ She shrugged. ‘For some reason, he suddenly seemed perfectly nice. Oh, I’ve just spotted my colleagues! Bye!’

She flashed Snape an airy smile, and skipped towards the dance floor.

‘Hermione!’ roared Hilda, spying her. She had obviously been sampling the cocktails; her face was scarlet and her normally dull eyes bright. ‘Good to see you! Come and dance, look – everyone’s here!’ She gripped Hermione’s shoulder and steered her into their circle.

Hermione held her head high, made herself smile, and joined arms with her workmates.

When the circle rotated enough that she could see the place where Snape had been standing, he was no longer there.

She wasn’t sure why she felt so very disappointed.

Chapter Text

Several cocktails and no sign of McLaggen or Snape later, Hermione was having a great time. As she spun, giggling, in the middle of the dancing circle of Floo Networkers, she wondered why she’d thought her workmates boring. It must have been the office environment sucking the life out of everyone. They were different people here. Hilda in particular was quite a revelation. At work, she acted like a Dementor-afflicted gargoyle. Now she was laughing uproariously and chattering nonstop about her experiences breeding and showing fancy Hippogriffs. In her short pink dress robes and glittering mask (she had come as one of the three little pigs) she resembled a beneficent, supersized cherub. Hermione was the most relaxed she’d been for ages: almost relaxed enough that she didn’t note the location of the fire exits. But – she sighed at herself – old habits were hard to kick, even when she’d been sipping Centaur Slings and Azkaban Slammers for several hours.

As she glanced around the ballroom again, something niggled in the corner of her mind. When she tried to focus on it, it slipped away. Probably nothing. All the same, she needed a glass of water. It wouldn’t do to get plastered – she could only imagine Snape’s smirk the next day as he related something embarrassing she’d done while not her sober self.

‘Just a moment,’ she murmured to Hilda, easing out of the circle.

‘You heading to the ladies’? We can all go!’

‘No, I’m just getting a drink of water…’

‘Right-o!’ Hilda saluted her and let off a booming whoop as another of their officemates leaped into the middle of the circle and began rhythmically flailing limbs.

Hermione slipped away, her nonsensical unease increasing. She paused at a side table to draw iced water from a condensation-beaded urn, then stood with her back to the wall as she drank it.

What was wrong? Was it just her anxiety again? Alcohol affected her differently to how it had when she was younger. She should have paid more attention to how many cocktails she’d been putting away.

Guests in black wearing animal masks stood to either side of a nearby fire exit, watching the crowd. Was it suspicious behaviour – or were they simply tired dancers? There were more on the mezzanine, too; one leaning on the balcony rail, another couple by the stairs. As Hermione looked around the room, she saw more figures in black evening wear, either poised watching, or weaving slowly through the crowd. They all wore animal masks. Probably they were hired security. She was being silly, imagining danger here – who would bother attacking the Floo Network Ball?

But, now she thought of it, there were a lot of important people here…

‘Her-mi-one!’ came a slurred voice.

She span.

McLaggen was weaving towards her from the direction of the atrium, arms wide, green hat askew.

She backed up and manged to put the drinks table between them.

‘Hello Cormac,’ she said with as much pleasantness as she could muster; her voice came out high and thin.

‘Hello Cormac?’ he guffawed. ‘Hello Cormac? Is that all?’ He nipped around the table with unexpected speed and trapped her against a pillar, bloodshot eyes roving her cleavage. ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? About earlier. Do forgive me, won’t you?’

She flinched away from his boozy breath. ‘Cormac, I don’t know what you—’

‘With Severus – I was just being friendly at work, I mean, no reason for him to be jealous, is there? I’m only your line manager, and you know me, strictly professional at all times—’

‘Well, all right, but actually I’d like to—’

‘Say you’ll dance with me, Granger!’ he pleaded. ‘Just once! Waltz with me! It would be—’ he swept off his feathered hat and staggered— ‘an honour!’

‘Sorry Cormac, I don’t want to—’

‘Oh please, Granger!’ He went to his knees and grabbed the hem of her dress. ‘Please, please! You’re magnificent! It would be the highlight of my life—’

But Hermione, who was not that drunk, wrenched her skirts out of his hands, dodged his arms and scurried away around the perimeter of the ballroom.

McLaggen’s cries of, ‘Granger! Granger! Just one dance! For old time’s sake!’ trailed after her.

Fuming, she marched straight through groups of people, hardly looking where she was going.

Ugh! And she’d thought he’d given up on her. What a sleazebag! And here, of all places!

She risked a look behind – Cormac was nowhere to be seen, although she could still hear him – and walked straight into someone. Ice water sloshed down her front.

‘Oh! I’m so sorry,’ she yelped, blotting frantically with her dress at the wet robes of – Snape.

She gasped.

Snape gave her a look even colder than the ice cubes now lodged down her bra.

Behind her came cries of, ‘Granger! Granger, where are you? Just… one… waaaaltz!

McLaggen’s Robin Hood hat bobbed through the crowd, feather waggling.

‘Dance with me,’ she hissed at Snape.

He looked at her down his nose. ‘And why on earth would I do that?’

‘Please! For five seconds!’

‘But I don’t dance.’ A tiny smirk appeared on his face. ‘I’m not sure I know how.’

He was enjoying this. She wanted to strangle him.

‘Well, can you maybe just pretend or something? Please!’

‘But it looks like Mr McLaggen is rather eager to dance with you. Or hadn’t you noticed? Shall I call him over, if you are indeed desperate for a partner?’ He made as if to lift his hand in greeting.

She grabbed his arm and pulled it down. ‘No, no! Don’t!’

He tugged out of her grip. ‘So now you prefer my company? How interesting.’

She screwed her eyes shut, fists clenched. ‘I only snapped at you earlier because… because I was annoyed with you for being horrible about Harry! You know it! Now – please—’

‘Very well. Excuse me, Damocles…’

Hermione’s eyes flew open and she saw, with a sickening rush, the extremely famous inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion over Snape’s shoulder. He was fatter and balder than the photograph in Snape’s copy of Notable Potioneers of the Twentieth Century but there was no mistaking him. He wore a purple waistcoat, a fez, and an amused expression.

Snape caught her looking and his eyes glittered.

‘Oh no,’ she murmured, as they meandered towards the dance floor. ‘Oh no, oh no, that was Damocles Belby…’

‘Was it? I hadn’t realised.’

Her face felt like it was on fire. ‘Have mercy and kill me,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

Snape froze. She turned in surprise and saw his face was bloodless, his eyes like shards of black glass inside his mask. He stared aside at the floor and his lips thinned to nothing.

Oh. Oh no, what had she just said? Of all the people she shouldn’t joke about murder with— ‘Are you okay?’

He took a deep breath.

‘Granger!’ yelled McLaggen, grabbing her arm. ‘Dance!’

‘Cormac, no!’ She shook him off but he grabbed her again.

‘But it’s the waltz! I really must insist, Granger, don’t be shy now—’

Snape struck like a cobra. ‘Unhand her.’

McLaggen’s eyes went huge as he realised who exactly had just batted his hand away. His face turned white, then green. ‘Oh,’ he said in a tiny voice. ‘P-p-p…’ He gulped. ‘S-S-Sn… D-didn’t see you there… I think I might…’ He backed away, weaving dangerously. ‘Just a simple… m-mista…’ He turned and ran. A split-second later, Hermione heard him tumble over amid a chorus of gasps and laughter. Plastic arrows clattered over the dance floor.

She turned to Snape and found his face was its usual sallow colour, his expression mildly sardonic.

‘How strange,’ he said in a disinterested voice. ‘I seem to have scared Mr McLaggen away. I don’t know how that happened.’ He adjusted his cuffs. Even with most of his face concealed, his determination to avoid the subject of their interrupted conversation was obvious. ‘Did you actually want to dance with me, or should I leave now I have fulfilled my… function?’

She studied his face until his gaze met hers, and was seized by a sudden hot recklessness. They could dance. Why not? Snape had humiliated her in front of Belby. Shouldn’t she dare him to waltz in return? It was… fair. Or something.

She lifted her chin. ‘Yes. Yes, I would like to dance, if it’s all the same to you. If you like.’

Snape’s eyes flickered. A crease appeared between his brows. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought he would make an awful, vicious comment she’d have to work all night to forget.

Then he held out his hand to her.

She gulped, and in a rush of courage, took it. It was warm, slightly callused, long-boned and elegant. She found herself glad she was wearing gloves. For some reason, her hands were sweating. She looked away, swallowed, and put her other hand on Snape’s shoulder.

Her heart was hammering.

Snape had gone completely rigid.

What was she doing? Why had she drunk so many cocktails? Why on earth had she asked Snape to dance? She should have grabbed a random stranger to help fend off McLaggen. Anyone but Snape. He blatantly couldn’t waltz – she was going to have to lead and contrive not to lose her toes. It would be awful. She was never going to be able to look him in the face again. She’d have to quit the lab job. And he’d finally started to trust her. The potions work had been interesting. It had been worthwhile.

As he settled his hand on her waist, she could sense his every movement: the tension across his shoulders, the way he held his breath. Although they were cheek to cheek, she didn’t dare turn her head to assess his expression. He was shaking. He was obviously furious with her.

Her toes curled in her shoes. This dance was going to be some awful kind of punishment. She should never have got Snape a ticket for this stupid ball. She should never have come to this stupid ball.

Then he pushed her backwards into the swirl of the music – and her insides turned astonished somersaults.

He could dance. And he did it the same way he worked: an exercise in precision, with the merest hint of casual force.

He was good.

She was so shocked she forgot her steps. They stumbled. He caught her; she managed to recover, knees like jelly.

‘What are you doing?’ he hissed in her ear. ‘Are you completely inebriated?’

‘I tripped, it was a mistake—’

He twitched around to look at her. She felt the moment he realised he was frightening her; his posture abruptly softened, and his grip went from rigid to gentle. She felt more than heard him sigh, and his shoulders relaxed.

That was when she realised she’d read him wrong just now. He hadn’t been angry. He’d been nervous.

Why on earth had he been nervous, when he actually knew how to dance?

They twirled, subtly graceful. She tried to breathe normally.

‘Don’t suppose you do much dancing?’ she ventured, when she was sure she wasn’t going to fall over.

His hair tickled her ear as they turned about. ‘Just because I don’t often do something doesn’t mean I am incapable of it.’

‘You learned… at school? Afterwards? And you still remember how?’

‘Obviously.’

She suppressed a smile. ‘You’re rather good, you know.’

He gave her a fleeting, acid glance of suspicion.

Her face fell.

He angled his eyes away, scowling. ‘For goodness’ sake.’ He sounded tired. ‘Will you stop looking at me like that? I don’t bite.’

She drew herself up. ‘I suppose not… But you do snap and snarl so much you can’t blame people for expecting you to.’

She wasn’t sure how she knew she’d hurt him, but it was there, somewhere in the dip of his arms.

She hadn’t intended to hurt him. She wanted to take her words back, but… couldn’t. They were true.

‘Anyway,’ she said in a small voice, ‘let’s… Never mind that. Thank you for dancing with me. And, well, for getting rid of McLaggen. He’s been rather difficult to deal with at work.’

‘So difficult to deal with you resorted to claiming me as your… other half? You must truly have been desperate. Especially since I am apparently so terrible a colleague I make an oaf like that seem… what was it? Perfectly nice.’

She glanced at him sidelong; he was looking coolly away, his face unreadable.

‘I am many things, Miss Granger, but I cannot claim to be nice. If niceness is what you desire in a colleague, perhaps we should discontinue our… collaboration.’

Oh, she’d done it now.

She sighed. Snape was difficult to work with, but…

‘I’d take you over him any day,’ she said softly. ‘I mean,’ she spluttered, going red (what had that sounded like?) ‘I mean I’d much rather work with you. Cormac is… lackadaisical, and imprecise. His ideas are terrible. The projects he comes up with are so dull. Also he’s a complete lech, and lazy, and he's so self-important I sometimes worry his head will explode – and you’re nothing like that. At all. You’re… the opposite of those things. Completely. Um. So, I prefer you. To work with. Actually. I mean, very much so.’

There was a long silence.

Face burning, Hermione focussed on the mezzanine ahead. Thank goodness you didn't need to look at people when you were dancing with them.

Merlin. What was wrong with her this evening?

She refused to allow herself to re-live that appalling episode of word vomit. It was loud in here. Hopefully Snape hadn’t heard everything she’d said. Maybe this would all turn out to be a bizarre alcohol-related dream. Perhaps she was hallucinating and Snape wasn’t actually here, even if she was much too warm and it was mostly because he was holding her around the waist and they were very close together and she wasn’t sure she’d ever had such an accomplished dance partner, and…

And she shouldn’t drink cocktails again. Ever. Particularly at social events.

For a moment, she wasn’t focussed enough to take much in. Fairies fluttered. Fireworks snaked along the ceiling, sparkling. Snape was dancing. Dancing with her.

There were more black-clad figures on the mezzanine than before.

‘Who are those people?’ she murmured.

‘What’s that?’ Snape’s voice was rough-edged.

She didn’t trust herself to speak, but this might be important, and—

‘There are these people on the mezzanine, and around the edges of the room. They’re all wearing animal masks and black evening dress, trying to blend in. They look like they’re waiting for something. I thought they were hired security, but, well… it’s strange there are more of them now than there were ten minutes ago.’

He frowned and watched the nearest animal-masked figures. ‘That is… odd,’ he said slowly.

She tried very hard to sound as if the previous five minutes had never happened. ‘If they’re hired security, they should have a company logo somewhere, but I can’t see any.’

‘We should investigate.’

‘What?’ She stared at him. ‘We’re just going to… waltz over there?’

‘Do you have a better idea?’

‘Not right now I don’t.’

‘Well then, come on.’

They twirled closer to the edge of the dancing crowd and neared the mezzanine stairs, where a couple of black-clad watchers stood.

Snape’s breath was warm on her ear. ‘Do you spot a company insignia?’

‘No,’ she whispered into his shoulder. ‘Do you?’

‘Also no.’ He span her away, and they passed along the edge of the crowd to where a single figure in a snarling bear mask leaned against a pillar. ‘Your turn to look.’

‘Huh?’

But he’d already sent her into another spin – too fast. She gasped, stumbled, reached out to catch herself before she slammed into the bear-masked figure—

A glint of cold blue eyes inside the mask—

‘I do apologise,’ Snape drawled, catching her by the waist. ‘She’s had rather too much to drink.’ He pulled her away.

‘Definitely no insignia on that guy,’ she panted, as Snape dragged them into the crowd. ‘And do you have to tell people I’m drunk? Where are we going?’

‘We need to alert someone,’ Snape hissed. ‘I recognised him. They’re werewolves. They’re probably after Damocles. Find him and get him out of here, and make the biggest fuss doing it that you can.’

She froze and stared at him in horror. ‘The werewolf agitators? They’re here?'

‘Yes.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And the full moon rises in less than ten minutes.’

‘Oh no…’ She felt the world tip under her feet. She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t an Auror. She’d left it all behind— ‘That’s… that’s not good…’

‘Indeed. Now find Damocles and get him out.’ He thrust her away. ‘I thought you were trained for this sort of thing? Go!’

She cast him a last, wild, desperate look as the crowd swept them apart, but caught only the edge of his glare as he whipped around and strode off.

Her heart thundered.

Werewolves? Merlin. Of course Damocles Belby would be a target. They thought the Wolfsbane Potion was a money-grab, Belby making cash out of their misery.

She pulled in a breath.

She was trained. No-one else could help right now. She had to do this. No time to think. Merlin, Merlin, Merlin. Belby. Werewolves. She threw off her mask to see better, drew her wand. There were anti-Apparition spells on the building, she’d have to get Belby out… Where was he? She spun, searching. He’d been wearing a vast plum-coloured waistcoat and a fez with a long, golden tassel, he shouldn’t be so difficult to— there, at the archway to the atrium, talking to a gaggle of witches and wizards, laughing, sipping a bright blue cocktail. The purple-clad witch at his elbow was his undercover security detail, now she noticed.

They were surrounded by a slowly-closing ring of figures in black, wearing snarling animal masks.

Hermione ran, shoving through dancers. ‘Damocles! Watch out!’

The witch in purple saw the attackers, drew her wand – a bang, a flash of red light – people screamed. A black-clad figure went down. Two more sprang at the witch, five at Belby. Hermione blasted Stunners into the scrum, catching Belby as well as three attackers.

So inelegant! And she’d lost the advantage of surprise. What Harry would say…

Two of the black-clad wizards rounded on her, throwing hexes. She swore and flung up a Shield Charm; the hexes rebounded, one hitting the ceiling, the other slamming into the man attacking the security witch – he dropped in a seething mass of tentacles. More attackers yelled curses; Hermione rolled in a flash of golden skirts and came up throwing Stunning Spells. The attackers toppled like skittles. She hurdled their bodies and reached Belby just as the purple-clad witch overcame her final attacker.

Hermione cried ‘Enervate!’ and hauled Belby to his feet. He’d lost his fez, and his thinning hair was all over the place. A nasty bruise swelled his forehead.

‘What in Merlin’s left trouser pocket…’ he moaned.

‘I’m an Auror,’ she gabbled, ‘we need to get you out of here—’

The purple-clad witch took Belby’s other arm. ‘Good. Nearest fire exit, Apparate.’

Supporting Belby, they ran for the closest door around the perimeter of the room. More animal-masked figures rushed them from the mezzanine stairs, but watch witches and wizards came pushing through from the atrium and cut them off. Stunning Spells zig-zagged across the room. Ball guests got in the way, screaming and running; several fell.

‘What a mess!’ gasped the security witch. ‘Quick!’

But as they reached the recessed fire door archway, black-clad figures leaped from the shadows. A hex smacked the security witch in the face before she could ready her wand, but Hermione – slightly drunk, out-of-practice, terrified – hadn’t endured years of Auror training for nothing. The moment she saw movement in the corner of her eye, she thrust Belby down. As spells shot over her head, she rolled, shoved the bar on the fire door with her knee while throwing out a Shield Charm, grabbed Belby, flung them both forwards, and Apparated.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s chin slammed into the pavement outside Harry and Ginny’s cottage. Tasting blood, she scrambled to her feet, dragging Belby upright.

Belby stumbled and gripped her shoulder. ‘Where are we? I was never expecting…’

‘Outside the Head Auror’s house,’ Hermione gasped. ‘The attackers would expect me to take you to the Ministry – might have planned another ambush – this was the safest place I could… But it’s under a Fidelius Charm, so you won’t be able to… Hang on… Expecto Patronum!’

Her silver otter Patronus burst from the end of her wand and undulated along the garden path towards the cottage, which only she could see. A moment later it returned, followed by a running figure in his dressing gown, hair sticking up, glasses askew.

Hermione’s knees went wobbly with relief. ‘Harry!’

‘Hermione, what in the name of— Who’s he? Why are you in a tiara?’

‘He’s Damocles Belby, the inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion,’ she panted. ‘The Floo Ball just got attacked by werewolves – they were after him – I couldn’t think where else to—’

‘It’s all right.’ Harry laid a hand on her arm and put his hand out for Belby to shake. ‘Damocles, nice to meet you. I’m Harry Potter. Want to come in? My house is Holly Bank Cottage, right—’ he pointed— ‘here.’

Belby was trembling uncontrollably now, but managed to scrabble together some politeness. He gripped Harry’s hand. ‘Mr Potter, how lovely. Thank you.’

They ushered him along the now-visible garden path. Hermione shot looks at the dark hedges, the trees, the sky. The wind stirring the holly leaves felt loud.

They reached the front door. Ginny threw it open and got them inside.

‘I’m so sorry to intrude like this,’ Belby stuttered, staring around at the hallway with its untidy welly boots, James’ tricycle lying drunkenly to one side, the yellow labrador wagging ecstatically through the panes of the shut kitchen door. ‘Family evening in… Very rude of me…’

‘No, no,’ said Harry, ‘it’s fine, don’t worry. Come through, our elf can make you a cup of tea.’

Ginny guided Belby into the kitchen, fending off the dog as she went, and Harry turned to Hermione.

‘You said the Floo Ball got attacked?’

‘By werewolves.’

Harry’s eyes went wide. ‘I’ll call in the team.’ He fumbled at his wrist; with a lurch of anxiety-laced nostalgia, Hermione recognised the same kind of Aurors’ signalling watch she had once worn. Harry twisted dials with rapid flicks. ‘What happened?’

She hugged herself, shivering. The post-adrenaline drawdown was wrecking her, as it always did. Her teeth chattered almost too much to talk. She wanted to throw up. The ordinary domesticity of the hallway was full of sharp shadows. She took a deep breath.

Report, Granger.

‘There were at least twenty werewolves. They were undercover, wearing black evening robes and animal masks. They staked out the exits, got into vantage points so they could watch the crowd. I saw them, but assumed they were security or something, it didn’t… Anyway, I pointed them out to Snape - he was with me - and we decided to investigate. Snape recognised one of them as a werewolf. Right before the attack started, he told me to get Belby out. If I hadn’t…’ She swallowed, screwed her eyes shut and opened them again. Don’t go to pieces. ‘Belby had a security witch. They hexed her. I hope she’s all right; I had to leave her, I couldn’t extract her without compromising Belby. I only just managed to Apparate him away.’

‘And it’s full moon in about three minutes,’ muttered Harry, giving his watch a final tweak. ‘Was there much security?’

‘A few watch witches and wizards. Not alert-looking ones, I’m afraid.’

Harry swore. ‘I’d better get dressed.’ He threw her a look halfway through thundering up the stairs. ‘Go and sit down with a cup of tea and get Kreacher to give you some cake. I mean it. This stuff really isn’t your job any more.’

Hermione passed him a wobbly smile and tottered towards the kitchen. The combination of alcohol, shock and high heels wasn’t helping her walk.

Ginny and Belby were already settled in the conservatory, which opened off an archway beyond the stolid, cast-iron face of the kitchen Aga. Belby sat cocooned in a wicker sofa under potted palms, Ginny opposite him pouring tea, while Kreacher set out ginger cake and biscuits on the coffee table. Belby looked oddly shrunken, his eyes too wide, his fingers kneading the blanket Ginny had settled over him. When Hermione’s heels sounded on the terracotta tiles, he jumped.

‘Oh, just you, my dear,’ he stuttered. ‘I…’ He heaved himself to his feet and Ginny leaped up and took his arm to stop him falling. ‘Thank you. I just wanted to express how grateful I am, Miss Granger. If it hadn’t been for you—’

‘Don’t mention it.’ Hermione felt a professional smile smother her face. Her spine pulled straight.

Auror reflexes. Never let the public know you’re scared.

‘You are the Hermione Granger, correct?’ Belby continued, allowing Ginny to assist him back into his chair. ‘I mean, Harry Potter’s friend – Battle of Hogwarts – girl who saved Snape? Excellent potioneer, that man, told me he’s employing you as his assistant now, you must be quite something—’

Hermione’s head span. She clutched the wall.

She saw Snape running off; that angry backwards glance.

He was a horrible, awful man. But he was brilliant. He was brave. And even at Hogwarts, he never could stop himself running into danger if there were people needing his help.

It was her fault he was at the ball. Why had she got him that ticket? They were meant to cure Lycanthropy. He couldn’t get hurt. He’d make it out alive, he’d—

That’s when it hit her. The full moon. Werewolves.

‘Hermione, are you okay?’ asked Ginny.

‘I have to go back,’ she whispered.

Ginny frowned. ‘Actually, I think you have to sit down.’

‘No—’ Hermione stumbled backwards and ran to the hall. Harry was there in his Auror robes, throwing his cloak on as he stuffed his feet into shoes.

‘See you, Hermione—’

‘I’m coming with you.’

His eyebrows flew up. ‘You are not.’

‘Try and stop me.’ She shoved through the front door and ran down the garden path.

Harry sprinted after her, hopping to get his second shoe on. ‘Wait – I hate it when you get like this! Are you even going to explain? You’re not an Auror any more.’

She rounded on him. ‘They aren’t after Belby – why would they attack him now, he invented Wolfsbane decades ago! They’re after Snape! And they’re going to maim him or bite him or kill him and I can’t just sit here—’

Harry blocked her at the garden gate. ‘Hermione – I trust you, I won’t ask why werewolves would attack Snape, but – are you in any state to fight? You’re a civilian, not an Auror!’

She drew her wand. ‘LET ME PAST! I can’t let them kill him! I can’t!’

He eyed her desperate face, raising his hands. ‘Well, fine. But – stay level-headed? If anyone asks, I didn’t give you permission and you didn’t just threaten me.’

‘Just go!’ She shoved him through the gate.

They Disapparated with a bang that shook the trees.

Chapter Text

The ballroom’s car park was chaos. Screaming guests ran through the rain, stumbling into cars, falling into puddles, Disapparating at random intervals with a noise like firecrackers, and spilling into the road to the sound of car horns and shouting. Even with her heart battering her ribs and metallic fear-taste choking her as her eyes raked the scene, Hermione found a split-second to pity whoever would need to Obliviate the local Muggles.

‘Where are the exits?’ Harry yelled over the noise, hair dripping with rainwater.

‘Main door’s at the top of those steps, fire exits are to the left, six Floo fireplaces inside. Not possible to Apparate from within the building.’

Harry flipped open his watch and started shouting instructions as they splashed towards the fire exit Hermione and Belby had escaped from earlier, pushing against streams of sodden and panicking ball guests. Hermione overheard Harry ordering an emergency diversion of local Floo traffic and experienced a jolt of envious admiration. It was nice when people did what you said…

They rounded the corner of the building and the flood of guests decreased. A whoosh of purple flame went up before the gaping fire doors; Hermione spotted three Aurors silhouetted dark against the spitting flames, wands held alert. One had just cast the charm for the flame barrier.

‘Good work,’ Harry gasped as they sprinted up. ‘Werewolves hate fire. They won’t get out through the Floo either.’

‘What about the guests?’ Hermione shrilled.

‘None coming out of here any more – we’ve pulled out people lying by the door, including Belby’s security witch, but we’ve got to keep the werewolves contained, they’re still inside.’

‘The werewolves let themselves get trapped? Harry, that doesn’t make sense!’

‘Well, they’re in their beast-state, they’re not exactly logical.’

‘Potter,’ called one of the Aurors, ‘you’d be more use by the main doors, we’re fine here now but Meadowes reckons some of them will get out in the crush.’

‘Have any of you seen Severus Snape?’ Hermione cried.

‘Oh, hi Granger! Thought you’d left us.’

‘Has anyone seen Severus Snape?’

The Aurors shook their heads.

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Nope, sorry. Was he here?’

She paced, looking up at the dark ballroom windows. Maybe she was panicking about nothing. Snape could have gone home. If only there was some way to tell whether he was still in the building…

Wait, of course – she could use her Patronus to find him, if she cast it like she would to send him a message.

She thought of her parents, of finally knowing her mum was alive, of the chance she’d be reunited with them—

‘Expecto Patronum!’

The silver otter leaped out of her wand and sniffed the air. She whispered in its ear, ‘Message for Severus Snape: Are you safe?’

For a moment, the otter hesitated.

Then, with a flick of its shining tail, it dived through the purple flames. Straight into the building.

Hermione’s breath shuddered out.

Inside, a werewolf began to howl.

Auror health and safety at work regulations, the Werewolf Code, and Lycanthropy prevention protocols raced through her head.

She took a deep breath.

She was a civilian now. The Aurors’ rules didn’t apply.

Harry turned to her. His eyes widened. ‘Oh, no, wait. Hermione, you can’t—’

‘Get off me, Harry. I’m the only one who can go in there. You know it.’

She cast a fire-repelling charm on herself, inhaled a sharp lungful of cold air, and marched into the building.

Behind her, Harry swore.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s feet crunched on a broken wineglass just inside the door. She halted to assess the dark ballroom, pulse thumping in her ears, soaked dress robes clammy against her legs.

Behind her, the Aurors’ flame-barrier crackled and Harry shouted frantically, muffled by the flames. She wouldn’t wait for him. As Head Auror, he couldn’t follow her inside.

Distant blasts echoed from the atrium to Hermione’s right. However, before her, the ballroom lay eerily silent. The great dome of the ceiling was lit only by the darting lights of fairies that hadn’t already escaped, and the gleam of her Patronus, halfway towards the atrium. Hermione dismissed the silver otter with a nervous wand-flick. If Snape was hiding – surely he was hiding – sending her Patronus to him would give away his position.

She swallowed.

Merlin, this was a stupid idea. She was going to be eaten by werewolves. She needed to find Snape and get out, fast.

She considered camouflaging herself with a Disillusionment Charm, but the werewolves would smell her whatever she did. An Extrasensory Charm watching her back and fast reactions were the best she could do right now. She cast the Charm silently, and every hint of movement in the room grew sharp in her mind – fairies buzzing, curtains swinging in the breeze from the door, broken glass rolling at her feet, subtle motions of the air.

It was so quiet she could hear her clothes dripping.

Was she alone?

She whispered, ‘Homenum revelio.’

There was a tug of awareness in the same direction her Patronus had been taking. Snape must be in the atrium.

Why hadn’t he got out? Was he hurt? Was he… bitten?

If only she could remember whether werewolves in beast form were human enough for a Human-Presence-Revealing Spell to work on them.

She gritted her teeth, and left the shelter of the doorway.

The floor was littered with broken glass and sticky puddles of what she hoped was spilled drink. She crept along with the wall at her back, flinching every time her footsteps crunched. Her shoe met something soft and she recoiled. A flash of stuttering fairy-light; the floor held lolling jaws, yellow teeth, fur thick under torn black robes. She’d just trodden on one of the black-clad wizards she’d Stunned earlier. Although unconscious, he must have transformed with the moonlight. She edged around him, heart thundering, his foetid breath warm on her ankles. The Human-Presence-Revealing Spell hadn’t told her he was here. It plainly did not work on werewolves.

Stepping carefully around more fallen bodies, she reached the tunnel-like archway into the atrium. It was pitch black: she could see nothing of the inside of the tunnel, or the atrium beyond. The scent of roses weighted the air.

She hesitated, the back of her neck prickling.

Snape could have left in the time it had taken her to reach here. It was too quiet for a confrontation to be taking place. Unless there were muffling spells in force in the building?

She’d be in so much trouble if she’d barged in here for nothing. Never mind the werewolves, the DMLE would be after her for reckless self-endangerment. She’d get fined at the very least. She should retreat. But she had to make sure Snape really was gone…

She needed to cast a light anyway.

Hermione focussed on the moment they’d discovered her idea for the Lycanthropy cure worked, and whispered, ‘Expecto Patronum.’

The silver otter flowed out of her wand, flooding the holly and roses with crisp white light. It bounded towards the atrium.

Halfway through the tunnel it met a lump of solid darkness, broken by two predatory yellow pinpricks.

All the hair stood up on Hermione’s scalp.

The werewolf drew its lips from pink gums and gleaming teeth, and snarled.

Hermione stepped back, breath caught in her throat.

A howl rang behind her shoulder.

She flinched, but didn’t break eye contact.

Werewolves were in the ballroom with her. They must have been here all along. They’d waited to spring until they’d cut off her escape. The air currents she’d sensed must have been their breath.

An awareness of motion from the Extrasensory Charm, far at her back, drawing nearer.

Coming in here had been such a bad idea.

There was only one way forward. She jabbed her wand. ‘Reducto!’

At the same time, her Patronus charged.

The massive wolf whimpered, turned tail and ran, the blasting spell singeing its fur. It dodged aside at the end of the tunnel, pursued by the silvery otter.

Hermione sprinted after it, air shuddering in her chest.

Paws skittered behind her; panting wolf-breaths filled the tunnel.

She burst into the atrium.

Sound and light flooded back as she breached a sound-dampening spell. The Floo fireplaces bathed everything in flickering green. In an adrenaline-filled split-second she took in the sea of snarling, leaping werewolves; the trapped ball guests on the balcony; the enchanted harp smashed on the floor, a werewolf dead underneath; the ice sculpture smashed against the doors; an orange flame-barrier roaring at the foot of the balcony stairs – and beyond it, Snape, holding off the werewolves with staccato wand-fire – ugly, desperate, exhausted – and she was so glad he was alive she almost tripped.

The silvery otter bounded towards Snape, scattering werewolves as it went. He saw it; looked up, face twisting in consternation.

Their eyes met.

‘You idiot!’ He shifted his aim to fling spells at the wolves pursuing her. ‘Get into a fireplace! Go!’

Hermione considered abandoning him. But the guests huddled on the balcony were trapped and in danger. So was Snape. She couldn’t.

She whirled her wand; the silver otter swept towards her and flashed behind.

The chasing wolves whimpered – of course. They were Dark creatures: they feared her Patronus. She put on a burst of speed, aiming for Snape, her Patronus weaving through her feet. Wolves snarled and panted at her heels. She sprinted flat out. Hoping her fireproofing charm still held, she took a breath, dived through the orange flames, and fetched up sprawled at Snape’s feet, gasping.

He hauled her upright, throwing a Stunning Spell over her shoulder. ‘You monumental imbecile! I told you to look after Belby! Did you abandon him for this – this disgusting, reckless display?’

‘Belby’s safe, I got him to Harry’s,’ she panted, directing her Patronus to guard the bottom of the stairs. The werewolves leaped back, eyes rolling. ‘Look – they’re scared of my Patronus!’

‘Then why are you here?’

She didn’t answer, only flung an Impediment Jinx at the werewolf scrabbling up the pillar nearest the ball guests. The jinx knocked the wolf to the floor where it thrashed, snarling.

‘WHY?’ he screamed, hitting the wolf with a wordless body-bind hex. ‘Why this – this terrible… this idiotic…’

‘I came back for you!’ she snapped between flashing off spells. ‘All right?’

‘What?’

‘I came back for you, you horrible, ungrateful… I knew you’d be doing something heroic and suicidal and… Ugh!’ She fired another Stunner, hitting their target’s eye; the werewolf fell to the ground. She rounded on Snape. ‘I came back for you because although you being eaten by werewolves would be hilariously ironic and I knew you’d call me an idiot, I didn’t… I didn’t want…’ She stamped a foot. ‘We have important work to do and you have to be alive to do it!’

He stared at her like she was a specimen of some hitherto unknown species. ‘You…’

Another wolf, getting over its fear of Hermione’s Patronus, flung itself at the flame-barrier. They spun and blasted it. Its hide was thick; the Stunners bounced off. None of the jinxes Hermione tried held.

‘Not much affects them,’ Snape explained, brushing hair off his face. ‘Are more Aurors coming?’

‘No. Ministry Lycanthropy Prevention Regulations say you can’t send Aurors into a bite-hazard situation unless they outnumber werewolves five to one.’

‘Blast it!’

She shot off more Stunners. ‘I’m trying!’

‘No, blast the Ministry and their pathetic—’ He fired off another spell. A wolf whined and jumped back. ‘What are we supposed to do with all these people? Let them get infected?’

‘They don’t realise how many are trapped yet. They’ll probably mount a rescue—’

‘And how are they supposed to do that? Britain doesn’t have a hundred and twenty-five Aurors!’

Hermione fell silent, flinging off a wordless Jelly-Legs Jinx, just in case that might work on the werewolves. (It didn’t.) Snape was right. There weren’t enough Aurors in Britain to storm the building.

‘They’ll get reinforcements from the Continent,’ she said, with more conviction than she felt.

‘And how many hours will that take? How long can we keep this up for?’

She could see he was right. He must have been fighting far longer than she had, and alone. And her adrenaline was ebbing fast; her aim was getting poorer, and her reactions slowing. She was sticky with sweat, and her hands shook; when she looked at Snape, she saw the glassiness in his eyes. His hair was stuck to his forehead, his skin pale.

‘Lethal force?’ she suggested. ‘It’s not protocol, but—’

‘We can’t kill over twice the number of people we’re hoping to save!’

She gritted her teeth. Well. At least now she knew Snape also counted werewolves as people.

Another werewolf dived at the flame barrier and they reacted as one, their Stunning Spells slamming into its chest. It fell and tumbled down the steps, scattering its fellows.

‘Yes!’ Hermione shouted. ‘We need to hit them with spells simultaneously – it’s just that they have thick skin – that’s actually good – I thought they’d rendered themselves invulnerable with a—’

‘Save your breath for casting!’ snapped Snape. ‘On my mark—’

He flourished his wand like a conductor’s baton, telegraphing his next move; Hermione lined herself up. A snarling wolf-head breached the barrier, jaws wreathed in flame; their Stunners flashed forward, hitting as one. The wolf collapsed, flame roaring over its fur. The burnt-hair stench made Hermione’s eyes water. She wiped her arm across her face and another werewolf leaped through the gap in the flames left by the body, jaws wide—

Snape shoved her up the stairs. ‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!’

A silver doe burst from his wand and charged; Hermione tore her eyes away and fled upwards, Snape racing at her side.

How had she forgotten Snape’s Patronus was a doe, of all the most unsuitable things – Snape was hardly some shy, skittish creature—

‘New flame barrier?’ she panted. ‘Higher up? I can—’

‘No. Smash the stairs behind us.’

‘But then we’ll have no way of—’

With a growl, he spun on his heel. ‘Reducto!’

The stairs imploded below them in a shower of stone dust and spellfire, cutting them off from the werewolves. They were thrown to their knees. Snape grabbed Hermione’s arm to stop her falling. Chunks of masonry flew through the air. Below them, lupine shadow-forms yelped and scattered.

Hermione dragged in a breath, then coughed into her gloves. Snape hastily let go of her.

‘Well,’ she gasped, ‘so they can’t get up that way – but how are we to escape? Eventually they’ll climb the columns and—’

‘How large an object can you levitate?’ His voice was hoarse. Rivulets of sweat stuck out on his dust-powdered skin.

‘I – levitate?­ – but—’

‘Answer the question!’

‘Well, I managed a bus once.’

‘What about part of the balcony, if I detach it from the walls?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Whilst holding it together as well? I suppose… yes?’

‘And float it through the window to safety?’

She huffed. ‘We should levitate the guests person by person, it’d be safer. Or if we send a Patronus to the Aurors, they can ride in on brooms and—’

‘There isn’t time. The werewolves will only be put off by that explosion for so long. Get the guests to bunch up where there are no pillars. Hurry!’

She stared from the large oriel window to Snape. ‘You’re going to smash that?’

With an angry flick of his wand, he threw a spell; the window – stone battens and all – exploded outwards and flew away in a whirl of sand.

Hermione winced. It looked expensive.

‘Fine.’ She wobbled to her feet and pounded away.

Snape’s defensive spells flashed behind her.

The remaining ball guests were huddled as far from the balcony’s edge as they could get, terror stark on their faces above incongruous, bright robes. Three people had their wands out. They were attempting to defend the others from the werewolves launching themselves up the columns and snapping on the far side of the stone balustrade, but their lack of training was making them more of a hazard than anything. Among them, Hermione spotted the famous songstress, Celestina Warbeck, in a huge silver dress – then, huddled against the wall, Cormac McLaggen. He had lost his feathered hat, his shirt, and (given the fact he was wandless) his wits, too. Hermione felt rather sorry for him.

Hermione strode towards the trapped guests and adopted a calm, authoritative pose. She forced herself to wait until she had everyone’s attention before speaking. ‘Listen! I’m an Auror. We’re going to levitate you out of here. In order for it to work, you need to do as I say.’

They stared at her like shellshocked rabbits.

She cast a glowing blue circle on the floor on the other side of the stairhead – the only place there were no pillars. ‘Stand inside this ring, as close together as possible.’

They gave each other dubious looks. ‘But—’

‘Hurry!’ she cried, fists clenched. ‘We don’t have time!’

She should have got Snape to do this. He was much better at shouting at people.

‘Come on!’ She grabbed the nearest witch’s arm. ‘Into the blue circle!’

The witch tottered across, looking over her shoulder; her companions followed, casting Hermione doubtful looks.

‘Are you sure you can levitate us out? We’d do better on brooms. Haven’t you got brooms?’

Behind, there were bangs and lupine snarls, then Snape’s voice raised, hoarse, in an incantation. A flash of orange light, followed by a howl.

‘No brooms,’ she said firmly. ‘Now get into the circle. I’m an Auror: we’re trained to levitate heavy objects.’

The guests began shuffling, speeding up as they passed the head of the stairs and saw the disintegrating stonework, the fire, Snape a solitary darting shape on the precipice before a horde of snarling grey bodies.

A huge, snapping wolf-head thrust through the stone balustrade at Celestine Warbeck’s heels. She screamed.

The guests stampeded.

Hermione sent a whip of fire flashing towards the wolf-head; it disappeared with a smell of singed fur and a whimper, but two more questing snouts appeared—

‘Snape!’ Hermione yelled, leaping out of reach. She snatched a look at the panicked guests crushed inside the blue ring. ‘The guests are in position!’

‘Reinforce the stonework under them! Stand against the wall!’

His running footsteps sounded behind her, but she did not turn; all her focus was on the stone and its handful of passengers, bolstering it, edging it round with protective spells as she backed away—

Snape’s black robes swirled at her side; he slashed with his wand. There was an ear-splitting crack. Fissures snaked through the stone. The guest-filled section of balcony split away—

‘Wingardium Leviosa!’

The balcony section swung wobbling out into the air, gripped in Hermione’s spell. The brightly-clad witches and wizards screamed and teetered, clinging to each other.

Hermione fought to keep her wand arm steady. The balcony was hefty and poorly-balanced, far worse to levitate than she’d imagined. Sweat rolled cold down the back of her neck.

A peacock-feather mask rattled off the edge and fell; werewolves leapt on it, baying like hounds.

‘Gently, gently – take your time,’ Snape hissed at her ear – there was a nearby wolf-growl and he spun and threw a furious barrage of curses.

Shaking with effort, Hermione propelled the stone balcony – so heavy, so dense, all disintegrating under her spells and stubbornly aware it shouldn’t be flying – to the level of the smashed-out oriel window.

It was too wide to fit through the gap.

Swearing under her breath and breathing hard, she spun it, the guests crying out.

Behind her, Snape snarled with frustration. More curses boomed.

Hermione’s arm felt like it was on fire. She gritted her teeth.

She could do this. She had to do this.

She nudged the balcony towards the smashed-out window again. This time it floated through, scraping past with a scream of stone. Chunks of masonry rattled down. The guests yelled, clutching each other. Then with a last squeal, the balcony came free to hover outside in the darkness. She began lowering it, and – no, oh no – this wouldn’t work – if the balcony descended any further, she wouldn’t be able to see what she was doing. Without a direct sightline, the spell would fail. She gasped, sweat running into her eyes. She couldn’t hold this much longer.

‘I can’t lower them!’ she shouted. ‘I can’t see to take them to the ground! I don’t have line of sight!’

‘Just hold them steady!’ he shouted.

‘It’s too heavy!’

‘Hold them!’

‘You have to help now or I’ll drop them!’

‘I am otherwise occupied!’

But although Snape continued throwing curses, the dead-weight of the balcony and its guests abruptly lifted. The guests yelled as they were jolted upwards; Hermione gasped and let her spell go; and the balcony and guests floated serenely downwards, caught in an unfamiliar but steady spell-grip.

She gave a shaky laugh. Her eyes filled with tears. Aurors were outside. Aurors: her old colleagues, every one of them brilliant. Why had she been so worried?

There was an earth-shaking boom as the balcony settled to the ground outside. Even over the howls of the werewolves, Hermione could hear the relieved cries of the ball guests.

They were safe.

She shut her eyes and breathed, rubbing her aching wand arm.

‘What are you doing?’ Snape yelled behind her. ‘Open your eyes!’

There was a growl at her back. She turned, heart thundering. A huge black shadow grew in the dusty darkness at the rim of the shattered balcony – a shadow pricked with twin points of cruel yellow light.

The enormous werewolf scrabbled over the balustrade, shrugging off Snape’s Stunners. In a ripple of muscle and fur it flowed towards them.

Hermione instinctively jabbed her wand, breath shuddering. ‘Impedimenta! Stupify!’

Her spells bounced off. The werewolf bared its teeth. A growl rumbled from its maw.

Snape was yelling in her ear. ‘Hold on to me!’

The werewolf gathered itself, and pounced.

Chapter Text

Hermione screamed.

But the werewolf didn’t hit her. Instead, strong arms took her in a fierce grip and she soared upwards. Robes, not fur, whipped her face—

‘Hold on!’ Snape yelled in her ear.

She twisted into his over-tight hold to lock her arms around his waist, face smothered against his clothing as he shot upwards—

Pain ripped through her leg.

She couldn’t breathe for screaming. She was dragged down, her fingers slipping from Snape’s belt, her vision fizzing into stars, her calf crushed with white-hot agony —

‘Sectumsempra!’ Snape roared.

A howl below her, a whimper. The weight disappeared. But her leg was soaked in hot wetness, and it hurt, it hurt—

‘I’ve been bitten,’ she gasped, fighting to breathe. ‘I’ve been bitten – it bit me, I’ve been bitten by a werewolf – I’ve been bitten—’

Snape’s arms contracted around her. There was a crash of glass and they were out in the open air. Rain splattered Hermione’s face. Her hair flayed her streaming eyes. The newly-shattered ceiling dome veered away under her feet as they ascended, jagged edges gaping over blackness. Terrified of falling, she tried to clutch Snape tighter, but her spasming muscles wouldn’t co-operate.

Her leg was unbearable. She bit back sobs.

‘We’re going to Apparate,’ he shouted over the downpour. ‘St Mungo’s will be able to treat—’

‘No, n-no!’ She was shaking too hard to talk properly. ‘I can’t – don’t want to – public—’

‘We must stop you bleeding to death. It’s the best—’

‘No. Take me t-to your house. We have Dittany, silver—’

‘St Mungo’s—’

‘NO! I w-want – to go—’

‘Fine!’ he snarled. ‘On your own head be it, you insufferable witch!’

He forced her hand around his wrist and twisted in midair; they squeezed through suffocating blackness and popped out above the house in Spinner’s End, still flying, rain pelting them sidelong. Snape wafted the lab skylight open with a wordless spell. They sunk towards it, and he pulled Hermione close to stop her head knocking the window frame as they entered. The howling wind cut off. Their feet hit the floor.

Pain lanced through Hermione’s leg and she staggered, crying out.

Snape swept her up and carried her to the sofa. He laid her down with swift, angry movements, then raced off towards the shelves.

Light-headed, Hermione sunk into the upholstery. Disjointed thoughts lurched across her skull. Her vision swam with pinpricks of lurid colour. When the lights flashed on, the ceiling pressed down threateningly then seemed to breathe out until she clutched the sofa cushions, terrified she would fall upwards into the night sky and be lost.

The pain in her leg grew into a swelling, diseased heat. It ate its way up her thigh and torso towards her frantically beating heart. She gritted her teeth, tears leaking sideways into her ears.

Snape’s face reappeared in her vision, a fragmented mix of shadow and light, flared with blue and green. She only knew it was him because she recognised his voice – although that was too loud, and full of peculiar ringing overtones.

‘Hush,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the silver powder and Dittany. Try to hold still. This will hurt.’

She wanted to nod, but she was shaking too much; she could only lock eyes and hope his Legilimency meant he understood she was giving permission.

The silver powder went on in a flood of vicious cold, the pain a thunderclap that seared off her breath. She heard herself screaming as though from a long way away. Unbearable pressure as the powder was packed into the rents in her leg. She blacked out; when she could see again, she was still screaming.

‘Now the Dittany,’ came that disconnected voice. ‘Not much longer.’

A slice of cauterising fire tore into her as the Essence of Dittany slaked the silver.

She wished for that lancing cold back again. This was worse, much worse.

Then she was panting, exhausted, and had control of her voice again. Her screams stuttered out. She lay there shivering, eyes closed, listening to her own unsteady breaths. Her throat was raw. Her jaw ached, her head pounded, and her back and shoulders felt wrenched out of joint. But her leg…

The heat of infection festered under her skin, and it was as tender as if she’d been scalded. But it didn’t hurt nearly so much.

She wasn’t going to bleed to death but oh, Merlin. She’d been bitten. Bitten. She was infected.

How could this happen?

‘Hermione?’

Her eyes flickered open. The lab still looked strange, everything haloed in peculiar colours.

‘You need to drink a Blood Replenishment Potion,’ said the hoarse voice. Belatedly, she remembered it was Snape’s. She recognised his stark profile, the black curtains of hair plastered to his face by the rain.

‘Mm.’ Yes. There were things to do. She tried to sit up, but her body was floppy and useless, only able to shiver. Her vision filled with flecks of light.

‘Don’t try to move. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Let me—’

A hand passed under her shoulder and raised her head. Cold glass touched her lips. The potion flooded her mouth – a thick, red, heady taste, something between petrol and beef dripping. She gulped, and felt it burn all the way to her stomach. The glass tipped again and she swallowed reflexively, though the taste was overpowering, nauseating. She swallowed twice more. Then the supporting hand let her down and she found herself looking at the ceiling. The full moon stared pitilessly through the skylight, a bone-white circle outlined in jittery stabs of orange and blue. Warm air gusted over her as Snape cast a Drying Charm on her wet gown.

‘Everything looks weird,’ she murmured, after a long moment.

Snape hesitated. ‘That will be the effect of the new Lycanthropy infection. Curses are… unlike other magic. You will feel strange for a while.’

She shut her eyes. Tears streaked her face, hot and wet. She could smell them – salty, with a sour hint of flesh. The Blood Replenishment Potion roared through her veins; a waft of petrol rose from her skin.

Werewolf senses. That’s what this was about. The wolf invading her body.

How ridiculous she was. She’d wanted to cure Lycanthropy – now, she was a carrier of the disease. A victim, not any kind of help. Another spreader.

All that time spent in the lab. Those grand visions of her future just beginning to unfurl. Now, as a werewolf, it didn’t matter what she’d accomplished. She was unemployable.

In a few short hours, everything she’d hoped for was impossible.

She drew in a shaky breath.

‘I knew I’d regret going to that ball,’ she whispered.

She tried to hold back her sobs but she’d never been able to stop herself crying, doubly so when she was rattled to pieces, exhausted, wrung out on the far end of adrenaline and fear. Her diaphragm spasmed. She screwed up her eyes, bit her lip – she didn’t want to cry in front of Snape, not again, it was so humiliating—

Something soft brushed her cheek; her eyes flew open and she realised with a jolt that Snape was wiping her face with a handkerchief. The moment she looked at him, he stood up and turned away; but the shock of that kind touch – so unexpected – had stopped her tears.

‘Thank you.’ Her voice came out a croak.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he snapped, still with his back to her. ‘You’ve saved my life. Twice, now. You have nothing to thank me for.’

‘I didn’t save you tonight, I just got us into a mess. You would have done better without me barging in and interfering.’

He swept around to face her. ‘You really think so?’ His lip curled. ‘I appreciate your… compliment, but even I could not have detached that balcony, levitated it straight, fought off a pack of werewolves and flown myself to safety all at the same time. Without your interference, a great many people would have been bitten. There’s no need to entertain this cowardly self-deprecation and tell yourself otherwise.’

She blinked, and her eyes started leaking again. She looked at the wall.

He sank to the floor beside the sofa, and let out a heavy sigh.

There was a pause, filled only by Hermione’s sniffing.

‘Look, I am… terribly sorry this has happened to you,’ Snape said finally, his voice laboured. ‘I would not wish it upon anyone, but for you, this… It is monstrous.’

A funny squeaking sound escaped from her mouth.

‘I will do everything I can for you,’ he said. ‘I swear it.’

She turned her head in surprise. There was an expression on Snape’s face she had never seen before: brows drawn, mouth set, his eyes darkly intense and burdened. At first she read it as fierce determination – then realised he also looked desperately, unbearably sad.

Her heart dipped. ‘It’s all right,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sure I can… can manage. I mean, other people do, don’t they? Maybe this way I can see it from the inside. Help that way. Build some kind of society. Be an advocate for… for werewolves. If the cure… If we can…’

She sucked in a breath. Her eyes went wide. She stared at Snape.

‘But there is something I can do,’ she breathed.

His lips parted. He went pale. ‘I… don’t understand.’

Her fingertips prickled with excitement. ‘Yes you do! You can test the cure – on me! We didn’t have any volunteers. It was holding up the research. But now you can use me as the test case. I can volunteer! It’s brilliant, I can still help—’

‘Do you have any idea how dangerous that might be?’ Snape hissed. ‘There is a reason we asked for older volunteers with no family responsibilities, a reason we must co-operate with St Mungo’s!’

‘But they couldn’t find anyone! And now I’m here, and I have Lycanthropy—’

‘I cannot let you throw your life away in a spate of addlebrained heroics! You have just experienced a major shock – you have lost a lot of blood – you are not thinking straight – Lycanthropy is not a death sentence, but testing unlicensed potions—’

‘But I can help!’

‘You can help far better by surviving to work as my assistant!’ he roared.

But she had already moved. Blood replenishment potions acted fast, and she’d been treated sooner after the bite than she would have been if she’d gone to St Mungo’s.

She was far quicker than Snape anticipated.

Darting around him, she launched herself at the shelves, reached for their best and surest stab at the cure, popped open the corked flask—

‘NO!’ yelled Snape, grabbing her shoulder—

And drank it.

He knocked the flask from her hands but it was already too late. The potion seared down her gullet, claggy, tasting of rotten fish and soot. The empty flask hit the floor and smashed. Fizzing droplets splattered the floorboards.

Snape stared at her, eyes wide with horror. ‘You incredible idiot,’ he breathed.

Her tongue felt too big in her mouth. She clutched her throat, gagging. Her throat was closing up. She slumped to one knee, gasping for breath. ‘It… hot…’

Snape grabbed her and pressed his wand to her neck. ‘Anapneo!’

Her airway drew open. She fought to breathe, wheezing, but now the potion was swelling in her stomach; she retched but nothing could come up past the lump in her throat.

‘You utter imbecile. I’m calling emergency Healers.’ Snape cast his Patronus. It bounded out of the skylight in a graceful kick of silver.

Hermione retched again, and threw up something stringy that glowed luminous orange. Her insides felt like they were being punctured by tiny, red-hot needles.

She groaned. ‘B-bezoar?’

‘If only you had had the wit to imbibe a poison, that would have been a splendid idea. But how a bezoar might react with an experimental cure for Lycanthropy… The goat essences with the lupine influence… No. It can’t be risked. You need to hold on until the properly qualified appear.’

‘You… not qualified?’ She clutched her stomach. ‘Arrgghhmmmnnnn—’

‘Of course not! The next stage of this experiment was meant to be conducted in St Mungo’s precisely because I am not a Healer!’

She gave up talking and collapsed to the floor hunched around her stomach, panting for breath as her insides gave another agonising spasm.

‘You’re hyperventilating. Stop it before you pass out.’

‘Can’t…’ She gasped.

He knelt. ‘Look at me!’

Hermione’s fingers were going numb, her vision tunnelling. Her guts writhed and she doubled up again. She moaned.

‘Look. At. Me.’

She found his black eyes, close and terrifying.

‘I am going to count,’ he hissed. ‘You are going to breathe when I tell you to and not before. In. Two… three… four. Out. Two…’

Locked onto those twin black holes, she complied. The effort it took to drag breath in and force it out left her shivering and sweating. Something was sitting on her chest. Fear flooded cold through her veins. Her heart fought as if it wanted to claw its way through her ribs. The room was orange, lime green, blue, rotating around the holes of Snape’s eyes.

Still counting, and without breaking eye contact, Snape’s long fingers found the pulse in her wrist. His lip twisted and his scowl deepened.

Hermione stared up at him, willing him to keep counting. Where were the Healers? Was she dying? She couldn’t get the words out to ask.

‘Stay with me, Hermione Impulsive Idiot Granger,’ snapped Snape. ‘In…’

There was a hammering on the door downstairs.

Snape’s head whipped towards the sound, breaking eye contact.

She made a frightened noise.

He shot her a look, getting to his feet. ‘I absolutely forbid you to die while I’m bringing the Healers upstairs.’

He made to let go of her wrist, but she grabbed his hand, desperation in her eyes.

Snape froze, staring at her, as if her touch had Petrified him.

There was more hammering downstairs. A professional, female voice called something.

With a swirl of robes Snape crouched. Face inches from Hermione’s, he cupped her cheek in a hand that was hard and cold, and trembling. ‘Listen to me. You are the most stubborn person I have ever met. You will not allow yourself to die in the next two minutes because of a decision you made while delirious from blood loss. Understood?’

She gave a stuttery nod.

With one last flash of his black eyes, Snape leapt up and ran from the room.

Agony exploded across Hermione’s stomach; she writhed and cried out. Trying to remember to breathe, she screwed her eyes shut and grit her teeth. Waves of white-hot pain drove up and down her body. Snape’s footsteps clattered on the stairs; doors banged; urgent voices came nearer. Why couldn’t everyone hurry up? She retched again; this time the stuff that came up was furry, black and tasted of blood. Her stomach must be bleeding. Not good. Where were the Healers? Where—

The attic door crashed open; the floorboards resounded under her head. Someone was talking and taking the pulse in her neck but she couldn’t concentrate on what they were saying. She squeezed her eyes open and saw a hulking, female form… oddly familiar…

Milicent Bulstrode?

Hermione’s eyes rolled up into her head and she fainted.

Chapter Text

The first thing she knew was a ringing in her ears. Then she discovered she was warm, and lying on her side. Softness cushioned her right cheek. The inside of her mouth was tacky. She breathed in the familiar smells of her perfume and Snape’s washing powder. The ringing sound receded and she heard breathing – her own, then faint snores coming from somewhere by her feet, where a weight pressed against the mattress. Her toes dipped as the weight shifted, and the snoring continued.

She remembered: the ball, the attack. The bite. Flying. Silver and Dittany. Her nonsensical decision to swallow that potion.

Was she better? Or was she in St Mungo’s receiving palliative care?

Her eyelids fluttered open. At first all she perceived was a vague brightness interrupted by a vertical slash of black; then her vision adjusted and she realised what she was seeing was the speckled mirror of the hideous old wardrobe in her bedroom – and Snape, sat on the floor with his back against the wardrobe doors.

She breathed out, long and slow. Everything was okay. She was home.

As she blinked, Snape’s face came into focus: pale with exhaustion, lined with worry. His hair and clothes were a dishevelled mess. Dark rings like bruises lay under his sleepless, haunted eyes.

His gaze found hers and sharpened.

For a moment, all they did was watch each other.

Snape’s expression was completely unreadable.

Hermione’s heart pounded. She was a werewolf now, she finally remembered. She’d got herself bitten, impulsively rushing into the ballroom to find Snape. Then just when he’d got her safely away and stopped her bleeding to death – he’d saved her life – she’d snatched that potion off the shelves and poisoned herself.

Guilt squirmed in her stomach.

‘I’ll resign,’ she croaked.

A look of exhausted consternation traversed Snape’s face. ‘Are you feeling—’

‘This.’ It was so hard to talk. ‘Terrible mistake. I’ll resign.’

Snape shifted, then grimaced and put a hand to his neck. ‘I don’t follow. You are likely still somewhat confused—’

‘I have to resign.’

He frowned. ‘Well, if that’s what you…’ He looked at the floorboards. ‘Much as I blame the Floo Network Authority for their irresponsible security arrangements, I am not sure anyone could have anticipated an attack by an entire pack of werewolves. I understand why you might not want to work there any more, but they ought to make reparations to you. Resigning now is unlikely to facilitate that process; a fact you would realise yourself, under normal circumstances. You’ve only just awoken: your thought processes are chaotic.’

‘No.’ Why couldn’t he understand? ‘Resign from… you. Lab. What I did…’ She screwed her eyes shut and felt tears prickling there. ‘Dangerous. Too… reckless. Wrong.’

She’d almost killed herself out of an impulsive wish to contribute to their research. How stupid.

Snape was silent for so long she didn’t know what to think. Probably he was too furious to speak. She hid in the darkness behind her closed eyelids and found herself sniffing. Now she was a werewolf she needed Snape to employ her – who else would? But of course, she’d gone and done this. Why hadn’t she realised how much his good opinion mattered to her before she’d lost it? He wasn’t the type to let things go – he’d remember this forever. He’d never approve of her again. If only—

‘Yes, it was dangerous,’ he said, and to her surprise his voice, though ragged with tiredness, was soft, and close. ‘And reckless. Possibly it was wrong. But it worked.’

Her eyes flew open. ‘Huh?’

‘It worked.’ He was kneeling beside the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress, and the look on his face was so unfamiliar it took her several seconds to recognise it.

Relief.

‘What?’

‘The potion you took nearly killed you, but it worked. There is no trace of Lycanthropy in your blood or saliva.’

It didn’t make sense. Her heart pounded like it might burst. ‘I’m… not a werewolf?’

The skin around his eyes tightened. ‘It is too early to say for certain… There is a possibility the Lycanthropy has retreated to an inaccessible part of your body: the lymphatic system or the bone marrow, perhaps. We will have to wait until the next full moon to be absolutely sure it is eradicated. Another dose of that potion might be required, Merlin help us. But for now, yes. You are as free of Lycanthropy as if you had never been bitten.’

She couldn’t get her head around it. ‘The potion worked?’

He blinked; the edges of his mouth twitched, and his eyebrows drew together in a way that she was having trouble seeing as anything but… concern? But that couldn’t be right. This was Snape.

‘It did,’ he said. ‘And so you must understand that while you are free to tender your resignation, I absolutely cannot accept it.’

‘But even after I…? Against all sense and… and rules, and…’

‘It was foolish, but it’s done. It is not as though…’ he trailed off, staring at the floor. ‘It is not as though I have never done anything foolish. The outcome was, one supposes, worth it.’ He twitched back to look at her. ‘But if you had died, I… would never have forgiven you.’

She took a long breath, staring into the cold black wells of his eyes.

‘Right,’ she said in a small voice.

‘So you can keep your job.’ He leaned closer and his eyes darkened. ‘But never do that to me again.’

‘I won’t.’ She held his gaze. ‘I promise it.’

He leaned back. ‘Good.’

They watched each other once more.

A robin sang outside the window.

Snape glanced away. ‘Do you need anything?’

‘Um… water?’

He picked a full glass off the floor, where it must have been sitting waiting for her, and helped her sip it.

When she’d finished, she lay back and picked at her patchwork quilt. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘For… everything.’

Snape only gave her a long, unreadable look.

He got awkwardly to his feet and made to smooth his clothing; she focussed on the motions of his hands so as not to reveal she knew it was a ploy to disguise the fact his legs were cramping after so long sitting on the floor, and realised he was still in his dress robes. They were creased, hopelessly water-stained and crusted with dried blood – her blood. Cursed blood, that nothing would ever wash out. And a lot of it.

She held in a wince. That was her blood. She had obviously lost a lot more of it than she’d realised. And those robes looked like they had been carefully tailored, and expensive, and she suddenly found she hated to see them ruined. It wasn’t like Snape had lots of fancy robes. Yes, she would make it her business to buy him some new ones, even if she had to pretend they were a gift from someone else to avoid his wrath. The only difficulty would be getting his measurements. If she could sneak a good look at his robes, see who had made them…

Perhaps Draco Malfoy might help. Getting his assistance with the ball ticket had barely required prodding his schooltime guilt; she rather suspected he’d helped her simply because he wanted Snape to have a few nice things. He would certainly know all the tailors…

‘If you don’t mind, I shall leave for a few moments,’ Snape said. ‘I’m sure present company can bear to assist you with anything urgent.’

She squinted and said, ‘Present comp—?’ but Snape was gone, the swish of his robes spoilt by their filthy dampness. That’s when she remembered the pressure on the mattress by her feet, and noticed again the soft, somnolent breathing filling the quiet room. She shifted sideways a fraction, and lifted her head.

Sat on a low stool, slumped over onto the mattress with his dark, tousled head on his arms, the person Snape had called to keep vigil when he’d thought she might die was… Harry.

Hermione’s face split into a smile, and she found her cheeks wet with tears again.

Chapter Text

A while later, Snape returned wearing fresh robes and carrying a rattling tray of toast and tea, which he set down on the end of the bed.

Harry woke with a start and rolled his shoulders. ‘Ugh, Merlin’s great big hairy—’ His green eyes flew wide. ‘Hermione!’

‘Yes, I’m alive.’ She grinned from her nest of pillows. ‘And also, apparently, not a—’

But behind Harry, an aggravated Snape was making silent shushing motions. With a jolt of horror, Hermione bit off her words. Of course. She’d signed that confounded Ministry non-disclosure form! Harry didn’t know about the project. Snape couldn’t have told him she’d been bitten.

She’d almost called down those horrifying Ministry hexes on herself.

‘…not a completely lost cause,’ she finished quickly, trying to bring back the brightness of her smile.

Harry looked from her to Snape. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘that’s great. Isn’t it, Professor?’

‘Indeed.’ Snape stretched his thin lips into the world’s least convincing smile. ‘Breakfast, Mr Potter?’

Harry rubbed the small of his back. ‘Um, yeah, that would be lovely, actuall—’

‘Then you may go downstairs and make your own. Only Miss Granger requires food brought to her.’

Harry blinked. ‘Oh. I see. Well… okay. Suits me.’ He pulled himself up, making a face as his spine popped.

Hermione frowned at Snape. ‘I’d quite like Harry to stay here with me?’

‘Oh, I won’t be long. I’ll just grab cereal or something.’ Harry gave her a reassuring look, and even in her fuzzy-minded state she realised he was telling her he was happy to humour Snape’s bad temper for the sake of peace.

He headed out of the door and thundered down the stairs.

Snape’s lip curled.

‘Why did you do that?’ Hermione said. ‘You asked him here! He’s been sitting up half the night worrying about me, right after countering a massive werewolf attack. The least you could do is bring him some toast.’

‘I asked him here because, for reasons best known to yourself, St Mungo’s Hospital has Harry and Ginevra Potter listed as your next of kin. I was assuming the new Mrs Potter would be the one to respond to my summons. Regrettably, I was mistaken.’

Hermione threw him a glare. ‘I don’t suppose it matters that I care about Harry?’

Snape’s sneer intensified. ‘Fortunately, your poor choice of friends is none of my concern.’

Hermione’s jaw dropped. For a moment, she was so angry she couldn’t speak. Harry – a poor choice of friends?

‘How could you say that?’ She shook with fury. Her voice came out strangled.

‘Well you see, I open my mouth, and the words simply slip out,’ replied Snape, eyes glinting with what Hermione couldn’t help but parse as malice. His gaze dropped to her hands, strangling the bedclothes. ‘Do rein in your temper. It does you no good at this stage of your recovery to become… overexcited.’

‘Harry is the very best friend anyone could ever ask for!’ Hermione tried to shout, but her voice was too weak. ‘Have you forgotten that we defeated Voldemort together? Or how about the time he stopped me being given the Dementor’s Kiss? Or dragged me to safety in the Ministry of Magic when a load of Death Eaters were trying to kill me? Oh no, because apparently even someone like that isn’t good enough for you! No wonder you don’t have a single real friend! And don’t tell me Draco Malfoy counts because he plainly only comes here when he wants something!’

Snape’s eyes were slits. ‘Oh, I see,’ he hissed. ‘So instead of this being about your choice to befriend an arrogant maniac who would throw you to your death if it meant he could pursue one more glorious adventure, this is about me and my… select circle of acquaintances.’

‘Throw me to my death?! How could you possibly—’

‘WHAT ELSE DO YOU CALL IT WHEN SOMEONE PUSHES YOU INTO A BUILDING FULL OF WEREWOLVES?’

‘That was my choice! He didn’t push me – Harry didn’t even want me to be there, he tried to stop me—’

‘What did he do, did he hang onto your arms? Stun you? Immobilise you? What did he do?’

‘Of course not – who on earth would—’

‘I WOULD!’ screamed Snape.

Hermione stared at him. He was panting, teeth bared, a vein throbbing in his temple, his face an ugly shade of brick. His hands were screwed into white-knuckled claws, and his eyes were filled with terrible black fire.

‘Er,’ said Harry at the door. ‘I sort of… heard raised voices. Is everything alright?’

‘GET OUT, POTTER!’ roared Snape, without looking at him.

‘Um, I don’t think I will get out, actually.’ Harry crossed his arms. ‘Since you appear to be threatening Hermione.’

Snape rounded on him, and Hermione had a sudden, awful vision of a duel breaking out in her bedroom.

‘Harry,’ she said quietly, ‘everything’s fine. He really wasn’t threatening me. It might be best if you went downstairs for a little while, and let us—’

Harry gave her a pained look. ‘I trust you and everything Hermione, but it’s… um… not especially persuasive in this situation for you to say that. Seeing as you’re completely helpless, and he’s standing over you yelling.’

‘You trust her,’ mocked Snape.

While hating his transparent attempt to bait Harry, Hermione was relieved to see Snape’s face returning to its usual pallid tones, and his fists unclenching. He was obviously making an effort to calm down, even if it didn’t immediately look like it.

‘Yep,’ said Harry. ‘I trust her. So if she tells me later on that you’ve, I don’t know, thrown some jars at her head—’

Snape’s fists clenched again.

‘Harry—’ said Hermione in a warning voice.

Harry held up a hand to silence her. ‘Not done yet—’

‘Oh, and now look who’s being respectful to his trusted friend,’ hissed Snape.

‘Let me finish.’ Harry was using his best calm-but-firm Auror voice. Hermione could see how it might usually work to defuse tense situations, but it was transparently the wrong method for Snape. The longer Harry spoke, the more Snape seethed, like a badly-concocted potion in danger of exploding.

‘I know we don’t exactly see eye to eye on everything,’ continued Harry, ‘but Hermione is my friend, and I am her next-of-kin. So if anything happens to her—’

‘Anything you didn’t cause, you mean.’

Harry looked momentarily shocked, then furious, before he managed to get himself under control. ‘Look, you can’t blame any of your actions on me—’

Snape bared his teeth. ‘Endlessly self-centred. You disgust me, Potter.’

‘I – what?!’

‘Will you both just stop it!’ Hermione shout-croaked. ‘Harry, he’s angry because you let me run into a building full of werewolves! He’s not threatening me, he never has threatened me – well, only with things like having to pickle rat spleens, which is hardly so terrible – and I am perfectly happy here. Now if you don’t mind, I want to eat breakfast in peace and have a nap. And if one or both of you have to leave the house for that to happen, so be it!’

They stared at her – Snape’s eyes narrowed, Harry’s wide.

‘Go on then,’ she said, as imperiously as she could while propped upright by cushions. ‘Off you toddle. You first, Harry.’

Harry darted a look at Snape, who was still glaring at Hermione. ‘I’m not leaving until he is.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Harry—’

Harry huffed, and left. His footsteps thudded down the stairs.

Hermione sighed, then decided to cross her arms and ignore Snape as he took the breakfast tray off the end of the bed, conjured it some legs and propped it across her lap. She continued ignoring him as he cast a Heating Charm on the teapot and the toast, hesitated a moment as if thinking about saying something, and retreated out of the door. She listened anxiously, worried he’d follow Harry downstairs. But instead she heard the door opposite hers click, and Snape’s careful prowling steps disappearing into his bedroom.

She shut her eyes and let out a long, shaky breath.

Merlin’s baggy longjohns. Men.

And she’d had such high hopes on waking to discover Harry and Snape peacefully occupying the same space. She’d thought that maybe, just maybe, Snape had been able to put aside his irrational hatred of Harry for a couple of hours, for the sake of giving her a calm atmosphere to recuperate in. And that perhaps, having done that, they’d managed a civil conversation, and – Harry was likeable. He was a good person. Snape was observant, and keen-witted. Surely Snape would eventually notice Harry wasn’t some horrible selfish braggart, if only they talked?

Obviously not.

Her mind jumped to Snape’s livid features as he shouted that he would have Stunned or Immobilised her rather than let her run into that building to meet near-certain death.

She sighed.

Really… she didn’t want to admit it, but this time it was… almost understandable he was furious with Harry.

She frowned and took a bite of jam-smeared toast.

She’d always assumed Snape’s exaggerated hatreds had no basis in fact. Snape smirking as he docked house points off a frightened and bewildered Harry during their first ever Potions lesson felt permanently seared into her consciousness. It had always appeared as if Snape had taken a sudden, irrational decision to hate Harry the first time they’d met, and never looked back.

But that didn’t make sense. Because while Snape didn’t exactly like most of his students, he’d never treated anyone else like that – not at a first meeting. Even with Neville, it had taken a few dangerous near-disasters to reach Snape’s tipping point. Was there something she’d missed? Had Harry unwittingly angered Snape? Was something else going on?

The other odd thing was that Snape had loved (in whatever creepy fashion) Harry’s mother. So why would he detest her son the moment they met? Even then, even if he didn’t find Harry personable, or if Harry was disappointing to Snape in some twisted way (but how could he be? Think of all Harry had done!) it didn’t explain the level of sheer malicious effort Snape poured into his hatred. It must be exhausting to him. What was it all for?

It upset her that Snape hated Harry. It really did. If she could only get to the bottom of it… She valued both of them. Harry thought Snape was a hero. They ought to get on.

It wouldn’t be an easy task, working out what it was about Harry that bothered Snape so much, never mind achieving a reconciliation. But she had discovered and destroyed Voldemort’s Horcruxes, hadn’t she? She’d survived a war. She’d had the idea that would cure Lycanthropy. Surely this couldn’t be too much of a challenge?

She needed something to do while she recovered anyway.

Chapter Text

Hermione took the week off work – both Floo and lab – and meandered aimlessly about the house. It was hard to focus; she would stare at a shaft of light dancing on the wall, and discover twenty minutes had evaporated into nothingness. Books were impossible, long conversations worse than exams. A stack of owl post built up in her bedroom; she opened the get well cards, but after flicking through the letters and seeing Ron’s handwriting, decided she didn’t have the energy for more.

She napped constantly, then woke each time with a jolt, cold and frightened, not certain where she was. Her bedroom made her nervous, the corners always dark with shadows. She constantly wondered if the werewolves from the Floo ball had really all been rounded up, or whether any of them had got away, and were lying in wait, or trying to get into the house. She took to dozing on the sofa in Snape’s lab. The small, everyday sounds – his robes swishing, the cauldrons bubbling, the clinking of glass phials – were familiar and soothing, a lullaby that eased her into sleep and reassured her when she awoke. She caught Snape glancing at her sometimes as if checking she was okay, and unexpected warmth curled in the pit of her stomach. She chose not to examine why. It was enough to feel safe.

By the end of the week, she had recovered to the stage where she could read several pages of a book in one go, and stay awake for more than a couple of hours at a time. After her brush with Lycanthropy (and, after all, she was only probably cured now) she decided to spend her meagre energy rations reading up on werewolf society. To her surprise, she learned it was far from homogenous. Some werewolves were as she’d always assumed: people like Professor Lupin, marginalised individuals who had been bitten against their will and would give anything to be cured. But there were also werewolf packs. They were far from the threat to wizarding society the Prophet imagined, however. Many were loose self-help associations. Others were rigidly structured, with initiation rituals and strict rules. The oldest and most exclusive packs were formed around families who had intentionally passed Lycanthropy to their children for generations, the untameable wolf firmly bound to their culture. Hermione chewed her lip. She’d imagined werewolves would be desperate for a cure – but it wasn’t that simple. Far from wanting to return to wizarding normality, some werewolves had never seen themselves as part of it. The traditional pack wolves would view her and Snape’s cure as an existential threat – which was surely why Snape had been targeted at the ball.

But how could werewolves have uncovered the existence of the cure project when everyone was sworn to secrecy?

On Saturday, Hermione decided to venture to Harry and Ginny’s for their usual lunch together. It would do her good to get out – and she hadn’t forgotten her vow to discover why Snape loathed Harry. The Potters’ house was under the Fidelius Charm, and she’d be Apparating there. Surely it was safe?

Snape insisted on Apparating with her.

‘I don’t think a werewolf’s going to eat me if you let me out of your sight for ten minutes,’ she chided, dragging her shoes on by the front door. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit… overprotective?’

He cast her a narrow look and didn’t reply.

‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘can you even get to Harry’s? You need permission from their Secret Keeper.’

‘Do not trouble yourself.’ He tapped his long fingers impatiently against the wall. ‘I have a standing invitation.’

‘Let me guess? You’ve never taken Harry up on it.’

Snape’s glare worsened.

Hermione heaved on her coat. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you hate Harry so much?’

Now she was getting the lip-curl as well as the glare. Joy.

‘I thought I already did?’ Snape said waspishly. ‘Or do the words “arrogant, self-obsessed egotist in love with his own heroism” not constitute a reason, to your mind?’

‘But you must realise that’s not what he’s really like.’

‘Oh, must I? For I have never seen a single thing to contradict it, and much to confirm my verdict. Just because everyone else worships the ground the “Boy Who Lived” deigns to imprint with his feet does not mean I feel the slightest compulsion to do likewise. The defeat of the Dark Lord notwithstanding.’

Hermione huffed. This wasn’t working. ‘You know, I can Apparate perfectly fine by myself. You don’t have to come unless you want to.’

His eyes flashed. ‘You are not well. If you Splinch yourself, I shall feel responsible. So I am coming. Even if I do not desire it and have many other calls on my time.’

Hermione rolled her eyes where he couldn’t see and headed towards the front door.

‘Wait.’ He pushed past her, wand out, cracked open the door and scanned the street, muttering spells.

Hermione had the uncomfortable realisation this was far from the first time Snape suspected he’d be murdered upon setting foot outside – and that he shared her worries about unapprehended werewolves.

‘All clear,’ he murmured. ‘But we should Apparate without delay.’

Still searching the street, he offered her his arm. The moment the front door swung shut, the squeezing blackness of Apparition closed around her.

Her feet hit the pavement outside Holly Bank Cottage harder than she’d anticipated. She stumbled and braced herself against Snape; the moment she was steady, he twitched out of her grasp, shoulders bristling.

The cottage smiled at them, dormer windows snuggled into golden thatch, pink walls blushing behind a profusion of magical winter-blooming roses, holly hedge glowing with berries.

‘How… bucolic,’ Snape sneered.

‘You’re just jealous,’ said Hermione. ‘I think it’s charming.’

He turned a look of incredulous derision on her. ‘Jealous?’

She was saved from answering by the front door crashing open. A small boy-whirlwind with untidy dark hair exploded out of it, raced down the garden path and threw himself at her. ‘Aunt Hermione!’

‘James!’ she said, staggering under his hug. ‘Um, are you allowed to come running out by yoursel—’

‘JAMES SIRIUS POTTER!’ came a bellow from the front door. ‘How many times have I told—’ Harry saw them and stopped dead, halfway through shoving on his wellies. ‘Oh. Hi. Hermione, nice to see you! And… Professor Snape. Er. Do… come in.’

Snape gave little James a disdainful look, somehow encompassing in one glance disgust for his messy hair, revulsion for the jammy face he was smearing on Hermione’s coat, distain for his mismatched shoes, and horror regarding his name, then turned to Harry.

‘I am predominantly here to escort Miss Granger. She is still unwell after her… exploits. But I would also—’ Snape’s eyes narrowed— ‘like a word.’

Hermione suppressed a shudder. She didn’t know how Snape made a nice innocent phrase sound as if there would be hours of soul-destroying torture involved while any hope of escape would be futile. But he did. It was… a skill. Or something.

‘Oh.’ Harry’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘Sure. Come in.’

‘I prefer we speak outside. I am busy today and have neither the time nor the inclination to enter your…’ His eyes slid over the jumble of wellies and coats by the door, and the blowsy roses. ‘…Abode.’

‘Oh, well, um, fine. James, stop that. Aunt Hermione’s being nice about it, but I can tell you’re throttling her.’

James stuck his tongue out at his dad, but released his stranglehold and grabbed Hermione’s hand instead. Bouncing, he tugged her up the path, through the front door and into the hall. ‘Will you play on the trampoline with me? I got as high as the roof last time! And I’ve got a broomstick! Uncle Charlie gave it to me! Oh, and Mum’s making treacle tart for pudding but it’s a secret!’

‘James, Aunt Hermione’s not well. You need to let her rest.’ Harry raised his eyebrows pointedly. ‘Shoes off. Then go and play. Nicely.’

James gave a long-suffering moan, kicked his shoes off (they flew through the air, forcing Snape, who was lurking just outside, to twitch out of the way) and barrelled into the sitting room.

There was the sound of a baby’s hurt squeal, then bawling.

Harry swore under his breath. ‘Excuse me.’ He ran after James.

Hermione caught Snape’s eye, and wished she hadn’t.

Ginny emerged from the kitchen in a puff of steam, wiping her hands on a fluffy pink towel. Her wand was sticking out of the pocket of her flowery apron, and she still carried some of her pregnancy weight. With a twinge, Hermione was reminded of Mrs Weasley. Behind her, the arthritic yellow labrador waved its tail like a flag of surrender.

‘Hi Hermione! And… Professor Snape! Nice. Harry’s always wanted you to visit.’

Snape slid his hands into his pockets. ‘Indeed.’

A red-faced Harry reappeared, yelling back into the room, Albus howling on his shoulder.

‘—younger than you and if you do that you’ll hurt him!’

James shuffled mutinously into the hall behind his dad, then stared at Snape. ‘Wow, I just noticed! Your nose is HUGE. Did you magic it by mistake?’

Snape’s eyes turned to slits.

‘James, shut up,’ Ginny said conversationally, taking Albus off Harry. ‘You’ve got big ears and no-one makes a fuss about them.’

‘But it’s enormous!’ He cocked his head. ‘Is it magic? Is it a joke one? Is it—’

‘My facial features are entirely natural and unaltered,’ hissed Snape.

Hermione bit her lip. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh…

Albus snuffled to a stop, and craned out of Ginny’s arms to find the source of the strange deep voice. His huge green eyes, brimming with tears, met Snape’s. Snape flinched, then hid the motion with a disgusted twitch of his robes. In all the commotion, Hermione suspected no-one else had noticed his reaction.

‘James,’ said Harry, nudging him, ‘go and play upstairs. You’ve got that new exploding jigsaw Uncle Ron gave you—’

‘Yeah! The Pigmy Puffs will love that!’

‘Not with the Pigmy Puffs! James—’

Harry tried to grab James but he pelted away and thundered upstairs, spraying biscuit crumbs.

‘Kreacher!’ Harry yelled. ‘Can you watch James, please? Kreacher!’

‘Kreacher is already upstairs, Master,’ came a distant croak.

‘Why don’t we have that word now, Potter?’ said Snape, voice dangerously soft. ‘If you can take the time away from your… domestic duties.’

Harry went, if possible, even redder. With a quick glance at Ginny, he followed Snape out into the garden.

‘How does he do that?’ mused Hermione. ‘Harry’s Head Auror, and in his own home, and Snape’s still got him reacting like… like…’

‘Like an eleven-year-old with detention?’ Ginny snorted. ‘Want to listen in?’ She fished one-handed in her apron pocket and drew out a tangle of Extendible Ears.

‘Wow, George still makes those? Well… it’s your home, Ginny: you set the rules.’

Ginny grinned. ‘This hostess says eavesdropping is not only permitted but encouraged. And they’re one of George’s bestsellers – I’d be a bad sister if I didn’t use them.’

Hermione frowned. ‘Shouldn’t we let them sort it out between themselves?’

‘How else are we going to know when to burst out there, wands blazing?’

‘You make a good point.’

They unfurled the stringy pink Ears and slotted them into their own ears. The pink strings squirmed out of the door. There was a burst of static, then Hermione heard Snape’s voice so close she was surprised not to feel his breath on the back of her neck.

‘…recklessly endangering Miss Granger’s life. You are going to avoid such in future or experience my… intense displeasure.’

‘I didn’t recklessly endanger her! She went in there after you! I tried to convince her it was a bad idea—’

‘I’ve heard enough, Potter. You know my stance. Now, another matter. You … told her, didn’t you?’ Snape was using his most dangerous whisper.

‘Told her? Told Hermione what?’

‘You know what, Potter! The… the thing you… the thing you saw—’

‘Oh look: no. I’ve never told anyone. I promised I wouldn’t, and I’ve kept my word. You don’t have to suspect me of everything just because—’

‘Don’t lie to me. Such a juicy piece of gossip – you spilled every last drop of it to Granger and Weasley the moment you left my office that day. I am not fool enough to believe—’

‘I didn’t. I haven’t told them, or anyone else. I’m prepared to swear it under Veritaserum.’

‘Everyone knows evidence given under Veritaserum is inadmissible in court.’ Snape’s voice oozed distain. ‘You can throw off the Imperius Curse, Potter. Lying under Veritaserum utilises the same… abilities. If you’re going to tell me you didn’t know that, you are either deluded or an even more incompetent Auror than I have always feared.’

Hermione winced and threw Ginny a sympathetic look.

They heard Harry huff out a breath, the way he did when he was forcing himself to stay calm. ‘Look, I’ve kept your memories secret all these years, except the stuff I submitted as evidence at your trial, and you know about that. I never told Hermione. I’ve never even told Ginny. The only people I’ve ever discussed it with were Sirius, and Lupin – and they were there so you can’t tell me that counted as passing on your secrets.’ A bitter note crept into Harry’s voice. ‘Since they’re dead now, it’s not like there’s a risk they might tell anyone, is there?’

‘You spoke to – you spoke to Black and Lupin?’

‘Well, I had to talk to someone. I mean, my dad… I thought he was such a hero. And then I saw… saw him do that. And the way he talked to my mum—’

‘I told you what he was like! It was your own arrogant fault you didn’t believe me!’ Snape drew a breath with a hiss. ‘Black and Lupin made excuses for themselves I imagine, just like you are doing now. I know you told her, Potter!’

‘Will you stop? Even if I didn’t care that I’d promised you, or… or understand what it feels like to be… surrounded by people who hate your guts and… Look, I’d still never tell anyone, because I don’t want people remembering my dad like that, okay? What on earth makes you think I tol—’

‘I know you told her because of the way she looks at me!’

‘Looks at you? What—’

‘With insufferable pity,’ he spat, ‘you moronic— You told her, and now – when she looks at me, I can tell—’

‘For goodness’ sake,’ Harry exploded, ‘is this really because you think Hermione looks at you funny? She looks at everyone like that, it’s just her face—’

Hermione passed Ginny an outraged look, and Ginny pressed a hand over her mouth to stop herself giggling.

‘It is not “just her face”,’ hissed Snape, ‘there is nothing wrong with her face, you lying—’

‘So what if she does feel sorry for you? Have you ever considered that it might have nothing to do with things she doesn’t even know about that happened decades ago – and everything to do with the fact you still live in that hideous house, avoiding anyone who might actually care about you, and refusing to move on with your life? Have you ever considered how that might look to a normal person?’

‘You dare – you dare—’

‘I can’t believe you finally came to see me for this!’

Ginny sighed. ‘Time to burst out there, I think.’

But by the time they’d hurried into the garden Snape had gone, the pop of Apparition sounding briefly in the lane. Only Harry was left, standing with his fists clenched on the frosty lawn.

‘Why does he have to be so difficult?’ he fumed. ‘I try so hard, but he still thinks the worst of me! I’ve saved the guy from a life sentence in Azkaban! What else does he want?’

Ginny made soothing noises and handed Harry Albus again. ‘He’s always been like that, Harry. It’s not your fault.’

‘Every time I think I can be the adult, he…’ Harry groaned and patted the baby. ‘It’s so infuriating.’

‘Come in?’ Ginny suggested, holding open the front door. ‘Lunch is nearly ready – there are biscuits if you’re too hungry to wait.’

After patting Harry on the shoulder, Ginny returned to the kitchen. Harry and Hermione made their way to the lounge, where Hermione nudged aside a huge stuffed Hippogriff and took the armchair. Harry put Albus down on a cat-and-broomstick decorated baby mat, then threw himself onto the saggy sofa, knocking a copy of the Daily Prophet off the armrest. As it fluttered to the carpet, Hermione read: DMLE HEAD’S FLOO BALL ORDEAL: Aurors blamed after mother and son forced to hide in cupboard for twelve hours awaiting rescue. ‘We could hear the werewolves right outside, snapping their jaws and sniffing around,’ recounted DMLE Head Diana Lang to special reporter, Rita Skeeter. ‘If I hadn’t remembered the Extra Strength Deodorant Charm my grandmother once taught me—’

Hermione shivered, and decided not to peruse further. The Fidelius Charm was in place here. She was safe.

Harry found Albus’ rattle down the back of the sofa and held it out to him. Hermione watched as Albus gummed on it, and thought about what she’d just overheard. So Snape hated pity. Well, she supposed it should have been obvious. Did Harry look like he pitied Snape? Was that what Snape found so repulsive?

And what was Snape worried Harry had told her? She wanted to ask, but from what she’d overheard, that wouldn't get her anywhere. She’d have to try and work it out herself later: another thing to add to her mysteries-to-investigate list.

Harry plucked a Jammy Ghoul off the plate of biscuits on the coffee table. ‘Sorry about all that, Hermione. You must’ve come here to get away from Snape and his drama.’

‘It’s really fine. I think he just feels… protective. After what happened at the ball.’

Harry’s look turned angry. ‘Yeah – about that. What’s with him? The morning after the ball – was he threatening you?’

She blinked, surprised. ‘Of course not.’

‘But has he ever... I don’t know… It’s just a bit weird. You moved in there when none of us thought it was a good idea, and it must be horrible but you don’t want to leave. Then you started working for Snape. Someone told me you even danced with him at the Floo ball. I mean…’

She drew herself up, going pink. ‘He’s not horrible to live with. Just… prickly. It’s like sharing living space with a very clever hedgehog. Actually, I quite enjoy working with him now I’ve got over how rude he can be, and started to understand him.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s nice not to be the only, well… geek.’

Harry made a noncommittal noise. ‘If you say so.’

‘It’s a relief when I don’t have to suppress myself,’ she explained, wishing Harry understood, ‘or hide who I really am. When attention to detail and… being demanding, and working hard, being clever, are considered assets, rather than making me an oddity, or, well… a threat.’

Harry snorted. ‘You’ve been hiding any of that stuff?’

She shot him a glare.

‘Don’t tell me. Snape’s coaching you through a mastery of death stares as well.’

‘Harry!’ She whacked him with the stuffed Hippogriff.

He laughed and held up his hands. ‘Well, if you change your mind about Snape, you’re welcome back here any time. And I mean any time. Three a.m., four a.m. – totally fine.’

She gave him a wry smile. ‘Thanks. But don’t expect me to arrive sobbing on your doorstep any time soon.’

Harry set the Hippogriff next to Albus, then took another biscuit and turned thoughtful.

‘If you are starting to understand Snape, can you tell me why he still hates my guts? Or what it might take to get him to treat me like a human being, rather than crud he found stuck to his favourite cauldron?’

‘Oh, how exasperating!’ She raised her eyebrows as he gave her a surprised look. ‘You see, I wanted you to tell me the same thing. I mean, I have my guesses, but…’

‘I’d give anything for your guesses. Spill.’

‘Well…’ She ticked off on her fingers. ‘Firstly, it’s perfectly obvious since I’ve moved into Snape’s house that he’s annoyed with me because I saved his life. I think he doesn’t like feeling beholden to people. You saved him from Azkaban, so that’s bound to make things awkward. And secondly – Harry, you must have realised this – you didn’t stop me running into the ballroom last week. He’s furious about it.’

Harry groaned. ‘Of course! Werewolves. He’s had a werewolf phobia ever since Sirius played that prank on him at school and he nearly got bitten by Lupin, I knew it.’

She frowned, and ran through her memories of Snape and Lupin interacting. That fraught meeting in the Shrieking Shack in Third Year. Plus, Snape’s strange intensity over the cure project: the eight years. The hundreds of logbooks.

It suddenly made sense.

‘Oh.’

But wait, that couldn’t be all of why Snape hated Harry, could it? Although Snape had ended up in the Shrieking Shack because of Harry, the hatred had begun in first year. The Snape-Harry mystery was far from solved – even if she did now understand why Snape was so determined to find a cure for Lycanthropy.

She wiped crumbs off her hands. ‘Harry, I know you think it’s odd I want to keep staying at Snape’s, but at least we more or less get on. Why on earth did you give him a standing invitation to your home? He’s awful to you.’

‘I keep hoping he’ll… get over it? I mean, we have more in common than anything else. It would be nice to hear even one story about my mum, too. I thought I’d, you know, come to terms with being an orphan. But having kids just… does something to you. I want James and Albus to know what she was like, but I can’t tell them. Most of her friends died in the first war, and Petunia won’t talk about her. Sirius and Lupin told me stories about my dad, but not her.’

‘So that’s why you asked Snape to be Albus’ godfather?’

‘Partly – I do admire him, you know, when he’s not being a git. I wish he’d taken the godfather thing better, though. He seemed to think I’d done it to insult him. He sent me this letter…’ Harry scowled and quoted, ‘“Naming a child after a murdered man and his murderer? Only you would concoct something so idiotic. I implore you to write to the Ministry Records Office immediately and beg their permission to rectify this monstrosity. The child will undoubtedly be scarred for life.”’

She winced.

‘Yeah.’

Hermione picked up another biscuit. She wished Harry would abandon his painful search for a father-figure – or at least, choose someone better than Snape to focus it on. Now was not the time for that conversation, however. Harry had been extremely sensitive the last time she’d broached the subject.

Ginny stuck her head around the door, saving Hermione from constructing an awkward segue. ‘Lunch is ready. And James is being suspiciously quiet upstairs.’

Harry levered himself off the sofa. ‘Better investigate. Last time we almost lost Kreacher.’

Once they had extracted James from the mess he’d created, they enjoyed an enormous lunch of roast beef with all the trimmings, and a huge treacle tart. They swapped early Christmas presents, Ginny put Albus down for a nap, and James insisted on showing Hermione the trampoline and his broomstick. Darkness began to fall.

‘I suppose I should go,’ said Hermione, looking at the sky. ‘Unless you want help, Ginny?’

‘No, don’t worry,’ said Ginny. ‘I already spelled the washing-up. Harry can Apparate you back – if you need it? I’d do it, but Albus will scream if he wakes up and I’m not here.’

‘Yes, I’d better let Harry take me. I am feeling rather tired.’

Hermione waited while Harry found his coat, then he Apparated them back to Snape’s house. She invited him inside, but he looked uncomfortable, made an excuse about helping Ginny with the kids, and Disapparated the moment she’d shut the door.

It was quiet in Spinner’s End after the incessant bustle of Holly Bank Cottage. Hermione found herself relaxing into the peaceful silence as she unbuttoned her coat. Really, it wasn’t such a bad place. Quite soothing, if you could get over the décor.

Humming to herself, she wandered upstairs with no particular destination in mind, and found herself standing at the bottom of the stairs to the lab. Well, why not?

But when she got upstairs, Snape wasn’t there. She felt an odd stab of disappointment, and wasn’t sure why. They never exactly chatted, did they? What did she imagine, that he’d been anxiously waiting around for her to get back? He’d probably gone to Diagon Alley to restock his ingredients, or was out on one of his frequent errands. She sank onto the battered sofa, then lay on it, staring at the skylight, her head pillowed on the armrest, thinking about Professor Lupin, and Snape’s odd reaction to Albus. The protectiveness she’d overheard, so at odds with Snape’s words and demeanour.

What had he been like as headmaster, with the Carrows roaming Hogwarts? She’d have to ask Ginny some time.

The familiar smell of the lab cocooned her – the leathery spice of dragonhide gloves, the clean scent of the potion Snape used to scrub down his workbench, the dry smell of ink on parchment. Rain began to patter on the roof, and she shut her eyes.

When she woke a few hours later, the lab was empty. But she could hear Snape moving around downstairs, and on a stool by her head sat a plate of corned beef sandwiches and a still-hot cup of tea.

The last knots in her stomach unravelled, and she smiled.

Chapter Text

Despite her worries about being targeted by any unapprehended werewolves, Hermione decided to return to the Floo Network on Monday. If the werewolves were watching her, why let them see she was scared? Besides, Hilda’s get well card had told her that after the attack at the ball, the offices had hired security trolls, and it wasn’t like it was full moon.

To her surprise, alongside the new trolls, she was greeted at the door to the offices by the Head Manager, Hermina Webb, a statuesque black woman. A silk shawl in whisper grey and Floo green lay artfully arranged over her shoulders, and she was trailed by a chastened-looking McLaggen.

‘Hermione Granger.’ Madam Webb held out her fine-boned hand. ‘Good to see you back.’

‘Oh – um, thanks,’ said Hermione, trying not to look worried as she returned the handshake. Was she being sacked for reckless self-endangerment? Had she taken too many days off sick?

‘My office, if you please.’ Madam Webb pursed her lips at McLaggen. ‘Get back to work now, Cormac, I’m sure you have plenty to do.’

McLaggen gave a mousy smile, mumbled something apologetic and thankful at Hermione with his eyes painfully wide, and disappeared.

Madam Webb’s office was scrupulously clean and well-organised. The vast, polished floor was broken only by potted palms, two expansively-proportioned chairs and an enormous, smooth mahogany desk. There was nothing on the desk except a closed Flashweasel laptop, a glass pot full of Floo powder (placed there, Hermione assumed, for artistic effect, since the office had no fireplace) and a shiny brass plaque, which read Hermina Webb, Head of the Floo Network Authority.

Madam Webb settled herself behind the desk. ‘So, Hermione, welcome back.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘It seems we have a lot to thank you for.’

‘Oh. Er, thanks.’ Hermione smoothed her skirt and sat in the other chair, feeling like it was swallowing her. ‘It was nothing, really. I mean… Ex-Auror… I didn’t even stop to think, you know.’ She gave a nervous laugh, and winced inwardly.

‘You are quite recovered from the ordeal? We were worried – there was a bite casualty registered at St Mungo’s, although, given issues of confidentiality, we weren’t told names.’

Hermione schooled her face into alarm. ‘Someone got bitten? But that’s terrible!’

‘Yes.’ Madam Webb watched her with concern. ‘Not you, though?’

‘Oh n-no, we managed to get out in time… I’m fine now, absolutely fine. A week off was all I needed. A bit of a rest, you know.’

Madam Webb paused. ‘Well, we are most grateful. Perhaps the Floo Network would no longer exist as we know it, if you and your partner hadn’t been there.’

‘Yes… I am glad… Sorry, I’m not sure – who is my partner? I left the Aurors a while ago, I don’t still have a—’

‘I meant Professor Snape. You live with him, don’t you?’

Hermione felt herself going red. She should never have said that to McLaggen. Goodness. Had he told everyone?

‘Um, Professor Snape’s just my landlord.’

Madam Webb’s mouth loosened and her shoulders visibly unknotted. ‘Oh, I see. Sorry.’ She laughed. ‘There must have been a miscommunication.’

‘It’s quite all right.’

‘Well, regardless, a benefactor – who wishes to remain anonymous but is a close friend of the Network – would like to present you with a reward. Both of you.’ Madam Webb nodded impressively. ‘For gallantry.’

‘A… reward?’

‘Yes. Five thousand Galleons. Each, naturally.’

Hermione’s mouth went dry. All her words evaporated. Five thousand Galleons?

She could… she could go to Australia again, look for her parents, do a longer search… She could put down a deposit on a flat – not to rent, but to buy. She could move out of Snape’s house. She could leave the Floo Network and concentrate on potions. Everything was possible. She could... she could even go back to Hogwarts and get her N.E.W.T.s, couldn't she?

‘Come now.’ Madam Webb smiled. ‘It’s not an extravagant amount, not when your timely warning saved me and most of our employees, not to mention our nearest and dearest – and a large number of celebrities and Ministry officials. Plus you endangered yourself by re-entering the building to make sure no-one was left behind. It went far beyond your duty as an employee. Honestly, we wish it could be more.’

Hermione swallowed. ‘Um… Well, wow, thank you! I mean… Wow! I never imagined…’

‘We will send it straight to your Gringotts account, if that suits you? HR already have your details.’

‘I… yes, that would be…’ She trailed off, blinking. ‘I just can’t… this is incredible! Thank you.’

Was she dreaming?

Madam Webb leaned forwards and smiled knowingly at her over the expanse of her desk. ‘We also need your help with one small thing. If you could let Professor Snape know about the reward for us, we’d be most grateful. He returned our owl without opening the letter, you see, and we need his vault number to send him the money. He likely finds privacy a wonderful thing, but sometimes it can be… a little too wonderful. I’m sure you understand.’

Hermione grimaced apologetically. ‘Of course. I’ll do my best.’

‘Thank you.’ Madam Webb leaned back in her chair, and reached into her desk drawer. ‘As well as our anonymous benefactor, another person wished to extend their personal thanks to you.’

She handed Hermione a letter on parchment sewn with silver thread. Bewildered, Hermione opened it and discovered it was from the songstress, Celestina Warbeck. Apparently she would be beyond happy to repay the brilliant and brave Mr and Mrs Snape with a free performance at any time of their choosing.

Hermione went red. ‘Oh. That’s so lovely! Haha.’

She was definitely not telling Snape about that one, no matter who pestered her.

‘Well,’ said Madam Webb, ‘I don’t want to inconvenience you on your first day back. Now I have passed on these messages I should let you return to work.’ She smiled.

‘Oh, of course. Thank you!’

Hermione scuttled away to her office. Hoping to sneak in unnoticed, she made as little noise as possible edging open the door. But it was to no avail. The moment she showed her face, Hilda yelled, ‘Hermione!’ and she was engulfed in a many-armed co-worker scrum while a babble of voices enquired how she was, thanked her, demanded to know what had happened, asked how she had realised the werewolves were about to attack…

With a stab of regret, she thought of Snape’s quiet lab, and the sun filtering gently through the skylight. It was going to be a distinctly unrestful first day back at work.

Chapter Text

Although Hermione protested, everyone in the office insisted on taking her out for dinner and drinks after work. She only managed to escape from the pub by yawning copiously and, when that didn’t work, pretending to be too drunk to continue. By the time she returned to Cokeworth, darkness had long since fallen. A frigid wind breathed off the river and insinuated its way through the terraced houses. She hurried along Spinner’s End, jumping at shadows. A welcoming light shone through the curtains of Snape’s front room, and her heart lifted. She hoped he’d remembered to set a Heating Charm going; it was freezing out here.

She thrust the door open, and let the wind pull it closed behind her. Her shoulders sagged as the familiar clunk-rattle of the Yale lock shut out the night.

‘Hi Granger, good day at work?’ called Snape in a cheerful voice.

Hermione whipped towards the sound.

A dark-robed, hook-nosed figure was lounging on the sofa, one leg crooked idly against the backrest, the other swinging, head settled at a languid slant on the sofa’s arm. His greasy hair was tucked behind his ears; a book (depicting a woman in a purple dress with voluptuous cleavage) dangled from his long-fingered hand. As Hermione stared, he gave her a roguish grin, black eyes dancing.

Black eyes, in which there was no trace of dark fire.

‘Nice hair,’ he said. ‘Bit blustery out there, was it?’

Heart thundering, Hermione threw a wordless Incarcerous and Expelliarmus; the man yelped as cords bound him to the sofa. His wand leapt to her hand. She pocketed it without breaking eye contact, and aimed her shaking wand-point square at his face.

‘Steady on, Granger!’

‘Who are you,’ she hissed, ‘and what have you done with Severus Snape?’

‘What – but I am Snape!’ he protested, voice squeaking in un-Snape-like terror.

‘Crucio!’ A jet of light flew millimetres over the imposter’s head and sizzled against the sofa.

‘ARGH! Blimey, Granger, no need to go Unforgiveable on me! All right, all right,’ he squealed, as she re-aimed, ‘it’s me, Draco Malfoy! Happy now?’

She drew a breath. ‘If you’re really Draco Malfoy, answer this. Who saved your life at Hogwarts?’

The Snape-imposter sighed. ‘Really, that’s your question? Honestly, where to start? There was that time I nearly got my arm ripped off by a psychotic Hippogriff—’

‘Buckbeak wasn’t psychotic!’

‘Madam Pomfrey saved me, but it was a near thing. Almost lost the use of my wand arm. Then a servant of the Dark Lord who was pretending to be some basket case Auror tried to bounce me to death. Your McGonagall stepped in that time. Never got over it, to be honest. Still have nightmares. Oh, then in sixth year Potter slashed me about with some sort of illegal unregulated hex and I nearly bled to death – it was lucky Snape was there to sort me out. All hushed up by Dumbledore, of course. Then the Dark Lord… well. Snape saved me again. Did you know they wanted me to kill Dumbledore?’ The imposter shivered, un-Snapeish fright splashed across his face. ‘Oh, and I seem to remember someone throwing a firework into a cauldron in Potions once, that definitely counts – it was Goyle’s cauldron, there could have been anything in it. Snape saved the day again. He really was a good Head of House—’

Hermione sniffed angrily. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

The imposter stared at her a moment, his wide-eyed, bewildered expression incongruous on Snape’s severe features. ‘Oh! Wasn’t there something – umm… Battle of Hogwarts…’

Hermione gestured with her wand for him to carry on.

‘You and Potter… er… Fiendfyre…? The Dark Lord’s minions?’ The imposter grimaced. ‘To be honest, it’s a blur – trauma and so on – but I’m pretty sure you must have done some sort of rescuey type thing at some point.’ He affected a nonchalant look. ‘You have my gratitude, naturally.’

She narrowed her eyes, wand in his face. ‘Who is Scorpius Malfoy’s godfather?’

‘Snape is. Bit obvious, that one, Granger, though I haven’t told many—’

She jabbed the wand, and he flinched. ‘Why was Snape at the Floo Ball?’

He raised an eyebrow with a slight smirk. ‘Was it not because he had a burning desire to dance with you?’

She glared. ‘The real reason.’

He sighed. ‘Fine. You bought the fellow a ticket – no doubt for entirely altruistic reasons – then guilt-tripped me into posting it to him and pretending the whole thing was my idea.  Dear old Snape’s stated wishes were to spend the evening hobnobbing about potions with Damocles Belby. Alas, I heard his well-deserved fun was cut short.’ The imposter’s face assumed a whiny expression. ‘Granger, I know this is necessary but please tell me that was the last question. Your ropes are chafing me.’

Hermione huffed out a breath but Vanished the conjured ropes. The interloper had to be Draco Malfoy. No-one else knew about the ball ticket – and besides, she doubted anyone could fake that obnoxious mixture of entitlement and cowardice. She’d wondered briefly if he’d been Confunded or Imperiused, but he was too alert – and, frankly, annoying – for that to be the case.

She handed Draco’s wand back and crossed her arms. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here masquerading as my landlord?’

Snape-Draco sat up, pocketed his wand, and rubbed his chin where the ropes had left a pink mark. Underneath his bluster he looked sheepish, and his dark hair was mussed. ‘Oh, Snape had to go out incognito. Not sure why. He just offered me a quiet, baby-free evening in return for taking a few swigs of Polyjuice – I mean, I couldn’t refuse. I love Scorpius but the blighter doesn’t half cry a lot, and sometimes I just need a break. We have a house elf, but I feel bad leaving Astoria without a reason.’

‘So you have no idea where he is?’

‘No.’ At her thunderous look he held out his hands. ‘Now, see here, it’s not the first time Snape’s asked me to house-sit. I tend not to enquire. You know he’s a clam: the more you pry, the more he tightens up. I’ve decided looking helpful, clueless and a bit dim is more likely to produce answers than asking him.’ His eyes widened. ‘After pulling that ball ticket stunt for you, I honestly thought you’d be nicer about finding me here.’

Hermione frowned. It was bizarre to see Snape’s face contorting into Draco’s habitual expressions. She hadn’t known Snape could look haughtily awkward, or blithely bewildered.

‘You all right, Granger?’ Snape-Draco asked, eyes wide. ‘You’re just sort of… staring at me.’

Hermione cleared her throat. ‘Perfectly fine, thank you. Have you eaten?’

‘Of course.’ Snape-Draco stretched like a cat until the front of Snape’s robes tightened over his chest, and Hermione hastily looked away. ‘Not going to rely on old Snape to feed me, goodness knows what horrors I’d encounter. Wouldn’t say no to a glass of wine, though. He used to have some excellent elf-made stuff. It’s probably still here, since he hardly drinks.’

Hermione considered this request. She decided that since Snape hadn’t asked before forcing Draco’s company on her, she might as well penalise him by offering out his wine.

‘All right. I don’t suppose you have any idea where he keeps it?’

‘We could mount a search?’ Snape-Draco’s face assumed an expression of mischievous hunger; Hermione’s stomach performed a weird, nonsensical flip. ‘It’ll be really good by now, he’s kept it laid down so long. By accident, of course, but Merlin, if we can find just one bottle… We used to have a load at the manor but everything the Death Eaters didn’t drink got confiscated, and there wasn’t much left of that. The Dark Lord wasn’t exactly a considerate house guest, if you know what I mean.’

Hermione hmmed.

Draco levered himself off the sofa. Still not sure this was a good idea, Hermione shadowed him as he walked into the kitchen.

‘Aha, the pantry,’ he cried, flinging open the sticky wooden door. ‘Oh.’ His expression fell. ‘Well, this is even more depressing than I imagined. How on earth can one man need so much corned beef?’

‘Well, Snape has rather… plain tastes. Perhaps he bulk-buys things when they’re on special offer.’

‘Special what?’

‘It’s when supermarkets…’ She noticed Draco’s blank expression. ‘Never mind.’

‘Well, I am so glad he didn’t insist on providing dinner. I mean, look at this stuff!’ Draco plucked a tin off a shelf. ‘Tinned peaches? I wouldn’t give that to a house elf.’

Hermione scowled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with tinned peaches! Or house elves!’

‘Ah, apologies. I’d forgotten you were a house elf fanatic.’

She narrowed her eyes.

‘Granger…’ Draco proceeded into the pantry, pulling things off shelves at random and giving them bemused looks before replacing them. ‘Back there, were you… ah… were you really going to hit me with the Cruciatus Curse? I mean—’

‘No.’ She decided to come clean. ‘It’s an old Auror trick. We aren’t supposed to use Unforgivables – that’s a one-way ticket to Azkaban – but not everyone knows. Firing one over someone’s head normally scares them enough that they back down and come quietly. It was force of habit, really – I shouldn’t be doing that to people any more.’

‘Aha. Got it. It was… worryingly convincing. You seemed… ah… angry.’

‘So would you be, if you were expecting your landlord and got a woefully obvious imposter. I mean, were you even trying?’

Draco gave Snape’s shoulders a graceful shrug. ‘I was never a good actor. Didn’t expect you to care, to be honest.’

‘Hmph.’

‘Oh!’ Snape-Draco’s face lit up with delight; he ducked and came back up holding a dusty old bottle. ‘Here it is! Ahaha! Elf-made wine!’ He air-kissed the bottle and cradled it to his chest. ‘My dearest baby-darling, how I have missed your delicious company these many long years.’

Hermione snorted incredulously.

‘Just wait till you try some!’ He backed out, holding the bottle overhead like a trophy, then peered around the kitchen. ‘Now to locate the wine glasses…’

Having second thoughts, Hermione frowned. ‘You’re sure Snape won’t mind? He’s quite precious about his things.’

Draco flapped a hand. ‘He’ll never miss this – he’s practically tee-total. My father probably gave it to him anyway.’

Well, she was a little curious.

They hunted for the wine glasses, and eventually found them lurking in the sideboard.

‘Obviously haven’t been used for years.’ Draco cast a quick Cleaning Charm and held a glass up to the light. ‘That’s better. Know any good Opening Charms?’

Hermione rolled her eyes and tapped the elf-made wine with her wand – the cork flew neatly into her hand. ‘Honestly – did you never pay attention at school?’

Draco sniffed. ‘Malfoys don’t bother with such mundane matters.’

She would have thumped him, if not for the self-deprecating twinkle in his eye.

Gosh, but it was weird to see Snape’s face doing that.

‘Staring again, Granger,’ said Draco, pouring the wine. ‘I’m beginning to think you’re developing a crush on me. I must warn you, I’m taken.’

She made a disgusted noise. ‘No thanks, Astoria can keep you. I’ve had more than enough of scions from old wizarding families.’

Draco’s pointy grin lit up Snape’s face. ‘Well anyway, cheers. To underhandedly acquiring ball tickets, and burying hatchets.’ He toasted her, then drank and let out a satisfied sigh, Snape’s long-lashed eyelids fluttering. ‘Merlin’s fluffy bellybutton hair and all the philosophers’ socks, that is amazing. Perfectly aged. Goodness, I’m glad Father doesn’t know Snape still has these bottles. He’d launch himself out of the Urals and stage a siege.’

Hermione turned away, flushing slightly, and took a sip.

The wine coursed down her throat like molten song, like nightingale-honey, like first love in the moonlight.

‘Oh,’ she said, when she could talk again.

‘Oh?’ snorted Draco. ‘You are preposterous, Granger. Oh?’

‘Well, it is quite nice, I suppose.’

‘Quite nice? Has no-one ever taught you any proper compliments?’ Shaking his head, Draco carried the bottle into the front room, set it on the spindly table, then threw himself onto the sofa, Snape’s hair flopping. He picked up his lurid novel, glanced at it in a bored sort of way, then threw it down and stared meditatively at his wineglass.

Hermione took the armchair and gave the wine another tentative sip.

Oh. Goodness.

She slid down a little in the chair.

Draco yawned and pulled languidly at the neck of Snape’s robes. ‘Merlin, this robe’s uncomfortable. How does Snape stand being so buttoned-up all the time? It’s beyond appalling.’

‘He probably just doesn’t want anyone to see his scars,’ said Hermione, feeling conspiratorial now Draco had been proved right about the wine – which was swirling warmly in her stomach, much better than anything in the pub. ‘You know, in case they feel sorry for him.’

‘Ugh, tell me about it. One snifter of sympathy and the man does a runner. Quite ridiculous.’ Draco swirled the wine in his glass. ‘Myself, I enjoy a bit of pity. People patting me on the back and calling me a poor boy, telling me I’ve been very brave, that sort of thing. Can’t see why he doesn’t.’

Hermione snorted. ‘Can you imagine someone saying that to Snape? He’d snap their spine.’

‘Yes, they’d have to have a death wish – due to wearing horrendous itchy robes, one imagines. I shall bring my own next time, no matter what the fellow says.’

‘Oh,’ said Hermione, sitting up, ‘speaking of robes—’

‘You wish to implore me to unbutton them?’ Draco twinkled Snape’s eyes. ‘Granger, even supposing your curiosity about the dear fellow’s abs is purely scientific, I warn you I would never betray him like that.’

‘What? No!’ Hermione felt herself reddening. ‘Goodness!’

Draco laughed, but instead of the patented Malfoy laughter coming out tinny and well-bred, a deep, warm chuckle emerged unexpectedly from Snape’s mouth.

Hermione put her wine glass down with a thump. No matter how nice the wine was, she had to stop drinking right now. ‘I need to know his measurements, that’s all!’

‘Oho! Because you—’

‘Because I accidentally ruined his dress robes and I want to get him new ones!’

Draco smirked – for once, his expression compatible with Snape’s face. ‘Granger, do I want to know how you ruined Snape’s robes?’

Hermione scowled. ‘They got destroyed the night of the ball! You know, the night we fought off werewolves? Happy now?’

Draco looked vaguely put out, but rallied. ‘Discovering Snape’s measurements is easily done. I can tell him I’m keeping these robes to clean, and get a new set made to the same size.’

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That’s perfect! Do you have any idea where he might have got his dress robes made? They were… special, I think. I’d like to get him some the same.’

‘No. But if we can find them, they’ll have a label. Or I might be able to tell by the cut.’

Hermione leapt up. ‘Thank you!’

Draco stretched again. ‘No problem. Well, I suppose we’d better do it now. Don’t want the fellow coming back and surprising us in his bedroom.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Awkward questions might be asked.’

Hermione glared. ‘Quite.’

Draco smirked and left the wine on the table. Hermione decided that unfortunately it was for the best. Draco was teasing her rather than being malicious (did he think she had a thing for Snape? Unbelievable!) but she wanted a clear head. She’d be mortified if Malfoy of all people got the upper edge in a bit of verbal sparring – and if Snape reappeared just in time to witness it…

She chewed her lip. Where on earth had he gone? Draco plainly had no idea; he might not be a completely horrible person, but he was infuriatingly clueless. She supposed she really ought not to worry. Snape had lived on his own for years. He’d be fine, surely.

Yes, Snape would be back in half an hour, tops – she’d bet on it.

Draco Malfoy would only laugh at her if she asked exactly how much Polyjuice he was carrying.

Chapter Text

Humming to himself, Draco led the way upstairs, then paused on the landing, evidently never having ventured this far into Snape’s house before. Hermione led them through the corridor to Snape’s bedroom. She was expecting wards to be active on Snape’s door, and prodded it with her wand, standing well back – but there was nothing, just like the first night she’d explored. Evidently Snape didn’t feel there was anything inside his bedroom worth hiding.

They entered and Draco lit the ceiling lantern with a lazy wand-swish, making the shadows leap and flee. Snape’s room was slightly larger than Hermione’s, but while she had tried to brighten hers up, the thick curtains, aura of neglect and poor light gave Snape’s room a dungeon-like air. There was a dark, heavy wardrobe, a dark, heavy double bed, and a sepulchral bedside table holding an empty jar and a stack of potions periodicals. A torn rug of indeterminate colour malingered on the floor. The faded but still recognisably hideous 1970s wallpaper was peeling under the window. It smelled of dust, dragonhide, and damp.

‘Crickey,’ said Draco, throwing appalled pity onto Snape’s features. ‘It’s worse than the Slytherin dorm.’

Hermione huffed. ‘Let’s just find the dress robes, okay?’

‘But, seriously…’ Draco prodded a hole in Snape’s grey bedsheets. ‘It’s like something out of an orphanage.’ He picked up the top volume of the potions periodicals and gave it a bewildered look. ‘He doesn’t even permit himself happy bedtime stories.’

Hermione rolled her eyes and pried open the wardrobe. There wasn’t much hanging inside: two sets of Snape’s usual black robes, the ruined dress robes, a black Muggle suit and shirt and a grey nightshirt. Socks and underwear were neatly folded in a cardboard box on the floor, alongside a beautiful black silk cravat and emerald tie pin she’d never seen Snape wear. Near the box sat a pair of black boots that were so old one sole was flapping loose. On a whim, Hermione checked the size of the dilapidated boots – a men’s nine and a half. She removed the ruined dress robes with care, feeling guilty at this intrusion into Snape’s privacy, and handed them to Draco, who threw Progress in Potions back onto the bedside table.

‘Aha!’ he said, holding the robes up to the light. ‘No Madam Malkin, these! They were made by Fitzwilloughby and Rochester or I’m a goblin.’

‘You know the tailors?’

‘You don’t?’

She sighed. ‘Never mind.’

‘What a shame they got ruined! Work of art, really. Look at the stitching, here.’

Hermione examined where Draco was pointing, squinting in the poor light. The stitching was all black-on-black, but the magic of the tailors made it appear as if a procession of snakes was weaving along the hem of the robe. It was beautiful – if you liked snakes. She was glad she hadn’t noticed them when she and Snape were dancing.

‘Lovely,’ she said sceptically.

‘Philistine.’

Hermione hung the robes back in the wardrobe, and paused. ‘Will they cost a lot to replace?’

Draco gave her a pitying look.

‘I… didn’t realise he had such expensive tastes.’

‘He doesn’t – right old miser. I mean, his footwear…’ Draco cast a horrified look at the boots. ‘My father must have got those dress robes for him years ago. Probably when he was a new little Death Eater, under Father’s wing. Father was nice like that. Couldn’t have people showing the Dark Lord up at parties. Oh!’ A look of happy surprise jolted alarmingly across Snape’s features. ‘Father never throws anything away, Snape’s measurements and the invoice and everything must be filed away in the manor! I can get him some just the same!’

‘Okay, but…’ Hermione licked her lips and took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to pay for them.’

Draco raised an eyebrow. ‘Got a burning desire for bankruptcy, have we?’

‘I ruined them, it’s only right that I—’

Draco held up a hand. ‘Peace, Granger. I submit to your wish for destitution, even if I find it incomprehensible. Since it would be unconscionable to allow Snape to go without even one set of decent robes, I shall aid you in your quest. Just this once, however. I’ll sort the robes and owl you the receipt. Happy?’

‘Ecstatic. And… don’t let him know who paid for them, will you?’

Draco sighed melodramatically. ‘One supposes one can keep mum. Though I do wish you’d tell him. He’ll suspect me if you don’t, and get all prickly. I won’t be invited round for months.’

‘And you’ll miss his cooking?’

Draco chuckled, causing Snape’s deep, unexpected laughter to rumble into the room again. ‘Were you this snarky before you moved in, Granger? You’d have done well in Slytherin. Sorting Hat didn’t try and put you with us, by any chance?’

‘What? No!’

‘Shame. Well, I suppose we’d better flee the scene of the crime before the fellow gets home.’ He straightened the potions journals with a long finger. ‘Snape’s shirty at the best of times. Pun… intended.’

They ended up lounging in the front room, chatting about nothing in particular, the elf-made wine occupying the table between them.

Draco Malfoy, Hermione reflected, as time slid companionably on, was not terrible company. She’d always thought him a smug, bigoted toerag with a head too big to fit up his own… Well. But now he’d overturned his anti-Muggleborn bias and seen his family fall, his swaggering persona was more self-deprecation than genuine arrogance. He still acted the snob – dropping names with casual smarm, going on about spending Christmas at Chamonix, drawling the words ‘my father’, talking about how he’d quite like to get into Alchemy… But then the mask would slip, revealing his bitter edges, the fact he hated that he couldn’t escape where he’d come from. When he talked of the Malfoy family’s heritage, she knew she wasn’t imagining the mocking tone in his voice. Perhaps it was because she had become so used to the subtleties of Snape’s expressions that seeing Draco’s emotions flitting across that face was so revealing, but she suddenly understood Draco. He’d been brought up to think of himself as Malfoy, king of the world – and all it had led to was a brutal disillusioning at the unkind hands of Voldemort.

No wonder all he wanted now was a quiet life.

She tried to picture him and Snape hanging out like this, and despite the oddness of the mental picture, it was easy. Snape’s brutal comments would bounce off Draco’s impenetrable self-assurance – they’d get along just fine. Wait, that wasn’t all of it, was it? It ran deeper. Both had become disenchanted with, then betrayed Voldemort. And Draco knew that Snape had murdered Albus Dumbledore to protect him – and almost died for him. Their relationship was built on a bedrock of shared experiences, sacrifice and trust. Even Snape’s most eviscerating words couldn’t shake that.

Besides, Draco seemed to actually like Snape.

‘Why are you so fond of him?’ Hermione asked, somewhere near the bottom of yet another glass of elf-made wine. ‘I mean, he’s so…?’ She gestured, it being impossible with words to convey Snape’s extreme… Snapeiness.

Draco frowned at his wine, which looked black in the light. For a moment, she suspected he’d fob her off with a joke, then he said, ‘Well, plenty of reasons, I suppose. The man’s a genius, of course. Though he doesn’t talk about it, I do read the papers. Do you know he’s won the Potioneers’ Medal three times in the last decade?’ He shifted in his seat, dark head sliding lower. ‘But I mean, that’s not the only reason… You see, I honestly respect him. He was a very good Head of House.’

She threw him a sceptical look.

‘He was! Snape was different with us Slytherins, you know. Not that he was easy-going, exactly – I mean, he is Snape, we couldn’t mess him about. But well, sooner or later we all realised he… cared. Always came running if he thought someone was hurt. You see, Granger, being a Slytherin was a superior experience. No-one felt left out, or lonely, or was abandoned to fail. We won the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup six years in a row, did you know that? Snape was brilliant for Slytherin, really passionate about the house succeeding.’ Draco pulled a face. ‘Then Potter turned up, of course. No-one stood a chance with precious Potter running around.’

Hermione’s ears pricked up. ‘Is that why Snape hates him so much?’

‘Oh, I imagine so. That end-of-term feast was traumatic enough for us first-years. Snape was invested. It quite broke our winning streak.’

Hermione shook her head. That had happened almost a year after Snape had met and decided to hate Harry – but then, Draco wasn't the observant sort. ‘Didn’t Slytherin just keep winning stuff because Snape was so biased, though? It was hardly all fair and square. I mean – awarding Slytherins House Points and taking them off everyone else. And really, giving Quidditch captains of other Houses detentions on match days shouldn’t have been allowed!’

‘Snape award House Points?’ Draco looked bemused. ‘Blimey, Granger, keep up. He never awarded Points to anyone, including us. Legendary for it.’

Hermione frowned. Now she thought about it, she couldn’t actually remember Snape awarding Points…

‘We had to win those things by our own cunning and wits, not his,’ sniffed Draco. ‘He was disgustingly adamant about it.’

‘You didn’t win at Quidditch that way!’

Draco’s wicked grin creased Snape’s face. ‘Ah, well. Marcus Flint was a law unto himself. And we were Slytherins. But that’s nonsense about Snape putting Quidditch Captains in detention. I don’t remember it happening more than once.’

‘He did it to Harry!’

Draco gave her a look. ‘After Potter nearly disembowelled me with that Dark hex, you mean? Yes, incredibly unfair, when Potter should have been expelled. And don’t even get me started on Potter’s flying car. Honestly.’

Hermione harumphed, but couldn’t muster an appropriate comeback. Perhaps there were legitimate reasons for Snape to dislike Harry. That didn’t mean she had to agree with them.

Draco settled into the sofa with a smug grin, and took a swig of Polyjuice from the bottle in his pocket. ‘So… you getting on all right with the fellow? Sharing a house and everything?’

Hermione shrugged. The alcoholic warmth curling in her stomach and Draco’s conspiratorial look on Snape’s familiar features combined to produce a feeling of openness.

Why not be honest? If anyone could understand, it was probably Draco Malfoy.

‘It’s funny,’ she said, running a finger around the rim of the wineglass and staring into its rich depths, ‘but I think I like him. I don’t know why – he’s so rude, and his house is just disgusting – but… there is something about him, isn’t there?’

Draco laughed. ‘Eloquently put.’

‘Don’t start!’

‘I’m serious!’ Draco leaned towards her. ‘It’s inexplicable, but it’s there. Like a secret. And you feel superior when you realise so few people see it. You’ve joined a small, select club, Granger.’ He raised his glass and toasted her. ‘To appreciators of Snape.’

She snorted and toasted him back, then yawned widely.

‘Gosh, sorry,’ she said, stifling another yawn. ‘What time is it?’

Draco produced his subtly inexpensive-appearing wristwatch with an ostentatious wrist-flick. ‘Oh, almost two in the morning.’

She bolted upright. ‘What?’

Draco frowned at the door. ‘Yes, I was rather expecting the man himself to return by now. Must have got held up.’

‘Held up where?’ Hermione plonked down her empty wine glass and rushed to the doorway, then, thinking of Snape’s paranoia regarding interlopers in the street, turned on her heel, went to the window and stood inside the musty curtain instead. The dim orange of the far-off streetlamp revealed the potholed tarmac bleak and empty.

Draco came and joined her, snuffing out the flames in the ceiling lantern as he did so, muting the reflections in the window glass. He perched on the narrow window ledge, holding his wine.

‘I’m sure he’s perfectly okay,’ he said. ‘And so are we, if this Polyjuice business had you worried about anyone getting inside the house. No-one could possibly enter without an invitation. The protective measures Snape’s got make Gringotts look like a broom cupboard.’

‘But anything could have happened to him! We don’t even know where he went!’

‘Chill, Granger – this is the fellow who hoodwinked the Dark Lord for a couple of decades. It’ll take more than a handful of curses to stop him.’

Time ticked on. Hermione thought Draco would return to the sofa, but he remained keeping vigil with her, watching the street through Snape’s hooded eyes.

The warmth of the wine evaporated from her body, leaving only cold dread behind.

If Snape didn’t return… They’d never know what had happened… Never find his body…

She chewed the inside of her lip until it was raw.

Whatever would she do if something had happened to Snape?

Chapter Text

Hermione was just thinking she couldn’t stand waiting for Snape’s return a second longer when there was a soft pop and a figure appeared at the furthest reach of Spinner’s End’s tepid lamplight. Immediately, Hermione knew something was wrong. Despite the hood and cloak swathing the figure, his height and the flash of pointy chin meant it could only be a Polyjuice-facsimile of Draco Malfoy. Snape (surely it was him) imitated Draco’s swagger nearly to perfection. But there was a stiffness to his posture that didn’t belong to Snape – or Draco.

‘He’s hurt,’ she whispered.

‘Looks all right to me,’ said the real Draco, downing the dregs of his wine.

‘I’m going outside.’

Draco stilled her with a hand on her shoulder. ‘Granger, I really wouldn’t. He made me promise not to leave before he came home.’

‘But—’

‘Would you rush into the street to see me, if I arrived at this time of night? He must think someone’s watching his house to resort to this subterfuge.’

She hesitated. She had thought the house might be watched.

‘Polyjuice takes a whole month to brew. Snape’s going to be more than a little piqued if either of us mess this up for him. But one supposes it’s your funeral.’ Draco examined the empty wine glass with regret, then his eyes flew wide. ‘Merlin! I forgot! We need to hide the wine!’

Hermione swore. They dashed to the kitchen with the empty bottle and glasses and dumped them in the sink. Hermione ran back into the unlit front room just as the door opened.

Draco-Snape, pale and pointy-chinned, strode inside. The moment the front door clicked behind him, covering the room in darkness, his stoic façade crumbled. He doubled over clutching his side, and let out a hiss of pain.

Hermione rushed forward. ‘Oh – goodness, are you okay—’

The newcomer snapped upright, wand in her face. His expression was all Snape’s, furious and deadly.

She flinched back.

‘What are you doing awake?’ the newcomer snapped, Snape’s inflection in Draco’s voice, tepid grey eyes full of fire.

‘Well, I—’

‘Hanging out with me, of course,’ said the real Draco, strolling in behind her and leaning against the doorframe. ‘She realised I wasn’t you straight away, so we’ve been having quite the jolly evening. Good of you to finally show, though.’

Snape pointed his wand at Draco’s chest. ‘Scorpius’ middle names.’

Draco yawned. ‘Abraxas Constantine Betelgeuse. Your own?’

‘I don’t have any.’ Snape lowered his wand. ‘Not a very secure question, Draco. And you ought to keep up your guard. Next time—’

But whatever he’d been about to say was cut off. He stumbled forwards, unsteady, hand at his stomach; Hermione and Draco caught him as his knees gave out. Hermione found the thick material of his cloak warm and sticky under her hands. A metallic tang hit her nostrils.

‘Kitchen?’ suggested Draco.

‘I’m fine, get off me,’ snapped Snape. ‘I have potions upstairs, I can Summon them—’

‘Kitchen,’ agreed Hermione.

They steered Snape through and seated him on one of the kitchen chairs. As the kitchen lantern flared to life, Hermione gasped in shock. A red rivulet trickled down Snape’s pale, pointy cheek. His nose was a lumpy purplish mess, and he had two spectacular black eyes.

‘What on earth have you been doing?’ she cried.

‘It’s nothing,’ snapped Snape. But when Draco tipped back the hood of the cloak, his blond hair was matted with blood and plastered to his skull. ‘Some Dittany and Blood Replenishment Potions will—’

‘Oh,’ said Draco. ‘Oh… blood… Oh dear…’ He clutched the edge of the table, breathing hard, his hook-nosed face green.

‘Maybe you should sit down?’ Hermione hissed, guiding him into the other chair.

‘Mmm. Sorry. Ah. It’s just, the sight… Ever since Potter… Uggggh…’ Draco lowered his head onto his arms, long greasy hair spreading on the table, and took deep, deliberate breaths.

Snape gave Draco an exasperated glare, but failed to speak. His face was grey. His blood dripped onto the kitchen flags with a gentle plink, plink, plink. It was painfully obvious he was not about to get up and retrieve any healing potions. Apparently, he didn’t even have the energy to insult Draco for his squeamishness, which was… worrying.

‘Honestly,’ snapped Hermione, and sprinted upstairs to the lab.

When she returned clutching as many useful-looking potions as she could carry, Snape had managed to remove his cloak. The grey Muggle shirt he’d been wearing underneath was ripped to shreds and soaked through with blood, which glinted black in the light. His eyes were shut and he was breathing rapidly, his lips thin and purplish. Most of the shirt’s buttons were hanging off.

Hermione marched up to him, uncorking a Blood Replenishment Potion.

‘Ridiculous,’ she muttered, sliding her hand around the back of Snape’s blond head and tipping his jaw open so she could feed him the potion. ‘Can’t even take your own emergency healing supplies with you, can you not?’

It helped that Snape looked like Draco, and had his eyes shut. Snape was terrifying, Draco honestly rather pathetic. She’d never dare do this if Snape looked like himself. But he’d made her worry for hours and frightened her silly, and he deserved chastising.

Snape swallowed roughly and whispered, ‘Risk of discovery. I… had it… under control.’

‘Hmph.’ Hermione uncorked the next bottle, shaky with adrenaline, and dripped Essence of Dittany on his scalp. The wounds fizzed and began healing before her eyes. ‘Isn’t that what Undetectable Extension Charms are for? And what if we hadn’t been here? Planning to spend the night bleeding to death on your floor, were you?’

‘It’s nothing, you interfering…’ He dragged in another shallow breath.

She grabbed the third bottle and the clean cloth she’d Summoned from her emergency medical kit, tipped out a little of the purple potion, and began daubing it on Snape’s lacerated scalp and nose – none too gently.

‘Were you honestly counting on Draco to sort you out? You should have gone straight to St Mungo’s!’

His eyes remained shut. ‘Too many… questions.’

She tried unbuttoning the ruined shirt, but it was stiff with blood. With a sniff of annoyance, she snatched up her wand and flicked; the last threads tore, and it fell away. Underneath, Draco’s muscular torso was bloodied and scored with deep wounds, as though Snape had been attacked with a blade, or by a clawed animal. An ominous red-purple bruise spread over his ribcage.

‘Don’t tell me you managed to break your ribs as well as your nose?’ she chided, kneeling and attacking the rents in his abdomen with the Dittany.

‘Get off me. I can mend the bones myself,’ Snape protested in Draco’s haughty voice.

‘You absolutely can’t. You’re not even able to keep your eyes open!’ She rapped his nose with her wand. ‘Episkey!’ She tapped his ribs. ‘Episkey!’

‘Ouch!’ Snape growled. ‘Stop that! If you’ve miscast—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ She slathered purple potion on Draco’s tanned, hairless pecs. ‘Like I’d mess up such a simple spell!’

‘Your hands are shaking.’

‘Of course my—’ She looked up to glare at him, and their eyes met. But instead of finding Draco’s laconic grey stare, she met Snape’s furious black one.

She swallowed, dropped her gaze – what a time for the Polyjuice to begin wearing off! – and realised she was face-to-face with Snape’s shirtless chest.

It was immediately obvious that while Draco believed in personal trainers, bench presses and chest waxes, Snape had never heard of such things. His was a plain, honest man-chest, unbeautified and intimate. And she was touching it.

A flood of heat rushed up her body and burned her cheeks. She gasped and lurched backwards.

She had noted Draco’s sculpted, Ken-doll muscles with the same vague approval she’d give a friend’s nice wallpaper, but— this—

The irrepressible patented Malfoy snigger sounded from the table. ‘Granger, you— You really— Ha! The shirt! Merlin, I should have invited Astoria, she could do with cheering up. If only I’d realised you were this prudish!’

Shading her eyes to avoid seeing Snape, Hermione cast Draco a despairing, frantic look.

Draco raised his eyebrows (back to their pale selves, although Snape’s nose and sallowness lingered about his pointed face) and feigned angelic innocence. ‘What?’

A shuffling movement in the corner of her eye drew Hermione’s vision against her will. She caught a flash of Snape’s back disappearing under the bloodstained cloak.

His skin was scored with sharp, white lines and blotches of faded, bubbled red.

She didn’t mean to stare, but couldn’t help it.

Scars – and burns. That’s what they were. Scars. His back was covered in scars.

Her stomach squeezed.

‘Excuse me,’ she blurted, and ran out.

Reaching her bedroom, she slammed the door and collapsed with her hands over her burning face.

What was wrong with her? She had seen scars before – Harry had plenty, and even Ron had all those brain-marks up his arm. She had scars of her own, courtesy of Bellatrix and a few Auror-hating Dark wizards. Knowing the kind of life Snape had led, she should have expected to see a few vicious souvenirs on his skin. It shouldn’t make her stomach cramp to see he’d been hurt – it had been years ago! And of course he had a chest under his clothes! Why should she have turned into a quivering lump of blubber? She'd spent her teenage years best friends with two boys, she'd seen male chests before, for goodness’ sake! Was it because Snape was so private, so invulnerable? Because it was unexpected to see him like… that?

Downstairs, Snape thundered at Draco, who was in fits of uncontrollable laughter. A crunch of glass. Snape’s remonstrations grew more bitingly acerbic: he’d obviously discovered they’d got into his wine.

Draco could be heard apologising. Hermione thought he sounded spectacularly insincere.

Well, at least the Blood Replenishment Potion had worked and Snape was back to his usual self.

It was a good thing she was safely upstairs.

Gosh. She hadn’t felt this ashamed since the Boggart incident.

The Boggart. His father, with his fury and his hate… and his cigarette, wielded like a weapon.

Those scars.

Groaning, she forced her knuckles into her eyes. Of course Snape didn’t want her to see him topless! Of course he was furious! Who but his father could have given him those appalling marks? Voldemort would have used the Cruciatus Curse, not crude Muggle methods!

She lay on her bed, blinking and swallowing, an ache deep under her ribs.

Over and over, she ordered herself to grow a spine, grow up, breathe. But all she could see was Snape’s back, threaded with those cruel lines, and his bruised chest, and the violated rage when she’d met his eyes.

She was never drinking elf-made wine again.

It was a long time before she could summon the curiosity to wonder where Snape had got injured this evening, or what he’d been trying to do when he’d been attacked. Though plenty of scenarios ran through her mind, each seemed less plausible than the last. If someone was dangerous enough to seriously hurt Snape, how had he got away? How had they even caught him in the first place? Had he let it happen? Why? Was it the werewolves? How were they able to attack when it wasn’t the full moon? Had they fought him in human shape, knowing they couldn’t infect him? Why would they do that? Why had he gone out disguised as Malfoy? Had he assumed another identity once he’d left?

Why hadn’t he told her anything about it?

She ought to go downstairs and apologise for her overblown reaction. But she was too humiliated, and he was too angry. Besides, he'd only see her pity and loathe her. Then where would she be?

Aided by the wine, she fell into an uneasy sleep, but her dreams were full of claws and fangs and terrified panting breaths. She ran and ran, searching for a hiding place. It evaded her.

Chapter Text

The next morning, unable to face Snape, Hermione crept out to work early. To throw any watching werewolves off her tail, she Apparated to a random Muggle café on the way in to the Floo Network and picked up a takeaway breakfast, which she ate at her desk. Then she plodded through a long, grindingly dull workday – made no better by her tiredness, the aura of hungover malaise about her colleagues, or the fact this was only her second day back after sick leave. It left her almost desperate to get home and collapse into bed. Yet despite tiredness and worries about being followed, she strung out her return journey, Apparating to the Free Elf Agency in Diagon Alley to arrange help with Christmas, then a Muggle supermarket, where she ate a revoltingly dry piece of salmon alone at a sticky corner table in the café. She’d brought one of the books she’d found in Snape’s house to keep herself company. Unfortunately, it turned out to contain a frankly disturbing account of an old werewolf-turning ritual. Said ritual involved chaining the victim to a post and attaching a neck-guard to prevent their throat being ripped out during the full moon, allowing them to live to join the pack. While it was useful research, she wished she’d chosen Bertie Wooster instead. Finally, unable to put it off any longer, and with a feeling of foreboding in the pit of her stomach (Snape surely had not forgiven her yet) she Apparated to Spinner’s End.

There were no lights on at the front of Snape’s house. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. If he’d gone out or was in the lab, she could bathe and sneak off to bed, with no need to see him. She made her way inside – everything was reassuringly dark – then headed upstairs and retrieved her dressing gown. Hoping to reach the bathroom before Snape could appear, she hurried back down and into the kitchen—

And her vision tunnelled to where Snape sat glaring, a half-eaten plate of mashed potatoes and corned beef malingering before him.

‘Oh, h-hello!’ she stammered, clutching the bundled-up fluffy duck dressing gown to her chest in lieu of a shield.

His nostrils flared. ‘You’re back late.’

She swallowed. She ought to stride confidently through to the extension, as if everything was normal – then, perhaps everything would be normal, and she and Snape could pretend yesterday hadn’t happened. But her feet were frozen in place. Her brain had stopped working. She found herself staring at the jagged white lines in the shadow of Snape’s jaw, the only part of Nagini’s bite marks impossible for him to cover with his collar.

Snape put down his fork. ‘Is something… the matter?’

‘Um…’ Panic squeezed her insides. What could she say? ‘I… uh… Are you… all right?’

She cringed inwardly. Argh. He’d think she was being sympathetic.

His lip lifted in a sneer. ‘Perfectly.’

‘Oh, mm. Uh-huh?’

Gosh, she couldn’t even make coherent words come out of her mouth! She needed to get out of here. If only her legs would obey instructions – she was just staring at Snape, face reddening like a slowly boiling lobster.

Snape gave her a heavy look of vexation, then glared at the sink. ‘I am—’ there was an excruciating, drawn-out pause— ‘grateful. For your assistance. Last night. It was… timely.’

Hermione’s breath rushed out. She suddenly found she could move. ‘Oh, well, it was nothing – your own potions – Auror training – I just happened to be in the right place—’

He threw her a quelling glare, and her mouth snapped shut.

‘Would you sit down?’ he asked, in forbidding, inexorable tones.

Not daring to attempt further speech, she perched on the other kitchen chair, clutching her dressing gown like a life-ring.

Snape gave her a searching look, then folded his hands and said with deliberate menace, ‘Would you care to explain why my entire house is stuffed with baubles, holly and mistletoe? I don’t believe I ordered such a thing. Unless it slipped my memory?’

She sucked in a panicked breath, and noticed the rest of the kitchen for the first time since she’d entered. It was, as Snape had said, stuffed to the gunwales with festive decorations. The ceiling was a forest of dangling white-berried mistletoe. Multicoloured baubles sprouted everywhere like bizarre glittering fruit. Holly and tinsel strangled the window frame and bristled from the cupboards.

The kitchen had had a full Christmas infestation.

She gaped.

No – it must have been the agency elf! They were always so keen… She had specifically said for them to come and decorate next Tuesday… Hadn’t she?

‘Well… I… ordered an elf. From the Agency. Blinky.’

‘Blinky,’ he repeated in a dangerously soft voice.

‘To decorate. For Christmas.’

‘For Christmas.’

‘Mm.’

‘I see.’

She held her breath.

‘And what possessed you to do such a thing to my house?’ he asked, in a voice of pure, silky peril.

‘Um… I thought it might… be nice?’

There was an unpleasant silence.

She worked not to let her voice squeak. ‘If… if you don’t want it I can… can pay Blinky to come back and—’

‘You already paid for the elf?’

‘Mm.’

Another silence, this time laden with Snape’s exasperated disgust. ‘A refund isn’t an option?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Um… well, it might be, but she’s already done the work, you see, and house elves get very upset if you—’

He held up a hand and she gulped.

‘I have endured many things in my life, Miss Granger; I suppose I can put up with a house full of… festive cheer… until you manage to pay the elf to take it away at an appropriate time. But never again.’

She nodded frantically. ‘Of course. I should have asked. I meant for her to come next Tuesday, you see. Really, I thought I’d have time to—’

‘Just let me eat my tea.’

‘Mph.’ She grabbed her dressing gown, stumbled upright and ran for cover to the bathroom.

Ack! Why was it that every time she imagined she was getting used to Snape, something like this happened? And she’d wanted to ask him about how he’d been attacked – and now she was too scared to do anything except squeak in his presence like some sort of rodent. It was pathetic, ridiculous! She’d run into a building full of werewolves – she couldn’t be scared of one Potioneer, no matter how intimidating!

Lying in the steaming water with her back against Snape’s cold, enamelled bath, she clawed together her courage. Stubbornly, she refused to think of anything except the knowledge she wanted – and definitely, firmly avoided any thoughts whatsoever of scars, shirtlessness, or… Goodness, how could she face him – no, it would be fine – she had a right to know, after sorting him out – and if someone was targeting him, mightn’t she be next?

He had to tell her.

She hastened out of the bath, hair dripping, rubbed her towel once over herself and threw on her pyjamas, duck dressing gown, and fluffy slippers. Then she marched back into the kitchen before she could reason herself out of it.

Snape was still at the table, eating a neatly-sliced orange with a longsuffering air.

She plopped down opposite him and blurted, ‘Tell me who or what attacked you yesterday. I have to know.’

He blinked; his gaze went from the eye-watering yellow fluffiness of her robe to her wet hair, then her flushed face. He finished chewing his slice of orange. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes! Because if someone’s after you, sooner or later they’ll be after me too, especially if it’s those werewolves again! You can’t just let me wander into that kind of situation!’

He licked his teeth, then popped another slice of orange in his mouth, winced, chewed it at length, and swallowed.

She fought a double attack of impatience and terror, clutching her knees.

‘You aren’t in any more danger than you were before,’ he said.

‘Oh, and what am I supposed to believe happened to you? You tripped on a particularly vicious pinecone, I suppose!’

He gave her a dead-eyed stare.

She folded her arms. ‘I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on!’

He sighed and ate another piece of orange. When she only jutted her chin, he sneered, ‘Whatever am I to do? The Dark Lord surely cannot hold a candle to you. I quake in my boots at the thought of your impending interrogations.’

She sniffed and held herself higher.

So. He wanted to play dirty.

Fine.

‘Do you like your front room the way it is?’ she asked in a sweet voice.

A malevolent glitter entered his eyes. ‘Don’t even think about it. The fact it’s had Christmas projectile-vomited over it is bad enough.’

‘But wouldn’t you like the bookshelves sprucing up? Black is such a dreary colour.’

‘Miss Granger—’

‘How about something more airy, more friendly? Pale peach, for example—’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Pastels would improve the whole tone of the room—’

‘Pastels?’

‘Re-upholstering the sofa in lilac velvet would be quite a cost-effective way to—’

‘What – lilac velvet?!’

‘Of course, you might prefer pink velour—’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake! I went to an underground werewolf club to gather information using a carefully-chosen Muggle for a false identity! The werewolf packs have initiation rituals – bloody, prolonged – it was necessary. The ongoing threat from the werewolves who organised the ball attack notwithstanding, I was in no true danger, and neither are you, and I don’t see why it is any of your business to know about it!’

He had risen from his chair and was shouting. His chest rapidly rose and fell. And she was staring at the movement, and remembering how she’d knelt here last night, and—

She blinked, flushing hot and cold, and filled her eyes with the worn kitchen flagstones. ‘Oh. I see.’

‘Finally,’ he snarled. ‘Now go away.’

She leaped up and hurried out of the room. But as she turned to close the door, she caught him watching her. And although he looked away immediately, she could have sworn for a split-second she’d caught his face stricken, and twisted with regret.

As she lay on her bed upstairs, staring at the mouldy ceiling, she remembered with a sickening lurch – she still hadn’t told him about the five thousand Galleon Floo Network reward.

It could wait.

Chapter Text

Despite Hermione’s constant worries about werewolves and the way she spent every moment outside the house looking over her shoulder, Christmas still contrived to happen. The Floo Network offices sprouted strands of tinsel; an unhappy, needle-shedding tree appeared in the foyer, and the security trolls scowlingly donned Father Christmas hats. McLaggen roamed the office whistling Jingle Bells off-key; he was now trying to charm Hilda after giving up on Hermione, but the stolid German was impervious to his flattery. Hermione could see McLaggen’s eyes glazing over as she regaled him with yet another Fancy Hippogriff anecdote. Hermione enjoyed Hilda’s Hippogriff stories – but she’d always liked Buckbeak. She could tell McLaggen would have far preferred to discuss brooms. She hoped for Hilda’s sake he’d give up on her soon. Hilda didn’t deserve a sleazebag like McLaggen.

Snape, of course, made no concessions to the festive season. If anything, he was more taciturn than ever. Even when they were working together in the lab, he barely spoke. Hermione put off telling him about the Floo Network reward, but otherwise determinedly stayed her course. His new set of dress robes, courtesy of Draco Malfoy and a truly painful quantity of wizarding gold, lay wrapped in shiny paper under Blinky’s overblown tree in the corner of the front room. Feeling bad about this not constituting a proper present (after all, it was only fixing something she’d ruined) she got him another gift: a rather nice pair of reinforced Dragonhide boots, which came with hidden pockets fitted with Undetectable Extension Charms. The boots had also not been cheap, but – well, he was paying her, and she had barged into his house, and she'd obviously been difficult for him to live with, and the ingredients she’d used on the Schrödinger Serum hadn’t been cheap, and… and he probably didn’t get many Christmas presents. And if she was being honest with herself, she was looking forward to the expression on his face when he opened the box.

On Christmas Eve, which was a Tuesday, she ate a raucous Firewhiskey-powered lunch with her Floo Network colleagues after a lackadaisical make-time morning, then pulled her woolly hat low over her face, cast a few disguising charms and meandered home via shopper-packed Diagon Alley. It began to snow. On a whim, she purchased a few knick-knacks: Chocolate Frogs, Liquorice Wands, a self-inking raven feather quill from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, a diary from Flourish and Blott’s that quoted a famous poet for every day of the year – and a brand-new pair of Quidditch stockings, Slytherin green and silver with a large, embroidered S on the side. She hummed carols all the way home, then sat in her bedroom wrapping the little gifts and stuffing them into one of the Slytherin stockings, grinning, putting the extra stocking balled up in the toe along with a satsuma and a small bottle of lavender essential oil. It would be such a surprise. Who doesn’t like getting a Christmas stocking?

It grew late, and, finally feeling hungry after her enormous lunch, she made her way to the kitchen. The fridge was bursting with food for the next day – she’d hired Blinky to come and cook for them, carefully neglecting to ask Snape about it because elf cooking was, technically, something he’d already okayed. (He had to eat, didn’t he? It was Christmas!) Finally, she located the Stilton (she was allowed to splurge on a few nice things for herself at this time of year) and Ginny’s homemade chutney which she’d been saving, and made herself a plate of sandwiches. Then, feeling generous, she made some for Snape, too. He’d been working in the lab since she got home, clinking vials, his footsteps echoing across her ceiling. When she finished eating and he still didn’t appear, she took his plate upstairs and knocked timidly on the lab door. There was a rustling, then silence, before his boots click-clunked across the floorboards, and the door swung open.

‘What is it?’ he snapped.

She held out the sandwiches.

He stared at them, and then at her.

‘Stilton and chutney,’ she explained. ‘I… um… didn’t think you’d eaten?’

‘I… haven’t.’

‘Well, then: here you are.’ She held the plate higher.

After another wordless pause, he took it, his warm fingers brushing hers. Then they were standing in the doorway with the plate between them, enveloped in awkward silence. Hermione noticed that Blinky had been busy up here too – there was a bunch of mistletoe dangling above their heads, lit in silvery relief by the lights from the lab and swinging in the breeze from the skylights. As her eyes tracked it, Snape also glanced up; a look of startled annoyance unfurled over his face—

‘Good night,’ Hermione blurted, and escaped down the stairs, face going scarlet.

Surely he hadn’t thought – he couldn’t possibly have thought… No.

Chapter Text

She had meant to use the remaining hours of Christmas Eve getting up-to-date with life tasks – tidying and cleaning her room, looking online for a flat to move into (Muggle prices were often better than wizarding ones, once you’d factored in the currency conversion), even planning her trip to Australia. But after she’d shut the door onto the tiny, tatty room, she couldn’t concentrate.

Last Christmas, she’d been with Ron.

Fourteen years ago, she’d been with her parents.

And things with Ron had been far from perfect – the arguments; the constant anxiety he’d brush off as over-worrying when it was his fault, because he was the one always being so irresponsible and leaving her to pick up the pieces, he was the one always taking unbelievable risks without consulting her! And there had been the creeping realisation that his compliments weren’t always sincere; his unkind jokes; his petty jealousies; the way his eyes would stray when they were out. But at least she hadn’t been alone. And he’d been funny. He’d been kind. And she’d had a shoulder to cry on, someone at her side who understood how everything had been during the war.

Now she didn’t have anyone.

She wished Harry and Ginny hadn’t already promised to go to Molly and Arthur’s for Christmas. Sure, she’d swapped gifts with them last Saturday, and she did appreciate the new Mokeskin pouch they’d given her. But it wasn’t the same.

She wished she was welcome at Molly and Arthur’s for Christmas this year.

Beginning to sniff, she wished she was someone else – someone who’d never heard of Voldemort. A Muggle with a happy, normal life and parents who remembered who she was, and a boyfriend who didn’t think trying out magical joke shop merchandise on unsuspecting dinner guests was the height of hilarity.

And she tried – she really tried – not to call up memories of her parents, of all the little rituals – unfolding the familiar artificial tree, revealing the glass angels in their whispering paper wrappings, daubing paper chains with glue and glitter, and polishing her great-grandparents’ ancient, silver star. Waking up to a bulging stocking, her fingers tingling with excitement. Christmas morning church, her Dad belting out O Come, O Come Emmanuel a little off-key. The house full of oven-smells. Turkey and stuffing sandwiches. The Radio Times with her mum’s blue biro circles. Setting the video recorder like planning a mission to the moon.

She tried to push away the memories, but she didn’t have that kind of strength any more.

Hermione lay on her bed and wept in silence, tears following each other down her face, queuing to be released, dull and inevitable as traffic in winter rain.

How was this her life? Wasn’t she supposed to be doing something else, something better? How had it happened this way? She’d served the wizarding world until it broke her – but all it had done in return was push her adrift. How was she supposed to live?

Her tears eventually ran out. She shut her swollen eyes and tried to sleep – she no more had the energy to undress or trek downstairs to run a bath than she did fly – but sleep wouldn’t come. Her face ached. Her heart jolted in her chest.

Snape’s footsteps descended the attic stairs, prowled along the corridor, went down into the kitchen. Water ran. His footsteps returned. Two doors shut. Long silences filled the house. And still she could not sleep.

She turned over, scrubbed at her salt-sticky cheeks, punched her pillow into a different shape. Cast Aguamenti, drank a little water.

It was no use.

She sat up, head aching. Orange street light, made brighter by the snow, filtered through the tatty curtains and stood in bars across her room.

Right in the middle of the floor was a blob of shadow. Snape’s stocking.

She had meant to leave it outside his bedroom, so he would find it first thing in the morning; imagining his surprise had been a source of glee. Now, the fun she’d had wrapping the little gifts seemed to mock her. Snape wouldn’t want this. He’d throw those things away – and probably make her watch.

He didn’t care. Not really.

She’d forget about the stocking, keep the presents for someone else, for another time.

But who? And when?

Who else would even want a poetry-quoting diary?

This must have been the first time Snape had had company at Christmas since he’d fled Hogwarts. Probably every festive season was like this for him, shut up in this cold, dark house. How did he endure it? Why didn’t he seek out other people? Was there really no-one who wanted his company?

A tender feeling stole into her chest – painful, sharp, unexpected.

She plucked up the stocking and stood by the door, the draught freezing her toes. Then, with a stab of conviction, she crept out. Before she’d thought too much, she was in front of Snape’s door. The sound of deep, somnolent breathing came through the blistered wood.

She could just leave the stocking out here, couldn’t she? But – what if he trod on it? The self-inking quill would snap and leak ink onto the diary, the socks, the Chocolate Frogs, the Liquorice Wands. Everything would be ruined.

She would stick it to the door with a charm, then. But would he even notice it? It wasn’t like he was expecting to find a stocking hiding there – the door opened the wrong way for him to see it.

No, she’d just have to do things properly. It was Christmas Eve, after all. And he was obviously fast asleep. She could be Santa. A quick in and out. What, after all, had her Auror training been for?

Wraithlike, silent, she stole forwards, and opened Snape’s bedroom door.

Chapter Text

Snape’s bedroom was not as dark as Hermione had expected. Dim, greenish flames flickered from the jar on the bedside table, casting a glow-worm light over the wardrobe and bed, and turning the room eerie with shadows. Snape was a thin lump under the sheets. Swallowing, she took one step towards him, holding out the stocking, poised to leave it on the end of the bed—

‘AVADA KEDAVRA!’

She threw herself to the ground – a jet of green light flashed overhead – she smelled burnt hair – Snape re-aimed—

‘Stop! Stop!’ she screamed, cowering. ‘It’s me, Hermione Granger!’

Snape advanced on her, a black shadow against the light, wand directed at her throat. ‘Prove it!’

Her thoughts had frozen. All she could see was the tip of his wand, perfectly steady. Something sharp was jabbing her ribs. It took several long seconds before she realised it was the edge of the stocking-wrapped diary.

‘You t-tried to kill me!’

‘Prove who you are!’ His voice was dangerously quiet.

‘What? P-prove…? I d-didn’t bring… How am I supposed to—’

The wand-tip didn’t move. ‘I once took House Points from Miss Granger. How many, and why?’

‘I…’ She thought desperately, but the moment wasn’t hard to summon from memory, burned as it was onto her psyche. ‘It… It was five points. For being an insufferable know-it-all?’

Snape glared at her a moment longer, then lowered his wand. ‘Only you would remember that ridiculous piece of inane trivia,’ he hissed, his fury snowballing. ‘No wonder you were sacked from the Aurors, your judgement is appalling and you have no sense of danger, no idea— WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM?’

‘I was bringing you a stocking.’ She held it out in shaking hands. ‘For Christmas.’

He stared at it, his expression curdling from bewilderment to horror and then solidifying into pure, incandescent rage.

‘WHAT IN MERLIN’S NAME WERE YOU THINKING? I was a Death Eater, you— half Azkaban is full because I named names! Do you have any idea how many people want me dead? You thought you could creep in here—’

His voice was a hurricane. It tore into her. Her whole body went numb with shock. She could only stare up at him from where she knelt on the rug, shaking so hard her hands lost their grip, her brain refusing to process what was happening.

‘The idiocy, the presumption— Did you somehow, in your insipid little mind, believe that because it is Christmas I sleep at ease? Did you suppose I was anticipating the arrival of Father Christmas and all his little reindeer with their tinkling bells and twinkling hooves? You imbecile! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?’

‘I th-thought it would make you happy,’ she said, and burst into tears.

There was a horrible silence, filled only with her rasping sobs. She hid her face in her hands. Snape shifted his weight, and she hoped, she dared to hope he might—

‘So typical of you,’ he sneered, and even though she couldn’t see him, she knew how he looked – lip twisted, black eyes full of cold fire. Remote, hateful. ‘Always assuming you know best, thinking yourself superior – you, Hermione Granger, the only one able to detect problems or solve them. Never mind that there are things utterly beyond your comprehension or experience – you must stick your nose in where it is neither needed nor wanted, only satisfied when you can meddle in other people’s lives to your own selfish satisfaction—’

‘Oh that’s rich!’ she howled, stung beyond enduring. ‘Rich, coming from you! You, who will never accept help! You, who would rather live in a… in a dung heap than hire a simple cleaner! Who would rather eat corned beef for the rest of his life than deign to let someone else cook! Who imagines every act of kindness is an insult, a clever joke with you as the butt, an assassination attempt! I SAVED YOUR LIFE!’ she shrieked. ‘I saved it twice! And I gave you your miraculous breakthrough, and I worked for you and cooked for you and cared about you, and you treat me like dirt!’ Her voice cracked and she dragged in a choking breath. ‘But it’s hardly just me you treat like that, is it? I’m not special! The Floo Network want to give you five thousand Galleons! But they can’t because you think you’re too good to take their owls! Oh, and then there’s Harry, who’s done nothing but praise you, and stick up for you, and save you from Azkaban – but you can’t stand that, it’s obviously some massive, clever scheme to—’

‘I DIDN’T WANT SAVING!’ he screamed, face twisted into something barely human, demented. ‘I didn’t DESERVE – I should have gone to Azkaban! I’d rather have gone than have my most private – my secret – my intimate—’ He broke off, chest heaving. ‘But you won’t rest at that – you want to know everything – fine! I’m a murderer! I should die, I meant to die – but you, and Potter—’ He bared his teeth in a terrible grimace. ‘Oh, but of course you helped me! Can you not see? I had two true friends in this world, both are dead, and I killed them. I should have been killed by the Dark Lord a thousand times over! I precipitated a terrible war; everyone I love is dead because of me, and you think I want a reward? No wonder you are a world-famous problem-solver when you possess such astonishing levels of insight! You utter fool!’

He ripped the stocking from her limp hand, hurled it at the wall, and stormed out. The door slammed like a thunderclap.

Chapter Text

For a long time, Hermione sat huddled on the floor, hugging her knees, face buried in her arms. On the other side of the door, she heard Snape’s ragged breaths, a thud. She could almost see him standing there, shadowed eyes screwed shut, greasy hair a demonic un-halo against the peeling wallpaper.

What felt like hours later, he went downstairs.

But although the door was no longer guarded by his malevolent presence, she did not move. Her body was ice, the pit of her stomach a cold, dead weight. Her thoughts kept attempting to return to what had just happened, but recoiled as soon as they touched on a single word, a look on Snape’s features, any small thing she had said or done.

She held her breath and wondered if she could stop existing by wishing it hard enough.

Gradually, her chest loosened. She breathed. Imagining herself a curator or historian, touching artifacts at a distance and wearing the thickest of dragonhide gloves, she turned the events of the evening over.

So. Everything she had done for Snape was pointless.

He hated her.

No, it was worse than that. She had meant to be kind, meant to do good. Snape had never encountered kindness without despising it. Every thoughtful thing she’d done since moving in had only made him hate her more. Sure, he’d saved her from the werewolves, he’d allowed her to work with him, he’d provided for her when she was ill. But he had never sought her company. When he did things for her, it was due to his own rigid moral code. It had all been obligation. He’d tolerated her because he forced himself to – because really, he couldn’t stand her.

He couldn’t stand her because she’d saved his life.

That gargantuan, traumatic effort – the exhaustion, the painful horror of it, the blood, the isolation, the fear, the desperate will that had carried her through, that had begged him to live… He hated her for it. He would never repay her with gratitude. His rescue was something he felt like avenging.

She wanted to cry, but this hurt went beyond tears. It sat in her gut like a raw wound, flooding her with a festering sense of wrong.

She had to get out. She could not stay in this house a moment longer.

Her numb body straightened, hauled itself upright, fled the tatty room, fumbled its way through doors into her bedroom. Discovered her wand, swept it. Her belongings rose from their places and cascaded into the blue tote bag. The whooshes and whumps were far-off and muffled through the ringing in her ears.

She shouldered the bag and stumbled downstairs.

Snape was in the kitchen. Even if candlelight hadn’t betrayed his whereabouts, she could sense his presence like that of a Boggart, twisting the comforting and familiar into horror. She stopped outside the doorway, face hidden, meaning only to say one, short sentence – I’m leaving.

Her tongue wouldn’t work.

‘Hermione?’ Snape’s voice was rough from shouting. She shuddered at the harsh sound of it, but somehow it freed her throat.

She managed to speak. ‘I have something to say.’

There was a long pause. ‘Would you come in?’

She hesitated on the threshold. She only wanted to leave – but something in his tone compelled her, lit a painful spark in her chest.

She walked in.

Snape was sitting at the kitchen table. No, sitting was the wrong word – he slumped there like a broken toy abandoned in a gutter, stuffing gone, dark eyes eerily lifeless. He did not move, only continued staring at his long, thin hands. Like a Stabbing Hex to the gut, she remembered how she’d admired his hands: their sure quickness, their subtlety, their surprising, deft strength.

She lowered her gaze and fixed it on one of the ugly table legs instead, just off the edge of his bare foot and the trailing grey hem of his nightshirt – like all his things, worn and shabby, needing repair – and after his tirade about Azkaban, it hit her like a punch, so obvious she wondered how she’d missed it.

His house.

This hideous, filthy house: never improved, never made comfortable, the scars of his childhood never erased, the furniture never mended.

It was not his home.

It was his prison.

He’d wanted death, but it hadn’t taken him. He’d wanted Azkaban, and been deprived of it. So he’d incarcerated himself here instead, in the place he hated most. He was living surrounded by his own personal Dementors in his own, personally chosen claustrophobic hell. It was deliberate: the splintered furniture, the eye-watering ugliness, the lack of heating, the unquiet, unburied memories.

She’d barged in, and planted roses under the windows. Of course he hated her.

She shut her eyes, took a long breath. Opened them again, gaze fixed on the floor. ‘I’m leaving.’

A curt nod in the corner of her vision. The light avoided Snape’s bowed face; even if she’d looked directly at him, she couldn’t have read his expression.

She waited, thinking he would say something to her, but he made no sound, no motion.

So. He really didn’t care. He never had. It had all been her imagination.

Something crumbled inside her.

Swallowing, she steeled herself to turn away, to walk out of the door and never return.

She half-moved—

‘I’m… I’m sorry,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘I could never have forgiven myself if I’d… if I’d killed—’

A choking cry burst out of him. His hands clawed over his face. A terrible, knifelike keening tore from his throat. He sobbed, strangled, like something had broken inside him, like an animal longing to be put out of its misery.

She wanted to escape, to flee – hadn’t she meant to leave, hadn’t she said she would? He didn’t want her here. He’d never let anyone see him like this. He was expecting her to go.

Yet he couldn’t stop weeping, and she knew the tenor of that sound – the sound of someone who has learned to cry silently lest they are overheard, noticed, picked to pieces for being so weak.

The noise went on and on, until she was sick.

But she couldn’t make herself walk away.

Hermione saw him lying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, red gashes open at his throat, blood pulsing in a relentless, violent fountain. She pressed with numb fingers, begging him to live.

For a moment she stood rooted to the spot.

Then she strode over, and, trembling, laid a hand on his shoulder.

He flinched, his gasp raking the air.

She snatched her hand away, petrified. Then he looked up at her, his red-rimmed eyes a broken mess of darkness and despair.

And she understood.

All the time they’d worked together she’d thought he’d been angry with her, with the world, thinking himself superior, hating the world, hating her, hating everything for being so slow, so dim, so fallible. But that was all wrong.

The only person he was angry with was himself.

It was his own failure he hated.

He didn’t think himself too good for the world – he despised himself. Because Lily was dead, and Albus Dumbledore was dead, and it had been his fault. The solid core of ice she’d seen in his eyes, that lodestone of his soul – it wasn’t anger, it was grief. The reason he’d been such a twitchy, furious mess at Hallowe’en hadn’t been anything to do with her. It was because it was the anniversary of the day Lily died.

‘It’s… it’s all right,’ she said softly.

‘It’s not,’ he whispered. ‘It can’t be.’

She knew he was talking about Lily. To her surprise, she did not resent it.

Drawing up the other chair, she sat beside him. She laid her hands next to his on the table, close enough that she felt the warmth of his skin, close enough to comfort. But she did not touch him again.

After a long silence, he said, ‘I… have no excuse for how I have treated you in my home. None at all. You were only ever kind to me, so very kind, and – and I—’

‘It’s all right.’

‘It isn’t. All this time, I thought myself strong, putting people down, making myself superior. But… now I see it. I see it all. I have become like… like my father. A bully. I instil fear, I trust no-one – a pathetic little Dark Lord in my own home – how is it I have become everything I… hate?’ His voice caught again, and he buried his face in his hands, strangled to a whisper. ‘Why should I exist? It would be better if—’

‘No.’ It came out a fierce hiss. ‘No it wouldn’t.’

He looked at her, savage with doubt. ‘Oh, surely—’

‘No.’ And it was true. She didn’t want a world without him – couldn’t imagine it: such an awful, barren, empty place. ‘If you were dead,’ she whispered, ‘who would do the things you’ve done?’

‘What things? What have I ever done?’

‘Recently? The werewolf stuff, the cures.’

‘You could have done that. Quite easily.’

‘No I couldn’t. Not alone – I wouldn’t even have had the first idea of starting on it. And if you’d never existed, who would have kept the students safe during the war? Who would have handed Dumbledore intelligence? Who would have given Harry the final piece of the puzzle? Without you, Voldemort would be alive, ruling over all of us– and I would be dead.’

‘I let the Carrows torture the students,’ he sobbed. ‘I let them instruct students to torture one another! The students – children – I let the Carrows—’

‘You kept them alive! No-one else could have done that. You know that was down to you.’

‘I did not! So many of them were killed in the battle – I tried to stop it, I tried to convince the Dark Lord Hogwarts of all places was the wrong location for a battleground, that children were easily led, that every drop of magical blood spilled was a waste – I ordered the students not to fight, again and again – and… in the end… so few of even the Slytherins heeded, and… and I will never forgive Minerva for letting them—’

He could not continue. His shoulders shook. He covered his face.

She steeled herself, and said the thing she’d begun to guess at – the thing he needed to hear, the truth he wouldn’t let himself see.

‘But that wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t change what other people did. And… and you know…’ She swallowed. ‘Lily wouldn’t have wanted this for you. This… guilt. She would have wanted you to live. To have a proper life.’

He flinched at the name. There was a long silence.

‘How do you know what she would have wanted?’ he said. ‘You never even met her.’

‘Lupin told Harry she was uncommonly kind. Even a cruel person would hate to see you do this to yourself.’

‘You don’t understand. Lily refused to forgive me for calling her a—’ He broke off, lips pressed together as though tasting something bitter. His face twisted savagely. ‘I as good as killed her, as good as killed her husband, left her child an orphan. Do you think she could forgive me for that?’

‘Harry’s forgiven you.’

‘Potter,’ he sneered. ‘Potter’s an idiot who thinks of nothing but his own ego.’

‘No, he doesn’t. Harry… loves you.’

She hadn’t meant to say it like that – ridiculous, melodramatic – but… it was true.

Harry’s refusal to say anything bad about Snape, his constant press to lionise Snape in the eyes of the world, his insistence on making overtures of friendship – she’d attributed it all to his destructive craving for a father, the same need she’d seen bond him with Sirius, then Dumbledore, then Lupin, only to tear him apart. Logically, once he’d lost them, why not attach himself to Snape, the last of that generation? Why not turn to the man who could actually have been his father, in another reality?

She’d been convinced Harry’s inability to cut Snape off was weak, childish, immature – a lingering remnant of trauma. Now she realised it was anything but.

Harry didn’t see Snape as a substitute dad. He saw Snape as he was: hurting, bereaved, blaming himself for horrors he’d witnessed and been unable to stop. Harry understood Snape: his ruined childhood, his victimhood, his craving for a true home, even his blood-guilt. Harry had cruel and intimate acquaintance with Snape’s meanness, his bullying, his petty vindictiveness – yet chose instead to see his determination and courage. All Harry wanted was for Snape to see that too. And he'd had had the courage to go back and be hurt, not just once but many times, in the hope that one day Snape might see himself the way Harry did. And it would do them both good.

That was love. What else could she call it?

Snape was staring at her like she’d grown an extra head.

‘He understands you,’ she said quietly. ‘He knows what you did, and he doesn’t hate you for it. Quite the opposite. He… thinks the world of you. You know he named his son after you.’ She bit her lip. ‘Harry doesn’t want you to keep punishing yourself. So… I’m sure Lily wouldn’t, either.’

Something shuttered behind Snape’s eyes; he turned and looked at the wall.

‘So. You intend to leave,’ he said in a bleak monotone. ‘I agree. You should not stay. My dwelling is… unfit for you, even if I had somehow been civil to you all this time. But I have treated you poorly, wrongly. You deserve better—’

‘I’m staying,’ she said quietly.

He rounded on her. ‘No. No, you cannot. I almost killed you, you cannot—’

‘I’m staying.’ She plonked her bag on the floor and crossed her arms. ‘If you want to evict me you’ll have to hex me out the door. And—’ she raised an eyebrow— ‘I won’t go quietly.’

He gave her a long, calculating look, eyes narrowed.

She leaped upright and snatched out her wand, as if ready to duel – an empty threat; as if she’d duel Snape – but he didn’t know that…

‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘You’d have thought they’d at least teach Aurors how to close their minds.’ He let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Unpack then, since it’s what you’re actually intending. But I am… extremely displeased with this arrangement. It is wrong. I hope you quickly change your mind.’

With a look of chagrin, she flicked her wand, like she’d been preparing to when she’d pretended she was ready to duel. Her belongings flew upstairs, unfolding out of the tote bag as they went.

Snape gave her a long, level look.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Mm. Threatening to duel me should be a last resort, don’t you think?’

‘I might really have done it, if you’d tried to kick me out.’

He raised an eyebrow, and she gave a sheepish grin.

‘I didn’t say I’d win.’

The corner of his mouth twitched.

‘Well,’ said Hermione, glancing at the clock – it was past midnight – ‘um… happy Christmas, then. And I suppose I’d better get to bed. Since I’m staying here and everything.’

‘Yes.’ He rose; taking a handkerchief from the sleeve of his nightshirt he turned away, and wiped his nose and eyes.

‘Goodnight,’ she said at the doorway.

He turned to her; and although a moment ago he’d been almost amused, now he only looked exhausted, crumpled and sad.

‘Goodnight,’ he said, ‘and… happy Christmas. And – Hermione?’

‘Yes?’

He paused, eyes like tunnels, a crease between his brows. ‘You must leave immediately if you don’t feel safe. If you regret this decision—’

‘I know. But I won’t.’ She studied him and could see the guilt smothering heavy over his shoulders, the thorns tightening cold around his heart.

Something ached in her chest. For him to feel so terrible about what he’d almost done… He must care about her. She’d stirred up something he’d been trying to smother, that was all – her barging into his home had upended things, made him remember, made him think and feel.

He didn’t hate her, after all. He only hated himself.

She had been extremely foolish to walk into his room at night and startle him. Sentimentality had overridden good judgement. As a former Auror, she should have known better.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘it wasn’t really your fault, earlier. I shouldn’t have gone into your… private space. I didn’t think through what I was doing. It won’t happen again. I promise.’

He gave a heavy nod, doubt glinting at the backs of his eyes.

And she ought to leave – but would he return to bed and sleep? Or would he sit here until morning, brooding on his mistakes, all alone?

She had to get him out of this foul mood.

She licked her lips. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I might have forgotten to mention this, but I booked Blinky to come and cook for us all day tomorrow. Everything will be extra festive.’

His eyes went dark. ‘You did what?’

‘Goodnight!’ she threw over her shoulder, and flitted upstairs.

She could hear him storming about for the entirety of the next ten minutes. His bedroom door slammed. There was silence.

Everything was normal.

With a satisfied grin on her face, she slept.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke late to the smell of frying bacon, jolted into wakefulness by the screech of her smoke-detection charm and Snape bellowing somewhere downstairs. Yawning, she sat up and tried to remember why she felt so…

Oh. No. Last night. The stocking… Snape…

She groaned and knuckled her eyes.

Of all the ridiculous ideas she’d ever had…

Snape’s rant was interrupted by Blinky’s rapid-fire squeaks. Hermione couldn’t hear individual words, but the house elf sounded angry.

The smoke charm continued to wail.

They’d never sort this out by themselves. If she didn’t get down there, the whole kitchen would be on fire.

She sighed, swung her feet over the edge of the bed, thrust them into her duck-foot slippers and, throwing the fluffy yellow dressing gown on over her tartan pyjamas, marched downstairs.

The kitchen was full of steam, toast smoke, and bacon fumes. Snape and Blinky stood marooned by the stove, like ships in fog.

‘I told you to open the window!’ Snape was snarling.

‘And Blinky will not open it, for Miss Hermione’s breakfast will get cold!’ squeaked Blinky. Her twiglike arms were folded over the neat, gingham Agency dress she wore, and her enormous green eyes popped with outrage. ‘Miss Hermione will have her breakfast hot on her Christmas morning! Blinky insists!’

‘Er, hello Blinky,’ said Hermione.

The elf broke into an adoring grin. ‘Oh! Miss Hermione! You is up! Blinky is marvellous happy to see you! Happy, happy Christmas!’

‘Happy Christmas to you too, Blinky!’ She thought quickly. ‘Um – could I have my bacon now?’

‘Yes, yes, you is having it right now with eggs and sausages and toast and hash browns and ketchup just how you likes it!’

‘Thank you, Blinky! That sounds wonderful.’

‘Oh!’ The elf’s ears flapped as she shook her head. ‘You is too good to say so, Miss Hermione – here is you’s plate! And tea, and orange juice, squeezed fresh!’

She set them down on the table.

Hermione tried not to choke as she moved further into the fume-filled room, her eyes streaming. ‘I don’t suppose you could open the window, and, er, maybe the back door? I like fresh air while I eat.’

‘Yes, yes of course, Miss Hermione, right away Blinky does it!’ The elf curtsied, leaped onto the sink to throw the window wide, and ran into the extension to attend to the back door.

Fresh air gusted into the room, freezing cold. The smoke charm stopped screeching.

Snape emerged from the dispersing fug, a thunderous look on his face.

Hermione ignored him and started on her breakfast.

It really was very good.

Blinky reappeared and began fussing with the oven. Now the smoke had cleared, Hermione could see that the turkey was already inside it. The bird had only just fit in. It was a good job she’d ordered the smallest one in Waitrose.

‘Have you eaten?’ she asked Snape, licking butter off her fingers.

‘No.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You haven’t had breakfast? Whyever not? Blinky—’

‘After a lifetime of carefully adhering to Potions protocols intended to allow me to avoid asphyxiation in my own living space, I do not feel hungry after encountering this—’ his gaze menaced its way towards Blinky— ‘mindless disregard for human lungs.’

‘Blinky is not disregarding, sir! As Blinky already said—’

Hermione put on her sweetest smile. ‘Blinky, please serve another plate of breakfast, the same as mine.’

‘As you wish, Miss Hermione,’ said Blinky, throwing Snape a disgruntled look.

Hermione began to wonder if Blinky’s sacking by her previous masters had perhaps been somewhat justified.

She took a deep breath.

‘Severus—’ If she wasn’t using his first name after last night, when was she going to use it? All the same, she wished it wasn’t quite so… weird. ‘Maybe sit down?’

He bared his teeth and glowered. But he did take a seat.

Perhaps today wouldn’t be a complete disaster?

‘I’m sorry you got off to a bad start,’ said Hermione, raising her voice to include Blinky (the elf’s ears twitched), ‘but it is Christmas, and—’ she eyed Snape— ‘I thought it would be nice if someone else did the cooking. Someone… er… experienced.’

Snape’s nostrils flared. She decided to take it as assent. Goodness knows, nobody wanted corned beef sandwiches for Christmas dinner.

She licked her lips and continued. ‘Blinky is a very good elf—’

‘Oh Miss Hermione, you is too kind to say so!’

‘—and we have been very happy with her services so far. Haven’t we?’

The elf squealed and burst into happy tears. ‘Oh, Blinky is glad Blinky is pleasing you, Miss! Blinky works so hard to make everything just right!’

Snape’s eyes narrowed.

As the elf wiped her eyes on her dress and began dishing up bacon, Hermione lowered her voice so only Snape could hear. ‘Since Blinky doesn’t… well…’ She gave the elf’s back a worried glance. ‘Since she’s… without a family, I thought it would be good for her as well as us to engage her here all day. You know – so she’s not…’

‘I understand perfectly well,’ he snapped.

‘Your breakfast, Mister,’ said Blinky, brandishing a plate of toast, bacon, eggs, hash browns and sausages in Snape’s face. She banged it down in front of him, along with a second glass of orange juice and tea that sloshed over the rim of the cup.

Snape glared as though she had just laid him out a platter of poisons— (No, thought Hermione, he’d prefer poisons, he’d spend all morning analysing them while pretending not to enjoy himself.) He glared at Blinky like he’d discovered her housing a children’s petting zoo in his lab and using his favourite cauldron as a baby hamster playground.

‘Please try to be nice to her,’ hissed Hermione as Blinky turned back to the cooker.

‘But I’m always nice,’ he said, eyes glittering with malevolence.

She gave him an exasperated look. ‘Just… eat your breakfast, all right?’

To her surprise, he did. She took the opportunity to study him while he was distracted (it was a good breakfast, despite the worrying smell). Snape never looked like he’d slept, and today was no exception. The gloom of guilt she’d tried to dispel last night by provoking his anger still dogged his features. His eyes were shot with red; his long eyelashes fanned against purple-shadowed eye sockets.

If last night had never happened, she’d have said he looked forbidding, provoked, ready for a shouting match. Now, she knew he was only upset.

‘What kinds of things did you do at Christmas when you were growing up?’ she asked.

His face folded into a suspicious frown. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Well, we always went to church, you see,’ continued Hermione, cupping her hands around her mug. ‘Then, you know, late lunch. Opened gifts under the tree. Board games. A film. Turkey sandwiches. That sort of thing. Fairly boring and traditional, but… What did your family do at Christmas?’

He gave her a long, doubtful look, as if wondering whether she was sincere, then said, ‘Argued.’

Her stomach twisted.

‘Perhaps we could just start with church?’ she said. ‘I’ll try my best but… I can’t promise we’ll get to the arguing before bedtime.’

He shot her a look, something between disbelief and amusement.

‘So. I looked up the service times around here, and—’ she checked her watch— ‘St Dunstan’s starts at 10:30. It’s just around the corner. We can probably make it if we hurry. I mean, if it’s safe for us to go out, er… together.’

He gave a slow blink; his eyes darted to her clothing. ‘I don’t see why not. We can Apparate; no-one will suspect our destination is so nearby. St Dunstan’s is not somewhere I habitually frequent. However, I did go there once or twice, as a child, and I’m fairly sure that—’ he met her eyes— ‘quacking apparel and… nightwear… will get us turned away at the door.’

She felt her face redden. ‘Um, well, of course I was going to change—’

He inclined his head. Slight amusement flickered at the corners of his mouth.

She downed the rest of her tea and scurried upstairs, heart pounding.

Chapter Text

St Dunstan’s was not a large church. Its Victorian builders seemed to have decided the best way to overcome the smallness of its plot and the meanness of its materials was to overwhelm with architecture. It sneered at the street in dirty brick, buttressed and curlicued to the hilt, poking grimly towards heaven as though challenging God to deny its respectability. A warbling organ oppressed the air like the last wheezing ghost of the Industrial Revolution.

Hermione, clad in deliberately non-descript Muggle clothes, gave the gurning cherubs around the door a frown as she ducked inside out of the sleet. Perhaps she should have chosen St Catherine’s, nearer the city centre… Her nostrils filled with a musty, old-building smell, and the organ grew louder – she recognised O Come, O Come Emmanuel. Her dad's favourite. Sudden warmth filled her chest and her eyes prickled. To distract herself, she glanced aside at Snape, hoping to sense fellow-feeling. But above his dark Muggle suit, his expression was scrubbed carefully blank.

‘Happy Christmas!’ said a smiling, middle-aged East Asian man in a grey jacket and Leicester City scarf. He handed them service sheets. Feeling a little better, Hermione gave him a wobbly smile. His face was the kindest, most normal thing she’d seen all day.

Snape only nodded curtly and shouldered his way inside.

The interior of the church was barred with cramped pews. The electric pendant lights barely overcame the gloom of the stained-glass windows and insistently ornamented brick. But the pew ends were bright with bunches of holly and Christmas roses, and every window brilliant with candles. The organ rumbled on, but it wasn’t the only sound; the pews thronged with people shrugging off woollen hats and mittens and laughing out greetings. Diminutive heads decked in tea towels and paper crowns popped up over pew backs.

Snape and Hermione hesitated at the foot of the threadbare aisle, unsure where to sit.

‘Severus?’ A tiny, pale old lady in a purple hat was standing at Snape’s elbow, squinting and leaning on her stick. ‘Is that you?’

A glimmer of surprised pleasure flitted across Snape’s face. ‘Mrs Fields?’

‘Ha, I knew it!’ she cried. ‘Do come along – and your friend – I have to sit near the door, not as good at walking as I once was. How lovely to see you! Sometimes spot you in the street – though not so often, nowadays…’

She ushered them towards the nearest pew. Snape took her arm and helped her sit.

‘Agnes Fields,’ she said, offering Hermione a surprisingly firm handshake. ‘I was Severus’ teacher when he was in the Infants. And look at him now! Hasn’t changed a bit.’

Snape raised an eyebrow. ‘I should hope I am at least a little taller.’

‘You still look titchy to me.’

Hermione stifled a smile.

Mrs Fields propped her stick against the pew. ‘Go on, introduce us, Severus.’

‘Of course. This is my lodger and colleague, Miss Granger.’

Hermione smiled. ‘Hermione, please.’

‘How lovely to meet you!’ Mrs Fields beamed and turned back to Snape. ‘You teaching in that boarding school together?’

‘Ah, no. I… resigned.’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, the profession isn’t what it used to be. So much form-filling! ‘Spect they worked you to the bone and underpaid you something dreadful, all but they should have been grateful to have someone with a brain like yours. I’m not surprised you left! What you doing now?’

‘Freelance work. Mostly… chemistry-related.’

Mrs Fields pressed her lips together. ‘If you mean you’re unemployed, there’s no shame in it, not with the economy such a mess. I’d like to have words with those fellows in Whitehall—’

‘He’s actually very much in demand,’ interrupted Hermione. ‘He’s been awarded nationally important projects.’

Snape cast her a narrow look.

‘Though, um, we’re not allowed to talk about them,’ she hastily backtracked.

‘Oh!’ said Mrs Fields, looking relieved. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re doing all right, Severus. I know it’s silly to worry about my old pupils, but I always do. And so many families have moved away… You still in touch with the Evans girl?’

Snape hesitated.

‘She died,’ he said quietly.

‘Oh… heavens… What a terrible… what a shame.’ Mrs Fields’ voice faltered. ‘And she was such a lovely girl. I’m sorry, Severus.’ She patted his arm.

Snape was spared from replying by a black woman clutching a toddler in a fluffy cow-print onesie needing to squeeze past, then the vicar – wearing a dog-collar over a Christmas jumper patterned with red and green reindeer – stood up to begin the service. Hermione realised with surprise he was the man who’d welcomed them at the door. She’d been expecting the vicar to be older, taller, silver-haired, with a forbiddingly holy expression, or at least wearing robes. Before she could focus on anything he was saying, the organ wheezed into action, they were launched into Hark the Herald Angels Sing – and she was enveloped in Christmas, the lights and the music and the heady pull of singing voices.

She found herself carolling along, heart lifting.

This hadn’t been a terrible decision. It was perfect.

Not hearing Snape’s voice, she glanced sideways and found him staring at the front, rigid, a muscle ticking in his jaw. 

The ebb and flow of the service was cozily familiar: the readings, the carols, the prayers. The vicar invited the children to the front as he began his address, and a procession of tinsel-tiaraed angels, lamb-clutching shepherds and wise men with thumbs in their mouths meandered up the aisle. The cow-print toddler and her mother disappeared.

‘Oh, sweet,’ Hermione whispered, as a diminutive girl in a blue dress toddled past, her long, red hair curling down her back, her swaddled doll upside-down.

Snape twitched and Hermione’s heart squeezed. Had he attended this church with Lily?

Hermione lost the first part of the vicar’s address. His jumper was distracting, and so were the children – a host of fidgeting angels spilling into the choir stalls, the red-haired girl a stage-struck Mary, and a Joseph who wouldn’t stop picking his nose. Then she felt Snape tense beside her, and her focus sharpened.

‘…think of this as a time for family reunions and happiness – like living inside a big, warm John Lewis advert. But that’s not the case for everyone. For some, this is the time of year when regrets and losses feel the sharpest. When we think of words we never said but should have. When we think of things we wish we hadn’t done but can’t take back. Broken relationships. Lives lost. And everything that should bring us joy only makes it worse. How can there be peace on earth and goodwill to all men, when something has gone so wrong? Where is God in this?’

The vicar looked up, and Hermione suddenly felt as if he was speaking just to her.

‘But the Christ child didn’t come to turkey and fairy lights. He didn’t live inside a John Lewis advert. He came to a poor couple in a dirty stable, living under scandal. He came to suffer and die. He knew grief and betrayal. And he doesn’t sweep our regrets under the rug and tell us to be happy. Far from it: he offers us the chance to be forgiven. He longs to take that weight off us so we can lift our heads again, with true joy. He is risen, with healing in his wings.’

Hermione frowned, pondering. Healing? What—

Then the organ cranked out a series of notes, and her insides leapt and went hollow. O Come, O Come Emmanuel filled the roof.

She made it through the first couple of lines, but at mourns in lonely exile her throat closed up. Gulping, she saw her dad, grinning as she won a cracker off him the last Christmas they’d spent together; her mum laughing, a paper crown slipping from her hair. The ramparts of Hogwarts thick with snow, and charmed suits of armour carolling away with Peeves supplying missing words. Harry and Ron throwing snowballs and yelling. All the people and places she could never go back to.

She blinked hurriedly, trying to clear her eyes. Oh, no. She was going to lose it.

The woman with the toddler had returned and was somehow singing in a beautiful soprano while restraining her wriggling daughter. Not wanting them – happy, innocent Muggles – to see her wet face, Hermione let her hair fall forwards and turned aside – and caught sight of Snape.

He was deathly pale, his lips forming the shadows of the words—

From depths of hell Thy people save, And give them victory o'er the grave…

Tears were rolling silently down his cheeks and dripping into his collar.

She blinked and looked away, heart thumping – she had invaded Snape’s privacy enough times in the last 24 hours. When her vision cleared, it was filled with the snow-lit east window where Christ shone, thorn-crowned and bloodied, a shattered jewel-work in red and purple. Words were carved on the arch above: Death has been swallowed up in Victory. They echoed the words from the carol. Her heart swelled with a nameless, choking longing.

– open wide our heavenly home; Make safe the way that leads on high, And close the path to misery…

Home. Where was her home when her parents no longer recognised her, when the family she’d imagined raising with Ron would never exist? Her life was gossamer, full of holes. The things she clung to were insubstantial and fleeting. They would let her down, they would desert her, they would die. She longed for something deeper, something permanent. Surely it existed – surely her heart couldn’t long for something unreal?

The music thundered to an end. The vicar stood with his arms wide. ‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord. May the joy of Christmas be yours.’

Hermione dried her face and put on a smile.

She wasn’t completely alone, was she? It was the festive season. She ought to be cheerful.

Despite the danger, Snape insisted they walk Mrs Fields home. The elderly teacher picked her way through the slush with her walking stick, laughing and apologising for her slowness. Back in the blustery outdoors, Hermione’s spirits rose and she found herself chatting about things she’d done years ago with her grandparents, and the frustrations and joys of keeping cats. When Mrs Fields invited them in to eat with her and her son (a pilot whose wife and children lived in Japan), Snape suggested – to Hermione’s utter shock – that they bring their lunch over and eat together. It proved to be a wonderful decision. Blinky’s cooking was mouth-wateringly perfect, and with the extra company it genuinely felt like a holiday. Hermione poured people drinks, let Mrs Fields’ cats sit on her, and groaned at terrible Muggle cracker jokes. Even Snape wore a silly paper hat, flushing slightly when she teased him about it.

But after they’d helped Mrs Fields wash up, then Apparated back to the dreariness of Spinner’s End, peace and joy eluded Hermione. She could almost smell them – almost see where they were hidden – but they lingered out of reach, like the forgotten answers to a test. Snape prowled into the house ahead of her, shoulders braced, hands tucked neatly in his pockets, and she found herself wondering whether he would find them, too.

Chapter Text

Suddenly realising she had consumed so much lunch she could hardly move, Hermione went straight in through the front door and collapsed onto the sofa.

To her surprise, Snape joined her. As he sat, his trouser leg rose and she saw he was wearing the Slytherin socks she’d bought him. She tried not to react. So he’d opened her stocking presents after all, had he? What had he made of them? Had he deemed only the socks useful, and binned the rest?

Was he… trying to change, after last night?

Snape crossed his arms. ‘What is it now? According to your… festive schedule.’

‘Oh. Um. Present opening?’

They both looked at the bottom of the tree – and the two gifts Hermione had put there, wrapped in glittering green and silver paper. Hermione inwardly cursed herself. This would be beyond awkward. She hadn’t got those things for Snape expecting to be around when he opened them. She’d have to lie about the robes to his face. He’d know.

Plus, he rather obviously hadn’t got her anything.

‘Or we could just skip that and watch a film?’ she stuttered.

But Snape had already gone to the foot of the tree and extracted the gifts.

He frowned at them, then at her. ‘These are for me?’

She swallowed. ‘Yes?’

His frown deepened. ‘Are you certain? You don’t look like you want me to open them.’

‘No, it’s fine – please, go ahead.’

Face creased with suspicion, he took out his wand and, holding it in a light, dueller’s grip, slit the first parcel. The replacement robes spilled out, an expensive wash of black.

Snape’s face went carefully blank.

‘They’re from Draco Malfoy,’ Hermione said quickly. ‘Replacements for the ones that got ruined at the ball. That’s all.’

Snape continued staring at the robes in complete silence. Finally, he blinked. ‘And this?’ He held the second parcel aloft and shook; the boots shifted in their box.

There was nothing for it. ‘That one’s… from me?’

He scrutinised her face.

She fought the urge to fidget. Why did he always make her feel like a small, hunted animal? Any more of this and she’d start squeaking and trying to hide under the furniture.

Dropping his gaze, Snape flicked his wand and dissected the wrapping paper. The shoebox with its silver lettering emerged, and he snatched the lid away in the manner of one ripping a bandage off a wound. The glossy new boots, size nine and a half, appeared, nestled in their straw packaging like a pair of smugly exotic reptiles.

He stared. His eyes glittered.

‘They’re dragonhide,’ she blurted. ‘Steel toe caps – spell-repelling – you can get them altered if they don’t fit – there are Undetectable Extension Charms in the hidden side pockets – you can keep anything you need inside: potions, spare—’

‘I know what Undetectable Extension Charms are. Why did you get me… these?’

‘Because I thought they’d be useful?’

Without even looking at her, he strode out of the room, leaving the boots on the armchair.

She pressed her lips together.

She should have left last night. Had she actually expected Snape to change? Just because he’d apologised and eaten lunch with Muggle neighbours in a vaguely civilised manner, that didn’t mean anything! How was she so naïve? All she’d done by staying was set herself up for more hurt – he couldn’t even manage to be polite to her when she’d given him a gift – two gifts, expensive, things she’d thought about for ages—

Snape prowled back into the room but Hermione didn’t bother looking up. His face would only be set in a sneer; he’d say something cutting about her poor taste, about wasting money—

He cleared his throat. ‘For you.’

Her head jerked up.

Snape was holding out a bulky, hessian-swathed parcel, neatly tied with string. There was a suppressed awkwardness about his posture. He avoided her eye.

She frowned. ‘But… what is it?’

‘I believe the idea is that you discover that for yourself.’

Flushing, she rose and held out her hands to receive the odd package. It was heavier than she expected. She fumbled and almost dropped it.

With a repressive swish of robes, Snape snatched it off her and set it on the floor.

Face reddening still further, Hermione crouched to unwrap it.

The rough string tangled and snagged.

Snape watched her struggle, her hair growing wild.

‘Can I, um, borrow your wand?’ she asked. ‘I left mine upstairs.’

She caught his glare – a definite no, why had she even asked? – but then he reached into his sleeve and passed his wand to her. The dark wood was warm to the touch, alive-feeling. She sensed its evaluative regard – curious, suspicious, borderline hostile – and had a strange desire to win it over by a show of obscure and spectacular magic.

She swallowed. ‘Thanks.’

‘You should never be without your wand. Mine is quite unsuitable for you.’

‘Of course. I won’t impose again.’

Snape went and stood by the window, looking out onto the street. Hermione cast a cutting charm with extreme caution, fearing a mishap; the wand mocked her timidity by responding with a tingling burst of power.

The impossible, knotted string disintegrated, and she laid the wand aside on the sofa, fingers aching. She was not borrowing that thing again, even if Snape somehow offered.

Whatever was inside the parcel felt roundish, and gleamed. Then the sackcloth fell away and her jaw dropped. It was a set of nested silver cauldrons. Not the thin, decorative, occasional-use sort purchased by the ostentatious and wealthy, but proper potioneers’ cauldrons: thick, unadorned and extremely pricey.

She couldn’t speak. How could he possibly have afforded these – and for her?

‘I supposed you would require your own, at some point,’ he said. ‘They are perhaps not what you wanted – rather dull and practical – but—’

‘They’re… It’s…’ She trailed off. ‘Thank you.’

How long had he been saving up for them?

He twitched round to face her. ‘If you don’t like them—’

‘No. I like them. I… I love them! They’re perfect! It’s just, I wasn’t expecting… I…’

I thought you hated me. I thought you despised the idea of gift-giving. I didn’t expect you to buy me anything at all. I thought you’d never spend a moment’s thought on me, and now you’ve given me… these. Something I will treasure forever.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Next?’

‘Sorry?’

‘On your schedule of… amusements.’

‘Oh – oh, right! Um. Board games? Or… cards?’

He smirked.

She had a horrible feeling she was going to regret this.

Chapter Text

Hermione threw down her hand in defeat.

‘My game. Again,’ said Snape, a swiftly-hidden smirk playing over his lips.

‘Hmph.’ She tried to glare at him but the corners of her mouth twitched upwards.

Why was she enjoying this when she kept losing? It was infuriating. Except for wizard chess (which she not-so-secretly hated) she’d always been able to trounce anyone at anything, if she put her mind to it. Winning was satisfying, neat, expected.

So why was being repeatedly thrashed almost… fun? She was playing with more concentration and cunning than she’d needed to muster in her entire life, and getting beaten.

Or was that it? Was the effort itself somehow what she enjoyed?

Snape gathered the cards into a pile and shuffled them. They purred through his fingers in a worryingly professional manner. ‘Another game?’

‘Yes.’ She huffed. ‘Why are you so good at this? You’ve never even played it before!’

He studied her, then dealt them both a hand. ‘I used to stay with my grandma in the holidays. She was bed-bound but had an active mind. We played cards. She was… not easy to beat.’

‘So you’re cheating.’

He shot her an annoyed look. ‘No. I am paying attention.’

Paying attention? She was paying attention!

He turned over the top card and laid it face up. ‘You may begin.’

It was Uno, she told herself. A kids’ game. It didn’t matter if Snape beat her. What did it prove, anyway?

She was going to win this time.

Snape’s eyes glittered.

Five games later, she had won precisely once, and it had been a fluke.

‘Let’s play something else,’ she grumbled.

‘And why would we do that?’

She answered him with a glare.

He didn’t bother hiding his smirk this time. ‘What other games do you have?’

She shuffled about the Muggle games boxes she’d brought downstairs. ‘How about Carcassonne?’

‘Is it another card game?’

‘No. It’s sort of… There are tiles, and you use them to make a map, with cities and roads and things, and you score points for things you build. I can explain as we go along.’

‘Very well.’

Snape picked the game up far too fast. And beat her the second time they played.

She dragged her hands through her hair and tried not to look as ruffled as she felt.

Snape collected the game tiles, examining them carefully as he did so. He wasn’t even pretending not to smirk now. ‘I never realised you were this competitive.’

‘I’m not competitive!’

‘Because you normally win?’

‘I—’

Merlin, he was right. That was exactly it.

‘No!’ she spluttered. ‘I just… want to make sure I play my best. That’s all. I am capable of doing better!’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm. Again?’

She took a breath. ‘Well… okay then.’

‘The secret to winning at Uno is counting cards, by the way. In case you hadn’t already worked it out.’

She stared at him. ‘You count cards playing Uno? That’s… diabolical!’

He shrugged.

She muttered something uncomplimentary about Slytherins and placed her first tile.

Snape won.

Again.

How had he… Oh.

Before Snape could do it, she collected up the tiles. This time, she studied them.

When she looked up, he was watching her.

Raising his eyebrows, he said, ‘I expected you to catch on a little sooner.’

Caught out, she laughed. ‘Well, I only ever used to play against my parents. They weren’t as cut-throat as you.’

‘You obviously needed my grandma.’

She smiled.

The next game, she beat Snape.

Although it was hard to tell for sure, it seemed to please him.

Chapter Text

They settled in to watch films at about 8pm, while Blinky made turkey sandwiches. Hermione helped herself to salt and vinegar crisps from a bowl on the spindly table, while Snape flipped through the DVDs and VCR tapes she’d fetched from her room. She tried to ignore Snape’s disgusted expression when he saw A Muppet Christmas Carol. She hadn’t really wanted to watch it. Much.

‘You know, I’ve never understood why there isn’t a wizarding film industry,’ she said, licking salt off her fingers. ‘It seems like such a weird thing not to have.’

He squinted at her Pride and Prejudice box set. ‘I suppose wizarding society is a little… behind the times. What is this?’

‘Oh, um.’ She felt herself blushing. ‘It’s a Jane Austen adaptation. Quite a famous one, actually.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s good!’

‘Why, do you want to watch it?’ His sneer told her the correct answer to this was ‘no’.

She almost capitulated, but… forcing Snape to watch a Jane Austen adaptation was exactly the kind of revenge she needed after being beaten at her own games all afternoon.

‘Well, it’s probably too long.' She took another handful of crisps. ‘But I have Sense and Sensibility, and that’s just right.’

‘Really.’

‘Mm-hmm.’

There was a pause.

‘Do I even want to know what it’s about?’

‘Oh, I think too much description would spoil it. But it’s very… literary.’

‘You don’t say.’

She smiled. There was a large amount of crocodile in it. ‘Go on. It’s Christmas!’

***

Fifteen minutes later, they were ensconced on the two-seater sofa, squashed into the armrests, barely enough room for a house-elf between them. They were both pretending they had sufficient personal space. The Muggle DVD whirred inside the modified Flashweasel laptop Arthur Weasley had given Hermione for her birthday two years ago, while on-screen, the impecunious Dashwood sisters moved into Barton Cottage.

Snape had inserted a few acerbic comments before his sandwiches arrived, but now he ate from the plate on his knee in stony silence.

Hermione sat with her shoulders tensed, barely tasting anything.

Why had she thought this would be a good idea? She enjoyed Sense and Sensibility. Now every time she watched it, she’d remember Snape saying things like, ‘Remind me again why we are wasting our evening with this drivel?’ and, ‘Miss Austen died young, didn’t she? A pity. Although, since one must assume from her work that her death was caused by a lethal dose of tedium, perhaps we ought to be grateful she did not survive to further inflict us.’

She ought to have suggested a film she hated. Perhaps they could have laid into it together. Snape was actually quite funny, if you weren’t emotionally attached to the object of his scorn.

She sighed in an attempt to relieve some tension. This was ridiculous. She was getting a stomach ache, and she hadn’t even been drinking.

Now there was a thought.

‘Blinky,’ she called in a low voice.

The house elf appeared with a crack.

‘Yes, Miss Hermione?’ whispered the elf, as the film played on. ‘What is you wanting?’

‘A glass of wine, please.’ At least she might be able to relax.

Snape cleared his throat and Hermione jumped.

‘Sampling my victuals without asking, again?’

‘No, I bought myself some wine in Waitrose, actually.’ She wanted to add so there, but stopped herself just in time. ‘Thank you, Blinky – it’s in the fridge. A large glass. Actually… just bring the bottle.’ She cast Snape a sidelong look, feeling smug. ‘And bring a glass for Mister Snape too.’

Blinky curtsied, her gingham dress billowing. ‘Right away, Miss!’

She Disapparated with another crack.

‘What are you doing?’ Snape asked in tones of exasperation. ‘I don’t drink much.’

‘Just being polite.’

‘Will wonders never cease.’

‘Oh shush. What’s the point of owning wine if you never drink it, anyway?’

‘It is for entertaining.’

She suppressed a snort.

‘I do entertain sometimes.’ There was an acid edge to Snape’s voice.

Hermione elected to return her attention to the film before she accidentally opened more cans of worms.

Blinky returned with the wine; Hermione sipped hers, and felt her shoulders drop. Ahh. Nothing like as good as the elf-made, of course, but it was nice to treat herself.

Snape glared at the full glass Blinky thrust into his hand, swirled it, then sniffed the wine with an air of extreme suspicion.

Hermione fought the urge to giggle. ‘I’m pretty sure Blinky didn’t poison that, you know.’

He threw her an unimpressed look. ‘Oh, you know, do you?’

‘Not everyone’s trying to kill you. Although, Blinky probably has motive, after this morning.’

He narrowed his eyes, and gave the wine a tiny sip. She decided it was mostly to spite her.

In the film, Marianne started singing. Colonel Brandon appeared, striding towards the cottage.

‘Oh!’ said Hermione, almost spilling her drink. ‘Gosh, you don’t half look like him!’

Snape twitched. ‘Like “him”? Like who?’

‘Colonel Brandon. I’d never noticed before. I mean, not his hair, obviously, and he’s a bit older, and you’re not that tall, but…’

Brandon arrived at the door and stood viewing Marianne from the shadows as she played the piano. His lips parted; his eyes softened. Hermione watched him fall impossibly in love.

‘Ridiculous,’ spat Snape. ‘I don’t look anything like that!’

‘Of course not,’ she said faintly.

Out of the corner of her eye, he shot her a confused look.

The next time she thought to gauge his reaction, Snape was completely engrossed in the film, a tiny crease between his eyes, the glass of wine forgotten in his hands.

***

‘Gosh, what’s the time?’ Hermione said, yawning and stretching as the credits rolled, Marianne and Brandon safely ushered into matrimonial bliss.

Snape rose from the sofa. ‘I believe it is nearly midnight.’

‘Oh, goodness!’ She leaped up. ‘I’m supposed to be seeing Luna tomorrow. I didn’t realise it was so late.’ She shut her laptop with a snap.

He aimed his wand at the ceiling lamp to douse the flame before they headed upstairs. ‘Hmm.’

‘I suppose for you, it’s still early.’

He twitched around to face her. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Come on, I’ve been living here for months. It’s hardly a secret you don’t sleep.’

‘I did not realise you had been paying so much attention to my… habits.’

‘It’s not hard to miss.’

‘Really?’ His lip curled.

‘Yes.’ She ticked off on her fingers. ‘You always look exhausted. No matter how late I leave the lab, you’re there. No matter how early I arrive, you’re there. Plus, of course, there were those rumours Rita Skeeter put about that you were a vampire, which gained considerable traction before Harry refuted them. Other people plainly have reason to assume you’re nocturnal, too. It's no wonder you’re always so grumpy if you don't get enough sleep.’

Snape’s face twisted. ‘Of course. I must be a raving insomniac. It was reported in the press.’

She sighed. ‘Never mind. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just that… well…’ She chewed her lip. ‘I’ve found lavender essential oil quite helpful – I put some in your stocking. Um. And breathing exercises, before going to bed. For relaxation. I could get you some helpful things for your birthday, if you like. Some books.’

He gave her a look of such scorn her skin almost withered. ‘Could you.’

She hesitated, fiddling with her sleeve. ‘And… and Muggle talking therapies are… quite good. Really. For… depression and anxiety and… I mean, speaking from experience. You wouldn’t even have to tell them all the… um, the details. It could really help, if you… talked to someone.’

There was a long silence. The lamp hissed.

She did not dare look at Snape. Swallowing, she decided to change the subject. ‘What would you have done today, if I hadn’t been here and hired Blinky?’

Snape let the unpleasant quiet lengthen, then said, ‘I would have cooked for myself. As I generally do.’

‘You wouldn’t even have got a… a takeaway, or something?’

‘I do not eat takeaways.’

She snorted. They’d practically eaten nothing but takeaways the first month she’d arrived.

‘You find that statement to be false?’

‘Of course! You’re always ordering them.’

‘You… disapprove?’

‘Well, my parents were militantly health-conscious dentists, so yes! Takeaways are full of salt, sugar and grease. We never had them at home.’

There was a pause. Snape appeared to be thinking.

‘I did not grow up eating takeaways either,’ he said slowly. ‘They were… for birthdays only. If that.’

She drew in a breath.

Why had she never thought about Snape’s background? Of course his family hadn’t been ordering takeaways left, right and centre. They couldn’t have afforded them.

Whereas her family had looked down on such food as beneath them.

Which meant… the fish and chips, the curries, the Chinese, the pizzas: he hadn’t got them out of laziness, or because he couldn’t cook. He’d got them because he’d been treating her as a guest. It was special occasion food. He’d thought she’d like them.

‘Oh,’ she whispered.

‘Will that be all?’ he asked, deadpan. ‘I don’t wish to delay your… beauty sleep.’

She studied him a moment. He did look very tired. And not as annoyed as he was pretending to be.

‘Yes, I think that’s about it.’

‘Then thank Merlin and all his frequently-abused appendages.’ Snape held open the door to the stairs and lit his wand. ‘After you.’

She brushed past him and climbed the stairs, then paused at the top, a jumble of half-formed words in her mind. It had been a pleasant day, really. He’d surprised her – with the gift, the games, even the film. He’d actually tried to be nice. He’d truly taken last night to heart. He was trying to change. She felt flattered, and gratified, but… ought she to thank him, or would that irritate him? She doubted he was doing this to please her.

She should wish him a good night, at the very least.

The light from Snape’s wand danced at the head of the stairwell as he ascended behind her, and she saw that Blinky had gone to town here, too – baubles galore, holly, tinsel, mistletoe…

‘Absurd.’ Snape’s voice was soft at her back as they stood examining the decorations. ‘We shall have an infestation of Doxies to deal with by January.’

‘Mm.’

She turned towards him, still resolving her tangling thoughts into words.

‘I… I had a nice time today,’ she said. ‘With you, I mean.’

She cringed inwardly. How inane.

His eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘Indeed.’

‘Yes. Um. Well, goodnight. And Happy Christmas!’

She found herself smiling at him and waiting – for what, she didn’t know.

He gazed back at her with an air of confused suspicion.

And she was imagining reaching up on tiptoe and kissing his thin, stubble-dusted cheek – and his startled, soft look, his eyes going liquid and dark… Or would he turn towards her at the last moment, by mistake – or not by mistake – and…

She looked away, face heating. What was she thinking?

Snape cleared his throat. ‘Happy Christmas, indeed. Good night.’

And he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

She backed up and stumbled into her doorframe.

Merlin’s pants.

Snape was a Legilimens! Had she been making eye contact? Had her thoughts been obvious? Had he seen…?

She threw herself into her bedroom, locked the door, collapsed onto her bed, smothered her head under a pillow, and groaned.

Why did she insist on drinking wine?

Had she really told him to get counselling, as well? And called him grumpy?

Ack! How completely mortifying!

She was moving out by the end of the week at the very, very latest. No excuses. Things were perfectly civil between them right now, and she needed to leave while it… stayed that way.

Chapter Text

Luna and Rolf’s two-room cottage was on the Ardnamurchan Peninsula beside a beach. At high tide, the cottage sat almost in the sea – which today lay still, a flat, slate grey, cool mirror to the clouded sky. A rickety fishing boat, moored across from the back door, bobbed on the lapping waves. Hermione sat in the window seat of the cottage and watched an otter scamper along the beach and into the bladderwrack with a flash of its water-slicked tail.

Rolf’s Boxing Day lunch had been rather unusual – Hermione had never eaten vegan duck before, or seaweed trifle – but it had been filling and unexpectedly tasty. Rolf was now in the kitchen washing up, singing a haunting tune in what sounded like Mermish.

Luna sat cross-legged on the floor, humming along and folding used wrapping paper into origami creatures. Hermione spotted a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, a Thestral, and a few odd things with tentacles and prehensile antennae she couldn’t identify.

‘How are you keeping?’ Luna asked, examining the Snorkack. ‘I didn’t want to ask with Rolf around. He is lovely, but you don’t know him as well as I do. You might not feel comfortable telling him about how bad your life is.’

Hermione snorted. ‘I’m all right.’

‘That’s what people say when they’re sad and pretending they’re happy.’ Luna frowned at the Snorkack and adjusted its ears. ‘But maybe you really are all right. Although you did break up with Ron rather badly. And you do live with Snape now. He’s not known for being the nicest man.’

‘Oh, Ron and I are ancient history. And Snape – well, he’s—’ She remembered their argument, and the previous day: the church service, the lunch, the games, the film. ‘I almost kissed him!’ she blurted, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

Luna looked up, an expression of mild interest on her face. ‘Oh, that’s nice.’

‘That’s what?!’

‘Nice.’ Luna picked up a paper Thestral. ‘Nice that you both have someone. I’d have thought you’d take more time to get over Ron. But if you’re happy, I think it’s lovely. He’s obviously been very lonely for a very long time.’

‘But – no! It was… I wasn’t going to!’

Luna hummed.

‘I wasn’t! I just meant to – you know – there was mistletoe everywhere, and I just wanted to be… well, friendly – only on the cheek – and I’d had rather a lot of wine…’ She felt herself going scarlet, and dragged her hands over her face. ‘I had to sneak out of the house this morning before he saw me! I’m sure he read my mind!’

Luna put her head to one side, still looking at her origami. ‘What did he do?’

‘Pardon?’

‘How did Professor Snape take it when you almost kissed him? Or do you call him Severus now?’

‘I…’ She blinked rapidly. ‘I… maybe, sometimes I do call him… But that’s not the point! He just… just said goodnight and walked off!’ She groaned and hid her eyes. ‘I must have disgusted him – he must have seen—’

‘But he did wish you good night.’

‘Yes! But… he was horribly formal… It was probably just the quickest way he could think to extricate himself!’

‘From your description, I’d have thought he was mainly just surprised. Or he didn’t see anything odd in it.’ Luna paused, considering. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. People can’t always control their thoughts, you know. He probably just ignored it. Or maybe he wanted you to kiss him.’

Hermione took a deep breath. ‘Luna, I’m not sure you’re quite… getting the full picture, here. We don’t get on! He could not possibly have wanted me to kiss him.’

She’d dared to talk to him about Lily when he’d been weeping all over the kitchen table. Then she’d told him to get counselling. Then she’d imagined... that. Whatever had she been thinking? He’d be awkward around her for months.

Luna took out her wand and picked a speck of dust off it. ‘The worst you can do is go back and see. If he’s angry, you can always come and stay with us. I know there’s not room in the cottage, but you can sleep on the boat.’

Hermione looked out of the window at the Scamanders’ boat. It stared back, paint flaking, worryingly unseaworthy.

‘Thank you, Luna.’

‘Oh, you don’t need to thank me.’ Luna smiled absent-mindedly and tapped the Crumple-Horned Snorkack with her wand. ‘It’s what friends are for. And you never know, you might be the first to see the Saltwater Plimpies. They’re definitely around here somewhere. Next time we go hunting for them, you can come too, if you’re not already living on the boat.’

The paper Snorkack shook its wings, flexed its claws and let out a papery growl. Then it slithered off and began chewing the wall.

Luna gave it a pleased look. ‘Oh! That spell worked much better than I thought!’

‘Um, thanks for the invitation, Luna,’ said Hermione, moving her feet out of reach of the Snorkack. ‘Owl me the date and I’ll… put it in my diary.’

‘Will do.’ Luna blinked at her. ‘You can invite Severus, too. I’m sure he’d enjoy it.’

Hermione sighed. ‘Right.’

Rolf’s singing ended on a low, quavering note, and Luna nodded to herself.

‘Do be careful next time you visit the Ministry, won’t you?’ she said dreamily.

Hermione frowned. ‘Why? What’s happening?’

Luna’s protuberant eyes widened. ‘Oh, it’s full of werewolves. Nobody’s realised yet, because on the full moon they disguise Inferi to fill in for them at work. I told Harry, but he didn’t believe me. The Quibber’s going to run a piece on it next month.’

Hermione tried to imagine Inferi working desk jobs at the Ministry and failed. Ministry workers did have a reputation for being lifeless, but not that lifeless.

‘Er… thanks, Luna. I’ll watch my back.’

Lune beamed. ‘I knew you'd take me seriously.’

Over by the back door, the Snorkack ate Luna’s flipflops and purred.

Chapter Text

Hermione got back from Luna and Rolf’s just as it started to snow again, Spinner’s End inexpressibly dreary in the cold, the slush splashing up and melting into her tights. She threw the front door open with a bang and shoved it closed behind her using her foot, relieved to be out of the weather – and, in the semi-dark, almost walked into Snape.

‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘Sorry, I didn’t see—’

‘An early return. How… unexpected.’ He had just emerged from the door that led upstairs, carrying a stack of books. ‘They didn’t invite you to stay for tea?’

‘They decided to go out selkie-spotting,’ she said with instinctual defensiveness, ‘and I didn’t want to get back late. Besides, the weather’s atrocious.’

She took off her dripping coat and stamped her boots on the doormat. Slush fell off in gobbets.

Snape raised an eyebrow. ‘How kind of you to bring it inside to show me.’

‘I’m sure this floor’s seen worse.’

Something flashed in the depths of his eyes – if she hadn’t been so sure he was annoyed, she’d have thought it was amusement.

He moved past her and began shelving the books. ‘I am about to start work analysing the side-effect-ameliorated Lycanthropy Cure.’ He hesitated, unbending a dog-eared page. ‘Theoretically, you have taken this week off as a holiday. But you are… welcome to assist, if you wish. I will pay you extra, of course.’ He slotted the book into the shelf and plucked up another. ‘I can probably stretch to overtime rates, if you insist on them.’

She paused with her scarf half-unwound. ‘Oh.’

‘Of course, you would probably rather spend the week with your… novels.’

She thought about it, slush plinking off her knees onto the floorboards.

Had Snape really not seen what she’d thought he had, last night? Or had he forgiven her?

She cleared her throat. ‘I think I’d actually… prefer the lab. To novels. If that’s all right.’

He looked at her in surprise. She expected him to say something harsh – something about her lack of social life, about her input not being needed and him only asking out of politeness, about how slow she was, about her always drinking too much wine to be of any use anyway – but he simply returned to his book-shelving and said, ‘Nine o’clock tomorrow morning, then. Don’t be late.’

She headed upstairs with her stomach churning.

What was she doing? She was trying to avoid Snape! She was meant to be moving out soon!

Why did these potions projects have to be so benightedly interesting?

***

Nine o’clock arrived. Hermione stood at the door to the lab, smoothing down her skirt. She hadn’t meant to dress extra smart, but after the debacle of the last few days – well… she couldn’t look a complete slob, could she? She usually wore makeup and a smart skirt to work, and her nicest pearl earrings (a gift from the Merchieftainess to thank her for solving an unpleasant spate of attacks on Merpeople – hardly jewellery, more a reward, and one she felt proud to wear) well, they were just a little touch. The blush-toned cashmere cardigan wasn’t even new. This was all perfectly normal.

Her heart fluttered, but that was just residual nerves. She had anxiety attacks; she was a nervous person. Everyone found Snape scary. Of course she was jittery. That surge of adrenaline she experienced when she opened the door and saw his dark silhouette at the workbench had nothing to do with what had occurred during the last few days – nothing whatsoever.

And the fact her stomach dipped when he didn’t look up – and dipped further when he spoke without pausing his work, to tell her he had got to a delicate stage, and wanted her to pick an independent project from the log book to get on with – that was a perfectly understandable reaction to his rudeness. It certainly wasn’t disappointment.

Biting her lip, she crossed to her side of the bench and opened her book.

***

Lunchtime approached. The project Hermione had picked – a straightforward brewing of Dreamless Sleep for an elderly warlock with intractable nightmares – neared completion. It hadn’t been the most thrilling brew, but the knowledge she was helping someone filled her with a warm sense of satisfaction. Plus, the shimmering vapours over the cauldrons, the flickering flames, the clink of vials – they were familiar, safe. Finite, concrete things had filled her mind: the repetitive motions, the focus needed to keep to the timings and detect the exact colour change needed. She hadn’t thought about anything else for hours. It had been… relaxing. She'd needed it.

Setting down her stirring rod, she chanced a look at Snape. He stood deep in concentration, a small crease on his brow, his eyes fathomless in the glow of the flames. He mixed the contents of his cauldron with precise, confident strokes – clockwise, anticlockwise, figure-of-eight. It was somehow both astonishingly ordinary, and so arcane she was intruding by watching.

He did a lot of good, she reflected – and he worked so hard at it. No-one ever saw. He didn’t even want them to.

And Snape wasn’t actually a nasty supervisor – he just wanted everything done with the same care he’d give if he did it himself, and found it frustrating when other people didn’t live up to his standards. Honestly, when hadn’t she felt exasperated with her co-workers for being careless, for their irritating lapses in logic, for their inability to understand perfectly clear instructions? Not just them. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d lost patience with Ron over the simplest things. Really, now she’d got used to it, she’d take Snape’s exacting stance over most people’s stressfully lackadaisical approach any time. She could trust him – she didn’t need to worry he’d get things wrong. It was also nice working with someone she didn’t constantly have to wait to catch her up – or hide her intelligence around.

Of course they’d had their moments, but now she realised Snape’s sporadic annoyances with her were a tiny, neglected backwater of the ocean of anger he kept in reserve for himself, they felt less significant. The vicious words she’d feared at the start of their collaboration said more about him than they did about her. His prickliness was meant to stop anyone getting too close because he thought he didn’t deserve company. Now she knew that, was it strange it had the opposite effect? That she wanted to show him not everyone was going to run away with their tail between their legs, just because he wished it?

Even if she couldn’t set aside all the insufferable things he’d said, she had to admire the way he was so determined to keep doing the right thing. Most of his potions projects were thankless tasks, conducted for nobodies. Yet he gave each the utmost care, never scrimping because he disliked the client, or they were unimportant, or they couldn’t pay in full. He was also doing his best to use his potions work to make up for the tragedies of the war; she’d seen enough now to realise refusing to charge Lavender Brown for her Wolfsbane Potion was only the tip of the iceberg. And with her… he’d taken her into his home because she had nowhere else to go, although it was surely the last thing he’d wanted. He’d saved her life after the werewolf attack when he could have dumped her outside St Mungo’s and left her to the results of her own recklessness.

He was brave, too – the Floo Ball had proved that, even if she hadn’t seen everything he’d done during the War – and it wasn’t pretence, or bravado. He did what was necessary, whether painful or pleasant, without caring what anyone thought. So unlike Ron, with his constant insecurities, and comparisons with others, and never-ending need for reassurance. So unlike herself, if she was honest. She’d always cared slightly too much where she came in the pecking order. It was refreshing to discover someone so unbothered.

She’d even come to have an appreciation for Snape’s dry sense of humour, now she’d realised it existed.

And he wasn’t actually bad-looking, with all that dark hair, and those flashing eyes with their black fire…

She gasped. The stirring rod clattered to the floor.

‘You’ve given me a love potion!’ she blurted.

He blinked and twitched to face her, his features scrunching into a look of uncomprehending disgust. ‘I beg your pardon? Are you unable to read an ingredient list? It was a sleeping draught. I am not running a joke shop, I have serious work to do. Love potions are vile concoctions, brewed only by the most puerile of egotists. The day I ask you to brew one I want you to go straight to the Ministry and inform them I have been replaced by a Polyjuiced imposter and they have a severe security breach on their hands. I have never brewed a love potion in my life. I beg I will only elect to do so when I am too senile to tell one end of a cauldron from the other.’

He fixed her with a last glare (her heart raced) and twitched back towards his cauldron in a swirl of robes.

She swallowed hard. ‘Right,’ she whispered. ‘My mistake. Um. Sorry, I’m feeling a little… lightheaded. Must be the fumes. Excuse me.’

She hurried from the room and down the stairs, not stopping until her back was against the closed door of her bedroom.

It was the fact mention of love potions had thrown Snape so completely that proved without doubt he had never slipped her one. If he’d actually dosed her, his denial would have been perfectly smooth.

Which meant…

Which meant…

Oh, no.

She screwed her eyes shut and held her breath.

She couldn’t have a crush on Snape! Okay, so he was brilliant… and brave… and funny… and he seemed to care about her despite himself, and he wasn’t bad company, and – but no! He’d been a Death Eater! He’d joined an organisation that had tried to wipe people like her off the face of the earth! He must have killed Muggles like her parents, Muggleborns like herself!

She couldn’t possibly feel a shred of attraction for him. She couldn’t! She’d been cooped up with him too long, that was all. She was still getting over Ron, and she was lonely, and it was Christmas, and he was just there.

She didn’t have feelings for him. Impossible.

In fact… Yes. She would prove it to herself. She would go straight back to the lab and behave perfectly normally: cool and professional, adult. She could cope. She did not have a teenage crush.

She squared her shoulders and headed upstairs.

When she re-entered the lab, Snape’s gaze flickered to the open skylight, then to her.

‘I hope you have… sufficiently recovered?’

He raised an eyebrow, his eyes dark and warm. She stared.

What was it about his face? He ought to be ugly – he was ugly – but then, why were all his expressions so… so compelling? And his eyes… They were…

‘I’m fine,’ she squeaked. Snatching a breath, she hurried to her workbench, scrambling onto the stool and leafing the pages of her log book without seeing anything.

When Snape turned down the flame under his cauldron and prowled off downstairs, she groaned and buried her head in her hands.

She was not fine. Whatever was she going to do? She had to work herself out of this mess!

Chapter Text

Hermione was still in a fug of flusterment when Snape’s steps rang outside and the lab door creaked open. She braced her shoulders and forced herself not to turn towards him like a besotted sunflower.

Snape paused just inside the door.

What was he doing? Was he… studying her? Ack, of course he wasn’t! He was examining the colour of the steam rising from his cauldron, or he’d just had an interesting thought about antidote laws! What was wrong with her? Eye contact – she had to avoid eye contact at all costs—

‘I took the liberty of making lunch,’ Snape announced. ‘Apologies if you are sick of turkey sandwiches.’

She whipped towards him.

Snape was… carrying a tea tray. A rather garish one, admittedly, of the Queen celebrating her silver jubilee, but still. On it were two plates of sandwiches, a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, and two cans of Vimto. Snape drank Vimto?

Hermione stared.

Was this some kind of… crush-induced hallucination?

He cleared his throat. ‘If you are not hungry, I can—’

‘No! No, I’m hungry!’ She sprang up so fast the stool toppled; she made a wild grab for it. Fortunately, Snape had just passed her and didn’t see. Heart pounding, face scarlet, Hermione set the stool upright and clutched it hard.

She had to get out of here! She was bound to make a fool of herself.

But Snape would assume it was a snub – especially after the things she’d said about his cooking. Even if she made plausible excuses, it would bother him if she just ran off.

Could she pretend to have an upset stomach? It wasn’t even really a lie.

No – she couldn’t. She couldn’t do that to him.

She’d just have to control herself. Her eyes, especially. Also her mouth. Her words, rather. Ack.

Snape cast a barrier charm to stop the potion fumes interfering with their lunch, then set the tray down between his photograph of the Malfoys and an opened treatise on werewolf biology, and settled into the desk chair.

Hermione’s shoulders lowered a fraction. Snape was busy reading. They wouldn’t inadvertently make eye contact. She could sit on the sofa to eat, with no likelihood whatsoever of elbow bumping or accidental spillages of Vimto. But still: this was ridiculous. She had to find some way to get over this crush! They were colleagues – they needed to spend time together. She had to be able to concentrate or she’d blow herself up. Surely if she discovered things Snape had done as a Death Eater, they would shock her out of her infatuation?

Hands slick with sweat, she approached the desk.

Snape opened the packet of crisps. He shook a few beside the sandwiches, then held out a plate without looking up. ‘Here you are.’

Feeling exposed and ridiculous, she surreptitiously wiped her palms on her skirt, then took the food. ‘Thanks.’

He ignored her.

She nodded to herself and perched on the sofa. The plain turkey sandwiches looked up at her in all their unadorned, white-breaded glory.

Could Snape see her out of the corner of his eye?

She tried to breathe normally, and took a bite. Dry turkey crumbled in her mouth.

How had she never noticed chewing was weird – her jaw extending, her skin stretching over her teeth? Why had she never realised how bizarre she must appear when eating?

How many times was it normal to chew before swallowing? Was it thirty? Wasn’t that some kind of oppressive Victorian notion – or was that idea trite pseudohistory she ought to be embarrassed she half-believed?

Oh, gosh, the tip of her nose wobbled every time she chewed – her cheeks went all stretched – her lips ended up weirdly pressed-together.

Had Snape noticed how long she was taking to chew this?

She swallowed. The sandwich caught in her throat. She gulped, but the sandwich didn’t go down. She tried to cough, tried to gasp – her windpipe was clogged – she couldn’t breathe—

‘Anapneo,’ came Snape’s bored voice, just in front of her.

Coughing uncontrollably, she wheezed and blinked water from her eyes.

He slid his wand back up his sleeve, frowning. ‘You know, you seem strangely determined to expire on that sofa.’

She flapped a hand. ‘Choked—’

‘Obviously.’

He observed her spluttering for a few more seconds, then Summoned the tray. Then he sat down next to her and handed her a Vimto.

She went rigid. If he looked into her eyes… She screwed them shut and tried to cover it by coughing harder than was strictly necessary.

His voice was very close. ‘You do realise breathing and swallowing are mutually exclusive functions?’

‘Mm?’ Her eyes had flown open and she was looking at him, and she hadn’t even meant to blink. Thank goodness he was focussed on his sandwiches. ‘I – I suppose…?’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I did wonder, for a moment.’

He turned – and their eyes met. And his were dark and liquid, and glimmering with humour.

And a large part of her wanted to dive into them, hang the consequences.

Gosh – no—

‘Why did you become a Death Eater?’ she blurted.

His humour disintegrated. Winter slammed into his eyes.

He turned away as though she had slapped him, and his hair hid his expression.

For long, horrible moments, he sat motionless, his hands clawed around the tray.

Her breath froze in her chest. Oh, no. No, no, no… Why had she said that?

Why on earth had she said that?

She was too shocked at herself to even brace for the inevitable explosion.

He was going to eviscerate her. He would sack her. Evict her. Scream in her face—

‘Because I was an idiot,’ he hissed, fists clenching so hard she feared the tray would break.

Her breathing abruptly began functioning. ‘I’m so, so sorry – I shouldn’t have asked that – I don’t know why—’

‘Because you wanted to know.’ His voice was dangerously soft. ‘Of course you did. So I’ll tell you. If you wish to hear so very badly.’

‘I don’t—’

‘You don’t know where to start?’ he mused, quietly vicious. ‘Perhaps with my childhood – yes, why not – let us start with the ignominy of being abandoned to the worst sort of Muggle poverty. Of being unable to lift a finger to help my suffering mother. Of feeling too ashamed to invite my only friend home. Of finding books of Dark Magic and knowing here was power – here was what I needed to escape, to thrive – yet knowing I could not touch it. Of being taught to hide my magic by one so downtrodden she had lost the ability to use it herself. Then getting my acceptance letter from Hogwarts and thinking, finally, finally I could stop being such a pathetic little worm? Finally I could be among my own kind, could come into my power? Can you imagine how I arrived with such hope? Only to discover that at the very place I had longed for as if it were Heaven itself, I was nothing, I could do nothing – I was pathetic, weak, useless, prey – almost killed by senseless idiots; no-one cared, why should they? – and I lost my… my friend because I was… because I couldn’t even defend myself from…’

He broke off, hands twitching convulsively.

‘Can you imagine,’ he continued, ‘living alongside the children of the Dark Lord’s followers for seven years? Seeing they had everything you wanted – a family who adored them, friends, respect, prestige, prospects. Seeing they were safe, and well, and cared-for, forever untouchable – yet not longing for a piece of it? Not thinking that if only – if only I had that – then maybe I would be… acceptable?’ He paused. His face twisted. ‘Of course, it was all lies.’

There was a horrible silence. Hermione’s toes curled in her shoes. She hadn’t meant to ask. She didn’t want to know. Yet, on some level… didn’t she need to hear his explanations?

She took a deep breath and fixed him with a level gaze. She’d stumbled into this conversation; she’d never get a second chance to ask. She had to know.

‘But… you must have realised what they were like, the other Slytherins – even if you envied them. You must have seen the way they wanted to… to treat people like me.’

He met her eyes fleetingly, then glared at the floor. When he spoke, his voice was soft. ‘Every student in my dorm used slurs against Muggleborns. It was… a common language. Something we shared, along with the insidious ambition to make a difference. It was revolting. I should have known better than to go along with it – I had grown up with Muggles, they weren’t animals – but even Lily couldn’t shake me awake.’ He paused, examining his hands. ‘I told myself it was just words – and I knew the power of words to hurt, but… I didn’t want to examine their ideology. I was too caught up in wanting to belong, to be impressive and powerful. In my utter idiocy, I thought the Dark Lord could give me all the things I so desperately desired. I suppose you think I ought to have joined Dumbledore, but… my tormentors were in his little coterie. I longed for them to fear me. I imagined making them suffer. I wanted them dead. They’d wanted me dead. Since they had joined Dumbledore – how could I? I would never work with them. Dumbledore repulsed me, and the Dark Lord offered all I ever dreamed.’

He looked at her, lip curling.

‘None of these are excuses for what I did. I was utterly pathetic, disgusting, sniffing around after the Dark Lord’s favour like a mangy stray at a bin, practically wetting myself with excitement on discovering a turd. I was elated to overhear the… the Prophesy. Delighted to report it to the Dark Lord. Obscenely grateful he noticed me. Pleased to be Marked.’ His left hand twitched, and he set the tray on the floor to rub his right thumb over the inside of his wrist. ‘You know the rest of the story.’

She swallowed and looked up at the skylights, where the weak winter sun struggled against the clouds.

She’d heard some of this before from Harry, but hearing it from Snape was… different.

She wouldn’t have done the same, she told herself. She would have stood strong. She wouldn’t have fallen for Voldemort’s lies – she had more moral fibre.

Didn’t she?

Yes, because you never want to look impressive so badly you’d do something immoral, said a sarcastic little voice in her head. You never want to prove you’re better than everyone else, hang the consequences. You’ve never, ever craved the approval of a dubious authority figure because of a creeping sense of worthlessness – not even once. Have you?

But Snape had done terrible things as a Death Eater, surely? She’d never murdered anyone. Just overworked a bit. Maybe said a few unpleasant things – only when she was stressed, it wasn’t the same! Some nasty hexes, not strictly necessary – only for the worst kind of Dark wizards – only in extreme cases – and keeping Rita Skeeter in a jar had been necessary, really…

Oh, gosh, she had to know. She was in this deep already.

‘D-did you ever kill anyone? I don’t mean Professor Dumbledore, I mean…’ She trailed off.

Snape studied his wrist.

The panicked beating of Hermione’s heart thundered in her ears.

‘My father was called up in the Second World War,’ he said with strained quiet. ‘About the only useful piece of advice he ever gave me was this. There are two questions you never ask anyone who served during wartime: the first is, “Were you afraid?” The second… is your question.’

Her pulse crescendoed. She licked her lips. ‘But—’

‘I stood by and watched.’ His voice grew louder. ‘I let the Dark Lord’s followers do whatever they wanted – I didn’t interfere, I egged them on! I produced information which led to people’s deaths, deaths on both sides – I brewed poisons and didn’t ask how they were used – what else do you want to hear?’ He stood, hands balled into fists. ‘WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE WHETHER I KILLED THEM MYSELF?’

She met the stark, black fury in his eyes, and looked away. Her face stung; her fingertips prickled.

‘I didn’t want to upset you,’ she whispered. ‘I shouldn’t have—’

‘TOO RIGHT YOU SHOULDN’T!’

He stood there, chest heaving, and for a moment she thought he would go for his wand. Then he stalked off, turning his back. There was a long silence. He ran a finger along the bench, then clasped his hands behind him. ‘Can’t stop yourself, can you? Always have to know. To push and probe. It’s like you’ve never heard the phrase curiosity killed the cat – or did your illustrious parents never teach you that rudimentary Muggle saying?’

‘I – I think I’d better leave.’ She rose from her seat, careful to make no sudden movements.

Curiosity killed the cat.

After he’d poisoned people.

Her legs shook.

He twitched towards her. The colour drained from his face. ‘Hermione, I didn’t mean it – not like that. It’s just a saying—’

‘Excuse me.’ She backed away.

He took a step towards her; his hand rose in an impulsive gesture—

She broke and fled.

Twisting to slam the door between them, she caught sight of him staring after her, stricken, one hand at the temples of his face, his mouth half-framing a word. Then the door shut, and the darkness at the top of the stairwell swallowed her.

She braced against the door handle, panting.

Snape was a killer. Of course he was a killer! She’d always known it! Or had she somehow thought he was miraculously innocent? She’d been an Auror – she knew this type of person! She’d been so wilfully naïve!

She stumbled down the stairs, half-running.

What had possessed her to think that because Snape owed her, she could barge into his life and imagine it would be okay? That after that conversation on Christmas Eve, he would grow approachable?

What on earth had she been doing, nurturing a crush, when all this lay underneath?

She should never have come here in the first place.

Everything she’d done since breaking up with Ron had been a terrible idea.

Breaking up with Ron had been a terrible idea.

All her decisions were terrible.

She was a terrible person.

Oh Merlin and his multicoloured raincoat, she had to get out of this house.

Chapter Text

Hermione ran out of Spinner’s End with only the clothes she stood up in – she had to get away, get out; she was suffocating for lack of space. Not noticing where she put her feet in the slush and puddles, she took random turnings and passed through a gap in some railings. When she emerged beside the sluggish mud-grey river, she ploughed on. The ground squelched. Her shoes became caked in filth. An animal skull – cat? fox? – leered from a drift of rotten leaves and litter.

Her thoughts churned, murky as the water.

Snape had stood by and let people be murdered. He had approved. He’d made poisons for Voldemort. He’d told Voldemort people’s secrets, knowing it would lead to their deaths. Knowing.

When his actions had ended in murder, did it matter who held the wand?

She couldn’t believe she’d never allowed her thoughts to take this path before. Oh, she’d known Snape was a Death Eater, but out of loyalty to Harry and gratefulness for Snape’s spy work, she’d never probed. And she’d been sharing a house with him! Why had she refused to think? Snape had stood by and watched people like her parents tormented and murdered for no other reason than that they existed. Voldemort’s followers were responsible for so many known magical deaths – never mind the people who’d simply disappeared, the unnamed Muggles. How could he? The way the Death Eaters had treated Muggleborns – the way they’d had their wands taken, been rounded up and sent to Azkaban, or worse – how had he ever wanted such things? Lily had been Muggleborn!

And he’d egged the Death Eaters on.

She should have known it all – in the back of her mind, she supposed she had known. But to hear it in his own words, in that soft, velvet voice… He regretted it, but so what? His regrets couldn’t undo his crimes. Those people were dead; they’d never come back – and it was his fault.

It was as though something hot tightened around her; she couldn’t catch her breath.

A concrete bridge loomed ahead, traffic hissing across, headlights yellow in the gloom. Used needles glittered on the riverbank in the sporadic flashes of light. Hermione’s common sense reasserted itself and she shivered. She might be a witch, but it was getting dark, and the few buildings that overlooked this miserable stretch of water were blank-faced, with curtains drawn over their windows. If she trod on a needle, it would be extremely… annoying.

Plus, what about werewolves?

She ought to find somewhere more populated.

Checking no-one was around, she Conjured a stepladder and let herself over a wall into the nearest street.

She hadn’t bothered exploring Cokeworth before – that jaunt around Snape’s neighbourhood the day she’d seen Ron at the Leaky Cauldron barely counted – so she had no idea where she was. The houses here were semis, with mock-Tudor beams and tarmacked gardens infested with Ford Mondeos and Honda Civics. It was a nicer area than Spinner’s End, but she didn’t fancy wandering around at here at night – there were too few people. Deciding there might be signposts to the city centre on the road with the bridge, she followed the sound of the cars, hugging herself against the cold.

Why had she run out without a coat or hat? She’d completely lost her mind. Conjuring clothing the right size required arithmantic workings, and she was in a Muggle neighbourhood: she couldn’t even cast a Heating Charm without drawing attention to herself. And although Snape had said most of the werewolves had been captured at the Floo ball, she ought not to run out with only her wand.

She’d over-reacted, hadn’t she?

Snape hadn’t been threatening her. She’d known it, deep down. It had just been the shock of imagining this man – his careful intellect, his sharp wit, his elegant hands – doing such unspeakable things, that had catapulted her onto the street.

She should have grabbed her coat, or at least told him where she was going.

Where was she going?

The street of semi-detached houses fed onto a main road. Choosing at random, she turned left, walking faster to keep herself warm. Cars roared past, kicking icy spray onto the pavement. Finally, a sign said City Centre – there was a stylised depiction of a museum.

So, she was heading towards the sights of Cokeworth – whatever those might be. At the very least, there’d be restaurants. She’d settle for a pub that wasn’t too full of dogs.

She marched past a secondary school, the wire fence festooned with dead bindweed, droplets of water glinting in car headlights.

Why on earth had Dumbledore let Snape teach? He’d known what Snape was. Why had anyone thought someone like that was safe to leave unsupervised around children? Half the Slytherins she knew had been radicalised by their parents. Snape hadn’t lifted a finger to counter it, had he? Was he really as far from what he’d been as he appeared?

She hunched against the rain. Hot tightness constricted her chest.

Never mind letting someone who’d been a Death Eater take a position of power over children – why had Dumbledore kept Snape out of Azkaban? So he’d been useful as a spy – so what? Did the people he’d harmed not matter? What about justice! Regretting things didn’t erase the fact they’d happened!

Surely Dumbledore hadn’t thought it was all okay?

She blinked and rubbed her face, and realised she’d been crying since she left the house.

For goodness’ sake! That awful man didn’t deserve to – to take up her emotions! He didn’t deserve for her to cry over his miserable, wretched existence!

She stopped walking and stamped her foot – meltwater surged into her shoe, frigid and filthy – and she hated the slush and she hated the cold and she hated Cokeworth. And she hated Snape.

Then she was sobbing hysterically, hunched over with her fists in her mouth.

It did matter who'd held the wand.

It did matter that it hadn’t been him.

But he was still a horrible, awful person. He was so evil—

But he wasn’t. He wasn’t. He’d almost died to bring down the Death Eaters. He despised himself for what he’d done under Voldemort’s orders. Since he’d relayed the Prophesy, every moment of his existence had been eaten up trying to atone for his crimes. He’d been willing to sacrifice everything to ensure the Light won – his life, his future, his freedom.

She couldn’t hate him.

She wanted to, though. What he’d done hurt – physically, sickeningly, a fist throttling her heart. But then… she couldn’t make herself unsee everything else he was. Because he… he was good. And it tormented her to know his goodness was tainted by the horrible things he’d done. She was repulsed – she was – she was nauseated, sickened – but in the same breath she found herself crushed by pity, to the point she could hardly draw breath.

He had suffered, and suffered, and suffered. His childhood had been a litany of misery. And every time he’d thought he was about to be set free – every time he’d so much as smelled fresh air – he’d been shoved under the water again and left to drown.

That’s when she realised Dumbledore hadn’t employed Snape at Hogwarts to save him from prison – it had been a prison. Dumbledore had kept him there to watch him. Snape hadn’t been able to leave. He had hated teaching.

Then there was the fact anyone and everyone he’d cared about was dead because of him.

She couldn’t imagine going through half the things he had, and finding the determination to keep existing.

No – the remarkable thing about Snape was not his anger, or his bitterness, or the fact it was almost impossible for him to say a kind word. It was the fact he could still cast a Patronus.

She sobbed harder. She wanted to go back – no, she didn’t – she wouldn’t ever go back to him, to that horrible house. Would she?

Could she leave him all alone, now she knew him like this?

‘You all right, pet?’ came a voice from behind her.

She gasped and spun, hand leaping to the wand in her sleeve.

A Muggle man in a hi-vis jacket stood a few paces away. There was a white van behind him on the side of the road with its hazard lights flashing. The man raised slow hands as though she was an animal that might attack.

She must look utterly deranged. He probably thought she’d been going for a knife when she went to grip her wand.

‘Hello,’ she gasped, dropping her hands. ‘I’m… I’m fine, just having a bit of a moment.’

‘I, er… I can call someone if you need? The police? There’s a Samaritans’ phone by the bridge, as well. Not that you were…’

‘Oh.’ She smeared the heels of her palms under her eyes, her mascara gritty. ‘No. It’s really okay. I haven’t been, you know, attacked or anything. Just had a… a bad breakup. Got a little overwhelmed.’ She attempted a smile. ‘I’m just on my way home.’

‘Okay. I see.’ His posture relaxed; he turned embarrassed. ‘Sorry, then.’

‘No, don’t be! It was very sweet of you.’ She tried to laugh; it came out false and tinkling. ‘Another time, maybe. Or another person. But I’m perfectly fine.’

He pulled out a lopsided grin. ‘All right. Well, safe walking then. Ta-ra.’

‘Bye.’ She watched him get back into the van, then realised he could see her staring.

She strode away, attempting to look purposeful. She was acting like a lunatic; at this rate, she’d be arrested. She needed to find a nice restaurant, eat some dinner, and decide what she was going to do. No more scaring the Muggles.

She huffed out a cloud of breath. Merlin’s arthritic kneecaps, this was an awful day.

She would go to Harry and Ginny’s after dinner. Their sofa would do for the night. They’d understand.

But the thought of Snape waiting for her in that cold, dark house, alone, wondering if she’d ever return, ambushed her. Her heart squeezed.

Could she do that to him? On Christmas Eve, she’d said she would stay. He’d be worried if she disappeared. She could send her Patronus to him to explain, but what would he think? That he disgusted her, repulsed her, frightened her, like he did everyone else? He would never know it wasn’t true.

No, it wasn’t a simple decision, leaving Snape’s house. It was certainly too big a decision to make on the spur of the moment, on an empty stomach.

It began to sleet again. Hermione trudged faster and pulled her cardigan tight. The road was hemmed in on either side by narrow Victorian houses which grimaced at each other down flights of weed-ridden steps. Side alleys gaped like gurning mouths. A bus went past, splashing her with spray.

Even Luna and Rolf’s boat couldn’t be as soggy as she was right now.

She should have asked the kind Muggle with the white van for a lift. Much more of this and she was Apparating to Harry and Ginny’s, and eating James’ half-chewed leftovers.

Or Apparating back to Spinner’s End and admitting she was a fool.

She sighed.

Up ahead, a bus shelter loomed. She made a beeline for it, and studied the route map in the flicker of a faulty street light. Only three more stops until Cokeworth City Centre. There had to be something along here soon. Honestly, at this point she’d be glad to find a McDonald’s, she was so cold and wet.

There couldn’t possibly be any Muggles watching her right now, could there? Surely it was okay to cast a few spells to keep herself from hypothermia?

Glancing around, she turned her back to the traffic, edged her wand out of her sleeve and performed a wordless Rain-Repelling Charm. Then, still dripping, she flicked a Drying Spell onto her clothes. The rush of warmth was enough to make her fingers curl. Delicious. She felt like herself again: Hermione Granger, ex-Auror, adventuress, Discoverer of Cokeworth.

She tucked her wand away, headed back into the downpour and marched on.

She was so fixated on squinting through the murk towards the hopeful lights that had just appeared up ahead – was that a KFC? – she didn’t hear running footsteps until they were at her heels. She spun towards the sound – too late. A shadow leaped. Searing pain ripped through her ear. She was shoved off-balance – then a teenage boy went racing away from her into the night, the stripes on his sports jacket pale under the streetlights.

Her ear stung like fire. Trembling, she put her hand to her earlobe. It came back hot and sticky.

Her earring was gone.

Ahead, the boy slowed to a jog. Leering, blue eyes flashing in the streetlight, he made a crude hand gesture at her and sauntered off down a side alley.

Fury flamed through her. That boy had… had torn off her earring. He had ripped her earlobe, and stolen the pearl she’d been given as a thankyou gift by the Merchieftainess! He…

How dare he?

Shaking, she drew her wand. She would deal with that boy. He was never going to get away from her.

She threw herself forward, accelerated into a sprint. She reached the turnoff to the alleyway and the boy came into sight, white trainers flashing in the dark and sleet. She flung an invisible Tripping Jinx after him. He stumbled and crashed into a wheely bin, which toppled, spilling bin bags. Chasing after him, feet hammering the alley cobblestones, Hermione threw another spell in a lightless whir of air. It missed and hit a bin bag; rubbish spewed in a burst of fishy rot. The boy yelled and leaped up, then stooped and twisted towards her.

Something flew spinning at her eyes.

She ducked. Whatever the boy had thrown smashed on the alley wall behind her. Disorientated, she lost her footing on the wet cobblestones and fell. Her knees slammed into grit. Her wrists jarred.

Merlin and Morgana – owwww.

She dragged herself upright and pushed herself back into a sprint. The boy was running again but he had slowed – winded, she guessed – and was looking around the alley as if seeking an exit. With a thrill, she realised she was going to catch him. He cast a look behind – saw how close she was – swore and shoved a wheely bin into her path. She hurdled it like a sprinter, readied her wand—

The boy had vanished.

Panting, she pulled up short.

There’d been no sound. He hadn’t Apparated. Where had he gone? He’d been looking for a way out…

She searched the alleyway with her eyes. Movement – a gate swinging, just where she’d lost him. She strode forward, wand raised—

A weight wrapped her and pinned her arms. Her wand went flying – a silent Expelliarmus – she was being attacked by a magic-user – this had been an ambush! Forcing down panic, she struggled. Doubled up, grunting, she shoved her elbow into her attacker’s stomach. Breath hissed hot by her cheek—

‘Hermione, stop,’ Snape’s voice strained at her ear.

She froze.

Snape’s chest rose and fell against her tensed back, his arms braced tight around her. He had to be under a powerful Disillusionment Charm – she couldn’t see him, only feel him. The scent of Dragonhide and the mingled aromas of the potions he’d been working on before he’d left home wafted against her. It really was him – he was here. The urge to relax into him, so warm in the cold rain, so familiar despite everything she’d learned, so needed despite her complicated feelings, was hard to resist – but she did resist.

Snape couldn’t stop her running after her attacker. She was a fully-grown witch, and an ex-Auror, and she knew what she was doing.

‘He stole my earring! Let me go!’

‘It was meant to lure you in,’ Snape panted. ‘There is a house full of werewolves through there. The full moon is tomorrow – they know what we’re working on. They will do anything to stop us, and they are only holding back because they are unsure if you are alone. I’d rather not Apparate with you against your will, but it would be better for you to get Splinched than suffer whatever they have planned. We have to go.’

She wanted to argue – that boy had violated her, injured her, humiliated her. The pearl meant something, it wasn’t simple jewellery. They’d done fine at the ball: they could take on a few werewolves together now, surely? Snape didn’t understand.

But tension was radiating off Snape like cold from a Dementor.

A shuffling past the gate, in the darkness.

Fear crawled up her throat.

Snape was wary of whatever lay through there. She would be senseless to continue.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Okay.’

Abruptly, adrenaline deserted her. She sagged against Snape, craving the comfort of being held, of his solid warmth at her back, the protection of his magic. But he’d let go, and in the darkness with the Disillusionment Charm active she couldn’t see him. She staggered.

An icy hand gripped her wrist and pressed it to his forearm.

The suffocating blackness of Apparition swallowed them.

Chapter Text

Hermione had been expecting to arrive outside Spinner’s End, but emerged from Apparition disorientated, her shoes sinking into wet grass. She was somewhere frigid, blustery and dark; there was the empty feeling of a vast, outdoor space. It smelled of sheep. Her ear throbbed blindingly in a strong wind. She looked around, bewildered, teeth chattering. The Milky Way glittered across the sky past scattered clouds. There was no sound but the rushing of air through the grass.

‘Where are we?’ she gasped, shivering.

To her right, Snape appeared as he removed his Disillusionment Charm, his silhouette a deeper black against the night. ‘We’re on the moors. Here, take your wand.’

She fumbled for it, clutching his hand by mistake before she found the rod of vine wood. It was warm and appreciative where his fingers had been cold and shrinking.

Her voice hitched with nerves. ‘Why are we here?’

Had the werewolves somehow messed up their Apparition? It was un-heard-of, but so was curing Lycanthropy…

‘Because it’s a safer place to talk than a werewolf-infested backstreet. Tell me where you’d prefer to be, so we can leave.’

She glanced at him and caught him regarding the sky, starlight reflected in his eyes. This was Snape’s doing? Was the house compromised? Was it… what she’d said?

She fumbled for words, but her ear hurt too much for subtlety. ‘I thought you’d just Apparate me home. Like you did after the ball. Why did you—’

‘Home?’ He threw her a sharp look.

Her throat went dry. ‘Yes. If it’s safe. Unless you… unless you don’t want me there any more?’

He hesitated. Now her eyes were used to the dark, she could make out his face: the crease of his brows.

He was going to tell her she wasn’t welcome—

‘You consider my house your home?’

She blinked, eyes running in the wind. ‘Of course I do.’

There was another long pause. The wind whipped Snape’s hair. ‘I remain unclear. You genuinely wish to return to my house, and not go to, say, Potter’s? After our conversation, after… after I threatened you?’

She swallowed, remembering her rambling diatribe as she’d wandered in the sleet.

This was her last chance to say no, and leave Snape forever – to get out of this weird situation and chalk her feelings up to emotional perturbation after her breakup with Ron. She could go to the Potters’. Harry and Ginny would look after her. They’d hug her and make her tea. She’d be cocooned in their boisterous family life like she’d never left. The werewolves would surely leave her alone once she was away from Snape and his project. Everything would be fine. She could get herself a little flat of her own. Snape would go back to his solitary, potion-making existence. The only sign she’d ever impinged on his life would be his incongruously floral kitchen. She could almost see him there, alone, eating corned beef sandwiches to the sound of the ticking clock.

And no-one, no-one would ever understand why she’d wanted to stay with an ex-Death Eater who yelled at her and called her idiotic, but cared for her life more than his own.

She couldn’t.

‘I’m going back,’ she said, quiet and determined.

‘But…’ His face twisted. ‘I threatened you. I didn’t mean to – I didn’t think about the words, they just slipped… Hermione, you must leave. Especially after what happened on Christmas Eve. I am not suitable company for you. I would never hurt you, but—’

‘And that’s why I’m going back. Back with you.’ She reached towards him.

He took a step away. ‘No. I will Apparate you to the Potters'. You cannot stay with me. Not after this.’

‘But I can. And I will.’

She reached out. He retreated again. Then she feinted forwards, snatched his wrist with her off hand using a move Harry’d once taught her, and Apparated them both to Spinner’s End.

Chapter Text

The pavement slammed into Hermione’s feet. She barely had time to right herself before Snape dragged open his front door and pulled her inside. The door shut behind them with its familiar rattle.

Knees giving way as her adrenaline rush ebbed, Hermione staggered to where she knew the armchair was, and sank into it. Her ear throbbed unbearably. Her knees and palms stung. The beginnings of a massive headache loomed behind her temples. In the darkness, her breaths were loud. She lowered her face into her hands and saw the boy again, his pleasure at stealing from her, his sinister delight at catching her unawares. Blood ran hot from her ear.

It took a long time before she heard Snape unfreeze from his position by the door and remove his cloak. The lamp flared into light, red through her eyelids. Floorboards creaked. She sensed Snape pause, his breath hushed. Then he strode out of the room. The stairs echoed with his footsteps.

When she was sure he couldn’t hear her, she let out a groan.

She hadn’t felt this awful since recovering from taking that experimental potion on the night of the Floo ball; she was wrung out like an old tea towel. The safety and warmth of the house released all the shivering she’d been holding off. Hugging herself to brace against it, she noticed her knees poking out of rents in her ruined tights, alien bloodscapes of dirt. Somehow, everything hurt a lot more now she could see it. She adjusted her posture and hissed.

Snape’s footsteps prowled rapidly down the stairs. He appeared, carrying healing potions and clean gauze. There was a coppery smudge on his cheek where he’d restrained Hermione and unwittingly brushed against her ear. A prickling sense of fury emanated from him, but his expression was unreadable.

Hermione reached for the Essence of Dittany, and he snatched it away.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘But I can—’

He scowled. ‘When you said your earring had been stolen, you failed to mention half your ear had been taken with it!’

‘I can do it in the bathroom mirror.’

‘And lose most of my Essence of Dittany down the sink in the process?’

‘It isn’t that bad—’

He gave her an exasperated look. ‘Says the person who quite clearly cannot see herself.’ He uncorked a bottle. ‘Just… allow me.’

Snape had a point. She acquiesced, looking away.

He arranged the bottles on the spindly table and knelt on the floor beside her, dropper in hand. ‘Hold still.’

‘I c-can’t.’

He hesitated, then slipped his hand under her chin.

His fingers were cool and surprisingly gentle, his thumb firm against her jaw as he tilted her head. Her heart fluttered. She tried to still her shaking but it only grew worse; she fixed her gaze on the nearest bookshelf, afraid of meeting Snape’s eye. Could he feel her pulse? Her breathing was too shallow – could he sense how hard she was trying to hide her reaction to his touch?

A cold drop landed on her damaged ear and she flinched. There was the itching wriggle of skin and flesh regrowing. She sensed Snape’s close regard, and held her breath. His thumb brushed under her healing ear; her eyelids fluttered. Then he released her, and she found herself wishing he hadn’t – or that she’d been paying more attention, forcing the moment to imprint on her memory so she could re-live it. Her skin was cold where he’d taken away his hand.

‘Show me where you fell,’ he said, voice soft.

She turned her hands palm-up, careful to look at them and not into his eyes, and clenched her jaw. Her injuries were worse than she’d expected, dirt and gravel ingrained into raw flesh.

Snape slid his hands under hers and lifted her hands to inspect them. On them, his touch was warm, when it had felt cool against her face.

She swallowed. ‘I’m a bit of a mess, I suppose.’ Her voice emerged husky; she coughed and pretended she’d needed to clear her throat.

He didn’t reply, only brought out his wand and performed a wordless charm. The grit rose from her palms and vanished, piece by piece. It was a neat little spell; she wanted to ask how he managed it but didn’t trust herself to sound normal.

When he dropped her hands and turned aside to tip some of the purple healing ointment onto the gauze, she bit her lip, desperately trying to regroup. She would have to meet Snape’s eyes at some point. She could not continue to think about how much that had felt like holding hands.

It was time to divert her attention.

‘How did they find me?’ she asked. ‘The werewolves? Are they watching the house? Did they follow me all the way from the front door?’

His gaze flickered towards her, then back to the potion bottle. ‘I do not think so. From previous encounters with them, I suspect they are using the Ministry’s ability to track magic usage. Your spellcasting must have given you away.’

Her eyes went wide. ‘They’re spying on us through our magic? You mean, even now—’

‘Not here. My precautions have been… thorough. But when you left my abode and wandered the streets… yes.’

She thought about conjuring that stepladder, and about the charms she’d used to stop herself freezing. The werewolves had only appeared after she’d used magic at the bus stop.

‘How far do your house’s protections extend?’ she asked slowly.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug; a hint of a smirk glittered in his eyes. ‘Reasonably.’

She huffed out a breath. Extending protective magics that distance beyond the boundary of one’s property was very illegal.

‘Isn’t it rather concerning that werewolves have… what? Infiltrated the Ministry?’ Her heart began thundering again. ‘How is that even—’

‘I have been certain they’ve acquired a Ministry insider since the attack at the Floo ball. No-one but you and I know about the cure project, except for a single, named Ministry worker – whom I have not heard from in two months. I suspect she has been… compromised. It would explain why we have been finding it impossible to recruit volunteers to test the potion. At first I simply assumed, as you did, that Lycanthropy patients were wary of untested potions. Later I grew… suspicious.’

Hermione’s hands curled painfully. ‘But why haven’t you told anyone? The Ministry needs to know! The Aurors have to stop them!’

He gave her a longsuffering look of exasperation.

‘Oh. The… the contract… Those secrecy clauses…’

A glacial nod.

She let out a long breath. Snape’s Polyjuiced foray into that werewolf den now made perfect sense. Of course he’d gone to gather intelligence by himself. Of course he was trying to solve the problem alone.

And that compromised Ministry employee, simply caught in the wrong project at the wrong time, now controlled by the werewolf agitators who’d attacked their colleagues at the Floo ball – how awful for them. Whatever had the agitators threatened them with to ensure their compliance?

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she demanded. ‘I could have helped, even if no-one else can!’

‘Yes, I’m sure it would have been extremely useful to have a narcoleptic assistant blowing my cover.’

She huffed. ‘There are plenty of things I could have done from here, sleepy or not. I am a trained Auror; I’m not completely hopeless. I have contacts, and… and soft skills, and…’ She sighed. ‘And honestly, I’m a great deal more welcome at the Ministry than you are, if we need to go snooping around.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Whoever is behind this knows you’re involved. What are you going to do at the Ministry, dangle yourself on a line in the Atrium and ask who wants a bite?’

‘It might flush them out.’

‘It might get you killed.’ He glared, then took her hand in his again and picked up the potion-soaked gauze. ‘Don’t move.’

The potion stung as it hit her raw skin. She hissed.

Snape ignored her and carried daubing it on, then moved to her other hand.

She clenched her teeth. Merlin’s belly button fluff. Why was it always the shallowest cuts that were worst?

‘Better?’ he asked, lifting away the gauze. She parsed his tone as sarcastic – then looked up and saw the slight frown resting between his eyes.

She looked away.

‘Yes.’ Her throat was dry. ‘Much better.’

He gave a sharp nod and let go of her hand; her fingers twitched involuntarily, as if wanting to keep hold of his. She crossed her arms to make the movement look intentional, and her bloodied knees came into the light.

In her peripheral vision, Snape’s frown intensified.

‘I’ll wear trousers next time,’ she quipped, unconvincing even to herself.

His tone sharpened. ‘Next time?’

‘It’s a figure of speech.’

‘You were unconscionably careless.’ He took out his wand again and paused. ‘Partly, I blame your training. Aurors are notorious for assuming they will only come under attack by magic – and for thinking themselves invincible. You completely failed to guard against an attack using Muggle means, and were too focussed on the most obvious threat. I took your wand with astonishing ease. You are fortunate I meant well. Next time, you should guard better against such dangers.’

Snape cast the grit-removing charm on her knees, and she tried to pretend it didn’t hurt as pieces of gravel flew out of her skin.

‘If you’d warned me I was likely to be attacked before I went out, I would have been better prepared!’ she said through chattering teeth.

Snape cast her a sharp look – she glared at him – and picked up more potion-soaked gauze. He hesitated for a long stretch of difficult seconds, staring at her rent tights.

It was painfully obvious he had managed to steel himself to address her ear and hands, but could not countenance touching as intimate a part of her body as her legs.

‘It’s fine, I can do it,’ she said, face stinging with embarrassment.

He handed over the gauze and stood. ‘You already ate, I presume?’

‘No.’ She dabbed on the potion with swift, angry movements, jaw mulish. ‘I was looking for somewhere I could have supper, when… when it became irrelevant.’

‘I see.’ He regarded her a moment, then swept out with the potion bottles. At the last second, he turned and performed a complicated little wand-movement. A heavy, black blanket appeared from nowhere and flumped onto the back of her armchair.

He was gone before she could react.

When she’d finished mopping her knees, she Vanished the blood-smeared gauze, Scoured her hands, then wrapped the blanket around herself. To her surprise, it was cashmere soft and weighted. It pressed on her shoulders until their habitual tightness forced loose. Her breathing eased, though tremors still ran up and down her body. She grew warm for the first time in several hours. She shut her eyes and let herself shiver.

Perhaps it was due to growing up a Muggle, but magical healing always felt off. She sometimes wondered if it was because her injuries always disappeared before her mind could process them. There was a disconnection – a sense of falsehood. Right now, it was the same. She was in shock, but deprived of the evidence of what had caused it. Yet her body still knew. Magical healing was wonderful – she owed it her life – but sometimes she thought it wrong to erase all traces of past hurts. Without them, her reactions felt overblown. Why get so upset, when there was nothing to show?

All the same, she was upset.

She re-lived the shock of the attack: her ear torn, her jewellery snatched. It had all happened so quickly. Now the Merchieftainess’ gift and her battle-confidence were both gone.

Had she ever been a good Auror, or just lucky in her team-mates? She’d been foolhardy tonight, drunk on adrenaline. Why had she rushed in alone without thinking? The boy who’d snatched her earring could have killed her.

Would it happen again?

She tried to bury the thought, but the back of her mental wardrobe was already too stuffed with things she didn’t want to examine. As she attempted to slam the door, they all came spilling out.

Her breathing quickened.

Full moon was tomorrow. Had she been fully cured, or would she turn with the moonlight and endanger everyone around her – would she endanger Snape? Snape… who had been a Death Eater. She’d been so used to thinking of him as her grumpy former professor. She’d never wanted to think about his association with Voldemort. And now she had a crush on him, and had to confront the awful reality. Then there were all the things that had happened to her during the war. The Snatchers. Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix. The memories, all raw, no matter how many times she talked them through with counsellors, with Harry, with Ron… Ron, who she’d rejected, and hurt, and whose unopened letters she’d shoved out of sight under her bed because she couldn’t bear to know what he’d written. On top of them sat her Christmas card from the Auror Office – another unbearable, unopened envelope. She’d resigned from the Aurors, but had she always been bad at her job? Was that why she’d never fit in? Why she couldn’t cope? All the horrors she’d seen, the curses flung clawing in her face, and once ambushed and held underwater—

The kitchen door creaked.

She jumped. Her eyes flew wide. She snatched out her wand—

Framed in the doorway, Snape raised an eyebrow.

He was carrying the Jubilee tea tray. He’d still managed to draw his wand without spilling anything.

‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m just… just… processing.’

His wand disappeared – she assumed up his sleeve, although it happened so fast she didn’t see. ‘There is no need to apologise. Although I am unconvinced this is the best moment to work on your duelling skills.’

She hugged the blanket closer and stared at the grubby rug.

Snape strode over, lowered the tray onto the rickety table, then stood glaring with his arms folded. ‘Eat.’

She looked at the tray. She was expecting crisps at best, but there was a plate of – what was that? Not corned beef, it was too pink. Spam? – sliced very finely, and fried until crispy. And a runny-yolked egg. And little cubes of fried potato, and peas – and some broccoli. With black pepper cracked over the top of it all. Plus a can of Vimto, a glass with ice cubes in the bottom, and some grapes in a little bowl.

Judged strictly in terms of Snape’s cooking, it was haute cuisine.

She swallowed, hoping her voice would work. ‘Um… thank you.’

‘Don’t be absurd. If I hadn’t spoken so—’

‘It wasn’t your fault. I overreacted.’ She snatched up the fork, stabbed a piece of potato and shoved it in her mouth.

‘Careful, that’s ho—’

‘Ow!’ She flapped, the potato burning her tongue. ‘Oh, ow!’

He poured her the Vimto.

She glugged half of it down – then without any idea she’d do so, burst into tears.

It was too much. She was too tired. Nothing made sense. Snape being nice was the last straw. She shouldn’t cry – it was stupid, humiliating – but she couldn’t stop, not even when Snape was standing blurrily in the side of her vision, frozen and awkward and she really didn’t want him to see her like this. Not again.

No. Hang it all. He could see her cry again. It wouldn’t kill them.

She sobbed wildly for several long minutes, her snot-smeared face buried in the soft blanket.

‘Can I get you… a Calming Draught?’ he asked hesitantly, when it became clear she couldn’t stop.

‘N-no!’ she wailed. ‘I’m j-just… tired!’

He left the room.

A painful wash of disappointment, shame and annoyance flooded over her.

He could at least have stayed, even if he didn’t know what to do!

No, it was better he didn’t see her like this. She was a disgusting mess. No-one would want to be here if they could avoid it.

Honestly, what was she thinking? Why did she expect anything more of him? He didn’t even like her.

Besides, this was all her fault, for asking that horrible question about his past and running away.

She howled.

When she heard Snape’s returning footsteps on the stairs, she was sure he was coming to tell her to shut up, or else get his cloak so he could leave the house and she could blubber in disgraced solitude. But instead, he entered the room carrying her laptop. Not glancing her way, he set it up on the rickety table, typed in her password (since when had he known that? The cheek!), inserted a DVD and hit play.

The theme music to Pride and Prejudice filled the room.

She sat up in shock, gaping. But he simply ignored her, and settled on the sofa to watch.

A few moments later, she picked up the dinner tray and joined him.

***

It was a long time afterwards when she glanced across at Snape to see what he was making of Elizabeth and Darcy’s arch banter, and discovered him asleep, his head slanted against the headrest, his eyelashes feathered softly shut.

She stared.

Without the black fire of his eyes, and robbed of its habitual scowl, his face was oddly young-looking. There was something disarmingly vulnerable, almost adolescent, about the thin cheeks, the curtains of hair. His chest gently rose and fell under his crossed arms.

She’d never seen him so relaxed. It was like looking at a different person.

Honestly, if he ever smiled, he’d actually be quite handsome.

Once, on holiday in the New Forest with her parents, she’d lain in the long grass of a meadow to read. A lone deer had appeared from the treeline, like a miracle. The sunlight had gilded its nervous, flickering ears, filled its sad, liquid eyes with light. It had moved tentatively, closer and closer, grazing as it went, the smell of the grass sharp and sweet. When it gazed at Hermione, completely at ease, her breath had caught to be so trusted by something so wild. Then a far-off dog had barked. The deer had started, and vanished into the brush.

It was strange, how this moment should remind her of it so much.

Since when had Snape felt comfortable enough to fall asleep in her company? Did he realise how helpless he’d be, how exposed, how easy it was to read his secrets in his face?

His acted bile and fearsomeness were entirely missing – and only now it was gone could she see that it clearly was an act, even if he didn’t realise so himself.

He’d started teaching when he was barely twenty-two, hadn’t he? Been made Head of House the moment Slughorn retired. Some of his first students had to have been Slytherins he’d shared a dorm with, who’d seen him picked on and miserable. He wouldn’t have been an easy figure for them to respect. She supposed that was why he’d developed this harsh persona – what else could he have done? Without it, and with that inward-looking, young face, he’d have been as much a laughing-stock as Professor Quirrell. Imagine facing that ridicule day in, day out – an endless replay of how he’d suffered as a student – and knowing that under Dumbledore’s terms, he could never leave? No wonder he’d preferred to be feared.

She frowned, watching his hair drift across his cheek. Those years he’d taught at Hogwarts must have been a nightmare. He hated being stared at. He hated social situations, and he’d been completely unable to escape an audience in the school. People made him nervous, she suddenly realised – a nervousness he disguised as anger.

She’d never realised before that Snape was shy, but now, looking at him like this, she couldn’t unsee it. He feared exposure – it was why he covered himself with the long sleeves, the high collars, the endless buttons. He kept his hair long in order to have something to hide behind.

She’d thought, before, that his Patronus didn’t suit him, that it only took that form because of Lily. But now she saw it was entirely his own. He was that shy, skittish creature; he wore the appearance of a predator to stop himself becoming prey, but that wasn’t his true nature.

What could he have been, in a world without Voldemort, able to do anything he wanted? Someone like Damocles Belby, perhaps: famous and respected, a treasured recluse, his only legacy his excellent career in potions. A genius, a national treasure.

It was a horrible shame that this was what had happened instead.

The angle of Snape’s neck looked uncomfortable, and the way he sat hunched with his arms tight about his chest made her wonder if he was cold. She felt a sudden, compassionate urge to wake him and tell him to go to bed. But – well, she remembered the last time she’d interrupted his slumber. And if anyone needed rest, he did. So instead, she inched her wand out of her sleeve and levitated the beautiful, thick, midnight-coloured blanket off her shoulders, softly lowering it over Snape so as not to disturb him, tucking the ends in with flicks of her wand. Then, leaving the laptop running, she left.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke early the next day. She lay in bed with her stomach tight, wondering why she felt nervous, and hoping she’d fall back to sleep. Then she remembered – the attack the previous day, and also – a whole month had passed since she’d been bitten. It was the day of the full moon.

She suppressed a shudder and levered herself upright, then groaned as her legs twinged from her impromptu sprint after the mugger the day before, and sat slumped on her bed.

If there were any traces of Lycanthropy left in her body, then tonight, when the bright moon shone, she’d turn – at least, according to some literature. Other sources seemed to think the transformation was linked to the timing of moonrise, rather than bright, moonlit nights. She wished she’d thought to ask someone with personal experience when the question was purely academic – now she was going to be on tenterhooks all day and night, posing as her very own test subject. She’d need to barricade herself in her room, lock the sash windows, and cast charms to make them and the door unbreakable. She’d have to give Snape the room keys.

Snape.

Okay, so she had feelings for him. She could admit that to herself. Quite strong feelings. And no matter how she argued with herself, they weren’t going away.

In fact, if she really thought about it, she’d felt this way about him for some time – she’d just been in denial.

Gosh, how long had she been attracted to him?

She buried her head in her hands and dug her fingers into her scalp.

This wasn’t a sudden weird crush at all. It was exactly like what had happened with Ron.

She was in love.

She swore under her breath.

What on earth was she going to do?

He didn’t reciprocate her feelings – that was obvious. Perhaps Snape had come to tolerate her presence; perhaps he felt, in some small degree, responsible for her. Perhaps, at times, he even extended to her a grudging respect. But if she told him she was leaving tomorrow, he’d be nothing but relieved. He’d never love anyone but Lily – and if he got over Lily, Hermione Insufferable-Know-It-All Granger was the last person he’d want, always intruding, and prodding him, and bursting into tears. She wasn’t beautiful, or kind. Just pushy.

He hated pushy.

It would be torture if she kept spending this much time around him. Her feelings would only grow stronger. If she’d worked through what he’d done in his time as a Death Eater and accepted him despite it, what else was there left to discover that could put her off, really?

This entire situation was impossible. She’d have to move out, and quit the research job.

Oh no, she couldn’t. She couldn’t do that – it had taken so much to persuade him she could stay, and she liked the work, and… and she’d never see Snape again. He was distant enough when they occupied the same room. If she left, could she bring herself to owl him? For a chat? The idea made her shrivel with embarrassment.

He’d never speak to her again, and he wouldn’t even notice he’d cut her off.

The thought of it made her chest ache.

Also, there were the werewolves to deal with.

Yes, that had to happen first. Leaving Snape to deal with them alone would just be cowardly.

Sighing to herself, Hermione turned the window Impenetrable, threw on her oldest jeans and a chunky knitted jumper, then opened her blue tote bag and swept her belongings into it with her wand. Satisfied with the bare room, she pocketed the room key, and went downstairs.

She found a note from Snape on the kitchen table asking to see her immediately, so after grabbing some toast she searched the house for him, finding him in the lab. He looked up as she walked in; her heart leapt. But she couldn’t read his expression, and her illicit thrill at seeing him disintegrated into nerves. Although Snape occupied his usual stool at the long workbench, there were no cauldrons bubbling and no vials standing ready. Even his log books were tidied away onto the shelves.

Her stomach tightened. ‘I assume your summons was about my possibly-uncured Lycanthropy infection?’

His eyes narrowed. She caught herself admiring the way they glimmered darkly through his long eyelashes, and looked away. ‘Perhaps.’

She affected briskness. ‘You don’t have to worry. I’ve set up my bedroom to be inescapable. I was going to ask you to lock me in. Um… I’d appreciate it if you looked after my possessions for a few hours, too.’

She held out her tote bag but he made no move to take it, so she set it beside the sofa.

‘You do realise the transformation is… unpleasant?’ he said suddenly.

She shook her head. ‘Of course I do! But I can’t very well check myself into St Mungo’s for care: that would breach the security clauses and trigger those Ministry contract hexes. I’d end up in an even worse state.’ She set the room key on the bench. ‘I’ll stock up on food and drink. You should lock me in as soon as possible. Moonrise is in an hour and I don’t want to take chances.’

To her relief, he nodded, then took the key and pocketed it.

She headed to the door. ‘I’ll need to give you my wand, too – I don’t want it broken. But I need to cast the charms on the door first.’

‘I am coming with you. You cannot be expected to carry everything yourself. I can charm the door.’

She turned to him in surprise. His knuckles were white as he gripped the bench.

‘Um… thanks.’

They descended to the kitchen. Hermione made herself a quick round of sandwiches, glancing at the clock. She wasn’t feeling terribly hungry. While she put the sandwiches into her lunchbox, Snape prowled into the pantry. He emerged carrying six cans of Vimto, a super-sized bag of crisps, and a packet of Waitrose crumpets. Hermione supposed she ought to feel something about this, but her stomach was already so full of butterflies no more would fit inside.

They climbed the stairs again, Snape at her heels. When Hermione entered her bedroom, he paused at the door before following her inside. The warm darkness of his presence at her back somehow filled the room. Hermione set her lunchbox on the window ledge before Snape could see her hands shaking. Really, she ought not to be so bothered he was in her bedroom. It was a drab, badly-plastered box without her belongings, and she’d packed away her bed – it wasn’t like she had her underwear strewn about or anything. It was his house, wasn’t it? Technically, all the rooms belonged to him. It wasn’t weird he was in here. Not at all.

She shoved her fists into her pockets as Snape set the Vimto, crisps and crumpets down, then gave him her wand, careful not to let their fingers brush as he plucked it from her hand.

She drew herself up. ‘Thank you. I think that’s about it.’

He cast her an unfathomable look, secreted her wand in his robes, walked to the door, threw a barrage of charms at it – and locked it. From the inside.

She stared. ‘But… what are you doing?’

He ignored her, swept his robes aside, and settled on the floor with his back against the wall. When he folded his arms, his robes rode up a little, revealing the dragonhide boots she’d given him for Christmas. ‘I should have thought that was obvious.’

‘What? No! You can’t stay in here! If I turn—’

‘I shall have plenty of warning. The transformation progresses in stages, all of which I am familiar with. It is only the final stage which poses any risk. Should we reach that point, I shall be long gone.’

‘But what if you can’t get out in time!’

He sneered. ‘I’m not the one with the slow reactions.’

‘You can’t stay in here! This is incredibly dangerous!’

He fixed his gaze on a splintery floorboard. ‘The time preceding the transformation is marked by increasing distress and… pain. You cannot be trusted with potions. Therefore, the duty falls to me to provide relief from any… discomfort.’

She felt like a bird was fluttering in her chest. Unable to speak, she sank down under the window, and hugged her knees.

He avoided her eye.

There was a strained silence.

‘I see,’ she whispered.

He was doing this out of duty. It made perfect sense.

More silence. A robin began to sing outside.

‘I’ve come to a… decision,’ he said suddenly.

Her head rose. ‘Oh?’

‘The werewolves.’ He fixed her with his black stare. ‘I was… foolish to attempt to deal with them alone. I would like to request your assistance.’

The bottom fell out of her stomach. Was Snape admitting he’d made a mistake? She blinked.

‘Um, are you feeling all right? You haven’t been, I mean…’ Her neck prickled.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

‘How many love potions have you ever brewed?’ she asked slowly.

The corner of his mouth gave a sardonic twist; his eyes flickered. ‘I have never brewed a love potion. However, I appreciate you checking my identity. That was a very… secure question. It would, perhaps, have been better if you’d asked it before allowing me to take your wand.’

She coloured, but didn’t back down. ‘What kind of assistance do you want?’

He examined her, running a long finger over his lip. ‘What do you think of the Ministry’s stance on werewolves?’

‘Don’t get me started, I hardly have the words.’ She huffed. ‘The Ministry having them regulated by the Beast division? Refusing them Wolfsbane unless they agree to register? They’re people – people with a long-term, incurable condition. They deserve to be treated humanely. Instead they’re disenfranchised, persecuted, ignored—’

‘So you’d like to change how they are treated?’

‘Of course I would! Wouldn’t anyone with a fraction of a conscience?’ She hugged herself tighter and frowned. ‘Where are you going with this?’

He was still examining her. ‘Many werewolves fear the Ministry will experiment on them or poison them. At least, this is the line the agitators’ propaganda takes. Naturally, they wish to stop this happening – and hence, the attacks on the Ministry, and on us.’

 ‘If we could get the Ministry to promise they meant no harm, would the werewolf agitators believe them?’

‘Do you really think the Ministry means them no harm?’

She felt sick. ‘So this project we’ve been working on is all for the aid of… of destroying werewolves forever? Forcing people into a cure they don’t want? For the Ministry’s ends? But that’s just… wrong! for some of them, Lycanthropy is part of their family history, their culture. They value that part of themselves. Most of them stay away from people when they transform, to avoid transferring Lycanthropy to the unworthy. I read about it!’

Snape gave a slow nod. ‘The Dark Lord was well aware of this. But the Ministry is… less so.’

She frowned, then turned to Snape again. ‘Which werewolf packs have you infiltrated?’

His lip curled. ‘You’re a clever woman. Work it out for yourself.’

She sighed, feeling baited. ‘Well, there are six or so British packs. The Brighteyes live in the Scottish Highlands. They have nothing to do with humans, so I can’t imagine they’ve heard these rumours about the Ministry. Another pack – I forget their name – emigrated en mass to northern Spain five years ago when that werewolf sanctuary was opened. You won’t have bothered with them. The Fangmen fell apart when Fenrir Greyback was put in Azkaban. Which leaves the Scargivers, the Longtails and the Redteeth. The first two are tiny packs – they wouldn’t have the resources to threaten wizarding society. Which leaves – the Redteeth.’

He inclined his head. ‘And?’

‘Not just them, then? Will the other packs join the campaign when they hear they’re threatened by the Ministry?’

Snape shook his head. ‘The packs are territorial and self-interested. Chance meetings between members of different packs usually result in violence. As a rule, they do not co-operate; in fact, each would be quite happy to see the Ministry wipe out the others.’

She frowned. ‘Would the two smaller packs potentially overcome their rivalry and team up against these… Redteeth? If they could see enough benefit in it?’

‘That has been my best hope.’

‘You’ve been trying to influence them?’

Another slow nod.

She tipped her head to one side. ‘Whose identity did you steal to pretend to be a werewolf?’

He sneered. ‘I certainly do not turn up at pack initiations disguised as Draco Malfoy. I have a few alter-egos. Muggles from isolated areas, for the most part – ones inclined to staying at home, and living nowhere near any werewolf communities. The infiltration itself was relatively straightforward.’

‘Don’t tell me – convincing everyone you’re a werewolf when you don’t transform at the full moon has been the non-straightforward part.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘None of it has been easy.’

She paused, studying her hands, then took a deep breath and looked at him. ‘I don’t see what I can do. The Ministry is hidebound, and I don’t have the skills to go undercover. I tried it, before, in the Aurors, but… it wasn’t my strong suit.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t tell me you’re unable to complete a simple job transfer form.’

She blinked at him.

A job transfer?

It had been her ambition, hadn’t it? Working for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?

Could she really do it?

But… it had all been a silly dream. She’d grown up now; she knew better. But Snape… Snape wasn’t an optimistic fool, like she’d been when she was younger. If he thought it would work, even after mocking her for it…

‘But… but I quit the Aurors over a year ago. I don’t work for the Ministry. I’d have to reapply—’

‘No. Technically, you have worked for the Ministry since you signed their contract.’

Had she?

‘But I can’t tell anyone about that!’

‘You don’t have to. Your name is in the Ministry’s ledger of employees: a magical document unable to give false information. All you must do is tell them you’re unable to disclose your current sphere of employment for security reasons. Believe me, the Unspeakables have worse trouble.’

Her heart began to bang on her ribcage like it was insisting on escape. ‘But I don’t have any NEWTs. I’m not qualified for more than a junior post!’

‘That is irrelevant. It is access we need. Influence can come later. Finding the source of these rumours concerning poison and forced experimentation must be our first step.’

She nodded. It was possible. No – doable. Perfect, perhaps. But…

‘If I’m transferring,’ she said slowly, ‘doesn’t that mean I can’t work on… on the Lycanthropy cure?’

Snape suddenly looked tired, and annoyed. ‘That is more than half the point. The Redteeth will receive notification through their compromised Ministry employee, or employees, that you are no longer involved in the project, and they will leave you alone. For your own safety, you need to distance yourself from me, and from the cure project. I should have thought that was obvious.’

Distance herself?

Her mouth went dry. ‘What, do you… do you want me to move out as well?’

He massaged his temples. ‘It would be a great help towards our success. Yes.’

She gripped the bench, assaulted by vertigo. Move out? Now? And work for the Ministry? So sudden… But she’d meant to leave since she’d arrived, hadn’t she? She just hadn’t been able to take the final plunge, because… because things kept happening. Of course she should go. It could only help to get some distance from Snape, hadn’t she been thinking that just this morning? If he didn’t want her here, she shouldn’t stay…

The room darkened as the sky outside filled with indigo rainclouds. The air turned damp.

Why wouldn’t she want to leave Snape’s house? It was, after all, horrible. And she would still see Snape – they’d be working together to counter these werewolves, he wouldn’t cut off all contact. And she could enter the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, something she’d always wanted to do…

It was the perfect next step.

Why did it feel like such a bad idea?

Snape looked away. ‘I’m sure it will be a terrible loss,’ he said sarcastically. ‘With all the comforts you’ve been enjoying in my luxurious abode.’

She had to swallow several times before she could speak. ‘I’d still come back for the other potions work, I suppose? I mean, my contract with you—’

‘I can terminate that contract without difficulty. It is not an impediment. You will be too busy to contribute much anyway.’

Her hands were shaking. She shoved them back in her pockets.

Why was she upset? This would be good for her. She should be glad.

‘I assume we’ll still need to… to co-ordinate? How will I contact you, if I do this?’

‘Messages sent by Patronus should reach me. They are reasonably secure.’

She gave a tight nod, and tried to look unaffected, while her heart imploded. ‘So… when should I…?’

His eyes moved to the door. ‘As soon as possible.’

She swallowed. ‘Right.’

In the silence, she could hear the rain dripping on the window. Snape stared at the mouldy plasterwork, hair and shadows obscuring his face.

She took a breath. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better… arrange that, then.’

He nodded curtly, still not looking at her, and rose to his feet. He walked to the door.

She back tears so hard her face ached.

When Snape was at the threshold, he half-turned. ‘I’ve arranged for us to eat lunch outside today, by the way. To celebrate your… remission.’

She blinked hard. ‘I… I’m sorry. You booked…? Today? What do you mean, remission?’

His expression shifted slightly – for a moment he looked like he pitied her, but his face was difficult to read in the dim room.

‘Moonrise was five minutes ago,’ he said softly. ‘The idea that moonlight can effect the transformation is only an old wives’ tale. See you at ten to twelve. Wear something… appropriate.’

Chapter Text

Hermione waited in the front room, curling and uncurling her toes in her brown leather boots. She wasn’t sure what Snape would deem appropriate clothing for eating out, so had settled on something Muggle and not too smart, wanting to blend in outside on the street. After a long inner debate, she’d left off any jewellery. She felt naked without it, but there was no way she was letting something like that attack occur again. She wasn’t a fool.

But she also wasn’t a werewolf.

It was a huge relief. Not that she’d been expecting the cure to fail entirely – hadn’t it been a brilliant idea? Hadn’t she checked and double-checked it? Wasn’t Snape her co-potioneer? But she’d been afraid of lingering Lycanthropic side-effects: fangs, claws, the urge to find someone to bite. Hankering after raw meat. Embarrassing monthly hirsutism. Tail growth.

Then, miraculously, it had worked. She was fine.

She'd got a little teary-eyed.

Snape had gone out not long after their conversation, and Hermione had spent most of the morning nibbling chocolate and browsing estate agents’ websites while sending Cadmus back and forth to the wizarding property agent in Diagon Alley. Despite moonrise being behind her, her stomach had twisted in knots. Somehow, the house-hunting bothered her. But it wasn’t that the accommodation on offer was bad, or that she couldn’t afford it – she’d more or less settled on a rather nice little flat near Earl’s Court – or even that there was too much choice. It just all felt so empty, somehow, not least when Snape returned and she realised she’d been listening out, all along, for that rattle of the front door, and the familiar, prowling steps on the stairs.

It was Snape’s reaction that bothered her. Well, his lack of a reaction. He’d barely even looked her way. Now he had an appropriate excuse, he was obviously keen to get rid of her. The way he’d told her she needed to move out had been so… sterile.

It upset her that he didn’t care for her. He cared about her, perhaps, but not for her. She’d known it all along, but it still hurt.

She told herself she was being ridiculous. She was thirty years old, not some timid teenager whose pride couldn’t stand a rebuffal. It wasn’t as though they’d even been dating – what a ridiculous idea, anyway, dating Severus Snape.

As she waited by the front door, she imagined him, all incongruous in a Muggle suit and tie, a rose in his buttonhole, nervously fiddling with his cufflinks and asking her what she’d like to drink—

And he appeared from upstairs.

He was wearing a Muggle suit and tie (the ones from his wardrobe – which she realised with a thump of adrenaline were exactly what she’d been picturing). They fitted him… rather well. There was a rose in his buttonhole: a bud he must have plucked off the bushes under the kitchen window. His cufflinks were tiny, silver snakes. All together, with his long hair and slight scowl, he looked like the manager of a platinum-level rock band.

She felt her face go hot.

Ignoring her, Snape adjusted a cufflink.

She bit her lip as hard as she dared without smudging her lipstick. If she smiled too much, he would assume she was laughing at him – and likely hex her. She mustn’t go to pieces. This was only a celebratory lunch with a co-worker. She needed to calm down.

‘Ready?’ he asked, giving her camel-coloured coat and skinny jeans the barest glance.

‘Mm.’

He offered her his arm.

She took it, feeling oddly weightless.

If she leaned into him a little when they Disapparated, it was only natural – only a precaution against stumbling, nothing else. Certainly not.

Chapter Text

They Apparated onto a blustery promenade, Hermione’s boots meeting cracked asphalt. Below rust-grimed railings, the unquiet, grey sea snatched at a mean strip of shingle, hissing. Aside from a couple of fluffed-up gulls hunched on the sea wall, the promenade was deserted. The icy wind blew Hermione’s hair into Snape’s face, and he hastily let go of her arm.

Was this really the right place? She gave Snape an unsure look, which he ignored.

He strode off, suit flapping, and she trailed him, jogging a little to keep up.

They passed a seaside shelter in peeling cream paint, and an ice cream hut boarded up for the winter. The promenade merged with the pavement of a narrow street that climbed along the edge of a sea cliff, and they hurried past faded Victorian houses sporting battered signs reading B&B – Vacancies. They met no-one, not even a dog walker. Hermione licked salt off her lips and huddled into her coat. It felt colder than the Arctic. Where on earth were they going to get food in this dreadful, forsaken place? Trust Snape to choose somewhere miserable. Big congratulatory dinner, Morgana’s left—

‘Here we are,’ said Snape.

They had arrived outside yet another tall house dressed up in lacy cast-iron balconies like a maiden aunt taking the sea air. A laminated piece of paper in the ground floor window, reading “Mick’s Seafood Restaurant” was the only sign it wasn’t another dilapidated B&B. The paint on the window frames was coming off in black shards, and the geraniums outside the door looked like they’d died of frostbite.

‘Um,’ said Hermione.

Snape swept up the front steps and went inside.

Hermione blew on her frozen hands, looked up and down the deserted street, sighed, and followed.

The front door gave onto a spotless black-and-white-tiled hallway, where a receptionist’s desk stood vacant in the nook under the stairs and a gilt mirror shone behind an overgrown palm. There was the scent of freshly-baked bread and something richly savoury, like French onion soup. Snape was just disappearing through a door into what was presumably the lounge; Hermione caught up with him and entered the room at his side. Instead of the drab living space she was expecting, she discovered a high-ceilinged room full of little tables, genteelly bustling with diners. Tealights glittered in cut-glass holders, making the cutlery and vases of fresh carnations shine. A waitress in a black dress poured Merlot.

Hermione suddenly felt horribly underdressed.

‘Thank you,’ Snape was saying to the heavy-set apron-wearing man who must have led him inside.

The man slapped Snape on the shoulder.

Surprised, Hermione glanced at him, and did a double-take. He had Snape’s nose.

‘Don’t mention it, Sev,’ said the stranger, in a North Lincs accent. ‘I’ve reserved the usual table. Let Clarissa know what you want when you’re ready.’

He flashed Hermione a grin and bustled out of the door, patting the waitress on the arm as he left. Staring after him, Hermione felt a disconcerting sense of deja-vu; the man had worn the same mischievous grin as Draco Malfoy when he’d been Polyjuiced into Snape.

Snape stood aside so Hermione could make her way to their table, which was set in a corner; neither of them would have to sit with their backs to the door, or the window. Thoughtful, she supposed – it might help calm some of her Auror instincts if she could see the whole room. Although Snape discreetly cast a privacy charm, her palms were sweating as she sank onto her seat.

At least the tablecloth hid her jeans.

‘My Muggle cousin, and his wife,’ explained Snape, unfolding his napkin and tucking it into his collar.

‘I… I see.’

He narrowed his eyes.

‘I mean there is a certain, um, family resemblance. I didn’t know you had Muggle relatives.’

‘I don’t. Just Mick, and his family. For reasons which I hope are obvious, I keep quiet about them.’

‘This is his restaurant?’

Snape gave a terse nod and cracked open the menu. Lying it on the table, he adjusted his cuff links, then said, ‘What would you like to drink?’

Hermione had a sudden, inexplicable coughing fit. Merlin’s toenails, she should never have imagined Snape-on-a-date! What was wrong with her?

When she finally emerged, red-faced, from behind her napkin, Snape was giving her a sceptical look. ‘Are you now managing to choke yourself without even eating?’

‘I’ll have… a glass of Chardonnay,’ she blurted. ‘Thanks.’

He passed her the menu, open at the starters. ‘Choose something.’

The list of items was short – it was evidently all cooked fresh to order. She told herself she wouldn’t look at the prices, but couldn’t help it. Yikes. Cousin Mick and family were obviously not doing too badly. She hoped he’d give Snape a discount.

‘Um… the crisped seabass skin with samphire mayonnaise sounds nice.’

‘Main course?’

‘The mussels.’

‘Hmm.’

He waved over the waitress – Clarissa, presumably – and ordered. Hermione was in too much of a flutter to take in what Snape had got for himself.

There was a long, awkward silence, broken only by the polite murmurs of the other diners. Instead of looking at Snape, Hermione watched a middle-aged lady with coiffed hair and a sequinned dress pick whelks out of their shells.

Her glass of Chardonnay arrived.

She took a sip, and felt a little braver.

‘Earlier, how did you know I wasn’t going to… I mean, that I was fully cured?’ she asked, finally. ‘When you locked yourself in with me, I mean.’

‘I didn’t.’

She looked at him, startled. ‘But—’

‘Why else do you think I wanted to see you immediately after you had woken?’

She remembered the note, his spiky writing, his knuckles white on the edge of the bench when she’d entered the lab. His fixed, blank expression.

‘Oh.’ She took a moment and a mouthful of wine to process this. ‘You asked me if I’d help you with the… um, our problem before you knew whether I was going to be all right?’

He met her eye, and didn’t look away.

She swore in a whisper, clutching her wineglass. Condensation ran icy down her fingers.

Snape was so calculating. Why was it a shock?

‘I’d have been more of an asset if I hadn’t been cured,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t I? That’s why you—’

‘I cannot deny it would have made some things a great deal more… straightforward.’

‘Have you been feeding me Wolfsbane all week without my knowledge? Just in case?’

He hesitated. ‘No.’

‘You have.’

‘I have not.’ He glared.

‘Don’t use that… that Occlumency face on me! I deserve to know what—’

‘I have not, now or ever, fed you any potion without your consent, save for the instance when I gave you Veritaserum. And that was a matter of the highest Ministry security. Are you happy now?’

‘Then what were you planning to do if I’d suddenly – if I’d—’

He sighed, and pressed his fingers to his temples. ‘Do recall I have had ample reason to become well-versed in methods to deal with werewolves. It would have been fine. You would have been fine.’

‘I could have bitten you! I could have killed you! It could have derailed all your – all our work!’

‘Doubtful.’

‘You really do suffer from the most monstrous overconfidence!’

His eyes went like welding torches, but his voice turned velvety. ‘Do I?’

‘Yes!’

‘When else have I displayed this so-called monstrous overconfidence? Pray tell.’

‘Oh, I don’t know – maybe the other night when you almost bled to death on the living-room rug?’

He gave a dismissive flick of his fingers. ‘I have explained that already. I would have been perfectly fine. If you stubbornly choose not to believe me, it is none of my concern.’

‘Well then, how about what happened with Professor Lupin and Sirius, that time we were in the Shrieking Shack in my third year! Professor Lupin turned into a… a—’

‘I was unconscious.’

‘Well, it was your fault you were unconscious! You should have expected to be attacked in that situation! It was careless – you didn’t even tell anyone where you were going! You knew he hadn’t taken his Potion!’

‘I should have expected Potter to throw curses at me behind my back and defend the man we all believed out to murder him? Yes, if only I’d had your innate comprehension of Potter’s illogical mind.’

She was breathing hard, her emotions raised too far for this safe, polite restaurant. She almost didn’t say the next words. But it was too much – this was too much. He was overconfident, and she could have gone full wolf and he’d locked himself in with her, and if she didn’t say something he’d keep doing things like this, and he’d die. And she couldn’t just sit here and let him. She couldn’t.

‘Nagini!’ she hissed. ‘How about her?’

Snape went deathly pale, his lips thinning to nothing, his eyes like boreholes.

All the blood rushed out of Hermione’s face.

She’d done it this time.

He was going to snap—

‘That wasn’t an accident. I knew—’ He broke off. When he next spoke, his words were so soft she had to strain to hear them. ‘The Dark Lord had been obsessed with wandlore all that year. It was obvious why. I could not let him realise Draco had Disarmed Professor Dumbledore, and was therefore the master of the Elder Wand. The Dark Lord would not risk killing Draco with magic, knowing the Elder Wand would fail to cast a Killing Curse on its true master. Draco’s death would be messy, brutal. And so I covered for Draco, obscured Bella’s testimony, and pushed the narrative that said the Elder Wand’s true allegiance could only be won securely through murder. Because it could not be Draco who died a horrible, Muggle death. It had to be me.’ He stared her down. ‘The Dark Lord trusted me, to the end. It happened exactly as I had hoped, but for one thing. I was convinced Potter would come to Hogwarts much sooner than he did. I assumed he would hunt me down, desiring answers, or revenge. I waited, and waited. And when he finally appeared – and I knew he was there – at the very moment I could have told him everything he needed to know, I was forced to flee. Potter’s late arrival nearly ruined everything.’

Hermione’s heart was still pounding – but Snape had left this one wide open, and honestly if he didn’t see it, it was her duty to point it out to him. She folded her arms.

‘But that just proves my point. You didn’t have a plan B. If we hadn’t been there in the Shack – I mean, it was a ridiculous coincidence! You could easily have died without telling Harry what Dumbledore had said!’

‘You think so? I took Felix Felicis. After a long debate – I almost didn’t carry it with me that night—’

‘Taking a luck potion was your backup plan?’ She couldn’t believe it.

‘Yes, just imagine, there are some advantages to being as good at potion-making as I am—’

‘That’s not what I meant!’

They scowled at each other.

‘Your starters,’ said the waitress, Clarissa, delivering their plates.

Hermione took a deep, calming breath, tore her eyes from Snape’s and smiled up at her. ‘Thank you.’

‘Anything you need, I’m here.’ She turned to Snape. ‘And Mick’s done you your special, hope you like it.’

‘My thanks,’ he said slowly.

Clarissa’s pleasant demeanour faltered a little, but she recovered. ‘I’ll leave you to your meal.’

As she left, Hermione beamed Clarissa an extra wattage smile to make up for Snape’s dreadful manners (honestly!) and turned to her starter. Then she glanced at Snape’s plate and froze with her fork halfway to her mouth.

‘What is that?’

He crunched on it. ‘Mackerel roes on toast. Why?’

‘Um…’ It really did look disgusting, like something out of one of his slimy potion jars. ‘Nothing.’

She turned back to her meal, but not before she’d seen the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

‘You’re eating fish skin,’ he pointed out. ‘And weeds that grow in beach mud. With raw eggs.’

‘Oh shush. It’s delicious.’

He almost smiled.

She huffed a little – though it was really just for show – and thought over what he’d said as she ate.

‘How did you know Harry was in the castle that night?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You do recall I was the headmaster? The position comes with certain… privileges.’

‘Oh come on, that’s not an answer and you know it.’

‘The secrets of Hogwarts are not mine to divulge.’

She sighed. ‘You used Dark magic, didn’t you? Just like you did to find me last night.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘I avoid Dark magic. I have not relied on it in decades.’

She stopped chewing. ‘You just happened to be passing when I was attacked?’

‘Do apply yourself.’ When she still didn’t reply, he rolled his eyes. ‘I can fly. How do you think I found you? By looking.’

‘What, you… You were out searching for me all that time?’

‘No. You left the house and did not reappear for over an hour. It grew dark. I sent my Patronus to Mr and Mrs Potter, who had not seen you, and to the Scamanders, who also had no idea of your whereabouts. Then yes, I searched for you.’

She blinked, and dropped her gaze to her plate. ‘I see.’

‘Your friends were rather concerned.’

Her stomach sank. ‘Oh.’

‘I notified them you had returned safely.’

‘Minus half my ear.’

‘I did not think it appropriate to appraise them of that fact. Mr Potter battering my door down at midnight demanding explanations would have been… inconvenient.’

She sighed. ‘Well… Thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

She ate in silence for a few moments, then stifled a smirk. ‘It would have been an absolute disaster if Harry’d turned up, wouldn’t it? He’d have caught us snuggled up on the sofa watching Pride and Prejudice. You’d never have lived it down.’

Snape’s nostrils flared.

This time, Hermione couldn’t stop the grin spreading across her face.

Snape looked away quickly. But she had seen the corners of his mouth twitch, and it completely electrified her.

She couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the meal.

The funniest thing was, she could tell Snape was struggling to keep a straight face too.

He really was handsome when he smiled.

***

They went for a walk along the sea front after the meal. The tide had gone out, revealing a long stretch of pebbly sand before the waves, which wetly mirrored the gunmetal sky. When they reached steps down off the promenade, Hermione insisted they walk along the beach. To her surprise, Snape did not object.

Their boots scrunched in the sand. The wind caught spray on the far-off sea and hurled it at them; the sun sneaked under the clouds and turned it into showers of glittering confetti. Gulls keened.

‘Hermione,’ he said suddenly, as they walked. ‘Would you… allow me to apologise?’

There was an unfamiliar note in his voice. Her heart leapt into her throat. ‘Apologise? What for?’

Snape cast her a sidelong glance. ‘It… should not have taken you making an impossible Potions breakthrough for me to treat you with common courtesy. I am… sorry. For my… words.’

She swallowed. ‘Well – all right.’

For a few moments there was no sound but the sea and the gulls. When Hermione took a deep breath, she tasted salt.

‘You know,’ she said. ‘I’ve never minded people having high standards, and I understand how frustrating I probably was, but Severus, well… The things you said were… They were very harsh.’ She plunged on, not meeting his eye. ‘It wasn’t necessary. It was hurtful, even after I got used to it. But on Christmas Eve, I realised – you actually treat me better than you treat yourself.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s not to say I’m making excuses for you. I’m not. Still, I accept your apology. Completely. I forgive you.’ She sneaked a look at his profile, the air swelling with the roar of the sea. ‘Actually, I forgave you a long time ago.’

Their eyes met for a split-second, his dark and intense. She flushed and looked away.

They walked on and came to some rock pools. Hermione crouched, tucking her windblown hair behind her ears, to see what lay under the water. Snape stood beside her, hands in pockets, jacket billowing.

‘Trying to catch something for your dinner?’ he teased.

‘No, don’t be silly. I’m after potions ingredients, of course. Have you never gone poking about in rockpools just for fun?’

He hesitated until she looked up at him, shading her eyes.

‘I… used to come here, actually,’ he said. ‘As a child.’

She peered at the rock pool again, careful to avoid eye contact. ‘That sounds nice.’

‘My grandma lived here.’

‘The card shark?’

He paused again; she glanced at him quickly, and caught the tail end of his faint smile. ‘Yes.’

She took this in. ‘Then… thank you for bringing me here.’

He surveyed the beach. ‘I remember the weather being rather better.’

‘What do you mean? I was about to put on my bikini.’

He snorted and she caught his eye for a second; his face lost some of its pallor. But he’d turned away before she could see clearly – surely he hadn’t blushed? It must have been a trick of the light.

‘Shall we?’ he said, indicating the continuation of their walk with a gesture. ‘Before you get too badly… sunburnt.’

She straightened, brushing sand off her hands. ‘Better had. I mean, I can’t turn up at the office looking like a lobster. People might get jealous.’

They continued, the wind knifing their cheeks, the sand scouring their boots.

When their footing became unsure among the rocks Snape offered Hermione his arm, and she took it as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t like her. Of course he didn’t. But for an hour or so, she could let herself imagine he did.

There were a thousand things she needed to ask him, now he was finally in a good mood: about the werewolves, about the mysterious blackmailer HDS – who she now knew couldn’t be one of Snape’s relatives, since they were called Mick and Clarissa. But it was too nice, him being this easy and carefree with her, and she’d be moving out soon, and this might be her only chance to spend time with him like this and she just… couldn’t.

Chapter Text

The rest of the week passed in a pleasant blur of potions work, Hermione wanting to finish all the projects she’d got halfway through before she quit. She picked up the keys to her new flat, moved in some bulkier items like her silver cauldrons and laptop, and arranged to move out of Spinner’s End on New Year’s Day. It felt like an auspicious start.

She contrived to make herself busy enough to forget about it.

Snape was almost cordial, seeming more interested in her work than usual, peppering the days with conversational snippets about the uses of rare potions ingredients or little techniques he’d invented, and insulting the writers of his potions texts with hilarious inventiveness. The time went quickly. Hermione laughed more than she had done for a long time. But before she could treasure it, it was the night before she was due to move out.

She packed everything into her tote bag ready for the morning and let Cadmus out, telling him to meet her at her new address the next day. Then she curled up on her quilt in her fluffy duck dressing gown, hugging her knees. She’d extinguished the lights but hadn’t yet shut the curtains, and the moonlight and yellow streetlamp glow showed her reflection, sad and pale in the speckled glass of the Boggart wardrobe. In the mirror, her bedroom was bare and forlorn without its usual scatterings of cushions and books – cold and glaringly impersonal.

It was like she’d already left.

Hermione shivered, and decided she wanted a cup of cocoa.

She headed downstairs and into the kitchen, not bothering with the lights. The blinds were up; she could just make out the soothing floral wallpaper. She’d decided to leave her garden purchases behind at Snape’s rather than moving them to her new flat. The roses in the window box were still blooming, thanks to handy little spells Neville had taught her an age ago, nodding in the unfelt wind outside. A sense of anticipatory nostalgia gripped her. How long would the roses last? Would Snape keep up the spells?

She got out a mug, then went into the pantry and crouched to search for the cocoa jar by feel, not wanting to disturb the soft feeling of the darkened room.

At her back, Snape’s footsteps prowled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Crockery clinked.

When Snape entered the pantry behind her and reached for the shelves over her head, she leaped up, startled. And they were face to face in the semi-dark.

He took half a step backwards. But he didn’t walk away.

Her heart thudded.

‘Hermione?’ he said uncertainly. ‘Why are you—’

And she raised her hand, slowly, slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, not daring to breathe – and brushed his cool cheek with the tingling pad of her finger.

He flinched.

She backed off. What had she been thinking? Gosh – what was wrong with her? He didn’t want this!

But he didn’t explode with wrath, didn’t flee. He only gazed at her, so close she could feel his breath on her face. His eyes were soft and dark, confused, wondering. And he waited.

Trembling, she raised her hand again, slow, slow, hardly believing she dared. Her eyes locked on his, she ran the back of her finger down his face.

His eyelids fluttered shut, and she felt as much as heard the rush of his indrawn breath. His face creased in an expression so intense she couldn’t tell if it was one of agony or ecstasy.

She thought she would explode. She stroked down to his neck, his stubble rough on her fingers. Extending her thumb, she traced the softness of his parted lips.

His eyes snapped wide. His hand snaked up and grabbed her wrist.

She could feel him shaking.

She froze.

‘Stop,’ he whispered, hoarse, his eyes a swallowing darkness. ‘You… can’t want this.’

She was almost too breathless to speak. ‘Whyever not?’

‘Because it’s not right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re… a former student, my tenant, my employee – it isn’t right that I take advantage of—’

‘Whatever are you talking about?’ She huffed out a wobbly laugh. ‘I exchanged contracts on my flat three days ago! Besides, I’ve never been your tenant – I haven’t paid you a penny! And I’ve resigned from the work with you, don’t you remember? I’m your guest, if that. We’re both more than adults. You’re not taking advantage of me.’

If anything, I’m taking advantage of you.

His face remained contorted with indecision. ‘But – at Hogwarts—’

‘Severus,’ she said, ‘how old were you when you started teaching there? Twenty-two?’

‘Twenty-one.’

She blinked. Even younger than she’d imagined. What had Dumbledore been thinking?

Tilting her head, she said, ‘Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that most of the eligible witches in Britain have been your students at some point?’

Something flared bright in his eyes – she saw the effort it took him to snuff it out again.

She tried to move her hand, wanting to reach out to him, touch him again, but his grip was like iron.

‘No,’ he said, slow and deliberate. ‘I cannot… accept this. You are young, and beautiful, and brilliant. You deserve someone better. Someone suitable.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Not me.’

‘But you are better!’ She wanted to cry. He felt something for her, he did. For him to shut it down like this, the moment they’d finally realised— It was so unfair. She wanted to strangle him. ‘You are suitable! Why can’t you see it?’

‘I am not. I know what I am: broken, and bitter, and a… terrible person. I would make you miserable.’

‘I don’t think you would. I don’t think that’s possible. I know you, now. And,’ she said slowly, coming to a realisation, ‘that isn’t what’s bothering you, is it? Not really. You aren’t worried you’ll make me miserable. You’re… you’re terrified I might make you happy.’

His eyes went like the blackness beyond the stars. ‘No,’ he breathed. ‘No. I am not afraid of… that.’

His grip slackened and she slid her hand until it met his, palm to palm. His pulse jumped under her fingers, skittish.

She searched his face: saw the tiny, strangled spark of hope in his eyes, his wavering resolve.

‘I didn’t save you all those years ago so you could punish yourself for the rest of your existence,’ she whispered. ‘Severus… are you not brave enough to live?’

He stared at her. His brows creased as if he was in pain. A spasm of sudden, desperate longing crossed his face.

He stooped, and kissed her.

The touch of his lips on hers – so unexpected, so warm, so gentle – startled her into a noise that was half-gulp, half-squeak. She cringed at herself; he twitched away as if worried he’d hurt her, searching her face, abruptly unsure – and she swallowed her anxiety and threw her arms around his shoulders and pressed her mouth to his.

He sucked in a breath. For a split-second he went rigid. Then his lips parted under hers and he gripped her, pulled her tight and caught her into his kiss, full of shocking need. They fetched up against the shelves, tins falling down around them, his weight against her, his lips engulfing hers, his hands tangled in the softness of her hair.

She had never imagined him like this – his restraint snapped, his protective shell of ice broken, herself plunged into sudden, overwhelming exposure to all the fire he kept inside – that fire, which was not cold but hot. It thrilled her, terrified her. She was exhilarated, soaring, scarily alive. She balled her hands in the back of his robes, revelled in the heft of him, the protective angle of his shoulder blades, the flex of his ribs as he breathed. He was familiar, and at the same time strange and new. He was a dangerous, feral creature; he was her soul come home to roost. She had never felt more at home; she had never felt more out of her depth. The laws of physics and magic stopped functioning. She was seen, she was known, she was adrift in a terrifying abyss. She had never felt like this with Ron, with anyone. She never wanted it to stop.

It was both a very long time later and no time at all when the doorbell rang.

They pulled apart, panting.

‘There’s someone at the door,’ she said unnecessarily, red-faced and flustered, her hair a wild nest.

‘Really? Because I can’t hear them.’ He cupped her face and kissed her forehead, her eyelids – gentle, soft – then her nose. She gave a shivery laugh. His kisses trailed down her neck, grew more insistent. She smoothed the fabric across his chest, began to undo the buttons of his robe—

He bolted upright and caught her wrists, shock etched stark on his face.

She stared, heart thudding so fast it hurt. ‘What—’

The doorbell rang again. Outside, someone laughed; voices began singing.

He turned towards the source of the noise.

She licked her lips. ‘Is that… carol singers?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Um – are you okay?’

He darted a glance at her, eyes full of conflicted darkness. ‘It’s…’ He trailed off. ‘I’m… I’m fine. Just… I’m fine.’ He leaned towards her and, after a split-second’s hesitation, caught her lips on his again.

She sighed and relaxed into him, furling her arms vinelike around his back—

Another voice called out, ‘Hermione? Are you there?’

She jumped and swore.

Snape clutched his jaw where she had headbutted him.

‘Oh no! Oh – oh goodness—’ She put her hands to her mouth.

‘It’s fine, really, who needs their chin—’

‘No, no, I… completely forgot! I invited everyone over for a New Year’s Eve party! I meant to ask you! I invited them ages ago, and I – I completely forgot!’

They stared at each other in horror.

‘They’re all here! And… I’m in my pyjamas!’ she squeaked.

He blinked a few times, catching his breath. Just when she was sure he was going to scream, ‘You did what?!’ he said steadily, ‘So I’ll… open the door. And you can… get dressed.’

‘Okay! Yes! Right!’

They hurried out of the kitchen into the front room, Snape drawing his wand and hurling flames into the lamp as he went, bringing Blinky’s Christmas decoration-besplattered decor into gaudy brightness. Hermione skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and looked back into the room – and saw Snape’s mussed hair, his dishevelled clothes, the spring in his step as he crossed the room – his incongruous stunned look, his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks – and his eyes, bright and black and full of shocking heat.

The top three – no, five – buttons of his robe were hanging open.

Oh, goodness, it was so obvious what—

She called, ‘Wait, Sev—’

‘Go!’ he hissed, turning those brilliant, burning eyes on her and reaching for the doorknob—

She was still (mostly) in her pyjamas and duck robe.

She fled.

***

Up in her bedroom, Hermione dithered, her heart beating a frantic tattoo as she tried to remember which outfits she had in her bag in order to effectively Summon one. The noise from downstairs swelled: shouts and laughter, a fizz of spellcasting. The boom of newly-begun music. Oh Merlin’s beard braids, she wasn’t down there and they were going to wonder what she was doing – she was being rude – she had invited everyone, and she wasn’t receiving the guests, Snape was…

In her panic, the only nice thing she could remember packing was a red cocktail dress. It was completely unsuitable for a house party, but she Summoned it anyway, tore off her sleepwear and threw the dress on with a pair of extra thick black tights to conceal the fact she hadn’t shaved her legs. Fortunately, her tights also hid the werewolf bite scars; she was getting used to the idea the scars weren’t going to fade, but they’d be hard to explain to anyone who noticed. She shrugged a chunky-knit cardigan over the top of the whole ensemble – incongruous, but she didn’t have time to find anything better and the house was freezing – smeared on lipstick, brushed on mascara, and shoved her feet into shoes.

Oh, goodness. Snape.

Had that actually happened?

How he’d looked answering the door… Everyone would realise… Wouldn’t they? Maybe not. And there could be any number of reasons why she hadn’t answered the door herself. It wasn’t like people would expect…

But the way he’d looked…

Did she care if everyone knew?

She swallowed.

It had been so… sudden. She felt like she’d been given an overstrength Cheering Charm, hit with a barrage of Stunning Spells and Confunded, all at the same time.

He liked her.

He really did.

It was astonishing, unfathomable, marvellous.

Was it real? Or had she just… pressed his buttons? (Or, well, attempted to undo them.)

Why had she been so stupid as to forget she’d planned a party? If those people hadn’t all turned up they could have… um. Talked. Yes. About… things.

Yes, that’s what she wanted. To talk to him. Some clarity about the situation.

Not at all just more kisses, or… anything.

She groaned at herself, gave up on her hair, and ran downstairs.

Chapter Text

Hermione was startled to find far more people in the house than she remembered inviting.

True, now she came to think about it, she did recall telling Harry things like, ‘the more the merrier’ and ‘yes, of course you can extend the invitation to friends of friends’ and even (she cringed) ‘I’m sure Severus could do with some company, he’s always by himself and it would do him good to get shaken up a bit’. But having to push her way out of the staircase past Lee Jordan’s sister, who was violently snogging someone Hermione had last seen hawking second-hand wands in Diagon Alley was… a bit much.

She gave the darkness of the booming, thronged front room a frantic once-over. The holly-strewn bookcases stretched oddly, interspersed with new Corinthian columns in jazzy colours. The ceiling – now elegantly, if incongruously, fan-vaulted – glittered with floating lights which changed hue and shape with every beat of the music. A conjured table under the window brimmed with lurid bottles and glasses.

The room was at least five times bigger than usual.

Panic fluttered in her chest. The Ministry Planning Department was supposed to pre-approve Extension Charms on buildings – who had done these? The whole house could collapse! And Snape was going to murder anyone who touched his books, never mind drunkenly spilled something on them. He had to be livid. How could she have been so stupid as to—

‘All right there, Hermione?’ came a familiar voice.

She spun to find the grinning face of George Weasley, and clapped a hand over her heart.

‘Don’t do that! You almost had to Re-Enervate me.’

He laughed. ‘Do you like the room?’

Relief flooded her insides. ‘You did this?’

He doffed his fluorescent orange bowler hat. ‘At your service.’

‘Thank goodness. Merlin’s pants! I thought some incompetent muppet had done the charms, and we were all going to wake up in St Mungo’s.’

‘Well, I won’t say no-one’s ever called me a muppet before…’

She raised a curious eyebrow. ‘Have they?’

‘Well, no actually. What is a muppet?’

She snorted. ‘Maybe ask your dad? I can lend him a DVD if he isn’t familiar with the term.’

George scratched his chin. ‘A deevee…?’

‘Never mind. Um…’ She searched the room, standing on tiptoe. ‘Not to be rude, but… have you seen Severus?’

He gave her a blank look. Hermione found herself having to work hard not to stare at the place where his ear should have been.

‘Um, Severus Snape,’ she clarified.

‘What, is he here?’ George’s eyebrows leapt so high they almost reached the brim of his hat. ‘Harry’s really been generous with the invites.’

‘Well, he wasn’t exactly invited, per se,’ she said in a small voice. ‘This is his house.’

‘Is it?’ George looked around with interest. ‘Blimey. I thought you’d just rented the cheapest thing you could find. I mean, it seemed very you. The books.’

She decided she was developing a headache. ‘It’s Snape’s house.’

Momentary alarm flashed across George’s face, then he lifted his chin. ‘Always knew you were a courageous one, Hermione. Never fear. Whichever miscreant is the first to vomit over something will be forcibly fed a Sobriety Potion and made to clear up all our mess. Our favourite Potions git will never know you misused his fine abode.’

‘That’s… um…’ She swallowed. ‘He’s not gone out.’

George stared at her, then whistled. ‘And Fred and I thought you belonged in Ravenclaw. I take back my slander. You’re a Gryffindor through and through.’

She forced a smile, inwardly panicking. She couldn’t cut George – she knew how much it had taken for him to speak of Fred in that light, reminiscing tone, and she had always liked him a great deal – but she really needed to find Snape.

‘Any, er, reason why you decided to throw a big NYE event in Severus Snape’s house?’ George asked with mock-casualness, sipping his brilliant purple cocktail. ‘Apart from being suicidally brave?’

She flushed. ‘It… well, it was sort of a mistake? I mean, I’ve been living here for a few months – just as a lodger – I’m moving out tomorrow. He did owe me, and I couldn’t afford… Um. And I told Harry it would be nice to have a few people round. I… actually forgot to ask Severus if it was okay.’

George raised an eyebrow at her bright red face. His eyes strayed to her neck, and he blinked and took a large swig of his drink. ‘Lovely. Well, if I see our favourite grumpy old bat, I’ll let you know. Anyway, must be off. Angelina’s over there and I can see her looking for the fireworks. Which I’ve got in my pocket, of course.’ He winked. ‘Have a drink, they’re not bad. Harry brought most of them.’

He angled his way into the dancing throng, raising his cocktail at her in farewell.

She sighed and leaned into one of George’s reassuringly solid columns.

Where on earth could Snape be? Several passes of her eyes around the room convinced her he wasn’t here. The fact old Hogwartians were chugging drinks, making out on the sofa and gigglingly shooting wand-sparks at the lights was compelling evidence no-one had encountered him for some time, if at all. She hadn’t heard him come up the stairs while she’d been changing – and she was sure she would have done, hyper-alert to his presence as she was, even over the music.

Was he in the kitchen?

She turned aside, strode through the room dodging wand-sparks, and discovered an archway; peering through it, she located the kitchen. It was reassuringly normal – apart from being even dimmer than usual, clogged with acquaintances and conjured chairs, and twice the usual size. She slipped through, avoiding a raucous game of Drink Exploding Snap, and bumped into Harry.

‘Hermione!’ he exclaimed, catching his Firewhiskey before it could go down her dress. ‘Finally! Crumbs, where have you been? Snape let me in – I mean, it was fine – kind of weird actually, he almost looked happy, maybe this was a good idea – and I got George to help with the Extension Charms, but I was worried—’

‘Oh gosh, I really am sorry! I was changing, and the time sort of… Did – did you say you’d seen Severus? Where did he go?’

‘I’m not sure. Why do you need to…’ His eyes slipped to her neck. ‘Wait, is that a love bite? Or…’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Several love bites?’

She clutched at her neck, reddening. No, surely they hadn’t—

‘It’s a rash,’ she said quickly. ‘I… I saw the Muggle GP about it, but honestly I should have gone straight to St Mungo’s, I mean, they didn’t have a clue, haha—’

‘You’re a terrible liar, Hermione – also, I’m not blind. But who have you been…?’ Harry stared. His green eyes grew wider and wider.

A sudden vivid recollection of Snape passionately kissing her neck ambushed Hermione.

Her face must be on fire.

‘You know what,’ Harry said, after an interminable, awkward silence, ‘you’re both adults, and… And I really don’t want to know.’

‘It’s fine,’ she gulped. ‘It wasn’t… um. I mean, we. Er.’

He didn’t meet her eye. ‘Yeah. Like I said… Don’t want to know.’

She took a deep breath. ‘But you haven’t seen him?’

‘Not for ages.’ He blinked a few times. ‘Merlin, Hermione. I mean, I know you like a challenge—’

‘It’s not that! He – he has good qualities!’

Harry rubbed his forehead, still avoiding her face. ‘Well… yes, normally I’d be the first to say that, but not as… Merlin… How did you even…? No, I don’t want to—’

‘It was this evening, and… and sort of an accident,’ she said, and felt her ears burn. She found her gaze attempting to wander towards the pantry, and stared fixedly at Harry instead.

‘An accident? What, did you… fall on his face or something? How can you accidentally—’

She bit her lip, and decided she could tell Harry. He was her very best friend. They’d defeated Voldemort together. He could cope.

‘I’m in love with him,’ she said.

Harry finally met her eyes out of shock.

She wasn’t sure how to parse his expression – she’d never seen that look on his face before. Fury? Disgust?

‘What about Ron?’ he said.

Oh, that was it. Betrayal.

She tried to stay calm and reasonable. ‘Harry, it’s been months since I broke up with Ron. We ended our engagement and cancelled the wedding. It was obviously quite… final. Didn’t you think so?’

He scuffed his foot and didn’t reply.

‘I know you and Ginny broke up and reunited a few times before you got married, Harry, but people don’t always get back together. It’s not… I don’t hate Ron. I don’t never want to see him again, or anything like that. I even hope we can be friends, although I know it might take a while for it to be… normal. But we really weren’t suited to each other. I think it’s okay for me to, well, move on.’

‘And Snape’s better, is he? You don’t argue with him?’ Harry’s voice was hard.

‘It’s… Well, we do argue, but…’ She sighed. ‘It’s just, things are different because I respect him. Now I’ve noticed it… It’s what was always missing, with Ron. Respect.’

‘Ron’s always thought you were amazing. He respects you.’

She swallowed. ‘I know. But I don’t think I’ve ever really returned it as much as… as necessary.’

There was a cold silence. Harry shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Harry. I know it’s made things difficult. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone out with Ron in the first place. But we were just such good friends, and… And I always thought that was how it was supposed to happen, that it would… that I would be able to keep us together by, well, sheer willpower, but—’

‘But you couldn’t.’

She sighed. ‘Yes. I couldn’t.’

Harry’s mouth pressed in a flat, rueful line. ‘You know, it’s a very you thing to do. Assuming you can make anything work if you’re stubborn enough.’

She picked at her hands. ‘I suppose.’

‘Is that what’s going on with Snape?’

She looked up at him, startled. ‘What?’

‘Is that what’s going on with Snape? You just sort of bulldozing your way through, never mind the red flags?’

Trust Harry to use such Muggle metaphors, after all this time.

Was she bulldozing Snape?

She frowned, and remembered touching Snape’s face; the shock of his yearning, tormented expression.

‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘And… that’s why I’m looking for him, really. That, and the fact that if I don’t apologise for this party he might actually murder everyone.’

Harry gave her a searching look. ‘Don’t mess him about,’ he said finally. ‘He’s had enough misery already. Don’t you think?’

Her mouth had gone dry.

‘I won’t,’ she said.

But she wondered if she already had.

That moment in the pantry had not been planned in her usual manner – not at all.

***

Harry left to go and get another drink, and Hermione continued her search. After circling the kitchen a couple of times, she plucked up the nerve to approach the pantry. The door was shut. She tugged on it, getting curious glances from the nearest chairs, where Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan were sitting. Smiling at them and trying to look inconspicuous, she gave the pantry door a surreptitious kick (Snape’s doors had the tendency to stick) but who was she kidding? It was locked, wasn’t it. Feeling foolish, she cast Hominum Revelio behind her back, just in case. There was no-one inside.

Of course Severus wasn’t hiding in there. She was being ridiculous!

‘You all right, Hermione?’ asked Dean. ‘The toilets are down that corridor over there.’

‘Oh, yes, ahaha, silly me!’ she twittered, tugging her hair down over her neck. ‘Thanks!’

Turning tail, she squeezed past a raucously-laughing Alicia Spinnet and into Snape’s extension. George had obviously been busy here too. The washing machine and fridge were hidden behind frosted glass panels (also locked – Hermione vowed never to complain about any Weasley ever again) and there were now no fewer than ten toilets, set out behind doors in a neat little fan at the end of the corridor, past the most enormous coat rack she’d ever seen. There wasn’t even a queue to use them. Really, magic was wonderful sometimes. If she hadn’t been moving out tomorrow, she’d have asked Snape to keep it all.

She hung around on the pretext of looking for her coat. The loo doors opened and shut, disgorging tipsy Aurors, a worryingly large swathe of total strangers, and Rolf Scamander, who had captured an interesting spider; he walked right past her, crooning at it in his hand. But no Snape.

She swore under her breath.

Had Severus bolted out of the front door at the first sign of company? It would be just like him. But surely Harry would have noticed? And surely he wouldn’t abandon his house with this chaos happening inside it?

Wait – there was one last place she hadn’t tried.

She discovered the back door hidden behind one of Blinky’s overdecorated Christmas trees – a clever idea of George’s to hide it like that, and a nice way to keep everyone from disturbing the Muggle neighbours. If she hadn’t known it was there, she’d never have seen it. Still, she did know. And so did Snape.

Sidling over and making sure no-one was looking her way, she edged the door open and escaped outside.

The cold hit her like an upended ice bath. Snicking the door closed behind herself, she took slow breaths, hugging her cardigan as the air fogged with her exhalations.

A quick search. Then she was giving up before she froze. Honestly, Snape was probably sitting inside under a Disillusionment Charm reading a potions periodical, Vanishing people’s drinks behind their backs and amusing himself shooting cold draughts at anyone who so much as thought about sneaking upstairs.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, showing the dreary yard deserted, her folding table and chairs exactly where she’d left them, Snape’s potions plants in their dusty pots. There was only a slight amount of noise coming from the house – George’s silencing charms were top-notch. The roses let off a faint scent despite the biting chill of the wind.

She sighed.

Snape wasn’t here.

Of course he wasn’t. He was probably in his room.

Not ready to face the clamour of the party again despite the cold, she wandered past the table and the bamboo-screened dustbins, to the side of the extension – and stopped dead.

In the gap between the rear of the extension and the fence, Snape, furled in his cloak, was crouching over some plants. He had his back to her. A watering can steamed on the ground beside him.

As she stood there, frozen, she heard the snip of secateurs, and he straightened, holding a leafy cutting in his gloves.

‘Oh!’ she said, as he twitched to face her. ‘Oh – Severus – I…’

He stood absolutely still. The expression on his shadowed face was impossible to read.

‘I’m so sorry!’ she blurted. ‘I’ve been looking for you for ages – I really did just tell Harry he could invite a few friends – I had no idea it would be like this! I mean, your house is being targeted, and I know your protective enchantments are probably very good but someone could slip in, and – and I can’t believe I forgot about it – I really meant to ask you, but with the – the Floo ball, and then the werewolves, and—’

‘Hermione,’ he said. Shedding his gloves and the cutting, he strode towards her, gathered her in his arms, and snatched her into a kiss.

After a split-second’s shock – she’d been convinced she was getting hexed, or possibly murdered – she responded, deepening the kiss and running her hands through his hair – which was soft, and clean. Since when had he started caring for his appearance? And he was here, and…

And this time, she hadn’t sprung herself on him. This wasn’t her mind playing tricks. He wanted this. He wanted her.

It couldn’t be true. But as he continued to kiss her, soft and heartfelt, raw and desperate, his self-control frayed to breaking for the second time that evening, she began to let herself believe it.

They pulled apart, panting; he rested his forehead against hers, their misted breath twining in the frigid air. When she began to shiver, he drew her closer and threw his cloak about her, thick and warm. She smiled, traced the contours of his face.

He rested his cheek against her hair. His hand settled protectively against the small of her back.

Her shoulders loosened as his heat stole into her. The permanent tangle of nerves in her stomach unknotted. She hadn’t felt this safe since she’d joined the Aurors – no, since she’d started Hogwarts, and discovered just how much danger a witch could find herself in. Nothing would dare hurt her when she was with Snape; no-one could ambush her. This was better than having an entire Auror force at her back.

She nestled into his shoulder and shut her eyes.

Yes, this was far, far better: she’d always felt out-of-place among her colleagues, afraid of their reactions if she’d really spoken her mind. But she had no such qualms with Snape. She hadn’t once bothered to pretend she was nice, or held back her awful bossiness. She’d never squashed down her intelligence in case it scared him off, like she would have done for anyone else. They’d argued and fought, he knew the absolute worst of her, and still… this.

Was it what she had needed, all along – this strange, total acceptance? To be fully known in all her cleverness and awfulness, just as she now knew him?

When had he turned from seeing her as an irritation to valuing her life so very highly? To seeing her as an equal – to seeing her as…

‘How long have you felt this way?’ she asked, craning back to look at him.

A frown flickered across his brows. ‘I… don’t know. I was trying very hard not to feel… anything.’

‘Huh.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed the end of his nose. ‘How noble of you.’

He gave a fleeting, shy smile – and he did look handsome when he smiled, it was quite incredible the difference it made – then surveyed her face. ‘Hermione. Can I ask how… serious you are about this?’

She swallowed. ‘Serious? Like… um…’ She felt herself going red, and was glad of the darkness. ‘Well, I mean, it’s a little soon, I’d usually wait for a few dates at least, or even a bit longer, or a lot longer, but—’

His expression furled in puzzlement. ‘Sorry?’

Oh, gosh. That wasn’t what he’d meant. Yikes yikes yikes. She took a deep breath. ‘Actually, I… um… have no idea what you’re talking about. Explain?’

‘I meant, is this… your idea of a… fling?’ Saying the word seemed to cause him actual pain. ‘Or do you see this as… long term?’

‘Oh.’ She stared at him.

She hadn’t thought about it. It suddenly seemed like a terrible omission. All that time she’d spent pining and imagining him completely inaccessible, and she hadn’t even asked herself what she’d do if he turned out to like her. Date him a bit? Do a cookery course together? … Marry him?

She licked her lips. ‘Well—’

‘I’m only asking because…’ He paused, then said in a rush, ‘I don’t know how to… be with someone, and if I’m going to try, I don’t think I could… could bear it if…’ He hesitated, struggling for words.

Her heart ached.

She reached up and ran her finger over his lips.

He froze, a deer in headlights.

‘I’m serious,’ she said. ‘Perfectly serious.’

He looked into her eyes for a long time.

‘All right,’ he said finally.

She leaned into him and he kissed her again, and this time there was a weight behind it, something solemn and deliberate about him. She could sense the fear leaving him as he realised she wasn’t going to fade like a mirage. The way he held her became more assertive. Sparks thrilled along her nerves. But he was still… gentlemanly.

The rather large probability he was a virgin crossed her mind, and she felt horribly embarrassed about her earlier assumptions. Thank Merlin and all his minions she hadn’t made eye contact, and he hadn’t realised what she’d meant.

What had she even been saying, anyway? She’d sounded ridiculous. ‘After a few dates’ – like she’d slept with anyone except Ron! And even with Ron, it had taken… well, quite some time, to get to that stage. Eventually, she’d decided they might as well get on with it, and she’d forged through the awkwardness until eventually it had seemed almost natural. Even if he was rather annoying, sometimes.

This wasn’t like that, though. She wasn’t going to need persuading.

It was disconcerting. She’d always thought she wasn’t like that – that she had more self-control, or less interest in that aspect of things. That she was more logical.

Probably it was good they had been interrupted earlier, otherwise…

He paused, and looked at her; she hurriedly wiped her mind blank and tried to think of something else. Cold snow, cold snow, cold snow…

‘Do you… want to go back inside?’ he asked slowly.

‘Oh no, I’m fine.’

‘You’re shivering.’

‘Well, I’m not cold.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s beyond freezing and you’re wearing a… small dress.’

‘My tights are very thick.’ She was also basically wearing his cloak and his arms, but it seemed awkward to point that out. She sighed. ‘Look, it’s… nice out here. I mean, with you. Quiet, and… There are rather a lot of people in there, and they’re all being far too loud. And, well, frankly, if we started snogging in a corner we would gather an audience.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Most of the guests don’t seem to realise either of us live here. I’m happy it’s that way. Besides, since I’ve made the horrendous mistake of accidentally hosting a rave, I should probably… suffer for it just a little, don’t you think?’

He was still frowning.

‘You could always ask yourself exactly how many former students you want to see this evening?’

The frown disappeared. ‘Ah, yes. That would be… exactly one.’

She laughed and tilted her face upwards so he could kiss it again. He wavered a moment and then complied, with such careful tenderness it took her breath.

‘Do you mind if I ask exactly what you see in me?’ he said, a little while later. ‘For research purposes.’

She studied him. He’d tried very hard to sound light, but she wasn’t fooled.

How could she make him believe she meant this? What could she say? Where to even start?

She looked him straight in the eyes, affection burning through her.

‘Everything,’ she said softly. ‘I see everything I admire and—’ she hesitated; surely it was too soon to tell him she loved him— ‘and respect. I see your flaws, but also, I see everything you do to make up for them. I can’t imagine why no-one else sees how… how worth admiring you are. But maybe it’s just as well. I mean, I can’t exactly kid myself that I would win if pitted against other claimants for your affections.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he whispered. ‘You are… are far superior to…’ He broke off, once again struggling for words. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he repeated, and kissed her.

Chapter Text

Eventually, it became cold enough that even Hermione had to admit defeat.

No, not defeat – tactical withdrawal. Contracting frostbite the night before she moved house would, after all, be inconvenient.

They took their time re-crossing the yard. On a whim, Hermione slipped her hand into Snape’s. He halted in surprise and looked at her, and she smiled – then thrilled with the warmth in his eyes when he smiled in return. He laced his fingers with hers, held tight, and didn’t let go, even when holding the door open for her to return to the house.

It was perhaps unfortunate the first person they encountered inside was Harry. His gaze went from their flushed faces to their linked hands, then hurriedly to the ceiling.

‘Ah, Mr Potter,’ Snape said with vindictive delight. ‘How fortunate. I’d like a word somewhere private: my laboratory, perhaps.’

Harry’s chin jutted ominously.

‘Be nice,’ Hermione hissed in Snape’s ear. ‘He’s still my best friend.’

Snape raised an eyebrow at her; she could practically hear him saying, but I’m always nice. She threw him an unimpressed look, and was treated to a smirk in return.

‘Fine,’ said Harry, still not making eye contact with either of them. He downed the rest of his drink. ‘Let’s get this over with, then.’

‘Please don’t duel,’ Hermione called, wringing her hands as they walked off.

They ignored her.

She huffed and crossed her arms.

Well, she had accidentally thrown the biggest house party of the wizarding year; she might as well enjoy it for a bit. Even if the only two people she really wanted to spend it with had just gone off to make each other’s lives even more difficult than they already were.

The lounge was more overcrowded than it had been earlier, the dancers pressed together, the air heavy with perfume and sweat. Attempting to cross the room, Hermione was jostled by elbows and shoulders. Weasley fireworks meandered across the ceiling, bursting in splatterings of cool, multicoloured fire only to wriggle off again. Somehow a stage had been set up at one end of the room. Lee Jordan was up there doing an impassioned rendition of a Weird Sisters classic while – gosh, Bill – accompanied him on what looked like one of his dad’s magically modified electric guitars, his fang earring swinging. It was so loud Hermione’s ears hurt. She decided she needed to be slightly less sober if she was going to enjoy this.

The drinks table had remained under the window and been kept well-stocked. Hermione paused in front of it. Some of the new ‘drinks’ looked like recreational potions to her well-trained eye, and, okay, a Cheerfulness Concoction was one thing, but a Draught of Delirium was quite another. She tutted. Some of these partiers were supposed to be Aurors! She Vanished the offending phials, then found an unopened bottle of Firewhiskey beneath the table and poured herself a generous measure. It went down a treat, burning the last of the cold from her fingertips.

Now what?

And oughtn’t she to be worrying about the werewolves? Snape didn’t seem unduly bothered, and it was unlikely Harry had issued anyone from a pack a direct invitation – but then, she’d okayed invitations to friends of friends… Harry didn’t know about the danger they were in… and the number of people here strongly suggested acquaintances of acquaintances of acquaintances were in attendance, too…

‘HERMIONE!’ yelled a vast, pink face, abruptly in hers.

She jumped. ‘Hilda?’

Her German Floo Network colleague roared with laughter, the feathers on her dress twirling merrily. ‘It is you! How come you’re here? I thought you didn’t like parties!’

There was no point explaining. ‘Harry invited me.’

‘Harry?’

‘Harry Potter.’

‘Oh, the Live Who Boyed is here? Yikeys!’ She guffawed again. ‘Would I like to see him and give him the biggest kiss! I had a crush on him FOREVER!’

Wow. Someone had been sampling the potions.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. ‘You do know he’s married, right?’

‘Pffffft. Not that kind of kiss. Anyway, it’s dancing time!’ She grabbed Hermione by the arms and swung her into the jiggling bodies. ‘Wheeee!’

Hermione sighed, and went with it.

There probably weren’t any werewolves here. She ought to relax.

***

It was a while later when, pausing to catch her breath from accompanying Hilda in her wild dancing, Hermione caught sight of Harry by the stairs, deep in conversation. What she could make out of Harry’s expression was discombobulated, his hair in disarray. Feeling guilty (ought she to have accompanied him upstairs with Severus?), Hermione made excuses to Hilda and began to circumnavigate the press of bodies. The lights strobed. Fireworks flickered. Through the crowd, Harry’s face contorted in anger. She saw a snatch of his companion’s Weasley hair. Then, as she turned: a face – a pale, dead-eyed, teenage face, under a white Muggle sports cap. There and gone, melting into the darkness between the flashing lights.

Adrenaline thumped through her.

The boy who’d stolen her earring.

It couldn’t be, could it?

Hermione searched for Harry in the crowd again, and couldn’t find him. Well, Harry wasn’t urgent.

She pushed into the crowd, following that elusive half-glimpse of the boy, hand on her wand. Music thudded in her ribcage. She shoved past gyrating bodies, urgent, other people’s sweat soaking her dress.

A flash of a white cap by the main door of the house, here and gone as the door swung wide and then shut.

Had he left?

She drew her wand.

Had it really been him? 

‘ALLLLLL right, witches and wizards, warlocks and weirdos!’ a familiar voice boomed over the roar of the party.

The lights over the far side of the room brightened to a dazzle. In the sudden change of contrast, Hermione couldn’t see the crowd.

George Weasley ascended the brilliantly-lit stage, his wand pointed at his Adam’s apple. ‘Yes, that’s right, it’s the time of the evening when we do requests! What, you’ve never been to a Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes party before? For shame!’

Laughter exploded around Hermione, and she flinched, disorientated. Had she really seen the boy? It could have been a mistake. She hadn’t seen his face clearly. Maybe she was just overwrought.

‘Yes, requests, friends and acquaintances and random people I’ve never met! What I mean is this – any Weasley product can be yours tonight, for just the tiny, tiny fee of a really good reason you should get it, as long as you’re willing to come up on stage and share the reason with everyone. Then, the vote goes to the crowd. Any takers?’

Drunken shouting ensued. Bill’s guitar slipped as he was taking it off, letting out a squeal of feedback, and Hermione’s heart jumped, her nerves flaring with adrenaline. Maybe she should check the door—

‘Me! Me!’ came a sudden, overloud voice—

And Ron Weasley stumbled onto the stage, wandpoint meandering over his throat.

Hermione’s gasp felt trapped in her chest. Ron? How was Ron here? Which unutterably stupid person had invited Ron?

‘Okay brother mine,’ said George. ‘So, you’re up first, are you? What’s your excuse for attempting to nick your own merchandise?’

‘Yeah, well,’ said Ron, staggering slightly and looking out over the crowd. ‘You see, I’m here—’

A roar of laughter.

‘No, seriously – that’s noddit, shhh! I’m not here for that, I’m here to make an – ananannoucement. Or a question, or some… thing.’

‘Hurry up then,’ said George. ‘We have stuff to get on with here, mate.’

‘I’m getting married!’ said Ron, face flushed. ‘If she’ll have me of course – I mean… Oh no, I’ve got this backwards…’

Hermione’s stomach dropped so fast she had to lean against the wall. Merlin and Morgana, no. Ron must have seen her. He was going to propose again, in front of all these people. He’d gate-crashed – for this! The absolute nerve—

Then Ron gestured to someone at the front of the crowd, went down on one knee, and said, his voice catching in his throat, ‘Lavender, you’re brilliant and… well, I’m an idiot but still… will you be my wife?’

There was a hush.

Hermione shoved her knuckles into her mouth.

Yes!’ came an excited squeal.

The room exploded with whooping, whistles—

While Lavender Brown, pink and pleased, clambered onto the stage and hung onto Ron’s arm, breathless with excitement as he pushed a shiny ring onto her finger.

The crowd awwed, and began chatting and laughing, but Hermione felt sick, stunned. How could… How could he? It was so soon. Too soon. Ron – she wanted him to be happy, but – but this wasn’t – she hadn’t expected— Not already— With Lavender Brown—

‘All right, all right!’ called George. ‘Settle down, everyone—’

‘But that’s not all!’ interrupted Ron. He held up Lavender’s hand, diamond glittering. ‘Coz, you know, I wanta invite you all to the wedding! 30^th April, The Pythagor- Pythagorrinin Arches—’

This time, Hermione couldn’t hold back her gasp. A few people turned towards her.

No. That was – that was her and Ron’s wedding date! That was the venue they’d booked together! He hadn’t cancelled the wedding, he’d – he’d swapped her for—

‘And we’re expecting!’ squealed Lavender over the hushed room, giggling and patting her tummy. ‘Due in June – a little girl! Oh Ronny, I love you!’ And she leaned up to kiss him—

‘NO!’ cried Hermione.

The entire room sucked in with shock – heads turned, faces peered from the dark – and up on stage Ron stared, white and slack-jawed, his face flooding with horror as he met her eyes, Lavender at his side still searching for the source of the noise.

Ron hadn’t known.

He hadn’t known she was here.

He hadn’t known this was her party.

Hermione drew in a shaking breath, cast one look at all these people she knew, their faces shaded with embarrassment and pity and disbelief – and fled.

***

She was in her room, face-down on her bed, sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t remember getting here, only shoving through bodies until she was in blissful silence and darkness.

Ron. And Lavender? Pregnant?

The baby was due in June. Had he run off to that evil witch the night they’d broken up?

They'd been together for fourteen years! How could he have moved on so quickly, like it hadn’t even mattered?

Had he been seeing Lavender behind her back the whole time? Had he been cheating?

Their beautiful, perfect wedding – the dress, the flowers, the music, everything she’d planned. The little red-headed Weasley kids she’d imagined being hers – her conscientiousness and Ron’s warm, mischievous temperament combined into tiny Rose or sweet baby Hugo—

All the promises he’d made to her, the I love yous, the days and nights they’d spent together, his delicious cooking, his thoughtful gifts. That wonderful house. Their unshakeable war bond, something no-one but Harry understood.

Ron emerging through the forest with Harry and the sword, and the rush of air that had filled her lungs because the whole time he’d been gone, she’d been unable to breathe—

Oh, she’d broken up with him, but it had been on her terms, and – and this wasn’t part of the deal, this was all wrong, horribly, terribly wrong—

They were supposed to be friends. Best friends. She’d been put under the Cruciatus, but nothing, nothing hurt like this.

There was a rap-rap-rap on her door. The familiarity of it made her heart squeeze.

‘P-please c-c—’

Harry rushed into the room, a blur through her tears, the doorway left gaping behind him. She wiped her eyes and tried to control herself enough to speak, but couldn’t.

Harry knelt beside the bed and put his arms around her, his face in her shoulder.

She clutched at his jumper. ‘H-Harry!’

‘I’m so sorry. Ron had just told me when he jumped on stage. I tried to find you before he spoke. I tried to stop him—’

‘H-he d-didn’t tell you b-before?’

‘No.’ Harry raked his hair. ‘I don’t know who invited him tonight. I should have been more careful with the invitations, I should have—’

‘Harry, s-stop. It’s not your fault.’ She levered herself to a sitting position, her diaphragm spasming, tears sheeting down her face. ‘Just… t-tell me everything. I need to – to know how… How he could have…’ She buried her face in her hands.

‘Well, he sort of… he didn’t fully explain, but…’ Harry rocked on his heels. ‘I mean, Ron was, obviously, devastated when you left him, and… well, he was drunk a lot of the time. I mean, George nearly told him not to come back to the joke shop.’

‘Th-that bad? Oh R-Ron… In such a state? Oh, and I didn’t even know… P-poor Ron… How awful!’

She’d left. She’d left and it had broken him. He’d never been an alcoholic.

‘Bill and Fleur looked after him,’ Harry muttered. ‘He was all right.’

‘But Lavender?’

‘Ron said… He said he met her in the Three Broomsticks, when he was a mess just after the breakup, and… he hadn’t seen her for years, and…’

‘And he g-got her p-pregnant?’

Harry squeezed her arm. ‘Yeah.’

Hermione flashed back to the time she’d seen Lavender picking up her Wolfsbane Potion – the questions she’d asked Snape about how safe it was for expecting mothers. Coldness wrapped around her and squeezed until she thought she’d snap. Her sobs took on a sharp, keening note.

‘I wish we hadn’t found out like this,’ Harry said. ‘When he told me, he said he’d owled you ages ago because he wanted you to know first. I take it you didn’t read his letters?’

Those letters. So many letters. She hadn’t opened a single one. How idiotic.

She shook her head, blinded by tears.

‘If it helps, I don’t think he wanted to do this to you,’ Harry said. ‘I’m sure this wasn’t planned. I mean, obviously the… the pregnancy wasn’t planned, and… tonight, I don’t think he realised…’

Hermione barely heard him. Ron had tried so hard to tell her. She’d said such awful things when she’d left. Ron must have thought she’d been refusing to respond to his letters out of spite. Ron. He’d been in such a desperate situation. She hadn’t even replied.

‘I st-still l-love him,’ she sobbed. ‘I r-really do. He’s my best friend, and… and I care what happens to him, and I can’t believe that he’d… he’d choose to…’

Harry swallowed. ‘Yeah. I know, Hermione. I know.’

Unable to move or think, Hermione lay down again, coiled around the pain. There was no point trying to stop weeping, so she didn’t.

After a while, Harry flicked his wand with a muttered, ‘Expecto Patronum.’ His silver stag flew through the window. Harry watched it go, then sat on the floor, his back against the bed, and patted Hermione’s hand.

‘I’ll stay here as long as you need me.’

It wasn’t long before he began snoring.

When Hermione was sure he wouldn’t wake, she crept out and fumbled for the stack of letters she’d stuffed under her bed. She read them by wandlight under the sheets, the noise of the party echoing through the open door. Gradually, the whole story became clear. Ron’s shock over the accidental pregnancy – I barely remember what happened, I feel awful. I haven’t so much as spoken to her for years. Ron deciding not to abandon Lavender and the baby. I can’t do that to someone, not when it's my fault. She didn’t even know about you. Ron offering Lavender a place to live. Lavender moving in. Lavender discovering Ron’s financial woes and covering the mortgage. Ron’s wish to do the honourable thing. Please reply, Hermione. I need to start telling other people. I don’t want to muck either of you about. I just want to do what’s right. I know I made a horrible mess. I’m so sorry. Somewhere in the house, footsteps prowled. There was disconnected laughter, far off, and raucous chanting. Above and muffled, something smashed. Several other somethings followed. Giggles and singing floated from downstairs. As Hermione read, slowly, the noise died down. The front door slammed itself into silence. The house quietened to its usual creaks and groans.

Finally, Hermione fell asleep, exhausted, in a labyrinth of tearstained parchment.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke the next morning with her eyes crusted shut. She was cold. The familiar scent of Harry and Ginny’s washing powder nestled in her stuffy nose.

She sat up, knuckling her eyelids – and remembered.

The party. Ron. The proposal. Lavender. Lavender’s pregnancy. Ron’s letters.

She lay back down and stared at the wall. Her eyes leaked.

On the floor, Harry jolted, knocking against her camp bed. ‘You awake, Hermione?’

‘Mm.’

Harry sat upright, then groaned as his back popped. ‘Yikes. I’m getting too old to sleep on floors. I feel like I’ve been lying on a Firecrab.’ He yawned. ‘Huh. This place is a bit… spartan. I thought you had more stuff last time I was here.’

‘’M moving out today. Packed.’

‘Oh – really? Do you need help? I can ask—’

‘No. Got my bag. Already picked up the keys.’

The floorboards creaked as Harry bundled up his cloak, then he swore. ‘Merlin’s saggiest Y-fronts, it’s nearly lunchtime! I promised Ginny—’

‘’S all right. You should go.’

He shoved on his shoes. ‘You’re coming over for dinner. 6pm. No excuses. If you don’t arrive, I’m sending my entire Auror squad after you.’

She couldn’t find even the ghost of a smile to answer him with. ‘Fine.’

‘Good luck with the move.’ In the corner of her eye, he tried to flatten his hair in the Boggart wardrobe’s mirror, and gave up. He sighed. ‘I really am sorry, but I do have to—’

‘’S fine.’

He gave her shoulder a squeeze, with another muttered, ‘Sorry.’

He was gone in a clatter of footsteps and the distant clatter-bang of the front door.

Hermione rolled over and faced the ceiling. Tears trickled into her ears, hot and sticky.

Her thoughts wandered, skittering through conversations she’d had with Ron. Sleep had brought a bitter clarity. She saw, stark and obvious now, how things had really been between them. She’d belittled Ron, sniped at him, made him feel worthless. Pushed her anxieties onto him. Controlled him. Micro-managed. Chided him for every imagined misdemeanour until he shrank in her presence. He hadn’t been cowardly – he was a Gryffindor through and through. But he’d eventually let her take the reins because he knew the moment he tried to assert himself, she’d cut him down. Even then, she’d poked holes in his smallest decisions, teasing out what was wrong in the soundest, most unassuming idea he dared to voice. She was always critical, always insisting she was right. Even when he’d complimented her, she’d nitpicked.

She was a piece of work.

Hadn’t she planned every last part of their wedding because she didn’t trust Ron to do it right?

No wonder he’d run straight into Lavender’s arms. Lavender had always found Ron hilarious, always thought of him as a hero, done nothing but appreciate him and look up to him. Hermione had always thought of Lavender as a gullible idiot, but that wasn’t really true, was it? She was just softer, more accommodating, more willing to trust. More easy-going, spontaneous, optimistic.

And Ron… Ron deserved someone who adored him unreservedly – someone who would build him up, rather than tearing him to shreds every five minutes. Because it wasn’t that Ron was weak, or insecure. In reality, he’d got over those childish failings a long time ago.

It was her, Hermione Granger.

She’d been the problem.

Hermione began to sob again.

Ron had tried to tell her she was too much, hadn’t he? He’d wanted her to notice her lack of empathy, how she crushed him – because he loved her, and knew what she’d been through, and didn’t want to give up on her. He’d tried to help her change. All those conversations that had started with, ‘Hermione, do you realise how I feel when you—’

And she’d snarled at him for it, and thought him weak. Childishly, she’d tried to provoke him into a real blow-out, wishing he could match her needless fury – and what for? So she could prove herself superior, yet again?

It hadn’t been her perseverance that had made them last as long as they had. She felt sick at her pride, that she’d ever assumed so. It had been Ron’s.

She shut her eyes.

How could she have been so blind to her own failings – for so long? So much for being clever.

The winter sun crept across the sky. The shadows inched around the room. Her stomach rumbled. She ignored it. She didn’t deserve to eat, no matter what sounds or smells came from the kitchen downstairs.

For a long, drawn-out time, she wished she’d never existed.

Then, finally, she remembered Snape.

Snape, who had known her in all her vicious, irritating, bossy, stubborn disagreeableness – and had held her like she was the most astonishing and precious thing in the world.

She turned over and looked at the door. Her head pounded. The tote bag, packed and ready, lay on the floor where she’d left it a million years ago.

She drew in a shaky breath.

She couldn’t move out. She couldn’t face being alone. She needed someone around who understood. Who would be there for her while she got back on her feet, while she worked out who and what she was. Not an empty flat, where the only sound would be the anonymous traffic outside, and her thoughts would spiral until she could barely move.

She was going to tell Snape she couldn’t bear to leave. She needed him.

Sniffing and wiping her eyes, she threw her slippers and duck dressing gown on over her cardigan and the hopelessly creased party dress, and stumbled downstairs.

She found Snape in the kitchen (which was now normal-sized), standing at the sink, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He had his back to her. A pile of clean glassware glittered in soap suds on the draining board beside him.

His hands stilled in the washing-up bowl when she entered.

‘Hi,’ she croaked.

He began scrubbing again. Looking over, she could see that most of his workload had consisted of wine and cocktail glasses, rather than the flasks and vials she’d assumed he would be cleaning.

‘Didn’t George deal with those?’ she croaked, surprised.

A slight motion of his shoulders.

She sighed and slumped into a seat at the table. Snape’s presence warmed her insides. It was like she’d swallowed hot soup after a long trudge outside.

A rueful smile flitted over her face. ‘I’m never going to live this down, am I? You should have left the mess for me to clear up, since this was my atrocious idea. You didn’t have to do this – without magic, even.’

He placed a clean glass upside-down on the draining board, and took another into the bowl.

The silence stretched. Hermione tried to relax into it but something felt… off.

‘Severus?’ she asked quietly. ‘Is everything… okay?’

He stiffened. Slowly, he put down the glass he’d been washing.

There was a pause.

‘You’re not over him,’ he said in a soft voice.

It was such a non-sequitur it took her several seconds to work out who he meant.

‘You mean – you mean Ron?’

He took a deep breath. ‘Don’t… prevaricate. You’re not over him. Are you?’

‘I – well.’

She sighed, then sniffed, and found she was crying again. She didn’t try to stop. Snape had seen her cry plenty of times: what harm could it do? It wasn’t like she could help it, anyway.

‘We were together for such a long time and he – he was my best friend. Is. Should be. I n-never thought he would… get over me so quickly, then… g-get someone else pregnant. And n-now I realise when we broke up it… it wasn’t his fault – I thought it was, but actually it was m-me, I pushed him away because I was s-so horrible to him. A-and I r-really l-loved him—’

She buried her head in her hands. Her shoulders heaved.

There was a clinking of glasses over by the sink.

Snape snatched a breath. ‘I don’t want to see you again.’

She had misheard. Surely she had—

She raised her head. ‘What?’

He still had his back to her. ‘You’re not over Weasley. What happened between us was… a mistake. I don’t want to see you again.’

‘But—’

It wasn’t real. He couldn’t possibly mean that.

She drew a shaky breath. ‘But you can’t… I want to stay here, I… I need you, I don’t want to move out, I can’t be alone—’

He stared out the window. When he spoke his voice was barely above a whisper. ‘My decision is… final.’

She went cold. Her breath was trapped, her pulse thudding in her ears. Something was constricting her lungs. She felt like she would vomit.

‘Severus? Y-you can’t— This is just because of Ron? But I b-broke up with him months ago!’

‘You’re still… entangled with him. In your mind. In your heart.’ He picked up another glass and began washing it. His voice turned waspish. ‘Find someone else to get over him with. I am not interested in you.’

She blinked, and blinked.

A towering wall of rage slammed sheer through her. Hot. Blinding.

The nerve.

‘How could you say that?’ she snarled, getting to her feet. ‘How could you tell me I need to get over someone? You! You! The man who’s still obsessed with Lily Potter – Lily, who chose James, not you! And died over thirty years ago! And you still keep her picture in your lab! You can’t even bear to say her name! How can you tell me that I have to move on before I’m worthy of your attention? You... you great monstrous hypocrite!’

The glass Snape was holding smashed.

He rounded on her.

Now she saw his eyes: bloodshot, shadows under them like thumbprint-sized bruises, their fire snuffed out and dead. They filled his face, stark and empty.

Where he clutched the broken glass, his fists dripped red.

She took a step away.

‘Leave. My. House,’ he whispered.

She shook her head, trembling. ‘B-but… why do this? It doesn’t make sense!’

He made no reply. He looked terrible. This had hurt him. He had feelings for her – he had said so. Even if he hadn’t breathed a whisper, she could see it.

He couldn’t do this. It couldn’t end this way.

She drew a deep breath. ‘Please don’t make me go. I… I love you.’

Snape’s lips parted soundlessly.

There was the barest moment where she didn’t realise what was happening, where she watched, helpless, as his eyes turned from empty holes to punchouts of universe-crushing, suffocating darkness.

Then she knew what she’d done.

She’d pushed him too far. He’d snapped.

‘HOW DARE YOU THROW THOSE WORDS AT ME LIKE YOU UNDERSTAND THEM!’ he screamed, his face contorted into a grotesque mask. ‘YOU HAVE NO IDEA – NO IDEA WHAT THEY MEAN! I WILL NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN! GET OUT! OUT!’

He slashed with his wand. A fierce wind tore through the kitchen, snatching her in its jaws. She screamed and fought it, but there was nothing to kick, nothing to hold on to, nothing to throw spells at, only frigid air that howled and blew every intervening door open to whirl her across the street outside and drop her onto the opposite pavement, and hurl her bag after her with such force it hit the ground and split. The folding table and chairs from the garden followed, then the roses, the bamboo, even the apple tree. The pots smashed as they hit the kerb, spraying her with soil. Cadmus’ empty cage came spinning across, scattering sawdust.

She dropped to her knees.

‘Severus!’ she sobbed, as Snape’s figure darkened the doorway. ‘Don’t do this – y-you’re breaking my heart, you’re breaking your own—’

‘Oh really,’ he sneered, breathless, his voice cracking. ‘Haven’t you realised? I don’t have a heart. Get up and leave. You’re embarrassing yourself. Accio house keys.’

Hermione’s keys tore from her pocket and flew into Snape’s waiting fingers.

He turned away.

The door slammed.

She sat on the pavement, gasping, her brain frozen, her dressing gown soaking up gutter water.

He couldn’t.

They had only just—

He couldn’t.

It wasn’t real.

He was going to open the door. Any moment now, he would fling it wide and run out. He’d be so relieved she was still here. He’d drag her back inside, and – and embrace her, kiss her while he apologised over and over—

But the door stayed shut.

A cold smell filled the air. White flakes began to drift from the sky.

It snowed until Hermione’s ruined plants and bag were shrouded lumps, and the cage, chair and table were puffy skeletons, and she was shivering so hard she couldn’t grip her wand. But Snape did not open the door.

He had meant it. He’d meant everything he said.

Of course he had.

She buried her head in her knees and lost all pretence of control. But she had already cried so much, all that came out was a repetitive hawing croak, like an elderly donkey.

She sounded ridiculous. She was ridiculous, crying out here in the street and imagining Snape – Severus Snape, of all people – would take pity on her and change his mind. He always meant what he said. He couldn’t open that door and bring her in, even if she collapsed. He had too much stubbornness, too much pride, to go back on a resolution. He’d rather Patronus-message Harry and get him to collect her – he’d rather have Aurors in his street than her in his home.

She drew in a sharp, trembling breath, and held it.

Snape never wanted to see her again.

Nothing she did was going to change that.

But… she was a survivor. Not a helpless damsel.

She needed to get out of the cold.

She wobbled to her feet, grabbed Cadmus’ cage and hoisted her tote bag onto her shoulder. A random assortment of belongings fell to the snow through a rent in the bag. When she groaned and went to grab them, she realised they weren’t the only things that had fallen out. Her socks, library card, a pillow, her old Gryffindor scarf, lipsticks, toothbrush… Possessions lay scattered under and over the snow, wherever she looked.

The sight of her scattered possessions almost destroyed her – it was the tiniest, stupidest little bump after all the knock-down punches of the last 24 hours, but she couldn’t cope. She’d had it. Keening brokenly, she fell to her hands and knees in the snow. She tried to pick everything up, but the snow was too thick and her hands were so raw it hurt to use them, and the stuff wouldn’t go back into the bag anyway, no matter how she shoved at it. And she couldn’t mend the bag with magic because it would mess with the Extension Charm, and her wet clothes were beginning to freeze solid, and her toes had lost all sensation, and she was still only in her dressing gown and slippers and cardi, and that stupid little red cocktail dress and tights that she’d worn last night… When Snape had… When he had…

She bent double, sobbing.

She couldn’t do this.

She had to leave her things.

Fixing her thoughts on the warm, cheery lights of Harry and Ginny’s cottage, she struggled upright and Apparated.

Chapter Text

Ginny caught Hermione as she fell through the opened doorway of Holly Bank Cottage.

‘About time,’ she said, red hair warm against Hermione’s frozen cheek as she hugged her. ‘Harry’s been pacing the lounge, counting the minutes.’ She pulled away and frowned at Hermione. ‘You look a wreck. Come and sit down. Tea or coffee?’

‘Firewhiskey,’ Hermione said faintly.

Ginny raised her eyebrows, but took Hermione’s possession-leaking bag and owl cage, and led her into the conservatory, which was warm and bright despite the glowering sky outside. Then she left. Crockery clinked in the kitchen.

Hermione watched the wind kick the garden swing and shuffle dead leaves on the lawn. A numb emptiness filled her insides. She was shivering, but couldn’t feel her body. Everything was happening far away; she was only watching. Her fingers picked at the wicker arm of the sofa. She viewed them as if through the wrong end of a telescope.

Ginny returned with a glass of Firewhiskey, a pot of tea and a piece of ginger cake. Harry trailed her, a worried frown on his face. Hermione reflected distantly that she really must look a state to require this kind of treatment.

‘I’ll go and check the dinner and make sure James hasn’t killed Albus,’ said Ginny, turning to leave. ‘Harry wanted to say something to you in private anyway.’

Hermione didn’t have the energy to answer.

Ginny left, her slippered feet flip-flopping on the kitchen flags. There was distant yelling.

Hermione downed the Firewhiskey.

Harry sat in one of the wicker chairs and eyed her.

‘You’re… still in your dressing gown,’ he said.

She half-shrugged and stared at the bottom of her empty glass.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Guilt wormed through Hermione’s stomach. It wasn’t fair on Harry and Ginny to have to keep picking up pieces of her and putting her back together.

‘Sorry to turn up like…’ she began. The rest of what she’d meant to say disappeared before it found her mouth. She didn’t deserve Harry.

‘Don’t be daft.’ Harry sounded annoyed; it occurred to Hermione in a vague, slow sort of way that he also hadn’t got much sleep last night. ‘We’re friends, Hermione. That is the point of this relationship. I know you’d do the same thing for me or Ginny if we needed it.’

Tears leaked out of Hermione’s eyes. She went to wipe them on her sleeve, and realised that instead of being warm, fluffy and yellow, it was wringing wet and grey with filth.

‘Why are you all… soggy?’ asked Harry.

‘It s-snowed?’

‘Right.’

He got out his wand and twiddled. A blast of warm air ruffled Hermione’s clothing. Shivering worse than ever, she clutched the dressing gown and hugged herself, drawing her legs up onto the chair. It was… nice being warm.

Harry poured a cup of tea. ‘I take it you didn’t get around to moving into the new flat.’

‘No.’

He pushed the cup into her hands. ‘Just stay here tonight.’

She swallowed the lump out of her throat, and nodded.

The scalding tea slid down her gullet, burning painfully with the residue of the Firewhiskey.

Harry fiddled with his seat cushion. She gradually realised he was keyed-up for something, and Ginny’s parting words came back to her, twisting her into anxiety. The feeling grew worse with each silent moment, until her insides felt like overtightened piano wire.

‘Harry?’ she rasped. ‘You wanted to say something in private? What…?’

‘Oh. Erm, yeah. Well…’ He gave her a weighing-up look, then examined the floor. ‘It’s actually something Snape asked me to tell you.’

Her insides leapt. Her blood came back to life and flooded her cheeks. ‘He – he did?’

She’d known Snape wouldn’t come outside to see her, not with his own words binding him, but hadn’t she thought he might send his Patronus to Harry? She’d known Snape must have more to say to her – he regretted what he’d said, perhaps, what he’d done – surely he didn’t want to part with her like this – he wanted to see her again, he’d calmed down—

‘Yeah.’ Harry examined his knuckles. ‘See, there’s something that happened when he was… at school. Something he wants you to know about. Something pretty… bad. Um.’

Hermione frowned. This history she hadn’t understood must have been why Snape had reacted so badly to her confession of love. He’d hate sharing something unpleasant about his past face-to-face – he’d also love to discomfort Harry, by making him tell her something awkward. It was like him to tell her a difficult truth this way – such a very Snape way of apologising.

She leaned forward.

‘See, Snape and my dad… Well, you know my dad saved his life when Lupin almost bit him, but… That story makes my dad sound heroic – and he was, in the war – but at school he was… a bully, Hermione, frankly. Snape was one of his victims for… for, well, a long time.’ He sighed. ‘My dad, Sirius, Lupin and Pettigrew… they ganged up on Snape to harass him. Snape didn’t provoke them or anything, they just hated him on sight.’

She nodded, not quite seeing where the story was going, but willing to trust Snape’s logic and follow his reasoning. ‘I see. That’s… that’s really awful. I’m sorry you had to discover that about your dad, Harry.’

He shook his head. ‘Yeah, well… I still haven’t told you the worst bit. But I’m getting ahead of myself. See, the whole thing with Lupin nearly killing Snape wasn’t a mistake – Sirius wanted Snape bitten. Sirius and my dad didn’t… learn, either, after nearly killing Snape. They didn’t stop. Even after my dad started dating my mum, who’d, y’know, been friends with Snape, my dad kept hexing him and just hid it from her. But that… wasn’t the worst thing. The worst was…’ Harry ran his hand through his hair again. ‘You see, Dumbledore made Snape swear never to tell anyone about Lupin, and he hadn’t breathed a word. And still, after that, my dad…’ Harry’s voice turned bitter. ‘I suppose they felt like they could get away with anything, if they’d got away with attempted murder.’

This seemed off. She felt awful for Snape, awful for Harry, but… where was this going? What did Harry’s dad and Sirius and their horrible almost-murder of Snape have to do with Snape’s fury when she’d revealed her feelings?

‘Harry, I don’t understand. What did Severus want you to explain to me?’

He held up a hand. ‘Look, this is difficult for me to say. Just let me finish, all right?’

She swallowed. ‘Of course.’

‘It was in public, in the middle of Hogwarts, right by the lake. There was a crowd. My mum was there. And she tried to stop them before it got so – you see, to start with, my dad was roughing Snape up and insulting him, like, he Disarmed him and… and… Scoured his mouth, and flipped him upside-down and stuff. Snape tried to defend himself but they took his wand. He was completely helpless. My mum stepped in and told my dad to stop, but also she… she almost kind of found it funny, and my dad was… flirting with her, while he… And Snape was humiliated that my mum felt like she needed to defend him – he called her a Mudblood, and she… left. My dad got angry. And that’s when he – well, Snape was upside down and… and his robes were hanging over his face…’

Hermione’s stomach went cold. This had nothing to do with a love confession. It couldn’t be what Snape had wanted her to know. Not now, not any more. This story was too humiliating for him to trust her with – it was plainly one of the worst things that had ever happened to him. What if Snape hadn’t owled Harry today? Hadn’t he taken Harry up to his lab for a discussion last night? Before everything— Before— She had to stop Harry telling her.

‘Harry, wait, stop, when did Severus—’

‘And my dad – he turned Snape upside-down, and stripped him, took away his underwear,’ Harry rattled on, clutching his knees, speaking over her, his words so fast she almost couldn’t understand. ‘For everyone to see, and they all laughed, and… I violated his memories. You remember when was teaching me Occlumency? He took out memories he didn’t want me to see and put them in the Pensieve. And – and one day he – he had to leave and – and I looked— and then I saw—’ Harry scrubbed his hands over his face. ‘He was livid. He made me promise never to tell anyone. And I haven’t. Not at his trial. Not even Ginny. But he insisted I tell you—’

‘Harry—’

‘And it was in the memories he gave me when he thought he’d die. It was – an explanation of what my mum meant to him, and why they fell out. It was his worst memory. That he called her – that, I think, although the rest of it obviously… I mean, it was sexual assault. In public. No-one stopped them – I mean, it was at Hogwarts, they were kids, and he had to stay there, and… My mum never forgave Snape for what he said that day, and he begged her, stood outside the Fat Lady all night— And all along,’ Harry continued, his voice catching, ‘I’d thought the worst of it was what my dad did – I mean, it’s sickening. Him and Sirius, too, thinking it was fun – I always wanted them to be such heroes, always looked up to them – and Dad just did that because Sirius was bored – but then recently I’ve… I’ve kind of seen how my mum was also – I mean, what kind of person would see that happening to their friend and find it funny? And mock him and—’

‘Harry!’

He glanced at her, and away. ‘That’s it,’ he finished, breathlessly. ‘I… yeah. Thank… thank Merlin. I know Snape hates me, and this is probably more of that – like making me re-write my dad and Sirius’ detention cards to hammer home how awful they’d been to people – but I’ve always felt really terrible that I—’

‘Harry, when did Severus ask you to tell me this?’

He knuckled his eyelids. ‘Er… yesterday. At the party. You know. He asked me up to his lab.’

She couldn’t breathe.

Sparks fizzed in the corners of her vision.

Harry frowned at her. ‘Are you okay? I mean, I know it’s a lot. It’s taken me years to come to terms with knowing about it, if I even have. And I wouldn’t have told you, but he was really—’

‘We’re not together,’ she whispered. ‘Severus threw me out. With a Whirlwind Hex. He wouldn’t have wanted you to tell me this. Not now.’

Harry went white.

He stared at her a long moment. Then his face flooded with colour, he balled his hands into fists and he strode out of the room.

Hermione screwed her eyes shut and covered her mouth.

She wanted to throw up, or scream. But it was all trapped inside somewhere, under an impenetrable layer of numbness.

Harry.

Harry’s dad.

Snape.

She couldn’t comprehend such a thing happening to Snape. On top of all the other things. She couldn’t believe that this was how his friendship with Lily had ended. He had made it sound like it was all his fault.

And… Harry. Discovering his dead parents weren’t how he’d been told – and neither was Sirius. No wonder he’d looked so hounded that year every time she’d asked him about Occlumency lessons.

She didn’t know how to feel.

No, her feelings were like a noise too loud to hear.

Why hadn’t Harry stopped talking when she’d asked?

Why couldn’t she have told him about the breakup the moment she walked in?

Why had Snape asked Harry to—

Why had—

The memory rose to the surface and swallowed her whole.

Her urgent hands on Snape’s opened collar. His look of – she’d thought it was shock, surprise that she wanted to go further when he wasn’t expecting it. But it hadn’t been that. It had been fear – sudden and instinctive, and so out-of-place she’d misread it. He’d steadied himself and pushed past it. But then, in the garden he’d been so intense about whether she was serious. She’d thought it was just how he was, his personality, that he liked things to be clear. But it hadn’t been that. He’d needed to know she was going to stick around so he could trust her with an explanation for his odd reaction to someone else exposing his skin. He could have decided she wasn’t worth it, but instead of walking away, he’d… been brave enough to want to confide in her, to tell her this horrific secret he’d kept buried for so long, because he’d wanted her to understand. He’d wanted her to know his ugly past, because it was something they’d have to work through, if they were going to be together. He’d looked into her eyes, seen her sincerity, and trusted that she’d stick with him though that, however long it took. He just hadn’t been able to find the words to tell her himself.

Gosh, he had flinched literally every time she’d touched him. How had she not noticed? She was supposed to be intelligent!

Then they’d left the garden, and Snape had cornered Harry. Afterwards, Ron had turned up, and—

She remembered, for the first time since it had happened, that she’d seen Harry talking with Ron just before Ron leaped on stage. Harry had already finished speaking with Snape: Snape must have been in the room. He must have been watching as she heard Ron and Lavender’s announcements. Seen her face.

She suddenly remembered pushing past people to get to the stairs – a flash of black robes and helping hands she’d shoved away, desperate to get to her room—

Harry had left her door open when he’d rushed in to see her. Had Snape come upstairs, wondering if she wanted his company? Had he heard her crying and hesitated outside her door – and seen Harry comforting her instead of him?

Had he heard their conversation? Heard her crying and saying she loved Ron? Had he thought she meant romantically? She hadn’t been speaking clearly, she’d known Harry understood that she’d meant their friendship—

She recalled the sharp sound of pacing footsteps, overlaid on top of the distant noises of the party. And something smashing. Several somethings. Those sounds hadn’t come from downstairs. They’d come from the lab. It had been Snape pacing. Snape, throwing things.

She remembered Snape’s turned back, when she’d entered the kitchen that morning. The tightness of his shoulders. The repressed, whisper-quiet of his voice.

She hadn’t even noticed. She hadn’t been thinking about how he was at all. She’d only wanted to tell him what she had decided, her plans, what she wanted from him.

She crumpled in on herself.

‘You’re not very empathetic sometimes, Hermione. I mean, you get an idea in your head, and you’re so sure it’s right you just have to bang it though everyone else’s skull. But you don’t notice while you’re doing that, that basically you’re crushing people’s faces at the same time.’

Ron had said that.

At the time, she’d cut him down, told him he didn’t understand her. She’d thought he was piqued because she was always right about things. She’d thought he was… dim.

But he’d understood everything.

Her insides were full of knives.

‘Are you okay? Where’s Harry? Dinner’ll be ready in five minutes.’

Hermione jumped.

Ginny was in the doorway, drying her hands on her red-and-green Christmas apron. She caught sight of the uneaten cake and her face slid into a wry expression. ‘Well, I tried. But I suppose it’s inevitable you’re not hungry.’

Hermione couldn’t respond.

‘I can’t believe Ron did this,’ Ginny said, coming into the room and sitting beside Hermione. ‘What an absolute prick. Lee Jordan invited him and Lav-Lav to your party last night, can you believe it? He didn’t even realise whose party he was at! Not the best place for massive personal announcements is it, a random New Year’s Eve party? I wonder if it even was planned? I expect he needed a few drinks to give himself the courage, like he did with you. Really, I could strangle him. I wish he’d told us this was on the cards – he knows he has stupid ideas and needs advice. There were a million better ways to react to knocking up his random ex. I mean, using the same wedding venue? The same day? Mum’s going to murder him. You two can co-ordinate, in case you’re planning your revenge. I’ll join you.’

‘Ron’s not a prick,’ Hermione whispered.

Ginny’s face did something complicated. She squeezed Hermione’s arm. ‘I’m still in shock, too. I mean, landing Lav-Lav for a sister-in-law? It’s like a bad dream. I keep hoping I’ll wake up. I always thought it would be you, and we’d end up complaining together about Mum herding our kids around en mass at the Burrow and giving them awful jumpers. Not sure I can stand doing that with her.’

Hermione didn’t speak.

There was a painful silence.

‘Anyway,’ Ginny said, ‘I’m glad you’ve found a new bloke and moved on to happier things. It’s okay. Harry told me – we don’t really have secrets. But I won’t tell anyone else if it’s still too soon.’

Hermione seemed to be frozen.

Ginny smiled ruefully. ‘It’s funny, I always thought you had a thing for older, scowly men with big noses. Ron was definitely the outlier. Viktor Krum, Severus Snape…’

Hermione flinched. She needed to say something – she should get out before Harry returned—

‘Whatever anyone might say, I’m glad you’ve found someone who makes you happy.’ Ginny’s eyes flicked to Hermione’s neck; she stifled a smirk. ‘I guess he’s… um… different in private?’

Hermione shut her eyes. ‘It’s over. This morning…’

Ginny’s eyes went wide. ‘What? Well that was a whirlwind fling. What on earth happened?’

‘I’m… I’m sorry, I have to go,’ Hermione said, rising. ‘I don’t think I can eat. Please thank Harry for looking after me last night – he was brilliant – and you’ve been so kind to offer me… But I really must go. My new flat… I’m supposed to…’

‘Hermione, it’s fine, we’ll give you space, you don’t have to eat anything – James would love—’

‘Bye,’ she whispered, and fled, grabbing her bag and owl cage on the way out.

It took her several frenzied moments on the pavement outside Holly Bank Cottage to remember her own address, and even longer to calm herself enough to Apparate.

No-one came out of the Potters’ house after her, and she was glad.

***

Hermione let herself into her new home, the front door creaking ominously.

She stood and stared.

The flat wasn’t how she remembered. It was too large without the previous owner’s furnishings, too quiet. Her footsteps echoed around the bare, featureless rooms as she wandered, failing to get her bearings. She found herself standing again in the middle of the hallway, marooned.

There weren’t even curtains.

She was too tired for this.

She picked a room at random, opened her tote bag and murmured, ‘Accio camp bed.’

Nothing happened.

How had she lost an entire bed between Spinner’s End and here?

She slid onto the bare floorboards, her back against an empty grate. A skittering of chess pieces, Uno cards and a throw cushion oozed out of the hole in her bag. Too exhausted to get up and Transfigure anything, she eased the cushion onto her lap and hunched around it. It smelled like Snape’s house – damp and Dragonhide and his terrible, terrible cooking.

Oh, Snape.

She curled up with her face in the cushion, and dissolved into sobs of despair.