Snape cast a longing look at the whiskey-decanter, and regretfully decided that perhaps a glass wasn't the best idea. He knew perfectly well that the head-ache potion wouldn't interfere with his enjoyment of the spirit, but the muck Pomfrey and McGonagall had forced on him was another matter: with his luck he'd break out in boils or some other horrendous -- and visible -- ailment.

The most major pain in Snape arse, however, was at least safely tucked up in bed at the moment, and not behaving like a clucking hen (which was more than he could ever say for the other two). Hermione seemed to have learnt her lesson after those first attempts to smother him. Not that she'd stopped: he often caught her glancing his way and making awkward excuses to stop for a rest, or for a totally unnecessary tea-break. But at least she was attempting subtlety.

If he never heard another woman say the dreaded words "I told you so," or "I forgive you," ever, he would die a very, very happy man. Or at least content.

He heaved himself out of his chair -- the stink of smoke and mould in his clothing and hair was beginning to get to him -- and limped to the bedchamber, meaning to lock himself in the bath for a long, hot soak. He decided to check on Hermione first, lit the candle on the bedside table, and bent over her.

That required a laboured trip to the bath. (Alarming, really, how tired he was simply from crossing the room.) He washed his hands, retrieved the paste, and returned to the bedside: and then he warmed the ointment between his palms until it was creamy, and carefully smoothed it over the side of her face. She was so deeply asleep that she didn't even wake -- worn out, he assumed, from breaking Debdale's blasted ward.

It wasn't until he'd wiped his hands clean of grease -- on the coverlet, as he'd forgot to bring a towel -- that he noticed she was wearing one of his night-shirts.

He stopped for a moment and reconsidered. She didn't have any of her things here, after all.

She'd fed the fire before retiring, and the room was more than usually warm (and certainly warmer than her freezing bedchamber in that awful flat): she'd not pulled the covers up to her chin, for once. He noticed the way her neck sloped down into the collar of the night-shirt, the hollow at the base of her throat, the gentle swell of one breast, glimpsed through the gap between buttons....

And while that was usually enough to prompt Snape's libido to put ideas in his head, all he could seem to think at the moment was ...very... pretty.

The thought wasn't at all lustful or libidinous: all he could seem to do was stare rather stupidly at the sleeping woman, and study her the way some might a piece of sculpture -- the way he had studied her as sculpture, once, bent over her Infirmary-bed: holding his breath as Pomfrey dropped the Restorative Draught onto Hermione's lips until they flushed with colour, became soft and pliant, and he could ease them open so that Pomfrey could administer the Draught properly.

But here she was, curled up in his bed, alive and warm. And she was pretty, even with a badly-reddened face. She'd filled out a bit since they'd married: sympathetic eating, he imagined, since she'd cooked for him so often in December.

He could still see traces of the bright, irritating child she'd been, in her unconscious face. It was very difficult not to, in fact, just as difficult as it had been not to see her as a lovely example of prime breeding material that day in Whitemarsh.... And there was still a part of Snape that was greatly intrigued with the idea of getting children on a powerful, healthy witch, simply to observe the potential improvements in the line.

He also recognised that this was a far-from-laudable goal. Not as bad as some, but he wasn't certain that, being placed in the position of having an excuse, he wouldn't give in and take advantage of it against his better nature (what there was of it). Having the justification was far too tempting: he'd got himself in loads of trouble the first time he'd given in, and look where that had led -- to becoming a Death Eater.

That was the sticking-point. If one can manage it.

He'd have to help raise the sprog, that was clear now. Simply throwing money at the problem wouldn't really be the right thing to do -- that was the easy way out: and it wasn't fair to Hermione, either, to make her shoulder the responsibility alone.

As he'd reasoned with Hermione, he had no doubt that the Ministry would continue to push for more births once a couple had proven they could produce healthy children: and he didn't want that for the girl, not now. Perhaps it was ridiculously sentimental of him, but he didn't want to see Hermione's intellect and energy eaten up by endless rounds of pregnancy -- and he reckoned that it should, if the Ministry had its way.

He cautiously pulled a stray curl out of the paste on Hermione's cheek, tucked it back behind her ear, and took himself off to the bath; and he only went to bed when he was thoroughly clean and his mind was as exhausted as his body.

*****

The paste had done wonders by the time Snape woke Hermione at six, although she grumbled about having to wash her hair again -- he'd not been very careful about avoiding her hairline, judging healing more important lest Corcoran make a connection between Hermione and the fire -- but he let the whinging pass, for once: she deserved a bit of whinging, given the jam she'd got them out of the night before.

He chivvied her into having a cup of tea and some toast before she popped off.

"Best use quite a bit of that muck you females use on your faces, today," he said, attempting diplomacy (and failing: she didn't quite glare at him, but it was a near thing). "You're pinker on one side than the other."

"I had noticed," she said dryly. "But thanks for the reminder. Are you certain you're all right? You look pale. Er. Than usual."

"I'm fine," he muttered. "Hurts like hell to breathe, but otherwise all right."

"If you'd taken the potion straightaway, you'd have coughed less.... You are going to apologise to Headmistress and Madam Pomfrey, aren't you?" she said, brow furrowed. "You said some really nasty things to them last night."

"Apologise for what? Forcing me to hack up a lung?"

"Severus --"

"Yes, I'll apologise," he muttered. Damnation. Took her a lot of arm-twisting to get you to cave in, didn't it?

"Good. I'll see you Fri-- Well, if I'm not totally knackered I'll be here Friday night, all right? And if I am, Saturday morning. Acceptable?"

"Yeeeesssss.... Aren't you...."

"What?"

"Well, aren't you due?"

"For what?" she asked, staring at him blankly.

"Your menses."

"Already here, two days in. Pomfrey got me sorted with supplies while you were busy puking soot."

He tossed his toast onto his plate, not bothering to conceal his disgust with her terminology.

"Doesn't matter, I can still help you with marking, or something. Unless you'd rather I stay away?"

"No," he admitted. "No, that's fine."

"Right, then. I'll probably see you tomorrow night." She startled him by kissing his cheek -- again, as she had the last time she'd left -- on her way out the door.

He didn't get back to his toast. He was too busy thinking through the last five minutes' conversation.

I rather wish I'd been conscious to see her break that damned ward. What I did see was impressive. And she's out of practise now. What could she do if she were an active practitioner?

Snape decided that he had married a very powerful witch indeed. It was a pity she'd hobbled herself for the time being, but the potential was still there, obviously.

Then he hauled himself off his arse, bad leg protesting, took a Strengthening Tonic to get himself through the day's classes, and cursed himself as a weak fool for having to do so.

*****

That evening -- having yet again successfully kept the dunderheads from blowing themselves up -- he sat down to sort through the evidence from Cane Hill. And it was very good evidence, indeed.

Petherbridge had copied nearly everything he could get his hands on, apparently -- any notes Debdale had allowed him to see or take down, though he obviously hadn't allowed direct access to formulae -- but he'd figured those out nonetheless. (He would, given that encyclopaedic memory of his. Snape allowed himself a chuckle at Debdale's probable rage when he'd discovered that all Petherbridge was good for was rattling off errata.)

The missing element was there: Nadder-skin was clearly identified, as were the other ingredients. With that and the final receipts -- which he could, perhaps, persuade Forsythe to filch from Mangel & Mortars -- the chain would be complete. The link between the experimentation and the proposed treatment, and therefore Fudge and Corcoran's involvement, would be complete.

On the other hand, what could the old bugger do with it? The more people had the information, the more dangerous it was for everyone. And he'd taken quite enough time away from his Common Room as it was. And it was still Hermione's turn to visit, so why should he put himself to the extra trouble?

Sloth won the argument.

He gathered together Petherbridge's notes and the memos between Fudge and Corcoran, wrapped them in a packet; and -- still being in a disgracefully lazy mood -- waited until his free period the next afternoon to visit Headmistress.

*****

"You're looking much better, Severus," McGonagall observed when he entered, and promptly returned to whatever-it-was she was scribbling upon. (Snape hoped he never had to take over: the Head seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time filling out paperwork.) "Hermione's well?"

"Still a bit pink on the one side, but much better," he said, and limped over to the chair in front of McGonagall's desk. "She recovered far faster than I."

"Well, she would, wouldn't she? Even a few years can make a difference in speed of healing. You shall have to tell me what happened," she ploughed on, not giving him a chance to become indignant, "someday when it's safer."

"I shall. It will suffice to say that there was a trap, and she got us out of it."

"Arithmancy?" McGonagall asked, glancing up at him, eyes bright.

"Of course. It was quite impressive, what I saw."

"Pity you can't tell Olivia," McGonagall murmured, and focussed on her paperwork again.

"No it isn't. She'd start crowing all over again, and I should have to remind you daily how Faculty Hexing is bad on Staff morale, and how hard it is to find Arithmancers willing to teach the horde."

"True. Might have to anyway, however," McGonagall thought aloud: for a moment he wasn't certain whether she meant hexing Vector, or finding another teacher. "I think she's stepping out with someone."

"Please, Minerva, no gossip --"

"Of course it's not. The Deputy Head has a say in new hires, that's what I'm getting at. Perfectly above-board speculation."

"Oh, that's different. Is she? Trying to beat the bloody lottery?"

"No, I don't think so. But she'd hinted before that she mightn't want to teach and raise a family at the same time."

"Oh."

Snape had that sinking feeling: the one that warned him he'd stepped into something sticky and uncomfortable.

"And if she does resign or take sabbatical, there should be an opening, of course." McGonagall's eyes took on a positively Dumbledorean twinkle. "I don't suppose Hermione --?"

"You should have to ask her," Snape said stiffly. "None of my business."

"Oh, of course, Severus, it isn't as though you'd have any say in the matter whatsoever. Or any particular reason to like the idea --"

"If you are quite through attempting to mock me, you.... Oh, blast it."

"Yes?"

"I was reminded yesterday that I'm meant to apologise for calling you and Poppy all manner of terrible things."

"Well, get whatever you were about to say in now, then -- you'll only have to apologise once, for the whole lot."

Snape glared at her. He hated that about McGonagall. She might be an old spinster, but decades of teaching had taught her to predict the foibles and tendencies of people -- especially males -- pretty accurately.

"I was in a great deal of pain --"

"And you weren't fully aware of what you were saying, of course --"

"-- and I wasn't fully.... Are you going to let me apologise my own way, or not?"

"Go ahead."

"And I undoubtedly took out a great deal of frustration on the two of you that I shouldn't have done. I'm sorry."

"Thank you. You ought simply write that on slips, carry them with you, and hand them out. That's what you always say."

Glaring at the sly old witch wasn't going to do a damned bit of good: she was obviously intent on making him feel as badly as she could for as long as possible. Best to let her think the jab had glanced off, so he changed the subject.

"I'm assuming that the Head's safe is far more secure than mine. No elf break-ins, for example? No known Auror infiltrations?"

"Absolutely none. The ward is tied in to the castle, somehow -- no-one's even found it, much less got in. It's safer than a Gringotts vault."

"Would you take these in hand, then?" he asked, and placed the packet on the edge of her desk. "Since that bloody elf got into them, I don't want to keep them in my rooms."

"Of course, Severus," she said. "Is there, erm, anyone to whom I may give them if you aren't... available?"

Now, that he'd always liked about McGonagall. No fluttering over the possibilities of nastiness: a straightforward, pragmatic acknowledgement of the possibility, and a determination of the best course in the event.

"Hermione. Weasley, I expect. There's a colleague of Hermione's, a Fro-- a Frenchman, DeLaine. He might or might not be safe to hand them over to. The ICW, if you must."

"Very well," she said matter-of-factly, took up the packet, tucked it away in her desk-drawer, and returned to her paperwork.

"Thank you. I'll.... You're busy, I expect I'll see you at dinner," he muttered, rose, and headed for the door.

But not quickly enough. She stopped him with his hand on the door-knob.

"Severus? Do you have any idea where Pinky is?"

"Why on earth should I?" he asked, turning slowly to face her. "Is elf-tracking a Deputy Head duty you neglected to tell me of?"

She stared at him over her glasses-rims. That was never a good sign.

"You sent her, and Dobby, to London."

"And?" he asked smoothly, totally side-stepping the issue of exceeding his authority by sending Hogwarts scout-staff off-Grounds. "I saw Dobby mucking about in the Dungeon-corridor this morning." (That was a lie. Dobby had, in fact, popped into Snape's rooms to return the Cane Hill map, and had popped out so quickly that Snape hadn't a chance to ask about the mission.) "Didn't she return with him?"

"No, she didn't. And she's sent her tea-towel back -- fairly obvious that she won't be with us any longer. She's skived off."

"They can't do that.... Can they?"

"That one could, apparently."

"I... sent them to the site we were at, to make certain there were no more wild elves trapped there."

"Wild elves --?"

"Yes, they still exist. They'd been experimented on. I suppose you're going to dock my salary?"

"Not necessarily. That rather depends on your next answer. What do you imagine Pinky's doing now?"

"Running about the Farthing Downs with a pack of wild elves, though whether she's civilising them or they're naturalising her is anyone's guess. I suppose she's enjoying herself, or she shouldn't have sent in her towel."

"Oh, good, I should hate to think she's miserable. No docking, then. That's all, Severus."

He was so relieved not to get a ticking-off that he didn't even mind the summary dismissal.

*****

Friday late afternoon proved a shock. Snape returned to his rooms to wash up before dinner, and found Hermione already there: she was curled up on the settee, and looked a bit stunned.

"What in bloody --? You've been sacked, haven't you," he blurted, unable to censor his first thought. Did they figure out --? No, she'd be in custody.

"No," Hermione said, a queer edge to her voice. "No, Corcoran called me in this morning, and gave me some cock-and-bull story about how he'd reconsidered our last 'discussion' -- the bloody flaming row we had, he meant -- and he'd talked it through with his wife, and she'd made him see how unfair he'd been. That, ah, you and I were doing out best under the circumstances to do our duty, and it wasn't considerate of him to be so demanding. And he sent me home from work early."

"What?"

"Actually, he said I was looking peaky, to leave at one o' clock and 'Go spend a few extra hours with your husband, and rest up.' Though he choked on 'husband.'"

Snape wandered over to the settee and sat on the near end.

"Do you think he suspects you of anything?"

"I imagine so, though I can't think what. Couldn't be Cane Hill -- he was out Thursday morning, and I'd slathered on loads of make-up, so you wouldn't have seen anything at all amiss."

"He's up to something."

"I know. I booby-trapped my office before I left -- can't do any warding except for approved Ministry procedure, but I made certain things would be mis-placed, you know what I mean -- and I did the same at the flat."

"Do you have anything there that --?"

"No, no, I sent it all to Francois."

"And I gave Minerva everything I had here for safe-keeping."

"What did you find?"

"Petherbridge took notes on nearly everything, behind Debdale's back -- he even refers to Debdale by name. He'd managed to figure out all the ingredients as well, and the proportions and brewing procedure. So we not only have confirmation that the potion's the same, we also have a trail of evidence that links Debdale to the potion, Fudge and Corcoran to Debdale...."

"Oh, good show. Did he mention Fudge?"

"No. 'A very important personage indeed,' I think he hinted. Boastful beggar."

"Ah." Hermione reached down for the bag she'd propped up against the settee, pulled a newspaper from it, and spread it open so Snape could see the front page. "We made the Muggle national news," she said.

The lower half of the page contained a garish colour photograph of a building afire: the article's headline read CANE HILL GONE IN A BLAZE OF GLORY.

"Merlin's balls," Snape muttered, squinted at the small print, and lapsed back into the cushions in disgust. "Totally gone?"

"Everything between Zachary-Unwin and Pugh-Paxton. Everywhere we went off the main corridor, in other words, including the laboratory."

"Damnation. I think. Perhaps it's best...."

"They said there were periodic outbreaks of fire all day yesterday, too, which seemed odd. One or two's not unusual."

"Petherbridge's fire would have created an Ashwinder. Yours too, in all likelihood."

"Oh, for God's -- I hadn't thought of that. What if they find any eggs?"

"They won't, they never think them anything but embers. They'll burn themselves out eventually."

"Ah. The more frightening thing is, the reporter interviewed Security. He said he thought he saw children fleeing the buildings, so they're looking for juvenile arsonists...."

"Oh, bloody hell."

"Right. Good thing we Apparated out -- the brigade must have been closer than I thought."

"What did the mad Scot have to say?"

She snorted, and made a sour face. "That I owe him two hundred quid for the kit."

"No, about the fire."

"Oh. I told him we startled your cousin and he tipped over a paraffin heater, but we got him out all right."

"You don't think he'll turn us in, do you?"

"Can't. I paid him the two hundred in cash last night, and then I Obliviated him."

"Merlin's fu-- When did you learn how to do that? That's not on the bloody curriculum."

"Hawking had an unfortunate incident that required it. I picked it up from her."

"Oh." He shifted a bit uneasily. Not certain I trust her quite that much....

"I hope to God they don't find Petherbridge's body," she muttered as she stuffed the newspaper back into her bag. "Or what's left of it."

"Might be best," Snape mused. "There's their arsonist -- some homeless wretch. More or less true, after all. Merlin only knows what's left after elf-fire, though."

The conversation lagged for a moment, but -- contrary to usual -- Snape didn't feel in the least awkward. In fact, he felt rather the opposite: Hermione had lit the fire, the sitting-room was nicely warm, the settee far more comfortable than he remembered it being. He guessed Hermione had applied her scent with a liberal hand that morning, for he could smell it all the way down at the other end of the settee....

Pleasant.

It was pleasant, although Snape didn't have his usual urge to grapple with her, for once. And he wasn't certain which alarmed him more: feeling pleasant -- perhaps even content -- or not feeling like snogging Hermione to speechlessness.

"Pinky's apparently stayed with them," he said abruptly. "I, erm, sent her and Dobby back down to find any still on the site."

"Why? I mean, why would she stay? And how?"

"I've no idea. According to McGonagall she sent her tea-towel back," he explained with a shrug.

"Good Lord.... Oh, that reminds me," Hermione said, sitting bolt upright, "I wish you'd seen what the little beggars... well, one of the little beggars did, while you were unconscious, I mean. It was the elf that Petherbridge had been, erm, torturing, and --"

He arranged himself more comfortably in the cushions --

"-- it was still conscious. Had been hiding in the bloody lab and we'd both missed it, apparently. Anyway, it ran across to the cell-block when I dropped your Barrier--"

-- shut his ears to most of what Hermione was saying --

"-- and it started casting spells at the others to wake them. Most extraordinary thing I've ever seen.... Well, except for Buckbeak, but.... They have a language of their own, Severus, and --"

-- and tried not to let his eyes glaze over as he watched her expression and her bright eyes, nodding occasionally so it shouldn't appear as if he were doing precisely what he was, until Hermione's speculative rampage through potential wild-elf culture was cut short by the dinner-gong.

*****

Saturday was quiet -- too quiet. He hadn't felt up to taking advantage of Hermione's proximity Friday night: that was understandable, as he still felt more or less like shit from the Cane Hill excursion. Hermione seemed content to help him with his marking, scribbling away quietly in a corner of his office. She did a good job of it -- too good, in some instances, writing hints in the margins as to where the idiots had gone wrong, and often citing by chapter and verse where to find the answers. (Snape had always reckoned the lazy little bastards ought have to find the answers themselves.) The only interruption was Marsters, whom she prudently took next door to the Potions classroom to do their tutoring, so he shouldn't have to bear the prattle.

He began to be concerned that evening, however, when his body told him in no uncertain terms that there would not be any jiggery-pokery, so to speak, that night either. (He began to suspect Hermione had slipped saltpetre in his breakfast, and wasted a half-hour in the ingredients-cupboard inventorying the blasted stuff to the very last grain. No luck: it was all there.)

So the problem was with him. He didn't seem able to simply reach for her, any longer: he felt suddenly and strangely reserved about what had always been a straightforward, healthy activity, as if it would be a great breech of etiquette to initiate something that was, after all, his right.

A bit more sleep and late Sunday-morning grogginess, however, proved that the Little Wizard's lack of interest was an aberration. That terrible inhibition was nowhere to be found when he woke tucked up behind her and with his face buried in the great, messy pile of her hair, which she hadn't tied back before bed.

Actually, he was grateful for the delay. While never exciting, morning-sex had its own allure and advantages: a marginally-awake Hermione was an unusually quiescent and biddable Hermione. He didn't have to work nearly as hard to persuade her as when she was fully awake, and the sleepy little moans of protest that escaped her could almost be construed as appreciation.

Almost.

He dozed for a while afterwards. Well, to be honest, he fell asleep until well after one o'clock, and only really wakened again when something fluttered against the scar on his temple: he reached up to push whatever it was away, and found he'd captured Hermione's fingers.

He forced his eyes open, and saw her gazing at him.

"I never did hear how this happened," she said.

"Malfoy," he muttered, closed his eyes, and let go of her fingers. "Just before we reached the inner sanctum."

"Draco? But you were supposed to still be fighting on their side then --"

"Yes, well, it rather gives the game away when you hex the bollocks off one of your presumed allies because he's about to throw the Killing Curse at The Boy Who Lived." He rolled over on his back to escape her scrutiny and did his best to ignore the dead silence in the room; but he thought better of it after a moment, realising how she might have taken his words.

"I beg your pardon. I didn't intend to be cruel, that's simply the way I've always thought of him," he admitted.

"I know," she said absently. "I've got better at interpreting your voice. That was wry, not malicious."

They were silent for a while, and he thought he'd negotiated that potential sink-hole quite successfully: and then Hermione began to think aloud.

"So that was twice, then.... No, three. I suppose I should include the Quidditch match First Year."

He started, and then rolled to face her.

"What are you talking about?"

"The Qudditch match? The one where some idiot set your cloak afire --"

"I know that, and I sussed out long ago who was responsible, thank you very much," he muttered. (That was a lie. He'd begun to suspect in Whitemarsh, and Wednesday's Adventures With Fire had confirmed it.) "You know what I'm asking, Hermione. Don't prevaricate."

"You watched his back at the last battle. At the Quidditch match. And at Godric's Hollow."

He stared at her for a moment, deciding which way to play this not-so-amusing game, and chose -- of course -- prevarication. (He didn't deny it was a good tactic: he simply wasn't going to let her get away with it.)

"Don't be stupid. And how could you possibly make that deduction?"

"Second Year, just before Yule Break -- well, I didn't put it together then, but.... We'd gone to Hogsmeade and overheard Fudge and McGonagall and some of the other staff talking about that night --"

"Get to the point."

"I am. Hagrid said he was the first there, after the attack. Sirius Black got there next, though Hagrid assumed he'd been hanging about after doing all the mischief and destroying the house. But Hagrid found Harry alive and well in the ruins."

"So? It's an acknowledged fact that childrens' magic can protect them from danger."

"Oh, I know -- it happened to Neville all the time, apparently. But this was an infant and the entire collapse of a bloody house, Severus. This wasn't a simple spontaneous Apparition to a safe spot, or bouncing off the pavement, or anything like that. I have trouble believing it was Lily Potter's last spell, either -- you'd think anything Voldemort had thrown at him would have dissipated that pretty fast."

"Simply because it's beyond your ability to grasp doesn't mean --"

"I think someone took him out of that house and then put him back after the collapse. Someone who didn't want to be seen, or couldn't afford to be seen taking him somewhere safer. Someone who was probably in the group of Death Eaters who attacked the house in the first place. And I doubt that it was Lucius Malfoy or Bellatrix Black."

"Bollocks," Snape muttered, and rolled onto his back again.

"Well it wasn't Pettigrew, was it? Was he even with the group that night? Did you know he'd betrayed the Potters, at that point? You couldn't have known then, Severus. I know you hated Black, but I can't see you keeping silent about something that big. You'd have told Dumbledore, at the least. And that night, at the Shrieking Shack, before we... accidentally knocked you out, you had no idea."

He remained silent.

"Severus," she said, wriggling over to face him, "they're both dead and gone, now, Harry and he. It doesn't.... There's no-one you have to hide it from any longer."

"No," he finally admitted, voice hoarse. "It wasn't Pettigrew."

"What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he hissed: and then he rubbed at his forehead with one hand and groped for hers with the other, in as much of an apology as he could manage. "It was a memory I couldn't afford to keep, you see. I didn't know at the time that Voldemort had fled, and I couldn't risk him seeing it if he'd recovered. Dumbledore had the keeping of the memory all those years, and I only got it back after he was killed."

"So...."

"So I could sense there was a blank there, something terribly important. And I could never understand why, when I despised that boy so, I felt I had to protect him. Not just as an Order member, not just because of the bloody Prophecy...."

Hermione was quiet for a very long time, and then said, "Yes, I can see how that would colour your attitude. Feeling responsible for him, but being unable to explain it. You don't like unquantifiable things, especially emotions."

There wasn't a thing he could say in rebuttal to that: it was true.

"I didn't think," she added, "that it was just the celebrity."

"That was enough," Snape muttered. "I admit to making certain assumptions that weren't accurate. I didn't discover otherwise until I tried to teach him Occlumancy. Eventually I dragged the whole story out of McGonagall."

Hermione neglected to point out that the knowledge hadn't changed his behaviour toward the boy in the least -- probably a charitable act on her part, for which Snape was enraged.... On the other hand, he didn't feel in the least like having his nose rubbed in it, so he ought be grateful. He wasn't particularly proud of some of the things he'd said to and of the Potter boy.

"Does it matter to you in the least that he usually tried to do his best?" Hermione asked.

He snorted. "That is a matter of opinion -- remember, you're speaking to the person who wasn't able to pound Occlumancy into his stubborn skull, and I know damned well he was perfectly capable of learning it. The only time the boy did his best was on the Quidditch Pitch, and that last day."

"And that, of course, was Gryffindor bravado," Hermione said frostily.

"No," Snape said slowly. "No, courage. He did not fight wisely, Hermione -- the blasted boy managed to avoid doing a single damned thing by the book -- the playbook you wrote. Finnegan wasn't the only one who ignored the plan. But," he grudgingly added, "he fought bravely."

When Hermione finally spoke, her voice sounded a bit queer. "Thank you for that."

"What the bloody hell for?" Snape asked, astonished. "Is your personal sense of honour so tied to his reputation that --"

"No, of course not. But I've felt caught in the middle, somehow, between the two of you. Between my friend the dead boy and the man who hated him."

"Didn't hate him. Despised him. Or his behaviour, rather."

Hermione snuffled a bit, and said, "There were moments I wanted to hex him silly, too. But they passed. Usually."

But she settled down after a few more snuffles -- no outright tears, thank Merlin -- and Snape felt it was time to steer the conversation back where it belonged: firstly, away from the damned Potters; secondly, to himself, especially as the Little Wizard has perked up considerably despite the distressing conversation. That was a very good sign indeed, the Little Wizard wanting to make up for lost opportunities....

"You do realise," he confided, stealthily reaching for her so his fingers could describe lazy circles on her shoulder and down her arm, "that Attempted Bodily Harm to Faculty is a grave offence? Expulsion is the usual punishment."

"Really."

"Absolutely."

"I suppose there's no statute of limitations?"

"Technically, yes, but as I have the malefactor in my grasp, as it were --"

"What do you propose I do, sort through your flobberworm vat? What shall it be, sir, by weight, length, circumference, or sex?"

"No, I was thinking more along the lines of.... Twit, you know they're hermaphrodites."

"Just testing."

"No, I was thinking of two more tangible punishments, actually,"

"Go ahead," she said with a sigh.

(That wasn't particularly encouraging, but at least she wasn't objecting.... And perhaps he could turn the whole, nasty conversation to his advantage. Presumably she didn't feel quite so antagonistic toward him, now that she knew what he'd done for the damned boy.)

"First, you badly singed one of a pair of perfectly serviceable boots, not to mention a heavy winter cloak."

"All right, fine, give me the tailor and bootmaker's names...."

"And the trousers, but I shall give those a pass."

He hesitated, fingers halting. There was something else.... Something he wanted rather badly, but the asking of which put him at a terrible disadvantage.

But he mightn't get such a good chance again. And really, the worst she could do was say no, and they'd continue as they were.

"And second...."

"What? Go on."

He took a deep breath, fixed his eyes on her pillow -- he didn't seem to be able to look at her directly -- and admitted, "I want you to touch me."

He knew he'd miscalculated when she went still, not even breathing.

"You did at Whitemarsh," he quickly continued, trying to salvage something from the mis-step, something that would persuade her. "You.... And while I realise that was for that idiot's benefit, I.... What I mean to say is, it isn't just then. Sometimes you forget that you don't want to, and it's rather pleasant."

"Touch you?"

"Yes," he said. "You do, sometimes, not just... to brace yourself, but as if you might really want to. An embrace," he added quickly, realising she might think he meant more specific and lewd instructions he'd tried to give her in the past. (He wouldn't turn that down, certainly, but it wasn't what he'd intended.)

"You're asking me," she said slowly, "to make up for setting you alight when I was eleven years old by holding you, when --"

"Yes. Juh- just the once, if that's all you can bear, as if you meant it," he managed, and stared at her, unable to avoid her eyes any longer.

She was appalled. It showed, quite clearly, on her face: he rolled away with a muttered, "Forget it," before he could stop himself.

"No, Severus, it's pathetic. I don't mean you," she said, "or that you.... Bloody hell, why bother to pretend? Why bother with me?"

"I'm nothing but a bloody nuisance. I've been rotten to you, even after I accepted the bargain. And I thought you wanted to keep this part of things purely... business-like."

"It's not that it would be hard to do, not really, but I.... I don't want us to strike bargains any longer, do you see? You told me once that we'd been dishonest with each other, and you were right, and I don't want to go on like that, trying to negotiate something that... that ought to be given freely."

"I said," he muttered, "to forget it. Forget I asked."

"I can't, it's obviously important to you. It's.... It's a.... Bloody hell, I never thought I'd say this, but you've always been very careful of me like that, when you could have chosen to be quite brutal. I only mean that I won't make it some kind of horrid trade, that's all. I can touch you," she said, and he felt her shift on the mattress: her hand -- warm, trembling slightly -- touched his shoulder-blade, and he flinched. After a skittish jerk backward she tried again, her touch more sure. "I'll try to do better. But not in exchange for anything, do you see?"

For once in his life he kept his tongue under control, and managed not to lash out -- although that meant he couldn't respond at all.

Hermione finally gave up, pulled her hand away, and flopped onto her back.

"Why is it," she muttered, "that even when I try my damnedest to do the right thing and with the right intent, I still manage to bugger everything all to hell?"

Snape concurred entirely, on both their parts.

*****

He did the cowardly thing, in the end: pulled the figurative tattered remains of his pride about himself, rose, locked himself in the bath, dressed, and took off without another word to Hermione, for a visit to the Hog's Head.

He did his best to not be angry at her as he slogged through the snow toward Hogsmeade.

She was quite right, of course. It was supposed to be purely business between them, in bed. He couldn't quite make out why it infuriated him so now, when it hadn't before....

That was only part of it, though, if he were absolutely truthful with himself. Everything he'd ever really wanted in life, from top marks in Form to the DADA position, had been stymied: by bloody Potter and Black, with their easy, careless mastery of their studies -- and their deliberate lording-over of their besting him; by Dumbledore, who had steadfastly, and sometimes airily, denied him DADA. 'For your own good, Severus.' Even bloody McGonagall had taken the same stance....

He'd talked rubbish to Petherbridge about "doing right" being more satisfying that any reward, knowing as he'd said it that it was a lie. He'd never got proper recognition for any of his work, and it stung badly, no matter how many times he reminded himself that the good opinion of fools was worthless....

Voldemort, keeping him out of the Inner Circle until the numbers had been too low to deny him -- he'd only got in because of Regulus Black's unfortunate "accident," really.... Fucking Horace Parkinson, a smug smile twisting his mouth, saying, "You really won't do better, you know. It's your way back in, old man, it's really for the best."

Well, he had done better than Pansy Bloody Parkinson, even if not by Horace's standards. At least in terms of potential.

And now he'd probably fucked that to hell and back as well, because he'd been a sentimental fool. She'd said yes, eventually, but she didn't mean it. She was only throwing sops to a dog because she feared its bite.

He stopped dead in the middle of the road, scuffed viciously at the snow, and decided he was tired of other people knowing what was best for him; sick of hopes that were invariably dashed; and, above all, disgusted by that perverse part of himself that continued to wish for more than anyone seemed willing to give him.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore seemed to know something was off the moment Snape walked into the door: he plunked down a whisky in front of him, and then bellowed, "Closing!" and growled at anyone who complained that he'd skipped final orders -- and at the more perceptive ones who pointed out that it was, after all, only four in the afternoon.

"Need the floo?" he asked Snape when the last, drunken hag staggered out the door.

"Yes."

"Go on up, the staff's off today," Aberforth said with a jerk of the head toward the stair.

Snape -- whisky firmly in hand -- went up to the first floor, locked himself in the room, flamed for Forsythe, and forgot all about the whisky when there was no response to his call after two minutes.

"Can this bloody thing do actual floos?" he yelled downstairs.

"Two Galleons," Aberforth barked.

"Bloody highway robbery!"

"Harder to jigger the trace on those," Aberforth argued earnestly, poking his head around the end of the bannister. "Have to really bollocks-up the whole system."

Highly unlikely.

"Put it on my bloody account," Snape snarled, locked himself back in, and searched in vain for the stash of floo-powder.

The bloody old coot had hidden it.

By the time Snape wrestled the door back open and stalked downstairs, Aberforth was waiting for him behind the bar, arms folded across his chest; he smiled until Snape plunked down cold, hard cash onto the sticky bar, and only then gave Snape barely enough powder for a trip to and from.

Snape took his time trudging back up the stairs, at every tread wishing damnation on the last living Dumbledore; then, once more securely locked into the room, he tossed the powder into the floo, drew his wand, and launched himself into the flames and to Forsythe's bed-sit.

*****

At first glance it looked as though Forsythe had done a runner (and a very hurried one at that): drawers were pulled out of the bureau, books and papers were scattered every-which-way, the bedclothes dragged from the mattress and left in a wrinkled, stained pile at the foot of the bed.

But the mattress had been slit open. The spines of Forsythe's few books had been broken, the covers bent backward, and one with a particularly thick binding had been split at the edge, its endpapers slashed through, as though the searcher were looking for hidden papers. Even the wireless's scarred mahogany case had been shattered, and the delicate receiving-crystal knocked from its spindle and smashed.

Snape sat on the room's only chair, ignored the creaking of its sagging cane seat, and buried his head in his hands.

It was only a matter of time, then, before they got Forsythe to crack. Forsythe would lead them to him, and from him to Hermione --

"I'm warning you," a quavering female piped from the hall, "I've got my frying-pan, and I'm a dead shot. You just pop on out, now, and don't give me no trouble."

Snape sat upright, pulled his wand, and quietly lied, "I'm a friend. He was to meet me yesterday, and I got worried when he didn't show."

"Well, you can see he's not here, so get along with you."

"Is he all right, do you know? This doesn't look as though he, ah, simply stepped out."

There wasn't a reply for a long time, and then came the hesitant question, "It's just you, then? No-one else?"

"No, I'm alone."

The door creaked as someone inched it open and a frying-pan floated in, suspended above the wand of Quavery-Voice: Snape could barely see one red-rimmed, beady eye staring at him from the crack between door and frame, a shock of pure-white hair, and the heavily liver-spotted hand that held the wand.

"A friend, you said?" Quavery-Voice asked.

"Acquaintance. We'd worked on a project together, and were to do so again. As I said, he never showed. Were you harmed when they came? Did they find him here?"

Quavery-Voice stared at him a bit longer, and then shuffled into the room, shook back the cuff of her dressing-gown, and displayed terrible, livid bruises on the wrist of her free hand.

"Three days ago," she admitted. "Pushed their way in. One of 'em held me downstairs while the other two come up."

"You're his landlady?"

"Right."

"And they took him with them?"

"No," she scoffed. "He'd been feeling poorly, took off last week sometime. To his mum's, he said, but he told me when he took the room that she'd passed."

"Lying sod. He said," the old lady continued indignantly, the frying-pan wavering in mid-air, "that if he weren't back by yesterday, his week's rent was in the biscuit-jar there -- but it ain't."

"Ah. They probably nicked it, then," Snape said to soothe her, and poked at the cracked jar on the top of the bureau. "Can't put anything past thugs like that. What did they look like?"

"Ohhhh, I don't know," she muttered. "Perfessional, like. Not like the bookie's mates that come round when Bosey's behind on paying up. Didn't hear them call each other by name, either, so don't ask."

"I won't, then. Why didn't you cosh them one? That's a fearsome-looking weapon," Snape said, voice dry.

"I was doing my morning fry-up, and it was off-duty," she shot back. "My hex aim's not good anymore, but with this I can wallop off a chicken's head at fifty paces."

That was doubtful, but one didn't argue with elderly witches wielding frying-pans.

"Did Ambrose ever mention any brothers or sisters?" Snape asked. "Any special friends?"

"Not that I recall," she said, and looked up at the cracked ceiling with a show of innocence. "'Course, my memory's not that good anymore. And I'm that upset about the rent, I can't string two thoughts together."

Snape suppressed a grimace, fished about in his pockets, and dropped a Galleon in the biscuit-jar -- probably twice the rent that the old slag could actually get for such a flea-bit room, but if it jogged her memory, it was worth it.

"Ah, now I think I remember.... Jarvey, that were one. Ain't mentioned him for a while, though. --"

Well, he wouldn't. Jarvey was the former business-partner Forsythe had dosed with the Potions equivalent of the Imperius Curse. Given Jarvey's reputation, it was a wonder Forsythe was still alive.

"-- and there were some slut down at The Potted Puffskein, but that went south. Jealous type, our Bosey."

"Any other places he knocked about?" Snape asked wearily, knowing the answer in advance.

"Noooo. Here, work, the pub, Dartmoor -- long as his bookie was paid up, of course.... No, our Bosey was a quiet bloke. Give him a good fry-up and as much whisky as he wanted, and he was happy as a lark."

That was doubtful, too, but no point debating it.

"Thank you," Snape said, eyeing the frying-pan as he rose very, very slowly. "I don't suppose you'd, ah, allow me to look for any evidence where he might be? An address-book, or something like it?"

"Oh, couldn't do that. He might be back, you know," Quavery Voice said. "He'd be that upset if I had to tell him. 'Course, I wouldn't have to tell him...."

She glanced at the biscuit-jar again, but this time Snape didn't fall for it. Chances were that the thugs had found anything of interest -- if Forsythe had been stupid enough to leave it behind.

"Wouldn't want to put you in that position. I'll just be off, then --"

"Oh, you can't floo from that," she said matter-of-factly. "I blocked it. Our Bosey got himself in a bit of trouble with illegal hookups -- has a bit of an eye for ladies, you know, likes to peek -- so it's inbound only."

The day, Snape decided as he grumpily Apparated back to Hogsmeade from Quavery Voice's overgrown back garden, was only getting worse and worse -- and he had no intention of spending the rest of it with Hermione.

*****

Aberforth refused to refund him his Galleon for the rest of the floo powder, but took it out in trade, pouring him a quite illegal after-hours whisky. (Except that it wasn't, of course. But Aberforth was showing an unusual amount of courtesy, considering, and hadn't re-opened.)

"I don't suppose," Snape asked him, "that anything's arrived for a 'Steven,' has it?"

"No," the old codger said. "I'd have told you."

"Oh.... Did I tell you of that?"

"Must have done, musn't you?"

Snape glared at him. "You're doing that thing, aren't you? Your bloody brother warned me you would."

"Divination doesn't work that way, you dolt -- you left me a note upstairs last visit. No, no packages for a Steven."

"Bloody hell."

"I ought track you down right away if it comes, eh?"

"If you would. Please."

"Shall do. Want to get whatever else it is off your chest, do you?"

"I just did," Snape said sullenly.

"I mean about the other thing. Home.... Yes, now I'm doing it --"

"I don't wish," Snape said through gritted teeth, "to speak of it. But thanks," he added grudgingly.

"Right," Aberforth said gruffly, refilled Snape's glass and slid the bottle next to it, set about cleaning up the bar, and ignored him.

Snape quietly set about becoming as blotto as was possible to be, and yet still be able to walk to Hogwarts.

*****

Filch and Mrs Norris caught him just past curfew, stumbling down the corridor toward his rooms: Mrs Norris gave a disapproving twitch of her tail and a raspy, grating mewl, and Filch's upper lip curled in disdain. No self-respecting Faculty should be seen on premises in such a condition.

He ignored them both, and managed to slip into the sitting-room without banging the door.

The fire had burnt down to embers, and the rest of the room was dark; only after Snape lit the lamp did he notice that Hermione's coat still hung next to the door, and her handbag still lay on the table. She'd stayed, then, and was probably already in bed, asleep: he'd rather hoped that she'd left, especially as he had to piss so badly that he had no choice but to stagger through the bedchamber for the loo. (He did, very quietly, navigating the room by memory, and sat on the toilet so he shouldn't have to turn on the light or risk tipsy aim.) He thought he'd accomplished everything quite successfully, in fact, until he started back for the sitting-room.

"Everything all right?" Hermione said, nothing more, in the dark, than a sleepy voice drifting from the pile of covers on the bed.

He froze. "Yes. Why shouldn't it be?"

"You were upset when you left."

"It's nothing," he managed. "A contact I hoped would be helpful, and won't be. He's disappeared, in fact."

"Oh, damn. Anything I --"

"No, no, don't think so."

"Oh. Your dinner's on the table still, if you need it -- I, erm, put a warming charm on it," she said, and he could hear her yawn.

"Yes, I'll...."

"Are you coming to bed soon? You sound tired."

It was kindly meant, Snape knew, but it poured salt in the wound.

"Later," he muttered. "Marking to finish." He slipped through the door into the sitting-room, and quietly pulled the latch to.

He didn't do marking, though. (There wasn't any: they'd finished it all yesterday, to his relief.) Nor did he eat more than a few bites of lukewarm roast beef, abandoning it when his stomach threatened to sour.

He wound up on the settee with a tumbler of Tittifer's Tummy Tonic in hand, and calmed down enough to attempt rational thought. It should have been over the problem of Forsythe, and where the bleeder had got to: but he kept returning to the problem of Hermione, instead.

A thought from several weeks ago rose, unbidden, and he forced himself to think of it: Caldwell and his harassment of the Bingham girl. At the time Snape had excused his own actions with Hermione on the grounds that it was business, of course it was, it was entirely different....

His stomach lurched: he forced himself to stop thinking for a moment, and stared at the weak glow of the remains of the fire until he felt more himself.

Just as his mother had had to submit to his father, no matter how tired or ill; no matter that she hadn't recovered from her latest miscarriage, or that Julius Snape hurt her often, probably deliberately. Snape hadn't realised it at the time, of course: he hadn't yet learnt what went on between men and women. Nor had he actually witnessed the more intimate details. He'd only the memory of huddling in bed with the thin pillow pressed over his ears, trying to ignore his mother's crying.

He could now, at forty years' distance and experience of human nature, pretty accurately reconstruct what must have happened in the privacy of his parents' bedchamber.

In the end, though, he had to concede that while what Julius Snape had demanded of his wife was perfectly legal, it wasn't in the least right. And there was only one logical conclusion to be drawn from that....

Neither is what I've done to Hermione.

While that hadn't been of the least concern to him at first, everything had changed.

The tumbler dropped from his hand, unheeded, and shattered on the hearth; Snape staggered to his feet and stumbled to the bedchamber door, carefully cracked it open, and stared, in the faint light that shone in from the sitting-room, at the woman in the far side of his bed. She was curled up in her usual protective little ball, fast asleep now; but she was facing him, and the covers on his side were pointedly turned down in invitation.

She'd never done that, never, and somehow that made it all worse, his previous actions all the more shameful.

He was utterly unable to cross the room to wake her. He knew he owed her an apology, as inadequate as it would be; but the shame of realising he was little better than his father, guilty of the same crime in a lesser degree, had him frozen to that spot just inside the doorway.

And how much of this is really the drink? the most cynical, self-serving portion of his mind reasoned. If you say it now, it can't be undone. Can't be taken back. You know you've let slip far too much when you've been drinking.... Better to wait until your head's clear, man -- say it then, without risking any snivelling. You may owe it her, but you don't need to give her any more ammunition. Any more excuses to leave you now....

He declined Hermione's unspoken invitation, backed out of the room, and spent the rest of the night on the settee.

*****

Chapter 20 Footnotes.

Link to Chapter 21