Snape woke feeling strangely relaxed, given the upset he'd had the night before. In fact, he felt practically benevolent toward the world in general (with the exception of the Ministry as a whole, Fudge and Corcoran in particular, and the ICW most of all).

Fucking Hermione -- or rather, well-fucked Hermione -- was already gone, apparently: she'd returned his favour of the previous day and left a cup of tea on the bed-table, but it had gone quite cold.

He deeply regretted that, although it had seemed to wake her up about the more important matters. But he also regretted that she'd seen so clearly that he was worried, though at least she hadn't guessed the worst reason of all. (He certainly didn't want her to pry: she'd likely run screaming for the nearest Solicitor for a divorce, and he wasn't ready for that. This experience was, in some respects, quite enjoyable, despite the woman's obvious efforts to drive him mad with her stubbornness and lack of caution.)

She might go gushy and maternal if she found out, on the other hand. Incredible though it was to think Hermione capable of that, she was a woman, damn it, and it was entirely possible. He didn't think he could stand that.

He had a bath, muttered in disgust when he realised he'd used a scented soap she'd left in the tub (he did not care to smell like that effeminate ponce Gilderoy Lockhart, thank you very much), dressed, and Apparated to the nearest club threshold.

*****

Snape shoved Artemis Wartwiggle's Wizard's Compleat Book of English Herbs and Flowers, Bothe Magical and All Else (First Edition, 1759) across the table and stared at his notes. He'd given up on Culpeper long ago.

He flipped back to his first page of notes, and ran through the possibilities again.

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,

And with the juice of this they'll streak your eyes,
And make you full of hateful fantasies.

It was so terribly frustrating. The ingredients taken together simply didn't make sense: you'd have a bloody mess with no useful application. A sickeningly fragrant mess, to be sure, but still a mess, barring the interesting experience one might have with the Nadder-skin. It was pointless to try to pinpoint a location, either -- gods knew most of these things were commonly found throughout the island.

"Stymied, are you, Snape?" Bluett wheezed from his chair across the library.

"Yes, damn it all."

"Oooooh. Bad, then, for you to admit that," the old man said with more than a touch of unexpected sarcasm.

"How kind of you to point it out. Not at all helpful, however," Snape muttered.

"You didn't ask for help, you wretched little beggar. And you never wanted it, anyway."

"Not when it came at the expense of criticism of my personal habits, no. You never could separate the work from everything else."

"Because you can't, not really," Bluett said reprovingly. " 'S why I could never get you beyond the basics of Alchemy. You never acknowledged that the one affects the other. There's very little in life that isn't that way."

Snape spared a moment from his notes to glare at his former mentor.

"I've never had the luxury of time to muck about with it anyway, unlike some. Do brush your beard off, old man -- you've biscuit crumbs all over. As usual."

Bluett meekly fiddled with his beard, flapping the crumbs loose. "What's the problem, then?"

"Nothing, really, except I'm not looking at it from the right perspective. It's not properly a potion, at any rate."

He turned back to his notes, and repressed a sigh when the ancient Brewer and Alchemist rose and shuffled over.

"Let me see it, boy -- No, no, don't show me your blasted notes, show me the problem," Bluett insisted, and Snape handed over the parchment. "What do you mean, not properly a potion?"

"It's directions, actually. To... well, I shan't tell you the purpose, just that it's presumably to a specific location. But it's far too general."

"Hmmmmph." Bluett scanned the poem, and then dropped it back on the table. "No, I can't think of anyplace that evokes." He turned and shuffled back to his chair.

"Thanks ever so. I'd already determined that."

"Not that it wouldn't be an effective distillation, mind you," Bluett added as he cautiously dropped back into his chair. "Except for the snake reference, I don't quite see how that fits."

Snape swiveled in his chair to stare the old man down.

"What do you mean, effective distillation?"

Bluett glanced over, astonished. "Have you remembered anything at all that I taught you?"

"Yes, blast it, but --"

"If it looks like a Hippogriff and smells like a Hippogriff, then it is one."

"Don't go obscure and philosophical on me, old man --"

"It's a scent, you idiot. Barring the snake reference it's a scent, and quite probably cloying given all that heavy stuff."

"Prepos-- Well, it could be, I'd thought it might at first, but that's not the point. It's not even a proper receipt, it's just a bit of doggerel from a Muggle writer. The damned m-- It was appropriated from the original, with a few tweaks."

"Doesn't mean it isn't effective," Bluett said coolly, and poured a cup of tea with a tremor-prone hand. "You needed a different perspective, and you've got one. You just need to find the connection between the scent and whatever the location is. And I reckon 'deathly sentinals' and the snake have something to do with that."

"Fuck," Snape said, and ignored Bluett's reproving clucks. "That's it, then. It's too bloody obscure -- what kind of snake? They're all over, blast it. And whatever the deathly sentinals are, gods damn it all--"

"Time for a tea-break," Bluett sang under his breath. "Cool down a bit...."

"I haven't time, blast it, it's... it's a terribly important matter," Snape muttered, managed to sulk for a few moments, and then shoved his chair away from the table, rose and strode across the room, and threw himself into the chair furthest away from Bluett as he could manage.

Bluett calmly poured Snape a cup as well, started to send it over, belatedly remember that this man, as a apprentice, had had a considerable sweet tooth: he Summoned the cup back over, heavily sugared it, and sent it to hover at Snape's elbow.

"Take a breather," he counseled. "Read something else for a while, at least until you finish your tea. Let the other part of your mind work on it."

Snape snatched the cup out of the air, pulled one of the trade journals off the side-table next to the chair, and flipped through it, highly disgruntled, as he sipped at the tea.

He was quite involved for the next half-hour with the reading until he'd finished the article, and felt much more calm by the time he had; and then he continued paging through, idly reading the adverts that littered the back of the journal -- until one caught his eye.

A long shot, but it was worth it. He could hardly do worse than he already had.

Snape set aside his tea and the journal; shot across the room to collect his notes; and delayed leaving only long enough to backtrack to Bluett's chair, where he gently took the cup and saucer from the sleeping man's knee before it spilled down the front of his robe.

*****

"Yeth, thir?" lisped the annoyingly pert shopgirl. "What may I do for you? A headache powder, perhapth? A threngthening tonic?"

"No, no -- something a bit more intimate, actually --"

"Ah, I know prethithely what you require, thir," she said confidentially. "We carry a new product called Withard'th Willie Wonder Worker. Much thuperior to Little Withard Inthta-Gro. You thertainly aren't the only gentleman to require a little extra, ah, help, at your age."

"Not that," Snape hissed at her (once he'd worked through both the lisp and her implication). "I wish to see the perfumes. I'm.... A present. Wife. Anniversary."

"Of courth, thir," she chirped, absolutely unconcerned with either his rage or embarassment. "Thith way, pleathe."

She led him over to one corner of the shop, where a dizzying array of brightly-coloured bottles and atomisers vied -- literally, with much pushing and shoving -- for pre-eminence on the shelves.

"Now, what doth the lady like? Floralth? Thomething a bit lighter or heavier than thith?" She grabbed a tester, squirted a bit on her wrist, and shoved said wrist under Snape's nose.

"I'm... not sure," he said, shying away as the overpowering musk of her selection assaulted his nose. "She wears something lighter, I think, not too.... Look, perhaps if you let me sample them myself...."

She gave him a rather odd look, but said, "Thertainly, thir," and put down the bottle and wandered back to her counter.

He didn't sample much, as it happened, but shooed the little buggers aside so he could reach the boxed samples further back on the shelf, and rapidly scanned the ingredients lists.

Disgusting, the claims they put on the damned stuff, he thought. 'Keep Him Entranced Forever!' 'You'll have to beat them off like bees about a flower!' 'Obsessive -- Especially for that Brooding Slytherin Man in Your Life'.

It wasn't any use, really. Many of the products had some of the ingredients from the blasted Shakespeare, of course, but not all.

A disconsolate squeak from the lowest shelf attracted Snape's attention, and he shoved a small, noisy gang of bottles aside and saw a dull green flask huddled behind them, its lip and stopper chipped from the rough-and-tumble. He lifted it, cradled it in his palm with the stopper held firmly in place, and checked the label on the bottom.

Arden Wood
by
Mangel & Mortars

There wasn't a box left on the shelf, though, blast it, so he had to pull the stopper and take a whiff.

That was it. It had to be a clue. It was the only Mangel and Mortars product on the shelf, as well.

The only thing for it was to buy the flask and... experiment with it to rule out its potential as the potion. (Preferably on Hermione, not the obnoxious shopgirl.)

He strode over to the counter and set the flask down.

"That will do nicely, thank you," he said. "If you'd be so good as to wrap it up quite tightly --"

"Oh, I can't thell you that one, thir," the girl shot back, shocked. "It'th a tethter. You mutht have a boxthed one." She looked as though he'd proposed buying illegal ingredients.

"There aren't any boxed ones, blast it."

"Then I'm terribly thorry, thir, we mutht be out of thtock, but --"

"Look, this is the only one that will do -- I don't care about the bloody box. Just wrap the damned thing up."

"I can't do that, it'th quite againtht thtore polithy," she argued. "I thould have to athk the manager."

"Then ask," Snape growled at her; she glared at him indignantly, and flounced off toward the back room bawling "Mithter Figwort, are you free?"

The idiot girl returned shortly with the manager. (Snape was not impressed -- the man was quite obviously of Lockhart's persuasion and had similar fashion sense, complete with a lavender carnation in his button-hole.)

"Yes, sir? There is a problem, sir?" the man asked, with such emphasis that it was clear he thought the problem was Snape.

"Do you or do you not sell the products on your shelves?" Snape demanded.

"Of course, sir, but -- Oh. That old thing. No wonder -- they don't make that any longer, it wasn't popular."

"I don't care if it sold well, man, I simply want to --"

"It was a novelty to begin with, of course -- the whole Literary angle. I'm quite shocked you hadn't tossed it already, Amaryllis, quite careless with restocking."

The girl glared at Snape as if it were his fault she'd been reprimanded.

"I don't care about.... What Literary angle?" Snape asked.

"Oh, Famous Literary Places. Salazar's Swamp -- that had a base of bog-water, I believe, and was very peaty. Gryffindor's Glade, things like that. Some marketing genius threw in a Muggle writer no-one recognised, and the blasted stuff would not move at all. I'm afraid they've ceased production. Of all their perfume lines, in fact."

"Then it won't matter in the least," Snape said through gritted teeth, "if you let this one go as well, will it?"

The man eyed Snape speculatively, and then sighed. "Wrap it for the gentleman, Amaryllis. And give him a fifteen per cent discount for the usage."

Amaryllis sullenly wrapped the flask, and then wasted another minute laboriously working out the discount on her pad.

"You'll get another twenty perthent off if you open an account today, thir," she grudingly told him.

"No, bl-- Thank you. That will do nicely," Snape said, and slammed the requisite knuts down on the counter.

The urge to hex the bloody girl was so strong that he didn't even wait for his change, but grabbed the package and left for Flourish and Blotts.

*****

"Happy Anniversary," Snape informed Hermione when he plunked the chipped flask on the kitchen counter, and glared at it when it squeaked and hopped up-and-down in excitement.

"What?" she said, shocked -- and then glared at him. "It's not."

"Two months," he shot back, and then amended, "And a day or two late."

(He could have sworn the bloody flask burbled something that sounded like "Uh-oh," but when he glared at it again it was absolutely stationary and silent.)

"You don't seriously expect me to think you went to the trouble of --"

"Of course not. That," he said, "is called Arden Wood, and it is -- or was -- made by Mangel and Mortars."

"Oh. Research, I should have.... Oh."

"Quite. It appears to be the last bottle available in Diagon Alley. They don't manufacture scents any longer."

"So you think Flaherty really meant Arden, then. And you bought it why, precisely?"

"To test it. Just in case there's an aphrodisiac quality to the damned stuff in and of itself, not just a location clue."

Hermione pulled the stopper free, took a sniff, and jerked her face away.

"Oh, God -- it's awful."

"Never mind that, put it on."

"No thank you," she said, stoppering the bottle and shoving it away from her, and then sneezed. "I can't wear scent that heavy, it irritates my nose."

Snape grabbed the bottle, pulled the stopper free, wetted his forefinger, and advanced on her.

"Severus -- don't, don't you dare --" she said frantically, backing into the basin-counter.

He did dare, managing a swipe at her that left a streak of the noisome stuff in her cleavage and an oily smear across her blouse-lapel.

"Snape!"

"Purely in the interest of scientific experimentation," he retorted. "If it's any consolation, I don't care for it either. In fact," he said with a sniff and dubious glance at the flask, "it seems to have an immediate effect quite the opposite to that you'd expect." The flask squeaked in outrage and struggled in his hand, and he bluntly told it, "Shut up and be still," as he re-stoppered it and placed it on the counter.

"What do you expect to prove by this?" she asked with a glare, and sneezed.

"If I'm unable to keep my hands off you for the rest of the evening, we'll know," he said coolly.

He froze in horror, and then rooted about a bit frantically in his frock-coat pockets. "Perhaps you'd better.... It's almost time, anyway, it's close to a week," he muttered, and pulled out a phial of contraceptive and thrust it at her.

She did not appreciate the sentiment, but managed to swallow the potion down before the next sneeze.

Snape washed his hands thoroughly to rid them of the perfume's stench, and then debouched to the sitting-room to go over his notes and make a log of the experiment.

6:25 (approximate): application of substance. No immediate effect. H. sneezes twice.

6:35: No effect noted from distance of twenty feet (approx.). H. has sneezed thrice more.

6:45: No effect. (Might be distance from H. Perhaps shall experience some arousal at dinner-table due to proximity?) H. has sneezed twice more. Much banging of pots in kitchen, and muffled cursing. Smell of frying sausages foremost, blessedly, covering up the wretched substance. At least for me.

6:55: H. comes into room to retrieve face-tissue (four more sneezes since last entry). Complains of dripping nose. I note that no effect on me other than slight flaring of nostrils due to her noxious smell. H. claims will serve me right if she drips into my soup. Returns to kitchen in ill-temper -- totally unwarranted reaction, as I was simply stating a fact. (Contradictory Hypothesis: substance would, in fact, make a far better contraceptive than aphrodisiac by virtue of effect upon H.'s mood.)

7:05: H. sneezes twice. Adulteration of soup no longer a concern, as H. dropped the saucepan in mid-sneeze Number Two. Have hopes that the sausages will not follow -- I rather like her bangers and mash.

7:15: Three sneezes. H. calls me to dinner-table between Numbers Two and Three. Attempts to dissuade me from log-keeping; says sneeze-count is off-putting. (Shocking lack of concern for experimental documentation procedures -- thought I'd taught her better.)

7:25: Four sneezes.

7:35: H. unable to eat properly due to paroxysm of sneezes. (At least eight more, I lost count.) I am unable to eat properly because, at closer proximity, H. stinks. (Absolutely no interest in sex with H. by virtue of effect upon me.)

7:38: Must physically restrain H. from taking perfume-flask outside to dust-bin. Bloody thing ran away and hid from her, so consequently my only remaining sample is lost for the duration.

7:40: H. declares experiment concluded whether I like it or not. (I concur, as it happens. I'm feeling quite ill from the stench. It's far worse on her skin than in the flask.) H. abandons dinner-table for bath, I open windows to air out room and return to my dinner. (Not entirely unpleasant prospect despite lingering smell and ill-tempered cursing and sneezes from bath: more sausages for me.)

Hypothesis that perfume is aphrodisiac -- resoundingly disproved by the following evidence:

• Psychological interest on my part in initiating sex, Nil.
• Physiologically-demonstrable effects of arousal on my person, Nil. (To a frightening extent, in fact -- wonder if Little Wizard Insta-Gro shall be necessary in future.)
• Similar observable effects in H., Nil. (When asked H. regarding this, response was 'Are you bloody mad?' Shall interpret as a negative response.)
• Desire to throttle H. for petulance and hysterics: Immense.

*****

"I hobe," Hermione said, voice dripping sarcasm and sullenness from the sitting-room door, "thad you're quide sadisfied." She blew her nose to punctuate the statement.

"It had to be done," Snape retorted, not bothering to look up from the papers and books strewn across the table. "We can't assume he didn't mean an existing product, not when he was so bloody general about it."

"Ride. Nod possible to just go oud to bloody Arden and look, doe."

"Hermione.... Do you want to see the other research, or not?"

"Yes. Fide. Well, dow you know. And I'be a big, whobbing batch ob hibes on by chest, damnbit." (Sniff.)

Snape mentally translated that, sighed, pulled himself off the settee to reach for his discarded coat, rummaged in the pockets, and pulled out a little kit.

"Whad are you --" (sniff) "-- doink?"

"Hush and blow your nose," he snapped as he sat down, "and come here."

He Engorged the kit and fumbled out a little jar, opening it as she (already nightgown-clad) perched uneasily next to him; she flinched when he reached over to unbutton the neck of her gown.

"Damnbit, whad are you --"

"Burn-Healing Paste. Best I can do at the moment, unless you happen to have a jar of billywig stings lying about.... No? Then this will have to do. It will help the inflammation," he muttered, and slathered the paste in the general vicinity of her cleavage.

"Thad's nod the hibe, you randy --"

"I beg your pardon, that was entirely unintentional. Here?"

"Yes," she said, still sulking.

"Stop acting like a child, or I shall send you off to bed," he said in his most whithering voice as he capped the jar and wiped his greasy fingers on his handkerchief.

"Alone? Prombise?"

He glared at her, and she stared back, defiant, as she buttoned up her gown. "It nod only itches, it hurts, and I don't hab an anti-histamine in the cabinet."

"Unfortunate, but I couldn't have known you'd have an allergic reaction. Perhaps if you tried to concentrate on the matter at hand --?"

"Whad is this?" she said, giving up on the whinging.

"A map of Arden Wood," Snape said. "Or, more properly, magical Arden."

"You bean it's like the Forbidden Forest?"

"No, not quite.... Wait," he said, and picked up Eustace Pugworthy's Guide to Magical Places in the British Isles, "listen to this. 'The Ancient Forest of Arden may no longer be properly called such, having suffered greatly from Muggle encroachment. What was once unbroken hundreds of forested acres is now reduced to isolated groves, often of relatively new growth. Recent studies by Herbert Snorthog have proven that its magical denizens -- fairies, brownies, the Greater Snaggle-toothed Woodland Gnome -- have lost their habitats almost completely, and are rarely reported in even the magical oases that exist in some otherwise ordinary groves.'"

"Oases?" Hermione interrupted. "But how does that work, then?"

"I don't know, yet -- you're the bloody Arithmancer. Possibly a portal similar to the club threshold. 'There have, however, been some notable and welcome survivors in the more isolated areas: an oak grove to the east with particularly fine growth of magical mistletoe; one of the last remaining heavily-planted areas of true native magical oxlip; and several areas with curious, man-made or -adapted features, such as a ring of yew trees said to have been planted by Morgaine in which to celebrate Dark rituals.'"

"Yew," Hermione breathed, and snatched up the copy of the poem. "Do you think --"

"The modern identification of yew with death is quite strong, yes. Earlier cultures would have said immortality."

"And... Round. Not around, but round as in ring," she noted.

"Precisely. Although the attribution to Morgaine is absolute rot, of course. Which isn't to say it wasn't intended for something, but who knows what. I'm particularly pleased that Pugworthy noted oxlip -- corroborative evidence."

"But what about the snake-skin? Is there anything in the book that hints at that?"

"No, nothing at all. And Irwin's Bestiary wasn't helpful, either, beyond noting that some snakes seem to gravitate to sacred groves. Nadders tend to prefer sites where magic was performed for their breeding sites, for example."

"So that's it, then. The documents are somwhere in Arden, or in magical Arden, rather."

"Yes, but as you can see," he said, pulling the map into his lap so she could see it more clearly, "there are at least ten oases, and none of them are marked with the specific features. For each one we must find the portal, enter, and then try to locate the sites."

"Oh, bloody --" (sneeze) "-- hell."

"Right. I expect it shall take all day, unless we can find a guide --"

"-- and you'd rather not, for obvious reasons."

"Yes."

"If you can wait until week-end I can come along. It would be easier if we could get a local to help, though."

"Out of the question."

"Unless... well, it should be a stretch for you, I suppose."

"What?"

"Playing at Tourist. Or at a love-sick couple looking for a nice picnic spot where they shan't be disturbed. Or a combination of the two."

"A picnic in late December? Don't be stupid."

"I don't mean a picnic, I mean.... Well, Saturday will be December 31st. New Year's Eve. I suppose some people would think New Year's Eve alone together in a magical wood might be... romantic."

He snorted.

"Do you have a better idea? Don't tell me you intend to collect mistletoe -- not a great excuse, once you've found it. No need to keep looking."

"Don't be ridiculous.... All right, then," he said, and sighed. "I'd prefer a more reasonable excuse, but until I can think of one I suppose tourists looking for a nice, private sky-clad shag to celebrate the New Year is as good a cover as anything."

She glared at him. "Don't assume that I'm willing to --"

"If we're observed, we'll have to, you know, until any voyeurs are bored. Or sated. It's a far more compelling reason to want privacy, at any rate."

"There's verisimilitude, and then there's taking advantage, damn it."

"I am willing to admit that it's a far more innocuous pretext than collecting mistletoe," Snape said irritably, "and you shall have to put up with any consequences. It was your idea, after all. I don't fancy having an audience, myself."

"Fine. I'm going to --" (sneeze, sniff) "-- bed," she retorted as she rose, and stomped off toward the bedroom.

"I'll be in shortly," he muttered, and began to clear away the papers.

*****

It was by far the most unrestful night Snape had spent in Hermione's flat: every time he was on the verge of dropping off, Hermione would have another sneezing fit.

"Blast it --"

"Go oud to the sitting-room, then," she snarled at him. "I can't helb it."

"I know you can't, but I'll be damned if I put my back out sleeping on your bloody inadequate settee.... I have to run that errand tomorrow, and it shall be a long and tiring day."

"Then deal with it," she said, and blew her nose. "It's your fauld, anyway. I told you it would bake me ill, but doe, you just had to do it."

They both sulked for a while before Hermione added, "Last week I only thoughd I hated you. Dow I'm certain."

"It's a large and illustrious group," he shot back. "Join a very long queue. Given your infantile whinging, the feeling is mutual."

She didn't seem to like that at all: she rolled onto her side, giving him her back, and tried to tug the lion's share of the covers to her side of the bed.

"I shan't see you for lunch, by the way," he said, clutching at the coverlet and fighting back. "And I might not be back in time for dinner," he added in an attempt to be more reasonable. (She had been feeding him rather well, after all, and hadn't insisted that he observe her ridiculous diet; he supposed he owed it to her to make certain she didn't go to any trouble when she needn't.)

She refused to answer him, blew her nose again, and pulled the covers up to her ears.

A man just can't bloody win.

*****

Hermione beat him out of bed and out of the flat next morning -- and didn't leave him a cuppa on the bed-table, this time. Snape supposed he was in her bad graces yet again. (Not that he minded having her ticked with him if there was a good reason; but being petulant over a little case of hives was certainly not reasonable. There'd been a valid scientific need for the experiment, damn it.)

He rose, bathed, and ate; and as he was trying not to think much about his errand that afternoon, he mused over a hazy memory of spooning up behind Hermione in the middle of the night, despite her protests. (He hadn't intended to disturb her, for once, it had just... happened, and he hadn't even taken advantage of the proximity.)

He distinctly recalled thinking, before he'd dropped back off, that she smelled much better (despite the faint odor of stewed flobberworm and Burn-Healing Paste) than she had with the bloody perfume on. But even stewed flobberworm hadn't come close to overpowering her own subtle, now-familiar scent when he'd buried his nose in the curve of her shoulder.

Almond, he thought suddenly. She smells of sweet almond, and of cucumber as well when she's straight from the bath -- must be some of that wretched soap she uses, although that's far better than the ones with a chemical scent. And when I taste her skin, there's a tartness.... Citrus. Not orange, though, too bitter. More like clementine.

Utterly unaware of the oddness of his analysis -- not of its accuracy, but that he of all people should be so intrigued and precise about the instrinsic qualities of Hermione Granger's unadulterated scent and taste -- he reluctantly conceded that he was running late, and Apparated from the premises.

*****

He hated travelling to Nottinghamshire, and it never seemed to get easier. His Apparition License hadn't been revoked -- yet -- so he couldn't stay away on those grounds; and as much as he would like to forget certain incidents and reminders of his past, he couldn't stand living with that idiotic and irrational guilt that gnawed at him when he put it off too long, now that there was no reason for him to do so.

He trudged up the long flight of stairs that fronted the grey, institutional main wing of the building, stopped at the reception desk to sign in and check his wand -- it was required, for the sake and safety of many of the patients -- and took the lift to the second floor, stepping out directly in front of the duty-desk. The Sister on duty was startled to see him: she was a veteran employee and knew how infrequently he visited.

"Good afternoon, Mr Snape," she said brusquely, covering her lapse of manners. "She's already had her luncheon and bath, so you may go right in."

He didn't bother to correct her form of address.

"How is she?" he asked. "I haven't had a report for six months, and her letters have stopped."

Sister hesitated and then admitted, "That last stroke led to a sharp decline, Healer Williams says. Very few totally lucid moments, though thankfully the hysteria has stopped as well. She's very calm and docile, actually. I imagine," she added, not unkindly, "that she shan't recognise you. She rarely remembers our names, and we're with her every day."

"Thank you," he said. "She hadn't the last few times, either, so I'm prepared for that," and moved down the corridor to the last room but one on the left.

She was sittting in front of the window -- it was barred, of course, though as decoratively as possible, as if to deny that this place was a prison of sorts -- and she looked more presentable than the last time Snape had seen her, hair clean and smoothed back far more nicely than he remembered her ever managing herself. It had grown far thinner, though, and Snape could see pink patches of scalp peeking through the strands, and an old scar that ran above her right ear.

"Good afternoon," he said quietly from the doorway, and she started and turned to see who it was.

As always, there was a flash of panic in her eyes at first sight of him. (He hated that, that instinctual panic. He looked entirely too much like his father not to frighten her, and knew it.)

But as suddenly as the fear had surfaced, it vanished, and she stared at him with dull eyes.

"Good afternoon," she said uncertainly. "Who --?"

"Oh, just a visitor," he said. "My mother's having her bath, so I thought I'd stop round and visit with everyone else. Just to pass the time, you know."

It was, by now, a well-practised lie, and she never remembered it. It was easier on both of them than tormenting her by trying to jog her memory.

"Kind," she said, and turned back to the window. "Not many would bother."

Snape had to cross closer to catch that last bit, moving slowly and carefully so as not to startle her again; her words were slurred and halting, no doubt from the stroke.

"May I sit?" he asked, since she didn't offer.

"If you like," she mumbled, and he pulled over a chair next to hers and did.

"Nasty weather," he finally volunteered for lack of anything better.

"Yes," she said. "Very grey... picture. No, that's not right...."

"View?"

"Yes, view." She brightened slightly and offered, "It'll be better come Spring. Masses of flowers. They're good about that, trying to make it cheerful."

They sat silent for a long while before she added, "I see children out there, sometimes. Playing on the, the... the green, the --"

"Lawn."

"-- the lawn. They don't allow them up to the rooms, but I can watch from here." She suddenly turned to him, more intent. "Have you?"

"Seen them? Or do I have them?"

"Have them, yes."

"No," he said. "I've only just married, actually. Haven't got round to children."

"Oh. You seem rather old for it," she said critically, and he nearly snorted.

"No time to marry until now. And no-one worth the bother, either."

"Ah. A nice woman?"

"Can be. Young, and just a bit foolish, but very bright. You might call her a 'New Woman,' I suppose. Very assertive, verging on obstinate."

"Oh, my. Children should settle her down, a bit, though you're probably wise to wait. They can be a terrible worry, I... I think."

Snape bit the inside of his cheek until it bled, and stared out the window.

"Are you comfortable?" he finally asked. "They're treating you well, the Sisters?"

"Oh, yes. Not as many trips out to the gardens as I'd like, but...."

"Good. That you're comfortable, that is. One never knows for certain, without asking."

She plucked restlessly at the lap-robe, becoming uneasy with his presence: he recognised the signs, and knew it was best to leave her in peace before she began to understand who he was.

"I'd.... I'd best check back with Mother," he lied, and with some sincere regret that it would be such a short visit. (It usually happened that way, that he was eventually glad he'd made the effort no matter how unwilling he was to go in the first place.) "I expect her bath's over by now."

He rose and bent, unthinking, to kiss her cheek; she flinched away and said, "What are you --"

"Sorry," he said, and mentally chided himself. "Terrible liberty, isn't it?"

"To dare with a stranger, yes," she said indignantly.

"Well, you're someone's mother, aren't you?" he retorted, and gave her a crooked smile. "And as he or she isn't here, I dare on their behalf."

"Him," she said quite clearly. "At least, I.... Yes, him."

She didn't relax, though, and didn't offer her cheek; so Snape lifted her fragile, age-spotted hand from the chair-arm and formally kissed her fingers instead, ignoring the faint, sour scent that lingered on her skin no matter how recently she'd been bathed.

"Perhaps I'll stop by again, next time," he said. "Unless you prefer that I don't."

"Oh, it's.... You needn't, of course, but it's pleasant to see people," she allowed as she pulled her hand away and tucked it under her lap-robe, safe from any further depredations.

"Goodbye, then," he said.

He waited for a farewell, but she was already intent on the view outside the window.

*****

Well, that went far better than usual, he thought as he descended the stairs to the lawn and began the long walk down the drive.

Perhaps he should be able to bear it, now that she wasn't having those horrid flash-backs and fits of hysterics that had seemed to happen every other visit. It was a fair trade-off, he supposed: that she didn't recognise him, in exchange for all the upleasantness that occurred when she did. (Not unpleasantness toward him, no -- or at least, not usually -- but it put her under terrible stress.)

He actually chuckled a bit at her indignation with his "liberty." She'd never been what you'd call a warm or affectionate woman -- she'd been too much like McGonagall that way, though without anywhere near the backbone -- and that, at least, hadn't changed. (The times she had touched him were inextricably linked, in his mind, with considerable previous... nastiness on his father's part, at any rate, so it didn't bother him as much as it might others. Or so he told himself.)

Shan't be much longer if the strokes continue, he thought as he strode through the gates. And then it will all be over, and I can let it go finally and forever.

He adamantly ignored his sudden inability to swallow properly, and Apparated back to London.

*****

Chapter 8 Footnotes.

Link to Chapter 9