Author's Note: So many thanks, first of all, to AdelaideArcher for being my awesome beta, even though I dropped it on her rather last-minute. Otherwise, thank you to those who cheered me on. I hope you enjoy, delphipsmith! I really enjoyed writing this, and hope you all like it, too! :)

Part One

It was miraculous that he managed to Apparate without Splinching himself. Even more so, given that he had intended to land in the cramped private room at the inn in Knockturn Alley in which he had been hiding, not his own house. He wasn't safe here, not until the Dark Lord took over the Ministry. But now that he was here...

Hands trembling, he rifled through the cupboards.

"Do you recognise our guest, Severus?"

Surely he had something left from his father's drinking binges? He never had cleaned out the cupboards. There had to be something...

"Severus...please...please..."

Desperation coloured his movements, robbing him of his prized Occlumency shields as he emptied the cupboards and cabinets. Hands burrowing into his lank hair, he let out a choked sob, anguished, and gave up the search. Instead, he rifled through his bedroom until he found a stash of pounds and left his house. The door slammed shut behind him, and he didn't bother to lock it. His feet headed towards the nearest pub.

"Severus please...we're friends..."

He wasn't anyone's friend. Hadn't been.

Had he?

"...we're friends..."

This wasn't the sort of town where people stared openly at each other, so he found himself a dark booth near the corner and ordered...well, he didn't know. All he'd said was "I want to get pissed" and then there was a glass in front of him.

Snape drank it, trying not to gag. It tasted awful. He had never drunk in his life, but now...now he needed something, anything, to bury the pain. How had he just sat there and let Charity be murdered?

Because it wasn't part of the plan to save her.

Fuck Dumbledore and his greater good. He didn't want to do this any more. Not any of it. He didn't want to be a spy. He didn't want to be a puppet Headmaster in a school of horrors. He didn't want to be alone.

Frankly, if his Vow to Dumbledore had allowed it he would have killed himself years ago. A single drop from any number of phials in his stores would have done the trick, but somehow the bastard had managed to wrest that choice from him, too.

A second drink, and he drank that one, too. He couldn't tell if the taste was better or worse and didn't rightly care. He didn't deserve to feel remorse. He didn't deserve to have a friend.

"Severus please..."

He drained the fourth glass, his eyesight going blurry and he found himself gasping, great wracking sobs.

"...we're friends..."

When was the last time he had cried? It was a physical hurt that tore at him, uncaring at the burn of salt in his eyes, the way the tears dripped down the tip of his ugly, horrible nose. He deserved to hurt. Charity, a friend he hadn't even known he had, was dead, and he had done nothing.

Hermione sipped cautiously at the warm lager. It smelled worse than the alley she had tailed Snape down, and tasted only marginally better.

When she had first left her parents at the airport with their new names and identities, she had set out to find Snape. She was, after several weeks of discussion with her mum and dad and agonising over her interpretations, absolutely certain that he was still on their side. She was, however, not terribly naive and had fully intended to ambush him and make him drink Veritaserum or use a spell she had found...or something. She wasn't entirely certain now what her plan had been, for though she had the potion in her bag and knew enough spells to subdue to a grown and powerful wizard, she had encountered something far different.

Professor Snape was a man.

She didn't mean in a physical sense...but she had never seen him cry. The most emotion she had seen him display was malicious glee or that frightening anger at the end of her third year. This was...this broken man was painful to watch. He was so human tonight, weeping as if his heart would break and wringing his hands over the table.

It was by chance that she had still been waiting at his house, past the time she usually left, but then there was a too-loud crack. Hermione had clung to the sagging wood of his window frame, watching him tear through his cupboards, and then tailed him to the pub.

She had also never expected Snape to drink—of all the professors in the Great Hall, she couldn't recall his goblet being filled with more than pumpkin juice. She had never seen him duck into the Three Broomsticks with the other teachers the odd weekend he was on chaperone duty.

It was so strange, so very un-Snape, that she felt compelled to sit in the corner next to his booth and watch.

But then, somewhere between the fifth and sixth pint, he began to sob in earnest. It was the same sort of hopeless tears that she had cried the night her grandmother died. The sort of tears that wrenched out from somewhere in your heart that didn't understand how something so terrible had happened, and why couldn't the pain go away?

"Oh no," Hermione whispered, feeling more than a little panicked. On impulse, she took her drink and moved to his table, hoping that one, he wasn't going to hex her in a pub full of Muggles and two, that he was too drunk. She dropped next to him and put a shaking hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Stupid thing to ask. Stupid thing to do. But it was the same urge that had kept her up late at night for a week, researching laws to save a hippogriff and the same impulse that had made her hide lumpily-made hats and scarves under piles of garbage.

Snape didn't even shrug off her hand, but he slumped, undone by her mere touch. He burrowed his face in his arms, still sobbing. Heart breaking for him, she patted his shoulder. "What happened?"

"Dead," he moaned into the wool of his sleeve. She froze. Dead? Who was dead? "I didn't even know we were friends."

His voice was slurred and she patted him again, at a loss for what to do. "Who died?"

"Colleague." Was it the alcohol, or had his voice changed? Her professor sounded rougher, more Northern. "I couldn't...couldn't save her." Another broken sob. "She begged me. Charity said we were friends... I didn't even know."

Charity? Professor Burbage was dead? Tears welled up in her own eyes. "Oh," Hermione said. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

Snape drained half of his current pint. When the bartender moved to prepare to draw him another one, Hermione shook her head at him. It probably wasn't wise to let Snape get too inebriated to walk home. He wasn't that much taller than her, but she wasn't up to the task of dragging him back to his house. Not in a Muggle neighborhood where she couldn't use magic.

"I didn't know," he whispered again. Snape sniffled; she grimaced at the wet sound and dug through her pockets to offer him a handkerchief.

Severus blew his nose on the white square offered by the blurry woman next to him. She was warm and kind, and smelled faintly of freshly mown grass. How long had it been since anyone had shown him sympathy? Had done so much as to lay a hand on his shoulder in comfort?

Part of him wanted to sit there all night and let her care for his drunk arse, and yet...he didn't deserve comfort.

"Severus please...we're friends..."

"Go away," he mumbled. "Go waste your kindness on someone else."

There was a moment of quiet and she said, very quietly, "I don't think that I can do that, sir. Do you want to go home, perhaps?"

"I'm not interested," he slurred. There was an offended gasp. Realising his mistake, he added, "I want to get pissed and forget everything."

"No more of the nasty stuff for you," she said sternly. The tone was so familiar, he chuckled weakly.

"You sound like one of my students. Bossy little know-it-all..."

Hermione giggled as the term 'know-it-all' lost its sting forever in the heavily-accented drunken slur of a voice that was getting rougher with that Northern lilt and yet more melodious. Pity he was such a melancholy drunk at the moment. That made her wonder. "That's me, I'm afraid. Are you always a sad drunk?"

The black-clad shoulder rose in a sharp shrug. "Haven't the faintest. Never been drunk before."

She patted his arm again. "And I've never tried to convince a drunk person to go home. But I suppose we'll manage."

"Home." Snape looked at her owlishly, scowling. "I'd rather not."

How a drunk man could be so verbose was beyond her, and she wondered how Harry or Ron would fare under the same circumstances. "Well, out of the pub, then. You've had enough."

"Perhaps. Why are you being nice to me?"

So much confusion in so few words.

"Because I don't think you're as bad as people are saying," she replied carefully. "We should probably talk somewhere else."

"I do not want to go home."

"You don't have to," she replied. "But you can't stay here."

Snape swigged the last of his drink with a grimace and dug some crumpled pounds from his pocket, dropping them on the table. Hermione exited the booth first and winced as he flailed, trying to get out. She didn't pity him, not really, but it was difficult to see that graceful stalk lost in the man lurching to his feet.

Merlin, he looked wrecked. So full of sorrow, some deep-seated pain etched into the usually-harsh lines of his face. Hermione steadied him as he staggered to the door of the pub. He was completely pissed, and she wondered if there was a potion to counter-act it at his house, or if she would have to wait until the morning, supposing he wasn't quick to sober up tonight. Either way, when he realised just who she was, she was probably going to be in a great deal of trouble.

Snape made it to the door and as he began weaving his way down the street, Hermione caught up to him. He stumbled and she took his arm, letting him lean on her.

"Okay. Where to, Professor?"

"Not your professor," he muttered, that Northern lilt even stronger. Hermione sighed, taking his ornery comment to mean that he had realised who she was through his drunken stupor.

"Right, then. Let's get you home, sir."

Hermione somehow managed to get Snape home and into bed. She had been rather surprised that he had no magical protections for his house. He hadn't even locked the door, it had simply turned in his hand. She really hoped he had just forgotten to lock it when he'd gone drinking.

Not that the small, dark home really needed protection. There was nothing to steal. Not even lightbulbs; all of his fixtures had been replaced with candles, and if the dust was any indication the only things in the house he cared about were the heavy books lining the shelves. And even those were dusty. Where had he been staying, if not here?

Pity and horror at how he lived writhed in her gut. It clashed horribly with the professor she knew. It was horrid. With a sigh, Hermione set about tidying the kitchen, which looked like Snape had ransacked it.

Then she started on the rest of the house. It couldn't be worse than cleaning Grimmauld, she reasoned. And it would keep her awake. No way in hell was she going to sleep. Just in case she was wrong.

Severus awoke, his mouth dry, his head pounding, and twisted in his sheets too tightly. He struggled free of the bedclothes, straightened his robes, and staggered towards the bathroom. Last night was a blur. He could still hear Charity, begging him for help...

"Do you recognise our guest, Severus?"

His stomach heaved and stumbled for the loo itself. Clutching the rim, he rather violently emptied his stomach of bile and what little alcohol he hadn't processed.

Gasping, his fingers dug into the edge of the seat as he tried to catch his breath.

"Severus...please...please..."

The room spun, guilt rose with his gut, and he retched again.

It took several minutes of deep breathing for him to regain enough mental strength to force his rising stomach down and rinse his mouth. The harsh spearmint stung his tastebuds.

His head pounded.. Food would help, wouldn't it? And a Headache Relief couldn't hurt, either, and could possibly alleviate the blurring vision long enough to brew a Sober-Up. He should have the ingredients in the basement, and there was too much to do to prepare this week before Potter was moved. He couldn't afford to be hungover.

Vague thoughts of last night filtered through his brain as he dragged his fingers through his hair to get rid of the worst of the bedhead. It was greasy, smelled like rancid beer, and was stringy and...he grimaced. It was as good as it was going to get. It didn't matter, anyway. No one was going to see it.

Halfway down the rickety narrow stairs, he heard a creak. Panic flooded him, even as he picked up the faint trace of only one mind. Only one, so who was in his house? Muggle robber? One of his Death Eater 'brethren'? Had an Order member found him? His wand was in his hand as he swept down the stairs, the bookcase swinging out and knocking over the intruder. A vial crashed to the floor, spilling potion everywhere.

Severus followed them down, snarling, a curse on the tip of his tongue. The tip of the ebony length of wood dug into pale flesh before he placed the wide brown eyes and ridiculous mop of bushy hair. "Granger," he sneered. "What a surprise."

The girl blinked, then frowned. "Not much of a surprise, Professor. I've been here since last night."

Last night? Clarity—the kind mystery woman. Suspicion—her motives?

He could see the pulse in her throat beside his wand—it was throbbing, pounding. She was terrified. Good. She should be, coming here alone. He bared his teeth at her.

"Why are you here? Choose your words wisely."

Granger swallowed convulsively.

"I...I don't think you're evil," she said quickly. "So, I thought—"

"You thought," he mimicked. "You thought that I am not evil. And you thought you would what? Come and tell me how I'm such a good person, under an ugly exterior? You. Thought. Hermione Granger and her vaunted intellect. Coming alone to a Death Eater's abode. And did you think I would welcome your nosy little presence? I should deliver you to the Dark Lord this instant," he purred with as sinister a tone as he could manage with his head pounding. "You would last but a moment under his power."

"So do it." Her chin lifted defiantly. Severus faltered, his poorly-thought bluff countered by three words. He was never drinking again. The witch had the audacity to smile at him. The same blasted smile he was so tired of seeing from her in classes when she had memorised some textbook and so triumphantly thought he would award her House points for regurgitation. "I knew it!"

Severus blinked and opened his mouth, but she spoke over him.

"I was right!" Oh, damn it. He should have Obliviated her. If he hadn't been drunk he probably would have. But to erase such a large chunk of her memory now could be dangerous, and the boy would need her if he was to stand a chance at surviving long enough to defeat the Dark Lord. "Professor, you're still on our side. Nothing else makes sense. I refuse to believe otherwise—if you weren't, you wouldn't have hesitated just now. You wouldn't have been pissed as a newt in a pub, not even realising it was me—I really thought you knew; and I am so sorry to hear about Professor Burbage, I really liked her—and you would have hexed me and turned me in the moment you saw me, Professor."

The wand dug a little deeper when she paused to breathe, cutting off her bloody irritating tirade. She had comforted him. Put him to bed. His eyes darted to the floor, at the shattered Headache Relief.

She was trying to assist him? Trusted him?

This was dangerous. She was dangerous.

"I am not your professor, you silly little girl," he hissed. "I am a Death Eater." The words dripped heavily from his tongue. He hadn't considered himself a true Death Eater since his youth.

Hermione frowned. Was he really going to try to talk her out of this? Like that was going to work. The man had taught her for six years, surely by now he knew her better than that. "That doesn't mean you're not also a double agent. You've been spying for Professor Dumbledore since my fourth year."

Without thinking, he flinched. That particular mental wound had done no healing as the summer progressed.

"Severus...please..." Albus's voice this time, not Charity's.

"See?" The girl said challengingly.

"I am a murderer," he said, the echoes of his deed ricocheting off his already-aching skull. "And you cannot trust me, no matter what pathetic truths you think you know."

Hermione scowled, her eyes meeting his. A spell she had read in one of the books she had taken from Dumbledore's office flashed into her mind. "I can prove it, too!"

She drew her wand more quickly than he had thought possible and he moved back, defensive. But she didn't cast the spell directly at him: instead, it encompassed the room as she spoke the words.

"Anima veri revelio!"

Severus's face drained of blood and he pressed as close to the wall as he could as there was a wrenching feeling through his body. In front of him lingered the ethereal glow of his own damned soul. Hers, too, hovered just in front of her body. He refused to look at them directly and see just how fractured he really was.

"Stupid girl!" he said, horrified. "Do you have any idea of the danger you put us in?" Granger got up from the floor and he brandished his wand at her. "Stay back, you little idiot! Cancel it!"

"I won't! Not until we get this sorted." Oh, the defiant little lift to her chin. As soon as she ended the spell, he was going to reach out and throttle her, Potter be damned.

"As long as the spell holds, you have to tell the truth," Granger said. "If you want me to cancel it, you'll answer."

Severus narrowed his eyes at her. Damn it, he had no choice. "You'll be lucky if I don't Obliviate you afterwards."

"You can try, but there's too much now," she said. He caught the little tremor in her voice: she wasn't entirely certain he was Dumbledore's man, and this spell was her trump card, her insurance. "So tell me the truth, Professor. Please. You're on our side. Let me help you. Help Harry. Help us win."

For a long moment, he seriously considered twisting his words. Making her think he was a Death Eater to the core. He could do it with the selective truth. But she was dangling the most dangerous seduction in front him: an ally.

Someone who would know the truth. Someone who could pick up the torch should he fail. Someone...someone who would know him. Just a little. A refuge for his battered psyche when the weight of what his role was became too much to bear.

He sagged, tipping his hangover-pounding head against the dingy wallpaper. "What do you want to know, Granger?"

Merlin, he hated her stupid triumphant little smile. "I want to know why, and what we're supposed to do now. I want to know what happened with Professor Dumbledore."

"You are correct in assuming that I am a spy. My allegiance is to the Light, not the Dark Lord. As for Albus...the Headmaster was already dying, and ordered me to kill him to spare Draco Malfoy's precious little soul," Severus said flatly. "My part is now separate from yours. I am sworn not to say until the proper moment what Potter's task will entail. In the end, you will win or lose. Either way, I shall have no part in it."

"What do you mean?" Hermione bit back the suspicion welling up inside her. He sounded so...weary.

"I will be dead," Snape said harshly. "Assuming I live long enough to see the war end and have not been discovered before then... If Potter wins, I will be dead for my part. If the Dark Lord wins, it is not a world that I have any inclination to remain alive in."

She winced. "I'm sorry. You're doing so much and putting yourself in peril because of us. You don't—you don't deserve to die.. " Her voice was quiet, a terrified little whisper of denial.

"Don't I?" He snorted. "And do you truly think I want your apologies?"

Granger was quiet for a minute. "You said Professor Dumbledore ordered you to kill him: what about your soul, though?"

His lips thinned, but Hermione remained quiet, hoping he would cave and answer. She had a sneaking suspicion that Dumbledore had mistreated and manipulated Snape the way he had done to Harry all year.

"As if my soul could be damaged further than it was already," he said bitterly. "It was of no import to him."

That wasn't fair!

"Save your pity," Snape snapped. "I was already dark."

"You're no darker than I am," Hermione insisted. "Look! The spell shows it."

Severus looked over the nebulous glow that was her soul, suspending just in front of her heart. It was certainly bright, a faint smudge here and there—choices she had made, he wagered—but it wasn't dark. He didn't want to look down. He didn't want to see...

"Look," she urged, quietly this time.

For a moment time seemed to stand still, and his chin finally dropped. His own soul hung there.

It was... There was a smear of darkness across it, but it was otherwise bright. More, it was whole.

Unfractured.

Complete.

Unbroken.

"Severus...please..."

Snape let out a choked sound and Hermione felt tears sting her own eyes. What had he gone through these months, to react so? Last night had been a revelation in and of itself, the futile outpouring of grief, but this... This was torture to watch. Snape keened, sliding down the wall, and wept as if his heart would break. Hers nearly cracked to hear it.

It was loss. It was pain. It was betrayal and relief and sorrow and disbelief. A cracking of walls, and more terrifying than any anger and vitriol she had ever seen from him. Snape had always been so unyielding. This was breaking. This was weakness.

Without thinking, Hermione crossed to him and enveloped him in an embrace. She didn't know why she did it. She wanted to comfort him, to comfort herself—for if Snape could so completely break down, how could the rest of them carry on?

As her arms slid around his narrow shoulders—he was so thin! Didn't he eat?—Hermione felt a tendril of warmth curl through her. Her own tears, guiltily shed, soaked into the wool of his frock coat. So Dumbledore had used Snape. That didn't bode well for Harry.

Still, she tried not to worry about that as she held Snape, of all people, against the wall of his dark little house. The man needed comfort and support.

The same flame that burned in her for House-Elves and the rights of Buckbeak caught spark at his plight. Hermione couldn't help but think of other reasons why Dumbledore would give Snape that task, and each chilled her. If only there was some way she could help him, convince him to let her in.

Severus couldn't stop himself from crumpling against her small form. He felt incredibly stupid as the uncontrollable tears began to subside, the way he was draped over her. He was exhausted, wrung dry. Granger was tiny, but...warm. A tingle of some small emotion—hope? comfort?—wound through his heart with a shiver.

He wasn't broken. He wasn't dark. The proof, his very soul, hung in front of...Oh Merlin, no.

Swallowing heavily, Severus raised his head. The hope was gone, but the warmth remained. Would always remain, now.

"What have you done?" he asked hoarsely. He was too drained for horror, but had been unable to keep the Northern out of his voice.

"Done?" Granger asked, puzzled.

Severus was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke he did so carefully. "How much research did you do on the spell you used?"

"It shows the soul and forces anything said to be honest," she replied. "I didn't read much more into it."

"The one time you don't do far more reading than necessary," he said bitterly. She withdrew her embrace slowly, and he noted the tears drying on her own cheeks. "In forcing the soul revealed, it leaves it vulnerable until the spell is cancelled. In coming close, you have entangled us."

"What?" Hermione felt her face drain of colour and she followed his gaze. Indeed, the ethereal glow from him and her had entwined, stretching between them. "Oh," she said faintly. "I'm sorry, Professor! I didn't know..."

Snape pushed her away. "Cancel your spell, Granger."

"Finite veri," she whispered. There was that a peculiar wrenching sensation again, and the tendril of warmth that had seated in her became a blaze. She clutched her chest with a whimper; Snape did the same with a grimace.

"It should pass," he grunted. She helped him to his feet and together they sat on the worn furniture of his sitting room. He took a fraying discoloured armchair by the fireplace, and she took a rickety wooden chair. Dust swirled around him and Snape leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he held his head. He looked miserable, and still appeared to be suffering from a hangover.

Hermione Summoned her handbag and dug through it. This time, Snape took the Headache Relief she offered and downed it. His expression cleared minutely.

"Sir? What happened? With the spell?" She felt rather chagrined to have...done whatever she'd done. She so rarely cast a spell without knowing its exact purpose, and now it had backfired on her. But the book hadn't said much, had it? Just that it revealed the soul, forced honesty to be spoken. Nothing about...merging them. The heat in her chest had dulled, but it was still there. She didn't feel anything more than that presence, that warmth.

"You have, with all of the impetuousness for which I disdain your house, combined our fate, Miss Granger. Our souls are one, until such time as one of us perishes. Even then, there is peril." He paused, and when he continued he sounded as if he were giving a lecture. "The Anima Revelio classification of spells is considered Dark magic, in that it leaves one vulnerable to any form of magical attack. In such a state, even a Stupefy can cause great harm. We are lucky in that you chose to approach me in a physical manner. There is, unfortunately, not much research on entwined souls. There is little on drawbacks, as I believe the individuals who managed to get themselves tied together died during testing."

Hermione flinched.

Snape sneered wryly. "The tester was, by reports, an odious alum from Durmstrang who landed himself in Azkaban for that back in the 1700's, so I think that it is safe to assume that our situation will not be as unpleasant. There is more, however, on the benefits. Occlumency becomes easier, if you are trained in it, as you can hide secrets in the other soul, which remains undetected. You can easily locate the other if you focus. Were I to Disapparate now, you could follow me simply by reaching for the rest of your soul. You can also feel the second soul, and the test subjects reported being able to feel a warning of danger. I assume other strong emotions would also be sent."

"Isn't all of that...good?" Hermione ventured.

"Possibly." He steepled his fingers. "Understand, this was centuries ago. The merging of souls is uncommon, to say the least."

Granger sighed. "So what does that mean for us?"

Severus grimaced. "It means, Miss Granger, that now we must face this war together, come what may."

"Come what may," she echoed, then shook her head ruefully.

Severus hovered in the clouds above Privet Drive. He was sweating despite the cool night air, praying to the indifferent, silent gods that the plan he had implanted in Fletcher was going to work. Potter had to make it to safety tonight, or the war was as good as ended.

There was a tug in his chest and his throat constricted. Granger was near—she passed him and then the pull remained steady. Bloody hell, had the little idiot volunteered herself as a Potter duplicate?

He ground his teeth together in frustration: of course she had. Hadn't they discussed her plans, that night that seemed so long ago now? She understood his part: to impart knowledge to Potter when it was time, to protect the students if he could. She understood he didn't think he would survive. He knew hers, how the need to keep Potter alive and going burned in her so brightly. He understood that she was going to try to save him, too.

And he had made her swear not to endanger the war for him, for she was just Gryffindor enough to try.

Severus nudged his broom, a rather nice Thunderbolt 3, forward a bit. It was a rather fast racing broom, and while it wasn't quite as fast as some of the other brooms, the maneuverability was supposed to be better, which he was going to need in a swarm of Death Eaters after Potter.

A little frisson of fear came from Granger, and he dropped just below the cloudline to squint at the ground below. Multiple Potters, good, each paired with an Order Member. He had no doubt that whomever he chose to follow would be whom the Dark Lord also targeted.

Torn between the need to protect Potter and the girl whose soul resided within his, Severus tried to guess which Potter was which. It was rather the point of the whole thing, after all. He doubted that Potter was with Moody—that was a red herring, and Lupin, at least, was clever enough to put the weakest volunteer with the strongest protector.

Considering the Order members below, Potter was either with Lupin or Hagrid. Both were fiercely protective of the boy, and he was most likely to trust their skills, as well.

Time was running out as the fourteen figures below clambered onto broomsticks and thestrals—relief, a tiny tremor of it! Granger was with Bill Weasley or Kingsley Shacklebolt, good, the girl couldn't fly well under pressure—and Severus's palms grew sweaty.

There was a rumble as Hagrid's motorcycle was kicked to life and Severus made his choice. Potter would be best served if Severus selected an Order member the boy could be safely assumed with, and Severus himself would be best served if he didn't choose Moody. He didn't want to reveal his presence here if he could avoid it.

The Potters below took off, and Severus leaned forward, driving his broom towards Lupin, followed closely by Travers. Bella sped after Tonks with a screech and cackle. The Dark Lord swept close to Kingsley.

Travers aimed his wand at the werewolf and Severus drew his own length of wood to intervene.

Fear—powerful, deep fear—flowed into him and Severus faltered. Granger was terrified, and he had to force himself to continue casting. Protecting Potter was his first priority.

"Sectumsempra," he snarled as a gust of wind hit his broom, stealing his hood. Severus clutched at the shaft to keep himself from falling, watching in mute horror as his spell missed Travers and hacked off Potter's ear.

"Severus...please..."

He swallowed the bile down and kept flying. He hadn't meant to hurt the boy...

Hermione tried desperately to keep calm. She locked her left arm around Kingsley's waist and frantically cast every spell she could think of. 'Voldemort'! her mind screamed at her, and she didn't hesitate to cast spells that would make her a killer.

Something, some sort of worry was a shiver up her spine and her head swung to where Remus was a quickly-disappearing figure. Snape? she wondered. Had something happened to him? To George? Voldemort's head swiveled with a hiss and relief flooded her as he flew away before it turned into fear: he was headed for Hagrid!

Had Harry revealed himself?

"Hold on!" Kingsley called to her, and Hermione clung to him as he urged the Thestral on. She wanted to vomit. She hated heights, hated flying... Her stomach jumped into her throat and she parried a hex from one of the four Death Eaters still pursuing them.

She found herself hoping none of them were Snape, especially as one lost control of his broom and plummeted down.

"Unsuccessssssful!" the Dark Lord hissed. Each of them didn't make eye contact, Severus noticed. "You have failed me, all of you. The Potter boy hasss gotten away."

Jugson made the mistake of clearing his throat and Severus exhaled slowly in relief. He couldn't afford to draw the Dark Lord's attention before start of term.

"I ssssee that you have something to say?"

"No sir," Jugson squeaked.

"You ended your pursuit early last night,"the Dark Lord said. "What is your excuse thisss time?"

"I fell," Jugson admitted. "The one I was chasing—a hex—"

"CRUCIO!"

Severus buried his wince and terror down deep, and found himself met with a wave of warmth. Granger? He buried that suspicion, too, and kept his face dispassionate as he watched Jugson writhing on the floor.

When the spell ended, leaving the tubby wizard gasping and whimpering, the Dark Lord turned his eyes to Severus himself.

"And you, Severusss, at least you came close to acquiring your target." Severus inclined his head at what his 'master' doled out as praise. "You have been most helpful, Ssseverus. When we take the Ministry, I have a role in mind for you, as you are an experienced educator..."

Hermione lay in the bed she was sharing with Ginny, listening to the creak of shifting sleepers and the soft settling of the Burrow. They should have been familiar sounds. The fact that they had lost only Moody and George was only injured should have been comforting in light of the dangers they faced. Ginny's even breathing should have been soothing.

Instead, she found herself wide awake, thinking about Snape. Was he alright, after the battle? What had happened to make him hit George? It could have been a feint, she thought. After all, he had appearances to keep up. The lazy heat that lived in her chest was constant and she struggled to keep herself from poking at it, worried that he would feel it.

She had felt him, in the battle and after, worry that wasn't hers coursing through her. She had tried to send some measure of reassurance, thinking 'not Harry' as she did, but didn't know if it had gotten through to him.

Hermione rolled to her side and sighed. She wiggled her toes, trying to convince herself to go to sleep. Something was niggling at her mind, some worry, some fear, and no matter how she tried to push it down it bobbed to the surface.

Terror. It welled up inside her and for a brief moment Hermione panicked before realising that it wasn't her terror, and that the Death Eaters had more or less failed tonight.

Teeth sank into her lower lip. Imagining her soul like a phone line, Hermione tried to send Snape some form of safety and reassurance. The professor truly was in a horrid position, and she didn't envy him his role. But it was hard not to feel some empathy for what he faced. And he was so alone...

It didn't help that he had somehow become somehow more to her than a teacher in the space of hours. He was so real to her now, and it wasn't just because of the Anima Revelio, either. She had always admired the professor despite his demeanor, but now she admired the man, as well.

It was unsettling, to have seen him in such despair.

With a sigh, Hermione turned over again. She had trusted him for so many years, stood up for him when Harry and Ron... Evil had never described Snape to her. His actions so at odds with his words, like in her third year, when Sirius had been presumed a murderer. Snape had fought so hard to catch Sirius, stalking the halls and even putting himself at risk when he followed them to the Shack knowing that Remus hadn't taken his potion.

A potion Snape had made every month, and made properly, according to Remus.

Then there was the way he had exposed his arm to Minister Fudge—the moron—and supported Harry. Snape had always protected them, protected Dumbledore's interests...it hadn't made sense, for him to suddenly kill the Headmaster and side firmly with Voldemort.

Hermione snuggled more deeply under the covers. She had been right about Professor Snape. A pulse
of warmth flowed into her and she smiled, pleased to know he was safe. They would just have to get through this war. Together.