The Match and the Spark

Epilogue

Ron spent three months in Romania with his brother Charlie.

For someone who had had more than his fair share of exhilarating experiences in his lifetime, Ron rather thought this one was one of his top favourites. It was such a relief not to have the oppressive weight of Voldemort on his shoulders, and to be able to just enjoy the simple things was a welcome change. It was something he did not mind adapting to one bit.

One thing he struggled to adapt to was the death of Fred, and spending so much time with Charlie had only reinforced the fact that he had lost one of his brothers. It had been hard to wake up and reconcile the fact that while everyone else had been coming to terms with the tragedy for some time, his own grief was still painfully fresh. As with a lot of things, he had felt several hundred steps behind his friends and family, and, indeed, the Wizarding world as a whole. There was a resulting pang of resentment he sometimes felt, but it was only ever fleeting. No one had forgotten him or given up on him, and he would always be grateful for that.

But coming away and having some time to himself had helped him rediscover his perspective. He had been able to move on at his own pace without pressure from any other quarter and he fully intended to return home ready to start again. He had it all worked out. Harry and Ginny wanted him to live at Grimmauld Place for the time being. He would apply immediately for a place on the Auror training programme, and, in effect, he would live his life.

He would see his family and he would see his friends, and he would get thoroughly sucked into life's boring routine. He couldn't wait.

When the longing for home began to supersede his enjoyment of being abroad, Ron took heed of the sign. He returned home on a sunny afternoon in March to find the Burrow full of people there to greet him. He hugged Hermione the hardest. Of everyone, he had hoped it would not be she who thought him selfish for taking himself off for a few months, but he felt they were on the same page—for possibly the first time during their whole friendship.

Secretly, one of the reasons he had decided to go away was to try and reason his feelings for her. He'd known from the moment they'd first spoken, following his awakening, that her feelings for him had changed. It was something he hadn't been able to help reading in her eyes. It was something, she'd said, that she had not had any control over, and it was difficult, but Ron had come to understand it.

In the beginning, he had wondered if she might have met someone else, but she had indignantly denied such a thing. He believed her.

In many respects, he was glad. There were times, of course, when he wondered how he could be so self-denying, but it was true—he was glad she no longer felt for him in that way. What she had done for him in pursuing Selwyn had only confirmed to him what a true friend he had in her. And he'd realised he was too much of a coward to risk that. He would never have been able to forgive himself if it had all gone wrong. And knowing his luck, it would have.

He'd learnt enough in recent times to know when to be grateful for what he had. So, when he saw her now, he was only happy that she was part of his life. Anything else he could deal with… Or learn to live with.

He sat down with his friends and happily relayed to them what he had seen and done on his travels, and when he had exhausted all of his anecdotes, it was his turn to listen to everyone else. During a quiet five minutes, when the conversation had lulled pleasantly, he asked what he'd initially considered a casual question.

'You said in your last letter that Snape's house situation was sorted. How's he getting on?' The question was directed at Hermione. He felt it was only right for him to take an interest in his former teacher's existence, considering how much he owed him his own.

To his surprise, however, both Harry and Ginny shared a wary look before casually edging away to another part of the room. Hermione was looking into her wine glass with a pained determination he did not find particularly comforting.

'What did I say?' Ron asked in confusion.

'He's, um, getting on well in his new house, and, ah…' The tail end of Hermione's sentence was lost in her glass as she hurriedly gulped from it, but Ron, to his horror, managed to decipher it nevertheless.

'Did you just say you are living with him?'

He watched, astonished, as her cheeks turned pink.

'In a manner of speaking, yes,' she said. 'But—'

'"In a manner of speaking?" You either are or you aren't!'

'I am, then,' she answered haltingly.

Ron spluttered for a moment. 'What—is there something going on between the two of you?' he asked, in an almost high-pitched voice. Had she lied to him all along? She'd passed him over for Severus Snape?

'No! No, it's not anything like that.' Hermione put down her glass and turned to him, speaking in her most business-like of tones. 'Listen, the house he wanted had this perfect outbuilding for him to have somewhere to brew potions, you see, because that's what he decided he wanted to do with his life. But the house itself was a little too expensive… so, in the end, we decided I should rent the whole of the upstairs off him.'

Ron only gaped at her. 'Are you seriously telling me this, Hermione? You are actively renting rooms from him? Of your own accord? Merlin! Why?'

She stood up and jerked her head to follow him somewhere quiet. 'Ron, it's all perfectly above board,' she explained when they'd closed the door on the noise. 'He has the downstairs and I have the upstairs. It's practically two separate houses—I've charmed my own front door and everything!'

'Hermione, I know he's done a lot for us in the past, but it's one thing to be grateful and another entirely thing to bloody move in with him!'

She didn't speak for nearly a whole minute. He wondered if she had already had this conversation at least once before—there was a look of mild impatience on her face. 'Look, I know it is unorthodox, and he was very much against the idea in the beginning. But it was practical at the time. There was a buyer for his house and we'd not found anything else suitable for him. He had no regular income coming in and buying the house would have nearly cleaned him out. So, I had just started my job at the Ministry—the answer was simple!'

'Yes, but he has a regular income now, doesn't he?' Ron had always felt her abnormal sense of pragmatism would get her into trouble one day.

'That's not really relevant anymore.' She sighed. 'Maybe it never was about practicality for me…' She rolled her eyes at Ron's suddenly staggered expression. 'I just mean it's more about… companionship… It's hard to explain. Life has not been easy for him; I wanted this to be. He's not asked me to leave… and I'm happy to stay.'

Ron only shrugged his shoulders helplessly. What the hell was there for him to say? Why was he even surprised by anything anymore?

'I'm not sure I'll ever understand you, Hermione.' He didn't think either of them imagined the echo of pathos in his voice.

So that proved to be one other thing he had to adapt to—that his best friend had struck up an unlikely friendship with one of their former thorns in their side.

But as it turned out, it wasn't especially hard to get used to it. She never talked about Snape much to him, or to anyone else as far as he could see. And Ron never saw the man for months at a time. It wasn't difficult to forget the exact detail of Hermione's, frankly absurd, living arrangements, and for Ron, that was perfectly welcome. Furthermore, whenever Ron went to see Hermione at the house in Dorset they… shared, Snape was never there. Or if he was, he never showed himself. But then, it was not entirely unexpected—her part of the house really was separate from his. He felt a little easier at seeing the proof of it. He'd imagined scenes of… well, he didn't like to contemplate it.

He did hear from Ginny that Hermione always invited Snape to come for dinner at Grimmauld Place, or to come whenever they were having a party—for a birthday, anniversary, engagement, and so on. But he always refused it. Ron was never quite sure what Hermione made of that, and to be honest, he didn't really want to ask.

Regardless, he found it difficult to imagine how such an arrangement could ever continue to last, and there came a point, during late summer, when he thought it might have finally come to an end.

Hermione came storming into the Grimmauld Place one evening while he was eating dinner with Ginny and Harry.

'Something wrong?' Harry asked when she started making tea with a significant amount of unnecessary noise.

'Oh, nothing,' she replied with false cheer. She paused and turned around to smile ruefully at their identical expressions of scepticism. 'Fair enough.' She sighed. 'He just does my head in, sometimes, that's all.'

Ron exchanged a look of raised eyebrows with Harry. There was no need to ask who 'he' was. Ron wanted to know what had happened, but could tell she was not in the mood for talking. He thought about asking her, yet again, why she stayed there. He could not understand it. Why did she bother if he 'did her head in?'

By this time, she had been working full-time for the Ministry for nearly a good eight months—she could afford somewhere of own. Snape could definitely afford to keep himself without her monetary help, having, as Ron had heard, taken up a permanent role in the publishing of the Practical Potioneer.

But Ron never really discovered what it was that had upset her that day. She did stay at Grimmauld place that night, but she went home the next day and it was never mentioned again. Everything just carried on as it had before and Ron let it slip from his mind.

That was until Hermione's birthday rolled around, anyway. The big news then, of course, was that Hermione had somehow managed to persuade Snape to attend the celebration being organised for her.

And out of nowhere had sprung the prospect that Ron was now going to have to spend an evening with the man who was now, what, Hermione's friend? He had no idea what to make of it, in all honesty.

But there he was on the night. Snape arrived at the restaurant in Diagon Alley with Hermione. Bar the brief meeting they'd had at the trial of Selwyn a couple of months back, it was the first time Ron had seen the man since that horrible moment in the Shrieking Shack.

Maybe it was the vivid recollection of that particular scene that impelled Ron to set his jaw and greet him first by holding out his hand. 'Snape,' he said cordially. His civility towards the man held no reluctance, but there was certainly caution.

Snape shook his hand and nodded shortly. 'Weasley.'

If Ron had hoped to get a better idea of what was going on between his friend and Severus Snape through viewing them together, then he was left unsatisfied. Snape barely said a word all night and Hermione did not seem at pains to actively draw him into the conversations going on around the table. He meant no disrespect to Snape, but why did Hermione want him to be there if he wasn't going to say or do anything?

Ron couldn't help but think it was all so bloody odd to him, and he couldn't help but feel uncomfortably suspicious about certain things. For one thing, it did not go unnoticed (though it did go unsaid) that Hermione never got involved with anyone. He had been out with a few girls since returning from Romania, but she just did not seem interested in meeting anyone. He looked at her as she smiled at Harry and he thought her a wonderful girl—it could not be that no one would fancy her enough. Furthermore, for his own part, he sometimes found it difficult to be around Harry and Ginny because of their nauseating happiness—did she feel the same? If she did, she hid it well.

In any case, there came a point when he felt he was finally justified to have been suspicious. He remembered that it was the day after Halloween, because he would not forget the incident in a hurry. That day, he accidentally overheard a conversation in Grimmauld Place between his sister and Hermione that he knew had not been meant for his ears.

And what he heard did not especially surprise him, but he felt the effects somewhere within his chest.

It wasn't until that moment that he truly recognised the significance of what he had missed and subsequently lost during those months he had been struck down.

The only consolation he had was to know that it was done. Events had overtaken him long ago and it was beyond his control to catch up and alter them now.

It was done and he'd just have to get on with it.

It had taken her an age to convince Snape, or Severus as she had finally taught herself to call him, that her idea with regard to the house was not completely bonkers.

But she'd seen from the way he had viewed her own selections for him, the one in Dorset he had discovered had been the only one to truly spark a gleam of interest in his eyes. Any other possibilities, if he hadn't dismissed entirely out of hand, he had merely given an indifferent eye, commenting that he "supposed it might do".

He might have been able to be insufferably laid-back about such things, but Hermione was certainly not going to allow him to take such a big step as buying a new house on the basis that it would 'do'.

And when he observed that he would not be able to afford the only house he liked in his unemployed situation, it had only seemed logical to come up with a solution. And that's what she had done.

She was not stupid. She had not been immune to the implications of what she was proposing—she perfectly understood that it was not a step to be taken lightly. But, oh, how he had baulked at it.

'Realistically,' she had argued, 'how many of the rooms do you need?' It was not a huge house by any stretch of the imagination, but it was certainly bigger than the house in Spinner's End. 'It could easily be split temporarily into two flats. The rent you would receive will keep you going until you find a job.'

'It's nonsense!' he had dismissed roughly. 'Besides, I don't want some stranger living in my house!'

Hermione had blushed that her intentions had not been clearer to him. 'I, ah, thought that I might rent it off you.'

It had been a novel moment in their, at that point, indefinite friendship. She'd never rendered him so that he might have been knocked down by a feather before.

'Are you insane?'

'No,' she'd replied defensively. 'I think it is a perfectly practical solution. We would not be under each other's feet, I assure you, if that's what you are worried about. There's no reason why we should see each other for weeks on end.'

She'd imagined that his instinctive disagreement stemmed from the fact that the prospect of her company for any extended length of time would be too much for him to bear. But, in her mind, there was no reason why that should be an issue. There would be boundaries—she meant to go about everything properly.

'Why on earth would you want to do such a thing?' he'd asked.

It was the question she had most hoped to avoid. How could she explain that she had an indeterminate desire to be of any help to him? How could she say that she wished to… Well, it was almost like she wanted to look after him; it was so silly of her. And even selfish, perhaps.

But he'd seemed to sense a certain direction in her thoughts. 'Let me guess, you're afraid I'll fall back into my despairing ways, are you? Think I need a nurse-maid to keep an eye on me, do you? Well, let me tell you; I think not.'

And before she could deny that was her reasoning, he'd stormed off without another word.

She'd not allowed herself to be unduly disheartened; what was she if not quietly determined?

In any case, time had only proven the arrangement to be a success—not that he would ever admit such a thing. And yes, she had had a bit of a precarious time explaining it to her friends and family, but they had not concrete cause for objection and they all knew it.

He had needed a change, and Hermione had come to see that she needed one as well. Harry and Ginny were planning on getting married. Ron was sorting his own life out. She wanted to push herself—she wanted to discover more about her own capabilities. She'd gone out and found herself a job; she'd gone and found herself somewhere different in which to live.

She had never lived alone before, and while the prospect was a daunting one, she'd found it far easier to bear knowing that she wasn't quite alone. It wasn't as if she could have ever envisaged the situation she had placed herself in, but she felt quietly content with what she had created for herself in her life, and it was a time for her finally to be calm after several hectic years.

It was awkward at first, certainly. For weeks, she was afraid to approach his front door on account of how she would be received. But then he'd started working in the garden, setting up the space in which he would brew. Hermione had seen the opportunity for what it was—a chance to talk on neutral ground. It appeared that he did not mind if she sought him out on occasion. Especially, it seemed, when he discovered that it was within her abilities to sit quietly for a protracted length of time. It was helped along further when she found out that he was useless at cooking, for she always liked to play the teacher—she couldn't help it. He liked it far less, she thought.

There was no precluding other extraneous times when she might spend time with him. It always made her brighten to think that he didn't, in fact, despise her presence. Or at least, if he did, he was at pains to hide it.

She did not forget that it was only over meant to be a short-term arrangement. But while initially she had been fully prepared that she would leave when he found regular employment, he never requested she go and she never offered to leave. She never offered, because she was happy with the way things were. His company, when he allowed it, was more than pleasing to her. She had become used to the rooms in which she had made herself a home. Why did they need to change anything?

Unfortunately, coming to establish a firmer friendship led to them (mostly her, it had to be said) taking greater liberties than would have been dared otherwise. And what had been a hitherto harmonious situation was then subject to more fractious moments. The biggest of all, in hindsight, had been gradually building for some time. The first time she asked him to join her and her friends for dinner at Grimmauld Place, she would admit, had only been out of politeness. Not that she wouldn't have liked him to come, she just knew he would not want to.

The next time, however, it was with a mixture of courtesy, humour, and admittedly, a small amount of hope, that she posed her invitation. Even though she knew he would decline, as time went on she always made it a point to inform him of special events—birthday parties; Harry and Ginny's engagement party; Mr and Mrs Weasley's wedding anniversary, amongst others, in the hope he might one day agree. The problem was, the more she asked, the bigger the small amount of hope she'd started with became.

Still, each time he unfailingly responded with a long-suffering sigh and a short "No," she could not have known that her invitations were grating upon him in a way that was not visible to her. She soon found out, however, when she made the mistake of automatically assuming he would be attending the ceremony the Ministry had organised to celebrate the fall of Voldemort.

'I'm not going,' he stated flatly at her offhand remark that they could travel there together.

'Why on earth not?' she asked in confusion. He'd been invited, and there would be many people there who he knew.

'I am not going, all right?'

She told him that she did not understand and he looked at her angrily in a way she had not seen in a time since they'd tramped about Arran together.

'I will not stand there and celebrate what I did in the war,' he spat. 'Now do you understand?'

'But—'

'I will not do it!' he almost shouted. 'You may be able to stand there with your clear conscience and toast those who died, but I cannot! I will remember them in my own way, and I wish to Merlin you would just leave me alone and stop trying to turn me into one of your little friends! I am telling you now, it is not going to work. It is not for people like me to be applauded; I played my part in shadow and in doubt, and that is how it should remain. Now, leave me be.'

His last demand was so fierce that Hermione did not consider anything else but capitulating. With indignation, disappointment, and not least a great sense of disquiet, she retreated to Grimmauld Place for the night. She spent most of it distinctly unsettled. As a general rule, he always seemed more at ease with himself than he had at the beginning of their acquaintance, but there were times when she wondered at just what was going on beneath the surface.

And for the first time, she seriously considered what it was she had got herself embroiled in.

Because, by then, she was beginning to see the wider implications of what she had done in placing herself within close proximity to him. Anyone might say that she should have seen them coming, but it was something in theory so unlikely that it just never occurred to her as being a possibility.

It was something that forced itself upon her more pressingly one day during an otherwise mundane moment. He'd been scrubbing several of his cauldrons, and she'd commented derogatorily on the state Harry had been left in following his stag night. 'I let him believe for an hour that the tentacles couldn't be removed by magic.'

'Nice,' he'd replied, smiling a small smile to himself. 'Make it five hours next time, though, eh?'

It wasn't often she could make him smile, but she always considered it a triumph when she did. It occurred to her that she might always want to make him smile—that she couldn't see herself doing anything less.

It was not a realisation that sat well with her, for many reasons. For a time, she put such imaginations down to herself being a bit silly—fanciful, forgetting, of course, that fanciful was not really in her nature.

One evening, she'd brought home some dinner for them both and found him exceptionally grim and unresponsive. It was only when she had been tipping the uneaten majority of his dinner in the bin that she remembered why he might be in such a dark mood.

It was Halloween and Hermione could have kicked herself for forgetting it. By the time she'd recognised the significance, he'd wandered off somewhere. The kitchen, and sometimes the living room, were only ever the part of his domain that she felt welcome in, and even though she was worried she still did not want to intrude elsewhere. But she thought she could try her luck outside and was proved justified when she found him blasting away some weeds at the bottom of the garden.

'Do you, um, do you want to talk about her?'

'No,' he'd said, as if the answer should have been obvious, and Hermione had known that it was.

'And before you dismiss me for being absurd,' he'd added, in a quick voice, 'I am allowed to feel guilty on this day. I know I didn't cast the curse, but I put her in the frame and—'

'It's all right,' she'd interrupted quietly. 'I wasn't going to say anything; I understand.'

Feeling entirely useless, she decided to let him be, knowing her presence was not needed or probably wanted. But the next day, she had found herself rushing to Grimmauld Place and confessing all to Ginny in a moment of complete ill-feeling. Hermione could see that Ginny was not surprised to hear that she thought might have feelings of love for the man she shared a house with.

Ginny tried to convince Hermione that her prospects were not so bleak. 'Why would he allow you in his life he didn't at least like you?' she questioned.

'He values my companionship, I know that much. And I don't mind admitting that I love that we have become friends… But I don't think he needs anything more than that…'

'Well then, what if that companionship is taken away?' Ginny challenged. 'Tell him you've met someone—tell him you're thinking of moving out…'

Hermione shook her head so vehemently that Ginny trailed off.

'I can't play those sorts of games with him, Ginny… It just wouldn't be right.'

And she was stuck, she realised; stuck in a design of her own unconscious making.

She allowed herself some tears that night, and some were selfish ones as she truly comprehended that he would probably never be able to give of himself more than he already had.

So where did that leave her?

It left her struggling to decide just what was important to her.

Did she actually need anything more than she already had? Or could she be grateful and feel that it was enough?

There was only one person Severus could ever have had the courage to consider going to about a matter of personal import. And though Minerva had never been an agony aunt for him in the past (no one had), she was the only one he could reasonably turn to for advice. Therefore, he'd gathered his dignity about him like a cloak and presented himself for afternoon tea with the Headmistress of Hogwarts.

Once the pleasantries had been gone through, Severus forced himself to address the issue foremost in his mind.

'I have hit a stumbling block with regard to selling my house, Minerva. Believe it or not, but someone actually wants to buy it and I would be foolish not to accept the offer I have received for it. But I have not yet secured anywhere suitable for myself.'

'Well, you're always welcome to come and stay here in the meantime, Severus,' Minerva had replied with a smile.

'Thank you… But you see, there is a house I have taken an interest in for its suitability for brewing potions, and its seclusion. Alas, it is not somewhere I can readily afford while unemployed. In remedying that problem, Miss Granger has proposed that I rent out the upper floor to her for the time being.'

A favour, Miss Granger called it. "It's what people do to help others," she'd pointed out testily when she'd had her fill of his scorn of the idea.

Minerva had looked momentarily taken aback, and appeared to think hard before speaking. 'I think it a very generous proposition, Severus. I know you value your privacy, but I'm sure you would both work it out so that you are both undisturbed. It'll only be short-term, anyway; I'm sure you won't be long in finding an occupation.'

A part of him had hoped she would dismiss such an idea as ridiculous. Him and Granger living together? It just didn't compute. He pointed out that her friends, amongst others, would likely think it rather questionable that Hermione Granger should choose to place herself in his company, and he didn't want people throwing suspicions and doubts over his character anymore.

Minerva only told him that he was being ridiculous. No one was going to think he'd cursed her or anything.

The idea still hadn't seemed right to him. But Granger kept going on and on about it. She showed him how they could block off the stairs and charm them to be hidden.

'Just think of it as if you will live in a bungalow,' she'd stated with a twinkle.

And it was at times like that, with her unending ability to inject lightness into a situation, that he wondered just how serious she was about her proposal. But he'd spent enough time around her to know she completed most things she did with seriousness at the root of them.

Secretly, he thought about what it might be like to have someone nearby—someone who evidently wanted to be there. He would not have to see her every day. They would not be living in each other's pockets… He didn't have to hear her walking about upstairs because he could charm the ceiling into silence. It would only be short-term, anyway, was what he liked to remind himself of most, and they spent a good deal of time temporarily modifying the inside of the house to make two separate living spaces, and when he saw the result, he felt much better for it.

Against his better judgement, and with great trepidation, he'd agreed to it.

It was not easy for him to adjust to it. He could never quite forget that she was there, and for a while he thought it might prove too much for him to bear—that it was hindering his ability to relax and be himself. And yet, he could not be wholly blind to the benefits she had presented him with. The whole thing was an unexpected development, certainly, but it had not dampened the relief he had felt within himself that he had managed to make such a huge change in his life. He did not quite feel a different person, as the cliché went, but he had felt it was certainly a different direction for him.

Her help had allowed him the luxury of not having to rush into the first job that he found would take him. Instead, he had spent time setting up the outbuilding at the bottom of the garden into a place where he could work—where he could brew potions and write about them. It was what he was good at—it was what he wanted to do.

He started off writing articles for journals on the work he was doing, and with the spread of the news that he had cured Ronald Weasley, he was sometimes Owled with commissions for certain potions. Hermione commented that a business had seemed to spring up around him without him noticing.

He rather thought he was not that unobservant, but he had let the remark slide. He realised now, in hindsight, that she might have been aiming that comment to remind him that he would no longer require the money he received from her.

And during that time he was forced to contemplate the legitimacy of their caveat that her staying there was 'short-term'. Did he want her to go? Did he need her to go? The plain truth was that he had become used to her presence. She did not unduly interfere or intrude in his life, but their paths might cross a couple of times a week, by accident or by design, and it did not bother him. If anything, they were more often welcome to him than not.

In the moments when his thoughts took a more pensive turn, he found himself wishing he had had a friend like her when he had been growing up. Immediately then, he would feel as though he were betraying Lily's memory, and he told himself that he would like as not have alienated whomever had chosen to be his friend during that part of his life. Regardless, he could admit to himself now that he found peace of mind knowing there was someone nearby who would actually have a care about what he did with himself. And it was all the better because she expected very little in return.

He could stand her cat wandering in and rubbing its squashed face against every piece of furniture he owned. He could put up with her borrowing his books. He could even put up with her often repeated suggestions that they sit and watch television of an evening. A more mind-numbing activity Severus had never imagined before, until he'd tried it, of course.

Reality was, he did not need her to go, and being honest with himself, he didn't want her to go. So they continued until 'short-term' could no longer be held applicable to their situation. And still they never mentioned it to each other.

But Severus did think about finally bringing it up after he had lost his temper with her over the Ministry celebration. He knew that when she asked him to join her for certain occasions she was being entirely earnest, but that was the trouble. How could she be so deluded to think he could ever sit down with her and her friends? How could she think he would ever fit in? He was just far too different from them all for it to be borne.

And he had considered that night that she should not continue living there, because how could he knowingly allow himself to be at her mercy? She held all the cards. She could decide to move on at any time. He'd not failed to notice that she seemed not to get involved in any other relationship beyond those she had with her friends, her family, and… him. But that could change in an instant and where would he be left?

Despite the Silencing charm on the ceiling, he'd known she'd not come back that night, and he wasn't sure who he was more angry with; her or himself. Any intention he had of suggesting she leave, however, died in his throat when she did come back. She stormed into the kitchen, his kitchen, and stood fiercely in front of him.

'I know you hate it when I tell you what to do,' she said firmly, 'but I am going to do it anyway. You've always seemed to have this opinion that I am a better person than you, but I want you to forget all this talk about clear consciences, all right? My conscience may not have the weight yours does, but it is certainly not clear! I have regrets of my own and they may not compare to yours, but they are mine. I will ask you not to place me on some sort of pedestal because I know that one day I shall only fall off!'

With that, she stalked out through the back door and he heard her Apparate up to her own rooms while he stood there somewhat stunned.

Of course, he put her on a pedestal, but he wasn't misguided. He did not consider her perfect; he knew people made mistakes, whoever they were. But he couldn't help it if one of the things he liked about her was her character—what he perceived as having a strong sense of honour and nobility. He had reconciled those aspects of her, which had so embittered him before, as appealing to him now. He couldn't help it if he admired her for being a person he should have liked to have been, under better circumstances.

But that moment marked a time when he started to see how weak and influenced he was becoming with regard to her. It was brutally obvious one day when she came into his workroom while he was brewing and made a request of him. She did not normally intrude into his workspace, but her expression was rather serious so he drew no attention to it.

She stopped by where he was sitting on a stool and spoke hesitantly. 'I know I have annoyed you in the past by prevailing upon you to join me at certain events… but I am going to continue to risk your wrath in order to show you my sincerity. It is my birthday next week and your presence would only be most welcome.'

He only stared into his cauldron while she briefly touched his arm and then disappeared.

He was weak, because he couldn't find it within himself to say no, even as he imagined Potter and all the Weasleys being there. But when had anyone ever wanted him to be anywhere? In a moment of clarity, he saw that if she was to be his friend, and he hers, then he would have to swallow his pride somewhere. Lily had wanted him to ignore his Slytherin housemates and he had longed for her to shower scorn over her own. But look where it had eventually driven them both? Further and further apart.

He told himself he could manage just one night. When he informed her he would come he could never have imagined that such a thing would have given her so much joy. He'd felt inordinately embarrassed by it, and he hoped with all his heart that on the night she would not draw her friends' attention to the incident of his presence.

He needn't have worried. She maintained all night the appearance that his being there was the most commonplace thing in the world. He, of course, had felt no such thing, but he found he was able to endure listening to her friends without going insane. He had even been able to withstand Weasley's searching looks. He could not have missed the way the younger man looked between them, or the wistful tilt of his expression when he looked at Hermione. Severus didn't make any mention of his observations, but only because he felt Weasley had managed to grow up at some point since he had last been in his classroom.

The fact remained, however, that the best part of the evening for Severus was when they all left, not least because Hermione linked her arm in his as they ventured home and thanked him unreservedly for coming, even though, apparently, she had been able to tell he had hated it.

He had not felt any haste to deny her words, even if they were slightly exaggerated from the truth of the matter.

It pleased him to please her—he could not deny it to himself.

But it wasn't long before he began dreading the prospect of her departure, again. A year had come and gone since the capture of Selwyn. She could not continue living there forever.

He came home early one day from meeting with a potential client and he saw her sitting in the garden through the window, and she was crying. His first instinct was to go out and demand to know what was wrong, but his brain sought to quash it. She had been acting strangely for several days—maybe longer, and it occurred to him that this was probably finally it. Perhaps she was finally fed up of his often short and brusque manner with her. He'd not missed her disappointment when he'd refused to speak to her on Halloween.

Oh, what a wonderful moment it was to stand there and have the sudden dawning comprehension that his whole life he had got through by merely exchanging one dependency for another! Lily had been his first and had got him through childhood. Then, when he'd had to give her up, he'd set about making the biggest mistakes of his life. His next dependency was justice—living only to see Lily's son survive the path he had been set upon. And when that was done, what had happened to him? He'd fallen to pieces—only to pick himself back up again through forming a new reliance on Hermione Granger.

He struggled to resist the implications of such a conclusion, telling himself firmly that he had begun to put himself back together of his own accord—not through any need to appease anyone else. He could be an independent being—he could function on his own. He was capable of living his life for no one but himself.

Severus left her to whatever misery she was contemplating. She could go and he would be fine. He did not need the presence of another to make him feel adequate. He had finally learnt to manage it on his own.

Nevertheless, he remained on edge. Several days passed at a time when he did not see her, and when he did she seemed distracted and distant. He could only wonder what had happened to him in recent months that he should notice such a thing about her. He felt sure she would eventually come out with what he dreaded to hear, despite his inner protests to the contrary. Several times he considered that he should just get in there first and demand to have his house back. But he didn't.

And nothing ever came from her, either. Time went on and her behaviour became slowly more like he had become used to. She was asking him to watch telly with her again, and laughing just as easily at the pained look he always affected at any such time.

Christmas rolled around, and while he had never taken any particular joy from the occasion, she embraced it in all its festive glory. How many times he had removed the tree she had placed in the corner of his living room, he did not like to think.

It was the day before Christmas Eve and she stood in his kitchen buttoning up her coat while he tried to read the paper and drink his morning tea. She'd come in, ostensibly, to tell him she was going to Diagon Alley, but…

'Now, I will be dining with my parents on Christmas Day. You are still welcome to join us, you know.'

And there it was. 'Thank you, no,' he replied, admittedly for the umpteenth time.

'Very well,' she said with equanimity. 'I shall be going to Grimmauld Place on Boxing Day, so we shall have to have our Christmas on Christmas Eve, then. Now—'

'Our what, sorry?' Severus interrupted blankly.

She wrapped her scarf around her neck, speaking as if he were the village idiot. 'Well, we can't not do anything when we live in the same bloody house, can we? And seeing as you are so set on spending Christmas Day on your own…' She sighed, and he thought he detected melancholy in it. 'It is all right, isn't it, if I join you tomorrow?'

Severus found he could only nod.

She lit up brightly. 'Excellent! Now, anything you would like me to pick up for you in Diagon Alley?'

Severus couldn't hear her. All of a sudden, he felt like he was experiencing some sort of… attack… Well, the blood was rushing in his ears and his heart was beating out like a drum. It hurt so much he nearly had to bring his hand to press at his chest. She always made the effort for him… She always considered him…

But what did he do for her? In what way did he make an effort to show her that he appreciated her; had come to care for her? He was struck by the possibility that he might not do enough.

But you must do something, a voice whispered in his mind.

She was a young, attractive woman who kept coming back there to him, and… Could it be that… Had she, Merlin forbid, become dependent on him?

Immediately, he felt like flagellating himself for even conceiving such a ridiculous notion about her. But… was it so impossible? The facts were before him; hell, they were visible for anyone to read. To dismiss it out of hand would be to ignore nigh on the whole year that had passed behind them.

But the comprehension only made him feel desperately out of his depth. Things like this were not meant to happen to him.

'Severus?' she was saying, and he blinked away his thoughts to look at her. 'I asked if you needed anything?'

'Need?' He swallowed down the anxiety he felt and got to his feet, hoping his legs would not give way beneath him. He tipped his tea with a splash into the sink and watched it disappear down the plughole. 'No… I need nothing…' He closed his eyes for his next words. 'I need nothing, but for one thing I'm sure I have no business in requesting.'

He found the strength to turn and make his way past her.

'But what is that?' she asked, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

He paused with a small sigh. Her; he needed her. He wasn't even sure as to the capacity in which he meant it, but the truth remained the same. He wanted to forget about living solely for himself—it was surely a privilege to have someone to rely on. Oh, he could fob her off with some trifling thing and save himself the trouble; he could forget this need he had developed for her continued presence… but he wanted her to understand, because he trusted that she would not throw it back in his face.

He looked at her, but no words would come. Perhaps he could embrace her and show her that way—that was the language he knew she spoke well. But even as the idea came to him, he dismissed it. He was too awkward for that action to come off as anything other than uncomfortable. And just when he thought himself unequal to the task, his hand, of its own volition, reached out to her fingers and his thumb passed gently over the back of her hand. It was all the woeful articulacy he could manage, but he felt she understood what he was trying to say.

Her eyes did not become wide with shock, but became the softest he had ever seen, and he forced himself to match them with his own. With that one small action, he felt oddly liberated. No matter what she might do next, he would take comfort in the fact that after everything that happened in his life, he could still feel, and he could still allow enough concession within himself to forget his pride and confess himself as human as the next person.

He released her hand and turned to the door.

'Severus?' she called out tentatively and he braced himself, looking to see her holding her hand close to her.

The smile that appeared on her face was warm. 'I think you should know that I consider it no one's business but yours.'

Suddenly, he didn't know what to do. And when she approached him his mind emptied further of anything constructive. But again, she seemed to understand what he could not express.

She touched his arm gently. 'But there's time enough, yes…?'

He let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding and gave a minute nod, all the while wishing he could find his voice.

Her smile widened further and he thought he detected an accompanying twinkle in her eye. Before he could decide what it could signify, her hands reached up to his shoulders, guiding them towards her. He was lucky, because his limbs seemed to know what to do without direction from his brain, for it was only instinct that had him leaning downwards with his arms coming to clasp around her waist.

She held him tightly. He could not account for all the thoughts and feelings that buffeted him at the contact, but he did know that he wished he'd let her embrace him all those many months ago.

When she pulled back, she let her hands run down the lengths of his arms. 'There… Didn't hurt, did it?' There was a knowing smirk about her lips.

Normally, he would have sought to punish such a calculated jibe, but he found he liked how well she seemed to know his mind.

She seemed mildly amused at his unusual ineffectualness, but he was grateful that she chose to spare his blushes. 'See you when I get back,' she said simply.

'Yes,' Severus valiantly managed to get out before she Disapparated away. He resolved there and then to make it so she would always come back. He didn't know how, yet, but he could try.

He disappeared into his sitting room and leant back against the door, closing his eyes with a steadying breath.

Reliance on another person did not seem nearly so daunting when it was reciprocated. Indeed, he thought he could learn to love it.

He might even have become a lucky man, he realised.

And how often had he been able to say that before?

FIN

AN: I hope everyone enjoyed this story; I think it was probably the most challenging one for me to write. Thanks for reading, and also for the reviews, which are much appreciated. I have one more completed story left to upload very soon : )